PRIEST AND BISHOP
Talleyrand had already spent two years of this kind of life when he
was ordained priest. In a biographical inquiry it is only necessary to
point out that the priesthood was required for his purpose. Possibly
he thought of his parents, as some biographers suggest. However
regrettable his life, he was a noble, and must not remain a minor
cleric. In any case, he would see that the only entrance to the higher
political world, along the path into which he had been forced, was the
episcopate. He could not be expected to foresee the upheaval of 1789,
which would make possible the rise of such men as Sieyès. In 1780 the
General Assembly of the Clergy would meet again, and he had ground to
believe that he would be appointed Agent-General. From this important
position one usually passed to the episcopate. After such an experience
as his had been he would very well leave it to the Church to settle its
own credit in the matter.
In September (1779) he asked his uncle, in a letter which is extant,
to receive him into the Rheims clergy. The Archbishop of Paris was
a conscientious prelate, where it was still possible to consult
conscience. Archbishop Talleyrand (he had succeeded Roche-Aymon in
1777) consented and obtained his transfer from Paris. He, too, was one
of the better prelates of the time, but he doubtless thought he could
influence his gay nephew. He was transferred on September 17th and
ordained deacon. Three months later (December 18th) he was ordained
priest in the chapel of the archbishopric.[10] Choiseul was with him,
and made a strong appeal to him to desist. He said it was impossible.
All that we shall learn of Talleyrand in the chapters to come justifies
us in thinking—nay, compels us to think—that he took the step, not
with a cynical levity, but with great reluctance. The qualities of
refinement and humanity he never surrendered.
On May 10th, 1780, he was nominated by the clergy of Tours (where he
now had a second chaplaincy) Agent-General for the next five years.
This was a position of the first political importance in the French
Church. The Agent-General was the connecting link between the two
powers, secular and ecclesiastical, and by the end of the eighteenth
century he needed some competence in diplomacy, as well as a fair
administrative faculty for domestic matters, especially of finance. Two
were appointed by the various provinces in rotation before each General
Assembly, and they held office and guarded the interests of the Church
until the next ordinary Assembly. If Talleyrand had, as _promoteur_ at
the last Assembly, left the chief share of the work to his colleague,
the case was very different now. His fellow-agent was the Abbé de
Boisgelin, cousin of the Archbishop of Aix, and Vicar-General of that
diocese, an indolent, incompetent, and disreputable priest. He shared
the fruits and prestige of Talleyrand’s labours, but not the work
itself. In fact Talleyrand says that a scandal supervened immediately,
and made it advisable to keep him in the background.
These General Assemblies did not vary much in their chief features,
so that little need be said of that of 1780. Only two deputies
(one of each order) were sent from each of the provinces, and the
Cardinal-Archbishop of Rouen took the chair. The King now asked thirty
millions, and Talleyrand was directed to wait on him at Versailles and
say that his faithful clergy, though “exhausted by its gifts,” would
find the money; he was to add a hint (with an eye to the increasing
attacks on the Church’s property) that the King would doubtless see
the wisdom of not killing the goose. Talleyrand would not lose his
opportunity at Versailles. There were the usual indignant discussions
of the claim of the Crown lawyers to exact feudal service from the
clergy, and violent attacks on Voltaire and the “formidable deluge”
of improper literature that was poured over the whole country. The
Assembly sat from May to October. Talleyrand was now so secure in his
position that he even claims that this “lent some prestige to his
Agency.”
Two years later he had to summon the clergy to an Extraordinary
Assembly at the Grands-Augustins. The King’s letter which he had to
submit to his colleagues must have appealed to his diplomatic sense.
Louis XVI declared that, though there had been unforeseen losses in
connection with the help given to America, he had no actual need to
appeal to the country. But the fact was that every class seemed so
eager to contribute towards covering these losses, and he could not
think of excluding his devoted clergy from a share. He therefore
graciously permitted them to assemble in extraordinary session in 1782.
Talleyrand was charged to explain to the Assembly why the King had
altered his mind, and not kept the solemn promise that he would ask
no more money until 1785. The fifteen millions were granted as usual,
and the clergy added a million to be applied to the relief of the poor
families who had suffered by the war. Talleyrand went further, and
pressed one of the prelates to urge the granting permission to re-marry
to the Breton women whose husbands had disappeared without any definite
proof of death. He says that the prelate saw no advantage to himself in
making a motion, and so the matter was not brought before the Assembly.
