A Mummers Tale

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A Mummer's Tale

The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Mummer's Tale, by Anatole France This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: A Mummer's Tale
Author: Anatole France
Translator: Charles E. Roche
Release Date: June 9, 2006 [EBook #18545]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION EDITED BY J. LEWIS MAY AND BERNARD MIALL
A MUMMER'S TALE
(HISTOIRE COMIQUE)

A MUMMER'S TALE
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
A TRANSLATION BY CHARLES E. ROCHE
LONDON, JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMXXI
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND

CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. 1
II. 21
III. 26
IV. 41
V. 63
VI. 71
VII. 82
VIII. 97
IX. 108
X. 137
XI. 166
XII. 176
XIII. 181
XIV. 186
XV. 194
XVI. 197
XVII. 205
XVIII. 212
XIX. 220
XX. 230

A MUMMER'S TALE

A MUMMER'S TALE
CHAPTER I
The scene was an actress's dressing-room at the Odéon.
Félicie Nanteuil, her hair powdered, with blue on her eyelids, rouge on her cheeks and ears, and white on her neck and shoulders, was holding out her foot to Madame Michon, the dresser, who was fitting on a pair of little black slippers with red heels. Dr. Trublet, the physician attached to the theatre, and a friend of the actress's, was resting his bald cranium on a cushion of the divan, his hands folded upon his stomach and his short legs crossed.
"What else, my dear?" he inquired of her.
"Oh, I don't know! Fits of suffocation; giddiness; and, all of a sudden, an agonizing pain, as if I were going to die. That's the worst of all."
"Do you sometimes feel as though you must laugh or cry for no apparent reason, about nothing at all?"
"That I cannot tell you, for in this life one has so many reasons for laughing or crying!"
"Are you subject to attacks of dizziness?"
"No. But, just think, doctor, at night, I see an imaginary cat, under the chairs or the table, gazing at me with fiery eyes!"
"Try not to dream of cats any more," said Madame Michon, "because that's a bad omen. To see a cat is a sign that you'll be betrayed by friends, or deceived by a woman."
"But it is not in my dreams that I see a cat! It's when I'm wide awake!"
Trublet, who was in attendance at the Odéon once a month only, was given to looking in as a friend almost every evening. He was fond of the actresses, delighted in chatting with them, gave them good advice, and listened with delicacy to their confidences. He promised Félicie that he would write her a prescription at once.
"We'll attend to the stomach, my dear child, and you'll see no more cats under the chairs and tables."
Madame Michon was adjusting the actress's stays. The doctor, suddenly gloomy, watched her tugging at the laces.
"Don't scowl," said Félicie. "I am never tight-laced. With my waist I should surely be a fool if I were." And she added, thinking of her best friend in the theatre, "It's all very well for Fagette, who has no shoulders and no hips; she's simply straight up and down. Michon, you can pull a little tighter still. I know you are no lover of waists, doctor. Nevertheless, I cannot wear swaddling bands like those ?sthetic creatures. Just slip your hand into my stays, and you'll see that I don't squeeze myself too tight."
He denied that he was inimical to stays; he only condemned them when too tightly laced. He deplored the fact that women should have no sense of the harmony of line; that they should associate with smallness of the waist an idea of grace and beauty, not realizing that their beauty resided wholly in those modulations through which the body, having displayed the superb expansion of chest and bosom, tapers off gradually below the thorax, to glorify itself in the calm and generous width of the flanks.
"The waist," he said, "the waist, since one has to make use of that hideous word, should be a gradual, imperceptible, gentle transition from one to another of woman's two glories, her bosom and her womb, and you stupidly strangle it, you stave in the thorax, which involves the breasts in its ruin, you flatten your lower ribs, and you plough a horrible furrow above the navel. The negresses, who file their teeth down to a point, and split their lips, in order to insert a wooden disc, disfigure themselves in a less barbarous fashion. For, after all, some feminine splendour still remains to a creature who wears rings in