Napoleon Symphony

by Anthony Burgess

  Cambacérès looked through his lorgnette at some cabbages. “Very crisp, squeak under your fingers. Well, we’re not his friends. No favoritism there. It’s mad really, I suppose. I’m a regicide and you’re a king’s man, and here we both are, looking at celery together.”

  “I don’t care much for celery. Well, very fresh perhaps with a nut of cheese. I’m not a big eater. What you say is true, and it means the Revolution’s over. Jacobins and Bourbonites are packed together in lavender, memories of old times. It all feels like a new thing, and one can’t define it if one’s in the middle of it. But I’d say, at a venture, that the new thing is lui, Bonaparte. What I mean is, he doesn’t express any separable idea—you understand me? He’s not there to personify some new notion of absolutism or democracy or what you will. He’s there to turn the age into himself.”

  “A machine married to an animal. He loves France, he says, he’s always talking of his love for France. Yet what does he mean by France? Certainly not any of the regional cuisines. The language? It’s not primarily his. France, of course, may be just another name for Bonaparte.”

  “It frightens me a little.”

  “Nothing frightens me except overcooked beefsteak. But I see what you mean. A system based on a personality, the negation of a constitution. Not a paradigm but the verb itself. But there are enough checks. We’re two of them.”

  “We don’t have an army.”

  “I have an appetite. Some veal kidneys might be a good idea, simmered in butter, a touch of white wine.” A lovely dawn of broken eggs and oyster shells began to rise over Paris.

  The First Consul turned on the geyser again and let fresh boiling water gush into his tub. He lay hidden in steam. Constant the valet could hardly see to read. “It’s no use, sir,” he said at last. “It’s like a fog.”

  A voice laughed godlike out of the billows. “Open the door then. Stand by the door.” Constant took Le Moniteur to the light that came in to meet the steam and read seriously and loud in his Belgian accent:

  “‘The First Consul ordered that more logs be brought in for the already blazing fires of the Tuileries. These ladies must be cold, he said, with a meaning look around the elegant assembly.’”

  A roar came out of the clouds. “That will teach them, eh, Constant? Coming here with their tits showing and their navels peering through the silk. Too much silk being worn anyway, all from India, helping British trade. No, Constant, we’ll have none of this Directory shamelessness so long as I’m around. Eh?”

  “Sir.”

  “Elegant decency, decent elegance, They’ve all gone soft. Introduce a sterner motif, eh? Tents and drums and marches militaires”

  “Shall I read more, sir?”

  “Not from Le Moniteur. I write it all myself anyway. Anything scurrilous this morning? Pamphlets, broadsheets, anything?”

  “It will make you angry, sir.”

  “Nonsense, man. Read it, whatever it is.”

  “Sir. Sir, it says:

  Not satisfied with Barras’s whore,

  He sniffs around and looks for more,

  But comes with haste that’s quite unique.

  He’d eff all Paris in a week”

  “Hm. I don’t think much of that, Constant.” He was now out of his tub; broad low shapely compact nakedness, a rosy sculpture on an Alpine pass, wreathed around in draperies of shifting mist. “Some very low and envious minds about, but one must expect it. Position, Constant, the jealousy of little men. It will be worse yet.”

  “Sir.”

  Roustam held the shaving mirror while his master shaved himself with Birmingham steel, swift, neat, with never a nick. He had himself drenched in Cologne water, then pummeled back and front. Dressed in the green of a colonel of Chasseurs, tricorn in hand, snuffbox in one pocket, bonbonnière in the other, he went to work sucking a comfit of aniseed-zested licorice. Bourrienne was at the big mahogany desk that was deep in neatly stacked papers. “It’s happened,” he said. “A major offensive in North Italy. If only General Moreau—” He held out the dispatch.

  “Let me see it, man.” He read, sucking, then raised his head, big eyes seeing all, from Rhine to Danube and down to Po.

  “If only the Rhine army—”

  “Well, the Rhine’s out of it now. It’s Year Four all over again. No fool, this Melas. At a guess—no, at more than a guess—What would you do in his place, Bourrienne? You’re the soldier here, I’m only the First Consul.”

  “I’d smash Massena, take Genoa, besiege Toulon. That means His Britannic Majesty’s navy joining in.”

