in royal halls, but that was in the Luxembourg, the former meeting-place
of the peers of France. The Tuileries seemed full of Ghosts. Did not
a curse lie upon the place? The dictator had broken the spell. Two
months after the coup d’état, he had come with his fellow Consuls to
take possession of the palace, which exerted a magical lure upon his
imagination. Yet when, seven years after the arrest of the last scion of
the royal line, the first of the bourgeois rulers made his formal entry,
the affair had a strong flavour of burlesque. The Parisians could not
but laugh to see the numbers of the hackney carriages peeping out from
beneath the slips of paper which had been carelessly pasted over them.
This seemed to symbolise the ludicrous aspect of time’s revenges.
The Consul’s own mood was no less haphazard as he looked round with
childlike curiosity. “Well, here we are in the Tuileries,” he said to one
of his friends; “let’s see to it that we stay here!”
Several of those now seated at the oval table, had waited here of
old—wearing powdered wigs, lace jabots, and pumps—tremulous with
eagerness to learn whether His Majesty would receive them, and when. Some
of them had sat at a similar table in the Luxembourg. There had been no
stability about those deliberations. Laws had come and gone, urgency
orders and exceptional provisions; transitional decrees had pushed
foregoing decrees out of the way; three constitutions had risen and set,
had shot up into the air swiftly and brilliantly like rockets, to vanish
like these and to fall like rocket-sticks. The whole decade during which
the new ideas had been trying to realise themselves in the concrete,
had passed swiftly over Paris like a single night, amid a confusion of
flashing lights and rumbling drums. The city had been like an armed camp
with no fighting fronts and no battles, but perturbed by the to-and-fro
march of armed political parties, deafened by the noisy wrangling between
the old order and the new wishes, dazzled by the glare of venturesome
ideas, confused by the clamour of disappointed hopes and the clash of
warring ambitions—a titanic bacchanal of liberty, equality, and cozenage.
Surveying the medley, looking down from the skies, were the shades of the
two men whose books had set the whole in motion: Rousseau, with eyes of
disgust; Voltaire, with a mocking smile.
But suddenly the tumult had been stilled. That little man at the head
of the table had stilled it, the little general in the well-worn green
uniform. Not that he, presiding over the Council of State, is in fact
presiding over the State; the parties have withdrawn into their caves,
satisfied or rancorous, but at any rate silenced. France, weakened by
clubs and corruption, by the Terror and the demagogues, is turning back
(like an adventuress weary of errant amours) to the arms of a strong man
who can master her.
Enough, now, for Bonaparte that he should aspire to fulfil this masterful
lover’s role. No longer did he need to fight for the position. The man
for whom France was longing, must be a man of order; must be one who
had never before held power, who belonged to no party, and who none
the less enjoyed popular favour. He must, therefore, be a soldier and
a conqueror. Moreau lacked the self-confidence and adroitness needed
to make him a successful rival; the other great generals were dead or
overshadowed; there were no civilian competitors. After Bonaparte’s
outstanding military successes, it was easy for him to win supreme power
in the State. He would have won it without a struggle had he not been so
stubborn in his desire to observe constitutional formalities.
The attempt to be strictly constitutional had been a ludicrous failure,
and had imposed artificial obstacles in his path. Yet this very fact was
a token and a guarantee of his political talents. He was a man with a
firm grip on the sword-hilt, but he was also a man who clearly understood
the limits of the power of the sword. “Do you know,” he said in those
days, “what amazes me more than all else? The impotence of force to
organise anything. There are only two powers in the world: the spirit and
the sword. In the long run, the sword will always be conquered by the
spirit.” Napoleon was the greatest military commander of his day, but
neither now nor later was it his habit to strike the table with mailed
fist, neither in Paris at this juncture nor elsewhere when negotiating a
truce or a peace or an alliance. He was a political genius, who prized
the sword, indeed, but prized it only as one of the two powers. His ear
was never deafened by the clash of arms. As now, so for fifteen years to
come, he is ever on the watch for indications of public opinion; always
listening to the voice of the people, a voice which defies calculation;
a voice which Napoleon, a man of figures, vainly tries to calculate.
