“_Le premier degré d’une chute profonde_,” says Victor Hugo, speaking
of Elba in connection with Napoleon. And it is impossible to remain in
the island long without conjuring up the figure of the fallen prince
hurrying hither and thither with one or two attendants, building his
villa, enquiring into the agricultural and mineral wealth of his new
kingdom, collecting his taxes and his customs duties, strengthening
his fortifications, holding the tiny court of which the people of
Portoferraio were so inordinately proud, carrying on his _amours_,
chatting with the peasants and the proprietors—and under the mask
of all this activity enlisting men, collecting stores, conducting
a continuous secret correspondence with Naples, with Corsica, with
France, undecided whether to make himself King of Italy or to go back
to be Emperor of the French.
Elba, towering above her satellites Pianosa, Monte Cristo, S. Stefano,
Giglio, with the rocky islet of Palmaiola as sentinel in the very
narrow channel towards Piombino, is an excellent place to plot in, and
a very difficult place to watch. Napoleon, as was but natural, took
in the advantages of his position at a glance. He had hardly arrived
in Elba before he claimed the neighbouring islands as part of his
domain, and began to establish outposts on them. Thus he surrounded
himself with a barrier within which no foreign ship could penetrate
without violating the independence secured to him by the Treaty of
Fontainebleau; and which at the same time afforded him a valid excuse
for short sea-trips and for a constant movement of small vessels
eminently adapted to conceal secret negotiations of every kind, and
especially his intercourse with Corsica. In this most favourable
position, shut off from prying eyes by diplomacy and nature combined,
within easy communicating distance on the one hand of Tuscany and of
Murat, on the other of Corsica and France, Napoleon remained from
May 4th, 1814, to February 26th, 1815. With his political intrigues
during that time we do not propose to concern ourselves, nor with the
vexed question raised by some disappointed Frenchmen, who seem to have
understood neither the Treaty of Fontainebleau nor the geography of
Elba, as to England’s complicity in his escape; rather we would picture
him in the places with which we too are familiar, would shadow him
forth not as the banished Emperor of France, but as Monarch of Elba.
By the time the English frigate, the _Undaunted_, that bore him,
reached Portoferraio, Napoleon had decided on the line of conduct he
intended to pursue: that of a monarch on a small scale, intent on
developing the resources of his kingdom, firm in exacting respect for
his new flag from all maritime powers. And so well did he play his part
of miniature kingship that even Sir Neil Campbell, English Commissioner
in the island, thought that he was contented; and more than once opined
that if Napoleon were well supplied with money—as he should have been
by the terms of the treaty—he would remain quietly where he was; but
he was such a very eccentric person that, if he ran short, there was no
knowing what improper conduct he might pursue.
He assumed this position at once on his arrival in the harbour of
Portoferraio. He refused to land until his new subjects should have
had time to prepare an ovation suitable to the reception of a monarch,
and he issued an address to General d’Alhesme, then commanding in the
island, in the following terms:—
“General! I have sacrificed my rights to the interests of my country,
reserving the sovereignty and possession of the island of Elba. To this
the Powers have consented. Have the kindness to make known the new
state of things to the inhabitants, and the choice that I have made of
their island as my abode on account of the mildness of their customs
and their climate. Tell them that they will always be the objects of
my warmest interest.”
The Portoferraiesi took the Emperor at his word. They were overwhelmed
with gratitude at the honour he showed them. They received him with
flags, with fireworks and with Te Deums; they sent deputations to wait
on him; they presented him with a map of his dominions—a very bad
one, by-the-by—on a silver tray; they gave up their best furniture to
furnish, provisionally at least, the Palazzina dei Mulini, just under
Forte Falcone, where he was to live; they took his officers into their
homes; they put on their finest dresses and went to receptions in the
town-hall in the evening, telling themselves that their city already
seemed like one of the capitals of Europe. And Napoleon fostered their
delusion. He proposed to readopt the name given to the city by Duke
Cosimo de’ Medici, and to call it Cosmopoli; deriving the first part
of the word, not from Cosimo, but from the Greek _kosmos_, world,
declaring that his Cosmopoli was to be the _City of the World_. At the
same time he built and altered extensively in and around his house,
adding another storey, planting a garden, forming a library, erecting
a tribunal and theatre; he shipped over furniture from the mainland;
he prepared a residence close to his own for his mother; he bought
land and built a country-house not far from Portoferraio; he sent for
his sister Pauline; he prepared extensive stabling; he established a
lazaretto in the harbour, which was to compete with that of Leghorn:
everything pointed to complete acquiescence in his position.
