Adepts in Self-Portraiture

by Stefan Zweig

  Instead of loafing about on the Corso, instead of strutting up and down dragging his saber along the pavement and making sheep’s-eyes at the women, he should be with his company which is engaged in pushing back the Austrians behind the Mincio. But our worthy dragoon began young to detest the obvious; it had not taken him long to discover that “very little intelligence is needed to learn how to slash with a saber.” What’s the use of being cousin to the mighty Daru if one cannot escape from military duties and enjoy the delights of Milan? In bivouac there are no lovely ladies; above all, there is no Scala, no godlike Scala with its operas by Cimarosa and its sublime singers. It is the Scala that Henri Beyle has chosen for his headquarters, not a tent somewhere in an Italian bog nor the Casa Bovara where the general staff carries on its business. Every evening he is the first arrival in the seats of the fifth-tier gallery. As the lights go up, he watches the ladies, “più che seminuda,” come in; they are dressed in the most airy of silks, and uniformed men bend above their bare shoulders. How beautiful these Italian women are, to be sure! How merry, how attractive! And how grateful they are to Bonaparte for having brought so many fine young men to Italy — much to the disgust of the Milanese husbands!

  As ill luck would have it none of these beauties had as yet thought of singling out Henri Beyle of Grenoble as a sweetheart. How was Angela Pietragrua, the plump daughter of a cloth merchant, who was not loath to show off her charms before company and gave her lips freely to the mustachioed officers to enjoy — how was she to know that “il cinese,” as she mockingly called young Beyle, was in love with her? How was she to guess that he dreamed of her day and night as an unattainable idol, and that he was to make her memory imperishable by his romantic attachment?

  True, he comes every evening to play faro with his brother officers; but he sits dumbstruck in a corner, and turns pale when she speaks to him. Has he ever squeezed her hand, or pressed his knee against hers, or written her a note, or whispered “mi piace”? Buxom Angela is used to unambiguous advances on the part of French officers of dragoons, and she hardly gives a thought to the stumpy little subaltern in his corner. Thus he misses his chance of winning her favors, and never realizes how willingly and generously she bestows her favors on all and sundry. Despite his imposing sword and his big boots, Henri Beyle is as shy as ever he was in Paris, and this timid Don Juan is still a “virgin.” Each day he determines, as night draws near, to undertake the necessary assault; he makes entries in his notebook, recording what older men have told him as to how to overcome a woman’s virtuous resistance. But no sooner is our would-be Casanova in the presence of his beloved, his divinity, his Angela, than he becomes alarmed and perplexed, and blushes like a girl. At last he resolves to be a fully adult man; he makes up his mind to sacrifice his virginity. A Milanese professional offers herself as an altar for his sacrifice. “I have quite forgotten who she was or what she looked like,” he writes in after years. Unfortunately she bestows on him the malady which the Constable of Bourbon had brought with him to Italy nearly three centuries before, and which ever since had passed by the name of the French evil. Thus the servitor of Mars, having ventured into the service of the sweet goddess of love, has for many years to submit to the thraldom of Mercury.

  Paris, 1803. Again the scene is laid in a fifth-story attic. Again our hero is wearing civilian dress. Laid aside are the saber, the spurs, the top boots, the uniform; his lieutenant’s commission has been chucked into a corner of the room. He is sick to death of the soldier game: “J’en suis saoul!” The idiots had merely to propose that he should carry out his duties as a garrison officer “seriously,” should groom his horse, and display a certain amount of discipline; that was enough to make Henri Beyle take to his heels. Obedience, indeed! This headstrong creature holds nothing so holy as “to order no other human being about and never to submit to the commands of others.” He therefore sends a note to the minister, handing in his resignation. At the same time he writes to his father, a straitlaced monitor, begging him to forward some money. Much to his surprise, this father of his (whom he systematically calumniates in his writings) actually sends a monthly remittance. Not much, it is true; but enough to warrant the ordering of a decent suit of clothes, to buy imposing neckcloths, and fine white paper on which to write his plays. For Henri Beyle has made a fresh resolution: he will no longer be a mathematician, he wants to be a playwright.

