Tout comme John Tyrrell dans son excellent blog, nous sommes surpris par un fait assez singulier, et pourtant largement ignoré des historiens : Napoléon est probablement la figure historique la plus présente dans le répertoire traditionnel des chants populaires britanniques. Wellington et Waterloo ne semblent pas avoir inspiré de ballades comparables ayant traversé le temps, même si Nelson et Trafalgar occupèrent incontestablement une place durable dans la mémoire populaire.
Durant les guerres de la Révolution et de l'Empire, les propagandistes du gouvernement britannique firent composer de nombreuses chansons patriotiques destinées à présenter Napoléon sous les traits de « l'ogre corse ». Curieusement, ces œuvres tombèrent rapidement dans l'oubli. Celles qui leur survécurent offrirent, au contraire, une image bien différente de l'Empereur, le présentant volontiers comme un libérateur, une victime du destin, voire un héros.
L'une d'elles, Saint Helena, exprime une profonde compassion pour le sort de Napoléon et de Marie-Louise, tout en dénonçant les « basses intrigues » et les « basses manœuvres » de ses puissants ennemis. Elle laisse également entendre que la douleur de Marie-Louise était largement partagée par l'opinion.
Une dernière strophe, d’une tonalité plus volontiers moralisatrice, semble rompre avec l’accusation véhémente de la précédente. On peut toutefois y voir un avertissement adressé aux ennemis de Napoléon : leur tour pourrait bien venir un jour. Ce couplet ne fut pas toujours chanté et, comme il en va souvent des chants populaires, il n’existe pas de version définitivement fixée. Rien ne permet donc d’affirmer avec certitude qu’il appartenait au texte d’origine ou qu’il ne fut pas ajouté ultérieurement.
La
sympathie populaire dont Napoléon bénéficia en Grande-Bretagne s'accorde mal
avec les grands récits historiographiques qui dominent encore aujourd'hui. Elle
embarrasse aussi bien les historiens conservateurs, pour lesquels Wellington
demeure le héros national et Waterloo le mythe fondateur d'un siècle de
suprématie britannique, que nombre d'historiens issus de la tradition de
gauche, qui ne voient en Napoléon qu'un contre-révolutionnaire, un dictateur et
un conquérant militaire.
Parmi les chants qui traduisent le mieux cette sensibilité radicale figure A Dream of Napoleon. Cette ballade fut recueillie au tournant du XXᵉ siècle par Ralph Vaughan Williams auprès de Charles Crist, ancien marin marchand devenu pensionnaire d'un hospice du Norfolk. Certains lui attribuent une origine américaine, en raison de l'identification des États-Unis comme la terre de la liberté. Rien n'interdit pourtant d'y voir également l'expression d'une tradition britannique, car l'Angleterre elle-même se plaisait alors à se reconnaître comme l'un des foyers historiques de cette même liberté.
[iii]Le Songe
de Napoléon
_______________________________
Une autre ballade, Napoleon's Death, rendait un hommage singulier à deux figures que tout semblait opposer : Nelson, gloire du Norfolk, et Napoléon lui-même. Fait révélateur, Waterloo n'y faisait l'objet d'aucune célébration. Là où Trafalgar et Quatre-Bras étaient exaltées, la victoire de Waterloo n'était évoquée que comme un succès « acheté », plus acquis par l'or que remporté par les armes.
[vi]La
Grande Conversation sur Napoléon
Ainsi naquit cette grande conversation
sur Napoléon.
Enfin,
une chanson, The Bonny Bunch of Roses, laisse percer une
véritable compassion pour le destin de Napoléon II, privé de l'héritage de son
père et incapable de reconquérir son trône. Elle qualifie également Napoléon de
« brave », épithète que les adversaires du gouvernement britannique employaient
volontiers durant les années de la captivité à Sainte-Hélène. Si cette ballade
recourt aux symboles patriotiques de la rose et du Heart of Oak, emblème
traditionnel de la Royal Navy, elle s'achève pourtant sur une image ambiguë :
les exploits de Napoléon continueront, malgré tout, à laisser leur aiguillon
dans « le beau bouquet de roses ».
[vii]Le beau
bouquet de roses
[1] J'ai conservé «
Bonaparte » dans le premier vers, car Boney est le diminutif
populaire britannique de Bonaparte. Le traduire par « Napoléon » ferait
perdre cette coloration populaire.
[2] J'ai traduit grieves
par « son cœur se serre », plus poétique que « il s'afflige ».
[3] Le vers « the young king of Rome
and the prince of Gehenna » est volontairement obscur. Le «
prince of Gehenna » est une image biblique désignant le prince de l'Enfer
(Satan). Beaucoup pensent qu'il s'agit ici d'une corruption du texte transmise
oralement, car cette juxtaposition avec le Roi de Rome est difficile à
interpréter. Je conserverais donc cette étrangeté, qui fait partie de l'intérêt
de la ballade, en l'accompagnant d'une note explicative plutôt que d'une
tentative de rationalisation.
