impatient desire to bring to a favorable issue these important
family concerns, and that the eldest of the daughters ought to have
the preference. The son of the marquis especially pronounced himself
decidedly in favor of Josephine, and father and son, as well as
Madame de Renaudin, turned imploringly to M. Tascher de la Pagerie,
praying that he would bring them his eldest daughter.
Now, for the first time, when the choice of the Beauharnais family
had irrevocably fallen upon Josephine, now for the first time was
this proposed marriage made known to her, and her consent asked.
Josephine, whose young heart was like a blank sheet of paper,
whereon love had as yet written no name, Josephine rejoiced at the
prospect of accomplishing the secret wish of her maiden heart, to go
to Paris - Paris, the burning desire of all Creoles - Paris, after all
the narratives and descriptions, which had been made to Josephine,
rose before the soul of the young maiden as a golden morning dream,
a charming fairy world; and full of gratitude she already loved her
future husband, to whom she owed the happiness of becoming
acquainted with the city of wonders and pleasures.
She therefore acquiesced without regret at being separated from her
parents and from her sister, from the home of all her sweet
reminiscences of youth, and joyously, in August of the year 1779,
she embarked on board the vessel which was to take her with her
father to France.
In the middle of October they both, after a stormy passage, touched
the soil of France and announced to their relatives their safe
arrival. Alexandre de Beauharnais, full of impatient longings to see
his unknown young bride, hastened to Brest to bid her and her father
welcome, and to accompany them to Paris.
The first meeting of the young couple decided their future.
Josephine, smiling and blushing, avowed to her father that she was
willing and ready to marry M. Alexandre Beanharnais; and, the very
first day of his meeting with Josephine, Alexandre wrote to his
father that he was enchanted with the choice made, and that he felt
strongly convinced that, at the side of so charming, sweet, and
lovely a being, he would lead a happy and sunny life.
The love of the children had crowned all the schemes of the parents,
and on the 13th of December, 1779, the marriage of the young couple
took place. On the 13th of December, Mademoiselle Josephine Tascher
de la Pagerie became the Viscountess Josephine de Beauharnais.
CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG BONAPARTE.
In the same year, 1779, in which Josephine de la Pagerie for the
first time left Martinique for Prance, a vessel which had sailed
from Corsica brought to France a boy who, not only as regards
Josephine's life, but also as regards all Europe, yea, the whole
world, was to be of the highest importance, and who, with the iron
step of fatality, was to walk through Europe to subvert thrones and
raise up new ones; to tread nations in the dust, and to lift up
others from the dust; to break tyranny's chains in which people
languished, so as to impose upon them his own chains.
This boy was Napoleon Bonaparte, the son of the advocate Charles de
Bonaparte.
From Ajaccio, the principal town of Corsica, came the ship which
brought to France the boy, his father, and his two elder brothers.
In Ajaccio the family of the Bonapartes had been settled for more
than a century. There also Napoleon had passed the first years of
his life, in the family circle with his parents, and in joyous
amusements with his five brothers and sisters.
His father, Charles de Bonaparte, belonged to one of the noble
families of Corsica, and was one of the most influential men on the
island. His mother, Letitia Ramolina, was well known throughout the
island for her beauty, and the only woman who could have been her
rival, for she was her equal in beauty, youth, and grace, was her
dearest friend, the beautiful Panonia de Comnene, afterward the
mother of the Duchess d'Abrantes.
The beautiful Letitia Ramolina was married to Charles de Bonaparte
the same year that her friend Panonia de Comnene became the wife of
M. de Permont, a high French official in Ajaccio. Corsica was then
the undisputed property of the kingdom of France, and, however proud
the Corsicans were of their island, yet they were satisfied to be
called subjects of France, and to have their beautiful island
considered as a province of France.
