Let’s have another look at Hortense’s Memoirs. If you want to read the book it is available for free at the side bar in English and French. Use the widget on the sidebar to translate the text below into pretty much any language.
Hortense shows how the public character assassination of a good person is nothing new. The two main people unfairly vilified throughout this saga are Napoleon and Hortense. Why was Hortense also targeted for this kind of organized severe abuse?
Hortense’s memoirs continues:
The journey was a mournful one. It seems as though the only pleasure a soul in pain can feel is the memory of what it has passed through already. When I caught sight of the Dutch guard waiting at the frontier I recalled my earlier journey; then I had thought I deserved to be pitied.
Nothing had changed. I was again on the same spot, but on the former occasion I had had my son. Now he had ceased to live; and what sort of existence remained for me? Superstitious ideas always occur to one in connection with any deep sorrow.
I felt I was about to die and a funeral we encountered at the entrance to the first village convinced me of the fact. I reached Utrecht.
My arrival had not been announced. The King was at Amsterdam. Madame de Boubers went off to put my child to bed.
For three hours I remained alone. How sad my thoughts were! The feeble candle which the doorkeeper had brought me went out on the chimney without my noticing that it had burned low.
For a moment I remained in total darkness and became terrified. The next day the King arrived. He was overjoyed to see his son again but paid little or no attention to me.
I received the principal persons of the city, and my pallor was so great, the change in my appearance so extraordinary, that everyone looked at me with pity and sympathy.
I continued on to Amsterdam. There public opinion had been aroused against me. I was said to be still young and attractive, interested only in the pleasures of Paris and despising the country over which my children would someday rule.
As soon as I appeared, however, this hostility was transformed into a lively and favorable solicitude as to my health. Even the common people exclaimed with an expressive gesture and with evidence of emotion: “Our poor Queen!" The authorities called on me. I requested the prayers of each of the religious persuasions. Several clergymen in making their addresses showed signs of an emotion which astonished me.
Later I asked Abbé Bertrand the reason for this. He replied that when they arrived, they had heard very unfavorable reports about me, but my appearance had touched them, they had regretted their unjust opinion and announced publicly that they had been deceived.
The Palace of Amsterdam, formerly the City Hall, was very handsome outside. The King had added many new decorations, but no dwelling could have been more depressing inside.
My drawing-room, previously the criminal court, was decorated with a frieze of skulls in black and white marble. No one had thought of removing this ornamentation, which was much admired.
The hallways were gloomy; my rooms looked out toward a church, they smelled bad, and when a window was opened a heavy odor of sulphur rose from the near-by canal.
My Dutch ladies in waiting seemed pleasant enough, but they were strangers to me; most of them had been recently appointed. The result was that I spent my mornings alone, reading in my room.
I hardly ever saw my son. Word would be sent me when dinner was ready that the King was waiting for me. While we were at the table, he would scarcely say a word.
After the meal the King would thrum on the piano, which stood open. He would take his son on his knees, kiss him and lead him out on the balcony which overlooked the square.
The crowd, catching sight of them, would give a few cheers. The King would reenter the room, return to the piano, recite some French poetry or hum an air.
I would stay in an armchair, not saying a word and watching what went on in the room. When a few hours had passed, my husband, becoming conscious of the strained situation, would ring and send for the Dutch members of our household and the ladies in waiting.
Card-tables would be brought out. Sometimes I played also and at nine o'clock I returned to my apartments after having said good night, the only word we had spoken to one another.
This is an exact picture of how I spent my days at Amsterdam. Thus, I was less unhappy, less actively tormented than I had been, but my strength continued to fail and I had lost all my former energy.
This state of loneliness in a foreign country filled me with terror. Death, the thought of which had previously attracted me, now presented itself under terrifying aspects. "What am I doing here?" I asked myself. "Is it possible that I may die here far from my native land, without a loving hand to soothe my last moments, without being able to address a fond fare-well to those I love? Why did they let me go? And why did I myself decide to come?"
I only had one aim in life—to escape from this country and regain my freedom. The only form of amusement I could find was in reading novels of the most horrifying sort.
The works of Ann Radcliffe were very useful to me in this respect. It was impossible for me to fix my mind on anything serious. In order to obtain a moment's respite, I was obliged to interest myself in these haunting tales and imagine the horrors described there were such as were happening around me.
The palace became in my mind the stronghold of the Inquisition.
Within its walls no one dared utter a word everyone was terrified. When the Abbé Bertrand came to see me I quickly dismissed him for fear of getting him in trouble. In short, I felt myself wasting away day by day, and the memory of my former misery together with my present state of loneliness combined to fill me with the gloomiest of thoughts.
I cannot better describe my condition than by copying a letter I wrote Madame de Broc and which I sent her by one of my brother's aides-de-camp:
Here I am at Amsterdam, my dear Adele, alone, utterly alone. Who is there who can understand me now that you are so far away? I admit that this loneliness and the meager affection I seem to inspire in those about me are beginning to terrify me.
What if I were to die here, deprived of all loving care? In spite of myself this idea comes frequently to my mind. I need only look at myself in the glass to see how little it would take to kill me. When I agreed to carry out my family's wishes my courage was greater than my strength. You who knew everything that awaited me, you alone tried to dissuade me. I did as they asked me. The King wished to have me near him. I wonder why. I came, but what a life I lead! I hardly ever see my son. I know he is being spoiled. The thought hurts me. I can do nothing to prevent it. God's will be done. Poor Abbé Bertrand came to see me. He encouraged me by describing how public opinion has changed toward me.
