Chapter IV: Part 4

The Commodore's voice sunk so low as not to be distinguished, and having lain about an hour without moving he gave up the ghost with a groan.

Peregrine, having performed the will with a most pious punctuality, examined the will, and being sole executor, took an account of the estate to which he had succeeded, which amounted to £30,000.

His domestic affairs being settled, Hatchway remaining in command at the garrison, Peregrine was visited by almost all the gentlemen in the country, who endeavoured to effect a reconciliation betwixt his father and him. Old Gamaliel, at their entreaties, seemed very well disposed to any accommodation; but his favourable disposition was rendered altogether ineffectual by his implacable wife, and our hero resigned all expectations of being reunited to his father's house.

Peregrine, then took leave of all his friends, and repaired to London, where he made a remarkable appearance among the people of fashion. His own follies made Mrs. Gauntlet and Emilia hold aloof from him, and landed him for a time in the Fleet Prison. From this place the good offices of Emilia's brother, Godfrey Gauntlet, and Hatchway, released him, and the news of his father's death, who had died without making a will, hastened his departure. Peregrine, having thus succeeded to his father's estate, set off at once for the country, and instead of alighting at the garrison, rode straightway to his father's house, accompanied by Hatchway and Pipes.

No servants appearing to receive him, Peregrine advanced into the hall and made immediate application to a bell-rope. This brought two footmen into his presence, and one of them, in reply to a stern reprimand, said sullenly that they had been in the service of old Mr. Pickle, and now that he was dead, thought themselves bound to obey nobody but their lady, and her son Mr. Gamaliel. Our hero ordered them to decamp without further preparation, and as they continued restive, they were kicked out of doors by Hatchway. Young Gamaliel flew to the assistance of his adherents, and discharged a pistol at his brother, who luckily escaped the shot and turned him out into the court-yard, to the consolation of his two dependents.

The noise of the pistol alarmed Mrs. Pickle, who, running down stairs, would have assaulted our hero, had she not been restrained. The exercise of her tongue not being hindered, she wagged against him with all the virulence of malice. She asked if he was come to butcher his brother, to insult his father's corpse, and triumph in her affliction? And bestowed upon him the epithets of spendthrift, jail-bird, and unnatural ruffian.

Peregrine calmly replied, that if she did not quietly retire to her chamber, he should insist upon her removing to another lodging; for he was determined to be master in his own house.

Next morning the house was supplied with some servants from the garrison, and preparations were made for the funeral of the deceased.

Gamaliel, having taken lodging in the neighbourhood, was speedily followed by his mother, to whom Peregrine sent word that a regular provision should be settled upon her.

No will having been made in favour of the second son, all Mr. Pickle's property, amounting to more than £80,000, fell to Peregrine, the widow being entitled to a jointure of £500 a year.

On Peregrine's return to London, Godfrey Gauntlet, knowing his sister's affections still undiverted from her earliest love, arranged for his friend to call for him at Emilia's lodgings.

Rushing into her presence, Peregrine was at first so dazzled with her beauty, that his speech failed, and all his culties were absorbed in admiration. Then he obeyed the impulse of his love, and circled the charmer in his arms without suffering the least frown or symptom of displeasure. Observing Mrs. Gauntlet, he asked pardon for his neglect, and was forgiven in consideration of the long and unhappy exile which he had suffered.

"I ought to punish you with the mortification of a twelve months' trial," said Emilia, "but it is dangerous to tamper with an admirer of your disposition, and therefore I think I must make sure of you while it is in my power."

"You are willing, then, to take me for better, for worse, in presence of heaven and these witnesses?" cried Peregrine, kneeling, and applying her hand to his lips. She darted a side-glance, while her answer was, "Why--heaven grant me patience to bear the humours of such a yolk-fellow."

"And may the same powers," replied the youth, "grant me life and opportunity to manifest the immensity of my love."

Matters being thus happily matured, the lover begged that immediate recourse might be had to the church, and set out with Godfrey for Doctor Commons for a license, having first agreed that the ceremony should be performed in the lodgings of the bride.

Permission being obtained, they found a means to engage a clergyman, who undertook to attend them at their own time and place.

The ceremony was performed without delay, Hatchway standing as godfather to the bride.

Such another couple as Peregrine and Emilia were not to be found in the whole United Kingdom.

