ST. HELENA
WHEN Napoleon abdicated after Waterloo, for the second time, the Allies
had achieved the object for which ostensibly they had made war. The
Emperor had fallen, and the war they had waged had, they declared, been
directed entirely against him. The immediate and burning question now
arose as to what was to be done with the man against whom a million
other men were on the march. Blücher wanted to catch him and shoot him;
Wellington, with his usual cautious good sense, did not want to be
burdened with the responsibility of an action which might be unnecessary
and would certainly be unpopular. Napoleon himself, disowned by the
government and by the army, wanted to retire to America, but his enemies
were unwilling to set him free. The English fleet blockaded the coast,
and Napoleon was compelled to surrender to it, lest worse should befall
from the Prussians, or the Republicans, or the White Terror, or from
personal enemies. He tried to make the best of his necessity by claiming
the hospitality of England, but England kept him a close prisoner until
her Allies had been consulted. They offered to hand him over to Louis
XVIII. for trial as a rebel, but even Louis had the sense to decline the
offer. He could shoot Ney and la Bédoyère, but he could not shoot
Napoleon. For Louis to shut him up in a fortress would be as dangerous
as it would be for a private individual to keep a tiger in his cellar.
In the same way no Continental state would willingly see any other
appointed his guardian. That would mean giving the guardian country a
most potent instrument of menace. England remained the sole possible
gaoler, and England accepted the responsibility.
Next arose the question as to the locality of the prison, and the answer
to that question was already prepared—St. Helena. To keep Napoleon in
England was obviously impossible, for England was nearer France even
than was Elba, while, incredible though it might seem, the oligarchy
which ruled England were afraid lest Napoleon should corrupt the mass of
the people to Republicanism. That there was some foundation for this
fear is shown by the intense interest in Napoleon which the people
displayed while he was in Plymouth harbour. Similar arguments were
effective against Malta or any other Mediterranean island. But St.
Helena had none of these disadvantages. It was thousands of miles away;
it was small, and could be filled with troops; there were only two
possible places for landing, and these could be well guarded; the few
reports on the island which were to be had seemed to indicate that fair
comfort was obtainable there, and, above all, it was not at all a place
where ships or individuals could easily find an excuse for calling or
remaining. Even before the descent from Elba St. Helena had been
suggested as a more suitable place for Napoleon’s prison, and now, with
little discussion, he was sent off there.
It is impossible to argue about the legality or otherwise of this
decision. Morally, the Powers were as justified in imprisoning Napoleon
as is a government in locking up a homicidal maniac. A maniac may hurt
people; Napoleon might hurt the Powers. Napoleon might hurt them for
reasons which to him might appear perfectly defensible; but a homicidal
maniac can usually boast the same purity of motive. The maniac may be
right and everyone else wrong; Napoleon may have been right and the
Powers wrong; but the Powers were none the less justified in seeing that
he could do no more harm. It has been argued that by invading France and
removing her ruler Europe was committing a moral crime; that it is
intolerable for one country to interfere in another country’s system of
government. This argument fails because its scope is inelastic. In the
same way it is said that “an Englishman’s house is his castle,” and
that, for instance, a man’s conduct towards, or training of, his
children is his own personal business. But if that man tries to cut his
children’s throats, or worse, encourages his children to cut his
neighbours’ throats, then the State steps in and prevents him from doing
so. That is exactly what the Powers did with Napoleon. Where they went
wrong was in not seeing that their decision was carried into effect with
humanity and dignity.
The initial arrangements for Napoleon’s exile seemed to portend that he
would end his days in luxury. Lord Liverpool had said that on the island
there was a most comfortable house exactly suited for Napoleon and his
suite; Lord Bathurst had given official orders that he was to be allowed
all possible indulgence so long as his detention was not imperilled. But
Napoleon was not given the comfortable house, while Bathurst’s
confidential orders to Sir Hudson Lowe displayed unbelievable rigour.
Already Napoleon had experienced some of the results of the workings of
the official mind; the naval officers with whom he had come in contact
had been strictly ordered not to pay him any of the compliments usually
accorded to royalty. They remained covered in his presence, and they
addressed him as “General Bonaparte.” Cockburn, the Admiral in command,
acted strictly to the letter of the orders which commanded him to treat
“General Bonaparte” in the same manner as he would a general officer not
in employ. If Napoleon seemed inclined to act with more dignity than
this rather humble station would warrant, then Cockburn was distant and
reserved; but if Napoleon ever showed signs of “conducting himself with
modesty,” as Cockburn himself writes, then the Admiral was graciously
pleased to unbend a little to his helpless prisoner.
