Napoleon

by Emil Ludwig

  Excommunication and Victory

  tility both in word and glance. That evening Napoleon sits long before his untasted supper, silent, and refusing to see any one.

  " Conquered ? Conquerable ? " he muses, staring forth gloomily into the future. " Has Achilles' heel indeed been hit ? That marksman aimed better than Talleyrand. No, it was my own fault. Too hazardous to cross the river in full view of the enemy! Lannes was right; he was already half way over. What is Paris saying ? What will be the best way of reporting this in Paris ? " In uneasy mood, he goes back to Schonbrunn, a huge, lonely palace in the midst of a hostile land. His Polish mistress ! If only he had had the lovely Walewska with him. She is sitting now in a Polish castle, far away, but her thoughts fly towards him. His hopes of a child by her last year had been dashed.

  He sends for her.

  Strange news from Rome ! To Napoleon's edict of deposition, the pope has promptly replied by a bull of excommunication. Does this alarm the Emperor ? He laughs. He laughs at Catholic medievalism, and the soldier, the self-made man, thinks:

  " Is this vengeance for my having, in Notre Dame, snatched from him the crown which the holy man wanted to place on my head with his own hands ? And what is holy ? It is doubtful if Christ ever lived; the only certain thing is that we can make use of him. But in these enlightened days, none but children and nursemaids are afraid of curses. I have been outlawed twice ere this, on the Nineteenth Brumaire, and in Corsica. Such farces bring good luck!" Much refreshed by these thoughts, he prepares for the counterstroke on the Marchfeld, and at Wagram is again victorious, as in thirty battles, his excommunicated weapons being too much for the pious archduke Charles. Towards the end of his two days' battle, when all was going well, and the commander was overpowered by fatigue, he made

  Walewska Again

  Rustam spread a bearskin for him on the battle-field, told the Mameluke to call him in twenty minutes, lay down, and fell fast asleep for the prescribed period, to awaken fully reinvigorated. The war was finished, and a truce was agreed on. Next day, reporting the new victory to his wife, he adds : " I've been burned as brown as a berry." He has been thoroughly toned up, and his mood is rejuvenated.

  Returning to Schonbrunn, he finds Walewska awaiting him. How many lovely women have glided through the secret portals and discreet chambers of this vast palace, to revivify the Habs-burgs ? Now the adventurer from the Mediterranean sends evening after evening to fetch the countess, who is housed near by; and again and again he warns the groom of the chambers to be careful lest the carriage should be overturned on the rough road. For the second time, the pair live three months together. He had looked forward to this in Finckenstein, and had promised her that it should happen; but the where and the when depended on the course of universal history, and not wholly on himself.

  In a few weeks, she knows that she is with child. Will she this time give him the gift that he has been asking from women for twelve years, and has only once received ? Thus, the idyll gains a new content; and when, at midnight on August 15th, lying in her arms, waiting for his fortieth birthday to dawn, and thinking how early next morning salutes and bell peals will hail the coming of this day, throughout France, and indeed in all the countries over which he rules,—the day to which the pope had complacently transferred the feast of St. Napoleon— may it not seem strange to him that the first to congratulate him should be this beauty of twenty summers, who can speak but haltingly the two languages in which he is at home, and whose glances convey more meaning than her words ? His thoughts may well fly back to that time ten years ago when he sailed homeward from Egypt, hazarding all to the luck of the seas, out of which

  Dangers of Distance

  the great English net could so readily have fished him. Now he is a different man, but not a happier one, for he is the slave of " the nature of things."

  He is different, also, from the man he was two years ago in Finckenstein. Then he was the builder of a world empire, the potentate to whom the kings of the East and the kings of the West paid homage; now, that empire is on the defensive, and even a great victory like that he has just won, can only be turned cautiously to account.