Napoleon Bonaparte was the fifth child of his parents, the favorite
of his beautiful mother Letitia, who was the life of the household,
the ruler of the family. She governed the house, she educated the
children; she knew, with the genuine ability of a housekeeper, of a
mother, how to spend with careful frugality the moderate income of
her husband; how to economize, and yet how to give to each what was
needed. As to the father, in the hours of leisure which business,
political debates, and amusements allowed him to give to his home
and family, his children were an agreeable recreation, an
interesting pastime; and when the children, carried away by the
sparkling fire of youth, shouted or cried too loud, the father
endeavored to palliate their misdemeanor, and obtain their pardon
from their mother. Then Letitia's eyes were fastened with a flaming
glance upon her husband, and, imperatively bidding him leave the
children, she would say: "Let them alone. Their education concerns
you not. I am the one to keep the eyes upon them."
She trained them up with the severity of a father and with the
tenderness of a mother. Inexorable against every vice of heart and
character, she was lenient and indulgent toward petty offences which
sprang up from the inconsiderateness and spiritedness of youth.
Every tendency to vulgar sentiments, to mean envy or selfishness,
she strove to uproot by galling indignation; but every thing which
was great and lofty, all sentiments of honor, of courage, of large-
heartedness, of generosity, of kindness, she nursed and cherished in
the hearts of her children. It was a glorious sight to contemplate
this young mother when with her beautiful, rosy countenance glowing
with enthusiasm and blessedness, she stood among her children, and
in fiery, expressive manner spoke to the listening group of the
great and brave of old, of the deeds of a Caesar, of a Hannibal;
when she spoke of Brutus, who, though he loved Caesar, yet, greater
than Caesar, and a more exalted Roman in his love for the republic,
sacrificed his love to the fatherland; or when she, with that
burning glow which all Corsicans, the women as well as the men,
cherish for their home and for the historical greatness of their
dear island, told them of the bravery and self-denial even unto
death with which the Corsicans for centuries had fought for the
freedom of their island; how, faithful to the ancient sacred law of
blood, they never let the misdeed pass unpunished; they never feared
the foe, however powerful he might be, but revenged on him the evil
which he had committed against sister or brother, father or mother.
And when Letitia thus spoke to her children in the beautiful and
harmonious language of her country, the eyes of the little Napoleon
were all aflame, his childish countenance suddenly assumed a grave
expression, and on the little body of the child was seen a man's
head, glowing with power, energy, and pride.
These narratives of his mother, these enthusiastic stories of heroes
of the past, which the boy, with loud-beating heart, with
countenance blanched by mental excitement, gathered from the
beautiful lips of his mother, were the highest pleasure of the
little Napoleon, and often in future years has the emperor amid his
glory thought of those days never to be forgotten, when the child's
heart and soul hung on his mother's lips, and listened to her
wondrous stories of heroes.
These narratives of Letitia, this enthusiasm which her glowing
language awoke in the heart of the child, this whole education which
Letitia gave to her children, became the corner-stone of their
future. As a sower, Letitia scattered the seed from which hero and
warrior were to spring forth, and the grain which fell into the
heart of her little Napoleon found a good soil, and grew and
prospered, and became a laurel-tree, which adorned the whole family
of the Bonapartes with the blooming crown of immortality.
Great men are ever much more the sons of their mother than of the
father, while seldom have great men seen their own greatness survive
in their sons. This is a wonderful secret of Nature, which perhaps
cannot be explained, but which cannot be denied.
Goethe was the true son of his talented and noble mother, but he
could leave as a legacy to his son only the fame of a name, and not
his genius. Henry IV., the son of a noble, spiritual and large-
hearted Jeanne de Navarre, could not leave to France, which
worshipped and loved her king, could not leave to his people, a
successor who resembled him, and who would inherit his sharp-
sightedness, his prudence, his courage, and his greatness of soul.
His son and successor was Louis XIII., a king whose misfortune it
was ever to be overruled, ever to be humbled, ever to stand in the
shade of two superior natures, which excited his envy, but which he
was never competent to overcome; ever overshadowed by the past
glories which his father's fame threw upon him, overshadowed by the
ruler and mentor of his choice, his minister, the Cardinal de
Richelieu, who darkened his whole sad existence.
