APPENDIX
No. I
BUONAPARTE'S LETTER TO GENERAL PAOLI
[See p. 9.]
General,
I was born when our country was perishing. Thirty thousand Frenchmen, vomited on our coasts, drowning the throne of liberty in streams of blood – such was the odious spectacle which first presented itself to my sight.
The cries of the dying, the groans of the oppressed, the tears of despair, were the companions of my infancy.
You quitted our island, and with you disappeared the hope of happiness. Slavery was the reward of our submission; weighed down under the triple chain of the soldier, the legislator, and the collector of imposts, our countrymen live despised – despised by those who have the forces of the administration in their hands. Is not this the severest of suffering for those who have the slightest elevation of sentiment? Can the wretched Peruvian, groaning under the tortures of the rapacious Spaniard, experience a vexation more galling?
The traitors to our country – the wretches whom the thirst of sordid gain has corrupted – to justify themselves, have circulated calumnies against the national government, and against you in particular. Writers, adopting them as truths, transmit them to posterity.
While reading them, my blood has boiled with indignation; and at length I have resolved to disperse these delusions, the offspring of ignorance. An early study of the French language, long observation, and documents drawn from the portfolios of the patriots, have led me to promise myself some success.
I wish to compare your government of our country with the present one. I wish to brand with infamy the men who have betrayed the common cause. I wish to summon before the tribunal of public opinion the men now in power – to set forth their vexatious proceedings, expose their secret intrigues, and if possible, interest the present minister659 in the deplorable situation we are now in.
If my fortune had permitted me to live in the capital, I should doubtless have found out other means of making known the wrongs of my country: but, obliged to serve in the army, I find myself compelled to resort to this, the only means of publicity; for, as to private memorials, they would either not reach those for whom they were intended, or, stifled by the clamour of interested individuals, they would only occasion the ruin of the author.
Still young, my undertaking may be a rash one; but a love of truth, my native land, and fellow-countrymen – that enthusiasm, with which the prospect of an amelioration in our state always inspires me, will be my support. If you, general, condescend to approve of a labour, of which your deeds will form so large a portion – if you condescend to encourage the efforts of a young man, whom you have known from the hour of his birth, and whose parents were always attached to the good cause, I shall dare to augur favourably of my success.
I at one time indulged a hope, that I should have been able to go to London, to express to you in person the sentiments you have given birth to in my bosom, and to converse together on the misfortunes of our country; but the distance is an obstacle. The day, perhaps, will arrive, when I shall be able to overcome it.
Whatever may be the success of my work, I am sensible that it will raise against me the whole host of French employés, who misgovern our island, and against whom my attack is directed. But what imports their enmity, when the interest of our country is at stake! I shall be loaded with their abuse; and, when the bolt falls, I shall descend into my own bosom, call to memory the legitimacy of my motives, and from that moment defy it.
Permit me, general, to offer you the homage of my family. And, ah! why should I not say, of my countrymen? They sigh at the recollection of a time when they had hoped for liberty. My mother, Madame Letitia, charges me especially to recall to your memory the years long since past at Corté.
I am, with respect,
General,
Your very humble, and very obedient Servant,
Napoleon Buonaparte,
Officer in the Regiment of La Fère
Auxonne-en-Bourgoyne, }
12th June, 1789. }
No. II
LETTER OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE TO M. MATTEO BUTTAFUOCO, DEPUTY FROM CORSICA TO THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY
[See p. 10.]
Sir,
From Bonifacio to Cape Corso, from Ajaccio to Bastia, there is one chorus of imprecations against you. Your friends keep out of sight, your relations disown you, and even the man of reflection, who does not allow himself to be swayed by popular opinion, is, for once, led away by the general effervescence.
But what have you done? What are the crimes to justify such universal indignation, such complete desertion? This, sir, is what I wish to inquire into, in the course of a little discussion with you.
