Napoleon

by Emil Ludwig

  Letizia Full of Trouble

  man who rules in virtue of his self-made power.

  But the fact that the peoples of Spain and Germany are eager to force their princes into the fight, gives to the tragical collapse of the usurper a semblance of poetical justice, and that is why we who look on find it easier to bear the sight of the slaying of the lion by the spears cast by such a legion of hunters.

  IX

  Letizia looks anxiously at her son. His face is clouded, though he keeps his thoughts to himself. What can she do to help him ? Intimates ? Many of them, she sees plainly enough, are betraying him. He needs his brothers, that he may have the support of steadfast hearts, even though he thinks them lacking in intelligence. She therefore puts her trust in her other sons, writes to London and to Graz, smooths the path for reconciliation. One day, after a decade of estrangement, comes a letter from the ambitious Lucien, who says he is always at Napoleon's service.

  But the Emperor cannot believe that he, the mightiest of his family, needs any assistance from the others. Though he has always regarded Lucien as the most capable of his brothers, he proposes merely a formal promotion. In imperial fashion, he answers through his mother : " Please write to let him know in my name that his letter has awakened an echo in my heart. I think of raising him to the throne of Tuscany. He loves the fine arts. It will suit him to reign in Florence, and to revive the glories of the Medicis." There is no place for Lucien at the centre of things ! As for Louis, who also offers to devote his powers to the cause of France (in so far as he can honourably do this), and who sends a copy of his last volume of verse —the ex-king of Holland is met with a rebuff: " The idea you seem to

  Family Broils

  have formed about my position is quite erroneous. I have more than a million men under arms, and two hundred million francs in my war chest. Holland remains French. . . . Still, I am ready to greet you in the spirit of one who brought you up as if he had been your father."

  The Emperor reads this answer to his mother before sending it. She tries to mitigate its harshness in a long covering letter; tells Louis how pretty his children have grown ; urges him to come to Paris in any case. " The Emperor has forgotten to give me your poems. I will ask him for them, and will let you know what I think of them when next I write."

  Next day, the old lady finds a savage article in the " Moni-teur," in which she learns that the king of Naples will have to recall his envoys from Vienna. When she asks what this signifies, her friends reluctantly explain that Murat has been persuaded by Caroline to intrigue with the Habsburgs, so that the pair are now playing double. Letizia writes to upbraid her daughter. Joseph is out of humour, for he thinks that Napoleon is not supporting him properly in the Spanish war. She does her best to appease him through the instrumentality of his wife. Furthermore, she tries to mollify Jerome, whom the Emperor had sent home in disgrace. Finally, she gets to work on Hortense, who is doing all she can to hinder Louis' coming to Paris.

  Now a woman well over sixty, she does her utmost to keep the peace between her sons, daughters, sons-in-law, and daughters-in-law. But it seems to her that the greatness for which the world envies her family has brought in its train nothing but discord, jealousy, arrogance, ostracism, and betrayal. Her thoughts fly back to her native island, where her kindred always formed a united front against other clans. Moreover, her eyes, though old, are clear-sighted ; and she sees that the star of the Buonaparti is paling.

  The Emperor has little personal feeling about these matters. In his present situation, he regards them from a purely political

  Murat and Bernadotte

  outlook. No doubt he says to himself that Murat and Caroline are traitors ; but his main concern is, how he can make sure of the support of Murat's soldiers. He therefore writes in a conciliatory strain to Caroline ; keeps her husband informed about the impending campaign ; and asks for troops, which Murat ultimately agrees to send, for both he and Caroline think that Napoleon may prove victorious after all, and are afraid of being dethroned unless they keep in his good graces. At the same time, they wish to have a secure footing in the other camp, and therefore conclude secret treaties with England and with the ex-king of Sicily (whose dominions they themselves have filched).

