English Caricature and Satire on Napoleon I. Volume II (of 2)

‘I had an interview with the Empress at Malmaison: I went thither to breakfast by invitation, accompanied by my eldest daughter Josephine, to whom she was much attached… “And Madame Mère, have you seen her since your return?” “Certainly, Madame, I have already been in waiting.” Upon this, the Empress drew closer to me – she was already very near – and, taking both my hands, said, in a tone of grief which is still present to my mind after an interval of four-and-twenty years: “Madame Junot, I entreat you to tell me all you have heard relating to me. I ask it as an especial favour – you know they all desire to ruin me, my Hortense, and my Eugène. Madame Junot, I again entreat, as a favour, that you will tell me all you know!”

‘She spoke with the greatest anxiety; her lips trembled, and her hands were damp and cold. In point of fact she was right, for there could be no more direct means of knowing what was passing, relative to her, than by learning what was said in the house of Madame Mère. But it was indiscreet, perhaps, to ask these questions of me. In the first place, I should not have repeated the most insignificant sentence which I had heard in Madame’s drawing-room; in the second, I was quite at ease upon the subject; for, since my return, I had not heard the word divorce uttered by Madame, or the princesses. The strength of mind of the unfortunate wife failed totally on hearing the dreadful word pronounced; she leant upon my arm and wept bitterly. “Madame Junot,” she said, “remember what I say to you this day, here, in this hothouse – this place which is now a paradise, but which may soon become a desert to me – remember that this separation will be my death, and it is they who have killed me?”

‘She sobbed. My little Josephine, running to her, pulled her by the shawl to shew her some flowers she had plucked, for the Empress was so fond of her, as even to permit her to gather flowers in her greenhouse. She took her in her arms, and pressed her to her bosom, with an almost convulsive emotion. The child appeared frightened; but, presently, raising her head, and shaking the forest of light silken curls which clustered round her face, she fixed her large blue eyes upon the agitated countenance of her godmother, and said: “I do not like you to cry.” The Empress again embraced her tenderly, and setting her down, said to me: “You can have little idea how much I have suffered when any of you has brought a child to me! Heaven knows, I am not envious, but in this one case I have felt as if a deadly poison were creeping through my veins, when I have looked upon the fresh and rosy cheek of a beautiful child, the joy of its mother, but, above all, the hope of its father! And I! struck with barrenness, shall be driven in disgrace from the bed of him who has given me a crown! Yet God is witness that I love him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown, which he has given me!”

‘The Empress may have appeared more beautiful, but never more attractive, than at that moment. If Napoleon had seen her then, surely he could never have divorced her.’

We have a most touching account in ‘Memes’s Memoirs of the Empress Josephine:’ ‘The divorce was, unquestionably, a melancholy reverse of fortune for Josephine, which she felt most severely, but she bore it with magnanimity. The particulars of the interview between her and the Emperor are very affecting. When Napoleon mentioned the necessity of a Divorce, he approached Josephine, gazed on her for a while, and then pronounced the following words: “Josephine, my excellent Josephine, thou knowest if I have loved thee! To thee, to thee alone do I owe the only moments of happiness which I have enjoyed in this world. Josephine! my destiny overmasters my will. My dearest affections must be silent before the interests of France.” “Say no more,” she replied, “I was prepared for this; but the blow is not less mortal!”

‘Josephine, on hearing from his own lips the determination of the Emperor, fainted, and was carried to her chamber. At length the fatal day arrived.

‘On December 15, 1809, the Imperial Council of State was convened, and, for the first time, officially informed of the intended separation. On the morrow, the whole of the family assembled in the grand salon at the Tuileries. All were in Court costume. Napoleon’s was the only countenance which betrayed emotion, but ill concealed by the drooping plumes of his hat of ceremony. He stood motionless as a statue, his arms crossed upon his breast: the members of his family were seated around, showing in their expression less of sympathy with so painful a scene, than of satisfaction, that one was to be removed, who had so long held influence, gently exerted as it had been, over their brother. In the centre of the apartment was placed an armchair, and, before it, a small table with a writing apparatus of gold. All eyes were directed to that spot, when a door opened, and Josephine, pale but calm appeared, leaning on the arm of her daughter, whose fast falling tears shewed that she had not attained the resignation of her mother. Both were dressed in the simplest manner. Josephine’s dress of white muslin exhibited not a single ornament. She moved slowly, and with wonted grace, to the seat provided for her, and there listened to the reading of the act of separation. Behind her chair stood Hortense, whose sobs were audible, and a little farther on, towards Napoleon, Eugène, trembling as if incapable of supporting himself. Josephine heard in composure the words that placed an eternal barrier between her and greatness, between her and the object of her affection. This painful duty over, the Empress appeared to acquire a degree of resolution from the very effort to resign with dignity the realities of title for ever. Pressing, for an instant, the handkerchief to her eyes, she rose, and, with a voice which, but for a slight tremor, might have been called firm, pronounced the oath of acceptance; then, sitting down, she took the pen from the hand of the Comte Regnault St. Jean d’Angely, and signed it. The mother and daughter now left the salon, followed by Eugène, who appeared to suffer most severely of the three.

