Please see my revision below.  I found it difficult due to I was trying to not alter the actual story. I’m looking forward to your comments. 

EMMA:

The fervor for music always seizes me at the beginning of winter. 

The other evening, Charles didn’t notice that I had started the same piece four times, nor my increasing vexation at my mistakes.

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!” he cried aloud.

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.” I replied.  

The next day he begged me to play something again, I told him that I was playing just to please him, that is when he confessed that he had noticed my mistakes the night before.

I played wrong notes blundering them on purpose. I stopped, telling him as I bit my lips that it was useless, that I needed lessons but twenty-francs was a high expense. 

He agreed that they were too expensive. He added that someone would teach for less, such as artists of no reputation, which often are better than celebrities.

I told him to find them, then.

The next day when he came home, by the way he was acting, I knew that the was trying to keep something from me. He couldn’t hold it any longer and told me that due to me being so obstinate, he went to Barfucheres and talked to Madame Liegard.  Her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde taking lessons at fifty sous apiece from an excellent mistress.

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open her piano again. When he was around, I would sighed as I passed the piano –

“Ah! my poor piano!” I would say aloud.

I would tell anyone who came to visit that I had given up music and couldn’t begin again because of important reasons. I knew that they sympathize with me due to my sacrifice of giving up music.

“What a pity! she had so much talent!” I would hear them say.

Some talked to Bovary, shaming him, especially the chemist.

The chemist told him that he was wrong. That one should never let any of the faculties o nature lie fallow. He added that by inducing me to study, he would be economising on the subsequent musical education of our children. That he believed in mothers instructing their children and vaccinating them was the same. This was a new idea of Rousseau, but that it would catch on.

One time when Charles talked to me about the piano, I suggested that we should sell it with the outmost bitterness in my voice. I knew that I gotten through to him when he told me:

“If you liked, a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

I took a chance and told him that lessons are useless unless they are followed up. He finally granted me permission to go into town and take lessons. By the end of the month I had made made considerable progress.

Charles

I have notice that at the beginning of winter, a great musical fervour seems to seize Emma.

One evening when she was playing, I caught errors she made, but remain quiet seeing that she was becoming increasingly vexed, therefore I ignored them and cried aloud:

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty,” she replied.

The next day I begged her to play something again.

“Very well; to please you!” she told me.

I confessed that I had noticed about her going off a little. She played wrong notes and blundering them, then stopped –

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!” She said.

I giggled and told her that yes, twenty francs sounded expensive but that it would be possible to find someone to do it for less; adding that there are artists of no reputation who often are better than celebrities.

Emma’s response was to find them.

The next day when I came home, I tried to keep it from her but I couldn’t keep silent any longer and told her that I visited Barfucheres.

I continued to tell her that Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, from an excellent mistress.

She responded by shrugging her shoulders and not opening the piano again, sighing every time she would pass by it, exclaiming “ “Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. The people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!” they would say.

Some spoke to me about, putting me to shame especially the chemist who proceeded to tell me that I was wrong. That one should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. He added that by inducing her to study; I would be economizing in the future musical education of our children. He told me that he believed that mothers ought to instruct their children. That was Rousseau’s idea which had not caught yet, but it would. He compared mothers teaching their children as important as vaccination.

I brought up the idea of piano lessons to Emma. She replied with a bitter tone that it would be better to sell it since one lesson wouldn’t improve the situation. 

I told her that we wouldn’t be ruined if she would take lessons from time to time. But she wasn’t satisfied, therefore I agreed for her to go into town once a week to take lessons.

I have noticed Emma’s improvement after only one month. 

1.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I seized the moment with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began to play the piece over four times, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticiting the difference, cried-

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is exercrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play something for him again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And Charles confessed to me that I’d gone off. I played all the wrong notes and blundered; then, stopped short-

“Ah! It’s no use. I ought to take some lessons; but-” I bit my lip and added, “Twenty frances a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is-rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I demanded.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open the piano again. But when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), I sighed-

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them that Id given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated me-

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child. For your own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is in idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned one more to this question of the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell. This poor piano had given me so much satisfaction-to see it go was to Bovary like the indefinable suicide of myself.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied briskly, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus I was set on obtaining my own husband’s permission to visit my lover in town once a week. At the end of the month, I was even considered to have considerable progress.

2.

It was about this time, the beginning of winter, Emma had seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I was listening to her, she played the same piece four times, each with much vexation, while I, not noticing any difference, cried-

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play something for me again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And I confessed to her she’d gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopped short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“But,” I said, “It seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” Emma demanded.

The next day when I returned home I looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three youngladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returened to this question of the piano once more. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. That piano had given her much vainity and satisifaction.

“But if you liked,” I told her, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus she was set on obtaining permission from me to go to town once a week for piano lessons. At the end of the month, I considered that she had made notiable progess.

Charles POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that Emma seemed seized with great musical fervor.

One evening I read and she suddenly stopped playing. I said: “Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

She refused, stating vexatiously that her playing was execrable and her fingers quite rusty.

The next day I begged her to play something for me again. She agreed to do so only, she said, to please me.

I had to confess that she had done off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short she said she ought to take lessons. Twenty francs a lesson, she said, and admitted that’s too dear.

That caught me by surprise, and I admit to giggling a bit stupidly and agreeing that it was – rather.

“But,” I said, “it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” she demanded.

How obstinate my wife is sometimes! I told her so the next day before revealing I had gone to Barfucheres and Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress.

She shrugged her shoulders, obviously not impressed, and continued to avoid her piano. She would pass it by and sigh – “Ah! My poor piano!”

Whenever there were visitors, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again for important reasons. Then people commiserated with him and even spoke with me directly about it. They put me to shame, especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied that it would be better to sell it. Could her vanity be so connected to a piano? I was further shamed, and capitulated.

“If you liked,” I told her, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was that Emma began to go to town once a week for piano lessons. At the end of a month I considered her to have made considerable progress.

Emma POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I embarked on my campaign to convince Charles of my great musical fervor.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times, each time with much vexation, while he, apparently not noticing any difference, cried-

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty,” I protested, determined he should hear my deficiencies.

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!” I demurred.

And Charles confessed I had gone off a little. Even he could hear the wrong notes I played and blundered.

I stopped short, “Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but-“ I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is-rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I exclaimed.

The next day he looked at me-dare I say it?- shyly, and at last, as if losing a fight to hold back the words, spoke.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress.”

What to do! Excellent mistress, indeed!

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open the piano again. But I was not defeated. Whenever Charles was close, I made it my habit to walk past and sigh, “Ah! My poor piano!”

Whenever visitors came, I made it a point to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again for important reasons. I can still hear their commiserations –

“What a pity! She had so much talent!”

I was on the verge of giving up my quest when Charles returned once more to the question of the piano.

“It would be better to sell it!” I complained bitterly, knowing I was taking a risk. This piano had given me so much, so satisfied my vanity, to see it go was like killing part of myself.

Charles said he had spoken of my talent to others and had been put to shame, especially by the chemist, who he quoted in laborious detail and finally said what I had been waiting to hear – that a lesson from time to time wouldn’t be very ruinous.

With joy in my heart but humility on my face, I responded: “But lessons are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I was even considered to have made considerable progress.

Charles:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that my wife  seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening I sat and listened as she  play the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation. I, not  noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play again.

“Very well; to please you!”

 I confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said and giggled. “But it seems  one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

The next day  I came home and  looked at her shyly. “How obstinate you are sometimes!” I  could no longer keep back the words. “I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me  her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and  from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when I was in the room. she’d pass by it, and sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons.

Then people commiserated her–“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They spoke to me, Bovary, about it. The chemist  especially put me to shame.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it.

“No, no,” I protested, “this poor piano has given your vanity so much satisfaction.” To see it go, I thought, would seem  like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

“If you like,” I said, “a lesson from time to time wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus, she obtained my permission to go to town weekly. Alas, sadly, I know now she went to see her lover.

At the end of the first month, my wife had  made considerable progress.

Emma:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I was  seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening , I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.” I lowered my lids.

The next day Charles again begged me to play .

“Very well; to please you!”

 Charles confessed I had gone off a little, played wrong notes and blundered; then, he stopped short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take  lessons; but–” I bit my lip. “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said that stupid man, giggling. “One might be able to do it for less; there are artists of no reputation who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said .

The next day  Charles came home and looked at me shyly. He  could not keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I saw  Madame Liegard. She  assured me her three young ladies  receive lessons at fifty sous apiece. From an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open my piano again. But when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), I  sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I  did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again  for important reasons. People commiserated with me–

“What a pity! So much talent!”

They  spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame–especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is  rather new idea  of Rousseau’s, but that will end by triumphing–I am certain of it–like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned  to this question of the piano.

