For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma before going in wished to have a little stroll in the harbour, and Bovary prudently8 kept his tickets in his hand, in the pocket of his trousers, which he pressed against his stomach.
Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. She involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase to the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with her finger the large tapestried9 door. She breathed in with all her might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seated in her box she bent10 forward with the air of a duchess.
The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken from their cases, and the subscribers, catching11 sight of one another, were bowing. They came to seek relaxation12 in the fine arts after the anxieties of business; but “business” was not forgotten; they still talked cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo13. The heads of old men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions14 looking like silver medals tarnished15 by steam of lead. The young beaux were strutting16 about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or applegreen cravats17, and Madame Bovary from above admired them leaning on their canes18 with golden knobs in the open palm of their yellow gloves.
Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre19, let down from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering20 of its facets21 a sudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in one after the other; and first there was the protracted22 hubbub23 of the basses25 grumbling26, violins squeaking27, cornets trumpeting28, flutes30 and flageolets fifing. But three knocks were heard on the stage, a rolling of drums began, the brass31 instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene.
It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on their shoulders were singing a hunting-song together; then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked32 the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Another appeared; they went away, and the hunters started afresh. She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth, into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch33 bagpipes34 re-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the novel helping35 her to understand the libretto36, she followed the story phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed37 at once again with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn38 over her nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvet39 caps, cloaks, swords — all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world. But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire40 in green. She was left alone, and the flute29 was heard like the murmur41 of a fountain or the warbling of birds. Lucie attacked her cavatina in G major bravely. She plained of love; she longed for wings. Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly away in an embrace. Suddenly Edgar-Lagardy appeared.
He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majesty42 of marble to the ardent43 races of the South. His vigorous form was tightly clad in a brown-coloured doublet; a small chiselled44 poniard hung against his left thigh45, and he cast round laughing looks showing his white teeth. They said that a Polish princess having heard him sing one night on the beach at Biarritz, where he mended boats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruined herself for him. He had deserted46 her for other women, and this sentimental47 celebrity48 did not fail to enhance his artistic49 reputation. The diplomatic mummer took care always to slip into his advertisements some poetic50 phrase on the fascination51 of his person and the susceptibility of his soul. A fine organ, imperturbable52 coolness, more temperament53 than intelligence, more power of emphasis than of real singing, made up the charm of this admirable charlatan54 nature, in which there was something of the hairdresser and the toreador.
From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. He pressed Lucy in his arms, he left her, he came back, he seemed desperate; he had outbursts of rage, then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness, and the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs55 and kisses. Emma leant forward to see him, clutching the velvet of the box with her nails. She was filling her heart with these melodious56 lamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of the double-basses, like the cries of the drowning in the tumult57 of a tempest. She recognised all the intoxication58 and the anguish59 that had almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to her to be but echoes of her conscience, and this illusion that charmed her as some very thing of her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such love. He had not wept like Edgar that last moonlit night when they said, “To-morrow! to-morrow!” The theatre rang with cheers; they recommenced the entire movement; the lovers spoke60 of the flowers on their tomb, of vows61, exile, fate, hopes; and when they uttered the final adieu, Emma gave a sharp cry that mingled62 with the vibrations63 of the last chords.
“But why,” asked Bovary, “does that gentleman persecute64 her?”
“No, no!” she answered; “he is her lover!”
“Yet he vows vengeance65 on her family, while the other one who came on before said, ‘I love Lucie and she loves me!’ Besides, he went off with her father arm in arm. For he certainly is her father, isn’t he — the ugly little man with a cock’s feather in his hat?”
Despite Emma’s explanations, as soon as the recitative duet began in which Gilbert lays bare his abominable66 machinations to his master Ashton, Charles, seeing the false troth-ring that is to deceive Lucie, thought it was a love-gift sent by Edgar. He confessed, moreover, that he did not understand the story because of the music, which interfered67 very much with the words.
