in which the dictator of Europe was accustomed to express his will to
those who usually received these missives with trembling. The fugitive
king, meanwhile, drawing a breath of relief, settled down to a literary
life in Graz, writing in three volumes under the title _Marie, ou les
peines d’amour_ (1808), the story of the love affair which the Emperor
had so ruthlessly frustrated. But when Joseph wished to follow Louis’
example, feeling that he would rather retire into private life than
continue to play the part of king in a pack of cards, he was restrained
from abdication by the iron hand of the Emperor. Napoleon considered
that his democratically inclined brother would do more mischief as an
intriguer in Paris than in his position as nominal chief and military
commander; so Joseph had once more to put his hand to the task of war,
for which, to the Emperor’s great annoyance, he was utterly unfitted.
The most frivolous members of the family, Jerome and Pauline, were
amusing themselves with love affairs. Murat and Caroline were immersed
over head and ears in old and new intrigues. As for Elise, she had so
much printed in the Tuscan newspapers anent her reviews and hunting
parties that the Emperor was even more annoyed by her craze for notoriety
than by the things she actually did, and wrote to her, saying: “Europe
pays very little heed to what the grand duchess of Tuscany is doing.”
The most dangerous man in his family circle has not yet become an object
of his menaces. Since the old king of Sweden was on friendly terms with
England, the Emperor had made him abdicate in favour of an uncle; and
the new ruler, who is devoted to the cause of Napoleon, has declared
war against England. Being old and childless, he thinks he cannot
please the Emperor better than by appointing as successor one who is
closely connected with Napoleon by marriage. Thus it is that Bernadotte,
Joseph’s brother-in-law, who during the wars has made friends in Swedish
Pomerania, is unexpectedly nominated crown prince of Sweden—as a result
of a complicated intrigue, in which Fouché has played a considerable
part. The Emperor would have found it difficult, in any case, to object
to this selection of a French general as heir to a foreign throne; and it
was practically impossible for him to interfere with the promotion of his
sometime rival, the man who had nearly prevented the coup d’état of the
Eighteenth Brumaire, and had subsequently become the husband of the woman
whom Napoleon had once thought of marrying. “A good soldier,” growled the
Emperor; “but with no talent for ruling; one of the old Jacobins, with a
bee in his bonnet like the rest of them, and therefore he will never be
able to keep his position on a throne.... Still, I could not interfere,
were it only because it would be impossible to do anything more effective
against the English than to set a French marshal upon the throne of
Gustavus Adolphus.... I am glad to be quit of him.”
Is he really so carefree? Hitherto these folk whom he cannot trust have
always been kept under his own eyes in Paris.
Bernadotte triumphans! Soon, at last, he too will wear a crown, and will
not even have to thank this detested Bonaparte for the gift. To Napoleon,
therefore, who till yesterday was Bernadotte’s supreme war lord, the
crown prince of Sweden now writes a bitter-sweet letter, offering
soldiers and iron, but asking for money. The Emperor smiles. He knows
what is written between the lines, and makes no direct answer. He has
Bernadotte informed that he does not correspond with royal princes. His
old opponent will not forget the gibe. In less than two years, Bernadotte
will take vengeance for it, and for all that has gone before!
Ruefully, the Emperor watches the flames that are springing up
everywhere, the flames his family mania has lighted. He does not conceal
from his intimates that he is disappointed with his kin and his nobles.
Writing to one of them at this time, Napoleon says: “I ought never to
have had Murat and my brothers crowned. Live and learn!... It was a
mistake, too, to give back the confiscated estates to the émigrés. I
should have kept the lands as State domains, and have been content to
allow the former owners a modest income. I can’t stomach them, these
people of the old regime; their light and airy graces are out of keeping
with my serious temperament. I myself did not succeed to a heritage,
but was content to take what belonged to no one. I ought to have been
satisfied with the appointment of governors and viceroys. Some of my
marshals, even, are beginning to dream of greatness and independence.”
At length he has realised that it is dangerous to play the emperor! His
troubles are the fruit of his wish to safeguard a dynasty (this meaning
that the spirits of revolt and of genius, from whose union Napoleon has
sprung, are to be taught to walk in the paths of legitimate mediocrity).
