BEFORE resuming the succession of events, I have a strong desire to
dwell a little on the names of those persons who at this time composed
the Court, and who occupied a distinguished position in the Government.
I shall not be able, however, to draw a series of portraits which can
vary enough, one from the other, to be piquant. We know very well that
despotism is the greatest of levelers. It regulates the thoughts, it
determines both actions and words; and the regulations to which all
submit are often so strictly observed that the exteriors are
assimilated, and perhaps even some of the impressions received.
I remember that during the winter of 1814 the Empress Maria Louisa
received a large number of persons every evening. They came to obtain
news of the army, in whose movements and plans every one was deeply
interested. At the moment when the Emperor, in his pursuit of the
Prussian General Blücher, left to the Austrian army leisure to advance
as far as Fontainebleau, Paris believed itself about to fall into the
power of strangers. Many persons met in the saloons of the Empress and
questioned each other with great anxiety. Toward the end of this evening
M. de Talleyrand came to call on me after leaving the Tuileries. He told
me of the anxiety which he had witnessed, and then said: “What a man,
madame, this must be, who can cause the Comte de Montesquiou and the
Councilor of State Boulay (de la Meurthe) to experience the same
anxiety, and to evince it in the same words!” He had found these two
persons with the Empress. They had both struck him by their pallor, and
both expressed their dread of the events which they began to foresee in
the future.
With few exceptions—either because chance did not gather round the
Emperor persons of any marked individuality, or because of the
uniformity of conduct of which I have just spoken—I can not recall many
purely personal peculiarities which deserve to be commemorated. Setting
the principal figures aside, as well as the events which I propose to
relate, I have but the names of the others to recount, the costumes
which they wore, and the duties with which they were intrusted. It is a
hard thing for men to feel that the sovereign to whom they are attached
has a thorough and universal contempt for human nature. Such a
consciousness saddens the spirits, discourages the soul, and compels
each man to confine himself to the purely material duties of his
position, which he ends by regarding as mere business. Each one of these
men who composed the Court and the Government of the Emperor had
undoubtedly a mind of his own, and especial feelings and opinions. Some
among them silently practiced certain virtues, others concealed their
faults and even their vices. But both appeared on the surface only at
the word of command, and, unfortunately for the men of that time,
Bonaparte believed that more was to be made out of the bad side of human
nature than from the good, and therefore looked for vices rather than
for virtues. He liked to discover weaknesses, and profited by them; and,
where there were no vices, he encouraged these weaknesses, or, if he
could do no better, he worked on their fears—anything to prove himself
always and constantly the strongest. Thus he was by no means ill pleased
that Cambacérès, though possessing estimable and distinguished
qualities, allowed his foolish pride to be seen, and gave himself the
reputation of a certain license of morals and habits which
counterbalanced the just admiration rendered to his cultivation and to
his natural probity. Nor did the Emperor ever deplore the indolent
immorality of M. de Talleyrand, his careless indifference, nor the small
value he placed on the esteem of the public. He was infinitely amused by
what he saw fit to call the silliness of the Prince de Neuchâtel, and
the servile flattery of M. Maret.
He took advantage of the avarice which he himself had developed in
Savary, and of the callousness of Duroc’s disposition. He never shrank
from the remembrance that Fouché had once been a Jacobin; indeed, he
said with a smile: “The only difference is that he is now a _rich_
Jacobin; but that’s all I want.”
His Ministers he regarded and treated as more or less efficient clerks,
and he used to say, “I should not know what to do with them if they were
not men of mere ordinary abilities and character.”
If any one had been conscious of real superiority of any kind, he must
needs have endeavored to hide it; and it is probable that, warned by an
instinctive sense of danger, everybody affected dullness or vacuity when
those qualities were not real.
Memoirs of this period will suffer from this remarkable feature of it,
which will give rise to a plausible, though unmerited, accusation
against the writers of being malevolent in their views, partial toward
themselves, and extremely severe toward others. Each writer will in
reality be able to tell his own secret only, but will have been unable
to penetrate that of his neighbor.
Ecclesiastical influence in the Emperor’s household was insignificant.
Mass was celebrated in his presence every Sunday, and that was all. I
have already spoken of Cardinal Fesch. In 1807 M. de Pradt, Bishop of
Poitiers, and subsequently Archbishop of Mechlin, made his appearance at
Court. He was clever and scheming, verbose but amusing, and fond of
gossip; he held liberal opinions, but he expressed them in cynical
language. He attempted many things without perfectly succeeding in any
one of them. He could, indeed, talk over the Emperor himself, and he may
perhaps have given him good advice; but, when he was appointed to put
his own counsels into action, nothing came of the attempt, for he
possessed neither the confidence nor the esteem of the public.
The Abbé de Broglie, Bishop of Ghent, was cunning, but also imprudent;
he obtained at a cheap rate the honor of persecution.
The Abbé de Boulogne, Bishop of Troyes, proved himself in those days as
eager to extol despotism as he now is to emerge from the obscurity to
which he has happily been reduced by the constitutional government of
the King.
Bonaparte made use of the clergy, but he disliked priests. He had both
philosophical and revolutionary prejudices against them. I do not know
whether he was a deist or an atheist, but he habitually ridiculed
everything connected with religion in familiar conversation; and,
besides, he was taken up too much with the affairs of this world to
concern himself with the next. I may venture to say, that the
immortality of his name was to him of much greater importance than that
of his soul. He had an antipathy to pious persons, and invariably
accused them of hypocrisy. When the priesthood in Spain stirred up the
people against him, when he met with opposition from the French Bishops
which did them honor, when the Pope’s cause was embraced by great
numbers, he was quite confounded, and said more than once, “I thought
men were more advanced than they really are.”
