Part I, 9

Since comparison gives everything its measure, the Revolution of 1688, however far circumstances may have raised it above its worth, will find its proper level. It is already waning, eclipsed by the expanding orb of reason and the luminous revolutions of America and France. In less than another century it will go, along with Mr. Burke's labors, "to the family vault of all the Capulets." Humankind will then scarcely believe that a country calling itself free sent to Holland for a man, clothed him in power expressly to make themselves afraid of him, and paid him nearly a million sterling a year for permission to submit themselves and their posterity, like men and women in bondage, forever.

But there is a truth that ought to be made known, one I have had the opportunity to witness: appearances notwithstanding, no class of men despises monarchy more than courtiers. They know perfectly well that if others saw it as they do, the trick could not continue. They are like men who make their living from a show, men so familiar with its folly that they laugh at it; but if the audience became as wise as they are about it, the show would end and the profits with it. The difference between a republican and a courtier concerning monarchy is that the former opposes it, believing it to be something, while the latter laughs at it, knowing it to be nothing.

Since I used to correspond occasionally with Mr. Burke, believing then that his principles were sounder than his book reveals, I wrote to him last winter from Paris and told him how well matters were progressing. Among other subjects in that letter, I referred to the fortunate position of the National Assembly: it had taken a stand on which moral duty and political interest were united. Its members need not speak words they do not believe in order to deceive others into believing them. Their position needs no artifice to sustain it and can be maintained only by enlightening humankind. Their interest lies not in fostering ignorance but in dispelling it. They are unlike a ministerial or opposition party in England: though these parties oppose one another, they are united in preserving the common mystery. The National Assembly must throw open a treasury of light. It must show man his true character; the nearer it brings him to that standard, the stronger the National Assembly becomes.

In contemplating the French Constitution, we see a rational order of things. Its principles accord with its forms, and both accord with their origin. Someone might excuse bad forms by saying they are nothing but forms, but that is a mistake. Forms grow out of principles and serve to perpetuate the principles from which they grow. A bad form can be practiced only on a bad principle; it cannot be grafted onto a good one. Wherever the forms of a government are bad, they are sure evidence that its principles are bad as well.

I will finally close this subject here. I began by observing that Mr. Burke had chosen not to compare the English and French Constitutions. He apologizes (on page 241) for not doing so by saying he had no time. Mr. Burke's book occupied him for upward of eight months and extends to a volume of three hundred and sixty-six pages. His omission injures his cause, and his excuse makes matters worse. People on the English side of the water will begin to wonder whether there is some fundamental defect in what is called the English constitution that forced Mr. Burke to suppress the comparison rather than bring that defect into view.

Just as Mr. Burke has not written about constitutions, neither has he written about the French Revolution. He gives no account of its beginning or its progress. He merely expresses astonishment. "It looks," he says, "to me, as if I were in a great crisis, not of the affairs of France alone, but of all Europe, perhaps of more than Europe. All circumstances taken together, the French Revolution is the most astonishing that has hitherto happened in the world."

Since wise people are astonished by foolish things, and others by wise ones, I do not know which explains Mr. Burke's astonishment. But it is certain that he does not understand the French Revolution. It seems to have burst forth like a creation out of chaos, but it is only the consequence of a revolution in thought that already existed in France. The nation's mind had changed beforehand, and a new order of things naturally followed a new order of thought. I will trace, as concisely as I can, the growth of the French Revolution and identify the circumstances that helped bring it about.

The despotism of Louis XIV., joined to the gaiety of his Court and the gaudy display of his character, had so humbled and at the same time so captivated the mind of France that the people seemed to have lost all sense of their own dignity while contemplating that of their Grand Monarch. The entire reign of Louis XV., remarkable only for weakness and effeminacy, brought no further change beyond spreading a kind of lethargy over the nation, from which it showed no desire to awake.

The only signs of the spirit of Liberty in those periods are found in the writings of French philosophers. Montesquieu, President of the Parliament of Bordeaux, went about as far as a writer under despotic government could go. Forced to divide his allegiance between principle and caution, he often hid his mind behind a veil, and we should give him credit for more than he expressly said.

Voltaire, at once the flatterer and satirist of despotism, took another course. His strength lay in exposing and mocking the superstitions that priestcraft, joined to statecraft, had woven into governments. His attacks sprang not from the purity of his principles or love of humankind—for satire and philanthropy do not naturally agree—but from his sharp eye for folly in its true form and his irresistible urge to expose it. Yet the attacks were as formidable as if prompted by virtue, and he deserves the thanks, rather than the esteem, of humankind.

By contrast, we find in the writings of Rousseau and the Abbe Raynal a beautiful sympathy for liberty that commands respect and elevates the human faculties. But after awakening that spirit, they do not guide its action: they leave the mind in love with an object without explaining how to attain it.

