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The divorce of Napoléon and Joséphine, 10th January 1810

10 Jan

On this day in 1810, Napoléon and Joséphine formally ended their marriage, which had lasted for over thirteen years and weathered all manner of storms such as the infidelity of both parties, war and extensive separation. In the end it was none of these things that contributed to the divorce, but instead the overwhelming desire of Napoléon to beget an heir for his empire.

Joséphine was forty six years old, some years her husband’s senior and unable to provide him with the child that he had decided he required. Napoléon gave every appearance of being reluctant to end his marriage with the woman that he still regarded as his lucky charm, his Notre Dame des Victoires, but in reality he was already looking around for a new, royal and hopefully fecund young bride.

The official papers were signed in front of the court after dinner on the 10th January, with both parties looking visibly distressed and shaken. Napoléon gave a speech in which he said that: ‘I can…only  rejoice over the affection and tenderness of  my well-loved spouse. She has graced fifteen  years of my life, and the memory of this will  remain for ever stamped on my heart. She  was crowned by my hand. I desire that she  shall keep the rank and title of crowned Empress,  but above all that she shall never doubt my  feelings and that she shall have me always as  her best and dearest friend.’

Joséphine’s speech was no less affecting and indeed she was unable to complete it so overcome was she by tears. ‘With the permission of our august and dear spouse, I declare that, since I have no hope of bearing children who can satisfy the requirements of his policy and the interests of France, it is  my pleasure to give him the greatest proof of attachment and devotion which was ever given  on earth. I owe all to his bounty, it was his hand which crowned me, and, seated on this throne, I have received nothing  but proofs of affection and love from the French  people. I am recognising all this, I believe, in  consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which is now an obstacle to the welfare of  France and deprives her of the good fortune  of being ruled one day by the descendants of a great man plainly raised up by Providence to remove the ill-effects of a terrible Revolution and to set up again the altar, the throne, and the social order. But the dissolution of my marriage will make no change in the sentiments of my heart. The Emperor will always have in me his best friend. I know how much this act, which is made necessary by his policy and by such great interests, has wounded his heart;  but we shall win glory, the two of us, for the  sacrifice which we have made on behalf of our country.’


Shaking and distraught, the Empress’ children, Eugène and Hortense escorted her gently from from the room, away from the scornful, triumphant and delighted gazes of her loathsome Bonaparte in-laws. It must have been some small consolation to the unhappy Joséphine that at least she would never have to set eyes on any of them ever again.

Later that night, long after darkness had fallen on the Tuileries, Joséphine found herself quite unable to bear her misery alone, got out of bed and ran to the rooms of her now ex-husband. There, she found him in bed and fell upon him sobbing, while he, also in tears, held her and stroked her hair.

It was to be their last night under the same roof. The next day at two in the afternoon, Joséphine’s belongings were loaded into carriages and taken to her beautiful château of Malmaison. She sat alone in her former rooms, now empty of her belongings and waited for her husband to come to her to say a final farewell. It must have been a disappointment when he arrived not alone but with his secretary Meneval in tow, but despite this, Joséphine threw herself at him in tears once again and eventually became so overcome with woe that she fainted in his arms as he kissed her goodbye.

Napoléon, also in tears, put her into the arms of his secretary and hastened from the room while the no doubt embarrassed Meneval carried the former Empress from her rooms and put her, by now revived and sobbing wildly into her carriage.

I can imagine Napoléon watching from a window, tears running down his cheeks and one hand tucked into his coat as her carriage pulled away, taking her from the Tuileries for the very last time.

The couple continued to correspond after their divorce and Napoléon even visited her at Malmaison from time to time, unable to separate himself completely from the woman that he had loved so ardently for so long.

My Dear Joséphine,

I found you to-day weaker than you ought to be. You have shown courage ; it is necessary that you should maintain it and not give way to a doleful melancholy. You must be contented and take special care of your health, which is so precious to me.

If you are attached to me and if you love me, you should show strength of mind and force yourself to be happy. You cannot question my constant and tender friendship, and you would know very imperfectly all the affection I have for you if you imagined that I can be happy if you are unhappy, and contented if you are ill at ease.

Adieu, dear. Sleep well ; dream that I wish it.

NAPOLEON.

 

The wedding of George V and Mary of Teck (guest post)

10 Jan

I’m thrilled to present another fabulous Royal Wedding guest post, this time by Emma Jolly of Genealogic.

“Never has the English sun . . . poured its rays upon a more imposing spectacle” (The Times, 7 July 1893): The Royal Wedding of Princess Victoria Mary of Teck to the Duke of York (later George V)

As we look ahead to the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, it seems a good time to remember the only other wedding in British history of the eldest grandson of a reigning queen. If William and Kate’s day goes to plan, it will be celebrated with great pomp, huge crowds and a long procession – just as George and May’s wedding was in July 1893. The beginnings of that wedding, however, were born of tragedy.