Precisely because of his failure to do this, the attempt to reckon with
public opinion is always alluring to the imaginative side of his nature.
Because Bonaparte believes in the power of the spirit more than in the
power of the sword, he strives for order and peace more resolutely than
for war and conquest. The history of the next ten years will prove it.
For him, order denotes equality, but not liberty. He adopts into his
dictatorship the former of these two gods of the revolution. Except
for a few vacillations, he will cherish equality to the end, despite
appearances to the contrary. But liberty? What is liberty? “Both the
savage and the civilised man need a lord and master, a magician, who
will hold the imagination in check, impose strict discipline, bind man
in chains, so that he may not bite out of season; one who will thrash
him, and lead him to the chase. Obedience is man’s destiny; he deserves
nothing better, and he has no rights!” These threatening words of the
misanthropist disclose no more than half of his secret thoughts. Through
all the phases of his rule, he is ever in search of the efficient man,
and to such a man he grants power over thousands; just as he himself,
through energy and diligence, through natural and acquired superiority,
has won to power over millions. In spite of all, he is the son of the
revolution; and in this sense he will remain the son of the revolution,
whatever forms his power may assume.
In part, that is the explanation of the mysterious influence he wields.
The wider his domain extends, the more plainly do all realise that
they are living in a system which promises to every efficient man the
gratification of his wishes, and guarantees to every efficient man place
and power and wealth; which does these things because the Master has
himself risen out of the crowd. He shows this, now, in his very first
step. Sieyès has drafted a constitution. There is to be a grand elector,
a president who can only represent and sign his name. With soldierly
curtness, Bonaparte puts his pen through the item. “Away with this fat
hog!” Instead, there is to be a First Consul, with plenary powers, and
plenty of work. He is to be war lord and also director of foreign policy;
he is to appoint all ministers and envoys, councillors of State and
prefects, officers and judges. Thirty nominated senators are to elect
their colleagues; but neither the Senate nor the Legislative Assembly
nor the Tribunate is to have any power to initiate legislation. These
bodies are merely brought into existence to give politicians a platform
for their orations, and to provide senators with high salaries and
opportunities for a resplendent life.
Although everything was dependent upon the will of one man, that one
man insisted that those dependent on him should themselves be men, and
not mere names. Neither birth nor pretentiousness nor prominence in a
political party could lead to the front in the army or in civil life.
Nothing but energy and capacity could ensure promotion. Such was the
principle upon which Napoleon chose the members of the Council of State.
This last was a round table of experts, selected by the dictator on his
own initiative. Among them was Laplace, whom, to honour the Institute,
Napoleon had also appointed Minister for Home Affairs—an appointment
the great mathematician held for a time, until he turned back from the
mechanics of the State to the mechanics of the heavens. There, too,
was Roederer, official and journalist, the most independent man to be
encountered by Napoleon during twenty years, and the most valuable
recorder of conversations. Tronchet, also, one of the finest jurists of
the age, was there. In the council chamber, all alike were citizens,
and addressed one another by that plain title. Royalists and Jacobins
sat there side by side, under a regime of equality, since reason was
enthroned.
When the minutes of the sittings are shown to the citizen-consul, he
says: “It is essential to give a full and accurate report of the opinions
expressed by legal luminaries, for their words are weighty; but what we
soldiers and moneyed men think is of little account. In the heat of the
moment I have often said things which an instant afterwards I saw to have
been unjust. I do not wish to seem better than I am.” When he noticed
that the councillors were simply echoing whatever he said, he was quick
to call them to order: “You are not here, gentlemen, to agree with me,
but to express your own views. If you do that, I can compare them with
mine, and decide which is better.”
