The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  My dear Lady Morgan,

  It is with a heavy heart that I report myself to be tormented by great affliction of the nervous system. You will scarce believe what took place during my sojourn in Florence. While touring the gallery at the Pitti Palace, whom should I encounter but the ex K. of W! He is greatly changed since the days of our youth, and I do assure you, not for the better. His infamous manner of living has completely destroyed his figure and his looks. His character was already corrupted beyond redemption.

  You possess such good sense that I feel certain you can comprehend better than anyone else of my acquaintance how little I wanted to see that man again. If ever anyone was misnamed, it is he; I always think of him as J. Malaparte now.

  My spirits are sadly depressed when I contemplate how little he has suffered for his misdeeds. I have long known the justice of La Rochefoucauld’s maxim that “The world oftener rewards the appearance of merit than merit itself.” Seeing the K. of W. impressed upon me an even more dispiriting truth. Scoundrels may go about the world carelessly doing harm with little consequence to themselves, while those who try to live honorably must struggle merely to survive. Nothing ever turns out as we desire. But thus it has ever been, and I must adapt to my fate or be broken by it.

  Remember me to Sir Charles and pray give him my love. Adieu, dear Lady Morgan. Do not forget me. Write me sometimes and send such petits mots de sagesse as may comfort me and dispel this bitter ennui.

  Betsy sighed as she signed the letter with a flourish and then sealed it. Even more galling to her than encountering Jerome had been seeing Catharine. If that brief glimpse had been any indication, the princess still viewed her husband of fifteen years with tender regard, and Betsy had been offended that such a vapid, unaccomplished woman had taken her place as the wife who could cling to his arm and solicitously inquire about his mood. It made little difference that Jerome was an unfaithful lout who almost certainly would have made Betsy miserable. When Catharine looked at him, her eyes glowed, and Betsy felt the princess had no right to be so happy.

  After brooding for days, Betsy resolved to put the past behind her. Once she felt well enough, she traveled to Paris to enliven her spirits. The Gallatins gave her a standing invitation to dine with them every day, and Betsy also frequently visited the Marquise de Villette, whose reminiscences of Voltaire made her glad to be back in literary society.

  That spring, Jerome astonished Betsy by sending her $1,200 for Bo’s expenses and promising to make the sum an annual allowance. Cynically, she inferred that either the Prince of Württemberg or Cardinal Fesch had shamed him into taking responsibility. Knowing Jerome as she did, Betsy did not suppose that his resolve would hold for very long, so she decided to keep her expenditures exactly the same as if he had sent nothing.

  Early in the summer, Betsy received letters from both her father and Bo. The visit to New Jersey had taken place, and Bo got along well with Joseph and his daughter Charlotte, but nothing had been said about a match between the cousins. Later, when Bo wrote to propose a second visit, he was told that his uncle was traveling. Both Patterson and Bo concluded that Joseph Bonaparte had decided to marry his daughter to someone else.

  In response, Betsy wrote to her father: “There is nothing that can, or ever will, surprise me in that family. The only way is to act and feel exactly as if they said and promised nothing.”

  Even so, she was not sorry she had taken the trouble to make Bo acquainted with the Bonapartes. To be acknowledged by them could only help his standing in society and further his chances to make an alliance with some noble house.

  Paris was still too expensive a city for her, so Betsy returned to Geneva for the winter and resumed her place in its society. Patterson wrote her there that since the proposed marriage had fallen through, he had complied with Betsy’s wishes of continuing her son’s education. Bo lacked enough Greek to meet Harvard’s enrollment requirements, so he was living in Lancaster, Massachusetts, with a clergyman tutor. Betsy learned with regret that Le Loup had not been allowed to accompany Bo and wrote her father asking him to take special care of the dog. If she had known that the animal would be left in Baltimore, she would have kept it as her companion.

