IN THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE: TRACING THE COURSE OF HISTORY FROM THE AGE OF L’ANCIENT REGIME’ TO THE END OF THE SECOND EMPIRE AWAITING THE COMING STORM: MOLIERE AND L’ ANCIEN REGIME Source: https://quisommesnous.wordpress.com/tag/jean-de-la-fontaine/ In one way or another scholars versed in literary history confront the same old question. In view of the piquancy of Moliere’s critique of the hypocrisy, corruption and mendacity he perceived in the world around him, are we entitled to ask whether Molière harbored serious misgivings about the solidity of the foundation on which the French state and social order were based? If not, was he only interested in the foibles of certain individuals in the contemporary scene or did he seek to expose faults that have beset human nature from time immemorial? Let us consider these questions with reference to a number of plays and characters. A recurrent motif in Molière’s plays centers on those who aspire to improve their position in life but in the process they make fools of themselves in manifestations of overconfidence, pomposity and pretentiousness. Examples of this tendency are most clearly furnished by Monsieur Jourdain in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, the female ‘culture vultures’ in Les Précieuses Ridicules and Les Femmes Savants. It is reasonable to attribute the excesses in question to an underlying trend predicated on the needs of those in the ascendant middle class to take on aristocratic attributes and acquire the requisite status symbols. Need any harsh criticism be inferred from these cases or did Moliere find a rich source of amusement with which to entertain King Louis XIV and the court nobility that composed the audiences attending the plays he and his company presented ? Some of Molière’s comedies raise issues that in no wise could be dismissed as trivial, such being bound up with the rapacity of Tartuffe claiming to be a religious zealot, the adventures of Dom Juan, a libertine whose immoral and heartless ways lead him to eternal damnation, the machinations of a miser who is manipulative as well as ungenerous and the social alienation of Alceste, a young man who cannot come to terms with a society which he deems to be utterly devoid of sincerity and virtue. The first three of cases under consideration have much to do with money and finances. Two of these instances brought Molière into conflict with the presiding establishment and their worst negative consequences could be averted only by the intervention of royal indulgence. It may prove worthwhile and illuminating to consider the financial difficulties that faced the French economy in the seventeenth century. I am indebted to Irene Finel-Honigman’s discussions in A Cultural History of Finance for insights into the current theme. Louis XIV, le Roi Soleil, presided over the golden age of French preeminence in European culture and politics, though the reality underlying so much glory was more gold-plated than solid. On one hand the ruling aristocracy of France was extremely wealthy to judge by the grandeur of its castles and the expanse of its estates and lands. The king could muster massive funds for his building projects and wars. Colbert, his minister of finance and commerce, centralized and regulated state control over these areas in accord with the rules of Mercantilism. For all that the system thus established lacked coherence and uniformity in matters of taxation and regional administration, hamstrung as it was by moribund self-serving courts (parlements) and the persistence of feudal encumbrances. Furthermore, the French economy labored under serious handicaps for want of the means needed to deploy and circulate wealth for the purposes of investment and liquidity. What was lacking? Most obviously functioning banks and the negotiable instruments that they would have provided to oil the machinery of trade and business and distribute wealth evenly throughout all sectors of the economy. The suppression of the Huguenots aggravated the economic situation still further as they were prominent in banking, shipping and entrepreneurship in general. In short, there was plentiful wealth in France held in such stores of value as property, gold and works of art but all these were either immobile or not readily convertible into ready cash and useable funds. Major transfers of wealth were restricted to such areas as inheritance, marriage arrangements and acts of charity or piety. No better example of the futility of accumulated but unused wealth is furnished by Harpagan the miser who finds in this commodity little more the means to influence the marriage market in his favour. Misers and the invidious influence of hoarded gold appear elsewhere in the body of French literature, of course, most notably in Eugenie Grandet by Balzac. The allurement of gold has incurred the strictures of wise counsellors throughout the ages but in the case of L’Avare the old message gains a new and urgent relevance. Don Juan poses an example of a deracinated nobleman mooching about the court at Versailles, burdened by debt and yet able to brandish wealth or the illusion of wealth to fund his amorous, or rather lecherous, pursuits in encounters with peasant girls and ladies of higher social standing. Like many another debauched aristocrat he has lost touch with a world now in the transition from feudalistic privilege to capitalistic and cash-based enterprise. With his high-class panache he can still overawe and silence a creditor who has the impertinence to demand repayment for a sizeable loan. In A Cultural History of Finance, 2010 New York 2010 ( Section Paris 3:5) Irene Finel-Honigman notes: “In Molière’s Don Juan (1665), a creditor is an economically impotent object of mockery. In the scene between Monsieur Dimanche, the merchant, and the dissipated aristocrat. The distain shown by Don Juan for Dimanche, in refusing to honour his debt, plays upon Dimanche’s bourgeois subservience and his inability to enforce economic rights… (Don Juan: Act IV, Scene III).” Even so, he is doomed not only theologically but also economically and socially to become an irrelevance in an alien universe. When he finally descends to hell in the firm grip of a stony debt-collector whom he cannot fob off with contempt and distain, his servant Sganarelle, far from being terrified by a display of divine judgment or made sorrowful by the loss of his master, mourns only the loss of his wages. So much for the reverence that once bound servant and lord in a bygone age. Molière, of course, had to work within the parameters set by the original tale of Dom Juan and the play composed by Tirso de Molina. In the Spanish drama Dom Juan is a lapsed Catholic who does not challenge the doctrines of the Catholic faith. He relies on the hope of avoiding divine punishment by repenting of his sinful life in the nick of time, on his deathbed. Dom Juan in Molière’s rendition of the theme is an out-and-out scoffer whose credo leads no further than to his statement that two and two make four. His final confession of repentance poses a cynic’s mockery of the Christian faith. To this extent he differs from Tartuffe, concerning whom Molière had to assure his critics that the rogue was not a Catholic, lapsed or otherwise, but a non-believer. Such a clarification was not needed in Dom Juan’s case. Have we so far secured any indication that Molière radically condemned the Ancient Regime per se. which brings us to a discussion of what leading opinion considers to be Molière’s greatest masterpiece, Le Misanthrope. Alceste, the play’s misanthropic protagonist, adheres to ’ virtue’ as his guiding principle in life. He has no truck with social niceties such as recourse to’ white lies’ of the kind that disallow bruising the feelings of partners in conservation over matters of minor importance. Thus when asked to comment on a the poor verses composed by an aspiring poetaster, Alceste gives his honest opinion that the poem in question lacks the slightest merit. He will not play along with the coquettish ways of Celimène, his prospective bride, even though she holds him in great affection. In utter exasperation at the ways of the world he finally announces his decision to retreat from ‘civilized’ society and find solace in some faraway desert. Again a variation of an underlying question: Is the protagonist just another a maladjusted antisocial grouser of the kind one may encounter in any social environment or is he fundamentally and ideologically at variance with the corrupt absolutist regime that gave rise to the vices he so readily condemns? In other words, is his ‘misanthropy’ a form of camouflage for a radical critique of society that the censors of his time would debar had they recognized it for being such? Some, with an eye towards Moliere’s contemporary world, suggest Alceste reflects a Jansenist or quasi-Calvinist attitude to life. Others make him a crypto-revolutionary born before his time. Certainly Rousseau and Robespierre would later endorse his uncompromising advocacy of ‘virtue’ as would those responsible for staging plays during the French Revolution though in the latter