In the course of a conversation which took place respecting the wine, the Emperor stated that he had received a great number of instructions and directions from chemists and physicians, all of whom had concurred in declaring that wine and coffee were the two things respecting which it was most necessary he should be on his guard. Every professional man had cautioned him to reject both wine and coffee if he found any unpleasant flavour in them. Wine, in particular, he was advised to abstain from, if he found any thing uncommon in the taste of it. He had always been in the habit of getting his wine from Chambertin, and had therefore, seldom occasion to find fault with it; but the case is different now, if he had refused wine whenever he found any thing uncommon in it, he must have abstained from it for a considerable time past.
CRITICISM ON PRINCE LUCIEN’S POEM OF
CHARLEMAGNE.—HOMER.
13th.—The weather is very bad; and it has continued so for three weeks or a month. The Emperor sent for me before one o’clock: he was in his saloon; our Amphitryon had paid me a visit, and I took him to the Emperor, who spoke to him on matters of a private and personal nature.
Napoleon is much altered in his looks.—To-day he wished to set to work. I sent for my son, and he went over the chapters relating to the Pope and Tagliamento. He continued thus employed until five o’clock. He was very low-spirited, and appeared to be suffering much; he retired, saying he would try to eat a little.
Two ships came within sight, one was supposed to be the Eurydice, which was every moment expected to arrive from Europe, having touched at the Cape: they proved to be, however, one of the Company’s ships and another vessel that was accidentally passing the island.
The Emperor came to us while we were at dinner; he said he had eaten enough for four persons, and that this had quite restored him.
He wanted something to read, and looked over his brother Lucien’s poem of Charlemagne. He analysed the first canto, and afterwards glanced over a few others: he then examined the subject and the plan of the work, &c. “How much labour, ingenuity and time,” he observed, “have been thrown away upon this book! what a wreck of judgment and taste! Here are twenty thousand verses, some of which may be good, for aught I know; but they are destitute of interest, design, or effect. It might have been regarded as a compulsory task, had it been written by a professed author. Why did not Lucien, with all his good sense, consider that Voltaire, master as he was of the French language and the art of poetry, failed in a similar attempt, though that attempt was made in Paris, in the midst of the sanctuary! How could Lucien suppose it possible to write a French poem, when living at a distance from the French capital? How could he pretend to introduce a new metre? He has written a history in verse, and not an epic poem. An epic poem should not be the history of a man, but of a passion or an event. And, then, what a subject has Lucien chosen! What barbarous names has he introduced! Does he think he has succeeded in raising the religion which he conceived to be fallen? Is his poem intended as a work of re-action? It certainly bears the stamp of the soil on which it was written: it is full of prayers, priests, the temporal authority of the Popes, &c. How could he think of devoting twenty thousand lines to absurdities which do not belong to the present age, to prejudices which he could not enter into, and opinions which he could not entertain! What a misapplication of talent! He might undoubtedly have produced something more creditable to himself; for he possesses judgment, facility, and industry. He was in Rome amidst the richest materials, and with the means of satisfying the deepest research. He understands the Italian language: and, as we have no good history of Italy, he might have written one. His talents, his situation, his knowledge of affairs, his rank, might have enabled him to produce an excellent classic work. It would have been a valuable acquisition to the literary world, and would have conferred honour on its author. But what is Charlemagne? What reputation will it gain? It will be buried in the dust of libraries, and its author will obtain at most a few scanty and perhaps ridiculous notices in biographical dictionaries. If Lucien could not resist the temptation of scribbling verses, he should have prepared a splendid manuscript, embellished with elegant designs and superb binding, with which he might now and then have gratified the eyes of the ladies, occasionally allowing a few quotations from it to creep into publicity; and finally he should have left it to his heirs, with a severe prohibition against committing it to the press. One might then have been able to understand his taste.”
He laid the work aside, and said: “Let us turn to the Iliad.” My son went to fetch it, and the Emperor read a few cantos, stopping at various passages, in order, as he said, to admire them at his ease. His observations were copious and remarkable. He was so deeply interested in what he read, that it was half-past twelve before he retired to rest.
SCARCITY OF PROVISIONS.—RIDICULOUS ALLOWANCE OF
WINE.—NAPOLEON’S RETURN FROM ELBA.
14th.—The terrible state of the weather still continued, and confined us to our miserable huts. We are all indisposed.