  The first attempts to initiate himself into this new profession take the form of frequent visits to the Comédie Française, where he studies the art at the feet of Corneille and Molière. Another discovery. If he is to be an efficient dramatist he must get to know women, must love and be loved, must find “une belle âme,” “une âme aimante.” He pays court to little Adèle Rebouffet, and enjoys the role of rejected lover to the full. Luckily for him, the young lady’s mother, a lady of riper charms, consoles him two or three times a week in a practical manner for the waywardness of his inamorata. The experience is amusing and instructive; but it is not yet the real thing, the great love affair he has dreamed of. Undeterred he sets out in search of his idol. At last he is fettered to the chariot of Louason, an actress at the Comédie Française, who tolerates his passionate adoration — at a distance. Henri is never more earnestly in love than when a woman denies herself to him, since he cares only for the unattainable. Soon our twenty-year-old lover is aflame with desire.

  Marseilles, 1803. Sudden transformation, incredible almost.

  Can this in truth be Henri Beyle, sometime lieutenant in Napoleon’s army, Parisian dandy, a writer but yesterday? Is this really he, this clerk in a black apron, working in the basement of Meunier & Co., provision merchants, wholesale and retail? There he sits, perched on a high stool, adding up figures in a dirty and narrow street to the left of the harbor. The office is filled with the stench of oil and figs. Did he not, so recently as yesterday, set down verses expressing the most sublime aspirations? And here he is today handling raisins and coffee, sugar and flour, sending in claims to the firm’s clients, trafficking with customs house officials. Yes, this is he, bullet-headed, hardheaded, as ever. Tristan dressed himself as a beggar in order to reach his beloved Isolde; many a princess has donned a page’s suit and followed her knight to the wars. Henri Beyle has acted no less heroically. He has become a grocer’s assistant in order to be near his Louason, who has been engaged at a theater in Marseilles. What matter if all day he is dipping his fingers into sugar and flour, when at night he can meet an actress at the stage door, and can share her bed! Can he not watch her slim young body sporting in the waves and know that, for the first time in his life, he is the proud possessor of all this beauty?

  What a glorious time of fulfillment! Unfortunately there is nothing so dangerous for a person of romantic disposition as to become intimate with the ideal. One discovers that Marseilles, the queen of the Mediterranean, is just as much a provincial town as Grenoble, and that its streets are as foul and stinking as any in Paris. Also when one comes to live with one’s goddess one is disappointed to find that her intelligence is not on a par with her looks — that she is, in fact, thoroughly stupid. Boredom sets in. At last a day dawns when the diva’s engagement comes to an end. She speeds away to Paris, and he heaves a sigh of relief. Healed of one illusion, he is ready to set forth on the quest of another!

  Brunswick, 1806. Once more we have a change of costume.

  A uniform, it is true; but no longer the rough-and-ready garb of a subaltern which appeals merely to canteen girls, or to milliners’ apprentices. Now hats are doffed respectfully by the Germans of rank and calling at the approach of Monsieur Henri Beyle, commissariat officer to the Grand Army, as he strolls along the street accompanied by Herr von Strombeck or some other bigwig of Brunswick society. Yet it is no longer plain Henri Beyle we see. Since he has come to Germany, he has made an addition to his name, has made it worthy of his present position. He signs himself: Henri “de” Beyle. Napoleon has not granted our fainéant this title of nobility, has not even
decorated his buttonhole with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor. Why should such distinctions be granted to a young man whose only business it is to secure cushy jobs through the influence of Cousin Daru? But Henri Beyle, who is a keen observer, notices that the worthy Germans are attracted to a title as flies to a honey pot. And surely if one frequents patrician gatherings where there are so many pretty and desirable young ladies to invite to the dance, one cannot be blamed if one refuses to appear as a commoner. Two little letters out of the whole alphabet are all that is needed in addition to a handsome uniform to create a suitable atmosphere around his person. Monsieur l’Intendant’s task is a delicate one. He has been commissioned to raise a levy of five million francs, and, indeed, succeeds in extracting seven from the already plundered land of Brunswick. He is responsible for keeping order, for organizing supplies. He acquits himself of his charge with commendable speed, and spends his leisure playing billiards, or going out shooting, or dallying with gentler prey. Even Germany can boast of appetizing morsels of femininity! His more refined cravings can be satisfied in the company of fair-haired Minchen, a girl of noble birth; while his coarser lusts find vent in the arms of a friend’s inamorata who rejoices in the delectable name of Knabelhuber and with whom he passes the night. We see Henri is once more in clover. He feels no envy for the lot of the many marshals and generals who sip their soup in the blazing sun of Austerlitz and Jena. He sits in the shadow of war, and is well content to read his book, translate German poetry, and write exquisite letters to his sister Pauline. He is acquiring knowledge and experience, is developing into a connoisseur of life, is a straggler in the wake of every battle, an intellectual dilettante of every art; day by day he throws off further bonds, gaining freedom; and the wider his acquaintance with the world, the better he observes its phenomena, the more intricate is his cognition of himself.