He had, in fact, scarcely landed before he began to take possession
of his new dominions, as a good monarch should do, and had soon
visited the places of importance in Elba and its dependant isles. His
corpulence rendered climbing and even walking difficult, but his active
spirit overcame all difficulties; and the Elbans who met him, his
officers and attendants, continually on the roads and mountain paths,
felt quite convinced that the Emperor was devoting himself to their
welfare.
One of his first expeditions brought vividly before him the extent
of his fall. He had visited all the forts and surroundings of
Portoferraio, had collected information concerning the salt manufacture
(a Government monopoly) and the tunny fishery; and turning to the left
from the land gate of Portoferraio, had pushed as far as the iron mines
of Rio—then, as now, Government property—and the fort of Longone; but
he had not yet climbed the hills that shut in his capital at the back.
These are crossed by a few bridle-paths and by a road, sheer up and
down, paved now with the native rock, now with loose, rolling stones,
and known as the Colle Reciso. About half-way up the Portoferraio side
of this road, a breakneck path leads to the right, up the face of a
hill called St. Lucia, whence the Etruscans once drew copper for
their bronze. The Emperor, Colonel Campbell, General Bertrand, and
their attendants, riding to the top of this hill, found themselves
among the ruins of a very large ancient castle. The towers lie prone
in enormous masses of masonry, the walls have partly fallen in, partly
been quarried for surrounding buildings; of roof there is no trace; the
place is simply a large grass-grown square surrounded by naked, ruined
blocks of masonry. Not quite abandoned, either, for in one corner is
a tiny church with a couple of rooms built on to it in which a hermit
once lived and died. Here the party halted and looked round. They were
dominating the narrowest part of the island. Right and left the hills
stretch away in barren, fantastic peaks now crowned with ruins, now
sheer with granite cliffs; before and behind the sea is visible in four
different places. Napoleon looked around for a little while, taking in
the principal points of the landscape, and then, turning to Campbell,
said, with a quiet smile:—“_Eh, mon île est bien petite_.”
Later on he would often follow the Colle Reciso down into the fertile,
vine-covered plain of Lacona, which lies at its foot on the southern
side. The conditions here, even now, are truly patriarchal. The
mountains form a semi-circle about the coast; and in the midst stands
the proprietor’s villa surrounded by eucalyptus trees, prickly-pears
and aloes—an island among the spreading vineyards. To see the
_contadini_ waiting at the well for the master, his arrival with his
family, and the respectful familiarity with which they take their
orders from their _padrone_, is to get a glimpse into old world ways
and ideas such as does not fall to the lot of everyone.
From this plain springs the headland known as Capo di Stella. It
is narrow and low at its base, but rises and swells as it advances
into the sea, and becomes a wild rocky hill, with sheer precipices
down to the water, covered with lentisks, with aromatic herbs, with
great silvery shining thorn-bushes known to the inhabitants as _prune
caprine_. It is the home of hares and innumerable birds. Here Napoleon
proposed to make a preserve for game; and actually went the length of
arranging matters with the proprietor, Jacopo Foresi, and of making
some show of beginning the wall which was to span the isthmus, cutting
off the headland from the rest of the estate. Needless to say that the
game on Capo di Stella was not in reality profoundly interesting to
Napoleon, and that the plan was never carried out. There is an incident
recounted of the Emperor in these parts, commemorated by an inscription
affixed by the present proprietor, Mario Foresi, to the walls of
the house of one of his peasants. A certain Giaconi was ploughing
when Napoleon came along, and in his character of one interested in
everything, took the ploughshare out of the man’s hands and attempted
to guide it himself. But the oxen refused to obey him, overturned the
share and spoilt the furrow. Foresi’s inscription runs as follows:
napoleone il grande
quivi passando nel MDCCCXIV.
tolto nel campo adiacente l’aratro d’un contadino
provavasi egli stesso ad arare
ma i bovi rebelli a quelle mani
che pur seppero infrenare l’europa
precipitosamente
fuggirono dal solco.[14]
Farther along the coast, to the west of Lacona, and separated from it
by a semi-circle of almost pathless hills, is the beach and village
of Campo, where are extensive granite quarries. To this place also
Napoleon paid several visits, and caused a road to be made winding
round the base of the hills and joining it with Portoferraio. Must
he not develop the resources of his island by providing for the
carriage of its granite? Or rather, would not such a road be extremely
convenient for keeping up communication with the outlying island of
Pianosa, where he was collecting troops and training cavalry? The room
where Napoleon passed the night on one of his visits to the village is
still shown; an old man, too, blear-eyed and tottering, is listened
to with a certain respect by the villagers as he relates how he was
nursed and caressed by the Emperor. His father had been a sailor in
one of Napoleon’s fleets, had been taken prisoner by Nelson, had spent
many years in England, had been ultimately accepted as a sailor on an
English ship, and had made his escape from Genoa. Napoleon visited the
man, made him relate his experiences, and showed himself affable with
the children, as was his general way in Elba.
