Napoleon: A Doctor's Biography

By Boris Sokoloff

Explore the life of one of history’s most enigmatic and influential figures through a unique medical lens with Boris Sokoloff's "Napoleon: A Doctor's Biography." This captivating biography offers a fresh perspective on Napoleon Bonaparte, blending historical analysis with medical insights to provide a comprehensive and nuanced portrait of the legendary leader.

Boris Sokoloff, a distinguished physician and historian, meticulously examines Napoleon’s life from a medical standpoint, shedding light on how health issues influenced his decisions, behavior, and ultimately, his destiny. Sokoloff’s dual expertise allows him to delve into the physical and psychological aspects of Napoleon's character, offering readers a deeper understanding of the man behind the myth.

"Napoleon: A Doctor's Biography" covers the entirety of Napoleon’s life, from his early years in Corsica and his rapid rise to power to his military campaigns and eventual exile. Sokoloff explores how Napoleon’s health—affected by conditions such as epilepsy, stomach ailments, and mental stress—shaped key moments in his career. He also discusses the medical treatments available during Napoleon's time and how they were applied to the Emperor’s ailments.

Through detailed analysis and compelling narrative, Sokoloff provides insights into Napoleon’s personal and professional life, including his relationships, leadership style, and the relentless drive that defined his legacy. The book also examines the historical context of Napoleon’s era, giving readers a well-rounded view of the political and social factors that intertwined with his medical history.

Rich with historical anecdotes, medical case studies, and vivid descriptions, "Napoleon: A Doctor's Biography" is an essential read for history enthusiasts, medical professionals, and anyone intrigued by the complex interplay between health and historical events. Sokoloff’s engaging writing style makes this scholarly work accessible and intriguing, bringing to life the multifaceted nature of one of history’s most compelling figures. Discover the hidden dimensions of Napoleon Bonaparte’s life and leadership through the eyes of a doctor, and gain a new appreciation for the intricate factors that influenced his remarkable journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Porirua Publishing
• Release date: Jun 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781991312853

Book preview

Chapter I — THE POST-MORTEM

A DARK, ALMOST black tropical night. A night that is still with the stillness of the tomb. In the distance, the muffled harsh roar of the ocean mingles with the sound of the wind in the trees.

Longwood is asleep. All lights are out. Every one slumbers heavily after a day of sorrow and exhaustion. With the stillness of the night, small creatures of prey take possession of this old, damp, mildewed house. Rats, insolent and ruthless, scamper from one dark room to another, crawl on tables, jump on beds, and roll noisily on the floors. Now they are omnipotent—they are the masters of this rambling house. Such numbers of these hideous creatures! But weary Longwood sleeps on, unmindful of their gambol.

Only in one room, a light is flickering—a man is keeping vigil. A small, thick-set, dark man, clad in the black garb of a monk. He is standing and reads to himself from his prayer book, in hurried low tones. He reads by the dim light of two candles, which stand in front of him at the head of a bed. All other furniture has been removed from the room, and, being empty, it seems even larger and darker. Only a wretched little chess table remains forgotten in a corner.

The monk prays. But his thoughts are far from the words that he utters. He thinks of the man whose body lies before him, laid out on the iron camp bed. Dead? It seems so utterly impossible! Somehow his mind refuses to accept the fact. A feeling of uneasiness, almost of fright, steals vaguely over him. He makes an effort to keep his thoughts on his prayers. But again and again, the dim notion returns to him that this man might be alive. He stealthily approaches the head of the bed, himself almost as deathly pale as the corpse. Mechanically he goes on reciting his prayers, his book open in his hands. Slowly and with great care, as if afraid to disturb the peace of the one lying there, he kneels before him. Motionlessly he gazes on the still features of the other man. The longer he stares at him, the more convinced he becomes that the other must still be alive. The face is so young and handsome! Are the faces of the dead ever like that? And his smile? For he is smiling—there is no doubt about it; his mouth is slightly open, as if he were about to say something in his sleep.{1} In his sleep? Isn’t he really breathing? Cautiously, the monk extends his hand toward the man’s forehead and touches it hesitantly. But at the same instant, horror stricken, he jerks his hand back with a shriek. The forehead is cold with the frigidity of marble.

