Did Louis XIV Have Absolute Power?
You can find an abridged version here.
*last updated on February 21, 2026
I spent the first five years of my life in Peterhof, a satellite town of St. Petersburg, Russia. There, I lived with my parents in an apartment my grandfather had received for his military service—he was a World War II veteran. Peterhof was originally created by Peter the Great, the same tsar who strategically founded the city of St. Petersburg in 1703 as a new Baltic port and a "window" toward Europe. As part of his plan to modernize the country, Peter the Great brought in many innovations from Europe. Peterhof—often called “the Russian Versailles”—still testifies to the pull of French court culture in his era.
This admiration was somewhat of a paradox. In his detailed account of Louis XIV’s reign, historian Philip Mansel notes that Peter the Great, despite his oft-cited personal preference for simplicity, constructed Peterhof as a vast country palace inspired by the luxury of Louis XIV's court (see Chapter 24; here and below, I am referring to Mansel's book King of the World).
*last updated on February 21, 2026
I spent the first five years of my life in Peterhof, a satellite town of St. Petersburg, Russia. There, I lived with my parents in an apartment my grandfather had received for his military service—he was a World War II veteran. Peterhof was originally created by Peter the Great, the same tsar who strategically founded the city of St. Petersburg in 1703 as a new Baltic port and a "window" toward Europe. As part of his plan to modernize the country, Peter the Great brought in many innovations from Europe. Peterhof—often called “the Russian Versailles”—still testifies to the pull of French court culture in his era.
This admiration was somewhat of a paradox. In his detailed account of Louis XIV’s reign, historian Philip Mansel notes that Peter the Great, despite his oft-cited personal preference for simplicity, constructed Peterhof as a vast country palace inspired by the luxury of Louis XIV's court (see Chapter 24; here and below, I am referring to Mansel's book King of the World).
Image credit: Peterhof by Slava Korolev
I walked in the Peterhof park many times, alone and with friends, admiring its scope and beauty. Little did I know that years later, living in a different country, I would turn to Louis XIV's reign to help explain my theory of power. Peterhof seems to be a perfect manifestation of Louis’s immense influence. Even Peter the Great, better known for pragmatism than for ornament, chose to imitate the French king’s extravagant style.
But was Louis’s influence truly limitless? To answer this question, I turned to Mansel’s comprehensive biography of this controversial king, published in 2020. Relying on the authority of this reputable historian, I will explain below why Louis XIV’s power was far from absolute.
To be clear, I am not inventing the wheel. The idea that so-called absolute monarchs did not have absolute power is not new. As political science scholar Keith Dowding puts it in his entry on absolutism in the Encyclopedia of Power,
"These monarchs had great formal powers, which in practice extended to closing down other power centers, emasculating parliaments, creating powerful bureaucracies and standing armies, and generally centralizing power to a greater extent than previously happened... [However, their power] can be overemphasized. Certainly there were other centers of power, notably the churches and nobility, though absolutist monarchs attempted to enfeeble the latter by requiring them to work with state officials on their lands. [I]t is not clear that the absolute rulers had significantly greater power than other rulers. Absolute rulers still needed to negotiate with barons and with the church and were beholden to powerful figures within their palaces and bureaucracies." (my emphasis)
Still, the idea that absolute monarchs lacked absolute power might come as a surprise. In this essay, I draw on Mansel’s account of Louis XIV’s reign to bring some life to the dry language of the encyclopedia entry quoted above.
Any historical account is shaped by interpretation: evidence does not speak for itself, and different readers may reasonably draw different conclusions from the same record. The description I offer below is one such reading. My purpose is to examine Louis XIV through the lens of a theory of power that emphasizes how power and powerlessness are intertwined within individual lives.
For that reason, I do not portray Louis XIV merely as a haughty and heartless lover of exquisite entertainments. I treat him as a person shaped by the meanings and relationships of his environment—many of which he could not fully see from within. He tried to navigate that world, and in the process he made serious mistakes and inflicted real harm—harm enabled, in part, by the meanings of absolute monarchy that surrounded him and were repeatedly affirmed by others.
I walked in the Peterhof park many times, alone and with friends, admiring its scope and beauty. Little did I know that years later, living in a different country, I would turn to Louis XIV's reign to help explain my theory of power. Peterhof seems to be a perfect manifestation of Louis’s immense influence. Even Peter the Great, better known for pragmatism than for ornament, chose to imitate the French king’s extravagant style.
But was Louis’s influence truly limitless? To answer this question, I turned to Mansel’s comprehensive biography of this controversial king, published in 2020. Relying on the authority of this reputable historian, I will explain below why Louis XIV’s power was far from absolute.
To be clear, I am not inventing the wheel. The idea that so-called absolute monarchs did not have absolute power is not new. As political science scholar Keith Dowding puts it in his entry on absolutism in the Encyclopedia of Power,
"These monarchs had great formal powers, which in practice extended to closing down other power centers, emasculating parliaments, creating powerful bureaucracies and standing armies, and generally centralizing power to a greater extent than previously happened... [However, their power] can be overemphasized. Certainly there were other centers of power, notably the churches and nobility, though absolutist monarchs attempted to enfeeble the latter by requiring them to work with state officials on their lands. [I]t is not clear that the absolute rulers had significantly greater power than other rulers. Absolute rulers still needed to negotiate with barons and with the church and were beholden to powerful figures within their palaces and bureaucracies." (my emphasis)
Still, the idea that absolute monarchs lacked absolute power might come as a surprise. In this essay, I draw on Mansel’s account of Louis XIV’s reign to bring some life to the dry language of the encyclopedia entry quoted above.
Any historical account is shaped by interpretation: evidence does not speak for itself, and different readers may reasonably draw different conclusions from the same record. The description I offer below is one such reading. My purpose is to examine Louis XIV through the lens of a theory of power that emphasizes how power and powerlessness are intertwined within individual lives.
For that reason, I do not portray Louis XIV merely as a haughty and heartless lover of exquisite entertainments. I treat him as a person shaped by the meanings and relationships of his environment—many of which he could not fully see from within. He tried to navigate that world, and in the process he made serious mistakes and inflicted real harm—harm enabled, in part, by the meanings of absolute monarchy that surrounded him and were repeatedly affirmed by others.
King's Childhood
When his father died in 1643, four-year-old Louis XIV was proclaimed King. Of course, he did not begin managing France immediately. Upon the death of her husband, Queen Anne became regent and ruled with the help of Cardinal Mazarin until Louis reached the age of majority (13 years old) in 1651. Even then, although his mother was no longer regent, the young king did not fully take the reins of state until Mazarin’s death in 1661—ten years later.
Image credit: Louis XIV during his minority, c. 1643, by Pierre Mignard
Let us first take a look at the formative years of the future self-proclaimed Sun King. We could hardly claim that Louis XIV came anywhere close to absolute power as a child. But as a king by law, perhaps he enjoyed a life of exceptional happiness and freedom?
Mansel’s account dispels this myth from the outset. He writes that even by royal standards, the family into which Louis XIV was born was deeply dysfunctional
("a nest of vipers," as Mansel puts it in Chapter 1). Intrigues, mistrust, and rivalry flourished, even between closest relatives. Queen Anne’s Spanish ties put even her under suspicion: after war with Spain began, she remained sympathetic to the Spanish cause and was caught maintaining secret correspondence with her brother, Philip IV.
Louis XIV's family could hardly be called a healthy environment for a young child trying to make sense of the world. According to Mansel (Chapter 1), even at the age of two, Louis was used as a pawn in his parents’ strained marriage—his actions and feelings exploited as political tools. The court surrounding him was no less treacherous. Every personal interaction and physical space had political implications. It was, as Mansel puts it in Chapter 1, “a zone of negotiation, and a school of psychology, as well as a battlefield.” From a very young age, Louis had to navigate this battlefield while attending countless ceremonial events. As he grew older, his public life turned into “an unending sequence of ceremonies” (Chapter 2), which he soon came to detest but could not avoid.
One can only wonder how becoming king at age four might affect a child. No psychological study can tell us what it really means to grow up as an absolute monarch. But it is clear that before Louis XIV could begin exercising power, he received many lessons in powerlessness.
On the positive side, he had a close and affectionate relationship with his mother—something few contemporary monarchs could claim. Unlike many royal parents of the time, Queen Anne spent considerable time with her beloved first-born son and played an active role in his education.
In particular, she worked to instill in Louis a belief in the divine rights of the French king. Having experienced her own powerlessness, Queen Anne may have wished for absolute power for her son out of love—hoping it would protect him and bring happiness. These lessons appear to have taken root. The conviction in his divine authority—reinforced by life’s stresses, heartbreaks, and very human biases—contributed to the mistakes Louis XIV would later make, sometimes with harmful consequences. One such heartbreak was his mother’s painful death from breast cancer at the age of 64, when Louis was only 28. She died in a Parisian convent where she had retired after her regency. After her death, Louis’s existing preference for distance from Paris deepened; he increasingly centered court life in his royal residences, above all Versailles.
Let us first take a look at the formative years of the future self-proclaimed Sun King. We could hardly claim that Louis XIV came anywhere close to absolute power as a child. But as a king by law, perhaps he enjoyed a life of exceptional happiness and freedom?
Mansel’s account dispels this myth from the outset. He writes that even by royal standards, the family into which Louis XIV was born was deeply dysfunctional
("a nest of vipers," as Mansel puts it in Chapter 1). Intrigues, mistrust, and rivalry flourished, even between closest relatives. Queen Anne’s Spanish ties put even her under suspicion: after war with Spain began, she remained sympathetic to the Spanish cause and was caught maintaining secret correspondence with her brother, Philip IV.
Louis XIV's family could hardly be called a healthy environment for a young child trying to make sense of the world. According to Mansel (Chapter 1), even at the age of two, Louis was used as a pawn in his parents’ strained marriage—his actions and feelings exploited as political tools. The court surrounding him was no less treacherous. Every personal interaction and physical space had political implications. It was, as Mansel puts it in Chapter 1, “a zone of negotiation, and a school of psychology, as well as a battlefield.” From a very young age, Louis had to navigate this battlefield while attending countless ceremonial events. As he grew older, his public life turned into “an unending sequence of ceremonies” (Chapter 2), which he soon came to detest but could not avoid.
One can only wonder how becoming king at age four might affect a child. No psychological study can tell us what it really means to grow up as an absolute monarch. But it is clear that before Louis XIV could begin exercising power, he received many lessons in powerlessness.
On the positive side, he had a close and affectionate relationship with his mother—something few contemporary monarchs could claim. Unlike many royal parents of the time, Queen Anne spent considerable time with her beloved first-born son and played an active role in his education.
In particular, she worked to instill in Louis a belief in the divine rights of the French king. Having experienced her own powerlessness, Queen Anne may have wished for absolute power for her son out of love—hoping it would protect him and bring happiness. These lessons appear to have taken root. The conviction in his divine authority—reinforced by life’s stresses, heartbreaks, and very human biases—contributed to the mistakes Louis XIV would later make, sometimes with harmful consequences. One such heartbreak was his mother’s painful death from breast cancer at the age of 64, when Louis was only 28. She died in a Parisian convent where she had retired after her regency. After her death, Louis’s existing preference for distance from Paris deepened; he increasingly centered court life in his royal residences, above all Versailles.
Image credit: Queen Anne, Louis XIV's mother, c. 1620, by Peter Paul Rubens
But let us return to his childhood. There was another major reason Louis XIV disliked Paris. Mansel describes the city as “a cauldron of combustible institutions” (Chapter 2), both supportive of and in tension with the monarchy. This combination could be confusing, frustrating, and frightening. In general, Mansel explains that royal lineage and divine claims to authority did not protect French kings from revolt or assassination. France, he writes in the Introduction, was “a monarchy on a knife-edge,” where rulers like Henri IV, Louis XIII, and Louis XIV faced constant threats of rebellion, religious conflict, and regicide. These threats haunted Louis throughout his life.
As a child, Louis could almost see his worst fears coming true in Paris. During his minority, the city became the epicenter of the Fronde (1648–1653), a series of civil wars sparked by disputes over taxation and the expanding reach of royal government—first driven by the Parlement of Paris and later taken up by powerful nobles. It was not a grassroots revolution, though it did draw in popular anger in a city already strained by taxes and political tension. In one notorious episode—often dated the night of 9–10 February 1651—a Parisian crowd forced its way into the royal residence and demanded to see the boy-king in his bed, an intrusion said to have shaken him and deepened his distrust of Paris. At other points, Louis and his mother were closely watched and effectively hemmed in at the Palais-Royal, almost like prisoners. Taken together, these experiences likely showed Louis how fragile royal authority could become when elite rebellion and popular suspicion converged.
This is not to say Parisians lacked reasons to be concerned about the government's actions—centralization was a defining trait of absolutist regimes. Rather than excusing the monarchy, my goal is to explore how these events may have shaped the young king’s understanding of the world. For Louis, the idea of divine kingship must have held strong appeal: it promised stability and safety in a world riddled with dangers, conflicts, and contradiction. The idea of absolute monarchy conveniently resonated with what Louis often witnessed. As Mansel notes in Chapter 1, for most French people under Louis XIII and Louis XIV, both monarchy and Christianity were “cults of hierarchy and obedience.” Rebellions like the Fronde, in the mind of the young Louis, could be dismissed as unfortunate deviations. Inspired by his mother, he grew up believing he was destined to rule the world.
Louis XIV was learning about his rights and responsibilities—but no one could explain how the power he had been promised would one day begin to change him.
But let us return to his childhood. There was another major reason Louis XIV disliked Paris. Mansel describes the city as “a cauldron of combustible institutions” (Chapter 2), both supportive of and in tension with the monarchy. This combination could be confusing, frustrating, and frightening. In general, Mansel explains that royal lineage and divine claims to authority did not protect French kings from revolt or assassination. France, he writes in the Introduction, was “a monarchy on a knife-edge,” where rulers like Henri IV, Louis XIII, and Louis XIV faced constant threats of rebellion, religious conflict, and regicide. These threats haunted Louis throughout his life.
As a child, Louis could almost see his worst fears coming true in Paris. During his minority, the city became the epicenter of the Fronde (1648–1653), a series of civil wars sparked by disputes over taxation and the expanding reach of royal government—first driven by the Parlement of Paris and later taken up by powerful nobles. It was not a grassroots revolution, though it did draw in popular anger in a city already strained by taxes and political tension. In one notorious episode—often dated the night of 9–10 February 1651—a Parisian crowd forced its way into the royal residence and demanded to see the boy-king in his bed, an intrusion said to have shaken him and deepened his distrust of Paris. At other points, Louis and his mother were closely watched and effectively hemmed in at the Palais-Royal, almost like prisoners. Taken together, these experiences likely showed Louis how fragile royal authority could become when elite rebellion and popular suspicion converged.
This is not to say Parisians lacked reasons to be concerned about the government's actions—centralization was a defining trait of absolutist regimes. Rather than excusing the monarchy, my goal is to explore how these events may have shaped the young king’s understanding of the world. For Louis, the idea of divine kingship must have held strong appeal: it promised stability and safety in a world riddled with dangers, conflicts, and contradiction. The idea of absolute monarchy conveniently resonated with what Louis often witnessed. As Mansel notes in Chapter 1, for most French people under Louis XIII and Louis XIV, both monarchy and Christianity were “cults of hierarchy and obedience.” Rebellions like the Fronde, in the mind of the young Louis, could be dismissed as unfortunate deviations. Inspired by his mother, he grew up believing he was destined to rule the world.
Louis XIV was learning about his rights and responsibilities—but no one could explain how the power he had been promised would one day begin to change him.
Closer to Power
Between 1651—when Louis XIV was declared of age at thirteen—and 1661, when Mazarin died, the young king was gradually learning to govern. During this decade, he was far from all-powerful: Mazarin remained the dominant political actor, and Anne’s influence persisted. Some later historians have even speculated that Anne and Mazarin were secretly married; whether or not that was the case, their relationship appears to have been unusually close by royal standards, and it shaped the small inner circle around the young king (Chapter 2). Louis trusted and admired both his mother and Mazarin, even when he did not fully approve of their decisions.
