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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 18/303
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When
she
was
thirteen
,
her
father
himself
took
her
to
town
to
place
her
in
the
convent
.
They
stopped
at
an
inn
in
the
St.
Gervais
quarter
,
where
,
at
their
supper
,
they
used
painted
plates
that
set
forth
the
story
of
Mademoiselle
de
la
Valliere
.
The
explanatory
legends
,
chipped
here
and
there
by
the
scratching
of
knives
,
all
glorified
religion
,
the
tendernesses
of
the
heart
,
and
the
pomps
of
court
.
Far
from
being
bored
at
first
at
the
convent
,
she
took
pleasure
in
the
society
of
the
good
sisters
,
who
,
to
amuse
her
,
took
her
to
the
chapel
,
which
one
entered
from
the
refectory
by
a
long
corridor
.
She
played
very
little
during
recreation
hours
,
knew
her
catechism
well
,
and
it
was
she
who
always
answered
Monsieur
le
Vicaire
's
difficult
questions
.
Living
thus
,
without
every
leaving
the
warm
atmosphere
of
the
classrooms
,
and
amid
these
pale-faced
women
wearing
rosaries
with
brass
crosses
,
she
was
softly
lulled
by
the
mystic
languor
exhaled
in
the
perfumes
of
the
altar
,
the
freshness
of
the
holy
water
,
and
the
lights
of
the
tapers
.
Instead
of
attending
to
mass
,
she
looked
at
the
pious
vignettes
with
their
azure
borders
in
her
book
,
and
she
loved
the
sick
lamb
,
the
sacred
heart
pierced
with
sharp
arrows
,
or
the
poor
Jesus
sinking
beneath
the
cross
he
carries
.
She
tried
,
by
way
of
mortification
,
to
eat
nothing
a
whole
day
.
She
puzzled
her
head
to
find
some
vow
to
fulfil
.
When
she
went
to
confession
,
she
invented
little
sins
in
order
that
she
might
stay
there
longer
,
kneeling
in
the
shadow
,
her
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
.
