Chapter 1
We were in class when the head-master camein， followed by a “new fellow，”not wearing the school uniform， and a school servant carrying a large desk.Those who had been asleep woke up， and everyone rose as if just surprised athis work.
The head-master made a sign to us to sitdown. Then， turning to the class-master， he said to him in a low voice： “Monsieur Roger， here is a pupil whom I recommend to your care； he'll be in the second. If his work and conduct are satisfactory， hewill go into one of the upper classes， as becomes his age.”
The “new fellow，” standing in the corner behind the door so that he could hardly beseen， was a country lad of about fifteen， and taller than any of us. His hairwas cut square on his forehead like a village chorister's； he looked sensible， but very ill at ease. Although he was notbroad-shouldered， his short school jacket of green cloth with black buttonsmust have been tight about the arm-holes， and showed at the opening of thecuffs red wrists accustomed to being bare. His legs， in blue stockings， lookedout from beneath yellow trousers， drawn tight by braces； He wore stout，ill-cleaned， hob-nailed boots.
We began repeating the lesson. He listenedwith all his ears， as attentive as if at a sermon， not daring even to cross hislegs or lean on his elbow； and when at two o'clock thebell rang， the master was obliged to tell him to fall into line with the restof us.
When we came back to work， we were in thehabit of throwing our caps on the ground so as to have our hands more free； weused from the door to toss them under the form， so that they hit against thewall and made a lot of dust： it was “the thing”.
But， whether he had not noticed the trick， ordid not dare to attempt it， the “new fellow，” was still holding his cap on his knees even after prayers wereover. It was one of those head-gears of composite order， in which we can findtraces of the bearskin， shako， billycock hat， sealskin cap， and cottonnight-cap； one of those poor things， in fine， whose dumb ugliness has depths ofexpression， like an imbecile's face. Oval， stiffenedwith whalebone， it began with three round knobs； then came in successionlozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separated by a red band； after that a sortof bag that ended in a cardboard polygon covered with complicated braiding，from which hung， at the end of a long thin cord， small twisted gold threads inthe manner of a tassel. The cap was new； its peak shone.
“Rise，” said themaster.
He stood up； his cap fell. The whole classbegan to laugh. He stooped to pick it up. A neighbor knocked it down again withhis elbow； he picked it up once more.
“Get rid of your helmet，” said the master， who was a bit of a wag. There was a burst oflaughter from the boys， which so thoroughly put the poor lad out of countenancethat he did not know whether to keep his cap in his hand， leave it on theground， or put it on his head. He sat down again and placed it on his knee.
“Rise，” repeated themaster， “and tell me your name.”
The new boy articulated in a stammering voicean unintelligible name.
“Again！”
The same sputtering of syllables was heard，drowned by the tittering of the class.
“Louder！” cried themaster； “louder！”
The “new fellow” then took a supreme resolution， opened an inordinately large mouth，and shouted at the top of his voice as if calling someone in the word “Charbovari.”
A hubbub broke out， rose in crescendo withbursts of shrill voices (they yelled， barked， stamped， repeated “Charbovari！ Charbovari”)， then died awayinto single notes， growing quieter only with great difficulty， and now andagain suddenly recommencing along the line of a form whence rose here andthere， like a damp cracker going off， a stifled laugh.
However， amid a rain of impositions， orderwas gradually reestablished in the class； and the master having succeeded incatching the name of “Charles Bovary”， having had it dictated to him， spelt out， and reread， at once ordered the poor devil to go and sit down on the punishment form at the foot ofthe master's desk. He got up， but before going hesitated.
“What are you looking for？” asked the master.
“My c-a-p，” timidlysaid the “new fellow，” castingtroubled looks round him.
“Five hundred lines for all the class！” shouted in a furious voice stopped， like the Quos ego， a freshoutburst. “Silence！” continuedthe master indignantly， wiping his brow with his handkerchief， which he hadjust taken from his cap. “As to you， 'new boy，' you will conjugate 'ridiculus sum' twenty times.” Then， in a gentler tone， “Come， you'll find your cap again； it hasn't beenstolen.”
Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks，and the “new fellow” remainedfor two hours in an exemplary attitude， although from time to time some paperpellet flipped from the tip of a pen came bang in his face. But he wiped hisface with one hand and continued motionless， his eyes lowered.
In the evening， at preparation， he pulled outhis pens from his desk， arranged his small belongings， and carefully ruled hispaper. We saw him working conscientiously， looking up every word in thedictionary， and taking the greatest pains. Thanks， no doubt， to the willingnesshe showed， he had not to go down to the class below. But though he knew hisrules passably， he had little finish in composition. It was the curé of his village who had taught him his first Latin； his parents，from motives of economy， having sent him to school as late as possible.
His father， Monsieur Charles Denis BartolomeBovary， retired assistant-surgeon-major， compromised about 1812 in certainconion scandals， and forced at this time to leave the service， had thentaken advantage of his fine figure to get hold of a dowry of sixty thousandfrancs that offered in the person of a hosier'sdaughter who had fallen in love with his good looks. A fine man， a greattalker， making his spurs ring as he walked， wearing whiskers that ran into hismoustache， his fingers always garnished with rings and dressed in loud colours，he had the dash of a military man with the easy go of a commercial traveller.Once married， he lived for three or four years on his wife's fortune， dining well， rising late， smoking long porcelain pipes，not coming in at night till after the theatre， and haunting cafes. Thefather-in-law died， leaving little； he was indignant at this， “went in for the business，” lost some moneyin it， then retired to the country， where he thought he would make money.
But， as he knew no more about farming thancalico， as he rode his horses instead of sending them to plough， drank hiscider in bottle instead of selling it in cask， ate the finest poultry in hisfarmyard， and greased his hunting-boots with the fat of his pigs， he was notlong in finding out that he would do better to give up all speculation.
For two hundred francs a year he managed tofind on the border of the provinces of Caux and Picardy， a kind of place halffarm， half private house； and here， soured， eaten up with regrets， cursing hisluck， jealous of everyone， he shut himself up at the age of forty-five， sick ofmen， he said， and determined to live in peace.
His wife had adored him once on a time； shehad bored him with a thousand servilities that had only estranged him the more.Lively once， expansive and affectionate， in growing older she had become (afterthe fashion of wine that， exposed to air， turns to vinegar) ill-tempered，grumbling， irritable. She had suffered so much without complaint at first，until she had seem him going after all the village drabs， and until a score ofbad houses sent him back to her at night， weary， stinking drunk. Then her priderevolted. After that she was silent， burying her anger in a dumb stoicism thatshe maintained till her death. She was constantly going about looking afterbusiness matters. She called on the lawyers， the president， remembered whenbills fell due， got them renewed， and at home ironed， sewed， washed， lookedafter the workmen， paid the accounts， while he， troubling himself aboutnothing， eternally besotted in sleepy sulkiness， whence he only roused himselfto say disagreeable things to her， sat smoking by the fire and spitting intothe cinders.
When she had a child， it had to be sent outto nurse. When he came home， the lad was spoilt as if he were a prince. Hismother stuffed him with jam； his father let him run about barefoot， and，playing the philosopher， even said he might as well go about quite naked likethe young of animals. As opposed to the maternal ideas， he had a certain virileidea of childhood on which he-sought to mould his son， wishing him to bebrought up hardily， like a Spartan， to give him a strong constitution. He senthim to bed without any fire， taught him to drink off large draughts of rum andto jeer at religious processions. But， peaceable by nature， the lad answeredonly poorly to his notions. His mother always kept him near her； she cut outcardboard for him， told him tales， and entertained him with endless monologuesfull of melancholy gaiety and charming nonsense. In her life's isolation she centered on the child's headall her shattered， broken little vanities. She dreamed of high station； shealready saw him， tall， handsome， clever， settled as an engineer or in the law.She taught him to read， and even， on an old piano， she had taught him two orthree little songs. But to all this Monsieur Bovary， caring little for letters，said， “It was not worth while. Would they ever have themeans to send him to a public school， to buy him a practice， or start him inbusiness？ Besides， with cheek a man always gets on in the world.” Madame Bovary bit her lips， and the child knocked about thevillage.