Bad books occupied more attention than ever. A complete edition of
Voltaire was being printed at Kehl, and was expected at Paris with the
most open rejoicing. The deputies drew the King’s attention to its
“monstrous obscenities,” and petitioned him to prevent its circulation.
Talleyrand had not to sign this petition, but he saw Loménie de Brienne
and many another Voltairean pastor do so.
In this Assembly Talleyrand himself made two proposals of an
interesting character. The first was that the clergy should buy up
the royal lottery, by making the King a “gratuitous gift” every year
to cover the profits missed. His colleagues were not sufficiently
moved by his eloquent denunciation of public gambling to make the
sacrifice. Some of them, who knew the Abbé de Périgord’s own habits,
may have even smiled. But Talleyrand’s aim was good, if not virtuous.
He saw that the clergy were rapidly losing ground, and he felt that a
sacrifice like this, in such a cause, would do much to redeem their
degradation. The memoir to present to the King (and, of course, publish
afterwards) “might have been superb,” he observes with a chuckle; he
would have been very glad to write it. The other proposal he made was
to raise the salaries of the lower clergy. On these fell the real work
of maintaining religion in the country, yet the _curé_ had only 700
livres (less than thirty pounds) a year and his _vicaire_ the miserable
sum of 350 livres. The episcopate was, like the army commissions, a
preserve of the nobles, and a great gulf yawned between the two Orders.
I calculate that the 140 bishops of France then drew about 8,000,000
francs a year from ecclesiastical sources alone; and as all were
nobles, many of them had in addition huge private incomes and some
State emoluments. Dillon had 160,000 a year from the Queen’s private
purse for his amiability. They drove about Paris in gilded coaches,
contributed to the opera, had opulent hotels and country palaces and
hunting seats, and so on. The starving peasantry were beginning to
rebel. At the Assembly of Notables the Archbishop of Aix spoke of
tithe as “that voluntary offering from the piety of the faithful”;
“as to which,” broke in the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, “there are now
40,000 cases on in the Courts.” The lower clergy, too, were forming
associations for the betterment of their condition. The prelates
heard this with pained surprise, but resisted Talleyrand’s motion.
His earliest political efforts, as he said afterwards, failed because
his proposals were too bold for his colleagues. But there can be no
question as to the wisdom of his counsels. No one could at that time
have had even the dimmest prevision of the events of 1789-1790—and so
we may at once reject Pozzo di Borgo’s suggestion (afterwards) that
Talleyrand from the first took the side of the weak and poor on subtle
calculation—but Talleyrand’s view of the situation of the Church was
singularly wise and shrewd, and his suggestions were, as we now very
clearly see, wholly to its advantage. Nor can we with justice ignore
the clear strain of humanity that is seen in the young abbé’s proposals
in favour of the Breton widows (whom he had seen in their native home)
and the lower clergy. In the latter instance he was even endangering
his interest with the prelates.
Talleyrand’s labours as Agent-General had the effect that he desired.
If the Church would not listen to wise advice it must go its way.
For him its work was an instrument, and he used it with success. His
various reports on their labours to the Conseil du Roi brought him in
contact with his real fellows. Before his Agency was over he had won
the notice and esteem of the first minister. But I will conclude this
account of his clerical work before tracing his earliest political
action. The clergy greatly appreciated his ability. At the Assembly of
1785 he was elected secretary, with the Abbé de Dillon, and one day the
president rose, after a speech from Talleyrand, to exhibit him to his
colleagues as a model of zeal! The report of their Agency which he and
Boisgelin sent in was received with enthusiasm, and described as taking
“a distinguished place amongst the reports which adorn our annals.”
Talleyrand neglected nothing in those early years. His work was sound
and thorough, and at the same time presented with a rare literary
effect. The mythopæic biographers of a later date[11] had private
knowledge that he was too lazy and too incompetent to write a single
letter, and that everything was done for him by his associates. We know
that from 1780 onwards he attracted to his help a number of capable
men, M. Mannay, Count Bourlier, M. Duvoisin (these three reaching their
reward in bishoprics), and especially the young Abbé des Renaudes. He
could not have done his work so well single-handed, and, as a fact, he
quite early learned from Choiseul the rule to utilise subordinates to
the fullest extent. It was good statesmanship. But it is quite clear
that he must have worked hard. Thirty years afterwards, long after he
has exchanged financial politics for diplomacy, he writes with the
pleasure and ease of an expert on the financial questions of 1780-1790.
There is no doubt that he thoroughly understood them, and discussed
them on equal terms with Panchaud, Foulon, or Dupont de Nemours. And
the memoirs themselves show that he could write; he was often seen to
sit writing them until four in the morning. Sainte-Beuve himself admits
(p. 44) that Talleyrand could do some “fine writing” when he cared.
