The Charterhouse of Parma

Book by Stendhal

Milan in 1796

On May 15, 1796, General Bonaparte entered Milan at the head of that young army which had lately crossed the Lodi bridge and taught the world that after so many centuries Caesar and Alexander had a successor. The miracles of valor and genius Italy had witnessed in a few months wakened a slumbering nation: just eight days before the French arrived, the Milanese still regarded them as no more than a band of brigands who habitually fled before the troops of His Imperial and Royal Majesty: at least so they were told three times a week by a little news-sheet the size of a man's hand, printed on dirty paper.

In the Middle Ages, republican Lombards had displayed a valor equal to that of the French, and were entitled to see their city utterly razed by the German emperors. Since they had become loyal subjects, their chief concern was to print sonnets on tiny pink taffeta handkerchiefs for the weddings of a young lady belonging to some rich or noble family. Two or three years after that great event in her life, the same young lady would take a cavaliere servente: sometimes the name of the cicisbeo chosen by the husband's family occupied an honorable place in the marriage contract. It was a far cry from such effeminate manners to the deep emotions produced by the French army's unexpected arrival. Soon new and impassioned standards of behavior were observed. On May 15, 1796, a whole nation realized that whatever it had hitherto respected was sovereignly absurd and on occasion odious. The departure of the last Austrian regiment marked the fall of the old ideas: risking one's life became fashionable; happiness depended, after centuries of insipidity, upon loving one's country with a passion, upon seeking out heroic actions to perform. People had been plunged into darkness by the persistence of the jealous despotism of Charles V and Philip II; they pulled down their statues and were forthwith flooded with light. For the last fifty years, even as the Encyclopédie and Voltaire were exploding in France, the monks had adjured the good people of Milan that learning to read, or learning anything at all, was a worthless effort, and that by promptly paying one's tithe to the curé and by offering him a faithful account of all one's petty sins, a fine place in paradise was virtually assured. To complete the enfeeblement of this people once so argumentative and so bold, Austria had sold them cheap the privilege of not supplying recruits to her army.

In 1796 the Milanese army consisted of twenty-four wretches in red uniforms who guarded the city with the help of four magnificent regiments of Hungarian grenadiers. Moral freedom was extreme, but passion extremely rare; moreover, aside from the nuisance of having to tell one's curé everything (or be ruined even in this world), the good people of Milan were still subject to certain minor monarchical restrictions which continued to vex them. For instance the Archduke, who resided in Milan and governed in the name of his cousin the Emperor, had conceived the lucrative notion of speculating in wheat. Consequently, no peasant could sell his crop until His Highness's granaries were full.

In May 1796, three days after the entry of the French, a young miniaturist named Gros, slightly mad and subsequently famous, arrived with the army and overheard talk in the great Caffè dei Servi (fashionable at the time) of the exploits of the Archduke, who happened to be extremely fat. Snatching up the list of ices stamped on a sheet of coarse yellow paper, he drew on the back a French soldier thrusting his bayonet into the obese Archduke's belly: instead of blood out poured an incredible quantity of grain. The idea of caricature or cartoon was unknown in this nation of wary despotism. The sketch Gros had left on the table of the Caffé dei Servi seemed a miracle from Heaven; it was printed overnight, and twenty thousand copies were sold the next day.

That same day, notices were posted of a war-tax of six million levied for the needs of the French army, which, having just won six battles and conquered twenty provinces, lacked only shoes, jackets, caps, and trousers.

So much pleasure and happiness poured into Lombardy with these Frenchmen, however ill-dressed, that only the priests and certain noblemen remarked this burden of six million, soon followed by many others. These French soldiers laughed and sang all day long; most were not yet twenty-five, and at twenty-eight their commanding general was accounted the oldest man in his army. Such youth, such gaiety, such free and easy ways offered a fine answer to the furious imprecations of the monks who for six months had preached that the French were monsters under orders, on pain of death, to burn down everything and cut off everyone's head; to which end, each regiment marched with a guillotine in its front ranks.

Throughout the countryside French soldiers could be seen dandling babies at farmhouse doors, and almost every evening some drummer scraping his fiddle would improvise a ball. Since French contredanses were far too intricate for the soldiers, who scarcely knew them themselves, to teach the local girls, it was the latter who showed the young Frenchmen the monferrina, the saltarello, and other Italian dances.

