Désirée (40 page)

"You'll live in the royal palace," I said.

"Naturally, that should be the best quarters," he said indifferently. He wasn't a bit impressed.

I suddenly realized that to Jean-Baptiste the best quarters are only just good enough for him; the English King's palace in Hanover is only just good enough for former Sergeant Bernadotte. Why does it all seem to me so monstrous? "I'm dizzy, Jean-Baptiste, I'm dizzy—" But Jean-Baptiste didn't stop dancing until the violinists packed up their instruments and the marshals' ball was over.

Before Jean-Baptiste left for Hanover, he granted my wish and had Colonel Lefabre come to Paris. The story of Napoleon's underdrawers gave him the idea of assigning the Colonel to the Quartermaster's department. Here Lefabre was responsible for the uniforms, boots and underclothing of our troops. The Colonel and his wife called to thank me. The Colonel, of course, rumbled, "Knew your papa very well. A very honourable man, your papa—"

My eyes filled, but I smiled. "You're right, Colonel. 'A Bonaparte is no match for a daughter of Francois Clary—' "

His wife sucked in her breath in horror.
Lèse-majesté!
The Colonel turned purplish-blue in embarrassment but he met my eyes. "You're right, madame la maréchale," he mumbled. "Your late father would have preferred Bernadotte."

Napoleon always knew of the promotion of senior officers; and when he saw Colonel Lefabre's name on a list, he thought for a moment, then laughed aloud. "Overlord of the Underwear! Bernadotte has made him supervisor of all the underclothing worn in the Army. To please his wife. Murat, he is the Overlord of the Underwear."

Murat spread the Emperor's quip in strictest confidence, and to this day that's what everyone calls poor Lefabre.

In a stagecoach between Hanover in Germany and Paris, September, 1805
(The Emperor has forbidden our Republican calendar.
My late mama would be pleased—she never could get used to it)

We were very happy in Hanover—Jean-Baptiste, Oscar and I. The valuable parquet floor in the royal palace was the only real bone of contention. "That Oscar thinks the polished floor in the big room was built for the son of the Military Governor to slide on doesn't surprise me. He is a six-year-old child. But that you—" He'd shake his head but his eyes would smile. And every time, I'd promise never again to take a running start and slide with a swish across the shining floor in the ballroom of the former kings of Hanover, now occupied by Msgr. Jean-Baptiste, Marshal of France, Governor of the Kingdom of Hanover.

Again and again I promised and next day couldn't resist the temptation. Away we'd go sliding, Oscar and I. It was really scandalous; for, after all, I was the First Lady of the Kingdom of Hanover and had a small court consisting of a reader, a lady-in-waiting, and the wives of my husband's officers. Unfortunately, I sometimes forgot.

Yes, we were happy in Hanover. And Hanover was happy with us. That sounds odd, for Hanover was conquered territory, and Jean-Baptiste the commander of an army of occupation. From six o'clock in the morning until six in the evening, and after supper until late at night, he pored over files of documents at his desk.

Jean-Baptiste began his "rule" in this Germanic country by
introducing the Rights of Man. In France much blood had flowed to establish equality among citizens. In Hanover, an enemy country, a stroke of the pen was enough: the signature
Bernadotte.
Corporal punishment was ruled out. The ghettos were abolished and the Jews permitted to choose any careers they wished. Not in vain did the Levis of Marseilles march into battle in their Sunday suits. A former sergeant knows very well what to feed the troops, so requisitions on the citizens of Hanover to maintain our troops weren't oppressive. Jean-Baptiste set the tax rate and every officer must abide by it. Besides, the citizens' earnings increased. Jean-Baptiste also did away with customs barriers; and Hanover is like an island in the middle of war-devastated Germany, trading in every direction. When the citizens of Hanover became really wealthy, Jean-Baptiste raised their taxes a little. With this extra revenue he bought grain and sent it to northern Germany where there was a famine. People of Hanover were puzzled, our own officers touched their foreheads, but no one can long resent anyone who treats him like a decent human being.

