The Greatest Works of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave Flaubert

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СКАЧАТЬ April, when the primroses are in bloom, and a warm wind blows over the flower-beds newly turned, and the gardens, like women, seem to be getting ready for the summer fetes. Through the bars of the arbour and away beyond, the river seen in the fields, meandering through the grass in wandering curves. The evening vapours rose between the leafless poplars, touching their outlines with a violet tint, paler and more transparent than a subtle gauze caught athwart their branches. In the distance cattle moved about; neither their steps nor their lowing could be heard; and the bell, still ringing through the air, kept up its peaceful lamentation.

      With this repeated tinkling the thoughts of the young woman lost themselves in old memories of her youth and school-days. She remembered the great candlesticks that rose above the vases full of flowers on the altar, and the tabernacle with its small columns. She would have liked to be once more lost in the long line of white veils, marked off here and there by the stuff black hoods of the good sisters bending over their prie-Dieu. At mass on Sundays, when she looked up, she saw the gentle face of the Virgin amid the blue smoke of the rising incense. Then she was moved; she felt herself weak and quite deserted, like the down of a bird whirled by the tempest, and it was unconsciously that she went towards the church, included to no matter what devotions, so that her soul was absorbed and all existence lost in it.

      On the Place she met Lestivoudois on his way back, for, in order not to shorten his day’s labour, he preferred interrupting his work, then beginning it again, so that he rang the Angelus to suit his own convenience. Besides, the ringing over a little earlier warned the lads of catechism hour.

      Already a few who had arrived were playing marbles on the stones of the cemetery. Others, astride the wall, swung their legs, kicking with their clogs the large nettles growing between the little enclosure and the newest graves. This was the only green spot. All the rest was but stones, always covered with a fine powder, despite the vestry-broom.

      The children in list shoes ran about there as if it were an enclosure made for them. The shouts of their voices could be heard through the humming of the bell. This grew less and less with the swinging of the great rope that, hanging from the top of the belfry, dragged its end on the ground. Swallows flitted to and fro uttering little cries, cut the air with the edge of their wings, and swiftly returned to their yellow nests under the tiles of the coping. At the end of the church a lamp was burning, the wick of a night-light in a glass hung up. Its light from a distance looked like a white stain trembling in the oil. A long ray of the sun fell across the nave and seemed to darken the lower sides and the corners.

      “Where is the cure?” asked Madame Bovary of one of the lads, who was amusing himself by shaking a swivel in a hole too large for it.

      “He is just coming,” he answered.

      And in fact the door of the presbytery grated; Abbe Bournisien appeared; the children, pellmell, fled into the church.

      “These young scamps!” murmured the priest, “always the same!”

      Then, picking up a catechism all in rags that he had struck with is foot, “They respect nothing!” But as soon as he caught sight of Madame Bovary, “Excuse me,” he said; “I did not recognise you.”

      He thrust the catechism into his pocket, and stopped short, balancing the heavy vestry key between his two fingers.

      The light of the setting sun that fell full upon his face paled the lasting of his cassock, shiny at the elbows, unravelled at the hem. Grease and tobacco stains followed along his broad chest the lines of the buttons, and grew more numerous the farther they were from his neckcloth, in which the massive folds of his red chin rested; this was dotted with yellow spots, that disappeared beneath the coarse hair of his greyish beard. He had just dined and was breathing noisily.

      “How are you?” he added.

      “Not well,” replied Emma; “I am ill.”

      “Well, and so am I,” answered the priest. “These first warm days weaken one most remarkably, don’t they? But, after all, we are born to suffer, as St. Paul says. But what does Monsieur Bovary think of it?”

      “He!” she said with a gesture of contempt.

      “What!” replied the good fellow, quite astonished, “doesn’t he prescribe something for you?”

      “Ah!” said Emma, “it is no earthly remedy I need.”

      But the cure from time to time looked into the church, where the kneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling over like packs of cards.

      “I should like to know — ” she went on.

      “You look out, Riboudet,” cried the priest in an angry voice; “I’ll warm your ears, you imp!” Then turning to Emma, “He’s Boudet the carpenter’s son; his parents are well off, and let him do just as he pleases. Yet he could learn quickly if he would, for he is very sharp. And so sometimes for a joke I call him Riboudet (like the road one takes to go to Maromme) and I even say ‘Mon Riboudet.’ Ha! Ha! ‘Mont Riboudet.’ The other day I repeated that just to Monsignor, and he laughed at it; he condescended to laugh at it. And how is Monsieur Bovary?”

      She seemed not to hear him. And he went on —

      “Always very busy, no doubt; for he and I are certainly the busiest people in the parish. But he is doctor of the body,” he added with a thick laugh, “and I of the soul.”

      She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. “Yes,” she said, “you solace all sorrows.”

      “Ah! don’t talk to me of it, Madame Bovary. This morning I had to go to Bas-Diauville for a cow that was ill; they thought it was under a spell. All their cows, I don’t know how it is — But pardon me! Longuemarre and Boudet! Bless me! Will you leave off?”

      And with a bound he ran into the church.

      The boys were just then clustering round the large desk, climbing over the precentor’s footstool, opening the missal; and others on tiptoe were just about to venture into the confessional. But the priest suddenly distributed a shower of cuffs among them. Seizing them by the collars of their coats, he lifted them from the ground, and deposited them on their knees on the stones of the choir, firmly, as if he meant planting them there.

      “Yes,” said he, when he returned to Emma, unfolding his large cotton handkerchief, one corner of which he put between his teeth, “farmers are much to be pitied.”

      “Others, too,” she replied.

      “Assuredly. Town-labourers, for example.”

      “It is not they — ”

      “Pardon! I’ve there known poor mothers of families, virtuous women, I assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread.”

      “But those,” replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she spoke, “those, Monsieur le Cure, who have bread and have no — ”

      “Fire in the winter,” said the priest.

      “Oh, what does that matter?”

      “What! What does it matter? It seems to me that when one has firing and food — for, after all — ”

      “My God! my God!” she sighed.

      “It is indigestion, no doubt? You must get home, Madame Bovary; drink a СКАЧАТЬ