case a modicum of tweaking was thought necessary if Alceste should ever represent the true Jacobin spirit. In Hypocrisy and Integrity: Machiavelli, Rousseau, and the Ethics of Politics – (University of Chicago Press, 1997) Ruth N. Grant reviews Rousseau’s proposals for ‘an improved Alceste’ as set out in his Letters to D’Alembert. pp 75-80. In the chapter “Resetting the Clock on Le Misanthrope and Le Dépit amoureux Positive and Negative Appropriations” in her dissertation ‘The Politics of Appropriations in French Revolutionary Theatre’ (Exeter Un. 2012), Catrin Mair Francis, pursues the same topic within the context set by the French Revolution. Put together the anti-religious outlook of Don Juan, stripped of its cavalier flippancy, and the resolute antagonism of Alceste vis-à-vis the surrounding social order, and you have something vaguely resembling a revolutionary iconoclast à la Saint-Juste. Clearly, Molière was no proto-Marxist but he did have every reason to distrust a regime that would ostracize himself and fellow actors and actresses, not even conceding to them the rite of a Christian burial. As matters turned out, Molière’s dead body was sneaked into the corner of a cemetery reserved for unbaptized infants and then only well after nightfall. All in all, my conclusion favours the view that Molière, at least intuitively, challenged the social and political conditions of his time in subtle but not declarative ways. If so, he was in the good company of those who took the progressive side in ‘the Quarrel of the Ancients and Moderns,’ Charles Perrault, Jean de La Fontaine and possibly the archbishop François Fénelon, who within the bounds of church polity adopted the mild approach of Hillel in contrast to the strict and harsh pronouncements of the bishop Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, a doughty defender of the ‘Ancient Regime’ and’ ‘the Divine Right of Kings,’ being perhaps the equivalent of Shammai in the history of Jewish doctrinal controversy. Certainly La Fontaine was less cautious that Molière in making his thinly veiled critique of the prevailing order and whose apparently innocent fable ‘Le Chêne et le Roseau’ (The Oak and the Reed) issued an implicit warning that the upholders of the ‘Ancient Regime’ unfortunately failed to heed. The humble bending reed survived the tempest that destroyed the mighty unbending oak. Book References and Links Irene Finel-Honigman A Cultural History of Finance, 2010 New York 2010 ( Section Paris 3:5) https://books.google.co.il/books?id=qEWOAgAAQBAJ&pg=PT157&lpg=PT157&dq=moliere+don+juan+aristocrat&source=bl&ots=VSygJvL6Gy&sig=ACfU3U3OWaGN7vzB_wuilCbVNsZvogcSTQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiIkdem7KvmAhWoThUIHVeEByoQ6AEwBHoECAoQAg#v=onepage&q=moliere%20don%20juan%20aristocrat&f= Catrin Mair Francis, The Politics of Appropriation in French Revolutionary Politics, Dissertation Exeter Un Francis, p. 158. https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/12827794.pdf . Ruth W. Grant, Hypocrisy and Integrity: Machiavelli, Rousseau, and the Ethics of Politics – University of Chicago Press, 1997. https://books.google.co.il/books?id=ItD6JLImKM8C&pg=PA75&lpg=PA75&dq=alceste+rousseau&source=bl&ots=lb_5cGzGbx&sig=ACfU3U2PPg_vxvzU_kWhl3KFL_Fen4qgSw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjkwqaMv6vmAhWURMAKHVFaD6AQ6AEwAXoECAoQAg#v=onepage&q=alceste%20rousseau&f=false THE FALL OF THE BASTILLE AND ITS AFTERMATH UNTIL THE OUTBREAK OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR SOMETHING WAS IN THE AIR On the decade that ominously led up to the outbreak of the French Revolution There was something in the air in France in 1783. On the literal level I could be referring to the ascent of the first balloon in world history; on the figurative level “in the air” could signify the high hopes of the American patriots on achieving the establishment of the United States of America, thanks largely to the French military support that had made possible the Franco-American victory at Yorktown in 1781. There was something in the air too, - in meteorological terms. Europe was submerged in a dull sunless haze until the early summer. The poet William Cowper, during the penning of his long and discursive verse epic entitled The Task, clearly had this phenomenon in mind, for he wrote the following lines in Book 2. The Timepiece, in which he makes a right old moan about the current state of the world: Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And nature with a dim and sickly eye To wait the close of all? But grant her end … 62-65 The strange weather conditions in 1783 are the subject of letter to Rev. John Newton dated June 13, 1783. See: The Works of William Cowper / His Life and Letters, by William Hayley, ed. The Rev. T. S. Grimshawe, A. M., Vol. II, London, 1835, p.. 139. Elsewhere in The Task, he waxed prophetic in the following lines found in Book V "The Winter Morning Walk”: To France than all her losses and defeats, Old or of later date, by sea or land, Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille. Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts; Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music, such as suits their sovereign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men! There’s not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fallen at last; to know That e’en our enemies, so oft employ’d In forging chains for us, themselves were free. William Cowper, by the way, was not so sanguine about the coming of the balloon as many others in 1783. First, he argued: if God meant humans to fly, He would have provided them with wings. Second, mankind had done enough mischief on land and sea without entering the heavens. Cowper gave vent to his opposition to balloons in a letter to the Rev. John Newton, the composer of”Amazing Grace,” dated Dec. 15, 1783. See: The Works of William Cowper, pp 195-200. No Frenchman could have rejoiced more fervently on the occasion of full American independence than the Marquis de Lafayette, Washington’s staunch ally in the victorious war against Britain. It was also he who played a leading role in initiating promoting the French Revolution; yet it was he again whose error of judgment and defection to the Austrians provided a strong impetus to the insane violence that the Revolution brought forth upon the abolition of the monarchy. For now, without entering into a discussion of the early phase of the French Revolution itself, let me return to a consideration of developments during the run-up to the 14th of July. I begin with the weather. Needless to say, I was born in England. 1785 was a bumper year for French agriculture. A favorable harvest made the supplies of wheat and other cereals so plentiful that no attempt was made either for their storage or their well-placed distribution, but then a drought set in and this led to shortages and exorbitant prices in the market for bread and other staple foods. The effect of famine on the circumstances that led to the storming of Versailles by famished women is too well-known to require further comment. Freak weather bringing tornados and hailstones of biblical proportions hit Paris on the 13th of July in 1788, exactly a year and a day before another storm or, to be more precise, “storming ” took place. At the royal court there were mishaps that owed nothing to the weather. Marie Antoinette’s involvement in the infamous scandal surrounding “the case of the diamond necklace” has never been satisfactorily clarified, but the damage it did to the reputation of the Royal House contributed to its demise and its tragic descent down the path which, with grim irony, inexorably led to the guillotine. A well-known film on the history of the French Revolution has it that King Louis XVI made a valuable contribution to the design of that instrument’s fatal blade when suggesting that its cutting edge should be slanted diagonally for greatest efficiency. Marie Antoinette has also been cited as the originator of this “improvement,” but I suspect these accounts to be apocryphal. Hunters for evil omens might go back further in time to the local “reign of terror” visited on the region of Gevaudan where a monstrous animal reportedly devoured a hundred or more inhabitants, sparing neither women nor children. When neither all the king’s horses nor all the king’s men could put an end to this tribulation, royal pretentions of being the protector of the people took a heavy knock. The last tragedy to hit the royal family before the full onset of the Revolution was the death of the royal couple’s first-born son. The fall of the House of Hapsburg was also preceded by the personal tragedies suffered by its leading members. References to Letters of William Cowper The Works of William Cowper / His Life and Letters, by William Hayley, ed. The Rev. T. S. Grimshawe, A. M., Vol. II, London, 1835. . Online by Harvard College Library. https://books.google.co.il/books?id=1_8pAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=cowper+william+letters&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjO9uSGx8LdAhUHhiwKHe31ApQQ6AEITDAH#v=onepage&q=cowper%20william%20letters&f=false