Émile Zola: Madeleine Férat (1868)
[Donald E. Green's jacket for the 1960 reprint, rebadged as Fatal Intimacy, of Alec Brown's 1957 translation of Madeleine Férat.]
Original French text of Madeleine Férat from La Bibliothèque électronique du Québec (PDF):
https://beq.ebooksgratuits.com/vents/zola-madeleine.pdf
The jacket is based on a scene in Ch 1. Guillaume, nervously sick from the lightning flashes, has persuaded Madeleine that they should go inside. (They're at an inn in the Verrière woods.)
A maid carried the remains of their meal into the common restaurant. This was a large room with blackened walls. It was sparsely furnished with tables and benches. Guillaume sat in a chair with his back to the windows. Before him was a plateful of raspberries, but he did not touch one. Madeleine gobbled hers down, then went to open the window into the courtyard. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she gazed out at the inflamed sky.
The storm now broke with incredible violence, right over the woods. The air became oppressive with the smouldering weight of the clouds. Then the rain stopped again. Brusque gusts of wind rustled through the trees. Flashes of lightning followed one another so rapidly that outside it was like day, but a bluish daylight which lent the countryside the appearance of a romantic stage set. The thunder-claps did not roll echoing away down the valley, but broke off sharply, as dry and brittle as the detonations of gunfire. Trees all round the inn must have been struck. After each clap of thunder there came a terrifying silence.
At the thought of this window open at his back, Guillaume experienced painful anxiety. In spite of himself, with a sort of nervous reflex, he turned his head, to see the white figure of Madeleine outlined against the violet illumination of the lightning flashes. Her auburn hair, damped by the first drops of rain before they came in, lay loose over her shoulders, and it glowed brightly at each sudden flash.
"Oh, isn't it lovely!" she cried. "Guillaume, do come and look. There is a tree over there which looks as if it had caught fire. The lightning flashes skip among the trees like animals run wild . . . . And the sky! . . . It really is a wonderful firework display!"
But Guillaume could no longer resist the crazy desire he felt to go and close the shutters.
"Look here," he said, getting to his feet, "do shut that window. What you are doing is dangerous."
"Don't tell me you're really afraid," she replied with a throaty laugh, one of those mocking laughs of a woman who despises. Guillaume lowered his eyes. For a moment he wavered, before, with an agonized mumble, he begged her again to shut the window and resumed his place.
(from Émile Zola's Madeleine Férat Ch 1, translated by Alec Brown.)
Some people have remarked that Green's pulpy cover is actually fairly appropriate to Madeleine Férat, and I kind of agree with them, but it isn't as simple as that. In the novel Madeleine is just leaning and gazing, not ecstatically offering her body to the energies of the storm. (Nor, by the way, is her dress particularly revealing.) To some extent Green is also thinking of a later scene in the book, in which Guillaume witnesses the sleeping Madeleine moaning with arms spread as she dreams of her former lover (Ch 11). Anyway, what the picture expresses very well is Guillaume's latent insecurities about his new girlfriend, his fear of her superior strength and his anxiety about meeting her deepest needs.
*
Chantal Bertrand-Jennings has written a useful survey of Zola's women characters*, demonstrating how for all his progressive beliefs he tends to work with misogynistic stereotypes and to portray women as the source of evil.
All the same I was rather taken aback by this:
Femmes fatales who devour both men and their wealth and who are best represented by Nana, crowd all of Zola's thirty-one novels. Among the best-known are Madeleine Férat, Thérèse Raquin, Renée Saccard (La Curée), Christine (L'Oeuvre), and La Cognette (La Terre). These infamous nymphomaniacs exercise the most pernicious influence on men... Perverted to the marrow of their bones, they soil, debase, ruin, destroy and kill everything around them, leaving in their wake ashes and death .... (p. 29).
For after all when it comes to particulars Madeleine doesn't fit very well into that composite description. For instance she's singularly uninterested in Guillaume's wealth, and in fact takes care, when she first moves to the country, to do so on the basis of financial independence; she marries him reluctantly (Ch 5). As for nymphomania, it's true she feels an unconquerable physical responsiveness to her former lover Jacques, but to no-one else; when in desperation she (like Guillaume) considers seeking love outside their dying marriage, she can't rouse the slightest interest in the project -- that is, until she sees Jacques, who leads her helplessly into the bedroom (Ch 12). As for the terms of moral obloquy that Bertrand-Jennings has fun with; well, Madeleine isn't an angel, her early life was difficult and she's having to deal with that legacy, her words can be harsh and brutal, yet it's obvious she doesn't have an evil bone in her body, is scrupulously conscientious, has essentially no meanness or cruelty or greed.
