POEM OF CHARLEMAGNE.—THE BROTHERS AND SISTERS
OF THE EMPEROR WHO HAVE BECOME AUTHORS.
15th.—To-day the Emperor took advantage of a short, interval of fine weather to walk to the Company’s garden. I was alone with him, I made certain representations to him, after which, I ventured to suggest some ideas, but he rejected them as absurd. “Go, my dear Las Cases,” said he; “you are a simpleton. But be not offended at the epithet,” he added, “I do not apply it to every one; with me it is nearly synonymous with an honest man.”
After dinner, the Emperor attempted to read a part of the poem of Charlemagne, which he had taken up yesterday evening, and again laid aside. This evening, like the two preceding, was divided between Charlemagne and Homer. The latter the Emperor said he read for the sake of recruiting his spirits, and he again resumed his censure of Prince Lucien, and his admiration of Homer.
Some one present informed the Emperor that Lucien had ready for the press another poem, similar to his Charlemagne, to be entitled “Charles Martel in Corsica.” It was added that he had likewise written a dozen tragedies. “Why, the devil’s in him,” exclaimed the Emperor.
He was then informed that his brother Louis was the author of a novel. “His work may possess spirit and grace,” said he, “but it will not be without a mixture of sentimental metaphysics, and philosophic absurdity.”
It was mentioned that Princess Eliza had likewise written a novel, and that even Princess Pauline had produced something in literature. “Yes,” said the Emperor, “as a heroine perhaps, but not as an authoress. At that rate,” continued he “all my brothers and sisters must be authors, except Caroline. The latter, indeed, in her childhood was regarded as the fool and the Cinderella of the family; but she grew up to be a very beautiful and a very clever woman.”
WANT OF PROVISIONS.—GAY SOPHISTRY.—ON IMPOSSIBILITIES.[IMPOSSIBILITIES.]
16th.—In the morning, my servant came to tell me that there was neither coffee, sugar, milk, nor bread, for breakfast. Yesterday, some hours before dinner, feeling hungry, I asked for a mouthful of bread, and was told that there was none for me. Thus we are denied the very necessaries of life. This fact will scarcely be credited, and yet I have stated nothing but the truth.
The weather has now become fine. For some time the Emperor has been unable to walk out; but to-day he went into the garden, and he afterwards ordered the calash, with the intention of taking his usual drive, which had been so long suspended. As we were walking about, Madame de Montholon drove away a dog that had come near her.—“You do not like dogs, Madam?” said the Emperor,—“No, Sire.”—“If you do not like dogs, you do not like fidelity; you do not like those who are attached to you; and, therefore, you are not faithful.”—“But ... but....” said she—“But ... but....” repeated the Emperor, “where is the error of my logic? Refute my arguments if you can!”
One of the suite having a few days ago proposed making some chemical experiments, the Emperor enquired whether he had been successful. The other complained of not having the necessary apparatus. “A true child of the Seine,” said Napoleon, “an absolute Parisian cockney! Do you think you are still at the Tuileries? True industry does not consist in executing by known and given means; the proof of art and genius is to accomplish an object in spite of difficulties, and to find little or no impossibility. But what do you complain of? The want of a pestle, when the bar of any chair might answer your purpose? The want of a mortar? Any thing is a mortar that you choose to convert to that use; this table is a mortar; any pot or kettle is a mortar. Do you think you are still in the Rue Saint-Honoré, amidst all the shops in Paris?”