Benjamin Constant

Constant he did not even like Mrs Trevor. The pistols were loaded and ready when the
Englishman threatened to explain to their seconds the absurdity of Constant’s grievance,
and Constant was thereupon forced to abandon his ‘brillante entreprise’. He invited Mrs
Trevor to Le Désert for dinner, his father being away from Lausanne, and thereby
incurred the wrath of Marianne. Perhaps it was because of this last piece of folly which
now threatened to bring the family name into disrepute that Juste informed his son that he
must prepare to accompany him to Paris. Benjamin left Lausanne in despair on 16
November 1786. With him in the coach were Juste and Benjamin’s cousin Charles
(1762–1835), son of Samuel de Constant, known as Charles ‘le Chinois’ because he had
already been to China and was now planning a career in commerce. We are indebted to
him for a vivid, almost cinematic account of the journey and of Benjamin’s state of mind
in a letter to his sisters Rosalie and Lisette composed two days later:

We set out on Thursday morning, my dear Sisters, in a good coach,

having taken precautions against the cold. The three of us have

entirely different characters, it would seem. It is difficult to

describe my uncle. As for Benjamin, still obsessed with his great

misfortune, he never talks about anything else. His father argues

against his son’s philosophical system and moral principles, and

from time to time I join in their conversation, but I have to admit

I’ve discovered that I’m just a fool: I can’t understand any of my

travelling companions’ profound arguments. I think about you and

what I’ve left behind, I make plans, I think about life in Paris. I tell

Benjamin he’s getting on my nerves when he tells me that all

human beings are unhappy, that human nature conspires to make us

so; I cite examples to the contrary, he says they’re an illusion, and I

finish up singing a little song to him. Then he tells me quite

brutally that my mind is narrow and limited. I feel anger welling up

in me, but I content myself with pointing out that I have my pride

as well, however misplaced it may be, and that it is very wrong of

him to wound it over nothing.^36

In these few words we have as complete a picture as we could wish for of

Benjamin Constant at 19. We see too how different he and his father were

from Samuel’s side of the family. The unfortunate Charles, five years

older than Benjamin but with no head for philosophical speculation, found
himself thrust out into the ring every day for a fortnight with two

intellectual prize-fighters and unable to escape. Charles’s later letters are

equally fascinating, as the following remarks will illustrate:

The company I find myself in is not to my taste. My uncle

interferes and disagrees over everything, is interested only in his

son whose response is a tear in his eye and a ready epigram...my

Benjamin constant 76