M. THIERS
I had had many opportunities of meeting M. Thiers during the last years
of the Empire. I had known him even before I came to Paris in an
official capacity, had often seen him at the houses of some mutual
friends, and we came to know each other very well. He was one of the
cleverest, nicest little men in the world, and even among the many
interesting people who abounded in France at that time, he stood out
conspicuously as one of the pleasantest. He had many enemies, which is
not to be wondered at if one takes into consideration the vivacity which
he always displayed in his likes and dislikes, and the bitterness, or
rather the caustic tendencies, of his tongue. But friends and foes alike
were loud in their praise of his intelligence, and especially of his
wit. I am not talking of his moral character, which was discussed in
many ways and which in part justified the attacks that were levelled
against it. The Legitimists could not forgive him the part he had taken
in the arrest of the Duchesse de Berry, nor the attitude of the ministry
of which he was a member with regard to that unfortunate Princess whose
frailties were so mercilessly displayed before the public before the end
of her captivity in the fortress of Blaye. The Orleanists also did not
care for him, in spite of the pledge which he had given to their party;
but Louis Philippe personally was fond of him, perhaps because their
tastes were very much alike, and because the sternness and austerity of
Guizot, his great opponent, had never appealed to the heart of the
King, who stood rather in awe of that imposing figure in modern French
political life. The bonhomie of Thiers, his easygoing manners, were more
in accordance with the homely attitude which at that time distinguished
the Orleans family circle. As Montalembert once said very wittily:
“Thiers, c’est le ministre bourgeois d’une dynastie bourgeoise.”
And the remark contained a great deal of truth, though it is much to be
doubted whether the brilliant Catholic leader appreciated at their real
worth the sterling qualities which M. Thiers was hiding under the
sometimes frivolous manner in which he treated serious subjects.
As a writer he was one of the greatest of his epoch, and his work on the
Consulate and the First Empire will always rank among the classics. Few
people have understood so well as he did the gigantic figure of the
first Napoleon, and certainly his knowledge of history, the wonderful
way in which he remembered its lessons, and knew how to apply them where
it became necessary, constituted a unique thing even in France, where at
that time there was a superabundance of clever writers and great
thinkers, of whom he was one of the foremost.
Some enemies of M. Thiers assured me that he would have done better to
confine himself to his historical studies, and that it was a mistake on
his part to throw himself into the struggles of a political career. I do
not share this opinion personally, because the very nature of Thiers
would have protested against a life spent only in thinking without the
emulation of doing. He was essentially a great patriot, far greater than
the general public supposed, and if he had personal ambitions, which
cannot be denied, it must also be admitted that in the great moments of
crisis through which his country passed during his lifetime, he never
hesitated to put all his strength, all his experience, and all his
knowledge of public affairs, as well as his influence at home and
abroad, at her service, sparing neither time nor trouble, nor energy, in
his endeavours to help her.
During the whole reign of Louis Philippe, M. Thiers was a conspicuous
figure in Paris society, and, strange to relate, this petit bourgeois
had succeeded in entering the most exclusive circles of the Faubourg St.
Germain, and contrived to install himself in the favours of its leaders,
masculine as well as feminine. He was essentially the type of a
middle-class man, in spite of the high offices which he had held, and
never could rid himself of the habit of tying a napkin round his neck at
meals, when he was in his family circle, neither would he go out without
the umbrella that remained the distinctive sign of that epoch still
known as the “époque de Louis Philippe,” where the bourgeoisie reigned
supreme, and where the Sovereign tried by all means to win for himself
the sympathies of the mob by coming down to its level.
M. Thiers did not care for the mob. He was of an autocratic character,
and of an imperious disposition, admitting no sovereignty apart from his
own. But, nevertheless, he remained the child of his generation and of
his class. He rose, but neither by adapting himself to circumstances,
nor to the conditions of existence around him. Original he was in mind,
in intelligence and in manners, and he did not change; he always
appeared to his friends as a man of happy disposition tempered with
affability, and tinged with familiarity; his distinctive characteristic
from the very first days he entered public life.