* * * * *

MADAME DE STAËL

Corinne

Madame de Staël, the most famous and brilliant of the many
famous Frenchwomen of the Revolution and the Empire, was born,
like Bonaparte himself, of alien parents. Her father was
Necker, the eminent Swiss minister of finance under Louis XVI,
whose triumph and exile were among the startling events of the
opening stage of the Revolution; whilst her mother, also
Swiss, had been the lover of the historian Gion and now
presided over one of the most brilliant _salons_ in Paris.
Anne Marie Louise Germaine Necker was born at Paris on April
22, 1766. In 1787 she was married--unhappily--to Baron de
Staël-Holstein, Swedish Ambassador at Paris. She was in peril
during the Terror, but escaped to Switzerland. A few years
afterwards she showed keen political activity against
Napoleon, who respected her hostility so profoundly that he
would not suffer her to approach Paris. Madame de Staëls
"Corinne, or Italy," is accounted one of her two masterpieces,
the other one being "On Germany." (See Vol. XX.) It was
published in 1807, and was written at Coppet, in Switzerland,
her place of residence and exile during her many enforced
sojourns from Paris by order of the Emperor. "Corinne" not
only revealed for the first time to the Frenchmen of her day
the grandeur and mystery and charm of Italy, but also showed
the national characteristics of French and Englishmen for the
first time in their respective, and in a European light.
Moreover, as one European critic has pointed out, it is also
one of the first, and still one of the subtlest, studies in
the psychology of sex and emancipation of woman of the
nineteenth century. Madame de Staël's relations with the
clever and ambitious young statesman and writer, Benjamin
Constant, formed the chief source of her inspiration in
writing "Corinne," as it formed his in writing "Adolphe."
Madame de Staël died in Paris, July 14, 1817.

_I.--The Roman Poetess_

When Oswald, Lord Nevil, awoke on his first morning in Rome, he heard church bells ringing and cannon firing, as if announcing some high solemnity. He inquired the cause and learned that the most celebrated woman in Italy would that morning be crowned at the capital--Corinne, the poetess and improvisatrice, one of the loveliest women of Rome.

As he walked the streets, he heard her named every instant. Her family name was unknown. She had won fame by her verses five years before, under the simple name of Coe; and no one could tell where she had lived nor what she had been, in her earlier days.

The, triumphal procession approached, heralded by a burst of melody. First came a number of Roman nobles, then an antique car drawn by four spotless steeds, escorted by white clad maidens. Not until he beheld the woman in the car did Oswald lay aside his English reserve and yield to the spirit of the scene. Corinne was tall, robust like a Greek statue, and transcendently beautiful. Her attitude was noble and modest; while it manifestly pleased her to be admired, yet a timid air blended with her joy, and she seemed to ask pardon for her triumph.

She ascended to the capitol; the assembled Roman poets recited her praises; Prince Castel Forte, the most honoured of Roman noblemen, uttered a eulogy of her; and, ere she received the destined bays, she took up her lyre and in accordance with custom gave a poetic improvisation. The subject of her passionate chant was the glory of Italy; and amid the impetuous applause that followed, Corinne, looking round, observed Oswald. She saw him to be English; she was struck by his melancholy, and by the mourning he wore. Taking up her lyre again, she spoke some touching stanzas on death and consolation that went straight to his heart.

The crown of bays and myrtle was placed on her head; she descended from the Capitol amid a burst of triumphant music. As she passed Oswald, the crown accidentally fell from her head. He quickly picked it up and restored it to her, with a few words of homage in Italian. What was his surprise when she thanked him in perfect English!

On the evening of the next day, Oswald was introduced to Corinne at her own house by the Count d'Erfeuil, a Frenchman who had been his companion in the journey into Italy. The Prince Castel Forte and all the other guests paid her the most assiduous attention; Oswald gazed on her for the most part in silence, wondering at the mingled sweetness and vivacity of her conversation, realising that she possessed a grace that he had never met before. Although she invited him to meet her again, he did not go on the next evening; he was restrained by a kind of terror at the feeling which excited him.

"Oh, my father," he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have thought of her?"

For the mourning that Oswald wore was for his father. A terrible event in Oswald's life had drawn the two apart; his father had died ere he could return to ask forgiveness. But his father had blessed him on his deathbed, and it was Oswald's whole desire in the grief that preyed upon him, to live in all things as his dead parent would have wished him to live.

The attraction of Corinne's society soon drew him back to her presence, and during the next fortnight she, at her own proposal, guided him in his exploration of Rome. Together they wandered through the ruins, the churches, the art galleries. Their opinions were seldom in agreement; Corinne was characteristically and brightly Italian in her views, Oswald characteristically and sombrely English. But each was conscious, none the less, of keen intellectual sympathy with the other; and Oswald, without speaking of the love of which he began to be conscious, made her sensible of it every hour in the day. His proud retiring attachment shed a new interest over her life. Accustomed as she was to the lively and flattering tributes of the Italians, this outward coldness disguising intense tenderness of heart captivated her imagination.

But one morning she received from him a note saying that indisposition would confine him to his house for some days. Oswald had made up his mind to avoid Corinne; he felt too strongly the power of her charms. What would his father have said of this woman? Could she, the brilliant poetess, be expected to possess the English domestic virtues which his father valued above all things in a wife? Besides, there was a mystery about her; she had not revealed her name and family even to him; nor had he ever had an explanation of her perfect knowledge of English.

Corinne was terrified, on receiving the note, by the idea that he would fly without bidding her adieu. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him. As she was seated in grief beside the Fount of Trevi, Oswald, who had paused there at the same moment, saw her countenance reflected in the water. He started, as if he had seen her phantom; but a moment later Corinne had rushed forward and seized his arm--then, repenting of her impetuosity, she blushed, and covered her face to hide her tears.

