Secrets of the Parish Register

It's my pleasure to welcome Helen Barrell to the salon, to delve into some eye-opening tales form the parish register!

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Parish registers aren’t only useful for genealogists. Often, you’ll find surprising notes in the margins. A baby born in a barn, a certificate for the King’s Evil, someone killed when the bell fell out of the steeple and crushed them. It was a note in the margin of a burial register about a victim of arsenic poisoning, which sparked my book Poison Panic. But maybe it’s thanks to Sharpe, or perhaps Mr Wickham, that one of my favourite parish register discoveries has to be the hundreds of soldiers, their wives and babies, who appear in the small Essex village of Weeley during the Napoleonic War. What on earth were they doing there?

In 1803, when Napoleon’s sabre-rattling grew ever louder, it was felt that the north-east Essex coastline was dangerously undefended. Harwich, which had a Royal Navy presence, is just to the north of Weeley, and going west, there were docks and shipyards along the River Colne, and the garrison town of Colchester about 12 miles away. Martello towers were built along the coast, and several hundred soldiers were stationed in Weeley, ready in case the French ships appeared over the horizon.

The first soldiers’ babies appear in the register in July 1803, the vicar carefully recording the father’s regiment or militia beside each entry. That same month, Mary Ann Grant, wife of Captain James Grant of the 42^nd Regiment (better known as the Black Watch) wrote a letter to a friend from Weeley Camp. She described Weeley as ‘an insignificant village; but the encampment is large.’ She and James had married only a couple of months earlier, in Scotland. ‘I frequently accompany my dear G. to visit it; we have lodgings in the close vicinity,’ she explained.

Life was genteel to start with - at least for officers’ wives like Mary Ann. The other wives would have been living at the Camp, but at least they could be with their husbands, unlike the wives who missed out on the ballots and couldn’t accompany their husbands when they were posted abroad. Mary Ann paid social calls, visiting the eccentric ‘Mr C’ (apparently Clarkson Cardinall in Tendring), and there was an entertainment at St Osyth Priory, then the home of the Nassaus. 

Mary Ann and her husband were posted to Scotland, but a few months later they were back in Weeley. The transformation was astonishing: ‘we found so complete a metamorphosis, that I doubted whether some enchantress had not been exerting her magical powers; it appeared hardly possible that in so short a space of time, as seven or eight weeks, barracks to contain five thousand men, could have sprung up by the hands of men; yet so it is.’ The field had disappeared, churned to mud under the feet of men and horses, and huts had been built to accommodate the soldiers and their families. 

Weeley

The Grants arrived in November. Water ran down the walls of their hut, and the mud was so bad that Mary had to be carried. ‘There is no way for a woman to venture out, but upon men’s shoulders, no very pleasant conveyance you must allow’: no mean feat when she was pregnant. Her husband urged her to find lodgings elsewhere, but ‘there are no lodgings to be had within two miles, and owing to the strict orders now issued for no officer to be absent from the barracks, in consequence of the prevailing idea of an invasion’ her husband had to stay in the Barracks. And Mary Ann was determined to remain with him; she ‘really cannot account for my feelings, when I say, that I am unable to persuade myself to leave G.’ 

It is hardly surprising that tragedy would not be far away in such poor conditions. The Grants’ baby died: whether it was stillborn or not, Mary Ann didn’t say, but their daughter doesn’t appear in Weeley’s parish register, or that of any nearby village. Mary Ann nearly died in childbirth. Her isolation is painful; on writing to a friend in February 1804, she said ‘many a time, amid all my sufferings did we wish for the skilful attendance of my dear aunt, and the soothing attention of my amiable young friend, who I am certain would have made a very tender nurse; but situated as we were, it was impossible we could request either of you to come.’ Trying to recover her health was difficult, stressed with the fear of invasion: ‘it is thought this coast will be the point, where the effort of landing will be made; what a scene of destruction would such an event occasion.’ 

The Grants were still living in a barrack hut at Weeley in June, but conditions had improved – or at least, Mary Ann put a brave face on it. ‘You would smile to see the ways and means we fall upon, to make the unpolished furniture allotted us, look neat; the roads are nicely made, and we have the comfort of walking dry, and enjoying a little society; our agreeable parties have again commenced; you would be amused were you to hear our invitations to each other; they are always accompanied by a desire, that each person will bring their camp-stool, knife, glass, &c.; such is the order among those who occupy barracks.’ Her next letter was written from Lexden Camp, on the other side of Colchester, but she made no more mention of huts, so it seems that she had at last found lodgings.

