Napoleon
Page 11
Augustin Robespierre’s patronage naturally put Napoleon under suspicion. On August 9 he was arrested by an officer and ten men at his lodgings in Nice and taken to the fortress in Nice for a day, before being imprisoned at the Fort-Carré in Antibes, where he was to spend the next ten days. (Both were places he had inspected officially earlier in his career.) Saliceti, from a wholly justifiable sense of self-preservation, did nothing to protect him and indeed ransacked Napoleon’s papers looking for evidence of treachery.6 ‘He barely deigned to look at me from the lofty heights of his greatness,’ was Napoleon’s resentful comment on his fellow Corsican and political comrade of five years.7
In 1794, innocence was no defence against the guillotine, and nor was proven heroism fighting on behalf of the Republic, so Napoleon was in genuine danger. The official reason for his arrest was that certain Marseillais believed his positioning of a battery on the landward side of their city had been intended for use against them rather than an invader. Back in January he’d written to Bouchotte, the war minister: ‘The batteries which defend Marseilles harbour are in a ridiculous condition. Total ignorance presided over their layout.’8 The real reason was, of course, political; he had benefited from Augustin Robespierre’s patronage and had written a Jacobin tract, Le Souper de Beaucaire, which Robespierre had helped him publish. ‘Men can be unjust towards me, my dear Junot,’ he wrote to his faithful aide-de-camp, ‘but it suffices to be innocent; my conscience is the tribunal before which I call my conduct.’9 (The loyal but impulsive Junot had come up with a Scarlet Pimpernel scheme to spring Napoleon from jail, which the prisoner sensibly and firmly scotched: ‘Do nothing. You would only compromise me.’10)
Napoleon was fortunate that the Thermidoreans didn’t pursue their enemies as ruthlessly as the Jacobins had theirs, or indulge in extrajudicial prison murders like the September Massacres. He was released for lack of evidence on August 20. His incarceration had not been physically onerous and he made his prison guard a palace adjutant when he came to power. Once he was freed he returned to planning an expedition against Corsica and harassing poor Major Berlier. He also had time to renew his suit with Désirée Clary – whom he called Eugénie – telling her on September 10, ‘the charms of your person and character have won over the heart of your lover’.11 To increase the charms of her intellect he sent her a list of books he wanted her to read, and promised to follow them with his thoughts on music. He also urged her to improve her memory and ‘form her reason’.
Although Napoleon generally saw women as lesser beings, he had clear ideas of how they should be educated in order to make proper companions for men. He asked Désirée about the effect of her reading ‘on her soul’ and tried to make her think about music intellectually, since it had ‘the happiest effects on life’. (Hector Berlioz would later say that Napoleon was a discerning connoisseur of the music of Giovanni Paisiello, whom the Bonapartes had employed in Paris and Rome, composing works almost continuously between 1797 and 1814.) Napoleon’s letters to Désirée were not particularly flowery or even romantic, but his interest in her was palpable, and to be the object of his concentrated attention was pleasing to her, even if, despite the new republican informality, he insisted on addressing her as ‘vous’.12
He seems to have enjoyed her playful chastisement. ‘If you could witness, mademoiselle,’ he wrote in February 1795, ‘the sentiments with which your letter inspired me, you would be convinced of the injustice of your reproaches . . . There is no pleasure in which I do not desire to include you, no dream of which you do not furnish half. Be certain then that “the most sensible of women loves the coldest of men” is an iniquitous and ill-judged, unjust phrase which you did not believe in the writing. Your heart disavowed it even as your hand wrote it.’13 Writing to her, he added, was both his greatest pleasure and ‘the most imperative need’ of his soul. He subscribed to a clavichord journal on her behalf so that she would receive the latest music from Paris, and was concerned that her teacher was paying insufficient attention to her solfège lessons. He added a long paragraph on singing technique which suggests that he was knowledgeable about (or at least had opinions on) vocal music. By April 11, 1795 he was finally using the familiar ‘tu’ form, and writing that he was ‘yours for life’.14 Napoleon was in love.
