Desiree

by Annemarie Selinko

  I gained weight during my time in Hanover. We didn’t dance for nights on end, and didn’t watch never-ending parades, at any rate never for more than two hours. For my sake Jean-Baptiste reduced the number and length of parades.

  After dinner our officers and their ladies would very often sit with us in my drawing-room, where we talked over the latest news from Paris. We heard that the Emperor still had his headquarters near the Channel coast, preparing his attack on Britain, and we talked in whispers about Josephine’s debts.

  Sometimes professors from Göttingen would be present who tried to acquaint us, in their dreadful French, with their various theories. Once one of them read a play to us in German written by a man called Goethe, the author of the bedside novel The Sorrows of Werther which we used to devour as girls. During the reading I tried to signal to Jean-Baptiste to cut the torture short. Our German was too bad for this sort of thing.

  Another one told us about a great doctor at Göttingen who was said to be able to make the deaf hear again. At that Jean-Baptiste pricked up his ears, for many of our soldiers have become hard of hearing because of the thunder of our own cannon, and he called out:

  ‘I have a friend who ought to go and see this doctor. He lives in Vienna, and I shall write him and tell him that he should go to Göttingen. Désirée, you must meet him. He is a musician whom I got to know during my time in Vienna. He is a friend of Kreutzer’s, you know.’

  This announcement frightened me. I didn’t want to play to this musician. I had managed to wriggle out of my lessons in deportment and music; what I had learnt from Monsieur Montel years ago was sufficient for all my purposes, and as for music, I had very little use for that.

  Well, in the end I never did play to that musician. The evening he came to see us became unforgettable to me. It began very beautifully, though …

  Oscar’s eyes shine when he can listen to music, and that day he pestered me so much that I had to let him stay up. He knew far more about the concert than I. The musician’s name was – oh, I had the name down somewhere, a very outlandish name, Teutonic I should say – yes, that was it, Beethoven!

  Jean-Baptiste had ordered all the players of the former Royal Court Orchestra to hold themselves at the disposal of this Beethoven from Vienna, and to rehearse with him for three mornings in the great ballroom. During these days Oscar was tremedously excited: ‘How long may I stay up, Mama? Till after midnight? How can a deaf man write music? Do you think that he won’t even be able to hear his own music? Has Monsieur Beethoven really an ear trumpet? Does he blow it sometimes?’

  Oscar fired all these questions at me when I took him for a drive, which I often did in the afternoon, along the avenue of linden trees which leads from the castle to the village of Herrenhausen.

  ‘Papa says that he is one of the biggest men he knows. How big could he be? Bigger than a grenadier of the Emperor’s bodyguard?’

  ‘Papa doesn’t mean physical bigness but intellectual. This musician is probably a genius. That’s what Papa means.’

  Oscar pondered. ‘Is he bigger than Papa?’ he asked at last.

  I took Oscar’s sticky little fist, which concealed a sweet, in my hand. ‘That I don’t know, darling.’

  ‘Bigger than the Emperor, Mama?’

  The valet, who was sitting next to the coachman in front of us, turned round and looked at me curiously.

  I didn’t move an eyelid as I said: ‘No man is bigger than the Emperor, Oscar.’

  ‘Perhaps he can’t hear his own music,’ Oscar continued his pondering.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I answered, and felt sad. ‘I had wanted to bring up my son differently,’ I thought, ‘to be a free human being in my father’s sense.’ The new tutor, whom the Emperor himself had recommended to us for Oscar and who arrived here a month ago, tried to teach the child the addition to the Catechism which must now be taught in all French schools and which runs: ‘We owe our Emperor Napoleon the First, the image of God on earth, respect, obedience, loyalty, military service …’

  I happened the other day to come into Oscar’s schoolroom just as he was being taught that, and I didn’t believe my ears. But the narrow-chested, rather unsympathetic young teacher, former pride of the officers’ training academy at Briennes, repeated the words to me and left no doubt: ‘Emperor Napoleon the First, image of God on earth …’

  ‘I shouldn’t like my son to learn that. Leave out the addition,’ I said.

  ‘It is taught in all the schools of the Empire, by law,’ the young man answered, adding with a blank face: ‘His Majesty is very interested in the education of his godchild, and he has ordered me to report regularly about his progress. After all, the pupil is the son of a Marshal of France.’