[4] Pour base
misdemeanours, « indignes manœuvres » me paraît préférable à «
méfaits », car le texte dénonce davantage des agissements politiques que des
crimes au sens juridique.
[5] « On the plains of
Marengo I tyranny hurled » est volontairement propagandiste. L'auteur
radical anglais reprend ici le discours napoléonien lui-même : Marengo n'est
plus seulement une victoire militaire, mais la défaite symbolique de la
tyrannie et le triomphe de la liberté. C'est précisément cette interprétation
politique qui rend cette chanson si précieuse pour démontrer combien une partie
des milieux populaires et radicaux britanniques associait encore Napoléon à la
cause de la liberté, malgré Waterloo et Sainte-Hélène.
[6] Je trouve
particulièrement remarquable la dernière strophe. Malgré son apparence
patriotique, elle s'achève sur une forme de victoire posthume de Napoléon :
mort, il ne reconquerra plus aucun royaume, mais sa mémoire demeurera une
épine dans la conscience britannique. Cette conclusion est beaucoup plus
subtile qu'elle n'en a l'air et explique pourquoi cette chanson a pu être
reprise aussi bien par des chanteurs patriotes que par des sympathisants de la
cause napoléonienne.
[i] Oh, Boney's away from his wars and
his fightings,
He is gone to a land where naught can delight him.
And there he may sit down and tell
the scenes he's seen, oh,
While alone he does mourn on the Isle of
Saint Helena.
Oh, Louisa she weeps for her husband's departing.
She dreams when she sleeps
and she wakes broken-hearted.
Not a friend to console her,
though there's many would be with her,
And she mourns when she thinks on the Isle of
Saint Helena.
Oh the rude rushing waves o'er the ocean
are beating,
And the loud billows' roar on the shore's rocks are
beating.
He may look to the moon o'er the great Mount Diana
And he grieves as he thinks on the Isle of
Saint Helena.
No more in Saint Cloud he'll be seen in such splendour
Or go on with his wars like the great Alexander,
For the young king of Rome and the prince of Gehenna
Have caused him to die on the isle of
Saint Helena.*
Oh you parliaments of war and your Holy Alliance,
To a prisoner of war you may now bid defiance,
For your base intrigues and your base misdemeanors
Have caused him to die on the Isle of Saint Helena.
[ii] All you who have wealth, beware of
ambition,
For a small cast of fate could soon change your
condition.
Be steadfast in time,for what's to come you know not,
Or your days they may end, like his, on Saint Helena.
[ii] A Dream of Napoleon
One
night sad and languid I went to my bed
But
I scarce had reclined on my pillow
When
a vision surprising came into my head;
Methought
I was traversing the billow.
One
night as my vessel dashed over the deep
I
beheld a rude rock that was craggy and steep,
The
rock where the willow now seemèd to weep
O'er
the grave of the once famed Napoleon.
Methought
that my vessel drew near to the land;
I
beheld clad in green this bold figure.
With
the trumpet of fame claspèd firm in his hand,
On
his brow there was valour and rigour.
“O
stranger,” he cried, “hast thou ventured to me
From
that land of thy fathers
who
boast they are free?
If
so a tale I'll tell unto thee
Concerning
the once famed Napoleon.”
“Remember
that year so immortal,” he cried,
“When
I crossed the rude Alps famed in story
With
the legions of France,
for
her sons were my pride,
As
I led them to honour and glory.
On
the plains of Marengo I tyranny hurled
And
wherever my banners the eagle unfurled
'Twas
the standard of freedom all over the world
And
a signal of fame,” cried Napoleon.
“Like
a soldier I've been in the heat and the cold,
As
I marched to the trumpet and cymbal,
But
by dark deeds of treachery I have been sold,
While
monarchs before me have trembled.
Now
rulers and princes their station demean,
And
like scorpions spit forth their venom and spleen,
But
liberty soon o'er the world shall be seen,”
As
I woke from my dream, cried Napoleon.
[iv] So fare thee well my royal whore,
And
offspring great that I adore,
May
you reinstate that throne,
That's
torn away this very day,
Kings
with me have had their play,
And
caused this Lamentation.
[v] You heroes of the day
Who
are happy, blithe and gay,
Only
think of former champions
By
land and sea.
The
total pride of France
With
his eagles did advance,
This
hero come from Corsica
To
prove himself a don.
Many
kings he did dethrown
And
some thousands caused to mourn,
Yet
winced that long lost emperor,
Napoleon.
Now
this Norfolk hero bold
Who
was never bribed with gold,
All
glory to Lord Nelson,
Now
a long time dead.
To
Copenhagen, and the Nile,
He
advanced in rank and file,
He
fought at great Trafalgar
Where
he fell and where he bled.
But
bold Boney fought on land
Like
an emperor so grand,
And
his soldiers cried, “Long life
To
Great Napoleon.”