Image credit: Cardinal Jules Mazarin, 1658, by Pierre Mignard
One moment that revealed the limits of his power came when Louis fell deeply in love with Marie Mancini, Mazarin’s niece. When he shared his intention to marry her, both Mazarin and Queen Anne rejected the idea. The Cardinal may have briefly entertained the possibility of becoming the king’s uncle-in-law, but the Queen stood firmly against it. Her opposition was not rooted in disregard for her son’s happiness. Rather, she most probably believed that securing his position as an absolute monarch—through strong political and dynastic alliances—was the best way to protect him from the uncertainties of life. In her view, marrying the daughter of Philip IV of Spain, Louis’s double first cousin, would offer the security and prestige she wanted for him.
Mazarin’s counsel to the heartbroken king captures a contradiction that is central to this essay’s discussion of power. In correspondence attributed to Mazarin and quoted by Mansel, the cardinal reminded Louis that although he possessed royal authority, he was not merely an individual but an institution—accountable to God and to the world for his actions and reputation (Chapter 4). In line with his mother’s wishes, Louis married Maria Theresa of Spain in 1660.
It must be noted that monarchs—especially so-called absolute ones—rarely had the freedom to marry for love. Dynastic marriages were often fraught with biological, emotional, and political risks. As Mansel explains, European rulers typically married within a “family of kings,” often marrying cousins in order to preserve royal prestige. Ties within this “family” were so strong that rulers “wore mourning for each other as relatives even when they were at war" (Chapter 5). Such unions, however, could increase the risk of hereditary health problems, infertility, and other consequences associated with close-kin marriage (Chapter 5). In Louis and Maria Theresa’s case, five of their six children died in early childhood, though the causes of such losses were not reducible to any single factor. Louis loved his children dearly, and each loss devastated him, whatever the causes.
In 1661, a year after his wedding, Mazarin died—a blow that deeply affected the King. Mansel writes that Louis reportedly wept so uncontrollably during the Cardinal’s last rites that he had to be asked to leave the room (Chapter 5). Saying goodbye to both Marie Mancini and his beloved mentor in such quick succession were likely the first major heartbreaks of his life. And yet, in his early twenties, Louis had not yet become the hardened ruler he would later be. As Mansel writes, between the age of fourteen and thirty, “between the abjection of the Fronde and the intoxication of absolutism,” Louis was still affable and informal, with a certain Parisian charm (Chapter 4).
Now 23, Louis XIV finally took the reins of power into his own hands. To everyone’s astonishment, he announced on the day of Mazarin’s death: “I am determined henceforth to govern my state by myself.” He would allow no one—not even his mother—to challenge his authority (Chapter 6). After all the lessons in powerlessness he had received so far, and fueled by the conviction that absolute power was his destiny, Louis was ready to seize as much control as he could.
Like all of us, Louis XIV was full of contradictions. He wanted to wield the power he believed was rightfully his, but not solely for selfish ends. For twenty years, those he loved and respected had told him his duty was to strengthen France and secure the Bourbon dynasty. Believing he could best serve his country by eliminating intermediaries, he threw himself into the task of governing—often to the point of micromanagement. He did so with conviction, telling himself that he was doing good. I believe that one of the greatest contradictions in his character was that he sincerely wanted to make France powerful and admired, yet could remain unaware of his own motivations. Vanity, anxiety, and personal bias often guided his decisions more than he realized.
Louis is famously remembered as the monarch who declared, “I am the state.” But as Mansel points out, there is no record of him ever having said this in a speech or writing. It appears to be a later attribution (Chapter 4). Similarly, the image of Louis XIV as an all-powerful absolute monarch is often distorted by time and myth. These stories can obscure the complex interplay of power and powerlessness that shaped his life and reign.
One moment that revealed the limits of his power came when Louis fell deeply in love with Marie Mancini, Mazarin’s niece. When he shared his intention to marry her, both Mazarin and Queen Anne rejected the idea. The Cardinal may have briefly entertained the possibility of becoming the king’s uncle-in-law, but the Queen stood firmly against it. Her opposition was not rooted in disregard for her son’s happiness. Rather, she most probably believed that securing his position as an absolute monarch—through strong political and dynastic alliances—was the best way to protect him from the uncertainties of life. In her view, marrying the daughter of Philip IV of Spain, Louis’s double first cousin, would offer the security and prestige she wanted for him.
Mazarin’s counsel to the heartbroken king captures a contradiction that is central to this essay’s discussion of power. In correspondence attributed to Mazarin and quoted by Mansel, the cardinal reminded Louis that although he possessed royal authority, he was not merely an individual but an institution—accountable to God and to the world for his actions and reputation (Chapter 4). In line with his mother’s wishes, Louis married Maria Theresa of Spain in 1660.
It must be noted that monarchs—especially so-called absolute ones—rarely had the freedom to marry for love. Dynastic marriages were often fraught with biological, emotional, and political risks. As Mansel explains, European rulers typically married within a “family of kings,” often marrying cousins in order to preserve royal prestige. Ties within this “family” were so strong that rulers “wore mourning for each other as relatives even when they were at war" (Chapter 5). Such unions, however, could increase the risk of hereditary health problems, infertility, and other consequences associated with close-kin marriage (Chapter 5). In Louis and Maria Theresa’s case, five of their six children died in early childhood, though the causes of such losses were not reducible to any single factor. Louis loved his children dearly, and each loss devastated him, whatever the causes.
In 1661, a year after his wedding, Mazarin died—a blow that deeply affected the King. Mansel writes that Louis reportedly wept so uncontrollably during the Cardinal’s last rites that he had to be asked to leave the room (Chapter 5). Saying goodbye to both Marie Mancini and his beloved mentor in such quick succession were likely the first major heartbreaks of his life. And yet, in his early twenties, Louis had not yet become the hardened ruler he would later be. As Mansel writes, between the age of fourteen and thirty, “between the abjection of the Fronde and the intoxication of absolutism,” Louis was still affable and informal, with a certain Parisian charm (Chapter 4).
Now 23, Louis XIV finally took the reins of power into his own hands. To everyone’s astonishment, he announced on the day of Mazarin’s death: “I am determined henceforth to govern my state by myself.” He would allow no one—not even his mother—to challenge his authority (Chapter 6). After all the lessons in powerlessness he had received so far, and fueled by the conviction that absolute power was his destiny, Louis was ready to seize as much control as he could.
Like all of us, Louis XIV was full of contradictions. He wanted to wield the power he believed was rightfully his, but not solely for selfish ends. For twenty years, those he loved and respected had told him his duty was to strengthen France and secure the Bourbon dynasty. Believing he could best serve his country by eliminating intermediaries, he threw himself into the task of governing—often to the point of micromanagement. He did so with conviction, telling himself that he was doing good. I believe that one of the greatest contradictions in his character was that he sincerely wanted to make France powerful and admired, yet could remain unaware of his own motivations. Vanity, anxiety, and personal bias often guided his decisions more than he realized.
Louis is famously remembered as the monarch who declared, “I am the state.” But as Mansel points out, there is no record of him ever having said this in a speech or writing. It appears to be a later attribution (Chapter 4). Similarly, the image of Louis XIV as an all-powerful absolute monarch is often distorted by time and myth. These stories can obscure the complex interplay of power and powerlessness that shaped his life and reign.
Image credit: Louis XIV, c. 1655, by Charles Le Brun
Powerful/less King
Louis XIV clearly did not have absolute power as a child-king. Nor did he have it as a young man while Mazarin was still alive. But what about the phase of his reign that began in his early twenties, when he set out to govern France as best as he believed he could? From that point on and until the end of his life, Louis XIV’s decisions profoundly affected—and often harmed—numerous people inside and outside France. Still, it would be mistaken to suggest that he could simply do whatever he wanted, even as one of Europe’s most formidable monarchs.
It would also be mistaken to assume that his life was consistently easy or enjoyable, despite the beauty of his court and the entertainments of Versailles. This is not to justify the many mistakes Louis XIV made. Rather, it is to recognize that he often understood himself as acting in the service of duty, dynasty, and country—and that some of his failures were shaped by forces he did not fully understand or know how to change. His heightened sense of his own role, and his anxieties about losing authority, were reinforced by the contradictions of his position.
I present details about various aspects of Louis’s life and reign in the sections below.
1. King and His Court
To understand the relationship between Louis XIV and his court, we first need to recognize that a court was essentially an extended royal household. It included thousands of individuals—many of them nobles—who lived near the king and queen, not only to serve them but also to enjoy the power and prestige that came with proximity. Once Versailles became Louis XIV’s primary residence, his court could include between 3,000 and 10,000 people, depending on the day.
A grand and elegant court was essential for projecting royal power. But the splendor came at great financial cost. Louis XIV invested heavily in building and expanding Versailles, not only for symbolic reasons but also because such a residence had to accommodate a large number of courtiers. Though court life was shaped by strict etiquette, courtiers were not mere servants. Many were just as interested in advancing their own ambitions as in serving the monarchy. Courts were often breeding grounds for rivalry, gossip, and tension. Louis XIV, however, managed to keep his court more emotionally unified than many of his royal counterparts. As Mansel writes, “[he] made his family and court into an emotional community,” unlike the fractured and dangerous courts of the Stuarts, Hanovers, Romanovs, or his own father (Chapter 14).
Many court ceremonies had been passed down from previous reigns. Louis continued these traditions but also made adjustments that reflected his personal style. Compared to many European courts, his was unusually accessible, even though it remained strictly hierarchical. The King himself disliked excessive formality and once remarked that “if there is a singularity in this monarchy, it is the free and easy access of subjects to the monarch” (Chapter 13). This informality created a sense of disorder as well. A visitor described the court as “a real confusion of men and women,” and in 1698, another noted that one could “see, talk with and almost touch the King.” Notably, Mansel writes that, within this crowd of courtiers, the King "needed his cane not only for support, but to bar uninvited guests, or to fight to make room for the Queen and her ladies, or even for himself" "Not even Louis XIV," Mansel adds, "for all the fear and awe he inspired, was in total control" (Chapter 13).
This unusual mix of ceremonial tradition and casual accessibility was especially visible in two daily rituals: the lever (his morning rising and dressing) and the coucher (his bedtime routine). As Mansel notes (drawing on court testimony), the lever could draw close to a hundred people into the King’s room once he was dressed. In his younger years, the atmosphere had been reverent, but later courtiers spoke openly even as he prayed.
John Locke, visiting in 1678, was struck by the “noise and buzz” that filled the room (Chapter 13). In the evening, after most visitors had departed, a more intimate petit coucher followed. Mansel describes how access could extend even into moments modern readers would consider intensely private, including the king’s time on his chaise d’affaires, to which only a tiny, privileged group was admitted (Chapter 13). These individuals used the opportunity to speak with him freely or request favors. Strange as this may seem now, it reflected the lack of privacy common to royalty—and, in Louis XIV’s case, a willingness to reduce privacy still further in order to sustain visibility and proximity.
Despite his desire to control as much as possible, Louis could not oversee every detail himself, even within his court. He needed to delegate. Because of this, he placed great importance on choosing the right people for key roles. As Mansel puts it, “[t]he King regarded job allocation as one of his principal duties” (Chapter 13). Versailles, therefore, was not just a palace—it functioned like a national employment center for the nobility. Delaying appointments was one way the King could reinforce his authority while buying time to make what he hoped would be wise choices. But this also meant that courtiers were constantly vying for his attention. Each day, as he walked through the palace to attend mass, he was met with a stream of requests. On one occasion alone—June 12, 1702—over a hundred petitions were submitted, a reminder of his central role in distributing jobs and money (Chapter 13).
Courtiers, like the broader French public, held complicated feelings about the King. They admired and feared him, but also often criticized him. Louis was well aware of this. Even at the height of his success in 1672, members of his court were voicing disapproval of his ministers and decisions. By the end of his reign, his second wife Madame de Maintenon herself remarked that “freedom of speech in our court has been taken to excess”—although she too expressed doubts in private letters, including about his wars and entertainments (Chapter 13). Louis sometimes ignored criticism, but he did not always shut it out. He even welcomed to court individuals who disagreed with him.
Indeed, bringing so many bright and driven people together in one place often meant that loyalty existed side by side with opposition. Writers such as La Fontaine and La Bruyère lived partially at court but voiced sharp critiques in their work. The Duke of Saint-Simon used his years at Versailles to collect material for his famously hostile memoirs about Louis XIV. Yet even Saint-Simon, known for his cutting assessments, acknowledged the King’s grace and charm. He described Louis’s “incomparable grace and majesty,” and praised his generosity and consistently courteous manner—even noting that the King tipped his hat to women of all ranks, including maids (Chapter 14).
As Mansel observes, Louis XIV’s “warmth, charm and joie de vivre” played a real role in reinforcing the monarchy. These qualities amplified the traditional forces of power, fear, loyalty, and ambition on which kingship was built (Chapter 14).
It would also be mistaken to assume that his life was consistently easy or enjoyable, despite the beauty of his court and the entertainments of Versailles. This is not to justify the many mistakes Louis XIV made. Rather, it is to recognize that he often understood himself as acting in the service of duty, dynasty, and country—and that some of his failures were shaped by forces he did not fully understand or know how to change. His heightened sense of his own role, and his anxieties about losing authority, were reinforced by the contradictions of his position.
I present details about various aspects of Louis’s life and reign in the sections below.
1. King and His Court
To understand the relationship between Louis XIV and his court, we first need to recognize that a court was essentially an extended royal household. It included thousands of individuals—many of them nobles—who lived near the king and queen, not only to serve them but also to enjoy the power and prestige that came with proximity. Once Versailles became Louis XIV’s primary residence, his court could include between 3,000 and 10,000 people, depending on the day.
A grand and elegant court was essential for projecting royal power. But the splendor came at great financial cost. Louis XIV invested heavily in building and expanding Versailles, not only for symbolic reasons but also because such a residence had to accommodate a large number of courtiers. Though court life was shaped by strict etiquette, courtiers were not mere servants. Many were just as interested in advancing their own ambitions as in serving the monarchy. Courts were often breeding grounds for rivalry, gossip, and tension. Louis XIV, however, managed to keep his court more emotionally unified than many of his royal counterparts. As Mansel writes, “[he] made his family and court into an emotional community,” unlike the fractured and dangerous courts of the Stuarts, Hanovers, Romanovs, or his own father (Chapter 14).
Many court ceremonies had been passed down from previous reigns. Louis continued these traditions but also made adjustments that reflected his personal style. Compared to many European courts, his was unusually accessible, even though it remained strictly hierarchical. The King himself disliked excessive formality and once remarked that “if there is a singularity in this monarchy, it is the free and easy access of subjects to the monarch” (Chapter 13). This informality created a sense of disorder as well. A visitor described the court as “a real confusion of men and women,” and in 1698, another noted that one could “see, talk with and almost touch the King.” Notably, Mansel writes that, within this crowd of courtiers, the King "needed his cane not only for support, but to bar uninvited guests, or to fight to make room for the Queen and her ladies, or even for himself" "Not even Louis XIV," Mansel adds, "for all the fear and awe he inspired, was in total control" (Chapter 13).
This unusual mix of ceremonial tradition and casual accessibility was especially visible in two daily rituals: the lever (his morning rising and dressing) and the coucher (his bedtime routine). As Mansel notes (drawing on court testimony), the lever could draw close to a hundred people into the King’s room once he was dressed. In his younger years, the atmosphere had been reverent, but later courtiers spoke openly even as he prayed.
John Locke, visiting in 1678, was struck by the “noise and buzz” that filled the room (Chapter 13). In the evening, after most visitors had departed, a more intimate petit coucher followed. Mansel describes how access could extend even into moments modern readers would consider intensely private, including the king’s time on his chaise d’affaires, to which only a tiny, privileged group was admitted (Chapter 13). These individuals used the opportunity to speak with him freely or request favors. Strange as this may seem now, it reflected the lack of privacy common to royalty—and, in Louis XIV’s case, a willingness to reduce privacy still further in order to sustain visibility and proximity.
Despite his desire to control as much as possible, Louis could not oversee every detail himself, even within his court. He needed to delegate. Because of this, he placed great importance on choosing the right people for key roles. As Mansel puts it, “[t]he King regarded job allocation as one of his principal duties” (Chapter 13). Versailles, therefore, was not just a palace—it functioned like a national employment center for the nobility. Delaying appointments was one way the King could reinforce his authority while buying time to make what he hoped would be wise choices. But this also meant that courtiers were constantly vying for his attention. Each day, as he walked through the palace to attend mass, he was met with a stream of requests. On one occasion alone—June 12, 1702—over a hundred petitions were submitted, a reminder of his central role in distributing jobs and money (Chapter 13).