I replied bitterly. “It would  be better to sell it.”

“Sell this poor piano? It has given your vanity  much satisfaction.” My husband’s expression was pained.”To see it go would be like  an indefinable suicide of a part of you.”

At last, he said, “A lesson from time to time wouldn’t be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus I obtained my husband’s permission to go to town once a week and  see my lover. By month’s end,  I was told I had  made considerable progress.

Timeline: a few days.  Conflict: Charles is not thrilled with Emma’s desire for piano lessons and is unaware she wants to be with her lover.  Style: mainly dialogue.

Charles:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that my wife seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening I was listening to Emma. She began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while I, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable!” She lowered my lashes. “My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play again for me.

“Very well; to please you!”

I confess she had gone off a little. Played wrong notes and blundered.

Stopping short, she said, “Ah! Charles, it is no use. I ought to take lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said, giggling to hide my discomfiture. “But one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” Emma said.

The next day I came home and looked at Emma shyly. At last I could no longer keep the words back.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

Emma shrugged her shoulders and did not open the piano again. If I was in the room, however, she passed the instrument and sighed — “Ah! my poor piano!”

When anyone came to see her, she never failed to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. People commiserated with my wife-

“What a pity! you had so much talent!”

They even spoke to me about it. They put me to shame–especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So, I returned once more to this question of the piano.

Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it.

“Sell this poor piano that had given your vanity so much satisfaction?” I felt it would be like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself. “If you like,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” Emma replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

Thus, my wife cunningly obtained my permission to go to town once a week to surreptitiously see her lover.

At the end of a month I considered she had made considerable progress.

Emma:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I was seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable!” I lowered my lashes. “My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day my husband begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

Charles confessed I had gone off a little. Played wrong notes and blundered.

Then, stopping short, I said, “Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lip and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day Charles came home and looked at me shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open the piano again. But, if Charles was in the room when I passed by the instrument, I sighed-

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated with me–

“What a pity! you had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Charles about it. They put my husband to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. I think mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So, Charles returned once more to this question of the piano.

I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it.

“This poor piano that had given your vanity so much satisfaction. To see it go would be like the indefinable suicide of a part of you,” Charles said. “If you like, a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I obtained my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover.

At the end of a month Charles even considered I had made considerable progress.

Emma:

It was the beginning of winter that I became annoyed with his regular efforts to engage me.  I tried playing the piano to tune out his presence, but he pinned himself to my side.

One evening I played the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, yet he cried–

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

His flattery was nerve racking if not pathetic.  I mustered a response –  “Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”   That worked and he leaned away.

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

 “Very well; to please you!” I said through my gritted teeth.

I banged my fingers against the ivory then stopped short and hung my head.  “Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but– twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” he responded with a laugh. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I replied.

The next day when he came home he hesitated.  I thought it was back to the drawing board.  My fingers were too numb to play any harder.

Finally he came out with it.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged off his suggestion, although it was the perfect plan. I made a point to pause by the piano when he was looking – “Ah! my poor piano!”

When anyone came to see me, I solicited pity which drew the attention I was anticipating–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They spoke to him about it. They put him to shame.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So he returned to this question of the piano.  I begged him to sell it.  He took a deep breath then said “If you’d like a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons, are only of use when followed up.”   I said with my eyes down.

And thus it was set – he sent me to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I demonstrated what a great investment he had made by playing him a masterful piece.

Charles:

It was about this time, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I stood listening, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation.  One note, one chord, another chord, it all sounded like the same noise she always played.  I dared not sit for I would have slept.  I responded with good timing –

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day, I asked her to play.  I preceded the session with gulps of liquor.

“Very well; to please you!” she said.

One chord and I was already dozing where I stood.  Just when I thought she was playing a piece, she wasn’t.  My eyes popped open.   She sat staring with her hands clawed above the keys.  Just as I was to suggest another form of relaxation she came out with –

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but – twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said and giggled at her suggestion.  “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” she said.

The next day I had hoped she had forgotten about it.  She hadn’t.  How obstinate she could be.  So I told her about the cheapest lessons I could find.

 “Ah! my poor piano!” was her reply.

She broadcasted her plight.  Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They broached the subject with me and spoiled the taste of my glass of brandy.  I tightened my lips and listened –

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

I put down my glass, hugged her and stated the piano was a symbol of our love.

