Cypriani, Corsican, died at maître d’hotel.
St. Helena,
Pierron, native of Paris, butler.
Lepage, cook.
Rousseau, native of steward.
Fontainebleau,
As soon as we were all assembled at Longwood, the Emperor determined
to arrange his establishment, and to assign to each of us an
employment suited to our respective capacities. Reserving to the Grand
Marshal the general control and superintendence of the whole
household; he consigned to M. de Montholon all the domestic details.
To M. Gourgaud he intrusted the direction of the stables: and I was
appointed to take care of the property and furniture, and to
superintend the management of our supplies. The latter part of my duty
appeared to interfere too much with the regulation of domestic
details. I conceived that it would be conducive to the general
advantage, if these two departments were under the control of one
individual, and I soon succeeded in accomplishing this object.
Every thing now proceeded tolerably well, and we were certainly more
comfortable than before. But, however reasonable might be the
regulations made by the Emperor, they, nevertheless, sowed the seeds
of discontent, which took root, and occasionally developed themselves.
One thought himself a loser by the change; another sought to attach
too high an importance to his office; and a third conceived that he
had been wronged in the general division of duties. We were no longer
the members of one family, each exerting his best endeavours to secure
the advantage of the whole. We were far from putting into practice
that which necessity seemed to dictate to us; and a wreck of luxury,
or a remnant of ambition, frequently became an object of dispute.
Though attachment to the person of the Emperor had united us around
him, yet chance, and not sympathy, had brought us together. Our
connexion was purely fortuitous, and not the result of any natural
affinity. Thus, at Longwood, we were encircled round a centre, but
without any cohesion with each other. How could it be otherwise? We
were almost all strangers to one another, and, unfortunately, our
different conditions, ages, and characters, were calculated to make us
continue so.
These circumstances, though in themselves trifling, had the vexatious
effect of depriving us of our most agreeable resources. They banished
that confidence, that interchange of sentiment, and that intimate
union, which are calculated to soothe even the most cruel misfortunes.
But, on the other hand, these very circumstances served to develope
many excellent traits in the Emperor’s character. They were apparent
in his endeavours to produce among us unity and conformity of
sentiment; his constant care to remove every just cause of jealousy;
the voluntary abstraction by which he averted his attention from that
which he wished not to observe; and finally, the paternal expressions
of displeasure, of which we were occasionally the objects, and which
(to the honour of all be it said) were avoided as cautiously, and
received as respectfully, as though they had emanated from the throne
of the Tuileries.
Who in the world can now pretend to know the Emperor in his character
of a private man better than myself?—Who else was with him during two
months of solitude in the desert of Briars?—Who else accompanied him
in his long walks by moonlight, and enjoyed so many hours in his
society? Who, like me, had the opportunity of choosing the moment, the
place, and the subject of his conversation? Who, besides myself, heard
him call to mind the charms of his boyhood, or describe the pleasures
of his youth, and the bitterness of his recent sorrow? I am convinced
that I know his character thoroughly, and that I can now explain many
circumstances which, at the time of their occurrence, seemed to many
difficult to be understood. I can now very well comprehend that which
struck us so forcibly, and which particularly characterized him in the
days of his power; namely, that no individual ever permanently
incurred the displeasure of Napoleon: however marked might be his
disgrace, however deep the gulf into which he was plunged, he might
still confidently hope to be restored to favour. Those who had once
enjoyed intimacy, whatever cause of offence they might give him, never
totally forfeited his regard. The Emperor is eminently gifted with two
excellent qualities;—a vast fund of justice, and a disposition
naturally prone to attachment. Amidst all his vexations and fits of
anger, a sentiment of justice still predominates. He is sure to turn
an attentive ear to sound arguments, and, if left to himself, candidly
brings them forward whenever they occur to his mind. He never forgets
services performed for him, nor habits he has contracted. Sooner or
later he invariably casts a thought on those who may have incurred his
displeasure; he reflects on what they have suffered, considers their
punishment as sufficient, recals them, when they are perhaps forgotten
by the world; and they again enjoy his good graces, to the
astonishment of themselves as well as of others. Of this there have
been many instances. The Emperor is sincere in his attachments,
without making a show of what he feels. When once he becomes used to a
person, he cannot easily bear separation. He observes and condemns his
faults, blames his own choice, expressing his displeasure in the most
unreserved way; but still there is nothing to fear: these are but so
many new ties of regard.
It will probably be a matter of surprise that I should sketch the
Emperor’s character in so simple a style. All that is usually written
about him is so far fetched: it has been thought necessary to employ
antitheses and brilliant colouring; to seek for effect, and to rack
the imagination for high-flown phrases. For my own part, I merely
describe what I see, and express what I feel. This reflection, by the
by, comes _à propos_.
