CHAPTER V:  ITALY—­MILAN—­VIENNA—­VENICE 1796-1797

After a honeymoon of ten days Napoleon returned to work.  Assuming command of the army of Italy, he said:  “I am at last in business for myself.  Keep your eyes on me, Bourrienne, and you’ll wear blue goggles.  You’ll have to, you’ll be so dazzled.  We will set off at once for Italy.  The army is in wretched shape.  It lacks shoes, clothes, food.  It lacks everything.  I don’t think it even has sense.  If it had it would strike for lower wages.”

“Lower wages?” queried Bourrienne.  “You mean higher, don’t you?”

“Not I,” said Bonaparte.  “They couldn’t collect higher wages, but if their pay was reduced they might get it once in a while.  We can change all this, however, by invading Italy.  Italy has all things to burn, from statuary to Leghorn hats.  In three months we shall be at Milan.  There we can at least provide ourselves with fine collections of oil-paintings.  Meantime let the army feed on hope and wrap themselves in meditation.  It’s poor stuff, but there’s plenty of it, and it’s cheap.  On holidays give the poor fellows extra rations, and if hope does not sustain them, cheer them up with promises of drink.  Tell them when we get to Italy they can drink in the scenery in unstinted measure, and meanwhile keep the band playing merrily.  There’s nothing like music to drive away hunger.  I understand that the lamented king’s appetite was seriously affected by the Marseillaise.”

To his soldiers he spoke with equal vigor.

“Soldiers,” he said, “sartorially speaking, you are a poor lot; but France does not want a tailor-made army at this juncture.  We are not about to go on dress parade, but into grim-visaged war, and the patches on your trousers, if you present a bold front to the enemy, need never be seen.  You are also hungry, but so am I. I have had no breakfast for four hours.  The Republic owes you much; but money is scarce, and you must whistle for your pay.  The emigres have gone abroad with all the circulating medium they could lay their hands on, and the Government has much difficulty in maintaining the gold reserve.  For my part, I prefer fighting for glory to whistling for money.  Fighting is the better profession.  You are men.  Leave whistling to boys.  Follow me into Italy, where there are fertile plains—­plains from whose pregnant soil the olive springs at the rate of a million bottles a year, plains through whose lovely lengths there flow rivers of Chianti.  Follow me to Italy, where there are opulent towns with clothing-stores on every block, and churches galore, with their poor-boxes bursting with gold.  Soldiers, can you resist the alluring prospect?”

“Vive l’Empereur!” cried the army, with one voice.

Napoleon frowned.

“Soldiers!” he cried, “Remember this:  you are making history; therefore, pray be accurate.  I am not yet Emperor, and you are guilty of an anachronism of a most embarrassing sort.  Some men make history in a warm room with pen and ink, aided by guide-books and collections of anecdotes.  Leave anachronisms and inaccuracies to them.  For ourselves, we must carve it out with our swords and cannon; we must rubricate our pages with our gore, and punctuate our periods with our bayonets.  Let it not be said by future ages that we held our responsibilities lightly and were careless of facts, and to that end don’t refer to me as Emperor until you are more familiar with dates.  When we have finished with Italy I’ll take you to the land where dates grow.  Meanwhile, restez tranquille, as they say in French, and breathe all the air you want.  France can afford you that in unstinted measure.”

“Vive Bonaparte!” cried the army, taking the rebuke in good part.

“Now you’re shouting,” said Napoleon, with a smile.  “You’re a good army, and if you stick by me you’ll wear diamonds.”

“We have forgotten one thing,” said Barras a few days later, on the eve of Napoleon’s departure.  “We haven’t any casus belli.”

“What’s that?” said Napoleon, who had been so busy with his preparations that he had forgotten most of his Greek and Latin.

“Cause for war,” said Barras.  “Where were you educated?  If you are going to fight the Italians you’ve got to have some principle to fight for.”

“That’s precisely what we are going to fight for,” said Napoleon.  “We’re a bankrupt people.  We’re going to get some principal to set us up in business.  We may be able to float some bonds in Venice.”

“True,” returned Barras; “but that, after all, is mere highway robbery.”

“Well, all I’ve got to say,” retorted Napoleon, with a sneer—­“all I’ve got to say is that if your Directory can’t find something in the attitude of Italy towards the Republic to take offence at, the sooner it goes out of business the better.  I’ll leave that question entirely to you fellows at Paris.  I can’t do everything.  You look after the casus, and I’ll take care of the belli.”

This plan was adopted.  The Directory, after discussing various causes for action, finally decided that an attack on Italy was necessary for three reasons.  First, because the alliance between the kings of Sardinia and Austria was a menace to the Republic, and must therefore be broken.  Second, the Austrians were too near the Rhine for France’s comfort, and must be diverted before they had drunk all the wine of the country, of which the French were very fond; and, third, His Holiness the Pope had taken little interest in the now infidel France, and must therefore be humiliated.  These were the reasons for the war settled upon by the government, and as they were as satisfactory to Napoleon as any others, he gave the order which set the army of Italy in motion.