Something Was in the Air 1783 An empire lost, so bleak the summer. The fog refused to lift. Even the cattle were listless. Cowper’s Task was scarce begun. In the New World twins were born, One named Freedom, one named Rome. In the Old, there was talk of Apocalypse. Around Whitsuntide, to heaven, they hoped, A Montgolfière ascended. At Michaelmas the wains were heavy And sallow in the fields of France. A wistful queen fingered her necklace Nervously, as through the crystal halls She passed. In frame of wood Watteau’s languid Columbine Over the portal hanging, sadly smiled. Even Jacques, the groom, agreed: Something was in the air. Did the circumstances that forced the Parisian insurgents to storm the Bastille also necessitate the bloodshed their action entailed? The title above suggests that the Bastille had to be stormed. Did it really? Did some inexorable law governing historical events dictate the fall of that most famous or infamous fortress which came to symbolize all that was oppressive and tyrannical in the ancient regime? Let historians dismount their high horse and consider with us the predicament of the Parisian insurgents on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th of July in 1789. The king was mobilizing his military forces, composed in great measure of non-French soldiers, whether Austrian, Swiss or German, in and around Paris with the clear object of “restoring law and order,” or, in other words, of nipping the nascent revolution in France in the bud. Jacques Necker, the popular finance minister in the service of the King’s regime, on whom moderate reformers pinned hopes of a conciliatory conclusion of negotiations on the proposed new constitution for France, had been forced to resign on the previous Sunday, a sure indication that a counter-revolution was underway. The revolutionary leader Camille Desmoulins raised the spectre of another massacre like the one suffered by the Huguenots on Saint Bartholomew’s Eve. Insurgents had already raided arsenals and armories and secured a massive amount of firearms but without at the same time finding the gunpowder needed to use them. There was plenty of gunpowder in the Bastille. On the morning of the fourteenth of July a crowd estimated to number about a thousand gathered outside the walls and main gate the Bastille and demanded the surrender of the prison and the securement of its store of arms and munitions, in fact nothing less than the occupation of entire Bastille complex. The governor of the citadel, Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, reacted to the predicament he faced by bluffing and biding his time. He played out the essentially same game within the confines of the Bastille that Louis had played and would continue to play on a vastly greater scale in his kingdom. First, he retracted the cannons mounted on the battlements only to return them to their original firing positions; he parleyed with a delegation from the crowd, explaining to them that the much dreaded prison held no more than seven inmates as he dangled the prospect of conceding to their main demands, but to no avail; the insurgents lost patience and outwitted the governor when a number of vanqueurs, as the dissidents called themselves, played a trick similar to the one employed by the Greeks inside the Trojan horse whereby the enraged crowd was able invade the Bastille’s outer precinct to the loss of 98 lives against the death of one defender. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation once it was clear that the regular troops of the nation sympathized with the insurgents, de Launey surrendered. So great was the animosity of his captors that he and an adjutant were brutally murdered. Their severed heads were paraded through the streets as trophies of victory, a grim omen of what was yet to come. The question as to whether the capture of the Bastille could have been achieved without bloodshed is part of the much wider question of whether the French Revolution had to take a violent course despite the intention of leading figures in the early phase of the Revolution such as Mirabeau and Marquis de Lafayette to move developments in France along the lines of a constitutional monarchy. The anecdote that Louis or Marie Antoinette helped to improve the design of the guillotine may well be fanciful but it could hold more than a grain of symbolic truth. Royal miscalculations played a significant part in the tragedy that befell the royal pair, among them the ploy to instigate a counter-revolution in July 1789, the abortive attempt to escape to the Austrian Netherlands and, perhaps most grave of them all, the King’s willingness to declare war on Austria in the hope of an early French defeat and with that the restitution of the monarchy. Arguably the mother of all miscalculations lay much earlier in the decision to join forces with the American revolutionaries. What was good for the United States was bad for the state of French finances. It was the need to reform the taxation system that necessitated the summoning of the Etats-Généraux, which in turn opened the gate to a violent revolution that could have achieved its goals without violence. The poet William Cowper, who foresaw the fall of the Bastille in a prophetic vision of universal brotherhood that, as the poet generously conceded, embraced (even) the French, eventually voiced the resentment of a disgruntled prejudiced Englishman when in reaction to the excesses of la Terreur he wrote: Trust the French to mess things up. MACBETH AND ROBESPIERRE When the renowned actor Eric Porter, playing the part of Macbeth in a BBC television production of Shakespeare’s grim tragedy, recited the soliloquy beginning with the line “Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he raised his eyes heavenwards with a look of total defiance. This gesture clearly pointed to an interpretation of the play according to which Macbeth not only declared the nullity of life and creation but also defied their Originator. This interpretation is consistent with arguments for the proposition that the theme of Macbeth has roots in the medieval morality plays, and not only Macbeth. I recall the learned opinion that the jovial and witty Falstaff personifies the Seven Deadly Sins and I have tried to substantiate the view that Richard III derives its dynamic from a treatment of the Dance of Death motif, possibly in combination that of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. But why bring Robespierre into the picture? The idea of exploring a comparison between Macbeth and Robespierre entered my mind without much aforethought as I sauntered down a street. These days it is easy to find out if someone other than oneself has entertained the same idea simply by entering relevant keywords into a search box provided by one of the main search engines on the Internet. Sure enough, someone had. The contributor made a convincing case that some deep affinity was shared by two power-crazed and ruthless men who stopped at nothing to satisfy their ambitions until they themselves were overthrown. To make a catalogue of the crimes and atrocities committed by Macbeth and Robespierre presents only a partial aspect of what the comparison enfolds. Neither was an evil tyrant to begin with. Macbeth enters the stage as a man of valor and noble character. According to a common interpretation of the plot Macbeth fell foul of the evil insinuations of his demonic wife. Literary criticism has been, and arguably still remains, something of a male preserve. Before he got mixed up in politics Robespierre had an unimpeachable CV as a democrat and lawyer with a social conscience. He helped the underprivileged and members of minority groups, including Jewish citizens. He was a pacifist and he obdurately opposed the death penalty. To renew and deepen my acquaintance with facts concerning the course of Robespierre’s life, I consulted Wikipedia. As I read on, I first felt sympathy bordering on admiration for Robespierre for reasons intimated above, though the knowledge of his later decent into tyranny and violence was always there lurking in the back of my mind. How could this paragon of enlightenment, this admirer of Cicero and Cato, this follower of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s humane philosophy, become the chief instigator of la Terreur? Something of his adhesion to pacifism and non-violence carried over into his political agenda. He was against the declaration of war against Austria in 1792, astutely arguing that waging war engendered sentiments that were inimical to the pursuit of social reform. His avowed dedication to virtue and the perfect ideal of a just revolution earned him the byname of “the incorruptible.” At some point his ideals detached themselves from his earlier solicitude towards the real needs of real people. Was this breech the result of Satanic pride or of some aberration in his psychological make-up? Was he possessed by a collective demonic force at the heart of the Revolution itself, as apologists of Roman Catholicism at the time argued? Were the same demons that impelled the pious to massacre Huguenots on the Eve of Saint Bartholomew also at work