Supplemental 11: The Year 1817

This is The Siècle, Supplemental 11: The Year 1817.

Welcome back for a special bonus episode of The Siècle, in which we finally dip our toes into the single most famous cultural artifact about post-Napoleonic France: Les Misérables.

This is a bonus episode, so we’re not going to be diving too deeply in. Instead, this episode is a verbatim recording of one of the most singular chapters in Victor Hugo’s book: “The Year 1817.”

If you’re not familiar, this is a chapter in which Hugo sets the scene for some early events in his story by going through a long list — too long, if we’re being perfectly fair — of news events that happened in that titular year. Think of it as a 19th Century prose version of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start The Fire,” but about a single year instead of half a century.

Even Hugo admits that by the 1860s, when he published Les Misérables, history had forgotten “almost all these peculiarities.” By the 21st Century, things have only gotten more obscure. Modern-day translator Norman Denny, who abridged this chapter in his edition of the book, writes in justification that “one has the impression that [Hugo] did it by skimming through the newspaper headlines,” and notes as an aside that “not infrequently… Hugo got his facts wrong.”¹

But I was struck reading through this chapter at how many of these obscure references I actually understood, from a few years of reading about the period. Not all of them, to be sure, but a lot! And you might be surprised at how much you understand just from following along with The Siècle. How many of you, before starting this show, would have understood a reference to how “Monsieur Decazes… prevailed” or to the Abbé Grégoire being damned in royalist circles, or to the Duc de Berry being stalked by Louvel? And other elements mentioned here, like the unfortunate ship, the Medusa, the up-and-coming theologian Lammenais, or the semi-obscure thinker Saint-Simon, are going to pop up in future episodes.

So don’t worry if some of the blizzard of people and events you’re about to hear seems confusing or overwhelming. That’s partially the point, as Hugo admits near the end of this passage. Instead, focus on what you do know! I won’t be interrupting my narration with explanations, but if you want to learn more, visit the transcript of this episode at thesiecle.com/supplemental11, where I’ve added some annotations, pictures and Wikipedia links.

I’ll also add: if you’ve been meaning to read Les Misérables but haven’t yet gotten around to it, then you don’t need to worry: this episode won’t spoil any plot developments in the book for you.

Additionally, I’ll note that the text of this chapter contains an outdated term for Inuit people that some people consider offensive.

The text I’ll be reading from today comes largely from the 1862 English translation by Charles Wilbour. This is not my favorite Les Misérables translation, but it is my favorite translation that’s in the public domain. In cases where Wilbour’s language was too archaic or confusing, I’ve substituted some phrases from two other versions: the 1887 translation by Isabella Hapgood, and the 2013 edition by Christine Donougher. In the online transcript, I indicate via brackets and a symbol whenever a phrase comes from either Hapgood (*) or Donougher (†).

For example, the opening line in Wilbour refers to Louis XVIII doing something “with a certain royal assumation”; the choice of “royal assurance” found in Hapgood is clearer to modern ears. I’ve made small changes like that throughout, along with some minor updates to punctuation and spelling.

Without further ado, here is Les Misérables, Volume 1, Part 3, Chapter 1.

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The year 1817 was that which Louis XVIII, with a certain royal [assurance]* not devoid of stateliness, styled the 22nd year of his reign. It was the year when Monsiuer Bruguiere de Sorsum was famous. All the hair-dressers’ shops, hoping [that the ‘royal bird’ style of powdered wig would make a comeback, were painted blue with the fleur-de-lys]†. It was the honest time when Comte Lynch sat every Sunday as the churchwarden on the official bench at Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in the dress of a peer of France, with his red ribbon and long nose, and that majesty peculiar to a man who has done a brilliant deed. The brilliant deed committed by Monsieur Lynch was that, being mayor of Bordeaux on the 12th of March, 1814, he had surrendered the city a little too soon to the Duc d’Angoulême.² Hence his peerage.