What’s the matter? inquires a sleepy voice from the adjoining room.

It is nothing! hurriedly replies the monk, recovering his senses. Only rats!

But Father Vignali remembered this night of anxiety for many years afterward—this night that never seemed to end.

Early next morning (Sunday, May 6, 1821) about seven, a general, accompanied by a large retinue, arrives at Longwood. A tall man with a protruding jaw, thin lips stubbornly pressed together, and a long nose—such is the portrait of Sir Hudson Lowe, Governor of St. Helena, a personification of self-assurance and mediocrity.

He enters the house. In the reception room, he is greeted coldly, but punctiliously, by General Bertrand and Count Montholon. They conduct the Governor into the room where the deceased reposes on his bed. Sir Hudson Lowe draws near slowly. With him approaches the Commissary of the King of France—the Marquis of Montchenu—an old royalist, an enemy of Bonaparte.

Do you recognize him? the Governor asks Montchenu.

Montchenu, squinting slightly, draws a lorgnette to his eyes, nods affirmatively and mutters, Yes, I recognize him!

They stand silent for a long minute. Behind them, English officers and physicians, motionless, stare at the dead face. It is beautiful in its majestic serenity. Illness and suffering have left no trace upon it.{2}

Lowe and Montchenu silently salute the deceased and leave the room. In the doorway, they meet Dr. Antommarchi, the Emperor’s physician. Lowe orders that an immediate autopsy be performed.

But this is impossible, Your Excellency! exclaims the physician.

And why? the Governor asks impatiently. I want to know as soon as possible the exact cause of his death. One could almost hear him thinking, I want to assure myself that he is really dead.

Impossible, the physician replies.{3} It is not yet twenty-four hours from the moment of his death, which is the time required by law.

Very well! Lowe cuts him short. Turning to his assistant, Admiral Reade, he orders him to be present at the autopsy, which is to take place at two o’clock in the afternoon.

I can’t believe he is really dead! he remarks to Reade. But I have never been present at an autopsy. The sight of a corpse opened up may have an unpleasant effect on me. You shall be present in my stead. You will report later in writing to Lord Bathurst.

The strangest thing is, says Montchenu, leaving Longwood, that among five physicians, there is not one who knows what caused his death.{4}

That evening, walking in the garden of Plantation House with his aide-de-camp, Gorrequer and Dr. Henry, Lowe remarked to them, as they spoke of Napoleon, He was England’s greatest enemy—and mine too. He added, quite seriously, But I forgive him everything.{5}

Dr. Antommarchi, a young, easy-going and self-confident physician, attired in his white coat, scalpel in hand, begins the autopsy.{6} It is not quite two in the afternoon—scarcely twenty hours have passed from the moment of Napoleon’s death. Antommarchi, as always, is posing. He can almost see himself lecturing in an anatomical theatre, the cynosure of all eyes. Only here, instead of medical students, he is surrounded by English physicians. This circumstance stimulates his vanity. He exerts himself to exhibit his knowledge and discourses in a quasi-scientific language. It is as though he had waited for months for just this moment. One feels that this is a great day for him.

Even he, whose body is being dissected, is forgotten for the time being. It might be the body of an unknown corporal, dead of an unknown disease. No one mentions his name. Eight surgeons{7} are engaged in a lively medical discussion over a nameless corpse. Only the Emperor’s followers, who are also present, form a strange contrast to the eager doctors. Their faces are drawn with emotion, almost with horror, at the indignity of the proceedings.

The body is well covered with fat. There is scarcely any hair on the skin....Here is the scar of an old wound. Opening the chest, Antommarchi continues, Fat is everywhere.

A surcharge of fat, puts in Dr. Henry.{8}

Here the sternum is completely obscured by a layer of fat; and measuring the thickness Antommarchi announces, one inch and a half. Rather strange to find this general adiposity, despite the severe and prolonged illness of the deceased.

The ribs are quite difficult to cut through, continues Antommarchi. Obviously the cartilages have ossified for the major part.

Ordinarily this phenomenon appears much later, and for him, who was only about fifty, doesn’t it seem rather premature? remarks Dr. Rutledge.