Her reply was to sell it.  This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

I gave her permission to go to town once a week to have the lessons.  I was amazed at the transformation.  I had never seen her fingers flow so smoothly and her body sway so gracefully,  and the sound – made me sink into my chair –  and she did it all with a glowing smile.

Emma

One evening when Charles was listening to me play, I began the same piece four times, each time with much vexation, not noticing any difference, he cried–

“Bravo! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“ My fingers are quite rusty.” I said modestly.

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!” I said, not wanting to.

And Charles confessed that I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit My lips, and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!” I exclaimed, knowing the expense.

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said, thinking of it as an impossible task.

The next day when charles came home he looked at me shyly, and at last he could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes, Emma! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open the piano again. I looked at it and sighed, miserably.

“Ah! my poor piano!” I said pitifully.

I had made a decision, and did not fail to inform any of my visitors that I had given music up.. My guests commiserated with me–

“What a pity! you had so much talent!” They would say.

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child..”

So Charles returned to me once more with the question of the piano. I replied replied bitterly, and feeling rather sorry for myself that it would be better to sell it. The poor piano that had given my vanity so much satisfaction–to give it up,  Bovary thought was like the indefinable suicide of a part of myself.

“If you liked,” he said to me, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,”  I commented, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was, I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I was said to have been making considerable progress.

Charles

One evening when I was listening to Emma play a piece, I hadn’t realized that she began the same piece four times, each time with much vexation, in my ignorance I cried–

“Bravo! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“ My fingers are quite rusty.” She said to me.

The next day I  begged her to play me  something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And I confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered;

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips in frustration and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said  giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.” I offered a solution.

“Find them!” said Emma exasperated.

The next day when I came home I looked at her, and at last I could no longer keep back my words, I told her, .

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!” I had found her a teacher. or so I thought.

Emma shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people who visited her commiserated with her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!” and I agreed.

They even spoke to me about it. They put me  to shame, and scolded me.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.” The said to me.

So I tried again to address this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go was like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

“If you liked,” I said, carefully “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

She would  go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a month she was even considered to have made considerable progress

Emma’s POV:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I seemed seized with great musical fervor.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation.

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on,” He cried.

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you,” I said.

Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

I bit my lips and then said, “Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” he said to me after giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and said, “How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericord have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open my piano again. But when I passed by it, I thought of Bovary and sighed–

“Ah! My poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. One person said to me, “What a pity! You had so much talent!”

Some even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing Madame to study; you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. “It will be better to sell it,” I replied in a bitter tone. This poor piano that had given me vanity and so much satisfaction. “To see it go is like the indefinable suicide of a part of yourself,” Bovary told me.

“If you liked,” Charles said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. And I made considerable progress by the end of the month…

Charles’ POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervor.

One evening when I was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while I, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty,” she said.

The next day I begged her to play me something again.

“Very well; to please you,” she said.

“Well, you gone off a little, played the wrong notes.”

“Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!”

The next day when I came home I looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericord have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and wouldn’t open her piano again. But I noticed her sighs when she passed by it.

“Ah! My poor piano,” she would say.

She never informed our guests that she had given up music. “I cannot begin playing again now for important reasons, she explained

I heard others tell her that it was a pity she gave up music because she had so much talent.

It was when a friend advised me to induce Emma to study as it will economize on the subsequent musical education of my child. And mothers should instruct their children.

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. But in a bitter tone, she replied, “It would be better to sell it.”

The poor piano gave her vanity, so much satisfaction. And to her, it was like giving away a part of herself.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

Thus I gave her my permission to go to town once a week to continue her lessons. And, by the end of the month she was considered to have made considerable progress.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation. He, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I demanded.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open my piano again. But when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), I sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated me–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given my vanity so much satisfaction–Bovary could see its loss would be like death to me.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month he even considered that I had made considerable progress.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, but I encouraged her efforts.

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I encouraged her to play me something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And I confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said I, chuckling to lighten the blow. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” she demanded.

The next day when I came home I looked at her slyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it she’d sigh–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to me about it. They put me to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go was to me like I was killing something in her.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was she set about obtaining my permission to go to town once a week. At the end of a month there was a notable improvement.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I conjured within me a great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good, you are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he pestered me about playing something else.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I knew I had made some wrong notes, but he interpreted it as me just blundering through the piece.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day when Charles came home, he gave me a curious look before he said:

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged and did not open the piano again. But when I passed by it—when Bovary was there—I would sigh:

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated me–

“What a pity! You had so much talent!”

