François-René vicomte de Chateaubriand: Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem. A. S. Kline translation. London: On-Demand Publishing, 2011.
Part One: Greece.
Part Two: The Archipelago, Anatolia, and Constantinople.
Having voyaged to the westernmost frontier of European civilization, the United States of America, in 1791, meeting George Washington (“There is virtue in the gaze of a great man”), and finding material there for his novel, Les Natchez, in 1806 Chateaubriand undertook a similar journey for a similar purpose, from Paris to Jerusalem, returning through Egypt, Tunisia, and Spain. The literary result was Les Martyrs, a prose epic intended to complement his 1802 treatise, The Genius of Christianity. [1] His bête noir, Napoleon, had crowned himself Emperor of France two years earlier and had defeated Austria at Austerlitz in 1805; Napoleon would go on to ally France with the Ottoman Empire, a political liaison that may account for some of Chateaubriand’s asperity in his portrait of the Turks. While “in the deserts of America I had contemplated the monuments of nature”—complementing his earliest major work, Essai Politique, Historique, and Morale, sur les Revolutions Anciennes et Modernes considerés dans leurs Rapports avec la Révolution Français de nos Jours, in which he presented a theory of natural right [2]—and while he already “knew two of the realms of antiquity,” the Celts, ancestors of the French, and the Romans, their civilizational ancestors, he had never seen Greece, the civilizational cradle of Rome, or Jerusalem, cradle of the Christendom that had pervaded Greece, Rome, and France. “I may be the last Frenchman to leave my country to travel to the Holy Land with the ideas, aim and sentiments of the pilgrims of old, but if I have not the virtues that once illuminated the Lords of Coucy, de Nesles, de Chatillon, and de Montfort, at least their faith remains to me.” In this enterprise, Chateaubriand never strays far from the spirit of Jerusalem Delivered, Tasso’s epic poem of the Crusades.
Arms and religion. In Greece under the Turks, he will meet a man who cannot understand why he would travel “to see the various peoples, especially those Greeks who were dead,” but when he describes himself as “a pilgrim on my way to Jerusalem,” the man “was fully satisfied.” “Religion is a sort of universal language understood by all men. The Turk could not understand that I had left my homeland out of a simple motive of curiosity”—Aristotle’s dictum, “Man wants to know,” having no echo in his soul—but “he found it quite natural that I should undertake a long journey to pray at a shrine.” Nor was this only a Muslim assumption, as “I had found the savages of the New World indifferent to my foreign manners, but solely attentive like the Turks to my weapons and my religion, that is to say, the two things that protect mankind in regard to body and soul.” [3]
Leaving French soil proper, he spends five days in Venice, then part of Napoleon’s Kingdom of Italy, a client state ruled by the Emperor’s son-in-law. He then embarked to Trieste, which had been returned to Austrian control by France only a few months earlier. “The last breath of Italy expires here on this shore where barbarism begins”—that is, modern Greece, under Ottoman rule. On the Austrian ship taking him to Messenia, during a storm, the Catholic captain hangs a light in front of an image of the Virgin Mary, reminding Chateaubriand of “the affecting nature of this cult that yields empire over the seas to a weak woman,” reminding him that “what unsettles human wisdom is the proximity of danger; at that moment mankind becomes religious, and the torch of philosophy reassures less in the midst of the tempest that the lamp lit before the Madonna.” With the captain and the sailors, he prays “for the Emperor Francis II, for ourselves, and for the sailors…drowned in those sacred waters.”
