Complete works of gustav.., p.458
Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert, page 458
PAUL
Et... cette personne serait un obstacle ?
LE GÉNÉRAL (avec force)
Je t’en réponds !
Mme DE GRÉMONVILLE (se frottant les mains)
Parfait !
PAUL (abasourdi)
D’où vient cela ?
LE GÉNÉRAL
C’est Victoire !
TOUS
Ah !
(Thérèse jette un regard courroucé à Amédée, qui a joint à son cri un soubresaut gymnastique, et qui retombe aussitôt dans son immobilité.)
Mme DE GRÉMONVILLE (avec dégoût)
Cette fille ?
LE GÉNÉRAL
Cette pauvre fille, Madame, cette innocente... abusée...
PAUL (avec violence)
Comment ?
LE GÉNÉRAL (sévèrement)
Serais-tu assez hardi pour soutenir le contraire ? et t’imagines-tu qu’en soldant tes notes, j’aurai payé toute ta dette ?
PAUL
Quelle dette ?
LE GÉNÉRAL (croisant ses bras)
As-tu, toi, homme marié, les moyens de réparer le tort que tu lui as fait ?
PAUL (hors de lui)
Moi ?
LE GÉNÉRAL
Oui, toi, qui l’as arrachée à une existence honnête, et précipitée dans la honte, si l’on arrive à temps pour la sauver !
PAUL (avec un rire amer)
Il faut que votre religion ait été étrangement surprise par cette fille !
LE GÉNÉRAL (je levant tout à coup)
Plus de ces mots-là... je l’épouse !
TOUS (dans des attitudes accablées)
Ah !
AMÉDÉE (à part, regardant le général)
Encore un de pincé ! et la succession avec ! il était temps !
(très haut, et avec un geste extravagant) Ah !
THÉRÈSE (lui jetant un regard terrible)
Qu’est-ce qui vous prend donc ?
AMÉDÉE (avec un sourire)
Ma chérie ?
PAUL
(sortant tout à coup de son anéantissement et s’avançant le chapeau à la main vers Mme de Mérilhac)
Voulez-vous bien me dire où est ce bureau, Madame ?
Selected Non-Fiction
Commemorative postcard of Flaubert’s hometown
ABOARD THE CANGE
Flaubert published several travel books during his writing career, recounting his various journeys across the world. This extract concerns his adventures along the River Nile.
ABOARD THE CANGE
MAXIME DUCAMP passed part of the night in writing letters. Bouilhet slept on a black bear-skin. This morning I accompanied him to the railway station of Rouen. We embraced, both of us pale and agitated, and he finally left me. I turned on my heel and departed. Heaven be praised! that is over! There will be no more parting with any one. My heart s relieved of a heavy burden.
At Maxime’s house there s great confusion. They are packing up his furniture. His friends are there to bid him farewell. Cormenin, sitting on a table, is bathed in tears!
Here I shall interpolate a few pages I wrote while on the Nile, aboard the “Cange.” I had intended to write the whole account of my travels in this way, in paragraphs, or in the form of brief chapters, as I might find the time and opportunity. But I found that plan impossible, and I was obliged to give it up as soon as the Ramazan had passed, and we were able to go about freely once more. I entitled this record “The ‘Cange.’“
I.
February 6, 1850.
Aboard the “Cange.”
The date on which I began this record was, I believe, the twelfth of November, 1840. I was eighteen years old. 1 had recently returned from Corsica — my first experience of travel. I had lust finished a written description of my journeyings, and idly regarded, without really perceiving them, forty-five sheets of paper spread out upon my table that I did not know what to do with. According to my recollection, it was ordinary, ruled, blue-tinted letter-paper, which I had kept tied up η my travelling portfolio. I had bought it in Toulon on one of those fine mornings when my appetite for literature was so keen that I was ready to write without limit on any subject whatever. I cast a last glance upon the blotted sheets, then, pushing them away, I shoved back my chair and arose. I paced to and fro in my room, with my hands in my pockets, my feet in low slippers; with bent head and sadness in my heart.