In 1817 it was the fashion to swallow up little boys from four to six years old in great [morocco leather]* caps with ears, strongly resembling [Eskimo headwear]†. The French army was dressed in white after the Austrian style; regiments were called legions, and wore, instead of numbers, the names of the departments. Napoleon was at St. Helena, and as England would not give him green cloth, had had his old coats turned.³

In 1817, Pellegrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned; Odry was not yet in existence. Madame Saqui succeeded to Forioso.⁴ There were Prussians still in France.⁵ Monsieur Delalot was a personage. Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the fist and then the head of Pleignier, Carbonneau and Tolleron.⁶.

Above: Émilie Bigottini, a famous French dancer, circa 1815. Artist unknown. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Above: A depiction of the Marquis de Lafayette (center) at the 1790 Feast of the Federation, which featured a Catholic mass performed by Talleyrand, then the Bishop of Autun, and assisted by future French minister Joseph-Dominique Louis, then a priest. Achille-Désiré Lefèvre, 19th Century. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

Prince Talleyrand, the grand chamberlain,⁷ and Abbé Louis,⁸ the designated [minister of finance]*, looked each other in the face, laughing like two [soothsayers]†; both had celebrated the mass of the Federation in the Champ de Mars on the 14th of July, 1790; Talleyrand had said it as bishop, Louis had served him as deacon. In 1817, in the crosswalks to the same Champ de Mars, were seen huge wooden cylinders, painted blue, with traces of eagles and bees, that had lost their gilding, lying in the rain and rotting in the grass. [These]* were the columns which, two years before, had supported the [Emperor’s platform]* in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and there from the bivouac fires of the Austrians in barracks near the Gros-Caillon [district]†. Two or three of these columns had disappeared in the fires of these bivouacs, and had warmed the huge hands of the [Imperial troops]*.⁹ The Champ de Mai was remarkable from the fact of having been held in the month of June, and on the Champ de Mars.¹⁰

Below: The Champ de Mai ceremony of 1815, featuring Napoleon’s platform, support columns for which Hugo says were still lying around two years later. Author unknown. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

In the year 1817, two things were popular: [the Touquet edition of Voltaire and Charter-engraved snuff-boxes]†.¹¹ The latest Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun, who had thrown his brother’s head into the fountain of the Marché aux Fleurs.¹² [They had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Ministry on account of the lack of news from that fatal frigate, the Medusa]*, which was to cover Chaumareix with shame, and Géricault with glory.¹³ Colonel Selves went to Egypt, there to become [Suleiman Pasha]†.¹⁴

The [Palais des Thermes, in]†, Rue de La Harpe, was turned into a cooper’s shop. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the hotel de Cluny, the little board shed was still to be seen which had served as observatory to Messier, the astronomer of the navy under Louis XVI.¹⁵

The Duchesse de Duras read to three or four friends, in her boudoir, furnished in sky-blue satin, the manuscript of Ourika.¹⁶ The Ns were erased from the Louvre.¹⁷ The bridge of Austerlitz abdicated its name, and became the bridge of the Jardin du Roi, an enigma which disguised at once the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin des Plantes.¹⁸

Louis XVIII, absently annotating Horace with his fingernail while thinking about heroes that had become emperors, and shoemakers that had become dauphins, had two cares: Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau.¹⁹

The French Academy gave as a prize theme, “The happiness which Study procures.” Monsieur Bellart was [professionally eloquent]†.²⁰ In his shadow was seen taking root the future [advocate-general], de Broë, [destined to be lampooned by Paul-Louis Courier]†.²¹ There was a counterfeit Chateaubriand called Marchangy,²² as there was to be later a counterfeit Marchangy called d’Arlincourt.²³ Claire d’Albe and Malek Adel were masterpieces; Madame Cottin was declared the first writer of the age.²⁴ The Institute struck from its list the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte. A royal ordinance established a naval school at Angoulême for [with the Duc d’Angoulême being grand admiral, obviously the city of Angoulême was entitled as a matter of course to all the distinctions of a seaport; otherwise, the monarchic principle would have been undermined]†.²⁵ [In the Council of Ministers the question was agitated]* whether the pictures, representing acrobats, which spiced the placards of Franconi, and drew together [throngs of street urchins]*, should be tolerated.