They are the outcome of the weak moments of a man who in his hours of
strength believed in the immortality of deed and of fame, of a man who
in these hours of strength felt no need of the perpetuation that is
achieved by means of a family line. The brothers, and brothers-in-law,
and marshals, who all shine by reflected light, will take vengeance ere
long. When his star pales, and the skies of Europe are overcast, they
will still try to shine across the Continent in the afterglow of his
splendour!
Deeply ingrained in him was the illusion that his good fortune would be
transmitted to his son. When, after the boy’s birth, a great reception
was held, and all the notables came to offer congratulations, the
Schwarzenbergs were among the guests. Schwarzenberg, as Austrian envoy
in Paris, had done much to promote the marriage. The Emperor, full of
gratitude, went up to Princess Schwarzenberg and, taking from his coat a
scarab pin, presented it to her, saying:
“I found this scarab in the tomb of an Egyptian king, and have worn it
ever since as a talisman. Please accept it; I no longer need such a
mascot.”
He feels that the birth of his son has placed him above all possibility
of danger, and that everything will go well with him in future. He can
have no further need for an amulet!
These kings, these brothers, have been but a substitute for the sons that
were lacking. Now, when he can feast his eyes on a son of his body, he
recognises his mistake, and the disastrous consequences of Josephine’s
barrenness are plainer than ever. Too many battles have been fought,
too many years have passed, there has been too much self-restraint and
self-denial, for it to be possible now to give this heir a great place in
his system. The boy has been born too late. The tempo of Napoleon’s life
has been so rapid. The man who at two-and-twenty was still a lieutenant,
had become an emperor at thirty-four. Such a man should have had his
first-born son long before the age of forty-one. He has recklessly
expended his vital energies, and cannot look forward confidently to many
years of power. How can he reasonably expect to establish the child
securely as his successor?
It is, indeed, a poignant sight. Watch this man who is now growing old
with fearful speed, as he dandles the long-desired infant on his knees,
tries his own hat on the baby’s head, watches the child crawling on the
floor while he sits at breakfast, and even (when the youngster grows a
little older) allows him to run about the study. Napoleon is playing the
war game, with little wooden rods representing soldiers dispersed over
the floor, and is planning how to make an end of Wellington in Spain.
The boy is brought to the door. According to the rule of the house, the
governess may not cross this threshold, so Napoleon himself goes to the
door for the child, sets him down among the mimic armies, and, with the
tolerance of a grandfather, lets the child play riot with the battle.
Laughing, he pulls faces at his infant son in front of the looking-glass;
buckles round the body of the two-year-old the sword with which he
has conquered Europe; and, with his actor’s instincts, feels that the
boundaries between jest and earnest are being broken down. Imaginings are
ripening into reality, while all that has seemed to him real is not more
than an image and a parable.
He says that the child is “spirited and sensitive. Just what I want him
to be.... My son is sturdy, and in splendid health. He has my lungs, my
mouth, and my eyes.... I do hope he will turn out well.” In such simple
fashion he writes to Josephine, and to her only. He insists upon her
keeping up the old tone of comradeship, and scolds her when, after the
divorce, she writes to him as “Your Majesty.” “You have written me an
unkind letter. I am always the same; my feelings do not change.... I
shall say no more until you have compared this letter with yours. Then
you can judge for yourself which of us two is more friendly, you or I.”
To no one else can he speak so simply, unless it be to Berthier, whom he
often calls his “wife.” The only thing that annoys him with Josephine is
that she is always running into debt. He thinks that she ought to be able
to save half of her allowance of three millions. “Then in ten years you
would have put by fifteen millions for your grandsons.... Let me know
that you are quite well again. I am told that you are getting as stout
as one of our good Norman peasant women.” But when Josephine continues
to be spendthrift, he tells the steward of her property not to make her
any further payments till evidence is forthcoming that she is no longer
squandering money.