  I looked at Oscar, who was bending over a copybook, drawing little men, bored. ‘At first nuns taught me,’ I thought, ‘then the nuns were jailed or driven away, and we were told that there was no God, only Pure Reason which we were to worship. Then there came a time when no one bothered about our faith and everybody could worship exactly what he wanted. Napoleon became First Consul, and the priests returned, sworn not to the Republic, but to the Church of Rome. Finally Napoleon forced the Pope to come to Paris to crown him, and made Roman Catholicism the official religion. And now he has made this addition to the Catechism …

  ‘They fetch the peasants’ sons from the fields,’ I continued my train of thought, ‘so that they may march in Napoleon’s armies. Not many peasants have the 8000 francs needed to buy a son off military service, and so they simply hide their sons and the gendarmes take wives, sisters and fiancées as hostages instead, whilst no one bothers about the many deserters. France has enough troops, since the defeated Princes have to put their soldiers at the Emperor’s disposal to prove their loyalty to him. Jean-Baptiste complains so often that his soldiers have to be commanded by his officers with the help of interpreters. Why then does Napoleon make the young men march, march to new wars and to new victories, since France’s frontiers no longer need defending? France no longer has any frontiers. Or do these new wars and victories no longer concern France but only him, Napoleon, the Emperor?’

  I don’t know how long I had been standing there facing the young teacher. At last I turned away and went to the door, repeating: ‘Leave that addition out. Oscar is too small for it yet, he doesn’t know what it means.’

  Outside, in the empty corridor, I leaned helplessly against the wall and began to cry. ‘Napoleon,’ I thought, ‘you pied piper of souls, because they are too small, because they don’t know what it means, you make the children learn that. A whole country bled itself white for the sake of the Rights of Man, and after they had at last been established you went and put yourself at the country’s head …’

  I don’t know how I got to my bedroom. I only remember that I was lying on my bed, sobbing. These proclamations! We know them so well, they always fill the front page of the Moniteur, always in the same words, the words he used once by the Pyramids, the words which he read to us once during a Sunday dinner. ‘The Rights of Man are the guiding principles of this Order-of-the-Day,’ someone said to him during that meal – Joseph, the eldest Bonaparte, who hates his brother, and he had added: ‘They did not come from your brain.’ No, Napoleon, you only use them to be able to tell the peoples that you have come to liberate them, whereas in reality you subject them, you only use the words of the Rights of Man in order to shed blood in their name …

  Someone put his arms around me. ‘What is the matter, Désirée?’

  ‘Do you know the new addition to the Catechism which Oscar is supposed to learn?’ I sobbed. ‘But I’ve forbidden it. You do agree, Jean-Baptiste, don’t you?’

  ‘If you had not forbidden it, I should,’ was all he said, holding me tight.

  ‘Can you imagine, Jean-Baptiste, that I very nearly married that man?’

  He laughed, and it relieved me immeasurably to hear him laugh. ‘There are things, my little girl, which I just will not imagine!’

 
That was a few days before Oscar asked me all those questions about Beethoven on one of our afternoon drives. When the musician arrived he turned out to be a well-set-up man of medium height with the untidiest hair I’ve ever seen at our table. He had a round, bronzed, pock-marked face, a flat nose and sleepy eyes. But when you talked to him his eyes became keen and seemed to concentrate on the lips of the speaker.

  I knew he was rather hard of hearing and therefore shouted at him how glad I was that he had come to see us. Jean-Baptiste slapped his shoulder and asked how things were in Vienna. It was merely a polite question, but the musician took it seriously.

  ‘We prepare for war,’ he said. ‘We expect the Emperor’s armies will march against Austria.’

  Jean-Baptiste frowned and shook his head. He hadn’t wanted that answer. He diverted the conversation at once and asked: ‘What do you think of my orchestra?’

  The stout musician shook his head and Jean-Baptiste repeated the question in as loud a voice as possible.

  The musician raised his heavy eyelids, his eyes winked roguishly. ‘I heard you the first time, Mr Ambassador – sorry, Mr Marshal, that’s your title now, is is not? Your orchestra plays very badly, sir.’