  On the day of Wagram, his people in Rome had committed a blunder of which he has only just heard :

  " I am very much annoyed at the arrest of the pope. That was an idiotic thing to do! You should have arrested Cardinal

  , while leaving the pope at his ease in Rome." He had

  laughed at the symbolic power of the bull of excommunication. " Excommunication " is an empty word, an airy nothing, which the French bishops can blow away ; but as statesman he realises instantly that the imprisonment and deportation of the Holy Father are very serious matters. This rash action has put him in the wrong, for a banished pope is morally stronger than a pope fulminating bulls.

  Other letters are coming to hand, from Spain this time, telling how England has made good her losses there; and how, in the forest wilds, the visible-invisible Spanish people, allied with England, is standing more stoutly to arms. The news from Paris is that Pouche" has overstepped his orders, and has called up the National Guard everywhere; his obvious intention has been to intensify the dread of England throughout the country, and to fan the flames of discontent among the newly levied conscripts.

  A difficult and dangerous situation, and one whose difficulties and dangers thicken as the radius widens. The despatches from Rome and Paris are a week old, and those from Spain date from more than a fortnight back. By the time fresh orders from Schonbrunn can reach Valladolid, the whole position wil 1 have changed. If only he had the power to issue

  Candour to Opponents

  his commands with the velocity of light, then he would be able to rule the world from this office on the Danube. As things are, he must cut short the negotiations, which Austria, encouraged by England and Hungary, has been protracting for weeks. When, recently, the victor demanded a third of the monarchy, with nine million souls, he was met with a refusal. Now he pursues a different plan. With the splendid frankness which is so baffling to diplomats of the old school, in one of his endless conversations (this particular talk with Count Bubna lasted seven hours), he explains his own difficulties to his opponent: "

  I was to blame for Aspern-Essling, and suffered for my mistake ; but the confidence of my soldiers remains unshaken." In broad outline, he sketches his own tactics on the battle-field. " But I will tell you the mistake you are always making. . . . You draw up your plans the day before the battle, when you do not yet know your adversary's movements, or what positions you will have to occupy. But for my part, I never issue orders long in advance, and am especially cautious over-night. At peep of day, I send out my scouts, survey the field for myself, and keep my troops in mass formation as long as I am still in doubt. . . . Then I hurl myself on the enemy, attacking him wherever the ground makes attack most favourable. . . . You are right when you remind me that my free use of artillery fire causes much bloodshed. But what am I to do ? My troops are weary ; my men want peace. That is why I have to be sparing with the bayonet, and to use cannon more than formerly."

  Later he comes to the condition of the alliances : " To-day I am sure of the tsar, but what guarantee have I that he will stand by me ? As regards Prussia, I have known for a long time that that country is oscillating between you and me." Suddenly he demands only half of what he had asked before, disavows his minister, and offers an alliance. Needs must, for he has to get back to Paris. A new basis for negotiation! Austria is to lose a fragment to the Confederation of the Rhine, and another to

  "IIntended to Kill You"

  Russia; a pathway to the Balkans has to be left open for Napoleon. Several more weeks pass in negotiation. His impatience is soothed by the bright glances of Walewska.

  In October, Napoleon is holding a great review in Schon-brunn. A young man forces his way into the palace. He is arrested. When searched, he is found to be carrying a long knife and the picture of a girl. Examined in the guard room, he refuses t
o give any information, and says he will only explain himself to the Emperor in person. Soon the lad of eighteen, a fair-haired youth, serious of aspect, frank and courageous but courteous, is confronted with Napoleon. His name is Friedrich Staps, and he is the son of a Tyrolese pastor. Napoleon questions him in French, Rapp acting as interpreter.

  " Yes, I intended to kill you."

  " You must be mad, young man, or ill."

  " I am neither mad nor ill, but in the full possession of my faculties."

  " Then why do you want to kill me ? "

  " Because you are ruining my country."

  " Your country ? "

  " It is mine, as it is that of all good Germans."

  " Who was the instigator ? "

  " No one. My heart told me that by killing you, I should do good service to Germany and to Europe."

  " Have you ever seen me before ? "

  " In Erfurt. Then I believed you would make no more wars, and I was your greatest admirer."

