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316. APPENDIX (1).--Reputed Poem by Napoleon.
317. APPENDIX (2).--Genealogy of the Bonaparte Family.
317-321. APPENDIX (3).--Spurious Letters of Napoleon to Josephine.
FOOTNOTES
[13] Exclusive of two from Josephine to Napoleon.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
NAPOLEON _Frontispiece_
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY T. WRIGHT, AFTER
AN ORIGINAL DRAWING (_Photogravure_)
EUGENE BEAUHARNAIS _Face page_ 121
AFTERWARDS VICEROY OF ITALY (_Photogravure_)
JOSEPHINE BEAUHARNAIS _Face page_ 198
_Circa_ 1795 (_Photogravure_)
FAC-SIMILE OF LETTER, DATED APRIL
24, 1796 _Pages_ 202-3
NAPOLEON'S LETTERS
SERIES A
(1796)
"Only those who knew Napoleon in the intercourse of private life can
render justice to his character. For my own part, I know him, as it
were, by heart; and in proportion as time separates us, he appears to
me like a beautiful dream. And would you believe that, in my
recollections of Napoleon, that which seems to me to approach most
nearly to ideal excellence is not the hero, filling the world with his
gigantic fame, but the man, viewed in the relations of private
life?"--_Recollections of Caulaincourt_, _Duke of Vicenza_, vol. i.
197.
SERIES A
(For subjoined Notes to this Series see pages 198-211.)
LETTER PAGE
_Bonaparte made Commander-in-Chief_ 198
No. 1. 7 A.M. 198
No. 2. _Our good Ossian_ 199
No. 4. _Chauvet is dead_ 199
No. 5. Napoleon's suspicions 199
_The lovers of nineteen_ 200
_My brother_ 200
No. 6. _Unalterably good_ 201
_If you want a place for any one_ 201
No. 7. A criticism by Aubenas 201
_June 15th_ 204
_Presentiment of ill_ 210
No. 8. The Treaty with Rome 210
_Fortune_ 211
1796.
_February 23rd.--Bonaparte made Commander-in-Chief of the Army of
Italy._
No. 1.
_Seven o'clock in the morning._
My waking thoughts are all of thee. Your portrait and the remembrance
of last night's delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and
incomparable Josephine, what an extraordinary influence you have over
my heart. Are you vexed? do I see you sad? are you ill at ease? My
soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover. But is
there more for me when, delivering ourselves up to the deep feelings
which master me, I breathe out upon your lips, upon your heart, a
flame which burns me up--ah, it was this past night I realised that
your portrait was not you. You start at noon; I shall see you in three
hours. Meanwhile, _mio dolce amor_, accept a thousand kisses,[14] but
give me none, for they fire my blood.
N. B.
_A Madame Beauharnais._
* * * * *
_March 9th.--Bonaparte marries Josephine._
_March 11th.--Bonaparte leaves Paris to join his army._
No. 2.
_Chanceaux Post House,
March 14, 1796._
I wrote you at Chatillon, and sent you a power of attorney to enable
you to receive various sums of money in course of remittance to me.
Every moment separates me further from you, my beloved, and every
moment I have less energy to exist so far from you. You are the
constant object of my thoughts; I exhaust my imagination in thinking
of what you are doing. If I see you unhappy, my heart is torn, and my
grief grows greater. If you are gay and lively among your friends
(male and female), I reproach you with having so soon forgotten the
sorrowful separation three days ago; thence you must be fickle, and
henceforward stirred by no deep emotions. So you see I am not easy to
satisfy; but, my dear, I have quite different sensations when I fear
that your health may be affected, or that you have cause to be
annoyed; then I regret the haste with which I was separated from my
darling. I feel, in fact, that your natural kindness of heart exists
no longer for me, and it is only when I am quite sure you are not
vexed that I am satisfied. If I were asked how I slept, I feel that
before replying I should have to get a message to tell me that you had
had a good night. The ailments, the passions of men influence me only
when I imagine they may reach you, my dear. May my good genius, which
has always preserved me in the midst of great dangers, surround you,
enfold you, while I will face my fate unguarded. Ah! be not gay, but a
trifle melancholy; and especially may your soul be free from worries,
as your body from illness: you know what our good Ossian says on this
subject. Write me, dear, and at full length, and accept the thousand
and one kisses of your most devoted and faithful friend.
[This letter is translated from St. Amand's _La Citoyenne Bonaparte_,
p. 3, 1892.]
* * * * *
_March 27th.--Arrival at Nice and proclamation to the soldiers._
No. 3.
_April 3rd.--He is at Mentone._
_Port Maurice, April 3rd._
I have received all your letters, but none has affected me like the
last. How can you think, my charmer, of writing me in such terms? Do
you believe that my position is not already painful enough without
further increasing my regrets and subverting my reason. What
eloquence, what feelings you portray; they are of fire, they inflame
my poor heart! My unique Josephine, away from you there is no more
joy--away from thee the world is a wilderness, in which I stand alone,
and without experiencing the bliss of unburdening my soul. You have
robbed me of more than my soul; you are the one only thought of my
life. When I am weary of the worries of my profession, when I mistrust
the issue, when men disgust me, when I am ready to curse my life, I
put my hand on my heart where your portrait beats in unison. I look at
it, and love is for me complete happiness; and everything laughs for
joy, except the time during which I find myself absent from my
beloved.
By what art have you learnt how to captivate all my faculties, to
concentrate in yourself my spiritual existence--it is witchery, dear
love, which will end only with me. To live for Josephine, that is the
history of my life. I am struggling to get near you, I am dying to be
by your side; fool that I am, I fail to realise how far off I am, that
lands and provinces separate us. What an age it will be before you
read these lines, the weak expressions of the fevered soul in which
you reign. Ah, my winsome wife, I know not what fate awaits me, but if
it keeps me much longer from you it will be unbearable--my strength
will not last out. There was a time in which I prided myself on my
strength, and, sometimes, when casting my eyes on the ills which men
might do me, on the fate that destiny might have in store for me, I
have gazed steadfastly on the most incredible misfortunes without a
wrinkle on my brow or a vestige of surprise: but to-day the thought
that my Josephine might be ill; and, above all, the cruel, the fatal
thought that she might love me less, blights my soul Previous Next |