  That winter, her father sent heartbreaking news. In October, Robert had caught cholera and died within a few days. Remembering their childhood when they had called each other Bobby and Goose, Betsy felt bereft in spite of their estrangement over the Wellington affair. Even learning that Marianne had risked her own life to nurse Robert during his illness did not lessen Betsy’s animosity toward her sister-in-law.

  She also received word that her friend, the Marquise de Villette, had died. Those two deaths, together with her own recent ailments, convinced Betsy to make a will. She believed firmly that parents should never leave property away from their children, so she made Bo her sole heir.

  Betsy missed her son terribly and frequently regretted that she had not gone home with him. In the evenings, she had little opportunity to be lonely—she went to a ball or party every night—but during the day, she thought of Bo often and worried that he would lose his industrious habits without her supervision.

  Despite her fears, Bo applied himself to his studies, passed the examination, and was admitted to Harvard in February 1823. Yet, even though Betsy knew he was doing well, she felt increasingly sad about their separation. She began to think of sailing for home to be near him and wrote to Lady Morgan:

  I love him so entirely that perhaps seeing him may render my feeling less disagreeable. I hate the séjour of America, and the climate destroys the little health which has been left me; but any inconveniences are more supportable than being separated from one’s children.

  Before she could make up her mind, she received a report from Aunt Nancy that Bo had spent $2,150 in his first fifteen months after returning to the United States. Shocked, Betsy wrote him three letters in a week and another to her father declaring that her income was not sufficient to cover extravagance and Bo must live on $1,100 a year. She had received a second payment of $1,200 from Jerome, but his finances were still too precarious for her to count on his annual support—especially since he now had three children with Catharine as well as the guardianship of his late sister Elisa’s daughters.

  In 1824, financial concerns made it imperative for Betsy to return to the United States. In July she sailed to New York, arriving there in late August. Bo, whom she had written about her plans, met her at her hotel the following day.

  After hugging her son and laughing over how much he had grown—he was now nearly a foot taller than she was—Betsy sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Did you have any difficulty obtaining leave from your classes to come meet me?”

  “No.” He sat down after sweeping back the tails of his coat. “The fact is, Mama, that I have been suspended for three months.”

  “How many times have I told you that you must be far more circumspect in your behavior than other young men?”

  Bo thrust out his Bonaparte chin. “Mama, have the goodness not to reproach me until you hear all the facts.”

  Betsy raised her eyebrows skeptically but folded her hands in her lap and listened.

  He rose and paced as though pleading a case before a jury. “There are several clubs authorized by the college that have libraries annexed to them. One of the ones I belong to had a meeting on July 29th to choose a librarian, and after that business, the members stayed to drink punch. This club has assembled regularly two or three times a term for the space of fifty years and has always had something to eat or drink afterward. No one has ever before been punished for the practice, and I can assure you I was astonished when the president said I was suspended.”

  “You might have known they would disapprove of young men drinking. You are meant to be studying, not consuming punch.”

  Bo stopped before her and held out his hands, palm upward. “I ask you, Mama, how can prudence teach a man how to avoid that which has never happened before?”


  Of all that Bo said in his own defense, the phrase that smote Betsy’s heart was hearing him refer to himself as a man. Her hand flew up to her mouth as she realized that her nineteen-year-old boy was now the exact age Jerome had been when they married. How strange it was to think that she and her husband had viewed themselves as adults when they were so young.

  Pulling herself back to the present, she said, “Do you really mean to say that what you did was customary and the college’s decision completely arbitrary?”

  “Yes, I swear it. Surely you are not so severe as to blame me for receiving an unjust punishment.”

  “No, I am not so unreasonable as that.” She patted the cushion again, and as he sat beside her, Betsy felt her anger shift to the college president. “I will go to Cambridge and lodge a protest. Perhaps the president will overturn the suspension.”

  Bo blanched and shook his head. “Mama, please, do not entertain thoughts of doing so. I am not a child and do not need my mother to fight my battles.”