In spite of all the slanders that had been spread, people said: "Can this woman, whom we see apparently with only a short time to live, be that person who was described to us as so gay, so devoted to amusements of all kinds, who hated Holland? We have been deceived."
See, Adele, how something good comes of it when we sacrifice ourselves, when we do what we think is best. The palace here is like a chamber of the Inquisition. No one dares speak. Everyone trembles. I quickly dismissed the abbé for fear of getting him into trouble if I kept him with me too long, for I am not allowed to see anyone. My trouble is no longer one that can be dissipated by the laughter of youth.
How far away those days seem. The most terrible thing about a deep sorrow is that it renders you more sensitive to every gloomy thought. Every incident that occurs has its repercussion in a heart that is already wounded. All my surroundings recall to me what I formerly suffered. That same smell of peat comes in through the windows and the calls of the night watchman, which I heard as I watched beside my child's bedside, still ring in my ears.
Ah, my dear Adele, I do not fear death if it will unite us once more. But I feel that I sadden you. Console yourself. At least I am quiet in my mind and in agreeing to come here I resigned myself to what might follow. Now I can at least weep alone. It is a solace for me. You remember that formerly to do so was considered a crime.
You too weep, but you are surrounded by the affection of your family. It is love that makes us live and it is that which I miss the most here. You think of me sometimes, do you not, my dear Adele, in spite of your grief? Think how much I need you. At least I hope that we may be allowed to live together and by mingling our sorrows make them less bitter. Take care of your health.
Health is necessary in order to be brave, and we need so much courage to keep on living. Yesterday I received all the official authorities. I could not resist asking for the prayers of the different religions.
Several persons when they made their addresses appeared deeply moved, and the abbé has explained to me since that they arrived quite hostile to me on account of what they had been told, but that for some reason, I cannot say what, when they saw me they realized the mistake they had made and declared they had been deceived and had done wrong to form an opinion without having met me.
Poor people. I forgive them. It was so natural they should be mistaken. Everything had been done to make them misjudge me. But then why insist I return here? It certainly must be for some political reason which I cannot understand. But, farewell. I have relieved my heart and it has done me good. You are the only person to whom I can do so. Calm your own grief in order I may be able to combat mine.
(signed) HORTENSE.
My brother, who worried about my health, sent me one of his aides-de-camp. He took a long time to reach me. No one dared to come near my apartment to announce that he had arrived. I told him to reassure my brother. I was too much touched by Eugene's kindness to increase his anxieties in telling him about my poor health and low spirits.
French troops, under some pretext or other, entered. Holland. The King in order to preserve the independence of his country sacrificed considerable territory to the demands of France.
In spite of this he found himself constantly at odds with the Emperor, and the tone of their private correspondence was embittered by their political differences.
My husband thought that a letter from me would help persuade the Emperor to withdraw the troops, whose presence might affect the popularity of my children.
I did as he wished. But I received no answer. In the meanwhile, the heavy air of Amsterdam increased my weakness. I was only able to breathe by having vinegar constantly burned in the room.
My husband's French physician became alarmed to see me so ill. "Madame," he declared, "your condition is serious. If I say so, people will not believe me. I beg you to call in the principal Dutch doctor. It is absolutely necessary for you to have a change of air, and he is the only one who can convince the King."
Like his French colleague the Dutch doctor found me in very poor health. I do not know what he may have told the King, but I heard no more about the matter.
I was convinced that if I stayed any longer where I was I should die and, as I have just said, death under such conditions, utterly alone, without anyone to console me, without anyone to comfort me was a terrible thought. But how was I to leave?
I could not do so without the King's permission. My husband went to Haarlem to spend a few days with his son. I remained more alone than ever in this vast place. One night I heard the report of artillery.
I called my attendants. They agreed with me that what we heard was the sound of cannon. It was midnight. Why should the guns be fired at such a time of night? Perhaps the English were attempting a surprise attack, perhaps they were going to capture Amsterdam.
Is it possible to believe that this idea caused me to feel happy? How wretched one must be when the idea of changing prisons and masters makes one rejoice!
May my children, my friends, forgive me for having felt this way. It was the only egotistic thought I ever had; and was it not a natural one considering that I felt myself dying and thought everyone had deserted me? The noise still continued. One of my maids woke up a servant. The latter went to the hall on the second floor in order to get a better idea from where the cannon was firing, and discovered that a window had been left open.
This window kept slamming from time to time, and it was this noise echoing through the great corridors which we had thought was the booming of cannon. I smiled at my mistake but blushed at the thought of the joy it had given me.
I again began to brood over my sad lot in order to find an excuse for my unhappiness. I was allowed to have only one interview with the French Ambassador, and that conversation took place in the presence of my ladies in waiting and the officers attached to my official household.
I had asked him to tell me if what Monsieur de Broc had reported regarding the King's instructions to Monsieur Van Maanen, his minister, to spread slanderous reports of my conduct was true.
The ambassador confirmed the report and even added that Monsieur Van Maanen was prepared to sign a statement to that effect. Meanwhile my health grew steadily worse.
The original French is available below:
