No More Learning

Octave
unexpectedly recovers, and as Armance about this time receives an
inheritance from a distant relative, the story promises to end hap-
pily; but at the last moment he is induced to credit a calumny
against her, and commits suicide, when Armance retires to a con-
vent. The book is distinctly inferior to his later efforts, and M. Rod
is the first to find hidden beauties in it.
Very different was his next book, 'Le Rouge et Le Noir,' the
Army and the Priesthood, which appeared in 1830, and is now recog-
nized as Stendhal's masterpiece. As its singular name is intended
to imply, it deals with the changed social conditions which con-
fronted the young men of France after the downfall of Napoleon,-


## p. 1866 (#56) ############################################

1866
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
the reaction against war and military glory in favor of the Church;
a topic which greatly occupied Stendhal, and which is well summed
up in the words of his hero Julien :- "When Bonaparte made him-
self talked about, France was afraid of invasion; military merit was
necessary and fashionable. To-day one sees priests of forty with
appointments of a hundred thousand francs, three times that of
Napoleon's famous generals; " and he concludes, "The thing to do is
to be a priest. "
This Julien Sorel is the son of a shrewd but ignorant peasant,
owner of a prosperous saw-mill in the small town of Verrières, in
Franche-Comté. "He was a small young man, of feeble appearance,
with irregular but delicate features, and an aquiline nose;
who could have divined that that girlish face, so pale and gentle,
hid an indomitable resolution to expose himself to a thousand deaths
sooner than not make his fortune? " His only schooling is gained
from a cousin, an old army surgeon, who taught him Latin and
inflamed his fancy with stories of Napoleon, and from the aged Abbé
Chélan who grounds him in theology, -for Julien had proclaimed his
intention of studying for the priesthood. By unexpected good luck,
his Latin earned him an appointment as tutor to the children of
M. de Rênal, the pompous and purse-proud Mayor of Verrières.
Julien is haunted by his peculiar notions of duties which he owes it
to himself to perform as steps towards his worldly advancement; for
circumstances have made him a consummate hypocrite. One of these
duties is to make love to Mme. de Rênal: "Why should he not be
loved as Bonaparte, while still poor, had been loved by the brilliant
Mme. de Beauharnais? " His pursuit of the Mayor's gentle and inex-
perienced wife proves only too successful, but at last reaches the ears
of the Abbé Chélan, whose influence compels Julien to leave Verrières
and go to the Seminary at Besançon, to finish his theological studies.
His stay at the Seminary was full of disappointment, for "it was in
vain that he made himself small and insignificant, he could not
please: he was too different. " At last he has a chance to go to
Paris, as secretary to the influential Marquis de La Mole, who inter-
ests himself in Julien and endeavors to advance him socially. The
Marquis has a daughter, Mathilde, a female counterpart of Stendhal's
heroes; with exalted ideas of duty, and a profound reverence for
Marguerite of Navarre, who dared to ask the executioner for the head
of her lover, Boniface de La Mole, executed April 30th, 1574. Ma-
thilde always assumed mourning on April 30th. "I know of nothing,"
she declared, "except condemnation to death, which distinguishes a
man: it is the only thing which cannot be bought. " Julien soon con-
ceives it his duty to win Mathilde's affections, and the love passages
which ensue between these two "ésprits supérieurs" are singular in
·


## p. 1867 (#57) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1867
the extreme: they arrive at love only through a complicated intellect-
ual process, in which the question of duty, either to themselves or to
each other, is always paramount. At last it becomes necessary to
confess their affection to the Marquis, who is naturally furious. "For
the first time in his life this nobleman forgot his manners: he over-
whelmed him with atrocious insults, worthy of a cab-driver. Perhaps
the novelty of these oaths was a distraction. " What hurts him most
is that Mathilde will be plain Mme. Sorel and not a duchess. But at
this juncture the father receives a letter from Mme. de Rênal, tell-
ing of her relations with Julien, and accusing him of having deliber-
ately won Mathilde in order to possess her wealth. Such baseness
the Marquis cannot pardon, and at any cost he forbids the marriage.
Julien returns immediately to Verrières, and finding Mme. de Rênal
in church, deliberately shoots her. She ultimately recovers from her
wound, but Julien is nevertheless condemned and guillotined. Mme.
de Rênal dies of remorse, while Mathilde, emulating Marguerite de
Navarre, buries Julien's head with her own hands.
The Chartreuse de Parme,' although written the same year as
the 'Rouge et Noir,' was not published until 1839, two years before
his death, and was judged his best effort. "He has written The
Modern Prince,'» declared Balzac, "the book which Macchiavelli would
have written if he had been living exiled from Italy in the nineteenth
century. " The action takes place at Parma; and as a picture of court
life in a small Italian principality, with all its jealousies and intrigues,
the book is certainly a masterpiece. But it is marred by the extrava-
gance of its plot. The hero, Fabrice, is the younger son of a proud
and bigoted Milanese nobleman, the Marquis del Dongo, who "joined
a sordid avarice to a host of other fine qualities," and in his devotion
to the House of Austria was implacable towards Napoleon. Fabrice,
however, was "a young man susceptible of enthusiasm," and on
learning of Napoleon's return from Elba, hastened secretly to join
him, and participated in the battle of Waterloo. This escapade is
denounced by his father to the Austrian police, and on his return
Fabrice is forced to take refuge in Swiss territory. About this time
his aunt Gina, the beautiful Countess Pietranera, goes to live at
Parma; and to conceal a love affair with the prime minister Mosca
marries the old Duke of Sanseverina-Taxis, who obligingly leaves on
his wedding-day for a distant embassy. Gina has always felt a
strong interest for Fabrice, which later ripens into a passion. It is
agreed that Fabrice shall study for the priesthood, and that Count
Mosca will use his influence to have him made Archbishop of Parma,
an office frequently held in the past by Del Dongos. Unfortunately
Fabrice is drawn into a quarrel with a certain Giletti, a low comedy
actor, whom he kills in self-defense. Ordinarily the killing of a


