Chapter XIV: Book VI (1)

Bonaparte at the Malmaison--General abandonment--Departure from the Malmaison--Rambouillet--Rochefort--Bonaparte takes refuge on the English fleet--He writes to the Prince Regent--Bonaparte on the _Bellerophon_--Torbay--Act confining Bonaparte in St Helena--He passes over to the Northumberland and sets sail--Judgment on Bonaparte--Character of Bonaparte--Has Bonaparte left us in renown what he has lost us in strength?--Futility of the truths set forth above--The Island of St. Helena--Bonaparte crosses the Atlantic--Napoleon lands at St. Helena--His establishment at Longwood--Precautions--Life at Longwood--Visits--Manzoni--Illness of Bonaparte--Ossian--Reveries of Napoleon in sight of the sea--Projects of evasion--Last occupation of Bonaparte--He lies down to rise no more--He dictates his will--Napoleon's religious sentiments--The chaplain Vignale--Napoleon's speech to Antomarchi, his doctor--He receives the last sacraments--He expires--His funeral--Destruction of the Napoleonic world--My last relations with Bonaparte--St. Helena after the death of Napoleon--Exhumation of Bonaparte--My visit to Cannes.

If a man were unexpectedly transported from life's most clamorous scenes to the silent shores of the Arctic Ocean, he would feel what I feel beside the tomb of Napoleon, for we find ourselves suddenly standing by the edge of that tomb.

Leaving Paris on the 25th of June, Napoleon awaited at the Malmaison the moment of his departure from France. I return to him: coming back to past days, anticipating future times, I shall not leave him again until after his death.

The Malmaison, where the Emperor rested, was empty. Joséphine was dead[356]; Bonaparte found himself alone in that retreat. There he had commenced his fortune; there he had been happy; there he had become intoxicated with the incense of the world; there, from the heart of his tomb, issued orders that shook the world. In those gardens where formerly the feet of the crowd raked up the sanded walks, the grass and brambles grew green; I had ascertained this when walking there. Already, for want of tending, the exotic trees were pining away; on the canals the black Australian swans no longer floated; the cage no longer held the tropical birds prisoners: they had flown away to await their host in their own country.

Bonaparte might, however, have found a subject of consolation by turning his eyes upon his early days: fallen kings are afflicted above all because, looking upwards from their fall, they see only a splendid inheritance and the pomps of their cradle: but what did Napoleon discern prior to his prosperity? The manger of his birth in a Corsican village. Higher-minded, when flinging off the purple mantle, he would have proudly resumed the goat-herd's sayon; but men do not place themselves back at their origin when it was humble; it seems that an unjust Heaven deprives them of their patrimony when, in fate's lottery, they do naught but lose what they have won; and nevertheless Napoleon's greatness arises from the fact that he had started from himself: none of his blood had gone before him and prepared his power.

At the sight of those abandoned gardens, of those untenanted apartments, of those galleries faded by the routs, of those rooms in which song and music had ceased, Napoleon was able to go over his career: he was able to ask himself whether, with a little more moderation, he might not have preserved his delights. Foreigners, enemies, were not banishing him now; he was not departing as a _quasi_ victor, leaving the nations in admiration of his passage, after the prodigious campaign of 1814: he was retiring beaten. Frenchmen, friends, were demanding his immediate abdication, urging his departure, refusing even to have him as a general, sending him messenger after messenger, to oblige him to quit the soil over which he had shed as much glory as scourges.

Added to this harsh lesson, came other warnings: the Prussians were prowling around the neighbourhood of the Malmaison; Blücher, full of wine, staggering, ordered them to seize, to "hang" the conqueror who had "put his foot on the neck of Kings." The rapidity of the fortunes, the vulgarity of the manners, the promptness of the elevation and degradation of the personages of to-day will, I fear, take away a part of the nobility of history: Rome and Greece did not speak of "hanging" Alexander and Cæsar.

The scenes which had taken place in 1814 were renewed in 1815, but with something more offensive, because the ingrates were stimulated by fear; it was necessary to get rid of Napoleon quickly: the Allies were arriving; Alexander was not there, at first, to temper the triumph and curb the insolence of fortune; Paris was no more adorned with its lustral inviolability; a first invasion had profaned the sanctuary; it was no longer God's anger that fell upon us, it was the contempt of Heaven: the human thunder-bolt was spent.

All the cowardly characters had acquired a new degree of malignity through the Hundred Days; affecting to raise themselves, through love of the country, above personal attachments, they exclaimed that it was really too criminal of Bonaparte to have violated the treaties of 1814. But were not the true culprits those who had countenanced his designs? Suppose that, in 1815, instead of getting new armies for him, after forsaking him once only to forsake him again, they had said to him, when he came to sleep at the Tuileries:

"You have been deceived by your genius, opinion is no longer with you; take pity on France. Retire after this last visit to the country; go and live in the land of Washington. Who knows that the Bourbons will not make mistakes? Who knows that, one day, France will not turn her eyes towards you, when, in the school of liberty, you shall have learnt to respect the laws? You will then return, not as a ravisher swooping on his prey, but as a great citizen, the pacificator of his country!"

They did not hold that language to them: they humoured the passions of their returned leader; they contributed to blinding him, sure as they were of benefiting by either his victory or his defeat. The soldier alone died for Napoleon, with admirable sincerity; the rest was but a grazing herd, growing fat to right and left. If, at least, the viziers of the despoiled caliph had been satisfied to turn their backs on him! But no: they reaped profit from his last moments; they overwhelmed him with their sordid demands; all wanted to make money out of his poverty.

