Letter 008 — VIII
Original French
Tortone, midi, le 27 prairial an IV de la République. (15 juin 1796.)
Ma vie est un cauchemar perpétuel. Un pressentiment funeste m’empêche de respirer. Je ne vis plus, j’ai perdu plus que la vie, plus que le bonheur, plus que le repos; je suis presque sans espoir. Je t’expédie un courrier. Il ne restera que quatre heures à Paris et puis m’apportera ta réponse. Écris-moi dix pages; cela seul peut me consoler un peu. Tu es malade, tu m’aimes, je t’ai affligée, tu es grosse et je ne te vois pas. Cette idée me confond. J’ai tant de torts envers toi, que je ne sais comment les expier. Je t’accuse de rester à Paris, et tu y étais malade. Pardonne-moi, ma bonne amie; l’amour que tu m’as inspiré m’a ôté la raison; je ne la retrouverai jamais. L’on ne guérit pas de ce mal-là. Mes pressentiments sont si funestes que je me bornerais à te voir, à te presser deux heures sur mon cœur et mourir ensemble. Qui est-ce qui a soin de toi? J’imagine que tu as fait appeler Hortense; j’aime mille fois plus cette aimable enfant depuis que je pense qu’elle peut te consoler un peu. Quant à moi, point de consolation, point de repos, point d’espoir, jusqu’à ce que j’aie reçu le courrier que je t’expédie, et que par une longue lettre tu m’expliques ce que c’est que ta maladie, et jusqu’à quel point elle doit être sérieuse. Si elle est dangereuse, je t’en préviens, je pars de suite pour Paris… J’ai été toujours heureux; jamais mon sort n’a résisté à ma volonté, et aujourd’hui je suis frappé dans ce qui me touche uniquement… Sans appétit, sans sommeil, sans intérêt pour l’amitié, pour la gloire, pour la patrie, toi, toi, et le reste du monde n’existe pas plus pour moi que s’il était anéanti. Je tiens à l’honneur puisque tu y tiens, à la victoire puisque cela te fait plaisir, sans quoi j’aurais tout quitté pour me rendre à tes pieds.
Ma bonne amie, aie soin de me dire que tu es convaincue que je t’aime au delà de tout ce qu’il est possible d’imaginer; que tu es persuadée que tous mes instants te sont consacrés, que jamais il ne se passe une heure sans penser à toi; que jamais il ne m’est venu dans l’idée de penser à une autre femme; qu’elles sont toutes à mes yeux sans grâce, sans beauté et sans esprit; que toi, toi tout entière, telle que je te vois, que tu es, pouvais me plaire et absorber toutes les facultés de mon âme; que tu en as touché toute l’étendue, que mon cœur n’a point de replis que tu ne voies, point de pensées qui ne te soient subordonnées; que mes forces, mes bras, mon esprit sont tout à toi; que mon âme est dans ton corps, et que le jour où tu aurais changé, ou le jour où tu cesseras de vivre, serait celui de ma mort; que la nature, la terre n’est belle que parce que tu l’habites. Si tu ne crois pas cela, si ton âme n’en est pas convaincue, pénétrée, tu m’affliges, tu ne m’aimes pas. Il est un fluide magnétique entre les personnes qui s’aiment. Tu sais que je ne pourrais te voir un amant, encore moins t’en souffrir un: lui déchirer le cœur et le voir serait pour moi la même chose, et puis si je pouvais porter la main sur ta personne sacrée… Non, je ne l’oserais jamais, mais je sortirais d’une vie où ce qui existe de plus vertueux m’aurait trompé. Je suis sûr et fier de ton amour. Les malheurs sont des épreuves qui nous décèlent mutuellement la force de notre passion. Un enfant adorable comme sa maman va voir le jour dans tes bras. Infortuné, je me contenterais d’une journée. Mille baisers sur tes yeux, sur tes lèvres… Adorable femme, quel est ton ascendant! Je suis bien malade de ta maladie. J’ai encore une fièvre brûlante! Ne garde pas plus de six heures le courrier, et qu’il retourne de suite me porter la lettre chérie de ma souveraine.
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.
Tortone, noon, 27 Prairial, Year IV of the Republic. (June 15, 1796.)
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A fatal presentiment keeps me from breathing. I no longer live; I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than peace; I am almost without hope. I am sending you a courier. He will stay only four hours in Paris and then bring me your answer. Write me ten pages; that alone can console me a little. You are ill, you love me, I have distressed you, you are pregnant and I cannot see you. The thought overwhelms me. I have so many wrongs toward you that I do not know how to atone for them. I accuse you of staying in Paris, and you were ill there. Forgive me, my dear friend; the love you inspired in me has robbed me of reason; I shall never recover it. One does not recover from that illness. My forebodings are so dire that I would be content to see you, hold you to my heart for two hours, and die together. Who is taking care of you? I imagine you have sent for Hortense; I love that charming child a thousand times more since thinking she might console you a little. As for me, no consolation, no rest, no hope until I have received the courier I am sending you, and until you explain in a long letter what your illness is and how serious it may be. If it is dangerous, I warn you, I shall leave at once for Paris… I have always been fortunate; my fate has never resisted my will, and today I am struck in the one thing that matters to me… Without appetite, without sleep, without interest in friendship, glory, or country—you, you, and the rest of the world no longer exists for me any more than if it had been annihilated. I care for honor because you care for it, for victory because it gives you pleasure; otherwise I would have left everything to come to your feet.