## p. 1868 (#58) ############################################

1868
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
fellow of Giletti's stamp by a Del Dongo would have been considered
a trifling matter; but this offense assumes importance through the
efforts of a certain political faction to discredit the minister through
his protégé. The situation is further complicated by the Prince, Ernest
IV. , who has come under the spell of Gina's beauty, and furious at
finding her obdurate, is glad of an opportunity to humiliate her.
Fabrice is condemned to ten years' imprisonment in the Farnese
tower, the Prince treacherously disregarding his promise of pardon.
From this point the plot becomes fantastic. From his window in the
tower, Fabrice overlooks that of Clélia, daughter of General Fabio
Conti, governor of the prison. It is a case of mutual love at first
sight, and for months the two hold communication by signs above
the heads of the passing sentries. After his fabulous escape, effected
by the help of his aunt, Fabrice is inconsolable, and at length returns
voluntarily to the tower in order to be near Clélia. It is not until
after the death of the Prince that the Duchess obtains Fabrice's
pardon from his son and successor. At last Clélia dies, and Fabrice
enters the neighboring monastery, the Chartreuse of Parma.
Fabrice's experiences on the battle-field of Waterloo, where as a
raw youth he first "smelled powder," are recounted with a good deal
of realistic detail. They suggest a comparison with a book of more
recent date devoted to a similar subject, Stephen Crane's 'Red Badge
of Courage,' though of course the latter does not approach Stendhal
in artistic self-restraint and mastery over form.
<
«<
The remaining novel, 'Lucien Leuwen,' was left in an unfinished
state, and thus published after the author's death, under the title of
'Le Chasseur Vert. ' Recently they have been republished, under
the name of 'Lucien Leuwen,' with additional material which the
editor, M. Jean de Mitty, claims to have deciphered from almost
illegible manuscripts found in the library at Grenoble.
But even
without these additions there is enough to show that 'Lucien
Leuwen' would have been one of his best efforts, second only, per-
haps, to the Rouge et Noir. ' The hero, Lucien, is the son of a rich
financier, who was never out of temper and never took a serious
tone with his son," but cheerfully paid his debts, saying "A son is
a creditor provided by nature. ” Out of mere ennui from lack of
serious employment, Lucien enters as sub-lieutenant a regiment of
Lancers in garrison at Nancy. He has no illusions about military
life in times of peace:-"I shall wage war only upon cigars; I shall
become the pillager of a military café in the gloomy garrison of an
ill-paved little town. .
What glory! My soul will be well
caught when I present myself to Napoleon in the next world. No
doubt,' he will say, 'you were dying of hunger when you took up
this life? ' 'No, General. ' I shall reply, I thought I was imitating


## p. 1869 (#59) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1869
you. '» His early experiences at Nancy, his subsequent meeting with
and love for Mme. de Chasteller, are admirable equally for their
moderation and their fidelity.
Since Stendhalism has become a cult, so much has been written
on the subject that a complete bibliography of Stendhaliana would
occupy several pages. Aside from the well-known criticisms of Bal-
zac, Taine, and Sainte-Beuve, the most important contributions to the
subject are the article by Zola in 'Romanciers Naturalistes,' that
by Bourget in 'Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine,' and the biogra-
phy by Edouard Rod in the 'Grands Écrivains Français' (Great
French Writers) Series. Thanks to the zeal of M. Casimir Stry-
ienski, a considerable amount of autobiographical material has lately
been brought to light: Journal de Stendhal,' 'Vie de Henri Brou-
lard,' and Souvenirs d'Égotisme,' which, together with his 'Corre-
spondence,' are indispensable for a true knowledge of the man.
<
Frederis Taber Cooper
PRINCESS SANSEVERINA'S INTERVIEW
From La Chartreuse de Parme>
WHIL
HILE Fabrice was gone a-hunting after love adventures in
a small village close by Parma, the Fiscal General, Rassi,
unaware that he was so near, continued to treat his case
as though he had been a Liberal. The witnesses for the defense
he pretended that he could not find, or rather that he had fright-
ened them off; and finally, after nearly a year of such sharp
practice, and about two months after Fabrice's last return to
Bologna, on a certain Friday, the Marquise Raversi, intoxicated
with joy, stated publicly in her salon that on the following day
"the sentence which had just been passed upon that little Del
Dongo would be presented to the Prince for signature, and would
be approved by him. " Shortly afterwards the Duchess learned
these remarks of her enemy.
"The Count must be very poorly served by his agents," she
said to herself: "only this morning he was sure that sentence
could not be passed inside of a week: perhaps he would not be
sorry to have my young Grand Vicar removed from Parma some
day. But," she added, we shall see him come back, and he
shall be our Archbishop. " The Duchess rang.