The whole question of the title was intricate and irritating. The
English Government declared that they had never recognized Napoleon as
Emperor even at the height of his power, and they certainly were not
going to do so now that he was a discredited outcast. They were hardly
correct in fact or in theory, for they had sent him an Ambassador when
he was First Consul; they had sent plenipotentiaries to Châtillon who
had signed documents in which he was called Emperor; they had sent a
representative to him at Elba when he was Emperor there, and, equally
important, they had ratified the Convention of Cintra, among the
documents of which he was distinctly called His Imperial Majesty.
Moreover, by refusing him this mode of address, they were insulting the
French people, who had elected him, the Courts of Europe, who had
recognized him, and the Pope, who had crowned and anointed him. It was
the English Government which lost its dignity in this ridiculous affair,
not Napoleon. But the worst result of this decision was not the loss of
dignity, nor the injury to French pride. It was that it gave Napoleon an
opportunity to hit back. It gave him a definite cause of complaint,
apart from that of his arbitrary incarceration, which was generally held
to be justified. It was the first opportunity of many, of all of which
Napoleon eagerly took advantage, so that the Napoleonic Legend had a
firm base for future development. By complaining at any and every
opportunity Napoleon was able to surround his own memory with an aura of
frightful privations, so that it was easy for his subtle nephew later to
picture him as Prometheus, the benefactor of mankind, bound to his rock
in mid-ocean with the vultures of the allied commissioners gnawing at
his liver.
A further blunder on the part of the English Government afforded
Napoleon his next cause of complaint. Sir Hudson Lowe was a good, if
unimaginative soldier who had fought all his life against the French.
Furthermore, he had commanded a force of Corsican Rangers, recruited
from the island that was Napoleon’s birthplace. He had held Capri for
two years in the face of Masséna and Joseph Bonaparte, and was only
turned out by a daring expedition sent by Murat. His very name was
hateful to Napoleon, and yet he was appointed his guardian. But this was
not all. A huge responsibility devolved upon Sir Hudson Lowe. A moment’s
carelessness on his part might allow Napoleon to escape, and if Napoleon
escaped there might ensue another Waterloo campaign with a very
different result. The responsibility was too great altogether for Lowe.
Because of it he carried out the orders sent him with a strictness which
knew no bounds. He pestered the wretched prisoner, who already had good
reason to dislike him, until he nearly drove him frantic. Lowe himself
was desperate, and many people who saw him during that period commented
on his worried demeanour and his inability to support his
responsibilities. It is easy then to imagine the violent friction which
prevailed between him and his captive.
On a casual inspection, the restrictions imposed upon Napoleon do not
seem particularly severe. He was to keep within certain limits; he was
to be accompanied by an English officer if he went beyond them; his
correspondence was to pass through Lowe’s hands, and he was to assure
the English of his presence every day. But these restrictions galled
Napoleon inexpressibly. Along the boundaries of his free area was posted
a line of sentries, and he could not turn his eyes in any direction
without perceiving the hated redcoats. The continued presence of an
officer if he rode elsewhere was not unnaturally irksome—so irksome, in
fact, that Napoleon, who had previously passed half his days on
horseback, gave up riding—while the mortification of having his letters
pried into and the utter, hateful humiliation of having to exhibit
himself on command to an Englishman must have been maddening to a man
who not so many months before had ruled half Europe.
Napoleon found himself shut up in a restricted area and with limited
accommodation; he had no old friends with him, because he had never had
any friends; of the five officers who had accompanied him only two were
men of any distinction and of any length of service. Not one of them was
particularly talented, and they were one and all fiercely jealous of
each other. Add to these conditions a tropical climate and the utter
despair into which they were all plunged, and it is easy to realize that
furious quarrels and bitter heart-burnings must have been their lot. It
is the most difficult matter in the world to find the exact truth about
what went on in Longwood. Everyone concerned wrote voluminously, and
everyone concerned wrote accounts which differed from everyone else’s.