"Dear Corinne!" he cried, "has my absence pained you?"

"Yes," she replied, "you must have known it would. Why then inflict such pangs on me? Have I deserved them?"

Her emotion greatly affected Oswald. "I will visit you again to-morrow, Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I do."

_II.--The Living and the Dead_

Oswald's natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement. Although he no longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose marriage to her. She, on her part, was mortified by his silence. Often he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father restrained him--and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he had not seen since she was a child of twelve. What, he asked himself, again and again, was his duty?

One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. Oswald's heart was touched at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with tears.

"Ah, Corinne," he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?"

"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."

"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more secrets from me."

"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must decide my fate?"

"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a sad one."

When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there. She still feared to tell the story of her life.

"Who can tell," she said to Oswald, "if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?"

To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father's wishes; when he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered most of all mankind was dead. He had knelt at his father's tomb and sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent. But how obtain the consent of one who was no more? Lucy Edgarmond--Corinne started at the name--had been destined by his father for his bride. Was the wish one that could be set aside? He had simply advised the match, for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.

"Ere I met you," said Oswald, "I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of expiation; but now," he went on passionately, "you have triumphed over my whole being. My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever. Would my father have had it otherwise had he known you?"

"Hold," cried Corinne, "speak not thus to me yet!"

"Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!"

"Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel."

Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fête, as if to enjoy one more day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom. It was held on the cape of Micena. The lovely bay and its islands lay before the party; Vesuvius frowned in the background. As the party embarked to return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen her look so beautiful.

"Oh, my love, oh, my love," he whispered, "can I ever forget this day?"

"Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for such another day."

"Corinne!" he cried, "here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free."

"No, no! take it back," she answered in a stifled voice.

"I shall not," he replied; "I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring."

"Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu--"

"Never," cried Oswald, "until my deathbed--fear not that word till then."

"Alas!" said Corinne, "as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect. A childish superstition came back to my mind. To-night the sky condemns our love."

That evening Corinne's maid brought him the papers in which she had written her story.

_III.--Corinne's Story_

"Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate. Lord Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my father's second marriage.

"I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to his home in Northumberland. My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed impossible to make her understand a new idea.

"My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland. I was bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art; I had no congenial friends. Even the sun, that might have reminded me of Italy, was often hidden by fog. My only occupation was the education of my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.

"'My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our women have no occupation save their domestic uses. Your talents may beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts attention excites envy. One must not combat the habits of a place in which one is established. It is better to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you do.'

"Lord Nevil was my father's intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom he thought for my husband. Had we then met and loved, our fate would have been cloudless. But when I was presented to Lord Nevil I desired, perhaps too ardently, to please him; I displayed all my talents, dancing, singing, and extemporising before him--I believe, though I am not certain--that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for although he treated me very kindly, yet, when he left my father he said that he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald, what importance do you attach to this confession? I might suppress it, but I will not. Is it possible that it will prove my condemnation?

"When my father died, my despair was uncontrollable. I found myself without support. My only adult relation was my stepmother, who was as frigid as ever towards me. I was attacked by that homesick yearning which makes exile more terrible than death. All the country around me was dull and sullen. I longed for the sunshine, the vine, the music, the sweet language of Italy. At twenty-one I had a right to my mother's fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts.

"When I suggested the possibility of my doing so to Lady Edgarmond, she replied, with dry indifference, 'You are of age, and the mistress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonour you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name and be reported dead.' This heartless scorn helped me to come to a decision. In less than a week I had embarked on a vessel for Leghorn. I set forth without warning my stepmother, but left a letter apprising her of my plans.

"For a time I lived in Florence, whither Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of her having spread the report that I had travelled southwards for my health and had died on the voyage. During the following five years, as you know, I won fame as Corinne the poetess.

"And now you know my history--I have concealed nothing. My happiness depends entirely upon you. When you have read this, I would see you; my impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a rapid poison--and the heart, though weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny."

_IV.--Parting and Pursuit_

"Well," said Corinne, struggling to appear calm, when she went to Oswald to learn her fate, "you have had time enough--speak! tell me what you have resolved!"

"Corinne," answered Oswald, "my heart is unchanged. We will both live for love. I will return."

"Return!" interrupted Corinne; "ah, you leave me then! How all is changed since yesterday!"

"Dearest love," he replied, "be composed. It is necessary that I should ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years ago. I will hope for the best, Corinne; but if my father decides against you, I will never be the husband of another, though I cannot be yours."

One night in Venice a few weeks later, when Corinne was leaving a scene of festivity of which she had been the most brilliant ornament, Oswald led her aside. She marked his paleness and agitation.

"What has happened?" she cried.

"I must start for England to-night. My regiment is about to embark for the West Indies, and I am recalled to rejoin it."

"Ah!" moaned Corinne, "when I tell myself to-morrow 'I shall see him no more,' the thought may kill me; happy am I if it does."

"Why do you fear? Is my solemn promise nothing?"