  Vienna. May 31, 1809. In the Schottenkirche, which is dark, and almost empty. Early morning.

  A few old men and women, dressed in threadbare mourning, are occupying the front pew. These are the relatives of dear old Papa Haydn. The French incendiary bombs falling on his beloved Vienna had been too much for the frail old man, they had literally frightened him to death. The composer of the Austrian national anthem died, a patriot to the end, whispering the words: “God save Emperor Francis.” Then, with all speed, amid the tumult caused by the entry of the conquering army, they had hurried the corpse, unsubstantial as a child’s, from the tiny suburban house in Gumpendorf, to the cemetery. Now the music lovers of Vienna are assembled for the solemn requiem mass in honor of their master. A respectable number of persons have ventured forth to pay their tribute to his memory, in spite of the fact that enemy soldiers are billeted in most of the houses. Maybe that among the congregation we could find a short-legged, peculiar-looking man, Herr van Beethoven by name, a man with a massive, leonine head; perhaps among the boys singing in the organ loft there is a twelve-year-old youngster who goes by the name of Franz Schubert. Suddenly, an officer of high rank in the French army, in full-dress uniform, enters the building, accompanied by a gentleman wearing academician’s robes. The congregation is alarmed and horrified. Do the invaders mean to forbid them honoring old Papa Haydn, the best and gentlest of mortals? Nothing of the sort! Henri de Beyle, Auditeur de la Grande Armée, has come here in a private capacity, having heard that Mozart’s Requiem was to be sung. For a chance of hearing Mozart’s or Cimarosa’s works performed, this quaint warrior would ride a hundred miles and more. He deems forty bars of his beloved masters’ music far more valuable than the most glorious of battlefields with its forty thousand dead. Noiselessly he slips into a pew and listens to the slow strains of the music. Strange to say, the Requiem does not appeal to him, he finds it too full of movement; this is not “his” Mozart, so light of wing, so buoyant. It is ever thus with him. When art overstrides the limits of what is simple and melodious to soar aloft into regions beyond the human, peopled with the wilder and more unbridled spirits of the everlasting elements, he feels out of his depth, estranged. He feels the same when, for the first time, he hears Don Giovanni performed at the Kärntnertor Theater. And when the man in the neighboring box, Herr van Beethoven (whose very name as yet means nothing to Beyle), in days to come launches his tempestuous music upon him, Stendhal will be no less alarmed at this divine chaos than is his great colleague in Weimar, Herr von Goethe himself.

  The mass is said. Henri Beyle issues from the church, radiant with high spirits, resplendent in his uniform, and strolls along Graben. He is delighted with the beautiful town of Vienna, finds it enchanting; he loves its people, who make such good music, and are not so harsh and “thorough” as the Germans of the north. At the moment he should be at his office attending to the commissariat of the Grand Army. That, however, seems to him of quite secondary importance. As it is, Cousin Daru works like a horse, and Napoleon is bound to come out victorious, anyway. Thank goodness, there are plenty of queer folk in the world, to whom work is a pleasure. One can live at their expense! Thus does it come about that Henri Beyle, from childhood an adept in the devilish art of ingratitude, undertakes the easier and self-imposed task of consoling Madame Daru during her stay in Vienna, making up to her for her husband’s devotion to duty. Can one take a better revenge upon a benefactor than by being agreeable to his wife? Madame Daru and Henri Beyle ride together in the Prater, they visit art galleries, and the charming residences of the Austrian nobility; they drive away to Hungary in a well-sprung carriage, while soldiers are dying on the field of Wagram and the worthy Daru is working in a sea of ink. Their afternoons are devoted to love, their evenings to music, preferably to Mozart at the Kärntnertor Theater. Slowly, very slowly, the strange creature beneath the official’s cloak comes to realize that for him all that is sweet and worthwhile in life belongs to the realm of art.

  1810-1812. Paris. The Empire at the climax of its glory.