The report he submitted in 1785 was to be his last plea for a
bishopric. It was the custom to find a benefice as a reward for
the Agent-General when his term was over. Talleyrand, therefore,
wrote it with great care and with plenty of that flattery which his
colleagues appreciated. How he felt when he spoke of “the honour of
being associated with the labours of the first body in the kingdom,
the happy necessity of communicating with the chief members of this
illustrious body, and of maintaining with them relations which their
virtues and their intelligence have made so precious,” we can very well
imagine. One only wonders if he caught the eye of his friends of the
Palais Royal when he referred to the Archbishop-President, Dillon, as a
man “to whom all offices have been but fresh occasions to display the
nobleness of his character and the vigour of his patriotic genius.”
Dillon is the prelate who, he tells us elsewhere, spent six months
every year in hunting, though he had done some good work. In return
the archbishop urgently recommended the ex-agents to the favour of the
King and of Mgr. Marbœuf (who held the _feuille des bénéfices_, or
list of vacant bishoprics). The assembly then voted, as was usual, a
gift of 24,000 livres to each ex-agent, and further sums of 4,000 and
3,000 for having discharged the functions of promoter and secretary.
But the recommendation for a bishopric fell very flat, to Talleyrand’s
extreme annoyance. The most brilliant Agent-General of recent times
was made to wait three years for his reward, and saw one bishopric
after another fall to others. It is said that the king was resolutely
opposed to the consecration of so equivocal a candidate, but we have
no real evidence of this. Talleyrand complained, in a letter to young
Choiseul, of malice on the part of Marbœuf, but it is possible that
the circumstance of Marbœuf being a religious man with some firmness
may afford explanation enough. Talleyrand’s name was persistently
connected with that of Madame de Flahaut, and at one time with that of
the daughter-in-law of Buffon. There was a good deal of joking about
the prospect of his consecration. Chamfort and a group of amiable
ladies were marked out as ready to accompany him to his seat. It is not
impossible that Versailles drew the line—when it felt strong enough.
[Illustration: _From an engraving, after the painting by Chappel._
MARIE ANTOINETTE.]
Another feature of the situation was that he had incurred the hostility
of the Queen, and she robbed him of a cardinal’s hat in that very
year; though the hat might have been very much in the way in 1791.
The Countess de Brionne persuaded the King of Sweden to ask the Pope
for a hat for the Abbé de Périgord. The Pope, who at that time was
friendly with the Protestant prince, agreed, and the matter was nearly
arranged when the diamond-necklace affair happened. Mme. de Brionnne
sided with de Rohan, and Talleyrand followed. The Queen took a small
revenge by getting the Austrian Ambassador to protest against another
hat being sent to France, and Talleyrand was disappointed. Later, when
the archbishopric of Bourges fell vacant, and he was passed over,
Talleyrand complained bitterly to his friend Choiseul. It was not until
the end of 1788, that he became Bishop of Autun.
In the meantime Talleyrand had opened his political career on other
than ecclesiastical questions. I have already said that, whilst he
lived at Bellechasse, he visited not only fashionable ladies, savants
and artists, but also some of the great statesmen of the last
generation. He met Maurepas, a typical representative of the decaying
order, Malesherbes, the great parliamentarian and liberal reformer, and
Turgot. As Maurepas and Turgot died in 1781, he must have given serious
attention to political matters as soon as, or even before, he left the
Sorbonne. With the elder Choiseul in his retirement he would be more
closely connected through his intimacy with the nephew. The outbreak of
the American war and the departure of a number of young French nobles,
had done even more than the prospect of national bankruptcy to arouse
political interest. Franklin’s house at Passy was besieged by fair
enthusiasts, eager to embrace him; his fur cap was copied by every
dandy in Paris, and constitutional problems were discussed by young
ladies in the intervals of a dance. “The zeal for America is simply
sublime,” says Michelet; while Alison has opined that “the American war
was the great change which blew into a flame the embers of innovation.”