throughout La Terreur? Once he had set foot down the path of eliminating ideological opponents, did he discover the truth that emerges from the lips of Richard III? But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. (4.2.12) Once one has made victims of others, one must recognize the possibility of becoming a victim oneself, and then animal instincts kick in, as well we may learn from the history of Ivan the Terrible, Stalin and Hitler under the motto: Strike first. At the end Robespierre, far from keeping his cool or exiting the world stage with aplomb, fell into a funk and botched his attempt at suicide when his pistol shattered his lower jaw. However, unlike Stalin, Vlad Dracula and Hitler, he had once been a good guy, to all appearances at least, and so may have retained some slight vestige of tragic heroism. Noble Macbeth! Perverted by a scheming wife, Oh sorry fate! So write the critics, mainly men But you, Macbeth, and I know better. She was the fourth witch who brought home the message of the spectral three. She was the helpmeet of your choosing who spoke out what you dared but think. Yet noble you were, like Lucifer, lord of the false dawning light, And proud you were as he who scorned Creation for being not his. While they who love continue creation, grow fruitful as the vine, They who hate are barren, must hate the seeds of life and wish their death. So with you, the vanquished of Banquo’s seed, whose death was life. You have one weapon yet, to mock what you cannot beget, To declare all vain, an illusion, a cheap trick, an idiot’s tale. Though you named “King” do wear the gilt-rimmed crown, I hear your end’s approach. I hear the rustling of leaves, and though you hang the herald of truth On the gnarled trunk of a dying tree, green leaves and fresh wood advance. To the hill they come, to close you up and cross your vain ambition. Where died a seed, a plant shall grow whose leaves shall heal the nations. Goethe’s Hope of a United Europe, if Need be under Napoleon’s Heel Napoleon has perhaps too readily been dismissed as a power-crazed dictator, a butcher, the ultimate narcissist in riding boots, For all that he was able to inspire admiration bordering on adulation not only in the hearts and minds of his French compatriots but also in the high esteem he enjoyed among great thinkers and poets such as Goethe and Heinrich Heine. Goethe and Napoleon had met briefly in Erfurt in 1806 when Napoleon summoned Goethe to an audience at which both expressed mutual admiration for being either Europe’s leading man of action or Europe’s leading man of letters. Goethe was impressed by Napoleon’s sound knowledge of the book which had brought Goethe worldwide renown – Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (The Sorrows of young Werther). At the apex of his power, in 1810, when Napoleon seemed to be on the threshold of converting power based on military successes into a consolidation of his hold on continental Europe based on diplomatic alliances Goethe composed a dedication in verse to the King of Rome, the son of Napoleon and Marie Louise, the eldest daughter of Francis the emperor of Austria. The work in question bears the title of: “ Im Namen der Bürgerschaft von Karlsbad Ihro der Kaiserin von Frankreich Majestät”(See below in the original and in English translation).it casts Napoleon as one who had put an end to the chaos and violence of the French Revolution and restored law and order to France and hence to continental Europe. He abolished the effects of “pettiness” (das Kleinliche), meaning the jumble of restrictive and parochial regulations that had proliferated under the old feudal order, and by sweeping away all such subterfuge, had uncovered in stark clarity the unadorned and elemental simplicity of land and sea. Military victories had secured the unity of the continent of Europe against the encroachments of “the proud wave” of British naval power, an allusion to the imposition of Napoleon’s continental system. Napoleon’s new-born son, François Charles Joseph Bonaparte, heralded in Goethe’s mind the rebirth of a peaceful and glorious new-age empire worthy of being celebrated as in ancient Rome by closing the door of the temple of Janus. We might detect here the tone of Vergil’s Eclogue 4, which prophesied the birth of child that would usher in a golden age of peace and plenty. Strange things happen when attention to poetic tradition glosses over a perception of a far from pacific contemporary reality. Those who indulge in counterfactual speculation might argue that but for Napoleon’s ill-fated invasion of Russia he might have achieved a lasting European settlement uniting at least France, Austria and the German states. As things turned out The King of Rome, Napoleon’s intended heir, reigned in France for a few weeks in 1815 and then held the title of Napoleon II, allowing his cousin the right to name himself Napoleon III in due course. François Charles Joseph Bonaparte received the title of Duke of Reichstadt at the Viennese court but remained something of an embarrassment in royal circles in view of his being the son of Austria’s erstwhile enemy and conqueror. He died of pneumonia in 1834. Sic transit gloria mundi. “Im Namen der Bürgerschaft von Karlsbad Ihro der Kaiserin von Frankreich Majestät In the Name of the Councillorship of Karlsbad, to Your Majesty the Empress of France Sieht man den schȍnsten Stern die Nacht erhellen, So wird das Auge wie das Herz erquickt; Doch wenn in seltnen langersehnten Fällen Ein herrliches Gestirn zum andern rückt, Die nahverwandten Strahlen sich gesellen, Dann weilt ein jeder schauend, hoch entzückt; So unser Blick, wie er hinauf sich wendet, Wird vom Verein der Majestät geblendet. If one sees the fairest star brightening the night, then the eye like the heart is enlivened; but when in long yearned-for cases a splendid constellation draws close to another then every observer lingers in great delight; then our glance, as it turns upward, is bedazzled by the union of majesty. Wir denken noch, wie sie hinweggezogen, Der Eltern Lust, die holde Friedensbraut; Schon beugten sich des Rheines edle Wogen. Die beiden Ufer lächelten vertraut; So freut die Erde sich am Himmelsbogen, Von farbigen Juwelen aufgebaut, Der, wenn er schon vor unsern Augen schwindet, Den Frieden sichert, den er angekündet. We still call to mind how she drew by, the joy of the parents, the lovely bride of peace; the noble waves of the Rhine bowed. On either side its banks smiled with assurance; the earth rejoices at the rainbow, studied with colourful jewels, which when vanishing from our eyes assures the peace it has proclaimed. Im neuen Reich empfängt sie das Behagen Von Millionen, die aus düstrer Nacht Aufschauen wieder zu gesunden Tagen, Zum festen Leben abermals erwacht. Ein jeder fűhlt sein Herz gesichert schlagen Und staunet nun, denn alles ist vollbracht, Die holde Braut in lebensreichem Scheine – Was tausende verwirrten, lȍst der Eine. In the new realm she receives the warm feelings of millions who once more look forward to days of health after experiencing a dismal night, awakened yet again to sturdy life. Everybody feels his heart beat in security and is amazed, for all is accomplished, the lovely bride in the brightness of abundant life. That which thousands had brought into confusion One puts right. Worüber trüb Jahrhunderte gesonnen, Er übersieht’s in hellstem Geisteslicht, Das Kleinliche ist alles weggeronnen, Nur Meer und Erde haben hier Gewicht; In jenem erst das Ufer abgewonnen, Dass sich daran die stolze Woge bricht, So tritt durch weisen Schluss, durch Machgefechte Das feste Land in alle seine Rechte. Whatever centuries had pondered over in the gloom he comprehends at a glance in the brightest mental flash. The petty has completely run off. Here only sea and land have any importance; the sea surrenders to the shore so that the proud wave breaks upon it. Thus by wise counsel and battles for power terra firma asserts all its rights. Und wenn dem Helden alles zwar gelungen, Den das Geschick zum Günstling auserwählt, Und ihm vor allen alles aufgedrungen, Was die Geschichte jemals aufgezählt; Ja reichlicher als Dichter je gesungen! – Ihm hat bis jetzt das Hȍchste noch gefehlt; Nun steht das Reich gesichert wie geründet, Nun fűhlt er froh im Sohne sich gegründet. And when the hero has succeeded in everything, even the one whom destiny has chosen to be its favourite, and has laden upon him in preference to all others all that history has ever amassed in riches, indeed more profusely than ever a poet praised in song, even this person has lacked the highest good until this day. Now the empire stands on a sure footing and well rounded, now he feels happily affirmed in his son. Und dass auch diesem eign Hoheit g’nűge, Ist Roma selbst zur Wächterin bestellt. Die Gȍttin, hehr an ihres Kȍnigs Wiege, Denkt abermal das Schicksal einer Welt. Was sind hier die Trophäen aller Siege, Wo sich der Vater in dem Sohn gefällt? Zusammen warden sie des Glűcks genießen, Mit milder Hand den Janustempel schließen. To assure this son sufficiency in his own high estate, Rome itself is commissioned as a guardian. The goddesss, serene beside