He went after the labourers， drove away withclods of earth the ravens that were flying about. He ate blackberries along thehedges， minded the geese with a long switch， went haymaking during harvest， ranabout in the woods， played hop-scotch under the church porch on rainy days， andat great fêtes begged the beadle to let him toll thebells， that he might hang all his weight on the long rope and feel himselfborne upward by it in its swing. Meanwhile he grew like an oak； he was strongon hand， fresh of colour.
When he was twelve years old his mother hadher own way； he began lessons. The curé took him inhand； but the lessons were so short and irregular that they could not be ofmuch use. They were given at spare moments in the sacristy， standing up，hurriedly， between a baptism and a burial； or else the curé， if he had not to go out， sent for his pupil after the Angelus.They went up to his room and settled down； the flies and moths fluttered roundthe candle. It was close， the child fell asleep， and the good man， beginning todoze with his hands on his stomach， was soon snoring with his mouth wide open.On other occasions， when Monsieur le Curé， on his wayback after administering the viaticum to some sick person in the neighbourhood，caught sight of Charles playing about the fields， he called him， lectured himfor a quarter of an hour and took advantage of the occasion to make himconjugate his verb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or anacquaintance passed. All the same he was always pleased with him， and even saidthe “young man” had a very good memory.
Charles could not go on like this. MadameBovary took strong steps. Ashamed， or rather tired out， Monsieur Bovary gave inwithout a struggle， and they waited one year longer， so that the lad should take his first communion.
Six months more passed， and the year afterCharles was finally sent to school at Rouen， where his father took him towards the end of October， at the time of the St. Romain fair.
It would now be impossible for any of us to remember anything about him. He was a youth of even temperament， who played inplaytime， worked in school-hours， was attentive in class， slept well in the dormitory， and ate well in the refectory. He had in loco parentis a wholesaleironmonger in the Rue Ganterie， who took him out once a month on Sundays afterhis shop was shut， sent him for a walk on the quay to look at the boats， andthen brought him back to college at seven o'clockbefore supper. Every Thursday evening he wrote a long letter to his mother withred ink and three wafers； then he went over his history note-books， or read anold volume of Anarchasis that was knocking about the study. When he went forwalks he talked to the servant， who， like himself， came from the country.
By dint of hard work he kept always about themiddle of the class； once even he got a certificate in natural history. But atthe end of his third year his parents withdrew him from the school to make himstudy medicine， convinced that he could even take his degree by himself.
His mother chose a room for him on the fourthfloor of a dyer's she knew， overlooking theEau-de-Robec. She made arrangements for his board， got him furniture， table andtwo chairs， sent home for an old cherry-tree bedstead， and bought besides asmall cast-iron stove with the supply of wood that was to warm the poor child.Then at the end of a week she departed， after a thousand injunctions to be goodnow that he was going to be left to himself.
The syllabus that he read on the notice-boardstunned him； lectures on anatomy， lectures on pathology， lectures onphysiology， lectures on pharmacy， lectures on botany and clinical medicine， andtherapeutics， without counting hygiene and materia medica-all names of whoseetymologies he was ignorant， and that were to him as so many doors tosanctuaries filled with magnificent darkness.
He understood nothing of it all； it was allvery well to listen-he did not follow. Still he worked； he had boundnote-books， he attended all the courses， never missed a single lecture. He didhis little daily task like a mill-horse， who goes round and round with his eyesbandaged， not knowing what work he is doing.
To spare him expense his mother sent himevery week by the carrier a piece of veal baked in the oven， with which helunched when he came back from the hospital， while he sat kicking his feetagainst the wall. After this he had to run off to lectures， to theoperation-room， to the hospital， and return to his home at the other end of thetown. In the evening， after a poor dinner of his landlord， he went back to hisroom and set to work again in his wet clothes， which smoked as he sat in frontof the hot stove.