Courtiers, like the broader French public, held complicated feelings about the King. They admired and feared him, but also often criticized him. Louis was well aware of this. Even at the height of his success in 1672, members of his court were voicing disapproval of his ministers and decisions. By the end of his reign, his second wife Madame de Maintenon herself remarked that “freedom of speech in our court has been taken to excess”—although she too expressed doubts in private letters, including about his wars and entertainments (Chapter 13). Louis sometimes ignored criticism, but he did not always shut it out. He even welcomed to court individuals who disagreed with him.
Indeed, bringing so many bright and driven people together in one place often meant that loyalty existed side by side with opposition. Writers such as La Fontaine and La Bruyère lived partially at court but voiced sharp critiques in their work. The Duke of Saint-Simon used his years at Versailles to collect material for his famously hostile memoirs about Louis XIV. Yet even Saint-Simon, known for his cutting assessments, acknowledged the King’s grace and charm. He described Louis’s “incomparable grace and majesty,” and praised his generosity and consistently courteous manner—even noting that the King tipped his hat to women of all ranks, including maids (Chapter 14).
As Mansel observes, Louis XIV’s “warmth, charm and joie de vivre” played a real role in reinforcing the monarchy. These qualities amplified the traditional forces of power, fear, loyalty, and ambition on which kingship was built (Chapter 14).
Image credit: Louis XIV meets his Spanish bride Maria Teresa on the Island of Pheasants in 1660, a later copy painted by Jacques Laumosnier
2. Hardworking King
It’s easy to imagine Louis XIV constantly surrounded by music, fireworks, and elaborate parties. These events certainly happened—and they were as extravagant as one might expect—but they occupied only a small part of the King’s time. Much of his day was spent working, often intensely, in service of what he understood as the interests of France. “Work is the first object of His Majesty and he prefers it to everything else,” wrote Colbert. Nor was this mere flattery. Throughout his reign, Louis maintained a highly regular schedule of councils and administrative meetings. He spent hours each day with ministers and secretaries of state, convened specialized councils on a recurring rhythm, and often continued discussions late into the evening. His routine was so consistent that it was compared to monastic discipline (Chapter 7).
“Louis XIV spent as much time with his ministers as with his family, his court officials or his mistresses” (Chapter 14). His capacity for work was supported by what Mansel describes as “stupendous vitality.” In addition to participating in the formal rituals of lever, mass, public meals, and coucher, Louis often worked for six or more hours a day and still maintained a demanding schedule of outdoor activity—hunting, walking, and riding (Chapter 14).
His intense commitment to governing can be traced to the promise he made in his early twenties to rule without an all-powerful minister. But it also reflected something deeper: a fear that if he didn’t retain control, others would take it from him. There was certainly a desire for recognition—he wanted both the responsibility and the credit. But there was also sincere intellectual engagement and a desire to understand things firsthand, without relying entirely on intermediaries.
Whether he actually succeeded in governing on his own terms is a matter of debate. As Mansel notes, “Despite the King’s hard work, and his access to information from non-ministerial sources, many believed that... he could be ‘absolutely governed by his ministers.’” In this view, absolutism was more theatrical than real—a way of concealing how much influence ministers and factions actually had. Louis may have believed himself to be in charge, but some thought he was being directed by others (Chapter 14). The truth likely falls somewhere between these extremes: he was neither a puppet nor an omnipotent ruler. Louis did not have absolute power over those around him.
His obsession with control continued in times of war. During the Nine Years’ War, court memoirist Dangeau wrote in his diary, "the King is never for one moment not working.” Louis spent long hours inspecting military positions and then turned to political matters at night (Chapter 18). When he was not on campaign himself, he still tried to follow developments in great detail. After the death of his war minister Louvois, he eagerly took on more of the workload himself. Working closely with Louvois’s son Barbezieux, he dictated correspondence or wrote it out by hand. He sent numerous letters about military operations directly to commanders and administrators, bypassing the usual channels. Contemporaries sometimes felt that he was acting as if the King were war minister: he drew up campaign strategies, chose officers, and made key personnel decisions (Chapter 18).
Whether this intense involvement actually helped is doubtful. Louis’s contemporaries and later historians both criticized this style of leadership. “Louis’ critics... said that, as supreme warlord, he hampered generals’ actions in the field by micro-management from his office at Versailles” (Chapter 18). Some believed he acted less out of duty and more to prove to himself and others that he didn’t need advisors like Louvois. After one particular siege, memoirist Le Peletier wrote that the campaign had been motivated more by the King’s need for affirmation than by military logic—meant “to show all Europe that without the help of [the War Minister] M. de Louvois His Majesty on his own could execute a great design.” Louis himself seemed to agree: he later wrote that his satisfaction came from knowing the victory was “entirely his own work,” carried out by his judgment and “with his own hands” (Chapter 18).
Though this style of leadership may have begun with good intentions, it became counterproductive over time. As Mansel writes, “The King’s methods of government, and delusions about French power, would contribute to the disasters of the second half of his reign” (Chapter 14). Louis did not adjust his approach, even when results worsened. In later wars, he intensified his control. “Even more than before, generals were paralysed by micro-management from Versailles.” He stayed up late sending couriers to the front, demanding updates and offering cautious advice, often written in a rushed and anxious hand (Chapter 20).
So while Louis XIV was no idle monarch, and although part of his motivation was to bring glory to France and its people, his working style ultimately weakened the very country he aimed to strengthen. He may have believed he could rule as he wished, but understanding the real motivations behind his decisions—or grasping their full consequences—was beyond his power. His urge to control everything—from military planning to architectural design—reveals not just vanity and commitment, but also the deep anxieties of a man afraid to let go.
3. King's Image
Louis XIV viewed the political and cultural prestige of France as one of his central responsibilities. Of course, maintaining this prestige conveniently required him to elevate his own status—an idea that helped justify extravagant spending on food, clothing, residences, and lavish entertainments such as balls, hunting, and theater. After hours of work and ceremonies he often disliked, the King could attend an opulent gathering and reassure himself that such splendor served to showcase the grandeur of France both domestically and abroad. As Mansel writes, “His parties, like Versailles itself, were... intended to impress ‘all our subjects in general’ and Europe.” The Gazette de France echoed this message, claiming that these brilliant entertainments demonstrated that Louis XIV was the foremost monarch in the world. In his memoirs, Louis insisted—perhaps disingenuously—that such displays were held solely for the benefit of France, not for his own enjoyment. They made, he wrote, “a very advantageous impression” on foreigners and French citizens alike, projecting “magnificence, power, wealth and grandeur” (Chapter 13).
The impression was indeed powerful. France during Louis’s reign became a dominant force in fashion and the arts. The clothing worn at the French court was imitated by royal households across Europe—even in countries at war with France. Louis likely took pleasure in projecting these messages of luxury and influence, but sustaining the image of cultural power required constant effort and substantial resources. Money was a persistent concern.
2. Hardworking King
It’s easy to imagine Louis XIV constantly surrounded by music, fireworks, and elaborate parties. These events certainly happened—and they were as extravagant as one might expect—but they occupied only a small part of the King’s time. Much of his day was spent working, often intensely, in service of what he understood as the interests of France. “Work is the first object of His Majesty and he prefers it to everything else,” wrote Colbert. Nor was this mere flattery. Throughout his reign, Louis maintained a highly regular schedule of councils and administrative meetings. He spent hours each day with ministers and secretaries of state, convened specialized councils on a recurring rhythm, and often continued discussions late into the evening. His routine was so consistent that it was compared to monastic discipline (Chapter 7).
“Louis XIV spent as much time with his ministers as with his family, his court officials or his mistresses” (Chapter 14). His capacity for work was supported by what Mansel describes as “stupendous vitality.” In addition to participating in the formal rituals of lever, mass, public meals, and coucher, Louis often worked for six or more hours a day and still maintained a demanding schedule of outdoor activity—hunting, walking, and riding (Chapter 14).
His intense commitment to governing can be traced to the promise he made in his early twenties to rule without an all-powerful minister. But it also reflected something deeper: a fear that if he didn’t retain control, others would take it from him. There was certainly a desire for recognition—he wanted both the responsibility and the credit. But there was also sincere intellectual engagement and a desire to understand things firsthand, without relying entirely on intermediaries.
Whether he actually succeeded in governing on his own terms is a matter of debate. As Mansel notes, “Despite the King’s hard work, and his access to information from non-ministerial sources, many believed that... he could be ‘absolutely governed by his ministers.’” In this view, absolutism was more theatrical than real—a way of concealing how much influence ministers and factions actually had. Louis may have believed himself to be in charge, but some thought he was being directed by others (Chapter 14). The truth likely falls somewhere between these extremes: he was neither a puppet nor an omnipotent ruler. Louis did not have absolute power over those around him.
His obsession with control continued in times of war. During the Nine Years’ War, court memoirist Dangeau wrote in his diary, "the King is never for one moment not working.” Louis spent long hours inspecting military positions and then turned to political matters at night (Chapter 18). When he was not on campaign himself, he still tried to follow developments in great detail. After the death of his war minister Louvois, he eagerly took on more of the workload himself. Working closely with Louvois’s son Barbezieux, he dictated correspondence or wrote it out by hand. He sent numerous letters about military operations directly to commanders and administrators, bypassing the usual channels. Contemporaries sometimes felt that he was acting as if the King were war minister: he drew up campaign strategies, chose officers, and made key personnel decisions (Chapter 18).
Whether this intense involvement actually helped is doubtful. Louis’s contemporaries and later historians both criticized this style of leadership. “Louis’ critics... said that, as supreme warlord, he hampered generals’ actions in the field by micro-management from his office at Versailles” (Chapter 18). Some believed he acted less out of duty and more to prove to himself and others that he didn’t need advisors like Louvois. After one particular siege, memoirist Le Peletier wrote that the campaign had been motivated more by the King’s need for affirmation than by military logic—meant “to show all Europe that without the help of [the War Minister] M. de Louvois His Majesty on his own could execute a great design.” Louis himself seemed to agree: he later wrote that his satisfaction came from knowing the victory was “entirely his own work,” carried out by his judgment and “with his own hands” (Chapter 18).
Though this style of leadership may have begun with good intentions, it became counterproductive over time. As Mansel writes, “The King’s methods of government, and delusions about French power, would contribute to the disasters of the second half of his reign” (Chapter 14). Louis did not adjust his approach, even when results worsened. In later wars, he intensified his control. “Even more than before, generals were paralysed by micro-management from Versailles.” He stayed up late sending couriers to the front, demanding updates and offering cautious advice, often written in a rushed and anxious hand (Chapter 20).
So while Louis XIV was no idle monarch, and although part of his motivation was to bring glory to France and its people, his working style ultimately weakened the very country he aimed to strengthen. He may have believed he could rule as he wished, but understanding the real motivations behind his decisions—or grasping their full consequences—was beyond his power. His urge to control everything—from military planning to architectural design—reveals not just vanity and commitment, but also the deep anxieties of a man afraid to let go.
3. King's Image
Louis XIV viewed the political and cultural prestige of France as one of his central responsibilities. Of course, maintaining this prestige conveniently required him to elevate his own status—an idea that helped justify extravagant spending on food, clothing, residences, and lavish entertainments such as balls, hunting, and theater. After hours of work and ceremonies he often disliked, the King could attend an opulent gathering and reassure himself that such splendor served to showcase the grandeur of France both domestically and abroad. As Mansel writes, “His parties, like Versailles itself, were... intended to impress ‘all our subjects in general’ and Europe.” The Gazette de France echoed this message, claiming that these brilliant entertainments demonstrated that Louis XIV was the foremost monarch in the world. In his memoirs, Louis insisted—perhaps disingenuously—that such displays were held solely for the benefit of France, not for his own enjoyment. They made, he wrote, “a very advantageous impression” on foreigners and French citizens alike, projecting “magnificence, power, wealth and grandeur” (Chapter 13).
The impression was indeed powerful. France during Louis’s reign became a dominant force in fashion and the arts. The clothing worn at the French court was imitated by royal households across Europe—even in countries at war with France. Louis likely took pleasure in projecting these messages of luxury and influence, but sustaining the image of cultural power required constant effort and substantial resources. Money was a persistent concern.
Image credit: Versailles by Armand Khoury
Louis’s desire to affirm France’s prestige extended to his architectural and artistic supervision. At Versailles, he applied his micro-management not merely to follow courtly fashion, but to exert full control. As Mansel notes, the King “was not merely following fashion or building what he thought a king of France should build.” Unlike other rulers, he made decisions on everything from layout to decoration and personally visited the construction site (Chapter 8). In contrast to the unruly attitudes he encountered in Paris and the limits of his influence elsewhere, Versailles became a physical space where Louis could feel that he was entirely in charge.
Foreign ambassadors and travelers were deeply impressed by the grandeur of the palace, but they were not the only intended audience. The King also invited ordinary French men and women to witness the magnificence of their monarch’s residence. Thus, alongside magnificence, accessibility became another key component of Louis XIV’s image—one that also served to reinforce his power.
According to Mansel, “The public was usually allowed into the gardens and palace of Versailles ‘without distinction of sex, age or condition.’” Those stopped at the gates were typically dirty, diseased, or otherwise disruptive. Occasionally, the King requested privacy to issue orders or avoid overwhelming crowds, especially when many visitors arrived from Paris. One memoirist described this rowdy influx as “la canaille” (scoundrels) who damaged sculptures and vases. Still, Louis consistently reopened the palace to the public. Without them marveling, he might have felt, the gardens had no purpose. In 1704, he ordered that fences be removed from Versailles’s bosquets—its structured groves—so that visitors could walk freely inside (Chapter 12). In another example of detail-oriented rule, Louis even wrote his own guidebook for the gardens of Versailles, revising it several times.
This principle of accessibility extended beyond Versailles. "The public could also wander in and out of the courtyards of the Louvre and its apartments, even in the evening after dinner." When Queen Anne lay dying, Parisian workers reportedly gathered in the guard room to hear news of her condition. Outside of special events, the King’s art collections at the Louvre, the Garde-Meuble’s furniture stores, the royal library, and the Gobelins tapestry workshop could all be visited by members of the public—provided they were well dressed (Chapter 8). In this way, the court of France not only funded creative work but also made it visible to ordinary people. As with the lever and coucher ceremonies, Louis used accessibility to stay in control. For example, one Italian visitor noted that Louis allowed this access so that he could be informed by members of the public of important events and potential threats.
Yet this openness came with complications. The King’s accessibility could encourage disorder or disrespect—both reminders of his powerlessness. During certain celebrations at Versailles, crowds proved unruly. At one festivity marking the end of a war, most foreign ambassadors left early after being jostled by the public ("as they often were at the French court"). The Gardes du Corps were either unable or unwilling to maintain order. The Queen had to wait half an hour to enter the theater, and Louis himself had to ask guests to vacate their seats so the ladies could be seated (Chapter 13). At another event, Louis’s brother, Monsieur, was knocked to the ground during a scramble for food. The King was also pushed and had to use his cane to make space for others. Still, these events had symbolic impact. As the Venetian ambassador noted, even amid the chaos, one could see the unmatched glory of France and how poor other nations’ imitations seemed by comparison (Chapter 18).
Louis also sought to appear as a forward-thinking monarch. Although he disliked Paris, he spent significant resources modernizing it for the benefit of its citizens. According to Mansel, he helped make Paris one of Europe’s most advanced cities—with organized postal routes, clean streets, and expanded public transportation. Public carriages were introduced in 1662. From the late 1660s into the 1670s, Paris’s obsolete ramparts (city walls) were reshaped into the tree-lined boulevards that became the Grands Boulevards. One English visitor praised the city’s cleanliness, order, and lack of beggars. In 1667, Louis introduced public lighting—one of the earliest in a major European capital. By the late seventeenth century, the system of street lights had expanded into the thousands.
Alongside Colbert, Louis also promoted institutions and spaces that concentrated artistic production and royal collections in Paris, helping set conditions that later enabled the Louvre to become a public museum in 1793 (Chapter 8).
The King’s obsession with his image had a cost. For example, in 1684, he announced a massive engineering project to divert the River Eure to improve water flow to Versailles’s fountains. The project drew tens of thousands of workers, including soldiers, and contemporary accounts and later estimates describe mass illness and very high mortality (often attributed to malaria), with figures varying widely across sources.
