CHAPTER XXXVI. SCULPTURE AND PAINTING
When Roland returned to the Luxembourg, the clock of the palace markedone hour and a quarter after mid-day.
The First Consul was working with Bourrienne.
If we were merely writing a novel, we should hasten to its close, and inorder to get there more expeditiously we should neglect certain details,which, we are told, historical figures can do without. That is not ouropinion. From the day we first put pen to paper--now some thirty yearsago--whether our thought were concentrated on a drama, or whether itspread itself into a novel, we have had a double end--to instruct and toamuse.
And we say instruct first, for amusement has never been to our mindanything but a mask for instruction. Have we succeeded? We think so.Before long we shall have covered with our narratives an enormousperiod of time; between the "Comtesse de Salisbury" and the "Comte deMonte-Cristo" five centuries and a half are comprised. Well, we assertthat we have taught France as much history about those five centuriesand a half as any historian.
More than that; although our opinions are well known; although, underthe Bourbons of the elder branch as under the Bourbons of the youngerbranch, under the Republic as under the present government, we havealways proclaimed them loudly, we do not believe that that opinion hasbeen unduly manifested in our books and dramas.
We admire the Marquis de Posa in Schiller's "Don Carlos"; but, in hisstead, we should not have anticipated the spirit of that age to thepoint of placing a philosopher of the eighteenth century among theheroes of the sixteenth, an encyclopedist at the court of Philippe II.Therefore, just as we have been--in literary parlance--monarchicalunder the Monarchy, republican under the Republic, we are to-dayreconstructionists under the Consulate.
That does not prevent our thought from hovering above men, above theirepoch, and giving to each the share of good and evil they do. Now thatshare no one, except God, has the right to award from his individualpoint of view. The kings of Egypt who, at the moment they passed intothe unknown, were judged upon the threshold of their tombs, were notjudged by a man, but by a people. That is why it is said: "The judgmentof a people is the judgment of God."
Historian, novelist, poet, dramatic author, we are nothing more than theforeman of a jury who impartially sums up the arguments and leaves thejury to give their verdict. The book is the summing up; the readers arethe jury.
That is why, having to paint one of the most gigantic figures, not onlyof modern times but of all times; having to paint the period of histransition, that is to say the moment when Bonaparte transformed himselfinto Napoleon, the general into an emperor--that is why we say, inthe fear of becoming unjust, we abandon interpretations and substitutefacts.
We are not of those who say with Voltaire that, "no one is a hero to hisvalet."
It may be that the valet is near-sighted or envious--two infirmitiesthat resemble each other more closely than people think. We maintainthat a hero may become a kind man, but a hero, for being kind, is nonethe less a hero.
What is a hero in the eyes of the public? A man whose genius ismomentarily greater than his heart. What is a hero in private life? Aman whose heart is momentarily greater than his genius.
Historians, judge the genius!
People, judge the heart!
Who judged Charlemagne? The historians. Who judged Henri IV.? Thepeople. Which, in your opinion, was the most righteously judged?
Well, in order to render just judgment, and compel the court ofappeals, which is none other than posterity, to confirm contemporaneousjudgments, it is essential not to light up one side only of the figurewe depict, but to walk around it, and wherever the sunlight does notreach, to hold a torch, or even a candle.
Now, let us return to Bonaparte.
He was working, as we said, with Bourrienne. Let us inquire into theusual division of the First Consul's time.
He rose at seven or eight in the morning, and immediately called one ofhis secretaries, preferably Bourrienne, and worked with him until ten.At ten, breakfast was announced; Josephine, Hortense and Eugeneeither waited or sat down to table with the family, that is with theaides-de-camp on duty and Bourrienne. After breakfast he talked withthe usual party, or the invited guests, if there were any; one hour wasdevoted to this intercourse, which was generally shared by theFirst Consul's two brothers, Lucien and Joseph, Regnault deSaint-Jean-d'Angely, Boulay (de la Meurthe), Monge, Berthollet,Laplace and Arnault. Toward noon Cambaceres arrived. As a general thingBonaparte devoted half an hour to his chancellor; then suddenly, withoutwarning, he would rise and say: "Au revoir, Josephine! au revoir,Hortense! Come, Bourrienne, let us go to work."