  “Not bad. Yes, Genoa’s the key.” He saw the map in his head.

  “Poor Massena. Get this down, Bourrienne.” He closed his eyes, opened them, began to pace. “This is for Massena. Right? The Rhine Army will start operations towards the beginning of Floréal. The right wing, under General Lecourbe, will occupy Switzerland and thus protect the right flank of the corps invading Swabia. Then Lecourbe will come under the orders of General Berthier and cross the St. Bernard Pass into Italy. At the same time part of the Army of the Reserve will occupy the Valais and cross into Italy by way of the Simplon or—what’s the other?—yes, St. Gotthard Pass. When Berthier enters Italy, you, Citizen-General, must draw the enemy against you, forcing him to divide his army. Make a point of exaggerating your numbers, send the story about of large reinforcements on the way. Have you got that down?”

  Knows all about it, has it all worked out.

  “Hannibal, eh?” Bourrienne said. “Like Hannibal.”

  Citizens Carné, Thiriet, Blondy, Tireux, Hubert, Fossard, Teisseire, Carrère (Jacques), Carrère (Alexandre), Trauner, Barsacq, Gabutti, Mayo, Bonin, Borderie, Verne, Chaillot, Barrault, Brasseur, Dupont, Salou, eighteen thousand others, found themselves beaten back into Genoa in need of more supplies, especially food food, the food depots near empty, food. The fact is, lads, that those bastards in Marseilles did a fine fucking job of swindling the army, fat-arsed civilians who depend on us for their fucking lives, so get ready for starvation rations, horseflesh not too bad really as you already know, a bit sweetish but nourishing, we’ve got to hold out though, that’s the point, and don’t stand any nonsense from the Genoese. What’s happened is that this General Melas has separated General Massena’s lot, that’s us, from General Suchet’s lot and forced General Suchet’s lot back to the Var. Well, you know where that is, lads, and you know what it all means. It means if we don’t hold on here until General Berthier gets over the Alps and rams his bayonets up those bastards’ arses, then the bastards will go marching into France and, as the song says, fucking our wives and sons and daughters. So we have to hold on. Any questions? Yes, when do we get some fucking leave, how about our back pay, I’ve got this pain in the balls citizen sergeant.

  Drizzle fell coldly on Genoa, then thickened to proper rain.

  Massena looked out to the rainy sea and saw through his telescope ships of the British Navy crammed in the Genoa roads. At his back, he knew, General Ott had some twenty-four thousand making a tight siege, so there it all was. I am trying to save France by sticking it out in Genoa. He read once more the cold dispatch that had come through—Lecourbe under orders of Berthier cross St. Bernard Pass Army of Reserve cross by way of Simplon—and felt lead encase his guts as he thought about poor stuttering Berthier, best man in the world for running a staff, but in the field, O my God. He thought with disgust and resentment of lui back there in Paris being a political man now, silk slippers on feet going soft with carpets, lying full-length on a carpet poring over his maps, nice hot coffee on the table nearby, yawning into bed with that chestnut wife of his, faithless bitch but he’s forgiven her. Going soft, is that it? Well, he’d better not go soft on this issue. Smuggle a message through somehow: Citizen First Consul, I put the possibility of our continued resistance at a maximum of fifteen days. Let him sort that out.

  “What did you say?”

  “First departement pay taxes full has best Paris square named after it.�
� Talking in his sleep. Cannot help thinking of poor little Fortuné, friend from the old days.

  “War. War between Treasury and Finance Ministry. Opposition makes security. Sixteen percent interest too much, damned usury.”

  And what’s happened to poor Hippolyte? Well, lui was fair, a man in his position could have ruined him. Poor Fortuné. I loathe this pitch-darkness.

  “Country must live within its means. Family too. Disgusting extravagance.” And then, sighing in his sleep with a kind of satisfaction, he flopped over her. He breathed hard in her face.

  Breath bad. Eats too quickly. Stomach pains.

  “Strvgnce.”

  God, if he knew, but he will know. He’ll come charging round the garde-robes, looking. Six hundred new hats in one month. And the army contracts, cheating my army. But everybody does it.

