The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

I hear drumming in the slave village. The moon casts a ghostly light. I see a fire up on the hill, hear shouting and singing. I know the song:

  Never, never, I’ll not forget the ranks of Africa.

  Never, never, I’ll not forget their children.

  I despair.

  October 10, 1789—Fontainebleau Dear Rose,

  The Marquis and I have not been well. Our nerves suffer from the distressing reports in the journals.

  I am ashamed of my sex. Women—thousands of them, it has been reported—forced our King and Queen to move into that horrid palace in Paris, and now everyone of quality is talking of leaving France. Even the King’s brothers have fled, even Madame de Polignac, the royal governess, abandoning her charges. (How could she do that?)

  But that isn’t all of it. Monsieur Ogé, that mulatto from Saint-Domingue, went before the Assembly to demand equal rights for mulattoes—and succeeded! One delegate even suggested that the slaves be freed!* Everyone, it seems, has lost their reason. If the slaves were allowed to go free, we’d be penniless!

  Pray for us.…

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—Fanny’s son Claude and his wife have had a baby girl.** Send your condolences.

  January 23, 1790.

  Morin, Mimi’s lover and the father of the child she is carrying, was killed in a riot in Fort-Royal. There is nothing I can say to comfort her, for it was men of my race who murdered him.

  I stood at the door to her whitewashed hut watching her crumple into the arms of the slave women, listened to their collective moans—and I, who am like a sister to her, was forced to turn away, tears running down my cheeks.

  Drums in the mountains. As a child, the steady beat lulled me into sleep. But tonight I do not feel comfort in such sounds. Tonight I hear anger, and a terrible, terrible grief.

  November 5, 1789—Lake Maggiore

  Darling!

  Michel de Cubières and I are in a delightful alpine spa. (Remember Michel? The poet with the big lips?) Every evening we play faro in a casino in the village, where a shocking amount of money changes hands. But what is life if one is not prepared to cast all to the winds? One must be brave to be so foolish.

  The Austrians have been threatening to set up a “cordon sanitaire” across the mountains to keep “dangerous ideas” from coming over from France. Were it not for my mindless chatter and Michel staying quiet—-for once!—I doubt very much that they would have let us into their backward little paradise. Fortunately, they neglected to look in the basket that contained the political pamphlets Michel intends to distribute on the streets of Rome.

  Take care of yourself, darling. I hear your husband has become a Hero of the Revolution. How dashing!

  Your devoted Aunt Fanny Note—Claude’s wife had a girl. He’s not taking it well, which disappoints me. I thought we were beyond all that.

  February 1.

  Mimi lost her child. I went to see her in the infirmary, but she was in a fever and did not comprehend that it was me. I sat beside her for a time, cooling her with strips of linen soaked in rum. She was talking in a dream: Never, never, I’ll not forget… Never, never …

  Oh, my dear Mimi, how my heart goes out to her. I pray, I pray.

  November 11, 1789—Paris

  Dear Rose,

  I have been elected one of three secretaries to the Assembly. I am both honoured and challenged. Fate, surely, is the author of a scheme of such heroic dimensions.

  I am enclosing a copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, suitable for framing. I consider involvement in its creation one of the achievements of my life.*

  Your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais

  Sunday—Fontainebleau

  Chère Maman,

  Papa’s name is in the news-sheets. I’ve not seen him for two weeks. Are you ever coming back?

  A thousand kisses, your son Eugène

  February 3.

  Mimi has emerged from her fever, wrapped in sorrow like a ghost. The slave women hover around her protectively whenever I approach. “Go away! You curse her!” I do not persist.

  December 7, 1790—Chambéry

  Darling,

  The Italians were positively wild about my poem “To Frederick the Great on the Death of Voltaire. “ That and one of my novels (Abailard the Pretender, wouldn’t you know—the most naughty of all my works) is being translated into Italian and will be published there soon. I’m a writer of the world now!

