Marie-Henri Beyle, French novelist and man of letters, who is better
known under his bizarre pseudonym of Stendhal, is a somewhat unusual
figure among French writers. He was curiously misappreciated by his own
generation, whose literary movements he in turn confessedly ignored. He
is recognized to-day as an important link in the development of modern
fiction, and is even discussed concurrently with Balzac, in the same way
that we speak of Dickens and Thackeray, Emerson and Lowell.
[Illustration: HENRI BEYLE]
There is nothing dramatic in Stendhal's life, which, viewed impartially,
is a simple and somewhat pathetic record of failure and disillusion. He
was six years older than Balzac, having been born January 23d, 1783, in
the small town of Grenoble, in Dauphiné, which, with its narrow
prejudices and petty formalism, seemed to him in after years "the
souvenir of an abominable indigestion." He early developed an abnormal
sensibility, which would have met with ready response had his mother
lived, but which a keen dread of ridicule taught him to hide from an
unsympathetic father and a still more unkind aunt,--later his
step-mother, Séraphie Gagnon. He seemed predestined to be
misunderstood--even his school companions finding him odd, and often
amusing themselves at his expense. Thus he grew up with a sense of
isolation in his own home, and when, in 1800, he had the opportunity of
going to some distant relatives in Paris, the Daru family, he seized it
eagerly. The following year he accompanied the younger Darus to Italy,
and was present at the battle of Marengo. This was the turning-point of
Stendhal's career. He was dazzled by Napoleon's successes, and
fascinated with the beauty and gayety of Milan, where he found himself
for the first time in a congenial atmosphere, and among companions
animated by a common cause. His consequent sense of freedom and
exaltation knew no bounds. Henceforth Napoleon was to be his hero, and
Italy the land of his election; two lifelong passions which furnish the
clew to much that is enigmatic in his character.
During the ensuing years, while he followed the fortunes of Napoleon
throughout the Prussian campaign and until after the retreat from
Moscow, Italy was always present in his thoughts, and when Waterloo
ended his political and military aspirations he hastened back to Milan,
declaring that he "had ceased to be a Frenchman," and settled down to a
life of tranquil Bohemianism, too absorbed in the paintings of Correggio
and in the operas of Rossini to be provident of the future. The
following years, the happiest of his life, were also the period of
Stendhal's chief intellectual growth,--due quite as much to the
influence exerted on him by Italian art and music as by his contact with
men like Manzoni, Monti, and Silvio Pellico. Unfortunately, his
relations with certain Italian patriots aroused the suspicions of the
Austrian police, and he was abruptly banished. He returned to Paris,
where to his surprise life proved more than tolerable, and where he made
many valuable acquaintances, such as Benjamin Constant, Destutt de
Tracy, and Prosper Mérimée. The revolution of July brought him a change
of fortune; for he was in sympathy with Louis Philippe, and did not
scruple to accept the consulship offered him at Cività Vecchia. He soon
found, however, that a small Mediterranean seaport was a poor substitute
for his beloved Milan, while its trying climate undoubtedly shortened
his life. In 1841 failing health forced him to abandon his duties and
return to Paris, where he died of apoplexy on March 23d, 1842.
So much at least of Stendhal's life must be known in order to understand
his writings; all of which, not excepting the novels, belong to what
Ferdinand Brunetière stigmatizes as "personal literature." Indeed, the
chief interest of many of his books lies in the side-lights they throw
upon his curious personality. He was a man of violent contrasts, a
puzzle to his best friends; one day making the retreat from Moscow with
undaunted zeal, the next settling down contentedly in Milan, to the very
_vie de café_ he affected to despise. He was a strange combination of
restless energy and philosophic contemplation; hampered by a morbid
sensibility which tended to increase, but which he flattered himself
that he "had learned to hide under an irony imperceptible to the
vulgar," yet continually giving offense to others by his caustic tongue.