[Sidenote: Abandonment of Napoleon.]

Never was a more complete abandonment; Bonaparte had given cause for it: he was insensible to the troubles of others; the world paid him with indifference for indifference. Like most despots, he was on good terms with his domestics; at bottom he cared for nobody: a solitary man, he sufficed unto himself; misfortune did nothing except to restore him to the desert which was his life.

When I gather up my memories, when I recollect having seen Washington in his little house at Philadelphia and Bonaparte in his palaces, it seems to me that Washington, retiring to his field in Virginia, cannot have experienced the searchings of conscience of Bonaparte awaiting exile in his gardens at the Malmaison. Nothing was altered in the life of the first; he relapsed into his modest habits; he had not raised himself above the happiness of the husbandman whom he had freed: all was subverted in the life of the second.

*

Napoleon left the Malmaison[357] accompanied by Generals Bertrand, Rovigo and Beker[358], the latter in the quality of inspector or commissary. On the way, he was seized with a wish to stop at Rambouillet. He left it to take ship at Rochefort, as did Charles X. to take ship at Cherbourg; Rambouillet, the inglorious retreat where all that was greatest in men or dynasties was eclipsed: the fatal spot where Francis I. died; where Henry III., escaping from the barricades, slept booted and spurred in passing; where Louis XVI. left his shadow[359]! How happy would Louis, Napoleon and Charles have been, had they been only the humble keepers of the herds of Rambouillet!

On arriving at Rochefort[360], Napoleon hesitated: the Executive Commission were sending imperative orders:

"The garrisons of Rochefort and the Rochelle," said the dispatches, "must use main force to make Napoleon take ship.... Employ force... make him go... his services cannot be accepted."

Napoleon's services could not be accepted! And had you not accepted his bounties and his chains? Napoleon did not go away; he was driven out: and by whom?

Bonaparte had believed only in fortune; he banned misfortune _ab igne et aquâ_; he had acquitted the ungrateful in advance: a just retaliation made him appear before his own system. When success, ceasing to animate his person, became incarnate in another individual, the disciples abandoned the master for the school. I, who believe in the legitimacy of benefits and the sovereignty of misfortune, had I served Bonaparte, I would not have left him; I would have proved to him, by my fidelity, the falseness of his political principles; sharing his disgrace, I would have remained by his side as a living contradiction of his barren doctrines and of the worthlessness of the right of prosperity.

Frigates had been waiting for him in the Rochefort road-stead stead since the first of July: hopes which never die, memories inseparable from a last farewell kept him back. How he must have regretted the days of his childhood, when his clear eyes had not yet known the first rain-drops! He left time for the English fleet to approach. He was still able to embark on two luggers which were to join a Danish ship at sea (this was the course which his brother Joseph took); but decision failed him when he looked at the coast of France. He felt an aversion for a republic; the liberty and equality of the United States were repugnant to him. He inclined towards asking shelter of the English:

"What disadvantage do you see in that course?" he asked of those whom he consulted.

"The disadvantage of dishonouring yourself," answered a naval officer; "you must not fall, even dead, into the hands of the English. They will have you stuffed and show you at a shilling a head."

*

[Sidenote: The letter to the Regent.]

Notwithstanding these observations, the Emperor resolved to give himself up to his conquerors. On the 13th of July, when Louis XVIII. had already been five days in Paris, Napoleon sent the captain[361] of the English ship _Bellerophon_ the following letter for the Prince Regent:

"ROYAL HIGHNESS,

"A victim to the factions which distract my country
and to the enmity of the greatest powers in Europe, I
have terminated my political career, and I come, like
Themistocles[362], to throw myself upon the hospitality of
the British people. I put myself under the protection of
their laws; which I claim from Your Royal Highness as the
most powerful, the most constant and the most generous of my
enemies.

"ROCHEFORT, 13 _July_ 1815."

If Bonaparte had not, during twenty years, overwhelmed with outrages the British people, its government, its King, and the heir of that King, one might find a certain propriety of tone in this letter; but how had this "Royal Highness," so long despised, so long insulted by Napoleon, suddenly become "the most powerful, the most constant and the most generous" of enemies by the mere fact that he was victorious? Napoleon could not be persuaded of what he was saying; and that which is not true is not eloquent. The phrase setting forth the fact of a fallen greatness addressing itself to an enemy is fine; the well-worn instance of Themistocles is superfluous.

The step taken by Napoleon shows something worse than a lack of sincerity; it shows neglect of France: the Emperor busied himself only with his individual catastrophe; when the fall came, we no longer counted for anything in his eyes. Without reflecting that, by giving the preference to England over America, his choice became an outrage to the mourning of the country, he begged a shelter of the government which, for twenty years, had kept Europe in its pay against ourselves, of the government whose commissary with the Russian Army, General Wilson[363], urged Kutuzoff[364], in the retreat from Moscow, to exterminate us completely: the English, successful in the final battle, were encamped in the Bois de Boulogne. Go then, O Themistocles, to seat yourself quietly by the British hearth, while the soil has not yet finished drinking in the French blood shed for you at Waterloo! What part would the fugitive, feasted may-be, have played on the banks of the Thames, in the face of France invaded, of Wellington become dictator at the Louvre? Napoleon's high fortunes served him better: the English, allowing themselves to be carried towards a narrow and spiteful policy, missed their final triumph; instead of undoing their supplicant by admitting him to their fortresses or their banquets, they rendered more brilliant for posterity the crown which they believed they had snatched from him. He grew greater in his captivity through the enormous affright of the Powers; the Ocean enchained him in vain: Europe in arms camped on the shore, her eyes fixed upon the sea.