The Emperor was to-day reading with me, in the English papers, a
portrait of himself, drawn by the Archbishop of Malines, and worked up
with innumerable witticisms, affected antitheses and contrasts. He
desired the Grand Marshal to transcribe it word for word. The
following are the principal points: “The mind of Napoleon,” says the
Abbé de Pradt, in his _Embassy to Warsaw, in 1812_, “was vast; but
after the manner of the Orientals: and through a contradictory
disposition, it descended as it were, by the effect of its own weight,
to details which might justly be called low. His first idea was always
grand, and his second mean and petty. His mind was like his purse;
munificence and meanness held each a string. His genius, which was at
once adapted to the stage of the world, and the mountebank’s show,
resembled a royal robe joined to a harlequin’s jacket. He was the man
of extremes; one, who having commanded the Alps to bow down, the
Simplon to smooth its ruggedness, and the sea to advance or recede
from its shores, ended by surrendering himself to an English cruiser.
Endowed with wonderful and infinite shrewdness; glittering with wit;
seizing or creating, in every question, new and unperceived relations;
abounding in lively and picturesque images, animated and pointed
expressions, the more forcible from the very incorrectness of his
language, which always bore a sort of foreign impress; sophistical,
subtle, and changeable, to excess, he adopted different rules of
optics from those by which other men are guided. Add to this the
delirium of success, the habit of drinking from the enchanted cup, and
intoxicating himself with the incense of the world: and you may form
an idea of the man who, uniting in his caprices all that is lofty and
mean in the human character, majestic in the splendour of sovereignty,
and peremptory in command, with all that is ignoble and base, even in
his grandest achievements, joining the treacherous ambush to the
subversion of thrones—presents altogether such a Jupiter-Scapin, as
never before figured on the scene of life.”
Certainly here is abundance of wit, and of the most studied kind. I
pass over the indecorous and disgraceful fact that a reverend prelate,
an Archbishop loaded with the bounty of his sovereign, to whom, during
his prosperity, he paid the most assiduous court, and offered the most
abject flattery, should, in the adversity of that sovereign, indulge
in language so trivial, grotesque, and insulting, as that above
quoted. Without noticing the _harlequin’s coat_, and _Jupiter-Scapin_,
I shall merely dwell on the merit of the Abbé de Pradt’s judgment,
when he says that “the Emperor’s first idea is always grand, and his
second petty; that he is the man of extremes: one who having commanded
the Alps to bow down, the Simplon to smooth its ruggedness, and the
sea to advance and recede from its shores, ended by surrendering
himself to an English cruiser.” The Abbé de Pradt must have formed but
a faint idea of the sublimity, grandeur, and magnanimity of that noble
act. To withdraw himself from a people who were misled by faithless
intriguers, in order to remove every obstacle to their welfare: to
sacrifice his own personal interests, for the sake of averting the
evils of a civil war without national results: to disdain honourable
and secure, but dependent, asylums: to prefer taking refuge among a
people to whom he had, for the space of twenty years, been an
inveterate foe: to suppose their magnanimity equal to his own: to
honour their laws so far as to believe that they would protect him
from the ostracism of Europe:—certainly such ideas and sentiments are
not the reverse of sublime, noble, and great.
At this part of my journal were inserted several pages, full of
details very discreditable to the Archbishop of Malines, which were
received from the Emperor’s own mouth, or collected from the different
individuals about him. I however strike them out, in consideration of
the satisfaction which I was informed the Emperor subsequently
experienced in perusing M. de Pradt’s _Concordats_. For my own part, I
am perfectly satisfied with numerous other testimonies of the same
nature, and derived from the same source. An honourable and voluntary
acknowledgment is a thousand times better than all the retorts that
can be heaped upon an offender. There are persons to whom atonement is
not without its due weight; I am one of these.
Just as I had written the above, I happened to read some lines from
the pen of the Abbé de Pradt, which are certainly very fine with
respect to diction; but which are still finer on account of their
justice and truth. I cannot refrain from transcribing them here; as
they make ample amends for those already quoted. A declaration of the
Allied Sovereigns at Laybach, in which Napoleon was, in terms of
reprobation, pronounced to be the representative of the Revolution,
called forth the following observations from the Archbishop of
Malines:—
“It is too late to insult Napoleon, now that he is defenceless, after
having for so many years crouched at his feet, while he had the power
to punish.... Those who are armed should respect a disarmed enemy, and
the glory of the conqueror depends in a great measure on the
consideration shewn towards the captive, particularly when he yields
to superior force, not to superior genius. It is too late to call
Napoleon a revolutionist, after having for such a length of time
pronounced him to be the restorer of order in France, and, through
France, in Europe. It is too late for those to aim the shaft of insult
at him who once stretched forth their hands to him as a friend,
pledged their faith to him as an ally, and sought to prop a tottering
throne by mingling their blood with his.” Farther on he says: “_He the
representative of the revolution!_ The revolution broke the bonds of
union between France and Rome: he renewed them. The revolution
overthrew the temples of the Almighty: he restored them. The
revolution created two classes of clergy hostile to each other: he
reconciled them. The revolution profaned St. Denis: he purified it,
and offered expiation to the ashes of Kings. The revolution subverted
the throne: he raised it up, and gave it a new lustre. The revolution
banished from their country the nobility of France: he opened to them
the gates of France and of his palace, though he knew them to be his
irreconcileable enemies, and for the most part the enemies of the
public institutions; he reincorporated them with the society from
which they had been separated. This _representative of a revolution_,
which is distinguished by the epithet anti-social, brought from Rome
the head of the Catholic Church, to anoint his brow with the oil that
consecrates diadems! This _representative of a revolution_, which has
been declared hostile to sovereignty, filled Germany with kings,
advanced the rank of princes, restored superior royalty, and
re-constructed a defaced model. This _representative of a revolution_
which is condemned as a principle of anarchy, like another Justinian,
drew up, amidst the din of war and the snares of foreign policy, those
codes which are the least defective portion of human legislature, and
constructed the most vigorous machine of government in the whole
world. This _representative of a revolution_, which is vulgarly
accused of having subverted all institutions, restored universities
and public schools, filled his empire with the masterpieces of art,
and accomplished those amazing and stupendous works which reflect
honour on human genius: and yet, in the face of the Alps, which bowed
down at his command; of the ocean, subdued at Cherbourg, at Flushing,
at the Helder, and at Antwerp; of rivers, smoothly flowing beneath the
bridges of Jena, Serres, Bourdeaux, and Turin; of canals, uniting seas
together in a course beyond the control of Neptune; finally, in the
face of Paris, metamorphosed as it is by Napoleon,—he is pronounced to
be the agent of general destruction! He who restored all, is said to
be the _representative_ of that which destroyed all! To what
undiscerning men is this language supposed to be addressed? &c.”
