JOSEPHINE
M. Tascher, a native of France, having resigned his commission in the cavalry, retired to an estate in the Island of St. Domingo. In the year 1763, he, together with his wife, made a visit to a sister in Martinico, and there, on the 23d of June, a daughter, Josephine, was born. On the return of her parents to St. Domingo, she was left with her aunt, and there are no traces of future intercourse with them. Often, in after years, did Josephine revert to the unmingled happiness and peaceful enjoyments of her childhood. The advantages for education enjoyed by Mademoiselle Tascher were superior to what would be supposed by those who have only known the French colonies at a subsequent period. The proprietors were many of them highly accomplished gentlemen, born and educated in France, who had retired to their estates in the New World, as a retreat from which to watch the progress of those events which were beginning to disturb the quiet of the Old.
Josephine, naturally amiable and gentle in disposition, with manners which combined ease and elegance with dignity, possessed a natural aptitude for acquiring feminine accomplishments. She played, especially on the harp, and sung with exquisite feeling. Her dancing is said to have been perfect. An eye-witness describes her light form, rising scarcely above the middle size, as seeming in its faultless symmetry to float rather than to move – the very personation of Grace. She was mistress of the pencil and of the needle. Flowers were her passion; she early cultivated a knowledge of botany. To the empress Josephine Europe is indebted for a knowledge of the Camelia. She read delightfully; the tones of her voice fascinated. “The first applause of the French people,” said Napoleon, “sounded to my ear sweet as the voice of Josephine.”
The companion of her infancy was a mulatto girl, some years older than herself, – her foster-sister, Euphemia, – who never afterwards quitted her patroness, shared in her amusements, and was the companion of her rambles. In one of these an incident occurred, which exercised a lasting influence over her imagination. The particulars were, long afterwards, thus related by herself: —
“One day, some time before my first marriage, while taking my usual walk, I observed a number of negro girls assembled round an old woman, who was telling their fortune. I stopped to listen to her. The sorceress, on seeing me, uttered a loud shriek, and grasped my hand. I laughed at her grimaces, and allowed her to proceed, saying, ‘So you discover something extraordinary in my destiny?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Do you discover traces of happiness, or misfortune?’ ‘Of misfortune, certainly; but of happiness also.’ ‘You take care not to commit yourself, my worthy sibyl; your oracles are not the most clear.’ ‘I am not permitted to make them more so,’ said the woman, raising her eyes in a mysterious manner towards heaven. My curiosity was now awakened, and I said to her, ‘But tell me, what read you in futurity concerning me?’ ‘What do I read? You will not believe me if I tell you.’ ‘Yes, indeed, I assure you. Come, good woman, what am I to hope or fear?’ ‘You insist; listen then. You will soon be married; the union will not be happy; you will become a widow, and then – you will become queen of France! You will enjoy many years of happiness, but you will be killed in a popular commotion.’ The old woman then burst from the crowd, and hurried away as fast as her limbs, enfeebled by age, would permit. I forbade the bystanders to laugh at the prophetess for her ridiculous prediction, and took the occasion to caution the young negro women against giving credit to such pretenders. Henceforth, I thought of the affair only to laugh at it. But afterwards, when my husband had perished on the scaffold, in spite of my better judgment, this prediction forcibly recurred to my mind; and, though I was myself then in prison, the transaction daily assumed a less improbable character, and I ended by regarding the fulfilment as almost a matter of course.”
Nothing at the time seemed less likely than the fulfilment of the prediction. Miss Tascher seemed destined to become the wife of some creole youth, and to pass a tranquil and indolent life on some neighboring plantation. It so chanced, however, that the young Vicompte Alexander de Beauharnais, “who,” in Josephine’s words, “had embraced the new ideas with all the ardor of a very lively imagination,” after serving with distinction in the war of the American revolution, came to Martinico to prove his title to some estates which had fallen by inheritance to himself and his brother. These estates were held on lease by Josephine’s uncle, and an acquaintance between the young people naturally followed. They became mutually attached; but his relatives, who were opposed to the match, interposed obstacles which Josephine surmounted with a gentleness and address hardly to be expected in a girl of sixteen. In 1794, writing to her children, Josephine says, “If to my union with your father I have been indebted for all my happiness, I dare to think and say, that to my own character I owe our union, so many were the obstacles which opposed us. Yet, without any effort of talents, I effected their removal. I found in my own heart the means of gaining the affection of my husband’s relations; patience and goodness will ever in the end conciliate the good-will of others.”
