Adepts in Self-Portraiture

by Stefan Zweig

  1814-1821. Milan. Henri Beyle has again become a civilian. He has had more than enough of wars. At close quarters, one battle looks much the same as another; the same thing is to be witnessed at all of them, i.e. Nothing! Enough of official duties and fatherlands and slaughter, of useless papers and officers. If Napoleon, with his “courromanie,” his mania for warmongering, should once more endeavor to become supreme in France, well and good, he’d have to do so without the help of Monsieur l’Auditeur Beyle, who is sick of obeying orders, who desires nothing but the most natural — and yet the most difficult — thing in the world: at last, at long last, to manage his own life as he himself thinks fit.

  Three years earlier, in the interval between two campaigns, Beyle had rushed away to Italy, as happy and carefree as a child, taking two thousand francs of his own to play about with. Already at that time he had experienced a feeling which was henceforward never to leave him, a yearning ache for the days of his youth; and youth for him spelt Italy. Italy, and Angela Pietragrua whom he had loved so diffidently in his humble sub-lieutenant days, and to whom his thoughts speed as he drives over the passes he crossed with the rearguard of the Army of Italy so long ago! He arrives in Milan towards nightfall. Quickly he washes the dust from face and hands, puts on fresh clothes, and away he flies to his heart’s haven, the Scala Theater, there to refresh himself in music. Truly, as he says, “Music awakens love.”

  Next day he speeds to her house; she appears, beautiful as of yore, greets him politely but as though he were a stranger. He introduces himself. “Henri Beyle.” The name means nothing to her. He recalls to her memory the names of certain of his comrades, Joinville and the rest. At length his beloved’s face is irradiated with a smile, as she exclaims: “Ah, ah, Ella è il cinese!” (Ah, you are the Chinese!) — that hateful nickname is all that Angela Pietragrua can remember about her romantic lover. But Henri Beyle is no longer a youth of seventeen. He boldly makes avowal of his love, tells her of his passion of earlier days. She looks at him in astonishment: “Why on earth did you not tell me about this at the time?” Gladly would she have granted what he wanted, a little favor any kindhearted woman would be pleased to give. Happily they can make up now for lost opportunities! Soon the incurable romanticist, eleven years behind the times it is true, is able to record on his braces the date of this memorable conquest: “21 Septembre 1811, 11 heures 1/2 du matin.”

  Then he had been recalled to Paris. Once again, for the last time, in 1814, he is sent off to administer provinces in the name of the war-crazy Corsican, has “to defend his country.” Fortunately — yes, fortunately, for Henri Beyle was no patriot and was inordinately pleased when the wars came to an end, even though the end meant a defeat for France — the three emperors made their entry into Paris. Now he can go to Italy, settle there for life, free from official positions, having shaken the dust of “la patrie” off his feet forever. Splendid years, consecrated exclusively to music and to women, to conversations, to writing, and to art. Years of love: of sweethearts who played him false, like the all-too-yielding Angela; or such as through modesty rejected his advances, like the beautiful Mathilde. Years during which he came to know himself better and better; during which, night after night, he bathed his soul in music at the Scala; during which he conversed with the choicest spirits of the epoch, Lord Byron for instance; during which he examined the art treasures of Italy from Naples to Ravenna. Owing allegiance to none, his own master! Incomparable years of freedom! Evviva la libertà!!!

