Revisiting the Château Saint-Louis (Part 1): New France's Elite and the Humble Canadian

Wine bottle seals bearing the coat of arms of the Marquis de Beauharnois,
Governor General of New France from 1726 to 1746,
excavated at the Château Saint-Louis

Before anyone asks, no, I haven't had the chance to visit Québec again recently. I would love to, of course - especially given the new knowledge and discoveries that I plan to share with you today - but for the time being, this "revisit" of Québec's Château Saint-Louis (my first visit to which is documented here) is purely figurative.

This story begins with two websites I came upon by chance whilst browsing through my Pinterest feed early this year: Furnishing New France and its associated blog. Both of these are the work of one Philippe Halbert, who has drawn upon primary source records (more on that below) to piece together the material culture of the social and political elite in New France: many of whom would have been based in the capital city of Québec, including at Saint-Louis.

Needless to say, I was completely fascinated, and I probably spent an embarrassingly significant portion of my leisure time in the days that followed just reading through everything Halbert found. In part, this is due to my own long-term curiosity about Canadian history and culture and about daily life in the Western world during the 17th and 18th centuries in general. However, another reason for my fascination with these findings - i.e., the reason why I am actually sharing this with you now - is that, quite honestly, my mind was simply blown.

See, for all that I considered Canada to have a significant role in world history during this period, as first a French and then British colony, it had never really occurred to me to consider those who were actually in power at the time. Of course, I was aware of an administrative structure made up of governors, military officers and the like, but when considering the history of Canada as a part of New France in particular, my focus up to this point had always been on how life in the colony was different from that in France rather than like it.

I even, if you'll recall, said as such in a previous post on this very blog: "[Although] Canada could trace its history back to its roots as a French colony, it was never really French. The France back then - that of Versailles and the Ancien Régime - was, in many ways, an entirely different world. Always had been, and always will be."

An image representing French Canadians from the 18th century
at the Royal Ontario Museum

However, looking through Halbert's work showed me not so much that my impression was inaccurate, but that the reality was far more nuanced. Although it is true that a noticeable gap existed between the aristocratic culture in New France and in France itself - a gap that turned out to have significant consequences for the colony's history - the colonial elites came a lot closer to emulating the lifestyles of their European counterparts than I had anticipated.

This prompted some research of my own: juxtaposing what I knew from my own reading, visits to Québec and time spent volunteering at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto with Halbert's findings; and reading up on the specific members of New France's aristocracy mentioned in his work. And it's what I've found from all of this that I wish now to share with you all.

There is a lot of ground to cover here, so I will be splitting this up into two posts. This first one will focus on the history of the Château, including the material culture I've just described, followed by a deeper look at just what so surprised me about it and what that says about my understanding of Canadian identity as a whole.

A Symbol of France: The Château Saint-Louis as a Vice-regal Residence

Models showing the first (foreground) and second (background) versions
of the Château Saint-Louis (c) Thomas1313 via Wikimedia Commons 
The darker portion of the second Château indicates
the expansion that was built between 1719 and 1723.

Although a French presence in what is now Québec began in 1608, the first Château Saint-Louis didn't come about until 1648, when, during a reconstruction of Fort Saint-Louis on the outcrop overlooking the fledgling settlement, the Governor's residence was finally expanded into something that could actually be considered a château. To be honest, it still was not much more than a large manor house, with its single storey and relatively simple linear design. However, it was still significantly larger than its predecessor and offered a terrace in the back from which the Governor and his guests could take in a sweeping panoramic view of the city and the St. Lawrence River beyond.

Sculpture of Samuel de Champlain,
founder of Québec, near the original
location of the Château Saint-Louis

Of course, the first Château's small profile is a lot more understandable once we consider the context in which it was built. At the time, while New France was a well-established French colony, and Québec was its hub, settlement and development were simply not priorities. Instead, the colony was primarily managed by trade companies, whose main goal was to cement France's hold on the fur trade: maintaining economic and diplomatic relationships with the Indigenous peoples they were allied with (e.g. the Anishinaabeg and the Wendat); and defending their interests from European (e.g. the English and Dutch) and Indigenous (e.g. the Haudenosaunee) rivals.