"Oh, I believe it; but listen--when you are in London, you will discover that love promises bind not your honour. Will you find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound on me? Cannot you at least pity me for loving you thus?"

"Stay!" cried Oswald, seizing her in his arms, "this is too much. Dearest, I cannot leave you!"

"Nay, you must," replied Corinne, recalled to herself by his words.

"My love," answered Oswald, trying to calm himself, "I shall strive during my absence to restore to you your due rank in your father's country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at your feet."

A light gleamed through the window, and the gondola that was to take Oswald away stopped at the door.

"They are here--adieu--all is ended!" sobbed Corinne.

"Oh God! O my father!" he exclaimed, "what do ye exact of me?"

He flung himself once more into her arms and then, trembling and pale, like one prepared for the torture, he passed from her sight.

On reaching England, he found that his regiment's departure had been postponed, and, while waiting, he visited Northumberland, told Lady Edgarmond of his affection for her stepdaughter, and demanded Corinne's restoration to her rank. Lady Edgarmond unbendingly refused.

"I owe to your father's memory," she added, "my exertion to prevent your union with her if I can. Your father's letter on the subject is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson."

Oswald speedily set out for his ancestral estate in Scotland, anxious to see Mr. Dickson and read the letter. In Northumberland he had seen Lucy--a beautiful and sweetly innocent girl, one whom he could plainly see to be a maiden after his father's own heart.

His father's letter confirmed his worst fears. He had wholly disapproved of Oswald's union with the girl who afterwards became Corinne. He had thought her wholly unfitted for domestic English life, and had feared that she would destroy his son's English character and transform him into an Italian. Oswald was to be acquainted with his wishes if necessary; he knew he would respect them.

The irresolution and unhappiness into which Oswald was plunged was increased by the fact that his letters to Corinne received no replies. Had her love ceased when his presence was removed? His friends told him of the fickleness of Italian women, and he began to believe that she had deserted him. The truth was that Corinne was not in Italy to receive his letters. She had come to England.

Desolated by his absence, and alarmed by the tone of the letters from him that had reached her, she had resolved to follow him. On arriving in London, she had been seized by an illness which prevented her from seeing him. On her recovery the people with whom she was staying took her to the theatre where Mrs. Siddons was playing. Oswald was at the theatre with Lady Edgarmond and Lucy. Corinne observed with a sinking heart the delicate attention which Oswald paid to her half-sister.

She saw him next at a review, where he appeared at the head of his regiment. After the march past, he escorted Lucy in a ride on horseback. Corinne noted his kind solicitude, his promptitude when Lucy was in danger, the tenderness with which he supported her. What more did Corinne need to convince her of his love for Lucy?

That evening she went to his door, and learnt that he had left for Scotland an hour earlier. She felt that she must see him again; so she, also, departed for Scotland.

Lady Edgarmond gave a ball on her Scottish estate, and among the guests was Oswald, whose home was near at hand. In the grounds lurked Corinne, seeking an opportunity of meeting her lover. In the midst of the festivities, a white-clad figure hurried out alone; Corinne knew it to be her half-sister. Lucy, believing that no eye was upon her, knelt down in the grove where stood her father's tomb. "Pray for me, O my father!" she said; "inspire him to choose me as the partner of his life! Oh God, render me worthy of the love of Oswald!"

"Grant her prayer," whispered Corinne, "and give her sister a peaceful grave."

She drew out the ring that Oswald had given her, and wrapped it in a piece of paper on which she wrote the words, "You are free." She thrust this into the hand of a man near the house with a request that he should hand it to a servant to be delivered to Lord Nevil. She saw the man give it to a servant. Then she fled.

_V.--The Clouded Moon_

To Oswald's assured knowledge of his father's wishes, and his fear that Corinne had been untrue to him, had been added a third consideration, Lady Edgarmond's health was rapidly declining, and when she died Lucy would be unprotected in the world. Was it not his duty to protect her? He resolved to undertake the duty, if he could only be free from his promise to Corinne.

When his freedom came, with the mysterious return of the ring, all his doubts were removed. Soon afterwards he married Lucy, and after a short interval--during which he felt intense anxiety as to whether he had not wronged Corinne--he went with his regiment to the West Indies.

Ere she had left Scotland, Corinne had heard the announcement of the proposed marriage. She retired to Florence, and dwelt there in unending misery. Her poetic faculty, her love of the arts, could not console her, for they were utterly subjugated by her despair. Her whole soul had been given to her love for Oswald. And when he had forsaken her, her life had been broken by the blow.

It was four years ere Oswald returned to England, and soon afterwards he and Lucy were summoned to the deathbed of Lady Edgarmond. He now had a dangerous illness; in his delirium he cried for the southern sun. Lucy heard him, and remembered Corinne. Oswald had striven to forget his former passion, but could not help at times contrasting Corinne's warmth of feeling with Lucy's coldness. Lucy had been taught by her mother that it was immodest to avow affection even for a husband. She loved Oswald, but her pride concealed her love.