Thiers was essentially “un homme d’opposition,” as one of his enemies
once remarked, but he was a statesman of a type such as is no longer
found nowadays; an active, busy, little individual, always on the look
out for his adversaries’ mistakes, and terrible in the merciless way in
which he noticed them--and, what is worse, made others notice them. He
had but little pity in his heart for the errors of mankind, but was wise
enough not to show the disdain in which he held it. He had been at a
good school, had frequented the salon of Talleyrand, and studied
politics by contact with the politicians who had ranked among the
foremost in Europe. He used to relate a funny little anecdote from his
early days, when he had been introduced to Prince Metternich, during one
of his journeys to Vienna, whither he had repaired to study certain
episodes of the history of Napoleon, and examine certain documents
deposited in the Imperial Archives of the Burg. The statesman to whose
intrigues the great Emperor had in part been indebted for his fall
received Thiers in his study, and it seems received him very badly. But
the little Frenchman, far from appearing to notice it, began at once to
talk with the Austrian Chancellor as if he had known him for years, and
did not scruple to question him on the subjects about which he desired
to learn, a thing which Metternich, who liked above all things to hear
himself speak, particularly disliked. Surprised at first, then slightly
bored, the Prince told Thiers that he had better question the Director
of the Archives about the various points he desired to clear up, to
which the historian of the Consulate and the Empire replied quite
brusquely that this personage could not tell him anything worth
listening to, and that he never took lessons in history from those who
had only read it. Metternich, more and more astonished, asked him what
he meant. “Oh, nothing very important,” was the answer; “seulement je
crois que personne ne pourrait mieux me renseigner sur Napoleon que vous
qui êtes parvenu à le tromper si complètement et si souvent” (“I merely
think no one should be better able to give me information about Napoleon
than yourself, who succeeded in deceiving him so completely and so
frequently”). When Thiers told this anecdote he never failed to add that
“Metternich ne trouva rien d’autre à me répondre que de sourire avec la
remarque: ‘Vous connaissez bien votre histoire, jeune homme’”
(“Metternich in reply could do nothing but smile, accompanying it with
the remark: ‘You are well up in your history, young man’”).
Impudence, as one can see from the above, was not wanting in the
character of the future President of the French Republic, and this
impudence never deserted him in later years. It has been said that his
vanity was intense, and that there was some truth in this accusation
cannot be denied; but beneath this vanity there lay the latent
consciousness the man had of his own moral and intellectual worth, and
of the immense distance that existed between him and the other men of
his generation. He tried to impose his ideas on others; he was despotic
in his decisions, his judgments and his opinions, but he was not devoid
of impartiality, and he was very well aware of his own faults. He loved
France with a sincere affection, which saw through her faults, and there
was no chauvinism in his feelings. He would have liked to see his
fatherland prosperous and powerful, but he never rushed into extremes as
Frenchmen are so often inclined. Whilst he was the responsible minister
of the dynasty of July, he served it faithfully and to the best of his
ability, and though he has been often accused of opportunism, yet he
never would accept office under the Bonapartes, though, and this is
rather curious, he always was of opinion that their dynasty was the most
popular one among all those that aspired to the government of France.
When, together with the other members of the Legislative Chamber, he was
imprisoned by the President on the day of the _coup d’état_ of the 2nd
of December, he is said to have made the following typical remark: “Le
Président nous fait enfermer, c’est son droit; espérons pour lui, qu’il
saura en profiter, et ne donnera pas dans le travers de vouloir
gouverner constitutionnellement. Il ne peut pas avoir de Constitution
pour les Bonaparte, tout au plus peuvent ils prétendre à ce que leur
règne soit celui où on parle de Constitution comme les malades parlent
des mêts que leurs médecins leur interdisent de manger” (“The President
is having us shut up, it is his right; let us hope for his own sake that
he will know how to profit by it, and will not make the mistake of
wanting to govern constitutionally. There can be no constitutional
government for the Bonapartes. The utmost they can lay claim to is that
during their reign the Constitution should be spoken of in the tone in
which invalids speak of dishes that their doctors forbid them to eat”).
During the eighteen years that the Empire lasted, Thiers always refused
to take office, though he owned later on that he felt once or twice
sorely tempted to do so. But he realised that the regime could not last,
and reserved himself for the moment when it would be overturned, feeling
convinced in his mind that that day would be also that of his own
personal triumph, and that whether the country liked it or not it would
be compelled to turn to him for advice and for help.
When after the first defeats which characterised the war of 1870, the
Empress Eugénie felt inclined to appeal to him to help her, and had him
sounded by one of her friends who was on terms of close intimacy with
him, M. Thiers replied that it was either too late or too early for him
to do anything, and that as matters stood, the best thing to do was to
allow events to take their course. “But the dynasty,” said his visitor;
“are you going to allow the dynasty to fall like that?”