MY SITUATION MATERIALLY IMPROVED.—MY
BED-CHAMBER CHANGED, &C.
17th.—The Emperor summoned me at two o’clock, when he began to dress.
On entering, he observed that I looked pale: I replied that it might
be owing to the atmosphere of my chamber, which, from its proximity to
the kitchen, was an absolute oven, being frequently filled with smoke.
He then expressed a wish that I should constantly occupy the
topographic cabinet, in which I might write during the day, and sleep
at night, in a bed which the Admiral had fitted up for the Emperor
himself, but which he did not make use of as he preferred his own
camp-bed. When he had finished dressing, and was choosing between two
or three snuff-boxes, which lay before him, he abruptly gave one to
his valet-de-chambre (Marchand): “Put that by,” said he, “it is always
meeting my eye, and it pains me.” I know not what was on this
snuff-box; but I imagine it was a portrait of the King of Rome.
The Emperor left his apartment, and I followed him; he went over the
house, and entered my chamber. Seeing a dressing-glass, he inquired
whether it was the one that he had given me. Then putting his hand to
the wall, which was heated by the kitchen, he again observed that I
could not possibly remain in that room, and absolutely insisted on my
occupying his bed in the topographic cabinet: adding, in a tone of
captivating kindness, that it was “the bed of a friend.” We walked
out, and proceeded towards a wretched farm which was within sight. On
our way we saw the barracks of the Chinese. These Chinese are
labouring men, who enlist on board English ships at Macao, and who
continue at St. Helena in the service of the East India Company for a
certain number of years, when they return to their homes, after
collecting a little store of money, as the people of Auvergne do in
France. The Emperor wished to ask them some questions: but we could
not make ourselves understood by them. We next visited what is called
Longwood Farm, The Emperor was seduced by the name; he expected to
find one of the delightful farms of Flanders or England; but this was
merely on a level with our lowest _metairies_. We afterwards went down
to the Company’s garden, which is formed in the hollow where the two
opposite ravines meet. The Emperor called the gardener, and the man
who attends to the Company’s cattle and superintends the Chinese, of
whom he asked many questions. He returned home very much fatigued,
though we had scarcely walked a mile: this was his first excursion.
Before dinner the Emperor summoned me and my son to our accustomed
task. He said that I had been idle, and called my attention to my son,
who was laughing behind my back. He asked why he laughed; and I
replied that it was probably because his Majesty was taking revenge
for him. “Ah!” said he, smiling, “I see I am acting the part of the
grandfather here.”
HABITS AND HOURS OF THE EMPEROR.—HIS STYLE TO THE TWO
EMPRESSES.—DETAILS.—THE EMPEROR’S MAXIMS ON THE SUBJECT OF THE
POLICE.—SECRET POLICE FOR THE EXAMINATION OF LETTERS.—CURIOUS
PARTICULARS.—THE EMPEROR FAVOURABLE TO A FIXED AND MODERATE SYSTEM OF
GOVERNMENT.
18th—19th. By degrees our hours and habits began to be fixed and
regular. About ten o’clock the Emperor breakfasted in his own chamber,
and one of us occasionally attended him. At the table of the household
we breakfasted at nearly the same hour. The Emperor granted us
permission to do the honours of this table as we pleased, and to
invite to it whomsoever we might think fit.
No hours were yet fixed for the Emperor’s walks. The heat was very
great during the day, and the damp came on speedily and profusely
towards evening. We were informed, some time before, that coach and
saddle horses were coming from the Cape; but they never arrived.
