where he was trying to compel the government to let "Le Roi s'amuse" be
given, spoke thus of the Imperial government: "Then, sirs, it is great!
The Empire, in its administration and government, was, to be sure, an
intolerable tyranny, but let us remember that our liberty was largely
paid for with glory. At that time France, like Rome under Caesar,
maintained an attitude at once submissive and proud. It was not the
France we desire, free, ruling itself, but rather a France, the slave of
one man, and mistress of the world. It used to be said, 'On such a day,
at such an hour, I shall enter that capital,' and they entered that day
and at that hour. All sorts of kings used to elbow one another in
his ante-chambers. A dynasty would be dethroned by a decree in the
_Moniteur_. If a column was wanted, the Emperor of Austria used to
furnish the bronze. The control of the French comedians was, I confess,
a little arbitrary, but their orders were dated from Moscow. We were
shorn of all our liberties, I say; there was a rigid censorship, our
books were pilloried, our posters were torn down; but to all our
complaints a single word sufficed for a magnificent reply; they could
answer us with Marengo! Jena! Austerlitz!"
And the poet thus ended his speech: "I have but a few more words to
say, and I hope that you will remember them when you proceed to your
deliberations. They are these: 'In this century there has been only one
great man--Napoleon; and only one great thing--Liberty. We no longer
have the great man; let us try to have the great thing.'"
Certainly he exceeded the common measure, that man of whom
Chateaubriand, his implacable foe, said: "The world belongs to
Bonaparte. What that destroyer could not finish, his fame has seized.
Living, he missed the world; dead, he possesses it. You may protest,
but generations pass by without hearing you." When some one asked the
illustrious author why, after so violently attacking Napoleon, he
admired him so much, the answer was, "The giant had to fall before I
could measure his height."
Those who were nearest to Napoleon regarded him as an almost
supernatural being. The Baron of Méneval, who, before he was the private
secretary of Marie Louise, when regent, had been secretary of the First
Consul and Emperor, thus writes: "By the influence which Napoleon
exercised on his age he was more than a man. Never perhaps will a human
being accomplish greater things than did this privileged creature in so
few years, in the face of so many obstacles; yet these were inferior
to those of which the plans lay in his mighty head. The memory of that
time, of the hours I spent with this wonderful man, seems to me a dream.
In the deep feeling which he arouses in me, I have to bow before
the impenetrable decrees of Providence, which, after inspiring this
wonderful instrument of its plans, tore him from his uncompleted work.
Possibly God did not wish him to anticipate the time He had established
by an invariable order. Possibly He did not wish a mortal to exceed
human proportions!"
If Napoleon was thus admired, even after the terrible catastrophes which
wrought his ruin, even after the retreat from Russia, after the two
invasions, after Waterloo, what an impression he must have made on his
enthusiastic partisans when he was the incarnation of success and glory,
when there was no spot on the sun of his omnipotence, and, protected
by some happy fate, he had disarmed envy, discouraged hate, and so far
bound Fortune that she seemed to tremble before him like an obedient
slave!
In spite of the glory which surrounded him in 1812, Napoleon, who is
often represented as infatuated with himself and his glory, yet even at
this moment of colossal power and unheard-of prosperity, had moments
when he judged himself with perfect impartiality. He knew human nature
thoroughly, and he indulged in no illusions about his family, which
he distrusted, or about his marshals, whose desertion he seemed to
anticipate, or about his courtiers, whose flatteries did not deceive
him. Being convinced that interest is generally the sole motive of
human actions, he expected neither devotion nor gratitude. "One day, in
speaking to my father," says General de Ségur, "he asked him what he
thought people would say about him after his death, and my father began
to enlarge on the way we should mourn for him. 'Nothing of the sort!'
interrupted the Emperor; 'you would all say, "Ah!"' and he accompanied
this word with a consolatory gesture which expressed 'at last we can
take a long breath and be at peace.'" It was not after his defeats that
the Emperor said this, but in 1811, when still mighty and successful.