Having “found ourselves at the gates of the Adriatic,” “I was there, at the frontier of Greek antiquity and the border of Latin antiquity”; “Pythagoras, Alcibiades, Scipio, Caesar, Pompey, Cicero, August, Horace, Virgil, had crossed this sea.” After all, “I journeyed to seek the Muses in their own country.” Chateaubriand does not travel in the manner of today’s tourist ‘sightseer.’ When he sees a site, he hears the voices of poets and historians. “Woe to him who sees not nature with the eyes of Fenelon or Homer!” Or the occasional philosopher: “climate more or less influences the tastes of a people,” Montesquieu observes, in Chateaubriand’s words. “In Greece, for example, everything is smooth; everything is softened; everything is as full of calm in nature a in the writings of the ancients”; this is “why ancient sculpture is so little troubled, so peaceful, so simple.” “In that land of the Muses, nature suggests no abrupt departures,” bringing “the mind to a love of consistent and harmonious things.” “Nothing would be more pleasant than natural history, if one were to relate it always to human history: we would delight in seeing the migratory birds forsake the unknown tribes of the Atlantic shores to visit the famed peoples of the Eurotas and Cephissus, and “perhaps some bird of the Americas attracted Aristotle’s attention on the waters of Greece, that philosopher failing even to suspect the existence of the New World,” and “often the marches of peoples and armies followed the wanderings of a few solitary birds, or the peaceful migrations of camels and gazelles.” “Long before mankind,” God’s creatures knew “the extent of man’s abode.”
The sea is another matter. There, the sublimity of nature rivals the beauty of the land. On the island of Corfu, west of the Greek mainland, “Odysseus was hurled after his shipwreck,” Aristotle came in exile and, under the Romans, Cato met Cicero after the battle of Pharsalia. (“What men! What suffering! What blows of fortune!”) And “it was from Corfu that the army of crusaders departed that set a French nobleman on the throne of Constantinople”—the Count of Flanders, who led the Fourth Crusade in 1204, who reigned as Baldwin I, the first Latin emperor. Despite the glory of the ancients (that “glory must be something real, since it makes the heart beat in one who is only a spectator of it”), Christian martyrs have equaled or perhaps excelled them: “Is a martyr to freedom any greater than a martyr to truth? Is Cato, devoting himself to the liberation of Rome, more heroic than Sosipater, allowing himself to be burnt in a brazen bull, in order to announce to men that they are brothers; that they should love each other; help each other; and rise nearer to God through the practice of virtue?” The superiority of the Christians to the ancients will be the theme of The Martyrs.
Chateaubriand landed at Methoni, on the western Peloponnese. Greece is now ruled by the Turks or, as Chateaubriand insists throughout, misruled. Yes, the chief civilian official of the city, the Agha, had cleared the roads of bandits, but his methods were not scrupulous. “It would have been too slow and too boring for a Turk to distinguish the innocent from the guilty: they killed, with a knock on the head as one kills wild beasts, all those hunted down by the Pasha. The robbers perished, it is true, but along with three hundred Greek peasants who had nothing to do with the matter.” When Chateaubriand sees the Christian and Muslim graveyards set next to each other, the Christian graveyard “dilapidated, without gravestones, and without trees,” “we see even in the freedom and equality of death a distinction between tyrant and slave.”
Under this regime, Chateaubriand maintained vigilance, as even “the slightest sign of fear or even of caution, exposes you to their contempt.” “A Turk is as pliable if he sees that you do not fear him, as he is offensive if he discovers that he has inspired fear in you.” He had French honor to uphold. At the city of Coroni, he recalls the Frenchmen who participated in its retaking from the Turks in 1685. “I enjoyed discovering these traces of the path of French honor, from my very first entry to the true home of glory, and to a people whose people are such good judges of worth.” Of course, “where does one not find such traces!” Throughout his journeys he found them: “The Arabs showed me the graves of our soldiers beneath the sycamores of Cairo, and the Seminoles beneath the Florida poplars.” “If I myself have followed, without glory, though not without honor, those twin careers in which the citizens of Athens and Sparta acquired so much renown, I console myself by reflecting that other Frenchmen were more fortunate than I.” But now the Turks possess the olive trees of Coroni. “Tears came to my eyes seeing the hands of an enslaved Greek bathed in vain by those streams of oil that brought vigor to the arms of his forefathers so they might triumph over tyrants.” At once tyrannical and largely impotent, the Turkish state cedes effective rule to individual Muslims. The establishment of a public institution such as a drinking fountain or a caravanserai results from “the religious spirit, and not the love of country, since there is no country.” But even the religious spirit has waned. “It is remarkable that all these fountains, all these caravanserais, all these bridges are crumbling, and date from the early days of the empire: I do not think I encountered one modern construction along the way; from which one must conclude that religion is enfeebled among the Muslims and, along with that religion, Turkish society is on the point of collapse.” The regime will offer no help, however, as the state apparatus consists of “tyrants consumed with the thirst for gold, who shed innocent blood without remorse in its pursuit.” “If I had ever thought, with those whose character and talents I otherwise respect, that absolute government is the best form of government, a few months’ sojourn in Turkey would have completely cured me of that opinion.”