Not necessarily..., replies the operating surgeon and, cutting through the cartilages of the ribs, he exposes the thoracic cavity. Here we observe a slight adhesion of the left pleura....

This may be an indication of an old pleurisy, suggests Dr. Arnott.

Most likely it is just as you say, Antommarchi agrees. But the lungs appear to be quite sound....

Well, I should say this is doubtful, Antommarchi retorts, opening the left lung. Now see here; the superior lobe of the left lung is covered with tubercles. And here are numerous small tubercular cavities.{9}

This most likely represents an old process, suggests Dr. Shortt. At any rate, the right lung is perfectly sound. Nevertheless, the ganglia of the bronchi and of the mediastinum are enlarged.{10}

That is of little consequence.

However—the state of the lungs does give an indication that he was affected.

Possibly in his youth....

The physicians begin the examination of the heart and of the great vessels.

The heart and the aorta are quite normal.

Isn’t it surprising for such an active man?

But the heart is also covered by a layer of fat, observes Dr. Henry. And it appears to me to be of a smaller size than it should be. Others, however, do not agree with him on that point.

Now let us examine the stomach. Continuing the autopsy, Dr. Antommarchi goes on, At first sight, it appears to be normal.

Perhaps even smaller than is usual.

But now look here, Antommarchi takes the organ in his hands; the anterior surface of the stomach has a slight obstruction. And here again, the left lobe of the liver is adhering closely and even rigidly to this obstruction in the stomach. He cuts the organ open.

Ah! There’s the cause! exclaims Dr. Arnott, noting a dark, brownish mass which fills the cavity of the stomach. "This looks like a scirrhous tumor.{11} But so advanced—who would have thought it? Yet, I was right in presuming the upper part of the stomach absolutely sound."

Yes, you are right, confirms the surgeon. "The cardia is more or less normal. But here along the lesser curvature—within the pylorus{12}....Yes, without doubt, this is a cancerous ulcer! Antommarchi pronounces with conviction. And do you note the deep channel that this ulcer possesses? If it were not for the adhesion to the liver which closes this exit, this channel would have established a communication between the stomach and the abdomen!"

And death would have come so much sooner....

Without any doubt!

Yet—certain portions of this ulcer appear to me to be benign.

Yes, but only in spots. Here in the center, the ulcer is entirely cancerous, although the orifice of the pylorus is not touched.

A lively discussion grows out of the examination of the liver. The exiled Emperor’s liver had given Governor Lowe some cause for alarm. The Governor was very anxious to have it shown that his prisoner did not suffer from the disease of the liver which was very prevalent on the island of St. Helena. Thus, all the more surprising seems the statement of his chief surgeon, Dr. Thomas Shortt, who remarks that in his opinion the liver looks enlarged.

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I cannot see that at all. It is only a large liver, protests Dr. Arnott, but it is no larger than the liver of any man of that age.{13}

It is certainly enlarged and diseased! insists Dr. Shortt.

The liver is perfectly normal and is not enlarged at all, retorts Dr. Burton.

I quite agree, Dr. Henry puts in.

I repeat that this liver is enlarged, Dr. Shortt persists.

But, gentlemen, you must come to some sort of an agreement. Take a close look at the liver! remarks Admiral Reade.

It is normal, five physicians reply with one voice.

Let me look at it, says Reade, interrupting the dispute.

Dr. Antommarchi takes out the liver and cuts it open with his scalpel. It’s good, he remarks; perfectly sound and has nothing remarkable in it. But, of course, it is a large liver.

There is a great difference between a large liver and a liver that is enlarged, Admiral Reade says wisely.

But there is a definite adhesion to the diaphragm.{14}

Well, it is of long standing. It does not indicate a recent disease.

But there is no adhesion to the diaphragm at all, points out Dr. Rutledge, a young surgeon. There exists only a small adhesion of the liver to the stomach.

I beg your pardon, gentlemen, interrupts Admiral Reade, impatiently. It seems to me that this discussion is entirely out of order. It has already been established that death was caused by a disease of the stomach.

Even so, the liver is in a state of disease also, Dr. Shortt insists stubbornly.{15}

The examination proceeds.