Oswald was ordered to Italy by his physicians, and his wife and child accompanied him. At Milan the earth was snow-covered; beyond there, the rivers were in flood, and the land was covered by cold, damp fog.

"Where is your lovely Italy?" asked Lucy.

"I know not where or when I shall regain her," sadly answered Oswald. As he approached Florence, where he had heard that Corinne was dwelling, his heart became terribly agitated. He had learnt, through his old friend d'Erfeuil, that Corinne had been faithful to him, that she had followed him to England, and sought to see him, that he and not she was the betrayer.

On arriving at Florence, Oswald met Prince Castel Forte, whose faithful, unrewarded homage to Corinne was still unchanged. Corinne, the Prince told him, was ill and growing weaker every day. Oswald's desertion, he said plainly, had mortally wounded her.

Oswald, dismally repentant, handed Castel Forte a letter to Corinne in which he begged permission to see her. In answer she declined the permission, but asked to see his wife and child.

The little girl was taken to her; Lucy had resolved not to go, but was struck with fear lest the child's affection should be won away from her. She went at length, determined to reproach Corinne, but all her anger vanished at the sight of the wasted woman on the sickbed. The sisters embraced in tears.

Castel Forte had told Corinne of the reserve and coldness that separated Lucy from her husband. Her last wish was to reconcile them, and thus aid by means of another, the happiness of the man she loved.

"Pride not yourself in your perfections, dear sister," she said; "let your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in one; let not grace be injured by self-respect."

Lucy bore her words in mind; the barriers between herself and her husband were gradually removed, and Oswald guessed who was removing them.

At last the end came. Corinne lay on a sofa, where she could gaze upon the sky. Castel Forte held her dying hand. Lucy entered; behind her came Oswald. He fell at her feet. She would have spoken, but her voice failed. She looked up--the moon was covered by just such a cloud as they had seen at Naples. Corinne pointed to it--one sigh--and her hand sank powerless in death.

* * * * *

STENDHAL (HENRI BEYLE)

The Chartreuse of Parma

Stendhal is the best-known pseudonym (for there were others)
of the refined, somewhat eccentric, and still distinguished
French author whose real name was C. Marie Henri Beyle. Born
at Grenoble on January 23, 1783, he found his way as a youth
to Milan, and fought with Bonaparte at Marengo. Afterwards he
followed various occupations at Paris and Marseilles; went
through the Russian campaign of 1812; and returned to Italy,
where he began to establish a reputation as a critic of music
and of painting. "La Chartreuse de Parme," his most successful
work of fiction, was written in the winter of 1830. Like his
other novels, it is discursive and formless; but is considered
remarkable alike for its keenness of analysis and its
exposition of the acid, materialistic philosophy of its
author. A friend of that other eclectic, Mérimée, Stendhal was
not much thought of in his own time until the profound praises
of Balzac drew all eyes upon him; and in much more recent
times interest in the best of his writings has revived on
account of his keen and impartial analysis of whatever subject
he touched upon. Beyle died on March 22, 1842.

_I. Fabrice del Dongo_

"Three members of your family," said Count Mosca to the Duchess of Sanseverina, "have been Archbishops of Parma. Could a better career be open to your nephew Fabrice?"

The Duchess disliked the notion; and indeed Fabrice del Dongo seemed a person but little fitted for an ecclesiastical career. His ambitions were military; his hero was Napoleon. The great escapade of his life had been a secret journey into France to fight at Waterloo. His father, the Marquis del Dongo, was loyal to the Austrian masters of Lombardy; and during Fabrice's absence his elder brother Arcanio had laid an information against him as a conspirator against Austrian rule. Consequently Fabrice, on his return, found himself exposed to the risk of ten years in an Austrian prison. By his own address and by the good offices of his aunt, the Countess Pietravera, Fabrice was able to escape from Milanese territory.

Immediately afterwards the Countess wedded the aged and wealthy Duke of Sanseverina, and transferred her beauty and unbounded social talents from Milan to the court of Prince Ranuce Ernest IV., absolute ruler of Parma. The Duke had his ambitions gratified by an appointment as Ambassador to a distant country; the Duchess, left behind at Parma, was able to devote herself to the interests of Count Mosca, the Prince's chief Minister, and to counteract the intrigues of the celebrated Marchioness Raversi, head of the party that sought to overthrow him.

The welfare of her beloved nephew was the most cherished of all the Duchess's aims, and she succeeded in inspiring Count Mosca with an equal enthusiasm for the prosperity of that errant youth. But she hesitated over the project of making him an Archbishop.

"You must understand," explained the Count, "that I do not intend to make Fabrice an exemplary priest of the conventional kind. No, he will above all remain a great noble; he may continue to be absolutely ignorant if he so pleases, and will become a Bishop and an Archbishop just the same--provided, of course, that I succeed in retaining the Prince's confidence."

Ultimately the Duchess agreed, and undertook to persuade Fabrice to enter the Church. The persuasion was not easy; but at length Fabrice, having been convinced that the clerical yoke would bear but lightly upon him, consented to the step, and as a preliminary spent three years in a theological college at Naples.

