Nana: By Emile Zola - Illustrated

by Emile Zola

  “Your theatre—” he began, in clear, musical tones.

  Bordenave interrupted him quietly, and said, with the coolness of a man who prefers to call things by their right names: “Say my brothel, rather.”

  Fauchery laughed approvingly, but La Faloise was shocked to a degree, and his meditated compliment stuck in his throat, as he endeavoured to look as though he appreciated the joke. The manager had rushed off to shake hands with a dramatic critic whose criticisms had great influence, and, when he returned, La Faloise had almost recovered himself. He feared lest he should be regarded as a provincial if he appeared too much disconcerted.

  “I have been told,” he began, wishing at any rate to say something, “that Nana has a delicious voice.”

  “She!” cried the manager, shrugging his shoulders—“she has no more voice than a squirt.”

  The young man hastened to add: “Besides, she is an excellent actress.”

  “She!—a regular lump! She never knows where to put her hands or her feet.”

  La Faloise coloured slightly. He was at a loss what to understand. He managed to stammer out: “On no account would I have missed this first night. I know that your theatre—”

  “Say my brothel,” interrupted Bordenave again, with the cool obstinacy of a man thoroughly convinced.

  Meanwhile Fauchery had been calmly examining the women as they entered. He now came to his cousin’s assistance, when he saw him doubtful whether to laugh or be angry. “Gratify Bordenave; call his theatre just what he desires, as it amuses him. And as for you, my dear fellow, you need not try to fool us. If your Nana can’t sing and can’t play, you will make a regular fiasco of it to-night. And that is just what I am expecting.”

  “A fiasco! a fiasco!” exclaimed the manager, whose face became purple with rage. “Is it necessary for a woman to know how to sing and act? Ah! my boy, you are much too stupid. Nana has something else, damn her! and something that will make up for anything she may lack. I scented it, and she has plenty of it, or I have only the nose of a fool! You will see, you will see—she has only to appear, and all the spectators will at once smack their lips.” He raised his big hands, which trembled with enthusiasm, and then, lowering his voice, murmured to himself, “Yes, she will go far—ah! damn her! yes, she will go far. A skin—oh, such a skin!”

  Then, in answer to Fauchery’s questions, he condescended to give certain details, making use of such offensive language that he quite shocked Hector. He had become acquainted with Nana, and wished to bring her out; and it so happened that he was in want of a Venus. He never allowed a woman to hang on to him very long; he preferred to let the public have its share of her at once. But he had had a damnable time in his shop; the arrival of this great hulking girl had revolutionized everything. Rose Mignon, his star, a fine actress and an adorable singer, threatened daily to leave him in the lurch. Divining a rival in Nana she was furious. And the playbills—Deuce take it! what a row they had caused. However, he had decided to print the names of the two actresses in letters of equal size. They had better not badger him too much. When one of his little women, as he called them, Clarisse or Simone, did not do as she was told, he just kicked her behind. If he treated them differently they would never leave him any peace. He dealt in them, and he knew what they were worth, the hussies!

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, interrupting himself. “There come Mignon and Steiner! They are always together. You know that Steiner begins to have had enough of Rose; so the husband sticks to him like a plaster lest he should escape.”

  The flaring gas jets running along the cornice of the theatre threw a sheet of vivid light over the footpath. Two small trees stood out clearly with their fresh green foliage, and a pillar was so brilliantly illuminated by the blaze of light that the bills posted upon it could be read at a distance as clearly as at midday; whilst, afar off, the dense darkness of the Boulevardsd was studded with multitudinous lights, revealing the surging of an ever moving crowd. Many of the men did not enter the theatre at once, but loitered outside to finish their cigars and chat under the gaslight, which gave a livid pallor to their faces, and threw their shadows, short and black, upon the asphalt beneath. Mignon, a tall, stout fellow, with the square head of the Hercules of a travelling show, shouldered his way through the crowd, dragging on his arm the banker Steiner—a short man, with a big stomach and a round face fringed with a greyish beard.

  “Well!” said Bordenave to the banker, “you saw her yesterday in my office.”