Québec also served as the main point of communications for the Catholic missionaries in the colony, linking them to each other and also to their superiors in Europe. However, with little available to encourage immigration from France, the colony's population was still small: by the time this first Château was built, little had developed yet in terms of civil governance.

That all changed in the 1660s. A significant paradigm shift was taking place in France, and it was only natural that it would impact the colony as well. 

In 1661, King Louis XIV assumed full control of the French government, establishing himself as an absolute monarch. And it was in that capacity that, in 1663, noticing its small population (c. 3,200, compared to New England's c. 33,000 - a difference that still persists between Canada and the USA today) and lack of permanent settlement, he officially placed it under the direct control of the Crown. This effectively led to New France's adopting a similar administrative structure as a French province, particularly in Québec. Where the Governor previously had to manage all of the colony's affairs, he now focused predominantly on defence (i.e. the military) and diplomatic relations. Finance, the judicial system and other civil affairs were now under the authority of an Intendant, and both officials were both assisted by a larger Sovereign Council. 

Not only that, but with the introduction of regional governors in other major Canadian settlements like Montréal and Trois-Rivières, the Governor of Québec was elevated to the position of Governor General. This meant that he was the head of three concentric circles of influence: Québec as the largest city in Canada; Canada as the largest colony within New France; and New France as an entire province. In all of these, he was the direct representative of the King and was expected to live and carry himself as such.

Le Conseil souverein (Meeting of the Sovereign Council) (c) Charles Huot
(A mural from Québec's Parliament Building, showing
a meeting of New France's Sovereign Council as it was in 1663.
Seated in the centre is the Governor General, with the Bishop
on the left and the Intendant on the right.)

The 1660s in France also marked the beginning of a shift in the everyday lives of the aristocracy. As part of his bid to consolidate his rule and curb any potential uprisings among regional nobles (a problem which had plagued the early childhood years of his reign), Louis XIV established the court of Versailles: massively expanding the original small country residence into the palatial complex we know today; and creating a complex system of court etiquette that kept courtiers and their families completely occupied simply scrambling to curry his favour. Both of these aspects of life at Versailles would have long-reaching consequences for New France: I will address the second in more detail in the future Part 2 of this series, but for now, let's take a look at the first.

With Versailles showcasing the latest developments in French Baroque arts, crafts and architecture, leading to France itself becoming the cultural centre of Western Europe, it was only a matter of time before New France would follow suit. In 1694, the Comte de Frontenac, who was then serving as Governor General, had the first Château Saint-Louis completely rebuilt as a two-storey building. This second Château was extended during the governorship of the elder Marquis de Vaudreuil ("elder" here for reasons explained further down), reaching its final form during the French regime in 1723.

The second Château Saint-Louis, as it appeared after

Frontenac's (top) and the elder Vaudreuil's (bottom) renovations

Both images (c) Library and Archives Canada

A Taste of France: Luxury Goods at the Château Saint-Louis

The Formal Room in the Governor's residence
at the Fortress of Louisbourg, Nova Scotia (c) Dennis Jarvis
(As the Château Saint-Louis no longer exists, the reconstruction at Louisbourg
is one of the few approximations available in Canada for
the daily life of am 18th century Governor in New France.)

Now, to be fair, the Château Saint-Louis was no Versailles. Arguably, it even pales in comparison to other French châteaux from the late 17th and early 18th centuries. However, what matters for us here is that the Château Saint-Louis, along with the official residences for the Intendant and the Bishop, was one of the most prominent visible and tangible representations of the King's authority in New France. Hence, it comes as no surprise that the Governors General, along with other high-ranking or wealthy members of Québec society, would seek to emulate at least some of the luxury they associated with life in France.