My former mode of “life was now ended forever, I had left college. What should I do? I had many plans and projects, already a hundred hopes and a thousand tastes. I wished to learn Greek. I regretted the fact that I was not a Corsair. I was tempted to become a renegade, a muleteer, or a camelherd! I longed to get away from home, from myself. Oh! to go all over the world — to be carried no matter where, like the smoke from my chimney or the leaves of the acacia!
Finally, drawing a deep sigh, 1 sat down again at the table and sealed up the sheets of paper with a quadruple seal, writing on the outside: “Paper to be used in recording the events of my next journey,” followed by a large interrogation-point. Then I put the packet in a drawer and turned the key.
Sleep in peace under thy coverlet, little white sheets, which should contain ebullitions of enthusiasm and the joyous outpourings of a free fancy! Thy format is too slight and thy colour is too soft. Perhaps some day, when I am older, I shall break thy crumbling seals. And what shall I inscribe upon thee then?
II.
Ten years have passed since that time. To-day I find myself on the Nile, and we have just passed Memphis.
We set out from Cairo with a strong north wind. Our two sails, crossing each other, swelled out in all their glory; the “Cange” leaned slightly to one side, her keel cutting through the water, which I could hear softly splashing, Our captain, Ibralvm, was seated forward, cross-legged a la Turk, looking straight ahead and uttering from time to time, without turning his head, cries of command to the sailors. Sitting erect on the poop, which formed the roof of our quarters, was the mate, holding the tiller, while he smoked his chibouk of black wood. The sun was bright and the sky was of a deep blue. With our field-glasses we had been able to see, at long intervals along the banks, flocks of herons and storks.
The water of the Nile is yellow, as it contains a great deal of earth. It moves languidly, as if wearied with the long journeys it has made through many lands; it murmurs incessantly in a mysterious, plaintive monotone. If the Niger and the Nile are really the same river, whence come these waves, and what have they seen? This stream, like the ocean, awakens the profoundest reflection. One thinks of the eternal reverie of Cleopatra, and remembers that the same golden sunlight fell upon the Pharaohs. At the close of day the sky became red on the right of the stream and pink on the left. Γ he pyramids of Sakkara stood out in a grey silhouette against the crimson background of the horizon. A kind of incandescence spread over the sky, steeping it in a golden light. On the opposite side of the river the clouds were a pale rose-colour, deepening in tint towards the horizon. Presently the rosy glow faded a little; then it became yellow, changing to green. At last the green hue melted almost imperceptibly into white, which blended with the deep blue of the vault above our heads,
III.
Far away, on the banks of another river, quieter and less ancient, I own a white house, of which the shutters are closed, now that I am no longer there. The leafless poplars tremble in the cold mists, and the floating blocks of ice in the river grind against the frozen banks. The cows are in their stable, the fruit- trees are covered with straw, the smoke from the farm-house chimney floats slowly up towards the grey clouds.
I left the long, Louis XIV. terrace, bordered with lindens, where I used to walk in summer, clad only in a white dressing-gown. In six weeks the trees will bud again. Each branch will be tipped with little red buttons; then the primroses will bloom, — yellow, green, pink, and variegated — brightening the lawn in the courtyard. Ο my pretty little primroses! do not lose your seeds, because I wish to see you bloom again another spring!
I left the high wall, covered with a tapestry of roses, and the pavilion beside the water. A honeysuckle climbs upon the iron balcony. In the early hour before dawn, in July, while the moon is still shining, it is pleasant to stand there and watch the humming-birds darting in and out among the blossoms.
IV.
You know all that one feels at the moment of departure from a loved spot, and how the heart aches at the sundering of all the tender ties of place. My notes would be too long should I say more on this subject, so I will pass over all that I might have said.
* * *
Between us, in the coupe, sat a silent lady, about fifty years old. Her face was half smothered in veils, and she wore a long silk pelisse. A young lady and a gentleman had accompanied her to the station. After we had turned the corner of the Rue Saint- Honore, she began to weep, She traveled with us for several hours, weeping all the way. But I did not weep, — I, who was bound on a longer journey and who had probably left much more behind. Why was I indignant at her? Why did she make me pity her? Why did I have a desire to say something unkind to this good woman? Was it because we think our own joy the only legitimate joy, our own love the only true love, our own griefs the most poignant of all griefs?