The history of your life, since the time at least when you appeared on the stage of public affairs, is well known. Its principal features are drawn in letters of blood. Still, however, there are details comparatively unknown. In these I may be mistaken; but I reckon upon your indulgence, and hope for information from you.
After having entered the service of France, you returned to see your relations: you found the tyrants vanquished, the national government established, and the Corsicans, entirely governed by noble sentiments, vying with each other in daily sacrifices for the prosperity of the state. You did not allow yourself to be seduced by the general enthusiasm; far from that, you looked with nothing but pity on the nonsensical stuff about country, liberty, independence, and constitution, which had got into the heads of our meanest peasants. Deep reflection had taught you to set a proper value on those artificial sentiments, the maintenance of which is a general evil. In fact, the peasant must be taught to mind his work, and not play the hero, if it is wished that he should not starve, that he should bring up his family, and pay respect to authority. As to those who are called, by their rank and fortune, to occupy stations of power, they cannot long remain such dupes as to sacrifice their comforts and consideration in society for a mere chimera, or stoop to pay court to a cobbler, that they may at last play the part of Brutus. Still, as it was necessary for your designs that you should gain the favour of Paoli, you had to dissemble; – M. Paoli being the centre of all the movements of the political body. We shall admit that he had talent – even a certain degree of genius; he had, in a short time, placed the affairs of the island on a good footing; he had founded a university, in which, for the first time, perhaps, since the creation, the sciences which are useful for the developement of reason were taught among our mountains. He had established a foundery for cannon, powder-mills, and fortifications, which increased the means of defence; he had formed harbours, which, while they encouraged commerce, improved agriculture; he had created a navy, which protected our communication with other countries, while it injured our enemies. All these establishments, in their infancy, were a mere presage of what he one day might have done. Union, peace, and liberty, seemed the precursors of national prosperity, had not a government, ill-organized, and placed on an unsound basis, afforded still surer indications of the misfortunes which were to happen, and of the total ruin into which every thing was to fall.
M. Paoli had dreamed of being a Solon, but had been unsuccessful in his imitation. He had placed every thing in the hands of the people or their representatives, so that it was impossible even to exist without pleasing them. A strange error which places under the control of a brutal and mercenary plebeian, the man who alone, by his education, his illustrious birth, and his fortune, is formed for governing. In the long run, so palpable a dereliction of reason cannot fail to bring on the ruin and dissolution of the body-politic, after having exposed it to every species of suffering.
You succeeded to your wish. M. Paoli, constantly surrounded by enthusiastic and hot-headed persons, never imagined that there could be any other passion than the devotion to liberty and independence. Finding that you had some knowledge of France, he did not trouble himself to do more than take your own word for your moral principles. He got you appointed to treat at Versailles respecting the accommodation which was negotiating under the mediation of the cabinet. M. de Choiseul saw you, and knew you; minds of a certain stamp are speedily appreciated. In a short time, in place of being the representative of a free people, you transformed yourself into the clerk of a minister; you communicated to him the instructions, the plans, the secrets of the Cabinet of Corsica.
This conduct, which is considered here as base and atrocious, appears to me quite natural; but this is because, in all sorts of affairs, we should understand one another, and reason with coolness.
The prude censures the coquette, and is laughed at by her in return; this, in a few words, is your history. The man of principle judges you harshly, but you do not believe that there is a man of principle. The common people, who are always led away by virtuous demagogues, cannot be appreciated by you, who do not believe in virtue. You cannot be condemned but by your own principles, like a criminal by the laws; but those who know the refinement of your principles, find nothing in your conduct but what is very simple. This brings us back, then, to what we have already said, that, in all sorts of affairs, the first thing requisite is to understand one another, and then argue coolly. You are also protected by a sort of sub-defence, not less effectual, for you do not aspire to the reputation of a Cato or a Catinat. It is sufficient for you to resemble a certain class; and, among this certain class, it is agreed that he who may get money, and does not profit by the opportunity, is a ninny; for money procures all the pleasures of sense, and the pleasures of sense are the only pleasures. Now, M. de Choiseul, who was very liberal, made it impossible for you to resist him – particularly as your ridiculous country paid you for your services, according to her laughable custom, by the honour of serving her.