There is an atmosphere of untruth surrounding everything which has been
written by the actors in this last tragedy. Napoleon himself set his
friends the example, for his dictated memoirs and the information which
he gave Las Cases to help him in his writings are full of lies, some
cunning, some clumsy, but all of them devised for obvious purposes. He
tried to throw the blame of the Spanish insurrection on Murat, the blame
of the execution of d’Enghien on Talleyrand, the blame of Waterloo on
Grouchy. It is difficult to discover whether he was merely trying to
excuse himself in the eyes of the world, or to rehabilitate Bonapartism
so that his son might eventually mount the Imperial throne. And his
companions’ memoirs lie so blatantly and so obviously that one cannot
decide which was his aim.
Napoleon himself had deteriorated vastly. As might be expected, his
complete cessation of bodily activity led to an increase in his
corpulence until he became gross and unwieldy. His mental power had
decayed, although he was still able to dictate for hours on end. Even
under the burdensome conditions imposed upon him he never seems to have
abandoned the rigid reserve which he had maintained all his life. The
few scenes which the memoirists describe which have a ring of truth
about them seem to show him still acting a part, still posing as the
inestimably superior being whom his followers believed him to be.
Sometimes we have a brief glimpse of him stripped of his heroics, as
witness the occasion when he said bitterly that his son must necessarily
have forgotten him; but most of the time he seems to have adhered to his
old methods, and posed as the misunderstood benefactor of humanity,
ignoring Marie Louise’s defection, ignoring the distrust with which the
Council of State had regarded him during the last months of his reign;
in fact proclaiming himself the man who martyred himself for the French
nation, with such iteration that he was at last believed. His
declamations have coloured nearly everything written since, so that it
is quite usual to find it stated, either actually or inferentially, that
his fall was due solely to the jealousy of the other rulers of Europe,
and not due in any degree to the slowly developed dislike of his own
subjects.
And all this time he was making Sir Hudson Lowe’s life a burden to him
as well. Some of Napoleon’s complaints were just, some merely frivolous,
but every one of them goaded Lowe into further painful activity. This
activity reacted in another direction, so that Lowe issued edicts of
increased stringency, and, half mad with responsibility, treated
Napoleon with an exaggeration of precaution and imposed upon him
restraints of a pettiness and a casuistry almost unbelievable. It can
hardly be doubted that Napoleon actually sought opportunities for egging
Lowe on to further ill-treatment; he certainly treated him with a most
amazing contumely, and it is very probable that the numerous rumours of
attempts at rescue, by submarine boat, by an armed force from Brazil, or
by any other fantastic means, had their origin in Napoleon himself, so
that Lowe was inspired to further obnoxious measures. Napoleon made the
most of his opportunity. He raised a clamour which reached Europe (as he
had intended), so that interest in his fate and sympathy for the poor
ill-treated captive gradually worked up to fever heat. He sold his plate
to buy himself necessaries (at a time when he had ample money at his
command) and of course France heard about it, and was wrung with pity
for the wretched man forced by his captor’s rapacity to dine off
earthenware. The fact that Napoleon nevertheless retained sufficient
silver to supply his table was not so readily divulged. He made a
continual complaint about his health; undoubtedly he was not well, and
equally undoubtedly he was already suffering from the disease which
killed him; but his complaints were neither consistent nor, as far as
can be ascertained, entirely true. He hinted that the Powers were
endeavouring to shorten his life; he even said that he went in fear of
assassins. All this news reached Europe by devious routes, and sympathy
grew and grew until, after the lapse of years, it waxed into the
hysteria evinced at his second funeral and the more effective hysteria
which set Napoleon III. on the throne.
Despite all the undignified squabbles in which he was engaged, one can
nevertheless hardly restrain a feeling of admiration for Napoleon amid
the trials which he was enduring. He was hitting back as hard as
circumstances would allow him, and he was hitting back with effect. He
had driven Lowe frantic, and he had secured his object of reviving
European interest in him. Furthermore, he flatly refused to submit to
the humiliating commands which Lowe attempted to enforce. Lowe might
speak of “General Bonaparte” or “Napoleon Bonaparte” (in the same way as
he might speak of John Robinson, says Lord Rosebery) but in his own home
Napoleon was always His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, to whom everyone
uncovered, and in whose presence everyone remained standing. Lowe’s
order that he must show himself to an English officer every day was
completely ignored, and we hear of officers climbing trees and peering
through keyholes in vain attempts to make sure of his presence. For days
together Napoleon might have been out of the island for all Lowe knew to
the contrary. The commissioners sent by France and Austria and Russia
did not set eyes on him from the time of their arrival until after his
death. Napoleon had sworn that he would shoot with his own hand the
first man who intruded on his privacy, and he was believed; the attempt
was never made, and Napoleon continued to reign in Longwood, in an
_imperium in imperio_.