  1821. Paris. Evviva la libertà? Better be discreet as to the use of the word “liberty” within the Italian frontiers these days. The Austrian masters and authorities are apt to look sourly at those who utter it. Nor is it wise to write books, even if they are the most blatant plagiarisms like the Lettres sur Haydn or are three parts copied out of the works of other authors, like L’histoire de la peinture en Italie and Rome, Naples, et Florence. All unawares one sprinkles the pages copiously with the salt and pepper of witty sallies which unduly tickle the noses of the men in power. Before one knows where one is, the Austrian censor, Herr Wabruschek (was ever name more sapiently chosen!) will pounce upon some of these passages and report them to the minister for police, Herr Sedlnitzky, in Vienna. Thus a man of independent spirit may easily come to be looked upon as one of the carbonari, by the Austrians, or as a spy, by the Italians. Therefore it is better to betake oneself elsewhere, the poorer by one more illusion. Besides, for the full enjoyment of freedom one needs money; and his bastard of a father (seldom has Beyle found a more courtly epithet for his unhappy parent) has shown once for all what a silly ass a man can be, when, in spite of avarice and hard work, the old buffer has not been able to leave the most modest of legacies behind him. Whither? One rots in Grenoble; unfortunately the days of comfortable travel with the rearguard of an army are over and done with since the Bourbon has got his fat fist on the shekels. There seems nothing better to do than return to Paris, return to existence in an attic, and there to grind out a livelihood as a writer, to turn what has hitherto been no more than a pastime into a serious profession.

  1828. Paris. We are in the drawing room at Madame de Tracy’s house. She is the wife of the philosopher, Destutt de Tracy.

  Midnight. The candles are burned down to the socket. The gentlemen play whist. Madame de Tracy, an elderly dame, is seated on a sofa talking to a marchioness and another lady friend. She is not very attentive to the conversation; her ear is on the stretch. From the next room dubious noises are issuing, the shrill giggle of a woman, the sonorous laugh of a man; then an indignant, “Mais non, c’est trop”; followed by a smothered burst of laughter. Madame de Tracy becomes fidgety: for surely it must be that horrid fellow Beyle, regaling the ladies with spicy stories. He is by nature a clever and refined gentleman, amusing, though somewhat extravagant; but he has been corrupted by the people he associates with, actresses and the like, and especially by that dreadful Italian woman, Madame Pasta. The hostess rises, makes her excuses, and trips away to the neighboring room, hoping to bring the company there to a sense of decorum. Yes, Beyle is the culprit, withdrawn into the shadow of the chimney corner, doubtless to conceal his wide girth; he is holding a glass of punch in his hand, and is spouting forth a stream of anecdotes that would make a trooper blush. The ladies look as if they were ready for flight; they laugh and protest, yet they stay to hear more, fascinated and inquisitive, completely under the spell of the famous raconteur. He looks like a satyr, red and corpulent, with sparkling eyes, jovial and shrewd. As Madame de Tracy approaches, he breaks off, unable to withstand the severity of her gaze. The ladies seize their opportunity, and, amid laughter, beat a hasty retreat.

  The candles flicker out one by one. The lackeys escort the guests downstairs, lighting them on their way with guttering tapers. Three or four carriages are drawn up before the front door. The ladies get in, accompanied by their squires. Beyle is left alone, a disconsolate figure on the doorstep. No one thinks of giving him a lift. He serves their purposes well enough as a buffoon; otherwise he counts as nothing in a woman’s eyes. Countess Curial has given him his congé; he has not enough money to keep a dancer as his mistress; age is slowly creeping upon him. He walks home through the rain, thoroughly out of humor. What matter if his clothes are soiled with mud? His tailor’s bill has not yet been paid. He sighs deeply. The best life had to offer lies away in the past, one ought really to make an end of oneself. He clambers up to the top story of the house where he lives in the Rue de Richelieu. His breathing is heavy. Lighting a candle, he runs his fingers through sheaves of papers. This does not mend his mood. A pitiable balance sheet, indeed! His fortune is spent, his books bring in nothing, only seventeen copies of his Essai sur l’amour have been sold in eleven years. No later than yesterday, his publisher had quizzically remarked: “Votre livre est sacré, car personne n’y touche!” Thus his income has dwindled to five francs a day — a tolerable competence for a handsome youth, but miserably inadequate to supply the needs of a stout, middle-
aged gentleman who loves women and liberty. Better put an end to it all. For the fifth time in the course of this dreary month, Henri Beyle sits down and writes his will. “I, the undersigned, bequeath to my cousin Romain Colomb, all my belongings at No. 71, Rue de Richelieu. I wish to be taken straight to the cemetery, and the expenses of my burial shall not exceed thirty francs.” Then, as postscript: “I beg Romain Colomb to forgive me for causing him the annoyances which lie ahead of him; above all I enjoin him not to grieve over this unavoidable event.”

