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A ROMAN JOURNAL, by Stendhal (354 pp.; Orion; $15), goes back even farther in time. A fictitious diary of 19 months (1827-29) ostensibly spent in Rome (Stendhal was later in Italy as a French consul), it was written in 1829, has now been translated into English for the first time. The great novelist (The Red and the Black) would not have been surprised by the delay, since he took the long view of fame ("I have taken a ticket in a lottery in which the winning number is 1936"). Eager to blot out the memory of a countess who had just jilted him, Stendhal (real name: Henri Beyle) plunged into a sunny remembrance of tours past—St. Peter's, the Colosseum, the Michelangelo frescoes, etc. To each he brings the touchstone of "the beautiful," of which the i gth century was overly fond and the 20th is unduly leary. Stendhal had a mind like a Catherine wheel, and in A Roman Journal it sparked anecdotes and aphorisms on many subjects. Samples:
¶ "[In viewing ruins], imagine what is lacking and disregard what is there."
¶ "Rome is more of a small town than Dijon or Amiens; not everything is told, but everything is found out."
¶ "A young Frenchwoman brings to the exercise of her will a fire and petulance that amaze and exhaust the more prudent soul of a Roman woman. But this fire of straw lasts two days. The character of a tiger depicts Roman sensual enjoyment fairly well, if one add to it moments of absolute madness."
¶ "One cannot swallow pleasure like a pill."
In their different ways, Messrs. Lee, Brenan and Stendhal do not proffer the pleasure of travel as a pill, but as a love potion, mixing memory and desire. It will induce in most readers a keen sympathy for the peoples of the wine-dark sea—those whom the gods wished to preserve and so first made sane.