RETREAT TO CORUNNA--THE BROKEN BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE--WAGRAM--
JOSEPHINE’S DIVORCE.
In the year 1809 there are very few caricatures of Napoleon. After the
taking of Madrid, Sir John Moore thought it prudent to retreat, which
he did, and, after many difficulties, reached Corunna. The repulse
of the French there, although at the cost of Sir John Moore’s life,
enabled the troops to be embarked.
Napoleon had but little rest, for in March the Austrians again took
up arms against him, to which he replied by victoriously marching to
Vienna, which was bombarded before it capitulated. One incident in
this campaign was seized upon by the caricaturist. There had been much
fighting about Aspern and Essling, with pretty equal fortune, until the
destruction of a bridge, caused by a sudden rise of the Danube, which
brought down timber rafts, barges, &c., deprived Napoleon of all the
advantage he had gained, and compelled him to retreat to the island of
Lobau.
There is a caricature by Rowlandson (June 12, 1809) of ‘Boney’s Broken
Bridge.’ An aged general, cocked-hat in hand, is thus addressing
Napoleon: ‘With all due deference to your little Majesty--It was the
Austrian Fire-boats that destroyed the Bridge.’ Napoleon, however,
turns on him savagely, and, pointing to the broken bridge, says, ‘Ah!
who is it that dares contradict me, I say it was some floating timber,
and the high swell of the river that caused the Shocking Accident.’
The Austrian army, on the opposite bank, are singing a paraphrase of
‘London bridge is broken down’:--
Boney’s Bridge is broken down,
Dance over the Lady Lea--
Boney’s Bridge is broken down,
By an Arch Duke--ee.[18]
Ansell gives his version of this event, shewing the Austrian Archduke,
pickaxe in hand, having destroyed the bridge, and, pointing to some
ducks and geese, he sings:--
The Ducks and the Geese with ease swim over,
Fal de rol de rido, Fal de rol de rido.
The Ducks and the Geese with ease swim over,
Fal de rol de rido, Fal de rol de rido.
But Napoleon, dancing with rage, on the other side, yells out, ‘You
Rascal you! How dare you break down my Bridge, If I knew how to get
over, this invincible arm should make you repent your rashness.’ In the
background an officer calls out to the army, ‘Invincible Army go back,
the bridge is broke down and we should not be able to run away.’
It was in this retreat that Lannes was killed--but it was avenged at
Wagram, a battle that so crippled the Austrians that they had to ask an
armistice, which afterwards led to a peace between the rival nations.
It seems he wanted satisfaction,
So Wagram was the scene of action.
By some, however, ’tis believ’d,
The Emp’ror Francis was deceiv’d,
That Boney had, in his caprice,
Made secret overtures for peace,
And a connubial match propos’d
With which the Cabinet had clos’d;
They having been assured, that by it
They should be peaceable and quiet.
And that great Bonaparte might seem
A victor worthy of esteem,
Unknown to Francis they acceded,
To such a battle as he needed;
So that the battle of Wagram,
They say was nothing but a sham--
In other words,--tho’ low, but certain,
‘’Twas all my eye and Betty Martin.’
But if a sham, as it is said,
The farce was admirably played,
For twenty thousand men each lost,
So that they acted to their cost;
But, be ’t a real one, or a mock,
They fought both days till six o’clock;
Nap to the vict’ry laid claim,
And saved the credit of his name.
Hostilities began to cease,
It seems both parties thought of peace.
Sauler (August 1809) shews us ‘The rising Sun, or a view of the
Continent.’ This rising sun is inscribed ‘Spain and Portugal,’ and
gives great uneasiness to Napoleon, who says, ‘The rising sun has
set me upon thorns.’ He is employed in rocking a cradle, in which
peacefully reposes a Russian bear, muzzled with ‘Boney’s Promises.’
