by Susan Jaques
On the evening of November 4, Canova returned to Fontainebleau with the clay bust of the empress. For the first time, Napoleon was not present. Canova had modeled the portrait without formal sittings. He observed Marie Louise in her daily routine and playing billiards with her ladies-in-waiting. After finishing the model, Canova wrote to Quatremère de Quincy, “I wanted to pick a fairly cheerful moment.”24
Marie Louise told Canova that she would show her husband the bust the next morning at breakfast. “Is it, indeed, true, Monsieur Canova that you will not remain here?”
“I wish to return immediately to Rome in order that your Majesty upon your arrival, which I hope will not be long, may find the model of your full-length statue complete.”
Marie Louise asked questions about the making of the cast and the marble carving process. About Canova’s statue of the Princess Leopoldina Esterhazy Liechtenstein, she observed, “It was, indeed there, that ideal beauty was to be found.”25
A few days later, Canova returned to Fontainebleau. Napoleon placed his wife in the same pose as the plaster bust and instructed her to smile. Canova said the cheerful expression was consistent with Concordia, the Roman goddess of agreement in marriage and society, which he had chosen for the empress. Napoleon seem pleased and approved the theme.
Marie Louise had a cold, and Canova told her that she needed to take better care of herself, going out in an open carriage was dangerous for someone in the “family way.”
At this, Napoleon interjected: “You see what she is, everyone is astonished at it; but women (striking his forehead with the end of his finger), women will have their own way. Listen, she now insists upon going to Cherbourg, which is at so great a distance; for my part, I am always telling her to take care of herself. Are you married?”
“No, Sire, I have been often on the point of marriage, but several circumstances have preserved me my freedom; add to which, the fear of not meeting with a woman who would love as I should have loved, deterred me from altering my condition, that I might be more at liberty to devote myself completely to my art.”
“Ah! Woman, woman!” said Napoleon, smiling and continuing to eat.
On several occasions, Canova had expressed his desire to return to Rome. Now with the portrait bust finished, he mentioned his imminent departure.
This seemed to irritate Napoleon who dismissed him, saying “Go then, since you will have it so.”26
A week later, on November 12, the court announced Marie Louise’s pregnancy.
Before returning to Rome, Antonio Canova spent time in Paris as the guest of Italian diplomat and politician Ferdinando Marescalchi. On November 10, the sculptor traveled to Malmaison to see Joséphine. The visit was not without its risks. Marie Louise was extremely jealous of her stylish predecessor.
Post-divorce, Joséphine retained her imperial title and continued to enjoy her own household.27 Thanks to Napoleon keeping her on the liste civile, Joséphine could still afford ladies-in-waiting, chambermaids, and laundresses. She also maintained her position as Paris’s fashionista, continuing to dress stylishly in Leroy’s designs.28
While waiting for Joséphine in the elegant black-and-white tiled reception area, Canova thought back to their first meeting at Saint-Cloud in October 1802. Against his wishes, he had traveled to Paris to sculpt the first consul’s portrait bust. Joséphine seemed to sense his nervousness and had put him at ease with her charming demeanor. That summer, while attending a party in her husband’s honor at the Murats’ Château Villiers-la-Garenne, Joséphine admired Canova’s reclining and standing Cupid and Psyche. By late September, Canova agreed to sculpt a second standing version of Cupid and Psyche for her, along with a second version of his ethereal Hebe.29
Canova couldn’t help but be moved when a teary Joséphine greeted him and began to cry.30 He was struck by Joséphine’s appearance. Though she wore a luxurious satin dress and beautiful jewelry, she looked older and heavier.