He seemed to need the tonic of strong emotions, and was happiest when
devoting himself heart and soul to some person or cause, whether a
Napoleon, a mistress, or a question of philosophy. His great
preoccupation was the analysis of the human mind, an employment which in
later years became a positive detriment. He was often led to attribute
ulterior motives to his friends, a course which only served to render
him morbid and unjust; while his equally pitiless dissection of his own
sensations often robbed them of half their charm. Even love and war, his
favorite emotions, left him disillusioned, asking "Is that all it
amounts to?" He always had a profound respect for force of character,
regarding even lawlessness as preferable to apathy; but he was
implacable towards baseness or vulgarity. Herein lies, perhaps, the
chief reason for Stendhal's ill success in life; he would never stoop to
obsequiousness or flattery, and in avoiding even the semblance of
self-interest, allowed his fairest chances to pass him by. "I have
little regret for my lost opportunities," he wrote in 1835. "In place of
ten thousand, I might be getting twenty; in place of Chevalier, I might
be Officer of the Legion of Honor: but I should have had to think three
or four hours a day of those platitudes of ambition which are dignified
by the name of politics; I should have had to commit many base acts:" a
brief but admirable epitome of Stendhal's whole life and character.
Aside from his works of fiction, Stendhal's works may be conveniently
grouped under biographies,--'Vie de Haydn, de Mozart, et de Metastase,'
'Vie de Napoléon,' 'Vie de Rossini'; literary and artistic
criticism,--'Histoire de la Peinture en Italie,' 'Racine et
Shakespeare,' 'Mélanges d'Art et de Littérature'; travels,--'Rome,
Naples, et Florence,' 'Promenades dans Rome,' 'Mémoires d'un Touriste';
and one volume of sentimental psychology, his 'Essai sur l'Amour,' to
which Bourget owes the suggestion of his 'Physiologie de l'Amour
Moderne.' Many of these works merit greater popularity, being written in
an easy, fluent style, and relieved by his inexhaustible fund of
anecdote and personal reminiscence. His books of travel, especially, are
charming _causeries_, full of a sympathetic spontaneity which more than
atones for their lack of method; his 'Walks in Rome' is more readable
than two-thirds of the books since written on that subject.
Stendhal's present vogue, however, is due primarily to his novels, to
which he owes the almost literal fulfillment of his prophecy that he
would not be appreciated until 1880. Before that date they had been
comparatively neglected, in spite of Balzac's spontaneous and
enthusiastic tribute to the 'Chartreuse de Parme,' and the appreciative
criticisms of Taine and Prosper Mérimée. The truth is that Stendhal was
in some ways a generation behind his time, and often has an odd,
old-fashioned flavor suggestive of Marivaux and Crébillon _fils_. On the
other hand, his psychologic tendency is distinctly modern, and not at
all to the taste of an age which found Chateaubriand or Madame de Staël
eminently satisfactory. But he appeals strongly to the speculating,
self-questioning spirit of the present day, and Zola and Bourget in turn
have been glad to claim kinship with him.
Stendhal, however, cannot be summarily labeled and dismissed as a
realist or psychologue in the modern acceptation of the term, although
he was a pioneer in both fields. He had a sovereign contempt for
literary style or method, and little dreamed that he would one day be
regarded as the founder of a school. It must be remembered that he was a
soldier before he was a man of letters, and his love of adventure
occasionally got the better of his love of logic, making his novels a
curious mixture of convincing truth and wild romanticism. His heroes are
singularly like himself, a mixture of morbid introspection and restless
energy: he seems to have taken special pleasure in making them succeed
where he had failed in life, and when the spirit of the story-teller
gets the better of the psychologist, he sends them on a career of
adventure which puts to shame Dumas _père_ or Walter Scott. And yet
Stendhal was a born analyst, a self-styled "observer of the human
heart"; and the real merit of his novels lies in the marvelous fidelity
with which he interprets the emotions, showing the inner workings of his
hero's mind from day to day, and multiplying petty details with
convincing logic. But in his preoccupation for mental conditions he is
apt to lose sight of the material side of life, and the symmetry of his
novels is marred by a meagreness of physical detail and a lack of
atmosphere. Zola has laid his finger upon Stendhal's real weakness when
he points out that "the landscape, the climate, the time of day, the
weather,.--Nature herself, in other words,--never seems to intervene and
exert an influence on his characters"; and he cites a passage which in
point of fact admirably illustrates his meaning, the scene from the
'Rouge et Noir', where Julien endeavors to take the hand of Mme. de
Rênal, which he characterizes as "a little mute drama of great power,"
adding in conclusion:--"Give that episode to an author for whom the
_milieu_ exists, and he will make the night, with its odors, its voices,
its soft voluptuousness, play a part in the defeat of the woman. And
that author will be in the right; his picture will be more complete." It
is this tendency to leave nature out of consideration which gives
Stendhal's characters a flavor of abstraction, and caused Sainte-Beuve
to declare in disgust that they were "not human beings, but ingeniously
constructed automatons." Yet it is unfair to conclude with Zola, that
Stendhal was a man for whom the outside world did not exist; he was not
insensible to the beauties of nature, only he looked upon them as a
secondary consideration. After a sympathetic description of the Rhone
valley, he had to add, "But the interest of a landscape is insufficient;
in the long run, some moral or historical interest is indispensable."