  How is my goddaughter Hortense? I am enclosing a leather-bound copy of Erasmus’s Manners for Children for her. It is, at the least, egalitarian. Encourage her to copy the lovely script—the first step toward becoming a writer.

  As you perhaps already know, Marie and François have separated, for reasons of philosophy. Philosophy! At least when Claude (God rest his soul*) and I parted, we did so for reasons of sentiment.

  Your loving Aunt Fanny

  February 23.

  Mimi has been put on the field-gang, Mother informed me this afternoon.

  “How could you do that! Mimi belongs with me, with Hortense!”

  Mother put down her needlework. “Apologize for your temper. Mimi asked to be put in the fields.”

  “But why?” I could not comprehend. Field-work was a killing labour.

  “I can only presume it is because she has turned against us, because of our race. Were it not for your sensibilities, Rose, I would have sold her, or at least had her whipped. Hate is a dangerous thing in a slave.”

  I left the room in tears.

  December 17, 1790—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  The Marquis and I have suffered a collapse of nerves due to the distressing news about François and Marie. The Marquis is terribly upset, going on about the morals of the young, the stain upon the family name, the lack of commitment to values. I hold my tongue, but in my heart I grieve: for is this not the fruit of our own sins? I have been going to mass twice daily and to my confessor weekly. I urge you to do the same.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Note—I am enclosing a bill for one livre, the new pa per money we are required to use now, but it’s not worth one sou—hold on to your gold.

  Wednesday, March 3.

  The island press has been restricted for fear that any further mention of “liberty” would be dangerous. Even the journals we receive from Paris must be hidden away.

  “Your husband’s letters should be burned,” Mother said. She does not approve of Alexandre’s views. “As well as Madame Fanny’s.”

  “Along with her novel, perhaps?”

  “Indeed,” Mother sputtered, crossing herself.

  I smiled, for I have seen her glancing into it when she thought no one was looking.

  December 30, 1789—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Thank you for the lovely Christmas gifts—the Marquis loved his bamboo cane and already the bottle of La Pagerie rum has been consumed. I adore the silver bangles, but especially the set of enamel buttons painted with island scenes—they brought on a feeling of reverie in me. And a crate of coffee beans! What indulgence!

  Eugène loved all the presents you sent (really, Rose, you must try to refrain from such excess), but the item that pleased him the most—to our own discomfort, I confess—was the foghorn made of shell.

  Your uncle reports that you have been diligent in your efforts to organize the finances and the management of the properties. You must be having some success, for already we have received a banknote. This money is very badly needed. You can’t imagine how expensive everything has become. It is impossible to live on even twelve thousand livres a year now. Nom de Dieu!

  How is my brother’s health? How is your sister Manette? I have sent my gardener on a pilgrimage to Chartres to seek cures. He is devout; I have hope of some success.

  It has been a gloomy holiday season. No one entertains any more—every-one stays home.

  Remember—don’t neglect your prayers.…

  Your lov
ing Aunt Désirée

  Christmas Day

  Chère Maman,

  Thank you for the foghorn. I have decided to become a sailor. That way I can come see you and my sister Hortense.

  Eugène

  May 21.

  As I write at this little table in my room, listening to the heavy dripping of the rain, I wonder if it’s possible I ever left this island. France seems like a dream to me, more distant than my childhood.

  I sleep with Eugène’s miniature under my pillow. Tonight I could not find it. Fear takes my heart—will I ever see him again?

  * This delegate was hanged when he returned to Saint-Domingue.

  ** Stephanie Beauharnais was later to be adopted by Napoleon and wed to the Grand Duke of Baden, which made her a Grand Duchess of the Court of Würtemberg.

  * France took the American Bill of Rights one step further. Where Americans proclaimed men free and equal in their country, the French proclaimed men free and equal everywhere.

  * Claude de Beauharnais, the Marquis’s brother and Fanny’s ex-husband, died December 25, 1784.

  In which we flee under cannon fire

  June 3, 1790.