On the fine summer evenings， at the time whenthe close streets are empty， when the servants are playing shuttle-cock at thedoors， he opened his window and leaned out. The river， that makes of thisquarter of Rouen a wretched little Venice， flowed beneath him， between thebridges and the railings， yellow， violet， or blue. Working men， kneeling on thebanks， washed their bare arms in the water. On poles projecting from theattics， skeins of cotton were drying in the air. Opposite， beyond the rootsspread the pure heaven with the red sun setting. How pleasant it must be athome！ How fresh under the beech-tree！ And he expanded his nostrils to breathein the sweet odours of the country which did not reach him.
He grew thin， his figure became taller， hisface took a saddened look that made it nearly interesting. Naturally， throughindifference， he abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Once he missed alecture； the next day all the lectures； and， enjoying his idleness， little bylittle， he gave up work altogether. He got into the habit of going to thepublic-house， and had a passion for dominoes. To shut himself up every eveningin the dirty public room， to push about on marble tables the small sheep boneswith black dots， seemed to him a fine proof of his freedom， which raised him inhis own esteem. It was beginning to see life， the sweetness of stolenpleasures； and when he entered， he put his hand on the door-handle with a joyalmost sensual. Then many things hidden within him came out； he learnt coupletsby heart and sang them to his boon companions， became enthusiastic about Bé ranger， learnt how to make punch， and， finally， how to make love.
Thanks to these preparatory labours， hefailed completely in his examination for an ordinary degree. He was expectedhome the same night to celebrate his success. He started on foot， stopped atthe beginning of the village， sent for his mother， and told her all. Sheexcused him， threw the blame of his failure on the injustice of the examiners，encouraged him a little， and took upon herself to set matters straight. It wasonly five years later that Monsieur Bovary knew the truth； it was old then， andhe accepted it. Moreover， he could not believe that a man born of him could bea fool.
So Charles set to work again and crammed forhis examination， ceaselessly learning all the old questions by heart. He passedpretty well. What a happy day for his mother！ They gave a grand dinner.
Where should he go to practise？ To Tostes，where there was only one old doctor. For a long time Madame Bovary had been onthe look-out for his death， and the old fellow had barely been packed off whenCharles was installed， opposite his place， as his successor.
But it was not everything to have brought upa son， to have had him taught medicine， and discovered Tostes， where he couldpractise it； he must have a wife. She found him one-the widow of a bailiff atDieppe-who was forty-five and had an income of twelve hundred francs. Thoughshe was ugly， as dry as a bone， her face with as many pimples as the spring hasbuds， Madame Dubuc had no lack of suitors. To attain her ends Madame Bovary hadto oust them all， and she even succeeded in very cleverly baffling theintrigues of a port-butcher backed up by the priests.
Charles had seen in marriage the advent of aneasier life， thinking he would be more free to do as he liked with himself andhis money. But his wife was master； he had to say this and not say that incompany， to fast every Friday， dress as she liked， harass at her bidding thosepatients who did not pay. She opened his letter， watched his comings andgoings， and listened at the partition-wall when women came to consult him inhis surgery.
She must have her chocolate every morning，attentions without end. She constantly complained of her nerves， her chest， andher liver. The noise of footsteps made her ill； when people left her， solitudebecame odious to her； if they came back， it was doubtless to see her die. WhenCharles returned in the evening， she stretched forth two long thin arms frombeneath the sheets， put them round his neck， and having made him sit down onthe edge of the bed， began to talk to him of her troubles： he was neglectingher， he loved another. She had been warned she would be unhappy； and she endedby asking him for a dose of medicine and a little more love.
Chapter 2
One night towards eleven o'clock they were awakened by the noise of a horse pulling up outsidetheir door. The servant opened the garret-window and parleyed for some timewith a man in the street below. He came for the doctor， had a letter for him.Natasie came downstairs shivering and undid the bars and bolts one after theother. The man left his horse， and， following the servant， suddenly came inbehind her. He pulled out from his wool cap with grey top-knots a letterwrapped up in a rag and presented it gingerly to Charles， who rested on hiselbow on the pillow to read it. Natasie， standing near the bed， held the light.Madame in modesty had turned to the wall and showed only her back.