“What does it matter?” said Emma. “Do be quiet!”
“Yes, but you know,” he went on, leaning against her shoulder, “I like to understand things.”
“Be quiet! be quiet!” she cried impatiently.
Lucie advanced, half supported by her women, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, and paler than the white satin of her gown. Emma dreamed of her marriage day; she saw herself at home again amid the corn in the little path as they walked to the church. Oh, why had not she, like this woman, resisted, implored68? She, on the contrary, had been joyous69, without seeing the abyss into which she was throwing herself. Ah! if in the freshness of her beauty, before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions70 of adultery, she could have anchored her life upon some great, strong heart, then virtue71, tenderness, voluptuousness72, and duty blending, she would never have fallen from so high a happiness. But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie invented for the despair of all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions that art exaggerated. So, striving to divert her thoughts, Emma determined73 now to see in this reproduction of her sorrows only a plastic fantasy, well enough to please the eye, and she even smiled internally with disdainful pity when at the back of the stage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak.
His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture he made, and immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar, flashing with fury, dominated all the others with his clearer voice; Ashton hurled74 homicidal provocations75 at him in deep notes; Lucie uttered her shrill76 plaint, Arthur at one side, his modulated77 tones in the middle register, and the bass24 of the minister pealed78 forth79 like an organ, while the voices of the women repeating his words took them up in chorus delightfully80. They were all in a row gesticulating, and anger, vengeance, jealousy81, terror, and stupefaction breathed forth at once from their half-opened mouths. The outraged82 lover brandished83 his naked sword; his guipure ruffle84 rose with jerks to the movements of his chest, and he walked from right to left with long strides, clanking against the boards the silver-gilt spurs of his soft boots, widening out at the ankles. He, she thought must have an inexhaustible love to lavish85 it upon the crowd with such effusion. All her small fault-findings faded before the poetry of the part that absorbed her; and, drawn towards this man by the illusion of the character, she tried to imagine to herself his life — that life resonant86, extraordinary, splendid, and that might have been hers if fate had willed it. They would have known one another, loved one another. With him, through all the kingdoms of Europe she would have travelled from capital to capital, sharing his fatigues87 and his pride, picking up the flowers thrown to him, herself embroidering88 his costumes. Then each evening, at the back of a box, behind the golden trellis-work she would have drunk in eagerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for her alone; from the stage, even as he acted, he would have looked at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her; it was certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, “Take me away! carry me with you! let us go! Thine, thine! all my ardour and all my dreams!”
The curtain fell.
The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, the waving of the fans, made the air more suffocating89. Emma wanted to go out; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fell back in her arm-chair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearing that she would faint, ran to the refreshment-room to get a glass of barley-water.
He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for his elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he held in his hands, and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulders of a Rouen lady in short sleeves, who feeling the cold liquid running down to her loins, uttered cries like a peacock, as if she were being assassinated90. Her husband, who was a millowner, railed at the clumsy fellow, and while she was with her handkerchief wiping up the stains from her handsome cherry-coloured taffeta gown, he angrily muttered about indemnity91, costs, reimbursement92. At last Charles reached his wife, saying to her, quite out of breath —
“Ma foi! I thought I should have had to stay there. There is such a crowd — SUCH a crowd!”
He added —
“Just guess whom I met up there! Monsieur Leon!”
“Leon?”
“Himself! He’s coming along to pay his respects.” And as he finished these words the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box.
He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman; and Madame Bovary extended hers, without doubt obeying the attraction of a stronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when the rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-bye standing93 at the window. But soon recalling herself to the necessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off the torpor94 of her memories, and began stammering95 a few hurried words.
“Ah, good-day! What! you here?”
“Silence!” cried a voice from the pit, for the third act was beginning.
“So you are at Rouen?”
“Yes.”
“And since when?”
“Turn them out! turn them out!” People were looking at them. They were silent.