The Grants were a married couple when they arrived at Weeley, but there were plenty of single men among the thousands of soldiers who arrived in the village. It’s clear from the many Scottish names in the marriage register that soldiers and possibly soldiers’ widows were marrying in Weeley’s church. Some of the soldiers married local girls – for instance, Patrick McCrummen married Mary Simpson Baker from St Osyth, and William MacAmman married Susan Bradbrook from Thorp. One can hear Lydia Bennett’s shriek of ‘The militia!’ 

The burial register is similarly busy with late residents of the barracks, including victims of an outbreak of disease, and also Alexander McDonald, who was murdered by locals at a fair in Little Clacton.

Once the threat of invasion had passed, the soldiers were moved on from Weeley. The barracks were dismantled, and all that’s left today is an empty field. It’s been said that if you pass through the field with a metal detector, you’ll find uniform buttons from obscure regiments of fencibles, which men joined before transferring to established army regiments. They just didn’t get around to changing their buttons, and at some point, the thread unravelled, and the button fell off their red jacket into the quagmire, lost for 200 years. 

And aside from the buttons that are periodically thrown up from the earth, there are all those names in the parish registers, to remind us of the thousands of people who once called the huts in Barrack Field home. 

Sources:

The Story of Jaywick Martello Tower, by Essex County Council

Weeley parish registers at the Essex Record Office

Grant, Mary Ann. Sketches of Life and Manners with Delineations of Scenery in England, Scotland, and Ireland: interspersed with Moral Tales and Anecdotes, in original Letters: in two volumes. Vol. II. Second Edition, 1811. Printed by Cox, Son, and Baylis, London.

Bio: 

Helen Barrell’s Victorian true crime book Poison Panic: Arsenic Deaths in 1840s Essex is published by Pen & Sword [http://www.pen-and-sword.co.uk/Poison-Panic-Paperback/p/11988/aid/1151] and is available from Waterstones [https://www.waterstones.com/book/poison-panic/helen-barrell/9781473852075], Amazon [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Poison-Panic-Arsenic-Deaths-1840s/dp/1473852072/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1455478552&sr=8-1&keywords=poison+panic], etc, in paperback and ebook. Fatal Evidence: Professor Alfred Swaine Taylor and the Dawn of Forensic Science will be published in July 2017. Helen has appeared on BBC Radio 4’s Punt PI, and has written for Fortean Times and Family Tree magazines. She guestblogs for Findmypast. 

Genealogy and the not-so ordinary lives of ordinary people at www.essexandsuffolksurnames.co.uk, and Helen’s personal writing blog at www.helenbarrell.co.uk 

The Life and Loves of Madame Recamier

It's my pleasure to welcome Cheryl Bolen to the salon today to discuss another salon keeper, the famed  Madame Recamier!

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The Life and Loves of Madame Recamier

The Duke of Wellington and Napoleon opposed each other not only on the battlefield but also for the affections of a certain beautiful lady. That lady, Madame Recamier, spurned both of these powerful men. Napoleon was so outraged, he banished her from France and her famed Parisian salon where authors and intellectuals—most of whom despised Napoleon—gathered. 

In an era when, as Lord Egremont said, “Women considered it a stain upon their reputation if they hadn’t taken a lover,” Juliette Recamier (1777-1849) went four decades without knowing a lover—not even the wealthy, much-older banker she had married at age 15.

Madame Récamier by Jacques-Louis David, 1800

Called a figid coquette, Madame Recamier directed her sensuous flirtations on virtually every man who came to her salon on rue du Mont-Blanc—and most of them became captivated by her beauty and voluptuous charm. Author and political philosopher Benjamin Constant said, “Madame Recamier takes it into her head to make me fall in love with her . . . My life is completely upset.” For the next fourteen months, he was tortured by his unrequited love for her. 

He was one of dozens over the years.

Lady Bessborough,  who was among the English aristocrats who flocked to Paris in 1802 after the signing of the short-lived Treaty of Amiens, gives this interesting account of meeting the beautiful Madame Recamier.

I must tell you [Lady Bessborough wrote to her lover, Granville Leveson Gower] tho’, a nasty and an indelicate story, but how distress’d I was at Mad. Recamier’s. We went there and found her in bed—that beautiful bed you saw prints of—muslin and gold curtains, great looking glasses at the side, incense pots, &c., and muslin sheets trimm’d with lace, and beautiful white shoulders expos’d perfectly uncovered to view—in short, completely undress’d and in bed. The room was full of men.

During her salons, Madame Recamier commonly reposed on a chaise longue—a piece of furniture which would later be named a recamier in her honor. A famed portrait by Jacques Louis David of her on her chaise longue hangs in the Louvre. 