  “Ah! that was her, was it?” exclaimed Steiner. “I thought as much. Only, I was going out as she entered; I scarcely saw her.”

  Mignon listened with downcast eyes, all the time nervously twisting a large diamond ring on his little finger. He knew at once that they were talking of Nana. Then as Bordenave proceeded to give a description of his new star which caused the banker’s eyes to sparkle, he decided to interfere.

  “That’ll do, my dear fellow; she’s not worth looking at. The public will soon send her to the right about. Steiner, my boy, you know that my wife is expecting you in her dressing-room.”

  He tried to lead him away, but Steiner refused to leave Bordenave. The crowd at the box-office became more compact, the buzz of voices grew louder, and the name of Nana was repeated over and over again with a sing-song enunciation of its two syllables. The men, standing in front of the posters, read it out loud; others, as they passed, uttered it interrogatively, while the women, smiling and uneasy, repeated it softly with an air of surprise. No one knew Nana. Where on earth had Nana come from? And little jokes were passed about from ear to ear, and little tales told. The very name sounded like a caress, and fell familiarly from the lips of every one. Its constant repetition amused the crowd and kept it in a good humour. A fever of curiosity took possession of everybody—that Parisian curiosity which is sometimes as violent as an attack of brain fever. All were eager to see Nana. One lady had the train of her dress torn, and a gentleman lost his hat.

  “Ah! you ask me too much,” cried Bordenave, whom twenty men were besieging with questions. “You will see her presently. I must be off, they are waiting for me.”

  He disappeared, radiant at having inflamed his public. Mignon shrugged his shoulders, and reminded Steiner that Rose was expecting him to show him her costume for the first act.

  “Hallo! there’s Lucy, over there, getting out of her carriage,” said La Faloise to Fauchery.

  It was in fact Lucy Stewart—a little, ugly woman of about forty, with a neck too long, a thin, drawn face, and thick lips, but so lively, so graceful, that she charmed every one. She was accompanied by Caroline Héquet and her mother. Caroline with her frigid beauty, the mother very stately, and looking as if she were stuffed.

  “You are coming with us, of course,” she said to Fauchery; “I have kept a place for you.”

  “So that I shall see nothing!—not if I know it! he answered. ”I have an orchestra stall; I prefer to be there.”

  Lucy fired up at once. Was he afraid to be seen with her? Then suddenly calming down, she jumped to another subject.

  “Why did you never tell me that you knew Nana?”

  “Nana! I never saw her! ”

  “Is that really true? I have been assured that you once slept with her.”

  But Mignon, who was in front, put his finger to his lips to signal to them to be silent. And when Lucy asked why, he pointed to a young man who had just passed, murmuring, “Nana’s sweetheart.”

  They all stared after him. He was certainly very good-looking. Fauchery recognised him: his name was Daguenet, and he had squandered a fortune of three hundred thousand francse on women, and now dabbled in stocks in order to make a little money with which he could treat them to an occasional bouquet and dinner. Lucy thought he had very handsome eyes.

  “Ah! there’s Blanche!” she exclaimed. “It was she who told me that you had slept with Nana.”

  Blanche de Sivry, a heavy blonde, whose pretty face was getting too fat, arrived, accompanied
by a slender, well-dressed man with a most distinguished air.

  “Count Xavier de Vandeuvres,” whispered Fauchery to La Faloise.