*

On the 15th of July, the _Épervier_ conveyed Bonaparte to the _Bellerophon._ The French craft was so small that, from the deck of the English ship, they did not see the giant on the waves. The Emperor, accosting Captain Maitland, said to him:

"I come to place myself under the protection of the laws of England"

Once at least the contemner of the laws confessed their authority.

The fleet set sail for Torbay: a multitude of shipping cruised around the _Bellerophon_; the same eagerness was shown at Plymouth. On the 30th of July, Lord Keith[365] handed the applicant the Act confining him at St. Helena.

"It is worse than Tamerlane's[366] cage," said Napoleon.

[Sidenote: Ordered to St. Helena.]

This violation of the Law of Nations and of the respect due to hospitality was revolting. If you see the light on board of any ship, provided it be _under sail_, you are _English born_; by virtue of the old London customs, the _waves_ are considered _soil of Albion._ And an English ship was not an inviolable altar for a supplicant, it did not place the great man who embraced the poop of the _Bellerophon_ under the protection of the British trident! Bonaparte protested; he argued about laws, talked of treachery and perfidy, appealed to the future: did that become him? Had he not laughed at justice? Had he not, in his might, trampled under foot the sacred things whose guarantee he now invoked? Had he not carried off Toussaint-Louverture[367] and the King of Spain[368]? Had he not had English travellers arrested who happened to be in France at the time of the rupture of the Peace of Amiens, and kept them prisoners for years? Allowable therefore to mercantile England to imitate what he had done himself, and to use ignoble reprisals; but they might have acted differently.

With Napoleon, the size of the heart did not correspond with the width of the head: his quarrels with the English are deplorable; they revolt Lord Byron. How could he condescend to honour his gaolers with a word? One suffers at seeing him stoop to wordy conflicts with Lord Keith at Torbay, with Sir Hudson Lowe[369] at St. Helena, publish statements because they break faith with him, cavil about a title, about a little more, or a little less, gold or honours. Bonaparte, reduced to himself, was reduced to his glory, and that ought to suffice him: he had nothing to ask of men; he did not treat adversity despotically enough; one would have pardoned him for making of misfortune his last slave. I find nothing remarkable in his protest against the violation of hospitality, save the date and signature of that protest:

"On board the _Bellerophon_, at sea.

"NAPOLEON."

There are harmonies of immensity.

From the _Bellerophon_ Bonaparte crossed on to the Northumberland. Two frigates laden with the future garrison of St. Helena escorted him. Some of the officers of that garrison had fought at Waterloo. They permitted that explorer of the globe to keep with him M. and Madame Bertrand, Messieurs de Montholon[370], Gourgaud and de Las Cases[371], voluntary and generous passengers on the submerged plank. By one clause in the captain's instructions, "Bonaparte must be disarmed:" Napoleon alone, a prisoner on board ship, in the midst of the Ocean, "disarmed[372]!" What a magnificent terror of his power! But what a lesson from Heaven to men who abuse the sword! The stupid Admiralty treated the great convict of the human race as a Botany-Bay felon: did the Black Prince "disarm" King John?

The squadron weighed anchor. Since the bark which carried Cæsar, no ship had been laden with so great a destiny. Bonaparte was approaching that sea of miracles upon which the Arab of Mount Sinai had seen him pass. The last French land that Napoleon discerned was Cape la Hogue[373]: another trophy of the English.

The Emperor had been mistaken in the interest of his memory, when he wished to remain in Europe; he would soon have been only a vulgar or faded prisoner: his old rôle was ended. But, beyond that rôle, a new position revivified him with a new renown. No man of universal fame has had an end similar to Napoleon's. He was not, as after his first fall, proclaimed autocrat of a few quarries of iron and marble, the first to furnish him with a sword, the second with a statue; an eagle, he was given a rock on the point of which he remained in the sun-light till his death, in full view of the whole world.

*

At the moment when Bonaparte is quitting Europe, in which he is giving up his life to go in search of the destinies of his death, it is well to examine this man of two existences, to depict the false and the true Napoleon: they blend and form a whole from the mixture of their reality and their falsehood.

[Sidenote: Napoleon as statesman.]

From the conjunction of these remarks it results that Bonaparte was a poet in action, an immense genius in war, an indefatigable, able and intelligent spirit in administration, a laborious and rational legislator. That is why he has so great a hold on the imagination of peoples and so much authority over the judgment of practical men. But, as a politician, he will always appear deficient in the eyes of statesmen. This observation, which has escaped the majority of his panegyrists, will, I am convinced, become the definite opinion that will survive concerning him; it will explain the contrast between his prodigious actions and their pitiful results. At St. Helena, he himself severely condemned his political conduct on two points: the Spanish War and the Russian War; he might have extended his confession to other delinquencies. His enthusiasts will perhaps not maintain that, when blaming himself, he was mistaken in himself.