The officers had been billeted on the rich as often as possible; they were in great need of recuperation. For instance, a certain Lieutenant Robert was assigned to the Marchesa del Dongo's palace, which this unscrupulous young conscript entered with one scudo (worth six francs) as his sole wealth, having just received his pay at Piacenza. After crossing the Lodi bridge, he had stripped a handsome Austrian officer killed by a cannonball of a magnificent pair of brand-new nankeen trousers, and never had a garment been so timely. His officer's epaulettes were of wool, and the ragged fabric of his jacket was patched with the lining from its sleeves to hold the pieces together; sadder still, the soles of his shoes consisted of scraps of visors, similarly gleaned from the battlefield the other side of Lodi bridge. These extempore soles were quite visibly tied to the uppers of his shoes with bits of string, so that when the major-domo appeared in Lieutenant Robert's bedroom to invite him to dine with the Signora Marchesa, the officer was mortally embarrassed. He and his orderly spent the two hours until this fatal dinner attempting to patch the jacket and to conceal the lamentable pieces of string with black ink. At last the dreadful moment arrived. "I never felt so uncomfortable in all my life," Lieutenant Robert told me; "the ladies expected me to terrify them, and I was trembling much more than they. I glanced at my shoes and could not imagine how to walk gracefully. The Marchesa del Dongo," he added, "was then in the prime of her beauty: you have seen her yourself--those fine eyes of an angelic sweetness, that lovely dark-blond hair which so perfectly framed the oval of her charming face. In my bedroom hung a Salomé after da Vinci which seemed her portrait. Thank God I was so overcome by this divine beauty that I forgot how I was dressed. For two years I had seen nothing but ugliness and misery in the mountains around Genoa: I ventured to mention my rapture to her.

"But I had too much sense to waste my time on compliments. Even as I was turning my phrases, I noticed that the marble dining-hall was filled with lackeys and footmen dressed in what then seemed to me the height of magnificence. You realize, these wretches wore not only fine shoes, but silver buckles! Out of the corner of my eye I saw them all staring stupidly at my jacket, and perhaps at my shoes as well, which stabbed me to the heart. I might have terrorized every one of them with a word, but how to put them in their place without running the risk of alarming the ladies? For the Marchesa, to bolster her own courage (as she has told me a hundred times since), had summoned from the convent, where she was still at boarding-school, her husband's sister Gina del Dongo, who was later to become the charming Countess of Pietranera: in good times no one surpassed her in gaiety and sweetness of temper, just as no one surpassed her in courage and serenity of soul in adversity.

"Gina, who might have then been thirteen though she looked eighteen, vivacious and frank as you know her to be, was so afraid of bursting into laughter at the sight of my outfit that she dared not eat; the Marchesa, on the contrary, overwhelmed me with reserved attentions, having recognized hints of impatience in my expression. In a word, I cut a foolish figure as I swallowed my ration of scorn, a thing said to be impossible for a Frenchman. At last I was inspired by a Heaven-sent idea; I began describing my wretchedness to these ladies, and all we had suffered the last two years in the mountains around Genoa where we had been stationed by imbecilic old generals. There, I remarked, we were paid by promissory notes which had no currency in the region, and three ounces of bread a day. I had not spoken two minutes before the Marchesa had tears in her eyes, and Gina had become serious.

"`What, Signor Lieutenant,' she exclaimed, `three ounces of bread!'

"`Yes, Signorina; but even so the supply failed three rimes a week, and since the peasants we were billeted on were even poorer than ourselves, we gave some of our bread to them.'

"Leaving the table, I offered the Marchesa my arm as far as the dining-hall door, then, swiftly retracing my steps, I gave the lackey who had served me that single scudo on whose expenditure I had built so many castles in Spain.

"Eight days later," Lieutenant Robert continued, "when it was widely acknowledged that the French were guillotining no one, the Marchese del Dongo returned from Grianta, his castle on Lake Como, where he had valiantly taken refuge at the French army's approach, abandoning his sister and his lovely young wife to the chances of war. The Marchese's hatred of us was equal to his fear, which is to say, incommensurable: it was amusing to see his pale and pious countenance as he uttered his polite formulas. The day following his return to Milan, I received three ells of cloth and two hundred francs out of the levy of six million: I feathered myself anew and became the cavalier of these ladies, for the ball-season had begun."

Lieutenant Robert's story was much the same as that of every Frenchman; instead of deriding the plight of these gallant soldiers, people took pity on them and came to love them.