Behind is Sweden, who brandishes his sword, calling to Russia to ‘Awake
thou Sluggard, ere the fatal blow is struck, and thou and thy execrable
ally sink into eternal oblivion.’ Holland is fast asleep, and leans
against Napoleon. Poland is represented by a shadow, and Denmark wears
a huge extinguisher on his head. Turkey is virtually dead, on the
ground; but Austria is springing into activity, exclaiming, ‘Tyrant,
I defy thee and thy Cursed Crew.’ Prussia is depicted as a lunatic,
with straws in his hair, wearing a strait-waistcoat, and, with a very
vacuous expression of countenance, is singing, ‘Fiddle diddle dee,
Fiddle diddle dee, The Mouse has married the humble bee--and I am
Emperor of the Moon.’ Underneath are the following lines:--
Just as the Rising Sun dispels
The gloom of night to bless us with new day,
So genuine Patriotism expels
Vindictive Tyrants from despotic Sway.
Thus Spain, the source of patriotic worth
(A Rising Sun of Freedom to the Earth),
Invites the Captive Nations to forego
The Yoke and crush their sanguinary foe.
Why then, ye Nations, will ye not embrace
The proffer’d Freedom smiling in your face?
Why dilly-dally when to sink or rise
Rests with yourselves--dare ye contemn the prize--
Is Freedom nothing worth, that for her sake
Ye dare not e’en _one_ gen’rous effort make?
Alas! infatuated Monarchs see,
What is, and what your Fate must _ever_ be.
_Spain_ is a Sun arising to illume
The threefold horrors of your future doom,
While she on Freedom’s golden wings shall tow’r,
The Arbitress of Continental pow’r.
_Russia_’s a Bear amid impending woes,
Rock’d by th’ insidious Tyrant to repose.
_Sweden_’s a Warrior of distinguished worth,
Sweden hath giv’n to many heroes birth.
_Austria_’s a Phœnix rising renovated,
Whose genial warmth with Spain, incorporated,
Longer disdains to crouch at the fell shrines
Of Usurpation, and the foulest crimes.
_Prussia_, poor _Prussia_, with straightjacket on,
And Crown of Straw, proves what delays have done.
_Denmark_ too, half extinguish’d, shows,
The fruits of leaguing with old England’s foes.
And _Holland_, drowsy _Holland_, dreams
Of aggrandizement, potent Kings and Queens.
While _Poland_, a mere shadow in the rear
(As proof of something _once_ existent there),
Yields to the Yoke, nor dares its shackles break,
Lest by so doing, she her _Freedom_ stake.
Poor silly mortals, will ye ever bow
To the dread Shrine of Tyranny and Woe;
Or by co-operation overwhelm
The Scourge of Nations, and resume the Helm?
One of the great events of this year, as regards Napoleon, was his
divorce from Josephine. That he loved her, as far as he could love any
woman, there is no doubt; but there were State reasons why he should
have another consort. His ambition could not be satisfied till he had
an heir male of his own. The dynasty he fondly hoped to found ought not
to descend to any of his brothers; and none but his own son could have
any hold upon the affection of the French nation.
Nap oftentimes began to swear
That he must get a son and heir--
He, with affected sorrow, told
His present lady was too old,
He might as well have her grandmother,
And therefore he must seek another;
Yes, seek another,--so of course,
He intimated a divorce--
That with propriety, like Harry
The Eighth, another he might marry.
This was enforc’d by his mamma,
And recommended by Murat.
Yet at this very time, good lack!
He had a violent attack,
A kind of stupor he was in,
Attended by his Josephine;
And, as a certain author says,
It lasted very near two days;
On his recovery, he cried,
‘A son and heir I must provide;’
Then giving Josephine a look,
His head repeatedly he shook,
He said--(he could refrain no longer)--
‘I wish, my dear, that you were younger,
But you are old, and I despair
Of ever getting now an heir.’
While this he said, with doleful phiz,
She told him that the fault was his;
For several children she’d before,
And hoped to have as many more.
