True Pleasures Read online

  Translated the plaque says:

  1796–1996

  Commemoration of the marriage of

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  and

  Josephine de Beauharnais

  9 March 1996, Napoleon Foundation

  This gold print on white marble bestows posthumous dignity on what was, in fact, a very odd occasion. The bride was thirty-three years old and wasn’t at all certain about this strange match she had reluctantly agreed to make. She had plenty of time to think about her decision: the groom was three hours late. When the twenty-seven-year-old hero Bonaparte bustled in, he shook the dozing registrar awake and the couple were united in a two-minute ceremony, following which they climbed into a carriage and rode to Josephine’s rented cottage in rue Chantereine. There, on their wedding night, Napoleon gave Josephine a gold locket on a chain inscribed To Destiny and Josephine’s jealous pug, Fortuné, nipped the bridegroom on the leg. Just two days later Napoleon went to command the French forces in Italy.

  I’m gazing at the plaque and passing enjoyable moments wondering why it is dated 9 March and not 6 March, which is the date of the wedding according to my favorite work on this subject, Napoleon and Josephine by Evangeline Bruce. Why the discrepancy? I wonder. I smile at myself: I make an unlikely scholar. Then I look at Rachel’s face, which is a mask of boredom. Mmm, perhaps we’ll move along.

  Rachel takes charge of the map and guides us on the short walk to rue de la Victoire, formerly rue Chantereine, to the site of Josephine’s little cottage and the couple’s first marital home. Oh dear. If rue d’Antin was disappointing, this is far worse. It’s a shabby street and all we find at number 6 is a decidedly sleazy-looking sauna next to a rundown gym, neither of which appear to have any patrons. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asks Rachel, none too subtly, as the drizzle turns to an outright downpour.

  I look around from under my drumming umbrella, hoping for a plaque or a sign, anything to suggest that this was once the site of Josephine’s charming little cottage where she was said to have all the luxuries and none of the necessities. Meanwhile Rachel’s foot is tapping impatiently under her black umbrella and I observe her nervy hand fumbling for a cigarette in her handbag. It’s true there’s nothing of interest to see here now, nothing at all.

  But as I look down the street, the past easily slides over the present. Twice a day Napoleon’s envoys would gallop along here to deliver messages affirming the little General’s passionate devotion to his new wife. Here was possibly the greatest military genius in history conducting a major campaign, and yet, Parisians noted with wonder, Josephine received reports from the front even before Barras himself.

  Napoleon wrote to his wife: Not a day passes without my loving you, not a night but I hold you in my arms … Whether I am buried in business, or leading my troops, or inspecting the camps, my adorable Josephine fills my mind, takes up all my thoughts, and reigns alone in my heart …

  And: What art did you learn to captivate all my faculties, to absorb all my character into yourself? It is a devotion, dearest, which will end only with my life. ‘He lived for Josephine’: there is my epitaph. I strive to be near you: I am nearly dead with desire for your presence. It is madness!

  And then there were the erotic letters: A kiss on your heart, and then another a little lower, much much lower. And:

  I am going to bed with my heart full of your adorable image … I cannot wait to give proofs of my ardent love. How happy I would be if I could assist at your undressing, the little firm white breast, the adorable face, the hair tied up in a scarf à la créole. You know that I never forget the little visit, you know, the little black forest … I kiss it a thousand times and wait impatiently for the moment I will be in it. To live within Josephine is to live in the Elysian fields. Kisses on your mouth, your eyes, your breast, everywhere, everywhere.

  I was enthralled when I first read these letters – blown over by them, by their ardent and earthy passion, and blown over by her, this woman who could inspire such outsize emotion. But Josephine was no needy modern lover. Napoleon’s burning letters would arrive – right here, where I am standing, in fact, or hereabouts – and she would absentmindedly put them to one side, to be read later: Qu’il est drôle, Bonaparte! she would murmur affectionately – What a funny thing he is. Often she forgot to read his letters at all. Her own letters to him were irregular, bland and brief, sending Napoleon into a frenzy: I get only one letter from you every four days! Once she forgetfully addressed her husband in the formal vous eliciting further howls of distress from the front.

