Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert

by Gustave Flaubert

  La société se modèle sur L’empereur, les patriciens s’efforcent de l’imiter ; l’âme des hommes, en effet, n’est qu’une prostituée qui se donne à tous les vices, à tous les crimes. Quelque chose de ceLa palpite encore dans Les pages de Suétone, dans Les vers de Juvénal. Vous rappelez-vous la Longue Maura, qui épuisa tant d’hommes en un jour ? Hamiltus qui corrompt les enfants ? et la noblesse entière, et la famille de l’empereur, et l’empereur Lui-même, et sa femme, et ses sœurs, et son affranchi ? L’histoire aLors est une orgie sangLante, dans laquelle il nous faut entrer, sa vue même enivre et fait venir la nausée au cœur.

  CeLa dure longtemps, trop longtemps pour le monde, quoique les empereurs s’usent vite sur ce tr6ne de fu et que leur âme se fatigue vite à contenir tant de choses monstrueuses.

  Comme la mort les emporte tous ! Après Néron, Galba ; après Lui, Othon qui a au moins Je cœur de mourir, “et alors Le secret de l’Empire est divulgu锂 dit Tacite ; et après Othon, Vitellius dont le règne ne fut qu’un long repas qui commença avec des applaudissements et qui finit avec du sang ; puis Vespasien et Titus. Mais Commode ranime la fête ; Pertinax et Didius Julianus, Sévère, Caracalla, Macrin, et nous voici à Héliogabale, le dernier de cette famille. L’Orient avait débordé dans Rome, in Tiberim defiuxit orantes ; depuis longtemps les bouffons d’Antoine avaient chassé les bouffons italiens ; les prêtres de CybèLe arrivent, toutes Les religions s’accumulent dans la Ville éternelle, avec tous les vices inventés ; la philosophie se débat mieux, la rhétorique pérore dans ses écoles, la société agonise au milieu de tous ces bruits. Elle voudrait bien se cacher la ruine qu’elle a dans le cœur, et farder ses rides avec le parfüm de quelque croyance, c’est en vain, eLle ne sait laquelle adopter. Son empereur veut introduire le culte des juifs et des chrétiens, il se fait juif lui-même, il est, comme la nature, tourmenté d’une grande douleur, et, comme le monde romain, il reste haletant de débauches et d’anoisses sur ses lits de fleurs, fanées moitis vite que son ame.

  Tout craquait donc au cœur du vieux monde : pouvoir civil, croyance religieuse, et I’me et le corps ; tout tombait délabré, abîmé dans un immense dégoût. Il faudra, pour ranimer cette chair flétrie, pour remettre de la force dans Les muscles de ce grand corps, le long ascétisme du moyen âge et les douleurs du inonde chrétien. Alors reparaîtra, au xvIc siècle, cette force, cette sève, ce nouveL empire invisible substitué à L’autre, et qui s’étale splendi4emcnt.ur les toiles de Raphael et se courbe sur Je-èndè avèc La coupole de Saint-Pierre.

  Couverture de la réédition de 1992 au format de poche

  THREE TALES

  Translated by M. Walter Dunne

  This is a collection of three short stories, first published in France in 1877.

  A Simple Soul concerns a servant girl named Felicité. After her one and only love Théodore is reported to have married a well-to-do woman to avoid conscription, Felicité quits the farm she works on and heads for Pont-l’Évèque where she immediately picks up work in a widow’s house as a servant. She is very loyal, and easily lends her affections to the two children of her mistress, Mme Aubain. She gives entirely to others, and although many take advantage of her she is unaffected. She is the epitome of a selfless character, and Flaubert shows how true altruism – the reality of being truly selfless – is the reward in itself. Whatever comes her way she is able to deal with it.

  The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitalier tells the story of Julian, who is predicted at birth to do great things. His father is told that he will marry into the family of a great emperor, while his mother is told he will be a saint. They dote on him. After Julian kills a mouse who interrupted his concentration in church, his cruelty towards animals grows and culminates into his massacre of an entire valley of deer. A stag curses him to kill his own parents. He almost brings the curse to fruition twice: he drops a sword while standing on a ladder near his father, and he pins his mother’s white shawl against a wall with a javelin because it looked like a bird’s wings.