The military household of the Emperor was numerous, but, except in times
of war, its members had to discharge duties of a civil nature. Dreading
the recollections of the field of battle, he distributed the various
functions on another footing at the palace of the Tuileries. He made
chamberlains of the generals, and subsequently he obliged them to wear
embroidered uniforms, and to exchange their swords for court rapiers.
This transformation was displeasing to many of them, but they had to
submit, and, having been wolves, to become shepherds. There was,
however, a good reason for this. A display of military renown would, to
a certain extent, have eclipsed other classes whom it was necessary to
conciliate; military manners were by this expedient refined perforce,
and certain recalcitrant marshals lost some of their prestige while
acquiring the polish of court manners. They became, indeed, slightly
ridiculous by this apprenticeship—a fact which Bonaparte knew how to
turn to advantage.
I believe I may confidently state that the Emperor did not like any of
his marshals. He frequently found fault with them, sometimes in very
serious respects. He accused them all of covetousness, which he
deliberately encouraged by his gifts. One day he passed them all in
review before me. On Davoust he pronounced the verdict which I think I
have already mentioned: “Davoust is a man on whom I may bestow glory; he
will never know how to wear it.” Of Marshal Ney he said: “He is
ungrateful and factious. If I were destined to die by the hand of a
marshal, I would lay a wager that hand would be his.” I recollect that
he said he regarded Moncey, Brune, Bessières, Victor and Oudinot as men
of middling abilities, who would never be more than titled soldiers.
Masséna he looked upon as effete, but it was evident he had formerly
been jealous of him. Soult sometimes gave him trouble; he was clever,
rough, and vain, and he would argue with his master and dispute his
conditions. Bonaparte could rule Augereau, who was rather unpolished in
manner than obstinate. He was aware of Marmont’s vanity, which he might
wound with impunity, and of Macdonald’s habitual ill humor. Lannes had
been his comrade, and the Marshal would sometimes remind him of this: on
such occasions he would be gently called to order. Bernadotte had more
spirit than the others: he was continually complaining, and, indeed, he
often had cause for complaint.
The way in which the Emperor curbed, rewarded, or snubbed with impunity
men so proud and puffed up with military fame was very remarkable. Other
writers can relate with what wonderful skill he made use of these men in
war, and how he won fresh glory for himself by utilizing their fame,
ever showing himself, in very truth, superior to all others.
I need not give the names of the chamberlains; the Imperial Almanac
supplies them. By degrees their number became considerable. They were
taken from all ranks and classes. Those who were most assiduous and
least talkative got on best; their duties were troublesome and very
tedious. In proportion as one’s place was nearer to the Emperor, one’s
life became more burdensome. Persons who have had none but business
relations with him can have no adequate idea of the unpleasantness of
any that were closer; it was always easier to deal with his intellect
than with his temper.
Nor shall I have much to relate concerning the ladies of the period.
Bonaparte frequently said: “Women shall have no influence at my Court;
they may dislike me, but I shall have peace and quietness.” He kept his
word. We were ornamental at the fêtes, and that was about all.
Nevertheless, as it is the privilege of beauty never to be forgotten,
some of the ladies-in-waiting deserve a passing notice here. In Mme. de
Mottevelle’s Memoirs, she pauses to describe the beauties of her time,
and I must pass over in silence those of our own.
At the head of the Empress’s household was Mme. de la Rochefoucauld. She
was short and deformed, not pretty, yet her face was not unattractive.
Her large blue eyes, with black eyebrows, had a fine effect; she was
lively, fearless, and a clever talker; a little satirical, but
kind-hearted, and of a gay and independent spirit. She neither liked nor
disliked any one at Court, lived on good terms with all, and looked at
nothing very seriously. She considered she had done Bonaparte an honor
by coming to his Court, and by dint of saying so she persuaded others of
it, so that she was treated with consideration. She employed herself
principally in repairing her shattered fortunes, obtaining several
ambassadorships for her husband, and giving her daughter in marriage to
the younger son of the princely house of Borghese. The Emperor thought
her wanting in dignity, and he was right; but he was always embarrassed
in her company, for he had no idea of the deference due to a woman, and
she would answer him sharply. The Empress, too, was rather afraid of
her, for in her easy manner there was no little imperiousness. She
remained faithful to old friends who held opposite opinions to her own,
or rather to what we may suppose to have been her own, judging by the
post she occupied at Court. She was daughter-in-law to the Duc de
Liancourt, and she left the Court when the divorce took place. She died
in Paris, under the Restoration.
Mme. de la Valette, the Mistress of the Robes, was daughter to the
Marquis de Beauharnais. Her complexion had been slightly spoiled by
small-pox, but she had a pleasing though expressionless face. Her
gentleness almost amounted to inanity, and small vanities chiefly
occupied her thoughts. Her mind was narrow, her conduct was correct. Her
post was a complete sinecure, for Mme. Bonaparte allowed no one to
interfere with her dress. In vain did the Emperor insist that Mme. de la
Valette should make up accounts, regulate expenditure, and superintend
purchases; he was obliged to yield, and to give up the idea of
maintaining any order on these points, for Mme. de la Valette was
incapable of defending the rights of her place in opposition to her
aunt. She confined herself, therefore, to taking Mme. de la
Rochefoucauld’s duties when the latter absented herself on account of
illness. Everybody knows what courage and energy misfortune and conjugal
love subsequently developed in this young lady.
Chief among the Ladies of the Palace was Mme. de Luçay, who had held
that position longest. In 1806 she was no longer young. She was a gentle
and quiet person. Her husband was Prefect of the Palace; their daughter
married the younger son of the Count de Ségur, and has since died.
I come next on the list, and I feel inclined to make a little sketch of
myself; I believe I can do this truthfully. I was twenty-three when I
first came to Court; I was not pretty, yet not altogether devoid of
attraction, and I looked well in full dress. My eyes were fine, my hair
was black, and I had good teeth; my nose and face were too large in
proportion to my figure, which was good, but small. I had the reputation
of being a clever woman, which was almost a reproach at Court. In point
of fact, I lack neither wit nor sense, but my warmth of feeling and of
thought leads me to speak and act impulsively, and makes me commit
errors which a cooler, even though less wise, person would avoid.