In southwest Peloponnese, where the ancient Spartans had ruled, “I could scarcely convince myself that I breathed the air of the homeland of Helen and Menelaus.” Sparta now consists only of a single white cottage. “Tears sprang to my eyes, as I fixed my gaze on that little hut, which stood on the deserted site of tone of the most famous cities of the world, and which served only to identify the location of Sparta, inhabited by a single goatherd, whose only wealth is the grass that grows on the graves of King Agis, and Leonidas.” Not long after, his Turkish escort brought him to another site, with “ruins everywhere, and not one human being among the ruins”—Sparta having been not only deserted by the modern Greeks but forgotten. He recalls the Spartan prayer, “Let virtue be added to beauty!” But now, “the sun blazes down in silence, and ceaselessly devours the marble tombs,” the only remaining life being the “thousands of lizards, noiselessly climbing and descending the burning walls.” While “I hate the Spartan moral code, I cannot fail to understand the greatness of a free people, and I cannot tread that noble dust without emotion,” its nobility confirmed by “a single fact”: when the dissolute Roman tyrant Nero came to Greece, “he dared not venture to Sparta,” the memory of whose austerity remained as a silent rebuke of his life and rule. There is an ironic coda to Chateaubriand’s visit. The Spartans’ statues and altars honoring Sleep, Death, Beauty, and Fear (“which the Spartans inspired in the enemies”) have disappeared, but he finds what may have been the pedestal of the statue of Laughter “that Lycurgus erected among those grave descendants of Hercules.” “An altar of Laughter remaining alone in the midst of buried Sparta offers a gloriously triumphant subject for the philosophy of Democritus”—the philosopher of atomism who snickered at the human failure to acknowledge the inevitable dissolution of all things.
Despite the rule of the Turks, Christianity has fared somewhat better. At Corinth, Chateaubriand recalls the Apostle Paul: “That man, ignored by the great, scorned by the crowd, rejected as ‘the sweepings of the world, only associating at first with two companions, Crispus and Gaius, and with the household of Stephanus: such were the unknown architects of an indestructible temple and the first Christians of Corinth. The traveler casts his eyes over the site of this famous city: he sees not a remnant of the pagan altars, but he sees a number of Christian chapels rising from the midst of the Greek houses. The Apostle can still give, from heaven, the sign of peace to his children.” Still, regarding Greece generally, “What silence! Unfortunate country! Unhappy Greeks! Will France lose her glory thus? Will she be thus devastated, and trampled, in the course of centuries?” Wherever he goes on this journey, Chateaubriand registers this strong sense of Sic transit gloria. “The Lord killeth and maketh alive: he bringeth down to the grave, and bringeth up” (1 Samuel 2:6), he recalls. “This changeability in human affairs is all the more striking because it contrasts with the immobility of the rest of nature,” inasmuch as “wild animals experience no alteration in their empires or change of habits.” “I saw, when we were on the Hill of the [Athens] Museum, storks forming their battalion and taking flight for Africa.” “For two thousand years they had made the same journey, and were as free and happy in the city of solon as they are in the city of the commander of the black eunuchs. To the heights of their nests, that revolution cannot reach.”