“How shall we go, General?” asked Augereau, one of his subordinates.  “Over the Alps?”

“Not this time,” returned Napoleon.  “It is too cold.  The army has no ear-tabs.  We’ll skirt the Alps, and maybe the skirt will make them warmer.”

This the army proceeded at once to do, and within a month the first object of the war was accomplished.

The Sardinian king was crushed, and the army found itself in possession of food, drink, and clothes to a surfeit.  Bonaparte’s pride at his success was great but not over-weening.

“Soldiers!” he cried, “you have done well.  So have I. Hannibal crossed the Alps.  We didn’t; but we got here just the same.  You have provided yourselves with food and clothes, and declared a dividend for the Treasury of France which will enable the Directory to buy itself a new hat through which to address the people.  You have reason to be proud of yourselves.  Pat yourselves on your backs with my compliments, but remember one thing.  Our tickets are to Milan, and no stop-overs are allowed.  Therefore, do not as yet relax your efforts.  Milan is an imperial city.  The guide-books tell us that its cathedral is a beauty, the place is full of pictures, and the opera-house finished in 1779 is the largest in the world.  It can be done in two days, and the hotels are good.  Can you, therefore, sleep here?”

“No, no!” cried the army.

“Then,” cried Napoleon, tightening his reins and lifting his horse on to its hind-legs and holding his sword aloft, “A Milan!”

“How like a statue he looks,” said Lannes, admiringly.

“Yes,” replied Augereau, “you’d think he was solid brass.”

The Austrian troops were now concentrated behind the Po, but Napoleon soon outgeneralled their leaders, drove them back to the Adda, and himself pushed on to the Bridge of Lodi, which connected the east and west branches of that river.

“When I set out for the P. O. P. E.,” said Napoleon, “I’m not going to stop halfway and turn back at the P. O. We’ve got the Austrians over the Adda, and that’s just where we want them.  I had a dream once about the Bridge of Lodi, and it’s coming true now or never.  We’ll take a few of our long divisions, cross the Adda, and subtract a few fractions of the remainder now left the Austrians.  This will destroy their enthusiasm, and Milan will be ours.”

The words were prophetic, for on the 10th of May the French did precisely what their commander had said they would do, and on the fourteenth day of May the victorious French entered Milan, the wealthy capital of Lombardy.

“Curious fact,” said Napoleon.  “In times of peace if a man needs a tonic you give him iron, and it builds him up; but in war if you give the troops iron it bowls ’em down.  Look at those Austrians; they’ve got nervous prostration of the worst sort.”

“They got too much iron,” said Lannes.

“Too much tonic is worse than none.  A man can stand ten or twenty grains of iron, but forty pounds is rather upsetting.”

“True,” acquiesced Napoleon.  “Well, it was a great fight, and I have only one regret.  I do wish you’d had a Kodak to take a few snap-shots of me at that Bridge of Lodi.  I’d like to send some home to the family.  It would have reminded brother Joseph of old times to see me dashing over that bridge, prodding its planks with my heels until it fairly creaked with pain.  It would have made a good frontispiece for Bourrienne’s book too.  And now, my dear Lannes, what shall we do with ourselves for the next five days?  Get out your Baedecker and let us see this imperial city of the Lombards.”

“There’s one matter we must arrange first,” said Augereau; “we haven’t any stable accommodations to speak of.”

“What’s the matter with the stalls at the opera-house?” suggested Napoleon.  “As I told the troops the other day, it’s the biggest theatre in the world.  You ought to be able to stable the horses there and lodge the men in the boxes.”

“The horses would look well sitting in orchestra chairs, wouldn’t they?” said Augereau.  “It’s not feasible.  As for the boxes, they’re mostly held by subscribers.”

“Then stable them in the picture-galleries,” said the general.  “It will be good discipline.”

“The people will call that sacrilege,” returned Augereau.

“Not if we remove the pictures,” said Bonaparte.  “We’ll send the pictures to Paris.”

Accordingly this was done, and the galleries of France were thereby much enriched.  We mention these details at length, because Napoleon has been severely criticised for thus impoverishing Italy, as well as for his so-called contempt of art—­a criticism which, in the face of this accurate version, must fall to the ground.  The pictures were sent by him to Paris merely to preserve them, and, as he himself said, a propos of the famous Da Vinci, beneath which horses and men alike were quartered:  “I’d have sent that too, but to do it I’d have had to send the whole chapel or scrape the picture off the wall.  These Italians should rather thank than condemn me for leaving it where it was.  Mine was not an army of destruction, but a Salvation Army of the highest type.”

