by Stendhal
Julie, a young and very devout nun, was passing through the large dormitory one evening when she heard the sound of talking coming from Martona’s room. She crept up close, not making a sound, put her eye to the keyhole, and saw a handsome young man sitting at the table eating and laughing with Martona. Julie rapped on the door a few times, then thought how Martona might well open the door and then close it behind her with the young man within, and then go on to denounce her, Julie, to the abbess, as she knew that Martona spent most of her life with the abbess; Julie was suddenly seized with an extreme distress. In her imagination, she could see herself being pursued down the deserted and dark corridor, for it was not yet time to light the lamps, by Martona, who was much stronger than she was. Highly disturbed, Julie took flight, but she heard Martona open her door, and, thinking she had been recognized, Julie went to tell everything to the abbess, who, horribly scandalized, rushed to Martona’s room only to find no Julien, who had fled out into the garden. But that same night, the abbess having decided it would be prudent, even for Martona’s reputation, to have her spend the night in the abbess’s room, and having announced that the following morning she would go herself, accompanied by Father ***, the convent’s confessor, and put locks on the door of Martona’s room, where wicked rumor had claimed a young man had been hidden, Martona, irritated and busy at the moment preparing the hot chocolate that constituted dinner for the abbess, mixed into it a huge quantity of the so-called sleeping aid.
The next morning the abbess Virgilia found herself in a highly unusual state of nervous irritation and, upon looking in the mirror, she saw a figure so changed that she thought she was about to die. The first effect of the Perugian poison is to render those who have swallowed it almost mad. Virgilia remembered that one of the privileges granted to the abbess of the noble Convent of Saint Reparata was to be assisted in her last moments by the bishop; she wrote to that prelate, who soon arrived at the convent. She told him not only about her malady but also the story of the two corpses. The bishop scolded her severely for not having told him about an incident so singular and so criminal. The abbess replied that the envoy of the grand duke, Count Buondelmonte, had strongly advised her to avoid scandal.
‘And just how did this layman have the audacity to call scandal what is the strict accomplishment of your duties?”
When she saw the bishop arrive at the convent, Céliane said to Fabienne:
“We are lost. This fanatical prelate wants to introduce the reforms of the Council of Trent at all costs in the convents of his diocese—he will be a very different man for us from the Count Buondelmonte.”
Fabienne threw herself, weeping, into Céliane’s arms.
“Death is nothing to me, but I’ll die in doubled despair at having caused your fall, and without even saving the life of that miserable abbess.”
Fabienne went to the cell of the woman who, that evening, would be the portress. Without giving her any more detail, she said that they had to save the life and the honor of Martona, who had had the imprudence to receive a man in her cell. After a great many difficulties, the nun consented to leave the door open and abandon it for a moment, a little after eleven o’clock in the evening.
During this time, Céliane had sent a message to Martona to meet her in the choir. This was an immense space, like a second church, separated by a grill from the public, the vault of which stood more than forty feet in height. Martona was kneeling in the middle of the choir so that if she spoke quietly, she could not be overheard. Céliane came up next to her.
“Here,” she said to her, “is a purse with all the money Fabienne and I could get together. Tonight or tomorrow night, I will arrange for the convent door to be open for a moment. Have Julien escape, and yourself, too, and get away as soon as you can. I can assure you that the abbess Virgilia has told everything to the terrible bishop, and his tribunal will undoubtedly condemn you to fifteen years in prison or even death.”
Martona made a movement as if to throw herself at Céliane’s knees.
“What are you doing, you fool?” cried Céliane, and she had the time to correct her movement. “Remember that you and Julien could be arrested at any moment. From now until your flight, hide yourself as best as you can, and above all pay attention to the people who go into the visiting room of the abbess.”
The next morning, on arriving at the convent, the count found many changes. Martona, the confidante of the abbess, had disappeared during the night; the abbess herself was so weakened that in order to receive the envoy of the grand duke, she had to be carried in on a chair. She admitted to the count that she had told the bishop everything.