  Napoleon even seeks to conciliate Bernadotte, though he cannot but regard the crown prince of Sweden as a treacherous kinsman and an enemy of his house. He offers Pomerania as the reward of alliance and the prize of victory. But for Bernadotte, the bid is not high enough ; this Frenchman prefers to join the coalition against France. His ambition is to reign there; France is worth more than Pomerania. Bernadotte enters into especially close relationships with Prussia. In Berlin he meets Madame de Stael, and these fellow-countrymen of the Emperor, united in their detestation of him, foregather among the oppressed Prussians.

  A third enemy, whom the Emperor approaches with blandishments during these feverish weeks, is the captive pope. Pius VII. has been brought to Fontainebleau, and Napoleon gets to work on him through the instrumentality of prelates devoted to the imperial cause, adding personal suggestion until the old man gives way. How great will be the power of the Church (this is the Emperor's theme) when Catholicism has been re-established throughout Germany ! By trifling concessions upon matters of form, and by cunning devices, Napoleon is able to secure a new Concordat. Thanks to this reconciliation with the Church, he is able to recruit new Catholic soldiers in all the lands under his sway. When the pope, a week after signing the Concordat,

  " Your Holiness, Being Infallible, ..."

  wants to revoke it, the Emperor says with a smile : " Your Holiness, being infallible, cannot have made a mistake in entering into this arrangement! "

  During these weeks, a desire for peace suddenly spreads throughout Europe. The pope wants peace on the Vistula, and Metternich wants it in London. Count Bubna, with whom Napoleon had negotiated years before in Schonbrunn, comes to Paris to advise peace, for Vienna can neither send nor refuse the troops which the Emperor has demanded. In February, peace can be had for the asking. Why does the man who needs peace most of all, make impossible stipulations ?

  For ten years, one war after another has been practically forced upon the Emperor as a consequence of his first victories. Now, when he is in grievous peril, and when his isolation is increasing, the will-to-war grows in him as in the early days of his career. When unconquered, he would gladly have laid aside the sword ; now, after his defeat, he craves for new victories. But though his shield has been tarnished in Russia, though he would fain win fresh glories for himself and for France, these are but the pretexts of destiny. In very truth, he is stiff-necked, and will prove himself to be so at three congresses during this year 1813. The reason is that all the elements of his character are now rolling inexorably forwards ; the reason is that, " in accordance with the nature of things," he is advancing along a road on which he must march to the bitter end.

  Forward! Since the war must be, the allies are arming everywhere. England makes treaties with Sweden and Prussia ; to conciliate the latter, the tsar renounces his claims to East Prussia; Prussia calls Germany to arms ; Austria makes a truce with Russia, tries to enter into an agreement with Saxony and Bavaria and even King Jerome. Emperor Francis withdraws his troops to Cracow, ostensibly to save them for the coming campaign.

  " The first step towards desertion ! " exclaims Napoleon, when this news comes to hand. He must now withdraw his own

  King of France

  forces from the Vistula to the Oder. In Vienna, he once more offers Silesia. The offer is declined with thanks, for the Austrian role is to be one of armed mediation. While the whole world is thus preparing for the struggle, and when in the middle of March the first signal is given in Paris by the Prussian declaration of war, Talleyrand, in his open ambush, says with a smile : " The hour has struck; the Emperor Napoleon must become king of France."

  A remarkable flash of insight, on the part of one who cannot but hope that no step so sensible as this shall be ta
ken—and who must, none the less, at bottom, wish for it. Nevertheless matters have gone too far; not the levying of troops alone, but the preparations in the minds of men. Every one knows that the last great combat is imminent, that nothing can avert it. The only one who could have called a halt, and will not do so, is driven onward in his own despite, and he is weary. There are new signs of this growing weariness.

  First of all, there is the simplicity upon which he insists in his environment. " I want my journeys to be very differently arranged. I shall not take so many people with me ; fewer cooks and less table furniture ; no meal to consist of more than three courses. ... I shall not take any pages with me ; they are of no use whatever; only two bedmakers instead of four; two tents instead of four; and so on." At the same time, he orders plans for a small palace, " a comfortable place rather than an imposing one (the two things are incompatible); . . . my room must open on the garden ; ... or, preferably, I must have a north room and a south room, according to the season ; all arranged as in a well-to-do country gentleman's mansion. ... It is to be a holiday seat, or a dwelling for a man in his declining years."

