The result is a story that is bittersweet, combining two flavours that it seems to me were not normally linked at that time.
As Peter Hicks and Émilie Barthet have shown here in the interpretation, the novel is impregnated with Romanticism (using the term in the sense of the emotional and artistic movement that flourished in Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and which is still alive and well today and continuing to inspire and draw forth excellent works). Napoleon romantic? Who would have thought that those two words would go together? Not me, at any rate! And yet that’s the conclusion one reaches on reading the novel. Clisson and Eugénie is in many ways similar to The Sorrows of Young Werther, one of Goethe’s masterpieces, published in 1774. Napoleon admitted that he had read that novel seven times. We know that he read it six times during his Egyptian campaign, from 1798 to 1799. When else did he read it? Was it before he wrote Clisson and Eugénie? I have not been able to establish that for certain,we can only speculate. The Sorrows of Young Werther remains one of the novels that best addresses the central themes of Romanticism (still using the term in the eighteenth-/nineteenth-century sense): the great human emotions, including of course amorous passion, but also the suffering of the soul, and that strange psychological state that we call ‘melancholy’, a word that covers a multitude of meanings. It is interesting that the word ‘melancholy’ appears twice in the space of a few lines in Clisson and Eugénie. The manner of this repetition seems worthy of note, and I think one can conclude that the theme was very important to the author and that the repetition was deliberate.
Let’s leave the question of style now and deal with the plot. Can an author invent a character who is not based on himself? To this day psychiatrists, psychologists, psychoanalysts and writers cannot agree on the answer to this question. Perhaps it is not possible to give a universal response; perhaps each case should be considered on its own merit. So is Napoleon Clisson? And if the answer is yes, to what extent? For if Clisson and Eugénie can be read as a piece of fiction (and indeed must be read as fiction), it is obvious that it is also an important guide to understanding the man Napoleon was. Every reader will draw his or her own conclusions, but I would like to point out certain things and propose some hypotheses for debate.
It has to be said that the novel contains some disturbing autobiographical elements. Clisson is a brilliant general endowed with a dark side: he’s fascinated by war. This worrying facet of his character is on display in the very first sentence of the story: ‘From birth Clisson was strongly attracted to war.’ A very old French tradition dictates that the opening sentence of a story must be particularly striking, and in fact that tradition is still alive and well among French novelists today – it is always a pleasure to open a book and read just the first sentence to see whether the book will appeal or not. As an aside, I’m not sure that the majority of English and American writers are so consumed by the importance of the opening sentence, but certainly in France the first sentence of a novel is already a novel in itself. So is it the case that Napoleon Bonaparte, an avid reader of his contemporaries’ novels, had noticed this as well? Whether or not he had, Napoleon’s opening sentence is very important.
The novel begins with Clisson’s fascination with war, but as the story develops, this recedes into the shadows and is forgotten, and does not return to the forefront of the narrative until the climax of the story. Clisson meets Eugénie and rapidly falls in love with her. Eugénie is the second autobiographical element. Napoleon Bonaparte was indeed very much in love with an Eugénie: Eugénie Désirée Clary, better known today simply as Désirée Clary. Their brief liaison lasted from 1794 until the first half of 1795, before gradually dying over some months. Clisson and Eugénie was written in the autumn of 1795, coinciding exactly with the end of the love affair. There are several different versions of their break-up, but it is often stated that it was Eugénie who tired of Napoleon Bonaparte first, to his great chagrin (witness the letters he wrote to his beloved, complaining of the long gaps between her letters to him). In late 1795, however, Bonaparte fell in love with Joséphine de Beauharnais and that put a definitive end to any chance of a reconciliation between him and Eugénie Désirée Clary.
There is another element that points to the fact that Napoleon strongly identified with Clisson. Clisson’s spirit is a battlefield where Eros and Thanatos, love of life and fascination with death, confront each other, and this conflict infuses the whole story. Of course this could just be because it is such a universal theme, a reflection of the struggle that exists in us all. Or the depiction of that struggle could reveal an important truth about Napoleon and his era.
I will return to that question in the Afterword to the text of Clisson and Eugénie, translated into English by Peter Hicks.
Armand Cabasson
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
FROM birth Clisson was strongly attracted to war. Whilst others of his age were still listening avidly to fireside tales, he was ardently dreaming of battle. As soon as he was old enough to bear arms, he took part in military campaigns, always distinguishing himself with acts of gallantry. Although still a boy, his natural ability and his love of action led him to attain the highest rank in the Revolutionary National Guard. Soon he had even exceeded the high expectations people had of him: victory was his constant companion.
But envy and all the petty jealousies that growing reputations attract, which ruin so many able men and so often stifle genius, brought false accusations against him. His cool head and moderation in the face of these attempts to sully his name served only to increase the number of his enemies. They said that his magnanimity was pride, that his firmness was insolence; even his triumphs were held against him and used as pretexts to bring him down. He began to tire of serving men who did not value him. He felt the need to retreat into himself. For the first time, he turned his gaze upon his life, his inclinations and his situation. Like all men, he desired happiness, but he had found only glory.
This turning in on himself, this introspection, caused Clisson to realise that he was not just interested in war and that he had other inclinations than to cause destruction. It was as important to nurture and improve the lot of men, and to make them happy, as to destroy them. He desired a period of reflection to try to sort out the host of new ideas that for several days had been besieging his soul.
He left the army camp and went swiftly to seek the hospitality of a friend in Champvert, near Lyons. The man’s estate, on one of the best sites near that grand town, combined all the beauty that art and fair nature could produce.
Clisson stayed with his friend, trying to determine how he might find happiness, now that he had abandoned his illusions of glory. He did not spend much time inside the house. His friend very often entertained, receiving guests of high rank and station, and Clisson found the petty formalities irksome. A man of his fervent imagination, with his blazing heart, his uncompromising intellect and his cool head, was bound to be irritated by the affected conversation of coquettes, the games of seduction, the logic of the tables and the hurling of witty insults. He could not see the point in scheming and did not appreciate wordplay. His life was solitary, and he was completely bound up by a single thought, which he had not yet been able to formulate or to understand, though it overpowered his whole being.
Since he was accustomed to hardship, he needed action and plenty of physical activity. No occupation brought him greater pleasure than to wander in the woods. There he felt at peace with himself, scorning human wickedness and despising folly and cruelty. Clisson was surprised to find himself enchanted by the sights he saw. The birth and the close of day, the course of the evening star as it cast its silvery light over copse and field, the changing seasons, the varying vistas, the concerts of birdsong, the murmuring waters – everything