When
Moscow came in view
Then
their trumpets loudly blew,
But
soon it turned their joy to grief
And
turned their grief to pain.
For
Boney in a daze
Beheld
all Moscow in a blaze,
And
his gallant army melted
Just
like snow before the sun.
Back
to France he went amazed
And
another army raised,
And
it's “Oh, for death and glory,”
Cried
Napoleon.
Then
northward out of France
With
his army he advanced,
He
made the Dutch and German
Fast
before him fly.
And
when at Quatre Bras,
He
let loose the dogs of war,
Many
thousand Prussians there did fall
And
there did die.
But
though bravely there he fought
Waterloo
was bought,
And
he died on St Helena,
Great
Napoleon.
Long
time his body lay
Till
some Frenchmen came that way
To
beg the bones of Bonaparte,
The
Frenchmen's pride.
Oh,
bring him back again,
It
will ease the Frenchmen's pain,
And
in a tomb of marble
We
will lay his body low.
We
will decorate his tomb
With
the glory he has won,
And
in letters of bright gold
Inscribed
“Napoleon.”
[vi] It was over that wild beaten track
'twas
said a friend of Bonaparte's
Did
pace the sands and the lofty rocks
of St Helena's shore,
And
the wind it blew a hurricane,
the
lightning fierce around did dart,
The
seagulls were a-shrieking
and
the waves around did roar.
Ah
hush, rude winds, the stranger cried,
while I range the spot
Where
alas the gallant hero
did
his weary eyelids close.
And
though at peace his limbs do rest,
his
name will never be forgot.
This
grand conversation on Napoleon arose.
Oh
alas, he cried, why England
did
you persecute that hero bold?
Much
better had you slain him
on
the plains of Waterloo.
For
Napoleon he was a friend
to
heroes all, both young and old,
He
caused the money for to
fly
wherever he did go.
When
plans were forming night and day,
the
bold commander to betray,
He
said, I'll go to Moscow
and
there I'll ease my woes.
And
if fortune smiles on me that day,
then
all the world shall me obey,
This
grand conversation on Napoleon arose.
Oh
his men in thousands then did rise
to conquer Moscow by surprise,
He
led his troops across the Alps
oppressed by frost and snow,
And
being near the Russian land,
he
then began to open his eyes,
For
Moscow was a-blazing
and
the men drove to and fro.
Napoleon
dauntless viewed the plain
and
then in anguish at the same,
He
cried, Retreat me gallant men,
for time so swiftly goes.
Ah
what thousands died in that retreat,
some
forced their horses for to eat.
This
grand conversation on Napoleon arose.
At
Waterloo they bravely fought,
commanded by this Bonaparte,
Field
Marshall Ney did him betray,
but
he was bribed by gold.
And
when Blucher led the Prussians,
it
nearly broke Napoleon's heart.
He
cried, my thirty thousand men are lost,
and
I am sold.
He
viewed the plain and cried, all's lost,
and
then his favourite charger crossed,
The
plain was in confusion with blood and dying woes.
And
the bunch of roses did advance
and
boldly entered into France.
This
grand conversation on Napoleon arose.
Oh,
this Bonaparte was plann'd
to be a prisoner across the sea,
The
rocks of St Helena, oh,
it was his final spot.
And
as a prisoner there to be
till
death did end his misery.
His
son soon followed to the tomb:
it
was an awful plot.
And
long enough have they been dead,
the
blast of war around us spread,
And
may our shipping float again
to
face the daring foes.
And
now my boys when honour calls
we'll
boldly mount those wooden walls.
This
grand conversation on Napoleon arose.
[vii] By the margins of the Ocean, one
morning
in
the month of June,
Where
feathered, warbling, songsters,
their
charming notes did sweetly tune.
There
I beheld a female, she seemed to be
in
great grief and woe,
Conversing
with young Bonaparte,
Concerning
the bonny bunch of roses, O.
Then
up and spoke young Napoleon, as he was seated all by his mother's knee,
O
mother dear have patience, just wait and
you
will surely see.
I
will raise a mighty army, and
through
tremendous dangers I will go,
And
in spite of all the universe
I
will conquer the bonny bunch of roses, O.
O
son don't speak so venturesome, for England
she
is the heart of oak.
And
England, Ireland and Scotland, their unity
has
ne'er been broke.
O
son think on your father, in St Helena his body lies Low,
And
you might follow after,
So
beware the bonny bunch of roses, O.
For
he took three hundred thousand men and kings
and
princes to join his throng
He
was so well provided, he might have
carried
the world along.
But
when he came to Moscow, they were overpowered
by
driving snow,
And
Moscow was a-blazing
And
he lost the bonny bunch of roses, O.
Now
it's mother adieu for ever, for now
I'm
on my dying bed,
If
I'd lived sure I might have been clever, but
now
I hang my drooping head,
And
whilst my bones lie mouldering and weeping willows
all
over me do grow,
The
deeds of brave Napoleon
Will
sting the bonny bunch of roses, O.
