defeated, can we wonder that concrete plans which have hitherto followed
his soaring imagination at a respectful distance, should now, likewise,
begin to outsoar the boundaries of reason? In the opening years of the
nineteenth century and here in the West, the Emperor might have kept the
peace for another decade, that in the end he might measure his strength
against England’s in Asia. But when Europe’s persistent desire for
revenge upon revolutionary France spurs him into action, he conceives the
great plan of a unified European realm. Now for the second time (and
for the last time down to our own days) a great and saving work will be
attempted, and the attempt will fail.
Thus it is that Napoleon’s crowning political thought issues out of a
personal defensive. Now, when a new coalition is being formed, and formed
against him, his ideal takes a fresh shape. For years his inward gaze
has been concentrated on Alexander; now, instead, he sees the figure
of Charlemagne. He goes to Aix-la-Chapelle, for a ceremonial visit to
the tomb of the great Frankish emperor. “There will be no peace in
Europe,” he says at this time to his trusted companions, “until the whole
continent is under one suzerain, an emperor whose chief officers are
kings, whose generals have become monarchs.... Would you tell me that
this plan is but an imitation of the old imperial constitution? Well,
there is nothing new under the sun!”
This gradual transformation of his ideal, and the sustenance of the new
ideal by the historical imagination, has immeasurable consequences.
Precisely because the adoption of the Carlovingian scheme involves for
him a renunciation, he storms forward in pursuit of it as if he were
fighting for a province. The haste with which he tries to reconstruct the
empire of Charlemagne is new, is symptomatic of a fever which will drive
him towards new goals before he has reached the old ones.
XI
Since the spring, his army has been assembled in Boulogne in readiness
for the repeatedly postponed landing in England. But in the autumn, when
the menace of a fresh Austrian attack becomes a certainty, with a change
of plans which is decided on in a couple of days and is carried out in a
fortnight, he directs all his forces eastward, and is across the Rhine in
advance of the news of his first movement. Just before leaving the coast,
he dictates to Daru the whole scheme of the attack on Austria, “the
order and length of the marches, the meeting places of the columns, the
attacks by storm, the movements and the blunders of the enemy—all this
two months before the events, and at a distance of six or seven hundred
miles from the scene of action.”
Austria had good reason for taking up arms once more. On the knob of the
new king of Italy’s sceptre, the lion of Venice was graven. This, and
the seizure of Genoa, were urgent warnings to the Habsburg ruler not to
venture across the Alps a third time. Francis must be content to fight
the matter out on German soil. England was liberal with proffers of
money; and the inexhaustible forces of Russia were again available for
the coalition, as they had been when it was victorious during Bonaparte’s
absence in Egypt. The new tsar was determined to overcome Europe’s old
prejudice against Russia, and, with an exchange of roles, to draw his
sword against the tyrant of the West. The secret of Napoleon’s fighting
technique had been learned, and this time the engineer should be hoist
with his own petard.
But the soldier of genius can evolve new methods of victory. By forced
marches he encircles the Austrians before they realise what is afoot,
encloses them in an iron ring at Ulm, and compels the capitulation of an
army which has not even a chance to fire a shot. “I have attained my end,
and have annihilated the Austrian army by simple marches. Now I shall
turn against the Russians. They are lost.”
The habit of success is making him thrifty of his words. “I had a
rough time of it, rougher than necessary,” he writes to Josephine;
“wet through day after day for a week, and my feet very cold.” Among
the gold-bedizened marshals, who are for the first time parading their
splendours on foreign soil, stands Napoleon to receive the capitulation
of Ulm. He wears the uniform of a private soldier, a mantle weather-worn
at elbows and skirt, a hat without a cockade. His arms are locked behind.
Of the imperial purple there is no sign.
Once more, as on the evening after Marengo, he offers peace, sends an
admonitory letter to the defeated Austrian emperor, writing as usual
with the frankness which is so annoying to the diplomats of Europe: “You
will understand that it is only right and proper if I take advantage of
my good luck to impose, as condition of peace, that you should give me
guarantees against a fourth coalition with England.... Nothing would
make me happier than to combine the tranquillity of my people with your
friendship, upon which I venture to make a claim, despite the number and
strength of my enemies in your entourage.” At the same time, he marches
on Vienna.
