Madame Bovary (35 page)

“Why,” asked the apothecary, “does the Church excommunicate actors? After all, in the old days they participated openly in the ecclesiastical ceremonies. Yes, they performed, they put on, right in the middle of the choir, a species of farce called a mystery, which often offended the laws of decency.”

The clergyman merely groaned in answer, and the pharmacist went on:

“It’s the same in the Bible; there are … you know … some rather spicy … details, things … that are really … daring!”

And, when Monsieur Bournisien made a gesture of annoyance:

“Ah! You would agree that it is not a book to put in the hands of a young person, and I would be cross if Athalie …”

“But it’s the Protestants,” the other cried out impatiently, “and not we, who recommend the Bible!”

“Doesn’t matter!” said Homais. “I’m surprised that these days, in these enlightened times, anyone should still persist in prohibiting a form of intellectual entertainment that is harmless, morally uplifting, and even, sometimes, healthful—isn’t that so, Doctor?”

“Quite possibly,” answered the doctor noncommittally, either because, having the same opinion, he did not want to give offense, or because he had no opinion.

The conversation seemed to be over, when the pharmacist saw fit to make one last thrust.

“I’ve known a few priests who would dress in ordinary clothes and go see dancing girls fling their legs in the air.”

“Come now!” the curé said.

“Yes! I’ve known a few!”

And separating the syllables, Homais said again:

“I’ve—known—a—few.”

“Well, now! They were wrong,” said Bournisien, resigned to hearing it all.

“Lord! There’s plenty more they do!” exclaimed the apothecary.

“Monsieur! …” the clergyman retorted with a look so ferocious that the pharmacist was intimidated.

“I only mean to say,” he then replied in a milder tone, “that tolerance is the surest way of attracting souls to religion.”

“That’s true! That’s true!” conceded the good fellow, sitting back down in his chair.

But he remained there for only a couple of minutes longer. Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais addressed the doctor:

“Now, that’s what they call a stinger! I licked him, you saw it—how I licked him! … Now, really, do take Madame to the theater, even if only
to get a rise out one of those blackcoats for once in your life, for heaven’s sake. If I could find someone to replace me, I’d go with you myself. And don’t delay! Lagardy’s giving only one performance; he’s booked in England for a considerable sum of money. Oh, they say he’s a case! He’s rolling in money! He takes three mistresses along with him, as well as his chef! All these great artists burn the candle at both ends; they need a dissolute sort of life to give a little spark to their imagination. But they die in the poorhouse, because they hadn’t the sense, when they were young, to save some of their money. Well, bon appétit; see you tomorrow!”

This idea of the theater quickly germinated in Bovary’s mind; for he at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused, pleading the fatigue, the bother, the expense; but exceptionally, Charles did not give in, so convinced was he that this diversion would do her good. He saw nothing standing in the way of it; his mother had sent them three hundred francs that he had given up hope of getting, their current debts were not enormous, and the due date of the notes to be paid to Sieur Lheureux was still so far off that he did not have to think about them. Besides, imagining that she was merely being tactful about this, he continued to insist; so that in the end, because of his importunity, she decided to do it. And the next day, at eight o’clock in the morning, they bundled themselves into the
Hirondelle.

The apothecary, who had nothing keeping him in Yonville, but who thought himself duty bound never to stir from it, sighed as he watched them leave.

“Well, have a good trip!” he said to them. “Happy mortals that you are!”

Then, addressing Emma, who was wearing a blue silk dress with four flounces:

“You’re as pretty as a picture! You’ll
shine
in Rouen.”

The coach set them down at the Hôtel de la Croix Rouge, on the place Beauvoisine. It was one of those inns such as exist on the outskirts of every provincial city, with large stables and small bedrooms, where you see hens in the middle of the stable yard pecking at oats under the mud-spattered gigs of traveling salesmen—good old hostelries with worm-eaten wooden balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights, which are always full of people, noise, and food, their dark tables sticky from
glorias
, their thick windowpanes yellowed by flies, their damp napkins spotted blue with
wine, and which, smelling always of the village, like farmhands dressed in town clothing, have a café on the street, and, on the side facing the fields, a vegetable garden. Charles immediately went off on his errand. He confused the stage boxes with the balconies, the parterre with the loges, asked for explanations, failed
to understand them, was sent off by the box office to the manager, went back to the inn, returned to the box office, and in this way walked the entire length of the city several times over, from the theater to the boulevard.