Let us recapitulate:

Bonaparte acted contrary to all prudence, not to speak again of the hatefulness of the action, in killing the Duc d'Enghien: he attached a weight to his life. Notwithstanding the puerile apologists, this death, as we have seen, was the secret leaven of the discords that subsequently burst out between Alexander and Napoleon, as also between Prussia and France.

The attempt upon Spain was completely improper: the Peninsula was the Emperor's; he could turn it to the most advantageous account: instead of that, he turned it into a school for the English soldiers and into the cause of his own destruction through the rising of a people.

The detention of the Pope and the annexation of the States of the Church to France were but the caprice of tyranny through which he lost the advantage of passing for the restorer of religion.

Bonaparte did not stop, as he should have done, when he had married the daughter of the Cæsars: Russia and England were crying mercy to him.

He did not revive Poland, when the safety of Europe depended on the restoration of that kingdom.

Madness having once set in, he went on from Smolensk[374]; everything told him that he must not go further at his first step, that his first Northern Campaign was finished, and that the second, as he himself felt, would make him master of the Empire of the Tsars.

He was able neither to compute the days nor to foresee the effect of the climatic changes, which every one at Moscow computed and foresaw. See above what I have said of the Continental Blockade and the Confederation of the Rhine[375]: the first, a gigantic conception, but a questionable act; the second, an important work, but spoilt in the execution by the camp instinct and the fiscal spirit Napoleon inherited the old French monarchy as the centuries and an uninterrupted succession of great men had made it, as the majesty of Louis XIV. and the alliances of Louis XV. had left it, as the Republic had enlarged it. He seated himself on that magnificent pedestal, stretched out his arms, laid hold of the peoples, and gathered them around him; but he lost Europe with as much suddenness as he had taken it; he twice brought the Allies to Paris, notwithstanding the marvels of his military intelligence. He had the world under his feet, and all he got from it was a prison for himself, exile for his family, the loss of all his conquests and of a portion of the old French soil.

[Sidenote: Where Napoleon failed.]

Here is history proved by facts and deniable by none. Whence arose the faults which I have just pointed out, followed by so quick and so fatal a catastrophe? They arose from Bonaparte's imperfectness as a politician.

In his alliances, he enchained the governments only with concessions of territory, of which he soon altered the boundaries, constantly displaying the reservation to take back what he had given, ever making the oppressor felt; in his invasions, he reorganized nothing, Italy excepted. Instead of stopping at every step to raise up again, under another shape, what he had overthrown, he did not discontinue his movement of progression among ruins: he went so fast that he scarce had the time to breathe where he passed through. If, by a sort of Treaty of Westphalia, he had settled and assured the existence of the States in Germany, in Prussia, in Poland, at his first retrograde march he would have leant his back against contented populations and have found shelters. But his poetic edifice of victories, lacking a base and suspended in mid-air only by his genius, fell when his genius came to retire. The Macedonian founded empires in his course: Bonaparte, in his course, knew only how to destroy them; his sole aim was to be, in his own person, the master of the globe, without troubling his head about the means of preserving it.

Men have tried to make of Bonaparte a perfect being, a type of sentiment, of delicacy, of morality and of justice, a writer like Cæsar and Thucydides, an orator and an historian like Demosthenes and Tacitus. Napoleon's public speeches, his phrases in the tent or the council-chamber are so much the less inspired with the breath of prophecy in that what they foretell by way of catastrophes has not been accomplished, while the Isaias of the sword has himself disappeared: writings on the wall which pursue States, without catching and destroying them, remain puerile, instead of being sublime. Bonaparte was truly Destiny during sixteen years: Destiny is mute, and Bonaparte ought to have been so. Bonaparte was not Cæsar; his education was neither learned nor select; half a foreigner, he was ignorant of the first words of our language: what mattered, after all, that his speech was faulty? He gave the pass-word to the universe. His bulletins have the eloquence of victory. Sometimes, in the intoxication of success, they made a show of drafting them on a drum-head; from amid the most mournful accents arose fatal bursts of laughter. I have read with attention all that Bonaparte has written: the early manuscripts of his childhood, his novels; next, his letters to Buttafuoco, the _Souper de Beaucaire_, his private letters to Joséphine; the five volumes of his speeches, his orders and his bulletins, his dispatches left unpublished and spoilt by the editing in M. de Talleyrand's offices. I know something of these matters; I have found scarcely any thoughts resembling the great islander's nature, except in a scrap of autograph left behind at Elba:

"My heart denies itself to common joys as to ordinary pain."

"Not having given myself life, I shall not rob myself of it,
so long as it will have me."

"My evil genius appeared to me and foretold my end, which I
found at Leipzig."

"I have laid the terrible spirit of innovation which was
overrunning the world."

That most certainly is genuine Bonaparte.

If the bulletins, the dispatches, the allocutions, the proclamations of Bonaparte are distinguished for energy, this energy did not belong to him in his own right: it was of his time, it came from the revolutionary inspiration which grew weaker in Bonaparte, because he marched counter to that inspiration. Danton said:

"The metal is boiling over; if you do not watch the furnace, you will all be scalded."

Saint-Just said:

"Dare!"

That word contains the whole policy of our Revolution; they who make revolutions by halves only dig a grave.

Do Bonaparte's bulletins rise above that pride of speech?

[Sidenote: Napoleon as writer.]

