Letter 004 — IV
Original French
Port-Maurice, le 14 germinal (3 avril 1796).
J’ai reçu toutes tes lettres, mais aucune n’a fait sur moi l’impression de ta dernière. Y penses-tu, mon adorable amie, de m’écrire en ces termes? Crois-tu donc que ma position n’est pas déjà assez cruelle, sans encore accroître mes regrets, et bouleverser mon âme? Quel style! quels sentiments que ceux que tu peins! Ils sont de feu, ils brûlent mon pauvre cœur. Mon unique Joséphine, loin de toi il n’est pas de gaieté; loin de toi, le monde est un désert où je reste isolé, et sans éprouver la douceur de m’épancher. Tu m’as ôté plus que mon âme; tu es l’unique pensée de ma vie. Si je suis ennuyé du tracas des affaires, si j’en crains l’issue, si les hommes me dégoûtent, si je suis prêt à maudire la vie, je mets la main sur mon cœur; ton portrait y bat, je le regarde, et l’amour est pour moi le bonheur absolu, et tout est riant hors le temps que je me vois absent de mon amie.
Par quel art as-tu su captiver toutes mes facultés, concentrer en toi mon existence morale? Vivre pour Joséphine! voilà l’histoire de ma vie. J’agis pour arriver près de toi; je me meurs pour t’approcher. Insensé! je ne m’aperçois pas que je m’en éloigne. Que de pays, que de contrées nous séparent! que de temps avant que tu lises ces caractères, faibles expressions d’une âme émue où tu règnes! Ah! mon adorable femme! je ne sais quel sort m’attend; mais s’il m’éloigne plus longtemps de toi il me sera insupportable: mon courage ne va pas jusque-là. Il fut un temps où je m’enorgueillissais de mon courage, et quelquefois, en jetant les yeux sur le mal que pourraient me faire les hommes, sur le sort que pourrait me réserver le destin, je fixais les malheurs les plus inouïs sans froncer le sourcil, sans me sentir étonné. Mais aujourd’hui, l’idée que ma Joséphine peut être mal, l’idée qu’elle pourrait être malade, et surtout la cruelle, la funeste pensée qu’elle pourrait m’aimer moins, flétrit mon âme, arrête mon sang, me rend triste, abattu, ne me laisse pas même le courage de la fureur et du désespoir. Je me disais souvent jadis: les hommes ne peuvent rien à celui qui meurt sans regret; mais aujourd’hui, mourir sans être aimé de toi, mourir sans cette certitude, c’est le tourment de l’enfer, c’est l’image vive et frappante de l’anéantissement absolu. Il me semble que je me sens étouffer. Mon unique compagne, toi que le sort a destinée pour faire avec moi le voyage pénible de la vie, le jour où je n’aurai plus ton cœur sera celui où la nature sera pour moi sans chaleur et sans végétation… Je m’arrête, ma douce amie; mon âme est triste, mon corps est fatigué, mon esprit est alourdi, les hommes m’ennuient. Je devrais bien les détester, ils m’éloignent de mon cœur.
Je suis à Port-Maurice, près Oneille; demain je suis à Albenga. Les deux armées se remuent; nous cherchons à nous tromper. Au plus habile la victoire. Je suis assez content de Beaulieu; il manœuvre bien; il est plus fort que son prédécesseur. Je le battrai, j’espère, de la belle manière. Sois sans inquiétude; aime-moi comme tes yeux; mais ce n’est pas assez, comme toi; plus que toi, que ta pensée, ton esprit, ta vie, ton tout. Donc, amie, pardonne-moi, je délire; la nature est faible pour qui sent vivement, pour celui que tu aimes. À Barras, Sucy, madame Tallien, amitié sincère; à madame Château-Renard, civilités d’usage; à Eugène, à Hortense, amour vrai.
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.
Port-Maurice, 14 Germinal (April 3, 1796).
I have received all your letters, but none has affected me as your last did. Do you realize what it is to write to me in such terms, my adorable friend? Do you think my position is not cruel enough already, without adding to my regrets and throwing my soul into turmoil? What style! What feelings you portray! They are fire; they burn my poor heart. My only Joséphine, away from you there is no joy; away from you the world is a desert where I remain alone, denied the sweetness of pouring out my heart. You have taken more than my soul from me; you are the only thought of my life. If I am weary of the trouble of affairs, if I fear their outcome, if men disgust me, if I am ready to curse life, I put my hand on my heart; your portrait beats there, I look at it, and love is absolute happiness to me, and all is joyful except the time when I find myself absent from my friend.
