Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements

by Anthony Burgess

  “Oh, what do they know about it, any of them, it doesn’t alter anything, you cannot legislate for love and passion.” His appetite for her was fiercer than she had known it in years, there was nothing like the word divorce for, it seemed, bringing a couple close, or perhaps it was some Corsican superstition about frightening, by mention of that word, the genetic process into at once starting work on a son, not that that could really help much, since she was neither Austrian nor Russian. Afterwards he lay panting and said: “In three days’ time there is to be this Te Deum at Notre Dame.” That made the tears flow again, and he tried to quench them by gritting out the terrible word. “And the city gives us a banquet and ball the following day.”

  “Terrible. What happens afterwards to me and Hortense and Eugène?”

  “Well.” He thought, wiping his eyes with his chubby fist. “You have many things to choose from, no limit really. How about an Italian principality, with Rome as your capital? Plenty of palaces there, a fine city really, I could have it cleaned up for you of course.”

  She could not quite understand why that should make her so angry. She beat on his chest with her fists and said: “I’m not going to be shut up in Rome, I’m to stay here in France, in Paris, or near Paris. You can give Italy to Eugène.”

  “Perhaps Eugène doesn’t want Italy. Could I have one of those hothouse peaches over there?”

  “Not until you. Oh, all right then.”

  He mumbled at the peach with relish, mixing its juice with a still steadily flowing brine, and said: “All right, you can have Malmaison and the Élysée Palace, and still be called Empress and Her Majesty and so on, and have the imperial livery on everything. And, yes, three million francs a year. These are good peaches, hungrier than I thought, of course it’s in the heroic tradition for grief to produce hunger, and we had little enough dinner, God knows.” Then: “Grief. Oh my dear God, the grief of it.” She wondered for an instant if that word too was a, but then he went on to say, almost with the consideration proper to an enquiry about ill health, “Your debts. How are they these days?”

  “And I want the carriage to be drawn by eight horses.”

  “Yes yes yes. No problem.” Plenty of horses around. “Debts. I’ve had no time lately to examine your accounts, subjugating the Austrians and so on, but I should imagine they.”

  “About two million, I think. It has been an expensive time.”

  “Oh blessed lord Jesus Christ, what do you do with the money? Oh holy Mary mother of God, how do you manage to get through that amount? What on, by St. Joseph and all the martyrs? Oh God, I suppose I shall have to arrange for a loan on your future revenues.” He seemed quite cheerful now, though still weeping a good deal. She was able to notice now, with a certain relief at being able to bring it into the main area of her mind, that his breath was bad enough for her to feel a certain relief at being relieved of it as an aspect of her life, though she must tell him to do something about it before marrying again. What did one do? Cachets and peppermint and so on, no. He bolted his food, he had terrible pains, poor man. No, it was something you had to have along with the imperial purple. He wanted the whole of Europe, and the whole of Europe had to have bad breath blowing over it.

  Lying in silk in her Malmaison bedchamber, she squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece: four-fifty-one, December the something, 1809. He looked at his watch, read four-fifty-one, October the something, 1812. A long day coming for all. A long day coming for all.

  Who would he marry? Princesses and archduchesses all over Europe, and the rule of the silly game, very much a man’s game, was that if he married one of them that would mean peace and friendship and all the rest of the stupid abstract nonsense with the country to which the stupid girl belonged. Because she was bound to be a stupid girl, and he would know it. One thing he would learn was that there was nobody in the entire world like her, now lying in silk in Malmaison and already willing herself out of her headache into sleep and a resumption of the roseate triumph down the Nile. Why did he not, some giggling demoniac voice calling down one of the obscurer corridors of her brain composing itself to roseate sleep madly suggested, marry the Emperor of all the Russias? Worshipped him, he had said, this Alexander, and such an attractive, such a clean young man. Soul mates, embraces, exchanges of gifts (my dear, how exquisite), oh such friends. The stupidity of men, playing their little games.

