In the instructions to the executors, the following items are enumerated:
the malachite furniture from Russia; the golden table service (which
was presented to him by the town of Paris); a small farm on the island
of Elba which had been purchased with Pauline’s money; a store of
quicksilver at Venice, reckoned to be worth frs. 5,000,000; gold and
jewels in a hiding-place at Malmaison; and so on, the fantastic inventory
of a monarch and an adventurer.
To his mother, he leaves his silver night-lamp which has lighted many a
sleepless night during his sojourn on St. Helena; each brother and sister
receives a special bequest; Joseph and Lucien, as if no cloud had ever
shadowed his relations with them, are mentioned calmly one after the
other, each receiving “an embroidered mantle, vest, and small-clothes,”
though the living Napoleon had given a crown to one and offered a crown
to the other.
But the principal legatee of Napoleon is his son. First of all, the
boy is to have all his “arms, field-beds, saddles, spurs, snuff-boxes,
orders, books, body linen, which I have been accustomed to wear and
use.... It is my wish that this slight bequest may be dear to him,
as recalling to him the memory of a father of whom the universe will
discourse to him.” Amid the inventories, which mention such items as
two pairs of night-drawers and two pillow-cases, there flash out such
entries as the following: “My sword, the one I wore at Austerlitz; ...
my gold travelling box, the one I made use of on the morning of Ulm, of
Austerlitz, of Jena, of Eylau, of Friedland, of the island of Lobau, of
Borodino, and of Montmirail; ... four boxes found on the table of Louis
XVIII. in the Tuileries on March 20, 1815; ... my alarm-clock, it is the
alarm-clock of Frederick II. which I took at Potsdam (in box No. III);
... a blue cloak (that which I had at Marengo); ... a consular sword; ...
a grand collar of the Legion of Honour.” Each list of items finishes with
a charge to one or other of his confidants to take care of the articles
named, “and to convey them to my son when he shall attain the age of
sixteen years.”
Here is another entry: “Marchand shall preserve my hair, and cause a
bracelet to be made of it, with a gold clasp, to be sent to the empress
Marie Louise, to my mother, and to each of my brothers, sisters, nephews,
nieces, the cardinal, and one of larger size to my son.”
Various persons and places are named in which his son is likely to be
interested. “I wish my executors to make a collection of engravings,
pictures, books, and medals which may give my son sound ideas, and
destroy the erroneous ideas which the policy of a foreign land may have
tried to impress on him. I want him to be able to see things as they
really were.... My memory will be the glory of his life.... I do not
expect my son to benefit by my mother’s will, for he is likely to be
wealthier than her other children, but I hope that she will leave him
some such precious legacy as her own portrait and my father’s, or some
trinkets which he will know have come down to him from his grandparents.”
It may seem as if his life were ending with very simple thoughts, since
he makes this touching reference to his parents; but in the next clause
the abyss yawns. Those who are about his son, Bertrand’s children
perhaps, or Montholon’s, are “to see to it that he resumes the name
of Napoleon as soon as he comes of age, and is able to do so without
inconvenience.”
After this sedulous care for the legitimate heir, there follows, at
the very last, a clause of a few lines, §37, in which Napoleon writes:
“I should not complain if little Léon were to enter the civil service,
should he be so disposed. I should like Alexandre Walewski to serve
France in the army.” The writer could not foresee that, some decades
after the death of his legitimate son, Léon was to end his ne’er-do-well
life in America as the husband of a cook; but that Count Walewski was
to attain high distinction, as a diplomat under Louis Philippe, and as
minister of State and senator during the second empire. By his talent and
good looks, Marie’s son was to show that he had, in very truth, been a
love child.