“In that case, we are going to have a great deal of blood or of poison,” he cried… .2
SUORA SCOLASTICA
A STORY THAT SHOCKED ALL NAPLES IN 1740
First Manuscript: March 16, 1842
As you may know, one day toward the beginning of the eighteenth century, that century which was going to end so very badly for his dynasty, the insane pride of Louis XIV led him to send a child to occupy the throne of Spain, the Duke d’Anjou, intensely pious and half-mad himself.1 That pride of Louis’s would have been better served if he had attempted to reunite France with Belgium and Milan, as foreigners suggested to him. In 1740, Don Carlos reigned in Naples.2 He was the son of a Farnese princess of Parma who wanted him to wear a crown even though he was a younger son; to that end, she sent him into Italy with an army. He won the battle of Velletri, after having been surprised that very morning by a company of Austrians in his bedchamber. The Duke Vargas del Pardo, one of the Spanish noblemen whom the Farnese queen had attached to Don Carlos, saved his life, or at least his liberty, by giving him a boost up so he could escape out his bedroom window.
Don Carlos had an immense nose and no small intelligence as well; after he had been installed in Naples under the name Charles III, he gathered around him a brilliant court. He attempted to bind his new subjects to him through pleasures while at the same time imposing a strict severity throughout the different levels of the administration. Gone were the Spanish viceroys whose prudence was celebrated by the Masaniello revolt;3 and gone were the harsh, eager Austrian generals. In the wake of all the changes and confiscations carried out by the new king, he found himself more or less absolute master of all. Most of the great nobles either had seen some of their lands confiscated or had been given a gift of lands confiscated from the unlucky ones, who were now termed traitors. This state of things, together with the necessity of spending a great deal in order to please the new king, had the effect of making most of the higher nobility pay close attention to their own affairs.
And while the nobility was busy trying to get ahead at court, the merchants were delighted to find they were no longer subject to the incredible high-handedness of the Spanish viceroys and the severities of the Austrian generals; at the same time, the people were stunned to see that the government was not always doing the wrong thing, and as a result they got used to paying taxes, which were passed on, in part, to the nobility and the clergy.
Don Carlos reigned thus for five years, in an atmosphere of tranquillity and ease.
With many favorable circumstances coming together, the winter of 1740—1741 was remarkable for the number of charming parties given. Eight or ten women of rare beauty shared among themselves a great deal of praise, but the young king, a connoisseur of such things, declared that the most beautiful woman at his court was the young Rosalinde, daughter of Prince d’Atella. This prince, a former Austrian general, a very somber, very prudent man, had ceded despite his better judgment to his wife’s insistence—his second wife, Dona Ferdinanda—and permitted her to bring along her daughter, this same beautiful Rosalinde, whom the king considered the most beautiful creature in his kingdom and who had just turned seventeen. Prince d’Atella had three sons by his first marriage, and getting them established in society was a great worry to him. The titles these sons bore, all dukes or princes, seemed too imposing for the mediocre for
tune he would be able to leave them.
Prince d’Atella was very much in love with his wife, a gay, imprudent woman thirty years his junior—which did not, unfortunately, preclude her from now being what is called of a certain age. During the great parties of the winter of 1740, it was to her daughter Rosalinde that she owed the gratifying pleasure of being always surrounded at court by all the most brilliant young people of Naples. She especially took note of Genarino, the Marquis of Las Flores. This young man combined the most noble, even somewhat haughty style of Spanish manners with the most gracious, most cheerful countenance; his hair and his mustaches were of a fine blond, he had blue eyes, a rarity in a Gothic family, and, what made him even more striking in the eyes of the ladies of the court, he had already been wounded twice by spouses or brothers in families into which he had brought some disorder.
