UTOPIAN LIGHTS

The Evolution of the

Idea of Social Progress
Bronislaw Baczko
Translated by Judith L. Greenberg

Bronislaw Baczko's in-depth discussion of

the “social imagination” of late-eighteenth
century France is the foundation for this
challenging examination of the value of the
utopian vision in the molding of society.
Baczko details a history of utopia in the
“Enlightened Century”—wherein an extraordi-
nary number of utopian works appeared in
France in and around the time of its Revolution
in 1789. In practical terms, “utopia” can be
defined as reform, as a science that can lead
toward a manageable future. Utopian Lights.
intimately explores the interpenetration of
utopias and the society that creates and
eventually develops them in three principle
domains: history, festival, and urban architecture.
In each case the author discusses both the
literature of utopia in that domain and an
analysis of it in regard to revolutionary action
and consciousness—where and why have so-
called utopian visions manifested themselves in
an evolving society.
Baczko's history of utopia is, too, an
enlightened portrait of the sociological and
psychological underpinnings of our current
critical culture, as glimpsed since the Revolu-
tion two centuries ago, relevant today in the
comprehension of the vast changes this cen-
tury has so far experienced and absorbed.
Utopian Lights is brilliantly written and
presented, an imaginative and intricate inter-
pretation of the evolution of modern society.
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Utopian
Lights
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 Utopian
Lights
THE EVOLUTION OF THE IDEA OF
SOCIAL PROGRESS
Bronislaw Baczko
Translated by Judith L. Greenberg

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PARAGON HOUSE
New York
First American edition, 1989

Published in the United States by

Paragon House
90 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10011

Copyright © 1989 by Paragon House

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form,
without written permission from the publishers, unless by a reviewer who
wishes to quote brief passages.

Originally published in French under the title Lumières de I’ Utopie.

Copyright © 1978 by Editions Payot.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Baczko, Bronislaw.
[Lumières de l’utopie. English]
Utopian lights / Bronislaw Baczko; translated by Judith L.
Greenberg. — Ist American ed.
"IC:
Translation of: Lumières de l’utopie.
ISBN 1-55778-026-9
1. Utopias—History. I. Title.
HX806.B2313 1989
335’ .02—dc19 88-30123
CIP

Manufactured in the United States of America

Contents

The Social Imagination and Utopian Representations La

1. The Concepts and Meanings of ‘‘Utopia’’

2. The Utopian Sphere and Its Frontiers
3. Utopias, Utopians, Reformers 22
IT. Utopia and Politics: An ‘Imaginary Voyage’’ 41
by Rousseau
1. ‘To Show Routes Unknown to the Modern . . .”’ 46
2. ‘‘If My Ideas Are Extravagant. . .”’ 32
3. ‘‘They Must Enjoy Themselves in Poland. . .”’ 62
IT. Utopia and Metaphysics: Dom Deschamps 71
1. Social Critique and Contestation of History 78
2. The World of Realized Truth 92
3. Utopia and the Thirst for the Absolute 100
IV. Utopia and the Idea of History-Progress 111
1. History: The Promise of Utopia 115
Insular History and Alternative Histories
Progress in Utopia
2. Utopia: The Promise of History 129
The Abbé de Saint-Pierre: History as a Pretext
for Utopia
Condorcet: Utopia as a Realization of History

vil
viii / CONTENTS

3. ‘‘Time Opens a New Book to History . . .’’: Utopia 158

- and the Revolutionary Calendar
We Utopia and Festivals 175
1. Festivals in Utopia and the Utopia of the Festival 179
2. Utopia in the Revolutionary Festival 189
3. From the Broad Fresco to the Autopsy Report 198
4. Models of Festivals and Speaking Sensibility 212
VI. ‘‘A City Named Liberty’’: Utopia and the City 217
1. The City in Utopia 723
2. ‘*To Envision the City as a Philosophe . . .”’ 236
3. An Architecture for Utopia Fa
4. *‘From the Place de la Révolution to the Place du 280
Bonheur’’: The Imaginary Paris of the Revolution
Vil. The Flying Man 311
Notes 325
Index 367
Preface

What do the glittering fires of utopias light up and what do they hide beyond
the dazzling transparency of the imagined and desired New City?
Utopia and history: complex relationships that this book proposes to bring
out through the study of the social imagination at work in the eighteenth century,
and in particular during the course of the revolutionary period.
Utopian lights: When utopian dreams light up the horizon, a horizon of
expectations and collective or individual hopes, they shed new light on the social
landscape. Men and objects appear caught up in the glare of these lights. Although
of variable intensity, their effect remains the same. Utopian representations
arrange and lay out black and white, opaque and transparent, visible and invisible
differently. Modifying the lighting also changes the way people see, causing the
possible and the impossible, the past and the future, the real and the desired to
be seen differently. Caught in the light of utopia, glances are turned toward
visions of an alternative society, contrasting with the existing society because
it is reconciled with reason, history, happiness. Imagining the New City doesn’t
necessarily mean abandoning oneself to a sleep filled with dreams. The produc-
tion of social dreams can become a specific intellectual practice such that it
imposes imprescriptible demands. Once they are produced and diffused, the
utopian idea-images penetrate into the circulation of symbolic representations.
It is thus that they are presented with historically variable opportunities to in-
tervene in conflicts and strategies in which the symbolic power of the social
imagination is at stake. The plan of this book is to show how the fires of utopia
during the eighteenth century are lit and extinguished. The history of utopias,
and particularly of those of the Age of Enlightenment, is not, certainly, a new
subject; nevertheless, it seemed possible to us to approach it in a new way. We

iX
x / PREFACE

have not followed the systematic procedure that would venture to confine utopian
representations in a particular formula of discourse, only then to attempt to bring
out their continuity, if not to impose it. The discontinuity of this book does not
arise solely from our determination not to be exhaustive; it is deliberate, chosen
for reasons of methodology. We have proceeded by thematic sections and in-
vestigations, trying in this way to show how the history of social dreams is made
up of discontinuities and ruptures only beyond which are found certain revealing
aspects of the mentalities of the era. Sociologically, the population of utopians
is particularly heterogeneous, and the most diverse figures pass one another on
the paths of utopia. The frontiers of utopia are mobile and it is to their displace-
ment that we paid most attention. Utopian discourse is never closed in on itself.
It draws from the collective imagination by exploiting old myths; it establishes
itself in the realms of knowledge and ideology by opening up an imaginary time-
space for itself. Utopian discourse easily adapts the languages of philosophy and
politics, as well as those of history, science, and architecture. It can neither be
limited to a matter of language, nor confined within it. The practice of utopian
discourse also has a certain practical application: specifically that in which the
representations of the New City are set up. But in seeking the bursts of utopian
light where they succeed in shining, the historian inevitably finds utopia burst,
shattered, the dreams broken. Does the utopian imagination not reproduce, in
its own distinctive mode, the historical evolution, whence it emerges and where
it founders?
Light of utopia, utopias of light . . . the brilliance of dreams and the
fragmented dreams that we have sought belong to one era that, to define itself,
borrowed the symbolism of light. A secular symbolism, certainly, but one that
utopias charged with new meanings. In defining their era as ‘‘our enlightened
century,’’ contemporaries contrasted it with the shadows in which the past had
too long been immersed. But the symbol of lights contrasted, too, if not primarily,
with any opaque society that hid its workings and its mechanisms. The multiple
utopian dreams of this ‘‘enlightened century’ intersect in the representation of
the City that would form, at least virtually, a transparent whole such that it
would be entirely perceptible in each of its parts. But, by the same token, nothing
in the imagined social life could escape the synthesizing scrutiny. Paradoxically,
this dazzling transparency casts a shadow; it hides as much as it reveals. This
shadow cast by the transparency blurs the differences among social dreams, even
among the most diverse fantasies, just as it makes it difficult to perceive the
multiple functions these dreams assumed for the mentalities of the time. The
transparent City that, in utopias, represents the final stage of a road to be followed
is only a crossroads to which the most sinuous paths lead and from which leave
several paths leading in socially and ideologically opposite directions. This is
particularly striking during the revolutionary period, the height of which is
marked by conquering utopia. Utopias are at that time more or less durably
 PREFACE / xi

engraved in mentalities and ideologies. They become essential as guiding images

and key ideas that orient hopes and mobilize collective energies. The revolu-
tionary period both inherits numerous utopias and produces them in abundance.
Once begun, the revolutionary impetus gives a particular thrust to the utopian
imagination, modifying above all the modes of producing and diffusing social
dreams, if not of imposing them. Is the power of the dream not harnessed to
the service of the machinery of power and is the energy of the dream not converted
into the weighty inertia of a discourse of oppression, in the shadow cast by the
representations of the transparent City?
Is utopia a true light or is it rather a will-o’-the-wisp? Perhaps the problem
has never so fiercely discussed as it is in our time that is unable either to live
with utopias or to do without them, an era that seeks new ones, although dis-
trustful in advance of the dangers and risks they entail. The historian of utopias
cannot cherish the illusion that he can completely escape the pitfalls of this
debate, even if he doesn’t accept its terms. He would, however, like to elude
its constraints, as far as possible. True lights or will-o’-the wisps, the lights of
utopia, like searchlights for the historian’s scrutiny, spotlight the men of an era
producing and grappling with their dreams. To compose the history of the utopias
of this ‘‘enlightened century’’ is, in the last analysis, to note that it could not
have done without them. Its place in history has reference, too, to the creations
of its imagination. Social dreams were as much the products as the conditions
of the several important choices of this decisive era and thus entered into the
realization, through these choices, of one of the possible histories. Whether the
best or the worst, the century passed it down to us and it has become ours.
Writing a preface is always an enterprise fraught with ambiguity; this one
is no exception to the rule. Is it not drafted when the book is already finished,
yet with the intention of placing it at its beginning? Does it not propose a path
to follow, whereas the author has already done it time and time again, getting
lost who knows how many times? Does it not overemphasize the effort accom-
plished and understate the enormous work that remains to be done in order to
attribute to social dreams the true richness of their history? Thus it is with relief
that the author leaves the shifting sands to set foot on this terra firma from which
he can express himself with greater confidence. From this place, my warmest
thanks to my friends Jean Ehrard, Krzysztof Pomian and Paul Viallaneix, for
their stimulating, faithful, and efficient help throughout this long work. This
book is dedicated to my steadfast and generous lifelong friend, to my wife.
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The Social Imagination
and Utopian
Representations
 1
The Concepts and Meanings
of “Utopia”

cc
topias are often only premature truths.’’ These words of
Lamartine have become almost a dictum. They summarize a certain perspective,
a certain way of envisioning utopias: the basic issue would seem to be their
relationship to the future. The value and importance of a utopia in the present
would depend on its ‘“truth’’—that is, its ability to predict the future. Lamartine’s
words attest to a certain rehabilitation of utopia, and show both the anxieties
and the hopes of his time. They attest to the perplexity of an era teeming with
semi-utopians and semi-prophets; Saint-Simonians, Fouriérists, and ‘‘Icarians’’;
and semi-social and semi-religious sects. What exactly are these utopias? Do
they, despite their oddities, foreshadow the future? Do they fill the place formerly
occupied by the prophets? In order to judge, one must first question to what
extent utopian dreams, in anticipating the realities of tomorrow, espouse the
‘march of history’ and predict the answers that the future eventually brings to
the dilemmas and anxieties of the present.
The lapse of historical and sociological time that separates this mid-nine-
teenth century from our era can be measured by comparing Lamartine’s dictum
with the text by Berdiaieff quoted by Aldous Huxley as the epigraph to Brave
New World: ‘‘Les utopies sont béaucoup plus réalisables qu’on ne le croyait.
Aujourd’hui nous sommes confrontés 4 une question nouvelle qui est devenue
urgente: comment peut-on éviter la réalisation définitive des utopies? Les utopies
sont réalisables. La vie marche vers les utopies.’’ But, if the haunting fears and
hopes (and also the disillusionments) have changed, the two texts cited show a
similar approach. Major questions recur: to what extent is such and such a utopia
realizable? What is the relationship between the future predicted and foreshad-
owed in and by the utopia and the present? What varies is the assessment of the
future forecast by ‘‘utopian truths.”’
3
4 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

Lamartine worried particularly about the lack of maturity in his contem-

poraries, who were incapable of grasping the hopes announced by utopians. In
Huxley, distrust and the feeling of danger predominate: utopias demand vigi-
lance, and the present is already too mature to make them realizable.
The approach shown in the question, ‘‘Can utopias be realized?’’ is im-
posed, in a way, by the utopian texts themselves. The proposals, the detailed
accounts of ideal societies, have an obvious or scarcely hidden intention clearly
aimed at a certain attitude in the reader. This provocative intention is an element
of the utopian process and of the structure of the text. The utopian is often a
visionary in the etymological sense of the word—he sees his new City. Thus
the utopian asks that the reader seek correspondences and oppositions between
the dreamed City and the present, that he see them as two plans of society
and that he compare them. If the particular reader who is the historian responds
to this challenge, he is compelled to wonder immediately about the chances of
achieving such a utopia, if not in its entirety, at least in its elements. History
seems to offer him the unique opportunity of verifying, of studying the validity
of premature truths, of assessing to what extent a utopia really foreshadows the
future. The temptation is all the greater as the historian is often struck by the
prescience and the premonitory values of a particular text, by the prophetic force
of a particular utopian reality. One would almost wonder whether Le Corbusier
didn’t hit the nail on the head when he said that “‘utopia is never anything but
tomorrow’s reality and today’s reality is yesterday’s utopia.”’
This approach suggested by the utopian texts, especially prevalent in nine-
teenth-century studies on utopias, but still occasionally found in contemporary
studies, doesn’t seem promising to us. Indeed, it distorts historical perspective
by making at least two presuppositions. First, that the utopian finds himself, so
to speak, facing a ready-made and finished future; it is, then, only a matter of
whether or not he has succeeded in deciphering it. The era when the utopian
creates his work and the place from which he sees and tells his social dream are
seen then as comprising only one possibility of evolution, precisely the one that
the future will realize. But each era always offers a set of possibilities and the
course of events results from the choice of certain possibilities and hence, from
the rejection, the elimination of the others. As Max Scheler said, the past is
always indebted to us, since it contains possibilities not realized in the real.
Present reality tells us only indirectly and partially what were the other possi-
bilities of history, the other possible futures that forever remained at the level
of pure possibility. But there is yet another essential reservation. Focusing at-
tention on the verification of utopias often reduces the function and action of
utopias to the value of their prediction, and may even lead to the supposition
that a utopia’s influence and effectiveness are the province of its realism, of the
extent to which it proved to be realizable. Even supposing the utopia to be
perspicacious to the highest degree, it is obvious that its prophetic force could
 THE CONCEPTS AND MEANINGS OF “UTOPIA” / 5

only be noticed and appreciated after the fact. Utopias do not influence the course
of events by the realism of their predictions. Of course, certain utopias have
been more interdependent with the real course of events; others have—from this
point of view—succeeded less well. But it is equally obvious that no utopia has
been totally and completely realized in history; it is obvious, too, that the over-
whelming majority of utopias have not been realized in any of their predictions.
However, that is in no way prejudicial to their real influence and historical
function. It would be only too easy to show that the most stirring social dreams
were by no means those that were distinguished by their realism. Moreover, one
of the greatest historical successes of utopia consists of the fact that, beginning
with a certain era, utopian discourse becomes essential as a way of speaking of
and visualizing the future, by substituting itself to the former means of doing
so, those of a secular tradition, such as prophecy or astrology.'
Utopias are involved in historical realities and intervene in ways other than
by foreshadowing the possible future. As Renan said, the utopian is the ‘‘friend
of the impossible.’’ For the historian, the paramount interest of the study of
utopias is the fact that the utopian places himself in the dimension of the im-
possible, that the utopian process doesn’t resign itself to looking at the present
social reality and its projection on the future as the only ones possible; the utopian
shifts the very limits of what is accepted as possible or even as imaginable. ‘‘If
instead of spending twenty-one years figuring out the ‘theory of association,’ ”’
Fourier asserted, ‘‘I had said that it would be too much to hope for, therefore
it is impossible, the theory of association would not yet have been discovered.
The sect of impossibilities did the human race much wrong and I do not think
that there exists any that is more harmful.’’? The historian of utopias is not the
verifier of such calculations; the focus of his concern is not the relationship
between the utopia as prediction and the future to be predicted. Rather, he
wonders how, in what specific manner, the realities of a certain present, its
modes of thought, belief, and imagination are translated in or by utopias, how
utopias participate in the present while endeavoring to go beyond it. A sole
utopia, however farseeing it might be, presents less interest to the historian as
a social phenomenon than does the presence, at such and such an era, of a series
of utopias, even if their projective force into the imaginary is only mediocre and
limited. Utopias are specific demonstrations and expressions of a particular era,
showing its obsessions, haunting fears, and revolts; the scope of its expectations
as well as the paths taken by. the social imagination; its way of envisaging the
possible and the impossible. Going beyond social reality, even if only in dream
and as an escape, is part of that reality and offers revealing testimony about it.
‘Utopia,’ (by Thomas More), said Lucien Febvre, ‘‘like all subsequent
works that take as a generic name the proper name of the libellus aureus of
Erasmus’s friend . . . translate the need both to escape from present realities
and to plan and work out future realities, thereby furnishing the historian with
6 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

one of the most deliberately unfaithful but also one of the most unconsciously
faithful interpretations of the reality of an era and a milieu—a mixture of an-
ticipations and observations, the lineaments of the seen world; the characteristics
divined, foretold, and prophesied of the world of tomorrow or the day after. It
is at times of trouble and transition that soothsayers and prophets are given free
rein. . . . They speak when humanity, in its anxiety, seeks to specify the broad
outlines of the social and moral upheaval everyone feels to be inevitable and
menacing. For that reason, their works are, to the historian, always interesting
—often pathetic testimony, not only of the fantasy and imagination of some of
their predecessors, but of the innermost condition of a society.”
Certainly, the concept of utopia is only one of the many possible dem-
onstrations of the anxieties, hopes, and pursuits of an era and of a social milieu.
The questioning of the legitimacy and rationality of the existing order, the
diagnosis and criticism of moral and social defects, the search for remedies, the
dreams of a new order, etc.—all these favorite themes of utopias are found in
political systems and popular myths, in religious doctrines and in poetry. If the
critique of social reality and the expectation of a new City turn toward utopia,
that means that a choice has been made among available forms of discourse.
What is said in utopia and as utopia cannot be said otherwise. There are ‘‘hot’’
eras when utopias flourish, when the utopian imagination penetrates the most
diverse forms of intellectual, political, and literary activity; eras when opposing
points of view and divergent main themes seem to rediscover their point of
convergence in the very invention of descriptions of utopias. But there are other
“‘cold’’ eras, when utopian creativity is weakened and cut off from social,
intellectual, and ideological activities. Manifestations of a social situation and
of an orientation of mentalities, utopias influence them in turn. It might well be
that utopias ““foreseeing the future’’ sustain models of ideal societies that come
to the fore as guiding images of a collective action. But it most frequently
happens that the overall attitude toward the present reality changes as soon as
visions of an alternative society, at odds with the dominant social order, arise
and are disseminated. Existing social evils are seen and judged in another way
once social systems that can eliminate them are imagined. The present order is
no longer presented, then, as the ultimate, definitive reality, but as the counterpart
of other imaginable orders. Even if the imaging activity is only practiced as a
game, consequences result that affect both the way of living in the present and
that of awaiting what is to come. '
Up to now, we have used the concept of utopia without having defined it
exactly, only referring to more or less vague intuitions or else to classic examples,
such as Thomas More’s libellus aureus. The existence of the utopian phenomenon
is a fact on which historians and philosophers, sociologists and the ‘‘literati’’
can readily agree. As soon as one goes from isolated examples to a definition
of the utopia and its specific domain, in an attempt to define the concept, it
 THE CONCEPTS AND MEANINGS OF “UTOPIA” / 7

complicates and spoils things. It is useless to insist on the fact that methodological
choices, and hence, the way of approaching and conceptualizing an entire field
of research, are involved in the definition of notions of that type. Moreover,
utopia is not in the least a neutral concept but, on the contrary, strongly valorized
and valorizing. How rare it is to find an author who defines his work as utopia
and, therefore, calls himself a utopian. Most often, it is others who, in calling
him utopian, designate him thus as a fanciful dreamer, a chimera-maker.
Utopia was charged with this valorizing role very soon after the neologism
was invented by Sir Thomas More in 1516 (what a rare opportunity it is for a
historian to be able to date with such precision the birth of the key concept of
his discourse . . .) and never lost it. Moreover, diverse and even conflicting
values are thus successively taken on. It is not only utopias that have a history,
but also discourse on utopias. In becoming a generic name, the word ‘‘utopia’’
extended and diversified its semantic content, but lost precision.*
The first and fundamental ambiguity of the term stems from the neologism
and was certainly intended by More himself. ‘‘Utopia’’: is it ‘‘eu-topos,’’ the
region of happiness and perfection, or ‘‘ou-topos,’’ the region that nowhere
exists? Or, rather, does utopia not designate both things together—justice and
happiness united in a social order that nowhere exists?” During the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries, other ambiguities that stem, on the one hand, from the
extension of the meaning and, on the other, from the valorizing function taken
on by the term, were added to this original ambiguity. Thus any text that follows
More’s narrative model was called ‘‘utopian’’: the account of an imaginary
voyage at the end of which the narrator discovers an unknown country where
the ideal social order, recounted in detail, reigns. But the designation ‘‘utopian’”’
is also given to texts that do not fall into this literary genre and that had been
conceived of several centuries before ‘‘the very excellent man,’’ Raphael Hyth-
loday gave Thomas More an account of his trip. Plato’s Republic is most often
cited as the typical example of this other model of utopian discourse, namely a
proposal for ideal legislation. ‘‘Utopia: region that exists nowhere; an imaginary
country. The word utopia is sometimes used figuratively of the plan of an
imaginary government, following Plato’s Republic.’’® To this is added the val-
uing function. Utopia is synonymous with impossible, with chimera, particularly
in the political and social domain, and it is only political dreamers who fabricate
utopias. Utopia is the generally used designation for an imaginary plan of a
government where all is ruled. for the common happiness, e.g., “‘Every dreamer
imagines a utopia.’’’
In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, due to several factors, the word
became enriched with new meanings and new ambiguities. First of all, utopian
discourse changed paradigms. Fourier, Saint-Simon, Enfantin, and Cabet, de-
scribed as well-known utopians and social dreamers, do not write imaginary
voyages, nor do they propose dream governments. The visions of ideal societies
8 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

that they put forward are presented as so many consequences of social theories,
as scientifically grounded truths. It is no longer a question of imagining faraway
islands inhabited by ideal peoples. The New City must be established hic et
nunc, in the very near future. Its advent is inevitable because the march of
historical evolution and its universal laws that have been discovered guarantee
it. If Cabet has recourse to the paradigm of the imaginary voyage, he only uses
it as a literary expedient to insure the best diffusion to ideas he had formulated
elsewhere in a theoretical and scientistic, if not scientific, discourse. Moreover,
those chimeras that find partisans are greeted by some as guiding images of their
actions, and by others as a real social danger. This evolution, which has reper-
cussions on vocabulary as well as on attitudes toward utopias, is in fact recorded
around the middle of the nineteenth century in a book that attempted to combat
utopias by writing a critical history of them. ‘‘Doubtless, at first glance, these
excursions into the domain of the imagination can be seen either as an innocent
diversion or as a useful exercise for thought. . . . However, when the chimeras
become too ambitious, writers have another duty, that is to lead minds back to
an awareness of realities and to assign limits to fantasy.’”®
However, interest in utopias doesn’t cease growing and they have become
the object of systematic research which retraces their history and questions their
scope and functions. These questions extended the frontier line of the ‘“kingdom
of utopia’ well beyond mere literary genre, and conquered distant provinces.
Scientific research, philosophical reflection, and sociological analysis discovered
the complexity of the utopian phenomenon. The presence of the ideas—utopian
images in the most diverse works and activities—is noticeable in the major social
movements, even if they claim to be distinct from and opposed to any utopian
process. It is not for us to discuss either the diverse methodological procedures
that presided over the study of the utopian phenomenon, or the new ambiguities
that accrued. It is, however, important to note that a common tendency can be
seen in all these widely differing approaches. First of all, the traditional meaning
of the word is no longer satisfactory. The awareness of the complexity of the
utopian phenomenon is translated by the setting up of a meta-discourse on utopias,
characterized by attempts at redefinition of the very concept of utopia. On the
one hand, the opposition utopia/non-utopia tends to characterize not works but
collective attitudes, social movements, currents, and trends in ideas. Finally,
there is an attempt to bring out historical and social conditions that favor the
creation and diffusion of utopian representations. Let us cite only three examples
of these diverse approaches that have in common their positing utopia as the
term of an opposition: utopia/science, utopia/myth, and utopia/ideology.
The most complex and most remarkable case is certainly that of Marxism.
The opposition utopia/science or, more exactly scientific socialism/utopian so-
cialism is found in Marx and Engels, and then in almost the whole Marxist
tradition. This opposition implies several different perspectives that reveal the
 THE CONCEPTS AND MEANINGS OF “UTOPIA” / 9

history of Marxism as well as of the representations it forms of itself and its

history. On the one hand, utopias are considered premonitions or prefigurations
of a knowledge, of ideas that, with Marxism itself, acquired the status of a
science. ‘‘Scientific socialism,’’ said Engels, ‘‘raised itself on the shoulders of
Saint-Simon, Fourier and Owen, three men who, despite all the fantasy of the
utopianism of their doctrines, are among the greatest minds of all times and have
brilliantly anticipated numerous ideas whose scientific accuracy we demonstrate
today.’’ Marx’s theory is, then, in relation to the ‘‘fantasies’’ of utopians, what
chemistry is to alchemy. The utopias provided with socialist idea-images, and
notably the utopias of Babeuf, Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen, corresponded
to a specific social stage, namely that of the birth of capitalism and translated
the “‘immaturity”’ of the proletariat at that time. With Marx’s discoveries, every
utopia becomes an anachronism. On the other hand, however, Marxism rec-
ognizes the manifestation of the profound feelings of the oppressed masses in
‘‘socialist’” ideas of utopias dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
The persistence and continuity of the utopian phenomenon bear witness to the
constant and faithful aspiration of these classes to immemorial values: equality,
liberty, social justice, the community of goods, and so forth. From the first
perspective the stress is primarily on the ‘‘scholarly’’ aspect of utopias; their
‘‘maturity”” is valued, that is, the fact of having formulated or foreseen such
and such a thesis that entered into Marxism as ‘‘scientific.”” This view supposes
(or even imposes) a certain teleology in the development of utopian ideas that,
throughout history, “‘mature’’ in the direction of Marxism. The other perspective
emphasizes the imaginary and the emotional; utopias become primarily repetitive
manifestations of feelings of social revolt and of the hopes of a communist or
rather communal future. In relation to utopias, “‘scientific’’ socialism is thus
defined as both continuity and rupture—continuity, because it takes on the ideas,
images, and values it recognizes, in light of its theory, as scientifically valuable;
but rupture, as well, since it contrasts with utopias as the solitary does to the
multiple. There were several utopian socialisms, but there can be only one
‘scientific socialism.’’ Continuity, for socialism, having become a science, is
the only legitimate heir to all the hopes that nourished the revolts of the oppressed
in the past. But rupture is also involved, because it is not only the proletariat,
armed with a scientific theory, who can and must necessarily transform dreams
into reality. Rupture and continuity operate again in relation to the representations
of society to come—rupture, because scientific socialism, contrary to utopias,
refuses to elaborate in detail the image of the society whose advent is nevertheless
considered the ineluctable result of the historical evolution and the ultimate
objective of the class struggle—but continuity, too, for, despite this automatic
refusal, the overall vision of the community of the future is permanently in play
in the theoretical and political discourse of Marx and Engels. Thus, the opposition
utopia/science at once masks and reveals this vision of the social otherness,
10 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

showing at once its presence and its absence. In fact, it is remarkable that a
‘scientific’ Marxist reading of the works of the utopians particularly stresses
the distinction between their ‘‘fantasies’’ and their ‘‘anticipations.’’ Moreover,
such a reading, at once selective and valorizing, has, as a condition of possibility,
a vision of the community to come, whether the latter is explicit, or suppressed
in what is unsaid in ‘‘science.’’ In fact, how can what is and what is not
anticipation be judged, if not according to the ideas one forms of the social state
on which it is anticipated? This vision of communist society can be read, veiled,
just below the surface in Marx. He occasionally speaks of it, but only in a
secondary discourse. It seems in that case that he almost distrusts giving his
imagination free rein, being afraid to fall into illusion and reverie. And yet his
entire work conveys this vision, making it a potent, stirring dream that renewed
the collective imagination.
We have emphasized only the outline that is found as a commonplace in
a certain Marxist or, if you will, Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy. On the other hand,
the formation and evolution of the concept of utopia in Marx and Engels have
yet to be studied. Such a study could contribute to a better clarification of certain
trends in their work as well as the variable structural relationships of its con-
stituent elements. The very notion of ‘‘scientific socialism’’ has been defined in
relation—and in opposition—to what the authors of the Communist Manifesto
consider ‘“utopian.’’ But there is also interaction: the notion of utopia is crys-
tallized from a certain idea of science whose formation and evolution have yet
to be explored, although it remains considerably dependent on the representations
of a future society that would be imbued with a scientific rationality. Let us
remember, too, that the opposition science/utopia enters the conceptual network
of Marx and Engels fairly late. Their attitude is marked by feelings of continuity
and rupture in relation to the utopians, but the weight of each varies under the
influence of diverse factors (for example, their interest in the Russian obstchina,
the rustic village community). It is, finally, useless to insist on the fact that
Marx’s theoretical thinking, like his critique of capitalist society, postulates the
vision of a different society—one promised, if not assured, by the course of
history and the laws commanding it.
There is still another study to be made of the importance accorded utopian
representations in the course of the evolution of Marxism. It is obvious that it
changes from one ideology to another, even during what is known as the ‘‘clas-
sical’’ period (more important, e.g., in a Lafargue than in a Kautsky). But the
most fascinating chapter of the changing attitudes of Marxism toward utopias
would be, perhaps, on Russia during the first years after the October Revolution.
On the one hand, the newly dominant ideology seeks to acquire its own cultural
tradition, whence the growing interest in utopian texts. This interest corresponds,
on the other hand, to a proliferation of plans and proposals for communal life,
but also to more or less ephemeral experiences. There is a wish to change life,
 THE CONCEPTS AND MEANINGS OF “UTOPIA” / 11

to immediately put into practice, in several types of communes, the overall

representation of communist society. In search of models, there is a turn toward
certain texts of Marx and Engels, but also to ‘‘classic’’ utopians, from More to
Tschernyschevski and Kropotkin. How do utopian idea-images, combined with
revolutionary myths and symbols, mark the mentalities of militant minorities
during this period? How do they perform their function of mobilization and
concealment? These questions would require another study, one that would be
extremely promising, and not only for the history of utopias.”
Let us go on to the two other oppositions that we will take up much more
briefly.
In Sorel, the precise meaning and pejorative valorizing of utopia are ex-
pressed by the opposition utopia/myth and Marxism is specifically reproached
for having fixed a myth in a utopia. By utopia, Sorel means the artificial model
of an ideal society presented to the masses as the ultimate objective and final
realization of their aspirations and struggles. Utopias are the product of an
intellectual and speculative work. Their producers are intellectuals outside the
spontaneous movement of the masses, the manipulation of whom utopias can
only facilitate. The political myth, on the contrary, in Sorel’s sense of the term,
is a particular form of the collective conscience; it is summarized in a key idea
that is the watchword of both the struggle and its line of action. The myth is
produced by the spontaneity of the revolt of the masses; it is never finished or
fixed. Utopias are structures composed of imaginary institutions, models to which
existing societies can be compared in order to gauge any good and bad that
would result. Utopias, like any social institution, can be discussed, and lead
minds toward pertinent reforms. On the other hand, the political myth cannot
be broken down into parts that one might try to apply here or there. The myth
is not debatable; it takes possession of men and inspires their combat. The Marxist
idea of socialism on the one hand and the idea of a general strike on the other
are, for Sorel, contemporary forms of utopias and of the political myth respec-
tively.'°
A final example: the opposition utopia/ideology proposed by Karl Man-
nheim. What is striking, at first, in this redefinition of utopia is the extension
of the concept. The “‘topos,’’ the “‘place,’’ of which utopia is the negation, is
always historically determined: it is the set of social relationships to which a
rising social class is opposed. The aspirations, ideals, and value systems of
important social movements manifest themselves in utopias; they are, therefore,
coherent and structured overall visions of the world, and represent the profound
needs of an era. Ideologies, too, are overall systems of ideas and values; they
translate, however, the deformations and limitations of the social conscience of
classes opposed to social progress, supporters of the status quo, of a conscience
that is always marked by the tendency to mystify reality and history. The concept
of utopia is not, then, attached to any precise form of literary expression; it is
12 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

a global vision of the world, a manifestation of an essential dimension of the

historical conscience. The concept of utopia marks the totality of the culture of
an era; it constitutes an essential factor in every mass movement and every
radical historical and social change."’
Additional examples seem unnecessary; the aim of this brief review, limited
to approaches that have already become standard, was only to bring out the
difficulties research on utopia entails. On the one hand, historical research must
take into account the broadening of the field of studies as well as the complexity
of the phenomenon brought to the fore in methodological discussions. But, on
the other hand, any philosophical, sociological, and anthropological reflection
on utopian phenomena must be based on thorough, detailed, historical studies;
otherwise it risks foundering in vague generalities. The fact that these postulates
are commonplaces does not by any means make their realization easier.
One final observation on the uncommon interest that utopias arouse today.
The number of works published during these last thirty years is as impressive
as it is significant.'* Paradoxically, scholarly discourse on utopias, meta-dis-
course, now prevails over utopian creativity itself. (The work of Ernst Bloch is,
perhaps, the only case where, in a thought in search of Hope as the founding
principle of Being, this meta-discourse is in harmony with a powerful utopian
impulse.) Certain specific tendencies of the recent evolution of the interests of
the human sciences have surely contributed to this renewal of research on utopia.
Such is the case with the prominence given the importance of prophetic and
utopian visions in social movements; with the growing awareness of the roles
played in social life by so-called marginal groups and phenomena, and with the
questioning of the structures and evolution of collective mentalities. The attention
paid to utopias indicates, above all, a more general tendency to restore the value
of the imaginary and the imagination, to recognize them as a specific and in-
dispensable social mode of the collective life. As every field of social experience
is surrounded by a horizon of refusals and expectations, of fears and hopes, it
is impossible to study the mentalities of an era without taking into account
precisely those horizons on which utopias are situated. And refusing to reduce
the imaginary to the illusory, one then tries to show how reality contains and
conceals the dreams of the social actors and what are the social functions of
these dreams.'* All these are questions to which we will return.
Last but not least, the growing interest taken in utopias is not merely a
matter of scholarly preoccupations. It responds to more than one of the questions
about our century. It could be said that the term ‘‘utopia’’ has become the focal
point, if not the symbol, of our own haunting fears and hopes. Never, perhaps,
have utopias been so violently denounced and so ardently praised. Thus, profound
anxiety is evinced about the danger to our times of the absence of utopias suitable
to them, at the horizon of our expectations and in the use of our imagination.
‘Our era,’’ said Bernard Russel, ‘‘can no longer believe in the dreams of
 THE CONCEPTS AND MEANINGS OF “UTOPIA” / 13

utopians. Even the societies dreamed of by our imagination only reproduce the
evils we are accustomed to in daily life.’ Utopia or death, proclaims the title
of a recent work pondering possible responses to the degradation of our ecological
condition. Quite recently, graffiti calling for power to the imagination were
erased from the walls of Paris. But at at the same time, interest in utopias reveals
conflicting feelings and attitudes. It is not only a disillusionment that is coming
to light, but a profound distrust of utopias, because of the social dangers that
their influence on mentalities might entail. We are more conscious than ever
that utopias are apt to become not only powerful instruments of action and social
mobilization but also the instruments of tragically effective manipulations. Did
the totalitarian experience in Russia as well as in Germany not show how utopias,
joined to myths and amplified by omnipresent and oppressive propaganda, en-
slave and degrade minds and imaginations?
We scarcely harbor any illusions about the possibility of the historian
studying utopias without consciously or unconsciously taking on the fundamental
preoccupations of his time. Moreover, we do not by any means seek to escape
from this. That having been established, the object and intention of this work
nevertheless remains historical. It does not concern utopia in general, but rather
considers utopian phenomena during a specific period, the eighteenth century,
which at least for the sake of convenience, will continue to be called the ‘Age
of Enlightenment.”’
 2
The Utopian Sphere and Its
Frontiers

Dac certain eras utopias represent only a marginal, isolated

phenomenon; during others, utopian creativity is intensified. While the number
of utopian texts grows, a singular affinity links utopias to the mental structures
and principal ideas of the times. Utopias then maintain multiple and complex
relationships with philosophical ideas, literature, social movements, ideological
currents, collective symbolism, and the collective imagination. It is thus that the
Age of Enlightenment is a ‘‘hot’’ period in the history of utopias, as does the
Renaissance, or the first half of the nineteenth century. So the study of the utopias
of this period offers the historian a double opportunity: while contributing to a
better knowledge of the mental structures and latent tendencies of the movement
of contemporary ideas, it can lead to a better understanding of the complexity
of the utopian phenomenon, as well as the lines of its evolution, and the historical
characteristics of its social functions.
The utopian sphere in the eighteenth century is both fascinatingly rich and
disturbingly ambiguous. That is why before beginning to explore it we must first
pave the way, planting guideposts and proposing a conceptual grid, if only to
reduce the risks of misunderstanding, to delimit the field of our work, and to
specify the orientation of our research. That sometimes calls for reservations:
we are afraid of putting the cart before the horse. In such a preliminary presen-
tation, necessarily succinct and schematic, there is great risk of putting forward
definitions and propositions that would give the impression of being a priori, if
not arbitrary. In fact we propose only an elaborate set of tools, adapting them
to the progress of the research itself. By this procedure we will no doubt anticpate
the results of the research. If certain preliminary developments concerning, in
particular, the structural relationships that are brought out in utopias prove to
be too abstract or schematic, we ask the reader to wait patiently until they are
14
 THE UTOPIAN SPHERE AND ITS FRONTIERS / 15

given concrete form in the explanation of the historical development that inspired
them. If he is still somewhat disappointed afterward, let him not accord excessive
importance to formulas that prove to be too general when put to the test. Their
only value is in the extent to which they open on realities and, by conceptualizing
them, bring out their richness. On the other hand, they are condemned in advance
once they close in on themselves and compose a discourse whose sole justification
is found in the hollow cavity of its own practice, in the contemplation of its
own navel. This kind of discourse is too widespread and contagious for us to
feel completely safe from its dangers; thus our insistent warnings.'*
a. There is no utopia without an overall representation, the idea-image of
an alternative society, opposed to the existing social reality, and its institutions,
rites, dominant symbols, systems of values, norms of interdictions, hierarchies,
relationships of dominance and property, its domain reserved to the sacred, and
so forth. In other words, there is no utopia without a synthetic and disruptive
representation of social otherness. The degree of this otherness could, in some
way, serve as a scale for a classification of utopias. The ideal type of utopia
would be the overall representation of a New City, which would be radically at
odds with the existing society, and would refuse any continuity and would
imagine history beginning again from square one—a synthetic and disruptive
idea-image of an alternative society and a better social life. It is up to the utopian
City to take hold of the idea of collective happiness and to give an image to
public felicity.
Utopian representations, then, go hand in hand with critical attitudes toward
social realities. The starting point of the utopian enterprise is the feeling, if not
the clear consciousness, of a rupture among what ought to be, the ideal and
social reality. Utopias aim at a new life in the name of values that transcend
existing reality and that alone are judged capable of regenerating individual and
collective life. Utopias, then, tend toward radical criticism of existing society.
Singularly sensitized to the evils of established society, they very often perceive
it through anguish, they see it at the height of crisis, dominated by evil and
injustice. There is then no utopia without an ideal opposed to reality—although
not every ideal engenders a utopia. In this sense, and only in this sense, it could
be said that every utopia is more or less unrealistic, that it accommodates and
expresses sometimes latent tendencies to escape from history and society. But,
on the other hand, imagining an alternative and better society is also a specific
way of approaching and living the realities of one’s time. The opposition utopia/
reality is both derivative of and a part of history, not only in the sense that every
utopia is produced, imagined, and dreamed in a given moment of history, but
also and above all because the imagined social otherness refers, at least implicitly,
to historical realities, if only by refusing and going beyond them.'°
b. The representations of a different and happy City are the products of a
particular way of imagining the social; utopias are one of the places, occasionally
16 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

the privileged place, where the social imagination is put into practice, where
individual and collective social dreams are welcomed, gathered, worked on, and
produced.'® Moreover if utopian imaging activity is focused on overall and
synthetic idea-images, it nevertheless is developed through day-to-day reality.
The dreams of the happy City are, then, articulated with images of a renewed
daily life, and utopias often offer a great luxury of detail in their descriptions
of individual and collective daily life.'’ The structural relationships between the
representation of the overall society and the detailed images of the ordinary
aspects of life are as complex as they are revealing. On the one hand, in utopias
accumulated descriptions of the everyday only become functional insofar as they
put into more concrete form the imagined overall society, particularly the prin-
ciples that command it. At most, each detail is only a symbol, while all the
details are only signs that signify a sole idea, the representation of the New City.
Thus, society is imagined as “‘readable’’ on all levels. Utopias represent trans-
parent societies: the whole is entirely perceptible in each of its parts (hence,
every part is always visible and nothing in the social life ought to escape the
synthesizing gaze). Such a transparency, the result of the play of images, is also
put into a deliberate image, affirmed as a fundamental principle of the society.
The alternative society is precisely the one that dissimulates nothing of its
machinery, cogs, and wheels. But, on the other hand, the images of the everyday
and of the individual gain autonomy and acquire their own specific density, if
only by virtue of their accumulation and their symbolic surcharge. The partic-
ipation of each individual and each instant in the common synthesis must be
imagined through institutions and activities that would unite the whole and its
parts. Thus, new modes of socialization are imagined in detail, with particular
emphasis on the family, the educational system, the living conditions, celebra-
tions, and the like. These institutions and activities are consequently presented
as just so many collective rites perfectly internalized by each individual and
rigorously respected by society as a whole.'® All these levels of the imaginary
sometimes make explicit what remains unacknowledged in the overall represen-
tation, an opacity that is the shadow projected by the dreamed transparency.
c. In utopias, the exercise of the imagination is already limited by the
relationships established among the representation of the overall society and the
images of the everyday and the individual. The social imagination is again (and
differently) limited by the interference of knowledge. The alternative society is
not only imagined, it is also thought to be consonant with reason, and prides
itself on the rationality it brings into play. Utopias want to install reason in the
realm of the imagination; in utopias, constant exchanges among social dreams
and critical, theoretical, and normative reflection are carefully worked out. The
term idea-image to which we often have recourse has the sole aim of bringing
these distinctive characteristics of utopian representation to the fore. In imagi-
native, scholarly, and theorizing utopias, the social dream is always organized
 THE UTOPIAN SPHERE AND ITS FRONTIERS / 17

and premeditated, but knowledge is fed, if not guided, by the dream. Utopias
are relay stations where encounters and amalgams, if not impossible fusions of
both, are made and unmade. The global representation of the different City is
certainly imagined, but it strives to visualize frequently abstract principles and
values on which to base the just and virtuous happy City. The everyday and its
ritual are certainly imagined; but, at the same time, they are deduced from the
idea-image of the overall society as well as from its directing principles. This
complex interplay reveals not only the diversity of the utopian realm of imagi-
nation, but the contradictions that shape it as well. In the ideal model of utopia,
it could be said to be almost a question of thinking the unimaginable while
imagining the unthinkable.
d. Utopia is not only imagined and thought; it is made intelligible and
communicable in a discourse by which the merging of the idea-images and their
integration into a language is accomplished. As already stated, two classic par-
adigms were imposed in utopian discourse from the sixteenth through nineteenth
centuries. The first is the utopia of the imaginary voyage. The text is presented
in the form of a quasi-novelistic discourse. The narrator, who most often speaks
in the first person, tells of his discovery of the ideal City situated in a distant,
previously unknown land; it is generally a region isolated from the rest of
humanity, preferably an island. After his return from this country ‘‘nowhere,”’
the traveler tells of his adventures. He describes the City itself, with its inhab-
itants, institutions, morals, religion, history, and so forth. The genius and the
success of the work of Thomas More lie in the invention of a paradigm that
responds to the curiosity of his time about distant lands, that lends itself won-
derfully well to the exercise of the social imagination by a play of mirrors between
the image of the overall society and the images of the everyday, which blend
the serious aspect of moral and social criticism with free intellectual, humanistic,
and scholarly play. The other paradigm is that of the utopia-proposal for ideal
legislation. The ideal City is imagined by means of detailed legislation, a code
of reason or nature, whose beneficial effects are shown by images of renewed
individual and social life.
There are many variants of these two classic paradigms, and exchanges
between them are particularly frequent in the eighteenth century. We run across
numerous examples of imaginary utopia-voyages when the description of the
ideal society, the essential argument of the book, is only an ideal proposal for
government badly linked to the pseudo-novelistic story. Often a secondary nar-
rator expounds the proposal that is the basis of the City visited by the traveler
and gives a detailed commentary on it; sometimes the imaginary legislator himself
does this. But too, by an inverse movement, the political literature of the time
seizes upon ideas advanced in fables as well. The paradigm of the imaginary
voyage spreads easily and holds sway over an entire literary genre, the political
novel, which, moreover, suffers increasingly from its rigidity, its paradigmatic
18 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

fixity. It is, in fact, an easy genre, perhaps too easy. It lends itself all too readily
to imitation and repetition, and there is a marked mediocrity of imagination in
the majority of these imaginary voyages. Certainly, even when utopian discourse
only reproduces the classic paradigms, it is never closed on itself. It draws from
the depths of the collective imagination, exploiting, for example, the myths of
the land of milk and honey or of paradise lost. On the other hand, it adapts
diffuse social dreams, as well as the moral, political, and philosophical ideas of
its times. But, most important, utopian creativity does not confine itself to
classical and more and more worn-out, hackneyed, paradigmatic forms. ““The
utopian field is not reduced to the creation of some few lampoons, however
illustrious they may be. . . . It covers a vast cultural field.’”!? First of all, there
are numerous cases when the utopian enterprise goes beyond the scope of the
discourse, extending into practical application; furthermore, utopia can be ex-
pressed in modes other than the novel or the code of perfect legislation; it can
use other languages.
e. Every utopia is not necessarily proposed as a program of action or even
as a model that would demand intellectual or emotional support. The novelistic
utopias are offered most frequently as intellectual games. They only seek to
stimulate both the imagination and the critical and moralizing reflection of the
readers (if they’re not offered as a simple diversion, in which case, the novelistic
elements predominate in the text). However, sometimes even the utopias pre-
sented in the form of an imaginary voyage inspire a will to act and to give some
of their ideas a practical application. Bacon s New Atlantis is a classic example.
The dream of the “‘House of Solomon,’’ of a community of scholars that, by
maintaining unprecedented progress in the sciences and the arts, directs the life
of the ideal City, served as catalyst to the founding of the ‘‘invisible college’?
the forerunner of the Royal Society.”°
But there are utopias that proclaim themselves as both a prophetic and a
founding word, and that find their extensions in the establishment of exemplary
communities professing to put them into practice. The communities attempt to
materialize the idea-image of social otherness by the word ‘‘utopian’’ in their
institutions, their way of life, their social and human relationships, and so forth.
They are characterized, on the one hand, by the wish to isolate themselves and
to form a sort of island within the society but, on the other hand, they seek to
open themselves to the world, if only by offering it the masterful example of
new community life. During the era that interests us utopias are put into practice
primarily in Protestant countries, particularly England and America. There, on
new land and in a break with the old world, there is an increase in the community
experiments intended to regenerate social life. It is significant that nearly all of
these utopias put into practice are marked by a strong religious tone, by a
messianic if not millenarian faith.?!
Certainly, the dichotomy utopian discourse/utopia put into practice is only
 THE UTOPIAN SPHERE AND ITS FRONTIERS / 19

relative. Is a minimum of discourse on the New City not a necessary preliminary

requisite to utopian practice? However, in utopian communities the play of
principles and of the everyday does not take place on the level of discourse, but
in a lived collective experience. The coherence of a discourse-proposal is not
sufficient to assure the effective coherence and life of a community. Thus,
practiced utopias engender their particular mechanisms and contradictions that,
most often, lead to their breakup.
f. The frontiers of the utopia are still shifting in other ways. That is the
case particularly when utopian discourse is expressed in languages and modes
other than those used in the classic paradigms. In fact, utopian idea-images have
the distinctive characteristic of being easily articulated in political, philosophical,
architectural, and pedagogic language. It is not the language borrowed but its
specific use that characterizes utopian discourse, although the language borrowed
is not immaterial either to the mutations of the discourse or to the formation of
new paradigms. Certainly, it is neither only nor primarily a question of language.
If utopian idea-images are more or less durably associated with a certain language,
that attests to the fact that those who practice it think, imagine, and act in
function of the utopia. Let us take one example. During the Age of Enlighten-
ment, the practice of the sciences and the arts as well as reflection about their
rapid development took place in conjunction with predictions of their beneficial
social effects; these are the desires and wishes, dreams and hopes lived by the
intelligentsia of the time and are part of its ideology. Presumably, then, the
future progress of reason in general or even in a particular science must nec-
essarily lead to the regeneration of the overall society or to the formation of the
new man. This expectation is sometimes strongly charged with utopian content
or, it might be said, it is utopian idea-images that are formed on the horizon of
expectations. Approached in this way, the social imagination forms fringes of
the utopia, representations of the more or less elaborate social otherness that,
by a retroactive effect, stimulate and consolidate diffuse expectations. These
displacements of utopias, their localizations and anchorages, their rises and falls,
are thus precious indications both of the field of the experiences and of the
expectations and hopes of a social group, of a milieu, of a sphere of activity.
In these forms, utopias take on the most complex functions—they serve as relay
stations between the practical application and the dream; they stimulate ideo-
logical commitments, like flights from realities, they clarify certain aspects of
those realities, not without masking others. Certainly, in these multiple and
complex relationships the contours of the utopian idea-images occasionally be-
come indistinct, but the richness of the utopian phenomenon stands out all the
more clearly. It is true that the field of research is being dangerously broadened
so that its limits are less clear than in the case of the classic utopia. But is it
not a worthwhile risk if it shows promise of better bringing out both the utopian
structure and its manifold functions and facets?
20 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

Let us here stop our preliminary observations on the domain of utopia and
its frontiers. At once too long and too succinct, they leave us with the feeling
of having said both too much and not enough. Nevertheless, they lead us directly
to the object of our research and its orientations. In fact, the domain of utopias
during the Age of Enlightenment is characterized, on the one hand, by the rapid
development of the utopia in its classic paradigmatic forms, and on the other by
the renewal of utopian creativity, the mutation of paradigms, and the increase
of the fringes of utopia.
The eighteenth century, we have said, is a ‘‘hot’’ period in the history of
utopias, as much because of the number of utopian texts as by virtue of the
richness of the themes and forms of discourse. We find communal and egalitarian
utopias, but also utopias aspiring to an equitable bourgeois property; spontaneist
utopias and those with anarchistic leanings, but also statist utopias where the
power rules all the details of life; agrarian and urban utopias; retrospective and
primitivistic utopias closely associated with the themes of Arcadia, the Golden
Age, and the Noble Savage, but also prospective utopias turned toward the
progress of science and technology or simply toward Progress itself; utopias
contenting themselves with dreaming of the elimination of abuses and others
imagining a radical transformation of human relationships. Imaginary voyages
are made to ‘‘austral lands,’’ to the Barbary Coast, to the moon, under the sea,
and to the interior of the globe, and proposals for legislation include the estab-
lishment of perpetual peace, happiness, virtue, abundance, and perfect ration-
ality. The eighteenth century is also the era when the weakening and wearing
out of classic paradigms becomes more and more obvious. But under other
forms, the encounters of utopia with the great hopes and key values of the
Enlightenment, the utopian sphere is broadened and its frontiers are extended.
Thus, metaphysical reflection is seen to combine with the most audacious social
dreams, the arts and sciences give themselves visionary extensions, and proposals
for partial and limited reforms merge with representations of a regenerated nation,
populated by ‘‘new men.’’ Utopias are responses given to the anxieties, to the
unsatisfied hopes and dreams of the century; they thus appear as limits toward
which reflection and imagination tend, as hidden dimensions of ideas, as distant
horizons of searches. Utopian representations served as stones and mortar in the
construction of the imaginary society spoken of by Tocqueville. ‘‘Above the
real society whose constitution was still traditional, confused, and irregular;
where laws remained different and contradictory, classes and ranks clearly de-
fined, conditions fixed and responsibilities unequal, little by little an imaginary
society was built, in which everything seemed simple and coordinated, uniform,
fair and in conformity with reason.’’”* And it is during this century that history
seems to open itself to the dream as a vast work site, and the utopia, focusing
on a distant horizon of expectations, establishes itself at the very heart of a lived
collective experience.
 THE UTOPIAN SPHERE AND ITS FRONTIERS / 21

We do not propose to cover this entire wide field and our inquiry does not
profess to be exhaustive. It will proceed by sections and investigatory probes,
seeking thus to bring out structural relationships between utopian representations
and discourse, the registers and orientations of the utopian imagination. We shall
examine the pressure exerted on ideas and mentalities by the utopian imagination
but we shall seek, too, to analyze the historic and social limits of the social
imagination, the weight of its inertia. We are interested, certainly, in classic
utopias, but even more so in the moving frontiers of the utopia and in the
movement of these frontiers. Thus, as specific examples, we will see utopian
imagination at work in discourse on politics, metaphysics, and history. But, on
the other hand, our inquiry will be extended to the conquering utopia, namely,
to the utopian representations that are imposed as guiding images and directive
schemata in attempts to renew collective time and space, in particular during
the revolutionary period (new calendar, festivals, imaginary architecture, and
urbanism). Thus, we will turn our regard as much toward history in utopia as
toward utopia in history.
 3
Utopias, Utopians, Reformers

Betore turning to these inquiries, let us give a brief survey, as

global as it is rapid, of the scale of magnitude of the utopian phenomenon in
the eighteenth century. Semantic data bring us the first indications. The extensive
meaning given the word ‘‘utopia’’ as well as its polysemy reveal the diffuse
presence of the phenomenon as well as the differing attitudes it gives rise to.
As we have already observed, the majority of dictionaries of the time record the
generalization of the generic use of the word. Utopia denotes an imaginary
country that exists nowhere but it is also used for any plan of ideal government;
in the broadest sense, it is a chimera, an unrealizable project, or even a reverie.”°
Leibniz gives “‘utopia’’ an analogous but even more extensive meaning: he relates
it to the idea of the perfect universe, ‘‘of a possible world without sin or mis-
fortune.’’ Unconsciously, he compares the utopian, creator and legislator of an
ideal imaginary country, with God himself, the great organizer of this ‘‘best of
all possible worlds.’’ “‘It is true,’’ said Leibniz, ‘‘that one can imagine possible
worlds with neither sin nor misfortune and they could be created like novels,
utopias, Sévarambes, but these same worlds would be quite inferior in good to
our own.’’”* Rousseau reproaches the other authors with being utopians. ‘“Your
system,’’ he wrote to the elder Mirabeau, ‘‘is very good for the people of utopia,
but worthless for the children of Adam.’’ On the other hand, he defends himself
against reproaches leveled at him for having imagined in the Social Contract a
system worthy of being relegated ‘‘with Plato’s Republic, the Sévarambes, and
Utopia to the country of chimeras.’’?> However, for Brissot, Rousseau’s work,
which he admires, opens on the most sublime, but in no way chimeric utopia.
Thus, he says of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre that he ‘‘doesn’t belong to this world,
he is of Rousseau’s. Scarcely have you read a few pages when you believe
yourself transported into a country where utopia is not a chimera.’’”° Thus,
22
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 23

synonyms are used to designate utopian texts. Thus ‘‘works whose aim is to
present a system of perfection applicable to men as they ought to be and not as
they are, works where the prospect of happiness is discovered only in an in-
accessible distance are called political novels.’’*’ In 1730, Guedeville even
invented a neologism to designate the action by which the real is transformed
into the ideal. Our social world ‘‘will never utopianize itself,” he wrote re-
gretfully in his preface to the translation of More’s Utopia.*® Even more re-
markable: a term was sought to name the specific activity of producing utopian
texts.
L.-S. Mercier, himself the author of the utopia L’an 2440, was a fervent
partisan of the massive introduction of neologisms into the language, in order
to adapt it to the new life and phenomena that were beginning to see the light.
Thus, he proposed the word fictionize. ‘‘It is not to narrate, to tell a story,
fabulize, but, rather to imagine political or moral characters in order to put over
truths essential to the social order. Fictionizing a plan of government on a distant
isle, among an imaginary people, for the development of several political ideas,
is what several authors have done who have written fiction in behalf of the
science that embraces the general economy of states and the felicity of peo-
ples.’’??
Throughout the century, the works most frequently cited as examples of
utopias remain the classic texts of Plato and More. But added to these are the
description of the abbey of Théléme, or Fénélon’s pages on the kingdom of
Salente. References are made rather frequently to a text known today only by
specialists, namely Veiras’s Histoire des Sévarambes. In the Rousseau and Leib-
niz texts cited above, Sévarambes are synonymous with utopians. Veiras’s book
is evoked without comment—supposedly known by the ‘‘enlightened’’ reader.*°
Beginning with the Regency, the eighteenth century has a contemporary who is
looked on as a model utopian, a political dreamer, who composes chimeric
proposals for perfect legislation. He is the Abbé de Saint-Pierre whose Projet
de paix perpétuelle is most frequently referred to. We shall return to him and
to the distinctive characteristics of his utopias; let us cite for the moment only
the evidence of the Marquis d’Argenson. ‘‘My good friend, the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre, also dreams of reforming the State. . . . He writes his dreams and has
them printed. . . . With the best possible intentions, he has given several pieces
of advice that deserve to be followed; but he attacked generally accepted ideas
head-on. He proposed impractical means in order to attain happy ends; he an-
nounced his ideas emphatically. . . . All that cast ridicule on his writings and
person . . . a good example for those who still want to publish proposals for
reform.’’ This bitterness will not prevent the Marquis from creating, in turn, his
own similar dreams, which, it is true, he is careful not to publish.” L
The ways of classifying utopian texts bring other indirect information as
much about the diversity of the phenomenon as about the circulation of the texts.
24 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

Indeed, in the eighteenth century the definition of the status and character of
utopian texts created difficulties not unlike those discussed today. As it happens,
taxonomy often implies value judgments. For some, utopias and, in particular,
imaginary voyages are only a sub-genre of the novel, of romantic literature. For
others, this is ‘‘serious’’ literature, making an important contribution to political
and moral thought.
Thus, criticism applied to novels, that newcomer to literature generally
thought of as a poor relative, is transferred to utopias. Moncrif reproaches
imaginary voyages with magnifying to an even greater extent all the faults
common to novels. These narratives have reference only to the ‘‘marvelous and
the supernatural,’’ and, worse, without ‘‘a true contribution of the imagination.”
Thus, the sole source of utopian novels is ‘‘a simple overturning of the principles
and customs common to all or most nations; it is the nearly unfounded displace-
ment of some recognized properties in certain beings that are attributed to others
to whom nature has refused such advantages. . . . The economy of this Republic,
where, under the name of Hounhyins (sic), horses get the better of men, is
directed toward a similar overturning of ideas. . . . It seems to me that the kind
of imagination likely to formulate such contrasts is like the mind characteristic
of those able to shine only by taking the opposing view of everything one says;
they think they’re reasoning, yet all they do is contradict.”” It is unimportant
that a Moncrif doesn’t like contradictors and that, in the name of the ‘‘natural’’
and the ‘‘rational,’’ in speaking out against the poverty of imagination he re-
proaches a Swift. Yet, it must be pointed out that Moncrif refers to a wave of
interest aroused by this literature, if only to combat it. The public’s infatuation
with imaginary voyages is explicable, according to him, only by the enthusiasm,
both unhealthy and in bad taste, aroused by the odd and the fantastic. Thus
imaginary voyages are only a variation on fairy tales or dreams. Beyond these
questions of classification and esthetic judgment there is, however, an ideological
polemic. If Moncrif reproaches utopias for producing particularly disastrous
effects, it is because they are too stimulating to the imagination, orienting it in
a dangerous direction. ‘“We are going to know everything, to explain everything,
we will be at will Creators, Philosophers, we will be all that we want to be,
and all because we will be exempt from making a plan and from establishing
connections among the parts of our fable, or at least because the links we use
will be purely arbitrary.’’°? Similar reproaches are addressed to Morelly’s Bas-
illiade and it is obvious that the vehemence of the attacks is explained by the
audacity of the ideas advanced in the work: egalitarianism, community of goods,
sexual liberty. ‘‘One knows how great a distance there is between the most
beautiful speculations of this kind and the possibility of their execution; it is
because, in theory, one takes imaginary men who lend themselves with docility
to all the arrangements and who second with equal zeal the legislator’s views;
but, as soon as one tries to realize things, one must make use of men as they
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 25

are, that is, far from docile, lazy or rather ardently given over to one violent
passion or another. The proposal for equality is in particular one of those that
appear the most repugnant to men’s character; a common state is a burden to
them.’
In his prefaces, the publisher of the largest collection of utopian texts
published during the eighteenth century, Garnier, cites numerous critiques these
works have provoked. Moreover, in his edition, he purged certain texts of their
most dangerous parts (he censored, for example, the barely veiled attacks against
Christianity in the Histoire de Sévarambes). In this collection, the imaginary
voyages are compared with literature of the fantastic and the supernatural, as
can be seen from the collection’s title, which gains in expressiveness what it
loses in terseness: Imaginary, romantic, marvellous, allegoric, amusing, comic
and critical voyages; followed by dreams, visions and cabalistic novels. The
magnitude of the collection is yet another indication of the interest aroused by
utopian literature. Indeed, Garnier’s collection includes thirty-nine volumes,
published over three years; the edition began in 1787 and the last volumes
appeared in 1789. Thus, the last series of these ‘‘imaginary voyages and mar-
velous dreams’’ and the first revolutionary pamphlets, those dreams and invi-
tations to another kind of voyage, can be read simultaneously, at a time when
history is about to go beyond the imaginary. The coincidence is, however, merely
fortuitous, only one of those tricks played by history, suggesting symbolisms
and parallels that are as facile as they are deceptive. The interplay of social
imagination and reality is much more complex; ‘‘imaginary voyages’’ in no way
prophesy the Revolution, nor are they in any way harbingers of it. Garnier’s
collection only offers its readers diverting literature, thanks to which they can
venture into the realm of the imaginary and the impossible.
However, and contrary to Moncrif’s earlier opinion, these texts are pro-
gressively accepted as both diverting and useful. It could be said that the critical
reaction turned to utopias’ advantage—they are considered useful precisely be-
cause in reading them, every reader becomes ‘‘a Creator, a Philosopher.”’
Positive judgments on utopias’ usefulness predominate throughout the cen-
tury, at least in enlightened opinion. Thus Terrasson, in the preface to his utopian
novel, will plead the superiority of fiction over history, when the former “‘is
used in the sole manner suitable to a wise writer, that is, with the intention of
forming morals.’’ In fact, history alone is ‘‘merely a mass of facts that Providence
leads to ordinarily hidden ends.’’ That is why the reader of historical works does
not find an obvious moral lesson in them—he meets in them too many crimes
and villains who triumph over virtue. On the other hand, the account of the
history of a virtuous imaginary people, practicing the best legislation, under the
reign of a model king, teaches true philosophy and true morality by example.
Ch.-P. Duclos goes even further in the apologia for ‘‘ideas of imaginary repub-
lics,’’ and, in particular, for their educational, political, and moral value. The
26 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

images of happy peoples make an effective contribution to fighting prejudice

and are ‘‘at least happy models, chimeras that are not totally so. So many things
are impossible solely because one has become accustomed to see them as so;
contrary opinion and courage often make easy what prejudice and cowardice
judge to be impractical.’’** Thus, utopias do not at all constitute literature of
escapism; on the contrary, they stimulate reflection and orient the imagination
toward the useful. Besides, during the second half of the century, utopian texts
are frequently assimilated to serious literature and put on the same footing as
political, economic, and social treatises. Their diverting aspect is then considered
only an entirely secondary characteristic; the essential is in the ideas advanced.
This evolution is revealing, both in respect to the attitudes adopted toward utopian
texts and to the public they reach. Thus, utopias are broadly represented in
encyclopedias, dictionaries, and collections specializing in political and social
problems. Knowledge of utopias is considered a principal element of the political
culture of an ‘‘enlightened mind.”’
The analytical table of the Encyclopédie Méthodique places all articles on
utopias in a special category titled Theoretical Administration, where, as the
commentary explains, are gathered ‘‘the precepts and lessons philosophy took
pleasure in giving kings and princes called to head nations, painting the picture
of the reciprocal rights and duties of the governed and the governors, the rulers,
and the ruled.’’ This section includes, then, political novels of which this dic-
tionary takes note, works whose aim is presenting a system of perfection ap-
plicable to ‘‘men as they ought to be.’’ In fact, detailed reviews of all the
important ‘‘political novels’’ as well as notes on minor texts, sometimes un-
published in French, are found in this section. Moreover, the Encyclopédie also
includes under this heading texts that are not ‘‘novels’’ but ‘‘chimeric proposals,”’
such as Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s writings on perpetual peace or Mercier de la
Riviére’s Physiocratie. It is not the form of the exposition of the ideas that
counts, but a common orientation of these writings, the search, in an ‘‘inacces-
sible distance’’ for social happiness and perfect legislation. The majority of the
articles in these dictionaries and encyclopedias, moreover, approach utopian
texts in a rather particular way. The dream quotient is reduced and the scope of
the overall visions of social otherness is minimized. On the contrary, stress is
placed on a particular idea of detail whose ‘‘utility,”” the possibility of putting
it, at least partially, into practice, is discussed. ‘‘Enlightenment today is uni-
versal; everyone knows the abuses, everyone indicates their remedies, and this
fermentation of the commonweal has already produced a great number of reforms;
some are so important that they were not even hoped for at the beginning of the
century. Probably, the administrators will stop too soon; too struck by the cor-
ruption of the peoples, too frightened of the dangers innovations entail, they
will let glaring abuses persist; but the zeal of writers must not be slowed. . . .
They will at least have the satisfaction of presenting to sovereigns and to judges
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 27

the image of order and happiness that societies comprise. The most chimeric
proposals on legislation and government ordinarily offer useful views; besides,
one likes to see the picture of a happy state, in which one will never find oneself.’’
Thus a fragile compromise is sought between the audacity of utopian views and
a prudent pragmatic reformism. If utopian texts offer, on the one hand, a picture
of a happy social state that is agreeable but unrealizable, they include, too, a
sort of inventory of partial reforms proposed by ‘‘theoreticians’’ for the attention
of the too ‘‘prudent’’ administrators.*°
Against the background of this rather dull and down-to-earth discourse,
voices stand out that bring out the weight of the dream as well as its formative
influence on minds. Mably, evoking his dream of a society that would conserve
liberty and social equality on a long-term basis, does not nourish too many hopes
of ‘‘seeing in the world what has not yet been seen.’’ But he nevertheless adds
that ‘‘these dreams are perhaps our most real good.’’*® Brissot devotes himself
to making pertinent observations on the functions of utopias in the formation of
the political and social ideas of the Enlightenment. On the occasion of the
republication of More’s Utopia, he attacks the critics who reproach this book
with being ‘‘full of bizarre and inexecutable ideas.’’ Certainly, ‘‘the century
when this book was published was not worthy of it and its philosophy was too
premature.’’ However, ‘‘at the time in which we live,’’ certain of More’s ideas
have been realized. But, for Brissot, utopias still present a quality he finds
essential. Utopias do not only announce ‘‘premature truths’’; even if they are
only reveries, their essential function consists of forming minds for the discovery
of the great truths of the century. ‘‘Utopia, like Plato’s Republic, served to form
our writers. Believe that Rousseau, that Helvétius, had meditated these novels,
and the means of arriving at truths was perhaps 10 take this pleasant path traced
by these political dreamers.’’ Let us note, finally, the observations of the trans-
lator of Utopia who, at the time he is proposing a new edition, explains the
particularly important role this book can play. When the new edition was pub-
lished in 1789, it was by no means a fortuitous coincidence; a deliberate intention
enlisted the book in the great political and ideological debate of the moment.
‘“All men appear at this time to want to take some steps toward happiness.
Troubled nations assemble to deliberate on this great object. . . . Ideas proliferate
on all sides on this point; everyone wants to be political, a reformer, a legislator.
And if light—enlightenment—is not always born from the shock of so many
conflicting opinions, at least the public wish proves the necessity of establishing
a better order of things.” Thus, More’s book will help all those who wish to
form an idea of this ‘‘better order’’ for themselves. Even if one doesn’t share
all the author’s opinions, one finds in his work ‘‘truths that are of all times and
that are good for all peoples.’”*”
How many utopian texts were there in the eighteenth century? We have
extensively quoted indirect and partial testimony on the magnitude of the phe-
28 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

nomenon, to compensate for the uncertainty of numerical data. In fact, the

phenomenon does not lend itself to a quantitative approach, even at the most
elementary level, that of the number of utopian texts. Certainly, there is no lack
of bibliographies of eighteenth century literature or general bibliographies of
utopian literature. The problems and uncertainties are elsewhere, arising from
the divergency of definitions of utopia. According to whether a particular defi-
nition is broad or narrow, the constituent corpus varies from the single to the
double or even the triple. More precise figures can be given if we limit ourselves
to ‘‘imaginary voyages.’’ For the years 1676-1789, there are approximately
eighty ‘‘imaginary voyages’’ for the French domain. Variations, by decades,
are not significant, with the exception of the years 1750—1759, when there is a
remarkable density (sixteen works for that decade out of a total of forty-seven
for the years 1750—1789). These figures include neither subsequent editions and
printings nor pirated editions. Only such data would provide us with the true
magnitude of this literature and its audience. Werner Krauss, after having re-
marked that in the eighteenth century ‘‘utopian literature enjoyed an unprece-
dented boom,”’’ puts forward an impressive estimate: according to him, an average
of ten and, in some years, up to thirty imaginary voyages were published. *®
These figures only present an overall and provisional estimate, one that
must be used with caution and that calls for reservations. Every imaginary voyage
is not necessarily a utopia. The account of the discovery of an unknown land,
of the mores and institutions of an imaginary people occasionally falls short as
a utopia, if it limits itself to satirizing contemporary life or to recounting more
or less fabulous adventures. On the other hand, however impressive the quantity
might be, it cannot hide the mediocrity of the majority of these texts. They are
imaginary voyages, to be sure, but how little imagination the overwhelming
majority of them show. As we have pointed out, the paradigm proves to be too
easy; repetition and the wear and tear of time continually erode it. Some inno-
vations stand out against this rather monotonous background.
L.-S. Mercier transforms the voyage in space into a voyage in time—
utopia thus becomes a uchronia. With Mercier’s novel, L’an 2440, the new
paradigm takes a rather mediocre literary departure, but one rich in prospects
and developments to come.*? Diderot invents a new formula, substituting a sort
of ‘‘philosophical voyage’’ for the ‘‘imaginary voyage.’’ We are thinking, of
course, of the Supplément au voyage de Bougainville, where he uses, most
freely, the account of a real voyage to project, on a half-real, half-imaginary
space, the vision of a social state that alone would correspond to human nature.
‘Tam convinced that there can be true happiness for the human species only in
the social state where there would be neither judge, nor priest, nor laws, nor
outsiders, nor third parties, nor private property, nor vices, nor virtues, and this
state is devilishly ideal.’’ Diderot’s example, playing ironically with the tradi-
tional formulas of the imaginary voyage, was not much followed and, certainly,
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 29

it was not easy to imitate. On the other hand, another innovation that appeared
in the eighteenth century was to establish itself for the long term, meeting with
the greatest success and having numerous effects. We are thinking of the anti-
utopia, of which Gulliver's Travels remains the inimitable model.*°
The very limited indicative value of the figures we have put forward calls
for a further reservation having to do with the definition of utopia as well as the
delimitation of its field. In fact, the figure of some dozens of texts is only an
overall figure, showing the popularity of a single paradigm of utopian discourse,
that of the imaginary voyage. We have, however, stressed the fact the utopian
idea-images extend beyond this paradigm whose scope is increasingly perceived
as rigid and repetitive. The utopian phenomenon gains in richness and in scope
outside this paradigm which is very often considered only as a simple literary
expedient. Thus our estimate, limited to ‘‘imaginary voyages,’’ does not take
into account cases where the same author freely uses diverse forms of discourse
to express his dreams and proposals. Let us mention only two cases. Morelly’s
Basiliade is an imaginary voyage. But this is not the case with his Code de la
Nature that, nevertheless, includes the ‘‘Modéle de législation conforme aux
intentions de la Nature,’’ an exposition of the detailed vision of a perfect society,
based on community of goods. But it is specifically the Code de la Nature, a
text that had, moreover, long been attributed to Diderot, that was widely cir-
culated at the end of the eighteenth century. The other case is that of Restif de
la Bretonne. If Restif wrote L’Homme volant ou la découverte de la terre aus-
trale, an imaginary voyage in which the search for the fantastic and the novelistic
aspect prevails over the utopian enterprise, he exercises his utopian inventiveness
as well and even primarily in other texts that in no way follow the paradigm of
the imaginary voyage. Let us cite only his proposals for reform, such as the
Andrographe, the Pornographe, the Thesmographe; the statutes of an imaginary
collective farm established in Auvergne (in the Paysan perverii); the picture of
an ideal community established right in the middle of Paris (Les Contempo-
raines). In both of these cases, the authors pass from one form of discourse to
another to express their utopian idea-images (there is, moreover, a whole inter-
play of actions set up between the idea-images and the type of discourse). But
there are numerous utopians—and by far the most important of them—who
never had recourse to the paradigm of the imaginary voyage. The Abbé de Saint-
Pierre who, in the eyes of his contemporaries, incarnates the model utopian,
composed only innumerable proposals for reform and refused any parallel be-
tween of his work and novels. Nor is it a novel, but rather the discovery of
ultimate truth, the ‘‘key to the metaphysical and moral enigma’’ that Dom
Deschamps brings into play in his vision of the ideal society. It is in the course
of his reflections on history and legislation that the Abbé Mably gives the sketch
of his vision of a communal and egalitarian society.
The more diffuse the utopia becomes and the more diversified its forms
30 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

become, the less clear are its frontiers, so that the magnitude of the phenomenon
escapes a quantitative approach. But it is thus precisely that the utopian invention
is established at the very heart of the Enlightenment, that it progressively assumes
the role of a relay station between the field of social experiences and the horizon
of hopes and expectations, between lived realities and the imaginary future. That
is particularly striking in a category of texts that proliferate in the second half
of the century and that it would be improper to assimilate as a group to utopias,
but that very often take on utopian dreams and visions. We are thinking, in
particular, of the numerous proposals for reform in which new legislation, social
therapies, remedies to persistent evils, etc., are envisioned. The phenomenon
brings to the fore the progressively diffuse character of utopian invention as well
as certain distinctive characteristics of this diffusion. Thus it merits comment.
In the abstract the contrast between the utopia and reform is clear. In the
utopia, as we have said, the ideal is situated specifically in relation to social
realities—the utopian idea-image is disruptive and all-encompassing. The utopia
as an ideal type (in Max Weber’s sense) does not accept partial and limited
arrangements that would only diminish the existing social evil. As we have
observed, it calls for a radical rupture with the established society that it refuses
to continue; it imagines a new beginning ex nihilo. It refuses at the same time
to confine itself to alternatives offered by the established order. From the utopian
perspective, politics is not at all ‘‘the prediction of the present’’ to repeat the
definition given by the last great reformer of the Ancien Régime.*! On the other
hand, a reform does not imply a global vision of social otherness; proposals for
reform even exclude any radical rupture, but call for limited and partial changes
in the continuity.
This is however only an abstract schema. It is completely operative only
in extreme cases that come close to ideal types. In reality, the relationships
between utopias and reforms are much more complex and finely shaded; partic-
ularly so in the eighteenth century. Indeed, much research, and in particular the
works of F. Venturi and P. Francastel, have shown that the ideologies as well
as the mentalities of the ‘‘enlightened minds’’ of the intelligentsia of the time
are marked at once by the aspiration to the utopia and pragmatic attitudes toward
the dominant order.*? A complex interplay of exchanges and amalgams, illusions
and confusions between utopias and reform is set up. For some, the most lucid,
there is a dilemma: either to refuse realities in the name of the ‘‘devilishly ideal’’
utopia, or else to find, at least provisionally, modes of coexistence with the
established order, in order to transform it and turn it against itself. The reforms
then seem only to be the most effective, if not the only possible, means of
realizing the utopia, of ‘‘utopianizing the world.’’ But in the majority of cases,
the alternative is not even posed in clear terms. Compromises are sought between
the utopia and the spirit of reform, and, according to the case, the former or the
latter prevails. Thus hopes are turned at once toward the established power and
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 31

toward reason conquering the future for the utopia. It is at the borders between
utopias and reform that are found the ideological figure and the myth, both
ambiguous, of the enlightened Prince who would make the inherited power of
irrational history the agent that transforms society into an order as reasonable
as it would be transparent.
Proposals that claim to draw their inspiration only from their pragmatism,
promising the definitive reign of Reason and Happiness are situated at the same
borders. Or even other projects that do not hesitate to invoke this reign of reason
in order to propose only a minor, limited innovation.
It could be said that utopia becomes a sort of perpetuum mobile that set
in motion numerous proposals of reform. We shall follow in detail this interplay
of opposites and of complements among criticism, utopia, and pragmatism. Let
us cite, nevertheless, some examples, in order not to remain in the abstract. The
Abbé de Saint-Simon wants only to be a practical and realistic reformer, yet his
“‘proposals’’ are set up as a gigantic utopian construction. There is nothing of
the utopian about Suard; he is a prudent man who has no dream of an alternative
society, but wants to settle himself as best he can into the existing order, that
he would wish more enlightened, more open to enlightened ideas, and, by the
sare token, more welcoming to the intellectuals who convey them. However,
the encyclopedic enterprise and its success awaken in him utopian dreams and
hopes that he shares with many other enlightened minds. ‘What a moment! and
of what an era it (the prospectus of the Enclopédie) gave promise! What a sublime
contrast in all these first-rate minds between a circumspection that made them
excessively multiply doubts and increase research, and an audacity that extended
or overthrew all limits before their hopes! . . . They presented the genius in
tears and on his knees, at times before kings, at others before the peoples,
beseeching them in turn to have pity on human nature; they already stipulated
the articles of a more legitimate and propitious pact between those exercising
the power and those obeying it; it was somehow as though their wishes for the
human race showed almost a divine force that would realize them sooner or later
on earth; and nearly drunk with so much hope for the progress of reason, they
prophesied a Jerusalem of philosophy that would last more than 1000 years. us
Yet another example, that of Restif de la Bretonne. He himself distinguishes
between the utopia and reform and considers the latter a means of arriving at
the former. Time has not yet reached the maturity required by the realization of
the final aim of the utopia presented in L’Andrographe or in L’Homme volant.
That is why Restif proposes to reconcile ‘‘the general reformation’’ with real
life and to make it realizable by degrees. ‘‘I have never aspired to the happiness
of seeing it (L’Andrographe) realized, except perhaps at in the time of regen-
eration. Ah! if one wanted, how many troubles would be avoided. What happy
brotherhood would be suddenly established among men. Oh legislators, I repeat,
deign to read L’Andrographe. . . . It is because we did not yet have hope that
32 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

our aim was no longer only to give a plan of partial reformation.’’** And what
can one say of the utopian elan that inspires the ‘‘proposal for reform’’ conceived
by an obscure provincial attorney who promises effects defined with equal clarity
and modesty in the title of his work: L’avant-coureur du changement de monde
entier par l’aisance, la bonne éducation et la prospérité générale de tous les
homme ou prospectus d’un mémoire patriotique sur les causes de la grande
misère qui existe partout et sur les moyens de I’ extirper radicalement. . . . [The
forerunner of the total transformation of the world by the affluence, good edu-
cation, and general prosperity of all men or prospectus of a patriotic report on
the causes of the great wretchedness that exists everywhere and on the means
of completely eradicating it.] Babeuf, a young, self-taught man, read the work,
and found it a bit extravagant, but still full of new and attractive ideas. Following
up his reading, he, in turn, proposed a subject for the annual contest held by
the Académie of Arras: namely, pondering the theoretical and practical possi-
bilities of establishing an egalitarian society, based on the community of goods.
‘‘Given the present amount of knowledge, what would be the state of a people
whose social institutions would be such that the most perfect equality reigned
indiscriminately among all of its individual members; that the soil they inhabited
belonged to no one, but rather, to all; that, in short, everything was held in
common, even including the products of all kinds of industry? Would similar
institutions be authorized by the natural law? Would it be possible for this
institution to survive and even for the means of establishing an absolutely equal
division to be practicable?’’*°
These examples and this evidence, many more of which exist, reveal even
deeper tendencies. In fact, the interaction between utopian dreams and reformist
hopes contributes to the development of certain ideas that dominate the ideo-
logies, if not the mentalities, of the ‘‘enlightened’’ elites. Utopian representa-
tions, more or less carefully developed, heighten the expectations aroused by
these ideas and thus give them a specific tone. We have already evoked the
figure of the philosopher-king, if not of the enlightened despot, who would put
his power to the service of the utopia. In the same way, the idea of progress
allows history to be thought of as the accumulation of innovations and partial
changes that would inevitably lead to the ‘‘Jerusalem of philosophy,’’ a new era
for all of humanity.
With certain proposals of reform taking over utopian representations, a
specific circuit of exchange between the imaginary and political and social real-
ities is doubtless established. However the effects of this are very frequently
ambiguous, if not paradoxical. In losing clarity, the utopian representations do
not necessarily gain in realism, in the sense that they do not leave the sphere of
the imaginary for that of action and accomplishment. As is known, the proposals
of the era are only rarely lead to practical realizations—it is the discourse on
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 33

reforms that prevails over the activity of reform. Utopian representations do not
always stimulate the will to action, even reforming and limited action. Utopias
can be places of refuge and escape in which one settles down to dream of reforms
and imagine their beneficial results. The repercussions of utopian effects that
pragmatism confers on itself is often only the sentiment of nostalgia and crisis.
One lives in an enlightened century, at an exceptional time, when with all the
proposals of reform social life could easily regenerate, yet nothing changes. The
divorce between the imaginary that takes on the appearance of the possible and
the real only becomes more pronounced. Therefore utopian representation can
still less be considered as the place where, before 1789, a revolutionary political
project was being worked out. The utopian who imagines an alternative society
is neither a revolutionary nor even a ‘‘dreamer,’’ who would create ‘‘revolu-
tionary dreams.’’ Utopian representations do not enrich the field of expectations
of the pre-revolutionary era either with omens or with horoscopes of political
and social upheaval. The historian of utopias is not in the least disappointed by
this, provided that he does not mistakenly class the utopia, even spoken of in
the future, as a sort of social astrology. On the other hand, he is all the more
attentive to the profound transformations, both sociological and epistemological,
that intervene in the relationship between utopia and politics during the revo-
lutionary period, a period of rapidly accelerating changes, but also of particularly
intense production of hopes and dreams.
These observations on the scope of the utopian phenomenon call for yet
another complementary remark. Indeed, one notices that the interaction between
utopian idea-images and pragmatic proposals of reform do not lead to utopias
put into practice in the sense we have given this term: the foundation of small
communities, where the members maintain new social and moral relationships
with one another and with the entire society, based on the model of a micro-
society where communion is expressed by more or less complete community.“
As we have observed, in the eighteenth century, this sort of initiative proliferates
in England, while America becomes a chosen land for model communities formed
by English or German immigrants. In France, it will be necessary to wait until
the first half of the nineteenth century to inspire Saint-Simon’s, *‘Phalastérian,”’
‘‘Icarian,’’ and other utopian experiments. This contrast is certainly explained
by the fact that in eighteenth century France there is no collusion between utopian
idea-images and a messianic or millenarian spirit, whereas the latter was precisely
the motivating force of English or American utopian communities in search of
paradise on earth. In very Catholic France, the terrain is hardly favorable to
ideas or movements of that type. Even when Jansenism, in an exceptional if not
unique occurrence, happens to take the form of a quasi-Messianic movement,
it doesn’t lead to a communal experience, nor does it enrich the social imagination
in any way.’ It is the enlightened mind that takes on utopian ideas and repre-
34 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

sentations and, in a sense, it is on the ‘‘lights’’—enlightenment—and on their

progress, their flourishing as a promise of happiness, and not on salvation, that
utopian imagination is fixed.
The utopias that offer a continuation of deist ideas, if not of atheism, in
the realm of the imagination would be unable to sustain energies and a will of
a religious, sectarian nature. There are many utopias that give a positive response
to Bayle’s famous question on the possibility of the existence of a society and
a legitimate power that will do entirely without any religious foundation. (Let
us merely cite one example of utopias inspired by Bayle’s question: Fontenelle’s
utopia La République des Philosophes.)
Nevertheless, the absence of utopias put into practice is not necessarily
evidence of a flight from reality. Occasionally, the orientation toward a utopia
is too rapidly and summarily categorized as an escape. This hasty categorization
takes no account of one major phenomenon: the majority of utopian texts are
part of the literature of the era that is the most committed to ideological battles.
Of course, this commitment is undertaken according to the modes suitable to
the utopian enterprise, but how numerous are the utopian texts that only circulate
clandestinely! It is yet again when criticism turns toward utopia that it commits
itself still further. It then occasionally indulges in the most radical opposition to
established society, as the work of Dom Deschamps demonstrates.
Noting the absence of established utopias calls for yet another observation;
in fact, if model communities are not formed, at least people dream more and
more of putting utopias into practice. There is no doubt whatsoever that after
1760 the description of an ideal society that attracts the most readers doesn’t
aim at a city located on an unknown island or near the austral lands. On the
contrary, it presents a micro-society, a sort of applied utopia, imaginary of course,
but localized in the same space-time as that of the reader. We are thinking of
the society of Clarens in La Nouvelle Héloise, of the detailed and realistic picture
of its social and economic relationships, its religion, its holidays and rites, that
put the ideal of communion and transparency into images.** Now, the utopia of
Clarens and the success it meets with are only the most striking signs of a general
tendency. The representations of ideal society move, let us say metaphorically,
from the periphery toward the center of the space-time of the authors and the
readers. If Clarens remains a sort of island of happiness isolated from the sur-
rounding society, visiting it does not call for the rupture and the disorienting
change of scenery tinged with the fantastic that characterize the ideal cities in
the imaginary voyages. Let us note, too, that the utopian descriptions that are
interpolated in the form of episodes in a novel become progressively numerous.
The imaginary, even exotic, city is only a place to pass through, one where the
hero enriches himself with new ideas and experiences, to turn himself, thereafter,
toward the world he shares with the reader.
The distances between the ideal society and the real society diminish in
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 35

proposals of reform, as they do in discourse on history-progress. The impossible

is no longer at the other side of the world, but within reach, if not of the hand,
at least of the imagination. It is quite close to us in both time and space and its
realization rests on improvements and actions to be accomplished. Thus Restif
de la Bretonne depicts, for example, an ideal micro-society, based on the com-
munity of goods, that revives the golden age not in exotic lands but in the very
center of Paris. In another text, Restif imagines an ideal rural community es-
tablished in Auvergne, and expounds the statutes that rigorously regulate the
modes of property, family life, living conditions, education, relationships be-
tween the sexes, etc.*? What could be more remarkable than this imaginary
vision of an ideal society that claims to draw on a real experience, or rather,
what contemporaries took to be the discovery in the heart of France, and not
among the Hurons, of the existence of egalitarian and communal micro-societies.
Whether misunderstanding or self-deception, the episode is particularly revealing
of the reorientation of the utopian imagination we have evoked and it is worth
dwelling on it for a moment.
In 1755, the Journal d’agriculture published an article questioning the
possibility of founding a ‘‘singular establishment.’’ The proposal foresaw the
union of peasants and artisans in a community of production and consumption.
It would be a free association: goods would be shared in common, work planned
by a council, and each member would receive a sum of money according to
the work done. The community would take responsibility for the education of
the children and the organization of the social life and of mutual aid on behalf
of the sick and the elderly. The anonymous author refers to the economic prin-
ciples of monastic life, whose advantages he would like to apply to secular life.
But, as this monastic example is hardly stimulating in the ‘‘enlightened century,”’
the author evokes another example in support of his proposal, this one quite
secular. He announces, in effect, the discovery in Auvergne, in the area of Thiers
and Brioude, of peasant communities completely similar to his “‘singular estab-
lishment.’’ The article rapidly calls forth echoes: the Journal d'agriculture next
published two reports describing these communities in Auvergne in detail. They
show the idealized images of what is in fact only the residue of an anachronistic
mode of agricultural enterprise by extended families, whose survival in Auvergne
was due to a whole combination of local circumstances. This image, always
substituted for realities, is taken over by diverse authors of proposals in search
of realistic arguments and effective means. In the Encyclopédie, the article
‘‘Moraves’” takes up the good example of these communities in Auvergne in
order to demonstrate that it is entirely possible to establish social life on a
communal basis, suppressing private property, the source of disorder and in-
equality. ‘‘We are so inattentive to the advantages of communities, and so
dominated by individual interest, so little disposed to help one another and to
live on good terms, that we regard as chimeric everything we are told of a society
36 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

that is reasonable enough to share goods and work in common.”’ And yet, ‘‘both
ancient and modern history furnish several similar occurrences.’’ The author
evokes Sparta, ‘‘the Esseniens among the Jews,’’ ‘‘the Gymnophysistes in In-
dia,’’ and ‘‘large tribes in Paraguay,’’ as well as the Moravians and their com-
munities in America, England, and the Netherlands. However, while the
Moravian brothers are a religious sect, ‘‘we have, especially in Auvergne, old
families of laborers, who have lived from time immemorial in a perfect society
and who might be regarded, with good reason, as the Moravians of France. The
image of the Auvergne community, of these ‘‘Quitard-Pinons who give proof
of 500 years of association,’’ is even more embellished than the reports published
in the Journal d'agriculture. Thus it becomes a model or, rather, a springboard
that allows one to ‘‘imagine an association of good citizens’’ whose principles
and functioning are expounded with a great wealth of detail. As far as the essential
is concerned, the article specifies that the community will be free, benevolent,
and secular, ‘‘with no monastic observations.’’ The associates will share their
goods and each one, by working for the community, will work for himself. The
association will be responsible for satisfying fundamental needs in food, clothing,
and living conditions, leaving to the associates the freedom to provide for their
‘‘arbitrary needs’’ (tobacco, wine, etc.). Children will be brought up together,
in a fraternal spirit. All trades will be practiced, but sciences and, especially,
medicine and physics, will be cultivated. Thus, “‘the order and the good morals
that rule in the communities in Auvergne, the great age of these houses and the
esteem accorded them in the country prove . . . that an institution that formerly
survived during centuries and that still exists nearly under our eyes, is not always
either impossible or chimeric.’’*°
The good example of the Auvergnats living in community added to ideas
drawn from diverse utopian works finally gave support to the proposal for es-
tablishing a model community ‘‘nine leagues from Marseille.’’ It would be only
the first step before the formation of a network of similar communities throughout
France. The title of the proposal is as promising as it is explicit: Maison de
réunion pour la communauté philosophe dans la terre de I’auteur de ce Projet.
Plan d'ordre propre aux personnes des deux sexes, de tout âge et de diverses
professions, pour leur faire passer dans des communautés semblables la vie la
plus agréable, la plus saine et la plus vertueuse. The author, Hupay de Fuvéa,
who speaks of himself as a ‘‘communist author’’ in a letter to Restif de la
Bretonne, bases his work on the ‘‘Moraves’’ article in the Encyclopédie and on
the example of the “‘good Auvergnats,’’ which had become quasi-proverbial.
But he also evokes More’s Utopia, Morelly’s Code de la Nature, and the ex-
periences of the Quakers and of the Jesuits in Paraguay. Thus the Quitard-Pinons
rub elbows with the Utopians in a vision of social otherness that comes close to
being idyllic. Everything for its perfect functioning is provided for in the proposal
for this community. Harmony and happiness will reign, goods will be shared,
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 37

and children will be brought up together and in an egalitarian spirit. Few laws
or rigorous rules, but many rites and, in particular, holidays and ceremonies that
will assure communion and transparency. The proposal is studied in detail: layout
of the premises and architecture, schedules, leisure, food, etc. Plato and Rous-
seau, whose statues would be erected on the central square, would preside over
this model life. The proposal had no practical consequences although Hupay de
Fuvéa committed himself to putting his land at the disposal of the future com-
munity. The proposal is, however, revealing, as much of the diffusion of utopian
ideas as of the convergence, if not the mixture, of diverse types of utopian
discourse.’
Who were the ‘‘utopians’’? Even if we have a complete list of the authors
it does not seem that correlations valuable for a sociological analysis could be
established. J. Server’s observation seems correct: ‘‘if a sociologist wanted to
establish a statistical pyramid of the authors, he would soon come to a stop,
considering his attempt absurd, so different were the men who, in a few pages,
recorded their dream, sometimes the best part of their lives.’’°* Several partial
observations are, however, in order. It is thus that some common traits can be
spotted in the biographies of the utopians of the end of the seventeenth century,
such as Foigny, Veiras, Tyssot de Passor: social instability; conflicts articulated,
on different levels, with the established order; peregrinations across Europe;
links with the Protestant émigré milieu. It is interesting, too, to note that the
Entresol, the first English-style club where, under the Regency, politics, and
reform were discussed, had a strong contingent of utopians. The Abbé de Saint-
Pierre presented his proposals there and met A.-M. Ramsay (the author of the
Voyage de Cyrus), Fontenelle, who, at that time, it seems, was writing his
utopia, Ma République, and the Marquis d’Argenson, a cabinet minister who
liked political ‘‘dreams and chimeras.’’ Let us note, finally, some distinctive
characteristics that derive from the very way the utopia is practiced and that
merit some further study.
The term utopian must be given neither too narrow nor too broad a meaning,
as far as the eighteenth century is concerned. Several great names of the Age
of Enlightenment can be recognized among the utopian population: Fontenelle,
Prévost (the happy isle in Cleveland), Marivaux (L'Ile de la raison), Montesquieu
(Histoire des Troglodytes), Voltaire (Micromégas, Eldorado in Candide), Diderot
(Supplément au voyage de Bougainville), Sade (the imaginary kingdoms in Aline
et Valcour), etc. But it would be incorrect to rank all of these authors among
the utopians. There is obviously a fundamental difference in the very approach
to utopian idea-images of, say, Montesquieu and the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, of
Voltaire and Dom Deschamps, of Fontenelle and Morelly. The Abbé de Saint-
Pierre, Deschamps, Morelly—we cite their names only as examples—are, so
to speak, ‘‘serious utopians’’; they aim, in their texts, at an alternative society
as an objective to be achieved, and some of them even envisage the means and
38 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

the modes of achieving their proposals. The others, on the contrary, practice the
utopia neither as a profession of faith nor as a synthetic way of thinking and
imagining the social world; they use it only as a literary device, a narrative
framework. To take up Brissot’s formula, the utopia is a pleasant path that they
chose in order to express their moral and philosophical reflections in an amusing
and agreeable way. If we now stop comparing extreme cases, the distinctions
between the ‘‘play’’ and the ‘‘serious’’ become much less clear. Think, for
example, of the society of Clarens in the Nouvelle Héloise or of the case of
Diderot, who recognizes in Dom Deschamps’s radical utopia the only state
suitable to human nature, but who considers it ‘‘devilishly ideal.’’ This fluidity
of distinction between the play and the serious constitutes, as does the diversity
of the utopian population, sociological testimony the import of which can only
be very imprecise. But it is, perhaps, this very lack of precision that makes it
interesting. The social motivation of the refusals and hopes, the discontent and
expectations, that come to light in utopias are extremely diverse, even contra-
dictory. The utopia, in its diverse forms, permits giving free rein to all these
feelings and attitudes, even when they remain rather vague and imprecise. The
most unexpected meetings are possible on the paths of utopias. Dom Deschamps
finds a zealous partisan of his communistic and libertarian utopia in the person
of the Marquis de Voyer, who takes it on himself to find new proselytes among
the young aristocratic officers who frequent the chateau d’Ormes. Rousseau,
between two “‘solitary promenades,’’ imagines his great civic dream realized by
the Confederates of Bar, a nobiliary movement marked by a conservative spirit
and sustained by a fervent, if not fanatic, Catholicism. The young Babeuf nour-
ishes his social refusal and extends it into the realm of the imaginary by reading
an obscure proposal that announces itself as L’ avant-coureur du changement du
monde entier par I’ aisance, la bonne éducation et la prospérité générale. It is
impossible to find a community of imagination beyond these multicolored va-
rieties. But the fact that certain anxieties and expectations, discontents and hopes
are linked to images of the social otherness reveals the orientation of minds:
with the utopia, one embarks simultaneously on the imaginary and the social.
For some, the utopia will only be a place to pass through, a relay station where
they exercise their imagination and their mind, free of all constraints and enjoying
the very exercise of this liberty. For others, the utopia will serve as a place for
the formation and training of the social imagination as well as of the desire for
change.
Nevertheless, utopian discourse, in its diverse forms, remains a discourse
of the learned culture, of the culture of the elites. Indeed, one could question
the utopian character of the social dreams underlying the peasant revolts of the
eighteenth century and, in particular, of the secular dream of a state protective
of the poor and that would also be a state without taxes.” But if it is a utopia,
it could only be an untold utopia, or else, if you will, an abortive utopia in the
 UTOPIAS, UTOPIANS, REFORMERS / 39

sense that it is never successfully acknowledged in a developed discursive form

and is expressed only in gestures and rites. In the same way, the diffusion of
utopian discourse is circumscribed within the domain of the ‘‘learned”’ culture;
thus no trace of utopian works is found in so-called popular literature, made for
the common people (almanachs, the Bibliothèque bleue, etc.).>*
The rare exceptions to this learned or scholarly character of utopian dis-
course only prove the rule. The case of Meslier is certainly the most remarkable
as much for the originality of the work as for the indirect testimony it gives on
the rarity and difficulty of conjunctions between different types of social imag-
ination and of discourse on social otherness. It is from this perspective that the
case of Meslier calls for further discussion.°°
Meslier links, in an original way, two figures that are products of different
if not opposing cultural formations. On the one hand, he is a prophet who fleshes
out his discourse with secular myths and revolts; on the other, he is a utopian
who puts the entire arsenal of a critical philosophy at the service of his social
dream. Meslier’s utopia is, first of all, the vision of a communal and egalitarian
society where men will possess ‘‘all the goods in common and will enjoy them
equally, all in common, as well; I mean all those of a same place, and of a same
territory, so that all the men and women of a same village, of a same town or
of a same parish and community all together make up only one family, seeing
themselves and considering one another as brothers and sisters.’’ In this alter-
native society, as a result, men will live ‘‘together, peacefully and in common,
all having but one and the same food and all well dressed, equally well housed,
in well set-up, comfortable and heated lodgings, but all applying themselves
equally to the tasks at hand.’’ Meslier does not seek this land, where justice,
happiness, and perfect equality reign, in foreign regions. The coordinates of this
country are those of Etrépigny, the curé’s very parish; they are also those of all
the other Etrépignys where his word will be heard. Meslier is even more of a
utopian in the orientation he gives his materialism and his atheism. The great
moral and social dream that dwells within him, like the exceptional character
of this dream, is linked to the image of a society without religion or rather, more
exactly, to a society that will know no religion other than that ‘‘of true wisdom,
and of moral probity . . . that of entirely abolishing tyranny, and the superstitious
cult of the gods and their idols.’’ Was it not more audacious to imagine Etrépigny,
at the end of the reign of Louis XIV, populated by ‘‘Godless men’’ than it was
to glimpse a life with neither tyrants nor private property? However, Meslier
associates this utopia, nourished with a whole philosophical culture of the elites,
with a prophetic discourse that falls within the province of a very different
tradition, one close to millenarianism.
This prophetic discourse, it is true, is distinguished from millenarian dis-
course by the secular and atheistic character of the dream announced by Meslier.
However, he remains a prophet in the sense of one who knows and sees ultimate
40 / THE SOCIAL IMAGINATION AND UTOPIAN REPRESENTATIONS

truth and who by his words unveils it to others. He announces the advent of a
different time, free of all material and spiritual oppression and one that would
bring a sort of collective salvation. The word, he affirms, becomes efficacious
only if it awakens consciences, and its consequences extend into collective
actions. But is it not the distinctive feature of prophetic discourse to want to be
an efficacious active word, thanks to the revelation it brings? The prophecy, in
calling for action, is nourished by memories and myths, by what is unspoken
in the peasant revolts. Thus, Meslier’s utopia is not a proposal for perfect
legislation, much less a political project. Only the truth of the message and its
conformity with the real suffering of the peasant masses allow the hope that the
word will not be suppressed and that it will one day inspire the last great revolt.
Such discourse, which conveys at the same time biblical prophetism, the
myths of the peasant revolts, an atheistic philosophical utopia, and a communal
egalitarianism, can seem heterogeneous, if not contradictory. It nevertheless
corresponds to the time and place in which it arose. How else, without having
joined the audacity of a utopian to the faith of a prophet, could the radical
upheaval of permanent history that Etrépigny was experiencing be imagined?
Because it is the meeting place of opposing cultural formations, Meslier’s
work represents an isolated if not unique case. Its exceptional character shows,
on the one hand, to what extent utopian discourse is circumscribed by the culture
of the elites and, on the other, how the admixture of popular culture and learned
culture remains rare and difficult in the sphere of social imagination. The con-
junction of a similar experience and a sociocultural configuration only recurs,
in the utopian sphere, a century later, in the formation of the young Babeuf;
and, even there, one might well wonder if the differences of the times and the
biographies are not more important than the analogies/similarities. Indeed, only
the accelerated time of the Revolution will intensify the circulation of ideas and
values, images and symbols that in a specific situation function as so many relay
stations for the social imagination in quest of utopia. But even there the movement
will be essentially from top to bottom, continually frustrated by numerous
obstacles.
Utopia and Politics: An
“Imaginary Voyage”
by Rousseau
 Prone is not a country nowhere and Rousseau doesn’t speak of
its discovery in a text that could recount sea crossings, shipwrecks, and unknown
islands. We will visit countries situated in the imaginary elsewhere later, as we
will follow the innumerable adventures of their explorers. However picturesque
they were, they were nevertheless less rich in surprises and discoveries than
those that Rousseau encountered exploring Poland, a country to which he never
went.
Rousseau’s works present most important and revealing evidence of the
changes that the utopian sphere undergoes in the second half of the eighteenth
century. Rousseau did not write any imaginary voyages and was careful not to
codify his political ideas and social dreams in a proposal for perfect legislation;
he even judged the composition of such a code to be too easy a job, within the
range of even a law student. Yet, those who considered and still consider, some
indulgently, others reprovingly, the author of the Contrat social as a political
dreamer, a maker of chimeras were, and still are, legion. Was Rousseau utopian?
Let us leave aside this debate which has already lasted for two centuries and
which is too often short-circuited, degenerating into a quarrel of semantics,
words, definitions, and value judgments. Whatever the “‘real’’ Rousseau might
have been, this debate confirms, if that was necessary, that a utopian interpre-
tation of Rousseau’s texts was not only possible, but that it was indeed made.
In the case of certain texts, such a reading is in perfect agreement with the
explicit intention of the writing. As we have already noted, there is no doubt
that the utopian text most read at the time was that depicting the ideal micro-
society, the ‘‘happy isle’’ of Clarens. As far as other texts and particularly
Rousseau’s political works, are concerned the problematic proves to be more
delicate and more complex. Certainly, Rousseau himself didn’t mean them to

43
44 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

be utopian. However, these texts lent and continue to lend themselves to several
readings, particularly those that elicit primarily representations of an alternative
society, a harmonious reunion, in a transparent community of free and equal
men. The fact that Rousseau’s social philosophy and political thought are not
summarized in this vision and that such interpretations are only partial readings,
is another question. From our perspective, we will note the sociological phe-
nomenon pointed up by such readings, echoed by both the admirers and detractors
of these ‘‘chimeras’’ of Rousseau. Through this orientation of the readings, one
notices that the elsewhere of the social otherness is displaced. It leaves the places
inhabited by expatriates from the time and space of real societies, whose only
link with the latter was the thin thread of the accounts of imaginary voyages.
In these voyages, as in the proposals for perfect legislation, the alternative society
and its ‘‘elsewhere’’ had as a condition of their existence the imaging activity
that was heralded as having ‘‘fictionized’’ and immediately recognized as such.
This was no longer the case with the visions of social otherness armed with, if
not clothed in, a philosophical and political discourse. They then underwent a
displacement in the imaginary. It is by forcing back the shifting frontiers of the
possible and the impossible that the time and the space that would be linked to
history and yet be habitable for an imagined and dreamed-of different society
are sought. This transformation was not announced only in Rousseau’s texts.
But what other chimeras had such an effect on the imagination and turned it
more toward new paths?
Considérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne et sa réforme projetée
was long recognized and read as a marginal writing, if not an occasional work.
The text’s reputation among “‘Rousseauists’’ was no better. It was found frankly
embarrassing more than once; it seemed the most confused of all the writings
by which the author of the Contrat social launched himself into the political
domain sensu stricto. Despite referring throughout Considérations to the Contrat
social or to Emile, Rousseau seemed to contradict and disavow his own ideas.
Even more, he seemed to do so by predicating an ill-defined political realism,
whose result was a timid reformism, if not ideas that were clearly conservative,
and incompatible with his own civic dream of a New City. Considérations thus
was thought to be evidence of a double failure. While his social ideas and dreams
were belittled, Rousseau was thought to have failed to prove himself as far as
that famous realism was concerned. From this point of view, his advice to the
Polish was found completely disappointing—it lacked a sense of reality and was
overrun with “‘chimeras.’’ It could be said that Considérations was blamed for
being too opportunistic and for not being enough so, for being riddled with
‘‘chimeras’’ while not being sufficiently ‘‘utopian.’’ Moreover, this disconcert-
ing work came within the context of the history of Poland that Mornet, in the
course of his reading of Considérations, found frankly inextricable.
All of these are difficulties, if not absolute drawbacks. But doesn’t the
 UTOPIA AND POLITICS / 45

very fact of being difficult and neither well-known nor understood make a work
interesting?’ Other reasons, however, made it necessary to include Considéra-
tions in our study. First of all, in this text, the manifestation of the movements
of the frontiers of the utopia is expressed in a way as original as it is revealing.
A political text par excellence, Considérations is nevertheless defined by the
vision of a New City that tends to situate it not in the vacuum of an imaginary
elsewhere, but rather within historical and social realities as dense as they are
resistant to dreams. Rousseau is grappling with these realities, as well as with
this dilemma: to refuse the latter in order to save the ideal or else to sacrifice
the ‘‘chimera’’ in order to transform the real; it is not the first time the author
of Considérations sees himself confronted by this dilemma and he is not the
only one to have faced it during this ‘enlightened century.’’ Yet, Considérations
brings hima solution that is remarkable for its originality. Rousseau’s reply to
those who had reproached him for fabricating chimeras was ‘‘they see me in the
land of chimeras, but I see them in the land of prejudices.’’ In Considérations,
the ‘‘land of chimeras’’ gains ground over the ‘‘land of prejudices’’ and it is
the “‘limits of the possible in politics and morale’’ that are thus displaced.” In
addition, Rousseau envisages the displacement of these limits as the effect of
the action that the chimera, the representation of a New City, is able to exercise
on realities. We will pay particular attention to this point.
These are all more or less scholarly reasons for studying Considérations
in detail. But why hide another, more personal, reason? Among so many voyages
to dreamlands, how could I not have chosen to trace the one that led to Poland
and at the end of which this real country was enveloped in an imaginary one
which made it the chosen land where dream would have its unique chance of
taking over from reality.
But let us go on to the text of Considérations, which requires a careful
and consistent reading.
 1
“To Show Routes Unknown
to the Modern...”

