Part 1

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LES ROUGON-MACQUART

Histoire naturelle et sociale d'une famille sous le second empire

NANA

ÉMILE ZOLA

I

At nine o'clock, the hall of the Variétés theatre was still empty. A few people, in the balcony and the orchestra, were waiting, lost among the garnet velvet seats, in the dim light of the half-lit chandelier. A shadow drowned the great red blotch of the curtain; and not a sound came from the stage, the footlights out, the musicians' desks abandoned. Only up above, in the third gallery, around the rotunda of the ceiling where naked women and children took flight in a sky greened by the gaslight, calls and laughter rose from a continuous murmur of voices, heads crowned with bonnets and caps ranged themselves beneath the wide round bays, framed in gold. From time to time, a usherette appeared, busy, with ticket stubs in hand, pushing before her a gentleman and a lady who sat down, the man in evening dress, the woman slim and arched, casting a slow glance around.

Two young men appeared in the orchestra. They stood, looking.

-- What did I tell you, Hector? cried the elder, a tall fellow with small black moustaches, we've come too early. You might well have let me finish my cigar.

An usherette passed.

-- Oh! Monsieur Fauchery, she said familiarly, it won't start for half an hour yet.

-- Then why do they bill it for nine o'clock? murmured Hector, whose long thin face took on an offended air. This morning, Clarisse, who's in the play, swore to me again that they'd begin at nine sharp.

For a moment they were silent, raising their heads, searching the shadow of the boxes. But the green paper with which they were hung darkened them further. Below, beneath the gallery, the stage boxes sank into complete night. In the balcony boxes there was only a stout lady, stranded on the velvet of the rail. To right and left, between tall columns, the proscenium boxes remained empty, draped with pelmets of long fringe. The white and gold hall, relieved with pale green, faded, as though filled with a fine dust by the short flames of the great crystal chandelier.

-- Have you got your proscenium box for Lucy? asked Hector.

-- Yes, answered the other, but it wasn't without trouble... Oh! no fear of Lucy coming too early, her!

He stifled a slight yawn; then, after a silence:

-- You're in luck, you who've never seen a first night... The Blonde Venus will be the event of the year. They've been talking about it for six months. Ah! my dear, such music! a dog!... Bordenave, who knows his business, has kept that for the Exhibition.

Hector listened devoutly. He put a question.

-- And Nana, the new star, who's to play Venus, do you know her?

-- There we go, that's all we needed! cried Fauchery, throwing up his arms. Since this morning I've been bored to death with Nana. I've met more than twenty people, and Nana here, and Nana there! How should I know, me! do I know all the girls in Paris!... Nana is a Bordenave invention. She must be a pretty piece of work!

He calmed down. But the emptiness of the hall, the half-light of the chandelier, that churchlike hush full of whispering voices and door bangings irritated him.

-- Ah! no, he said suddenly, we're getting too old in here. Me, I'm going out... We may find Bordenave downstairs. He'll give us some details.

Downstairs, in the great marble-paved vestibule, where the checkroom was installed, the public was beginning to show itself. Through the three open grilles, one saw pass the ardent life of the boulevards, which swarmed and flared beneath the fine April night. Rolls of carriages stopped short, doors slammed noisily, and people entered, in little groups, halting before the checkroom, mounting, at the back, the double staircase, where the women lingered with a swaying of the waist. In the harsh light of the gas, upon the wan nakedness of this hall whose meagre Empire decoration made a cardboard temple peristyle, tall yellow posters spread violently, with the name of Nana in big black letters. Gentlemen, as though caught in passing, read them; others, standing, talked, blocking the doors; while near the box office a burly man, with a broad clean-shaven face, answered brutally the people who insisted on getting seats.

-- There's Bordenave, said Fauchery, descending the stairs.

But the manager had spotted him.

-- Eh! you're a fine one! he cried to him from afar. Is that how you wrote me up... I opened the Figaro this morning. Nothing.

-- Wait a bit! answered Fauchery. I must at least know your Nana, before talking about her... I promised nothing, besides.

Then, to cut it short, he presented his cousin, Monsieur Hector de la Faloise, a young man come to finish his education in Paris. The manager weighed the young man with a glance. But Hector examined him with emotion. So this was Bordenave, this showman of women who treated them like a warder, this brain forever smoking with some publicity stunt, shouting, spitting, slapping his thighs, cynical, and with the mind of a policeman! Hector thought he ought to find an agreeable phrase.

-- Your theatre..., he began in a fluty voice.

Bordenave interrupted him tranquilly, with a crude word, as a man who likes plain dealings.

-- Say my brothel.

Then Fauchery gave an approving laugh, while la Faloise remained with his compliment strangled in his throat, much shocked, trying to seem to relish the word. The manager had rushed to shake hands with a dramatic critic, whose column carried great influence. When he came back, la Faloise recovered himself. He feared being taken for a provincial, if he showed too much dismay.