This speech, which recurred almost regularly in the same words, was nosooner uttered than Bonaparte left the salon and returned to his study.There, no system of work was adopted; it might be some urgent matter ormerely a caprice. Either Bonaparte dictated or Bourrienne read, afterwhich the First Consul went to the council.
In the earlier months of the Consulate, he was obliged to cross thecourtyard of the little Luxembourg to reach the council-chamber, which,if the weather were rainy, put him in bad humor; but toward the endof December he had the courtyard covered; and from that time he almostalways returned to his study singing. Bonaparte sang almost as false asLouis XV.
As soon as he was back he examined the work he had ordered done, signedhis letters, and stretched himself out in his armchair, the arms ofwhich he stabbed with his penknife as he talked. If he was not inclinedto talk, he reread the letters of the day before, or the pamphlets ofthe day, laughing at intervals with the hearty laugh of a great child.Then suddenly, as one awakening from a dream, he would spring to hisfeet and cry out: "Write, Bourrienne!"
Then he would sketch out the plan for some building to be erected, ordictate some one of those vast projects which have amazed--let us sayrather, terrified the world.
At five o'clock he dined; after dinner the First Consul ascended toJosephine's apartments, where he usually received the visits of theministers, and particularly that of the minister of foreign affairs, M.de Talleyrand. At midnight, sometimes earlier, but never later, he gavethe signal for retiring by saying, brusquely: "Let us go to bed."
The next day, at seven in the morning, the same life began over again,varied only by unforeseen incidents.
After these details of the personal habits of the great genius we aretrying to depict under his first aspect, his personal portrait ought, wethink, to come.
Bonaparte, First Consul, has left fewer indications of his personalappearance than Napoleon, Emperor. Now, as nothing less resembles theEmperor of 1812 than the First Consul of 1800; let us endeavor, ifpossible, to sketch with a pen those features which the brush has neverfully portrayed, that countenance which neither bronze nor marble hasbeen able to render. Most of the painters and sculptors who flourishedduring this illustrious period of art--Gros, David, Prud'hon, Girodetand Bosio--have endeavored to transmit to posterity the features ofthe Man of Destiny, at the different epochs when the vast providentialvistas which beckoned him first revealed themselves. Thus, we haveportraits of Bonaparte, commander-in-chief, Bonaparte, First Consul, andNapoleon, Emperor; and although some painters and sculptors have caughtmore or less successfully the type of his face, it may be said thatthere does not exist, either of the general, the First Consul, or theemperor, a single portrait or bust which perfectly resembles him.
It was not within the power of even genius to triumph over animpossibility. During the first part of Bonaparte's life it was possibleto paint or chisel Bonaparte's protuberant skull, his brow furrowedby the sublime line of thought, his pale elongated face, his granitecomplexion, and the meditative character of his countenance. Duringthe second part of his life it was possible to paint or to chisel hisbroadened forehead, his admirably defined eyebrows, his straight nose,his close-pressed lips, his chin modelled with rare perfection, hiswhole face, in short, like a coin of Augustus. But that which neitherhis bust nor his portrait could render, which was utterly bey
ond thedomain of imitation, was the mobility of his look; that look which is toman what the lightning is to God, namely, the proof of his divinity.
In Bonaparte, that look obeyed his will with the rapidity of lightning;in one and the same minute it dared from beneath his eyelids, now keenand piercing as the blade of a dagger violently unsheathed, now soft asa sun ray or a kiss, now stern as a challenge, or terrible as a threat.
Bonaparte had a look for every thought that stirred his soul. InNapoleon, this look, except in the momentous circumstances of his life,ceased to be mobile and became fixed, but even so it was none the lessimpossible to render; it was a drill sounding the heart of whosoever helooked upon, the deepest, the most secret thought of which he meant tosound. Marble or painting might render the fixedness of that look, butneither the one nor the other could portray its life--that is to say,its penetrating and magnetic action. Troubled hearts have veiled eyes.