The sittings, often enough, do not begin before nine in the evening, for
up till then the Consul has been dealing with the urgent affairs of the
day. They may last till five o’clock in the morning. The councillors get
very tired during the small hours. Perhaps the Minister for War goes
to sleep. Napoleon shakes them up, exclaiming: “Do let’s keep awake,
citizens. It’s only two o’clock. We must earn our salaries.” He, who
presides, is indeed one of the youngest of the company, being now thirty.
But in three campaigns he has learned how to watch over the interests of
hundreds of thousands. Was not the management of an army which set out
from the Alps, crossed the sea, and marched far into the desert—was not
this the best school for the study of State administration? There, too,
he had to think of money and bread, of rights and laws, of rewards and
punishments, of rest and obedience and order.
During the very first night after the coup d’état, he had appointed
two committees to draft a legal code; this was the first act of his
dictatorship! The prevailing chaos had been the outcome of a lack of law.
Down to the outbreak of the revolution, there had been no unified legal
system in France. The revolution brought the promise of such a system;
but even now, after eleven years, the promise was unfulfilled. That first
summer, three great lawyers were set to work; four months later a draft
of the Civil Code, subsequently rechristened the Code Napoléon, was
ready; then the draft was discussed in the Council of State. In eighteen
months the laws were voted. They passed into effect in 1804.
After more than a century, this Code is still the law of France; it
was adopted in many of the lands conquered by Napoleon, having great
influence on the legislation of Central and Southern Germany, Prussia,
Switzerland, and Spain; and its influence spread still farther afield,
to Central America and South America. All that is new and morally
decisive in the Code Napoléon is revolutionary law. The law-book which
the Dictator discussed in all its details for many months, the law-book,
many of whose most contentious points were the direct outcome of his
decisions, borrowed the fixed principles of reason that had been sketched
in the first days of the revolution. Experienced and dispassionate
minds, under Napoleon’s guidance, worked them up, purified them, and
made them into a new system of the rights of man. In this system, there
was no longer a hereditary nobility; all children had an equal share in
inheritance; all parents became legally responsible for the maintenance
of their children; Jews became equal with Christians before the law;
civil marriage was open to all, and was dissoluble.
Concerning this matter, as concerning all matters of family law, his
Corsican family feeling persistently influenced his judgments: “We know
that adultery is not a rare occurrence, but an ordinary one; that it can
happen on any convenient sofa.... Some sort of restraint must be imposed
upon these women who commit adultery for trinkets or verses, for Apollo
and the nine Muses.”
His sense of order leads him to be a thorough-going supporter of
marriage. He even sees to it that women shall follow their husbands
into transportation, “for how can we forbid a woman to do so when she
is convinced of her husband’s innocence? Or is this conviction of hers
to deprive her of her rights as married woman; is she to lose the title
of wife, and to become the man’s concubine? Many men have only become
criminals owing to their wives. Are we to forbid those who have been the
cause of the misfortune from sharing that misfortune?” He also thinks
highly of the custom of old Roman days, when, at marriage, the woman was
formally described as passing from her father’s guardianship into that of
her husband. “That would be excellent in Paris, where women do as they
please. It would influence some of them, though not all.”
Therefore, though he favours divorce, it must not be too easy: “What
would happen to the most intimate of natural ties if people were suddenly
to become estranged? Unless we make divorce difficult, a young woman
will be ready to marry a quite unsuitable man, for fashion, convenience,
simply to get a roof over her head. The law must warn her against
this.... In truth, there are only three valid grounds for divorce:
attempted murder, adultery, and impotence.”
Such are the plastic thoughts of this expert in human nature, whose
mathematical talents still leave him free to subsume facts under ideas;
one who has an intelligence well fitted for the consideration of laws,
seeing that it is equally swayed by theory and practice, by energetic
activity and sceptical suspense. The conflict of trends within the
legislator’s mind is obvious, and it was intensified by his thoughts
concerning Josephine’s former infidelity and present faithfulness. (We
know that she manifested a lively interest in the drafting of those
sections of the Code that related to divorce! Napoleon at this time was
already wondering whether, if his wife remained childless, he would
not have to divorce her for reasons of State. Her own dread of this
possibility led her to use her influence in favour of strengthening the
marriage tie, whereas he was driven by self-interest to insist that
marriage must not be indissoluble.)