-- I was told, he began again, wishing absolutely to find something, that Nana had a delicious voice.

-- Her! cried the manager, shrugging his shoulders, a real squirt!

The young man hastened to add:

-- At any rate, an excellent actress.

-- Her!... A lump! She doesn't know where to put her feet and hands.

La Faloise reddened slightly. He understood no longer. He stammered:

-- For nothing in the world would I have missed tonight's first night. I knew that your theatre...

-- Say my brothel, interrupted Bordenave again, with the cold obstinacy of a convinced man.

Meanwhile, Fauchery, very calm, looked at the women coming in. He came to his cousin's rescue, when he saw him gaping, not knowing whether to laugh or get angry.

-- Do Bordenave a favour, call his theatre what he asks, since it amuses him... And you, my dear, don't make us pose. If your Nana neither sings nor acts, you'll have a frost, that's all. Which is what I fear, besides.

-- A frost! a frost! cried the manager, whose face flushed. Does a woman need to know how to act and sing? Ah! my lad, you're too stupid... Nana has something else, by God! and something that replaces everything. I smelt it, it's mighty strong in her, or I've no longer the nose of an imbecile... You'll see, you'll see, she's only to appear, the whole house will hang out its tongue.

He had raised his big hands which trembled with enthusiasm; and, relieved, he lowered his voice, he growled to himself alone:

-- Yes, she'll go far, ah! sacredie! yes, she'll go far... A skin, oh! a skin!

Then, as Fauchery questioned him, he consented to give details, with a crudity of expression that embarrassed Hector de la Faloise. He had known Nana and wanted to launch her. Just then he was looking for a Venus. He, didn't bother long with a woman; he preferred at once to let the public profit by her. But he was having a dog's life in his booth, which the coming of this big girl was turning upside down. Rose Mignon, his star, a fine actress and an adorable singer that one, threatened every day to leave him in the lurch, furious, scenting a rival. And, for the billing, what a row, good Lord! At last, he had decided to put the two actresses' names in letters of equal size. They weren't to annoy him. When one of his little women, as he called them, Simonne or Clarisse, didn't toe the line, he gave her a kick in the behind. Otherwise, no living. He sold them, he knew what they were worth, the bitches!

-- Look! he said, breaking off, Mignon and Steiner. Always together. You know Steiner's beginning to have enough of Rose; so the husband doesn't let him out of his sight, for fear he'll slip away.

On the pavement, the gas ramp flaring at the theatre cornice cast a sheet of bright light. Two small trees stood out sharply, of a crude green; a column whitened, so vividly lit that one read the posters from afar, as in broad daylight; and, beyond, the thickened night of the boulevard pricked with lights, in the haze of an ever-moving crowd. Many men did not enter at once, remained outside to talk, finishing a cigar, beneath the stroke of light from the ramp, which gave them a wan pallor and cut upon the asphalt their short black shadows. Mignon, a very tall, very broad fellow, with a square fairground Hercules head, opened himself a passage through the groups, dragging at his arm the banker Steiner, very small, the belly already large, the round face framed in a collar of greying beard.

-- Well! said Bordenave to the banker, you met her yesterday, in my office.

-- Ah! it was her, cried Steiner. I suspected as much. Only, I was going out as she came in, I barely caught a glimpse of her.

Mignon listened, eyelids lowered, nervously turning on his finger a big diamond. He had understood it was about Nana. Then, as Bordenave gave of his debutante a portrait which put a flame in the banker's eyes, he ended by intervening.

-- Leave off, my dear, a slut! The public will jolly well send her packing... Steiner, my little man, you know my wife is waiting for you in her dressing-room.

He wanted to take him back. But Steiner refused to leave Bordenave. Before them, a queue crushed at the checkroom, a clamour of voices rose, in which the name of Nana rang with the lively sing-song of its two syllables. The men who planted themselves before the posters spelled it aloud; others threw it out passing, on a tone of interrogation; while the women, uneasy and smiling, repeated it softly, with an air of surprise. No one knew Nana. Where had Nana dropped from? And stories ran, jokes whispered from ear to ear. It was a caress, that name, a pet name whose familiarity went to every mouth. Merely to pronounce it thus, the crowd grew merry and became good-natured. A fever of curiosity drove the people, that curiosity of Paris which has the violence of a fit of hot madness. They wanted to see Nana. A lady had the flounce of her dress torn off, a gentleman lost his hat.

-- Ah! you ask too much of me! cried Bordenave, whom some twenty men besieged with questions. You'll see her... I'm off, I'm needed.

He disappeared, delighted to have fired up his public. Mignon shrugged his shoulders, reminding Steiner that Rose was waiting for him to show her first-act costume.