As for the numerous volumes published under the title of _Mémoires de Sainte-Hélène, Napoléon dans l'exil._, etc., those documents, gathered from Bonaparte's mouth or dictated by him to different persons, contain a few fine passages on actions of war, a few remarkable appreciations of certain men; but, in the upshot, Napoleon is occupied only in making his apology, in justifying his past, in basing on commonplace ideas accomplished events and things of which he had never dreamt during the course of those events. In this compilation, in which _pros_ and _cons_ succeed one another, in which every opinion finds a favourable authority and a peremptory refutation, it is difficult to separate that which belongs to Napoleon from that which belongs to his secretaries. It is probable that he had a different version for each of them, in order that readers might choose according to their taste and, in the future, create for themselves Napoleons to their liking. He dictated his history as he wished to leave it; he was an author writing articles on his own work. Nothing therefore could be more absurd than to go into ecstasies over chronicles by different hands which are not, like Cæsar's _Commentaries_, a short work, springing from a great head, written by a superior writer; and yet those brief commentaries, Asinius Pollio[376] thought, were neither faithful nor exact. The _Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène_ is good, allowing liberally for the candour and simplicity of the admiration.

One of the things that contributed most to render Napoleon hateful during his life was his inclination for debasing everything: in a fired city, he would couple decrees on the re-establishing of a few comedians with fiats which suppressed monarchs; a parody of the omnipotence of God, who rules the lot of the world and of an ant. With the fall of empires he mingled insults to women; he delighted in the humiliation of what he had overthrown; he calumniated and wounded particularly all that had dared to resist him. His arrogance was equal to his luck; the more he lowered others the greater he believed himself to appear. Jealous of his generals, he accused them of his own mistakes, for, as for himself, he was infallible. Despising all merits, he reproached them harshly with their errors. He would never have said, after the disaster of Ramillies, as Louis XIV.[377] said to the Maréchal de Villeroi[378]:

"Monsieur le maréchal, at our age one is not lucky."

A touching magnanimity of which Napoleon knew nothing. The century of Louis XIV. was made by Louis the Great: Bonaparte made his century.

The history of the Empire, changed by false traditions, will be yet further falsified by the state of society during the imperial Epoch. Any revolution written in the presence of the liberty of the press can allow the eye to probe to the bottom of facts, because each one reports them as he has seen them: the reign of Cromwell is known, because it was customary to say to the Protector what one thought of his acts and his person. In France, even under the Revolution, despite the inexorable censorship of the executioner, the truth came out; the triumphing faction was not always the same; it soon succumbed, and the faction which succeeded it taught you what its predecessor had hidden from you: there was liberty from one scaffold to the other, between the cutting off of two heads. But when Bonaparte seized upon the power, when thought was gagged, when one heard nothing but the voice of a despotism which spoke only to praise itself and allowed only itself to be spoken of, truth disappeared.

The would-be authentic documents of that time are tainted; nothing was published, books or newspapers, save by the master's order: Bonaparte saw to the articles in the _Moniteur_; his prefects sent back from the various departments the recitals, the congratulations, the felicitations, in the form in which the Paris authorities had dictated and forwarded them, in which form they expressed a conventional public opinion, quite different from the real opinion. Write history from such documents as those! In proof of your impartial studies, quote the authentic sources to which you have gone: you will only be quoting a lie in support of a lie.

If it were possible to call this universal imposture into question, if men who have not seen the days of the Empire were to insist upon regarding as sincere all that they come upon in printed documents, or even all that they might dig up in certain boxes at the public offices, it would be enough to appeal to an unexceptionable witness, to the "Conservative" Senate; there, in the decree which I have quoted above, you have seen its own words:

*

"Taking into consideration that the liberty of the press has been constantly submitted to the arbitrary censorship of his police, and that, at the same time, he has always made use of the press to fill France and Europe with fabricated facts and false maxims; that acts and reports, passed by the Senate, have undergone alterations when made public, etc."

Is there any reply possible to this declaration?

The life of Bonaparte was an incontestable truth, which imposture had taken upon itself to write.

*

[Sidenote: Pride and affectation.]

A monstrous pride and an incessant affectation spoil Napoleon's character. At the time of his dominion, what need had he to exaggerate his stature, when the God of Armies had furnished him with the war chariot "whose wheels are living"?

He took after the Italian blood; his nature was complex: great men, a very small family upon earth, unhappily find only themselves to imitate them. At once a model and a copy, a real personage and an actor representing that personage, Napoleon was his own mime; he would not have believed himself a hero, if he had not dressed himself up in a hero's costume. This curious weakness gives something false and equivocal to his astonishing realities: one is afraid of taking the king of kings for Roscius, or Roscius for the king of kings.

Napoleon's qualities are so much adulterated in the gazettes, the pamphlets, the poems and even in the songs overrun with imperialism, that those qualities are completely unrecognisable. All the touching things ascribed to Bonaparte in the _ana_ about the "prisoners," the "dead," the "soldiers," are idle trash to which the actions of his life give the lie.

The _Grand-mère_ of my illustrious friend Béranger is only an admirable ballad: Bonaparte had nothing of the good fellow about him. Dominion personified, he was hard; that coldness formed the antidote to his fiery imagination; he found in himself no word, he found only a deed, and a deed ready to chafe at the smallest independence: a gnat that flew without his orders was a rebellious insect in his eyes.

