The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (45 page)

Even so, the two women spent hours together. Pauline took Betsy for carriage rides to the ruins of the Forum and Colosseum, asked her to the opera, and extended a standing invitation to her salon, yet often Pauline’s manner turned cool. Betsy quickly realized that the princess had latched onto Bo because of long-festering grief at losing her own son years before. Yet no matter how hard Pauline tried to win Bo’s loyalty, granting him a clothing allowance of $400 a year and promising him a settlement of $8,000 on his marriage, the princess could not supplant Betsy’s place in his heart.

The vagaries of the princess notwithstanding, the visit to Rome proved fruitful.
Madame Mère
shared Napoleon’s mania for controlling the clan’s matrimonial alliances, and within a month of meeting Bo, she suggested marrying him to Joseph’s daughter Charlotte. As Joseph was the only one of Letizia’s children to have a fortune, such an alliance would ensure that Bo was provided for despite his father’s insolvency. Although Betsy feared Bo would balk at the suggestion, the fact that his cousin lived in the United States dovetailed with his preference for America, so he agreed to consider the match. Betsy herself was keen on the idea. Not only was Charlotte a Bonaparte and an heiress, through her mother she was niece to the Queen of Sweden.

Madame Mère
wrote to Joseph urging the marriage, and she persuaded her sons Lucien and Louis to add their support. Only Pauline seemed ambivalent. At length, the family decided to send the boy to the United States to meet his uncle. Betsy wrote her father explaining the proposed match and asking him to make inquiries as to what Joseph Bonaparte might settle on his daughter:

The principal and only thing is to see that Bo will not be left without any provision if she dies before him, or that he will not be entirely dependent on her as long as she lives. They tell me here, Joseph means to give a hundred thousand dollars on the marriage. If he does not secure the whole or any part to her, there is nothing to be said, as the money becomes her husband’s. But if he means to tie it up, I wish at least fifty thousand to be settled on my son.

Betsy also wrote that if Joseph should not agree to the match, Bo should attend Harvard as originally planned.

Since Betsy knew her father could handle the marriage negotiations, she decided to remain in Europe for a while. Louis Bonaparte arranged for Bo to sail from Leghorn in late February, and he hired a trusted associate to convey his nephew to the port. As Betsy watched her sixteen-year-old son and his dog climb aboard the coach, tears filled her eyes so that she could hardly make out Bo’s face as he called good-bye from the window. She told herself that she would enjoy a period of being free from the necessity of constant vigilance over the boy.

The next day, however, Betsy bitterly regretted her decision. She felt certain she should have gone with him, to watch over his conduct and see that everything was carried out according to her wishes. She began to vomit whenever she ate, and her illness kept her in Rome.

Two weeks after Bo left, Betsy received a bill in the mail that compounded her worries about him. She immediately sat down and wrote him an admonishing letter:

They have sent me a bill for six hundred cigars you took at Leghorn. For heaven’s sake spend as little money as possible, and recollect the smallness of my income and the many privations it subjects me to…. I shall go to America if you think there is the least necessity for it. Let me know everything about my finances. Do read as much as you can, and improve in every way. I ask you to reward my cares and anxieties about you, by advancing your own interests and happiness. I am very uneasy about you, and almost blame myself for not going with you to take care of you, and shall never forgive myself if you meet any accident by being alone.

Betsy’s agitation increased when she learned that her ex-husband and his wife had come to Rome. Jerome visited Pauline and harangued her about the impropriety of having invited Betsy and Bo to meet the family. Word reached Betsy of the quarrel—and of the duplicity of the princess, who claimed that Betsy had come uninvited and forced her company upon them.

The possibility of an encounter with Jerome made Betsy eager to leave the city. When she learned that the Packards planned to travel to Geneva by way of Florence, she decided to accompany them.

IN THE PALATINE Gallery of the Pitti Palace in Florence, Betsy stepped forward to examine
La Donna Velata
by Raphael. The young woman in the portrait had a round face with dark eyes and dark hair pulled back from a center part. She wore an elaborate dress with cascading folds of material, a choker of oval stones, and a headdress that fell past her shoulders. She was a lovely girl with evenly arched eyebrows, a straight nose, full lips, and a rounded chin.

“I think she looks like you,” whispered Mrs. Packard.

Betsy analyzed the comparison objectively. “No, my face is thinner, and we have different coloring. And of course, I am middle-aged, not blooming with youth as she is.”

“But you have not lost your beauty. Why else would Massot want to paint your portrait when you return to Geneva?”

Betsy patted the other woman’s arm. “You flatter me, trying to lift my spirits because you know I miss my son.”