“If the dynasty were wise, I certainly would do my best to support it,”
was the unexpected reply; “but the dynasty will not be wise; it will
never have the common sense to bring itself to conclude peace just now,
and to enforce the conditions of that peace, even by measures of
violence against those who would undoubtedly oppose it. If I thought the
Regent was strong enough and firm enough to arrest half the members of
the Corps Législatif, and to send the other half back to their own
firesides to meditate on the wisdom of a useless opposition, if she
would make up her mind to govern for a time without the Chambers, then I
would at once accept office; but she will never have the courage to take
such a responsibility before the country, and therefore I cannot do
anything for her. There are moments in the life of nations when it is
indispensable for their welfare that those who govern them should feel
no hesitation in resorting to violence, and France just now has reached
such a moment. It is a thousand pities that the Regent or the Emperor
fails to see it is the case. Under such circumstances my help would be
useless to them, and it might compromise my own future prospects.”
This conversation gives a very good insight into the character of M.
Thiers. It also accounts in part for the ruthlessness which he displayed
in the crushing of the Commune a few months later.
Apropos of this, a few weeks before his death, I had the opportunity of
talking to him about it at St. Germain, whither he had repaired to spend
the summer, and where he was preparing himself for the struggle of the
coming elections, which he fondly hoped would prove fatal to the
government of Marshal MacMahon, whom he still expected to replace as
head of the State. Thiers was in a communicative mood that afternoon,
and he spoke with great vivacity of that time when he had displayed such
energy, as his friends said--such brutality, as his foes maintained--in
fighting the unruly and disorderly elements that had so very nearly
destroyed France. On that occasion he used these memorable words: “I
know that I have been severely blamed for the orders which I had given
to Galiffet, to show no mercy to the insurgents, but, frankly, what else
could I do? We had just gone through an unfortunate war; the enemy was
at our gates, we had to execute a most onerous treaty, and above all to
clear our territory from the invader, who certainly would never have
left it, had he thought that this rebellion was going to take the upper
hand. We had the whole country to reorganise, and this under the most
deplorable conditions that have ever existed in the life of a nation. We
were without an army, without any regular government, and had to fight
the many ambitions of those who thought to seek their own advantage out
of the general ruin. The first thing to do was to strike fear into the
hearts of those who already thought that they could bring their own
party to the head of affairs and thus add something to the general
confusion. Don’t forget that in order to oblige the Prussians to
recognise that we were strong enough to rule France, and to rule it
well, we had not only to assert ourselves, but also to drive out of the
minds of all our opponents, and of these there were legions, the idea
that we had not got power enough on our side.
“You tell me that the Commune might easily have been subdued on that
eventful and fatal 18th of March. This perhaps is true, because it did
not even exist at that time, and we were face to face with a simple
insurrection, not with a revolution. But would it have been wise? I
don’t think so. Had we not acted as if we were in presence of a real and
earnest danger, had I not retired to Versailles in a hurry as I did, the
mutiny of the 18th of March would have repeated itself a few months
later, and this sort of thing would have gone on continually. The
government would have been weakened quite uselessly, and the prestige of
France fallen a little lower than was the case already. A revolution is
an incident, perhaps sad and bloody, but an incident all the same;
whereas continual rebellions mean the demoralisation of a nation.
“I knew that France was demoralised in the sense I mean, but why need
the world come to the same conclusion? Surely, none at all. Therefore we
had to show the world that we were a strong government, that, what is
even more important, we _were_ a government, a fact which many people
doubted still; and that as such we were determined to enforce order, to
enforce it in the most determined manner possible, even at the risk of
spilling more blood than we would have cared to do at other times. Of
course I could not foresee the excesses to which the Commune would
resort, nor the murder of the hostages, or the destroying of half Paris
by fire, but I will be frank with you, I much preferred this to the
consequences which would have ensued for the future of France, in an
unsettled state of things such as would have resulted had the government
of which I was the head not had occasion to show its energy and its
decision to make itself respected. Of course, when Bismarck saw that we
could cope with the situation, that we did not require his, or anyone
else’s help, he gave up all idea of making difficulties in the execution
of the different clauses of the treaty of peace. The army also, having
just returned from its captivity in Germany, required something to
divert it from the many anxious and rebellious thoughts it had had time
to indulge in, during the long months of its imprisonment in German
fortresses. The Commune came opportunely to allow it to let its thoughts
drift into another channel.
“To resume the main point, I do not think that more indulgence towards
the rebels would have helped us to regain the position to which even as
a defeated nation we were entitled. For these reasons I do not regret
that I enjoined severity to the troops that entered Paris. This severity
had the result that out of the moral ruins left by the Empire, and those
material ruins which resulted from the fleeting victory of the Commune,
rose a government which won for itself the respect of Europe, and the
esteem of Germany, who, seeing what it was capable of, gave up every
thought of putting difficulties in its way. No, when I remember all that
happened at that time, I cannot say I am sorry for anything I did, or
which was done under my responsibility. I may deplore it, but I cannot
regret it. One cannot be sentimental in politics.”
