condemn a certain degree of independence, even though it might be
somewhat unreasonable:—
M. de Montalivet, who was Minister of the Interior during the Empire,
has informed me that, being one day left alone with the Emperor, after
a Council of Ministers, he thus addressed him:—“Sire, it is not
without considerable embarrassment that I presume to mention to your
Majesty a circumstance which is certainly extremely ridiculous; but a
Prefect, a young Auditor, obstinately persists in withholding from me
the title which custom has assigned to all your Ministers. Some
persons, holding inferior situations in my department, observing that
he never used the customary title of Monseigneur in speaking of me,
and thinking it an instance of affectation, very absurdly required
him, in my name, to observe the formality; and he peremptorily
refused. I am quite ashamed that this affair should have arisen; but
as it is, the thing has been carried to such a point that I cannot
give it up.” At first, the Emperor could scarcely credit such
obstinacy and folly on the part of the Prefect. After a short pause,
he said to M. de Montalivet, smiling, “But, after all, there is no
such obligation specified in the Code. The young man is perhaps good
fruit, though not yet ripe. However, this refractory conduct must be
checked. Desire his father to come to me; surely the young man will
not disobey his orders.” What a delicate, moral sentiment was thus
conveyed!
On the evening of the 20th of March, the Emperor had no sooner entered
his apartments in the Tuileries, than the Captain of Dragoons, G. D—--
appeared before him. He was the bearer of the capitulation of
Vincennes, which had just been obtained by dint of extraordinary
courage and address. Napoleon at first smiled at the details that were
communicated to him; but, being struck with the vehement manner and
language of the narrator, and suddenly calling to mind the fate of
Governor Puyvert at Vincennes, he hastily exclaimed, “But, Sir, you
say nothing of the Governor; what has become of him?”—“Sire,” resumed
the officer, in a calmer tone, “he has been furnished with a passport,
and has been escorted out of Paris.” Napoleon then advanced, and
seizing the officer’s hand, with an expression that sufficiently
betrayed the anxiety with which he had just been agitated, “I am
satisfied,” said he; “you have done well, very well!”
I find, in one of my notes, that the Emperor once remarked that the
finest military letter he had ever read was one written during the
consulate, by a soldier of the south, named Leon. From this high
praise, it must of course be presumed that the letter was a very
extraordinary one. I myself know nothing of it; but I merely mention
the circumstance, in the hope that some one may be induced to lay the
document before the public, in case it should not be already upon
record.
Napoleon, during his military career, fought sixty battles; Cæsar
fought but fifty.
It was asked one day, in Napoleon’s presence, how it happens that
misfortunes, which are yet uncertain, often distress us more than
afflictions which we are already suffering. “Because,” observed the
Emperor, “in the imagination, as in calculation, the power of what is
unknown is _immeasurable_.”
After having given any one an important mission, or traced out the
plan of any great enterprise, the Emperor used frequently to say,
“Come, Sir, be speedy: use despatch; and do not forget that the world
was created in six days.”
On an occasion of this kind, he concluded by observing to the
individual whom he was addressing, “Ask me for whatever you please,
except _time_: that’s the only thing that is beyond my power.”
On another occasion, Napoleon commissioned a person to execute some
important business, which he expected would be finished in the course
of the same day. It was not, however, completed until late on the
following day. At this, the Emperor manifested some degree of
dissatisfaction; and the person, to excuse himself, said that he had
worked all day. “But had you not all night too?” replied Napoleon.
The Emperor directed particular attention to the improvement and
embellishment of the markets of the capital. He used to say, “The
market-place is the Louvre of the common people.”
Equality of rights, that is to say, the power of aspiring and
obtaining, enjoyed by all individuals, was one of the points to which
Napoleon attached particular importance. This regard for equality was
one of his peculiar traits, and seemed to belong innately to his
character. “I have not reigned all my life,” he would say: “before I
became a Sovereign, I recollect having been a subject; and I can never
forget how powerfully the sentiment of equality influences the mind
and animates the heart.”
