history gives his spirit wings. In boyhood, he had studied Plutarch;
as lieutenant, he had read the history of all times; now, from moment
to moment, he turns the knowledge to account. Knowing who has ruled in
every part of these territories, understanding how the governments he has
overthrown came into being, he has appropriate measures for each area.
Time-honoured figures are ever present to his imagination; he wants to
resemble them, to outdo them. Thus, whatever he does is conceived in a
historic setting; and he compels his army, the country with which he is
dealing, and, soon, Europe as a whole, to breathe the same atmosphere.
These first victories, which in reality are nothing more than big
skirmishes, are by the magic of his words transformed into battles, and
the battles are magnified into history. In this way, half of what he
achieves is achieved by the power of words. To the lands he is freeing,
to his soldiers, he invariably suggests that they have done the whole
thing themselves. Read his proclamation to the army in Milan.
“Soldiers, like a torrent you have rushed down from the heights of the
Apennines.... Milan is yours.... We are the friends of all the peoples;
but, above all, we are the friends of the offspring of Brutus and Scipio
and the other great men who are our models. To re-establish the Capitol,
to set up there the statues of the heroes, to awaken the Roman people
which for centuries has been paralysed by servitude—that is the fruit of
your victories, that will amaze posterity. It is your title to immortal
fame that you have given a new visage to the most beautiful land in
Europe.... Then you will return to your homes, and your neighbours will
point you out to one another, saying: ‘He was with the army in Italy!’”
Did a commander ever before make such alluring appeals to soldiers and
peoples, to friends and foes? Who understood so well as Napoleon how to
influence people through their imaginations instead of through a sense of
obedience? At Arcola he shouts to his men: “Are you cowards, or are you
the victors of Lodi?” In a month or two, he will be urging them onward by
reminding them that they are the victors of Arcola. “We have crossed the
Po, and have opened the second campaign,” he writes to the Directors. All
his reports to Paris are penned with consummate art. What he writes is
the truth, but it is so skilfully adorned that it develops a life of its
own as soon as the government communicates it to the press, and when from
France it makes its way into foreign lands.
With the pen, Bonaparte rounds off the victories he has won with the
sword.
III
“I have received your peace treaty with Sardinia. The army has approved
it.”
The Directors quake as they read the words. The arrival of this dispatch
cancels the joy they had felt at the coming of so many captured colours.
When, before, had a general in the field dared to write in such a fashion
to his government? “For this letter, the young hero ought to be stood up
before a firing squad,” cry his opponents. But the fame of his victories,
the glory of his conquest of Lombardy, have already secured him so strong
a position in the hearts of the people that no one dares attack him.
Recently, when the governmental commissary, his fellow-Corsican Saliceti,
came to his camp, Bonaparte ignored the official’s authority, and himself
signed the truce with Sardinia. These negotiations were the first in
which he proved his mettle as diplomatist. When the other side wanted to
bargain, he took out his watch, named the hour at which he had decided
to attack, and said they had better make up their minds quickly. “I may
lose battles,” he said, “but no one will ever see me lose minutes either
by over-confidence or by sloth.” With this truce, he for the first time
dispossessed a king. Without asking for instructions, he entered into
negotiations with the dukes, with Tuscany. Was he not, before long, to
do the same thing with the pope? What was the best way of dealing with
this dangerous conqueror?
“We will send him a partner,” thought the Directors, with a smile. “Let
him share the supreme command with Kellermann, while Saliceti decides
upon political issues.” Orders to this effect reached him at Lodi, on the
day of battle.
That was the first real battle he had won. A colossal bluff and a bold
movement enabled him to storm the bridge over the Adda and to defeat the
alarmed Austrians. There were to be much greater victories in days to
come; but, in the history of the man’s spiritual development, not one of
them was to equal this in importance.
For now, after a battle which decided the first part of his campaign,
having taken much booty and sustained only trifling losses, and having
made himself master of a territory opened to him by an hour’s struggle
on the bridge,—this evening, Bonaparte feels for the first time how
obscure plans and brilliant exploits of war, dream and reality, are
interconnected. The consciousness of his own powers makes him realise
that boundless possibilities lie before him. That was the first time on
which a word concerning such aims crossed his lips. To his friend Marmont
he said: “I feel that deeds await me of which the present generation has
no inkling.” Long afterwards, in retrospect, he declared: “That evening,
after the battle of Lodi, I first became aware that I was an exceptional
man; from then I date the awakening of an ambition to do the great things
which hitherto had existed for me only as the fantasies of a dream.”