-- Look! Lucy, over there, getting out of her carriage, said la Faloise to Fauchery.

It was Lucy Stewart, indeed, a little ugly woman, of about forty, too long a neck, the thin face drawn, with a thick mouth, but so lively, so graceful, that she had great charm. She was bringing Caroline Héquet and her mother. Caroline of a cold beauty, the mother very dignified, with a stuffed air.

-- You're coming with us, I've kept you a seat, she said to Fauchery.

-- Ah! no, indeed! to see nothing! he answered. I've a stall, I'd rather be in the orchestra.

Lucy grew angry. Was he afraid to be seen with her? Then, suddenly calm, jumping to another subject:

-- Why didn't you tell me you knew Nana?

-- Nana! I've never seen her.

-- Truly?... I was sworn you'd slept with her.

But, before them, Mignon, a finger to his lips, signalled them to silence. And, at a question from Lucy, he showed a young man passing, murmuring:

-- Nana's fancy man.

They all looked at him. He was nice. Fauchery recognised him: it was Daguenet, a lad who had eaten up three hundred thousand francs on women, and who now dabbled on the Exchange, to pay them bouquets and dinners now and then. Lucy found him fine eyes.

-- Ah! there's Blanche! she cried. It's she who told me you'd slept with Nana.

Blanche de Sivry, a big blonde girl whose pretty face was growing puffy, arrived in company of a slight man, very groomed, of great distinction.

-- Count Xavier de Vandeuvres, breathed Fauchery into la Faloise's ear.

The count exchanged a handshake with the journalist, while a lively explanation took place between Blanche and Lucy. They blocked the passage with their skirts loaded with flounces, one in blue, the other in pink, and the name of Nana came back on their lips, so shrill that the crowd listened. Count de Vandeuvres led Blanche away. But, now, like an echo, Nana rang at the four corners of the vestibule on a higher note, in a desire increased by waiting. Would they never begin? The men pulled out their watches, latecomers jumped from their carriages before they were stopped, groups left the pavement, where the strollers, slowly, crossed the empty gas-lit sheet, stretching their necks to see into the theatre. A urchin arriving whistling planted himself before a poster, at the door; then, he cried: "Holloa! Nana!" in a cracked voice, and pursued his way, hips askew, dragging his slippers. A laugh had run. Some very proper gentlemen repeated: "Nana, holloa! Nana!" They crushed together, a quarrel broke out at the checkroom, a clamour grew, made of the buzzing of voices calling Nana, demanding Nana, in one of those stupid witticisms and brutal sensualities that pass over crowds.

But, above the uproar, the entr'acte bell made itself heard. A murmur reached the boulevard: "They've rung, they've rung"; and it was a shoving, each wanting to pass, while the checkroom employees multiplied. Mignon, looking worried, at last took back Steiner, who had not gone to see Rose's costume. At the first tinkle, la Faloise had split the crowd, dragging Fauchery, so as not to miss the overture. This eagerness of the public irritated Lucy Stewart. Fine boorish fellows, pushing women! She stayed last, with Caroline Héquet and her mother. The vestibule was empty; at the back, the boulevard kept its prolonged rumble.

-- As if their plays were always funny! repeated Lucy, mounting the stairs.

In the hall, Fauchery and la Faloise, before their stalls, looked again. Now, the hall blazed. High gas flames lit the great crystal chandelier in a stream of yellow and pink fires, which broke from the arch to the pit in a rain of brightness. The garnet velvets of the seats shimmered with lacquer, while the golds gleamed and the pale green ornaments softened their glow, beneath the too crude paintings of the ceiling. Raised, the footlights, in a sudden sheet of light, set fire to the curtain, whose heavy purple drapery had the richness of a fabulous palace, jarring with the poverty of the frame, where cracks showed the plaster under the gilding. It was already warm. At their desks, the musicians tuned their instruments, with light trills of flute, stifled sighs of horn, singing voices of violin, which flew off amid the growing murmur of voices. All the spectators talked, pushed, settled, in the assault upon the seats; and the shoving in the corridors was so rough that each door painfully released a flood of people, inexhaustible. There were beckonings, rustlings of stuff, a procession of skirts and head-dresses, cut by the black of a coat or frock-coat. Yet, the rows of stalls filled little by little; a light toilette stood out, a head with fine profile lowered her chignon, where ran the flash of a jewel. In a box, a corner of naked shoulder had a whiteness of silk. Other women, tranquil, fanned themselves languidly, following with their eyes the pushes of the crowd; while young gentlemen, standing in the orchestra, waistcoats widely open, a gardenia in the buttonhole, pointed their glasses with the tips of their gloved fingers.