The philosophical party certainly tried to give it that character. When
Lafayette and his nobles returned with an account of the glorious new
constitution and democracy, the concrete instance led to a more general
discussion, which was boldly, though in a limited extent (for there
were no republicans yet to speak of) applied to France. Talleyrand was
not carried away in the flood. He did fit out a privateer with his
friend Choiseul, begging a few guns from the Ministry of Marine; but he
ridiculed the general enthusiasm. The next fashion was Anglo-mania,
and this in turn raised constitutional questions of interest to
France.[12]
It is clear that, from an early stage of his attention to the questions
raised in the salons and circles by these episodes, Talleyrand was
prepared for popular representation, and was disposed to favour the
English model. His manifesto, issued on the eve of the States-General,
will show us that he did not wait for the logic of events to make
him embrace democracy, but there are earlier indications. During
the Assembly of the Notables in 1787 he complained to Choiseul that
“Paris was taking its cue from the Assembly instead of an instructed
Paris impressing its opinion on the Assembly;” and in the same letter
he observed with satisfaction that “the people were going to count
for something,” and that “the granting of provincial administration
[local self-government] and the abolition of privileges would prove a
source of great gain.” The tragic incompetency of the King and Queen
to master the situation of their country impressed him. Mere “goodness
of heart” was fatal. “Too great a familiarity in sovereigns,” he
says in his memoirs, “inspires love rather than respect, and at the
first mishap affection goes.” It was the opinion of a man in whom
(to turn his own words upon himself) “philosophic ideas had replaced
sentiments,” but it expresses the facts here. The network of noble
and ecclesiastical privileges made aristocracy impossible in an
impoverished country. The choice was between a strong autocrat (whom
the gods gave when they willed) and a monarchy limited by an educated
democracy. With Montesquieu he leaned to the latter; the satirical
description of France as “an autocracy tempered with lampoons” is
attributed to him. With Turgot he felt that the people must be educated
up to self-government. He pleaded strongly for more efficient and more
comprehensive education. A contemporary gives this as his fad. He
travelled in privileged provinces like Brittany, and noted the good
result of local administration. He would hardly admit moral feeling
in the matter, but as a practical politician he was for gradual and
constitutional, but thorough, reform.
But the central question of French politics to every thoughtful man
was that of finance. He saw nobles coquetting with democracy who were
not prepared to surrender a tithe of those pecuniary privileges which
were strangling the actual order. He saw constitutionalists working
out their “theory of irregular verbs” without even a moderate grasp of
the crucial need. He immediately set himself to master the science of
finance and the fiscal disorders of his country. His archi-episcopal
friends were well acquainted with the one, and such friends as
Panchaud and Dupont de Nemours would help him with both. His first
open political expression was a vehement attack on Necker after his
assumption of power in 1776. There was a good deal of _parti pris_ in
his first attack. He ridiculed the person, the features, the dress,
the speech, and everything about Necker, as well as his financial
operations. But he did oppose on conviction the tactics of the Genevese
banker. He thought them too slow, too timid, too small-minded to
rescue France from the precipice. At last he made an opportunity for
a constructive effort. The funds of the clergy were interested in the
bank founded by Turgot, and when anxiety arose about this in 1784 he
forced his position as Agent-General (so he himself says), and drew up
a memoir in which he proposed a reconstruction of the bank. The memoir
attracted much attention. One elderly banker listened to it almost
with tears—at the pretty way in which he put banking common-places,
Talleyrand says. A number of experts became acquainted with him—Foulon,
Sainte-Foy, Daudé, &c. Presently he was introduced to Calonne, the new
Minister of Finance, a man of great ability but fitful and unscrupulous.
Calonne’s failure is a matter of general history, but during the three
years of his ministry Talleyrand was usefully associated with him. The
stormy Mirabeau also appears on the scene, and alternately embraces
and quarrels with Talleyrand. His dispatches from Berlin, where he
acted as a kind of secret agent, were nearly all edited by Talleyrand
before being submitted to the King. He addresses Talleyrand from Berlin
as his “dear master,” but has a violent quarrel with him, and calls
him “a wretched, mean, greedy, intriguing creature,” when he returns
to Paris, on account of some offensive allusion to his mistress.
Talleyrand overlooked his violence and vulgarity, and intervened for
him when he published one of his spirited attacks on Calonne. But
Talleyrand’s next important act was to help in preparing a scheme
for the redemption of the debt of the clergy. Calonne had thought of
parrying the growing demand for the convocation of the States-General
by summoning an Assembly of Notables. Talleyrand speaks of his scheme
as “a vast plan,” but without base, as the Notables had no power
whatever to raise the necessary supplies. However, it afforded him an
opportunity to do helpful work. The Assembly was to meet on February
22nd (1787), and on the 14th Calonne invited Talleyrand,[13] Dupont
de Nemours, and several others to come to assist him in preparing the
papers to be submitted. They found a chaos of material, and none of
the work done. They divided the work, Talleyrand undertaking to write
the memoir and law on the new grain-proposals. He also helped M. de
Saint-Genis to draw up a scheme for the redemption of the debt of the
clergy. This was to be part of Calonne’s plan of a general land-tax and
the abolition of all pecuniary privileges.
