Letter from Paris #6

I knew it would not be long before I burdened all of you with my most profound thoughts about the “conflicted” character of the French. You will no doubt find yourself saying, with all charity to me, that it is presumptuous of me (as it always is) to pose as an expert on matters of national character. But it is what I do, even with all the flaws attendant on fragmented opinion with little fact except my own brief historical understanding and my inherent prejudices. How’s that for an apology in advance?

I asked Henri what the word in French would be for “hubris.” He was little help He suggested “vanite.” Since then we have continued to kick it around. His latest is “vaniteu.” I tried to characterize hubris for Henri with one example: the Biblioteque Nationale in the east end of Paris is an enormous fortress of a building. It is a “tribut4e” to Francois Mitterand and his hubris. It is part of his “legacy.” Every President must be remembered. It’s what people do, not only the French,

I didn’t expect to be talking to an etymologist who grasps every nuance. I do have a French friend who, when he reads this will making learned noises about the word, and he really is a linguist.

I suppose the French really do not have a precise word for hubris. But they certainly do display it. Example: impressions on visiting Les Invalides, the cathedral of St. Louis, the tomb of Napoleon and the war museum: “l’honneur” and “la gloire” take precedence over any other kind of more sanguine human utterance.

Regardless, the French (and I try to say this with love and kindness and all the Francophilia I can muster) seem ambivalent about themselves – rushing between pride and guilt, between achievement and failure, between heroes and scoundrels. How do you like those dualisms? Point in evidence: Napoleon, who literally reformed most of the antiquated legal and social codes of Europe was both reviled and beloved. (To all the feminists reading this, I know I know – Code Napoleon did not accept the existence of wmen as people.) It was not until 1840, many years after his death on St. Helena that his remains were returned to France and interred in the magnificent porphyry and marble tomb at Les invalides.

Rachel, wide eyed at the size and splendour of the casket had questions about Napoleon. So, doing what I like best, I tried to explain that the winners never say nice things about the losers. We were all taught, living in a culture that was Anglocentric, that Napoleon was a monster, a dictator and a tyrant. The bad thing about losing is that your enemies are seldom charitable. Like the Tudors, who took the throne from the Plantagenets, were probably responsible for characterizing the last Plantagenet, Richard III as a crippled monster. A total loser.

But here is what puzzles me about the French. (It also puzzles me about every imperial power from Britain to America to China) how they re-invent the past to bring glory to their history and to create a mythology whose value far exceeds reality. The cathedral of St. Louis with its golden dome memorializes one of the worst kings ever to rule. He who slaughtered the Cathars, who financed his crusades by seizing all the property of the Jews. But he prayed. He was the most pious of all French kings. For that they canonized him. To the credit of the French it was probably also the Vatican who made Louis’ sainthood possible, just as they did to another miscreant – Pius IX. But I wander.

The War Museum glorifies the French military as if they had never lost a war. They were a significant power in Europe, but they more often than not came out on the losing end of a struggle. Louis XIV may be the Sun King who raised the standing of France to the apex of cultural superiority. But this guy also had a son (le Monsignor) who was famous for being Europe’s most accomplished roué. He also insisted on fighting wars that sapped the treasury and may have contributed to the long financial slide that ended in 1789.

The French uniforms were the best. A guy could feel really proud stepping into a hail of grapeshot wearing such wonderful finery.

Again I say: I am an outsider. And nothing is more annoying to a Frenchman than an outsider, especially one presumptuous enough to analyze their tortured psyche. My dear friend Sandy, who was married to a Frenchman, claimed that it was all because of Descartes. The French was caught up in Cartesian theory, in the world of “I think therefore I am” that they were really the first true existentialists. They have reason to cheer for the ascendancy of man and the human brain. They have given us Diderot and Racine, Voltaire and Balzac, Rousseau and Montesquieu. Their artists were supreme. Their theatre sublime. All this perhaps because of their fixation on Descartes.. Perhaps they need no word for hubris. They simply exemplify it. (I know I know, you could say that about the Americans for whom mythology and history seem to be tangled together.
to positions of honour in spite of serious shortcomings.) The aforementione Pius IX deserves sainthood I suppose. Didn’t he formulate the theory of the Virgin Birth and establish Papal infallibility?. (I’ll get letters.)

Mercifully I close, but not without one final note: walking today through the Luxembourg Gardens, looking at all the people snnning, looking at the children playing with sail boats, seeing all the chairs lined u-p for people. Yes – “people” are at the heart of what may not all be a conflicted psyche. Paris is, like no other city I have visited, a city for people. People have a kind of supremacy. Viva la France.