The writings of Quesnay, Turgot, and their friends are of a serious kind, but they suffered from the same disadvantage as Montesquieu. They abound in moral maxims concerning government, yet aim more at making administration economical and reforming it than at reforming the government itself.

But all these writings, and many more, carried weight. They approached government in different ways: Montesquieu through judgment and knowledge of laws; Voltaire through wit; Rousseau and Raynal through ardor; Quesnay and Turgot through moral maxims and systems of economy. Readers of every class found something to their taste, and a spirit of political inquiry began to spread across the nation around the time the dispute broke out between England and what were then its American colonies.

In the war France subsequently entered, it is well known that the nation appeared to be ahead of the French ministry. Each had its own object, but the objects differed: the nation sought liberty, the ministry retaliation against England. The French officers and soldiers who later went to America found themselves in the school of Freedom, where they learned its practice as well as its principles by heart.

Because the military events in America could not be separated from the principles of the American Revolution, reports of those events published in France necessarily carried with them the principles that produced them. Many events embodied principles in themselves, among them the declaration of American Independence and the treaty of alliance between France and America, which recognized the natural rights of man and justified resistance to oppression.

The French Minister at the time, Count Vergennes, was no friend of America; and justice as well as gratitude requires us to say that it was the Queen of France who made the American cause fashionable at the French Court. Count Vergennes was a personal and social friend of Dr. Franklin, and the Doctor, through his graceful good sense, had acquired some influence over him; but in principle Count Vergennes was a despot.

Dr. Franklin's position as Minister from America to France belongs in this chain of circumstances. The diplomatic role is itself the narrowest sphere of society in which a man can act. Reciprocal suspicion prevents intercourse, and a diplomat is a kind of isolated atom, constantly repelling and being repelled. But this was not true of Dr. Franklin. He was not the diplomat of a Court, but of Man. His reputation as a philosopher had long been established, and his circle of society in France embraced everyone.

For a considerable time Count Vergennes resisted publication in France of the American constitutions translated into French. But even here he had to yield to public opinion, and to the evident propriety of allowing what he had undertaken to defend to be made known. The American constitutions were to liberty what grammar is to language: they defined its parts of speech and put them together in working syntax.

The particular situation of the then Marquis de la Fayette is another link in the great chain. He served in America as an American officer under a commission from Congress; his wide circle of acquaintances brought him into close friendship with the American civil government as well as its military establishment. He spoke the country's language, took part in discussions about the principles of government, and was always welcomed as a friend at any election.

When the war ended, a vast reinforcement to the cause of Liberty spread throughout France with the return of French officers and soldiers. Knowledge of practice was now joined to theory; all that was needed to make liberty a reality was opportunity. Strictly speaking, man cannot create circumstances to serve his purpose, but he can always take advantage of them when they arise. So it was in France.

M. Neckar was dismissed in May, 1781; and through the subsequent mismanagement of the finances, particularly during M. Calonne's extravagant administration, France's revenue, which was nearly twenty-four millions sterling a year, no longer met its expenditures. This was not because revenue had fallen, but because expenses had risen; the nation seized on this circumstance to bring forward a Revolution. The English Minister, Mr. Pitt, has frequently alluded to the condition of French finances in his budgets without understanding the subject. Had the French Parliaments been as willing to register edicts for new taxes as an English Parliament is to grant them, there would have been neither a financial crisis nor a Revolution. This will become clearer as I proceed.

It is necessary to explain how taxes were formerly raised in France. The King—or rather the Court or Ministry acting in his name—drafted tax edicts at its own discretion and sent them to the Parliaments for registration; until registered by the Parliaments, they had no force. The Court and the Parliaments had long disputed the extent of parliamentary authority in this matter. The Court insisted that the Parliaments' authority went no further than to object or give reasons against a tax, reserving for itself the right to decide whether those reasons were sound. Accordingly, it claimed it could either withdraw the edict by choice or order it to be unregistered by authority. The Parliaments, for their part, insisted that they had not only a right to object but a right to reject, and on this ground the nation always supported them.

But to resume the course of my narrative: M. Calonne needed money. Knowing the Parliaments' firm resistance to new taxes, he cleverly tried either to approach them more gently than by direct authority or to maneuver around them altogether. To that end he revived a plan to assemble a body of men from the several provinces, under the name of an "Assembly of the Notables," or distinguished men. They met in 1787 and were either to recommend taxes to the Parliaments or to act as a Parliament themselves. An Assembly under that name had been called in 1617.