Now Josephine display’d her spirit,
Of patriotism she made a merit:
‘If,’ she observ’d, ‘our separation
Will be of service to the nation,
Then I agree, with all my heart,
My dearest Emperor--to part--
That you may seek another fair,
And, if you can, provide an heir.’
When kindly her consent she gave
Nap scarcely knew how to behave;
At Josephine awhile he star’d,
He humm’d a bit, and then declar’d,
For fifteen years to him she’d been
All that was lovely and serene,
And that no better for himself e’er
Wou’d wish, but for his country’s welfare--
Of course, for a successor’s sake,
The sacrifice he needs must make.
He found no fault, as it appears,
But that she was advanc’d in years;
To follies past he ne’er alluded,
For no such sentiment intruded;
’Twas not for this he wish’d to sever,
Her virtue he suspected never;
On this occasion, Nap, ’tis said,
A fine speech to the Senate made,
Assuring them it was with pain,
He a divorce strove to obtain;
For still he Josephine regarded,
Tho’ as a consort now discarded;
But, notwithstanding, she should reign
And be considered as a queen.
Josephine, with an air divine,
Declar’d the throne she would resign,
And hop’d her Boney might, ere long,
Meet with a lady fair and young,
And in nine months procure a boy,
To be his comfort and his joy.
’Twas on the 15th of December,[19]
As the Parisians well remember,
The parties in full court appear’d
And by a large assembly cheer’d;
A kind of form took place, of course,
Which fully strengthened the divorce--
The Senate sent a deputation,
To ratify the separation,
Which, that it might be ne’er repeal’d,
Was, in their presence, sign’d and seal’d.
Nap was a long time ere he sign’d--
A proof of a perturbed mind;
But some have thought, and so they might,
’Twas inability to write.
Soon as the pen the lady took,
Her hand for several minutes shook,
A proof of sorrow and regret,
Tho’ she did not appear to fret.
And ’twas the opinion of the sage
That it proceeded from old age.
When thus divorc’d--a parting kiss
Was confirmation of their bliss.’
How Josephine herself felt on this subject is pathetically told by
Madame Junot, with an excessively womanly grace:--
‘I had an interview with the Empress at Malmaison: I went thither to
breakfast by invitation, accompanied by my eldest daughter Josephine,
to whom she was much attached.... “And Madame Mère, have you seen
her since your return?” “Certainly, Madame, I have already been in
waiting.” Upon this, the Empress drew closer to me--she was already
very near--and, taking both my hands, said, in a tone of grief which is
still present to my mind after an interval of four-and-twenty years:
“Madame Junot, I entreat you to tell me all you have heard relating to
me. I ask it as an especial favour--you know they all desire to ruin
me, my Hortense, and my Eugène. Madame Junot, I again entreat, as a
favour, that you will tell me all you know!”
‘She spoke with the greatest anxiety; her lips trembled, and her hands
were damp and cold. In point of fact she was right, for there could
be no more direct means of knowing what was passing, relative to her,
than by learning what was said in the house of Madame Mère. But it
was indiscreet, perhaps, to ask these questions of me. In the first
place, I should not have repeated the most insignificant sentence
which I had heard in Madame’s drawing-room; in the second, I was quite
at ease upon the subject; for, since my return, I had not heard the
word _divorce_ uttered by Madame, or the princesses. The strength of
mind of the unfortunate wife failed totally on hearing the dreadful
word pronounced; she leant upon my arm and wept bitterly. “Madame
Junot,” she said, “remember what I say to you this day, here, in this
hothouse--this place which is now a paradise, but which may soon become
a desert to me--remember that this separation will be my death, and it
is they who have killed me?”
‘She sobbed. My little Josephine, running to her, pulled her by the
shawl to shew her some flowers she had plucked, for the Empress was so
fond of her, as even to permit her to gather flowers in her greenhouse.