During the day the Emperor was engaged in dictating to the different
persons of his suite; and he usually reserved me for the interval
preceding dinner, which was not served until eight or nine o’clock. He
required my attendance about five or six o'clock, together with my
son. I could neither write nor read, owing to the state of my eyes;
but my son was enabled to supply my place. He wrote to the Emperor’s
dictation, and I was present only to help him afterwards to correct
his hasty scrawl; for, by dint of habit, I could repeat, almost
literally and entirely, all that had fallen from the Emperor.
The Campaign of Italy being now finished, we began to revise it, and
the Emperor corrected, and dictated anew. We dined, as I have before
observed, between eight and nine o’clock. The table was laid out in
the room nearest to the entrance of the house. Madame de Montholon sat
on the right of the Emperor; I on his left; and Messrs. de Montholon,
Gourgaud, and my son, sat in the opposite places. The room still
smelled of paint, particularly when the weather was damp; and though
not very offensive, it was sufficiently annoying to the Emperor: we,
therefore, sat no longer than ten minutes at table. The dessert was
prepared in the adjoining apartment, which was the drawing-room, and
we again seated ourselves round the table. Coffee was then served up,
and conversation commenced. We read a few scenes from Moliere, Racine,
and Voltaire, and always regretted not having a copy of Corneille. We
then played at _reversis_, which had been the Emperor’s favourite game
in his youth. The recollection was pleasing to him, and he at first
thought that he could amuse himself for a length of time at it; but he
was soon undeceived. We played at the game and all its varieties;
which made it so complex that I have seen from fifteen to eighteen
thousand counters in use at once. The Emperor’s aim was always to make
the reversis; that is to say, to make every trick, which is no easy
matter. However, he frequently succeeded:—character developes itself
every where and in every thing. We retired about ten or eleven
o’clock.
To-day, the 19th, when I paid my respects to the Emperor, he shewed me
a libel upon himself which had fallen into his hands, and asked me to
translate it. Amidst a mass of other nonsense, some private letters
were mentioned, which were said to have been addressed by Napoleon to
the Empress Josephine, under the solemn form of _Madame et chère
Epouse_. Allusion was next made to a combination of spies and agents,
by whose aid the Emperor knew the private affairs of every family in
France, and penetrated the secrets of all the cabinets in Europe. The
Emperor wished to proceed no farther, and made me lay aside the book,
saying,—“It is too absurd.” The fact is that, in his private
correspondence, Napoleon always addressed the Empress Josephine very
unfashionably by the pronoun “thou” (_tu_); and “my good little
Louisa” (_ma bonne petite Louise_) was the form by which he addressed
Maria Louisa.
The first time I ever saw the Emperor’s running-hand was at
Saint-Cloud, after the battle of Friedland, when the Empress Josephine
amused herself by making us try to decipher a note which she held in
her hand, and which seemed to be written in hieroglyphics. It was to
the following effect:—“My sons have once more shed a lustre over my
career: the victory of Friedland will be inscribed in history, beside
those of Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena. You will cause the cannon to
be fired; Cambaceres will publish the bulletin.”
I was again favoured with the sight of a note in the Emperor’s
hand-writing, at the time of the treaty of Tilsit. It contained the
following:—“The Queen of Prussia is really a charming woman. She is
fond of coquetting with me; but do not be jealous: I am like a
cerecloth, along which every thing of this sort slides, without
penetrating. It would cost me too dear to play the gallant.”
On this subject, an anecdote was related in the saloon of Josephine.
It was said that the Queen of Prussia one day had a beautiful rose in
her hand, which the Emperor asked her to give to him. The Queen
hesitated for a few moments, and then presented it to him, saying:
“Why should I so readily grant what you request, while you remain deaf
to all my entreaties?” She alluded to the fortress of Magdeburg, which
she had earnestly solicited him to give up. Such was the nature of the
intimacy, and such the conversations, that were so unblushingly
misrepresented in English works of a certain degree of merit, where
the Emperor was described as an insolent and brutal tyrant, seeking,
with the aid of his ferocious Mamelukes, to violate the honour of the
lovely Queen, before the very face of her unfortunate husband.
As to the grand machinery of spies and police, which has been so much
talked of, what state on the Continent could boast of having less of
such evils than France; and yet what country stood more in need of
them? What circumstances more imperatively called for them? Every
pamphlet published in Europe was directed against France, with a view
of rendering odious in another country that which it was thought
advisable to conceal at home. Still, however, these measures, so
necessary in principle, though doubtless hateful in their details,
were looked at merely in a general way by the Emperor, and always with
a strict observance of his constant maxim, that nothing should be done
that is not absolutely indispensable. In the Council of State, I have
frequently heard him make enquiries into these subjects; investigate
them with peculiar solicitude; correct abuses and seek to obviate
evils, and appoint committees of his Council to visit the prisons, and
make reports to him. Having been myself employed in a mission of this
nature, I had an opportunity of observing the misconduct and abuses of
subaltern agents; and, at the same time, of knowing the ardent wishes
of the sovereign to repress them.