He sees very little more of her, however; and he will have nothing to do
with the lady friends of earlier years. His attitude towards marriage
is that of a respectable citizen, and that of an Italian. Besides, as a
sovereign prince he wishes to set a good example to his subjects. Since
Marie Louise makes no nationalist pretensions (for, being of a dull,
easy-going, and fickle temperament, she has promptly come to regard
herself as a Frenchwoman), the two get on very well together. He has
always time to spare for her. When she is learning to ride, he walks
patiently at her bridle. He, who has never waited before, will even wait
when she is late for dinner. She is not afraid of him, and is saucy
enough to tell the Austrian envoy that she thinks her husband is a little
afraid of her. It is important to the Emperor that he should make a good
impression upon the Hofburg. Regarding it as politically expedient that
a report of his wife’s happiness shall be sent to Vienna, he brings
Metternich to see the empress, and tells the envoy to stay until some
one fetches him. Napoleon goes away, locking the door of the room after
him. He does not release the prisoners for an hour, and then, with a sly
laugh, asks Metternich whether he is satisfied, now, that the empress is
happy.
These are nothing more than jests, but that he can find it possible
to make them in a period of grave decisions indicates that there is a
certain release of tension in his heavily laden heart. In truth, Marie
Louise’s only service to him was that, during the years with which we are
now dealing, her freshness did actually bring him such a solace.
But the marriage did not effect the desired release of political tension.
Felix Austria, accustomed to gain advantages by these royal marriages,
had hoped for a couple of provinces as dower, but had received nothing.
All the more, therefore, must Emperor Francis feel rancorous on account
of the humiliation inflicted upon him by the little Corsican; for, as
soon as the gates of the Hofburg had closed behind Marie Louise, he could
not but regard the marriage as detrimental to his dignity. To appease his
legitimist misgivings, the Habsburg ruler had a search for Buonaparte
ancestors made in musty old Tuscan documents, and when next he met his
son-in-law was able to assure the latter that the Buonaparte lineage
had been traced as far back as the eleventh century. At that time, said
Francis, there had been members of the family in Treviso. Thereupon the
first and last of the Buonaparti made the delicious answer:
“Thank you, Sire. I prefer to be the Rudolf of my race!”
Witty, but unwise, for such words from an upstart sovereign could not
but rankle in the mind of this descendant of an ancient line! When, as
would soon come to pass, the question whether the emperor of Austria
was to take sides for or against his son-in-law was to be decided by
Francis’ mood, the memory of this and similar slights may have played a
considerable part. Napoleon recognised this when it was too late. “Had I
but made myself agreeable to that simpleton, who knows but that in the
plains of Leipzig there might have been a hundred thousand fewer men in
the opposing army!”
All the same, the revolutionist admired many of the ways of the
legitimate ruler. One day he caught sight of a letter his wife had
addressed to her father as follows: “His Sacred Majesty, the Apostolical
Emperor.” Napoleon considered this an excellent idea; and in private,
no doubt, his thoughts turned to Alexander of Macedon who had declared
himself to be the son of Jupiter.
The apostolical emperor was especially out of humour with his son-in-law
on the pope’s account. Napoleon was continually tightening the bonds
round the Holy Father. Pius VII. was kept at Savona. A man by no means
learned in canon law, he was cut off from his advisers, and subsequently
deprived of his papers, in order to make him pliable. A schism was
threatening. Thirteen of the cardinals had failed to put in an appearance
at the Emperor’s wedding, for the pope would not recognise the divorce
which Fesch had pronounced. Now Napoleon has cases filled with the
Vatican State papers brought to Paris, thus arousing the belief that he
really intends to make this city the capital of Christendom; he summons
a council at which the prelates of his European realm appear; he extorts
a decree depriving the pope of the investiture in case of dissent, and
ultimately compels Pius to agree to this—at any rate for France.
Europe is troubled by these matters, and split into factions. On the
whole, the Russians and the Poles are glad that things are going ill
with the Roman pontiff; the Prussians and the English are, of course,
delighted; but what arouses general surprise is that the inhabitants
of the Papal States are also on the side of the Emperor. This little
country, now doubly robbed of its master, is glad to accept the Code
Napoléon, modern education, a rational system of administration, vigorous
road construction, and the draining of the Pontine marshes. Whereas the
son of the revolution has long since brought back the old spirit of Rome
to Paris, he now transplants young revolutionary practice from Paris to
Rome. Thus does Napoleon build bridges.