A, we know, Rousseau wrote Considérations during the winter

of 1770-1771 at the behest of Count Wielhorski, the spokesman for the Con-
federates of Bar, who gave him a file on Poland and its political situation and
asked him to give his opinion of the ‘‘proposed reform’’ of its government.*
But the conditions Rousseau judged necessary before he would take the floor
must be further specified, as must the spirit in which he accepted this role of
“‘politician.”’
‘“Basically, the institution of laws is not such a marvelous thing that any
man with sense and equity could not readily find by himself those that, well
observed, would be the most useful to society. Where is the merest law student
who will not draw up a code of morality as pure as that of Plato’s laws? But
that is not the point. It is to so adapt this code to the people for whom it is made
and to the things on which a ruling is made, that its enforcement follows from
this propriety alone; it is to impose on the people, following the example set by
Solon, not so much the laws that are best in themselves as those that are the
best he can apply in the given situation. . . . Things having to do with morals
and universal justice are not regulated, as are those of individual justice and
absolute rights, by edicts and laws; or, if sometimes laws do influence morals,
it is when they draw their strength from them. Then they give them back the
same strength by a sort of reaction that is well known to true politicians.’’*
Thus the true politician does not draw up proposals for perfect legislation;
he doesn’t write books that, like Sévarambes, can be relegated to the ‘‘land of
chimeras.’’ He does not exert himself to make systems that, like that of the
Abbé de Saint-Pierre, are too good to be adopted.” The true politician, then,
must take reality into account, which does not mean that he agrees to adapt
himself to any reality, no matter what. It is true that it is not sufficient to have
46
 “TO SHOW ROUTES UNKNOWN TO THE MODERN...” / 47

invented an ideal code to be a true politician; but it is all the more true that one
cannot become one, without being guided by a great moral and social objective.
On the other hand ‘‘our politicians believe only the little things that they do
are feasible.’’ They want only to govern and they have confidence only in force,
fear, and money. ‘‘A bad teacher only knows how to flog a student, a bad govern-
ment official only knows how to have people hanged or put in prison.’’ The best
political maxims would be of no use to them, since they inevitably lack imagina-
tion and don’t believe that they can be applied. The ‘ “important government offi-
cials,”” petty politicians, ‘‘judging men in general by themselves and those who
surround them . . . are very far from imagining what motivating spirit love of
country and the élan of virtue can give to free souls’’ (pp. 1038—1039).? They al-
ways look at men as they themselves should be seen, that is ‘‘as worthless men on
whom only two instruments have any influence, namely money and the knout”’
(p. 1039). And that is why ‘‘in all courts, liberty is regarded as a mania of vision-
aries that tends to weaken rather than to strengthen a State’’ (p. 1038).
Thus it can be said that the ‘‘true’’ and the ‘‘petty’’ politician both take
into account the reality that defines their field of action, but that each one
envisions things in a different, if not opposite, spirit. One believes only what
he does to be feasible and thus he perpetuates the workings of the political
mechanism of which he is at one and the same time the driving force and the
product. He never comes to imagine a politics guided by other interests and
objectives than those that made him a politician and an ‘‘important government
official.’’ Naiveté in politics, the error for which Rousseau reproached the Abbé
de Saint-Pierre, consists of taking people for something other than what they
are. While denouncing abuses, the author of the Projet de paix perpétuelle didn’t
see that they “‘are based on the very interest of those who could destroy them’’
and to whose goodwill he was appealing.* That is why nothing ‘‘is more frivolous
than the political science of the Courts; as it has no fixed principle, no certain
consequences can be drawn; and the entire beautiful doctrine of the Princes’
interests is a child’s game that makes sensible men laugh’’ (p. 1038).
But not all political discourse is inevitably that of the ‘‘frivolous science.’’
Certainly the other politician, the ‘‘true one,’’ must also ‘‘take men as they are’’
and distrust any system that ‘‘would be good for the people of Utopia and is
nothing for the children of Adam.’”? But he, too, would be lacking in imagination
by setting the limit of the human element where the people themselves, degraded
by bad morals and unjust institutions, find it. ‘“When one reads ancient history,
one believes oneself transported into another universe and among other beings.
What have the French, the English, the Russians in common with the Greeks
and Romans? Nearly nothing but their figure. The strong souls of the latter seem
to the others exaggerations of history. How could those who feel themselves to
be so small think that there could have been such great men? They did exist,
however, and they were human beings like us; what prevents us from being men
48 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

like them?’’ (p. 956) Now, these ancient peoples were formed by great legislators.
Their actions and their works are so many models for every true politician. Yet
these legislators of the ancients didn’t have exceptional men at their disposal.
On the contrary: Moses formed a nation ‘‘from a swarm of miserable fugitives,
without arts, without arms, without talent, without virtues, without courage’’;
Lycurgus established a people ‘‘already degraded by servitude and its resultant
vices’’; Numa transformed brigands into citizens (pp. 956-957). In Considér-
ations, Rousseau again takes up the exposition he had made in the Contrat social
of the charismatic qualities of the legislators of the ancients. They were real
miracle workers, but it is the great soul of the legislator that constitutes the true
miracle and it is by it that he gave proof of his mission.!°The legislators of the
ancients had the indispensable audacity and spiritual strength to transform souls
by raising them above themselves, in bringing ‘‘their courage and their virtues
to a degree of energy of which nothing today can give us the idea’’ (p. 958). It
is striking to see how Rousseau stresses in Considérations the imagination of
the legislators of the ancients that accompanied their works as well as their art
of shaping the imagination of their peoples, of orienting it by institutions and
apparently frivolous rites that nevertheless inflamed souls, setting them aglow
‘with emulation and glory’’ (pp. 957-958).
We will return to these ceremonies and rites as well as to their functions.
Let us note however that Rousseau, proposing the legislators of the ancients and
their political art as an example to himself, does not in any way assimilate his
own political discourse in Considérations to theirs. That is due not only to the
fact that he does not attribute to himself the qualities of a miracle worker, but
principally to the distinctive features of their respective words as well as to the
historical era when these words were spoken. Indeed, it is characteristic of the
legislator’s word that it is immediately translated into action or rather that it is
the very act that founds the institutions. Thus this founding word is never a
discourse on politics and on institutions, it is never a “‘proposal’’ or a ‘‘theory.””
The exceptional qualities of a great legislator, in whose soul ‘‘the fire of enthu-
siasm is joined to the depths of wisdom and the constancy of virtue,’’!’ perfectly
correspond to a precise historical situation that defines the conditions of possi-
bility of this word-action. The great legislator can only intervene at the dawn
of history. If he ‘‘makes the gods speak’’ to his people, it is because such a
word is still possible, in the times when gods have not yet become mute. There
is certainly in Rousseau’s work a mythology of the great legislator, the founder
of the state and educator of the people, but the author of Considérations confines
it to a time when the myth itself could still be part of history. !? This is no longer
the case in modern times, an additional reason the discourse of Considérations
doesn’t aspire to substitute itself for that of a great legislator; nor is Rousseau
seeking a quasi-mythological hero for Poland. In other words, the legitimacy of
the political discourse of Considérations is due to the presupposition that the
 “TO SHOW ROUTES UNKNOWN TO THE MODERN...” / 49

time of the great legislators is past and that, therefore, a discourse on politics
is possible.
Does the discourse of Considérations, then, follow the paradigm that
controls a large part of the literature of the time, namely that of the philosopher-
adviser of the prince? This comparison is not unreservedly valid; there are subtle
distinctions. Those to whom Rousseau addresses himself in Considérations,
through the intervention of Wielhorski, are the Confederates, the defenders of
the original constitution and of republican liberties in revolt against the abuses
of the prince. Their revolt owes its legitimacy to the fact that in a moment of
peril for both liberty and the fatherland, they act in the name of the body of the
nation. In defending republican liberties they oppose any and all types of des-
potism, including that called enlightened. Thus, Rousseau does not seek to
enlighten the prince but to form an ‘‘enlightened patriotism’’ (p. 905). In the
Confederation, Rousseau sees an exceptional institution similar to that of the
Roman dictatorship. ‘‘Both silence the laws in a pressing danger, but with
the great difference that the Dictatorship, diametrically contrary to the Roman
legislation and to the spirit of the government, ended by destroying it, and that
the Confederations, on the contrary, being only a means of strengthening and
reestablishing the constitution that had been weakened by great efforts, can
tighten and reinforce the slack authority of the State without ever being able to
break it’’ (p. 998). Rousseau considers this institution a ‘‘political masterpiece”’
and—the greatest praise—even superior to the Roman institutions. Such a unique
institution, that concentrates all executive power and suspends the law, can only
exist and function thanks to the ‘‘generous citizens’? who devote themselves
heart and soul to their endangered country. The Confederates thus furnish the
proof that their souls, like those of the Ancients, are liable to be inflamed with
a ‘‘truly heroic zeal’’ (p. 998). They attest to a state of mind that marked Poland’s
past and that can still, at the present time, inspire the whole nation. The existence
of such a state of mind, of ‘‘souls still having great force,’’ is the necessary
condition of the discourse of Considérations. In order for communication to be
possible between the person who speaks and those to whom he speaks, those
addressed must understand the language used, the language of the country and
of liberty, which are inseparable. The latter must grasp the real meaning of the
words country and ‘‘citizens’’ that should, however, be erased from modern
languages.
Thus Rousseau posits a complicity between himself and his readers, be-
tween a man with ‘‘singular ideas’’ in relation to his time and a republic sustained
by a singular spirit and one that gives ‘‘one of the most singular spectacles that
can strike a thinking being’’ (p. 954). ‘‘Perhaps all of this,’’ he says in Con-
sidérations, ‘‘is only a heap of chimeras, but here are my ideas; it is not my
fault if they are so dissimilar to those of other men, and it was not up to me to
organize my head in another way. I even admit that whatever singularity might
50 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

be found in them, as far as I’m concerned, I see nothing that is not well adapted
to the human heart, good, practicable, especially in Poland, as I have applied
myself, in my views, to following the spirit of this Republic’ (p. 1041). 4 Thus
the text takes a particular form: through detailed observations on the institutions
and the legal reforms, it is an appeal issued to souls, ‘‘to the energy of courage
and to the love of liberty’ (p. 998). And it is, finally, the activation of this
‘“‘energy”’ that is spoken about; Rousseau only proposes to show from a distance
‘‘routes unknown to the moderns by which the ancients led men to that vigor
of soul, that patriotic zeal . . . that are unparallelled among us, but leavens of
which are in the hearts of all men; they are only awaiting suitable institutions
to activate their fermentation’’ (p. 969).
It is therefore based on a certain image of Poland and the Polish people
that the political discourse of Considérations is constructed. We will clarify this
image more precisely, but must first take up a very delicate problem, often
considered a key problem in the understanding of Considérations. One wonders,
in fact, to what extent the image on which Rousseau’s developments are based
corresponds to reality. One would even like to judge the value of Considérations
according to the answer to this question. This would give rise to a long debate
but, in truth, the question seems to us badly posed. There are many essential
reservations to it. Were the Poles “‘really’’ crazy about liberty and inspired by
a patriotism without equal in other nations? Can the complex realities of a people
be embodied in an overall image that it creates for itself or one attributed to it
by others? And does this image depend on the sphere of knowledge or that of
ideologies and mythologies expressed in stereotyped images? Is its function to
advance a knowledge or rather to install, in collective mentalities, a set of values
and models of behavior grouped around these stereotypes? It is, however, certain
that even if Considérations is not supported by a true image, it is closely akin
to a true myth and translates a true political and social dream. The importance
of the problem deserves an explanation.
We do not know exactly what the dossier was on Poland submitted by
Count Wielhorski to Rousseau.'° However, there is no doubt that the dossier
contained not only information and that it specifically suggested an overall image
that the Confederates had given of themselves and their cause. For complex
historical reasons impossible to discuss here, the Confederation of Bar was a
movement with strong ideological and mythological components. In its ideology
that was, in many ways, syncretic and paradoxical, nostalgia for national gran-
deur was confused with opposition to any attempt to modernize the country, the
defense of anachronistic nobiliary privileges was allied with a republican and
egalitarian mythology, and Catholic obscurantism was mixed with a patriotic
élan. This ideology was translated not only by an abundant political literature,
but also was expressed in patriotic poetry and especially in a diffuse feeling of
enthusiasm and exaltation that was all the stronger for being nourished by an
 “TO SHOW ROUTES UNKNOWN TO THE MODERN...” / 51

ardent faith, if not by a religious mysticism. Thus the Confederation generated

a whole national mythology concentrated in the image of a heroic, patriotic,
profoundly Catholic Poland, attached—to the death—to liberty, ever faithful to
its republican past and the enemy of all tyranny.
Rousseau surely had other sources of information (in particular those that
came from Ruhliére, then working on his Histoire de l'anarchie de Pologne).
He also knew the other image of the Confederation found in Voltaire, that of a
group of fanatics opposed to their philosopher-king and who defy even the
Sémiramis of the North. However, Rousseau doesn’t hesitate to adopt as his
own the important themes of the mythology of Bar, but not without reservations.
Moreover, he lends a personal touch to this mythology, enriching it by associating
it with his political theory, thus giving it a certain conceptual coherence. It is
thus that Considérations contributed to the formation of an image of Poland
whose multiple effects on Polish destiny cannot be overstated. The image of
Poland stemming from the Confederation will be taken up and amplified in great
Romantic poetry, thanks to which it will penetrate the collective mentalities and
sensitivities of several generations. Considérations too will have its greatest
resonance among the Romantics. According to a legend—but every legend has
its own truth—Mickiewicz knew entire pages of Considérations by heart.'°
Looking at it closely, one sees that Considérations is the meeting place,
the place of fusion and interaction, of two imaginary formations, of two ‘‘fan-
tasies.”’ Rousseau could only be inflamed by this idealized image of Poland
because it was closely akin to his own civic dream, a political and social reality
dreamed by himself. This image seemed to him to confirm the existence of a
modern people different from the others, with a patriotic energy and a love of
liberty that equaled those of the Ancients. In a noteworthy phrase, Jean Fabre
defined Considérations as the ‘‘first novel of national energy.’’'” Paraphrasing
this formula, it might be said that it is also the last reverie in which the civic
energy condensed in Rousseau’s political work is expressed. More than any other
political text of Rousseau, Considérations resists a reading that only looks for
abstract reasoning on politics, cold and impartial reflection, or even the appli-
cation of a system to a given reality. The movement of thought is guided by the
dream of a New City, the ideas are inseparable from the images, the word is
always an appeal to souls, and the truth attempts to win over hearts. In Rousseau’s
political work this civic dream very frequently took on a nostalgic tinge. He
then turned to a past at the limits of utopia and shut himself up in idealized
images of Sparta and Rome. But even in this refuge, he remained, so to speak,
in expectation of a favorable circumstance to ‘‘raise souls to the level of the
souls of the ancients’’ (p. 961). At the contact of the images that had originated
in Poland, this dream is revived and joined to the hope that politics will become
something other than the ‘‘frivolous science’’ of the courts, and will find, once
again, its true meaning that has been forgotten by the moderns.
 2
“If My Ideas Are
Extravagant...”

L is not our intention to reduce Considérations to a pure political

reverie. As we have already stressed, Rousseau was wary of falling into a
‘‘student’s task of composing a code of ideal legislation.’ To avoid that danger,
he spent ‘‘six months . . . examining the constitution of a miserable nation,’’'®
he gathered information on the political and social realities of Poland and, within
the given limits, the seriousness of this documentation can only be admired. On
the other hand, Rousseau, in advising the Polish people, wanted to remain true
to his political thinking and ideals and especially to the ideas formulated in the
Contrat social. That is when he faced apparently insurmountable difficulties.
There are indeed numerous references to the Contrat social in Considérations,
but it is easy to note several points on which there are at least seeming contra-
dictions between the two texts. To cite just one striking example, the institution
of representatives, judged disastrous in the Contrat, is accepted in Considéra-
tions. But even more, the very idea of ‘‘drafting a reformation’’ for Poland
seems to contradict the principles defined in the Contrat and in particular the
exposition of the confluence of conditions that ought necessarily to be present
for a people to be ‘‘suitable for legislation.’’ The problem calls for closer study
as it must be tackled as much for the reading of Considérations as for that of
the Contrat.
Let us first recall in what terms and how rigorously Rousseau defines these
conditions. ‘“What people, then, is suitable for legislation. The one that, finding
itself already linked by some union of origin, interest, or convention, has not
yet borne the real yoke of laws; the one having neither deep-rooted customs nor
superstitions; the one that is not in fear of being overwhelmed by a sudden
invasion; that, without entering into its neighbors’ quarrels, can by itself resist
each of them, or, with the help of one of them, repulse another; the one each

de
 “IF MY IDEAS ARE EXTRAVAGANT...” / 53

member of which can be known by all, and where no man need be charged with
a burden greater than one man can bear; the one that can do without other peoples
and which all other peoples can do without; the one that is neither rich nor poor
and can be sufficient unto itself; finally, the one that joins to the substance of
an ancient people the docility of a new people.’’’? Rousseau cites only one
country in Europe that meets all these conditions, namely Corsica, and when he
was asked to make a proposal for a constitution for the Corsicans, he thought
he had found a marvelous opportunity to apply in real life the fundamental
principles of the Contrat.”°
In this context there is no allusion to Poland in the Contrat social, nor
could it have been otherwise. In fact, the situation in Poland did not meet any
of these conditions either at the time the Contrat was written or ten years or so
later. They were not ‘‘a new people’’ but a quite ancient nation, with old customs
and old prejudices; nor was it a small country, but an immense land; Poland
was involved not only in ‘‘quarrels’’ but was in the midst of war with nearly
all of its neighbors; torn apart by contradictions, she was undergoing a severe
political crisis; the society was divided into states, inequality was pushed to an
extreme point, and, even worse, the privileges of the nobility were the cornerstone
of its constitution. Why, then, did Rousseau take it upon himself to draft a
proposal for reform for such a country? Why didn’t he himself follow the example
he cited with praise in the Contrat, namely that of Plato who refused to give
laws to the peoples who didn’t lend themselves to legislation??! And didn’t he
contradict himself again by proposing to Poland a project completely different
than that made for Corsica, all the while referring in both cases to the same
principles of the Contrat social?
Was Rousseau aware of all these difficulties? It is striking to note that, in
defining in Considérations ‘‘the state of the question,’’ he characterizes Poland’s
condition as nearly a direct antithesis of the conditions in question in the Contrat.
Poland, he says, is a ‘‘depopulated, devastated, oppressed region, open to its
aggressors, at the height of its misfortunes and its anarchy.’’ It is a state so
‘‘oddly constituted’’ that it is hard to understand how it has been able to survive
for so long a time. ‘‘A great body formed by a great number of dead members,
and a small number of divided members, all of whose movements, nearly in-
dependent of one another, far from having a common end, mutually destroy one
another; that makes much ado while accomplishing nothing; that can make no
resistance to whoever wants to breach it; that falls into dissolution five or six
times a century; that falls into paralysis at any effort it attempts to make, at any
need it attempts to provide for’’ (pp. 953-954).
Is proposing to ‘‘reform’’ such a country not inevitably a paradoxical
enterprise? And could the work that such a proposal would entail be able to
remain faithful, if not to the letter, at least to the spirit of the Contrat social?
“TI prefer to be a man of paradoxes than a man of prejudices,’’ said
54 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

Rousseau of himself. And in determining the principal motivating force of his

‘‘proposed reform’’ for Poland, he said: ‘‘If my ideas here are extravagant, at
least they are quite completely so, for I confess that I see my madness as having
all the characteristics of reason’’ (p. 955). This “‘extravagance’’ was indeed
necessary in the case of Poland: it could hardly be a matter either of copying
the proposal for Corsica or of simply implementing the ideas of the principles
of the Contrat social. It was to be a singular undertaking, for, in studying the
Polish case, Rousseau found it odd and paradoxical, in flagrant contradiction of
all political maxims. Poland, he frequently insisted, presents an ‘‘astonishing,
prodigious’’ case, ‘‘an example unique in history’’ (p. 971), ‘‘one of the most
singular spectacles that can strike a thinking being”” (p. 954).
Of what does the Polish paradox consist? This ‘‘so oddly constituted’’
state has not, however, collapsed: it still “‘lives and maintains its vigor’’ (p.
954). In this Europe where all the states that are in appearance so magnificently
constituted, are, in reality, rushing toward their ruin, only Poland ‘‘still shows
the fire of youth; and it dares to request a government and laws, as though it
had just been born. It is in chains, and discusses the means of keeping itself
free!’’ (p. 954). The last phrase recalls the famous formula of the Contrat social:
“Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains.’’ It is as though Poland were
challenging the political condition of man. A storm has only to threaten the
country for this people to reveal their distinctive characteristics, for the ‘‘Patriotic
souls’’ that were being lulled into a lethargic sleep to awaken (p. 954). Do the
Poles not again give evidence of this prodigious awakening of a people precisely
by seeking advice from Rousseau on the means of conserving their country and
their liberty?
The fact that Rousseau’s personal mythology is recognized and reflected
in a collective mythology is not enough to explain his being so impressed by
the image of Poland, an exceptional, free, and miserable nation. Besides, this
image is distinguished by both contradicting and confirming his political theory.
The case of Poland contradicts it precisely by its “‘prodigious’’ character. The
Contrat social did not predict that an important European state, with a long past,
could escape decadence and that its citizens could maintain and be worthy of
love of country and of liberty. But, on the other hand, doesn’t the case of Poland
confirm the truth of an essential yet unknown principle of ‘‘our politics,” namely
that the true constitution of the state comprises only the laws engraved in the
hearts of the citizens and that they have to do with morals, customs, and
opinions?” Surrounded and threatened by its enemies, Poland nevertheless forms
an island where thanks to the spirit of her people liberty is not a ‘‘chimera.”’
The ‘‘unique spectacle’’ of Poland surprises Rousseau and strikes his
imagination; he strives too to understand it and to draw conclusions from it for
the future. Whence the double query found throughout developments of Con-
 “IF MY IDEAS ARE EXTRAVAGANT...” / 55

sidérations: how was this ‘‘wonder’’ possible? And what can be done to safeguard
this people in spite of the dangers threatening it?
The first question finds its answer in the fact that the Poles succeeded in
maintaining their love of country. “Country” is the key word of the political
discourse of Considérations, and, it could be said, the key to the puzzle. Its
frequency alone is highly significant. Only complete semantic studies of Rous-
seau’s political vocabulary could furnish precise numerical data on this fre-
quency, which is exceptional in relation to the other texts. However, a provisional
calculation shows that in the first twenty pages of Considérations, the semantic
unity country is better represented than in the entire text of the Contrat social.
In Poland and for the Polish, this word has kept its meaning; one can talk to
them of the country and appeal to their patriotic zeal. And love of country is
inseparable from that of liberty and thus we find the key word of all of Rousseau’s
political discourse. How does it happen that in this era in which only the souls
of slaves abound, the Polish have remained free and succeeded in cultivating
the love of liberty? What are the factors that gave this particular cast to the
history of Poland?
Rousseau sought the answer in what was distinctive and unique in Polish
institutions and in their spirit. He did not have many illusions about the Polish
constitution: it “‘was made successively of bits and pieces, like all those of
Europe. As an abuse was seen, a law was made to remedy it. This law led to
other abuses that then had to be corrected’’ (p. 975). Rousseau finds no great
plan that might have governed this legislation and, something particularly char-
acteristic, makes no allusion to a legendary legislator who might have been at
the origin of Polish institutions. And yet, there is ‘‘something remarkable and
that merits reflection’? (p. 975) in these institutions. The weakening of the
legislation—the inevitable result of the proliferation of laws—‘‘happened in
Poland in a very distinctive and perhaps unique way. That is, it lost its force
without having been subjugated by the executive power’’ (p. 975). Thus, the
Polish never knew either tyranny or despotism, whence a truly singular
situation—‘‘the legislative power maintains its complete authority; it is in in-
activity, but without having anything above it . . . nothing dominates it, but
nothing obeys it’’ (p. 957). The legislatorial class, although it has representatives
in the Diet and although it is limited to a single faction, the nobility, is never-
theless continually present, which is not the case in any other European state.
But the political cost, of this conserved liberty, proves to be heavy. If the
legislator is not subjugated, it is because the government is without real power
and the laws have no force. Thus Poland experiences a distinctive sort of anarchy,
one the theory did not foresee. Generally, anarchy is the expression of the
dissolution of the state as a consequence of government abuse and its path toward
degeneration; in a monarchy, the government degenerates into despotism.?* Now,
56 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

in Poland as well as elsewhere, the government, embodying executive power,

inevitably shows an inclination to subjugate the sovereign, the legislative power
(p. 977). However, too divided and too weak, it didn’t succeed in doing so.
The anarchy experienced by Poland is not the effect of the abuses of its gov-
ernment but rather of the abuse of their liberty by the Poles themselves. This is
clearly the case with the confederations and the liberum veto, two institutions
peculiar to Poland. It is in them that the spirit of liberty is expressed and yet it
is from their abuse that anarchy arises.
How does Rousseau consider these two institutions? The confederations
guarantee the inalienable right of the citizens to institute a sort of dictatorship
to protect and defend, if necessary by arms, their liberty. Rousseau sees a
‘‘political masterpiece’ in this ‘‘federative form’’ (p. 998). The confederations
must intervene only in grave situations, major crises that endanger liberty and
the country. At these times, they alone can rally wills and put patriotic energy
and hatred of despotism to work. ‘‘Every free state where the major crises have
not been foreseen is in danger of perishing with every storm. It is only the Poles
who have been able to derive a new way of maintaining the Constitution from
the crises themselves’’ (p. 998). But throughout their history, the Poles have
frequently abused this salutary institution to defend particular interests, contrary
to the general interest. Thus, the confederations have become one of the causes
of anarchy, yet they have preserved the liberty that would otherwise have been
forever destroyed (p. 998). The means of saving the republic was at the same
time the source of its weakness. A similar argument is valid for the liberum
veto, that is, the institution that gave each representative the right to suspend,
by his vote alone, the work of the Diet and to annul all its decisions. This right,
frequently applied, and exploited to corrupt the nation (the Russians, in particular,
easily bought representatives’ votes in order to paralyze the work of the Diet),
is, nevertheless, the expression of the principle of unanimity that ‘‘was required,
by the natural law of societies, for the formation of the body politic and for the
fundamental laws that stem from its existence’’ (p. 996). Whence Rousseau’s
practical conclusion: it is inevitably necessary to seek means of eliminating the
abuses, but while remaining faithful to the constitution and preserving Poland’s
originality.
The change proposed to the Poles by Rousseau must, ‘‘while but scarcely
meddling with’’ the essentials of their laws, be ‘‘capable of bringing patriotism
and the virtues inseparable from it to the height of intensity they can attain’’
(p. 961). The restrictive clause added by Rousseau well expresses the embar-
rassment in which he finds himself in formulating his ‘‘administrative reform,”’
for how, in fact, can the laws of an ‘‘oddly constituted’’ state remain untouched,
particularly as they lend themselves to all sorts of abuses and imply inequality
and social injustice? And, on the other hand, hasn’t their effectiveness been
proven, in the sense that it is thanks to them that liberty has been preserved?
 “IF MY IDEAS ARE EXTRAVAGANT...” / 57

How can he succeed in this other paradoxical undertaking that seeks to ‘‘give
the constitution of a great kingdom the solidity and the vigor of that of a small
republic?’’ (p. 970). Rousseau sees but one possibility: begin a reform movement,
a “‘gradual progression’’ (p. 1020) that would nevertheless avoid the ‘‘slightest
shock,’’ for that would risk overthrowing a nation in a state of weakness and
anarchy (p. 1036). ‘‘Extreme circumspection’’ (p. 955) must be used in tam-
pering with anything. Whence the prudent approach Rousseau imposes on himself
in Considérations. It is only in apparent contradiction with his desire to transform
political and social structures; it only translates the feeling of precariousness of
that “‘Polish wonder,”’ that island of liberty racked by dangers. The Poles must,
then, run the risks of liberty and preserve the institutions liable to provoke an
odious anarchy (p. 955). It is also necessary that their adviser resign himself to
dealing carefully with several vices and defects and not seek ideal laws, but
rather preserve those which the Poles will recognize as applicable to themselves,
those that ‘‘will suit them and . . . have the internal consent of their wills.
Loving the country, they will zealously and wholeheartedly serve it. With this
feeling alone, sentiment, legislation—even bad legislation—would make good
citizens’’ (p. 961).
The political, economic, and social reforms proposed by Rousseau need
not be studied in detail here. However prudent they were for the moment, their
final desired objective was no less clearly defined. The ‘‘proposed reform’’ and
the “‘gradual progression’’ must lead Poland, an anarchic country crushed by
social injustice, to become a just and egalitarian community of free men who
respect their liberty, a state wherein the entire nation will fully exercise its
sovereignty, a “‘peaceful and happy”’ state, that ‘‘will set a great example to
the universe’? (p. 1041). Following paths appropriate to herself, however winding
and roundabout they may occasionally seem, Poland will thus finally realize the
ideal underlying the political discourse in the Contrat social. Certainly the for-
mulas expressed in the Contrat do not anticipate such a possibility. But did
Rousseau not say that “‘the limits of what is possible in moral things are less
narrow than we think; it is our weaknesses, our vices, our prejudices that shrink
them. The base-minded do not believe in great men; lowly slaves smile mockingly
at this word liberty.’’ It is in Poland that the ‘‘limits of the possible”? are seen
to be displaced; it is liberty, that ‘mania of visionaries’’ that makes the frontiers
of the ‘‘country of prejudices’? recede and extends those of the ‘‘country of
chimeras.’’ Why could Poland not join and catch up with the other historic
wonders Sparta and Rome, now considered chimeras? Yet what today is only a
chimera ‘‘was not one 2000 years ago. Has the nature of men changed?’
Thus all the discourse in Considérations is based on this vision of an
alternative society that Poland would have a unique opportunity to realize. To
what extent a particular reform was really appropriate to the true situation of the
country, to what extent these reforms were practicable and had a chance of
58 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

leading to the desired results, is another problem not within the scope of our
study. At the risk of repeating ourselves, let us stress once again that Rousseau
is not grappling directly with the political and social reality of Poland; he sees
it only through the image the Confederates give of themselves as well as their
country and its fate. Although Rousseau doesn’t accept this image uncritically
without reservations and criticism, it is, finally, to it that he adapted his reforms.
Moreover, Rousseau further amplifies this idealized image by enveloping it, so
to speak, in a second image of his dreamed-of City. Thus, a whole play of
mirrors is set up between the utopia and the national mythology, and the contours
of the real country are progressively blurred by an imaginary Poland. In other
words, it is very easy to show to what degree the image produced by the
Confederates deformed reality and to what extent the apologia for the republican
spirit, the confederations and the liberum veto was an amalgam of demagogy
and self-mystification. It follows that the author of Considérations, working on
these images, is as partial as he is ‘‘chimeric”” in his proposals. Let us also note,
however, that he is scarcely more so, though in a completely opposite spirit,
than a Voltaire in his pamphlets against the Confederates. The primary interest
of the political discourse of Considérations is elsewhere. Their novelty in relation
to the other texts on the Confederation of Bar consists of the opening up of the
political thinking of Rousseau and of his social dreams to the national phenom-
enon. How sensitive the author of the Contrat social is to these problems! He
succeeds in deriving the beginnings of a national ideology from the mythology
of the Confederates, just as he recognizes in the national originality and in the
values implied by the latter a motivating force to be exploited by the ‘‘true
politician’? who displaces the ‘‘limits of the possible.”’
It could be said that this opening up was imposed by the circumstances
and that Rousseau only adapted his theory and language to the present circum-
stances, but that would be a very simplistic interpretation. And it would still be
necessary to explain how such an adaptation of the political thought formulated
in the Contrat social was possible. All political thought and all political language
are neither receptive nor adaptable to any and all problems. Should not the
question rather be to what point the political discourse of the Contrat social and
the social dreams it conveys meet the necessary condition for being the receptacle
of the values and myths suitable to national, if not nationalistic, ideologies?
These are all important questions that would call for long discussion. Let
us note, nevertheless, that the assimilation of a new problem necessarily en-
countered difficulties and imposed a flexible approach, one example of which
seems to us particularly instructive: the use made by Rousseau of the model of
the ancients to outline the Polish “‘wonder’’ and to define its characteristics.
Indeed this model—one of the main themes of Rousseau’s entire work—plays
a double role in Considérations. On the one hand, the reference to antiquity
allows the originality of the Polish situation to be reduced to what is already
 “IF MY IDEAS ARE EXTRAVAGANT...” / 59

known; on the other hand, antiquity is evoked to bring out the novelty of this
same historical situation. It could be said that Rousseau writes ancient verses
on new ways of thinking. Considérations illustrates particularly well how, in
the second half of the eighteenth century, a certain model of antiquity, associated
to a civic dream, becomes the place for a renewal of ideas and values, and yet,
how outdated is the traditional opposition between neoclassicism and pre-
romanticism.”° There are almost continuous references to Greco-Roman antiquity
in Considérations. In order to save their country and make it into the City of
virtues, what examples could the Poles follow but the incomparable ones of
Rome and Sparta? Thus, they must ‘‘grasp the opportunity given by the present
event to raise souls to the tone of the souls of antiquity’ (p. 961). Yet, they
have to sing their own hymn; they must remain themselves, and preserve and
cultivate their own “‘national physiognomy.’’ ‘‘It is national institutions that
form the genius, the character, the taste and the morals of a people, that make
it itself and not another, that inspire in it that ardent love for the country that is
based on habits that cannot be uprooted’’ (p. 960). Despite his references to the
ancients, Rousseau clearly sees that the political and historical data are not the
same. Moreover, the importance he attached, in Considérations, to a model of
antiquity other than that of the Greco-Romans, namely that of the Jewish people,
is extremely characteristic. Evoking the ‘‘great legislators’’ whose spirits must
preside over the reform of Poland, Rousseau quotes, beside Lycurgus and Numa,
the example of Moses, stressing the distinctive characteristics of his work. Con-
trary to the other legislators, Moses was not the founder of a State but of a
Nation, and even a ‘‘singular nation.’’ He gave to his people “‘that durable
institution, which has stood up to the test of time, of fortune and conquerors,
that 5000 years have not been able to destroy or even to alter, and that still exists
today in all its force, even though the body of the nation no longer survives.”’
He prevented ‘‘his people from being subsumed among foreign peoples”? and it
is thus that this nation ‘‘so often subjugated, so often dispersed, and apparently
destroyed, but always idolatrous of its principles has maintained itself up to this
point, scattered among the others without being merged with them, and its morals,
its laws, its rites and rituals, survive and will last as long as the world, despite
the hatred and persecution of the human race’’ (pp. 956—957).
As Jean Fabre judiciously noted, the analogy between the Polish people
and the Jewish people is one of the keys of Considérations, an analogy that will
moreover be taken up again by Polish messianism and, particularly, by Mick-
iewicz. In the comparison, the religious differences of the two peoples are
disregarded. The problem is analyzed uniquely from its political and moral
aspects, which is even more revealing. Besides, Rousseau practically ignores
the religious problem in Poland, as though he was embarrassed by the fervent,
if not fanatic, Catholicism of the Confederates, who made it an essential element
of their ideology.
60 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

In Considérations, the functions of the two models of antiquity—Greco-

Roman and Jewish—are both opposite and complementary. They conflict insofar
as they correspond respectively to the two different hypotheses on Poland’s future
envisaged in the text. In the first, Poland would succeed in preserving its in-
dependence, its status of a free state, thanks to the realization of reforms. The
discussions of the ‘‘administrative form of government’’ go in the direction of
this hypothesis and Rousseau then refers to the Greco-Roman model, to which
he nevertheless adds changes and modifications. But, on the other hand, Rousseau
also envisages a pessimistic hypothesis, that of a Poland subjugated by the
Russians and no longer an independent state. This hypothesis poses the problem
of knowing whether a people can survive the destruction of its state; specifically
a people and not a shapeless mass of individuals. In other words: how can a
people, reduced by arms to submission, preserve its identity, its will to live in
common and protect its originality, and thus remain a nation, a living organism?
It is in this hypothesis that the examples of Moses and the Jewish people are
particularly enlightening. ‘‘The laws of Solon, of Numa, of Lycurgus are dead,
while the even older laws of Moses still live. Athens, Sparta, Rome have perished
and have left no children on earth. Zion, while destroyed, did not lose its
children. . . . They no longer have leaders and yet they are a people, they no
longer have a country and yet they are citizens.’’”’
However, the opposition between these two models is relative, for the
practical enterprises that result from the two hypotheses are confluent. The
condition necessary to the success of the reform is the same as that which would
guarantee the nation’s survival if the state did not withstand violence.
‘‘In the present state of affairs, I see but one means of giving it (Poland)
the substance it lacks: that is to infuse, so to speak, into the whole nation, the
soul of the Confederates; that is to establish the republic so strongly in the hearts
of the Poles, that it would survive there despite the efforts of its oppressors.
That, it seems to me, is the only asylum where force can neither reach nor
destroy it. . . . You will be unable to prevent the Russians from gobbling you
up; at least don’t let them digest you. . . . The citizens’ virtue, their patriotic
zeal, the particular form that national institutions can give to their souls, that is
the sole rampart always ready to defend it, and one that no army can overthrow.
If you see to it that a Pole can never become a Russian, then I answer you that
Russia will never subjugate Poland’’ (pp. 959-960). Elsewhere, Rousseau is
less categorical; he speaks of a ‘‘temporary yoke’’ that will be shaken on con-
dition that love of country burns continuously in hearts.
Whence the advice on which he continually insists: it is necessary to give
souls a ‘‘national physiognomy,”’’ a ‘‘national form,’’ the ‘‘national force.’’ The
word nation and its derivatives often flow from his pen. Combined with terms
such as “‘country”’ or ‘‘fatherland,”” ‘‘enthusiasm,’’ ‘‘energy,’’ and ‘‘liberty,”’
and associated with examples from the ancients, the words nation and national
 “IF MY IDEAS ARE EXTRAVAGANT...” / 61

take on an even greater emotional charge. Nowhere precisely defined, nation

determines a source from which values originate, a way of being in the world
that links the individual to a community and permeates his entire existence.
‘‘Every true republican ingests, with his mother’s milk, love of country, that is,
of laws and liberty. This love affects his entire existence; he sees only the country,
he lives only for it; as soon as he is alone, he is nothing; as soon as he no longer
has a country, he no longer exists and if he is not dead, he is worse. . . . At
twenty, a Pole cannot be another man; he must be a Pole’’ (p. 966).
But how can politics ‘‘reach into hearts’’ and to what means should it
resort in order to infuse souls with patriotic energy and enthusiasm and to
transform them into forces that will transform the country as it is into the one
it must be in order to ‘‘set an example for the Universe’’?
 3
“They Must Enjoy Themselves
in Poland...”

ce
any are the public games that the good motherland takes
pleasure in seeing her children play. . . . They must enjoy themselves more in
Poland than in other countries, but not in the same way’’ (pp. 962—963). Rous-
seau was perfectly aware that such advice given to a country at the height of
civil war and whose very existence was threatened by the Russians could only
seem extravagant. And yet he was by no means looking for an additional paradox.
By insisting on the particular importance of celebrations and public represen-
tations for the success of his “‘proposed reform,’’ he is only developing his ideas
on the ‘‘limits of the possible’’ in politics. It could even be said that the encounter
with Poland had given him the opportunity to apply a theory and a utopia of the
public festival and of its many social functions, underlying all his work, and
sketched out in his other writings, particularly in the Lettre à d’Alembert and in
la Nouvelle Héloïse.
If in Considérations the problem of festivals and public celebrations takes
on such importance, it is because Rousseau brings to the fore the profound
affinity by which he wants to join political action to pedagogical action. It is
public education that ‘must imbue souls with the national force, and so guide
their opinions and tastes that they will be patriots by inclination, by passion, by
necessity’ (p. 966). The true meaning of politics is not the art of governing
men but that of ennobling their hearts and souls, and the greatness of a true
politician is manifested by a system of public education he sets up. Rousseau
saw Plato’s Republic, the work named when one ‘‘wants to refer to the land of
chimeras,’’ as the finest ‘‘treatise on public education ever made.’’”® Could it
not be said that Considérations is Rousseau’s great treatise on public education?
Rousseau sees in the public festival a particularly effective means of ed-
ucation, hence the privileged place he accords it in the mechanism of the ‘‘pro-
62
 “THEY MUST ENJOY THEMSELVES IN POLAND...” / 63

posed reform.’’ The festival is the high time of ‘‘patriotic zeal,”’ of that collective
sensitivity that must permeate public life as well as daily activities. Expressing
this diffuse sensitivity in one single act, the festival is also the instrument of its
formation and intensification. The imaginary representations of civic virtues that
the festival sets up by its rites and symbols are all means of shaping the souls
of those who participate in them. Thus the festival conveys both a political and
an educational discourse whose effectiveness is due to its specific language, that
of images and signs. It is the only one that is able to bring into play and to
orient the action of both the individual and the collective imagination. Some
observations must be made here on the distinctive characteristics of this language
that make it a privileged means of political communication and action of politics
as education or, in a sense, of an education for politics. We will see below that
Rousseau’s ideas on the imagination and its language will be taken up again
during the Revolution, with the attempt to implement a system of festivals for
a New City.
Let us note first that Rousseau considers as ‘‘the most forceful language”?
the one ‘‘in which the Sign has said everything before one speaks.’’*? ‘The
object one displays to the eye shakes up the imagination, excites curiosity, keeps
the mind in a state of expectation about what one is going to say and often this
object alone has said everything.’’*° Although ‘‘the language of gesture and that
of the voice are equally natural,’ the latter is nevertheless easier and depends
less on conventions. The spoken language also gains in ‘‘energy’’ to the extent
that it associates images with sounds and ‘‘inserts the most images.’’ This
‘‘energy”” of the language of signs and images is due to the fact that one ‘‘speaks
to the heart better by the eyes than by the ears.’’ Thus the language of images
is more suitable to ‘‘strong souls.’’ ‘‘Reason alone is not active; it sometimes
holds back, rarely excites and has never done anything great. Always reasoning
is the mania of little minds. Strong souls have quite another language; it is by
this language that one persuades and stirs to action.’’*
That is why this language imposed itself naturally on the ancients. They
used images and gestures as so many symbols to make the virtues and values
of their City perceptible. Like the Romans, who paid particular attention to this
‘‘forceful language,’’ Rousseau is fascinated by the symbolic if not decorative
aspects of their life. ‘“Clothing differing according to the age, the social status
—togas, sagums, praetestas, bullas, laticlaves, tribunes, licitors, fasces, axes,
crowns of gold, of grasses, of leaves, ovations, triumphs; with them, everything
was trappings, representation, ceremony, and everything made an impression
on the hearts of the citizens.’’>* Thus, they also naturally used this language of
signs and gestures at the great moments of their history to express the strongest
emotions, like Antony, who had the body of Caesar brought in without uttering
a word. This rhetoric managed without the words and commonplaces so abused
by the moderns, who have abandoned and even forgotten the forceful language
64 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

of signs, additional evidence of the degradation of morals and politics. Power

whose only hold over men is force and money has confidence only in these
instruments. Even kings no longer utilize ‘‘the august trappings of their power.”
The most skilled politicians, however, have always had recourse to this language,
although they only exploit it to manipulate men. The Catholic clergy proves its
skill when it associates richness of decor and costumes with its rites and adorns
the Pope with the marks of his dignity. This is also the case with the government
of Venice which, despite the fall of the state, still enjoys, ‘‘under the trappings
of its antique majesty, all the affection, all the adoration of the people.’’ Rousseau
certainly evokes his own memories and the impression the ceremony of the
Bucintoro must have made on him when he says that it is this ceremony that
‘would make the populace of Venice shed all its blood to uphold its tyrannical
government.”
What is the basis of this power of the language of images that gives it
such ascendancy over souls that, welcoming it, a people is ready to defend its
own tyrants? It would be foolish to seek the explanation in the strength of
prejudices that take possession of reason. Those who think that way are them-
selves inveterate reasoners and do nothing but reduce man to a purely rational,
if not reasoning, being, who acts only according to a rational demonstration.
This error into which modern nations fall and one which is expressed in their
philosophy is particularly harmful in politics and in morality. ‘‘In trying to give
everything to reasoning, we have reduced our precepts to words, we have put
nothing into our actions.’’** |
The importance accorded the language of signs and in particular its political
use involved all of Rousseau’s anthropology. The active principle in man is not
his reason, but his heart, passions, and desires; his reason has no direct hold on
these motivating forces, so whoever wants to make man act must touch his heart
and bring his reserves of passion into play. And there is a specific faculty in
man whose flame kindles passions: the imagination. The forceful language of
signs and symbols addresses itself specifically to it. For Rousseau, as for all the
philosophers of the time, the imagination is an ambiguous faculty, veiled and
difficult to define other than by its effects.” The distinctive attribute of the
imagination is to ‘‘transport us out of ourselves’; it is the imagination alone
that permits the passage from self to other.*° Thus it brings into play all the
social affections and sets off the complex mechanism at the origin of all social
bonds and, consequently, of the passage from the natural man to the social man.
‘‘He who imagines nothing is aware of nothing but himself; he is alone in the
midst of the human race.’’>’ The imagination, inactive in the natural man, is
always in play in the social man and, in a manner of speaking, it escorts his
activities. In other words, no social relationship and, all the more so, no social
institution is possible unless man extends his existence in images he makes for
himself of himself and others, of his past and his future. The institution of the
 “THEY MUST ENJOY THEMSELVES IN POLAND...” / 65

social implies a permanent effort of the imagination, its interaction with reason
and the passions and, in particular, the translation into images of abstract concepts
such as virtue, justice, equality, the City, and so forth. Contrary to memory,
which only accumulates ideas, the imagination is creative; the images it produces
are organized in a complete imaginary world, both infinite and unlimited. There
is always a gap between the real world, which has its natural limits that man
cannot extend, and the imaginary world. ‘‘It is the imagination that extends the
measure of possibilities for us either in good or in evil, and that therefore arouses
and nourishes desires by the hope of satisfying them.’’ Either in evil: the gap
between the real and the imaginary encourages man to distance himself from
his true condition, makes him run after mirages and neglect his present; or in
good: man, inspired by images of virtue and of the City-fatherland, extends the
*“‘measure of possibilities’ for himself and for his Republic.**
This digression, if it was one, was doubly justified. We will have occasion
later to refer to the theory of imagination and its language that Rousseau passed
on to the succeeding generation. But it also allows us to understand that the
apparently paradoxical formula they must enjoy themselves in Poland is by no
means an innocuous phrase. It summarizes a system of public education that
appeals to the realm of the imagination and that Rousseau wants to set up in an
imagined if not imaginary Poland, so that the attempt ‘‘to extend the measure
of possibilities’? be made there.
Far from proposing to halt the work of the imagination, which would in
any case be an impossible task, education aims to give it a slant, to bind it to
real objects, to orient it toward the true, the good, the sublime. Emile’s tutor
attentively follows, sometimes with anxiety, sometimes with hope, the progress
of his pupil’s imagination. His teaching is in large part devoted to the formation
and orientation of the imagination, by frequent recourse to the language of
images. The true legislator, the educator of the people, recognizes even more
the importance of imagination to the success of his work. First of all he himself
must be an imaginative soul. His action is guided by the ideas and images of
the institutions he wants to set up and of the people he wants to form. Moreover,
he also knows how to guide the imagination of his people and knows full well
the force of the language of signs and the use that might be made of it. If
necessary, the great legislator effaces himself behind an image, for example,
when he ‘‘makes the Gods talk’’ in order to give more authority to the laws.
Besides, he dreams of setting up complete social mechanisms that would assure
the permanent emission of the images that maintain the activity and vigor of the
collective imagination. These images stimulate patriotic emulation and serve as
so many models of behavior for the citizens. In this mechanism, at once political
and educational, public games and festivals play a prime role. It is within their
framework that unanimity, the true foundation of the just and virtuous City, is
formed. Moreover, this unanimity implicates not only the community of presence
 66 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

but also and especially that of the imaginary. Thus, the legislators of antiquity
‘‘sought links that would attach the citizens to the country and to one another,
and they found them in particular customs, in religious ceremonies that were by
their very nature exclusive and national . . . in games that gathered many citizens
together; in exercises that augmented their pride and self-esteem along with their
vigor and strength; in spectacles that, reminding them of their ancestors, mis-
fortunes, virtues, victories, interested their hearts, kindling a keen spirit of
emulation in them and strongly attaching them to that country that was constantly
kept in their minds’’ (p. 958). Like Moses, who ‘‘overloaded his people with
rites and particular ceremonies’’; like Numa, who was the “‘true founder of
Rome’’; because ‘‘by those apparently frivolous and superstitious rites, whose
force and effect were felt by so few,’’ he had returned ‘‘their sacred city’’ to
the Romans (pp. 957-958).
Public festivals and ceremonies are also the pivot of an educational system
imagined by Rousseau and one he advised establishing in Poland. For him,
education is the ‘‘important article’’ on which all the other articles of his proposed
reform are based. Only education can inspire souls with ‘‘the national force’’
on which the fate of the country depends; yet, the educational system established
everywhere in Europe produces inverse effects. ‘* A Frenchman, an Englishman,
a Spaniard, an Italian, a Russian are all more or less the same man; he comes
‘out of school already shaped for his degree, that is, for servitude’” (p. 966).
True civic education can only be public and concerns only free men who alone
have a common existence.
How can festivals and ceremonies, which are an exercise in public edu-
cation, orient men toward the City which, although it does not exist, will yet
not seem to them a “‘chimera’”’? This is perhaps the most original idea of Con-
sidérations: to represent a social order that does not yet exist but that, by being
represented in this way, already establishes itself in imagination. His image thus
becomes an agent that modifies realities and extends the ‘‘measure of possibil-
ies.
In Considérations, Rousseau reworks and elaborates on his utopia of the
ideal festival coupled with a sociological theory of the festival that he had
explained in the Lettre à d’Alembert. We shall discuss them more fully in the
chapter on Utopia and Festivals. Let us note here only some essential points
Rousseau emphasizes in Considérations, contrasting the civic festivals that Po-
land will experience and the theater by which all the other countries are fasci-
nated.
These festivals also will be important spectacles but how different from
those of the theater! The two spectacles contrast with each other by their spaces,
their spirits, and their functions, in the same way as the social experience that
each of them expresses in its own way. The theatrical spectacle is an experience
only of ‘‘closed-in rooms’’ whereas the festival of a free people takes place ‘‘out
 “THEY MUST ENJOY THEMSELVES IN POLAND...” / 67

of doors,’’ ‘‘under the sky’’ (pp. 958, 963). The theater is a spectacle for the
rich, in which participation costs money, where the common people are ‘‘always
looked down on’’ and ‘‘always without influence’’; the civic festival, on the
other hand, is, of necessity, free and popular. The theater is cosmopolitan and
frivolous; ‘‘they know how to speak only of love’’ there, where one sees ‘‘actors
declaim histrionically, and prostitutes mince about affectedly’’ (p. 958). On the
other hand, civic festivals are virile spectacles that ‘‘must always exude decency
and gravity,’’ and where ‘‘only objects worthy of their esteem’’ should be
presented for the admiration of the people (p. 964). The theatrical spectacle is
only artifice on the stage and a pseudo-catharsis on the part of the audience. Far
from giving rise to a communion of ideas and feelings, it only stimulates ego-
tistical interests and corruption, the only ‘‘lessons that thrive of all those that
there is a pretense of giving’’ (p. 958). The public festival, in contrast, unites
the people with their leaders, it is a ‘‘theater of honor and emulation that gives
luster to patriotic virtues and fuses souls in a feeling of harmony.’’ Contrary to
the theater, the public festival eliminates distinctions among author, audience,
actors, producers, and directors. The festival gives free play to the spontaneity
of free men. It must be noted, however, that in Considérations, to the contrary
of what he did in the Lettre à d’Alembert, Rousseau stresses the organized and
institutional character of the festival. The people must take part, but the ranks
must be “‘carefully distinguished’ and the common people not be confused with
its leaders, hierarchical subordination thus always being maintained (pp. 963-
963). It is a matter of a difference of register and tonalities rather than content.
Order is supposed to be spontaneously established, and behind this spontaneity
an organizer is always hidden.
All these solemn festivals and ceremonies always play out the same spec-
tacle if they do not follow the same scenario; only the places, the people, and
their arrangement change. Each time, it is the people or, it may be said, the
nation that gives itself its model image in a spectacle. By applauding the best
sons of the fatherland, by remembering the glory of its ancestors, by crowning
the victors in noble and virile games, by exalting virtue and liberty, the people
always have in front of their eyes their own representation that is at once idealized
and normative. The festival starts off the imagination but, by a retroactive effect,
the social and moral model, translated into images, keeps this imagination con-
tinually occupied and does not allow it to wander off from the moral lesson
arranged as a tableau vivant. In the symbolic images of what is worthy of their
esteem and imagination, the people divide themselves in two, so to speak. They
live their own existence on two planes between which a permanent exchange is
established. All these guiding images are linked in an educational discourse. But
is it not the people who thus tell themselves what it ought to be, who set forth
their utopia and who, thus, become their own educator? That is the political
masterpiece, although one might wonder to what point the people only take up
68 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

again and amplify in their collective rites and images the founding word of the
artisan of this masterpiece. Is it not he, the ‘‘true politician,’’ who is the hidden
organizer of all these civic rites and ceremonies?
Thus, it is necessary to multiply the festivals and ceremonies in Poland,
representing the free, just, and harmonious City—that will be performed because
they are desired, and desired because they are performed.
However opposed they may be to the theater, all these solemn ceremonies
imbue the space and the social time with a specific theatricality. Let us make
an effort of imagination and follow a citizen walking about in the imagined
Poland of Considérations. A quasi-permanent setting surrounds him and speaks
to him. Thus, the Pole wears a national costume and sees only others dressed
in the same way. Those he meets often wear identity cards—gold, silver, or
steel—the respective inscriptions Spes Patriae, Civis Electus, Custos Legum.
These distinctions are worn by the ‘‘active members’’ of the republic, who take
part in the administration (pp. 1020-1023). He meets others, too, with other
distinctive signs, as a man of influence is never allowed to remain incognito;
the entire nation observes him, and the marks of his rank or his dignity must
follow him everywhere (p. 1007). Note that the absence of any decoration
consequently becomes a distinctive sign in itself. . . . Our citizen will certainly
come upon one of the solemn ceremonies of which there is no lack in his country.
Thus he will attend, for example, public games for children, among whom he
will easily recognize those of poor parents who have deserved much from the
country; these children wear still other distinctive signs. He will admire the
trappings with which these games are organized and will attend this spectacle
as a judge, since, along with the other decent men and gallant patriots, he will,
by acclamation, award the prizes to the victors (p. 968). Perhaps he will attend
a public meeting of the so-called censorial or charitable committee, where the
needs of overburdened families, the ill, and widows, are provided for, with funds
supplied by the contributions of the well-to-do people of the province. Or this
same committee might deliberate on the choice of individuals from all the states
whose conduct is worthy of honor and reward (p. 1026). He himself might be
distinguished or, at least, might bring this same committee ‘‘good information”?
about those who do good quietly but who are honored in public. It might also
be a meeting on the occasion of the ennoblement of several worthy bourgeois
or perhaps on the occasion of the freeing of peasants. In that case, our citizen
will attend a ceremony celebrated with the greatest pomp and circumstance and
all the trappings that can make it ‘‘august, touching, and memorable’”’ (p. 1028).
These ceremonies will proliferate, like a snowball. And a real avalanche would
be necessary to free all the peasants. . . .
Perhaps our walker, not at all solitary, has the opportunity to be out on
the day of a posthumous trial of a defunct king. Besides, how could he stay
home and miss such an opportunity to show his civic spirit? He will then par-
 “THEY MUST ENJOY THEMSELVES IN POLAND...” / 69

ticipate in another ceremony, this one, too, organized with the greatest pomp.
Numerous citizens will take the floor to accuse the defunct or else to praise his
merits with respect to the country. Propelled by his patriotism, our citizen will
certainly deliver a harangue, naturally as eloquent as it is noble and simple, so
as to contribute to a just and fair trial, followed by a judgment rendered with
all possible solemnity (pp. 1034-1036). The symbolism emanating from all
these solemn ceremonies is all-enveloping, and our citizen can never escape the
model image of his own good citizenship. Can his dreams and daydreams be
other than patriotic and civic? Aren’t the landscape, the sky, and the earth part
of a setting where civic virtues unite with the idyll? Rousseau doesn’t tell us
anything about the city planning of Polish cities. It doesn’t, however, seem to
us to be stretching his thinking to imagine them of moderate size, with straight
streets that lead to wide plazas able to accommodate the crowds solemnly as-
sembled. And would it not be necessary to think about building arenas or circuses
similar to those of antiquity to give a setting to the public games and equestrian
exercises? Should all public buildings not be monuments whose sober and severe
facades express the spirit of justice and liberty presiding over these institutions?
In imagining these cities we have but to draw conclusions from the theory of
the ‘‘forceful language of signs’’ and its profound affinities with the esthetics
of an architecture for utopia to which we will return in another chapter.
Thus, Considérations does not only envisage a reformed and regenerated
Poland. It also establishes the imagination at the very heart of its public life.
Let us, however, beware of anachronism. The imagination must indeed be om-
nipresent and escort passions and desires, but it is by no means in power, as the
famous slogan ‘‘power to the imagination’ would have it. On the contrary, the
imagination is bound. It only translates an educational discourse, both political
and moral, and communicates it with monotonous insistence. One can wonder
whether this will to impose a civic didacticism on the totality of life, both
collective and private, does not widen the gap foreseen in Considérations between
the final objective of the proposed reform and its immediate realization. Indeed,
Poland was to remain, during a very long period on the order of several gen-
erations, a country where serfdom, social and political inequality, and certain
aristocratic nobiliary privileges would continue, though progressively lessening.
We have already discussed reasons why Rousseau resigned himself to such
pragmatism. All the more significant is the gap between these realities and the
collective realm of the imagination, also planned if not programmed. The civic
rites, festivals, and solemn ceremonies translate values not yet fully realized in
the social and economic areas. In other words, it is in the collective realm of
the imagination that Rousseau wants to transpose the vision of the City whose
immediate realization seemed impossible to him because it was dangerous to the
existence of the country. This City was not, though, to remain in the domain
of dreams. This imaginary was to exercise a pressure as real as it was permanent
70 / UTOPIA AND POLITICS

over collective and individual life, and thus have a double effect: on the one
hand, to affirm the distinctive national characteristics that make Poland a unique
country and, on the other hand, to propel this country toward a social and moral
transformation, to guide its ‘‘gradual progression’ toward the City of liberty
and equality.
Rousseau’s “‘imaginary voyage’’ to Poland is not an excursion to a utopia
at the end of which one meets a people with perfect legislation and morals. Nor
does Considérations limit itself to a reform that would sacrifice “‘chimeras’’ to
realities confused with ‘‘prejudices.’’ The dilemma of pragmatism or chimera
was one Rousseau thought it possible to go beyond in a real yet prodigious
country where, by love of liberty, men would espouse the dream. Poland was
not, certainly, an imaginary country; nor was it the country Rousseau imagined.
In Considérations the fusion of the utopia and politics does not go beyond the
level of a proposal, of a discourse on politics. But, making use of the bumpy
vehicle of political discourse, utopias themselves embark on distant voyages and
it is in history that the exploration of the ‘‘limits of the possible’ is carried out.
 Tit
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I have found the truth with all certainty and I shall perhaps
reveal it.’’ These are the terms in which Dom Deschamps announced his ‘‘True
System’’ containing—as the subtitle of his work specifies—‘‘the key to the
metaphysical and moral enigma.’’ The author did not, however, do what he had
announced and his work met with a most curious posthumous destiny. During
his lifetime, Dom Deschamps published only two pamphlets and those anony-
mously: Les lettres sur l’ esprit du siècle (1769) and La voix de la raison contre
la raison du temps et particulièrement contre celle de l’auteur du Système de la
Nature, par demandes et réponses (1770). These two works were nearly
unnoticed—with a few exceptions—by his contemporaries who were, never-
theless, avid for intellectual novelty and polemics. It was only a century later
that a scholar from Poitou, E. Beaussire, rescued the work and the personage
from oblivion. But then, it was another figure he revealed.
In fact, in the archives of the Municipal Library of Poitiers, Beaussire
came upon an extremely odd set of documents, namely a manuscript by Dom
Deschamps, La Vérité ou le vrai systéme, which contained the exposition of
complex, if not bizarre, philosophical and social ideas. Beaussire saw in it an
echo of Spinozism, but was especially struck by the affinities between this work
of an eighteenth-century monk and the Hegelianism associated with the socialism
increasingly spoken of at the time. Beaussire presented his discovery with am-
biguous feelings. Like any true scholar—and he was one—he was proud of his
find; he was also proud to be able to show the precedence of a Frenchman over
the German systems in vogue. But, on the other hand, he found the systems
themselves repugnant.
‘What have we found,’’ he wrote, ‘‘in this monstrous system that we
were pleased to exhume? Materialism and communism presented without dis-

13
74 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

guise, or rather, unblushingly, with, as their basis, a pantheism quite frankly

calling itself enlightened atheism. We have no call to pride ourselves on the
priority of such doctrines, and if Hegel might have borrowed them from us, the
supposition honors us no more than it does him.’’’ And of course, if Beaussire
names only Hegel, it is because at his time even scholars had not yet heard of
that other German named Marx who then was only the author of a few obscure
works.
Following this ‘‘exhumation,’’ Dom Deschamps again fell into oblivion,
especially since Beaussire had not published the texts, limiting himself to quoting
numerous extracts as well as fragments of the correspondence. In his Manual
bibliographique de la littérature francaise, Lanson still classifies the two printed
works of Dom Deschamps under the heading Adversaires de la philosophie and
Théologiens et polémistes. Nevertheless, there was something disturbing about
this thought, even as presented by Beaussire, that attracted the curious. Some
minor articles as well as fragments of the correspondence are published in re-
views. However, it will be necessary to wait seventy more years before the work
emerges from the archival dungeons. And yet, habent sua fata libelli. . . . The
first edition of Dom Deschamps’s texts began far from Poitiers, in Baku, in a
Russian translation, in 1930. As we have said, these manuscripts had an attractive
force. It was in 1907 that a Russian revolutionary and scholar, Zaitseva, exiled
at the time of the decline of the revolutionary wave in Russia, went to Poitiers
in search of the manuscript of the Vrai Système; it was, in a way, a return to
sources. Zaitseva made a copy of it, translated the text into Russian and, after
the October Revolution, wanted to publish it. The Revolution, then in search of
a distinctive, characteristic tradition, was seeking ancestors. Interest was natu-
rally concentrated on the utopians, and particularly on those forgotten by the
bourgeois culture. But this search for ideological sources, becoming itself an
integral part of the institutionalized ideology, would have a turbulent, even
dramatic, history, that would draw the researchers themselves into the depths
of its vortex. . . .?
It was only in 1939 that the texts of Dom Deschamps became accessible
to the general public in French, thanks to the edition of J. Thomas and F. Venturi
(the latter, at the time, also an exile seeking in history the message of liberty).
This was only a partial edition and the circumstances hardly lent themselves to
a good reception of Dom Deschamps’s work. In fact, the following years were
favorable neither to metaphysical reflection nor to dreaming about the state’ of
morals. Nevertheless, the texts, once published, broke ground for research that
has become progressively more extensive, increasing in scale particularly during
the last twenty years. The crowning achievement of this recent career of Dom
Deschamps, many of whose texts are translated and published in foreign lan-
guages, might be said to be his entry into the Sorbonne, with the course devoted
to him by J. Wahl in 1966, as well as the first Journées européennes d’ études
 UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS / 75

sur dom Deschamps (Poitiers 1972). The importance and originality of Dom
Deschamps’s work in the evolution of ideas of the last decades preceding the
Revolution has begun to gain recognition. And yet we are only at the beginning
of in-depth research; the discussion on the ‘‘monstrous system’’ has just begun
and Dom Deschamps’s work is still awaiting publication.?
It could be said that Dom Deschamps went from the antechambers to the
great salon of the philosophes of the Enlightenment to find himself among his
peers although occupying a place apart. What has in fact characterized the recent
studies is not only their growing number but primarily the reorientation of their
perspectives. There is, increasingly, an attempt to let the work speak for itself,
to shed more light on it by situating it in its time, but also to better clarify that
era by bringing out the conditions that made possible work that contradicts it.
Thus the historian of philosophy is captivated by the originality of
‘“‘nothingism’’—as Dom Deschamps called his metaphysical system—which
seems to be the only case of mystical materialism. Dom Deschamps’s meta-
physical speculation, while opposing the philosophes, brings out many of the
aspirations and philosophical aspects of the Enlightenment that are often still
obscure. It could be said that this work comes to the support of Yvon Belaval’s
appeal to reread the eighteenth century as a philosopher and finally deign to
receive it into good philosophical society.* If, for this task, a Diderot, a Rousseau,
and a Voltaire are insufficient, and if the philosophy known as ‘‘academic’’
needed a true metaphysician with his own system—well, then, it has all it could
wish for, with ‘‘nothingism’’ and reflection on le Tout and Tout. For the historian
of social ideas, and particularly one interested in utopias, the work of Dom
Deschamps is fascinating. There is nothing more audacious, in fact, or more
radical than that idea-image of the state of morals, of a society with neither
private property nor classes, where perfect equality and the community of women
and goods reign, and where communal life aims to abolish ail the hierarchical
structures, the order, the power, the constraints, and the aggressiveness that mark
daily life. Beside a Meslier and a Morelly, Dom Deschamps and his works attest
to the permanent presence in the ideas of the Enlightenment of an orientation
that unites the denial of the existing overall social system and the search for and
invention of collectivistic forms of social life in order to embody the idea of
happiness, the idea that at the height of the Revolution was proclaimed to be
‘‘the new idea in Europe.”
For still other reasons, the work of Dom Deschamps and the person himself,
as well as his disciples, present particular interest for the historian of collective
ideas and mentalities. What a curious case is this, scrambling as it does clichés
and received ideas. Here is an atheistic monk who forms a sort of sect, a utopian
‘“communist’’ who finds his most ardent proselyte in a d’Argenson and who, at
the chateau d’Ormes, preaches his egalitarian doctrine to a Talleyrand and a
Dumouriez. A materialistic visionary, a profane apostle, whom Diderot listens
76 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

to for hours, recognizing himself in his most abstract system and in his reckless
utopia. And yet, this monk is opposed to the materialistic philosophy of his time,
that of Diderot and d’Holbach, because he finds it only “‘semi-enlightened.’’
This work seems to knock down the partitions in which the eighteenth century
is still too often shut up. In stressing these multiple aspects we are far from
letting ourselves be carried away by the enthusiasm of a proselyte of ‘‘noth-
ingism.’’ However singular it might be, the Dom Deschamps phenomenon is
only an example that proves the rule: that is, that this ‘‘enlightened century,’’
more perhaps than any other, demands a most exceptional historical aproach.
We don’t wish to prolong this preliminary information about the personage
Dom Deschamps and the fate of his work. The latter interests us most particularly
because it presents a privileged case for all research on utopian thought and
imagination. In fact, where other utopians hesitate, dissimulating their problems
and difficulties, trying to accommodate themselves to the received ideas of their
times, Dom Deschamps does not prudently avoid any taboo or seek any com-
promise. He is inspired by the intellectual audacity, united a rationalistic naiveté,
suitable in one who thinks he is in possession of ultimate truth, qualities that
had so strongly struck Diderot when he met the author of the Vrai Systéme:

A monk called Dom Deschamps,’’ he wrote Sophie Volland, ‘‘had me read

one of the most violent and most original works I know. It is the idea of a
social state that could be reached by starting from the savage state, passing
through the police state, emerging from which, one has experienced the
vanity of the most important things, and where one finally conceives that
the human species will be unhappy as long as there are kings, priests,
magistrates, lawyers, laws, a yours, a mine, the words vice and virtue. Only
judge how this work, badly written as it is, pleased me, as I suddenly found
myself in the world for which I was born. When I got home, I started to
dream about the principles and their ramifications of my stout Benedictine
who has just the air and the tone of an old philosopher and I couldn’t think
of one line that could be deleted from his work, which is full of new ideas
and bold assertions. D’Alembert knew it and did not judge it as I do. What
bad metaphysicians geometricians are, for the same reason that they are bad
gamblers. . . . What will amuse you is the good-naturedness with which
this apostle claimed that his system that attacked everything most revered
in the world, was innocent and did not expose him to any disagreeable
consequences; whereas there was not one sentence that could not have led
to a charge of heresy against him.’

There is no question of tackling this work in its entirety here. We shall

limit ourselves to only three problems and these only in their relation to utopias:
the social critique, the revolt against history, and the conjunction of utopian
idea-images and metaphysical discourse. The latter, although arid, is particularly
 UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS / 77

interesting. In fact, the work of Dom Deschamps represents a case that is unique
in the eighteenth century and is as well one of the rare cases in the entire history
of utopias of the nearly total fusion of utopian images and a discourse on being.
The true system integrates the social imagination and the search for a metaphysical
meaning in a single unit.
 1
Social Critique and
Contestation of History

L, proposing a reading of Dom Deschamps that begins with his

critique of the established society and goes on to the vision of ideal society and
its metaphysical foundations, we are going against the logic of the system that
considers moral truth a derivative of metaphysical truth. However, Dom Des-
champs himself encourages us to expound his ““True System’? in this way when
he invites us to follow with the human race the educational path he sets out and
to become aware of the immensity of the moral evil that gnaws away at it, so
that we may become capable of grasping ‘‘the key to the metaphysical enigma.”’
In fact, he assures us that only the existence of the absurd requires the exposition
of the metaphysical truth, education that would be superfluous for our children
if we educated them without false influences. That is all the more so in regard
to moral truth: if it were the basis of our morals it would be useless to speak of
it. But since these morals remain what they are, let us follow the introductory
path that is the most accessible to us who do not yet live in the world of realized
truth.
‘It is not the state of laws that men need, but the state of morals, the
social state without laws. The latter assertion against the state of laws is fully
incontestable with knowledge of the first truth that annihilates every divine law
and which is the stamp of evidence. It is incontestable, to repeat, that moral
inequality and property are, as a secondary cause of moral evil, the cause of all
the governments and of all the crimes with which our social state teems. One
is finally persuaded that man is evil only because of our social state which is
detestable.’’?
Any idea of society that doesn’t include the future and, hence, the alter-
native society that it brings, is not only incomplete, false in itself, and the prisoner
of false morals: it camouflages the truth. It is only the message about the future
78
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 79

that makes the past and present legible and dissipates the appearances of history
and brings out its foundation.
Dom Deschamps teaches us that the evolution of history is articulated in
three states whose general schema is the following. The savage state is the point
of departure. It is a quasi-animal state, dominated by physical inequality, the
state of disunity. Men live there ‘‘with no unity other than that of instinct.’’!°
However, man already distinguishes himself by his faculty of becoming social
and reasonable. “‘If the other animals do not have the faculty we do of becoming
reasonable social animals, that is because it is necessary to be in society and in
unreasonable society to have it, and they do not have this advantage, which is
the misfortune of our days and of our children.’’'! Then, the second stage of
the human evolution is established: ‘‘the state of extreme disunity in unity which
is our state of laws.’’!? Men then go from isolation to group life; they com-
municate among themselves by making up languages; they invent tools, work,
etc. With social life comes the establishment of moral inequality, private prop-
erty, whose most repugnant form is monogamous marriage, the ownership of
women, as possessions, the state and the power, division into nations, wars,
etc. Men then create false needs for themselves and embark on vain sciences.
But that is not the last stage of human evolution. The human race will go beyond
the state of laws to enter the ultimate stage of its evolution, in ‘‘the state of
unity without disunity, which is the state of morals, the social state without laws.
It is the latter, to which truth alone can lead us, and from which we are further
and further, without ever having been there, that men must live, if they want to
be as happy as they have been unhappy until now.’’”?
Dom Deschamps even speaks of ‘‘three human natures’’ that would cor-
respond respectively to each of these states: the savage or asocial nature, the
unreasonable social nature and, finally, the reasonable social nature.'* What
seems ‘‘natural’’ to us today corresponds only to the savage nature or to our
own unreasonable nature—the only ones we know. On the other hand, perhaps
what seems to us ‘‘against nature’’ is in perfect accord with the human nature
to come. That is, in particular, the case of the community of women, an idea
that we find revolting but one that will be quite natural for man once he has
attained the state of morals. Thus, man’s nature undergoes a transformation in
time and it is men themselves who transform it.
Let us note some of the problems touched upon in this summary that
require further expansion in the context that interests us.
Note, first, the ternary rhythm that marks historical evolution. !* Thus, the
second stage of the evolution, the state of laws, is a negation of the first, of the
savage and asocial state. The state of laws is nevertheless antinomic, the unity
of opposites, as it is characterized by ‘‘the unity in the disunity.’’ The third
stage goes beyond the antinomy and is thus ‘‘the negation of the negation.’’ It
is not, nevertheless, a return to the savage state. In the ‘‘state of unity without
80 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

disunity,”” sociability is at once preserved and heightened just as the spontaneity

and simplicity of the savage state are found there, but they too are transcended
at a higher level.
Let us note, next, that this pseudo-dialectic of history makes no reference
to any specific historical event. War in general is mentioned, but no real war;
the state, but no specific state. No date or specific historical fact intervenes in
the course of this discourse. It is, in fact, an anthropological discourse on history,
and not a historical discourse. Dom Deschamps questions the why and not the
how of history.
This abstract character is striking, beginning with the description of the
savage state; very cursory, it is limited to explaining the definition of this state
as an asocial state. This severe oversimplification contrasts with the curiosity of
the literature of the time for detail, eccentricity, and exoticism. Dom Deschamps
refers vaguely to ‘‘Caffres’’ and to ‘‘Hurons,’’ but they are only clichés. The
narrative is static; it is focused on the comparison of the savage state with the
state of laws. In showing the relative advantages of the former, Dom Deschamps
is far from idealizing it. Nor does he consider it the state of nature. As we have
noted, the savage state is only ‘‘natural’’ insofar as it corresponds to savage and
asocial human nature. The narrative takes on more depth and movement when
it touches on the problem of the passage from the savage state to the social state.
Moreover, Dom Deschamps adopts the problems common to the time, namely,
the questioning of origins; he examines in particular the origins of languages,
tools, and religion. However, the essential is still the problem of the reasons
for the passage from an abusive and oppressive state, and not the history of that
passage, even supposing that it is hypothetical, to take up the formula given in
the Discours sur l'inégalité (to which Dom Deschamps refers in criticizing
Rousseau’s ideas).
The abstract character of this discourse on history is even more striking
in the expositions of the state of laws. With the exception of the contemporary
era, the state of laws and its history are summarily described, without divisions
into specific ages. The references to historical events and situations are rare, if
not nonexistent. Dom Deschamps speaks of states, of empires, of kings, but
without naming them or giving examples. He accords no preference to an era
or a state that could be distinguished from the others, by good or by evil, with
the exception, once again, of the contemporary era, the present. Specifically,
there are no privileged references to Greco-Roman antiquity, a significant absence
at a time when a new model of antiquity was being developed, one rich in utopian
potential. The analysis of the state of laws is dominated by synchrony. It focuses
on a “‘structure,’’ on the interdependent relationships among the elements that
make a whole of the state of laws, such as tyrannical political institutions; the
church that, like the army, only protects the prince from his own subjects; private
property, the basis of moral and social inequality, and so forth. (We shall return
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 81

to these points.) The diachronic approach takes shape mainly with the problem
of moral evil, its origins, its manifestations in history, its relationships with
human nature—therefore with a set of key problems for the era, one whose
antichristian if not antireligious resonance in philosophical literature is well
known. Dom Deschamps’s opinions on these problems are clear: the origins of
moral evil are social and historical; they are obviously a product of secular
history, the only one that exists; the state of laws is characterized overall by the
growth of evil in its multiple forms.
The synchrony and the diachrony intersect to bring out the present, the
contemporary era and its exceptional role. To define this era, Dom Deschamps
has recourse to the concept of ‘‘century.’’ Along with the ‘‘state,’’ it is the key
concept of Dom Deschamps’s discourse on history, which is articulated into
successive “‘states’’; on the other hand, the word ‘ ‘century’’ is almost exclusively
reserved for the contemporary era. It is vaguely defined chronologically: the
time during which one lives and of which one is speaking. Thus, Dom Deschamps
speaks of ‘this century,’’ of ‘‘our century,’’ and of the ‘‘spirit of this century,”’
but he also adds, to characterize it, the adjective ‘‘semi-enlightened.”’ It is useless
to emphasize the importance of this concept of ‘‘century’’ to the formation of
this historical consciousness of the Enlightenment. W. Krauss showed particu-
larly well how it took on a new meaning during the era, how it translated the
sentiment of living in an exceptional time, that marked a historical turning point,
the beginning of a new era.'° Dom Deschamps takes up this new meaning of
the word, but adds a polemical cast to it: contrary to the opinions of those who
proclaim it the enlightened century, and even the first truly enlightened century,
it is only a semi-enlightened century. Nevertheless, it is indeed an exceptional
era on many accounts.
First of all, the century is critical, in both meanings of the word. It is the
century of criticism. Evil has reached such a point that its manifestations at least
are denounced from all sides. Thus, religion is criticized, reform of the state is
discussed, the abuses of power are denounced. But, by the same token, it is
also the critical century in another sense: that of a crisis.'’ The criticism remains
purely negative; furthermore, only secondary phenomena are attacked without
the essentials of the state of laws being touched on. Thus, the attacks are con-
centrated on religion, without the realization that it owes its existence to property,
the possession of goods and power. Purely negative criticism can only be de-
structive and the philosophes who practice it only destroy, and sow trouble in
the state. It is obvious how easy it was to relate this polemic to the traditional
attacks on the philosophes. All the more so as, in his esoteric writings, Dom
Deschamps contented himself with vague allusions to the real content of his
ideas, to ‘‘positive truth.’’ It is not surprising that Voltaire misunderstood and
saw in La voix de la raison only one more attack on the philosophes who are
reproached for preparing ‘‘a horrible revolution, if it is not forestalled.’’ He
82 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

would have been still more horrified, and for quite other reasons, if he had known
Dom Deschamps’s esoteric comment: “‘It is by half destroying, as the philosophes
do, that one sows trouble in the present state; but the same would not be true
of total destruction, as its effect would be the unity of men, and only evidence
of the common interest would then take effect and not force.’’’*
Thus, it is necessary to go beyond criticism by an ever-more-radical crit-
icism. It is necessary that ‘‘the destruction be total’’ for positive truth to do its
work or, in other words, the truth about the state of morals is positive only
because it entails total destruction. This moral, social, and metaphysical truth
finally finds its expression in the work of Dom Deschamps itself. And it is
primarily thanks to that revelation that the ‘‘century’’ takes on the true dimension
of an exceptional era and the crisis that marks it becomes salutary.
Let us look a bit more closely at the picture of this ‘‘century,’’ one in
which criticism, both the expression of the crisis it is going through and its
ultimate remedy, supports the refusal of history, the basis and product of the
state of laws.
Property and social inequality are the principal vices that gnaw away at
the state of laws. Property, division into “‘mine’’ and ‘‘yours,’’ said Dom Des-
champs, often passes for a natural thing. This is unjust insofar as, in a savage
state, men, like animals, fight among themselves over the objects of their ap-
petites. But the state of laws gave the “‘vice of property’’ greater power than it
had had in the savage state. The division into “‘mine’’ and ‘‘yours’’ spreads to
include everything: the earth, housing, food, anything and everything that sat-
isfies the most natural and basic needs and desires. In particular, the ‘‘vice of
property’’ took the form of monogamous marriage, which goes against ‘‘the
natural appetite of the two sexes for each other.’’ Property is, on the one hand,
the continuation of the fundamental vices of the savage state, proving that human
nature is not yet free of what identifies it with animals; on the other hand, it
changes man’s nature. ‘‘This vice, in the state of law, engendered all the moral
vices and all the false passions.’’! Since property is the cause of all tyrannies
and all the crimes that are rampant in our social state, Dom Deschamps concludes
that man is only bad because of the iniquitous social state in which he lives.”°
Property is the source of the dissension, of the “‘disunity’’ that reigns in the
state of laws. The effects of man’s depraved attachment to property have even
changed the nature of some animals. Dogs ‘‘are by their function that consists
of defending our properties, of all domestic animals, those most related to us,
the most proprietorial, and the most disunited among themselves; whence their
attachment to their masters and the mockery we make of them.’’”!
The ‘‘vice of property’’ is closely bound up with the social inequality that
is translated by the division into rich and poor, as well as into states. Property
also gave rise to false passions and needs, such that hardly any human penchant
or need manifests itself in a pure form. It distorts the natural hierarchy of utility;
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 83

thus, those who work in order to satisfy natural needs, those who are truly useful,
are also the most scorned. But the most important and most harmful consequences
of property are laws and governments. The latter were established to protect the
property of the rich and powerful, and also to prevent the ‘‘war of all against
all,’’ the incessant crimes and conflicts the vice of property gave rise to. On the
one hand, law and power are secondary evils in relation to property; on the other
hand, the governmental power is interested in the maintenance of property as a
source of dissension among men, for only discord, conflicts, and social inequality
constitute its raison d’étre. The principle of all domination is divide ut regnes.
There was protest against Machiavelli because he made the practice of this motto
public; moreover, ‘‘the machinery of domination must be hidden; it would no
longer work if men knew about it.’’? The individual morality of the prince
ought not, then, to be attacked, as it is inherent in the very existence of power,
in the source of evil and disunity.
The very fact of power implies distrust and hatred among the prince and
his subjects. Certainly, thanks to laws, there is ‘‘some shadow of order’’ in our
morals without which they could not survive. ‘‘But this shadow of order exists
only in disorder, only in the sphere of a state whose very principle is depraved;
and hence, the world as it is. . . .”’?* Concern for maintaining this order serves
as a pretext for the existence of the army. But the prince still needs the pretext
of the defense of the state for, in reality, the army serves to ‘‘hold peoples
subordinate to its power and in submission to its laws.’’ The prince provokes
wars with his neighbors in claiming reasons of state; in reality, he wants to
justify the maintenance of troops that are sufficiently powerful to be used against
his subjects. Thus, the source of wars between nations is equally in the existence
of laws, property, and power. Dom Deschamps criticizes the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre and his proposal for perpetual peace. It is merely a “‘chimera’’ because
this peace should be based on treaties among kings and on respect for international
law. Yet, wars are inherent in the state of laws and its vices; princes will extend,
not limit, them. It is not sufficient for us to kill one another on the sea, we will
do the same thing in the air, if we find the means to fight there. The essence
and the functions of power do not change with the form of the latter, whether
the government be a monarchy or a republic.
All power is, then, by its essence, tyrannical, and the tyrant employs in
his service the soldier as well as the priest. The fundamental social function of
religion, assumed thanks to the church, is to defend the power. The church and
the sword are ‘‘two states that play the same role, that is the force of the prince
against his subjects and consequently against themselves. The church, by the
nature of its arms, made to subjugate the heart and mind of the ignorant and
subservient man, is the throne’s first militia; the sword, which can only subjugate
the body, is the second. The soldier must give precedence to the priest, his
comrade, and the prince must give him his first protection.” Every religion,
84 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

whatever its content, is sure of its social success as soon as it preaches submission
to the power.
Religion can assume its social functions because it is a lie: by exploiting
the ignorance of men, it increases that ignorance and, dissimulating the source
of the evil, it puts itself at the service of this evil and aggravates it. It is false,
as the church proclaims, that human laws are derived from divine laws, human
justice derived from divine justice. The law exists only in consequence of sin;
it is, itself, a sin. The distinction between ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘evil,’’ “‘virtue’’ and
‘‘vice’’ is not instituted by God, but by men, and comes from the existence of
property and inequality, from the system of laws and its constraints 7°
The social functions of religion during the contemporary era best explain
its origins and content. Religion attributes a supernatural sanction to moral norms
and values. It is, moreover, absurd to suppose that there exists a personal God
who rewards or punishes in conformity with an eternal justice. It is equally false
to believe that the distinction between good and evil is innate and revealed to
man by the voice of his conscience (Dom Deschamps is clearly engaging in a
dispute with Rousseau). Thus, to the contrary of what the deists affirm, there is
neither a natural morality thus comprised nor a natural religion liable to be
reduced to this morality. The origins of religion are strictly social: religion is
immanent to the state of laws, and human laws preceded divine laws. Following
the example of the king, the terrestrial sovereign, men have created a represen-
tation of the celestial sovereign, an image maintained by religion and the church.
Religion, then, draws all its power from the existence of the state of laws, from
the division between ‘‘mine’’ and ‘‘yours,’’ from moral constraints and prohi-
bitions. But this very state of laws, especially when it is exercised by a despot,
inevitably needs religion: if religious sanctions did not protect property by sowing
fear, law, and inequality, the men who groan under the yoke of the misfortunes
and vices of the state of laws long would have been free of them. Thus, we find
at the source of religion, as at that of all moral evil, the reign of the absurd, of
nonsense, in human minds. However, ignorance alone does not explain the
longevity of religion, that will exist as long as the state of laws survives. One
cannot simply attack a ‘‘false state’’ without attacking at the same time the very
foundations of the social system. ‘‘It is not morality, it is politics that constitutes
the basis of our morals, and that politics inevitably caused by our spirit of laws,
is self-propelled without theory’ shaving anything whatever to do with it, I mean
without being basically known either by the kings or their ministers, or the
church, or the sword, or the robe, or even philosophers.’’”’
The philosophes give themselves credit for combating evil: religion, ig-
norance, the church. However they don’t go far enough back to its social origins,
for they consider the state of laws the only possible social state. That proves
that, far from being the ‘‘enlightened century’’ proclaimed everywhere, it is
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 85

only a ‘‘century of semi-enlightenment.’’® This key concept in Dom Des-

champs’s vocabulary and in particular in the judgment he passes on his times
explains his ambiguous attitude to the philosophy of his era. The philosophes,
particularly the atheists, attack—with reason—religion, which they treat as an
amalgam of prejudices and absurdities, which proves a certain progress of the
Enlightenment. Atheism, then, has in common with truth its refusal of all re-
ligions, but it stops halfway for, while destroying the idea of a personal God,
it does not propose any other metaphysical idea in exchange, limiting itself to
doubt or partial truths.” Nor does it propose a moral truth: knowing nothing of
what the state of morals is or, what is worse, considering it a ‘‘chimera,”” it
recognizes the state of laws, the domination of property and vice, as inevitable.
Atheism, then, is only a destructive system, a reproach Dom Deschamps levels
many a time at ‘‘our philosophes,’’ and one he directs in particular at d’Holbach’s
Systéme de la Nature. Atheism refuses the religious sanction to human laws,
but thereby removes all moral sanction from them. Not daring to attack the state
of laws, it doesn’t destroy the causes of evil and crimes, annihilating on the
other hand all moral restraints able to attenuate vices. Indeed, in order to ensure
the effectiveness of its action, religion has seen itself obliged to preach true
moral maxims such as “‘love thy neighbor as thyself.’’ Religion is full of con-
tradictions: it praises poverty although it defends the rich and powerful; it glorifies
the equality of the first Christian communities while supporting inequality and
violence. But, just like law and power, religion sees to it that there is at least a
semblance of order in the state of laws. To destroy religion without touching
the state of laws would be to encourage the extension of vice, injustice, and
crime. As long as social and moral evil exist, there will be evil and depraved
men. Religion restrains them somewhat, if only with the aid of absurdities, such
as the fear of a nonexistent God and a nonexistent hell, or the hope of a reward
in a chimerical paradise. Atheism, then, serves only the ambitious, the schemers,
and the agitators, and all the powerful of this world will joyously adopt the
doctrine that a d’Holbach proposes to them. (Dom Deschamps here agrees with
Rousseau’s criticisms of the social and moral consequences of atheism, a ‘‘doc-
trine for the rich’’). As long as the state of laws exists, neither destroying religion
nor revolting against the power accomplish anything, for even the ‘‘shadow of
order’’ that exists would disappear. In this sense, the ‘‘True System’’ demon-
strates the superiority of theism over atheism, although it combats both at the
same time. Contemporary philosophy and particularly the atheism that is being
propagated are symptoms of the total crisis, to the brink of which the state of
laws has been driven, and attest to the impossiblity of its survival. Dom Des-
champs brandishes the fan of the revolution to which this ‘‘semi-enlightenment””
must inevitably lead. Such a revolution, deprived of any guiding moral idea,
would be ‘‘the greatest of evils.’’ It could be avoided only by the annihilation
86 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

of the state of laws and the establishment of the state of morals. It is only with
this ‘‘happy revolution’’ that the greatest evil would be replaced by the greatest
good.*°
Indeed, there are no partial means capable of improving the state of laws;
even worse, the constant search for small reforms results in a grave evil. By
creating illusions, they only hide the crisis. Thus educational reform is proposed
in the hope that it will form a new, virtuous, and enlightened man. But it is an
illusion to believe that education is omnipotent, and it is another illusion to think
that it could raise itself above the social system of which it is a part. Just like
all the moral rules it teaches, education is contaminated by the state of laws, its
iniquity and madness; it only forces the prohibitions and constraints of laws on
natural human needs and aspirations. These attempts lead either to violation of
laws or to depravity. This is particularly true of relationships between the sexes.
The ‘‘stout Benedictine’’ constantly returns to the latter subject and his criticism
of sexual morality is mixed up with certain obsessions it is tempting to call
monastic. We have already said that Dom Deschamps saw in monogamy a
specific case of the law of property and in every sexual prohibition (including
the prohibition of incest) the expression of the state of laws. However, Dom
Deschamps was by no means a feminist. Woman for him is merely an object,
a ‘‘natural good,’’ serving to satisfy men’s needs.*’ With particular vehemence,
Dom Deschamps condemns celibacy, which he accuses of being against nature
and socially harmful. As for sexual perversions, he attributes their cause to the
constraints and prohibitions imposed by the state of laws. Thus, in relationships
between the sexes, which are the most natural of relationships, all the most
odious characteristics of morals particular to the state of laws appear: property,
lies, hypocrisy, guile, false passions, and so forth.
Dom Deschamps’s social critique is inseparable from his moral critique,
and is even subordinate to it. In his ‘‘social diagnosis,’ Dom Deschamps is
continually inspired by myths which, if not borrowed from Rousseau, are at
least in keeping with the spirit of what is becoming a standard ‘‘Rousseauism”’
of the era. False passions and needs led to the birth and flourishing of arts and
sciences useless to man, at the expense of knowledge of the most important
truth: moral truth. Relationships among men became more complicated—just
look at our language, whose excessive richness is a claim to glory for us and
which is used only for idle chatter and reasoning. ‘‘It is madness for us to have
pushed it (knowledge) to the point we have, and to still try to push it further,
as we are doing. . . . We are crammed with knowledge irrelevant to our true
happiness.’’ In search of truth and unable to find it, men, ‘‘plunged into a sea
of prejudices and absurdities,’’ constantly step up their efforts to get out of it,
or better, to “‘get out of themselves, where they find only a chaos they cannot
untangle.’ ie
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 87

Thus violence, contradictory interests, lying, and hypocrisy put us ‘‘con-

tinually in contradiction with ourselves and one another . . . and keep us always
distrustful, behind a mask and in difficulty.’” The permanent conflict between
our natural penchants and our law ‘‘puts a mask on each of our faces.” We
don’t know what pure felicity is, happiness that neither the fear of punishment
nor the remorse of conscience could disturb, and this uneasiness continually
arouses a spontaneous revolt of the mind and heart against the state of laws and
its constraints. Social inequality and the over-diversity of morals have destroyed
all communication among men. This state of things is manifested—to retain the
characteristic theme of Dom Deschamps’s thought—in the individualization and
differentiation of men, both physically and morally. ‘‘It is the extreme diversity
of morals that produced the immense moral and physical diversity of men.” It
is not merely that the king, for example, totally differs from the shepherd as a
consequence of the division into social states and the reign of inequality. What
is most important is that every difference between individuals, or at least any
too extensive difference, is the result of the domination of moral evil and is
itself an evil. ‘‘Beauty and ugliness, a noble or common appearance, witty or
foolish, wise and mad, etc., are only produced by morals like ours, for it is our
morals that, very heterogeneous and extremely studied, inevitably bring about
a considerable variety in physiognomies, in the flesh, in forms, tastes, temper-
aments, characters, and minds.’’*?
Have we perhaps overly stressed this critique of his century offered by the
author of the “‘true system’’? But we wanted to introduce the reader into the
climate of that work that allies the most abstract speculation to the most concrete
social realities, to allow him better to define the place from where a man who
both places himself above his era and commits himself completely and relent-
lessly to the conflicts that traverse it holds forth. And even so, we have omitted
many more detailed questions. Let us try now to reintegrate this whole critical
picture of the present into the ternary rhythm sketched above: the savage state
—the state of laws—the state of morals.
The state of laws is, as we said, a transitory state. This transitory nature
manifests itself in particular in the fact that this state, although social and moral
evil are triumphant in it, is a necessary stage for the accomplishment of moral
good, for the advent of the state of morals. However, the condemnation of moral
evil does not remove all its historical meaning. Dom Deschamps’s historical
philosophy is a theodicy without God. It justifies moral evil not with respect to
the intention of the creator, but on the grounds of the function this evil assumes
in the search for truth by men (or, to be even more precise, in the preparation
of men to open themselves to that truth when it is proposed to them). Humanity
can neither persist in the state of laws nor return to the savage state. In spite of
all nostalgia for the past, history is irreversible. One sees in it only a mass of
88 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

absurdities and contingencies, but it is rational and necessary. It seems to bring

only suffering and misfortune yet it is the negativity of that experience that
translates as positive truth.
History is irreversible because it is impossible for men, once having set
out on the road of socialization, to backtrack. Although Dom Deschamps himself
doesn’t start on any idealization of the savage state, he is nevertheless sensitive
to the manifestations of nostalgia among his contemporaries for this state called
‘‘natural.’’ He explains this nostalgia as a secondary phenomenon: it is only a
reaction to the real evils of the state of laws from which men suffer. Compared
to this cruel reality, the savage state can seem a paradise. However, these ideas
are retrograde, ‘‘reactionary’’—to risk the anachronism—since they sow illu-
sions and divert minds from the idea of the future when men can attain their
true paradise. History is equally irreversible in the sense that once moral truth
has been discovered and announced, the beginning of the end of the state of
laws is already set in action and the “‘seeds’’ will not take long to germinate in
minds. It is from this double perspective that Dom Deschamps formulates his
critiques with respect to Rousseau. He considers him the one who has progressed
further than the philosophes on the road of truth. Not only has he gone further
than others in his critique of the society, that is, of the “‘state of laws,’’ but he
even added a positive aspect to his critique by affirming that man is good by
nature and only depraved by his social state. Moreover, he denounced the de-
structive skepticism of the philosophes and the sterility of their atheism. How-
ever, Rousseau wasn’t consistent enough. He didn’t see the defects of the savage
state and confused it with the state of nature. He didn’t understand what the true
social functions of all religions were, and he preached a ‘‘pure theism.’’ Finally,
he missed the essential: ‘‘he didn’t see the true state of society after having seen
the savage state and our false social state.’’**
Thus the fact that men seize on this dream of returning to the savage state
proves their ignorance as well as their revolt against existing social and moral
relationships. Their ignorance, because men don’t know that their happiness lies
ahead of—rather than behind—them, because they don’t know the ‘‘moral truth”?
on the future state of morals. But also their revolt, because it is the torments
engendered by the state of laws that cause men to idealize the savage state, to
forget that it was an animal state in which force and the absurd exercised their
uncontested reign. The state of morals, the alternative society, would then be a
negation of the negation—a return to sources that is an elevation to a higher,
even ultimate stage of human evolution. And this passage has as a prerequisite
condition the negative self-education of humanity which takes place throughout
its history. Evil and misfortunes, the result of the absurd and ignorance, cause
men to seek truth and inspire them with the desire for true happiness. That is
the specific course of history and that is the price that the human race must pay
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 89

for its supreme felicity. Truth can arise from nowhere else; if not precisely from
the crisis, from moral and spiritual chaos. Man can come to reason only by
absurdity, by the madness that has reached its highest point during this century,
inducing men to reflect. And it is only at the moment when reason wins that we
will be able to say that we have become more reasonable than the other animals.°>
It is not difficult to discern a transposition of Christian motifs of original
sin and expiation through suffering in this pseudo-theodicy; moreover, Dom
Deschamps himself refers to these motifs, particularly that of original sin. He
considers them, however, as myths and prejudices or, at most, as a premonition
of truth, obscured by the absurd and by ignorance. Men are in no way guilty;
the fault, if there is one, is to be attributed to the laws, to ignorance, even to
religion itself. Their sufferings aren’t the redemption of their sins, but the price
paid for their ignorance. The truth is contained not in the revealed word, for it
doesn’t exist, but in the ‘‘True System.’’ It is not for Christ, a mythical figure,
to bring salvation to men; it is incumbent on men to attain it by their own efforts
and thanks to the truth that has finally been discovered.
Thus the discovery of the ‘‘key to the metaphysical and moral enigma’’
marks the historical turning point. Dom Deschamps speaks of it with the certainty
of a visionary who sees once and for all the realization of the truth that he is
announcing. He is inspired by an unshakable rationalist faith and by his feeling
of having a mission to accomplish for his fellow men. He is an ‘‘apostle,’’ as
Diderot called him, and it is with the ardor of a lay apostle that he engages in
the controversy with the ‘‘spirit of the century’’ that ‘‘will be, without contra-
diction, as much politically as morally, the most essential of all.’’*°
Dom Deschamps doesn’t situate the ideal society, that of the ‘‘state of
morals,’’ on any island, nor does any traveler who might have visited it tell us
about it. It is a society that nowhere exists, that never yet has existed, but one
that must inevitably be realized. Thanks to the discovery of the ‘‘key to the
metaphysical and moral enigma,’’ an approximate image of it can be given that
is within the reach of those whose imagination remains imprisoned by the social
state in which they live. This idea-image of the ideal society is not a fortiori
inextricably bound up with the paradigm of the utopia-proposal. First of all, the
state of morals is opposed, by its very essence, to any society founded on any
legislation whatsoever. The state of morals, the alternative society, is specifically
a social state without laws. Besides, it is not a legislator who is speaking in the
“True System.’’ Dom Deschamps is as self-effacing as possible in his discourse.
He is not the one who transmits a truth, or, rather, the one through whom the
truth is revealed. And, indeed, this truth only has recourse to the word provi-
sionally, in order to adapt itself to the present society. With the state of morals,
when it is realized, there will no longer be any need for it to be spoken. It will
then be situated at the level of the lived and not that of the word.
90 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

How could this passage from society in crisis to the society of the realized
truth be accomplished? Dom Deschamps’s answers are numerous, if not
ambiguous.
Note that at least once Dom Deschamps has recourse to the paradigms
current in the utopias of his time. In particular, he evokes them apropos of one
of the modalities of the passage from the discovery of moral truth to the practiced
utopia, to the application of this truth. Thus, he proposes ‘‘that a man imbued
with the true principles recruits ten thousand men and women to cross the sea
and come with him to found a new colony in an uninhabited land, one that will
have no master; that once debarked, he establishes moral equality and community
of any goods, and that he himself starts it by setting an example for the others,
keeping only the right to aid the colony in the beginning with his advice and to
enlighten it with his knowledge; I respond that shortly these ten thousand trans-
planted people will live according to his desires, without its being in him, in
them, or in their posterity to degenerate. If there were any who resisted, they
would certainly be mentally deranged and treated, by common agreement, as
insane, to be locked up.’’*’ The confluent images and ideas of the characteristic
myths of utopian literature are obvious: a group transplanted to an isolated island,
led by a quasi-legislator, sets up a new life, in total rupture with what it had
known. The presence of these themes is revealing—it is testimony of the affinities
between the approach characteristic of the author of the ‘True System’’ and the
utopian thought of his century. The reference to madness is even more
revealing—only a sick person, a stranger to reason and human nature, would
not accept the state of morals, the ideal society. Yet the paragraph quoted
represents only a marginal remark. It is an appeal to set up a social experiment
that would prove—even to the most incredulous—the advantages of the state
of morals. The very idea of setting up this experiment is clarified by the context
in which it is found: the island and the legislator are only provisional and
secondary means. The colony would only be the prefiguration, in a limited space
and thanks to the application of specific means, of the social state that one day,
by other paths, all of humanity will attain.
Dom Deschamps never links his utopian discourse to a revolutionary pro-
posal for action by the common people. There is no question of the ‘‘poor’’
embarking on a fight against their oppressors, and Dom Deschamps is far from
speaking the language of a Meslier. He addresses himself primarily to those who
are able to understand the metaphysical truth, cultured people, and preferably,
men influential in political and intellectual life, who, for particular reasons, have
found themselves in conflict with the existing order. The main thing was to win
converts to the truth and to attain, thanks to them, a sort of cultural revolution.
It is necessary to turn minds upside down and then the divulged truth will work
its way through into real life. Dom Deschamps’s intention is not confined to his
texts; it extends itself into specific action aiming at founding a quasi-sect, a
 SOCIAL CRITIQUE AND CONTESTATION OF HISTORY / 91

society of proselytes in the service of the truth and which, following the example
of Freemasonry, had had to admit of several layers of initiation for its members.
However it may be carried out, the “‘happy revolution’’ must completely
annihilate everything the state of laws produced throughout human history. The
rupture can only be total and on all levels: knowledge and morality, language
and property, and the relationships between the sexes and between man and
nature. The state of morals will be the total and radical refusal of human history
as it had existed up to that point. As we have said, for Dom Deschamps it is
not a question of reforming the established society, of progressively improving
one institution or another, of eliminating a particular injustice, of reducing the
evil or increasing the good that already exist. By its opposition to reform, Dom
Deschamps’s enterprise is closer to the ideal model of utopia: the latter is opposed
to society in its entirety and aims at a new overall system, while reform seeks
partial adjustments, staggered in time. For Dom Deschamps, history as man has
known it is the domain of the false and evil, of the uncertain and provisional,
of injustice and dissension. Whereas the state of morals, that alternative society
situated in the future, can only exist as the kingdom of the true and the good,
of the certain and the absolute, of justice and unity. And that is why it is necessary
to ‘‘clean the place out completely’’—as Dom Deschamps wrote in a letter to
Rousseau.
 2
The World of Realized Truth

Tie vision of the ideal society is founded on the metaphysics of

the ‘‘True System’’ and the state of morals must be the accomplishment not only
of the moral but also of the metaphysical truth. On the other hand, the utopia,
which constitutes the relatively autonomous element of Dom Deschamps’s doc-
trine, explains the metaphysics and serves in some way as its support. The vision
of this new society, contained primarily in the second part of the Observations
morales, is certainly the most esoteric part of the ‘‘True System.”’
What, on the whole, are the distinctive characteristics of this utopia? What
distinguishes it, first, is an absolute radicalism and the extremely rigorous—it
is tempting to say fanatical—consistency with which problems are solved. It is
a vision of society opposed on all levels to the picture of contemporary society
and, in this sense, the two images are isomorphic. The state of morals is situated,
as we have noted, at the end of history; it will undergo no transformations and
will leave no social or moral problem without a definitive solution. The refusal
of history that this utopia thus reveals is all the more radical, since the time in
which Dom Deschamps situates the state of morals is no longer a historical time.
Let us be very clear about this: of course, the state of morals follows—in
time—the other states through which the human race has passed in the course
of its history. But, from that point on, it is not a question, in Dom Deschamps’s
utopia, of setting aside a certain history in order to substitute another history, a
new history into which men will be initiated in passing into the state of morals.
Dom Deschamps does not oppose to real history a desired history, which would
supposedly be the ‘‘good’’ and “‘true’’ one. The men of the state of morals will
know no history; with the state of history it is the homo historicus who will be
superseded. Deschamp’s utopia aims to suppress the historical dimension of
human existence and to eliminate the very time of history. The state of morals
92
 THE WORLD OF REALIZED TRUTH / 93

is, then, the realization of the perfect equality and liberty of which men up to
that point had not even had an idea. So they will know no constraint—there
will be neither state, nor laws, nor moral pressure. All goods will be held in
common and this collectivism will be, so to speak, naturalistic.
Indeed, the elimination of all private property will be the consequence of
a literally natural way of life, that is, one identical to nature and not only in
conformity with its principles. Let us note finally in this overall characteristic a
most rigorous anti-individualism closely linked to a no less radical anti-intellec-
tualism. The latter is nevertheless rationalistic, and this seems paradoxical only
at first glance. It is only because men will live in the world of realized truth that
they will no longer make use of their reason. Indeed, they will have no further
need of reasoning.
Dom Deschamps describes the ideal society with a multitude of detail,
although he stresses at the same time ‘‘that a there is hardly any means other
than by comparison with the way we think and live that one can enter into any
detail on the way we ought to think and live; this way being so simple that by
itself it provides little to discuss about it.’ Without going further into these
details, let us emphasize the development of the characteristic formulated above.
Just like the philosophy of history and the criticism of society that dem-
onstrate the origins and nature of moral evil, Deschamps’s utopia, too, is focused
on the problem of the suppression of this evil. The state of morals will realize
‘‘the natural moral law”? that up until now, in the state of laws, men only sensed
(in the form of maxims such as “‘love thy neighbor as thyself,’’ for example),
without ever respecting it. The state of morals is a social state, and that is where
it differs radically from the savage state. But here it will be a matter of a
completely different social nature than in the state of laws. None of the latter’s
institutions will be preserved and the eternal dream of men, paradise, will come
true. It will become a reality in the only place it can truly exist: here, on earth.
The society of the state of morals will be rigorously, authentically egali-
tarian. The equality established in the first Christian communities, the example
excessively and hypocritically praised by the church, only gives an approximate
idea of that ideal state. The new equality will be founded on a total transformation
of the way of life and social relationships. Cities will be the first to disappear;
either destroyed or abandoned, they will fall into ruin. Men will live in small
rural communities, in villages, living communally ‘‘under long roofs,’’ and
without being divided into families. Moreover, men will install their dwellings
in the regions with the most favorable climatic conditions, which will make most
of their present preoccupations about clothing useless. In these villages, every-
thing will be held in common—wheat, livestock, tools—and the main occupation
of the inhabitants will be to work the land and raise animals. Both the disap-
pearance of luxury and the existence of equality will, with a minimum of work,
insure sufficient natural products ‘‘to satisfy not only the least reasonable animal
94 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

appetites and needs but to lead the most comfortable life without indolence.’’*?
A rudimentary industry, mills and forges, will be maintained in certain villages
and will serve neighboring communities. There will exist, then, elements of
exchange, but reduced to the minimum. Mining and ironwork will be reduced
to a level determined by the real needs of the men and they will be minimal.
Men ‘‘will not kill themselves digging into the bowels of the earth to extract
riches that will be useless to them, they will not occupy themselves building
and decorating palaces like ours, constructing ramparts and fortresses, smelting
metals other than iron which will be useful to them, braving nature on all sides
to defend themselves against one another and to destroy one another, studying
absurdities throughout their lives and continually doing violence to themselves
and their feelings in order to bend their morals to it.” Work would no longer
be painful and exhausting labor; ‘‘nothing would be work to them, because work
would always turn into amusement and pleasure.’’*’ The division of work will
disappear, every man will be able to go from one occupation to another, and all
will be capable of doing any necessary job. There will no longer be a strict line
between work and rest, between days of work and those of celebration, or even
between night as the time of sleep and day as that of work. Work will be a
pleasure not only because it will no longer be painful, but also because each
person will work for the good of all, drawing the greatest enjoyment from this
feeling. Each person will, therefore, willingly take on even the hardest work.
Community of goods will also—or even principally—be extended to in-
clude women. Monogamous marriage, the source of disunity, crime, and jeal-
ousy, will disappear. “‘Women there would be to men what men would be to
women: a common good, without the least unpleasant consequence, the least
disunity ever resulting from it.’’*” False modesty and hypocrisy will disappear,
too. Sexual penchants—the most natural ones, which bring the most natural
pleasures—would have no artificial constraints and prohibitions, the source of
so much unhappiness. Incest would no longer be forbidden, sexual perversions
and prostitution would disappear, and the women ‘unquestionably healthier,
better formed, remaining young longer than ours, without any mystery and
without being known as beautiful or ugly, or belonging more to one man than
another, would provide an always easy sexual pleasure that would entail no
ensuing disgust.’’ We will no longer know mad loves, but neither will we know
the despair or humiliations of an unhappy or flouted love. Children will belong
only to the community. They will be much more independent and robust than
ours: they will raise themselves, once they have been weaned. Neither nurse nor
teachers will be in charge of their education: it will be done spontaneously, by
their participation in morals. It will be all the easier as, if we inherit from our
parents such passions as envy, jealousy, etc., in the state of morals, the children
will inherit only natural passions and penchants from their parents (whom they
will, in any case, be unable to identify). The suppression of property and sexual
 THE WORLD OF REALIZED TRUTH / 95

prohibitions will lead to population growth, while men, thanks to their new
conditions of existence, will become more robust, healthier; they will live longer
and stay young longer.“
The state of morals would, then, be a social state, but one without any
organization, hierarchy, subordination, rule, or constraint. Everything would be
spontaneously ordered—but then spontaneity would be, so to speak, de rigueur.
It would be a life with neither conflict nor quarrel, neither diversity nor change;
on the other hand, it would, in its unity, be the expression of a ‘‘happy physical
existence’ that would be fully enjoyed. ‘‘The chagrins and remorse, worries
and alarms that kill us would not live under their roofs; that sweet serenity, that
natural gaiety, that naive candor and that nice unaffectedness that always have
more right to our love than the most brilliant qualities would reign there. Both
physically and morally, they would be what it is beyond me to render as it
should be, because of the extreme difference there would be in all respects
between what they would be and what we are.’’**
Dom Deschamps’s words: ‘‘extreme difference’’ and ‘‘in all respects’
must be taken in their strongest sense. In his mind, the transformation must
focus not only on the external conditions of human existence, but on its very
nature: it will be not only moral, but physical as well and, in a certain sense,
ontological. Moral existence will be reduced to what it is in its essence, that is,
to physical existence. All individuals will be equal and interchangeable and thus
would manifest in their social existence what they really are—parts of the ‘‘great
whole,”’ of the totality of things, material beings of which the universe is com-
posed. It is useless to elaborate here the metaphysical argument on which these
affirmations are based. Indeed the criticism of the state of laws as well as the
philosophy of history allows us to predict what prospects the ‘‘happy revolution’’
already opens up to individual diversity. Wasn’t the latter considered secondary
in relation to moral evil, to social inequality, and to complicated and false social
relationships? As soon as all these harmful phenomena disappear, in the state
of morals, the sources of individualization in the context of the human species
will be dried up. One can reproach Dom Deschamps for anything but a lack of
consistency. ““The same morals (and the same morals can only be the true morals)
would make, so to speak, only one same man and only one same woman of men
and women, I mean that in the long run there would be much more resemblance
among us than among animals of the same species that most resemble one
another, or among the animals of the forest. . . . People in the state of morals
would no longer laugh or cry; a calm expression would be widespread, common
to all faces which would all have more or less the same form, as I have said. ””*
It is on this perfect uniformity and interchangeabilty, inscribed in nature itself,
that absolute equality will be based. It is thus that the last obstacle to the
community of women and the causes of rivalry, hatred, or any ambition to
become otherwise, better, more reasonable, or richer, will fall.+
96 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

This standardization would not be only the effect of identical conditions

of existence for all. It would be at once testimony and a demonstration of the
realized moral truth. Indeed, only lies can be manifold, only errors and searches
for truth can be diverse and different. As far as truth is concerned, it is, ex
definitione, one and unique, identical in time and space. As for men in the state
of morals, it is not sufficient to say that they will possess the truth: the possessive
relationship evokes property and implies a difference between the subject and
the object. And men in the state of morals are distinguished from us ‘‘in every
way’’; they will be perfectly similar because they will be the truth, or rather the
truth will consist of them. Men, as well as their way of life and their conditions
of existence would be identical to the truth—one and unique, eternal and defin-
itive.
In terms of what have individuals differed up to now? Knowledge, thought,
morality, language? All these differences will have no raison d’étre in the world
of realized truth. The arts and sciences will become useless and there will no
longer be men ‘‘painstakingly making vessels to transport themselves, to trans-
plant themselves, to go in search of food, clothing, furniture, and utensils beyond
the seas.’’ The final aim of all sciences developed until now consisted of the
search for truth. Thus, it was sought in geometry, physics, and philosophy. This
research was not entirely useless, although it accumulated more errors than truth
and contributed more to the increase of misfortunes than to the extension of
happiness. But it is precisely by suffering errors and miseries that the desire of
attaining happiness and truth matured. As soon as the key to the enigma is
discovered and known, all other research will become vain. What purpose could
it still serve? And, moreover, who would want to undertake it? ‘‘In men’s
estrangement from the way in which they ought to think and live, they are
inevitably in a position where they must philosophize and moralize endlessly;
but once this way is well established, everything would be said, there would be
no philosophizing or moralizing; for why would there be, once there was no
longer cause to do so?’’ All the books that have been written are only testimony
of the vanity of our research, registers of our miseries. In the state of morals,
they would be not only useless, but even harmful—they would have to be
destroyed. ‘To enter into it (the state of morals), it would be necessary to burn
not only our books, our titles and any papers but also to destroy everything we
call beautiful productions of art. . . . The more one thinks of it, the more one
will see that even our most esteemed physics and metaphysics books exist, as
do all our other books, only for lack of truth, by our fundamental ignorance and
its sad effects.’’*” All our books call for one sole book, the one that would prove
that they are superfluous. But, as soon as this book is written and as soon as its
teaching is put into practice, even this ‘‘true book’’ will become useless. For,
it is no longer from books, but from themselves and in their lives that men will
draw their knowledge. ‘‘There is only one book such as the one I describe that
 THE WORLD OF REALIZED TRUTH / 97

can make men pass from the state of laws to the state of morals. This book,
once given and having had its effect, would be good, like all the rest, only for
some physical use, such as lighting our ovens. . . .”’48
Thus, utopian discourse announces its own negation and its own destruction
as the effect of the realization of the ultimate message it reveals. The total
affirmation of reason is total annihilation: in the world of realized rational truth,
any exercise of rational thought becomes superfluous and purposeless. Daily
activities, always the same, performed in identical circumstances and with the
regularity of natural processes, become mechanical habits. No one any longer
thinks out the truth, identical to the way of life. Moreover, any conscience of
self, any feeling of the ego proves to be uncalled-for. Men ‘‘would not make a
study analyzing feelings for themselves, they would limit themselves to enjoying
them, and give themselves up to them, with that wise moderation that prevents
them from becoming dull and makes them always intense and pleasing.’’ The
state of morals will be so intermixed with the moral good that justice would
reign without anyone’s realizing its existence, since there will be no injustice.
The latter will be annihilated, including its very concept.*? Physical ills, death
in particular, will, of course, persist, but they too will be accepted without
meditation, as part of the natural order. Finally, after all that has been said, it
is easy to guess the consequences that ensue for language. In a society where
the perfect communion is lived, where men and their days are identical, no one
has anything—or hardly anything—to say about himself or others. Why talk if
communication takes place in any case without words? And, once again, one
can reproach Dom Deschamps everything but his implacable consistency. Would
our language be so rich and ‘‘would we be the speakers we are if our first
gatherings of people instead of leading us to the most senseless social state had
been able to lead us to the state of morals? Animals, organized in a different
way than we are, and wisely limited to their needs, don’t speak our language
and don’t talk to one another only to converse; therefore they don’t speak, nor
are they understood. That is what we have concluded and we don’t blush to say
so.?”>?
The state of morals will have to resolve all fundamental problems. It will,
therefore, also resolve the problem of death. It will assure men of immortality,
an immortality understood not as an eternal biological existence, but as the
disappearance of any moral sense falsely attributed by men to death, which will
then have only its true metaphysical sense. Thus, in the state of morals one will
know the good death or, if you will, a death other than the one that torments
men in the state of laws. It would be equality, gentleness, and peace. Fear and
illness would no longer accompany death, which ‘‘would be only the evening
of a beautiful day, for it would no longer be preceded, as ours commonly is,
by a painful illness, by the afflicting sight of a confessor, a doctor, a lawyer, a
disconsolate family and all the spiritual suffering that then tyrannize us, con-
98 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

tributing a great deal to bringing it about. They (men) will die a gentle death,
a death equal to their life, as we will die a bitter death, a death equal to the life
we have led.’’°! Death will no longer be a source of sadness and regret for the
living, since emotional ties will unite interchangeable beings. All men will respect
one another and need one another equally, and there will be universal sympathy
and friendship. But that is also the reason that particular friendships and rela-
tionships, feelings that until now have been substituted for universal communion,
will disappear. ‘“They would be attached to one another by the mutual need they
would have of one another, but as this need would no longer consist in one man
or another as it does in our mores, they would not be attached to any particular
man, to the point of envisaging his death as a personal loss, and regretting it. . . .
We don’t cry for a dead man, but for ourselves, for what we lose in him. And
man, in the state of morals, would lose nothing in the death of another man. ns
In this way, the attitude toward death would become appropriate to the meta-
physical essence of death. Indeed, in the metaphysical sense, is not death simply,
like life itself, a way of being?
‘“Only that which is physical changes; the metaphysical is, on the contrary,
always identical. . . . Death and life are two correlative ways of being, which
enter into each another, are part of each other, and which exist through each
other.’’ One only lives or dies more or less. ‘‘Death lives in us, living by the
dead substances we feed on, and life is equally in our deaths, since we are then
merely a mass of worms, the most developed of which devour the least.’’°*
We have already penetrated into the very heart of Dom Deschamps’s
metaphysics. And the texts cited have as their context the entirety of that me-
taphysics. However, before going on, let us note another important question in
the understanding of the metaphysical ethos of Dom Deschamps’s vision of the
perfect society.
The effect of ideal and absolute equality, the suppression of property, and
the total depersonalization is the disappearance of all conflict and discord in
society. Individual interest—if this term still has a sense—therefore becomes
identical to the common good or interest. However, the supreme value or the
human vocation realized thanks to the ‘moral truth’’ does not consist of iden-
tification with the community. Dom Deschamps emphatically repeats that perfect
equality—and there is no question of another form of equality in the state of
morals—is not in nature, but is nature itself.” 2 Any retreat from nature, implied
in words such as ‘‘in”” or ‘‘in conformity with,’’ is suppressed. In the state of
perfect equality, man is freed from the burden of his own individuality. The
state of morals aims further than the integration of man to a social whole. The
community is only an intermediary, however indispensable, for man to identify
himself witha totality which is the cosmic whole, nature, the universe—this
‘‘great whole’’ that fascinates the minds of this ‘enlightened century.’’ ‘‘Moral
truth, being a purely relative idea, can logically result only from the idea that
 THE WORLD OF REALIZED TRUTH / 99

we also have of the whole or, what comes to the same thing, of order, harmony,
unity, equality, perfection, this being the real idea in which one must see every-
thing relative and specific that exists.’’ All people show a tendency to identify
themselves with the whole, with their own metaphysical principle. In the absurd
social state, this metaphysical tendency was given a moral character: just as a
personal God was created from the metaphysical being, man was required to
love this being, to give him the affection of a son for his father. And all of that
is absurd. The God of religions does not exist and by “‘loving one’s neighbor,”’
one shows only his natural tendency to identify completely with order, nature,
with the whole as a metaphysical being that is ‘‘unity, union itself.’’ It is his
fundamental unity with things that man finds again and realizes through the state
of morals.*°
 3
Utopia and the Thirst
for the Absolute

cc
othingism? What is nothingism?’’ one of the habitués of the
château of Ormes and its ‘‘philosophical salon’’ asked after hearing the name
the ‘‘stout monk’’ proposed for his system.* We will use this neologism, as
the term ‘‘nihilism,’’ to which Dom Deschamps could justifiably claim priority
rights, already has an established meaning and would lend itself to false asso-
ciations. Indeed, the ‘‘nothingist’’ affirms not ‘‘that he doesn’t believe in any-
thing’’ but ‘‘that he believes in nothing,” in the existence of Nothing as negative
existence. By no means does he question all morality but, on the contrary, he
puts forward a metaphysical system that establishes the definitive, unique, and
absolute moral truth.
We have already had a foretaste of the main intention of his metaphysics,
as well as of the difficulties his exposition entailed. Dom Deschamps felt that
his system was a ‘‘precise metaphysical grammar,”’ that is, that he revealed the
metaphysical meaning of common expressions and current linguistic distinc-
tions.” There is a premonition of metaphysical truth in the foundations of
language as well as in current speech. This truth is nevertheless veiled by the
distortions language has undergone in the false social state. The true system must
then be the unveiling of the key to the enigma that men sense and toward which
they unconsciously aspire. All these references to the current language that were
intended by Dom Deschamps to facilitate the reading of his text occasionally
make it even more difficult. In explaining his doctrine, Dom Deschamps comes
up against several obstacles that have as much to do with the system as with the
modes of his communication. On the one hand, as we have noted, his discourse
is self-destructive—the bearer of a message that nullifies it. Dom Deschamps
must express the “‘truth’’ in a language that cannot tell it. The ‘‘key to the