Then, while he is advancing at topmost speed, comes a blow. He learns
that two days after his victory on land had come the sea-fight of
Trafalgar, when England had almost annihilated the French fleet. Eighteen
ships have been lost; Nelson is dead; the French admiral is a prisoner.
Is this another disastrous hour, like the one when the news of Aboukir
reached him in the desert? Courage! Then the situation was a hundredfold
more difficult. We are not now cut off from Paris by the sea; we need
no ships. With redoubled speed he marches on Vienna, which the enemy
surrenders without a blow.
But the tidings of Trafalgar have renewed Francis’ fixity of purpose,
and have made Alexander firmer than ever. Both try to win over Prussia,
which hesitates, and protracts negotiations. Napoleon vainly tempts
the tsar with the promise of Turkey. In Brünn there is a great game of
hide-and-seek, in which each power tries to keep the others in suspense
and is disavowed by its own plenipotentiaries. The Emperor is the only
ruler who improvises a political idea. Two days before the decisive
battle, for which preparations are already being made, he writes to
Talleyrand, who is negotiating in Brünn:
“I should have no serious objection to handing over Venice to the elector
of Salzburg, and Salzburg to the house of Austria. I shall take Verona
... for the kingdom of Italy.... The elector can call himself king of
Venice if he has a fancy that way.
“The electorate of Bavaria would become a monarchy.... I will give
back the artillery, the magazines, and the fortresses, and they must
pay me five millions.... To-morrow, I think, we shall have a pretty
big battle with the Russians. I have done my utmost to avoid it, for
it is only useless bloodshed. I have exchanged a few letters with the
tsar, and learn from what he writes that he is a good fellow, with bad
counsellors.... Write to Paris, but don’t say anything about the battle,
for that would make my wife anxious. You don’t need to worry. I am in a
very strong position here, and my only regret is for the almost needless
bloodshed which the battle will cost.... You write home for me; I have
been in camp among my grenadiers for the last four days, and have to
write on my knees, so I can’t manage many letters.”
Such is the Emperor’s mood just before the most famous of his victories.
While he is studying his maps, noting the name of every Moravian village,
the width of every stream, and the condition of every road, and while he
does his best to keep himself warm by the camp-fire, he is thinking of
the ministers in Paris who are awaiting his commands, and of his wife
who may be anxious. In the same half hour, he drafts a new programme
for the partition of four or five States, talks of new crowns, of war
indemnities, and of handing over fortresses. Twice his laments for the
useless bloodshed light up the written page like the rising sun of one of
these December days. Need we be surprised that such a man conquers the
legitimate princes, who at this moment are dining in their palaces?
In the evening, when he learned the enemy’s movements, he clapped his
hands, and, “trembling with joy” (the words are his adjutant’s), said:
“They are walking into the trap! They are delivering themselves into my
hands! By to-morrow evening, their army will be annihilated!”
Then he sits down with his staff to supper in a peasant’s hut, and,
an unusual thing with him, remains at table for some time after his
meal, emotioned and musing. He goes on to speak at considerable length
concerning the nature of tragedy. From this, he passes to Egypt: “If I
had taken Acre, I should have donned a turban, have clad my soldiers in
wide Turkish trousers. But only in the utmost need should I have exposed
my Frenchmen to serious danger; I should have made of them a corps of
immortals, the Holy Battalion. I should have fought the war with the
Turks to a finish by the use of Arab, Greek, and Armenian levies. I
should have won a great battle at Issus, instead of in Moravia, should
have become Emperor of the East, and should have made my way back to
Paris through Constantinople.” The concluding words, so one who heard
the soliloquy tells us, were accompanied with a smile, as if to show his
awareness that he was being carried away by a rapturous dream.
But is not the scene we are describing a dream? Must we really and
truly believe that, little more than a century ago, a mortal man, the
understudy of a demigod, stormed across modern Europe and remoulded it
in accordance with his will? Did it not all happen in the Homeric age,
when two princes in single combat would settle the fate of generations?
