Nana by Émile Zola (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

brightly above

them but did not penetrate the cold gloom of the theater. In the

streets outside there was a frost under a November sky.

 

“And there’s no fire in the greenroom!” said Simonne. “It’s

disgusting; he IS just becoming a skinflint! I want to be off; I

don’t want to get seedy.”

 

“Silence, I say!” Bordenave once more thundered.

 

Then for a minute or so a confused murmur alone was audible as the

actors went on repeating their parts. There was scarcely any

appropriate action, and they spoke in even tones so as not to tire

themselves. Nevertheless, when they did emphasize a particular

shade of meaning they cast a glance at the house, which lay before

them like a yawning gulf. It was suffused with vague, ambient

shadow, which resembled the fine dust floating pent in some high,

windowless loft. The deserted house, whose sole illumination was

the twilight radiance of the stage, seemed to slumber in melancholy

and mysterious effacement. Near the ceiling dense night smothered

the frescoes, while from the several tiers of stage boxes on either

hand huge widths of gray canvas stretched down to protect the

neighboring hangings. In fact, there was no end to these coverings;

bands of canvas had been thrown over the velvet-covered ledges in

front of the various galleries which they shrouded thickly. Their

pale hue stained the surrounding shadows, and of the general

decorations of the house only the dark recesses of the boxes were

distinguishable. These served to outline the framework of the

several stories, where the seats were so many stains of red velvet

turned black. The chandelier had been let down as far as it would

go, and it so filled the region of the stalls with its pendants as

to suggest a flitting and to set one thinking that the public had

started on a journey from which they would never return.

 

Just about then Rose, as the little duchess who has been misled into

the society of a courtesan, came to the footlights, lifted up her

hands and pouted adorably at the dark and empty theater, which was

as sad as a house of mourning.

 

“Good heavens, what queer people!” she said, emphasizing the phrase

and confident that it would have its effect.

 

Far back in the corner box in which she was hiding Nana sat

enveloped in a great shawl. She was listening to the play and

devouring Rose with her eyes. Turning toward Labordette, she asked

him in a low tone:

 

“You are sure he’ll come?”

 

“Quite sure. Without doubt he’ll come with Mignon, so as to have an

excuse for coming. As soon as he makes his appearance you’ll go up

into Mathilde’s dressing room, and I’ll bring him to you there.”

 

They were talking of Count Muffat. Labordette had arranged this

interview with him on neutral ground. He had had a serious talk

with Bordenave, whose affairs had been gravely damaged by two

successive failures. Accordingly Bordenave had hastened to lend him

his theater and to offer Nana a part, for he was anxious to win the

count’s favor and hoped to be able to borrow from him.

 

“And this part of Geraldine, what d’you thing of it?” continued

Labordette.

 

But Nana sat motionless and vouchsafed no reply. After the first

act, in which the author showed how the Duc de Beaurivage played his

wife false with the blonde Geraldine, a comic-opera celebrity, the

second act witnessed the Duchess Helene’s arrival at the house of

the actress on the occasion of a masked ball being given by the

latter. The duchess has come to find out by what magical process

ladies of that sort conquer and retain their husbands’ affections.

A cousin, the handsome Oscar de Saint-Firmin, introduces her and

hopes to be able to debauch her. And her first lesson causes her

great surprise, for she hears Geraldine swearing like a hodman at

the duke, who suffers with most ecstatic submissiveness. The

episode causes her to cry out, “Dear me, if that’s the way one ought

to talk to the men!” Geraldine had scarce any other scene in the

act save this one. As to the duchess, she is very soon punished for

her curiosity, for an old buck, the Baron de Tardiveau, takes her

for a courtesan and becomes very gallant, while on her other side

Beaurivage sits on a lounging chair and makes his peace with

Geraldine by dint of kisses and caresses. As this last lady’s part

had not yet been assigned to anyone, Father Cossard had got up to

read it, and he was now figuring away in Bosc’s arms and emphasizing

it despite himself. At this point, while the rehearsal was dragging

monotonously on, Fauchery suddenly jumped from his chair. He had

restrained himself up to that moment, but now his nerves got the

better of him.

 

“That’s not it!” he cried.

 

The actors paused awkwardly enough while Fontan sneered and asked in

his most contemptuous voice:

 

“Eh? What’s not it? Who’s not doing it right?”

 

“Nobody is! You’re quite wrong, quite wrong!” continued Fauchery,

and, gesticulating wildly, he came striding over the stage and began

himself to act the scene.

 

“Now look here, you Fontan, do please comprehend the way Tardiveau

gets packed off. You must lean forward like this in order to catch

hold of the duchess. And then you, Rose, must change your position

like that but not too soon—only when you hear the kiss.”

 

He broke off and in the heat of explanation shouted to Cossard:

 

“Geraldine, give the kiss! Loudly, so that it may be heard!”

 

Father Cossard turned toward Bosc and smacked his lips vigorously.

