The black room at Longwood : Napoleon's exile on Saint Helena

The Black Room at LongwoodNapoleon's Exile on Saint HelenaBy Jean-Paul KauffmannTranslated by Patricia ClancyFour Walls Eight WindowsCopyright © 1997 La Table Ronde. Translation copyright © 1999 Patricia Clancy.All rights reserved.ISBN: 1-56858-128-9Chapter OneThe First DayArrival at St. Helena * The curator of the French properties* Devil's Island * The ultramarine blue of Jamestown* Atlantic melancholy * The typical St. Helenian * The castleregister * The climate, a thorny subject * Napoleon Street* The attendant at the Briars * Supremum vale * Napoleon'saccent * "He was deathly pale" * The puzzle of his face*"Sire, we shall live on the past" * The Emperor's companions* Saturn at the Exiles' Club * A crown of thorns * Discernmentand the ability to discriminate * Napoleon plays the fool* The destruction wreaked by termites * The St. Helena ordeal1I SOMETIMES PASS THROUGH ST. HELENA, but I'venever stopped there. It's an empty place, silent and solitary.The houses sit on the grass as they do in Africa. Unlikelyshops, a closed church, a deserted crossroads. Every time Ipass, the place seems a little more deserted and sad. And yet Ifind an air of grandeur in that rather dismal severity. It's anunaffected, unfounded grandeur, I know. St. Helena: a littlevillage, not at all picturesque, in the middle of the Girondeforest in France. Yet the pompous, melancholy sound of thename impresses me every time I see the sign by the road atthe entrance to the town. On this November morning, it's my St. Helena I'm thinkingof—the village in the Médoc. Standing on the foredeck, I'm watching for the momentwhen dawn lights up the island. Even though I'm preparedfor it, the monumental citadel rising up from the sea is afrightening sight. "A catafalque of rock." The viscount ofChateaubriand found just the right word for it, although henever set foot there. There is a threatening, gloomy atmospheresurrounding the 300-meter-high black cliffs that fallsheer into the ocean. It gives the impression of a ravagedfortress. St. Helena lives up to its legend. Right from the outset,it bluntly states the fact that it is a maritime prison. 5:40A.M. The ashen-colored dawn hangs oppressively over thenearby land. Daybreak holds no promise; on the contrary, italready suggests the fatigue of the day's end. Only one rayfrom the rising sun manages to pierce the clouds, falling on acorner of the coast with a dull light, as through a basementwindow. This slit in the sky gives the basalt towers and crumblingcoastline of the island an outline of black shadows. I look at the passengers' faces. Like me, they have allinsisted on getting up before dawn to get a view of theisland. The Helenians, or the "Saints" as they are called,show no surprise on seeing their homeland again. After twoweeks at sea, their faces express relief, which changes to analmost blasé contentment as the ship approaches land. I notethe stunned faces of the other passengers. The shock theyfeel on seeing the island for the first time expresses disbelief,fear, and perhaps compassion. At this moment, I feel a mixtureof all of them. The desolate rock seems to live up to itsreputation almost too well, and yet I can hardly believe myeyes. The shore and the turrets are bristling with variouspieces of artillery. There are walls and loopholes everywhere,as if you were meant to believe that nothing haschanged since 14 October 1815.On that day the Northumberland, with the deposed Emperoraboard, dropped anchor in Jamestown bay after seventydays at sea. "There was not a ridge on that sterile façade thatdid not have a canon hanging from it: they seemed to havewanted to receive the prisoner in a way that was appropriateto his genius," Chateaubriand also noted. It looks massive and obstinate, hostile to anything comingfrom the sea. The ceiling of clouds that are always bankedup over the island, increases the impression of stillness,heaviness, and dullness. The low, leaden sky hangs over theisland fortress like an unhealthy vapor. There is a disconcerting reaction from the defeated generalof the Battle of Waterloo when he first sees his prison,which will also be his tomb. Both the English and French onthe bridge of the Northumberland are waiting for the momentwhen he will look at the coast through his telescope, thengive his opinion. He takes in the escarpments, observes thedefenses of the formidable volcanic fortress ... and saysnothing. No doubt the man famous for his ability to assessanything at a glance, the strategist whose quick eye won somany battles, the eagle who takes in the whole scene at once,has already understood the situation. He goes back to hiscabin without saying a word. It is not until the second day that General Gourgaud hearsthe first comment from the exile: "It's not a very appealingabode; I