I was often misinterpreted at Bonaparte’s Court. I was lively, and was
supposed to be scheming. I liked to be acquainted with persons of
importance, and I was accused of being ambitious. I am too much devoted
to persons and to causes which appear to me to have right on their side,
to deserve the first accusation; and my faithfulness to friends in
misfortune is a sufficient answer to the second. Mme. Bonaparte trusted
me more than others, and thereby put me into a difficult position;
people soon perceived this, and no one envied me the onerous distinction
of her friendship. The preference which the Emperor at first showed me
was a cause of greater jealousy. I reaped little benefit from his favor,
but I was flattered by it and grateful for it; and, so long as I felt a
regard for him, I sought to please him. When my eyes were opened, I drew
back; dissimulation is absolutely opposed to my character. I came to
Court too full of inquisitiveness. It seemed to me so curious a scene
that I watched it closely, and asked many questions that I might fully
understand it. It was often thought that I did this from design. In
palaces no action is supposed to be without a motive; “_Cui bono?_” is
said on every occasion.
My impetuosity frequently brought me into trouble. Not that I acted
altogether on impulse, but I was very young, very unaffected, because I
had always been very happy; in nothing was I sufficiently sedate, and my
qualities sometimes did me as much harm as my defects. But, amid all
this, I have met with friends who loved me, and of whom, no matter how I
may be circumstanced, I shall retain a loving recollection.
I soon began to suffer from disappointed hopes, betrayed affections, and
mistaken beliefs. Moreover, my health failed, and I became tired of so
arduous a life, and disenchanted both with men and things. I withdrew
myself as far as possible, and found in my own home feelings and
enjoyments that could not deceive. I loved my husband, my mother, my
children, and my friends; I should have been unwilling to give up the
peaceful pleasure I found in their society. I contrived to retain a kind
of liberty amid the numerous trivial duties of my post. Lastly, when I
approved of any one and when I ceased to do so, both states of mind too
plainly showed. There could be no greater fault in the eyes of
Bonaparte. He dreaded nothing in the world so much as that any one in
his circle should use their critical faculty with regard to him.
Mme. de Canisy, a great-niece of M. de Brienne, the former Archbishop of
Sens, was a beautiful woman when first she came to Court. She was tall
and well made, with eyes and hair of raven-black, lovely teeth, an
aquiline nose, and a rich brunette complexion.
Mme. Maret was a fine woman; her features were regular and handsome. She
seemed to live on excellent terms with her husband, who imparted to her
some of his own ambition. Seldom have I seen more unconcealed or more
solicitous vanity in any one. She was jealous of every distinction, and
tolerated superior rank in the Princesses only. Born in obscurity, she
aimed at the highest distinctions. When the Emperor granted the title of
countess to all the ladies-in-waiting, Mme. Maret felt annoyed at the
equality it implied, and, obstinately refusing to bear it, she remained
plain Mme. Maret until her husband obtained the title of Duc de Bassano.
Mme. Savary and she were the most elegantly dressed women at Court.
Their dress is said to have cost more than fifty thousand francs a year.
Mme. Maret thought that the Empress did not sufficiently distinguish her
from the others; she therefore made common cause with the Bonapartes
against her. She was feared and distrusted with some reason, for she
repeated things which reached the ear of the Emperor through her
husband, and did a great deal of harm. She and M. Maret would have liked
people to pay regular court to them, and many persons lent themselves to
this pretension. As I showed a decided objection to doing so, Mme. Maret
took an aversion to me, and contrived to inflict many petty annoyances
upon me.
Any one who chose to speak evil of others to Bonaparte was pretty sure
of gaining his ear; for he was always credulous of evil. He disliked
Mme. Maret; he even judged her too severely; nevertheless he chose to
believe all stories that came to him through her. I believe her to have
been one of the greatest sufferers by the fall of that great Imperial
scaffolding which brought us all to the ground.
During the King’s first residence in Paris, from 1814 to 1815, the Duc
de Bassano was accused, on sufficient grounds, of having carried on a
secret correspondence with the Emperor in the island of Elba, and kept
him informed of the state of feeling in France, so that he was induced
to believe he might once more offer himself to the French as their
ruler. Napoleon returned, and his sudden arrival clashed with and
thwarted the revolution which Fouché and Carnot were preparing. Then
these two, being obliged to accept Bonaparte, compelled him to reign
during the Hundred Days according to their own system. The Emperor
wished to take M. Maret, whom he had so many reasons for trusting, back
into his service; but Fouché and Carnot strongly objected to Maret, as a
man of no ability and only capable of blind devotion to his master’s
interest. Some idea of the state of bondage in which the men of the
Revolution kept the netted lion at this period may be gathered from the
answer that Carnot ventured to make when the Emperor proposed putting M.
Maret into the Government “No, certainly not; the French do not wish to
see _two Blacas_ in one year”—alluding to the Count de Blacas, whom the
King had brought with him from England, and who had all the influence of
a favorite.
On the second fall of Bonaparte, Maret and his wife hastened to leave
Paris. M. Maret was exiled, and they repaired to Berlin. For the last
few months Mme. Maret has been again in Paris, endeavoring to obtain the
recall of her husband. It is not unlikely she may succeed, such is the
kindness of the King.
Pride of rank was not confined to Mme. Maret alone. Mme. Ney also
possessed it. She was niece to Mme. Campan, first dresser to Marie
Antoinette, and daughter of Mme. Augué, also one of the Queen’s
dressers, and she had been tolerably well educated. She was a mild,
kind-hearted woman, but her head was a little turned by the honors to
which she attained. She occasionally displayed a pretentiousness which,
after all, was not inexcusable, for she based it on the great military
renown of her husband, whose own pride was sufficiently self-asserting.