Such was his mood when the new orders came from Paris. What? The conquest
of two or three continents was looming before his imagination—and he was
to go halves with Kellermann? He strode up and down the room, pursing his
lips, and then he issued his fiat to the government:
“If you put hindrances in my path, if you make my actions dependent upon
the commissary’s decision, ... you must not expect any more good results
from me.... Here it is indispensable that you should have absolute
confidence in your commander. If I do not enjoy that confidence, I shall
without complaint endeavour to win your approval in some other post.
Every one has his own way of making war. General Kellermann has more
experience, and would doubtless do it better; but, together, we should
do it badly. I cannot serve the country unless I have your complete
and undivided trust. Much courage, I know, is needed to write you this
report, for it would be easy to charge me with ambition and pride! But
you are responsible for my having to express my feelings.... I cannot
serve jointly with a man who regards himself as the best commander in
Europe. For the rest, one bad general is better than two good generals.
With war, as with governance, it is a question of tact.”
The general does not seem inclined to yield up his place to any one. If
the authorities in Paris insist on a divided command, is it not likely
that he will march ahead on his own initiative, gain further victories
with his unaided talents, then turn back to threaten France, and, as a
condottiere, overthrow the government? The Directors think it will be
better not to insist; with a smile, a wry one this time, they give way.
After his first, noiseless victory over the government, Bonaparte feels
he is master. Henceforward he behaves, substantially, as a king who
is his own commander-in-chief, but who can only secure reinforcements
and other requisites by reiterated adjurations. For months and years,
therefore, his dispatches are still written in the tone of a subordinate;
of one who does not threaten, but advises. Yet in reality he acts all the
time as if he were already in the land of the sultan, towards which his
masterful character draws him.
The Paris courier has been sent off. Bonaparte’s first “No” is on its
way. Another restless night in camp, and then to Milan!
In everything, he imitates the Roman general celebrating a triumph. As of
old, the prisoners lead the way, the only difference being that nowadays
they are not in chains. They are followed by five hundred cavalrymen.
The citizens, who are used to seeing brilliant uniforms, are astonished
at the tattered tunics, the sorry screws, the jaded appearance of the
riders; and they are still more amazed when they see the thin little man
on the inconspicuous white nag, at the head of his weary-looking suite.
How grey the whole procession looks in the light of this brilliant spring
day. At the gate the venerable archbishop, with a train of counts and
dukes, bids him welcome. He dismounts, but does not draw near to the
reception committee; he merely listens with forced politeness to the
words of greeting. The onlookers are wondering what answer he will make.
For a few seconds he keeps his lips tightly pressed together, and then
contents himself with a single sentence, to the effect that France wishes
the Lombards well. Remounting, he salutes, and rides on.
Leaders and crowd are deeply impressed; no enthusiasm, only astonishment.
Not a sign of arrogance about this conqueror; nothing but resolution, and
a force of will before which all must bend. Was his conduct deliberately
planned to produce such an impression, though never before had he
experienced anything of the kind? Was he “play-acting”? If so, all the
more remarkable his knowledge of men; all the more plain that he was a
master of the ruler’s art!
Nevertheless, he is absent-minded to-day, for he has not all that he
wants.
Now, the streets echo to the shouts of the crowd, who cannot restrain
their expressions of astonishment as they watch the men who follow the
commander—marching in a slack and almost disorderly fashion, clad in
scarecrow uniforms patched with many colours. These Frenchmen seem in
almost sorrier case than the prisoners!
[Illustration: General Bonaparte in 1796. Engraving from the Kircheisen
Collection.]
The commander is taking his ease in the archbishop’s palace. He is
having a bath. Hot baths are his one luxury, a luxury that he will
continue to indulge in down to the day of his death, taking them hotter
and hotter, staying in them longer and longer, as time goes on. Nothing
can break him of the habit, for a hot bath is the only thing which really
refreshes him, soothes his nerves. In the evening there is a reception.