  In 1805, when he was in the plenitude of his powers, he had said : " The war need not take long. I am still good for six years, but then it will be time to call a halt." Now, when he takes the

  Fourth-Act Moods

  field once more, four months after his return from Russia, his mien is quiet and careworn as he steps into his travelling carriage in the courtyard at Saint-Cloud. He leans back among the cushions, with his hand pressed to his forehead. To Caulaincourt, his travelling companion, he acknowledges his distress " at having so soon to leave my good Louise and my lovely boy. I envy the poorest peasant in my dominions. By the time he grows old, he has already paid his debt to his country, and can stay at home with his wife and children. I am the only person whom an inexplicable fate leads back ever and again into the field."

  No more pages, he is in his declining years, wants to stay at home with wife and child—and this is only seven years after the programme just quoted ! Are these fourth-act moods, these shadows that fall across his soul, merely the consequences of the Russian catastrophe ? Are they not, rather, the essential causes of new defeats ? The moods of a man growing prematurely old, one whose work is often interfered with by illness, one who is being increasingly mastered by the natural inclinations of a family man well on in the forties. He wants to spend at the domestic fireside the evening of a life which is not equipped for seven or eight decades like that of his mother or his brothers.

  He is himself in the frame of mind with which he had reproached his marshals at Danzig less than a year ago, when he had declared they would rather have an easy life of it in their country seats than go campaigning with him. Is not such a longing natural in a man who has been working himself to death for twenty years, and who has chosen the bee for his escutcheon ?

  But those on whom the Parcse bestow the ecstasies of youth, must pay for it by the oncoming of age. He has had such wonderful successes that he must not expect to garner also the joys of content in achievement. He has conjured up the gods ; now they have come !

  As General Bonaparte X

  At the first review in Mainz, there are only one hundred and eighty thousand men instead of the three hundred thousand he had hoped to assemble there. The army is very short of cavalry; the equipment is inadequate, for it has been far too hastily got together; the best guns have been lost in Russia, or are tied up in Spain ; the general staff has been decimated ; the ambulance service is defective. He sees all that is amiss, but even this imperfect army reminds him of old times and old happiness. He recalls the April days in Cannes and Nice, seventeen years before, when he had taken over the command of half-starved and ragged soldiers, that he might lead them through the mountains to victory. With these memories surging up in his mind, he gathers his energies, and utters the darkly challenging words : " I shall conduct this war as General Bonaparte."

  Such is the signal, a mingling of impetus and self-restraint, with which he launches himself into the first battle. At Liitzen, he exposes himself more than he has done for years. During the first day's fighting, he does not sleep at all; on the second day, when everything is going well, he has his bearskin spread on the ground in the middle of Marmont's corps ; and when, an hour later, they wake him to let him know that all is going on well, he leaps to his feet with the ironical remark: " You see, the best things come to one while one is asleep."

  But hardly has the general won this victory than the emperor-politician resumes the ascendant. He sends letters in all directions ; forces the vacillating king of Saxony to a decision, talks to the princes of the Confederation of the Rhine about providence and the fortune of war, that he may keep them up to the scratch ; sends his ministers to the Russian outposts ; abruptly and informally offers the tsar Poland in exchange for Prussia, and suggests other territorial rearrangements, until Alexander weakens ; and he writes to Emperor Francis in terms

  "My Star Is Setting"

  of unusual self-commendation : " Although I personally led all the movements of my army, and was several times within range of grape-shot, I have not had even a graze." The words and the actions are those of one who feels weak, and would fain appear strong. Henceforth the warnings of fate thicken.