On their arrival in France, in 1779, the youthful pair are said to have created a sensation in society. The manners and accomplishments of Josephine excited admiration in the most polished court in Europe; and the attentions of Marie Antoinette made an impression on her grateful heart which endured through a life, the incidents of which were in such seeming opposition to the interests of the Bourbons. Much of their time, however, was spent on the vicompte’s estates in Brittany; and here were born Eugene, afterwards viceroy of Italy, and Hortense, afterwards queen of Holland.
Every thing gave promise of enduring happiness. But the misconduct of the vicompte destroyed it. Josephine at first complained with gentleness, and sought by increased fondness to win back the waning affections of her husband. Finding this unavailing, she infused into her reproaches a degree of bitterness which alienated completely the affections she was so anxious to gain. A separation was the consequence, and Josephine returned with her children to Martinico.
After an absence of several years, she once again sailed for France, and in circumstances far from affluent. An incident which occurred on the voyage was thus related to the ladies of her court. She had indulged a wish they had expressed to see her jewels. They were spread upon a spacious table, which was covered with them. The brilliancy, the size, and the quantity, of the jewels composing the different sets, were dazzling to the eye. Here were collected the choicest gems of Europe, for all its nations had been eager to heap presents upon the wife of Napoleon. After she had permitted the ladies to examine at leisure these treasures, which almost realized the tales of the “Arabian Nights,” Josephine said to them, “During the first dawn of my elevation, I delighted in these trifles. I grew by degrees so tired of them, that I no longer wear any, except when I am compelled to do so by my station in the world. Trust to me, ladies, and do not envy a splendor which does not constitute happiness. You will be surprised when I tell you that I felt more pleasure at receiving a pair of old shoes, than at being presented with all the diamonds now spread before you.” The ladies smiled at what they considered a mere pleasantry; but Josephine repeated the remark with such earnestness as to induce them to ask for the story. “Accompanied by Hortense, I embarked at Martinico for France. Being separated from my husband, my pecuniary resources were not very flourishing; the expense of my return to France, which the state of my affairs rendered necessary, had nearly drained my purse, and I found great difficulty in providing the indispensable requisites for the voyage. Hortense, who was a smart, lively girl, became a great favorite with the sailors; she entertained them by imitating the songs and dances of the negroes. No sooner did she observe me engaged, than she slipped upon deck, and repeated her little exercises to the renewed delight of all. An old quarter-master was particularly attentive to her, and, whenever he found a moment’s leisure, he devoted it to his little friend, who became much attached to him. This constant dancing and skipping soon destroyed my daughter’s slight shoes. Knowing that she had no other pair, and fearing that I should forbid her going upon deck, if I should discover this defect in her attire, she concealed it. Her bleeding feet one day attracted my notice. I asked, in alarm, if she had hurt herself. ‘No, mamma.’ ‘But your feet are bleeding.’ ‘It really is nothing.’ I insisted upon seeing what was the matter, and found that the shoes were in tatters, and her foot dreadfully torn by a nail. The voyage was not half performed, and there seemed no possibility of procuring a new pair before reaching France. I was quite overcome at the idea of Hortense’s sorrow at being compelled to remain shut up in my little cabin, and to the injury to her health. My tears found a free vent. At this moment our friend the quarter-master appeared. With honest bluntness he asked the cause of our grief. Hortense, sobbing all the while, told him that she could no longer go on deck, because she had no shoes. ‘Is that all?’ said he; ‘I have an old pair somewhere in my chest; I will bring them; you, madam, can cut them to shape, and I will sew them as well as I can. On board ship, you must put up with many things. It is not the place to be too nice and particular.’ He did not wait for my reply, but went in quest of his shoes, which he brought to us with an air of exultation, and offered them to Hortense, who received them with eager delight. We set to work with zeal, and Hortense enjoyed the delight of furnishing the evening’s diversion to the crew. I repeat that no present was ever received by me with more pleasure than this pair of old, coarse, leather shoes.”