It was not enough to lie to the ears, it was necessary to lie to the eyes: here, in an engraving, we see Bonaparte taking off his hat to the Austrian wounded; there, we have a little _tourlourou_[379] who prevents the Emperor from passing; further on, Napoleon touches the plague-stricken of Jaffa, and he never touched them; he crosses Mount St. Bernard on a spirited horse amid a whirl of snow-flakes, and it was the finest weather in the world.

Are they not now trying to transform the Emperor into a Roman of the early days of the Aventine, into a missionary of liberty, into a citizen who instituted slavery only for love of the opposite virtue? Draw your conclusions from two features of the great founder of equality: he ordered his brother Jerome's marriage with Miss Patterson[380] to be annulled, because the brother of Napoleon could ally himself only with the blood of Princes; later, after returning from the isle of Elba, he invested the new "democratic" constitution with a peerage and crowned it with the "Additional Act."

That Bonaparte, following up the successes of the Revolution, everywhere disseminated principles of independence; that his victories helped to relax the bonds between the peoples and the kings, and snatched those peoples from the power of the old customs and the ancient ideas; that, in this sense, he contributed to the social enfranchisement: these are facts which I do not pretend to contest; but that, of his own will, he laboured scientifically for the political and civil deliverance of the nations; that he established the narrowest despotism with the idea of giving to Europe and to France in particular the widest Constitution; that he was only a tribune disguised as a tyrant: all this is a supposition which I cannot possibly adopt.

Bonaparte, like the race of princes, desired nothing and sought nothing save power, attaining it, however, through liberty, because he made his first appearance on the world's stage in 1793. The Revolution, which was Napoleon's wet-nurse, did not long delay in appearing to him as an enemy; he never ceased beating her. The Emperor, for the rest, knew evil very well, when the evil did not come directly from the Emperor; for he was not destitute of moral sense. The sophism put forward concerning Bonaparte's love for liberty proves only one thing, the abuse which can be made of reason; nowadays it lends itself to everything. Is it not established that the Terror was a time of humanity? In fact, were they not demanding the abolition of the death-penalty while they were killing everybody? Have not great civilizers, as they are "called," always immolated men, and is it not therefore, as far as has been "proved," that Robespierre was the continuer of Jesus Christ?

[Sidenote: Napoleon's popularity.]

The Emperor meddled with everything; his intelligence never rested; he had a sort of perpetual agitation of ideas. In the impetuousness of his nature, instead of a free and continuous train, he advanced by leaps and bounds, he flung himself upon the universe and shook it; he would have none of it, of that universe, if he was obliged to wait for it: an incomprehensible being, who found the secret of debasing his most towering actions by despising them, and who raised his least elevated actions to his own level. Impatient of will, patient of character, incomplete and as though unfinished, Napoleon had gaps in his genius: his understanding resembled the sky of that other hemisphere under which he was to go to die, the sky whose stars are separated by empty spaces.

One asks one's self by what spell Bonaparte, so aristocratic, so hostile to the people, came to achieve the popularity which he enjoyed: for that forger of yokes has most certainly remained popular with a nation whose pretension was to raise altars to independence and equality; here is the solution of the enigma:

Daily experience makes us recognise that the French are instinctively drawn towards power; they do not love liberty; equality alone is their idol. Now equality and despotism have secret connections. In those two respects, Napoleon had his fount in the hearts of the French, militarily inclined towards dominion, democratically enamoured of the level. Once on the throne, he made the people sit down beside him: a proletarian king, he humbled the kings and nobles in his ante-chambers; he levelled the ranks, not by lowering but by raising them: the descending level would have charmed the plebeian envy more, the ascending level was more flattering to its pride. French vanity was puffed up also by the superiority which Bonaparte gave us over the rest of Europe; another cause of Napoleon's popularity has to do with the affliction of his last days. After his death, as men became better acquainted with what he had suffered at St. Helena, they began to be moved; they forgot his tyranny to remember that, after conquering our enemies, after subsequently drawing them into France, he had defended us against them; we imagine that he might save us to-day from the disgrace into which we have sunk: his fame was recalled to us by his misfortune; his glory profited by his adversity.

Lastly, the marvels of his arms have bewitched the young, while teaching us to worship brute force. His unexampled fortune has left to the overweening conceit of every ambition the hope of arriving at the point which he attained.

And yet this man, so popular through the roller which he had passed over France, was the mortal enemy of equality and the greatest organizer of aristocracy within democracy.

I cannot acquiesce in the false praises with which men have insulted Bonaparte, while trying to justify everything in his conduct; I cannot surrender my reason nor go into ecstasies before that which arouses my horror or my pity.

If I have succeeded in conveying what I have felt, there will remain of my portrait one of the leading figures in history; but I have adopted no part of the fantastic creature composed of lies: lies which I saw born, lies which, taken at first for what they were, passed in time to the state of truth through the infatuation and the imbecile credulity of mankind. I refuse to be a gull and to fall into a fit with admiration. I strive to paint persons conscientiously, without taking from them what they have, without giving them what they have not. If success were esteemed as innocence; if, debauching even posterity, it loaded it with its chains; if, a future slave, begotten by a slavish past, that suborned posterity became the accomplice of whosoever should have triumphed: where would be the right, where would be the reward of sacrifices? Good and evil becoming only relative qualities, all morality would be blotted out from human actions.