  Smiling, Betsy patted his cheek. “You will always be my child, but I will not go to the college if doing so would embarrass you. Will you spend the three months in Baltimore?”

  “No, I am not allowed to go home. I am living quietly in Lancaster and improving myself by doing general reading.”

  “Oh.” Betsy looked down at her lap. “I suppose that means that I will not be allowed to stay near you.”

  Bo hesitated. “They did not say anything to forbid visits.” Then he impulsively pulled her into a hug. “Oh, Mama, I have missed you. I do wish you would stay.”

  They had an enjoyable three months together discussing what Bo was reading and taking a few short trips. In late November, when Bo returned to Harvard, Betsy looked for rooms to rent near the college in Cambridge. After her second day of searching, she returned to the hotel to find a note asking her to meet with the college president, Dr. Kirkland.

  Fearing that Bo was in trouble again, she went to the administration building right away. She was shown in to see the president, a ruddy-faced bald man with a bulbous nose. After greeting her, Dr. Kirkland said, “It has come to my attention that you are looking for rooms to let in Cambridge.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, wondering if he had something to recommend.

  “I am sorry to say this so bluntly, but we do not approve of the boys’ mothers living in town. One of our goals is to assist our young men in reaching full maturity, so—”

  “You need to separate them from their mothers.” Rising and adjusting her skirt, she said, “Very well, Dr. Kirkland. I will abide by your rules.”

  He walked her to his office door. “Madame Bonaparte, I hope I have not offended you.”

  “No. While I might claim extenuating circumstances, as my son and I have had more separations than is normal for a boy his age, I fully comprehend that you cannot make an exception for us or all the mothers would be asking you to bend the rule.”

  “Thank you for understanding.” He opened the door. “Please accept my assurance that, despite the recent need for discipline, Jerome is doing well. We are pleased with his attention to his studies, and he shows a remarkable head for metaphysics, perhaps our most difficult subject.”

  “Thank you,” Betsy said and left him.

  WILLIAM PATTERSON TOLD his daughter that he did not want her to live at the South Street, and hurt, Betsy retorted that she had no intention of settling in Baltimore at all. Over the next few months, she did what was necessary to secure her financial stability and shore up her income, which was now about $5,000 annually. Then she returned to Europe in 1825.

  Although she expected to stay there only a year, Betsy found once again that she enjoyed Europe too much to leave. She spent an extended period in Florence, which became her favorite city. Ferdinand III, the grand duke of Tuscany, showed Betsy marked attention whenever she attended his balls. He had the long face typical of the Hapsburgs, a high forehead, and light-blue eyes. Ferdinand was sixteen years her senior and had recently married a very young and pretty second wife, but that did not prevent him from whispering blandishments in Betsy’s ear whenever they danced together. It became a kind of game between them, a mockery of seduction that neither one took seriously.

  Betsy also dined at least three times a week with her close friend Count Nikolai Nikitich Demidov, the Russian ambassador to the duke’s court. Demidov, who had a stout figure, a round fleshy face, and hooded eyes, had inherited one of the largest fortunes in Russia from his industrialist father. Unlike William Patterson, he did not care about wealth for its own sake but rather used his money to amass an extensive art collection and to finance the establishment of hospitals and schools in Tuscany. Betsy considered him a man of great natural sense and one of the most good-natured people she had ever known.

  She was at her happiest whenever she lived in Florence. Unfortunately, the cool rainy winters in the city did not agree with her, so she often traveled to Geneva or the spa at Aix le Bains in France to recover her health.

  In 1826, Bo graduated from Harvard, with the plan of studying law. Before settling to that task, he sailed to Europe so he could finally meet Jerome. Although Betsy had been proved right, and her ex-husband had ceased his support payments after two years, he had expressed a wish to know his son. Betsy wrote her father on the subject:

  I think that it is perhaps a duty to let Jerome know his father, that he may never reproach himself at any future period, at all events. I should not like to take upon myself the responsibility of refusing my consent to such a proceeding, being desirous to fulfill to the extent of my power my duties as a parent.