When he was once giving a project to be drawn up by one of his
Councillors of State, he said, “Let me charge you to respect liberty;
and above all, equality. With regard to liberty, it might be possible
to restrain it, in a case of extremity; circumstances might demand and
justify such a step: but Heaven forbid that we should ever infringe
upon equality! It is the passion of the age; and I wish to continue to
be the man of the age!”
In Napoleon’s eyes, merit was single, by itself, and he recompensed it
uniformly. Thus the same titles, and the same decorations, were
awarded equally to the ecclesiastic, the soldier, the artist, the
philosopher, and the man of letters. It may truly be said that in no
other country or period was merit more highly honoured, or talent more
magnificently rewarded. On these points, the Emperor’s views were
unlimited. I have already mentioned that he one day said, “If
Corneille had lived in my time, I would have made him a prince.”
The Emperor said one day at St. Helena, “Nature seems to have made me
for great reverses; they have found me with a mind of marble. The
thunderbolt cannot make an impression upon, but merely glides over,
it.”
At another time, when some vexation arose at St. Helena, one of those
about Napoleon exclaimed, “Ah, Sire, this must indeed increase your
hatred of the English.” Upon which the Emperor, shrugging up his
shoulders, said, in a mingled tone of pleasantry and contempt,
“Prejudiced man! Say rather that at most it may increase my hatred of
this or that particular Englishman.... But, since we are on this
subject, let me tell you that a man, he who has the true feelings of a
man, never cherishes hatred. His anger or ill-humour never goes beyond
the irritation of the moment,—the electric shock. He who is formed to
discharge high duties, and to exercise authority, never considers
persons; his views are directed to things, their weight, and
consequence.”
On a certain occasion, he remarked that he doubted not but his
character would gain in proportion as it descended to posterity; and
that future historians would conceive themselves bound to avenge the
injustice of contemporaries. Excess is always succeeded by reaction.
Besides, he was of opinion that, when viewed from a distance, his
character would appear in a more favourable light, by being relieved
from many useless encumbrances. He would hereafter be judged by
general views, and not by petty details. Every thing would be in
harmony, and all local irregularities would disappear. Above all, he
would not be compared with himself; but with what might exist at a
future period. He added that now, as hereafter, he could proudly
submit every act of his private life to the most rigid scrutiny,
confident that the severest judges would pronounce him to be free from
crime.
The Emperor one day told me that he had conceived the idea of
composing his _Diplomatic History_, or a complete account of his
negotiations, from Campo Formio to his abdication. If he should have
fulfilled his design, what an historical treasure will thus be
presented to the world!
Speaking of military eloquence, the Emperor said, “When, in the heat
of the battle, passing along the line, I used to exclaim, ‘Soldiers,
unfurl your banners, the moment is come,’ our Frenchmen absolutely
leapt for joy. I saw them multiply a hundred-fold. I then thought
nothing impossible.”
Many of Napoleon’s military harangues are well known. The following
has been communicated to me by one who heard it on the spot. When
reviewing the 2d regiment of horse chasseurs at Lobenstein, two days
before the battle of Jena, Napoleon, addressing the Colonel, said:
“How many men are there here?”—“Five hundred,” replied the Colonel;
“but there are many raw troops among them.”—“What signifies that,”
said the Emperor, in a tone which denoted surprise at the observation,
“are they not all Frenchmen?”—Then, turning to the regiment, “My
lads,” said he, “you must not fear death. When soldiers defy death,
they drive him into the enemy’s ranks.” He here made a motion with his
arm expressive of the action to which he alluded. At these words a
sudden movement among the troops, accompanied by a murmur of
enthusiasm, seemed the precursor of the memorable victory which
forty-eight hours afterwards overthrew the column of Rosbach.