So it's a paradox that, nevertheless, you can understand why Bertrand-Jennings puts her into the list of Zola's femmes fatales.
Zola allots her what might appear physical marks of a femme fatale (well brought out in Green's illustration), especially her "magnificent shock of auburn hair" and "vividly scarlet lips". ("Indeed they were too red for a face so white," the narrator comments (Ch 1).) What follows in the rest of the book is a sequence of fateful accidents that increasingly pressurize the characters, Madeleine herself included, into accepting this dire categorization.
The deranged old fanatic Geneviève (Guillaume's housekeeper) maintains a constant background rumble of horrible accusations; for her, at any rate, there's no doubt that Madeleine is the embodiment of Satan and will certainly bring destruction to her master. Guillaume is apparently impervious to Geneviève's monstrous mutterings, but his own insecurity and jealousy can lead his thoughts in similar directions. For instance when he learns that Madeleine's former lover was his friend Jacques (the late Jacques, as they had believed) his thoughts turn toxic:
... Guillaume went so far now as to persuade himself that she must feel a perverse pleasure in it all, with her past embraces playing an obbligato to her immediate union with him. ... How was he to know that this woman was not deceiving him all the time with a ghost, using him as a mere instrument, the love-sick sighs of which recalled familiar tunes she knew of old till he disappeared altogether, and in her heart of hearts it was with that other man that she coupled....
With such reflections and such shaming reverie, prompted in his heart of hearts by the nightmare of his brain, he stared at this young woman's nakedness and felt profound revulsion, thinking on the white bosom and shoulders to detect outrageous markings, where deep kisses had for ever ineffaceably marked the skin with suffusing blood.
Madeleine all this time kept stirring the fire. Her features maintained an impenetrable fixity. Little by little, each time she moved her arm to move the embers, her gown slipped farther from her shoulders, till now Guillaume became powerless even to look away from that body, with each spasmodic movement revealed to him more and more in all its shameless plenitude. It seemed frightfully unclean to him. Every time the arms stirred, re-indicating the outline of the rich shoulder muscles he thought he espied a lewd orgasmic leap of the flesh ... She now seemed a woman possessed by another, whom only love of debauch could have brought into his arms ....(Ch 8)
And as hammerblow follows hammerblow Madeleine too comes to see herself as a curse, someone to be condemned.
"What sort of a woman am I then?" she whispered to herself. "I went to that man [Jacques] to raise myself in his eyes, and I fell into his arms like any whore. He had only to touch me with his finger-tip, and I offered no resistance. Indeed, I found degrading enjoyment in feeling myself yield to him. .... I must be accursed, as Geneviève says. My flesh is foul! Oh, how filthy!" (Ch 12)
"... My body is cursed, it turns all about me to gall .... I have tried myself and I have condemned myself to death ..." (Ch 13)
The novel ends with her suicide and Guillaume's descent into madness.
* Chantal Bertrand-Jennings, "Zola's Women: The Case of a Victorian 'Naturalist'", Atlantis Vol 10 No 1 (Autumn 1984), pp. 26-36, available as a PDF download here:
https://journals.msvu.ca/index.php/atlantis/article/download/4447/3686/5861
*
And maybe there's another point to consider, the novel's title. Because, keeping our heads, this a study of a relationship between two people who both contribute their destructive potential and their weaknesses. Why is the novel named Madeleine Férat and not, say, Guillaume and Madeleine (its opening words)? Not easy to answer, but part of it is that the dramatic tension, our uncertainty as we read, concerns Madeleine:
She fell into a revery, then vaguely, as if speaking to herself: "I do not know what will happen to me later," she said. "I think I have the will-power to manage my life, but it is not easy." (Ch 1)
As we read on we cling to our belief in the possibility of her life not being a catastrophe, if only fate would stop hammering. With Guillaume less so; he, we can easily see, isn't made for happiness. So which of the two is actually the fatale here?
And Madeleine, more often than not, supplies the point of view through which we see events, the most normative or at any rate least damaged perspective. The story seems pitched around making her an object (e.g. a femme fatale) but at the same time proposes her as subject. When at the end she refers to "our poor, sick minds" we can see that this true, but also that there's a stature to Madeleine's mind that's evinced by the clarity of this perception.
When the novel was serialized, its title was La Honte (Shame). The emphasis of that title seems at first glance to be on Madeleine. It's only a more considered reflection that sees how it could be meant as a statement about others in the novel (for example the young Guillaume being jeered as a bâtard), and even about the whole of French society.