  Bo met her in Switzerland, and they traveled to Florence, where they stayed for three weeks so Betsy could introduce him to her friends and perhaps excite some interest in a noble match for him. She also made inquiries among the ambassadors she knew, particularly Demidov, about a possible diplomatic career for Bo. All who met him thought he showed an aptitude for the life.

  Then, because Betsy had no wish to see her ex-husband ever again, Bo traveled by himself to Rome to visit his Bonaparte relatives. The plan was for the two of them to return to the United States the following spring so Bo could commence his law studies with Betsy living nearby.

  While in Rome, Bo wrote Betsy that Pauline, who died of stomach cancer the year before, had left him $4,000. Jerome was not in Rome because he feared his wife’s relatives might feel that, by acknowledging his eldest son, he was casting doubt on his second family’s legitimacy. So at the end of October, Bo traveled to meet his father at a secluded country estate near Camerino, Italy, where they would be out of the public eye. He remained there two months. Then in January, when it became apparent that Catharine’s relatives made no objection to Bo’s visit, the entire family traveled to Rome.

  Bo wrote Betsy that his father and stepmother treated him kindly, and he enjoyed meeting his half-siblings, Jerome Napoleon, Mathilde, and Napoleon Joseph (nicknamed Plon-Plon). He did say, however, that his father and Catharine’s way of life was very hard to get used to after the long hours of study he had been keeping. They rose late, breakfasted at noon, did not take their last meal of the day until eleven or twelve at night, and went to bed two hours later. All they did was sit around and gossip, and Bo found it impossible to read. He estimated that his father spent three times his income, and Bo worried that if he stayed with them too long, he would get used to a way of life he could not afford.

  In early March, Bo rejoined his mother in Florence. As they sat together over breakfast the morning after his arrival, he said, “I am glad I took this opportunity to get to know my father. He was very affectionate and tried to persuade me to stay with him, but their mode of living and thinking is so entirely different from my habits that I cannot accustom myself to it. I have always known that America is the only country for me.”

  Betsy set down her coffee cup with a clink. “Really, I wish you would not discount all of Europe simply because you do not find your father’s way of
living congenial. I manage to live economically and still gain admittance to the first circles of European society.”

  “Mama, I don’t care about the first circles of Europe. I am too much attached to the government, customs, and manners of America to be happy anywhere else.”

  “If you are to be a diplomat, you must adapt to all manner of society.”

  He frowned at the mention of a diplomatic career. “At any rate, I must go home and study the law before I can embark on a profession. Shall I book passage for us?”

  “Do we have to go just yet?”

  Bo chose a hard roll from the breadbasket, tore it in half, and began to butter it. “I thought you had agreed that we would sail for home in the spring.”

  “So we shall, but spring has just begun and will run for three months more. Surely after having stayed five months with your father, you can spend a few weeks humoring me.”

  “If you wish. But I must sail home by summer so I can begin my studies in the fall.”

  They spent the next three months attending balls and parties, with Bo riding in the mornings on a horse he borrowed from a cousin. At the end of May, he knocked on the door of Betsy’s boudoir and, after she gave him permission to enter, came to stand behind her as she styled her hair. Gazing at her in the mirror, he said, “Mama, I mean to sail by the end of June. Do you intend to come too, or has your partiality for Europe entirely overcome your affection for me?”

  Betsy set down her brush and twisted around to look at him directly. “What a cruel thing to ask! After all the economies I practiced and the diligence I exercised on your behalf, how can you begrudge me a time of freedom and amusement now that you are a grown man? Yes, I have a partiality for Europe. I am only surprised that you should wonder at my resembling every woman who has left America. I never heard of one who wanted to return after she got away.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Bo said, “Then what are we to do? I fear I am frittering away my life here. I am now of an age when I must think of doing something that will enable me to support myself.”