clubs; no more parties. Tell the National Guardsmen and the citizens
whenever you can, if a few ambitious fellows still feel the need to
hate, that the rudder of State is now in strong hands, accustomed to
overcome obstacles.” A few weeks after the coup d’état, he issued a great
proclamation, commending the new constitution to the people. It closed
with the simple and lofty words: “Citizens, the revolution has returned
to the principles with which it began. It is at an end.”
II
It is not war.
“Returning to Europe after eighteen months’ absence, I find that war has
broken out once more between the French Republic and Your Majesty. The
French people summons me to the first position in the State.” In these
terms, shortly after the coup d’état, he addresses the German emperor,
just before marching against him. Napoleon writes as proudly as any
monarch, as if before the journey he had already been the first man in
the State; and he writes with the natural dignity to which, in large
measure, he owes his success. That is his way. In this manner he puts
his adversary in the wrong. But the emperor is unmoved. Well, Bonaparte’s
plans were made long since; he has only to carry them out.
First of all he surrounds himself with a guard, every member of which
must have been through four campaigns—as many as the commander, but no
more. Then, while he sends Moreau to fight on the Rhine, he makes his
own preparations for an adventure in Italy. If he were to come along
the coast, as he did four years ago, they would be ready for him. He
must find a new plan! At Dijon, in full view of the Austrian spies, he
collects from the rawest levies a pitiful reserve corps, and smiles as
he reads the mocking comments in the Viennese papers. Meanwhile, he
prepares a force of 32,000 men, no more, but the finest soldiers under
his command. They are for a bold venture of which no one dreams, any
more than they dreamed of his Egyptian campaign. Did not Hannibal cross
the Alps, bidding the mountains make way for him? But nowadays a general
must get cannon through the passes! Cut down trees, then, and make huge
sleighs on which to drag the ordnance over the snows!
Thus in the spring after the coup d’état an army climbs the Great St.
Bernard, for the first time in two thousand years. The old monks in
the hospice can hardly believe their eyes. The herdsman who guides the
commander’s mule, prattling the while about his wishes and his troubles,
will soon afterwards learn that he has been talking to a fairy godmother,
will be enriched by the gift of a house and a farm. Even the common
soldiers seem to realise the epic character of this campaign, and vie
with one another in their zeal to drag the guns. They are following
their tried and trusted leader; they are returning to that Lombardy
whither, four years ago, he had led them as to the Promised Land; these
reflections, and the urgency of the occasion, increase the mysterious
suggestiveness of the expedition. So little do the Austrians realise
what is impending, that their chief, writing to a lady friend in Pavia,
tells her she is quite safe there; no need to leave. Twelve hours later,
Bonaparte enters the town.
Nevertheless, the great blow seems to him a questionable success. When,
in the middle of June, he attacks the Austrians in the plain, the enemy,
whose forces greatly outnumber his, drives him back. Where is Desaix with
the promised reserves? The affair begins to have the look of a general
rout. The commander, by the roadside, flicks the dust nervously with
his riding-whip, as he watches the beaten army pass by. “Stand firm!
Wait a little! Reinforcements are coming! Only an hour!” But the flight
continues. Has fortune, too, been routed? At length Desaix arrives, and
hurls himself on the dismayed Austrians; the dragoons charge; the enemy’s
lines are broken. The battle of Marengo, which Bonaparte had lost at
five o’clock, was won by Desaix at seven—but Desaix fell in the hour of
triumph.
Sad at heart, Napoleon remained on the field of battle. The best of his
generals was dead; but an even more painful thought was that Desaix, not
himself, had won the victory. He himself had been defeated. Maybe he was
consoled by the knowledge that he alone had designed the whole campaign,
and that he alone was responsible for the plan of battle in accordance
with which Desaix had arrived in time to snatch success out of the jaws
of failure. Perhaps he realised that this great battle, which opened and
closed the campaign, had been won by him no otherwise than the Eighteenth
Brumaire. Then, also, he had lost the day, and the crown of victory had
been gained for him by another!