That is the difficulty which is caused to the impartial writer by a brilliant renown; he keeps it on one side as much as he can, in order to lay bare the truth; but the glory returns like a golden haze and instantly covers the picture.

*

In order not to admit the diminution of territory and power which we owe to Bonaparte, the present generation consoles itself by imagining that he has given back to us in illustriousness what he has taken from us in strength:

"Are we not from this time forward," it asks, "famed in the four quarters of the earth? Is not a Frenchman feared, remarked, sought out, known on every shore?"

But were we placed between those two conditions: either immortality without power, or power without immortality? Alexander made the Greek name known to the universe; none the less he left them four empires in Asia; the language and civilization of the Hellenes extended from the Nile to Babylon and from Babylon to the Indus. At his death, his ancestral Kingdom of Macedon, far from being diminished, had increased a hundred-fold in force. Bonaparte made us known on every shore; commanded by him, the French threw Europe so low at their feet that France still prevails by her name, and that the Arc de l'Étoile can rise up without appearing a puerile trophy; but, before our reverses, that monument would have stood as a witness, instead of being only a record. And yet, had not Dumouriez, with raw recruits, given the foreigner his first lessons[381], Jourdan won the Battle of Fleurus[382], Pichegru conquered Belgium and Holland[383], Hoche crossed the Rhine[384], Masséna triumphed at Zurich[385], Moreau at Hohenlinden[386]: all exploits most difficult to obtain and preliminary to others? Bonaparte made a corporate whole of these scattered successes; he continued them, he caused those victories to shine forth: but without those first wonders, would he have obtained the last? He was raised above all things only when reason with him was executing the inspirations of the poet.

[Sidenote A true appreciation.]

Our sovereign's illustriousness cost us merely two or three hundred thousand men a year; we paid for it with merely three millions of our soldiers; our fellow-citizens bought it merely at the cost of their sufferings and their liberties during fifteen years: can such trifles count? Are the generations that have come after us not resplendent? So much the worse for those who have disappeared! The calamities under the Republic served for the safety of all; our misfortunes under the Empire did much more: they deified Bonaparte! That is enough for us.

That is not enough for me: I will not stoop so low as to hide my nation behind Bonaparte; he did not make France: France made him. No talent, no superiority will ever bring me to consent to the power which can, with one word, deprive me of my independence, my home, my friends: if I do not say of my fortune and my honour, it is because one's fortune does not appear to me to be worth the trouble of defending it; as for honour, it escapes tyranny: it is the soul of the martyrs; bonds encompass and do not enchain it; it pierces the vault of prisons and carries the whole man away with it.

The wrong which true philosophy will never forgive Bonaparte is that he accustomed society to passive obedience, thrust back humanity towards the times of moral degradation, and perhaps corrupted characters in such a way that it would be impossible to say when men's hearts will begin to throb with generous sentiments. The weakness in which we are plunged as regards Europe, our actual abasement are the result of the Napoleonic slavery: all that remains to us is the faculty to bear the yoke. Bonaparte unsettled even the future: 'twould not surprise me if, in the discomfort of our impotence, we were seen to grow smaller, to barricade ourselves against Europe instead of going to seek it out, to give up our freedom within to deliver ourselves from an illusory terror without, to lose ourselves in ignoble provident cares, contrary to our genius and to the fourteen centuries which compose our national manners. The despotism which Bonaparte left in the air will descend upon us in the shape of fortresses.

The fashion nowadays is to greet liberty with a sardonic smile, to look upon it as a piece of old lumber, fallen into disuse with honour. I am not in the fashion: I think that there is nothing in the world without liberty; it gives a price to life; were I to remain the last to defend it, I would never cease to proclaim its rights. To attack Napoleon in the name of things that are past, to assail him with ideas that are dead is to prepare fresh triumphs for him. He is to be fought only with something greater than himself, liberty: he was guilty towards it and consequently towards the human race.

*

Vain words! Better than any do I feel their uselessness. Henceforth any observation, however moderate it may be, is reputed profane: it needs courage to dare brave the cries of the vulgar, not to be afraid of being treated as a narrow intelligence, incapable of understanding and feeling the genius of Napoleon, for the sole reason that, in the midst of the lively and real admiration which one professes for him, one is nevertheless not able to worship all his imperfections. The world belongs to Bonaparte: that of which the ravisher was unable to complete the conquest, his fame usurps; living he missed the world, dead he possesses it. It is vain for you to protest: the generations pass by without listening to you. Antiquity makes the son of Priam say to the shade:

"Judge not Hector from his little tomb; the _Iliad_, Homer, the Greeks in flight, see there my sepulchre: I am buried under all those great deeds."

[Sidenote: The Napoleonic legend.]

