(1.)
NAPOLEON TO JOSEPHINE.
(Translation.)
"Port Maurice, the 14th Germinal,
(April 4,) 1796.
"I have received all thy letters: but not one of them has affected me so much as thy last. Dost thou think, my adorable love, of writing to me in such terms? Dost thou imagine, then, that my position is not already cruel enough, without an increase of my sorrows, and an overthrow of my soul? What a style! what sentiments dost thou describe. They are of fire—they burn my poor heart. My only Josephine!—far from thee there is no joy;—far from thee the world is a desert, where I remain an isolated being, without enjoying the sweets of confidence. Thou hast deprived me of more than my soul; thou art the only thought of my life. If I am tired of the troubles of business—if I dread the result—if mankind disgust me—if I am ready to curse this life—I place my hand upon my heart—there thy portrait beats—I look at it, and love becomes to me absolute happiness; all is smiling, save the time when I am separated from my beloved.
"By what is it that thou hast been able to captivate all my faculties, and to concentrate in thyself my moral existence? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will finish only with my life. To live for Josephine—there is the history of my life. I am trying to reach thee—I am dying to be near thee. Fool that I am, I do not perceive that I increase the distance between us. What lands, what countries separate us! What a time before you read these weak expressions of a troubled soul in which you reign! Ah! my adorable wife! I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from thee, it will be insupportable—my courage will not go so far. There was a time when I was proud of my courage; and sometimes, when contemplating on the ills that man could do me, on the fate which destiny could reserve for me, I fixed my eyes steadfastly on the most unheard-of misfortunes without a frown, without alarm. But now, the idea that my Josephine may be unwell, the idea that she may be ill, and, above all, the cruel, the fatal thought, that she may love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, renders me sad, cast down, and leaves me not even the courage of fury and despair. Formerly I used often to say to myself, men cannot hurt him who can die without regret; but now, to die without being loved by thee, to die without that certainty, is the torment of hell; it is the lively and striking image of absolute annihilation—I feel as if I were stifled. My incomparable companion, thou whom fate has destined to make along with me the painful journey of life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart will be the day on which parched nature will be to me without warmth or vegetation.
"I stop, my sweet love, my soul is sad—my body is fatigued—my head is giddy—men disgust me—I ought to hate them—they separate me from my beloved.
"I am at Port Maurice, near Oneille; to-morrow I shall be at Albenga; the two armies are in motion—We are endeavouring to deceive each other—Victory to the most skilful! I am pretty well satisfied with Beaulieu—If he alarm me much, he is a better man than his predecessor. I shall beat him I hope in good style. Do not be uneasy—love me as your eyes—but that is not enough—as yourself, more than yourself, than your thought, your mind, your sight, your all. Sweet love, forgive me—I am sinking. Nature is weak for him who feels strongly, for him whom you love!!"
(2.)
"Albenga, 16th Germinal, (April 6.)
"[It is one hour after midnight. They have just brought me a letter. It is sad—my soul is affected by it: It is the death of Chauvet. He was commissary-in-chief of the army. You have seen him sometimes with Barras. My love, I feel the want of consolation that is to be obtained by writing to thee—to thee alone!—Chauvet is dead! He was attached to me. He has rendered essential services to his country. His last words were, that he was setting off to join me. Soul of my existence! write to me by every courier, otherwise I cannot live. I am here very much occupied; Beaulieu moves his army. We are in sight. I am a little fatigued; I am every day on horseback. Adieu, adieu, adieu. I am going to sleep. Sleep consoles me—it places me at thy side. But alas! on waking, I find myself three hundred leagues from thee!"