Napoleon and his court

by C. S. Forester

It is impossible to argue about the legality or otherwise of this decision. Morally, the Powers were as justified in imprisoning Napoleon as is a government in locking up a homicidal maniac. A maniac may hurt people; Napoleon might hurt the Powers. Napoleon might hurt them for reasons which to him might appear perfectly defensible; but a homicidal maniac can usually boast the same purity of motive. The maniac may be right and everyone else wrong; Napoleon may have been right and the Powers wrong; but the Powers were none the less justified in seeing that he could do no more harm. It has been argued that by invading France and removing her ruler Europe was committing a moral crime; that it is intolerable for one country to interfere in another country’s system of government. This argument fails because its scope is inelastic. In the same way it is said that “an Englishman’s house is his castle,” and that, for instance, a man’s conduct towards, or training of, his children is his own personal business. But if that man tries to cut his children’s throats, or worse, encourages his children to cut his neighbours’ throats, then the State steps in and prevents him from doing so. That is exactly what the Powers did with Napoleon. Where they went wrong was in not seeing that their decision was carried into effect with humanity and dignity.

The initial arrangements for Napoleon’s exile seemed to portend that he would end his days in luxury. Lord Liverpool had said that on the island there was a most comfortable house exactly suited for Napoleon and his suite; Lord Bathurst had given official orders that he was to be allowed all possible indulgence so long as his detention was not imperilled. But Napoleon was not given the comfortable house, while Bathurst’s confidential orders to Sir Hudson Lowe displayed unbelievable rigour. Already Napoleon had experienced some of the results of the workings of the official mind; the naval officers with whom he had come in contact had been strictly ordered not to pay him any of the compliments usually accorded to royalty. They remained covered in his presence, and they addressed him as “General Bonaparte.” Cockburn, the Admiral in command, acted strictly to the letter of the orders which commanded him to treat “General Bonaparte” in the same manner as he would a general officer not in employ. If Napoleon seemed inclined to act with more dignity than this rather humble station would warrant, then Cockburn was distant and reserved; but if Napoleon ever showed signs of “conducting himself with modesty,” as Cockburn himself writes, then the Admiral was graciously pleased to unbend a little to his helpless prisoner.

The whole question of the title was intricate and irritating. The English Government declared that they had never recognized Napoleon as Emperor even at the height of his power, and they certainly were not going to do so now that he was a discredited outcast. They were hardly correct in fact or in theory, for they had sent him an Ambassador when he was First Consul; they had sent plenipotentiaries to Châtillon who had signed documents in which he was called Emperor; they had sent a representative to him at Elba when he was Emperor there, and, equally important, they had ratified the Convention of Cintra, among the documents of which he was distinctly called His Imperial Majesty. Moreover, by refusing him this mode of address, they were insulting the French people, who had elected him, the Courts of Europe, who had recognized him, and the Pope, who had crowned and anointed him. It was the English Government which lost its dignity in this ridiculous affair, not Napoleon. But the worst result of this decision was not the loss of dignity, nor the injury to French pride. It was that it gave Napoleon an opportunity to hit back. It gave him a definite cause of complaint, apart from that of his arbitrary incarceration, which was generally held to be justified. It was the first opportunity of many, of all of which Napoleon eagerly took advantage, so that the Napoleonic Legend had a firm base for future development. By complaining at any and every opportunity Napoleon was able to surround his own memory with an aura of frightful privations, so that it was easy for his subtle nephew later to picture him as Prometheus, the benefactor of mankind, bound to his rock in mid-ocean with the vultures of the allied commissioners gnawing at his liver.

A further blunder on the part of the English Government afforded Napoleon his next cause of complaint. Sir Hudson Lowe was a good, if unimaginative soldier who had fought all his life against the French. Furthermore, he had commanded a force of Corsican Rangers, recruited from the island that was Napoleon’s birthplace. He had held Capri for two years in the face of Masséna and Joseph Bonaparte, and was only turned out by a daring expedition sent by Murat. His very name was hateful to Napoleon, and yet he was appointed his guardian. But this was not all. A huge responsibility devolved upon Sir Hudson Lowe. A moment’s carelessness on his part might allow Napoleon to escape, and if Napoleon escaped there might ensue another Waterloo campaign with a very different result. The responsibility was too great altogether for Lowe. Because of it he carried out the orders sent him with a strictness which knew no bounds. He pestered the wretched prisoner, who already had good reason to dislike him, until he nearly drove him frantic. Lowe himself was desperate, and many people who saw him during that period commented on his worried demeanour and his inability to support his responsibilities. It is easy then to imagine the violent friction which prevailed between him and his captive.

On a casual inspection, the restrictions imposed upon Napoleon do not seem particularly severe. He was to keep within certain limits; he was to be accompanied by an English officer if he went beyond them; his correspondence was to pass through Lowe’s hands, and he was to assure the English of his presence every day. But these restrictions galled Napoleon inexpressibly. Along the boundaries of his free area was posted a line of sentries, and he could not turn his eyes in any direction without perceiving the hated redcoats. The continued presence of an officer if he rode elsewhere was not unnaturally irksome—so irksome, in fact, that Napoleon, who had previously passed half his days on horseback, gave up riding—while the mortification of having his letters pried into and the utter, hateful humiliation of having to exhibit himself on command to an Englishman must have been maddening to a man who not so many months before had ruled half Europe.