‘The sad incidents of the day had not yet been exhausted. Josephine had remained unseen, sorrowing in her chamber, till Napoleon’s usual hour of retiring to rest. He had just placed himself in bed, silent and melancholy, when suddenly the private door opened, and the Empress appeared, her hair in disorder, and her face swollen with weeping. Advancing with a tottering step, she stood, as if irresolute, near the bed, clasped her hands, and burst into an agony of tears. Delicacy seemed at first to have arrested her progress, but, forgetting everything in the fulness of her grief, she threw herself on the bed, clasped her husband’s neck, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Napoleon also wept while he endeavoured to console her, and they remained a few minutes locked in each other’s arms, silently mingling their tears, until the Emperor, perceiving Constant20 in the room, dismissed him to the ante-chamber.

‘After an interview of about an hour, Josephine parted, for ever, from the man whom she so long and so tenderly loved. On seeing the Empress retire, which she did in tears, the attendant entered to remove the lights, and found the chamber silent as death, and Napoleon sunk among the bed-clothes, so as to be invisible. Next morning he still showed the marks of suffering. At eleven, Josephine was to bid adieu to the Tuileries, never to enter the palace more. The whole household assembled on the stairs, in order to obtain a last look of a mistress whom they loved, and who carried with her into exile the hearts of all who had enjoyed the happiness of access to her presence. Josephine was veiled from head to foot, and, entering a close carriage with six horses, drove rapidly away, without casting one look backward on the scene of past greatness and departed happiness.’

The only drawback to Memes’s narrative is, that it does not exactly tally with the ‘Register of the Conservative Senate,’ of Saturday, December 6, 1809, extracts from which are given in the ‘Times’ of December 27, 1809. In that document Napoleon makes a speech, a portion of which is as follows: —

‘The politics of my monarchy, the interest, and the wants, of my people, which have constantly guided all my actions, require that, after me, I should leave to children, inheritors of my love for my people, that throne on which Providence has placed me. Notwithstanding, for several years past, I have lost the hope of having children by my well-beloved consort, the Empress Josephine. This it is which induces me to sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart; to attend to nothing but the good of the State, and to wish the dissolution of my marriage.

‘Arrived at the age of forty years, I may indulge the hope of living long enough to educate, in my views and sentiments, the children which it may please Providence to give me: God knows how much such a resolution has cost my heart; but there is no sacrifice beyond my courage, that I will not make, when it is proved to me to be necessary to the welfare of France. I should add, that far from ever having had reason to complain, I have only had to be satisfied with the attachment and affection of my well-beloved consort. She has adorned fifteen years of my life, the remembrance of which will ever remain engraven on my heart. She was crowned by my hand. I wish she should preserve the rank and title of Empress; but, above all, that she should never doubt my sentiments, and that she should ever regard me as her best and dearest friend.’

English opinion on this act of Napoleon’s may be gathered from the ‘Times’ of December 28, which thus comments upon it: —

‘While the affair of the dissolution of Buonaparte’s marriage was transacting in the Senate, he retired to Trianon. The repudiated Josephine withdrew, at the same time, to Malmaison, probably never to behold him again; or, at most, only for a few minutes, during a visit of cold ceremony. Whatever errors there might have been in the early conduct of this woman, were in a great measure redeemed by her behaviour during her slippery, and precarious, exaltation. She has often stepped in between the rage of the tyrant to whom she was united, and the victim he had marked for destruction, and by her tears, and entreaties, softened him into pity and pardon. Such instances of feeling, and humanity, had wrought a powerful impression in her favour among the inhabitants of Paris, amongst whom, her unmerited disgrace has probably occasioned no less grief than astonishment. The temporary seclusion to which Buonaparte appears to have condemned himself, may possibly be for the purpose of preventing any opportunity of an explosion of public sentiment on this subject. We think, on the whole, that Josephine has been hardly treated. The reasons assigned for her repudiation have existed in equal force for many years; and the act itself might have been carried into effect, with less outrage to her feelings, at a former period.’