At the battle of Lützen, the army was chiefly composed of conscripts,
who had never been in any engagement. It is said that, in the heat of
the action, Napoleon rode along the rear of the 3d rank of infantry,
supporting and encouraging the young troops. “This is nothing, my
lads,” said he, “stand firm. France has her eye on you. Show that you
can die for your country.”
Napoleon entertained a high regard for the Germans. “I levied many
millions of imposts on them, it is true,” said he, “that was
necessary; but I should never have insulted them or treated them with
contempt. I esteemed the Germans. They may hate me; that is natural
enough. I was forced for ten years to fight upon the dead bodies of
their countrymen. They could not know my real designs or give me
credit for my ultimate intentions, which were calculated to render
Germany a great nation.”
The Emperor, alluding to one of his decisions, remarked:—“I could do
nothing in that case, I suffered myself to be moved, and I yielded.
There I was wrong: a statesman’s heart should be in his head.”
Napoleon observed that the physical faculties of men were strengthened
by their dangers or their wants: “Thus,” said he, “the Bedouin of the
desert has the piercing sight of the lynx; and the savage of the
forest has the keen scent of beasts of prey.”
One day mention was made of a person who, though distinguished for his
ideas and his acts, nevertheless betrayed gross faults in his manners
and mode of expressing himself. The Emperor explained this discordance
by saying: “You see the fault is in his first education; his swaddling
clothes were neither fine nor clean.”
When speaking of the danger which he had incurred among the Five
Hundred, on the 18th Brumaire, he attributed it militarily to local
circumstances. He had been obliged to enter the Orangery at one of the
extremities, and to pass along the whole length of it. “The misfortune
was,” said he, “that, instead of facing my opponents, I was compelled
to present my flank to them.”
When we were alluding to an individual who seemed to think that he
could overawe us by speaking almost in a tone and language of menace,
the Emperor said: “This is a very absurd idea. Nobody is afraid now. A
child would not be afraid. Even little Emmanuel (pointing to my son)
would exchange pistol shots with any one who might require him to do
so.” These words of the Emperor’s will probably influence my son
throughout the rest of his life.
Napoleon, on his return from the Russian campaign, was so struck by
the courage and strength of mind displayed by Ney that he created him
Prince of the Moskowa, and he was often heard to say: “I have two
hundred millions in my coffers, and I would give them all for Ney.”
Remarking on the certainty of the ultimate triumph of modern
principles, the Emperor said: “They cannot but triumph. Mark the train
of events: even oppression now-a-days turns to the disadvantage of the
oppressor.”
On a certain occasion, it was observed to the Emperor that he was not
fond of putting forward his own merits; “That is,” replied he,
“because with me morality and generosity are not in my mouth, but in
my nerves. My iron hand was not at the extremity of my arm, it was
immediately connected with my head. I did not receive it from nature;
calculation alone has enabled me to employ it.”
Speaking of the ill humour and discontent frequently evinced by the
inhabitants of Paris, the Emperor asked what he was expected to do
after all he had accomplished. “Sire,” said some one present, “it was
wished that your Majesty should stop your horse.” “Stop my horse!”
resumed Napoleon, “that was easily said. My arm was strong enough, it
is true, to stop, with a single check, all the horses of the
continent. But I could not bridle the English fleets: and there lay
all the mischief. Had not the people sense enough to see this?”
One day, when the Emperor was reproaching a person for not correcting
the vices which he knew he possessed, “Sir,” said he, “when a man
knows his moral infirmity, he may cure his mind, just as he would cure
his arm or his leg.”