Finally Jean-Baptiste advised the Hanover merchants to get on friendly terms with the Hanseatic towns and through this friendship earn much more money. The deputation was speechless at this advice. For it's an open secret that the Hanseatic towns aren't in sympathy with the Emperor's plans for a Continental system, and that their ships go back and forth to England. But when a Marshal of France gave his poor conquered enemies this advice they got right in the swing of it and filled the State Treasury of Hanover. Jean-Baptiste was able to send large sums to the University of Göttingen, where some of the most distinguished scholars in Europe are now Professors. Jean-Baptiste was naturally very proud of "his" University. And he was happy working on his documents.

Occasionally I'd also find him reading fat volumes. "How much an uneducated sergeant has to learn," he'd say, not looking up but holding out his hand. I'd go to him and he would lay his hand on my cheek. "You govern an awful lot," I'd say. But he would just shake his head. "I'm learning, little
girl. And I want to do my best. It's not hard if things stay quiet—"

We both knew what Jean-Baptiste meant.

I gained weight in Hanover. We didn't dance all night nor stand for hours at parades—at least no longer than two hours. For my sake, Jean-Baptiste cut down on the parades. After supper our officers and their ladies usually sat in my salon while we discussed the news from Paris. The Emperor was apparently still preparing his invasion of England; his squadrons were at Boulogne. And Josephine was running up more debts, but this was only mentioned in whispers. Sometimes Jean-Baptiste also invited professors from Göttingen, who tried to explain their ideas to us in atrocious French. One of them read a play to us in German, by the author of that night-table novel,
The Sorrows of Werther,
which once enthralled Julie so. The author is named Goethe. I signalled to Jean-Baptiste to put us out of our misery; we understood so little German.

Another told us about a great physician in Göttingen who has restored many people's hearing. This particularly interested Jean-Baptiste because a number of our soldiers have been deafened by the booming of their own cannon. And suddenly he exclaimed, "I have a friend who must see this professor. He lives in Vienna. I'll write him, he must go to Göttingen. He can also visit us, Désirée, you must meet him. He's a musician I met in Vienna when I was Ambassador. A friend of Kreutzer—you remember him!"

This threw me into a panic, of course. Under the pretext of having so many new obligations, I'd announced to Jean-Baptiste that I had no time any more for my piano or deportment lessons. And he was too busy to make me. I don't miss the piano playing; and as for deportment, I simply sweep my guests from the dining room into the salons with the few graceful gestures M. Montel taught me. And for a silk merchant's daughter, transplanted to the royal palace at Hanover, I did it very well. Now I was horrified that I would have to play the piano for this musician from Vienna.

But it didn't happen. Never will I forget the evening the
Viennese musician spent with us. The evening began wonderfully. . . .

Oscar, who gets starry-eyed whenever he hears music,
plagued me so long I gave in and let him stay up. And Oscar
also knew more about the imminent concert than I. The
Viennese musician's name is—I thought I remembered it—a
very foreign name, probably German—yes, his name is
Beethoven. Jean-Baptiste had given instructions that all the
members of the former royal Hanover orchestra be placed at
this Beethoven's disposal and must rehearse with him three
whole mornings in the great hall. On these days Oscar and
I weren't permitted in the hall and therefore couldn't slide
across the parquet floor, So I maintained my dignity without
difficulty.

Oscar was really terribly excited. "How long may I stay up, Mama? Until after midnight? How can a deaf man write I music? Do you think he never can hear his own music? Has M. Beethoven an ear trumpet? Does he ever blow on it?"

Mornings I usually went for a drive with Oscar; and in
the yellow-green shade of the long lime-tree avenue from the
palace to the village of Herrenhausen, I tried to answer all
his questions. As I had not yet seen M. Beethoven, or what
ever his name is, I knew nothing about his ear trumpet. I did
assume that although he's a musician he probably used it to
hear and not to blow.

"Papa says he's one of the biggest men he knows. How big can he be? Taller than a grenadier in the Emperor's bodyguard?"

"Papa doesn't mean physically big, but spiritually. He is— yes, probably he's a genius. That's what Papa means by a big man."

Oscar thought this over. Finally, "Bigger than Papa?"

