Reflections on a Visit to the Palace of Versailles
In the
early 17th century, a Parisian mob surrounded King Louis XIV’s
palace when he was just a boy. (His
mother and her advisors managed the boy king’s affairs until he came of age.) The young king was shaken by this experience
and decided that when the time came he would move the royal court outside the
city. He chose his favorite hunting
lodge at Versailles as the seat of royal power.
Normal
procedure for the Bourbon dynasty included a yearly round of kingly residences:
a summer palace, the hunting lodge, the palace in Paris, and others. The difference now was that Louis intended to
make the Versailles palace his primary residence. The king would visit Paris only when
necessary; bishops, nobles, and courtiers would attend to him at
Versailles. The move helped Louis assert
his power as absolute ruler of France, forcing the nobles to come to him. No longer would he be vulnerable to a popular
uprising or discontent among the nobility.
Furthermore, the new project gave Louis the opportunity to display his
greatness to the world.
“I am the
state,” Louis said. He intended that the
Versailles palace demonstrate the wealth and glory of France—that is, himself. He employed the best architects and designers
available and spared no expense. The
palace included an opera, a private chapel, interior and exterior fountains,
reception rooms, offices, bedrooms, the astonishing hall of mirrors, and many
other features. Gold, silver, crystal,
inlaid floors, and hundreds of acclaimed paintings graced the building. Outside the chateau, Louis’s designers turned
his hunting forest into an enormous formal garden.
Recently, I
visited Versailles with a group of students from George Fox University. Some of them remarked on the stark contrast
between the opulence of King Louis’s palace and the poverty of 17th
century French peasants. Hardly
surprising, they said, that the monarchy was eventually toppled by
revolution. Versailles pressed me to
think about power and powerlessness, wealth and poverty.
Ironically,
our enjoyment of Louis’s palace was tempered by the mass of people crowding
slowly through the rooms. Too many
people! The indoor air became
stuffy. After a while I could hardly
wait to get outside to the acres and acres of gardens, with refreshing shade
and water fountains.
What would Louis have said if he
had known that millions of commoners would one day troop through his rooms,
gaze at his paintings, and walk through his gardens? More than anything, Louis aimed to establish his
rule as absolute monarch; he resented the power of the nobility and worked
tirelessly to bend the aristocracy to his will.
Commoners? For Louis, ordinary
people existed to work, pay taxes, man his ships, and serve in his army.
How the world has changed! The Versailles palace and gardens are now a
national treasure, owned by the French republic, maintained for their
historical significance and for the pleasure of tourists. The crowds that file through Versailles
symbolize a democratic spirit, a revolution in worldview that would have
astonished Louis (so I suppose).
I am a child of that democratic
spirit, schooled my whole life in republican values. It’s easy for me, when thinking about Louis,
to applaud my country for the moral superiority of democracy (and congratulate
myself for applauding). It’s easy to
condemn the selfishness of a ruling class and an absolute monarch, because my
political thinking starts with the moral worth of every person. Louis and his ministers pursued policies
aimed explicitly at magnifying Louis’s glory.
How could they not see that such vaunting pride was a vice? How could they plan and praise such massive
expenditures on one man while peasants died of starvation?
But that’s too easy. We may be proud that republics (such as
France or the United States) and other democratic states (such as the United
Kingdom) have progressed beyond the injustice of absolute monarchies. But before we congratulate ourselves too
much, we should remember how far we have to go.
The moral foundation of democracy is the recognition of the value of
every person. And yet in our democratic
states citizens still starve. Victims of
mental illness live under bridges and die of exposure. Children grow up seeing visions of material
luxury in entertainment and advertising with the knowledge they and the other
children in their neighborhood will never enjoy those things. In a word: inequality is a real and
persistent fly in the democratic ointment.
Do we see inequality? Are we troubled by it?
Surely King Louis knew quite well
that he had wealth and power far above any other Frenchman. This fact did not trouble him at all. Why should it? In his mind, it was God’s will that he rule
France. And: “I am the state.” Without any inconsistency, Louis could be
indifferent to the poverty and powerlessness of others.
Citizens of democratic states can’t
do that. If we believe in the moral
worth of each person, we need to do better.
Don’t misunderstand me. I have said nothing about which public
policies we ought to adopt in order to improve our democratic societies,
nothing about how to provide for the poor or the powerless. I’m just pointing to the right question. My visit to Versailles reminds me that
democratic republics ought always to ask how they will help those who have the
least, those who cannot defend themselves.
Otherwise, future generations may shuffle through our buildings and
wonder, “How could they not see…?”