Military engineer Vauban was horrified, writing in 1685 that Louis, in seeking to rival the feats of the Roman Empire while ruling only a fraction of its territory, would be judged harshly by history. As with the original construction of Versailles—on an impractical site—the difficulty of the task seems to have made it more appealing to the King. He wanted to project omnipotence (Chapter 12). In the years that followed, more lives would be sacrificed in the pursuit of what he hoped would be enduring glory.
Louis was so committed to shaping his image that he seemed unaware of how much that image had begun to shape him. The enduring view of Louis XIV as a ruler with absolute power is not only a product of his self-presentation but also of others’ perceptions. Flattery was widespread—not only from fear but from calculation. Many subjects praised his supposed omnipotence in hopes of gaining favors. Louis welcomed this adoration because it reinforced the belief that he had fulfilled the destiny laid out by his mother. For a man who often lacked control over the court, the state, or even his personal life, the image of the all-powerful monarch was comforting. Over time, he became dependent on such praise. This dependency changed him, making it easier to rationalize the cruelty of some decisions in the later years of his reign.
“By 1680, in his own eyes, Louis XIV was master of France and arbiter of Europe.” Colbert, likely overstating royal control, wrote that “everything reflects total submission,” and that the authority of the Parlement had been reduced to a mere shadow. Colbert even claimed that “the misery and distress of the peoples” served royal power by allowing the King to restrain “this proud and inconstant nation” through hardship (this phrasing was likely meant to justify the King's mistakes and obscure the limits of his power). Versailles was praised as the marvel of the age. Royal academies praised the monarchy and celebrated the King’s patronage, administration, and leadership. But behind this acclaim were serious faults. As a young man, Louis had been viewed as unusually kind and gracious. By age forty, that version of him had disappeared. According to Mansel, a new personality had taken hold—one marked by narcissism, insensitivity, poor judgment, and a growing inability to anticipate consequences (Chapter 14).
Louis XIV was a celebrity of his time, and as often happens with celebrities, he was surrounded by misunderstanding. His presence made people feel special, but when he wasn’t around, they gossiped about him. Upon his death, many mourned—but many also rejoiced—choosing to ignore his suffering. People admired the King without truly understanding him as a person. They projected onto him their own hopes and frustrations. During the long wars that drained France’s finances and provoked widespread hatred abroad, many French citizens were rightly outraged by the burden of taxation. Yet others still took pride in France’s victories, and some even wanted Louis to reject peace and keep fighting for national glory.
In the end, both Louis XIV and his subjects were caught in the illusions surrounding absolute monarchy. Ironically, his efforts to project France’s greatness often undermined its reputation. The very actions intended to secure glory—especially war and the persecution of Protestants (discussed in the following sections)—helped turn him into one of the most reviled monarchs of his time.
Louis’s desire to affirm France’s prestige extended to his architectural and artistic supervision. At Versailles, he applied his micro-management not merely to follow courtly fashion, but to exert full control. As Mansel notes, the King “was not merely following fashion or building what he thought a king of France should build.” Unlike other rulers, he made decisions on everything from layout to decoration and personally visited the construction site (Chapter 8). In contrast to the unruly attitudes he encountered in Paris and the limits of his influence elsewhere, Versailles became a physical space where Louis could feel that he was entirely in charge.
Foreign ambassadors and travelers were deeply impressed by the grandeur of the palace, but they were not the only intended audience. The King also invited ordinary French men and women to witness the magnificence of their monarch’s residence. Thus, alongside magnificence, accessibility became another key component of Louis XIV’s image—one that also served to reinforce his power.
According to Mansel, “The public was usually allowed into the gardens and palace of Versailles ‘without distinction of sex, age or condition.’” Those stopped at the gates were typically dirty, diseased, or otherwise disruptive. Occasionally, the King requested privacy to issue orders or avoid overwhelming crowds, especially when many visitors arrived from Paris. One memoirist described this rowdy influx as “la canaille” (scoundrels) who damaged sculptures and vases. Still, Louis consistently reopened the palace to the public. Without them marveling, he might have felt, the gardens had no purpose. In 1704, he ordered that fences be removed from Versailles’s bosquets—its structured groves—so that visitors could walk freely inside (Chapter 12). In another example of detail-oriented rule, Louis even wrote his own guidebook for the gardens of Versailles, revising it several times.
This principle of accessibility extended beyond Versailles. "The public could also wander in and out of the courtyards of the Louvre and its apartments, even in the evening after dinner." When Queen Anne lay dying, Parisian workers reportedly gathered in the guard room to hear news of her condition. Outside of special events, the King’s art collections at the Louvre, the Garde-Meuble’s furniture stores, the royal library, and the Gobelins tapestry workshop could all be visited by members of the public—provided they were well dressed (Chapter 8). In this way, the court of France not only funded creative work but also made it visible to ordinary people. As with the lever and coucher ceremonies, Louis used accessibility to stay in control. For example, one Italian visitor noted that Louis allowed this access so that he could be informed by members of the public of important events and potential threats.
Yet this openness came with complications. The King’s accessibility could encourage disorder or disrespect—both reminders of his powerlessness. During certain celebrations at Versailles, crowds proved unruly. At one festivity marking the end of a war, most foreign ambassadors left early after being jostled by the public ("as they often were at the French court"). The Gardes du Corps were either unable or unwilling to maintain order. The Queen had to wait half an hour to enter the theater, and Louis himself had to ask guests to vacate their seats so the ladies could be seated (Chapter 13). At another event, Louis’s brother, Monsieur, was knocked to the ground during a scramble for food. The King was also pushed and had to use his cane to make space for others. Still, these events had symbolic impact. As the Venetian ambassador noted, even amid the chaos, one could see the unmatched glory of France and how poor other nations’ imitations seemed by comparison (Chapter 18).
Louis also sought to appear as a forward-thinking monarch. Although he disliked Paris, he spent significant resources modernizing it for the benefit of its citizens. According to Mansel, he helped make Paris one of Europe’s most advanced cities—with organized postal routes, clean streets, and expanded public transportation. Public carriages were introduced in 1662. From the late 1660s into the 1670s, Paris’s obsolete ramparts (city walls) were reshaped into the tree-lined boulevards that became the Grands Boulevards. One English visitor praised the city’s cleanliness, order, and lack of beggars. In 1667, Louis introduced public lighting—one of the earliest in a major European capital. By the late seventeenth century, the system of street lights had expanded into the thousands.
Alongside Colbert, Louis also promoted institutions and spaces that concentrated artistic production and royal collections in Paris, helping set conditions that later enabled the Louvre to become a public museum in 1793 (Chapter 8).
The King’s obsession with his image had a cost. For example, in 1684, he announced a massive engineering project to divert the River Eure to improve water flow to Versailles’s fountains. The project drew tens of thousands of workers, including soldiers, and contemporary accounts and later estimates describe mass illness and very high mortality (often attributed to malaria), with figures varying widely across sources.
Military engineer Vauban was horrified, writing in 1685 that Louis, in seeking to rival the feats of the Roman Empire while ruling only a fraction of its territory, would be judged harshly by history. As with the original construction of Versailles—on an impractical site—the difficulty of the task seems to have made it more appealing to the King. He wanted to project omnipotence (Chapter 12). In the years that followed, more lives would be sacrificed in the pursuit of what he hoped would be enduring glory.
Louis was so committed to shaping his image that he seemed unaware of how much that image had begun to shape him. The enduring view of Louis XIV as a ruler with absolute power is not only a product of his self-presentation but also of others’ perceptions. Flattery was widespread—not only from fear but from calculation. Many subjects praised his supposed omnipotence in hopes of gaining favors. Louis welcomed this adoration because it reinforced the belief that he had fulfilled the destiny laid out by his mother. For a man who often lacked control over the court, the state, or even his personal life, the image of the all-powerful monarch was comforting. Over time, he became dependent on such praise. This dependency changed him, making it easier to rationalize the cruelty of some decisions in the later years of his reign.
“By 1680, in his own eyes, Louis XIV was master of France and arbiter of Europe.” Colbert, likely overstating royal control, wrote that “everything reflects total submission,” and that the authority of the Parlement had been reduced to a mere shadow. Colbert even claimed that “the misery and distress of the peoples” served royal power by allowing the King to restrain “this proud and inconstant nation” through hardship (this phrasing was likely meant to justify the King's mistakes and obscure the limits of his power). Versailles was praised as the marvel of the age. Royal academies praised the monarchy and celebrated the King’s patronage, administration, and leadership. But behind this acclaim were serious faults. As a young man, Louis had been viewed as unusually kind and gracious. By age forty, that version of him had disappeared. According to Mansel, a new personality had taken hold—one marked by narcissism, insensitivity, poor judgment, and a growing inability to anticipate consequences (Chapter 14).
Louis XIV was a celebrity of his time, and as often happens with celebrities, he was surrounded by misunderstanding. His presence made people feel special, but when he wasn’t around, they gossiped about him. Upon his death, many mourned—but many also rejoiced—choosing to ignore his suffering. People admired the King without truly understanding him as a person. They projected onto him their own hopes and frustrations. During the long wars that drained France’s finances and provoked widespread hatred abroad, many French citizens were rightly outraged by the burden of taxation. Yet others still took pride in France’s victories, and some even wanted Louis to reject peace and keep fighting for national glory.
In the end, both Louis XIV and his subjects were caught in the illusions surrounding absolute monarchy. Ironically, his efforts to project France’s greatness often undermined its reputation. The very actions intended to secure glory—especially war and the persecution of Protestants (discussed in the following sections)—helped turn him into one of the most reviled monarchs of his time.
Image credit: Louis d’or of Louis XIV (1709), National Museum of American History
4. King and Money
Louis XIV inherited a monarchy in acute fiscal distress—heavily indebted, reliant on expedients, and constrained by a fragmented tax system. His mentor Mazarin, who effectively governed France for nearly two decades, contributed to this financial crisis. Like the King himself, Mazarin defies simple classification as hero or villain. He amassed one of the largest fortunes in Europe, diverting vast sums for personal enrichment. At the same time, he delivered important diplomatic and military victories that strengthened France’s position on the continent. As Mansel writes, “Mazarin left France the leading power in Europe, but his accumulation of a vast personal gold reserve, as well as jewels and other treasures, had exacerbated France’s financial problems” (Chapter 5).
Louis XIV, though deeply loyal to Mazarin, was also aware of his mentor’s shortcomings. Some might argue that Louis’s decision to govern without intermediaries—a declaration made shortly after Mazarin’s death—was shaped by what he had observed of the Cardinal’s greed. Free of Mazarin’s influence, the King began his personal rule with a program of administrative and financial reform. As Mansel notes, “Mastering institutional and individual opposition, Louis XIV was able to devote himself to an ambitious reform programme to galvanize the economy and modernize the monarchy” (Chapter 7).
One of the King’s first major actions was to remove Nicolas Fouquet, the Superintendent of Finances. Fouquet’s ambition and corruption mirrored Mazarin’s, but he was seen as more dangerous due to his overt self-promotion and growing independence. Louis treated him with extraordinary severity. Fouquet lost his position and wealth, and was condemned to solitary confinement. “The former Surintendant des Finances was condemned to solitary confinement in the castle of Pignerol in the Alps. He was not at first permitted to take exercise. Only in 1674, after thirteen years, was he allowed to exchange two letters a year with his wife. She and his family were not allowed to visit him until a year before he died. Louis XIV had shown a streak of cruelty, hitherto unsuspected, from which many thousands more, inside and outside France, would suffer in the future” (Chapter 6).
After Fouquet’s fall, Jean-Baptiste Colbert rose to prominence as the crown’s leading financial and administrative minister (not a “first minister” in the Richelieu–Mazarin sense), shaping policy through a portfolio of powerful offices. He played a key role in advancing trade and strengthening royal authority. Yet even Colbert’s financial practices were not free from the same kinds of abuses that had characterized his predecessors. This contradiction reveals a persistent problem: despite his efforts, Louis XIV repeatedly failed to surround himself with people who could strengthen France without simultaneously weakening it in other ways.
One of the King’s ongoing struggles was creating an effective system for collecting taxes. A familiar image of a greedy monarch taxing the poor while living in luxury contains some truth—but without context, it’s incomplete. The poor did bear the heaviest tax burden, but this was less the result of direct royal design than of a fragmented and corrupt fiscal structure. When collected, direct taxes passed through multiple layers of officials before reaching the royal treasury, and much of the original amount disappeared along the way. Indirect taxes were administered by “tax farmers,” private agents who often embezzled funds. Consequently, the state received only a portion of the revenue it was due. During Fouquet’s tenure, for example, “the King was receiving only 35 or 40 per cent of the value of French taxes” (Chapter 6).
It is valid to criticize the injustice of a system that placed so much pressure on the poor. Why, one might ask, did Louis XIV not impose greater taxes on the wealthy? The answer lies in the privilege structure of the ancien régime and the political bargains that sustained it: much of the nobility was protected from key direct taxes—most notably the taille—while the crown relied heavily on indirect taxes, office sales, and negotiated contributions that preserved elite support. Having lived through the Fronde, Louis understood how fragile royal power could be when challenged by aristocratic resistance.
Only under the pressure of mounting war costs did Louis introduce “universal” direct taxes meant to reach privileged orders too—most notably the capitation (1695) and the dixième (1710)—though exemptions and negotiated arrangements blunted their reach.
Unsurprisingly, the tax system failed to meet the expanding needs of the state, especially the spiraling costs of war. To fill the gap, the monarchy turned to other sources of income. One approach was to sell offices and titles, which only deepened the inefficiencies of the system. Another was to borrow from bankers—often at ruinous rates. As Mansel recounts, “The government avoided bankruptcy by short-term borrowing at disastrous interest rates (far higher than those paid by its enemies) and creating more offices to sell. By 1708 government debt would reach 2 billion livres and servicing it would absorb over 50 per cent of government expenditure: 470 of 756 million livres” (Chapter 20). At its worst, “revenues were spent four years in advance, and the government was borrowing at 16 per cent interest or more” (Chapter 24).
The opulence of Versailles, while real, obscured the financial instability that haunted the monarchy throughout Louis’s reign. As Mansel summarizes: “Louis’ reign was a glorious façade, masking the continued power of financiers and beginning and ending in semi-bankruptcy” (Chapter 24). One could reasonably argue that Louis should have made more modest choices—whether in palace construction, military campaigns, or court entertainments. Yet those choices were shaped not only by personal taste but also by the weight of expectations tied to his role. As King, he was expected to uphold France’s political dominance, cultural prestige, and the majestic image of the monarchy. It is likely that his life had not prepared him to navigate those expectations in a way we might now view as more responsible or less self-indulgent.
4. King and Money
Louis XIV inherited a monarchy in acute fiscal distress—heavily indebted, reliant on expedients, and constrained by a fragmented tax system. His mentor Mazarin, who effectively governed France for nearly two decades, contributed to this financial crisis. Like the King himself, Mazarin defies simple classification as hero or villain. He amassed one of the largest fortunes in Europe, diverting vast sums for personal enrichment. At the same time, he delivered important diplomatic and military victories that strengthened France’s position on the continent. As Mansel writes, “Mazarin left France the leading power in Europe, but his accumulation of a vast personal gold reserve, as well as jewels and other treasures, had exacerbated France’s financial problems” (Chapter 5).
Louis XIV, though deeply loyal to Mazarin, was also aware of his mentor’s shortcomings. Some might argue that Louis’s decision to govern without intermediaries—a declaration made shortly after Mazarin’s death—was shaped by what he had observed of the Cardinal’s greed. Free of Mazarin’s influence, the King began his personal rule with a program of administrative and financial reform. As Mansel notes, “Mastering institutional and individual opposition, Louis XIV was able to devote himself to an ambitious reform programme to galvanize the economy and modernize the monarchy” (Chapter 7).
One of the King’s first major actions was to remove Nicolas Fouquet, the Superintendent of Finances. Fouquet’s ambition and corruption mirrored Mazarin’s, but he was seen as more dangerous due to his overt self-promotion and growing independence. Louis treated him with extraordinary severity. Fouquet lost his position and wealth, and was condemned to solitary confinement. “The former Surintendant des Finances was condemned to solitary confinement in the castle of Pignerol in the Alps. He was not at first permitted to take exercise. Only in 1674, after thirteen years, was he allowed to exchange two letters a year with his wife. She and his family were not allowed to visit him until a year before he died. Louis XIV had shown a streak of cruelty, hitherto unsuspected, from which many thousands more, inside and outside France, would suffer in the future” (Chapter 6).
