In the summer of 1972, I read a short biography about Josephine Bonaparte—"an incredible story full of magic, love and power at an important moment in history,” I was later to write to a friend. I was captured (or, should I say, kidnapped) by Josephine’s profound humanity, her grace, her courage. At the heart of my fascination was the concrete evidence that her extraordinary life had been foretold. What did it mean? Was it an accident that Napoleon’s period of greatness coincided with those years he was married to her? Was Josephine the maker of a king?
I began to collect books about her life and times. I wore out family and friends with stories about Josephine. She became, for me, a guiding spirit, an inspiration. At challenging moments I told myself (tell myself still) that if Josephine could do it, I could do it. Surprisingly, some readers have confided that they tell themselves the same thing.
In 1980, moving to northern Ontario, hauling a crate of historical texts to yet another home, I considered leaving them behind. No! a voice within me said. You’re not finished with them yet. I knew I would eventually do something with them. I just didn’t know what.
One night (nearly a decade later), I awoke from a dream about a man and a woman in a theatrical company, playing the parts of Josephine and Napoleon. Putting on their costumes, they became their characters. For some reason, I found this terrifying, and I leapt trembling from the bed, my hands over my stomach. I felt there was something like a glass ball inside me, and inside that ball was a spirit trying to speak. I thought, This must be what it feels like to be possessed by a spirit. Simultaneously, I knew I would write a novel about someone who was possessed by the spirit of Josephine.
That week, I began writing a contemporary comedy of manners about an elderly woman who was rather inconveniently possessed by the spirit of Josephine. After almost a year, I thought I needed to understand the “spirit” better and set aside one month to consolidate my years of research, to write, in Josephine’s words, a brief account of her life. That was January 1990. Those who read it told me not to stop writing. They didn’t need to tell me—I couldn’t stop.
I was consumed by a desire to know Josephine—the real Josephine. I read broadly, haunted used bookstores and used the inter-library loan system extensively. I assembled a personal library of over three hundred titles on the subject of Josephine, Napoleon and the French Revolution. Additionally, through members of the Napoleonic Society of America, I met several Napoleonic aficionados in Ontario who opened their personal libraries to me. Other forms of research included studying historical movies as well as interviewing and corresponding with both amateur and professional historians, experts on the life of Josephine.
I longed to experience Josephine’s world. I travelled to Paris, walked through the neighbourhoods she lived in, went to the prison she was kept in. I travelled to Martinique, walked the property on which she was born and raised, attended Mass in her church. I went to the health spa she frequented and sampled treatments. I travelled long distances to see two museum exhibits: one, the Napoleonic costume exhibit in New York; the other, the Napoleon exhibit at the Cook Convention Center in Memphis.
My search for understanding sometimes led me in less conventional directions. Curious about the feel of the clothes Josephine wore, I acquired a historically accurate copy of an 18th-century dress worn by the actress who played Josephine in the original production of the wonderful musical Napoleon. On an esoteric level, quite early on in my research, when the novel still had more of a mystical element, I consulted a channeller. An acquaintance who professes to “time travel” led me into a meditation and “transported me” to 18th-century Paris, introduced me to “my characters,” a surprisingly emotional experience.
By degrees, my view of Josephine changed. Traditionally, she was viewed as a kind woman, but also frivolous, not very intelligent, promiscuous, manipulative and a liar with a compulsive need to spend her husband’s money. My view of her is significantly different. Although I do see her as a profoundly loving woman, I do not see her as a sexually driven one. I believe she was sensuous and loving, and also loyal, wise, psychologically intuitive, intelligent, savvy, infallible in her dealings with people, a consummate lobbyist and politician. She was an overindulgent and devoted mother, and her two children were her constant focus. She was generous to a fault, sometimes impulsively. She was straightforward; she spoke from her heart (and was therefore judged lacking in wit). Her special gift was that she did not sit in judgment; she was accepting (and was therefore deemed apolitical or as not having standards). She was emotional, easily moved (and was therefore considered weak). A social creature, she enjoyed parties, a good laugh; she had a playful, sometimes even bawdy sense of humour. Superstitious, spiritual, haunted—fearful even, hers was a world in which spirits spoke.
A woman more of our time than her own, she was devoted to her children when it was fashionable to be aloof. She was intolerant of infidelity when it was fashionable to be unfaithful; and a negotiator of deals with bankers and businessmen when it was unthinkable for a woman to involve herself in money matters, much less profit. She had close male friends, “networked” with men, was comfortable in the working world of men when a sexual relationship was thought to be the only relationship possible. And, last but certainly not least, in an age when love was considered the reserve of trysts, she fell deeply and hopelessly in love with her husband, Napoleon.
I grew up during the Cold War, and the end of the world seemed close at hand. I could relate to the apocalyptic feeling of the end of the eighteenth century.
What is the significance of the book’s opening quotation from contemporary poet Wendy Rose?
The opening quotations for each of the books in the trilogy are from contemporary poets, not all of them known or even published. It’s very much a personal thing. Sometimes a line of a poem will leap out at me and encapsulate what a book is about, and sometimes I have to search. Wendy Rose’s line about the “ghosts of our future” had fascinated me for some time. It’s an interesting image. I grew up during the Cold War, and the end of the world seemed close at hand. I could relate to the apocalyptic feeling of the end of the eighteenth century.