would have done better to stay in Egypt. By now Iwould be emperor of the entire Orient." This sentence isworth looking at more closely. It's a sulky, almost childishremark. As if the empire he had founded counted for nought;as if the defeated Emperor now only wanted to remember atime before anything was fixed and defined. A patheticremark which shows the extent of the tragedy the exile willlive out on St. Helena: rather than undertaking a criticalexamination of the past, he will keep going back over it. The sight he saw from the Northumberland has probablychanged very little: a few white houses, a square churchtower, some trees. What still today saves Jamestown frombeing an ordinary little town is the fragility of its situation.Every traveller has been struck by the position of this villagesqueezed between two mountains. It seems like an openmouth about to bite through the long thread of a street withits few buildings clinging down each side. Ships have to lie at anchor in the open sea, just as they didin 1815. Passengers and goods are brought ashore in openboats and rafts. St. Helena still has no port. Everything comesfrom England: from marmalade to videos (which the Heleniansare very fond of, as there is no television). Michel Martineau,the French consul to St. Helena, is very obliging withthe usual formalities. Our representative, a colossus of a manwith a wide brow and piercing, deep-set eyes, remains veryreserved for the time being. He took over from his father,Gilbert Martineau, in 1987. The two men live at Longwood,which, together with the Valley of the Tomb, makes up theFrench enclave. After long negotiations with the British cabinet,initiated by Napoleon III, the property was sold toFrance for the sum of 178,565 francs. Michel Martineau isboth honorary consul and curator of French property on St.Helena. We have exchanged numerous letters. His paper hasthe letterhead: Michel Martineau, Longwood House, Islandof Saint Helena, South Atlantic. I'm very impressed by it,especially the "South Atlantic." This seventh continent, thelimitless oceanic kingdom where he represents us and watchesover our interests, inspires respect. Today, as inNapoleon's time, you have to look sharp to catch hold of arope to jump on to the jetty. Napoleon had written "St. Helena,a little island ..." on an exercise book when he was a lieutenantat Auxonne. His pen wrote nothing more on the subject.Many comments have been made about the ellipsis. Itwas added to indicate that the statement is interrupted. Andyet, are there any more appropriate three little dots anywhere?"St. Helena, a little island ..." The phrase is still accurate.I'm struck by the extreme narrowness of Jamestown, acramped, ill-formed, lilliputian village. St. Helena ... thisgrain of soil in the middle of the ocean is an accident, a scabon Neptune's skin. "The devil sh-t this island as he flew fromone world to the other," General Bertrand's wife later said.The waves of the Atlantic, which pound against the blackstone of the Jamestown jetty, trace a long silvery strip thatlooks very like a shroud. But even though banishment, loneliness,and decline take hold of one's imagination from themoment one arrives, there are also certain details that do theirutmost to contradict this gloomy first impression. I havescarcely put my foot on the little flight of steps on the pierwhen something that looks like a little principality from anoperetta comes into view. Customs formalities take place in a mud brick shed: it'sAfrica without the chaos, a hybrid of the dignified courtesyof British officials and a very tropical sense of improvisation.The traveller is asked to open his bags and spread themout. That's all; they don't inspect any of it. Like Gibraltar orthe Falkland Islands, St. Helena belongs to the group ofBritish dependencies. St. Helena has only 6,000 inhabitants,but it has its own police, money, constitution, and judicialsystem. And its own prison. After you enter the handsometown gate, that is all you see. Its well-kept ultramarine bluefacade is quite elegant. The building was erected in 1827, sixyears after Napoleon's death. There is a paradox in Napoleon's captivity: as a prisoner,the Emperor was never actually imprisoned. He stayed in aprison without walls, which measured 122 square kilometers,the area of the island. Beyond this space was the limitlesshorizon of the ocean. St. Helena, the jail on the heights, looksover vastness, emptiness, infinity. The prisoner has freedomof movement, it's true, but the size of the jail is not importantwhen the warders never stop spying on him. It was Wellington,the victor of Waterloo, who chose St. Helena. He hadstayed there in 1805 on his way back from India. The most perceptive work on the Emperor's exile,Napoleon: The Last Phase, was written by an Englishman—notjust any Englishman, as this man, Lord