Fragmentary, but Stendhal is full of life, and his sharp observations makes it fascinating reading. Throughout the book, Stendahl's descriptions of the different people he associates with are acute and merciless; he doesn’t spare even the people he calls his friends - somehow it would seem he rather meant that he was able to bear with them temporarily.. The entire atmosphere of 1820’s Paris appears bleak and claustrophobic in Stendhal's anecdotes, and the social etiquette stifling to a degree that made me think it that it would possibly have made people ache for a bloodbath out of sheer frustration. Yes, that bad.

"Since it is much more of a fateful mistake for a young man to drop some unseemly remark than it is to his advantage to say something clever, posterity, probably less inane, will have no idea of how insipid polite society was."

Stendhal himself doesn’t appear as entirely likable either, at first droning on about his heartache, or about the mistresses he could have had if he only hadn’t been so distracted by said heartache, or rather: distracted by trying to conceal said heartache so he wouldn’t be ridiculed – or (what he considers far worse): so his lost love, the incomparable Métilde, wouldn’t be ridiculed. Or about missed friendships, or about the salons he could have joined if only he hadn't been so distrait.. Well, the title Souvenirs d'Égotisme doesn’t exactly suggest he intended to spare anyone – much less himself. - As you keep turning the pages, it’s exactly his critical eye, combined with his wry wit, that makes him more and more likable: "On arriving in a town I always ask: 1. Which are the 12 prettiest women; 2. Which are the 12 richest men; 3. Which is the man who could get me hanged." - It becomes clear to the reader how, under certain noxious circumstances, how hard it is to be even remotely likeable.

There’s an amusing anecdote where he’s visiting whores in a remote district of London. Half expecting to be murdered by their pimps, Stendhal and a friend sets out for Westminster Road. It's a three-storey house, and Stendhal comments that "In all my life I have never seen anything so small!", and also that if it hadn’t been for the boredom of after-dinner London and “the stimulus of possible danger” he wouldn’t have gone at all. The next day, upon not having been murdered, but rather having had a good time (or so it would seem), they send for an excellent lunch to treat both themselves and the young girls. And after going to see a play (Shakespeare, most likely) they return in the evening with champagne. This is one of the few times where Stendhal behaves with a degree of exuberance, but it may contain a hint of what it did to him to be able to forget, if only for a very brief time, his great love Métilde, (who he’d left in Milan, the relationship still unconsummated after years of courtship), along with "polite society" almost everywhere he went..

"I am animated, passionate, wild, and sincere to excess in friendship and in love, until the first cooling off. Then, from the wildness of a sixteen year old I pass, in the twinkling of an eye, to the machiavellianism of a fifty year old and, after a week, there’s nothing left but melting ice, a perfect chilliness."

Stendhal was a complex man in an era of extremes; of corruption, vain ambition, marriage for money (even the choice of a mistress or a lover was calculated by considering the advantages it could bring, or at least in most cases had an undertone of ambition), and, for anyone not entirely deprived of wit (as Stendhal would put it), an existence replete with boredom... "...if I had been more astute, I’d become disgusted to the point of nausea with women, and thus with music and painting like my two contemporaries. M.M. de la [Ro]sière and [Per]ochin. They are dessicated, disgusted with the world, philosophers. Instead of that, in everything concerning women, I have the good fortune to be as naive as at the age of twenty-five. – This is the reason why I’ll never blow out my brains in disgust at everything, out of boredom with life."

Stendhal had made sure this memoir wouldn’t be published until long after his death, so he gives himself a free reign in commenting on just about everything and everyone. For firsthand observations of early 19th century Paris (and France and Europe in general), Stendhal is a great and intriguing source. There’s really nothing else (that I know of) that quite compares to this when it comes to wry social commentary.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. ( )

On the matter of sex. What I got out of this book was exactly one thing. That in some parts of Europe at the time, women and men were equal in this respect: everybody had lovers. It wasn’t something men did to women. This makes scenes that might otherwise be repugnant resonate with eroticism. Perhaps the equality is merely in the minds of men – but Stendhal is a realist and so I doubt that. An expert in the area might demolish my illusions, however….though I’m not sure I want you to, if you are reading this.