Napoleon was the son of his mother, the large-hearted and high-
minded Letitia Ramolina. But how distant was the son of the hero,
who, from a poor second lieutenant, had forced his way to the throne
of France! how distant the poor little Duke de Reichstadt from his
great father! Even over the life of this son of an eminent father
weighed a shadow - the shadow of his father's greatness. Under this
shadow which the column of Vendome cast from Paris to the imperial
city of Vienna, which the steep rock of St. Helena cast even upon
the castle of Schonbrunn, under this shadow died the Duke de
Reichstadt, the unfortunate son of his eminent father.
The little Napoleon was always a shy, reserved, quiet boy. For hours
long he could hide in some obscure corner of the house or of the
garden, and sit there with head bent low and eyes closed, half
asleep and half dreaming; but when he opened his eyes, what a life
in those looks! What animation, what exuberance in his whole being,
when awaking from his childish dreams he mixed again with his
brothers, sisters, and friends!
Letitia's words and example had penetrated the soul of the child
with the highest emotions of honor and human dignity, and the little
boy of seven years exhibited oftentimes the sentiments of honor,
pride, and obstinacy of a man. Every bodily correction to which he
was submitted made him turn pale and tremble, not from pain but for
shame, filled him with indignation, and was apt to bring on
sickness. In Corsica still prevailed the custom of severe discipline
for children, and in all the classes of the school the rod was
applied as a means of punishment and reformation. To beat one's wife
was considered in Corsica, as everywhere else, an unpardonable
brutality; but parents as well as teachers whipped children to mould
them into noble, refined, honorable men.
The little Napoleon would not adapt himself to the blessings of this
education, and the mere threats of the rod-switching deprived the
child of his senses and threw him into convulsions. But though the
little Napoleon was gloomy, monosyllabic, and quiet, yet was he from
early childhood the favorite of all who knew him, and he already
wielded over brothers, sisters, and companions, a wonderful
influence.
When a boy of four years old, Letitia sent him to a sort of play-
school, where boys and girls amused themselves together and learned
the ABC. The young Napoleon was soon the soul of the little company.
The boys obeyed him, and submitted to his will; the girls trembled
before him, and yet with a smile they pressed toward him merely to
be near him and to have a place at his side. And the four-year child
already practised a tender chivalry. One of his little school-
companions had made an impression on his heart; he honored her with
special favors, sat at her side during the lessons, and when they
left school to return home, the little Napoleon never missed, with
complete gravity of countenance, to offer his arm to his favorite of
five years of age and to accompany her to her home. But the sight of
this gallant, with his diminutive, compact, and broad figure, over
which the large head, with its earnestness of expression, seemed so
incongruous, and which moved on with so much gravity, while the
socks fell from the naked calves over the heels - all this excited
the merriment of the other children; and when, arm-in-arm with his
little schoolmate, he thus moved on, the other urchins in great glee
shouted after him: "Napoleone di mezza calzetta dall' amore a
Giacominetta!" ("Napoleon in socks is the lover of the little
Giacominetta!")
The boy endured these taunts with the stoic composure of a
philosopher, but never after did he offer his arm to the little
Giacominetta, and never afterward did his socks hang down over his
heels.
When from this "mixed school" he passed into a boys' school, the
little Napoleon distinguished himself above all the other boys by
his ambition, his deep jealousy, his perseverance at learning and
studying, and he soon became the favorite of the Abbe Recco,
[Footnote: Napoleon, in his testament, written at St. Helena, willed
a fixed sum of money to this Professor Recco, in gratitude for the
instruction given him in his youth.] who taught at the royal college
of Ajaccio as professor. A few times every week the worthy professor
would gather his pupils in a large hall, to read them lectures upon
ancient history, and especially upon the history of Rome; and, in
order to give to this hall a worthy and significant ornament, he had
it adorned on either side with two large and costly banners, one of
which had the initials S. P. Q. E., and represented the standard of
ancient Rome; facing it and on the opposite side of the hall was the
standard of Carthage.
Under the shadows of these standards were ranged the seats for the
scholars, and in the vacant centre of the large hall was the
professor's chair, from which the Abbe Recco dictated to his pupils
the history of the heroic deeds of ancient Rome.