But there is a second testament for the legitimate heir. Two weeks
before his death, towards three in the morning, the Emperor sends for
Montholon, who has been tending him faithfully for the last few weeks:
“When I entered the room, I found him sitting up, and the fire glancing
in his eyes made me fear a fresh attack of fever. He perceived my
uneasiness, and said kindly: ‘I am not worse, but my mind has been roused
by discussing with Bertrand what my executors ought to say to my son when
they see him ... it is better, therefore, that I should, in a few words,
give you a summary of the counsels which I bequeath to my son. Write:’”
There follow twelve printed pages, containing the Emperor’s political
testament. Not a word about war, but a great many words about peace;
and, as regards Europe, we find almost all the leading thoughts of the
century which opened with his rise to power. We are given a glimpse
of a fancied second reign. He tells us how he would govern, loftily
criticising his own previous work. He looks forward to new political
forms, and, with a seer’s vision, contemplates the twentieth century.
From the rock, he issues an appeal for the union of Europe, a manifesto
on behalf of an understanding among the peoples to promote liberty,
equality, civilisation, talent, and commerce. All these thoughts form
themselves in the mind of the dying Napoleon during one of the last
restless nights of his illness:
“My son should not think of avenging my death; he should profit by it....
The aim of all his efforts should be, to reign by peace: if he should
recommence my wars out of pure love of imitation and without any absolute
necessity, he would be a mere ape. To do my work over again would be to
suppose that I had done nothing; ... the same thing is not done twice
in a century. _I was obliged to daunt Europe by arms; in the present
day, the way is to convince her reason._... I have implanted new ideas
in France and in Europe; they cannot retrograde: let my son bring into
blossom all that I have sown....
“It is possible that the English, in order to efface the remembrance of
their persecutions, will favour my son’s return to France; but in order
to live in a good understanding with England it is necessary, at any
cost, to favour her commercial interests: this necessity leads to one of
these two consequences—war with England, or a sharing of the commerce of
the world with her. This second condition is the only one possible in
the present day; questions of foreign policy will, in France, for a long
time, take precedence of questions of home policy. I bequeath to my son
sufficient strength and sympathy to enable him to continue my work with
the sole aid of a lofty and conciliatory diplomacy....
“Let not my son ever mount the throne by the aid of foreign influence;
his aim should not be to fulfil a desire to reign, but to deserve the
approbation of posterity. Let him cherish an intimacy with my family,
whenever it shall be in his power. My mother resembles the great women
of classical antiquity.... The French nation, when it is not taken the
wrong way, is more easily governed than any other; its prompt and easy
comprehension is unequalled; it immediately discerns who labours for, and
who against it; but then it is necessary always to speak to its senses,
otherwise its uneasy spite gnaws, it ferments and explodes....
“Let him despise all parties; let him only see the mass. Excepting those
who have betrayed their country, he should forget the previous conduct
of all men, and reward talent, merit, and services, wherever he finds
them....
“France is the country where the chiefs of parties have the least
influence: to rest for support on them, is to build on sand. Great things
can only be done in France by having the support of the masses....
“I relied on the whole mass of the people without exception; I set the
example of a government which favoured the interests of all.... To
divide the interests of a nation is ... to engender civil war. A thing
indivisible by nature cannot be divided; it can only be mutilated. I
attach no importance to the constitution; but its fundamental principle
should be universal suffrage.
“The nobility I created will not be a buttress to my son....
“My dictatorship was indispensable, and the proof of this is that I was
always offered more power than I wanted.... It will not be the same with
my son: his power will be disputed; he must anticipate every desire for
liberty.... The aim of a sovereign is not only to reign, but to diffuse
instruction, morality, and wellbeing. Anything false is an untrustworthy
prop....
“The French people is animated by two equally powerful passions, which
seem opposed, but which, nevertheless, are derived from one and the same
feeling, namely, love of liberty and love of distinction. A government
can only satisfy these two wants by the most exact justice.... In order
to govern, it is not necessary to pursue a more or less perfect theory,
but to build with the materials which are under one’s hand; to submit to
necessities, and profit by them....
“The liberty of the press ought to become, in the hands of the
government, a powerful auxiliary in diffusing, through all the most
distant corners of the Empire, sound doctrines and good principles. To
leave it to itself would be to fall asleep beside a danger.... Under pain
of death, nowadays, one must either direct or hinder everything.