100
 UTOPIA AND THE THIRST FOR THE ABSOLUTE / 101

enigma”” is in the real life experience of the state of morals, and any and every
metaphysical word inevitably distorts it. Dom Deschamps does not only announce
a truth of ideas, but also, and especially, heralds one of images, a vision of the
social state in which moral and metaphysical truth will enjoy a diffusion that
bypasses discourse entirely. On the other hand, this apostle, conscious of the
subversive character of his ideas, dissimulates the ultimate truth. Thus he divides
his discourse in two: an esoteric discourse and an exoteric discourse. This dou-
bling and the complex interplay between the esoteric and the exoteric are found
in all his texts. The first discourse attempts only to awaken minds, sowing anxiety
and troubling the conscience of those who, while seeking the truth, in reality
only possess it partially since they stopped at semi-enlightenment. The other
discourse, destined for the proselytes, initiates them into truth itself and it is
only with this latter discourse that the unveiling is accomplished, the passage
from the apparent to the true meaning, dissimulated by appearances. This whole
subtle interplay does not in the least make the reading easier and, since the state
of morals has still not arrived, our initiation into nothingism will never be
complete.”
The many-leveled text lends itself to several readings; this is particularly
so of the most esoteric part of the system that deals with nothingism. Thus we
note recently that with the exhumation of Dom Deschamps, his metaphysics
and, in particular, the concept of nothing are beginning to cause much ink to
flow. There is an attempt to clarify the thought and enterprise of Dom Deschamps,
by referring not only to Hegel but even to Heidegger, to Nietzsche—the list is
not complete and the discussion seems only to have begun. A discussion of the
totality of problems posed by this vertiginous metaphysics is not, however, within
our scope. We will only take it up in its relationships with the utopia and then
only insofar as it clarifies the latter and, if necessary, as it proves to merge with
the vision of the state of laws.
At the center of this metaphysics is the interrogation on the relationship
between the whole—and that implies union and order—and its parts. Now, man
is a part of the whole that is the universe, Nature, and what is presented to his
senses are the other elements of this whole, things, individual and material beings,
that surround him. Contrary to the sensualist commonplaces of his time, Dom
Deschamps doesn’t consider perception to be a contact with the thing perceived,
mediated by ideas and impressions. There is more in the act of perception: the
subject assimilates a fragment, an aspect of the perceived object. We perceive
a physical object only to the extent that we, ourselves, are what we perceive in
that object. Of course, we are not the sun, but we are partially that fragment of
the sun that shows it to us. In the most general terms: to perceive, to understand,
to know anything at all, is to be to a certain extent what we perceive and
understand. This is a question of epistemology, of course, but with implications
102 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

that go beyond it. C. B. Macpherson has shown how the universalization of the
category of possession which leads to what he calls ‘‘possessive individualism’’
took place in the epistemology and anthropology of the seventeenth and eigh-
teenth centuries. The individual is considered free to the extent that he possesses
the images and ideas, and enriches his impressions and knowledge.°? For Dom
Deschamps, on the other hand, the fundamental, if not unique, ontological
relationship established between the subject and the object is that of coexistence
and not of possession. It is not difficult to note that that idea, in its opposition
to possessive individualism, corresponds to the aspects of the social vision of
the author of the ‘‘True System’’ that have already been discussed.
Man is, then, a sensitive being in permanent relationships with physical
bodies, not only in order to know them, but to satisfy his vital needs. But what
are present to our senses are also aggregates of things that constitute wholes.
Let us take the example of an army (remember that it is a tropos in the philo-
sophical education of the seminaries) that, as a body composed of soldiers,
suggests the idea of a certain ‘‘form,’’ of a union among its parts that make it
a whole. And if the example of the army is not convincing, “‘as a whole insuf-
ficiently linked in its parts,’’ let us refer to the example of our own body which
is incontestably composed of parts and which nevertheless constitutes a real
whole, or even to the example of the globe. By our senses, then, we perceive
not only specific beings, but also the ‘‘specific wholes’’ that really exist. In turn,
these “‘specific wholes’’ compose—as the generality of possible parts—the uni-
versal whole. ‘“These generalities (like men and trees) are only parts of the
generality with the globe of the earth of which your person is a part, and which,
with all the other possible globes and their vortexes, produces a generality that
is no longer specific, or physical, but universal, metaphysical.’’
The idea of nature as a “‘great whole’’ was a current theme in the second
half of the eighteenth century, borrowing its inspirations and different shades of
meaning from diverse sources, including Spinoza and Leibniz. Dom Deschamps
situates himself in this tradition and attacks head-on the difficulties posed by the
problem of the relationships between the whole and its parts. In the philosophy
of the Enlightenment this problem was translated into much pondering on the
autonomy of this ‘‘whole’’ and, in particular, in relation to the Creator, on the
existence of the physical and moral order and on the place occupied by man
among the elements of the “‘great whole.’’ Where others—the Voltaires, the
Diderots, the d’Holbachs—evade the difficulties or hesitate, the author of the
‘True System’’ has no doubt.
‘There is a whole once there are parts,’’ wrote Dom Deschamps, ‘‘and
this whole is what we call the universe, matter. . . . The whole can exist only
through its parts, just as the parts can exist only through it, and each through
one another.’’®' The universal whole is nevertheless ‘‘of another nature than
 UTOPIA AND THE THIRST FOR THE ABSOLUTE / 103

each of its parts, and consequently one can only conceive it, and not see it or
imagine it.’’® In this sense, it is a metaphysical, not a physical, being.
How ‘‘is [this] universal whole linked in its parts?’’ That is the stumbling
block of all metaphysics, the question to which the ‘‘True System’’ brings the
key to the enigma. Different aspects enter into play here and the metaphysics
has its consequences for theology (or rather against theology and for an enlight-
ened atheism), for morality and, indeed, for politics. First of all, the whole that
does not exist outside its parts is uniquely the metaphysical aspect of their
physical, material, and sensory existence. But neither do the parts exist outside
of the whole and they cannot separate themselves from their metaphysical aspect.
Consequently, the universal whole as well as its parts exist only relatively, that
is, their existence is relative, the first in relationship to the second, the second
in relationship to the first. In this sense, the whole is the cause of the existence
of the parts, the parts the cause of the existence of the whole. The whole is then
at once “‘the cause and the effect’’ or, if one prefers a traditional way of putting
it, ‘the creator and the created.’’ Let us beware of the false analogies suggested
by this language which only hints at the truth. The metaphysical being is of
another nature than its parts alone to the extent that its totality is irreducible to
its elements taken in isolation, without their agreement and participation. The
universal whole, nature, is not intelligible to our senses, but rather to reason,
or even to a specific sense, the existence of which we are not always conscious
of and which is the ‘‘special sense of agreement and participation.’
This ‘‘special sense’’ thus brings out what ‘‘we have strictly in common
with all beings.’’ Beyond sensory differences, the world is ontologically ho-
mogeneous, and all its parts are of the same nature and participate in the same
totality. The being and existence of any body, of each individual thing, depend,
then, on all the other things: nature constitutes a continuous chain of beings.
That is why there exists nothing absolute in nature: no body in nature is auton-
omous, separated from the others, existing by itself. No property or quality
belongs to the parts absolutely—all is relative in nature. Only our senses make
breaches in the continuity of nature. On the other hand, nature being the ‘‘uni-
versal whole’’ has as attributes all the properties that, seized upon by the senses
which isolate, seem mutually exclusive. Taken metaphysically, everything in
nature is “‘more’’ or ‘‘less’’— more or less living or dead, free and necessary,
past and future. In this sense the universal whole is the unity of oppositions, as
well as the complement of each individual being.” It is, likewise, in this sense
that nature is perfection. But by that must be understood a perfection devoid of
any moral characteristic. The latter is only man’s projection of his false existence
on the universal whole. Indeed, man living in the state of laws adds to two
aspects of his existence—the metaphysical aspect common to all beings and the
physical aspect that distinguishes the different beings from one another—a third
104 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

aspect, the moral aspect. Men suffer from moral evil in all its diverse forms and
do not recognize it as their own work; thus they have given themselves a God
who is supposed to be perfection and will supposedly deliver them from their
misfortunes. Yet, in nature, in the universal whole, there exists, at most, physical
evil, if by this term one means the relativity of each individual being, that
‘‘more’’ or ‘‘less’’ that falls to his share. Thus, death is a physical evil and even
that is completely relative because there is no rupture between death and life in
nature. The whole that incorporates the individual beings is the maximum and
the minimum at the same time and it is only in this sense and in relation to its
parts that it is perfection. °°
The universal whole, the aggregate of all the individual beings, is rational.
By that Dom Deschamps does not mean that any creative intention can be
discovered in it nor that a spiritual existence can be attributed to it. We say that
the universal whole is rational, because the metaphysical aspect of the existence
of things, that which makes them homogeneous, can be grasped only by reason
and not by the senses. Indeed, all sensory knowledge implies the action of one
thing on another, and the comparison of one thing to another. And nothing can
act on the universal whole, on the aggregate of all beings, and there is no reference
system outside of it. ‘‘The aggregate of the physical, by which I mean the
universal whole, can only fall under the understanding, under the sense of
agreement and participation, since it is absolutely true that it neither has nor can
have any point of comparison outside itself, but uniquely in itself.” When we
consider anything at all, in light of what distinguishes it from others, in light of
its esse tale, that is, in light of its sensory properties, we then conceive it as a
physical being. On the other hand, once we consider that same thing—and this
is equally true of man—in light of its esse, of what it has in common with all
beings, we see it metaphysically, and speak of it from the point of view of the
intellect.°’ Whence the predominance of metaphysical knowledge over all the
other sciences, including mathematics. Sciences in fact are always relative: they
refer to the testimony of the senses, they bear only on some characteristics of
the esse tale, of the “secondary existence.’’ Metaphysical knowledge is, on the
other hand, purely intellectual and absolute, and it bears on the ‘‘primary ex-
istence’’ which disregards any difference among things.
Thus the “‘True System’’ leads to the predominance of the homogeneous
whole over the differentiated multiplicity of its parts. In the strict or metaphysical
sense of the term, ‘‘nothing in nature is a thing on its own or independent;
nothing in nature is individual except for one or another of our senses.’’®? That
is why there is an element of appearance in any sensory perception (but, on the
other hand, as that was in question, every sensation is also a means of identifying
with things, of going beyond the completely relative character of the individu-
ality). For each of the individual beings, the universal whole is the absolute term
of all its possible relationships. Thus, the metaphysical homogeneity of nature
 UTOPIA AND THE THIRST FOR THE ABSOLUTE / 105

is shown through the diversity of all the ‘‘physical and sensory properties’’ of
all these “‘more’’ or “‘less’’ predicable things. But, at the same time, the uni-
formity of all things, their belonging to the ‘‘whole,”’ is shown in the tendency
peculiar to each of these things to unite with, to identify with the whole. By its
nature, each individual being strives toward the perfection of the whole, that is
“to enjoy everything that is possible,’’ to unite the beings with himself, to
concentrate them in him. For in nature there are no privileged beings; there is,
in her, no absolute center. From the metaphysical point of view, all beings are
absolutely equal and the whole is the same in each of its parts; it can, then, be
said of each thing that it is the center of the whole and is identical to the whole.
It is precisely that capital truth that men sense in the dictum ‘‘the center of the
universe is everywhere.” And it is that tendency of each thing to identify with
the whole that Descartes and Newtons reveal by discovering the force of grav-
itation or indeed the tendency of each body to move itself with a uniform
movement along a straight line. Metaphysicists, too, sense the same universal
tendency when they discuss the harmony and order reigning in nature; likewise
theologians when they attribute to each being a tendency to unite itself with
God. But nowhere, perhaps, does this tendency manifest itself with greater force
than in the most powerful of the pleasures experienced by man—in sexual
pleasure.’° Indeed, the sensory manifestation of the metaphysical essence of
man is his natural tendency to think wherein each thing might satisfy his desires
fully, so that his cohesion with the world would find expression in a way of life
that would assure his pleasures, his happiness. If men realized this tendency,
their existence would become identical to their metaphysical essence and, without
differing in any way from other beings, they would at the same time be their
center; their life would be identical to nature itself. Such is the consequence of
the metaphysical nature of man and that is why the moral truth, which is that
of the state of morals, is a direct implication of the metaphysical truth, or rather
it is that metaphysical truth lived by man with his fellows in a happy community.
Morality and the search for happiness, inferred up to this point from man’s
aspiration toward God, are only the presentiment of the metaphysical truth,
obscured and weighed down by ignorance and prejudice. “‘Any part at all,
considered metaphysically, is considered in what it has absolutely in common
with whatever other part, as a part of the whole. Now, once it is considered in
this way, it is absolutely equal to all the possible parts that are the whole and,
consequently, to the whole; whence, it follows that it is the whole. Thus, each
thing in effect centers other things. ”°71 As this tendency is universal, there is no
reason to consider man a privileged being in relation to his fellows. All that
singularizes a man, all that separates him from his fellows and prevents his
pleasure is contrary to his ‘‘primary existence.’’ Equality and the enjoyment of
a common happiness prove to have a metaphysical basis.
We have not yet introduced the category from which the name of the ‘“True
106 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

System’’ derives, the category of ‘‘nothing.’’ Up to this point, we have presented

our ‘‘stout Benedictine’’ not as a ‘‘nothingist,’’ but rather as a ‘‘fullist,’’ if we
may be permitted to coin an additional neologism in order to avoid the association
linked to the term ‘‘totalitarian.’’ The ‘‘nothing,’’ on the other hand, brings to
the fore another aspect of the ‘‘universal whole.’’
The ‘‘great whole,’’ nature, the universe, is in a certain sense the logical
synthesis of individual beings, but one having a real existence. It expresses
aspects of being such as finitude, extent, temporality. As we recall, this whole
is a relative being in the sense that it depends on its parts, having no existence
outside them. It exists then in itself, but not by itself. It is a determined being,
but omis determinatio est negatio. The Spinozistic inspiration of Dom Des-
champs’s metaphysics had never been as clear as it was in this issue. The finite,
extensive, temporal, determined, and relative being postulate the infinite, inex-
tensive, timeless, and absolute being. The universal whole is the affirmation of
these parts: all the characteristics common to its parts can be attributed to it.
‘The whole is a purely relative being and consequently doesn’t exist at all per
se; the whole is the unity of its parts.’’’” But the dependent being implies the
independent being as well as its characteristics. If all the positive characteristics
could be attributed to the universal whole, it would be necessary to attribute to
the absolute and independent being uniquely and exclusively negative charac-
teristics. The absolute is therefore the negation of the generality of the finite
beings, the negation of the whole that encompasses all possible beings as its
parts. The absolute is therefore nothing, nothingness.
We can try to clarify this speculative development by taking another ap-
proach. The universal whole must, specifically, by virtue of its universality,
include everything in itself. It must then equally contain in it its own negation;
now the negative.can only be an aspect of the existence of the whole, it can
have no autonomous existence in relation to ‘‘the aggregate of all possible
beings.’’ Thus the nothing is an aspect of the universal existence, in some way
the negative aspect of the universe. ‘‘The nothing is not the result of the finite
beings, but the infinite. . . . It is not time or the result of time, but eternity. . . .
It is the being that exists by itself and of which one can only deny what one
affirms of the other beings. . . . It is no longer the sensory or the result of the
sensory beings, but nothing, nothingness itself which is uniquely and which can
only be the negation of the sensory.’’”* Nothingness not only denies the sensory
world, but it affirms it, for the infinite implies the finite, eternity implies tem-
porality. Thus, it is the very principle of the whole, of the totality that encom-
passes all possible sensory and finite beings. In this sense, it is the term whole
that is perfectly suitable and it is uniquely minds unversed in metaphysics, and
that content themselves with ‘‘semi-enlightenment,’’ that would draw back from
this obvious conclusion: nothing and everything are identical. Moreover, men
have long sensed this truth that they expressed in their ordinary speech, saying,
 UTOPIA AND THE THIRST FOR THE ABSOLUTE / 107

for example, that ‘‘all is nothing.’’ They sensed it even more once they tried to
talk of God, the being they considered All and Everything, and about whom
they never succeeded in saying anything positive. . . .
Thus we have followed this approach to its ultimate conclusions and the
least that can be said is that it is not lacking in speculative audacity. And even
so, we have simplified it, without pointing out all its subtleties. . . . This meta-
physics, the attempted clarification of which has had recourse to Hegelian di-
alectics or even to the Heideggerian concept of ‘‘nothingization,’’ seems more
intelligible to us, at least historically, as soon as the Christian God appears as
a negative reference. Indeed, Dom Deschamps combats the ‘‘absurd’’ represen-
tation of the personal God to whom infinity, eternity, and supra-sensory existence
are attributed. As the conclusion to the absurdities that dominate the state of
laws, men have additionally endowed this God with moral qualities and have
thus instituted him as the source of eternal justice, of moral and legal norms and
constraints. Such an idea of God procured a sanction for the state of laws, the
reign of property, social inequality, tyranny, and oppression. On the other hand,
the ‘‘True System,’’ which is an ‘‘enlightened atheism,’’ brings to the fore the
absolute that is the basis of the state of morals, that alternative society that we
already know.
The opposition does not however exclude isomorphism. Atheism that
claims to be enlightened does not content itself with following the freethinkers
who purely and simply deny the existence of God and, hence, of any absolute.
The false social state rested on a false idea of the absolute. The state of morals,
while refusing the God of religions, must, so to speak, realize the promise of
the absolute and rest on the true absolute. This atheistic absolute is, of course,
the absolute opposite of God, but is second to him in nothing—is not less ‘‘solid’’
metaphysically than he, nor less rich than he in attributes. It could be said that
Dom Deschamps’s atheism is ‘‘enlightened’’ in the sense that he attempts to
clarify the whole theological and scholastic heritage that he takes on. As the
author of the ‘‘True System’’ formulates it: ““God,’’ I said, ‘‘is the all in all, is
the finite or the perfect and the infinite. Indeed, I would say non est deus ad
imaginem nostram phisicam et moralem. But one must ask no more of me: for
with that exception, I say est deus; I say that he is a being who according to the
way of envisioning him either relatively or not, is the finite or the infinite, the
one or the unique, the whole or everything, the sensory taken metaphysically
or nothing.’’’* Thus it is striking, for example, that the ternary construction—
the sensory and individual beings, the universal whole and All—is isomorphic
to the traditional religious representations and, in particular, to that of the Holy
Trinity.” It is moreover sometimes impossible to decide when the theological
references have to do only with the exoteric discourse and when they serve as
the framework of the esoteric discourse.
Thus, Dom Deschamps unifies two intellectual approaches that for his
108 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

contemporaries, for the spirit of the age, were incompatible, if not antithetical.
On the one hand, he makes the ideas and philosophical and social orientations
characteristic of the Enlightenment his own, but on the other hand, he pushes
them to the extreme, using a reference system and conceptual tools that he took
up during his eccclesiastical training.’° This fusion would certainly not be pos-
sible without the most radical calling into question of the social order added to
the fervor of the social imagination in search of an alternative society.
Thus the ‘‘key to the metaphysical enigma’’ leads to a sort of mystic
materialism or, if you will, to a materialistic mysticism. Indeed, the paradoxical
aspiration of a mystic is found in the ‘“True System’’: to effect the blossoming
of the individual and of his person by his annihilation, by his resorption into the
absolute. However, for this atheistic and rebellious Benedictine, this absolute is
nothing but ‘‘the aggregate of all sensory beings,’’ of material bodies, and it is
only here on earth, in an ideal community that fuses with nature, that man can
transcend himself. The utopian vision is thus pushed to the limit where it merges
with a metaphysical project, but at the same time, it is the aspiration toward
utopia that is revealed as the motivating force of the search and of the meta-
physical fervor. The realized utopia is thus charged with satisfying the thirst for
the absolute.
Let us however abandon this domain of the absolute where every word
has the solidity of a rock and withdraw to the moving sands of history. But is
it not the most stable if not the unique support of the solidity of every absolute?
The question was posed whether, with the exhumations of Dom Des-
champs’s work, the face of the eighteenth century wouldn’t change.’’ The dis-
cussion is still open, but we don’t think this would be the case. Nevertheless,
it is by no means our intention to detract in any way from the originality of this
work or from the intellectual audacity that inspired it. By the very challenge it
sends to the spirit of its age, it brings precious testimony of the historical
conditions in which it is situated as well as of the intellectual and social realities
it confronted.
Situating Dom Deschamps’s discourse in relation to the ideas that made
his time ‘‘the enlightened century’’ is a delicate problem. On the one hand,
indeed, one is struck by the fact that all that vertiginous metaphysical speculation,
all that heavy ‘‘nothingist’’ system and its conceptual tools go against the in-
tentionally anti-systematic and anti-metaphysical spirit of the philosophy of the
Enlightenment. On the other hand, it is nevertheless striking that the ‘‘True
System,’’ despite the accumulation of the “‘everythings’’ and the ‘‘nothings,”’
rejoins, in a paradoxical and singular way, the intellectual and moral preoccu-
pations of the era.
The reactions of contemporaries to what they knew of the ‘‘True System’’
conform to this duality of impressions. Let us recall Diderot’s enthusiasm after
his meeting with the ‘‘stout Benedictine’’ as well as the passages of his texts to
 UTOPIA AND THE THIRST FOR THE ABSOLUTE / 109

which we have referred and which bear witness to a convergence of questions

and even of certain answers between the author of the Réve de d’Alembert and
that of the Vrai Systéme. On the one hand, numerous reservations about Dom
Deschamps’s work are well known—those, for example, of Voltaire and
d’Alembert, of Rousseau and Robinet. The correspondence that has been pre-
served proves that it is not solely a matter of a polemic on the subject of a
particular thesis, or of misunderstandings having to do with the ‘‘exoteric’’
language. One clearly senses that these correspondents are embarrassed by some-
thing in his very way of thinking and of formulating his ideas. He was reproached
for practicing scholasticism and ‘‘Scotism,’’ for constructing chimerical and
omniscient systems instead of studying facts, as d’Alembert wrote, or instead
of studying the laws most useful to man, as Rousseau advised.
It is, however, necessary to go beyond these divergences and ambiguities
to find a common basis of preoccupations and hopes, of problems and aspirations.
It is at that level, and not at that of responses made into systems, and of doctrines
that inevitably diverge, that an undoubted unity of the Enlightenment becomes
apparent. We have noted that the ‘‘True System’’ takes on a whole set of
questions and oppositions that persist in the enlightened mind. Dom Deschamps
reproaches his contemporaries for their lack of intellectual and social courage,
but he concedes, all the same, that his ‘‘age’’ is further advanced along the road
to truth than the others, having reached ‘‘semi-enlightenment’’ and ‘‘half-
truths.’’ Does he not, in the very counterarguments that he brings to his ‘‘age,”’
share the hope of the intellectual elites who produce and convey the ‘‘Lights,’’
‘‘the Enlightenment,’’ and who are impatient to see their time finally enlightened
by the sun of reason and freed from the yoke of prejudices? Dom Deschamps
is not the only one of his time to have the certainty that the ‘‘key to the enigma’’
provided by ‘‘full knowledge, total enlightenment,’’ must inevitably join meta-
physics and morality. It is by no means peculiar to Dom Deschamps to give
moral and social implications to the most abstract philosophical questions, to
associate them, on the one hand, to the feelings of malaise and crisis of the
existing social order and, on the other, to the search for rules and expedients
that man ought to devise to live with happiness in a happy society. Diderot’s
evidence is doubly revealing, because he recognizes himself in Dom Des-
champs’s metaphysical and social dream and lets himself be carried away by
him and because of the fact that he considers only a dream what to our secular
prophet could only be the revelation of ultimate truth.
We are not attempting to compare the ‘True System’’ with one doctrine
of the era or another, or to reconcile it with any of them. However, on the level
of the history of ideas and mentalities, one finds, beyond the divergences of the
systems, an affinity among the main schemes of intellectual curiosity and the
social imagination. On this same level, it is quite revealing that Dom Des-
champs’s work is not limited to his texts. As we have said, it is extended into
110 / UTOPIA AND METAPHYSICS: DOM DESCHAMPS

a very specific action that aims at founding a more or less secret society, a circle
of proselytes initiated into the ‘‘key to the enigma’’; by the propagation of the
truth, one ‘‘would give impetus’’ to a ‘‘blissful revolution.” It is well known
that the intellectual climate of the society that was soon to become the Ancien
Régime was marked at the time by quests for an ultimate truth that allied, often
paradoxically, the naiveté of a militant rationalism to social reverie, as well as
to an esotericism that often verged on mysticism. Do ‘‘the metaphysical acad-
emy’’ of the château of Ormes, its initiates, and their discussion not still bring
us evidence of this collective phenomenon? This godless monk, *‘this displaced
being, and for that very reason all the more interesting,”’’S as one of his con-
temporaries said of Dom Deschamps, is certainly, if only by his extremism, a
figure who situates himself in a marginal intellectual and social group; the same
may be said, from still other points of view, of his protector, and of this restricted
group where he finds, if not an audience, at least curiosity for his **monstrous
system.” But every marginal group is not possible during every era; every society
engenders its own marginality whose malaise, preoccupations, and modes of
rupture reveal the state of the society itself. Through the abstract figures of the
philosophical discourse, one finally finds evidence of a whole blocked society
where the muddled feelings of unrest favor the ideas that explore the domain of
the impossible. And how striking the correspondence still is between the *‘social
landscape”” that takes shape against the background of moral and philosophical
criticism of the ‘‘state of laws’’ and the social realities of this small corner of
Montreuil-Bellay as they are presented by contemporary historians.”
It is by looking social reality in the face that Dom Deschamps turned
against it, and it is by confronting it that he imagined the great social and moral
upheaval, the ‘‘happy revolution,’’ that will actualize the ‘‘key to the meta-
physical and moral enigma.’* The conviction that a truly enlightened age could
be nothing other than collective happiness, the audacity of the social vision of
Dom Deschamps, as well as his intellectual audacity, are part of the “spirit of
this century’’ that the author of the ‘‘True System” so criticized, although it
was his own.
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I. is left to the spirit to establish the best legislation, and con-
sequently to make men as happy as possible,’’ wrote Helvétius in 1758. It is
true that even the novel of this legislation has not yet been written and that many
centuries will elapse before the fiction of it is realized; but, arming oneself with
the patience of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, one can predict after him, that ‘‘every-
thing imaginable will exist.’”!
Forty years later, in a pamphlet that fits in with the great social and political
debate that marked the eve of the Révolution, Sylvain Maréchal called for a
radical transformation of society. Setting himself up as a lay prophet, he an-
nounced the imminent triumph of equality and liberty, of the peace and innocence
of happiness rediscovered. ‘‘All this,’’ he said, ‘‘is only a story at the time I’m
telling it but, I say truly, it will be history.’’ To give prominence to the idea
that this time of a new history was already established, once and for all, Maréchal
gave as the publication date of his pamphlet: Year one of the reign of Reason.”
The imaginary which becomes reality by espousing history, and history
which is renewed by realizing the ‘‘novel’’—these two approaches are char-
acteristic of the encounter that takes place during the eighteenth century between
utopias and the idea of progress. A meeting between the images of an alternative
society, at odds with the social realities to which it is opposed, and the idea of
history, considered as a purely human work and as the series of innovations that,
by their cumulative effects, assure the collective future a continuity and a finality.
A meeting too of different, if not opposing, discourses. One is defined by the
nonexistence of the ideal City in question; the other attempts to be the faithful
translation in words of a real process of history of which it unveils the true
meaning, hidden by its convolutions. However, the two approaches were, so to
speak, complementary; one necessarily led to the other. For those utopians who

113
114 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

refuse to satisfy themselves with dreams, the idea of history-progress offered an

exceptional opportunity to give their dream an executory force: history found
itself charged with assuring the transformation of the “‘political novel’’ into
collective reality. On the other hand, the ideologies of progress did not seek
only to interpret the past but also, if not primarily, to clarify the present as well
as foretell the future. Thus they implied the more or less detailed image of a
better society situated in that future and epitomizing in itself the finality of the
historical evolution.
Affinities are noticeable between the two approaches and the two discourses
but so is an interplay of opposites by which their distinctive characteristics are
shown. To simplify matters, one could say that the encounter between utopias
and the idea of progress is a double movement: utopian discourse assimilates
the themes peculiar to the idea of progress, by transforming them; on the other
hand, historical discourse adapts and modifies utopian themes.
There is no question of following this double maneuver here; we will limit
ourselves to bringing out several examples of this interaction between utopias
and history. Thus we will first touch on visions of the history found in the
‘‘imaginary voyages’’ and the proposals for perfect legislation—the other history
that then appeared as the promise of utopias. We will then pass on to another
phase, to the writings in which utopias are announced as the promise of history.
It is, finally, starting with the debate over the revolutionary calendar, a remarkable
example of revolutionary discourse on history, that we will examine the ex-
changes between the images of the New City and the collective attitudes toward
history. At that time, utopias translate the hopes and expectations with which
the lived experience of a historical change surrounds itself, but they intervene,
as well, in the revolutionary experience that changes the collective modes in
which time is lived.
 1
History: The Promise of
Utopia

Insular History and Alternative Histories

In the works that espouse the two most frequent paradigms of utopian discourse
of the era—those of imaginary voyages and proposals for the best legislation—
the rupture between the image of an alternative society and social realities has
repercussions on attitudes toward history. Thus, the image of an ideal history is
opposed to history as it was made (or, more precisely, to the ideas and images
of history that function in the historical science of the collective mentalities of
the era). On the other hand, this same image is a reflection of the ideal City that
succeeded in dominating the collective conditions of its existence—in other
words, that can never be surprised either by its destiny or by its evolution.
The accounts of imaginary voyages give numerous examples of these ideal
histories.
Let us note, first, that the imaginary space spoken of in this sort of narrative
is opposed to the time of history. Indeed, it is obvious that the long trip across
the sea made by the narrator points up not only how spatially isolated the country
he is going to describe is from his native land and, hence, from the cultural and
social universe of his readers; but the topographical rupture also points up a
rupture in time. The history of the imaginary country was not that of the readers,
i.e., ours. Thus the narrator will often have difficulty explaining to the Utopians
(let us use the word in its generic sense to designate the inhabitants of diverse
countries described in the imaginary voyages) the march of his own history,
such as the wars of religion and their causes. Let us also note that in the structure
of the narrative the time required for this long voyage to Utopia takes on the
double function of assuring both the continuity and the rupture between the time
in Utopia and that of real history. It is thanks to this journey that the passage
115
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not only from one country to another becomes possible, but also that from a
real historical experience to an imaginary one. On the other hand, the time of
the journey, although rich in adventures and episodes, is, so to speak, historically
hollow in the sense that it is a ‘‘private’’ time of the narrator, as much in relation
to real history as to imaginary history. In other words, all these adventures only
emphasize the fact that the world the voyager will discover is cut off from the
history of the world from which he left. As the narrative continues, this break
becomes more and more obvious—it is the very condition of the existence of
the imaginary country.
These utopias of space are not, however, devoid of all historical reference,
which could even be said to permeate the narrative in two complementary ways.
First of all, the ‘‘real’’ history, that of the narrator and the readers, is presented
negatively. The Utopians have succeeded in escaping from this history and that
is why they have not known either our evils, our vices, or our injustices. Thus
the historical experience brought by the voyager is quasi-useless to them. The
Utopians have no need to know ‘‘our’’ history to clarify their social life. The
latter is understood based on itself and is closed in on itself. On the other hand,
the narrative implies that the reader can and must refer to the imaginary history
to clarify the social realities known to him: hence, his judgment of the latter
could not but be all the more severe.
Whence the presence, positive this time, in certain narratives, of history,
in the sense that the narrator tells the imaginary history of the utopian country.
The word histoire,* moreover, frequently appears in the titles of imaginary
voyages and with a double meaning—that of ‘‘a true narrative, which is coherent,
and linked by several memorable events’’ and that of ‘‘fabulous but plausible
narrative, either made up by an author, or disguised.’’? Thus in the Histoire des
Sévarambes a whole portion of the narrative is devoted to the ‘‘Histoire des lois
et des mœurs des Sévarambes.”” The latter ‘‘is the subject of several volumes’’
and the narrator has taken it upon himself to extract for the readers ‘‘only the
most remarkable parts and those most essential to the history of this happy
people.’’* The Sévarambes date events by their own calendar: ‘‘they count their
time by dinermis, that each contain seven solar revolutions.’’ According to ‘‘our
calculation,” it was in 1427 that ‘‘these peoples established their principal era.”
It was then that Sévarias, aged 32, went down for the first time into the ‘‘austral
lands,’’ later becoming the first king of the Sévarambes and founder of their
government.” The narrator gives a rather detailed account of this history, be-
ginning with the life and admirable actions of Sévarias himself and then passing
in review the reigns of his successors: Khomédas, Brontas, etc.° In other nar-
ratives, the imaginary history leaves out this sort of detail, limiting itself to a
simple sketch of a few major events. Whatever the richness or poverty of detail,

*Translator’s note: “‘Histoire’’ means both ‘‘history”” and ‘‘story.”’

 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 117

however, nearly always, behind the events, the same key personage is found.
It is the great legislator, the ‘‘incomparable legislator,’ who, ‘‘thanks to his
unique wisdom,”’ and after having ‘‘recognized from what sources the misfor-
tunes of society are derived,’’ gives his people the perfect legislation that makes
them happy.’ This personage (as well as his founding act or, if you will, his
founding word) marks the turning point—the beginning of a model history. He
likewise incarnates its rupture with the history which was experienced only by
us, the non-utopians.
Accounts of ‘‘imaginary historians’’: unimaginative accounts. The fact is
not due to the lack of imagination of a particular author. The series is too long,
the phenomenon too frequently repeated, even in authors not thought to lack,
so to speak, an imagination for events, when they describe the adventures and
shipwrecks of their heroes, or social imagination, when they speak of new
institutions. A Restif de la Bretonne, for example, had given ample proof of his
imaginative powers, yet his history of the Mégapatagons, the perfect people
inhabiting the austral lands, and discovered by the flying man, is no richer than
many other utopian stories.*
The relative poverty of the historical imagination is actually due to the
very finality of the narrative. It doesn’t propose to its readers that they live
another history but that they experience intellectually and in the realm of the
imagination social otherness. What imaginary voyagers explore is the possibility
of thinking up and freely imagining alternative societies, based on values, beliefs,
and social hierarchies which differ from our own, and which, nevertheless, are
in perfect harmony with human nature and the physical and moral order of the
universe. The possible, that is, the thinkable, as well as the different, are thus
seen extended into the imaginary, or rather, translated into images. The game
of the possible and the different is what the imaginary voyagers practice and it
is into this game in which liberty of thought and imagination are exercised that
they draw their readers. These utopias, for instance, bring imaged responses to
the famous question posed by Bayle about the existence and functioning of a
society of atheists. Paraphrasing the title of a famous work, much appreciated
at the time, it could be said that it is on the plurality of social worlds that the
authors of the imaginary voyages establish a dialogue with their readers.
It is indeed difficult, if not impossible, to situate these imaginary societies
in relation to our historical time. That is not because of the absence of chron-
ological indicators which, on the contrary, are frequently abundantly provided,
as we have seen, for example, with the Sévarambes. And yet the history of the
Utopians is neither the one we might hope for nor even the one we have missed;
in fact, we have neither past nor future in common with it. These narratives of
imaginary societies do not suggest that the real societies are going to orient
themselves toward the models they present; nor do they tell us that in the past
a reorientation of our history, similar to that which took place in the imaginary
118 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

history, would have been possible. Nor do these texts present the beginnings of
what is now known as ‘‘historical fiction,’’ that is, a narrative that refers to the
imaginary consequences and repercussions of historical events.” The utopians
do not even live a history parallel to ours; it could rather be said that they are
situated in a time that is superimposed on our own. The fact that they use a
different calendar—we pointed this out for the Sévarambes, but it is repeated
in several other utopias—seems revealing. Certainly, synchronizations can be
established between the utopian calendars and our own, but these do not suppress
the difference. The time of these societies, even when they are not located on
islands, is an insular time, confined to itself.
The visitor to the imaginary country (and with him the reader of the
narrative), thus finds himself before a ready-made, finished, completed history,
whose meaning is transparent, for the utopians as well as for himself. The
discourse on history in the utopia is moreover the same as that to which his own
historical readings have accustomed him. The utopians speak new and unknown
languages, much more rational than ours, but they have not invented new ways
of writing history.’° In their annals, the reader finds familiar figures and
events—the births and deaths of kings, the acts of their reigns and even, oc-
casionally, wars. However, these actions are only signs analogous to those he
knows; their meanings are different. History in the utopia is a purely human—
not providential—work; it is that of justice, virtue, and happiness, not that of
crimes, discord, perpetual wars, and religious persecutions. He finds in it nothing
that constituted the eras of his own history. The history of the utopians derives
from a founding act and word that deploy their rationality in time and take hold
of the reader.
Presenting a transparent and rational imaginary history was only an intel-
lectual game. But the practice of this game was neither gratuitous nor without
social consequences. Comparing and contrasting the transparency and rationality
of the imaginary history with the annals of real history was calling into question
once again the values conveyed by the latter as well as the resultant social
justifications. And it is in this sense that the insular histories told by the imaginary
voyagers are just so many anti-histories.
The same founding word, if not the same personage of the great legislator
who opens the time of history to rationality, is found in the utopia-proposals. It
is thus that we find them again in the Prince ou les délices du ceur by Morelly.
This is in many ways a curious book, not least because it is situated at the
borderline between the utopia of space and the utopia-proposal, indeed, even
bordering on a treatise on the education of the prince (which shows moreover
that in utopian discourse the combination of several paradigms and the passage
from one to another are made rather easily). In a framework furnished by an
imaginary country vaguely situated both geographically and chronologically, an
ideal prince, in a discussion with his advisers, expounds on the principles of a
 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 119

policy that makes the interests of the state coincide with the happiness of its
citizens. The exposition of the art of governing takes shape, and is extended
into the development of laws, which thus form an ideal, yet applicable, proposal
for legislation to transform social realities as they exist.
In other proposals, there is only the underlying presence of a ‘‘good prince”?
who would set in motion the transformation of the social life. The proposals are
then just so many appeals to a virtual great legislator who would personify at
once the rupture in the history and its continuity. Rupture since by virtue of the
true and just principles that inspire him, he must, in realizing the ‘‘project,”’
transform and reorient the present. But continuity, too, since the good prince
can only take on this mission insofar as he is a product of history as it was: it
is history that furnishes him his titles and qualifications, as well as his powers
and his possibilities of action. This can be seen with the European princes of
the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s Projet de paix perpétuelle who were to meet to
establish an alliance and an international institution destined to open a new era
in history, by eliminating wars forever. All the mechanisms and the system by
which this institution functioned are presented in the Projet with an overabund-
ance of detail. The Abbé de Saint-Pierre was not seeking ideal princes; he only
wished to show princes as they are that his proposals only expressed their true
interest. (Rousseau will point out that it would still be necessary that the prince,
having to choose between ‘‘self-interest and the true,’’ agree to put his power
at the service of reason.)'’ In the following chapter, we will return to how the
Abbé de Saint-Pierre attempts to reunite the utopia and history in a sole discourse.
Here we will only point out a revealing trait. The Abbé who, to his century,
was an exemplary utopian figure, had not the slightest doubts about the realism
of his proposals. It is sufficient that truth be brought to the fore for it to impose
itself sooner or later. Once the prince is persuaded, the reason embodied in the
proposal will become a compelling and imperative force to him. His acts then
cannot but translate into facts the true discourse and thus transform the revealing
word into the founding act of a new reality.
Without seeking to analyze the multiple attitudes the utopia-proposals take
toward history, or even trying to review them summarily, let us limit ourselves
to a general observation. The paradigm manifests much more flexibility than
that of the imaginary voyage and in its substitutions are found many attitudes
toward history that are appreciably more varied. To give but one example of
this variety, let us look at another text by Morelly, the Code de la Nature, which
will be quite important in the history of socialist utopias (the text, moreover,
was long attributed to Diderot; Babeuf, who assimilated several of the ideas in
the code, took it for the latter’s work). The Code de la Nature expresses, on
the one hand, attitudes toward history not without similarity to those that were
predominant in the accounts of imaginary voyages. But on the other hand the
utopian discourse in it refers to a much richer philosophy of history, all the more
120 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

remarkable for combining the idea of historical decadence with that of a possible
progress. Degradation is judged inevitable if history remains abandoned to the
forces that have controlled its course up to that point. But history is also an open
field of possibilities: the realization of the proposal for ideal legislation would
allow for changing its course and installing an alternative history.
Nor does the text lend itself to a coherent interpretation. It is divided into
parts whose organization is not well defined by the structure of the work as a
whole. A polemical work, the Code opposes to the critics of the “‘chimeras’’
of the Basiliade (an imaginary voyage in which Morelly told of a happy country,
without private property, state, or a repressive morality) an overall reflection on
history as well as a Modèle de législation conforme aux intentions de la Nature.
However, the way the two parts are linked together does not emerge clearly. !
Without entering into a detailed analysis, we will limit ourselves to suggesting
a reading, solely in the context that interests us here.
The reflection on history and the proposal for ideal legislation are com-
plementary in the sense that both bring responses to the same problem, that of
evil. Thus the proposal seeks to answer the question of knowing ‘‘what is the
situation in which it is nearly impossible that man be depraved, or wicked, bad,
or, at least, minima de malis.’’'* A remarkable formula, the perfect formula of
a whole orientation of utopian research. For Morelly, this question imposes itself
on man as the most urgent because of the oppressive reign of moral evil. It is
up to reflection on history to respond in its turn and to say what the origins of
evil are and what are the reasons for its persistence. Such questioning of history
is necessarily part and parcel of any criticism of it. Indeed man only degrades
himself in the course of his history; this history, then, is to be eliminated or
remade.
At the dawn of their history the peoples come up against—to risk using
anachronistic terminology—the difficulties of their demographic growth. The
more numerous the population became, the more the bonds and primitive sen-
timents ‘‘of fraternal unity’’ were relaxed; it thus came about that the authority
of the fathers was weakened. These physical causes to which must be added the
dispersion of the population finally ‘‘broke nearly all community among men,”’
whence the quasi-dissolution of their sociability. The resultant dissensions, trou-
bles, and wars imposed on men the necessity of giving themselves laws. They
then, however, came up against ‘‘the predicaments and the difficulties of a new
establishment.’’ All the legislations instituted were defective and the
legislators—including Solon and Lycurgus—‘‘didn’t correct any disorder. The
laws that brought only palliative remedies to the evils of humanity can be seen
as basic causes of the regrettable consequences of their bad cure.’’!* To the
original primary disorder were grafted the vices and evils that had been getting
progressively worse for ‘‘seven thousand years’’: private property and the re-
sultant social inequality, oppression and despotism, false religions and false
 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 121

moralities. In a certain era, it was easy to prevent evil by a true and just
legislation, in conformity with the intentions of nature. Perhaps even today there
are still nations that ‘‘find themselves in a disastrous equilibrium . . . ready
either to fall into barbarity or to draw closer to the laws of nature, if they are
fortunate enough, to grasp the propitious moment.’’’° There are, however, forces
opposed to all change and that is as true of social forces—that is, of men in
whose interest it would be to have the evil persist and to keep private property,
false religion, etc.—as it is of moral forces, the most powerful of which are
intellectual inertia and the sway of prejudices.
Has history, then, brought nothing positive to man? The response is qual-
ified, if not ambiguous. Perhaps all these disastrous lessons that men have
inflicted on themselves throughout their history were indispensable so that they
could learn ‘‘how unreasonable’’ was any society not in conformity with the
intentions of nature. But the experience of evil is incapable, by itself, of causing
it to disappear. In order to succeed in doing so, it is necessary to know where
the error originates and, in light of this, to decompose this ‘‘institutional morality,
to prove the falseness of its hypotheses . . . the opposition of its means and their
ends; in a word, to demonstrate in detail the defects of each part of this monstrous
body.’’!®° To start on this reform ‘‘of the defects of politics and morality,’ it is
necessary, unconditionally, “‘to give the truly wise complete freedom to attack
the errors and prejudices sustaining the spirit of property.’’ Once ‘‘this monster
has been struck down,”’ it will no longer be difficult to have the people adopt
laws that keep men ‘‘from being wicked and the dupes of their errors.”’!?
The Modèle de législation conforme aux intentions de la Nature is given
as an appendix to this critique of history and society. Yet, between the critique
of history and the model legislation there are both rupture and continuity. Rupture
because the critique does not, by any means, lead to the imminent realization
of this proposal. On the contrary, Morelly himself states that it is ‘‘unfortunately
only too true that it would be impossible, in our time, to form such a republic.’’!®
But continuity is also found, on several levels. First of all, the proposal dem-
onstrates that the problem that consists of finding ‘‘the situation in which man
would be as happy and as beneficent as he can be’’ is a resolvable problem.
This solution does not require either an imaginary island or a people cut off from
our history as a condition and a setting. The utopia and the critique of history
intersect. The first brings ‘‘complete proofs’’ to the second since it defines ‘‘the
fundamental and sacred laws that cut off the roots of vices and all the evils of
a society.’’ Besides, the analysis of history shows that it ‘would have been easy
for the first legislators’’ to institute such laws. Nowadays, it is ‘‘nearly impos-
sible,’’ but does this nuance not also express a hope and does it not suggest that
it is not completely ruled out? Morelly defends himself for having ‘‘the temerity
to claim to reform the human race,’’ but he nevertheless proposes to formulate
those truths men have missed in the course of their history. And yet one can
122 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

even wonder whether Morelly proposes his Modèle as the sole and unique solution
that can be given to the problems that torment humanity. Does he not, rather,
advance it as an example, as one of the solutions that can be imagined once one
is inspired by the ‘‘true spirit, neglected, unknown or misunderstood, from time
immemorial, of the laws [of nature].’’!?
Be that as it may, the utopia is defined by reference to history. It is in
historical time that it unveils the possibility of existence of an alternative society
that would give body to what had been only the object of dreams. This alternative
society is not intended as the continuation of man as he had been formed in and
by history, to whom the utopia opposes the normative concept of man. The
utopia seeks to free society of its past; it is installed in history only to imprint
new beginnings on it, to make it start again from zero. With a new society, it
seeks to inaugurate an alternative history.
It is significant that Morelly passes over historical knowledge in silence
in the chapter of his Modèle dealing with question of arts and sciences. He
foresees, however, the developments of the natural and technical sciences as
well as of poetry and painting (or, at least, of certain types of poetry and painting,
those judged useful for society and for its morality). The essential aspect of the
knowledge of the past of pre-utopian history, as it were, is reduced to the lessons
given by moral philosophy; the rest is only dross to be eliminated, if not a vain
pursuit that, like metaphysics, can only “‘lead minds astray.’’ The citizens of
the ideal City will know only one history, that which the Supreme Senate will
compose by combining the accounts of the ‘‘actions of the leaders and of the
citizens worthy of being remembered.’’ These moral and patriotic annals will
constitute ‘‘the body of history of the entire nation’’ and will cause a past that
deserved nothing better to be forgotten. It is, however, easy to note that while
radically refusing the past, the utopian City adopted the most traditional functions
of historical discourse. With the annals of the New City, historical discourse
changes its object, certainly. It nevertheless remains the receptacle of the col-
lective memory and merges with an edifying and didactic discourse that develops,
confirming the values and principles at the root of the social order, and thus
contributing to social cohesion. It is a discourse that can be qualified as ‘‘mon-
umental’’ in the sense that it can be perfectly translated into a series of monuments
that would be just so many images disseminating edifying examples and moral
lessons to the people.?°
Let us go on to the last text based on which we shall examine another
variation of history in the utopia, in which we are more closely interested here.

Progress in Utopia
Jean-Sébastien Mercier’s L’An 2440, published in 1770, certainly marks a new
phase in the history of utopian literature although it is not the first novel about
 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 123

the future. The author’s method is known: substituting time for space in an
imaginary voyage. The method will later be used frequently and often more
ingeniously than it was by the author of L’An 2440. Far from being a masterpiece,
this book is distinguished neither by its originality nor by the richness of its
political or social points of view. But perhaps because of its very mediocrity,
certain themes emerge with particular clarity. Thus, one can grasp in a real-life
situation, so to speak, the modifications undergone by that paradigm of utopian
discourse, the imaginary voyage, as a result of the combination of utopian
representations with the idea of history-progress.
First, the schema of the narrative. The narrator falls asleep and has a long
dream, in which he finds himself, at the age of 700, in a city which is no other
than that in which he had fallen asleep, Paris. It is, however, a new and surprising
city to him and he rushes off to explore it. He walks about, becoming acquainted
with the places and mores, laws and architecture, religion, and morality of this
twenty-fifth century society. The narrative paradigm of the utopia of space and
its constituents are easily recognizable: the narrator, who comes from a society
and a civilization that are those of the reader, finds himself confronted with
unknown and alien social realities. So he makes a tour of this new society and,
as has been judiciously noted, the narrative space recalls that of a museum where
paintings are hung, side by side.?! Mercier, in fact, seems rather like an amateur
collector, who specializes in a sole genre and a sole style of painting—only
educational canvases that translate sublime moral and political truths into speak-
ing images. The contrast between the reality discovered and the reality already
known, as well as the confrontation between the two, would give rise to surprising
effects.?? It seems pointless to enter here into the details of this ‘‘dream, if there
ever was one’’ for we still have to reexamine certain details and aspects of this
future society. Let us stress, rather, the effects of the substitution of time for
space.
As has been frequently noted, u-topia has been transformed into u-chronie:
the New City is situated in an imaginary time. To a certain extent, the functions
of time in this narrative are similar to those assumed by space in the other
imaginary voyages we have already traced. The time elapsed, the seven centuries,
isolates the imagined society in question from the time of the real society in
which the act of reading takes place.
However, it is obvious that time assumes different functions as well. Let
us note, first, that in L’An 2440 it is a matter of a historical time and even of a
characterized historical time. Of course, the precise date in the title is without
great importance (Mercier was born in 1740 and so, adding seven centuries, he
arrives at the year 2440). What is, however, worthy of attention is the fact that
the year 2440 is not in just any future but in one that belongs to progress. And
the idea of progress informs the representation of time, of the succession of the
centuries of which this future is the culmination. This is brought out by the
124 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

contrast with this other time intervening in the narrative and that might be called
the ‘‘private’’ time of the narrator. In his dream, he sees himself as 700 years
old, which leads, in the course of the tale, to several supposedly funny episodes.
However, this ‘‘private’’ time is slack time, ‘‘hollow’’ in imitation of the ‘‘hol-
low’’ space we mentioned when speaking of the imaginary voyage in space.
During these seven centuries the narrator did nothing but sleep. Neither
his personality nor his ideas evolved, while historical time was rich in events
and consequences. However, if time marks the rupture between present and
future, it also translates the link between them, for the eighteenth and the twenty-
fifth centuries are part of the same history, that of progress. Surprising and exotic
effects are indeed found in the text, but here they are due to the historical
evolution. The narrator doesn’t find himself under distant skies, but in really
and truly well-known locations—the Pont-Neuf, the palace Louis-XV, in front
of the Louvre, in Montmartre. Familiar and yet unrecognizable places. Actually,
it is the time of progress that governs the imaginary space: Paris has undergone
enormous transformations thanks to time.
We shall return to this renovated space in another chapter. But let us note,
here, that this renovated Paris is inhabited by new men: man measures up to his
city and vice versa. Let us note, too, that, contrary to the case of the utopia of
space, changes here are not limited to a single country, to an isolated City. The
narrator has no need to travel to ascertain this fact. By reading newspapers, he
learns that changes similar to those he notices on the spot have taken place
throughout the world. Prejudices have been destroyed; reason, enlightenment,
and with them liberty and tolerance triumph in China as in South America, in
Lisbon as in Warsaw (where those mad Confederates whom Rousseau tried to
shelter from time have certainly been forgotten). All of humanity is swept along
in an irresistible movement. The utopia linked to the idea of progress breaks
with insularity in the sense that its time asserts itself as that of universal history.
A dialogue is begun between the hero of the adventure and the twenty-
fifth century Parisians, and surprise is shown on both sides: the former is surprised
by the innovations and by their magnitude, the latter astonished that a long
bygone social reality was nevertheless possible. However, if truth be told, the
surprise is not so great, despite the contrasts between the two eras. The narrator,
transported into this distant future, gets his bearings rather easily. Actually, what
he finds there are his own ideas, that is, the advanced ideas of his century, then
considered unrealizable, that have been implemented. So the impression of the
fantastic and the extraordinary does not come from the invention of daring and
unknown ideas, but merely from overturning the relationship between an imag-
ined reality and the ideas broadly held by enlightened readers.
Nor is the surprise very great on the ‘‘Uchronians’ ’’ side. The meeting
with this visitor from the past actually only confirms their ideas on history. What
is imagined in the narrative is not only—and not really—a historical evolution,
 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 125

the course of history during these seven centuries, but also and especially the
existence of a new historical conscience, new attitudes toward history engendered
by this evolution. On these two levels the essential themes of the ideology of
progress are put into images. And this transposition is particularly revelatory of
the way in which the idea of progress is assimilated by a utopian narrative. The
imaginary history—that of events, so to speak—is just barely sketched in. We
are told that a ‘‘great revolution’’ took place at an unspecified date.
Let us not misunderstand the sense of the word: revolution keeps the
meaning it has taken on over the centuries: it is merely a change, not a violent
upheaval. It was carried out easily, ‘‘effortlessly, by the heroism of a great
man.’’ The credit is due ‘‘the philosopher-king, worthy of the throne because
he disdained it, more jealous of the happiness of men than of the phantom of
power, fearing his posterity and himself.’’”? It is thanks to him that the change
took place with neither catastrophe nor civil war. In any case, the country was
already ripe for that transformation, for two reasons. First, despotism and its
resultant evils had reached their peak; in pseudo-retrospective descriptions of
them the reader could easily recognize the France of his time. Then, too, the
men of those times were already sufficiently enlightened to glimpse the reforms
and the new institutions based on liberty and justice, in spite of the ‘‘lights which
were only a twilight.’’* From this sketch it is not clear if this great turning
point had been ineluctable or if, on the contrary, the country had faced a dilemma:
degradation or decadence, following the example of the Roman empire, or else
the triumph of enlightened ideas and the advent of a new era. Be that as it may,
‘‘the happiest of all revolutions had reached the point of maturity and we are
gathering the fruits’’; a change of institutions took place and because of that,
‘‘everything lives, everything flourishes.’’*° Similar changes took place in other
countries and the figure of a great legislator who set this change in motion
reappears everywhere. In Russia, the credit is due Catherine II, who not only
made her country that of liberty and tolerance, but also took it on herself to do
the same for Poland, which is not, of course, the Poland imagined by Rousseau
in his Considérations. Elsewhere it is imaginary princes who introduced these
reforms. However, everywhere the prince only executes what enlightened reason
imposes: his acts and his words are second in relation to it. He suppresses the
political obstacles and, thereby, society changes, mores and tastes, morality and
religion. History is no longer marked by slow progression, but really and truly
by progress, an irresistible inclusive movement whose finality rests on the ac-
tualization of the great values that compel the perfecting of the human spirit.
Each and every historical phenomenon and event appears only as one manifes-
tation and one aspect of one single history which, by its innovations, eliminates
evil and makes good increase—signs whose significance is given by and with
the unfolding in time of the perfectibility of the human species.
As stated, this great mutation also embraces the historical conscience. The
126 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

attitudes of the Uchronians toward the past complement the history-progress in

which they participate and of which they are the products. And it is striking that
this conscience or, if you prefer, this imagined historical mentality is selective
to the point of being discriminatory.
The narrator retraces for us his visit to a high school. History has little
weight in education because of the severe judgment the men of the twenty-fifth
century have made of their past. ‘“They (children) are taught little history because
history is the shame of humanity and each page is a tissue of crimes and folly.
God forbid that we put these examples of thievery and ambition before their
eyes.’’*© They were not satisfied with making history fall into oblivion, they
remade it and rewrote it. In the king’s library, visited by the narrator, ‘‘a concise
excerpt, painting the centuries with broad strokes and showing only the person-
ages who truly influence the destinies of empires’’ was substituted for innu-
merable history books. Omitted from this abridged history were “‘reigns marked
only by battles and examples of violence. It was necessary to suppress them and
to present only what could honor man.’’*’ There are two reasons for the choice
of this method. Books on history handed down by the past are, with few ex-
ceptions, worthless: first, the men of yesteryear knew so little of human nature
that they wrote only lies and made only puerile reflections. Second, this list of
crimes that was history could only have harmful effects on the morals of the
new men. The essential social function of history, a subsidiary of morality, is
to furnish positive examples, worthy of imitation. Thus history is like poetry
and painting in that they are all paraphrases of the didactic discourse that embraces
social life in its entirety. Historians, like poets, are ‘‘bards, extolling great actions
that make the human race illustrious; their heroes are chosen wherever courage
and virtue are encountered.’’”* Thus, the new history of humanity is summarized
in a sort of moral and patriotic chronicle.
Visiting the king’s library, the narrator was struck by its poverty. He learned
that a particular process had been applied to it: works and authors whose prej-
udices or immorality could only have shocked the new spirit had been eliminated.
‘“‘By unanimous consent we assembled all the books we have judged either
frivolous or useless or dangerous on a vast plain; with them, we formed a pyramid
similar in height and width to an enormous tower; it was certainly a new Tower
of Babel. . . . We set fire to this frightful pile, as a sacrifice offered in atonement
to the truth, to good sense, to true taste. The flames devoured torrents of both
the ancient and the modern foolishness of men.’’ Thus the library includes only
‘the books that escaped the flames. They are not numerous, but those that
remain have deserved the approbation of our century.” Neither Herodotus,
nor Anacreon, nor the ‘‘vile Aristophanes’’ are found there; Lucretius has been
eliminated, except for a few pieces of poetry, because his ‘‘physics is false and
his morality is dangerous.” Among the moderns, a great number have disap-
peared: Malebranche, the ‘‘visionary’’; the ‘‘sad Nicole and the pitiless Ar-
 HISTORY: THE PROMISE OF UTOPIA / 127

nauld.’’ No Lettres provinciales, and even the learned and erudite librarian
commits anachronisms when he speaks of that obscure affair of the Jesuits and
the Jansenists. Besides, ‘‘that crowd of theologians known as fathers of the
church’’ has been “‘returned to the nothingness from which it never should have
emerged.’’ ‘Time, the sovereign judge,’’ has also imposed ‘‘cuts’’ in the works
of Montaigne, Descartes, and Voltaire; it was necessary to suppress certain pages
in order to preserve the rest. On the other hand, the complete works of the Abbé
de Saint-Pierre, ‘‘whose pen was weak but whose heart was sublime,’’ had been
kept. ‘Seven centuries had given his great and beautiful ideas suitable maturity.
It was those who had scoffed at him for being a visionary who had embraced
pure chimeras. His dreams had become reality.’’*°
Let’s not take this vision of books burned on a pyre and purged works too
seriously. Mercier is not an Orwell before the fact. He is a predecessor neither
of the Ministry of Truth, nor of those who burned books in Berlin, nor of those
who purged them in the libraries of Moscow. Mercier is only indulging in an
intellectual game that his readers find as amusing and innocent as he himself
does. The author of L’An 2440 is, after all, only exploiting a well-known literary
device—charging a reader who visits a library with criticizing the books on its
shelves.*' The innovation lies in the fact that this time, it is history-progress,
‘time, the sovereign judge,’’ and its proxy, enlightened power, that are charged,
so to speak, with the material execution of the judgment of the literary and
philosophical critique.
But precisely because it is only a game, certain principal schemas of the
social imagination encounter fewer obstacles in it than they would in several
other cases, for example, when this imagination is joined to a reflection that
attempts to be scientific and seeks to clarify history, the past as well as the
future, in light of the idea of progress (we are thinking in particular of Condorcet’s
Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de I’ esprit humain, a work to be
discussed in the second part of this chapter). During the Revolution, Mercier
will set himself up as a prophet who foresaw everything, beginning with the
destruction of the Bastille. He will, however, immediately add how disappointed
he was by the real course of events that had surprised and surpassed his social
imagination.*” In reality, Mercier’s work is not in the least prophetic, nor is it
particularly imaginative. It merely translates his faith in progress into images.
This faith is as sincere as the idea he formed of the historical evolution, once it
had been opened to this indefinite progress, and is simplistic and naive. The
direct translation of abstract ideas into images, associated with the search for
satirical and didactic effects, in no way enhances the literary and intellectual
qualities of the book, but for the same reasons is most precious evidence. Indeed,
certain attitudes toward history, implied by the linking of the utopia and the idea
of progress, are seen in it, so to speak, in the rough.
Progress in utopia is intended to be a rupture with the past. Once it has
128 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

succeeded in making values and what ought to be coincide with social realities,
history returns to square one, or, if you will, begins again from true beginnings.
To paraphrase the well-known formula of Marx—it is then that the true history
of man begins and all that preceded it can be considered only a prehistory. But
on the other hand, historic discourse, bound up with the utopia, can grasp this
rupture only as the privileged moment of a continuity. The mutation, crowning
the historical evolution that made it possible, thus brings to the fore the finality
of history. Thus, the discourse on the New City proves to be that which bears
in itself the key to the enigma of history and which clarifies all its dimensions:
the present that engenders the future, but also the ‘‘true’’ significance of the
past. The New City is thus set up as the sole legitimate heir to this past, but
also as its sovereign judge, the only one authorized to legitimize it by a verdict
that makes a ruling on what deserves to be retained by the collective memory.
It will not be necessary to await the year 2440 for this attitude to prove
to be sociologically operative; we will find it again, militant and conquering in
year II of the Republic, when the new calendar will consecrate the time that
opens a new book to history.
 2
Utopia: The Promise of
History

cc
he leading idea of the Age of Enlightenment is not that of
progress, but that of Nature. The recourse to the idea of Nature can translate a
mental attitude the exact opposite of the one expressed by the theme of Progress;
there remain, nevertheless, serious motives for considering the goddess Nature
as the mother of the god of Progress.”’* The utopia was one of the midwives
who assisted at the birth.
The assimilation of utopian images and themes was one of the conditions
of possibility of the formation of certain historical discourse. This was notably
the case of those who nourished themselves with the ideology of progress and
who ‘‘projected the cult of change and innovation on all eras and all civiliza-
tions.’’** In this projection, the vision of another and better social future was
closely interwoven with the mythological and scientific reconquest of the past.
The thought that man’s happiness can and must be at the end of his historical
evolution proved to underlie the interrogation of the past. With the opening of
history on the utopia, the study of the past thus discovered a new vocation,
eliciting change and innovation, the continued progress of reason, as the leading
idea and the pivot of history. In the eighteenth century, it is still rare to speak
of Progress with a capital P, although discourse centered on progress—that has
been, and remains to be, accomplished—is gaining more and more coherence
and unity. It establishes itself as global discourse that summarizes the orientation
of history and that joins the past to the present and the future. The reconquest
of the past was meant to be necessarily rational and scientific, and it is only in
the same spirit that the ideology of Progress could approach the future. Thus it
is the very time of history, the object of a science, that was to appear as the
producer of the utopia. The images of another City and another history situated
in the time of history-progress and integrated into a scientific discourse are no
129
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longer taken as dreams and aspirations, but as predictions of a future endowed

with all the prestige of science. Thus, discourse on history-progress is formed
in a contradictory enterprise—it advances utopian themes and images in dissi-
mulating them, it accepts them as truths while attacking them as chimeras. In
other words, one only recognizes oneself in the chimeras of yesterday on the
condition that they be accepted as the realities of tomorrow. The social imagi-
nation is accepted only in disguise—that of the progress of reason in history if
not that of the reason of history in progress.
Thus the fusion of utopian images and a historical discourse in a global
discourse and in a myth of history-progress could only be accomplished by
putting the traditional paradigms of utopian discourse back into question, and
by the formation of an anti-utopian utopia. This process was only beginning
during the Age of Enlightenment. The two examples we have chosen—those of
the Abbé de Saint-Pierre and of Condorcet—seek only to show, on the one
hand, the difficulties this fusion must come up against and, on the other hand,
the functions of the utopia in the formation of a historical myth.

The Abbé de Saint-Pierre:

History as a Pretext for Utopia
In the eighteenth century, the Abbé de Saint-Pierre is generally thought of as
an exemplary utopian. Voltaire called him Saint-Pierre [Saint Peter] of Utopia
and made him the preferred target of his sarcasm. ‘‘He thought he had perfected
Plato’s republic and Salente’s imaginary government. . . . He thought he was
the reformer of the human race. He called his perfected election system an
anthropometer and a basilometer . . . and calmly continued to enlighten and
govern the world. He published a prescription for making dukes and peers useful
to the State; he decreased all pensions by one of his edicts, settled all trials,
allowed priests and monks to marry and, having thus made earth happy, he
busied himself with his Annales politiques.’’*> The target was much too easy
and opportunities for mockery were not lacking. For instance, of his proposal,
Moyen de rendre les sermons utiles, the ridiculous charge was made that it was
a: Projet pour rendre utiles les Prédicateurs et le Médecins, les Traitants et les
Moines, les Journaux et les Marrons d’ Indes; while another proposal—how to
make Dukes and Peers useful—was parodied as the Projet pour rendre utiles
les Ducs et les Pairs et les Toiles d’Araignées.’’*©
The personage made people laugh and how could it have been otherwise?
The Abbé’s faith in his principles and in his proposals was as naive as it was
unshakable. In addition, he tried to establish them immediately, if not in public
life, then at least in his private life. Thus he was the subject of numerous
anecdotes. The author of the Observations politiques sur le célibat des prétres,
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 131

he therein demonstrated how this institution was not only useless but even harmful
to population growth. But he did not, however, limit himself to criticizing it or
even to proposing how to reform it. Since the establishment of this reform—as
of all the others—was a long time coming, he decided, it was said, to have
pretty female servants and to fulfill with them, to the best of his ability, his
duties to society. Furthermore, to be faithful to another of his major ideas, he
had all his illegitimate children learn a useful job. His works are boring, badly
written, infinitely repetitious with the same ideas and the same arguments. When
they were criticized for this, he asked for examples; when they were quoted, he
concluded, extremely self-satisfied, that his method had proved to be both ex-
cellent and effective. Did the quotation of his repetitions not show that the ideas
advanced in his texts had been retained?
Beyond the anecdotes on the perfect utopian, we find more qualified opin-
ions. Certainly, no one took up the Abbé’s innumerable proposals on his own
account, nor those that formed the three pillars of his ‘‘chimera’’—the proposal
for perpetual peace assured by a pact among the principal European states; the
proposal for polysynody, that is, the limitation of the royal power by the councils
surrounding the prince; and the proposal for a perfected system of elections that,
by a sort of contest, assures the most gifted and virtuous people access to all
offices. Still less recognition was given to the hundred or so proposals that were,
so to speak, incidental. They went from the improved taille to the reform of
spelling, from a new educational system to the pédiposte that would have assured
regular mail delivery in Paris. Following the example of those mad inventors
constantly in search of patents, the Abbé was obsessed with perfection in politics
and in morality, and never discouraged by his failures. Rousseau grasped the
spirit of these ‘‘reforms’’ quite well: ‘“‘It is the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s policy
always to seek a small remedy to every specific evil, instead of going back to
their common source and seeing whether all could all be cured at once.’’>” But
Rousseau also takes on the defense of the Abbé and particularly of the utopian
dimension of his work. The ‘‘routine foolishness’’ and the ignorance “‘that can
only measure the possible by what exists’’ easily dismiss ‘‘new views of reason
with those trenchant words proposals in the air reveries.’’ If the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre’s proposals are impracticable, it is because the abuses that he wants to
eliminate are ‘‘based on the very interest of those who could destroy them’’ and
it is, nevertheless, to these ‘‘influential persons’’ that the Abbé appeals. Thus,
he reasons ‘‘like a child’’ about the means of realizing the things he wants to
establish. However, noted Rousseau, ‘‘it is important that this book (Projet de
paix perpétuelle) exist. . . . Let it not be said that if his system has not been
adopted, it was not good; let it be said, on the contrary, that it was too good to
be adopted; for the evil and the abuses from which so many profit are introduced
by themselves; but what is useful to the public, is hardly introduced except by
force, given that individual interests are nearly alway opposed to 102773
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Montesquieu ironically situated his work in the wake of that of the Abbé
de Saint-Pierre, and bitterness is mixed with this irony. ‘‘ Among the Greeks
and Romans, admiration for political and moral knowledge attained almost cult
status. Today we esteem only the physical sciences, we are uniquely concerned
with them, and political good and evil are to us a feeling rather than an object
of knowledge. So, not having been born in the century when I ought to have
been, I have decided to make myself the partisan of the excellent man, the Abbé
de Saint-pierre, who wrote so much during our era about politics, and to establish
in my mind that in seven or eight hundred years, a people will come to whom
my ideas will be very useful.” The short phrase of Cardinal Dubois often
flows from the pens of those writing of the Abbé’s proposals: They are the
dreams of a good man. D’Alembert quotes it in his Eloge de l’abbé de Saint-
Pierre, but he insists on adding a comment: ‘‘Would to God, nevertheless, that
those who govern might sometimes dream that way.’’ He wonders, further,
whether, with the advent of Turgot, the greatest dream of the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre was not realized, that of the “‘disintestedness and generosity he preaches
everywhere to influential men.’’ D’ Alembert particularly emphasizes the Abbé’s
faith in a future that, for him, could only be that of the ‘‘more or less belated
progress of the enlightenment in all genres and all states.’’ He kept this faith
against ‘‘so many causes united to hinder people becoming enlightened, of which
the principal one is the despotism that he (the Abbé) saw as the born enemy,
the necessary and vigilant enemy of knowledge and enlightenment.’’ What en-
lightened mind would not see himself in this message? But, on the other hand,
did the Abbé not push reason to the point of madness by attempting to rigorously
demonstrate this future progress? Did he not ridicule them by calculating the
time ‘‘when every prejudice, every error, every foolishness of men had to end’’?
He did not hesitate to predict that a time would come when, to borrow his own
words, ‘‘the simplest Capuchin would know as much as the cleverest Jesuit.’’
Thus he is somewhat similar to that learned mathematician who pushed ‘‘the
finesse of arithmetic to the point of determining the precise year of the end of
the world.’’*°
Let us recall again accounts in which admiration for the intellectual courage
of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre prevails over reservations, which are all the more
interesting because their authors refer to collaboration with the Abbé at the Club
de l’Entresol. The Abbé was one of the dynamic forces behind this breeding
ground of ideas, where politics was mixed with utopian discourse, where the
aristocratic spirit of revolt against the despotism of Louis XV joined the phil-
osophical spirit, where Montesquieu met Bolingbroke, and where Fontenelle
rubbed elbows with the Marquis d’ Argenson. We have already evoked the latter’s
words: he speaks of his ‘‘good friend who dreams of reforming the state.’’ The
Marquis recognizes himself in him all the better as he, too, has a penchant for
““building castles in the air’’ (what an odd predisposition to utopias and utopians
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 133

in that family—another d’Argenson will be the disciple and patron of Dom

Deschamps).*! Bolingbroke’s evidence is no less revealing—and it is useless to
specify that in this case, as in that of d’Argenson, it is a matter of statesmen
who have rich personal political experience and who, additionally, make the
enlightened ideas their own. And Bolingbroke’s recollections of the Club de
l’Entresol and the Abbé’s activity of that period show the same strong mixture
of irony and admiration. ‘‘It was as though he had suddenly found himself,
there, in a country he had long and fruitlessly hoped to see. His systems, which
are known to the public, show nothing but offices of discovery, public lectures.
For a long time, he has embraced with all his might that science of political
philosophy that was so cultivated among the Greeks by the Platos, the Dions
(Chrysostome) and so unknown and nearly insulted among us. . . . He com-
municated to us all his unprinted works, asking for written criticism which he
always answered, unfailingly satisfied with his own objections.’’*” Let us, finally,
recall that the utopian inspiration of our good Abbé, if not exactly the same
ideas, are to be found in one of Fontenelle’s texts, titled Ma république, that
seems to date from the same period, that of the activity of the Club de l’Entresol.
Let us explain the sense we attribute to this evidence, of which there is a
great deal more. It is not our intention to “‘rehabilitate’’ the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre nor make of him ‘‘our contemporary lost in the eighteenth century,’’ to
quote the title of a thesis written on him.*? It is as easy to scoff at his proposals
as it is to present them as anticipatory ideas, misunderstood and underrated in
his time but later realized. We do not, however, think that the proposal for
perpetual peace is the forerunner of the Holy Alliance or the UN; nor do we
seek in the plan for making celibacy useful a portent of Vatican III. The spelling
proposed by the Abbé is certainly a model of rationality in relation to that of
his time and of ours; the pédiposte is, perhaps, a most effective means of
remedying the current French telephone situation. The Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s
work is not clarified either by the supposed ‘‘realizations’’ of his ideas, examples
of which might be dug up throughout the centuries, nor by the rationality of his
proposals, as perfect as they were sterile. If we have accumulated evidence on
his work it is not because we seek to rescue an underestimated genius from
oblivion in order to bring to the fore the fact that he is a witness to his century.
The good Abbé’s utopian enterprise is doubly revealing—first, by the maniacal
turn taken on by the belief in complete rationality by which social life would
be affected in his proposals, and then by the reactions provoked by these ‘‘dreams
of a good man.”’
Indeed, a sort of embarrassment and perplexity, dissimulated behind a
laugh, is to be noted in the testimony cited. That has to do, in part, with the
character of the man himself. Certainly he lends himself to mockery but on the
other hand, his good faith, his naiveté and, particularly, the strength of his
principles and his intellectual courage are disarming. Excluded from the Aca-
134 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

démie for his criticism of the despotism of Louis XV, he never went back on
his word; ridiculed for each of his proposals, he was never discouraged and
never disavowed his absolute faith in human reason and its power of improve-
ment. But isn’t this same sort of embarrassment also seen in attitudes toward
his work? How characteristic it is that despite considering him a model utopian,
and denying the least claim to practicality in his proposals, criticism is never-
theless qualified by adding that his century was not yet mature enough for them.
The Abbé did stray, of course, but like a ‘‘good man,’’ one who takes
men as they ought to be and not as they are. “‘If some of our zealous philosopher’s
views suppose in human nature a degree of perfection that it will perhaps never
attain, the discrepancies and the misunderstandings, for which the author might
be reproached, but never with bitterness, must teach his fellows that the virtuous
man aspires in vain to do good, if he does not have that enlightened patience
that can await its moments; and that with the most praiseworthy intentions one
can do harm to the truth . . . in rushing to show it before the proper time.’’*
Does that absence of ‘‘enlightened patience,’’ which in the Abbé is expressed
by an avalanche of proposals, not risk compromising the real progress of the
Enlightenment? The Abbé presented his proposals as simple reforms, as rea-
sonable as they were easy to accomplish. But does he not, thereby, compromise
as ‘‘chimeric’’ the very idea of rational reform? The gratuitous proposals of the
Abbé, to which it was impossible to give any practical results, were inspired
only by their obvious usefulness. But do they not, at the same time, also discredit
that key idea with which the philosophes wanted to impregnate the social and
political realities of their times? While distrusting this ‘‘zealous philosophe,’
were his critics not, themselves, impatient? Did they not bitterly reproach their
era for delaying too long in putting ‘‘enlightened ideas’’ into effect? And who
among the philosophes did not toy with the idea of his own little reform proposal?
Does the Abbé’s utopian élan not express a whole dimension of the Enlight-
enment, but in its own way, that is, by exaggerating it? Do the Abbé’s excesses
not resemble a caricature in which one refuses to recognize oneself because it
reveals more than one would like to admit?
It is by this almost caricatural cast to the idea of progress in the Abbé de
Saint-Pierre that it seems particularly striking to us. The Abbé’s reflections on
progress have occasionally been considered an important link in the formation
of the idea of Progress in the eighteenth century or even as an anticipation of
the theories that were to triumph in the nineteenth.*° It must be admitted that
this time it was greatly tempting to establish a connection between the discourse
of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre and that of a Saint-Simon or a Comte. It was
particularly so for those who projected, so to speak, the ‘‘progressive’’ schema
on the history of Progress. In fact, the Abbé was vigorously opposed to any
providentialistic theory of history or even to that of cycles. The unity of history
is only given with Progress, the rational innovations that arise and inevitably
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 135

accumulate. Moreover, this progress in the arts and sciences is only the partial
manifestation of a global movement that traverses and orients history. The latter
is articulated in stages or eras, according to the acceleration of this movement;
it increases in goodness and in rationality. The scientific discovery of this ev-
olution and of the laws that govern it is itself a manifestation of that Progress
and is essential to its growth. Thus, the golden age lies before us, etc. However,
the affinities of these formulas with those that will form the basic structure of
the myth of progress one century later are only apparent. Paradoxically, the
Abbé de Saint-Pierre only formulated his theory of Progress because he is a
latecomer, because he did not succeed in renewing either the conceptualization
of history or the paradigmatic forms of utopian discourse. The encounter between
history and the utopia is only made to the extent that the former serves as the
screen on which the Abbé projects his innumerable proposals. History has no
depth, no specific resistance: at every moment it lends itself to being infinitely
reformable. Progress is thus assimilated to one further proposal; discourse on
history is only the meeting place, where all the possible proposals become
implanted. History, then, is only a pretext to the utopia. For fear of anticipating
our conclusion, let us examine things more closely.
There are no texts of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre that do not mention Progress
either explicitly or implicitly. All his writings intend to contribute to the im-
provement of society and all are based on the idea that this movement of ‘‘im-
provement”” is obligatorily imposed on his contemporaries. In his texts, the Abbé
effaces his word behind that of universal reason (we shall return to this concept
below). He only expresses the progress that it has accomplished. Speaking of
this progress, the Abbé still relies, in great measure, on the problematic char-
acteristic of the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns. The superiority
of the moderns over the ancients is the point of departure of his reflection on
history, and the false authority of the ancients is considered the greatest obstacle
to Progress. While accepting modernity as an autonomous value, the Abbé
nevertheless goes beyond the problematic of the quarrel on several important
points. To him, the superiority of the moderns is not a problem but is, rather,
a self-evident fact.
He does not content himself with Fontenelle’s famous formula: we can
equal the ancients because Nature remains identical to herself and the trees in
our countryside are today as tall as they ever were. For the Abbé de Saint-Pierre,
a law as much of history as of reason manifests itself in the succession of
centuries, because reason has a history, namely that of accumulated knowledge,
of new discoveries, etc. The discoveries of human reason lead naturally to the
belief that, supposing that it grows from century to century, in the majority of
states, unless it encounters new obstacles, the oldest centuries would have to be
seen as the least enlightened; but is it an evil if it is a truth that is important to
society?*© Thus, it is not surprising that ‘‘our mediocre scholars have twenty
136 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

times more knowledge than Socrates and Confucius’’—it is an almost natural

consequence of Progress.
The fact that this superiority of the moderns does not yet sufficiently
manifest itself in all domains disturbs the Abbé and constitutes, in his eyes, a
grave problem. If his century goes far beyond the ancients in the sciences, why :
is this not equally so in morality? The search for an answer to this question
marked a turning point in his life in opening to him the double vocation of
utopian and apostle of Progress. A young provincial, the Abbé de Saint-Pierre
came to Paris around 1680. He was interested at first in the sciences and math-
ematics, while reading philosophy—Descartes, Malebranche, but certainly also
Spinoza—and frequenting salons. It could be said that he followed the classic
curriculum in the republic of letters. His friendship with Fontenelle and the
reading of his first texts led him to the study of morality with the intention of
making it into a true science that would contribute to the growth of happiness
and the reduction of evil. But the true turning point came with his passage from
morality to politics. In an autobiographical essay, the Abbé summarizes that
evolution: ‘‘After different readings on the different means men take to increase
their happiness and diminish their evils, he noticed that the greatest part of
happiness and unhappiness came from good and bad laws. . . . It was this
persuasion that determined him to apply himself henceforth to the study of
government, to try to discover the means of forming wise rules and making good
establishments that sufficiently engage men by their individual interest to work
constantly and ardently to procure the public interest. . . . This reflection, that
often came to his mind, persuaded him that morality was not the most important
science for the happiness of men, but that it was politics, or the science of
government, and that a wise law could make incomparably more men happy
than a hundred good moral treatises. Thus, with the aim of becoming more useful
to society, he dropped the study of morality for that of politics.’’*” Does this
evolution—from science, through morality, to ‘‘politics’’—effectuated by the
Abbé in ten years not foreshadow, in its broad outlines, the path the philosophical
spirit will take throughout the eighteenth century? However, those who will
themselves follow this “‘political’’ path will not fail to disavow the Abbé de
Saint-Pierre to prevent their ideas and proposals from being confused with his
‘“chimeras.”’* And how could it be otherwise, when the Abbé, obsessed by a
feeling of consequence, pushed to the extreme the idea of the priority of politics
over every other reflection? It was not enough for him to regret that politics
lacked a Descartes or a Newton; he went so far as to deplore the fact that Descartes
and Newton had been mistaken in orienting their genius in a bad direction. ‘‘It
is a great loss for the French nation that among human knowledge, Descartes
in France and, thirty years later, Newton in England, these two powerful ge-
niuses, did not choose the two sciences that were the most important in increasing
their own happiness and that of the human race, in order to go into them more
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 137

thoroughly and thus to make their work more useful, to others as well as to
themselves. . . . Why did they neglect to improve morality and politics and to
carry these two incomparable sciences further than our moralists and politicians
who have made so little progress in two thousand years compared to the progress
that has been made in that time in the arts and in the other sciences? It must be
that despite all the penetration and extent of their mind they didn’t perceive the
infinitely superior importance of the science of morals and the science of gov-
ernment, that is, of the science of the good and the bad, of happiness and
unhappiness.’ ’*?
Certainly, it is a ‘‘misfortune for humanity,’’ but, in spite of his awareness
of this fact, the Abbé does not reproach either Descartes or Newton for it. Nor,
finally, can error be imputed to them. On the other hand, the Abbé shows his
modesty. He gives himself no credit for having more advanced ideas in this
regard than the greatest geniuses of the past. Do Newton and Descartes not share
their negligence with respect to politics with all those of their times? Did they
not learn in school that the natural sciences are the most useful and admirable?
Is it not, after all, comforting that reason, through the Abbé’s voice, became
aware of this error so quickly? Is this not remarkable evidence that, over a very
short period, human reason made enormous progress and that now we will rapidly
repair the damage, make up for lost time and attack the essential problems,
morality and politics? The Newtons of politics will not take long to appear.
Nature continuously produces a certain number of geniuses—of the ten
thousand men who came into the world at the same time as Descartes ‘‘in the
primitive inhabitants of Africa, of Asia, of America . . . there were one hundred
or only ten . . . who were born with similar organs to his for the most sublime
ideas of the intellect and for a facile, distinct, and durable memory.’’ Now,
‘‘these primitive Descartes . . . remained limited to the small circle of rough
knowledge’’ because ‘‘The reason of the human race’’ had not made sufficient
progress in their country at that time. That explains why the other Descartes,
ours, in a manner of speaking, devoted himself to mathematics and why the
Descartes to come will involve themselves in politics and thus will insure the
progress of that science and, in its wake, the beginning of a new era of the
history of the human race. °°
The golden age is not behind us, but before us—the idea and the formula
were the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s before being Saint-Simon’s. We are, so to speak,
approaching the beginning of the golden age—this metaphor only summarizes
a reasoning that attempts to be rigorously scientific and to clarify the evolution
of the human race, its past and future as well as the present time, an epoch that
marks a turning point. The Abbé thus recasts an old analogy that compared
history to individual life and thus assigned different ages, from infancy to old
age to death, to various peoples. This analogy is valuable only if a difference
in dimensions is taken into account. ‘‘We can consider the human race as a
138 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

composite of all nations that have been and will be on earth and assign to it
diverse ages, as we assign them to Socrates, and suppose that a century is to
the human race at the age of ten thousand years what a year is to a man at the
age of one hundred; with this major difference that the mortal man ages and
weakens in his organism and loses his wisdom, his reason and his happiness by
the great number of years and by the dependence that God, by his will and a
general Providence, put between the human spirit and human weakening; whereas
the human race, being immortal by its perpetual and infinite succession, finds
itself at the end of ten thousand years more prone to increase readily in Wisdom,
in Reason, and in happiness, than if it were only four thousand years old???"
Human history seen from this point of view is the history of progress, linear,
indefinite, and calculable. This is demonstrated by “‘history, philosophy, and
experience,’’ which teach us that ‘‘men began really by ignorance of the arts
and by being, consequently, in poverty and misery.’’ The progress that they
have accomplished in history is demonstrated and measured by the “‘augmen-
tation of important truths that have been newly demonstrated or newly noticed
by our experiences which are the equivalent of practical demonstrations.’’ And
there is no doubt on this point: the progress in all domains is immense. One has
only to compare ‘‘the portion of the human race that is the most civilized and
the most enlightened of the age of Plato and Aristotle,’’ that is, Athens, with
the ‘‘most enlightened Nations of this century,’’ that is, France and England
and, in particular, with ‘‘the portion’ that lives in the capitals. If one compares,
for instance, the political and moral works of Aristotle and Plato with those of
Bodin or Bacon, it is obvious that ‘‘Bodin’s Republic is far superior to Plato’s
Republic . . . because Bodin benefited from what Plato taught him, he benefited
from the knowledge and the experiences of those who followed him, as well as
from his own reflections.” Two consequences are drawn from these
observations—one that concerns the past and the other having to do with the
future. It is a grave error to think that the human race is becoming increasingly
degraded. On the contrary, the ‘‘universal Reason of the human race’’ is only
in its infancy and the same is true for happiness. Therefore it is necessary to
turn the traditional schema—situating ‘‘the golden age’’ at the beginning of
history—upside down. That is merely the “‘iron age,” the era of war, of each
against the others (the Abbé had read Hobbes). Among the most civilized nations,
the age that succeeded this one was the bronze age, that is, ‘‘a less rough
enforcement of law and order, a greater number of good laws and the beginning
of the arts that are most necessary to avoid the inconveniences of the seasons
and to diminish life’s needs.’’ At the present time, Europe is in the process of
living the silver age, an era ‘‘still partially attached to the bronze age,’’ but
which, on the other hand, already heralds the golden age. Wars, which always
cause devastation; the defects of institutions; the prejudices that still hold sway
over minds—all of that has to do with the bronze age. But, this enlightened era
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 139

has seen an unprecedented acceleration of progress. In order to definitively enter

the golden age we need only ‘‘some wise reigns in our European States, for
once Europe has arrived at this golden age, at this sort of Paradise on earth, it
will shortly bring into it all the other peoples whose only interest is, as is ours,
to diminish their ills and augment their good in this life. . . . Such will be the
admirable effects of the new plan of Government that the Kings and Republics
can easily implement.’’°’ Of course, obstacles to the progress of wisdom and
happiness exist. Their existence explains why the human race took so long to
follow this road, why it stopped from time to time, or even fell back. The major
obstacles are civil wars and wars between states; superstition, that which puts
its trust in supposedly miraculous revelations and that which bows down to the
ancients in the belief that our ancestors were wiser than we are; finally, the fear
of ‘‘those who govern the States’’ that moral and political progress can bring
their power into question. However, the obstacles cannot definitively stop prog-
ress; in history, “‘natural causes’’ that increase reason are always at work. The
remarkable acceleration of progress during this last century is due to the action
of causes that the Abbé carefully systematizes. The growth of commerce and
industry produces more wealth, from which it follows that an increased number
of people have the leisure to think, to write, and to read; the growth of the
sciences teaches them to reason more soundly, frees minds from the authority
of the ancients, and contributes to the development of the practical arts; the
invention of printing as well as the establishment of the academies and of lectures
on the sciences ‘‘have made discoveries more communicable,’’ thus contributing
to the improvement of education; finally, the growth of cities, particularly the
large capitals that ‘‘can never be too big or too populated,’’ played the greatest
civilizing role because the cities form the privileged place for communication
among men and for the exchange of ideas.°* As more obstacles are removed,
as these factors will all act more and more simultaneously, the more progress
will be accomplished and the more rapidly people will advance along the path
of wisdom and happiness. “‘The progress of human reason can never be too
Streator in"
Thus a schema of a ‘‘system of progress,’’ if not of a theory of history-
progress, with its essential elements, is set in place.
The utopia would seem to integrate itself perfectly into this system in the
sense that it appears as the inevitable result and culmination of a historical
process. However, things present themselves differently if one does not dissociate
the ideas from their context and from the word that gives them body. Certainly
the Abbé de Saint-Pierre marries the utopia to history, but in such a way that
discourse on history can only be based on utopian proposals. The history-progress
is only posited in terms of a utopian proposal. It is almost as though it is still a
‘‘chimerical proposal’’ and that is how the Abbé’s contemporaries will classify
it, with the good Abbé’s other proposals for the pédiposte, the reform of spelling,
140 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

etc. In this sense, as we have said, the Abbé seems rather a latecomer than a
precursor. To better explain what we mean, let us take an example. Let us study
one of the Abbé’s texts, as it was really written and published.
Let us belatedly admit it: up to this point, in all our quotations we have
betrayed the good Abbé because we have not respected the letter of his texts.
We transcribed them and the effect of this transcriptions nullifies an entire
dimension of the text. The transcription reduced the text to the ideas it conveys;
whereas any discourse and, hence, any text is historically and socially at once
richer and poorer than the ‘‘pure ideas”’ that can be elicited from it. The writings
of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre are a particularly odd and even picturesque example
of this play of opposites and complements between ideas and writing, which is
at work in any text. Let us, then, quote some lines on progress as they were
written.

Causes naturéles qui ont contribué 4 augmenter la Sajesse, la Raison et le

Bonheur du janre humain depuis cent cinquante ans, malgré les guerres:
l’augmantasion du comerse maritime a produit plus de richesse; car les
richesses donnent du loizir et multiplient les auteurs et les lecteurs. . . .
L’augmantasion de l’étude des Mathématiques et de la Fyzique dans les
Coleges nous a anseigné à raisoner plus juste. . . . L’augmantasion de l’art
de l’imprimérie a randu les découvertes plus cominicables et fait beaucoup
plus de savans.*

Natural causes that contributed to the increase of the Wisdom, Reason and
Happiness of the human race for 150 years, despite wars: the increase of
maritime commerce produced more wealth; for wealth provides leisure and
multiplies authors and readers. . . . The increasing study of Mathematics
and Physics in schools taught us to reason more soundly. . . . The advances
in the art of printing made discoveries more communicable and led to many
more scholars.

The Abbé expounds his ideas, making use of his new spelling. His proposal
to reform spelling was supposed to make it more rational by making it more
phonetic. The new spelling, freed from the authority of the ancients and from
traditional rules, was to be simpler, easier to learn. The new way of writing
would thus become at the same time a manifestation of, and an important factor
in, progress. To accelerate the implantation of this improved spelling and to
demonstrate its utility, the good Abbé both writes his own texts and has them
printed using his new system. It is easy to see that in transcribing the Abbé’s
texts we disfigured both the discourse and the message. In fact, we substituted
another narrator for the one who speaks. The one who speaks in the original
texts announces himself and establishes himself in his discourse as a maker of
proposals. His spelling invites and engages the reader to participate henceforth
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 141

in an alternative, a different writing and discourse, opposed by their perfect

rationality to the absurd ones that are dominant, justified only by prejudices. By
the very manner in which history-progress is spoken of in this text, it shows
itself to be closely bound up with an overall proposal for improvement which
orders the discourse in its entirety. The new spelling gives a hint, partial though
it may be, in the present, of the epoch that must inevitably arrive after some
centuries when ‘‘la Raison Humaine Universelle aura pris un tel acroissemant
qu’excepté les petits anfants tous les hommes . . . seront conduits, non seulemant
par raisonemant mais ancore par la coutume, par la mode et avec plaisir à la
pratique journaliére de la Raison et seront tous par conséquant beaucoup plus
heureux de cette vie qu’ils ne sont présantement. . . .”’ (‘‘Universal Human
Reason will have so increased that except for small children, all men . . . will
be led not only by reasoning but by custom, by the prevailing fashion, and with
pleasure, to the daily practice of Reason and consequently will all be much
happier with this life than they are at present.’’)
Of course, all this is just one more of the Abbé’s ‘‘oddities.’’ However,
this affair of the new spelling only extends to the point of caricature an approach
that is distinctive of the Abbé when he begins to write history. For the originality
of his historical works is due to his attempt to join the utopia and the idea of
progress in a historical narrative. This ends in a failure that is most revealing
of the difficulties such an enterprise faced at the time. The Abbé was not the
only one to encounter them—all he does is bring them to the fore.
Among the historical works of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, the Annales
Politiques are probably the most noteworthy. Published in 1757, posthumously,
the book met with a certain notoriety (three editions in ten years).°° The Annales
focus on nearly an entire century (1658-1740) and propose to the reader an
“immediate history,’’ one of burning political and ideological topicality. Most
striking in the book are the severe judgments of the reign of Louis XIV, judgments
that contrast greatly with those the reader found in Voltaire’s Siècle de Louis
XIV. ‘‘Although there is no comparison,” said Grimm, ‘‘between the Abbé de
Saint-Pierre’s slow, calm good sense and Voltaire’s genius, I would not hesitate
to give the preference to his Annales over the Siécle de Louis XIV. In the latter
I see almost throughout only a panegyrist who is all the more dangerous for
being seductive and who praises as beautiful and great many actions that a refined
philosophy scorns and condemns.’’°’
In fact, the Abbé remained faithful to the ideas that had cost him his seat
at the Académie. In the Annales, he gives himself up to a systematic critique
of the king and of his politics and he does not mince words in his conclusions.
‘‘The fact that poets, orators, poor historians and subjects of Louis XIV during
his reign propose him to posterity as a model of a perfect king is very natural.
But read, after his death, this precious monument, this memoir of the late M.
Desmarets, and one will then judge if the benefits he procured for his subjects
142 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

during his seventy-two year reign much surpassed the ills he caused them. Then
one will judge if peoples had great cause to regret him and, consequently, if he
is a model of a perfect king. One can indeed, in truth, give him the nickname
Louis the Powerful, Louis the Fearsome (for none of his predecessors was so
powerful or made himself so feared). But the least clever will never give him
the nickname of Louis the Great and will never confuse great power with true
greatness. . . . The fact is that this great power, unless it is used to procure
great benefits for men in general and for one’s subjects and neighbors in partic-
ular, will never make a man very estimable.’’°®
However the Annales is not a pamphlet against Louis XIV. The Abbé de
Saint-Pierre intends to be a historian and he gives an account of the major events
in France as well as in other countries. His value judgments on the king and his
politics are an integral part of a certain historical discourse that intends to be
both objective and didactic. Actually, the Abbé follows the leading ideas of
“critical and philosophical’’ historiography. Contrary to traditional historiog-
raphy, focused on famous men, wars, battles, philosophical history must be
concerned particularly with the ‘‘morals’’ of a nation, its institutions, its public
felicity. In basing his work on documents, evidence, or even on personal rec-
ollections, the historian must beware of any flattery and elicit moral truths from
history. It is in this sense above all that history can be useful—in teaching
enlightened politics and morality, in linking maxims with facts, in teaching
healthy philosophy by examples (as Bolingbroke, the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s
friend, put it).
It is useful, then, only because it is didactic—it teaches a morality and a
politics for the use of all its readers ‘‘in order to make them more useful to the
country.’’ But this teaching is particularly addressed to princes, to those charged
with political responsibility. History offers them models of ‘‘true greatness’’ to
imitate, but it teaches them, too, to avoid the faults and errors committed in the
past.>?
For the Abbé, all these preoccupations converge in a single interrogation
that was to guide the historian’s enterprise, namely the one having to do with
the progress accomplished by the Raison Universelle du genre humain in the
period studied. The generations to come will study and judge the past based on
their superior knowledge, and according to the contribution that a given epoch
made to progress. This is also the sole valid criterion for the historian who studies
his own time and it is from this ideological perspective—to bear witness to the
progress accomplished and, hence, to contribute to the progress to be made—
that the Abbé situates his own discourse. ‘‘Before writing’’ he said, ‘‘of the
principal events that during my era increased or diminished the good fortune or
the ill fortune of my country, I thought it to the point to give an abridged
description, not only of the kingdom in the state in which it finds itself at present
in 1735, but also to say something of our morals, our customs, our principal
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 143

establishments, our principal rules and regulations, so that several centuries hence
readers can more easily see the progress that universal reason has made in my
country from our time to theirs along the road to felicity.’’©
Thus, according to the methodology and the philosophy of history of the
Abbé de Saint-Pierre, it is the idea of progress that, by clarifying events, their
concatenations, and their consequences, was to ensure the unity of the historical
narrative. However, in practice, it is the opposite that occurs—the narrative
bursts apart, splitting itself into two opposing discourses. One is a discourse on
the progress that could have been made if the diverse ‘‘proposals for improve-
ment’’ had been applied; the other has to do with history as it was really made.
The second situates real history outside the time of progress (or, if you will, in
the time of progress manqué); the first situates progress outside real historical
time and transfers it into the time of the utopia.
Each chapter, covering a year, reproduces the same schema with a mo-
notony equal to the consistency of the good Abbé. Thus, first the principal events
of the year in question are set out. The list is limited: the important political
decisions, wars, peace treaties, events of the court, etc. Then come more or less
successful ‘‘portraits’’ of the personages, as well as philosophical and moral
reflections. Then, the ‘‘reforms’’ accomplished or initiated—that, perhaps, the
most original part of the work—thus the important edicts of Colbert, the estab-
lishment of the Académie of sciences, the new taxes, etc., are discussed. But,
in order to measure the progress accomplished, the Abbé follows up on what
could and ought to be done. All of that, of course, could be found in the proposals
of the Abbé himself. He is, then, in large part summarizing his own work—the
proposal for universal peace, for improved elections, for the fixing of the rate
of the taille, etc. It is only with these proposals that the prospect of real progress
is seen in history. . . . All would have turned out otherwise, if. . . . The peace
of Utrecht and that of Aix-la-Chapelle would have been durable, if the king had
followed the proposal for perpetual peace; the king would have had good advisers
if he had applied the ‘‘improved system of elections.’’ The reform of the Aca-
démie in 1713 would have been effective and useful if they had established an
Académie that ‘‘obliges authors to show the reader the growth of human reason
in the arts and the sciences and to indicate what could be done better to further
improve that same human reason. I speak about this at greater length in the
proposal for improving the académies.’’ Thus his proposals are expounded and
they represent a third of the work, grouped in a series that parallels the events
and forming a proposition of a history that is an alternative to the real history
that failed. The Abbé explains the advantages of this method in which he sees
an excellent argument in favor of progress. ‘What more suitable way to persuade
the reader to implement them (the proposals for improvement) than to make him
feel that, if they had been established all this time, misfortunes wouldn’t have
befallen either the kings or their subjects. 1 The good Abbé hesitates not at all
144 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

to apply the same method to the furthest eras. Thus he explains that Romulus
wouldn’t have been put to death if he had only had the wisdom to have his
senate elected according to the rules of the ‘‘improved system of election.”’
Looked at closely, history is only a pretext for the utopia-proposal. Despite
his wish to bring the utopia closer to history, the former does not in the least
appear as the great promise of the latter. It is, however, only on that condition
that the idea of history-progress could rejoin and stimulate a collective mythol-
ogy. In the good Abbé, progress is seen confined in an abstract and rationalistic
discourse on an alternative history that would have been that of the realization
of his marvelous proposals. Moreover, how significant is it that the Abbé de
Saint-Pierre limits himself to the most traditional form of historical discourse,
that of annals, which his contemporaries have more or less given up! The idea
of progress does not contribute in any way to the renewing of historical discourse;
as if there were a block preventing the passage from discourse on progress to
that which organizes events into a narrative on historical evolution. Between the
utopia and history, the link is not made by Progress which would orient history
toward the utopia, but by the utopian, who judges history based on his proposals.
The good Abbé only proposes the dream of a history that would be rationally
managed by important government officials (chosen, of course, according to the
rules of the improved system of elections) and they would implement the pro-
posals developed by the Newtons and the Descartes of politics (meeting, of
course, in an Académie of political and moral improvement).

Condorcet: Utopia as a Realization of History

L’Esquisse d’un tableau historique de I’ esprit humain, a posthumous work of
Condorcet, marks an important stage in the history of the utopia as well as in
that of the idea of progress. It is remarkable for two reasons—first as the result
of the reconciliation between the utopia and the idea of progress that had been
worked up to throughout the eighteenth century, and second, as the point of
departure for a specific utopian discourse wherein the utopia is spoken of solely
by means of the history that engenders it. The philosophy and the idea of history
expounded in the Esquisse are not our concern here. In our context, the vision
of the ultimate epoch of history to which the progress of the human mind leads
is what interests us. Three points are particularly revealing of the way in which
the junction of the utopia and of the discourse on history-progress operate. The
alternative society is situated in the time of history and, notably, in the future;
the vision of that society is presented as a scientific prediction; the utopian
discourse takes on a mode that could be paradoxically called anti-utopian utopia.
Our discussions will focus on these three problems.
“It is a historical tableau of the progress of the human mind that I am
attempting to sketch and not the history of the governments, of the laws, of the
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 145

morals, of the mores, of the opinions that have successively occupied the
globe”? In announcing his enterprise Condorcet specifies what his historical
procedure will be and what sense he gives to his work. ‘‘This tableau is therefore
historical as, subject to perpetual variations, it is formed by the successive
observation of human societies at the different epochs they went through. It must
present the order of these changes, present the influence that each instant exercises
on the one that replaces it and thus show, in the modifications the human species
has undergone, endlessly renewing throughout the immensity of centuries, the
course it followed, the steps it took toward truth or happiness. The results that
it presents will then lead to the means of assuring and accelerating new prog-
ress.’’°* Thus the historical narrative is articulated in ten epochs of which nine
cover the past (which goes back to a hypothetical ‘‘state of nature’’), as well as
the present, which is the time in which the narrator and his discourse are
situated—that of the Revolution. (The principles of periodization are not, how-
ever, very clear and we pass over the problems their definition would pose.) On
the other hand, the tenth epoch is that of the future, of the future progress of
the human mind. Thus we are in the presence of a discourse that links the future
to the past and the present by integrating them all into the same history.
This integration can only be accomplished by means of a whole play of
correspondences between the historical discourse and its object. At most, it
initiates a projection of the characteristics proper to this discourse, which intends
to be universal, homogeneous, and continuous about its object, that is, about
history and its time. Thus the different peoples and their civilizations are con-
sidered only as variations, distributions in time and space of one same and unique
process of evolution which has ‘‘the human species’’ as its subject. All historical
phenomena would then be able to be situated with regard to one another on the
same axis which is that of “‘progress’’ and all would be of the same nature in
the sense that they all fall under the same law, that of the improvement of man.
From this point of view, making the history of the future is a plausible and
justified enterprise. Basically, it is only a question of following a process anal-
ogous to that practiced in studying a people hitherto unknown or in integrating
newly discovered events into a global discourse on the history of humanity. In
all these cases, it is a question of finding how the same universal and constant
laws of history order phenomena unknown up to that point. Moreover, the
extension of the historical discourse on the future attests to the new progress
accomplished by the human mind and can only accelerate its rate. With the
‘‘prediction’’ of the future, historical discourse confirms itself as “‘scientific’’
or, if you will, it is scientific discourse that thus affirms itself as universal. ‘‘If
man can predict the phenomena whose laws he knows with nearly total assurance,
if, even when they are unknown to him, he can, based on past experience, predict
the events of the future with great probability, why would the enterprise of
tracing, with some verisimilitude, the tableau of the future destinies of the human
146 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

species, based on the results of its history, be looked on as a chimeric pursuit?

