mixture of the military men of the old monarchy and the soldiers
of the new empire, only augmented the evil. To suppose that
veterans famous on a hundred fields of battle should not be
shocked at seeing young men--brave without doubt, but for the
most part unaccustomed to the use of arms--to see them wear,
without having earned or deserved, the marks of high military
rank, was to be ignorant of the first principles of human
nature."--Vol. vi. p. 311-313.
[3] Having ourselves seen the Old Guard on this trying occasion,
we can vouch for the general fidelity of Chateaubriand's
narrative.
These observations of Chateaubriand's are well founded, and the
last, in particular, is very important; but it may well be doubted
whether, by any measures that could have been adopted, the support
of the army could have been secured, or the dynasty of the Bourbons
established on a secure foundation. It was the fact of their
having been replaced by the bayonets of the stranger which was the
insurmountable difficulty; it was national subjugation, the capture
of Paris, which had for ever stained the white flag. This original
sin in its birth attended the Restoration through every subsequent
year of its existence: it was the main cause of the revolution of
1830, and operated with equal force in bringing about the still more
fatal one of 1848. Impatience of repose--a desire to precipitate
themselves on foreign nations--an aversion to the employments and
interests of peace, were the secret but principal causes of these
convulsions. If either Louis XVIII. or Louis Philippe had been young
and warlike princes, and the recollection of Leipsic and Waterloo,
of the invasions of France, and the double capture of its capital,
had not prevented them from engaging in the career of foreign
warfare; if they had been enterprising and _victorious_, they would
have secured the unanimous suffrages of the nation, and continued
the honoured possessors of the throne of France. But this dazzling
though perilous career was denied to Louis XVIII. To him there was
left only the difficult, perhaps the impossible task, of reconciling
irrevocable enmities, of closing irremediable wounds, of appeasing
inextinguishable mortifications. They have been thus set forth in
the eloquent words of genius:--
"The house of Bourbon was placed in Paris at the Restoration
as a trophy of the European confederation. The return of the
ancient princes was inseparably associated, in the public mind,
with the cession of extensive provinces, with the payment of an
immense tribute, with the occupation of the kingdom by hostile
armies, with the emptiness of those niches in which the gods of
Athens and Rome had been the objects of a new idolatry, with
the nakedness of those walls on which the Transfiguration had
shone with a light as glorious as that which overhung Mount
Thabor. They came back to a land in which they could recognise
nothing. The Seven Sleepers of the legend, who closed their
eyes when the Pagans were persecuting the Christians, and woke
when the Christians were persecuting the Pagans, did not find
themselves in a world more completely new to them. Twenty years
had done the work of twenty generations. Events had come thick;
men had lived fast. The old institutions and the old feelings
had been torn up by the roots. There was a new church founded
and endowed by the usurper; a new nobility, whose titles were
taken from the fields of battle, disastrous to the ancient line;
a new chivalry, whose crosses had been won by exploits which
seemed likely to make the banishment of the Emigrants perpetual;
a new code, administered by a new magistracy; a new body of
proprietors, holding the soil by a new tenure; the most ancient
local distinctions effaced, the most familiar names obsolete.
There was no longer a Normandy, a Brittany, or a Guienne. The
France of Louis XVI. had passed away as completely as one of the
Preadamite worlds. Its fossil remains might now and then excite
curiosity; but it was as impossible to put life into the old
institutions as to animate the skeletons which are imbedded in
the depths of primeval strata. The revolution in the laws and
the form of government was but an outward sign of that mightier
revolution which had taken place in the minds and hearts of men,
and which affected every transaction and feeling of life. It was
as absurd to think that France could again be placed under the
feudal system, as that our globe could be overrun by mammoths.
Louis might efface the initials of the Emperor, but he could not
turn his eyes without seeing some object which reminded him he
was a stranger in the palace of his fathers."[4]
[4] MACAULAY'S _Essays_, ii. 230.