However, as it turns out, trying to find information on the furnishings and small items at Saint-Louis is far easier said than done. Since many colonial officials came directly to France and often took their belongings back to Europe after serving their terms of office, there may not be any traces left in Canada of what they owned. Although things have improved somewhat with the ongoing archaeological excavations at the site of the former Château, most finds have been from its rubbish pits and latrines; these can inform us about small goods that were disposed after breaking or falling out of fashion, but not furnishings or things that would normally survive the test of time. 

Finally, there is the question of dates. If my previous visit to the site's public exhibition (see image above) has anything to say on the matter, most of the artefacts found have been from the late 18th and early 19th centuries (i.e., during the time of British rule), and are thus irrelevant to discussions about New France.

This, for me, is where Philippe Halbert's research comes in. Although his project included many members of New France's elite, his work with the Governors General at the Château Saint-Louis was based on a particularly valuable resource: inventories. These were complete records of a person's estate and could be completed for several different reasons, such as to document a bride and groom's individual property before their wedding or to facilitate the distribution of a person's property to their heirs and beneficiaries after death. And in this case, Halbert was able to inventories for two Governors General of New France: that completed in 1726 after the death of the elder Marquis de Vaudreuil; and that completed in 1771 by his son, the younger Marquis de Vaudreuil, to claim compensation for goods lost during the British Conquest.

(And now you see why I used "the elder" earlier: there are, in fact, two of them.)

Now, my focus here is not to go into extensive detail about Halbert's findings or what items were included in both Vaudreuils' inventories. (I will, however, include relevant hyperlinks along the way, and links to the two webpages will be provided at the end of this post.) Instead, I want to draw on a few highlights that, to me, show the complex relationship that the Governors General had with both France and the Canadian colonists.

Treble viol (1680-1700)
at the Royal Ontario Museum.

First of all, most of the individuals appointed to be the Governor General were military officers who were chosen specifically for their experience. Despite taking a key role in state and ceremonial functions and being expected to lavishly entertain guests from both the colony's elite and abroad, Governors General of New France were not necessarily highly educated or accomplished in the artistic and leisurely pursuits (e.g. dance, music, etc.) popular among the French aristocracy. For instance, the elder Vaudreuil's 1726 inventory contains only a handful of books (although it should be said that one of them was a copy of The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which is quite something) and - to Halbert's surprise - no musical instruments or sheet music, despite music being a common form of personal, familial and social entertainment in the period. 

Instead, the knowledge that was valued seems to have been in areas relating to diplomacy, particularly as conducted in an Indigenous cultural context, and military strategy. Further evidence to this lies in the fact that, in contrast to other grand public buildings like the Intendant's residence, the Château Saint-Louis was still part of a fort meant to house not only the Governor General's household, but a small garrison of soldiers.

Yet, despite the Governor General's militaristic role, his lifestyle was definitely not spartan. Not according to what Halbert discovered in his research, anyway. While it is likely that the Château Saint-Louis, in both its exterior and interior architecture, was nowhere near the opulence seen in French châteaux or hôtel particuliers (urban mansions) of the period, the Governors General, along with the rest of Québec's elite, did try to elevate their surroundings through the use of finely crafted furniture and soft furnishings: tapestries or silk damask panels to cover the walls; richly upholstered chairs (like the chairs seen in the image from Louisbourg at the top of this section); commodes (chests of drawers) with ormolu (gilded bronze) fixtures; grand canopied beds; etc. 

The Governor's Dining Room (top) and Bedroom (bottom)
from the Fortress of Louisbourg (c) Dennis Jarvis

All of these items were meant to be seen by members of the public as not even bedchambers were completely private spaces during this period. Like the French royal family, the Governor General's household was expected to go about their lives in public view; in fact, the reason why the elder Vaudreuil ordered an expansion of Frontenac's rebuilt Château was to add a new suite of rooms for his wife, the Marquise, in emulation of how the King and Queen of France also had separate quarters at Versailles to meet with their respective social circles.