The elder children sat under the larger standard, under the standard
of Rome, and the junior boys immediately opposite, under the
standard of Carthage; and as Napoleon Bonaparte was the youngest
scholar of the institution, he sat near the Carthaginian standard,
whilst his brother Joseph, his senior by five years, had his seat
facing him on the Roman side. Though at the commencement of the
lectures Napoleon's delight had been great, and though he had
listened with enthusiasm to the history of the struggles, and to the
martial achievements of the ancient Romans, the little Napoleon soon
manifested an unmistaken repugnance to attend these lectures. He
would turn pale, as with his brother he entered the hall, and with
head bowed low, and dark, angry countenance, took his seat. A few
days afterward he declared to his brother Joseph, his lips drawn in
by anguish, that he would no more attend the lectures.
"And why not?" asked Joseph, astonished. "Do you take no interest in
the Roman history? Can you not follow the lecture?"
The little Napoleon darted upon his brother a look of inexpressible
contempt. "I would be a simpleton if the history of heroes did not
interest me," said he, "and I understand everything the good
Professor Recco says - I understand it so well that I often know
beforehand what his warriors and heroes will do."
"Well, then, since you have such a lively interest in the history of
the Romans, why will you no more follow the lectures?"
"No, I will not, I cannot," murmured Napoleon, sadly.
"Tell me, at least, the reason, Napoleon," said his brother.
The boy looked straight before him, for a long time hesitating and
undecided; then he threw up his head in a very decided manner, and
gazed on his brother with flaming eyes.
"Yes," cried he, passionately, "I will tell you! I can no longer
endure the shame to sit down under the standard of the conquered and
humiliated Carthaginians. I do not deserve to be so disgraced."
"But, Napoleon," said Joseph, laughing, "why trouble yourself about
the standard of the old Carthaginians? One is just as well under it
as under the Roman standard."
"Is it, then, the same to you under which standard you sit? Do you
not consider it as a great honor to sit under the standard of the
victorious Romans?"
"I look upon the one as being without honor, and upon the other as
being without shame," said Joseph, smiling.
"If it is so," cried out the little Napoleon, throwing himself on
his brother's neck, "if it is for you no great sacrifice, then, I
implore you to save me, to make me happy, for you can do it! Let us
change seats; give me your place under the standard of Rome, and
take my place instead."
Joseph declared himself ready to do so, and when the two brothers
came next time to the lecture, Napoleon, with uplifted head and
triumphant countenance, took his seat under the standard of
victorious Rome.
But soon the expression of joy faded away from his face, and his
features were overcast, and with a restless, sad look, he repeatedly
turned himself toward his brother Joseph, who sat facing him under
the standard of the conquered race.
Silent and sad he went home with Joseph, and when his mother
questioned him about the cause of his sorrow, he confessed, with
tears in his eyes, that he was a heartless egotist, that he had been
unjust and cruel toward Joseph, that he had cheated his brother of
his place of honor and had seated himself in it.
It required the most earnest assurances of Joseph that he placed no
value whatever on the seat; it required all the persuasiveness and
authority of Letitia to appease the boy, and to prevail upon him to
resume the conquered seat. [Footnote: "Memoires du Roi Joseph," vol.
i., p.40.]
As the course of instruction which the boys had received in Ajaccio
was not sufficient for the times, and for the capacities of his
sons, their father passed over to France with Joseph and Napoleon,
to take advantage of the favorable resources for a more complete
education.
Napoleon saw the time of departure approach with an apparently
indifferent mind, only his face was somewhat paler, he was still
more monosyllabic and more reserved than before; and his eyes, full
of an indescribable expression of tenderness and admiration,
followed all the movements of his mother, as if to print deeply in
his soul the beloved image, so as to take it with him beyond the
seas, in all its freshness and beauty.
He wept not as he bade her farewell; not a word of sorrow or regret
did he speak, but he embraced his mother with impassioned fondness,
he kissed her hands, her forehead, her large black eyes, he sank
down before her and kissed her feet, then sprang up, and, after
casting upon her whole figure a deep, glowing look, he rushed away
to embark at once, without waiting for brother or father, who were
yet bidding a touching farewell to relatives and friends.