  Herodias is the retelling of the Biblical story of the beheading of John the Baptist. The narrative opens just before the arrival of the Syrian governor, Vitellius. Herodias holds a huge birthday celebration for her second husband, Herod Antipas. Unknown to him, she has concocted a plan to behead John. According to Flaubert, this plan entails making her husband fall in love with her daughter, Salomé, leading to him promising her whatever she wants. Salomé, obviously in line with the instructions of her mother, will ask for John’s head. Everything goes as planned. John has been repeatedly insulting the royals, so the king does not think long before granting Salomé’s wish. The crowd gathered for the party waits anxiously while the executioner, Mannaeus, kills John. The story ends with some of John’s disciples awaiting the Messiah.

  An early French edition

  CONTENTS

  A SIMPLE SOUL

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER

  CHAPTER I

  THE CURSE

  CHAPTER II

  THE CRIME

  CHAPTER III

  THE REPARATION

  HERODIAS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  A 2007 comic book adaptation of the tales

  A SIMPLE SOUL

  CHAPTER I

  For half a century the housewives of Pont-l’Eveque had envied Madame Aubain her servant Felicite.

  For a hundred francs a year, she cooked and did the housework, washed, ironed, mended, harnessed the horse, fattened the poultry, made the butter and remained faithful to her mistress — although the latter was by no means an agreeable person.

  Madame Aubain had married a comely youth without any money, who died in the beginning of 1809, leaving her with two young children and a number of debts. She sold all her property excepting the farm of Toucques and the farm of Geffosses, the income of which barely amounted to 5,000 francs; then she left her house in Saint-Melaine, and moved into a less pretentious one which had belonged to her ancestors and stood back of the market-place. This house, with its slate-covered roof, was built between a passage-way and a narrow street that led to the river. The interior was so unevenly graded that it caused people to stumble. A narrow hall separated the kitchen from the parlour, where Madame Aubain sat all day in a straw armchair near the window. Eight mahogany chairs stood in a row against the white wainscoting. An old piano, standing beneath a barometer, was covered with a pyramid of old books and boxes. On either side of the yellow marble mantelpiece, in Louis XV. style, stood a tapestry armchair. The clock represented a temple of Vesta; and the whole room smelled musty, as it was on a lower level than the garden.

  On the first floor was Madame’s bed-chamber, a large room papered in a flowered design and containing the portrait of Monsieur dressed in the costume of a dandy. It communicated with a smaller room, in which there were two little cribs, without any mattresses. Next, came the parlour (always closed), filled with furniture covered with sheets. Then a hall, which led to the study, where books and papers were piled on the shelves of a book-case that enclosed three quarters of the big black desk. Two panels were entirely hidden under pen-and-ink sketches, Gouache landscapes and Audran engravings, relics of better times and vanished luxury. On the second floor, a garret-window lighted Felicite’s room, which looked out upon the meadows.

  She arose at daybreak, in order to attend mass, and she worked without interruption until night; then, when dinner was over, the dishes cleared away and the door securely locked, she would bury the log under the ashes and fall asleep in front of the hearth with a rosary in her hand. Nobody could bargain with greater obstinacy, and as for cleanliness, the lustre on her brass sauce-pans was the envy and despair of other servants. She was most economical, and when she ate she would gather up crumbs with the tip of her finger, so that nothing should be wasted of t
he loaf of bread weighing twelve pounds which was baked especially for her and lasted three weeks.

  Summer and winter she wore a dimity kerchief fastened in the back with a pin, a cap which concealed her hair, a red skirt, grey stockings, and an apron with a bib like those worn by hospital nurses.

  Her face was thin and her voice shrill. When she was twenty-five, she looked forty. After she had passed fifty, nobody could tell her age; erect and silent always, she resembled a wooden figure working automatically.