  Unbidden, the memory of a funeral came to her, but whose? A lot of weeping women, some of her own family or his, a bright gritty windy day at some cemetery in some northern city. Whose? There had been so many funerals and there were many still to come. A man in black, not an officer, a red-eyed mourner, a thin man who limped, had spoken to her out of his grief:

  “Why cannot the wars cease? Every year more sons taken from us and for what purpose? It seems to me that a man should be allowed to grow comfortably and dully into age, drinking his real Indian tea or real Blue Mountain coffee, warm in his Yorkshire wool, good Northampton boots on his feet, exulting in his boredom, his boredom, yes yes yes.”

  The boredom part she could not accept, but she thought she saw the rest of his point, though it was very much a man’s point. And this man had later talked with N and must have said something of the same sort, for she had heard him booming out, stamping his foot:

  “No no, no.”

  He willed himself to sleep, hearing nonsense. She too, hearing nonsense: “And let your new hats be embroidered with puffettes of Paisley purple and swing with tails of the fine lambs of the Sussex downs.”

  “Oh no no no.”

  But now he was back in that dream again, bound, but now she was back in that dream again, bound for the enemy water, floating down the roseate water, what time the sneering bands played, what time the loving choirs sang:

  There he lies

  See the re-

  Ensanguinated tyrant

  Incarnate Cleopatra

  O bloody bloody tyrant

  Barge burning on the water.

  See

  Bare

  How the sin within

  Rowers row in rows.

  Doth incarn

  Posied rose.

  One, two, three, and he was in the boat, muscular marines of the Guard ready to row him. He looked across the Niemen, squinting in the huge river-silver June light across at what was happening on the opposite bank: one, two, three, and he was in the boat, not quite so muscular marines of his own Guard ready to row him. So. Now they were both off, being rowed towards the middle of the river, the exact middle, where they would meet. Hellish big crowds watching on the shores, naturally.

  They had done the work well, N saw, squinting towards the pavilion set in the middle of the river. A great raft floated, and on it was a superstructure of exquisite workmanship designed and executed exquisitely to the imperial exquisite specifications. On the roof two weathercocks, each with a flag, each flag with an eagle, one for Russia, one for France. There was perhaps something a little farcical about the weathercocks, especially two, as if one should be forced, just because the weathercocks were there, to talk about the direction of the wind and each have to look out and check it with his own weathercock and then smile and say our weathercocks ha ha are in total agreement. Still, they were exquisitely made weathercocks.

  N could see the outer door by which he would enter, and that had above it a well-carved French imperial eagle. N could see that A could see the outer door by which he would enter, and that had above it a well-carved Russian imperial eagle. They had embarked at exactly the same time, they should properly arrive at exactly the same time, but that, N realized, would be carrying symmetry too far. “Faster, you bastards,” he said cheerily to his rowers. They cheerily grinned back, squinting in the huge river-silver June light, and, the bastards, rowed faster.

  N climbed aboard the raft, disdaining aid with flapping hands. He opened his own eagled door and found himself in an exquisite little anteroom. He opened the door that now exquisitely presented itself and found him
self in a really delightfully appointed saloon, square lights letting in the dancing river light but supplied with curtains rapidly but elegantly run up in Tilsit to shut the light out if need be. The Emperor Alexander of all the Russias might not be too fond of light, having been brought up in a gloomy lightless land of snow and muzhiks and samovars. Fetch in the samovar and, ah yes, Ivan Ivanovitch, I could fancy a buttered muzhik. Not funny, perhaps. He must watch this post-victorial euphoria. The Russians did not have much sense of humor. There were comfortable armchairs and a chaise longue and a sideboard laden with refreshments—French wine, white and red, in dancing decanters, a Tilsit ham, cold Niemen salmon, confectionery from the imperial military confectioner. A couple of military flunkeys bowed. “Today,” N told them solemnly, “the Emperor of Russia and I are to decide the future of the whole civilized world. You’re Joubert, aren’t you?” he said to the fatter one. “I can tell from your fingernails.”

  “No, Sire, sorry, Sire, Prévost.”