Or, perhaps, he is a character in a fairy-tale, this man in the middle
thirties, a little fellow, seated in a wattle-and-dab hut, on an unknown
plain. He wears a greasy coat, a clammy shirt; stuffs potatoes and onions
into his hungry mouth. Next day, by this one battle, he will renew the
glories of Charlemagne, dead a thousand years since. Now, over night, his
unbridled imagination wanders across Asiatic deserts, where a stone-heap
successfully resisted him; dwells on that old frustrated plan; while his
errant thoughts follow the wraith of the Macedonian to the Ganges.
Day dawns. A year ago, on the altar steps in Notre Dame, he had crowned
himself with the circlet of golden laurels. In a fervent proclamation,
he reminds his soldiers of that day, and concludes with the promise that
for this once he will keep out of the firing line.
Never before has history recorded such words uttered by a commander. They
have always been eager to declare their determination to defy death in
the forefront of the battle. Napoleon, whose grenadiers have seen him
in twenty fights and regard him as a heavenborn leader, can venture to
tell his men that he will reward their valour by being careful of his own
safety.
Then the Emperor defeats both his enemies, and makes famous for a
thousand years an out-of-the-way spot of which no one had ever heard
before—the plain of Austerlitz.
“Soldiers,” he says next day to the victors, “I am pleased with you....
Name your children after me, and if one of them should prove worthy of
us, I will make him my own son and appoint him my successor!” That is the
emotional note he keeps for the army. To his wife, he writes as simply as
possible: “I have beaten the Russian and Austrian armies. Rather tired,
after a week in the open, when the nights have been chilly. To-night I
shall sleep in a bed, in Prince Kaunitz’ fine castle. I’m wearing a clean
shirt, the first time for a week.... I hope to get two or three hours’
sleep.”
Quite a simple matter, these momentous happenings! It is but a new
song in the rhapsody when, a day later, Emperor Francis comes to Count
Kaunitz’ castle, to beg for an interview with the little Corsican
lieutenant. But the bird has flown. When the two men meet at length,
it is in a windmill. Napoleon greets his brother emperor courteously,
saying: “I regret, Sire, that I must receive you here, in the only palace
I have entered for two months.” What self-confidence in the soldier
interviewing the man born in the purple; what subtle mockery in the mouth
of one who knows that in his distant capital, at news of his splendid
victory, flags will soon wave and songs resound.
But the distinguished guest, a man of sound sense and good breeding,
knows how to parry the thrust: “Your present quarters are so profitable
to you, Sire, that I think they cannot fail to please you.” Both smile;
and unobtrusively they eye one another up and down, for, though they have
fought for a decade, they have never met. Of the same age, they had both
reached power at twenty-six or thereabouts, though in such different
ways; and neither of them can foresee how close Napoleon’s will-to-peace
is one day to bring them, or how widely Francis’ will-to-revenge will
ultimately sever them.
“Yesterday I had the German emperor in camp with me and we had two
hours’ talk.... He threw himself on my generosity. But I took good
care of myself, as I am used to doing.... We have agreed to make peace
promptly.... The battle of Austerlitz is the finest of all I have fought.
We have taken forty-five regimental colours, more than one hundred and
fifty guns, the flag of the Russian guard, twenty generals, and thirty
thousand prisoners in all. More than twenty thousand killed—a ghastly
sight!” Did the jubilant outburst of a conqueror ever come to a stranger
close? He luxuriates in the figures of his gains, and then, suddenly, the
corpses of the dead rise before his eyes! Henceforward, such references
become frequent; he writes in simple and heartfelt words about bloodshed.
In the peace negotiations, the minister has a contest with his master.
The day after Austerlitz, Talleyrand writes to the Emperor: “How easy
would it be, now, to destroy the Habsburgs once for all. But it would
suit our book better to strengthen them, to give them a fixed place in
France’s system!” Napoleon, however, enforces the peace of Pressburg, in
which the old German empire is shattered into fragments, while Austria
vanishes from Germany and Italy. What is in the conqueror’s mind?
Europe! A league of States under French hegemony. Russia is Asia; England
is detached, an island. The Continent must be unified, must consist
of middle-sized and small powers overshadowed by the eagles of France,
and democratically ranged side by side. Now, after Austerlitz, the new
thought takes shape. The victory has put it within his power to realise
the greatest aim of a European, the unification of Europe.