Monsieur Paër, the author of L’Agnese, an honest man with square jaws and a wart on his cheek, directed the small, select concerts of the Marchioness de Sassenaye, Rue de la Ville-l’Éveque. All the young girls sang l’Ermite de Saint Avelle, words by Edmond Géraud.²⁶

The Nain jaune was transformed into the Miroir.²⁷ The Café Lemblin stood out for the emperor in opposition to the Café Valois, which was in favor of the Bourbons. A marriage had just been made with a Sicilian princess for the Duc de Berry, who was already [watched from the shadows]† by Louvel.²⁸ Madame de Staël had been dead a year. Mademoiselle Mars was hissed by the [royal guard]†. The great [newspapers]* were all [lightweight. Their format was small but they had great freedom of expression]†.²⁹ Le Constitutionnel was constitutional; La Minerve called Chateaubriand, “Chateaubriant.” [That t] excited great laughter among the citizens at the expense of the great writer.

In purchased [newspapers]†,³⁰ prostituted journalists insulted the outlaws of 1815; David no longer had talent, Arnault no longer had ability, Carnot no longer had [integrity]†, Soult had never gained a victory. It is true that Napoleon had [lost his military genius]†. Everybody knows that letters sent through the post to an exile rarely reach their destination, the police making it a religious duty to intercept them. This fact is by no means a new one; Descartes complained of it in his banishment. Now, David having shown some feeling in a Belgian journal at not receiving the letters addressed to him, this seemed ludicrous to the royalist papers, who seized the occasion to ridicule the exile. [Whether one said ‘regicides’ or ‘voters’, ‘enemies’ or ‘allies’, ‘Napoleon’ or ‘Buonaparte’]†, separated two men more than an abyss.

All people of common sense agreed that the era of revolutions had been forever closed by King Louis XVIII, surnamed “the immortal author of the Charter.” At the [platform]* of the Pont Neuf, the word “Redivivus” was [carved]* on the pedestal which awaited the statue of Henri IV.³¹ Monsieur Piet³² at Rue Thérèse, No. 4, was sketching the plan of his cabal to consolidate the monarchy. The leaders of the Right said, at [moments of crisis]†, “We must write to Bacol.” Messieurs Canuel, O’Mahony and De Chappedelaine [were devising — not without the approval of Monsieur]† — what was afterwards to become the [Riverside Conspiracy]†.³³ [The Black Pin had a conspiracy of its own]†;³⁴ Delaverderie held interviews with Trogoff.³⁵ Monsieur Decazes, a mind in some degree liberal, prevailed.³⁶

Chateaubriand, standing every morning at his window in the Rue Saint Dominique, No. 27, in stocking pantaloons and slippers, his grey hair covered with a Madras handkerchief, a mirror before his eyes, and a complete case of dental instruments open before him, cleaned his teeth, which were excellent, while dictating [The Monarchy According to the Charter]† to Monsieur Pilorge, his secretary.³⁷ The critics in authority preferred Lafon to Talma. Monsieur de Féletz signed himself “A”; Monsieur Hoffman signed himself “Z.” Charles Nodier was writing Thérèse Aubert. Divorce was abolished.³⁸ The lycées called themselves colleges. The students, decorated on the collar with a gold fleur-de-lys, pummeled each other over the king of Rome.³⁹

The secret police of the palace denounced to her royal highness, Madame, the portrait of the Duc d’Orléans, which was everywhere to be seen, and which looked better in the uniform of colonel-general of hussars than the Duc de Berry in the uniform of colonel-general of dragoons — a serious matter.

Left: Louis-Phillipe, duc d’Orléans, in the uniform of a colonel-general of Hussars in 1817 (left), by Louis-Joseph Noyal. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. Right: Charles-Ferdinand d’Artois, duc de Berry, in military uniform, circa 1820, by François Gérard. Public domain via Chateau de Versailles.