The only foundation of belief in the natural sciences is the idea that the general
laws, both known and unknown, that regulate the phenomena of the universe
are necessary and constant; and for what reasons would this principle be less
true for the development of the intellectual and moral faculties of man than for
the other operations of nature? Finally, since opinions formed based on past
experience on objects of the same order are the sole rule of conduct of the wisest
men, why would one forbid the philosopher to support his conjectures on that
same basis, provided that he attribute to them no certitude greater than that which
can be derived from the number, the constancy, and the exactitude of obser-
vation?’’™
Let us note, in passing, the assimilation of historical discourse, notably
that bearing on the history of the future, to the discourse of the natural
sciences—a point to which we shall return. Let us further note reservations about
the validity of such a history—it would not go beyond the level of conjecture
and probability. However, this is, in truth, merely a standard clause. The as-
surance is ‘‘nearly total’’ and it would be possible to arrive at the same degree
of certitude as in any other science. Certainly, Condorcet does not venture into
prognostications about dates or predict where and how the events will come
about. What he does describe are the general orientations of evolution, its im-
portant stages and the duration their realization would entail.
Thus, Condorcet proposed making a historical prediction. Yet it is easy
to remark that this exposition is organized around a vision, around the image of
an alternative society, situated in the future and contrasting with the state that
humanity had known up to that point throughout all its history. The very lan-
guage, nourished with a whole revolutionary rhetoric, takes on a visionary turn.
“Tt will then come about, that moment when the sun will no longer shine on
earth on any but free men, who recognize no master but their reason; when
tyrants or slaves, priests and their stupid or hypocritical instruments will no
longer exist except in history where attention will be paid to them only to pity
their victims and their dupes, to support one another, by the horror of their
excesses, in a useful vigilance, to know how to recognize and squelch, under
the weight of reason, the first germs of superstition, if ever they dared to
reappear.’’°° Thus, the utopia is confused with ‘‘the history of the tenth epoch,’’®°
and is told in a quasi-historical discourse. This ‘‘history-utopia’’ will follow
three directions, which converge: the disappearance of inequality among peoples
(which implies that one day the ‘‘distance between the barbarity of the African
peoples and the ignorance of savages’’ and “‘the state of civilization achieved
by the most enlightened and freest people, those most emancipated from prej-
udice, the French and the Anglo-Americans’’ will evaporate); the progress of
equality in the same people; the moral improvement of man, the rationalization
of his institutions, the consequences of which will be the disappearance of
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 147

prejudice, the growth of collective happiness, and the elimination of conflicts

between the individual and society.°’ It is then that the ‘‘sun will shine only on
free men.’’ We will return to the social choices implied by this vision as well
as to the moral and social values it shows. Let us note particularly, for the
moment, the presence of several themes with a long utopian tradition, such as,
for example, perpetual peace (but whose ‘‘realization would be assured by in-
stitutions better devised than those proposals for perpetual peace that occupied
the spare time and consoled the soul of some philosophers’’—an allusion to,
among others, the Abbé de Saint-Pierre), °® or, again, the idea of a universal
language, based on the language of the sciences, which would insure perfect
communication among all men and all peoples. This perfectly rationalized society
would be totally transparent to its citizens, which would necessarily cause the
convergence of individual interest and the common good. Thus for this society
the very notion of history would take on a new meaning—its history could not
be other than that of the growing conjunction of virtue, happiness, and truth.
‘The further man advances toward this perfecting of peoples, the less necessary
the great virtues will become to him; thus the aim of morality, of the social art
must be to make them useless and not to make them useful. . . . We have seen
elsewhere how the institutions directed toward this latter aim, far from being
able to attain it, have only denatured man, raising him for an instant only to
thrust him into a deeper abyss. Here, on the contrary, if the aim is once attained,
however imperfectly, there is hope not only of a durable good, but of greater
progress. . . . Men cannot become better without seeing the route of justice
progressively smoothing out in front of them. It has been said: Happy are the
peoples whose name makes no noise in history and often they have owed their
obscurity only to the uniformity of their misfortune. One could one day say:
Happy are the people among whom good actions are so common that there are
no opportunities for performing great actions, and whose history no longer
presents acts of heroism, because all that is honest is easy there and because the
perversity that renders great sacrifices necessary is there unknown. "°°
Certainly Condorcet’s utopia does not lack themes specific to it, such as,
for example, the idea of making use of probability theory to secure, through a
sort of mutual insurance fund, the elimination of poverty. But the true originality
of this utopia does not stem from one particular theme or another. Even the
themes that were traditional, if not hackneyed, were put together in a new way:
they are brought together in a global image of the free, just, and happy City by
means of the idea of historical progress. At all its levels, this new society is
only a rendering into idea-images of history-progress and of its multiple effects.
This history-progress is not reduced to abstract pronouncements on the perfec-
tibility of humankind and is not dissipated in diverse *‘proposals’’ for reform as
was the case with the Abbé de Saint-Pierre. It constitutes the pivot of the ‘‘tenth
epoch’’ and of its history, the acceleration of the previously overly slow march
148 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

of humanity on the paths of progress which are those of the growth of individual
and collective happiness. The ‘‘tenth epoch’’ is presented neither as a dream,
nor a desire, nor a ‘‘proposal’’ that defends its realism: the vision of the City
has all of human history as well as the ‘‘constant and necessary’’ laws that order
it as surety for its ‘‘certain hope.’’ The unity of the historical account of which
it is a part and the fact that this epoch succeeds precisely as the tenth to the
preceding nine have the effect of making the past, the events that have taken
place, serve, so to speak, to guarantee that these other events that have not yet
occurred, but which are already shaping up, are necessarily inscribed in the
march of time.
Yet the structure of this historical discourse is such that the ‘‘tenth epoch’’
is the condition of its unity. In other words, it is the utopia as a vision of the
ultimate stage of history that guarantees the certitude of all the affirmations on
progress and its laws: the ‘‘tenth epoch’’ is the pivot on which the entire account
rests and revolves. Of course, it only intervenes at the end of the account and
is only presented as the result of an induction. But it is precisely the final point
that clarifies the point of departure as well as the path followed. Condorcet
explicitly makes of this reference to the ‘‘final point’’ the principle of his his-
torical method. “‘It is in arriving at this last degree of the chain that the observation
of past events, like knowledge acquired through meditation, becomes truly use-
ful. It is in arriving at this term that men can appreciate their real claims to glory
or enjoy, with a sure pleasure, the progress of their reason; it is only there that
the veritable perfection of the human species can be judged. This idea of relating
everything to this last point is dictated by justice and reason; but while it would
be tempting to see it as chimeric, it is not.’’’° It is for the gaze situated in the
‘‘tenth epoch’’ that history becomes transparent and it is thus that the account
of the past is not in search of its meaning, but becomes the pronouncement of
a sense revealed by History itself. Of course, the “‘law of perfection’’ intervenes
throughout the account and is referred to in order to elucidate events, to bring
out what is ‘‘essential”” and thus to affirm the unity of history. Nevertheless,
until the eve of the ‘‘tenth epoch,’’ until the events that render its advent in-
evitable, no fact takes on its true sense. If one stops reading at the eighth epoch
which, in Condorcet’s chronology, corresponds to the Renaissance, and all the
more so if one goes further back, to the seventh and to the sixth, which are
those of the Middle Ages (‘‘that disastrous period when we will see the human
spirit rapidly descend from the height to which it had risen and the ignorance
that dragged on for too long afterward, here ferocity, there a refined cruelty’’),’’
then in all those epochs, all is far from being decided. Despite the affirmation
that the ‘‘law of perfection’’ infallibly rules over all history and at each of its
stages the account remains hesitant, he doesn’t exclude the possibility of dec-
adence or even of a cyclical movement. But this is excluded beginning with the
ninth epoch and becomes completely unthinkable in the future that it announces.
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 149

With the “‘tenth epoch’’ history will no longer experience twists and turns or
accidents—every event will be only a manifestation and confirmation of the
“‘Iaw of progress.’’ All ambiguity will be removed from history and this trans-
parency that is already foreseeable sheds new light on past centuries. Condorcet
draws up a whole program of renewing the study of history by taking on the
leading ideas of ‘‘philosophical’’ historiography. Up to that point, ‘‘only the
leaders had been the focus of historians’ attention.’’ Hence, what had been left
in shadow had been ‘‘the most important part of the history of men. . . the
most obscure, the most neglected part for which monuments offer us so little
material,’’ that is, the history of ‘‘the masses,’’ of the ‘‘most numerous portion
of each society.’’”* Now, with the ‘‘tenth epoch,’’ these ‘‘masses’’ are going
to emerge from obscurity, to enjoy the lights and happiness and become the
principal factor of progress.
Thus, the utopia of the future is the accomplishment of history and the
revelation of its ultimate significance. That does not mean that history will stop,
that it will not know new developments. On the contrary, it is only the beginning
of a new history, of an alternative history. If ‘‘humankind”” is not going to know
an ‘‘eleventh epoch,”’ that is not because its progress has stopped. It is only in
that epoch that the indefinite character of the progress of the human spirit will
fully manifest itself. The human spirit “‘continuously growing from century to
century has no term. . . . The perfection of the order of society inevitably leading
to ano lesser perfection in morality, men will continually become happier insofar
as they become more enlightened. . . . Let us dare to envisage, in the immensity
of the ages to follow us, a happiness and enlightenment of which we can form
but a vague and indeterminate idea.’’’* This alternative history, that of combined
happiness and enlightenment, can but confirm, perpetuate, and amplify the prin-
ciples and values that are at the foundation of the ‘‘tenth epoch.’’ Humanity will
no longer have to get lost, to seek its road, and to make choices. Any change
will only be an improvement and continuation of what has been acquired, and
never call it back into question. Once ‘‘the obstacles between man and truth
have been lowered,’’”* the framework of all ulterior development is fixed—
progress can engender no counter-finality, but can be only a confirmation of
itself.
Thus, there is a play of rupture and continuity between the past and the
future. Rupture because the very time of history changes and history will no
longer know this succession ‘‘sometimes of progress, sometimes of decadence’’
that marked it up to that point. Continuity because ‘‘the tenth epoch’’ is the
crowning achievement of all that has been accomplished before, and which is
only a sort of ‘‘prehistory’’ of the human species. Now, this interplay is possible
only thanks to the event which in itself combines both rupture and continuity.
It is the last of history as it was experienced, but also the first and founding act
of the new time opening on History. It is the Event that is situated at the frontier
150 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

of time. The ‘‘last epoch’’ is that of which ‘‘the French Republic comes to mark
the opening, placing its origin with so much glory among the last storms that
error roused amidst its darkness, and the first rays of the calm reign of truth.’ ae
For Condorcet, the Event is the prerequisite condition for his discourse and it is
there that he situates the place from which he speaks. ‘‘T have the good fortune
to write in a country where no fear, no hope, no respect for national prejudices
can cause any general truth to be suppressed or disguised and they are the only
ones of which it might be a question in a subject that embraces humanity in its
entirety... . The rapid movement that the French Revolution transmitted to
spirits, breaking stronger chains, could not leave its weak links. . . . There is
a country where philosophy can offer free and pure homage to truth . . . and it
is the only one where the historical tableau of the progress of the human spirit
can be traced with total independence.’’ Condorcet envisages consecrating this
exceptional and founding quality of the Revolution by introducing in the Esquisse
a new system of dating, that is, ‘‘in relating all dates to our Republican era.”?
That gave, for instance, the following chronolgy for the ‘‘fourth epoch’’: “‘it
extends approximately from the year 2700 to the year 2100 before the French
Republic and encompasses about 550 years, from Lycurgus to Aristotle.’’”°
As we have said, the combination of the past and the future in a continuous
historical account has, as a necessary condition, reference to science. It is because
history is raised to the level of a science and uses scientific methods that the
future is within its domain and not of that of dreams and desires. In other words,
discourse on the past as well as on the future are only specific cases of the same
scientific discourse. Condorcet insists many times on this mutation that is arrived
at with his Esquisse and that can allow him to distinguish his vision of the future
from chimeras. For him, there is no question of giving full sway to the imagi-
nation, but, rather of rigorously demonstrating, following a method which had
been proven in the study of the past, that certain conditions will necessarily be
brought together in the future and that, with that, new possibilities will be open
to humankind, whose actualization itself becomes necessary. It is only in ‘‘ex-
amining the progress and the laws of our improvement that we can even know
the extent and the term of our hopes.’’’” To predict the rapid development of
the sciences and their beneficial effects on social life as well as on public
happiness it suffices to put oneself ‘‘in a country where general enlightenment
and the knowledge of the rights of man do not allow of fear that public happiness
might ever be founded on equality of ignorance and stupidity. . . . I can demand
these conditions, since it is a question of the progress of the human species,
freed, at least, of its grossest errors.’’’®
Condorcet’s procedure sometimes takes a turn that makes one think of
what is nowadays known as futurology. This is the case, for instance, when he
discusses the major orientations of future developments in the sciences or when
he launches his important idea of ‘‘social mathematics’’: applying probability
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 151

theory to demographic, economic, and similar problems. 7? And how, at present,

can we not be impressed by the perspicacity and topicality of his remarks on
the obstacles progress might come up against and that the combined efforts of
the sciences must circumvent or eliminate? ‘‘Bringing one’s attention to bear on
the general economy of societies, one quickly perceives that the natural limits
of their progress are those of the reproduction of the substances necessary to the
needs of men, and that, among these substances, foods and fuels are those that
threaten to reach that final limit the earliest. Means of directing fire so as to
produce the same effects with less consumption would then be numbered among
the discoveries to which the destinies of the human species are attached.’’*°
We must not, however, be mistaken about false and anachronistic anal-
ogies. Condorcet is by no means a ‘‘futurologist’” before the fact. The procedures
of contemporary futurology are at opposite poles to those at work in the Esquisse.
The contrast between the enthusiastic optimism inspiring the Esquisse and the
pessimism marking the majority of contemporary ‘‘futurologists’’ is only a minor
phenomenon—the fundamental contrast is on another plane. Futurology origi-
nates in the crisis proper to the kind of global vision of the future that refers to
the ineluctable march of history and, in a sense, it is the expression of this crisis.
Insofar as futurology seeks to establish itself as a science it refuses specifically
to formulate ‘‘predictions’’ whose object is the evolution of ‘“‘humankind’’ in
its entirety, bearing on an indeterminate future and envisioning only a single
schema of evolution, without alternative models. Condorcet did not by any means
substitute science for the utopia. His originality, if not his greatness, lies else-
where. He succeeded in joining the utopia to history in making use of a certain
idea of science and of a discourse on progress which professed to be scientific.
Thus, the utopia sprang from history—it became its great promise guaranteed
by science. It does not seem to us to be of great interest to verify Condorcet’s
“‘predictions,’’ to confirm his ‘‘clairvoyance’’ in certain cases and to point out
his flaws in others. From this point of view Condorcet’s case is not different
from those of other utopians—his social imagination proved to be at once too
rich and too poor when grappling with realities. What we find noteworthy, on
the contrary, is the complex play, which could be called a play of mirrors, by
which the analysis of the past and the vision of the future reciprocally supply
each other with ‘‘proofs’’ and thus become linked in a discourse presented as
scientific. Condorcet’s predictions on the progress of the sciences, education,
the arts, etc., as well as their social effects, finally merge with the vision of the
New City, that of realized happiness. ‘‘Does the improvement of laws, of public
institutions following the progress of the sciences, not have the effect of bringing
together, of identifying the common interest of each man with the common
interest of all? Is the aim of the social art not to destroy this apparent contra-
diction? And is the country whose constitution and laws conform most exactly
to the wish of reason and nature not that where virtue will be easier, where
152 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

temptations will be the fewest and weakest? Do the progress of civilization, of

industry, without entailing either dependency or the humiliation of misery, not
bring men close to that state where all will have the necessary enlightenment?
Do the well-being that follows the progress that all useful arts make, in basing
themselves on a sound theory, or the progress of just legislation, which is founded
on the truths of the political sciences not dispose men to humanity, charitableness,
and to justice? Will not what, up to this point, has always been, merely a chimera
finally occur—national, kind, and pure morals, formed not of proud privations,
hypocritical appearances, reservations imposed by fear of shame or religious
terrors, but by freely contracted habits, inspired by nature, admitted by rea-
son?’’*! The questions are only rhetorical and the answers can only be affirmative.
With them, ‘‘proofs’’ accumulate that it is only by “‘examining the progress and
laws of the improvement [of the human species] that we can know the extent
or the term of our hopes.’’®* The predictions thus are based on the Jaw that
secures the unity of history. Contrary to the chimeras, they are justified by the
latter’s constant and necessary character. But on the other hand it is obvious that
this very law, that of the undefined improvement of the spirit and of humankind,
is undemonstrable other than by its extrapolation on the future, that is, other
than by the utopian vision of an alternative society, where the opposition between
nature and society will disappear, thanks to ‘‘the social art that will fulfill its
aim, that of extending to all the enjoyment of the common rights to which they
are called by nature.”’* All the predictions support one another to attest to the
idea of progress that can, at bottom, only be liberating. If, in the course of
history, it proved, occasionally, to be oppressive, that was due only to chance
incidents, to the tenacious persistence of prejudice, of fanaticism, of bad laws,
etc. Thus, the Tableau des progrès de Il’esprit humain, which presents itself as
a synthesis of history, as a rigorous and scientific generalization of historical
occurrences, is in fact only a form of assimilation, as ideological as it is selective,
of the past. Actually, the continuity of history is only developed in the discourse
according to a certain scale of values and concepts by means of which aspects
of the past labeled “‘retrograde’’ or ‘‘marginal’’ are rejected. But how could this
selection be justified without the underlying reference to that alternative future,
where the values taken up by Progress will fully manifest themselves, without
hindrance, in the harmonious and transparent City?
As we have said, the leading idea of this unitarian history is that of progress
that does not engender a counter-finality. But this could not have been argued
otherwise than with the vision of an alternative history, to which men would no
longer submit, but, rather, one which is consciously made by and for themselves
and which then would no longer experience all the misfortunes that had marked
it throughout. Thus, the utopia is put at the service of a certain idea of history.
But reciprocally this idea of history owes its vigor to the utopia whose realization
it promises and for which it vouches.
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 153

In our time, when the mythology of progress is dying, it would be easy,

even too easy, to retrospectively draw out the anthropological postulates, the a
priori ideologies, the social choices that order the idea of progress as well as
Condorcet’s utopia and which are hidden by his pseudoscientific procedure. Both
the utopia and the philosophy of history are based on a definition of human
nature that implies its indefinite perfectibility; both adjust this amelioration to
the growth of goods, of knowledge, of techniques, etc. Consequently, in the
utopia, the maximum of this growth is confused with the optimum of the human
condition or, if you will, this optimum is identified with the indefinite growth.
This is based on another a priori, namely that of the harmony that could be said
to be platonic among truth, happiness, and virtue. The accumulation of knowl-
edge and its widest social diffusion must necessarily lead to the increase of
happiness and virtue. The most enlightened men cannot but become better from
those points of view, and this new man produced by history corresponds to the
New City, the social and moral setting of his existence. Yet another a priori
makes possible the conjunction of the utopia and history, namely the affirmation
that men in their history pose only problems they are capable of resolving. Thus
the history will encounter no insurmountable obstacles or impasses. The mani-
festation of new needs brings about a condition whereby means of satisfying
them will be sought and found. “‘The cause that brings about the need produces
at the same time the means of obtaining it.’’®* (It must be noted that this idea
is frequently encountered throughout the nineteenth century, in numerous social
theories and philosophies of history, even in those that are opposed in their
political choices and ideological options, but share faith in growth-progress; it
is, in particular, vigorously affirmed by Guizot and by Marx.)
Thus history is seen as reduced to a single one of its dimensions, namely
that of innovative mobility, with cumulative effects. Its inert forces are only
considered secondary phenomena which will be progressively eliminated by the
very march of Progress. Whence the privileged place accorded in historical
discourse to times and periods of historical acceleration as well as to the events
that convey them. Note that Condorcet envisages a sole model of ‘‘perfectibil-
ity,’’ namely that which merges with the historical evolution of the western
world. This model and the values it implies are thus imposed as a norm universal
to any possible historical evolution and, in particular, to that which peoples who
are still ‘‘barbarian’’ or ‘‘savage’’ must still undergo. Nor is there any contra-
diction between this ‘‘oppressive’’ model of progress and the courageous and
humanitarian positions that Condorcet, one of the prime forces behind the Société
des Amis des Noirs, took against slavery as well as against a certain particularly
brutal colonialism.*° Is progress not liberating and universal by its very essence,
does it not promise the same radiant future to all who follow its paths?
The utopia of the Esquisse is perfectly concordant with the social positions
of Condorcet. The city of happiness and of perfected man was to be a liberal
154 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

republic, where the role of the state is limited to guaranteeing and protecting
the rights of the citizens and, in particular, that of freedom of expression, and
to encouraging scientific progress and assuring its diffusion thanks to a whole
system of public education; a society founded on private property, keeping a
certain social inequality while moderating it. This social perspective intersects
with Condorcet’s political options, in particular those of the Revolutionary pe-
riod. His utopia, contrary to those of the Jacobins or even of the “‘sans-culottes,”’
of the militant popular minorities, extends, on another plane, the political con-
flicts of the moment. Nevertheless, there is no question here of considering these
utopias as reflections of the conflicts in which they participate. One might even
say the opposite: at least certain political options were possible only because
they were made according to the respective utopias, because the opposing forces
saw politics and power as instruments with which to establish the New City once
and for all. That is particularly valuable for Condorcet who was merely a me-
diocre politician.
What, then, finally, remains of the scientific character of this utopian
discourse so vigorously opposed to ‘‘chimeras’’? Of course, strictly speaking,
the utopia and the idea of progress combined neither demonstrate nor prove
anything. Condorcet’s utopia is only “‘scientific’’ in the sense that it accords a
privileged role to the sciences as well as to their diffusion in the formation of
the new man and in the constitution of the City of the future. It is ““scientific,”’
too, in the sense that it draws on a universal science of man, a sort of anthropology
that would found the laws that base the evolution of man on human nature, laws
valuable for the past as well as the future.
But Condorcet’s utopia is “‘scientific’’ in still another sense, one whose
future proved richer. If, indeed, this utopia “‘announces the future,’’ that is only
insofar as it gives evidence of a new mode of utopian discourse, which is making
a way for itself. The term ‘‘anti-utopian utopia’’ would, perhaps, be most suitable
to it.°° The utopia refuses to be an imaginary game or the expression of desires
and expectations; nor does it have recourse either to an ought-to-be or to the
precepts of abstract and supertemporal reason. Of course, one frequently heard
utopians proclaim the realism of the proposals—this was the case, for example,
with the Abbé de Saint-Pierre or Morelly. Nevertheless, in this new mode of
utopian discourse it is a question of something other than the possible realization
of a dream: it is the very practice of social dreams that is refused. The ‘‘anti-
utopian utopia’’ takes on several traditional utopian themes and, in particular,
that of a history that would no longer be the effect of chance and would never
deviate from the paths traced by the New City. But these themes and images
are incorporated into a universal discourse on history, an object of science, a
discourse, then, that by its very structure tolerates them only in making them
travesties of history and science, in formulating them as non-dreams.
This paradigm dominates by far the most important part of the utopias of
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 155

the nineteenth century. It is at work in Saint-Simon and the Saint-Simonians, in

Fourier and Comte, and also in Marx and several Marxists. Marx’s work might
even be said to be a borderline case. It is well known how careful Marx and
Engels were not to offer too elaborate an image of the communist society of the
future, and how insistent they were on the fact that that society was to be the
rational and scientific work of future generations and not that of social visionaries.
Yet Marx’s work conveys a whole vision of that society; most often it is only
just below a historical, economic, and political discourse—but more often than
one might think, it explodes, so to speak, at the surface and then reveals itself
to be rich in idea-images.*’ Moreover, does Engels not draw up the universal
image of the New City, where ‘‘the government of people makes way for the
administration of things,’’ where ‘‘the State is not abolished, but dies out,”
where ‘*men become the masters of their own socialization,’’ where ‘‘the leap
of humanity from the reign of necessity into the reign of liberty’’ takes place,
etc.? All of these are classical utopian themes advanced in the text in which it
is ‘“demonstrated’’ that socialism is no longer a utopian but a scientific object,
that it is no longer a dream but a historical necessity.**
We have not emphasized this new paradigm making its way through Con-
dorcet’s texts. It is nevertheless noteworthy that in his work the anti-utopian
utopia keeps its links with the traditional modes of utopian discourse, particularly
with that of the proposal for perfect legislation, with a reference to an ideal
country. Thus, among the works preliminary to the Esquisse is found a fragment
titled Sur l’Atlantide, ou efforts combinés de l'espèce humaine pour le progrés
des sciences, which presents a detailed proposal for a sort of international Acad-
emy of sciences, a ‘‘general meeting of the scientists of the world in a universal
republic of sciences, the only one for which the proposal, like its utility, is not
a puerile illusion.’’®? Condorcet refers explicitly to Bacon’s New Atlantis, of
course, but one is equally struck by the affinities with a similar proposal of the
Abbé de Saint-Pierre. The author of the Esquisse, however, stresses the differ-
ences between his project and the ‘‘chimeras’’ that inspired it. ‘“This is,’’ he
concluded, after having given a résumé of Bacon’s ideas, ‘‘what a creative spirit
dares to conceive of during an age still covered with the darkness of a superstitious
ignorance, what for a long time seemed merely a philosophical dream, what the
rapid progress of both societies and enlightenment today give hope of being
realized by future generations and, perhaps, by ourselves.’’ In fact, to imagine
this realized ‘‘chimera,’’ one has but to put oneself ‘‘in a country where general
enlightenment and the knowledge of the rights of man do not allow of fear that
public happiness might ever be founded on equality of ignorance and stupidity.”’
And the existence of such a state can reasonably be supposed, not as a
dream, but as a hypothesis with sufficient basis, ‘‘since it is a question of the
progress of the human species freed at least of its grossest errors.’ *°° Condorcet’s
expositions, which we have only rapidly summarized, point up both the continuity
156 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

and the rupture between the two modes of utopian discourse. Nothing is more
typical of the traditional utopian enterprise than the reference to an ideal country
as a condition for the realization of a rigorously rational proposal of a perfect
institution. But it is progress—both that already made and that to be accom-
plished—that is charged with making this country come about and hence, with
transforming a dream, a ‘‘chimera,”’’ first into a hypothesis and, then, into reality.
All things considered, it is the time of history, the producer of innovations,
richer and richer in new potentialities, that takes on itself, so to speak, the task
of inscribing the dreams and rational hopes in reality.
A striking correspondence between this philosophical idea of the time of
history and the lived experience is found in Condorcet’s work. The author of
the Esquisse is particularly sensitive to the utopian potentials of the history in
which he participates. It could be said that he only lives his time by giving it
utopian extensions. That was already striking at the time of his collaboration
with Turgot. Turgot’s personality, as well as his ideas and, notably, the idea of
conceiving of universal history as continuous progress, profoundly marked Con-
dorcet. But when Turgot, at the time he was in office, made Condorcet his close
collaborator, the opposition between the two became obvious. For Turgot, pol-
itics has its own exigencies, and, as he says in a remarkable phrase, it is the art
of predicting the present. Thus, he considers that the ‘‘philosopher politician’’
can only modernize his country and advance progress by partial and prudent
reforms (and it is well known how audacious this prudence was). Condorcet,
on the other hand, is impatient. For him, power is only an instrument in the
service of the utopia and politics merely an opportunity to open the present to
the future of progress.?! This propensity for the utopia becomes more intensified
during the Revolutionary period and the Esquisse is the ultimate evidence of
this. The Revolution and its ‘‘rapid march’’ bring definitive proof that the passage
from a “‘philosophical dream’’ to reality is through historical change. This cer-
titude also merges with and expresses the experience and hopes of Condorcet-
the-politician or rather Condorcet-the-legislator, the author of the proposal of
the Constitution and especially of the Mémoires sur I’Instruction Publique. It is
noteworthy that entire pages of these Mémoires anticipate the Esquisse. Con-
dorcet conceives of his proposal for a ‘‘system of public education’’ in relation
to the future—he made it to ‘‘prepare nations for the changes that time must
bring.” Many of the ideas that proliferated in pre-Revolutionary utopias and
that had become commonplace are found once again in his proposal. However,
this proposal fits into history in another way: the word intends to be the founding
word of a new reality. The utopia is enriched by a political experience coupled
with illusions; the proposal, once it is put into words, has every chance of
becoming actuality. Would a favorable vote not transform it into an institution?
Revolutionary political practice makes history receptive to the most daring ideas.
The future perfected man in the New City is still to be accomplished—but is
 UTOPIA: THE PROMISE OF HISTORY / 157

already emerging and history, propelled by the Revolution, can only tend in that
direction, and at an ever-accelerated pace. ‘‘Can one not sense what immense
distance separates us from the term of perfection that we already perceive in the
distance, whose genius smoothed out the route it opened to us and toward which
its indefatigable activity draws us, while an even vaster space must disclose
itself to the eyes of our nephews? Is it possible not be struck, as well, both by
all that remains to be destroyed and by all that a future, however imminent,
offers our hopes?’’??
The Esquisse also expresses another aspect of the lived experience of the
Revolution, the encounter between history and the utopia. It is a dramatic text
whose rhetorical style, with its overly elegant and elaborate phrases, barely
conceals the haste and tension with which Condorcet wrote it. Condemned along
with the Girondinist députés, seeking a safe hiding place, abandoned by many
of his friends, Condorcet writes hurriedly, fearing that the guillotine will prevent
him from finishing his work. The text is marked by current events; it is also a
political text not lacking in polemical anti-Jacobin accents and one in which
Condorcet attempts to justify his own positions.”* But the most important evi-
dence and the most revelatory testimony about the time of the Revolution in the
Esquisse is not in the topical polemics. It teaches how the utopia, assimilated
as an innermost truth, allows of living the Revolution, as the herald of the great
promise of History. That does not, of course, suffice for surviving the Revolution,
as the fate of the book, which will only be published posthumously, attests.
However, it is by honoring history with the utopia as with its ultimate meaning,
that Condorcet gives meaning, as well, to his own existence grappling with the
realities of history. ‘How much,’’ Condorcet wrote at the end of his vision of
the tenth epoch, ‘‘this tableau of humanity, freed from all its chains, removed
from the influence of chance, as from the authority of the enemies of its progress,
and proceeding with a firm and sure step on the road of truth, virtue, and
happiness, presents the philosopher with a spectacle that consoles him for the
errors, the crimes, the injustices still sullying the earth and of which he is often
the victim! It is in the contemplation of this tableau that he is repaid for his
efforts toward the progress of reason, toward the defense of liberty. He then
dares to link it to the eternal chain of human destinies; it is there that he finds
the true reward for virtue, the pleasure of having created something good and
durable, that fatality will no longer destroy by a disastrous compensation, by
bringing back prejudice and slavery. This contemplation is for him an asylum,
where the memory of his persecutors cannot pursue him)?
By the drama it conceals as well as by the originality of its ideas, the
Esquisse is an exceptional and personal work. But, on the other hand, it fits into
a broader context and is part of a longer series; it reveals the utopian dimension
of the Revolutionary mentality and, in particular, the utopian dimension of
Revolutionary discourse on history.
 3
“Time Opens a New Book
to History ...”: Utopia and
the Revolutionary Calendar

Die the Revolutionary era, the exchange between the lived

realities and utopias, representations of a New City, became particularly in-
tense.’° We are barely aware of the influence of the imaginary on the political
projects of the era and particularly of the utopian dimension of Revolutionary
mentalities. Social and political motives merge with and interpenetrate dreams,
and representations of the sought moral and social ideal. Of course, too frequently
that does not go beyond the level of the word—of discourse, of proposals, of
reports, or even of decrees which there is not even the attempt to carry out. But
does this avalanche of words structured by Revolutionary rhetoric not express
in its Own way an important aspect both of the realities and of Revolutionary
illusions and myths? Does it not express as well the lived experience of those
who, for the first time, have access to discourse on society as a whole, on power,
politics, etc., as well as their faith in the power of the true word, the foundation
of reality? And was this faith not a product of the Revolutionary experience
itself?
The reform of the calendar is particularly revealing of the Revolutionary
attitudes toward the time of history bound up with the utopian élan. Indeed in
the proposals for a Revolutionary calendar two discourses—on the New City
and on history—merge into one. The representations of the City, giving material
form forever to the Revolutionary ideals, occur as a prerequisite both to discourse
on history and to that on temporality in general. It is almost as though the utopia
were launching out to conquer time.
Let us recall, first of all, and only briefly, the important stages of the
reform. At the time the Republic was proclaimed, on 22 September 1792, a
decree of the Convention established that henceforth all public bills and certif-
icates would be dated ‘‘year I of the French Republic.’’ Another decree, of 2
158
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 159

January 1793, stipulated that the year II of the Republic would begin 1 January
1793. In the meantime, the Comité d’Instruction publique was charged with
preparing the revision of the calendar and with ‘‘presenting, as soon as possible,
a proposal on the advantages to France of the accord of its Republican era with
the common era.”’ As early as the end of 1792, a working group, composed of
Romme, Dupuis, and Ferry, in collaboration with Lagrange and Monge, was
set up to prepare this project. Gilbert Romme presented it to the Comité d’In-
struction publique on 14 September 1793; on 20 September, on behalf of the
Comité, he reported on it to the Convention. A vote was not taken on it until 5
October and put into effect beginning the following day. However, the Con-
vention only adopted the principles; it did not rule on the naming of days and
months and sent this question back to the Comité. A committee composed of
Chenier, David, Fabre d’Englantine, and Romme discussed several proposals
and finally, three weeks later, Fabre d’Englantine presented a proposition to the
Convention which this time accepted it forthwith. The Republican calendar
remained in effect for twelve years, two months, and twenty-seven days, until
1 January 1806, the date when Napoleon definitively abolished it (the coronation
of the Emperor is nevertheless dated according to . . . the Revolutionary cal-
endar, 11 frimaire of the year XII). During this entire period, these principles
remained unchanged; the modifications apply to the system of ‘‘Republican
festivals.’’ In germinal of the year X, an article of the law regarding the reor-
ganization of religions made Sunday once again the day of rest for civil servants.
The ruin of the calendar was consummated 15 fructidor of the year XII when
the Senate adopted, without discussion, the reestablishment of the Gregorian
calendar.
It is not our intention to go further, here, into the rather tortuous history
of this reform. Aulard, and more recently Cobb, stressed the audacity of the
enterprise. It ‘“was truly of great importance to the Revolutionaries for there is
nothing more Revolutionary than wanting to change mores and habits.’’ In that
sense, the new calendar was ‘‘the most sensational innovation of the whole
Revolutionary period,’’ since it aimed particularly at “‘profoundly changing the
personal life of all Frenchmen and Frenchwomen.’’”” We know that the reform
comes within political and ideological contexts as diverse as they were complex:
the rise of the Jacobins and the Terror; the dechristianization (or, to use the
formula of Cobb and Plongeron, the dechristianizations) movement and the
accompanying debate on religion; the reform of weights and measures issued in
conjunction with socioeconomic needs and the will to imbue the totality of social
life with a rationality that would make it transparent to itself; the most audacious
proposals for a new system of public education, and so forth. We will return to
some of these points but it must be noted that the reform, as well as the debate
it provoked, become the place for the conjunction and crystallization of diffuse
ideas and attitudes. The feeling of having entered an exceptional era links up
160 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

with the determination to make this turning point irreversible; the will to take
over time intersects that of radically transforming the collective ways of living
time. Daily and continuously, time must reveal only its true meaning, that is,
that of the time of the New City. Thus, beyond diverse, if not divergent, pro-
posals, a fundamental convergence is to be seen—time is thought and imagined
in relation to the moral and social values that the Revolutionary City wants to
install permanently in history. Of course, these utopian representations and im-
ages are often imprecise; references to the same values and key ideas often hid
the divergences between political and ideological orientations. If the reform of
the calendar was imposed as a historical imperative, it was precisely because the
City founded on Revolutionary values already was and would become even more
different than all those that had existed in history. With the new man created by
the Revolution, a new era was established. In the debate about the calendar both
history and the utopia are the indirect objects of a discourse—only spoken about
when something else was brought up. But is this kind of evidence not invaluable
for the study of mentalities, and, in particular, of attitudes toward history?
Gilbert Romme, one of the architects of the calendar, found, using Rev-
olutionary rhetoric, the strongest formula for expressing the spirit of reform:
‘‘The Revolution retempered the souls of the French; it formed them daily
according to Republican virtues. Time opens a new book to history, and in its
new march, majestic and simple like equality, it must engrave with a new tool
the annals of regenerated France.’ But what is this ‘‘new book’’ of history?
And what will ‘‘time’’ inscribe in it?
The word ‘“‘new,”’ reiterated forcefully and insistently, expressed the major
preoccupation and the leading idea of the reform. The latter must mark a rupture
with history as it has been up to that point and solemnly affirm the irreversibility
of that rupture. The old calendar and its nomenclature are only the expression
of history as it was lived, or rather, suffered, before the Revolution. ‘‘The
common era was born among an ignorant and credulous people and in the midst
of the troubles that preceded the fall of the Roman empire. During eighteen
centuries it served to fix the duration of the progress of fanaticism, the degradation
of nations, the scandalous triumph of pride, and vice, and stupidity, the per-
secutions and the disgust to which virtue, talent, and philosophy were subjected
under cruel despots, or that were practiced in their name. . . . The common era
was that of cruelty, of lies, of perfidy, and slavery; it ended with royalty, the
source of all our evils. . . . The [old] nomenclature is a monument of servitude
and ignorance to which peoples have successively added the mark of their deg-
radation.’’”?
Thus is it necessary to oppose to this ‘‘monument of servitude’’ a system
that would express justice and above all equality. A new system, as rational in
its principles as in its symbols, must be opposed to the old calendar, as irrational
and imbued with prejudice as the time of history whose march it fixed. The
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 161

rationality and transparency sought, while attesting to the advent of a new history,
that of free peoples, had inevitably to rejoin nature itself—the time of the
heavenly bodies and the succession of seasons. Is the fact that the very day of
the abolition of royalty and of the establishment of the Republic fell on the day
of the equinox not a symbol of reconciliation between nature and history? It is
a happy coincidence, indeed; yet how could one not be astonished at this ‘‘too
striking and perhaps unique accord in the annals of the world, among the move-
ments of the heavens, the seasons, the old traditions, and the course of events
offered by the Revolution? Revolutionary affectivity and language were too
sensitive to symbols, to “‘speaking images,’’ for imaginations not to be struck
by this double beginning in which regenerated nature joins with renewed history.
The theme is therefore widely exploited. When Romme speaks of it, the rhetoric
in search of a ‘‘language of signs’’ that would directly touch ‘‘hearts’’ seems
to orient him and carry him toward a double mystique, of nature and of history
at the same time. ‘‘On 21 September 1792, the last day of the monarchy and
which is to be the last of the common era, the representatives of the French
people, meeting in a national Convention, opened their session and proclaimed
the abolition of the royalty. On 22 September, this decree was proclaimed in
Paris; and the same day at 9:18:30 A.M., the sun reached the true equinox,
entering the sign of Libra. Thus, the equality of days and nights was marked in
the sky at the very moment when civil and moral equality were proclaimed by
the representatives of the French populace as the sacred foundation of the new
government. Thus the sun cast light on the two poles at the same time and then,
successively, on the entire globe the very day when, for the first time, the torch
of liberty, which is one day to cast light on the human race, shone, in all its
purity, on the French nation. Thus the sun passed from one hemisphere to another
the very day when the populace, triumphing over the oppression of the kings,
passed from the monarchic government to the Republican government. The
French were entirely restored to themselves during this propitious season when
the earth, made fruitful by the influences of the heavens as well as by labor,
lavishly gives of her gifts, magnificently repaying the industrious man for his
cares, his fatigue, and his labor. . . . This combination of circumstances imprints
a sacred character on this epoch, one of the most distinguished in our Revo-
lutionary annals and one which will doubtless be one of the most famous in the
festivals of future generations. ”” 1%
The will to break with the past and the profound feeling that this rupture
is possible only thanks to the ‘‘souls retempered’’ by the Revolution intersects
with the desire to affirm the present and its élan toward the future. The reform
intends to be complete—it is not enough to begin counting time beginning with
the first year and first day of the Republic. Of course, it is obvious that ‘‘the
years when the kings oppressed us can no longer be counted as a time when we
lived.’’!°' Yet it is necessary to go further and set up a new system which would
162 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

be the expression of the very spirit of the New City. Now, this New City claims
to be educational, and intends to transmit moral and civic discourse continuously.
The calendar is considered the privileged, quasi-unique instrument for the trans-
mission of this discourse. It alone can bring it to all the citizens every day or
even every hour. A whole ‘‘political anthropology’’ and particularly a whole
theory of the imagination and its social functions intervenes in the debate about
the calendar. In his report, Fabre d’Eglantine emphasizes the ‘‘influence of
images on human intelligence’’ and his argument is inspired by a certain vague
sensualism as well as, or even particularly, by Rousseau’s reflections on the role
that the imagination and the ‘‘forceful language of signs’’ have to play in the
City. We conceive of nothing except by images; in the most abstract analysis,
in the most metaphysical combination, our understanding can apprehend only
through images, our memory only leans, only rests, on images.’’ Even without
entering ‘‘into metaphysical analyses . . . the doctrine and the experience of
priests’? present striking examples of this “‘ascendancy of images.’’ ‘‘Long
familiarity with the Gregorian calendar has filled the memory of the populace
with the considerable number of images which it has long revered and which
are still today the source of its religious errors.’’ Thus it is necessary to draw
lessons from this. If it is desired that ‘‘the method and the whole of the new
calendar penetrate easily into the understanding of the populace and engrave
themselves rapidly into its memory, “‘it is necessary to seize people’s imagi-
nations and govern them.’’ In addition to this ‘‘anthropological’’ argument,
Fabre d’Eglantine uses another, more sociological one: is the almanac not the
most read and the most ordinary book of the common people?!”
Thus, with the new calendar, time will be secularized at least in the sense
that it will be rid of all the ‘‘fantastic objects’’ that are the saints and patrons.
‘To govern the imagination”? is to reorient it, to turn it toward other objects.
That must be done daily but also and especially on days of festival, those times
strong in collective affectivity and sensitivity. The debate on the calendar inev-
itably interferes with the one on Republican festivals since it is the new calendar
that was to define a framework for the ‘‘system of celebrations.’’'™ First of all
by eliminating the old holidays and festivals and, particularly, Sundays. This
ideological preoccupation, interwoven with dechristianization, was coupled with
another, more down to earth one: to diminish the number of public holidays and
increase working days both for the citizens and for the country.!® But dechris-
tianizing time was only the negative and destructive part of the enterprise. What
they sought to install with the new calendar was a speaking time, charged with
images and symbols which were linked together in moral and social discourse.
For the architects of the reform, that harmonized perfectly with another
objective: to promote a time that would be, so to speak, ‘‘neutral,’’ so that the
measure of its length would be the most ‘‘natural’’ and, hence, the most rational
and scientific one. The two directions of the reform—making time ‘‘neutral’’
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 163

and charging it with symbolism—proved to be complementary. Indeed, by its

‘‘neutral”” and ‘‘scientific’” character did time not take on a whole set of values?
Freed from ‘‘prejudice,’’ did time not become transparent to reason, to ration-
ality, and to the simplicity of nature? ‘‘Old’’ time would contribute to the
diffusion and the domination of fanaticism and tyranny. Ought not the new time
to radiate the universal principles of reason, that rationality with which all
dimensions of life would henceforth and forever be imbued? And was this
rationality not necessarily inextricably bound up with the principles of liberty
and equality?
The reform of the calendar came within the scope of a far-reaching venture
of rationalization that was to affect the totality of social life. It had been con-
ceived, in particular, as the extension and culmination of the reform of weights
and measures and had been inspired by the same principles as the latter. ‘‘You
have undertaken,’’ said Romme to the members of the Convention, ‘‘one of the
operations that are most important to the progress of human arts and minds and
one that could only be successful in a time of Revolution: that is to get rid of
the diversity, incoherence, and inaccuracy of weights and measures, which con-
stantly hamper industry and commerce and to take, in the measurement of the
earth itself, the unique and invariable pattern of all new measurements. Arts and
history, for which time is a necessary element or instrument, also ask of you
new measurements of the duration of time which would similarly be freed from
the errors which credulity and a superstitious routine have transmitted to us from
centuries of ignorance.’’’°° Thus, similar preoccupations are found in the ide-
ological justifications of these two reforms: simplicity and universality (the latter
went along very well with a nationalism tinged with Jacobinism), the idea of
conformity to nature and, hence, to science.'°’ For some, such as Condorcet,
Lequinio, and Cloots, the two reforms already portended a third, even more
important one, which would abolish differences in languages. Would a universal
language, rid of the irrationalities of individual languages, not impose itself as
the extension and ‘‘natural’’ consequence of the reforms that had just changed
secular ways of measuring and, hence, of living space and time? Moreover, in
combating patois (accused of being ‘‘instruments of counter-Revolution and of
federalism’’) did the Republic not do the same thing it accomplished by sup-
pressing seigniorial measurements and patronal festivals?
The ideological relationship between the two reforms was strongly felt at
the time (the Convention decree of 18 germinal year III calls the metric system
‘‘the Republican system of measurements,”’ by analogy to the calendar). !% Both
are inspired by similar hopes for their social effects. It was expected that they
would initiate the people into the sciences and morality, transform hearts, minds,
and souls—and do all of that very rapidly. Moreover, the ideology is heavily
weighted and the utopian component is stronger in the reform of the calendar
than it is in that of measurements. In fact, contrary to the case with measurements,
164 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

the Republican calendar was only most minimally based on economic reasons.
As we have seen, Romme, while establishing a connection between the two,
was quite aware of this difference. The former weights and measures, he insisted,
‘‘hampered industry and commerce’’; it was only ‘‘the arts and history’’ that
called for the new calendar... .
The rationality of the new calendar rested on two principles. First, “‘to
make the Republican year conform to heavenly movements,’’ and, second, “‘to
measure time by more exact and more symmetrical calculations,’’ by applying
the decimal system most broadly. 109 Thus, since ‘‘reason demands that we follow
nature rather than drag ourselves servilely along the erroneous trail of our pred-
ecessors, the year ‘‘will begin in future at midnight, the day of the true autumnal
equinox for the Paris observatory.’’''° We have already brought out the symbolic
value of that date. The year is composed of twelve months of thirty days each
instead of being divided ‘‘into unequal months of twenty-eight, thirty, and thirty-
one days.’’ The last five days of the year form a special “‘corpus,’’ to whose
use we shall return below. Every four years, a day would be added to the end
of the year, starting with the third one of the Republic, ‘‘as many as necessary
so that the Republican year will conform to heavenly movements.’’''’ The
months are divided into three equal parts, of ten days each, instead of weeks
which ‘‘did not exactly divide either the months or the year or the lunar months.”’
The use of the decimal system is carried even further. The former division into
hours and minutes was irrational and ‘‘made calculation difficult.’’ Henceforth,
the day will be divided into ten hours, each hour divided into tenths, and each
tenth into hundredths.
‘*Thus, the year will be composed of 12 months and 5 days
or of 36 and a half periods of ten days [décades]
or of 365 days
or 3650 hours
or 36,500 tenths of hours
or 365,000 hundredths of hours.’’!!?
The above table points out the harmony, the clarity, and the symmetry of
the new system, as well as the system of equality governing it. The ‘Instruction
sur le calendrier’’ stresses what is implicit in it as well as its practical value.
_ Thus, one can ‘‘easily know the day of the moon, when one knows it is the first
of the year.’’ There is nothing simpler. Each lunar month is approximately
twenty-nine and a half days; that is, half a day less than the Republican month.
And, at the beginning of the third year, the moon was twenty-seven days old.
Thus, one has only to ‘‘add to this number as many half-days as have passed
in the month, and then what day of the month it is; then subtract twenty-nine
and a half days and you will have the day of the moon.’’!'? The correspondences
among the new hours and the old are a bit complicated, but not too difficult to
remember. Each hour of the new division is the equivalent of two hours and
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 165

twenty-four minutes of the old; two-tenths are the equivalent of fifty-seven

minutes, thirty-six seconds, or one old hour, less two minutes and twenty-four
seconds; two-and-a-half-tenths are exactly six old hours, etc. A brave and en-
thusiastic Genevan citizen presented the Comité d’Instruction publique with an
ingenious watch, with two dials, and which allowed one to pass rapidly from
one system to the other (an invention that was all the more opportune as Genevan
watchmaking was in a serious slump at the time).'!* The architects of the reform,
as well as the members of the Convention, were nevertheless aware that the
change to a decimal system of hours and minutes was most difficult to accomplish
because of ‘‘the changes it would require in watchmaking and which could only
be done successively.’’ But they did not find that the difficulties, that is the
production of new watches and clocks and the elimination of the old ones, would
be excessive. In fact, the obligatory aspect of this point of the reform was
postponed only a year.''° It was, however, to be rapidly abandoned and the
‘‘decimal watch’’ was to remain a technical curiosity.
Such was this time, each fraction of which, ‘‘décades,’’ tenths, and hun-
dredths, attested to the triumph of reason and measured the passage of time by
the clock of the Republic. But was this time not to announce the history to which
its march opened ‘‘a new book’’ and cause it to be lived in still another way?
The principles adopted did not determine the nomenclature worthy of the
‘‘French and Republican calendar.’’ Romme expressed the common opinion in
noting that the new nomenclature could be ‘‘neither celestial nor mysterious.”’
This was, however, only a negative principle and with the search for a positive
formula a vast field was opened to the imagination.
We do not know the details of the discussions of the Comité d’ Instruction
publique about the nomenclature. However, a table bringing together seven
different projects which were certainly the subject of the preliminary debates
was found among Romme’s papers. The document is as odd as it is revealing:
it is precious evidence of the roads followed by the social imagination of the
time.''® Three basic principles can be drawn in the proposed systems (which
certain of the proposals combine, for that matter):
a. The system of simple enumeration, e.g., days: first day, second day,
etc.; or primile, bisile, trisile, etc. Note the proposal that keeps the old names
for days, while deleting Sunday and that, after Saturday, proposes, for the end
of the ‘‘decade,’’ terredi, Herscheldi (!), Cieldi, and Soldi.
b. The system of ‘‘moral’’ names. Thus, one of the projects proposed the
following names for days: the Days of the Virtues, Spouses, Mothers, Children,
the Plow, Commerce, etc. For the months, one of the proposals suggested the
signs of the Zodiac.
Another proposal alternated the civic virtues with the seasons and agri-
cultural work (the months of equality, sowing, rest, ice, justice, flowers, liberty,
fruits, etc.).
166 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

c. The system invoking history.

The nomenclature, to use Romme’s own words ‘‘is completely drawn from
our Revolution, of which it presents either the principal events, or the aims, or
the means.’’!!” Romme, himself, was the author and he presented it, in the name
of the Comité d’Instruction publique, to the Convention. Both this proposal and
the way in which it was presented are worthy of further study. In fact, in it, the
utopia is joined to myth and the attitudes toward history it reveals are distin-
guished by their extremism.'!®

The order of the months of the The French, tired of fourteen

Republic centuries of oppression, and alarmed
at the frightening progress of
corruption, an example of which was
both provided and brought about by a
court, which had long been criminal,
feel the need for a
7th from 21 March to 19 April Regeneration
The resources of the court having
been exhausted, it convokes the
French, but their
8th from 20 April to 19 May Assembly
is their salvation. They name
representatives whose courage
irritates the tyrant. They are
threatened; but reassembled at the
9th from 20 May to 18 June Jeu de paume
and under the protection of the
people, they take an oath to rescue
the people from tyranny or to perish.
This oath resounds throughout
France, everywhere people arm
themselves, everywhere they want to
be free.
10th from 19 June to 18 July La Bastille
falls under the blows of a
11th from 19 July to 17 August People
sovereign and incensed. The numbers
of the malevolent increase, treason
breaks out, the court forms
conspiracies, representatives faithless
to their oaths sacrifice the interests of
the nation to sordid views, but
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 167

12th from 18 August to 16

September The Mountain
always faithful, becomes the
Olympus of France; surrounded by
the Nation and in its name, the
National Convention proclaims the
rights of the people, the constitution
and
Ist from 22 September to 21 October The Republic
2nd from 22 October to 20
November Unity
3rd from 21 November to 20
December Fraternity
are the strength of the French and
4th from 21 December to 19 January Liberty
by a sovereign act of national
5th from 20 January to 18 February Justice
which causes the head of the tyrant
to fall, is forever united with holy
6th from 19 February to 20 March Equality

Thus, the calendar sets up a time-narrative account. The annual cycles

take up and reaffirm a history, always the same and enclosed on itself. This
time-narrative account nevertheless opens the new era, and defines its framework.
The years that are to succeed in the history can only confirm the values and
principles incarnated in the memorable events of the Revolution; the latter as
well as their heroes are thus transformed into symbols. And the history, that of
the years and the ages to come, as well as the New City, emanated from the
acts that have been accomplished in this founding time. Thus, the time of history
is conceived and imagined as that of the utopia on the move—freed of hazards
and hindrances, it can only be the rational time of a wished for and desired
history, that of the New City that will never stray from the path it has set itself.
But the events and their extensions which are spoken of in the time-narrative
account are raised above all historical temporality. In and by the return of the
annual cycles they are established in the domain that is no other than that of
myth and the sacred, of ‘‘holy Liberty’’ and of the ‘‘holy Mountain,’’ of Time,
a ‘‘dechristianizer,’’ of course; but also time making sacred in the sense that it
replaces the sacred in the realm of history and politics.
The time-narrative account is also taxonomic, classifying time. The succes-
sion of events taken up in the annual cycle composes at once a table of values
and a moral and civic code. ‘This nomenclature alone,’’ said Sergent during
the debate at the Convention, ‘‘has the rare advantage of clearly classifying the
168 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

Revolutionary ideas that men must hold dear.’ Thus, the ‘‘eloquent nomencla-
ture,” to take up Romme’s formula, made time speak or even transformed it
into a speaking time. The two discourses—moral and civic discourse and dis-
course on history—coincide to the point where they merge. Of course, historical
discourse was solely concerned with the events of the Revolution. But was it
not the only history in which the New City recognized itself fully, the only one
it accepted as its own?!!° “It is necessary,’’ said Romme, ‘‘that each day recall
to the citizens the Revolution that made them free and that their civic feelings
be revived in reading this eloquent nomenclature.’*!”°
Romme’s proposal nevertheless gave rise to numerous doubts, for both
practical and ideological reasons. Did the *‘Revolutionary and moral’’ denom-
inations not simply come within a hair’s breadth of being ridiculous? The as-
sembly ‘‘laughed and applauded’’ when one of its members remarked that “every
day is a spouses’ day’’ and not only the second day of the “‘décade’’ as was
stipulated in one of the proposals. More serious arguments were also advanced.
Did the moral and Revolutionary appellations not ‘‘overload the calendar with
emblems,’’ symbols that could, in turn, become ‘‘the object of a superstitious
cult?’
Were they not in the process of ‘‘religionizing our Revolution?" In fact,
the populace ‘‘is always inclined to one superstition or another; it always seeks
to realize the metaphysical ideas presented to it.’ Were the signs and symbols
associated with memorable days not in danger of being transformed into so many
‘‘sacred objects’ which new impostors would exploit? Ought they not, then, to
be satisfied with the ordinal denomination? Indeed, the latter combined two
advantages—that of being the simplest and that of being ‘‘natural,”’ as ‘‘nu-
merical order is that of nature.” Romme, defending his proposal, refers to the
future, to the ‘‘new book’’ opened by time. By contenting oneself with the
numerical order, he replies, ‘‘you do not imprint on your calendar the moral
and Revolutionary cachet that would make it go on into the coming century.”
But this reference to posterity gave rise to still further doubts and objections. !?!
How was this future to be thought of and imagined—in the perspective of the
‘*French nation’’ or in that of a ‘‘universal Republic?’’ With the ordinal denom-
ination, said Duhem, ‘‘your calendar, which would only have been that of the
French nation, will become that of all peoples. . . . As a philosophical calendar,
it will be able to become the basis of the Universal Republic.*’ One still wonders
whether the future, the march of time, will not call into question the traditionally
honored values and events of today. Certainly, a history able to stray from the
path opened up by the Revolution is unthinkable. But is the Revolution finished,
has it reached the term of its greatness? Does it not engender progress whose
term is unforeseeable and ought not the calendar take this fact into account?
‘The Revolution has by no means reached the term indicated by philosophy,
and yet it has already presented memorable epochs that the legislators would
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 169

find it agreeable to consecrate; but who can answer them that those they. will
inscribe will be the greatest that it will have produced? . . . Will the [moral]
tableau be judged as such by our posterity whose ideas will be healthier and
whose morals will be purer than those of the present generation?’’!?*
The Convention hesitates, goes back on its first decision, and finally accepts
Fabre’s idea of ‘‘giving each day the name of plants then produced by nature
and of useful animals.’’ Whence the proposal drawn up in detail by Fabre in
collaboration with J.-M. Chénier and David, which was finally adopted. The
nomenclature set out to join civics to the utilitarian, while referring to a vague
“agricultural and rural’’ ideology. ‘‘Our basic idea was to consecrate the agri-
cultural system by the calendar and to lead the nation back to it, by marking the
epochs and the fractions of years by intelligible or visible signs taken from
agriculture and the rural economy. . . . We believed that nothing that is precious
to the rural economy should escape men and the meditations of every man who
wishes to be useful to the country.’’!*? Thus, neologisms were invented (a very
fashionable pursuit at the time) to name the months. On the other hand, for the
names of the days, the principle of the ordinal denomination was retained, while
inventing still more ‘‘poetic’’ neologisms that were easier to work with (primdi,
deodi, etc.). The calendar substituted plants, animals, tools, and so forth; e.g.,
the goat, the plow, for the patron and other saints. The almanac based on the
new calendar thus presented a sort of small encyclopedia, both civic and agri-
cultural, for the use of the people.
!#*
The calendar and its nomenclature were not, however, totally cleared of
Revolutionary history. It reappeared for the last five days of the year—those
that the calendar did not place in any month—and that were reserved for festivals.
In preceding proposals their denomination had caused problems—they had been
called épagoménes or complementary days. Fabre found that “‘this word was
merely didactic, and consequently dry, mute to the imagination.’’ Therefore, he
proposed fabricating yet another neologism, a denomination ‘‘that would have
a national character capable of expressing the joy and the spirit of the French
people, five festival days that it will celebrate at the end of each year. We felt
it possible and above all right, to consecrate by a new word the expression sans-
culotte, which would be its etymology. . . . We therefore call the five days
collectively the sansculottides.’’ The four-year cycle Romme proposed to call
the Olympiade was called the Franciade and the day added at the end of each
fourth year, the sixth sansculottide, ‘‘will be dedicated to celebrating the French
Revolution which, after four years of effort and struggles against tyranny, led
the French people to the rule of equality.’?!?°
The reference to history is present in yet another way and in a different
context in Fabre d’Eglantine’s ideological argument. Of course, the neologism
sansculottide consecrates the major force of the Revolution and the regenerated
French people. But is it truly a neologism and does the word not consecrate the
170 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

return of the people to its true origins? ‘‘Research, as interesting as it is curious,

shows us that the aristocrats, claiming to demean us by the expression sans-
culotte, did not even deserve credit for the invention. In earliest antiquity, the
Gauls, our ancestors, were proud of this appellation. History show us that part
of Gaul, thereafter called Lyonnaise (land of the Lyonnais) was called la Gaule
culottée, Gallia bracata; consequently, the rest of the Gauls up to the banks of
the Rhine was Gaule non-culottée; from that point on, then, our fathers were
sans-culottes.’’'*©
So we have come full circle. The brave sans-culottes renew their rela-
tionship with their ancestors, the free Gauls. Beyond ages debased by tyranny
and prejudice, the Republican calendar joins the mythical time of the origins of
the nation to that opened by the Revolution in order to establish there, definitively
and forever, the New City.
Let us note yet one more voice in this passionate debate on the calendar.
It does not come from the Convention, but is that of citizens Blain and Bouchard,
teachers at Franciade (formerly Saint-Denis). Their initiative is all the more
remarkable as it is inspired by a certain idea of history-progress. Of course, for
them, too, the New City is defined above all by its rupture with the past. But
must the calendar not attest, as well, to the fact that the new era opened by the
Revolution aims to be the end result of the history that preceded it. Consequently
Blain and Bouchard again take up Sylvain Maréchal’s old idea of peopling the
calendar with great men, benefactors of humanity, substituting their names for
those of the patron and other saints. They add to them, of course, the martyrs
of liberty, and so, in their Almanach d’Aristote ou du vertueux républicain
Confucius is placed side by side with Marat, Washington with Le Pelletier,
Gutenberg with Chaulieu, dividing up among themselves the days of which they
become the secular patrons.'”’ As a consequence, the Revolution and its City
reveal themselves as the only legitimate heirs of the history of humanity. The
calendar makes the idea of history-progress into an instrument for the assimilation
of the past. Of course, this assimilation can only be selective if not repressive.
The collective memory must be purified of the disastrous memories of tyrants
and impostors. But were the latter not something other than an anomaly of
history? Its true course and its true meaning are put into images and symbols in
the succession of great figures, from Socrates to Chaulieu, that the calendar
organizes for the use of the “‘virtuous Republican.”’
Construct the New City, ‘‘retemper souls,’’ open the new era—how could
all this be done while leaving intact the old, the past, the former, the ‘‘ci-
devant’’? The great struggle ‘‘begun between the peoples and the kings’’ did
not only engage the present and the future; it inevitably involved the past. The
calendar reform translates the same will to break with the past (if not to make
history start again at zero) that found its expression in the famous decree of the
18th of the first month of the year II on the destruction of the symbols of feudalism.
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 171

What was the old calendar if not a ‘monument raised to tyranny and prejudice?’’
And it is to be noted that at the same session when the Convention decreed the
new nomenclature, Romme, in the name of the Comité d’Instruction publique
presented a report on the abuses that were committed ‘‘under the pretext of
eliminating the signs of feudalism or of royalty, printed books or manuscripts.”’
Romme was not content with denouncing a particular excess that he quoted as
an example. He attacked a whole ideology of systematic destruction and even
wondered whether it was not the work of the English and of aristocrats who
were thus plotting against the Republic. However, it was not in London or
Coblentz that a zealous Republican presented to the Comité d’Instruction pub-
lique the proposal ‘‘for the purification of French bibliography,’’ that is, of all
libraries, beginning with the Bibliothéque Nationale. Urbain Domergue, head
of the bibliography department, has a vision of a new library far more audacious
than that of Mercier in L’An 2440. The two come together, however, in the
utopian é/an that inspires them. The project proposes continuing and very rapidly
finishing the bibliographical works begun under the Ancien Régime, bringing
to them, however, ‘‘a fundamental reform that calls for all the attention of the
Comité.’’ Indeed, it is necessary to ‘‘bring the revolutionary scalpel into our
vast book depositories and cut the gangrenous limbs off the bibliographic body .”?
The authors of the bibliographic plan conceived before the Revolution ‘‘joined
to the prejudices of the moment the prejudices of their profession; the frenzy of
accumulating books made them collect equally carefully Marie Alacoque and
Voltaire, the Guide des pécheurs and the Contrat social, pitiful lawsuits of
novices against monks and the lawsuits of the people against the tyrants! Twenty
years were insufficient to gather all that ‘‘despotism wrote that was revolting,
that superstition wrote that was absurd, or that pettifoggery wrote that was
unjust.’’ But the ‘“Revolution commands’’ and it is necessary to go quickly. Let
the education of the populace, ‘‘the crucible that must distinguish knowledge
from the foolishness that had usurped its place’’ include ‘‘all knowledge that
improves man . . . all that genius has borne forth for the happiness and the glory
of peoples.’’ The conclusion is compelling. ‘“The bishop of Rome puts the
philosophes on the index of fanaticism, let us put the theologians on the index
of Reason. . . . Let us remove from our libraries the bloatedness that is a presage
of death; let us leave them only the embonpoint that announces health.’’ Con-
sequently they are going to set up a jury, composed of ‘‘Republican philosophes
who see with their minds and spirits and who see with their hearts,’’ to initiate
the great purge. But the proposal goes even further and one cannot but admire
its shrewdness and Machiavellian cunning. It is not content with eliminating the
‘‘venomous books’’; it wants the Republic to profit doubly from its doing so.
First of all, useless books can be sold abroad, thereby procuring the money so
needed by the Revolution. Then, too, once the books are sold, will they not
poison the minds of its enemies and thus contribute to the final victory? ““We
172 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

are properly sending to the scaffold any counter-revolutionary author or ac-

complice; I vote for their deportation. Let us cast out, into the bosom of our
enemies, the poison of our books of theology, of mysticity, of royalism, of
oppressive legislation; and while our phalanxes bring destruction among their
satellites, let us bring to a peak, by means of our books, the vertigo and delirium
sown in their minds; and such is their blindness that they will pay quite dearly
for a lethal present. . . . Objections that such a wish was offensive to humanity
were in vain. The eager purchasers of these books would not be the populace
composed of men, but kings, nobles, priests, and their agents, who are not on
the same level as men; they are above it by their pretensions and below it by
their insanity.’’ The ‘‘Republican library’’ nevertheless admits that it is necessary
to preserve one or two copies ‘‘of all the productions of human foolishness;
either as objects of curiosity, or as historical monuments. It is thus that the
botanist places in his herbarium, among great numbers of salubrious plants, the
aconite that causes death.’’'”®
It is the attitude that prompts this sort of proposal that Romme attacks,
with recourse to both the Revolution and history. Books must be preserved, all
books, and for many reasons. Of course, ‘‘our libraries teem with elements that
attest to the villainy of kings. The history that flatters their pride is none the less
the history of their crimes.’’ Thus, books and manuscripts ‘‘imbued with the
feudal spirit . . . are so many exhibits in the great trial, which is of interest to
all of humanity, and which is adjudicated by the French.’’ Sovereign and le-
gitimate judges of the past, peoples are, as well, its descendants and heirs. Does
justice not demand the recognition that it is the progress of the mind and spirit
and, in particular, of philosophy, “‘that gave birth to the Revolution and that,
alone, can transmit its benefits to future generations.’’ And, before the Revo-
lution, “‘the most forceful writers, to whom we owe the Revolution, while making
formal sacrifices to the prejudices of the times, proclaimed daring truths. . . .
To burn their books today for what is bad in them would be to soil our Revolution
and to call down on us the scorn of all peoples.’’ To have confidence in the
Revolution is to trust in the future, in the march of time, of which the New City
has definitely taken possession. Consequently, “‘we must preserve everything,
leaving it to time and to philosophy to purge our libraries, as for the past five
years, the latter has been doing to our laws and morals.’’'* Is this purificatory
time of a desired history not again that of the utopia on the move?
The new calendar lasted only twelve years and the obvious question is
why the reform was not, after all, successful. With recastings of the ‘‘system
of festivals,’’!°° the calendar survived Thermidor and the Concordat, and even
Napoleon’s coronation took place on 18 ventôse of the year XIII. Of course,
with the Empire, it became absurd to count time beginning with year I of the
Republic. But could they not, for example, set yearIin 1789 (after all, Napoleon
kept the celebration of 14 July!), or else, for the purpose at hand, advance it by
 “TIME OPENS A NEW BOOK TO HISTORY...” / 173

twelve years? The principles of the new calendar could also have been kept,
while ‘‘debaptizing”’ (or, rather, ‘‘rebaptizing’’) it, from ‘‘Republican’’ to ‘‘dec-
imal,’’ as was done with ‘‘Republican measurements.’’ The failure of the ‘‘Re-
publican calendar’ is particularly striking when one compares its results with
that of the other reform, of weights and measures. Yet the two ‘‘systems’’ were,
so to speak, twins, and were inspired by the same state of mind. One sometimes
wonders whether the contrast between the two historical destinies was not the
result of the particularly abstract nature of the new calendar. One remembers,
accordingly, that it often led to absurdities. While professing to express ‘‘the
universality of nature,’’ it proposed, for instance, the name fructidor for the
month that, beyond the tropic of Capricorn, was the season of snow. But does
the history of the twin reform not show that all these factors played a minor
role? It is not because we are definitively established in the metric system that,
retrospectively, it seems to us to have been particularly easy to adopt. We must
not forget that it nevertheless took more than a century for it to become imposed
on mentalities in France, that it was adopted in Germany only in 1868, in Russia
in 1918, and only recently in England. W. Kula did an authoritative analysis of
the innumerable difficulties and resistance the establishment of the metric system
encountered—or, rather, its imposition by force. It came from above, imposed
by the government, if not by bayonets. It only took the withdrawal of the French
army from Italy or Flanders for these countries to return to the traditional weights
and measures. In Geneva, the new calendar was adopted before the metric system.
The ‘‘Republican measurements’’ were not at all felt to be less ideologically
charged or less ‘‘abstract’’ than the new calendar.'*! Was the metric system at
least more ‘‘rational’’? This is doubtful, and one wonders what abstract ‘‘ra-
tionality’’ is being referred to. It is useless to stress either the fact that the
continuation of the decimal system does not facilitate the teaching of modern
mathematics in school or the operative advantages of the duodecimal system. It
snows in Alaska during the month of fructidor. But do the inhabitants of the
Congo question the etymology of the words ‘March’? or ‘‘January’’? To what
natural and lived time do these names correspond there and, for that matter,
here?
It is necessary, it seems, to seek the reasons for the failure elsewhere. The
Republican calendar was, certainly, more ‘‘rational’’ than the Gregorian calendar
and it was no less so than the metric system. However, the reform of the calendar
did not satisfy needs analogous to those to which the abolition of the former
measurements responded. Indeed, contrary to the diversity of the weights and
measures, the Christian world utilized a single and, in that sense, universal
calendar (with the exception, of course, of those countries that had kept the
Julian calendar). It is only in this sense that the ‘‘unity’’ and ‘‘universality’’ the
Revolutionary calendar aimed at proved to be ‘‘abstract’’ and more ideologically
charged than was the case with the metric system.
174 / UTOPIA AND THE IDEA OF HISTORY-PROGRESS

The Revolutionary calendar did not suppress the diversity of measurements

of time—it only imposed, by force, an alternative unity to the one that already
existed.'°” Last but not least, this unity that they wanted to destroy was pro-
foundly rooted in sacred time and particularly that of festivals and Sundays. The
reform of weights and measures, on the other hand, did not in any way touch
on religious feelings. The sacralization of time finally won over even economic
imperatives. Let us not, in fact, forget that the new calendar increased the number
of working days, which was particularly opportune at the time of nascent cap-
italism. But this increase was merely illusory—all evidence agrees on the actual
persistence of Sundays as festivals. When it came right down to it, only public
servants applied the Republican commandment of resting on the tenth day.
Whatever the reasons, the new calendar always remained ‘‘Republican.”’
It proved to be less resistant to history, to its march and its inertia, than that
“‘monument of tyranny and superstition’’ against which it had been set up as
another monument, that of victorious reason and liberty, established in time,
but to stay there eternally.
Utopia and Festivals
 cc
e chamber of inventions will be composed of three hundred
members; it will be divided into three sections. . . . The first section will be com-
posed of two hundred civil engineers; the second, of fifty poets or other literary in-
ventors, and the third of twenty-five painters, fifteen sculptors or architects, and
ten musicians. . . . This chamber will present a work that will consist of a pro-
posal for public festivals. These festivals will be of two kinds: the festivals of hope
and the festivals of remembrance. These festivals will be celebrated successively
in the capital, in the principal towns of the departments, and in the principal towns
of the cantons, so that capable orators (who will never be very numerous) can
spread the benefits of their eloquence. In the festivals of hope, the orators will ex-
plain to the populace the works projects that have been decreed by Parliament and
they will stimulate the citizens to work with ardor, making them feel how their lot
will be improved when they have finished these projects. In the festivals dedicated
to remembrance, the orators will take it on themselves to make the populace know
how preferable its position is to that in which its ancestors found themselves.’”!
Institutionalizing creative invention and having festivals invented as a pub-
lic institution—this double enterprise expressed in the above words of Saint-Si-
mon is not specific to the author of the Nouveau christianisme. Indeed, it could be
said that the utopians always had a soft spot for public festivals, celebrations, and
festivities, and rare indeed are the imaginary visions of society that dispense with
representations of great or solemn occasions. On the other hand, utopian visions
are quite frequently found in actual festivals, which spontaneously secrete, so to
speak, utopian aspirations and images that include the idea of the inversion of the
social universe and translate into lived experience the image of an ‘‘upside down
world.’’ The medieval carnival and the ‘‘feast of fools’’ so authoritatively ana-
lyzed by Bakhtine,” the strange bloody carnival of Romans, in 1588, studied by E.

177
178 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

Le Roy Ladurie—all examples among many others in which symbolic rites and
languages express and bring to life in festivals the dreams of a different society. In
Romans, the revolt of the lower classes coincides with the carnival, and the festi-
val is transformed into a ‘‘long series of symbolic demonstrations, a sort of
psychodrama, of tragedy-ballet, whose actors have acted and danced their revolt,
instead of discoursing on it in manifestos.’’ Ladurie reminds us, too, that popular
revolts frequently took on the air of ‘‘great social saturnalia,’’ whose dominant
theme was social otherness imagined as an inversion of the social world, as a per-
mutation, among rich and poor, of ranks, status, spouses.”
The eighteenth century represents a particularly important chapter in the long
history of the relationship between the utopia and festivals. With the ideas of the En-
lightenment and especially with the invention and the practice of Revolutionary festi-
vals, the old affinities were renewed and several particulars of the problem changed.
On the one hand, the narratives of imaginary voyages exploring countries in the uto-
pia abound in images of the occasions and festivals that are celebrated there; on the
other hand, a remarkable phenomenon is observed—the critique of traditional
festivals as well as the search for new forms and expressions of celebration supply
imaginations with new utopian resources. This new reflection on festivals, as they
are and as they ought to be, takes on a utopian orientation. Thus, the utopia of the
festival is formed; the idea-image of the ideal festival becomes a sort of screen on
which are projected the dreams and models of an alternative society. With the in-
stitution of the Revolutionary festivals, the relationship of the festival to the utopian
idea-image becomes even closer and a whole play of interaction is established
between the imaginary and the real. The Revolutionary festival is particularly
permeable to the utopia. It is the privileged place of the renewal and the exercising
of the collective imagination, one of whose pivots is the representation of dreams
and social hopes. Consequently, more than one rite of the Revolutionary festivals
is an imaged transposition of the principles and values of the desired New City.
Moreover, latent utopian aspirations find appropriate modes of expression in the
symbolic languages of the festival. The high point of new sensibilities, the Revo-
lutionary festival is also an arm in a combat in which the overthrow of the relation-
ships of force and domination in the symbolic domain is at stake. The utopia
presented under the specific modes of the festival and amplified by its portrayal,
becomes militant, if not conquering. The utopian representations intervene di-
rectly in the organization of the time and space of the festivals, guiding the imagi-
nation of their organizers. However, if the utopia and the festival are articulated
on each other in Revolutionary festivals, the history of the latter is also evidence
of the oppositions that exist between the two phenomena. The Revolutionary fes-
tival is, like any festival, a universal social event, to use Marcel Mauss’ phrase,
and it can be reduced neither to a set of images nor to a utopian discourse.
We can take up only certain aspects of these complex relationships, using
only a few examples as our basis for study.
 1
Festivals in Utopia and
the Utopia of the Festival

(<4
I know quite well,” said Restif de la Bretonne of his ‘‘proposal
to implement a general reform of morals and thereby of the human race, that
such a project could be accomplished only by the nearly impossible convergence
of all the wills of which a Nation is composed. But at least, like Plato, Thomas
More, and the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, I shall have the satisfaction of having
presented a Novel of virtue and happiness to men. Would that they change my
novel into a veracious history.’’ And yet, he added, it is always useful to ‘‘present
to men as in a magic mirror the image of a felicity which they cannot attain.’’*
Images of festivals could not be absent from these “‘magic mirrors,’’ for a double
reason. First, the detailed images of an alternative society necessarily imply
representations of festivals different from those of reality—counter-festivals, so
to speak, in which the nature of the imaginary City, its religion, its morals, and
its institutions would be expressed.
Second, as we have already remarked, a specific feature of the utopian
enterprise is to imagine individual and collective relationships and behaviors as
so many rites. And the more social life, in its entirety, is thought of and imagined
as ritualized, the more important the festivals become.
Even without his Andrographe, Restif invents several festivals, such as
those of winter and summer, which one spends a week preparing for and which
culminate in communal meals eaten in large buildings built expressly for this
purpose. In his proposal for the Bourg d’Oudan collective farm, Restif gives
detailed prescriptions for festivals. ‘‘Entertainment will be public and therefore
honest.’’ Thus in winter ‘‘the people’s entertainment will be in the large dining
room and in the common barn; the lighting will be provided by the lamps that
are now used in the streets of Paris.’’” Among other festivals, there will be
marriage festivities that will last for three days; and in cases where ‘‘the most

179
180 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

deserving subjects of the two sexes are not mutually chosen, the marriage fes-
tivities will last four.’ These solemn occasions will be preceded by festival-
assemblies of the members of the ideal commune during which ‘‘the girls and
men to be married during the year’’ will be designated. The following day, at
another assembly, the merits of the candidates of both sexes will be examined,
and prizes will be awarded. ‘‘The first prize will be that of morals; combined
with the prize for plowing, it will give the right of choosing a mistress.’’ But
this right ‘‘belongs only—and ought to belong only—to men.’’ On the other
hand, the girl distinguished by the assembly as the most virtuous and the best
worker will have the right ‘‘to organize the girls’ entertainment throughout the
year.’’ At Oudan, Sunday is retained and the mass is celebrated; however, the
priest is charged not only with reading the Bible to his parishioners but, addi-
tionally, with explaining Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle to them. In this happy
communal life, the useful is always, in daily life as well as during festivals,
linked to the agreeable and the good is associated with the beautiful and the
true.”
Morelly, in his Code de la Nature, invents a whole new system of festivals
and celebrations that marks, on the one hand, the rupture with the Christian
tradition and, on the other, expresses the moral and social values that control
the egalitarian City of justice and communal happiness. This new system is
based, first of all, on a new structuring of time, a new calendar. Indeed, in the
City, ‘‘the number ten and its multiples will be the terms of all civic division
of things and persons; that is, all enumerations, all apportionment by classes,
all distributive measurements, etc., will be divisible by ten.’’ So, Sunday is
abolished; every fifth day is given over to public rest and the year is divided
‘‘into sixty-three equal parts’’ (a day of rest is added in leap years). Thus in the
City, where private property is abolished, people work less and rest more; there
are in all around a hundred official holidays. The festivals, like time, are devoid
of any religious significance. Purely civic, these occasions give a rhythm to time
in which work and public life succeed each other. ‘‘Public festivities will always
begin with a day of public rest and last for six days, including that. The festivities
will be celebrated immediately before the beginning of the first toil before the
first day of the harvest, after having gathered and packed the fruits of all kinds
and at the beginning of each year; during the latter festivals, marriages will be
performed, the city and corps leaders of the year will in turn take on the duties
of their offices.”’
In the imaginary voyages, the festivals are recounted with a great abundance
of more or less picturesque details. Among the Sévarambes, who practice the
cult of the Sun, that “‘luminous globe’’ is the object of the great annual festival.
Before the celebration, the fires in all homes are extinguished. At the high point
of the festival, ‘‘they light with the rays of the sun, with burning mirrors,
combustible material that has been placed at one side of a pyre, or firebrand,
 FESTIVALS IN UTOPIA AND THE UTOPIA OF THE FESIVALS / 181

that is made in the temple courtyard. In this way, the fire smoulders for several
hours and then, during the night, it sets the whole pyre ablaze, which creates a
great flame to which everyone comes to light lamps. . . . It is thus that they get
new fire, for the whole year, instead of using that of the preceding year, which
had been extinguished everywhere.’’ The other great annual occasion is that of
Sévarision, which is celebrated in memory of the arrival of Sévarius, the founder
of the city in the austral land. The cult of the Sun is linked to that of the power,
the government. In a ceremony that is as sublime as it is dazzling, the people
and the magistrates thank the Sun for having sent Sévarius to ‘‘draw them forth
from their crass ignorance and make them the happiest nation in the world.”’
The festival lasts for days, which are spent in pure merrymaking, untinged with
anything sad or lugubrious. The same is true of the marriage festival, Ospar-
enibon, which is celebrated four times a year, for a period of five days each. It
is as simple as it is touching and the marriage ceremony is not performed with
more ado for the prince than it is for commoners, with, of course, the sole
exception that the prince himself chooses the woman he wishes to marry, while
the other men, in contrast, are chosen by the women. Let us skip the other
festivals—their abundant details only bear witness to the perfect harmony and
happiness that radiate, like the sun, in this happiest nation in the world.’
We again come across festivals when, following brave M. van Doelvelt,
who, having suffered through the shipwreck that is more or less obligatory in
this sort of voyage, debarks on the isle of Ajao, whose inhabitants make up a
true republic of Philosophes. There are no religious festivals for the Ajaoians
since they do not believe in the existence of a God and yet, “‘without a Divinity,
without the fear of an eternal future . . . the morals there are purer and the laws
better observed than in any other country.’’ There are, however, other ceremonies
and distractions, which are all ‘‘entertaining, restrained, and honest’’ so that
they perfectly express the spirit of this Republic. So every year at the end of
the fourteenth moon the Ajaoian army, composed of married men between
twenty-two and fifty years old, gathers. In a kind of military esplanade, near
Lake Fu in the province of Lamo, these troops pass in review before the highest
magistrates. In this country where mine and thine are unknown, these magistrates,
like all the others, in fact, are elected and thus, during festivals, the people
gather together with their own leaders. Then, ‘‘they celebrate certain military
maneuvers, for which there are honorary prizes. These festivities last for seven
days, after which each new Magistrate assumes the duties to which he has been
elected before leaving the city or the village.’’ Moreover, only men attend these
festivals—the women stay at home and ‘‘clean it during their husbands’ ab-
sence.’’ Our traveler is not in the least shocked at this quite philosophical custom.
What he finds particularly striking is the difference between the Ajaoian cere-
monies associated with the most important moments of the life of the
individual—that is, birth, marriage, and death—and those he knew in Europe.
182 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

Any religious symbolism that could hide the true sense of these events is
absent—everything about them is at once simple and solemn, clear and func-
tional. Take marriage, for instance. In Ajao ‘‘it is ordained, on pain of infamy,
that every young man, having reached the age of twenty, marry.’’ The law is
the more readily respected as it perfectly suits the Ajaoians, among whom,
thanks to a good upbringing, education, and the choice of food, “‘there are none
who are languorous or disabled, or refrigidis et malefactis.’’ So, when a young
man reaches his twentieth year, ‘‘he casts his eyes over the women with whom
he wants to spend the rest of his life,’’ and it is, in fact, women, as each Ajaoian
has two wives. ‘‘This choice is usually made during the days set aside for
diversion and recreation at each new moon.’’ Afterward, when the declaration
has been accepted, the ‘‘novice in love’’ pays his respects to his mistresses in
visiting rooms, which are ‘‘rather similar to the parlors of the nuns in Flanders,
except for the grill. There, a discreet Cupid takes pleasure in shooting all his
arrows into these young and tender hearts.’’ Before the marriage ceremony, the
mother (or rather the respective mothers) presents the girl to her future
husband—she is only dressed in thin gauze so that he can see ‘‘all the beauties
that nature put on the body of her daughter.’’ Let us pass over all the other
details of the nuptial ceremony—it is as completely transparent to the significance
that nature and pure morals give to sexuality as is the gauze that garbs the future
bride.
Nor if one undertakes a voyage in time rather than in space will one miss
festivals. In Paris, in the year 2440, to which we travel with the narrator of
L.-S. Mercier’s book, the old religious festivals are supplanted and there are
only civic festivals ‘which relax the populace without leading them to libertin-
age.’’ The legislator who ‘‘knows the human heart’’ always leads it to virtue
by the path of pleasure, by festivals, feasts, festivities, hymns, and dances.
Therefore this society of the future also celebrates an initiation ceremony that
corresponds to what was formerly the first communion. How moving and in-
structive it is for the initiate as well as for the audience and one might see the
influence of Pascal, but an enlightened if not an expurgated Pascal. A young
man ‘‘surrounded by a zealous crowd,’’ whose movements depict joy, is led
into an observatory in the middle of the night when ‘‘the army of the stars shines
in all its brilliance.’’ There, suddenly, ‘‘a telescope is put to his eye.’’ The
young man ‘‘gazes at the infinite abyss’’ with the greatest emotion and then he
is brought a microscope and thus finds himself in front of the other infinity.
‘The young man, moved, astonished, retains the double impression that he got
at the same instant; he cries with joy . . . his words are but a hymn of admi-
ration. . . . On the days devoted to praise of the Creator, it is an edifying
spectacle to see the numerous adorers of God on our observatory, all fallen to
their knees, their eyes gazing and their spirits given over to prayer, casting their
soul along with their glance toward the maker of these imposing miracles.’’?
 FESTIVALS IN UTOPIA AND THE UTOPIA OF THE FESIVALS / 183

Numerous other examples of holidays, festivals, ceremonies, and solemn

occasions encountered throughout imaginary voyages might be cited. But are
the places to be visited worth the travel? Beyond the diversity of formulas, there
is a common content of ideas and even of images. The festivals everywhere
display the peculiarities of the morals, of the institutions of the dreamt societies;
but they also express the characteristics common to the majority of these
societies—their transparency and their rationality, the perfect alliance between
feelings and reason, as well as between nature and social life. The more ‘‘com-
plete’ the utopia, the more it aspires to encompass all social life and give a
detailed description of it, the more it invents festivals, ceremonies, and solemn
occasions. The idea of happiness that presides over this discourse on perfect
societies easily espouses the images of the festivals that are to be manifestations
of it. In this specific case, the general tendency characteristic of the evolution
of utopian discourse in the eighteenth century is once again confirmed. The
formula of the imaginary voyage is becoming more and more hackneyed because
of its rigidity, its paradigmatic fixity. It is a facile, perhaps too facile, genre—
which explains its dangers: the repetition, imitation, the absence of individuality,
and monotony that mark the majority of these texts, despite the apparent diversity
in the accumulation of picturesque details.
The repetition is due, too, to the fact that the majority of these texts do
not particularly attempt to break new ground, but content themselves with re-
turning to, and adopting as their own, the criticism of traditional festivals made
by the philosophes. In fact, the majority of the descriptions of festivals in utopias
only translate into more or less vivid pictures, the conclusions imposed by that
criticism.
The eighteenth century, or, rather, the culture of the elites of that century,
had a passion for celebration. The image of this century fabricated by a certain
historical tradition forged of this century is well known—joyous, frivolous, and
carefree; it is futile to stress its falsity. Nevertheless, in reaction against the
cliché, this aspect of the ‘‘enlightened century’’ has sometimes been neglected,
and it is forgotten that the taste for amusement, distraction, and diversion, is an
integral part of the culture of the Enlightenment. We shall return to this question
below; suffice it to note here that, although diversions are frequently superficial
and frivolous, the passion for play in which one flees or goes beyond overly
rigid mores or overly pious and constrictive morality is, itself, completely serious.
Does the taste of the enlightened public for imaginary voyages not show, in its
own way, the same need? They are tired of the ceremonial festivals of the Court,
as pompous as they are boring. They are seeking out, and experimenting with,
new diversions, fétes pastorales and fétes champétres, for instance. But these
‘‘fêtes ” are also the object of an ideological battle that the philosophes are
undertaking on several levels. So, traditional religious festivals are criticized.
They are so numerous, they only incite the populace to idleness; so full of
184 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS
)

prejudice, they impress the crowds with their pomp and obscure symbolism. For
the same reasons, the philosophical criticism distrusts popular festivals in which,
only too often, all that can be seen is superstition and excess. To the life of
idleness, whose symbol is the life of festivals, they oppose the life of labor and
virtue of the honnéte homme. Consequently, they think of new ceremonies which
would be suitable to an enlightened or even natural religion and which would
reward virtue and work—festivals that are so exemplary, restrained, and mor-
alizing that one wonders what was truly festive about them. !°
The renewal of the social imagination does not come so much from the
festivals in the utopia as it does from the utopia of the festival, from the explo-
ration of the potentialities of the festival as a social phenomenon. In fact, the
festival lends itself particularly well to use as a “‘magic mirror’ which reflects
the social life that is dreamed of and imagined. In the same fashion as the utopia,
the festival is a quasi-island, with its own space and time that take it beyond
daily life. A universal social event with many levels and dimensions, among
which the degrees of coherence are variable, the festival groups participants in
a quasi-autonomous totality. The play of its languages and rites results in the
association of the social values and models present in the festival with the
individual and collective behaviors, with the arrangement of the participants in
time and space and to the allocation of their respective roles. In relation to the
‘‘everyday,”’ the festival is established as a social ‘‘elsewhere,’’ a heterotopia."'
Its time and space exist in conjunction with the imaginary—in the festival they
are not lived in their positivity, but with all the partialities of the imagination. '”
In order for the festival to offer archetypes to the utopia, it must be
considered a model of sociability—then the new formulas of the festival opposed
to those that already exist become prefigurations of a whole alternative society,
dreamed of if not desired, imagined if not thought out.
It would take too long to examine how the discourse on festivals in the
eighteenth century was enriched by utopian elements and how the images of the
festival become receptacles for utopian ideas. Let us merely refer to two examples
of this undertaking to “‘utopianize’’ the festival.
The first to command attention is, naturally, Rousseau’s. Let us merely
add some remarks on the utopia of the festival and its educational use to what
we have already said in the chapter devoted to Rousseau. What he passed on to
the succeeding generation was, on the one hand, the model of the ideal festival
and nostalgia for such a festival. But, on the other hand, it was also a complete
philosophy of the festival if not a theory of its specifically political application,
particularly in a system of public education. That generation will enter into the
Revolution armed with both that model and that theory and will apply both of
them to the conceptualizing of the experiments of new forms of festive activity.
As we shall see, the Rousseauistic formulas become constant references, if not
commonplaces, during the Revolutionary period.
 FESTIVALS IN UTOPIA AND THE UTOPIA OF THE FESIVALS / 185

Rousseau was particularly sensitive to the utopian potentialities of the

festival, and references to the latter are ever-present in his work. Consequently,
we find the image of the ‘‘primitive’’ festival celebration in the second Discours
and in the Essai sur les origines des langues; in the Nouvelle Héloise we find the
famous harvest festival, the ‘‘magic mirror’’ of the ideal society of Clarens;
the Lettre a d’Alembert offers us the idealized image of the popular festival on
the place de Saint-Gervais in Geneva, as well as a theoretical reflection on the
festival, taken up again and further developed, as we have noted, in Consi-
dérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne. Rousseau gets the most he can out
of the assimilation of the festival to a model of universal society. In other words,
for him, not every festival is possible in every society and each society invents
and gives itself those it deserves. The ideal one can only be spontaneity and
transparency, communion and open manifestation of joy. His formula is summed
up in the lines of the Lettre a d’Alembert, which were so frequently taken up
and harped on in Revolutionary discourse on the subject. ‘‘Is no entertainment,
then, necessary in a Republic? On the contrary, many spectacles are necessary.
It is in Republics that they are born, it is within them that they are seen to shine
with a true air of celebration. To what peoples is it more suitable to assemble
frequently and to form among themselves the pleasant ties of pleasure and joy,
than to those who have so many reasons to love one another and to remain
forever united? . . . Let us not adopt those exclusive entertainments that re-
grettably shut up a small number of people in an obscure den; that keep them
fearful and inactive in silence and inaction; that offer to the eyes only barriers,
swords’ points, soldiers, distressing images of servitude and inequality. No,
happy people, those are not your festivals! It is outdoors, under the sky that you
must assemble and give yourself up to the pleasant feeling of your happiness.
May your pleasures be neither effeminate nor mercenary; let nothing that smacks
of constraint and self-interest taint them; may they be as free and generous as
you; may the sun shine on your innocent spectacles; you will form one yourself,
the most worthy it could shine on. But what will be the objects of these spectacles?
What will be shown? Nothing, if you like. With liberty, everywhere crowds
prevail, well-being also prevails. Plant a post crowned with flowers in the middle
of a plaza, assemble the people there and you will have a festival. Do something
even better: present the spectators as a spectacle; make them the actors them-
selves; have each see himself and love himself in the others, so that they may
all be the more united because of it.’’!?
It is useless to emphasize the series of oppositions that structure this text:
open space/closed space; transparency/obscurity; liberty/constraint; spontaneity/
passivity; communion/division. These oppositions demand two types of spec-
tacle, but also two types of society that correspond to these spectacles and produce
them. Is the final formula on the transformation of spectators into actors who
collectively present themselves as a spectacle not a metaphorical transposition,
186 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

on the mode of a festal rite, of the fundamental act of the social contract that
transforms isolated individuals into a sovereign people ruling over its own des-
tiny? And does the assembly of the people gathered in the plaza, under the shade
of an old oak, and unanimously deciding on the laws it wishes to make for itself,
in the Contrat social, not recall the image of the people gathered in celebration?
The model of the ideal festival goes hand in hand with a sociological and
political theory of the festival. In fact, the festival can become a means of polit-
ical and ideological action and Rousseau insists on the fact that every “‘true
politician’’ knows the effects of festivals on souls and, particularly, on the
imagination. The ideal festival establishes in the imagination the values of which
it makes a spectacle in its rites and in its symbolic language. The spectacle of
the festival is normative: everything in it is at once real and symbolic, every
image is a lesson, every tableau a narrative. Each of its signs and each of its
gestures evokes something besides itself, namely a collective reality, an affective
élan toward liberty and the fatherland. As we have noted, in Considérations,
the civic festivals, while contrasting with the theatrical spectacle by their spirit,
mark the whole of public life with a certain theatricalization. Each citizen is, at
least potentially, an actor and plays his role in this spectacle which has the City
as both object and setting.
The festival, of course, reflects the people, but as though in a magic mirror.
There is always a gap between the realities of daily life and the imaged repre-
sentation that the people gathered in the festival make of themselves and give
to themselves. This could be said to be a significant gap—the populace gives
itself, in and by the festival, a model of itself. Of course, it it the populace that
speaks to itself in the festival. But does the skillful educator not owe it to himself
to exploit this gap and to turn the workings of the festival to good account by
a hidden organization, dissimulated behind spontaneity and transparency? (We
must not forget, for that matter, that an organizer is never absent from the
narratives in which Rousseau recounts the spontaneous festival. He hides behind
the words of the narrator who, by his discourse, arranges the festival as a tableau
vivant and offers it as such to our gaze.) The festival can become a powerful
means by which uniform and common impressions are transmitted to all partic-
ipants. Thanks to the play of symbols, the festival is a rite of unanimity and
fraternity which results in souls merging together in a common enthusiasm.
These “‘souls’’ thus rise above themselves and, thanks to the imagination which
is guided if not controlled, enlarge the realm of the possible in politics. Thus
we see the educational effect of the festival and the major role incumbent on it
in any system of public education. The spectators are not merely transformed
into actors, but exercise an educational activity on themselves. Here may be
seen the double social function of the festival: it is stabilizing because it repro-
duces and amplifies the fundamental values on which the social order rests (this
function particularly marks the festival at Clarens); but it is also mobilizing,
 FESTIVALS IN UTOPIA AND THE UTOPIA OF THE FESIVALS / 187

stirring people to action because it awakens and orients energies (this is the use
that Rousseau recommends in Considérations). Not only are we given the utopia
and a theory of festival, but also methodical rules of an action to be exercised
on ‘‘souls’’ in order to make them assimilate certain political ideas and certain
models of behavior, or, to state it briefly and to take the risk of using an
anachronism—a rough sketch of a theory of propaganda, which the politicians
and ideologues of the Revolution, rereading Rousseau, will not be slow to
discover, and they will plant more than one picket to get the festival under way.'*
Let us go on to the other of our examples, that of Boullée, the great
visionary architect. We will devote a whole chapter to his work, to his unfulfilled
architectural dreams, to the search for a social order that would take them on.
In his work, the utopia is associated with a specific language, namely that of a
monumental architecture, or rather this visionary architecture has reference to
the ideas and images of social otherness as a prerequisite condition. It could be
said that Boullée’s visions call for a social order or at least an ideal power that
would be susceptible to self-recognition in this architecture. And we find in
Boullée a variation of the utopia of the festival conceived as a model of sociability
and as a means of civic education. Certain convergences with Rousseau’s idea
are quite striking, as a matter of fact. Rousseau does not speak of the architectural
settings in which the civic festivals he dreams of in Considérations are to take
place. But, if one had to imagine it, one would inevitably think of the new
formulas for great arenas like those of antiquity, whose simple and sober style
would correspond to the noble sentiments of the people who would come there
to enjoy themselves. It could be said that Boullée’s course is backward. The
architect imagines a gigantic arena, a new Coliseum that could hold more than
three hundred thousand. This colossal monument to which we will return below
is only functional on the condition of becoming the setting, the framework, the
architectural formula of a type of festival different from the traditional royal
festival. Consequently, the architectural dream espouses the utopia of the ideal
festival, which curiously merges with the one of which Rousseau had dreamed.
“It is not always by fear of punishment that men are held back or suc-
cessfully turned away from doing evil; it is also by offering them a powerful
attraction that dissuades them from evil. What might this attraction be? National
pleasures. Yes, national pleasures. Everything that is offered to our senses is
referred to our soul. It is a principle according to which the spectacles of a nation
should be managed and, if this were to be the case, it would doubtless be a great
means of forming and maintaining good morals. The legislators of antiquity
recognized and made use of this great resource. It is in this political and moral
view that the Greeks and Romans instituted their festivals. . . . The proposal
for a circus presented here is conceived to fulfill moral and political views. . . .
Imagine three hundred thousand people gathered as in an amphitheatre, where
no one can escape the gaze of the multitude. A unique effect would result from
188 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

that order of things: that is that the beauty of that astonishing spectacle would
come from the spectators, of whom it would be solely composed.”’ 5
The coincidence of Boullée’s ideas and those of Rousseau is striking and
all the more remarkable as the architect does not have reference to the author
of the Lettre à d’Alembert. Based on his evidence, he himself had conceived
these ‘‘patriotic views,’’ and it was only afterward that he learned that the same
ideas were to be found in a scholarly report on Les jeux du cirque considérés
dans les vues politiques de Romains, a report written by Abbé Brottier, an erudite
antiquary. Who influenced whom matters little, however —hypotheses about
‘*influences’’ conceal more than they explain. The problem that presents itself
in any case is to know how it happens that one comes to be influenced by one
idea rather than another. What is particularly striking in the examples given is
the convergence among art, politics, and the utopia, which merge in the search
for a new formula of celebration of the festival which would be the place where
the new man is formed, thanks to the renewal of the collective imagination.
‘‘Let the general plan of the legislator encompass the great project of bringing
the populace to obedience toward the laws and the practice of social virtues
through the agency of the fine arts,’’ said Diderot, thinking of festivities; as
well, ‘‘one will quickly see all the forces of genius being deployed to fulfill this
great aim; one can expect to see the rebirth of masterpieces and of masterpieces
that, in all likelihood, will be superior to those of antiquity.’’'® Let us note,
finally, that the search for new formulas of the festival is based on a certain idea
of language, namely of a language susceptible to perfectly translating ideas and
moral values into appropriate signs. These signs will then be linked in a meta-
phorical discourse which, to use Paul Ricceur’s apt formula, would join the sense
to the senses.'’ Art and politics thus converge along with the utopia in the search
for a lucid symbolism capable of molding souls.
When the Revolution felt the need for new forms of festivals, celebrations
opposed to those of the Ancien Régime, of festivals that would make the great
promises of the New City live collectively, it did not have far to seek: in the
utopia of the festival it found ready-made models.
 2
Utopia in the Revolutionary
Festival

cc
oes there exist,’ Rabaut de Saint-Etienne asks himself in
December 1792, ‘‘an infallible means of communicating without delay, within
a short time, to all the French at the same time, uniform and common impressions,
whose effect would be to make them, all together, worthy of the Revolution; of
liberty, that right of justice which is frequently converted into iniquity; of equal-
ity, that fraternal tie which is so easily changed to tyranny; and of that simple
and noble elevation of heart and soul to which the human race has been brought
for the past four years, in the mortal combat that has been undertaken between
all truths and all errors? This means undoubtedly exists; it consists of the great
and common institutions so well known to the ancients, who were able to arrange
that on the same day, at the same instant, everyone got the same impressions
through their senses, their imagination, their memory, through reasoning and
through all the faculties of man, and through that enthusiasm that could be called
the magic of reason. . . . One must distinguish between public education and
national education, or civics. Public education enlightens and exercises the mind,
while civics must form hearts. Public education requires schools, high schools,
academies, calculations, methods; it is enclosed within walls. Civics calls for
arenas, circuses, gymnasiums, arms, public games, national festivals, fraternal
competition among all ages and sexes, and the pleasant spectacle of the assembled
society; it calls for space, the spectacle of the fields and of nature.’’'®
Rabaut de Saint-Etienne’s exposition is a good example of a double utopia
that inspired Revolutionary discourse on civic festivals, namely that of an ideal
festival as well as that of the New City and of the people who are worthy of it.
In fact, in this discourse, we again find the idea-image of an ideal festival that
encompasses all of man and all men; it is the scene of complicity between the
natural and the social, just as it develops in a time and space that are projected

189
190 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

toward the utopia. On the other hand, this vision of the civic festival rests on
an ideal representation of a people united by the ties of fraternity and equality,
whose enthusiasm is considered a source of permanent receptiveness. The ideal
festival and its organization are then merely the expression of the spirit of this
people, the scene where the spirit catches its breath. The people, when it is
equal to what it ought to be, never produces conflicts, contradictions, false
appearances; consequently the festival can only be transparency and harmony.
The dream of the festival is possible only on the condition that it be celebrated
by a dreamed people and the ideas on the educational functions of the civic
festival are a link between the two utopias. Thus, within the Revolutionary
discourse on the festival, a play of mirrors is established between the images of
a model festival and the model of sociability that the latter implies. (We shall
find this again, not only in proposals for festivals, but also in the accounts of
the progress of real festivals.) The present is explained and reveals its significance
for the future that the festival allows to be already imagined and felt. ‘“The
imposing and pleasant spectacle of assembled humanity,’’ the festival is at once
reality and anticipation—what has been momentarily lived in it is the harbinger
of a transtemporal state, of a Revolution that will definitively take place ‘‘in
heads and hearts, as it has taken place in conditions and in the government.’’!?
The pedagogical intention of the festival is considered only the expression of
the people’s will to have what is and what ought to be coincide, the real and
the possible, the individual and the social. Manifesting this will already prefigures
that ‘‘new people whose morals are in harmony with the laws,’’ and that joins
‘‘to the happy enthusiasm that characterizes it, equality and above all fraternity,
that nice, pleasant feeling, the first law, the unique happiness of society.’’?°
The Rousseauistic inspiration of this double utopia is obvious. Rousseau’s
ideas on festivals are assimilated to the point that they become so many com-
monplaces and clichés in reflections on civic festivals as well as in the arrange-
ment of the decor of actual festivals. It would, however, be distorting the utopia
of the Revolutionary festival to consider it only an extension of an ordinary
ideological discourse, even of Rousseau’s. The search for formulas of new
festivals as well as the significance that ought to be given them was sustained
above all by the lived actual experience of the first Revolutionary festivals.
The festival is itself an aspect of the Revolutionary phenomenon and it
expresses an essential dimension of the formation of Revolutionary affectivity.
The affinities among the Revolution, the utopia, and the festival are intertwined
in the very depth of the lived experience of a great Revolutionary day. Experience
that is necessarily collective—one does not enter into the Revolution all alone:
one lives it with some and against others, in the human warmth of a crowd in
the process of discovering itself as a collective reality, in an experience rich in
intense emotion, which generates dreams and hopes that mark the scope of
collective expectations. The individual feels himself sustained and transformed
 UTOPIA IN THE REVOLUTIONARY FESTIVAL / 191

by collective emotions and forces beyond him; the time lived seems to immobilize
itself or rather eternalize itself in this unique moment when the beginning and
completion seem but one. ‘‘The Revolution is for many this sensation at once
brutal, vague, and exhilarating, that it’s all up with the old traditional social
restraints: the new world to be built also goes through the renunciation of the
old world, in everyday details. Whence the atmosphere of a permanent festival
that every Revolution exudes, at least at its beginning.’’*!
It is not a question of confusing the Revolution with its festivals, and still
less of confusing the festival with the Revolution. Nevertheless, the interplay
of a whole network of correspondences, of formal and symbolic relationships,
makes it possible to relate them to one another. The aspiration to the exceptional
affective climate of a ‘‘topsy-turvy world’’ which would be the beginning of a
new social universe is a component of the Revolutionary myth. How remarkable
it is, as a matter of fact, that in the time under study a certain mythology of the
festival is sustained at the same time by the denial of a social system felt to be
oppressive and the desire to prefigure in the festival a collective affectivity and
sociability suitable to the universal action of social regeneration which is so slow
in coming.??
In 1789, festivals were not invented according to preconceived formulas
but, rather, were formed starting with gatherings of people who moved into an
unaccustomed social space and took possession of it, who lived the positivity
and hopes of the moment. The collective presence then transformed itself into
a richly promising symbolic spectacle, turned toward the future. It could be said
that the preliminary sketch for a Revolutionary festival preceded the first great
Revolutionary day. On the eve of the opening of the Etats Généraux, 4 May,
an immense crowd gathered in Versailles to attend the ceremony. ‘‘Beginning
in the morning, the people were in the streets. Windows, rented at an exorbitant
price, were filled with a crowd of the curious, who had rushed there from all
over.’’ The ceremony, the splendor, the decor are all those of a Régime that
will not take long to become the ‘‘ci-devant,’’ the former, the Ancien Régime.
Mass is celebrated with Veni Creator, the king arrives in a ceremonial car
preceded by the heralds dressed in their coats of violet velvet strewn with gold
fleurs-de-lis, equerries, page boys on horseback, and so forth. The intentional
aspect of the festival was emphasized primarily by setting up the spectacle of a
social hierarchy. Different dress had been imposed on the députés from each
state. The Third Estate was dressed in jackets and trousers of black wool, with
a short coat of silk and cloth and a muslin tie; the nobles, in contrast, were
wearing outfits adorned with gold and hats with white plumes. Public opinion
immediately described this symbolism as “‘gothic’’ and, what is more, a large
number of the spectators made no effort to hide their hostility toward it. More-
over, the entire mode of presence of the populace no longer content with admiring
the splendor and the decor and with being part of it, and actively showing its
192 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

preferences and its reservations, gives a new tone to the festival and rapidly
takes on symbolic value. Or rather, this active presence bears witness to a
mentality in search of a new symbolism that would increase the value of the
events experienced. How many symbolic gestures—a whole war of symbols, it
could be said—between this festival on 4 May and the day when the positivity
of an event—a badly defended fortress and the crowd that attacks it—is inscribed
in a context that makes it the sign of something other than itself, the symbol of
the beginning of a new epoch. In this context the image of the seizure of the
Bastille had to become the object of an attention and discourse that sought to
give a synthesizing sense to the succession of events, and this sense had nec-
essarily to be projected toward the future in order to serve as explanation to the
present. The day of 14 July ended more in fear and uncertainty than in joy. But
three days later there was the festival. ‘‘Imagine,’’ a young député of the Third
Estate, who was little noticed at the time, writes to a friend, ‘‘a king in whose
name the entire capital and the entire nation were made to tremble on the
preceding day, crossing in the space of two leagues, with the representatives of
the nation, an army of citizens drawn up in three lines, among whom he can
recognize his soldiers, hearing the cry of Vive la Nation, Vive la Liberté, on all
sides, a cry that struck his ears for the first time. The immensity of the citizens
who seemed massed on all sides, who covered houses, hills, the very trees that
were along the route. . . . I saw monks wearing the cockade that the inhabitants
of the capital sported. . . . Those women who decorated the windows of high,
magnificent buildings and whom we met along the way and whose applause and
whose patriotic transports added so much sweetness to this national festival.”
However, this royal visit to Paris on 17 July, whose exceptional character
had so impressed the young député from Arras, had been planned according to
the old formula. How characteristic it is, indeed, that to prepare for the entry
of the king into Paris, the authorities of the city and Bailly in particular, feverishly
sought out descriptions of the entry of Henri IV. The ceremonial—the greeting
of the king at the gates of the city, the handing over of the keys, the solemn
mass, the traversing of the city—had only to imitate the latter. But the old rites
and gestures had become invested with new meanings—and new symbols, in
particular the cockade, prevailed. But above all, it is the casting of roles that
changes with this omnipresent crowd, that raises cries and slogans by which it
affirms its new identity and proclaims itself a Nation. The royal entry finds itself
transformed into a ‘‘national festival.’’”*
Thus, in the autumn of 1789, we witness the ‘‘spontaneous generation of
festivals and, toward the summer of 1790 when preparations are under way for
the Féte de la Fédération, a great portion of the ritual of the new festival is
invented.’’*° The federations played the determining role, as is known, in this
collective invention. The old ritual is mixed with the new: before the altars of
the country, masses are celebrated, but so, too, are the first civic baptisms, the
 UTOPIA IN THE REVOLUTIONARY FESTIVAL / 193

old flags are dominated by the new, and above all by those of the National
Guard. The festivals are only offered to the populace. The notables and the
national guards are placed at the center of the festival whose social character,
especially during the autumn of 1789, is rather ambiguous. It must not be
forgotten that at the same time the ‘‘great fear’’ is spreading, culminating some-
times in ‘‘wild celebrations’’ reproducing the secular rites of the peasant revolts.
In this context more than one local festival of the federation took on the air of
a counterfestival of order opposed to anarchy.
Nevertheless, the enormous impression made by the federations, the first
Revolutionary festivals, and the enthusiasm they arouse is incontestable. The
attendance is as large as it is spontaneous. The popular crowd adheres to the
festival; it succeeds more or less, depending on the case, in diminishing the gap
between itself and the national guardsmen and giving the formalities of great
occasions the air of popular festivals. The festivals are organized around new
symbols which are inseparable from them and with which they familiarize the
masses. The festival thus becomes the “‘high and rather privileged point of a
diffuse sensitivity that imbues all of daily life.’’”°
This sensitivity that had a multitude of nuances and degrees of clarity and
intensity is extremely rich in utopian potentialities, in social dreams and hopes
nourished in the lived experience of the crisis of an entire system, a crisis in its
values and its structures, its social hierarchies and its prohibitions. A. Mathiez,
from his own perspective that magnified the religious, if not messianic, com-
ponents of Revolutionary mentalities, brought out quite well the place that fell
to the utopia in the field of expectations with which the Revolutionary experience
was surrounded: ‘‘It is patriotism, the messianic expectation of Regeneration
that inspires souls in 1789, the conviction that the Constitution will make all
iniquities disappear not only from French soil, but from the face of the earth,
absolute confidence in the omnipotence of human Reason, profound belief in
indefinite progress, the imminent vision of a golden age, placed in the future
and no longer in the past. . .. By Country was meant not a dead entity, a
colorless abstraction, but a real and durable eternity, a mutual desire for the
public good, the voluntary sacrifice of private interest to the general interest,
the renunciation of all provincial, local, personal privileges . . . . The liberty
of which one proclaims oneself the ‘idolater’ is not a sterile, neuter, indifferent
liberty, but it is the faculty to realize the profoundly unitarian political ideal,
the means of building the future harmonious and fraternal City.’’*’ The rites
and ceremonies of the festivals lent themselves particularly well, if not to em-
bodying, at least to presenting the image of what the sought-for triumph of liberty
and virtue, of equality and the nation, of fraternity and happiness could be.
The ‘‘spontaneous generation’’ of festivals gave birth, on the one hand,
to utopias of the festival and, on the other hand, revealed to the politicians and
ideologues the power that symbols and ceremonies exercise over souls. The
194 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

spectacle of the first festivals strikes the imagination of artists as much as that
of politicians. For the former—for a David, a Chénier, a Gossec, a Quatre-
mére—what a unique opportunity to realize the dream of a pathetic and mon-
umental art, which would express intense emotions and form hearts and minds!
The very absence of material means—time and money—stimulates the imagi-
nation and orients proposals for festivals and settings toward the utopian. In fact,
it was easier to rapidly give substance to dreams of a monumental art using
cardboard and plaster than it was to construct from stone and sculpt in marble
(all the more so, as a technique for the construction of such décors was
available—it had, in fact, been established and perfected by the Menus Plaisirs
for the great royal festivals). The contradictory constraints—to go quickly while
striving for the monumental and the colossal—came, as a matter of fact, from
the political evolution: the more events accelerated, the more changes accu-
mulated, the more they wanted to situate them not in the provisional and relative,
but in the durable, if not in the eternal and absolute.
Thus we have not only visions of festivals, but also theories and ideologies
of festivals. In fact, it was rapidly realized, particularly after the enormous
success of the Féte de la Fédération and it political exploitation by La Fayette,
that festivals not only translate a real need to express a new sensibility, but that
they are also a particularly effective instrument for influencing and orienting it,
for impressing crowds, if not for manipulating them.
Mirabeau was the first, it seems, who with his habitual political intuition
insisted on the novelty of the problem and launched the key formula: ‘‘seize the
imagination!’’ He based it on a whole applied politico-philosophical anthropol-
ogy. Man, as a sensitive being, is guided much less by ‘‘general principles that
necessitate meditation to be grasped in all their aspects, than by imposing objects,
striking images, great spectacles, profound emotions.’’ Theoreticians have not
taken this ‘‘very important’’ consideration, ‘‘so fertile in practical truths’’ suf-
ficiently into account in ‘‘making their calculations on the progress of enlight-
enment and on the rapid and certain effects they supposed them to have.’’ And
it is not sufficient to ‘‘show man the truth; the capital point is to inspire him
with a passion for it; serving him in basic necessities is little, if one does not
take over his imagination.”’ If this ‘‘new consideration’’ is rigorously applicable
to individuals, it is even more so ‘‘to nations taken collectively.’’ Good orga-
nization of national festivals is the most important and most effective means of
*‘fulfilling this political and moral objective.’’ Public education, as distinguished
from schooling which is limited to dispensing knowledge, has as its prime object
the guiding of the imagination and necessarily includes festivals. The example
Mirabeau evokes in support of this is the Fête de la Fédération.
Rousseau’s themes and formulas on the imagination and its political func-
tions are readily recognizable here but, as we have said, at the time they had
become clichés. On the other hand, it is striking that beyond an abstract discourse
 UTOPIA IN THE REVOLUTIONARY FESTIVAL / 195

are found specific, if not technical, problems of the ‘‘good organization of

festivals.’’ These are sometimes formulated in quasi-technological language, as,
for instance, in this formidable formula of Cloots, who is wondering about the
opportuneness ‘‘of guaranteeing the Republic exclusive trade in the raw materials
with which public opinion is formed.’’*? Festivals could be said to be compared
to a factory that ‘‘fabricates public opinion’’ with that ‘‘raw material’’ that
consists of the images of the dreamed City.
If there is a contradiction between this ‘‘technological’’ attitude toward
the festival and the utopia of the festival, there is complementarity as well. All
things considered, both translate the same practice. The ‘‘spontaneous genera-
tion’’ of the festival was not possible without the objects of social dreams, of
that fraternal and harmonious City toward which all hopes are borne, being put
into images. But the practice of the festival is also that of its organization and,
hence, of the training of its organizers. The more the festivals multiplied and
the broader their scope became, assembling hundreds and even thousands of
people, the more they required preliminary scenarios and the elaboration of
certain techniques for carrying them out. The festivals set up as “‘national,’’ as
an institution of public education, implied an organization on a countrywide
scale and, hence, the activity of the supreme organizer which could only be the
government. The utopia and bureaucratic technology combine with and hide
behind each other in the ideological discourse that seeks to conciliate the different
aspects of the festival, to justify the multiple roles and functions imposed on it,
to define their finality and above all to insure the passage from isolated, more
or less improvised festivals to a ‘‘system of national festivals.”’
‘‘Assemble men, you will make them better; for men gathered together
will strive to please one another, and they will only be able to do so by the
things that make them estimable. Give a moral and political purpose to their
gathering, and the love of honest things will enter their hearts with the pleasure;
for men do not see one another without pleasure. Man is the greatest object that
exists in nature; and the most magnificent of all spectacles is that of a great
people assembled. . . . A system of national festivals of course would be at once
the sweetest fraternal tie and the most powerful means of regeneration. Have
general and more solemn festivals for the Republic as a whole; have individual
festivals for every place, which are days of rest and which replace what circum-
stances have destroyed. Let all aim at reawakening the generous and noble
feelings which are the charm. and the ornament of human life, enthusiasm for
liberty, love of country, respect for law. Let them draw their interest and their
name from the immortal events of our Revolution and from the most sacred
objects, dearest to the heart of man; let them be embellished and distinguished
by emblems analogous to their particular object.’’ The orientation of all this
‘‘system of festivals’? toward the utopia is explicit: according to Robespierre, it
is a question of implementing the indispensable means for ‘‘successfully bringing
196 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

about the masterpiece of society,’’ the formation of the “‘new man.’’°° The
Rousseauistic themes and formulas (which are once again evident), to which
Robespierre was particularly sensitive, allowed him to rethink the historical
experience of the Revolutionary festival and to associate the utopia of the festival
to the social utopia and both of them to the power, the government. In fact,
does this discourse, which is as sentimental as it is grandiloquent, not have as
its second, and barely concealed, object, the government, the supreme organizer
of this ‘‘system’’?
The change from sporadic festivals that responded only to the needs of the
moment to a ‘‘system of festivals’’ was essential for ideological reasons as well
as because of political constraints, which were, in any case, inseparable from
them. The “‘system’’ is considered an integral and most essential part of the
education in civics that they wanted to establish most rapidly. For some, it was
only to consolidate what had been gained by the Revolution; others saw it as a
means of insuring the continued progress of the Revolution, its march toward
its final aim, the City of social happiness, ‘‘a new idea in Europe.’’ The religious
conflict and the progress of dechristianization made a new system of festivals
an urgent imperative. Indeed, more and more, the national festivals took on the
significance of counterfestivals in relationship to Catholic ritual. With the intro-
duction of the Republican calendar, they could not wait any longer. As we have
seen, under the pressure of the moment, a ‘‘system’’ was improvised, in great
haste, expressing the meanings with which it was desired to charge the restruc-
tured time. This system, which was intended to be definitive, was but the first.
After Thermidor, they did not delay in getting rid of its utopianism, which had
become more and more bothersome, the festival of all those ‘‘sansculottides,’’
the remembrance of events they would like to have forgotten.
We cannot evoke the entire ideological debate dealing with festivals, nor
can we examine the innumerable proposals that accompanied the birth of the
“‘system of festivals.’’ Let us point out only two common elements. First of all,
the proposals have a share in the mythology of the festival and reproduce it.
Because they have lived the exhilarating experience of the first festivals, because
they have repeated with such energy and grandiloquence the accounts of ideal
festivals, the ideologues and politicians have come to believe in the limitless
possibilities of ‘‘taking over the imagination’’ with the aid of festivals, and have
come to believe, too, in the infinite possibilities of fabricating them, of pre-
scribing and organizing enthusiasm and the imaginary. It is, then, striking to
note that in these proposals the imagination is curiously married to the bureau-
cratic and systematic spirit. The proposals aim to establish a system of festivals
defined in the text of a law, divided into articles and paragraphs. They thus take
the form of a discourse at once administrative and taxonomic on the values and
norms that are already to command the imagination and, hence, social life in
its entirety. Thus, they do not tire of inventing festivals. Everywhere, certainly,
 UTOPIA IN THE REVOLUTIONARY FESTIVAL / 197

are to be those of liberty, of equality, or even those that are to commemorate

the great events of the Revolution. But why not a festival of visible nature? Why
not those of man’s companion animals, of printing, of the fraternity of mankind,
of the improvement of the language? Or even a festival of misfortune when
“*misfortune and unhappiness will be honored, the misfortune which humanity
cannot entirely banish from the earth, but which it relieves and solaces with
respect?”’ A festival of Love? Or even of Justice and Good Fortune???
 3
From the Broad Fresco to the
Autopsy Report

