Part I: Chapter One

by Gustave Flaubert

　　We were in class when the head-master came in, followed by a "newfellow," not wearing the school uniform, and a school servantcarrying a large desk. Those who had been asleep woke up, andevery one rose as if just surprised at his work.

　　The head-master made a sign to us to sit down. Then, turning tothe 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,he will go into one of the upper classes, as becomes his age."

　　The "new fellow," standing in the corner behind the door so thathe could hardly be seen, was a country lad of about fifteen, andtaller than any of us. His hair was cut square on his foreheadlike a village chorister's; he looked reliable, but very ill atease. Although he was not broad-shouldered, his short schooljacket of green cloth with black buttons must have been tightabout the arm-holes, and showed at the opening of the cuffs redwrists accustomed to being bare. His legs, in blue stockings,looked out from beneath yellow trousers, drawn tight by braces,He wore stout, ill-cleaned, hob-nailed boots.

　　We began repeating the lesson. He listened with all his ears, asattentive as if at a sermon, not daring even to cross his legs orlean on his elbow; and when at two o'clock the bell rang, themaster was obliged to tell him to fall into line with the rest ofus.

　　When we came back to work, we were in the habit of throwing ourcaps on the ground so as to have our hands more free; we usedfrom the door to toss them under the form, so that they hitagainst the wall and made a lot of dust: it was "the thing."

　　But, whether he had not noticed the trick, or did not dare toattempt it, the "new fellow," was still holding his cap on hisknees even after prayers were over. It was one of thosehead-gears of composite order, in which we can find traces of thebearskin, shako, billycock hat, sealskin cap, and cottonnight-cap; one of those poor things, in fine, whose dumb uglinesshas depths of expression, like an imbecile's face. Oval,stiffened with whalebone, it began with three round knobs; thencame in succession lozenges of velvet and rabbit-skin separatedby a red band; after that a sort of bag that ended in a cardboardpolygon covered with complicated braiding, from which hung, atthe end of a long thin cord, small twisted gold threads in themanner of a tassel. The cap was new; its peak shone.

　　"Rise," said the master.

　　He stood up; his cap fell. The whole class began to laugh. Hestooped to pick it up. A neighbor knocked it down again with hiselbow; he picked it up once more.

　　"Get rid of your helmet," said the master, who was a bit of awag.

　　There was a burst of laughter from the boys, which so thoroughlyput the poor lad out of countenance that he did not know whetherto keep his cap in his hand, leave it on the ground, or put it onhis head. He sat down again and placed it on his knee.

　　"Rise," repeated the master, "and tell me your name."

　　The new boy articulated in a stammering voice an unintelligiblename.

　　"Again!"

　　The same sputtering of syllables was heard, drowned by thetittering of the class.

　　"Louder!" cried the master; "louder!"

　　The "new fellow" then took a supreme resolution, opened aninordinately large mouth, and shouted at the top of his voice asif calling someone in the word "Charbovari."

　　A hubbub broke out, rose in crescendo with bursts of shrillvoices (they yelled, barked, stamped, repeated "Charbovari!Charbovari"), then died away into single notes, growing quieteronly with great difficulty, and now and again suddenlyrecommencing along the line of a form whence rose here and there,like a damp cracker going off, a stifled laugh.

　　However, amid a rain of impositions, order was graduallyre-established in the class; and the master having succeeded incatching the name of "Charles Bovary," having had it dictated tohim, spelt out, and re-read, at once ordered the poor devil to goand sit down on the punishment form at the foot of the master'sdesk. He got up, but before going hesitated.

　　"What are you looking for?" asked the master.

　　"My c-a-p," timidly said the "new fellow," casting troubled looksround him.

　　"Five hundred lines for all the class!" shouted in a furiousvoice stopped, like the Quos ego*, a fresh outburst. "Silence!"continued the master indignantly, wiping his brow with hishandkerchief, which he had just 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; ithasn't been stolen."