The Emperor found that this branch of the administration in a certain
degree clashed with established prejudices and opinions; and he
therefore wished to elevate it in the eyes of the people, by placing
it under the control of a man whose character was beyond the reach of
censure. In the year 1810, he summoned the Councillor of State, Baron
——, to Fontainebleau. The Baron had been an emigrant, or what nearly
amounted to the same thing. His family, his early education, his
former opinions,—all were calculated to render him an object of
suspicion to one more distrustful than Napoleon. In the course of
conversation, the Emperor said:—“If the Count de Lille were now to
discover himself in Paris, and you were intrusted with the
superintendence of the police, would you arrest him?”—“Yes,
certainly,” answered the Councillor of State, “because he would
thereby have broken his ban, and because his appearance would be in
opposition to every existing law.”—“If you were one of a committee
appointed to try him, would you condemn him?”—“Yes, doubtless; for the
laws which I have sworn to obey would require that I should condemn
him.”—“Very well!” said the Emperor, “return to Paris: I make you my
prefect of police.”
With regard to the inspection of letters under the government of
Napoleon, whatever may have been publicly said on that subject, the
Emperor declared that certainly very few letters were read at the
post-offices. Those which were delivered either open or re-sealed, to
private persons, had, for the most part, not been read: to read all
would have been an endless task. The system of examining letters was
adopted with the view of preventing, rather than discovering,
dangerous correspondence. The letters that were really read exhibited
no trace of having been opened, so effectual were the precautions
employed. “Ever since the reign of Louis XIV.,” said the Emperor,
“there had existed an office of political police for discovering
foreign correspondence: and from that period the same families had
managed the business of the office, though the individuals and their
functions were alike unknown. It was in all respects an official post.
The persons superintending this department were educated at great
expense in the different capitals of Europe. They had their own
peculiar notions of propriety, and always manifested reluctance to
examine the home correspondence: it was, however, also under their
control. As soon as the name of any individual was entered upon the
lists of this important department, his arms and seals were
immediately engraved at the office; and thus his letters, after having
been read, were closed up and delivered without any mark of suspicion.
These circumstances, joined to the serious evils which they might
create, and the important results which they were capable of
producing, constituted the vast responsibility of the office of
postmaster-general, and required that it should be filled by a man of
prudence, judgment, and intelligence.” The Emperor bestowed great
praise on M. de Lavalette, for the way in which he had discharged his
duties.
The Emperor was by no means favourable to the system of inspecting
correspondence. With regard to the diplomatic information thereby
obtained, he did not consider it of sufficient value to counterbalance
the expenses incurred; for the establishment cost 600,000 francs. As
to the examination of the letters of citizens, he regarded that as a
measure calculated to do more harm than good. “It is rarely,” said he,
“that conspiracy is carried on through such channels; and with respect
to the individual opinions obtained from epistolary correspondence,
they may be more dangerous than useful to a sovereign, particularly
among such a people as the French. Of whom will not our national
volatility and fickleness lead us to complain? The man whom I may have
offended at my levee will write to-day that I am a tyrant, though but
yesterday he overwhelmed me with praises, and perhaps to-morrow will
be ready to lay down his life to serve me. The violation of the
privacy of correspondence may, therefore, cause a prince to lose his
best friends, by wrongfully inspiring him with distrust and prejudice
towards all; particularly as enemies capable of mischief are always
sufficiently artful to avoid exposing themselves to that kind of
danger. Some of my ministers were so cautious, in this respect, that I
could never succeed in detecting one of their letters.”
I think I have already mentioned that, on the Emperor’s return from
Elba, there were found in M. De Blacas’ apartments in the Tuileries,
numerous petitions and letters, in which Napoleon was spoken of most
indecorously. He caused them to be burnt. “They would have formed a
most odious collection,” said the Emperor. “For a moment I entertained
the idea of inserting some of them in the Moniteur. They would have
disgraced certain individuals; but they would have afforded no new
lesson on the human heart: men are always the same!”
The Emperor was far from knowing all the measures taken by the police
in his name, with respect to writings and individuals; he had neither
time nor opportunity to enquire into them. He now daily learns from
us, or from pamphlets that happen to fall in his way, the arrests of
individuals, or the suppression of works, of which he had never before
heard.
In alluding to the works that had been suppressed by the police during
his reign, the Emperor observed that, having plenty of leisure-time
during his residence at Elba, he amused himself with glancing over
some of these works, and that he was frequently unable to conceive the
motives which had induced the police to suppress them.
He then proceeded to converse on the subject of the liberty and
restriction of the press. This, he said, was an interminable question,
and admitted of no medium. The grand difficulty, he observed, did not
lie in the principle itself, but in the treatment of the accused
party, or the circumstances under which it might be necessary to apply
the principle taken in an abstract sense. The Emperor would have been
favourable to unlimited liberty. In all our conversations at St.
Helena, he constantly treated every great question in the same point
of view and with the same arguments. Thus Napoleon truly was, and must
remain in the eyes of posterity, the type, the standard, and the
prince of liberal opinions; they belonged to his heart, to his
principles, and to his mind. If his actions sometimes seemed to be at
variance with these ideas, it was when he was imperatively swayed by
circumstances. This is proved by the following fact, to which I now
attach more importance than I did when it first came to my knowledge.