It was an emotional moment for Canova as Joséphine led him into the Grand Gallery. Two of his works had arrived here two years earlier. Through the glazed ceiling, filtered sunlight bathed his Cupid and Psyche and Hebe in a soft glow. Though he used the same model for Cupid and Psyche as the Murats’ version, Joséphine’s sculpture was more affectionate than erotic. In addition to subtle changes to the figures’ hair and drapery, Canova depicted the adolescents more as brother and sister than lovers.31
For Hebe, Canova portrayed the cupbearer to the gods descending from Mount Olympus on a marble cloud. Though Quatremère considered the work one of the finest of the day, other critics disagreed. Exhibited by Denon at the 1808 Salon, Hebe was criticized for the addition of a gilt bronze pitcher and cup, along with the pale yellow and pink hues Canova applied to her breasts and torso. But it’s these qualities, writes Christopher Johns, which would have appealed to Joséphine, “because the general idea was to heighten the abstracted erotic element while creating a nubile deity of considerable chic.”32
From the Grand Galerie, Joséphine led Canova under a white-and-blue canopy outside to show him her English-style garden. Louis Berthault had transformed the property, planting groves of trees on the lawns and installing decorative ruins and windmills. Joséphine’s passion for exotic flowers and plants had begun as a child on Martinique in the West Indies. Malmaison’s gardens were celebrated, boasting over two hundred rose varieties.33 In the hothouse designed by Berthault, Joséphine cultivated rare species from Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. Flanking colorful hibiscus and other flowering plants were two green tunnels leading to marble copies of the Medici Venus and Callipygian Venus.34
The park’s meandering river became a waterfall before forming a lake dotted with floating rhododendrons and graceful black swans. Joséphine was so smitten with the swans, she chose the motif for her garden-view bedroom furnishings and bathroom sconces. Considered an allegory of love, the elegant bird was also incorporated into Malmaison’s chair arms, curtains, carpets, and porcelain.
According to Johns, Canova welcomed the opportunity to work for Joséphine, whose refined taste aligned with his. Their warm relationship may also have been a function of gender. Generally more sympathetic toward women than men, Canova “responded positively to their flattery, which invariably tickled his fancy,” writes Johns.35 Unlike the other Bonaparte women, Joséphine did not commission Canova to sculpt her own portrait.
Back in Rome, Canova began executing a plaster cast for Marie Louise as Concordia. Canova portrayed Marie Louise seated on a throne, wearing ancient drapery and a tiara and veil, holding the attributes of Concordia—a patera, or sacrificial bowl, in her left hand and a scepter in her right. The Romans built several temples in Concordia’s honor. The oldest on the Capitol was dedicated in the fouth century B.C.E. by Camillus, and later restored by Augustus’s wife Livia. Offerings were made to the goddess on the birthdays of the emperors. Concordia Augusta was worshipped as the promoter of harmony in the imperial household.
Canova would remark that in annulling his marriage to Joséphine and marrying the Habsburg teenager, Napoleon had “divorced his Good Fortune.”36 Marie Louise as Concordia remained in Canova’s studio until 1817, when it was delivered to the sitter under far different circumstances.
PART SEVEN
DYNASTY
“I have only one passion, only one mistress, and that is France. I sleep with her. She has never failed me, she has lavished her blood and her treasures on me. If I need five hundred thousand men, she gives them to me.”
—Napoleon Bonaparte
ONE
THE EAGLET
At ten o’clock in the morning on March 20, 1811, guns began firing from the courtyard of the Invalides, bringing traffic to a grinding halt. A twenty-one gun salute signified the birth of a girl; a boy commanded 101 rounds. As the twenty-second boom rang out, Parisians filled the streets and headed to the Tuileries where troops had gathered in the Carrousel. To the delight of the cheering crowd, Napoleon stepped onto the balcony holding his newb
orn son.
After a difficult night of labor, Marie Louise gave birth that morning to an eight pound, thirteen ounce baby boy. The infant was baptized Napoleon François Joseph Charles after his father, maternal grandfather, eldest uncle and godfather, and paternal grandfather.1 In France, he was affectionately called l’Aiglon, the Eaglet.
Over a year earlier, while confirming the annexation of Rome, the Senate had named Napoleon’s future son the “King of Rome.” As Magnus Olausson writes, the title suited Napoleon’s claim to be heir to the Roman Empire and underscored the fact that Rome was now part of his own Empire.2
The day he was born, the king of Rome was wrapped in a tulle blanket embroidered with bees and tucked into a sumptuous cradle below a canopy. Designed by Prud’hon, founded and chased in gilt silver by Thomire and Odiot, and modeled by sculptor Henri-Victor Roguier, the cradle was presented to the imperial couple by the city of Paris. Made with over six hundred pounds of silver, the gift set the city back over 150,000 francs. Mother-of-pearl balusters were set against red-orange satin velvet embroidered with bees. The back of the cradle sported a golden N surrounded by palm, laurel, and olive branches.