Letitia gazed after her Napoleon with glowing and wide-open eyes;
she wept not, she complained not, but she pressed her two hands on
her heart as if to keep it from breaking asunder, from bleeding to
death; then she called all her children around her, and, folding
them up in her arms, exclaimed: "Join your hands and pray with me
that our little Napoleon may return home to us a noble and great
man."
As soon as they had prosperously landed in France, the father placed
his two sons in the college of Autun, and then travelled farther on
to Paris, there to obtain, through the influence of his patrons and
friends, a place for his daughter Marianne (afterward Elise) in St.
Cyr, an institution for the daughters of noblemen, and also a place
for Napoleon in the military school of Brienne. His efforts were
crowned with success; and whilst Joseph remained at college in
Autun, Napoleon had to part with him and go to Brienne.
When the brothers bade farewell one to another, Joseph wept
bitterly, and his sighs and tears choked the tender words of
farewell which his quivering lips would have uttered.
Napoleon was quiet, and as his eye moistened with a tear, he
endeavored to hide it, and turned aside ashamed of himself and
nearly indignant, for he did not wish the Abbe Simon, one of the
professors of the college, who was present at the parting of the
brothers, to see his unmanly tenderness.
But the Abbe Simon had seen that tear, and when Napoleon was gone he
said to Joseph: "Napoleon has shed but one tear, but that tear
proves his deep sorrow as much as all your tears." [Footnote:
"Memoires du Roi Joseph," vol. i., p.26.]
Taciturn and quiet as he had been in Ajaccio, the little Napoleon
was equally so at the military school of Brienne, where he remained
from his eleventh to his sixteenth year. His character had always
something sombre and hidden; his eye seemed turned more inwardly
than outwardly; and his fellowship with his books seemed to procure
him a more pleasant recreation than the company of his schoolmates,
whose childish joys and pleasures he despised or pretended to do so,
because his limited pecuniary resources did not allow him to share
with them pleasures of an expensive nature.
But, though still and reserved, he always was friendly and courteous
to his comrades, grateful for every mark of friendship and kindness,
and always ready to protect the young and feeble against the
overbearing and the strong, censuring with grave authority every
injustice, and with Spartan harshness throwing his contempt into the
very face of him who, according to his standard, had offended
against honor, the lofty spirit and the dignity of a freeman.
It could not fail that soon Napoleon should win over his schoolmates
a marked moral influence; that they would listen to him as if he
were their superior; that they should feel something akin to fear in
presence of the flashing eyes of this little boy of barely fourteen
years, whose pale, expressive countenance, when illumined with
anger, almost seemed to them more terrible than that of the
irritated face of the teacher, and whom they therefore more
willingly and more unconditionally obeyed than the principal of the
establishment.
One day the latter had forbidden the scholars to go to the fair in a
neighboring locality, because they had lately been guilty of
excesses on a similar occasion; and, so as to be sure that the
scholars would not trespass against his orders, the principal had
the outside gate in the front yard locked.
This last circumstance kindled Napoleon's anger; he considered it as
an insult that the scholars should be treated as prisoners.
"Had we been ordered in the name of the law to remain here," cried
he, "then honor itself would have claimed from us to remain, for law
commands obedience to our superiors. But since we are treated as
slaves, who are by main force compelled to submission, then honor
claims from us to prove to our oppressors that we are free beings,
and that we desire to remain such. We are treated as prisoners of
war, kept under lock and bolt, but no one has demanded our word of
honor that we will make no effort to escape this subjection.
Whosoever has a brave heart and a soul full of honor's love, let him
follow me!"
All the youngsters followed him without hesitation. More submissive
to this pale, small boy of fourteen years, than to the severe,
strong, and exalted principal, none dared oppose him as he stood in
the garden, facing a remote place in the wall, and giving orders to
undermine it, so as to make an outlet. All obeyed the given orders,
all were animated with burning zeal, with cheerful alacrity; and
after an hour of earnest labor the work was done, and the passage
under the wall completed.
The scholars wanted to rush with jubilant cries through the opening,
and gain their freedom outside of the wall, but Napoleon held them
back.