“You will be free, and in a safer position than the French. Milan will be
the capital of this new republic, which has a population of five million.
You shall have five hundred pieces of ordnance, and the friendship of
France. From among you I will choose fifty men, who shall rule the
country in the name of France. Adopt our laws, modifying them to suit
your own customs.... Be sagacious and united, and all will go well. Such
is my will. If Habsburg should again seize Lombardy, I swear to you that
I will take up your cause, that I will never desert you. If your land
perishes, I shall be no more. Athens and Sparta did not last for ever!”
Never since the days of Plutarch’s heroes did a commander talk like this.
It was the conqueror’s first speech from the throne, and was compounded
of all the elements with which, in his speeches and letters, he was to
work upon the mind of Europe for twenty years to come. Everything is
single and definite; there is so much fixity of purpose that every one
wishes to comply. You are vassals, but free. I am your master, but I
will protect you. Five hundred pieces of ordnance and the friendship of
France. “Such is my will.” Then it is all over.
Through the May night, the wealthy town blazed with fireworks and
resounded with music. The young commander-in-chief has moved on to the
Palazzo Serbelloni; the banquet is over, and he stands at the window. The
triumphal entry of which he dreamed in youth, towards which his virginal
fancy strained, has now been accomplished. Does he look forward or back?
With what is his mind busied?
“What do you imagine the Parisians are thinking of us?” he asks his
adjutant. “Do you expect they are satisfied?” When Marmont makes the
conventional reply, Napoleon goes on: “But Paris has seen nothing, so
far. The future hides much greater victories. The goddess of fortune
has not smiled on me that I may scorn her. The more she favours me, the
greater shall be my demands. In a few days we shall reach the Adige; then
Italy will be at our feet. Perhaps we shall cross the river, and press
onward. Our age has produced nothing great. I want to set an example.”
IV
A royal couch in the Serbelloni Palace; never has he lain so soft before.
But it is far too wide for one! Where is Josephine? What are triumphal
entries and victories worth, without her? Fireworks and flags! Why has
she not come? Is she really ill? Has she a lover?—He lies awake for hours.
From the very first this man, who inspired respect even in the veterans
among the generals, imperilled that respect by his way of showing his
wife’s picture to all and sundry, and when he was in the middle of a
conversation about service matters. “You will come soon, won’t you?” So
he wrote in one of his almost daily letters. “You must come to me. I want
you on my heart, in my arms! Quick! Fly, fly!” He knows her frivolous
disposition; that her senses are easily aroused; that she is always ready
to give herself up to new impressions, new admirers. But now, now! What
can be keeping her? He had expected her to come to Milan. His ambition
had been to escape thither from the savagery of the campaign, that in
one of the palaces of that city he might give her capricious charms a
splendid setting worthy of her and himself.
But there is something which our great calculator has left out of his
calculations. By his very feats of arms, he has kept her away from
his side. For years in Paris she has been living in the half-world.
Now, in this city which she loves, she wishes to shine forth in an
assured position, as wife of the great commander whose name is in every
newspaper, on every one’s lips. Does the little general really think she
married him for love? When the first captured colours are exhibited,
she drives out among the people, and, while she is loudly cheered, she
thinks to herself how much more gratifying this is than to rough it in
foreign towns surrounded by unmannerly soldiers. She seldom writes to
him. His own words grow ever more urgent. “Have you a lover, have you
taken up with some stripling of nineteen? If so, you have reason to dread
Othello’s fist!” She laughs, and says to Tallien: “A queer fellow, this
Bonaparte!”
Another day, in the middle of a letter to Carnot dealing with urgent
affairs, he writes: “I am in despair. My wife won’t come here. I am
sure she must have a lover, and that that is what keeps her in Paris. I
loathe women, one and all!” Then comes a letter in which she grasps at an
expedient. Since there is no other way of avoiding the dangers and the
dirt of camp life, she writes to him that she has hopes....
Thunder and lightning! Have all the spirits of good fortune united to
shower blessings on him? Among his successes, that was the only thing he
lacked to complete his happiness. For, if destiny is to carry him to the
lofty altitudes he foresees, to the heights he has resolved to scale,
then his greatest need is to have heirs. But this battle is only planned,
not yet won; new dangers are impending. He shudders. Is it true? Is it
his child?