  A mulatto uprising in Saint-Pierre. In his sermon this morning, Father Droppet questioned the existence of a soul in the Negro. After church, talk of weapons. I sleep with a pistol on my side-table.

  July 30.

  Today Mother said, “You must go, Rose—take your daughter, return to France.” Her eyes were dark, I could not see her thoughts. “This is no place to raise a child.” She pushed a cloth bag across the table at me.

  It was a bag of coins—the coins she counted so religiously every day. “I cannot.” I pushed the bag away. How could I abandon her with violence threatening, with Father and Manette so ill?

  “The English are going to attack. If you don’t go now, you will never see your son again.…”

  Tears came to my eyes. “But—”

  “I will not mourn you!” And then, her voice low, almost a whisper, “I will not bury all my daughters!”

  Later.

  With a heavy heart I have written Uncle Tascher, asking if it is possible to obtain passage to France.…

  That evening.

  Uncle Tascher sent back a prompt reply. It is difficult to get passage to France at this time, he said, but not impossible. The openings come quickly, without notice. I must be in Fort-Royal with my movables packed if I am serious about leaving. He advises me to come immediately, for there are rumours of a blockade. “In these turbulent times,” he wrote philosophically, sadly I thought, “nothing is as it seems, nothing is as it should be.”

  August 1, noon.

  Mother was on the verandah when I went to her this morning, darning socks that had been darned many times before. “You are leaving,” she said. She looked out over the garden of flowers I’d tended, the blooms drenched by the rain.

  I nodded, turned away. I have become weary of tears.

  August 6.

  We’ve been packing. All day Hortense has been fighting with Da Gertrude over a rag doll she wants to take with her, but Da Gertrude insists it will bring bad luck. “It was out all night in the light of the moon!” she said with great fear.

  August 7.

  This evening, after dinner, I brushed and braided Manette’s hair, the dark plaits falling over her shoulders. I read to her from Paul et Virginie until she fell asleep. I sat for a time with the book in my lap, the flame from the candle flickering from the breeze from the open window, looking out at the moon rising behind the tangled branches of the mango tree. Manette and I climbed that same tree when we were children. How does one say goodbye?

  Tuesday, August 10.

  I awoke shortly before dawn. As if by some miracle, it had stopped raining. Quietly I slipped down the stairs and out of the sucrerie, down to the bathing pond. I put my chemise and my head handkerchief on the wet rocks and slipped into the clear water, gasping until I became accustomed to the cold. A frog scuttled into the grass, but other than that there was not a sound but for the tree ferns rustling in the breeze. The scent of the orange tree filled the air.

  When the turtledoves began to coo, I emerged, heart heavy. It was time. I dressed and made my final rounds, stopping to talk with the house-slaves. To each I gave a livre. I left three louis with the slave-master to divide among the field-hands. I knew Mother would not approve so I asked him not to tell.

  I told Da Gertrude to give Mimi my emerald. “Heal her,” I said. Open her heart. Da Gertrude began to cry. I wrapped my arms around her. “Go!” she said, pushing me away.

  I went to Father’s room.

  “So,” he said.

  I sat down on the straight-back chair next to the bed. It was wobbly, for one of its legs kept coming loose and had been secured, not too successfully, with hemp. A foul odour filled the room, a smell I had become accustomed to, “the smell of death,” Mother called it. But I had become too immersed in the mechanical routine of Father’s care to think of such things.

  I took his hand, for I felt comfortless entertaining such thoughts. His skin felt dry, thin—like the delicate texture of a snake’s discarded skin. “Is there anything I can get you?” I asked, for my devotion had taken this form: service.

  “You’ve done enough.” His eyes were grey. “Enough for a dying man.”

  I began to protest, uphold some vain lie—but I knew it would be disrespectful to deny him this, the reality of his passing. I nodded. “I will miss you, Father.”

  “Princess.” He squeezed my hand.