Smiling wistfully at the memory of Bo, Betsy moved toward another painting, then paused as she saw a couple standing about ten feet away. Normally, she would have paid them no attention, but the man was staring at her. Glancing into his face, Betsy was reminded of her son. Then she felt her smile freeze and slide away.

The man was her former husband. She had not seen Jerome in seventeen years, but she could not mistake the dark eyes that used to caress her or the sensuous mouth that had loved to laugh. He was not laughing today. Instead, he looked mortified. His chin—a double chin, she noted spitefully—was sinking into his throat as though he were a turtle withdrawing into its shell. Betsy also noticed that his hairline had receded, so that the black curls she used to play with during lovemaking no longer tumbled riotously onto his forehead. He had brushed his hair forward and pomaded it in place in a vain effort to disguise his growing baldness.

Jerome’s companion, who was clinging to his arm, looked from him to Betsy and back again. She was a pasty dumpling of a woman, which meant that she must be his fat wife Catharine rather than one of his mistresses. Giving the pair a mocking smile, Betsy flung the edges of her cape back over her shoulders to show Jerome that she had retained her perfect figure even at the age of thirty-seven.

Unexpectedly, the noise in the gallery faded as Jerome’s eyes locked on hers. For a moment, the years of bitterness fell away, and Betsy was eighteen again, pronouncing her vows of fidelity to the man she had loved so passionately that she married him despite her father’s protests. Standing across from him in this palatial hall—with its marble floor, ornate gilt moldings, and brilliantly painted ceiling—reminded Betsy of the dream she and Jerome had once shared of being the most dashing couple at Napoleon’s court. How young and naïve they had been. Searching his face, she tried to transmit the message,
Have you ever stopped loving me?
An instant later, she could have sworn that, like the faintest vibration of a butterfly’s wings, came the return assurance,
Non, ma chère Elisa.

Then Jerome turned to leave. As he and Catharine walked away, Betsy heard him say in a cracked voice, “That was my American wife.”

Catharine grasped his arm more tightly and leaned close to whisper a reply as they exited the gallery. The familiar intimacy of the gesture stabbed at Betsy.

Shaken to the core, she turned to her companion. “I am feeling unwell. Do you mind if we take our leave?”

“Of course not. Are you faint?”

No,
Betsy thought,
but I cannot breathe the same air as Jerome Bonaparte.
Instead of admitting the truth, she answered, “I am having an attack of acute
ennui.
I think it is time for me to leave Florence.”

XXXIV

T
HE shock of encountering Jerome upset Betsy’s nerves so greatly that when she returned to Geneva, she suffered from periodic nausea for a month. Her distress grew so oppressive that she wrote to Lady Morgan to unburden herself:

My dear Lady Morgan,

It is with a heavy heart that I report myself to be tormented by great affliction of the nervous system. You will scarce believe what took place during my sojourn in Florence. While touring the gallery at the Pitti Palace, whom should I encounter but the ex K. of W! He is greatly changed since the days of our youth, and I do assure you, not for the better. His infamous manner of living has completely destroyed his figure and his looks. His character was already corrupted beyond redemption.

You possess such good sense that I feel certain you can comprehend better than anyone else of my acquaintance how little I wanted to see that man again. If ever anyone was misnamed, it is he; I always think of him as J. Malaparte now.

My spirits are sadly depressed when I contemplate how little he has suffered for his misdeeds. I have long known the justice of La Rochefoucauld’s maxim that “The world oftener rewards the appearance of merit than merit itself.” Seeing the K. of W. impressed upon me an even more dispiriting truth. Scoundrels may go about the world carelessly doing harm with little consequence to themselves, while those who try to live honorably must struggle merely to survive. Nothing ever turns out as we desire. But thus it has ever been, and I must adapt to my fate or be broken by it.

Remember me to Sir Charles and pray give him my love. Adieu, dear Lady Morgan. Do not forget me. Write me sometimes and send such
petits mots de sagesse
as may comfort me and dispel this bitter ennui.

Betsy sighed as she signed the letter with a flourish and then sealed it. Even more galling to her than encountering Jerome had been seeing Catharine. If that brief glimpse had been any indication, the princess still viewed her husband of fifteen years with tender regard, and Betsy had been offended that such a vapid, unaccomplished woman had taken her place as the wife who could cling to his arm and solicitously inquire about his mood. It made little difference that Jerome was an unfaithful lout who almost certainly would have made Betsy miserable. When Catharine looked at him, her eyes glowed, and Betsy felt the princess had no right to be so happy.

After brooding for days, Betsy resolved to put the past behind her. Once she felt well enough, she traveled to Paris to enliven her spirits. The Gallatins gave her a standing invitation to dine with them every day, and Betsy also frequently visited the Marquise de Villette, whose reminiscences of Voltaire made her glad to be back in literary society.