The impermanence of human things may be seen at Salamis, which “is now almost completely erased from the Greek memory.” “The indifference the Greeks show concerning their homeland is as shameful as it is deplorable; not only are they unaware of their own history, but they virtually ignore…the ancient language which is their glory.” At Piraeus, now deserted, “I walked a while beside the sea which bathed the tomb of Themistocles; in all probability, I was at that moment the only person in Greece thinking of this great man.” And “though one could still recognize Athens from its ruins, one could also see from the overall architecture and the general character of the monuments, that the city of Athene was no longer inhabited by the same people.” He is left with the Athens of antiquity, where “the higher sentiments of human nature acquire something elegant…that they lacked at Sparta.” At Athens “love of country and freedom…was not a blind instinct, but an enlightened sentiment, founded on that taste for beauty in all its form, that the sky had so liberally disposed.” While “I would have wished to die alongside Leonidas,” I would “live alongside Pericles.” At the ruins of the Areopagus, he recalls not only Pericles but Alcibiades and Demosthenes, who spoke there “to the most thoughtless yet most intelligent nation on earth,” men who issued “many cruel and iniquitous decrees” but also “generous speeches against the tyrants of their country.”
Chateaubriand prefers the Parthenon to the Areopagus. “The greatest masterpiece of architecture among both ancients and moderns,” the Parthenon’s harmony and strength [remain] visible in its ruins.” Modern architecture, “slender…when we aim at elegance,” “heavy, when we pretend to majesty,” cannot match the rule of reason, of mathematical balance, seen in the Parthenon. “We should not conceal from ourselves the fact that architecture considered as an art is in its principles predominantly religious; it was invented for the worship of the deity.” Moderns introduce its features into their homes, “ornamentation fitted only for the house of the gods.” And while Gothic architecture, the style which “is ours,” French, born “to speak with our altars,” elicits Chateaubriand’s praise, his fundamental sensibility leans toward the beautiful, not the sublime, despite his Christian convictions. “If after seeing the monuments of Rome, those of France seemed coarse to me, the monuments of Rome in turn seem barbaric now I have seen those of Greece.” And speaking of barbarism, “the Parthenon survived in its entirety until 1687, when the commercial Venetians “bombard[ed] the monuments of Pericles.” “A year of our warfare destroys more monuments than a century of fighting among the ancients. It seems that everything opposes perfection of the arts among the moderns: our nations, manners, customs, dress and even our inventions.” Continuing the ruin, Lord Elgin, citizen of still another modern commercial nation, “ravag[ed] the Parthenon” in order to transfer its bas-reliefs to the British Museum. “Only light reveals the delicacy of certain lines and colors,” but “this light is lacking beneath English skies.” In a larger sense, “What can have destroyed so many monuments of gods and men? that hidden force that overturns all things, and is itself subject to the unknown God whose altar St. Paul saw at Phaleron.”
Not without human assistance. Chateaubriand recalls that after the Romans conquered Athens, “gladiators mounted their blood-stained games in the Theater of Dionysus,” replacing “the masterpieces of Aeschylus Sophocles and Euripides,” as Athenians “flocked to such cruelties with the same zeal with which they had flocked to the Dionysian rites.” “Perhaps nations, as well as individuals, are cruel in their decrepitude as in their childhood, perhaps the spirit of a nation exhausts itself; and when it has created everything, traversed everything, tasted everything, filled with its own masterpieces, and unable to produce new ones, it becomes brutalized, and returns to purely physical sensation.” So far, Christianity has prevented “modern nations from ending in such a deplorable old age: but if all religion were extinguished among us, I would not be surprised if the cries of dying gladiators were to be heard on those stages which today echo to the grief of Phaedra or Andromache” in the plays of Racine. In an echo of his argument in The Genius of Christianity, Chateaubriand remarks that even the ruins of ancient Greece found their first students among the Jesuits and the Capuchins. When later travelers visited the Parthenon, “already the priests, religious exiles among those famous ruins hospitable to new gods, awaited the antiquary and artist.” The priests “did not parade their knowledge: kneeling at the foot of the cross, they hid, in the humility of the cloister, what they had learned, and above all what they had suffered…amidst the ruins of Athens.”
“In Greece, one indulges in illusions in vain: sad truth pursues one. Huts of dried mud, more suitable as the dens of animals than the homes of men; women and children in rags, fleeing at the approach of stranger or Janissary; even the goats frightened, scattering over the mountainside, and only the dogs left behind to welcome you with howls: such is the spectacle that robs you of memory’s charms.” There, under the Ottoman Turks, “a minaret rise[s] from the depths of solitude to proclaim slavery.” “These people destroy everything, and are a veritable scourge.”