 

“Good! That’s the kiss,” said Fauchery triumphantly. “Once more;

let’s have it once more. Now you see, Rose, I’ve had time to move,

and then I give a little cry—so: ‘Oh, she’s given him a kiss.’ But

before I do that, Tardiveau must go up the stage. D’you hear,

Fontan? You go up. Come, let’s try it again, all together.”

 

The actors continued the scene again, but Fontan played his part

with such an ill grace that they made no sort of progress. Twice

Fauchery had to repeat his explanation, each time acting it out with

more warmth than before. The actors listened to him with melancholy

faces, gazed momentarily at one another, as though he had asked them

to walk on their heads, and then awkwardly essayed the passage, only

to pull up short directly afterward, looking as stiff as puppets

whose strings have just been snapped.

 

“No, it beats me; I can’t understand it,” said Fontan at length,

speaking in the insolent manner peculiar to him.

 

Bordenave had never once opened his lips. He had slipped quite down

in his armchair, so that only the top of his hat was now visible in

the doubtful flicker of the gaslight on the stand. His cane had

fallen from his grasp and lay slantwise across his waistcoat.

Indeed, he seemed to be asleep. But suddenly he sat bolt upright.

 

“It’s idiotic, my boy,” he announced quietly to Fauchery.

 

“What d’you mean, idiotic?” cried the author, growing very pale.

“It’s you that are the idiot, my dear boy!”

 

Bordenave began to get angry at once. He repeated the word

“idiotic” and, seeking a more forcible expression, hit upon

“imbecile” and “damned foolish.” The public would hiss, and the act

would never be finished! And when Fauchery, without, indeed, being

very deeply wounded by these big phrases, which always recurred when

a new piece was being put on, grew savage and called the other a

brute, Bordenave went beyond all bounds, brandished his cane in the

air, snorted like a bull and shouted:

 

“Good God! Why the hell can’t you shut up? We’ve lost a quarter of

an hour over this folly. Yes, folly! There’s no sense in it. And

it’s so simple, after all’s said and done! You, Fontan, mustn’t

move. You, Rose, must make your little movement, just that, no

more; d’ye see? And then you come down. Now then, let’s get it

done this journey. Give the kiss, Cossard.”

 

Then ensued confusion. The scene went no better than before.

Bordenave, in his turn, showed them how to act it about as

gracefully as an elephant might have done, while Fauchery sneered

and shrugged pityingly. After that Fontan put his word in, and even

Bosc made so bold as to give advice. Rose, thoroughly tired out,

had ended by sitting down on the chair which indicated the door. No

one knew where they had got to, and by way of finish to it all

Simonne made a premature entry, under the impression that her cue

had been given her, and arrived amid the confusion. This so enraged

Bordenave that he whirled his stick round in a terrific manner and

caught her a sounding thwack to the rearward. At rehearsal he used

frequently to drub his former mistress. Simonne ran away, and this

furious outcry followed her:

 

“Take that, and, by God, if I’m annoyed again I shut the whole shop

up at once!”

 

Fauchery pushed his hat down over his forehead and pretended to be

going to leave the theater. But he stopped at the top of the stage

and came down again when he saw Bordenave perspiringly resuming his

seat. Then he, too, took up his old position in the other armchair.

For some seconds they sat motionless side by side while oppressive

silence reigned in the shadowy house. The actors waited for nearly

two minutes. They were all heavy with exhaustion and felt as though

they had performed an overwhelming task.

 

“Well, let’s go on,” said Bordenave at last. He spoke in his usual

voice and was perfectly calm.

 

“Yes, let’s go on,” Fauchery repeated. “We’ll arrange the scene

tomorrow.”

 

And with that they dragged on again and rehearsed their parts with

as much listlessness and as fine an indifference as ever. During

the dispute between manager and author Fontan and the rest had been

taking things very comfortably on the rustic bench and seats at the

back of the stage, where they had been chuckling, grumbling and

saying fiercely cutting things. But when Simonne came back, still

smarting from her blow and choking with sobs, they grew melodramatic

and declared that had they been in her place they would have

strangled the swine. She began wiping her eyes and nodding

approval. It was all over between them, she said. She was leaving

him, especially as Steiner had offered to give her a grand start in

life only the day before. Clarisse was much astonished at this, for

the banker was quite ruined, but Prulliere began laughing and

reminded them of the neat manner in which that confounded Israelite

had puffed himself alongside of Rose in order to get his Landes

saltworks afloat on ‘change. Just at that time he was airing a new

project, namely, a tunnel under the Bosporus. Simonne listened with

the greatest interest to this fresh piece of information.

 

As to Clarisse, she had been raging for a week past. Just fancy,

that beast La Faloise, whom she had succeeded in chucking into

Gaga’s venerable embrace, was coming into the fortune of a very rich

uncle! It was just her luck; she had always been destined to make

things cozy for other people. Then, too, that pig Bordenave had

once more given her a mere scrap of a part, a paltry fifty lines,

just as if she could not have played Geraldine! She was yearning

for that role and hoping that Nana would refuse it.

 

“Well, and what about me?” said Prulliere with much bitterness. “I

haven’t got more than two hundred lines. I wanted to give the part

up. It’s too