  And perhaps it is no wonder the neglectful Josephine was unmoved by her husband’s long-distance ardor: she was preoccupied by a passionate affair with a handsome young officer. Napoleon was a hero to France, but just a clumsy suitor to his wife. As we turn to depart, I marvel at Josephine’s careless power.

  Rachel and I walk in single file along rue de la Victoire, crossing the street by which we entered. Ahead of me I see the sign of a little café, Café Chantereine. It’s a reference to this street’s original name. I nod and shrug: well, at least we came to the right street, even if there was nothing here. As I turn to suggest to Rachel that we stop at Café Chantereine for a commemorative coffee, my raised umbrella frames another sign still further along the road, a dirty old wooden shingle. Hôtel de Beauharnais, it reads.

  On an impulse, I lead Rachel out of the rain and into the narrow dark hotel foyer. It’s the grimy boarding house of a thousand down-at-the-heel travel tales. At the front desk to our left, a woman is sitting with a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Engrossed in her conversation, she takes no notice of us, assuming, I suppose, that we are some of her budget residents.

  But as our eyes adjust to the dingy surroundings, we behold a surprising sight. Opposite the landlady, framed hugely in gilt, is Josephine herself. It’s an amateur copy of her famous Imperial portrait by Gérard. Even the rough paintwork cannot diminish the luminous subject. In her gold and white gown, Josephine’s delicate face is framed by her dark curling hair. As she gazes out of the painting she is gentle and regal at the same time. The copyist’s hand may be heavy, but he or she is alert to the delicate nuances of the original painting: the set of Josephine’s mouth is tentative, even apprehensive, and her eyes are dark with dread. Josephine never wanted Napoleon to declare himself the Emperor of France because she knew what would follow. The Emperor would want to fulfil his dynastic ambitions. To do so, he would have to divorce Josephine who was by then past child-bearing age. The day Josephine became consort to an Emperor was the beginning of the end of her marriage. In this portrait, the newly crowned Empress Josephine is looking into her future, and what she sees is sadness.

  In front of Josephine’s portrait is a small table. It is covered with a lace cloth and a little cracked vase filled gently with roses, Josephine’s signature flower. The composition reflects an impulse so private, so tender, that we are quite taken aback.

  Rachel’s green eyes shine like a cat’s in the gloom; for her, this appalling wet trek around Paris has gained human interest. The Paris of the past has all at once connected with the city she lives in today.

  ‘It’s a …’ I begin.

  ‘I know, it’s a …’ says Rachel.

  ‘It’s a shrine,’ we whisper with joy.

  I look closely at the tired, tough-featured woman at the front desk. She seems an unlikely devotee of the fragrant Josephine. And yet, I am sure that she is Josephine’s admirer; that she finds some rare beauty in the woman who once lived on this street.

  I would like to approach the woman, to make some connection with her and ask her about the portrait and her touching devotional gesture but she doesn’t choose to acknowledge us. She puts down the phone and instantly picks it up again, barking weary commands in hoarse French. So we leave.

  ‘Wow,’ sighs Rachel into the damp air.

  ‘I know,’ I reply.

  If a vote were taken on the most popular queen in
French history, Josephine might well win, for she was loving, lovable, beloved. She had a youthful spirit and a tender, wayward heart. At the age of thirty-three she captivated a hero. And through her grace as consort, she bewitched a nation. Her garden at Malmaison became an important scientific and horticultural center. She cultivated wildflowers from the newly discovered Australian continent. Black swans from Western Australia swam in her lake and emus ran through her forest. Her rose garden was recorded by Redouté in works of art as well as natural history. Napoleon is well known for his scientific and cultural interests, but his wife made her own major contribution to knowledge. Not bad for the daughter of a poor French settler in the West Indies, an indolent, dreamy girl, swinging on a hammock and rotting her teeth on sugar cane.

  The rain recedes as we exit rue de la Victoire, street of the victory. Josephine’s textbook femininity is outmoded these days: the modern woman is a substantive and explainable being, not an airy and elusive creature. In her day, however, though Napoleon was the warrior, Josephine’s arsenal of emotional weaponry was equally powerful. Napoleon used to say, proudly, wonderingly, I win battles … Josephine wins hearts.