"The Emperor," says General de Ségur again, "was not so blind as some
have thought, as to the fate that awaited his gigantic work. He was
often heard to say that his heir would be crushed by the vast bulk of
his empire. 'Poor child!' he said, as he gazed on the King of Rome,
'what a snarl I leave to you.' ... Every one knows the gloomy impression
it makes, when to the vigor and activity of youth there succeeds, with
advancing years, the benumbing influence of stoutness. This transition,
a melancholy warning, came over Napoleon at the end of 1810. Doubtless
this warning of physical decline and weakness rendered him anxious about
the future of a work founded on force. This was apparent when he told
my father: 'The shortest ride now tires me;' and to M. Mollier: 'I am
mortal, and more so than many men;' and again, 'My heir will find my
sceptre very heavy.' As he regarded the future, the only power that
seemed to threaten this sceptre and this heir was Russia, and it may
be that as he began to feel himself grow old, he repented that he had
enlarged its territory both on the north and the south, to the Gulf of
Bothnia and to the Danube. Hence, possibly, this eager desire to deal
the country a blow arose from a spirit of preservation rather than from
one of conquest, and the charge of an overweening and uncontrollable
ambition is thus somewhat refuted." This observation is not wholly
inaccurate. It may be that if the Emperor had had no son, he would not
have made the Russian campaign, and possibly it was more by a mistaken
calculation than by pride, that he was drawn into this colossal war
which, he hoped, would bring the whole continent, and consequently
England, under his control.
A great deal has been said about Napoleon's pride; but in discussing
the matter it is necessary to distinguish between two very different
personages,--the man as he appeared in public, and the man as he was
in private. In public, he was obliged to display more majesty than any
other sovereign. The novelty of his grandeur made additional formality
necessary. When the general became Emperor, he was compelled to keep at
a distance his old fellow-soldiers who had formerly been his equals
and intimates, for familiarity would have lowered his glory and have
lessened his authority. He had to appear before his court like a living
statue that never descended from its pedestal. It was hard to detect a
human heart beating under the sovereign's Imperial robes. Yet in private
life he was by no means what he seemed in public; when he returned to
his own rooms, he laid aside his official seriousness as if he were
taking off a fatiguing uniform, and became affable and familiar. He
used to joke, and sometimes even noisily. He was no longer a haughty
potentate, a terrible conqueror, but rather a good husband who was kind
to his wife, and a good father who played with his child. He used to
tease the companions of Marie Louise wittily, and without malice; he
would take an interest in their dresses, and often give them bits of
good advice in the gentlest manner. He took as much interest in the
minutest details as in the greatest questions. He was indulgent and
generous to his officials, and knew how to make himself loved by them.
He and Marie Louise lived most happily together, as his valet de
chambre, Constant, tells us, "As father and husband he might have been a
model for all his subjects." He simply adored his son, and knew how to
play with him better than did the Empress. As Madame Durand says: "Being
without experience with children, Marie Louise never dared to hold or
pet the King of Rome; she was afraid of hurting him: consequently, he
became more attached to his governess than to his mother--a preference
which at last made Marie Louise a little jealous. The Emperor, on the
other hand, used to take him in his arms every time he saw him, play
with him, hold him before a looking-glass, and make all sorts of faces
at him. At breakfast, he used to hold him on hi knees, and would dip
one of his fingers in a sauce, and let the child suck it, and rub it all
over its face. If the governess complained, the Emperor would laugh,
and the child, who was almost always merry, seemed to like his father's
noisy caresses. It is a noteworthy fact that those who had any favor
to ask of the Emperor when he was thus employed were almost sure of a
favorable reception. Before he was two years old the young Prince was
always present at Napoleon's breakfast."