You’ve created such a wonderful character in Aunt Fanny. Have you read any of her writings—particularly her romances?
Aunt Fanny is one of my favourite characters. She deserves a book of her own! At the time I was writing the trilogy, the Internet was in its infancy, and it was almost impossible to find writings by or about authors as obscure as Fanny de Beauharnais. Now, of course, much is available online.
What I learned of Fanny at the time came from one academic article, one essay in an anthology and brief mentions in memoirs, letters and even police reports. (Clearly, police spies were often listening in on the irreverent talk at her salon.) One of my favourite revealing snippets was in a letter written by a woman who had been to dinner at Fanny’s house. She reported, with disgust, that the butter was rancid and the dirty laundry piled up in the living room. Josephine’s daughter, Hortense, describes Aunt Fanny’s heavy makeup. I love that she detested fresh air.
Fanny was often the object of affectionate ridicule, but a serious writer nonetheless. In 1782, she was accepted into the Académie Française, quite an honour for a woman.
Today, a search online reveals a side of Fanny I never read about (and would be disinclined to trust without further research). According to one site, a friend wrote that Fanny “was equally devoted to good eating and good sex, and was willing to take either wherever she found them.” Fanny apparently wrote, “Although I am far from averse to the charms of the bedroom, I cannot help but prefer those of the well-set picnic table.” One such picnic is reported to have consisted of two jellied pheasants from Tuscany, a pâté de foie gras from Strasbourg, two game pies from Aix-en-Provence and several bottles of Spanish sparkling wine. I have a hard time imagining Fanny enjoying a picnic in the open—and all too fresh—air.
Tournedos à la Beauharnais is a dish reputed to have been dedicated to the memory of Fanny in 1864 by a chef at Bofinger restaurant in Paris. The restaurant still offers the dish on a regular basis.
The secret society of Freemasons is mentioned a few times in the book. Was Josephine really a member? ▸
On my first visit to Malmaison, I met with curator Bernard Chevallier and historian Dr. Catinat, two individuals who know more about Josephine than anyone in the world. They were excited about a recent discovery that Josephine had been a Freemason. (At that time, in France, a woman could belong.) In one of her early letters, Josephine mentioned the Lodge of the Three Lights, a Masonic lodge. As empress, she would sometimes sign her letters with two parallel bars in front of her name or even dots. Such marks were used in the eighteenth century by the Freemasons, rather like a secret handshake. Dr. Catinat feels that Freemasonry played an important part in Josephine’s life, that through the Freemasons she made important financial contacts that later proved useful to her and to the men in her life.
Josephine’s voice is often complimented—do you hear the voice of any contemporary figure when you think of Josephine speaking?
The hypnotic beauty of Josephine’s voice is mentioned in memoirs and letters. She would read to Napoleon at night, and their servants would hover outside the door to listen. I imagine that her voice might have been similar to Lauren Bacall’s, low and caressing.
Many would suggest (and did) that Josephine was currying favour with Barras in exchange for money, homes and her children’s education. However, you make a point of describing the kind of work she did for Barras—and it was work. What job title, description and type of salary would Josephine have today for the work she did?
It has been assumed by male historians that the money Barras gave Josephine was payment for sexual favours. It never occurred to them that Josephine—or any woman, for that matter—might have other things to contribute. But Josephine did: as a Freemason, she was able to put Barras in touch with wealthy bankers. Socially, she was the consummate hostess. Today, I imagine that her title would be something like “Special Assistant to the President and Social Secretary,” commanding considerable power and a sizeable salary. In the ancien régime, Josephine’s title might have been “Superintendent of the King’s Household,” one of the most powerful positions at court.
Dr. Catinat, one of my historical consultants, believes that Josephine did far more for Barras than Barras did for her in return. Furthermore, he is of the opinion—an opinion I share—that it is highly doubtful that Josephine was intimately involved with Barras, who was likely homosexual. Theirs was a friendship, as well as a working relationship. Josephine was very much a working woman, a woman working in a man’s world. Historians have made the mistake of assuming—without evidence—that her relationships with men could only be sexual.
Josephine visits a farmer’s field that became a de facto graveyard for those executed during the Terror. Does it still exist as a cemetery? ▸
The cemetery, Cimetière de Picpus, which may be visited today, has an interesting history. Josephine’s friend Princess Amélie de Salm de Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen returned to Paris after the Terror in search of the burial place of her brother—the same mass grave in which Alexandre and other executed nobles were buried. The princess secretly arranged to purchase the site, and after 1802 it was managed by a society of concerned families, including Noailles, Montmorency and Beau-harnais.
In addition to Alexandre Beauharnais, Josephine’s husband, Aunt Fanny’s friend (and possible lover) the poet André Chénier is buried there, as is the Marquis de La Fayette and his wife. La Fayette was not executed, but after dying of natural causes, his wife wished him to be buried along with their friends and her own parents. La Fayette is familiar to Americans as a hero of the American Revolution, and since 1830 an American flag has been displayed over his grave. Every Fourth of July, a memorial ceremony is held there, and whenever an American citizen tours the cemetery, the guide removes his beret and lowers the flag for a moment of silence.
I was fascinated by the Princess de Salm’s return to Paris after the Terror and originally tried to work this into the narrative, but like many other interesting historical facts, it weighed down Josephine’s story and had to be cut.