“My son ought to be a man of new ideas, and of the cause which I have
made triumphant everywhere: ... to reunite Europe in the bonds of an
indissoluble federation....
“Europe is moving towards an inevitable transformation: to endeavour to
retard this progress, would be to waste strength in a useless struggle;
to favour it, is to strengthen the hopes and wishes of all....
“My son’s position will not be free from immense difficulties. _Let him
do by general consent what circumstances forced me to work for by force
of arms._ If I had remained victorious over Russia in 1812, the problem
of peace would have been solved for a hundred years to come. I cut the
Gordian knot of nations; at the present day it must be untied.... It is
no longer in the north that great questions will be decided, but in the
Mediterranean; on the shores of the Mediterranean, there is enough to
content all the ambitions of the different powers, and the happiness of
civilised nations may be purchased with fragments of barbarous lands.
_Let the kings listen to reason; Europe will no longer provide matter for
maintaining international hatreds._ Prejudices are dispersing; interests
are widening and becoming fused; trading routes are being multiplied. No
longer can any one nation monopolise commerce....
“All that you say to my son, or all that he learns, will be of little use
to him, unless he has in the depths of his heart that sacred fire and
love of good which alone can achieve great things.
“I hope, however, that he will be worthy of his destiny.
“If they refuse you permission to go to Vienna....”
The document suddenly breaks off; Napoleon’s powers have flagged; like
the utterance of an oracle, the soothsaying ends in the middle of a
sentence. But what this man on his deathbed designed for the instruction
of his poor little son, can serve to instruct Europe a century after
it was written. The political problems of our own day, however we may
attempt to solve them, are in truth solved here by the sovereignty of
genius.
XIX
After this brilliant outpouring, the productive spring dries up.
Agreeable visions float before his mind. It seems as if fate intends him
to enjoy the euthanasia. The day after writing his political testament,
he lies free from pain and care, surrounded by the mist-wreaths of hope:
“When I am dead, each of you will have the sweet consolation of returning
to Europe. You will see again, the one his relatives, the other his
friends; but for my part, I shall meet my brave warriors in the Elysian
Fields. Yes,” he continued, raising his voice, “Kléber, Desaix,
Bessières, Duroc, Ney, Murat, Masséna, Berthier; all will come to meet
me: they will talk to me of the deeds we did together. I shall recount to
them the later events of my life. When they see me, they will be inspired
with their old enthusiasm, their old passion for glory. We shall talk of
our battles to the Scipios, to Hannibal, Cæsar, and Frederick. What a
delight that will be. If only people here on earth are not terrified at
seeing so many soldiers put their heads together!”
Such is the dying man’s flight of fancy. In all the thousands of his
recorded utterances, there is none that shows the naïveté of his mind
more plainly than this reverie. He looks into a world peopled by the
shades of the heroes, sees his generals there in familiar converse with
those of ancient Rome, enters an idyllic paradise in which they talk
of big guns. While Napoleon is speaking, the English doctor (whose
ministrations the Emperor has at length consented to accept) enters the
room.
At this moment, the music of flutes, to which he has, in fancy, been
listening, breaks off; once more he hears the rattle of the drums. The
statesman recurs to the present. Without transition, he passes into a new
register, after his manner, and makes a formal oration which embodies
what he wishes to be the official view of his death:
“Come nearer, Bertrand, and translate what I say word for word to this
gentleman. My death is the results of injuries worthy of the hands that
have inflicted them. I surrendered to the British people, that I might
settle down at a British fireside. In defiance of international law, I
was loaded with chains.... England overpersuaded the princes, and the
world saw an unprecedented sight. Four great powers hurled themselves
upon one solitary man. How shamefully you have treated me on this rock!
There is no possible mortification to which you have not subjected
me!... With cold calculation, you have slowly done me to death! The vile
governor has been the executioner appointed by your ministers! I end like
the proud republic of Venice! I bequeath the shame of my death to the
royal family of England!”
After this outburst, he sinks back upon his pillows. The doctor stands
there dumbfounded, and Napoleon’s companions are in little better case.
