les diables! â he hissed. âGo to the devil!â And with that he cantered off in a rage.
Gudin fought tears as he watched his master ride away with members of his staff. But to the pageâs surprise, the emperor had only gone a few hundred yards when he came riding back, alone.
He placed a hand tenderly on the ladâs shoulder and whispered: âMy child, when you assist a man of my girth to mount, it is necessary to proceed more carefully.â
The page became a general, and eventually fell during the Franco-Prussian war.
I wasnât sure what to make of the Napoleon of that story. In such a short space of time, the man demonstrated a full spectrum of emotion. I began to imagine that he might, indeed, have harbored different personalities in his short, squat frame. I think you call it schizophrenia. I donât know. If that were the case, then Boomerang would also have to be labeled schizophrenic, as one never knew when he was going to suddenly hurl himself against the barrier; or Jonas, for that matter, who could be wit and charm personified, and then stab someone from behind with an insult. I suppose that if behavior leads to serious death and destruction, then it needs to be given a serious name. And serious punishment. Though I do wonder if the British had gone a bit overboard after Waterloo, sending Napoleon to St. Helena.
The Royal Mail ship takes five days to get to St. Helena from Cape Town. Even today, not many people venture there. The island is a primeval remnant of basalt, shrouded in vapors and rising up from the sea like a jagged thought from sleep. âThis cursed rock,â as Napoleon called it, was from all accounts as bleak a place of banishment as his captors could have wished. Longwood House, where the emperor lived out his days until he died there on May 5, 1821, at age fifty-one, sits on a damp plateau buffeted by trade winds and prone to smothering mists. Napoleon would pace the porch for endless hours, waiting for breaks in the fog and scanning the horizon for passing ships. To keep boredom at bay, he luxuriated in long, hot baths while reading, or dictating to a page. Formal dinners were staged in the cramped dining room. The meal was rather like an off-color operetta for an audience of sycophants, served on Sèvres porcelain by liveried butlers, candlelight glancing off the silverware, while the counterfeit court, shorn of all validity, still bowed allegiance to their castaway.
Just the thought of Longwood House made me feel more at home in my own exile. No rabbit could have endured the damp vapors of Napoleonâs last residence, after all. And I do think that of the two deportees, I was luckier with the accommodation, though there were times when a myopic outsider might have confused us: like Napoleon, I paced the edge of the patio, trying to pick up scents from home. I scanned the tops of the walls, hoping for a bearer of news. When the northern mists descended over the ash trees, my bones ached, as Iâm sure Napoleonâs had.
Even as he fretted and pined, however, the emperor wasnât beyond dropping compliments. The following one was related to me by my grandmother, and as I repeat it now, separated as I am from my beloved Hougoumont, the words have a special ring. One exile comforting another, you might say: âBut for the heroic determination of William, the Prince of Orange, who, with a handful of men dared to stand firm at Quatre Bras, I would have taken the English army in flagrante delicto and would have conquered.â
7
W as I afraid of my new, alien patch of turf? Oh, terrified! The walls soared high . . . so high that they seemed to lean ominously inward. Light was a scant commodity. The lawn itself was just a scrappy rectangle, bald as a newborn rabbit in places. Though not the windy plain of Waterloo, the garden did contain a harmonic of sorts that I couldnât interpret. At first I rued this lapse in my gift. But soon
Gudin fought tears as he watched his master ride away with members of his staff. But to the pageâs surprise, the emperor had only gone a few hundred yards when he came riding back, alone.
He placed a hand tenderly on the ladâs shoulder and whispered: âMy child, when you assist a man of my girth to mount, it is necessary to proceed more carefully.â
The page became a general, and eventually fell during the Franco-Prussian war.
I wasnât sure what to make of the Napoleon of that story. In such a short space of time, the man demonstrated a full spectrum of emotion. I began to imagine that he might, indeed, have harbored different personalities in his short, squat frame. I think you call it schizophrenia. I donât know. If that were the case, then Boomerang would also have to be labeled schizophrenic, as one never knew when he was going to suddenly hurl himself against the barrier; or Jonas, for that matter, who could be wit and charm personified, and then stab someone from behind with an insult. I suppose that if behavior leads to serious death and destruction, then it needs to be given a serious name. And serious punishment. Though I do wonder if the British had gone a bit overboard after Waterloo, sending Napoleon to St. Helena.
The Royal Mail ship takes five days to get to St. Helena from Cape Town. Even today, not many people venture there. The island is a primeval remnant of basalt, shrouded in vapors and rising up from the sea like a jagged thought from sleep. âThis cursed rock,â as Napoleon called it, was from all accounts as bleak a place of banishment as his captors could have wished. Longwood House, where the emperor lived out his days until he died there on May 5, 1821, at age fifty-one, sits on a damp plateau buffeted by trade winds and prone to smothering mists. Napoleon would pace the porch for endless hours, waiting for breaks in the fog and scanning the horizon for passing ships. To keep boredom at bay, he luxuriated in long, hot baths while reading, or dictating to a page. Formal dinners were staged in the cramped dining room. The meal was rather like an off-color operetta for an audience of sycophants, served on Sèvres porcelain by liveried butlers, candlelight glancing off the silverware, while the counterfeit court, shorn of all validity, still bowed allegiance to their castaway.
Just the thought of Longwood House made me feel more at home in my own exile. No rabbit could have endured the damp vapors of Napoleonâs last residence, after all. And I do think that of the two deportees, I was luckier with the accommodation, though there were times when a myopic outsider might have confused us: like Napoleon, I paced the edge of the patio, trying to pick up scents from home. I scanned the tops of the walls, hoping for a bearer of news. When the northern mists descended over the ash trees, my bones ached, as Iâm sure Napoleonâs had.
Even as he fretted and pined, however, the emperor wasnât beyond dropping compliments. The following one was related to me by my grandmother, and as I repeat it now, separated as I am from my beloved Hougoumont, the words have a special ring. One exile comforting another, you might say: âBut for the heroic determination of William, the Prince of Orange, who, with a handful of men dared to stand firm at Quatre Bras, I would have taken the English army in flagrante delicto and would have conquered.â
7
W as I afraid of my new, alien patch of turf? Oh, terrified! The walls soared high . . . so high that they seemed to lean ominously inward. Light was a scant commodity. The lawn itself was just a scrappy rectangle, bald as a newborn rabbit in places. Though not the windy plain of Waterloo, the garden did contain a harmonic of sorts that I couldnât interpret. At first I rued this lapse in my gift. But soon
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