"Well, now! Let us consider the vesica fellis."{16}

The gall bladder is obviously in a sound state.

Except that it is filled with very thick bile.

All agree, however, that the deceased did not suffer—recently, at any rate—from cholecystitis.{17}

Some controversy arises once more concerning the state of the spleen. Antommarchi sees it considerably enlarged which may be taken as an indirect indication of a reflex of hepatitis, chronic condition of the liver.

The spleen is perfectly sound and of normal size, Dr. Arnott remarks emphatically. However, Dr. Antommarchi retains his own opinion.

The condition of the intestines does not arouse suspicion in any of the medical men present, as the mucous membrane appears to be in a perfectly healthy state. However, on the peritoneal surface,{18} a number of smallish specks and patches of a pale red color are noted.{19}

The autopsy goes on....

The kidneys are also imbedded in fat.

May I draw your attention to this abnormality, points out Dr. Arnott, that the left kidney is much larger than the right one?

So it is indeed! They measure them. It is fully one third larger than the right one.

A very unusual abnormality!

An acquired one?

Scarcely, Dr. Arnott ventures. It appears to be congenital.

Even the left kidney seems to be out of position.

Could not that have influenced the state of his health?

It is very improbable that it could.

Considering the dead man’s bladder, they all concede that it is in a diseased state. They find a number of small stones and the mucous membrane looks to be inflamed and spotted with red.

I was certain to find his bladder inflamed! exults Antommarchi. During his lifetime he often complained of micturition. And here is the answer—cystitis!{20}

Yes, that is how it seems to be....

And now—now we shall start the autopsy of the brain. No! protests Count Bertrand. I consider it absolutely unnecessary!

But it would be so interesting— implores Antommarchi, from the scientific point of view!

We cannot allow you to touch the head of His Majesty. Montholon pauses for a moment and then continues with emotion, It is enough that His Majesty’s whole body has been mutilated!

I consider the autopsy as finished! Bertrand announces firmly.

Peculiar... Antommarchi shrugs his shoulders.

But Admiral Reade agrees with Bertrand. The cause of death having been established, I do not therefore see any necessity for a further examination.

St. Denis, a valet, brings in two silver boxes. Dr. Rutledge removes the heart from the body and places it in a round silver box. He fills it with brandy and seals it. The stomach is placed in a silver pepperbox.{21} This is done in accordance with the wishes of the late Emperor, who insisted that his heart be sent to his wife, Marie Louise, and his stomach to his son, in order that the latter might learn of the illness which brought about his father’s death. Admiral Reade, however, declares to Count Bertrand that according to the instructions which he has received, he cannot allow the heart to be sent to Europe. Only the stomach may be sent. This refusal incenses Bertrand and Montholon, who voice protest—but vainly—against the Governor’s decision.{22}

While this discussion is going on, Antommarchi puts the body in order. Dr. Henry assists him. Rearranged and sewed together, it suddenly ceases to be a nameless corpse and becomes once more the body of the Emperor. Peering into the face of the deceased, as if noticing it only now. Dr. Henry remarks thoughtfully:

What a wonderfully peaceful expression! It seems to portray a disposition of mildness and sweetness. It is in striking contrast to his actual life and character. He draws Dr. Antommarchi’s attention to certain peculiarities of the body, which in some respects is almost feminine in appearance. Isn’t it rather strange—for a great military commander?{23}

It is almost four o’clock. The autopsy is finished.

The body of the deceased is transported back to his bed and Marchant and St. Denis commence to clothe it. They attire him in the uniform of a Chasseur of the Imperial Guards—gold epaulets, white stockings, high boots, breeches, a waistcoat of white cashmere cloth, a three-cornered hat with the tricolored cockade, and the star and ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

While this is going on, all those present, the English physicians most eagerly of all, are tearing the autopsy sheet into bits. The pieces, soaked with the Emperor’s blood, they carry away for souvenirs.

Countess Bertrand comes in. Dr. Rutledge shows her the stomach of the deceased. Introducing the point of her little linger through the cancerated hole, she says: Cancer! That is what the Emperor always said was the matter with him. He anticipated his death from it.{24}

A vast crowd is milling around Longwood. All have come here, from every part of the island, leaving their work and their duties.