  The count shook hands with the journalist, whilst a lively discussion took place between Lucy and Blanche. They quite blocked up the entry with their skirts covered with flounces, one in pink and the other in blue, and Nana’s name fell from their lips so frequently that the crowd lingered to listen. The count at length led Blanche away, but Nana’s name did not cease to resound from the four corners of the vestibule in louder and more eager tones. Would they never begin? The men pulled out their watches, late comers leaped from their carriages before they really drew up, and the groups left the pavement, whilst the passers-by, as they slowly crossed the stream of light, stretched their necks to see what was going on in the theatre. A street urchin who came up whistling, stood for a moment before one of the posters at the door; then, in a drunken voice shouted out, “Oh, my! Nana!” and reeled on his way, dragging his old shoes along the asphalt. People laughed, and several well-dressed gentlemen repeated, “Nana! Oh, my! Nana!” The crush was tremendous. A quarrel broke out at the box-office, the cries for Nana increased; one of those stupid fits of brutal excitement common to crowds had taken possession of this mass of people. Suddenly, above this uproar, the sound of a bell was heard. The rumour extended to the Boulevards that the curtain was about to rise, and there was more pushing and struggling; every one wished to get in; the employes of the theatre were at their wits’ end. Mignon, looking uneasy, seized hold of Steiner, who had not been to inspect the dress Rose was to wear. At the first tinkle of the bell, La Faloise pushed through the crowd, dragging Fauchery with him, fearing lest he should miss the overture. Lucy Stewart was irritated by all these demonstrations of eagerness. What vulgar persons to push ladies about! She remained to the last with Caroline Héquet and her mother. At length the vestibule was empty; outside, the Boulevards maintained their prolonged rumble.

  “As if their pieces were always funny!” Lucy kept repeating as she ascended the stairs.

  Fauchery and La Faloise stood in their places, examining the house, which was now very brilliant. The crystal gasalier blazed with prismatic hues, and the light was reflected from the ceiling on to the pit like a shower of gold. The garnet-coloured velvet of the seats appeared as though shot with lake, whilst the glitter of the gilding was softened by the decorations of pale green beneath the coarse paintings of the ceiling. The foot-lights blazed upon the crimson curtain, the richness of which suggested the most fabulous of palaces, and offered a melancholy contrast to the poverty of the frame, the crevices in which showed the plaster beneath the gilding. It was already excessively warm. In the orchestra the musicians were tuning their instruments, and the light trills of the flute, the stifled sighs of the horn, the singing notes of the violin, were drowned by the increasing hum of voices. All the spectators were talking together, pushing and squeezing each other in their endeavours to reach their seats; and the crush in the corridors was so great that it was with difficulty the doors gave ingress to the never-ceasing flow of people. Friends nodded to each other from a distance, and with the rustling of clothes came a procession of gay costumes and headdresses, broken now and again by a black dress suit or a dark overcoat. However, the seats were gradually filling; here and there appeared a bright coloured robe, and a head with a delicate profile displayed a chignon on which sparkled some valuable jewel. In one of the boxes a glimpse was caught of a woman’s naked shoulder, seemingly as white as ivory. Other women, calmly waiting, fanned themselves languidly as they watched the surging crowd; while a group of young dandies standing in the orchestra stalls—all shirt front, and wearing gardenias in their button-holes—gazed through their opera-glasses, which they held with the tips of their daintily-gloved fingers.

  Then the two cousins looked around in search of acquaintances. Mignon and Steiner sat side by side in a box, with their arms resting on the velvet balustrade. Blanche de Sivry appeared to be alone in one of the stage-boxes. But La Faloise watched more especially Daguenet, who had an orchestra stall two rows in front of his. Next to him was seated a youngster, some seventeen years old, just fresh from college, who opened his cherub-like eyes wide with delight. Fauchery smiled as he caught sight of him.

  “Who is that lady in the balcony?” asked La Faloise, suddenly. “I mean the one who has a young girl in blue next her.”

  He directed his companion’s glance to a woman whose stout figure was tightly laced, and whose once blonde hair, now grey, was dyed yellow, whilst her round puffed face, coloured with rouge, almost disappeared beneath a shower of little baby curls.

  “That’s Gaga,” replied Fauchery simply; and, as the name seemed to convey no information to his cousin, he added, “Haven’t you heard of Gaga? She was one of the beauties of the first years of Louis Philippe’sf reign. Now she is never seen anywhere without her daughter.”