What was it? An epilogue; a protest; a commination? Pure politics! In the
evening, he has an account of Hannibal’s campaigns read aloud to him.
Next day, April 21st, a fortnight before the end, he sends for the
Corsican abbate. Since this man’s coming, Napoleon has had Mass read
every Sunday, but otherwise has had nothing to do with the priest. Now he
says:
“Do you know what a ‘chapelle ardente’ is? Have you ever officiated at
one before? Never? Well, now you will officiate at mine.” Details follow.
“After my death, you will set up your altar at my bedside, and will say
Mass with the usual ceremonies until I am under ground.”
In the evening, the priest spends nearly an hour with him. Since, we
are told, Vignali was not dressed for the occasion, he can only have
conversed with Napoleon, and cannot have confessed him. Napoleon has not
communicated for forty years, and does not do so now.
The sick man is much wasted; for several weeks he has not been shaved;
his face is sunken and dusky. Now he has his bed carried into the
drawing-room, for he finds the bedroom too confined. He is racked by
terrible attacks of gastric spasm. In the intervals of calm, he continues
to speak of persons to whom he wishes to leave legacies. Sometimes he
dozes and dreams. In these dreams, women appear to him; Marie Louise is
not one of them: “I saw my good Josephine, but she would not put her arms
round me.... She was unchanged, loving as always. She said we should soon
meet to part no more. She assured me—— Did you see her too?” Just like
the dream about his generals; from the paradise of children, from the
land of faëry.
When he feels better, he has the latest newspapers read aloud. An attack
on him in one of them excites him, and he has his will brought to him.
Breaking the seals he has laboriously affixed, without saying a word he
writes with tremulous hand:
“I had the duke of Enghien arrested and brought to trial because this
trial was necessary for the safety, the interest, and the honour of the
French people, at a time when the count of Artois, according to his own
admission, was maintaining sixty assassins in Paris.”
Like two ghosts, they face one another; the dead Bourbon and the dying
Bonaparte.
On the 27th., he asks for the will once more, and laboriously reseals
it. He has inventories made of the contents of his boxes and cupboards;
valuable documents are put into envelopes, on which he writes the
inscriptions. All this is done in the intervals between attacks of
vomiting. His companions have to affix their seals, and every one of them
must verify a written record of the packets. So great is his mistrust of
England.
Is there anything still to do? Various articles which have not yet been
dealt with are lying on the counterpane. “I am very weak; there is not
much time left; we must finish things off.” What is that? Hortense’s
diamond necklace, which used to gleam from her neck on festal occasions
in the Tuileries, and was sewn into his waistband the day he left
Malmaison. This he gives to Marchand. There is a plain golden snuff-box.
Toilsomely, with the point of a penknife, he scratches his initial N on
the lid, and gives the box to the doctor, saying:
“I expressly demand that a post-mortem shall be made, and, in especial,
that the stomach shall be examined. I believe that I am dying of the same
illness as my father. Ask Louis to send you the report about that, and
compare it with what you find at the autopsy. Then you may at least be
able to spare my son this horrible illness. Tell him how he can guard
against it, and how he can be saved from the dread of it which has so
afflicted me.”
For six years he has been blaming the climate of the rock for his liver
trouble; only a few days ago he had charged England with killing him in
the unwholesome prison-house. By ordering a post-mortem examination, he
is risking the collapse of this theory; indeed, that is what he expects.
All is done for his son’s safety. He hopes that the lad can be saved from
the family disorder.
Is everything ready? Can we start? Wait a moment! There is still lacking
an official address to the authorities. He dictates the following letter:
“Monsieur le Gouverneur! Emperor Napoleon died on the ——, after a long
and painful illness. I have the honour to inform you of the fact....
Please let me know what arrangements your government has made for the
conveyance of his body to Europe, and also in respect of the members of
his suite.”
“Count Montholon, you will sign that.”