## p. 1870 (#60) ############################################

1870
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"Summon all the servants to the waiting-room," she said to
her valet-de-chambre, "even the cooks; go and obtain from the
officer in command the requisite permit for four post-horses; and
see that in less than half an hour these horses are attached to
my landau. " All her women were soon busied in packing the
trunks: the Duchess hastily donned a traveling dress, without
once sending word to the Count; the idea of amusing herself at
his expense filled her with joy.
"My friend," she said to the assembled servants, "is about
to suffer condemnation by default for having had the audacity to
defend his life against a madman; it was Giletti who meant
to kill him. You have all been able to see how gentle and in-
offensive Fabrice's character is. Justly incensed at this atrocious
injury, I am starting for Florence. I shall leave ten years' wages
for each of you; if you are unhappy, write to me; and so long
as I have a sequin, there shall be something for you. ”
The Duchess felt exactly as she spoke, and at her last words
the servants burst into tears; she herself had moist eyes. She
added in a voice of emotion: "Pray to God for me and for
Monsigneur Fabrice del Dongo, first Grand Vicar of this Diocese,
who will be condemned to-morrow morning to the galleys, or
what would be less stupid, to the penalty of death. "
The tears of the servants redoubled, and little by little
changed into cries which were very nearly seditious. The Duch-
ess entered her carriage and drove directly to the palace of the
Prince. In spite of the untimely hour, she solicited an audience,
through General Fontana, acting aide-de-camp. She was nowise
in full court toilette, a fact which threw that aide-de-camp into
a profound stupor.
The Prince, for his part, was by no means surprised, still
less annoyed, at this request for an audience. "We are going
to see tears shed by lovely eyes," said he, rubbing his hands;
"she is coming to ask for grace; at last that proud beauty
has to humble herself! Really she has been too insupportable
with her little independent airs! Those eloquent eyes always
seemed to be saying to me, at the least thing which annoyed
her, Naples or Milan would be an abode offering very different
attractions from those of your small town of Parma. ' True
enough, I do not reign over Naples or Milan; but all the same,
this fine lady has come to ask me something which depends
exclusively upon me, and which she is burning to obtain. I


## p. 1871 (#61) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1871
always thought the coming of that nephew would give me some
hold upon her. "
While the Prince was smiling over his thoughts, and giving
himself up to all these agreeable anticipations, he was striding up
and down his cabinet, at the door of which General Fontana still
remained standing, erect and stiff as a soldier at carry-arms.
Seeing the Prince's flashing eye and recalling the Duchess's
traveling dress, he prepared for a dissolution of the monarchy.
His confusion knew no bounds when he heard the Prince's order:
"Beg Madame the Duchess to wait a small quarter of an hour. ”
The general-aide-de-camp executed a right-about-face, like a sol-
dier on parade; the Prince still smiled. "Fontana is not accus-
tomed," he said to himself, "to see our proud Duchess kept
waiting. The astonished face with which he has gone to tell her
'to wait that small quarter of an hour' will pave the way for
those touching tears which this cabinet is about to witness. "
This small quarter of an hour was delicious to the Prince; he
paced the floor with a firm and measured step, he reigned.
"The important thing now is to say nothing which is not per-
fectly in keeping. It will not do to forget that she is one of
the highest ladies of my court. How would Louis XIV. have
spoken to the princesses his daughters when he had occasion to
be displeased with them? " and his eyes sought the portrait of
the great king.
The amusing part of the matter was that the Prince did not
even think of asking himself whether he would show clemency to
Fabrice, and how far such clemency would go. Finally, at the
end of twenty minutes, the faithful Fontana presented himself
anew at the door, but without uttering a word. "The Duch-
ess Sanseverina may enter," cried the Prince with a theatrical
air.
"The tears are about to commence," he told himself, and
as if to be prepared for such a spectacle, he drew out his hand-
kerchief.
Never had the Duchess appeared so gay and charming; she
did not look twenty-five. The poor aide-de-camp, seeing that her
light and rapid footstep barely seemed to skim the carpet, was on
the point of losing his reason once for all.
“I must crave many pardons of your Most Serene Highness,"
said the Duchess in her soft tones of careless gayety: "I have
taken the liberty of presenting myself in a toilette which is not
altogether appropriate; but your Highness has so accustomed me


## p. 1872 (#62) ############################################

1872
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
to his favors that I have ventured to hope that he would accord
me this additional grace. "
The Duchess spoke quite slowly, so as to give herself time to
enjoy the expression of the Prince. It was delicious, on account
of his profound astonishment, and that remnant of grand airs
which the pose of his head and arms still betrayed. The Prince
had remained as if struck by a thunderbolt; from time to time,
he exclaimed, in his high-pitched voice, shrill and perturbed, as
though articulating with difficulty: "How is this? how is this? »
After concluding her compliment, the Duchess, as though from
respect, afforded him ample time to reply; then she added:
·-
"I venture to hope that your Most Serene Highness will
deign to pardon the incongruity of my costume:" but as she
spoke, her mocking eyes flashed with so bright a gleam that the
Prince could not meet them. He looked at the ceiling, a sign
with him of the most extreme embarrassment.
"How is this? how is this? " he said to himself again; then
by good luck, he found a phrase: "Madame la Duchesse, pray
be seated," and he himself pushed forward a chair, with fairly
good grace. The Duchess was by no means insensible to this
attention, and she moderated the petulance of her glance.
"How is this? how is this? " still repeated the Prince in-
wardly, shifting so uneasily in his chair that one would have
said that he could not find a secure position.
"I am going to take advantage of the freshness of the night
to travel post," resumed the Duchess, "and as my absence may
be of some duration, I was unwilling to leave the territory of
your Most Serene Highness without expressing my thanks for
all the favors which for five years your Highness has deigned to
show me. " At these words the Prince at last understood; he
turned pale. It was as man of the world that he felt it most
keenly, on finding himself mistaken in his predictions. Then he
assumed a grand air, in every way worthy of the portrait of
Louis XIV. , which was before his eyes. "Admirable," said the
Duchess to herself, "there is a man. "
"And what is the motive of this sudden departure? " asked
the Prince, in a fairly firm tone.
"I have contemplated leaving, for some time," replied the
Duchess, "and a slight insult which has been shown to Mon-
signor del Dongo, who is to be condemned to-morrow to death
or to the galleys makes me hasten my departure. "