Corian intentions and representations intervene in the discourse

on the festival—proposals, theories, systems—but also, and above all, in the
very practice of the festival.
Between the utopia of the festival and the real festivals, there are both
convergences and conflicts. Real festivals are fashioned after models of the ideal
festival but, on the other hand, the scenarios and, to a greater extent, their
realization, had necessarily to be adapted to the constraints of time and space
in which the real festival was taking place. The space of the revolutionary festivals
is commanded by the vision of a space that is, so to speak, doubly transparent.
It could be marked by no significance contrary to that lent it by the festival; it
could never be an obstacle to the sight of the actor-spectators who were supposed
to have the festival, both in its entirety and its individual elements, permanently
before their eyes. In reality, this vision battles against insurmountable difficulties.
In the large cities, it comes up against obstacles of the historic city—its space
is already charged with meanings, marked by the monuments and the history
they evoke, in flagrant contradiction with the regenerative message of the festival.
The streets and broad, straight avenues are lacking, the plazas are too small for
enormous crowds. In small towns, how can the space be found to create a setting
worthy of the festival? The calm sky, a frequently dilapidated altar of the country,
a tree of liberty in no way resembling an ‘‘old majestic oak,’’ both set up in the
middle of a village square, only worked well in rhetorical discourse.°?
Similar contradictions and tensions are found on other levels. Thus, in the
utopia of the festival, nature is not presented as a benevolent mother looking
out for the happiness of her children, but is only the setting or even a sacred
witness. The time for the festival could only be permanently fine weather—only
the space of a blue (or starry) sky, under a soft and caressing sun. Yet, as is
198
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 199

well known, on the day of the Féte de la Fédération, it rained terribly. While
situating itself in historical time, the utopia of the festival assumes it only by
sublimating it in symbols and in a ceremonial that tended specifically to suppress
all uncertainty in the celebrated event, and to situate it in a universal and timeless
order of values. Even death exists in the utopia of the festival only by its denial,
by ceremonies and symbols that proclaim the immortality of men and their
actions. The time of the utopian festival, then, closes in on itself; it is reduced
to the succession of symbols and the unfolding of the ritual; it conveys but a
single meaning and the latter can only converge with the double civic and moral
lesson given by the festival. However, in real festivals how frequently this sought
transparency of the time of the festival is only shadow and opacity which conceal
the ambiguities and the conflicts of the time of history!
As the message, both noble and simple, of the festival touched hearts
directly, it had to be explained in a symbolic language and in a ceremonial that
would strike the imagination so as to ‘‘take it over.’’ There arose, then, a tendency
to overload the symbols, which became ever more refined and complicated, in
and by which the festival attempted to tell its own simplicity and its own trans-
parency. The utopia of the festival rests on spontaneity, on the free transformation
of the spectators into actors who are their own spectacle. Nevertheless, even in
the utopian narrative recounting only pure spontaneity, an organizer is always
present, if only in the execution of his word glorifying spontaneity. In the real
festivals, the more they wanted them to be educational and the more numerous
the crowd became, the less spontaneity was accepted as anything but an element
of the order, and then only on the condition that it conform to the scenario that
had been established in advance. Last but not least, the festival requires the
presence of the people who made it into the ‘‘most beautiful and most sublime
spectacle.’’ It requires, as well, the participants’ assent to its message and
symbolism. Were the latter not only supposed to explain what the populace had
already felt to be its own truth? But at the same time, the festival was intended
to be educational, bringing a moral and civic lesson to its participants, if not
imposing it on them. And, above all, it was necessary that the participants come
to the festival, to form the countless crowds that brought it to life.
So as not to remain in the abstract, let us take the example of a festival
in which the interplay of these convergences and oppositions between the utopia
and reality is particularly striking. We are thinking in particular of the Parisian
festival of the Unity and Indivisibility of the Republic, celebrated on 10 August,
1793. It is, as a matter of fact, a festival as curious as it is noteworthy. It owes
its particular features and its élan both to the historical circumstances and to the
imagination of David, who was the author of its scenario. The precarious situation
in which the Montagnard Convention convoked a “‘republican meeting’’ is well
known—externally, the debacles of the war, aggravated by Dumoriez’s treach-
ery; internally, the Vendéens, that incomprehensible popular revolt for ideologues
200 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

and militant minorities, prevailed over the troops. ‘‘Federalist rebellions’’ broke
out in Lyon, in Marseille, in Bordeaux; Toulon was in the hands of royalist
insurgents. In the capital, the weeks preceding the ceremony were particularly
tense. The 14 July was not celebrated—Marat had been assassinated the pre-
ceding day and his funeral took place on 16 July with the massive participation
of the populace (David was given the responsibility of giving a setting and an
artistic framework to the funeral). Food shortages were becoming more acute
and whole sections were in a state of unrest. Under this pressure, the Convention
voted, on 27 July, for the law against monopolizers and hoarders, and the day
prior to the festival the law on ‘‘public granaries’’ was adopted. A brochure
spread the rumor of a plot aiming to ‘‘set Paris to fire and the sword from around
10-15 August.’’ Among the Jacobins the question was raised: Had the Lyonnais
rebels not grasped the opportunity given by the festival to infiltrate the capital
‘‘with traitors and plotters?’’ Under these conditions, the Convention wanted
the festival on 10 August to be both reassuring and stirring. The festival did not
commemorate only the fall of the monarchy; its essential object was the solemn
acceptance of the new Constitution and, in that sense, it is a portentous festival.
The festival was, at one and the same time, to dispel and bring to the fore the
dangers threatening the Revolution. They could only be temporary; it is the
triumph of the Republic, solidly based on its constitution and opened on the
future, that was to be celebrated. But what had already been gained as well as
the promised future had to be defended against their enemies, both old and new.
The very terms “‘unity’’ and ‘‘indivisibility’’ under the sign of which the festival
was placed had an obvious political meaning and clearly designated the enemies
to be combated and conquered. Delegates of the primary assemblies of all the
departments were invited to the festival. Several groups of fédérés arrived with
wagons loaded with foodstuffs for starving Paris. Barely ten days after the festival
the levy en masse was to be decreed.
In the history of revolutionary festivals, that of 10 August 1793 is situated,
so to speak, at the border between “‘spontaneous generation’’ and a ‘‘system’’
enclosing and fixing the festival. The ceremony is conceived as a unique event,
a response to a concrete situation and to the emotions to which it gave rise. But,
on the other hand, although no “‘system’’ was yet in place, a whole ritual had
already been established based on the ‘‘matrix’’ of the Fête de la Fédération of
1790. Festivals, then, were threatened by repetition and lassitude. For that of
10 August, David wanted to innovate, while avoiding a rupture.
“Do not be surprised, Citizens,’’ he said in his proposal, ‘‘if Ihave drawn
away from what has been common practice up until today. The genius of liberty,
as you know, does not like shackles; success is all; the means of attaining it are
immaterial.’’ Artistic means, certainly, but material means, as well. David asks
the Convention for half a million livres; he will be given only one hundred and
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 201

twenty thousand. They want the wished-for moral effects at less cost, and there
really is a lack of money.
David sees the festival—his proposal is indeed a text inhabited by a vision.
He conceives it as at once a gigantic fresco projected on the city and a collective
psychodrama played out by an enormous crowd. The scenario anticipates every-
thing: setting, symbols, roles to be played by the participants. It even forecasts
emotions: here will be happiness, there a profound, moved, silence, and else-
where ‘‘our mutual feelings will meet in tender embraces.’’*°
The festival begins by assembling on the site of the Bastille where ‘‘some
of the ruins were still confusedly spread.’’ It was still night. ‘‘The French,
gathered together to celebrate unity and indivisibility, will rise before dawn.”’
Successive directives advance the hour of assembly from five to four in the
morning, “‘that is, to sunrise, which is strictly necessary to the spirit of the
festival.’’ In fact, the time and place converge in the spirit of the beginning.
‘The touching scene of the gathering is lit by the first rays of the sun and the
accomplishment of the regeneration of France is thus associated with the rise of
the day star, which makes Nature quiver with joy.’’ To the rising sun is joined
‘a song that expresses the return of the light.’ The beginning of day, but also
the beginning of History. It is here, at the Bastille, that it started anew with the
luminous time that opened a new book to it. This symbolism of the beginning,
of darkness, obscurity, and light, can escape no one. In any case, twenty or so
inscriptions ‘‘placed on the stones of the Bastille’’ are there to recall that other
time, that dark and tyrannical time of suffering and injustice. So, one can read,
going from one stone to another: ‘‘an old man bathed this stone with his tears’’;
‘‘this stone was never illuminated’’; ‘‘hell vomited forth kings’’; ‘‘my children,
my dear children’’; ‘‘hell vomited forth priests’’; ‘‘I no longer sleep’’; ‘‘my
faithful spider was crushed before my eyes. . . .’” Daybreak, the dawn of history,
the beginning of the festival.
The latter links, in a ‘‘harmonious whole,’’ two formulas: that of the
procession crossing the city and that of the gathering of the populace in a vast
open space. The itinerary followed—the Bastille, the boulevards, the place de
la Révolution, the Invalides, the Champ-de-Mars—is approximately that which
had already been utilized in other festivals (that of Fédération in 1791, the festival
of the soldiers of Chateauvieux). It has the advantage of bypassing the historical
center of the city, impracticable because of the narrowness of the streets, but
also because of the ‘‘monuments of tyranny’’ marking it, which contradict the
spirit of the festival. On this route, there are five *“‘stations,’’ including the points
of departure and arrival. They are the high points of the festival, acts of the
psychodrama.
Let us look first at the order of the procession, for there is one and it is
most rigorous. The places assigned to the participants give them a symbolism
202 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

and strictly prescribe their roles. This procession ‘‘of a nation restored to liberty
and returned to nature’’ is divided into three groups. At the head, the popular
societies that carry the banner with the eye of vigilance ‘‘opened on the clouds
which it penetrated and which it dissipated; a reassuring and threatening sign of
the vigilant guard from which no traitor had escaped or could escape.’’ Then
comes the National Convention, preceded by the Declaration of the Rights of
Man and the Constitution inscribed on tablets. The députés are surrounded by
‘‘a light tricolored ribbon which links the envoys of the primary Assemblies to
one another.’’ Each of the members of the Convention carries a bouquet of wheat
and fruit in his hand; the envoys of the primary Assemblies carry ‘‘a pike, the
symbol of liberty against tyrants, in one hand; an olive branch, the symbol of
peace and fraternal unity among all the departments of a single and indivisible
Republic, in the other.’’ (The distribution of the bouquets, pikes, and olive
branches was provided for before dawn, in a place and according to modalities
set by a directive.)
But it is the third group that incarnates ‘‘the idea of the festival by which
its organizer imprinted its finest characteristic.’’ This third group is ‘‘composed
of all the respectable mass of the sovereign power.’’ Here spontaneity and
equality reign. “‘There is no order drawn; there is no longer any division of
people or of civil servants. . . . Everything here slips away, everything comes
together, becoming one and the same.’’ Let us however look at this attentively,
letting nothing escape our glance. This ‘‘respectable mass of the sovereign
power’’ has a place to itself and by no means will spontaneity extend beyond
it. Of course, there is ‘“‘no prescribed regularity,’’ but directives indicating that
participants will not walk “‘ten abreast’’ and that ‘‘the tricolored pennants carried
at intervals will show, when they are raised, that it is time to march and, when
they are lowered, that it is time to stop,’’ will be respected. And then, in this
“‘respectable mass,’’ all individuals ‘‘useful to society will be indiscriminately
merged, although characterized by their distinctive insignia. ‘‘The procureur of
the Commune will be ‘‘on the same row’’ as the blacksmith, one carrying a
scarf, the other a hammer in his hand; the judge is beside the mason, one wearing
a feathered hat, the other holding his trowel. The white gives his hand ‘‘to the
Black African,”’ this time they wear nothing, so to speak, as their ‘‘distinctive
insignia,’’ but the color of their skin. ‘‘In this social and philosophical confusion
where everything gave the sight and the sentiment of sacred equality, the eternal
stamp of creation, and the first law of Nature,’’ in this mass that in itself already
formed a moving spectacle, still further representations were in play. Here, on
a trailer, ‘‘the students of the Institution of the Blind make the airs of their
joyous songs ring out.’’ There, it is the nurslings of the orphanage, carried in
white rocking cradles, who ‘‘announce that the Republic is their mother and the
Nation their family.’’ Still elsewhere, a venerable old man and his wife, placed
on a wagon and pulled along by their children.
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 203

In its march and by this very march, advancing from one station to another,
the procession tells itself a story, recounts a history, while representing it at the
same time. This account is on many levels: it is the story of the procession itself,
but also that of the Revolution, a profane history but also a sacred one, an
account of the past, but an anticipation of the future as well. ‘‘Five times, in
the space that it was to cover, this august pomp came to a halt and each station
presented monuments which recalled the finest acts of the Revolution, or cere-
monies that consecrated it or completed it.’
At the first station, the Bastille, is the time of beginnings, of regeneration.
‘The history of the infamies of despotism, which prompted painful, moving
impressions in souls, along with the consolation of a profound and meditative
joy’’ was read on the stones that had been ‘‘mutilated by the axe of liberty.’
But then eyes turned from the periphery toward the center, toward the fountain
of Regeneration where rose the colossal plaster statue of Nature, represented by
a nude woman, in the Egyptian style. From the numerous breasts that she was
pressing with her hands ‘‘two streams of pure and abundant water, images of
her inexhaustible fertility, poured forth into a vast basin.’’ The president of the
Convention recites ‘‘a kind of hymn’’: ‘‘Sovereign of the Savage and of en-
lightened Nations, O Nature, this immense populace assembled at the first rays
of day before your image is worthy of you, it is free. It is in your breast, it is
in your sacred springs that it recovered its rights, that it was regenerated. After
having traversed so many centuries ‘of error and servitude, it had to enter into
the simplicity of your ways to find liberty and equality again.’’ Then he fills a
cup of antique shape with the regenerative water that ‘‘falls from Nature’s breast’’
and drinks from it. Then he passes the cup to the elderly men, one from each
department, in the order “‘determined by alphabetic chance.’’ (There was dif-
ficulty in designating the eighty-six venerable old men because the preceding
day, at the Jacobins, the envoys of the primary assemblies had been admonished
for having failed or forgotten to delegate their ‘‘elderly agents,’’ despite urgent
and repeated notices from the organizers of the festival.) Each of the eighty-six
elderly men feels the need to express his emotions in one sole phrase, as concise
as it is sublime. The last, whose ‘‘white hair floated in the winds, seized with
a prophetic spirit, cries out: O France! Liberty is immortal; the laws of the
Republic, like those of Nature, will never perish.’’ Then they sing ‘‘the air dear
to the children of Marseille stanzas analogous to the ceremony’’; each time that
the cup passes from one hand to another, they give each other the republican
and fraternal kiss, cannons sound, and ‘‘the electric movements of a solemn joy
join’’ with their noise.
At the second station, the Boulevard des Poissonniéres, it is the time of
combat that is recounted. A triumphal arch represents the days of 5 and 6 October,
1789, when ‘‘one saw woman, who had become intrepid with the sentiment of
liberty, drag cannons along and in a manner of speaking lead the men where it
204 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

was necessary to attack tyranny.’’ Under this arch which, by its beauty, surpassed
the masterpieces of ancient Rome and Athens, ‘‘these courageous women rep-
resent themselves in the middle of the monument of their glory,’’ seated on the
cannon carriages. (We do not know where and how the organizers of the festival
recruited these representative women or how many they were.) The president
gives each a fraternal embrace, places a laurel crown on each head, and the
procession, which they have joined, turning their cannons around, gets under
way again ‘‘amid universal acclamations.”’
The place de la Révolution is marked by the third station—it is the time
of the Revolution on the march, purificatory and victorious over tyranny. The
very spot recalls the death of the last tyrant (the guillotine had been removed
for the festival) and it is here that the statue of Liberty is erected. “‘As the
daughter of Nature, she appeared through the leafy shade of the young trees with
which she was surrounded. It is to this divinity that the love of the French offers
tributes.’’ From the branches of the poplars are hung red caps, garlands of
flowers, pencil drawings that recalled the prodigious moments of the Revolution,
verses ‘‘found more beautiful because they all expressed but one sentiment.’’
However, these offerings do not suffice and ‘‘still another sacrifice to the Goddess
was necessary.’’ They go on to “‘the great purification of an empire by fire.”’
With a torch, the president lights an enormous pyre, ‘“covered with combustible
materials,’’ where the throne, the scepter, the armories, all the ‘odious trappings
of despotism’’ disappear ‘‘in the crackling noise of the flames amidst the accla-
mations of more than eight hundred souls.’ Then three thousand birds of all
species fly off into the heavens wearing thin streamers around their necks on
which are written these words: We are free, imitate us. Two doves took refuge
under the folds of the statue of Liberty and set up their home there. ‘‘They
remained faithful to this sacred monument. Superstitious antiquity would be
jealous of such a trait . . . but the true oracles of the French people are its reason
and its rights, quite superior to all political charlatanism.’’ Still, however good
a rationalist one might be, how can one prevent oneself from reading the happiest
portent for the Republic in this sign drawn by Nature herself?
The fourth station was in front of the Invalides. It is, certainly, ‘‘a mon-
ument of the pride of a despot.’’ Nevertheless, it is already ‘‘improved by
benevolence and national sovereignty.’’ And then, it is only a setting for the
gigantic statue of the peuple Hercule crushing the monster of federalism and
beating it down with its club (both the giant and the monster are in plaster). The
historical time recounted by the procession and the moment at which the proces-
sion recounts it meet—this is the time of the last combats. Of the recent victory
over federalism, ‘‘that new monster no less dangerous to liberty than is tyranny,”’
and of the combats still to be fought, whose result is already prefigured by the
statue. “‘Contemplating these emblems rising in the air to a great height, the
populace recognized its force and its triumph.’’ And so that they not misunder-
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 205

stand, ‘‘the images under which it and its history were retraced under their own
eyes became the text of the discourse that the president pronounced on that
occasion.”’
It is at the last station, the Champ-de-Mars, that the past and present
culminate in the future or are even transcended in the successful outcome of the
story recounted of the history. While the crowd covers the esplanade, the first
group of the procession makes an entry that ‘‘offers to the eye, to the imagination,
and to the soul one of those sublime and touching lessons the idea of which only
liberty can conceive and the spectacle of which only liberty can present.’’ A
tricolored ribbon is suspended from two columns and a level is suspended from
the ribbon. Those who form the head of the procession penetrate into the es-
planade ‘‘only after having bent over or, rather, raised themselves under this
level, a tangible allegory of equality, an emblem of what makes the unique
greatness of man, of what alone prepares real and lasting prosperity for him.”’
It is then that the final act takes place, which makes this festival and this instant
‘‘the greatest epoch of Humankind.’’ The president, “‘having attained the highest
point of the altar of the Country,’’ having the eldest of the departmental ad-
ministrators at his side, from that height, as if from the veritable holy Mountain,
published the vote count of the primary Assemblies of the Republic and pro-
claimed the Constitution, ‘‘the only Constitution, since peoples have existed,
that gave a liberty based on equality and which made fraternity a political dogma,
to a great empire.’’ The continuously repeated artillery salvoes and ‘‘a million
voices converging in a single shout send the joy of the earth up to the heavens.”’
It could be said that both of them, heaven and earth, are joined by this solemn
act that establishes the New City, that “‘Republic that Humanity charged with
its cause and which must save the Universe’’ forever. Some rites are still to be
performed. The eighty-six departmental administrators who, during the march,
each held a pike, place all these pikes in the hands of the president of the
Convention, who gathers them into a single bundle, held together by a ribbon
in the colors of the nation. The ashes of the defenders of the Republic are placed
in an antique-style funerary temple. This is the final homage and the final appeal:
‘May the Republic triumph, this Republic which, all alone, stands up to all
tyrants, to all the vile passions, to all peoples who dishonor themselves.”’
‘Such was the march, such were the objects and tableaux offered to the
gaze of the sovereign people in the inauguration of the French Republic. Never
had liberty appeared more august to eras and nations. The populace was great
and majestic like it.” The people had gathered before dawn; it is past noon.
They begin to eat ‘‘seated fraternally on the grass.’’ It is a ‘‘frugal banquet’’;
each shares, mixing ‘‘with that of his brothers the food that he himself brought”?
(the directives are specifically insistent on this latter point. Contrary to the
customs of tyrannical festivals, nothing is offered to drink or eat, none of the
gifts that were as degrading as they were contemptible. And there was, above
206 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

all, a terrible lack of provisions). Then, on a vast theater, the principal events
of the Revolution are presented in pantomimes. One of these spectacles takes
up and represents the ceremony that has just been completed: the procession,
the stations. Thus, by a play of mirrors, the festival is reflected in itself; the
time lived and the time recounted converge, opening and closing on each other.
As regards the history, the festival tells its story in symbolic language. It
is useless to stress the fact that in this gigantic production everything is intended
to be symbolic: time and space, setting and costumes, each and every step and
gesture. Everything is a sign. The programmed spontaneity is only the sign of
spontaneity; the festival in its entirety is only the sign of the people in festival.
That statue of the peuple Hercule is the emblem of the ‘‘respectable mass of the
sovereign power.’’ But would an opposite reading not be equally justified? Is
this ‘‘respectable mass’’ not merely a sign whose meaning is in the colossal
statue? It is useless as well to insist on the excessiveness of these symbols,
however numerous the emblems and rites we have omitted. The ceremony of
the ‘‘republican and fraternal kisses’’ is repeated a good dozen times—millions
of embraces in series, to be graphed according to their emotional intensity, by
a scrupulous historian.
This linkage of symbols forms a coherent discourse whose orientation
toward the utopia of the New City is intended to be obvious, if not aggressive.
What is affirmed, and set up as a spectacle, is a dreamed Revolution definitively
triumphant over enemies and difficulties. In a time and a space that are themselves
“‘utopianized,’’ it establishes its great principles and values for eternity, incor-
porating all of humanity, regenerated and reconciled with Nature.
We have only spoken of the symbols present. But another symbolism, of
which this festival is totally devoid, is conspicuous by its absence, which has
an enormous symbolic charge. The priests and their superstitious cult were only
rarely explicitly indicated. But in the crowd, everyone had in his memory those
other very recent revolutionary festivals which were announced by the ringing
of church bells and during which mass was celebrated. Was the festival, by
recounting in its march a history of regeneration, by stopping at the stations
where hymns were recited and songs were raised to heaven, not a negative
replica, either deliberate or unconscious, of those other processions that, in
fourteen stations, told another story? Those processions had been forgotten by
no one. Barely two weeks before the festival of 10 August, scuffles had broken
out in Paris because the Commune had tried to prevent the procession of Corpus
Christi with its habitual splendor. By opposition to the time evoked in the
religious processions, that celebrated by this festival was defined as secular. But
from another point of view how can we not recognize the sacred inherent in it?
Was it not the regenerative and purificatory time in which the Revolution was
to accomplish the task, with which humanity had charged it, of ‘‘saving the
universe’? The New City was the great promise of the time. The transfer of the
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 207

sacred into the time of secular history, proposed or imposed by the scenario of
the festival, announced the great wave of dechristianization. Some weeks later,
this time will be institutionalized with the adoption of the republican calendar
and its system of festivals.
The symbols muddled up with one another formed an inclusive and om-
nipresent discourse whose redundancies further reinforced the wished-for ag-
gressivity. Nevertheless, superfluous inscriptions and discourses that took up
and commented on all these ‘‘vigorous signs’’ were added—as if their force and
effects on the imagination were doubted, despite frequent reaffirmation.
However wordy it already was, this festival could not do without a narrative
which would recount it once again, from its beginning to its end. Whether in
the future, as in David’s proposal, or in the past, as in the accounts that only
repeat the initial scenario, such a narrative proves to be indispensable to the final
success of the festival. That is not only because of the necessity of explaining
symbols that were overly refined and complex; there are more profound reasons.
The festival, in its totality and in all its individual elements, was intended to be
transparent—readable, visible, and audible for each of its participants, its actor-
spectators. But in the reality of the festival there was no place from which it
was materially possible to embrace it in its entirety, from which it could offer
itself to the view as a whole which harmoniously combined the innumerable
signs and gestures spread out in an enormous space and during several hours.
In other words, the festival does not fully affirm itself, does not attain, so to
speak, the plenitude of its being, if not in a second narrative which recounts it
specifically as absolutely transparent. But such a narrative account was itself
possible only on condition that it followed a gaze wandering freely about in the
imaginary elsewhere, that place where the utopia of the festival encountered no
obstacle. But then in this narrative account the real festival itself is no longer
anything but a sign to which the imagined and programmed ideal festival gives
its true meaning.
The festivals differ from one another; contrary to the spectacle, whose
performances are repetitious, every festival is unique. Each festival has its par-
ticular physiognomy which depends, in part, on its ‘‘affective temperature,’’ the
collective sensitivity that inspires it. Also, the number of participants has a lot
to do with this and the civic festival, in particular, calls for a relatively large
throng as well as a certain ‘‘population’’ density in the space—an indispensable
condition for the individuals to be able to enter into contact with one another
and for them to feel themselves sustained and transcended by the collective
presence. It is, however, obvious that it is not the scenario alone, nor the number
of participants alone, who make the festival—how many examples do we know
from both yesterday and today, where the gathering of thousands of people did
not succeed in the least in lending even a festive air to a sad official ceremony.
The festival, when it comes right down to it, really stems from the way in which
208 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

it is experienced and lived by its participants. ‘“This solemn day,’’ said Mercier
of the Féte de la Fédération, ‘‘was like an electrical experience. Everything that
touched the chain had to feel the shock; it was great, it was universal.’’** This
‘shock,’ an essential factor of the festival, is also its most ephemeral, its most
subjective and variable aspect, and hence the one most difficult to determine. It
is here that the interrogation on the presence and role of dreams and social hopes
in the emotional climate of different festivals comes up against a major difficulty.
How can the state and the intensity of the social imagination at work, its ori-
entations and its ambiguities, be defined and delimited? How can its dreams of
an alternative society, dreams which espouse the reality in this unique event
where the real itself existed only coupled with the illusory and the imaginary,
be reconstructed?
The mass of available documents does not necessarily facilitate the task.
The quantitative data furnished in contemporary accounts cannot even be relied
on. Large popular gatherings are difficult to count and evaluations are still more
uncertain when they translate the emotions of the spectator, his way of seeing
and experiencing the festival. How many were at the festival of 10 August? Two
hundred thousand? Eight hundred thousand? ‘‘The entire populace of Paris?’’
Was the million mentioned in a report anything but an additional metaphor? And
then again, how can one go from this quantitative data, itself uncertain, to the
qualitative study of the spirit of a festival and of its utopian components, as-
sessments of which are vague, and particularly suspect of being impressionistic?
Just as the festivals are overloaded with symbols, the narrative accounts of them
abound in grandiloquence. As we have noted, the latter is both revealing and
misleading. Revealing insofar as it attests to the presence of the utopia of the
festival as well as to the use of a certain language of the sensibility that is
becoming almost standardized at the time. But, on the other hand, the projection
of the utopia on actuality, as well as the standardization of the language, conceals
the affective climate of the festivals. If we believe the narrative accounts, par-
ticularly those of the newspapers and official documents, all the festivals become
more and more ‘‘simple and sublime,’’ all are inspired with the ‘‘sacred fire of
enthusiasm,’’ the populace always are its ‘‘greatest’’ or its ‘‘majestic and mov-
ing’’ ornament. Nor do ‘‘electric movements of solemn joy’’ ever fail to occur.
One is struck by the monotony of this type of evidence which, moreover,
contented itself with embellishing the official scenarios with adjectives. A small
detail is often more instructive than long pages. Such as, for example, these
stanzas improvised during the Féte de la Fédération, when nature failed to fulfill
the symbolic function its organizers had wished it to:

Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira

En dépit d’aristocrates et de la pluie;
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 209

Ah, ça ira, Ça ira, ça ira

Nous nous mouillerons, mais ça finira.

It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay

In spite of aristocrats and the rain;
It'll be okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay
We'll get wet, but it’ll be over.

Or:

Que’qu’a me fait 4 moi, d’étre mouillé

Quand c’est pour la liberté.*°
What do I care about being wet
When it’s for liberty.

However, the collective affectivity of the revolutionary festivals is most

frequently concealed under the false transparency of the words and symbols that
speak of it. It is, therefore, necessary to approach them as one does the trompe
l’oeil decors so well liked at the time and whose reality was in the very illusion
they presented. And yet the historian would so like to take the elements apart,
put them back together, and then look at them anew, while frequently changing
his point of view. . ..
Nevertheless, through the mass of evidence an evolution is clearly outlined,
although its roads are winding, with chutes and ladders, gaps, falls, repetitions,
and reruns from one festival to another and from one locality to another. It is
obvious that the political and ideological content of the revolutionary festival as
well as its social characteristics change in relation to the evolution of the Rev-
olution. At the Montagnard epoch, the festival has its principal support in the
spirit inspiring the militant minorities, massacred or dispersed after Thermidor
—which does not, however, mean that the history of the festival is reduced to
the political and social history of the Revolution or that it is a simple reflection
of it. Indeed, once born of ‘“spontaneous generation’’ and then institutionalized,
the festival has a relatively autonomous evolution. Its utopia, its symbols, and
its mechanisms acquire a certain historical inertia. The political and administra-
tive power cannot manipulate the festival without respecting its specific structure
and its internal workings. Throughout its long history, the revolutionary festival,
while translating the social, political, and ideological conflicts into its own
languages, conceals them at the same time behind the illusions that it dissemi-
nates. Finally, the festival wears itself out in its own contradictions, and succumbs
under the weight of its own myths, institutions, utopias, and symbols.
Great is the distance traveled by the festival between its explosion in autumn
210 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

1789, the great psychodrama of 10 August, 1793, and those spectacles of years
V-VII of the Republic to which the reports of the administration of a commune
of Périgord bear witness. The festivals take place then “‘in compliance with the
order of the Directoire’’ of such and such a date: they combine ‘‘the municipal
administration with the totality of its members, all the public employees of the
canton as well as all office workers and all wage-earners of the Republic.’’ The
scenarios are prescribed in detail by official orders and ‘‘the local administration
in its entirety’? does its best to carry them out. So, on 1 vendémiaire year V,
‘‘in compliance with the order of the executive Directoire of last 13 fructidor,”’
they assemble at 8 A.M. for the anniversary of the founding of the Republic.
The president gives ‘‘the starting signal’’ to go (in the words of article 2 of the
order) to the altar of the country. There, the constituted authorities are placed
‘‘according to the order indicated by the program of the festival, the populace
lined up surrounding the tree of Liberty.’” Then comes the reading of the first
article of the draft of the constitution and of the Declaration of the Rights of
Man. ‘‘The profound reverence that followed this reading is the indubitable
characteristic of the respect and admiration that those in attendance could not
help feeling at the memory of the sacred principles of which they had just been
reminded.’’ Then the president makes his speech, which was ‘‘burning with
patriotism,’’ and takes an oath of “‘hatred of royalty and anarchy, and attachment
and fidelity to the Republic and the Constitution of Year III and at that moment
the assembly became the perfect echo of the voice that was pronouncing it.’’
Then they practiced once again the ‘‘songs that love of Country had inspired’’
and the festival ends by ‘‘general enjoyment under a calm sky’’ as well as a
‘‘fraternal banquet where equality and concord presided over frugality.’’ ‘‘For
lack of pecuniary means,’’ the ceremony is made without the required pomp,
but substituted for this is ‘‘the effusion of the hearts of those who attended.’’
Thus all the workings of the festival are in place and we omit numerous details,
such as the stanzas to ancient Rome read on 23 Thermidor of the Year VI, or
the twenty-four elderly men provided with white sticks who got together on 30
ventôse for the festival of the sovereign people.
There is but one element lacking. In fact, the enthusiastic reports scarcely
hide the fact that the populace supposed ‘‘to be lined up surrounding the tree of
Liberty’’ has missed the appointment. ‘‘Despite the frequently reiterated invi-
tation of the municipal administration, the participation of those attending the
national festivals is almost always reduced to the members of the authorities, so
that it is impossible to give splendor to these epochs that call up such fond
memories to true Republicans.’’ ‘The festival of this day (1 vendémiaire, Year
VII) showed the effects of this harmful indolence and ended by the public
employees’ wishes to see our legislators take effective means to give to these
festivals all the interest that they might present.’’ The ceremony of the replace-
ment of the first tree of Liberty that withered between 1789 and Year VI, solemnly
 FROM THE BROAD FRESCO TO THE AUTOPSY REPORT / 211

celebrated on 10 pluviôse (‘‘in compliance with the law of last 24 nivése’’) thus
takes on a symbolic sense that is exactly the opposite of the festival’s intention.
And that is despite the assurance given that ‘‘the new tree rises majestically,
that its still tender branches contain the productive sap that seems to be awaiting
germinal to give the first sign of life. . . .”’
In the general lassitude, there is only one person, the elementary school-
teacher, citizen Petit-Bregnat who, with inexhaustible energy, composes from
festival to festival songs and stanzas ‘‘analogous to the subject of the festival
and apt to inspire ardent love for the Republic.’’ It is certainly also he who
writes these reports, combining in their flowery style the exactness of a public
servant and the patriotic enthusiasm of a poet whose muse is never absent.
“Everyone was still casting his thoughts into that happy future that peace prom-
ises to us, when citizen Petit-Bregnat reproduced in Republican couplets the
sentiments expressed by the two orators, for his muse inspired him with hatred
for kings and with the benefits of peace.”’* His phraseology, in which all the
clichés of the utopia of the festival are to be found, is doubly revealing both by
what it conceals of the reality of these ceremonies and by its evidence of the
illusions the festival programmed by the order seeks to disseminate. Good citizen
Petit-Bregnat—why would we doubt the sincerity of his sentiments?—-seems to
be the last who is still inspired by the radiant utopia, in the colorlessness of
these festivals that are more and more devoid of living content. Did he suspect
that in his enthusiastic reports he was in fact drawing up so many autopsy
certificates, postmortem examinations of the Revolutionary festival?
 4
Models of Festivals and
Speaking Sensibility

TL sets of observations are called for here by way of conclusion,

one which has to do with the ideal models of Revolutionary festivals, the other
with certain particularities of the language of these festivals.
Michelet’s famous pages that recount the Revolutionary festivals are un-
even, as much because of their expressive force as because of their pertinence.
Michelet’s historical genius is here all the more at ease as the Revolutionary
festivals lent themselves particularly well to his imagination, which made history
live again while nourishing itself on history. Besides, these pages also owe much
of their strength to Michelet’s own personal utopia of the festival, one that was
marked by the author’s profound nostalgia for the Revolutionary festivals he had
not known, and by the repulsion with which lugubrious memories of imperial
pomp had left him.”?
There is, of course, no question either of imitating Michelet’s historical
and literary genius, or of taking up his language and his own symbolic repertoire.
The major interests of his works for contemporary analysis of the collective
psychology of Revolutionary festivals and, in particular, for questions concerning
the utopian components of the affectivity that underlies them, seems to us to be
elsewhere. What we today find particularly striking in these pages is that there
are two ideal types of Revolutionary festivals to be found in them. If fact, found
in these pages are, on the one hand, the model of the “‘hot’’ festival, the scene
for the expression of a creative spontaneity; a nearly perfect correspondence is
set up between the ideal project of the festival and the manner of collectively
living its rites and symbols; the collective affectivity is characterized by a strong
utopian component; the time is lived as that when ‘‘everything is possible’’ and
the social imagination is oriented toward a social elsewhere, toward a world
different in its values and norms. On the other hand, it is the model of the

212
 MODELS OF FESTIVALS AND SPEAKING SENSIBILITY / 213

“*cold’’ festival, which is only a bureaucratic institution utilized as an instrument

of political and ideological action and where there is a divorce established be-
tween the intentional aspect of the festival and the collective way of living it,
where “‘nothing is produced”” although many things happen; the rites and symbols
are therefore reduced to purely decorative functions and do not in any way
stimulate the social imagination; the utopian component of the collective affec-
tivity is minimal or nonexistent; tolerance for spontaneity remains very weak.
It is useless to insist on the fact that no real festival is perfectly in conformity
with either of these two models. As we have already noted, there are no festivals
which would do without a minimum of organization and, hence, of organizers;
besides, the greater the crowds of participants, the more vital is the necessity
of a certain technique, if not of a certain technology, that is substituted for
improvisation. The symbols and rites are not invented on the occasion of each
festival; they are taken up again, just as there is an attempt made to reuse their
settings. Besides, one can expect that even at the time of the progressive deg-
radation of the festival, citizens like Petit-Bregnat are still to be found who,
prisoners of a utopia and a mythology of the festival, do not tire of their enthu-
siasm, carried away by their own emotions and their own words, for lack of
other resources. As we have already seen, a complete ideology of the festival,
largely taking its inspiration from Rousseau, contributed to a self-mystification.
That whole dialectics of the people as object and subject of the festival promoted
the illusion that the discourse pronounced at the festival was not at bottom
anything but the word addressed by the participants to themselves, and that order
wanted, if not imposed by the organizers, was only the expression of the popular
will for order.
Thus, the explicative value of these two models, as of every ideal type,
is limited, and it is not the same for both of these models. Nothing could be
simpler than finding festivals that seem to have been copied from the model of
the bureaucratized festival; how rare, on the other hand, are the festivals that
combine all the elements of the other model, that of the “‘hot’’ festival. Let us,
however, beware of confusing the ideal types of festivals with the sociological
characteristics of one real festival or another. A festival might be perfectly
programmed and exploited by the power that offers it to the people and this
offer, if it satisfies a real affective demand, might be accepted with true enthu-
siasm. The festival then reinforces that enthusiasm and reforms it. Was this not,
after all, the case of the Féte de la Fédération in 1790, that matrix for great
Revolutionary festivals. Let us beware, even more, of a procedure which is
nevertheless very much in vogue, which assimilates the model of the spontaneous
festival to the popular and Revolutionary festival or which, rather, makes this
model the link between them. This procedure is as simple as it is reassuring, at
least for some. The historical realities, on the other hand, are a good deal more
complex. As we have said, at the time, popular festivals are to be found, which
214 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

in certain respects are close to the model of the spontaneous festival. Such as,
for example, the festivals that occasionally explode during the ‘‘great fear’’
when, after having burned the ‘‘papers’’ in anger and joy, they bring barrels
from the wine cellar of the chateau. But the Revolutionary festivals, in the
historical and not the mythological sense of the word, did not at all aim to
prolong or continue these ‘‘savage festivals,’’ celebrated as they were on the
modes of the secular ritual of the peasant revolts. But the other popular forms
of festive activity, in no way ‘‘subversive’’ or violent, are not taken up either
in the practice or the theory of Revolutionary festivals. They subsist during the
Revolutionary period beside the Revolutionary festivities, occasionally, if not
frequently, in conflict with them, rarely, if not exceptionally, in symbiosis with
them. Thus, whether and to what degree the Revolutionary festivals which were
supposed to impress the masses had other than temporary effects on popular
mentalities remains an open question. And it would be necessary to pay strict
attention to not confusing the “‘people,’’ however multiple the populace, with
the militant minorities grouped in popular sections and societies, which carefully
worked out their own specific rites. If the Revolutionary festivals were the scene
of certain cultural admixtures, then the process was as contradictory as it was
complex, and the circulation from ‘‘high’” to ‘‘low’’ predominated.
This complexity of the social functions of the Revolutionary festivals, if
not their ambiguity, is particularly striking in the symbolic and metaphorical
language that served as their support. That leads us to the second point of our
remarks. We have stressed the fact that the festivals are, on the one hand, the
privileged scene for the initiation of the masses into the new Revolutionary
symbolism and that, on the other hand, they furnish a setting and symbolic
support to the powers that establish themselves and seek to stabilize themselves.
We have already said that the ‘‘spontaneous generation’’ of the festival
was produced simultaneously with that of Revolutionary symbols. The Revo-
lution is, at its beginning, an ‘‘immense and nearly universal explosion of sen-
sibility’’;°* it is, as well, that of signs by which this sensibility is expressed.
The social dreams and hopes, frequently vague and contradictory, seek to become
crystallized, and are in search of a language and modes of expression that would
make them communicable. Moreover, they are found in imaged signs, collective
rites, and the spoken language; the latter tends to translate the ideas into images
by the play of rhetorical figures and metaphors. The symbolic language is par-
ticularly appropriate to assure a mode of communication to the masses who seek
to recognize one another and affirm themselves in their actions. In fact, Revo-
lutionary actions presuppose not only a collective presence and at least the germ
of structuring, but also a community of social imagination and, hence, the use
of a language specific to it. Marx’s pages, in which he opposes the French
Revolution, disguising its actors in the costumes of antiquity, to the proletarian
Revolution, whose actors need no disguise, are well known. But on no path of
 MODELS OF FESTIVALS AND SPEAKING SENSIBILITY / 215

their history, not even on those of Revolution, whether bourgeois or anything

else, do men go naked. They need signs and images, gestures and costumes, to
communicate with and recognize one another along the road. Abstract concepts
and principles only become guiding ideas insofar as they are capable of becoming
nuclei around which the collective imagination is organized. The extent of their
imaginary aureoles makes them gain in emotional diffuseness. Thus, the for-
mation of the symbolic Revolutionary repertoire and its diffusion are a complex
social process. The implantation of these symbols and their war against the old
ones (but also the syncretism of both, which was quite frequently the case,
especially at the beginning of the Revolution) are all Revolutionary events. One
is mistaken about their impact if one sees in them only a setting in which one
seeks to situate some Revolution or other, as pure and transparent as it is mythical.
The Revolutionary festival was a privileged scene of both the establishment
and the exercise of the multiple functions of this symbolic language. It is in this
language that the images of the New City fuse with the founding myths of the
Revolution and are expressed with “‘force and energy.’’ In other words, the
double character of these festivals—that of being festivals and that of being
imbued with a Revolutionary sensibility—converges in the predilection for a
certain symbolic language.
That being the case, it is nevertheless still necessary to question the lin-
guistic foundations of this sensibility and, in particular, to see whether it does
not follow rules of expression already in place with a certain language of sen-
sibility that had been formed prior to the Revolution, in the second half of the
eighteenth century. In other words, the question that must be considered is
whether the renewal of the collective imagination necessarily entails the alteration
of the rules that govern the linking of these new signs into a discourse. This is
a vast problem that would call for an in-depth study; we will return to it, taking
up a specific example in our chapter below on visionary architecture and city
planning. Let us, for the moment, limit ourselves to noting that in the second
half of the century numerous manifestations of new means of expression of
sensibility are observed. There is a delicate distinction in definition between
what is called the “‘reawakening of sensibility’’ at this time and what could be
called the establishment of a specific code of sensitive language. It seems, though,
that sentiments and feelings must not be confused with the rules that govern
their modes of expression. What in fact is being carefully worked out and
developed at this time in the culture of the ‘‘enlightened”” elites is a speaking
sensibility.
It is well known that ‘‘sensitive souls’’ cry abundantly in novels and on
the stage; but we have a great deal of evidence that they do the same, shedding
torrents of tears, in daily life. These tears are by no means feigned. One cries
because feelings must manifest themselves by outward signs; the tears are true,
but they are tear-signs by which one speaks to others and by which people
216 / UTOPIA AND FESTIVALS

recognize one another, among friends; and that is by making a spectacle of

oneself, putting oneself forward as a tableau vivant of friendship. One not only
feels deep emotions while looking at ruins—either historical ruins, ruins arti-
ficially constructed, or even trompe l’oeil painted ruins—but one begins to cry
in admiring them. There is, then, a whole tendency to express and theatricalize
sensibility, to give it as a spectacle to oneself and others. One also ponders the
language particularly privileged for the expression of feelings, a language whose
sign-symbols would be quasi-transparent with regard to their signifieds and which
would thus assure perfect communication. That amounts to saying that affections
must quite ‘‘naturally’’ lean toward a certain repertoire of signs in order to
“‘speak’’ in this way. This pursuit has reference to a whole philosophy of nature
and morality, but also to the idea of a “‘speaking’’ art, one thus conveying,
thanks to its languages, a moral message. Thus there is an attempt to translate
this message into ‘‘speaking images’’ or even into ‘‘imaged words’’ and, hence,
art is considered a privileged means of the formation of souls—leading back to
ideas about the educational functions of art. There is also an attempt to explicitly
specify the rules that govern this language of feelings in writings on “‘speaking
art’’ (this is notably the case of those that deal with visionary architecture, and
which we will come to in the following chapter), as well as in linguistic debates
of the origins of languages.
The Revolution was, certainly, the time of strong emotions. However, the
exuberance of symbols marking festivals in particular, the penchant for rhetoric,
a certain theatricalization that imbued all of political life—all these phenomena
of which the Revolutionary festival became the high point—do not seem ex-
plicable only by the intensity of the emotions experienced. It was still necessary
to resort to another language to express and communicate emotions, expectations,
and dreams. And this language was none other than that of speaking sensibility.
It is thus that a paradoxical effect is reached: in order for a festival to express
the aspiration to simplicity, transparency, and spontaneous unanimity, it is over-
loaded with symbols which are more and more “‘speaking,’’ complicated, and
refined. Thus one might well wonder whether the secondary effect of the festivals
was not the democratization, in the sense of a rather large social diffusion, of
a certain language of sensibility, a language which was not, however, of their
own invention.
Of course, symbols are ‘‘speaking’’ only when they are supported by a
community of imagination—otherwise, they have a tendency to disappear from
the collective life or even to be reduced to purely decorative functions. Those
that were signs of the dreams of a New City then become their mortuaries; and
festivals, in which they were brought into play, are no longer anything but their
cemeteries.
“A City Named
Liberty”: Utopia and
the City
 : an
ARE ro 0
 O, 12 floréal of year V of the Republic, One and Indivisible,
F.-L. Aubry, a surveyor-geometrician, publishes a brochure in Douai. In it, he
expresses his ideas on the Monument to the Glory of the defenders of the Country,
the erection of which had been recently decreed by the Legislative Body. As a
good patriot, he can only admire the object of this monument and necessarily
approves the principle behind it. ‘“All hearts have already dictated eternal grat-
itude for our brave Republican Soldiers who saved the Country and Liberty.”’
Yet this will not suffice. “‘The glory and the happiness of the French People’’
requires that an edifice be erected which “‘constantly reminds all the French that
they won Liberty over all the kings and tyrants of all of Europe.”’
The surveyor-geometrician dreams of a very specific monument, which
must ‘‘in no way resemble those that have been erected from pride and hypocrisy;
it must even be remote from these so as not to be confused with them.’’ That
is why no large city can lay claim to this ‘‘Eternal Monument of French Rec-
ognition’’ and even Paris can hardly escape this stricture. Is it not, in fact, still
“*soiled with the emblems of pride and despotism, such as the hypocrisy of the
kings, the priests, and the nobles? Certainly, Paris ‘“was able to gain liberty.”’
But was the city not, as well, ‘‘the source from which came the blows that were
to overthrow it?’’ And what could be said of other cities? They are without
Paris’s merits, yet everywhere in them are found ‘‘emblems of the old yoke of
the French’’ and each of them had had ‘‘their conspirators.”’
For its setting, the monument calls for a place that has never been soiled
by history, after the example of liberty, which purified time. Thus the monument
ought to be erected in a place that is itself ‘‘pure and free,’’ in which the original
purity of nature would harmonize perfectly with the cause defended by the
soldiers of the Republic. However, Aubry does not propose that the monument

219
220 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

be erected in the fields, or even on a mountain. Is not liberty, which is part and
parcel of nature, at the same time a work of the men who won it forever in
shaking off the yoke of their past? It is in an urban space that the surveyor-
geometrician dreams of his monument. But this space must be singular, different
from all others. A work of free men, entirely constructed and laid out by them-
selves, would it not perfectly incarnate the spirit that inspires them? Thus, the
monument must be erected ‘‘in the middle of a New City consecrated to Liberty.”
The author is conscious of both the novelty and the greatness of his idea.
But, ‘‘however new and great it might be,’’ it nevertheless proves to be eminently
practicable. The proposal will surprise only ‘‘tyrants and slaves,’’ whose de-
graded souls lack greatness and imagination. On the other hand, the ‘‘French
Genius’’ will easily recognize it as worthy of it. The City-Monument will be
‘‘the guarantee of the happiness of the people’’ who will find in it the most
perfect expression of its own greatness and of the ‘‘sweet emotions of the love
of Liberty.’’
How is it imagined, this New City named Liberty? It is a city-symbol
which, by the very organization of its space, speaks to spirits and inspires hearts.
Constructed in the form of a circle, its privileged place is its center, where the
Monument is erected. This will be ‘‘a colossal Pyramid which will have as many
sides as the French Republic has levied victorious Armies.’’ On each side of
this pyramid, ‘‘the glorious exploits of the Defenders of the Country will be
consecrated in inscriptions’ and the ‘‘flags taken from the enemy will be
adapted’’ there as well. The project is inhabited by an obsession with the
center—the center of the city must also be the center of France. The city named
Liberty will be erected ‘‘in the center of the French Republic, in a National
Wood, spacious enough for a New City to be erected and for provisions, resources
for its new inhabitants, to be found there, without having to take any property
away from any individual.’’ The center therefore performs a double symbolic
function. The values incarnated in the Monument radiate from it over the entire
country; but it is also the center, the seat where all the noblest sentiments inspiring
the hearts of all patriots are concentrated. By a “‘happy coincidence”” it is charged
in yet another way with symbolic significance. Indeed, ‘‘the apparent center of
the Republic, since the union with Belgium, is approximately, the former District
of Saint-Fargeau.’’ And this area was “‘the asylum of Leppelletier, who was
assassinated for having voted the death of a tyrant, for having served the cause
of the people, in a moment fraught with peril.”’
Why did Aubry, as a good geometrician-surveyor, content himself with
choosing this “‘center,’’ which was only ‘‘approximate,’’ even taking the an-
°° 99

nexation of Flandres into account. Was he a native of that region and, hence,
inspired by local patriotism? Or did he find in this specific area the ‘‘National
Wood”? that belonged to no one and that lent itself particularly well to furnishing
the setting for his dream? Be that as it may, ‘‘the soil, the site, everything is
 “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY” / 221

beautiful there,’’ and that beauty is associated with the useful since the place is
situated ‘‘among several navigable canals at the center of commercial commu-
nications of the interior.’ Thus, from all angles, the place proves to be ideal.
“The pyramid and the city of Liberty must rise freely, near Lepelletier’s asylum,
because this spot is the center of the French territory, because Lepelletier died
for the cause of Liberty, because the Region offers all the beauties and all the
resources that free men like to contemplate and must find.’’
A symbolic city, a monumental city by its location, but also thanks to its
other particular characteristics. In this city there would be no neutral space that
was not charged with moral and civic values. Thus, each principal street would
lead to ‘‘one of the faces of the Pyramid and would bear the name of an Army,
such as the rue d'Italie, rue du Rhin, etc.’’ Moreover, the ‘‘communicating
streets would bear the names of the Generals, of the Soldiers, who were partic-
ularly worthy of National Recognition.’’ The capital would not be moved to the
city of Liberty, it would remain in Paris. But beyond its symbolic and monu-
mental functions, or rather thanks to them, the New City would have a completely
special role to play in the life of the country. In fact, Aubry foresees that the
city of his dream will serve as the ultimate refuge during the epochs that are
most important for the country. The Corps Législatifs, the Directoire, the Gov-
ernment Ministers will have reserve locations there, so to speak. They will seek
refuge there ‘‘when Liberty is threatened, when the Country is in danger; they
would be able to leave it only after the danger.’’ Aubry can already imagine the
solemn moment when ‘‘arriving in this City, the Députés, the Directeurs, the
Ministers, will go to take their oath at the feet of the Pyramid, invoking the
spirits of the Defenders of the Country, to perish under its ruins rather than to
betray the People and Liberty, rather than not to defend them against their
enemies.”’
How big would Liberty be? Who would live there, besides high-ranking
civil servants? And what would its inhabitants do while awaiting the solemn
moment of the patriotic oath? Aubry’s proposal leaves us unsatisfied or, if you
will, leaves our imagination a clear field. His own imagination contents itself
with dreaming of an urban space that is only a sort of stage set waiting for a
civic ceremony.
We have found no trace of the surveyor-geometrician F.-L. Aubry other
than this proposal that he handed down to us. But is this quasi-anonymity not
precious in the sense that it eliminates any reference to the individual in the
dream? However personal the dream, in which the extravagant is closely allied
with the obsessional, it nevertheless clearly shows the conditions of possibility
which are of course situated beyond the individual. There is a certain poverty
of imagination even up to and including the quest for the grandiose and for
grandiloquence—the imagination works only with the ready-made elements it
finds.
222 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

We have said that the proposal, by its perfunctory character, leaves a clear
field for our imagination; this is, however, only partially true. Is it not, in fact,
easy, too easy, to complete this vision of the New City? The streets within it
can only be wide and straight; access will be marked by monuments—for ex-
ample, triumphal arches or even a sort of replica of Ledoux’s gates. It would
be necessary to think about providing the city with a temple of the enlightened
religion, let us call it theophilanthropic, which would be erected on a plaza linked
by a broad avenue to the central square. And how could there not be foun-
tains—symbols of life and purity—on crossroads and squares?
It could be said that this city, reduced to a monument and a setting, haunted
by the symbolism of the center, and itself centered on a colossal pyramid, that
sacralizes virtues and the government at the same time, is only an involuntary
pastiche. Despite the precise coordinates indicated by Aubry, it is tempting to
locate Liberty elsewhere than in France, namely in Utopia. In fact, this New
City and the organization of its space are isomorphs to the city found in utopian
novels and proposals throughout the eighteenth century. We are speaking, spe-
cifically, of isomorphism and not of influences. To nourish his imagination,
Aubry had no need to read and consult utopian texts. His proposal is only a
repetition, a revival, on a monumental scale, of a space and a style he could
have known from innumerable Revolutionary ceremonies and festivals, their
setting, their arrangements, and so forth. The city named Liberty is only one of
many pieces of evidence of a double movement: that of the utopian imagination
to conquer urban space and that of dreams of city planning and of architecture
in search of a social framework in which they can materialize.
 1
The City in Utopia

À ee the capital of the kingdom of the Sévarambes, with

whose mores and history we are already somewhat familiar, is located in the
center of an island thirty miles in circumference, in the middle of a large river.
This island, in turn, is approximately at the middle of the lands belonging to
the nation. The capital makes its contribution to the population of these lands
as the number of its inhabitants increases. In fact, the Sévarambes have a maxim
that the population of the capital must never surpass a certain limit. So Sévariade
has approximately 267,000 inhabitants. In the land of the Sévarambes, other
cities following Sévariade’s example are to be found, although they are smaller
and less beautiful. As far as the capital is concerned, it could be said that it is
the most beautiful city in the world, whether one judges it by its location and
the fertile soil surrounding it, or one considers the beauty and salubriousness of
the climate, or the magnificence of its buildings and the good maintenance of
law and order one notices in the capital. We can trust the narrator’s judgment
on this point: he has traveled a great deal and seen a lot before having debarked
among the Sévarambes, in the austral lands. But we can judge for ourselves, as
well.
The island where Sévariade is located is surrounded by a thick wall which
fortifies it all the way around and thus protects it from all enemies. The city is
square in shape and although we are not told its area exactly, this is not too
difficult to calculate. The capital is conceived according to a rational, clear, and
simple plan, which is rigorously followed, and which makes this the most regular
city in the world. It takes about an hour to go on foot from the periphery to the
center of the city, where the palace of the Sun, the residence of the king, the
wise Sévarminas, is situated. Let us, for the moment, pass over the marvelous
architecture of this palace, while noting that it, too, is located in the middle of

223
224 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

a spacious square onto which several very straight and extremely wide streets
open.
If our narrator were initiated into the jargon of modern city planning and
not only into the language of the Sévarambes (and not particularly well specialized
in this field although he is perfect in several other respects), he would have told
us that the urban space of Sévariade is laid out according to a fundamental unit
of the habitat. The capital contains, in fact, 260 osmasies. An urbanistic unit,
the osmasie is, at the same time, the fundamental socioeconomic unit of the
Sévarambes. As we know, the latter know nothing of private property and each
osmasie works in common. The products of this work go into a public store
where everyone stocks up on supplies of everything he needs. A system of stores
allows for the redistribution of surpluses as well as for each osmasie’s being
able to procure the products that it cannot secure for itself by its own industry.
And each osmasie, composed of more than one thousand people comfortably
accommodated, inhabits a square building, with a façade of fifty geometric feet,
with four doors opposite one another and a large court in the middle of the
building. Thus each osmasie forms a quarter that is at once opened on the city
and centered on itself and particularly on its interior court which forms a large
square and where the public store is located. All the houses have four stories
and are built of a kind of marble or white stone.
Sévariade is a city conceived for the well-being and convenience of its
inhabitants. Although it is frequently very hot (located at a latitude of 42° south),
there are fountains, shade, flowers, and gardens to be seen everywhere. It could
even be said to be a city-garden. Thus, greenery surrounds the city since there
are fields and meadows on the island and, as the island is completely surrounded
with strong walls, it could easily be taken for a city. But even in the city proper
there is greenery everywhere, and this greenery is its greatest ornament. In fact,
in every street there are iron pillars which support wide balconies decorated with
beautiful vases filled with earth, in which grow diverse flowers and bushes,
making so many gardens against the windows. At the interior of each osmasie,
similar balconies and gardens are found, all around the court. Greenery has even
been planted in the court itself, where there are a fountain and a spray of water.
The balconies protect the city dwellers from the rain and sun. In summer, cloths
are hung over the streets, making them all the cooler as the air circulates freely
in this city of wide avenues.
An ingenious system insures the abundance of water indispensable both
for the greenery and for the cleanliness of the city. The water comes to the roof
of each house, which allows for extinguishing fire should this be necessary (it
does not seem, however, that Sévariade was ravaged by a single fire). From
there, the water is distributed by diverse pipes, into the courtyard fountain, baths,
different offices, and finally all the apartments. (Can one reasonably conclude
that with this abundance of water and advance technique of piping it, the Sé-
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 225

varambes also have an invention similar to that made in Europe in 1625 by J.

Harrington, an aristocrat-philosopher, and have succeeded in transforming lav-
atories into water closets within each of the apartments? At the time of our
account, this invention, however paramount its importance for the evolution of
the big city and for its salubriousness in particular, is a very recent technical
novelty.) The same system of water distribution permits frequent street cleaning,
which is, moreover, all the easier as the streets have been re-covered with paving
stone.
The principal ornaments of the city are the palace, the temple of the Sun,
the large amphitheatre for public celebrations, and the fountain basin. The palace,
that radiant center of the capital and of the whole country, is of dazzling beauty.
It is square like the other buildings, and has a façade of no less than 500 geometric
feet and a circumference of two miles; it is completely built of white marble,
ornamented with different architectural pieces; it has twelve doors on each side
which are placed ‘‘one opposite the other so that one can see through the whole
palace.’’ Besides these doors, the main entrance is formed by a colossal portal
which has 244 bronze and marble columns on each side and several orders of
pillars above, mixed with diverse figures and statues. In this magnificent palace,
all the orders of architecture are admirably well observed and our narrator—let
us trust him yet again—has never seen anything that could approach it. If we
lack a less cursory description of this edifice, which was so rich and majestic,
it is only because such a description would fill whole volumes. And, as our
guide frankly admits, it would call for people more skilled in art than he, to be
worthy of fulfilling the task.’
To know Sévariade is to know all the other cities of the Sévarambes. They
are all built on the same square plan, respect the same principles, and only differ
by their size. But, this is likewise true of the other cities of Utopia, situated
other than in the country of the Sévarambes, which resemble one another to the
point that after having visited one of them, one has the feeling of having seen
them all. Nevertheless, to use the formula consecrated by that famous guide
who arranges the itineraries for millions of tourists, as well as the use of their
imagination, these cities, if they are not worth the trip, nevertheless are worthy
of a detour. It is only infrequently fascinating, but almost always instructive.
And that is true not only because of the repetitive elements but also because of
a detail that distinguishes each of them: in one case, the shape of a plaza; in
another, the architecture of a building, or else a technical invention.
Leliopolis, the capital of the kingdom of the Féliciens, is built at the mouth
of a river and, by its site, is somewhat reminiscent of Marseilles. The city is of
the same size as Paris, with approximately 600,000 inhabitants, but what a great
contrast there is between the two. One is struck, above all, by the perfect
regularity that prevails there. The streets are wide and so straight that one has
the impression that they were laid out with a ruler. They open on spacious plazas,
226 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

in the middle of which are fountains and public buildings. No wall encloses the
city—it is open to the fields that surround it. The two banks of another river
that runs across it are set up as splendid promenades. To facilitate communication
in the city, several bridges have been constructed across the river, which is about
the same width as the Seine. There are no houses on these bridges, which is
very practical for their users, and which adds to the beauty of the city by opening
broad perspectives on both sides of the river. The streets are covered with white
and red paving stones, which are very strong and easy to wash. Thus, moving
about in this city is easy and the beauty of the surroundings makes it truly
enjoyable.
All the houses are constructed of marble, which is found in abundance in
the country (which is, besides, quite rich in alabaster; diamonds and rubies are
also easily found there). The architecture of the houses is nearly uniform, al-
though the residences of the important people in the state are more sumptuous
and distinguished by their beauty and exterior richness as well as by their par-
ticularly luxurious interiors. The economic and social system of the Féliciens is
different from that of the Sévarambes—private property is respected. Neverthe-
less, no one there is poor—there are only people who are richer than others.
And since, as we know, it is not riches that make for happiness, everyone there
is happy. Leliopolis, like the entire kingdom, lives in the time of progress. The
expansion of the sciences, the arts, industry and commerce allowed for decorating
the whole city as well as the individual houses. Their splendor, their luxury—
always useful as it allies comfort and beauty—greatly surpass everything that
can be seen in European countries (once again, we can trust our narrator who
is, once again, a seasoned traveler). The houses are surrounded by gardens; and
the city extends—for ten or twelve miles—with innumerable pleasant and well-
cared-for country houses. The most important monument in the city is the Royal
Palace which, by its architecture, is worthy of the enlightened and benevolent
king who inhabits it. This palace is not in the center of the city but is, rather,
situated at one end of it, on a hill that dominates it, surrounded entirely by
magical gardens, which descend in terraces. Once again our guide assures us
that it would take whole volumes to describe the beauties and all the splendor
shining forth from this edifice. Other beautiful cities are to be found in Felizia,
but it is the countryside that most particularly strikes the travelers—the stone
houses, with beautiful gardens, grouped around a central square, the scene of
festivals and games.”
In order to visit Selenopolis, it is necessary to make a detour by way of
the moon; or, more exactly, it is necessary to go to the other side of the moon.
In fact, on one of its hemispheres, one can find nothing that at all resembles
earthly cities. The capitals everywhere are dirty; one runs the risk of being run
over by vehicles; theaters resemble prisons; the promenades, formerly splendid,
are like cesspools; the streets are narrow and winding; the air is unhealthy; and
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 227

the water, in the few fountains, is not drinkable. It is only on the other hemi-
sphere, on a continent that corresponds to the American continent on earth, that
one discovers a different universe.
Selenopolis is located three miles from the sea, to which it is linked by a
large canal. It is laid out according to a strictly even square and each side measures
twenty-four stades. The principal street, called avenue Royale, crosses the entire
city and ends on both sides with triumphal arches of simple but noble and majestic
architecture. These triumphal arches are the entrance gates into the city, as it is
surrounded by a wall. Thus the city, in all its beauty and splendor, opens itself
to the traveler as soon as he enters it. The other streets are as straight as the
avenue Royal and, although not so wide, they are at least twenty-four toises,
not including the colonnades bordering each street on both sides. These colon-
nades have a double function: they reserve paths for pedestrians and thus insure
their safety, and the arcades they form protect them from the sun and rain. The
façades of individual houses are all uniform and regular, but numerous public
edifices—temples, schools, and the like, as well as fountains, lend variety to
the architecture. Thus, the ensemble is harmonious without being boring, as the
uniformity is not pushed too far. (The narrator is very sensitive to this aspect
of the architecture—he disliked the chateau of Versailles, seen from the garden,
particularly because of its monotony.)
In the middle of the main street and, hence, in the middle of the city, is
a spacious square from which eight wide streets lead, in turn, to other similarly
shaped plazas. The central plaza, called the place Royale, is composed of six
separate buildings, all of sublime architecture. The most majestic is the royal
palace, distinguished by its magnificent colonnade. The other edifices situated
on the plaza—the arsenal, the court, the city hall, the theater, the Scholars’
Palace, and the seat of the Academies—are all of the same height, but each is
constructed in a slightly different style. On the balustrades along these buildings,
appropriate statues symbolically express the purpose of each building. In the
middle of the plaza is an equestrian statue—that of the reigning king. This statue
is, in a manner of speaking, removable. Certainly the love of the people for its
just and enlightened king calls for the statue to be located in the most prestigious
spot in the city; but, on the other hand, reason deems it impossible to make a
new place for each king in a city where every inch must be properly utilized to
avoid falling into disorder. And what of the enormous expense that that would
entail? So, at the death of the king, his effigy is removed and placed in a special
rotunda. But that is done only on condition that the defunct king had contributed
to the happiness of the people—otherwise, he is forgotten. On the eight other
plazas, obelisks and pyramids were erected; also there were the statues of the
great men deserving of the recognition and gratitude of the country. These latter
statues are not removable, and famous warriors rub elbows with scholars and
artists.
228 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

All the houses are of marble, stone, or brick—the city is never in danger
of falling victim to a fire, all the more so, as it doesn’t lack for water, thanks
to the aqueducts that transport it into every house. The well-to-do have all
installed baths in their houses and even sprays to water the gardens. For the less
well-off, public baths have been set up throughout the city, with separate ones
for men and women. They are open all day, they are free, and there is abundant
clear running water. Thanks to an ingenious system of streams, the streets are
regularly washed.
Cleanliness is also insured by sewers installed in every house, as well as
canals and a central main sewer (large enough to be maintained and cleaned
without difficulty) by which refuse is sent out to sea. And another detail, ex-
tremely important in a large city: to prevent stench in the streets, small discrete
cottages were built in several areas so that urgent needs can be satisfied, and
these, too, are continuously cleaned by a technical installation. The air is thus
always fresh and salubrious, all the more so as on every marketplace, which are
all spacious and convenient, a pit cleaned by water coming from a large fountain
is to be found. The slaughterhouses are outside of the city, as are the cemeteries
and hospitals. Nevertheless, in each section of the city there is a small hospital
serving only urgent cases. Taking the sick outside the city proper contributes to
its healthiness. But this is also preferable for the sick themselves. Outside the
city, comfortable buildings are provided in which, in large wards, each has a
bed to himself. No prisons are located either in Selenopolis or its environs—
they are all in the interior of the country, as are the insane asylums, institutions
for the chronically and incurably ill, and so forth. One last curiosity to note—
the astronomical observatory. It is distinguished by the fact that any oval or
round line was strictly avoided in its construction. This accentuates still more
the predominance of straight lines in Selenopolis. In fact the rectangle, the square,
and the cube, as opposed to the circle and the sphere, correspond best to the
state of peace, security, and tranquility.”
The last city we would like to go through is also on the moon. Lunol has
650,000 inhabitants, and its population never exceeds this limit. In fact, every
year there is a census, and as soon as it is noticed that the population has grown
too much, all measures permitted by humanity to preserve the balance are taken.
For the inhabitants of the moon it is evident that if the extension of a metropolis
is not controlled, it can only ruin the country. This limitation of urban growth
is insured by legislation. Thus the spatial limits of the city are fixed once and
for all by boundary markers in the form of marble columns, which no one would
dream of moving and which were installed at the founding of the city. The lands
surrounding the latter belong to the state and it is forbidden and, above all,
unthinkable that houses be built there chaotically—just as it is forbidden and
unthinkable that at the interior of the city rich entrepreneurs would build houses
encroaching on the plazas and promenades. So a traveler who approaches Lunol
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 229

is struck by a double spectacle: the forest and fields that surround it, and, on
the other hand, the panorama of an immense city dominated by the towers of
the great public monuments. These towers are in the forms of pyramids, domes,
cubes, cones, and so forth; some are massive, others very light; some are very
tall, others scarcely higher than the houses. There is nothing chaotic and troubling
in all that—the effect sought for and attained was the uniting of diversity and
order and the elimination of monotony. The royal palace dominates all the other
public edifices, each of which is of sober architecture appropriate to its function.
But a stranger has no need to ask for information about the latter—the
architecture speaks to him in a universal language, that of well-ordered forms.
Private houses each have four stories, which insures a nice regularity as well as
free circulation of the fresh air coming from the fields, an essential hygienic
requirement. For that matter, everywhere the beautiful is allied with the useful
—Lunol is a city built for men. These inhabitants need the air to circulate freely
as much as they themselves need to circulate in their city with neither hindrances
nor danger. Thus, the streets and avenues are wide and straight, and the principal
streets cross the entire city, from one gate to the other. The streets are intersected
by others at right angles to them, and it is this regularity that makes the great
beauty of the city. But the same can be said for its convenience—no one had
the absurd idea of making streets that are narrower than the access routes, in a
city where there is a lot of traffic. Circulating freely also means doing so in
complete safety, and in Lunol this problem was easily resolved. First, they
thought to raise the parts of the streets reserved for pedestrians, but for many
reasons this solution proved too awkward. Finally, it was decided to separate
these parts of the roadway, which were six feet wide, by installing stone markers
and putting chains between them. To allow the pedestrians to move about freely,
those who use carriages or horses must restrain themselves. It is thus unthinkable
that people gallop at any speed they wish; the rich prefer to wait for a moment
rather than put the lives of their fellow citizens in danger. At the crossroads,
where there are no chains, panels are set up with the message ‘‘Protect the lives
of your fellow citizens’’—and a special guard, provided with a bell, does nothing
but regulate traffic. In truth, this is not really indispensable—everyone has been
educated to respect this order that is as practical as it is necessary. So there are
no accidents in Lunol and no street is ever obstructed. There is nothing surprising
about the fact that Lunolians so like to walk about their city. They do this with
all the more pleasure because they know that they never run the risk of having
a chamber pot emptied on their head or having a drainpipe suddenly shower
them with cold water. That is all merely a question of good sense and simple
order—and yet it is necessary to go to the moon to find it. In Paris, where
everyone prides himself on being a philosopher, things are different.*
We could continue this voyage but, as we have said, the cities in Utopia
resemble one another too closely for it to be worthwhile. Everywhere we will
230 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

find wide and straight avenues opening on large round or square plazas, which
are the scenes of festivals and festivities. There is nothing chaotic in these cities:
everywhere a perfect and striking order reigns, in the planning and development
of the whole as well as in the architecture of all the houses, public edifices,
monuments, and fountains, which embellish the city and are in perfect harmony
with one another—they ennoble the city without crushing it, although they are
monumental. Everything is built of marble and stone and there is no lack of
quarries in the area.” They are large and lively cities, often on the order of the
Paris of the time, but it is easy to get one’s bearings in them, and then one is
guided, in a manner of speaking, from the periphery to the center by the streets
and plazas as well as by the monuments. They are healthy cities, both physically
and morally, and everything in them has been planned to insure the health and
convenience of their inhabitants. The water is fresh, the air is pure, and the
greenery abundant. There is respect for order everywhere which, when added
to the layout of the streets, insures the free flow of traffic as well as the safety
of pedestrians. Thanks to many ingenious inventions, a perfect system of pipes
insures the circulation of water into all the houses, and a sewer system protects
the city from unhealthiness. The metropolises never overrun and crush the
country—their expansion is limited by wise legislation; they do not devour the
countryside, but rather complement it by their specific activities. This is, briefly
described, the urban framework of a happy life—everything in the city is func-
tional, and the beautiful is inseparable from the ideal. Of course, there are
differences from one city to another, and they are not all negligible; we shall
return to these below. Nevertheless, it is the similarities that predominate. The
proof of this is that nearly all the elements of these cities are interchangeable—
fragments taken from Lunol could be integrated into Sévariade and vice versa.
Nothing indicates that the authors of these works have read those of their pred-
ecessors and been inspired by them. It could even be said that throughout the
century all they do is continually reinvent the same city. But, on the other hand,
it is remarkable that the differences that exist among the socioeconomic and
political systems of these imagined societies do not have a great influence on
the global vision of the city. The latter fits as well into the quasi-communist
society of the Sévarambes as it does into that of the Felicians in which private
property and social and economic inequality persist. Let us add yet another
example. The ideal city whose principles are fixed by Morelly in his Code de
la nature is often considered the first charter of city planning. Nevertheless, the
same key ideas are to be found there as in several other cities in Utopia. ‘‘ Around
a large plaza of a regular shape, will be erected, with a uniform and agreeable
structure, the public shops for all provisions, and the public meeting rooms.
Outside this area the sections of the city will be aligned, all equal, of the same
form, and regularly divided by streets. . . . All the sections of a city will be
arranged so that they can be extended when necessary, without disturbing their
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 231

regularity, and this growth of the section will not go beyond certain limits. . . .
Each tribe will occupy one section and each family will have a spacious and
comfortable lodging; all these edifices will be uniform, etc.”’°
Do these visions of cities in Utopia not anticipate the reality of our con-
temporary cities or even our dreams of city planning? The anachronism is all
the more tempting as these accounts lend themselves to differing readings and
offer only too great a choice. In fact, can these cities not be seen as anticipations
of our ‘‘new cities’? with their rationality and their functionalism that are as
perfect as they are overwhelming and suffocating? But why not the anticipation
of the socio-realistic variation of these same cities—with their enormous plazas
prepared in advance for popular demonstrations and parades for which there is
never an insufficient crowd, with their monumental public buildings constructed
according to a mistaken neoclassicism and surrounded by sculpture that exalts
both the civic virtues and the state that both incarnates and inculcates them? But
would a more favorable, if not optimistic, reading not be equally possible? Do
the cities in Utopia not propose a vision of city planning that still makes us
dream? That of city-gardens, which never exceed certain limits, strangers both
to wild expansion and land speculation, which harmonize with the environment,
cities in which traffic is regulated by the way they are laid out, in which there
are neither pollution nor traffic jams, in which one can breathe pure air and walk
around?
We must not, however, take what is only the result of projecting our own
nostalgia and uneasiness on these two century-old texts for anticipation, presen-
timents. That would be honoring the ugliness we ourselves have imagined and
established too highly by giving it a secular genealogy. That is justifying it while
condemning it; one does not do justice to the utopian visions of the city, however
imaginary they may be, by attributing a prophetic value to them.
If, on the other hand, we renounce an anachronistic reading of these cities
in Utopia, they prove to be even more revealing in another way. In fact, these
accounts bring us precious evidence both of the extent and the historical limi-
tations of the field of the imaginary developed by a certain utopian discourse.
These limitation have to do, first, with the particular characteristics of the utopian
enterprise itself, and, in particular, with the one contained in the paradigm of
the imaginary voyage and, second, with the historical realities of city planning
with which the social imagination is grappling. In other words, beyond one
utopian vision of the city or, another, one finds the historical conditions of a
certain social imagination whose effect is that at a given time its field is in no
way limited. In this sense, the repetition of the same themes, which becomes
monotonous, is not devoid of interest. It brings out the key ideas of city planning
in Utopia, beyond the imagination of any single author. It could even be said
that the more imaginative the author, the more significant the fact that he does
not evade this repetition.
232 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

This repetition stems, first, from the subordination of the theme of the city
to a certain ideal of happy rationality or, if you will, of rational happiness. In
fact, what is repeated in these visions is the articulation of a specific representation
of the social space on concrete realities of the historical city of the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries. The vision of the city is merely a screen on which to
project this ideal, attempting to make it concrete in a series of images, whence
the strange mixture of the concrete and the abstract, of the universal vision and
the most minute picturesque detail. These details in no way cloud the image.
Their function is to bring to the fore the perfect transparency of the city in relation
to the principles which are its bases. These are the very principles that govern
the universal society, and the city is only a sort of spatialization of a system of
social, moral, and esthetic values—their representation in space. Thus, the lines
and the regular shapes, the squares, circles, and cubes, are so many signs that
allow us to read in the space the order, or rather, the idea of order that governs
social life. Despite the accumulation of details, the urban space lacks depth—
dimension specific to itself.
All these cities have no history—a problem to which we shall return. But
just the same, in all these cities, the space is charged with an educational function.
Nothing eludes this essential function—neither the organization of the whole of
the city nor the slightest details of its architecture. They are, indeed, cities worthy
of the societies that live in them, all happy and rational. But they are, as well,
cities in which each promenade is a virtual lesson in civic and moral virtues, an
apprenticeship in the social order. It could almost be said that everything in them
is both reality and symbol at one and the same time. The square or round plazas,
the straight and wide avenues, the symmetry and the variety, the paving slabs
of marble or stone, do not only give order to the city, but are also and above
all the visible signs of the rational order to which it is subordinated. This sub-
ordination of the city to the universal vision of the social order does not in any
case end in a renewal of the language of architecture and city planning—rather
the existing language of forms is taken over and charged with conveying the
social message of the New City. Or a completely new and surprising style is
merely announced, with the reservation that it will not be described, as ‘‘that
would take whole volumes.’’ So cities in Utopia are not oriented toward a city
planning of dreams. What is reiterated insistently, however, is the dream of city
planning, the image of the city submitted to a rigorous plan. It is a rudimentary
and frequently quite timid city planning, yet is inclusive and constrictive, as it
lets nothing escape its abstract principles.
These images of an alternative city do not call any of the historical functions
of the city back into question—it remains the political, administrative, economic,
and cultural center, and it is not by chance that these accounts show a clear
preference for capital cities. Similarly, the functions of the city are defined by
opposition to those of the countryside and its way of life, and there is no attempt
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 233

to rebalance the relationship between the two. Of course, the anarchic expansion
of the city is checked, yet its size frequently remains that of the large European
cities of the time. Thus the urban condition proves to be completely adaptable
to the ideal social order, but on the condition that the city be purified, as much
in the spiritual sense as in a prosaic, down-to-earth, physical or hygienic sense.
We have already emphasized water which, thanks to numerous fountains, flows
overabundantly in these cities and which is at once the material instrument and
the symbol of the pure city. It is, though, characteristic that in many of the
utopias, the infirm, chronically ill, and aged (except, of course, for the venerable
old man who is acting as guide) are relegated far from the cities or, at least,
from the capital. The happy city thus rids itself of everything that might bring
its beauty and happiness into doubt. Among the Sévarambes, there is a city,
quite as regular, but where were gathered all the hunchbacks of the country. In
Selenopolis the houses of the aged are outside the city; this is, of course, good
for their health and, on the other hand, one does not meet them when walking
through the city. The placing of hospitals outside the city is explained by rea-
sons of health and hygiene; but prisons, too, are placed outside the city limits
for reasons having nothing to do with the health of the criminals. The city that
wants and intends to be pure thus rejects and casts out anything evil that might
soil it.’
The rules of city planning are even more abstract and constrictive because
the narrative accounts of the cities in Utopia are just that, that is, the cities in
question are only literary cities—not in the sense that they are unrealizable,
fantastic; that is not the aspect that interests us here, nor is it, in our context,
the most important. We shall encounter other cities which were not realizable
either, because it was historically impossible to link together the social, or even
technical conditions necessary to make the proposals concrete. Nevertheless, the
representations of these cities could not be reduced to an account, to words; they
required plans and drawings. But this was not the case with the cities in Utopia
of which it had been a question up to that point. One could, of course, attempt
to make a more or less sketchy outline or plan of them, based on one account
or another. But it then becomes obvious that one or another of the indispensable
elements is missing and, moreover, that this plan adds nothing to the compre-
hension of the text, or to the image of the city. The cities in Utopia, then, are
also literary in the sense that not one of their aspects escapes the word. The
entire city, in all its dimensions, can be recounted; at the very most “‘that would
call for additional volumes.’’ It is also noteworthy that the account is situated
on two levels. On the first, there is the statement of the abstract principles that
organize the urban space—the square or circular plan, the perfect regularity of
the streets, the houses, and so forth. Second, this same urban framework is
spoken of on the level of the individual and of actual lived experience—the
pedestrian is not run over by carriages, chamber pots are not emptied on his
234 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

head, etc. These two levels are, of course, complementary. There is a whole
play of mirrors between the overall image of the city submitted to a rigorous
plan and the fragmentary and limited images situated within the perspective of
a single walker. The abstract and rigid principles of basic city planning were
thus taking shape in a series of images that had, at the same time, to add
picturesque color to the account.
It is useless to stress the fact that yet another reference intervenes on both
levels of the account. The realities of the big cities of the time are always
implicitly or even explicitly presented, particularly when the text becomes sa-
tirical. It is, after all, this opposition to the real city that is the pivot of the
account and that gives a certain life to these imaginary cities and to their abstract
city planning. The structure of the text supposes a reading that does not confine
the reader to the imaginary, but requires that he go on to a permanent confron-
tation between the imaginary city and the real one. So the imaginary city, however
poor in dreams, nevertheless led to dreams of city planning that would be opposed
to real cities in their chaotic growth.
Paradoxically, it is by the repetition of a few principles and anecdotal
details, which are always the same, that the accounts of imaginary histories
approach historical realities more closely. Of course, as we have said, this
repetition is part of the paradigm of the imaginary voyage. But, on the other
hand, can this not be seen as a negative replica of the constants of the urban
reality of the time? The accounts of streams of water which clean the streets
paved with marble are not, after all, more monotonous than the long series of
petitions and policy regulations ‘‘on the bad state of the fountains; despite the
precautions taken to deal with the water shortage, we are about to experience a
total lack of water’’; ‘‘forbidding the leaving of pea and bean pods, of artichoke
leaves in the streets’’; ‘‘proposing the installation in the Tuileries gardens of
places suitable to the satisfaction of certain needs in order to offer all of Paris
an idea of the sought-for cleanliness,’’ and the like.® In romantic literature, Paris,
a lively city, rich in adventures and numberless surprises, still has as a most
monotonous backdrop the image of an anarchic and unhealthy city. In Restif’s
Nuits de Paris, the singular adventures of the owl-man in search of the city very
frequently begin by a bone thrown through a window, which barely missed
killing the passerby, or by the rightful demand, rightful because it was in con-
formity with the frequently reiterated policy regulations, of being given, with
utmost urgency, the key to the lavatories in a private house. Grappling with
realities which only changed very slowly, was it not sufficient, in order to imaginé
an alternative city, to take up once again the same idea of a city governed by
rudimentary city planning, and to support it with a few clichés?
To bend themselves to an abstract and rigorous city planning, the cities
in Utopia had, necessarily, to be devoid of all history. In fact, the refusal of
history is pushed to extremes. Of course, there was no question of the imaginary
 THE CITY IN UTOPIA / 235

cities having a history analogous to that of real cities. Did the historical destiny
the latter experienced not materialize in their labyrinths of twisting and unhealthy
alleyways as well as in their ‘‘Gothic’’ monuments? Yet it is striking that city
planning is imagined and thought of as a refusal of all history, even of the
wished-for and desired history of the ideal City. It goes without saying that the
cities in Utopia were based, from their very beginnings, on a rational plan. They
certainly grew—but within limits and based on principles set down in advance.
They kept no vestige of their past and the ingenious idea applied to Lunol perfectly
sums up this fierce interdiction against any trace of history. The inhabitants of
Lunol, it will be recalled, wanted to have the effigy of their king in the center
of the city. But kings, even the model kings in Utopia, die and succeed one
another and the city can have but one single central spot. Besides, there is no
question of setting up new plazas in Lunol and of submitting the city to the
caprices of history. So the statue in the central plaza becomes a turntable. As
soon as the king dies, a new effigy is put on the same pedestal and the old one
goes to the museum. In this way the plaza and the city triumph over their own
history.
If cities in Utopia do not experience history, the imaginary City nevertheless
undergoes an evolution. In fact, if one attentively compares the accounts quoted,
which are spread out over more than one century, one finds some changes which,
although minor, are nevertheless revealing. Thus, the walls that surround the
city begin to fall and the limits are no longer fixed by markers; the regularity is
kept, but there is an attempt to add some diversity to it in order to eliminate too
great a monotony; new forms of architecture begin to make their appearance.
The imaginary city does not, then, succeed in completely cutting itself off from
history—in its own way, it integrates, in its abstract space, some evolutionary
elements of urban realities, but also, and above all, ideas and dreams that seek
to take over real cities and their historical space.
 2
“To Envision the City as a
Philosophe . . .”’

€ ‘HT.ere isÀ eset. an

a very wide, big street, in a straight line and bordered
by two or four lines of trees. It ends at a triumphal arch, from which it enters
onto a large semicircular, semi-oval, or semi-polygonal plaza crossed by several
big streets forming the branches of a crossroads, some of which lead to the
center, others to the city limits, and all of which have a beautiful object at their
end.’’ This image of a sort of triumphal road by which one enters a city is not
taken from an account of a voyage into the austral lands or even to the moon.
We took it from the work of the Abbé Laugier, published in 1753, and this is
not a question of an imaginary city, but of a proposal for the beautification of
Paris.” Laugier sets his proposal up in opposition to the pitiful state of the gates
of Paris. ‘‘From whatever side one arrives at this capital, the first objects to
present themselves are always some sorry looking palisades more or less raised
above wooden streets, moving on two old hinges and flanked by two or three
piles of manure. That is what is given the pompous name of the gates of Paris.
There is nothing quite so miserable to be seen in the smallest towns in the
kingdom. Foreigners who pass through these gates are shocked when told that
they are now in the Capital of France. It is necessary to argue with them to
convince them, they can hardly believe their eyes, they imagine they are still in
some nearby small town. That all proves how indecent it is that the gates of a
city such as Paris are so lacking in any sort of ornament. Large triumphal arches
should be built where all the barrières are.’’ This is only one of the indispensable
elements to ensure that Paris has the magnificence and beauty he calls for and
which in every city ‘‘depend principally on three things: its entrances, its streets,
and its buildings.’’'° Laugier’s book had a great success and gave rise to a good
deal of controversy. Twenty years after its publication, J.-F. Blondel still speaks
of the influence the book has on architects, while judging it disastrous. ‘‘Our
236
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 237

young architects are reasoners who do not reason. Because they have read farther
Laugier’s Essai, they think they are educated.’’'’ The author of the Essai was
frequently criticized for speaking dogmatically about architecture and city
planning—of thinking up, as an amateur, chimerical projects. On the other hand,
he was criticized for having borrowed his ideas on the city, and particularly on
the beautification of Paris, from diverse authors and for presenting hackneyed
ideas as original ones of his own.'* Does the literary and ‘‘reasonable’’ character
of the Abbé Laugier’s work not explain the affinity between the imaginary cities
in Utopia and his proposals? Blondel was not “‘literary,’’ and his Cours d’ Ar-
chitecture served as a basic text for a whole generation of architects. However,
when Blondel formulated the ‘‘equally essential considerations that contribute
to making a flourishing city,’’ one would think that he only summed up the
basic principles of many a city in Utopia or else, if you will, that the authors
of the imaginary voyages practiced their city planning based on Blondel’s cours.
In fact, do they not translate into images those conditions the combination of
which makes a city happy and prosperous? ‘‘1. the advantage of its situation;
2. the ease of access to proper building materials; 3. the fertility of its surround-
ings, with abundant grain and livestock, for the subsistence of its inhabitants;
4. the peaceful and industrious genius of its citizens; 5. the wisdom and gentleness
of its government.’’'? Pierre Patte, to whose architectural work we shall return,
takes a quasi-utopia as a system of reference when explaining his ideas of city
planning. He criticizes Plato for having forgotten ‘‘to imagine the plan of a city
for its new citizens’’ when he ‘‘composed laws to form a Republic and make
men as happy as they could be in the state of society.’’’* Social happiness
necessarily calls for adequate urban structures; but the inverse is true as well—
the city, urban space, must be thought out and imagined in the perspective of
a social state that ensures maximum happiness. Would Plato, the city planner,
not necessarily have wanted the site of his ideal city to be healthy, with salubrious
water, not subject to harmful winds, fogs, or foul-smelling odors, which are
liable to cause sickness? He would certainly have thought about the proximity
of building materials, the risk of earthquakes, etc. The site of a city is of material
importance to the happiness of its inhabitants. What, then, could be said about
its layout and its beautification? Alas, they are ‘‘causes foreign to the happiness
of the men who have guided ‘the legislators’ in this establishment. . . . One
thinks only of political views and almost never about the aim one must have set
for themselves in such a case. That is why the cities were never arranged
appropriately for the well-being of their inhabitants, who are perpetually victims
of the same scourges, dirtiness, bad air, and an infinity of accidents that a
judiciously thought-out plan would have done away with.’’ Patte opposes to
these urban realities his vision of the ideal city which would combine ‘‘all the
advantages one might wish for the happiness of its inhabitants. Crossed by a
navigable river, surrounded by a canal, separated from the suburbs by prome-
238 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

nades, with embankments on all sides as far as the eye could see; its streets
arranged in such a way as to present sights that are always varied, always
interesting, here a spire, there a fountain or an obelisk, further along a statue,
elsewhere plazas, public buildings, colonnades. What residence could ever have
been more agreeable?’’'” One would think oneself in Lunol and yet Patte insists
on the idea that he is only drawing the ‘‘picture of an imaginary happiness one
would regret being unable to enjoy.’’ The principles of a city that could be the
framework for social happiness are perfectly applicable ‘‘to all cities and however
defective they are by their physical composition, they could be more or less
rectified by following our proposal.’’ This is notably the case of Paris, to which
we shall return.'°
Did the authors of the imaginary voyages read Blondel and Patte? Did
Sévariade or Felizia interest them? Is there a return to utopian themes by the
architects, or is it rather the utopian authors who transfer into imaginary countries
the ideal city that takes shape in the background of architectural treatises? It is
difficult to answer these questions if one attempts to clarify one particular work
or another, or one particular case or another. On the one hand, we have very
little information on the utopians’ readings and, on the other, the imaginary
voyages were part of the minor literature everyone read, without explicitly men-
tioning it. And then again, in order to do research in the origins of a particular
idea or image, would it not be necessary to extend the field of possible sources
and references? Did the utopians and the architects not both draw, each
in his
own way, from the Vitruves and the Albertis? Be that as it may, these questions
of influence seem secondary to us. Beyond the ideas and images, more or less
original depending on the particular instance, a common feeling emerges, which
is more and more widespread in the second half of the eighteenth century, namely
that of the divorce that had been established between men and the constructed
space they inhabit.'’ The city becomes the object of a debate which goes far
beyond the ‘‘specialists,’’ and people become more and more aware of its mul-
tiple aspects, functions, and contradictions. The first place naturally goes to
Paris, where the contradictions of the urban phenomenon of the time culminate.
Both the criticism of and the apologies for the big city are both increasingly
influenced by the myth of Paris. The success of the works that study ‘‘moral
physiology’’ and the Tableau de Paris by Mercier in particular, are so many
manifestations of the growing interest in the city as a social space. ‘‘The penchant
for embellishment has become general,’’ notes Laugier, ‘‘and, for the progress
of the arts, it is to be hoped that this taste continues and improves. But this taste
must not be limited to individual private houses, it must extend to entire cities.”’ 16
A happy phrase of Patte’s sums up this need for new attention to be paid to the
city and, in particular, to its planning: ‘‘Objects were constantly seen from the
point of view of a builder, whereas they should have been envisaged from that
of a Philosopher.’’’? And it is the utopians as well as the architects who apply
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 239

themselves to ‘‘envisioning the city as a Philosopher’’ and ‘‘considering Ar-

chitecture on a large scale, in its totality,’’ to use another of Patte’s formulas.
Whence the convergences between the cities in Utopia and the utopia of the city,
between the dream of city planning and the city planning that was imagined,
between the utopian who plays at being a city planner in imaginary countries
and the architect who rethinks the real city, referring to the model of Plato, the
founder of an ideal city. But if there are convergences and affinities, there are
also oppositions, both between the two approaches to the urban phenomenon
and among the languages in which the images of the ideal city are expressed—
convergence in the very way of envisaging the city ‘‘as a Philosopher.’’ A
voluntary construction by men, the city must be the expression of a rational will,
which can only be translated by an order to which it must submit. ‘‘Everything
in it is to be reasoned,’’ said Patte. Whence, too, an analogous attitude (but
within certain limits and with important reservations, to which we shall return)
toward the historic city. We have already discussed the rejection of the historic
city peculiar to the cities in Utopia. Nascent city planning, too, looks upon
history, as it manifested itself in the city, as an anarchic force, harmful in its
effects, and contrary to all rational order. ‘‘The majority of our cities,’’ writes
Laugier, ‘‘have remained in the state of negligence, confusion, and disorder into
which the ignorance and rustic simplicity of our elders put them. New buildings
are built, but nothing is changed in the bad way in which the streets are laid out
or in the awkward disparity of decorations made haphazardly and according to
anyone’s caprice.’’”° ‘‘Despite the multitude of cities,” writes Patte, ‘‘which
have been built up to this point in all the parts of the world, there have not been
any that can truly be looked on as models. Chance governed their general layout
no less than it did their site. To convince oneself of this, one only has to cast
a glance at them as a whole, to notice that they are all merely a mass of houses
laid out without any order, without following any suitably reasoned plan. . . .
What strikes one first, when one attentively examines a large city, is seeing
exposed refuse flow from all sides into the gutters before going into the sewers
and giving off, along their passage, all sorts of harmful odors; then, it is the
blood from the butchers, streaming in the middle of the streets and offering
horrible and revolting sights at every step. Here it is a section of the city stinking
with wastes from latrines; there, it is a number of filthy tipcarts, which take
over the streets daily, in order to take away refuse, and which, independently
of their filthy and disgusting appearance, cause all sorts of obstacles; further on,
you will observe in the center of the most frequented places the Hospitals and
Cemeteries perpetuating epidemics and sending the germs of maladies and death
into the houses. . . . In a word, the Cities will present to us on all sides the
abode of dirtiness, infection, and lack of comfort and well-being. . . . Who
would not believe, seeing the frightening picture of these disasters, that an evil
genius, an enemy of humankind, was the motivating force of the gathering of
240 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

men in the City?’’?! History is not only the disorderly mobility, but even and
above all these inert, materially present results which curb any rational change
if they do not totally prevent it. ‘‘Our cities are still what they were, a group
of houses, piled together pell-mell, without a system, without economy, without
design. Nowhere is this disorder more obvious and more shocking than it is in
Paris. The center of this capital has hardly changed one whit in 300 years; the
same number of small, narrow, winding streets are still to be seen there, giving
off nothing but filth and wastes and in which meeting vehicles cause constant
hindrances.’’?” This dream of a city, as rational as it is new, liberated from the
‘‘malevolent genius’’ of history, brings the utopian and the architect dreaming
of becoming Plato closer together. But the convergence stops there. The cities
in Utopia are empty of all historical substance; on the other hand, the imagination
of the city planner is captivated and haunted by the real city, by this ‘‘monster
Paris,’’ of which he dreams of taking possession, in order to dominate its his-
torical contingencies. Patte forcefully opposes all those who say that it would
be necessary to knock Paris down in order to reconstruct it, if one wanted to
make it into a beautiful city. “‘I think, on the contrary, that it would be necessary
to preserve everything that is worth saving, as well as all the sections and the
edifices that already form particular adornments so as to join it, with art, to a
general beautification.’’”* Paris, the historic city, with all its ‘‘absurdities,’’ is
not so much an obstacle to the dream of an ideal city as it is its greatest
opportunity. In contact with realities and grappling with them, the dream of an
ideal city takes on another orientation and form than those characteristic of the
imaginary city in Utopia.
Thus, beyond the convergences of certain key ideas one again finds the
fundamental opposition between two forms of utopia, the opposition we have
briefly defined as that between city planning in Utopia and the utopia of city
planning, between the cities in Utopia and the utopia of the city. The conver-
gences, if not the reciprocal reutilization of themes, conceal the specific char-
acteristics of the respective utopian undertakings and images. The utopia of city
planning is not satisfied with opposing an alternative city, in conformity with
the principles of the ideal city, to historical Paris; it imagines an alternative
Paris. This imagined Paris is not a simple variation of the ideal city or even a
simple projection of an ideal urban space on the historic city. The undertaking
is, rather, the reverse—it is the real city, with its contingencies and historical
constraints that is rethought and revised in light of the ideal urban space. Whence,
too, the different, if not opposing languages, which convey utopian images. As
we have noted, the cities in Utopia are only literary cities, the objects of a
narrative account. Of course, one could also recount an alternative Paris, the
utopia of Paris, and city planners as well as poets have frequently done so.
However, the specific language of the urbanistic utopia is that of the spatial
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 241

structures and architectural forms, and it is the ideal plan that this discourse
adopts as its privileged paradigm.
Of course, every city planning program is not necessarily utopian in the
sense that it would be the expression of a utopian vision of the city. Not every
plan necessarily refers to a system of values opposed to that which is already at
work in the real urban space. It is rarer still that it challenges the social structures
and types of human relationships of which the city and its arrangement are a
tangible manifestation. It has, however, been judiciously noted that between an
ideal program of city planning and the urban utopia the relationships are as
complex as the dividing lines are blurred, and particularly so when the latter
attempts to encompass the entire city. Depending on the circumstances, it is one
or the other orientation that is predominant and there are many slight differences
between the two formulas as well as mixed variations of the two. This obser-
vation is particularly valuable for the eighteenth century, the epoch of the dawn
of city planning, when the very idea of a general plan for the layout of a large
historic city, and Paris in particular, is inseparable from the theme and image
of the ideal city, both of which haunt the imagination of architects. However,
‘‘the ideal city implies the projection on a site of a rigid and geometric schema
of composition. On the contrary, if the natural conditions of the site and the
current needs of a population are given and even if the urban creation aims at
imposing a new specialization of the inhabited zones, one find oneself to be in
the presence of another type of city planning. In other words, the ideal city
creates the urban functions before the arrival of the inhabitants; the modern city
of Western Europe rebalances an urban area with the idea of a better adaptation
of the setting and surrounding to the human functions evolving according to
local conditions, often outweighing the local government.’’”> Thus, at its in-
ception, city planning is faced with a dilemma: utopia or reform. A decision
must be made as to whether ‘‘to see the architecture as a whole’’ and to envisage
the reconstruction of the real city in order to make it conform to the vision of
the ideal city, or else to adapt the model of this ideal city to the constraints of
the historic city, to its spatial and social structures. But is that not the dilemma
of all city planning? Is its history not one of compromises between the idea-
image of an ideal city and the diverse historical constraints and contingencies
its materialization comes up against? Compromises in which the utopian com-
ponent is more or less present and through which the utopia succeeds more or
less in inscribing itself in the real city and in modifying it?
The work of Patte is a noteworthy example of such a compromise, and
one that is particularly instructive in the context that interests us. In fact, Patte’s
work marks an important stage in the formation of city planning in the eighteenth
century and, at the same time, it is evidence of an intense exchange between
the idea-image of the ideal city and the realities of the historic city and, notably,
242 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

of those of Paris. What is to be done so that the essential reforms are not limited,
but take on a dimension such that they can more closely approximate the vision
of the ideal city? What is to be done so that the ideal city can be embodied in
the real city despite the farrago of absurdities the latter opposes to the rationality
of the former? For the man who wanted ‘‘to envisage the city as a Philosopher,”’
the utopia and the reform do not present themselves as the terms of an alternative
but rather as two convergent if not complementary approaches.
Patte does not speak of city planning—the term, in its present sense, does
not yet exist, and this absence translates the level of the language corresponding
to an early stage of the formation of city planning itself. In the Monuments érigés
en France à la gloire de Louis XV, the city is spoken of in the terms of a
traditional problem, namely that of the beautification of a city. But the
architect—an apprentice philosopher—believes that he is obliged to rethink the
very essense of what this ‘‘beautification’’ must be. The essential aspect is to
give a new dimension to the ‘‘penchant for beautification’? and to prevent its
limiting itself to an individual house or even to an isolated fragment of the city.
The architect cannot content himself with creating a beautiful building or even
a beautiful plaza. He must ‘‘consider Architecture on a large scale,’’ and that
means envisaging the city as a whole and conceiving it within the perspective
of a ‘‘total beautification.’’ He must ‘‘reason out the means that could be em-
ployed to embellish this city (Paris) in its totality and to make it as comfortable
as it would be agreeable.’’*° Up to the present, ‘‘the whole penchant for beau-
tification was limited to the houses of individuals. In the last fifty years or so,
nearly half of Paris has been rebuilt, without anyone having thought of subjecting
it to any general plan and without even having attempted to change the bad
layout of its streets.’’ This is Patte’s major idea—to reform Paris in little steps,
but from the perspective of a general plan which would be that of ‘‘the beau-
tification of the city as a whole.’’ Would it not thus be possible to give Paris
all the advantages of the model city, such as a ‘‘Plato who was an architect”’
would have conceived it, while keeping what had already been built that did not
contradict this model? ‘‘In order to succeed in bringing such desirable advantages
to a city, it would be opportune to make a general plan of it, one sufficiently
detailed to include all local circumstances, both of its site and of its surroundings;
in that way, one would be able to judge the respective situation of different
objects, their possible relationships, and the help one could expect in the exe-
cution of our views. . . . As far as possible, it would be advisable to join the
agreeable to the useful, keeping, in the reform of the plan of a city, all that is
worthy of being kept, all that already forms particular embellishments, to join
them, with art, to the total beautification. . . . Once the plan of a city has been
sufficiently meditated, little by little it would be executed not by knocking down,
as might be believed, all the houses, but in ordering that as new construction
was made, it would be governed by the proposed arrangement.’’?’
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 243

It is, then, a matter of a prospective plan, the expression of the vision of

a Paris of the future, ‘‘embellished in its totality,’’ but, at the same time, of a
guiding plan, imperative for the evolution of the city so that it would reach its
ideal term. And it is noteworthy that Patte envisages such a plan as the synthesis
of two plans which are different in their orientations and which would have to
be complementary: a plan of small reforms and one of the total recasting of the
city, the latter plan being the most open to dreams. ‘‘The first, in leaving the
city as it is, to repair defective spots, embellish it where it may be embellished,
and advantageously fill the empty parts, mindful of separating the City and the
Suburbs; in a word, it would be necessary to give the best order and the most
perfect harmony to all the parts of which it is currently made up, insofar as it
is possible to do so, for the useful as well as for the agreeable, and generally
for all that must enter into the decoration of a great capital city. In the second
plan, there would be full freedom to transform the City, and to decorate it as
judged suitable, to give it the magnificence that a great and beautiful capital
ought to have.’’?®
Patte was neither the first nor the only one of his time to demand a general
plan for the development of Paris. His merit lies above all in his extension of
ideal of ‘‘total’’ beautification; his originality was manifested in the presentation
of Paris as the place where the two plans met and could possibly merge. This
is the key idea of his magnificent Monuments a la gloire de Louis XV. But before
speaking of it, some observations must still be made on the moves and coun-
termoves between the dreams of an ideal city and the realities of the historic
city, between the utopia and the reform in Patte’s work.
Let us note, first, that for Patte the ideal city is by no means a space with
rigorous geometric forms, divided by regular lines. The image of the ideal city
suggested, so to speak, to Plato-the-architect, is different from that so frequently
reproduced in the cities in Utopia. “‘It is not necessary for the beauty of a city
that it be built with the cold symmetry of the cities of Japan and China, and that
it be an assemblage of houses regularly laid out in squares or parallelograms.
The essential is that all approaches to it be easy, that everything lead from the
center to the circumference without confusion.’’”? The external form of a city
is likewise of little importance and it must be determined according to the
constraints of the soil as well as the number of inhabitants. It is to be hoped
that it be given octagonal form but this is not in order to translate into images
the abstract idea of order. The city is beautiful only when it is functional and
that is why it is necessary to give thought to having ‘‘its different sections closer
together, in closer communication, with less distance from one extremity to the
other so that order could be more easily exercised.’’°° Subordinate the form,
then, to the needs, but also eliminate excessive regularity for purely esthetic
reasons. ‘‘It is especially advisable to avoid monotony and too great a uniformity
in the total arrangement of the plan, but to assign, on the contrary, variety and
244 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

contrast in the forms, so that different neighborhoods do not resemble one

another. The traveler must not perceive it at a glance; he must be constantly
attracted by interesting spectacles and by an agreeable mixture of plazas, public
buildings, and individual houses.’’*! There, too, Patte is not original in his
ideas—he only follows the evolution of esthetic principles and tastes.°” But his
vision of the city is particularly enriched by contact with realities—his ideal
Paris was to preserve a beauty characteristic of it alone and was not to seek to
imitate Versailles. This esthetic ideal is the direct opposite of the agonizing
stereotype of the perfect symmetry of the cities in Utopia. Besides, as we have
noted, the latter, too, are to undergo an evolution—such as Selenopolis, for
example, an imaginary city that seeks to escape monotony and to establish
variety.
To embellish the city, in joining ‘‘the agreeable to the useful,’’ in “‘rec-
onciling the beautification with the comfort of its inhabitants,’’ Patte returns
many times to this key idea of city planning. Easily recognizable within it is the
replica of a certain esthetic of the Enlightenment, one which was so frequently
harped on that it became hackneyed. To the agreeable and the useful another
key word is added, that of happiness. Together they define the finality of the
ideal city, which opposes it to the historic city: the latter was subordinated to
the search for prestige by those in high places, while the former must satisfy all
the inhabitants of the city and become the framework in which social well-being
can be harmoniously inscribed. ‘‘The entire worth of the most highly praised
Capitals consists only of a few rather well-built sections, a few tolerably aligned
streets, or of a few public monuments, commendable either for their mass, or
by the taste of their architecture. It will continuously be noted that all was
sacrificed to grandeur, to magnificence, but that no effort was ever made to gain
true well-being for men, to preserve their lives, their health, their goods, and
to assure the salubrity of the air of their dwelling place.”’
This notion of happiness nevertheless remains quite vague sociologically.
Patte is far from thinking of bringing back into question the social hierarchies
translated by the structures of the city. So, for example, there is no question in
his work of the restructuring of the relationships between the working-class
sections of the city and those of the rich. He does not imagine a city for man
as he ought to be, but for men as they are, and men whose most elementary
specifically urban needs must be satisfied so that they can enjoy their urban
conditions. But are more ambitious utopian orientations, bearing on the totality
of social life, nevertheless absent from his work? At the end of his life Patte
announces, in a prospectus, a work whose title leaves no doubt that he takes the
model of Plato-the-architect seriously. This title, if not concise, is at least explicit:
Fragments d’un ouvrage trés important qui sera mis sous presse incessamment
intitulé: L'homme tel qu’il devrait être ou la nécessité démontrée de le rendre
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 245

constitutionnel pour son bonheur et d'établir, par des lois vraiment conformes
à sa nature l'empire absolu que doit avoir son moral sur son physique.**
If the idea of happiness is vague and sociologically abstract, it takes more
concrete shape with its application to the problems of reforms that are in urgent
demand in the cities and, in particular, in Paris, ‘‘one of the cities where there
is certainly the most to reform in all respects.”’* Two themes dominate the
proposals for reforms put forward by Patte: circulation and hygiene. Thus, it is
necessary to widen the streets, to assure good access to the city and at the same
time easy and rapid circulation within the city itself. But, above all, to protect
the pedestrians from accidents, to insure their safety and to reserve, in every
street, two paths for the ‘‘people.’’ But what is even more urgent is hygiene—
the beautification of Paris is above all a matter of cleaning up and improving
living conditions. Therefore, it is necessary to install a sewer system for the
entire city; to set up ‘‘common places for the needs of the passer-by’’;*° to install
aqueducts and fountains which would put pure water within reach of all inhab-
itants; to remove the cemeteries and hospitals from the city; to push butchers,
tanneries, and ‘‘other unrefined trades and occupations’’ out into the suburbs,
and the like. Have we not seen all these proposals realized? Do they not furnish
the accounts of cities in Utopia? Yet Patte does not content himself with ad-
vancing them and speaking them—he translates them into a technical language,
proposes concrete solutions, plans, and drawings. Does the utopia of city plan-
ning not break down under all these large and small pragmatic reforms? The
realities are so painful, their weight so crushing that the city planner can only
fit ‘‘the great dreams and the small complaints’’ into one another.
As we have said, Patte insists frequently on the idea that the vision of a
‘totally beautified’’ Paris is not the picture of an “‘imaginary happiness.’ It is
not only minds lacking in imagination that see it as a chimera. “‘If, for example,
an able architect in 1620 had proposed to Louis XII making his house in Versailles
a place whose magnificence surpassed anything of the kind that had ever been
accomplished, it is certain that such a proposal would have been rejected; the
genius of the artist would have been admired, while his design would not have
been carried out. Yet this idea, however chimeric it may have seemed at the
time, is at present realized before our eyes.”’* The dream of a new Paris can
become reality only by the action of the government and it is to the king and
his top ranking advisors that Patte addresses himself; it is their imagination he
seeks to arouse. Louis XIV had Versailles built; it is incumbent on Louis XV
to realize a work of even greater scope, to transform Paris. Patte hopes that the
foundation of the new Place Royale can get the enterprise under way. It is
nevertheless noteworthy that he has confidence not only in the state as a patron,
and particularly in the enlightened king who would take on the execution of the
proposals of the architect-philosopher. Another factor is touched on, too, namely
246 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

that of time. It is necessary ‘‘to bequeath a great idea to posterity’ and to show
future generations the road which alone can ‘‘make them as happy as they can
be in their living conditions.’’*’ This time, which can but improve the plan ‘‘of
total beautification’ as it is accomplished, is no other than the time of progress.
The small reforms are inscribed in the same perspective—as they accumulate
they will contribute to the realization of the great design. The dream of city
planning is not projected only on space but also in time—the different Paris is
the one that will be realized by the future.
Patte himself did not develop this ‘‘total plan’’ for the beautification of
Paris that he desired his age to leave to future generations. As we have said,
his monumental and most original work is the collection of Monuments érigés
en France à la gloire de Louis XV in which Patte projects an imaginary Paris
on the real Paris or, rather, clarifies the possibilities of transforming the latter
by images of the former.
Let us rapidly recall the circumstances that provided the opportunity for
this work. In June 1748, to glorify the peace of Aix-en-Chapelle, a competition
was begun on the site of a plaza in honor of Louis XV, where his statue was to
be built. This competition aroused deep interest and passionate debate. Not only
architects took the floor; the ‘‘philosophers’’ became apprentice architects and
their voices “‘brought’’ to light the desire of the eighteenth century to raze Paris,
nearly totally, to reconstruct it in another way, rational, proud, and theatrical.’ ap
In July 1748, La Curne de Sainte-Pallaye opened fire in an article published in
the Mercure de France, in which, despite reservations about his architectural
qualifications, he nevertheless expounded on his ideas about this plaza, calling
for its foundation to give a new image to Paris.*! Bachaumont, in his Mémoires,
joined the battle on the subject, suggesting the most daring proposals, and finally
Voltaire himself intervened with his text Les embellissements de Paris, followed
by another Des embellissements de la ville de Cachemir. These texts broaden
the scope of the debate still further. A single plaza, even the most beautiful one,
cannot, alone, beautify the city; it is necessary to think of the overall layout of
Paris and in particular of hygiene, of the reconstruction of aged and ‘‘Gothic’’
sections. The last word, however, was reserved for architects, great numbers of
whom participated in the competition, and in particular, Gabriel, Soufflot, Des-
touches, and Broffrandi. Patte himself presented a proposal as well. In it, he
planned on locating the new Place Royale in such a way that it would result in
the transformation of the most unhealthy section, namely la Cité. He found ‘‘that
there is nothing to be saved in this section with the exception of Notre-Dame
and the building of the Enfants Trouvés (foundlings).’’ Otherwise, the Cité is
the very example of a section where ‘‘badly built, badly decorated’’ houses,
‘‘of Gothic construction’ abound. Thus, it would be necessary to raze ‘‘sev-
enteen churches that are completely useless because of the small area of this
section and which have neither the grandeur nor the dignity suitable to represent
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 247

the dwelling of the Supreme Being.’’ And then it would be necessary to demolish
the buildings in the palace courtyard (including the Sainte Chapelle!) and in rue
Saint-Louis, as well as ‘‘all the small houses belonging to the different fabrics
of the small parishes.’’ The Palais de Justice would be transferred ‘‘to a con-
venient place,’’ as would the hospital, since reasons of hygiene impose the
latter’s being placed outside the city or at its periphery. The proposal calis for
clearing the bridges of the houses that obstruct them and joining the Cité to the
Ile Saint-Louis. At the site of their junction a market should be set up and ‘‘a
circular plaza should finally be constructed at the tip of the Ile Saint-Louis,’ to
which the statue of Henri IV would be transferred. Thus there would be a
confluence of the conditions necessary for beautification, whose ‘‘principal object
would be the construction of a Cathedral on the new place Royale located between
the Pont de Change and the Pont Neuf.’’ (Notre-Dame ought not to be the parish
church of the Cité.) This section-monument demands an appropriate setting,
whence the proposal for the reconstructions of houses along the banks of the
Seine.”
This dream project certainly leaves us dreaming and, judging by it, the
plan “‘of total beautification’’ was not far from that of ‘‘having Paris razed.’’
Nevertheless, Patte’s great success was neither his own proposal nor the com-
pilation of several other proposals of places honoring Louis XV in a monumental
book with magnificent plates, detailed commentaries, and often judicious criti-
cism. His great stroke of inspiration was to bring all the proposals to bear on a
single general plan for Paris. The idea was unprecedented and the result struck
and stimulated the imagination. Patte did not, of course, seek to suggest by this
plan the accomplishment of all the projects, either simultaneously or even spread
out over time. His intention, it seems, was to facilitate the comparison of the
proposals, ‘‘of their extent, their respective location, and the advantages they
would have brought to this City.’’**? The result went a good deal beyond the
original objective.
The proposals all transferred together to a plan of the city showed not an
ideal city, but an imaginary Paris or, if you will, a Paris suspended between the
real and the imaginary. And even more than a single Paris, there were several
possible cities of Paris on the map. In fact, starting from one or another proposal
or from their diverse combinations, one could easily read several variations of
new organization of urban space on the same plan. The map presented the real
city as rich in multiple possibilities of transformation, of urban renewal, of
beautification and, again, as the privileged place for the implementation of the
imagination in city planning. The imaginary was thus inserted into the real even
while opposing it. The map of Paris did not transfer Paris into Utopia. It showed
it, with all the advantages of the diagrammatic presentation, as the place to which
the utopia of the city could be transported, and in which it could be established.
Mercier, in L’An 2440, seems to be the first to have taken the step and
248 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY"

established, so to speak, the utopian city in Paris itself. The interest of his vision
of the Paris of the future is not due so much to the creativity or the strength of
the imagination of its author but rather to the endeavor implemented. And, it is
a matter of a double endeavor—one which, starting from the historical city, is
oriented toward a utopian city and the other, which could be called the reverse,
and which models the historic city on the vision of the ideal city situated *‘no-
where,” in an imaginary country. The Paris of the year 2440 is the meeting
point of the one which would have undergone ‘‘total beautification’ and of a
Lunol or a Selenopolis that would have been replaced on the banks of the
Seine—the meeting point, but not the place of fusion. When all is said and
done, these two ‘‘cities’’ remain superimposed on one another. This has to do,
of course, with specific weaknesses of Mercier’s work, but it is also a revealing
example of this play of oppositions and affinities between the two utopian en-
terprises and between their respective languages, which we have already em-
phasized.
‘‘Everything was changed—this was the first impression of the walker
come from the eighteenth century to visit the Paris of the year 2440. All these
sections that had been so well known to me presented themselves to me in a
different and recently beautified form. I lost myself in grand and beautiful,
properly aligned streets. I entered spacious crossroads where such good order
reigned that I didn’t notice the slightest hindrance. I heard none of those vaguely
odd cries that used to be so ear-splitting. I encountered no vehicles ready to run
me over. . . . The city had a vibrant air, without troubles or confusion.’’*
Mercier refers explicitly to the sources that inspired his vision of this Paris
in which ‘‘everything has changed.’’ The picture of the Paris of the future is
intended only to put into images the supposed execution of different proposals
conceived in the eighteenth century. ‘Everything has its time. (The narrator,
having come from the eighteenth century, addresses the Parisians of the twenty-
fifth century.) Ours is that of innumerable proposals; yours is that of accom-
plishments.’’*° The description of the Paris of the future thus merges with the
great preoccupations of the proposals for city planning: circulation and hygiene.
‘The greatest people forms a free and easy circulation, full of order.’” That was
all the easier to realize as not only are all the streets wide and paved, but all the
carriages have disappeared. Was the use of carriages for moving about the city
not the sign of a superfluous luxury that was quickly done away with? The city
is well lit and the light in which it is bathed also has a symbolic import: Paris
no longer has anything of its physical and moral realities to hide. The apartments
are huge and clean and all the houses ‘‘are furnished with the things most
necessary and most useful to life. What cleanliness, what freshness in the air
there is as a result!’’ Thanks to the realization of the ‘‘proposal of M. Despacieux
of the Academy of Sciences, which has been further improved,’’ there is an
abundance of pure, fresh, cool water. So, fountains which ‘‘allow pure and
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 249

transparent water to flow, are to be seen everywhere.’’ Besides washing the

pavement, this has a symbolic function: the new Paris is as pure and transparent
as is the water. The hospital has been transferred from the Ile de la Cité out of
the city, as have the cemeteries.’’*°
What about the city plan and the layout of the city? It is notable that from
this point of view, the new Paris is, with the exception of a few details, only a
repetition of one of the plans to be seen on Patte’s map. So, the privileged place
from which this new Paris best offers itself ‘‘to the enchanted gaze’’ is the banks
of the Seine: and the proposals Patte transferred to the general plan of the city
were more or less equally laid out along the Seine, between the Ile Saint-Louis
and the place Louis-le-Grand as if ‘‘the Seine attracted and polarized all the
attention and as though there were the wish to open on it.’’*” The plazas are the
essential elements of the imaginary organization of the space, which, again,
coincides with Patte’s map. Thus, between the chateau of the Tuileries and the
Louvre, there is ‘‘an immense esplanade where public festivals will be held.’’
The Louvre is complete—a new gallery matches the Perrault gallery and the
Hôtel de Ville has been built on the same plaza. The Pont Neuf, which establishes
‘‘communication between the two parts of the city,’’ is enlarged and runs into
two plazas, symmetrically laid out on each side of the river, adorned with statues
of great men. Added to all these public squares is that of Louis XV (that is, the
proposal that had won the 1748 competition, the present place de la Concorde).
Gabriel’s work is the only one judged to be “‘worthy of our time,”’ that is, of
this twenty-fifth century. All the bridges are cleared of houses and thus one’s
_ gaze is able to ‘‘plunge with pleasure into the far-reaching currents of the Seine’’;
the wings of the Collége des Quatre Nations which had obstructed the left bank
were also demolished. And there was still another new public square, this time
located far from the Seine, namely the one laid out on the ruins of the Bastille
(after 1789, Mercier will not fail to cite this point as irrefutable proof, if that
were necessary, of the clairvoyance, if not the quasi-prophetic character of his
work).*® Had Patte’s beautification proposal been put into effect after practically
all of the Cité had been razed? We know nothing about it. It is nevertheless
striking that in walking about in the new Paris along, so to speak, several hundreds
of pages, the narrator never fixed his attention on any ancient monument other
than those—very few and far between—of which we have just spoken.
As soon as one moves away from the Seine, one no longer knows in what
part or section of Paris one is. With a single exception, that of Montmartre,
which is transformed into a sort of sacred hill, both opposed to the city and its
complement. Montmartre has become ‘‘the faithful image of the Mt. Parnassus
of antiquity, the abode of genius, the dwelling place of famous writers.’’ In this
‘‘august spot, shaded on all sides by venerable woods,’’ where a formal law
forbids all noise, a palace was erected for the Académie Française, ‘‘a rather
huge edifice, but very simply decorated.’’ Not far from this is ‘‘a huge temple
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that fills the spectator with admiration and respect and on the frontispiece of
which is written Abrégé de I’ Univers (synopsis of the universe).’’ It is a museum
of natural history in which a place of honor has been given to the collection of
monsters (the men of the twenty-fifth century quite share the curiosity of their
eighteenth-century ancestors for those beings in which nature, the producer of
order, seems to contradict herself but at the same time displays a mysterious
strength and ‘‘energy’’). And it is Montmartre as well that is the location of
small lodges, a sort of retreat where scholars and artists can devote themselves
to meditation, far from the noise of the city. Thus the section of the arts situated
at the periphery of the city complements its political and religious center, located
on the two banks of the Seine.*? But what is to be found between the center
and the periphery of this city which is said to be more spacious and even larger
than eighteenth-century Paris?
Of course, the visitor crosses still more plazas, all ‘‘spacious,’’ ““broad,”’
‘‘beautiful’’ public squares, on which avenues, all large and magnificent, de-
bouch; but none of them are in any way localized. They exist only in an abstract
space, that of nowhere, in which one searches in vain for a landmark and which
is merely the object of a narrative account. This space, though, is overflowing
with monuments and temples; it is furnished with a whole fictional architecture.
There is a colonnade of statues of great statesmen where next to Sully, Jannin,
and Colbert is a whole ‘‘line of heroes whose mute but imposing brow cries out
to all that it is useful, great, and noble to gain the esteem of the public.’’ Another
public square is surrounded with statues of Voltaire, Rousseau, Buffon, and
others. On the same plaza rises a marble monument whose dominant figure
symbolizes ‘‘holy humanity,’’ before which other figures representing women
bow in a pose of grief and remorse. ““These were representations of the nations
which begged humanity’s pardon for the harsh scourges they had caused over
the course of more than twenty centuries.’’ The public edifices are all monuments
and all are constructed in a style that is new to the visitor who has come from
another epoch. In fact, sumptuous architecture has been condemned and the
antiquities of Rome are no longer imitated either. The architecture is distinguished
by the perfect harmony between the building and the commonweal. Its novelty
lies specifically in the way in which its forms express moral and civic values.
Together, then, these statues, temples, palaces, and the like form ‘‘a book
of morality’ and, all together, deliver ‘‘a public lesson which is both forceful
and eloquent.’’ Besides, what is this new Paris, if not a moral lesson, told, if
not created, by the stone? Is its entire space not speaking and does it not convey
the values that govern the New City and the progress that gave rise to it? How
remarkable it is that the majority of the monuments and old locations have been
rebaptized, for ‘‘nothing influences the spirit of the people more than when
things have their own specific and real terms.’’°° That is still another way in
which moral and educational discourse take possession of the city. The urban
 “TO ENVISION THE CITY AS A PHILOSOPHE...” / 251

space is abstract, yet it is not empty. Besides being paved with good intentions,
it is furnished, so to speak, with values represented in stone. As far as city
planning is concerned, the resources of Mercier’s imagination do not prove to
be too rich. But was this apprentice architect not seeking above all specifically
to transfer a moral discourse onto a plan of Paris from which all but an islet
along the banks of the Seine had been erased?
All things considered, then, this attempt to fuse the city in Utopia and the
utopia of the city ends in failure. But does this very failure not reveal a double
movement: that of city planning that approaches the utopia and that of the utopian
imagination that seeks to appropriate the language of city planning and archi-
tecture?
 3
An Architecture for Utopia

I, 1792, Boullée drew up one of his last proposals: a Palais

municipal pour la Capitale d’un Grand Empire. It is a monumental edifice the
plan of which consists of a square in which a circle and a cross are inscribed;
its ‘‘character is proud and virile’’ and the whole ensemble ‘‘offers the most
imposing mass,’’ which the artist had attempted to bring out as much as possible.
So that the exterior could make its presence felt with “‘dignity,’’ the architect
placed ‘‘guardrooms in the four corners of the base to show metaphorically that
the foundations of society rest on the authorities charged with the public order.”’
The elevations of this monument posed problems to the architect. They are only
‘‘smooth bodies which produced virile effects in the decoration.’’ And this time
the use of blind exterior walls, characteristic of Boullée’s architecture, proved
to be impossible. Their effect would have contradicted the guiding ideal of the
project, namely that of ‘‘succeeding in making the purpose of this monument
recognizable.’’ A Palais municipal that ‘‘is suitable to the Republican’’ is not
only ‘‘a place meant for the magistrates of the commune,”’ but also ‘‘a house
for all. It is in this house that the citizens make their claims heard and attend
the most important deliberations. . . . A house for all must necessarily present
a kind of hive. ... . The municipal hall is a human hive.’’ Therefore, in order
to characterize the specific qualities of this “‘house for all’’ and to adapt it to
its functions, Boullée makes ‘‘galleries communicating on all sides and innu-
merable openings, so that a swarm of men can freely enter and leave without
commotion.’’ That is why its layout is divided; and in order to preserve ‘‘the
virile effect’’ at the same time, the architect came up with a clever idea: unable
to have smooth surfaces in the width of the building, because the openings,
which were necessary, did not permit it, he introduced them into the height.”