Porcelain cup from the Château
Saint-Louis (c) Philippe Halbert

In addition to grand pieces like these, there was no shortage of smaller luxury goods. Many of these hinted at the Governor General's role in a broader French empire as they included the accoutrements needed to prepare and serve exotic food and drink from other colonies: sugar, coffee and chocolate. For instance, this porcelain cup, which belonged to the elder Vaudreuil, is a rare survivor from the Château Saint-Louis: excavated intact from a latrine pit dating back to 1719. Although it may look like a Chinese teacup to modern eyes, it was most likely used for either coffee or chocolate - tea, while available, was consumed far less frequently and in much smaller quantities in French circles than British ones. While it's unclear whether this cup was imported from China or Europe, it does show that chinoiserie, the European fashion for East Asian and East Asian-inspired goods, had also made its way to New France's elite. 

A party at the Engineer's House
at the Fortress of Louisbourg
(c) Dennis Jarvis

This was, in all honesty, one of the most surprising things I learned from reading Halbert's work. Somehow, despite knowing that exotic beverages were available to the Château Saint-Louis's inhabitants - or, at least, its high-ranking ones - it never occurred to me that the Governor General's household would have used anything other than the faience (which, to be fair, was often glazed to resemble blue-and-white porcelain) or silver pots, cups, etc. that I normally saw in museum collections. For me, porcelainware, lacquered trays, and other such nods to Asian cultures were things I associated with aristocratic life in Europe, but not Canada. Not until after the British came, anyway, what with their tea-drinking and all. 

However, it turns out that not only did the Governors General use luxury imports like Chinese or European porcelain, but that their roles in society required entertaining on a massive scale, with the paraphernalia to match: the younger Vaudreuil's inventory, for instance, lists some fifty dozen (i.e. 600!) porcelain plates. And for me, this really drives home the extent to which the Château Saint-Louis, the Governor General, and the rest of his household and staff were all combined to perform the role of representing France to the Canadian public.

Now, I do not have hundreds of plates, tapestries, or gilded furniture. However, in hindsight, I do have far more stuff than any of the Château's inhabitants ever did. That's simply how it is now in our post-industrial capitalist society.

But given that, I think it's easy nowadays for us to forget just how much meaning was ascribed to conspicuous consumption during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Nowadays, we own things simply because we like them and they reflect our tastes. But back then, while personal taste did factor into it, there was also so much more at stake:

All of these items, being crafted by hand by skilled tradesmen, were extremely expensive at the time. As a result, access to them was dictated by norms of etiquette based on a rigid social hierarchy where class, rather than wealth was the key. Every little bit of the Château Saint-Louis's luxury, then, counted towards creating an image representing the authority, wealth and prestige of the Governor General - and, by extension, of France itself.

The table laid out for a banquet at the Fortress of Louisbourg (c) Martin Cathrae
(While not the Governor's residence, this offers a smaller-scale glimpse
of the amount of food and lavish decoration common among European and
colonial elites at this time. Meals were presented à la française (French-style),
with everything laid out at once like this as a show of wealth and prestige.)

Where are They Now?: Temporary Residences and Social Decapitation

Ruins of the storage cellars at the Château Saint-Louis

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, much of what life was like at the Château Saint-Louis was a mystery to me until quite recently. Of course, I was aware that there would be a significant gap in material culture and standard of living between New France's elite and the rest of the population; and that this gap, however large, would still have been far narrower than that in France. But while I knew of the relative size of this gap, I hadn't thought to consider its actual size - until now.

However, now that I do know, I am left, as is often the case in this blog, with more questions than answers. In particular, I find myself wondering why: why, despite knowing all this implicitly already, did reading Halbert's research surprise me so much?

Right now, I can think of two reasons.

The first one is quite simple, really. Thinking back on my exposure to Québec's material culture during the 17th and 18th centuries, I realize that the vast majority of it came from museums. In particular, most of what I have learned comes from exploring the Canadian gallery at the Royal Ontario Museum. To be fair, what is displayed in a museum is only ever a small part of the entire collection. However, as a volunteer rather than a curator, I didn't have full access and could only go by what I saw in person, along with the pieces photographed for the ROM's book, Rococo to Rustique: Early French-Canadian Furniture in the Royal Ontario Museum.