As a parallel to this splendid passage, though in an entirely
different style, we gladly give place to a noble burst of
Chateaubriand, on that most marvellous of marvellous events, the
return of Napoleon from Elba. It was natural that so memorable
a revolution should strongly impress his imaginative mind; but
he seems to have exceeded himself in the reflections to which
it gives rise. We know not whether to award the prize to the
Englishman or the Frenchman, in these parallel passages. They are
both masterpieces in their way. Perhaps the correct view is, that
Macaulay is superior in graphic force and the accumulation of
sarcastic images; Chateaubriand in lofty thought and imaginative
images.
"On the 1st March, at three o'clock in the morning, Napoleon
approached the coast of France in the Gulf of Juan; he
disembarked, walked along the shore, gathered a few violets, and
bivouacked in an olive wood. The inhabitants withdrew in a state
of stupefaction. He left Antibes to his left, and threw himself
into the Mountains of Grasse in Dauphiny. At Sisterone the road
passes a defile where twenty men might have stopped him; he did
not meet a living soul. He advanced without opposition among the
inhabitants who the year before had wished to murder him. Into
the void which was formed around his gigantic shade, if a few
soldiers entered, they straightway yielded to the attraction of
his eagles. His fascinated enemies seek him and find him not; he
shrowds himself in his glory, as the lion in the Sahara desert
conceals himself in the rays of the sun to dazzle the eyes of
his pursuers. Enveloped in a burning halo, the bloody phantoms
of Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Eylau, the
Moskwa, Lützen, and Bautzen, form his cortege amidst a million
of the dead. From the midst of that column of smoke and flame,
issue at the gates of towns some trumpet-notes mingled with
tricolor standards, and the gates fly open. When Napoleon passed
the Niemen, at the head of four hundred thousand foot, and a
hundred thousand horse, to blow into the air the palace of the
Czars at Moscow, he was less wonderful than when, breaking his
ban, casting his fetters as a gauntlet in the face of kings,
he came alone from Cannes to Paris, to sleep peaceably in the
palace of the Tuileries."--Vol. vi. p. 359, 360.
To a mind like that of Chateaubriand, reposing in solitude when
Napoleon was acting with such marvellous effect in the world, the
character and qualities of that wonderful man could not fail to
be a constant object of solicitude and observation. It has been
already noticed that he braved the Emperor in the plenitude of his
power, and essentially contributed, in the crisis of his fate, to
his dethronement, and the re-establishment of the ancient line of
princes. But, as is not unusual with persons of his highly wrought
and generous temper of mind, his hostility to the Emperor declined
with the termination of his authority, and his admiration for his
genius rose with the base desertion of the revolutionary crowd who
had fawned upon him when on the throne. The following observations
on the style of his writings, indicate the growth of this counter
feeling, and are in themselves equally just and felicitous:--
"His partisans have sought to make of Buonaparte a perfect
being; a model of sentiment, of delicacy, of morality, and of
justice--a writer like Cæsar and Thucydides, an orator like
Demosthenes, a historian like Tacitus. The public discourses of
Napoleon, his sonorous phrases in the tent and at the council
board, are the less inspired by the spirit of prophecy, that
many of the catastrophes which he announced have not been
accomplished, while the warlike Isaiah himself has disappeared.
Prophecies of doom which follow without reaching states become
ridiculous. It is their accomplishment which renders them
sublime. During sixteen years, Napoleon was the incarnation
of destiny. Destiny now is mute, and he, too, should be
so. Buonaparte was not a Cæsar; his education had neither
been learnedly nor carefully conducted: half a stranger, he
was ignorant of the first rules of our language, and could
hardly spell it; but what did it signify, after all, that his
expression was defective?--he gave the law to the universe. His
bulletins have the most thrilling of all eloquence--that of
victory. Sometimes, during the intoxications of success, they
affected to be written on a drum-head: in the midst of the most
lugubrious accents, something emerged which excites a smile. I
have read all that Napoleon has written--the first manuscripts
of his infancy, his love-letters to Josephine, the five volumes
of his discourses, bulletins, and orders; but I have found
nothing which so truly portrays the character of that great
man, when in adversity, as the following autograph note left at
Elba:--
"'My heart refuses to share in ordinary joys as ordinary sorrows.
