one—to detect the first cracks in his master’s system. A year before,
after the drawn game of Eylau, he had foreseen the possibility of his
master’s failure in Russia. This had come to him as the vision of a great
statesman, and he had promptly deduced therefrom the mission of a great
and statesmanlike traitor. Matters had been privately arranged between
Napoleon and Alexander; the Emperor was relying on the tsar (to the
exclusion of Talleyrand); Napoleon was cherishing a Carlovingian dream,
interpenetrated with thoughts of Cæsarism: the fantastical elements in
Napoleon’s schemes for world conquest had estranged Talleyrand from his
master’s policy. But instead of cutting adrift from Napoleon, he had been
content, on specious pretexts, to resign his ministerial post, receiving
instead a lucrative position among the dignitaries of the empire. Both
men hoped to gain by the change; Napoleon thinking that he would be able
to keep better watch on Talleyrand, and Talleyrand fancying that he would
be able to keep better watch on the Emperor’s secret thoughts. He was
still grand chamberlain; and Champagny, his successor as minister, was a
butt for Napoleon’s shafts of ridicule. Thus, even after the divorce from
his master, Talleyrand remained the sultan’s favourite, and his power
was redoubled by his shifts as a trickster no longer hampered by official
responsibility.
His doubts as to the stability of Napoleon’s position were confirmed
by the progress of events in Spain. Directly he saw that the Emperor’s
mind was set on this act of plunder, he realised that its upshot would
be disastrous, and for that very reason encouraged his master to the
venture. Since the days of Louis XIV., said Talleyrand, the Spanish
crown had always been an apanage of the rulers of France. Napoleon,
when his mind had been rendered effervescent by this and similar
pseudo-arguments, decided upon the occupation of Catalonia “for the
duration of the war with England.” Now the intriguer promptly returned to
a critical attitude, and laughed to himself when the Emperor gave him the
ignominious task of entertaining the infantes of Spain in their durance
at his mansion near Valençay.
He wants privacy, that he may keep watch on the kidnapped princes, and,
through their instrumentality, not only spy upon England, but also keep
England informed. Thence it is but a step to open betrayal, and that
step Talleyrand now takes. This is in keeping with his whole career as
a statesman. Henceforward he sends Tolstoy and Metternich (the envoys
of Tsar Alexander and Emperor Francis in Paris) private information.
How can he make his duplicity square with his duties to the master, to
whose service he is pledged as imperial official, court official, and
confidential adviser?
There is a scene about the matter.
“Well, you see,” says the Emperor on his return from Spain, “they all
walked into the net I spread for them!”
“I think, Sire, you have lost more than you have won by what has happened
at Bayonne.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something quite simple. Let me explain my meaning by an example. If a
man of standing commits follies, keeps mistresses, treats his wife and
his friends badly, he will be blamed; but his wealth and his power
will enable him to regain the good opinion of society. But if the same
man cheats at cards, he is expelled from good society, which will never
forgive him.”
The Emperor turns pale—so Talleyrand reports and will not speak to him
for the rest of the day. Why does he not drive the plain speaker out
of his circle? Why does he not banish Talleyrand to the West Indies?
Napoleon receives a moral castigation from a scion of the old nobility,
and still keeps the man in his entourage! Or was Talleyrand lying? We
may have all the more confidence in the diplomat’s memoirs, seeing that
they were written twenty years later, after the Restoration; were written
to show how he had always played double, and (of course, owing to his
respect for the claims of the legitimate rulers!) had served his imperial
master only by halves. We can assume that the words were actually spoken,
and to a man to whom hardly any one now spoke the truth, to a man whom
even fewer now ventured to affront. Why does Napoleon keep Talleyrand in
his service?
“He is the only one who understands me,” said the Emperor of Talleyrand
again and again. That accounts for much. Talleyrand’s unscrupulous way
of thinking, his freedom from all qualms of conscience, furnished a
tilting-ground on which the Emperor could joust freely when running a
political course. The others had principles or considerations which must
first be leapt over. Because Talleyrand was exempt from all prejudices of
class and time, and also lacked the ordering ideas with which Napoleon
fashioned his realm out of the chaos of chances, the wily opportunist,
whose only passion was for money, was the best adviser of the other
realist, who could only assuage his stormy imagination in a perpetual
succession of new plans.