  The Emperor sends for his physician, in the hope that the young fellow will be declared a lunatic; but the doctor, having made his examination, says that Staps is of sound mind.

  " I told you so," says Friedrich.

  The Emperor is uneasy. He is loath to make an end of so frank and bold a youth. He has not to do here with a partisan, with a conspiracy, with one who is out to destroy a principle ; he has not to do with an ideologue, but with an idealistGermany

  The Unconquerable German

  has sent forth against him a Brutus with a long knife.

  " You are distraught. You are bringing affliction on your family. Ask my forgiveness, and say you are sorry. Then I will grant you your life ! "

  Never before has Napoleon spoken thus, at any rate to an assassin. The young man remains steadfast. Has Napoleon lost the power of suggestion ? " Well ? "

  " I do not want your forgiveness, and I am not sorry. My only regret is that I have failed."

  The Emperor grows angry.

  " The devil! A crime means nothing to you, then ? "

  " To kill you would not be a crime, but a public service," says Staps, still perfectly respectful, indeed, thoroughly well bred.

  " Hm. Whose portrait is this ? "

  " The girl I love."

  " Will she approve this attempt of yours ? "

  " She will be sorry it has miscarried, for she hates you as much as I do."

  " What a pretty girl," thinks the Emperor, looking at the miniature in his hand. " Am I really to be baffled by this young fellow ? No, I will save him, will pardon him. What does it matter to me if he hates me ? " Still holding the miniature, he looks Staps squarely in the face: " If I pardon you, I suppose it will gladden the heart of this girl ? "

  Friedrich's blue eyes flash, and he says firmly :

  " Then I shall be able to kill you after all! "

  The Emperor turns away, and leaves the prisoner to his doom. To Champagny, who is present, he talks for a long time about the Illuminates. Then, with a sudden transition he says :

  " We must make peace. Drive back into the town. Summon the Austrians. We are practically agreed on the main points, and the only trouble relates to the war indemnity. The difference amounts to fifty millions. Reduce the demand by half. Get the matter settled. I was satisfied with the last draft. Add whatever

  Josephine's Swoon

  clauses you think necessary. I leave everything in your hands. Make peace."

  So great is the impression wrought by the youth. We cannot call it alarm. Caution is too mild a word. The trouble is that a shadow has fallen across his soul. After negotiating for three months, the Emperor, simply that he may save one day, leaves the conclusion of the peace to his minister. He has Staps examined once more, but the enthusiast prefers death to recantation. Next morning at six, the minister brings the treaty which has been arranged during the night. The Emperor, well content, praises his minister.

  The same morning, the assassin is shot, and the Emperor returns to the topic : " The thing is unprecedented ! So young a man, a German, a Protestant, well brought up; and such a crime ! How did he meet his end ? " The answer is that Staps, in face of the firing squad, had cried in loud tones : " Liberty for ever ! Death to the tyrant! " The Emperor holds his peace.

  Napoleon commands that the long German knife shall be brought back with him to Paris.

  XXII

  The Empress Josephine is lying in a swoon on the floor. Napoleon summons the palace prefect, and orders him to bear her to her chamber. The Emperor goes in front, carrying a lighted candle. Since the staircase is narrow, he passes the candlestick to a servant, and helps Bausset to carry Josephine. He carefully lays her on her bed, and, in a state of great excitement, leaves the room. Hardly is he out of sight, when the empress opens her eyes : cries and fainting fit were all a pretence ! Bausset betrayed her secret later, stating that, as he carried her up the stairs, she had whispered that he was holding her too tightly, and was hurting her.

  All the same, fear and sorrow are in very truth her portion; for she has been informed that she must leave the Tuileries,

  Divorce

  where, for more than a decade, she has ruled as queen. The Emperor himself has broken the news to her. Matters cannot continue as in the past: every one is counting on his death : across the frontier are the Germans with their long knives; here at home is Fouche, colloguing with the English. Napoleon needs a son ; and his son must be the child of a princess of royal blood. The scene with Josephine took place shortly after his return from Schonbrunn. Probably he was feeling sore because he could not place his Polish love, who bore his child in her womb, straightway upon the throne. For a certainty, he did not as yet know the name of his future bride.