• • •
On March 3, 1795 Napoleon set sail from Marseilles with 15 ships, 1,174 guns and 16,900 men to recapture Corsica from Paoli and the British. His expedition was soon scattered by a British squadron of fifteen ships with fewer guns and half the number of men. Two French ships were captured. Napoleon wasn’t held responsible for the reverse, but neither did this quintessential landlubber learn the lessons of attempting to put to sea against a similarly sized but far more skilfully deployed force of the Royal Navy. Between 1793 and 1797, the French would lose 125 warships to Britain’s 38, including 35 capital vessels (ships-of-the-line) to Britain’s 11, most of the latter the result of fire, accidents and storms rather than French attack.15 The maritime aspect of grand strategy was always one of Napoleon’s weaknesses: in all his long list of victories, none was at sea.
Once the expedition was abandoned, Napoleon was technically unemployed and only 139th on the list of generals in terms of seniority. The new commander of the Army of Italy, General Barthélemy Schérer, didn’t want to take him because, although an acknowledged expert in artillery, he was thought to be ‘too much given to intrigue for promotion’.16 This was certainly true: Napoleon saw no separation between the military and political spheres any more than his heroes Caesar or Alexander had done. But only eight days after disembarking from the Corsican expedition, he was ordered to take command of the artillery of General Hoche’s Army of the West, stationed at Brest, which was then suppressing the royalist uprising in the Vendée.
The government, which was now largely made up of Girondins who had survived the Terror, was conducting a vicious dirty war in western France, where more Frenchmen were killed than in the whole of the Paris Terror. Napoleon knew there was little glory to be had there, even if he were to succeed. Hoche was only a year older than him, so Napoleon’s chances of advancement were slim. Having fought against the British and Piedmontese, he didn’t relish the prospect of fighting other Frenchmen, and on May 8 he left for Paris to try to get a better posting, taking his sixteen-year-old brother Louis, for whom he hoped to find a place at the artillery school at Châlons-sur-Marne, and two of his aides-de-camp, Marmont and Junot, with him (Muiron was now his third).17
Once installed at the Hôtel de la Liberté in Paris on May 25, Napoleon called on the acting war minister, Captain Aubry, who actually degraded the offer to command of the infantry in the Vendée. ‘This appeared to Napoleon as an insult,’ recorded his brother Louis, ‘he refused, and lived in Paris without employment, enjoying his pay as an unemployed general.’18 He claimed illness again, and eked out a living on half-pay, nonetheless sending Louis to Châlons. He proceeded to ignore the war ministry’s demands that he go to the Vendée, or furnish proof of illness, or retire altogether. These were uncomfortable months for him, but he was philosophical about his lot, telling Joseph in August: ‘Me, I’m very little attached to life . . . finding myself constantly in the situation in which one finds oneself on the eve of battle, convinced only by the sentiment that when death, which terminates everything, is found amid it, anxiety is folly.’ He then made a self-mocking joke which has been drained of all comic charm by being taken seriously by historians: ‘Always trusting myself very much to Fate and destiny, if this continues, my friend, I’ll end up by not getting out of the way when a carriage approaches.’19
Napoleon was in fact determined to enjoy the charms of Paris. ‘The memory of the Terror is no more than a nightmare here,’ he reported to Joseph. ‘Everyone appears determined to make up for what they have suffered; determined, too, because of the uncertain future, not to miss a single pleasure of the present.’20 He steeled himself to embark on a social life for the fir
st time, although he wasn’t comfortable in the company of women. This might in part have been because of his looks; a woman who met him several times that spring called him ‘the thinnest and queerest being I ever met . . . so thin that he inspired pity’.21 Another nicknamed him ‘Puss-in-Boots’.22 The socialite Laure d’Abrantès, who knew Napoleon at this time, though probably not as well as she later claimed in her bitchy memoirs, remembered him ‘with a shabby round hat drawn over his forehead, and his ill-powdered hair hanging over the collar of his grey greatcoat, without gloves because he used to say they were a useless luxury, with boots ill-made and ill-blackened, with his thinness and his sallow complexion’.23 Small wonder that Napoleon wasn’t comfortable in the fashionable Parisian salons and rather despised those who were: he denounced dandies to Junot (whom Laure d’Abrantès later married) for their modes of dress and adopted lisps, and as Emperor he was convinced that the hostesses of the fashionable faubourg salons encouraged opposition to him. His favourite entertainments were intellectual rather than social; he went to public lectures and visited the observatory, the theatre and the opera. ‘Tragedy excites the soul,’ he later told one of his secretaries, ‘lifts the heart, can and ought to create heroes.’24
• • •
On his way to Paris in May 1795, Napoleon had written to Désirée that he was ‘much afflicted at the thought of having to be so far away from you for so long’.25 He had enough money saved from his salary at this point to consider buying a small chateau at Ragny in Burgundy, listing the potential revenues he could make from various cereal crops there, estimating that the dining room was four times the size of the Casa Bonaparte’s, and making the sound republican remark that ‘In pulling down three or four towers which give it an aristocratic air, the chateau would be no more than an attractive very large family home.’26 He told Joseph of his wish to start a family.