While it's clear that furniture pieces like this weren't exactly plain, I hope you can see that most of them were, well, not elaborate either. Hence, with only these artefacts to go by, it's understandable in hindsight why I'd believe that even those who were well off in New France lived by a more, let us say, simplistic or rustic standard than what was actually the case. However, the thing that had slipped my mind until I came across Halbert's research was that these 17th and early 18th century pieces from the ROM, for the most part, were produced in Canada.

Why does that matter?

I don't know if this was the case for other colonies at the time, but in French colonial Canada, at least, while there was a homegrown upper class - large landholders known as seigneurs - and merchant bourgeoisie, the majority of the administrators, including vice-regal officials like the Governors General or the Intendants, came directly from France. Many of them did not even bring their families over to the colony, but simply landed with their staff (clerks, servants, etc.); served their terms in the style and manner previously described; and then - with the exception of those who died in office - went right back to Europe. In other words, for these government officials, Québec was never meant to be "home", and there was little incentive to actually settle or lay down roots in the colony. And if many of the Governors General believed that about their persons, it's only natural that they believed that about their belongings as well.

In short, it turns out that I was simply looking in the wrong place. If I wanted to search the ROM for a glimpse of what life was like at the Château Saint-Louis, I should have turned to the museum's French artefacts rather than its Canadian ones - which, fortunately, I have also paid attention to out of my own general interest in the time period.

And that's not the only thing. Another significant factor to take into consideration is that, at the end of the day, New France did not survive: French Canadians survived, but the colony itself was ultimately conquered by the British during the Seven Years War (1754-1763, by North American reckoning). And anytime there is a conquest, the conquerors have to make a choice:

Do they try to incorporate the pre-existing aristocracy into their own administration - essentially creating a class of puppet rulers? Or do they try to eliminate them - either literally or figuratively?

In Québec's case, it was the latter, although the extent to which this removal was forced is still up for debate. Of course, after the British forces had taken all of Canada militarily in 1760, the French forces, including their commanders, were required to leave as part of the standard terms of surrender during this period in history. And this, if you recall from earlier in this post, would also include whoever was the Governor General at the time: in this case, the younger Marquis de Vaudreuil. 

Ruins at the Château Saint-Louis

However, most of the rest of New France's elite also returned to France - just at a later point. After Canada was officially ceded to Britain in the Treaty of Paris of 1763, the new administration established an 18-month grace period for emigration: anyone who wished to leave the colony would be able to do so, no questions asked; they would also be permitted to bring their assets along with them. Anyone who stayed beyond this point, though, was expected to submit to British rule.

This was, to be frank, quite the generous offer, especially when considering some of the other options out there. However, the policy did cause - whether inadvertently or intentionally, I don't know - what some historians have termed a social decapitation in Québec. This is when, in the wake of a catastrophic event, like a foreign conquest or coup d'état, most or all of a society's political and economic leadership is removed from power: in essence, that society loses its head.

And in the case of Québec, that is exactly what happened after the British Conquest.

Granted, this was also a culmination of an existing socio-political issue in French Canada - the growing divide between officials and administrators from France and a populace born and raised in the colony - but suffice it to say that when given the chance to leave, most of the people who did were those who already had ties to France and who could view their exile more as a return home. In short: a large portion of the upper class.

This, then, explains what I saw at the ROM, the Château Ramezay in Montréal, and other such exhibitions about colonial life in Québec. The reason why most of what could be definitively classified as "Canadian" from this time period appears to be from sectors other than the elite is because these pieces all belonged to those who stayed after the Conquest. Thus, while most of what we'd find in museum collections focused on Europe in the 18th century is what belonged to the wealthier social classes - as those were the items most likely to be preserved and passed down through the generations - we see the opposite in Canada.

Reconstructed French battery
in Vieux-Québec

As for the Château Saint-Louis...it and its contents fell victim to two other common wartime phenomena: bombardment and looting.