The young man was adroit enough to convince Princess d’Atella that it was she to whom he wanted to pay homage, when in fact he was in love with the young Rosalinde—and moreover, he was jealous. That same Duke Vargas del Pardo who had been so useful to Don Carlos in the early morning before the battle of Velletri and who now enjoyed the highest degree of favor from the young king had been so struck by the naive graces and the simple air of good faith that shone from the young Rosalinde that he began to court her in the most majestic of manners, suitable to a man who was a triple grandee of Spain. But he took snuff and he wore a periwig; and these two are precisely the things most horrifying to young ladies of Naples, and even though Rosalinde had a dowry of perhaps 20,000 francs and had no better prospects in life than to enter the Convent of San Petito, situated in the highest part of the Via Toledo,4 which then served as the most fashionable tomb for girls of the highest rank—despite all this, she could never bring herself to contemplate the passionate gaze of the Duke del Pardo. On the contrary, however, she very much liked the eyes that Don Genarino made at her in those moments when he was not being observed by Princess d’Atella; indeed, it is not altogether impossible that the young Rosalinde might have returned the glances of Genarino from time to time. In fact, this love was not a very sensible one; in fact, the house of Las Flores was among the noblest, but the old duke of that name, father of Don Genarino, had three sons, and, according to the custom of the country, he had arranged things so that the eldest would have 15,000 ducats of annual income (around 50,000 francs), whereas the two younger ones would have to content themselves with pensions of 20 ducats a month, along with lodging in the palazzos in town and in the country. Without exactly having come to an agreement on the matter, Don Genarino and young Rosalinde took the greatest of care in concealing their feelings from Princess d’Atella. Her coquetry always maintained for her the false ideas she had formed about the young marquis. Her husband, the old general, was more clear-sighted: at the previous party given that winter by the king, Don Carlos, he understood perfectly well that Don Genarino, already famous for more than one amorous adventure, had set a goal of pleasing either his wife or his daughter, either possibility being equally unpleasant for him. The next day after breakfast, he ordered his daughter Rosalinde to get up into the carriage with him, and without speaking a single word, he took her directly to the Convent of San Petito; this is the convent, then so fashionable, with the magnificent facade that one can see on the left at the highest point of the Via Toledo, near the magnificent Palazzo degli Studi. Those great extended walls that one adheres to for so long when walking through the Vomero area, above the Arenella Quarter, seem designed to keep profane eyes from looking into the gardens of San Petito. The prince spoke only to introduce his daughter to his sister, the severe Donna ******. He said to Rosalinde, with the air of giving her some information that she should be grateful to hear, that she would leave the Convent of San Petito only one more time in her life, and that would be on the eve of her taking her final vows.
Rosalinde was not at all surprised by what was happening to her; she knew that her getting married would take nothing less than a miracle, and she had a horror of marrying Duke Vargas del Pardo; moreover, she had spent several years as a pensioner at this Convent of San Petito, where they took her now, and her memories of the place were happy and amusing ones. The first day, she was not too disturbed by her situation, but by the second, she began to think she would never again see the young Don Genarino, and, despite her youth, this idea began to afflict her greatly. Cheerful and giddy as she was, within two weeks she was among the least resigned and most sorrowful girls in the convent. Twenty times a day, perhaps, she thought of that young Don Genarino, whereas when she had been at her father’s home, the idea of the amiable young man crossed her mind only once or twice a day.
Three weeks after her arrival at the convent, it so happened that she was able to recite flawlessly the litanies of the Virgin at evening prayers, and the mistress of the novices gave her permission the next day to go up to the belvedere—which is what they call that spacious gallery that the nuns decorate with gilt and paintings and which occupies the upper part on the side of the Convent of San Petito that borders on the Via Toledo. Rosalinde was enchanted at looking down and seeing the double line of fine carriages that at that hour occupied this higher section of the Via Toledo, and she recognized most of the coaches and the women inside them. The sight amused and afflicted her at the same time; but how to describe the trouble that arose in her soul at the sight of a young man standing under a porte cochere holding out a magnificent bouquet of flowers? It was Don Genarino, who, ever since Rosalinde had been stolen out of society, came every day to this same spot in the hope that she would appear at the belvedere of the noble sisters; and knowing that she loved beautiful flowers, and in order to make himself more visible to her, he took care to equip himself every time with a bouquet of the rarest flowers. Don Genarino’s heart leaped with joy when he saw that she had recognized him; he began to make signs to her, to which Rosalinde was careful about responding, reflecting that according to the rule of Saint Benedict, it could well be several weeks before she was permitted to come up to the belvedere again. She saw around her a crowd of nuns chattering and making signals to their friends, and these women seemed embarrassed around this young girl in her white veil, who might very well be surprised at their not very religious behavior and might in fact report them. The reader must be told that in Naples, from their very early years, girls are accustomed to communicating with their fingers, the different positions of the fingers forming different letters; one can observe them even in the salons discoursing silently with a young man seated twenty paces away, while their parents are conversing out loud.