The only child of Marie Julie Matton and Jean Bernard, the king’s counsellor, Juliette was born in Lyon, but the family later moved to Paris. During the Reign of Terror, she married Jeanne-Françoise Julie Adélaïde Récamier, who was 27 years her senior. Mystery surrounds the marriage. There is some credence that Recamier married to pass on his fortune if he should fall to the Terror. It was said he was very close to Juliette’s mother. Some suggested Juliette remained a virgin because Recamier was her natural father, but this has been discounted. 

As she neared the age of thirty, Madame Recamier finally fell victim to Cupid’s arrow when she fell in love with Prince Augustus of Prussia, a nephew of Frederick the Great. They met in the Swiss home of her friend, the famed Madame de Stael, who encouraged the romance. Juliette Recamier wrote to her husband to ask for a divorce, but at the time he was besieged with financial woes (he eventually went bankrupt). His response appealed to her sensibilities while telling her she could not have picked a worse time. He also expressed regret that he had respected her virginal susceptibilities. 

Writing years later about her lover, Madame Recamier said, “We were convinced that we were going to be married, and our relationship was very intimate; even so, there was one thing he failed to obtain.”

Prince Augustus of Prussia
by Franz Krüger, 1817.

Before the two lovers parted, they exchanged written promises. Prince Augustus wrote, “I swear by my honor and by love to preserve in all its purity the sentiment that attaches me to Juliette Recamier, to take all steps that duty allows to unite with her in the bonds of marriage, and to possess no woman as long as there is hope that I may join my destiny with hers. AUGUST, PRINCE OF PRUSSIA.”

Madame Recamier wrote, “I swear by the salvation of my soul to preserve in all its purity the sentiment that attaches me to Prince August of Prussia; to do everything that honor permits to dissolve my marriage, to have no love nor flirtation with any other man, to see him again as soon as possible, and, whatever the future may bring, to entrust my destiny entirely to his honor and his love. J. R.”

The Recamiers did not divorce, and Prince Augustus never married, though two of his long-time mistresses bore him eleven children. Ten years after he fell in love with Juliette Recamier, he had his portrait made standing in front of her portrait. 

Back in Paris, the Recamiers were forceed to sell their house on the rue du Mont Blanc, their silver, and Juliette’s jewelry. She suffered the losses with the same languid serenity that governed her life. By 1809, Recamier was once again in business but on a much smaller scale. 

Even though her circumstances were reduced, Madame Recamier’s salons were as popular as ever. Later she resided in apartments in a former convent, now demolished, at 16 rue de Sèvres in Paris.

It is believe she finally lost her virginity at age 40. Her lover was the 50-year-old author Chateaubriand. 

Her husband died in 1830. She lived another nineteen years before cholera claimed her at age 71. She was buried in the Cimetiere de Montmarte.

Resources

Herold, J. Christopher. Mistress to an Age: A Life of Madame de Staël. The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1958.

Lady Granville, The Private Correspondence of Lord Granville Leveson Gower, 2 vol., London, John Murray, 1917.

Written content of this post copyright © Cheryl Bolen, 2016.

City of Smugglers

I am delighted to welcome Alicia Quigley back to the salon to chat about the City of Smugglers (now available on Amazon!) and share an extract from her latest release!

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“La cite de Smoglers”

I’ve been doing a lot of reading about Regency smuggling in the last couple years as I worked on The Contraband Courtship (released last summer) and Lady, Lover, Smuggler, Spy which will be published in May. A lot of this has been fascinating – both how mundane some of the business aspects of it were as well as how violent it could be, and the major financial impact of the guinea smuggling. One of the most interesting things I read about was the “City of Smugglers”.

In fact, the story of the City of Smugglers, a special cantonment built inside the city of Gravelines by Napoleon to support and control the activities of the smugglers plying their trade across the English Channel, is so interesting, that I made it a key plot element in my latest Regency romance. Gravelines and this enclave are mentioned in a number of 19^th century books, but those of us without the time to peruse a dozen historical tomes owe a debt of gratitude to Gavin Daly for bringing all of this information together in a readable and interesting paper. 