"'Not having given myself life, I am not entitled to take it
away.
"'My bad genius appeared to me and announced my end; which I
found at Leipsic.
"'I have conjured up the terrible spirit of innovation, which
will overrun the world.'
"Certes, there is Napoleon to the very life. His bulletins and
discourses have often great energy; but it was not his own;
it belonged to the age; he only adopted it. It sprang from
the revolutionary energy, which he only weakened by moving in
opposition to it. Danton said, 'The metal is fused; if you do
not watch over the furnace, you will be consumed.' St Just
replied, '_Do it if you dare_.' These words contain the whole
secret of our Revolution. Those who make revolutions by halves,
do nothing but dig their own graves."--Vol. vii. p. 101.
Certes, there is Chateaubriand to the very life.
Chateaubriand, as all the world knows, was Minister for Foreign
Affairs to Louis XVIII. at Ghent; adhering thus to his ruling
maxim throughout life, "Fidelity to misfortune." So great were the
services rendered by him to the cause of European freedom, by the
energetic series of papers which he poured forth with unwearied
vigour every week, that there were serious thoughts, after the
battle of Waterloo, of promoting him to the dignity of Prime
Minister. Louis XVIII. openly inclined to it; and if his advice had
prevailed, the catastrophe which fifteen years afterwards befel his
family, would probably have been prevented. But the insuperable
difficulty lay here: the pure and honourable mind of Chateaubriand
revolted from the idea of forming a Ministry in conjunction with
Talleyrand and Fouché; and yet their influence was such that the
monarch, in the first instance at least, was compelled to court
their assistance. Expedience, at least immediate expedience, seemed
to counsel it; but Chateaubriand, animated by higher principles, and
gifted with a more prophetic mind, anticipated no lasting advantage,
but rather the reverse, from an alliance with the arch-regicide
of Nantes, and the arch-traitor who had sworn allegiance to and
betrayed _twelve_ Governments in succession. But the chorus of
"_base unanimities_," as he expresses it, with which the monarch
was surrounded, proved too strong for any single individual, how
gifted soever. Fouché and Talleyrand were taken into power, and
Chateaubriand retired. Of the conversation with Louis XVIII.,
when this vital change was resolved on, he gives the following
interesting account, which proves that that sagacious monarch at
least was well aware of the consequences of the step to which he was
thus involuntarily impelled:--
"Before quitting St Denis, on our way back to Paris, I had an
audience of the King, and the following conversation ensued:
"'Well?' said Louis XVIII., opening the dialogue by that
exclamation.
"'Well, sire, you have taken the Duke of Otranto,' (Fouché.)
"'I could not avoid it; from my brother to the bailie of
Crussol, (and he at least is not suspected,) all said that we
could not do otherwise--what think you?'
"'Sire! the thing is done; I crave permission to remain silent.'
"'No, no--speak out; you know how I resisted at Ghent.'
"'In that case, sire, I must obey my orders. Pardon my fidelity:
I think it is all over with the monarchy.'
"The King remained some time silent. I began to tremble at my
boldness, when his Majesty rejoined:--
"'In truth, M. de Chateaubriand, I am of your opinion.'
"I bowed and withdrew; and thus ended my connection with the
Hundred Days."--Vol. vii. 70.
Manzoni has written an ode, known over all Europe, on the double
fall of Napoleon: "The last poet," says Chateaubriand, "of the
country of Virgil, sang the last warrior of the country of Cæsar.
Tutte ei provo, la gloria
Maggior dopo il periglio,
La fuga e la Vittoria,
La reggia e il triste esiglio:
Due volte nella polvere,
Due volte sugli altar.
Ei se nomo: due secoli,
L'un contro l'altro armato,
Sommessi a lui se volsero,
Come aspettando il fato:
Ei fe silenzio ed arbitro
S'assise in mezzo a loro.
"He proved everything; glory greater after danger, flight, and
victory: Royalty and sad exile, twice in the dust, twice on the
altar.
"He announced himself: two ages, armed against each other,
turned towards him, as if awaiting their fate; he proclaimed
silence, and seated himself as arbiter between them."