Bonaparte, even in the days of his leanness, had beautiful hands, andhe displayed them with a certain coquetry. As he grew stouter his handsbecame superb; he took the utmost care of them, and looked at them whentalking, with much complacency. He felt the same satisfaction in histeeth, which were handsome, though not with the splendor of his hands.
When he walked, either alone or with some one, whether in a room or ina garden, he always bent a little forward, as though his head were heavyto carry, and crossed his hands behind his back. He frequently made aninvoluntary movement with the right shoulder, as if a nervous shudderhad passed through it, and at the same time his mouth made a curiousmovement from right to left, which seemed to result from the other.These movements, however, had nothing convulsive about them, whatevermay have been said notwithstanding; they were a simple trick indicativeof great preoccupation, a sort of congestion of the mind. It was chieflymanifested when the general, the First Consul, or the Emperor, wasmaturing vast plans. It was after such promenades, accompanied by thistwofold movement of the shoulders and lips, that he dictated his mostimportant notes. On a campaign, with the army, on horseback, he wasindefatigable; he was almost as much so in ordinary life, and wouldoften walk five or six hours in succession without perceiving it.
When he walked thus with some one with whom he was familiar, he commonlypassed his arm through that or his companion and leaned upon him.
Slender and thin as he was at the period when we place him before ourreaders' eyes, he was much concerned by the fear of future corpulence;it was to Bourrienne that he usually confided this singular dread.
"You see, Bourrienne, how slim and abstemious I am. Well, nothing canrid me of the idea that when I am forty I shall be a great eater andvery fat. I foresee that my constitution will undergo a change. I takeexercise enough, but what will you!--it's a presentiment; and it won'tfail to happen."
We all know to what obesity he attained when a prisoner at Saint Helena.
He had a positive passion for baths, which no doubt contributed not alittle to make him fat; this passion became an irresistible need. Hetook one every other day, and stayed in it two hours, during which timethe journals and pamphlets of the day were read to him. As thewater cooled he would turn the hot-water faucet until he raised thetemperature of his bathroom to such a degree that the reader couldneither bear it any longer, nor see to read. Not until then would hepermit the door to be opened.
It has been said that he was subject to epileptic attacks after hisfirst campaign in Italy. Bourrienne was with him eleven years, and neversaw him suffer from an attack of this malady.
Bonaparte, though indefatigable when necessity demanded it, requiredmuch sleep, especially during the period of which we are now writing.Bonaparte, general or First Consul, kept others awake, but he slept, andslept well. He retired at midnight, sometimes earlier, as we have said,and when at seven in the morning they entered his room to awaken himhe was always asleep. Usually at the first call he would rise; butoccasionally, still half asleep, he would mutter: "Bourrienne, I beg ofyou, let me sleep a little longer."
Then, if there was nothing urgent, Bourrienne would return at eighto'clock; if it was otherwise, he insisted, and then, with muchgrumbling, Bonaparte would get up. He slept seven, sometimes eight,hours out of the twenty-four, taking a short nap in the afternoon. Healso gave particular instruction for the night.
"At night," he would say, "come in my room as seldom as possible. Neverwake me if you have good news to announce--good news can wait; but ifthere is bad news, wake me instantly, for then there is not a moment tobe lost in facing it."
As soon as Bonaparte had risen and made his morning ablutions, whichwere very thorough, his valet entered and brushed his hair and shavedhim; while he was being shaved, a secretary or an aide-de-camp read thenewspapers aloud, always beginning with the "Moniteur." He gave no realattention to any but the English and German papers.
"Skip that," he would say when they read him the French papers; "_I knowwhat they say, because they only say what I choose._"
His toilet completed, Bonaparte went down to his study. We have seenabove what he did there. At ten o'clock the breakfast as announced,usually by the steward, in these words: "The general is served." Notitle, it will be observed, not even that of First Consul.
The repast was a frugal one. Every morning a dish was served whichBonaparte particularly liked--a chicken fried in oil with garlic;the same dish that is now called on the bills of fare at restaurants"Chicken a la Marengo."