Napoleon visited Dunquerque in 1810 which was the hub of the smuggling trade at the time, and decided that it was far too easy for the smugglers to move around there, making it easier for the spies who also worked with the smugglers to ply their trade. Saying he wanted to reduce the impact of the rowdy smugglers on the local population, he built a special enclosed “city” within nearby Gravelines and moved the trade there. Maps of Gravelines and Dunkirk (right) give some insight as to why Gravelines was the preferred city. While Dunkirk is fortified with a large wall around much of it, there is an open area which must have made it very easy for people (or goods) arriving on smuggling boats to just disappear into the countryside. Since Napoleon had a mania for good administration and the collection of customs duties, in addition to his concerns about spying, a look at an old map of Gravelines (below) clearly shows why it was preferable. The fortifications go right around the city, along with a canal in most areas. It was far easier to control the smugglers here than in Dunkirk. Since my next book, Lady, Lover, Smuggler, Spy to be released in May, includes an escape from Gravelines, this map made me wonder how this was to be accomplished, and coming up with a plausible story line took some thought! 

I mentioned customs officials earlier, and although I admit there is little interesting about the Douane in general, also uncovered some interesting information about the “Douane Imperiale” a semi-military unit of customs officials who moved with the French Army to conquered countries to ensure that the ports and trade came under Napoleon’s control swiftly. This unit even took part in skirmishes occasionally as part of their duties. They certainly were handsomely kitted out; here are some images of their striking green uniforms (left and below). This was too much fun to leave out of the book, so the Douane Imperiale makes an appearance in Lady, Lover, Smuggler, Spy as well.

Gravelines was the port through which much of the golden guinea trade flowed, and had counting houses and connections to more than one merchant banking organization. It also had what sounds like a smugglers’ mall, in which over 50 merchants sold gin, fabrics, lace, wine, shawls, and anything else for which there was a market. The heroine in Lady, Lover, Smuggler, Spy takes advantage of this smugglers’ mall as a means of getting needed information, as well as creating some interesting adventures.

Excerpt from Lady, Lover, Smuggler, Spy:

Sir Tarquin handed her to a seat in front of the fire, and then took a chair across from her, settling into it comfortably and crossing his elegantly booted ankles. “So, Mrs. Carlton, I find that I am almost vulgarly curious about your past. It is evident that you are a gentlewoman, yet I found you penniless and unescorted at the Angel this morning. How did that come to pass?” 

Valerie gazed down at her hands, before looking at him. “I am the oldest daughter of Lord Upleadon and his first wife,” she answered, “and married Robert Carlton, an officer in the Light Division.”

“Upleadon?” exclaimed Sir Tarquin. “You are an Upleadon, yet I found you alone, penniless, and ready to board a mail coach?” 

“My father did not approve of Mr. Carlton, I fear,” Valerie answered economically.

“That stiff rumped old tartar--” Sir Tarquin suddenly recalled that his listener was not only a lady, but also the daughter of the gentleman he was about to malign, and fell silent. 

“Quite so,” Valerie responded with a definite hint of laughter in her voice. “In any event, when I insisted on marrying Mr. Carlton my father cut me off entirely. Even when my husband was among the dead at Sabugal he refused to see me.”

“While I’m not well acquainted with the baron, as he is a good deal older than I am and moves in very different circles, I’m sorry to say that I can easily imagine him lacking remorse. You must have been a mere child. How have you managed since then?”

“When I returned to England, several of my friends had married, and were happy to help me get on my feet. I was mourning my husband, and had no wish to remarry or to be a burden on them, however, so I quickly found a position as a governess.”

“But the Battle of Sabugal was three years since. Have you been a governess all this time?” Sir Tarquin asked.

She nodded. “I had only been with the Forneys for in a few months. When I first became a governess I was in charge of a young lady who needed some polishing before she came out, as her parents were not people of fashion. I enjoyed it very much; the daughter was charming and her mother and father were kind and grateful. Unfortunately the two positions that followed it have been much less satisfactory.” 

Valerie fell silent, looking down at her hands, and Sir Tarquin, finding himself appreciating the sight of her blonde curls, fine figure, and aura of calm, didn’t need to stretch his imagination far to imagine the son of the Forney household had been unable to resist the temptation of the pretty governess. 

 “It makes me angry to think of you being preyed upon,” he said abruptly, much to his own surprise.

 “It is a common enough problem, and far worse has befallen others. He did not force me and, while Mrs. Forney was unkind, I left of my own volition,” said Valerie uncomfortably. “My friends have helped me before and will help me now. I would rather spend my time with children, but perhaps I will have to seek employment as a companion to an older lady instead.” 

“You do not deserve a life as a drudge to children or as the companion of elderly harridan, who will doubtless have a horrid grandson who will treat you as Mr. Forney did,” Sir Tarquin exclaimed. “You are young, and have given far too much.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

“You sacrificed a husband and a family to your country, did you not?”

“I suppose you could say so, although it has been three long years since then.” A wistful look came over her face. “It seems so long ago. Thinking of it now, Robert and I were both practically children; it is almost as though it happened to someone else, or was a story someone told to me.” 

