The English were particularly active in disseminating libels upon
Napoleon; they
charged him in their books and pamphlets with
murder, arson, incest,
treason,
treachery,
cowardice, seduction,
hypocrisy,
avarice,
robbery" target="_blank" title="n.抢劫(案);盗取">
robbery,
ingratitude, and
jealousy; they said
that he poisoned his sick soldiers, that he was the father of
Hortense's child, that he committed the most atrocious cruelties
in Egypt and Italy, that he married Barras' discarded mistress,
that he was afflicted with a
loathsome disease, that he murdered
the Duc d'Enghien and officers in his own army of whom he was
jealous, that he was criminally
intimate with his own sisters--in
short, there was no crime, however revolting, with which these
calumniators were not hasty to
charge the emperor.
This same vindictive
hatred was visited also upon all associated
with Bonaparte in the conduct of affairs at that time. Murat was
``a brute and a thief''; Josephine, Hortense, Pauline, and Mme.
Letitia were courtesans; Berthier was a shuffling, time-serving
lackey and tool; Augereau was a
bastard, a spy, a
robber, and a
murderer; Fouche was the incarnation of every vice; Lucien
Bonaparte was a roue and a marplot; Cambaceres was a debauchee;
Lannes was a thief, brigand, and a poisoner; Talleyrand and
Barras were--well, what evil was told of them has yet to be
disproved. But you would gather from contemporaneous English
publications that Bonaparte and his associates were veritable
fiends from hell sent to
scourgecivilization. These books are
so
strangely curious that we find it hard to
classify them: we
cannot call them history, and they are too truculent to pass for
humor; yet they occupy a
distinct and important place among
Napoleonana.
Until William Hazlitt's life of Bonaparte appeared we had no
English
treatment of Bonaparte that was in any sense fair, and,
by the way, Hazlitt's work is the only one in English I know of
which gives the will of Bonaparte, an
exceedingly interesting
document.
For a good many years I held the
character of Napoleon in light
esteem, for the reason that he had but small regard for books.
Recent revelations, however, made to me by Dr. O'Rell
(grandnephew of ``Tom Burke of Ours''), have served to dissipate
that
prejudice, and I question not that I shall duly become as
ardent a worshipper of the Corsican as my doctor himself is. Dr.
O'Rell tells me--and his declarations are corroborated by
Frederic Masson and other authorities-- that Bonaparte was a
lover and a
collector of books, and that he contributed largely
to the
dignity and the glorification of
literature by publishing
a large number of
volumes in the highest style of the art.
The one department of
literature for which he seems to have had
no
liking was
fiction. Novels of all kinds he was in the habit
of tossing into the fire. He was a
prodigious buyer of books,
and those which he read were
invariably stamped on the outer
cover with the
imperial arms; at St. Helena his library stamp was
merely a seal upon which ink was smeared.
Napoleon cared little for fine bindings, yet he knew their value,
and
whenever a
presentation copy was to be bound he required that
it be bound handsomely. The books in his own library were
invariably bound ``in calf of
indifferent quality,'' and he was
wont, while
reading a book, to fill the
margin with comments in
pencil. Wherever he went he took a library of books with him,
and these
volumes he had deprived of all
superfluousmargin, so
as to save weight and space. Not infrequently when hampered by
the rapid growth of this travelling library he would toss the
``overflow'' of books out of his
carriage window, and it was his
custom (I
shudder to record it!) to separate the leaves of
pamphlets, magazines, and
volumes by
running his finger between
them,
therebyinvariably tearing the pages in
shocking wise.
In the
arrangement of his library Napoleon observed that
exactingmethod which was
characteristic of him in other employments and
avocations. Each book had its particular place in a special
case, and Napoleon knew his library so well that he could at any
moment place his hand upon any
volume he desired. The libraries
at his palaces he had arranged exactly as the library at
Malmaison was, and never was one book borrowed from one to serve
in another. It is narrated of him that if ever a
volume was
missing Napoleon would describe its size and the color of its
binding to the
librarian, and would point out the place where it
might have been wrongly put and the case where it properly
belonged.
If any one question the
greatness of this man let him explain if
he can why
civilization's interest in Napoleon increases as time
rolls on. Why is it that we are curious to know all about
him--that we have
gratification in
hearing tell of his minutest
habits, his moods, his whims, his practices, his
prejudices? Why
is it that even those who hated him and who denied his
geniushave felt called upon to record in
ponderous tomes their
reminiscences of him and his deeds? Princes, generals, lords,
courtiers, poets, painters, priests, plebeians--all have vied
with one another in answering humanity's demand for more and more
and ever more about Napoleon Bonaparte.
I think that the supply will, like the demand, never be
exhausted. The women of the court have supplied us with their
memoirs; so have the diplomats of that period; so have the wives
of his generals; so have the Tom-Dick-and-Harry spectators of
those kaleidoscopic scenes; so have his keepers in exile; so has
his
barber. The chambermaids will be heard from in good time,
and the hostlers, and the scullions. Already there are rumors
that we are soon to be regaled with Memoirs of the Emperor
Napoleon by the Lady who knew the Tailor who Once Sewed a Button
on the Emperor's Coat, edited by her
lovinggrandson, the Duc de
Bunco.
Without doubt many of those who read these lines will live to see
the time when memoirs of Napoleon will be offered by ``a
gentleman who purchased a
collection of Napoleon spoons in
1899'';
doubtless, too, the book will be hailed with
satisfaction, for this Napoleonic
enthusiasm increases as time
wears on.
Curious, is it not, that no calm,
judicial study of this man's
character and exploits is received with favor? He who treats of
the subject must be either a hater or an adorer of Napoleon; his
blood must be hot with the
enthusiasm of rage or of love.
To the human eye there appears in space a
luminoussphere that in
its appointed path goes on unceasingly. The wise men are not
agreed whether this
apparition is merely of
gaseous composition
or is a solid body supplied extraneously with heat and
luminosity, inexhaustibly; some argue that its
existence will be
limited to the period of one thousand, or five hundred thousand,
or one million years; others declare that it will roll on until
the end of time. Perhaps the nature of that
luminoussphere will
never be truly known to mankind; yet with calm
dignity it moves
in its appointed path among the planets and the stars of the
universe, its fires unabated, its luminosity undimmed.
Even so the great Corsican, scrutinized of all human eyes, passes
along the aisle of Time enveloped in the impenetrable
mystery of
enthusiasm,
genius, and splendor.
XVIII
MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS
The women-folk are few up there,
For 't were not fair, you know,
That they our
heavenly bliss should share
Who vex us here below!
The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such as we:
They knew our fads and didn't mind--
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
It has never been explained to my
satisfaction why women, as a
class, are the enemies of books, and are particularly
hostile to
bibliomania. The exceptions met with now and then simply prove
the rule. Judge Methuen declares that bibliophobia is but one
phase of
jealousy; that one's wife hates one's books because she
fears that her husband is in love, or is going to be in love,