  Napoleon divorced Josephine in 1809 in a formal, public ceremony. Josephine retained her famous, gentle dignity to the last. But her soon-to-be ex-husband wept openly. He sobbed, God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart …

  6

  Courtesans

  It should be remembered, too, that in the eighteenth century pleasure was not regarded with the cold disapproval of our dismal age.

  Nancy Mitford

  MANY COUNTRIES have a great house, a place that symbolizes the nation state in all its authority and power. There’s the White House in Washington. There’s Number 10 Downing Street in London. In Australia, far less grandly, there’s the Lodge in Canberra. In Paris, of course, there’s the Palais de l’Élysée, 55–57 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, at the corner of Avenue de Marigny. This is the home of the French President.

  But as I stand across the road, gazing at the immaculate guards and the high gates of the Élysée, I am not thinking about the grandeur of this place. I am thinking how delightful it is – how quintessentially French it is – that the French President should live in a home owned and decorated by a courtesan, the famous Madame de Pompadour, mistress to Louis XV and the most gifted woman of her age.

  This house was designed purely for love and pleasure. I’m sure France is the only nation in the world to permit such a feminine, romantic – and let’s face it, decadent – association to contaminate a position of national authority. Well, it could never happen in America. Or Australia. Which is not to say that, even in France, everyone was comfortable with the idea. When General de Gaulle became President for the second time in 1959, he resisted moving into the Élysée. Apparently he thought the romantic frescoes on the ceilings were decidedly un-statesmanlike. Not to mention the cherubs in the Presidential office.

  I would give anything to tour the Élysée, but of course it is closed to the public and heavily protected. Sometimes I see President Chirac and world leaders on television, important men posing for the camera with their heavy frames perched awkwardly on dainty Pompadour couches.

  Nancy Mitford introduced me to La Marquise de Pompadour through her biography, published in 1953. She wrote about Madame de Pompadour with such intimacy and affection, I felt as though I knew her myself. Critics said that Nancy Mitford had created Madame de Pompadour in her own image, which may explain my intense affection for both author and subject. When she finished writing her biography, Nancy wrote to Evelyn Waugh: I have lost the poor Marquise … & I miss her fearfully, my constant companion for nearly a year.

  The ‘poor Marquise’ hosted her very last party in this house before she died of tuberculosis at Versailles in 1764, aged forty-five. But the ghost of Madame de Pompadour hovers gracefully not only over this wonderful house; she is the presiding genius of this whole area. With a mental nod to the Marquise, I am about to take a stroll down one of the loveliest streets in the world, a street whose keynote is femininity.

  Madame de Pompadour loved beautiful things – music, ideas, clothes, paintings, household objects. A gifted, middle-class, sensible Parisienne, she would surely have become a salonnière had destiny not stepped in. When she was a little girl a fortune-teller told her she would be the great love of a king: teasingly, her family nicknamed her Reinette. The dream, remarkably, came true. King Louis XV fell in love with the charming bourgeoise and swept her off to Versailles. Together they pursued their shared passion – the art of graceful living.

  La Pompadour became the tastemaker of her age. Hers was perhaps the only time in history that a young woman presided over a major art movement – the rococo – with unashamed femininity as its keynote. Like François Boucher’s rosy breasts and bottoms, it was light, lavish and shamelessly decorative. This was not grand or monumental art, it was charming and domestic, art embedded in the details of everyday life.

  A hundred years after Pompadour’s death, the Goncourt brothers, journalists and critics, described it this way:

  When Louis XV succeeded Louis XIV, when a gay, amorous society emerged from a ceremonious one, and when, in the more human atmosphere of the new court, the stature of persons and things diminished, the prevailing artistic ideal remained factitious and conventional but it was an ideal that had descended from the majestic to the charming. There was everywhere diffused refined elegance, a delicate voluptuousness, what the epoch itself defined as ‘the quintessence of the agreeable, the complexion of grace and charm, the adornments of pleasure and love’.

