madame bovary(包法利夫人)-第7章

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hands　joined；　her　face　against　the　grating　beneath　the　whispering
of　the　priest。　The　comparisons　of　betrothed；　husband；　celestial
lover；　and　eternal　marriage；　that　recur　in　sermons；　stirred
within　her　soul　depths　of　unexpected　sweetness。
In　the　evening；　before　prayers；　there　was　some　religious　reading
in　the　study。　On　week…nights　it　was　some　abstract　of　sacred
history　or　the　Lectures　of　the　Abbe　Frayssinous；　and　on　Sundays
passages　from　the　〃Genie　du　Christianisme；〃　as　a　recreation。　How
she　listened　at　first　to　the　sonorous　lamentations　of　its
romantic　melancholies　reechoing　through　the　world　and　eternity！
If　her　childhood　had　been　spent　in　the　shop…parlour　of　some
business　quarter；　she　might　perhaps　have　opened　her　heart　to
those　lyrical　invasions　of　Nature；　which　usually　come　to　us　only
through　translation　in　books。　But　she　knew　the　country　too　well；
she　knew　the　lowing　of　cattle；　the　milking；　the　ploughs。
Accustomed　to　calm　aspects　of　life；　she　turned；　on　the　contrary；
to　those　of　excitement。　She　loved　the　sea　only　for　the　sake　of
its　storms；　and　the　green　fields　only　when　broken　up　by　ruins。
She　wanted　to　get　some　personal　profit　out　of　things；　and　she
rejected　as　useless　all　that　did　not　contribute　to　the　immediate
desires　of　her　heart；　being　of　a　temperament　more　sentimental
than　artistic；　looking　for　emotions；　not　landscapes。
At　the　convent　there　was　an　old　maid　who　came　for　a　week　each
month　to　mend　the　linen。　Patronized　by　the　clergy；　because　she
belonged　to　an　ancient　family　of　noblemen　ruined　by　the
Revolution；　she　dined　in　the　refectory　at　the　table　of　the　good
sisters；　and　after　the　meal　had　a　bit　of　chat　with　them　before
going　back　to　her　work。　The　girls　often　slipped　out　from　the
study　to　go　and　see　her。　She　knew　by　heart　the　love　songs　of　the
last　century；　and　sang　them　in　a　low　voice　as　she　stitched　away。
She　told　stories；　gave　them　news；　went　errands　in　the　town；　and
on　the　sly　lent　the　big　girls　some　novel；　that　she　always　carried
in　the　pockets　of　her　apron；　and　of　which　the　good　lady　herself
swallowed　long　chapters　in　the　intervals　of　her　work。　They　were
all　love；　lovers；　sweethearts；　persecuted　ladies　fainting　in
lonely　pavilions；　postilions　killed　at　every　stage；　horses　ridden
to　death　on　every　page；　sombre　forests；　heartaches；　vows；　sobs；
tears　and　kisses；　little　skiffs　by　moonlight；　nightingales　in
shady　groves；　〃gentlemen〃　brave　as　lions；　gentle　as　lambs；
virtuous　as　no　one　ever　was；　always　well　dressed；　and　weeping
like　fountains。　For　six　months；　then；　Emma；　at　fifteen　years　of
age；　made　her　hands　dirty　with　books　from　old　lending　libraries。
Through　Walter　Scott；　later　on；　she　fell　in　love　with　historical
events；　dreamed　of　old　chests；　guard…rooms　and　minstrels。　She
would　have　liked　to　live　in　some　old　manor…house；　like　those
long…waisted　chatelaines　who；　in　the　shade　of　pointed　arches；
spent　their　days　leaning　on　the　stone；　chin　in　hand；　watching　a
cavalier　with　white　plume　galloping　on　his　black　horse　from　the
distant　fields。　At　this　time　she　had　a　cult　for　Mary　Stuart　and
enthusiastic　veneration　for　illustrious　or　unhappy　women。　Joan　of
Arc；　Heloise；　Agnes　Sorel；　the　beautiful　Ferroniere；　and　Clemence
Isaure　stood　out　to　her　like　comets　in　the　dark　immensity　of
heaven；　where　also　were　seen；　lost　in　shadow；　and　all
unconnected；　St。　Louis　with　his　oak；　the　dying　Bayard；　some
cruelties　of　Louis　XI；　a　little　of　St。　Bartholomew's　Day；　the