Yet he recognized explicitly the influence of climate and environment
upon character, and seems to have been sensible of his own shortcomings
as an author. "I abhor material descriptions," he confesses in
'Souvenirs d'Égotisme': "the _ennui_ of making them deters me from
writing novels."
Nevertheless, aside from his short 'Chroniques' and 'Nouvelles,' and
the posthumous 'Lamiel' which he probably intended to destroy, Stendhal
has left four stories which deserve detailed consideration: 'Armance,'
'Le Rouge et Le Noir,' 'La Chartreuse de Parme,' and the fragmentary
novel 'Lucien Leuwen.'
As has been justly pointed out by Stendhal's sympathetic biographer,
Edouard Rod, the heroes of the four books are essentially of one type,
and all more or less faithful copies of himself; having in common a need
of activity, a thirst for love, a keen sensibility, and an unbounded
admiration for Napoleon--and differing only by reason of the several
_milieus_ in which he has placed them. The first of these, 'Armance,'
appeared in 1827. The hero, Octave, is an aristocrat, son of the Marquis
de Malivert, who "was very rich before the Revolution, and when he
returned to Paris in 1814, thought himself beggared on an income of
twenty or thirty thousand." Octave is the most exaggerated of all
Stendhal's heroes; a mysterious, sombre being, "a misanthrope before his
time"; coupling with his pride of birth a consciousness of its
vanity:--"Had heaven made me the son of a manufacturer of cloth, I
should have worked at my desk from the age of sixteen, while now my sole
occupation has been luxury. I should have had less pride and more
happiness. Ah, how I despise myself!" Yet it is part of Octave's
pretensions to regard himself as superior to love. When he discovers his
passion for his cousin Armance, he is overwhelmed with despair: "I am in
love," he said in a choked voice. "I, in love! Great God!" The object of
this reluctant passion, Armance de Zohiloff, is a poor orphan, dependent
upon a rich relative. Like Octave, she struggles against her affection,
but for better reasons: "The world will look upon me as a lady's-maid
who has entrapped the son of the family." The history of their long and
secret struggle against this growing passion, complicated by outside
incidents and intrigues, forms the bulk of the volume. At last Octave is
wounded in a duel, and moved by the belief that he is dying, they
mutually confess their affection. Octave unexpectedly recovers, and as
Armance about this time receives an inheritance from a distant relative,
the story promises to end happily; but at the last moment he is induced
to credit a calumny against her, and commits suicide, when Armance
retires to a convent. 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 recognized as
Stendhal's masterpiece. As its singular name is intended to imply, it
deals with the changed social conditions which confronted the young men
of France after the downfall of Napoleon,--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 himself talked about, France was afraid of
invasion; military merit was necessary and fashionable. Today 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 inexperienced 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 interests 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. Mathilde 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 conceives it his duty to win Mathilde's affections, and the
love passages which ensue between these two "ésprits supérieurs" are
singular in the extreme: they arrive at love only through a complicated
intellectual 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 overwhelmed 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, telling of her relations with Julien, and accusing him of having
deliberately 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 extravagance 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 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, perhaps, 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 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 Balzac, 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 biography by Edouard Rod
in the 'Grands Écrivains Français' (Great French Writers) Series. Thanks
to the zeal of M. Casimir Stryienski, a considerable amount of
autobiographical material has lately been brought to light: 'Journal de
Stendhal' 'Vie de Henri Broulard,' and 'Souvenirs d'Égotisme,' which,
together with his 'Correspondence,' are indispensable for a true
knowledge of the man.
[Illustration: Signature: FREDERIC TABER COOPER]