## p. 1873 (#63) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1873
"And to what city are you going? "
"To Naples, I think. " As she arose, she added, "It only
remains for me to take leave of your Most Serene Highness,
and to thank him very humbly for all his earlier kindnesses. "
She, on her part, spoke with so firm an air that the Prince saw
clearly that in a few seconds all would be finished. He knew
that if a triumphant departure was once effected, all compromise
would be impossible. She was not the woman to retrace her
steps. He hastened after her.
"But you know very well, Madame la Duchesse," he said,
taking her hand, "that I have always regarded you with a
friendship to which it needed only a word from you to give
another name. But a murder has been committed; there is no
way of denying that. I have intrusted the conduct of the case
to my best judges
At these words the Duchess drew herself up to her full
height. All semblance of respect, or even of urbanity, disap-
peared in a flash. The outraged woman was clearly revealed,
the outraged woman addressing herself to the one whom she
knows to be of bad faith. It was with an expression of keenest
anger and even of contempt that she said to the Prince, dwell-
ing upon every word:
"I am leaving forever the States of your Most Serene High-
ness, in order that I shall never again hear mentioned the Fiscal
Rassi, or the other infamous assassins who have condemned my
nephew and so many others to death. If your Most Serene High-
ness does not wish to mingle a tinge of bitterness with the last
moments which I am to pass with a prince who is both polite
and entertaining when he is not misled, I beg him very humbly
not to recall the thought of those infamous judges who sell
themselves for a thousand crowns or a decoration. "
The admirable accent, and above all the tone of sincerity,
with which these words were uttered, made the Prince tremble;
for an instant he feared to see his dignity compromised by a
still more direct accusation. On the whole, however, his sensa-
tions quickly culminated in one of pleasure. He admired the
Duchess, and at this moment her entire person attained a sub-
lime beauty.
"Heavens! how beautiful she is," the Prince said to himself:
(( one may well overlook something in so unique a woman, one
whose like perhaps is not to be found in all Italy. Well,
-
IV-118


## p. 1874 (#64) ############################################

1874
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
with a little diplomacy it might not be altogether impossible
to make her mine. -There is a wide difference between such
a being and that doll of a Marquise Balbi; besides, the latter
steals at least three hundred thousand francs a year from my
poor subjects. But did I understand her aright? " he thought
all of a sudden: "she said, 'condemned my nephew and so many
others. " His anger came to the surface, and it was with a
haughtiness worthy of supreme rank that the Prince said, "And
what must be done to keep Madame from leaving? »
"Something of which you are not capable,” replied the Duch-
ess, with an accent of the bitterest irony and the most thinly
disguised contempt.
The Prince was beside himself, but thanks to his long practice
of the profession of absolute sovereign, he found the strength to
resist his first impulse. "That woman must be mine," he said
to himself. "I owe myself at least that; then I must let her
perish under my contempt. If she leaves this room, I shall never
see her again. " But, intoxicated as he was at this moment with
wrath and hatred, how was he to find words which would at once
satisfy what was due to himself and induce the Duchess not to
desert his court on the instant? "A gesture," he thought, "is
something which can neither be repeated nor turned into ridi-
cule," and he went and placed himself between the Duchess and
the door of his cabinet. Just then he heard a slight tapping at
this door.
"Who is this jackanapes? " he cried, at the top of his lungs,
"who is this jackanapes who comes here, thrusting his idiotic
presence upon me? " Poor General Fontana showed his face, pale
and in evident discomfiture, and with the air of a man at his
last gasp, indistinctly pronounced these words:-"His Excellency
Count Mosca solicits the honor of being admitted. "
"Let him enter," said the Prince in a loud voice; and as
Mosca made his salutation, greeted him with:
"Well, sir, here is Madame the Duchess Sanseverina, who
declares that she is on the point of leaving Parma to go and
settle at Naples, and has made me saucy speeches into the
bargain. "
―――――――――
"How is this? " said Mosca, turning pale.
"What, then you knew nothing of this project of departure?
"Not the first word. At six o'clock I left Madame joyous
and contented. "
>>