  Poor little Fortuné’s wet nose nuzzling in the dark. Am I happy now? Dull people coming to the Tuileries, little blue tickets in their hands, as to a museum. And Thérèse Tallien living with that man now, never see her. Everything changed.

  “Change everything. Breed decent women, cook, sew, good wives. Fascination, charm—not enough. Solid Frenchwomen, fully clothed.”

  For me, is it, that? Let me see, it could be rather charming, mold the figure, puffed sleeves, suggest more, show less.

  “Divorce? Ah no, too easy a way out. Too many divorces since the Revol. Solid marriages, tolerance.”

  He woke suddenly. If little Fortuné had been there, it would have started him barking. Pains. Ugh, arrrgh, ow.

  “Damned partridges. What the, where the.” He started bawling: “Eh, eh, eh!” A candle at the door. “Time is it?”

  Her pressed watch said five, ghastly hour.

  “Roustam, black devil, wake everybody. Hot bath. Work to do.”

  She went to sleep then, dreaming of Hippolyte, Fortuné licking her, saying woofing, “Happy now? Happy now, eh?”

  “Not happy at all,” Bourrienne said. “Not if they read this report of General Marescot.” He handed it down to the First Consul who, on his belly, was swimming his way from map to map.

  “Season of the year still early for the major passes. Snow, ice, glaciers. Thrilling, Bourrienne, yes? First time in history to cross them with artillery, caissons and so on. Avalanches bury whole battalions in an instant. Fire guns to bring them down, he says. March in moonshine. Effect of drinking snow water on troops’ digestions. He recommends vinegar. A good man, Marescot. So.” He sat back on his heels, grunting a little. Putting on weight, Bourrienne saw. Bourrienne waited, watching, seeming almost to hear the click of the balls of some hidden abacus. The First Consul crawled to a map, looked at it for five minutes unspeaking, then thrust his forefinger down among the blue veins and green blotches. “There, I’ll engage him there. When we’ve crossed the Alps I’ll engage him there” Bourrienne peered down.

  “Marengo,” he said. “Never heard of it.” And then: “You, you say? You’re going? But, with respect, think of all the work here. The estimate on art galleries to be gone through—”

  “That will wait till I get back. What’s the latest report from Genoa?”

  “Nothing new. Fifteen days Massena said. That makes, as from now, let me see—”

  “He must hang on longer. I’ll need a month.”

  “They’re shooting Genoese. Any grumbling group of four is shot on sight.”

  “Well, they’re not eating Genoese, not yet. Poor devils,” he said with no show of conviction. “Horse’s guts and straw bread. Send a message telling Massena he must hang on. And add these words: I leave at midnight”

  “Midnight tonight?”

  “We’ll see about that later. It’s the midnight that’s important. Gives a sense of urgency. Drama. A quick look now at that Bank of France prospectus.”

  Citizens Thiré, Carniet, Blondaux, Tiry and the rest, not forgetting the black-shock-headed giant Armoire, the great lake of Geneva in front of them, line after line after line of infantry and artillery and cavalry drawn up on the north shore, listened to him as he addressed them kindly from his nodding and bowing chestnut, riding up and down the ranks, the laky and glacial light making them squint (smell of ice ahead, there’ve been so many of these fucking rumors but now he’s contradicting them and he should know). “…And I address you not as your commander-in-chief, but as a mere civilian adviser though I cannot recall my rank being removed… Your task, soldiers, and I would whisper this if you could hear my whisper, lies closer to our own dear land of France than I would wish (I would whisper because the enemy is always listening)… The Austrians have crossed the River Var and so threaten the homeland… How happy I would be if I could say to you that we intend to meet the enemy in Italy, but, alas, the patrie is in danger… News came recently that your brave comrades starving in Genoa have reached the limit of their endurance… the way is open, the hordes will pour in… Courage, defiance, defend France.”

  A good act, General Lannes thought, a good piece of untruth. The Austrians will be swilling it all down.

  Some of the troops cried vive vive, others, more experienced, you can’t believe a fucking word they tell you. The battalions marched off while the drums rattled and the flutes screamed O come ye children of the motherland the sun of glory fills the sky, and then it was back to GHQ for a mountain of paperwork, true orders. Message of encouragement for Massena’s ADC to take back: army is all on the march, you are in difficult position but at least you’re in Genoa not being hacked to pieces, give the men plenty of sleep, good solvent of hunger. And then:

  “Good God, a letter from Desaix.”