The treaty of Compiégne being concluded, M. de Chauvelin and twenty-four battalions landed on our shores. M. de Choiseul, to whom the celerity of the expedition was most important, had uneasiness on the subject, which, in his confidential communications, he could not disguise from you. You suggested that he should send you there with a few millions. As Philip took cities with his Mule, you promised to make every thing yield to him without opposition. No sooner said than done – and there you are, recrossing the sea, throwing off the mask, and, with money and your commission in your hand, opening negotiations with those whom you thought would be most easily gained over.
Never imagining that a Corsican could prefer himself to his country, the Cabinet of Corsica had intrusted you with her interests. Never dreaming, for your part, that any man would not prefer money and himself to his country, you sold yourself and hoped to buy every body. Profound moralist as you were, you knew how much the enthusiasm of each individual was worth; some pounds of gold, more or less, formed, in your eyes, all the shades which diversify character.
You are mistaken, however: – the weak-minded were certainly shaken, but they were terrified by the horrible idea of mangling the bosom of their country. They thought they saw their fathers, their brothers, their friends, who perished in defending her, raise their heads from the tomb to load them with curses. These ridiculous prejudices were strong enough to stop you in your career; you lamented having to do with a people so childish in its notions. But, sir, this refinement of sentiment is not bestowed on the multitude; and, therefore, they live in poverty and wretchedness; while a man who has got proper notions, if circumstances favour him ever so little, knows the way to rise very speedily. This is pretty exactly the moral of your story.
When you made your report of the obstacles which prevented you from realizing your promises, you proposed that the Royal Corsican regiment should be bought. You hoped that its example would enlighten our too simple and honest peasants, and accustom them to things to which they felt so much repugnance. But what happened? Did not Rossi, Marengo, and some other madmen, inflame the minds of the regiment to such a pitch, that the officers in a body protested, by an authentic writing, that they would throw up their commissions, sooner than violate their oaths, or their duties, which were still more sacred?
You thus found yourself reduced to stand alone as an example to others. Without being disconcerted, at the head of a few friends and a French detachment, you threw yourself into Vescovato; but the terrible Clement660 unkennelled you from thence. You retired upon Bastia with your companions in adventure. This little affair was not much to your credit; your house, and those of your associates, were burnt. But, in a place of safety, you laughed at these impotent efforts.
People here charge you with having endeavoured to arm the Royal Corsicans against their brethren. They also wish to impeach your courage, from the small resistance you made at Vescovato. There is little foundation for these accusations; for the first was an immediate consequence of your projects, indeed one of your means of executing them; and, as we have already proved that your conduct was perfectly simple and natural, this incidental charge goes for nothing. As to your want of courage, I do not see how this is settled by the action of Vescovato: You did not go there with the serious purpose of fighting, but for the sake of encouraging, by your example, those who were wavering in the opposite party. And after all, what right has any one to require that you should have run the risk of losing the fruits of two years' good conduct, by being shot like a common soldier? But you must have felt a good deal, say some folk, on seeing your own house, and those of your friends, become a prey to the flames. Good God! when will narrow-minded people give over trying to judge of every thing? Your letting your house be burnt, put M. de Choiseul under the necessity of indemnifying you. Experience proved the accuracy of your calculations; you received much more than the value of what you lost. To be sure you are accused of having kept all to yourself, and of having given nothing but a trifle to the poor creatures whom you had seduced. In order to justify your having acted in this way, it is only necessary to inquire if you could do it with perfect safety. Now, the poor people who were so dependent on your protection, were neither in a condition to demand restitution, nor even to understand very clearly the injustice which was done them. They could not become malecontents, and rebel against your authority; being held in detestation by their countrymen, their return to their former sentiments could no longer be held as sincere. It was then very natural that, when a few thousand crowns thus came in your way, you should not let them out of your hands; – to have done so, would have been cheating yourself.