The Emperor, speaking of the nobility which he had created, regretted
that he had been so ill understood. It was, he said, one of his
grandest and happiest ideas. He had in view three objects of the
highest importance, and all three would have been accomplished: 1st,
to reconcile France with Europe, and to restore harmony, by seeming to
adopt European customs: 2nd, by the same means to bring about a
complete reconciliation and union between old and new France; and 3d,
to banish feudal nobility, the only kind that is offensive,
oppressive, and unnatural. “By my plan,” said the Emperor, “I should
soon have succeeded in substituting positive and meritorious qualities
for antiquated and odious prejudices. My national titles would have
exactly restored that equality which feudal nobility proscribed. They
were conferred as the reward of merit of every kind. For genealogical
parchments I substituted noble actions, and for private interests, the
interests of the country. Family pride would no longer have been
founded on obscure and imaginary circumstances, but would have rested
on the noblest pages of our history. Finally, I would have banished
the odious pretension of blood; an absurd idea, a theory that has no
real existence; for we all know very well that there is but one race
of men, and that one is not born with boots on his legs, and another
with a packsaddle on his back.
“All the nobility in Europe, those who really govern it, were pleased
with my plan. They unanimously applauded an institution the novelty of
which enhanced its pre-eminence; and yet this very novelty would have
sapped its foundation and infallibly destroyed it. Why did that
opinion, to which I had secured a triumph, precisely serve the purpose
of its enemies? But I have suffered this misfortune oftener than
once.”
ON THE DIFFICULTIES WHICH HISTORY PRESENTS.—GEORGES,
PICHEGRU, MOREAU, THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN.
20th.—“It must be admitted, my dear Las Cases,” said the Emperor to me
to-day, “that it is most difficult to obtain absolute certainties for
the purposes of history. Fortunately it is, in general, more a matter
of mere curiosity than of real importance. There are so many kinds of
truths! The truth which Fouché, or other intriguers of his stamp will
tell, for instance; even that which many very honest people may tell,
will, in some cases, differ essentially from the truth which I may
relate. The historic truth, so much in request, to which every body
eagerly appeals, is too often but a term. At the time of the events,
during the heat of conflicting passions, it cannot exist; and if, at a
later period, all parties are agreed respecting it, it is because
those persons who were interested in the events, those who might be
able to contradict what is asserted, are no more. What then is,
generally speaking, the truth of history? A concerted fable, as it has
been very ingeniously remarked. There are, in these matters, two
essential points, very distinct from each other: the positive facts,
and the moral intentions. With respect to the positive facts, it would
seem that they ought to be incontrovertible; yet you will not find two
accounts agreeing together in relating the same fact: some have
remained contested points to this day, and will ever remain so. With
regard to moral intentions, how shall we judge of them, even admitting
the candour of those who relate events? And what will be the case if
the narrators are not sincere, or if they should be actuated by
interest or passion? I have given an order, but who was able to read
my thoughts, my real intentions? Yet every one will take up that
order, and measure it according to his own scale, or adapt it to his
own plans or system. See the different colourings that will be given
to it by the intriguer, whose plans it disturbs or favours: see how he
will distort it. The man who assumes importance, to whom the ministers
or the sovereign may have hinted something in confidence on the
subject, will do the same thing; as will the numerous idlers of the
palace, who, having nothing better to do than to listen at doors, and
invent when they can not hear. And each person will be so certain of
what he tells! and the inferior classes of people, who have received
their information from these privileged mouths, will be so certain, in
their turn, of its correctness! and then memoirs are digested,
memorandums are written, witticisms and anecdotes are circulated; and
of such materials is history composed!