Calonne’s expedient, as is known, only brought about his own downfall.
Talleyrand, in Paris, met these angry notables as they filled the
salons during the Easter recess, and heard their comments on the
impertinence of the _subvention territoriale_, by which they, the
nobles and clergy, were to be mulcted. Loménie de Brienne fostered
the opposition amongst the clergy. Calonne was dismissed, and, after
an interval of nonentities, the Archbishop of Toulouse secured the
long-coveted honour, chiefly through the influence of the Queen.
Talleyrand would expect few favours from de Brienne (of whom he writes
in the memoirs with disdain and dislike) and the Queen’s party. He felt
that the near future would smooth out their intrigue. “The passion of
the hour was the curtailment of the royal authority,” he says. The King
was pitied and the Queen regarded with cold suspicion. The enormous
deficit dismayed thoughtful men, whilst frivolous nobles called airily
for a declaration of national bankruptcy as a means of salvation they
had themselves tried with success. The letters which Talleyrand then
wrote to his friend at Constantinople show that his observations in
the memoirs faithfully convey the ideas he had at the time. Certain
technical improvements in finance would do something, but it was
clear that the situation of the nobility and clergy must change. The
life-blood of France was being sucked for the support of a parasitic
growth. Financial privileges must be curtailed or abolished. Who would
cut away the exhausting growth of commissions, sinecures, benefices,
and gifts? Clearly, neither the nobles themselves nor the King. The
country must be prepared for popular representation on the English
model—as seen through the merciful mists of the Channel. Talleyrand
proceeded with interest to the Provincial Assembly at Chalons, to which
he was deputed as abbé of St. Denis at Rheims.
The Provincial Assembly was a compromise with the new idea of popular
representation. Six members of the clerical order and six of the
nobility were pitted against twelve of the Third Estate; equal
representation for the sansculottist twenty millions against the
privileged two hundred thousand. And the president was to be chosen
from the first two orders. These twenty-five nominated twenty-four
other members, and one-fourth of the Assembly was to retire every
year. At the elections to replace them everyone who paid ten livres
in taxes was entitled to vote. Archbishop Talleyrand presided at
Chalons, and must have gratified his nephew and the Third Estate at
least by his outspoken denunciation of “greed” and his welcome of the
promised reform of taxation. The work of these Assemblies was presently
transferred to Versailles, in the opening of the States-General, and it
need not be dwelt on. Talleyrand is believed to be the author of two
long memoranda, submitted to the Chalons Assembly, on points relating
to taxation. He was confirmed in his opinion of the value of these
schools of popular training, for we find him urging the reopening of
them in the National Assembly in 1789.
[Illustration: _From an engraving, after a miniature by M. Gratis._
LOUIS XVI.]
But his entry into political life was now properly regulated by his
nomination to a bishopric. He had gone to Rheims as Vicar-General
to his uncle, when Mgr. Marbœuf, who is believed to have so long
opposed his promotion, was transferred from the See of Autun, and it
was offered to Talleyrand. There are legends enough to explain how
the King suddenly acquired his conviction of the “piety” of the Abbé
de Périgord. The most probable story is that Talleyrand’s father, who
died in 1788, begged Louis to confer the lingering bishopric on his
son. Lieutenant-General Talleyrand had been an attendant on the King
in his early years, and was a useful officer and a religious man.
He would regard the long delay in finding a benefice for his son as
a disgrace to one of the oldest houses in France. At all events, on
November 2nd, the King signed the nomination, informing an amused
Paris that he was “properly assured as to the good life, the morals,
the piety, the competence, and all the other virtuous and commendable
qualities of the Abbé de Périgord.” Paris remembered that a former
Bishop of Autun had been the original of Tartuffe. “Ah, if Molière
had only known his successor,” said one wag at the time. There were
many religious and high-minded prelates amongst the French hierarchy,
and they commanded a priesthood of considerable self-sacrifice and
devotion. But Talleyrand’s opinions and habits would not cause a grave
shock to a body that included Cardinal de Rohan, Archbishops Dillon, De
Brienne and Cicé, and a considerable body of bishops and abbé’s of the
type of de Grimaldi, Morellet, Arnaud, Bertrand, Delille, de Bourbon,
de Dillon, Raynal, Maury, Sabatier, &c.