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Contacts
The Posthumous Letters
Of Napoleon Bonaparte
to Count Lev Tolstoy
A Note on Interpreting the Medium
Dear Viktor Korkiya!
I hear you! I hear your message loud and clear! And in those marvelous moments Napoleon speaks English almost as confidently as Tolstoy communicates with Napoleon in French. They both tell me your Russian is impeccable, Viktor. Since, however, neither has a native command of English, and they tell me your own remarkable fluency in English stops abruptly at the limits of computer- and internet-speak, none of you can judge how well or badly I have heard you all. So be it. Let others judge. Isnt that the way? We know nothing (knowing far more than anyone gives us credit for, but far less than we ourselves suspect); meanwhile, others know all there is to know. You see: nothing can be hidden and so I make no attempt to hide a thing. Here, then, is what I have done. I present it to the world; to Napoleon, whom I may respect less than you; to Tolstoy, whom I revere as a father; and to you, whom I call a friend.
One final caveat. Due to bad politicians, well-meaning wives, unsuspecting neighbors, evil-minded thieves, editors kind and editors ignorant, friends and acquaintances of all sorts, inclement weather and gorgeous sunshine, endless days and sleepless nights, war, pestilence, poverty, stupidity, greed, cynicism, all-pervading ignorance and countless other static interruptions, I have not yet been able to tune in to all of the 5,600 words that Napoleon dictated to Tolstoy through you. My accomplishment so far is significantly less substantial. Accept my apologies and my promise that as soon as possible I will again lend an ear to your Napoleon in order to give him voice in English.
In the meantime, may it be your pleasure to peruse what little fruits my labor has produced.
Your John Freedman
Moscow
March 22, 2007
English: John Freedman
The Posthumous Letters Of Napoleon Bonaparte
to Count Lev Tolstoy
In Place of a Foreword
For three years now the author of these lines has maintained contact with the spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte, the emperor of France. How this happened and why the author has not been committed to an asylum is another story. Or another song, if you will. The author would not be adverse to beginning with that ditty were it not for a grave vow he made to the emperor not to divulge the true nature of affairs until such time as they have been concluded.
The author unequivocally declares that the fragments of the emperors correspondence have been selected for publication by the emperor himself and that the author bears no responsibility for them whatsoever since, in essence, he is not the author at all, but merely the medium through which the emperor has expressed his posthumous will.
Viktor Korkiya
Moscow
May 12, 2004
* * *
Count! An entire era and perhaps not just one has passed since that time when death bestowed upon us both the rights of equals. You and I now have become what Providence intended us to be. The past is guilty only of having passed: It not only cannot be changed, it cannot be justified. Any justification, to a greater or smaller degree, would be a lie and you, Count, know that better than anyone else. For that which has passed has, by passing, passed its own verdict against itself. The past is ephemeral. And that which is ephemeral exhausts itself before it has had the opportunity to be born. Strictly speaking, it is born only to die and for no other reason. The present can never come to pass and never does pass on. For those such as you and I, Count, there is no past and there is no future. And the time in which we exist essentially is not time at all. It has no volume, no beginning, no end and no name: I hereby declare that the present is that which might also be called eternity. Or it might be as the Dukes adviser Goethe suggested the stopped moment. But non-existence will remain non-existent no matter what you call it. It couldnt care less whether I am the emperor of France, an adviser to a duke or a talking parrot.
* * *
For me, Count, the human being stands above all else. I remember every one of my soldiers. Their names, their nicknames. Their height, their ages. I know everything about every one of them. And they know everything about me. An army is a family. Do you see? Soldiers are my children. Do you have children? I had five hundred thousand children. Five hundred thousand! And I sacrificed them. For the glory of France. Do you remember Abraham? How he agonized when his Jewish God commanded him to sacrifice Isaac? And then the angel deflected the sword and Isaac did not die? Well I sacrificed my children and God accepted my sacrifice. They called me le petit caporal the little corporal. And now they are dust and ashes. When I hear their voices from beneath the earth I no longer hear myself. Nobody knows what sacrifice is; but I know. I gave fight beneath the pyramids. I felt as though I were a forefather, a patriarch, a biblical king. These letters, Count, are my bequest to you, to Europe, to human kind.
* * *
Eternity. That is when you are not there where you are. Is that unclear? I couldnt grasp it at first either. In order to understand it fully, you first must seize Paris then surrender it. Then take it back again without firing a single shot. Every shot fired is a shot fired at yourself. He who fires at other fires into empty space. You can only find your way into History by firing at yourself.
* * *
Echoes of the future can be heard in the past. I have perfect pitch for echoes. I can barely hear the sound of my own voice but echoes sound in me without end. On occasion I forget that they are echoes of the future. I turn around and struggle to remember where I heard them before. When I suddenly remember it was nowhere and never that I heard them, and that they have come to me from the other side, I am seized by horror. It is not death that a man fears, but rather inevitability. And the future is inevitability itself.
* * *
I love to sleep to the roar of cannons. Artillery is my passion. A cannon is an iron phallus. It spews the seed that fertilizes history. But no one knows history. And no one wants to know. Which leg did Talleyrand limp on, do you recall? And which of Kutuzovs eyes was missing?
* * *
There is nothing more difficult than bearing a cross that others have hung on you. This is easy to prove, Count. As mathematicians say, you make your proofs through opposites. But I am deeply opposed to proofs of this kind. I never prove anything, Count. Not even to myself, let alone to others. I have no proofs and that is just what proves that I exist.
* * *
The common people are indifferent to the tragedy of Oedipus and you can understand why: Damocles sword of Fate does not hang above their heads. But he who has discovered himself and has set out on his own path returns to this mystical tale time and time again. The mystery that emanates from it is the mystery of primordial being. For the mystery of birth precedes the mystery of death. For the mystery of the moment embraces all the mysteries of eternity. For the mystery of darkness envelopes the mystery of light. The finger of Fate is visible in all, but not to all. We measure time rather than experience ourselves in it. Instinctively we fear that we may see the light. We fear ourselves for we can only escape ourselves once we cease to be ourselves. Every phenomenon contains its own opposite. Infectious laughter transforms into earthly woe before anyone can hear it. Darkness spreads at the speed of light, Count!
* * *
In order to be victorious in combat you need only take up the battle. And to suffer defeat you need only doubt yourself one split second. This is the entire secret of the art of warfare, Count! And it is an art, for only artists rely on nothing but themselves and nature, rather than on time or circumstances.
* * *
True thoughts are born only in empty heads. And if your head is full of thoughts there is nothing new it can bring forth. I am unsettled by the state of minds. Does this not unsettle you, too? And do you have a fortune? Or do you have only humanitarian convictions? Humanitarian convictions are a plague and nothing more. You cant indulge them. You cant give in to them. By doing so you betray your own gift and fate. If you are in the grips of humanitarian convictions you are lost to history and the future. You are frailty and Frailty is thy name!
* * *
To be continued
English: John Freedman