When at the end of the three years Fabrice, now a Monsignore, returned to Parma, matters there were at a crisis; the Raversi party were gaining ground, and Count Mosca was in danger. Nor did the Prince's interview with the young cleric improve matters. Ranuce Ernest IV. had two ruling passions--an ambition to become ruler of united Italy, and a fear of revolution. Count Mosca, the diplomatist, was the only man who could further his hopes in the one direction; his fears in the other were carefully kept alive by Rassi, the fiscal-general--to such an extent that each night the Prince looked under his bed to see if by chance a liberal were lurking there. Rassi was a man of low origin, who kept his place partly by submitting good-humouredly to the abuse and even the kicks of his master, and partly by rousing that master's alarms and afterwards allaying them by hanging or imprisoning liberals, with the ready assistance of a carefully corrupted judicial bench.

Towards this nervous Prince, Fabrice bore himself with an aristocratic assurance, and a promptness and coolness in conversation that made a bad impression. His political notions were correct enough, according to the Prince's standard; but plainly, he was a man of spirit, and the Prince did not like men of spirit; they were all cousins-germane of Voltaire and Rousseau. He deemed Fabrice, in short, a potential if not an actual liberal, and therefore dangerous.

Nevertheless Count Mosca carried the day against his rivals--a triumph due less to his own efforts than to those of the Duchess, to whose charms as the court's chief ornament the Prince was far from insusceptible. The Count's success was Fabrice's; that youth found himself established as co-adjutor to the Archbishop of Parma, with a reversion to the Archbishopric on the demise of its worthy occupant.

On Fabrice's return from Naples, the Duchess had found him developed from a boy into a young man, and the handsomest young man in Italy; her affection for him became sisterly; she was nearly in love with him. She had no cause for jealousy, for Fabrice, although prone to flirtation, had no affairs of the heart. The word love, as yet, had no meaning for him.

_II.--Giletti_

One of our hero's flirtations had consequences with a very pronounced bearing on his after career. During a surreptitious visit to the theatre he became captivated with the actress, Marietta Valserra. Stolen visits of two minutes duration to Marietta's lodging on the fourth floor of an old house behind the theatre were an agreeable variation of the monotony of Fabrice's clerical duties, and of his visits among the most important and least entertaining families in Parma. But the trifling little intrigue came to the ears of Count Mosca, with the result that the travelling company to which Marietta belonged received its passports and was requested to move on.

In the affair, moreover, Fabrice had a rival. Giletti was the low comedian of the company, and the ugliest member of it; he assumed proprietorship over Marietta, who, although she did not love him, was at any rate horribly afraid of him. Giletti several times threatened to kill Fabrice; whereby Fabrice was not disturbed.

Count Mosca was passionately archaeological, and this taste he shared with Fabrice, who had cultivated the hobby at Naples. It so happened that the two were engaged in excavations near the bridge over the Po where the main road passes into Austrian territory at Castel-Maggiore. Early one morning Fabrice, after surveying the work that was going on in the trenches, strolled away with a gun, intent upon lark-shooting. A wounded bird dropped on the road; and as Fabrice followed it he encountered a battered old carriage driving towards the frontier. In it were Giletti, Marietta and an old woman who passed as Marietta's mother.

Giletti leapt to the conclusion that Fabrice had come there, gun in hand, to insult him, and possibly to carry off Marietta. He leapt out of the carriage.

"Brigand!" he yelled, "we are only a league from the frontier--now I can finish you!"

Fabrice saw a pistol levelled at him at a distance of three feet; he knocked it aside with the butt of his gun, and it went off harmlessly. Giletti then clutched the gun; the two men wrestled for it, and it exploded close to Giletti's ear. Staggered for an instant, he quickly recovered himself; drawing from its sheath a "property" sword, he fell once more upon Fabrice.

"Look out! he will kill you," came an agitated whisper from Marietta; "take this!"

A sort of hunting knife was flung out of the carriage door. Fabrice picked it up, and was nearly stunned forthwith by a blow from the handle of the "property" sword. Happily Giletti was too near to use his sword-point. Pulling himself together, Fabrice gave his enemy a gash on the thigh. Giletti, swearing furiously, injured Fabrice on the cheek. Blood poured down our hero's face. The thought, "I am disfigured for life!" flashed through his mind. Enraged at the idea, he thrust the hunting knife at Giletti's breast with all his force. Giletti fell and lay motionless.

"He is dead!" said Fabrice to himself. Then, turning to the coach, he asked, "Have you a looking-glass?"

His eyes and teeth were undamaged; he was not permanently disfigured. Hastily, then, he turned to thoughts of escape. Marietta gave him Giletti's passport; obviously his first business was to get across the frontier. And yet the Austrian frontier was no safe one for him to cross. Were he recognised, he might expect ten years in an Imperial fortress. But this was the less immediate danger, and he determined to risk it.

With considerable trepidation he walked across the bridge, and presented Giletti's passport to the Austrian gendarme.