* * *
On my right was a thin gentleman in a white hat; on my left were two diligence conductors who had slipped their blue blouses over their coats. One of these, slightly marked with smallpox and wearing a large black mazagran instead of a beard, was our own conductor. His companion, a fat rascal with a jolly face, came here some days before, to hand in his resignation, as he intended to take a pleasure trip to Lyons and to enjoy the excitement of the hunt. What a pleasing medley of ideas this conductor’s personality afforded me! Do you not, like me, possess cherished memories of the time when you were seventeen and the rapturous joy of the holiday vacations and delightful wanderings? Do you not recall your reveries in the fresh air, with five horses galloping before you on a good road, the open country spreading to the horizon, the odour of new-mown hay in your nostrils, the breeze blowing in your face, the ready chat, the soaring dreams, the interminable pipes that were continually going out and having to be relighted, and that freedom which one permits himself in the fraternal ceremony of “having a little glass”; to say nothing of those mysterious and unexpected baskets of game that came to you in your warm dining-room on New Year’s day, about ten o’clock in the morning, while you were at breakfast? Have you never overwhelmed With questions this patient man, who always listened to you as he drove along the road? In some corner of your memory is there not still a yearning recollection of some towering height that dominated all the landscape?
* * *
I remember a hill we climbed during our first night of travel. It was in the depths of a forest. The moon, shining through the trees here and there, lighted up the road. On our left was a deep valley. The lantern on the seat occupied by the postilion, threw its rays on the backs of the first pair of horses. My neighbour, who had fallen asleep with her mouth open, snored upon my shoulder. “No one spoke, and the coach rolled along.
At ten o’clock we stopped at Nangis-la-France for supper. The men smoked in the kitchen around the great fireplace. A few commercial travellers chatted among themselves. One of them pretended to recognise another, who denied any acquaintance. “Nevertheless,” said the persistent one, “I remember seeing you at Goyer’s, in Clermont, — , it must be at least eighteen years ago. I even recollect you made a great row because they gave you a bed that was too short. How angry you were! You made a tremendous fuss.”
“It is possible, monsieur,” was the reply, “but I have no recollection of it.”
* * *
V.
Among the passengers on the Saone boat we noticed with interest a young and graceful woman who wore a long green veil upon her bonnet of Italian straw.
* * *
As for myself, tormented by my bump of causality, I walked to and fro on the bridge of the vessel, trying to decide in what social category to place all these people; and from time to time, in order to aid my diagnoses, I threw a glance, as if I were a thief, at the addresses on the cases, trunks and boxes piled up pell-mell at the foot of the smoke-stack.
I have a mania for weaving romances about the persons I meet by chance. An unconquerable curiosity prompts me in spite of myself to mental queries as to the life of the stranger whom I have just encountered. I wish to know his business, whence he comes, his name, what he is doing, what are his regrets and his hopes, his forgotten amours, his present dreams, — everything about him, even to the kind of binding on his flannel undershirt! And if the stranger be a woman (especially if she is of middle age), my curiosity is even more ardent. How I should like to see her au naturel, yes, to the very heart! How I should like to know whence she comes, where she is going, why she is here and net elsewhere. As my eyes dwell upon her, I fancy her the heroine of all sorts of adventures. I credit her with possessing certain sentiments. I speculate upon the probable appearance of her bedchamber, and upon a thousand other things, — even imagining the half- worn slippers into which she thrusts her feet when she gets out of bed!
* * *
A passing diligence stops here by chance. We swallow a bad dinner, jump into the coach, and in fifteen minutes we are rolling along the road to Marseilles.
Already we feel that we have left the north. A soft blue haze lies on the mountains in the rays of the setting sun. The road stretches straight ahead between borders of olive-trees. The air seems more transparent, and is filled with a golden light.
* * *
VI.