“Yet you are still all but penniless and without protection as a result, are you not? That is not much of an ending to the story.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully. “It was my decision, though I was far too young to understand the possible consequences. In some ways it was worth it all the same; I loved Robert as much as an eighteen-year-old can love anyone, and perhaps even more, I loved following the drum.”

Sir Tarquin looked startled. “Did you really? Surely it was a very hard life for a gently bred and sheltered young lady?” 

Valerie laughed. “Indeed it was! I had no notion that such hardships were ahead of me. Yet the sense of purpose, of being needed and useful, and of having a meaning to my life was so powerful, that it overcame them all. I was always rather bookish, and never truly enjoyed the rounds of parties and balls, to my stepmother’s despair.”

“Even in the tail of the Army with all the camp followers, and rabble you felt so?” Sir Tarquin asked curiously. 

“Oh, I rode with the column, Sir Tarquin,” she exclaimed proudly. “I had no children to care for and I was handy with horses even before I went on campaign, for my father’s stables are renowned and I spent a great deal of time in them as a child. I soon learned to kill and stew a chicken, and make sure that there was always something to eat at our billet, so it was not long before many of the other officers were to be found at our table.”

“You rode with the column?” her companion echoed in surprise.

“Except when an engagement was imminent, yes. In many respects it was as safe as being in the tail of the Army, for Robert’s friends would watch out for me. I moved rearward when there was any real danger.”

“But it must have been difficult to be so far ahead without any servants to help you.”

 “Oh, my husband engaged a woman for me, a large, rather foul mouthed Scotswoman, who was a match for most of the men! She did much of the heaviest work, although I helped, of course.” Sir Tarquin watched as Valerie’s eyes filled with memories that were clearly dear to her. “His batman was also there, and it never seemed as though things were unmanageable. Difficult yes, but even the worst days were just another challenge to rise to…” Valerie’s voice trailed off, and she gazed into the fire, seeing another place and time. 

Sir Tarquin watched her in pensive silence, for a moment and then stood, shaking his head to dispel the thoughts that filled it. “My glass is empty. May I pour you some more punch as well, Mrs. Carlton?” 

Valerie shook off her memories, and handed him her empty glass. “Thank you, Sir Tarquin. You have a way with a punchbowl, it seems.” She watched as he walked away, enjoying the wide set of his shoulders, and athleticism of his gait. After some moments he returned and offered her the cup, now full of warm, spicy liquid. Her fingers brushed his slightly as she took it. She looked away, taking a sip.

“I so miss feeling part of something bigger than me,” she murmured. “A governess makes herself useful, I suppose, but it is not the same. Being a paid companion would be even duller, I fear.”

Sir Tarquin, who still stood beside her chair, reached out with one long finger and tipped her chin up, gazing into her face intently. 

“You most assuredly must not be a companion to a querulous dowager,” he murmured. “It would be an utter waste.”

Valerie stared back at him, at a loss to answer. In the quiet and warmth of the private parlor they seemed removed from the world, and she simply waited for him to act. He gave a tiny sigh, and then lowered his mouth to hers, pressing her lips firmly yet gently as he sought the right pressure. Her mouth trembled a little, and he lifted his, only to press it against hers at a slightly different angle before drawing back, to kiss her cheek, and then one of her eyelids, which had fluttered closed, before releasing her chin and stepping away. 

About the Author:

Alicia Quigley is a lifelong lover of romance novels, who fell in love with Jane Austen in grade school, and Georgette Heyer in junior high. She made up games with playing cards using the face cards for Heyer characters, and sewed regency gowns (walking dresses, riding habits and bonnets that even Lydia Bennett wouldn’t have touched) for her Barbie. In spite of her terrible science and engineering addiction, she remains a devotee of the romance, and enjoys turning her hand to their production as well as their consumption.

Website, Social Media:

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Twitter

Facebook

Amazon Author Page

Written content of this post copyright © Alicia Quigley, 2016.

Fighting for Napoleon

It's an honour to welcome Dr Bernard Wilkin to the salon today for his expert take on fighting for Napoleon, in the words of the very soldiers themselves!