While the city of Québec itself was taken shortly after the Battle on the Plains of Abraham in September 1759, it also suffered several months of heavy bombardment from the British artillery beforehand. Given its geographical and political prominence, the Château was a prime target, so at some point - I do not know exactly when - the younger Vaudreuil, then-Governor General, moved his base of operations to the French encampment outside of the city. As for the Château's valuables, they were moved down to the cellars for safekeeping.

However, it was over a year later, in the fall of 1760, that he was able to return to what was left of the Château, in order to settle his affairs before leaving for France, and when he did, it was to find that the stash had disappeared. And although there is no direct proof that the younger Vaudreuil's belongings had been looted (they could, after all, have simply been unable to survive the force of the bombardment), I am inclined to believe that that is what became of at least some of them - vanishing into the "inventories" of the conquerors without a trace.

Yet, there is a silver lining in all of this. While I do think it would have been better if the Château Saint-Louis's contents had survived, it was also their large-scale disappearance that prompted the younger Vaudreuil, seeking financial compensation for the loss, to put together, completely from memory, the 1771 inventory that we still have today. And now, close to two hundred and fifty years later, it's a far more cohesive "collection" than any museum could ever hope to achieve.

Is Ignorance Bliss?: "Colonial Cringe" vs. the Humble Canadian

Yet, while the actual historical events already account for the surprise I felt while reading Halbert's work, that's not the end of my story. 

See, a really strange thing started to happen once I did become aware of the lifestyles of New France's social, economic and political elite: I started to realize that, actually, I should have figured this out on my own ages ago. Not because I'm that astute a history buff, but because I'd already seen signs of this before. In person.

Take, for instance, my visit to the Château Ramezay in Montréal back in 2014. While I was aware that the building itself had been home to first a former French Governor of the city, then a largescale trading company, and then a series of British Governors after the Conquest, most of the exhibit space was set up as a broader display on Montréal's history. Even its reconstructed dioramas tended to cover a broad range of social classes, such as the recreation of a commoner's home in the basement shown at the top of this section.

However, in hindsight, I also saw something else.

This photograph shows one of the first sets of artefacts shown in the museum/exhibit section of the Château - not too far from the entrance, in fact. At the time, I think I was drawn most of all to the diorama-like composition of this display, followed by the furniture, which was so similar to pieces I had previously seen at the ROM. However, looking at it now, I realize that, somehow, I had missed what was in the background: an 18th century Aubusson tapestry.

While I do not know who exactly owned this particular piece, tapestry was among the luxury goods featured prominently at the Château Saint-Louis: both as large wall hangings like this and as furniture upholstery. And among France's tapestry weaving towns, Aubusson was one of the best, boasting quite a significant aristocratic clientele. It was even, during the reign of Louis XIV, designated as a Royal Mill, which further increased the tapestries' value. As for this specific tapestry, not only does its size suggest that it was owned by someone extremely well-off, but its chinoiserie design does as well: the imagined Chinese pagoda and cranes evidence that the tapestry's owner wished to convey a sense of worldliness through their surroundings.

Clearly, then, this tapestry was, for a piece in a museum exhibit about New France, quite extraordinary and unlike the other items featured in the space. However, somehow, I did not see it. I saw it with my eyes, of course, but I didn't really see it for what it was - until now.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize that while this "blindness" was not intentional on my part, it was also not a complete accident either. See, somewhere along the way, in all the years I've grown up and lived in Canada, I've developed a very specific image of what "Canadian" culture is - and it's one that doesn't, in fact, have room for aristocracy.

Now, don't get me wrong. This is not about class or pushing back against "privilege" or "the 1%" or anything like that - I, too, appreciate the opulence that I associate with this period in French history. Like most others, I enjoy looking at images and watching videos of châteaux like Versailles or Fontainebleau or Vaux le Vicomte and would love to visit those places in person someday. 

However, when it comes to Canada specifically, I think that, on some level, I've always wanted a Canada that was humble. Plain, simple, and unassuming: more at home, I suppose, in the wilderness, on a farm or in a smaller château like Ramezay than in a lavishly furnished one that sought to emulate the court in France. In fact, taking this into the present, I even think I'd prefer a Canada that would choose a small town over a booming financial capital metropolis - never mind that I actually live in Toronto.