In Chapter 3, two of Stendhal’s friends decide to cheer him up by taking him to see a courtesan.

Alexandrine appeared and surpassed all expectations. She was a tall and slim girl of seventeen or eighteen, already mature….she was quiet and gentle but not at all shy, fairly gay and not unseemly in her behaviour. My friends’ eyes goggled at the sight of her. Lussinge offered a glass of champagne, which she refused, and disappeared with her. Mme Petit introduced us to the two other girls who weren’t bad but we told her that she herself was prettier…..Poitevin took her off. After a dreadfully long interval, a very pale Lussinge returned.

---Your turn, Beyle [ie Stendhal:], they cried. You’ve just come home; it’s your privilege. [not at all sure why getting to go second is special:]

I found Alexandrine on a bed, a little wan, almost in the costume and in the exact position of Titian’s Duchess of Urbino.

---Let’s just talk for ten minutes, she said in a lively way. I’m a bit tired, let’s chat. My young blood will flare up again soon.

She was adorable, I perhaps had never seen anyone prettier. There wasn’t too much licentiousness about her except in the eyes which gradually became suggestively animated and full (you could say) of passion.

I failed entirely with her; it was a complete fiasco. So I had to rely on a substitute which she submitted to. Not quite knowing what to do, I wanted to try this manual expedient again, but she refused. She seemed astonished. Considering my situation, I said several quite good things and then went out.

Of course, I had to hurry off to Google to look up Titian’s Duchess of Urbino. What was she wearing?

Ah…

I should have guessed….




That’s what she’s wearing.

It turns out that this picture is a matter of great controversy – nothing to do with whether you like her outfit, by the way. Mark Twain said of it:

You enter [the Uffizi:] and proceed to that most-visited little gallery that exists in the world --the Tribune-- and there, against the wall, without obstructing rap or leaf, you may look your fill upon the foulest, the vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses -- Titian's Venus. It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed --no, it is the attitude of one of her arms and hand. If I ventured to describe that attitude there would be a fine howl --but there the Venus lies for anybody to gloat over that wants to --and there she has a right to lie, for she is a work of art, and art has its privileges. I saw a young girl stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gazing long and absorbedly at her, I saw aged infirm men hang upon her charms with a pathetic interest. How I should like to describe her --just to see what a holy indignation I could stir up in the world...yet the world is willing to let its sons and its daughters and itself look at Titian's beast, but won't stand a description of it in words....There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure thought -- I am well aware of that. I am not railing at such. What I am trying to emphasize is the fact that Titian's Venus is very far from being one of that sort. Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it was probably refused because it was a trifle too strong. In truth, it is a trifle too strong for any place but a public art gallery.

What Twain is saying here, in Tramp Abroad I think, is that if you wrote this picture in words – it would be obscene rather than erotic. Indeed, it has been referred to as the masturbating Venus…so you see what I mean. Interesting in this context, that Stendhal, whether intuitively or consciously knew that to be the case, and thus refers to Alexandrine in this most sexy way without any sex in his language whatsoever. A mere reference to a painting says it all. I’m completely ignorant of art, but I expect back then educated people reading this book would have understood the reference immediately…indeed, maybe everybody else does!

But permit the matter to be more complex. Is it not fair to say that although in this case the exquisitely erotic painting of the Duchess/Venus looking directly as us, her invited lover, hard nipples, touching herself, does the job no words would, to Twain’s chagrin; at the same time, one could readily imagine a tacky picture rendered delicate via choice words. Tit for tat – if you will forgive me putting it this way?