The excommunicated Emperor cunningly tries to turn the curse against
the pope. When, in newly annexed Holland, he receives the clergy in the
presence of the Protestants, he rebukes the bishops as follows: “Are you
of the religion of Gregory VII.? I am not. My religion is that of Jesus
Christ, who said: ‘Render unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s.’ In
accordance with the same text, I render unto God the things which are
God’s. I have received my sceptre from God. But I wear a worldly sword,
and know how to use it! God erects thrones. I did not raise myself to my
throne: God set me upon it! You poor mortals wish to resist? You will
not pray for your monarch, because the priest of Rome has excommunicated
him? Do you think I am the sort of man to kiss the pope’s toe?... Prove
to me, imbeciles, that Jesus has appointed the pope his vicegerent, and
that the pope has power to excommunicate a monarch!... Be good citizens,
and sign the Concordat. You, Mr. Prefect, must take such measures as will
prevent my hearing any more of these matters.”
To so preposterous a travesty of his own innermost thoughts has Napoleon
come. He does not believe a word of what he is here thundering out;
and in private mocks at this official doctrine, as he has always done.
Nonetheless, to the circlet of golden laurels with which he had crowned
himself before the eyes of the priest of Rome, there now attaches a
vestige of divine right which makes the crown a heavy one to wear.
II
“Kindly inform me why the price of salt in the neighbourhood of Strasburg
has risen one sou.”
Closely following upon the heels of this enquiry to the Ministry for
War, comes a command to the Admiralty: two entire fleets are to be
constructed in the course of the next three years, one Atlantic fleet
and one Mediterranean fleet; the latter against Sicily and Egypt, the
former against Ireland. As soon as the Spanish affair is in better case,
preparations are to be made for an expedition to the Cape in 1812. An
army of from sixty to eighty thousand men is to be got ready for an
attack on Surinam and Martinique. “Having eluded the enemy cruisers,” the
expeditionary forces are to share out the two hemispheres.
We see how closely at this date, when imaginative fantasies threaten to
develop into adventures, the exact observations of the father of his
country are allied to the rhapsodical plans of the world conqueror. For
that is what Napoleon now attempts: he is actually trying to realise his
old dream of world conquest.
“You want to know whither we are going? We shall have done with Europe;
then, as robbers of robbers less bold than ourselves, we shall march to
the attack, seize India, over which they have made themselves masters....
I must take India ... in the rear, if I am to strike successfully at
England.... Just imagine Moscow occupied, the tsar conciliated or killed
by his people, perhaps a new, dependent throne,—and tell me whether
an army of Frenchmen, reinforced by auxiliary troops from Tiflis,
cannot press forward to the Ganges, and thence, at a touch, destroy the
whole structure of English commerce!... At one blow, France would have
established the independence of the West and the freedom of the seas!”
A witness reports that while he was voicing these ideas “his eyes shone
with a wonderful light, and he went on to point out the reasons for the
adventure, all the difficulties it entailed, the means of achievement,
and the prospects of success.”
Shall the tsar be conciliated or killed? That is the question which
troubles the Emperor the whole year round. Calculations and presentiments
make him desire to have Alexander as his friend rather than his enemy.
Napoleon has nothing to gain by a defeat of Russia. On the contrary!
He dreads being forced into this war, and endeavours, as on former
occasions, to avoid it; though only if the tsar, as previously agreed,
shall participate in the great final struggle as an ally. Napoleon keeps
the tsar under observation, and perceives that suggestions are having
less and less effect upon Alexander. He therefore writes to a prince of
the Confederation of the Rhine in these amazing terms: “This war will
break out in spite of the tsar, in spite of me, and in spite of the
interests of the two empires.”
