Elster Jon, Goldhammer Arthur. Tocqueville: The Ancien Regime and the French Revolution (ENG)
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III.1 Men of Letters as Leading Politicians
5
So fully were these new qualities incorporated into the ancient well-
spring of the French character that many observers ascribe to our nature
what is merely a product of this peculiar education. I have heard it said
that the taste, or, rather, the passion that for the past sixty years we have
exhibited for general ideas, systems, and big words in political matters
stems from I know not what peculiarity of our race, or from what is some-
what bombastically referred to as “the French spirit,” as if the alleged
trait had somehow suddenly burst forth at the end of the eighteenth cen-
tury after remaining hidden throughout our previous history.
What is remarkable is that we have clung to habits we acquired from
literature while losing our former love of letters almost entirely. In the
course of my public life, I have often been astonished to see people
who read few works of the eighteenth century, or any other century, for
that matter, and who are quite contemptuous of writers, yet who quite
faithfully preserve some of the principal defects that the literary spirit
nurtured long before they were born.
III.2 – How Irreligion Was Able to Become a
General and Dominant Passion in Eighteenth-
Century France, and How It Inuenced the
Character of the Revolution
In the wake of the great revolution of the sixteenth century, when the
critical spirit had applied itself to the task of distinguishing false from true
among the various Christian traditions, bolder and more curious minds
had repeatedly dared to contest or reject all of them. The same spirit that
had led millions of Catholics to abandon Catholicism in Luther’s time
impelled a few individual Christians every year to abandon Christianity
itself: unbelief followed heresy.
In general terms it is safe to say that by the eighteenth century,
Christianity had lost much of its power throughout Europe. In most coun-
tries, however, it was neglected rather than violently combated. Even those
countries that abandoned religion did so almost regretfully. Irreligion was
widespread among princes and clever wits but had yet to penetrate deeply
into the middle and lower classes. It was still an intellectual caprice, not
a common opinion. In 787, Mirabeau said that “it is widely believed in
Germany that the Prussian provinces are full of atheists. The truth is that
although some freethinkers can be found there, the common people are
as devoted to religion as in the most devout countries, and indeed there
is no shortage of fanatics.”
It was deeply to be regretted, moreover, that
The quotation is somewhat inaccurate. Mirabeau actually wrote that “it is a widespread
prejudice in Germany that the Prussian provinces, and Berlin in particular, are populated
exclusively by atheists.” The second part of the quotation, which follows some intervening
III.2 How Irreligion Inuenced the Revolution
7
Frederick II had not authorized the marriage of Catholic priests and, even
more, that he had refused to allow those who did marry to keep the income
from their beneces, “a measure, I daresay, that would have been worthy
of that great man.” Nowhere had irreligion yet become a general, ardent,
intolerant, and oppressive passion, except in France.
There, something totally unprecedented occurred. Established reli-
gions had come under violent attack before, but the ardor directed against
them had always stemmed from the zeal inspired by some new religion.
Even the false and detestable religions of Antiquity did not arouse pas-
sionate adversaries in large numbers until Christianity offered itself as
a replacement. Until then, the old religions had been dwindling quietly
and steadily amid doubt and indifference: dying of old age, as it were. In
France, Christianity was attacked with a kind of frenzy, yet no one even
tried to replace it with another religion. Opponents of religion sought
zealously and tirelessly to drain souls of their faith, then left them empty.
A host of enthusiasts took this thankless task upon themselves. Absolute
disbelief – a state contrary to man’s natural instincts and most painful
to the soul – somehow appealed to the multitude. What had previously
produced only morbid enervation now gave rise to fanaticism and a pros-
elytizing spirit.
The simultaneous appearance of a number of major writers disposed
to deny the truths of the Christian religion seems insufcient to account
for such an extraordinary occurrence. Why did all these writers, without
exception, turn in this direction rather than some other? Why did none
think of defending the opposite thesis? And why did they, more than any
of their predecessors, nd the masses so eager to give them a hearing
and believe what they said? Only causes quite specic to their time and
place can explain what they tried to do and, even more, why they suc-
ceeded. The Voltairian spirit had long since found its place in the world,
but Voltaire himself could hardly have triumphed anywhere but in France
in the eighteenth century.
Grant rst that the Church was no more vulnerable to attack in France
than anywhere else. Indeed, the vices and abuses that had become mixed
up with religion were less serious in France than in most Catholic coun-
tries. The Church was innitely more tolerant than it had been previ-
ously in France and elsewhere still was. Hence, the specic causes of this
text, refers to “those fanatics known in Germany as Pietists.” See De la monarchie prussienne
sous Frédéric le Grand, vol. 5 (London, 788), p. 22.