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I would like to thank you, madame, for having me here today. It’s always a pleasure to talk about my work in such a fine setting. As you probably know, Fighting for Napoleon has just been released by Pen and Sword. This historical study is a labour of love and a family affair. My own ancestor, Jean Lambert Wilkin, served in the French artillery and fought at the battle of Austerlitz. Admittedly, he deserted in 1808 after four years of service… 

Fighting for Napoleon is probably the first book in English entirely based around the correspondence of ordinary soldiers serving in the French army between 1799 and 1815. My father and I found more than 1,500 letters in the archives of Liège (Belgium). What makes this extraordinary body of sources essential is its lack of hindsight and its humility. Soldiers didn’t write for posterity and had no illusion of being important. They only wanted to keep alive a tenuous link with their family. French men wrote about everything. Battles, murders, food, uniforms and travelling were all common subjects. This correspondence tells us far more about the ordinary life in the French army than memoirs. French soldiers didn’t shy away from telling horrific stories of mutilations or brutal raids on civilian communities in Spain to their loved ones. This violence is not to be mistaken with coldness or inhumanity. French soldiers clearly had a different moral compass and felt that mistreating civilians was an inevitable part of warfare. All the aspirations of young men are represented in these letters. Money and family were important topics, but not as much as love. Far away from their fiancées, soldiers tried their best to keep the flame of romance alive. This is not to say that they didn’t seek romance with local girls or paid for sex. 

Fighting for Napoleon is divided in thematic chapters looking at essential aspects of the French army. Letters are carefully explained and their authors have been systematically identified.  I hope, madame, that you and your audience will enjoy reading this book. It is time for me to bid you farewell. Let me offer you, as a token of my appreciation, a love letter written by Augustin Moyarts, a young man who was conscripted in the artillery in 1809. I’m glad to say that he survived the Napoleonic wars.  

On board of the Trajan [A ship] 27 August 1812

My dear Marianne, this travel causes me displeasure because I am far from you. It seems to me that I have no interest in anything since I left you. Nothing interests me except if it relates to you. There is not even one thought that is about something else than you. I am not afraid because being away will not stop you from loving me, you said so yourself. I have such esteem for you that I cannot doubt the sincerity of your virtue. I feel perfectly safe about your fidelity but I am sad to be away. The reasons for which I love you are tormenting me. Miss, these days without you are lost. You must know how impatient I am to finish traveling. Your letters comfort me in my exile. I am your most faithful and tender servant. I received your letter on the fourth of this month. I was very pleased to know that you are in perfect health. I am well and we left for Antwerp. As soon as we arrived, we embarked again. I hoped to come home before embarking but I also hope to see you during winter. I end this letter by kissing you. With all my heart, I am for life your faithful friend. Greetings to your father, mother, brother and sister.

About the Author

Dr Bernard Wilkin is a military historian and a lecturer at the University of Exeter. He is the author of Fighting for Napoleon (Pen & Sword, 2015) and several articles on military history from 1799 to 1815. He can be contacted on twitter: @bernardwilkin

Written content of this post copyright © Bernard Wilkin, 2016.

Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon’s Smart Sister

It's a thrill to welcome the fantastic Shannon Selin to the salon today, with a tale of Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon’s smart sister. 

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Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon’s smart sister

Elisa Bonaparte with her daughter in the Boboli Gardens,
Florence, by François Gérard, 1811

Not as well-known as her sisters, beautiful Pauline and treasonous Caroline, Elisa Bonaparte was more capable than either one of them. In fact, she was the Bonaparte sibling most like Napoleon, although she had the least influence over him. Napoleon himself said, “Elisa has the courage of an Amazon; and like me, she cannot bear to be ruled.” [1]

The ugly sister

Maria Anna Bonaparte – she did not adopt the name “Elisa” until she was about 18 – was born in Ajaccio, Corsica on 3 January 1777, seven and a half years after Napoleon. She was the fourth of Charles and Letizia Bonaparte’s eight surviving offspring, and their eldest daughter.

Since Napoleon moved to France to go to school when Elisa was just two years old, the two of them did not have a chance to become particularly close. The one anecdote we have of them together in Corsica does not reflect well on Elisa. She apparently allowed Napoleon to be whipped for having eaten a basket of a relative’s grapes and figs, even though she and a friend were the guilty parties. [2]

When she was seven, Elisa was admitted on charity to an exclusive boarding school at the convent of Saint-Cyr near Versailles. Her father died the following year. Napoleon, who was at the Royal Military School in Paris, kept an eye on her. A family friend recounts:

One day my mother, and some other members of my family, went on a visit to Saint-Cyr, and [Napoleon] Bonaparte accompanied them. When Marianne [Elisa] came into the parlour she appeared very melancholy, and at the first word that was addressed to her she burst into tears…. At length my mother learned that one of the young ladies…was to leave the school in a week, and that the pupils of her class intended giving her a little entertainment on her departure. Every one had contributed, but Marianne could not give anything, because her allowance of money was nearly exhausted: she had only six francs…. Napoleon’s first movement…was to put his hand into his pocket. However, a moment’s reflection assured him that he should find nothing there; he checked himself, coloured slightly, and stamped his foot…. My mother gave [Marianne] the money, and her distress was ended. [3] 

Elisa Bonaparte, Grand Duchess of Tuscany,
by Guillaume Guillon-Lethière

Elisa remained at Saint-Cyr until August 1792, when the French Revolution resulted in the closure of all religious houses. Newly promoted to captain in a French artillery regiment, Napoleon escorted his sister back to Corsica. 