CHAPTER XLVIII

FAILURE OF EXPEDITIONS TO SPAIN, PORTUGAL, AND HOLLAND – NAPOLEON’S WOOING OF, AND MARRIAGE WITH, MARIA LOUISA – BIRTH OF THE KING OF ROME – NAPOLEON IN THE NURSERY

In closing the record of this year, I cannot omit to mention the fact of the failures of the expeditions to Spain, Portugal, and Holland. The latter, or Walcheren expedition, as it was called, was just returning in a woful plight, fever having thoroughly done its work among the troops; and, in December, the City of London, through the Lord Mayor, memorialised the King on the subject of this latter expedition, and prayed ‘your Majesty will direct enquiry to be forthwith instituted, in order to ascertain the causes which have occasioned it.’

‘To which Address and Petition his Majesty was graciously pleased to return the following answer: —

‘“I thank you for your expressions of duty and attachment to me and to my Family.

‘“The recent Expedition to the Scheldt was directed to several objects of great importance in the interest of my Allies, and to the security of my dominions.

‘“I regret that, of these objects, a part only has been accomplished. I have not judged it necessary to direct any Military Inquiry into the conduct of my Commanders by sea or land, in this conjoint service.

‘“It will be for my Parliament, in their wisdom, to ask for such information, or to take such measures upon this subject as they shall judge most conducive to the public good.”’

This was the Royal, or Ministerial, snubbing to those men who were then giving of their blood, and treasure, without stint, and without grumble.

The ‘Times’ of December 21, 1809, is very wroth about it, and the sturdy citizens answered it by having a Common Hall on January 9, 1810, at which it was resolved that instructions be given to the representatives of the City, to move or support an address to his Majesty, praying an inquiry into the cause of the failures of the late expeditions to Spain, Portugal, and Holland; they also voted a similar address themselves; and asserted a right to deliver their addresses or petitions to the King upon his throne. But they got no redress.

The year 1810 is mostly noteworthy to the caricaturist by Napoleon’s second marriage. On February 1, 1810, a grand council was called together to help the Emperor in selecting another empress. But Napoleon had not been wasting his time since his divorce from Josephine. He had sent to the Emperor Alexander, proposing to marry his sister, the Grand Duchess Anna Paulovna; but the Russian Emperor, although he professed great friendship for Napoleon, hardly cared about a closer alliance with him, and the proposal was declined.

The Council, in their wisdom, thought of an Austrian princess, and a proposal was made to the Austrian ambassador for the hand of the Arch-Duchess Maria Louisa, the result of which should have been, if there is any truth in the old rhyme,

Happy’s the wooingThat’s not long a-doing,

the perfection of bliss to the principal parties concerned. It was all settled in four-and-twenty hours, and Berthier, as Napoleon’s proxy, married Maria Louisa at Vienna on March 11, and, two days afterwards, she started on her journey to France.

We are indebted to Madame Junot for an insight into her innocent and childlike character: ‘At length the day of departure arrived. The young Empress bade farewell to all the members of her family, and then retired to her apartment, where etiquette required that she should wait till Berthier came to conduct her to her carriage. When Berthier entered the cabinet, he found her bathed in tears. With a voice choked with sobs, she apologised for appearing so childish: “But,” says she, “my grief is excusable. See how I am surrounded here by a thousand things that are dear to me. These are my sister’s drawings; that tapestry was wrought by my mother; those paintings are by my uncle Charles.” In this manner she went through the inventory of her cabinet, and there was scarcely a thing, down to the carpet on the floor, which was not the work of some beloved hand.

‘There were her singing birds, her parrot, and, above all, the object which she seemed to value most, and most to regret – a little dog. It was of course known at the Court of Vienna how greatly the Emperor used to be annoyed by Josephine’s favourite pet dogs, with Fortuné at their head. Therefore, Francis II., like a prudent father, took care that his daughter should leave her pet dog at Vienna. Yet it was a cruel separation, and the princess and her favourite parted with a tender duo of complaint.’