Rosebery, wasprime minister to Queen Victoria. "Was it necessary to sendthe defeated Emperor to St. Helena?" he wonders. WhenNapoleon gave himself up to his enemies on 15 July 1815, heimagined that he would end his days in some English manorhouse. A few weeks later he learned that he was to bedeported to the island of St. Helena. The British note statesthat "The climate is healthy and its geographical situationwill permit him to be treated with more leniency there thanelsewhere." To which Napoleon protests that he had surrendered"of his own free will." They had deceived him. "Theypretended to extend a hospitable hand to this enemy and,when he was handed over in good faith, they destroyed him,"he complains. Lord Rosebery, a self-confessed "intelligentadmirer" of the Emperor, examines the decision andNapoleon's hopes. Could he not have led the life of a "countrygentleman" in England? "This we think, though we sayso with regret, was impossible," he maintains, adding that theproximity of such a man who had "a genius for upheaval" inEurope would have been too dangerous. This surrender is still something of a mystery. When heretired to the Château de la Malmaison after Waterloo,Napoleon very clearly indicated his intention of takingrefuge in the United States. He took many books on Americawith him. On the island of Aix, off Rochefort, he changes hismind and decides to give himself up to the English. The reasonshe gave for this change of heart remain obscure. Perhapshe set too much store on the victors' generosity.2Napoleon and his entourage finally enter Jamestown on theevening of 17 October 1815. They have had to wait on theship for three days, long enough for the English to find ahouse for the prisoner. Whites and blacks line up to look atthe loser of Waterloo in silence. We can imagine theiramazement. Had they not learned in quick succession thatNapoleon had left Elba to reconquer France, that he suffereda crushing defeat at Waterloo, that he gave himself up to theEnglish, that they had decided to deport him to their own littleisland, and that he was finally there in front of them, comingup towards the main street by lantern light? At the entrance to the little town, he probably saw the castleon the left. The building was destroyed by termites andrebuilt in 1860. The citadel, which is now the administrationbuilding, must have seemed more forebidding then. It displaysall the exterior signs of a fortress: ditches, bastionwalls, loopholes. A joke of a fortress now: the mouths of thecannon only contain beer bottles. Jamestown seems to have come right out of one of thoseAmerican cartoons that feature naive pictures of the policestation, the church, the prison, the post office, etc. What ismore, the square is called the Grand Parade. It's neithergrand nor particularly suitable for parades. The lack ofspace is explained once again by the looming mass of themountains—two great millstones that crush the town. Allthat is left is the pulp: a main street. The Porteus house,where Napoleon spent his only night in Jamestown, used tobe on that street but has since disappeared. In its place is acinema rarely frequented by the inhabitants these days.They prefer to watch films on video, available in all theJamestown grocery shops. White and ultramarine blue houses with iron posts andverandas: ultimately a more Portuguese than British look,with the Atlantic melancholy, the languidness, and theemptiness that overwhelm countries at the outer confines ofthe world. Confined, is indeed the right word to describe thelittle capital of St. Helena. It's as if life could scarcelychange in this limited space. The cars and the few little shopsshow no sign of modernization; but there are no makeshiftrepairs, as you find in Africa. It's a kind of ambivalent inertia.A refusal to choose. The physical appearance of theinhabitants is itself almost impossible to define. Being a mixtureof black slaves, Chinese coolies, Malays, and whites, theSaints have olive or coffee-colored skin, green or almondeyes, and jet black hair reminiscent of India. Time has not stopped, it simply lags behind. It's visiblydawdling somewhere around the 1960s, judging by the modelsof the carefully repainted Fords and the shops with theirwooden floors. There is heaviness rather than slowness, which correctsthe too generally accepted image of tropical indolence; asluggishness created by this unusual union of disparate elements.It's old-fashioned but not worn out, outdated butnot at all down-at-the-heel. There is a feeling of emptiness.The main street makes you think of "Potemkin villages":a decor on a canvas backdrop with nothing behindit. The fronts of the buildings are like trompe-l'œil paintings.The two mountains prevent them from having anyreal existence. Jamestown has all the attributes of a town: a publiclibrary, a municipal garden, two