plume　of　the　Bearnais；　and　always　the　remembrance　of　the　plates
painted　in　honour　of　Louis　XIV。
In　the　music　class；　in　the　ballads　she　sang；　there　was　nothing
but　little　angels　with　golden　wings；　madonnas；　lagunes；
gondoliers；…mild　compositions　that　allowed　her　to　catch　a　glimpse
athwart　the　obscurity　of　style　and　the　weakness　of　the　music　of
the　attractive　phantasmagoria　of　sentimental　realities。　Some　of
her　companions　brought　〃keepsakes〃　given　them　as　new　year's　gifts
to　the　convent。　These　had　to　be　hidden；　it　was　quite　an
undertaking；　they　were　read　in　the　dormitory。　Delicately　handling
the　beautiful　satin　bindings；　Emma　looked　with　dazzled　eyes　at
the　names　of　the　unknown　authors；　who　had　signed　their　verses　for
the　most　part　as　counts　or　viscounts。
She　trembled　as　she　blew　back　the　tissue　paper　over　the　engraving
and　saw　it　folded　in　two　and　fall　gently　against　the　page。　Here
behind　the　balustrade　of　a　balcony　was　a　young　man　in　a　short
cloak；　holding　in　his　arms　a　young　girl　in　a　white　dress　wearing
an　alms…bag　at　her　belt；　or　there　were　nameless　portraits　of
English　ladies　with　fair　curls；　who　looked　at　you　from　under
their　round　straw　hats　with　their　large　clear　eyes。　Some　there
were　lounging　in　their　carriages；　gliding　through　parks；　a
greyhound　bounding　along　in　front　of　the　equipage　driven　at　a
trot　by　two　midget　postilions　in　white　breeches。　Others；　dreaming
on　sofas　with　an　open　letter；　gazed　at　the　moon　through　a
slightly　open　window　half　draped　by　a　black　curtain。　The　naive
ones；　a　tear　on　their　cheeks；　were　kissing　doves　through　the　bars
of　a　Gothic　cage；　or；　smiling；　their　heads　on　one　side；　were
plucking　the　leaves　of　a　marguerite　with　their　taper　fingers；
that　curved　at　the　tips　like　peaked　shoes。　And　you；　too；　were
there；　Sultans　with　long　pipes　reclining　beneath　arbours　in　the
arms　of　Bayaderes；　Djiaours；　Turkish　sabres；　Greek　caps；　and　you
especially；　pale　landscapes　of　dithyrambic　lands；　that　often　show
us　at　once　palm　trees　and　firs；　tigers　on　the　right；　a　lion　to
the　left；　Tartar　minarets　on　the　horizon；　the　whole　framed　by　a
very　neat　virgin　forest；　and　with　a　great　perpendicular　sunbeam
trembling　in　the　water；　where；　standing　out　in　relief　like　white
excoriations　on　a　steel…grey　ground；　swans　are　swimming　about。
And　the　shade　of　the　argand　lamp　fastened　to　the　wall　above
Emma's　head　lighted　up　all　these　pictures　of　the　world；　that
passed　before　her　one　by　one　in　the　silence　of　the　dormitory；　and
to　the　distant　noise　of　some　belated　carriage　rolling　over　the
Boulevards。
When　her　mother　died　she　cried　much　the　first　few　days。　She　had　a
funeral　picture　made　with　the　hair　of　the　deceased；　and；　in　a
letter　sent　to　the　Bertaux　full　of　sad　reflections　on　life；　she
asked　to　be　buried　later　on　in　the　same　grave。　The　goodman
thought　she　must　be　ill；　and　came　to　see　her。　Emma　was　secretly
pleased　that　she　had　reached　at　a　first　attempt　the　rare　ideal　of
pale　lives；　never　attained　by　mediocre　hearts。　She　let　herself
glide　along　with　Lamartine　meanderings；　listened　to　harps　on
lakes；　to　all　the　songs　of　dying　swans；　to　the　falling　of　the
leaves；　the　pure　virgins　ascending　to　heaven；　and　the　voice　of
the　Eternal　discoursing　down　the　valleys。　She　wearied　of　it；
would　not　confess　it；　continued　from　habit；　and　at　last　was
surprised　to　feel　herself　soothed；　and　with　no　more　sadness　at
heart　than　wrinkles　on　her　brow。
The　good　nuns；　who　had　been　so　sure　of　her　vocation；　perceived