Since this must be seen as the first practical step toward the Revolution, it deserves some detail. The Assembly of the Notables has sometimes been mistaken for the States-General, but it was an entirely different body: the States-General was always elected. Every member of the Assembly of the Notables was nominated by the king, and there were one hundred and forty of them. Since M. Calonne could not count on a majority in his favor, he very cleverly arranged matters so that forty-four could form a majority out of one hundred and forty. He divided the members into seven separate committees of twenty each. Every general question would be decided not by a majority of members but by a majority of committees. Since eleven votes would constitute a majority on one committee, and four committees a majority of seven, M. Calonne had good reason to think that forty-four votes could settle any general question and that he could not be outvoted. But every one of his plans failed him, and in the end they brought about his downfall.

Comparison determines how much things are worth. So the Revolution of 1688 will eventually be judged at its true value, however much circumstances have led people to overpraise it. Its reputation is already fading before the growing light of reason and the brilliant revolutions in America and France. In less than another century, it and Mr. Burke's writings will go "to the family vault of all the Capulets." People will hardly believe that a country calling itself free sent to Holland for a man and gave him power so that they would have someone to fear. They even paid him almost a million sterling a year for permission to submit themselves and their descendants forever, like people held in bondage.

There is another truth people should know, and I have seen it myself. Despite appearances, no group despises monarchy more than courtiers do. They know that if other people saw it as they do, they could not keep up the trick. They are like people who earn their living from a show. They know its foolishness so well that they laugh at it. But if the audience understood the show as well as they did, it and their income would end. The difference between a republican and a courtier on monarchy is this: the republican opposes it because he thinks it is something real; the courtier laughs because he knows it is nothing.

I sometimes corresponded with Mr. Burke when I believed his principles were sounder than his book now shows. Last winter I wrote to him from Paris about how well things were going. Among other matters, I described the National Assembly's favorable position: its moral duty and political interest point in the same direction. Its members do not need to say things they disbelieve to deceive others into believing them. They need no tricks to maintain their position; they can maintain it only by helping people understand. Their interest lies in ending ignorance, not preserving it. They are unlike England's government and opposition parties. Those parties oppose each other but still work together to preserve their shared mystery. The National Assembly must throw open a storehouse of light. It must show people what human beings truly are. The closer it brings them to that standard, the stronger it becomes.

In the French Constitution, things follow a reasonable order. Its principles fit its forms, and both fit its origins. Some might defend bad forms by saying they are only forms. That is a mistake. Forms grow from principles and help keep those principles alive. A bad form can be practiced only on a bad principle; it cannot be attached to a good one. Wherever a government's forms are bad, its principles are bad too.

I will now finish this subject. I began by noting that Mr. Burke chose not to compare the English and French constitutions. On page 241, he excuses that omission by saying he had no time. He spent more than eight months on his book, which runs to three hundred and sixty-six pages. Leaving out the comparison hurts his case, and his excuse makes matters worse. People in England will begin to wonder whether what is called the English constitution has a fundamental flaw that Mr. Burke needed to hide by avoiding the comparison.

Mr. Burke has written neither about constitutions nor about the French Revolution. He says nothing about how it began or developed. He only expresses amazement. "It looks," he says, "to me, as if I were in a great crisis, not of the affairs of France alone, but of all Europe, perhaps of more than Europe. All circumstances taken together, the French Revolution is the most astonishing that has until now happened in the world."

Wise people can be astonished by foolish things, and others by wise ones. I cannot say which explains Mr. Burke's amazement. What is certain is that he does not understand the French Revolution. It appears to have burst out of chaos like a new creation. In fact it followed a change in French thinking that had already taken place. The nation's outlook changed first, and new institutions naturally followed new ideas. I will trace the growth of the French Revolution as briefly as I can and point out the circumstances that helped bring it about.

Louis XIV. ruled as a despot. His court was lively, and he showed off his magnificence. Together these things so humbled and dazzled the French people that they seemed to lose their sense of their own dignity while admiring their Grand Monarch's. The reign of Louis XV., notable only for weakness and softness, merely spread a kind of sleepiness across the country. The people showed no desire to wake from it.

During those periods, the only signs of a desire for liberty appeared in the writings of French philosophers. Montesquieu, President of the Parliament of Bordeaux, went about as far as a writer under despotic rule could go. He had to balance his principles against the need to protect himself, so his ideas are often partly hidden. We should give him credit for more than he could say openly.

Voltaire took another path. He both flattered and mocked despotic power. His strength was exposing and ridiculing the superstitions that priests and government officials had woven into government. His attacks did not come from pure principles or love for humanity, since satire and love for humanity do not naturally go together. They came from his sharp eye for foolishness and his irresistible desire to expose it. But his attacks were as powerful as they would have been if his motives were virtuous. Humanity owes him thanks more than respect.

By contrast, Rousseau and the Abbe Raynal write about liberty with an appealing feeling that earns respect and raises people's aspirations. Yet after inspiring readers, they do not tell them what to do. They leave people in love with liberty without explaining how to gain it.