The whole period seems indescribably sordid and wretched. Napoleon’s
companions were intriguing jealously for his favour, scheming for the
privilege of eating at his table, and even endeavouring to be sure that
he would leave them his money in his will. Tropical weather, harassing
conditions, prolonged strain, and the overwhelming gloom of recent
frightful disasters, all tended towards overstrained nerves and
continual quarrels. Napoleon wrangling with Lowe over his
dinner-service; Montholon in tears because Napoleon chooses to dine with
Las Cases; an Emperor quarrelling with a general as to whether or not
his liver is enlarged; this is not tragedy, it is only squalor with a
hideously tragic taint. It is Lear viewed through reversed
opera-glasses.
The end came at last in 1821. The disease of which his father had died
held Napoleon as well in its grip. He was an intractable patient, and
diagnosis was not easy, but it certainly seems that the medical
treatment he received was unspeakably bad. He was dosed with tartar
emetic, of all drugs, at a time when his stomach was deranged with
cancer. At times he suffered frightful agony. He bore it somehow; argued
with his doctors, chaffed his friends, until at last he sank into
unconsciousness, and he died while a great storm howled round the
island. The lies and contradictions of the memoirists persist even here,
for no one knows accurately what were his last words, or when they were
uttered.
The post-mortem report is sufficient to convince any reader that none of
the doctors concerned knew their business;[A] the man who had once ruled
Europe was now thrust into a coffin too small to allow him to wear his
complete uniform, so that his hat rested on his stomach; and he was
buried in one of his old favourite spots in the island. Once more there
arose the old vexed question of title, for the French wished to inscribe
“Napoleon” on the coffin; Lowe insisted on “Bonaparte” being added; in
the end it was a nameless coffin which was lowered into the grave.
-----
[A] It is, I believe, a fact never previously published that the first
post-mortem certificate drawn up by the doctors responsible was rejected
by Sir Hudson Lowe. It contained the words “the liver was perhaps a
little larger than natural,” and this remark naturally did not commend
itself to Lowe, in consequence of the fierce quarrels he had had with
Napoleon on this very subject. The post-mortem certificate in the
English Record Office does not contain these words, but the Rev. Canon
E. Brook Jackson, Rector of Streatham, has in his possession the earlier
certificate, signed by the doctors concerned, with the footnote
“N.B.—The words obliterated were suppressed by order of Sir Hudson
Lowe. Signed, Thomas Short, P.M.O.” The words referred to are clearly
legible and are those given above.
Napoleon failed during his lifetime, but he was triumphant after death.
His gallant fight at St. Helena against overwhelming odds was remembered
with pride by every Frenchman. Men hearing garbled versions of his
sufferings felt a pricking of their consciences that they had abandoned
him in 1814 and 1815. The helpless policy of Louis XVIII. and Charles
X., and the humdrum policy of Louis Philippe set all minds thinking of
the glorious days, not so very long ago, when France had been Queen of
the Continent. Louis Napoleon skilfully employed the revulsion of
feeling to his own advantage, and the glory of Austerlitz and Jena was
sufficient to hide the absurdities of Boulogne and Strasbourg. But it
was the six years’ struggle of St. Helena which made so refulgent that
glory of Austerlitz.
What the British Government could have done to prevent the formation of
a St. Helena legend cannot easily be decided. They were in terror lest
he should escape again, and severe ordinances were necessary to prevent
this. Had they treated him luxuriously, public opinion in England would
have been roused to a dangerous pitch. They had originally tried to get
out of the difficulty by handing him over to Louis XVIII. for execution,
but Louis XVIII. had no real case against him. A state trial would have
given Napoleon unbounded opportunities for the rhetoric in which he
delighted, and which had so often rallied France to his side. Napoleon
might well have pleaded, with perfect truth, that in the descent from
Elba he was no rebel, but the Emperor of Elba making war upon the King
of France; but so tame a plea would hardly have been employed. Napoleon
would have proclaimed himself the purest altruist come to see that the
French people obtained their rights, or to save France from the
machinations of tyrants. Louis was wise in refusing the offer. The
custody of Napoleon was thus thrust upon the British Government. If
remarkably far-sighted, they might have lapped him in every luxury; have
treated him subserviently as if he was Emperor in fact as well as in
name; they might have encouraged him to debauchery as wild as Tiberius’
at Capri; and then by subtle propaganda they might have exhibited him to
a scornful world as a man who cared nothing for his lost greatness, or
for the dependence of his position. Such a scheme appealed favourably to
the imagination, but there was an insuperable obstacle—Napoleon.