Notwithstanding the vehemence of Chateaubriand's dissension with
Napoleon, it cannot be expected that a man of his romantic and
generous temperament would continue his hostility after death.
No one, accordingly, has awarded a more heartfelt or magnanimous
tribute to his memory.
"The solitude of the exile and of the tomb of Napoleon has shed
an extraordinary interest, a sort of prestige, over his memory.
Alexander did not die under the eyes of Greece, he disappeared
amidst the distant wonders of Babylon. Buonaparte has not died
under the eyes of France: he has been lost in the gloomy edge
of the southern horizon. The grandeur of the silence which
now surrounds him equals the immensity of the noise which his
exploits formerly made. The nations are absent: the crowd of men
has retired: the bird of the tropics, 'harnessed,' in Buffon's
words, 'to the chariot of the sun,' has precipitated itself from
the star of light--where does it now repose? It rests on the
ashes of which the weight has all but subverted the globe."
"Imposuerunt omnes sibi diademata post mortem ejus; et multiplicata
sunt mala in terrâ."[5] "They all assumed diadems after his death,
and evils were multiplied on the earth." Twenty years have hardly
elapsed since the death of Napoleon, and already the French and
Spanish monarchies are no more. The map of the world has undergone a
change: a new geography is required: severed from their legitimate
rulers, nations have been thrown against nations: renowned actors on
the scene have given place to ignoble successors: eagles from the
summits of the loftiest pines have plunged into the ocean, while
frail shellfish have attached themselves to the sides of the trunk,
which still stands erect.
[5] MACHABIES.
"As in the last result everything advances to its end, '_the
terrible spirit of innovation which overruns the world_', as
the Emperor said, and to which he had opposed the barrier of
his genius, has resumed its course. The institutions of the
conqueror fail: he will be the last of great existences on the
earth. Nothing hereafter will overshadow society, parcelled
out and levelled: the shadow of Napoleon alone will be seen
on the verge of the old world which has been destroyed, like
the phantom of the deluge on the edge of its abyss. Distant
posterity will discern that spectre through the gloom of passing
events still erect above the gulf into which unknown ages
have fallen, until the day marked out by Providence for the
resurrection of social man."--Vol. vii. 169-171.
Assuredly no one can say that Chateaubriand's genius has declined
with his advanced years.
To a man viewing Napoleon with the feelings expressed in these
eloquent words, the translation of his remains from their solitary
resting-place under the willow at St Helena could not but be an
object of regret. He thus expresses himself on that memorable event,
and future ages will probably confirm his opinion:--
"The removal of the remains of Napoleon from St Helena was a
fault against his renown. A place of sepulchre in Paris can
never equal the Valley of Slanes. Who would wish to see the
Pillar of Pompey elsewhere than above the grave dug for his
remains by his poor freedman, aided by the old legionary? What
shall we do with those magnificent remains in the midst of
our miseries? Can the hardest granite typify the everlasting
duration of Napoleon's renown? Even if we possessed a Michael
Angelo to design the statue on the grave, how should we fashion
the mausoleum? Monuments are for little men, for the great
a stone and a name. At least they should have suspended the
coffin from the summit of the triumphal arch which records his
exploits: nations from afar should have beheld their master
borne aloft on the shoulders of his victories. Was not the urn
which contained the ashes of Trajan placed at Rome, beneath
his column? Napoleon at Paris will be lost amidst the crowd
of unknown names. God forbid he should be exposed to the
vicissitudes of our political changes, surrounded though he is
by Louis XIV., Vauban, and Turenne. Let a certain section of our
revolutionists triumph, and the ashes of the conqueror will be
sent to join the ashes which our passions have dispersed. The
conqueror will be forgotten in the oppressor of our liberties.
The bones of Napoleon will not reproduce his genius; they will
only teach his despotism to ignoble soldiers."--Vol. vii. 184,
185.
The Restoration did not immediately employ Chateaubriand. His
anticipations were realised. The chorus of baseness and selfishness
with which the court was surrounded, kept him at a distance. They
were afraid of his genius: they were jealous of his reputation.
