The great nineteenth century classic of realism, Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880), is about the unraveling of the two adulteries of Emma Bovary, a hedonistic, egocentric, and delusionary woman in provincial France. She ends her forays into adultery by killing herself with arsenic. Throughout the novel, she is addicted to exaggerated romantic expectations that trigger her adulteries. The novel is a sure antidote to our current culture's emphasis on feelings as the guide to action and the measure of marriage. Priests and deacons could do well to recommend the book to couples preparing for marriage in order to shock them out of the unrealistic egocentric expectations our culture imposes on marriage and which result in our high divorce rate.
Yet, I want to go beyond the main plot line of the novel and focus on Madame Bovary's priest. In a time when many clerics are rightly under fire for the homosexual abuse scandal and the on-going scandal involving pro-abortion celebrities, it is good to keep in mind the many priests who do their duties, without hint of scandal, day in and day out, and who stand up for the faith. One such priest was Madame Bovary's priest. From what I have read, Flaubert was not a practicing Catholic, yet the book, as a work of realism, captures the presence of Catholicism in the French region of Normandy in the 1840s. I submit that the picture of the Church and her priests that emerges is a powerful contrast to the reckless egoism of Emma Bovary. It appears that some critics simply refuse to see this favorable portrayal of the Church, a fact that may be due to the ideological prejudices of the critics. But it is easy for me as a Catholic to see it.
The first appearance of a priest in the novel is in the childhood of Emma's doctor husband, Charles Bovary. It is a comic appearance in which the village priest haphazardly attempts to be the boy's tutor. In a scene that the sexual abuse scandals have precluded in the United States, the boy comes to the priest's room to have some lessons:
They went up to his room and settled down; the flies and moths fluttered around the candle. It was close, the child fell asleep, and the good man, beginning to doze with his hands on his stomach, was soon snoring with his mouth wide open. On other occasions, when Monsieur le Curé, on his way back after administering the holy oil to some sick person in the neighborhood, caught sight of Charles playing about the fields, he called him, lectured him for a quarter of an hour, and took advantage of the occasion to make him conjugate his verb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or an acquaintance passed. All the same he was pleased with him, and even said the "young man" had a very good memory.
Gustave Flaubert,
Madame Bovary (W.W. Norton & Co., 1965), repr. in
The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, Vol. 2 (W.W. Norton & Co., 1979), pp. 745-46 (the following page references will be to the anthology edition).
This scene is a far cry from the cruel Protestant schoolmasters depicted by Charles Dickens (1812-1870), another great realist novelist of the nineteenth century who was Flaubert's older contemporary. Yet, the figure of the priest emerges fully, years later, when Charles Bovary is a doctor of sorts in the town of Yonville whose curé is Abbé Bournisien. He too is caught up in the day-to-day duties of the village priest and cannot comprehend the neurotic state of emotionalism of Emma Bovary when she comes seeking some spiritual solace:
[The priest asks Emma,] " . . . And how is Monsieur Bovary?" She seemed not to hear him. And he went on . . . "Always very busy no doubt; for he and I are certainly the busiest people in the parish. But he is doctor of the body," he added with a thick laugh, "and I of the soul." She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. "Yes," she said, "you solace all sorrows." "Ah! don't tell me of it, Madame Bovary. This morning I had to go to Bas-Diauville for a cow was all swollen; they thought it was under a spell. All their cows, I don't know how it is . . . ."
Flaubert, p. 820.
The critics appear to take this scene as showing the obtuseness of the priest who cannot come to the spiritual aid of Emma. Yet, I see it as a wise contrast between a priest whose two feet are firmly planted on the earth and Emma, a self-isolated neurotic in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction who refuses to live the life she has been given. It is a contrast between the emotionally healthy and the emotionally sick.
Yet, the Abbé is not just an earthy and busy vicar. He has his moments when he speaks forcefully in moral criticism of post-Napoleonic France. His foil is the village anti-cleric, the pharmacist Homais, who even named one of his children after Napoleon and who tries to bait the priest. One of Emma's adulteries is reignited when she meets an old admirer at an opera performed in a nearby city. So it is interesting to see the priest make a prophetic analysis of the problem with these performances:
He [the priest] was undoubtedly a kindly fellow and one day he was not even scandalised at the pharmacist, who advised Charles to give madame some distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear the illustrious tenor, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at the silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature. But the pharmacist took up the defence of letters. . . . "I know very well," objected the curé, "that there are good works, good authors. Still, the very fact of crowding people of different sexes into the same room, made to look enticing by displays of worldly pomp, these pagan disguises, the makeup, the lights, the effeminate voices, all this must, in the lon-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise to immodest thoughts and impure temptations. Such, at any rate, is the opinion of all the church fathers."
Flaubert, p. 898.
And so the priest predicts the very atmosphere that will eventually lead to the consummation of Emma's adultery with an admirer. And, for us today, the priest is a prophet of the moral disaster that Hollywood is. (Would that the present Cardinal of Los Angeles had a bit of Abbé Bournisien in him!)
In my view, Flaubert presents the priest as prophet. And so I differ with those critics who see the priest as a minor figure mocked by the author. And, in the end, when Emma is dying of her self-administered poisoning, it seems very likely that she has made an act of perfect contrition as the priest administers the last rites:
The priest rose to take the crucifix; then she stretched forward her neck like one suffering from thirst, and glueing her lips to the body of the Man-God, she pressed upon it with all her expiring strength the fullest kiss of love that she had ever given.
Flaubert, p. 977 (emphasis added).
Flaubert has a deep appreciation for the sacraments. He has the Catholic sacramental imagination, in spite of his own immoral lifestyle. He describes in detail the redeeming effect of the last anointing of the dying Emma by Bournisien:
First, upon the eyes, that had so coveted all worldly goods; then upon the nostrils, that had been so greedy of the warm breeze and the scents of love; then upon the mouth, that had spoken lies, moaned in pride and cried out in lust; then upon the hands that had taken delight in the texture of sensuality; and finally upon the soles of the feet, so swift when she had hastened to satisfy her desires, and that would walk no more.
Flaubert, p. 977.
And so the humble village priest, who had failed to come to grips earlier with Emma's moral sickness, now is the means of her salvation. It is what many imperfect priests do on a daily basis.
Yet, the village priest could also thunder as noted by the anti-clerical village pharmacist. Flaubert later describes the Abbé Bournisien who "thundered against the spirit of the age, and never failed, every other week, in his sermon, to recount the death agony of Voltaire, who died devouring his excrements, as every one knows" (p. 992). Bournisien was, as noted earlier by Flaubert, a kindly man, but he was no shrinking violet. We have seen a few such bishops recently in the headlines thundering against the spirit of the age.
The opposite of the village priest is, as said before, the anti-clerical village pharmacist, Homais, who metamorphoses into a figure we today are quite familiar with: the anti-Catholic journalistic muckraker. Flaubert disdainfully describes the burgeoning journalist:
[G]uided always by the love of progress and the hatred of priests. He instituted comparisons between the public and parochial schools to the detriment of the latter; called to mind the massacre of St. Barholomew á propos of a grant of one hundred francs to the church; denounced abuses and kept people on their toes. That was his phrase. Homais was digging and delving; he was becoming dangerous.
Flaubert, p. 991.
Today, journalists have rightly exposed the sex abuse scandal, but that cannot erase the reality of anti-Catholicism that is the mindset of the major liberal newspapers of the United States. But remember, when the Homaises of today write, that somewhere an unknown, scandal-free Abbé Bournisien is saving someone--something the journalists cannot do.