  The memory of my childhood dreams came back to me then, the enchantment of my father’s stories, told to a dream-struck girl in a hammockunder a mango tree, fanning herself lazily with a palm-tree leaf. I kissed his cheek. “My King.” I swooped into the courtly curtsy he’d taught me as a girl, regally kicking an imaginary train aside as I turned to go.

  He was laughing silently as I left. For a moment I saw that spark again. I did not say goodbye.

  At the very last I went to Manette, who was asleep. She looked graven, old, her bedclothes tangled. I did not have the courage to waken her. I kissed her forehead and left. I will never see her again.

  It was still very early, only eight in the morning, when Sylvester drove the cart around to the front of the sucrerie. I helped Hortense scramble onto the seat. I turned to Mother. “You will come, to France …?” I could not say “after” … after Father dies, after Manette.

  She clasped my hands, hard. I climbed into the wagon. Sylvester cracked his whip, the horses pulled forward. As we neared the stone wall, I looked back. Mother was no longer there. I watched the house recede, searching for her face in the windows.

  August 13—Fort-Royal.

  Aunt Tascher is frantic, the house in chaos—there are open packing cases in every room. She and the children are moving to the country, she explained. “It’s not safe here!” We left our sea trunk in the carriage house—we will be leaving soon too, I hope.

  Hortense and I are sharing a room on the third floor. It is hot—but private. I am sitting at a desk in an alcove overlooking the harbour. Through the rain I can dimly make out where the four warships and several merchant ships are moored. Uncle will be home late. He has much trouble now with government matters and the general restiveness in the population. Tonight he will be able to tell us the situation with respect to our departure for France.

  September 3—Government House.

  There have been riots in town. At a fête yesterday, Governor de Vioménil refused to put on a tricolour cockade, claiming that he would prefer todie a thousand deaths—which resulted in such violence that he was forced to retract his statement and put on the ribbon, “this pledge of peace, union and concord!” he proclaimed. All this to the sound of musket fire over his head.

  A Te Deum was sung and all appeared to be at peace again, but even so, Uncle Tascher has insisted that Hortense and I move into Government House. It is safer for us here, he said. We do not go out any mor
e.

  Monday, September 6.

  There has been an uprising. Uncle Tascher imprisoned the revolutionaries, but then the guards released them and opened fire on the town.

  I was at Government House when it happened. Governor de Vioménil ran from room to room, yelling at everyone. Madame de Vioménil fell to her knees, praying loudly. I took Hortense up to our room and read to her from Fables of La Fontaine, trying to ignore the sounds of musket fire. All the while I was trembling. Then the parlourmaid came running up the stairs with the news that Uncle Tascher had gone to talk to the rebels in the Fort.

  Hortense and I ventured back downstairs to the front parlour where everyone had gathered. The messenger who finally arrived from the Fort was a thin man wearing a dirty wig. “Baron Tascher has been taken hostage,” he announced theatrically. The rebels had imprisoned my uncle and were threatening to kill him and every person in the town.

  I was helped to a chair. “What did he say about Uncle?” Hortense demanded tearfully. “What does ‘hostage’ mean?”

  The governor was frantic. Aides on all sides were trying to offer him advice. His wife ran after him, yelling, “You can’t go!”

  He stomped into his study and slammed the door. “He is intent on killing himself!” his wife wept. The musket fire began again, shattering what little confidence we had managed.

  Soon after the governor left. His plan was to take refuge at Gros Morne, a village on the way to Trinité, and from there gather support to attack. His wife locked herself in her bedchamber and refused to come out.

  I lay in my bed in our little room with Hortense in my arms, trying to calm her, listening to the sound of musket and cannon fire, praying for Uncle Tascher. Not long after Hortense had finally fallen asleep, I was startled by a knocking on the door. “Who is it?” The night candle threw ghostly shadows.

  The door opened—it was the chambermaid.

  “Is there news?” I whispered, fearing for Uncle Tascher’s life.

  “A letter from Commander du Braye.” She handed me a sealed folded paper. “I was told it was urgent.” There was a sudden retort from a cannon, followed by grapeshot.