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- Гюстав Флобер
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- Госпожа Бовари
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It
would
now
be
impossible
for
any
of
us
to
remember
anything
about
him
.
He
was
a
youth
of
even
temperament
,
who
played
in
playtime
,
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
wholesale
ironmonger
in
the
Rue
Ganterie
,
who
took
him
out
once
a
month
on
Sundays
after
his
shop
was
shut
,
sent
him
for
a
walk
on
the
quay
to
look
at
the
boats
,
and
then
brought
him
back
to
college
at
seven
o'clock
before
supper
.
Every
Thursday
evening
he
wrote
a
long
letter
to
his
mother
with
red
ink
and
three
wafers
;
then
he
went
over
his
history
note-books
,
or
read
an
old
volume
of
"
Anarchasis
"
that
was
knocking
about
the
study
.
When
he
went
for
walks
he
talked
to
the
servant
,
who
,
like
himself
,
came
from
the
country
.
By
dint
of
hard
work
he
kept
always
about
the
middle
of
the
class
;
once
even
he
got
a
certificate
in
natural
history
.
But
at
the
end
of
his
third
year
his
parents
withdrew
him
from
the
school
to
make
him
study
medicine
,
convinced
that
he
could
even
take
his
degree
by
himself
.
His
mother
chose
a
room
for
him
on
the
fourth
floor
of
a
dyer
's
she
knew
,
overlooking
the
Eau-de-Robec
.
She
made
arrangements
for
his
board
,
got
him
furniture
,
table
and
two
chairs
,
sent
home
for
an
old
cherry-tree
bedstead
,
and
bought
besides
a
small
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
good
now
that
he
was
going
to
be
left
to
himself
.
The
syllabus
that
he
read
on
the
notice-board
stunned
him
;
lectures
on
anatomy
,
lectures
on
pathology
,
lectures
on
physiology
,
lectures
on
pharmacy
,
lectures
on
botany
and
clinical
medicine
,
and
therapeutics
,
without
counting
hygiene
and
materia
medica
--
all
names
of
whose
etymologies
he
was
ignorant
,
and
that
were
to
him
as
so
many
doors
to
sanctuaries
filled
with
magnificent
darkness
.
He
understood
nothing
of
it
all
;
it
was
all
very
well
to
listen
--
he
did
not
follow
.
Still
he
worked
;
he
had
bound
note-books
,
he
attended
all
the
courses
,
never
missed
a
single
lecture
.
He
did
his
little
daily
task
like
a
mill-horse
,
who
goes
round
and
round
with
his
eyes
bandaged
,
not
knowing
what
work
he
is
doing
.
To
spare
him
expense
his
mother
sent
him
every
week
by
the
carrier
a
piece
of
veal
baked
in
the
oven
,
with
which
he
lunched
when
he
came
back
from
the
hospital
,
while
he
sat
kicking
his
feet
against
the
wall
.
After
this
he
had
to
run
off
to
lectures
,
to
the
operation-room
,
to
the
hospital
,
and
return
to
his
home
at
the
other
end
of
the
town
.
In
the
evening
,
after
the
poor
dinner
of
his
landlord
,
he
went
back
to
his
room
and
set
to
work
again
in
his
wet
clothes
,
which
smoked
as
he
sat
in
front
of
the
hot
stove
.
On
the
fine
summer
evenings
,
at
the
time
when
the
close
streets
are
empty
,
when
the
servants
are
playing
shuttle-cock
at
the
doors
,
he
opened
his
window
and
leaned
out
.
The
river
,
that
makes
of
this
quarter
of
Rouen
a
wretched
little
Venice
,
flowed
beneath
him
,
between
the
bridges
and
the
railings
,
yellow
,
violet
,
or
blue
.
Working
men
,
kneeling
on
the
banks
,
washed
their
bare
arms
in
the
water
.
On
poles
projecting
from
the
attics
,
skeins
of
cotton
were
drying
in
the
air
.
Opposite
,
beyond
the
roots
spread
the
pure
heaven
with
the
red
sun
setting
.
How
pleasant
it
must
be
at
home
!
How
fresh
under
the
beech-tree
!
And
he
expanded
his
nostrils
to
breathe
in
the
sweet
odours
of
the
country
which
did
not
reach
him
.