Madame bought herself a hat, some gloves, a bouquet. Monsieur was very afraid of missing the beginning; and without having had time enough even to swallow a bowl of soup, they arrived at the theater, whose doors were still closed.

The crowd was standing against the wall, penned symmetrically between the railings. At the corners of the neighboring streets, gigantic posters repeated in baroque letters: “
Lucie de Lammermoor
 … Lagardy … Opéra … etc.” It was a fine evening; everyone was hot; sweat trickled through ringlets of hair, and handkerchiefs were being taken out of pockets to mop rosy foreheads; and now and then a warm breeze, blowing from the river, would gently stir the edges of the canvas awnings that hung over the tavern doors. A little farther down the street, however, people were cooled by a current of glacial air that smelled of tallow, leather, and oil. It emanated from the rue des Charrettes, with its large dark warehouses and rolling casks.

For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma wanted to take a stroll down to the port before going in, and Bovary prudently kept the tickets in his hand, inside his pants pocket, which he pressed against his abdomen.

Her heart began to pound even in the lobby. She smiled involuntarily with satisfaction as she saw the crowd hurry off to the right down the other corridor while she climbed the staircase to the
first-tier boxes.
Like a child, she took pleasure in pushing the broad padded doors with her finger; she inhaled deeply, with her whole chest, the dusty smell of the corridors, and when she was seated in her box, she straightened her back with the casual grace of a duchess.

The hall was beginning to fill, people were taking opera glasses out of
their cases, and the holders of season tickets, catching sight of one another from a distance, were exchanging bows. They had come here seeking relaxation in the fine arts from the anxieties of commerce; but not actually forgetting
business
, they were still talking cotton, proof spirits, or indigo. The heads of old men, expressionless and calm, with grayish white hair and skin, resembled silver medals tarnished by lead vapor. The young dandies were strutting about the parterre, displaying, in the opening of their vests, their pink or apple-green cravats; and Madame Bovary was admiring them from above as they rested the taut palms of their yellow gloves on the gold knobs of their canes.

Meanwhile, the orchestra’s candles were lit; the chandelier came down from the ceiling, the radiance of its faceted crystal pouring a sudden gaiety out into the hall; then the musicians entered one after another, and there was first a prolonged din of double basses rumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets piping. But three knocks were heard from the stage; the kettledrums began to roll, the brasses sounded a few chords, and the curtain rose on a country scene.

It was a crossroads in a forest, on the left a spring shaded by an oak. Countryfolk and lords, their plaids on their shoulders, were singing a hunting song together; then a captain entered and invoked the spirit of evil, raising his arms to heaven; another appeared; they went away, and the hunters resumed their song.

She was back in the books she had read in her youth—deep in Sir Walter Scott. She imagined she could hear, through the mist, the sound of Scottish bagpipes echoing over the heather. Her recollection of the novel also made it easier for her to understand the libretto; she could follow the plot phrase by phrase, while the elusive thoughts that kept returning to her were dissipated immediately by the gusts of music. She gave herself up to the lulling melodies and felt her whole being vibrate as if the bows of the violins were running over her very nerves. She did not have eyes enough to take in the costumes, the sets, the characters, the painted trees that quivered at every footstep, and the velvet caps, the cloaks, the swords, all these fantasies rustling within the music as though in the atmosphere of another world. But now a young woman came forward, tossing a purse to a squire in green. She remained there alone, and then came the sound of a flute like
the murmuring of a spring or the warbling of a bird. Gravely Lucie entered upon her cavatina in G major; she lamented her love, she
asked for wings. Emma, too, would have liked to escape from life and fly off in an embrace. Suddenly, Edgar Lagardy appeared.

He had the splendid sort of pallor that imparts something of the majesty of marble to the ardent races of the South. His muscular torso was tightly encased in a brown doublet; a small engraved dirk swung against his left thigh; and he rolled his eyes languorously about him while displaying his white teeth. People said that a Polish princess, hearing him sing one evening on the beach at Biarritz, where he was repairing longboats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruined herself for him. He had abandoned her for other women, and inevitably his fame as a lover had merely enhanced his reputation as an artist. Shrewd ham actor that he was, he even took care always to slip into the notices a poetic phrase about the charm of his personality and the sensitivity of his soul. A beautiful voice, imperturbable poise, more temperament than intelligence, and more bombast than lyricism combined to enhance that admirable charlatan nature, in which there was a touch of
both the hairdresser and the toreador.

