“Emma!”
“Sir,” she said, drawing back a little.
“Ah! You see,” replied he in a melancholy voice, “that I was right not to come back; for this name, this name that fills my whole soul, and that escaped me, you forbid me to use! Madame Bovary! why, all the world calls you thus! Besides, it is not your name; it is the name of another!” He repeated, “of another!” And he hid his face in his hands.
Ah, pity the poor bourgeoisie: Those unfortunate souls who come from some reasonable degree of comfort – neither lounging aristocracy, nor striving bootstrappers they – and who, by adulthood, are blinded to their comfortable circumstances; either not recognising what they have, or worse, not realising how easily it can be all be lost. In Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert lays bare this bourgeois folly, and with endlessly quotable prose, realistic and amusing depictions of nineteenth century French country life, and a cast of characters one loves to hate (before recognising their fragile humanity and growing to accept them), it's no wonder that this book has been celebrated for all of its 170 years of existence (except, I guess, for that immediate obscenity charge brought against Flaubert, which he beat). This is another classic that I read as a teenager without really understanding its social commentary (or remembering the finer details of the plot), so I am delighted to have enjoyed it so much as a reread.
The lessons that Flaubert provides with this story are relatable even today: Emma Bovary – raised on a prosperous farm and given a good convent education – has never had to work hard for anything, but having read so many romantic novels, and having subscribed to fashionable Parisian women's magazines, she is easily able to convince herself that what she has as a married woman just isn't enough: not enough passion in her marriage; not enough luxuries in her surroundings; not enough life in her easy days. Meanwhile, her husband, Charles, hasn't worked all that hard either: sent mostly unprepared to school as a gangly teenager, he followed his mother's instructions to pursue a medical career, and although he failed certifying as a full-fledged doctor, he is able to eventually take over a rural medical practise and somehow win the cloistered Emma's hand. Thinking that he has at that point achieved all that he desired, Charles spends the rest of the novel bumbling around at medicine without really advancing his career, refusing to constrain his wife's spending despite warnings from others, and not having enough curiosity about his wife's feelings to wonder if she's actually happy. Anyone who thinks that soul-crushing “affluenza”, running up the credit cards for shopping therapy, or bed-hopping in search of self-worth was invented by some modern generation ought to meet Emma Bovary. (Just imagine how much worse off Emma would have been had she access to the internet and all the lies it spews about what a happy life looks like.)
By comparison, the other characters in Madame Bovary are either very rich (like the mysterious Viscount, the merchant Lheureux, or the philandering Rodolphe Boulanger) and they can do as they please, or they are from a striving underclass and their work gives them satisfaction and social stability: Léon Dupuis goes from shy admirer to confident seducer as his career advances; Emma's fall can be mocked by wetnurses and housekeepers; the snake-oil-selling pharmacist Homais – through constant striving, acting above his station, and hobnobbing – ends the novel with the most success and happiness of anyone. I especially liked the scene, late in the book, where Homais' wife of many long years is turned on by a ridiculous necklace that he is wearing under his shirt; this is everything that poor Charles could have hoped for from life – but he simply never worked for it. Ah, pity the poor bourgeoisie. I'll end there and leave the rest to Flaubert:
• Human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to move the stars.
• Every morning when she awoke she hoped that today would be the day; she listened for every sound, gave sudden starts, was surprised when nothing happened; and then, sadder with each succeeding sunset, she longed for tomorrow.
• The next day was a dreary one for Emma. Everything seemed to her enveloped in a black atmosphere floating confusedly over the exterior of things, and sorrow was engulfed within her soul with soft shrieks such as the winter wind makes in ruined castles. It was that reverie which we give to things that will not return, the lassitude that seizes you after everything was done; that pain, in fine, that the interruption of every wonted movement, the sudden cessation of any prolonged vibration, brings on.
• Nothing was worth the trouble of seeking it; everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of boredom, every joy a curse, all pleasure satiety, and the sweetest kisses left upon your lips only the unattainable desire for a greater delight.
• She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.
• For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat.
• The denigration of those we love always detaches us from them in some degree. Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers
• Of all the icy blasts that blow on love, a request for money is the most chilling.
• A man, at least, is free; he can explore every passion, every land, overcome obstacles, taste the most distant pleasures. But a woman is continually thwarted. Inert and pliant at the same time, she must struggle against both the softness of her flesh and subjection to the law. Her will, like the veil tied to her hat by a string, flutters with every breeze; there is always some desire luring her on, some convention holding her back.