　　*A quotation from the Aeneid signifying a threat.

　　**I am ridiculous.

　　Quiet was restored. Heads bent over desks, and the "new fellow"remained for two hours in an exemplary attitude, although fromtime to time some paper pellet flipped from the tip of a pen camebang in his face. But he wiped his face with one hand andcontinued motionless, his eyes lowered.

　　In the evening, at preparation, he pulled out his pens from hisdesk, arranged his small belongings, and carefully ruled hispaper. We saw him working conscientiously, looking up every wordin the dictionary, and taking the greatest pains. Thanks, nodoubt, to the willingness he showed, he had not to go down to theclass below. But though he knew his rules passably, he had littlefinish in composition. It was the cure of his village who hadtaught him his first Latin; his parents, from motives of economy,having sent him to school as late as possible.

　　His father, Monsieur Charles Denis Bartolome Bovary, retiredassistant-surgeon-major, compromised about 1812 in certainconscription scandals, and forced at this time to leave theservice, had taken advantage of his fine figure to get hold of adowry of sixty thousand francs that offered in the person of ahosier's daughter who had fallen in love with his good looks. Afine man, a great talker, making his spurs ring as he walked,wearing whiskers that ran into his moustache, his fingers alwaysgarnished with rings and dressed in loud colours, he had the dashof a military man with the easy go of a commercial traveller.

　　Once married, he lived for three or four years on his wife'sfortune, dining well, rising late, smoking long porcelain pipes,not coming in at night till after the theatre, and hauntingcafes. The father-in-law died, leaving little; he was indignantat this, "went in for the business," lost some money in it, thenretired to the country, where he thought he would make money.

　　But, as he knew no more about farming than calico, as he rode hishorses instead of sending them to plough, drank his cider inbottle instead of selling it in cask, ate the finest poultry inhis farmyard, and greased his hunting-boots with the fat of hispigs, he was not long in finding out that he would do better togive up all speculation.

　　For two hundred francs a year he managed to live on the border ofthe provinces of Caux and Picardy, in a kind of place half farm,half private house; and here, soured, eaten up with regrets,cursing his luck, jealous of everyone, he shut himself up at theage of forty-five, sick of men, he said, and determined to liveat peace.

　　His wife had adored him once on a time; she had bored him with athousand servilities that had only estranged him the more. Livelyonce, expansive and affectionate, in growing older she had become(after the fashion of wine that, exposed to air, turns tovinegar) ill-tempered, grumbling, irritable. She had suffered somuch without complaint at first, until she had seem him goingafter all the village drabs, and until a score of bad houses senthim back to her at night, weary, stinking drunk. Then her priderevolted. After that she was silent, burying her anger in a dumbstoicism that she maintained till her death. She was constantlygoing about looking after business matters. She called on thelawyers, the president, remembered when bills fell due, got themrenewed, and at home ironed, sewed, washed, looked after theworkmen, paid the accounts, while he, troubling himself aboutnothing, eternally besotted in sleepy sulkiness, whence he onlyroused himself to say disagreeable things to her, sat smoking bythe fire and spitting into the cinders.

　　When she had a child, it had to be sent out to nurse. When hecame home, the lad was spoilt as if he were a prince. His motherstuffed him with jam; his father let him run about barefoot, and,playing the philosopher, even said he might as well go aboutquite naked like the young of animals. As opposed to the maternalideas, he had a certain virile idea of childhood on which hesought to mould his son, wishing him to be brought up hardily,like a Spartan, to give him a strong constitution. He sent him tobed without any fire, taught him to drink off large draughts ofrum and to jeer at religious processions. But, peaceable bynature, the lad answered only poorly to his notions. His motheralways kept him near her; she cut out cardboard for him, told himtales, entertained him with endless monologues full of melancholygaiety and charming nonsense. In her life's isolation shecentered on the child's head all her shattered, broken littlevanities. She dreamed of high station; she already saw him, tall,handsome, clever, settled as an engineer or in the law. Shetaught him to read, and even, on an old piano, she had taught himtwo or three little songs. But to all this Monsieur Bovary,caring little for letters, said, "It was not worth while. Wouldthey ever have the means to send him to a public school, to buyhim a practice, or start him in business? Besides, with cheek aman always gets on in the world." Madame Bovary bit her lips, andthe child knocked about the village.