Napoleon had a definite plan of campaign. He was going to complain about
everything and everybody with whom he came in contact. He was going to
clamour unceasingly against the brutality and arbitrariness of his
gaolers. Without regard for truth he was going to proclaim continually
that he was being ill-treated and martyred, and he would have done it
whatever had been his treatment, and, being Napoleon, he would have done
it well. The error of the British Government lay in their affording him
so many opportunities, not in their affording him any at all.
And after he was dead there followed the events which he had foreseen
and over whose engendering he had laboured so diligently. Little by
little the evil features of the Imperial régime were forgotten; the
glory of his victories blazed more brightly in comparison with the
exhaustion of France under the Bourbons and the pettifogging Algerian
razzias of Louis Philippe. The literature of St. Helena, both the
spurious and the inspired, induced men to believe that Napoleon was the
exact opposite of what he really was. It gave him credit for the
achievements of Carnot; it shifted the disgrace of failure on to the
shoulders of helpless scapegoats. It proved to the satisfaction of the
uninquiring that Napoleon stood for democracy, for the principle of
nationality, and even for peace. It raised to the Imperial throne the
man who said “the Empire means peace.” The whole legend which developed
was a flagrant denial of patent facts, but it was a denial sufficiently
reiterated to be believed. The belief is not yet dead.
[Illustration: LOUIS NAPOLEON, KING OF HOLLAND]
APPENDIX
INCIDENTS AND AUTHORITIES
IT is much more than a hundred years since Napoleon lived; since his
time we have witnessed cataclysms more vast than were the Napoleonic
wars; the Europe of that period seems to us as unfamiliar and as
profitless a study as Siam or primitive Australia. Perhaps this is so.
Perhaps the lessons to be drawn from the Napoleonic era are now
exhausted. Perhaps the epoch ushered in by Marengo is slight and
unimportant compared to that which follows the Marne. Perhaps Englishmen
will forget the men who stood firm in the squares at Waterloo, and will
only remember those who stood firm at Ypres and the Second Marne.
Perhaps the Congress of Vienna will lapse into insignificance when
compared with the Congress of Versailles. But this is inconceivable.
Previously, perhaps, too much importance has been attached to the
Napoleonic era, but that is because it had no parallel; it was unique.
Similarly the period pivoting about the Great War of 1914-18 might be
said to be unique, but it is not so. The two epochs are very closely
related, very closely indeed. Much may be gained from the study of
either, but this is nothing to be compared with the gain resulting from
the study and comparison of the two together. In this way the Napoleonic
era becomes more significant even than it was before the great war, and
this without considering how much of the great war was directly due to
arrangements made as a consequence of Napoleon’s career.
But apart from all such considerations, the study of the period is one
from which a great deal of purely personal pleasure can be derived. Even
nowadays one cannot help a thrill of excitement when reading of the
advance of the British infantry at Albuera; one cannot help feeling a
surge of emotion on reading how Alvarez at the siege of Gerona moaned
“No surrender! No surrender!” although he was dying of fever and half
the populace lay dead in the streets, while the other half still fought
on against all the might of Reille and St. Cyr. Even the best novel
compares unfavourably with Ségur’s account of the Russian campaign; and
although there is no French biographer quite as good as Boswell, yet
there are scores of memoirs and biographies of the period which rank
very nearly as high, and which are pleasant to read at all times. Marbot
may be untruthful, but he is delightful reading; Madame Junot gives a
picture of her times and of the people whom she met which is honestly
worthy of comparison with Dickens and Thackeray; while to track down in
their memoirs Fouché’s and Talleyrand’s carefully concealed mistakes is
as interesting a pastime as ever was the attempt to guess the dénouement
in a modern detective novel.
The literature of the time is full of happy anecdotes, some of which
have attained the supreme honour of being taken out bodily, furnished
with modern trimmings, and published in twentieth century magazines,
without acknowledgment, as modern humour. But many have escaped this
fate, partly because they are untranslatable, and partly because they
bear the definite imprint of the period. Thus there is the story of the
fat and pursy King of Würtemberg, who once kept waiting a committee of
the Congress of Vienna. At last he arrived, and as his portly majesty
came bustling through the door, Talleyrand remarked, “Here comes the
King of Würtemberg, _ventre à terre_.” In a grimmer vein is the story of
the reception held on the night after Ney was shot. The company were
mournfully discussing the tragedy, when a certain M. Lemaréchal was
announced. As this gentleman had a son of mature years, the announcement
was worded “M. Lemaréchal ainé”—which the panic-stricken assembly heard
as “M. le Maréchal Ney.”