The motive of Josephine in returning to France was to be near her husband, who was a prominent actor in the scenes of the French revolution. Knowing the warmth of his political feelings, she trembled for his safety; her past resentment vanished. She sought a reconciliation, which he most cordially desired.
Passing onward in our story, we find Madame de Beauharnais a widow and a prisoner. Her husband, after filling the offices of president of the Convention, and general-in-chief of the army of the Rhine, had, during the reign of terror, perished on the scaffold. On the same day on which this event was communicated to her, she received an intimation to prepare herself for death. But she had found a new source of strength. Her mind, in reverting to past scenes dwelt upon the almost forgotten prophecy of the negress. Her imagination was excited; it began to appear less and less absurd to her, and finally terminated in her almost certain belief. The following relation was made by herself at Navarre: —
“The jailer came one morning to the room occupied by the Duchess d’Aiguillon, two other ladies, and myself, and said that he came to remove my bed, which was to be given to another prisoner. ‘Why give it away?’ said the duchess eagerly: ‘is, then, Madame de Beauharnais to have a better?’ ‘No, no; she will not need one at all,’ said the wretch, with an atrocious smile; ‘she is to be taken to a new lodging, and thence to the guillotine.’ On hearing this, my companions shrieked aloud. I endeavored to console them. At length, wearied with their continued lamentations, I told them their grief was quite unreasonable; that not only I should not die, but that I should be queen of France. ‘Why do you not at once name the persons of your household?’ said Madame d’Aiguillon, with an air of resentment. ‘Very true; I had quite forgotten it. Well, my dear, you shall be lady of honor; you may rely upon my promise.’ The tears of the ladies now flowed afresh, for my composure made them think that my reason was affected. I assure you, however, that there was no affectation of courage on my part; I felt a conviction that the oracle would be fulfilled. Madame d’Aiguillon grew faint, and I led her towards the window, which I threw open, that she might breathe the fresh air; I suddenly caught sight of a poor woman who was making signs to us. She was laying hold of her gown at every moment – a sign which we were at a loss to understand. At length I cried out to her,’ Robe.’ She nodded in assent, and then, picking up a stone, held it up with her other hand. ‘Pierre,’ I cried out. Her joy was unbounded when we understood her; and, bringing the gown close to the stone, she made quick and repeated signs of cutting her throat, and began to dance and clap her hands. This strange pantomime excited an emotion in our minds which it is impossible to describe, as we ventured to hope that it gave us the announcement of Robespierre’s death.
“Whilst we were in this state of suspense, we heard a great noise in the passage, and the formidable voice of the keeper, who, giving a kick to his dog, said to the animal, ‘Get out of the way, you d – d brute of a Robespierre.’ This energetic phraseology proved to us that France was rid of her tyrant. In fact, our companions in misfortune came in soon afterwards, and gave us the details of the important event. My hammock was brought back to me, and I never enjoyed a quieter night. I fell asleep, after saying to my friends, ‘You see that I am not guillotined; I shall yet be queen of France!’”