She took her in her arms, and pressed her to her bosom, with an almost
convulsive emotion. The child appeared frightened; but, presently,
raising her head, and shaking the forest of light silken curls which
clustered round her face, she fixed her large blue eyes upon the
agitated countenance of her godmother, and said: “I do not like you to
cry.” The Empress again embraced her tenderly, and setting her down,
said to me: “You can have little idea how much I have suffered when
any of you has brought a child to me! Heaven knows, I am not envious,
but in this one case I have felt as if a deadly poison were creeping
through my veins, when I have looked upon the fresh and rosy cheek of
a beautiful child, the joy of its mother, but, above all, the hope of
its father! And I! struck with barrenness, shall be driven in disgrace
from the bed of him who has given me a crown! Yet God is witness that I
love him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown,
which he has given me!”
‘The Empress may have appeared more beautiful, but never more
attractive, than at that moment. If Napoleon had seen her then, surely
he could never have divorced her.’
We have a most touching account in ‘Memes’s Memoirs of the Empress
Josephine:’ ‘The divorce was, unquestionably, a melancholy reverse of
fortune for Josephine, which she felt most severely, but she bore it
with magnanimity. The particulars of the interview between her and the
Emperor are very affecting. When Napoleon mentioned the necessity of a
Divorce, he approached Josephine, gazed on her for a while, and then
pronounced the following words: “Josephine, my excellent Josephine,
thou knowest if I have loved thee! To thee, to thee alone do I owe
the only moments of happiness which I have enjoyed in this world.
Josephine! my destiny overmasters my will. My dearest affections must
be silent before the interests of France.” “Say no more,” she replied,
“I was prepared for this; but the blow is not less mortal!”
‘Josephine, on hearing from his own lips the determination of the
Emperor, fainted, and was carried to her chamber. At length the fatal
day arrived.
‘On December 15, 1809, the Imperial Council of State was convened, and,
for the first time, officially informed of the intended separation.
On the morrow, the whole of the family assembled in the grand salon
at the Tuileries. All were in Court costume. Napoleon’s was the only
countenance which betrayed emotion, but ill concealed by the drooping
plumes of his hat of ceremony. He stood motionless as a statue, his
arms crossed upon his breast: the members of his family were seated
around, showing in their expression less of sympathy with so painful
a scene, than of satisfaction, that one was to be removed, who had so
long held influence, gently exerted as it had been, over their brother.
In the centre of the apartment was placed an armchair, and, before
it, a small table with a writing apparatus of gold. All eyes were
directed to that spot, when a door opened, and Josephine, pale but calm
appeared, leaning on the arm of her daughter, whose fast falling tears
shewed that she had not attained the resignation of her mother. Both
were dressed in the simplest manner. Josephine’s dress of white muslin
exhibited not a single ornament. She moved slowly, and with wonted
grace, to the seat provided for her, and there listened to the reading
of the act of separation. Behind her chair stood Hortense, whose sobs
were audible, and a little farther on, towards Napoleon, Eugène,
trembling as if incapable of supporting himself. Josephine heard in
composure the words that placed an eternal barrier between her and
greatness, between her and the object of her affection. This painful
duty over, the Empress appeared to acquire a degree of resolution from
the very effort to resign with dignity the realities of title for ever.
Pressing, for an instant, the handkerchief to her eyes, she rose, and,
with a voice which, but for a slight tremor, might have been called
firm, pronounced the oath of acceptance; then, sitting down, she took
the pen from the hand of the Comte Regnault St. Jean d’Angely, and
signed it. The mother and daughter now left the salon, followed by
Eugène, who appeared to suffer most severely of the three.
‘The sad incidents of the day had not yet been exhausted. Josephine
had remained unseen, sorrowing in her chamber, till Napoleon’s usual
hour of retiring to rest. He had just placed himself in bed, silent
and melancholy, when suddenly the private door opened, and the Empress
appeared, her hair in disorder, and her face swollen with weeping.