It is a personal feeling, too, which drives him to avoid scandal, to save
the honour of marriage. He opposes the interference of the law-courts in
conjugal questions; prefers that such matters should be settled by mutual
understanding, so that the veil shall not be stripped off. “The desire
of both parties for divorce is an indication that divorce is necessary.
It is not the business of the court to establish the fact that this
mutual desire exists; the court has simply to pronounce the divorce when
the desire exists.” His strong family feeling leads him to add that
maltreatment, perversion, and adultery should be concealed beneath the
formula of mutual desire; the need for divorce is to be settled at a
family council, and the judge has merely to confirm this decision.
For the same reason, he introduces a semi-divorce, a judicial separation
from bed and board. This is always to be arranged after a mutual
private understanding, for it will be a barrier to the possibility of
reconciliation if the grounds for the separation have been made public.
His aim in all these matters is to maintain family life; he is a champion
of order, an anti-revolutionist. His social sense is so strong that
he maintains it would be necessary to punish an adulterous woman by
criminal procedure unless she were punished by being divorced. Similar
considerations regarding the sanctity of marriage lead him to raise the
age at which marriage becomes permissible. At the revolution it had
been lowered to thirteen for women and fifteen for men; he insists upon
fifteen and twenty-one respectively.
For children, the Code promises all the things which the ensuing century
is slowly to build up. Under the fatherhood of the man to whom they are
born in lawful marriage, they have a secure position even before they
enter the world. True, “the father cannot recognise the child as his own
if he has been absent for fifteen months”—the figure is specified by
Napoleon—“and has fought at Marengo.” But, a man of position as well as
a man of the world, he concludes by saying: “I will sacrifice honour to
truth, but why should I sacrifice the wife’s honour when no one will gain
thereby? If the husband is not sure of his dates, he had better hold his
tongue; the child’s interest is paramount.”
When some one proposes to restrict the elder children’s right to
maintenance, he rejoins: “Is a father to have the right to drive his
fifteen-year-old daughter out of the house? Let us suppose him to have
an income of sixty thousand francs, can we allow him to say to his son:
‘You are old enough to tend for yourself; be off with you to work!’ If
we limit this duty, we shall tend to make children entertain thoughts
of putting their father out of the way.” The suggestion is made that
adoption shall be feasible by simple declaration before a notary, with
revolutionary speed. He opposes the plan:
“We are not concerned here with a trivial formality. Human beings are
controlled through their imaginations; that is what distinguishes them
from animals. The main defect of the newer legislation is that it makes
no appeal to men’s imaginations. A soldier does not face death in order
to earn a few pence a day, or to win some paltry order of merit. None
but the man who touches his heart, can stir his enthusiasm! A notary
cannot touch our hearts merely because we pay him a fee of twelve francs;
that is why we need a legislative act. What is adoption? An imitation of
nature, a sort of sacrament. By the will of society, the offspring of
one human being’s flesh and blood is supposed to become the offspring of
another’s flesh and blood. Could any action be more sublime? Thanks to
it, two creatures between whom there is no tie of blood, become inspired
by a natural mutual affection. Whence must this action come? Like the
lightning, from on high!”
“In these sittings,” says Roederer, “the First Consul manifested those
remarkable powers of attention and precise analysis which enabled him for
ten hours at a stretch to devote himself to one object, or to several,
without ever allowing himself to be distracted by memory or by errant
thoughts.”
Bonaparte is filled with respect for the logicality and mental energy of
the octogenarian Tronchet; and the old lawyer responds with admiration
for the analytical faculty and the sense of justice of the young Consul,
who, in the case of every ordinance, asks: “Is it just?” and “Is it
useful?” He is never tired of enquiring how predecessors have solved the
problems under consideration, paying special attention to Roman law and
to the legal institutions of Frederick the Great.