  Mother, sisters, brothers, are sitting in silence, with stony faces, round the table, in family conclave : Josephine is likewise present. She can detect the smothered joy in the minds of these witnesses who at last have gained their end. The " old woman " must go ! With uncontrolled emotion in his voice, the Emperor declares that all hope of an heir from the empress is quenched, and that it is solely on this account that he must part from her. " God alone knows how hard a step this is for me to take. . . . But no sacrifice is too great for the sake of France. . . . For fifteen years, the empress has made my life beautiful by her presence. She was crowned by my own hands. ... I have determined that she shall preserve the rank and the title of empress ; and, above all, that she shall look upon me as her lifelong friend." Josephine exercises admirable self-control, but asks the arch-chancellor to read her words of acquiescence.

  The memorandum concerning the divorce is then signed by all. Napoleon's signature is more legible than usual. It is vigorous, and a long, firm flourish underlines his full name : he thus brings a very serious matter to a close, in manly fashion. Nervously, Josephine adds her signature to the right of his, quite near, as though pleading for his support. Madame Mere writes her M. as her son has written his N., and follows him, likewise, in the concluding flourish.

  That night, Josephine makes an amazing entry into his room,

  Yearnings and Calculations

  and approaches his bed, tears streaming down her face, and her hair falling round her shoulders. Next day, supported by Napoleon, a veritable Niobe, she quits the palace and drives to Malmaison. Before leaving, however, she has (foolishly perhaps) besought Meneval to speak of her as often as possible to the Emperor.

  Napoleon went alone to Trianon, which was at this time unoccupied. There he held a death watch such as no lover had ever held before over the love from whom he was to be eternally severed : he remained there for three days, absolutely inactive— this being as great an achievement as if a Buddhist holy man had for three days done Napoleon's work ! He received no one, he dictated never a word, read nothing, noted down nothing; for three days the mighty wheel stood still, the wheel which for fifteen years had rotated by the strength of its own impetus. Soon afterwards he visited his divorced lady at her house in Malmaison. Then he w
rote to her :

  " I found you to-day in a worse condition of mind than I had hoped, mon amie. . . . You should not give yourself up to so profound a melancholy. Take good care of your health, which is so dear to me. If you love me, then show me how strong and happy you can be. You cannot doubt my fondness, or all the tenderness I feel for you. You cannot believe that I shall ever be happy if you are unhappy. ... I was very sad when I got back to the Tuileries; the great palace seemed so empty; I felt so lonely. . . . Farewell, chere amie; sleep soundly, and remember that I wish it thus. ..." After fifteen years of intimate association, the man of forty writes in so natural and so grateful a fashion— though at the same time we may detect a gentle hint of a determined will that commands.

  Then come endless calculations: he will allow her three millions per annum; the set of rubies he will pay extra for: " this will cost me quite four hundred thousand francs and I will have it valued, for I do not wish to be cheated by the jeweller. ... In the wardrobe at Malmaison you should find five or six hundred

  At the Masked Ball

  thousand francs. You can take this money in order to increase your silver plate and your underclothing. I have or-dered a beautiful china service for you, but I have told the makers to await your commands, for I wish it to be really lovely. . . . The page who saw you this morning, tells me you were weeping. ... I shall take my meals all by myself. . . . Have you really lost courage since going to Malmaison ? And yet that house has been the witness of our happiness, and our feelings for one another. These feelings must never change; nor can they, at least as far as I am concerned. ... I should so much like to pay you a visit; but first I must know if you are a valiant woman or a weakling. I am rather weak myself, and am suffering greatly. Farewell, Josephine. Good-night."

  A melting mood has once more taken possession of him. The tone resembles that of the passionate letters sent from Milan by the young general to his faithless wife in Paris. It is set in a minor key; and the same melody that surged up and soared above the whole orchestra of his senses in those days, is now played by the 'cello as a solo echoing through the desolate halls of the Tuileries.