This period of unforeseen happiness and intoxication lasted but two short years; the craze had been so excessive and so widespread that it would be impossible for me to give any notion of it, except for this profound historical reflection: these people had been bored for a hundred years.

The love of sensual pleasure natural to southern countries had once reigned at the court of the Viscontis and the Sforzas, those famous Dukes of Milan. But since 1624, when the Spaniards had seized the duchy, and seized it as arrogant, suspicious, taciturn masters ever fearful of rebellion, gaiety had fled. Assuming the manners of their masters, the Milanese pondered avenging the slightest insult by a dagger-thrust rather than delighting in the present moment.

Wild joy, gaiety, sensual pleasure, disregard of all sad or even sensible feelings reached such a pitch between May 15, 1796, when the French entered Milan, and April 1799, when they were driven out after the battle of Cassano, that instances have been cited of old millionaire merchants, old usurers, old notaries who, during this interval, had forgotten to be dyspeptic and obsessed with making money.

At most one could number several families of the higher nobility who had withdrawn to their country houses, as though to sulk amid the general cheer and expansiveness of all hearts. It is also quite true that these rich and noble families had been provokingly singled out in the distribution of war-taxes levied by the French army.

The Marchese del Dongo, vexed at the sight of so much gaiety, had been one of the first to retire to his splendid Castle of Grianta on the far side of Como, to which Lieutenant Robert now accompanied the ladies. This castle, in a situation possibly unique in all the world, on a plateau some hundred and fifty feet above that sublime lake, of which it dominates a large portion, had been a stronghold built by the del Dongo family in the fifteenth century, as was evidenced by the many marble escutcheons; here were still to be seen drawbridges and deep moats, though at present without water; but with walls some twenty-four feet high and six feet thick, this castle was safe from assault; for which reason it was dear to the suspicious Marchese. Surrounded by twenty-five or thirty servants whom he believed to be devoted, apparently because he never addressed them without some insult on his lips, he was less tormented by fear than in Milan.

Such fear was not entirely gratuitous: the Marchese was actively corresponding with an Austrian spy stationed on the Swiss frontier three leagues from Grianta, in order to effect the escape of prisoners taken on the battlefield, an enterprise which might have been regarded as a serious matter by the French generals.

The Marchese had left his young wife in Milan; there she managed family affairs, dealing with the taxes imposed on the Casa del Dongo, as the local expression had it; she sought to reduce these as much as she could, which obliged her to consult those members of the nobility who had accepted public functions, as well as certain highly influential persons not of noble birth. There now occurred a great event in this family. The Marchese had arranged the marriage of his young sister Gina to an extremely rich personage of the highest birth; but the man powdered his hair: on this account Gina received him with peals of laughter, and soon committed the folly of marrying Count Pietranera. Who was in fact a very fine gentleman, most attractive in appearance but ruined in fortune as his father had been before him and--a crowning disgrace--a fierce champion of the new ideas. Pietranera was a Second Lieutenant in the Italian Legion, a further cause of the Marchese's dispair.

After two such years of folly and happiness, the Directory in Paris, putting on the airs of a well-established sovereign, revealed a mortal hatred of anything not mediocre. The inept generals assigned to the army in Italy lost a series of battles on those same plains of Verona which two years earlier had witnessed the prodigies of Arcole and Lonato. The Austrians drew close to Milan; Lieutenant Robert, now commanding a battalion and wounded at the battle of Cassano, came to stay for the last time with his friend the Marchesa del Dongo. The farewells were sad; the Lieutenant left with Count Pietranera, who accompanied the French in their retreat to Novi. The young Countess, whose dowry her brother had refused to pay, followed the army, riding on a baggage-cart.

Then began that period of reaction and return to the old ideas, which the Milanese call i tredici mesi (the thirteen months), because it so happened that their happiness compelled this reversion to imbecility to last only thirteen months, until Marengo. Whatever was old, pious, dyspeptic reappeared in the leadership of affairs and resumed the guidance of society: soon those who had remained loyal to respectable doctrines reported in the villages that Napoléon had been hanged by the Mamelukes in Egypt, as he deserved on so many counts.

Among these men who had withdrawn to sulk on their estates and who returned to Milan thirsting for vengeance, the Marchese del Dongo was distinguished by his fury; his exaggeration naturally carried him to the lead...