“I am sorry!”—the words are penned in his almost illegible handwriting on
the commander-in-chief’s official stationery. “I have been pestering you
with complaints, and you are ill. Love had robbed me of reason. Forgive
me, but I think I shall never be reasonable again. My life is an unending
dream; gloomy forebodings make it hard for me to breathe; I have lost
all hope. Write me ten pages, for nothing else can console me. You are
ill, you love me, you are with child, and I never see you. Who takes care
of you? Hortense? I love the sweet girl more than ever when I think of
her as taking care of you.... Soon you are to have in your arms a child
as fascinating as yourself. If I could only spend a whole day with you.
You know, if I saw a lover with you, I should instantly tear the man to
pieces!”
But who is to help her through her time of trouble? There is no
friendship in the world, only the ties of blood. “I am in despair,” he
writes to Joseph under the same date. “My wife is ailing; I do not know
whether I am standing on my head or my heels; dreadful forebodings rack
my heart. Write to me, I implore you. Since early childhood, we have
been bound together by kinship and affection. Do for her what I would
so eagerly do for you.... You know how much I love her; know her ardent
nature; know that I have never loved so passionately, that Josephine is
the first woman whom I have adored. Her condition drives me crazy....
But as soon as she is well again, well enough to travel, she must come
to me. I must have her in my arms; I love her to distraction, and cannot
live without her. If she no longer loves me, there is nothing more for me
in the world. Oh, mon ami, do not keep the courier more than six hours
in Paris; send him back to me with an answer which will give me new
life. Be happy! For myself, nature has doomed me to win none but outward
victories!”
On the same day, he dictates, inter alia: Order to Berthier to occupy
Alessandria; dispatch to the Directors concerning urgently needed
reinforcements; ultimatum to the Genoese Senate anent the murder of
soldiers; letter introducing Murat to the same Senate; plan to sell some
cannon which are still left on the Riviera; order to Masséna to procure
ammunition from the arsenal in Venice; order to Lannes to advance no
farther; order to send all suspects to Tortona; order to send a division
to Toulon; report to Kellermann that money and troops are on the way.
His letter has an effect. Joseph asks Josephine to come with him to
Milan. What pretext can she find for refusing? She sighs, packs her
trunks, sheds tears at a farewell festival in the Luxembourg, gets
into the carriage. After all, to-morrow is the thirtieth of June, the
season is at an end, and she has good company for the journey. Of course
Joseph, her vis-à-vis, is a homely fellow, but Junot is a dapper young
man; Fortuné, her lap-dog, is a darling, as ever. Then there is Charles,
another young officer whose acquaintance she has recently made, and who
has danced attendance on her ever since. Is he on the lookout for a
career, or a conquest? What a choice Christian name, Hippolyte! How fine
he looks in his chasseur uniform. He tells such amusing stories, has an
expert knowledge of the latest shawls and wigs, and his legs are so well
turned!
Milan. Bonaparte is away? More battles near Verona? No matter, this is
a lovely place! Such a splendid palace; they all flock to pay their
respects. But Hippolyte is hors concours; no one can rival the grace with
which, sword clanking, he strides up and down the Corso. What a pity one
has to be circumspect in one’s behaviour under so many prying eyes. But
Hippolyte knows his way about, and has found a discreet staircase....
Suddenly there is a stir of excitement. The commander-in-chief is coming
from Verona. For two days and two nights, the lava of this volcano
overwhelms her.
V
Thrice do the soldiers of Emperor Francis try to relieve Mantua, which
Bonaparte is besieging. Mantua is the key position. Old Wurmser, marching
down beside Lake Garda with fresh troops, drives back the opposing
forces. If Bonaparte is to make front against him, Mantua must be
abandoned for a time. Meanwhile, however, the enemy has blocked the line
of retreat upon Milan. A terrible reverse, and the French army is in the
utmost danger. Bonaparte, hastening from Milan, rides under the hot July
sun across the plain, busily inspecting one division of the army after
the other, gathering all his strength, for the fate of the whole campaign
is at stake. A period of the utmost activity, and of extreme tension.