　　He went after the labourers, drove away with clods of earth theravens that were flying about. He ate blackberries along thehedges, minded the geese with a long switch, went haymakingduring harvest, ran about in the woods, played hop-scotch underthe church porch on rainy days, and at great fetes begged thebeadle to let him toll the bells, that he might hang all hisweight on the long rope and feel himself borne upward by it inits swing. Meanwhile he grew like an oak; he was strong on hand,fresh of colour.

　　When he was twelve years old his mother had her own way; he beganlessons. The cure took him in hand; but the lessons were so shortand irregular that they could not be of much use. They were givenat spare moments in the sacristy, standing up, hurriedly, betweena baptism and a burial; or else the cure, if he had not to goout, sent for his pupil after the Angelus*. They went up to hisroom and settled down; the flies and moths fluttered round thecandle. It was close, the child fell asleep, and the good man,beginning to doze with his hands on his stomach, was soon snoringwith his mouth wide open. On other occasions, when Monsieur leCure, on his way back after administering the viaticum to somesick person in the neighbourhood, caught sight of Charles playingabout the fields, he called him, lectured him for a quarter of anhour and took advantage of the occasion to make him conjugate hisverb at the foot of a tree. The rain interrupted them or anacquaintance passed. All the same he was always pleased with him,and even said the "young man" had a very good memory.

　　*A devotion said at morning, noon, and evening, at the sound of abell. Here, the evening prayer.

　　Charles could not go on like this. Madame Bovary took strongsteps. Ashamed, or rather tired out, Monsieur Bovary gave inwithout a struggle, and they waited one year longer, so that thelad should take his first communion.

　　Six months more passed, and the year after Charles was finallysent to school at Rouen, where his father took him towards theend of October, at the time of the St. Romain fair.

　　It would now be impossible for any of us to remember anythingabout him. He was a youth of even temperament, who played inplaytime, worked in school-hours, was attentive in class, sleptwell in the dormitory, and ate well in the refectory. He had inloco parentis* a wholesale ironmonger in the Rue Ganterie, whotook 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 thenbrought him back to college at seven o'clock before supper. EveryThursday evening he wrote a long letter to his mother with redink and three wafers; then he went over his history note-books,or read an old volume of "Anarchasis" that was knocking about thestudy. When he went for walks he talked to the servant, who, likehimself, came from the country.

　　*In place of a parent.

　　By dint of hard work he kept always about the middle of theclass; once even he got a certificate in natural history. But atthe end of his third year his parents withdrew him from theschool to make him study medicine, convinced that he could eventake his degree by himself.

　　His mother chose a room for him on the fourth floor of a dyer'sshe knew, overlooking the Eau-de-Robec. She made arrangements forhis board, got him furniture, table and two chairs, sent home foran old cherry-tree bedstead, and bought besides a small cast-ironstove with the supply of wood that was to warm the poor child.

　　Then at the end of a week she departed, after a thousandinjunctions to be good now that he was going to be left tohimself.

　　The syllabus that he read on the notice-board stunned him;lectures on anatomy, lectures on pathology, lectures onphysiology, lectures on pharmacy, lectures on botany and clinicalmedicine, and therapeutics, without counting hygiene and materiamedica--all names of whose etymologies he was ignorant, and thatwere to him as so many doors to sanctuaries filled withmagnificent 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, heattended all the courses, never missed a single lecture. He didhis little daily task like a mill-horse, who goes round and roundwith his eyes bandaged, not knowing what work he is doing.