That is why they understood one another, though only in the superficial
regions of their respective characters. Napoleon never plumbed the depths
of the treason that Talleyrand was preparing.
Here, in Erfurt, the great day for the double-dealer has at last dawned.
When the German princes gather round him and listen as he talks of the
Emperor, he gives little heed to these pygmies, for there is some one
else who will pay a far higher price for information, will pay both in
political advantages and in ready cash.
Alexander is prompt to seize the opportunity! The Russian has been well
informed by his representative in Paris, and is almost as inquisitive
concerning this Frenchman as he is concerning the Emperor. Talleyrand
soon meets the tsar in the reception room of the Princess of Thurn and
Taxis, who keeps open house every evening after the play. Talleyrand’s
report of the encounter, written several decades later, reads like the
utterance of a Mephistopheles: “The arts which I had prepared for the
capture of the tsar were quite unneeded. At my first word he understood
me, just as I had wished him to understand.”
The play of their eyes conveyed a meaning which was not manifest in the
words, for on the first day Talleyrand had said to the tsar: “Sire, what
are you thinking of doing here? It lies with you to save Europe. But you
will not succeed in your task unless you become a match for the Emperor.
The French people is civilised: their ruler is not. The ruler of Russia
is civilised: his people is not. Thus, the ruler of Russia should be the
ally of the French people.... Your Majesty should not allow yourself to
be inveigled into any disciplinary measures against Austria, but should
consent to undertake the same duties towards that country as those my
master has undertaken.”
During the long evenings, over a glass of punch or a dish of tea,
Talleyrand (who, like Napoleon, knows the manifold arts of the seducer)
instils into the tsar’s brain all the truths and the hopes he wishes
to bring to life within this suggestible spirit. The tsar shows his
appreciation of the diplomat’s indiscretions at France’s expense by
bestowing his favour upon the Emperor’s confidential adviser. He promises
the hand of a Russian princess to one of Talleyrand’s nephews; she is
the richest heiress in the eastern realm.
Alexander, who in any case had come to Erfurt in a cautious frame of
mind (for his relatives had succeeded in arousing suspicions before he
started), is now for the first time able to resist Napoleon. In their
private interviews, each is always trying to humbug the other; the
honeymoon atmosphere of Tilsit has vanished, and the tsar’s enthusiasm
for the Emperor is a thing of the past.
Napoleon is taken aback. He makes Talleyrand draft the new treaty of
alliance. Then, with great labour, he transcribes it, inserting his own
emendations, and takes it to Alexander, who has to promise that no one
shall hear a word of what is written in this secret document. The tsar
gives the required pledge; but the very same evening he hands Talleyrand
the amended treaty, so that the author of the draft learns what
alterations his master has made. In the end, this treaty is not signed.
At night, the Emperor summons Talleyrand, who plays the part of Iago
admirably. The Emperor says: “I can make no headway with him; he takes
such short views.”
“But he is completely under your spell, Sire.”
“He makes you think so, and you are taken in by him. If he is really fond
of me, why won’t he sign?”
“He is a man of knightly faith,” answers Talleyrand. “His simple word and
his inclinations will bind him more strongly than a treaty.”
“I shall not talk to him about this matter any more; for if I do, he
will think I have it very much at heart. Our private interviews will
be enough to make Austria believe that there is a secret treaty.... I
cannot understand your fondness for Austria, a country whose whole policy
recalls that of our old regime!”
When fundamental principles are under discussion, Talleyrand is apt to
become more communicative: “It seems to me that Austrian policy is also
that of the new regime, and I venture to say it ought to be your own
policy. People count on you, Sire, to safeguard civilisation.”
“Civilisation!...” Napoleon halts in front of the fireplace, and, with
a sudden change of tone, says softly: “Do you know why no one will
negotiate with me plainly and straightforwardly? Because I have no
children.... That is the secret. People are afraid of me, and every one
wants to snatch what advantages he can. This is an unfortunate state of
affairs for the world, and it must be altered.”