Most thickly do reminiscences of Napoleon cluster round the lovely
village of Marciana. The road leading westwards from Portoferraio
skirts the seashore. On the left hand rise cliffs densely overgrown
with white heather; below, on the right, lies the shore in a succession
of bewitching bays and headlands. A ride of between two and three
hours brings one to a village lying along a graceful curve, backed by
dense chestnut woods, over which hang the frowning precipices of Monte
Capanne, the highest mountain in the island. This is Marciana Marina.
Behind it a steep, boulder-paved path, running along a ridge above
the chestnut woods, where _cicale_ sing all day long to the sound of
falling waters, leads to Marciana Alta, a fortified place defended
once by a huge castle. The castle is now a mere shell within which
fowls are penned; they pick up a living among the heaps of _débris_,
and drink out of the two halves of the large iron crown which once
hung proudly above the Medici arms. To the right of Marciana Alta, a
long Via Crucis leads to a church known as the Madonna del Monte. The
road is absolutely breakneck, formed of blocks of stone, which devout
visitors to the shrine have hammered into the soil at their somewhat
eccentric pleasure. The church is one of the richest in the island,
possessing beautiful massive silver chalices and lamps, rich vestments,
vineyards and fields. It stands in a wood of magnificent chestnut
trees, and has at the back a charming semi-circular wall of grey stone,
divided by pilasters into three sections, each of which contains an
ancient stone mask spouting the coldest, lightest of water. Close by
the church is a little house in which a lay hermit lives. What wonder
that Napoleon should take a liking to so picturesque a place, renowned
throughout the island for the excellence of its air and its water? What
wonder that he should love to retire thither, and to wander through
the woods to the truculent little village of Poggio that stands up so
defiantly on its granite prominence? That he should even like to picnic
on the road in the fold of the hills where the five springs keep up
a continuous splashing? That he should choose this place to receive
that mysterious lady (in reality, the Polish Countess Walewsky) whom
the unlucky mayor of Marciana wanted to fête as no less a person than
the Empress Marie Louise in person? Surely all this was harmless and
natural enough. But follow up the path that leads off to the right
of the hermitage, pass out of the shade of the trees and across the
granite boulders to the promontory that commands the coast of Elba, the
mainland, and Corsica. There two huge masses of rock tower above their
comrades. Between them is a little stairway, partly natural, partly
artificial, which leads to the top of the outer rock. This presents
a natural platform shielded along part of its length by a natural
parapet. The parapet has been added to with brickwork, and a deep hole
big enough to hold a large flagstaff has been driven into the platform.
This was a favourite resort of Napoleon’s. What place could be better
for taking the air? And what place could be better for signalling to
Corsica, the window-panes of whose villages glitter at so short a
distance? As a matter of fact it is some thirty-five miles away; but
in the limpid atmosphere of this “isle of the blessed,” distance, like
time, seems to be annihilated. Here then, like the hero of Balzac’s
tale, would the prodigal sit gazing at his _peau de chagrin_, now so
wofully shrunken, and scheming for some way to reverse the spell and
restore it to its former amplitude. Vain dream! from which he was
finally awakened by the rude shock of Waterloo. After Napoleon left the
island, the people of Marciana put up a pompous inscription on the
outer wall of the church. It runs as follows:—
napoleone I
vinti gli imperi
i regi resi vassalli
da rutenici geli soprappreso non dalle armi
in questo eremo
per lui trasformato in reggia abitava
dal 23 agosto al 14 settembre 1814
e ritemprato il genio immortale
il 24 febbraio 1815
da qui slanciossi a meravigliare di se
novellamente il mondo.
il municipio di marciana
con animo grato e riverente
a tanto nome
decretava di erigere questa memoria
il 18 febbraio, 1863.[15]
Of regular residences Napoleon may be said to have had three in the
island of Elba: the Mulini in Portoferraio, the country-house at St.