the king’s cradle, muses once more upon the fate of a world. What here are the trophies of all victories against the pleasure bestowed on the father in his son? Together they will enjoy felicity and close the temple of Janus with gentle hands. Sie, die zum Vorzug einst als Braut gelanget, Vermittlerin nach Gȍtterart zu sein, Als Mutter, die, den Sohn im Arme, prangert, Befȍrdre neuen, dauernden Verein; Sie kläre, wenn die Welt im Dűstern banget, Den Himmel auf zu ew’gem Sonnenschein! Uns sei durch dies letzte Glück beschieden – Der alles wollen kann, will auch den Frieden. May she who achieved the bridal privilege of being a mediator in a godly manner as a mother shining in splendor with her son in her arms, may even she promote a new and lasting union. And should the world be gripped by fear amid the surrounding gloom , may she illumine the sky with eternal sunshine, and may this final bliss be granted to us – whosoever desires everything worth having also wants peace. The Prince of Peace to whom Isaiah referred has yet to appear in the guise of any one representative of civilized society whatever its claim to the authority of religion or other ideological system. The modern world has presented us with those who lay claim to being peacemakers on the basis of sheer strength as measurable in military terms. The Pax Romana could not prevent the descent of Roman government from its high pedestal of Augustan glory to the pit of Nero’s madness. NATO has proved the guarantor of peace in Europe since the Second World War and despite the high hopes engendered by the fall of the Berlin War it creeps slowly and inexorably toward the gates of Moscow via the road to Kiev. Remember Napoleon. Is it only the final intervention of the Prince of Peace, however viewed, however construed, that can save us? I830 and the Arrival of Romantic Realism The Napoleonic Wars were followed by a harsh reaction against liberalism in all its forms throughout Europe which found expression in the diplomacy of Metternich, the ‘Peterloo massacre,’ the brief revival of the Inquisition in Spain and the authoritarianism that characterized the Bourbon Monarchy, particularly after the accession of Charles IX in 1823. However, the rigidity of ultra-conservatism regimes gradually gave way to a movement towards moderation and the accommodation of popular demands for reform and social emancipation under the impulse of events that occurred during two years that were marked by revolution and fundamental transition, 1830 and 1848, after which the forces of reaction soon returned with a vengeance by appealing to the combined forces of populism and nationalism. In 1830 the Bourbon Restoration gave place to the July Monarchy under the Orléaniste branch of the French royal family when tentative moves toward a constitutional monarchy got underway. The same year saw a popular revolt in the Netherlands which led to the creation of Belgium. In Britain the Grey ministry began to pass laws redressing some of the worst conditions in factories and mines, particularly with regard to child labour. Just before and after the overthrown of the Bourbon monarch two novels were composed in which the word ‘chronicle’ appeared in their titles, Chronique du Règne de Charles IX by Mérimée and Le Rouge et le Noir, Chronique du XIX e siècle by Stendhal. The term ‘chronicle’ implies a close interest in historical or contemporary events and a keen regard for specific details and factual evidence. In the literary sphere these tendencies are subsumed by realism or naturalism. A historical novel may contain fictitious inventions but only within the bounds set by historical records. The realist is not disturbed by the thought that fidelity to recorded history constrains the author’s claim to be original at every turn. The Romantic movement had not quite died out in its German or English places of origin but its effects were strongly in evidence, not least in France. Romanticism was not inherently anti-scientific. To the contrary, its concerns with the original and the authentic and its advancement of philosophic reflexivity greatly advanced studies in history, philology and psychology while at the same time retaining a curiosity in the uncanny and para-normal. This admixture of science and phantasy is manifested by the literary career of Mérimée. His ‘chronique’ poses his one and only excursion into the genre of the classic historical novel proper but it points forward to his future development as a writer in notable ways. Firstly, it introduces the theme of the mysterious and marginalized gypsies and their supposed involvement in sinister and nefarious activities, not to mention their alleged affinity with the devil. In Chronique du Règne de Charles IX there is no suggestion that Mila, a gypsy girl, is evil herself but her rendition of the legend of the rat-catcher of Hamelin to a group of soldiers bound for Paris in 1572 has very ominous implications as a premonition of the massacre of Huguenots on Saint Bartholomew’s, Eve. The evils which common prejudice attributed to gypsies themselves are exemplified by the conduct of Carmen in the story that bears her name. In 1830 Mérimée took up residence in Spain in pursuit of his historical and archeological research projects. There he learned the folk story of Carmen from a Spanish nobleman but in this Carmen was not a gypsy. The story, published seven years later, therefore merges the gypsy motif with a traditional tale. 1829: Story of the Pied Piper as recounted by Mila, a gypsy girl, to soldiers on their way to Paris shortly before the massacre of Huguenots in Paris in Chronique du Règne de Charles IX by Prosper Mérimée. See a translation of this text after the passage in French. Mila le repoussa doucement, car la bouche de Mergy touchait presque sa joue ; et, après avoir jeté à droite et à gauche un regard furtif pour s'assurer que tout le monde l'écoutait, elle commença de la sorte : - Capitaine, vous avez été sans doute à Hameln ? - Jamais. - Et vous, cornette ? - Ni moi non plus. - Comment ! ne trouverai-je personne qui ait été à Hameln ? - J'y ai passé un an, dit un cavalier en s'avançant. - Eh bien ! Fritz, tu as vu l'église de Hameln ? - Plus de cent fois. - Et ses vitraux coloriés ? - Certainement. - Et qu'as-tu vu peint sur ces vitraux ? - Sur ces vitraux ?- À la fenêtre à gauche, je crois qu'il y a un grand homme noir qui joue de la flûte, et des petits enfants qui courent après lui. - Justement. Eh bien, je vais vous conter l'histoire de cet homme noir et de ces enfants. « Il y a bien des années, les gens de Hameln furent tourmentés par une multitude innombrable de rats qui venaient du Nord, par troupes si épaisses que la terre en était toute noire, et qu'un charretier n'aurait pas osé faire traverser à ses chevaux un chemin où ces animaux défilaient. Tout était dévoré en moins de rien ; et, dans une grange, c'était une moindre affaire pour ces rats de manger un tonneau de blé que ce n'est pour moi de boire un verre de ce bon vin. Elle but, s'essuya la bouche et continua. - Souricières, ratières, pièges, poison étaient inutiles. On avait fait venir de Bremen un bateau chargé de onze cents chats ; mais rien n'y faisait. Pour mille qu'on en tuait, il en revenait dix mille, et plus affamés que les premiers. Bref, s'il n'était venu remède à ce fléau, pas un grain de blé ne fût resté dans Hameln, et tous les habitants seraient morts de faim. « Voilà qu'un certain vendredi se présente devant le bourgmestre de la ville un grand homme, basané, sec, grands yeux, bouche fendue jusqu'aux oreilles, habillé d'un pourpoint rouge, avec un chapeau pointu, de grandes culottes garnies de rubans, des bas gris et des souliers avec des rosettes couleur de feu. Il avait un petit sac de peau au côté. Il me semble que je le vois encore. Tous les yeux se tournèrent involontairement vers la muraille sur laquelle Mila fixait ses regards. - Vous l'avez donc vu ? demanda Mergy, - Non pas moi, mais ma grand-mère ; et elle se souvenait si bien de sa figure qu'elle aurait pu faire son portrait. - Et que dit-il au bourgmestre ? - Il lui offrit, moyennant cent ducats, de délivrer la ville du fléau qui la désolait. Vous pensez bien que le bourgmestre et les bourgeois y topèrent d'abord. Aussitôt l'étranger tira de son sac une flûte de bronze ; et, s'étant planté sur la place du marché, devant l'église, mais en lui tournant le dos, notez bien, il commença à jouer un air étrange, et tel que jamais flûteur allemand n'en a joué. Voilà qu'en entendant cet air, de tous les greniers, de tous les trous de murs, de dessous les chevrons et les tuiles des toits, rats et souris, par centaines, par milliers, accoururent à lui. L'étranger, toujours flûtant, s'achemina vers le Weser ; et là, ayant tiré ses chausses, il entra dans l'eau suivi de tous les rats de Hameln, qui furent aussitôt noyés. Il n'en restait plus qu'un seul dans toute la ville, et vous allez voir pourquoi. Le magicien, car c'en était un, demanda à un traînard, qui n'était pas encore entré dans le Weser, pourquoi Klauss, le rat blanc, n'était pas encore venu. « - Seigneur, répondit le rat, il est si vieux qu'il ne peut plus marcher. « - Va donc le