Then, the two cousins sought familiar faces. Mignon and Steiner were together, in a stage box, wrists resting on the velvet rail, side by side. Blanche de Sivry seemed to occupy alone a ground-floor proscenium box. But la Faloise especially examined Daguenet, who had an orchestra stall, two rows ahead of his own. Near him, a very young man, seventeen at most, some runaway from school, opened very wide his beautiful cherub eyes. Fauchery smiled on seeing him.

-- Who is that lady, in the balcony? suddenly asked la Faloise. The one with a young girl in blue near her.

He pointed to a stout woman, laced into her corset, a former blonde gone white and dyed yellow, whose round face, reddened by rouge, puffed beneath a rain of childish little curls.

-- That's Gaga, answered Fauchery simply.

And, as this name seemed to stun his cousin, he added:

-- You don't know Gaga?... She delighted the early years of Louis-Philippe's reign. Now, she drags her daughter everywhere with her.

La Faloise had not a glance for the young girl. The sight of Gaga moved him, his eyes left her no more; he thought her still very fine, but dared not say so.

Meanwhile, the conductor raised his bow, the musicians attacked the overture. They were still coming in, the agitation and uproar grew. Among that special public of first nights, which never changed, there were corners of intimacy where one found oneself again smiling. Habitués, hat on head, at ease and familiar, exchanged greetings. Paris was there, the Paris of letters, of finance and of pleasure, many journalists, some writers, Stock Exchange men, more whores than honest women; a singularly mixed world, made of all the geniuses, spoiled by all the vices, where the same fatigue and the same fever passed over faces. Fauchery, whom his cousin questioned, showed him the boxes of the papers and clubs, then named the dramatic critics, a thin one, dried-up air, with mean thin lips, and especially a stout one, of good-natured look, letting himself fall on the shoulder of his neighbour, an ingénue he brooded over with a paternal and tender eye.

But he broke off, on seeing la Faloise salute persons occupying a front box. He seemed surprised.

-- How! he asked, do you know Count Muffat de Beuville?

-- Oh! for a long time, answered Hector. The Muffats had an estate near ours. I often go to their house... The count is with his wife and his father-in-law, Marquis de Chouard.

And, out of vanity, happy at his cousin's astonishment, he dwelt on details: the marquis was a councillor of state, the count had just been named chamberlain to the empress. Fauchery, who had taken his glass, looked at the countess, a brunette with white skin, plump, with beautiful black eyes.

-- You'll introduce me during an entr'acte, he ended by saying. I've already run into the count, but I'd like to go to their Tuesdays.

Energetic hush! came from the upper galleries. The overture had begun, they were still coming in. Latecomers forced whole rows of spectators to rise, the box doors banged, loud voices quarrelled in the corridors. And the noise of conversations did not cease, like the chirping of a flock of gossiping sparrows, when day falls. It was a confusion, a jumble of heads and arms that agitated, some sitting and seeking their ease, others stubborn to remain standing, to throw a last glance. The cry: "Sit down! sit down!" burst violently from the dark depths of the pit. A shiver had run: would they at last know this famous Nana, of whom Paris had been talking for a week!

Little by little, however, the conversations fell, languidly, with resurgences of husky voices. And, amid that faint murmur, those dying sighs, the orchestra burst into little lively notes, a waltz whose roguish rhythm had the laugh of a smutty jest. The public, tickled, already smiled. But the claque, in the front benches of the pit, clapped furiously. The curtain was rising.

-- Look! said la Faloise, who was still talking, there's a gentleman with Lucy.

He looked at the balcony proscenium box, to the right, whose front was occupied by Caroline and Lucy. At the back, one glimpsed the dignified face of Caroline's mother and the profile of a tall lad, with fine blonde hair, of irreproachable bearing.

-- Do look, repeated la Faloise insistently, there's a gentleman.

Fauchery decided to point his glass toward the proscenium box. But he turned away at once.

-- Oh! it's Labordette, he murmured in an indifferent voice, as if the presence of this gentleman must be for everyone natural and of no consequence.

Behind them, someone cried: "Silence!" They had to be quiet. Now, an immobility struck the hall, sheets of heads, upright and attentive, rose from the orchestra to the amphitheatre. The first act of the Blonde Venus took place in Olympus, an Olympus of cardboard, with clouds for wings and Jupiter's throne to the right. First there were Iris and Ganymede, aided by a troop of celestial servants, who sang a chorus while arranging the gods' seats for the council. Again, the claque's measured bravos went off of themselves; the public, a little lost, waited. Meanwhile, la Faloise had applauded Clarisse Besnus, one of Bordenave's little women, who played Iris, in pale blue, a great scarf of seven colours knotted at the waist.

-- You know she takes off her chemise to put that on, he said to Fauchery, so as to be heard. We tried that, this morning... You could see her chemise under the arms and on the back.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”