After Fouquet’s fall, Jean-Baptiste Colbert rose to prominence as the crown’s leading financial and administrative minister (not a “first minister” in the Richelieu–Mazarin sense), shaping policy through a portfolio of powerful offices. He played a key role in advancing trade and strengthening royal authority. Yet even Colbert’s financial practices were not free from the same kinds of abuses that had characterized his predecessors. This contradiction reveals a persistent problem: despite his efforts, Louis XIV repeatedly failed to surround himself with people who could strengthen France without simultaneously weakening it in other ways.
One of the King’s ongoing struggles was creating an effective system for collecting taxes. A familiar image of a greedy monarch taxing the poor while living in luxury contains some truth—but without context, it’s incomplete. The poor did bear the heaviest tax burden, but this was less the result of direct royal design than of a fragmented and corrupt fiscal structure. When collected, direct taxes passed through multiple layers of officials before reaching the royal treasury, and much of the original amount disappeared along the way. Indirect taxes were administered by “tax farmers,” private agents who often embezzled funds. Consequently, the state received only a portion of the revenue it was due. During Fouquet’s tenure, for example, “the King was receiving only 35 or 40 per cent of the value of French taxes” (Chapter 6).
It is valid to criticize the injustice of a system that placed so much pressure on the poor. Why, one might ask, did Louis XIV not impose greater taxes on the wealthy? The answer lies in the privilege structure of the ancien régime and the political bargains that sustained it: much of the nobility was protected from key direct taxes—most notably the taille—while the crown relied heavily on indirect taxes, office sales, and negotiated contributions that preserved elite support. Having lived through the Fronde, Louis understood how fragile royal power could be when challenged by aristocratic resistance.
Only under the pressure of mounting war costs did Louis introduce “universal” direct taxes meant to reach privileged orders too—most notably the capitation (1695) and the dixième (1710)—though exemptions and negotiated arrangements blunted their reach.
Unsurprisingly, the tax system failed to meet the expanding needs of the state, especially the spiraling costs of war. To fill the gap, the monarchy turned to other sources of income. One approach was to sell offices and titles, which only deepened the inefficiencies of the system. Another was to borrow from bankers—often at ruinous rates. As Mansel recounts, “The government avoided bankruptcy by short-term borrowing at disastrous interest rates (far higher than those paid by its enemies) and creating more offices to sell. By 1708 government debt would reach 2 billion livres and servicing it would absorb over 50 per cent of government expenditure: 470 of 756 million livres” (Chapter 20). At its worst, “revenues were spent four years in advance, and the government was borrowing at 16 per cent interest or more” (Chapter 24).
The opulence of Versailles, while real, obscured the financial instability that haunted the monarchy throughout Louis’s reign. As Mansel summarizes: “Louis’ reign was a glorious façade, masking the continued power of financiers and beginning and ending in semi-bankruptcy” (Chapter 24). One could reasonably argue that Louis should have made more modest choices—whether in palace construction, military campaigns, or court entertainments. Yet those choices were shaped not only by personal taste but also by the weight of expectations tied to his role. As King, he was expected to uphold France’s political dominance, cultural prestige, and the majestic image of the monarchy. It is likely that his life had not prepared him to navigate those expectations in a way we might now view as more responsible or less self-indulgent.
Image: Louis XIV crosses the Rhine at Lobith, June 12, 1672, by Adam Frans van der Meulen.
5. King at War
Among the most consequential—and destructive—choices of Louis XIV’s reign were his repeated wars and his treatment of Protestants. Notably, both mistakes occurred in the second half of his reign, when his biases and anxieties had begun to overwhelm him. They also reflect Louis’s delusions of absolute power: he believed he could control outcomes that ultimately proved beyond his reach. Let us begin with his military pursuits.
As part of his broader project to strengthen the country, Louis pushed major military reforms. From 1662 onward, he worked closely with François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, Secretary of State for War, as the French army became more centralized, disciplined, and professional. “One of Louis’ long-term ambitions,” in addition to expanding and modernizing France and becoming the arbiter of Europe, “was to win France a global empire” (Chapter 6). With his reformed army, he felt ready to pursue this vision.
Unfortunately, Louis did not view war as something to be avoided, but rather as an opportunity to glorify both France and himself. Arrogance and vanity—traits that grew more pronounced with age—shaped many of his military choices. His upbringing also played a role. For children raised in royal and noble households, war was celebrated.
From early childhood, Louis was taught that he was destined to be a great warrior and commander. “From the age of five he drilled a troop of enfants d’honneur... ‘pike in hand and beating drums,’” recalled Henri de Brienne. A miniature fort built in 1650 “would start the passion for siege warfare which would mark the King’s entire reign” (Chapter 3).
During his personal rule, France fought three major wars and two shorter conflicts—often summarized as the War of Devolution and the War of the Reunions, alongside the larger continental wars that followed. Altogether, the country “was at war for thirty-three of the fifty-four years of his personal rule after 1661,” with military spending consuming over half the national budget—and more than 80 percent in wartime (Chapter 18). As in other parts of his life, Louis’s military policies reveal a mix of power and powerlessness. He was able to launch wars and achieve victories. At the height of his reign, France had the largest population in Europe and exerted outsized influence in court culture, fashion, and the arts. But the golden age didn’t last. Over time, France’s international standing declined, and the population endured deepening hardship, including major subsistence crises and famines—most famously in 1693–94 and again in 1709. Louis’s strategies backfired. “Even at its height... Louis XIV’s influence had limits. He never enjoyed hegemony in Europe” (Chapter 5). Far from achieving total dominance, the King’s carefully calculated military plans ultimately turned into national and international catastrophes.
Almost to the end of his life, Louis remained consumed by military ambition and grandiose illusions. As his reorganized army succeeded in expanding French territory, the praise he received within France seemed to confirm that he was on the right path. He interpreted admiration from his subjects as evidence that he was fulfilling the image of the absolute monarch he believed he had to embody. The fact that France’s international reputation was deteriorating did not seem to concern him. “For the King and many of his subjects, the number of his enemies revealed his strength,” rather than his unpopularity or lack of diplomatic skill (Chapter 18).
Many of his military decisions likely stemmed not only from ambition but also from anxiety—a deep-seated fear of failing to live up to the royal image he had internalized. In this interpretation, Louis may have chosen to focus on praise while disregarding criticism, because acknowledging his detractors would have meant questioning his own status as a successful and rightful monarch. “Desire to win praise, and to outshine both his rivals and his ministers,” was as important to him as territorial gains. He preferred sieges over battles, because they were more predictable, yet equally glorious in his eyes—a safer way to secure admiration. “The King’s need for admiration was well known” (Chapter 14).
In his fixation on control and glory, Louis listened to advisors like Louvois, who pushed for aggressive campaigns and harsh tactics designed to intimidate. He ignored warnings from generals critical of these brutal methods and from diplomats alarmed by the tone of France’s declarations. Earlier in life, Louis had been known as a gentle young man who considered mercy “the most royal of all the virtues.” But “by 1672, he had changed.” French troops, acting on Louvois’s orders, carried out terror campaigns in the Dutch countryside, looting and executing civilians. “I dare not tell you what excesses pillaging has reached,” wrote Maréchal de Luxembourg. Though some soldiers were punished, the policy continued in following years. Louvois ordered entire villages burned to coerce the population into paying “contributions” (Chapter 10). Louis XIV did nothing to stop him.
The King had the power to act, even against the judgment of many contemporaries. But he was powerless to see that his actions were destroying his own legacy and the status of the nation he had tried to elevate. The King chose "brutal methods which repeatedly led precisely to the result he was seeking to avert,” wrote historian Herbert Rowen (quoted by Mansel). Even general Condé, known for his own ruthlessness, warned Louis of the “cruel aversion we have attracted to ourselves.” The Marquis de La Fare lamented that France had lost “the domination of Europe” and gained only hatred in return (Chapter 10). In the end, fear and hatred of France—caused by Louis’s military and political choices—led to alliances that brought the country to financial ruin.
At the start of his reign, war had seemed exciting—perhaps because of youthful inexperience. In Louis’s imagination, it was like the game of war he had played as a child, waving a miniature sword and always winning. Later, military victories boosted his self-confidence, but defeats brought pain and frustration. In his final decades—especially during the Nine Years’ War (1688–1697) and the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714)—the limits of French power became harder to ignore. Although these wars initially showed France’s might, they also revealed Louis’s inability to fully control what he had set in motion.
Louis’s decisions during the Nine Years’ War were shaped in part by France’s long-standing strategic relationship with the Ottoman Empire and by the wider balance of power in Central Europe. Most other European powers had already been alienated by his behavior. According to Mansel, “the Ottoman government... blackmailed Louis,” threatening to abandon its fight against Austria unless he launched a war in Europe. In response, Louis agreed to move his troops toward the Rhine and Italy (Chapter 17). This marked the start of a war that further damaged France’s reputation. Though it brought some territorial gains, it deepened the country’s economic crisis. “Louis XIV’s army had become a machine for destruction” (Chapter 18), one he could no longer fully control.
At one point, “Louis urged, without success, that Catholic churches be spared.” But he could not rein in the violence. From Düsseldorf to Freiburg, “cities, villages and farms... were burnt or blown up,” with civilians expelled and resources seized (Chapter 18). Even French generals were disturbed. They warned the King and Louvois about the “terrible feelings of aversion” growing across Europe. But the warnings were ignored—or perhaps unheard. Ironically, Louis’s actions benefited the Ottoman Empire more than France. The King and Louvois had failed to secure a buffer zone in the Rhineland, but their campaign helped protect the Ottomans by distracting Imperial forces (Chapter 18).
What had once seemed like smart military strategies proved disastrous. “The ‘wasting’ of the Rhineland,” following the persecution of the Huguenots (to be discussed in the next section), cemented Louis’s image as a “new Attila” (Chapter 18). European unity against France deepened, and former allies joined the growing anti-French coalition that would play a major role in the War of the Spanish Succession--the War of the Spanish Succession—the last major war of Louis’s reign, concluded through the 1713–1714 peace settlements, a year before his death in 1715.
His enemies could rejoice. Toward the end of the conflict, the Sun King wanted peace, but he was trapped by his own choices. The Allies demanded that France help force Philip V—Louis’s grandson—off the Spanish throne as a condition of peace, a demand that effectively asked Louis to turn against his own dynasty. The only alternative was to continue a war that had devastated France and left its once-mighty army crumbling from poverty and corruption. In the end, the demand was dropped largely because of shifts within the coalition—especially British politics and changing allied priorities—rather than because Louis had found a clean strategic escape. But his country and his reputation lay in ruins. “Many were reluctant to support official peace celebrations... It was a peace which dishonoured ‘the king and the whole nation’. Europe had beaten France” (Chapter 18). Once again, absolute power proved unreachable.
One may doubt deathbed confessions made in the hope of divine forgiveness. Still, it is worth noting what Louis said to his five-year-old great-grandson just before he died: “Do not imitate me in my wars; try always to maintain peace with your neighbours, to relieve your people... which I have had the misfortune to be unable to do, due to necessities of State” (Chapter 23). It seems the Sun King was finally acknowledging his powerlessness. But even if his words were sincere, they came too late—for him and for the monarchy he had tried so hard to preserve.
5. King at War
Among the most consequential—and destructive—choices of Louis XIV’s reign were his repeated wars and his treatment of Protestants. Notably, both mistakes occurred in the second half of his reign, when his biases and anxieties had begun to overwhelm him. They also reflect Louis’s delusions of absolute power: he believed he could control outcomes that ultimately proved beyond his reach. Let us begin with his military pursuits.
As part of his broader project to strengthen the country, Louis pushed major military reforms. From 1662 onward, he worked closely with François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, Secretary of State for War, as the French army became more centralized, disciplined, and professional. “One of Louis’ long-term ambitions,” in addition to expanding and modernizing France and becoming the arbiter of Europe, “was to win France a global empire” (Chapter 6). With his reformed army, he felt ready to pursue this vision.
Unfortunately, Louis did not view war as something to be avoided, but rather as an opportunity to glorify both France and himself. Arrogance and vanity—traits that grew more pronounced with age—shaped many of his military choices. His upbringing also played a role. For children raised in royal and noble households, war was celebrated.
From early childhood, Louis was taught that he was destined to be a great warrior and commander. “From the age of five he drilled a troop of enfants d’honneur... ‘pike in hand and beating drums,’” recalled Henri de Brienne. A miniature fort built in 1650 “would start the passion for siege warfare which would mark the King’s entire reign” (Chapter 3).
During his personal rule, France fought three major wars and two shorter conflicts—often summarized as the War of Devolution and the War of the Reunions, alongside the larger continental wars that followed. Altogether, the country “was at war for thirty-three of the fifty-four years of his personal rule after 1661,” with military spending consuming over half the national budget—and more than 80 percent in wartime (Chapter 18). As in other parts of his life, Louis’s military policies reveal a mix of power and powerlessness. He was able to launch wars and achieve victories. At the height of his reign, France had the largest population in Europe and exerted outsized influence in court culture, fashion, and the arts. But the golden age didn’t last. Over time, France’s international standing declined, and the population endured deepening hardship, including major subsistence crises and famines—most famously in 1693–94 and again in 1709. Louis’s strategies backfired. “Even at its height... Louis XIV’s influence had limits. He never enjoyed hegemony in Europe” (Chapter 5). Far from achieving total dominance, the King’s carefully calculated military plans ultimately turned into national and international catastrophes.
Almost to the end of his life, Louis remained consumed by military ambition and grandiose illusions. As his reorganized army succeeded in expanding French territory, the praise he received within France seemed to confirm that he was on the right path. He interpreted admiration from his subjects as evidence that he was fulfilling the image of the absolute monarch he believed he had to embody. The fact that France’s international reputation was deteriorating did not seem to concern him. “For the King and many of his subjects, the number of his enemies revealed his strength,” rather than his unpopularity or lack of diplomatic skill (Chapter 18).
Many of his military decisions likely stemmed not only from ambition but also from anxiety—a deep-seated fear of failing to live up to the royal image he had internalized. In this interpretation, Louis may have chosen to focus on praise while disregarding criticism, because acknowledging his detractors would have meant questioning his own status as a successful and rightful monarch. “Desire to win praise, and to outshine both his rivals and his ministers,” was as important to him as territorial gains. He preferred sieges over battles, because they were more predictable, yet equally glorious in his eyes—a safer way to secure admiration. “The King’s need for admiration was well known” (Chapter 14).
In his fixation on control and glory, Louis listened to advisors like Louvois, who pushed for aggressive campaigns and harsh tactics designed to intimidate. He ignored warnings from generals critical of these brutal methods and from diplomats alarmed by the tone of France’s declarations. Earlier in life, Louis had been known as a gentle young man who considered mercy “the most royal of all the virtues.” But “by 1672, he had changed.” French troops, acting on Louvois’s orders, carried out terror campaigns in the Dutch countryside, looting and executing civilians. “I dare not tell you what excesses pillaging has reached,” wrote Maréchal de Luxembourg. Though some soldiers were punished, the policy continued in following years. Louvois ordered entire villages burned to coerce the population into paying “contributions” (Chapter 10). Louis XIV did nothing to stop him.
The King had the power to act, even against the judgment of many contemporaries. But he was powerless to see that his actions were destroying his own legacy and the status of the nation he had tried to elevate. The King chose "brutal methods which repeatedly led precisely to the result he was seeking to avert,” wrote historian Herbert Rowen (quoted by Mansel). Even general Condé, known for his own ruthlessness, warned Louis of the “cruel aversion we have attracted to ourselves.” The Marquis de La Fare lamented that France had lost “the domination of Europe” and gained only hatred in return (Chapter 10). In the end, fear and hatred of France—caused by Louis’s military and political choices—led to alliances that brought the country to financial ruin.