But the surprises in store for her on her journey soon made her forget her dog and parrot. She was met at Braunau by Caroline Bonaparte, Queen of Naples, and sister of the Emperor. At this place, on the frontier of Austria and Bavaria (the latter of which was then part of the French empire), a wooden building had been erected for the use of the French and Austrian suites. Napoleon could play many parts, and he played the rôle of devoted lover to perfection. At Munich an officer met the new Empress with a letter from her husband. At Strasburg a page was waiting for her with another letter, some choice flowers, and some pheasants shot by the imperial gun; and every morning brought a page with a letter, which the young bride immediately answered.

Every detail of her progress had been settled with rigid ceremonial, and at one place (Compiègne) it was appointed that he was to meet her, when ‘the Empress should prepare to kneel, and the Emperor should raise her, embrace, and seat her beside him.’ But the imperial bridegroom was far too impatient for that. Accompanied by the King of Naples (Murat), he left the palace privately, and pushed on to the village of Courcelles, where he anxiously awaited her arrival. When the carriage stopped, he ran towards it, opened the door himself, and jumped in without any announcement, the bride being only advised of his advent a moment before by the startled exclamation of the Queen of Spain: ‘It is the Emperor!’

Two days afterwards they made their state entry into Paris, where Napoleon, from a balcony at the Tuileries, presented his young bride to the assembled multitude.

Once more to quote Madame Junot: ‘On returning from the balcony, he said to her, “Well, Louise, I must give you some little reward for the happiness you have conferred on me,” and, leading her into one of the narrow corridors of the palace, lighted only by one lamp, he hurried on with his beloved Empress, who exclaimed, “Where are we going?” – “Come, Louise, are you afraid to follow me?” replied the Emperor, who now pressed to his bosom, with much affectionate tenderness, his young bride.

‘Suddenly they stopped at a closed door, within which they heard a dog that was endeavouring to escape from the apparent prison. The Emperor opened this private door, and desired Louise to enter. She found herself in a room magnificently lighted; the glare of the lamps prevented her for some moments from distinguishing any object. Imagine her surprise when she found her favourite dog from Vienna was there to greet her; the apartment was furnished with the same chairs, carpet, the paintings of her sisters, her birds – in short, every object was there, and placed in the same manner as she had left them on quitting her paternal roof.

‘The Empress, in joy and gratitude, threw herself in Napoleon’s arms, and the moment of a great victory would not have been to the conqueror of the world so sweet as this instant of ecstasy was to the infatuated heart of the adoring bridegroom. After a few minutes had been spent in examining the apartment, the Emperor opened a small door; he beckoned to Berthier, who entered. Napoleon then said, “Louise, it is to him you are indebted for this unexpected joy: I desire you will embrace him, as a just recompense.” Berthier took the hand of the Empress; but the Emperor added, “No, no, you must kiss my old and faithful friend.”’

The civil marriage was celebrated on April 1 at St. Cloud, and the religious marriage on the 2nd in the Chapel of the Louvre; Napoleon’s uncle, Cardinal Fesch, officiating.

We have just read the real story of the wooing and home-coming; I will not spoil it by repeating the caricaturist’s version, quoting only a few lines: —

Louisa off for Paris set,And by her anxious swain was met.To see the lady, what a throng!The road with flow’rs they strew’d along.No sooner Nap beheld her charmsThan round the maid he threw his arms,And gave her a true lover’s kiss,As prelude to his greater bliss.* * * * *Oh what rejoicings and what fêtes!What hurly-burly in the streets!The marriage, as it was advised,Now publicly was solemnized;The first of April, as they say,Was chosen for the happy day,When children, in and out of school,Are trying to make each a fool.

This year is so unproductive of Napoleonic caricatures, that I can only find one worth mentioning, and this is apropos of the marriage: it is called ‘Three Weeks after Marriage, or the Great little Emperor playing at Bo-peep,’ and is by Rowlandson (May 15, 1810). It shows the conjugal relations of Napoleon and his Empress, as they were supposed to be. She is in a violent rage, and, having knocked down Talleyrand, she hits him over the head with a sceptre; he, meanwhile, making moan: ‘Begar she will give us all de finishing stroke. I shall never rise again.’ She has plucked off her crown, and is about to throw it at the Emperor, who dodges behind an armchair, calling out, ‘Oh Tally, Tally, rise and rally.’ She fiercely declaims, ‘By the head of Jove, I hate him worse than Famine or Disease. Perish his Family; let inveterate Hate commence between our Houses from this Moment, and, meeting, never let them bloodless part.’ Somebody, probably one of the marshals, has got behind the curtains for safety, calling out, ‘Marblue. Vat a Crown Cracker she be.’