chercher toi-même, répondit le magicien. « Et le rat de rebrousser chemin vers la ville, d'où il ne tarda pas à revenir avec un vieux gros rat blanc, si vieux, si vieux, qu'il ne pouvait pas se traîner. Les deux rats, le plus jeune tirant le vieux par la queue, entrèrent tous les deux dans le Weser, et se noyèrent comme leurs camarades. Ainsi la ville en fut purgée. Mais, quand l'étranger se présenta à l'hôtel de ville pour toucher la récompense promise, le bourgmestre et les bourgeois, réfléchissant qu'ils n'avaient plus rien à craindre des rats, et s'imaginant qu'ils auraient bon marché d'un homme sans protecteurs, n'eurent pas honte de lui offrir dix ducats, au lieu des cent qu'ils avaient promis. L'étranger réclama : on le renvoya bien loin. Il menaça alors de se faire payer plus cher s'ils ne maintenaient leur marché au pied de la lettre. Les bourgeois firent de grands éclats de rire à cette menace, et le mirent à la porte de l'hôtel de ville, l'appelant beau preneur de rats ! injure que répétèrent les enfants de la ville en le suivant par les rues jusqu'à la Porte-Neuve. Le vendredi suivant, à l'heure de midi, l'étranger reparut sur la place du marché, mais cette fois avec un chapeau de couleur de pourpre, retroussé d'une façon toute bizarre. Il tira de son sac une flûte bien différente de la première et, dès qu'il eut commencé d'en jouer, tous les garçons de la ville, depuis six jusqu'à quinze ans, le suivirent et sortirent de la ville avec lui. - Et les habitants de Hameln les laissèrent emmener ? demandèrent à la fois Mergy et le capitaine. - Ils les suivirent jusqu'à la montagne de Koppenberg, auprès d'une caverne qui est maintenant bouchée. Le joueur de flûte entra dans la caverne et tous les enfants avec lui. On entendit quelque temps le son de la flûte ; il diminua peu à peu ; enfin l'on n'entendit plus rien. Les enfants avaient disparu, et depuis lors on n'en eut jamais de nouvelles. La bohémienne s'arrêta pour observer sur les traits de ses auditeurs l'effet produit par son récit. Le reître qui avait été à Hameln prit la parole et dit : - Cette histoire est si vraie que, lorsqu'on parle à Hameln de quelque événement extraordinaire, on dit : Cela est arrivé vingt ans, dix ans, après la sortie de nos enfants- le seigneur de Falkenstein pilla noire ville soixante ans après la sortie de nos enfants. - Mais le plus curieux, dit Mila, c'est que dans le même temps parurent, bien loin de là, en Transylvanie, certains enfants qui parlaient bon allemand, et qui ne pouvaient dire d'où ils venaient. Ils se marièrent dans le pays, apprirent leur langue à leurs enfants, d'où il vient que jusqu'à ce jour on parle allemand en Transylvanie. - Et ce sont les enfants de Hameln que le diable a transportés là ? dit Mergy en souriant. - J'atteste le ciel que cela est vrai ! s'écria le capitaine, car j'ai été en Transylvanie, et je sais bien qu'on y parle allemand, tandis que tout autour on parle un baragouin infernal. L'attestation du capitaine valait bien des preuves comme il y en a tant. - Voulez-vous que je vous dise votre bonne aventure ? demanda Mila à Mergy. English Rendition: Mila gently pushed him, as the mouth of Mergy almost touched her cheek; and, after throwing a furtive glance to left and right to ensure that everyone was listening, she began thus: - “Captain, you have probably been to Hamelin”. – “Never”.- “And what about you, Cornet?” – “Neither have I.” .-“What! I won't find a soul who has been to Hamelin?” – “I spent a year there,” a cavalry rider said, coming forward –“Well! Fritz, you saw the church of Hamelin then?” – “More than a hundred times I did”. – “And its stained-glass windows? – “Certainly”. –“ And what did you see painted on the windows?” – “On these windows? - At the window to the left, I believe there is a large black man who  plays the flute, and small children running after him”. – “Precisely. Well, I will tell you the story about the black man and these children. - Many years ago the people of Hameln were being tormented by a vast multitude of rats that had come up from the north, with such a teeming density that the earth turned pitch  black with them so that no carter would have dared to drive his horses across a path where these animals passed by in a huge column. Everything got eaten up in no time; and in a barn it took these rats less time to eat a ton of wheat than for me to drink a glass of this wine. She took a sip, wiped her mouth and continued. - Mousetraps, rat traps, traps, poison, all to no avail. From Bremen they brought a boatload of eleven hundred cats; but nothing did any good. For every one thousand killed, ten thousand new rats took their place, even hungrier than the first lot. In short, if no solutions were found, not a grain of wheat would have remained in Hameln, and all the inhabitants would have starved. .Here one Friday who should appear in the presence of the mayor of the city but a large man, swarthy, parched looking, grinning from ear to ear? He was wearing a red doublet with a pointed hat, big breeches trimmed with ribbons, grey stockings and shoes with flame-colored rosettes. He had a small leather bag to his side. It's so vivid as if I still see him before my very eyes.” All eyes turned involuntarily to the wall on which Mila fixed her eyes – “You've seen him?” asked Mergy – “Not me personally, but my grandmother once did; and she remembered his face so well that she could have drawn his portrait” -. “And what did he say to the mayor?” – “ For the sum of a hundred ducats he offered to deliver the city from the scourge which was ruining it. You can imagine that the mayor and the citizens there were immediately dumbfounded Forthwith the stranger drew from his bag a bronze flute; and, having taken position on the market square in front of the church, but turning his back, mark my words he started  playing a strange looking instrument producing a sound that no German magpie has ever sung. On hearing this tune, from all the granaries, from all the holes in walls, below the rafters and roof tile, rats and mice in their hundreds and thousands flocked towards him. The stranger, still piping, made his way towards the Weser; and there, having taken off his shoes, he entered the water followed by all the rats of Hamelin, whereupon they immediately drowned. There was only one of them left in the whole city, and you'll see why. The magician, for there is no other way to describe him, asked a straggler who had not yet entered the Weser: - “Klaus, why hasn't that white rat come along yet?’ – ‘Sire,’said the rat,’“he is too old to walk.’ – ‘Then go and fetch him yourself,’ replied the magician. So the rat went back to the city from where he soon returned bringing along a big old white rat with him. So old. so very old was he that he could not drag himself along. The two rats, the younger pulling the old one by the tail, both entered the Weser and were drowned just like their kindred. Thus the city was well served. But when the stranger showed up at City Hall to claim the reward promised by the mayor and the citizens, they, in the belief that they had nothing more to fear from the rats and that they could get away with shortchanging a man without anyone to protect him, were not abashed to offer him ten ducats instead of the hundred they had promised. The stranger retorted. that he had been pushed too far and then threatened to secure himself a higher payment should they not keep to their side of the  bargain to the last farthing. The townsfolk burst out laughing at this threat, and showed him to the door of the town hall, calling him a fine rat catcher indeed! The insult was echoed by the children of the city in the streets next to the New Gate. On the following Friday at noon, the stranger appeared once more in the market place, but this time with a hat of purple hue rolled up in a very strange way . He first produced from his bag a very different flute and as soon as he began to play, all the boys of the city, from six to fifteen years of age, followed him out of the city”. “And the people of Hameln let them go?” asked both Mergy and the captain. “They followed him up the mountain of Koppenberg to a cave that is now blocked. The Pied Piper entered the cave and all the children with him. For some time the sound of the flute could be still heard and then; gradually it faded away till at last nothing more was to be heard. The children had disappeared, and have never been seen again from that day.” The gypsy stopped to observe the facial expressions of her listeners to judge the effect produced by the recounting of her story. The trooper who had been to Hameln answered and said – “This story is so truly convincing that when anyone talks about some extraordinary event in Hamelin, the response is always: ‘This or that event happened twenty years, ten years, whatever, after the departure of our children - the lord of Falkenstein plundered our city sixty years after the departure of our children.;’ - But the most curious thing of all,” said Mila, “is that at the same  period of time in far-away Transylvania, some children appeared who spoke good German, and could not tell where they had come from. They married in the country and taught their language to their children, with the effect that to this day there are those who speak German in Transylvania”. – “And these are the children of Hamelin that the Devil Hameln transported there?” Mergy then said with a smile on his face. – “I swear to heaven that all this is true!” cried the captain, “because I was in Transylvania, and I know for a fact that there are those who speak German, while all around they talk in some infernal gibberish.” This corroboration by the captain was a valuable piece of evidence like so many others that exist.