A few days pass. Intercourse between the two rulers seems more cordial;
etiquette has been forgotten; they come and go freely, like ordinary
friends in private life. Napoleon spreads his nets cunningly. He says to
the tsar: “Yes, I need rest; I need a home. How can one get these when
one has no children? My wife is ten years older than I,” he goes on,
falsely adding four years to Josephine’s tale. “Please excuse me. What I
have just said may sound rather absurd, but I do not wish, where you are
concerned, to hide the stirrings of my heart.” A pause. “Hullo, I see
it’s almost dinner time, and Baron Vincent is still waiting my leave to
depart.”
The kings of the drawing-room are fond of describing Napoleon as a man
of camps; but how prettily he can introduce a delicate topic just before
dinner, so that he can slip away without having it discussed at this
state. Late that evening he summons Talleyrand to his bedside; orates,
questions, suggests combinations, and issues orders by turns. At length
he speaks of divorce. “Fate constrains me to it, and it is essential to
the tranquillity of France. I have no successor. Joseph is a man of no
account, and his children are all girls. I must found a dynasty, and my
consort must be the daughter of a great line. Alexander has sisters, and
one of them is of suitable age. Have a talk with Romanzoff. When the
Spanish affair is settled, I shall discuss the partition of Turkey. Tell
him this, and use other arguments as well. I know you have long been in
favour of the divorce.”
Next day, Talleyrand broaches the topic with the tsar, who has been
influenced by the suggestion the Emperor has instilled with his
assumption of melancholy overnight. “No one fully understands the man’s
character,” says Alexander, much moved. “All the commotion he spreads
abroad is an inevitable outcome of his position. No one realises how good
he is. You know him so well. What is your opinion?”
Talleyrand has no intention of saying what he really thinks, but deems it
expedient, at this juncture, to let Alexander know what Napoleon had let
fall about the Russian princess. “I should have no objection,” rejoins
the tsar promptly, “but I cannot dispose of my sister’s hand without my
mother’s consent.”
Thereafter, a long conversation between the emperors, and a renewal of
intimacy; Alexander spends some more evenings with Talleyrand, talking
over the teacups—but no conclusion is reached. The expanded treaty
of alliance between the emperors is not signed at Erfurt, nor is the
marriage to Alexander’s sister arranged. Although Napoleon receives more
adulation than ever before, he is disappointed at having to leave without
his treaty and without his Russian bride. The only one who brings home
substantial advantages is Talleyrand, for he has secured the new niece’s
millions.
Meanwhile the thirty-eight princes have been cajoled or threatened,
rewarded or ignored, by the Emperor and his train. “In Erfurt,” writes
Talleyrand, “not a man among them was bold enough to face the lion.... On
the last day he was surrounded by princes whose armies he had seized or
destroyed, whose States and existence he had curtailed, but not one of
them ventured even to proffer a request. The only wish of them all was
to be seen; and to be seen last if possible, in order to remain in his
memory.”
In any case, Napoleon thinks Vienna will believe that to have been
settled which unfortunately has not been settled. Fear will achieve
what he has failed to secure through a treaty. He does not know that
Talleyrand has betrayed him to Metternich, saying: “It rests with you
to restore your relationships with Russia to the intimate footing that
existed before Austerlitz. Nothing but an alliance between Austria and
Russia can save the vestiges of Europe’s independence.” The Austrian
diplomat writes exultantly in his report: “At length we have entered a
new epoch, in which allies offer themselves to us from within the French
Empire.”
Farewells are taken. The Emperor, watched by the princes, exchanges
a brotherly kiss with Alexander. All the onlookers are profoundly
impressed by this token of friendship in the pair who rule the world. But
Talleyrand, hat in hand, smiles inwardly, for over the teacups at the
German princess’ he has been able to undermine the foundations of this
friendship.
In four years his labours will bear fruit, and the fruit will poison
Napoleon.
XX
Brightly, against this dull background of German princelets, shines the
torch of the German spirit. “I have gained only one thing here to take
back with me to Paris: that you will have a pleasant memory of me.” To
the Weimar circle, the Emperor says these words on the evening of his
departure, for here and in Erfurt he has spent several evenings among
those who are the true princes of Germany—princes who have no ancestors,
but only genius. Himself a genius without ancestors, it is solely among
them that he feels at home; though, during this fortnight, he experiences
so much that increases his misanthropic contempt for his fellow-men,
a contempt which has its counterpart in the respect he feels for the
German spirit. The works of the masters of German literature are, indeed,
unknown to him; but he knows their reputation, he knows the position
they occupy in the invisible German and the imperial French Republic.