At this period of his life Napoleon was really happy. The two years that
he spent in the society of the young Empress formed a blessed rest in
his stormy career; he loved his wife and thought that she loved him. He
was grateful to her for being an archduchess, for her beauty, youth,
and health; for having given him an heir to the Empire. He continually
rejoiced in a marriage which, to be sure, inspired him with many
illusions, but yet gave him at least some moments of moral repose and
domestic calm, which are of importance in the life of such a man. Why
was he not wise enough to stop and give thanks to Providence, instead of
continuing his perilous course and forever tempting fortune? How
many evils he would have spared France, Europe, and himself! A few
concessions would have disarmed his adversaries, have satisfied
Germany, have consolidated the Austrian alliance, strengthened the
thrones, and brought about a lasting and general peace. We may say that
Napoleon was his own worst enemy, and that when he held his happiness in
his hand he willingly let it drop on the ground. It was not his second
marriage that ruined him, but rather the over-bold combination which led
him to extend the line of his military operations from Cadiz to Moscow.
XXV.
MARIE LOUISE IN 1812.
Empress Marie Louise was twenty, December 12, 1811. Early in 1812 she,
like Napoleon, was at the summit of her fortune. During the two years of
her reign she had received nothing but homage in France, and no woman in
the whole world held so lofty a position. We will try to draw a portrait
of her at this time when she had reached the top of the wave of human
prosperity.
Rather handsome than pretty, Marie Louise was more impressive than
charming. Her most striking quality was her freshness; her whole person
bespoke physical and moral health. Her face was more gentle than
striking; her eyes were very blue and full of animation; she had a rich
complexion; her hair was light yellow, but not colorless; her nose,
slightly aquiline; her red lips were a trifle thick, like those of all
the Hapsburgs; her hands and feet were models of beauty; she had an
impressive carriage, and was a little above the medium height. When she
arrived in France, she was a little too stout, and her face was a little
too red; but after the birth of her child these two slight imperfections
disappeared. With a more delicate figure she became more graceful, and
no woman ever had a finer complexion. Being endowed with a most sturdy
constitution, she owed all her beauty to nature and nothing to artifice;
her face needed no paint, her wit no coquetry; with no fondness for
luxury or dress, possessing simple and quiet tastes, never striving for
effect, always preferring half-tints to a blaze of light, her expression
and demeanor always had a quality of simplicity and directness which
fascinated Napoleon, who was very glad to turn from experienced
coquettes to a really natural person.
Those who had supervised Marie Louise's education rightly thought that
the greatest charm in a young girl was innocence. She had been brought
up with the most scrupulous care. The books to be placed in the hands of
the archduchesses were first carefully read, and any improper passages
or even words were excised; no male animals were admitted into their
apartments, but only females, these being endowed with more modest
instincts. Napoleon, who was accustomed to the women of the end of the
eighteenth century and to the heroines of the court of Barras, was
delighted to find a girl so pure and so carefully trained.
On grand occasions Marie Louise bore no resemblance to the Marie Louise
in private life; she assumed a coldness which was mistaken for disdain.
She became imposing; she weighed every word; and careless observers
attributed to haughtiness what was really due to reserve and timidity.
The young Empress had every reason to distrust the French court. She
knew what it had cost her great-aunt, Marie Antoinette, to try to live
on the throne like a private person, and to carry kindliness even to
familiarity. The best way for the Empress to escape malevolence and
criticism was by saying very little. She knew French very well, but it
was not her mother-tongue, and however well acquainted with its grammar,
she could not know perfectly the fine shades of the language. Her fear
of employing possibly correct but unusual expressions made her timid
about speaking. Besides, her husband would not have liked to see her
taking part in long conversations. Political subjects were forbidden
to her, and her great charm in Napoleon's eyes was that she did not
interfere in such matters. She never tried to pass for a witty woman.