On the matter of sex. What I got out of this book was exactly one thing. That in some parts of Europe at the time, women and men were equal in this respect: everybody had lovers. It wasn’t something men did to women. This makes scenes that might otherwise be repugnant resonate with eroticism. Perhaps the equality is merely in the minds of men – but Stendhal is a realist and so I doubt that. An expert in the area might demolish my illusions, however….though I’m not sure I want you to, if you are reading this.

In Chapter 3, two of Stendhal’s friends decide to cheer him up by taking him to see a courtesan.

Alexandrine appeared and surpassed all expectations. She was a tall and slim girl of seventeen or eighteen, already mature….she was quiet and gentle but not at all shy, fairly gay and not unseemly in her behaviour. My friends’ eyes goggled at the sight of her. Lussinge offered a glass of champagne, which she refused, and disappeared with her. Mme Petit introduced us to the two other girls who weren’t bad but we told her that she herself was prettier…..Poitevin took her off. After a dreadfully long interval, a very pale Lussinge returned.

---Your turn, Beyle [ie Stendhal:], they cried. You’ve just come home; it’s your privilege. [not at all sure why getting to go second is special:]

I found Alexandrine on a bed, a little wan, almost in the costume and in the exact position of Titian’s Duchess of Urbino.

---Let’s just talk for ten minutes, she said in a lively way. I’m a bit tired, let’s chat. My young blood will flare up again soon.

She was adorable, I perhaps had never seen anyone prettier. There wasn’t too much licentiousness about her except in the eyes which gradually became suggestively animated and full (you could say) of passion.

I failed entirely with her; it was a complete fiasco. So I had to rely on a substitute which she submitted to. Not quite knowing what to do, I wanted to try this manual expedient again, but she refused. She seemed astonished. Considering my situation, I said several quite good things and then went out.

Of course, I had to hurry off to Google to look up Titian’s Duchess of Urbino. What was she wearing?

Ah…

I should have guessed….




That’s what she’s wearing.

It turns out that this picture is a matter of great controversy – nothing to do with whether you like her outfit, by the way. Mark Twain said of it:

You enter [the Uffizi:] and proceed to that most-visited little gallery that exists in the world --the Tribune-- and there, against the wall, without obstructing rap or leaf, you may look your fill upon the foulest, the vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses -- Titian's Venus. It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed --no, it is the attitude of one of her arms and hand. If I ventured to describe that attitude there would be a fine howl --but there the Venus lies for anybody to gloat over that wants to --and there she has a right to lie, for she is a work of art, and art has its privileges. I saw a young girl stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gazing long and absorbedly at her, I saw aged infirm men hang upon her charms with a pathetic interest. How I should like to describe her --just to see what a holy indignation I could stir up in the world...yet the world is willing to let its sons and its daughters and itself look at Titian's beast, but won't stand a description of it in words....There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure thought -- I am well aware of that. I am not railing at such. What I am trying to emphasize is the fact that Titian's Venus is very far from being one of that sort. Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it was probably refused because it was a trifle too strong. In truth, it is a trifle too strong for any place but a public art gallery.

What Twain is saying here, in Tramp Abroad I think, is that if you wrote this picture in words – it would be obscene rather than erotic. Indeed, it has been referred to as the masturbating Venus…so you see what I mean. Interesting in this context, that Stendhal, whether intuitively or consciously knew that to be the case, and thus refers to Alexandrine in this most sexy way without any sex in his language whatsoever. A mere reference to a painting says it all. I’m completely ignorant of art, but I expect back then educated people reading this book would have understood the reference immediately…indeed, maybe everybody else does!

But permit the matter to be more complex. Is it not fair to say that although in this case the exquisitely erotic painting of the Duchess/Venus looking directly as us, her invited lover, hard nipples, touching herself, does the job no words would, to Twain’s chagrin; at the same time, one could readily imagine a tacky picture rendered delicate via choice words. Tit for tat – if you will forgive me putting it this way?