  “This unavoidable event.” His friends will understand the cryptic words when, summoned to the dead man’s room, they find the bullet in his brain instead of in the army revolver! Tonight, however, Henri Beyle is weary. He will wait till tomorrow before he commits suicide. Next day, some friends drop in and cheer him up. As they rummage his quarters, one of them happens upon a piece of paper inscribed with the word “Julien.” What does it mean? They are inquisitive to hear. “Oh, I was thinking of writing a novel,” answers Stendhal. His friends are enthusiastically in favor of the idea; they succeed in putting courage into the melancholic’s heart. He sets to work. The title “Julien” is replaced by another which is destined to become immortal: Le Rouge et le Noir. From that day, “Henri Beyle” ceases to exist. His place is taken by another, Stendhal by name, whose fame will never pass away.

  1831. Civita Vecchia. A fresh transformation.

  Great guns fire a salute, colors are dipped, as a man of portly figure, dressed in the over-elaborate uniform of the French diplomatic and consular service, steps ashore. Attention! This fine person in an embroidered waistcoat and gold laced trousers is the consul of France, Monsieur Henri Beyle. Again an upheaval has flung him into the saddle: last time it was war; today it is the July revolution. Now we do well to vaunt our liberalism, to make known how opposed we were to the Bourbon regime. Thanks to the good offices of our lady friends we have been sent as consul to the beloved south. Beyle was to have gone to Trieste, but unfortunately Herr von Metternich regarded the author of certain obnoxious books as an undesirable alien, and refused him a visa. So he must make the best of the matter and settle down in Civita Vecchia; when all is said and done, the place is in Italy, and France will pay her consul fifteen thousand francs a year.

  Need the reader blush if he cannot straightway point to Civita Vecchia on the map? Certainly not. Of all Italian cities, this is the most pitiable, a breeding-place of diseases, scorching in the heat of the African winds, a silted-up haven dating from classical antiquity, a town that has fallen upon evil days, deserted, dull, empty; “one perishes of boredom” there. Henri Beyle’s chief pleasure in this God-forsaken hole is to leave it as often as possible, to shake off his official duties, and betake himself to the highroad leading to Rome. He should be sending in reports, conducting negotiations, sitting in his office, and so forth. But the dunderheads in the Foreign Office at Paris never read his dispatches, so why waste brains and hard work upon so unappreciative an audience? He therefore thrusts all the work on to his subordinate’s shoulders. This man, Lysimaque Caftangliu Tavernier, is a scurvy brute whose silence as to his chief’s frequent absences has to be bought by procuring the rascal admittance into the Legion of Honor. Even in these matters, Henri Beyle fails in a sense of responsibility. To cheat a government which sends one of its poets to rot in such an execrable post seems to our worthy egoist a plain and honorable duty. Surely it is better to visit the art galleries in Rome in the company of a kindred spirit, or to rush off to Paris under any pretext, rather than to sit tight at one’s desk and allow oneself to become dull-witted? Can an intelligent man be expected to find satisfaction forever in the conversation of an old antiquary like Signor Bucci, or in the empty chatter of the local gentry? Far better to talk to oneself. Volumes of ancient chronicles are to be purchased at secondhand bookshops, and the best of them can be turned into novels; one may be fifty years of age, but one can always assert that the heart is as young as ever. Yes, that’s it: no more is needed to forget the lapse of time than to turn back to one’s own life; and our portly consul looks at the lad he was in those far-off days as though he were a stranger: he feels that he is “making discoveries about someone totally alien” to himself. Henri Beyle, alias Stendhal, writes the story of his youth, disguises himself as H. B., as Henri Brulard, so that nobody may guess who his hero really is. He writes the record in thick tomes, forgetting his present self, just as others have forgotten him, living wholly in the past and experiencing as it were a renewed springtime of existence.