I took Oscar's sticky little hand, which turned out to be clutching a half-sucked piece of candy. "That I don't know, darling."

"Greater than the Emperor, Mama?"

At that the footman, riding beside our coachman, half-turned and looked at me curiously. I didn't move a muscle.

I
"No one is greater than the Emperor, Oscar," I said quietly.

"Perhaps he can't hear his own music—" mused Oscar.

"Perhaps," I answered, absent-mindedly, and felt suddenly sad. I wanted to bring my son up differently, I thought; as a free man, as Papa would have wished. The new tutor, whom the Emperor personally recommended and who had been with us a month, had tried to teach the child the amendment to the catechism, which is now compulsory in all French schools: "We owe our Emperor, Napoleon I, God's image on earth, respect, obedience, loyalty, military service—"

Recently I happened to visit Oscar's schoolroom and thought at first I'd heard it wrong. But the narrow-chested young tutor, formerly head boy at the Brienne Cadet School, who folded up like a jackknife if he saw Jean-Baptiste or me (but vented his spleen on the poor puppy Fernand brought home, when he thought no one was looking)—well, this tutor, Napoleon's choice, was reciting the words. No doubt about it —"Emperor Napoleon I, God's image on earth . . ."

"I don't want the child to learn that. Leave out the amendment to the catechism," I said.

"It is taught in all the schools of the Empire. It is the law," said the young man, and chanted without inflection. "His Majesty is very much interested in the education of his godson, and I have instructions to report to His Majesty regularly. The boy is the son of a marshal of France."

I looked at Oscar. His thin little neck craned over a copybook. He was scrawling. First the nuns taught me, I thought and then the nuns were imprisoned or thrown out. We children were told there was no God, only pure Reason. We were to worship this pure Reason, and Robespierre had an altar erected. Next came a time when no one bothered about our thoughts and everyone was allowed to think what he wished. When Napoleon became First Consul he reinstated priests, who swore allegiance not to the Republic but to the Holy Roman Church. Finally Napoleon forced the Pope to travel from Rome to Paris to crown him and made Catholicism the official state religion. And now he enforces this amendment. This amendment must be learned. . . .

Peasants sons are called from the fields to march in Napoleon's armies. It costs eight thousand francs to buy a man out of military service, and eight thousand francs is a great deal of money for a peasant. So they hide their sons, and the police arrest wives, sisters, and fiancees as hostages. Even though French deserters are no longer a problem. France has enough soldiers. The defeated rulers must raise regiments to prove their loyalty to the Emperor. Thousands, tens of thousands, will be dragged from their beds and will march for Napoleon. Jean-Baptiste complains so often that his soldiers don't understand our language at all, and his officers must issue commands through interpreters. Why does Napoleon make them march, these young men, into still more new wars, still more new victories? The frontiers of France have not needed to be defended for a long time. France has no frontiers any more. Or is he no longer concerned about France
but only about himself, Napoleon, the Emperor—?

I don't know how long we stood facing each other, the young tutor and I. I suddenly felt as though I'd sleep-walked I through the last few years. I finally wheeled around and walked to the door. And said again, "Leave out the amendment to the catechism. Oscar is still too young. He doesn't I know what it means." With that I closed the door behind me.

The corridor was empty. Weakly I leaned against the wall and began to cry uncontrollably. Too little, I wept, to know what it means. . . . And that's why you make the children learn it, Napoleon, that's why—you destroyer of faith! For the Rights of Man a whole nation suffered and bled; and when it was exhausted, and the Rights of Man proclaimed, you put
yourself in command of the nation. . . .

I don't remember how I got to my bedroom. I only know I was suddenly lying on my bed, crying into the pillows. These proclamations! We're all used to them. They always cover the first page of the
Moniteur.
Always the same old diatribes as the one before he left for the Pyramids, that he'd tried out on us at the dinner table in Paris—high-sounding phrases that dragged the Rights of Man into every order of the day. Joseph, who really hates him, had said maliciously, "The Rights of
Man weren't your invention, Napoleon. . . ." Instead, he applied them to his own devices, paying lip-service to freedom while he enslaved the nation—condoning bloodshed in the name of the Rights of Man. . . .