252
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 253

Where are the ‘‘great Empire’’ and its capital, of which Boullée was
thinking in drawing up his proposal? There is a great temptation to locate them,
immediately, in one of the countries of Utopia. Would it not tally best with an
imaginary city? And was this city not supposed to be ideal too in the sense that
the social order governing it would make the Palais municipal a ‘‘true house
for all,’’ a ‘‘social hive.’’ Let us recall another of Boullée’s proposals to which
we have already alluded, that of a gigantic circus. We noted the affinity between
the architectural form of this monument and the image of the festival for which
it was conceived and which was no other than that of a civic utopian festival.
Boullée himself draws the parallel between the style in architecture and the
political and social order. Thus he says that Caesar’s true coup d’état was to
lead up to the change of form of the government by changes made to the
architecture of the Roman circus.°” May we not say, paraphrasing him, that
Boullée and Ledouxs’ architectural proposals anticipate an imaginary coup d’état,
one that they have dreamed for a New City?
Let us, however, be wary of making too rapid and too facile a connection
between a style in architecture and a social vision. Of course, in utopian literature
it is frequently a question of architecture but, as we have observed, these are
only generalities or even mere commonplaces. At the very most, the authors
express a vague desire to design edifices that would be the visualization of the
ideas and principles governing the utopian City. All attempts to specify this
architecture lead nowhere—they never go beyond the level of the word. No real
architectural innovation is to be found in the cities of Utopia, much less an
innovation that would merit comparison with Boullée’s work. Architecture is
not merely a matter of the pure and simple translation of an ideology, nor yet
of a utopia, even when the architect proposes accomplishing this. Its particular
language causes it to say at once more and less than the ideological message it
takes on.
Besides, in Boullée’s case, it was not a question of making architecture
for the utopia. He did not bequeath a social utopia to us, and his written work
is an architectural treatise with a pedagogical aim, intended to train future ar-
chitects. Several proposals in which the innovative style of ‘‘Revolutionary””
architecture is forcefully asserted were not in the least conceived for an imaginary
‘‘great Empire’’ but really and truly for the Paris of the Ancien Régime, while
taking a specific order and its constraints into account. The proposal for a public
library is a striking example of this. Of course, this gigantic edifice was inspired
by the great dream of making a monument worthy of the spirit of the Enlight-
enment. But, on the other hand, the proposal consisted of utilizing the site of
the Royal Library, by covering its large court and transforming it into a reading
room. Still, Boullée’s work did not meet the cruel fate reserved for Ledoux’s
gates, one of which was attacked and burned as a warm-up for the 14 July. It
254 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

could be said that in this case history has voluntarily taken upon itself the task
of putting us on our guard against too rapidly bringing together artistic mutation
and social transformation.
That having been said, let us remember that utopian themes are often found
in Boullée’s texts and that Ledoux’s written work is full of them. For anyone
pondering the relationship between their architecture and the utopia, this is
certainly an important indication, even when it is merely a matter of a banal
idea or image, having nothing to do with the originality of the architectural work.
Questions on the affinity between this work and the utopian social space must
necessarily go further than these indications and bear on the schemas of the
imaginary at work in the architecture itself, on the fusion of the utopian images
with the specific language of the architecture. (Whatever the importance of these
written texts, of the word that in this specific case forms a complement and an
extension to the language of forms, might be, we shall take up this problem in
greater detail below.) Revolutionary architecture is an even more notable chapter
in the history of the utopia of the Enlightenment because it is in perfecting their
art, or rather in seeking perfection in and by their art that its masters turn toward
utopian horizons. That occurred particularly when the architect thought himself
free of all the obstacles caused by a ‘‘silent partner’? and when he devoted
himself to ideal projects. It is then, too, when the architect was able to blossom
out even while working within a certain “‘social vacuum”? that the complicity
between his architectural vision and a utopia is more clearly shown. It is the
utopia of the city that appears to be the context most appropriate to the full
exercise of the word by this “‘speaking architecture.’’ In other words, it is in
seeking to affirm its specific functionality that visionary architecture proves to
be nostalgic for the utopia and has recourse to a utopian space. Questions on
this functionality and its particular characteristics will guide us in our exposition
which, however, requires two preliminary remarks.
There is no question of our taking up Revolutionary architecture in its
entirety, a task far beyond the scope of this work. Let us parenthetically note,
however, that the rediscovery of this architecture is relatively recent and that
the breadth and importance of this phenomenon are the object of great debate.
As far as we are concerned, we will confine ourselves to speaking only of the
the work of Boullée and Ledoux and only from the perspective just defined. We
shall attempt, then, to bring out certain aspects of their architecture considered
with respect to art, morals, and legislation, to use the title of Ledoux’s book;
that is, those aspects that seem to us to reveal the utopian horizon. Another
remark concerns the terminology. We use ‘‘Revolutionary,’’ ‘‘speaking,’’ and
‘‘visionary”” alternately; all three are current in the copious literature on the
work of Boullée and Ledoux, and only bring to light the diverse and yet com-
plementary aspects of this work.”
Speaking of functionalism in the case of Revolutionary architecture may
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 255

seem both anachronistic and paradoxical—anachronistic, because the term is not

part of the vocabulary of the era; paradoxical, because this architecture favors
the monumental and is overloaded with symbols. Thus it seems to take the
opposite course to that of any enterprise that seeks beauty of form as the result
of the exact adaptation of an edifice to a utilitarian service. Was the major idea
of the speaking architecture not, however, to join the beautiful to the useful? Or
even to fuse the beautiful in the useful by opposing decorations and ornamentation
judged to be pointless and which were criticized in rococo architecture as well
as in a certain imitation of antiquity? The idea, certainly, was neither new nor
original, and the Revolutionary architects were only taking up a commonplace
of the esthetics of the Enlightenment. What is in question, however, is, on the
one hand, the very definition of the useful in architecture and, on the other hand,
the search for forms that would be appropriate to this utility. ‘‘Architecture is
an art by which the most important needs of social life are fulfilled,’’ said Boullée,
completing this definition with another. ‘‘Architecture is the art of presenting
images by the arrangement of bodies. The effects of the bodies result from their
masses.” The ‘‘functionalism’’—let us nonetheless accept the quotation
marks—of Revolutionary architecture is dependent first on a certain idea of the
social and moral functions of the art and second on a certain idea of the specific
language of the forms the architect has at his disposal to achieve these functions.
Although these two problems—the language of architecture and the social func-
tions of the latter—are closely linked together, they are so extensive and complex
that we shall have to examine them in turn.
The assimilation of architecture to a language is not a tribute paid to fashion.
It is a key idea of the architecture intended to be speaking. With the bodies and
their masses, the architect has a system of signs, a language of his own, at his
disposition. ‘‘The circle and the square,’’ wrote Ledoux, ‘‘are letters of the
alphabet that the authors use in the texture of their best works.”’* This system
of signs is governed by the laws and relationships suitable to it, those of harmony,
proportion, symmetry, and the like. Neither these signs nor these relationships
are arbitrary. Boullée, seeking the unity of his work and the theoretical bases
of his style, engages in a long “‘examination of Perrault’s assertion on the
constituent principles of architecture.’’ In this, he goes against the affirmation
of the creator of the colonnade of the Louvre (a work that he nevertheless
admires); Perrault claims that architecture ‘‘is an art of fantasy and pure con-
vention.’’ For Boullée, the raw materials, the ‘‘rough bodies,’’ their forms and
their masses, as well as the relationships they imply, are not invented by the
artist; he finds them, rather, in nature itself. Moreover, ‘‘men were able to have
a clear idea of the bodies only after having had that of their regularity.’’ There-
fore, there are ‘‘principles which preexist the art’’ and from which ‘‘there is no
way that he (the architect) can allow himself to deviate.’’°° The architect does
not invent his language, he gets it from nature itself. It is in nature that he finds
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the volumes his art demands and it is nature that establishes ‘‘the proportion and
harmony of bodies.’’ The spherical body, then, is ‘‘in all respects the image of
perfection. It joins together exact symmetry, the most perfect regularity, and the
greatest variety; it has the greatest development; its form is the simplest; its
figure is outlined by the most agreeable contour; finally, this body is favored by
the effects of the light, which are such that it is not possible that its gradual
moderation be softer, more agreeable, and more varied. These are the unique
advantages it gets from nature and which have unlimited power over our
senses.”””!
We find these exceptional qualities of the sphere exploited in Newton’s
cenotaph, designed by Boullée, but also in Ledoux’s projects: in the ‘‘house of
circles’’ or even in the Chaux cemetery. Or rather ‘“brought into play.’’ ‘‘Bring-
ing nature into play’’ is, in fact, the formula to which Boullée emphatically
returned to define the art of the architect. As far as Ledoux is concerned, he
proclaims that ‘‘the architect is the man faithful to the wish of nature . . . and
he has no need of cold and deadening precepts.’’°* This architecture, then, refers
to a “‘naturalistic’’ esthetic, as J. M. Pérouse de Montclos so judiciously noted.
But the very term nature accentuates that ambivalence that makes it the key
word of the diverse or even opposing theories of this era when art as well as
politics lays claim to nature as its authority. Nature, the immutable model of
beauty, order, and truth; nature, the archetype of a language; but also and above
all nature, force and energy. ‘‘To bring nature into play,’’ is not to imitate its
forms but rather to organize and utilize the ‘‘forces’’ and ‘‘energies’’ available
in them. It is just the same with that other ‘‘force of Nature,’’ light. While
studying the model of the play of light and shadow presented by every forest,
the architect ‘‘will bring Nature into play’’ in an ‘‘architecture of shadows,”’
exploiting, for instance, the possibilities offered by zenithal light, by the play
of shadows on the surface of a sphere, by the utilization of matters that either
absorb or reflect light, and so forth. So architecture is, for Boullée, the sole art
‘by which one can implement Nature and this unique advantage certifies its
sublimity.’’°?
The organizer of masses, the implementer of energies and forces, the
architect is, as well, the operator of sensations and impressions. Indeed, the
reference to a force also implies the idea of the action performed by the orga-
nization of the masses on the spectator. In producing impressions, the masses
inevitably ‘‘bear’’ sentiments ‘‘into his [the spectator’s] soul.’’ In support of the
existence of the affective influence of the action of the ‘‘organized masses”?
Boullée has reference to a rather vague sensualism which is merely a recapitu-
lation of the clichés of the era. But what is more important than the philosophic
originality is the way in which he imagines the hold the ‘‘masses’’ have over
souls, and hence the field of action thus open to the architect. It is ‘‘from the
effect of their (the bodies’) masses that sensations are born. Yes, of course, and
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 257

it is by the effect they produce on our senses that we have succeeded in giving
them appropriate denominations and that we are able to distinguish massive
forms from light forms. It is even by the different sensations they arouse in us
that we feel that the bodies that break on the earth sadden us, that those that
rise toward the heavens delight us, that soft smooth bodies are agreeable, but
those that are angular and hard repel us.’’ The art of organizing masses, of
creating the play of lights, and so forth, amplifies still more the ‘‘natural’’ effects
they produce on our emotions and thus gives the architect the means of ‘‘con-
trolling our senses by all the impressions he communicates to them’’ (Ledoux
says that architecture awakens the apathetic sleep of the feelings). It is not only
a question of esthetic impressions and feelings, but also, and above all, of moral
sentiments; the two are interdependent. Such as, for example, ‘‘the image of
the great which is pleasing to us in all respects, because our soul, eager to extend
its delights, would like to embrace the entire universe.’’ Thus the architect, in
‘bringing nature into play,’’ and in bringing his art to perfection, produces
works which so affect the spectator that he “‘is forced to express himself according
to their action on his senses.’’ Boullée calls character the effect that results from
an object and “‘causes any impression at all in us.’’ It is not, however, ‘‘any
impressions at all’’ that the architect tries to produce but well-defined moral and
esthetic feelings, which are relative to the subject of his work. The sudden
impression we feel at the sight of an architectural monument comes from the
formation of the whole. The feeling that results from it constitutes its character.
What I call putting character into a work is the art of employing in any and
every production all the means that are appropriate and relative to the subject
one is treating, so that the spectator feels no sentiments other than those the
subject ought to involve, which are essential to it and to which it is susceptible.
It is thus that the architecture into which “‘character was put’’ takes possession
of our souls, orients and guides our sentiments. ‘‘By the useful monuments this
beneficial art offers us the image of happiness; by the agreeable monuments, it
presents us with the delights of life; it intoxicates us with glory by the monuments
it erects to it; it leads man back to moral ideas by funerary monuments and, by
those it dedicates to piety, it raises our soul to the contemplation of the Cre-
ator.’”©°
Thus an architectural monument may well convey a moral message. Is the
language of the masses and volumes not, however, too poor in relation to the
richness of such a message? That would be to forget that the basic forms that
compose the vocabulary of this language are all signs, and that their signifieds
are moral values. Take, for example, the cube. Its form “‘is the symbol of
immutability; one seats gods, heroes on a cube; it is thus that Neptune is rep-
resented; the limits of the sea are supposedly immutable; the ancient towers, the
skylines of ancient cities are square . . . morality ought to be accounted an
immutable monument in these splendors. The Greeks called a man who could
258 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

never be turned away from virtue or his duties square.’”°! That is why, when
Ledoux designs the ‘‘panarétéon, a school of morality where the duties of man
are taught,’’ he gives his edifice the form of an assemblage of cubes. Thus every
form is considered charged with a symbolic significance or rather with many,
stemming from the age-old fund of symbolism that is enriched with new mean-
ings. Thus the sphere lends itself to symbolizing the vault of heaven, the eternity
of the universe, and fortune and its wheel, but also—and why not?—equality.
The organization of basic forms into a whole, the utilization of their affinities
and opposing points, the exploitation of the play of lights (with all the symbolism
of light opposed to darkness), the effects of surfaces considered to be ‘‘virile,”’
‘‘noble,”” etc. —all are possibilities for telling a moral message in an architectural
language, but also for giving new life to architecture and for seeking novel
formal solutions.
It is characteristic of the language of architecture that it “‘speaks to the
eyes,’’ that it dispenses with any translation. Its signs are entirely transparent
to moral values, for they do not translate them, but rather give them a material
form. Thus architecture, by fully exploiting the resources of its language, can
become eloquent, speaking, and have its own poetry and rhetoric. It is an original
language, that of nature itself, and the artist, returning to the sources of his art,
frees himself from abstract, ossified precepts and gives free rein to his genius
and imagination. This does not in the least mean the reign of disorder, the
capricious, and the bizarre. Is not nature itself the supreme order that man seeks
to imitate and to recreate in his works? In seeking beauty, the artist cannot
infringe the system of rules of his language—symmetry, proportion, etc. Taste,
the ‘‘method that clarifies all ideas,’’ said Ledoux, is by no means arbitrary or
based on convention—there is ‘‘a despotism of beauty’’ which it obeys.” There
is still another ‘“despotism’’ the artist necessarily obeys, that of the sentiments
his work must express. This ‘‘dogmatism of sentiment’’ imposes the choice of
the ‘‘masses’’ and the forms in function of their symbolism. The artist is, then,
tuned in to nature, but he is also tuned in to an important moral message. The
work attains nobility and greatness only when it makes the noble and the great
speak. The ancient monuments we still admire today bear witness to the genius
of their creators. But do they not also, in a universal and often forgotten language,
tell of the greatness and nobility of their times?
How can this idea of the architectural language not be compared to that
of Rousseau’s ‘‘language of signs,’’ which we have mentioned elsewhere. In
fact, similar preoccupations are to be found in both cases: the search for a forceful
and transparent language, with a strong affective charge, able to convey a moral
message without any distortion, by the play of symbolic representations, and
thus to have a direct hold over souls. In making this comparison, we do not by
any means think that the sources of the esthetic of ‘‘speaking’’ architecture are
to be sought in Rousseau. We have already said that such a search for sources
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 259

and influences seems without much methodological interest. In this specific case,
it would come to a dead end for two additional reasons. First of all, no references
to the linguistic ideas of Rousseau are to be found in these texts of Boullée and
Ledoux. Of course, the presence of a certain Rousseauism is to be found, but
it is merely the diffuse Rousseauism of the time at which these texts were written,
that is, the last decade of the century. The references to Rousseau’s work are
vague and imprecise and are only ideas that had become commonplace. Let us
note, next, that while stressing the theoretical developments of our architects,
we by no means overestimate their importance; in particular, we do not suggest
that their architectural work is the application of an esthetic theory. Historically,
the situation seems to be the reverse, and the dates when the texts were written
are revealing. Both Ledoux and Boullée wrote their texts at the end of their
lives, when they no longer had any practical possibility of constructing.%* The
written texts are only commentaries on achievements or else on ideal proposals.
But they are as well their indispensable complements and extensions and that is
a revealing phenomenon. Indeed, it is characteristic that this architecture which
claims to say everything in a language of forms inevitably has recourse to a
verbal complement, to a text that is, so to speak, its second word. Ledoux
frequently stresses the idea that eloquent architecture must necessarily be ac-
companied by eloquence about architecture. Boullée joins to his proposals ac-
counts in which he tells the effects they should have on spectators. There is,
moreover, an isomorphism between the style of architecture and that of
writing—the latter is grandiloquent and mixes the lyric with the pathetic. In
Ledoux, this ‘‘eloquence becomes so dizzying that it prevents the ‘reading’ of
the engraved work as well as of the written work.’’®
In the two architects’ work, the writing seeks to give an a posteriori unity
to the architectural work, to point up and systematize the principles that were
the basis of the achievements, but which manifested themselves even better in
the ideal proposals. But it also seeks to give a general significance to the work.
The accomplishments and ideal proposals are presented only as examples of a
whole new style that opens unknown perspectives to architecture and thanks to
which this art could fully accomplish the mission incumbent on it. Both Ledoux
and Boullée have a clear idea of the innovative and in that sense Revolutionary
character of their propositions. They refer, certainly, to the classical heritage,
but this is an ambivalent, if not ambiguous, reference. On the one hand, clas-
sicism, the reference to the antique, forms a cultural code of the era, and in-
novation often passes through utilization of that code. On the other hand, this
reference can translate the will to take over that heritage, to see and hear it in
another way and thence, to put it to the service of innovation.°°
In the latter context, the search for a ‘‘forceful language of signs,’’ which
would be at once innovative and primitive, seems all the more revealing to us
as it merges with a utopian undertaking and tendency. In the reflections on the
260 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

architectural language are to be found preoccupations similar to those we have

already encountered in discussing the search for a language for the Revolutionary
festivals or the new calendar. It is a question of establishing at the very heart
of collective life a language of the greatest moral efficacity, which would be
due to the singular power it had over souls. It must be iconic in the sense that
its signs make the moral values visible, thus assuring their immediate assimi-
lation. The idea of such a visualizing language is part and parcel of that of a
lost or forgotten primitive language which, by its energy, its affective and sym-
bolic force, is opposed to ‘‘cold,’’ conventional and elitist languages—an idea,
if not.a vision, of an alternative language which proves to be rich in utopian
promise. Once it has been discovered, this universal and transparent language
should insure perfect communication and thus, unite men in a community of
‘‘natural’’ values and sentiments. The utopia of language underlies several lin-
guistic theories of the era and the ideas of a Court de Gébelin are a striking
example of a linguistics nostalgic for utopia. Does Court de Gébelin not hope
that the rediscovery of the universal language and of its ‘‘allegorical genius”
will inevitably set in motion the moral and even physical regeneration of man
(along the paths of his research, moreover, Court encounters ‘‘animal magne-
tism’’ and a certain ‘‘social mesmerism’’ with utopian extensions).°’ The fact
that the linguistic utopia of perfect communication is widespread toward the end
of the century reveals a whole utopian horizon of the Enlightenment. It underlies,
in particular, the interpretation of the architecture of the ancients as a religious,
moral, and social message, told in a symbolic language. It could be said that it
is a sort of archaeological vision, which is the counterpart of the visionary
architecture.
We are thinking of the Lettres sur l’architecture des anciens et celles des
modernes dans lesquelles se trouve développé le génie symbolique qui présida
aux mouvements de l'Antiquité, published in 1774—1778 by Jean-Louis Viel de
Saint-Maux. The title of these Lettres summarizes their principal idea.®* Viel’s
enterprise is similar to that of the Revolutionary architects. In assimilating the
architecture to a universal and symbolic language, Viel does not seek, however,
to imagine a new architecture, but rather to clarify the old one, to discover its
true sense by reading it as a coded message. Indeed for Viel the ancient mon-
uments are so many ‘‘books whose existence had never been suspected; their
language is a fertile source of lessons and enjoyment.’’®? The modern seek the
perfection of the ancient monuments in their technique (‘‘a base and a capital
of so many modules’’) or else in their respect for a few abstract rules concerning
orders, proportions, and the like. However, ‘‘the most respectable’’ antiquity
envisaged architecture from a different point of view. ‘‘It is a masterpiece which
will honor and which truly honors humankind. Its sublime origin, to the greatest
astonishment of those who claim to be most skillful in the genre, is Agriculture
itself and the cult which followed it; it is its speaking poem; it is from it, in its
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 261

entirety that the Ancients instructed themselves as from a book, not only about
primitive theogony, but about the combinations and devices of their cosmogony;
in a word, it is in its complement that all knowledge was united and that it was
depicted by ingenious allegories and emblems about which there could be no
mistake.’’’° Therefore, the ancient monuments are so many ‘‘sacred archives’’
and everything in them lends itself to a reading—the columns and their orna-
ments, the forms of temples and altars (‘‘occasionally circular to express the
supreme power and eternity, occasionally quadrangular, to correspond to the
cardinal points of the earth’’),’' the plans according to which the monuments
are constructed and even entire cities. In them, in a symbolic language that suited
their genius, the ancients inscribed a perfectly coherent discourse on their cults
and religious rites, on their knowledge and even on their wisdom. The art that
corresponds to the needs of social life is also a political masterpiece and Viel
makes the legendary legislators if not the first masters of architecture, at least
the inspirers and guides of the latter. Let us note, too, the parallel drawn by
Viel between architecture and the ancient festivals, their rites, ceremonies, and
festivals. It is, once again, a coherent discourse in a symbolic language that he
finds in the ‘‘celebration of the festivals of the Ancient Peoples . . . which has
unfailingly been depicted to us as a mass of ridiculous and contemptible fa-
bles.’’’* Thus, through a detailed analysis of these symbols and allegories, this
‘‘visionary archeology’’ advances the idealized vision of the ancient peoples—
their imagination acquires strength, their soul is raised to the height human
weakness allows it to attain.’> They were agricultural peoples, whose religion
was that of nature and whose pure morals harmonized with the institutions, they
made of their monuments ‘‘indelible evidence of their works and their in-
sight. . . . The earth was never more honored than it was by those master-
works. . . . The monuments of the Nation did not at all resemble one another.
That cold monotony was reserved to the moderns. How could they have resem-
bled one another if each depicted by its expressive form one of the causes it was
useful to retrace before the eyes.’’”* In joining the beautiful to the useful in
‘‘expressive forms,’’ the ancients made of their architecture the most effective
and sublime means of the scientific, as well as moral and civic, education of
the people. It is in the stone that the ancients incorporated their wisdom and it
is the stone that they charged with teaching it. What other architecture could
better serve a people while expressing its grandeur? Thus it is an example to
imitate on the condition that its language be unveiled and its message discovered.
But then such a return to the sources could only be an innovation in relation to
modern architecture which, ‘‘crushed by prejudices,’’ misunderstands this mes-
sage, disfigures it in abstract and arbitrary precepts. By a detour, visionary
archaeology thus intersects the architecture which is also visionary and which
seeks to innovate with the forceful language of the symbolic forms.
To summarize our discussions, then, the architecture takes over from the
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transparent and universal utopia of language, whose energy would contribute

to communion thanks to the establishment of a communication both perfect and
without obstacles. This language of forms which architecture has at its disposal
is also synthetic, in the the sense that it encompasses the other arts. Both Boullée
and Ledoux insist on the idea that architecture is far more than the art of building,
as Vitruve defined it. Vitruve ‘‘speaks like a laborer rather than like an artist
who has knowledge of his art.’’ Of course, the ‘‘scientific part,’’ that is, tech-
niques and technology, is of ‘‘primary importance,’’ but it is merely a support
for architecture, which aims at higher objectives. Arguments with Vitruve’s
definition were common at the time and the affirmation of architecture as a
‘‘noble’” art is too frequently combined with an esprit de corps. What is striking,
however, in Ledoux and Boullée is, on the one hand, the correlation of archi-
tecture and the semantic arts and, on the other, the stress put on the moral and
social functions it was to take on. Architecture that succeeded in “‘implementing
nature’’ and in using all the resources of the language it had at its disposal can
make tableaux and poems of each of its constructions. Comparisons with the
painter and the poet are common in both Boullée and Ledouxs’ writing. Ledoux
makes Corregio’s words: Ed io anche son pittore the epigraph of his treatise on
the art of architecture.’ On the other hand, this synthetic language is distin-
guished by its special performative functions—the architect’s word is able to
arouse in the person to whom it is addressed attitudes that go far beyond the
esthetic domain. The architect must look on himself not only as a poet and a
painter—he necessarily offers a hand to the educator and to the legislator. This
leads us to the other aspect of the functionalism of visionary architecture, namely
the problems of its moral and social functions. The redefinition of the latter
became compelling with the adaptation of the utopia of language. A field of
action was opening to architecture that could and would be speaking, which
recovered the effectiveness of its word. Indeed, thanks to this language, archi-
tecture can enjoy a greater audience and social resonances than those of belles-
lettres and painting. The message conveyed by architecture is not shut up in
places reserved for the privileged. ‘‘All the monuments on earth suitable to the
establishment of men are created by means dependent on this beneficial art.’’”°
Its works accompany and surround men everywhere, in both their private life
and their public activities; they ‘‘speak to the eyes’’ of those who cannot read.
Is this social art par excellence not also the one that could best join the beautiful
to the useful? In taking on this major idea of the esthetics of the Enlightenment
and of its social pedagogy as well, the Revolutionary architects give it a new
dimension.7?
There is usefulness in a double sense—first of all in that of building edifices
suitable to their functions and which satisfy the needs of those they serve with
all that implies insofar as hygiene, conveniences, comfort, and so forth are
concerned; second, a useful art means, as well, if not above all, one that touches
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 263

the ‘‘moral man,” that contributes to the formation of his soul; in other words,
the art that takes charge of moral instruction and pedagogy. As we have said,
architecture is particularly suited to these didactic functions. Moreover, it only
attains perfection, only rises to the sublime on the condition that it express, that
it represent concretely, moral values in all their purity and greatness. In other
words, there exists a complicity between the language and the message, due to
the symbolic character of the language itself. Pettiness, baseness, and meanness
cannot be expressed in forms of monumental scale; rationality, simplicity, and
probity do not lend themselves to being ‘‘said’’ by the play of capricious lines
and surfaces, or by superfluous ornamentation.
In order to realize its esthetic as well as its moral and social aspirations,
this architecture is condemned to being monumental, and in a double sense. It
can affirm itself only on a monumental, colossal scale—it is only then that the
masses can, by their disposition, deploy all of their energy. And then, it flourishes
only in edifices that are monuments, works with a strong symbolic charge and
which exalt the great values and virtues in all their purity and perfection. The
marked preferences shown by Revolutionary architects for funerary monuments
has frequently been stressed. This type of symbolic art is a testing ground for
Revolutionary architecture, and it is in this genre that it had some of its most
notable successes: let us recall the proposal of the cenotaph for Newton designed
by Boullée or that of the cemetery of Chaux by Ledoux, of the many examples.
This sort of monument opens a nearly unlimited field for the play of symbols.
“‘Temples of death, your appearance must turn hearts to ice! Artist, flee the light
of the heavens! Descend into the tombs to trace ideas in them by the pale and
dying light of age-old lamps! It is obvious that the aim one proposes to oneself,
when one erects this sort of monument, is to perpetuate the memory of those to
whom they are consecrated. These monuments then must be conceived so as to
stand up to the ravages of time. The Egyptians left us famous examples. Their
pyramids are truly characteristic, in that they present the sad image of arid
mountains and immutability. This production is more demanding than any other
poetry of architecture.’’ It is, as well, the search for a style appropriate to
cenotaphs that is at the origin of the most original ideas of Boullée, such as, for
example, that of a buried architecture with absolutely ‘‘naked and bare’’ walls,
as well as that of the architecture ‘‘of shadows’’ which would play the contrasts
between light and shadow on large surfaces. Then, too, it is necessary that the
man whose memory the monument proposes to perpetuate be worthy of it by
his virtues and works. It is only then that his example stimulates the genius and
energy of the artist and that a sort of affective and moral affinity is translated
in the work. ‘“The homage we are pleased to render to great men is born from
the sentiment inspired in us by the height at which our spirit places them. We
like to find in one of our fellows that eminent degree of perfection that deifies,
so to speak, our nature in our eyes. Oh Newton! Vast and profound genius!
264 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

Sublime mind! Deign to accept the homage of my feeble talents! If I dare make
it public, it is because of my persuasion that I have surpassed myself in the work
of which I am going to speak. Oh Newton! If by the extent of your knowledge,
and the sublimity of your genius you determined the figure of the earth, I have
conceived the proposal of enveloping you in your discovery.’ 78 Tt is noteworthy
that effigies are rarely to be found in these funerary monuments or that, if found,
they occupy a secondary position. The individual is, as it were, uprooted from
history and from his biography. The monuments are temples raised to the uni-
versal virtues, values, or even truths.
That establishes a parallel between the funerary monuments and the large
public edifices, another favorite subject of visionary architecture. As Boullée
says, the former present ‘‘subjects that are indicated, and therefore susceptible
of being grasped and characterized by the skilled hand.’’ Boullée even considers
that ‘‘residences’’ are only ‘‘sterile subjects,’’ since ‘‘one can only make them
distinguished by greater or lesser sumptuousness but it is difficult to introduce
the poetry of architecture into them.’’’? The architect seeks to represent the
functions of the public edifice—to express in the language of forms the social
and moral values that must preside over these functions. The mortuary monument
commemorates what has already been accomplished, while the public edifice
glorifies what must be done in society. The two types of monuments, then, are
placed differently in relation to the time of history, but are less opposed than it
might at first seem. Indeed, in both cases the artist seeks the degree of idealization
that would join that of simplification of forms and would encroach on the time
of the origins which creates the models of institutions and human activities.
The search for an equivalency between the form and the purpose of the
building is governed by an educational objective—looking at such a monument,
the spectator becomes imbued with its moral message. If the idea of such ‘‘ap-
propriateness’’ is not new, the Revolutionary architects give it innovative ram-
ifications which are as much the product of a concern for symbolism carried to
the extreme as of the choice of symbolic forms. Thus a court of law must present
a clear visual image of justice, in all its purity, majesty, and severity. In seeking
a ‘‘majestic and imposing ornamentation’’ appropriate to the functions of the
edifice and in order to introduce into it, at the same time, the ‘‘poetry of ar-
chitecture,’’ Boullée proposes ‘‘placing the prison entry under the building. It
seemed to me that by presenting this august edifice rising above the shady den
of crime, I could not only bring out the nobility of the architecture by the resultant
oppositions, but even present in a metaphorical manner the imposing picture of
vice overwhelmed by the weight of justice.’’®° Thus, the symbolism of the
function is an integral part of the function itself. As J.-P. Pérouse de Montclos
observes, the symbolic system of the Revolutionary architects is certainly one
of the most studied and deliberate in the history of architecture.’’®!
In seeking to spatialize values, this architecture relinquishes all space that
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 265

would be emotionally neutral, that would escape the message it disseminates.

In linking the signified to the signifier by symbolic relationships, the architecture
thus calls for harmony between the container, the constructed environment, and
the contained, the activities performed in it. The will to educate by art inevitably
impinges on the moral and the social—the purity and grandeur of the forms
demand the elevation of sentiment and actions. Is this architecture not at the
same time a criterion of social and moral norms? Boullée’s Métropole is not
conceived for any religion at all, but rather for the true religion, with neither
prejudice nor fanaticism and which comes within a hair’s breadth of deism: such
is the ‘‘enlightened’’ form of sacredness that this church codified in stone. As
we have seen, the proposal for the circus likewise supposes that this is the site
and setting for an ideal celebration, that of a happy people, representing itself
to itself.
At this degree of idealization, simplification, and monumentality, archi-
tecture necessarily tends to overlap the sacred, the universal, and the rational.
Its works are so many temples, which raise man above himself. To this idea of
architecture corresponds the idea thought to be of the mission of the architect.
Ledoux does not hesitate to call architecture the imitator, if not the rival, of
God. ‘‘See all that you owe him,”’ he cries. “‘He saves suffering humanity from
the troubles that afflict it. The rival of God who created the round mass, he will
have done more than he, he will have cut it to size, he will have filled in the
mountains which frighten the timid; dug ravines to make the limpid waters flow
freely; he will have embellished the deserts. Raising man above himself, he will
have spread useful knowledge, dipped into the treasures of philosophy, buried
under the weight of the barbarous century, drawing forth the true richness that
will make ours shine, giving humankind a new brilliance. By associating the
hovel to the palace, ignorance to knowledge, how many resources you prepare
for us!’’®* Of course, the metaphor is not new, and Ledoux’s bombast owes
much to his obsession with grandeur as well as to the transports of a romantic
before the fact. But is this solemn consecration of architecture not inscribed, so
to speak, in the logic of things? Did the old metaphor that said God was the
architect of the universe, to which the ideas and rites of the Freemasons had
added new meanings, not impose a parallel with the man who defined himself
as ‘‘the Architect of Humanity’’? Did the architect not, thanks to his genius as
well as to his synthetic art, implement nature herself in order to join, in a
monument, the physical to the moral order? Ought he not to class himself as
well alongside that other founder of order whose mission and word are often at
the time compared to those of God, namely the ideal legislator? These metaphors
and the associations of ideas and images suggested by the very language of the
time only express an ideal model of an architect which would correspond to that
of ideal architecture. From this perspective, to be an architect is not to practice
a trade but to accomplish a mission. The responsibilities of the architect are as
266 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

extensive as the possibilities of his art and the latter was to be envisaged in its
‘‘relationships with morals and legislation,’’ as the title of Ledoux’s treatise
phrases it.
Between this ‘‘consecration of the architect’’ and the real, historically and
socially defined condition of his work, the conflict was fatal. To make speaking
architecture is not to speak of it, nor even to design projects, but to accomplish,
to realize, to construct. Architecture can imagine the most exalted idea of its
mission; to practice it, though, it still needs commissions. And these architectural
commissions must be obtained either from the public authorities or from indi-
viduals. Therefore, it is necessary to accommodate the tastes and demands of
the developer, or else to succeed in persuading him of the values and advantages
of the solutions proposed by the architect. And then, how can one get a com-
mission, particularly an important one, without intrigues and contacts? Would
Ledoux himself have bequeathed the city of Chaux to us if he had not built the
sumptuous pavilion of Louveciennes for Mme. du Barry and Mlle. Guimard’s
hôtel? Monumental architecture is very expensive, and Ledoux’s almost per-
manent quarrels with his principals are well known. To conflicts of a material
nature are added those of a moral and esthetic order.
How keenly and bitterly Ledoux and Boullée feel the dependency of the
architect in relation to those who give him commissions, that is, dependency on
those with power and money. For Boullée, the young architect finds himself in
a nearly inextricable situation. If he meets with some success, he is then “‘ov-
erburdened with a mass of demands and details of all kinds, forced to devote
himself completely to the enterprises that have been entrusted to him.’’ The
artist then becomes ‘‘the businessman of the public and he is lost to the progress
of art.’” But ought not he then ‘‘abandon lucrative business’’ to ‘‘do studies of
pure speculation’’? But the architect’s condition is specific. He is not free and
independent as painters and men of letters are, who ‘‘can choose their subjects
and follow the impulses of their genius.’’ The architect must construct and have
all the means that implies at his disposal. How, then, can he give himself up to
the hope of one day being given the responsibility for some great monument?
‘‘Opportunities are so rare! How can one flatter oneself, ten or fifteen years in
advance, that one will surely be employed by the men who, at that time, will
be in authority? The answer will be, perhaps, that the man of merit has the right
to expect it. And I will reply: will this justice be done? Does he have obvious
grounds for seeing himself preferred? I imagine the organizers, the officials, to
have the most honest views, the purest intentions, and I still find myself forced
to acknowledge that, for want of knowledge, they often act blindly and that it
is a happy chance when their choice falls on an able man. How frequently their
preference has been granted to ignorant schemers to the detriment of the man
of merit who always works and never engages in intrigue!’’ Thus, a young
architect finds himself forced to sacrifice his talents to ‘‘succeed in being known
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 267

by people in authority without whose benevolence he cannot develop his talents. ”’

But suppose he succeeded and found the client, the official who entrusted him
with work worthy of his talent. ‘‘It is known that when the simplest individual
has something built, he subjects the patience of his architect, on whose decision
he only rarely relies, to the greatest ordeals. It is known, too, that the authorities
who order public monuments are not commonly more docile than individuals
are. What happens then? That, to obey higher orders, the architect finds himself
obliged to give up good ideas. . . . Yes, because of not being understood, the
architect will suffer all sorts of discouraging frustrations and, if he wants to be
retained, will be very wary of putting up any resistance; he will no longer listen
to the voice of his genius, but will lower himself to the level of those he must
please. . . . It is obvious that, as a result, it is very difficult for an able architect
to be put in a position where he can produce good work. . . . That is of course
a great source of sharp distress and bitter regrets for one who has a passion for
his art; so I was not surprised when I heard that because of having suffered the
hardships of which I just spoke, a strong man fell into the most frightful de-
spair.’’®’ The conflicts between the clients and the architect denounced by Boullée
are not, certainly, specific to his time—they are as old as architecture itself, and
even Boullée did not know the clients who would proliferate with city planning
as widespread as it is wild. Nor is the conflict peculiar to architecture: although
Boullée envies painters and poets their freedom, similar indictments from them
are plentiful at the time. What is, however, noteworthy in Boullée and even
more so in Ledoux is the sharp feeling of a moral conflict between architecture,
with its mission inseparable from its specific language, and the moral state of
the society in which the architect is constrained to practice his art. Ledoux is
particularly revealing on this point. In effect, Ledoux poses himself a problem
which can only seem paradoxical to us and which nevertheless arises inevitably
when one seeks a harmony that is both moral and esthetic between the container
and the contained: how can the architect construct a building for a wicked person
without degrading his art? ‘“The dignity of the architect is demeaned when he
is obliged to descend the steps of the temple of glory to design the domicile of
the men who fomented common evils.”’
‘‘An architect is quite embarrassed when he is obliged to construct the den
of a leech swollen with human substances. What can he do when the authorities
order it? Will he delegate the sublimity of the art to the blind complaisance that
uses durable marbles and perishable wood indiscriminately, will he abandon it
to the enemies of taste? No, of course he cannot be indifferent to the practical
offenses that obliterate the splendor of the arts. What, then, is to be done? In
vain does the architect read and reread the poets to reinforce his spirit; surrounded
by distastes it shares with the majority, genius is mute and inactive, confined
amid the common afflictions which suffocate him. . . . How can one achieve a
house whose particulars are so difficult to fulfill? . . . That is how the thought
268 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

of an architect tormented by discordant elements churns. No longer does it take

flight; the purity inherent to the cultivation of the arts is incompatible with the
greedy passions that demean it
Thus this architecture, because it wanted to be speaking, could not resign
itself to lending its word to anyone at all without repudiating itself, without
questioning that unity of the message and the language on which the sublime
aspect of its art rests. Its style as well as the idea of its moral and educational
mission define an ideal model of the ‘‘silent partner,’’ of the developer. For the
architecture to be able to be established and to flourish, it needs commissions
that go beyond the scale of private residences and clients who think big, and as
‘‘philosophers.’’ The ideal developer was necessarily a public person, the state,
for several reasons. First of all, construction on a monumental scale called for
the commitment of enormous financial means and materials. It involved, as well,
the development of the surrounding space so that it would conform to the mon-
ument. On the other hand, only a developer aiming at the ‘‘general good’’ could
order theaters, gigantic cenotaphs, law courts, temples, and museums. Moreover,
this architecture proves to be functional only for the government which will
make use of its monuments to communicate the grandeur of its ideas and the
values that prevail in it and, hence, to make of them so many means of educating
the populace. In other words, it is with a social system which intended to be
educational and which sought harmony between the organization of space and
the system of social values that Revolutionary architecture could see itself in
profound harmony from both the esthetic and the moral point of view.
This aspiration toward the state client which would take on the responsi-
bility for realizing ideal projects fits the idea of the state which was widespread
at the time—the privileged instrument of the expansion of the enlightened mind.
This is, of course, reminiscent of the traditional ideal of the state-patron, the
protector of the arts and sciences, but this ‘‘enlightened century’’ adds specific
ramifications. A government which would make the philosophical ideas its own,
and would implement them in order to reform society is imagined; occasionally,
it is demanded. The political formula of these hopes and dreams most often does
not go beyond that of a certain enlightened despotism in which, at most, the
government would be only the executor of the ‘‘philosophical projects’’ and
ideas. Political moderation, if not timidity, nevertheless allies itself perfectly
with the utopian dreams and images of an alternative society to which the reforms
and the march of progress which would thus take over social life would lead.
In the case of Revolutionary architecture, the texts in which it is a question of
the ideal client have no political tenor or specific ideology. However, the very
scope of their proposals leads the architects toward the utopian. The specifically
architectural dream is combined with that of a perfect harmony between the
monuments and a social system which would raise these temples to sacralize the
moral and civic virtues. The ancient monuments would serve as a projection
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 269

screen for this double dream. They were looked on, in fact, as works achieved
by great legislators and great peoples who had understood the social and moral
role that architecture has to play thanks to its exceptional esthetic and educational
possibilities. Of course, in practice, they were resigned to compromise, and
Ledoux finally did the project of that ‘‘leech swollen with human substances”?
because he had been given the commission. The comments he made on the
occasion of this project are nevertheless very revealing of the ideas and dreams
that prevailed in his work as a whole. ‘‘The architect plows the future and wants
to convince himself; he sees the good in the purification of the social system
everywhere; adapts it to the edifices he constructs. This is not true of the crafts-
man, he is the automaton of the creator; the man of genius is a creator himself.’ 288
The utopian ideas and images are not superfluously added to Revolutionary
architecture in a secondary discourse. The discourse on architecture, the com-
mentaries on projects, and the esthetic explanations abound, of course, in utopian
images or in allusions to utopia. Nevertheless, the utopian dimension of this
architecture is not uniquely or even principally found on this level. The aspiration
toward an alternative society, in which this architecture would fully exercise its
functionality and where the architect could fully assert his genius is inherent to
the ‘‘architectural discourse’’ itself. The aspiration toward the utopia inhabits
and inspires the projects themselves, is stated in their specific language, that of
the ordering of masses. It is in reviving the imaginary in architecture and in its
own language that visionary architects turn in a direction where their visions
must necessarily meet the images and dreams of an alternative society. It is
notable, too, that these architects who for too long were classified as ‘‘neoclassic’”’
have a very clear awareness and even an exaggerated feeling of proposing an
innovative architecture, an alternative architecture. Reference to the future
recurs frequently—both to future progress in art and to its insertion into social
life. ‘‘I admit that I considered it beneath me,’’ Boullée says, ‘‘to limit myself
to the study of our former masters. I sought to expand, by the study of nature,
my thoughts on the art which, after profound meditation, seems to me at its
dawn. How little, indeed, have people applied themselves up to the present time
to the poetry of architecture, a sure means of increasing men’s enjoyment and
of giving artists a just celebrity. Yes, I think, our public edifices ought to be,
in some way, poems. The images that they offer to our senses should arouse in
us feelings analogous to the use to which these edifices are destined.’’ ‘‘Before
dying,’’ exclaims Ledoux, “I will have the satisfaction of having broken the
chains that fettered it (architecture), of having made them fall. There will remain
many things to say, but what I have forgotten will be found in an isolated
expression of the discussion, which adds to the thought, in the theory formed
on different situations, in the liberty to create, in the relinquishment of the Ecole’s
reservations . . . and in the inexhaustible wellsprings of the imagination without
which genius can produce nothing. . . . Then the architect will stop being a
270 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

copyist, he will develop new forces on earth, annihilate the vault covering the
future . . . , he will find the means of forcing new products from nature.’’®°
The affinity between the renewal of the architectural imagination and social
utopias is even more fully evident if one goes from proposals for isolated mon-
uments to the comprehensive organization of space—urban space, in particular.
The Revolutionary architecture which intended to be an all-encompassing and
at the same time social art par excellence inevitably tended toward city planning.
It did not, however, seek a utopia, an imaginary society in which to set its
monuments in an appropriate urban setting. And yet these monuments imply a
social arrangement of the space which proves to be isomorphic to that which
predominates in the ideal Cities. This isomorphism manifests itself on two levels.
On the one hand, the cities implied by Revolutionary architecture are perfectly
suitable to the ideal Cities—they give them an architectural setting and an urban
social and cultural complex. On the other hand, who could better inhabit the
urban space of Revolutionary architecture and enjoy its monuments than those
who people the ideal Cities and who live their happiness in the utopia? These
observations are valuable for both the ideal cities of Boullée and Ledoux. Each
of these nevertheless presents particular characteristics that are worth noting.
Boullée does not work out a proposal for a city. Nevertheless, as J.-M.
Pérouse de Montclos judiciously noted, when one considers the mass of projects
put together by Boullée, one notices that all those monuments “‘can be naturally
laid out in an overall plan which reconstructs for us the tableau of an ideal
city.’’®’ It is noteworthy, as well, that Boullée joins this tableau to a whole
utopian imagery. Thus, on the occasion of Bonaparte’s expedition to Egypt, he
gives his imagination free rein and dreams of developing ‘‘a country that had
become a wilderness because of barbarism and in which the unfortunate inhab-
itants are ignorant even of the means of building cabins for themselves and take
shelter under mounds of earth.’’ On this quasi-virgin terrain he dreams of con-
structing model cities according to ‘‘a general plan that would be used to record
this great association. . . . I think of this plan as resembling the tree of science;
from a common center branch out all the beneficial ramifications whose branches
would extend into all of this great establishment adorned by the enchanting
poetry of architecture. Do you hear the spectators cry out their admiration? What
a sublime image is offered to us in this temple consecrated to piety! What touching
simplicity reigns in this house of charity! With what brilliance these monuments
erected to the glory of the nation shine! What imposing nobility characterizes
the Temple of Thémix! How these agreeable refuges allow us to savor the
pleasures of life! Ah, into what profound reflections we are thrown by the
appearance of these funerary monuments!’’*®
Let us prolong this reverie, if not as apprentice architects, at least as simple
tourists who stop off in Boullée’s imaginary city. Let us imagine, indeed, that
we are visiting a city where Boullée’s great monuments are harmoniously gath-
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 271

ered and laid out—the Métropole, the City Hall, the Museum, the Coliseum,
the monument for Newton, etc. During this visit, let us adopt the attitude of a
model spectator, so to speak—that is, of one on whom these monuments produce
all the effects intended by the architect. Let us attempt, finally, in the course of
our imaginary visit, to explore the social space implied by this architecture. We
do not know the plan of this city; Boullée did not leave it to us and it would be
presumptuous to want to substitute oneself to him. However, the essential char-
acteristics of the urban space are given us, along with the monuments that form
the strong points of the city. The size of the city is already implied by the
monumental scale of the public buildings. The Coliseum, for example, is con-
ceived as a setting for celebrations which could house three hundred thousand
people and thus serve the population of a city the size of the Paris of the time.
The Métropole, the temple of the rational religion, only becomes functional, its
‘‘ordered masses’’ only produce the intended effects, on the condition that an
enormous crowd fills it and that by its presence it amplifies the sensation of
grandeur and immensity.*?
Boullée does not indicate the plan of the streets and open squares, but the
strong points of the city determine its overall layout. The monumental edifices,
to be seen and admired in all their splendor, must be autonomous and surrounded
with open spaces whose size harmonizes with the scale of the monument. Broad
and long avenues must necessarily open on these plazas, for two reasons. First
of all, as means of communication: it is necessary to open access and exit routes
for the crowds that fill the amphitheater or the City Hall. But, too, for esthetic
reasons which also are linked to moral and social reasons. To make the monument
speak, so that the message conveyed by the order of the masses gets through,
it is necessary that the edifice present itself to the spectators in its most varied
perspectives. First of all, their view must encompass the building in its entirety,
in its imposing grandeur; that is, they must see it from a very great distance,
which is indispensable for the effect of the volumes organized into a whole to
work. ‘‘Our emotions arise from the effect of the whole in its entirety and not
from the details, whose beauty only adds to the first impressions caused by the
masses.’’”° Then it is necessary that the effects are constantly renewed as one
gets closer to the monument, that it display its greatest developments to the
spectators, in playing off its voids against its solids, its decorated parts against
its bare ones, shadows against lights, etc. Let us take the case of the Métropole,
that temple that was to offer the image of greatness. The latter came not only
from its expanse, but also from the application of that ‘‘ingenious art by which
one extends and expands images, which consists of combining objects so as to
present them to us in such a way that the unity of the whole is most obvious to
us... . The objects are then arranged so that everything contributes to our
enjoyment of them. Their multiplicity offers us the image of richness. The
greatest magnificence and the most perfect symmetry are what result from the
272 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

order which establishes them on all sides and spreads them out to our view in
such a way that we cannot count them. By extending the paths so that their end
is beyond our sight, the laws of optics and the effects of perspective offer us
the picture of immensity; with every step, the objects presenting themselves from
new angles renew our pleasures by successively varied pictures. Finally, by a
happy marvel which is caused by the effect of our movements and which we
attribute to the objects, it seems that the latter move with us and that we have
communicated life to them.’’?!
In moving with us, the monuments ‘‘make [us] circulate,’’ they command
our movements. They do not for one single moment abandon us to ourselves
alone. At no moment will our glance escape the images they offer us, or rather
with which they assault us. Of course, it is our movements that communicate
life to them but does their omnipresence not impose on us the means of living
in the city? No one will stroll aimlessly about in this city because one is always
guided by the monuments from one place to another, from one perspective to
another. How could one lose one’s way? We see landmarks everywhere, which
orient us, which force us to return to what is essential for this city and its
inhabitants. Inevitably our souls will be imbued with the dreams of grandeur,
the sense of the ceremonial and the celebration. How can one take a step in this
city without the architecture that dominates it exercising its quasi-magical fac-
ulties of arousing the most intense emotions in us?
Of course, they are only the most elevated and sublime sentiments. They
are not only or essentially esthetic. Is this architecture not endowed with extra-
architectural values and do its forms not express moral and civic truths? Each
monument confines us within a well-defined interpretation: these poems in stone
do not lend themselves to varied readings. In front of the Métropole which offers
‘‘the most striking and greatest image of existing things’’ and which seems to
us ‘‘enormous and yet simple, like the universe itself,’’ how can we resist the
ascendancy the image of the great has over us? ‘‘The image of the great has
such influence over us that even in supposing it horrible it always excites a
feeling of admiration in us. A volcano spewing flames and death is a horribly
beautiful image!’’?* Since ‘‘man commonly weighs himself up in the space in
which he finds himself,’’ how could we not be shattered by the entrance of this
temple? In order to produce this effect the architect raised the height of the
entrance to the apex of its vaults and gave it the width of the large nave. As the
beautiful is associated with a sacred terror, the spectator is only an object on
which the art will exercise its power. Inside the temple, everything is imple-
mented ‘‘to inspire all the religious sentiments appropriate to the cult of the
Supreme Being.’’ So, by means of the play of lights, the architect ‘‘will arouse
the feeling of happiness in the spectator’s soul’’ or else will plunge his soul into
sadness when the temple presents only somber effects.”°
If, after the temple, we go on to the library, we shall be struck to the soul
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 273

by the equally new effect produced by its vaulted court, whose ‘‘decoration
comes from its immensity.’’ The bookshelves rise above our heads and are
extended by a colonnade which seems to span the vault of heaven. The light
spreads over the wise who, immersed in their books, are spontaneously arranged,
so to speak, in decorative groups. How could such a picture not speak to our
hearts? How could it not arouse the desire to follow in the footsteps of the great
men who made their epochs illustrious? How could one not, then, feel ‘‘those
noble transports, those sublime flights of the spirit by which it seems that the
soul leaves its envelope behind; one believes oneself to be inspired by the shades
of these famous men.’’ These sublime sentiments experienced by the spectator
are no other than those that inspired the artist himself and that make the stone
live, breathe, and speak.** This account could be continued by evoking the
impressions made by the funerary monuments whose ‘‘appearance would turn
our hearts to ice,’’ or the feelings inspired by the national law court which ‘‘gives
prominence to the laws, the object of everyone’s love, because everyone wanted
them’’ through the metaphor of the tablet of the law inscribed on an immense
bare facade. In front of this monument, will our feeling be any different than
that of Madame Brogniart who, having seen the project, wrote her husband,
Boullée’s student: “‘It is so pure and has a certain je ne sais quoi that is so great
that I get goose pimples looking at it. One has the feeling that it is the painting
of the happiness and unhappiness of humans by the laws that emanate from
it. . . . [had of course heard you speak of it occasionally, but I could not imagine
that moral effects could be produced in architecture as they are in painting. That
is quite what I felt on Thursday at your teacher’s.’’?°
As we have said, one does not wander aimlessly about in this city; one
goes from one monument to another as in a sort of pilgrimage. The space one
crosses is an initiatory space which at each step introduces us to the moral values
that guide the collective life. This city has nothing mysterious about it; from all
its diverse perspectives, it offers itself in the same way to our eyes everywhere.
By its perfect transparency it takes the opposite course to the myth of the dark
and unhealthy big city, the asylum of evil, if not its incarnation. The broad
avenues and the large plazas as well as the perspectives on which they open,
evoke the crowds that cross them to celebrate their festivals, to go to discuss
public affairs at the Palais Municipal, to pay homage to, and initiate themselves
into, science in Newton’s cenotaph. The architecture serves to cement the social
space; it makes it into an educational place where the community is formed by
the participation of each of the spectators in the same collective imagination. A
speaking architecture, certainly, but also in the sense that it transforms the
spectators into simple receivers of this omnipresent word. On the condition, of
course, that they do not revolt against this collective imagination constricting
every individual imagination, and against these dreams of grandeur which, in
order to elevate souls, only crush them... .
274 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

Boullée’s imaginary city does not refer to a defined social system that the
ideal City was to incarnate. The art espouses the values and guiding ideas of
the Enlightenment and puts itself at their service without, however, having sought
to clarify them on the social, political, or institutional level. However, the
conjunction of these ideas and the architectural style calls for the utopia or else,
if you will, this conjunction reveals the utopian dimension underlying both a
dreamed architecture and a moral and social dream that it wanted to represent.
Whom would this architecture better suit than the model citizens who identified
with the values of the rational and happy City incarnated in the ideal city? And
what else could take on the responsibility for this architectural dream, if not the
city animated by rational happiness, for which art would be functional only in
its didactic effects and would seek to broadcast continuously its moral message
by its gigantic mute reproducers which would be the works of speaking archi-
tecture?
It was necessary to imagine a city based on Boullée’s proposals for mon-
uments. Ledoux presents a different case—his proposals for edifices are present
from the inception as integrated into the space of an ideal city, the grandiose
image of which opens L’ Architecture considérée sous les rapports des arts, des
mœurs et de la législation. ‘‘One will see important factories, the daughters and
mothers of industry, give birth to populous gatherings. . . . A city will rise to
surround them and to crown them. . . . The surroundings will be adorned with
dwellings dedicated to rest, to pleasure and planted with gardens to rival the
famous Eden.’’*° Between city planning and architecture there is perfect agree-
ment. The ideal city brings to the fore the esthetic and social values of the new
architectural forms and in such an urban space this architecture proves functional.
Ledoux has the very strong feeling that his ideas ‘‘are laying the foundations of
the future’’ and that his proposals forestall the ‘‘prejudices’’ of his century. The
scoffing and mockery his proposal for the city of Chaux aroused only confirmed
his opinion. ‘‘I presented the proposals for a city with the enhancements to which
it was open; I had foreseen it, I excited a convulsive movement. . . . The dealers,
spurred on by indigestible rhapsodies, harp on discordant strings and tire our
ears with impotent sounds; interests cut across one another. Everyone says laugh-
ingly: columns for a factory, temples, public baths, markets, bridges, places of
business, gambling dens, etc.—what a mass of incoherent ideas. Then, shrugging
their shoulders already bent under the weight of adulation, they call it madness.
How much prejudice must be conquered! Everything was opposed to these
advanced views, which took away from the century. Impartiality in its tolerance
summarized the most diverse opinions and said, stroking the idol of the day:
one cannot deny it, these are great views, but why so many columns; they are
suitable only to temples and to kings’ palaces.’’?”
Fourier, in his observations on the Modifications a apporter al’ architecture
des villes, only quotes a single example of an architecture that would correspond
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 275

to his views, namely that of the hôtel Telluson, one of Ledoux’s creations.”°
This evidence is certainly significant, but to conclude from it that Ledoux was
a “‘Fouriérist’’ before the fact would be farfetched and erroneous. The interplay
between the architectural dream and the social dream is much more complex
and subtle. Ledoux’s architectural vision is part and parcel of that of an alternative
society, situated somewhere in the future. He emphasizes that on many occasions,
and it is from that perspective that he defines the mission the architect must
assume as well as the novelty of his own work. ‘‘For the first time, art puts the
natural laws together and works out a social system; it imposes well-being in
all situations, in all the usual enjoyments; it joins its seductive powers to the
innate rights of man, industry to the compulsory luxury which develops the
resources of the states; taking all forms to give all impetuses, it forces the rich
to accord to the poor the honorable tribute that one owes to work. Art will finally
have matched all the nuances of life, with the dignity which does away with
unequal fortunes, after having created happiness will force it into retirement (for
all values degenerate in idleness which cuts itself off from the public good; I
would go even further, they become paralyzed). Such is the effect of imaginations
transported beyond the mountains where the apathy that subjugates enthusiasm
feebly rules. One works one’s way through obstacles.’’®? All that is as generous
as it is grandiloquent and vague. What is this new “‘social system,’’ however?
Can one find out more about its institutions, its social structures? These vague
and hazy images of a ‘‘society of the future’’ take shape only in a certain
language. The unity of this utopian discourse is in the language proper to it,
that of the order of the masses and of the organization of the space. Ledoux’s
dreamed City is not the representation made of one proposal for an ideal City
or another. It could be said to be a monument erected to the Utopia of the
Enlightenment. More than a utopian city, it is Utopia itself imagined in stone,
or even a museum in which the utopian dreams of the epoch are realized in an
architectural representation and organized in a spatial whole.
Let us be more specific about this dreamed City, as many versions are to
be found in Ledoux’s work.
First of all, Ledoux presents us with the proposal for the city of Chaux
and its diverse programs. Chronologically, it seems, the first was that of the
Saltworks (Saline) of Chaux, to be built based on a square plan. It was only
afterward that Ledoux went on to another proposal for the saltworks adopting a
semicircular form.
The symbolism of the circle certainly determined the choice of this form.
Let us note, however, that the latter is adapted to the nature of the setting, that
is, to the loop of the Loue in the spot where the construction was located. The
saltworks, and the city which was to form the other semicircle, thus took up the
‘imperial path of Nature,’’ and the circular form has a double meaning. The
perfection and the ‘‘transparency’’ of the circle symbolize the perfect accord
276 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

between the human work and nature, but the same form represents, too, the
domination of nature by man, the utilization of ‘‘natural’’ energy by the creative
genius.
Ledoux succeeded in carrying out only the saltworks, and then only in
part. The vestiges of this achievement still extant in Arc-et-Senans allow us to
get some idea of what the whole was to be. The project of the city of Chaux
had high aims.
From the beginning of his work, Ledoux dreamed of grasping the unique
opportunity presented by the commission for the saltworks to implement his
ideas on architecture and show the possibilities of the art that encompasses all
the social functions. Whence the successive proposals he collected in his book
that go from a small suburb to the plans for a ‘‘city and the growth to which it
is susceptible,’’ projects which are increasingly ambitious and in which Ledoux
takes up the key ideas of the ideal city planning of his time. The city must satisfy
the needs of hygiene and of communication. It must assume a moral, ‘‘philan-
thropic’’ function—the urban form encompasses and is a material representation
of the association of work and virtue, it is the place for the initiation by one to
the other. Thus, the saltworks, its administrative buildings, its workshops, its
dwellings for the workers, etc., become for Ledoux a testing ground for an ideal
city. A detailed analysis of the successive proposals shows how Ledoux’s dreams
grew, how his imagination worked in seeking an urban space which would be
at once the foundation and the expression of rational and harmonious social
relationships, of the unity of the moral and the social.'°°
In Architecture, Ledoux does not, in any case, content himself with gath-
ering and displaying his city planning proposals for the city of Chaux. The space
implied by the ensemble of his proposals and his comments is not situated on
the banks of the Loue. It is an imaginary and ideal space that defies localization.
Indeed, in his book, Ledoux gathers several proposals for monuments which he
vaguely relates to an urban project and which nevertheless are not on any of the
ideal plans of the city of Chaux.
Moreover, any attempt to integrate them into one of these proposals faces
insurmountable. difficulties, because these monuments prove to be nonfunc-
tional—such as the Oikema, for example, a gigantic bordello whose architecture
is a mass of phallic symbols. Ledoux explains the moral and, so to speak,
moralizing functions both of the edifice and of the institution it accommodates.
Sound morality enlightened by reason uses a ruse to put vice at the service of
virtue. Seen close up, vice does not have a less powerful influence on the soul;
by the horror it imprints on it, it causes a reaction toward virtue. To the fiery
youths it attracts, the Oikema presents naked depravity, and the feeling of the
degradation of man reviving dormant virtue leads man to the altar of the virtuous
Hymen which embraces and crowns him. . . . The workshop of corruption,
under its deep, dark dens, reveals to him the poisoned sources that adulterate
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 277

the vigor of morality . . . and returns him to daylight with only hatred for what
might corrupt morals.’’!°! How is this ‘‘workshop,’’ which makes sense only
where vice is widespread, conceivable in this virtuous city that is to be the city
of Chaux? Would it not be only for the recalcitrant young inhabitants? But then
why so gigantic an edifice which is by no means a ‘‘workshop’’ but rather an
enormous factory whose capacity for purification, so to speak, is more than
amply sufficient for the entire population of Paris, the young as well as the not-
so-young. . . . And why would the virtuous city of Chaux need an enormous
prison, the reutilization of a proposal made for Aix? And where along the banks
of the Loue was the grandiose cemetery to be located, a veritable city of the
dead in flagrant disproportion to the population of Chaux, even with its possible
growth?
If all these monuments cannot be found on any of the proposals for the
city of Chaux, it is because they are situated elsewhere. The space to which
Ledoux attaches them is not that of any definite city but the imaginary space of
the City. The City is then only the paradigm of an architectural discourse on the
global society. No precise political idea, no reasoned principle on the social
system governs this discourse. It proves, however, to be bound up with the
utopia, both by what it affirms and by what it contradicts. The City is the
privileged setting for the practice of architecture as well as the setting for the
demonstration of its nearly limitless possibilities for serving the cause of a purified
morality, or even for purifying morals. As in Boullée, the City is the exact
opposite of the perverted and corrupting city. It is the City of triumphant virtue,
as opposed to cities in which vice rules; a transparent and luminous City which
contrasts with the opaque and shadowy cities. A City closed on itself, in the
sense that it forms a microcosm which harmoniously orders all social activities.
But the City of a double opening as well. It is open to nature, which surrounds
and extends it, and also to history which, for it, means only a practically indefinite
growth. The flourishing of the City can only be harmonious and can only confirm
its initial order. The City, with its ‘‘columned factories’’ and its ‘‘recreational
monuments’’ favors the activities typical of Utopia—work, festivals, education.
‘‘The City Hall represents and in its wisdom keeps the balance among individual
interests; it is there that rewards are distributed and crimes are punished. The
public schools develop the first seeds of virtue and teach sound morality. . . .
Further, it is a monument destined for the recreations of the populace, for the
exercises that develop its faculties. . . . What movement! Industry, under the
vault of the market, brings prosperity; the religious cult placed in the common
center calls for piety; The Pacifére amasses the tables of the laws and replaces
the temple of Concord; the calendar of the decent, honorable man assembles all
the virtues. . . . It is a world isolated from the world; it is a happy people who
develop and bring to fruition all the seeds that the earth in its easy contact with
humans promised to fertilize.”’ 102 The city of Chaux is only one of the variations
278 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

and the possible material representations of the City. Thus, the latter easily
accommodates what, either by its dimensions or its function, goes beyond the
bounds of the space of the former. In the abstract space of the City, monuments
and edifices one would think inspired by the most diverse, if not opposing,
utopias of the epoch cohabit. Is that not the case with the cénobies, houses made
for the wise whose ‘‘happiness and well-being can be found in the attractive
feeling of common enjoyment’’ and who, therefore, have no private property?
Is the Oikema not the ideal edifice to accommodate that other bordello in the
service of virtue that Restif proposed in the Pornographe? And for how many
utopian Cities would the architectural dream incarnated in the Panarétéon, the
school of morality, be suitable? ‘‘When one erects durable monuments, the
principle that directs the artist cannot be immaterial; if he begins with examples
which strike the multitude, he surrounds himself with all the means for giving
the different establishments he conceives the useful character that honors the
present and improves the future. The Platos, the Socrates, Lactance, and Au-
gustine all worked on this vast edifice. . . . They formed the public mind for
the need of the day; a lovely job for the Architect destined to succeed them!
What good things he can develop in striking the curiosity, in awakening apathy
by intentional flights of fancy. How many people who do not know how to read
will find by walking around this edifice everything that can save them from the
lapses that degrade them. How many people stripped of the spirit of superstition
which conceals basic ideals, will find, in this great book of elements, desirable
perfection.’ 15
A disconcerting work, if there ever was one, is this Architecture considérée
sous le rapport des mœurs et de la législation. The grandiloquent style and
innumerable digressions further muddle the text in which dreams are confused
with realizations, the City is mixed up with the city of Chaux, and the principles
of architecture are entangled with the architect’s confessions. Paradoxically, this
confusion stems from the pedagogical intention of the work. The discourse
encompasses the written text, the drawings, and the plans; by visualizing the
ideas and making the images speak, it seeks to join technical knowledge to moral
initiation. It is addressed to the ‘‘legislators’’ who alone can be ‘‘ideal promoters’’
and shows them that architecture in its new developments is able to become the
major instrument of the inculcation of civics. But it is addressed above all to
the young architects. It is an architecture course which teaches how to practice
this art in a creative way; but it is also a treatise of moral education for the
architect. It could be said to be a new Emile in which the educator seeks to form
the personality of the architect by confronting the student with all the aspects
of social life through an imaginary architectural experience which is the object
of comments and lyrical effusions. But it could be said, too, to be a new
Encyclopédie, which “‘gathers . . . all kinds of edifices used in the social order
to compose a whole which lends itself to the variety of all the motifs that dictated
 AN ARCHITECTURE FOR UTOPIA / 279

it.”!"% Both this ‘‘order’’ and its ‘‘motifs’’ are raised to the ideal purity. As we
have noted, the monuments of visionary architecture are conceived as temples
erected to Religion, Justice, Virtue, Work, etc.!°° Dream architecture is thus
married to the dreams of a moral and social order that would insure the common
happiness. It is the duty of the architectural imagination itself to be social and
to go beyond the bounds which stop the politician. ‘“What the government does
not dare to do,’’ Ledoux explains on the occasion of his proposal for the Oikema
‘‘the Architect confronts; he who makes light work of animating stone surfaces,
he who called up all the forms in order to contrast them; he who staked his
usufruct invested in art can also commit the capital.’’!°°
Thus this encyclopedia of the architecture of dreams is also that of utopian
dreams and visions or even a sort of architectural museum of utopias. One must
go to Arc-en-Senans and visit what remains of the city of Chaux to get an idea
of what such a museum of utopias based of Ledoux’s work can be. The lived
experience of this visit teaches more than any discourse on the urban space of
utopia. The monumental entrance announces that one is penetrating an alternative
space. The buildings, constructed in a semicircle, surround the visitor. Enormous
decorative elements—distilled drops of salt—assail him from all sides and one
cannot for one single moment escape the didactic message the walls spread
abroad. There are constant reminders that one lives in this city in order to work
and produce. The closer one gets to the Director’s house, situated in the center
of the axis, a lofty house, composed of cubic masses which ‘‘pyramid,”” the
more one has the feeling of becoming smaller and bowing before this mass
resting on columns and rising toward the sky. And it is in terms of stones and
forms that we get the message: ‘‘one of the great motives which link governments
to the results involved at all times is the general arrangement of a plan that
gathers at an illuminated center all the parts of which it is composed.’’ There
is nothing more disquieting than the experience of this visit. One is caught in
the trap of feelings that are opposed to one another even while they blend with
one another; that of the being dazzled by the explosion of the social and archi-
tectural imagination free of all shackles, and that of the agonizing oppression
secreted by this space that closes in on itself, in definitively imposing Law and
Order on all it contains.
 4
“From the Place de la
Révolution to the Place du
Bonheur”: The Imaginary
Paris of the Revolution

A, engraving published in 1791 to preserve the accurate recol-

lection of the pantheonization of the shades of Voltaire endeavors to give a
realistic image of this sublime ceremony, ‘‘a unique festival in the splendors of
literature and philosophy.’’ In the foreground is the magnificent, antique-style
chariot which rises to the height of the second story of the houses. Harnessed
with magnificent white horses, it heads toward the French Pantheon (formerly
the church of Sainte Geneviève) at the head of the majestic procession in which
can be seen young students of the Academies of Painting disguised in Roman
costumes. The sky is somber, and torrential rain drenches the participants—
nature, alas, is not at the rendezvous of the festival, and the sun does not shine
on Voltaire’s triumph despite the program for the festival. In the background,
the artist engraved the landscape in which the ceremony takes place. Several
houses can be distinguished, as well as the masses of the Pont Neuf and the
Louvre. To these familiar monuments, however, are added a monumental pyr-
amid and a colossal trajan column. These monuments, however, were never
built for the ceremony, not even in plaster. The artist added them to the urban
setting the festival demanded and which could only be that of an imaginary city.
Integrating nonexistent monuments into the realistic image of a festive
Paris is only an extreme case of a procedure found in nearly all the prints
representing Revolutionary celebrations. This festive Paris of the the prints is
an alternative Paris, different from the historic city and opposed to it. An ideal
space and a new architecture are imposed on the city and take possession of it.
The urban landscape is dominated by monuments expressly erected for one
particular celebration or another: triumphal arches, altars of the country, sacred
mountains, temples of immortality, etc. The painters and engravers in no way
attempt to bring out the provisional character of these diverse constructions. On
280
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 281

the contrary, in the prints the plaster constructions take on the solidity of marble
and granite. These prints were proposed to the Parisians, the participants in and
spectators of these celebrations, as a material form of their souvenirs; to those
from the provinces they offered the image of the city they would have admired
had they been at the celebration. Whence the care taken to situate the new
monuments in relation to a known setting, to evoke some elements of the historic
city as landmarks. But these evocations are even more revealing of the prepon-
derance of representations of the ideal city. Preference is given to the monuments
that do not overly evoke the ‘‘feudal’’ past—for example the Pont Neuf or the
Ecole Militaire. There are practically no churches, with the exception of those
transformed by the fabriques they accommodate on the occasion of a ceremony
(for example, the interior of Notre Dame where a sort of mountain crowned by
a small, round, Greek-style temple is erected). Like the ‘‘monuments of des-
potism,’’ there is yet another Paris absent from these prints, in which are rarely
seen ‘‘the sad and dirty walls’’ and the ‘‘street corners without symmetry’’ of
which Kersaint said that they weren’t worthy of having the sacred laws of liberty
posted on them. It is as though all that Paris was has been razed, and if there
are still some traces of it to be found, it is only so they can be contrasted with
another space that has been established in the heart of the city.
Take the print that represents the Fountain of Regeneration erected for the
Festival of the Unity and Indivisibility of the French Republic (10 August 1793)
on the place de la Régéneration, at the Bastille. The grandiose figure of Nature
rises in the middle of a plaza whose immense emptiness is itself a symbol. Some
remaining rubble serves as a reminder of what the populace destroyed and
eliminated forever of their city. It is only in the distant background that some
ugly houses and a sinister wall can be made out; they seem to be the vestiges
of an ancient city, which the statue pushed back out of the way of the freed
space which surrounds it. In other prints, the crowds gathered around a monument
or crossing the city in a procession are spread out on plazas which are always
immense or on avenues which are always wide and straight and look out upon
an open horizon or on a mass of greenery, on poplars and oaks. Thus, Nature
is reinstalled in the very center of Paris, becoming reconciled with the city, if
not paying homage to Liberty, which triumphs in ite?
Of course, the Revolution had neither the time nor the means to build and
it has been frequently said, after Michelet, that it left no monument except the
emptiness of the Champ de Mars. It is, however, sometimes forgotten that it
left an imaginary architecture and city planning and, in particular, an imaginary
Paris. The prints of festive Paris are so many postcards, or representations of
this Paris which was never constructed. With the Revolution, the imagination
takes over the city as though it were an immense building site. It prepares to
beautify Paris, to transform it, and to recreate it in order to make it a city worthy
of the Revolutionary dream. Like any other city, this imaginary Paris has its
282 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

system of itineraries and privileged places which unify its space. Like any other
city, it is a collective and historical work—it was made and unmade with pro-
posals for monuments, the settings erected for the celebrations, the programs of
transformation, the routes taken by the crowds during the Revolutionary days
or those drawn up for solemn processions. It was constructed by professional
architects who expressed themselves in the language of drawings and plans, but
also by sections which, to beautify their neighborhoods, proposed the erection
of a statue, the transformation of a church, and so forth.
Can this imaginary Paris be classed with the utopian cities we have fre-
quented? The problem is complex and there can be only a qualified response.
There are numerous proposals which compose imaginary Paris and which were
possible only by the conjunction and merging of two utopias. On the one hand,
it is the utopia of the New City, in search of a city planning and an architecture
that would be the material representation of the Revolutionary principles and
myths; but, on the other hand, it is the unfulfilled dreams of architecture and
city planning in search of a social order that will take them on. Was the Revolution
an overall liberating act to unleash talents and found a new art? ‘‘Genius,””
Romme proclaimed, ‘‘restored to its own conceptions, will make canvas and
marble exude only liberty and equality.’’'°* It is particularly during the years
1792-1794 that the most remarkable of the utopian cities dreamed of in the
eighteenth century is established in an imaginary Paris. Below one partial rep-
resentation or another, a global discourse is established on an alternative city
which would demonstrate both the exception! epoch which gave birth to it and
the future, already deciphered, which was foreseen for it. After this period, the
utopia tails off, although it does not completely disappear. Moreover, even when
the utopia of the New City is maintained on the surface, it disintegrates in the
depths of the imaginary Paris. In fact, the space-time of the latter is irreducible
to that of the cities of Utopia. Even in imagination, Paris is never constructed
on virgin soil. While seeking rupture with the historical city, the utopia must
nevertheless establish itself within it and, hence, subject to the constraints of
both its realities and its myths. But what most explodes the utopia of Revolu-
tionary Paris is less the past it inherited than the historical evolution from which
the imaginary city emerges and in which it finally founders. Imaginary Paris is
subject to a history; on its own modes it reproduces the evolution of the Rev-
olution as well as its contradictions. They dream of a city of marble and granite
which will last in time definitely conquered by equality and happiness; but even
the plaster constructions prove to be more durable than the moment that gave
rise to the dream. And the architecture which takes charge of the message about
the city of a free people tells it in terms linked together in a discourse on the
institutions incarnating order and power, does it not?
The complete reconstruction of the space-time of imaginary Paris as well
as the analysis of the portion that falls to the urban and social utopia would take
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 283

us far beyond our subject. Let us venture, at most, to present some aspects and
fragments of the imaginary city which accommodates the utopia—a rapid visit,
similar to our promenades in Boullée and Ledouxs’ cities. Besides, we shall
recognize some monuments borrowed from the latter.
From the first encounter with imaginary Paris the omnipresence of the
conquering word comes to the fore. It manifests itself on several levels, beginning
with the new names of the streets. The capital itself has not changed its name.
As far as we know, there was no proposition of giving Paris a new name,
although it was surrounded by Franciades (formerly Saint Denis) and Emilies
(formerly Montmorency). Paris did not suffer the fate reserved for cities with
‘‘absurd and tyrannical’’ names—there is even pride in the etymology by which
the name derives from that of the goddess Isis. It did not, a fortiori, have the
destiny of those cities which, because of their federalistic and counter-Revolu-
tionary behavior, no longer deserved that their names stain the map of the one
and indivisible Republic—such as, for example, Lyon, which became the Com-
mune-Affranchie or Marseille, the Ville-sans-Nom. It is an entirely different
story with Paris. ‘“The annihilation of this city was, it must be admitted, a
profoundly counter-Revolutionary idea; this city where the arms of reason were
tempered, those arms the sight of which alone made the proud despot, the fanatic
priest, and all the agitating troublemakers of tyranny, disguised under whatever
name, turn pale.’’!°? L’Almanach indicatif des rues de Paris for year II begins
by noting that “‘this city has become the first in the world by the National
Convention’s choice of it as the site of its sessions, and the source from which
spread everywhere the light of virtues and of Reason at the sight of which
fanaticism and tyranny will return to the void from which they never should
have emerged.’’!'° It would be all the more incongruous if the names of the
streets of this city remained in full contradiction to its moral grandeur and its
universal mission. In fact, as the report presented to the Commune in the month
of nivôse in year II states, “‘the names of the majority of the streets of Paris are
either barbaric or ridiculous or patronymic. In general, they are insignificant and
all together they present no motif. 11 Only the majority, for certain streets have
already changed their names, have been rebaptized (or, rather, unbaptized). The
rue de l’Observatoire has become that of 1’Ami du Peuple; rue de Monsieur, rue
de l’Egalité, rue Montmartre, rue Mont-Marat; the square in front of Notre Dame
has become the place de la Raison; the place Vendôme has been named the
place des Piques; place Louis XV, place de la Révolution, etc. The sixteenth
barrière, constructed by Ledoux, is called Barrière des Vertus (“‘much less rare,”’
the Almanach des rues commented, ‘‘in free men than they are among the slaves
and satellites of despots’’). These changes arose spontaneously, without any
preestablished plan, frequently on the initiative of sections which manifested
their civic sentiments in this way. These local initiatives are in keeping with a
broader movement. More or less everywhere in the country the detachments of
284 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

the Revolutionary army which landed in a village imposed a new name on it,
after having gotten rid of the church bells and ‘‘dechristianized’’ some statues
in the church. The same preoccupations are found in these name changes as in
the reform of the calendar or even in the adoption of Republican first names
(the most expressive if not the most manageable of which would seem to be
Brutus-sans-culotte-marche-en-avant). The Revolution has the duty of modifying
the everyday, of arranging things so that time as well as space will be invested
with a new significance and will diffuse a unique message, that of the egalitarian
and fraternal Republic in progress. Faith in the quasi-magic power of the word
is found in it as well. Once Coulanges-sur-la-Vineuse has been converted to
Egalité-sur-Vertu, its inhabitants will not delay in feeling the beneficial moral
effects the new name exerts on their souls.''* In symbolically taking possession
of the space, in transforming, by words, the streets and towns into Revolutionary
monuments, there is an attempt to perpetuate what has been gained by the
Revolution and to institute without delay the New City which it announces.
Soon, however, they are no longer content with merely limited and spon-
taneous changes. The Comité d’Instruction publique takes the responsibility for
developing a unique system of appellations of cities and communes for all of
France. Likewise, in Paris, there are growing numbers of initiatives for the
adoption of a system which would encompass the entire city, that is ‘‘approx-
imately nine hundred streets, thirty quais, twelve bridges, twenty-eight passages,
cours, or former cloisters, twenty-six places, twenty halles or markets, nine
enclosures through which people pass, which are owned by lazy monks, and
more than one hundred culs-de-sac.’’'’* The task is therefore complex and all
the more delicate because the sections feel themselves to be directly concerned.
Is it not a matter of naming their streets and their places? There is easy agreement
on one point: it is necessary to find a unique principle which ‘‘would give a
motif to the totality of the streets in Paris.’’ A rational order must be substituted
for the chaos which had established itself in the city in the course of a history
which was itself disorderly if not absurd. This is essential for practical reasons:
several streets in Paris have the same name; ‘‘this results in letters being mis-
addressed, the area on top of a letter being insufficient for the prolixity of the
address, and business suffers because of this.’’'!* Other, loftier preoccupations
correspond to these pragmatic ones. A unique system of appellation, rationalizing
the city and thus making it transparent to its inhabitants, will necessarily be of
great moral and educational effectiveness. But this result will be even more
enhanced if the new names, in turn, dispense a moral and civic lesson. The city
in its entirety must form an educational space no part of which will be without
symbolic significance. The space on which a civic discourse will be projected
will itself become speaking; it will permanently address itself to the Parisians
who use the streets every day. The new names must thus ‘‘perpetuate the Rev-
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 285

olution.’’ But in what way, in adopting what nomenclature? Without entering

into detail, let us note a few versions of an index of streets for imaginary Paris.
On 14 brumaire year II, a deputation of the section of Arcis presents itself
to the Convention and offers a complete proposal for street names ‘‘based on
all the virtues necessary to the Republic’’ to be applied in all France and, in
particular, in Paris. The principles are as clear as the arguments in favor of the
proposal are convincing. ‘“There is an incontestable maxim, known to all leg-
islators, without morals, there is no Republic. And by familiarizing the populace
with virtue, the taste for pure morality will be easily transmitted to their soul
and, consequently, the disposition propitious to its practice. To succeed in this
aim I propose giving the people a mute morality course, applying to the streets,
etc., of all the communes of the Republic the names of all the virtues. . . . The
result of that will be that the people will at all times have the name of a virtue
in their mouths and morality soon in their hearts.’’ This all the communes will
be divided into districts of which each public square will be the center; each
public square will be the name of one of the principal virtues. The streets allocated
to the district surrounding this square will be designated ‘‘by the names of virtues
having a direct relationship with this principal virtue. When there are insufficient
names of virtues, those of great men will be used, but they will be placed in
the district of their main virtue.’’ And here is an example of the application of
this system to the streets of Paris: the Palais National will be called Temple, or
Centre de Républicanisme; the adjacent streets will become those of Générosité,
Sensibilité, etc. The square in front of the church, the Parvis-Notre-Dame, will
take the name of Humanité Républicaine, the place de la Halle that of Frugalité
Républicaine; the adjoining streets will be called those of Tempérence [sic],
Sobriété, etc.''°
The assembly applauds, gives the petition honorable mention for the pa-
triotic zeal that inspired it, but does not adopt the proposal. The Commune of
Paris, which debated it as well, is not without reservations. Do they fear they
will lack enough names of virtues—principal and secondary—for the 900 streets,
places, and culs-de-sac? Be that as it may, the project proposed by the regional
council of the Commune adopts another principle inspired by an already ancient
idea and discussed by Teisserenc in his book Géographie parisienne, published
in 1754. It is a matter of making ‘‘the Commune of Paris a kind of geographic
tableau of the French Republic.’’ The corners of the quais will have the names
of the départements of the East and the West, those of the former boulevards,
the names of those of the North and the South. “‘The street corners will bear
the names of the communes of the Republic, depending on the angle the extension
of such a street forms on the meridian or the perpendicular. . . . The culs-de-
sac will take the names of the communes surrounding Paris, according to the
principle adopted for the streets.’’ The multiple advantages of this system are
286 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

obvious. First of all, it is simple, and clear, and has ‘‘a unique motif.’’ Then,
it has a symbolic significance: it designates Paris as the true center of the one
and indivisible Republic. Finally, it is a system that is easy to remember, which
will favor public education because ‘‘the citizens, barely out of their childhood,
will know by routine that a street has a specific inscription because its direction,
turning one’s back to the center of the City, is the same as that of the City whose
name it bears. . . .’” The proposal wins the consent of the majority of the
sections. Only one obstacle is seen to its immediate application, the fact that in
the country several cities and communes still bear the names of saints or even
the patronymic names of former princes and aristocrats. An appeal is launched
to accelerate the attribution of new names throughout the country so that the
new and definitive map of France can be projected on Paris as soon as possible.
The proposal anticipates an exception for the ‘‘former Cité or île de Paris.’’ At
the street corners will be inscribed the names of those who have deserved well
of the country. They can appear there ‘‘beside the names of those men whose
life was of benefit to the universe.’’ And as the stock of these respectable names
is, it seems, insufficient, it is decided that ‘‘the remaining streets will have
numbers while waiting for the name of a virtuous patriot to be given them.’’’'®
The Comité d’Instruction publique, after having examined the different
proposals of the communes, proves to be hesitant. Grégoire, who is responsible
for making a synthesis, contests neither the necessity nor the usefulness of a
reform. He reports that “‘the majority of large communes are anxious for the
strict uniformity of a system.’’ But why subjugate ourselves to an ‘‘exclusive
system, the execution of which, repeated in 44,000 communes, would establish
a tiresome monotony?’’ Indeed, there are several systems at our disposal, each
of which present incontestable advantages. Each commune could choose one or
even combine them since all are in perfect keeping with one another. ‘‘The
denominations can be geographical, historical, Revolutionary, or taken from the
virtues, from agriculture, from commerce, from the sciences, from the arts, and
from the men who have made them illustrious.’’ The combination of the two
principles, that of the ‘immortal deeds of our Revolution’’ with that of the
names of virtues, lends itself particularly well to the streets of Paris. Thus, the
new names will form a sort of ‘‘historical synopsis’’ of the Revolution, of the
actions which cause new values to triumph forever. ‘“Why not put the square
of the Pikes next to the street of Patriotism, of Courage, of 10 August, of the
Jeu de Paume? Is it not natural that from the place de la Révolution one ap-
proaches the rue de la Constitution which would lead to the the rue du Bon-
heur?‘‘'"7
From the place de la Révolution to that of Bonheur (Happiness) —the
formula perfectly summarizes the significance with which they mean to invest
the network of the major streets of imaginary Paris. To lay out these major axes,
they are not content with merely changing the names of the streets. They want
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 287

to remodel the urban space itself and to thus inscribe if not the New City then
at the least an anticipatory vision of it in the framework of the city. We shall
attempt to retrace these privileged routes in making use, on the one hand, of the
proposals for the development of Paris, in particular of the ‘‘artists’ proposal,’’
and, on the other hand, in referring to the paths taken by the processions of the
Revolutionary celebrations. These two types of plans, in any case, intersect, at
least in part.
If Paris becomes, as we have said, an immense building site open to the
imagination, that is because, among other reasons, the Revolution seems to offer
an exceptional opportunity for proposals planning its development. In fact, with
the putting of ecclesiastical property ‘‘at the disposal of the Nation,’’ and the
later addition of that of the abolished guilds, the émigrés, etc., there are around
400 hectares situated in the heart of Paris (along the left bank in particular) that
can be used for its development. Thus, as early as 1790, committees of architects
and geometricians are given the responsibility of evaluating these lands, of
proposing roads to serve the individual plots of land and facilitate their sale.
Thought is given as well, though, to preserving those sites that can be used for
widening streets and for the beautification of the city. By the edict of 4 April
1794 (15 germinal year IT) a temporary Commission of artists is charged with
drawing up an overall plan for the development of the national property. But
they want to go still further and they aim even higher. On 10 messidor year II,
the Comité du Salut public makes a decision ‘‘relative to the preparation of a
general plan for the renewal and beautification of Paris and of plans relative to
the other communes of the Republic.”’ It could be said that it takes on the idea
of envisaging the city as a philosopher and draws conclusions from the half
century of debate on the city planning of Paris. Thus it is decided to “‘establish
unity in public works and to begin to deal with renewal of the communes only
according to a general plan.’’ Several technical measures are taken to insure
the creation of this general plan: gathering all the partial proposals drawn up by
architects, launching new national competitions wide open to all ‘‘artists,’’ cre-
ating a jury to examine propositions, etc.
The most important: it is decided than while waiting for the finalization
of this general plan ‘‘the alienation of the national properties located in Paris”?
will be suspended, to prevent property speculation and rampant urbanization.
The decree finally defines the major objectives of the general plan, thus advancing
a global vision of a Paris which is, if not new, at least radically transformed.
‘*A general plan of Paris will be drawn up by the jury, providing for the cleaning
up and beautification of this commune, the whole in order to improve the lot of
the citizens, bringing in abundant water, constructing in it vast esplanades, public
squares, fountains, markets, gymnasiums, public baths, theaters, wide streets
with sidewalks, sewers, latrines, cemeteries, and in general everything that can
contribute to public health and comfort.’’''®
288 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

Contrary to its habitual practice, the Comité de Salut public does not set
rapid time limits for the works to be accomplished. This time, they are aware
that it is a long and arduous undertaking. They do not want to work in plaster,
but to build an urban setting inseparable from that happiness that the Revolution
already establishes for the generations to come. Like the proposals for public
education, for a new calendar, for ‘‘Republican weights and measurements,”
etc., this program of city planning translates, on its own individual modes, the
global vision of a new society in a discourse announcing the profound transfor-
mation of the structures of daily life. What is decreed, all things considered, is
the establishment in Paris of an urban utopia. ‘‘The decree of 10 messidor is
inscribed in a body of edicts which amplifies and explains it. It constitutes one
of the aspects of the foundation of a virtuous and democratic, egalitarian and
deistic Republic. It is the framework of those great institutions which are to
serve as the basis and guarantee of the new regime. It is to lend itself to religious
and patriotic uses, it is to assure the attachment of the citizens to their city, to
their Country, to the Supreme Being. The Terror would have only a limited
time, as would the prisons and the arms works, after which happiness would
reign in this model city. The Paris of the year 2000 would already have been
realized as early as year II of the Republic.’’''°
Besides, the Comité de Salut public anticipates this general plan, by setting
up some high points and by thus suggesting, if not imposing, privileged itineraries
in the city. A series of decrees of 5 floréal prescribes the rapid erection of several
monuments ‘‘retracing the glorious epochs of the Revolution.’ Another edict
(of 25 floréal) sets up a vast program of works aiming at the beautification of
the Palais national and of its accessories (the cour du Carrousel, the Tuileries,
the place de la Révolution, etc.). We shall return to these monuments; let us
note, for the moment, that these proposals, the realization of which was to begin
immediately, are intended, as well, to contribute to the ‘‘common good,”’ as
does the city planning program of 10 messidor. However, this time, the “‘common
good’’ does not materialize in enterprises of ‘‘public health’’ which seek to
‘‘improve the lot of the citizens,’’ but in a monumental Paris, a city of prestige
and propaganda. Certainly, in the spirit of the authors there was no contradiction
between these two orientations. One complemented the other and both merged
in the global vision of a cleaned, renewed, and beautified Paris, transformed so
as to be worthy of its glorious people. Was Paris, the model city of urban
happiness, not to be the most prestigious monument the government would raise
for the people and to immortalize the Révolution? And was the virtuous and
happy populace not to perpetuate its own grandeur by erecting monuments re-
calling its victories and accommodating its institutions? However, the formula
that wants to link la place de la Révolution to la place du Bonheur via la rue de
la Constitution risks falling apart as soon as an attempt is made to give it other
than a symbolic meaning or other than a verbal expression. The utopia of the
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 289

model city at once masks and reveals the contradictions at work in this imaginary
Paris, namely the opposition between the city of Happiness, salubrity, security,
and that of Power, prestige, and the monumental organization of space. !?°
We shall never know what forms the vision of Paris conceived to ‘improve
the lot of its citizens’’ would have taken. The image of the city realizing the
objectives defined in the decree of 10 messidor is dissipated even before there
is an attempt made to translate it into plans and drawings. The Commission of
Artists survives Thermidor and continues its works for two more years. The
times have nevertheless changed and the artists no longer work in the perspective
of the program-vision of the year II. The Commission is told to concentrate on
its primary task, the “‘making of plans, calculations, and reports relative to the
division of the large national estates.’’ The artists do not, however, confine
themselves to these limits. How ambitious their proposals remain! The com-
mission keeps the idea of a general program of city planning and seeks to arrange
that the development of national property will be only the very beginning of
such a plan. Thus the commission stresses that it is not sufficient to ‘‘follow the
method of division into individual plots’’ which would leave the opening of new
streets ‘‘to the discretion of the owners of the houses along the roads.’’ While
thinking about the sale of these lands and of how it might be ‘‘the most profitable
to the finances of the Republic,’’ the artists nevertheless refuse to submit their
work to the sole demands of profit. They judge it indispensable to proceed
according to ‘‘a fixed plan in order to lead them (the new streets) toward the
aim of general usefulness. Convinced that individual operation in each estate
would never attain the proposed aim, the commission thought that its work had
to include foundations which could be joined to ulterior changes, which might
be necessitated by the formless mass of the old streets, and that it had to present
a total group of proposals, which could be partially achieved and which time
and circumstances would lead to in succession.” !?! Thus the first general program
of Parisian city planning is born. Insisting on the opening of new roads, it
attempts, by their layout, to check private construction. It will never be realized.
The same year, the assembly of the Conseil des Batiments (buildings) and that
of the Ponts et Chaussées (highways) decides that ‘‘operations of the Commission
of Artists . . . relating to the beautification and the cleaning up of Paris will
only be able to be dealt with at a more opportune time.’’'”? The ‘‘opportune
moment’’ will never come. The lands are sold and some years later a discerning
architect finds what has happened to Paris frightful; it is “‘covered with a pro-
digious number of edifices,’’ given over to ‘‘a building frenzy, which leads to
new speculators who acquire the recently released grounds.’’!”?
It is not up to us to reconstitute the artists’ plan or to discuss the devel-
opments it proposed. '** Besides which, it is difficult to specify what the overall
vision of ‘‘beautified Paris’? which governed the Commission’s works was. The
proposal was marked by the circumstances under which it was worked out and,
290 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

consequently, the utopia is sacrificed to reform. The artists do not locate any
monument and make no decisions about constructions to be built on the vacant
lands. They limit changes in the historic center of the city where empty space
is rare, to the minimum; on the other hand, they feel much freer when they
propose to open roads and lay out esplanades along the left bank, where the
bulk of national properties was located. Let us note merely one revealing point.
The layout of the new public squares and streets corresponds, at least in part,
to the routes followed by the processions of the Revolutionary celebrations. It
could be said that in seeking to relieve congestion in Paris, the artists proposed
primarily removing the obstacles that hinder the free deployment of the festive
processions. Thus the new layouts revalorize the high points of the festivals and
facilitate access to them. The site of the Bastille is transformed into a circular
plaza from which streets radiate. Around the French Pantheon, they imagine
another, widened, circular plaza, at the center of a system of seven roads “‘ar-
ranged according to the principal radii of the cupola.’’ The building of these
new roads would facilitate entrance to the plaza for crowds, which up to that
point had broken up in the narrow and twisting alleyways. On the left bank,
there was a project which was already old, but which took on significance and
assumed a new function: a large main street leading from the new place de la
Bastille to the place de la Révolution, thus linking the departure and terminal
points of many processions. A new bridge is projected in front of the Champ
de la Fédération, at the same site where, in 1790, a bridge of boats was built
to serve the Festival of Federation.
Of course, the artists’ plan did not limit itself to these particular layouts.
It is nevertheless notable that by providing the city with ‘‘a well-balanced network
of spacious routes and ample open areas,’’ the plan orders the historic space of
the city so as to adapt it at least partially to the demands made of it by the
institution of Revolutionary festivals.
Moreover, was the perfect adaptation of the historic city to the needs of
the Revolutionary festivals possible? The ideal space of the Revolutionary fes-
tivals, implied by their programs, is imposed by the dream of a space similar
to that of the cities of Utopia. ‘‘The festival treats Paris as something that can
be traversed through and through. . . . All the elements of the utopian city are
established by the festival: The straight line, legibility, symmetry, and trans-
parency, with their gracious consequence: the reciprocity of hearts.’’!”° The
organizers of the Revolutionary festivals want to project this utopian space on
the historic city. But then the realities of the latter, its narrow, twisting streets,
its palaces and churches which evoke tyrants and prejudice, are only so many
defects which debase the festive space. But if the historic city is an impediment,
it is at the same time the necessary condition for the Parisian Revolutionary
festival to be possible. Let us recall Kersaint’s words: annihilating Paris could
only be a counter-Revolutionary idea. It is indeed in the real space of Paris and
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 291

in particular in its privileged places, such as the Bastille, the Champ-de-Mars,

the Pantheon, and the place de la Révolution, that history took a new departure.
Here, in these ‘‘sacred spots,’’ were inscribed the fundamental actions that the
festivals and the montagnard festivals in particular proposed to celebrate in the
rites. Thus came about the complex relationships between the space-time of the
festival and the space of the historic city, relationships so well analyzed by Mona
Ozouf. The routes of the Revolutionary processions are so many ‘‘impossible
compromises’’ between the imaginary space and the constraint of the real city,
between the exclusion and the inclusion of the historic city in relation to the
utopian space of the festival. Whence the two major typical itineraries of the
processions: the ceremonial route that begins at the Bastille, walks around the
city by the north, following the line of the ‘‘new boulevards,’’ crosses the place
de la Révolution and ends at the Champ-de-Mars; the second route, imposed by
the pantheonizations: points of departure on the right bank (the Bastille, the
Tuileries, the place de la Révolution), crossing of the historic city, arrival at the
Pantheon.'*’ The ephemeral monuments—the statues and the triumphal arches,
the temples and the altars—are essential elements of these itineraries. It is not
solely a matter of adding splendor to the festival, but of thereby putting the
finishing touches to the real city and of transforming its landscape. The com-
positions overloaded with meanings are to revalorize the places and to overpower
the historic space. The festival does not only oppose an alternative city to the
ancient city. It seeks, too, to go beyond the contradiction by creating a space
in which the sublimation of the historic city as well as its synthesis with the
space-time of the symbolic city would take place.
The end result of this attempt is a sort of theatricalization of Paris in which,
as though on an enormous stage, scenery intended to be touching, made of wood,
plaster, and words, is set up. But would the effect not have been less artificial
if they had succeeded in erecting the monuments in bronze and marble, thus
imposing on the real city its readjustment to the dreamed city? Such was, in any
case, the intention of the builders of the imaginary Paris. For their constructions,
they anticipated using only materials symbolizing the perpetuity of the principles
and work of the Republic. ‘‘It is with bronze that we found the Republic; it is
with bronze that we must transmit to posterity the image of its defenders. Every
patriot must truly be astonished that our monuments erected in honor of liberty
are still only in clay or in plaster.’’ The Convention is not slow to decree the
measure called for. ‘“The Palais National of a people who based its liberty on
the eternal rights of man must be constructed of indestructible materials, like
reason of which it will be the sanctuary,”’ Kersaint proclaims. '**
Constructions are called for that are meant to be as durable as they are
majestic and grandiose. ‘‘The most salutary effect of our Revolution must be to
bring everything back to its principle. Let us cease to make the infinitely large
smaller and attempt, if possible, to add size to what our pettiness can grasp. . . .
292 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