Napoleon had dictated sixty thousand political letters. Perhaps this
one, the formal report of his own death with the date left open, is
the most remarkable of them all; for who would have expected that
destiny would leave so much time and so much tranquillity of mind in
face of approaching death to a man who had faced sudden death on sixty
battle-fields? The lines above quoted seem rather a grotesque close to
his domineering career, and we feel a hope that this gruesome epistle
will not be his last.
It is not the last. On the 29th., after a feverish night, he dictates
the drafts of two communications. One deals with the utilisation of
Versailles; the other with a reorganisation of the National Guard. But
these are not addressed, as they would have been before his abdication,
to the Minister for Public Works and to the Minister for War. He dictates
the superscriptions: “First Dream”; and “Second Dream.” Then he says: “I
feel so wonderfully well now; I could go for a thirty-mile ride.” Next
day, he becomes icy cold and sinks into a delirium, which lasts five days
till the end.
But Napoleon Bonaparte’s vital energies do not subside so easily. During
these five days, there is a lucid interval, and he seizes the opportunity
for issuing orders and making declarations:
“When I lose consciousness, you must on no account admit an English
doctor.... You will remain true to my memory, and will not do anything
that might harm it. All my laws and all my actions were based upon the
strictest principles. Unfortunately, the circumstances were so grave
that I could not be lenient, and had to postpone many good things. Then
came the disasters. I could not string the bow more tightly; ... that
was why France never secured the liberal institutions I had intended to
introduce. But the country credits me with my good intentions; it loves
my name and my victories. You will do the same! Be true to our principles
and to our fame!”
His thoughts are still circling round his work. With the mournful glance
of a dying sculptor, he sees before him nothing but a fragment; and with
his last breath he tells those around him what he had designed to fashion.
Next day, his mind is wandering once more amid memories of youth and
of Corsica. But still, from time to time, there revives the wish to be
useful to his son. His fantasy creates possessions on the island, and the
faithful Marchand takes down from dictation these mind-wanderings that
are so precise in their details:
“I leave to my son my house in Ajaccio with its outbuildings; two houses
adjacent to the saltpits with their gardens; and all my estates in the
Ajaccio district. These will bring him an income of frs. 50,000. I
bequeath....”
This is Napoleon’s last command. He has won and lost half the world; but
in his dying visions he sees the Corsican home of his ancestors, together
with the son to whom he had intended to leave half the world as heirloom.
The strains mingle; to keep his son from want, he bequeaths the lad a
house which he does not own. Then his mind turns back from his kin. He is
once more the soldier, on his first campaign, in Italy. Around him flit
the wraiths of his earliest comrades. He shouts:
“Desaix! Masséna! Victory is ours! Quick! Forward! We have them....”
Next day the abbate goes to him unsummoned. Beneath a layman’s dress, the
priest carries something he seeks to hide. He demands to be left alone
with the dying man. After a while he comes out, saying: “I have given
him extreme unction. Owing to the condition of the stomach, no other
sacrament was possible.”
A terrible last night. Towards morning, when he is murmuring in delirium,
Montholon hears the words:
“France!... Armée!... Tête d’armée.... Josephine!”
This is Napoleon’s last utterance.
Next moment, with amazing energy, he springs out of bed, overpowering
Montholon, who is alone with him. The two fall to the floor, and he
grips Montholon so fiercely that the count cannot even cry for help.
Archambaud, who is in the next room, hears the noise, comes in, and
releases Montholon. No one knows what enemy the Emperor was trying to
strangle in this last fight.
The rest of the day he lies breathing quietly. By signs he seems to ask
for water, but since he can no longer swallow they must be content with
holding a sponge moistened with vinegar to his lips. Mist and rain drive
fiercely round the house. A count of the old noblesse and a man of the
people watch by the camp-bed of Austerlitz.
At five o’clock, the rage of the south-east trade wind is redoubled, and
two trees of the latest planting are uprooted.
At this moment, the man on the bed is in the throes of a prolonged rigor.
There is no sign of pain; his eyes are widely opened, staring into
vacancy; the death-rattle is in his throat. As the tropical sun sinks
into the sea the Emperor’s heart stops beating.
XX