Above all, they dreaded his independence. He was not sufficiently
manageable. They were actuated, perhaps not altogether without
reason, by the same feeling which made Lord North say, when urged
to bring Dr Johnson into Parliament, whose great powers in the
political warfare of pamphlets had been so signally evinced on the
side of Government, "No, sir, he is an elephant, but a wild one,
as likely to trample under foot his friends as his enemies." The
veteran statesman, so well versed in the ways of men, was right.
Genius is the fountain of thought: it ultimately rules the councils
and destinies of men; but it generally requires to be tempered by
time before it can be safely introduced into practice.
Chateaubriand enlivens this period of his memoirs, which is neither
signalised by political event nor remarkable literary effort, by
a sort of biography of Madame Recamier, with whom he was on terms
of intimate friendship. This remarkable person, who was beyond all
question the most beautiful and attractive woman of her age in
France, or perhaps in Europe, is now no more; and he appears to
have obtained from her relatives, or perhaps from herself prior to
her decease, not only many curious and highly interesting details
concerning her early years and subsequent history, but a great
variety of original letters from the most eminent men of the age,
who were successively led captive by her charms, but none of whom
appear to have impaired her reputation. In this country, where the
lines of severance between the sexes are much more rigidly drawn,
it would be impossible for a young and beautiful married woman to
be in the habit of receiving the most ardent love-letters from a
great variety of distinguished and fascinating admirers, without
the jealousy of rivals being excited, and the breath of scandal
fastening upon her as its natural prey. But it is otherwise on
the Continent, where, although there is doubtless abundance of
dissoluteness of manners in certain circles, yet in others such
intimacies may exist, which are yet kept within due bounds, and cast
no reflection on the fortunate fair one who sees all the world at
her feet.
Such, at least, appears to have been the case with Madame
Recamier, the intimate friend of Madame de Stael, who said "She
would willingly give all her talents for one half of her beauty;"
and whose powers of fascination were such, that she not only
inspired a vehement passion nearly at the same time, in La Harpe,
Lucien Buonaparte, Murat, Moreau, Bernadotte, Marshal Massena,
Benjamin Constant, Prince Augustus of Prussia, Prince Metternich,
Chateaubriand, and a vast many others, but attracted the particular
notice of Napoleon, and did not escape the vigilant and practised
eye of the Duke of Wellington. The Prince of Prussia would have
married her, if he could have effected her divorce from M. Recamier.
It is one of the worst traits of the Emperor Napoleon's character,
that he was not only so envious of the celebrity of her beauty that
he banished her from Paris to extinguish its fame, but was inspired
with such malignant feelings towards her, from her having rejected
his advances, that he got a law passed which rendered the wives of
persons engaged in commerce responsible in their separate estates
for their husbands' debts; the effect of which was to involve Madame
Recamier, whose husband, a great banker in Paris, failed, in almost
total ruin, in the latter years of her life.
Madame Recamier, whose birth, though respectable, gave her none of
the advantages of rank or opulence, was bred up at the abbey of the
_Desert_, near the confluence of the Rhone and the Saone at Lyons.
Her parents, however, resided at Paris; and they having brought
her home at the age of twelve years, she was at that tender age
married to M. Recamier, a rich banker, almost four times her own
age, whose immense transactions, which entirely absorbed his time
and attention, left him no leisure to attend either to the education
or occupations of his infantine and beautiful wife. But though thus
left to herself, surrounded by admirers, and with every luxury which
wealth could purchase at her command, she was never led astray.
Benjamin Constant, who knew her well from her earliest years, has
left the following interesting portrait of what may be called her
infantine married life:--
"She whom I paint emerged pure and brilliant from that corrupted
atmosphere, which elsewhere withered where it did not actually
corrupt. Infancy was at first her safeguard. Libertinism shrunk
from approaching the asylum of so much innocence. Removed from
the world in a solitude embellished by the arts, she spent her
time in the sweet occupation of those charming and poetical
studies which usually constitute the delight of a more advanced
age.