The great Emperor is dead! The cry travels from house to house, from village to village. No one believes it; no one thinks it possible. And each wants to make sure with his own eyes.

He is immortal.... Who said that? But all have repeated it; all have believed it. How can he die, whose life was that of a demigod?

The doors finally open.

The body has been transported to the Emperor’s little bedroom, which now serves as the mortuary chapel. The entire room is draped in black. On his camp bed, covered with Marengo’s old blue cloak, lies Napoleon. On his head reposes the tricornered hat. A crucifix rests on his breast. On a small table, near the bed, stand the boxes with his heart and stomach. A silver eagle—Napoleon’s emblem—up above supports the white draperies which hang over the bed. His face still retains a faint smile of reconciliation.

With trepidation, as if entering the sanctum sanctorum, the crowd of mourners edges in. Many are weeping. All are profoundly moved. One senses that something has happened which cannot be undone; that something of great worth has been lost.

He is beautiful...

And young...

He seems almost alive..., whispers the crowd.

Look well at Napoleon, an English soldier says as he holds up his little son. He was the greatest man in the whole world!

Yes, yes, the crowd repeats, the greatest!

And once again comes the night. Sultry, motionless, black. Longwood sleeps. And again Vignali is reading his prayers at the head of the deceased.

But now he is quite calm. For him—a plain and artless monk—all is now clear and simple. The heart is now out of the body. It has been cut out and sealed in this silver urn, which stands right here before him. Now he is quite dead, dead unto eternity. Vignali prays earnestly and with his whole heart for the eternal peace of the departed soul.

Only at times does he interrupt his chant to drive away the rats. More ruthless than ever, they jump unceremoniously on the bed upon which rests he who dreamed of being—and so nearly was—the ruler of the world.

Chapter II — BONAPARTE’S INHERITED PREDISPOSITION

This day, Tuesday, September 19th, 1780, I, Charles Bonaparte, son of Joseph, have begun this register, in order to note down all that occurs during the day in my domestic affairs....And I ask my children to follow the same method, because it is something very useful for the present and for the future....{25}

DR. TOURNATOIRE, a well-known physician of Aix, is examining a patient. The latter—tall, sparely built, very thin—looks much older than his forty years. He is ill; he has been feeling ill for over a year. The doctor questions him, asking the very same things that so many physicians have asked before.

Your father is alive?

He died when I was seventeen, replies the patient.

What did he die from?

The patient hesitates. He died quite young—he was barely forty. He had trouble with his stomach. A tumor, I think....

Prodded by the physician’s questions, Charles Bonaparte describes the symptoms of the malady which has tortured him for over a year. I consulted Dr. Lasonne in Paris last year. He helped me. He tells the doctor that he feels occasional pains in his stomach, on the right side; that he has accesses of nausea, and vomits after eating.

Dr. Tournatoire examines him carefully. He considers his patient’s condition serious, very serious. He strongly advises Bonaparte to go to Montpellier at once. The climate there is good—and there are excellent hospitals.{26}

Bonaparte arrived in Montpellier towards the end of November, 1784. Dr. Sabattier and Dr. Vigarou, who examined him, came to the same conclusion as their colleague in Aix. Their diagnosis fully agreed with that established still earlier by Ajaccio physicians, who had treated the patient.

When he arrived in this city and put himself in our hands, we could not but agree with the opinion of the medical gentlemen [of Ajaccio] and we recognized, as they had, that the large tumor which he carried had its seat in the tunics of the stomach, towards its inferior orifice, and that there was reason to believe that the pylorus too was included. They were in no doubt "as to the hereditary cause of the rebellious and stubborn vomiting."{27} The words hereditary illness were here used and written down by physicians for the first time and were to reach the youthful Napoleon. They were to pierce his memory, so that nothing was ever able to soften or blur the conviction which these words carried and which facts bore out. Charles Bonaparte, his father, suffered from the same incurable malady of the stomach as had Joseph Bonaparte, his grandfather.{28}

But Napoleon’s father did not want to die. He wanted to live, to live at any cost, to live in spite of all the