  “Oh,” he frowned, “I thought you were Joubert. Never mind,” he said forgivingly, then strode to the other door, opened it, found himself in an exquisite little anteroom, opened the outer door, and stood smiling in river light, the imperial Russian eagle above him, waiting, even taking out his watch to look at, while the Emperor of all the Russias’ boat drew up to the raftside. An exquisite little man in a very well-tailored uniform, rather effeminate perhaps, leaping up, disdaining assistance with flapping hands. N took one of the flapping hands. Alexander said:

  “I could see what you were thinking. You were thinking that my uniform was tailored in London. Well, it was not. I hate the English as much as you do yourself.”

  He spoke really exquisite French, better than N’s own in some ways, except of course that N could regard himself as the arbiter of French speech. N said:

  “If that is so, then peace is already made. Come in, come in.”

  They went into the delightful saloon, which Alexander said was really exquisite, there was no people like the French for exquisite workmanship, and the flunkies stiffened and seemed ready to fire the refreshments like guns. N said: “Let us sit.” For some reason he would have liked to see Alexander recline languorously on the chaise longue, an exquisite young man and he could see the glint of adoration in his eyes. Young, impressionable, somewhat effeminate. N was surprised but not altogether displeased to find a fire starting up in his groin: it always helped if one could feel physically drawn. Alexander took an armchair and said:

  “His majesty of Prussia is in a mill. Just outside the town.”

  “A mill, eh? Perhaps contemplating the great grindstones, eh? Well well, it was a fine clean campaign. Of course, we shall have to get him out, his floury majesty eh?, and dust him off and then tell him no more nonsense ever again from Prussia. That queen of his,” he said. “No flour on her, I should imagine. Formidable woman, formidable,” he mumbled grudgingly.

  “She is in no mill,” the Tsar or Czar said.

  N looked round from his armchair at the two orderlies still waiting for the command to fire Tilsit ham and Niemen salmon and said: “You two, thank you very much for all your help, you may now leave, I think,” and fired into each a single bullet of charm. Staggering, they left. To Alexander he said: “This is essentially, I think, personal, is it not? Two men may put off rank and responsibility for a time and enjoy a delightful day on the river. Is not that how it should be occasionally, yes?”

  “Yes yes, indeed yes. I need not say how much I admire. Oh, even in defeat I have so admired—”

  “Let us not talk of defeat, dear friend. What have you or I to do with talk of defeat? Prussia is defeated, and that is enough. But who could ever talk of defeating Russia?” This young man though did not really seem to have much to do with Russia, cheating in a way, no gross-bearded giant in a greasy slop with black fingernails, screaming about sin and God, chopping heads off and fucking brutally, both with quite random victims. Elegant, exquisite, impressionable: the thing to do was to get as much as possible on paper as quickly as possible, before real gloomy Russia swallowed him up again and some bearded bastard in the Kremlin heard the voice of God. “Let us talk rather of our mission in Europe.”

  “In Europe? Our mission?” He started eyeing the chaise longue as if he felt that was the proper place to be for seduction, knowing he was to be seduced (our mission!), but he stayed where he was while N double-gimleted him with his great eyes.

  “We enclose,” N said, “Europe geographically, you and I. Your former friends the Prussians would have you think otherwise, seeing you as a sort of anteroom to real Europe, but then the Prussians were always great misleaders. They have certainly misled you. But, in a sense, they have done us a favor, since they have at last brought us together.”

  “Together, yes, I see that. One of our philosophers has said that the deeper purpose of war is nothing more terrifying than a need to communicate.”

  “Really? Interesting.” N looked warily at Alexander, something of an intellectual then, a bit of a nuisance, might come up with other intellectual gobbets like Who controls Poland controls the world. He said: “You and I deal with realities, not with the theories of slippered bookmen.”

  “T. S. Zhevotnoye,” Alexander said. “Oh yes, realities by all means.”

  “Well,” N said, “with Prussia and Austria licking wounds which I would regard as essentially self-inflicted, you and I, whole and healthy and with eyes open to realities, may set about fashioning a really beautiful European tranquillity from both ends of the map. You, if I may say this without offense, the Bonaparte of the East and I the Alexander of the West.” Unfortunately it did sound offensive, Alexander being a more hallowed name than Bonaparte. You could change history overnight, myth took longer. “Try some of this ham, it looks delicious.”