Mme. Ney, afterward Duchesse d’Elchingen, and later Princesse de la
Moskowa, was in reality a very good, quiet woman, incapable of speaking
or doing evil, and perhaps as incapable of saying or doing anything
good. She enjoyed the privileges of her rank to the full, especially in
the society of inferiors. She was much aggrieved at the Restoration by
certain differences in her position, and by the disdain of the ladies of
the royal Court. She complained to her husband, and may have contributed
not a little to irritate him against the new state of things, which,
though not altogether ousting him, laid them both open to little daily
humiliations, quite unintentionally on the part of the King. On the
death of her husband she took up her abode in Italy with three or four
sons. Her means were much smaller than might have been supposed, and she
had acquired habits of great luxury. I have seen her start for a
watering-place, taking with her a whole household, so as to be waited on
according to her liking. She took a bedstead, articles of furniture, a
service of traveling-plate made expressly for her, a train of
_fourgons_, and a number of couriers; and she would affirm that the wife
of a marshal of France could not travel otherwise. Her house was
magnificently appointed; the purchase and furnishing cost eleven hundred
thousand francs. Mme. Ney was tall and slight; her features were rather
large, her eyes fine. Her expression was mild and pleasant, and her
voice very sweet.
Mme. Lannes, afterward Duchesse de Montebello, was another of our
beauties. There was something virginal in her face; her features were
pure and regular, her skin was of a delicate fairness. She was a good
wife and an excellent mother, and was always cold, reserved, and silent
in society. The Emperor appointed her Lady of Honor to the Archduchess,
who became passionately fond of her, and whom she completely governed.
She accompanied the Archduchess on her return to Vienna, and then came
back to Paris, where she now lives in retirement, entirely devoted to
her children.
The number of the ladies-in-waiting became by degrees considerable, but,
on the whole, there is little to be said about so many women, all
playing so small a part. I have already spoken of Mmes. de Montmorency,
de Mortemart, and de Chevreuse. There remains for me simply to name
Mmes. de Talhouët, Lauriston, de Colbert, Marescot, etc. These were
quiet, amiable persons, of ordinary appearance, no longer young. The
same might be said of a number of Italians and Belgians who came to
Paris for their two months of Court attendance, and who were all more or
less silent and apparently out of their element. In general sufficient
regard was paid to youth and beauty in the selection of the
ladies-in-waiting; they were always placed with extreme care. Some of
them lived in this Court silent and indifferent; others received its
homages with more or less ease and pleasure. Everything was done
quietly, because Bonaparte willed that such should be the case. He had
prudish caprices at times either in regard to himself or others. He
objected to any demonstrations of friendship or dislike. In a life that
was so busy, so regulated and disciplined, there was not much chance for
either the one or the other.
Among the persons of whom the Emperor had composed the various
households of his family, there were also ladies of distinction; but at
Court they were of still less importance than ourselves.
I am inclined to believe that life was rather dreary under his mother’s
roof. With Mme. Joseph Bonaparte it was simple and easy. Mme. Louis
Bonaparte gathered about her her old school companions, and kept up with
them, so far as lay in her power, the familiarity of their youth. At
Mme. Murat’s, although a trifle stiff and stilted, things were carefully
regulated with order and discipline. Public opinion stigmatized the
Princess Borghese; her conduct cast an unfortunate reflection upon the
young and pretty women who formed her court.
It may not be useless to linger here for a little, to say a few words in
regard to those persons who were at this time distinguished in
literature and art, and to the works which appeared from the foundation
of the Consulate up to this year, 1806. Among the former I find four of
whom I can speak with some detail.
Jacques Delille, whom we more generally know under the title of the Abbé
de Delille, had seen the best years of his life pass away in the times
which preceded our Revolution. He united to brilliant talents the charms
of sweetness of temper and agreeable manners. He acquired the title of
Abbé because in those days it conferred a certain rank; he dropped it
after the Revolution to marry a woman of good family, commonplace, and
by no means agreeable, but whose ministrations had become essential to
him. Always received in the best society of Paris, highly regarded by
Queen Marie Antoinette, overwhelmed by kindness from the Comte d’Artois,
he knew only the pleasant side of the life of a man of letters. He was
petted and made much of; his grace and simplicity of soul were very
remarkable; the magic of his diction was incomparable; when he recited
verses every one was eager for the pleasure of hearing him. The bloody
scenes of the Revolution appalled this young and tender nature; he
emigrated, and met everywhere in Europe with a reception so warm that it
consoled him for his exile. However, when Bonaparte had reëstablished
order in France, M. Delille wished to return to his native land, and he
came back to Paris with his wife. He had grown old and was nearly blind,
but always delightful, and teeming with fine works which he meant to
publish in his own country. Again did all literary people crowd about
him, and Bonaparte himself made some advances. The professor’s chair in
which he had inculcated with so much talent the principles of French
literature was restored to him, and pensions were offered him as the
price of a few laudatory verses. But M. Delille, desiring to preserve
the liberty of the recollections which attached him irrevocably to the
house of Bourbon, withdrew to a retired part of the city, and thus
escaped both caresses and offers. He gave himself up exclusively to
work, and answered every one with his own lines from “L’Homme des
Champs”:
“Auguste triomphant pour Virgile fut juste.
J’imitai le poète, imitez-donc Auguste,
Et laissez-moi sans nom, sans fortune, et sans fers,
Rêver au bruit des eaux, de la lyre et des vers.”
If Bonaparte was offended by this resistance, he never showed it; esteem
and general affection were the ægis which protected the amiable poet. He
lived, therefore, a serene and tranquil life, and died too soon, since,
with the sentiments he had preserved, he would have rejoiced at the
return of the Princes whom he had never ceased to love.