“Since I left you,” he writes on one of these evenings, “I have been sad.
I can only be happy when I am near you. I spend my whole time thinking
of your kisses, your tears, your bewitching jealousy. The charm of the
incomparable Josephine is perpetually rekindling the flames of my heart
and my senses. When shall I be free, at length, free from cares and
duties, free to devote all my time to you, with nothing in the world but
to love you.... Since I have known you, I have come to respect you more
day by day, which shows how wrong La Bruyère was when he said that love
comes suddenly. Everything in nature runs its course, and increases by
degrees.... Be less beautiful, less tender, and above all less jealous.
Your tears inflame my blood.... Join me quickly, so that, before we
die, we may be able to say: ‘We have had so many happy days!’ A million
kisses, even for your horrid Fortuné!”
Neither now nor later could the commander-in-chief rid his home of this
lap-dog. He tells us that on his wedding night the dog was in bed with
Josephine. “I had to choose between sleeping beside the beast or not
sleeping with my wife. A terrible dilemma, but I had to take it or leave
it. I resigned myself. The dog was less accommodating. I have the marks
on my leg to show what he thought about the matter!”
Amid the hurly-burly, the general’s lady arrives at Brescia. Almost
immediately she has to be sent back to Milan. She has a narrow escape of
being seized by the enemy, together with some recruits and cannon. Now
she has an excuse, and, in the future, she will be slower to comply with
his invitations.
During these weeks, Bonaparte for the first time loses courage, though it
is only for a few hours of one night. Instead of simply issuing orders,
he holds a council of war, much to the astonishment of his generals. In
this critical situation, he proposes to retreat across the Po, but the
mad Augereau thumps the table, shouting: “For the sake of your own fame,
I insist that we attack.” He flings from the room. The counsels of the
others are divided.
See him before the decision, brooding over his maps. He is alone. Moths
are fluttering round the candles, and at last burn themselves to death.
The midsummer night is sultry. As he listens to the drums and the
shouting without, he thinks: “To-morrow will settle whether we can keep
Lombardy. Perhaps it will be the turning point in my fame, my destiny.
Shall I stake all on one card? What if Wurmser’s strength is greater than
the reports say? Josephine is sleeping now, in the great bed. Or, who
knows, she may be laughing softly in the embrace of some puppy who has
bewitched her.”
He decides to fight. Next day, he is victorious at Castiglione.
Soon afterwards, he writes: “Three days without a letter from you; I
have written daily. This separation is terrible; the nights are long
and savourless, the days monotonous.” At this time, Josephine writes
to Tallien in Paris: “I am bored to death.” He is busied in battles
and victories; she is fêted and honoured. To both of them life seems
wearisome: to him, because she is too far away; to her, because he is too
near. Three days later: “The enemy has been beaten, my darling. Eighteen
thousand prisoners, the others dead or wounded. Wurmser has only Mantua
left. This is the biggest success yet: Italy, Friuli, and Tyrol are saved
for the republic. In a few days we shall see one another again, that is
the reward for labour and pains. A thousand glowing kisses!”
When the commander can draw breath, the statesman must turn every moment
to account. In Modena he assembles deputies from all the States as far
south as Bologna, and at a formal sitting he gives them a constitution,
that they may unite to form henceforward one State, the new republic. Is
he happy, now that he is at work State-building? His wife in Milan must
be in love with some one, or she would write to him differently!
“Your letters are cold”—this is from Modena on the same day. “Their tone
suggests that we must have been married for half a century at least.
Friendship and winter, it is odious and spiteful. What more am I to
expect of you? That you have ceased to love me? That is an old story.
That you should hate me? Well and good. That is what I wish. Everything
degrades, save only hatred. But indifference with a heart of marble,
lack-lustre eyes, languid gait?... A thousand kisses, tender as my heart.”
Fresh crises call him northward once more. He comes, he fights, he is
driven back. The gloomy November weeks, in which his fate again trembles
in the balance, are not gladdened by any consolation from her. Far from
it, for his most intimate friends, alive to all that goes on in Milan,
venture cautious hints that my lady Josephine is having a merry time
there. This is the day after the defeat at Caldiero. He sends to Paris a
despairing appeal for reinforcements.