Not only are thirty-seven laws discussed at this table; furthermore,
the Consul propounds question after question concerning other matters.
How is bread made? How shall we make new money? How shall we establish
security? He makes all his ministers send detailed reports, and this is
a great tax upon their energies. But he affects not to notice that they
are overworked, and when they get home they often find letters from him
requiring an immediate answer. One of his collaborators writes: “Ruling,
administering, negotiating—with that orderly intelligence of his, he
gets through eighteen hours’ work every day. In three years he has ruled
more than the kings ruled in a century.” He spoke to every expert in the
phraseology of the craft, so that none of them could ever plead in excuse
that his questions had not been understood. Even the most hidebound
royalists were amazed at the technical accuracy of his enquiries.
His unfailing memory was the artillery wherewith he defended the fortress
of his brain. Ségur, returning from an official inspection of the
fortifications on the north coast, sends in a report. “I have read your
report,” says the First Consul. “It is accurate, but you have forgotten
two of the four guns in Ostend. They are on the high road behind the
town.” Ségur is astonished to find that Napoleon is right. His report
deals with thousands of guns, scattered all over the place, but the chief
pounces on the omission of two.
By slow degrees, the huge machine (which for ten years has been standing
still or moving backwards) is set in regular motion once more. Throughout
the last decade, all the reports from the provinces have been full of
complaints regarding the lack of public safety, sanitation, and order;
the louis-d’or used to exchange for twenty-four francs, but now the ratio
is one to eight thousand; the Directory’s attempt to stabilise the franc
has been an utter failure; the newly enriched have bought up the State
domains, the Church lands, and the seignorial estates. No one is paying
taxes. What is the new dictator going to do about it all?
Within a fortnight after the coup d’état, he had arranged for the
establishment of tax-collecting offices in all the departments, for,
as he put it: “Security and property are only to be found in a country
which is not subject to yearly changes in the rate of taxation.” Two
months later, the Bank of France came into being; next year, there were
new boards to supervise taxation, the registration of landed property,
and forestry. Whereas his predecessors had simply squandered the State
domains, he used what was left of them to defray repayment of national
debt. The funds rose from 7 to 17; he continued the process of debt
cancellation, renovated the Chambers of Commerce, regulated the Stock
Exchange, put an end to speculation in the depreciated currency, stopped
the frauds of the army contractors and other war profiteers, and by these
and similar measures restored manufacturing industry whose productivity
had sunk to a quarter or half of its former level.
What was his magical spell?
At the head of affairs was himself, a man of indomitable energy, and
incorruptible. Men of the same stamp, energetic, diligent, and bold, were
put in charge of the ministries, the departments, and the prefectures.
Favouritism was done away with; sinecures were abolished. Preferment was
obtainable only by the efficient, and to them it came regardless of birth
or party. All officials, down to the mayors, were appointed from above,
and paid from above—“a hierarchy, all First Consuls in miniature,” to
quote his own words.
There was no political opposition. “No reaction is possible,” he
prophesied. “I have not relied upon the credit or upon the strength of
a party, and am therefore indebted to no one.—The men of intelligence
who, a little while ago, were perpetrating crimes, are now being used by
me to upbuild a new social edifice. There are excellent workmen among
them but the trouble is that they would all like to be master builders.
Typically French, that trait; every one thinks himself competent to
rule the country!” Being careful to satisfy all parties, he gives the
two most coveted portfolios to two rogues, mutually hostile, but both
men of remarkable ability. Having done this, he is able to say: “What
revolutionist can fail to have confidence in the social system when
Fouché, the Jacobin, is Minister of Police. What nobleman would be
unwilling to live under Talleyrand as Minister for Foreign Affairs? I
have one of them on my right, and the other on my left. I open a wide
road, in which all can find room.”