The French, beaten in spite of their gold, their commissions, the discipline of their numerous battalions, the activity of their squadrons, the skill of their artillerymen, – defeated at La Penta, Vescovato, Loretto, San Nicolai, Borgo Barbaggio, Oletta, – intrenched themselves, excessively disheartened. Winter, the time of their repose, was for you, sir, a period of the greatest labour; and if you could not triumph over the obstinacy of prejudices so deeply rooted in the minds of the people, you found means to seduce some of their chiefs, whom you succeeded, though with some difficulty, in bringing to a right way of thinking. This, along with the thirty battalions whom M. de Vaux brought with him the following spring, forced Corsica to yield to the yoke, and drove Paoli and the greatest fanatics into banishment.
One portion of the patriots had died in the defence of their independence, another had fled from a land of proscription, and which, from that time, was a hideous den of tyrants. But a great number could neither die nor take flight; they became the objects of persecution. Minds, whom it had been found impossible to corrupt, were of such a stamp, that the empire of the French could only be established on their total destruction. Alas! this plan was but too punctually executed. Some perished, victims of crimes unjustly imputed to them; others, betrayed by their own hospitality, and by their own confidence, expiated on the scaffold the sighs and tears into which they had been surprised by dissimulation. A great number, crowded by Narbonne-Fridzelar into the town of Toulon, poisoned by unwholesome food, tortured by their chains, and sinking under the most barbarous treatment, lived a short time in their misery, merely to see death slowly approaching. O God, witness of their innocence, why didst thou not become their avenger?
In the midst of this general calamity, in the midst of the groans and lamentations of this unfortunate people, you, however, began to enjoy the fruit of your labours – honours, dignities, pensions, all were showered upon you. Your prosperity would have advanced still more rapidly, had not Du Barri overthrown M. de Choiseul, and deprived you of a protector, who duly appreciated your services. This blow did not discourage you: you turned your attention to the bureaux; you merely felt the necessity of greater assiduity. This flattered the persons in office, your services were so notorious. All your wishes were granted. Not content with the lake of Biguglia, you demanded a part of the lands of many communities. Why, it is said, did you wish to deprive them of these lands? I ask, in my turn, what regard ought you to have for a nation by whom you knew yourself to be detested?
Your favourite project was, to divide the island among ten Barons. How! not satisfied with having assisted in forging the chains with which your country was bound, you wished still further to subject her to the absurd feudal government! But I commend you for having done as much harm to the Corsicans as you possibly could. You were at war with them; and, in war, to do evil for one's own advantage, is a first principle.
But let us pass over all these paltry matters – let us come to the present moment, and conclude a letter, which, from its frightful length, cannot fail to fatigue you.
The state of affairs in France prognosticated extraordinary events. You became alarmed for the effect of them in Corsica. The same madness with which we were possessed before the war, began, to your great scandal, to infect that amiable people. You comprehended the consequences; for, if noble sentiments were to gain an ascendency in public opinion, you would become no better than a traitor, instead of being a man of prudence and good sense. What was still worse, if ever noble sentiments were again to stir the blood of our ardent countrymen, and if ever a national government were to be the result of such sentiments, what would become of you? Your own conscience then began to terrify you. Restless, however, and unhappy as you were, you did not yield to your conscience. You resolved to risk every thing for every thing – but you played your game skilfully. You married, to strengthen your interest. A respectable man, who, relying on your word, had given his sister to your nephew, found himself abused. Your nephew, whose patrimony you had swallowed up in order to increase an inheritance which was to have been his own, was reduced to poverty, with a numerous family.