Never before had the Emperor or the Consul declared, in such words, that
war was unavoidable. Precisely because all rational need for the campaign
was lacking this time, he found it necessary to proclaim the war with the
tsar to be the work of fate. At the very first hand-clasp, in the peace
tent on the Memel, the seed of this war was sown. During the days of
intimacy which followed, when the encounter blossomed into friendship,
that seed invisibly took root and grew. In later days, Talleyrand’s
treacherous diplomacy cherished its growth; and when, at Erfurt, the
emperors embraced, they could already feel between them the coils of
the snake. That they did not become related by marriage was neither an
accident nor the outcome of a conscious desire: it was consequent upon
the mistrust which had invaded the tsar’s mind, a mistrust of which
he could not rid himself and which was to prove well founded. Two men
wishing to divide Europe between them, could not see with complacency
the half in a rival’s hands. Their intentions were honourable at the
outset; but they were impossible of fulfilment. The day of contest must
inevitably come at last. “He alone is still weighing upon the pinnacle of
my edifice. My rival is young; daily his strength is waxing; daily mine
is waning.” This gloomy recognition spurs him ever onward.
It is useless to try to interpret such decrees of destiny as the outcome
of political causes.
Somewhat earlier, the Emperor has asked the tsar to lay an embargo on
all neutral ships, as he himself has done, and thus give England the
death-blow. The tsar cannot agree to this, for it would fatally injure
his own sea-borne trade; he will only continue, as before, to confiscate
all the prohibited goods he discovers, but he needs colonial wares from
the neutrals. Being unable to stop this leak in the East, the Emperor has
to exercise redoubled care on the German coast, and he therefore annexes
the mouths of the Weser and the Elbe with the Hansa towns and part of
Hanover. “Circumstances demand these new guarantees against England.”
Oldenburg is swallowed up with the rest, though the heir to this duchy
has married Alexander’s sister.
The Emperor’s high-handed proceedings were a logical outcome of his
policy, but they were necessarily an offence to the tsar. Alexander
regarded them as a breach of the treaty of Tilsit, in which the
integrity of Oldenburg had been guaranteed. He issued a circular to
the powers protesting against this insult to his house, a remonstrance
almost equivalent to a declaration of war. In this document he enquired
what could be the use of alliances unless the treaties in which they
were incorporated were strictly observed, so that the cabinets of Europe
could not but smile at the concluding words of the circular, in which he
described the alliance between Russia and France as permanent. His next
step was a ukase in which he threw Russia open to colonial goods, while
imposing prohibitive import duties on wine and silk, the products of
French industry.
The maps lie spread on the tables in St. Petersburg and Paris. Where can
either power best harass the other? The tsar proposes to make peace with
Turkey. The Emperor incites Austria to seize Serbia, to advance towards
Moldavia and Wallachia, promising not to interfere; this will keep
Alexander busy. Metternich nods assent, but does not move. “What about
Poland?” thinks Alexander. “Has not Napoleon already enlarged the duchy
of Warsaw by the addition of Galicia? Is there any guarantee that he will
not re-establish the kingdom of Poland?” Caulaincourt, French ambassador
in Russia, who admires the tsar and wants peace, gives the desired
guarantees. But the Emperor would only agree to a secret ratification.
If the differences between France and Russia should culminate in war, he
will need Poland for his operations against the tsar; Polish hopes must,
therefore, be fostered. Penetrating this design, Alexander demands an
open treaty, which shall put an end to Polish expectations.
When Masséna is defeated in Spain, the Emperor entertains fresh doubts.
Caulaincourt, who is back in Paris, does his utmost to intensify these
misgivings, dilates on the tsar’s will-to-peace, and ventures far in his
defence of Alexander. The Emperor leads him on; hears all he has to say;
asks a thousand questions concerning the tsar and the court, Alexander’s
piety, the nobles, and the peasants; takes Caulaincourt by the ear, a
sign of affability.
“You must be in love with him!”
“I am in love with peace.”
“So am I. But I will not allow any one to dictate to me. Evacuate Danzig,
forsooth! Next I shall have to ask Alexander’s permission before I can
hold a review in Mainz. You are a fool. I am an old fox, and know the
people with whom I am dealing.... We must deprive this Russian colossus
and his hordes of the power to inundate the south once more.... I shall
advance northwards, and re-establish there the old boundaries of Europe.”