This letter， sealed with a small seal in bluewax， begged Monsieur Bovary to come immediately to the farm of the Bertaux toset a broken leg. Now from Tostes to the Bertaux was a good eighteen milesacross country by way of Longueville and Saint-Victor. It was a dark night；Madame Bovary junior was afraid of accidents for her husband. So it was decidedthe stable-boy should go on first； Charles would start three hours later whenthe moon rose. A boy was to be sent to meet him， and show him the way to thefarm， and open the gates for him.
Towards four o'clockin the morning， Charles， well wrapped up in his cloak， set out for the Bertaux.Still sleepy from the warmth of his bed， he let himself be lulled by the quiettrot of his horse. When it stopped of its own accord in front of those holessurrounded with thorns that are dug on the margin of furrows， Charles awokewith a start， suddenly remembered the broken leg， and tried to call to mind allthe fractures he knew. The rain had stopped， day was breaking， and on thebranches of the leafless trees birds roosted motionless， their little feathersbristling in the cold morning wind. The fiat country stretched as far as eyecould see， and the tufts of trees round the farms at long intervals seemed likedark violet stains on the cast grey surface， that on the horizon faded into thegloom of the sky.
Charles from time to time opened his eyes，his mind grew weary， and， sleep coming upon him， he soon fell into a dozewherein， his recent sensations blending with memories， he became conscious of adouble self， at once student and married man， lying in his bed as but now， andcrossing the operation theatre as of old. The warm smell of poultices mingledin his brain with the fresh odour of dew； he heard the iron rings rattlingalong the curtain-rods of the beds and saw his wife sleeping. As he passedVassonville he came upon a boy sitting on the grass at the edge of a ditch.
“Are you the doctor？”asked the child.
And on Charles'sanswer he took his wooden shoes in his hands and ran on in front of him.
The general practitioner， riding along，gathered from his guide's talk that Monsieur Rouaultmust be one of the well-to-do farmers. He had broken his leg the evening beforeon his way home from a Twelfth-night feast at a neighbour's. His wife had been dead for two years. There was with him only hisdaughter， who helped him to keep house.
The ruts were becoming deeper； they wereapproaching the Bertaux.
The little lad， slipping through a hole inthe hedge， disappeared； then he came back to the end of a courtyard to open thegate. The horse slipped on the wet grass； Charles had to stoop to pass underthe branches. The watchdogs in their kennels barked， dragging at their chains.As he entered the Bertaux， the horse took fright and stumbled.
It was a substantial-looking farm. In thestables， over the top of the open doors， one could see great cart-horsesquietly feeding from new racks. Right along the outbuildings extended a largedunghill， from which manure liquid oozed， while amidst fowls and turkeys， fiveor six peacocks， a luxury in Chauchois farmyards， were foraging on the top ofit. The sheepfold was long， the barn high， with walls smooth as your hand.Under the cart-shed were two large carts and four ploughs， with their whips，shafts and harnesses complete， whose fleeces of blue wool were getting soiledby the fine dust that fell from the granaries. The courtyard sloped upwards，planted with trees set out symmetrically， and the chattering noise of a flockof geese was heard near the pond.
A young woman in a blue merino dress withthree flounces came to the threshold of the door to receive Monsieur Bovary，whom she led to the kitchen， where a large fire was blazing. The servant's breakfast was boiling beside it in small pots of all sizes. Somedamp clothes were drying inside the chimney-comer. The shovel， tongs， and thenozzle of the bellows， all of colossal size， shone like polished steel， whilealong the walls hung many pots and pans in which the clear flame of the hearth，mingling with the first rays of the sun coming in through the window， wasmirrored fitfully.
Charles went up the first floor to see thepatient. He found him in his bed， sweating under his bed-clothes， having thrownhis cotton nightcap right away from him. He was a fat little man of fifty， withwhite skin and blue eyes， the forepart of his head bald， and he wore earrings.By his side on a chair stood a large decanter of brandy， whence he pouredhimself a little from time to time to keep up his spirits； but as soon as hecaught sight of the doctor his elation subsided， and instead of swearing， as hehad been doing for the last twelve hours， began to groan feebly.
