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Updated: June 7, 2025
Balzac gives full praise to his predecessor in his essay on Beyle, and his letters contain frequent references to the debt he owed that curious bundle of fatuities, inconsistencies and brilliancies, the author of "The Chartreuse de Parme." Later, Zola calls him "the father of us all," meaning of the naturalistic school of which Zola himself was High Priest.
The crowd thickened rapidly. A murmur of conversation arose, subdued, gracious, mingled with the soft rustle of silk, grenadines, velvet. The scent of delicate perfumes spread in the air, Violet de Parme, Peau d'Espagne.
The above note, in a rather juvenile feminine hand, and breathing a faint perfume of violette de Parme, was part of the morning's mail that I found lying on my desk a few days ago, in delightful contrast to the bills and advertisements which formed the bulk of my correspondence. It would suppose a stoicism greater than I possess, not to have felt a thrill of satisfaction in its perusal.
Winifred carefully shut the door and passed her handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de Parme with which it had been soaked, Val thought: 'Has she found out about Holly? Her voice interrupted "Are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?" Val grinned doubtfully. "Will you come with me this morning...." "I've got to see...." began Val, but something in her face stopped him.
This, however, was but a momentary vision of mahogany, and black gowns, and white blobs of wigs and faces and papers, all rather secret and whispery before he was sitting next his mother in the front row, with his back to it all, glad of her violette de Parme, and taking off his gloves for the last time.
During Desmoulin's absence the master remained virtually alone at Oatlands, and as he still cared nothing for newspapers I sent him a few books from my shelves, and, among others, Stendhal's 'La Chartreuse de Parme. He wrote me afterwards; 'I am very grateful to you for the books you sent. Now that I am utterly alone they enabled me to spend a pleasant day yesterday. I am reading "La Chartreuse."
I gave a little laugh. "In the last few hours," I thought, "I have been heaping up literary situations. A while ago, a hundred feet above the ground, I was Fabrice of La Chartreuse de Parme beside his Italian dungeon. Now, here on my camel, I am Dick of The Light That Failed, crossing the desert to meet his companions in arms." I chuckled again; then shuddered.
Its vibrations compose no piece, exhaust no theme, achieve no melody, carry out no programme, but they express the innermost life of man. June 1, 1880. Stendhal's "La Chartreuse de Parme." A remarkable book. It is even typical, the first of a class. Stendhal opens the series of naturalist novels, which suppress the intervention of the moral sense, and scoff at the claim of free-will.
Camphor and oil of lavender were bought at the chemist's, and also a little scent sachet labelled 'Violettes de Parme'. They took the things home and found Cyril still on guard. When they had knocked and the golden voice of the Phoenix had said 'Come in, they went in. There lay the carpet or what was left of it and on it lay an egg, exactly like the one out of which the Phoenix had been hatched.
I had read something of this kind in a letter addressed by Stendhal to his sister: "I have a passionate desire to know human nature, and have a great mind to live in a boarding-house, where people cannot conceal their real characters." I was an admirer of La Chartreuse de Parme, and it appeared to me that one could not do better than follow in the footsteps of its author.
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