The following year, Napoleon had a falling out with the Corsican nationalists. The Bonapartes fled to France. They wound up in Marseilles where, on 1 May 1797, Elisa married Félix Pasquale Baciocchi, a minor Corsican aristocrat and infantry captain 15 years her senior. Napoleon, who was by then a general, disapproved of the match. Although Baciocchi was a decent fellow, he had – as Austrian Foreign Minister Clemens von Metternich put it – an “entire want of intellectual faculties.” [4]

For a while the couple lived with Elisa’s favourite brother, Lucien, with whom she shared a taste for literature and the fine arts. Elisa ran a salon in Paris frequented by the painters Jacques-Louis David and Antoine-Jean Gros, the writer François-René de Chateaubriand, and the poet Louis de Fontanes, who was said to be Elisa’s lover. In 1801, Lucien wrote:

Elisa is altogether taken up with savants. Her house is a tribunal where authors come to be judged. [5]

Though she was clearly intelligent, Elisa gained a reputation of being unattractive. arrogant and sharp-tongued. 

A harsh and domineering expression injured the effect of features which might otherwise have been pleasing, and her manner, which was abrupt and almost contemptuous toward inferiors, rendered her address distant and suspicious. Her bones were large and prominent, and her limbs ill-shaped: her gait was not graceful, and often subjected her to the playful mockeries of her sister Pauline. [6]

A benevolent despot

Elisa Bonaparte by Marie Guilhelmine Benoist,
about 1805

Like Caroline, Elisa was upset when Napoleon crowned himself Emperor of the French and did not give her a title. In response, in 1805 Napoleon made Elisa and Baciocchi Princess and Prince of Piombino, a small principality on the west coast of Italy, opposite Elba. He soon added Lucca, north of Piombino, to their holdings.

While Baciocchi commanded their tiny army, Elisa governed. She took her duties seriously, ruling as a benevolent despot. She formed a court in imitation of the one in Paris, drew up a constitution, made laws, and saw to the interests of her domain within the Empire. In June 1806, she wrote to Napoleon:

If the public debt, the pensions and charges imposed on my States are not diminished, they will absorb more than half the revenues. Never in France, under the rule of your predecessors, did the debt exceed the quarter, while under your Empire it is barely a sixth of the proceeds. [7]

Lucca and Piombino prospered. Elisa promoted agriculture and industry, patronized the arts and letters, revived the marble quarries of Carrara, and opened schools and a new hospital. Niccolò Paganini became a court violinist. He gave private lessons to Baciocchi who, according to Lucien Bonaparte, could “scrape [the violin] passably, but so constantly is he at it that he ends by getting on the nerves both of his innocent instrument and his hearers.” [8]

Elisa did such a good job that, in 1809, Napoleon made her Grand Duchess of Tuscany, a place she had long had her eye on. She moved her court to the Pitti Palace in Florence, which she refurbished in competition with Caroline’s court in Naples. Baciocchi did not rise in rank and had little to do. As a general commanding the local military division, he remained under his wife’s supervision. The two lived apart and took lovers.

Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi by Joseph Franque,
1812

Napoleon annexed Tuscany directly to France, so Elisa had less freedom of action there than in Lucca and Piombino, though she did her best to pretend that she was an independent ruler. She complained to Napoleon about interference from French officials. Napoleon sent her letters like this one:

You have the right to appeal to me against my Minister’s decisions, but you have no right to hinder their execution in any way. The Ministers speak in my name. No one has any right to paralyse, or stop the execution, of the orders they transmit. Will you, therefore, be good enough to recommence the carrying out of the Minister’s decision, and to revoke the prohibition you have issued? For the order you gave in this case is criminal, and, in strict law, an accusation against you might be founded on it. … You are a subject, and, like every other French subject, you are obliged to obey the orders of the Ministers – for a writ of Habeas Corpus, issued by the Minister of Police, would fully suffice to arrest you. [9]

Elisa was at least able to blame the imperial government for measures that proved unpopular. She took credit for the popular ones.