*
Madeleine Férat is Zola's fourth novel, the last one before embarking on Les Rougon-Macquart. It's distinctive among Zola's novels and part of that is because it was based on a play (uniquely, I think). But "based on" is a slippery term, as we'll see.
Zola wrote his three-act play in 1865: it was called La Madeleine (i.e. "The Magdalene", a repentant sinner) and there were no takers. Retitled Madeleine, it was performed once in 1889. It appeared in Zola's Works in 1927 and you can download a PDF here:
https://libretheatre.fr/madeleine-de-emile-zola/
Some of the information below comes from Midori Nakamura's interesting essay '“L’annonce” et “l’amorce” chez Zola: Madeleine, du théâtre au roman', Excavatio Vol 27 (2016):
http://aizen.zolanaturalismassoc.org/excavatio/articles/v27/MidoriNakamura.pdf
The rejected play isn't particularly good; Act 3 feels a bit perfunctory, Madeleine's suicide inadequately motivated. Nevertheless, it became the kernel of a far more arresting novel. Zola added to his original story, changed his original story, and even criticized his original story. The relationship of the novel to the play is to a certain extent dialectical.
Act 1 corresponds to the novel's Ch 7 (the unexpected reappearance of Jacques). Act 2 corresponds to Ch 9 (the inn at Mantes). Act 3 corresponds to Ch 13 (Madeleine's return to the marital home and her suicide).
Some of the play's dialogues are closely followed in the novel, for instance, in Act 1 Francis (=Guillaume) talking with Jacques about his marriage. And, as in the novel, there's a fanatical servant who relishes telling us that God the Father did not forgive.
But the differences are numerous and substantive. Here are some of the major ones.
The play is set in about 1802 near Montpellier. (Jacques' rumoured death was at the battle of Marengo.) The novel is set in the present day and much closer to Paris.
Different names: Guillaume was Francis. Geneviève was Marguerite originally, changed to Véronique for the 1889 performance. The fallen companion Louise was originally Laure (Laurence in 1889). In what follows I'll use the 1889 names, because they're the names in the published text.
Francis and Jacques were fellow medical students at Montpellier. Francis is a doctor now. Francis is more romantic/idealistic than Jacques, but that's as far as the contrast goes. There is no suggestion that Francis is chronically weak, insecure, reclusive or pessimistic (as Guillaume is). Guillaume's sad history, the childhood bullying, Jacques taking him under his wing, etc, are all new material in the novel.
Francis has a mother, Mme Hubert, who lives with them. Theirs is a respectable household. In the novel Guillaume's own background is not respectable, he has no profession, it is only his unexpected wealth that keeps tongues from wagging openly. (In Act 3 Madeleine's suicide is triggered by Mme Hubert not pardoning her faults ... This is true enough, but Véronique implies more finality than there really is, when she falsely states that Mme Hubert has fled the house with her grand-daughter.) The novel eliminates Mme Hubert entirely. In the novel the Noiraude household is much lonelier, and so is Guillaume, who clings timidly to Madeleine as to a refuge or mother. Guillaume has no living relatives since the death of his eccentric father, and the young couple's concern about respectability is limited to the judgments of provincial society (and their servant Geneviève).
Like Guillaume's, Madeleine's early history (e.g. Lobrichon's attempted rape) is all new in the novel. In the play all we're told is that she was a happy child who became a fun-loving girl and in due course Jacques' mistress.
In the play, Madeleine has no residual feelings for her former lover and never yields to him again (as in Ch 12 of the novel). There is no madcap science about the supposedly permanent imprint of a first lover and no suggestion that Madeleine's child strangely resembles Jacques.
In the play Madeleine's suicide is prompted solely by the feeling of being unable to escape her unrespectable past, her sense that her respectable life is just a dream (e.g. after the meeting with Laurence). At the end her husband, child and mother-in-law all survive, so she's fatal only to herself.
The novel darkens the story in many ways, adding nightmarish and gothic elements. Examples are Lobrichon's attempted rape of Madeleine, Guillaume's misanthropic father and his sinister closed up laboratory, the unspeakable de Rieu trio, the much elaborated descriptions of Geneviève and Louise, the dismal arrival at the neglected cottage, the description of Lucie's smallpox.
In sum, the novel vastly elaborates the story -- and crucially changes it. In the play the key issue was that Madeleine couldn't maintain the respectability of her husband's household. But in the novel Madeleine and Guillaume never really have this respectability. Instead, the key issue now is Madeleine's continuing obsession with her former lover. Almost as important, the novel now charts the working out of Guillaume's vulnerabilities as well as Madeleine's: a relationship that looks doomed: unhealthy, static and isolated even in its palmy days.