In the times when Bonaparte was still only Consul, and when he amused
himself in following up even less conspicuous persons, he took it into
his head that he wished M. Delille to see him, hoping perhaps to gain
him over, or at all events to dazzle him. Mme. Bacciochi was bidden to
invite the poet to pass an evening at her house. Some few persons, of
whom I was one, were also invited. The First Consul arrived with
something of the air of Jupiter Tonans, for he was surrounded by a great
number of aides, who stood in line and showed some surprise at seeing
their General take so much trouble for this frail old gentleman in a
black coat, who seemed, moreover, a little afraid of them all.
Bonaparte, by way of doing something, took his seat at a card-table, and
summoned me. I was the only woman in the _salon_ whose name was not
unknown to M. Delille, and I instantly understood that Bonaparte had
selected me as the connecting link between the poet’s time and that of
the Consul. I endeavored to establish a certain harmony between them.
Bonaparte consented to the conversation being literary, and at first our
poet seemed not insensible to the courtesy extended him. Both men became
animated, but each in his own way; and I very soon realized that neither
the one nor the other produced the effect he desired and intended.
Bonaparte liked to talk; M. Delille was loquacious and told long
stories; they interrupted each other constantly; they did not listen,
and never replied; they were both accustomed to praise; they each felt a
conviction before many minutes had expired that they were not making a
good impression on each other, and ended by separating with some
fatigue, and perhaps discontented. After this evening M. Delille said
that the Consul’s conversation _smelled of gun-powder_; Bonaparte
declared that the old poet _was in his dotage_.
I know very little in regard to M. de Chateaubriand’s youth. Having
emigrated with his family, he knew in England M. de Fontanes, who saw
his first manuscript, and encouraged him in his intention of writing. On
his return to France they kept up their relations, and I believe
Chateaubriand was presented by M. de Fontanes to the First Consul.
Having published the “Génie du Christianisme” at the time of the
Concordat of 1801, he concluded that he had best dedicate his work to
the _restorer of religion_. He was by no means wealthy; his tastes, his
somewhat disorderly character, his ambition, which was boundless though
vague, and his excessive vanity, all inspired him with the desire as
well as the need of attaching himself to something. I do not know under
what title he was employed on a mission to Rome. He conducted himself
there imprudently, and wounded Bonaparte. The ill humor that he had
caused and his indignation at the death of the Duc d’Enghien embroiled
them completely. M. de Chateaubriand, on his return to Paris, saw
himself surrounded by women who greeted and exalted him as if he had
been a victim; he eagerly embraced the opinions to which he has since
adhered. It was not in his nature to wish to seclude himself, or to be
forgotten by the world. He was put under surveillance, which gratified
his vanity. Those who claim to know him intimately say that if
Bonaparte, instead of having him watched, had simply shown a more
profound consciousness of his merits, Chateaubriand would have been
completely won over. The author would not have been insensible to praise
coming from so high a source. I repeat this opinion without asserting
that it was well founded. I know, however, that it was also that of the
Emperor, who said very openly, “The difficulty I have is not on the
score of buying M. de Chateaubriand, but as regards paying him the price
he sets upon himself.” However this may be, he kept himself aloof, and
frequented only the circles of the opposition. His journey to the Holy
Land caused him to be forgotten for some time; he suddenly reappeared,
and published “Les Martyrs.” The religious ideas found in every page of
his works, set off with the coloring of his brilliant talents, formed of
his admirers a sort of sect, and raised up enemies among the
philosophical writers. The newspapers both praised and attacked him, and
a controversy arose in regard to him, sometimes very bitter, which the
Emperor favored, “because,” he said, “this controversy occupies fine
society.”
At the time of the appearance of “Les Martyrs” a kind of Royalist
conspiracy broke out in Brittany. One of M. de Chateaubriand’s cousins,
who was found to be involved in it, was taken to Paris, tried, and
condemned to death. I was connected with some of Chateaubriand’s
intimate friends; they brought him to me, and joined him in begging me
to solicit, through the Empress, mercy for his relative. I asked him to
give me a letter to the Emperor; he refused, and seemed to feel the
greatest repugnance to such a step, but consented to write to Mme.
Bonaparte. He gave me at the same time a copy of “Les Martyrs,” hoping
that Bonaparte would look it over, and that it would soften him toward
the author. As I was by no means sure that this would be enough to
appease the Emperor, I advised M. de Chateaubriand to try several
methods at the same time.
“You are a relative,” I said, “of M. de Malesherbes, whose name may
always be uttered with the certainty of obtaining respect and
consideration. Let us now endeavor to make it of use, and name him when
you write to the Empress.”
M. de Chateaubriand surprised me greatly by rejecting this advice. He
allowed me to see that his vanity would be wounded if he did not
personally obtain that for which he asked. His pride of authorship was
clearly his strongest feeling, and he wished to influence the Emperor in
that capacity. He consequently did not write precisely what I would have
desired. I, however, took his letter, and did my best in addition. I
even spoke to the Emperor, and seized upon a favorable moment to read to
him some pages of “Les Martyrs.” Finally, I mentioned M. de Malesherbes.
“You are a skillful advocate,” said the Emperor, “but you do not
comprehend the affair. It is necessary for me to make an example in
Brittany; it will fall upon a man of very little interest, for this
relation of M. de Chateaubriand has a mediocre reputation. I know that
his cousin cares not one sou for him, and this fact is proved to me by
the very things he has compelled you to do. He has had the childishness
not to write to me; his letter to the Empress is stiff and even haughty
in tone. He would like to impress me with the importance of his talents;
I answer him with that of _my policy_, and in all conscience this ought
not to humiliate him. I have need of an example in Brittany to avoid a
crowd of petty political prosecutions. This will give M. de
Chateaubriand an opportunity of writing some pathetic pages, which he
will read aloud in the Faubourg Saint Germain. The fine ladies will
keep, and you will see that this will console him!”