At the start of his reign, war had seemed exciting—perhaps because of youthful inexperience. In Louis’s imagination, it was like the game of war he had played as a child, waving a miniature sword and always winning. Later, military victories boosted his self-confidence, but defeats brought pain and frustration. In his final decades—especially during the Nine Years’ War (1688–1697) and the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714)—the limits of French power became harder to ignore. Although these wars initially showed France’s might, they also revealed Louis’s inability to fully control what he had set in motion.
Louis’s decisions during the Nine Years’ War were shaped in part by France’s long-standing strategic relationship with the Ottoman Empire and by the wider balance of power in Central Europe. Most other European powers had already been alienated by his behavior. According to Mansel, “the Ottoman government... blackmailed Louis,” threatening to abandon its fight against Austria unless he launched a war in Europe. In response, Louis agreed to move his troops toward the Rhine and Italy (Chapter 17). This marked the start of a war that further damaged France’s reputation. Though it brought some territorial gains, it deepened the country’s economic crisis. “Louis XIV’s army had become a machine for destruction” (Chapter 18), one he could no longer fully control.
At one point, “Louis urged, without success, that Catholic churches be spared.” But he could not rein in the violence. From Düsseldorf to Freiburg, “cities, villages and farms... were burnt or blown up,” with civilians expelled and resources seized (Chapter 18). Even French generals were disturbed. They warned the King and Louvois about the “terrible feelings of aversion” growing across Europe. But the warnings were ignored—or perhaps unheard. Ironically, Louis’s actions benefited the Ottoman Empire more than France. The King and Louvois had failed to secure a buffer zone in the Rhineland, but their campaign helped protect the Ottomans by distracting Imperial forces (Chapter 18).
What had once seemed like smart military strategies proved disastrous. “The ‘wasting’ of the Rhineland,” following the persecution of the Huguenots (to be discussed in the next section), cemented Louis’s image as a “new Attila” (Chapter 18). European unity against France deepened, and former allies joined the growing anti-French coalition that would play a major role in the War of the Spanish Succession--the War of the Spanish Succession—the last major war of Louis’s reign, concluded through the 1713–1714 peace settlements, a year before his death in 1715.
His enemies could rejoice. Toward the end of the conflict, the Sun King wanted peace, but he was trapped by his own choices. The Allies demanded that France help force Philip V—Louis’s grandson—off the Spanish throne as a condition of peace, a demand that effectively asked Louis to turn against his own dynasty. The only alternative was to continue a war that had devastated France and left its once-mighty army crumbling from poverty and corruption. In the end, the demand was dropped largely because of shifts within the coalition—especially British politics and changing allied priorities—rather than because Louis had found a clean strategic escape. But his country and his reputation lay in ruins. “Many were reluctant to support official peace celebrations... It was a peace which dishonoured ‘the king and the whole nation’. Europe had beaten France” (Chapter 18). Once again, absolute power proved unreachable.
One may doubt deathbed confessions made in the hope of divine forgiveness. Still, it is worth noting what Louis said to his five-year-old great-grandson just before he died: “Do not imitate me in my wars; try always to maintain peace with your neighbours, to relieve your people... which I have had the misfortune to be unable to do, due to necessities of State” (Chapter 23). It seems the Sun King was finally acknowledging his powerlessness. But even if his words were sincere, they came too late—for him and for the monarchy he had tried so hard to preserve.
Image credit: Protestant engraving representing the dragonnades against the French Huguenots under Louis XIV, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, Godfrey Engelmann from a drawing of 1686
6. King and Religion
"Fun" fact: the English word refugee entered common use via the French réfugié, widely associated with Huguenot exiles after Louis XIV’s persecution and the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. How did it come to this?
First, we must recall that seventeenth-century France was predominantly Catholic, and that Catholicism and monarchy were closely intertwined and mutually reinforcing in public life. Wherever French leaders pursued imperial ambitions, they brought Catholicism along. As Mansel notes, “Catholicism was presented overseas, as in Europe, as a buttress of monarchy” (Chapter 15). Just as Louis’s belief in absolute monarchy had been instilled in him from an early age—especially by his mother and Cardinal Mazarin—so too was his passion for Catholicism. Religion gave him a sense of certainty and legitimacy, reinforcing his conviction that his right to rule came from God.
Unsurprisingly, Louis XIV’s Catholicism was inseparable from his belief in monarchy. He regarded kings as God's lieutenants on Earth, and instructed his son that Catholicism instilled obedience to rulers. For Louis, religion was not just a matter of faith, but also a pillar of political stability—what he called the “first and most important part” of royal policy (Chapter 14). His piety was sincere, and he took seriously his role as a divinely appointed leader. Throughout his reign—from coronation to death—he performed the ritual of touching those afflicted with scrofula, believed to be healed by the royal touch. Even in poor health, he carried out this duty: for example, on November 1, 1685, "although barely able to stand from gout," he reportedly touched 300 people (Chapter 14). This example shows Louis's commitment to his religious role as king, even when it came at personal cost.
His piety did not shield him from tension with the Catholic Church itself. The Gallican Church, more independent and assertive than its later counterpart, could challenge royal authority through its influence over the public and through its Assembly of Clergy, which the crown relied on for funding. At times, it acted as an informal check on the monarchy. Though Louis remained publicly devout—attending services, participating in processions—church institutions and even the Papacy sometimes resisted his policies. For example, he was unable to curb the growth of monasteries, which Colbert believed were damaging the economy (Chapter 9).
Despite these conflicts, Louis respected Catholic clergy—even those who called out his moral failings. He fasted during Lent and listened to sermons that criticized his private life in ways few modern heads of state would tolerate (Chapter 14). But his tolerance extended only so far. Members of other Christian traditions—especially Protestants—were not treated with the same forbearance.
Although some Protestants, or Huguenots, held high social and political status, they remained a vulnerable minority. Memories of the French Wars of Religion—particularly the 1572 St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre—were still fresh. These wars ended in 1598 when Henry IV, Louis's grandfather, issued the Edict of Nantes, granting Protestants substantial rights. In 1685, Louis revoked it.
This persecution did not begin with the revocation. Years earlier, Louis had begun closing Protestant churches and schools in an effort to compel conversion. Some Huguenots converted—at least publicly—but many resisted. In 1681, the crown launched the dragonnades, a policy of quartering cavalry soldiers in Protestant homes. Ostensibly a logistical measure, it served to pressure households financially and socially, with soldiers often abusing their position. Protestants were also banned from emigrating. The rise in conversions was then cited as justification for revoking the Edict—after all, if Protestants were nearly gone, their rights could be considered obsolete.
The revocation brought even harsher consequences. Protestant churches and schools were destroyed, beginning with the prominent temple at Charenton. Worship was banned, clergy expelled, and the property of French Protestants abroad seized. Protestant children were required to be baptized and raised Catholic under threat of fines. Even foreign Protestant cemeteries were razed, shocking foreign envoys (Chapter 16).
Mansel calls this revocation Louis’s greatest single mistake. Several motives likely influenced the decision—many of which suggest powerlessness rather than power. The clergy, who wielded significant influence and gave financial gifts to the crown, had long pushed for the elimination of Protestantism. Louis, meanwhile, was in a bitter conflict with Pope Innocent XI over issues such as ecclesiastical revenues and diplomatic immunities. According to Mansel, it’s possible Louis bargained for domestic religious support in exchange for taking action against Protestants (Chapter 16).
Another motive may have been his desire to bolster his Catholic credentials abroad. At a time when he was allied with the Ottoman Empire—an embarrassment in the eyes of many Catholic rulers—he may have wanted to prove his religious orthodoxy by acting against heretics at home. This would help him compete with other major political forces of the time for influence over Catholic Europe. Louis also seems to have believed he was saving souls. In a letter to the Archbishop of Paris, he claimed divine inspiration for his actions and expressed confidence that God would approve (Chapter 16). These convictions, along with political rivalries and personal pride, suggest that revocation served both spiritual and strategic aims. It also reflected his growing intolerance of dissent: he could not accept that people in his realm might not share the faith that justified his rule.
The widespread support for his decision only reinforced Louis's belief in his righteousness. While some Catholics were disturbed by the persecution, few expressed outrage. In fact, it was likely popular. As with other minority persecutions, some segments of society seemed to find satisfaction in punishing the religious “other,” and many benefited materially by acquiring Protestant property. Philosopher Pierre Bayle, writing from exile, accused the entire nation of complicity. Unlike Louis’s unpopular tax and military policies, his attack on Protestants drew little criticism at home. During this period, many French citizens saw themselves living in a golden age. Louis was lauded in hyperbolic terms—described as immortal, divine, even supernatural—and their devotion to him compared to religious worship (Chapter 16).
But, as with many of Louis’s efforts to assert absolute control, the revocation backfired.
First, it contributed to undermining France's image, which was already suffering as a result of inhumane military practices. Second, although Huguenots were not allowed to leave France, many in fact did, effectively turning into réfugiés and settling down in countries that welcomed protestants. Many of these refugees were highly skilled professionals; others were rich, and their flight drained the French economy, which was at the time already in a pitiful state. According to Mansel, the revocation not only helped unite Europe against Louis but also handed France’s commercial and cultural advantages to its rivals (Chapter 16).
In turning loyal citizens into exiles, Louis created a new class of enemies. Former Huguenots became vocal critics, publishing denunciations and joining opposing military forces. Contemporaries and later accounts describe Huguenot exiles joining Louis’s enemies in significant numbers, including in military and naval service (Chapter 16).
He had transformed hopeful subjects into bitter adversaries.
This raises the question of whether Louis fully grasped the consequences of his actions. His persecution of Protestants may have been driven by a mix of anxiety and grandiosity—forces beyond his conscious awareness. He chose to listen to advisors like Louvois, who advocated harsh policies, while ignoring those who warned of the economic fallout. Further revealing Louis’s powerlessness, his approach was riddled with contradictions: he allied with the Ottoman Sultan, patronized Jesuit engagement with China and Confucian texts, and (in treaty-protected borderlands such as Alsace) did not apply anti-Protestant policy in exactly the same way as in interior France—yet within France proper he pursued religious uniformity with escalating zeal (Chapter 16).
Exiled Huguenots helped cement his reputation as a tyrant. One former prisoner, a Huguenot officer Constantin de Renneville, wrote a scathing exposé of the Bastille’s cruelty after spending eleven years there. His book, published in Amsterdam in 1715 and widely reprinted, contributed to the Bastille’s later symbolism as a site of royal oppression, and to its eventual fall (Chapter 16).
Louis XIV had the power to enforce religious conformity and to devastate lives. But he lacked the insight to see how these actions were undermining the very things he most prized: the strength of his kingdom, the image of his monarchy, and the legacy of the Bourbon dynasty.
6. King and Religion
"Fun" fact: the English word refugee entered common use via the French réfugié, widely associated with Huguenot exiles after Louis XIV’s persecution and the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. How did it come to this?
First, we must recall that seventeenth-century France was predominantly Catholic, and that Catholicism and monarchy were closely intertwined and mutually reinforcing in public life. Wherever French leaders pursued imperial ambitions, they brought Catholicism along. As Mansel notes, “Catholicism was presented overseas, as in Europe, as a buttress of monarchy” (Chapter 15). Just as Louis’s belief in absolute monarchy had been instilled in him from an early age—especially by his mother and Cardinal Mazarin—so too was his passion for Catholicism. Religion gave him a sense of certainty and legitimacy, reinforcing his conviction that his right to rule came from God.
Unsurprisingly, Louis XIV’s Catholicism was inseparable from his belief in monarchy. He regarded kings as God's lieutenants on Earth, and instructed his son that Catholicism instilled obedience to rulers. For Louis, religion was not just a matter of faith, but also a pillar of political stability—what he called the “first and most important part” of royal policy (Chapter 14). His piety was sincere, and he took seriously his role as a divinely appointed leader. Throughout his reign—from coronation to death—he performed the ritual of touching those afflicted with scrofula, believed to be healed by the royal touch. Even in poor health, he carried out this duty: for example, on November 1, 1685, "although barely able to stand from gout," he reportedly touched 300 people (Chapter 14). This example shows Louis's commitment to his religious role as king, even when it came at personal cost.
His piety did not shield him from tension with the Catholic Church itself. The Gallican Church, more independent and assertive than its later counterpart, could challenge royal authority through its influence over the public and through its Assembly of Clergy, which the crown relied on for funding. At times, it acted as an informal check on the monarchy. Though Louis remained publicly devout—attending services, participating in processions—church institutions and even the Papacy sometimes resisted his policies. For example, he was unable to curb the growth of monasteries, which Colbert believed were damaging the economy (Chapter 9).
Despite these conflicts, Louis respected Catholic clergy—even those who called out his moral failings. He fasted during Lent and listened to sermons that criticized his private life in ways few modern heads of state would tolerate (Chapter 14). But his tolerance extended only so far. Members of other Christian traditions—especially Protestants—were not treated with the same forbearance.
Although some Protestants, or Huguenots, held high social and political status, they remained a vulnerable minority. Memories of the French Wars of Religion—particularly the 1572 St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre—were still fresh. These wars ended in 1598 when Henry IV, Louis's grandfather, issued the Edict of Nantes, granting Protestants substantial rights. In 1685, Louis revoked it.
This persecution did not begin with the revocation. Years earlier, Louis had begun closing Protestant churches and schools in an effort to compel conversion. Some Huguenots converted—at least publicly—but many resisted. In 1681, the crown launched the dragonnades, a policy of quartering cavalry soldiers in Protestant homes. Ostensibly a logistical measure, it served to pressure households financially and socially, with soldiers often abusing their position. Protestants were also banned from emigrating. The rise in conversions was then cited as justification for revoking the Edict—after all, if Protestants were nearly gone, their rights could be considered obsolete.
The revocation brought even harsher consequences. Protestant churches and schools were destroyed, beginning with the prominent temple at Charenton. Worship was banned, clergy expelled, and the property of French Protestants abroad seized. Protestant children were required to be baptized and raised Catholic under threat of fines. Even foreign Protestant cemeteries were razed, shocking foreign envoys (Chapter 16).
Mansel calls this revocation Louis’s greatest single mistake. Several motives likely influenced the decision—many of which suggest powerlessness rather than power. The clergy, who wielded significant influence and gave financial gifts to the crown, had long pushed for the elimination of Protestantism. Louis, meanwhile, was in a bitter conflict with Pope Innocent XI over issues such as ecclesiastical revenues and diplomatic immunities. According to Mansel, it’s possible Louis bargained for domestic religious support in exchange for taking action against Protestants (Chapter 16).
Another motive may have been his desire to bolster his Catholic credentials abroad. At a time when he was allied with the Ottoman Empire—an embarrassment in the eyes of many Catholic rulers—he may have wanted to prove his religious orthodoxy by acting against heretics at home. This would help him compete with other major political forces of the time for influence over Catholic Europe. Louis also seems to have believed he was saving souls. In a letter to the Archbishop of Paris, he claimed divine inspiration for his actions and expressed confidence that God would approve (Chapter 16). These convictions, along with political rivalries and personal pride, suggest that revocation served both spiritual and strategic aims. It also reflected his growing intolerance of dissent: he could not accept that people in his realm might not share the faith that justified his rule.
The widespread support for his decision only reinforced Louis's belief in his righteousness. While some Catholics were disturbed by the persecution, few expressed outrage. In fact, it was likely popular. As with other minority persecutions, some segments of society seemed to find satisfaction in punishing the religious “other,” and many benefited materially by acquiring Protestant property. Philosopher Pierre Bayle, writing from exile, accused the entire nation of complicity. Unlike Louis’s unpopular tax and military policies, his attack on Protestants drew little criticism at home. During this period, many French citizens saw themselves living in a golden age. Louis was lauded in hyperbolic terms—described as immortal, divine, even supernatural—and their devotion to him compared to religious worship (Chapter 16).
But, as with many of Louis’s efforts to assert absolute control, the revocation backfired.
First, it contributed to undermining France's image, which was already suffering as a result of inhumane military practices. Second, although Huguenots were not allowed to leave France, many in fact did, effectively turning into réfugiés and settling down in countries that welcomed protestants. Many of these refugees were highly skilled professionals; others were rich, and their flight drained the French economy, which was at the time already in a pitiful state. According to Mansel, the revocation not only helped unite Europe against Louis but also handed France’s commercial and cultural advantages to its rivals (Chapter 16).
In turning loyal citizens into exiles, Louis created a new class of enemies. Former Huguenots became vocal critics, publishing denunciations and joining opposing military forces. Contemporaries and later accounts describe Huguenot exiles joining Louis’s enemies in significant numbers, including in military and naval service (Chapter 16).