Quesnay, Turgot, and their friends wrote more seriously. But they faced the same difficulty as Montesquieu. Their works contain many moral principles for government, yet they mainly aim to save money and reform the way a government is run, rather than reforming the government itself.

Still, all these writings and many others had an effect. Each author approached government differently: Montesquieu through judgment and knowledge of law; Voltaire through wit; Rousseau and Raynal through the feelings they inspired; and Quesnay and Turgot through moral principles and plans for managing the economy. Readers of every kind found something that appealed to them. An interest in political questions began to spread through France when the dispute between England and what were then its American colonies began.

In the war France later joined, the French people were, as everyone knows, ahead of their government. The people and the ministry each had a goal, but the goals were different. The people sought liberty, while the ministry sought revenge against England. French officers and soldiers who later went to America found themselves in a school of freedom. They learned its principles and its practice thoroughly.

The military events in America could not be separated from the principles of the American Revolution. So when news of those events was published in France, people necessarily learned about the principles behind them. Many of the events themselves expressed principles. The declaration of American Independence and the treaty of alliance between France and America, for example, recognized people's natural rights and justified resistance to oppression.

Count Vergennes, then France's Minister, was not a friend to America. Fairness and gratitude require me to say that it was the Queen of France who made support for the American cause fashionable at the French Court. Count Vergennes was Dr. Franklin's personal friend and enjoyed his company. Franklin's sensible charm had given him some influence over the Count. But in his political principles, Count Vergennes was a despot.

Dr. Franklin's position as America's minister to France was another link in the chain of events. Diplomats usually move in a very narrow social circle. Mutual suspicion limits their contacts. A diplomat is like an isolated atom, constantly pushing others away and being pushed away. Franklin was different. He represented humanity, not a court. His reputation as a philosopher was already well established, and he knew people throughout French society.

For quite some time, Count Vergennes opposed publishing French translations of the American constitutions in France. But even there he had to yield to public opinion and to the awkwardness of hiding the constitutions of a country he had undertaken to defend. The American constitutions were to liberty what grammar is to language. They identified its parts and showed how those parts worked together in practice.

The special position of the then Marquis de la Fayette was another link in the chain. He served in America as an American officer under a commission from Congress. He knew so many people that he formed close friendships with the civilian government as well as with the armed forces. He spoke the country's language, took part in discussions of governmental principles, and was always welcome at elections.

When the war ended, returning French officers and soldiers greatly strengthened the cause of liberty throughout France. They brought practical knowledge together with theory. All that was needed to make liberty a reality was an opportunity. Strictly speaking, people cannot make circumstances to fit their plans. But they can always make good use of circumstances when they arise. That is what happened in France.

M. Neckar was removed from office in May, 1781. After that, finances were badly managed, especially under M. Calonne's extravagant administration. France's annual revenue was nearly twenty-four millions sterling, but it could no longer cover spending. The problem was not falling revenue; spending had increased. The nation used this situation as an opportunity to bring about a Revolution. The English Minister, Mr. Pitt, has often mentioned the state of French finances in his budgets without understanding it. If the French Parliaments had been as willing to register edicts for new taxes as an English Parliament is to approve taxes, there would have been neither a financial crisis nor a Revolution. The reason will become clearer as I continue.

I need to explain how France used to raise taxes. The King—or rather, the Court or Ministry using his name—prepared tax edicts as it wished and sent them to the Parliaments for registration. Until the Parliaments registered an edict, it had no effect. The Court and the Parliaments had long disagreed about how much authority the Parliaments had in this process. The Court claimed that they could only object and give reasons against a tax. It said it alone could decide whether those reasons were sound. It could then withdraw the edict if it chose, or order its registration by its own authority. The Parliaments insisted that they had the right not only to object but also to reject an edict. The nation always supported them on that point.

Now, back to the sequence of events. M. Calonne needed money. He knew the Parliaments strongly resisted new taxes. He cleverly sought either to approach them more gently than by issuing a direct order, or to bypass them through a maneuver. He revived a plan to gather men from various provinces in an "Assembly of the Notables," meaning prominent men. The assembly met in 1787. It was supposed either to recommend taxes to the Parliaments or to act as a Parliament itself. An assembly with that name had previously been called in 1617.

This was the first practical step toward the Revolution, so some details matter. The Assembly of the Notables is sometimes confused with the States-General, but they were quite different. Members of the States-General were always elected. The king appointed every member of the Assembly of the Notables, one hundred and forty people in all. But M. Calonne could not count on a majority of them supporting him. So he cleverly arranged the assembly to make forty-four votes a majority out of one hundred and forty. He divided the members into seven committees of twenty each. Every general question would be decided by a majority of committees, not a majority of people. Eleven votes could control one committee, and four committees could control seven. M. Calonne therefore had reason to think that forty-four people could decide any general question and that he could not be outvoted. But all his plans failed him and ultimately caused his downfall.