Princess Victoria Mary of Teck (1867-1953) was the daughter of the Duke of Teck and Princess Mary of Cambridge. Although formally known as ‘Princess Victoria Mary’, to her family, and even the press, she was affectionately known to all by the month of her birth – May. Her mother, Mary, was a first cousin of Queen Victoria – the grandmother of the future King George V. Although her father, Francis, was the first Duke of Teck, his parents’ morganatic marriage meant that he was not entitled to his father’s privileges or title. May’s parents had so little money that they were heavily reliant on the generosity of their prominent cousin. Despite being the daughter of a German duke, May was raised in England, and after spending eighteen months studying in Florence, the bookish princess returned to London for her social debut.

Like the earlier royal bride, Catherine of Aragon, May was first engaged to the older brother of her eventual husband. And like Diana Spencer nearly a century later, May was recommended for the role of royal bride by a member of the royal family. In this case, it was her mother’s cousin, the Queen. Victoria believed May would make a suitable wife for her grandson and eventual heir to the throne, Albert Victor (Eddy), the Duke of Clarence and Avondale. Although she barely knew him and he was not very attractive, the impecunious May could not refuse when Eddy proposed in 1891. Tragically, he succumbed to a flu epidemic a few weeks later, and, within days, died of pneumonia. Instead of carrying it down the aisle, May laid her “redundant bridal bouquet of orange blossom on Eddy’s coffin.” (Nicholson, p. 28)

Victoria, who was devastated by the loss of Eddy and by the tragic end to her wedding plans, encouraged Eddy’s younger brother, George, then Duke of York, to comfort the bereaved May. Just five months after his brother’s death, George proposed. Again, May agreed – despite not knowing George very well at all.

On the 6th July 1893 the 28 year old George and his 26 year old bride married in the small Chapel Royal in St James’s Palace, where the Queen herself had married Albert in 1840. The following day, The Times described May’s dress effusively:

Of silver and white brocade with its ingeniously clustered shamrocks, roses and thistles [the national flowers of Britain] is at once simple and elegant. There is no train or, at all events, none that hampers the bride’s graceful movements . . . The bridal veil of fine old Honiton point is caught back of the face, and trails and clusters of orange-blossoms, together with the inevitable bouquet of white flowers carried in her hand . . .

Amongst the one hundred and fifty guests who could fit into the chapel were Royalty from across Europe, including the George’s maternal grandparents, The King and Queen of Denmark. Outside, however, the streets were full of “seething and well-ordered crowds which were gathered together not only from all parts of London and from many parts of the country, but from the far parts of the earth” (The Times).

The Queen wrote a letter to her public and, according to The Times, “had done all that it was possible to insure that the people should participate in the pageant”. Four thousand policemen lined the streets as crowds assembled outside Buckingham Palace in the early hours of the 6th. “The route of the various processions must have extended over some six or seven miles . . . Doubtless the young bride and bridegroom will never forget the roaring and cheering crowds that greeted them.”

The streets near St James’ Park were decorated extravagantly:

Everywhere there was a gorgeous glow of crimson and purple and gold. Flags and banners floated over the roofs of the houses and hung from the upper windows of the lofty buildings overlooking the park; pennons and streamers attached to tall Venetian masts made the roadsides gay with unwonted colour; tapestry and bunting lined the balconies and strove to hide the dingy fronts of smoke-stained London houses. (The Times)


Despite the ostentatious start to the marriage, the honeymoon was understated, being held merely at the couple’s new country retreat on the Sandringham Estate. George was rather understated always, preferring stamp-collecting to parties, and insisting on having the wine labels steamed off the bottles of Buckingham Palace’s finest to avoid showing off to his guests. If mutterings about the expense of William’s wedding become too trying, the Queen may like to try this at the post-wedding reception she is hosting.

Despite an unromantic beginning, George and May’s marriage proved strong and happy. In 1910, on their seventeenth wedding anniversary. George wrote to his wife: “My love grows stronger for you every day mixed with admiration and I thank God every day that he has given me such a darling devoted wife as you are.” (Nicholson, p. 31)

Let’s hope that William will follow in the tradition of his great great grandfather, and will be writing /emailing/texting as lovingly to Kate in seventeen years time.

Sources: Juliet Nicholson’s The Perfect Summer: Dancing into Shadow in 1911; Dictionary of National Biography; The Times (London) 7 July 1893

You can visit Emma’s blog, Diary of an Urban Genealogist here. She is also on Twitter and has published a book: Family History for Kids.

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