Recollections of an Italian Gentleman

By Stendhal

"Recollections of an Italian Gentleman" is a tale of a young man turned collaborator in a Rome occupied by French troops and then annexed to Napoleon's empire. The young collaborator recalls the events that marked these turbulent days, among them the abduction of the Pope by the French--His Holiness fiddled with his snuffbox during the entire operation--and the trial and execution of the notorious bandit Spatolino.

Genre: novella
Length: 10,900 words
Date of English translation: 2012

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fario
• Release date: Feb 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466080850

Stendhal

Pen name of Marie-Henri Beyle, 1783-1842 Best known for _The Red and the Black_ and _The Charterhouse of Parma_.

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Recollections of an Italian Gentleman

Stendhal

Translated by John Penuel

Original title: Souvenirs d’un gentilhomme italien

First published in French in Bibliothèque Britannique, February 1826

English translation copyright 2012 by John Penuel

Published at Smashwords by John Penuel

Contents

Recollections of an Italian Gentleman

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Recollections of an Italian Gentleman

I was born in Rome to parents of respectable standing in that city. When I was three I had the bad luck to lose my father, and my mother, still in the flower of youth and eager to contract a second marriage, entrusted my education to an uncle who had no children. He accepted willingly and even eagerly; after all, he was determined to make of his ward a devoted supporter of priests and he hoped to make the most of his role as guardian.

After the death of General Dufaon,[1] the story of which is too well known for me to go into it here, the priests, seeing that the French armies were threatening to invade the Papal States, began spreading the rumor that wooden statues of Christ and the Virgin were opening their eyes. The people, credulous, believed this white lie. Processions were held, the city was illuminated, and all of the faithful hastened to make their offerings to the Church. My uncle, curious to see for himself the miracle everybody was talking about, formed a procession of all of the people of his house and took his place at their head clad in a mourning suit and with a crucifix in hand. I, carrying a lit torch, went with him. All of us, in the firm conviction that the more humility we showed, the more the Virgin and her son would have pity on us and be willing to show us their open eyes. Lined up thus, we made our way to San Marcello al Corso, where we found a huge crowd crying without respite: Long live Maria! Long live Maria and her divine Creator! Soldiers, posted at the entrance, were barring the way to the crowd gathered around the church and letting only the processions in. We had little trouble getting in, and we soon reached the railing, where we fell to our knees before the images of the Virgin and her son. You see, the people were shouting, she just opened her eyes. Most were located in such a way that they couldn’t see anything, but they repeated their neighbors’ shouts confidently. The unbelievers, for their part, would certainly not have made a show of their incredulity, as they would have been torn to pieces. My uncle, his eyes on those holy images, and in ecstasy, burst out:

I saw them. They opened and closed their eyes twice.

I, a poor child, tired of standing up, and tired above all from having walked barefoot for such a long time, started crying. My uncle silenced me with a slap, adding that I should be thinking about the Virgin rather than about my feet. We were still in the church when we saw a tailor by the name of Badaschi turn up with his wife and a young child so lame he could barely use his crutches. His good parents placed their