That is why he seeks them out.
Two years before, in Potsdam, he had summoned Johannes von Müller to his
presence, and nothing throws a stronger light upon the significance of
their conversation than the reserve with which the Prussianised Swiss
historian treats the incident. With all the precision of a mind that knew
so well how to classify its materials, the Emperor was able, without
periphrases, to come direct to the topics which must interest every
historian, and were especially interesting to this one. Within three
minutes, the pair were deep in the profoundest problems of history.
The Emperor spoke of Tacitus. Then he sketched the main epochs of
intellectual life, and waxed enthusiastic concerning the wonderful
manner in which Greek culture was renovated by Christianity when Roman
culture was decaying. How adroit had been the Greek tactic, when Greece,
conquered by the Roman sword, had found a way to reassert her dominance
over the things of the spirit. These words, addressed by Napoleon so soon
after the battle of Jena to a man of learning in Prussian service, convey
both recognition and a challenge. The Emperor showed himself even more
affable by going on to advise Müller to write a history of the Napoleonic
exploits—advice he had never given to any Frenchman. Then he spoke of the
basis of all religions, and of the need for religion. “The conversation
was a long one,” writes Müller. “It embraced nearly all lands and nations
in its scope.... The more interesting he became, the more did he drop
his voice, so that at length I had to come very close to him, and no one
else in the room can have heard what he was saying. Much of it, indeed, I
shall never disclose.”
From this remarkable conclusion to a bald report, we may infer, not only
the discretion of the grave historian, but also the splendid frankness
which the Emperor could show when holding forth in monologue to a man of
mark.
Now, in Weimar, he pays especial attention to old Wieland, compares him
to Voltaire, but asks him rather critically when he mixes up romance and
history. “A man of outstanding intelligence, like you, should know how to
keep them apart. Running them together is apt to lead to confusion.”
Something more serious than literary criticism is involved, for when
Wieland ably defends his misuse of history, and goes on to speak of
virtue as an example, the Emperor pulls him up with customary bluntness,
saying: “But don’t you know what happens to people who are always
expounding virtue in the realm of fable and nowhere else? In the end they
come to believe that virtue itself is nothing more than a fable.”
Napoleon turns back to Tacitus, for he always keeps a sharp eye on this
Roman historian, as if the man, like Madame de Staël to-day, might
still work mischief in Parisian drawing-rooms. As a development of this
criticism, speaking in a modern ball-room, Napoleon utters great things
concerning the activities of men: “Tacitus has not sufficiently studied
the causes and the inner motives of events. His enquiries into the
mystery of actions and states of mind have not been sufficiently profound
to enable him to hand down an unprejudiced judgment to posterity. A
historian should take men and nations as they are, should appraise them
as their time and their circumstances have made them.... I have heard
him extolled because he would fain make tyrants dread the people, but
that would be very unfortunate for the people! Perhaps I am boring you?
We did not come here to talk about Tacitus. Look how beautifully Emperor
Alexander dances!”
Wieland has been waiting for this moment. In a carefully prepared speech,
he defends the old Roman against the new, so that, at the end, the
Weimarian dignitaries and any others who are listening cannot restrain
their jubilation.
The Emperor has listened attentively. All now look at him, wondering what
he will say. Will he politely withdraw from the discussion? Napoleon,
as if on the battle-field, has been wondering upon what private
information his adversary’s unexpected attack can have been based, and
how the onslaught can best be parried. Unquestionably, the speech was not
improvised. But how on earth had it entered Wieland’s mind to get up that
particular topic? Suddenly the Emperor, who in the interim has talked to
hundreds upon hundreds of persons, recalls his conversation with Johannes
von Müller two years back.
“I certainly have a strong opponent,” he says, when the old gentleman
has finished the harangue. “You make full use of your advantages. Do you
happen to be in correspondence with Herr Müller, whom I met in Potsdam?”
Every one in the audience smiles, including Wieland, who is fonder of wit
than of himself, and frankly rejoins:
“Yes, Sire, it was he who told me that you do not like Tacitus.”
