The master, a man of great capitalist status, hadn't immediately appeared on stage, but his invisible pressure had already permeated the atmosphere.
As the footsteps drew nearer, he finally appeared—Charles de Lavalner, the true master of the estate.
He was wearing a impeccably tailored black formal suit, tall, with a stern countenance and neatly combed, grayish-white hair.
His gaze was as sharp as an eagle's, sweeping across the drawing-room, devoid of any warm greeting, looking instead like an inspection.
This "Master Lavalner" had been constantly suppressing the others in the living room from the very beginning, and he had always "won."
When "Anto" said his mother wasn't sick, he rebuked him mercilessly—
[LAVALNER: Who told you that? Did you often ask about your mother's illness when I was away?]
When "Antoine" showed sympathy for "Marcel" and the working class he represented, he also reprimanded him dismissively—
[LAVALNER: Do you know what society is? Have you read any books on socioeconomics? I recall that when I was at university, I considered my grasp of this subject far more thorough than your superficial social ideas!]
Finally, his "conclusion" fell upon the silent "Madam Madeleine"—
[LAVALNER (head raised): I think you have spoken too much this time. (Turning to Madeleine) He has learned to resemble you very much these past two years.]
And when his eldest son, "Édouard," said he intended to gain experience at the mine, Lavalner's first reaction was doubt—
[LAVALNER (pausing, looking at Édouard): Can you handle hardship? If you start something, see it through to the end. I don't want my son to become the subject of gossip.]
This confrontational and suppressive conversational style caused the atmosphere in the entire theater to congeal somewhat.
The nearly two thousand spectators in the entire Comédie-Française fell utterly silent at this moment, a heavy pressure emanating from the stage and filling every corner of the theater.
Those gentlemen usually holding high status, those elegant ladies, whether noble or wealthy merchants, unconsciously restrained their breathing.
In Lavalner, they saw a reflection of their own fathers, or perhaps even the stern, autocratic parent they themselves played...
A mixture of awe, fear, and discomfort spread in the hearts of the audience.
This oppressive atmosphere reached its climax in the scene where "Lavalner" forced his wife, "Madam Madeleine," to drink her medicine—
[LAVALNER (turning to Antoine, commanding): Antoine, take the medicine to your mother.
ANTOINE (resistantly): Father!
LAVALNER (glaring at him): Go!
Under his father's menacing gaze, Antoine had no choice but to take the medicine bowl from Fanny; his hand trembled slightly from anger and helplessness.
He carried the medicine before his mother, turned back, and attempted a final protest:
"Father! Don't be like this!"
LAVALNER (loudly): I want you to say—'Please drink, Mother!'
...]
In the audience, the gentlemen subconsciously adjusted their neckties, and the ladies held their breath.
Lavalner's merciless imposition of his personal will onto others, his ice-cold authority, made everyone choke.
The audience personally felt the oppression Madam Madeleine was enduring.
And when his wife still refused to drink the medicine, Lavalner commanded Édouard to join the "persuasion"—
[LAVALNER: Édouard, persuade your mother to drink it.
ÉDOUARD (looking up sharply): Father! I—
LAVALNER (interrupting loudly): Go! Go in front of your mother! Kneel down and persuade your mother!
ÉDOUARD (pleading painfully): Oh, Father!
LAVALNER: Kneel!]
Finally, Madam Madeleine could not bear the immense pressure and drank the medicine almost weeping, then fled the drawing-room as if escaping.
On stage, Master Lavalner stood impassively, as if everything that had just happened was an insignificant passing storm.
Antoine stared blankly in the direction his mother left, and tears finally fell.
Édouard bowed his head deeply, his body trembling, as if the weight of the entire world was on his shoulders.
It was too oppressive! Too real!
Master Lavalner's cold, unquestionable authority gripped every spectator by the throat.
Both the sympathetic ladies and the gentlemen who held power in their own families felt a fear emanating from the depths of their souls.
It wasn't the fear of violence or death, but the fear of absolute control disguised under the guise of "reason" and "responsibility."
It was silent, yet potent enough to crush human will and distort the soul.
Then, exclamations of low awe and discussion swept over the entire theater!
"God! I can barely breathe!"
"That is tyranny! A tyrant within the family!"
"Bernhardt's final performance... my heart is broken!"
"Lavalner's eyes... they were terrifying!"
"And those two sons... especially the eldest, what he endured was simply hell!"
The critics in the boxes were almost jumping up in excitement—
"Power! This is the power of drama!"
"Sorel is too cruel; this stab cuts deeper than A Doll's House!"
"This is no longer just drama; this is an interrogation of our entire society!"
And the first act of Thunderstorm fell, with Master Lavalner concluding amidst his almost self-satisfied pronouncements—
Lavalner seemed satisfied with his eldest son's silence.
He paced to the fireplace, his back to his son, gazing at the family portrait hanging above the mantelpiece.
The person in the painting possessed a stern expression, identical to his own.
His voice was not loud, but it echoed clearly in the silent drawing-room, and in the dead-quiet theater.
[LAVALNER (as if stating a truth): "My family, in my view, is the most complete and orderly family; and my sons, I also believe, are still upright children. I absolutely do not wish for anyone to speak ill of the children I have raised."]
"Upright children"?
"Do not wish for anyone to speak ill of them"?
These words were like pouring oil on a fire, provoking intense reactions among the audience.
On stage, Édouard's body trembled violently, as if struck hard by this statement.
In the audience, the expressions of those well-dressed, self-proclaimed noble ladies and gentlemen became extremely complex.
An elderly lady covered her mouth with a handkerchief and whispered to her companion:
"Oh, God, how can he say such a thing with such a clear conscience?"
A conservative old gentleman's face was ashen.
He instinctively wanted to nod in agreement with Lavalner's views on "order" and "decency"—but the scene that had just unfolded onstage, forcing a wife to drink medicine and the father-son confrontation, left him fidgeting uncomfortably.
He muttered to himself:
"What he said is true... but... but this..."
At this moment, he couldn't find the right words to describe his inner conflict.
More faces showed mockery, sudden realization, or even the anger of having a secret exposed.
They were all too familiar with this rhetoric!
In countless mansions across Paris, how many seemingly respectable families used the exact same words to whitewash their peace?
Maintaining a surface "completeness" and "order," while locking all scandals, impropriety, oppression, and suffering behind closed doors.
A young critic scribbled rapidly in his notebook:
"Most complete? Most orderly? Sorel, through Lavalner's mouth, has delivered the loudest slap to the face of our society's respectability!"
A wealthy-looking businessman wiped sweat from his brow.
He glanced at the mistress beside him, thinking of the wife he had neglected in the country villa...
Wasn't this very "no gossip" respectability what they pursued?
Even if the inside was already rotten!
This was the first time such a young writer, through a play, had so cruelly ripped open the veil over the family life of the entire "upper class."
He showed everyone how fragile and ridiculous this seemingly solid respectability was, and how much sorrow and perversion lay hidden beneath it.
Neglecting one's wife and keeping a mistress outside were almost standard operating procedure for many gentlemen present, even something to be boastful about.
But now, these actions suddenly lost their romantic color, revealing their selfish, cruel, and hypocritical essence.
They felt a burning sensation on their faces, as if the autocratic, cold Lavalner on stage had also claimed a piece of their souls.
The curtain for the first act fell heavily and slowly on Lavalner's self-aggrandizing final line that lingered in the air.
The house lights came up.
The Comédie Française fell into a strange, long silence.
(End of Chapter)