“But,” I replied, “is not the application of these laws to the conduct of life like that of the dramatic unities to the drama? They give order and regularity, and they do not really trammel genius, except when it would, without their control, err against good taste.”
“Ah, good taste! That is another of those classical words which I do not adopt. It is perhaps my own fault, but there are certain rules which mean nothing to me. For example, what is called ‘style,’ good or bad, does not affect me. I care only for the force of the thought. I used to like Ossian, but it was for the same reason which made me delight in the murmur of the winds and waves. In Egypt I tried to read the ‘Iliad’; but I got tired of it. As for French poets, I understand none of them except Corneille. That man understood politics, and if he had been trained to public affairs he would have been a statesman. I think I appreciate him more truly than any one else does, because I exclude all the dramatic sentiments from my view of him. For example, it is only lately I have come to understand the dénouement of ‘Cinna.’ At first I regarded it as merely a contrivance for a pathetic fifth act; for really, clemency, properly speaking, is such a poor little virtue, when it is not founded on policy, that to turn Augustus suddenly into a kind-hearted prince appeared to me an unworthy climax. However, I saw Monvel act in the tragedy one night, and the mystery of the great conception was revealed to me. He pronounced the ‘Soyons amis, Cinna,’ in so cunning and subtle a tone, that I saw at once the action was only a feint of the tyrant, and I approved as a calculation what had appeared to me silly as a sentiment. The line should always be so delivered that, of all those who hear it, only Cinna is deceived.
“As for Racine, he pleases me in ‘Iphigénie.’ That piece, while it lasts, makes one breathe the poetic air of Greece. In ‘Britannicus’ he has been trammeled by Tacitus, against whom I am prejudiced, because he does not sufficiently explain his meaning. The tragedies of Voltaire are passionate, but they do not go deeply into human nature. For instance, his Mahomet is neither a prophet nor an Arab. He is an impostor, who might have been educated at the Ecole Polytechnique, for he uses power as I might use it in an age like the present. And then, the murder of the father by the son is a useless crime. Great men are never cruel except from necessity.
“As for comedy, it interests me about as much as the gossip of your drawing-rooms. I understand your admiration of Molière, but I do not share it; he has placed his personages in situations which have no attractions for me.”
From these observations it is plain that Bonaparte cared only to observe human nature when it was struggling with the great chances of life, and that man in the abstract interested him but little. In conversations of this kind the time I spent at Boulogne with the First Consul was passed, and it was at the close of my sojourn there that I underwent the first experience that inspired me with mistrust of persons among whom I was obliged to live at Court. The officers of the household could not believe that a woman might remain for hours together with their master, simply talking with him on matters of general interest, and they drew conclusions which were injurious to my character. I may now venture to say that the purity of my mind, and my lifelong attachment to my husband, prevented my even conceiving the possibility of such a suspicion as that which was formed in the Consul’s ante-chamber, while I was conversing with him in his salon. When Bonaparte returned to Paris, his aides-de-camp talked about my long interviews with him, and Mme. Bonaparte took fright at their stories; so that when, after a month’s stay at Pont de Briques, my husband was sufficiently recovered to bear the journey, and we returned to Paris, my jealous patroness received me coldly.