That spring, Jerome astonished Betsy by sending her $1,200 for Bo’s expenses and promising to make the sum an annual allowance. Cynically, she inferred that either the Prince of Württemberg or Cardinal Fesch had shamed him into taking responsibility. Knowing Jerome as she did, Betsy did not suppose that his resolve would hold for very long, so she decided to keep her expenditures exactly the same as if he had sent nothing.

Early in the summer, Betsy received letters from both her father and Bo. The visit to New Jersey had taken place, and Bo got along well with Joseph and his daughter Charlotte, but nothing had been said about a match between the cousins. Later, when Bo wrote to propose a second visit, he was told that his uncle was traveling. Both Patterson and Bo concluded that Joseph Bonaparte had decided to marry his daughter to someone else.

In response, Betsy wrote to her father: “There is nothing that can, or ever will, surprise me in that family. The only way is to act and feel exactly as if they said and promised nothing.”

Even so, she was not sorry she had taken the trouble to make Bo acquainted with the Bonapartes. To be acknowledged by them could only help his standing in society and further his chances to make an alliance with some noble house.

Paris was still too expensive a city for her, so Betsy returned to Geneva for the winter and resumed her place in its society. Patterson wrote her there that since the proposed marriage had fallen through, he had complied with Betsy’s wishes of continuing her son’s education. Bo lacked enough Greek to meet Harvard’s enrollment requirements, so he was living in Lancaster, Massachusetts, with a clergyman tutor. Betsy learned with regret that
Le Loup
had not been allowed to accompany Bo and wrote her father asking him to take special care of the dog. If she had known that the animal would be left in Baltimore, she would have kept it as her companion.

That winter, her father sent heartbreaking news. In October, Robert had caught cholera and died within a few days. Remembering their childhood when they had called each other Bobby and Goose, Betsy felt bereft in spite of their estrangement over the Wellington affair. Even learning that Marianne had risked her own life to nurse Robert during his illness did not lessen Betsy’s animosity toward her sister-in-law.

She also received word that her friend, the Marquise de Villette, had died. Those two deaths, together with her own recent ailments, convinced Betsy to make a will. She believed firmly that parents should never leave property away from their children, so she made Bo her sole heir.

Betsy missed her son terribly and frequently regretted that she had not gone home with him. In the evenings, she had little opportunity to be lonely—she went to a ball or party every night—but during the day, she thought of Bo often and worried that he would lose his industrious habits without her supervision.

Despite her fears, Bo applied himself to his studies, passed the examination, and was admitted to Harvard in February 1823. Yet, even though Betsy knew he was doing well, she felt increasingly sad about their separation. She began to think of sailing for home to be near him and wrote to Lady Morgan:

I love him so entirely that perhaps seeing him may render my feeling less disagreeable. I hate the
séjour
of America, and the climate destroys the little health which has been left me; but any inconveniences are more supportable than being separated from one’s children.

Before she could make up her mind, she received a report from Aunt Nancy that Bo had spent $2,150 in his first fifteen months after returning to the United States. Shocked, Betsy wrote him three letters in a week and another to her father declaring that her income was not sufficient to cover extravagance and Bo must live on $1,100 a year. She had received a second payment of $1,200 from Jerome, but his finances were still too precarious for her to count on his annual support—especially since he now had three children with Catharine as well as the guardianship of his late sister Elisa’s daughters.

In 1824, financial concerns made it imperative for Betsy to return to the United States. In July she sailed to New York, arriving there in late August. Bo, whom she had written about her plans, met her at her hotel the following day.

After hugging her son and laughing over how much he had grown—he was now nearly a foot taller than she was—Betsy sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Did you have any difficulty obtaining leave from your classes to come meet me?”

“No.” He sat down after sweeping back the tails of his coat. “The fact is, Mama, that I have been suspended for three months.”

“How many times have I told you that you must be far more circumspect in your behavior than other young men?”

Bo thrust out his Bonaparte chin. “Mama, have the goodness not to reproach me until you hear all the facts.”

Betsy raised her eyebrows skeptically but folded her hands in her lap and listened.

He rose and paced as though pleading a case before a jury. “There are several clubs authorized by the college that have libraries annexed to them. One of the ones I belong to had a meeting on July 29th to choose a librarian, and after that business, the members stayed to drink punch. This club has assembled regularly two or three times a term for the space of fifty years and has always had something to eat or drink afterward. No one has ever before been punished for the practice, and I can assure you I was astonished when the president said I was suspended.”

“You might have known they would disapprove of young men drinking. You are meant to be studying, not consuming punch.”

Bo stopped before her and held out his hands, palm upward. “I ask you, Mama, how can prudence teach a man how to avoid that which has never happened before?”