I wrote down this conversation in my diary when I got home, and every
time I have the occasion to read it over again, I remember the vivacity
with which Thiers developed to me his ideas on this important subject,
ideas which I believe have never before been made known to the public.
It is strange how, with all his penetration, and his wonderful insight
into politics, Thiers did not foresee the circumstances that brought
about his own downfall. There were lacunes in that remarkable mind,
lacunes which proceeded from his inordinate vanity. For instance, when
he had started on that journey across Europe, in order to implore her
help during the Franco-German war, he never for one moment imagined that
he would be unsuccessful, or that his entreaties would be repulsed. The
indifference with which the fate of his country was viewed beyond its
frontiers proved a terrible blow to the old man, who sadly said, or,
rather, repeated, the famous words: “Il n’y a plus d’Europe,” when his
last hope, his trust in Alexander II. of Russia, also proved elusive.
But with his usual ability he managed to mask his defeat under the
pretext that neither Italy, Austria, nor Russia would have anything to
do with the Imperial regime, and that as they hadn’t been sure it was
definitely to be classed among the past things of history, they had
thought it best and wisest to remain neutral, and not to interfere with
the course of events. Out of that circumstance Thiers made enough
capital to ensure his own election as head of the government, and once
established at Versailles in that capacity he felt sure that he would
remain at his post until his death.
He had no real adversaries worthy of that name. With consummate skill he
had succeeded in entirely discrediting the Orleans princes by the
willingness with which he had helped them to get back their confiscated
millions, and he knew that henceforward they had made themselves
impossible. There was still the Comte de Chambord, but in his case
Thiers had at his disposal sources of information that left him no doubt
as to the attitude that the latter would eventually take, if offered the
crown of his ancestors. The only adversaries he dreaded were, therefore,
the Bonapartes; and this danger seemed, for the present, to have drifted
away by the death of Napoleon III. and the extreme youth of his son.
Whether it was this last circumstance, or simply that his watchfulness
had relaxed, the fact remains that Thiers never noticed the storm that
was looming in the distance, and threatening him. And when an accidental
circumstance brought about his fall, in quite an unexpected manner, he
was more astonished than anyone else at the event.
Nevertheless, he took it quite good humouredly, and with far more
philosophy than could have been expected from him. I saw him a few days
after it had occurred and was struck with his indifference. I think that
upon the whole he was glad that his fall had taken place for a neutral
cause, and that it had been his person that had been objected to rather
than his manner of conducting the government. He hoped that the future
would avenge him, and though such an old man, yet he was making plans
for the day when France would call him back to the head of affairs. He
knew that no matter what his enemies might say, he had deserved and had
earned the gratitude of his country, and won for himself a glorious page
in its annals. And if the truth be told, he was rather glad to be once
more in the ranks of the opposition, and thus able to live over again
the past days, when a word of his could overturn a government. He
devoted all his energies to the struggle which he fully intended to
initiate against President MacMahon, whom he had never liked, even when
he had employed him, and whom he never forgave for having taken his
place. Thiers had always been of opinion that the Marshal’s intellectual
capacities were of the smallest kind, and that except honesty of
purpose, he possessed none of the qualifications that are required of
the Head of a State. It was gall and wormwood to him, to find his place
had been taken by a man who would destroy some of his work, and a great
deal of his plans. So he devoted all his energies to prepare the defeat
of the Marshal after the latter’s _coup d’état_ of the 16th of May.
Fate, however, interfered and carried off M. Thiers after an illness of
a few hours at St. Germain, where, as I have already related, he spent
the last summer of his life. In spite of his advanced age, he died in
full possession of his faculties, and with his intelligence as bright
and clear as it had ever been. The emotion provoked by his death was
considerable. The old man was, after all, more popular than one had
thought, and the nation was very well aware that in burying him, she was
also burying a great patriot, who had been true to her in the hour of
her greatest adversity. I followed in his funeral procession, and as we
were marching towards distant Père la Chaise, I heard the following
remark which left a deep impression on my mind: the more so that it was
uttered by a common workman whom certainly I wouldn’t have believed to
be capable of it: “Il avait des défauts, le petit homme, mais après tout
c’est grâce à lui que Belfort est resté français!” (“He had his faults,
the little man; but, after all, it is thanks to him that Belfort
remained French”).
I think that Thiers would have thought, had he listened to these words,
that they constituted the best recognition that had ever been uttered of
his long life of service to the nation.