  “Later, perhaps. What precisely, my dear friend, do you include in Europe?”

  “I know just what you have in mind,” N laughed, slapping a roguish knee. “Our minds are attuned, so much is evident. Turkey, eh? You shall have Turkey, no trouble there.” To hell with Turkish interests anyway, for now anyway. “Take possession of European Turkey any time you wish.”

  “Thank you,” Alexander said. “And what is France going to take?”

  “Well, nothing much,” N said, patting his incipient heartburn. “The Ionian Islands perhaps. A chunk of the Dalmatian coastline possibly. Ah, my dear friend, this is how peace treaties should be made. A couple of friends on a raft, tidying the mess Europe seems to have got herself into.” He saw Alexander’s lips prepare to utter Poland so got in quickly with: “Did you mean what you said about England?”

  “Hateful. A land of rogues and hypocrites. What have they to do with Asia? A remote western island, very foggy, that presumes to meddle in Asia.”

  “I have always said,” N said, saying it for the first time, “that only Russia, geographically and shall I add mystically, is qualified to conceive of an Eastern mission. How happy France will be to see Russia fulfilling her Asian destiny.”

  “But we were talking of Europe,” Alexander said, quite cunningly.

  “We were talking of England, which is not quite Europe. We were talking of the two front paws of a mangy lion, one of which is in Asia and the other in southern Europe. Conceive of any sacred mission in either continent, and it is always this island of schemers and hypocrites getting in the way.” Loudly.

  “Well,” Alexander said, “if it is a question of getting the English out of Gibraltar, the Russian Navy will be there.”

  “Ah, my dear friend, the indomitable Russian Navy. And no more Russian timber to build ships for fat George, eh? Russia the very voice of the Continental System, delightful. We will starve the swine into submission yet. Could I perhaps serve you with a tiny plateful of Niemen salmon?”

  “A mouthful perhaps. I am just a little peckish.”

  N carved him some somewhat blindly, seeing, far more vividly than anything in this light-throbbing saloon, a map of the Bal
tic, with Russia bringing Denmark and Sweden to heel. “Finland,” he said, handing the bit of fish over, “the Russian mission in Finland. How does that sound, my dear friend?”

  “We ought really, you know—thank you, that looks delicious—to say something about Poland.”

  “It is not for me to say anything about Poland,” N said, frowning, making flashing ringy play with dismissive hands. Oh wasn’t it though by God. “Did I not say that it was the West that is from now on to be France’s concern, the East being in the capable control of my dear friend?” He was prowling round the map that glowed inside his skull, every river and even the most inconsiderable township glinting obediently. “Spain. Portugal. You would have no objection, I take it, to the liquidation of the Bourbons, very ugly people by the way, in Spain and the removal of that quite useless Braganza family in Portugal, my friend? Of course not. My own people could, I think, take very adequate care of the whole Iberian peninsula.”

  Alexander took his emptied plate to the sideboard, where N was still standing, bringing a whiff of fresh linen and Paris perfume. A clean young man, really delectable. He poured, despite N’s let me let me I am your host my privilege, a glass of white wine. He sipped. “Hm, rather a nutty flavor.” Then he went to recline on the chaise longue. N was delighted to see that. He said:

  “The loneliness of responsibility. You must feel that too. The lack of someone to trust. A true friend. Women, pah.” He consigned all women to the Niemen. “This woman,” he said. “She will use every art and wile in the female almanac. Tears, screams, cooings, decolletages. But you and I will be strong to resist, ah yes. To the limit. We will not be seduced, will we, by a mere woman, whether she call herself Queen of Prussia or not.” He strode in a manly way over to the foot of the chaise longue and sat down on its edge almost distractedly, his face full of the past and to come batterings of unscrupulous women. “My dear friend,” he growled.

  “How do you do it?” Alexander asked. “Can it be taught? Could I, for instance, learn it? Your really incredible record of military achievement—”