with　great　astonishment　that　Mademoiselle　Rouault　seemed　to　be
slipping　from　them。　They　had　indeed　been　so　lavish　to　her　of
prayers；　retreats；　novenas；　and　sermons；　they　had　so　often
preached　the　respect　due　to　saints　and　martyrs；　and　given　so　much
good　advice　as　to　the　modesty　of　the　body　and　the　salvation　of
her　soul；　that　she　did　as　tightly　reined　horses；　she　pulled　up
short　and　the　bit　slipped　from　her　teeth。　This　nature；　positive
in　the　midst　of　its　enthusiasms；　that　had　loved　the　church　for
the　sake　of　the　flowers；　and　music　for　the　words　of　the　songs；
and　literature　for　its　passional　stimulus；　rebelled　against　the
mysteries　of　faith　as　it　grew　irritated　by　discipline；　a　thing
antipathetic　to　her　constitution。　When　her　father　took　her　from
school；　no　one　was　sorry　to　see　her　go。　The　Lady　Superior　even
thought　that　she　had　latterly　been　somewhat　irreverent　to　the
community。
Emma；　at　home　once　more；　first　took　pleasure　in　looking　after　the
servants；　then　grew　disgusted　with　the　country　and　missed　her
convent。　When　Charles　came　to　the　Bertaux　for　the　first　time；　she
thought　herself　quite　disillusioned；　with　nothing　more　to　learn；
and　nothing　more　to　feel。
But　the　uneasiness　of　her　new　position；　or　perhaps　the
disturbance　caused　by　the　presence　of　this　man；　had　sufficed　to
make　her　believe　that　she　at　last　felt　that　wondrous　passion
which；　till　then；　like　a　great　bird　with　rose…coloured　wings；
hung　in　the　splendour　of　the　skies　of　poesy；　and　now　she　could
not　think　that　the　calm　in　which　she　lived　was　the　happiness　she
had　dreamed。

Chapter　Seven
She　thought；　sometimes；　that；　after　all；　this　was　the　happiest
time　of　her　lifethe　honeymoon；　as　people　called　it。　To　taste
the　full　sweetness　of　it；　it　would　have　been　necessary　doubtless
to　fly　to　those　lands　with　sonorous　names　where　the　days　after
marriage　are　full　of　laziness　most　suave。　In　post　chaises　behind
blue　silken　curtains　to　ride　slowly　up　steep　road；　listening　to
the　song　of　the　postilion　re…echoed　by　the　mountains；　along　with
the　bells　of　goats　and　the　muffled　sound　of　a　waterfall；　at
sunset　on　the　shores　of　gulfs　to　breathe　in　the　perfume　of　lemon
trees；　then　in　the　evening　on　the　villa…terraces　above；　hand　in
hand　to　look　at　the　stars；　making　plans　for　the　future。　It　seemed
to　her　that　certain　places　on　earth　must　bring　happiness；　as　a
plant　peculiar　to　the　soil；　and　that　cannot　thrive　elsewhere。　Why
could　not　she　lean　over　balconies　in　Swiss　chalets；　or　enshrine
her　melancholy　in　a　Scotch　cottage；　with　a　husband　dressed　in　a
black　velvet　coat　with　long　tails；　and　thin　shoes；　a　pointed　hat
and　frills？　Perhaps　she　would　have　liked　to　confide　all　these
things　to　someone。　But　how　tell　an　undefinable　uneasiness；
variable　as　the　clouds；　unstable　as　the　winds？　Words　failed
herthe　opportunity；　the　courage。
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　intimacy　of　their
life　became　deeper；　the　greater　became　the　gulf　that　separated
her　from　him。
Charles's　conversation　was　commonplace　as　a　street　pavement；　and
everyone's　ideas　trooped　through　it　in　their　everyday　garb；
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；　initiate　you　into　the　energies　of　passion；
the　refinements　of　life；　all　mysteries？　But　this　one　taught
nothing；　knew　nothing；　wished　nothing。　He　thought　her　happy；　and
she　resented　this　easy　calm；　this　serene　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　glided　over　it　the　more　he
wondered。　She　struck　the　notes　with　aplomb；　and　ran　from　top　to
bottom　of　th