"I will go first," said he. "I have been your leader throughout this
expedition, now I will be the first to pass out, that upon me may
fall the punishment when we are discovered."
The young men fell back silently and respectfully, while, proud and
stately as a field-marshal who gives the signal for the battle,
Napoleon passed through their ranks, to be the first from the crowd
to go through the newly-made passage.
It could not fail that the daring of these "prisoners of war" should
be discovered, that the principal should be the very same day
informed that the young men had, notwithstanding his strict orders,
notwithstanding the closed gate, made a way for themselves, and had
visited the prohibited fair, while the principal believed them to be
in the garden.
A strict inquiry took place the next morning. With threatening
tones, the principal ordered the young men to name him who had
guided them to so unheard-of a deed, who had misled them into
disobedience and insubordination. But all were still; none wished to
be a traitor, not even when the principal promised to all full
pardon, full impunity, if they would but name the instigator of
their guilty action.
But as no one spoke, as no one would name him, Napoleon gave himself
up as the culpable one.
"I alone am guilty," cried he, proudly. "I alone deserve punishment.
These have done only what I commanded them - they have but followed
my orders, nothing more. The guilt and the punishment are mine
alone."
The principal, glad to know the guilty one, kept his promise, and,
forgiving the rest, decided to punish only the one who acknowledged
himself to have been the leader.
Napoleon was, therefore, sentenced to the severest and most
degrading punishment known in the institution - to the so-called
"monk's penalty." That is to say, the future young soldier, in the
coarse woollen garment of a mendicant friar, was on his knees, to
devour his meal from an earthen vessel in the middle of the dining-
room, while all the other boys were seated at the table.
A deathly pallor overspread the face of the boy when he heard this
sentence. He had been for many days imprisoned in a cell with bread
and water, and he had without a murmur submitted to this correction,
endured already on a former occasion, but this degrading punishment
broke his courage.
Stunned, as it were, and barely conscious, he allowed the costume of
the punishment to be put on, but when he had been led into the
dining-room, where all the scholars were gathered for the noonday
meal, when he was forced upon his knees, he sank down to the ground
with a heavy sigh, and was seized with violent convulsions.
The rector himself, moved with deepest sympathy for the wounded
spirit of the boy, hastened to raise up Napoleon. At the same moment
rushed into the hall one of the teachers of the institution, M.
Patrault, who had just been informed of the execution which was
about to be carried out on Napoleon. With tears in his eyes, he
hastened to Napoleon, and with trembling hands tore from his
shoulders the detestable garment, and broke out at the same time in
loud complaints that his best scholar, his first mathematician, was
to be dishonored and treated in an unworthy manner.
Napoleon, however, was not always the reserved, grave boy who took
no part in the recreations and pleasures of the rest of his young
schoolmates. Whenever these amusements were of a more serious, of a
higher nature, Napoleon gladly and willingly took a part in them.
Now and then in the institution, on festivals, theatrical
representations took place, and on these occasions the citizens of
Brienne were allowed to be present.
But to maintain respectable order, every one who desired to be
present at the representation had to procure a card of admission
signed by the principal. On the day of the exhibition, at the
different doors of the institution, were posted guards who received
the admission cards, and whose strict orders were to let no one pass
in without them. These posts, which were filled by the scholars,
were under the supervision of superior and inferior officers, and
were confided only to the most distinguished and most praiseworthy
students.
One day, Voltaire's tragedy, "The Death of Caesar," was exhibited.
Napoleon had the post of honor of a first lieutenant for this
festivity, and with grave earnestness he filled the duties of his
office.
Suddenly at the entrance of the garden arose a loud noise and
vehement recriminations of threatening and abusive voices.
It was Margaret Haute, the porter's wife, who wanted to come in,
though she had no card of admission. She was well known to all the
students, for at the gate of the institution she had a little stall
of fruits, eggs, milk, and cakes, and all the boys purchased from
her every day, and liked to jest and joke with the pleasant and
obliging woman.