- “Do you want me to tell you your fortune ?” Mila asked Mergy . Comment:  Here we find a literary rendition of the legend rather than a documentary source. However, whether by intuition on erudition, the author retells the story in a manner fully consistent with certain traditions we have noted. The tale poses an evil omen that foreshadows the massacre of the Huguenots in the Seine, whose fate resembles that of the rats in the Weser. Clearly the author follows precedents that identify the Piper with the Devil. Strangely enough, the story, however negatively, is associated with a saint's day (the day of Saint Bartholomew). The sources had assigned the day of the Piper's final appearance to either the day of John and Paul. or that of Mary Magdalene (see above). The story refers to a  precise year in history, i.e. in 1572 (cf. 1284, 1376).. The earliest versions of the legend  point to the tragic fate of those flouting the authority of the Church, and in the strict  judgment of Roman Catholic teaching, the Huguenots were "heretics." It is quite possible, even probable, that a knowledge of this passage influenced Robert Browning when composing "The Pied Piper of Hamelin". In this the Piper wears a "Gypsy coat of red and yellow.". The rat "as fat as Julius Caesar" finds a possible precursor in the fat rat in Mila's story,which almost escapes drowning but is pulled into the Weser by its tail. In the context of Mérimée’s Chronique this rat poses an allusion to the leader of the Huguenots, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny. Alone among those who have recounted the story of the Pied Piper, the author burdens the children of Hamelin with the guilt of complicity in their  parents' insults and bad treatment of the Piper. A parallel case might be found in the  punishment of the children who made fun of Elisha in the Bible. Julien Sorel, Saint or Apostate in LE ROUGE ET LE NOIR? A handbook directed to the needs of students of French literature brought to my attention the fact that Stendhal (original name: Marie-Henri Beyle) intended to give the one-word title Julien to the novel that subsequently gained worldwide acclaim under the title Le Rouge et le Noir. The Red and the Black Reader’s Guide by Stendhal, © 2020 Penguin Random House. Why then this late-in-the-day switch of titles? On mature reflection Stendhal may have considered that the isolated name Julien alone was too far detached from any grounding in a recognizable context, and yet, before proceeding with a reflection on the novel’s definitive title I enquire whether some benefit could be derived from a context-free contemplation of the name Julien or Julian. It conjures up favourable and unfavourable associations, either with a number of saints in the Church canon or with “Julian the Apostate,” the Roman emperor who vainly attempted to reinstate paganism and demote Christianity from its official pedestal. Along with the Vandals, he was given a bad name for challenging the authority of Catholic orthodoxy. Be that as it may, his name recalled the former slendour of Roman civilization and its cultural heritage, which to a high degree was consolidated by the preservation of the Latin language. It was Julien Sorel’s mastery of Latin, displayed most eminently is his ability to cite the Vulgate version of the entire New Testament by heart, that provided him with the bread ticket that he, a poor carpenter’s son living way out in the provinces, required to enter the world of genteel society and climb the Jacob’s Ladder of advancement in the service of the Church. Like Joseph in his youth, that archetype of Jesus Christ, he was despised and roughly treated by his brothers for being different, aloof, in short: the antithesis of a tough young farmer or labourer type of their own ilk. It was almost as though he had been transported via some time warp from ancient Rome to the time of the Bourbon Restoration in France, a period of extreme political and cultural reaction against all that the French Revolution and the Napoleonic empire had stood for, retaining from that time only the guillotine, and Julien was a thoroughgoing admirer of Napoleon to boot, though unlike his idol he, when a young lad at least, was debarred from preferment in the service of the army. It is generally accepted that the main (but not the exclusive) import of the actual title of Le Rouge et le Noir Chronique du XIX e siècle lies in the contrast of the two domains which Julien traversed in his life both inwardly and outwardly, the Army and the Church. The full title of the novel includes its designation as a chronicle of the nineteenth century and as such it derived a central event and turning point in the sequence of its story from a real incident, “l’Affaire Berthet.” In 1827 a young man entered a church, l’Eglise de Brangues by name, and in the wake of a love relationship that had gone sour fired a pistol wounding a married woman, the wife of his former employer. He was executed by the guillotine not only on the charge of attempted murder but also, and perhaps more pointedly, on that of sacrilege. Thus Stendhal gained a blueprint for narrating the very similar events that led to Julien’s tragic end. A further prompt to thoughts about that classless instrument of execution springs from the leading epigram attached to the novel’s introduction, namely: La vérité, l'âpre vérité (“the truth, the bitter truth”) for its pronouncement was attributed to Danton, the revolutionary leader who fell foul of Robespierre’s reign of terror. Here we might return to the old question raised by Pontius Pilot: “What is truth?” Without taking recourse to biblical precedents we might also introduce the thought of les deux vérités, the title of a film the main interest of which focused on the dilemma facing a jury in court when two conclusions could be construed from the same body of evidence, one pointing to the innocent character of a young female murder victim or to the evil character of a manipulative seductress. Les Deux Vérités (original title Le due vérita) is a Franco-Italian film directed by par Antonio Leonviola and distributed in 1952. With reference to Le Rouge et le Noir, a question arises: was Julien Sorel inherently good and noble or bad and perverse, a bounder, a heartless cad who left behind him a trail of broken hearts and who justly came a cropper as a result. Those who wish to arrive at a predominantly positive assessment of Julien will have no easy task excusing his callous treatment of Mme Louise de Rênal and the other women he abandoned, his ruthless and opportunistic pursuit of upward advancement in the ecclesiastical hierarchy without at the same time following a true religious vocation, then of course, his attempted murder of his former lover as she prayed in church during the celebration of Mass and, not least, his air of self-righteousness defiance even as he claims the martyr’s crown for being a persecuted representative of the downtrodden poor. True, he faces death with courage and dignity, but so have others who left this world without that much fuss. One result of the change of the novel’s title from Julien to Le Rouge et le Noir is a clarification that the novel is not just about Julien. Mme. de Rênal must share some of limelight too. At this juncture I venture to bring Goethe into the picture and moot and the possibility of his influence on Stendhal’s writings. During the time he followed Napoleon on his German and Russian campaigns he made Goethe’s personal acquaintance after which meeting both held each other in mutual respect. During a time of residence in the north of Italy he met another international literary cel:brity, Lord Byron. Traces of on Juan in the mirror of Byron's and perhaps Molière's treatment of that character seem to reemerge in Julien. In a chapter contributed to a Festschrift occasioned by an academic symposium on Goethe held in Dallas in 2016, Prisilla Sanchez, a specialist in the Comparative Studies field, wrote: “Although Stendhal rather blatantly adapted a number of Goethe’s works and ideas in his own writings, he rarely acknowledged Goethe as a source or an inspiration.” Chapter Four, Goethe’s “Bildung” ed. Jacob-Ivan Eidt and Christoph Daniel Weber, USA, 2018. Though I am unable to ascertain the grounds for this assumption, I suggest that it could be supported by evidence drawn from Le Rouge et le Noir at the critical point when Mme de de Rênal visits Julien in prison shortly before his execution and in a spirit of complete forgiveness and unconditional love brings him solace and, if not quite absolution in the