He had transformed hopeful subjects into bitter adversaries.
This raises the question of whether Louis fully grasped the consequences of his actions. His persecution of Protestants may have been driven by a mix of anxiety and grandiosity—forces beyond his conscious awareness. He chose to listen to advisors like Louvois, who advocated harsh policies, while ignoring those who warned of the economic fallout. Further revealing Louis’s powerlessness, his approach was riddled with contradictions: he allied with the Ottoman Sultan, patronized Jesuit engagement with China and Confucian texts, and (in treaty-protected borderlands such as Alsace) did not apply anti-Protestant policy in exactly the same way as in interior France—yet within France proper he pursued religious uniformity with escalating zeal (Chapter 16).
Exiled Huguenots helped cement his reputation as a tyrant. One former prisoner, a Huguenot officer Constantin de Renneville, wrote a scathing exposé of the Bastille’s cruelty after spending eleven years there. His book, published in Amsterdam in 1715 and widely reprinted, contributed to the Bastille’s later symbolism as a site of royal oppression, and to its eventual fall (Chapter 16).
Louis XIV had the power to enforce religious conformity and to devastate lives. But he lacked the insight to see how these actions were undermining the very things he most prized: the strength of his kingdom, the image of his monarchy, and the legacy of the Bourbon dynasty.
Image credit: Versailles by Diane Picchiottino
Epilogue
The Sun King was most certainly not powerless. But how powerful was he really? Mansel stresses that Louis could “play a global role” largely because France itself was powerful—and that Louis’s reign was shaped by the kingdom’s geography, history, population, and traditions (Introduction). In other words, much of the King’s power was handed to him by circumstances and by other people. His power, therefore, depended on factors that, paradoxically, he had no power over. And when circumstances shifted against him (or when key actors resisted), outcomes could quickly move beyond what he could direct.
No matter how hard Louis XIV tried to be in control—no matter how hard he tried to persuade himself and others that he was in control—his power clearly had its limits.
Mansel’s point (for example, in Chapter 7) is not that Louis lacked formal authority, but that formal authority did not reliably translate into practical control. Social and economic realities, inherited institutions (including the Church), and a deeply conservative political culture constrained what he could actually do. Even at the height of his prestige, individuals and courts could resist, criticize, or delay. Legal processes and powerful figures could create complications for the King; even bodies such as the Parlement of Paris could resist, delay, or complicate royal initiatives. Mansel reminds us that, in many instances, “the monarchy could be stronger than the King” (Chapter 7). Mansel also lists many individual examples of disobedience with the same pattern: Louis had immense reach, but not total command.
Most importantly, Louis XIV clearly did not have the power to see how his actions were undermining the very goals he was trying to achieve. The cumulative scale of his strategic misjudgments, as Mansel summarizes in Chapter 24, is striking.
After Mazarin’s death in 1661, Mansel says, expectations for Louis were sky-high: he inherited what many contemporaries regarded as one of the strongest states and armies in Europe, and people assumed he might become the greatest monarch in history. Yet by 1715 France was no longer clearly the dominant power in Europe. Mansel attributes this partly to Louis’s own character—something, one might add, outside of his control—and partly to a cluster of judgment failures. In Mansel’s account, hard work and formal authority did not compensate for Louis’s taste for war and poor strategic judgment. He repeatedly misread what France could sustain and underestimated how other powers would react.
Early in the reign, France often enjoyed a comparatively favorable diplomatic position and a wide network of relationships across Europe, even as Habsburg Austria remained a principal rival; it also had established pretexts for intervention abroad and long-standing links beyond Europe (including ties with the Ottoman Empire). But Louis’s wars and persecutions helped push other powers into alignment against France. By the time he died, Mansel argues, France’s circle of allies had shrunk severely.
The King depended on others for help and advice. When his advisors were themselves constrained by bias or miscalculation (which was not uncommon), errors could compound quickly. In Chapter 24, Mansel argues that the “number and gravity” of Louis’s errors increased after Colbert’s death in 1683—evidence, in his view, that ministers mattered more than the famous “le roi gouverne par lui-même” inscription suggests. Mansel then lists a series of self-inflicted disasters: the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, the Rhineland invasion, the scattering of French forces across multiple fronts, and the ongoing commitment to restoring the Stuarts that helped neither France nor the Stuarts themselves. Mansel also links France’s growing isolation to episodes that made Louis’s rule look brutal abroad: bombardments, persecution, and scorched-earth devastation. The larger point is not merely that Louis made mistakes, but that many of them produced recurring patterns—unifying opposition, hardening reputations, and narrowing options.
Again and again, Louis’s actions led to results that he was trying hard to avoid. Mansel argues that Louis’s wars helped transform rivals—including England, Austria, Prussia, and Savoy—into major powers, and that Huguenot refugees strengthened some of these states as well. In Mansel’s framing, Louis oscillated between inconsistent political impulses (dynastic and national, expansion and retreat, Gallican and papal), while other monarchs—Leopold I, William III, Victor Amadeus II, and even Louis’s grandson Philip V—proved more consistent and ultimately more successful despite starting with fewer advantages. Mansel also identifies finance as a chronic weakness. Louis once declared that the relief of his people was his “strongest passion,” yet in Mansel’s account he failed at that task—something Louis himself reportedly acknowledged at the end of his life, while popular commentary expressed a harsher verdict.
Louis XIV’s bad judgments were something that he could not properly evaluate. They shaped decisions across his reign—from military management to medicine. Mansel notes that Louis sometimes directed campaigns from Versailles with a micromanaging hand and split commands among rival generals, a pattern he connects to French defeats. Mansel even extends the argument into the royal household: he suggests that the medical culture around Louis and the choices of physicians contributed to premature deaths among members of the royal family, and perhaps even to the King’s own decline.
Louis XIV’s power and his powerlessness cannot be clearly separated from each other. After all, as Mansel reminds us in Chapter 24, Louis “proved better” at incorporating conquests and defending France than later republican and Bonapartist leaders. In Mansel’s view, Louis helped shape France’s modern borders and identity--helping to integrate regions such as Flanders, Alsace, and Burgundy more firmly into a French political identity. Mansel also emphasizes something harder to measure but crucial to monarchy: emotional satisfaction. Many people took pride in the King’s wars, conquests, palaces, religious uniformity, and even the dramatic sense that “all Europe is against our great king.” Foreign observers noticed this popular reverence too: Matthew Prior wrote that “the common people” had “a strange veneration” for their king (Chapter 24).
At the same time, Louis XIV’s mistakes, inherited by his successors, eventually led to the French Revolution, which was the Sun King’s worst nightmare. Mansel argues that the French social order was among the first in Europe to be overthrown on that scale partly because earlier policies (including Louis’s) aggravated economic and social disparities. He also advances a strong claim about the Revolution’s immediate trigger: not famine, not Marie Antoinette’s unpopularity, not generalized social tension, but the financial system passed down from Louis XIV. And, crucially, the Revolution only became politically possible when the very institutions that had served the monarchy—the nobility, Church, army, and Parlements—began to pull back, demand change, or withdraw support. A rupture might have been imaginable earlier, but it did not happen under Louis—apparently because the cultural and political conditions (and personalities involved) were not yet aligned, not because Louis had somehow achieved total control. If anything, Mansel’s account suggests that Louis was eventually powerless to stop the monarchy from hurtling toward the precipice.
As the King was dying painfully from gangrene in his leg, Paris churches “filled with people praying” for his recovery (Chapter 23). In these last hours, Versailles's spaces were filled with those entitled to access, while the palace courtyards and nearby streets filled with crowds. Yet it is unclear how many of those who flocked toward Versailles did it because they were truly saddened by the King's impending passing. In fact, Mansel contrasts the formal dignity of the funeral procession with what observers later remembered along the route from Versailles to Saint-Denis: drinking, laughter, songs, and music “on all sides” (Chapter 23). Mansel connects this to accumulated anger about war, taxes, and poverty—made sharper by the anticipation of change under a new reign. Even the official Master of Ceremonies register conceded that many treated it like a fête and did not display the sorrow that protocol demanded. Other witnesses reported open rejoicing and the sound of violins. Mansel adds a telling logistical detail: perhaps fearing popular reactions, the procession avoided Paris (Chapter 23).
Soon after Louis XIV’s death, he was being mocked. Mansel cites satirical poems that deliberately punctured the official image: they paired Louis’s “greatness” with empty finances, portrayed him as leaving the country nothing, and even emphasized the indignity of a king reduced to a body without “heart” or “entrails” (Chapter 23). Other verses attacked him for taxes more than for wars or absolutism, accused him of serving private passions, and pushed the dehumanizing language of monstrosity ("Do not pray God for his soul. Such a monster never had one"). One nickname was especially pointed: Louis le Petit—Louis the Small, rather than Louis the Great (Chapter 23).
Balancing between mockery and veneration, some voices pointed out Louis XIV’s mistakes while still preserving his dignity. Mansel describes a solemn memorial service where the celebrated preacher Massillon praised Louis in grand, almost biblical terms—“more magnificent than Solomon”—yet also lamented what he called an age of “horror and carnage,” a devastated countryside, exhausted people, and languishing trade (Chapter 23). Massillon framed some royal “glories” as “sad and bitter,” criticized the consequences of the Revocation through the loss of citizens who fled, invoked Louis’s deathbed counsel against war, and ended by deploring “our crimes.”
Today, as in the past, Louis XIV is both criticized and respected. And although his actions undermined the Bourbon dynasty, they also strengthened it—though not in France itself. Mansel notes that the Spanish Bourbons outlasted their French cousins and even outlasted British control of North America; in a twist Louis would have enjoyed, the Spanish Bourbon line still reigns today under King Felipe VI (Chapter 24). The Sun King was at least partially successful. According to Mansel, Louis XIV “is now more admired than a hundred years ago” (Chapter 24). His Apollo-image—the patron of artists, builders, and spectacle—often “overshadows” the failures and crimes of his Mars-image. Louis XIV would probably be especially proud to learn about the fate of Versailles. Mansel argues that the palace has become both a diplomatic asset and a tourism engine, and that modern media have turned Louis and Versailles into an international industry—one that, three centuries later, continues to keep his glory alive.
The question, however, remains: If Louis XIV could witness what unfolded after his death—if he could return as a spirit no longer constrained by his own biases—would pride be his main emotion? Or would he be overwhelmed by painful embarrassment at the suffering his decisions caused? Yes, he is remembered and admired (by some). But at the same time, his vices and blunders are meticulously picked apart by historians,
available to anyone who chooses to consult the record. A man who cared so much about his image would be devastated to see how much it was tainted by actions that might have been avoided if he had better understood what he was doing—and why. And if the spirit of Louis could truly take in the damage he caused, the emotional person beneath the crust of a hardened heart might well weep in despair. For all his power, the Sun King never escaped powerlessness, either in life or after death.
No matter how hard Louis XIV tried to be in control—no matter how hard he tried to persuade himself and others that he was in control—his power clearly had its limits.
Mansel’s point (for example, in Chapter 7) is not that Louis lacked formal authority, but that formal authority did not reliably translate into practical control. Social and economic realities, inherited institutions (including the Church), and a deeply conservative political culture constrained what he could actually do. Even at the height of his prestige, individuals and courts could resist, criticize, or delay. Legal processes and powerful figures could create complications for the King; even bodies such as the Parlement of Paris could resist, delay, or complicate royal initiatives. Mansel reminds us that, in many instances, “the monarchy could be stronger than the King” (Chapter 7). Mansel also lists many individual examples of disobedience with the same pattern: Louis had immense reach, but not total command.
Most importantly, Louis XIV clearly did not have the power to see how his actions were undermining the very goals he was trying to achieve. The cumulative scale of his strategic misjudgments, as Mansel summarizes in Chapter 24, is striking.
After Mazarin’s death in 1661, Mansel says, expectations for Louis were sky-high: he inherited what many contemporaries regarded as one of the strongest states and armies in Europe, and people assumed he might become the greatest monarch in history. Yet by 1715 France was no longer clearly the dominant power in Europe. Mansel attributes this partly to Louis’s own character—something, one might add, outside of his control—and partly to a cluster of judgment failures. In Mansel’s account, hard work and formal authority did not compensate for Louis’s taste for war and poor strategic judgment. He repeatedly misread what France could sustain and underestimated how other powers would react.
Early in the reign, France often enjoyed a comparatively favorable diplomatic position and a wide network of relationships across Europe, even as Habsburg Austria remained a principal rival; it also had established pretexts for intervention abroad and long-standing links beyond Europe (including ties with the Ottoman Empire). But Louis’s wars and persecutions helped push other powers into alignment against France. By the time he died, Mansel argues, France’s circle of allies had shrunk severely.
The King depended on others for help and advice. When his advisors were themselves constrained by bias or miscalculation (which was not uncommon), errors could compound quickly. In Chapter 24, Mansel argues that the “number and gravity” of Louis’s errors increased after Colbert’s death in 1683—evidence, in his view, that ministers mattered more than the famous “le roi gouverne par lui-même” inscription suggests. Mansel then lists a series of self-inflicted disasters: the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, the Rhineland invasion, the scattering of French forces across multiple fronts, and the ongoing commitment to restoring the Stuarts that helped neither France nor the Stuarts themselves. Mansel also links France’s growing isolation to episodes that made Louis’s rule look brutal abroad: bombardments, persecution, and scorched-earth devastation. The larger point is not merely that Louis made mistakes, but that many of them produced recurring patterns—unifying opposition, hardening reputations, and narrowing options.
Again and again, Louis’s actions led to results that he was trying hard to avoid. Mansel argues that Louis’s wars helped transform rivals—including England, Austria, Prussia, and Savoy—into major powers, and that Huguenot refugees strengthened some of these states as well. In Mansel’s framing, Louis oscillated between inconsistent political impulses (dynastic and national, expansion and retreat, Gallican and papal), while other monarchs—Leopold I, William III, Victor Amadeus II, and even Louis’s grandson Philip V—proved more consistent and ultimately more successful despite starting with fewer advantages. Mansel also identifies finance as a chronic weakness. Louis once declared that the relief of his people was his “strongest passion,” yet in Mansel’s account he failed at that task—something Louis himself reportedly acknowledged at the end of his life, while popular commentary expressed a harsher verdict.
Louis XIV’s bad judgments were something that he could not properly evaluate. They shaped decisions across his reign—from military management to medicine. Mansel notes that Louis sometimes directed campaigns from Versailles with a micromanaging hand and split commands among rival generals, a pattern he connects to French defeats. Mansel even extends the argument into the royal household: he suggests that the medical culture around Louis and the choices of physicians contributed to premature deaths among members of the royal family, and perhaps even to the King’s own decline.
Louis XIV’s power and his powerlessness cannot be clearly separated from each other. After all, as Mansel reminds us in Chapter 24, Louis “proved better” at incorporating conquests and defending France than later republican and Bonapartist leaders. In Mansel’s view, Louis helped shape France’s modern borders and identity--helping to integrate regions such as Flanders, Alsace, and Burgundy more firmly into a French political identity. Mansel also emphasizes something harder to measure but crucial to monarchy: emotional satisfaction. Many people took pride in the King’s wars, conquests, palaces, religious uniformity, and even the dramatic sense that “all Europe is against our great king.” Foreign observers noticed this popular reverence too: Matthew Prior wrote that “the common people” had “a strange veneration” for their king (Chapter 24).
At the same time, Louis XIV’s mistakes, inherited by his successors, eventually led to the French Revolution, which was the Sun King’s worst nightmare. Mansel argues that the French social order was among the first in Europe to be overthrown on that scale partly because earlier policies (including Louis’s) aggravated economic and social disparities. He also advances a strong claim about the Revolution’s immediate trigger: not famine, not Marie Antoinette’s unpopularity, not generalized social tension, but the financial system passed down from Louis XIV. And, crucially, the Revolution only became politically possible when the very institutions that had served the monarchy—the nobility, Church, army, and Parlements—began to pull back, demand change, or withdraw support. A rupture might have been imaginable earlier, but it did not happen under Louis—apparently because the cultural and political conditions (and personalities involved) were not yet aligned, not because Louis had somehow achieved total control. If anything, Mansel’s account suggests that Louis was eventually powerless to stop the monarchy from hurtling toward the precipice.