  Life is ever more enjoyable. Plenty of money and no official duties; our hero has become (God knows through no merits of his own, but through the good offices of women friends) a member of the council of State and inspector of the crown buildings. But Napoleon does not make serious demands upon his councilors, they have plenty of time to take their walks abroad, or, rather, to drive about to their heart’s content. For Henri Beyle, his purse well lined with these official moneys, has his own cabriolet, new, fresh, and shining with varnish. He dines at the Café de Foy, employs the best tailor in Paris to attend to his wardrobe, has a love intimacy with his cousin which he supplements (thus attaining to the ideal of his youth) by an amourette with a dancer named Bereyter. Is it not amazing that one should have more success in the domain of love at thirty than at twenty! How incomprehensible women are, to be sure! The cooler one is, the more passionate do they become. Slowly, Paris, which had seemed so hateful in the callow student’s eyes, begins to please him. Truly, life is a splendid affair. And, as chief of blessings, one has money and time, so much time indeed that Beyle, of his own accord and in order to recall his beloved Italy to his mind, actually undertakes a piece of work. He writes his Histoire de la peinture en Italie. Ah, well, the writing of books on art is a pleasurable undertaking, and does not commit a man to anything. Especially delightful is it when, as is Henri Beyle’s little way, one can copy most of the matter out of other people’s books, filling in the crevices with anecdote and quip. What a joy to approach the great spirits among men, even if one can do so only in the role of an epicurean! Some day, perhaps (thinks Stendhal), when old age has come, I shall write books reminding me of days gone by and of the women I have known. But why should I bother to do so now? Life is too rich, too full, too lovely, to waste a minute of it at a writing table.

  1812-1813. On the move again! Napoleon is once more waging war; this time the field of operations is some thousand miles away from Paris. Russia, the far-off land of adventure, lures our insatiably inquisitive “tourist.” This is certainly not an opportunity to be missed. He may visit the Kremlin and gaze at the Mu
scovites with his own eyes, travel eastward at the State expense — comfortably, of course, and running no personal risks; he will keep in the rearguard, just as he had done in Italy, Germany, and Austria. In actual fact, Marie Louise entrusts him with a thick portfolio containing letters to her husband; he is instructed to reach Moscow as quickly as possible. Experience has taught Beyle the tedium of war when seen at close quarters. He, therefore, provides for his own amusement by taking with him the twelve manuscript volumes of his Histoire de la peinture, bound in green morocco leather, and the play which he had begun to write many years before. Where, indeed, can a man devote himself better to his own interests than at army headquarters? Later on, the great Talma will be summoned to Moscow, and the grand opera company; not much time in that case for suffering from boredom. Besides, there will be variations on the theme of love: Polish women, and Russian.

  On the journey, Beyle only stops at the towns which can provide him with an evening’s entertainment in the shape of a play or music. Even in wartime, even when traveling, he must have art as a companion. But what a drama awaits him in Russia. Moscow in flames, a metropolis of the world disappearing in smoke; such a spectacle has not been witnessed by a poet since Nero’s day. Henri Beyle does not stay to write an ode in honor of the tragic spectacle, and his letters are strangely silent concerning so unpleasant an experience. The subtle epicurean has long felt that all this military prancing about the world is far less important than a dozen bars of music or a clever book; an emotional tremor of the heart means more to him than all the guns of Borodino; and his historical sense is still limited to the history of his own life. He, therefore, rescues a beautiful edition of Voltaire from the conflagration, meaning to take it home as a “souvenir de Moscou.” But this time, Mars and his icy allies frustrate the schemes of our prince of shirkers. Monsieur l’Auditeur Beyle, arrived at the Beresina, hardly has time to shave himself with his usual care (and he is the only officer in the Grand Army to trouble to do such a thing under the peculiar circumstances of the retreat!) before he is obliged to scurry across the bridge if he is not to be submerged with its ruins. His diary, his Histoire de la peinture, his beautiful edition of Voltaire, his horse, his fine new furs, his valise — all are left behind for the Cossacks to enjoy. With torn clothes, dirty, hunted, bedraggled, his hands and face chapped by exposure to the frosty air, he makes good his escape to Prussia. A gasp of relief — and forthwith he goes to the opera. Just as for many a hot bath would have been the first thought, so does Henri Beyle turn to music for refreshment. Thus for him the Russian campaign and the destruction of the Grand Army is no more than an interlude between pleasant evenings spent at the opera: Matrimonio segreto in Dresden on the outward journey; Clemenzia di Tito in Königsberg on the homeward route.