Main Currents in Nineteenth Century Literature - 3. The Reaction in France — A Reader’s Guide

The Rhetoric of Re-established Authority

Brandes dissects how reactionary writers deploy language to make submission to authority seem natural and even sublime. In the introduction, he argues that authority originally had only compulsion and fear, but later called forth reverence and gratitude. This psychological shift is key to understanding the literary strategies of the period. Chateaubriand, for instance, populates heaven with angels whose occupations are described in militaristic detail: they are keepers of war-chariots, quivers, and thunderbolts, or order the courses of stars like sentinels. Brandes points out that these beings, once ridiculed by Parny, now make a triumphal entry into poetry. The effect is half masquerade, half ballet—a deliberate aestheticization of power. By cataloguing these celestial hierarchies, Brandes shows how the reactionary imagination transforms dogma into spectacle, using vivid imagery to overwhelm rational dissent.

Chateaubriand’s Celestial Machinery

Brandes devotes considerable attention to Chateaubriand’s depiction of heaven, which he calls an arsenal ready for use. In one excerpt, the Trinity announces Eudore’s martyrdom: there is silence for half an hour, Mary casts a look of love, palms grow green, and Michael shoulders his spear. Brandes notes the precise inventory—diamond shields, flaming swords, chariot wheels of fire—and concludes that this is less theology than stagecraft. He then quotes the description of the Trinity: a triangle of fire, a throne of clouds, a compass in God’s hand, the Son armed with lightnings, the Holy Spirit as a pillar of fire. Brandes dryly remarks that we are not told how often this ceremony occurs. His analysis reveals how Chateaubriand’s prose, while aiming to inspire awe, often veers into the mechanical. The heavenly bliss of the elect, Brandes observes, consists in feeling like a mortal after a virtuous deed or a genius conceiving an idea—a curiously anthropomorphic vision that fails to make eternity appealing.

Pace and Polemic in Brandes’s Prose

Brandes’s own narrative voice shifts between measured exposition and pointed critique, creating a rhythm that mirrors his argument. In the introduction, he builds a conceptual framework with deliberate, almost legalistic precision: authority is defined, its instruments listed, its evolution traced. But when he turns to specific texts, his pace quickens. The description of Chateaubriand’s angels is followed by a swift, ironic deflation: “This is half masquerade, half ballet.” Later, he quotes the angels’ cry “O God, how great Thou art!” and comments that our first feeling is pity for the Deity. These abrupt shifts from description to judgment keep the reader engaged and underscore Brandes’s critical stance. He does not merely summarize; he evaluates, often with a dry wit that exposes the contradictions in reactionary thought. This alternating tempo—slow, analytical passages punctuated by sharp, aphoristic remarks—characterizes his method throughout the volume.

Readers approaching this volume should attend to Brandes’s dual role as historian and critic. He does not simply chronicle the reaction; he interrogates its rhetorical foundations. Pay particular attention to how he uses contrast—between Parny and Chateaubriand, between dogma and poetry—to reveal the tensions within the movement. His own prose, with its shifts from systematic exposition to ironic commentary, models a critical engagement that rewards close reading.

I found myself thinking of a rainy afternoon in my grandmother’s study, where Brandes’s analysis of de Maistre’s stubborn faith felt less like history and more like watching someone argue with the sky. That same ache of certainty against doubt returned when I later opened A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin Presenting the original facts and documents upon which the story is founded. Together with corroborative statements verifying the truth of the work. — Reading Notes. Both books whisper that conviction, however tender, always asks for evidence—and I still feel that weight.