The Josephine B. Trilogy (141 page)
Perhaps the most difficult part of writing this novel was having to simplify a very complex narrative. Many delightful characters and fascinating stories had to be cut: readers familiar with the period will miss Fanny Beauharnais’s granddaughter Stéphanie (
another
spirited Stéphanie); the several Tascher boys sent from Martinique to take advantage of the caring protection of their Empress aunt; Talleyrand’s marriage to the delightfully clueless Madame Grand; General Bernadotte and his wife (Napoleon’s first love, Eugénie-Désirée Clary), who became King and Queen of Sweden; the colourful Spanish royalty, most especially the unforgettable Prince of Peace. Any of these people could easily be the subject of a novel.
But most of all I have felt inadequate to the task of properly portraying Napoleon, his strengths and weaknesses, his vision and blindness, his heroic accomplishments and grievous failings. As well, the political picture—so vast and so complex—had to be simplified. Notably missing is the story of Toussaint’s defence of Saint-Domingue (Haiti today) and his tragic death in France, as well as the story of the arrest and imprisonment of the Pope. This novel represents only the tip of the iceberg.
Of those individuals I have chosen to include, my apologies to their descendants if I have misrepresented them in any way. I hope my respect and love for them shows, even in their villainy.
Researching this book in Europe, I owe special thanks to Yves Carlier, the curator of Fontainebleau, who took me on a tour behind the scenes of that amazing château, and the staff of the Archives Municipales in Évreux. And, as always, I owe a special thanks to Bernard Chevallier and Dr. Catinat at Malmaison. Dr. Catinat has happily answered my numerous questions for almost a decade. His knowledge and perception of “notre héroïne” have influenced me greatly.
Special appreciation is due to all those on various Net history forums who took the time to give me specific information, notably: Bruno Nackaerts, Beryl Bernardi, Cori Hauer-Galambos, Yves Martin, and especially Tom Holmberg, who made perceptive and helpful suggestions after reading an early draft. Military historian Dr. Margaret Chrisawn not only answered my frequent questions, but combed the final text for errors (those errors that remain are entirely my responsibility). My debt to her since the inception of this trilogy is immense. Historian Dr. John McErlean kept me posted of new publications and developments; Irène Delage at Le Souvenir Napoléonien helped find obscure references; John Ballantrae provided tarot expertise; hemp activist Robert Anderman provided an interesting perspective regarding the Russian campaign; and Marshall Pynkoski and Jeannette Zingg of Opéra Atelier opened my eyes to the intricate world of eighteenth-century dance.
The members of the Algonquin Book Club (Penney Carson-Mak, Shirley Felker, Bonnie Ference, Catherine Lee, Rhoda Levert, Joanne Paine and Cathleen Sullivan) gave an exceptionally helpful critique of an early draft. My hard-working readers proved invaluable yet again: Peggy Bridgland, Janet Calcaterra, Thea Caplan, Dorothy Goodman, Marnie MacKay, Jenifer McVaugh, Carmen Mullins, Fran Murphy, Robin Paige, Chris Pollock, and especially my parents, Robert and Sharon Zentner. Kristine Puopolo at Scribners made very helpful suggestions. The sensitive work of Fiona Foster, a talented editor, is apparent on every page. A “triple salvo of bravos” to Judy Holland, who read two drafts and each time gave me the benefit of her considerable expertise as an editor, writer and teacher.
Thanks to Jan Whitford, whose early faith has at last been rewarded, and to my “home team” at HarperCollins Canada: Karen Hanson, Roy Nicol, Magda Nusink, Lorissa Sengara, Rebecca Vogan—and especially, especially,
especially
my editor and publisher, Iris Tupholme, who wept reading each draft.
And, as always, I thank my husband Richard, who picked me up when I fell down, brushed me off and gently but firmly turned me back in the direction of the eighteenth century.
