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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 19/303
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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
.