It was impossible to shake a determination expressed in this way. All
means that the Empress and I attempted were useless, and the sentence
was executed. That same day I received a note from M. de Chateaubriand,
which in spite of myself recalled Bonaparte’s words. He wrote to me that
he had thought it his duty to be present at the death of his relative,
and that he had shuddered afterward on seeing dogs lap up the blood. The
whole note was written in a similar tone. I had been touched, but this
revolted me. I do not know whether it was he or myself that was in
fault. A few days later M. de Chateaubriand, dressed in full mourning,
did not appear much afflicted, but his irritation against the Emperor
was greatly augmented.
This event brought me into connection with him. His works pleased me,
but his presence disturbed my liking for them. He was, and is still,
much spoiled by society, particularly by women. He places his associates
in a most embarrassing position at times, because one sees immediately
that one has nothing to teach him as to his own value. He invariably
takes the first place, and, making himself comfortable there, becomes
extremely amiable. But his conversation, which displays a vivid
imagination, exhibits also a certain hardness of heart, and a
selfishness that is but ill concealed. His works are religious, and
indicate none but the noblest sentiments. He is in earnest when he
writes, but he lacks gravity in his bearing. His face is handsome, his
form somewhat awry, and he is careful and even affected in his toilet.
It would seem that he prefers in love that which is generally known as
_les bonnes fortunes_. It is plain that he prefers to have disciples
rather than friends. In fine, I conclude from all that I have seen that
it is better to read him than to know him. Later on, I will narrate what
took place in regard to the decennial prizes.
I have hardly seen Mme. de Staël, but I have been surrounded by persons
who have known her well. My mother and some of my relatives were
intimate with her in their youth, and have told me that in her earliest
years she displayed a character which promised to carry her beyond the
restraints of nearly all social customs. At the age of fifteen she
enjoyed the most abstract reading and the most impassioned works. The
famous Franclieu of Geneva, finding her one day with a volume of J. J.
Rousseau in her hand, and surrounded by books of all kinds, said to her
mother, Mme. Necker: “Take care; you will make your daughter a lunatic
or a fool.” This severe judgment was not realized, and yet it is
impossible not to feel that there was something very odd, something that
looked like mental alienation, in the manner in which Mme. de Staël
acted her part as a woman in the world. Surrounded in her father’s house
by a circle consisting of all the men in the city who were in any way
distinguished, excited by the conversations that she heard as well as by
her own nature, her intellectual faculties were perhaps developed to
excess. She then acquired the taste for controversy which she has since
practiced so much, and in which she has shown herself so _piquante_ and
so distinguished. She was animated even to agitation, perfectly true and
natural, felt with force, and expressed herself with fire. Harassed by
an imagination which consumed her, too eager for notoriety and success,
hampered by those laws of society which keep women within narrow bounds,
she braved everything, conquered everything, and suffered much from this
stormy contest between the demon that pushed her on and the social
proprieties which could not restrain her.
She had the misfortune to be excessively plain, and to be miserable on
that account; for it seemed as if she felt within herself a craving for
successes of all kinds. With a passably pretty face, she would probably
have been happier, because she would have been calmer. Her nature was
too passionate for her not to love strongly, and her imagination too
vivid for her not to think that she loved often. The celebrity she
acquired naturally brought to her much homage, by which her vanity was
gratified. Although she had great kindness of heart, she excited both
hatred and envy; she startled women, and she wounded many men whose
superior she thought herself. Some of her friends, however, were always
faithful, and her own loyalty to friendship never failed.
When Bonaparte was made Consul, Mme. de Staël had already become famous
through her opinions, her conduct, and her works. A personage like
Bonaparte excited the curiosity, and at first even the enthusiasm, of a
woman who was always awake to all that was remarkable. She became deeply
interested in him—sought him, pursued him everywhere. She believed that
the happy combination of so many distinguished qualities and of so many
favorable circumstances might be turned to the profit of her idol,
Liberty; but she quickly startled Bonaparte, who did not wish to be
either watched or divined. Mme. de Staël, after making him uneasy,
displeased him. He received her advances coldly, and disconcerted her by
his bluntness and sharp words. He offended many of her opinions; a
certain distrust grew up between them, and, as they were both
high-tempered, this distrust was not long in changing to hatred.
When in Paris, Mme. de Staël received many people, and all political
subjects were freely discussed under her roof. Louis Bonaparte, then
very young, visited her sometimes and enjoyed her conversation. His
brother became uneasy at this, and forbade his frequenting the house,
and even went so far as to have him watched. Men of letters, publicists,
men of the Revolution, great lords, were all to be met there.
“This woman,” said the First Consul, “teaches people to think who never
thought before, or who had forgotten how to think.” And there was much
truth in this. The publication of certain works by M. Necker put the
finishing touch to his irritation: he banished Mme. de Staël from
France, and did himself great harm by this act of arbitrary persecution.
In addition to this, as nothing excites one like a first injustice, he
even pursued those persons who believed it their duty to show her
kindness in her exile. Her works, with the exception of her novels, were
mutilated before their appearance in France; all the journals were
ordered to speak ill of them; no generosity was shown her. When she was
driven from her own land, foreign countries welcomed her warmly. Her
talents fortified her against the annoyances of her life, and raised her
to a height which many men might well have envied. If Mme. de Staël had
known how to add to her goodness of heart and to her brilliant genius
the advantages of a calm and quiet life, she would have avoided the
greater part of her misfortunes, and seized while living the
distinguished rank which will not long be refused her among the writers
of her century. Her works indicate rapid and keen insight, and a warmth
that comes from her soul. They are characterized by an imagination that
is almost too vivid, but she lacks clearness and good taste. In reading
her writings one sees at once that they are the results of an excitable
nature, rebelling under order and regularity. Her life was not exactly
that of a woman, nor could it be that of a man; it was utterly deficient
in repose—a deprivation without remedy for happiness, and even for
talent.