From the very first scene, he enthralled them. He clasped Lucie in his arms, he left her, he came back, he seemed in despair: he had outbursts of anger, then moments of infinitely sweet elegiac huskiness, and the notes that slipped from his bare throat mingled with sobs and kisses. Emma leaned forward to watch him, scratching the velvet of her box with her fingernails. She absorbed into her heart the melodious laments that drifted along to the accompaniment of the double basses like the cries of the shipwrecked in the tumult of a storm. She recognized all the intoxicating delights, all the agonies, that had nearly killed her. Lucie’s voice seemed the echo of Emma’s own consciousness, and the illusion that so charmed her, something from her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such a love.
He
had not wept, as Edgar was weeping, on that last evening, in the moonlight, when they had said to each other:
“Tomorrow; tomorrow! …” The hall shook with shouts of “Bravo”; they began the entire stretto again; the lovers sang about the flowers on their graves, about their vows, their exile, their destiny, their hopes; and when they uttered their final farewell, Emma gave a sharp cry that merged with the vibrations of the closing chords.

“Now, why,” asked Bovary, “is that lord persecuting her so?”

“But he isn’t!” she answered; “he’s her lover.”

“But he swears he’ll take his revenge on her family, whereas the other one, the one who came on a little while ago, said: ‘I love Lucie and I believe she loves me.’ Besides, he walked off arm in arm with her father. Because that was her father, wasn’t it, the ugly little man with a cock’s feather in his hat?”

Despite Emma’s explanations, beginning with the recitative duet in which Gilbert describes his abominable machinations to his master Ashton, Charles, seeing the false engagement ring that was to deceive Lucie, believed it was a love token sent by Edgar. He confessed, what was more, that he could not follow the story, because of the music—which interfered greatly with the words.

“What does it matter?” said Emma; “be quiet!”

“It’s just that, as you know,” he went on, leaning over her shoulder, “I do like to understand.”

“Be quiet! Be quiet!” she said impatiently.

Lucie was coming forward, half borne up by her women, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, and paler than the white satin of her dress. Emma was dreaming of her own wedding day; and she saw herself back there again, surrounded by wheat fields, on the little path, when they were walking toward the church. Why hadn’t she, like this woman, resisted, pleaded? On the contrary, she had been full of joy, unaware of the abyss into which she was rushing … Ah! if only, in the freshness of her beauty, before the defilement of marriage and the disillusionment of adultery, she could have set down her life upon some great, solid heart, then virtue, tenderness, desire, and duty would all have joined together, and she would never have descended from such lofty felicity. But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie imagined in despair of all desire. She knew, now, how paltry were the passions exaggerated by art. So, endeavoring to turn her thoughts away from
this, Emma now determined to regard this replication of her sufferings as nothing more than a vivid fantasy for the entertainment of the eye, and she was even smiling to herself in disdainful pity, when at the back of the stage, from behind the velvet curtains, appeared a man in a black cloak.

A single gesture sent his broad-brimmed Spanish hat to the floor; immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar,
glittering with fury, dominated all the others with his brighter voice. Ashton in deep tones hurled his murderous provocations at him, Lucie uttered her sharp lament, Arthur, standing apart, sang in a modulating middle register, and the minister’s bass-baritone boomed like an organ, while the voices of the women, repeating his words, started up again in a delicious chorus. They stood in a single line, gesticulating; and anger, vengeance, jealousy, terror, pity, and stupefaction issued simultaneously from their half-open mouths. The outraged lover was brandishing his naked sword; his lace collar jerked up with each movement of his chest, and he strode to the right and to the left in his soft flared boots, clanking his silver-gilt spurs on the boards. His love, she was thinking, must be inexhaustible, for
him to pour it out on the crowd in such large floods. All her impulses to denigrate vanished as she was invaded by the poetry of the role, and, drawn to the man by the illusion of the character, she tried to picture his life to herself, that vibrant, extraordinary, splendid life, which she, too, could nevertheless have led if chance had so willed it. They would have met, they would have fallen in love! With him, she would have traveled through all the kingdoms of Europe, from capital to capital, sharing his troubles and his triumphs, gathering the flowers people threw to him, embroidering his costumes herself; then each evening, sitting far back in her box, behind the gilt lattice, she would absorb with all her being the effusions of that soul that sang for her alone; from the stage, even while he was acting, he would be looking at her. But a kind of madness came over her: he was looking at her now, she was sure of it! She wanted to run into his arms, take refuge in his
strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and say to him, cry out to him: “Lift me up, take me away, let us go away! All my passion and all my dreams are yours, yours alone!”