Chapter 7
She thought， sometimes， that， after all， thiswas the happiest time of her life-the honeymoon， as people called it. To tastethe full sweetness of it， it would have been necessary doubtlesg to fly tothose lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full oflaziness most suave. In post-chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowlyup steep roads， listening to the song of the postilion reechoed by themountains， along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall；at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees； thenin the evening on the villa-terraces above， hand in hand to look at the stars，making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth mustbring happiness， as a plant peculiar to the soil， and that cannot thriveelsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets， or enshrineher melancholy in a Scotch cottage， with a husband dressed in a black velvetcoat with long tails， and thin shoes， a pointed hat and frills？
Perhaps she would have liked to confide allthese things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness， variable asthe clouds， unstable as the winds？ Words failed her-the opportunity， thecourage.
If Charles had but wished it， if he hadguessed it， if his look had but once met her thought， it seemed to her that asudden plenty would have gone out from her heart， as the fruit falls from atree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper，the greater became the gulf that separated her from him.
Charles'sconversation was commonplace as a street pavement， and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb， without excitingemotion， laughter， or thought. He had never had the curiosity， he said， whilehe lived at Rouen， to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He couldneither swim， nor fence， nor shoot， and one day he could not explain some termof horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel.
A man， on the contrary， should he not knoweverything， excel in manifold activities， initiate you into the energies ofpassion， the refinements of life， all mysteries？ But this one taught nothing，knew nothing， wished nothing. He thought her happy； and she resented this easycalm， this serene heaviness， the very happiness she gave him.
Sometimes she would draw； and it was greatamusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over hercardboard， with eyes half-closed the better to see her work， or rolling，between her fingers， little bread-pellets. As to the piano， the more quicklyher fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes withaplomb， and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shakenup， the old instrument， whose strings buzzed， could be heard at the other endof the village when the window was open， and often the bailiff's clerk， passing along the highroad bare-headed and in listslippers， stopped to listen， his sheet of paper in his hand.
Emma， on the other hand， knew how to lookafter her house. She sent the patients' accounts inwell-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had aneighbour to dinner on Sundays， she managed to have some tasty dish-piled uppyramids of greengages on vine leaves， served up preserves turned out intoplates-and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this muchconsideration was extended to Bovary.
Charles finished by rising in his own esteemfor possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two smallpencil sketched by her that he had had framed in very large frames， and hung upagainst the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw himat his door in his wool-work slippers.
He came home late-at ten o'clock， at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat，and as the servant had gone to bed， Emma waited on him. He took off his coat todine more at his ease. He told her， one after the other， the people he had met，the villages where he had been， the preions ha had written， and， wellpleased with himself， he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions，picked pieces off the cheese， munched an apple， emptied his water-bottle， andthen went to bed， and lay on his back and snored.
As he had been for a time accustomed to wearnightcaps， his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears， so that his hairin the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with thefeathers of the pillow， whose strings came untied during the night. He alwayswore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquelytowards the ankle， while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line asif stretched on a wooden foot. He said that “was quitegood enough for the country.”
His mother approved of his economy， for shecame to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place；and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. Shethought “her ways too fine for their position”； the wood， the sugar， and the candles disappeared as “at a grand establishment，” and the amount offiring in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She puther linen in order for her in the presses， and taught her to keep an eye on thebutcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovarywas lavish of them； and the words “daughter” and “mother” wereexchanged all day long， accompanied by little quiverings of the lips， each oneuttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger.
In Madame Dubuc'stime the old woman felt that she was still the favorite； but now the love ofCharles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness， an encroachmentupon what was hers， and she watched her son's happinessin sad silence， as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining inhis old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and hersacrifices， and， comparing these with Emma'snegligence， came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her soexclusively.
Charles knew not what to answer： he respectedhis mother， and he loved his wife infinitely； he considered the judgment of theone infallible， and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable.When Madam Bovary had gone， he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazardone or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emmaproved to him with a word that he was mistaken， and sent him off to hispatients.
And yet， in accord with theories she believedright， she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the gardenshe recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart， and， sighing， sang tohim many melancholy adagios； but she found herself as calm after as before， andCharles seemed no more amorous and no more moved.
When she had thus for a while struck theflint on her heart without getting a spark， incapable， moreover， ofunderstanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did notpresent itself in conventional forms， she persuaded herself without difficultythat Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. Hisoutbursts became regular； he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was onehabit among other habits， and， like a dessert， looked forward to after themonotony of dinner.
A gamekeeper， curédby the doctor of inflammation of the lungs， had given madame a little Italiangreyhound； she took her out walking， for she went out sometimes in order to bealone for a moment， and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and thedusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville， near the desertedpavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidstthe vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you.
She began by looking round her to see ifnothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the sameplaces the foxgloves and wallflowers， the beds of nettles growing round the bigstones， and the patches of lichen along the three windows， whose shutters，always closed， were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts，aimless at first， wandered at random， like her greyhound， who ran round andround in the fields， yelping after the yellow butterflies， chasing theshrew-mice， or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then graduallyher ideas took definite shape， and， sitting on the grass that she dug up withlittle prods of her sunshade， Emma repeated to herself， “Good heavens！ Why did I marry？” She askedherself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible tomeet another man； and she tried to imagine what would have been theseunrealised events， this different life， this unknown husband. All， surely，could not be like this one. He might have been handsome， witty， distinguished，attractive， such as， no doubt， her old companions of the convent had married.What were they doing now？ In town， with the noise of the streets， the buzz ofthe theatres and the lights of the ballroom， they were living lives where theheart expands， the senses bourgeon out. But she-her life was cold as a garretwhose dormer window looks on the north， and ennui， the silent spider， wasweaving its web in the darkness in every comer of her heart. She recalled theprize days， when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns， withher hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had apretty way， and when she went back to her seat， the gentlemen bent over her tocongratulate her； the courtyard was full of carriages； farewells were called toher through their windows； the music master with his violin case bowed inpassing by. How far all of this！ How far away！