  CHAPTER II

  Like every other woman, she had had an affair of the heart. Her father, who was a mason, was killed by falling from a scaffolding. Then her mother died and her sisters went their different ways; a farmer took her in, and while she was quite small, let her keep cows in the fields. She was clad in miserable rags, beaten for the slightest offence and finally dismissed for a theft of thirty sous which she did not commit. She took service on another farm where she tended the poultry; and as she was well thought of by her master, her fellow-workers soon grew jealous.

  One evening in August (she was then eighteen years old), they persuaded her to accompany them to the fair at Colleville. She was immediately dazzled by the noise, the lights in the trees, the brightness of the dresses, the laces and gold crosses, and the crowd of people all hopping at the same time. She was standing modestly at a distance, when presently a young man of well-to-do appearance, who had been leaning on the pole of a wagon and smoking his pipe, approached her, and asked her for a dance. He treated her to cider and cake, bought her a silk shawl, and then, thinking she had guessed his purpose, offered to see her home. When they came to the end of a field he threw her down brutally. But she grew frightened and screamed, and he walked off.

  One evening, on the road leading to Beaumont, she came upon a wagon loaded with hay, and when she overtook it, she recognised Theodore. He greeted her calmly, and asked her to forget what had happened between them, as it “was all the fault of the drink.”

  She did not know what to reply and wished to run away.

  Presently he began to speak of the harvest and of the notables of the village; his father had left Colleville and bought the farm of Les Ecots, so that now they would be neighbours. “Ah!” she exclaimed. He then added that his parents were looking around for a wife for him, but that he, himself, was not so anxious and preferred to wait for a girl who suited him. She hung her head. He then asked her whether she had ever thought of marrying. She replied, smilingly, that it was wrong of him to make fun of her. “Oh! no, I am in earnest,” he said, and put his left arm around her waist while they sauntered along. The air was soft, the stars were bright, and the huge load of hay oscillated in front of them, drawn by four horses whose ponderous hoofs raised clouds of dust. Without a word from their driver they turned to the right. He kissed her again and she went home. The following week, Theodore obtained meetings.

  They met in yards, behind walls or under isolated trees. She was not ignorant, as girls of well-to-do families are — for the animals had instructed her; — but her reason and her instinct of honour kept her from falling. Her resistance exasperated Theodore’s love and so in order to satisfy it (or perchance ingenuously), he offered to marry her. She would not believe him at first, so he made solemn promises. But, in a short time he mentioned a difficulty; the previous year, his parents had purchased a substitute for him; but any day he might be drafted and the prospect of serving in the army alarmed him greatly. To Felicite his cowardice appeared a proof of his love for her, and her devotion to him grew stronger. When she met him, he would torture her with his fears and his entreaties. At last, he announced that he was going to the prefect himself for information, and would let her know everything on the following Sunday, between eleven o’clock and midnight.

  When the time grew near, she ran to meet her lover.

  But instead of Theodore, one of his friends was at the meeting-place.

  He informed her that she would never see her sweetheart again; for, in order to escape the conscription, he had married a rich old woman, Madame Lehoussais, of Toucques.

  The poor girl’s sorrow was frightful. She threw herself on the ground, she cried and called on the Lord, and wandered around desolately until sunrise. Then she went back to the farm, declared her intention of leaving, and at the end of the month, after she had received her wages, she packed all her belongings in a handkerchief and started for Pont-l’Eveque.

  In front of the inn, she met a woman wearing widow’s weeds, and upon questioning her, learned that she was looking for a cook. The girl did not know very much, but appeared so willing and so modest in her requirements, that Madame Aubain finally said:

  “Very well, I will give you a trial.”

  And half an hour later Felicite was installed in her house.

  At first she lived in a constant anxiety that was caused by “the style of the household” and the memory of “Monsieur,” that hovered over everything. Paul and Virginia, the one aged seven, and the other barely four, seemed made of some precious material; she carried them pig-a-back, and was greatly mortified when Madame Aubain forbade her to kiss them every other minute.

  But in spite of all this, she was happy. The comfort of her new surroundings had obliterated her sadness.