  True, he gains another victory at Bautzen, but does not take any prisoners. On the second day of the battle, he is riding under fire, accompanied by Caulaincourt and his friend Duroc —the latter having for a decade been his inseparable companion in the field. Men are being shot down in his immediate neighbourhood. He gallops to an adjoining elevation ; adjutants follow him. Dust and smoke ; a tree close at hand is smashed to splinters. He thunders past. On the hillock, a young officer comes up to him and stammers : " Marshal Duroc has been killed."

  " Impossible ! He was at my side a moment ago ! "

  " The cannon ball which struck the tree, brought down the marshal as well."

  The Emperor slowly rides back into camp. He says :

  " When will fate have a little discrimination ? What will be the end of it all ? Caulaincourt, my eagles are again victorious, but my star is setting."

  Duroc has not been killed outright, but he is dying. Terrible is the aspect of this shattered comrade. Greeting and farewell, both men in tears. Duroc murmurs : " I told thee at Dresden what would happen ; the inner voice. . . . Give me some opium."

  This tone, the sudden use of" thee," the last request of a man who has no fear of death. The Emperor walks unsteadily as he leaves the cottage.

  From a farmyard, he contemplates for a while the spot where his friend had fallen, and then makes his way to the place where the guard is encamped, with his own tent in the middle. That evening, wearing his grey field -coat, he sits gloomily on a

  Disastrous Inertia

  campstool, apart from his suite; he listens to the sounds of the camp, where the guardsmen are cooking supper and calling to one another ; in the distance, the men of a yager corps are singing a song. Bivouac fires are glowing in the half-darkness of the May night; two burning villages flame like torches in the sky. An officer draws near, and hesitates to give his report. Before the words are spoken, the Emperor understands that Duroc is dead.

  Next day, he orders the purchase of land where a memorial is to be erected, and he pens the inscription : " Here died, gloriously, in the arms of his friend the Emperor, struck down on the field of battle by a cannon ball, General Duroc, Grand Marshal of the Emperor Napoleon."

  General Bonaparte used to have no time for such feelings. He concealed his heart-ache, and stormed onward, even when he lost his wife's love. Now it behoved him to push forward into Silesia, to follow up the Russians into Poland, to take advantage of the misgivings of the allies ; and by delivering blows in rapid succession, to fetter the vacillating Austrian to his side. In later years, he said frankly that his failure to do these things had been the greatest mistake in his life. Once more, the deliberations of the emperor are impedi
ng the activities of the general. His private letters from France are full of reports concerning the clamour for peace. " What especially determined my course of action was Austria's preparation for war, and the desire to gain time. This led me to interrupt the course of my victories." In Silesia, at the beginning of June, he agrees to a six weeks' truce, thus giving his adversaries time to attain complete unity at the congresses of Reichenbach and Prague.

  Is he deceived as to the frame of mind of the wavering German princes ? He knows them all. " The Saxons are just as German as the others, and would gladly follow Prussia's example. The king is faithful to me, but I do not trust his troops. . . Austria's impudence is indescribable. While uttering

  Pygmies

  honeyed words, she tries to snatch from me Dalmatia and Istria. . . . There never was anything so false as the court of Vienna. If, to-day, I were to grant Austria's demands, she would ask tomorrow for Italy and Germany." Now, when he sees that the Habsburg ruler is about to go over to the enemy, he realises too late that his marriage has been a mistake, for he has gained nothing by it, and has lost much. His own patrician family feeling had made him believe that there must be an imperial family feeling. The old tone of contempt for hereditary monarchs is at length heard once more. To his intimates, he again and again says frankly what he thinks of the kings who are kings by birth :

  " Among those who are born to sit on the throne, the ties of nature count for nothing. The interests of his daughter and his grandson will not move Emperor Francis an inch from the calculations of his cabinet. These men have no blood in their veins, nothing but frozen politics ! What pygmies they are, the kings by the grace of God—and the grace of Napoleon ! My leniency has been my blunder. In Tilsit I could have crushed them, but I was too generous. History should have taught me that houses so degenerate deserve neither loyalty nor faith! Now, England is filling their coffers with gold. But I shall prove myself a better statesman than these born kings who never leave their golden cages ! "