In one of the evening-parties at the Tuileries, Napoleon, conversing
aside with three or four individuals of the Court, who were grouped
around him, closed a discussion on a great political question with the
following remarkable words:—“For my part, I am fundamentally and
naturally favourable to a fixed and moderate government.” And,
observing that the countenance of one of the interlocutors expressed
surprise, “You don’t believe me!” continued he; “why not? Is it
because my deeds do not seem to accord with my words? My dear sir, how
little you know of men and things! Is the necessity of the moment
nothing in your eyes? Were I to slacken the reins only for a moment,
we should have fine disorder; neither you nor I would probably sleep
another night at the Tuileries.”
THE EMPEROR’S FIRST RIDE ON HORSEBACK.—SEVERITY OF THE MINISTERIAL
INSTRUCTIONS.—OUR VEXATIONS AND COMPLAINTS.—THE EMPEROR’S
REMARKS.—RUDE REPLIES.
20th-23rd. The Emperor mounted his horse after breakfast. We directed
our course towards the farm: we found the farmer in the Company’s
garden, and he attended us over the whole of the grounds. The Emperor
asked him a number of questions respecting his farm, as he used to do
during his hunting-excursions in the neighbourhood of Versailles,
where he discussed with the farmers the opinions of the Council of
State, in order to bring forward to the Council in their turn the
objections of the farmers. We advanced through the grounds of
Longwood, in a line parallel with the valley, until, finding no
farther road for the horses, we were compelled to turn back. We then
crossed the little valley, gained the height where the troops were
encamped, advanced to the Alarm Hill, and passing over its summit, we
arrived beyond the camp, near the Alarm House, on the road leading
from Longwood to Madame Bertrand’s residence. The Emperor at first
proposed calling on her; but, when about half-way thither, he changed
his mind, and we returned to Longwood.
The instructions of the English Ministers, with regard to the Emperor
at St. Helena, were dictated in that disgraceful spirit of harshness
which in Europe had urged the solemn violation of the law of nations.
An English officer was to be constantly at the Emperor’s table; this
cruel measure was of course calculated to deprive us of the comforts
of familiar intercourse. The order was not carried into effect, only
because the Emperor, had it been enforced, would have taken his meals
in his own chamber. I have very good reason to believe that he
regretted not having done so on board the Northumberland. An English
officer was to accompany the Emperor in his rides on horseback: this
was a severe annoyance, which rendered it impossible that his mind
could for a moment be diverted from his unfortunate situation. This
order was not, however, enforced within certain limits, which were
prescribed to us, because the Emperor had declared that he would not
ride on horseback at all on such conditions.
In our melancholy situation, every day brought with it some new cause
of uneasiness; we were constantly suffering some new sting, which
seemed the more cruel as we were destined to endure it for a long time
to come. Lacerated as our feelings undoubtedly were, each fresh wound
was sensibly felt; and the motives that were assigned for our
vexations frequently assumed the appearance of irony. Thus sentinels
were posted beneath the Emperor’s windows, and before our doors; and
this we were informed was for our safety. We were impeded in our
communications with the inhabitants of the island; we were put under a
kind of close confinement; and were told that this was done to free
the Emperor from all annoyance. The pass-words and orders were
incessantly changed; we lived in the continual perplexity and
apprehension of being exposed to some unforeseen insult. The Emperor,
whose feelings were keenly alive to all these things, resolved to
write to the Admiral, through the medium of M. de Montholon. He spoke
with warmth, and made some observations worthy of remark. “Let not the
Admiral suppose,” said he, “that I shall treat with him on any of
these subjects. Were he to present himself to me to-morrow, in spite
of my just resentment, he would find my countenance as serene, and my
temper as composed, as usual. This would not be the effect of
dissimulation on my part, but merely the fruit of experience. I
recollect that Lord Whitworth once filled Europe with the report of a
long conversation that he had had with me, scarcely a word of which
was true. But that was my fault; and it taught me to be more cautious
in future. The Emperor has governed too long not to know that he must
not commit himself to the discretion of any one who may have it in his
power to say falsely: _The Emperor told me so and so_; while the
Emperor may not have the means of either affirming or contradicting
the statement.
“One witness is as good as another. It is, therefore, necessary to
employ some one who may be enabled to tell the narrator that, in
attributing such and such words to the Emperor, he lies, and that he
is ready to give him satisfaction for this expression, which the
Emperor himself cannot do.”
M. de Montholon’s letter was couched in sharp terms; the reply was
insulting and coarse: “_No such thing as an Emperor was known at St.
Helena; the justice and moderation of the English government towards
us would be the admiration of future ages, &c._” Dr. O’Meara was
instructed to accompany this written reply with verbal additions of
the most offensive nature: to enquire, for example, whether the
Emperor wished that the Admiral should send him sundry atrocious
libels and anonymous letters which had been received, addressed to
him, &c.
I was engaged with the Emperor at the time this answer was
communicated to him. I could not conceal my astonishment and
indignation at certain expressions that were employed. But we could
only let philosophy take place of resentment: it was sufficient to
reflect that all satisfaction was beyond our reach. To address a
direct complaint to the Prince Regent would perhaps have been to
furnish a gratification to that prince; as well as a recommendation to
him who had offended us. Besides, the Emperor could not address
complaints to any individual on earth: he could appeal only to the
tribunals of Heaven, nations, and posterity.