Napoleon found himself shut up in a restricted area and with limited accommodation; he had no old friends with him, because he had never had any friends; of the five officers who had accompanied him only two were men of any distinction and of any length of service. Not one of them was particularly talented, and they were one and all fiercely jealous of each other. Add to these conditions a tropical climate and the utter despair into which they were all plunged, and it is easy to realize that furious quarrels and bitter heart-burnings must have been their lot. It is the most difficult matter in the world to find the exact truth about what went on in Longwood. Everyone concerned wrote voluminously, and everyone concerned wrote accounts which differed from everyone else’s. There is an atmosphere of untruth surrounding everything which has been written by the actors in this last tragedy. Napoleon himself set his friends the example, for his dictated memoirs and the information which he gave Las Cases to help him in his writings are full of lies, some cunning, some clumsy, but all of them devised for obvious purposes. He tried to throw the blame of the Spanish insurrection on Murat, the blame of the execution of d’Enghien on Talleyrand, the blame of Waterloo on Grouchy. It is difficult to discover whether he was merely trying to excuse himself in the eyes of the world, or to rehabilitate Bonapartism so that his son might eventually mount the Imperial throne. And his companions’ memoirs lie so blatantly and so obviously that one cannot decide which was his aim.

Napoleon himself had deteriorated vastly. As might be expected, his complete cessation of bodily activity led to an increase in his corpulence until he became gross and unwieldy. His mental power had decayed, although he was still able to dictate for hours on end. Even under the burdensome conditions imposed upon him he never seems to have abandoned the rigid reserve which he had maintained all his life. The few scenes which the memoirists describe which have a ring of truth about them seem to show him still acting a part, still posing as the inestimably superior being whom his followers believed him to be. Sometimes we have a brief glimpse of him stripped of his heroics, as witness the occasion when he said bitterly that his son must necessarily have forgotten him; but most of the time he seems to have adhered to his old methods, and posed as the misunderstood benefactor of humanity, ignoring Marie Louise’s defection, ignoring the distrust with which the Council of State had regarded him during the last months of his reign; in fact proclaiming himself the man who martyred himself for the French nation, with such iteration that he was at last believed. His declamations have coloured nearly everything written since, so that it is quite usual to find it stated, either actually or inferentially, that his fall was due solely to the jealousy of the other rulers of Europe, and not due in any degree to the slowly developed dislike of his own subjects.

And all this time he was making Sir Hudson Lowe’s life a burden to him as well. Some of Napoleon’s complaints were just, some merely frivolous, but every one of them goaded Lowe into further painful activity. This activity reacted in another direction, so that Lowe issued edicts of increased stringency, and, half mad with responsibility, treated Napoleon with an exaggeration of precaution and imposed upon him restraints of a pettiness and a casuistry almost unbelievable. It can hardly be doubted that Napoleon actually sought opportunities for egging Lowe on to further ill-treatment; he certainly treated him with a most amazing contumely, and it is very probable that the numerous rumours of attempts at rescue, by submarine boat, by an armed force from Brazil, or by any other fantastic means, had their origin in Napoleon himself, so that Lowe was inspired to further obnoxious measures. Napoleon made the most of his opportunity. He raised a clamour which reached Europe (as he had intended), so that interest in his fate and sympathy for the poor ill-treated captive gradually worked up to fever heat. He sold his plate to buy himself necessaries (at a time when he had ample money at his command) and of course France heard about it, and was wrung with pity for the wretched man forced by his captor’s rapacity to dine off earthenware. The fact that Napoleon nevertheless retained sufficient silver to supply his table was not so readily divulged. He made a continual complaint about his health; undoubtedly he was not well, and equally undoubtedly he was already suffering from the disease which killed him; but his complaints were neither consistent nor, as far as can be ascertained, entirely true. He hinted that the Powers were endeavouring to shorten his life; he even said that he went in fear of assassins. All this news reached Europe by devious routes, and sympathy grew and grew until, after the lapse of years, it waxed into the hysteria evinced at his second funeral and the more effective hysteria which set Napoleon III. on the throne.

Despite all the undignified squabbles in which he was engaged, one can nevertheless hardly restrain a feeling of admiration for Napoleon amid the trials which he was enduring. He was hitting back as hard as circumstances would allow him, and he was hitting back with effect. He had driven Lowe frantic, and he had secured his object of reviving European interest in him. Furthermore, he flatly refused to submit to the humiliating commands which Lowe attempted to enforce. Lowe might speak of “General Bonaparte” or “Napoleon Bonaparte” (in the same way as he might speak of John Robinson, says Lord Rosebery) but in his own home Napoleon was always His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, to whom everyone uncovered, and in whose presence everyone remained standing. Lowe’s order that he must show himself to an English officer every day was completely ignored, and we hear of officers climbing trees and peering through keyholes in vain attempts to make sure of his presence. For days together Napoleon might have been out of the island for all Lowe knew to the contrary. The commissioners sent by France and Austria and Russia did not set eyes on him from the time of their arrival until after his death. Napoleon had sworn that he would shoot with his own hand the first man who intruded on his privacy, and he was believed; the attempt was never made, and Napoleon continued to reign in Longwood, in an imperium in imperio.

The whole period seems indescribably sordid and wretched. Napoleon’s companions were intriguing jealously for his favour, scheming for the privilege of eating at his table, and even endeavouring to be sure that he would leave them his money in his will. Tropical weather, harassing conditions, prolonged strain, and the overwhelming gloom of recent frightful disasters, all tended towards overstrained nerves and continual quarrels. Napoleon wrangling with Lowe over his dinner-service; Montholon in tears because Napoleon chooses to dine with Las Cases; an Emperor quarrelling with a general as to whether or not his liver is enlarged; this is not tragedy, it is only squalor with a hideously tragic taint. It is Lear viewed through reversed opera-glasses.