Notwithstanding this confidence, Josephine had devoted a portion of her last day to writing a last farewell to her children. Here are extracts from it: “My children, your father is dead, and your mother is about to follow him; but as, before that final stroke, the assassins leave me a few moments to myself, I wish to employ them in writing to you. Socrates, when condemned, philosophized with his disciples; a mother, on the point of undergoing a similar fate, may discourse with her children. My last sigh will be for you, and I wish to make my last words a lasting lesson. Time was, when I gave you lessons in a more pleasing way; but the present will not be the less useful, that it is given at so serious a moment. I have the weakness to water it with my tears; I shall soon have the courage to seal it with my blood. * * * I am about to die as your father died, a victim of the fury he always opposed, but to which he fell a sacrifice. I leave life without hatred of France and its assassins; but I am penetrated with sorrow for the misfortunes of my country. Honor my memory in sharing my sentiments. I leave for your inheritance the glory of your father, and the name of your mother, whom some who have been unfortunate will bear in remembrance.” In more prosperous days, the poor and the distressed had ever found Josephine’s heart and hand open for their relief. She was now herself obliged to rely upon the benevolence of others for her own subsistence, and of the services she then received, she ever retained a grateful recollection. She had been most affected by the attentions of Madame Dumoulin, and felt great delight, in after years, in adverting to the subject. At this period of general scarcity, this benevolent lady every day entertained at her table a party of those whose means were more limited. Madame de Beauharnais was a regular guest. Bread was at this time so scarce as to be a subject of legal enactment, restricting the quantity allowed to each person to two ounces. Guests at the houses of the most opulent, even, were expected to bring their own bread. Aware that Madame de Beauharnais was in more distressed circumstances than the rest, Madame Dumoulin dispensed with this practice in her favor, thereby justifying the expression of the latter, that she received her daily bread from her.
Tallien, Barras, and those who succeeded to power, on the fall of the terrorists, being themselves not destitute of refinement, were desirous that society should emerge from the state of barbarism into which it had fallen. Madame Tallien, distinguished for grace, beauty, and brilliancy of wit, exerted all her charms to diffuse a taste for the courtesies and amenities of civilized life, and thus to soften the sanguinary spirit which had led to so many atrocities. Calling to her assistance her intimate friend, Madame de Beauharnais, the task was soon, to some extent, accomplished. Private individuals did not yet dare to make any show of wealth by receiving company habitually at their own houses. Public balls, and public concerts at the Hotels Thelusson and Richelieu, were the fashion. Here persons of all opinions, of all castes, intermingled, and laughed and danced together in the utmost harmony. The influence of Madame Tallien was at this time very great, and under her protection many an emigré returned, and many a royalist emerged from the hiding-place to figure in these gay scenes. Most of them submitted with a good grace to the new order of things. It sometimes chanced, however, that curiosity or ennui would lead thither some who could not so readily lay aside feelings and habits acquired under the old régime, and scenes would occur not a little amusing to the philosophic observer, who, had he possessed the gift of second sight, would have been doubly amused. One of these is thus related by a contemporary. Madame de D. was one evening persuaded, by the old Marquis d’Hautefort, so far to lay aside her prejudices as to accompany him, with her daughter, to a ball at Thelusson’s. The party arrived late. The room was crowded. By dint of elbowing and entreaties, they reached the centre. To find two seats together was impossible, and Madame de D., who was not of a timid nature, looked about on all sides to find at least one. Her eyes encountered a young and charming face, surrounded by a profusion of light hair, looking slyly forth from a pair of large, dark-blue eyes, and exhibiting altogether the image of the most graceful of sylphs. This young lady was conducted back to her seat by M. de T., which proved that she danced well; for none other were invited to be his partners. The graceful creature, after courtesying, with a blush, to the Vestris of the ball-rooms, sat down by the side of a female, who appeared to be her elder sister, and whose elegant dress excited the notice and envy of all the women at the ball. “Who are those persons?” said Madame de D. “What, is it possible that you do not know the Viscountess Beauharnais?” said the marquis. “It is she and her daughter. There is a vacant place by her; come and sit down; you may renew your acquaintance with her.” Madame de D., without making any reply, gave such a tug at the arm of the marquis as to draw him, whether he would or not, into one of the little saloons. “Are you mad?” said she to him. “A pretty place, truly, by the side of Madame Beauharnais! Ernestine would of course have been obliged to make acquaintance with her daughter. Marquis, you must have lost your wits.”
In the month of May, 1795, Napoleon Bonaparte came to Paris. His energies and talents had already attracted the notice of some of the leading men, especially of Barras, who had witnessed his conduct at Toulon. Upon the establishment of the Directory, he was appointed general-in-chief of the army of the interior, and commandant of Paris. In this latter capacity he had his first particular interview with Josephine. It had been his duty to disarm the citizens, and he had thus become possessed of the sword of Viscount Beauharnais. Eugene, who had a reverential admiration of his father, wished to obtain so precious a relic. Though not yet fourteen, he presented himself at the levee of the commander-in-chief, and solicited the restoration of his father’s sword. His frank and gallant bearing pleased the general, who immediately granted the request.