‘I saw many pretty women of agreeable disposition at Marmont’s house in Châtillon,’ Napoleon wrote to Désirée in a rather transparent attempt to excite her jealousy on June 2, ‘but I never felt even for an instant that any of them could measure up to my dear, good Eugénie.’ Two days later he wrote again: ‘Adored friend, I have received no more letters from you. How could you go eleven days without writing to me?’27 Perhaps realizing that Madame Clary had discouraged her daughter from further involvement, thinking that one Bonaparte in the family was quite enough. A week later Napoleon was merely calling her ‘Mademoiselle’. By June 14 he acknowledged the situation: ‘I know that you will always retain an affection for your friend, but it will be no more than affectionate esteem.’28 His letters to Joseph make it clear that he still loved Désirée, but in August, calling her ‘vous’ once more, he wrote: ‘Follow your instincts, allow yourself to love what’s near to you . . . You know that my destiny lies in the hazard of combat, in glory or in death.’29 For all their cloying melodrama, his words had the advantage of being true.
Was it self-pity over Désirée as much as fraternal love that compelled Napoleon to dissolve into tears while writing to Joseph on June 24, a letter ostensibly about something as prosaic as his brother’s plans to enter the Genoese olive-oil trade? ‘Life is like an empty dream which vanishes,’ he wrote to Joseph, asking for his portrait. ‘We have lived so many years together, so closely united, that our hearts are mingled, and you know better than anyone how entirely mine belongs to you.’30 By July 12 he was trying to persuade himself that he was over Désirée, railing to Joseph against the effeminacy of men who were interested in women, who ‘are mad about them, think only of them, live only by and for them. A woman requires to be but six months in Paris to know what is due to her and the extent of her empire.’31
Désirée’s rejection of Napoleon contributed to his deep cynicism about women and even about love itself. On St Helena he defined love as ‘the occupation of the idle man, the distraction of the warrior, the stumbling block of the sovereign’, and told one of his entourage: ‘Love does not really exist. It’s an artificial sentiment born of society.’32 Less than three months after the end of his courting of Désirée he was ready to fall in love again, although he seems to have retained a place in his heart for her, even after she had married General Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, and wound up as queen of Sweden.
• • •
‘We are so sure of the superiority of our infantry that we laugh at the threats of the English,’ Napoleon wrote to Joseph after the British landed a force in Quiberon Bay, near Saint-Nazaire, in late June 1795 to assist the revolt in the Vendée.33 It was an early example of his overconfidence regarding the British following Toulon (though admittedly justified in this instance, as by October the expedition had comprehensively failed). Besides Toulon, he was to fight the British only twice more, at Acre and in the Waterloo campaign.
By early August he was still lobbying for a post back with the artillery of the Army of Italy, but he also seriously considered taking up an offer to go to Turkey to modernize the Sultan’s artillery. According to Lucien’s memoirs, during this period of complete flux in his career Napoleon even contemplated joining the East India Company’s army, albeit more for its financial than military advantages, saying ‘I will return in a few years a rich nabob, bringing some handsome dowries for my three sisters.’34 Madame Mère, as his mother came to be called, took the suggestion seriously enough to rebuke him for even considering the notion, which she thought him quite capable of taking up ‘in a moment of vexation against the Government’. There is also an indication that the Russians were wooing him to help them fight the Turks.