  ‘But you will conduct your new symphony all the same, won’t you?’ Jean-Baptiste shouted.

  Monsieur Beethoven chuckled: ‘Yes, I will, because I want to know what you think of it, Mr Ambassador!’

  ‘Monseigneur!’ shouted my husband’s adjutant into the visitor’s ear.

  ‘You may call me Monsieur van Beethoven. I am no seigneur.’

  The adjutant was in despair: ‘You must address Monsieur le Maréchal as Monseigneur!’ he shouted whilst I put a handkerchief to my mouth to suppress my laughter.

  Our guest turned his eyes gravely on Jean-Baptiste: ‘It is so difficult to know your way with all these titles,’ he said. ‘I am grateful to you, Monseigneur, for wanting to send me to this doctor in Göttingen.’

  ‘Can you hear your own music?’ a child’s high-pitched voice asked behind the composer. He had heard the voice, turned round and saw Oscar. Before I had time to say something to make him forget the cruel question he had bent down to Oscar and said: ‘Did you ask me something, my boy?’

  ‘Can you hear your own music?’ Oscar crowed as loudly as he could.

  Monsieur van Beethoven nodded solemnly. ‘Oh yes, very well indeed. In here,’ he said, putting his hand on his chest. ‘And here!’ and he put his hand on his mighty forehead, adding with a broad grin: ‘But the musicians who play my music I can’t always hear clearly. And that is sometimes a good thing, particularly when they are as bad as those of your papa.’

  After dinner we all went into the ballroom. The players were tuning their instruments and turned timid eyes in our direction.

  ‘They are not used to playing Beethoven symphonies,’ said Jean-Baptiste. ‘Ballet music is easier.’

  Three red silk chairs embossed with the gilded crown of the House of Hanover had been put in front of the rows of seats. Here Jean-Baptiste and I sat down, Oscar, who almost disappeared in his deep chair, between us. Monsieur van Beethoven stood in the midst of the orchestra giving them directions in German which he emphasised with quiet movements of his hands.

  ‘What is he going to conduct?’ I asked Jean-Baptiste.

  ‘A symphony which he wrote last year.’

  Monsieur van Beethoven came to us now and said thoughtfully: ‘At first I had intended to dedicate this symphony to General Bernadotte. But on second thoughts I found it better to dedicate it to the Emperor of the French. But—’ He paused and stared in front of him and seemed to forget all about us and his audience. At last he remembered where he was, pushed a thick strand of hair back from his forehead and murmured: ‘We shall see. May we begin, General?’

  ‘Monseigneur!’ hissed Jean-Baptiste’s adjutant, who was sitting immediately behind us.

  Jean-Baptiste smiled. ‘Please begin, my dear Beethoven.’

  The heavy figure ascended the conductor’s rostrum awkwardly. We only saw his back and the broad hand with the oddly small fingers holding the baton. He knocked on the rostrum, silence fell and he began.

  I had no idea whether our orchestra played well or badly. I only knew that this stout man with the wide movements of his arms spurred it on and made it make music as I had never heard it make music before. Sometimes it sounded like an organ and then again like the sweet song of violins, jubilant yet despondent. I pressed my hand to my mouth because my lips trembled. This music had nothing to do with the Marseillaise. But the Marseillaise must have sounded like this when they went into battle for the Rights of Man and the frontiers of France, at once like a prayer and a shout of joy.

  I bent forward to look at Jean-Baptiste. His face was like a face of stone, his mouth had become thin, his nose jutted out boldly and his eyes showed a strange fire. His right hand gripped the arm of his chair and held it so hard that his veins stood out.

  Nobody had noticed the appearance of a courier by the door, or had seen Adjutant-Colonel Villatte get up noiselessly and take a letter from the courier. When Villatte touched my husband lightly on his arm, he looked round, startled, before he met the adjutant’s eyes. He took the letter, gave him a sign, and Villatte remained behind his chair. The concert went on and the music carried me away again into other realms.

  In the silence between two movements I heard the rustle of paper. Jean-Baptiste broke the seal and undid the letter. Monsieur van Beethoven had turned round towards Jean-Baptiste, who gave him a sign to continue.