Some of the heroes of that time have had the bad luck to be
misrepresented not only in literature but even in portraits and in
sculpture. Napoleon had at one time the plan of placing statues of all
his generals in the Louvre, but he abdicated before the work was
anywhere near completion, and left its continuation to his successors.
Louis and Charles did nothing towards it, and the parsimonious Louis
Philippe, when he came to the throne, decided as a measure of economy
only to represent the most famous. But some of the statues of junior
officers were already finished. Louis Philippe saw his chance of still
greater economy. For Lasalle’s head was substituted Lannes’; for
Colbert’s, Mortier’s; while the entire statue of St. Hilaire was simply
labelled Masséna and set up without further alteration. These statues
are still in the Louvre; no subsequent correction has ever been made.
But the anecdotes are responsible for only a very small part of the
interest of Napoleonic literature. Many of the subsequent histories are
very nearly models of everything a book ought to be. Napier’s
“Peninsular War,” despite its bias and its frequent inaccuracies, has
already become a classic; Sir Charles Oman’s work on the same subject is
much more striking and makes a far greater appeal. His descriptions of
the siege of Gerona and of the cavalry pursuit at Tudela are more moving
in their cold eloquence than ever was Napier at his fieriest. One
English author whose books have attracted far less attention than they
should have done is Mr. F. Loraine Petre; his accurate and impartial
histories of the successive Napoleonic campaigns are dramatic enough to
hold the interest of the ordinary reader as well as that of the military
student. In matters other than military, the writer whose reputation
overtops all others is M. Frédéric Masson. His celebrity is such that it
would be almost impertinence to cavil at his writings. For painstaking
and careful accumulation of evidence he stands far and away above all
his contemporaries. He examines and brings to notice every single
detail. A catalogue of an Empress’s chemises interests him as deeply as
a list of a Council of State. The trouble is that his catalogue of
chemises is merely a catalogue of chemises—as interesting as a
laundress’s bill. M. Masson’s books are exceedingly important and
invaluable to the student: but that they are important and invaluable is
all one can say about them.
The ultimate source of much information is, of course, the endless
collection of volumes of Napoleon’s correspondence. Even merely to
glance at one of these is a lesson in industry far more thorough than
anything achieved by the worthy Dr. Samuel Smiles and his like.
Examination of a single day’s correspondence is sufficient to show the
complexity of Napoleon’s interests, the extent of his knowledge of each
subject, and the nature of the driving power which built up the First
Empire. Close study of the Correspondence is necessary to enable one to
follow the twists and turns of Napoleon’s policy; the main difficulty is
that the bundle of hay is so large that the finding of needles in it is
a painfully tedious business. However, the casual reader will find that
this spadework has been done for him by a large number of painstaking
writers. Even during the present century several English authors have
published books upon particular events and persons of the Napoleonic
era. Mr. Hilliard Atteridge is an example of those who have done the
best work in this direction. But the greater number of these books seem
to be struck with the same blight—they are ineffably tedious. Generally
they are most correct as to facts; their impartiality is admirable; the
knowledge displayed is wide; but they are most terribly boring to read.
They are useful to familiarize the reader with the various persons
described so that their place in the whole period is better understood,
for the Napoleonic era is a tangled skein of threads, each of them a
different personality, wound round and completely dependent upon the
central core, which is Napoleon.
Of biographies and general histories it is impossible to speak
definitely. Napoleon can boast hundreds more lives than any cat in fact
or fancy. The percentage of lies contained in books on Napoleon varies
between ten and ninety—and what is more aggravating is that the
picturesque and readable lives are usually those which contain the most
inexactitudes. It is perfectly safe to say that no Life of Napoleon has
ever been written which combines complete accuracy with genuine
readableness. This is of small account, however, for one has only to
read enough of the readable and inexact lives to form a fairly correct
opinion on most matters of importance at the same time as one enjoys
both the reading and the forming of the opinion. The contemporary
memoirs are very useful, and are mainly interesting. Bourrienne’s
biography is rather overrated usually, for he is unreliable in personal
matters, and a great deal of his book is undeniably heavy. One of his
most illuminating pictures shows Napoleon driving with him over the
countryside, and ignoring the beauty of the scenery in favour of the
military features of the landscape. This anecdote receives an additional
interest when it is recalled that an exactly similar story is told of
von Schlieffen, the German Chief of Staff of the ’nineties, who planned
the advance through Belgium which had such vast consequences in 1914.