“You made mighty few converts for a Salvation Army,” said Talleyrand, to whom this remark was addressed.

“That’s where you are wrong,” said Napoleon.  “I made angels of innumerable Austrians, and converted quite a deal of Italian into French territory.”

It was hardly to be doubted that Napoleon’s successes would arouse jealousies in Paris, and the Directory, fearing the hold the victorious general was acquiring upon the people, took steps to limit his powers.  Bonaparte instantly resigned his command and threatened to return to Paris, which so frightened the government that they refused to accept his resignation.

From this time on for nearly a year Napoleon’s career was a succession of victories.  He invaded the Papal States, and acquired millions of francs and hundreds of pictures.  He chastised all who opposed his sway, and, after pursuing the Austrians as far as Leoben, within sight of Vienna, he humbled the haughty Emperor Joseph.

“I’ll recognize your Republic,” said the Emperor at last, finding that there was nothing else to be done.

“Thanks,” said Napoleon—­“I thought you would; but I don’t know whether the Republic will recognize you.  She doesn’t even know you by sight.”

“Is that all you want?” asked the Emperor, anxiously.

“For the present, yes.  Some day I may come back for something else,” returned Napoleon, significantly.  “And, by-the-way, when you are sending your card to the French people just enclose a small remittance of a few million francs, not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.  Don’t send all you’ve got, but just enough.  You may want to marry off one of your daughters some day, and it will be well to save something for her dowry.”

It was in little acts of this nature that Napoleon showed his wonderful foresight.  One would almost incline to believe from this particular incident that Bonaparte foresaw the Marie-Louise episode in his future career.

The Austrians humbled, Napoleon turned his attention to Venice.  Venice had been behaving in a most exasperating fashion, and the conqueror felt that the time had come to take the proud City of the Sea in hand.

“If the Venetians have any brains,” said he to Bourrienne, who joined him about this time, secretly representing, it is said, a newspaper-syndicate service, “they’ll put on all the sail they’ve got and take their old city out to sea.  They’re in for the worst ducking they ever got.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find them hard to get at,” said Bourrienne.  “That lagoon is a wet place.”

“Oh, as for that,” said Bonaparte, “a little water will do the army good.  We’ve been fighting so hard it’s been months since they’ve had a good tubbing, and a swim won’t hurt them.  Send Lannes here.”  In a few minutes Lannes entered Bonaparte’s tent.

“Lannes, we’re off for Venice.  Provide the army with overshoes, and have our luggage checked through,” said Bonaparte.

“Yes, General.”

“Can Augereau swim?”

“I don’t know, General.”

“Well, find out, and if he can’t we’ll get him a balloon.”

Thus, taking every precaution for the comfort of his men and the safety of his officers, Napoleon set out.  Venice, hearing of his approach, was filled with consternation, and endeavored to temporize.  The Doges offered millions if Bonaparte would turn his attention to others, to which Napoleon made this spirited reply:  “Venetians, tell the Doges, with my compliments, that I am coming.  The wealth of the Indies couldn’t change my mind.  They offer me stocks and bonds; well, I believe their stocks and bonds to be as badly watered as their haughty city, and I’ll have none of them.  I’ll bring my stocks with me, and your Doges will sit in them.  I’ll bring my bonds, and your nobles shall put them on and make them clank.  You’ve been drowning Frenchmen every chance you’ve had.  It will now be my pleasing duty to make you do a little gurgling on your own account.  You’ll find out for the first time in your lives what it is to be in the swim.  Put on your bathing-suits and prepare for the avenger.  The lions of St. Marc must lick the dust.”

“We have no dust, General,” said one of the messengers.

“Then you’d better get some,” retorted Napoleon, “for you will have to come down with it to the tune of millions.”

True to his promise, Napoleon appeared at the lagoon on the 31st of May, and the hitherto haughty Venice fell with a splash that could be heard for miles, first having sent five ships of war, 3,000,000 francs, as many more in naval stores, twenty of her best pictures, the bronze horses of the famous church, five hundred manuscripts, and one apology to the French Republic as the terms of peace.  The bronze horses were subsequently returned, but what became of the manuscripts we do not know.  They probably would have been returned also—­a large portion of them, at least—­if postage-stamps had been enclosed.  This is mere theory, of course; but it is rendered reasonable by the fact that this is the usual fate of most manuscripts; nor is there any record of their having been published in the Moniteur, the only periodical which the French government was printing at that time.

As for Bonaparte, it was as balm to his soul to humble the haughty Doges, whose attitude towards him had always been characterized by a superciliousness which filled him with resentment.

“It did me good,” he said, many years after, with a laugh, “to see those Doges swimming up and down the Grand Canal in their state robes, trying to look dignified, while I stood on the sidewalk and asked them why they didn’t come in out of the wet.”