Madame Bovary

Description

Emma Bovary is beautiful and bored, trapped in her marriage to a mediocre doctor and stifled by the banality of provincial life. An ardent reader of sentimental novels, she longs for passion and seeks escape in fantasies of high romance, in voracious spending and, eventually, in adultery. But even her affairs bring her disappointment and devastating consequences. Flaubert’s erotically charged and psychologically acute portrayal of Emma Bovary caused a moral outcry on its publication in 1857. It was deemed so lifelike that many women claimed they were the model for his heroine; but Flaubert insisted: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi.” One of the greatest novels of the 19th century, Flaubert’s torrid debut lives on in Geoffrey Wall’s brilliant translation.  This edition features an introduction by Wall, and a preface on Emma Bovary’s femininity and modernity by novelist Michèle Roberts.

Part of Penguin’s beautiful hardcover Clothbound Classics series, designed by the award-winning Coralie Bickford-Smith, these delectable and collectible editions are bound in high-quality, tactile cloth with foil stamped into the design."Madame Bovary is like the railroad stations erected in its epoch: graceful, even floral, but cast of iron." — John UpdikeGustave Flaubert was born in Rouen in 1821. After illness interrupted a career in law, he retired to live with his widowed mother and devote himself to writing. His greatest works include Madame Bovary (1857), Sentimental Education (1857) and Bouvard et Pécuchet (1881). He achieved limited success in his own lifetime, but his fame and reputation grew steadily after his death in 1880. Geoffrey Wall is a literary biographer, translator and travel writer. His biography of Flaubert, published in 2001, was shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize and for the James Tait Black Memorial Prize. His translations of Flaubert for Penguin include Madame Bovary, Selected Letters, The Dictionary of Received Ideas, Sentimental Education and Three Tales. Michèle Roberts is the half-English half-French writer of ten highly praised novels.Chapter OneThe uncouth schoolboy; The Bovary household; A mother’s ambitions; Studies with the cure; Training for medicine; Student life in Rouen; Failure and success; A practice in Normandy; The bailiff’s widow; The first Madame Bovary.

We were in the prep-room when the Head came in, followed by a new boy in mufti and a beadle carrying a big desk. The sleepers aroused themselves, and we all stood up, putting on a startled look, as if we had been buried in our work.

The Head motioned to us to sit down.

‘Monsieur Roger,’ said he in a quiet tone to the prep master, I’ve brought you a new boy. He’s going into the second. If his conduct and progress are satisfactory, he will be put up with the boys of his own age. ‘

The new boy had kept in the background, in the corner behind the door, almost out of sight. He was a country lad of about fifteen, and taller than any of us. His hair was clipped straight across the forehead, like a village choirboy’s. He seemed a decent enough fellow, but horribly nervous. Although he was not broad across the shoulders, his green cloth jacket, with its black buttons, looked as if it pinched him under the arms and revealed, protruding well beyond the cuffs, a pair of raw, bony wrists, obviously not unaccustomed to exposure. His legs, encased in blue stockings, issued from a pair of drab-coloured breeches, very tightly braced. He had on a pair of thick, clumsy shoes, not particularly well cleaned and plentifully fortified with nails.

The master began to hear the boys at their work. The newcomer listened with all his ears, drinking it in as attentively as if he had been in church, not daring to cross his legs or to lean his elbows on the desk, and when two o’clock came and the bell rang for dismissal, the master had to call him back to earth and tell him to line up with the rest of us.

It was our custom, when we came in to class, to throw our caps on the floor, in order to have our hands free. As soon as ever we got inside the door, we ‘buzzed’ them under the form, against the wall, so as to kick up plenty of dust. That was supposed to be ‘the thing.’ Whether he failed to notice this manoeuvre or whether he was too shy to join in it, it is impossible to say, but when prayers were over he was still nursing his cap. That cap belonged to the composite order of headgear, and in it the heterogeneous characteristics of the busby, the Polish shapska, the bowler, the otterskin toque and the cotton nightcap were simultaneously represented. It was, in short, one of those pathetic objects whose mute unloveliness conveys the infinitely wistful expression we may sometimes note on the face of an idiot. Ovoid in form and stiffened with whalebone, it began with a sort of triple line of sausage-shaped rolls running all round its circumference; next, separated by a red band, came alternate patches of velvet and rabbit-skin; then a kind of bag or sack which culminated in a stiffened polygon elaborately embroidered, whence, at the end of a long, thin cord, hung a ball made out of gold wire, by way of a tassel. The cap was brand-new, and the peak of it all shiny.

‘Stand up,’ said the master.

He stood up, and down went his cap. The whole class began to laugh.

He bent down to recover it. One of the boys next to him jogged him with his elbow and knocked it down again. Again he stooped to pick it up.

‘You may discard your helmet,’ said the master, who had a pretty wit.

A shout of laughter from the rest of the class quite put the poor fellow out of countenance, and so flustered was he that he didn’t know whether to keep it in his hand, put it on the floor or stick it on his head. He sat down and deposited it on his knees.

‘Stand up,’ said the master again, ‘and tell me your name.’

In mumbling tones the new boy stammered out something quite unintelligible.

‘Again!’

Again came the inarticulate mumble, drowned by the shouts of the class.

‘Louder!’ rapped out the master sharply. ‘Speak up!’

Whereupon the boy, in desperation, opened his jaws as wide as they would go and, with the full force of his lungs, as though he were hailing somebody at a distance, fired off the word ‘Charbovari.’

In an instant the class was in an uproar. The din grew louder and louder, a ceaseless crescendo crested with piercing yells–they shrieked, they howled, they stamped their feet, bellowing at the top of their voices: ‘Charbovari! Charbovari!’ Then, after a while, the storm began to subside. There would be sporadic outbreaks from time to time, smothered by a terrific effort, or perhaps a titter would fizz along a whole row, or a stifled explosion sputter out here and there, like a half-extinguished fuse.

However, beneath a hail of ‘impositions,’ order was gradually restored. The master–who had had it dictated, spelled out and read over to him–had at length succeeded in getting hold of the name of Charles Bovary, and forthwith he ordered the hapless wretch to go and sit on the dunce’s stool, immediately below the seat of authority. He started to obey, stopped short and stood hesitating.

‘What are you looking for?’ said the master.

‘My ca–‘ began the new boy timidly, casting an anxious glance around him.

An angry shout of ‘Five hundred lines for the whole class’ checked, like the Quos ego, a fresh outburst. ‘Stop your noise, then, will you?’ continued the master indignantly, mopping his brow with a handkerchief which he had produced from the interior of his cap.

 GB

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