## p. 1875 (#65) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1875
This speech produced an incredible effect upon the Prince.
First he glanced at Mosca, whose growing pallor proved that he
spoke the truth and was in no way the accomplice of the
Duchess's sudden freak. "In that case," he said to himself, "I
am losing her forever. Pleasure and vengeance, everything is
escaping me at once. At Naples she will make epigrams with
her nephew Fabrice, about the great wrath of the little Prince
of Parma. He looked at the Duchess; anger and the most vio-
lent contempt were struggling in her heart; her eyes were fixed
at that moment upon Count Mosca, and the fine lines of that
lovely mouth expressed the most bitter disdain. The entire
expression of her face seemed to say, "Vile courtier!
" "So,"
thought the Prince, after having examined her, "I have lost
even this means of calling her back to our country. If she
leaves the room at this moment, she is lost to me. And the
Lord only knows what she will say in Naples of my judges,
and with that wit and divine power of persuasion with which
heaven has endowed her, she will make the whole world believe
her. I shall owe her the reputation of being a ridiculous tyrant,
who gets up in the middle of the night to look under his
bed! "
Then, by an adroit movement, and as if striving to work off
his agitation by striding up and down, the Prince placed himself
anew before the door of his cabinet. The count was
on his
right, pale, unnerved, and trembling so that he had to lean for
support upon the back of the chair which the Duchess had occu-
pied at the beginning of the audience, and which the Prince, in
a moment of wrath, had hurled to a distance. The Count was
really in love. "If the Duchess goes away, I shall follow her,"
he told himself; "but will she tolerate my company? that is the
question. "
On the left of the Prince stood the Duchess, her arms crossed
and pressed against her breast, looking at him with superb
intolerance; a complete and profound pallor had succeeded the
glowing colors which just before had animated those exquisite
features.
The Prince, in contrast with both the others, had a high color
and an uneasy air; his left hand played in a nervous fashion
with the cross attached to the grand cordon of his order, which
he wore beneath his coat; with his right hand he caressed his
chin.


## p. 1876 (#66) ############################################

1876
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"What is to be done? " he said to the Count, not altogether
realizing what he was doing himself, but yielding to his habit of
consulting the latter about everything.
"Indeed, Most Serene Highness, I know nothing about it,"
answered the Count, with the air of a man who is rendering up
his final sigh; he could hardly utter the words of his response.
His tone of voice gave the Prince the first consolation which his
wounded pride had found during the interview, and this slight
satisfaction helped him to a phrase which was comforting to his
self-esteem:
_______
"Well," said he, "I am the most reasonable of all three; I
am quite ready to leave my position in the world entirely out of
consideration. I am going to speak as a friend," and he added
with a charming smile of condescension, a fine imitation of the
happy times of Louis XIV. , "as a friend speaking to friends:
Madame la Duchesse," he continued, "what are we to do to
make you forget your untimely resolution ? »
"Really, I am at a loss to say," replied the Duchess, with a
deep sigh, "really, I am at a loss to say: I have such a horror
of Parma! " There was no attempt at epigram in this speech;
one could see that she spoke in all sincerity.
The Count turned sharply away from her; his courtier's soul
was scandalized. Then he cast a supplicating glance at the
Prince. With much dignity and self-possession the latter allowed
a moment to pass; then, addressing himself to the Count, "I
see," said he, "that your charming friend is altogether beside
herself. It is perfectly simple, she adores her nephew;" and
turning towards the Duchess, he added with the most gallant
glance, and at the same time with the air which one assumes in
borrowing a phrase from a comedy: "What must we do to find
favor in these lovely eyes? »
The Duchess had had time to reflect: She answered in a
firm, slow tone, as if she were dictating her ultimatum:-
"His Highness might write me a gracious letter, such as he
knows so well how to write: he might say to me, that being by
no means convinced of the guilt of Fabrice del Dongo, First
Grand Vicar of the Archbishop, he will refuse to sign the
sentence when they come to present it to him, and that this
unjust procedure shall have no consequence in the future. "
"How is that? Unjust! " cried the Prince, coloring to the
whites of his eyes, and with renewed anger.


## p. 1877 (#67) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1877
"That is not all," replied the Duchess with truly Roman
pride, "this very evening- and," she interposed, glancing at the
clock, "it is already a quarter past eleven-this very evening,
his Most Serene Highness will send word to the Marquise Raversi
that he advises her to go into the country to recuperate from
the fatigues which she must have suffered from a certain trial
which she was discussing in her salon early in the evening. "
The Prince strode up and down his cabinet, like a madman.
"Did one ever see such a woman? " he exclaimed. "She is lack-
ing in respect for me. "
The Duchess replied with perfect grace:
:-
"I have never in my life dreamed of lacking respect for his
Most Serene Highness; His Highness has had the extreme con-
descension to say that he was speaking as a friend to friends.
What is more, I have not the smallest desire to remain in
Parma," she added, glancing at the Count with the last degree of
contempt. This glance decided the Prince, who up to that mo-
ment had been quite uncertain, notwithstanding that his words had
seemed to imply a promise; he had a fine contempt for words.
There were still a few more words exchanged; but at last
Count Mosca received the order to write the gracious note soli-
cited by the Duchess. He omitted the phrase "this unjust proced-
ure shall have no consequence in the future. " "It is sufficient,”
said the Count to himself, "if the Prince promises not to sign.
the sentence which is to be presented to him. " The Prince
thanked him by a glance, as he signed.
The Count made a great mistake; the Prince was wearied and
would have signed the whole. He thought that he was getting
out of the scene well, and the whole affair was dominated, in his
eyes, by the thought-"If the Duchess leaves, I shall find my
court a bore inside of a week. " The Count observed that his
master corrected the date, and substituted that of the next day.
He looked at the clock; it indicated almost midnight. The min-
ister saw, in this altered date, nothing more than a pedantic
desire to afford proof of exactitude and good government. As to
the exile of the Marquise Raversi, the Prince did not even frown:
the Prince had a special weakness for exiling people.
"General Fontana! " he cried, half opening the door.
The General appeared, with such an astonished and curious a
face that a glance of amusement passed between the Duchess
and the Count, and this glance established peace.