　　To spare him expense his mother sent him every week by thecarrier a piece of veal baked in the oven, with which he lunchedwhen he came back from the hospital, while he sat kicking hisfeet against the wall. After this he had to run off to lectures,to the operation-room, to the hospital, and return to his home atthe other end of the town. In the evening, after the poor dinnerof his landlord, he went back to his room and set to work againin his wet clothes, which smoked as he sat in front of the hotstove.

　　On the fine summer evenings, at the time when the close streetsare empty, when the servants are playing shuttle-cock at thedoors, he opened his window and leaned out. The river, that makesof this quarter of Rouen a wretched little Venice, flowed beneathhim, between the bridges and the railings, yellow, violet, orblue. Working men, kneeling on the banks, washed their bare armsin the water. On poles projecting from the attics, skeins ofcotton were drying in the air. Opposite, beyond the roots spreadthe pure heaven with the red sun setting. How pleasant it must beat home! How fresh under the beech-tree! And he expanded hisnostrils to breathe in the sweet odours of the country which didnot reach him.

　　He grew thin, his figure became taller, his face took a saddenedlook that made it nearly interesting. Naturally, throughindifference, he abandoned all the resolutions he had made. Oncehe missed a lecture; the next day all the lectures; and, enjoyinghis idleness, little by little, he gave up work altogether. Hegot into the habit of going to the public-house, and had apassion for dominoes. To shut himself up every evening in thedirty public room, to push about on marble tables the small sheepbones with black dots, seemed to him a fine proof of his freedom,which raised him in his own esteem. It was beginning to see life,the sweetness of stolen pleasures; and when he entered, he puthis hand on the door-handle with a joy almost sensual. Then manythings hidden within him came out; he learnt couplets by heartand sang them to his boon companions, became enthusiastic aboutBeranger, learnt how to make punch, and, finally, how to makelove.

　　Thanks to these preparatory labours, he failed completely in hisexamination for an ordinary degree. He was expected home the samenight to celebrate his success. He started on foot, stopped atthe beginning of the village, sent for his mother, and told herall. She excused him, threw the blame of his failure on theinjustice of the examiners, encouraged him a little, and tookupon herself to set matters straight. It was only five yearslater that Monsieur Bovary knew the truth; it was old then, andhe accepted it. Moreover, he could not believe that a man born ofhim could be a fool.

　　So Charles set to work again and crammed for his examination,ceaselessly learning all the old questions by heart. He passedpretty well. What a happy day for his mother! They gave a granddinner.

　　Where should he go to practice? To Tostes, where there was onlyone old doctor. For a long time Madame Bovary had been on thelook-out for his death, and the old fellow had barely been packedoff when Charles was installed, opposite his place, as hissuccessor.

　　But it was not everything to have brought up a son, to have hadhim taught medicine, and discovered Tostes, where he couldpractice it; he must have a wife. She found him one--the widow ofa bailiff at Dieppe--who was forty-five and had an income oftwelve hundred francs. Though she was ugly, as dry as a bone, herface with as many pimples as the spring has buds, Madame Dubuchad no lack of suitors. To attain her ends Madame Bovary had tooust them all, and she even succeeded in very cleverly bafflingthe intrigues of a port-butcher backed up by the priests.

　　Charles had seen in marriage the advent of an easier 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 notsay that in company, to fast every Friday, dress as she liked,harass at her bidding those patients who did not pay. She openedhis letter, watched his comings and goings, and listened at thepartition-wall when women came to consult him in his surgery.

　　She must have her chocolate every morning, attentions withoutend. She constantly complained of her nerves, her chest, herliver. The noise of footsteps made her ill; when people left her,solitude became odious to her; if they came back, it wasdoubtless to see her die. When Charles returned in the evening,she stretched forth two long thin arms from beneath the sheets,put them round his neck, and having made him sit down on the edgeof the bed, began to talk to him of her troubles: he wasneglecting her, he loved another. She had been warned she wouldbe unhappy; and she ended by asking him for a dose of medicineand a little more love.