The city of Paris re-gilded the dome of the Invalides at its expense. [Serious men]* asked each other what Monsieur de Trinquelague would do in such or such a case;⁴⁰ Monsieur Clausel de Montals differed on sundry points from Monsieur Clausel de Coussergues; Monsieur de Salaberry was not satisfied.⁴¹

Comedy-writer Picard, of the Academy to which comedy-writer Molière could not belong, had Les deux Philibert played at the Odeon, on the pediment of which the removal of the letters still permitted the inscription to be read distinctly: “Theater of the Empress.” People took sides for or against Cugnet de Montarlot.⁴² Fabvier was [seditious]†, Bavoux was revolutionary. The bookseller Pélicier published an edition of Voltaire under the title, Works by Voltaire of the French Academy. “That will attract buyers,” said the [ingenious]* editor.

The general opinion was that Monsieur Charles Loyson would be the genius of the age; envy was beginning to nibble at him, a sign of glory, and the line was made [about him: “Even when Loyson flies, you can tell he has feet.”]†.⁴³ Cardinal Fesch refusing to resign,⁴⁴ Monsieur de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie, administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel of the Vallée des Dappes commenced between France and Switzerland [sparked by a report]† from Captain, afterwards General, Dufour.

Saint-Simon, unknown, was building up his sublime dream.⁴⁵ There was a celebrated Fourier in the Academy of Sciences whom posterity has forgotten, and an obscure Fourier in some unknown garret who the future will remember. Lord Byron was beginning to dawn; a note to a poem of Millevoye introduced him to France as “a certain Lord Baron.” David d’Angers was [demonstrating his skill at working in marble]†. The Abbé Carron spoke with praise, in a small party of seminarists in the cul-de-sac of the Feuillantines, of an unknown priest, Félicité Robert by name, who was afterwards Lammenais.

A thing which smoked and clacked on the Seine, making the noise of a swimming dog, went and came beneath the windows of the Tuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV; it was a piece of mechanism of no great value, a sort of toy, the day-dream of a visionary, a utopia — a steamboat. The Parisians looked upon the useless thing with indifference.⁴⁶

Monsieur Vaublanc, wholesale reformer of the Institute by royal ordinance and distinguished [creator]† of several Academicians, after having made them, could not make himself one. The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the Pavillon de Marsan wanted Monsieur Delaveau for prefect of police, on account of his piety.⁴⁷

Dupuytren and Récamier quarrelled in the amphitheater of the École de Médicine, and shook their fists in each other’s faces over the divinity of Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on the book of Genesis and the other on nature, was endeavoring to please [religious reactionaries]† by reconciling fossils with [biblical]† texts and making the mastodons support Moses. Monsieur François de Neufchâteau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmentier, was making earnest efforts to have pomme de terre pronounced parmentière, without success.⁴⁸

Abbé Grégoire, ex-bishop, ex-member of the National Convention, and ex-senator, had [been downgraded]† to “infamous Grégoire,” in royalist polemics.⁴⁹ The expression which we have just employed, [downgraded]†, was denounced as a neologism by Monsieur Royer-Collard.⁵⁰

[Under the third arch of the Pont d’Iéna you could still distinguish by its whiteness the new stone used to fill the hole for explosives that Blücher had made two years earlier to blow up the bridge]†.⁵¹ Justice summoned to her bar a man who had said aloud, [Oh, for the days when I used see]† Bonaparte and Talma entering the Bal-Sauvage arm-in-arm.” Seditious language. Six months’ imprisonment.

Traitors showed themselves stripped even of hypocrisy; men who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of a battle made no concealment of their bribes, and shamelessly walked abroad in daylight [with their cynically acquired riches and honors]†; deserters of Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazenness of their purchased shame, exposed the nakedness of their devotion to monarchy, forgetting the commonest requirements of public decency.⁵²

Such was the confused mass of events that floated pell-mell on the surface of the year 1817, and is now forgotten. History neglects almost all these peculiarities, nor can it do otherwise; it is under the dominion of infinity. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called little — there are neither little facts in humanity nor little leaves in vegetation — are useful. The [features]† of the years [make]† up the face of the century.

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Thank you for bearing with Victor Hugo and I today! If you’re curious about any — or all — of the flurry of references here, remember that you can visit thesiecle.com/supplemental11 — that’s t-h-e-s-i-e-c-l-e dot com — to view an annotated transcript of this episode. But I hope you surprised yourself by how many references you understood without my footnotes!

In the meantime, I’m headed back to work on Episode 28: Charles in Charge.