Margaret Haute had therefore considered it of no importance to
procure a card of admission, which thing she considered to be
superfluous for such an important and well-known personage as
herself. The greater was her astonishment and anger when admission
was refused, and she therefore began to clamor loudly, hoping by
this means to attract some of the scholars, who would recognize her
and procure her admittance. Meanwhile the post guardian dared not
act without superior orders, and the inferior officer hastened to
communicate the important event to the first lieutenant, Napoleon de
Bonaparte, and receive his decision.
Napoleon, who ordinarily was kind to the fruit-vender, and gladly
jested with the humorous and coarse woman, listened to the report of
the lieutenant with furrowed brow and dark countenance, and with
severe dignity gave his orders: "Remove that woman, who takes upon
herself to introduce licentiousness into the camp." [Footnote:
Afterward, when First Consul, Napoleon sent for this woman and her
husband to come to Paris, and he gave them the lucrative position of
porter at the castle of Malmaison, which charge they retained unto
their death.]
CHAPTER V.
THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE.
While the boy Napoleon de Bonaparte pursued his studies as a student
in Brienne, she, who was one day to share his greatness and his
fame, had already appeared on the world's stage as the wife of
another. Josephine Tascher de la Pagerie was already received in the
highest society of Paris as the Viscountess de Beauharnais.
Every thing seemed to promise to the young couple a happy, secure
future, free from care. They were both young, wealthy, of good
family, and though the parents had planned this marriage and joined
together the hands of the young couple, yet it was their good
fortune that love should tie and strengthen the bond which mere
expediency had formed.
Yes, they loved one another, these young married people of sixteen
and eighteen. How could it have been otherwise, when they both met
each other with the candid and honest desire to make one another
happy; when each of them had been so well adapted to the other that
their brilliant, good, and beautiful qualities were so prominent
that their eyes were blinded to the possibility of imperfections and
vices which perchance remained in the obscure background of their
virtue and of their amiableness?
Josephine had entered upon her marriage with a pure maiden heart,
and soon this heart glowed with enthusiasm for her young husband,
who in reality was well qualified to excite enthusiasm in a young
maid and instil into her a passionate attachment. Alexandre de
Beauharnais was one of the most brilliant and most beloved
personages at the court of Versailles. His face had all the beauty
of regularity; his figure, marked by a lofty, even if somewhat heavy
form, was tall, well knit, and of wonderful elasticity and energy;
his manners were noble and prepossessing, fine and natural. Even in
a court so distinguished as that of Versailles for many remarkable
chevaliers, the Viscount de Beauharnais was considered as one of the
most lovely and most gifted: even the young Queen Marie Antoinette
honored him with special distinction. She had called him the most
beautiful dancer of Versailles, and consequently it was very natural
that up to the time of his marriage he should be invited to every
court-ball, and there should each time enjoy the pleasure of being
requested to dance with the queen.
This flattering distinction of the Queen Marie Antoinette had
naturally made the young viscount the mark of attention of all these
beautiful, young, and coquettish ladies of Versailles. They used to
say of him, that in the dancing-room he was a zephyr, fluttering
from flower to flower, but at the head of his regiment he was a
Bayard, dreaming only of war and carnage.
It was, therefore, quite natural that so brilliant and so preferred
a cavalier, a young man of so many varied accomplishments, a being
so impassioned, so gallant, should soon become the object of the
most tender and passionate fondness from a young wife, who in her
quiet native land had seen none to compare with him, and who became
for her the ideal of beauty, chivalry, elegance, and whom, in her
devoted and admiring love, she used to call her own Achilles.
Josephine loved her husband; she loved him with all the devotedness
and fire of a creole; she loved him and breathed but for him, and to
be with him seemed to her life's golden, blessed dream. Added to all
this, came the joys and raptures of a Parisian life - these new,
unknown, diversified pleasures of society, these manifold
distractions and entertainments of the great city. Josephine
abandoned herself to all this with the joy and wantonness of an
innocent, unsuspicious being. With all these glorious things round
about her, she felt as if surrounded by a sea of blessedness and
pleasure, and she plunged into it with the quiet daring of
innocency, which foresees not what breakers and abysses this sea
encloses under the shining surface.
But these breakers were there, and against them was the happiness of
Josephine's love soon to be dashed to pieces.
