Die Kunst des Ehebruchs • Wolfgang Matz

I’m a big fan of the three great adultery novels of the 19th century. Whether it’s Emma, Anna, or Effi – I just love all three and couldn’t even really say why. Perhaps it’s because it’s easy to sympathize with women whose freedom was restricted by social conventions. At least, from the democratic understanding of our modern age. I’ve already reviewed all three books (Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, and Effi Briest) here on this blog, so of course, The Art of Adultery has to be discussed as well.

The Art of Adultery is divided into three parts. The first part focuses on the main players. These are the husbands, about whom Matz has little good to say, particularly painting poor Charles from Madame Bovary as quite the fool. However, Mr. Karenin and Geert don’t get off lightly either. He then turns his attention to the wives—their traits and what drives them to adultery—followed by the lovers. In the second part, Matz dedicates a separate chapter to each of the novels, analyzing their structure, language, and offering background insights. The third part explores the theme of adultery in the broader context of social development and more modern literature.

I found the first part quite entertaining, though it doesn’t really offer much new information. Of course, it’s wonderful to dive back into the world of these three outstanding novels, especially Madame Bovary. But Matz dissects rather well-known facts, and what he has to say about each character doesn’t add much if you’ve read the novels. The role of marriage in the 19th century is, of course, explored in greater depth, which I found enjoyable to read. However, the three authors already depicted their societies and their attitudes toward marriage so vividly that this book can only summarize and highlight these facts without adding much new insight. Matz doesn’t quite succeed in developing a truly overarching, generalized view—and that’s largely due to the novels themselves, which each create entirely different fates in their own way. There’s simply no single brush you can use to paint Emma, Anna, and Effi, their husbands, or their lovers alike. One conclusion struck me as curious, though: only Anna commits adultery out of love. And only Emma goes through two lovers. Clearly, she’s my favorite—after all, she’s the wildest of the three.

I particularly enjoyed the second part, especially the first chapter on Madame Bovary. Here you learn about the framework of the novel—what Flaubert is really saying between the lines and how he achieves that. My takeaway can be summarized like this: while Flaubert’s style creates a novel aligned with realism, his characters speak in a highly romantic language, which gives the work a distinctly anti-romantic dimension. Within the confines of the novel, the story and characters seem realistic—but compared to reality itself, they are not. Thinking of the exaggerated characters, that certainly rings true. In the end, it’s precisely this exaggeration, this distinctive language, and these extreme figures that make the novel so compelling. That’s what drew me in as a reader, and that’s what I enjoyed. Likewise, Matz highlights with quotes and explanations Flaubert’s sarcasm, the ambiguity of his language, and the many erotic allusions. The seemingly neutral omniscient narrator, through word choice and sentence structure, conveys subjective impressions—what we might call free indirect discourse. Some of this I noticed while reading, some I perceived subconsciously, and some simply passed me by. A clear sign that I’ll definitely reread Madame Bovary. Though, I’ll probably get swept up in it again rather than paying attention to such details—completely succumbing once more to a case of Bovarysme.

The second chapter of the second part focuses on Anna Karenina, and here I must say that the scope is too limited to analyze such a vast work in its entirety. The book is immensely complex, with countless allusions, subplots, and diverse characters. Even summarizing Anna and her transformation over the course of the story feels like writing an obituary—it leaves out too much to truly grasp her character. Anna Karenina can only be done justice through a comprehensive analysis. What I liked about this section was simply the reflection it prompted—thinking about Anna, about Vronsky—and even though it only highlights fragments and focuses on individual aspects, it’s a joy to revisit and remember those events.

The third chapter (still in the second part) is truly illuminating. Matz explores the various ways Effi Briest can be interpreted—and I hadn’t been aware of all of them. The many hints and the wealth of events that occur in the background naturally allow for multiple perspectives. One, which I had previously held, sees Effi as a victim of the male-dominated social order. Another sees her as a heartless young woman who defies a respectable society—and I must admit, while I hadn’t read it that way before, the text allows for that interpretation too. Writing a book that sustains such dual readings is quite an achievement. Matz also highlights the parallels between Effi Briest and Madame Bovary, concluding that Effi Briest was essentially a response to Flaubert’s novel—intended to show that Flaubert’s blunt and straightforward portrayal of character and situation fails to do justice to humanity. In other words, Theodor Fontane breaks a lance for the moral social order that Flaubert criticized. Matz, however, judges Effi Briest rather harshly. I realized that of the three novels, I had paid the least attention to Effi Briest and thought the least about it afterward. The deep, multilayered exploration of the human psyche that makes Anna Karenina so special—and the poetic, powerful, and fascinating portrayal of society and Emma’s unruly nature—are absent from Fontane’s rather sober work. I think it would be more interesting now to reread it with attention to its many hints and to view Effi not as a victim, but as the guilty party.

I liked the third part the least. It includes a chapter about Tolstoy and how he dealt with the theme of marriage in his literature and in collaboration with his wife. This is followed by a look at literature after these adultery novels, extending into the 20th century, and touching on topics such as sexuality and the role of society and its evolution. For my taste, this section strays too far from the three main novels. While it rounds off the subject nicely, I found the exploration of later works less compelling.

Matz’s style is very pleasant to read and not overly academic. You can feel his enthusiasm for the topic and his deep familiarity with it. He definitely has something to say, and following his train of thought feels a bit like attending an entertaining lecture. I certainly knew professors who were so passionate about their subject that they conveyed it with similar liveliness.

Conclusion: For all devoted readers of Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, and Effi Briest, I can warmly recommend this book. It was a pleasure to immerse myself again in these very different works and to learn more details and background about them. However, it doesn’t offer many new or surprising insights, and for anyone who doesn’t vividly remember the novels or wasn’t particularly fond of them, this book’s in-depth discussion may feel a bit tedious. More than a few fragmentary impressions of these extensive masterpieces aren’t really possible in a book of such modest length anyway. Still, the second part, with its close reading of each novel, makes this book well worth reading.

Book information: Die Kunst des Ehebruchs • Wolfgang Matz • Wallstein Verlag • 304 pages • ISBN 9783835314597