  Every Thursday, friends of Madame Aubain dropped in for a game of cards, and it was Felicite’s duty to prepare the table and heat the foot-warmers. They arrived at exactly eight o’clock and departed before eleven.

  Every Monday morning, the dealer in second-hand goods, who lived under the alley-way, spread out his wares on the sidewalk. Then the city would be filled with a buzzing of voices in which the neighing of horses, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of pigs, could be distinguished, mingled with the sharp sound of wheels on the cobble-stones. About twelve o’clock, when the market was in full swing, there appeared at the front door a tall, middle-aged peasant, with a hooked nose and a cap on the back of his head; it was Robelin, the farmer of Geffosses. Shortly afterwards came Liebard, the farmer of Toucques, short, rotund and ruddy, wearing a grey jacket and spurred boots.

  Both men brought their landlady either chickens or cheese. Felicite would invariably thwart their ruses and they held her in great respect.

  At various times, Madame Aubain received a visit from the Marquis de Gremanville, one of her uncles, who was ruined and lived at Falaise on the remainder of his estates. He always came at dinner-time and brought an ugly poodle with him, whose paws soiled their furniture. In spite of his efforts to appear a man of breeding (he even went so far as to raise his hat every time he said “My deceased father”), his habits got the better of him, and he would fill his glass a little too often and relate broad stories. Felicite would show him out very politely and say: “You have had enough for this time, Monsieur de Gremanville! Hoping to see you again!” and would close the door.

  She opened it gladly for Monsieur Bourais, a retired lawyer. His bald head and white cravat, the ruffling of his shirt, his flowing brown coat, the manner in which he took snuff, his whole person, in fact, produced in her the kind of awe which we feel when we see extraordinary persons. As he managed Madame’s estates, he spent hours with her in Monsieur’s study; he was in constant fear of being compromised, had a great regard for the magistracy and some pretensions to learning.

  In order to facilitate the children’s studies, he presented them with an engraved geography which represented various scenes of the world; cannibals with feather head-dresses, a gorilla kidnapping a young girl, Arabs in the desert, a whale being harpooned, etc.

  Paul explained the pictures to Felicite. And, in fact, this was her only literary education.

  The children’s studies were under the direction of a poor devil employed at the town-hall, who sharpened his pocket-knife on his boots and was famous for his penmanship.

  When the weather was fine, they went to Geffosses. The house was built in the centre of the sloping yard; and the sea looked like a grey spot in the distance. Felicite would
take slices of cold meat from the lunch basket and they would sit down and eat in a room next to the dairy. This room was all that remained of a cottage that had been torn down. The dilapidated wall-paper trembled in the drafts. Madame Aubain, overwhelmed by recollections, would hang her head, while the children were afraid to open their mouths. Then, “Why don’t you go and play?” their mother would say; and they would scamper off.

  Paul would go to the old barn, catch birds, throw stones into the pond, or pound the trunks of the trees with a stick till they resounded like drums. Virginia would feed the rabbits and run to pick the wild flowers in the fields, and her flying legs would disclose her little embroidered pantalettes. One autumn evening, they struck out for home through the meadows. The new moon illumined part of the sky and a mist hovered like a veil over the sinuosities of the river. Oxen, lying in the pastures, gazed mildly at the passing persons. In the third field, however, several of them got up and surrounded them. “Don’t be afraid,” cried Felicite; and murmuring a sort of lament she passed her hand over the back of the nearest ox; he turned away and the others followed. But when they came to the next pasture, they heard frightful bellowing.

  It was a bull which was hidden from them by the fog. He advanced towards the two women, and Madame Aubain prepared to flee for her life. “No, no! not so fast,” warned Felicite. Still they hurried on, for they could hear the noisy breathing of the bull behind them. His hoofs pounded the grass like hammers, and presently he began to gallop! Felicite turned around and threw patches of grass in his eyes. He hung his head, shook his horns and bellowed with fury. Madame Aubain and the children, huddled at the end of the field, were trying to jump over the ditch. Felicite continued to back before the bull, blinding him with dirt, while she shouted to them to make haste.