Colossi were frequently used by the ancients; and we have not yet dared to
imitate them in that genre. They were convinced that what struck the senses by
large images inspired larger ideas as well.’’!?? Monumentality and gigantic scale
organize the imaginary space as much as they overpower it. In the desire for
perpetuity and grandiosity, which becomes a true obsession with the colossal,
the characteristics of the imaginary Paris are in harmony. It is a city whose
finality is educational and the immense volumes are supposed to permanently
diffuse a ‘‘mute morality course’’ in which magnitude is an omnipresent metaphor
and a most mystifying one. It is a prestige city, as well, in the sense that the
new monuments must prevail over the old ones and that their superiority must
be visualized. ‘‘The Republican regime must replace the effect of church steeples
by columns, obelisks, and finally monuments whose elevation, in attesting to
the glory of the nation under the empire of reason, is at least equal to those
towers and spires that were erected by fanaticism.”’ 130 It is, finally, a city masked
by the myth it secretes, that of its people, victorious over tyranny and prejudice.
Like the entire monumental city, it is neither the place where the populace lives
nor that where it works. None of its colossal monuments contributes to ‘‘the
improvement of the citizens’ lot,’’ to repeat the formula of the decree of 10
messidor. And yet it is a space for the people, offered to the people and which
becomes functional only by the supposed presence of the people. It is the people
who ought to come to it, to admire the colossal monument erected to their glory,
to use this immense setting arranged for their festivals, to frequent the Palais
National and to observe how their sovereignty is exercised. The colossal scale
only veils and amplifies at the same time the ambiguities and contradictions of
this space in which the imagination draws the wide, straight avenue leading from
the place de la Révolution to that of happiness.
Nearly all the monuments populating Paris fit into three categories: the
festive monuments; the places where the political power is exercised; the civic
temples which, in a way, combine the functions of the two other types. ee
More than a hundred ‘‘fabriques’’ were erected to add glamor to the
festivals and to serve as appropriate settings. Triumphal arches and altars of the
country, ‘‘holy mountains,’’ and artificial grottoes: some lasted only a few days,
others fell apart over weeks and months, leaving the sad impressions evoked by
Romme in his request that the Republic finally be immortalized in bronze. Let
us note among these festive monuments only the statues that had so impressed
the people, or at least the people’s representatives, that the Convention decided
to strike medals with their images and to distribute them to its members as well
as to ‘‘all the envoys of the primary Assemblies.’’ The Comité de Salut public
designated the same statues as worthy of being ‘‘executed in bronze and in
marble.’’ The statues in question are those famous ones which were erected for
the festival of the Réunion républicaine on 10 August 1793 and set up on the
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 293

site of the four “‘stations’’ of that ‘‘immortal ceremony by which a great people
sanctioned its constitution.’’ We have already spoken of this festival, its itinerary
and its ritual, on which David, its great architect, particularly left his imprint.
The engraving of these statues are only, in a way, pale replicas of a gigantic
dream which was to materialize in the city, in marble and in bronze.
At the Bastille, it is the Fountain of the Regeneration, represented by
Nature, “‘in the Egyptian style’; from its ‘‘fertile breasts, which it will press
with its hands, pure and wholesome water will flow abundantly.’’ On the bou-
levard de Poissoniére, it is ‘‘a portico or triumphal arch to the glory of the
heroines of 5 and 6 October’’ on which inscriptions ‘‘retrace these two memorable
days.’’ Standing on the place de la Révolution is the enormous statue of Liberty,
‘‘in the form of a goddess,’’ her head covered with a helmet, a pike in her hand,
and surmounting ‘‘the remaining debris of the pedestal of tyranny’’; ‘‘oaks with
dense foliage will form a considerable mass of shade and greenery around her
and the foliage is covered with the offerings of all the free French.’’ On the
place des Invalides, finally, it is at the summit of a mountain ‘‘represented in
sculpture by a colossal figure, le peuple francais, gathering in its strong arms
the bundle of the départements; ambitious federalism, coming out of its miry
swamp, moving the reeds aside with one hand, tries with the other to detach
some portion of it; the French People notice it, take its club, hit it with it, and
make it return to its stagnant waters, never to emerge again.’’ The image of
‘‘the People, triumphing over tyranny and superstition’’ seems to haunt David’s
imagination. He will present to the Convention still another proposal for a statue
destined for the terreplein of the Pont-Neuf, ‘‘not far from that church of which
the tyrants made their Pantheon.’’ Trampling the debris of the royal effigies
underfoot, the monument will represent ‘‘the image of the giant people, the
French people. On this image, imposing by its character of strength and sim-
plicity, let there be written, in large letters, on its forehead, light, on its chest,
nature, truth; on its arms, strength, courage. Let the figures of Liberty and
Equality huddled together on one of the hands and ready to travel the world,
show everyone that they rest only on the genius and the virtue of the people!
Let this image of the people standing upright hold in its other hand that terrible
club with which the ancients armed their Hercules.’’ The Convention, at its
session on 27 brumaire year II, adopts the project immediately, decrees that
‘*this monument will be colossal’’ and rules that the word work be added to the
hands of the giant People. 7?
As we have noted elsewhere, all these statues were perfectly integrated
into the procession and its ritual. In retracing, on the symbolic level, ‘‘the glorious
epochs of the Revolution, they established the utopia of the New City in a
history-myth of the Revolution. In decreeing the erection of these monuments
‘‘in bronze and in marble,’’ did the Convention not envisage thus establishing,
294 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

once and for all, the model itinerary of future processions, tracing an authoritative
magnificent festive path along which the populace could admire if not itself,
then at least its gigantic effigy?
Both the utopia and the practice of the Revolutionary festival called for
the latter to culminate in the assembly of all the participants in an enclosure
where the people could see one another and create a spectacle of themselves for
themselves—thus the need for a setting in keeping with a necessarily immense
crowd. The characteristics of this structure for reception had to satisfy both the
ideological and functional demands imposed by the festival program. In order
for the key ideas, affective communion, and transparency to materialize, each
participant had to take in the assembled crowd with one single glance and, hence,
no one should escape the gaze of the others, the ‘‘collective glance.’’ On the
other hand, the place had to be easily accessible. It was necessary to ensure the
rapid entrance and exit of hundreds of thousands of people, at once the actors
and spectators of this gigantic production. This need was strongly felt during
the festival of Confederation, and the architectural formula of enormous arenas
became essential. The transformation of the Champ de Mars into arenas was,
however, only a provisional solution. In 1792, Kersaint notes that ‘‘this enclosure
has been abandoned; the altar of the Country, composed of fragile materials,
seems to say to despotism: The oath of the French, which made you tremble,
will be fragile and ephemeral like me.’’ The time has come for the Revolutionary
government which ‘‘is in some way accountable to posterity which progresses
through public education’’ to combine ‘‘with the lessons of words the forceful
language of the monuments.’’ The confidence which it ‘‘is so necessary to inspire
in the stability of our new laws will be established, by a sort of instinct, on the
solidity of the edifices destined to conserve them and to perpetuate their dura-
tion.’’ It is likewise obvious that the new monuments ‘‘considered from their
moral and political perspective’? must provide ‘‘dazzling evidence of the su-
periority of the new regime over the old.’’'*? One of these monuments destined
to embody this ideological discourse was in fact a gigantic ‘‘national circus”’
designed for the celebration of festivals. Based on the proposal in Kersaint’s
report and developed by Legrand and Molinos, its dimensions were to be ‘‘greater
than those set by the Romans for their circus maximus . . . This immense mon-
ument must be eternal. Only granite is able to impart this great character and
give this unique advantage.’’ Of course, it is an enormous undertaking. But is
it not made to measure for a people who ‘‘in one day overthrew the tyranny of
fourteen centuries? . . . Let us confirm liberty and everything will become
easy.’’ 134
Several other circuses appeared in imaginary Paris. As D. Rabreau aptly
noted, the circus or Coliseum is ‘‘the only architectural archetype that underwent
no change of its original function under the monarchy, for two reasons. First of
all, because the character of the official festivals of that time did not lend itself
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 295

to this, and second because such an undertaking would lack sufficient space in
the city (or in its proximity) as well as financial support.’’'*° On the other hand,
the antique-style circus became the formula of choice for the accommodation of
the populace during festivals.
The feeling of living during an exceptional time, an epoch when victorious
liberty makes everything ‘‘possible and easy,’’ could only stimulate the imag-
ination. It is again the colossal that modulates discourse and sets the scale of
projects. De Wail!y proclaims that ‘‘the instant has come to leave gigantic
circuses to our nephews to celebrate the colossus of our glory.’’ Poyet, who
declares himself a ‘‘Jacobin architect,’’ publishes the proposal for a national
circus situated on the Champ de Mars and which was to accommodate 108,000
spectators under cover and 100,000 out-of-doors. Another anonymous proposal
also chose the Champ de Mars as the setting for an immense circus; but it also
planned for the destruction of the Ecole militaire and its replacement by the
Palais National, the seat of the Assembly. Thus, according to this proposal, the
two major monuments of a newly transformed Paris would face each other and
would be integrated into a single gigantic space, materially and symbolically
opposed to the historic city and its monuments, from which ‘‘the people today
avert their gaze.’’'*° Finally, the most gigantic Coliseum, the glory of another
city we have already visited, of Boullée’s imaginary city, is seen transplanted
to Paris. Indeed, around 1790, Boullée revives his old proposals for circuses
and amphitheaters, giving them a broader scope. He situates his Coliseum in
‘‘the place called l’Etoile, beyond the Champs-Elysées, in order to offer the
public easy access and convenient outlets.’’ Let us recall the vision of the ideal
festival that governs this proposal, “‘conceived to carry out moral and political
views.’’ ‘‘It is under the eyes of all that the soul of the citizen is elevated and
purified. . . . Imagine three hundred thousand people gathered in amphitheatrical
order in which no one can escape the gaze of the multitude. A unique effect
will result from this order of things: that is that the beauty of this astonishing
spectacle would come from the spectators who, alone, would compose it.’’ The
enormous edifice dominating Paris will be surrounded by columns; it will be
‘‘open on all sides to facilitate entry into the arena’’ and an ‘‘infinite number
of staircases’ will allow easy access to the amphitheater; spacious galleries
under the amphitheater will allow for shelter for all the spectators in case of bad
weather. '*’
The Comité de Salut public, at the time that it established the program of
the public monuments to be built in Paris, did not accept the solution of a
Coliseum constructed outside the city. The decree of 5 floréal year II ‘‘calls on
the artists of the Republic to compete in the transformation of the premises that
served as the Opera theater, between the rue de Bondy and the boulevard into
covered arenas; these arenas are destined for celebrations of the triumphs of the
Republic and for national festivals during the winter, with patriotic and martial
296 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

songs.’’ ve The instigator of this idea was, it seems, David, who saw in a plaza-
amphitheater, located in the middle of the city and on the route of the festive
processions, the solution that was, if not ideal, at least the easiest to achieve,
because of the lack of means, for setting up a site for popular assemblies. In
1793, David had already suggested to de Wailly to make the semicircular plaza
of the Odéon theater into an area for festive ceremonies. De Wailly seemed to
be attracted to this idea and he conceived the project of developing the plaza
and the theater (of which he himself was the architect, with Peyre). A doric
colonnade was to be laid out around the plaza in front of the houses; triumphal
arches crowned with symbolic statues world stand at the entrances to the streets
radiating from it. The design also called for the construction in stone of am-
phitheatrical tiers bordering the circular pavements of the plaza and, finally, the
covering of the latter with a canopy, a sort of tricolor marquee. 19 This program
of de Wailly’s was not accepted, resulting in the competition of 5 floréal, in
which Lahure, the winner, proposed the erection of an enormous circular au-
ditorium, topped by a gigantic dome. Two immense triumphal arches, projected
above the boulevard and supporting the statues of Liberty and Equality, formed
the monumental entrance for processions heading majestically for the ‘‘covered
arenas.’’!4°
All these proposals, each more colossal than the rest, reproduced, unin-
tentionally and according to their own modalities, the ambiguities and contra-
dictions of Revolutionary discourse on festivals, if not those of the festivals
themselves. The moving realities of the latter were contained in advance by the
triumphal arches. The spontaneous popular participation was already pro-
grammed by the vast emptiness of the gigantic stadiums that had necessarily to
be filled by immense crowds; otherwise the festival would not take place. Con-
sequently, someone had to take charge of it or, if you will, had to take charge
of the spontaneity. The dream of transparency was submerged in shadow where
a manipulative power, the institutor and guarantor of order, was confirmed.
Along with the festive sites where the sovereign people was to provide its
own spectacle, another edifice took a privileged place in the imaginary Paris,
that in which the power, the government, showed itself to itself as well as to
the people. The idea of a special edifice for the députés of the nation was essential
for practical as well as ideological reasons. When, after the days of 5 and 6
October, the National Assembly left Versailles and installed itself in Paris, it
found no suitable building. It was finally decided to use the Manége Royal,
which was adjacent to the terrasse des Feuillants. An architect of the Menus
Plaisirs, given responsibility for fitting it out, installed a sort of gallery for the
president and the secretaries in the rectangular auditorium; on the long sides, he
set up four rows of banquettes, behind which were two floors of loges, while,
on the short sides, several other rows of banquettes rose to the galleries. The
public, barely separated from the députés, squeezed into the loges and the gal-
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 297

leries.'*’ The solution could only be provisional. The acoustics and visibility
were bad; neither the character of the building, a former outbuilding of the royal
chateau, nor its architecture, destined it to become the major edifice of the new
government. As early as 1790, there was a flood of proposals and plans for a
special monument. But the députés left the Salle du Manège before having even
discussed them. The day after 10 August, the Legislative Assembly discussed
the proposal of symbolically taking possession of the palace that the people had
taken by force on the preceding day. On 10 September, on Brissot’s proposal,
it was decreed that the députés will sit at the Tuileries. After discussion, the
choice went to the former Salle des Machines and a young architect, Gisors,
was given the responsibility of fitting it out. The desires of the Convention were
contradictory. On the one hand, they wished to go quickly and to reduce costs;
on the other hand, they would not be content with paltry fittings, but wished to
create a space which, by its majesty and symbolism, would be in harmony with
the spirit of grandeur and virtue which guides the representatives of the people
in their work. When, on 10 May 1793, the members of the Convention moved
into their new site, they found things never before seen, if not quite unprece-
dented. The pavillion of Unity (formerly of the Clock) was topped by a huge
scarlet serge Phrygian cap, surmounted by a thirty-three-foot long tricolor banner.
To reach the chamber where sessions are held, one crossed a sort of vestibule
whose name, the Liberty room, is the same as that of the statue erected in its
center. Liberty was represented seated; it was leaning on the globe with one
hand and holding up, in the other, the Phrygian cap. The chamber formed a
space which was to be speaking and which was, in fact, at least in the sense of
being a replica, in the language of forms, of Revolutionary rhetoric. In this
rectangular room, Gisors installed benches for the 750 députés, in the form of
a semi-oval. Facing this vast and long amphitheater and in the middle of the
lateral wall, was a wooden construction which included the president’s office,
the orators’ rostrum, etc.; two ramps on either side led up to the bar. Opposite
this, five large windows, opening on the garden, illuminated the room. On the
sides were immense arcades surrounding the galleries, which could accommodate
approximately 1500 spectators. *? Thus the auditorium was conceived after the
example of a specific theatrical site in which the most solemn Republican rites
took place. Robespierre dreamed, moreover, of an enormous auditorium able to
accommodate more than 10,000 people who thus could attend the most noble
and most educational performance, that of the exercise of popular sovereignty.
The organization of the space translated the ideology of the transparency of
public life and the omnipresence of the people—of the people represented by
the députés and of the people assembled in the gallery, to whose gaze the députés
presented themselves. Let us not, however, forget that during the great days of
the Montagnard Convention, this spectacle aspect was often part of the lived
experience. Countless deputations, which often arrived with red caps on their
298 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

heads, and pikes in hand, succeeded one another at the bar, presenting patriotic
poems, songs, and the like. (Danton was, as a matter of fact, vigorously opposed
to this assimilation of the sessions of the Convention to sites of spectacles and
festivals.) Every orator was obliged to strain his voice—the room was immense,
the acoustics bad. The public, crammed into the galleries, was not content with
watching; by applause, shouts of approbation, or boos, it participated in the
proceedings in its own way and, occasionally, exerted real pressure. Even the
decorations, which incorporated both the members of the Convention and the
public in a symbolic space, contributed to the theatricalization. ““The form of
this construction is in the best of taste. The decoration presents antique green
backgrounds, adorned with antique yellow pilasters. . . . Above the entablature
one sees, on plinths of porphyry and among the five porticoes on each side,
statues of the illustrious men of antiquity. Beside the president one sees, painted
to look like bronze and of large dimensions, Demosthenes, Lycurgus, Solon,
Plato; on the opposite side Camillus, Valerius Publicola, Brutus, Cincinnatus;
above their heads crowns are suspended. . . . The general decoration of this
room is in beautiful antique style, it is pure and of a noble simplicity.’’ The
journalist to whom we owe this enthusiastic account nevertheless had his fill and
noted somewhat doubtfully: ‘‘Basically, this construction has more flashy glamor
than solidity; nearly everything in it is in plaster, in canvas, in paint; there is
nearly nothing in reality.’’'*? One might wonder whether the artists, in sub-
mission to the force of circumstances, did not, finally, express most faithfully
the exceptional realities of the moment in that paradoxical formula that mixed
politics and spectacle, the true and the imaginary, and which offered to the
immutable and the imperishable the refuge of constructions as fragile as they
were temporary.
However, both the government and the architects dreamed of building in
indestructible materials. Contrary to the constructions in the Tuileries, the Palais
National of their dreams was erected in marble, if not in granite, while the
sculptures surrounding it were all in bronze. As we have said, proposals and
projects wanting to embody this dream of an ideal monument, worthy of a free
nation, started to pour in as early as 1790. They all had common characteristics:
they manifested “‘that taste for the colossal, of which Boullée and Ledoux had
furnished examples’’;'“* they invested the edifice with moral significance; they
made use of architectural forms to diffuse, in their own language, the civic
message. The proposals diverged on the choice of a site for the Palais National.
Sites which were themselves charged with symbolism were, of course, preferred.
Thus several projects proposed establishing the Palais on the foundations of the
Bastille—the symbol was striking and, furthermore, the site was available.
Others suggested the transformation of the Louvre. ‘‘Legislators, order it and
the Louvre is going to become the French Capitol. The Louvre will efface the
Capitol of the Romans and the decree which will draw this monument from the
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 299

oblivion into which it has fallen will be well received by the Republic and will
make the glory of the Arts.’’'*° Legrand and Molinos proposed utilizing the
Madeleine, still unfinished, installing the chamber under the dome and surround-
ing the edifice with another circular building. Kersaint, who supported this
project, demanded that the construction be financed by contributions from all
the départements. This would, certainly, facilitate the collection of funds but
would above all add yet another symbolic qualification to the monument and to
the city in which it would be erected. ‘‘Each département, taking it unto itself
to pay this expense, will feel that it possesses a part of the edifice to whose
erection it has contributed. I would propose that the plan be brought up in all
the assemblies of all the constituent bodies as well as that of Paris, under the
title Paris, or the city common to all the French. In fact, what is this Dé-
partement? Can it exist by itself? And in circumscribing its territory, did the
legislators not implicitly recognize the principle that this great city was the city
of no one because it was that of all?’’!*°
Most of the time, the room formed a semicircle or even a complete circle,
like an amphitheater, as in the theaters of antiquity. This formula of a semicircle,
taken up by Gisors, finally became the prototype nearly everywhere (with the
exception of England) of chambers of parliaments (with the designations left and
right substituted for those of the Montagne and the Marais). All the proposals
provided for huge galleries, in addition, for a large public; it was almost un-
imaginable that the Assembly would sit other than in the presence of a populace
impassioned by the proceedings. Illuminated from above, the chambers were
topped by vast domes. To symbolize the perfect unity of nature and the new
history, one particular architect proposed decorating the vault with a fresco
representing ‘‘the state of the sky over our horizon on 14 July 1789, the mem-
orable epoch of our liberty.’’'*” By all possible means, the proposals tried, in
David’s words, ‘‘to produce something new, to leave behind known and ordinary
forms.’’!*® Of course, this was easier to postulate than to accomplish. In at-
tempting to make the architectural language the instrument of symbolic com-
munication, in taking up antique models to revive their ‘‘energy and noble
simplicity,’’ in accumulating geometric volumes on a monumental scale, the
authors of the proposals too frequently confused the redundancies of an ideo-
logical and esthetic rhetoric with the creation of a new style.
All things considered, it is still Boullée who gave the imaginary Paris of
the Revolution its most remarkable Palais National. He considered the Palais an
exceptional subject requiring of the artist the practice of an innovative art as
well as the search for new forms of expression. ‘‘It is useless to show . . . how
a Palais National requires more particularly than any other production the pre-
sentation not of the tableau of architecture, but indeed the most expressive forms
of the art. According to these views, I disdained putting the sterile richness of
architecture into this work.’’ Of course, one must not ‘‘lose sight of the immortal
300 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

Republican works of Greece.’’ But one must above all realize that ‘ideas become
greater in seeking to rise to the level of this subject.’’ In his proposal, Boullée
implements all the means of speaking architecture; he brings into play forms
and masses, the oppositions between solids and empty spaces, between the
adorned parts and those without decoration. The Assembly room, circular and
lit from above, occupies the center of an immense block in the form of a massive
rectangular parallelepiped. The whole thing aims to awaken in the spectator
feelings of solidity and grandeur, of perpetuity and elevation. But Boullée feels
the greatest innovation to be in the introduction of a metaphor at the second
degree. He is no longer content with making the masses and the stones speak;
he makes the word an integral part of the edifice. “‘After having meditated on
the means suitable for manifesting the poetry of the architecture in this edifice,
I thought that nothing would be more striking and characteristic than to form
the walls of this building by the tables of the constitutional laws. What image,
I said to myself, can be of such keen interest as that which gives prominence
to the laws, the object of everyone’s love, because everyone wanted them.’’
The pediment of the Palais presents an immense naked wall, with no decoration,
on which is written, in immense letters, the text of the Declaration of the Rights
of Man and of the Citizen. This monument could be said to be transformed into
a gigantic poster, in marble and bronze. Contrasting with the naked walls, two
bases, stylobates on which Boullée arranges ‘‘two rows of figures indicating the
number of our départements and which, each holding the book of decrees,
betokens the assent of the people who sent them.’’ The attic story is decorated
with a bas relief representing the national festivals. Thus it contrasts with the
austerity of the walls, and by its theme adds a new metaphor to the whole, the
unity of the people celebrating and of the people making laws. The monument
is crowned by an immense statue—the triumphal chariot of Liberty symbolizing
‘‘the most beautiful triumph that a nation can desire.’’ Thus the edifice attempts
to combine verbal preaching with that of the architecture in a single discourse
as universal as the message conveyed. History, translated into symbols which
are integrated in a synchronic image, is at the same time sublimated, freed from
its fears and uncertainties. It is remarkable, as well, that Boullée is not the only
one to utilize the metaphor of the printed laws on a wall. In fact, around twenty
proposals taking up the same image have been listed.'*? This monotonous rep-
etition seems to provide double evidence—of a style which is born from the
encounter between the mythology secreted by the Revolution and the search for
new forms of expression, but also of its weakening and wearing out even before
it succeeds in being materially represented in real constructions. Be that as it
may, nowhere, neither in the streets nor in the plazas of this imaginary Paris,
can one escape from the word erected in gigantic monuments.
As has been said, the Convention chose none of these monumental projects
but fell back on a solution which was admittedly temporary, but could be achieved
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 301

rapidly and would not occasion too great an expense. Once installed in the
Tuileries, it thought about developing the surrounding space in a Republican
style. The works were to be included in the general plan for the beautification
of the city, and intended to get it off to a good start. So it is that by the edict
of 5 floréal year II, citizens Hubert and David are charged with ‘‘applying
themselves without delay to enclosing the chamber where the sessions of the
Convention are held.’’ Hubert rapidly fulfills this mission and twenty days later,
according to his proposal, the Comité de Salut public sets up an enormous
program of works relating to the terrains of the Palais National as well as the
Jardin National and the Place de la Révolution. On the side of the Carrousel,
the court of the Palais National will be closed by a circular stylobate on which
will be inscribed (yet again!) ‘‘in letters of gilt bronze’’ the Declaration of Rights
and the Constitution. Figures representing ‘‘the Republican Virtues will be placed
on pedestals supported by a single base, the symbol of the Unity of the Republic.”’
To the side of each of the pedestals facing the court will be affixed a blazing
star which will illuminate the Palais National during the night. On the dome will
be placed ‘‘a statue representing Liberty in an upright position, holding the
tricolor flag in one hand, and the Declaration of the Rights of Man in the other.”’
In the entrance to the court, two enormous statues of Justice and Happiness
which will support ‘‘the suspended level of Equality.’’ The garden will be laid
out. The terrace ‘‘des Feuillants’’ will be enlarged; the part located over this
terrace will be constructed as a portico whose interior “‘will be adorned with
pictures capable of developing and giving direction to the generous passions of
adolescence.’’ The terrace will end in a copse, beside the place de la Révolution,
in which ‘‘a monument analogous to the Revolution’’ will be installed. In the
garden which has been laid out in this way will be arranged ‘‘hexahedrons similar
to those in which the Greek philosophers gave their lesson.’’ Hubert did not,
on the other hand, accept an earlier proposal which consisted of constructing in
the garden an amphitheater ‘‘destined for public education’’ and in which would
be given only the spectacle which must ‘‘be suitable to a people who are free
and love equality and provide for accommodating the greatest possible number
of citizens, gathered with no sort of discrimination, to see images having ref-
erence to the love of liberty retraced before their eyes.”’
The place de la Révolution will also undergo major modifications. The
two colonnades forming the Garde-Meuble (the buildings built by Gabriel) will
be linked by ‘‘a triumphal arch in honor of victories won by the people over
tyranny.’’ It will allow the former church of the Madeleine, which will be
completed, becoming a ‘“Temple of the Revolution,’’ to be seen. Another trium-
phal arch will be constructed opposite, in front of the bridge of the Revolution.
The statue of Liberty, which had been erected in plaster in the middle of the
plaza, on ‘‘the pedestal of the next to the last tyrant of the French people,’’ will
be replaced by another, of ‘‘larger dimensions.’’ The entire place will be con-
302 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

verted to a circus, by means of a glacis, ‘whose gentle slope will facilitate

access from all sides’’ and can thus serve as the site for national festivals. The
entrance to the Champs Elysées will be enlarged, and the horses of Marly placed
there, flanked by two porticoes adorned with painted and sculpted Revolutionary
subjects. There are plans too for the ‘‘garden of the national house known as
the Beaujon house’’ (nowadays better known as the Elysée Palace) that will be
open to the public beyond the Champs Elysées, where ‘‘a statue to Jean-Jacques
Rousseau, in bronze,’’ will stand. The ditches and parapets surrounding the
garden will be demolished and filled in and in the garden itself will be built a
Temple of Equality, of simple architecture and with ‘‘Republican ornamentation””
appropriate to this monument. '*°
The Temple to the Revolution, the Temple of Equality: the imaginary Paris
is filled with new sanctuaries. But the sacred is by no means limited to them.
The Republican temples only bring to the fore the sacralization of the same
values that the other monuments, in their own modes, allow to “‘speak.’’ The
urban space, marked by values and symbols, closes on a Revolutionary cate-
chism. The Palais National is, of course, the prestigious monument of the Power.
But is it not, at the same time, the dwelling inhabited by ‘‘sacred Equality’’ and
‘‘sacred Liberty’’ as well as the center from which ‘‘the sacred love of the
Country’’ radiates? And are the other monuments, the Peuple-Hercule, Nature
Regenerated, etc., not erected to the glory of the same values celebrated in the
temples constructed nearby? The discourse which the imaginary monuments
recite, is, on a second reading, a discourse on the transference of the sacred, on
the sacralization of the innovative time of politics and history. The monuments
that dominate the imaginary city, in opposing themselves to the historic city, to
its churches and chateaux, take possession of space as well as time. Made of
granite, marble, and bronze, they impose on the city the time that ‘‘opens a new
book to History.’’ Their volumes and their masses, their materials and their
symbols, project on the space an ideological discourse on history, on its starting
from zero as well as on its finality, which emerge from the fundamental deeds
of the Revolution. To perpetuate the Revolutionary experience in bronze and
marble is to take definitive possession of the future of the city or simply of the
future. With the Revolutionary calendar, the institution of Revolutionary festi-
vals, etc., the universal architecture participates in the struggle in which what
is at stake represents one of the essential aims of the Revolution, the ‘‘overthrow
of relationships of symbolic domination.’’!*!
New temples are envisioned. But there is also the wish to take over the
old temples and to shelter the new sacred in them. This movement is particularly
accelerated at the time of dechristianization, when many popular societies or
assemblies of individual sections hold their sessions in the former churches. This
choice is more or less imposed by circumstances. Where else could large enough
rooms be found? A decree of the Comité de Salut public of 28 floréal year II
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 303

sets up a competition for ‘‘plans for civic architecture, and first of all for edifices
destined for assemblies, for décadaires, common houses.’’!>* Churches were
decorated for the occasion by the installation of busts of the martyrs of the
Republic and by more or less hiding the altar. The decorations were nevertheless
modest, owing to a lack of means. There was nothing to equal the mechanism
erected in the former church of Notre Dame during the famous festival of Reason
and Liberty, celebrated on the décadi of 20 brumaire year II. ‘‘A temple had
been erected which was of simple, majestic architecture, on the façade of which
could be read these words: To philosophy; the entrance of this temple had been
adorned with busts of the philosophers who had contributed the most to the
present Revolution, by their knowledge. The sacred temple was erected on the
summit of a mountain. . . . Two rows of girls, dressed in white and crowned
with oak, and with a torch in their hand, could be seen descending and crossing
the mountain, then going back up the mountain in the same direction. Liberty,
represented by a beautiful woman, then emerged from the temple of philosophy,
and came, on a seat of greenery, to receive the homage of the men and women
of the Republic, holding out her arms to them. Liberty then descended to return
to the temple, stopping before going in and turning to cast another beneficent
glance at her friends.’’!””
But the war on symbols begins well before dechristianization. Even during
the period of relative coexistence when masses are celebrated in front of the
altars of the country, thought is already given to new sanctuaries. The need is
felt more and more keenly and there is no lack of architectural proposals. It is,
nevertheless, noteworthy that there is no attempt made to find a style for these
temples that would distinguish their architecture from that of the ‘‘profane’’
public monuments. It is not the opposition between the sacred and the profane
that the architecture seeks to express but, on the contrary, the unity and coherence
of the sacred on which the institutions are based, as well as the spirit of the New
City. Thus the repetition of the same symbolic forms—spheres, circles, cubes
—are to be found in these projects, as well as the same metaphors: the new
sacred table of laws is put on the walls, kept in a repository in the sanctuary,
inscribed on the altar of the country, etc. In his report on public monuments,
Kersaint proposes the erection on the ruins of the Bastille of ‘‘an enormous
prytaneum,”’ the major piece of which would be a gigantic altar of the country,
made from a block of granite. ‘‘On the pedestal, on the granite, the declaration
of rights is to be engraved; the constitution is to surround it and, on the square
in front of the sanctuary, which can be entered only on 14 July of each year,
the plane map of France, showing its astronomical situation, following its con-
stitutional division, is to be reproduced. . . . The altar of the country must be
infinitely larger than it is now. It must crown the summit of a pyramid of tiers
and be close to the vault of the heavens under which it is placed. There is to be
nothing else at this height that could destroy the effect of this sacred monument,
304 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

alone in the world. At the base of the pyramid are to be experienced guards who
will share the respect and admiration inspired by this altar. The statues of great
men will then be placed there; their genius will watch over the altar of liberty.”
Similar but more modest pyramids (Kersaint carefully divides them into ‘‘three
classes’’) will cover all of France and in these ‘‘sanctuaries of liberty’’ the laws
will be exhibited and the names of citizens worthy of the country will be inscribed,
or statues in their honor might even be erected. 1$4 Let us note one other account
of the imaginary architecture of these sanctuaries. It is all the more revealing of
the mentalities and the affectivity of the epoch, as its author is not one of the
professional architects who supported a Kersaint, but an anonymous amateur.
He proposes, for the temple of Equality to be built on the Champs Elysées, ‘‘a
round form . . . because this figure offers the greatest similarity in all its aspects,
compared among themselves, which is already a symbol of equality. The temple
will be adorned with twenty columns along its circumference, as many outside
as in. . . . The sanctuary of this temple, which will occupy the center of the
edifice . . . will be formed by a circular balustrade, in which there will be ten
entrances, each of which will be across from those of the temple. In the middle
of the sanctuary will be a square marble pedestal which will support a globe
representing the globe of earth, surmounted by the standing figure of a woman,
absolutely naked. The statue is Equality, all its attributes and its action will
announce the fact; and it will also be the emblem of nature, there will be a very
large garland of flowers and fruits around her horizontally, which she will hold
with both hands. . . . Above all these objects, the cupola of time also speaks a
language that is interesting to hear; it is occupied in the center by the figure of
an immense sun, whose face is in the center of the void by which the interior
of the temple is lit. . . . Among the entrance doors, within the temple, will be
placed large inscriptions, which will cause Equality to be cherished. . . . This
temple is the place where Equality will be presented to society as a salutary
dogma, whose importance will be demonstrated to make people love Equality,
after it has become well known. By this happy system, men will be freed from
the errors of the old ideas; they will learn how liberty is an individual good,
without ceasing to be a great general good in all times and for all ages in a
Republic.”’!* Did the author, in order to express these noble emotions in ar-
chitectural and symbolic language, carefully study all the proposals for monu-
ments of the time, to the point of drawing up a list of their clichés? The sincerity
of his desire to find forms as sober as they are sublime and worthy of sacred
Equality cannot be doubted. If that were not so, this could be taken for a pastiche
of architectural rhetoric.
The Cathedral of civics and its rites is, assuredly, the Pantheon. On 4 April
1791, on the occasion of Mirabeau’s funeral, the Assembly decrees that the
church of Saint Geneviève be transformed into a Pantheon destined ‘‘to receive
the ashes of great men.’’ After the mortal remains of the tribun, it is the ashes
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 305

of Voltaire which are brought there in the course of a grandiose ceremony we

have already discussed. Soufflot’s edifice has to be adapted to new functions.
On 19 July, Quatremére de Quincy is named commissioner of the management
and supervision of the works, a post he keeps until germinal year II. Contrary
to the others, the monument does not remain on paper. Despite the difficulties,
the lack of means, the changes in the political situation, etc., Quatremére, with
remarkable enthusiasm and tenacity, makes the Pantheon into an immense build-
ing site on which, at a certain time, some hundreds of people are working. It is
a great artistic workshop as well; sixteen statuaries and a hundred sculptors are
recruited to make the bas reliefs and statues, several artists receive commissions
(sorely lacking at that time) to work on the ornamentation. Two architects,
Soufflot-le Romain and Rondelet, collaborate with Quatremére; Molinos is fre-
quently consulted. But Quatremére is by no means satisfied with merely orga-
nizing the works. He draws up an esthetic and ideological program he imposes
on the architects and artists by intervening in the slightest details, both in the
projects and in their execution. Thus, the entire enterprise is marked by the
strong personality of its author, as well as by the contradictions of his political
and ideological evolution. Quatremére welcomes the Revolution as an extraor-
dinary opportunity for the revival of the arts, for their liberation from the dom-
inating influence of the routine of the Academies, an institution he fights fiercely
at David’s side. !* A lover of the antique, more theoretician than artist, he enters
the Revolution provided with a sort of esthetic utopia—he already sees Paris
being transformed into a new Rome. The Pantheon offers him a unique oppor-
tunity to implement his esthetic ideas which he had already formulated in the
Dictionnaire d’Architecture. This doctrinarian is nevertheless open to the new
esthetic experiences of the Revolution and, in particular, to those of the first
Revolutionary festivals. He himself set up the artistic program of the festival of
3 June 1791 in honor of Simoneau, the mayor of Etampes. The choice is re-
vealing, too, about his political options. The festival in question is to affirm
order as against anarchy; it could be said to be a Revolutionary counter-festival.
A man of order and of law (the harmony between his esthetic tastes and his
political options is practically perfect), Quatremére wants to codify a style for
Revolutionary art, and he imagines the Pantheon as the matrix of an official
esthetic doctrine. Of course, he, too, intends to formulate antique verses on new
thoughts; he does not want merely to imitate the ancients. But by no means has
he the intention of seeking a system of norms leading to perfection in overly
audacious experiments which might give way to extravagance. Opposition to
change, support of the status quo joined to a methodical approach is thus the
end of Quatremére’s political evolution. The radicalization of the Revolution
repels and frightens him. Therefore, he turns further and further to the right and
will be one of the prime movers of the abortive Royalist putsch of 13 vendémiaire
year IV.
306 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

It was necessary to discuss Quatremére himself before dealing with the

work of which he was, if not the sole author, at least the principal instigator.
The Pantheon was conceived as the code in stone of a new art. In a sense, it
recalls the first Féte de la Fédération; like the festival, it expressed the novelty
and dynamism of the Revolutionary experiences while expressing the will to
stop them and bring them to a standstill. Grappling with history which is rapidly
made and unmade, the Pantheon is at once ahead of and behind the evolution
during which it is constructed.
It is not for us to discuss here in detail the successive projects for the
Pantheon, nor their always partial achievement. Let us merely bring out some
of the key ideas which translate the orientations and the contradictions of a whole
search for an architectural and decorative style for the Revolution.'°” Let us
note, in particular, these three leading ideas which recur in the successive proj-
ects: to make the Pantheon the privileged site for solemn rites and civic cere-
monies and, in particular, to establish a close connection between the monument
and festive processions; to make the edifice a ‘representational catechism of the
duties of man in society’’; and to find a formula which would reconcile the two
temporalities in which the Pantheon participates at the same time, that of history
in the process of being made and which the monument must serve and that of
the Republic of the eras to come, through which it is supposed to last.
The Assembly visualizes the Pantheon as a funerary monument for the
ashes of great men, to whom the ‘‘thankful country’’ will render homage. Thus,
the monument is to be, so to speak, the counterpart of the royal sepulchres of
Saint Denis and, hence, to affirm ‘‘that truly universal religion to which all
peoples must be won over; that religion is morality.’’ But Quatremére has a
larger vision and wants to go further. The Pantheon must not be reduced to ‘‘a
destination which is, as it were, passive,’’ but it must be given an ‘‘active use.”’
In favor of this active use is the economic argument: the enclosed void of its
‘‘customary purpose,”’ its ‘‘long solitary’’ precinct, will not justify the crushing
expense such construction entails. But there is also an ideological argument
supported by the revolutionary experience: no spot better lends itself to being
the principal place in which ‘‘the diverse institutions of which a civic religion
ought to be composed are formed and consolidated.’’ In 1793, Quatremére
imagines the Pantheon as an unprecedented formula for a monument that ‘‘offers
a mixture of uses and characters, combining the ideas of sepulchres and of a
temple, of festivals and of historic monuments.’’ A flexible and multi-functional
edifice, then, and Quatremére does not tire of inventing the multitude of uses
to which it can be put: civic awards will be presented in it; all civil servants will
take the oath of the Republic in it; in it, young people will annually receive
prizes ‘‘for the encouragement of both education and youth.’’ The space of the
Pantheon is capable of associating, on every occasion, all its occupants, and
particularly the young, with the ‘‘great men who surround them.”’ It is to serve
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 307

not only as cenotaph and temple, but also if not above all, as ‘‘a kind of theater
often offered to national festivals, the Pantheon will offer in its details, in its
accessory features and in the whole enclosure, when it is finished, unsuspected
resources.’’ To the multiplicity of functions must correspond a space which
today would be called polyvalent.'°* The edifice will be spacious, well lit, and
with good acoustics; in it, a large audience will be able to gather around an
orator. The upper galleries, which ‘‘good taste in architecture might criticize,”’
are justified when one realizes that they will accommodate masses of spectators.
A long ceremonial march can be deployed both inside and outside the building.
Quatremère is thinking, particularly, of the close connection between the Pan-
theon and festivals. First of all, of course, those of ‘‘pantheonization,’’ of the
translations of the ashes, which are to unfold as grandiose spectacles, ‘‘French
Panathenaea’’ (for the stylobate of the dome, Quatremére plans and orders a
frieze representing this ceremony). But also all the other festivals are to have
the Pantheon as an obligatory ‘‘station.’’ To respond to these multiple functions,
wide means of access must be opened to the monument (remember that the
processions broke up along the narrow, twisting streets that surrounded it) and
a large, open space be created around it. Thus, the projects propose to clear the
Pantheon of the ‘‘broken-down hovels infringing on it,’’ to arrange a circular
enclosure around it, planted ‘‘with an Elysium or a sacred wood, and to surround
this itself with a semicircular plaza. Access to the plaza will be by a wide avenue,
a sort of triumphal route. 1°
All of these uses of the Pantheon are found in its major function: to instruct,
to elevate souls. The entire monument and its décor in particular are conceived
to speak directly to souls, using ‘‘the forceful writing of signs.’’ Thus, it will
furnish a representational civic and laical catechism, a ‘‘coherent course on the
essential virtues of man and of the citizen.’’ A language ‘‘in figures or a writing
by signs’’ will make great use of allegory; what other language would be more
universal and better adapted to the telling of this universal message? It is, as
well, the language that is ‘‘particularly useful for the education of the people,”’
as the Société Républicaine des Arts noted. 160 However, Quatremére proves to
be hesitant about the use of allegory in architectural forms. Contrary to the
visionary architects, he considers that architecture has at its disposal ‘‘the most
limited means, particularly for the expression of nuances of ideas.’’ Architectural
language has no ascendancy over our affections and over the sensitive part of
our soul’’ and the allegories transcribed in this language are understood only by
a few.
In belittling the role of architecture as a means of symbolic communication,
Quatremére is faithful to his principles, while adapting himself to the circum-
stances. There is not, in fact, much to be done with Soufflot’s edifice, which is
‘“done, if not finished.’’ Its ‘‘pagan’’ form, paradoxical for a church, proves to
be perfectly adapted to the new use of the monument. Nevertheless, Quatremére
308 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

does not hesitate ‘‘to suppress everything that could recall the old ideas, either
on the exterior or the interior, and to add everything that could make the present
intention readable.’’ Therefore, he suppresses the two towers of the apse and
the sacristy; the windows are blocked up (light, as in ancient temples, is to enter
only from the top); the cross crowning the cupola is taken down. But the most
important transformations and innovations have to do with the decoration and,
in particular, the sculptures. In the new monument the latter must blend with
the architecture ‘‘in their relationship of monumental majesty.’’ The old sculp-
tures are consequently immediately condemned and replaced by new ones: Hou-
don’s bas relief, Saint Peter Receiving the Keys, will be replaced by Lesueur’s
The Benefits of Public Education, Couston’s pediment, The Triumph of Faith,
is supplanted by Moitte’s bas relief, The Country Crowning Virtues, etc. In the
middle of the temple will rise a colossal, polychrome statue of the Country,
‘‘that veritable idol of a free people,’’ supported by Liberty and Equality. Around
the dome, the colonnade of which will be removed, will stand thirty-two enor-
mous statues, and the cross will be replaced by a gigantic statue of Renown,
cast with the bronze of the cannons that had been won, and dominating, along
with the edifice, the whole city.'°’ The description of Moitte’s bas relief, installed
on the pediment, gives a striking idea of this explosion of the “‘sober and
republican’’ allegorical language. ‘“The Republic or the Motherland, in the form
of a large and imposing woman, accompanied by emblems which show it to be
France, rises from its throne; its two outstretched arms bear crowns; to the left,
a winged young man holding the club, the symbol of force, in one hand, seizes
the crown; from his features one knows him to be Genius. The other hand of
the Country holds a crown which rests on the head of a girl, whose reserved
bearing distinguishes her as Virtue. She is followed by the genius of Liberty
leading a team of lions attached to the chariot, in which the emblems of all the
virtues are enclosed. A figure brought down by this chariot occupies the lowest
part of the pedestal; its attributes, its regrets, show it to be Aristocracy subjugated. 192
The unity of this monumental and educational organization of the space
depends on the active use of the Pantheon. The speaking stone, or, if you will,
the patriotic and revolutionary eloquence fixed in stone, assumes the almost
permanent presence of a public listening to this message. The works of art are
not artificially assembled and in no way function as objects of esthetic curiosity.
They are conceived for this particular space and to be harmoniously integrated
into its functions—on condition, of course, that the space itself not be empty,
that the forms address their words to a crowd eager to receive the message, that
the allegories of the tympanum be attentively and emotionally deciphered by the
people in a procession, assembled on the plaza of its ‘‘station.”’
In the entire decor, there is no figure, no motif borrowed from history or
ancient myths. ‘‘In this first national monument, it was necessary to finally
abandon the idea of seeing ourselves as dependent on the ancients; it was nec-
 “FROM THE PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION TO THE PLACE DU BONHEUR” / 309

essary finally to belong to ourselves. The effigies of the Greeks and Romans
had to cease appearing where those of the French who have become free would
begin to shine.’’ This declaration of principle in no way contradicts the return
to antiquity which governs the overall program. Antiquity furnishes only the
universal language of forms; it does not determine the discourse, which must
be completely new and original, like the history of the French, ‘‘which begins
only with the Revolution.’’ Quatremére refuses to have any event or motif drawn
from this recent history represented in the decoration. The system of allegories
does, of course, evoke the new time, but only on a second reading. ‘‘The events
of history so closely reproduced resemble objects seen through a magnifying
glass’’ and that is why ‘‘local and fortuitous truths’’ must be sacrificed ‘‘to
general truth.” What is behind these equivocal formulas? Does Quatremére
already sense the ‘‘depantheonizations’’ to come, beginning with that of Mira-
beau? Does he refuse entry into the Pantheon to events which are happening at
a faster and faster pace and pushing the Revolution beyond the limits he would
set? Is he seeking ideological justification for his esthetic preferences? Be that
as it may, he formulates the opposition as clearly as he concludes it. ‘‘Here (in
the Pantheon) the effects of Liberty and not its actions’’ must ‘‘be sung, and its
reign celebrated rather than its conquest.’’ Thus, the history being made is
opposed to accomplished and sublimated history. Liberty in action is ejected by
the symbolism of its accomplished and immobile reign.
Fleeing turbulent, evolving history, seeking refuge in a vague utopia post-
poned to the end of history, does the program for the Pantheon not, in some
way, sum up the contradictions exercising the whole of this imaginary Paris and,
hence, a whole architecture, and its esthetics and ideology? On the one hand,
they are present at the extraordinary explosion of an architectural imagination
which espouses the social imagination and is inspired by a renewed collective
imagination. But, on the other hand, this rapid development is set in a symbolic
language believed to be as universal as it is finished, and which leads to the
monotonous repetition of the same forms, metaphors, and allegories. An archi-
tecture that ‘‘sings of’’ the city of happiness and equality, but which, by its
monumental organization of space, overwhelms the ‘‘city of happiness’’ and
makes of it, at the most, only a setting for the “‘city of prestige.’’ An architecture
which postulates a communitv ©* values and of imagination with those who use
it, a permanent communication between the ‘‘speaking’’ monuments, constructed
to the glory of a free people, and this people itself. And yet, an architecture
which expresses the possession, by the new power, that historic materialization
of the ideal promoter of utopias, of the monopoly of the educational word
dispensed to the people, thus reduced to admiring muteness. Does it not, in its
monumental immobility, paradoxically express a movement, the transformation
of a dream stirring people into action into an object of oppressive discourse?
There is nothing more opaque than its intended transparency which disguises
310 / “A CITY NAMED LIBERTY”

history as the utopia and masks the historic realities on which the utopia breaks
down.
If construction could have been accomplished as rapidly as it was decreed,
part, at least, of this imaginary Paris would have been realized. Would it have
been later suppressed, as was the case with Moitte’s bas relief? Or else, because
stone is durable, would it have resisted destruction and been assimilated to the
living city? Symbols which no longer speak to anyone and whose message has
ceased to be picked up do not necessarily disappear. The Pantheon stands in the
middle of Paris. One can visit it, as I myself have done several times. A few
lost tourists, their Michelin in hand, stray through its overwhelming void, visiting
this museum of curious tombs under the somnolent gaze of the guardians. By a
conjuring trick that history alone can manage, the Pantheon has joined that other
type of monument so beloved and admired at the time of its construction. It
seems, in fact, to be a ruin, a very decorative moral ruin, solidly built of stone.
It rises like the vestige of an imaginary city, of the city called Liberty, in which
the shortest road linked the place de la Révolution to the place du Bonheur.
 VII
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 Bisery epoch has its modes of imagining, reproducing, and re-
newing the collective imagination, as it has its own ways of believing, feeling,
and knowing. The imagination, with its orientations and activities that are as
diverse as they are multiple, constitutes a dimension of mentalities and sensi-
tivities whose importance would be difficult to overestimate. We have qualified
it as social in order to designate the specific orientation of its activity in the
direction of the social. Oriented in this direction, it produces imaged represen-
tations of ourselves and of others, images of society taken as a whole as well
as of the institutions and groups which compose it, of the hierarchy and social
divisions, etc. The field of expectations which surrounds individual and collective
experiences, is stocked by the social imagination with hopes and fears, dreams
and obsessions, and so many ‘‘fantasies’’ associated with the cohesion or the
disintegration of a society, with its stability or its conflicts. The social imagination
plays a stabilizing role—it contributes to the legitimization of a power as well
as to the working out of a social consensus, which calls for symbols and myths,
dominant models of behavior, and systems of values and prohibitions; it is at
work in the comprehension of social life, as it is in the occultation of its mech-
anisms. A regulating and stabilizing factor, the social imagination is nevertheless
also the faculty which allows for not considering the existing modes of sociability
as being definitive and the only ones possible, but for imagining other formulas
and models. It exercises an autonomous activity in the sense that its uses and
products are not reducible to an intellectual or even cognitive activity. Of course,
the social imagination does not work in isolation; it is nourished with knowledge
and experiences that it transforms and expresses according to its own modalities.
The imaginary formations, the ‘‘fantasies’’ it produces are only “‘unreal’’ spe-
cifically in quotation marks. If the social actors do not act acccording to the
313
314 / THE FLYING MAN

scenarios they themselves imagined, their actions are no less separable from the
images they give themselves of themselves and their adversaries, of their dreams
and myths, of their haunting fears and hopes. The social imagination gives
evidence of inertia and it operates in the long term; it reproduces a sometimes
age-old collection of symbols and stereotypes, enmities and hopes. But it also
goes through ‘‘hot’’ periods which are characterized by a particularly intense
exchange between the ‘‘real’’ and the ‘‘fantasies,’’ by a greater pressure of the
imaginary on the way of living everyday life, by explosions of passions and
desires. This is notably the case of Revolutionary crises. To mobilize large
masses, to snatch them away from ‘‘normal’’ life, to project them from immobile
history toward an accelerated history cannot be accomplished without the pro-
duction of great social dreams that stir them to action and the symbols that
incarnate them, without the expansion of tasks to be accomplished and objectives
to be reached. Neither the ideas nor the dreams make revolutions, but how could
they be made without the dreams they exude? A revolutionary crisis necessarily
goes through the renewal of the social imagination; it is, as well, a combat in
which domination and power in the symbolic sphere are at stake.
An essential factor of all historic change, the social imagination never-
theless is hidden when sought, as it does not refer to any group of specific
sources. It seems to be just about everywhere and nowhere. According to Hegel,
the history of men can only be written based on their dreams. But how very
fleeting these dreams are, how rare to find a trace of them in the archives! The
hopes and fears accompanying the birth of a baby are not inscribed on his
baptismal certificate. The sale of a steer has much more chance of being chron-
icled than do the dreams produced, lived, and exchanged by men.
As far as we’re concerned, we let ourselves be guided in our investigation
by an interrogation of the social imagination and utopias. In fact, one of the
functions—and not the least of these—of utopias, is to be a setting and a specific
mode of the exercise of the social imagination. In and by utopian representations,
the imagination leads the exploration of social otherness. In and by utopias, the
individual and collective social dreams take on consistency; they are organized
in coherent groups of idea-images of an alternative society, in opposition to and
in rupture with the dominant order. Let us recall, in recapitulation, the essential
of our definition of the utopia: imagined representation of a society which is
opposed to that which exists: 1. by the alternative organization of the society
envisioned as a whole; 2. by the otherness of the institutions and relationships
that compose the global society; 3. by the alternative modes according to which
everyday life is lived. This representation, whose details are more or less de-
veloped, can be envisaged as one of the possibilities of the real society and it
is then valorized in relation to the latter, positively or negatively.
The sphere of the social imagination is, of course, much broader than that
of utopias, and the utopian enterprise is merely one of the paths of the formation
 THE FLYING MAN / 315

of the social imagination. A specific and partial manifestation of the latter, the
utopian phenomenon is nevertheless a very precious symptom of it.
In questioning the relationships between utopias and the social imagination,
we have been led to reject several of the traditional frameworks to which the
study of the utopian phenomenon are sometimes relegated. We were not exclu-
sively attached to certain forms of utopian discourse; we sought utopian repre-
sentations just about everywhere they were developed and at work, where they
effectively oriented an intellectual, political, or artistic activity; where they served
as receptacles and poles of crystallization for social dreams. For the same reason,
we did not respect the fetishism of the ‘‘chronological threshold’’ which sup-
posedly separates the Enlightenment from the Revolutionary period. It is, once
again, the force of things that led us to approach this period which is particularly
revealing of the intervention of the utopian imagination in the organization of
collective time and space, as well as of the fusion of utopian representations and
political myths in the crucible of Revolutionary ideas.
As we have proceeded only by thematic probes or sections, our conclusions
can only be of provisional value. But, in truth, the very idea of ‘‘concluding””
is completely foreign to us. The formulation of queries for research to be ac-
complished as well as questions on the validity of the hypotheses we have drawn
throughout our investigation is sufficient for us. It is only for ease of expression
that we will avoid the repetitious use of the interrogative form.
Let us point out, first, the most. obvious deficiencies. The predominance
of one particular theme or another is due to the fortuities of research that some-
times led us further than we had foreseen. As an indirect consequence, it was
necessary to resign ourselves to leaving aside, at least for the moment, other
themes and problems of equal importance. We shall cite only a few of them.
We did not even approach the theme of education, a domain favored by
the utopian exercise. It would be necessary to consider education in the utopia,
all these imaginary Cities that set up educational systems for themselves which
are as perfect as they are effective and which transform the entire society into
a continuously running pedagogical machine. But it would also and above all
be necessary to examine the utopias of education and, in particular, the projects
of public education which convey the dreams of a new man for the New City
or even the dream of the regeneration of the City by the reeducation of its
citizens. This history of the controversy on public education during the Revo-
lution would have to be gone into in its entirety. Utopian representations would
be found at work in these projects which proliferate at the time and which go
as far as suggesting the almost total suppression of any specialized and insti-
tutionalized school system. Did the Revolutionary experience not prove itself
by teaching the people more in just a few years than the schools had during
centuries? It is in living history as rupture, and not as continuity, that the new
man can be formed. A system of specialized schools can only develop new
316 / THE FLYING MAN

privileged people, those of knowledge; it is only the experience of the transfor-

mation of life that is the true and only school of free and equal men. One would
think it was May 1968; but, as we have already pointed out, utopias more
frequently anticipate other utopias than they do realities—proposals, but also
some practical achievements. Education is conceived for the utopia; but it ought
also to be accomplished by the utopia, as at the Ecole de Mars, which was
intended to be the breeding ground of the new man and which, in the middle
of Paris, had kids living in a sort of Spartan-style sansculotte republic.
Nor have we noted the utopias on which the hopes conveyed by Knowledge,
the flourishing of the sciences, were fixed. Science in the utopia is, besides,
much less interesting than the utopian expansions given to the sciences. Unful-
filled utopian dreams focus on their unlimited and regenerative social effect.
Thus the discovery of ‘‘universal magnetism’’ would promise the cure not only
of physical ills but of moral evil as well. Humanity is already seen as renewed;
morals and institutions transformed; a social order, in conformity with the eternal
laws of nature, established; and all of that thanks to the most powerful spiritual
energy having been put to the service of man. Another promise behind the
universal grammar. It would not only seek the common foundations of all lan-
guages; it was motivated by the dream of finding once again the lost universal
language, the restoration of which would ensure perfect communication, the true
basis of transparency and social communion. These are peculiar sciences, par-
asciences, if you will. Let us note, however, how very similar these ‘‘peculiar-
ities’’ are to an idea whose history we touched on and which was to have the
greatest success. We are thinking, in particular, of the great rational promise of
making human evolution the object of a science that would be as universal as
it was rigorous and which, thanks to the discovery of the immutable laws of
history-progress, would encompass both the past and the future in which the
City of Happiness and Justice is inevitably situated. Does an epoch not, in its
“‘extravangances,’’ give evidence which, however frequently deformed and gro-
tesque, is nevertheless revealing of its problems, anxieties, and hopes?
We have only lightly touched on the case of utopias directly associated
with programs of Revolutionary political action. Two examples, at least, would
be worth special attention. Think, in particular, of Saint-Just, who married his
Revolutionary experience to the utopian dream he codified in the /nstitutions
républicaines and of Babeuf, who installed his utopian dreams in the program
of Equals.
The list could be extended. What about sexuality in Utopia and the utopias
of sexuality? Or prisons in Utopia and the utopia of the penitentiary system?
We limited ourselves, then, to certain themes and authors. Our point of
departure was literary texts espousing a ‘“‘classic’’ paradigm, that of the imaginary
voyage. As one reads them and discovers in them the most diverse and divergent
proposals, one is struck by the presence of a foundation of common feelings.
 THE FLYING MAN / 317

An anxiety, a malaise, if not a feeling of denial prevails: the discontent, the

discomfort, the embarrassments of someone who is more or less frustrated by
the religious, intellectual, moral, and other contexts of social life, or fails to
find his place in it. In certain texts, these feelings remain vague and imprecise;
they are expressed only in a movement of escape from reality. In others, they
are more specific and are expressed in a more or less radical critique of the
mores, morals, political institutions, religion, and so forth. In still others, they
are accompanied by the desire, if not the will for change. If these utopias derive
from a similar state of mind, they contribute as well, by the play of their
interaction, to an awareness of it. Proposing a sociological or ideological qual-
ification of these diffuse feelings, in which malaise merges with hopes and fears,
would be unwarranted. The most unexpected encounters are possible on the
roads of utopias: moderate reformers meet radical protesters, disillusioned aris-
tocrats rub elbows with minor writers, representatives of a growing, if not overly
numerous, intelligentsia, seeking to make a name for themselves, to make a
career.
The historian is struck both by the proliferation of these texts and by their
incontestable monotony. How marked is the repetition of the same themes and
ideas in this literature! To visit one city in Utopia is to have seen nearly all of
them. The imagination suffers from the rules of this discourse. One notes, first
of all, the attrition of the literary genre under the effect of an excessive para-
digmatic rigidity. But there is more: the desire to deny reality, to give proof of
an unfettered social imagination can lead to the paradoxical effect of repetition
and uniformity. The utopians, when they want to emphasize the free rein given
the imagination to better challenge the existing society, its institutions, and its
morality, always find themselves attracted to the same themes. Whence the
inflexibility of spirit which hinders and even paralyzes the enterprise of the social
imagination. Whence the repetition of certain themes: the rational religion, re-
duced to a vague deism or to a sort of social ethic; the liberalization of the
relationship between the sexes, if not total sexual freedom; the invention of
rational languages; the transparency and simplicity of political institutions; and
so forth. The utopias are part and parcel of and inspired by the philosophical
and moral problem that fascinates this ‘‘enlightened century,”’ that of evil, of
its origin, and its existence; they reproduce a more or less secularized theodicy,
oriented toward history and the social. The utopia does not, nevertheless, content
itself with diminishing evils; it envisages suppressing evil, striking it in its very
principle. As an indirect consequence, by wanting to reduce all the evils de-
nounced to a single principle, they fabricate the aggregate image of an ideal
society which would be as simple as its founding principle. It is therefore suf-
ficient to deduce and imagine, based on this principle or on a limited number
of convergent principles, daily life in all its details. Insofar as one finds evil
rooted in history, one is tempted to make it disappear, with these absurd and
318 / THE FLYING MAN

irrational conflicts. As we have noted, these imaginary cities live in an insular

time, cut off from our own. The monotony and repetition of their evocation
comes from the fact that they are societies with neither conflicts nor contradictions
to be resolved, so many responses to one single problem perfectly defined by
Morelly: to find a situation in which it would be nearly impossible that man be
depraved, or evil, or, at least, minima de malis. One might well wonder whether
this specific, limited, and restricted utopian enterprise should not be related to
a certain structure of the thought of the Enlightenment. This ‘‘enlightened cen-
tury’’ is, on the one hand, in search of a totality, of a rational and universal
order; on the other hand, it is fascinated by the exploration of the concrete and
of the individual, in their richness and diversity. The quasi-novelistic accounts
of the imaginary cities harmonized, in their way, the two preoccupations: the
concrete and the partial keep a semblance of richness and autonomy, while being
merely manifestations and symbols of the social whole.
Frequently flat and mediocre novels, less rich in ideas and new images
than might have been expected, the imaginary voyages are nevertheless enor-
mously successful. What perhaps counted most was mobilizing the social imag-
ination, standing aloof from the established society, its order of values and
hierarchies, exercising the sense of liberty and independence. This literature,
which often has no precise social object and seems to lose itself in escape and
monotonous dreams, is nevertheless a practiced activity. Is it not, in fact, the
manifestation of a specific intellectual activity which marks the culture of this
century, particularly at first? Pierre Francastel spoke of this with pertinence in
his analysis of the work of Watteau. In the ‘‘Embarkation for Cythera,’’ the
imaginary dreamland, the painter does not, as one might have thought, flee from
reality. It is precisely by representing imaginary places that are located nowhere,
where one enjoys oneself, that he is the faithful and concrete painter of the social
elites who were to produce and diffuse the great ideas of the Enlightenment.
Before formulating the principles of a political, social, and economic transfor-
mation, they sought only to develop the mental context of an imaginary culture.
It is in these conversations, which were both philosophical and gallant, that
‘more liberty and less mental conformity’’ were sought, that the imagination
and spirit that wished to be free were exercised and took pleasure in that exercise.
The imaginary voyages, in overwhelming majority, can be put in this
category. It could be said that in these utopias the pleasure of traveling is often
more important than the interest in the countries to be discovered.
The wear and tear suffered by the imaginary voyages, clearly notable in
the second half of the century, reveals the profound and complex changes the
field of social expectations undergoes, as well as a reorientation of the imagination
at work on it. The elsewhere of the utopia moves and changes its face. It leaves
the nowhere, inhabited by exiles from our society, who live their own time,
their own history which is not connected with ours. This elsewhere had as a
 THE FLYING MAN / 319

condition of its existence the imaging activity which was announced from the
inception in its aptitude for ‘‘fictionalizing’’ and which was recognized as such.
It was only the possible of the imaginary, the manifestation and affirmation of
the possibility of freely imagining the social. More and more, social hopes and
dreams postulate other forms of expression with a different epistemological and
cultural status. The elsewhere of the social otherness is established at the very
center of the field of expectations; it is conceived more and more as the latent
possibility of experiences to have. The utopia espouses a certain pragmatism,
giving it a specific tonality and taking it beyond the limits of its ‘‘realism.’’ We
have observed several examples of this slow and tortuous movement of trans-
formation: going from the festival in the utopia to the utopia of the festival, from
cities in Utopia to the utopia of the city, from power and government in the
utopia to the power and government envisaged as the agent of the utopia and
the executor of social dreams. The distances between the dreamed and imagined
society and the real society, between the wanted and desired history and the
lived history, seem to lessen. But then, the utopia is no longer recognized as
the dreamed image; it is announced and presented as something other than itself:
a proposal of reforms as lucid as they are practical, an extension or application
of science; the ultimate truth that deciphers history; an anticipation of the future.
This sociological and epistemological change is easily noticeable on the semantic
level. Utopian discourse with scientific, political, or ideological garb no longer
accepts being called utopia.
The term is negatively valorized and reserved to the others, all those who
merely fabricate ‘‘chimeras.’’ The utopian dreams thus refuse to recognize the
work specific to the imagination as the condition and support of their existence.
The gap between the imaginary and the real is reduced—social otherness is no
longer offered within the scope of the dream, but within that of knowledge and
action. The utopia is thus established in the extensions of the time of history;
on the one hand, it verges on science; on the other, on politics.
The most striking case, and that most revealing of this transformation, is
offered by the intervention of utopian representations in the development of the
ideal of history-progress. As we pointed out, this process is only at its beginnings
in the eighteenth century, when Progress as such, with a capital P, is still spoken
of only rarely. Nevertheless, a double movement is already under way. History,
on which are projected the cult of change and of accelerated innovation, of
progress that has already been made and that remains to be achieved, is inevitably
opening on a great promise of the future. The idea and the certitude that the
New City incarnating happiness is found at the term of historical evolution thus
underlay the interrogation of the past, which is presented under a new light. But,
at the same time, the utopias are opening to history and its time. The vision of
an alternative and better society is not only projected on the future; with the
future, it is joined to the present and past by an overall ideological discourse
 320 / THE FLYING MAN

summarizing the orientation of History. The latter is conceived as not only

decipherable but as already deciphered. Reinforcing its coherence, the discourse
on Progress establishes itself as rational and scientific. Thus, it accepts the utopia
only as its second, indirect, and concealed object. It is History, the object of a
science, which is charged with producing and establishing the utopias. The
images of an alternative City and History, situated in the time of Progress and
integrated into a discourse with scientific sheathing, are inevitably remodeled.
They are no longer either offered or accepted as dreams and aspirations, but as
anti-chimeras, not as visions, but as predictions of the future, if not as truths
endowed with all the prestige of science. The utopian representations thus become
receptacles and places for the crystallization of new attitudes toward historic
time, of the dreams and hopes focused on History and Knowledge to which
indefinite possibilities are accorded. Becoming enriched with new themes and
gaining in social resonance, they also become relay stations and resonance cham-
bers of the conquering ideological discourse. This play of interaction and ex-
change between the utopias and the ideologies tends, if pushed, to blur the
outlines of both. It is under the transparency, the rationality, and the happiness
of the New City that the ideologies dissimulate their shadows; it is in the opacity
of the ideologies that the creativity of the social imagination which produced
utopian representations is lost and frozen.
The opposition between history and utopia, in which only a pure and simple
denial of history is seen, is occasionally exaggerated. Recently, this seems to
have become nearly an intellectual mode. Things seem more complex to us,
however, and we feel we have given several examples of that complexity. The
opposition utopia/history is by no means absolute: the terms as well as their
relationship are variable and historically defined. If there is an opposition, it by
no means excludes a complementarity. The assimilation of utopian ideas and
images form the very condition making possible the existence of certain historical
discourse and myths. But it is also in opening itself to history, rejoining its time,
and charging the latter with great promise that the utopian representations are
renewed and remodeled. In other words, it seems indispensable to us in the study
of utopias always to specify which ideas or which images of history are con-
fronted, or even refused or assimilated by and in the dreams of a model City
and of a wanted and desired history. The utopias and the utopians are not
grappling simply with history, or even with that History priding itself on a capital
H and which has but a single sense and a single logic. Besides, is this History
* not a quite recent invention and would it have been possible without the con-
tribution of the utopias? Beyond the utopian images are found men whose social
imagination is grappling with the realities of their times. The dreams of the ideal
City harmonize readily with those other dreams of a history of which men have
already taken possession, once and for all. But the reiterated images of the
societies established in the immobility of their outcome only reveal, by dissi-
 THE FLYING MAN / 321

mulating them, the conditions of their own historical existence, as well as their
insertion into realities which were themselves moving.
The changes and reorientations of the utopian enterprise take shape through-
out the eighteenth century, becoming more pronounced in the second half, and
are inscribed in the broader context of the modifications of its social and mental
framework. These changes coincide at a given moment with the great Revolu-
tionary upheaval whose impact on the creativity of the social imagination and,
in particular, on the production of utopian representations, would be difficult to
overestimate. We are alluding to a coincidence and not a cause-and-effect re-
lationship, without entering into the eternal debate on the Revolution—rupture
or continuity, rupture and continuity. That seems to us as useless as it is pre-
sumptuous. However, it is patent that one does not involve oneself in the Rev-
olution with a virgin social imagination or, more precisely, with neither dreams
nor hopes, one is not carried away by the Revolutionary exploit. Let us recall
once again de Tocqueville’s remarkable observations on the social imagination
at work during the decades to which the Revolution gave the light of a ‘‘pre-
Revolutionary’’ epoch. ‘‘Above the real society, whose constitution was still
traditional, confused, and irregular, where laws remained diverse and contra-
dictory, classes and ranks clearly defined, conditions fixed and responsibilities
unequal, little by little an imaginary society was built, in which everything
seemed simple and coordinated—uniform, fair, and in conformity with reason.”’
Gradually the imagination of the crowd deserted the first to withdraw into the
second . . . and one finally lived through the mind in this ideal City the writers
had constructed. Did the idea-images of this ideal City actually mark the imag-
ination of the ‘‘crowd’’ or rather primarily, if not solely, that of certain elites
and, in particular, of the intelligentsia of the epoch? We have insisted on the
‘*scholarly’’ character of utopian discourse throughout the century. Nevertheless,
it is certain that the utopian activity supported this edifice Tocqueville speaks
of and that it furnished its architectural plans. But the utopias contributed to the
formation of the social imagination during the pre-Revolutionary era only by
following the very tortuous road by which the century succeeded in inventing
its own formulas of liberty. The utopias neither anticipated nor predicted the
Revolution and the utopians are by no means either ‘‘pre-Revolutionaries’’ or
‘*precursors’’ of the Revolution. Every utopia does not imply a political project
and is not a call to action. (On the other hand, it is obvious that not every
political proposal of the epoch assimilated utopian representations.) Even when
there was a rapprochement between the utopia and politics, as was the case, as
we have seen, during the second half of the century, it did not lead up to a
Revolutionary project. During the eighteenth century, before the Revolution,
utopias with other than reformist extensions were rare. No utopia imagined a
scenario which even distantly resembled the political and social upheaval for
which the utopian activity had, indirectly and in its own particular way, prepared
322 / THE FLYING MAN

minds and spirits. With and through the utopias, the social imagination, of course,
manifested its dynamism, but its inertia and its limitations as well. The men of
this ‘‘enlightened century’’ did not approach their history with all the social
imagination it required, any more than did any others.
The relationships between the utopia and political projects change at the
epoch of generalized political and social crisis that is the Revolution. Of course,
the Revolutionary exploit is neither produced nor provoked by the imagination,
but once begun, it gives a new élan and a particular dynamism to the imaginary.
The Revolutionary realities and experiences generate a great burst of political
hopes and myths. More than ever, the social actors are inseparable from their
‘‘fantasies,’’ from those dreams that elevate, glorify, and magnify the actions
accomplished, and the work that remains to be done.
We have brought out the examples of a Babeuf or a Saint-Just, who did
not separate their political actions from the development of a model of the Ideal
City set out and organized in a text. But during the Revolutionary period es-
pecially, utopias cannot be confined to a particular text that follows a rigid
paradigm. It is by their diffuse presence that the utopian representations pro-
foundly mark the Revolutionary mentalities. The images of an alternative com-
munity, a fraternal and egalitarian union of free men, are responses given,
particularly by militant minorities, to the collective hopes awakened or engen-
dered by the Revolution, but also to the anxieties provoked by its vicissitudes.
Images, certainly, as global as they are vague, but for that very reason all the
more dynamic and mobilizing, as they leave a relatively wide field for the exercise
of individual and collective dreams. The exceptional function of symbols in
Revolutionary mentalities is due, among other reasons, to the strong utopian
charge. Their polysemy signifies, among other things, the announcement of a
New City and of the new man. Abstract figures of abstract values which serve
as the basis for the promised City, the symbols of the regenerated Country, the
victorious and sovereign People, Equality and Fraternity, etc., function as both
receptacles and generators of energies, hopes, and social dreams.
The utopia of the Revolutionary City in this symbolic language is coupled
with the Revolutionary myth. Those who fabricate it while participating in it
live and recount their acts and the evolution of the Revolution in the specific
mode of a founding and creative time. They glorify the absolute beginnings and
the primordial events of the time when, in Michelet’s words, ‘‘everything be-
comes possible.’’ But this time which ‘‘opens a new book to history’’ can be
conceived as such only because it is lived as the vector of its own finality. Its
sole and unique significance is deciphered in the images of the New City which
it already establishes for eternity. The Revolutionaries recount the utopia to
themselves as an integral part of the myth secreted by their own experiences.
They need the ‘‘forceful language of signs,’’ a means of communication and
communion, in order to tell what they believe but also in order to believe what
 THE FLYING MAN / 323

they tell. The fusion of the utopia and the Revolutionary. myth will leave a
durable mark on the collective imagination far beyond the survival of the Rev-
olution itself. It will be revived and reproduced, in particular, in the account of
the unfinished Revolution, which did not succeed in accomplishing its ultimate
objective or which was diverted from it. This account, in its diverse versions,
will nourish the imagination of the “‘professional’’ Revolutionary, that new
historical figure making its first appearance only with the French Revolution and
particularly in the era that succeeded it.
The utopia of the Revolutionary City, coupled with symbols and the po-
litical myth, contributes to the formation of a certain community of social imag-
ination. Thus, the utopia is found at work in the new Revolutionary rites, and
it is lived as a spectacle in the Revolutionary festivals. It intervenes directly in
the modeling of time and space as well as in proposals for the education of a
new man worthy of the New City. The unfulfilled dreams of architects and
painters, scholars and educators, and schemers of all kinds seek to take possession
of realities wide open to the imagination. This community is, of course, more
extensive or more limited at different stages of the Revolution. The idea that it
encompasses the entire population, everyone with the exception of traitors and
aristocrats, is only an additional expression of the way of living and perceiving
realities which substitutes, for the complex and contradictory people, the reas-
suring images of the victorious and sovereign people, or of the nation, free and
regenerated.
Thus, in the course of the Revolutionary experiences, the utopias gain in
specific sociological reality. Of course, the society is not utopianized; it has not
actually become transparent, conforming to reason and nature. The gap, if not
the gulf, between the utopias and the Revolutionary dreams, is inevitable. No
revolution ever marks a total rupture with the society which preceded it, none
ever turns the time of history back to zero, none satisfies the hopes it awakens
or the utopias it stimulates. Sociologically and historically, the reality of the
imaginary is in its existence itself, in the diversity of social functions it exercises
as well as in the intensity of that exercise. Utopias gain in ‘‘reality”” and in
‘‘realism’’ insofar as they are durably inscribed in the field of expectations of
an epoch or social group, and, above all, insofar as they emerge as guiding ideas
and key points which orient and mobilize hopes and appeal to collective energies.
Thus during the Revolution, and in particular during its rising phase, an intense
exchange between utopian representations and collective hopes is established.
The experience of Revolutionary realities itself stimulates the discovery of new
uses for the utopia, considered by some as reassuring and encouraging and by
others as harmful and fearsome.
The Revolution necessarily goes through the conflict and combat in which
power and domination, if not monopoly, in the sphere of the imaginary, are at
stake. How frequently those who think themselves the spokesmen of the Rev-
324 / THE FLYING MAN

olution, the ideologues, the politician, and the militants, demand, in urgent
appeals, that the Revolution take over imaginations in order to guide the passions
and elevate the souls! However, it is not the imagination which comes to power,
but is rather the Power which thus surrounds itself with a new imagination. It
seeks to take it over, to make it into its stabilizing instrument, a necessary
element of its prestige, a tool of propaganda, mobilization, and manipulation of
the masses. The Power ‘‘utopianizes itself’? only in the sense that it aims at
institutionalizing the utopia in images and discourses which it monopolizes.
During the Revolutionary epoch, the utopias maintain complex relation-
ships with the ideologies and politics. If a certain orientation of political action
were possible without the perspectives and objectives formed in and by the
utopias, it would be naive, if not incorrect, to see in the programs and political
actions simple extensions or conclusions drawn from utopian visions. If the
utopia marks certain Revolutionary ideas and mentalities, it is the very course
of the Revolution which forces the utopian imagination to draw closer to history
and political action. From the Revolutionary event the utopia draws new hopes
and encouragement: does it not seem to reveal that all social reality, including
that which had been thought stable and definitive, could be abruptly changed
and shattered? But the confrontation of the utopia with history and politics is
also full of disappointments and bitter experiences. For some, the Revolutionary
experience compromises any utopia; for others, the Revolutionary image of the
City of happiness, equality, and fraternity will remain the great promise of history
and will nourish their hopes and plans of action.
These hopes and disappointments have perhaps never been more dramat-
ically expressed than they were by the great painter whose work seems to embrace
all the hopes and disillusionments of the Age of Enlightenment. Toward the end
of his life, Goya presents, in an enigmatic painting, a fantastic vision. In the
center are flying figures who escape from earth and head toward a City whose
vague outline, seemingly a mirage, takes shape on a lofty and distant rock. These
flying men will not succeed in reaching the City of their dreams. They are hit,
in full flight, by bullets shot from below, from the earth they wish to flee and
on which men kill one another. Let us not superfluously add to the vivid metaphor
a univocal sense that would kill it. Let us not crush it with comments as moralizing
as they are futile, and which would be either optimistic: would the man have
taken flight without the mirage toward which he is headed? or pessimistic: was
taking flight only to be massacred worth it? Let us take the painting as it is: it
locates the flying man in the foreground and on him it fixes our gaze.
Notes

|: The Social Imagination and Utopian

Representations
. Cf. A. Découflé, L’an 2000, Paris. The author distinguished six ways of ‘‘speaking
of the future’’: divination, prophecy, futurology, prospective, science fiction, and
utopia. We will study below how utopian discourse becomes a way of ‘‘speaking
to the future.”’
. Fourier, Œuvres, Paris, 1969, vol. X, p. 9. (Manuscripts published by la Phalange.)
. L. Febvre, Pour une histoire à part entière, Paris, 1962, pp. 736-742.
C.-G. Dubois, Problèmes de l'utopie, Paris, 1968. p. 7.
AWN
. This ambiguity of More’s neologism was recognized as early as the sixteenth
century.
OO. Dictionnaire de Trévoux, 1771. In English the meaning is extended throughout the
seventeenth century. The Oxford English Dictionary gives the following sequence:
‘‘An imaginary Island depicted by Sir Thomas More as enjoying a perfect social,
legal, and political system (1551); Any imaginary, indefinitely remote region, coun-
try, locality (1610); An impossible ideal scheme esp. for social improvement.’ A
detailed analysis in H. Schulte-Herbrügen, Utopie und Anti-utopie; von der Struk-
turanalyse zur Strukturtypologie, Bochum, 1960.
. Dictionnaire de l Académie, 1795. We will return to the polysemy of utopia in the
eighteenth century.
. L. Reybaud, Etudes sur les réformateurs sociaux, Paris, 1856, pp. 1-2. In the
Grand Dictionnaire Universel du XIX, siécle, P. Larousse adopts a more qualified
attitude toward the utopia and utopians. Utopia is, certainly, ‘‘a synonym of reverie,
of ideal which seems unrealizable’’; one is “‘rather considerably inclined to see

325
326 / NOTES

utopians as finding themselves in a state of mind akin to madness.’’ However, ideal

is not to be made synonymous with fictive or imaginary. Only ‘‘routinists,”” creatures
of habit whose mind is ‘‘rebellious to any conception of the ideal’’ think that way.
The ideal is necessary to progress; often, what was described as ‘‘utopia at one era
becomes a tangible reality at another time.’’ Of course, there are excesses, and one
sees ‘‘men whose mind is constantly occupied with unfeasible proposals. . . . But
that only shows that one must keep the juste milieu; and it is not a reason to mock
or to paralyze inventors.’’ Utopians ‘‘are sometimes singular beings, but do not
resemble poets or soothsayers.”’
. The first bibliography, to my knowledge, of ‘‘all utopias,’’ a sort of bibliographic
guide raisonné for militants, was published in 1923 (W. Swiatlowski, Katalog
utopij, Moscow, 1923). In the early 1920’s Volguine began to edit his remarkable
collection of utopian texts whose title alone deserves a historical semantic analysis:
Les précurseurs du socialisme scientifique. . . .
A. Kopp compiled a number of extremely rare documents from this period
in his book Changer la vie, changer la ville, Paris, 1975.
The ‘‘anarchist’’ republic of Makhno, in the Ukraine, represents a singular
and particularly complex chapter of the ‘‘utopias put into practice’’ of this period.
Cf. N. Makhno, La révolution Russe en Ukraine, mars 1917—avril 1918, Paris,
1927; P. Arscinov, Storia del Movimento Makhnovista, 1918-1921, Naples, 1954.
10. Cf. G. Sorel, Réflexions sur la violence, Paris, 1908, pp. xxviff.
11? K. Mannheim, /deology and utopia, London, 1952. Let us recall, without going
into detail, that Mannheim distinguishes four historic structures of the utopian
mentality: the chiliasm, the humanitarian-liberal idea, the conservative idea, the
socialist-communist utopia.
12: There is an excellent bibliographic introduction in H. Desroches, ‘‘Petite biblio-
théque de l’Utopie,”” Esprit, 1974, no. 4. This is the second special issue of Esprit
devoted to utopias, the first having been published in February 1966. Note also the
special issues of several other journals, evidence of the consistency of a similar
interest: Dedalus, Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Spring
1965; Revue des sciences humaines, no. 155 (1974); Littérature, no. 21 (1976),
including a pertinent updating of the most recent studies: F.-P. Bowman, “‘Utopie,
imagination, espérance.”’
1S: Cf. H. Desroches, Sociologie de l'espérance, Paris, 1973, pp. 195ff. R. Kosoelleck
has shown the importance of the study of the changing relationships between the
‘‘field of experiences’’ and the “‘horizon of expectations’’ of an era, of a social
group, etc., to the history of ideas and mentalities. Cf. ““Geschichte,’’ ‘‘Historie,’’
and ‘‘Fortschritt’’ in Historisches Lexicon zur poliitischensozialen Sprache in
Deutschland, Stuttgart, 1974. On the ‘‘horizon of expectations,’’ see H. R. Jauss,
Litteraturgeschichte als Provokation, Frankfurt/Main, 1975, p. 175.
. In these developments on the concept of the utopia I take up again ideas I have
expounded in my earlier works, clarifying or rectifying them. Cf. in particular, B.
Baczko, Rousseau. Solitude et communauté, Paris-The Hague, 1974; idem, Czlo-
wiek i swiatopoglady (The Man and his Visions of the World), Warsaw, 1966. I
have been greatly inspired by the works on utopias and by the utopias of my friends,
Polish historians of ideas (including Kolakowski, Pomian, Walicki, Garewicz, and
 NOTES / 327

Skarga). On the ideological and intellectual activity of this group of historians and
philosophers, see R. C. Fernandes, The Antinomies of Freedom. On the Warsaw
Circle of Intellectual History, unpublished thesis, Columbia University, 1976. It
goes without saying that I am solely responsible for these developments.
15: ‘‘A good utopian . . . is reduced to being first of all a consistent realist. It is only
after having looked reality in the face, as it is, without any illusions, that he turns
against it and attempts to transform it along the lines of the impossible,’’ Ortega y
Gasset, Vom Menschen als Utopischen Wesen, Stuttgart, 1951, p. 136.
16. It would be presumptuous to enter here into the extremely complex and exciting
debate on the imagination taking place at the present time. Thus we deliberately
observe a certain reserve when referring to current institutions. The adjective social
is only meant to qualify the specific orientations of imaging activity that particularly
concern us here. We will return to the concept of social imagination at the end of
this study (cf. the chapter “‘The Flying Man’’). On the concept of imagination and
its history, cf. J. Starobinski’s noteworthy study, ‘‘Jalons pour une histoire du
concept d’imagination,’”’ in La relation critique, Paris, 1970. On the sociological
aspects and tendencies of the imagination, cf. W. C. Mills, Sociological Imagi-
nation, London, 1970; H. Desroches, La sociologie de I’ espérance, loc. cit., pp.
191 ff.
17. Cf. B. de Jouvenal, ‘‘L’utopie dans des buts pratiques,”’ in his Du Principat, Paris,
1972, p. 235. “‘The designation ‘utopian’ ought to be refused to any presentation
of a new model lacking in images of daily life.”
18. The role of ritualization in utopias has been brought out by N. Frye, ‘‘Varieties of
Literary Utopias,’’ in Dedalus, Spring 1965. Cf. F. P. Bowman, Utopia, imagi-
nation espérance, loc. cit. The supremacy accorded rites is not only a matter of
the structural characteristics of the utopia. In certain utopias, this supremacy con-
verges with the intention of dissolving the political into the social or even into the
moral, a problem to which we will return. Cf. the judicious observations of G.
Benrekassa, ‘‘Le savoir sur la fable et l’utopie du savoir,’’ Littérature, no. 21,
February 1976.
19. H. Desroches, Sociologie de I’ espérance, loc. cit., p. 217. R. Trousson, Voyage
aux pays de nulle part. Histoire littéraire de la pensée utopique, Brussels, 1975,
gives a notable analysis of the evolution of the utopia as a literary genre.
20. Cf. N. Eurich, Science in Utopia, Cambridge, Mass., 1967, pp. 134-135. The
author calls attention to the strange personality of Samuel Hartlib, and his ‘‘group”?
(including in particular R. Boyle and W. Petty). Hartlib, a Polish emigrant himself,
creates a strange mixture of the utopia of science with millenarian and initiatory
ideas he got from J. W. Andreae, one of the founders of the Rosicrucians, and
author of a utopia: Reipublicae Christianopolitanae Descriptio (1619). Hartlib also
wrote other utopian texts and, in particular, A Description of the Famous Kingdom
of Macaria (1641); he planned to establish a model colony in Virginia.
216 On the utopias put into practice in England, see W. H. G. Armytage, Heavens
Below: Utopian Experiments in England 1560-1960, London, 1961. Ch. Hill stud-
ied the utopian practice of the diggers in Le Monde à I’envers, Paris Payot, 1977.
J. Séguy did a noteworthy study on Peter Cornelisz Plockjoy van Zurik, a Mennonite,
who set out to establish a utopian community in America. Cf. J. Séguy, Utopie
328 / NOTES

coopérative et ecuménique, Paris-The Hague, 1968. Many of these demi-prophets

and demi-utopians are found in the authoritative work of H. Desroches, Dieux
d'hommes: Dictionnaire des messies, messianismes, et millénarismes de I’ére chré-
tienne, Paris, 1969. H. Desroches demonstrated how blurred, in certain movements
of the modern era, are the frontiers between utopias on the one hand, and on the
other, prophetisms, Messianisms, and millenarianisms. Thus, he speaks of differ-
entiated populations of ‘‘utopianistic millenarianisms’’ and of ‘‘millenarian uto-
pias.’’ Cf. H. Desroches, Sociologie de I’ espérance, loc. cit., pp. 214ff. J. Szacki
proposes a typology of utopias that defines the two main types of utopias by the
specific nature of its rejection of reality as well as by its sociological implications.
In ‘‘escapist utopias,’’ the dream of the New City does not imply the moral obligation
of personal (or collective) commitment to an attempted achievement of the utopia.
On the other hand, ‘‘heroic utopias’’ lead to that obligation and a program of action.
This action can take different forms: it is political action, but also a retreat from
the world for closed communities that, by their example, ought to win society over
to the cause of utopia (‘‘cloistered utopias’’). During the eighteenth century and
before the Revolution, when these ‘‘heroic utopias’ flourish in England and Amer-
ica, there are none in France. We will discuss this problem further below.
22° A. Tocqueville, L’ Ancien Régime et la Révolution, Œuvres complètes, Paris, 1952,
t. IL, p. 199.
28: Cf. Dictionnaire de Trévoux, 1751; Dictionnaire de lAcadémie, VI edition (1795).
The term utopia is not in Diderot’s Encyclopédie. It is only the Complément du
Dictionnaire de l’Académie française that introduces the word utopian: one who
believes in a utopia; the creator of a utopia.
24. Leibniz, Essais de théodicée, Paris, 1969, p. 109.
25: Rousseau to Mirabeau, 26 July 1767, in J.-J. Rousseau, Lettres philosophiques,
presented by H. Gouhier, Paris, 1974, p. 167. Rousseau, Lettres de la montagne,
in Œuvres, Paris, éd. de la Pléiade, t. III, p. 810.
26. J-P. Brissor, Mémoires, Paris, 1912, t. II, p. 275.
27: Encyclopédie méthodique. Economie politique et diplomatique, by M. Demeunier,
attorney and royal censor. Paris, 1784—1788, vol. IV, p. 814. The term Staatsroman
was widely used in German as a synonym for utopia.
28. More, Utopia, Guedevill translation, Paris, 1730, p. XIV. Cabet created another
neologism; he said, in effect, that it is necessary to utopianize the universe. Quoted
from H. Desroches, Les dieux révés, Paris, 1972, p. 147.
29; L. S. Mercier, Néologie, Paris, An IX, p. 266.
30. The complete title is much longer and more detailed: Histoire des Sévarambes,
peuples qui habitent une partie du troisième continent communément appelé la terre
Australe, contenant une relation du gouvernement, de la religion et du langage de
cette nation inconnue jusqu’ à présent, Amsterdam, 1677-1679. In Candide the
description of Eldorado is in large part a pastiche of the Histoire des Sévarambes.
Cf. Chr. Thacker’s commentary in his critical edition of the philosophical tale in
Voltaire, Candide, Geneva, 1968.
Sil Memoires du marquis d’Argenson, published by René d’Argenson, Paris, 1825,
pp. 342-343.
32. Réflexions sur quelques ouvrages faussement appelés ouvrages d’ imagination, dis-
 NOTES / 329

sertation read to the Académie française in 1741, in Moncrif, Œuvres, Paris, 1751,
t. Il, pp. 163-172. In his criticism, Moncrif makes a single exception for the
Voyages de Télémaque.
35. Bibliothèque impartiale, t. VIII, November 1753. In response to these objections,
Morelly wrote the Code de la Nature. Cf. R. N. Coe, Morelly. Ein Rationalist auf
dem Wege Zum Sozialismus, Berlin, 1961, pp. 351-352.
34. Ch.-P. Duclos, Considérations sur les mœurs, in Œuvres complètes, Paris, 1820,
t. I., p. 21. J. Terrason, Séthos, histoire ou vie tirée des monuments et anecdotes
de l’ancienne Egypte, Paris, 1732, t. I., pp. IXff.
35: Encyclopédie méthodique: Economie politique et diplomatique, loc. cit., t. I., p.
V; t. IL, p. 702; t. IV, pp. 814, 840. At the end of the fourth volume is a table
raisonnée of the entire ‘‘ Administration théorique’’ section. Articles on utopians
are also found in the volumes of the Encyclopédie méthodique devoted to history.
Two other dictionaries with important articles on utopias should be mentioned here:
G. Réal de Curban, La Science du gouvernement, Paris, 1764, vol. VIII; Robinet
et Castilhon, Dictionnaire universel des sciences, morale économique, politique et
diplomatique ou Bibliothèque de | Homme d'Etat et du Citoyen, London, 1777—
1783, 30 vol. Castilhon himself had composed a few small utopian texts. G.
Benrekassa furnished a remarkable analysis of these dictionaries’ discourse on
utopias in his article: ‘‘Le savoir de la fable et l’utopie du savoir: textes utopiques
et recueils utopiques, 1764-1788,” Littérature, no. 21, February 1976. He does
not hide his disappointment at the repellent character of this discourse that lacks
all utopian ardor. But one might ask oneself whether, for the same reason, but from
another perspective, these texts don’t hold a certain interest. In fact, the mixture
of utopianism and reformism we have drawn from them furnished the historian with
important evidence of the diverse manifestations of the utopia’s presence in the
ideas and mentality of the era.
36. G.-B. de Mably, Droits et devoirs du citoyen, critical edition by J. Lecercle, Paris,
1972, p. 214.
Sie ’’Observations concernant l’Utopie de Thomas More,’’ Journal encyclopédique,
1784, t. VII. Brissot reproduced large excerpts from utopian texts in his Bibliothèque
philosophique du législateur . . . , Berlin (Neuchatel), 1782-1785. More, Du meil-
leur gouvernement ou la nouvelle isle d’Utopie, new translation, second edition
with notes, by M.-T. Rousseau, Paris, 1789, pp. VII-IX.
38. Our overall estimate of approximately 80 texts of imaginary voyages is based on
the following bibliographies, to which we have added through personal research:
W. Krauss, Reise nach Utopia, Berlin, 1964; idem., Franzôsische Driicke in den
Bibliotheken der DDR, Berlin, 1970; R. Falke, Versuch einer bibliographie der
Utopien, Romanistisches Jahrbuch, VI., 1954—1955; R. Messac, Esquisse d’une
chrono-bibliographie des utopies, Lausanne, 1962 (1962); L. Versins, Encyclopédie
de Il Utopie, des voyages extraordinaires et de la science-fiction, Lausanne, 1972.
None of these bibliographies gives indications of editions, unauthorized or pirated
editions, etc. We have not done extensive research on this subject; our few inves-
tigations came up with numbers than Werner Krauss’s estimates. They were, how-
ever, only limited surveys, and Krauss is the authority on this subject. If one goes
beyond the domain of imaginary voyages, the rough estimate changes radically.
330 / NOTES

Thus, for example, one comes up with 200 texts (imaginary voyages, proposals for
reform, etc.) considered ‘‘utopias’’ by A. Lichtenberger, in his authoritative thesis
that, eighty years later, remains an indispensable tool. Cf. A. Lichtenberger, La
socialisme au XVIII‘ siècle. Etudes sur les idées socialistes dans les écrivains
français du XVIII° siècle, avant la Révolution, Paris, 1895. According to a recent
bibliographic essay, and the criteria therein applied, there are approximately 150
titles for the period 1700-1789. Cf. I. Hartig et A. Soboul, Pour une histoire de
l'utopie en France, au XVIII‘, Paris, 1977.
39. A. Cioranescu points out that the first ‘‘uchronia’’ dates from 1659. Cf. A. Cior-
anescu, ‘‘ ‘Epigone,’ le premier roman de l’avenir,’’ Revue des sciences humaines,
1974, no. 3.
40. The anti-utopia and its evolution would call for a deeper analysis. Let us limit
ourselves to some rapid observations: In taking the opposite course to that of the
utopia, the anti-utopia is not inventing new formulas; it is not creating, so to speak,
an ‘‘anti-voyage.’’ It furnishes the description of a ‘‘utopian space’’ where the
disastrous consequences of the realization of utopian ideals compromises the utopia
itself. Nevertheless, this said, the anti-utopia is not necessarily an apologia for the
established order, but it is often the opposite. It occasionally presents a more radical
and more bitter critique of the present than any utopia. It therefore compromises
the present with and by means of the utopias that it produces. It is one thing to
oppose the utopia as an apologist for the established order, and another to com-
promise the utopia by means of the anti-utopia. The latter aims at utopias in general
and not a specific utopia. That is why it must be shifted into the “‘realm of the
impossible’’: it is the negation of the utopia in the domain the utopia opens up for
itself. The anti-utopia in the eighteenth century is a complex phenomenon. Several
works merit close attention. First is Gulliver’s Travels. For the historian of utopias,
this book is a veritable laboratory: Swift mixes and uses all existing utopian genres
and turns them against themselves. Thus, he bursts open the genre from within;
imaginary societies are ‘“counter-societies’’ because they are grotesque visions of
real social life. But the model counter-utopia is the land of the wise and virtuous
horses, the Houyhnhnms, where the men, the Yahoos, drag out their miserable,
beastly lives. The truth about man that the imaginary society brings proves crueler
than reality. The “‘true’’ human society, the one that corresponds to human nature,
is precisely that of the troop of Yahoos. Justice, like virtue, is above the human
condition; it is within reach only of the Houyhnhnms, because they are horses, anti-
men. Mandeville’s Fable sur les abeilles is another case at the frontier of the counter-
utopia. This is an ambiguous work, that escapes a univocal interpretation and yet,
the anti-utopian tenor of the allegory of the society of bees is clear. Every society
exists and prospers thanks to its vices and evils, and not despite them. Every utopia
that wants to eliminate vice and evil undermines social life itself, and precisely
because it aims at the reign of the good. Finally, a third case, particularly complex,
that of Sade. In Sade, one finds the classic paradigm: the happy island of Tamoé
described in Aline et Valcour. But, in the same text, Sade presents two other
imaginary societies: a tyrannical society that finds its philosophical and moral jus-
tification in naturalism and atheism, and a community of ‘‘established disorder,”’
 NOTES / 331

of anarchism in revolt, that finds its justification in a Manichean vision of the world.
It would be necessary to add, at least, the vision of society in Philosophie dans le
boudoir (the famous text Francais faites encore un effort et vous serez républicains)
and no doubt the “‘society of the friends of crime’’ as well. J.-M. Goulemot has
done a noteworthy analysis of the complexity and ambiguity of Sade’s political and
social options and, in particular, of his attitude toward the Revolution (Cf. J.-M.
Goulemot, ‘“Lecture politique d’Aline et Valcour,’’ in Le Marquis de Sade, con-
ference in Aix en Provence, Paris, 1968). It seems nevertheless that a certain drift
emerges through these ambiguities and hesitations, such that, in Sade, the refusal
of existing society is the opposite of the utopian refusal. Sade’s discourse does not
even lead up to an anti-utopia but, rather, to a social anti-system, an anti-society.
He doesn’t dispute one vision of society or another, but challenges any possibility
of justifying the social link as a human value. Let us point out, finally, that the
anti-utopia of the eighteenth century is, like the contemporary utopia, centered on
the idea of human nature. It is a pessimistic confrontation between human nature
and the ideal, that concludes that the ideal is above man. In the contemporary anti-
utopia, that of the twentieth century, the perspective changes. The utopia is de-
nounced as being beneath man; at the center is found, in effect, the conflict between
the oppressive utopian society and the irreducible values of individuality. This latter
theme appears in the eighteenth century in an anti-utopia by Prevost. In fact, an
episode telling the story of the Ile heureuse is found in Cleveland. (Cleveland .. . ,
Amsterdam, 1744, t. II, pp. 68ff.). The people inhabiting this island know equality,
justice, collective happiness, etc. However, this society does not allow individual
love—the choice of companion is.ruled by drawing of lots, taking no account of
individual preferences. This is the obstacle that thwarts the integration of the narrator
into the perfect society. ‘‘There is,’’ according to Prevost, ‘‘a contradiction between
individual happiness and social happiness’’; we are dealing with ‘‘the commonplaces
of the era being challenged by an anti-utopia.’’ Cf. the pertinent observations of J.
Ehrard, L’idée de nature en France à l’aube des Lumières, Paris, 1970, pp. 406-
407.
41. Turgot, Œuvres, Paris, éd. Dupont de Nemours, 1808, t. I, p. 345.
42. Cf. F. Venturi, Utopia and Reform in the Enlightenment, Cambridge, 1971, pp.
95ff.: Utopia et institutions au XVIII siècle. Le pragmatisme des Lumières, text
compiled by P. Francaster, The Hague-Paris, 1968, pp. 8-9.
43. P.-J. Garat, Mémoires historiques sur la vie de M. Suard, sur ses écrits et sur le
XVIII’ siècle, Paris, 1820, t. I, pp. 163-164.
. Le Thésmographe, Restif de la Bretonne, Œuvres, Paris, 1931, t. II, p. 174.
45. Correspondance de Babeuf avec I’Académie d’ Arras, published under the direction
of M. Reinhard, Paris, 1961, pp. 23, 29, 80ff. The author of the Avant-coureur
is, probably, Claude-Boniface Collignon, an attorney in Orléans, who wrote several
works showing reformist leanings, such as the Essais de bien public (1776). More-
over, he posited as a condition of the publication of his salutary proposal, that ‘‘the
King and the Republic of Poland give him, in their State, along with the rights of
citizenship one or more starosties that will bring in an income of a million Polish
florins or so, and enough to maintain a guard of six or seven hundred men at his
332 / NOTES

expense.’’ It is not clear whether this is intended to be a modest reward for the
remedies he proposed in the Avant-coureur or, rather, as a testing ground for their
application (ibid., pp 22-23).
46. Cf. J. Séguy, loc. cit., p. 21.
47. Cf. H. G. Armytage, Heavens Below; Utopian Experiments in England 1560-1960.
London, 1961; M. Holloway, Heavens on Earth; Utopian Communities in America
1680-1880, New York, 1966.
The experiment of the ‘‘Fareinists,’’ a sect of Jansenist inspiration, whose
activities extend from 1775 to the year XIII, is very revealing on this point. Its
Messianism is never at one with the utopian representations of the era and is not
translated into attempts at communal life. Cf. C. Han, Le messie de l'an XIII et
les fareinistes, Paris, 1955. Among the ‘‘imaginary voyages,’’ we have found only
one narrative of Jansenist inspiration: Relation du voyage de l’île d’ Eutropie (1771).
The narrator, whose work is intended for ‘‘pious and wise people,’’ describes how
he discovered on an unknown island a church and believers practicing an austere
and pure Catholicism, totally at variance with the one that, under the harmful
influence of the Jesuits, had been established in France.
48. We have analyzed the utopia of Clarens in our work Rousseau. Solitude et com-
munauté, Paris-The Hague, 1974, pp. 349ff.
Let us take this opportunity to point out a problem. Jean Ehrard attracted my
attention to the problems posed in the eighteenth century by the relationship between
the idyll and the pastoral, on the one hand, and the utopia on the other. Indeed,
occasionally, the boundary line is unclear and the play of reciprocal influences
would call for a special study. Schematically, the following distinction could be
established: there is in the idyll and the pastoral a movement of escape from reality
toward a certain ideal, which occasionally establishes a parallel between these
literary genres and the utopian enterprise; however, the utopia is not possible without
an orientation of the imagination toward the social, without an imagined social
otherness. The pastoral dream can be an escape and a refusal of any social prob-
lematic: it can be situated on a purely esthetic, moral, lyric, or other plane. In other
words, the idyll reduces the social to a distant and vague setting or else dispenses
completely with any reference to the social. Nevertheless, these two enterprises
were, in the eighteenth century, often complementary, and the play of divergences
and convergences, that ‘‘utopian frontier,’’ is of particular interest.
49. Cf. Restif de la Bretonne, “‘Les vingt épouses des vingt associés,’’ in Œuvres, loc.
cit., vol. II, pp. 10-25. ‘‘Les statuts du Bourg d’Oudan,”’ that form the last pages
of the Payson perverti are reproduced by G. Rouger in his critical edition of the
Vie de mon père, Paris, 1970, collection Classiques Garnier, pp. 242ff.
50. Cf. Journal d'agriculture, September-December 1755; Encyclopédie, the ‘‘Mo-
raves’’ article, reprinted in the Encyclopédie méthodique, in the ‘‘History’’ section.
Faiguet, the royal treasurer, was also the author of a brochure, Economie politique.
Projet pour enrichir et perfectionner l'espèce humaine, London, 1773. In it, he
expounded his ideas on the creation of a sort of insurance fund against sickness
and old age, that would produce all the effects mentioned in the title of the work.
A. Lichtenberger mentions still more writings in praise of the Quitards-Pinons and
even proposes the institutionalization of their example (A. Lichtenberger, loc. cit.,
 NOTES / 333

p. 340ff.). On the economic and distinctive social characteristics of the peasant

communities in Auvergne in the eighteenth century, see A. Poitrineau, La vie rurale
en Basse-Auvergne au XVIII’ siècle, Paris, 1965.
Sh. J.-A.-V. d’Hupay de Fuvéa, Maison de réunion pour la communauté philosophe
dans la terre de l’auteur de ce projet, Euphrate, les associés Frères Dumplers, and
Utrecht, at the expense of the communal house of the Moravians, 1779. Some of
the arrangements proposed in the project are directly inspired by More’s Utopia,
but the author refers to other utopian texts as well. We have found nothing further
about the author beyond Quérard’s indication that Hupay de Fuvéa was thereafter
regarded ‘‘as an ardent disciple of Swedenborg.”’
52: J. Servier, Histoire de l'utopie, Paris, 1967, p. 313.
53: Y. Bercé, Croquants et nu-pieds, Paris, 1974, pp. 131ff.
54. Cf. R. Mandrou, De la culture populaire au XVIII’ siècle, Paris, 1975; G. Bolléme,
Les almanachs populaires aux XVIII’ et XVIII’ siècles, Paris, 1969.
Dk Cf. J. Meslier, Œuvres, Paris, 1971, vol. Il, pp. 60ff. On Meslier’s prophetism,
see the observations of J. Proust and J. Ehrard in Etudes sur le curé Meslier. Actes
du colloque international d’ Aix en Provence, Paris, 1966.

ll: Utopia and Politics: An “Imaginary Voyage” by

Rousseau
. It is only Jean Fabre who, by his notable works as well as by his critical edition
of Considérations, paved the way for a new reading of this text and demonstrated
its capital importance. See J. Fabre, ‘Jean-Jacques Rousseau et le destin polonais,”’
Europe, no. 391—392, 1962; idem, ‘‘Réalité et utopie dans la pensée politique de
Rousseau,’ Annales J.-J. Rousseau, t. XXXV, pp. 181-216; idem, Introduction
and Notes to Considérations sur le gouvernement de Pologne, in J.-J. Rousseau
Œuvres complètes, Pléiade, t. III. (Further references to this edition will be ab-
breviated O.C.)
May the references to these inspirational works, throughout these pages
devoted to Considérations serve as homage to this ‘‘maitre’’ and friend who died
prematurely.
. Rousseau, Emile, in O.C., t. IV, pp. 548-549; Contrat social, in O.C., t. Ill, p.
425.
. On the composition date of Considérations, see W. Konopczynski, J.-.J. Rousseau
doradca Polakow, Themis Polska, 1913, pp. 1-28. J. Fabre, O.C., t. Ill, p. ccxxv.
. J.-J. Rousseau, Lettre à d’Alembert, Paris, Garnier-Flammarion, 1967. pp. 142-
143.
. Lettres écrites de la Montagne, O.C.., t. Ill, p. 810; Jugement sur le Projet de paix
perpétuelle, ibid., p. 599.
. Fragments politiques, O.C., Il, p. 494.
. Here and below the numbers in parentheses refer to pages in Jean Fabre’s critical
edition, in O.C., t. III.
. Jugement sur le Projet de paix perpétuelle, O.C., t. IT, p. 159. On the Abbé de
Saint-Pierre’s ‘‘proposals,’’ see the chapter below ‘‘History as a Pretext for Utopia.”
334 / NOTES

Uy, Contrat social, O.C., t. Ill, p. 351; Rousseau à Mirabeau, letter of 26 juillet 1767,
J.-J. Rousseau Lettres philosophiques, edited by H. Gouhier, Paris, 1974, p. 167.
10. Contrat social, first version, O.C., t. IL, p. 317.
te Ibid.
1192 Machiavelli’s influence is found in the developments on the legislator; however,
contrary to the author of Discorsi, Rousseau limits the great legislator’s possibilities
of action to the dawn of history. In his reflections on the hero of antiquity, as well
as on the epic of antiquity, Hegel was greatly inspired by Rousseau’s ideas. On
the concept of the legislator in Rousseau, see the studies of B. Gagnebin in the
proceedings of the Dijon conference of 1962 and of R. Polin in the proceedings of
the conference at the Collége of France in 1963. On the idea of the legislator in
Rousseau and Hegel, see our study ‘‘Hegel and Rousseau,’’ in B. Baczko, Czlowiek
i swiatopaglady, Warsaw, 1965.
32 Emile, O.C., t. IV, p. 858.
14. In the Dialogues, Rousseau establishes another parallel between his personal destiny
and that of Poland, which he calls a ‘‘miserable nation’ (see O.C., t. I, p. 836).
. On Rousseau’s documentation, see J. Fabre’s analyses in O.C., t. IE, p. ccxxxv,
as well as p. 953.
. Recent studies have shown to what point Polish romantic literature was marked by
the myth of the Confederation of Bar. See Przemiany tradycji barskiej, Warsaw,
1972. There is still research to be done on the destiny of Considérations in Polish
Romanticism.
(7e OCMMIL paccxrm:
18. Dialogues, O.C., t. I, p. 836.
19: Contrat social, Il, 10, O.C., t. II, pp. 390-391.
20. See E. Dedeck-Héry, J.-J. Rousseau et le ‘‘Projet de constitution pour la Corse,”
Philadelphia, 1932; S. Stelling-Michaud, introduction to the Projet de constitution
pour la Corse, O.C., t. Ill, pp. ccll—ccm.
Pale Contrat social, Il, 8, O.C., t. Ill, pp. 384-385.
pes Ibid., Il, p. 394.
23% See ibid., III, 10-11, pp. 23ff.
24. Ibid., Il, 12, p. 425.
25: The problem is more fully discussed in the collective paper on ‘‘Modéles antiques
et préromantisme’’ delivered at the conference on pre-romanticism at Clermont-
Ferrand, in June 1972, by a group of which we were a member, along with J.-P.
Bouillon, A. and J. Ehrard, J. Joly, L. Perol, and J. Rancy. See Le préromantisme:
hypothéque ou hypothése?, Paris, 1975.
26. See J. Fabre’s remarks in O.C., t. If, p. 957. In Considérations, Rousseau takes
up his own ideas previously sketched in a handwritten fragment on Moses and the
Jewish people, O.C., t. III, pp. 498-500. Was this text to be part of the Institutions
politiques Rousseau proposed to write? In any case, it is attached to a page of the
Contrat social, but nowhere in Rousseau’s work is the ‘‘Jewish model’’ so exten-
sively discussed as it is in Considérations.
Dike 0.C., t. Ill, p. 499.
28. Emile, O.C., t. IV, p. 250.
2h}. Essai sur l’origine des langues, ed. Ch. Porset, Bordeaux, 1970, p. 31.
 NOTES / 335

30. Emile, O.C., t. IV, p. 647. Rousseau here takes up, with some changes, a passage
of the Essai sur l’origine des langues, loc. cit., pp. 31-33.
31; Ibid., pp. 29, 35, 645.
32° Ibid., p. 647.
33) Ibid., p. 646.
34. Ibid., p. 645.
39: Thus, Ch.-V. Bonstetten notes at the beginning of the nineteenth century that ‘‘the
theory of imagination is so little known, that the majority of the moderns see in
this faculty only the power to envision absent objects. . . . The imagination everyone
speaks about . . . only shows itself veiled.’’ Ch.-V. Bonstetten, Recherches sur la
nature et les lois de l’imagination, Geneva, 1807, pp. 2-4.
36. Cf. Ch. Porset’s pertinent remarks in his introduction to the Essai sur l’origine de
langues, loc. cit., p. 23, and J. Starobinski’s note to his edition of the Discours
sur l’origine de l'inégalité, O.C., t. II, pp. 1330-1331.
31: Essai sur l’origine des langues, loc. cit., p. 93.
38. Emile, O.C., pp. 304-307.

