I hated Madame Bovary so much when I read the gist many years ago, because Monsieur Bovary loves her so much but she treats him in such a rude way in return, in spite of the fact that she used to study in the convent. Each one in the marriage should fulfil the vows they swore at the wedding ceremony. One madame should be staunch to her husband, no matter how boring it is to be with him. Anyway he is the one you chose when you want to get married. That was the opinions I had at that time.
But after reading the novel, I think Madame Bovary has her own embarrassments which are hard to mention, too. Monsieur Bovary only loves her beautiful and distinguished appearance. No one in this family cares about what she thinks. No one asks about her feelings. No one wants to listen to her aspirations. What a lonely lady! The most important thing is that the life after marriage does not answer to her dream. The only feeling she has is disappointing. It is hard for a lady to bear.
Every girl has her own dream, her own ideal marriage life. Lets look at Madame Bovarys dream. When she was in the convent, she read some novels. They were all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, somber forests, heartaches , vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shaky groves, gentlemen brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping like fountains. She thought sometimes that, after all, this was the happiest time of her life-the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post-chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep roads, listening to the song of the postilion reechoed by the mountains, 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; then in 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 must bring forth happiness, as a plant peculiar to the soil that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills?
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