I returned full of gratitude toward the First Consul. He had received me so kindly; he had shown such interest in the state of my husband’s health; his attention to me had so much soothed my troubled and anxious mind, and had been so great a resource in that solitary place; and I was so much flattered by the pleasure he seemed to take in my society, that on my return I told every one, with the eager gratitude of one twenty-three years old, of the extreme kindness he had shown me. My friend, who was really attached to me, advised me to be careful of my words, and apprised me of the impression they had made. I remember to this hour that her hint struck like a dagger to my heart. It was the first time I had suffered injustice; my youth and all my feelings revolted against such an accusation. Stern experience only can steel us against the unjust judgments of the world, and perhaps we ought to regret the time when they had the power to wound us deeply. My friend’s warning had, however, explained Mme. Bonaparte’s conduct toward me. One day, when I was more hurt by this than usual, I could not refrain from saying to her, with tears in my eyes, “What, madame! do you suspect me?” As she was very kind and always easily touched by passing emotions, she embraced me, and thenceforth treated me with her former cordiality. But she did not understand my feelings. There was nothing in her mind which corresponded to my just indignation; and, without endeavoring to ascertain whether my relations with her husband at Boulogne had been such as they were represented to her, she was content to conclude that in any case the affair had been merely temporary, since I did not, when under her own eyes, depart from my usual reserve toward Bonaparte. In order to justify herself, she told me that the Bonaparte family had spread injurious reports against me during my absence. “Do you not perceive,” I asked her, “that, rightly or wrongly, it is believed here that my tender attachment to you, madame, makes me clear-sighted to what is going on, and that, feeble as my counsels are, they may help you to act with prudence? Political jealousy spreads suspicion broadcast everywhere, and, insignificant as I am, I do believe they want to make you quarrel with me.” Mme. Bonaparte agreed in the truth of my observation; but she had not the least idea that I could feel aggrieved because it had not occurred to herself in the first instance. She acknowledged that she had reproached her husband about me, and he had evidently amused himself by leaving her in doubt. These occurrences opened my eyes about the people among whom I lived to an extent which alarmed me and upset all my former feelings toward them. I began to feel that the ground which I had trodden until then with all the confidence of ignorance was not firm; I knew that from the kind of annoyance I had just experienced I should never again be free.
The First Consul, on leaving Boulogne, had declared, in the order of the day, that he was pleased with the army; and in the “Moniteur” of November 12, 1803, we read the following: “It was remarked as a presage that, in the course of the excavations for the First Consul’s camp, a war hatchet was found, which probably belonged to the Roman army that invaded Britain. There were also medals of William the Conqueror found at Ambleteuse, where the First Consul’s tent was pitched. It must be admitted that these circumstances are singular, and they appear still more strange when it is borne in mind that when General Bonaparte visited the ruins of Pelusium, in Egypt, he found there a medallion of Julius Cæsar.”
The allusion was not a very fortunate one, for, notwithstanding the medallion of Julius Cæsar, Bonaparte was obliged to leave Egypt; but these little parallels, dictated by the ingenious flattery of M. Maret, pleased his master immensely, and Bonaparte was confident that they were not without effect upon the country.
In the journals every effort was made at that time to excite the popular imagination on the subject of the invasion of England. I do not know whether Bonaparte really believed that such an adventure was possible, but he appeared to do so, and the expense incurred in the construction of flat-bottomed boats was considerable. The war of words between the English newspapers and the “Moniteur” continued. We read in the “Times,” “It is said that the French have made Hanover a desert, and they are now about to abandon it”; to which a note in the “Moniteur” immediately replied, “Yes, when you abandon Malta.” The Bishops issued pastorals, in which they exhorted the nation to arm itself for a just war. “Choose men of good courage,” said the Bishop of Arras, “and go forth to fight Amalek. Bossuet has said, ‘To submit to the public orders is to submit to the orders of God, who establishes empires.’ ”
This quotation from Bossuet reminds me of a story which M. Bourlier, the Bishop of Evreux, used to tell. It related to the time when the Council was assembled at Paris with a view to inducing the Bishops to oppose the decrees of the Pope. “Sometimes,” said the Bishop of Evreux, “the Emperor would have us all summoned, and would begin a theological discussion with us. He would address himself to the most recalcitrant among us, and say, ‘My religion is that of Bossuet; he is my Father of the Church; he defended our liberties. I want to commence his work and to maintain your dignity. Do you understand me?’ Speaking thus, and pale with anger, he would clap his hand on the hilt of his sword. The ardor with which he was ready to defend us made me tremble, and this singular amalgamation of the name of Bossuet and the word liberty, with his own threatening gestures, would have made me smile if I had not been too heavy-hearted at the prospect of the hard times which I foresaw for the Church.”