## p. 1878 (#68) ############################################

1878
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
"General Fontana," said the Prince, "you are to take my
carriage, which is waiting under the colonnade; you will go to
the house of Mme. Raversi, and have yourself announced: if
she is in bed, you will add that you are my representative, and
when admitted to her chamber, you will say precisely these words,
and no others: 'Mme. la Marquise Raversi, his Most Serene
Highness requires that you shall depart before eight o'clock to-
morrow morning, for your chateau of Valleja. His Highness will
notify you when you may return to Parma. › »
The Prince's eyes sought those of the Duchess, but the latter,
omitting the thanks which he had expected, made him an extremely
respectful reverence, and rapidly left the room.
woman! " said the Prince, turning towards Count
"What a
Mosca.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.
CLÉLIA AIDS FABRICE TO ESCAPE
From La Chartreuse de Parme
ON
NE day- Fabrice had been a captive nearly three months,
had had absolutely no communication with the outside
world, and yet was not unhappy-Grillo had remained
hanging about the cell until a late hour of the morning. Fa-
brice could think of no way of getting rid of him, and was on
pins and needles; half-past twelve had struck when at last he
was enabled to open the little trap in the hateful shutter.
Clélia was standing at the window of the aviary in an expect-
ant attitude, an expression of profound despair on her contracted
features. As soon as she saw Fabrice she signaled to him that
all was lost; then, hurrying to her piano, and adapting her
words to the accompaniment of a recitative from a favorite
opera, in accents tremulous with her emotion and the fear of
being overheard by the sentry beneath, she sang:—
"Ah, do I see you still alive? Praise God for his infinite
mercy! Barbone, the wretch whose insolence you chastised the
day of your arrival here, disappeared some time ago and for a
few days was not seen about the citadel. He returned day be-
fore yesterday, and since then I have reason to fear he has a
design of poisoning you. He has been seen prowling about the
kitchen of the palace where your meals are prepared.
I can


## p. 1879 (#69) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1879
assert nothing positively, but it is my maid's belief that his
skulking there bodes you no good. I was frightened this morn-
ing, not seeing you at the usual time; I thought you must be
dead. Until you hear more from me, do not touch the food
they give you; I will try to manage to convey a little chocolate
to you.
In any case, if you have a cord, or can make one from
your linen, let it down from your window among the orange-
trees this evening at nine o'clock. I will attach a stronger cord
to it, and with its aid you can draw up the bread and chocolate
I will have in readiness. "
Fabrice had carefully preserved the bit of charcoal he had
found in the stove; taking advantage of Clélia's more softened
mood, he formed on the palm of his hand a number of letters in
succession, which taken together made up these words:-
"I love you, and life is dear to me only when I can see you.
Above all else, send me paper and a pencil. ”
As Fabrice had hoped and expected, the extreme terror visible
in the young girl's face operated to prevent her from terminating
the interview on receipt of this audacious message; she only tes-
tified her displeasure by her looks. Fabrice had the prudence to
add: "The wind blows so hard to-day that I couldn't catch
quite all you said; and then, too, the sound of the piano drowns
your voice.
You were saying something about poison, weren't
what was it? "
you
-
-
At these words the young girl's terror returned in all its vio-
lence; she hurriedly set to work to describe with ink a number
of large capital letters on the leaves she tore from one of her
books, and Fabrice was delighted to see her at last adopt the
method of correspondence that he had been vainly advocating for
the last three months. But this system, although an improve-
ment on the signals, was less desirable than a regular exchange
of letters, so Fabrice constantly feigned to be unable to decipher
the words of which she exhibited the component letters.
A summons from her father obliged her to leave the aviary.
She was in great alarm lest he might come to look for her there;
his suspicious nature would have been likely to scent danger in
the proximity of his daughter's window to the prisoner's. It had
occurred to Clélia a short time before, while so anxiously await-
ing Fabrice's appearance, that pebbles might be made factors in
their correspondence, by wrapping the paper on which the mes-
sage was written round them and throwing them up so they


## p. 1880 (#70) ############################################

1880
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
should fall within the open upper portion of the screen. The
device would have worked well unless Fabrice's keeper chanced
to be in the room at the time.
Our prisoner proceeded to tear one of his shirts into narrow
strips, forming a sort of ribbon. Shortly after nine o'clock that
evening he heard a tapping on the boxes of the orange-trees
under his window; he cautiously lowered his ribbon, and on
drawing it up again found attached to its free end a long cord
by means of which he hauled up a supply of chocolate, and, to
his inexpressible satisfaction, a package of note-paper and a
pencil. He dropped the cord again, but to no purpose; perhaps
the sentries on their rounds had approached the orange-trees.
But his delight was sufficient for one evening. He sat down
and wrote a long letter to Clélia; scarcely was it ended when he
fastened it to the cord and let it down. For more than three
hours he waited in vain for some one to come and take it; two
or three times he drew it up and made alterations in it. "If
Clélia does not get my letter to-night," he said to himself,
"while those ideas of poison are troubling her brain, it is more
than likely that to-morrow she will refuse to receive it. "
The fact was that Clélia had been obliged to drive to the city
with her father. Fabrice knew how matters stood when he heard
the General's carriage enter the court about half-past twelve; he
knew it was the General's carriage by the horses' step. What
was his delight when, shortly after hearing the jingle of the
General's spurs as he crossed the esplanade, and the rattle of
muskets as the sentries presented arms, he felt a gentle tug at
the cord, the end of which he had kept wrapped around his
wrist! Something heavy was made fast to the cord; two little
jerks notified him to haul up. He had some difficulty in land-
ing the object over a cornice that projected under his window.
The article that he had secured at expense of so much trouble
proved to be a carafe of water wrapped in a shawl. The poor
young man, who had been living for so long a time in such
complete solitude, covered the shawl with rapturous kisses. But
words are inadequate to express his emotion when, after so many
days of vain waiting, he discovered a scrap of paper pinned to
the shawl.
"Drink no water but this; satisfy your hunger with choco-
late," said this precious missive. "To-morrow I will try to get
some bread to you; I will mark the crust at top and bottom with