Yet in neither case can this judgment be maintained when all the
circumstances are reviewed. Only three or four miles from the spot where
this evening he dictates to Bourrienne the report of the battle, is
the point on the map into which, four months earlier, he had thrust a
pin, saying (to this same Bourrienne): “Crossing the Alps at the Great
St. Bernard, I shall fall upon Melas, cut off his communications with
Austria, and meet him here in the plains of the River Scrivia at San
Giuliano.”
This was no time for reminiscences! Statesman as well as commander, he
was already parleying with Vienna, acting on the principle: “We must
fight and negotiate at the same time.” Now, on the battle-field, he
writes again to Emperor Francis:
“The cunning of the English has neutralised the effect which my simple
and frank advances must otherwise have had on Your Majesty’s heart. War
has become actual. Thousands of Frenchmen and Austrians are no more.—The
prospect of the continuance of such horrors is so great a distress to
me, that I have decided to make another personal appeal to you.—On the
battle-field of Marengo, amid grief and pain, surrounded by fifteen
thousand corpses, I implore Your Majesty, it behooves me to give you an
urgent warning. You are far from the scene, and your heart cannot be so
deeply moved as mine is on the spot. You rule over many States.—Let us
give our generation peace and tranquillity. If the men of later days are
such fools as to come to blows, they will learn wisdom after a few years’
fighting, and will then live at peace one with another.”
This long letter, of which only a few of the most weighty sentences have
been quoted here, is as brilliant as had been his plan for the battle
of Marengo, and it was as fruitful as his victory. For the first time
it gave plain expression to his longing for peace. In days to come, he
will write half a dozen such letters after as many decisive victories. Is
Bonaparte, the great military commander, a pacifist after all?
By no means, but he is not a swashbuckler either. His nerves always
remain sensitive to the impressions of the battle-field; and he has an
unfailing reserve of scepticism as regards successes won merely by the
sword. He is fond of camp life, and he has a chessplayer’s love for the
great game of war; but, before all, he is a statesman. It was in this
very plain of Lombardy that the sense of statecraft first awakened in
him. It was there that, with kings and countries as pieces, he began to
play that other great game of chess, the diplomatic game. Delight in the
use of spiritual force has taken possession of his soul. He will never
renounce the sword, will never allow its edge to become blunted. It is as
the wielder of the sword that he is acclaimed as the hero of Europe. But
he also has the Golden Goblet, and does not wish to risk it anew every
year.
He knows, too, that, while France is always eager for glory, an even
greater need at the moment is tranquillity. Above all, the country has
need of him, personally; but he has enemies in his rear. Before, it
mattered little that he should be away for a year or two at a time;
but now, when he is dictator, so long an absence would be fatal. These
multiple considerations explain his letter to Emperor Francis—surely an
unparalleled despatch from a conqueror on the battle-field. As soon as he
has written it, he hastens to Milan.
What is Paris saying?
Is the capital satisfied at length? Is it not like Josephine, before whom
one can pour out all the treasures of the world—to find only that she
takes them as a matter of course, and holds out her hand for more? Paris
is by no means enthusiastic about the new master. “For eleven years,”
writes Roederer in his diary, “the Parisian’s first thought on waking
in the morning had been: ‘When shall we be able to rid ourselves of
tyrants?’ Now, the Parisians were saying: ‘Everything seems to be going
on well. But these enterprises that are being started, this capital that
is being invested, these houses that they are building, these trees that
they are planting—what will happen to the lot of them, if the Man should
perish?’—His supreme calling was not the general’s, but the statesman’s.
His victories, indeed, had made him the cynosure of all eyes; but it
was his talent for statecraft that had raised men’s hopes.” Thus the
Parisians are uneasy, but wellwishing. One among them, however, foresees
the future, and writes to Napoleon at the theatre of war:
“General, I have just returned from the Tuileries, and shall not attempt
to describe either the enthusiasm of the French or the amazement of
foreigners.... Will posterity believe the miracle of this campaign?
Favourable, indeed, are the auspices that preside over your homecoming!
Never has there been an empire that was not founded upon miracle. In this
instance, miracle has become reality.”
Napoleon smiles, thinking: “In truth, Talleyrand is more than a
flatterer; he is a soothsayer! But why does he give a name to my secret
thoughts? Would he play the part of the Roman of old, who tempted Cæsar
with a crown?”