Although she was well-read, she lacked the delicate observation, the
ingenious comparisons, the jingling of brilliant phrases or words which
compose what in France is called wit. She had no confidence in
the character of the prominent Frenchwomen, of the romantic but
unsentimental beauties who always expressed more than they felt, who
knew how to faint when fainting would be of use to them, and who in
their drawing-rooms, and especially in their boudoirs, bore too close a
resemblance to actresses upon the stage. Marie Louise never assumed
any feelings or ideas which were not genuine. She was always natural.
Comparing his two wives, Napoleon at Saint Helena said: "One was art and
grace; the other, innocence and simple nature. My first wife never, at
any moment of her life, had any ways or manners that were not agreeable
and attractive. It would have been impossible to find any fault with
her in this respect; she tried to make only a favorable impression, and
seemed to attain her end without study. She employed every possible art
to adorn herself, but so carefully that one could only suspect their
use. The other had no idea that there was anything to be gained by these
innocent artifices. One was always a little inexact; her first idea was
to deny everything: the other never dissimulated, and hated everything
roundabout. My first wife never asked for anything, but she ran up debts
right and left; my second always asked for more when she needed it,
which was seldom. She never bought anything without feeling bound to pay
for it on the spot. But both were kind, gentle, and devoted to their
husband."
Marie Louise did not shine in a drawing-room like Josephine; that would
have required a French tact which she did not in the least possess. The
first Empress was thoroughly familiar with French society, which the
second did not know at all. Josephine had seen the last brilliancy of
the old regime and the golden days of the Revolution; she had been a
conspicuous figure in that brilliant but, above all, amusing period, of
which Talleyrand said, "No one who did not live before 1789 knows how
charming life can be." As Viscountess of Beauharnais, she was intimate
with the most intelligent persons in Paris. Though far less educated
than Marie Louise, her conversation was more animated and had a wider
range. No subject was too deep for her; and although she never said
anything very important, she always could give what she had to say an
agreeable turn. Her most ardent desire was to make people forget, by her
fascinations, that she was not born to the throne, and she seemed always
endeavoring to be pardoned for her elevation into the society of the
Faubourg Saint Germain. The names of the great French families always
made much more impression on her, who had risen from the people, than on
Marie Louise, who by birth as well as position could look down on all
the French ladies without exception. It was not those who had belonged
to the old régime whom she preferred; Madame Lannes was far more
congenial to her than the Princess of Beauvau or the Countess of
Montesquieu. She never sought to flatter the Faubourg Saint Germain, but
rather kept it at a distance, making none of the advances to which it
was accustomed at the hands of the first Empress. She felt that the
Royalists secretly blamed her for attaching her old coat-of-arms to the
new fortune of Bonaparte. She belonged to a race which had never felt a
warm love for the Bourbons; while Josephine, who was born in a family of
Royalists, had remained faithful, even when on the Imperial throne, to
her devotion to the old Royalty. Marie Louise indulged in no illusions.
She knew that the courtiers, under the appearance of adoration which
amounted to servility, were really concealing a depth of malice and
ill-will, which was the more dangerous the more it was hidden, and that
the very ones who were burning incense before her would be the most
delighted to catch her tripping. Hence she was always on her guard,
and in public steadily maintained an attitude of cold benevolence and
discreet reserve. Napoleon loved her, for the very reason that her
qualities were the exact opposite of those of Josephine; and if she had
striven to copy the former Empress, she would only have sunk in her
husband's estimation. He had bidden her never to forget that she was a
sovereign, as he was always Emperor: she obeyed him, and she did right
to obey him. Strong in her husband's approval,--for he never had
occasion for the slightest reproach,--she persisted in the very prudent
and dignified line of conduct that she had adopted on entering France.
She had every reason to be proud of her success; for so long as she
lived with Napoleon, no whisper of calumny attacked her, no faintest
insinuation was breathed against her morality. At Saint Helena, the
Emperor said, "Marie Louise was virtue itself."