But from that moment she listened no more; and the chorus of the guests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duet in D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments had grown less sonorous96 and the characters more remote. She remembered the games at cards at the druggist’s, and the walk to the nurse’s, the reading in the arbour, the tete-a-tete by the fireside — all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, so discreet97, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. And why had he come back? What combination of circumstances had brought him back into her life? He was standing behind her, leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box; now and again she felt herself shuddering98 beneath the hot breath from his nostrils99 falling upon her hair.
“Does this amuse you?” said he, bending over her so closely that the end of his moustache brushed her cheek. She replied carelessly —
“Oh, dear me, no, not much.”
Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go and take an ice somewhere.
“Oh, not yet; let us stay,” said Bovary. “Her hair’s undone100; this is going to be tragic101.”
But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting102 of the singer seemed to her exaggerated.
“She screams too loud,” said she, turning to Charles, who was listening.
“Yes — a little,” he replied, undecided between the frankness of his pleasure and his respect for his wife’s opinion.
Then with a sigh Leon said —
“The heat is —”
“Unbearable! Yes!”
“Do you feel unwell?” asked Bovary.
“Yes, I am stifling103; let us go.”
Monsieur Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about her shoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, in the open air, outside the windows of a cafe.
First they spoke of her illness, although Emma interrupted Charles from time to time, for fear, she said, of boring Monsieur Leon; and the latter told them that he had come to spend two years at Rouen in a large office, in order to get practice in his profession, which was different in Normandy and Paris. Then he inquired after Berthe, the Homais, Mere104 Lefrancois, and as they had, in the husband’s presence, nothing more to say to one another, the conversation soon came to an end.
People coming out of the theatre passed along the pavement, humming or shouting at the top of their voices, “O bel ange, ma Lucie!17” Then Leon, playing the dilettante105, began to talk music. He had seen Tambourini, Rubini, Persiani, Grisi, and, compared with them, Lagardy, despite his grand outbursts, was nowhere.
“Yet,” interrupted Charles, who was slowly sipping106 his rum-sherbet, “they say that he is quite admirable in the last act. I regret leaving before the end, because it was beginning to amuse me.”
“Why,” said the clerk, “he will soon give another performance.”
But Charles replied that they were going back next day. “Unless,” he added, turning to his wife, “you would like to stay alone, kitten?”
And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunity that presented itself to his hopes, the young man sang the praises of Lagardy in the last number. It was really superb, sublime107. Then Charles insisted —
“You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good.”
The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came and stood discreetly108 near them. Charles, who understood, took out his purse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble.
“I am really sorry,” said Bovary, “about the money which you are —”
The other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and taking his hat said —
“It is settled, isn’t it? To-morrow at six o’clock?”
Charles explained once more that he could not absent himself longer, but that nothing prevented Emma —
“But,” she stammered109, with a strange smile, “I am not sure —”
“Well, you must think it over. We’ll see. Night brings counsel.” Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, “Now that you are in our part of the world, I hope you’ll come and ask us for some dinner now and then.”
The clerk declared he would not fail to do so, being obliged, moreover, to go to Yonville on some business for his office. And they parted before the Saint-Herbland Passage just as the clock in the cathedral struck half-past eleven.
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1
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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3
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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7
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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8
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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9
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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11
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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12
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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13
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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14
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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15
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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16
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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17
cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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18
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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19
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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20
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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21
facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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22
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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24
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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25
basses
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| 低音歌唱家，低音乐器( bass的名词复数 ) | |
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26
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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27
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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28
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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32
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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33
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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34
bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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libretto
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| n.歌剧剧本，歌曲歌词 | |
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37
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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40
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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41
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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42
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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43
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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44
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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45
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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46
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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47
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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48
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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49
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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50
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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51
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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52
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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53
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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54
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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55
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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56
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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57
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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58
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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59
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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60
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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61
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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62
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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63
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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67
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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disillusions
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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reimbursement
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| n.偿还，退还 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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101
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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102
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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104
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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107
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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108
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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109
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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