Here is another missive from Paris. A police report from Fouché, who
tells how Talleyrand had recently summoned a few intimates to discuss
what had better be done should the Consul have a misadventure, or
perchance be defeated. The news of Marengo had come while they were at
supper! “So he was alarmed!” thinks Bonaparte. “There were stirrings
of what remained of a conscience. Good friends! Fine confidants! Their
alleged concern for my safety, is but the mask for their secret longing
to rid themselves of their master!”
Is it a mocking smile or is it an expression of pensive anxiety that
purses Napoleon’s lips? Certainly, he must be back in Paris as soon as
possible! But this evening he goes to the Scala, where the heroine is the
lovely Grassini—whose advances he had scorned a year or two back. Now she
sings for his ear, has eyes for him alone; and though she may be piqued
that his beckoning nod comes so late, the handsome Italian prima donna
gives herself to the conqueror of Italy for the asking. She shall go to
the Paris opera. As star, or as his mistress? Time will show!
Since in Germany, too, the enemy has been defeated, the subsequent peace
of Lunéville is extremely favourable to France, the Rhine frontier being
conceded, and the re-establishment of the Cisalpine Republic agreed to.
Could more have possibly been achieved by a few weeks’ campaign? His
colleagues and other false friends make ready to receive him as hero
of the hour; they write to him about plans for a triumph. “I shall make
an unlooked-for entry into Paris,” he rejoins, with malicious double
meaning; “and I have no desire for triumphal arches or any kind of
ceremonial. I have a sufficiently good conceit of myself to scorn such
plummery. The only genuine triumph is public content.”
A little later, he writes in a vein that is equally modest, or equally
proud: “I accept the offer to erect a monument in my honour and should
like a site to be chosen. But I would rather leave the actual building of
the monument to future centuries, should these confirm your good opinion
of me.” It is as if he could sense the coming storm of iconoclasm, could
foresee that in less than twenty years his idolaters of to-day will be
rolling his eagles in the dust!
After his return, the dictator devotes all his energies to the
consolidation of peace. He outsoars himself: for whereas formerly, by
forced marches and crashing blows, he has imposed his will on one country
after another, now, by shrewd negotiation, he cements peace with his
sometime foes. Within two years of his seizure of power, France is at
peace with Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, Russia, Naples, Spain, Portugal and
even with England.
Nine legitimate and therefore ardently legitimist rulers now recognise
the republic which they had been fighting for a decade. France, which
two years before had been threatened by disruption from within and by
dangerous impacts from without, had become the leading power on the
Continent.
It is as First Consul, not as general and not as emperor, that Bonaparte
leads the revolution to victory. In a Europe all the rest of which
(except for Switzerland) is ruled by kings and princes, he not only
establishes peace between the new ideas and the old forces, but also,
unchallenged, compels his border States, Holland and northern Italy, to
adopt the consular constitution. Neither Austria nor England attempts
to interfere when, with a turn of the hand, he extends his grip over
Piedmont, Genoa, Lucca and Elba. At the same time, when the compensation
of the princes on the left bank of the Rhine is in question, the members
of the oldest reigning houses of Germany throng around the great
huckster, the man who has robbed them of their lands—thus teaching him to
despise birth and heritage, nobles and crowns.
Only one chasm gapes in the structure he is building, but he will be able
to close it.
At the opening of the revolution, Reason took the place of Christ.
Indeed, this anti-Christian notion became extremely popular. Bonaparte
stood almost alone in his rejection of it. Four years earlier, in Italy,
he had granted the pope all kinds of things which Paris wished to
refuse; and, for reasons of his own, he had always been chivalrous in
his attitude towards the clergy. Now he wished to heal the breach that
had existed for ten years between France and the Church. He did not do
this because he was a believer. “Among the Turks, I was a Mohammedan;
now I shall become a Catholic.” He knew that this oldest of the powers
could not be conquered either by the sword or by the spirit. He must come
to terms with it in order to make use of it. “Catholicism kept the pope
in being for me,” he said later: “and, in view of my grip upon Italy, I
continued to hope that sooner or later I should be able to bend him to my
will. What immense influence I should then wield! What a means to have at
my disposal in my dealings with Europe!”