## p. 1881 (#71) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1881
me?
little crosses made with ink. It is a frightful thing to say, but
you must know it:-I believe others are implicated in Barbone's
design to poison you. Could you not have understood that the
subject you spoke of in your letter in pencil is displeasing to
I should not think of writing to you were it not for the
great peril that is hanging over us. I have seen the Duchess;
she is well, as is the Count, but she is very thin. Write no
more on that subject which you know of: would you wish to
make me angry? »
It cost Clélia an effort to write the last sentence but one of
the above note. It was in everybody's mouth in court circles.
that Mme. Sanseverina was manifesting a great deal of friendly
interest in Count Baldi, that extremely handsome man and
quondam friend of the Marquise Raversi. The one thing cer-
tain was that he and the Marquise had separated, and he was
alleged to have behaved most shamefully toward the lady who
for six years had been to him a mother and given him his stand-
ing in society.
The next morning, long before the sun was up, Grillo entered
Fabrice's cell, laid down what seemed to be a pretty heavy pack-
age, and vanished without saying a word. The package con-
tained a good-sized loaf of bread, plentifully ornamented with
little crosses made with a pen. Fabrice covered them with
kisses. Why? Because he was in love. Beside the loaf lay a
rouleau incased in many thicknesses of paper; it contained six
thousand francs in sequins. Finally, Fabrice discovered a hand-
some brand-new prayer-book: these words, in a writing he was
beginning to be acquainted with, were written on the fly-leaf:-
"Poison! Beware the water, the wine, everything; confine
yourself to chocolate. Give the untasted dinner to the dog; it
will not do to show distrust; the enemy would have recourse to
other methods. For God's sake, be cautious! no rashness! "
-
Fabrice made haste to remove the telltale writing which might
have compromised Clélia, and to tear out a number of leaves.
from the prayer-book, with which he made several alphabets;
each letter was neatly formed with powdered charcoal moistened
with wine. The alphabets were quite dry when at a quarter to
twelve Clélia appeared at the window of the aviary. "The main
thing now is to persuade her to use them," said Fabrice to him-
self. But as it happened, fortunately, she had much to say to
the young prisoner in regard to the plan to poison him (a dog


## p. 1882 (#72) ############################################

1882
MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
belonging to one of the kitchen-maids had died after eating a
dish cooked for Fabrice), so that Clélia not only made no objec-
tion to the use of the alphabets, but had herself prepared one
in the highest style of art with ink. Under this method, which
did not work altogether smoothly at the beginning, the conver-
sation lasted an hour and a half, which was as long as Clélia
dared remain in the aviary. Two or three times, when Fabrice
trespassed on forbidden ground and alluded to matters that were
taboo, she made no answer and walked away to feed her birds.
Fabrice requested that when she sent him his supply of water
at evening she would accompany it with one of her alphabets,
which, being traced in ink, were legible at a greater distance.
He did not fail to write her a good long letter, and was careful
to put in it no soft nonsense—at least, of a nature to offend.
The next day, in their alphabetical conversation, Clélia had
no reproach to make him. She informed him that there was less
to be apprehended from the poisoners. Barbone had been way-
laid and nearly murdered by the lovers of the Governor's scullery-
maids; he would scarcely venture to show his face in the kitchens
again. She owned up to stealing a counter-poison from her
father; she sent it to him with directions how to use it, but the
main thing was to reject at once all food that seemed to have an
unnatural taste.
Clélia had subjected Don Cesare to a rigorous examination,
without succeeding in discovering whence came the six thousand
francs received by Fabrice. In any case, it was a good sign: it
showed that the severity of his confinement was relaxing.
The poison episode had a very favorable effect on our hero's
amatory enterprise: still, he could never extort anything at all
resembling a confession of love; but he had the felicity of living
on terms of intimacy with Clélia. Every morning, and often at
evening also, there was a long conversation with the alphabets;
every evening at nine o'clock Clélia received a lengthy letter, and
sometimes accorded it a few brief words of answer; she sent him
the daily paper and an occasional new book; finally, the rugged
Grillo had been so far tamed as to keep Fabrice supplied with
bread and wine, which were handed him daily by Clélia's maid.
This led honest Grillo to conclude that the Governor was not of
the same mind as those who had engaged Barbone to poison
the young Monsignor; at which he rejoiced exceedingly, as did
his comrades, for there was a saying current in the prison


## p. 1883 (#73) ############################################

MARIE-HENRI BEYLE
1883
"You have only to look Monsignor del Dongo in the face; he is
certain to give you money. "
Fabrice was very pale; lack of exercise was injuring his
health: but for all that he had never been so happy. The tone of
the conversation between Clélia and him was familiar and often
gay. The only moments of the girl's life not beset with dark
forebodings and remorse were those spent in conversing with him.
She was so thoughtless as to remark one day:-
"I admire your delicacy: because I am the Governor's daugh-
ter you have nothing to say to me of the pleasures of freedom! "
"That's because I am not so absurd as to have aspirations in
that direction," replied Fabrice. "How often could I hope to
see you if I were living in Parma, a free man again? And life
would not be worth living if I could not tell you all my thoughts
-no, not that exactly: you take precious good care I don't tell
you all my thoughts! But in spite of your cruel tyranny, to live
without seeing you daily would be a far worse punishment than
captivity; in all my life I was never so happy! Isn't it strange
to think happiness was awaiting me in a prison ? »
"There is a good deal to be said on that point," rejoined
Clélia, with an air that all at once became very serious, almost
threatening.
"What! " exclaimed Fabrice, in alarm, "am I in danger of
losing the small place I have won in your heart, my sole joy in
this world? "
"Yes," she replied. Although your reputation in society is
that of a gentleman and gallant man, I have reason to believe
you are not acting ingenuously toward me. But I don't wish to
discuss this matter to-day. "
«<
This strange exordium cast an element of embarrassment into
the conversation, and tears were often in the eyes of both.
Copyrighted by George H. Richmond and Company.