Traitor

Elisa Bonaparte by Pierre-Paul Prud’hon

When Napoleon’s empire began to crumble in early 1814, Caroline’s husband Joachim Murat – who had joined the coalition against Napoleon – sent troops to occupy Tuscany. He allowed Elisa to remain as ruler of Lucca. Seeing that Napoleon was on his way out and hoping to secure her own position, Elisa too broke with France. She wrote to Napoleon in February:

Surrounded by powerful enemies, menaced by land and by sea, betrayed by the King of Naples who deserted your cause, I remain alone in the midst of numerous armies assembled against us. I am alone, without money, without troops, without munitions; in these desperate circumstances, what more can I do for Your Majesty? … [I]t is time that I look after my own interests, that I retain for my family the States that I owe them. [10]

The Tuscans showed no sign of attachment to their Grand Duchess. They hailed the invaders, who were soon joined by the British. Elisa and Baciocchi fled. They tried, unsuccessfully, to make off with the silver and furniture from several of the palaces. As they journeyed across Italy, seeking a place of asylum, Elisa gave birth to a son, Frédéric, on August 10, 1814, just – as one wag put it – “at a moment when she ceased to have need of an heir.” [11] Two earlier sons, born in 1798 and 1810, had died as babies. Elisa also had a daughter, Elisa Napoléone, born at Lucca on 3 June 1806.

When Napoleon escaped from Elba and returned to France in March 1815, the Austrians arrested Elisa and imprisoned her in the fortress of Brünn. She was released once Napoleon was safely on his way to exile on St. Helena. Elisa was given permission to live in Trieste, where she assumed the title of Countess of Compignano. Baciocchi acquired a comfortable villa, which Elisa furnished luxuriantly. She continued to patronize artists and the theatre. She also financed archaeological digs in the area. In June 1820 Elisa contracted a severe infection, from which she died on 7 August 1820 at the age of 43.

Félix Baciocchi by Joseph Franque,
about 1805

When the news of Elisa’s death reached Napoleon, he shut himself up alone for several hours. When he emerged, he said, “There is the first member of my family who has set out on the great journey; in a few months I shall go to join her.” [12] He died nine months later, on 5 May 1821. 

Napoleon told one of his companions on St. Helena:

[Elisa] was a woman of a masterly mind. Had I not been in existence, what is said of the Duchess of Angoulême, that she wears the breeches of the family, might with reason be said of her. She had noble qualities and a remarkable mind; but no intimacy ever existed between us; our characters were opposed to this. [13] 

Baciocchi moved to Bologna, where he had Elisa’s remains interred in the Basilica of San Petronio. He died in 1841. Their son Frédéric was killed in a riding accident in 1833, at the age of 18. Their daughter Elisa Napoléone married a rich Italian count, from whom she separated after a couple of years. Her only child, Charles, committed suicide at the age of 26. Thus Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi has no living descendants.

References

1. Charles J. Ingersoll, History of the Second War between the United States of America and Great Britain, Second Series, Vol. 1 (Philadelphia, 1853), p. 174.
2. Laure Junot, Memoirs of Napoleon, his Court, and Family, Vol. 1 (New York, 1881), pp. 15-16.
3. Memoirs of Napoleon, his Court, and Family, Vol. 1, p. 31.
4. Metternich, Richard, ed., Memoirs of Prince Metternich, 1773-1815, Vol. 1 (New York, 1881), p. 309. 
5. Joseph Turquan, The Sisters of Napoleon, translated and edited by W.R.H. Trowbridge (London, 1908), p. 22.
6. Frank B. Goodrich, The Court of Napoleon (Philadephia, 1875), p. 260.
7. The Sisters of Napoleon, p. 55.
8. The Sisters of Napoleon, p. 14.
9. Lady Mary Lloyd, New Letters of Napoleon I, edited by Léon Lecestre (New York, 1898), p. 150.
10. Frédéric Masson, Napoléon et Sa Famille, Vol. 9 (Paris, 1907), p. 260.
11. The Sisters of Napoleon, p. 77.
12. Louis Étienne Saint-Denis, Napoleon from the Tuileries to St. Helena, translated by Frank Hunter Potter (New York and London, 1922), p. 250.
13. Charles Tristan Montholon, History of the Captivity of Napoleon at St. Helena, Vol. 3 (London, 1847), p. 142.

About the Author

Shannon Selin is the author of Napoleon in America, which imagines what might have happened if Napoleon had escaped from St. Helena and wound up in the United States in 1821. She blogs about Napoleonic and 19th century history at shannonselin.com.

Written content of this post copyright © Shannon Selin, 2016