“Well, I do not admit defeat,” says the Emperor. He returns to his Greek
and Christian ideas, develops them further and more boldly, for he
sees that the clever old Wieland is a sceptic: “Furthermore,” he says
in low tones, shading his mouth with his hand, and coming close to his
interlocutor, “it remains an open question whether Christ ever lived.”
Conqueror and poet. One of them is still in his prime, a ruler who has
re-established the Christian faith upon the ruins of the revolutionary
cult of reason, but is now more or less at odds with the Church. The
other is a venerable poet, a pagan whom Napoleon has just coupled with
Voltaire, a man who has maintained the cause of reason against the cause
of Christ, a member of a conquered nation, and physically so frail
that again and again he has to lean on the back of a chair. The former
whispers to the latter that it is probable Christ never lived. But the
old man has for half a century been justly regarded as the wittiest among
the Germans. He will show the Emperor that, in the intellectual world at
any rate, a German can courteously exchange thrusts with a Frenchman, and
he hastens to reply: “I know that there are foolish people who doubt
that Christ lived. But it would be just as absurd to doubt that Julius
Cæsar lived; or that you, Sire, are alive to-day!”
Thus with a sally in the French manner Wieland upholds both German
courtesy and wit, and the historicity of Christ. The Emperor, without
committing himself, is content to drop the subject, and to clap the poet
on the shoulder, saying: “Excellent, excellent, Herr Wieland!” Then
raising his voice, he talks to his ball-room audience about the value
of Christianity as one of the buttresses of the State. But although he
was obviously eager to continue his talk with Wieland, the latter showed
plainly that he was too tired to stand any longer, and thus the old man’s
fatigue put a premature end to a scene which the aid of a couple of
chairs might have made even more valuable.
One of the silent witnesses of this conversation was Goethe.
A few days earlier, in Erfurt, the Emperor had had an hour’s talk with
Goethe. They were together in a room where, as was Napoleon’s custom
when on a journey, he breakfasted, received, commanded, philosophised,
and signed documents. Their conversation was a union of two minds, the
balancing of counter-poised electrical forces. It was a process of mutual
accommodation in which the two greatest men of their day contemplated
the world together; a duologue in which most of their thoughts were
never uttered, and in which the best elements were an expression of the
homage the two paid one another. Goethe, who learned everything from
nature, though in the reality of the world of men he could only find the
confirmation of his previous imaginings, felt that this conversation was
one of the greatest events in his life, and he described it as such. To
the Emperor it was less significant.
For Goethe had followed the Emperor’s course for a decade, marvelling
all the while; and in his old age he said such profound things about
Napoleon that a century after their utterance they have not been
excelled. Napoleon, on the other hand, knew almost nothing about
Goethe; in especial, he never surmised the poet’s personal admiration
for himself, since the German had hitherto confided his feelings only
to his intimates, and even now kept his own counsel. Though the Emperor
had read _Werther_ several times, the mood that work had aroused was
as completely a thing of the past as those youthful feelings which are
merely compensatory derivatives for an unoccupied imagination. What this
grey-headed poet now signified, was at that time not realised by more
than a hundred Germans, and hardly one Frenchman; and, since his name
in his own country was little known (and, where known, was unpopular
and evoked no enthusiasm), it was natural that the Emperor should know
nothing of him save that he had written some wonderful things which were
unknown to any except the poet’s immediate circle, and that Goethe, at
the time of the battle of Jena, was minister to that Saxon prince who had
incurred the Emperor’s displeasure. When Napoleon summoned Goethe to an
audience, he had less to expect from the poet than he had expected from
Müller and from Wieland.
But such as Napoleon and Goethe need but look in a man’s eyes to know all
about him. Napoleon sits breakfasting at a large, round table; on his
right is Talleyrand; on his left, Daru. Now he looks up, and, seeing the
poet framed in the doorway, invites Goethe to approach. The Emperor is
silent, amazed. There stands the sexagenarian, the most beautiful, the
halest of old men, Goethe in the calm of his age, at the pinnacle of a
strenuously wrought harmony of spirit, a harmony he had never possessed
before and was so soon to lose. Napoleon is too full of admiration to
speak. Then, more to himself than to his companions, he says:
“Voilà un homme!”