It will be difficult to make Paris accept the rehabilitation of the
Church! As a preliminary step, he is actually willing to present himself
before the bishops in the guise of a philosopher: “I am aware that in
no State can a man be truly virtuous and upright unless he knows whence
he comes and whither he is going. Unaided reason cannot tell us these
things. Without religion, we grope in the dark. But the Catholic faith
throws a clear light upon the origin and the destiny of human beings.”
Rome is dumbfounded for a time, when this and similar speeches are
reported; but the shrewdest of worldly sages can find his master in
the Vatican. When Cardinal Consalvi comes to Paris in order to discuss
matters with Napoleon, and, at the first official audience, the consul
wishes to browbeat him, the prince of the Church smilingly stands his
ground. What a spectacle for Talleyrand, who looks on in silence! Still,
agreement is reached on various important points, such as the celibacy
of priests, the choice of bishops by Rome, and the re-establishment of
the old canon law. But though these concessions are made to the Church,
the payment of stipends by the State, which gives the latter decisive
influence, is to remain.
A great ceremony in Notre Dame seals the agreement. The Consul, with the
other State dignitaries, had wanted only to come for the Te Deum; but he
found it expedient, after all, to attend Mass, stipulating that he was
not to be expected to take the sacrament, “or to participate in all the
rest of the hocus-pocus that makes a man ridiculous.” To his brother, he
said on this occasion: “We’re going to Mass to-day. What will Paris say
about it?”
“The audience will look on at the play, and will hiss if it does not
please.”
“Then I shall have the church cleared by the guards!”
“But what if the grenadiers join in the hissing?”
“They won’t. My old war-dogs will be just as respectful in Notre Dame as
they were in the Cairo mosques. They will keep their eyes on me, and when
they see that their general is serious and well behaved, they will follow
his example, saying to themselves, ‘Those are the orders of the day!’”
III
The ground is still unsteady beneath his feet. His consulship is for ten
years only, and there are but eight years more to run. Then a rival may
take his place. He is dependent on popular favour, which he must court,
and which he despises. What sort of a position is that for the head of
a State in his dealings with foreign potentates? They will not take him
seriously, any more than if he were an American president. Turning these
thoughts over in his mind, he makes a sign to the Senate.
Always compliant (being dependent on his good graces), the Senate now
proposes to ensure that the First Consul shall hold office for an
additional term of ten years after the expiry of the present term. Put
out of humour by this suggestion, he jogs the senators’ thoughts and
induces them to propose a lifelong tenure of the consulship. But, prudent
as Cæsar, he says that the matter must be referred to the “people,”
the source of all power. A plebiscite is taken, and there are nearly
four million ayes against a handful of courageous noes. His powers are
enlarged. He now has sole authority to sign treaties with foreign States;
he alone appoints the senators, who are themselves entitled to dissolve
the Chambers; and he is granted the right to appoint his successor. When
he compares his position with that of other European rulers, and notices
that they all wear crowns, he consoles himself with the naïve sophism:
“Henceforward, I am as good as the other sovereigns, for they, likewise,
rule for life only!”
By no means all among the millions who have voted for him are his
whole-hearted adherents. Even in Paris, when he makes a triumphal entry
into the Luxembourg, there is so little public applause that he says
afterwards to his Minister of Police: “Why did you not work up opinion
beforehand?”
Said Fouché: “We are still the children of the ancient Gauls, of whom it
was said that they could neither endure liberty nor tolerate oppression.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Citizen Consul, that, in your last steps, the Parisians fancy
they see the loss of liberty, and a tendency towards absolutism.”
“I should not care to rule for six weeks, if I had but the shadow of
power, and could not be master!”
“You have only to be humane, strong, and just, at one and the same time,”
rejoins the fox (who never showed any of these qualities himself), “and
soon you will win all hearts once again.”
“Public opinion is capricious. I shall know how to mend it,” said
Bonaparte, turning his back on his interlocutor.