As the King was dying painfully from gangrene in his leg, Paris churches “filled with people praying” for his recovery (Chapter 23). In these last hours, Versailles's spaces were filled with those entitled to access, while the palace courtyards and nearby streets filled with crowds. Yet it is unclear how many of those who flocked toward Versailles did it because they were truly saddened by the King's impending passing. In fact, Mansel contrasts the formal dignity of the funeral procession with what observers later remembered along the route from Versailles to Saint-Denis: drinking, laughter, songs, and music “on all sides” (Chapter 23). Mansel connects this to accumulated anger about war, taxes, and poverty—made sharper by the anticipation of change under a new reign. Even the official Master of Ceremonies register conceded that many treated it like a fête and did not display the sorrow that protocol demanded. Other witnesses reported open rejoicing and the sound of violins. Mansel adds a telling logistical detail: perhaps fearing popular reactions, the procession avoided Paris (Chapter 23).
Soon after Louis XIV’s death, he was being mocked. Mansel cites satirical poems that deliberately punctured the official image: they paired Louis’s “greatness” with empty finances, portrayed him as leaving the country nothing, and even emphasized the indignity of a king reduced to a body without “heart” or “entrails” (Chapter 23). Other verses attacked him for taxes more than for wars or absolutism, accused him of serving private passions, and pushed the dehumanizing language of monstrosity ("Do not pray God for his soul. Such a monster never had one"). One nickname was especially pointed: Louis le Petit—Louis the Small, rather than Louis the Great (Chapter 23).
Balancing between mockery and veneration, some voices pointed out Louis XIV’s mistakes while still preserving his dignity. Mansel describes a solemn memorial service where the celebrated preacher Massillon praised Louis in grand, almost biblical terms—“more magnificent than Solomon”—yet also lamented what he called an age of “horror and carnage,” a devastated countryside, exhausted people, and languishing trade (Chapter 23). Massillon framed some royal “glories” as “sad and bitter,” criticized the consequences of the Revocation through the loss of citizens who fled, invoked Louis’s deathbed counsel against war, and ended by deploring “our crimes.”
Today, as in the past, Louis XIV is both criticized and respected. And although his actions undermined the Bourbon dynasty, they also strengthened it—though not in France itself. Mansel notes that the Spanish Bourbons outlasted their French cousins and even outlasted British control of North America; in a twist Louis would have enjoyed, the Spanish Bourbon line still reigns today under King Felipe VI (Chapter 24). The Sun King was at least partially successful. According to Mansel, Louis XIV “is now more admired than a hundred years ago” (Chapter 24). His Apollo-image—the patron of artists, builders, and spectacle—often “overshadows” the failures and crimes of his Mars-image. Louis XIV would probably be especially proud to learn about the fate of Versailles. Mansel argues that the palace has become both a diplomatic asset and a tourism engine, and that modern media have turned Louis and Versailles into an international industry—one that, three centuries later, continues to keep his glory alive.
The question, however, remains: If Louis XIV could witness what unfolded after his death—if he could return as a spirit no longer constrained by his own biases—would pride be his main emotion? Or would he be overwhelmed by painful embarrassment at the suffering his decisions caused? Yes, he is remembered and admired (by some). But at the same time, his vices and blunders are meticulously picked apart by historians,
available to anyone who chooses to consult the record. A man who cared so much about his image would be devastated to see how much it was tainted by actions that might have been avoided if he had better understood what he was doing—and why. And if the spirit of Louis could truly take in the damage he caused, the emotional person beneath the crust of a hardened heart might well weep in despair. For all his power, the Sun King never escaped powerlessness, either in life or after death.
Image credit: Versailles by Stephanie LeBlanc
***
My goal in writing this essay was not to present a sanitized version of Louis XIV’s life—one that highlights his accomplishments while downplaying the damage his decisions caused. I am not trying to argue that his actions were acceptable. Still, my readers will likely notice that my interpretation of Louis XIV is relatively sympathetic. I describe him as a flawed person who made serious mistakes with far-reaching consequences, but I do not present him as a bad person. Moreover, throughout this essay I offer explanations for why he developed those flaws and made those mistakes. I know that some readers will find this attempt to explain misguided, or even insulting. However, I hope others will appreciate the difference between justifying an action (arguing that it was right or reasonable) and explaining an action by referring to the complexity of human psychology and social context.
Louis XIV made plenty of blunders as he navigated life’s pressures, complicated networks of personal and political relationships, his own needs, and what he understood as
his responsibilities as head of the Bourbon dynasty and ruler of France. From our advantageous position as outside observers, we can theorize about how some of these mistakes might have been avoided. But given the complexity of cultural, political, and personal factors at play, avoiding them was not as easy for Louis as it may seem to us now. I am not arguing that he had no alternatives. But I do think we should be cautious about the impulse to claim that he could have made different choices “if he really wanted to,” simply because he possessed the kind of power for which he is famous. I also want to resist the comforting conviction that “if only I had been in his place, I would have done so much better—because I am a good person and he was a bad person.” What would it truly mean to be in Louis XIV’s place?
It would mean not having the kind of childhood that many people today imagine and hope for their children. Instead, it would mean being born into a world of rigid rules, endless ceremonies, complicated—and sometimes toxic—relationships, and enormous responsibilities and pressures, without anything resembling modern psychological support, or even a stable private sphere in which to develop it. It would mean trying to navigate this world while absorbing conflicting messages from people you respect and love: “you have special rights and power granted to you by God,” but also “you must ignore your needs if they do not serve your dynasty and your country.”
Being Louis XIV would mean being a celebrity from the day you are born, gradually realizing that you are simultaneously feared and loved, hated and used by the people around you. It would mean developing coping strategies for these confusing circumstances without fully understanding how they help you—and how they can hurt you or those around you. (Developing coping strategies that later backfire is not uncommon. Many people adapt this way when navigating difficult environments. But not everybody has the power of a king—the kind of power that makes the downsides of those strategies so visible, and so widely consequential.)
Being Louis XIV would mean living under constant pressure to display and prove your power to the world. It would mean dealing with court intrigues, including those within your own family. It would also mean realizing, at some point, that you cannot manage your country in the way you believe it needs to be managed, no matter how hard you work. It would mean learning that, to achieve your goals, you often have to negotiate—giving others what they want from you, even when it is not in your best interests. And it would mean having to admit that, despite the power you are said to possess, you frequently cannot make people or institutions do what you want them to do.
Today, we have access to extensive research on human psychology that can help us understand our reactions and actions. We also have therapists and meditation teachers who can help us make sense of ourselves. (Even now, not everyone has access to these resources, or knows how to use them.) Louis XIV had nothing comparable to these modern frameworks for understanding the mind and regulating emotion. He was therefore less equipped to understand what was happening in his own heart and mind.
He was given power by the people around him, but there was no developed language—or institutional practice—for helping him understand how that kind of power can shape a personality. So even though Louis had the power to make decisions with visible effects on countless people, he lacked the tools to fully comprehend why he was making those decisions. And just as he did not fully understand himself, he also did not fully understand other people—despite his knowledge of internal and international politics. This limited self-knowledge and limited insight into others helps explain why he repeatedly miscalculated the effects of decisions about war and religion.
The goal of this essay was not to deny that Louis XIV had power, but to acknowledge how this power coexisted with powerlessness. I also wanted to show different aspects of his powerlessness: his inability to control institutions or compel everyone to do what he wanted; his limited understanding of the motives behind his own actions and reactions; and his inability to reliably predict or shape the outcomes of his decisions. In many instances where Louis XIV achieved what he wanted, his aims aligned with the interests of powerful others who helped carry them out. I do not think there was any moment—whether in his greatest mistakes or his greatest accomplishments—when he was truly “one against everybody,” yet still succeeded against all odds. He was able to do many things as a French monarch, but the monarchy—its privileges, rules, and responsibilities—was not something he single-handedly created. It was something he was born into. Monarchy depended on ideas and ideologies that Louis and many of his subjects largely took for granted, and therefore had limited capacity to examine critically.
As the name of my project suggests, I am especially interested in meanings—ideas and associations that the mind attaches to aspects of the world we live in. Meanings exist in our heads, and, as human history suggests, they change over time through people’s interactions. Supposedly, people have power over these ideas: meanings do not change themselves; people change them. But meanings also have significant power over us. No one can fully escape their effects, including the seemingly most powerful people we can think of. Louis XIV was certainly shaped by meanings he did not create—especially the ideas about absolute monarchy that permeated his life. We cannot underestimate the role of the meaning of monarchy in the way the Sun King chose to act, the way he wanted to be seen, and the way he was in fact seen. The meanings of monarchy were a source of his power: they are why he was feared and admired. At the same time, not being in control of these meanings was a major aspect of his powerlessness.
Monarchy in the past—with the veneration of the King by his subjects and the King’s attempts to craft his image according to certain standards—may seem almost barbaric to us today. But we should remember that in Louis XIV’s time, as Mansel points out, “shared belief in monarchy and hierarchy… [was] as common… as enthusiasm for human rights today” (Chapter 15). It is easy to question these ideas now not because we are smarter than people in the past, but because we do not live inside the same moral and political atmosphere. In that earlier world, ideas associated with monarchy were part of everyday life—not only for kings, but for their subjects as well. People who supported monarchy can appear shaped by their fear and adoration, and monarchs can look like the obvious cause of the veneration directed toward them. But all these people's relationship with meanings was as paradoxical as our relationship with meanings today.
Louis XIV did not create the idea of monarchy, and he did not have much more control over it than his subjects did. Part of his powerlessness was his inability to see how much he was not in charge of these meanings. Mansel tells his readers how during the evening ceremony of coucher, the Sun King would tell “his Premier Valet de Chambre to pass the bougeoir—a candle on a plate—to whomever he wished to favour that evening. As the King boasted in his memoirs, one of the most visible effects of his power was to give ‘an infinite value’ to something which in itself was nothing” (Chapter 13). The irony is that Louis believed he was exercising his power by turning an ordinary candle into something special—a symbol of royal favor that so many people craved. In fact, he was only able to do that because of the meanings of monarchy that, unbeknownst to him, shaped his own existence.
PRINT SOURCES:
Dowding, K. (2011). Absolutism. In K. Dowding, ed., Encyclopedia of Power. Sage.
Mansel, P. (2020). King of the World: The Life of Louis XIV. University of Chicago Press.
Louis XIV made plenty of blunders as he navigated life’s pressures, complicated networks of personal and political relationships, his own needs, and what he understood as
his responsibilities as head of the Bourbon dynasty and ruler of France. From our advantageous position as outside observers, we can theorize about how some of these mistakes might have been avoided. But given the complexity of cultural, political, and personal factors at play, avoiding them was not as easy for Louis as it may seem to us now. I am not arguing that he had no alternatives. But I do think we should be cautious about the impulse to claim that he could have made different choices “if he really wanted to,” simply because he possessed the kind of power for which he is famous. I also want to resist the comforting conviction that “if only I had been in his place, I would have done so much better—because I am a good person and he was a bad person.” What would it truly mean to be in Louis XIV’s place?
It would mean not having the kind of childhood that many people today imagine and hope for their children. Instead, it would mean being born into a world of rigid rules, endless ceremonies, complicated—and sometimes toxic—relationships, and enormous responsibilities and pressures, without anything resembling modern psychological support, or even a stable private sphere in which to develop it. It would mean trying to navigate this world while absorbing conflicting messages from people you respect and love: “you have special rights and power granted to you by God,” but also “you must ignore your needs if they do not serve your dynasty and your country.”
Being Louis XIV would mean being a celebrity from the day you are born, gradually realizing that you are simultaneously feared and loved, hated and used by the people around you. It would mean developing coping strategies for these confusing circumstances without fully understanding how they help you—and how they can hurt you or those around you. (Developing coping strategies that later backfire is not uncommon. Many people adapt this way when navigating difficult environments. But not everybody has the power of a king—the kind of power that makes the downsides of those strategies so visible, and so widely consequential.)
Being Louis XIV would mean living under constant pressure to display and prove your power to the world. It would mean dealing with court intrigues, including those within your own family. It would also mean realizing, at some point, that you cannot manage your country in the way you believe it needs to be managed, no matter how hard you work. It would mean learning that, to achieve your goals, you often have to negotiate—giving others what they want from you, even when it is not in your best interests. And it would mean having to admit that, despite the power you are said to possess, you frequently cannot make people or institutions do what you want them to do.
Today, we have access to extensive research on human psychology that can help us understand our reactions and actions. We also have therapists and meditation teachers who can help us make sense of ourselves. (Even now, not everyone has access to these resources, or knows how to use them.) Louis XIV had nothing comparable to these modern frameworks for understanding the mind and regulating emotion. He was therefore less equipped to understand what was happening in his own heart and mind.
He was given power by the people around him, but there was no developed language—or institutional practice—for helping him understand how that kind of power can shape a personality. So even though Louis had the power to make decisions with visible effects on countless people, he lacked the tools to fully comprehend why he was making those decisions. And just as he did not fully understand himself, he also did not fully understand other people—despite his knowledge of internal and international politics. This limited self-knowledge and limited insight into others helps explain why he repeatedly miscalculated the effects of decisions about war and religion.
The goal of this essay was not to deny that Louis XIV had power, but to acknowledge how this power coexisted with powerlessness. I also wanted to show different aspects of his powerlessness: his inability to control institutions or compel everyone to do what he wanted; his limited understanding of the motives behind his own actions and reactions; and his inability to reliably predict or shape the outcomes of his decisions. In many instances where Louis XIV achieved what he wanted, his aims aligned with the interests of powerful others who helped carry them out. I do not think there was any moment—whether in his greatest mistakes or his greatest accomplishments—when he was truly “one against everybody,” yet still succeeded against all odds. He was able to do many things as a French monarch, but the monarchy—its privileges, rules, and responsibilities—was not something he single-handedly created. It was something he was born into. Monarchy depended on ideas and ideologies that Louis and many of his subjects largely took for granted, and therefore had limited capacity to examine critically.
As the name of my project suggests, I am especially interested in meanings—ideas and associations that the mind attaches to aspects of the world we live in. Meanings exist in our heads, and, as human history suggests, they change over time through people’s interactions. Supposedly, people have power over these ideas: meanings do not change themselves; people change them. But meanings also have significant power over us. No one can fully escape their effects, including the seemingly most powerful people we can think of. Louis XIV was certainly shaped by meanings he did not create—especially the ideas about absolute monarchy that permeated his life. We cannot underestimate the role of the meaning of monarchy in the way the Sun King chose to act, the way he wanted to be seen, and the way he was in fact seen. The meanings of monarchy were a source of his power: they are why he was feared and admired. At the same time, not being in control of these meanings was a major aspect of his powerlessness.
Monarchy in the past—with the veneration of the King by his subjects and the King’s attempts to craft his image according to certain standards—may seem almost barbaric to us today. But we should remember that in Louis XIV’s time, as Mansel points out, “shared belief in monarchy and hierarchy… [was] as common… as enthusiasm for human rights today” (Chapter 15). It is easy to question these ideas now not because we are smarter than people in the past, but because we do not live inside the same moral and political atmosphere. In that earlier world, ideas associated with monarchy were part of everyday life—not only for kings, but for their subjects as well. People who supported monarchy can appear shaped by their fear and adoration, and monarchs can look like the obvious cause of the veneration directed toward them. But all these people's relationship with meanings was as paradoxical as our relationship with meanings today.
Louis XIV did not create the idea of monarchy, and he did not have much more control over it than his subjects did. Part of his powerlessness was his inability to see how much he was not in charge of these meanings. Mansel tells his readers how during the evening ceremony of coucher, the Sun King would tell “his Premier Valet de Chambre to pass the bougeoir—a candle on a plate—to whomever he wished to favour that evening. As the King boasted in his memoirs, one of the most visible effects of his power was to give ‘an infinite value’ to something which in itself was nothing” (Chapter 13). The irony is that Louis believed he was exercising his power by turning an ordinary candle into something special—a symbol of royal favor that so many people craved. In fact, he was only able to do that because of the meanings of monarchy that, unbeknownst to him, shaped his own existence.
PRINT SOURCES:
Dowding, K. (2011). Absolutism. In K. Dowding, ed., Encyclopedia of Power. Sage.
Mansel, P. (2020). King of the World: The Life of Louis XIV. University of Chicago Press.