Letter 021 — XXI
Original French
Modène, le 17 octobre 1796, neuf heures du soir.
J’ai été avant-hier toute la journée en campagne. J’ai gardé hier le lit. La fièvre et un violent mal de tête, tout cela m’a empêché d’écrire à mon adorable amie; mais j’ai reçu ses lettres, je les ai pressées contre mon cœur et mes lèvres, et la douleur de l’absence, cent milles d’éloignement, ont disparu. Dans ce moment, je t’ai vue près de moi, non capricieuse et fâchée, mais douce, tendre, avec cette onction de bonté, qui est exclusivement le partage de ma Joséphine. C’était un rêve; juge si cela m’a guéri de la fièvre. Tes lettres sont froides comme cinquante ans; elles ressemblent à quinze ans de mariage. On y voit l’amitié et les sentiments de cet hiver de la vie. Fi! Joséphine!… C’est bien méchant, bien mauvais, bien traître à vous. Que vous reste-t-il pour me rendre bien à plaindre? Ne plus m’aimer? Eh! c’est déjà fait, Me haïr? Eh bien, je le souhaite; tout avilit, hors la haine; mais l’indifférence au pouls de marbre, à l’œil fripon, à la démarche monotone!… Mille baisers bien tendres, comme mon cœur.
Musean translation
Machine-assisted Musean English translated from the French of the 172 Napoleon letters selected from Tancrède Martel, ed., Œuvres littéraires de Napoléon Bonaparte, tome 1 (Albert Savine, Paris, 1888). French Wikisource contributors supplied the scan-backed transcription: https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Livre:Bonaparte_-_Œuvres_littéraires,_tome_1,_1888.djvu (page histories credit contributors). The transcription is CC BY-SA 4.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/; this adapted text and translations are shared under the same license. Extraction removes markup and editorial notes; selected transcription repairs were checked against print images.
Modena, October 17, 1796, nine in the evening.
The day before yesterday I was in the field all day. Yesterday I stayed in bed. Fever and a violent headache kept me from writing to my adorable friend; but I received her letters, pressed them to my heart and lips, and the pain of absence, a hundred miles of separation, vanished. At that moment I saw you near me, not capricious and angry, but sweet, tender, with that soothing kindness which belongs exclusively to my Joséphine. It was a dream; imagine whether it cured my fever. Your letters are cold as fifty years; they resemble fifteen years of marriage. One sees friendship in them and the feelings of that winter of life. Shame, Joséphine! … It is very wicked, very wrong, very treacherous of you. What remains for you to do to make me truly pitiable? Stop loving me? Why, that is already done. Hate me? Well, I wish you would; everything degrades except hatred—but indifference, with its marble pulse, its sly eye, its monotonous gait! … A thousand kisses as tender as my heart.
Plain English translation
Independent machine-assisted Plain English translation from the 1888 Martel French edition, not a historical English translation. French Wikisource contributors supplied the scan-backed transcription: https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Livre:Bonaparte_-_Œuvres_littéraires,_tome_1,_1888.djvu (page histories credit contributors). The adapted transcription and translation are shared under CC BY-SA 4.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/. Extraction removes markup and editorial notes and makes documented transcription repairs. French-source model review is not human specialist certification or a complete scan collation.
Modena, October 17, 1796, nine in the evening.
The day before yesterday I was out in the field all day; yesterday I stayed in bed. A fever and a terrible headache prevented me from writing to my darling. But her letters arrived; I pressed them to my heart and kissed them, and the pain of separation and the hundred miles between us disappeared. In that moment I saw you beside me, not capricious and angry but gentle and tender, with that soothing goodness that belongs to my Joséphine alone. It was a dream: you can imagine whether it cured my fever. Your letters have the chill of fifty years; they suggest fifteen years of marriage. One sees in them the friendship and feelings of that winter of life. Shame, Joséphine!... That is very wicked, very bad and very treacherous of you. What more could you do to make me utterly wretched? Cease to love me? You have done that already. Hate me? I wish you would! Everything debases, except hatred—but indifference, with its marble pulse, its deceitful eye, its monotonous step!... A thousand kisses as tender as my heart.
About this section
Letter 021 — XXI is part of Letters to Josephine by Napoléon Bonaparte. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is part 21 of 172 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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