Bas-reliefs on the sides featured mythological representations of Paris and Rome, the Empire’s two main cities. In one relief, Mercury placed the newborn in the arms of the personification of the Seine (symbol of Paris). On the other, a figure of the Tiber (symbol of Rome) accompanied by the twins Romulus and Remus watched the new star of the young king rise over Rome.3 According to legend, Romulus founded Rome on the Palatine Hill in 753 B.C.E.
At the head of a cradle, a winged Victory held a double crown of stars and laurels. The largest star bore a shield with Napoleon’s cypher N surrounded by palms and laurels. Perched at the foot of the cradle was a gold eaglet.4
The king of Rome motif appeared throughout the Eaglet’s apartment at the Tuileries. For example, a clock in his grand salon sported a figure of Pallas, goddess of war, sitting between the Tiber, represented by a bearded old man holding a horn of abundance, and Romulus and Remus suckling the she-wolf. Below this group surrounding the clock face, trophies of war evoked those on Trajan’s Column.5
The Eaglet’s elaborate furnishings were part of a barrage of decorative objects and paintings promoting imperial dynasty. Like the empresses of first- and second-century Rome, Marie Louise was portrayed as a symbol of fertility. To Augustus, women and children “were symbols of his dynastic ambitions,” writes Diana Kleiner.6 They appear for the first time in the friezes of Augustus’s Altar of Peace, the Ara Pacis. Though Augustus’s wife Livia had not conceived, she was shown as a symbol of fertility and regeneration. Despite being childless, Hadrian’s wife Sabina was also portrayed as youthful and capable of childbirth.7
Even before Marie Louise delivered a male heir, she enjoyed favorable press. Four days before the birth, the Journal de l’Empire wrote: “. . . All of France, represented by the habitants of Paris, awaits her at Notre Dame . . . holding in her arms a child, the hope of the Empire . . . this day, as the empress herself has said, will be the happiest of her life.”8
Numerous works celebrated the birth of Napoleon’s heir, with frequent comparisons made between the Eaglet and ancient Rome. In Prud’hon’s The King of Rome asleep, the infant is shown sleeping surrounded by exotic red fritillary blooms known as “imperial crowns” along with laurel, myrtle, and palm leaves. The imperial mantle, white sheets, and a blue drape represent France’s tricolor. The sleeping infant conjures up both Romulus and Jesus, writes Marco Fabio Apolloni.9 Bartolomeo Pinelli portrayed the goddess Roma holding Napoleon’s infant son guarded by the imperial eagle, all watched by the she-wolf and Romulus and Remus.
Two weeks after his son’s birth, a proud Napoleon commissioned a watercolor portrait from Jean-Baptiste Isabey. Against a background of triumphal altars and olive branches, Isabey depicted the baby lying in the helmet of Mars, Roman god of war. The infant is shown holding the ancient iron crown of the kings of Lombardy, worn for centuries by Holy Roman Emperors and by Napoleon during his coronation in Milan. Napoleon sent Isabey’s watercolor to his father-in-law Francis, the last Holy Roman emperor.10
In the early evening on Sunday June 9, the imperial couple left the Tuileries Palace in a coronation coach. Napoleon was dressed in his lavish petit costume; Marie Louise wore a diamond-studded white dress. Meanwhile governess Madame de Montesquiou held the baby on her lap in a special carriage. Guests and foreign diplomats (except for England) were seated when the clergy, headed by Cardinal Fesch, entered Notre Dame Cathedral. It was a watershed moment for an Empire founded without a hereditary pedigree.
Before entering the cathedral, the imperial cortege proceeded through a spectacular tent. The ceiling sported over 2,500 gold stars against a blue background and an N in the center surrounded by a laurel wreath and topped with an imperial crown. Thirty-two rented chandeliers along with some 225 pounds of candles lit the interior.11
The baby’s ermine-lined silver cloak was borne by Marshal Kellerman, Duke of Valmy.12 For the luxurious cloak, embroiderer Picot spun thirty-one bees and two dozen roses of Italy.13 Godmother Caroline Murat and godfather Joseph Bonaparte presented their newborn nephew at each stage of the sacrament: the baptismal request, the exorcism and the renunciation of Satan, the anointing, the profession of faith, the giving of the candle, and the reading of the Gospel. Afterward, Madame de Montesquieu handed the baby back to his mother.