One certainly cannot help thinking that if Napoleon had been at the head
of the German army at that date he, too, would have advanced through
Belgium, and this tiny parallel offers curious corroboration. Such a
move would have been in complete accordance with Napoleon’s
character—compare Bernadotte’s march through Anspach in 1805. The way
in which Napoleon took enormous risks, such as this, and his method of
securing the friendship of other Powers by storming and bluster instead
of by finesse, is the most curious trait of his whole curious character.
Bourrienne offers several examples; so do Talleyrand, Fouché, Pasquier
and Molé.
For some decades after Napoleon’s death an immense amount of spurious or
heavily revised reminiscent literature appeared. Constant (the valet),
Josephine, and various others, are credited with volumes of ingeniously
written memoirs. They are well worth reading, but they contain little
worth remembering. In many matters they are demonstrably incorrect, and
they are generally prejudiced and misleading. For personal and intimate
details one of the best contemporary writers is de Bausset, who
certainly wrote the book which bears his name, and who equally certainly
was in a position to perceive what he described, for he was a palace
official for many years under the Empire.
In military matters the Marshals’ memoirs are peculiarly enlightening,
not so much in matters of detail (in fact they are frequently incorrect
there) but in exhibiting the characters of the writers themselves.
Davout’s book is just what one would expect of him, cold and unrelenting
and yet sound and brilliant. Suchet’s is cynical and clever and subtle,
and, if necessary, untrue. St. Cyr’s displays his jealousy, suspicion
and general unpleasantness along with undoubted proof of talent.
Macdonald’s is bluff and honest. There is a whole host of smaller fry,
from Marbot downwards, who wrote fascinating little books about the Army
and their own personal experiences. Some of them, such as the
Reminiscences of Colonel de Gonneville, have appeared in English. They
are all obtainable in French. The last authority, of course, on military
matters is the Correspondence. There are only one or two doubtful
letters in the whole collection, and these are either printed with
reserve or bear the proofs of their spuriousness on the face of them.
But no matter how much is written, or published, or read, no two men
will ever form quite the same estimate of Napoleon. It is as easy to
argue that he only rose through sheer good luck as it is to argue that
he only fell through sheer bad luck. He can be compared to Iscariot or
to St. Paul, to Alexander or to Wilhelm II. At times he seems a body
without a soul; at others, a soul without a body. All this seems to
indicate that he was a man of contradictions, but on the other hand he
was, admittedly, thoroughly consistent in all his actions. The most one
can hope for is to form one’s own conclusions about him; one cannot hope
to form other people’s.
INDEX
Abo, Treaty of, 32
Agincourt, 11
Alexander (Czar), 16, 23, 47, 145
Alexandria, 11
Aspern, 30, 74, 211
Atteridge, A. Hilliard, 240
Auerstädt, 20, 69
Augereau, 67, 81, =91-93=
Austerlitz, 15, 20, 69, 134, 208
Baciocchi, Elise (_née_ Bonaparte), =114-128=
Barras, 14, 35, 38
Bausset, de, 13, 242
Bautzen, 16, 29, 135, =189=
Baylen, 15, 198
Bennigsen, 32, 77