He did not set out towards this goal. It was a gradual growth, the
fruit of circumstances. He did not deliberately provoke the wars that
were fought when the new idea was in its inception. Since Marengo, his
chief wish has been for peace. At that time, Austria had been loath to
make peace. The Austrian renewal of the attack was a logical outcome of
legitimist theory, for Habsburg and the revolution could not jointly
rule Europe. Austerlitz had settled the dispute once more. Now it had
become possible to reunite Charlemagne’s resurrected Europe. But neither
the kings and emperors (who were only beaten, not convinced), nor he
himself (who had gained all by the sword and not by persuasion), could
march along the way of the spirit towards the unification of Europe. The
determinisms of his own past left Napoleon no option but to create his
United States of Europe by force. Not till ten years later did he come to
see that he had been seeking to achieve a great end by false means.
When he came to understand this, it was too late; he was impotent, in the
great epilogue of his exile.
XII
“Tell the pope that I am keeping my eyes open; tell him that I am
Charlemagne, the Sword of the Church, his Emperor, and as such I expect
to be treated.”
Thus threateningly he writes to Rome. If he must bow before this
mole-hill, at least he will enforce obedience. His demeanour is infused
with a new tone since Austerlitz and Pressburg. From conquered Austria,
he writes in a dictatorial style which neither he nor Europe has
hitherto known. The queen of Naples, despite his yearlong warnings, has
permitted English ships to anchor in the bay. An army order is issued:
“The Bourbon dynasty has ceased to reign in Naples.” Simultaneously, he
writes to Brother Joseph: “I think I have already told you that I intend
the kingdom of Naples to accrue to my family, so that, like Switzerland,
Holland, Italy, and the three German kingdoms, it may belong to my
federated States or, rather, to the French Empire.”
Henceforward he endeavours to make the plan a reality, the plan whereby
Europe shall be governed by one emperor with kings as vassals. Paris,
which now acclaims the conqueror, shall be the capital city of the
Continent. The Emperor has, in the best sense of the term, “come home
again.” He exclaims: “This campaign has made me fat! I believe that if
all the princes of Europe were to ally themselves against me, I should
develop an absurdly wide paunch!” In such a mood does he hurl himself
from recent events into new adventures and allow them to run their course.
During the next few months he organises, from Paris, the following
realms: Joseph becomes king of Naples; the princes of Bavaria and
Württemberg are turned into kings; Baden is changed into a grand duchy;
Eugene weds a daughter of the House of Wittelsbach; a Badenese hereditary
prince marries a niece of Josephine’s; a Württemberg princess is reserved
for his youngest brother; sixteen States of southern and western Germany
are joined together to form the Confederation of the Rhine, vassals of
the Emperor, liable for the payment of tribute and the provision of
troops, and the sixteen German princes hasten to Paris to vow allegiance,
hoping to get a share for themselves in the great mart; a dozen small
principalities are wiped out; imperial fiefs are established for
Talleyrand, Berthier, and Bernadotte.
Meanwhile Napoleon announces, curtly and conclusively: “Holland has no
executive. She must have one. I will give her Prince Louis. We will
frame a treaty.... For me the whole matter is settled: either thus, or
annexation to France.... Not a minute must be lost.” Why “not a minute”?
Holland has been dependent for years; she only needs a crowned vassal;
her dependence is to be made clearer by the phrasing, “Napoleon bestows
his brother on Holland.” The Dutch object? Then they shall be gobbled up;
the choice is quickly made. Louis does not care for the honour; climate
bad; health weak? “It is better to die sitting on a throne, than to live
a mere prince in France.” Hortense must become a queen, Josephine is
aglow for the consummation; the Dutch must present a solemn petition, and
must be graciously received by the Emperor in the Tuileries. But Napoleon
is so overcome by the irony of the situation, he is so contemptuous, that
after the audience he cannot resist telling his little nephew (son of the
new king of Holland), in front of the ladies of the court, the fable of
the frogs who wanted a king.