The next day, Madame Beauharnais called at the head-quarters, to thank the general for his condescension to her son. They had before met at the table of Barras; but a disappointed, and, in some degree, disgraced officer was not likely to attract the regards of one already looked upon as among the most distinguished ladies in France. But the circumstances of their present interview served to infuse a particular interest into their previous acquaintance. Bonaparte returned the visit. He became a suitor in his turn. Josephine, besides her intimacy with Madame Tallien, herself exerted great influence over those in power, and could do much to secure the position of the young soldier. Ambition, as well as love, being his prompters, Bonaparte was not the man to fail, gifted, as he appears to have been, from Josephine’s own confession, with unequalled powers of persuasion. The nuptials were celebrated March 9th, 1796, and twelve days after, Bonaparte left Paris to take the command of the army of Italy – an appointment which Barras had promised, as it were, as a dowry for Josephine.
Amidst the exciting, and, one would think, all-absorbing events of that wonderful campaign, Josephine was always in the thoughts of the youthful conqueror. His constant letters breathe the most romantic passion, couched in the most ardent language. By some accident, the glass of a miniature of his bride, which he constantly wore about his person, was broken; how he knew not. This simple occurrence he conceived to be a prognostication of the death of the original, and enjoyed no peace of mind, until a courier, despatched express, returned with tidings of her safety.
The campaign finished, Josephine joined her husband at the head-quarters at Montebello, where a crowd of princes, nobles, and ambassadors, had assembled to settle with the conqueror the terms of peace. Add to these a crowd of young and gallant Frenchmen, the officers of the army, flushed with victory, and we have a picture of a court as brilliant as can well be conceived. All vied in assiduous attention to her who was beloved and honored by the general. All was joy and festivity. The most magnificent entertainments were varied by excursions among the enchanting scenery around. For all this Josephine was indebted to her husband, and it was all enjoyed in his company. In after life, she often reverted to this as the happiest period of her existence. Of her conduct in this new position, Bonaparte himself remarked, “I conquer provinces, Josephine gains hearts.”
When the expedition to Egypt was determined upon, a new armament was to be organized, and great difficulties to be overcome. While her husband passed the day, and frequently great part of the night, in his cabinet, or at the Luxemburg, in wringing from the Directory reluctant consent to his measures, Josephine, in the saloon, was equally active in attaching new or confirming old adherents. Never were those conciliating manners for which she was so celebrated more successfully employed, than in the dawn of her husband’s fortunes. Not a few were thus won to a standard which they were destined to display over so many prostrate capitals of Europe. Under her auspices, too, were formed some unions, more in consonance with her own gentle nature. “Habit,” said the empress, long afterwards, “has rendered the practice familiar; but there is only one occasion on which I should voluntarily say, I will; namely, when I would say, I will that all around me be happy.”
The greater portion of the time of her husband’s absence in the East was passed by her at Malmaison, an estate which she purchased, about twelve miles from Paris. Here she occupied herself in the education of her daughter, in the improvement of the grounds, and in watching over and securing the interests of her husband. To this end it was necessary that she should see much company; but she received none to her intimacy, except a few of her ancient female friends.
Leading a life above reproach, there were about her concealed enemies, who watched in order to misrepresent every action; of these the most active were her own brothers and sisters-in-law, who, needy and rapacious, and totally dependent on their brother, viewed with jealous alarm any influence which threatened the exclusive dominion they wished to maintain over his mind. In the Syrian camp there were found creatures base enough to be the instruments of conveying their slanders to their destination. A repetition of these produced at length some effect on the jealous temper of the husband, as was obvious from the altered tone of his letters, which had hitherto been full of the most tender and confiding affection. On his return, however, an explanation took place, which left not a shade of suspicion on his mind; nor was the union ever afterwards disturbed from the same cause.