“I have seen the plan of my own battle, the intention of my own
orders, disputed with me, and opinion decide against me! Is not that
the creature giving the lie to its creator? Nevertheless, my opponent,
who contradicts me, will have his adherents. This it is which has
prevented me from writing my own private memoirs, from disclosing my
individual feelings, which would, naturally, have exhibited the shades
of my private character. I could not condescend to write confessions,
after the manner of Jean Jaques Rousseau, which every body might have
attacked; and, therefore, I have thought proper to confine the
subjects of my dictations here to public acts. I am aware that even
these relations may be contested: for where is the man in this world,
whatever be his right, and the strength and power of that right, who
may not be attacked and contradicted by an adverse party? But, in the
opinion of those men who are wise and impartial, of those who reflect
and are reasonable, my voice, after all, will be as good as another’s;
and I have little fear for the final decision. So much light has been
diffused in our days that I rely upon the splendour which will remain
after passions shall have subsided and clouds passed away. But, in the
mean time, how many errors will arise! People will often give me
credit for a great deal of depth and sagacity on occasions which were,
perhaps, most simple in themselves; I shall be suspected of plans
which I never formed.[18] It will be inquired whether I did or did not
aspire, in reality, to universal dominion. The question will be
argued, at length, whether my absolute sway and my arbitrary acts were
the result of my character or of my calculations; whether they were
determined by my own inclination or by the influence of circumstances;
whether I was led into the wars in which I was constantly engaged, by
my own inclination, or against my will; whether my insatiable
ambition, which has been so much deprecated, was kindled by the thirst
for dominion and glory, or by my love of order and my concern for the
general welfare; for that ambition will deserve to be considered under
all those different aspects. People will canvass the motives which
guided me in the catastrophe of the Duke d’Enghien,[19] and so on with
respect to many other events. Sometimes they will distort what was
perfectly straight, and refine upon what was quite natural. It was not
for me to treat of all those subjects here: it would have appeared as
if I were pleading my cause—and that I disdain to do. If the rectitude
and the sagacity of historians can enable them to form, from what I
have dictated on general matters, a correct opinion and just notions
respecting those things which I have not mentioned, so much the
better. But, along with the faint ray thus afforded, how many false
lights will appear to them—from the fables and falsehoods of the great
intriguers (who all had their views, their plots, their private
negotiations, which, being mixed up with the main objects, tend to
render the whole an inextricable chaos), to the disclosures, _the
portfolios_, and even the assertions of my ministers, who, with the
best intentions, will have to state not so much what really existed as
what they believe to have existed; for which of them ever possessed
the entire general conception of my mind? Their share of it was, most
frequently, one of the elements of a great whole, which they did not
know. They will, therefore, only have seen that side of the prism
which concerned them; and, even then, how will they have seen it? Did
it reach them entire? Was it not already broken? And yet probably
every one of them, judging from what he has seen, will give the
fantastical result of his own combinations as my true system; and here
again we have the admitted fable, which will be called history. Nor
can it be otherwise. It is true that, as there are many, they will be
far from agreeing together. However, in their positive assertions they
would have the advantage over me: for I should very frequently have
found it most difficult to affirm confidently what had been my whole
and entire thoughts on any given subject. It is well known that I did
not strive to subject circumstances to my ideas; but that I in general
suffered myself on the contrary to be led by them; and who can
calculate beforehand the chances of accidental circumstances or
unexpected events? I have, therefore, often found it necessary to
alter essentially my plan of proceeding, and have acted through life
upon general principles, rather than according to fixed plans. The
mass of the general interests of mankind, what I considered to be the
advantage of the greater number, such were the anchors on which I
relied, but around which I most frequently floated at the caprice of
chance,” &c.
Footnote 18:
A man of great understanding and information, who had enjoyed much
of the Emperor’s confidence, and had had a great deal to do with the
Emperor directly, said to me, after the first abdication, with the
appearance of intimate conviction, that Napoleon’s plan had been to
abandon Paris, after he should have completed his conquests, and to
make Rome the capital of the Empire. I had, at that time, so little
knowledge of the Emperor that this intelligence staggered me; but
now I cannot help inquiring where my informant could have got this
idea?
Footnote 19:
It is well known to how many different versions, to how many various
conjectures, this sad event gave rise.
After these memorable expressions, the present is the best opportunity
of returning to an historical point which in an early part of this
work I promised to treat of, and which ought to have found a place
long before this; I allude to the conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru,
and the trial of the Duke d’Enghien. I shall presently state the true
reasons of this transposition, and of the long delay that has
occurred.