Book III
8
phenomenon are to be sought not so much in the state of religion as in
the state of society.
To understand this, one must never lose sight of what I said in the pre-
vious chapter: that because the spirit of political opposition to which the
deciencies of the government gave rise could not manifest itself in pub-
lic life, it sought refuge in literature, and writers became the true leaders
of the great party that sought to overturn all of the country’s social and
political institutions.
Once this point has been properly grasped, the focus of the question
changes. The point is to explain not how the Church of that time might
have sinned as a religious institution but how it stood in the way of the
impending political revolution and was, therefore, bound to be particu-
larly troublesome for the writers who were the principal promoters of
that revolution.
The very principles of church government stood opposed to the prin-
ciples that the writers hoped to see prevail in civil government. The
Church was founded above all on tradition; the writers professed com-
plete contempt for any institution based on respect for the past. The
Church recognized an authority superior to individual reason; the writers
relied solely on individual reason. The Church was based on hierarchy;
the writers favored the obliteration of all distinctions of rank. In order
to reach an accommodation with the Church, both sides would have had
to admit that because political society and religious society are essen-
tially different in nature, they cannot be governed by the same principles.
But agreement on that point was then a long way off, and it seemed that
in order to attack state institutions, one rst had to destroy the church
institutions that served as their base and model.
At the time, moreover, the Church was itself the leading political
power – indeed, the most detested of all, though not the most oppres-
sive. For it had involved itself in politics when neither its vocation nor
its nature compelled it to do so; it often sanctied in politics vices that
it condemned elsewhere, covering them with its sacred inviolability. It
seemed to want to bestow its own immortality on the other political pow-
ers as well. Any attack on the Church was sure to resonate straightaway
with public passions.
In addition to these general reasons, however, writers had more specic
and, as it were, more personal reasons for attacking the Church. The
Church represented the part of government that was closest to them,
and most directly hostile. Only occasionally did the other powers inict
III.2 How Irreligion Inuenced the Revolution
themselves on writers, but the Church, with its special responsibility
for supervising thought and censuring the written word, interfered with
them constantly. When they defended intellectual freedom in general
against the encroachments of the Church, they were ghting on their
own behalf, and their rst objective was to break the shackles that gripped
them most tightly.
The Church, moreover, seemed to be, and indeed was, the most
vulnerable and least well-defended ank of the vast edice on which
they directed their attack. It had grown weaker as temporal princes grew
stronger. Having been rst the princes’ superior and later their equal,
the Church was reduced to being their client. A certain reciprocity was
established: the princes lent the Church their material strength, and it
lent them its moral authority. They enforced obedience to its precepts;
it preached respect for their will. This can be a dangerous bargain when
revolution approaches, and is always disadvantageous to a power based
not on coercion but on belief.
Although our kings still referred to themselves as eldest sons of the
Church, they badly neglected their obligations to it. They exhibited far
less ardor in protecting it than in defending their own government. True,
they did not permit anyone to lay a hand on the Church directly, but they
stood by and allowed it to be pierced from afar by a thousand arrows.
The half-measures that were imposed on the enemies of the Church
at that time did not diminish their power but rather increased it. At times
the oppression of writers can halt the movement of ideas; at other times it
can accelerate it. But never has policing of the press of the sort attempted
at this time failed to multiply its power a hundredfold.
Authors were persecuted just enough to elicit complaint but not
enough to provoke fear. They were subjected to enough restraint to pro-
voke resistance but not to the heavy yoke that might quell it. The attacks
they endured were invariably drawn-out, tempestuous, and futile affairs
whose purpose seemed not so much to dissuade them from writing as
to spur them to it. Complete freedom of the press would have been less
damaging to the Church.
In 78, Diderot wrote to David Hume: “You think that our intol-
erance is more favorable to the progress of the mind than your unlim-
ited freedom; d’Holbach, Helvétius, Morellet, and Suard do not share
your opinion.” It was the Scot who was right, however. Living in a free
country, he knew from experience. Diderot’s view was that of an author,
Hume’s that of a politician.
Book III
I stop the rst American I meet, whether in his own country or else-
where, and I ask him if he thinks religion helps to stabilize laws and
achieve a well-ordered society. Without hesitation he answers that a civ-
ilized society cannot endure without religion, much less a free society.
In his eyes, respect for religion is the greatest guarantee there is of the
stability of the state and the security of individuals. Even those least
well versed in the science of government know that much. Yet there is
no country in the world in which the boldest political doctrines of the
eighteenth-century philosophes are more widely applied than in America.