After the first restoration, Mme. de Staël returned to France,
overwhelmed with joy at being once more in her own land, and at seeing
the dawn of the constitutional _régime_ for which she had so ardently
longed. Bonaparte’s return struck terror to her soul. Again she resumed
her wanderings, but her exile this time lasted only _a hundred days_.
She reappeared with the King. She was very happy. She had married her
daughter to the Duc de Broglie, who unites to the distinction of his
name a noble and elevated nature; the liberation of France satisfied
her, her friends were near her, and the world crowded about her. This
was the time when death claimed her, at the age of fifty. The last work
on which she was engaged, and which she had not completed, was published
after her death; this has made her thoroughly known to us. This work not
only paints the times in which she lived, but gives a clear and exact
idea of the century which gave her birth—which alone could have
developed her, and of which she is not one of the least results.
I occasionally heard Bonaparte speak of Mme. de Staël. The hatred he
bore her was unquestionably founded in some degree upon that jealousy
with which he was inspired by any superiority which he could not
control; and his words were often characterized by a bitterness which
elevated her in spite of himself, and lowered him in the estimation of
those who, in the full possession of their reasoning faculties, listened
to him.
While Mme. de Staël could complain with so much justice of the
persecution to which she was subjected, there was another woman, much
her inferior and far less celebrated, who had had reason to rejoice in
the protection accorded to her by the Emperor. This was Mme. de Genlis.
He never found in her either talents or opinions in opposition to his
own. She had loved and glorified the Revolution, and well understood how
to profit by all its liberties. In her old age she became both a prude
and a _dévote_. She attached herself to order and discipline, and for
this reason, or under this pretext manifested a profound admiration for
Bonaparte by which he was much flattered; he bestowed a pension upon
her, and instituted a sort of correspondence with her, in the course of
which she kept him informed of all that she felt would be useful to him,
and taught him much regarding the ancient _régime_ which he wished to
know. She loved and protected M. Fiévée, then a very young writer; she
drew him into this correspondence, and it was in this way that between
himself and Bonaparte were established those relations of which Fiévée
subsequently boasted so much. Although flattered by the admiration of
Mme. de Genlis, Bonaparte understood her thoroughly. He once expressed
himself openly in my presence in regard to her. He was speaking of that
prudery which permeates all her works. “When Mme. de Genlis,” he said,
“wishes to define virtue, she speaks of it as of a discovery!”
The Restoration did not reëstablish relations between Mme. de Genlis and
the house of Orleans. The Duke of Orleans did not choose to see her more
than once, but contented himself with continuing the pension allowed her
by the Emperor.
These two women were not the only ones who wrote and published their
works under Bonaparte’s rule. Of the others I will mention only a few,
at the head of whom I will place Mme. Cottin, so distinguished for the
warmth of an impassioned imagination which communicated itself to her
style, and Mme. de Flahault, who married at the beginning of this
century M. de Souza, then Ambassador from Portugal, and who wrote some
very pretty novels. There were others still whose names are to be found
in the newspapers of that day. Novels have multiplied greatly in France
in the last thirty years, and merely by reading these one has a very
clear idea of the progress of the French mind since the Revolution. The
disorder of the first years of this Revolution turned the mind from all
those pleasures which only interest when in repose. Young people
generally were but half educated; the differences of parties destroyed
public opinion. At the time when that great regulator had entirely
disappeared, mediocrity could show itself without fear. All sorts of
attempts were made in literature, and imaginative works, always easiest
when most fantastic, were published with impunity. People, with their
minds heated by the rapidity of events, yielded to a kind of excitement
and enthusiasm which found a field in the invention of fables and in the
style of our romances. Liberty alone, which men did not enjoy, can
develop with grandeur those emotions which our great political storms
had aroused. But in all times and under all governments women can write
and talk of love, and works of this kind met with general approval.
There was little or none of Mme. de la Fayette’s elegance, nor of Mme.
Riccoboni’s delicate, refined wit: nor did they amuse themselves by
describing the usages of courts, the habits of a state of society now
nearly passed away; but they represented powerful scenes of passion and
human nature in trying positions. The heart was often unveiled in these
animated fables, and some men even, in order to give variety to their
sensations, engaged in this style of composition.
After all, there is some truth and nature in the tone of the works
published since the epoch of which we speak. Even in the romances, the
enthusiasm is rather too strong than too affected, and, generally
speaking, they are not perverted by a false taste. The wild errors of
our Revolution upheaved French society, and later this society was
unable to recreate itself on the same erroneous foundation. Each of the
individuals who composed it was not only displaced, but was even
entirely changed. Merely conventional customs have by degrees
disappeared, and in all the relations of life the difference has been
felt. Discourses written and spoken are no longer the same, nor are
pictures. We have come to seek stronger sensations and emotions that are
more real, because sorrow has developed the habit of keener feeling.
Bonaparte caused nothing to move backward, but he restrained everything.
The return of order to the Government brought back also what M. de
Fontanes called _les bonnes lettres_. It now began to be felt that good
taste, discretion, and moderation should count for something in the
works of talent. If the good genius of France had permitted Bonaparte to
bestow upon us some shadow of liberty at the same time that he brought
us repose, it is probable that the recollections of a stormy period,
combined with the comfort of a more settled state of things, would have
led to more important productions. But the Emperor, desiring that all
should turn to his advantage alone, while at the same time making
enormous efforts to attach to his reign all celebrities, so hampered
their minds and marked them with the seal of his despotism that he
virtually interdicted all hearty efforts. The greater number of writers
exhausted their inventive genius in varying the prescribed and
well-recompensed praise. No political works were sanctioned, and in all
imaginary creations every doubtful application was avoided with the
utmost care. Comedy dared not depict the manners of the day. Tragedy
only ventured to represent certain heroes. There was so much in the
Emperor that could honestly be praised, that conscience was appeased;
but true invention, repressed, soon becomes extinct.