hotels, a restaurant, a market,but in an abridged form. Napoleon's captivity was alsosubject to the same obsession with the minute and the mean.On the subject of the Porteus house, the Emperor's valetLouis Marchand complains that it is "uncomfortable becauseof its position and its cramped quarters." Even today,Jamestown cannot avoid a sense of oppression that crushesboth buildings and open space. The tar-colored basalt rockand the heavy sky tightly seal the little town like the hull of aboat. How could anyone escape? Close by the prison, the eye is caught by a steeply risingline streaking the mountain wall. Jacob's Ladder cut into therock is Jamestown's only curiosity. It's a staircase with 699steps, so steep that a trick of perspective makes the handrailin the rock rising towards the summit look like a slack rope.This 270-meter-long sloping ascent was built in 1828 and wasused to haul stores and munitions to the citadel on the top. "Be sure to inform the governor of your arrival," the consuladvised. "Is it important?" "It's customary," Michel Martineau said. "It's the usualpractice for visitors, especially if they're journalists, to signthe register at the castle. You'll no doubt want to seek anaudience with the governor during your stay." We enter the paved courtyard. The castle, which was builtin 1710, now houses the offices. It is also the seat of theisland's Council. The governor only has his offices there.Like Hudson Lowe, Napoleon's jailer, he lives in his officialresidence at Plantation House, three kilometers away. With polished floors, panelled walls in tropical wood, oldprints, a cosy club atmosphere, the studied air of the placesuggests respectability, and yet it can't dispel the impressionof a certain lack of precision. The only thing that gives anyfirmness to the ensemble is the iron staircase that resoundswhen walked on. Perhaps it's because wood here has a precariousand uncertain existence, as it's always threatened bytermites. I sign the parchment-bound register. My cramped,French handwriting stands out in contrast with the roundedscript of the English.3After his one night in Jamestown (to which he will neverreturn) Napoleon is invited to visit Long-wood. It has not yetbeen renovated. On that morning of 18 October 1815, he does somethingstrange. While the English are waiting to show him aroundthe former farm, the Emperor goes off on his own. Hemounts his horse and gallops full tilt up the main street,which ends in a "Y." He doesn't know which path to choose.The one he takes is now called Napoleon Street, the onlyallusion to the Emperor in present-day Jamestown. Nodoubt one should not attach too much importance to thiscaprice. The prisoner is not trying to escape; he simplywants to annoy his jailers, to show them that he still has someleeway, that there is still a bit of slack. One should not overlookthe fact that he has an almost childish love of playingtricks. He loves to tease, to provoke, to mystify. His tall storiesmake his adversaries reveal themselves. The souvenir industry is nonexistent. Not one shop sellingknick-knacks. Not the slightest trace of a cult ofNapoleon, apart from a map of the island with Longwoodand the tomb printed on a rough square of cloth. During the crossing, I noticed that the Helenians are notashamed to mention the figure of the man who made theirisland famous; it's more a kind of shyness. On the boat, I tooka perverse pleasure in noting several indications of a contradictionor at least a confusion. An English engraving ofNapoleon on the bridge of the Northumberland hangs in one ofthe passageways of the RMS St. Helena. The Emperor lookslike a big, sulky baby. The members of his party have beendrawn in a flattering pose with their legs elegantly placed: theylook more like dandies than soldiers. A text at the bottom ofthe print recalls the fact that with the surrender "the Emperorhad run his earthly course." The best place on the ship, however,is reserved for the famous Coronation by Jacques LouisDavid. A fairly good reproduction of it hangs in the lounge.The library on board only has about a dozen works in French,all of them on the Napoleonic era, and all written by the formerconsul to St. Helena, Gilbert Martineau. Napoleon Street, a steep alley of brightly colored houses,leads up to a very narrow road called the Sidepath. It is cutout of the mountainside and leads to Longwood. There isonly room for one lane of traffic, even today. A car comingdown must give way to one going up by pulling over intoone of the lay-bys along the road. The tall stalks of aloes andthe cacti scarcely brighten up the coal black ground. There'sa certain faded quality that spoils the Helenian landscape,dulling the brightness of the tropical vegetation. "A damnedawful country," the Emperor announced as soon as he saw it.Neither he nor his retinue ever got used to