The gendarme looked at it, and rose, "You must wait, monsieur; there is a difficulty," he said, and left the room. Fabrice was profoundly uncomfortable; he was nearly for bolting, when he heard the gendarme say to another, "I am done up with the heat; just go and put your visa on a passport in there when you have finished your pipe; I'm going for some coffee."

This gendarme, in fact, knew Giletti, and was quite well aware that the man before him was not the actor. But, for all he could tell, Giletti had lent the passport for reasons of his own. The easiest way out of the difficulty was to get another gendarme to see to the visa. This man affixed it as a matter of course, and Fabrice escaped danger number one.

The rest was very easy, thanks to Ludovico, an old servant of the Duchess, whom Fabrice met at an eating-house where he had turned in for some very necessary refreshment. With the aid of this excellent fellow Fabrice had his wounds attended to, and was safely smuggled out of Austrian territory into Bologna.

_III.--The Citadel_

The party opposed to Count Mosca hastened to take advantage of Fabrice's offence. He was represented as a murderer; the workmen in the trenches who had seen the affray, and knew that Fabrice had acted in self-defence, were either bribed or got out of the way. Rassi accused Fabrice of being a liberal; and since the Prince was ill-disposed towards the young man, not all the endeavours of Count Mosca could save him from a sentence of twenty years' imprisonment, should he be so impudent as to venture upon the territory of Parma.

Just before the sentence was presented to the Prince for final confirmation, the Prince learnt that the Duchess of Sanseverina sought an audience with him. He rubbed his hands; the greatest beauty of his court had come to beg mercy for her nephew; there would be tears and frantic appeals. For a quarter of an hour the Prince gloated over the prospect; then he ordered that the Duchess be admitted.

She entered--in travelling costume; never had she looked more charming, never more cheerful. "I trust your Serene Highness will pardon my unorthodox costume," she said, smiling archly; "but as I am about to leave Parma for a very long time, I have felt it my duty to come and thank you ere I go for all the kindnesses you have deigned to confer upon me."

The Prince was astonished and profoundly chagrined. "Why are you going?" he asked, as calmly as he could.

"I have had the project for some time," she replied, "and a little insult paid to Monsignor del Dongo has hastened it."

The Prince was beside himself. What would his court be without the Duchess? At all costs he must check her flight.

At this moment Count Mosca, pale with anxiety, begged admittance. He had just heard of the Duchess's intention to leave Parma.

"Let me speak as a friend to friends," said the Prince, collecting himself; "what can I do, Madame, to arrest your hasty resolution?"

"If your highness were to write a gracious letter revoking the unjust sentence upon Fabrice del Dongo, I might re-consider my decision; and, let me add, if the Marchioness Raversi were advised by you to retire to the country early to-morrow morning for the benefit of her health--"

"Was there ever such a woman?" cried the Prince, stamping up and down the room.

But he agreed. At his orders Count Mosca sat down and wrote the letter required. The Prince objected to the phrase "unjust sentence," and Count Mosca, courtier-like, abstained from using it. The Prince did not mind the banishment of the Marchioness Raversi; he liked exiling people.

At seven o'clock next morning the Prince summoned Rassi, and dictated to him another letter. The sentence of twenty years, upon the criminal del Dongo was to be reduced by the Prince's clemency, at the supplication of the Duchess Sanseverina, to twelve years; and the police were instructed to do their utmost to arrest the offender.

The only difficulty was that of tempting Fabrice into the territory of Parma. A hint to the Marchioness Raversi and her associates removed the obstacle. A forged letter, purporting to be from the Duchess, reached Fabrice at Bologna, telling him that there would be little danger in his meeting her at Castelnovo, within the frontier. Fabrice repaired joyfully to Castelnovo. That night he lay a prisoner in the citadel of Parma; while the Duchess, alone in her room with locked door, sobbed her heart out and raved helplessly against the treachery of princes.

"So long as her nephew is in the citadel," said the Prince to himself, "the Duchess will be in Parma."

The citadel of Parma is a colossal building with a flat roof 180 feet above the level of the ground. On this roof are erected two structures: one, the governor's residence; the other, the Famese tower, a prison specially erected for a recalcitrant prince of earlier days. In this tower Fabrice, as a prisoner of importance, was confined; and as he looked from the window on the evening of his arrival and beheld the superb panorama of the distant Alps, he reflected pleasantly that he might have found a worse dungeon.

On the next morning his attention was absorbed by something nearer at hand. His window overlooked one belonging to the governor's palace; in this window were many bird cages, and at eleven o'clock a maiden came to feed the birds. Fabrice recognised her as Celia Conti, the governor's daughter. He succeeded in attracting her attention; she blushed and withdrew. But next day she came again at the same hour. On the third day, however, a heavy wooden shutter was clapped upon the window. Nothing daunted, Fabrice proceeded patiently to cut a peep-hole in the shutter by aid of the mainspring of his watch. When he had succeeded in removing a square piece of the wood, he looked with delight upon Clelia gazing at his window with eyes of profound pity, unconscious that she was observed.