Chateaubriand traces the beginning of Greek decline to the Peloponnesian War. “The vices of Athenian government,” the regime of democracy, “prepared the way for the victory of Sparta,” since “a purely democratic state is the worst when it comes to fighting a powerful enemy, and when a unified will is necessary to save the country”—precisely the argument Charles de Gaulle would make against parliamentary republicanism, a century and a half later. “Obedient to the voices of factious orators, they suffered the fate they had earned for their follies.” Then it was Sparta’s turn, in its case succumbing to the vices of a military aristocracy, where the women, untouched by the military discipline undergone by the men, “became the most corrupt women in Greece,” and the children, imitating their fathers, gave themselves over to “tearing each other with tooth and nail.” Further, the Spartan regime made no effort to unite Greece under its sway, preferring to retreat back behind its walls, once Athens had been defeated. Had they “incorporat[ed] within it the peoples conquered by its arms,” they “would have crushed Philip [of Macedon] in his cradle.” “With nations it is not as it is with men; moderate wealth and love of ease, which may be fitting in a citizen, will not take a State very far”; “not knowing how to take advantage of one’s position to honor, expand, and strengthen one’s country is rather a defect of spirit in a people than a sense of virtue.”
Although “I still think that there is plenty of spirit left in Greece,” thanks to human nature itself, “I am convinced that the Greeks are not likely to break their chains in the near future,” and even if liberated, “they would not immediately lose the marks of their irons.” The Ottoman Empire “has not brought them the harsh and savage customs of men of the North,” as the barbarians brought to Italy, “but the voluptuous customs of those of the South.” And the Koran, the other element brought them by the Turks, “preaches neither the hatred of tyranny, nor the love of liberty.”
Departing the mainland for the Cyclades archipelago, “a kind of bridge over the sea linking Greek Asia Minor to the true Greece,” Chateaubriand arrived at the harbor of Zea, known in antiquity as Ceos, whose most renowned son was the lyric poet Simonides, considered by Plato’s Socrates to be a precursor of the Sophists and confident of Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse. [4] Chateaubriand judges him “a true genius, though his mind was nobler than his heart,” a man who sang the praises of the ruler Hipparchus and then “sang the murderers of that prince.” [5] “One must accommodate oneself to one’s times, said that wise man: the ungrateful soon shake off their feelings of gratitude, the ambitious abandon the defeated, and the cowards join the winning side. Wondrous human wisdom, whose maxims, always superfluous to courage and virtue, serve merely as a pretext for vice, and a refuge for cowardly hearts!” Chateaubriand has in mind the accommodations of his own generation of sophists, who accommodated themselves to the tyranny of Napoleon. He also thinks of the “eloquent sophist” of the previous century, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote that he wished to be exiled on an island in the Cyclades. Had this happened, “he would soon have repented of his choice”: “separated from his admirers, relegated to the company of coarse and treacherous Greeks, he would have found, in valleys scorched by the sun, neither flowers, nor streams, nor shade; he would have seen around him only clumps of olive trees and reddish rocks, covered with wild sage and balsam; I doubt that he”—the solitary walker—would have “liked to continue his walks for long, to the sound of wind and sea, along an uninhabited shore.”
He finds Smyrna similarly bleak, having been fought over twice by the Turks and the Greeks, then “continually plundered” until, by the thirteenth century, “only ruins existed.” Recovering after the Ottoman Empire established itself firmly there, it was then ravaged by “earthquake, fire, and pestilence.” “There was nothing to see in Smyrna.” To those who might view this report with disappointment, he can only reply, “I have a confounded love of truth, and a fear of saying what is not, that in me outweighs all other considerations.” Smyrna did feature a civil society (“I was obliged to resume the aspects of civilization, to receive and pay visits”) but “it was not what we call society that I had come to the East to seek: I longed to see camels and hear the cry of the mahout,” the elephant-driver).