Genarino trembled at the thought that Rosalinde’s vocation might be a sincere one. He stepped back a bit under the porte cochere, and from there he signaled to her using childish language:
“Ever since I haven’t been seeing you, I have been unhappy. Are you happy in the convent? Are you free to come up to the belvedere often? Do you still like flowers?”
Rosalinde stared at him fixedly but did not respond. Suddenly, she disappeared, whether because she had been called away by the novice mistress or because the few words Genarino had addressed to her had somehow offended her. He was greatly distressed.
He went into the pretty wooded area that overlooks Naples, called Arenella, where the long wall stretches out, girdling the Convent of San Petito. Continuing his melancholy walk, he came to the plain of Vomero with its view over the city all the way to the sea; he went on about one league from there and came to the magnificent castle of Duke Vargas del Pardo. This crenellated, black-walled castle was a medieval fortress, famous in Naples both for its somber look and for the duke’s mania for hiring only Spaniards as domestics, all of them as old as he was: he liked to say that when he was here, he could feel that he was in Spain, and in order to maintain the illusion, he had all the trees in the neighborhood cut down. Whenever his service to the king permitted it, the duke came to enjoy the air at his castle of San Nicola. The somber edifice only heightened Don Genarino’s melanc
holy. As he passed by, following the wall that girdled the garden of San Petito, an idea came to him: “Surely she still loves flowers,” he thought to himself, “and the nuns must cultivate many in that immense garden, and therefore there must be gardeners—and therefore I must find a way to meet them.” In this sparsely populated area, there was a little osteria (café); he went in, but, being preoccupied with his ideas, he did not consider that his clothes were far too rich for such a place, and now he saw that his presence was arousing surprise and even considerable suspicion; he proceeded to feign great fatigue, and he acted very friendly to the owners of the place as well as to the ordinary people who had come there to drink a few glasses of wine. His open manner soon atoned for his clothes, which were too showy for the circumstances. Genarino did not disdain joining the host and the host’s friends in drinking some wine that was claimed to be finer than it really was. Finally, after an hour’s efforts, he saw that his presence no longer bothered anyone. He began jesting about the aristocratic nuns of San Petito and about the visitors that some of them received over the garden walls. Genarino assured himself that this kind of thing, so often spoken about in Naples, in fact did go on. The good peasants of Vomero jested, too, but they did not seem particularly scandalized by it.
“These poor girls enter the convent only out of a sense of vocation, or so our curé says, but it’s more likely because they’ve been thrown out by their fathers, who want the elder brother to inherit everything, and so it’s perfectly natural that they should amuse themselves. But this has become a little more difficult with the new mother superior, Madame Angela Maria, daughter of the Marquis of Castropignano, who has taken it into her head to try to impress the king and to get a ducal crown placed on her nephew’s head by tormenting these poor young girls, who never once gave a single thought to making vows to God and the Madonna. It’s a pleasure to see their gaiety as they play in the garden; these are pensioners, not nuns, who are being forced into serious vows and who will be damned if they do not concentrate on fulfilling them. Recently, in honor of their great nobility, the cardinal archbishop of Naples went to Rome to get the privilege of letting them take their vows at sixteen instead of seventeen, and there were great celebrations in the convent over this great honor being done to the poor girls.”