Gradually he broke down the maiden's reserve. She discovered the secret of the peep-hole; she consented to communicate with him; finally the two conversed by a system of signals. Fabrice even dared to tell Clelia that he loved her--and truly he was in love, for the first time in his life. The worst of it was that these declarations were apt to bring the conversation to an end; so Fabrice was sparing of them.

Clelia, meanwhile, was in sore perplexity. Her father, General Fabio Conti the governor, was a political opponent of Count Mosca, and had ambitions of office. These ambitions might be forwarded, he deemed, by the successful marriage of his daughter. He did not desire that she should remain a lovely recluse, feeding birds on the top of the citadel. Accordingly he had presented to her an ultimatum; either she must marry the Marquis Crescenzi, the wealthiest nobleman of Parma, who sought her hand, or she must retire to a convent.

The signalled conversations with Fabrice, therefore, could not last long. And yet she had beyond doubt fallen deeply in love with Fabrice. She knew he was her father's prisoner, and belonged to the party hostile to her father; she was ashamed, as a daughter, of her love for him. But she admired him, and pitied him; she was well aware that he was a victim of political intrigue, for why should a nobleman of Fabrice's standing be thus punished for killing a mere actor? The stolen interviews with the captive were as dear to her as to him; and so dear were they to him that, after months of imprisonment he declared that he had never been so happy in his life.

_IV.--The Escape_

One night, as Fabrice looked through his peep-hole, he became aware of a light flashing from the town. Obviously some attempt was being made at signalling. He observed the flashes, counting them in relation to the order of the letters in the alphabet--one for A, two for B, and so on. He discovered that the message was from the Duchess, and was directed to himself. He replied, on the same system, by passing his lantern in front of the peep-hole. The answer from the distance was important; arrangements were being made for his escape. But he did not want to escape.

Next day he told Clelia of his message, and of his unwillingness to leave the prison. She gave no answer, but burst into tears. How could she tell him that she herself must presently leave--for marriage or a convent?

Next day, Fabrice, by his gaoler's connivance, received a long letter from Clelia. She urged him to escape, declaring that at any time the Prince might order his execution, and in addition that he was in danger of death by poison. Straightway he sought an interview with Clelia, with whom he had not hitherto conversed save by signals from their windows. The gaoler arranged that they should meet when Fabrice was being conducted from his cell to the roof of the Farnese tower, where he was occasionally allowed to take exercise.

"I can speak but few words to you," she said trembling, with tears in her eyes. "Swear that you will obey the Duchess, and escape when she wishes and as she wishes."

"And condemn myself to live far away from her whom I love?"

"Swear it! for my sake, swear it!" she implored hint.

"Well then, I swear it!"

The preparations were quickly advanced. Three knotted ropes were smuggled with Clelia's aid into Fabrice's cell--one for descending the 35 feet between his window and the roof of the citadel; another for descending the tremendous wall of 180 feet between the roof and the ramparts; a third for the 30 feet between the top of the ramparts and the ground.

A feast-day, when the garrison of the citadel would presumably be drunk, was chosen for the attempt. Fabrice spent the time of waiting in cutting a hole in his shutter large enough to enable him to get through. Fortunately, on the night of the feast-day a thick fog arose and enveloped the citadel. The Duchess had seen to it that the garrison was plentifully supplied with wine.

Fabrice attached one of the shorter ropes to his bed, and struggled through the shutter--an ungainly figure, for round his body was wound the immense rope necessary for the long descent. Once on the roof-platform he made his way along the parapet until he came to a new stove which he had been told marked the best spot for lowering the rope. He could hear the soldiers talking near at hand, but the fog made him invisible. Unrolling his rope, and fastening his rope to the parapet by threading it through a water-duct, he flung it over; then, with a prayer and a thought of Clelia, he began to descend.

At first he went down mechanically, as if doing the feat for a wager. About half-way down, his arms seemed to lose their strength; he nearly let go--he might have fallen had he not supported himself by clinging to the vegetation on the wall. From time to time he felt horrible pain between the shoulders. Birds hustled against him now and then; he feared at the first contact with them that pursuers were coming down the rope after him. But he reached the rampart undamaged save for bleeding hands.

He was quite exhausted; for a few minutes he slept. On waking and realising the situation, he attached his third rope to a cannon, and hurried down to the ground. Two men seized him just as he fainted at the foot.

A few hours afterwards a carriage crossed the frontier with Ludovico on the box, and within it the Duchess watching over the sleeping Fabrice. The journey did not end until they had reached Locarno on Lake Maggiore.

_V.--Clelia's Vow_

To Locarno soon afterwards came die news that Ranuce Ernest IV. was dead. Fabrice could now safely return, for the young Ranuce Ernest V. was believed to be entirely under the influence of Count Mosca, and was an honest youth without the tyrannical instincts of his father. Nevertheless the Duchess returned first, to make certain of Fabrice's security. She employed her whole influence to hasten forward the wedding of Clelia with the Marquis Crescenzi; she was jealous of the ascendancy the girl had gained over her beloved nephew.