His spirit rebounds when he considers that in arriving at Smyrna he was, “for the first time, treading the plains of Asia Minor,” feeling “imbued with respect for that ancient land where civilization began, where the patriarchs lived, where Tyre and Babylon rose, where Eternity summoned Cyrus and Alexander, where Jesus Christ accomplished the mystery of our salvation.” And where Homer lived (would that “I might have acquired Homer’s genius merely by experiencing all the misfortunes by which the poet was overwhelmed”). And it is where Alexander the Great, a figure worthy of Homer’s art, defeated the army of Persia’s Great King in the fourth century BCE. “Alexander committed great crimes: his mind could not withstand the intoxication of success; but with what magnanimity he purchased his life’s errors!” Chateaubriand praises the “two sublime comments” Alexander made. At the beginning of his campaign against Persia, he gave his territory to his generals and when asked what he would keep, he replied, “Hope!” And on his deathbed, asked to whom he left the empire, he replied, “To the most worthy!” “His untimely death even added something divine to his memory; because we always see him as young, beautiful, triumphant, with none of those infirmities of body, with none of those reversals of fortune that age and time bring.”
Constantinople brings him back to melancholy. The former capital of the Christian Roman Empire, it has been ruined by the Turks, its rulers since 1453. Amidst the “packs of masterless dogs,” “you see around you a crowd of mutes who seem to wish to pass by without being noticed, and have the air of escaping the gaze of their masters: you pass without a break from a bazaar to a cemetery, as if the Turks are only there to buy and sell, and to die…. No sign of joy, no appearance of happiness reveals itself to your eyes: what you see are not people, but a herd that an Imam leads and a Janissary slaughters,” a land with “no pleasure, but debauchery” and no punishment, but death.” “From the midst of prisons and bathhouses rises the Seraglio, the Capitol of servitude: it is there that a sacred guardian carefully preserves the germs of plage, and the primitive laws of tyranny.” “Such vile slaves and such cruel tyrants ought never to have dishonored so wonderful a location,” but so they have done. “I could not help pitying the master of this empire,” whose “unhappy end”—Selim III was deposed by the Janissaries, then murdered—justified Chateaubriand’s pity “only too well.” “Oh, how wretched despots are in the midst of their happiness”—once again, glancing at Napoleon—and “how weak amidst their power!” They cannot “enjoy that sleep of which they deprive the unfortunate,” their subjects. “I only like to visit places embellished by the virtues or the arts, and I could find, in that land of Phocas and Bajazet neither the one nor the other.” He embarked for Jerusalem “under the banner of the cross which floated from the mast of our vessel.”
Notes
- See “Chateaubriand’s Defense of Christianity,” on this website under the category, “Bible Notes.”
- See “Chateaubriand and Political Philosophy,” on this website under the category, “Philosophers.”
- That it is a Turkish Muslim assumption, reflecting Islam’s turn away from philosophy and ‘secular’ learning generally, may be seen in Chateaubriand’s account of a village in which an orphaned girl, sent to Constantinople, returned having mastered Italian and French and with manners of civility, “which made her virtue seem suspect.” The villagers “beat her to death” and collected monetary reward “allotted in Turkey to the murder of a Christian.” The Pasha of Morea took his share of the blood money and then, claiming that “the beauty, youth, learning, and travels of the orphan gave him legal right to compensation,” that is, extra money. Thus did religion and corruption collaborate in murderous tyranny.
- Xenophon’s Hiero, a dialogue between the tyrant and the poet, occasioned an exchange between Leo Strauss and the Hegelian polymath, Alexandre Kojève. See Leo Strauss: On Tyranny: Including the Strauss-Kojève Correspondence, Victor Gourevitch and Michael S. Roth, eds. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015) and Timothy W. Burns and Bryan-Paul Frost, eds.: Philosophy, History, and Tyranny: Reexamining the Debate between Leo Strauss and Alexnder Kojève. (Albany: State University Press of New York, 2016). See also “Tyranny and Philosophy” on this website under the category, “Philosophers.”
- In Felled Oaks André Malraux judges Napoleon to have been a man of great mind but small soul (a judgment de Gaulle does not share); Malraux was an admiring reader of Chateaubriand, and his allusion suggests that Chateaubriand may be thinking of Napoleon in this passage.
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