Having arranged your domestic affairs, you cast your eyes over the country. You saw it smoking with the blood of its martyrs, heaped with numerous victims, and, at every step, inspiring only ideas of vengeance. But you saw the ruffian soldier, the insolent pettifogger, the greedy tax-gatherer, lord it without contradiction; and the Corsican, groaning under the weight of triple chains, neither daring to think of what he was, nor to reflect on what he still might be. You said to yourself, in the joy of your heart, "Things go on well, and the only thing is to keep them so." And straightway you leagued yourself with the soldier, the pettifogger, and the tax-gatherer. The only point now to be attended to was, to procure deputies who should be animated by congenial sentiments; for, as to yourself, you could never suppose that a nation which was your enemy would choose you for her representative. But you necessarily changed your opinion, when the letters of convocation, by an absurdity which was perhaps the result of design, determined that the deputy from the nobility should be appointed by an assembly composed of only twenty-two persons. All that was necessary was to obtain twelve votes. Your associates in the higher council laboured with activity. Threats, promises, caresses, money, all were put in action. You succeeded. Your friends were not so successful among the Commons. The first president failed; and two men of exalted ideas – the one the son, the brother, the nephew, of the most zealous defenders of the common cause – the other a person who had seen Sionville and Narbonne, and whose mind was full of the horrid actions he had seen, while he lamented his own want of power to oppose them; – these two men were proclaimed deputies, and their appointment satisfied the wishes of the nation. The secret chagrin, the suppressed rage, which were every where caused by your appointment, form the best eulogy on the skill of your manœuvres, and the influence of your league.
When you arrived at Versailles, you were a zealous Royalist. When you now arrived at Paris, you must have seen with much concern, that the government, which it was wished to organize upon so many ruins, was the same with that which, in our country, had been drowned in so much blood.
The efforts of the unprincipled were powerless; the new constitution being admired by all Europe, and having become an object of interest to every thinking being, there remained for you but one resource. This was, to make it be believed that this constitution was not adapted to our island; although it was exactly the same with that which had produced such good effects, and which it cost so much blood to deprive us of.
All the delegates of the former administration, who naturally entered into your cabal, served you with the zeal arising from personal interest. Memorials were written, the object of which was to prove how advantageous for us was the existing government, and to demonstrate that any change would be contrary to the wish of the nation. At this time the city of Ajaccio obtained some knowledge of what was going on. This city roused herself, formed her national guard, organized her committee. This unexpected incident alarmed you – the fermentation spread in all directions. You persuaded the ministers, over whom you had gained some ascendency in relation to the affairs of Corsica, that it was of importance to send thither your father-in-law, M. Gaffory, with a command; and immediately we saw M. Gaffory, a worthy precursor of M. Narbonne, endeavouring, at the head of his troops, to maintain by force that tyranny which his late father, of glorious memory, had resisted and confounded by his genius. Innumerable blunders left no room for concealing your father-in-law's mediocrity of talent; he possessed no other art but that of making himself enemies. The people rallied against him on every side. In this imminent danger you lifted up your eyes, and saw Narbonne! Narbonne, profiting by a moment of favour, had laid the plan of establishing firmly, in an island which he had wasted with unheard-of cruelty, the despotism which oppressed it. You laid your heads together; the plan was determined on; five thousand men received orders; commissions for increasing by a battalion the provincial regiment were prepared. Narbonne set out. This poor nation, unarmed and disheartened, without hope and without resource, is delivered into the hands of her executioner.