As is well shown by one more difference from the play. At the end of Act 1 it's Madeleine who is determined to flee the house to avoid seeing Jacques, and Francis who says it would be better to explain things to Jacques. In the novel the roles are reversed: it's Guillaume who wants to flee, and Madeleine who sees that the only way to resolve matters is to talk with Jacques.
... The mere thought of Jacques' proximity, the idea of his old friend's approaching him and holding out his hand, now caused him increasing pain. There was one thought and one only in his mind, that of flight, that of avoiding any explanation, that of taking refuge in some lonely place where they might hide. In difficult situations his character invariably sought time and also craved solely to resume further on his dream of peace. When he raised his head, it was to whisper:
"Let us go away. My head is bursting, for the moment I cannot see what to do . . . He was only going to spend a day here anyway just now . . . When he has gone, we shall have a month ahead of us to recover and make sure of our happiness."
But flight such as he suggested seemed repugnant to Madeleine, with her upright character. She saw too quite clearly that this settled nothing and would leave them with all their fears unrelieved.
"It would be far better to put an end to it," she insisted.
"No, come please," he whispered, pressingly. "We'll go over to the cottage to spend the night, and stay out there all day, till he has gone. . . . You know how happy we always were there. That cosy atmosphere will soothe us, we shall forget and love each other again just as we did when I used to steal out there to see you . . . Were either of us to see him again, I feel that would be the absolute end to our happiness."
Madeleine made a gesture of resignation. She too was badly shaken, and she felt Guillaume was so upset that it was no use trying any longer to get a brave decision from him.
"Very well," she said. "Let us go. . . . Wherever you wish."
(Ch 7)
This shows the developed dynamic of the couple at work. Madeleine is stronger and more clear-sighted than her husband, but not strong or clear-sighted enough. Both characters avoid frankness and confronting difficult situations, and together they're apt to relapse into passivity and resignation. The shadows close in around them. They seek refuge in the past (for instance, their neglected cottage) but these bolt-holes never bring the hoped-for tranquillity.
*
The play's opening tableau was the image of a model respectable family. It went on to depict the personal tragedy of Madeleine failing to maintain her place in that image, but it didn't question the image itself; rather, it subscribes to a solidly bourgeois morality. Certainly we're not meant to agree with Véronique's view of Madeleine, but the play may well seem to confirm Jacques' worldly wisdom when talking to Francis, his view that it's not clever to marry your mistress and it always ends badly. Jacques' point, I suppose, is that a gentleman's wife should be a virgin. Mistresses are fun but they're a different breed (as Jacques, an inveterate user, should know). The play might appear to confirm his view. The figure of Laurence exemplifies the naturally downward trajectory of the loose woman's existence. When Madeleine introduces Laurence to Francis, and herself starts to speak coarsely and brazenly as in her former life, isn't she underlining the same point: this is the real me, you don't want to bring me home?
These scenes remain in the novel but conventional ideas of marriage are now sharply problematized. After all, it's the horrible old Lobrichon who is anxious to have a virginal wife (and thinks he can achieve this by preparing a child for the role). The de Rieus show how sour a society marriage can turn even if it does not begin by marrying one's mistress. Guillaume is insecure from the start, he already knows that Madeleine had a previous relationship but he doesn't want to hear anything about it. Guillaume is particularly unfitted for a grown-up relationship but his outlook and behaviour often seems like a visionary exposure of conventional assumptions about marriage. In him there's both a fear of frankness and an unrealistic idea that one should possess and control every aspect of one's wife, even her past.
I don't have much patience with Zola's scientific ideas of heredity and all the rest, but in Madeleine Férat he does at least use them to make a valid point. People always have pasts and they always have character aspects that pre-date a marriage. Guillaume's conception of marriage doesn't allow for the inevitable independence of the two people who comprise it. For Guillaume and Madeleine the upshot is a descent into the abyss. But behind their nightmare lies the glimmering of other possibilities, for instance a way of doing relationships that would be more in harmony with the conditions of life.
*
Katherine Rondou,"Madeleine Férat ou la mémoire dans la peau : l’imprégnation comme procédé mémoriel dans le roman naturaliste", e-Scripta Romanica 11 (2023), pp. 9-22
An excellent recent article, which argues that Zola's fatalistic notions (e.g. heredity, imprint of first lover) transform the Magdalen figure from a Christian hero to a tragic hero: she may repent, but she cannot be redeemed.
*
Two earlier posts that touch on Madeleine Férat:
https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2023/11/horse-traffic.html
https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2023/09/autumn-clearout.html
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