Ideas, interviews & features
SANDRA GULLAND
was born in Florida in 1944. Her father was an airline pilot, so the family moved often, living in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, then Florida again before settling in Berkeley, California.
In the fall of 1970 Sandra moved to Canada to teach Grade 2 in an Inuit village in northern Labrador, an experience she describes as “amazing.” Later, she worked as a book editor in Toronto, and in 1977 she married Richard Gulland. She gave birth to a daughter and son, and in 1980 the family moved to a log cabin near Killaloe (population 600), in northern Ontario. Sandra started an editorial and writing service and became the principal of a parent-run alternative school. All the while, she grew vegetables (or “tried to grow vegetables,” as she puts it), raised chickens and pigs, and developed a lifelong fascination with horses. Meanwhile, and always, she was writing.
Sandra’s consuming interest in Josephine Bonaparte was sparked in 1972 when she read a biography of her. Decades of in-depth research followed, which included investigative trips to France, Italy and Martinique, consultations with period scholars and learning French.
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.
was published in 1995. It was followed in 1998 by
Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe
and
The Last Great Dance on Earth
in 2000. The Josephine B. Trilogy is now published in eleven languages. Napoleon said that he “conquered countries but that Josephine conquered hearts,” Gulland says. “It’s amazing. She continues to do so.”
Sandra and her husband now live half the year in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and half in northern Ontario. She is currently writing a novel set in 17th-century France.
Animating History: The Challenges of Writing an Historical Novel about Josephine
From a speech presented by Sandra Gulland to the Napoleonic Society of America in 1993, two years prior to the publication of the first book in the trilogy
“I was captured by Josephine—her heart, her intelligence, her grace, her courage.”
Over fifteen years ago, in the course of my work as an editor for a book publisher, I read a short biography of Josephine’s life. I was overcome. As a joke I sometimes say it was as if lightning struck, but it was, in truth, a turning point for me. I was captured (or, should I say, kidnapped) by Josephine—her heart, her intelligence, her grace, her courage.
For me, the desire to learn about Josephine—to understand her—took all the predictable forms: I spent too much money on books; I collected tacky memorabilia; I travelled long distances to go to museum exhibits; I grew teary-eyed on the cobblestones of Paris. Eventually (and inevitably), the desire to learn about her led to the impulse to write about her in order to
discover answers to my questions: What was life like for her? What did being Josephine feel like? So I proceeded, one page at a time. Had I known what I was getting into, I would never have begun. Only a fool would knowingly undertake a work of this nature.
“Had I known what I was getting into, I would never have begun. Only a fool would knowingly undertake a work of this nature.”
The first challenge, of course, was the research. Obviously, I had to learn about the times—all of the times: from the
ancien régime
, the Revolution, the Terror, the days of Thermidor, the Consulate, the Empire. I had to come to grips not only with the waves upon waves of political upheaval but also, of course, with the finer details of dress and deportment, manners, food and transportation. Not only did I have to research the life of Josephine but also the lives of all of the significant people she knew.
The second challenge was (and continues to be) learning the French language. When I began I thought that there was enough material available in English to keep me in libraries for a lifetime. I was right—there is—but eventually, as my research became more specific, I needed to consult works that were only available in French. I also had to be able to pronounce my characters’ names!
The third challenge was trying to figure out what actually happened. Both historians and novelists create stories to link fact A to fact B. Histories conflict; experts differ. As a novelist I can’t say: “Exactly why Josephine returned to Martinique is not known.” I have to create a reason. I have to make a statement. But harder than sorting out facts has been wading through the interpretations historians
have made about Josephine—their assumptions which, over time, have come to be regarded as fact. If she:
- spent time with a man, it was assumed she was sleeping with him.
- said she was ill, it was assumed she was lying.
- bought works of art, it was said she was a “hoarder” or a “spendthrift” rather than a “collector” or a “patron of the arts.”
- wept, it was said she was frivolous, or weak, or manipulative.