Bonaparte drank little, and then only Bordeaux or Burgundy, preferablythe latter. After breakfast, as after dinner, he drank a cup of blackcoffee; never between meals. When he chanced to work until late atnight they brought him, not coffee, but chocolate, and the secretary whoworked with him had a cup of the same. Most historians, narrators, andbiographers, after saying that Bonaparte drank a great deal of coffee,add that he took snuff to excess.
They are doubly mistaken. From the time he was twenty-four, Bonapartehad contracted the habit of taking snuff: but only enough to keep hisbrain awake. He took it habitually, not, as biographers have declared,from the pocket of his waistcoat, but from a snuff-box which he changedalmost every day for a new one--having in this matter of collectingsnuff-boxes a certain resemblance to the great Frederick. If he ever didtake snuff from his waistcoat pocket, it was on his battle days, when itwould have been difficult, while riding at a gallop under fire, to holdboth reins and snuff-box. For those days he had special waistcoats, withthe right-hand pocket lined with perfumed leather; and, as the slopingcut of his coat enabled him to insert his thumb and forefinger into thispocket without unbuttoning his coat, he could, under any circumstancesand at any gait, take snuff when he pleased.
As general or First Consul, he never wore gloves, contenting himselfwith holding and crumpling them in his left hand. As Emperor, there wassome advance in this propriety; he wore one glove, and as he changed hisgloves, not once, but two or three times a day, his valet adopted thehabit of giving him alternate gloves; thus making one pair serve as two.
Bonaparte had two great passions which Napoleon inherited--for war andarchitectural monuments to his fame.
Gay, almost jolly in camp, he was dreamy and sombre in repose. To escapethis gloom he had recourse to the electricity of art, and saw visionsof those gigantic monumental works of which he undertook many, andcompleted some. He realized that such works are part of the life ofpeoples; they are history written in capitals, landmarks of the ages,left standing long after generations are swept away. He knew that Romelives in her ruins, that Greece speaks by her statues, that Egypt,splendid and mysterious spectre, appeared through her monuments on thethreshold of civilized existence.
What he loved above everything, what he hugged in preference to allelse, was renown, heroic uproar; hence his need of war, his thirst forglory. He often said:
"A great reputation is a great noise; the louder it is, the further itis heard. Laws, institutions, monuments, nations, all fall; but soundremains and resounds through other generations. Babylon and Alexandriaare fallen; Sem
iramis and Alexander stand erect, greater perhaps throughthe echo of their renown, waxing and multiplying through the ages, thanthey were in their lifetimes." Then he added, connecting these ideaswith himself: "My power depends on my fame and on the battles I win.Conquest has made me what I am, and conquest alone can sustain me. A newborn government must dazzle, must amaze. The moment it no longer flames,it dies out; once it ceases to grow, it falls."
He was long a Corsican, impatient under the conquest of his country;but after the 13th Vendemiaire he became a true Frenchman, and ended byloving France with true passion. His dream was to see her great, happy,powerful, at the head of the nations in glory and in art. It is truethat, in making France great, he became great with her, and attachedhis name indissolubly to her grandeur. To him, living eternally in thisthought, actuality disappeared in the future; wherever the hurricaneof war may have swept him, France, above all things else, above allnations, filled his thoughts. "What will my Athenians think?" saidAlexander, after Issus and Arbela. "I hope the French will be contentwith me," said Bonaparte, after Rivoli and the Pyramids.
Before battle, this modern Alexander gave little thought to what heshould do in case of victory, but much in case of defeat. He, more thanany man, was convinced that trifles often decide the greatest events; hewas therefore more concerned in foreseeing such events than in producingthem. He watched them come to birth, and ripen; then, when the righttime came, he appeared, laid his hand on them, mastered and guided them,as an able rider roasters and guides a spirited horse.
His rapid rise in the midst of revolutions and political changes he hadbrought about, or seen accomplished, the events which he had controlled,had given him a certain contempt for men; moreover, he was not inclinedby nature to think well of them. His lips were often heard to utter thegrievous maxim--all the more grievous because he personally knewits truth--"There are two levers by which men are moved, fear andself-interest."