Martino, and a house at Longone. The Mulini is a small, two-storeyed
house, with a garden behind it, and a winding path leading down to
the sea; the path ends in a little grotto known as “Napoleon’s bath.”
The Emperor occupied the lower storey, giving the upper one, which
he himself had built on, to his sister Pauline. No trace of the
illustrious occupant now remains: the furniture has been entirely
removed, some of it, as in the case of a bed in my possession, having
left the island altogether; even the library, presented by Napoleon
to the town, and lodged in the town-hall, has been to a great extent
scattered, owing to the carelessness of the municipal authorities.
Only one tangible record of the Emperor remains: the bronze mask in
the chapel of the Misericordia. Antonmarchi, Napoleon’s doctor, made
in Paris three bronze masks from the plaster cast which he had taken
immediately after the death in St. Helena. One of these masks passed
through the Murat family into the hands of the sculptor, Hiram Powers,
in Florence, and is now[16] exposed for sale in London. The second I
have not been able to trace. The third is at Portoferraio, kept in a
handsome sarcophagus, and exposed to the public gaze every 5th of May,
when a funeral service is performed over it. The face, as shown by the
mask, is thin and drawn, the brow heavy and projecting; the likeness to
the bust of Julius Cæsar in the British Museum is quite extraordinary.
Napoleon’s country-house at St. Martino lies in the fold of the hills
west of Portoferraio. The building of it enabled him to play to
perfection the _rôle_ he had determined to adopt. He bought up the
ground from the small proprietors who owned it, respecting, however,
the rights of one old woman who refused to sell; and as soon as the
works were well under way was continually to be seen riding along
the road from Portoferraio to inspect their progress, supervising
everything, chatting with everybody, talking to the children and giving
them money. A tree is still shown which he is said to have planted
with his own hand. Round the house, which was quite small, is a wood
with fine old ilex-trees through which a path leads to the spring at
which Napoleon loved to drink, and to the right rises a hill which the
peasants still call the _hill of sighs_, because, they say, Napoleon
used to go up there to sigh for his beloved France. The Emperor’s
bedroom has been preserved intact, with its pretty decorations and its
charming Empire furniture. Near the bed are two windows, of which one,
just at the level of the eyes of a person lying there, opens on to a
superb view of Portoferraio, the sea and neighbouring coast-line.
The house within the fort at Longone is now as bare as that at
Portoferraio. The place, however, is interesting, for it was with the
excuse of repairing the fortifications there that the Emperor supplied
himself with guns and ammunition; while the ostensible sale, at Genoa,
Leghorn, and other places, of the old iron found in the fort, afforded
him an additional means of communication with the Continent. He was
very frequently at Longone while maturing the final details of his
escape.
Notwithstanding his apparent affability towards the Elbans, intended,
we must believe, rather to mislead outsiders than the people
themselves, Napoleon was not popular in the island. Being in continual
want of money he was obliged to tax the people beyond their resources;
and they naturally saw clearly that, whatever he might say and however
condescending he might show himself, the money he drew from them was
by no manner of means applied to the improvement of their position.
His tax-gatherers were insulted; riots took place in the very churches
when the priests gave out the date by which the taxes were to be sent
in; in one village troops were billeted on the inhabitants until the
last penny should be paid. The cries of “_Vive l’Empereur!_” which had
originally greeted him on his various expeditions, ceased to be heard.
Before matters reached a veritable climax, however, Napoleon had played
out his part, and had left the island in which he had landed with so
many fine promises. He had shown himself a clever actor, a skilful
intriguer to the outside world of European diplomacy; debauched,
tyrannical and exacting to the inner Elban world, into which foreign
diplomats could pry with difficulty. In his vices, in his astuteness,
in his ambition, Napoleon, as he revealed himself in the island of
Elba, moves backwards through history, and takes his place beside the
Borgia, the Orsini, the Medici of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
Of the caricatures of the period the most interesting is the grimly
ingenious German portrait of the Conqueror, to which the following
explanation is attached: The hat is the Russian eagle which has gripped
with its talons and will not leave go; the face is composed of the
bodies of some of the thousands he has sacrificed to his ambition; the
collar is the torrent of blood shed for his vain-glory; the coat is a
bit of the map of the confederation arrayed against him and of his lost
battlefields. On his shoulder, in the guise of an epaulet, is the great
hand of God, which plucks the cobweb and destroys the spider that fills
the place where a heart should have been.