A two-minutes’ talk like this, and Napoleon has made up his mind. He
dismisses Fouché, but not because he is afraid of the ex-cleric (whom he
despises, rather). He abolishes the Ministry of Police, and transfers its
functions to the Ministry of Justice, “for I wish to show Europe that
my policy is peaceful, and that the French love me sincerely.” We must
get used to such phrase-mongering, in which he cloaks his policy. To
keep Fouché quiet, he makes the ex-minister a senator. When, on leaving
office, Fouché discloses to the Consul a reserve fund of two and a half
million francs, Bonaparte is amazed, and tells him to keep half the sum
“as a token of personal regard.” In the anteroom, the departing Fouché
grins over his mental arithmetic, adding the undisclosed residue of the
reserve to the amount of the First Consul’s gift.
Such are Bonaparte’s methods with a dangerous man who knows too much. As
for public opinion, he can take his measures to get that on his side.
It is because he is determined not to be indebted to any party or any
individual, that he demands a popular ratification of his appointment as
Consul for life, just as he had asked for popular approval after the coup
d’état. The result gives him assurance that the revolution is over. “This
consultation of the people has a twofold advantage. Besides confirming
the prolongation of the consular term, it throws light on the sources
of my power, which otherwise might have seemed ambiguous.” The phrasing
shows that he is aware of his dangerous position betwixt revolution and
legitimacy. To the very last, he will be worried by this problem.
Like a Roman imperator, Bonaparte wishes to concentrate all the powers of
State in his own hands; but whereas the Roman’s title to power was the
commandership of the armies, Napoleon is supreme because of his supreme
efficiency. That is why he bases his power, not upon the army, which
loves him, but upon the people, to which he is hostile. He wants to be
“tyrant,” in the classical sense of the term; but he wishes to be tyrant
on a democratic footing, as the outcome of a free popular decision. The
people, the source of power, is to transfer power to Napoleon. None knows
better than he the weakness of any such fiction, but it is imposed on him
by the spirit of the age. After all, Bonaparte can fearlessly quote in
his own favour the revolutionary principle that power must go to talent
instead of to birth, for where can a more talented man than himself be
found? But instead of contenting himself with talent as the source of
his power (the talent that has brought him victory in war and in peace,
the talent that has enabled him to grasp the reins), he muddies this
splendid source by a popular vote, feels morally compelled to do so, and
even fancies that he is clarifying the waters by his action. If Bonaparte
saves the revolution, he certainly kills the republic.
These ideas are not the outcome of calculating policy, but of the mood
which seeks its stimulus in classical life. It is the same mood as that
which draws him towards the East; the same mood as that which, on the
day of the coup d’état, led him to make a fool of himself before the
Councils. “Your place is among the men of Plutarch,” said the first who
really understood Bonaparte in early youth. The Consul was not a democrat
in the sense that he believed in popular sovereignty. What he lacked was
such days as those of classical antiquity, when genius did not need to
entrench itself behind representative assemblies, but held sway on its
own initiative; or Asia, where, even in modern times, there are monarchs
in the literal sense. In his work-room at Saint-Cloud there are two
busts, Scipio’s and that of Hannibal’s. No other position than that of
Roman emperor or that of caliph was suited to his temperament.
Immediately after the coup d’état, the Bourbons, with a childlike
frankness, had made advances to him. The brother of the executed king,
now Count of Provence, and in future days to reign as Louis XVIII, asked
the son of the revolution to help him to the throne. The demand was
thrice repeated, and a handsome reward was offered. The Consul made no
answer to the first two applications. To the third he replied as follows:
“Sir, I have received your letter, and thank you for what you are so
kind as to say about myself. You cannot seriously wish to come back, for
your return would cost a hundred thousand lives. You must sacrifice your
personal interests to the peace and happiness of France, and history will
thank you for the sacrifice. I am not insensitive to the misfortunes of
your family.... I shall be happy to do all in my power to contribute to
the welfare and tranquillity of your retirement. Bonaparte.”
Very different is Napoleon’s reception of the Vendée royalists, for he
hopes to win them over to his side. At first they fail to understand him
when, after a long time of waiting, the man of destiny, wearing his old
green coat, and with untidy hair, makes advances to them.