The untiring precision of her demeanor and of her words protected the
Empress from criticism, but aroused no enthusiastic praise. She was more
esteemed than loved; and, in spite of her precocious wisdom, she aroused
no fervent sympathy, none of the enthusiastic admiration which less
reserved, more amiable queens have inspired. Still, no one found fault
with her. Count Miot de Mélito, in describing a reception at the
Tuileries in 1811, says: "The Empress entered.... Her face wore a
dignified but somewhat disdainful expression. She walked round the
room, accompanied by the Duchess of Montebello, and spoke agreeably and
pleasantly with a number of people whom she had introduced to her, and
all were gratified by their kindly reception."
The Duke of Rovigo, the Minister of Police, speaks thus in his Memoirs:
"Marie Louise aroused enthusiasm whenever she opened her mouth. Her
success in France was entirely her own work; for I declare, on my honor,
the authorities never adopted any particular methods to secure for her a
warm welcome from the public. When she was to appear in a procession
or at the theatre, all the authorities did was to provide against the
slightest breach of order or propriety; beyond that, nothing was done.
For example, when I was told that she was going to the theatre, I used
to take all the boxes opposite the one she was to occupy, and all others
from which people might stare at her. Then I took the precaution of
sending the tickets for these boxes to respectable families, who were
very glad to use them. In this way I filled the balcony on the days when
the Empress meant to be present. As to any steps towards insuring a
warm welcome from the pit, I simply did not take any. The Empress Marie
Louise was accustomed, when she came before the public, to make three
courtesies, and so gracefully that the applause always broke out with
great warmth before the third. It was she herself who bade me take no
active steps on such occasions." After thus greeting the audience, the
Empress used to sit modestly in the back of the box. To be gazed at
through all the opera-glasses always annoyed her. Her lofty rank, the
pride of her position, which would have filled other women with rapture,
left her almost indifferent.
Marie Louise was certainly attached to Napoleon, but we may doubt
whether she was really in love with him. He was twenty-two years her
senior; and if she was a wife who suited him in every particular,
probably he was not the husband of whom she had dreamed. He possessed
too much power, too much genius, too much majesty; a quiet home would
have pleased her better than the Imperial Olympus, of which he was the
Jupiter, and she the Juno. Doubtless his glory was unrivalled, but
he had won the best part of it through Austrian defeats. Arcola and
Marengo, Austerlitz and Wagram, were names that wounded Austrian ears.
Had she been free to choose, she would perhaps have preferred to this
all-powerful Emperor any petty German prince, who possessed neither
great wealth nor vast territories, but who shared her memories, ideas,
and hopes. Yet she had resolved to love her husband, and she easily
succeeded in so doing. She was grateful for his kindness, his
consideration, his respect; and in her affectionate but not passionate
devotion there was no trace of reluctance. She sincerely thought that
she would always be faithful to him. She was not only attached to him,
she was also jealous of him; the proximity of Josephine annoyed and
disturbed her. In fact, there was something singular in the simultaneous
presence in France of two empresses sharing almost equally the official
honors. Marie Louise knew how popular Josephine was; and this offended
her, although she pitied a woman of whom the rigid laws of public policy
had required so cruel a sacrifice. Possibly, too, she feared that she
could not count too absolutely on the feelings of a man who, for reasons
of state, had abandoned a wife whom a short time before he had really
loved. Who knows, indeed, but what she dreaded the same fate for
herself, in case she should bear no children? She felt really sure only
when she had borne a son. Before that she was so jealous that one day
when she heard that Napoleon had made a visit to Josephine, she was seen
to shed tears, for the first time since her arrival in France. Another
time, when the Emperor had suggested to her to take advantage of the
absence of the first Empress, who had gone to Aix, in Savoy, and to
visit Malmaison, her face suddenly became so sad that Napoleon at once
abandoned the plan. But after the birth of King of Rome, Marie Louise
was no longer jealous. Under the conviction that she had finally
reconciled Austria and France, and that her son was the pledge of the
peace and happiness of all Europe, she thought that she had so well
accomplished her destiny that she could always count on her husband's
affection and gratitude.