Of all that Bo said in his own defense, the phrase that smote Betsy’s heart was hearing him refer to himself as a man. Her hand flew up to her mouth as she realized that her nineteen-year-old boy was now the exact age Jerome had been when they married. How strange it was to think that she and her husband had viewed themselves as adults when they were so young.

Pulling herself back to the present, she said, “Do you really mean to say that what you did was customary and the college’s decision completely arbitrary?”

“Yes, I swear it. Surely you are not so severe as to blame me for receiving an unjust punishment.”

“No, I am not so unreasonable as that.” She patted the cushion again, and as he sat beside her, Betsy felt her anger shift to the college president. “I will go to Cambridge and lodge a protest. Perhaps the president will overturn the suspension.”

Bo blanched and shook his head. “Mama, please, do not entertain thoughts of doing so. I am not a child and do not need my mother to fight my battles.”

Smiling, Betsy patted his cheek. “You will always be my child, but I will not go to the college if doing so would embarrass you. Will you spend the three months in Baltimore?”

“No, I am not allowed to go home. I am living quietly in Lancaster and improving myself by doing general reading.”

“Oh.” Betsy looked down at her lap. “I suppose that means that I will not be allowed to stay near you.”

Bo hesitated. “They did not say anything to forbid visits.” Then he impulsively pulled her into a hug. “Oh, Mama, I have missed you. I do wish you would stay.”

They had an enjoyable three months together discussing what Bo was reading and taking a few short trips. In late November, when Bo returned to Harvard, Betsy looked for rooms to rent near the college in Cambridge. After her second day of searching, she returned to the hotel to find a note asking her to meet with the college president, Dr. Kirkland.

Fearing that Bo was in trouble again, she went to the administration building right away. She was shown in to see the president, a ruddy-faced bald man with a bulbous nose. After greeting her, Dr. Kirkland said, “It has come to my attention that you are looking for rooms to let in Cambridge.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, wondering if he had something to recommend.

“I am sorry to say this so bluntly, but we do not approve of the boys’ mothers living in town. One of our goals is to assist our young men in reaching full maturity, so—”

“You need to separate them from their mothers.” Rising and adjusting her skirt, she said, “Very well, Dr. Kirkland. I will abide by your rules.”

He walked her to his office door. “Madame Bonaparte, I hope I have not offended you.”

“No. While I might claim extenuating circumstances, as my son and I have had more separations than is normal for a boy his age, I fully comprehend that you cannot make an exception for us or all the mothers would be asking you to bend the rule.”

“Thank you for understanding.” He opened the door. “Please accept my assurance that, despite the recent need for discipline, Jerome is doing well. We are pleased with his attention to his studies, and he shows a remarkable head for metaphysics, perhaps our most difficult subject.”

“Thank you,” Betsy said and left him.

WILLIAM PATTERSON TOLD his daughter that he did not want her to live at the South Street, and hurt, Betsy retorted that she had no intention of settling in Baltimore at all. Over the next few months, she did what was necessary to secure her financial stability and shore up her income, which was now about $5,000 annually. Then she returned to Europe in 1825.

Although she expected to stay there only a year, Betsy found once again that she enjoyed Europe too much to leave. She spent an extended period in Florence, which became her favorite city. Ferdinand III, the grand duke of Tuscany, showed Betsy marked attention whenever she attended his balls. He had the long face typical of the Hapsburgs, a high forehead, and light-blue eyes. Ferdinand was sixteen years her senior and had recently married a very young and pretty second wife, but that did not prevent him from whispering blandishments in Betsy’s ear whenever they danced together. It became a kind of game between them, a mockery of seduction that neither one took seriously.

Betsy also dined at least three times a week with her close friend Count Nikolai Nikitich Demidov, the Russian ambassador to the duke’s court. Demidov, who had a stout figure, a round fleshy face, and hooded eyes, had inherited one of the largest fortunes in Russia from his industrialist father. Unlike William Patterson, he did not care about wealth for its own sake but rather used his money to amass an extensive art collection and to finance the establishment of hospitals and schools in Tuscany. Betsy considered him a man of great natural sense and one of the most good-natured people she had ever known.

She was at her happiest whenever she lived in Florence. Unfortunately, the cool rainy winters in the city did not agree with her, so she often traveled to Geneva or the spa at Aix le Bains in France to recover her health.

In 1826, Bo graduated from Harvard, with the plan of studying law. Before settling to that task, he sailed to Europe so he could finally meet Jerome. Although Betsy had been proved right, and her ex-husband had ceased his support payments after two years, he had expressed a wish to know his son. Betsy wrote her father on the subject:

I think that it is perhaps a duty to let Jerome know his father, that he may never reproach himself at any future period, at all events. I should not like to take upon myself the responsibility of refusing my consent to such a proceeding, being desirous to fulfill to the extent of my power my duties as a parent.