Advancing with a tottering step, she stood, as if irresolute, near the
bed, clasped her hands, and burst into an agony of tears. Delicacy
seemed at first to have arrested her progress, but, forgetting
everything in the fulness of her grief, she threw herself on the bed,
clasped her husband’s neck, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Napoleon also wept while he endeavoured to console her, and they
remained a few minutes locked in each other’s arms, silently mingling
their tears, until the Emperor, perceiving Constant[20] in the room,
dismissed him to the ante-chamber.
‘After an interview of about an hour, Josephine parted, for ever, from
the man whom she so long and so tenderly loved. On seeing the Empress
retire, which she did in tears, the attendant entered to remove the
lights, and found the chamber silent as death, and Napoleon sunk
among the bed-clothes, so as to be invisible. Next morning he still
showed the marks of suffering. At eleven, Josephine was to bid adieu
to the Tuileries, never to enter the palace more. The whole household
assembled on the stairs, in order to obtain a last look of a mistress
whom they loved, and who carried with her into exile the hearts of all
who had enjoyed the happiness of access to her presence. Josephine
was veiled from head to foot, and, entering a close carriage with six
horses, drove rapidly away, without casting one look backward on the
scene of past greatness and departed happiness.’
The only drawback to Memes’s narrative is, that it does not exactly
tally with the ‘Register of the Conservative Senate,’ of Saturday,
December 6, 1809, extracts from which are given in the ‘Times’ of
December 27, 1809. In that document Napoleon makes a speech, a portion
of which is as follows:--
‘The politics of my monarchy, the interest, and the wants, of my
people, which have constantly guided all my actions, require that,
after me, I should leave to children, inheritors of my love for my
people, that throne on which Providence has placed me. Notwithstanding,
for several years past, I have lost the hope of having children by my
well-beloved consort, the Empress Josephine. This it is which induces
me to sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart; to attend to
nothing but the good of the State, and to wish the dissolution of my
marriage.
‘Arrived at the age of forty years, I may indulge the hope of living
long enough to educate, in my views and sentiments, the children
which it may please Providence to give me: God knows how much such
a resolution has cost my heart; but there is no sacrifice beyond my
courage, that I will not make, when it is proved to me to be necessary
to the welfare of France. I should add, that far from ever having had
reason to complain, I have only had to be satisfied with the attachment
and affection of my well-beloved consort. She has adorned fifteen years
of my life, the remembrance of which will ever remain engraven on my
heart. She was crowned by my hand. I wish she should preserve the rank
and title of Empress; but, above all, that she should never doubt my
sentiments, and that she should ever regard me as her best and dearest
friend.’
English opinion on this act of Napoleon’s may be gathered from the
‘Times’ of December 28, which thus comments upon it:--
‘While the affair of the dissolution of Buonaparte’s marriage was
transacting in the Senate, he retired to Trianon. The repudiated
Josephine withdrew, at the same time, to Malmaison, probably never
to behold him again; or, at most, only for a few minutes, during a
visit of cold ceremony. Whatever errors there might have been in the
early conduct of this woman, were in a great measure redeemed by her
behaviour during her slippery, and precarious, exaltation. She has
often stepped in between the rage of the tyrant to whom she was united,
and the victim he had marked for destruction, and by her tears, and
entreaties, softened him into pity and pardon. Such instances of
feeling, and humanity, had wrought a powerful impression in her favour
among the inhabitants of Paris, amongst whom, her unmerited disgrace
has probably occasioned no less grief than astonishment. The temporary
seclusion to which Buonaparte appears to have condemned himself,
may possibly be for the purpose of preventing any opportunity of an
explosion of public sentiment on this subject. We think, on the whole,
that Josephine has been hardly treated. The reasons assigned for her
repudiation have existed in equal force for many years; and the act
itself might have been carried into effect, with less outrage to her
feelings, at a former period.’