Only their antireligious doctrines failed to establish a presence there,
even with the advantage of unlimited freedom of the press.
I would say the same thing about the English. Our irreligious philos-
ophy was preached in England even before most of our philosophes were
born: It was Bolingbroke who completed Voltaire’s education. Throughout
the eighteenth century, unbelief found celebrated advocates in England.
Clever writers and deep thinkers espoused its cause yet were never able
to secure its victory as in France because all who had something to fear
in revolution hastened to support established beliefs. Even those who
were most deeply involved in the French society of the time, and who
did not deem French philosophies to be false, nevertheless rejected them
as dangerous. As is always the case in free nations, great political parties
found that they had an interest in tying their cause to that of the Church.
Bolingbroke himself became an ally of the bishops. The clergy, inspired
by these examples and never feeling isolated, fought energetically in their
own cause. The Church of England, despite the aws in its constitution
and the abuses of all kinds prevalent within it, successfully withstood the
shock. Writers and orators emerged from its ranks and eagerly devoted
themselves to the defense of Christianity. Theories hostile to Christian
doctrine were discussed and refuted, then ultimately rejected, thanks to
society’s own effort, without government intervention.
But why search for examples outside of France? What French writer
today would think of writing the books of Diderot or Helvétius? Who
would want to read them? I would almost say, who knows their titles? The
experience of public life that we have acquired over the past sixty years,
though incomplete, has been sufcient to spoil our taste for this dan-
gerous literature. See how respect for religion has gradually regained its
inuence among the various classes of the nation as each of them acquired
public experience in the harsh school of revolution. The old nobility,
which was the most irreligious class before 78, became the most fervent
III.2 How Irreligion Inuenced the Revolution
after 7. The rst to be attacked, it was the rst to convert. When the
victorious bourgeoisie felt itself under assault, it, too, moved closer to
faith. Little by little, respect for religion progressed wherever men had
something to lose in popular disorder, and disbelief disappeared, or at
least went into hiding, as fear of revolution manifested itself.
The situation at the end of the Ancien Régime was different. We had
so completely lost our pragmatic knowledge of great human affairs, and
we were so utterly oblivious of the role of religion in the government of
empire, that disbelief initially took hold in the minds of the very people
who had the most personal and pressing interest in maintaining order in
the state and obedience in the people. They not only welcomed disbelief
but, in their blindness, spread it among those below them. In their indo-
lent lives impiety became a kind of pastime.
The Church of France, previously so fertile in great orators, thus felt
it had been deserted by all who should have shared a common interest in
championing its cause and therefore fell silent. For a time, it was possible
to believe that as long as it was allowed to keep its wealth and its position,
it was prepared to admit error as to its faith.
With those who denied Christianity raising their voices and those
who still believed remaining silent, what happened was something we
have often seen since that time, not only in religion but in every other
area as well. People who clung to the old faith were afraid that no one
else remained faithful, and, dreading isolation more than error, they
joined the crowd without sharing its ideas. What was still the senti-
ment of only part of the nation therefore appeared to be the opinion of
all, and thus seemed irresistible to the very people who created that false
appearance.
The universal discredit into which all religious beliefs fell at the end of
the last century undoubtedly exerted the greatest inuence on our entire
Revolution; it marked its character. Nothing did more to impress upon
its features the terrifying expression that has so often been described.
When I try to disentangle the various effects that irreligion produced
at the time in France, I nd that it was far more by deranging minds than
by degrading hearts or even corrupting morals that it led people to such
remarkable extremes.
When religion deserted souls, it did not leave them, as so often happens,
empty and debilitated. For a time they brimmed with new feelings and
ideas, which temporarily took the place of religion and prevented any
immediate lapse into depression.
Book III
2
If the French who made the Revolution were more unbelieving than we
are, they retained at least one admirable belief that we do not share: they
believed in themselves. They did not doubt the perfectibility or power of
man. They clamored eagerly for man’s glory and had faith in his virtue.
They bolstered their own strength with that proud condence that often
leads to error but without which a people is capable only of servitude.
They had no doubt that they had been summoned to transform soci-
ety and regenerate the human race. These sentiments and passions had
become for them a kind of new religion, which, by producing some of the
important effects that religions have been known to produce, delivered
them from individual egoism, fostered heroism and self-sacrice, and in
many cases made them indifferent to all the petty goods that possess us.