  “Desaix, sir?”

  “Old comrade from Egypt. Poor devils. He got through the British blockade, we could do with him here. Tell him to join us at Ivrea—No, wait, I’ll write myself.”

  Fifty thousand men of the Army of the Reserve to be moved over the Alps. Position on Great St. Bernard? Steep, deep in snow. The guns are the problem. General Marmont? Drag the guns, one hundred men to a gun, in improvised trough-sleds—tree-trunks hollowed out. Sleds on rollers. Pull the carriages to pieces and transport them in sections. Mules and men for the mountings of the eight-pounders. Send the wagons empty ahead. Good. Nine days rations and forty rounds for each man. Start in moonlight.

  It was a murderous climb to the Col, cold as hell, ice on your whiskers, breathing like snuffing up a pair of scissors, your spittle turned solid, the wind like a million little flutes, the moon looking down sort of surprised at seeing a huge fucking chunk of its own landscape stuck down there. But right at the top we came to a kind of monastery, three old miles above sea level, with monks, not a bit fat and not a woman in sight though they may have hid them all away specially, giving us a blessing but a bit of bread and cheese as well and a swig of wine, nothing in it for them you’d think, but there must be a catch in it it stands to reason, and there were these big fluffy dogs panting away with little barrels on their chests which made us laugh to see, brandy in them for those they track half-dead in the snow, what will they think of next? Anyway, after that it was all downhill and we got away from the snow but now it was all this raging fucking torrent and slippery stones and us slithering down on our arses, and there the bastards of Austrians were ready for us in this little fort at Bard, as it’s called, right on top of a rock right at the narrowest point of the valley, four hundred grenadiers they reckoned and God knows how many guns, and we had to creep through in the night, but it did no good, they got some of us and we had to run yelling back, and then it was a matter of a mule track and us clinging to the side of the mountain with our fucking fingernails. Join the army and see life.

  “No luck with Fort Bard at all, the garrison is evidently dislodgeable. Met the situation before, Berthier, as you know, in Syria. The days of reducing garrisons are gone, waste of time, have to creep round them somehow. Now, Lannes was right, you agree? The mule track, Monte Albaredo. Paving the other way for the other divisions. A good man, Lannes, you think Lannes a good man?�
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  “A vvv—”

  Berthier had seen with wonder the First Consul sliding and rolling down on his bottom, with some NCOs pulling his mule after him. Torn and wet but cheerful as he approached the headquarters bonfire, six miles or so north of Bard, pulling his wringing wet gauntlets off. “Well, old friend, this is better than being a glorified office boy, yes? Command in the field, taken some weight off you already.” And he had given Berthier a hearty and affectionate kick in the puddings.

  “I know what you’re wondering about, Berthier—how to get the cannon through. Well, look at it logically. Mule track impossible, right? Therefore it has to go through the village of Bard, right under the Austrians’ snouts. How? Nighttime, obviously. There’s not much moon and there’s plenty of cloud. Drag the guns through the village at night.”

  “But the nnn—”

  “Exactly, the noise. Get the men gathering horse-shit, cow-shit, straw, plenty around, I’ve seen it. Spread it on the streets, Berthier. Muffle the wheels in old rags. Think of it.” A visionary gleam. “The biggest army in history to cross the Alps. With heavy artillery” He gave Berthier’s guts three finger-jabs, one for each word. Then he smiled at the staff, gathered round the map-table. “I always,” he said simply, “wanted to cross the Alps.”

  It was a meager dinner—a bit of stewed mountain goat—but the wine was good. The First Consul drank it unwatered, alone with Berthier, and he monologuized about Egypt. “We’ve experienced the extremes, old friend, the desert, the mountains, all the degrees of the thermometer. Remember the little shrine you built, dedicated to your Giuseppina? At the time that my Giuseppina—” The great eyes darkened, the mouth drooped. “Oh, she was living a life of chastity then, it was just the disclosure, the belated horrid disclosure. Best to forget these things, Berthier,” slapping him hard on the knee as though Berthier were insisting on remembering. “Desaix, you remember Desaix? A good man, yes?”