Wondrous Beauty: The Life and Adventures of Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte (22 page)

Charles retired from national public office when Roosevelt’s second term ended. He returned to Baltimore and to his law practice, but he remained an active supporter of the reform of government. He founded the National Municipal League and served as its president. His reputation continued to grow, as a judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals later put it, because he was
“an honest-to-goodness, dyed-in-the-wool, brash reformer.” An outpouring of books, essays, and articles on reform by Charles seemed to confirm this view. Yet Charles’s devotion to clean government did not arise from a humanitarian or philanthropic philosophy. He was, in the spirit of William Patterson, an advocate of individual responsibility and a strong opponent of public assistance to the poor. He earned the nickname “Soup House Charlie” in the 1880s when he declared that a public school system was undesirable and “as ridiculous … as … free soup kitchens.” As one reporter astutely observed, Charles Bonaparte was a walking contradiction: “by instinct a royalist, by profession a democrat and a reformer.”

Physically, Charley did not resemble either the Bonaparte or the Patterson line. True, he was said to have a “Bonaparte smile”
and the small hands and feet of his grandmother, but he was a large and sturdy man, with a bull neck and a massive head. His combination of physical and intellectual superiority was captured in the description of that “vast round, rugged head, a double-decker head; a cannon ball head, like a warrior’s, with room for two sets of brains.” His personality, however, reflected a remarkable blending of William Patterson’s moral certitude and judgmental impulses and his grandmother’s charm and sarcasm. He was comfortable sitting in judgment of others, and many of his books and essays focused on the need to rid the nation of men he labeled public or private sinners. He was admired for his witty repartee, heavily laced as it was with sarcasm, and as one observer noted, he was a man of great wit but no sense of humor. He was a favorite of newspaper reporters, who liked to interview him, not simply because of his high profile in Teddy Roosevelt’s government or his prominence in reform organizations, but because he was “good copy.” He spoke his mind; he did not mince words; and he did not care if his opinions brought criticism down upon him.

With Charles, any lingering connection to the European Bonapartes was finally severed. He responded coolly when told he resembled the famous Napoleon, and he distanced himself from the history of the family in France by declaring he came from Italian and Scottish stock and did not have a drop of French blood in his veins. He never visited France or made any effort to contact European relatives. His concerns, while he served in the national government and after his retirement from office, were entirely American: conservation, Indian affairs,
regulation of trusts, efficient criminal investigation, and civil service reform. The rise and fall of kings and European governments were matters of only mild and passing interest.

Charles Bonaparte died in 1921. He had no children, and thus his line in the family genealogy ended with his death. In his spirited devotion to a single cause, Charles most closely resembled his grandmother, and like her, he achieved national prominence for this American branch of the Bonaparte family.

Most writers like to think of their work as a solitary endeavor, but this is an illusion. When we sit down to write that section of a book called “Acknowledgments,” we realize that every book is a collaborative effort. And for me, this has never been more true than in the writing of Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte’s biography.

The idea of telling Betsy’s story came from my good friend, the talented scriptwriter of many PBS documentaries, Ronald Blumer. Ron encountered Betsy while working on a show about her good friend Dolley Madison. He e-mailed me and suggested—no, ordered—that I tell Betsy’s story. I heard, and I obeyed.

Betsy’s papers, as well as many of the Patterson family papers, are in the Maryland Historical Society archives. The society’s Lord Baltimore Fellowship allowed me the time and resources to plumb their rich collections. The Johns Hopkins University’s History Department’s grant of a visiting professorship opened the university’s libraries to me as well. My work there was made easier by the willingness of my niece, Laurie Berkin, to sign on as my unpaid research assistant. In addition to helping me go through the many boxes of Betsy’s letters, Laurie proved expert at locating the best crabcakes in Baltimore. Soon after I returned
from Maryland, Eric Herschthal, now a graduate student at Columbia University, volunteered to do research for me. He scoured secondary sources on everything from Haitian refugees in Baltimore, to the architecture of the city in the eighteenth century, to minor Jeffersonian-era political figures. When I was stymied over how to locate an obscure journal article, I could always turn to Michael Hattem, a brilliant former Baruch student, now getting his Ph.D. in history at Yale. Michael’s investigative skills are remarkable, as are his computer skills. I have him on speed dial for all the technological problems that terrify members of my generation. Raoul Boisset, a Baruch College senior with a French background, translated some of the trickier paragraphs in letters to Betsy, as did Kimberly Adams, my friend in Guilford, Connecticut, whose knowledge of nineteenth-century French slang is most impressive. When it was all done, another excellent graduate student, Laura Ping, helped me get my endnotes in their proper form.

Friends and colleagues played a major role in seeing this book to completion. From the first outline to the last written page, Professors Cindy Lobel, Angelo Angelis, and Philip Papas read the manuscript and offered their usual tough criticism, scribbled on the draft pages I sent them and shared over cake and coffee or a glass of wine. They have been the guiding spirits of my last three books—and I have given them tenure in that role. Margaret Berlin, Landa Freeman, and Julie Des Jardins read chapters as they came off the computer—and read them again, sometimes in their third and even fourth iterations. They took their duties seriously, correcting grammar and punctuation
and writing “unclear” or “why?” in the margins on many a page. Margaret was gloriously relentless, and even on our daily summer walks in Connecticut, she pursued her points without breaking stride. Much that is good in this book—and none of what the reader might find wanting—can be attributed to the assistance of these friends, students, and colleagues.

Dozens of teachers—from Colorado to Washington, D.C., to Fort Lauderdale, Bridgeport, and Huntsville—listened to me talk about Betsy at the faculty development programs made possible by Teaching American History grants. Their questions and comments were invaluable, for my goal in recent years has been to reach a broader audience than my colleagues in academe. It is a shame that this grants program has vanished, for it provided a rare opportunity for scholars and teachers to share their love of history.

Ana Calero, who keeps the history department running smoothly at Baruch, and who has endured my shrieks of “I can’t make the printer work” for many years, patiently assisted me once again in printing out copies of the manuscript.

Dan Green, my agent and friend, read every word, as he always does, and made astute comments—as he always does. His gentle nudges—“How’s the book coming?”—were invaluable in stirring the guilt that helps authors finish a project. My thanks too to my editor at Knopf, Victoria Wilson, and to her assistant Daniel Schwartz, as well as to the copy editor, Janet Biehl, who refined my wilder sentence constructions and judiciously added or eliminated commas and colons.

Finally, my thanks to my family, which has expanded to
include not only my daughter, Hannah, and son, Matthew, but their spouses, Eamon and Jessica, to whom this book is dedicated. These four remarkable young adults have brought me great joy, a reasonable amount of gray hair, and a new knowledge of the subway routes to their neighborhoods in Brooklyn. It saddens me to think that Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte never experienced the delight that only a loving family can provide.

—
Carol Berkin