the extremechangeability of the climate. Hence the many different landscapes,which could come from the Mediterranean, Scotland,or even the moon, judging by the ash grey petrified moundsthat could be seen from the boat this morning. The unpredictabilityof the climate and the difficulty in identifyinguncertain natural surroundings quickly become trying. Inone of his books Gilbert Martineau notes: "The climate ofSt. Helena is a very thorny subject.4Two kilometers from Jamestown, on the road leading toLongwood, the consul draws my attention to a small valleyframed by a grove of trees. The pleasantness of the placecontrasts with the aridity of the surrounding countryside—adetail that did not escape the Emperor. He noticed thisoasis with its Chinese pavilion. The Briars belonged to aman called Balcombe, a representative of the East IndiaCompany. On the way back from Longwood, at the end ofthe afternoon, Napoleon asks to stop at the Briars. Heinspects the pavilion that is used as a playroom by the Balcombechildren, and suggests to the English that he staythere while work is being completed at Longwood. All that exists today is the little pavilion where the Emperorlived. At the entrance is a copper plaque stating that it wasgiven to France as a gift by a woman descendant of the Balcombes.Another inscription in English points out thatWellington had stayed there earlier on his return from India.A small museum was opened in 1972. This little doll's househas just been saved thanks to Michel Martineau. The woodused in its construction had come from ships and was impregnatedwith salt. For a long time it resisted the termites, buteventually they got through the wood that had been softenedby the weather. A drizzle of rain envelops the valley, releasing that gamysmell mixed with cloves, sweetish and peppery at the sametime, vaguely overripe, so characteristic of the tropics. A redbrick path leads to the little pavilion. After the trauma ofWaterloo and the distressing weeks that followed, it's herethat the exile will enjoy the least bitter days of his captivity. Heis not too unhappy here, in fact he is even described as calm. The attendant stares at me almost in disbelief: a tourist....You'd think I was the first person of the year to visit the Briars.I guess from his overzealous attitude that he's going to relievehis boredom by watching me as I go round the museum. Hescrutinizes my every gesture but doesn't actually superviseme. He has a benevolent expression on his face, in which Ieven detect something like gratitude. He moves away, allowingme to look at the Balcombes' cup and saucer used by theEmperor during his stay at the Briars. A small piece of the carpet that covered the floor is displayedin a glass case. The design has faded and it's impossibleto work out the central motif. I make myself examine thisweb of worn wool that the imperial foot probably trod, untilI've looked at it more than enough. As I force myself toexamine the dull colors, I wonder about the value of thesetime-worn pigments. I stare at them, trying to imagine asecret pattern: as I gaze at them, they become iridescent. Butthere's no past left to be reconstructed in this well-lit butdepressing room with its smell of damp, fresh paint andrather sickly spice. Nothing to be gained from this house withits paltry memories, a house as sad as the drizzle that sends astrange gurgling sound like laughter through the guttering. Napoleon first entered this room on 18 October 1815. He isforty-six. What were the thoughts and feelings that filled hismind on that day? None of the books written by eyewitnessesgive any satisfactory answer—those men who never tooktheir eyes off him but never really saw him. Those who followedhim into exile, like his jailers, closely watched the leastof his gestures, but never really looked at him. Perhaps hiscompanions were too preoccupied with their subject, too keento register for posterity the way he bent his head and shruggedhis shoulders, or what his words meant. It's impossible todescribe a man when one's eyes are riveted on him! When all's said and done, Napoleon's entrance into thepavilion at the Briars is quite a banal moment in his captivity:it has no dramatic significance at all. The English behavedfairly decently towards their defeated enemy—HudsonLowe has not yet arrived on the island. Nonetheless, fromnow on Napoleon will be a prisoner and will be given nohigher title than General Bonaparte. Five-and-a-half yearswill pass before his death. Once he stepped over the thresholdof this pavilion, which, ironically he chose himself, helost his freedom forever. Supremum vale. Goodbye for thelast time. Those are the words given by Ovid to Orpheuswhen he loses his Eurydice for the second time. Napoleongoes in.... It's the end of everything. The room is so small!Hardly bigger than a hallway.(Continues...)