Having studied a great deal of history, I make bold to afrm that I
know of no other revolution in which one nds at the start, in such large
numbers of people, a more sincere patriotism, a more seless disposition,
or a more authentic grandeur. The nation exhibited the chief defect but
also the chief quality of youth: inexperience and generosity.
Yet irreligion did immense public harm.
In most of the great political revolutions that had taken place previ-
ously, those who attacked established laws had respected beliefs, and in
most religious revolutions, those who attacked religion had not sought at
the same time to change the nature and order of all powers and to abolish
the existing constitution of the government from top to bottom. Hence,
even in the greatest social upheavals, there had always been a point
of stability.
In the French Revolution, however, religious laws were abolished even
as civil laws were overturned, so that the human mind lost its bearings
altogether. It no longer knew what to hold on to or where to stop, and
one witnessed the emergence of revolutionaries of a previously unknown
species, who carried boldness to the point of folly, whom no innovation
could surprise nor scruple slow, and who never shrank from executing
any design. One must not think, moreover, that these new beings were
the singular and ephemeral creations of a moment, destined to vanish
when it did. They have since formed a race that has perpetuated itself and
spread to all the civilized corners of the earth, a race that has everywhere
retained the same appearance, the same passions, and the same character.
It was in the world when we were born; it is still with us today.
III. – How the French Wanted Reforms
Before They Wanted Liberties
One thing worth noting is that of all the ideas and sentiments that paved
the way for the Revolution, the idea of, and the taste for, political liberty
in the strict sense were the last to appear and the rst to vanish.
The old edice of government had been shaky for some time. It was
already tottering, and the question of political liberty had yet to arise.
Voltaire scarcely thought about it: three years in England had shown
him what freedom looked like but had not brought him to love it. The
skeptical philosophy that was freely preached in England delighted him.
English political laws left him unmoved; he noticed the aws more than
the virtues. In his letters on England, which are among his masterpieces,
he has less to say about Parliament than about anything else. In reality, he
envied the English mainly for their literary freedom but cared little for
their political freedom, as if the former could ever exist for long without
the latter.
Toward the middle of the century, writers who focused especially on
questions of public administration began to appear, and since they shared
certain similar principles in common, they were referred to collectively
as “Economists” or “Physiocrats.” The Economists have left less of a
mark on history than the philosophers. They may not have contributed
as much to the advent of the Revolution. Yet I believe that the true nature
of the event is best studied in their works. The philosophers rarely got
beyond very general and very abstract ideas about government. The
Economists, while clinging to their theories, nevertheless penetrated
closer to facts. The former described what could be imagined, while the
Book III
latter at times indicated what was to be done. All the institutions that the
Revolution would abolish for good were special targets of their attacks.
Not one found favor in their eyes. By contrast, all the institutions that
can pass as the Revolution’s own creations they heralded in advance and
ardently recommended. It would be difcult to cite a single one of those
institutions whose seed was not sown in one of their works. All that was
most substantial in the Revolution can be found in their writings.
What is more, one can already recognize in their books the revolution-
ary and democratic temperament that we know so well. Not only do they
hate certain privileges but diversity itself is also odious to them: They
would worship equality even in servitude. Anything that stands in the
way of their designs is t only to be smashed. Contracts inspire in them
little respect; private rights no consideration. Or, rather, in their eyes,
private rights, strictly speaking, have already ceased to exist, and there is
only public utility. Yet these were on the whole quiet men of mild man-
ners, people of substance, respectable magistrates, and capable adminis-
trators. But the spirit peculiar to their work carried them away.
For the Economists, the past was an object of boundless contempt.
“The nation has for centuries been governed by false principles,”
Letrosne wrote. “Everything seems to have been left to chance.” Starting
from this idea, they set to work. There was no institution, no matter how
old or seemingly well founded, whose abolition they did not seek if it
even slightly hindered their plans or disturbed their symmetry. One of
them proposed to eliminate all the old territorial divisions and change
the names of the provinces forty years before the Constituent Assembly
actually did so.
Before the idea of free institutions dawned on them, they had already
conceived of all the social and administrative reforms that the Revolution
would accomplish. To be sure, they were very much in favor of free trade
in commodities, of laisser faire, laisser passer in commerce and industry.
But they did not dream of political freedoms as such, and even when by
chance thoughts of such freedoms did cross their minds, they initially
rejected them. Most were at rst quite hostile to deliberative assemblies,
local and secondary powers, and, in a general way, all the counterweights
that had been established at various times in free nations everywhere to
balance the central power. “The system of counterforces in government
is a fatal idea,” Quesnay said. And one of his friends remarked that “the
speculations that have led people to imagine a system of counterweights
are delusional.”