The first time I visited Marseilles was on a morning in November. The sun shone upon the sea, which was as smooth as a mirror, blue and sparkling. We were at the summit of the hill on the coast of Aix that commands a view of the city. I had just awakened, and I got out of the coach to breathe a little fresh air and to stretch my limbs. I walked along the road, feeling such a sensation of virile well-being as I have never experienced since. How charmed I was with the Mediterranean, that ancient sea of which I had so often dreamed! I admired the tartanes, with their lateen sails, the immense trousers of the Greek sailors, and the stockings, of the colour of Spanish tobacco, worn by the women of the people. The warm air. circulating through the shadowy streets between the tall houses, overwhelmed my mind with soft oriental fancies, and the large paving-stones from Canabiere that heated the soles of my shoes, made me think of the glowing country where I longed to be.
One evening I was alone at the swimming-school at Lausac, on the shore of the bay of Oursins, where there were great nets for catching the tunny-fish that abound in those waters. I swam about in the blue waves; below me I could distinguish the pebbles at the bottom of the sea, all covered with weeds. With a sensation of placid joy, I extended my body in the caressing waters where perhaps the naiads glided. There were no waves: only a swelling, murmuring undulation that rocked me gently to and fro.
I returned to the hotel in a four-seated cabriolet, in company with the manager of the baths and a young blonde person whose damp hair was caught up loosely under her hat. She held upon her lap a little Havana pug dog which she had taken into the bath with her. The animal shivered, and she rubbed it with her hands to warm it. The driver of the coach wore a large grey felt hat, and sat between the shafts of the vehicle.
Ah, heaven! what a long time it is since that happy day!
OVER STRAND AND FIELD
A RECORD OF TRAVEL THROUGH BRITTANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHTEAU DE CHAMBORD.
CHAPTER II.
CHTEAU DE CLISSON.
CHAPTER III.
CARNAC.
CHAPTER IV.
QUIBERON.
CHAPTER V.
RETURN.
CHAPTER VI.
QUIMPER.
CHAPTER VII.
PONT-L’ABBÉ.
CHAPTER VIII.
ROAMING.
CHAPTER IX.
BREST.
CHAPTER X.
SAINT-MALO.
CHAPTER XI.
MONT SAINT-MICHEL.
CHAPTER XII.
COMBOURG.
CHAPTER I.
CHTEAU DE CHAMBORD.
We walked through the empty galleries and deserted rooms where spiders spin their cobwebs over the salamanders of Francis the First. One is overcome by a feeling of distress at the sight of this poverty which has no grandeur. It is not absolute ruin, with the luxury of blackened and mouldy débris, the delicate embroidery of flowers, and the drapery of waving vines undulating in the breeze, like pieces of damask. It is a conscious poverty, for it brushes its threadbare coat and endeavours to appear respectable. The floor has been repaired in one room, while in the next it has been allowed to rot. It shows the futile effort to preserve that which is dying and to bring back that which has fled. Strange to say, it is all very melancholy, but not at all imposing.
And then it seems as if everything had contributed to injure poor Chambord, designed by Le Primatice and chiselled and sculptured by Germain Pilon and Jean Cousin. Upreared by Francis the First, on his return from Spain, after the humiliating treaty of Madrid (1526), it is the monument of a pride that sought to dazzle itself in order to forget defeat. It first harbours Gaston d’Orléans, a crushed pretender, who is exiled within its walls; then it is Louis XIV, who, out of one floor, builds three, thus ruining the beautiful double staircase which extended without interruption from the top to the bottom. Then one day, on the second floor, facing the front, under the magnificent ceiling covered with salamanders and painted ornaments which are now crumbling away, Molière produced for the first time Le Bourgeois gentilhomme. Then it was given to the Maréchal de Saxe; then to the Polignacs, and finally to a plain soldier, Berthier. It was afterwards bought back by subscription and presented to the Duc de Bordeaux. It has been given to everybody, as if nobody cared to have it or desired to keep it. It looks as if it had hardly ever been used, and as if it had always been too spacious. It is like a deserted hostelry where transient guests have not left even their names on the walls.
