Then, it seems, he bought himself artificial lawn grass; he went to Paris specially for it, brought back a round piece of turf, about two yards in diameter, and used to spread it out every afternoon in order to satisfy his legitimate need of lying in the grass even at the cost of self-deception. At the first flush of delight at the acquisition of property, a bourgeois is probably quite capable of doing this, so that there is nothing inherently improbable about it.
But let me say a couple of words about Gustave. Gustave is, of course, similar to the bourgeois, i.e. he is a clerk, a tradesman, a civil servant, homme de lettres, officer. Gustave is really Bribri, only not married. But that does not matter, what matters now is what Gustave pretends to be, what he masquerades as, his present appearance and disguise. The ideal Gustave
changes with the times and is always represented in the theatre in the aspect in which he is familiar to society. The bourgeois is particularly fond of the variety theatre, but he is even fonder of melodrama. The humble, the cheerful variety theatre is the only form of art which it is almost impossible to transplant to another soil; it can live only in the place of its birth, which is Paris. The bourgeois is fascinated by it, but it does not fully satisfy him. He cannot help considering it a mere trifle. He wants the sublime, he wants the utterly high-minded, he wants sentiment – and melodrama contains all this. The Parisian cannot live without melodrama. Melodrama will not die so long as the bourgeois lives.
It is interesting to note that variety too is now gradually changing. It is still cheerful and screamingly funny as it always has been, but nowadays a new element is creeping in – that of moral preaching. The bourgeois loves lecturing both himself and his Biche, and considers it his essential, indeed his sacred duty to do so at every turn.
Besides, the bourgeois now rules autocratically; he is a force; and the little scribblers who write variety and melodrama are always flunkeys and always flatter force. That is why the bourgeois now always triumphs even when held up to ridicule, and in the end he is always told that everything is all right. Presumably this information completely reassures the bourgeois.
Every faint-hearted person who is not certain of success in whatever he undertakes feels an acute need for self-delusion, self-encouragement and self-comfort. He even begins to believe in happy auguries. This is precisely what happens here. But melodrama presents lofty characters and lofty models; it has no humour – instead, you have a deeply moving triumph of all Bribri loves and admires so much. What he likes most is public peace and the right to save money in order to have an assured home. That is the spirit in which melodramas are now written. And that is the spirit in which Gustave is now presented. Gustave is always the true measure of what at any moment the bourgeois considers to be the ideal of unutterable high-mindedness.
Formerly, a long time ago, Gustave was supposed to be a kind of poet, artist, unrecognized and downtrodden genius suffering persecution and injustice. He put up a praiseworthy struggle and the whole thing always ended with the vicomtesse, who was secretly in love with him, and whom he treated with contemptuous indifference, uniting him with her ward Cécile, who never had a penny before, but who was suddenly discovered to have an immense amount of money.
As a rule, Gustave revolted against this and spurned the money. But then his work was crowned with success at an exhibition. Three funny English lords immediately burst into his flat and offered him a hundred thousand francs each for his next picture. Gustave laughed at them contemptuously and declared in bitter despair that all men were rascals, unworthy of his brush, and that he would not offer up art, sacred art, to the profanation of pygmies who had not noticed till then how great he was. But the viscountess would burst in and declare that Cécile was dying of love for him and that therefore he should paint pictures.
At that point it would dawn on Gustave that the viscountess, his former enemy, as a result of whose machinations not a single one of his works had ever been accepted for exhibition, is secretly in love with him; and he realizes that she used to try to get her own back on him merely out of jealousy. Naturally, Gustave immediately takes the money from the three lords, after giving them a piece of his mind once again, thus affording them great pleasure, runs off to Cécile, agrees to take her million and forgives the viscountess, who departs to her country house; he duly arrives, and settles down to children, a flannel vest, a bonnet de cotton* and evening strolls with his Biche around the lovely little fountains, whose quiet plash reminds him, of course, of the permanence, stability and serenity of his earthly happiness.
Sometimes it happens that Gustave is not a clerk, but some oppressed and downtrodden orphan, who in his heart of hearts nurtures unutterably noble sentiments. Suddenly it is discovered that he is by no means an orphan but the legitimate son of Rothschild. He gets millions. But proudly and contemptuously Gustave spurns these millions. Why? Because eloquence demands it. At this point in bursts Madame Beaupré, who is in love with him, but married to a banker who is his employer.
She declares that Cécile is about to die of love for him and that he must go and save her. Gustave guesses that Madame Beaupré is in love with him, swipes the millions and, after swearing at everyone in most foul language, because humanity has not the likes of him for unutterable high-mindedness, he goes to Cécile and is united with her. The banker’s wife departs for her country house, Beaupré is triumphant because his wife, after having hesitated on the brink of perdition, remains pure and undefiled, and Gustave settles down to having children and strolls out in the evening around the lovely little fountains whose plash reminds him etc., etc.
Nowadays unutterable high-mindedness is more often than not represented by an army officer or a sapper or something, mostly in army uniform and inevitably with the ribbon of the legion of honour “bought at the price of his blood”. This ribbon, by the way, is horrible. The bearer of it becomes so conceited that one can hardly meet him, or sit in the same carriage or next to him in the theatre or meet him in a restaurant. He almost spits at you, swaggers about shamelessly in front of you, he swaggers so much, he snorts and chokes, so that you end up by feeling sick, you have a bilious attack and are obliged to send for a doctor. But the French love it.
It is a remarkable fact too, that on the stage very special attention is now paid to Monsieur Beaupré as well – far more, at least, than formerly. Beaupré has, of course, made a lot of money and acquired very many things. He is simple and straightforward and made a little ridiculous by his bourgeois habits and the fact of being a husband; but he is kind, honest, magnanimous and unutterably high-minded in the act, in which he must suffer from the suspicion that his Biche is unfaithful to him.
But in spite of everything he magnanimously decides to forgive her. She turns out, of course, to be as pure as a dove: it was all a joke on her part and, though she had been carried away by Gustave, Bribri with his crushing magnanimity is dearer to her than anyone else. Cécile naturally is as penniless as ever, but only in the first act; later on it turns out she has a million. Gustave is as proud and contemptuously high-minded as ever, only he swaggers more because he is an officer.
The things that are dearest to him in the world are his cross, bought at the price of blood, and “l’épée de mon père”.* Of his father’s sword he talks everywhere constantly and irrelevantly; you do not even understand what it is all about; he swears and spits, but everyone treats him with respect, while the audience weeps and claps (literally weeps). He is, of course, penniless – this is a sine qua non. Madame Beaupré is in love with him, of course; so is Cécile, but he has no inkling of that. Her love makes Cécile grunt and groan throughout the five acts.
At last it begins to snow, or something like that. Cécile wants to throw herself out of the window. But two shots are heard under the window and everyone flocks in: enter slowly Gustave, pale and with his hand bandaged. The ribbon bought at the price of blood sparkles on his coat. Cécile’s slanderer and seducer has been punished. Gustave at last forgets that Cécile loves him and that it is all Madame Beaupré’s tricks.
But Madame Beaupré is pale and frightened, and Gustave guesses her love for him. However, another shot is heard. This is Beaupré committing suicide out of despair. Madame Beaupré gives a scream and