By what art have you captured all my faculties, centered my moral existence in yourself? To live for Joséphine! That is the story of my life. I act in order to come near you; I am dying to be close to you. Fool that I am! I do not see that I am moving farther away. How many lands, how many regions separate us! How long before you read these words, the frail expression of a moved soul in which you reign! Ah, my adorable wife! I do not know what fate awaits me; but if it keeps me away from you much longer, it will be unbearable: my courage does not reach so far. There was a time when I took pride in my courage, and sometimes, contemplating the harm men might do me, the lot destiny might reserve for me, I faced the most unheard-of misfortunes without a frown, without feeling astonished. But now the thought that my Joséphine may be unwell, that she might be ill, and above all the cruel, fatal thought that she might love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, makes me sad and dejected, and leaves me not even the courage for fury and despair. I used to say to myself: men can do nothing to one who dies without regret. But now, to die without being loved by you, to die without that certainty, is the torment of hell, the vivid, striking image of absolute annihilation. I feel as though I am suffocating. My only companion, you whom fate destined to make with me the painful journey of life, the day I no longer have your heart will be the day nature loses all warmth and vegetation for me… I stop, my sweet friend; my soul is sad, my body tired, my mind heavy, men weary me. I ought to hate them; they keep me from my heart.
I am at Port-Maurice, near Oneille; tomorrow I shall be at Albenga. The two armies are moving; we are trying to deceive each other. Victory to the more skillful. I am fairly satisfied with Beaulieu; he maneuvers well; he is stronger than his predecessor. I hope to beat him handsomely. Do not worry; love me as you love your eyes—but that is not enough—as yourself; more than yourself, than your thoughts, your mind, your life, your all. So, my friend, forgive me, I am delirious; nature is weak in one who feels deeply, in the man you love. To Barras, Sucy, Madame Tallien, sincere friendship; to Madame Château-Renard, the customary courtesies; to Eugène and Hortense, true love.
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.
Port-Maurice, 14 Germinal (April 3, 1796).
All your letters have reached me, but none affected me as the last one did. Do you realize what you are saying when you write to me like that, my beloved? Is my situation not cruel enough already, without adding to my longing and throwing my soul into turmoil? What writing! What feelings you describe! They are on fire, and they burn my poor heart. My one Joséphine, away from you there is no joy. Without you the world is a desert where I am alone, deprived of the comfort of pouring out my heart. You have robbed me of more than my soul: my whole life has but one thought, you. If the burden of affairs wearies me, if I dread their outcome, if mankind disgusts me and life itself is on the point of earning my curse, I lay a hand upon my heart. There your portrait beats; I gaze at it, and love is perfect happiness to me. Everything seems bright except when I find myself away from my friend.
What art have you used to capture every faculty I possess and make you the center of my inner life? To live for Joséphine: that is my life story. Everything I do is meant to bring me near you; I am dying to get close to you. Fool that I am, I do not notice that I am moving farther away. How many lands and regions lie between us! How long before you read these lines, the faint expression of a stirred soul over which you rule! My beloved wife, I do not know what fate awaits me, but if it keeps me away from you any longer I cannot bear it. My courage does not reach that far. Once I was proud of my courage. Sometimes, considering the harm people might do me and what fate might have in store, I faced the most unimaginable misfortunes without a frown or a moment's surprise. Now, though, the thought that my Joséphine may be unwell or ill, and most of all the cruel, deadly possibility that her love for me has diminished, withers my soul and stops my blood. It casts me down in such sadness that I cannot even summon the courage for fury or despair. I used often to say that men can do nothing to someone who dies without regret. But to die unloved by you now, to die uncertain of your love, would be hell’s torment, a vivid picture of absolute extinction. I feel as if I were suffocating. My sole companion, destined to make life’s painful journey with me, on the day your heart is no longer mine, nature itself will lose its warmth and all its greenery for me... I stop here, my sweet friend. Sadness weighs on my soul, fatigue on my body, heaviness on my mind; people bore me. I really ought to hate them: they keep me away from my heart.
Here I am at Port-Maurice, near Oneille; tomorrow I shall reach Albenga. The two armies are on the move, each seeking to outwit the other; the more skillful will win. I am fairly pleased with Beaulieu: he maneuvers well and is stronger than his predecessor. I hope to give him a fine beating. Have no fear. Love me as you love your eyes; no, that is too little: as you love yourself, more than yourself, your thoughts, your mind, your life, your all. Forgive me, then, my friend, I am raving. Nature is weak in anyone who feels intensely, in the man you love. Give Barras, Sucy and Madame Tallien my sincere friendship; Madame Château-Renard the usual courtesies; Eugène and Hortense my true love.
About this section
Letter 004 — IV 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 4 of 172 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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