In mid-August 1795 matters came to a head when the war ministry demanded that Napoleon present himself to its medical board to ascertain whether he was in fact sick. He appealed to Barras, Fréron and his other political contacts, one of whom landed him an attachment to the Historical and Topographical Bureau of the war ministry. Despite its title, this was actually the planning staff that co-ordinated French military strategy. So whereas on August 17 Napoleon was writing to Simon Sucy de Clisson, the ordonnateur of the Army of Italy at Nice, ‘I’ve been appointed to a generalship in the Army of the Vendée: I won’t accept’, three days later he was crowing to Joseph: ‘I am at this moment attached to the Topographical Department of the Committee of Public Safety for the direction of armies.’35 The Bureau was under the command of General Henri Clarke, a protégé of the great military administrator Lazare Carnot, known as ‘The Organizer of Victory’.
The Topographical Bureau was a small, highly efficient organization within the war ministry that has been described as ‘the most sophisticated planning organisation of its day’.36 Set up by Carnot and reporting directly to the Committee, it took information from the commanders-in-chief, plotted troop movements, prepared detailed operational directives and co-ordinated logistics. Under Clarke, the senior staff included Generals Jean-Girard Lacuée, César-Gabriel Berthier and Pierre-Victor Houdon, all talented and dedicated strategists. Napoleon could hardly have been better placed to learn all the necessary strands of supply, support and logistics that make up strategy (although the word entered the military lexicon only in the early nineteenth century and was not one Napoleon ever used).37 This period between mid-August and early October 1795 – short, but intellectually intense – was when Napoleon learned the practicalities of strategic warfare, as distinct from the tactical battle-fighting at which he had excelled at Toulon. Napoleon’s military success was ultimately down to his own genius and capacity for gruellingly hard work, but France had some exceptionally talented military thinkers and bureaucrats at this time, able to teach him and ultimately to do the detailed work necessary to put his ideas into practice. The Topographical Bureau was also the best place to make his own estimations of which generals were worthwhile and which expendable.
The Bureau didn’t decide overall grand strategy; that was done by the politicians on the Committee of Public Safety, which was highly vulnerable to factional struggles. The debate over whether, w
here and when to cross the Rhine to attack Austria in 1795, for example, had to be fought out there, with the Bureau merely giving advice on each option. In August any plans to fight for – or indeed against – Turkey were quashed by the Committee, which also ordained that Napoleon couldn’t leave the country until the end of the war. He still had problems from different bureaucracies within the ministry over whether he was active or retired, and on September 15 he was even struck off the list of serving generals. ‘I have fought like a lion for the Republic,’ he wrote to his friend the actor François-Joseph Talma, ‘and in recompense she leaves me dying of hunger.’38 (He was soon reinstated.)
The Topographical Bureau’s curious office hours – from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. and 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. – allowed Napoleon plenty of time to write a romantic novella entitled Clisson et Eugénie, a swansong for his unrequited love affair with Désirée. Employing the short, terse sentences of the heroic tradition, it was either consciously or unconsciously influenced by Goethe’s celebrated novel of 1774, The Sorrows of Young Werther, which Napoleon read no fewer than six times during the Egyptian campaign, and probably first when he was eighteen. The most important European Sturm-und-Drang novel and the great bestseller of its age, Werther deeply affected the Romantic literary movement and Napoleon’s own writing. Although the name ‘Clisson’ was borrowed from one of Napoleon’s friends of the time, Sucy de Clisson, the character is pure Napoleon, right down to their identical ages of twenty-six. ‘From birth Clisson was strongly attracted to war,’ the story opens. ‘While others of his age were still listening avidly to fireside tales, he was ardently dreaming of battle.’ Clisson joined the revolutionary National Guard and ‘Soon he had exceeded the high expectations people had of him: victory was his constant companion.’39
Clisson was superior to the frivolous pastimes of his contemporaries such as flirtation, gambling and conversational repartee: ‘A man of his fervent imagination, with his blazing heart, his uncompromising intellect and his cool head, was bound to be irritated by the affected conversation of coquettes, the games of seduction, the logic of the tables and the hurling of witty insults.’40 Such a paragon was only at ease communing Rousseau-like with nature in the forests, where ‘he felt at peace with himself, scorning human wickedness and despising folly and cruelty’. When Clisson met the sixteen-year-old Eugénie at a spa, ‘she revealed beautifully-arranged pearly white teeth’. After that,