  1836-1839. Paris.

  Back again. How wonderful! Resurrection, a return to the light. God bless all women, every good comes from them. They have cajoled and flattered Comte de Molé, now risen to become minister, so successfully that he has consented to overlook the fact that Monsieur Henri Beyle, who should have been fulfilling his duties as consul in Civita Vecchia, has without permission extended his three weeks’ leave to a three-year vacation with never a hint that he means to return to his post. Here he is, comfortably ensconced in Paris, receiving his consular income regularly, in fine fettle, with plenty of leisure, good society, and (in an unostentatious manner) enjoying the pleasures of love. Now he can do what he has so long been yearning to do: pace up and down his room and dictate his novel La Chartreuse de Parme. For when a man’s purse is lined with a salary duly paid at regular intervals by the State, when, in addition, the shackles of official duties have been thrown off, then those idiots of publishers need no longer be considered, the idiots who pay a mealy-mouthed writer like Monsieur de Chateaubriand a hundred thousand francs, and grudge Henri Beyle the most paltry remuneration. Once a man is free, he may permit himself the luxury of writing a novel which is neither sugary sweet nor soused with rose-water. For Henri Beyle there is no other heaven than that where freedom abides.

  Soon, alas, this heaven of his tumbles about his ears. That splendid, that far-seeing minister, Comte de Molé, his protector (surely a man worthy of a monument if ever man was), is replaced in the foreign office by Marshal Soult. The latter had never heard of Stendhal; all he knows is that Monsieur le Consul Henri Beyle has been appointed and is being paid to represent France in the Papal States, and that instead of performing the duties of his office he has been for three years enjoying himself in the Parisian playhouses. At first the general is surprised; then he becomes indignant. How dare this lazy official live a life of ease and pleasure? He commands instant return to Civita Vecchia. Henri Beyle sullenly puts on his uniform, and “Stendhal” is given the go-by. At the age of fifty-four, Beyle, weary and discomfited, has once more to tread the exile’s road. He feels it is for the last time.

  Paris. March 22, 1841.

  A corpulent man is dragging his heavy limbs along the boulevard. Where are now those happy days of yore when he trod this same boulevard, twirling his cane, a magnet for women’s eyes? He leans upon his stout walking stick, every step an effort. Stendhal has grown very old during this last year, the light in his eyes is quenched, his lids are heavy and blue; his lips twitch. A few months ago he had had a stroke — a grim reminder of his first love experience in Milan so long ago. They bled him, and tortured him with salves and mixtures. At length the foreign minister permitted the sick man to leave Civita Vecchia and come back to Paris. But what is Paris to him in his present state? How can he relish Balzac’s splendid notice of his Chartreuse de Parme? A man who already feels the icy hand of death upon him cannot enjoy these first tender blossoms of celebrity. The sad and weary wraith creeps towards his rooms, hardly raising his eyes to glance at the dazzling equipages, the gaily-chattering crowd of pedestrians, the cocottes rustling by in their silk gowns. He is nothing but a black speck of misery trailing along the brightly lit street, which is merry with the evening pleasure-seekers. Suddenly there is a rush towards a certain spot. The stout gentleman has collapsed just in front of the Bourse. He lies there, his eyes staring, his face congested. A second stroke has laid the old man low. Hasty hands wrench the neckcloth away
, for it seems to be throttling him. He is carried into the nearest chemist’s; thence to his room near by. The place is littered with papers, with notices, with freshly begun manuscripts, with diaries, and what not. In one of them is to be read these prophetic words: “I do not find it ridiculous to die in the street — so long as this is not done intentionally.”