## p. 1884 (#74) ############################################

1884
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
(1756-1831)
W
ILLEM BILDERDIJK's personality, even more than his genius,
exerted so powerful an influence over his time that it has
been said that to think of a Dutchman of the late eighteenth
and early nineteenth century was to think of Bilderdijk. He stands
as the representative of the great literary and intellectual awakening
which took place in Holland immediately after that country became
part of the French empire. The history of literature has many exam-
ples of how, under political disturbances, the agitated mind has
sought refuge in literary and scientific pursuits, and it seemed at that
time as if Dutch literature was entering a new Golden Age. The
country had never known better poets; but it was the poetry of the
eighteenth century, to quote Ten Brink, "ceremonious and stagy. "
In 'Herinnering van mijne Kindheit (Reminiscences of My Child-
hood), a book which is not altogether to be relied upon, Bilderdijk
gives a charming picture of his father, a physician in Amsterdam,
but speaks of his mother in less flattering terms. He was born in
Amsterdam in 1756. At an early age he suffered an injury to his
foot, a peasant boy having carelessly stepped on it; attempts were
made to cure him by continued bleedings, and the result was that
he was confined to his bed for twelve years. These years laid the
foundation of a character lacking in power to love and to call forth
love, and developing into an almost fierce hypochondria, full of com-
plaints and fears of death. In these years, however, he acquired the
information and the wonderful power of language which appear in
his sinewy verse.
One of his poems, dated 1770, has been preserved, but is prin-
cipally interesting as a first attempt. Others, written in his twentieth
year, were prize poems, and are sufficiently characterized by their
titles:-Kunst wordt door Arbeid verkregen (Art came through
Toil), and 'Inloed der Dichthunst op het Staets bestuur' (Influence
of Poetry on Statesmanship). When he went to Leyden in 1780
to study law, he was already famous. His examinations passed, he
settled at the Hague to practice, and in 1785 married Katharina
Rebekka Woesthoven. The following year he published his romance,
'Elius,' in seven songs. The romance ultimately became his favorite
form of verse; but this was not the form now called romance. It
was the rhymed narrative of the eighteenth century, written with


## p. 1885 (#75) ############################################

WILLEM BILDERDIJK
1885
endless care and reflection, and in his case with so superior a treat-
ment of language that no Dutch poet since Huygens had approached it.
The year 1795 was the turning-point in Bilderdijk's life. He had
been brought up in unswerving faith in the cause of the house of
Orange, was a fanatic monarchist and Calvinist, "anti-revolutionary,
anti-Barneveldtian, anti-Loevesteinisch, anti-liberal" (thus Da Costa),
a warm supporter of William the Fifth, and at the entrance of the
French in 1795 he refused to give his oath of allegiance to the cause
of the citizens and the sovereignty of the people. He was exiled,
left the Hague, and went to London, and later to Brunswick. This
was not altogether a misfortune for him, nor an unrelieved sorrow.
He had been more successful as poet than as husband or financier,
and by his compulsory banishment escaped his financial difficulties
and what he considered the chains of his married life. In London
Bilderdijk met his countryman the painter Schweikhardt; and with
this meeting begins a period of his life over which his admirers
would fain draw a veil. With Schweikhardt were his two daughters,
of whom the younger, Katherina Wilhelmina, became Bilderdijk's
first pupil, and, excepting his "intellectual son," Isaak da Costa,
probably his only one. Besides her great poetic gifts she possessed
beauty and charm. She fell in love with her teacher and followed
him to Brunswick, where she lived in his house under the name of
Frau van Heusden. In spite of this arrangement, the poet seems to
have considered himself a most faithful husband; and he did his best
to persuade his wife to join him with their children, but naturally
without success. In 1802 the marriage was legally annulled, and
Frau van Heusden took his name. She did her best to atone for the
blot on her repute by a self-sacrificing lovableness, and was in close
sympathy with Bilderdijk on the intellectual side. Like him she was
familiar with all the resources of the art of poetry. Most famous of
her poems are the long one 'Rodrigo de Goth,' and her touching,
graceful 'Gedichten voor Kinderen' (Poems for Children). Bilderdijk's
verses show what she was to him:-
In the shadow of my verdure, firmly on my trunk depending,
Grew the tender branch of cedar, never longing once to leave me;
Faithfully through rain and tempest, modest at my side it rested,
Bearing to my honor solely the first twig it might its own call;
Fair the wreath thy flowers made me for my knotted trunk fast withering,
And my soul with pride was swelling at the crown of thy young blos-
soms;
Straight and strong and firmly rooted, tall and green thy head arises,
Bright the glory of its freshness; never yet by aught bedimmed.
Lo! my crown to thine now bending, only thine the radiant freshness,
And my soul finds rest and comfort in thy sheltering foliage.


## p. 1886 (#76) ############################################

1886
WILLEM BILDERDIJK
Meanwhile he was no better off materially.