Bonaparte is no longer the real Bonaparte, but a legendary figure put together from the vagaries of the poet, the talk of the soldier and the tales of the people; it is the Charlemagne and the Alexander of the idylls of the middle ages that we behold to-day. That fantastic hero will remain the real personage; the other portraits will disappear. Bonaparte is so strongly connected with absolute dominion that, after undergoing the despotism of his person, we have to undergo the despotism of his memory. This latter despotism is more overbearing than the former; for, though men fought against Napoleon when he was on the throne, there is an universal agreement to accept the irons which he flings to us now that he is dead. He is an obstacle to future events: how could a power issuing from the camps establish itself after him? Has he not killed all military glory by surpassing it? How could a free government come into being, when he has corrupted the principles of all liberty in men's hearts? No legitimate power is now able to drive the usurping spectre from the mind of man: the soldier and the citizen, the Republican and the Monarchist, the rich and the poor alike place busts and portraits of Napoleon in their homes, in their palaces or in their cottages; the former conquered are in agreement with the former conquerors; one cannot take a step in Italy without coming across him; one cannot enter Germany without meeting him, for in that country the young generation which rejected him is past. Generally, the centuries sit down before the portrait of a great man, they finish it by means of a long and successive work. This time, the human race has declined to wait: perhaps it was in too great a hurry to stump a crayon drawing. It is time to place the completed side of the idol in juxtaposition with the defective side.

Bonaparte is not great through his words, his speeches, his writings, through the love of liberty which he never possessed and which he never pretended to establish; he is great in that he created a regular and powerful government, a code of laws adopted in different countries, courts of law, schools, a strong, active, intelligent administration, which still lasts us; he is great in that he revived, enlightened and governed Italy superlatively well; he is great in that, in France, he restored order from the midst of chaos, in that he built up the altars, in that he reduced furious demagogues, vainglorious scholars, anarchical men of letters, Voltairean atheists, open-air orators, cut-throats of the prisons and streets, starvelings of the tribune, the clubs and the scaffolds, in that he reduced them to serve under him; he is great in that he curbed an anarchical mob; he is great in that he put an end to the familiarities of a common fortune, in that he forced soldiers, his equals, and captains, his chiefs or his rivals, to bend before his will; he is great above all in that he was born of himself alone, in that he was able, with no other authority than that of his genius, able, he, to make himself obeyed by thirty-six million subjects, at a time when no illusion surrounds the thrones; he is great in that he overthrew all the kings his opponents, in that he defeated all the armies, whatever the difference in their discipline and valour, in that he taught his name to savage as well as to civilized peoples, in that he surpassed all the conquerors who preceded him, in that he filled ten years with prodigies so great that we have difficulty to-day in understanding them.

The famous offender in triumphal matter is no more; the few men who still understand noble sentiments can do justice to glory without fearing it, but without repenting of having proclaimed what that glory had that was baleful, without recognising the destroyer of independences as the father of emancipations: Napoleon does not need that one should ascribe merits to him; he was richly enough endowed at his birth.

Now, therefore, that, severed from his time, his history is ended and his idyll commencing, let us go to see him die: let us leave Europe; let us follow him beneath the sky of his apotheosis! The hissing of the seas where his ships have struck sail will point out to us the spot of his disappearance:

"At the extremity of our hemisphere," says Tacitus, "is heard the sound made by the dipping sun: _sonum insuper immergentis audiri._"

*

João de Nova[387], a Portuguese navigator, had lost his bearings in the waters separating Africa and America. In 1502, on the 18th of August, the feast of St. Helen[388], mother of the first Christian Emperor[389], he came upon an island at the 16th degree of latitude and 11th of longitude; he landed and gave it the name of the day upon which it was discovered.

After frequenting the island for some years, the Portuguese relinquished it; the Dutch established themselves there, and subsequently abandoned it for the Cape of Good Hope; the British East Indian Company seized it; the Dutch retook it in 1672; the British occupied it anew and settled there.

[Sidenote: St. Helena.]

When João de Nova landed at St. Helena, the interior of the uninhabited country was mere forest land. Fernando Lopez, a Portuguese renegado, transported to that oasis, stocked it with cows, goats, hens, guinea-fowls and birds from the four corners of the earth. On to the island were taken successively, as on to the deck of the Ark, animals of the whole creation.

Five hundred whites, fifteen hundred negroes, mingled with mulattoes, Javanese and Chinese, compose the population of the island. Jamestown is its town and its harbour. Before the English were masters of the Cape of Good Hope, the Company's fleets, returning from India, put in at Jamestown. The sailors spread their slop-goods at the foot of the cabbage-trees: the mute and solitary forest changed once a year into a noisy and populous market.

The climate of the island is healthy but rainy: that dungeon of Neptune, which is only seven or eight leagues in circumference, attracts the ocean vapours. The equatorial sun drives away every breathing thing at noon-day, forces the very gnats into silence and rest, obliges men and beasts to hide themselves. The billows are illumined at night by what is called "the phosphorescent light," a light produced by myriads of insects whose loves, electrified by the storms, kindle upon the surface of the deep the illuminations of an universal wedding. The shadow of the island, dark and motionless, reposes amid a moving plain of diamonds. The spectacle of the heavens is similarly magnificent, according to my learned and famous friend, M. de Humboldt[390]:

"We feel," he says, "an indescribable sensation when, on approaching the Equator, and particularly when passing from one hemisphere to the other, we see these stars, which we have contemplated from our infancy, progressively sink and finally disappear.... One feels that he is not in Europe, when he sees the immense constellation of the Ship or the phosphorescent Clouds of Magellan arise on the horizon....

"We saw distinctly," he continues, "for the first time the Southern Cross only on the night of the 4th of July, in the sixteenth degree of latitude....

"I recalled the sublime passage of Dante, which the most celebrated commentators have applied to that constellation:

"Io mi volsi a man destra, etc.[391]"

"Among the Portuguese and Spaniards, a religious feeling attaches them to a constellation whose form reminds them of that sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World."

*