Il: Utopia and Metaphysics: Dom Deschamps

. E. Beaussire, Antécédents de l’hégélianisme dans la philosophie française. Dom
Deschamps, son système et son école d’après un manuscrit et des correspondances
inédites du 18° siècle, Paris, 1865, p. 232.
. One almost gets the impression that it is an accursed text, one that brought misfortune
to those dealing with it in the Soviet Union. Zaitseva did not succeed in publishing
either his copy of the manuscript or his translation. During the 1920’s, another
Russian scholar, Naguijev, came to Poitiers; he made another copy of the Vrai
Systéme and began to prepare his complete edition in a Russian translation. He did
not accomplish his project—he seems to have committed suicide before 1930. It
was his friend, S. Vasiliev, who continued his work and published the first volume
of Dom Deschamps’s Œuvres in Baku, in 1930.
The edition was to comprise four volumes, but ended with the first, which
was, moreover, withdrawn from circulation at the time of the ‘‘great terror’ of the
1930’s and which became as rare as the two pamphlets published by Dom Deschamps
during the eighteenth century. Zaitseva’s translation has recently (1975) been pub-
lished posthumously. The latter text was revised and extremely well annotated by
L. S. Gordon, an eminent historian of the social ideas of eighteenth-century France.
Gordon accomplished this work after his liberation from the camps of the ‘‘Gulag
archipelago,’’ where he spent several years, gravely ill, never having been able to
return to Leningrad or to realize the dream of his life—to see France and to work
at the Archives Nationales and the Bibliothéque Nationale. He did not even have
the joy of seeing his edition of Deschamps published—yet another posthumous
work. F. Venturi dedicated to Gordon’s memory a moving necrology that is also
a notable contribution to the study of the dramatic destiny of the Russian intelli-
gentsia (Rivista Storica Italiana, 1973, n. 2).
. J. Wahl, ‘‘Cours sur l’athéisme de Dom Deschamps,’’ Studies on Voltaire and the
Eighteenth century, vol. II, Geneva, 1967. The proceedings of the Poitiers con-
336 / NOTES

ference were published in Dom Deschamps et sa métaphysique, Paris, 1974 (pub-

lished under the direction of J. D’Hondt). A. Robinet’s Dom Deschamps. Le maitre
des maîtres du soupçon, Paris, 1974, includes an excellent bibliography, prepared
by F. Bastien, of manuscript sources and editions of texts, as well as of works on
Dom Deschamps. The latter have begun to snowball during the last ten years.
4. Y. Belavel, ‘‘Apologie de la philosophie française au 18° siécle,’’ Dix-huitiéme
siécle, n. 4, 1972.
5. In putting the names of these utopians one after the other, we are speaking of a
presence and not of a continuity since in fact there is no proof of the latter. There
is no more trace in Morelly’s work of his having read Meslier than there is in Dom
Deschamps of having read either of them. And there are as many conflicts as there
are affinities among the ideas of these authors.
6. Let us briefly recall the most essential biographical data. Léger-Marie Deschamps
was born 10 January 1716 in Rennes. In 1733, he made his profession and having
completed his scolasticat he remained until his death with the Benedictines of the
Congregation of Saint-Maur. In 1762, he was named procureur of a small priory
in Montreuil-Bellay, near Saumur, where he died 19 April 1774. It is impossible
to specify, barring new discoveries of unknown sources, either when and how Dom
Deschamps began to develop his ‘‘true system’’ or the stages of his success. For
several years, he participated, in keeping with the Mauristes traditions, in historical
scholarship, analyzing and recopying charters and deeds. The ‘‘key to the enigma’’
was found as early as 1761, when Dom Deschamps entered into epistolary contact
with Rousseau, trying to win him over to his ideas. Seventeen sixty-three marked
the the first contacts with the Marquis Marc-René de Voyer d’ Argenson, who lived
in the chateau d’Ormes, not far from Montreuil-Bellay. This event marked a turning
point in the life of Dom Deschamps. The Marquis, after a brilliant military career,
inherited, in a manner of speaking, the disgrace of his father, the Count d’ Argenson,
former Secretary of War, and retired frequently to Ormes. He was a confused and
disturbed individual who allied great intellectual curiosity and broad culture to a
libertinage that had become legendary, although his contemporaries were not easily
impressed on that point. The circumstances in which the Marquis began to take an
interest in Dom Deschamps’s ideas are unknown; he adopted them not without
hesitations and reservations, and became the faithful disciple and even the patron
of the author of the ‘‘True System.’’ Through the intermediary of the Marquis,
Dom Deschamps entered into correspondance with Helvetius, D’ Alembert, Voltaire,
and J.-B. Robinet, trying to win them over to his ideas. All his attempts led to
failure; on the other hand, Dom Deschamps made a strong impression on Diderot,
whom he met, with the Marquis’s active encouragement, on the occasion of a trip
to Paris, in 1769. It was again the Marquis who took it on himself to furnish pupils
to Dom Deschamps from among those who frequented the chateau. (Among the
very numerous visitors, let us note the presence of Talleyrand and Dumouriez.)
Thus, a sort of philosophical salon (it was called ‘‘the Academy of Metaphysics’’),
or lodge (the Marquis was a Freemason), or even sect with several grades of initiation
was formed at Ormes. Dom Deschamps grouped some proselytes at Montreuil-
Bellay as well (it is one of his proselytes, Dom Mazet, who transcribed the papers
of Dom Deschamps that are preserved at the Municipal Library at Poitiers). Pierre
 NOTES / 337

Méthais, basing his work on unpublished documents preserved at the château of

Ormes, furnished a remarkable analysis of Dom Deschamps’s activity, as well as
of his milieu at Ormes and in Montreuil-Bellay. See P. Méthais, ‘‘Montreuil-Bellay.
Paris. Les Ormes,’’ in Dom Deschamps et sa métaphysique, loc. cit., pp. 29-85.
. Diderot, Correspondance, ed. Roth-Varloot, Paris, 1963. t. IX, pp. 123, 245.
. Réflexions métaphysiques préliminaires. (The unpublished texts of Dom Deschamps,
cited from manuscript (145) 200 of the Bibliothéque Municipale of Poitiers, are
indicated below only by their titles.)
. Réponse à l’abbé Yvon qui me demandait ce que je pense de la demande faite par
l’académie de Mantoue pour le prix de 1773 d’assigner les causes des crimes,
d'indiquer les moyens de les détruire, si possible.
10. Dom Deschamps, Le vrai système ou le mot de I’ énigme métaphysique et morale,
published by J. Thomas and F. Venturi, Geneva, 1939, p. 101. (Hereinafter referred
to as ‘“Thomas-Venturi,’’ citing the title of the text.)
11. Les observations morales, Thomas-Venturi, p. 126.
192 Chaine des vérités développée, Thomas-Venturi, p. 101.
13. Ibid., pp. 101-102.
14. Observations morales, Thomas-Venturi, pp. 126-127.
15. The dialectic of these three stages has often been emphasized, comparing it to that
in Hegel. This comparison seems doubtful to us; we will return below to the
relationships among these stages of history as well as those between history and
the utopia.
16. W. Krauss, ‘“‘Der Jahrhunderthegriff im XVIII Jahrhundert,’’ in Studien zur
deutschen und franzosischen Aufkldrung, Berlin, 1963.
17. On the evolution of these concepts and their ideological functions in the seventeenth
century, see the noteworthy work of K. Koselleck, Kritik und Krise, Freiburg,
1959. See, too, B. Baczko, Rousseau, solitude et communauté, loc. cit., pp. 39ff.
18. ‘‘Le mot de l’énigme métaphysique et moral appliqué à la théologie et à la phi-
losophie du temps par demandes et par réponses,’’ publié par B. Baczko and F.
Venturi, Dix-huitiéme siécle, nos. 4 and 5, Paris, 1973, 1974. Cited below as
‘‘Demandes et réponses,’’ with respective paragraphs indicated.
19. Observations morales, Thomas-Venturi, p. 121.
20. Réponse à l’abbé Yvon . . . sur la demande de |’académie de Manoue.
21. Observations morales, p. 176.
22) Ibid., p. 111.
23. Ibid., p. 114.
24. Ibid., p. 185.
25: Ibid., pp. 115-116.
26. Demandes et réponses, WI.
Die Ibid., XVI. Our italics.
28. Ibid., XXX.
292 Réflexions métaphysiques préliminaires.
30. Demandes et réponses, XXX.
Sule This is the harangue Dom Deschamps has a man deliver when he meets a woman
he finds attractive: ‘‘This object is a good to which I have as much right as any
other. Attempting to deprive me of it would be usurping it from me: I find in it all
338 / NOTES

that I can desire in a woman, I want to enjoy it.’” Woman is an object with the
remarkable quality of being able to satisfy the needs of several individuals. On the
other hand, it doesn’t seem as though Dom Deschamps excludes homosexual re-
lationships from the ‘‘state of morals.’’ Observations morales, pp. 127-128.
32. Ibid., p. 147.
33. Ibid., pp. 122-123, 141, 169.
34. Observations morales, p. 130; Demandes et réponses, XIV.
35: Additions à ce qui précède. . . .
36. Demandes et réponses, XVIII.
57? Ibid., XXIV.
38. Observations morales, p. 157.
39; Ibid., p. 166. ‘‘They would not use either meat or fish, or salt, or spices, or any
strong liquor, but they would feed themselves simply on bread and water, vegetables,
fruits, milk, cheese, butter, honey, and eggs. This way of eating, the healthiest
and most reasonable, would require little preparation, care, or work, while ours,
which impairs our faculties and shortens our days, requires an incredible
amount. . . . There, on the contrary, one would eat the most substantial bread, and
drink the best water.’’ Ibid., pp. 186-187.
40. Ibid., pp. 177-178. Dom Deschamps adds that the consumption of iron would be
so low that the ore already mined by men would suffice for centuries. Moreover,
utensils would be of earth or wood.
41. Ibid., p. 183.
42. Ibid., p. 163.
43. ‘Women who have milk without being pregnant, will nurse babies indiscriminately,
without caring whether or not they are theirs. . . . There will be none who is not
a nurse, either of children, or of the elderly, who will be strengthened, rejuvenated
by their milk.’’ Ibid., p.171.
. Ibid., pp. 182-183.
45. Ibid., pp. 122-123, 162.
46. Ibid., p. 166.
47. Colloque entre Mme la marquise de Voyer, M. L'abbé et dom Deschamps; see,
also, Observations morales, pp. 184-185, 149, 158-159.
48. Observations morales, pp. 181-182.
49. Ibid., pp. 163-164; Demandes et réponses, IX.
50. Observations morales, p. 119; Observations métaphysiques, Il, XVII.
Sie Observations morales, p. 195.
52° Ibid.
53. Observations métaphysiques, Il, 16. One is struck by the affinity between these
developments and the ideas of Diderot, in the Réve de d’ Alembert, on the relationship
between the ‘‘great whole’’ and its elements. Cf. Diderot, Œuvres philosophiques,
Paris, 1961, pp. 311-313.
54. Observations morales, p. 187.
SD: Demandes et réponses, XXXII; Réponse à la demande: comment une partie peut
étre le tout?, edited by J. Wahl, Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, 1964 (69);
Observations métaphysiques, Il, V. Dom Deschamps thinks about gravitation when
he affirms that ‘‘the forces that physicists have discovered in nature’’ and in which
 NOTES / 339

‘‘they want to see an enigma’’ are only one of the manifestations of the universal
tendency of beings to a perfect unity.
56. See Colloque. . . . In another text, Dom Deschamps wrote: ‘‘One can only be a
Nothingist insofar as one believes in nothing; that is, in the negative existence that
is inseparable from the positive.’’ Cf. Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale, loc.
cit., p. 247.
Se Réfutation courte et simple du systéme de Spinoza, Revue de Métaphysique et de
Morale, loc. cit., p. 247.
58. We have discussed this interplay of the esoteric and the exoteric more completely
in B. Baczko, ‘‘Les discours et les messages de Dom Deschamps,’’ Dix-huitième
siécle, no. 5, 1973.
59? C. B. Macpherson, The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism, Oxford,
1964.
60. Cf., e.g., Colloque . . . , Réfutation simple et courte . .., loc. cit., p. 241.
61. Réfutation simple et courte... , p. 241.
62. Précis en quatre thèses du mot de I’énigme métaphysique et morale, Thomas-
Venturi, p. 77. Dom Deschamps affirms that man has a metaphysical cognitive
faculty. The universal whole is given to us in the specific senses ‘‘of harmony and
agreement.’’ “‘The senses of harmony and agreement, the senses metaphysically
taken, are the harmony and the agreement of everything that exists. They do not
convey to us that which appears, as each of our senses renders it to us; and they
only convey to us what they are, what we are in what we have strictly in common
with all beings, in what excludes any and every difference between them and us.”’
Précis en quatre thèses .. . , p. 79: See also Demandes et réponses, XIII.
63. Demandes et réponses, XII.
. There would again be good grounds for a comparison of Dom Deschamps’s de-
velopments with the ideas expressed in Diderot’s Rêve de d’Alembert, op. cit., p.
5122
65. ‘‘The more comparable the beings are to us in milieu: are simple, beautiful, har-
monic, great, etc.; and the closer they approach, in relation to us, the absolute
milieu of perfect simplicity, of beauty, of harmony par excellence, of sovereign
greatness and of all the qualities that one can give to the being who is always
present to us in a hundred different aspects, that is the first phenomenon, the first
image, in which we see the sensible things.’’ Observations métaphysiques, 1, XV.
Demandes et réponses, XXXII.
66. Précis en quatre thèses . . . , Thomas-Venturi, p. 80.
67. Ibid.
68. Précis . . . , Thomas-Venturi, p. 74.
69. Réponse à la demande: comment une partie peut être le tout?, loc. cit. p. 240.
70. Observations métaphysiques, Il, VI.
TAU Demandes et réponses, XXXII.
72 Réfutation simple et courte... , loc. cit., p. 241.
73: Précis en quatre thèses . . . , Thomas-Venturi, pp. 89-90.
74. Controverse avec Robinet, Revue de Metaphysique et de morale, loc. cit., p. 246.
iD: For Dom Deschamps, the relationship is, obviously, inverse—it is the idea and the
image of the Holy Trinity that foreshadow the ‘‘metaphysical truth.’’ Because of
340 / NOTES

this presentiment, manifest in the dogma of the Trinity, Catholicism is superior to

Islam or to the orthodox religion.
76. R. Barthel in his unpublished thesis Métaphysique et politique chez Dom Deschamps
(1975) judiciously showed the presence in Dom Deschamps of several themes and
ideas certainly taken from the texts he studied during his scolasticat. Cf. A. Robinet,
loc. cit, pp. 320-323 on negative theology.
ite Y. Belavel, in Encyclopédie de la Pléiade, Histoire de la philosophie, Paris, 1974,
t. II, p. 6; A. Robinet, loc. cit, pp. 9-10.
78. Letter about Dom Deschamps, by J.-B. Dubuc, undersecretary to the Colonies, to
the Marquis de Voyer, quoted by M. Méthais, loc. cit., p. 29.
19: Cf. F. Lebrun, Les hommes et la mort en Anjou, Paris, 1971. Ch. Tilly, La Vendée,
Paris, 1970.

IV: Utopia and the Idea of History-Progress

. C. A. Helvétius, De I’Esprit, IV, speech, ch XXVI, Paris, 1973, p. 199.
. Sylvain Maréchal, L’almanach des honnétes gens, Paris, Year one of reason
(17887). In the Almanach, a proposal for a secular calendar that substituted for the
names of saints those of ‘‘great men produced by the human race,”’ the names of
some important utopians, particularly More, Campanella, and the Abbé de Saint-
Denis, are found among the new patrons. On S. Maréchal’s proposal, see
M. Dommanget, Sylvain Maréchal, précurseur du calendrier révolutionnaire, in
idem, Sur Babeuf et le babouvisme, Paris, 1970, pp. 238-239.
. These are the definitions given in the “‘histoire’’ entry in the Dictionnaire de
Trévoux. On the semantic field of histoire in the eighteenth century, see F. Furet,
L'ensemble ‘‘histoire,’’ in Livre et société dans la France du XVIIF siècle, t. IX,
Paris, 1970.
. D. Veirasse, Histoire des Sévarambes, peuples qui habitent une partie du troisième
continent appelé la Terre Australe ..., in Voyages imaginaires, Amsterdam,
1787, vol. V, pp. 170-171.
. Ibid., pp. 172-173.
. Ibid., pp. 236ff.
. Ibid., pp. 171, 232.
D . Restif
OU de la Bretonne, La découverte australe par un homme volant ou le Dédale
Français, Leipzig, Paris (1781), pp. 470ff.
. On the links between the utopia and historical fiction, see L. Versins, Encyclopédie
de l’utopie et de la science-fiction, Lausanne, 1972, pp. 8ff.
10. Thus, two variations of their history circulate among the Sévarambes: an exoteric
one that sees in Sévarias the envoy and interpreter of the Sun, the divine star, and
an esoteric one that considers him a purely secular figure making ‘‘the gods speak’”’
in order to give more authority to the laws. This is only a transposition, in the
imagination, of the opinion advanced by certain libertine scholars that the ancients,
the Egyptians, for example, practiced this kind of double history. Cf. F. L. Manuel,
The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods, Harvard, 1959.
ut Rousseau, Jugement sur la paix universelle, in Œuvres complètes, Pléiade, t. Il,
pp. 592-593.
 NOTES / 341

12. It is even more difficult to situate Morelly’s other texts, in particular the Basiliade,
in relation to the Code. Is there a rupture between these two texts because of the
evolution of the author’s ideas? Or was Morelly’s aim perhaps not to oppose to the
real society a sole valid model, but rather to demonstrate, precisely by appealing
to different, ‘‘alternative’’ models, that more than one society free of social evils
is possible? In order to see more clearly into this ‘‘Morellian’’ world, we will have
to await the publication of Nicolas Wagner’s thesis. I take this opportunity to say
how indebted I am to him for having been able to read his work in manuscript. It
is obvious, of course, that he is in no way responsible for my commentary on
Morelly.
IS Morelly, Code de la Nature, Paris, 1953. p. 40.
14. Ibid., pp. 69—70.
15: Ibid., p. 120.
16. Ibid., p. 40.
Ade Ibid., pp. 125-126.
18. Ibid., pp. 127.
19 Ibid., pp. 127-131.
20. Ibid., pp. 150-152.
21: See H. Schulte-Herzügen, Utopie und Anti-utopie; von der Struktursanalyse zur
Strukturtypologie, Bochum, 1962.
22: The author does not, moreover, completely hide behind the narrator of the dream.
In numerous notes, Mercier discusses contemporary problems, situating himself
outside the imaginary time. Thus the text has two narrators placed in two different
times. Beginning with the title—L’An 2440, rêve s’il en fût jamais—the fictional
character of this narrative is emphasized, and the reader invited to seek in it not
psychological verisimilitude but the pleasure of a game that rests on the permanent
exchange between dream and reality. R. Trousson, in his introduction to the critical
edition of L’An 2440 (Bordeaux, 1971), gives a remarkable analysis of the structure
of the text.
23; L’An 2440, op. cit., p. 332.
24. Ibid., p. 330.
25: Ibid.
26. Ibid., pp. 138-139.
Qh. Ibid., p. 270.
28. Ibid., p. 140.
29; Ibid., p. 249-250.
30. Ibid., p. 259.
31. Cf. R. Trousson’s comments, ibid., p. 246.
52: Cf. the ‘‘Nouveau discours préliminaire,’’ the preface to Mercier’s work that was
published in the year VII. ‘‘A Dream that announced and paved the way for the
French Revolution. . . . Never, I dare say, had a prediction been closer to the event
and yet, at the same time, explained in more detail the astonishing series of all the
specific metamorphoses.’’ Vol. I, pp. I-III.
33: J. Ehrard, L'idée de nature en France à l’aube des Lumières, Paris, 1970, p. 389.
34. A. Burguiére, ‘‘Histoire et structure,” in Annales E.S.C., 1971, nos. 3-4, p. IV.
35: Voltaire, Défense de Louis XIV contre les ‘‘Annales Politiques de I’abbé de Saint-
342 / NOTES

Pierre,’ Œuvres, Moland edition t. XXIX, p. 267. Besides, Voltaire had personal
reasons for mocking the Abbé and his work. He was furious that Sabatier de Castres,
in his book Les trois siècles de la littérature française, had accused him of having
taken the idea for his Siècle de Louis XIV from the Annales of the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre, a totally unfounded accusation.
36. Panckouke’s Encyclopédie méthodique, vol. II, History, Paris, 1790, p. 681.
STE Rousseau, Emile, in Œuvres complètes, Pléiade edition, t. IV, Paris, 1969, p. 851.
Rousseau knew the Abbé de Saint-Pierre personally, having met him in Madame
Dupin’s salon shortly before the latter’s death, certainly in 1742. In his Confession,
he calls the Abbé ‘‘that rare man, the honor of his century and of his species”
(Œuvres complètes, t. I, p. 422). In 1754, solicited by Madame Dupin, Rousseau
took on the task of making an extract from the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s works, to
make them more readable and accessible to a wider audience. Disappointed by the
Abbé’s ideas and discouraged by the mass of his writings, Rousseau never completed
the job. Nevertheless, his encounter with the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s ideas played
a certain role in the crystallization of Rousseau’s political and social thought. Cf.
S. Stelling-Michaud’s pertinent analyses in his introduction to the edition of the
Ecrits sur l’Abbé de Saint-Pierre, in Rousseau, Œuvres completes, t. II, pp. cxxff.
38. Rousseau, Œuvres complètes, t. II, pp. 592, 595, 635.
39: Montesquieu, Pensées et fragments inédits, Bordeaux, 1899, p. 102.
40. D’Alembert, Histoire des membres de l’Académie française, Paris, 1787, t. I,
pp. 113-115.
41. Mémoires du marquis d’Argenson, published by René d’Argenson, Paris, 1825,
pp. 342-343. Cf. above, chapter I, p. 107.
42. Lettres de Bolingbroke, published by Grimoard, Paris, 1808, vol. III, p. 469. On
the collaboration between Bolingbroke and the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, see L’ Abbé
de Saint-Pierre, homme et l’œuvre, Paris, 1912, pp. 75ff.
43. Cf. S. Siegler-Pascal, Un contemporain égaré au XVII s. Les projets de l’Abbé
de Saint-Pierre, Paris, 1899.
. D’Alembert, Eloge . .., loc. cit., p. 117.
45. Cf. J. B. Burry, The Idea of Progress, New York, 1955, pp. 126ff.
46. Ch. I. de Saint-Pierre, Ouvrajes (sic) de morale et de politique, Rotterdam, vol.
XV., p. 259.
47. Manuscript quoted in J. Drouet, loc. cit., p. 33. On the evolution of the Abbé from
morality to politics, cf M. L. Perkins, The Moral and Political Ideas of the Abbé
St. Pierre, Geneva, 1959, pp. 32-33.
48. Such as, e.g., Mably: ‘‘Do not imagine . . . that following the traces of Plato or
of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre I go astray among the maxims that were not made for
beings who have our passions. My morality is so little austere that I don’t ask for
people of breeding as readers, but simply for the ambitious who somewhat use their
reason.’’ Mably, Œuvres, Paris, an III (ed. Arnoux), vol. V, p. 38. Let us note
that in dissociating himself from the utopianism of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, Mably
is merely taking up the latter’s ideas on this point. Has the Abbé, like all good
utopians, not repeated many times that he is addressing men as they are and not as
they ought to be? Thus he repeats, in reference to several proposals, that he is
appealing ‘‘to the passions, to the ambitions, to the interests, to the forces of nature
 NOTES / 343

as they are today and not to their (his readers’) goodness or generosity.’’ Cf. Projet
pour rendre la paix perpétuelle en Europe, Utrecht, 1713, vol. I, pp. 56-57,
96-97.
49. Observations sur le progrés continuel de la Raizon Universelle (sic), in Ouvrajes
politiques, Rotterdam, 1737, vol. XI, p. 269.
50. Ibid., pp. 275-276.
51. Ibid. The image of humanity compared to one man who will never degenerate plays
an important role in the formation of the idea of history-progress. It is found in
several texts (including the preface to Pascal’s Traité du vide); the Abbé de Saint-
Pierre took it, certainly, from Fontenelle. ‘‘The comparison of the men of all the
ages with a single man can be extended to our whole question of the ancients and
the moderns. . .. A good cultivated mind is, so to speak, composed of all the
minds of the preceding ages, it is only one same mind that has become cultivated
during that time. . . . That man will have no old age. . . . That is, to leave the
allegory, that men will never degenerate and that the healthy views of all the good
minds will succeed one another, always adding themselves to each other.’’ Fon-
tenelle, ‘‘Digression sur les Anciens et les Modernes,” Textes choisis, Paris, 1966,
p. 256.
52. Ibid., pp. 277-278. ‘‘Projet pour perfectionner le gouvernement des Etats,” in
Ouvrajes de politique, Amsterdam, 1733, vol. Ill, pp. 226-227.
53 ‘‘Projet pour perfectionner le gouvernement des Etats,’’ loc. cit., pp. 231-232.
54. Cf. Observations sur le progrès continuel . . . , loc. cit., pp. 300-315; Supplément
à l’abréje du projet de paix perpétuelle, in Ouvrajes de politique, Amsterdam,
1733, vol. II, pp. 242-250. Projet pour rendre la paix perpétuelle, Utrecht, 1713,
vol. II, pp. 216-217. The Abbé also attaches great importance to the café, a new
institution, and predicts the greatest future for the café as a place for communication
and for the diffusion of new ideas. ‘‘The conversation in our cafés is beginning in
truth to improve our oral tradition. . . . Our cafés will continue to improve, and
soon some will be established in Paris for the people of quality, and that is a great
advantage for the city over the country.’’ Observations sur le progrès contin-
Hel 2 02, 106. cits, p. 290:
55: Ibid.
56. On these editions and contemporary reaction, see the introduction by J. Drouet to
the critical edition of the Annales Politiques, Paris, 1912.
57: Grimm, Correspondance litteraire . . . , ed. Tourneux, Paris, 1882, vol. III,
p. 474.
58. Annales . . . , loc. cit., p. 283. Demarets’s memoir, taken up in its entirety in the
Annales Politiques, criticizes the unfortunate financial consequences of Louis XIV’s
war policy.
See Cf. the Préface and the Discours préliminaire, in Annales . . . , loc. cit.
60. Annales, loc. cit., p. 7.
61. Observations politiques sur le gouvernement des Rois de France, in Ouvrages
politiques, vol. IX, 1734, p. 2.
62. Condorcet, ‘‘Avertissement qui doit être placé à la tête du prospectus,’’ Œuvres,
Arago, Paris, 1847, t. VI, p. 281 (referred to below as ‘‘Avertissement’’). There
is not yet a critical edition of the Esquisse. Monique and François Hincker’s recent
344 / NOTES

edition is based on manuscript 835 of the Bibliothèque de l’Institut, which is,

according to the editors, ‘‘the only complete authentic text.’’ See Condorcet, Es-
quisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de I’ esprit humain, collection Classiques
du peuple, Paris, 1968, p. 68. (This edition will be referred to below as Esquisse.)
Condorcet’s other texts, including the fragments and variants of the Esquisse not
included in the Hincker edition, are cited from the Arago edition.
63. Esquisse, pp. 76-71.
. Ibid., p. 253.
65. Ibid., p. 259.
66. This is the title of an important fragment not included in the final version of the
Esquisse; cf. Œuvres, loc. cit., t. VI, p. 245.
67. Esquisse, pp. 252-253.
68. Ibid., p. 276.
69. Fragment de I’histoire de la dixième époque, Œuvres, loc. cit., vol. VI, p. 596.
70. Esquisse, pp. 251-252.
TAK Ibid., p. 153.
72 Ibid., pp. 250-251.
TBE La vie de M. Turgot, Œuvres, loc. cit., vol. 5, pp. 222-224.
74. ‘‘Avertissement, ” p. 281.
15: Fragment de l’histoire de la dixième époque, loc. cit., p. 516.
76. “*Avertissement,’’ loc. cit., p. 287. Fragment de I’ histoire de la quatrième époque,
Œuvres, loc. cit., pp. 383, 391. On the symbolic significance of the new system
of dating as well as on its utopian function, see the following chapter.
doe Esquisse, p. 265.
78. Fragment sur l’Atlantide, ou efforts combinés de l'espèce humaine pour les progrès
des sciences, Œuvres, vol. VI, p. 604.
79. Cf. G.-G. Granger, La mathématique sociale du Marquis de Condorcet, Paris,
1955; S. Moravia, I] pensiero degli idéologues. Scienzia e filosofia in Francia
1780-1815, Florence, 1974, pp. 675-715.
80. Fragments sur l’Atlantide . . . , loc. cit., pp. 645-646.
81. Esquisse, pp. 274-275.
82. Ibid., p. 265.
83. Ibid., pp. 265, 274.
84. Ibid.
85. Cf. L. Cahen, Condorcet et la Révolution, Paris, 1904.
86. We are, here, taking up the formula proposed by L. Kolakowski at the conference
on Utopia, critique et Lumières, Brussels, 1972. Cf. Tijdschrift voor de Studie van
de Verlichtung, 1974, no. 1, pp. 8-21.
87. The best and most meticulous reconstitution of this vision is in G. Temkin’s Karola
Marksa obraz gospodarki komunistycznej (Marx and his image of the communist
economy), Warsaw, 1962.
88. Cf. F. Engels, Socialisme utopique et socialisme scientifique, Paris, 1969, pp. 114—
118. We have discussed the utopian concepts in Marx and Marxism elsewhere (cf.
supra, p. 5). Let us add a remark which seems obvious but which might prove
useful in avoiding some possible misunderstandings. It is by no means our intention
to reduce Marx to his utopian dimensions. But, on the other hand, we believe that
 NOTES / 345

the utopian image of the New City is an integral part of his entire work (with, of
course, the exception of the mathematical manuscripts). To conceive of Marx’s
texts as a “‘scientific discourse’’ par excellence, is a hackneyed idea, but one which
is readopted by certain readers of Das Kapital. To see in his utopia a ‘‘foreign
body’’ or even a ‘‘youthful sin’’ is, of course, to propose a certain reading of Marx,
but one which is short-circuited. If no account is taken of the presence of the utopia
in Marx’s work, it is actually impossible to explain certain of its most important
functions, and, in particular, its impact on the social imagination. It likewise be-
comes impossible to understand why the opposition utopia/science and everything
it covers in the Marxist discourse breaks out with new force at each political and
ideological turning point of the evolution of Marxism. It seems futile for us to insist
on the fact that the social model proposed in Marx’s utopia is opposed, in many
fundamental points, to that of Condorcet. We have frequently noted that the same
mode of utopian discourse is used to convey socially, even politically opposed
utopian visions.
89. Fragments sur I’Atlantide, loc. cit., p. 596.
. Ibid., p. 598.
91. Cf. E. Faure, La disgrace de Turgot, Paris, 1961, pp. 78-80. The idea of history-
progress in Turgot and, particularly its utopian and reformist extensions, deserves
further study.
92: Mémoires sur Il’instruction publique, Œuvres, loc. cit., pp. 184-185.
987 Ibid., p. 183. Of course, the aspiration toward the utopia is not specific to Con-
dorcet’s proposal for public education. The debate on public education and the
innumerable proposals it gave rise to are particularly revealing of the utopian di-
mension of Revolutionary mentalities (we are thinking, in particular, of the proposals
of the year II-III). Together, they form a collective utopian discourse on the new
man worthy of the New City.
94. In his report to the Convention, wherein he presented the Esquisse, Danou did not
fail to point out this polemical intention and to exploit it against the ‘‘terrorists.””
“Tt is at the moment when Condorcet vanished from this assembly that he began
this work; he ceased to live after having finished it. At first, he had undertaken an
apology for his political conduct; soon he abandoned it, perhaps disdaining this
work which would then have been futile, and that today would be superfluous.
While its enemies were devastating France, he wreaked vengeance on them by
enlightening it, and by erecting to the most useful truths a monument more stable
than the powers of its oppressors, more durable even than the memory of their
infamy.’’ P.-C.-F. Danou, Rapport fait a la Convention Nationale dans sa séance
du 13 germinal an III, imprimé par l’ordre de la Convention Nationale, Paris, no
date, pp. 2-3.
95! Esquisse, pp. 283-284.
96. Part of this chapter was published, in homage to Sven Stelling-Michaud, in Pour
une histoire qualitative. Etudes offertes à Sven Stelling-Michaud, Geneva, Presses
Universitaires Romandes, 1975.
iE R. Cobb, Les armées révolutionnaires instrument de la terreur dans les départe-
ments, Paris, 1963, pp. 634-635.
98 G. Romme, Rapport sur l'ère de la République fait à la Convention Nationale dans
346 / NOTES

la séance du 20 septembre de l'an II de la République, of the same date. On Romme

and his eminent role in the activities of the Comité d’Instruction publique, see the
excellent monograph by A. Galante-Garrone, G. Romme. Histoire d'un révolu-
tionnaire, Paris, 1971.
99: G. Romme, loc. cit.
100. Ibid.
101. Fabre d’Eglantine, Rapport sur le nouveau calendrier fait à la Convention Nationale
dans la séance du 3 de second mois de l'an II de la Republique, Paris 3/2/II.
102. Cf. supra the chapter ‘‘Utopia and Politics: an ‘‘Imaginary Voyage’’ by Rousseau.”
Rousseau’s ideas on the imagination were circulating like so many platitudes; cf.,
infra the chapter ‘‘Utopia and Festivals.”
103. Fabre d’Eglantine, loc. cit.
104. On the proposals for ‘‘systems of festivals,’’ see Part V: ‘‘Utopia and Festivals.”
105. This was a commonplace of the ‘‘philosophical’’ criticism of religious festivals.
Certain projects of Revolutionary festivals proposed to so increase the number of
new festivals that they provoked strong criticism.
106. Romme, loc. cit.
107. On the ideological justifications of the reform of weights and measures as well as
on its ‘‘militant’’ character, see the excellent analyses of W. Kula, Miary i ludzi
(Measures and Men), Warsaw, 1970, pp. 511-571.
108. Cf. W. Kula, loc. cit., pp. 526, 535. Moreover, the abolition of the Republican
calendar had negative consequences on the assimilation of the metric system which,
at the time, was still considered a Revolutionary novelty and whose existence hence
remained very weak sociologically.
,
109. “Instruction sur l’annuaire républicain,’’ in Annuaire du cultivateur pour la troi-
siéme année de la République, présenté à la Convention Nationale le 30 pluviôse
de l’an II, by G. Romme. Paris, year III.
110. “‘Instruction,’’ loc. cit.; Romme, Rapport sur le calendrier, loc. cit.
111. “‘Instruction,’’ loc. cit.
112: Ibid.
115: Ibid.
114. Cf. the illustration and comment in J. Guillaume, Procés-verbaux du Comité d’In-
struction publique, Paris, 1894, vol. II, p. 427.
SE Romme, Rapport, loc. cit.
116. Cf. M. de Vissac, Romme le Montagnard, Clermont-Ferrand, 1888. J. Guillaume,
loc cit., pp. 580-581.
IAE Romme, loc. cit.
118. The nomenclature of the days paralleled that of the months. ‘‘Every citizen, every
friend of the country and of the arts that make it flourish, must surround himself
daily with the attributes of industry and liberty. It is from this reflection that the
names we proposed to you for the days of the ‘‘décade’’ come:
1. The day of the Level, symbol of Equality.
2. The day of the Cap, symbol of Liberty.
3. The day of the Cockade, symbol of the national colors.
4. The day of the Pike, the arm of the free man.
5. The day of the Plow, the instrument of our earthly riches.
 NOTES / 347

6. The day of the Compass, the instrument of our industrial riches.

7. The day of the Bundle, the symbol of the strength born of unity.
8. The day of the Cannon, the instrument of our victories.
9. The day of the Oak, the emblem of generation and the symbol of the
social virtues.
10. The day of Rest.
119. Manifestations of the same spirit are found in certain proposals of public education
and particularly in their ideas on the teaching of history. The latter comes only after
moral education and civics, being considered only its complement. The chrono-
logical order is turned upside down: the initiation to history begins with the study
of the history of the Revolution. For the young citizen, it is the only history that
is his and in which he again finds civic virtues brought into play. It is only afterward
that they go on to other epochs studied in chronological order; the history of the
latter is clarified only in light of the new era opened by the Revolution.
120. Journal des décrets et des débats, no. 384, Romme’s intercession.
121% Cf. H. Guillaume, loc. cit., p. 586.
122: Ibid.
123; Fabre d’Eglantine, loc. cit.
124. Thus, the Annuaire du cultivateur is composed of short essays on animals, plants,
etc. The abstract and bookish nature of these texts is striking. Under the date of
quintidi, the 3 nivôse, which is ‘‘dedicated”” to the dog, for instance, the citizen-
farmer learns: ‘‘Dog, a quadruped of different sizes, colors, and characteristics. Its
varieties include upright or drooping ears, a round or elongated head, pendulous
lips, a raised back, bent legs, short, long or curly hair, or hairless. The dog has a
keen sense of smell, laps his drink, eats avidly, sometimes jealously,’’ etc. This
Annuaire style is in keeping with the evolution of almanacs at the end of the
eighteenth century. To use the fashionable language of today one could say that
almanacs were then undergoing an epistemological mutation. So, in a 1720 Polish
almanac, the article on the horse opens with the phrase ‘‘Everyone knows what a
horse is’’ and goes on to summarize the ‘‘signs’’ by which one recognizes a “‘good
horse.’’ In 1784, the article on the horse consists only of a one-page summary of
Buffon and begins by a taxonomy: ‘‘Horse, quadruped, of different shapes and
sizes,’’ etc.
125. Fabre d’Eglantine, loc. cit., Instruction sur le Calendrier Républicain, loc. cit.,
p. x. The five sansculottides were to be celebrated each year as, respectively, the
festivals of Virtue, Genius, Labor, Opinion, and Rewards. Robespierre amended
Fabre’s report, asking that the Festival of Virtue be placed before that of Genius.
“‘Caesar,’’ he noted, ‘‘was a man of genius; Cato was a virtuous man, and certainly
the hero of Utica is worth more than the butcher of Pharsale’’ (L’ Antifédéraliste,
n. 311). The idea of the Festival of Opinion is worth noting. It contrasts strongly,
in fact, with the institutional and bureaucratic spirit with which the proposals for
‘systems of festivals’’ were imbued. Fabre proposed that it be a sort of Republican
‘‘feast of fools.’’ During this sansculottide the citizens were to judge the civil
servants by ‘‘a tribunal, which would be gay and terrible at the same time. . ..
During the unique and solemn day of the Festival of Opinion, the law would open
all citizen’s mouths on the morality, the personnel, and the actions of civil servants;
348 / NOTES

the law would give scope to the comic and gay imagination of the French. On this
day, opinion would be allowed to manifest itself on that score in all ways imaginable:
songs, allusions, caricatures, pasquinades; the salt of irony, the sarcasm of folly,
would on that day be the salary of the one among those elected by the people who
had betrayed them or who had given them reason to have little regard for him, or
to hate him. It is, consequently, by its very nature, by its natural gaiety that the
French people will preserve its rights and its sovereignty. Tribunals can be corrupted,
opinion cannot be . . . . The most terrible and most profound French arm against
the French is ridicule.’’ Fabre d’Eglantine, ibid.
126. We have been unable to identify the recent research to which Fabre was alluding.
Nevertheless, an author, who was not very recent and who never suspected he had
discovered the ancestors of the sans-culottes, uses the expression Gallia bracata.
This phrase is found, in fact, in Pliny’s Natural History.
127. Almanach d’Aristote ou du vertueux républicain, Paris, years II. In his Néologie,
Mercier point out the existence of a counter-calendar of the Vendée; Saint Louis
de Bourbon was the patron of 21 January; Saint Elizabeth of France of 11 March;
September was called the month of crimes; 2 September was to be the Festival of
the martyrs of Paris. Cf., too, J. and E. Goncourt, La société francaise pendant
la Révolution, Paris, 1864, pp. 277—279.
128. Rapport fait au Comité d’Instruction publique, by Urbain Domergue, head of the
Bibliography Department, in J. Guillaume, Proces-verbaux . . . , loc. cit., vol. II,
pp. 798ff.
129. Rapport par G. Romme au nom du Comité d’ Instruction publique sur les abus qui
se commettent dans I’ exécution du décret du 18 du premier mois, relatif aux em-
blèmes de la féodalité et de la royauté, fait à la séance du 3 du deuxième mois,
Paris, l’Imprimerie Nationale, n.d.
130. On the recasting of the festivals, cf. M. Ozouf, De thermidor à brumaire: les
discours de la Révolution sur elle-même, in Au siècle des lumières, Paris, 1970,
pp. 157-189.
131. See W. Kula, loc. cit., pp. 663-664.
132. The analogies with the October Revolution are quite instructive. Revolutionary
Russia initiated two reforms at the same time—it adapted the metric system as well
as the Gregorian calendar. The only ideological correction to the latter was limited
to changing the denomination of the ‘‘first year.’’ In effect, there was no longer a
reference to the birth of Jesus Christ but, rather, to the ‘‘beginning of our era,’’
yet without having specified why, beginning on that day, time is more ‘‘ours’’ than
was the time preceding it. . . . Sunday was suppressed by introducing the six-day
cycle—five working days, the sixth a holiday, while keeping the old names for
days. This system lasted only twenty years. It was abandoned above all in order
to increase the number of working days, but also to readapt to Sunday which,
despite the decrees, remained a holiday, particularly in the country.
It must not be forgotten that the introduction of the Gregorian calendar
fulfilled, in the given context, a double objective. On the one hand, it had an anti-
religious aspect insofar as it made time advance in relation to the orthodox liturgical
year. On the other hand, it was ‘‘unifying’’ in relation to the Western calendar.
Thus, the ‘‘new style’’ began November 7, 1917, and consequently the revolution
 NOTES / 349

is called, alternately, the October or the November Revolution. . . . And the New
Year is celebrated twice in Moscow: one falls on 1 January and the other, celebrated
in private, but by the nonpracticing as well, thirteen days later, is commonly known
as ‘‘the old New Year.’’

V: Utopia and Festivals

. Saint-Simon, in L’ Organisateur, 1820; quoted from H. de Saint-Simon, Le nouveau
christianisme, Paris, 1969, pp. 136-138. Cf. F. Gentile, ‘‘La festa nell’invenzione
saint-simoniana,’’ Nuova Antologia, August 1975.
. F. Bakhtine, Rabelais, Paris, 1969.
. E. LeRoy Ladurie, Paysans du Languedoc, Paris, 1969, pp. 225-230; 246ff. On
the relationship between festivals and revolts in the mentalities of the common
people in the eighteenth century, see Y. Bercé, Fétes et révoltes, Paris, 1976.
. Restif de la Bretonne, L’andrographe . . . , Paris, 1782, p. 13.
. Restif de la Bretonne, L’andrographe, loc. cit., pp. 86-87; idem, Le paysan per-
verti, ch. CCLXXX VII, in Restif de la Bretonne, La vie de mon père, Paris, 1970,
pp. 248-249.
. Morelly, Code de la Nature, Paris, 1955, pp. 129, 137, 144.
. D. Veiras, Histoire des Sévarambes, loc. cit., pp. 450ff.
. La République des Philosophes ou histoire des Ajaoiens; a posthumous work of
M. de Fontenelle, Geneva, 1768, pp. 51, 110-115.
. L.-S. Mercier, L’ année 2440, text edited and annotated by R. Trousson, Bordeaux,
1971, pp. 248-249.
10. On the attitudes of the ‘‘philosophes’’ to traditional festivals, see Jean Ehrard’s
analysis, ‘‘Les Lumières et la féte,’’ in A. H. R. F., July-September 1975.
LT; This is a distinction made by Cl.-G. Dubois, in his article ‘‘Eléments pour une
géométrie des non-lieux,’’ Romantisme, n. 1—2, 1971.
12: G. Bachelard, Le poétique de l’espace, Paris, 1975, p. 17.
13. Rousseau, Lettre a d'Alembert, Paris, 1967, pp. 232-234.
14. We have only treated the theme of festivals in Rousseau schematically, limiting
ourselves to certain aspects. This theme is treated more extensively in J. Starobinski,
J.-J. Rousseau; la transparence et I’obstacle, Paris, 1957, pp. 114ff; B. Baczko,
Rousseau. Solitude et communauté, loc. cit., pp. 358ff.
15. E.-L. Boullée, Architecture. Essai sur l’art. Texts collected and presented by
J.-M. Pérouse de Monclos, Paris, 1968, pp. 120-121. On the relationship between
the utopia and visionary architecture, see infra the chapter entitled “‘An Architecture
for the Utopia.”’
16. Diderot, entry under ‘“Beau,’’ Œuvres, ed. Assézat-Tourneux, t. III, p. 497. On
the relationship between art and politics in the esthetic of the Enlightenment, cf.
J. A. Leith, The Idea of Art as Propaganda in France 1750-1799, Toronto, 1965.
17: P. Ricôeur, La métaphore vive, Paris, 1975. p. 265.
18. J.-F. Rabaut de Saint-Etienne, ‘‘Projet d’éducation nationale,’ in J. Guillaume,
?

Procès verbaux du Comité d’ Instruction publique de la Convention nationale, Paris,

1891-1894, vol. I, pp. 231-235.
19. Ibid.
350 / NOTES

20 Ibid.
21 A. Decouflé, Sociologie des révolutions, Paris, 1970, p. 87.
22: To cite merely one example, H. Fox, The Feast of Fools. This noteworthy book
is based in large part on the entanglement of the realities and myths of the festival.
25° Cf. A.-Ch. Gruber, Les grandes fêtes et leurs décors à l’époque de Louis XVI,
Geneva, 1972, pp. 147-148. F. Herecques, Souvenirs d’un page de la cour de
Louis XVI, Paris, 1873, p. 287; Mme Campan, La cour de Marie-Antoinette, Paris,
1971, p. 209.
24. Letter from Robespierre to Buissart, 23 July, 1789, in Maximilien et August Robes-
pierre, Correspondance, Paris, 1926, pp. 43-45.
25 M. Vovelle, La chute de la monarchie, Paris, 1972, p. 221. After the present book
was written two essential works on the history and anthropology of the Revolutionary
festival were published: M. Ozouf, La fête révolutionnaire. 1789-1799. Paris, 1976;
M. Vovelle, Les métamorphoses de la fête en Provence de 1750 à 1820, Paris,
1976.
26. M. Vovelle, La chute de la monarchie, loc. cit., p. 221.
Pathe A. Mathiez, Contributions à l’histoire religieuse de la Révolution Française, Paris,
1907, pp. 31-34; idem, Les origines des cultes révolutionnaires, Paris, 1904,
pp. 40-41.
28. Travail sur l'éducation publique trouvé dans les papiers de Mirabeau, published
by Cabanis, M.D., Paris, 1791, pp. 82-83.
29: Instruction publique: spectacles. Opinion of Anarcharchis Cloots, farmer and député
of the Département de l’Oise, Paris, nivôse, second year of the Republic.
30. M. Robespierre, Rapport sur les idées religieuses et morales du 18 floréal an II,
idem, Discours, Paris, n.d., pp. 205-208. Scarcely a few months earlier, Robes-
pierre had opposed the institutionalization of festivals, and warned against their
bureaucratization. ‘Public honors as well as national festivals are the luxury of
liberty; nothing obliges the populace to delegate the responsibility of awarding them;
nothing prevents leaving to the citizens the responsibility of expressing their thanks
and their joy as they like. And there is more: in the hands of the magistrates, this
institution can only degenerate.’’ It is true that Robespierre gave this warning in
specific circumstances when, for several reasons, both personal and political, he
opposed Marat’s ‘‘pantheonization.’’ Speech of 17 July 1793, quoted in Robinet,
Le mouvement religieux à Paris pendant la Révolution, Paris, 1898, vol. II, p. 553.
Cf. F.-A. Aulard, La société des Jacobins, Paris, 1895, t. V, p. 303.
Sill; The examples cited above are from the following texts: Projet de décret pour
établissement de I’Instruction Publique présenté par le Comité d’ Instruction pub-
lique le 25 juin 1793. Paris, the same date (a proposal by Lakanal to which Sieyés
contributed a great deal; he was the author, in particular, of the chapters on festivals);
Robespierre, Speech of 18 floréal . . . , loc. cit. Saint-Just, ‘‘Institutions républi-
caines,’’ in Œuvres choisies, Paris, 1968, pp. 350-353.
Other examples of proposed festivals are to be found herein, in the chapter
on the Republican calendar. Mona Ozouf studied discourse in the festivals in an
important article: ‘De thermidor à Brumaire: le discours de la Révolution sur elle-
même,” in Au siècle des lumières, Paris-Moscow, 1970, pp. 157—189. Let us take
the opportunity to note that before the adoption of the Republican calendar, the
 NOTES / 351

idea of a ‘‘system of festivals’? encountered opposition, which manifested itself in

particular during the rather stormy debate occasioned by the Sieyès-Lakanal pro-
posal. Coupé, for example, was afraid that the inflation of festivals would increase
“‘the sterile nonworking days of the calendar.’’ Léquinio criticized the abstract and
artificial character of the festivals proposed by Sieyés. Hassenfratz went further in
his criticism: ‘“The essential part of public education is the development of national
industry and this useful education is replaced by festivals. . . . The institution of
festivals is a beautiful metaphysical idea. . . . They were useful among the peoples
of antiquity who did not have relationships among themselves which were as intimate
as those of the peoples of Europe; who did not have printing and the postal service
to propagate their ideas in an instant.’’ But this is not the case in France, ‘‘a
manufacturing and agricultural people, surrounded by industrious peoples. Let us
take care lest while we are occupied with organizing our festivals, our neighbors
organize their industry and destroy our manufacturing and commerce.’’ Cf.
J. Guillaume, Procès verbaux ... , loc. cit., vol. I, pp. 535, 546, 580-581.
32; Mona Ozouf analyzed the relationship between the “‘utopian’’ space of the festival
and the constraints of the real city in a noteworthy study of ‘‘Les cortèges révo-
lutionnaires,’’ Annales E.S.C.,’’ no. 5, 1971. We will show below how festivals
mark the imaginary city planning of Revolutionary Paris; cf. the chapter ‘‘From
the place de la Révolution to the place du Bonheur: the Imaginary Paris of the
Revolution.”’
33: For the reconstruction of the festival of August 10th, we have used, essentially,
the following documents: Rapport et décret sur la féte de la Réunion Républicaine
du 10 août présentés au nom du Comité d’ Instruction publique by David, député
of the département of Paris. Printed by order of the National Convention and sent
to the départements and the armies, Paris;
“Instruction pour l’ordre de la fête nationale à observer le jour du 10 août,
l’an II de la République Frangaise,’’ Journal de la Montagne, no. 70, 10 August
1793 (this text was published in a brochure as well as printed on posters put up on
the walls of Paris);
Détail de la fête de l'Unité et de IIndivisibilité de la République, qui a eu
lieu le 10 août, décrétée par la Convention nationale. With the inscriptions drawn
on the stones of the Bastille and the monuments destined for this ceremony, Paris,
year II of the French Republic;
Procès verbal des monuments, de la marche et des discours de la fête con-
sacrée à l'inauguration de la constitution de la République française, le 10 août
1793. Printed by order of the National Convention, Paris, year II of the French
Republic.
Let us point out a fact as noteworthy as it is revealing. In fact, these are
only more or less reworked versions of the first document, that is of David’s initial
proposal. The third text literally reproduces this proposal with one sole modification:
it substitutes the past for the future. The other texts specify details, add commen-
taries, indicate administrative orders, etc. In our work, all the quotations are from
one of these four texts; we, too, have therefore used the past as well as the present
indicative.
Note, finally, that the festival was to be surrounded by other symbolic acts.
352 / NOTES

They anticipated finishing the demolition of the royal tombs at Saint-Denis by 10

August. It was on the same day that the National Museum, at the Louvre, was to
be inaugurated. For many reasons, however, these time limits were not met.
34. L.-S. Mercier, Le Nouveau Paris, Paris, year VII, t. I, p. 73.
B52 Quoted from J. Tiersot, Les fêtes et les chants de la Révolution Française, Paris,
1902, p. 22. The counter-Revolutionaries responded to these songs:

Toujours de l’eau! Quel temps maudit!

Disait, au Champ de Mars, Damis le démocrate.
C’est fait exprès, je l’avais bien prédit
Que le Père Eternel était aristocrate.

Always water! What damned weather!

Said, on the Champ de Mars, Damis the Democrat.
It’s on purpose, as I’d predicted
That the Eternal Father’s an aristocrat.

Text quoted by M. Reinhard, Nouvelle Histoire de Paris. La Révolution, Paris,

1971, p. 185.
36. All quotations taken from documents published by N. Becquart in the Bulletin de
la Société Historique et Archéologique du Périgord, t. XIX, 1972, pp. 278—285.
A. Duruy quotes numerous documents of the festivals of the same time, and
the varied evidence from all departments is corroborative. “‘The national festivals
are celebrated in the majority of communes only by public employees and only in
order to obey the law’’ (Ariège). ‘‘Financial penury does not allow of adding pomp
to these national festivals. The forms that have been employed for ten years are
worn out’’ (Hautes-Pyrénées). Moreover, there is more and more the call for a link
‘to the solemnity of the religious cult.”’ A. Duruy. L’Instruction publique pendant
la Révolution, Paris, 1882, pp. 499-500. Moreover, in the reports, a new perscnage
begins to emerge, one to whom homage is paid—the hero to whom the populace
is indebted for his victories in Italy.
31: “‘Festivals! Give us festivals! That is the cry that arose one hundred times from my
oppressed heart while walking in the humid and monotonous streets of the industrial
sections of Paris, Rouen, or Nantes, in those obscure abysses of the deep streets
of Lyon.’’ J. Michelet, Le Banquet, Paris, 1879, p. 227. Michelet explains the
““somber’’ character of his own childhood, which was ‘‘nervous and defiant, pre-
cocious in imagination’ by the fact that it had no festivals. ‘‘It never expanded in
the great day, in the warm expansion of a sympathetic crowd, where the emotion
of each individual increases five-fold with the emotion of all, where the young soul
flourishes under a burning sun.”’ Ibid., p. 218. These pages where Michelet evokes
as well his childhood memories of the imperial festivals—‘‘it was noisy, grand,
and lugubrious’’—deserve a choice place in an anthology of texts on the history
and sociology of the festival, as do the pages of the Histoire de la Révolution to
which we refer hereinafter, dealing with the models of festivals. It is a question,
in particular, of the account of the Féte de la Fédération in 1790, and as well, of
the images of the festival of Reason and of that of the Supreme Being (cf., Histoire
 NOTES / 353

de la Révolution, Pléiade edition, t. I, pp. 218ff.; pp. 418ff.; t. II, p. 546ff.). It

would be as useless as it would be imprudent to invalidate the historical value of
these accounts-tableaux because of their lack ‘‘of objectivity.’’ Michelet himself
does not attempt to hide the fact that he brings the event back to life with all the
strength of his imagination, but also with all his partialities.
I am anxious to express my thanks to Paul Viallaneix, whose remarkable
knowledge never transforms Michelet’s texts into the ‘‘object’’ of a dead science,
for having led me, in a friendly dialogue, in the reading of these pages of Michelet.
38. A. Monglond, Le préromantisme français, Paris, 1930, p. 406.

VI: “A City Named Liberty”: Utopia and the City

. Cf. D. Veiras, “‘Histoire des Sévarambes, 29 in Voyages imaginaires ..., Am-
sterdam, 1787, vol. 5, pp. 153-170.
. Marquis de Lassay, Recueil de différentes choses, Lausanne, 1756, vol. IV,
pp. 357-381.
. De Listonai (Villeneuve), Le voyageur philosophe dans un pays inconnu aux ha-
bitants de la Terre, Amsterdam, 1761, pp. 73-93.
. L. A. Beffroi de Reigny, Les lunes du Cousin Jacques, Paris, 1787, pp. 167-177.
. “While they wait, they are shown the city, the public buildings raised to the clouds,
the markets embellished with hundreds of columns, the fountains of pure water,
the fountains of rose water, that of sugar syrup, all of which flowed continually
in the large plazas paved with a kind of stone from which emanated an odor similar
to that of cloves or of cinnamon’’—this is the pastiche of the utopian city Voltaire
has Candide and Cacambo visit in Eldorado. Voltaire, Candide, C. Tacker edition,
Geneva, 1968, p. 168.
. Cf. the ‘‘Edile Laws’’ in the Code de la Nature, op. cit., pp. 132-133. Cf., too,
A. Doré, La cité idéale au cours des âges, Paris, 1944.
. It seems that toward the end of the century, the image of the purified city takes on
the sense of a counter-myth opposed to the mythology of the big city which, as we
know, is at that time becoming more and more established, and in the constitution
of which the work of Rousseau played an important role. Cf. B. Baczko, Rousseau.
Solitude et communauté, loc. cit., pp. 25ff.
. A recent exhibit of documents organized by the Archives Nationales gave an ex-
cellent idea of this “‘monotony’’ of urban realities. Cf. La vie quotidienne à Paris
dans la deuxième moitié du XVIII’ siècle, the catalogue of the exhibit, Paris, 1973.
. I. M. A. Laugier, Essai sur l'architecture, revised, corrected, and augmented
edition, Paris, 1755, pp. 218-219. On Laugier, see W. Hermann, Laugier and the
18th Century French Theory, London, 1962.
10. Laugier, loc. cit., pp. 210, 214-215.
11. J.-F. Blondel, L'homme du monde éclairé par les arts, Amsterdam, 1774, vol. II,
213,
12. ap L. Hautecœur, Histoire de Il’architecture classique en France, vol. IV, Paris,
1952, pp. 50-53; K. P. Pawlowski, Francuska mysl urbanistyczna epoki Oswie-
cenia, Warsaw, 1970, pp. 84-85.
. Cours d'Architecture ou Traité de la décoration, distribution et construction des
354 / NOTES

bâtiments, containing the lessons given in 1750 and the following years by J.-F.
Blondel, Paris, 1771-1774, vol. I, p. 170.
14. P. Patte, Mémoires sur les objets les plus importants de I’ architecture, Paris, 1769,
p= 3:
15: Ibid., pp. 3, 59-60.
16. Ibid., p. 61.
17. P. Chombart de Lauwe, Des hommes et des villes, Paris, 1965, p. 209.
18. Laugier, loc. cit., p. 209.
20. Laugier, ibid.
DMN Patte, loc. cit., pp. 5—6.
22: Laugier, loc. cit., pp. 209-210, P. Patte, Monuments érigés en France à la gloire
de Louis XV, Paris, 1765, p. 213.
23: Patte, ibid., p. 221.
24. Cf. H. Rosenau’s observations in Social Purpose in Architecture. Paris and London
Compared, 1760-1800, London, 1970, pp. 120-130.
25. P. Francastel, ‘‘Paris et la création urbaine en Europe au XVIII siécle,’’ in L’ur-
banisme de Paris et l’Europe 1600-1680, works and documents presented by
P. Francastel, Paris, 1969, pp. 14-16.
26. Patte, Monuments, loc. cit., p. 212.
21e Patte, Mémoire, loc. cit., p. 65.
28. Ibid., p. 64. Patte repeats the conditions defined in the competition launched by
Catherine II for the beautification of Saint Petersburg.
29; Patte, Monuments, p. 222.
30. Patte, Mémoires, pp. 8-9.
Sit Ibid., p. 11.
32; Thus Laugier, taking his inspiration from the art of gardens, asks that one “‘look
at a city as a forest. The streets of the former are the paths of the latter. Let us
apply this idea and let the design of our parks serve as a plan for our cities. . . .
We have cities whose streets are in perfect alignment; but as the design was made
by people of little intellect, an insipid exactness and a cold uniformity prevail,
which makes us miss the disorder of our cities that have no sort of alignment. It
is a long parallelogram traversed in both length and width by lines at right angles.
Everywhere one sees only a boring repetition of the same objects, and all sections
resemble one another to the point that one mistakes his surroundings and gets lost.
A park that would be only a large collection of isolated and uniform sections and
whose paths would differ only numerically would be something quite tedious and
quite dull. Above all things, let us avoid the excesses of regularity and symmetry.”’
Laugier, loc. cit., p. 224. L. Hautecceur discusses at length the influence of the
evolution of the art of gardens on the ideas of city planning (L. Hautecœur, loc.
cit., vol. V, pp. 5-50). The study of gardens and of fabriques would provide subject
matter for a whole chapter of the history of utopias in the eighteenth century.
Gardens were often conceived as the setting or even the figurative representation
of a certain idea of happiness situated somewhere between the utopia and the idyll.
Such a study would be even more promising if it took into account, as well,
imaginary gardens and fabriques and, in particular, those in the paintings and novels
 NOTES / 355

of the time. Cf. the stimulating observations of R. Demoris in his work on ‘‘Les
fêtes galantes chez Watteau et dans le roman contemporain,’’ XVIII° siècle, vol.
II, 1971.
33: Patte, Mémoires, loc. cit., p. 5.
34. Paris, year XII. According to this prospectus, it is difficult to define the social
orientations of this utopia. In vague terms, it is a question of establishing in it
“social well-being . . . that is founding the reign of justice, of reason, and of
humanity.’’ That cannot be done without a government that ‘‘would make man
what he ought to be or what his own nature requires that he be’’ (pp. 21—26). It
is striking that in this prospectus Patte makes no reference to the city or to
architecture—in it he speaks as ‘“‘politician’’ and as a ‘‘philosopher,’’ not as an
architect.
35: Patte, Mémoires, p. 161.
36. ‘With the aid of these establishments it would follow that the surroundings of the
great wall, and especially of the temples, which ought to be approached with respect,
would not continually be contaminated with excrement. The courtyards of palaces
and hôtels, the porches of private houses and their landings are now merely so
many receptacles for the needs of passersby.’’ Ibid., p. 15.
37: G. Bardet, Naissance et méconnaissance de l’urbanisme, Paris, 1951, p. 333.
38. Patte, Mémoires, pp. 225-226.
39: Laugier, loc. cit., p. 225; Patte, Mémoires, p. 66.
40. Bardet, loc. cit., p. 273.
41. “Give me the colonnade of the Louvre, the Luxembourg, the Tuileries, and the
Saint-Gervais portal (and I regretfully leave out the fountain on the rue de Grenelle
and the portal of Saint-Sulpice) to place in the two streets that traverse the center
of Paris and that do not intersect, so that I may place them at the extremities of
these two streets; when these four edifices, being continually and easily seen by all
who come and go by these very frequented streets, fix the attention of strangers,
they pay little attention to the rest and are struck only by the viewpoints that have
taken possession of their complete admiration.” (Mercure de France, July 1748,
pp. 147ff.) This idea of beautification limited to a decorative architecture which
would conceal the deplorable state of the city was strongly fought by Voltaire as
well as by numerous architects. The history of the ‘‘philosophical’’ debate as well
as the proposals presented at the competition are studied in G. Bardet, loc. cit.,
pp. 273ff.; K. P. Pawlowski, loc. cit., pp. 76ff.; P. Lavedan, Histoire de l’ur-
banisme, Paris, 1959, pp. 194ff.; S. Granet, Place de Louis XV, Paris, 1962; R.
S. Tate, Jr., ‘‘Voltaire, Bachaumont and Urban Renewal for Paris.’ Romance
Notes, vol. XI, no. 1, 1969.
42. Patte, Monuments, loc. cit., pp. 222ff.
43. Ibid., p. 187.
. L.-S. Mercier, L’An 2440, Paris, year VII, vol. I, p. 14.
45. Ibid., p. 38. Mercier was well documented on these beautification proposals, to
which his tableau de Paris bears witness. A vision of Paris beautified underlies the
‘‘moral physiognomy’’ of the capital that Mercier proposes to establish in the
Tableau. It would be interesting to reconstruct this image and then to compare it
356 / NOTES

with the one present in L’An 2440; although there are similarities and repetitions,
the two images are not identical. Cf., e.g., Le tableau de Paris, Hamburg-Neuchatel,
1792, vol. I, pp. 176ff., vol II, pp. 114-115.
46. L’An 2440, vol I, pp. 26-27, 44-47, 278-279, 286, 287; vol II, pp. 218-219;
vol. Ill, p. 214.
47. Cf. Bardet’s analyses, loc. cit., pp. 284—285.
48. L’An 2440, vol. I, pp. 36, 44.
49. Ibid., vol. II, pp. 12-37. Cf. R. Quellet and H. Vachons’ pertinent analyses in La
ville au XVII° siècle, Symposium in Aix-en-Provence, Aix-en-Provence, 1975, pp.
83-90.
50. Cf. ibid., vol. I, pp. 37, 68, 90, 139, 162, 178, 182, 266; vol. II, pp. 130ff.
St: E. Boullée, Architecture. Essai sur l’art, texts collected and gathered by J. M.
Pérouse de Montclos, Paris, 1968, pp. 116-117. Drawings and plans reproduced
and analyzed in J. M. Pérouse de Montclos, E. L. Boullée 1728-1799. De l’ar-
chitecture classique à I’ architecture révolutionnaire, Paris, 1969.
52) Boullée quotes the text of Abbé Brotier, ‘‘Premier mémoire sur les jeux du cirque
considérés dans les vues politiques des Romans, lu le 23 janvier 1781,’’ printed in
Mémoires de I’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, vol. XLV. Cf. Boullée,
Architecture, loc. cit., p. 124.
53. A third reservation should be added here about the particular aspects of our approach
as well as the limits of our scope. It is from the perspective of the history of utopias
and not that of art and architectural history that we approach the work of the visionary
architects. Let us, nevertheless, at least point out some works to which we are
particularly indebted and in which the reader will find detailed and excellent in-
formation on the questions of architecture and city planning. E. Kaufmann, “‘Three
Revolutionary Architects,’’ in Transactions of the American Philosophical Society,
v. 42, 1952; idem, Architecture in the Age of Reason, Cambridge, 1955; J.-M.
Pérouse de Montclos, E. L. Boullée . . ., loc. cit. (includes an important bibli-
ography); idem, ‘‘Ch. F. Viel, architecte de l’Hôpital et Jean-Louis Viel de Saint
Maux, architecte, peintre et avocat au Parlement de Paris,’’ in Bulletin de la Société
de I’Histoire de I’Art Français, 1967; M. Raval and J.-M. Moreux, Cl. N. Ledoux,
Paris, 1945; J. Langner, ‘‘Ledoux und die Fabriques,’’ in Zeitschrift fiir Kunstges-
chichte, 1963; H. Rosenau, ‘“The Functional and the Ideal in Late 18th Century
Architecture,’’ in Architectural Review, 1966; R. Rosenblum, Transformations in
Late Eighteenth Century Art, Princeton, 1967; Y. Christ and J. Ohayon, L’ oeuvre
et les rêves de C. N. Ledoux, Paris, 1971; M. Ozouf, ‘‘Architecture et urbanisme;
l’image de la ville chez C. N. Ledoux,”’ in Annales E.S.C., 1966; J. Starobinksi,
1789. Les emblémes de la Raison, Paris, 1973.
54. Boullée, Architecture, loc. cit., pp. 32-33, 160-161.
95: C. N. Ledoux, L'architecture considérée sous le rapport de I’ art, des mœurs et de
la législation, Paris, 1804, pp. 223-224.
56. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 64-65. J.-M. Pérouse de Montclos points out, as does H.
Rosenau, the Platonic character of these propositions: similar principles are current
among several academic architects of the era and are to be found, in particular, in
Soufflot. Cf. ibid., p. 62, note.
Silk Ibid. Ledoux similarly praises the sphere and the circle. ‘‘Everything is a circle in
 NOTES / 357

nature! The stone that falls into the water propagates infinite circles; centripetal
force is constantly combated by a movement of rotation; the air, the sea, move in
permanent circles; the magnet has its vortexes; the earth has its poles; the zodiac
presents, in succession to the sun, its heavenly signs, the satellites of Saturn and
of Jupiter revolve around them, finally the planets trace their immense orbit.’’
L’ Architecture, loc. cit., p. 223.
58. Ledoux, ibid., p. 6.
59. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 33-34, 135-136.
. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 32-35, 65-66, 73-74, 159. Ledoux, loc. cit., p. 179.
61. Ledoux, loc. cit., p. 184.
62. Ibid., p. 11.
63. Cf. Y. Belavel, ‘‘Le scepticisme de la raison et le dogmatisme des sentiments,”’
in Annales J-.J. Rousseau, vol. XXXVII, Geneva, 1974.
. Both Ledoux and Boullée put the final touches on their respective ‘‘treatises’’ during
the revolutionary years. The dating of one specific fragment or proposal is often a
problem, particularly with regard to Ledoux. Cf. E.W. Herman, ‘‘The Problem of
Chronology in C. N. Ledoux’s engraved work,’’ in The Art Bulletin, vol. XLU,
1960.
65. Lecture d’ un texte illisible is the subtitle of M. Ozouf’s pertinent essay on the image
of the city in Ledoux. See the bibliography in note 53 above.
66. On ‘‘neoclassicism,’’ the antique models and their functions, see B. Baczko, J. P.
Bouillon, A. and J. Ehrard, J. Joly, L. Pérol, J. Rancy, ‘‘Modèles antiques et
‘préromantisme,’ ’’ in Le préromantisme, hypothèque ou hypothèse, Paris, 1974.
67. An entire chapter on the utopia and language remains to be written, in which the
imaginary languages in Utopia but also and especially the utopias of language which
profoundly mark the linguistic debate of the era, ought to be studied. A whole
visionary linguistics is, thus, to be exhumed. On Court de Gébelin, his visionary
linguistics and its utopian implications, see R. Darnton, Mesmerism and the End
of the Enlightenment in France, Harvard University Press, 1968; B. Baczko, Lu-
mières et utopie, loc. cit.; J. Roudaut, Poètes et grammairiens au XVIII siècle,
Paris, 1971.
68. J. P. Pérouse de Montclos showed the importance of these texts for the analysis of
the theories of revolutionary architecture. (See the bibliography in note 53.)
69. We are limiting ourselves to pointing out several broad lines, and only in the context
that interests us.
70. Viel de St. Maux, Seconde lettre sur Il’architecture, Bruxelles, 1780, p. 10.
TAS Idem, Première lettre sur Il’architecture, Bruxelles, 1779, p. 16. Italics in the text.
22 Idem, Cinquième lettre . . . , Paris, 1784, p. 5.
va: Idem, Troisième lettre . . . , Paris, 1784, p. 7.
74. Idem, Sixième lettre . . . , Paris, 1784, p. 5.
ie Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 45, 49, 73. Cf. Ledoux’s words: ‘‘Architecture is to building
what poetry is to belles-lettres.’’ (loc. cit., p. 15.) ‘You who want to become an
architect begin to be a painter: how many variations you will find spread over the
inactive surface of a wall whose picturesque eloquence does not move the apathetic
crowd’’ (ibid., p 113).
76. Boullée, loc. cit., p. 38. Cf. Ledoux, pp. 16-17.
358 / NOTES

wife On the relationships between the beautiful and the useful in the ‘‘moralizing func-
tionalism’’ of the Enlightenment, see J. A. Leith, The Idea of Art as Propaganda
in France. 1750-1790, Toronto, 1969; H. Rosenau, loc. cit., in note 53.
78. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 132-137. Cf. Ledoux, in his discussion of the cemetery of
the city of Chaux, in Architecture considérée .. . , loc. cit., pp. 196-197.
19: Boullée, loc. cit., p. 118. On the other hand, Ledoux moves in another direction
both in his ideal proposals (for example the Cénobie, the house of an employee,
the dwelling and the workshop of the coalmen) and in certain projects that were
carried out (the buildings for Hosten and Saiseval). “‘It is not sufficient to erect the
monuments that announce the splendor of the arts. . . . He who has not disdained
the house of the poor person, he who has protected him from the difficulties that
spread destruction . . . will be the Architect of humanity’’ (Architecture consi-
dérée . . . ,p.5). ‘‘Every subject takes on the color of the person who treats it. . . .
Believe me, nothing is indifferent; it is nearly always the fault of the artist when
the century does not move in the direction he would like. . . . Is there anything
the artist can disdain? Thermal baths, the merchant’s warehouse, the farmer’s barn,
must all bear his fingerprint’ (Ibid., p. 210).
80. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 112-113. A similar metaphor is found in Ledoux’s proposal
for a law court for Aix. Ledoux seeks in addition to reconcile the austere and
threatening appearance of the exterior with the interior layout that is in conformity
with the humanitarian and reformist spirit inspired by the work of Beccaria.
81. J.-P. Pérouse de Montclos, Boullée . .., loc cit., p. 203. Cf. J. Starobinski’s
pertinent remarks in Les emblèmes, loc. cit., pp. 70-72.
82. Ledoux, loc. cit., pp. 103—104. Cf. Boullée’s comment on his proposal for Mét-
ropole, in which he speaks of the play of light and its effect on the spectators. “I
tell myself, then, and I admit it with a certain pride: Your art is going to make you
master of these means and you, too, will have some grounds for saying fiat luxe;
at your wish the temple will be lit with light or will be merely the abode of darkness.”’
Boullée, loc., p. 91.
83. Ibid., pp. 54-56.
84. Ledoux, De l’architecture considérée . . . , pp. 174-175.
85. Our italics. It is noteworthy that many of Boullée’s comments on his projects begin
with a sort of definition of the moral qualities of the user of the building. Thus the
monumental proposal for the Public Library begins with an appeal to the ‘‘enlight-
ened sovereign who will always favor the means that can contribute to the progress
of the arts and sciences.’’ Loc. cit., p. 127. The palais de souverain is inspired by
the ideal model of the prince who was to inhabit it and, hence, ensure the project’s
being carried out. Therefore, it projects the academies’ being clustered together
within the ensemble formed by the palace so that the young princes might be brought
up in the sanctuary of the sciences’’ and so that the monarch ‘‘might enjoy the
conversation of the most enlightened men of his kingdom.’’ Ibid., p. 112. It is
even more remarkable that Boullée quite frequently stressed the education in ar-
chitecture that ought to be given ‘‘people in authority’’ who decide on commissions.
86. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 18—47. Ledoux, loc. cit., pp. 34-35.
87. J.-M. Pérouse de Montclos, E.-L. Boullée, loc. cit., p. 183.
88. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 35-37.
 NOTES / 359

89. We have proposed another imaginary walk above (chapter II), in a city that would
serve as a setting for Rousseau’s ‘‘reformed Poland.’’ We said then that monuments
in the style of visionary architecture would harmonize perfectly with the social
space of such an imaginary city. We can, at this point, qualify our thesis somewhat.
There is, in fact, a discrepancy between the size of the city implied by visionary
architecture and Rousseau’s intention of reducing the importance of the capital and
making it into a village. In other words, revolutionary architecture implies an urban
space of a certain scope.
90. Boullée, loc. cit., p. 31.
91. Ibid., p. 83. Boullée adopts the commonplaces of the era on the layout of the city
and, in particular, on the hygienic conditions and on easy and rapid communications.
So, in an ideal city, the water will be distributed to the entire city by special
aqueducts and reservoirs. On the other hand, ‘‘everything that could facilitate
commerce will be provided for by numerous communications and by the establish-
ment of canals, ports, etc.’’ Ibid., pp. 36-37.
92? Ibid., p. 84. J.-P. Pérouse de Montclos notes ‘‘the audacity of the romantic vo-
cabulary’’ this passage evokes, and likens it to Diderot’s famous phrase about poetry,
which ‘‘wants something enormous, barbaric, and savage.’’ Ibid., note.
93: Ibid., pp. 90-91.
94. Ibid., pp. 126-131.
95: Ibid., pp. 114-115, p. 183 (Madame Brogniart’s letter to her husband, 19 prairial
Year Il). Boullée takes up the idea formulated by Kersaint in his report on the great
monuments to be constructed in Paris, a text to which we shall return below. The
same metaphor is is taken up in numerous proposals for monuments of the revo-
lutionary period.
96. Ledoux, De l’Architecture . . . , loc. cit., p. 1.
OF. Ibid., p. 40.
98. Cf. M. Ozouf, loc. cit., p. 1291. Madame Thélusson’s hôtel, and its façade in
particular, strongly impressed contemporaries. Fourier’s admiration was by no
means unanimous. The author of a Note sur C. N. Ledoux, Paris, no date (after
1806), probably the Count Choiseul-Gouggier, the illustrious archaeologist, quotes
Caraccioli’s witty remark about this edifice ‘‘whose huge door seems to be a huge
mouth, which opens widely to utter a foolish remark.’’ Cf. La vie quotidienne a
Paris . .., loc. cit., pp. 18-19.
SD). C. N. Ledoux, L’Architecture considérée sous le rapport de l’art, des mœurs et de
la législation. Prospectus, Paris, 1803, p. 24.
100. As we have pointed out, the dating of the successive proposals for the city of Chaux
poses delicate problems, as does the evolution of these proposals. We based our
discussion on K. P. Pawlowski, Francuska mysl urbanistycznz . . . , loc. cit.,
pp. 140-152.
101. Ledoux, L’ Architecture considérée . . . , loc. cit., p. 2.
102. Ibid., p. 72.
103. Ibid., p. 184.
104. Ledoux, De l'Architecture . . . Prospectus. The ‘‘encyclopedic’’ objective was to
be achieved with the fourth volume of the work the complete outline of which was
explained in the Prospectus, but which was never finished. ‘‘I shall execute in a
360 / NOTES

second city what I have conceived in the first; the wealth of ideas will be seen there
reproduced on the antique volume of nature and if one day my shackles are broken,
new conceptions, well ripened by the summer sun, will be seen there.’’ This “‘last
leaf’’ was to include ‘‘four hundred aspects.’’ Ibid.
105. Cf. supra, pp. 000-000.
106. De l'Architecture, loc. cit., p. 200; Prospectus, loc. cit., p. 13.
107. Les fêtes de la Révolution. Catalogue of the exhibit at the Bargoin museum, 15
June-15 September 1974, Clermont-Ferrand, 1974. Our references are to numbers
21, 33, 35, and 43 of the catalogue.
108. Rapport de Gilbert Romme à la séance de la Convention du 25 XI 1792 sur la
suppression de la place du Directeur de l'Académie de France à Rome. Cf.
J. Guillaume, Procès verbaux du Comité d’Instruction publique de la Convention
Nationale, t. I, loc. cit., p. 88.
109. A.-G. Kersaint, Discours sur les monuments publics, Paris. 1792, pp. 16-17.
110. Almanach indicatif des rues de Paris, Paris, year III.
1 Rapport au Conseil Général de la Commune sur quelques mesures à prendre en
changeant les noms des rues. Printed in accordance with the order of the Comité
d’Instruction publique of 17 nivôse year II. Imprimerie Nationale, no date.
112. Cf. R. C. Cobb, The Police and the People. 1789-1820. Oxford, 1970, p. 303.
113: Rapport au Conseil Général de la Commune, loc. cit.
114. Ibid.
115. Moniteur, 16 brumaire year II.
116. Rapport au Conseil Général de la Commune, loc. cit.
JA Systéme de dénominations topographiques pour les places, rues, quais, etc. de
toutes les communes de la République, by Citizen Grégoire, printed by order of
the Comité d’Instruction publique, de l’Imprimerie National, no date (pluviôse,
year II). For details on the debate at the Comité d’Instruction publique, see
J. Guillaume, Procés-verbaux, vol. Ill, pp. 339ff.
118. Moniteur . . . , 26 messidor, year II.
119. M. Reinhard, Nouvelle histoire de Paris. La Révolution, Paris, 1971, p. 371.
120. Ibid., p. 380.
1215 Letter written by the Artists’ Commission Members responsible for the division,
beautification, and cleaning up of the commune of Paris to the Ministry of Finances,
27 frimaire year IV. Document quoted by G. Bardet, Naissance et méconnaissance
de l’urbanisme, Paris, 1951, p. 367.
122: Ibid., p. 371.
123: Cointeraux, Paris tel qu’il était à son origine. Paris tel qu’il est aujourd’ hui, Paris,
year IV, pp. 3-4.
124. The reconstruction of this plan poses several problems. In his book, G. Bardet
provides a detailed analysis as well as extensive documentation (loc. cit., pp. 366—
386). While showing the novelty and originality of the Artists’ plan, due, among
other things, to the new possibilities opened to city planning by the nationalization
of lands, Bardet emphasizes the fact that the plan is not an ex nihilo creation and
that it integrates several earlier proposals (e.g., de Wailly’s proposal for the de-
velopment of the place Vendôme, Corbet’s for around the Bastille, etc.).
On the controversy aroused by this plan at the end of the nineteenth century,
 NOTES / 361

see M. Reinhard, loc. cit., pp. 369ff. and the reconstruction of the plan, pp. 374—
375 (Bardet offers a slightly different variation of the plan, loc. cit., p. 373). Let
us recall, finally, the names of the principal architects of the plan: Inspector General
Verniquet of the highways department, and the architects de Wailly, Brogniard,
Peyre, and Vaudoyer.
125. D. Rabreau, ‘‘Architecture et fêtes révolutionnaires,” Architecture d'aujourd'hui,
no. 177, 1975.
126. M. Ozouf, ‘‘Le Cortège et la Ville. Les itinéraires parisiens des fêtes révolution-
naires,’’ Annales ESC, no. 5, 1971, pp. 893, 901.
127: Ibid. Appended to this is a map which shows all the itineraries followed in 1789-
1799 by the processions of the Parisian festivals, as well as diagrams of 20 specific
routes. Certain of the convergences with the artists’ plan are revealing.
128. G. Romme to the National Convention, session of 16 nivôse year II; A.-G. Kersaint,
loc. cit., pp. 6—7. Likewise for the monument in the Champ de la Fédération. It
is imagined that it will be constructed ‘‘of indestructible materials; granite from the
coasts of Normandy, so easily transported on the Seine to the base of the altar of
Liberty, is to be accumulated for this construction.’’ Ibid., p. 29.
129. A.-G. Kersaint, loc. cit., pp. 35, 69.
130. ‘‘Commentaire au projet (anonyme) d’élévation sur le terre-plein du Pont-Neuf
d’une colonne de 78 mètres d’hauteur, 13, 60 mètres de diamètre et surmonté d’un
trépied atteignant 90 métres.’’ Cf. G. Bardet, loc. cit., p. 345.
131. This corresponds to the subjects of the competitions proposed by the Comité Salut
public in a series of decrees issued in the spring of year II. We quote from numerous
examples taken from these competitions, which certainly bring out one of the
possible versions of an imaginary Paris. Let us stress the fact that these are only
examples and that we claim neither to give a complete inventory of the imaginary
architecture nor to follow its entire evolution.
132. The descriptions of the statues are quoted from Rapport et décret sur la fête de la
Réunion Républicaine du 10 août présentés au nom du Comité d’ Instruction publique
par David, député du Département de Paris, imprimés par ordre de la Convention
et envoyés aux Départements et aux Armées. Paris, no date (1793). The decree of
the Comité de Salut public of 5 floréal year II on the competition in the Moniteur
of 21 prairial year II (reprinting of the Moniteur, vol. 20, p. 676). The description
of the statue of the Peuple Hercule based on the report of the session of the
Convention on 17 brumaire year II. Paragraph II of the decree of the Convention
on the erection of the statue is as laconic as it is significant: This monument will
be colossal (cf. J. Guillaume, op. cit., vol II, pp. 778ff.). The statue was never
erected. In 1798, B. Poyet proposed erecting another monument on the same spot,
a column 400 meters tall, surrounded by a spiral symbolizing the ascending and
victorious movement of the Republic. The column was to serve at one and the same
time as an observatory, a water tank, and a beacon (see L. Hautecceur, Histoire de
l'architecture classique en France, t. V, Paris, 1953, p. 138). This same metaphor
of the ascending spiral is found in Russian revolutionary architecture, in particular
in Tatline’s famous proposal for a tower destined to be the seat and monument of
the Third Internationale. This time, the spiral was to symbolize the irresistible ascent
of the international proletariat (cf. A. Kopp, Ville et révolution, Paris, 1967).
362 / NOTES

Let it be noted, in passing, that in the imaginary space of revolutionary Paris,

several monuments appeared on the same privileged sites. Thus, to celebrate the
festival in honor of Marat, the section of the faubourg de Montmartre has erected
on the boulevard Poissoniére ‘‘a large stylobate surmounted by the statue of Liberty;
on an altar in front will be placed, one against the other, the busts of the first two
martyrs of Liberty; on the bases raised four feet from the ground will be placed
four candelabra; at the four extremities of the corners will be raised four sepulchral
columns, crowned by four flaming torches. The circular background of the exhibit
will end in a panorama of poplars.’’ ‘‘Section du Faubourg Montmartre: fête en
l’honneur de Marat. Rapport à faire en Assemblée Générale de la Section du
Faubourg Montmartre le 5° jour de la 1° décade du 2° mois de la deuxième année
républicaine, une et indivisible (!),’’ in G. Markow, A. Soboul, Die Sanskulotten
von Paris, Berlin, 1957, pp. 190-192.
133; Kersaint, loc. cit., pp. 3-6, 28-29, 40.
134. Ibid. According to the calculations of the authors, the circus maximus, according
to Pliny, measures . . . 1,983 X 871 feet; the new monument will thus be 2,694 x
1,032 feet.’’
1352 D. Rabreau, Architecture et fêtes révolutionnaires, loc. cit. The author of this
noteworthy study observes that the word Coliseum is habitually used as a synonym
of circus, amphitheater, or arena, without any clear-cut distinction being made
among the archaeological forms of these constructions. M. Rabreau remarks that
the theme of the circus appears in the second half of the century and that ‘‘one
cannot avoid thinking that the programs of the revolutionary festivals answer some
unfulfilled architectural desire.’’ In 1783, the Academy proposed the circus as the
theme of a competition and it is certainly on that occasion that Boullée presented
his first Coliseum project.
136. Cf. J. Lavallée, Notice historique sur Charles Dewailly, Paris, year VII, p. 25.
B. Poyet, Projet de cirque national, Paris, 1792; Les fétes de la Révolution, loc.
cit., p. 41. D. Rabreau identified a certain Thomas as the author of the latter program
(cf. D. Rabreau, loc. cit.).
157; E.-L. Boullée, Essai sur l’art, loc. cit., pp. 121-122.
138. Moniteur, 21 prairial, year II (reprinting of the Moniteur, vol. 20, p. 676).
139. On de Wailly’s project, see D. Rabreau, loc. cit., as well as M. Steinhauser, D.
Rabreau, ‘‘Le théâtre de l’Odéon de Charles de Wailly, et Marie-Joseph Peyre,”’
Revue de l'Art, 1973, no. 19, pp. 31-32. D. Rabreau stresses the fact that de
Wailly’s program which ‘‘very closely imitates the theaters of antiquity, represents
an exceptional example of speaking architecture conceived, a priori, on the scale
of the city.”’
140. See the drawings and their analysis in L. Hautecceur loc. cit., pp. 132-133.
141. Cf. A. Brette, Histoire des édifices où ont siégé les Assemblées parlementaires de
la Révolution Française et de la première République, Paris, 1902.
142. Le Thermomètre du Jour, 13 May 1793; G. Lenôtre, Paris révolutionnaire, Paris,
1896, pp. 103-105. Gisors’s construction was demolished in 1800.
143. Ibid.
144. L. Hautecœur, loc. cit., p. 116.
 NOTES / 363

145. The petition of the artists Lemoine, Mully, Gottelet, and Poissent to the Comité
d’Instruction publique of the National Convention, J. Guillaume, loc. cit., p. 91.
Two architects, Corbet and Magnin-pére, proposed going still further, demolishing
Châtelet, designing an enormous plaza on the vacated space, installing the Assembly
in the Louvre, joined by galleries to the Tuileries. This project, which dates from
1790, thus attempted to symbolize the links between the nation and the royalty.
146. Kersaint, loc. cit., pp. 17-18; L. Hautecœur, loc. cit., pp. 117-118; and
D. Rabreau, loc. cit., find other proposed sites: The Invalides, the Augustinian
convent (opposite the Louvre, now the Ecole des Beaux-Arts), the Champ de Mars.
147. Combes Proposal, cf. J-P. Pérouse de Montclos, E.-L. Boullée, loc. cit., p. 202.
148. L. Hautecœur, loc. cit., p. 128.
149. E.-L. Boullée, loc. cit., pp. 114-115. Drawings and plans in J.-P. Pérouse de
Montclos, loc. cit., p. 182, fig. 107. Kersaint, loc. cit, p. 34; Boullée conceived
his project around 1792; he first thought of putting it on the terrain of the ‘‘convent
of the former Capucine nuns’’ (now the rue de la Paix) in order to use ‘‘the most
economical means.’’ He noticed, however, that the lack of available space would
“imprison the genius of an artist in a straitjacket’’ and so he composed an ideal
project, with no specific site.
150. Cf. the decree of the Comité de Salut public on the beautification of the Jardin
National (25 floréal year II) as well as those of 12, 13, and 29 floréal (Reprinting
of the Moniteur, vol. 20, pp. 674—675); F. Boyer, Les Tuileries sous la Révolution,
1792-1799, Paris, 1935. M. Reinhardt notes that part of the planned transformation
is explained by the desire to isolate the Palais National to the north, thus taking
account of the conditions in which the Assembly chamber was blocked during the
“‘day’’ of 30 June. Cf. M. Reinhardt, loc. cit., p. 370. Only the hexahedrons in
the Tuileries were built, after Bernard’s designs; the horses of Marly were also
replaced.
151. Cf. P. Bourdieu, L. Boltanski, ‘‘Le fétichisme de la langue,’’ Actes de la recherche
en sciences sociales, no. 4, July, 1974, pp. 7-8. Cf. M. de Certeau, D. Julia,
J. Revel, Une politique de la langue. La Révolution Frangaise et les patois, Paris,
1975.
152? Arrétés du Comité de Salut public relatifs aux monuments publics, aux arts et aux
lettres, Paris (year II). The same edict calls on architects to ‘“compose plans’’ for
other civic constructions—theaters, public baths, fountains, and . . . prisons. The
need for that latter was, certainly, as keenly felt as was the need for public baths.
We have been unable to find, for the period that interests us, any proposals for
model prisons. The New City made do, provisionally, with the old prisons.
153: Sylvain Marechal’s article in the Révolutions de Paris, no. 215 (23-30 brumaire
year II). Cf. Les fétes de la Révolution, loc. cit., p. 27 (pos. 37). In this latter work
is to be found the description of the decoration, as remarkable as it was unusual,
installed by Brogniart in the cathedral of Saint-André in Bordeaux, for the festival
of 20 frimaire. The negation of the former cult is spatially translated by\an inversion
of the configuration of the church. Brogniart thus wants to ‘‘substitute to the axial
chapel a vast portal in the form of a triumphal arch dedicated to Reason, the choir
would be used for the public, the orchestra and the tribune of the civic authorities
364 / NOTES

would occupy the arms of the transept, while the scenic apparatus was spread out
along a rather steep slope along the narrow nave.’’ Ibid., pp. 27-28 (no. 30 and
plate).
154. Cf. Kersaint, loc. cit., pp. 28, 31, 69, as well as Legrand and Molinos’s appended
drawings.
155: Programme d'un temple de I’Egalité, anonymous, no date or place of publication,
BN Lb“'3863. A note seems to suggest that the author published this program as
a commentary on the drawings sent to the competition for the temple of Equality
to be constructed on the widened Champs Elysées. The project abounds in symbols,
several of which seem to originate in the Masonic repertoire (the pendulum, for
instance, installed in the middle of the temple; the flame symbolizing ‘‘the soul of
nature’’).
156. In congratulating Quatremére on his election to the Legislative Assembly, Pastoret,
president of the Electoral Assembly of Paris, praises his fight against the Academies:
““You have rendered the arts services they will never forget. They were slaves; you
sought to free them. They were the patrimonies of a few talents, you demanded
they become the patrimony of all. . . . For too long they had been subserviently
complaisant to power and wealth; all the people must enjoy them and find in them,
along with a more just glory, a living lesson in patriotism and virtue.’’ Quoted in
R. Schneider, Quatremére de Quincy et son intervention dans les arts (1788—1830),
Paris, 1910, p. 348.
157. Quatremére’s successive reports are doctrinaire documents showing the overall
program as well as the ideological and esthetic discourse which supports it. The
reports also allow us to follow the enrichment of the initial project. From here on,
we will quote primarily from the following texts: Rapports sur I’ édifice dit de Sainte-
Geneviève, fait au directoire du département de Paris par M. Quatremére-Quincy,
Paris, Imprimerie Royale, 1791; Extrait du premier rapport présenté au Directoire
en mai 1791 sur les mesures propres à transformer l’église dite de Sainte-Geneviève
en Panthéon Français, Paris, 1792; Rapport fait au Directoire du Département de
Paris le 13 novembre 1792, l’an II de la République Française, sur I’état actuel
du Panthéon Frangais, sur les changements qui y sont opérés, sur les travaux qui
restent à entreprendre, ainsi qu sur l’ordre administratif établi pour leur direction
et comptabilité by Ant. Quatremère, commissioner of the Department of Admin-
istration and Supervision of the French Pantheon, Paris, 1792; Rapport fait au
Directoire du Département de Paris sur les travaux entrepris, continués et achevés
au Panthéon Français depuis le dernier compte rendu le 17 novembre et sur l’état
actuel du monument, le 2° jour du second mois de I’an II de la République Francaise
une et indivisible, by Ant. Quatremère . . . , Paris, 1792.
For a complete bibliography as well as numerous archival documents, see
R. Schneider’s thesis, loc. cit. On the works executed, see Ouin-Lacroix, Histoire
de l’Eglise Sainte-Geneviève, Paris, 1852; J. Mouval, Le Panthéon, Paris, 1940;
L. Hautecœur, loc. cit., pp. 121-123.
158. The same tendency is found in proposals for a plaza-amphitheater. Cf. D. Rabreau,
loc. cit.
159. Soufflot was already thinking of surrounding his edifice with a plaza. Quatremére
seized the occasion represented by the confiscation of the terrain and demanded
 NOTES / 365

that the national properties be reserved for the realization of his project. The plan
des artistes retains the idea of laying out a plaza around the Pantheon.
160. H. Lapauze, Procés verbaux de la Commune des Arts, Paris, 1903, pp. 331, 337;
R. Schneider, loc. cit., p. 40.
161. This latter idea encountered opposition and provoked controversy. It was feared
that the dome would not support the weight, and the remark was made, as well,
that this gigantic decoration bordered on the ridiculous. And they had not yet
captured the cannons to be melted down and used for the bronze casting. Cf.
J. Guillaume, loc. cit., vol. III.
162. Moitte’s tympanum will be executed; Napoleon veils it with a thick cloth in 1806;
it will be destroyed in 1823.
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Index

A symbolism of (Viel de Saint-Maux),

Absolute, Deschamps on, 103, 106 260-261
Alembert, Jean le Rond d’, on Saint- see also Greco-Roman society
Pierre, 132 Architecture, Revolutionary
Alternative society Aubry’s proposals, 219-221
of Condorcet, 152 Boullée’s proposals, 252—254
see also Esquisse building materials for, 291-292
““counter-festivals’’ of, 179, 184 for centers of political power, 296-301
of Deschamps, 88-89 functionalism in, 254—255, 262-263
goal of freeing man from his past, 122 innovation and classicism in, 259
of Rousseau, 44, 57-58 monumentalism of, 187, 263, 271,
social reform and, 6 292, 295
specificity of descriptions of, 16 for public festivals, 292-296
in voyage literature, 117 Rousseau’s influence on 258-259
vs. existing society, in utopian social morality and, 267-268
thought, 15 spatial geometry of, 256-257, 270
Anarchy, Rousseau on, 55—56 temples and sanctuaries, 302—309
Anti-utopia, 130, 330-331 use of inscriptions, 300, 301
of Condorcet, 155, 156 utopianism in, 253—254, 269-270
model for, 29 see also Symbolism
see also Esquisse Architecture, utopian, See City,
Architect imaginary
as imitator of God (Ledoux), 265 Argenson, marquis d’, 132
moral conflicts of (Boullée), 266—268 Atheism
Architecture, classical Deschamps on, 107
rejection of, 308—309 social and moral consequences of, 85

367
368 / INDEX

Aubry, F.-L., proposal for a Celebrations, public. See Festivals, public

Revolutionary monument, 219-221 Celibacy, Saint-Pierre on, 130-131
Auvergne, peasant communities as Censorship
utopian models, 35—36 of literature, in Mercier’s utopia, 126—
127
B
motives for in French Revolution,
Babeuf, Frangois-Noél, 32, 40, 316, 322
171-172
utopian writings as source for, 38
of utopian writings, 25
Bacon, Francis, New Atlantis, 18, 155
Century, concept of, during
Bastille, proposed monument for site of,
Enlightenment, 81—82
303-304
Chain of beings, nature as (Deschamps),
Beaussire, E., Deschamps’s work
103
rediscovered by, 73-74
Champ de Mars, as festival site, 281,
Beffroi de Reigny, L. A., imaginary city
294, 295
of, 228-229
Chaux, Saltworks of, 275—276, 279
Blondel, J.-F.
Circuses, proposals for, 294—295
Cours d’ Architecture, 237
City, imaginary
on Laugier’s proposals for Paris, 236—
of Aubry, 220-221
237
Leliopolis, 225-226
Bolingbroke, on Saint-Pierre, 133
Lunol, 228-229
Boullée, E.-L.
Selenopolis, 226-228
basic principles of architecture, 255—
Séveriade, 223-225
256, 257
sources for, 238
function of public festivals, 187-188
vs. reality, 234
ideal city of, 270-274
without history, 234-235
proposed cenotaph for Newton, 263—
see also Paris, proposals for
264
remodeling
proposed Palais municipale, 252
City planning
proposed Palais National, 299—300
debate over nature of city, 238—239
vision of an alternative architecture,
influence of utopian proposals, 237,
269
239, 241, 282
Brissot, on More’s Utopia, 27
Morelly’s ideal city and, 230-231
C Patte on, 239-240
Calendar, reform of, 114 reform vs. utopia in, 241
analogies with Russian Revolution, utopian, 230, 231, 233-234
348-349 see also City, imaginary; Paris,
Condorcet’s proposal, 150 proposals for remodeling; Patte,
Convention debates over, 168—170 Pierre; Sanitation, urban; Traffic
failure of, 172—174 circulation
nomenclature of, 165-166, 169, 170, Classical society. See Architecture,
346-347 classical; Greco-Roman society
principles of, 164-165 Club de l’Entresol. See Entresol,
significance of, 159, 160 Club de I’
stages in, 158-159 Collectivism
Calendar, utopian, differences from in Deschamps’s utopia, 75, 93-94
historical calendar, 118 see also Property
 INDEX / 369

Comité de Salut public Constitutions, Rousseau on, 55

creation of general plan for Paris, 287— Court de Gebelin, rediscovery of a
289 universal language, 260
plans for festival site, 295-296
public works program of, 301 D
Comitée d’Instruction publique, new David, Jacques-Louis
proposals for festival sites, 296
system for place names, 283-286
Commission of Artists proposed Republican monuments, 293 .
scenario for Unity Festival, 199-205
plan for developing national property,
287, 360-361 Death
in Deschamps’s utopia, 97
proposals for remodeling Paris, 289—
290 see also Monuments, Revolutionary
Dechristianization, 159, 162
Communalism
of churches, 302-303, 363-364
in Meslier’s alternative society, 39
of Pantheon, 308
see also Collectivism
Revolutionary festivals and, 196, 206—
Commune of Paris, place name changes
207
debated, 285-286
Deschamps, Léger-Marie, dom, 29
Communities, utopian
abstract character of thought, 80
in France, 33
audience addressed by, 90-91
of Hupay de Fuvéa, 36-37
on the century of semi-enlightenment,
of Meslier, 39
84-85, 109
motives for, 18
in contemporary context, 108—109
peasant communities as models, 35—36
contradictory aspects of, 75-76
of Restif de la Bretonne, 35
disciples of, 38, 75-76, 336—337
of Rousseau, 34
historical philosophy of, 87-88
Condorcet, M.-J.-A.-N. de Caritat,
incompatible ideas united by, 108
marquis de
Observations morales, 92
French Revolution and, 156
writings rediscovered, 73—74
Mémoires sur I’Instruction Publique,
see also Vrai systéme
156-157
Diderot, Denis
see also Esquisse
on Deschamps, 76, 108, 109
Confederation of Bar, 50-51, 58
Supplément au voyage de Bougainville
see also Considérations sur le
as ‘‘philosophical voyage’’, 28
gouvernement de Pologne
Discourse, utopian, 17, 19
Considérations sur le gouvernement de
Domergue, Urbain, proposal for library
Pologne, 54-56
reform, 171-172
ancient analogies for Poland in, 58-60
Duclos, Ch.-P., apologia for imaginary
characteristics of public festivals,
republics, 25—26
67-69
as fusion of two fantasies, 51 E
image vs. reality of Poland in, 49-50 Education
imagination and public life in, 69 Condorcet’s proposal for, 156—157
importance of the Confederations, 49 Deschamps on, 86
low critical reputation of, 44 history in, 142
vision of a New City vs. reality in, 45 of the imagination (Rousseau), 65
see also Rousseau, Jean-Jacques new model for, 189
370 / INDEX

Education (cont.) Festivals, Revolutionary, 169

public festival as means of, 62-63, after fall of Bastille, 192
65-66, 187-188 architectural decorations created for,
Revolutionary architecture and, 263, 292-296
278, 307 attendance at, 208, 210-211
role of history in (Mercier), 126 banquets of, 205-206
role of, in utopian thought, 315-316 bureaucratization of, 210, 350-351
Emotions, cultivation of in 18th century, circuses designed for, 294—295
216 contemporary narratives of, 207-211
Encyclopédie méthodique, categories of educational purposes of, 190
utopias in, 26-27 ideal types of, 212-214
Engels, Friedrich, utopianism of, 155 impact of revolutionary experience on,
Enlightenment 190-191, 193, 198
attitude to public festivals, 183—184 monumental art of, 194
growth of historical consciousness organization of, 195—196
in, 81 Pantheon and, 307
utopianism in, 14-15, 19, 20 proposals for, 196-197, 347-348
see also Sensibility, language of reality vs. utopia in, 198-199
Entresol, Club de I’ remodeling of Paris and, 290-291
Saint-Pierre and, 132—133 utopianism and, 178, 188, 323
utopian members of, 37 see also David, Jacques-Louis;
Equality, social Festivals, public; particular festivals;
Deschamps on, 82-83, 87, 93, 98 Quatremére de Quincy, A.
Revolutionary symbolism of, 202 Festival of the Unity and Indivisibility of
Esquisse, 144-157 the Republic, 199-205, 281, 292—
goals of, 144 293, 351-352
historical epochs of, 145, 147-149 Fête de la Fédération, 192-193, 199,
optimism of, 151 208-209, 213, 306
predictions, 146-147 Fiction. See Novel
Evil Fontenelle, festivals among the Ajaoians,
Deschamps on, 81, 87, 104 181-182
source of (Morelly), 120-121 French Revolution
reality and utopia in, 158
F systematic destruction of past by, 171
Fabre d’Eglantine, P.-F.-N. see also Calendar, reform of; Festivals,
on calendar reform, 162, 169-170 Revolutionary
proposals for festivals, 347-348 Future history
Febvre, Lucien, historical value of of Condorcet, 145-146, 150-151
utopianism, 5—6 Golden Age (Saint-Pierre), 137-139
Festivals, public prediction of, 4—5
of ancien régime, 191—192 Futurology, vs. future history, 150-151
of the ancients, 261 G
in Rousseau’s thought, 62-63, 65-69 Gardens, Utopian, 224, 354-355
social function of, 177-178, 186-187 Garnier, censorship of texts published, 25
see also Festivals, Revolutionary God, Deschamps on, 107
 INDEX / 371

Government see also Future history; Progress, idea

as ideal client for Revolutionary of
architect, 268 Hubert, proposal for Palais National, 301
reasons for establishment of Human nature
(Deschamps), 83 natural man vs. social man
role of (Condorcet), 154 (Rousseau), 64
Greco-Roman society perfectibility of (Condorcet), 153
architecture as reflection of morality, politics and (Rousseau), 47
268-269 three states of (Deschamps), 79-80
legislators of (Rousseau), 47-48 see also Individuality
as model for Polish reform (Rousseau), Hupay de Fuvéa, J.-A.-V., proposal for a
58-60 model community, 36—37
moderns and (Saint-Pierre), 135-136 Huxley, Aldous, Brave New World, 3
symbol and ceremony in (Rousseau),
63-64 I
see also Architecture, classical Imaginary voyages
Guedeville, translation of More’s in Deschamps’s writings, 90
Utopia, 23 Enlightenment models of, 20
as literary genre, 17-18, 24, 183,
H 316-317, 318
Happiness, as goal of rational city of Mercier, 122—128
planning (Patte), 244 of Morelly, 120
Histoire des Sévarambes, 23, 116-117 numbers published, 28, 329-330
capital of Séveriade, 223-225 public festivals in, 180-183
public festivals in, 180-181 social reality vs. imagined history, 116
History in space, 115-116
alternative (Condorcet), 149, 152 in time, 123
calendar reform as rupture with, 160— as utopian paradigm, 7, 17
161, 170-171 utopias and, 28
as demonstration of progress (Saint- Imagination, social
Pierre), 138-140 in creation of utopias, 16
end of (Deschamps), 92—93 in Revolutionary festivals, 208
epochs of (Condorcet), 145 role of, 313-315
evolutionary view of (Deschamps), Rousseau on, 64-65, 69
79-80 Tocqueville on, 321
imaginary, 115, 117-118 Individualism, possessive, 102
Morelly’s view of, 120-122 Individuality, abolition of in Deschamps’s
philosophical vs. traditional (Saint- utopia, 95—96
Pierre), 142 | Industry, in Deschamps’s utopia, 93-94
as record of past crimes (Mercier), 126 Inequality. See Equality, social
retold through public festivals, 203—
205 J
teaching of, 347 Jansenism, as quasi-millenarian
utopian potential of (Condorcet), 156, movement, 33, 332
157 Jewish society, as model for Polish
vs. utopia, 113, 320 reform (Rousseau), 59-60
372 / INDEX

K of Morelly, 121
Kersaint, A.-G. as utopian paradigm, 17
financing of Palais National, 299 Legislator
proposed monument for site of as creator of utopia, 117, 119
Bastille, 303-304 qualities of (Rousseau), 47—48, 65
on remodeling Paris, 283, 290, 291, Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, definition of
294 utopia, 22
Liberty, architecture as symbol of, 220
L Listonai, de, imaginary city of, 226-228
Lamartine, Alphonse-Marie-Louis de, on Louis XIV, Saint-Pierre’s view, vs.
the concept of Utopia, 3, 4 Voltaire’s, 141
L’An 2240, 28, 122-128
description of Paris, 248-250 M
public festivals in, 182 Mably, G.-B. de, 29
Language on Saint-Pierre, 342—343
concept of architecture as, 255-256, value of utopian dreams, 27
260, 262, 307 Mannheim, Karl, utopia vs. ideology,
French Revolution and, 283 11-12
see also Place names Man. See Human nature
universal, 147, 163 Maréchal, Sylvain, radical transformation
withering of in Deschamps’s utopia, 97 of society advocated, 113
Lassay, marquis de, imaginary city of, Marriage
225-226 festivals for, 179-180, 181, 182
Laugier, I. M. A., abbé see also Celibacy; Monogamy
on contemporary cities, 239 Marxism, utopianism and, 8—10
proposal for beautifying Paris, 236— Marx, Karl, on ideal communist society,
237 10, 155, 344-345
La Vérité ou le vrai systéme. See Vrai Materialism, mystic, of Deschamps, 75,
Systéme 76, 108
Law Memory, vs. imagination (Rousseau), 65
origins of (Morelly), 120 Mercier, L.-S.
rejected as basis for society faith in progress, 127
(Deschamps), 78-79 on “‘fictionizing’’, 23
Laws, state of Deschamps on, 79, 80— see also L’An 2440
81, 84, 87 Meslier, J., alternative society of, 39-40
Ledoux, C. N., 253 Metric system. See Weights and measures
on the architect’s mission, 265-266 Michelet, Jules, on Revolutionary
architectural proposals, 258 festivals, 212, 352-353
Architecture, 274, 276, 218-279 Military, social function of
plans for city of Chaux, 266, 274-278, (Deschamps), 83
358 Millenarianism
vision of an alternative architecture, in Meslier’s writings, 39-40
269-270, 275 see also Jansenism
Legislation, ideal code of Mirabeau, comte de
characterization of, 118-119 burial in the Pantheon, 304—305
 INDEX / 373

public education through the N

imagination, 194 National Assembly, early meeting places
Moncrif, criticism of utopian novels, 24 of, 296-297
Monogamy, Deschamps’s rejection of, Nature
79, 86 as ‘‘great whole’’ (Deschamps), 102—
Montagnard Convention, public 103
assemblies during, 297—298 Revolutionary architecture as
Montesquieu, C.-L. de Secondat, baron implementation of (Boullée), 256—
de, on Saint-Pierre, 132 257
Monuments, Revolutionary, 292—293 Nothingism, 75, 100
Aubry’s proposal for, 219-221 metaphysics of, 101
Champ de Mars, 281 Nothingness, Deschamps’s definition of,
funerary, 263-264 106
see also Pantheon Novel, utopian
see also Boullée, E.; Ledoux, C. N. contemporary criticism of, 24—25
Moon, imaginary cities on, 226-229 as intellectual game, 18
Morality usefulness of, 25—26
metaphysical truth and (Deschamps),
105 P
metaphysics and, in 18th century, 109 Palais National, proposals for, 298—300,
place names as expression of, 285 301
Revolutionary architecture and, 276— Pantheon, remodeling of, 304—309
277, 358 Paris
as true basis for society (Deschamps), disposition of expropriated lands, 287
78-79 imaginary monuments of, 280-291
Morals, state of influence on city planners, 238
as alternative society, 88-89, 91 place name changes proposed, 283,
characteristics of, 93-97 284-286
as end to history, 92-93 proposals for remodeling, 236-237,
Moravian Brethren, as model for ideal 242-246, 247, 282, 287-290
community, 36-37 real vs. ideal, 240, 290-291
Morelly in the year 2440, 124, 182, 248-250
on the arts and sciences, 122 see also Festivals, Revolutionary; Place
Basiliade, 120 de la Concorde
Code de la Nature, 119-121, 180 Pastoral, utopia and, 332
ideal city of, 230-231 Patriotism
Modèle de législation, 121-122 reform of Poland and, for Rousseau,
Prince ou les délices du coeur, 118- 57
119 Rousseau’s view of, 49, 55
public festivals substituted for religion, Patte, Pierre
180 ideal city of, 238, 242-246
utopian writings, 29, 118-122, 341 Monuments a la gloire de Louis XV,
More, Sir Thomas 242, 243, 246
meaning of ‘‘Utopia’’ for, 7 proposal for a plaza, 246—247
Utopia, translations into French, 27 Perception, Deschamps on, 101
374 / INDEX

Perfection, nature as (Deschamps), 103 Propaganda, theory of, 187

Perfection, law of (Condorcet), 148 Property, Deschamps on, 10, 82
Périgord, commune of, festival of the Protestantism, utopian impulse and, 18
tree of liberty, 210-211
Philosopher-king
Q
Quatremère de Quincy, A.,
as agent of social transformation, 31,
remodeling of Pantheon by, 305, 306—
32 4419
309
Mercier on, 125
Philosophes R
Deschamps’s critical view of, 75, 81— Rabaut de Saint-Etienne, J.-F., on public
82, 84-85 education, 189
Saint-Pierre as extreme form of, 134 Rank, insignia of
Place de la Concorde, proposals for, at opening of Estates General, 191
246-247, 249 in Revolutionary festivals, 202
Place de la Révolution, modifications of, in Rousseau’s Poland, 68
301-302 Rationalism
Place names, Revolutionary changes in, at end of ancien régime, 110
283-286 calendar reform and, 163
Plato role in creating utopias, 16—18
Republic, as utopian paradigm, 7 Reality, utopias and, 5, 158, 317
Rousseau on, 62 Reason, Saint-Pierre on, 135
Plazas, for public festivals, 198 Reform
Poland, Rousseau’s reform plan for. imagination vs. action in, 32—33
See Considérations sur le of libraries, 171—172
gouvernement de Pologne uselessness of (Deschamps), 86, 91
Politician, Rousseau’s definition of, utopian elements in proposals for,
46-47 30-32
Politics see also Calendar, reform of; Spelling
importance of symbolism in reform; Weights and measures,
(Rousseau), 63—64 reform of
priority of over other studies (Saint- Reform legislation
Pierre), 136-137 Rousseau’s criteria for, 52-53
Poverty, Condorcet’s proposal for Saint-Pierre’s proposals for, 29, 131,
elimination of, 147 133, 143-144
Prince, ideal. See Philosopher-king Religion
Processions calendar reform and, 174
as expression of Revolutionary criticism of traditional festivals, 183—
ideology, 201-206 184
Republican, in Paris, 291 social function of (Deschamps), 81,
Progress, idea of, 319-320 83-85
history and, 134—135, 142, 147-148 in utopian thought, 34
obstacles to (Saint-Pierre), 139 see also Dechristianization;
superiority of modern times (Saint- Protestantism
Pierre), 135—136 Representative assemblies, chambers for,
time and, 123-124 299
utopianism and, 32, 113-114, 129-130 Restif de la Bretonne, Nicolas Edme
 INDEX / 375

history of the Mégapatagons, 117 Saint-Just, Louis de, 316, 322

ideal communities of, 35 Saint-Pierre, Abbé de
Nuits de Paris, 234 Annales Politiques, 141—144
public festivals proposed by, 179-180 character of, 133-134, 136
utopian writings, 29 contemporary views of, 130-132
utopia and reform distinguished, 31—32 critique of Louis XIV, 141-142
Revolution as exemplary utopian, 130
causes for, in Mercier’s society, 125 major reform proposals, 29, 131, 133,
Deschamps and, 90 143-144
popular, absence of utopian thought Projet de paix perpetuelle, 23, 119
in, 39 Saint-Simon, Abbé de, 31
social imagination and, 314 on public festivals, 177
utopianism and, 33, 316, 322—323 Sanitation, urban
Robespierre, Maximilien, on public in contemporary cities, 234, 239-240
festivals, 195-196, 350 in Paris of the year 2440, 248-249
Romans, carnival of, 177-178 Patte’s proposals for, 245
Romantic Movement, Rousseau’s image in utopias, 224-225, 228, 230
of Poland and, 51 Sans-culotte, Fabre d’Eglantine’s
Romme, Gilbert etymology of, 169-170
on calendar reform, 160, 161, 166— Savagery, state of, Deschamps on, 79,
167, 168 80, 82
opposition to censorship, 171, 172 Science
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Deschamps on, 96, 104
Confederates of Bar and, 38 politics and (Saint-Pierre), 136—137
Contrat social, 52, 53 utopia and, 151, 154, 317
Deschamps’s criticism of, 88 Sensibility, language of, 215
La Nouvelle Héloïse, 34 democratization during Revolution, 216
Lettre a d’ Alembert, 185 Sexual freedom
on the limits of the possible, 57 in Deschamps’s utopia, 94, 105
model of the ideal festival, 184—187 see also Monogamy
nation as living organism, 60 Socialism, scientific vs. utopian, 8—9
proper criteria for reform, 52—53 Society
Revolutionary architecture and, 258-259 critiques of, in imaginary voyages,
on Saint-Pierre, 131 116
on ‘‘true’’ vs. ‘“‘petty’’ politics, 46-48 Deschamps’s critique of, 78
utopianism of, 43 fundamental units of (Veiras), 224
on utopias, 22 rationalization of as goal of French
see also Considérations sur le Revolution, 163
gouvernement de Pologne reform of, and utopianism, 6
Russell, Bernard, on utopianism, 12-13 stages in evolution of (Deschamps),
Russian Revolution, utopian and 79-80
communitarian models, 10—11, 74 Sorel, Georges, criticism of
utopianism, 11
S Space, architectural
Sade, marquis de, imaginary societies of, in utopian cities, 232
330-331 see also Architecture, Revolutionary
376 / INDEX

Spelling reform, Saint-Pierre’s proposals, of Deschamps, 92-95

139-141 etymology of, 7
Suard, utopianism in, 31 festivals in, 178
Swift, Jonathan, Gulliver's Travels, 24, as final accomplishment of history
29, 330 (Condorcet), 149
Symbolism as literary device, 38
of ancien régime, opposition to, 303 of Morelly, 119-120
new language of, 188 typology of, 327—-:28
Revolutionary, see also Place names see also City, imaginary
of Revolutionary architecture, 221-— Utopianism
222, 264, 303-304 characterization of, 37—38
of Revolutionary festivals, 199, 206, difficulty in defining, 6—7
214-215 as discourse of an elite, 38—40
social importance of (Rousseau), 63-64 of the Enlightenment, 14—15
historical significance of, 5
T
idea of New City in, 222
Temples, in Revolutionary Paris, 302
in modern era, 7—8, 12
Terrasson, J., superiority of fiction over
as prophecy, 4
history, 25
‘“Scientific’’, 154—155
Theater, vs. civic festival, for Rousseau,
66-67
V
Time, calendar reform and, 162-163,
Veirasse, D. See Histoire des Sévarambes
167-168
Venice, symbolic aspects of
Time-travel. See Mercier, Jean-Sébastien
government, 64
Tocqueville, A., on the social
Viel de Saint-Maux, Jean-Louis, Lettres
imagination, 321
sur l’architecture, 260-261
on utopias, 20
Vitruve, Revolutionary architects and,
Totalitarianism, utopian element in, 13
262
Traffic circulation, plans for, 229, 232,
Voltaire, Franéois-Marie-Arouet on the
245, 248
beautification of Paris, 246
Tuileries, remodeling of for National
burial in the Pantheon, 280, 305
Assembly, 297-298, 301
on the Polish Confederations, 51, 58
Turgot, Anne-Robert-Jacques, on
on Saint-Pierre, 130
universal history, 156
Voyage, imaginary, See Imaginary
Tyranny, government and
voyages
(Deschamps), 83
Vrai système, 73
U Russian translations of, 74, 335
Universal whole
nature as, 103 W
nothingness as aspect of, 106 Wailly, Charles de, proposed plaza and
rationality of, 104 theater of, 296
Urbanism, in utopian thought, 232-233 War
Urban planning. See City planning Saint-Pierre on, 119, 139
Utopia sources of (Deschamps), 83
definitions of, 3, 22, 22—23, 314, Weights and measures, reform of, 163-
325-326 164, 173
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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bronislaw Baczko is a Professor of History at
the University of Geneva, Switzerland.
Judith L. Greenberg received her Ph.D. in
Romance Languages and French Literature
from New York University. She has translated
Olivier Revault d’Allonnes’ Musical Variations
on Jewish Thought published in 1984. Ms.
Greenberg is a freelance writer, teacher, and
lecturer living in New York City.

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