On the matter of sex. What I got out of this book was exactly one thing. That in some parts of Europe at the time, women and men were equal in this respect: everybody had lovers. It wasn’t something men did to women. This makes scenes that might otherwise be repugnant resonate with eroticism. Perhaps the equality is merely in the minds of men – but Stendhal is a realist and so I doubt that. An expert in the area might demolish my illusions, however….though I’m not sure I want you to, if you are reading this.

In Chapter 3, two of Stendhal’s friends decide to cheer him up by taking him to see a courtesan.

Alexandrine appeared and surpassed all expectations. She was a tall and slim girl of seventeen or eighteen, already mature….she was quiet and gentle but not at all shy, fairly gay and not unseemly in her behaviour. My friends’ eyes goggled at the sight of her. Lussinge offered a glass of champagne, which she refused, and disappeared with her. Mme Petit introduced us to the two other girls who weren’t bad but we told her that she herself was prettier…..Poitevin took her off. After a dreadfully long interval, a very pale Lussinge returned.

---Your turn, Beyle [ie Stendhal:], they cried. You’ve just come home; it’s your privilege. [not at all sure why getting to go second is special:]

I found Alexandrine on a bed, a little wan, almost in the costume and in the exact position of Titian’s Duchess of Urbino.

---Let’s just talk for ten minutes, she said in a lively way. I’m a bit tired, let’s chat. My young blood will flare up again soon.

She was adorable, I perhaps had never seen anyone prettier. There wasn’t too much licentiousness about her except in the eyes which gradually became suggestively animated and full (you could say) of passion.

I failed entirely with her; it was a complete fiasco. So I had to rely on a substitute which she submitted to. Not quite knowing what to do, I wanted to try this manual expedient again, but she refused. She seemed astonished. Considering my situation, I said several quite good things and then went out.

Of course, I had to hurry off to Google to look up Titian’s Duchess of Urbino. What was she wearing?

Ah…

I should have guessed….




That’s what she’s wearing.

It turns out that this picture is a matter of great controversy – nothing to do with whether you like her outfit, by the way. Mark Twain said of it:

You enter [the Uffizi:] and proceed to that most-visited little gallery that exists in the world --the Tribune-- and there, against the wall, without obstructing rap or leaf, you may look your fill upon the foulest, the vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses -- Titian's Venus. It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed --no, it is the attitude of one of her arms and hand. If I ventured to describe that attitude there would be a fine howl --but there the Venus lies for anybody to gloat over that wants to --and there she has a right to lie, for she is a work of art, and art has its privileges. I saw a young girl stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gazing long and absorbedly at her, I saw aged infirm men hang upon her charms with a pathetic interest. How I should like to describe her --just to see what a holy indignation I could stir up in the world...yet the world is willing to let its sons and its daughters and itself look at Titian's beast, but won't stand a description of it in words....There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure thought -- I am well aware of that. I am not railing at such. What I am trying to emphasize is the fact that Titian's Venus is very far from being one of that sort. Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it was probably refused because it was a trifle too strong. In truth, it is a trifle too strong for any place but a public art gallery.

What Twain is saying here, in Tramp Abroad I think, is that if you wrote this picture in words – it would be obscene rather than erotic. Indeed, it has been referred to as the masturbating Venus…so you see what I mean. Interesting in this context, that Stendhal, whether intuitively or consciously knew that to be the case, and thus refers to Alexandrine in this most sexy way without any sex in his language whatsoever. A mere reference to a painting says it all. I’m completely ignorant of art, but I expect back then educated people reading this book would have understood the reference immediately…indeed, maybe everybody else does!

But permit the matter to be more complex. Is it not fair to say that although in this case the exquisitely erotic painting of the Duchess/Venus looking directly as us, her invited lover, hard nipples, touching herself, does the job no words would, to Twain’s chagrin; at the same time, one could readily imagine a tacky picture rendered delicate via choice words. Tit for tat – if you will forgive me putting it this way?