The crisis which Bonaparte had foreseen at length arrived; the people demanded the overthrow of the weak and tyrannical government. During the 19th of Brumaire, Josephine remained at home, in the most anxious inquietude, relieved, indeed, from time to time, by her husband’s attention in despatching notes of what was passing at St. Cloud. When night, however, and at last morning, came, without sight, or even tidings, of him, she was in a condition bordering on distraction. In this state, she had retired to bed, when, at length, about four in the morning, the Consul entered the apartment. A lively conversation ensued, and Bonaparte gayly announced that the fate of thirty millions of people bad passed into his hands, by the remark, “Good night – to-morrow we sleep in the Luxemburg.”
The palace of the Luxemburg was soon found “trop étroit,” – too confined, – and the consuls removed their residence to the Tuileries, the ancient palace of the kings, now disguised by the title of the “governmental palace.” To the wife of the “first consul” a portion of the former royal apartments was assigned, and here, soon after the installation, she made her first essay in the grand observances of empire. On the evening of her first levee, the drawing-rooms were crowded, at an early hour, by a most brilliant assembly, and so numerous, that the doors of her private apartments were thrown open. Madame Bonaparte was announced, and entered, conducted by M. de Talleyrand, then minister for foreign affairs. A momentary feeling of disappointment may have crossed the minds of those who had looked for magnificence and state. Josephine was attired with the utmost simplicity, in a robe of white muslin: her hair, without decoration of any kind, and merely retained by a plain comb, fell in tresses upon her neck, in the most becoming negligence; a collar of pearls harmonized with and completed this unpretending costume. A spontaneous murmur of admiration followed her entrance: such were the grace and dignity of her deportment, that, in the absence of all the external attributes of rank, a stranger would have fixed upon the principal personage in the circle, as readily as if radiant with diamonds and stars of every order. Making the tour of the apartments, the ambassadors from foreign powers were first introduced to her. When these were nearly completed, the first consul entered, but without being announced, dressed in a plain uniform, with a sash of tri-colored silk. In this simplicity there were both good taste and sound policy. The occasion was not a royal levee; it was merely the first magistrate and his wife receiving the congratulations of their fellow-citizens.
Josephine was at this time thirty-six years old; but she yet retained those personal advantages which usually belong only to more youthful years. The surpassing elegance and taste displayed in the mysteries of the toilet were doubtless not without their influence in prolonging the empire of beauty; but nature had been originally bountiful. Her stature was exactly that perfection which is neither too tall for female delicacy, nor so diminutive as to detract from dignity. Her person was faultlessly symmetrical, and the lightness and elasticity of its action gave an aërial character to her graceful carriage. Her features were small and finely modelled, of a Grecian cast. The habitual character of her countenance was a placid sweetness. “Never,” says a very honest admirer, “did any woman better justify the saying, ‘The eyes are the mirror of the soul.’” Josephine’s were of a deep blue, clear and brilliant, usually lying half concealed under their long and silky eyelashes. The winning tenderness of her mild, subdued glance had a power which could tranquillize Napoleon in his darkest moods. Her hair was “glossy chestnut brown,” harmonizing delightfully with a clear and transparent complexion, and neck of almost dazzling whiteness. Her voice has already been mentioned; it constituted one of her most pleasing attractions, and rendered her conversation the most captivating that can easily be conceived.
On the 7th of May, 1800, the first consul took leave of his wife, on his departure for Italy. “Courage,” said he, “my good Josephine! I shall not forget thee, nor will my absence be long.” To both promises he was faithful. On the 2d of July, less than two months after he left Paris, he again slept at the Tuileries, having, in that brief space, broken the strength of the mighty armies which opposed him, wrested Italy, which the Austrians had reconquered during his absence in the East, again from their power, and thus laid deep the foundations of his future empire. During this brilliant campaign, Josephine’s absorbing enjoyment was to read the letters from Italy. These, in the handwriting of the consul, or dictated to his secretary, arrived almost daily at Malmaison, where she had resided, superintending the improvements. At this period, too, she began a collection of rare animals; to which the power or conquests of her husband, or a grateful remembrance of her own kindness, brought her accessions from all quarters of the globe.