My dear friend, be sure to tell me you are convinced that I love you beyond anything imaginable; that you are persuaded every moment of mine is devoted to you, that not an hour passes without my thinking of you; that the thought of another woman has never entered my mind; that in my eyes they are all without grace, beauty, or wit; that you, you entirely, as I see you, as you are, alone could please me and absorb every faculty of my soul; that you have touched its whole extent, that my heart has no recess you cannot see, no thought that is not subject to you; that my strength, my arms, my mind are all yours; that my soul is in your body, and that the day you changed, or the day you ceased to live, would be the day of my death; that nature, the earth, is beautiful only because you inhabit it. If you do not believe this, if your soul is not convinced, permeated by it, you distress me, you do not love me. There is a magnetic fluid between people who love each other. You know I could not see you with a lover, still less tolerate one: to tear out his heart and to see him would be the same thing for me, and then, if I could lay a hand on your sacred person… No, I would never dare, but I would leave a life in which the most virtuous being in existence had deceived me. I am sure and proud of your love. Misfortunes are trials that reveal to each of us the strength of our passion. A child as adorable as its mother is about to see the light in your arms. Unhappy as I am, I would be content with one day. A thousand kisses on your eyes, on your lips… Adorable woman, what power you hold! Your illness makes me very ill. I still have a burning fever! Do not keep the courier more than six hours, and let him return at once with the cherished letter of my sovereign.
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.
Tortona, 27 Prairial, year IV of the Republic, at noon (June 15, 1796).
My life is one long nightmare. An ominous presentiment stifles me. I have ceased to live; I have lost more than life, happiness or peace, and hardly dare hope. I am sending you a courier. He is to spend just four hours in Paris before bringing back your reply. Fill ten pages: nothing else can give me even a little comfort. You are ill, you love me, I have hurt you, you are pregnant, and I cannot see you. I am beside myself at the thought. My offenses against you are so many that I cannot imagine how to atone for them. I accused you of staying in Paris when you were ill there. Pardon me, my dear friend: the love you awakened has driven me out of my mind, and I shall never recover it. This is a sickness one cannot cure. My forebodings are so dire that I would ask only to see you, clasp you to my heart for two hours, and then die with you. Who is looking after you? I imagine you have sent for Hortense. I love that dear child a thousand times more now that I think she may give you some comfort. For my part, I can have no comfort, rest or hope until the courier I send you comes back and you explain in a long letter the nature of your illness and how serious it is likely to be. Should there be any danger, I warn you that I will leave for Paris immediately... Fortune has always favored me; fate has never opposed my wishes, and now I am struck in the only thing I care about... I have no appetite, no sleep, no interest in friendship, glory or my country. You, only you; all the rest of the world might as well have ceased to exist. Honor matters to me because it matters to you, and victory because it pleases you; without that, I would have abandoned everything and come to lay myself at your feet.
My dear, be sure to tell me that you believe my love for you exceeds anything one can imagine; that you are certain every moment I have is yours, and that no hour passes in which I do not think of you; that it has never occurred to me to think of another woman, that all other women seem to me devoid of charm, beauty and intelligence; that only you, all of you, as I see you and as you are, could delight me and take possession of every power of my soul; that you have reached every part of it, that my heart has no hidden corner you cannot see, no thought that is not subordinate to you; that my strength, my arms, my mind belong wholly to you; that my soul resides in your body and, should you change or cease to live, I too would die that day; that nature and the earth are lovely only because you dwell here. Unless you believe this, unless your soul is persuaded and permeated by it, you grieve me: you do not love me. A magnetic current passes between those who love. You know I could not even see a lover of yours, let alone bear your having one: to see him and tear out his heart would be one and the same to me. And then, if I could raise my hand against your sacred person... No, I would never dare; instead I would depart a life in which the most virtuous creature in existence had betrayed me. Your love gives me certainty and pride. Adversity tests us and shows each of us how strong our passion is. A child as adorable as its mother will soon be born in your arms. Wretched as I am, I would be satisfied with a single day. A thousand kisses on your eyes and lips... Beloved wife, what power you have over me! Your sickness has made me very sick. I still burn with fever! Let the courier stay no longer than six hours, then send him straight back with my sovereign's precious letter.
About this section
Letter 008 — VIII 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 8 of 172 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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