With such opinions Bonaparte did not, in fact, believe in friendship.
"How often," said Bourrienne, "has he said to me, 'Friendship is only aword; I love no one, not even my brothers--Joseph a little possibly; butif I love him it is only from habit, and because he is my elder. Duroc,yes, I love him; but why? Because his character pleases me; because heis stern, cold, resolute; besides, Duroc never sheds a tear. But whyshould I love any one? Do you think I have any true friends? As long asI am what I am, I shall have friends--apparently at least; but when myluck ceases, you'll see! Trees don't have leaves in winter. I tell you,Bourrienne, we must leave whimpering to the women, it's their business;as for me, no feelings. I need a vigorous hand and a stout heart; ifnot, better let war and government alone.'"
In his familiar intercourse, Bonaparte was what schoolboys call a tease;but his teasings were never spiteful, and seldom unkind. His ill-humor,easily aroused, disappeared like a cloud driven by the wind; itevaporated in words, and disappeared of its own will. Sometimes,however, when matters of public import were concerned, and hislieutenants or ministers were to blame, he gave way to violent anger;his outbursts were then hard and cruel, and often humiliating. He gaveblows with a club, under which, willingly or unwillingly, the recipienthad to bow his head; witness his scene with Jomini and that with the Ducde Bellune.
Bonaparte had two sets of enemies, the Jacobins and the royalists; hedetested the first and feared the second. In speaking of the Jacobins,he invariably called them the murderers of Louis XVI.; as for theroyalists, that was another thing; one might almost have thought heforesaw the Restoration. He had about him two men who had voted thedeath of the king, Fouche and Cambaceres.
He dismissed Fouche, and, if he kept Cambaceres, it was because hewanted the services of that eminent legist; but he could not endure him,and he would often catch his colleague, the Second Consul, by the ear,and say: "My poor Cambaceres, I'm so sorry for you; but your goose iscooked. If ever the Bourbons get back they will hang you."
One day Cambaceres lost his temper, and with a twist of his head hepulled his ear from the living pincers that held it.
"Come," he said, "have done with your foolish joking."
Whenever Bonaparte escaped any danger, a childish habit, a Corsicanhabit, reappeared; he always made a rapid sign of the cross on hisbreast with the thumb.
Whenever he met with any annoyance, or was haunted with a disagreeablethought, he hummed--what air? An air of his own that was no air at all,and which nobody ever noticed, he sang so false. Then, still singing, hewould sit down before his writing desk, tilting in his chair, tipping itback till he almost fell over, and mutilating, as we have said, its armswith a penknife, which served no other purpose, inasmuch as he nevermended a pen himself. His secretaries were charged with that duty, andthey mended them in the best manner possible, mindful of the fact thatthey would have to copy that terrific writing, which, as we know, wasnot absolutely illegible.
The effect produced on Bonaparte by the ringing of bells is known. Itwas the only music he understood, and it went straight to his heart. Ifhe was seated when the vibrations began he would hold up his hand forsilence, and lean toward the sound. If he was walking, he wouldstop, bend his head, and listen. As long as the bell rang he remainedmotionless; when the sound died away in space, he resumed his work,saying to those who asked him to explain this singular liking for theiron voice: "It reminds me of my first years at Brienne; I was happythen!"
At the period of which we are writing, his greatest personal interestwas the purchase he had made of the domain of Malmaison. He went thereevery night like a schoolboy off for his holiday, and spent Sunday andoften Monday there. There, work was neglected for walking expeditions,during which he personally superintended the improvements he hadordered. Occasionally, and especially at first, he would wander beyondthe limits of the estate; but these excursions were thought dangerous bythe police, and given up entirely after the conspiracy of the Arena andthe affair of the infernal machine.
The revenue derived from Malmaison, calculated by Bonaparte himself, onthe supposition that he should sell his fruits and vegetables, did notamount to more than six thousand francs.
"That's not bad," he said to Bourrienne; "but," he added with a sigh,"one must have thirty thousand a year to be able to live here."
