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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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- Стр. 34/303
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At
the
bottom
of
her
heart
,
however
,
she
was
waiting
for
something
to
happen
.
Like
shipwrecked
sailors
,
she
turned
despairing
eyes
upon
the
solitude
of
her
life
,
seeking
afar
off
some
white
sail
in
the
mists
of
the
horizon
.
She
did
not
know
what
this
chance
would
be
,
what
wind
would
bring
it
her
,
towards
what
shore
it
would
drive
her
,
if
it
would
be
a
shallop
or
a
three-decker
,
laden
with
anguish
or
full
of
bliss
to
the
portholes
.
But
each
morning
,
as
she
awoke
,
she
hoped
it
would
come
that
day
;
she
listened
to
every
sound
,
sprang
up
with
a
start
,
wondered
that
it
did
not
come
;
then
at
sunset
,
always
more
saddened
,
she
longed
for
the
morrow
.
Spring
came
round
.
With
the
first
warm
weather
,
when
the
pear
trees
began
to
blossom
,
she
suffered
from
dyspnoea
.
From
the
beginning
of
July
she
counted
how
many
weeks
there
were
to
October
,
thinking
that
perhaps
the
Marquis
d'Andervilliers
would
give
another
ball
at
Vaubyessard
.
But
all
September
passed
without
letters
or
visits
.
After
the
ennui
of
this
disappointment
her
heart
once
more
remained
empty
,
and
then
the
same
series
of
days
recommenced
.
So
now
they
would
thus
follow
one
another
,
always
the
same
,
immovable
,
and
bringing
nothing
.
Other
lives
,
however
flat
,
had
at
least
the
chance
of
some
event
.
One
adventure
sometimes
brought
with
it
infinite
consequences
and
the
scene
changed
.
But
nothing
happened
to
her
;
God
had
willed
it
so
!
The
future
was
a
dark
corridor
,
with
its
door
at
the
end
shut
fast
.
She
gave
up
music
.
What
was
the
good
of
playing
?
Who
would
hear
her
?
Since
she
could
never
,
in
a
velvet
gown
with
short
sleeves
,
striking
with
her
light
fingers
the
ivory
keys
of
an
Erard
at
a
concert
,
feel
the
murmur
of
ecstasy
envelop
her
like
a
breeze
,
it
was
not
worth
while
boring
herself
with
practicing
.
Her
drawing
cardboard
and
her
embroidery
she
left
in
the
cupboard
.
What
was
the
good
?
What
was
the
good
?
Sewing
irritated
her
.
"
I
have
read
everything
,
"
she
said
to
herself
.
And
she
sat
there
making
the
tongs
red-hot
,
or
looked
at
the
rain
falling
.
How
sad
she
was
on
Sundays
when
vespers
sounded
!
She
listened
with
dull
attention
to
each
stroke
of
the
cracked
bell
.
A
cat
slowly
walking
over
some
roof
put
up
his
back
in
the
pale
rays
of
the
sum
.
The
wind
on
the
highroad
blew
up
clouds
of
dust
.
Afar
off
a
dog
sometimes
howled
;
and
the
bell
,
keeping
time
,
continued
its
monotonous
ringing
that
died
away
over
the
fields
.
But
the
people
came
out
from
church
.
The
women
in
waxed
clogs
,
the
peasants
in
new
blouses
,
the
little
bare-headed
children
skipping
along
in
front
of
them
,
all
were
going
home
.
And
till
nightfall
,
five
or
six
men
,
always
the
same
,
stayed
playing
at
corks
in
front
of
the
large
door
of
the
inn
.
The
winter
was
severe
.
The
windows
every
morning
were
covered
with
rime
,
and
the
light
shining
through
them
,
dim
as
through
ground-glass
,
sometimes
did
not
change
the
whole
day
long
.
At
four
o'clock
the
lamp
had
to
be
lighted
.
On
fine
days
she
went
down
into
the
garden
.
The
dew
had
left
on
the
cabbages
a
silver
lace
with
long
transparent
threads
spreading
from
one
to
the
other
.
No
birds
were
to
be
heard
;
everything
seemed
asleep
,
the
espalier
covered
with
straw
,
and
the
vine
,
like
a
great
sick
serpent
under
the
coping
of
the
wall
,
along
which
,
on
drawing
hear
,
one
saw
the
many-footed
woodlice
crawling
.
Under
the
spruce
by
the
hedgerow
,
the
curie
in
the
three-cornered
hat
reading
his
breviary
had
lost
his
right
foot
,
and
the
very
plaster
,
scaling
off
with
the
frost
,
had
left
white
scabs
on
his
face
.