What next? His sisters are complaining and intriguing. Are there no more
kingdoms available? The pity of it. Oh well, a few grand duchies must be
vacated! Through Murat’s promotion, Caroline becomes grand duchess of
Cleves; Elise is made grand duchess of Tuscany; and the lovely Pauline
Borghese weeps because she is nothing more than princess of Guastalla.
“Why, it’s no more than a village! And I’m to be princess of that?”
Still, she soon finds consolation in an ocean of diamonds and lovers.
None of the clan are equal to the occasion. King Joseph, in his first
proclamation, compares the love of his subjects (who have never clapped
eyes on him till yesterday) towards himself with the love of the French
towards their emperor. He covers himself with ridicule, and makes the
Emperor furious. King Louis utters piteous sighs because the war with
England forces him to interfere with “his country’s” trade; and he sends,
instead of troops, long letters to the Emperor filled with complaints.
“Really, you are throwing unnecessary burdens upon me,” replies Napoleon,
in a hectoring tone. “It is all due to your narrow-mindedness and
your lack of interest.... I wish you were not always whining!... Leave
wailing and complaining to women; a man must be determined.... You are
governing far too gently. You allow me to bear the full brunt of the war
expenses.... See to it that you raise an army of thirty thousand men. You
only think of yourself; that is neither good nor magnanimous.... More
energy!”
Elise, who dominates her husband, gives a constitution to Tuscany, holds
reviews of the troops, changes her favourites every quarter, and amuses
Napoleon by an assumption of the imperial style: “My people is content;
the opposition is crushed; your commands, Sire, have been carried out. I
am much pleased with the Senate; it is showing deference to my authority.”
Murat, for excess of zeal, draws upon himself a reprimand phrased with
Napoleon’s customary bluntness: “I have seen decrees issued by yourself
which are quite senseless. You seem to have lost your reason!... All you
appear to have in mind is to reign and nothing more!”
Pauline, however, is immortalised by Canova, in a work which outlasts all
the realms Napoleon has set up.
Young Jerome, who has gone to America in his capacity of midshipman,
has meanwhile married a lady of the middle class without consulting his
family. The Emperor, who has more crowns to dispose of than siblings to
give them to, and cannot spare any of his brothers, is outraged by this
marriage. He pursuades his mother to utter a prohibition. When the young
man’s ship puts in to Lisbon, the vessel is surrounded; Jerome alone is
permitted to land. Bidding the lady farewell, the youthful husband swears
everlasting troth; he travels alone to Paris; is received by the Emperor
with threats and lures; at length he gives up his spouse for the sake
of princely honours and a post as admiral; maybe, even, he will become
a king. The wife fruitlessly endeavours to land on the Continent; she
journeys to England, where she brings a child into the world. There she
meets Lucien, her companion in misfortune. He has been well received by
the English, and settles in the island realm with his wife and children.
He writes poetry. An epic. What is it called?
_Charlemagne._
The only member of the family who is active, loyal, and, for the most
part, judicious in his undertakings is Napoleon’s step-son Eugene. The
Emperor loves him, publicly praises his work whenever possible, and now,
when Eugene becomes viceroy of Italy and spouse of the Bavarian Princess,
Napoleon writes: “You are working too hard, dear son. That is all very
well for yourself, but you have a young wife who has hopes.... Why do
you not go once a week to the theatre and occupy the royal box?... One
can accomplish much business in a short time. I am leading the same kind
of life as yourself, but my wife is getting on in years—also I have
more business to deal with!” To his step-daughter-in-law, from whom he
categorically demands a male heir (seeing that Hortense’s son has but
one life, and the dynasty needs additional safeguards!), he writes:
“Do not give us a daughter, please! Here is a recipe for you: drink
some undiluted wine, daily—only you’ll never believe me!” When, in his
despite, she gives birth to a daughter, he says: “If one begins with a
daughter, one is destined to have a dozen children!”
How marvellously Napoleon, the great stylist, can accommodate his tone to
every circumstance—to inspire dread or to flatter, to praise, to spur on,
to punish, or to persuade. He pours this out upon a family which is ever
acting in opposition to him, and expends himself thus in the interludes
of all his other business.