Bonaparte introduced a certain poesy in his taste for the country. Heliked to see a woman with a tall flexible figure glide through the duskyshrubberies of the park; only that woman must be dressed in white. Hehated gowns of a dark color and had a horror of stout women. As forpregnant women, he had such an aversion for them that it was very seldomhe invited one to his soirees or his fetes. For the rest, with littlegallantry in his nature, too overbearing to attract, scarcely civil towomen, it was rare for him to say, even to the prettiest, a pleasantthing; in fact, he often produced a shudder by the rude remarks he madeeven to Josephine's best friends. To one he remarked: "Oh! what red armsyou have!" To another, "What an ugly headdress you are wearing!" To athird, "Your gown is dirty; I have seen you wear it twenty times"; or,"Why don't you change your dressmaker; you are dressed like a fright."
One day he said to the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a charming blonde, whosehair was the admiration of everyone:
"It's queer how red your hair is!"
"Possibly," replied the duchess, "but this is the first time any man hastold me so."
Bonaparte did not like cards; when he did happen to play it was alwaysvingt-et-un. For the rest, he had one trait in common with Henry IV.,he cheated; but when the game was over he left all the gold and notes hehad won on the table, saying:
"You are ninnies! I have cheated all the time we've been playing, andyou never found out. Those who lost can take their money back."
Born and bred in the Catholic faith, Bonaparte had no preference for anydogma. When he re-established divine worship it was done as a politicalact, not as a religious one. He was fond, however, of discussionsbearing on the subject; but he defined his own part in advance bysaying: "My reason makes me a disbeliever in many things; but th
eimpressions of my childhood and the inspirations of my early youth haveflung me back into uncertainty."
Nevertheless he would never hear of materialism; he cared little whatthe dogma was, provided that dogma recognized a Creator. One beautifulevening in Messidor, on board his vessel, as it glided along between thetwofold azure of the sky and sea, certain mathematicians declared therewas no God, only animated matter. Bonaparte looked at the celestialarch, a hundred times more brilliant between Malta and Alexandria thanit is in Europe, and, at a moment when they thought him unconscious ofthe conversation, he exclaimed, pointing to the stars: "You may say whatyou please, but it was a God who made all that."
Bonaparte, though very exact in paying his private debts, was just thereverse about public expenses. He was firmly convinced that in all pasttransactions between ministers and purveyors or contractors, that if theminister who had made the contract was not a dupe, the State at any ratewas robbed; for this reason he delayed the period of payment as long aspossible; there were literally no evasions, no difficulties he would notmake, no bad reasons he would not give. It was a fixed idea with him, animmutable principle, that every contractor was a cheat.
One day a man who had made a bid that was accepted was presented to him.
"What is your name?" he asked, with his accustomed brusqueness.
"Vollant, citizen First Consul."
"Good name for a contractor."
"I spell it with two l's, citizen."
"To rob the better, sir," retorted Bonaparte, turning his back on him.
Bonaparte seldom changed his decisions, even when he saw they wereunjust. No one ever heard him say: "I was mistaken." On the contrary,his favorite saying was: "I always believe the worst"--a saying moreworthy of Simon than Augustus.
But with all this, one felt that there was more of a desire inBonaparte's mind to seem to despise men than actual contempt for them.He was neither malignant nor vindictive. Sometimes, it is true, herelied too much upon necessity, that iron-tipped goddess; but forthe rest, take him away from the field of politics and he was kind,sympathetic, accessible to pity, fond of children (great proof of a kindand pitying heart), full of indulgence for human weakness in privatelife, and sometimes of a good-humored heartiness, like that of Henri IV.playing with his children in the presence of the Spanish ambassador.
If we were writing history we should have many more things to sayof Bonaparte without counting those which--after finishing withBonaparte--we should still have to say of Napoleon. But we are writinga simple narrative, in which Bonaparte plays a part; unfortunately,wherever Bonaparte shows himself, if only for a moment, he becomes, inspite of himself, a principal personage.
The reader must pardon us for having again fallen into digression; thatman, who is a world in himself, has, against our will, swept us along inhis whirlwind.
Let us return to Roland, and consequently to our legitimate tale.