The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England. volume 5 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 5Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
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The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England. volume 5 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 5
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de, 1768-1848
"Come, George Dandin, pluck up courage; zounds, son-in-law, do us
credit; off with your coat! Throw out of window two hundred thousand
livres a year, a place to your liking, a high and magnificent place,
the empire of the arts in Rome, the happiness of at last receiving the
reward of your long and laborious struggle. Such is our good pleasure.
At that price you will have our esteem. In the same way as we have
stripped ourselves of our cloaks, leaving a good flannel waistcoat
underneath, so you must throw off your velvet mantle, and remain naked.
There is perfect equality, an exact level of altar and sacrifice."
And, strange to relate, in this generous ardour to turn me out, the
men who intimated their wishes to me were neither my real friends nor
the joint sharers of my political opinions. I was to immolate myself
forthwith to Liberalism, to the doctrine which had continually attacked
me; I was to run the risk of shaking the Legitimist Throne in order
to deserve the praises of a few poltroons of enemies, who had not the
thorough courage to starve.
I was to find myself swamped by a long embassy; the entertainments
which I had given had ruined me; I had not paid the expenses of my
first establishment. But what broke my heart was the loss of what I
had promised myself in the way of happiness for the rest of my life.
I have not to reproach myself with bestowing upon anybody those
Catonian counsels which impoverish him who receives, not him who gives
them, fully convinced as I am that those counsels are of no use to the
man who does not feel them within himself. My resolve was fixed, as
I have said, from the first; it cost me nothing to take, but it was
painful to execute. When, at Lourdes, instead of turning south and
rolling towards Italy, I took the road for Pau[157], my eyes filled
with tears: I admit my weakness. What matter, if I none the less
accepted and held the challenge fortune sent me? I did not return
quickly, in order to let the days slip by. I slowly unwound the thread
of that road which I had wound up with such alacrity, but a few weeks
before.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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