Meanwhile time and progress, combined with the habitual good taste of
France, which had such examples in the past, all had their effect. All
that was produced had a certain amount of elegance, and those who
engaged in authorship wrote more or less well. A prudent mediocrity was
the order of the day. The first quality of genius is strength of
thought, and when thought is restrained one limits one’s self to the
perfecting of one’s diction. One can only conscientiously do the best
that is permitted. And this explains the sameness of the works of the
beginning of this century. But nowadays the liberty we have gained
extends in all directions, and we have bequeathed to our children the
habit of perfecting the details of execution, with the hope that they
will enrich these details by their genius.
I have previously said that, while strength of expression was forbidden
us, we were at least allowed to be natural, and this quality certainly
makes itself felt in the greater number of the literary productions of
our time. The stage, which was afraid to present the vices and the
follies of each class, because all classes were recreated by Bonaparte,
and it was necessary to respect his work, disembarrassed itself of the
affectation and cant which preceded the Revolution. At the head of our
comic authors Picard must be placed—Picard, who has so often, with so
much originality and gayety, given us an idea of the manners and customs
of Paris under the government of the Directory. After his name come
those of Duval and several authors of comic opera.
We have seen the birth and death of many distinguished poets: Legouvé,
who was made known to us by “La Mort d’Abel,” which he followed by “La
Mort d’Henri IV.,” and who wrote fine fugitive poems; Arnault, author of
“Marius à Minturnes”; Raynouard, who made a great success in “Les
Templières”; Lemercier, who appeared before the public first with his
“Agamemnon,” the best of his works; Chénier, whose talents bore too
revolutionary an imprint, but who had a strong perception of the tragic.
Then follow a whole crowd of poets, all more or less pupils of M.
Delille, and who, having acquired from him the art of rhyming elegantly,
celebrated the charms of the country and simple pleasures and repose to
the sound of Bonaparte’s cannon echoing all through Europe. I will not
enter on this long list, which may be found anywhere. There were
excellent translations made. Very little history was written; the time
had come when it was necessary to use a forcible pen in writing it, and
no one was prepared to use such a pen.
Every one had fortunately become disgusted with the light and mocking
tone of the philosophy of the last century, which, overthrowing all
belief by the aid of ridicule, blighted and tarnished all that was best
in life, and made of irreligion a jest and an intolerant dogma.
Sorrowful experience had begun to teach the value of religious faith.
Men were insensibly drawn into a better path, and followed it, though
slowly.
Art, which stands not in so much need of liberty as letters, had not
stood altogether still. It had made some progress, but at the same time
it had suffered from the general restraint. Among our most famous
painters was David, who most unfortunately marred his reputation by
abandoning himself to the most disgusting errors of the Revolutionary
madness. After refusing in 1792 to paint Louis XVI., because he said he
did not choose that his brush should delineate a tyrant’s features, he
submitted with a very good grace to Bonaparte, and represented him in
all ways. Then came Gérard, who painted so many historical portraits, an
immortal “Battle of Austerlitz,” and not long since an “Entry of Henry
IV. into Paris,” which stirred every French heart; Girodet, so admirable
for the purity of his drawing and the boldness of his conceptions; Gros,
an eminently dramatic artist; Guérin, whose brush stirs the souls of all
who can feel; Isabey, so clever and so delicate in his miniatures; and a
crowd of others of all kinds. The Emperor patronized and protected all.
Everything was reproduced by the brush and the palette, and money was
lavished on these artists. The Revolution had placed them in society,
where they occupied an agreeable and often very useful position. They
guided the development of luxury, and at the same time drew largely on
the poetic and picturesque incidents of our Revolution and of the
Imperial reign. Bonaparte was able indeed to chill the expression of
strong thoughts; but he kindled men’s imaginations, and that is enough
for most poets and for all painters.
The progress of science was not interrupted, for it was useful to the
Government and awakened no distrust. The Institute of France numbers
many distinguished men. Bonaparte courted them all, and enriched some.
He even bestowed some of his new dignities upon them. He summoned them
to his Senate. It seems to me that this was an honor to that body, and
that the idea was not without grandeur. _Savants_ under his rule have
been more independent than any other classes. Lagrange, whom Bonaparte
made Senator, held himself aloof; but Laplace, Lacépède, Monge,
Berthollet, Cuvier, and some others accepted his favors eagerly, and
repaid them with unfailing admiration.
I can not conscientiously close this chapter without mentioning the
great number of musicians who did honor to their profession. Music has
attained to high perfection in France. Bonaparte had an especial liking
for the Italian school. The expenditures he made in transplanting it to
France were very useful to us, although he allowed his own caprices to
govern him in the distribution of his favors. For example, he always
repelled Cherubini, because that composer, displeased on one occasion by
a criticism made by Bonaparte when he was only a general, had answered
him somewhat rudely, that “a man might be skillful enough on a
battle-field and yet know nothing of harmony.” He took a fancy to
Lessueur, and lost his temper at the time of the award of the decennial
prizes because the Institute did not proclaim this musician worthy of
the prize. But as a general thing he did his best to advance this art. I
saw him receive at Malmaison old M. Grétry, and treat him with
remarkable distinction. Grétry, Dalayrac, Méhul, Berton, Lesueur,
Spontini, and others still were distinguished under the Empire, and
received recompenses for their works.
In like manner actors met with great favor. All that I have said of the
tendency of our authors may apply with equal truth to the drama. The
natural has acquired a great influence on our stage since the
Revolution. Good taste has proscribed pompous gravity in tragedy and
affectation in comedy. Talma and Mlle. Mars have done much toward
strengthening the alliance between art and nature. Ease united to vigor
has been introduced in dancing. In short, it may be said that
simplicity, elegance, and harmony now characterize French taste, and
that all the shams of phantasy and conventionality have disappeared.