On the 23rd the Doris frigate arrived from the Cape, bringing seven
horses that had been purchased there for the Emperor.
THE EMPEROR’S DISDAIN OF POPULARITY; HIS REASONS, ARGUMENTS,
&C.—CONVERSATION RESPECTING MY WIFE.—ON GENERAL GOURGAUD’S MOTHER AND
SISTER.
24th.—The Emperor had been reading some publication in which he was
made to speak in too amiable a strain; and he could not help
exclaiming against the mistake of the writer. “How could they put
these words into my mouth?” said he. “This is too tender, too
sentimental, for me: every one knows that I do not express myself in
that way.” “Sire,” I replied, “it was done with a good intention; the
thing is innocent in itself, and may have produced a good effect. That
reputation for amiableness, which you seem to despise, might have
exercised great influence over public opinion; it might at least have
counteracted the effect of the colouring in which a certain European
system has falsely exhibited your Majesty to the world. Your heart,
with which I am now acquainted, is certainly as good as that of Henri
IV., which I did not know. Now, his amiableness of character is still
proverbial: he is still held up as an idol; yet I suspect Henri IV.
was a bit of a quack. And why should your Majesty have disdained to be
so? You have too great an aversion to that system. After all, quackery
rules the world; and it is fortunate when it happens to be only
innocent.”
The Emperor laughed at what he termed my prosing. “What,” said he, ”is
the advantage of popularity and amiableness of character? Who
possessed those qualities in a more eminent degree than the
unfortunate Louis XVI.? Yet what was his fate? His life was
sacrificed!—No! a sovereign must serve his people with dignity, and
not make it his chief study to please them. The best mode of winning
their love is to secure their welfare. Nothing is more dangerous than
for a sovereign to flatter his subjects: if they do not afterwards
obtain every thing they want they become irritated, and fancy that
promises have been broken; and if they are then resisted, their hatred
increases in proportion as they consider themselves deceived. A
sovereign’s first duty is doubtless to conform with the wishes of the
people; but what the people say is scarcely ever what they wish: their
desires and their wants cannot be learned from their own mouths so
well as they are to be read in the heart of their prince.
“Each system may, no doubt, be maintained: that of mildness as well as
that of severity. Each has its advantages and its disadvantages; for
every thing is mutually balanced in this world. If you ask me what was
the use of my severe forms and expressions, I shall answer, to spare
me the pain of inflicting the punishment I threatened. What harm have
I done after all? What blood have I shed? Who can boast that, had he
been placed in my situation, he could have done better? What period of
history, exhibiting any thing like the difficulties with which I was
surrounded, presents such harmless results? What am I reproached with?
My government archives and my private papers were seized; yet what has
there been found to publish to the world? All sovereigns, situated as
I was, amidst factions, disorders, and conspiracies, are surrounded by
murders and executions! Yet, during my reign, what sudden tranquillity
pervaded France!—You are, no doubt, astonished at this chain of
reflection,” continued he, smiling, “you, who frequently display the
mildness and simplicity of a child.”
I could not but admit the force of his arguments, and now, in my turn,
maintained that both systems might have their peculiar advantages.
“Every individual,” said I, “should form a character for himself by
means of education; but he should be careful, at the same time, to lay
its foundation on the character he has received from Nature; otherwise
he runs a risk of losing the advantages of the latter, without
obtaining those of the character which he wishes to acquire; and his
education may prove an instrument to mislead him. After all, the
course of a man’s life is the true result of his character, and the
proper test by which it should be judged. Of what, then, can I have to
complain? From the lowest degree of misery, I raised myself, by my own
efforts, to tolerable independence; and from the streets of London, I
penetrated to the steps of your throne, and to the benches of your
Council-chamber; all this, too, without having cause to blush in the
presence of any individual for any thing that I have ever spoken,
written, or done. Have I not then also performed my little wonders in
my own little way? What could I have done better had another turn been
given to my character?”
The conversation was here interrupted by some one entering, to
announce that the Admiral and some ladies, who had arrived by the
Doris, solicited the favour of being presented to the Emperor; but he
answered drily, that he would see no one, and that he did not wish to
be disturbed.
Under our present circumstances, the personal politeness of the
Admiral was felt only as an additional insult: and with regard to
those who accompanied him, as no one could approach us but with the
Admiral’s permission, the Emperor did not choose that the honours of
his person should be thus performed. If it were intended that he
should remain in close confinement, he ought to be told so; but, if
not, he should be allowed to see whom he pleased without the
interference of any person. Above all, it was not fair that they
should pretend in Europe to surround him with every sort of attention
and respect, while, on the contrary, they were annoying him with every
kind of indecorum and caprice.
The Emperor walked out in the garden at five o’clock. The Colonel of
the 53rd regiment waited on him there, and begged permission to
present to him, next day, the officers of his regiment. The Emperor
granted his request, and appointed three o’clock as the hour to
receive them. The Colonel took his leave, and we prolonged our walk.