At the time of the marriage the English newspapers were much taken up with Sir Francis Burdett, and consequently Napoleon’s marriage did not receive the attention it otherwise might have claimed. In a notice of the religious ceremony, however, the ‘Times’ breaks out with a little bit of spite, ‘The Imperial Ruffian, and his spouse, again knelt at the “Ite, missa est.”’

The only other great event during this year, connected with Napoleon, was the abdication of the crown of Holland by his brother Louis, and the absorption of his kingdom into the French empire.

The birth of the King of Rome (on March 20, 1811) at last gave Napoleon the hope of founding a dynasty. He was very anxious about the welfare of Maria Louisa, hardly bestowing a thought upon his son, until assured of her safety.

‘As21 soon as the King of Rome was born, the event was announced by telegraph to all the principal towns of the empire. At four o’clock the same afternoon, the marks of rejoicing in the provinces equalled those in Paris. The Emperor’s couriers, pages, and officers, were despatched to the different foreign Courts, with intelligence of the happy event. The Senate of Italy, and the municipal bodies of Rome and Milan, had immediate notice of it. The different fortresses received orders to fire salutes; the seaports were enlivened by the display of colours from the vessels; and everywhere the people voluntarily illuminated their houses. Those who regard these popular demonstrations as expressions of the secret sentiments of a people might have remarked that in all the faubourgs, as well as the lowest and poorest quarters of Paris, the houses were illuminated to the very uttermost stories. A fête was got up on the occasion by the watermen of the Seine, which was prolonged until a late hour of the night. Much of all this was not ordered: it came spontaneously from the hearts of the people. That same people, who, for thirty-five years previously, had experienced so many emotions, had wept over so many reverses, and had rejoiced for so many victories, still showed, by their enthusiasm on this occasion, that they retained affections as warm and vivid as in the morning of their greatness.

‘The King of Rome was baptized on the very day of his birth (March 20, 1811). The ceremony was performed, at nine in the evening, in the chapel of the Tuileries. The whole of the imperial family attended, and the Emperor witnessed the ceremony with the deepest emotion. Napoleon proceeded to the chapel, followed by the members of the household, those of the Empress, of Madame Mère, the princesses, his sisters, and of the kings, his brothers. He took his station under a canopy in the centre of the chapel, having before him a stool to kneel on. A socle of granite had been placed on a carpet of white velvet embroidered with gold bees, and on the socle stood a gold vase destined for the baptismal font. When the Emperor approached the font bearing the King of Rome in his arms, the most profound silence pervaded. It was a religious silence, unaccompanied by the parade which might have been expected on such an occasion. This stillness formed a striking contrast with the joyous acclamations of the people outside.’

The news was announced to the British public in the ‘Times’ of March 25; and in the ‘Morning Herald’ of March 26 is an amusing

Impromptu On the French General Victor’s Defeat before CadizHis Victor vanquish’d, and his Eagle taken,Boney will stay at home to save his bacon;Sip Caudle with his wife, and for young Nap,Make with parental daddle, sugar’d pap;Content to see the Nurs’ry colours fly,By holding out his bantling’s clouts to dry.

Rowlandson caricatures the birth of the King of Rome (April 9, 1811) in ‘Boney the Second, or the little Babboon created to devour French Monkies.’ The young Napoleon, naked, with the exception of a cocked hat, but with the cloven hoofs, and tail, of a devil, is being presented on a cushion to his father by a very buxom nurse. The cushion rests on a cradle, on which is inscribed ‘Devil’s Darling.’ Napoleon is looking after the nursery arrangements, and is cooking a caudle of ‘French blood,’ which is to be drunk out of a ‘Bitter Cup.’ He turns his face towards his little son, and exclaims: ‘Rejoice O ye Frenchmen, the Fruits of my Labour has produced a little image of myself. I shall, for the love I owe to your country, instill in my Noble Offspring the same principles of Lying, Thieving, Treachery, Letchery, Murder, and all other foul deeds for which I am now worshipped and adored.’ The Pope is on his knees pronouncing a benediction, which, however, is of rather doubtful character.