To be fair, I'm not the only Canadian who's done this; many others have as well, with varying opinions on whether that is actually a good thing. Some, I'm sure, would say the same thing as me. Others would say that I'm simply falling back on a stereotype: the one where Canadians are friendly, quiet people who would sooner apologize than get into a fight despite not having done anything wrong. And still others, like former Governor General Adrienne Clarkson (whose memoir, Heart Matters, is one I highly recommend), would say that I'm not proud enough of my own roots. She, in fact, is the one who coined the phrase "colonial cringe" with which I opened this section. Clarkson's argument here is that because of Canada's long history of living in the shadow of France, Britain and the USA, we have simply come to accept that those places would always be better - more powerful, more accomplished, more cultured - than we are. 

Thus, as a result, she says that many Canadians will instinctively shy away from even well-deserved praise and recognition, as though it should never be us being thus recognized: we would never strive to be the best because just being able to participate in the competition ought to be reward enough - and anyone who says otherwise, well, simply isn't Canadian enough.

I'm not going to lie: "colonial cringe" does sound like a fair description for how I felt at first. Prior to coming across Halbert's research, I failed to notice the actual wealth and prestige of places like the Château Saint-Louis: not because I couldn't see them, but because I didn't want to. I wanted Canada - even colonial Canada - to stay miles away from what was happening in Europe during the 17th and 18th centuries. And finding out otherwise, even if it was just for a small minority of the population, left me unsure just what to think: simultaneously eager to learn more and wishing I could unlearn what I'd discovered and retreat back into ignorance.

But now, in hindsight, I don't want to retreat anymore. Nor, as implied by the term "colonial cringe", do I want to perceive my wish for this country and its people to stay humble as a sign of weakness that should be changed.

Instead, I want to come at this from another direction altogether: humility as a source of pride, in and of itself.

After all, wealth and power can only say so much about a person. It doesn't tell us what they were like on the inside. So who's to say that those in a position of power can't be humble, patient and kind - just like anyone else? At the end of the day, strength of character will go a much longer way in terms of commanding respect than money, title or luxury goods ever will.

And so, what if I looked at the Château Saint-Louis in the same way? Can it be that the Canada I want to see - the Canadian I want to be - can be found in the Château after all?

Oui. It turns out it can.

Image of the Royal Arms of France at
the Château Ramezay, Montréal.
(French coats of arms like this would have been prominently
displayed on public buildings and infrastructure during the time of
New France, including in Québec.)

What's Next?

While the majority of New France's colonial administration came directly from France, the Rigaud de Vaudreuil family was an exception. From them, we get the first Governor General to raise a family in Canada and the first Governor General to be born here. And this distinction mattered. A lot. Especially in the face of an invasion.

When there is a conflict of interest between a Governor General's role as the representative of France and his responsibility to protect the Canadians, which should he choose? And how would that choice create the Canada we know today?

That's where I will be taking you in the rest of this two-part series. But until then, à bientôt!

The above blog post is part of the ongoing series, Memorializing History, which focuses on the different ways history is remembered and discussed in the present day. To access a master list for this and other series, click here.

Image Credits

All images, unless otherwise indicated in captions, (c) Kitty Na

Further Reading and Resources

Websites created and hosted by Philippe Halbert:

"Furnishing New France" (main website)

"Power Houses: Furnishing Authority in New France, 1660-1760" (research blog)

Other resources:

"Saint-Louis Forts and Châteaux National Historic Site" by Parks Canada (Note: click on "Culture" to access the pages specifically relating to history)

"Virtual Museum of New France" by the Canadian Museum of History (Note: this is particularly great as a general overview of life in New France, with a focus on the majority of the public rather than the elite.)

"Béchamel & the Death of Monsieur Vatel" and "Fabulous French Feasts of the 1700s" by Max Miller for Tasting History (YouTube videos about everyday life, especially the food, among the aristocracy in 17th and 18th century France - just for background context and a possible counterpoint)