The Emperor stopped awhile to look at a flower in one of the beds, and
asked me whether it was not a lily. It was indeed a magnificent one.
After dinner, while we were playing our usual game of _reversis_, of
which, by the by, the Emperor began to grow weary, he suddenly turned
to me and said, “Where do you suppose Madame Las Cases is at this
moment?”—“Alas, Sire,” I replied, “Heaven knows!”—“She is in Paris,”
continued he; “to-day is Tuesday; it is nine o’clock; she is now at
the Opera.”—“No, Sire, she is too good a wife to go to the theatre
while I am here.”—“Spoken like a true husband,” said the Emperor,
laughing, “ever confident and credulous!” Then turning to General
Gourgaud, he rallied him in the same style with respect to his mother
and sister. Gourgaud seemed very much downcast, and his eyes were
suffused with tears, which the Emperor perceiving, cast a side-glance
towards him, and said, in the most interesting manner, “How wicked,
barbarous and tyrannical I must be thus to trifle with feelings so
tender!”[29]
Footnote 29:
General Gourgaud entertained the greatest affection for his mother
and sister, and was equally beloved by them. To such a length did he
carry his regard for them that in his letters he even described St.
Helena as a delightful place, in order to ease their anxiety on his
account. In his letters he talked of nothing but groves of orange
and lemon-trees, and perpetual Spring; in short, every thing that a
romantic imagination could suggest. The English Ministers, however,
blushed not, subsequently, to turn against him these innocent
misrepresentations, the offspring of his filial solicitude!
The Emperor then asked me how many children I had, and when and how I
had become acquainted with Madame Las Cases. I replied that my wife
had been the first acquaintance of my life; that our marriage was a
tie which we had ourselves formed in early youth, yet that it had
required the occurrence of the greater part of the events of the
Revolution to bring about its accomplishment.
THE EMPEROR FREQUENTLY WOUNDED IN HIS CAMPAIGNS.—COSSACKS.—JERUSALEM
DELIVERED.
25th.—The Emperor, who had not been well the preceding evening, was
still indisposed this morning, and sent word that it would be
impossible for him to receive the officers of the 53rd, as he had
appointed. He sent for me about the middle of the day, and we again
perused some chapters of the Campaign of Italy. I compared that which
treats of the battle of Arcole to a book of the Iliad.
Some time before the dinner-hour, he assembled us all around him in
his chamber. A servant entered to announce that dinner was ready; he
sent us away, but, as I was going out last, he called me back. “Stay
here,” said he, “we will dine together. Let the young people go; we
old folks will keep one another company.” He then determined to dress,
intending, as he said, to go into the drawing-room after dinner.
While he was dressing, he put his hand on his left thigh, where there
was a deep scar. He called my attention to it by laying his finger in
it; and, finding that I did not understand what it was, he told me
that it was the mark of a bayonet wound by which he had nearly lost
his limb, at the siege of Toulon. Marchand, who was dressing him, here
took the liberty of remarking that the circumstance was well known on
board the Northumberland; that one of the crew had told him, on going
on board, that it was an Englishman who first wounded our Emperor.
The Emperor, on this, observed that people had in general wondered and
talked a great deal of the singular good fortune which had preserved
him, as it were, invulnerable in so many battles. “They were
mistaken,” added he; “the only reason was that I always made a secret
of all my dangers.” He then related that he had had three horses
killed under him at the siege of Toulon; several others killed and
wounded in his campaigns of Italy; and three or four at the siege of
St. Jean-d’Acre. He added that he had been wounded several times;
that, at the battle of Ratisbon, a ball had struck his heel; and at
the battle of Esling, or Wagram, I cannot say which, another had torn
his boot and stocking, and grazed the skin of his left leg. In 1814,
he lost a horse and his hat at Arcis-sur-Aube, or in its
neighbourhood. After the battle of Brienne, as he was returning to
head-quarters in the evening, in a melancholy and pensive mood, he was
suddenly attacked by some Cossacks, who had passed over into the rear
of the army. He thrust one of them off with his hand, and was obliged
to draw his sword in his own defence; several of the Cossacks were
killed at his side. “But what renders this circumstance very
extraordinary,” said he, “is, that it took place near a tree which at
that moment caught my eye, and which I recognized as the very one
under which, when I was but twelve years old, I used to sit during
play-hours and read _Jerusalem Delivered_.” ... Doubtless on that spot
Napoleon had been first fired by the love of glory!
The Emperor repeated that he had been very frequently exposed to
danger in his different battles, but it was carefully kept secret. He
had enjoined once for all, the most absolute silence on all
circumstances of that nature. He said that it would be impossible to
calculate the confusion and disorder which might have resulted from
the slightest report or the smallest doubt relative to his existence.
On his life depended the fate of a great Empire, and the whole policy
and destinies of Europe. He added that this habit of keeping
circumstances of that kind secret had prevented him from relating them
in his campaigns; and indeed he had now almost forgotten them. It was
only, he said, by mere accident, and in the course of conversation,
that they could recur to him.