  Jean-Baptiste read. Once he looked up and seemed to listen to this heavenly music with a deep nostalgic longing in his eyes. But then he took a pen from his adjutant, scribbled a few words on a pad and handed them to the officer, who left at once. Another officer took up his position next to Jean-Baptiste. He left in his turn with a message, and a third one appeared, this time with a clicking of heels which broke through the sound of the Beethoven music and caused Jean-Baptiste’s lips to twitch in irritation for one short moment, before he went on with yet another of his messages. Only when that had been handed over did he listen again, no longer with complete abandonment and enthusiasm as before but biting his lower lip. Only during the very last passage, the choral hymn to liberty, equality and fraternity, he once more raised his head. But I felt that this was not on account of the voice from the orchestra but on account of the voice which was speaking inside himself. I couldn’t tell what this voice that spoke to the accompaniment of Beethoven’s music said to him, I only saw that Jean-Baptiste smiled a bitter smile.

  The end came, and great applause. I took off my gloves to be able to clap more loudly. The maestro bowed gauchely and pointed to the musicians with whom he had been so dissatisfied before.

  All three adjutants had now collected behind Jean-Baptiste, where they were waiting with tense faces. Jean-Baptiste, however, went towards the rostrum and helped Monsieur van Beethoven down as if he were an exalted dignitary. ‘Thank you, Beethoven,’ he said, ‘from the bottom of my heart, thank you.’

  The pock-marked face of the musician suddenly had an air of smoothness and restfulness about it, and even of amusement. ‘Do you remember, General, how, one evening in Vienna, you played the Marseillaise to me?’

  ‘With one finger on the piano,’ laughed Jean-Baptiste, ‘that is all the playing I do.’

  ‘That was the first time I heard your hymn, the hymn of a free people.’Jean-Baptiste towered above him, and Beethoven had to raise his head to be able to see into Jean-Baptiste’s eyes. ‘I have often thought of that evening during the writing of this symphony. That was why I wanted to dedicate it to you, a young General of the French people.’

  ‘I am no longer a young General, Beethoven.’

  Beethoven didn’t answer that. He kept staring at Jean-Baptiste so that he thought he hadn’t heard him, and shouted once more: ‘I was saying I am no longer a young General.’

  Still Beethoven didn’t answer. The three adjutants be
hind Jean-Baptiste started to make gestures of impatience.

  ‘Somebody else came,’ Beethoven at last said heavily, ‘somebody else, and carried the message of your people across all frontiers. That is why I thought that I should dedicate the symphony to him. What do you think, General Bernadotte?’

  ‘Monseigneur!’ the three adjutants shouted almost in unison. Jean-Baptiste, angrily, motioned them to stop.

  ‘Across all frontiers, Bernadotte,’ Beethoven repeated with an artless, almost childlike smile. ‘That night in Vienna you told me about the Rights of Man. I had known very little about them before, I am not interested in politics. But that, that, you see, had nothing to do with politics.’ He smiled again. ‘You played the Marseillaise to me with one finger, Bernadotte.’

  ‘And that is what you made of it, Beethoven,’ said Jean-Baptiste, deeply moved. A pause followed. One of the adjutants whispered, ‘Monseigneur!’

  Jean-Baptiste collected himself, his hand went over his face as if to wipe away old memories. ‘Monsieur van Beethoven, I thank you for your concert. I wish you a happy journey to Göttingen and I do hope that the doctor there will not disappoint you.’

  Then Jean-Baptiste turned round to our guests, the garrison officers and their ladies and the cream of Hanover’s society. ‘I should like to bid you good-bye. To-morrow morning I am joining the Army in the field.’ Smilingly he bowed. ‘On the Emperor’s order! Ladies and gentlemen, good night.’

  Then he offered me his arm.

  Yes, we were very happy in Hanover.

  In the grey of a dawn eerily shot through with yellow streaks of candlelight Jean-Baptiste said good-bye to me. ‘You and Oscar are going back to Paris to-day,’ he said.

  Fernand had prepared Jean-Baptiste’s luggage. The gold-embroidered Marshal’s uniform had been packed away carefully in the travelling bag together with table silver for twelve persons and a narrow camp bed. Jean-Baptiste wore the plain field uniform with the General’s epaulettes.