O unhappy countrymen! Of what odious treachery were you to be the victims! You would not perceive it till it was too late. How were you, without arms, to resist ten thousand men? You would yourself have signed the act of your degradation; hope would have been extinguished; and days of uninterrupted misfortune would have succeeded. Emancipated France would have looked upon you with contempt; afflicted Italy with indignation; and Europe, astonished at this unexampled degree of degradation, would have effaced from her annals the traits which do honour to your character. But your deputies from the Commons penetrated the design, and informed you of it in time. A king, whose only wish was the happiness of his people, being well informed on the subject by M. La Fayette, that steady friend of liberty, dissipated the intrigues of a perfidious minister, who was certainly impelled by the desire of vengeance to do you injury. Ajaccio showed resolution in her address, in which was described with such energy the miserable state to which you were reduced by the most oppressive of governments. Bastia, till then stupified as it were, awoke at the sound of danger, and took up arms with that resolution for which she has been always distinguished. Arena came from Paris to Boulogne, full of those sentiments which lead men to the boldest enterprises. With arms in one hand, and the decrees of the National Assembly in the other, he made the public enemies tremble. Achilles Meurate, the conqueror of Caprana, who had carried desolation as far as Genoa, and who, to be a Turenne, wanted nothing but opportunity and a more extensive field, reminded his companions in glory, that this was the time to acquire additional fame, – that their country in danger had need, not of intrigues, which he knew nothing about, but of fire and sword. At the sound of so general an explosion, Gaffory returned to the insignificance from which he had been brought, so mal-à-propos, by intrigues; – he trembled in the fortress of Certe. Narbonne fled from Lyons, to hide in Rome his shame, and his infernal projects. A few days afterwards Corsica is united to France, Paoli recalled; and in an instant the prospect changes, and opens to your view a course of events which you could not have dared to hope for.
I beg your pardon, sir; I took up my pen to defend you; but my heart revolts against so uniform a system of treason and atrocity. What! did you, a son of the same country, never feel any thing for her? What! did your heart experience no emotion at the sight of the rocks, the trees, the houses, the spots which were the scenes of your infant amusements? When you came into the world, your country nourished you with her fruits; when you came to the years of reason, she placed her hopes in you; she honoured you with her confidence; she said to you, "My son, you see the wretched state to which I am reduced by the injustice of men; – through my native vigour, I am recovering a degree of strength which promises me a speedy and infallible recovery; but I am again threatened! Fly, my son, hasten to Versailles; inform the great king of every thing, dissipate his suspicions, request his friendship."
Well! a little gold made you betray her confidence; and forthwith, for a little gold, you were seen, like a parricide, tearing open her bosom. Ah, sir, I am far from wishing you ill; but there is an avenging conscience! Your countrymen, to whom you are an object of horror, will enlighten France as to your character. The wealth, the pensions, the fruits of your treasons, will be taken from you. In the decrepitude of old age and poverty, in the frightful solitude of wickedness, you will live long enough to become a prey to the torments of conscience. The father will point you out to his son, the master to his pupil, saying, "Young people, learn to respect your country, virtue, fidelity, and humanity."
And you, respectable and unhappy woman, whose youth, beauty, and innocence were vilely prostituted, does your pure and chaste heart beat under a hand so criminal? In those moments in which nature gives the alarm to love, when, withdrawn from the chimeras of life, unmingled pleasures succeed each other with rapidity, when the mind, expanded by the fire of sentiment, enjoys only the pleasure of causing enjoyment, and feels only the pleasure of exciting feeling, – in those moments you press to your heart, you become identified with that cold and selfish man, who has never deviated from his character, and who, in the course of sixty years, has never known any thing but the care of his own interest, an instinctive love of destruction, the most infamous avarice, the base pleasures of sense! By and by, the glare of honours, the trappings of riches, will disappear; you will be loaded with general contempt. Will you seek, in the bosom of him who is the author of your woes, a consolation indispensable to your gentle and affectionate mind? Will you endeavour to find in his eyes tears to mingle with yours? Will your failing hand, placed on his bosom, seek to find an agitation like that in your own? Alas, if you surprise him in tears, they will be those of remorse; if his bosom heave, it will be with the convulsions of the wretch who dies abhorring nature, himself, and the hand that guides him.
O Lameth! O Robespierre! O Pétion! O Volney! O Mirabeau! O Barnave! O Bailly! O La Fayette! this is the man who dares to seat himself by your side! Dropping with the blood of his brethren, stained by every sort of vice, he presents himself with confidence in the dress of a general, the reward of his crimes! He dares to call himself the representative of the nation – he who sold her – and you suffer it! He dares to raise his eyes, and listen to your discourse, and you suffer it! Is it the voice of the people that sent him? He never had more than the voice of twelve nobles. Ajaccio, Bastia, and most of the districts, have done that to his effigy which they would have been very glad to do to his person.