She loved her young husband with her whole heart, with all her soul.
But he, the young, the flattered Viscount Alexandre de Beauharnais,
he also loved his young wife, whom the wish and will of his
superiors had placed at his side.
He had not chosen her because he loved her, but only because he had
thought it expedient and advisable to become married, and because
the unknown Mademoiselle de la Pagerie had been offered to him as "a
good settlement." Perhaps, also, he had contracted this marriage to
get rid all at once of those manifold ties, intrigues, and
attachments which his open, unrestrained life of youth had woven
around him, for his marriage with the young creole had put an end to
many love-intrigues which perchance threatened to be inconvenient
and burdensome.
At first charmed by her foreign, unaccustomed appearance,
transported by her ingenuous grace, her sweet, lovely amiableness
and freshness, he had fully decided to love his young wife, and,
with all the triumphant pride of a lover, he had led Josephine into
society, into the saloons.
But his eye was not blinded by the ravishment of a real and true
love, and in the drawing-room he saw what, in the solitude of the
residence of Noisy, where the young couple had retired for a few
weeks after their marriage, he might never have missed - he saw that
Josephine possessed not the lofty elegance and the exquisite manners
of the ladies of the Parisian saloons. She always was a charming,
artless, graceful young woman, but she lacked the striking
advantages of a real drawing-room lady; she lacked that perfect
self-possession, that pliancy of refinement, that sparkling wit, and
that penetration, which then characterized the ladies of the higher
Parisian society, and which the young viscount had but lately so
fondly and passionately admired in the beautiful and celebrated
Baroness de B.
The viscount saw all these deficiencies of his young wife's social
education, and this darkened his brow and brought on his cheek the
flush of shame. He was cruel enough to reproach Josephine, in
somewhat harsh and imperious tones, of her lack of higher culture,
and thus the first matrimonial difference clouded the skies of
marriage happiness, which the young unsuspecting wife had believed
would ever be bright with sunshine.
Josephine, however, loved her young husband too fondly not to
cheerfully comply with all his wishes, not to strive to replace what
he reproached her to be lacking.
On a sudden she left the brilliant, enchanting Paris, which had
entranced her with its many joys and its many distractions, and, as
her husband had to be for some time at Blois with his regiment, she
went to Noisy, to her aunt's residence, so as to labor at her higher
mental culture, at the side of the lovely and intellectual Madame de
Renaudin.
Josephine had hitherto, as a simple, sentimental young lady, played
the guitar, and chirped with it, in her fresh but uncultivated
voice, her sweet songs of love. She gave up the guitar, the favorite
instrument of the creoles, and exchanged it for the harp, for which
attainment as well as for the art of singing she procured the best
and ablest masters. Even a dancing-master had to come to Noisy to
give to the young viscountess that perfection of art which would
enable her, without fear, to dance at a ball alongside of the
Viscount de Beauharnais, "the beautiful dancer of Versailles." With
her aunt she read the works of the writers and poets who were then
praised and loved, and with wonderful predilection she also studied
botany, to which science she ever clung during her life, and which
threw on her existence gleams of joy when the sun of her happiness
had long set.
Josephine, who out of pure love for her husband learned and studied
zealously, communicated to the viscount, in her letters, every
advancement she made in her studies; and she was proud and happy
when he applauded her efforts, and when in his letters he praised
her assiduity and her progress.
But evidently these letters of the viscount contained nothing of
that love and ardor which the young fiery creole longed for from her
husband; they were not the utterances of a young, anxious lover, of
an enthusiastic, worshipping husband; but they were addressed to
Josephine with the quiet, cool benignity of a considerate friend, of
a mentor, of a tutor who knows full well how much above his pupil
soars his own mind, and with what supreme deference this pupil must
look up to him.
"I am delighted," wrote he once - "delighted at your zeal to acquire
knowledge and culture; this zeal, which we must ever cherish, is
ever the source of purest enjoyments, and possesses the glorious
advantage, when we follow its dictates, of never producing any
grief. If you persevere in the resolution you have taken, if you
continue to labor with unabated zeal at your personal improvement,
be assured that the knowledge you will have acquired will exalt you