“Historians neglect to quote accounts of Josephine’s courage in prison.”
During her months in prison, for example, she is portrayed as weeping uncontrollably, demoralizing the other inmates. Historians neglect to quote accounts of her courage in prison. They neglect to mention that the one woman who complained of Josephine was Delphine de Custine, who Josephine nursed through a violent bereavement and who recovered sufficiently to fall into the arms of Josephine’s husband, Alexandre. I’m not sure, under the circumstances, that Delphine had a right to be critical of Josephine, and I resent that Delphine’s words have been passed on unqualified for hundreds of years.
Another weeping episode often cited occurred when Josephine was leaving Paris to join Napoleon in Italy. It is true—she did weep. The traditional explanation for her tears is that she couldn’t bear to leave the gay life of constant parties and theatre in Paris. What is not mentioned is that Josephine, at the early age of thirty-two, was apparently going through menopause brought on by the stress of her prison experience. One can only imagine the emotional confusion—the nightmare—of
dealing with an early menopause in an age that knew little about menopause at all. Furthermore, she had developed complications of a “feminine nature” and was, in fact, quite ill. In leaving Paris, she was leaving behind one of her dearest friends, who was dying. She was also leaving behind her children at the delicate ages of thirteen and fifteen. When would she see them again? What mother would not be distressed leaving teenagers behind? Her daughter was just about to be confirmed, and Josephine, her mother, would not be there. This was tantamount, at the time, to not being present at a daughter’s wedding. Given all of this, I believe it is safe to say that Josephine had very good reasons for weeping.
“One of my intentions when I began my novel was to give Josephine a chance to speak, to give her a voice.”
In general, my feeling is that Josephine has been harshly judged. Few seem willing to question the assumptions made in the past. Few seem willing to see things from her perspective, to walk in her shoes, to give her the benefit of the doubt. And that, precisely, was one of my intentions when I began my novel—to give Josephine a chance to speak, to give her a voice.
Which brings me to the greatest challenge of all: writing the novel. The main problem with writing historical fiction about a person’s life is creating drama and tension. A life does not
- unfold in chapters. (You may have noticed this.)
- have “a message,” an underlying theme—yet a novel must.
- build slowly but steadily to a climax.
- restrict itself to three main characters.
With the last draft of
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.
, I was asked to include a cast of characters. I was shocked and depressed to count eighty characters in Josephine’s life—and this was before her life with Napoleon began! Which brings me to another problem—nearly everyone, it seemed, was named François or Marie or both. Imagine a novel swarming with characters named François!
“I get the sense of Josephine as a rather “modern” woman: a woman who had financial dealings with men in an age when women did not work at all, much less handle money.”
Another more serious problem is resisting the desire to put something in a novel just because it is exciting new information. For example, when I met with Bernard Chevallier and Dr. Catinat at Malmaison, both of them were quite excited by the new discovery that Josephine had been a Freemason. Through the Freemasons, she had met influential and wealthy bankers from the Islands. This put her in a powerful position. Specifically, Josephine was able to introduce Barras to these contacts. Dr. Catinat is of the opinion that in the exchange of money and favours between Josephine and Barras, Barras came out on top. Furthermore, he believes (and I concur) that Josephine and Barras were not lovers.
Increasingly, through new research, I get the sense of Josephine as a rather “modern” woman: not a promiscuous woman at all, but rather, a woman who had many male friends; a woman who networked with men, who was comfortable in the working world of men; a woman who had financial dealings with men in an age when women did not work at all, much less handle money.
But the problem for me is that I wanted to put all of this in my novel, but I couldn’t. In the case of Josephine’s involvement with
the Freemasons, it was next to impossible for me to find specific information on secret societies. Regarding her bank wheeling and dealing, rising and falling interest rates do not make for good reading. The point is: a novel has to work on its own terms. A novel that is merely a dramatized account of historical facts will never come to life. And bringing history to life is what writing historical fiction is all about.