  Pompadour, the greatest mistress in history, was a specialist in creating the adornments of pleasure. Every woman who has relished a perfectly cut perfume bottle, or an exquisite gold box, or a vase of luminous and fragile beauty, enjoys the legacy of Madame de Pompadour’s aesthetic vision. Her personal collection was astounding: gold engraved snuff boxes, rock crystal perfume bottles with jewelled stops, musical clocks, dainty teacups, lacquered tabletops, candles of gold and entwined porcelain flowers, blue and gold dinner plates. There’s a Boucher portrait of Madame de Pompadour en négligé, applying makeup at her dressing table. She wears a pink ribboned wrap, there’s a blue flower in her hair, in her hand is her gold pot of rouge, on the table is her gold box and powder puff and there’s a cameo of her lover Louis XV attached to her wrist with lace. Here, you think, is a woman who understands that allure lies in the details.

  Pompadour single-handedly created the French cult of quotidian beauty. It’s no wonder that France today is the world’s greatest maker and marketer of affordable luxury goods, small items of glamor that make women feel special. La Pompadour transmitted l’art de vivre through beautifying the sweet, small details of daily life.

  Today the weather is cool and cloudy, perfect for a spring walk. I follow rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré as it winds and dips, and it’s going to be good exercise because I have to keep running back and forth across the road to savor every exquisitely presented shop window. Each turn brings another. The names on the canopies tell a story of craftsmanship as well as glamor – parfumerie Annick Goutal, beauty salon Guerlain, ultra-luxe emporium Hermès, couturier Yves Saint Laurent …

  One of the shops stops me in my tracks. It’s a confiserie, the sort of place you will only see in France, in Paris. The boxes alone look good enough to eat. There are melt-in-your-mouth pâtes de fruit, rich golden abricots confits, nutty marrons glacés. Everything is shiny, tasty, tempting. And the pleasure begins here, in the anticipation, to be followed by each sweet’s signature smell and, at last, the climactic mouthful. There’s a discipline as well. You can’t eat too many of these sweets, or too often. If you did you would soon reach a horrible surfeit. They offer simple pleasures, perhaps, but represent complex experiences, created with utmost care.

  Pompadour nurtured French craftsmanship. She revived the Gobelins carpet and furniture factory in Paris, restoring its reputation and comme
rcial success. She was instrumental in setting up the famous porcelain factory at Sèvres. She once planted a winter garden of china blossoms scented with perfume – laughing with delight when her lover the King, deceived by the ruse, bent over to smell a flower.

  Pompadour was not without her strenuous detractors. Philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau – the man who brought us ‘the noble savage’ – vehemently denounced the rococo and the high civilization it represented. These throngs of ephemeral works, he thundered, which come to light every day, made only to amuse women and having neither strength nor depth, fly from the dressing table to the counter.

  These ephemeral works weren’t, however, antithetical to the Enlightenment spirit of progress; they reflected it. Pompadour’s aesthetic vision was bound up in the values and virtues of reason, learning, tolerance and good humor. One of the many ironies of the French revolution is that the reformist temperament was nurtured and came to flower in the very heart of aristocratic France. Pompadour herself owned two telescopes, a globe and possibly a microscope. As well as scientific journals, her library numbered over 3,000 volumes covering poetry, history, geography, novels and philosophy. Philosophe Dr Quesnay was her physician, and she steadfastly supported Voltaire, the single greatest figure of the Enlightenment. Pompadour is believed to have written the entry on rouge in the Encyclopédie. It was widely claimed that Louis XV plotted the path of the Seven Years War on maps laid out in Madame de Pompadour’s bedroom: critics said she used her mouches, or beauty spots, to mark out the key events.

  Rousseau and others regarded the rococo purely in light of the decadence and despair caused by the excesses of the court. Diderot reserved particular venom for Pompadour’s favorite artist. Boucher’s elegance, he lectured, his affectation, romantic gallantry, coquetry, facility, variety, brilliance, rouged flesh tones, and debauchery will captivate dandies, society women, young people, men of the world, and the whole crowd of those who are strangers to true taste, to truth, to right thinking, to the gravity of art.