If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy13 of their life became deeper, the greater became the gulf5 that separated her from him.
Charles’s conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and everyone’s ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb14, without exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity, he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel.
A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold activities, initiate15 you into the energies of passion, the refinements16 of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing, wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm, this serene17 heaviness, the very happiness she gave him.
Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers, little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers glided18 over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb19, and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings20 buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff’s clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list slippers21, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand.
Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the patients’ accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish — piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into plates — and even spoke22 of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was extended to Bovary.
Charles finished by rising in his own esteem23 for possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketched24 by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work slippers.
He came home late — at ten o’clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been, the prescriptions25 ha had written, and, well pleased with himself, he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off the cheese, munched26 an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to bed, and lay on his back and snored.
As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of the pillow, whose strings came untied27 during the night. He always wore thick boots that had two long creases28 over the instep running obliquely29 towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that “was quite good enough for the country.”
His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly30 when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought “her ways too fine for their position”; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as “at a grand establishment,” and the amount of firing in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her linen31 in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish32 of them; and the words “daughter” and “mother” were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger.
In Madame Dubuc’s time the old woman felt that she was still the favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment33 upon what was hers, and she watched her son’s happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma’s negligence34, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so exclusively.
Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved his wife infinitely35; he considered the judgment36 of the one infallible, and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable37. When Madam Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or two of the more anodyne38 observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his patients.
And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all the passionate39 rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios40; but she found herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more amorous41 and no more moved.
When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without getting a spark, incapable42, moreover, of understanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that Charles’s passion was nothing very exorbitant44. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at certain fixed45 times. It was one habit among other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner.
A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far as the beeches46 of Banneville, near the deserted47 pavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you.
She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and wallflowers, the beds of nettles48 growing round the big stones, and the patches of lichen49 along the three windows, whose shutters50, always closed, were rotting away on their rusty51 iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered at random52, like her greyhound, who ran round and round in the fields, yelping53 after the yellow butterflies, chasing the shrew-mice, or nibbling54 the poppies on the edge of a cornfield.
Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass that she dug up with little prods55 of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, “Good heavens! Why did I marry?”
She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty56, distinguished57, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the lights of the ballroom58, they were living lives where the heart expands, the senses bourgeon out. But she — her life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui59, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.
She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent60 over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows; the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, “Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles.”
Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful61 animal, who yawned slowly, she softened62, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling.
Occasionally there came gusts63 of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground, whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling64, while their summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur65. Emma drew her shawl round her shoulders and rose.
In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss66 that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade67 standing43 out against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak.
But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her life; she was invited by the Marquis d’Andervilliers to Vaubyessard.
Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to the Chamber68 of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward69 sent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor’s little garden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension70, nor, on the other hand, making a mistake, in inviting71 the young couple.
On Wednesday at three o’clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped72 on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron73. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees.
They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages.
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1
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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14
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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15
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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24
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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28
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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29
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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30
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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31
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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32
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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34
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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36
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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39
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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40
adagios
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| n.柔板( adagio的名词复数 )；慢板；柔板乐章；（男女二人或三人舞时女角保持高难度平衡的）缓慢动作 | |
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41
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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42
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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45
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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46
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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47
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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48
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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49
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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50
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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51
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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52
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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53
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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54
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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55
prods
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| n.刺，戳( prod的名词复数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳v.刺，戳( prod的第三人称单数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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56
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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57
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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58
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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59
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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60
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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61
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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62
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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63
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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64
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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65
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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66
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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67
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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68
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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69
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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70
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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71
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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72
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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73
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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