Bernadotte, 25, =31-33=, 74
Bernadotte, Désirée (_née_ Clary), 31, 152, =167-169=
Berthier, 25, 27, 50, 58, 157
Bertrand, 21
Bessières, =28=, 58, 149
Blücher, 193, 199
Borghese, Pauline (_née_ Bonaparte), 57, =114-128=
Borodino, 134, 176, 187
Bourrienne, 22, 241
Buenos Ayres, 11
Catherine of Westphalia, 53, 110, 111, 129
Charles, Hippolyte, 21, 39
Clausel, =138-139=
Cockburn, Admiral, 226
Confederation of the Rhine, 15
Continental System, 111, 220
Corneille, 19
David, 18, 19
Davout, 20, 25, 58, =67-79=, 85, 136, 242
Dennewitz, 29, 135
Denuelle, Eléonore, =158-160=
Dresden, 16, 135, 191, 213
Dupont, =198-199=
Duroc, 149, 157, 181
Eckmühl, 73, 83
Egypt, 14
Elba, 16
Elchingen, 29
Enghien, d’, 15, 40, =202-204=
Eugène de Beauharnais, 68, 74, 76, 125, 169
Erlon, d’, =146-148=
Eylau, 15, 29, 93
Fouché, 58, 62, 238
Fourès, Marguerite, =153-155=
Francis I., Emperor of Austria, 48, 181
Friedland, 15, 30, 134
Genoa, 82
Goethe, 19
Gourgaud, 21
Grassini, =155-156=
Grouchy, 25, 59, =145-146=
Hamburg, 77
Hauser, Kaspar, 171-172
Hortense Bonaparte, 43, 54
Isabey, 18
Jena, 15, 20, 29, 69, 134
Jerome Bonaparte, 15, 75, =106-113=, 186
Joseph Bonaparte, 15, 18, 83, 87, 96, =103-106=
Josephine, Empress, 14, 17, 21, =35-46=, 57, 155, 242
Jourdain, 68, 72, 210
Junot, 26, 39, 84, =141-144=, 238
Junot, Madame, 141, 152
Katzbach, 33, 77
Kellermann, 140, 208
Lannes, =30=, 57, 58, 67, 73, 131, 149, 206, 211
Leclerc, 99, 116, 117
Lefebvre, 23, 26
Leipzig, 16, 77, 135
Léon (Denuelle), =159-160=
Letizia Bonaparte (Madame Mère), 57, =129-132=
Ligny, 147, =196=
Louis XVIII., 51, 223, 234
Louis Bonaparte, 15, 43, 96, =101-103=
Lowe, Sir Hudson, 121, 225-235
Lucien Bonaparte, =97-101=
Lützen, 16, 189
Macdonald, =33=, 78, 242
Mack, 15
Maida, 11
Mallet Conspiracy, 63
Malo-Jaroslavetz, 188
Marbot, 137, 197
Marengo, 14, 20, 30, 207, 208
Marie Antoinette, 49
Marie Louise, 16, 21, =47-66=, 166
Marmont, =30=, 68, 73, 78
Masséna, 14, 20, 42, 58, 59, 68, 71, 73, =80-85=, 154
Metternich, 26, 50, 64, 158, 238
Minden, 11
Montebello, Duchess of, 55, 62
Moore, Sir John, 86, 105, 143, 210
Montholon, 21, 232
Moreau, 14, 31, 33, 81, 116
Moscow, 188
Murat, Joachim, 15, 25, 27-=28=, 39, 76, 118-125
Murat, Caroline (_née_ Bonaparte), 52, 53, 57, =114-128=, 159
Napier, =239=
Napoleon, I., =9-243=
Napoleon II., 60, 61
Napoleon Charles Bonaparte, 43
Neipperg, 21, =64-66=
Ney, =29=, 58, 67, 78, 85, 136, 189
Oman, Sir Charles, 239
Ossian, 19
Oudinot, 67, 78
Patterson-Bonaparte, Elizabeth, 107, 108
Petre, F. L., 239
Pichegru, =204=
Pius VII., 44, 45
Poniatowski, 25, 149
Rouget de l’Isle, 19
Rousseau, 19
St. Helena, 16, 223-235
St. Cyr, =33-34=, 78, 242
Salamanca, 30, 138
Savary, 58, 63, 203
Schwartzenberg, 51, 148, 193
Ségur, 59, 238
Soissons, 193
Soult, 68, 71, =85-89=
Staël, Mme. de, 19
Stéphanie de Beauharnais, =170-172=
Suchet, 25, 68, 88, =89-91=, 138, 242
Suvaroff, 82
Talleyrand, 56, 158, 238
Tallien, Mme., 37
Thiers, 177
Tilsit, Treaty of, 15
Ulm, 15, 29
Vandamme, 59, 73, 109, =144-145=, 191
Verestchagin, 17
Victor, 143
Villeneuve, 205
Vittoria, 106, 191
Vimiero, 15, 143
Wagram, 32, 74, 84, =212=
Walewska, Marie de, 18, 21, 43, =160-165=
Walewski, Alexander, =165-166=
Waterloo, 16, 78, 79, 112, 136, 217
Wellington, 11, 84, 86, 87, 156
Zürich, 82
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TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.