  La Faloise had no eyes for the young girl. Gaga, however, affected him strangely; he could not cease looking at her. He thought her still very handsome, though he dared not say so. At length the conductor of the orchestra gave the signal, and the musicians struck the first note of the overture. People were still coming in, and the noise and bustle increased. On special occasions like this there were different parts of the house where friends met with a smile; whilst the regular frequenters, thoroughly at their ease, exchanged bows right and left. All Paris was there—the Paris of letters, of finance, and of pleasure, many journalists, some few authors, and several speculators, more kept girls than respectable women—a company, in short, that was a most singular mixture, composed of every kind of genius, tainted with every description of vice, where the same weariness and the same fever seemed inscribed on every face. Fauchery, questioned by his cousin, pointed out to him the boxes of the various newspapers and clubs, and then the dramatic critics, one skinny and dried up, with thin and wicked-looking lips, but more especially a stout, good-natured-looking man, who leaned on the shoulder of his companion, an artless young person, over whom he watched with a kind, paternal eye. But he suddenly cut his descriptions short on seeing La Faloise bow to some people who occupied one of the centre boxes. He seemed surprised.

  “What! you know Count Muffat de Beuville?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. I have known him for a long time,” replied Hector. “The Muffats had an estate near ours. I very often call on them. The count is with his wife and her father, the Marquis de Chouard.”

  Delighted at his cousin’s astonishment, and spurred on by vanity, La Faloise went into further details. The marquis was a state councillor, and the count had just been appointed chamberlain to the Empress. Fauchery raised his opera-glass and examined the countess—a dark, plump woman, with a lovely white skin, and beautiful black eyes.

  “You must present me between the acts,” he said at last. “I have already met the count, but I should like to go to their Tuesdays at home.”

  An energetic “Hush!” was heard from the upper gallery. The overture had commenced but people were still coming in. Whole rows of persons were compelled to rise to allow late comers to get to their seats, the doors of the boxes banged, and loud voices were heard quarrelling in the corridors. Still the buzz of conversation, similar to the noisy chattering of sparrows at sunset, never ceased. Everything was in the greatest confusion; it was a medley of moving heads and arms, the owners of which were either sitting down and seeking the most comfortable positions, or persisting in standing up to take a last look around. The cry, “Sit down! sit down!” came from obscure corners of the pit. Every one trembled with eagerness, for at last the famous Nana, of whom people had been talking for a week, was about to be seen! By degrees, however, the noise subsided, with an occasional swell from time to time. And in the midst of this faint murmur, of these expiring whispers, the orchestra burst forth in the gay little notes of a waltz, the saucy rhythm of which suggested the laugh raised by some over-free piece of buffoonery. The audience, fairly tickled, already
began to smile; but the claque, seated in the front row of the pit, commenced to applaud vociferously. The curtain rose.

  “Hallo!” said La Faloise, whose tongue still wagged. “There is a gentleman with Lucy,” and he looked at the stage box to the right of the first tier, in the front of which sat Lucy and Caroline, while in the rear the dignified face of Caroline’s mother was to be discerned, and also the profile of a tall light-haired young man, most irreproachably dressed.

  “Look,” repeated La Faloise with persistence, “there’s a gentleman.”

  Fauchery slowly brought his opera-glass to bear on the box indicated; but he turned away immediately.

  “Oh! it’s only Labordette,” he murmured in a careless tone of voice, as if the presence of that gentleman was the most natural as well as the most unimportant thing in the world.

  Behind them some one cried, “Hush!” and they were driven to silence. Everybody was now perfectly still, and a regular sea of heads, upright and attentive, filled the house from the stalls to the amphitheatre. The first act of “The Blonde Venus” was laid in Olympus—a card-board Olympus, with clouds at the sides, and Jupiter’s throne on the right. Iris and Ganymede first appeared, surrounded by a crowd of celestial assistants, who sang a chorus as they arranged the seats for the gods in council. Again the applause of the paid claque was heard, but the audience as yet was not inclined to respond. La Faloise, however, had applauded Clarisse Besnus, one of Bordenave’s little women, who played the part of Iris, in pale blue, with a broad scarf of the seven colours fastened round her waist.

  “You know she takes off her chemise to get into that costume,” he said to Fauchery in a loud whisper. “We tried it on this morning, and the chemise showed under the arms and on the back.”