At this moment, Napoleon went off script. Taking his son in his arms, Napoleon raised the baby up into the air triumphantly. Some seven thousand congregants burst into spontaneous cries of “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Imperatrice! Vive le Roi de Rome!”14 After the musicians of the imperial chapel performed the Vivat (Long live the emperor), the infant returned to the Tuileries with his governess; his parents left for civic celebrations at City Hall. These included four official receptions, a banquet, and a concert featuring Méhul’s Chant d’Ossian.15 Parisians celebrated the baptism with wine fountains, fireworks on the Seine, and other festivities.
But the lasting impression from the evening was that of Napoleon lifting his son into the air. As Elisabeth Caude writes, “He demonstrated the originality of his power, knowing how to use the traditions of the ancien régime and drawing references from the Roman world. . . . There were in the Emperor’s gesture some reminiscences of both the Roman imperator—still acknowledged during the Principat—and the Carolingian Emperor [Charlemagne] who had legitimized his power with the coronation. . . . The acclamation was reminiscent of the ancient custom, before the evolution of the imperium in its essence, from the salute of the legions to the imperator.”16
A month before the baptism, Napoleon’s grand chamberlain, the Count of Montesquieu, wrote his boss. “Your majesty has indicated the intention to have medals awarded to the mayors and deputies of the good towns of France and Italy who will travel to Paris for the baptism of the King of Rome. These have the double advantage of flattering to those who receive them, and of incurring a small expense . . .” Two days later, Napoleon approved the expense of 35,000 francs.17
Napoleon’s large-scale coin distribution had a precedent in Rome. The triumphal Arch of Constantine near the Colosseum sports two reliefs depicting the offering of coins by emperors. The upper relief shows Marcus Aurelius; the lower Constantine, who distributed money on an extensive scale to his troops and subjects. A solidus of Constantine’s son Constantius II from around 350 to 361 C.E. shows the co-emperor riding a quadriga and throwing coins.18 The word largitio, or bountiful largesse, appears on a brass medallion of Constantius II’s older brother and co-emperor Constantine II.
Napoleon’s commemorative medal was executed by Jean-Bertrand Andrieu after a drawing by Louis Lafitte. It featured an image of Napoleon crowned with a laurel wreath on the obverse. On the reverse, Napoleon in imperial dress stood before his throne holding his son in the air over the baptismal font. A second version of the medal was engraved with the same scene, with forty-
nine cities of the Empire arranged in crowns in two circles around the inscription: “A l’empereur/les bonnes villes/de l’empire” (To the Emperor/the Good Cities/of the Empire).
Napoleon lifting his son became a powerful image for the imperial propaganda machine, repeated in different genres including porcelain. Sèvres created a dramatic Etruscan-style dark blue vase featuring Andrieu’s composition as the central motif surrounded by the crenelated walls of the good cities. As Christophe Beyeler describes, the Eaglet’s head was cleverly positioned right below the walls of “Rome”—creating a symbolic crown. Dihl also produced porcelain cups with the image of Napoleon lifting his newborn son aloft.19
In The Baptism of the King of Rome in Notre Dame, Innocent-Louis Goubaud depicted the infant playing with a necklace of imperial eagles, surrounded by an ermine-trimmed cloak, a crown, and other emblems of imperial authority. In addition to the medals and artworks, poems extoled the birth, comparing Napoleon and his son to Caesar and the Caesars.20
Napoleon appointed an imperial governess for life, Anne Elisabeth Pierre de Montesquiou-Fezensac, wife of his grand chamberlain. Reporting directly to the emperor, with a staff of several wet nurses, a doctor, and two under-governesses, Madame de Montesquiou looked after the Eaglet. “Such was the responsibility, with such great honours bestowed upon it, that the governess became almost the second lady of state and, in some respects, even took precedence over the empress,” writes Frédéric Masson. “. . . unable to leave the child’s side even for a moment, she became the official mother; she continually served as the intermediary between the child and its natural mother, who had absolutely no control or supervision over it.”21
Despite being left out of her son’s care, Marie Louise felt closer to Napoleon. “Never could I believe I could be so happy,” she wrote home. “My love for my husband grows all the time, and when I remember his tenderness I can hardly help crying. Even had I not loved him before, nothing could stop me from loving him now.”22 Napoleon meanwhile wrote his ex-wife Joséphine: “My son is plump and in good health. I hope he will make out well. He has my chest, my mouth, and my eyes. I hope he will fulfill his destiny.”23