strictest sense, a form of psychological and spiritual release and closure. She herself dies three days after Julien’s execution, with ‘three days’ posing an obvious allusion to the Resurrection. If Julien, a carpenter’s son, is not to be flatly identified with Jesus then she at least might claim an affinity with Mary Magdalene. In a similar vein Gretchen, transfigured as the divine intercessor with aspects of the penitent Mary Magdalene and the Virgin Mary, prepares the way for Faust’s entry into Paradise. Similarly, in Die Leiden des jungen Werthers the protagonist suffers in a manner that implicitly aligns him with Jesus Christ as the very title of the novella intimates by the inclusion of the word ‘Leiden,’ which can denote the Passion as well as suffering in general. Lotte hands Werther the instruments whereby he takes his own life while Julien’s death results from Mme de Rênal ’s decision to denounce him as an adulterer, albeit without her knowing where her denouncement would lead. The novel approaches its conclusion on a macabre note. Mathilde de La Mole, the last love in Julien’s life, claims possession of his head, which she then has placed at the head of his gravestone. In her act of devotion Mathilde maintained a family tradition going back to the end of the sixteenth century when Queen Marguerite of Navarre encased the head of her lover (and Mathilde’s ancestor), Boniface de La Môle,, likewise the victim of an execution . Mme de Rênal’s death in sympathy with the passing of Julien marks a point of closure while Mathilde’s pregnancy and the prospect of bearing Julien’s child suggests that Julien’s spirit would live on in a more rough-and-tumble world stripped of the frippery of the Bourbon Restoration that ended in1830, the year of the publication of Le Rouge et le Noir. After a relatively quiet interval under the July Monarchy another Napoleon came into his own, though I doubt his character would have appealed to Julien. Oddly enough, the symbolism of a decapitated head reemerges in literature in Herodias, one of the three short stories published by Gustave Flaubert in 1877 under the heading Trois Contes. This tells the tale of the successful plot to do away with John the Baptist that Herodias, the wife of King Herod Antipas, hatches in collaboration with her daughter Salomé. The grisly image of John’s head on a platter is unlikely to be lost on any reader. In the second story in this trio, La légende de Saint-Julien l'hospitalier, (The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitalier), the name Julien comes to the fore again but this time the sainthood of its bearer is beyond dispute for he appears in the guise of the saintly Julien le Hospitalier, who after many a contretemps, one involving him in involuntarily causing the death of his parents, does all in his power to serve the needs of a leper he encounters, but no ordinary leper, for it transpires that he is Jesus Christ traveling incognito. Julian is suitably rewarded by a place in heaven. I feel Flaubert had Le Rouge et le Noir in mind when composing the three stories. The first story is about a nice simple good-hearted girl that would probably have made a good wife for Julien Sorel and spared him a lot of trouble, but then, I suppose, he would not have been the protagonist of what Somerset Maugham considered to be one of the ten best novels even written. When Napoleon III and the Top Brass of the French Army Lost their Heads on July 14th 1870 with a Note on Queen Isabella II of Spain’s Part in the Rise and Fall of Napoleon III In a world where miscalculations and aggressive impulses lead all to readily to war it is heartening to reflect that diplomacy has - from time to time - managed to avert war, such a case being the prevention of war between Britain and France that threatened to break out during the second Syrian war of 1840. A decisive pacifying contribution was made by the French Minister for Foreign Affairs François Guizot, who had long advocated and furthered good relations between his country and Britain during his tenure of office in the July monarchy. Guizot was a Protestant from Nimes by religion and a moderate conservative (by the standards of his day), in politics. Ever since the overthrow of the ultra-conservative monarchy of Charles X, the retention of a balance between the forces of liberalism and conservative authoritarianism was a tricky business, which Guizot handled with a measure of success, that is, until the arrival of the chain of events that led to the February Revolution of 1848. One important factor that destabilized the world of French politics sprang from the contentious "affair of the Spanish marriages." This boiled down to the question as to which rival suitor for the hand of Queen Isabella, not yet sixteen before her wedding day, should prevail, the one favoured by Britain the other by France. The British candidate, Prince Leopold of-Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, was a member of the royal house that embraced Victoria's mother, Prince Albert and the man who became the first king of Belgium, also a Leopold and again a British candidate. The suitor preferred by the French, Isabella's cousin, Francis Duke of Cadiz, won the day on October 10, 1846. The fallout of this conflict of interests between two erstwhile befriended nations was not good for the French king and Guizot as the cooling of relations between two nations compelled Guizot to rely on the support of the strongly conservative, even reactionary, side of French politics, which in turn aroused widespread public dissatisfaction and eventually the establishment of the Second Republic. It was of course the man who would take the title of Napoleon III who reaped the full benefit of this outcome. By a combination of shrewd maneuvering, unscrupulous opportunism and brute force Napoleon became an emperor, furnished with dictatorial powers, and the inveterate adversary of Victor Hugo and other defenders of civil rights and liberty. And what precipitated Napoleon’s fall if not a crisis rooted in the need to find a candidate for the Spanish throne? Just as his rise to power owed much to dissentions surrounding the person of Isabella, so did his fall. We now land in 1870. The Queen had abdicated in 1868 in the wake of popular unrest and with the Spanish throne now being vacant, the question of succession arose. The throne the was offered to Leopold prince of Hohenzollern, a member of the Swabian and Roman Catholic branch of the dynasty to which Kaiser Wilhelm also belonged. The possibility of overweening German influence over Spain was unacceptable to Napoleon, understandably enough, and so under great pressure Leopold relinquished his claim to the Spanish throne, but unfortunately this was not enough to placate the irate French emperor, who insisted on the Prussians renouncing for all time any possibility of a candidature for the Spanish throne. A senior French diplomat buttonholed the Prussian king, William I, during a vacation at the spa resort of Ems on the river Lahn and pressed him to accept French terms on the issue of the said renunciation, which the king firmly, though politely, refused to do. A brief report of this incident was sent by telegram to Bismarck in Berlin, who duly issued a suitably doctored version of the report to the German press just in time for its impact to be felt in Paris on Bastille Day. Such a press release at a critical moment enraged public opinion served the purposes of Falkenhayn and Moltke on the day Germany declared war on Russia in 1914. It was ten years later, in 1880 and under a new regime, that the Fourteenth of July became instituted as the central annual event that remains to the present, but this date most certainly struck a patriotic chord in many a French heart, not least in higher military circles where an unshakeable belief in the superiority of French arms over those of Prussia led to a grievous miscalculation. On the same day the German government ordered full mobilization, thus gaining a head start on the cumbersome French military chain of command. True to Bismarck’s expectations, an enraged Napoleon declared war on the Prussian-led North German Confederation, and the rest is history - Napoleon’s inglorious capture at Sedan and the end of the Second Empire. The final extinction of the Spanish empire was closely linked to issues arising from contentions between the major world powers in their bids to influence and even dominate the globe. Imperial Germany entertained ambitions to gain a foothold in the West Indies and the Far East but these were blocked by the effects of the Hispano-American war at the end of the nineteenth century. The American and German navies almost came to blows in Manila Bay during the course of that war. At the conference of Algeciras near Gibraltar in 1906, the purpose of which was to settle a depute over the future of Morocco, the line-up of powers that would oppose Germany in the First World War, namely France, Britain and the United States, began to take shape. The Spanish civil war from 1936 to 1939 served Hitler and Stalin as a dry run in preparation for operations in the Second World War. 35