Perhaps my guests had spoken to Charles about it all; he returned once more to this question of the piano within the week.

I replied, bitterly, that it would be better to sell it.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was that I obtained my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month Charles listened to me play again—apparently I had made considerable progress.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that Emma seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening I decided to listen to her. She began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation. There was not much difference, and I cried–

“Bravo! Very good, you are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I asked her to play something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

After, I confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

The next day when I came home and exclaimed:

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But sometimes, at least when I saw her pass by it, she would sigh–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

Some of the townspeople scolded me about my handling of her musical abilities, like the chemist.

“Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new , but that will end by triumphing, I am certain, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied, perhaps bitterly, that it would be better to sell it. But I had already thought up a better idea.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was that she began weekly piano lessons. I listened to her again at the end of a month—she played quite smoother that time.

In this specific time, that is to say, is the beginning of winter, she seems seized with great musical fervor.

On this evening while I listen, she begins the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while I, not noticing any difference, cry–

“Bravo! Very good you are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play me something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And I confess she has gone off a little. She plays the wrong notes and blunders them in her composition; then, stops short–

“Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” she bites her lips and add, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said I, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

The next day when she came home I looked at her and hid in my shyness, and at last she could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugs her shoulders and regrets to open the lid of her piano again. But when she passes by it (if Bovary were there), she sighs–

“Ah! My poor piano!”

And when anyone comes to see her, she will not fail to inform them she has given up music, and cannot begin again now for important reasons.  People commiserate her–

“What a pity! She has so much talent!”

They even have spoken to Bovary about it. They put me to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing Madame to study; you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I return once more to this question of her piano. She replies bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano has given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go is to Bovary like the indefinable suicide, she’d lose a part of herself.

“If you like,” I say, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replies, “are only of use when one follows up.”

And thus it was she who set about obtaining her husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of one month she was even considered to have made considerable progress.

It was in the beginning of winter I gave the illusion of being seized with musical fervor. One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!” I turned my head so as not to see his face.

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him something again. And after much cajoling I did so, my cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I’d played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open my piano again. But when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), I sighed–

“Ah! My poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated me–

“What a pity! She had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame!

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing Madame to study; you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. This poor piano that had given my vanity so much satisfaction–the thought of loosing it was as an indefinable suicide of a part of my own self, at least that is how Bovary behaved when addressed with the option.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I was even considered to have made considerable progress.

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that dear Emma seemed seized with musical fervor.

One evening when I was listening to her, each time she started a piece seemed to crease her forehead more and more over the pages she played. I could not understand what was vexing her so and merely sat in awe.

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

I had to confess she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered.

“Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I agreed. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

The next day when I came home I looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. When she saw me walking by she sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! She had so much talent!”

They even spoke to me about it. They put me to shame!

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing Madame to study; you are economizing on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I reluctantly returned once more to this question of the piano. This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go would have been to me like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

“If you liked,” I told her, “a lesson from time to time…”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

So she went into town once a week. At the end of a month she had made considerable progress.

Emma

Winter came and I devoted myself to the piano. One day, Charles sat by and listened.

“Wonderful! Don’t stop – you’re doing so well.”

It was the fourth time I had played the piece, each repeat more hopeless than the last. Charles could be so oblivious.

I tilted my head in a gesture of appreciation. “It was terrible, you can be honest.”

Charles laughed. “Talented and modest.”

The following day, he returned from work humming to himself. He swept me up in a waltz and guided up to the piano. “Play something for me, darling.”

I sat at the keys and stroked them uncertainly. Then I played the same tune as before, this time with more emphatic blunders.

“Muddling Mozart,” he said.

I hit the keys at random and slumped forward. “I need lessons. Do you think $50 a session is too much?”

“It is quite dear.” Charles scratched his chin. “We could probably find something cheaper for you. You know, a lot of lesser known musicians are very talented.”

“Like who?”

My husband frowned and stood up. “They’re out there.”

Charles came home every day to find me tinkling. On one occasion I sighed loudly enough for him to hear from the next room. He walked in.

“I was at Barfucheres today. Mrs Liegard told me her daughters have piano tuition for only $10 an hour. I asked her to write the number for me – ” Charles reached into his pocket for a note. I snatched it from him.

“That deaf old sod! Only students charge those prices. See,” I pointed to the email address scrawled on the paper. “It says VCA here. I bet this one hasn’t even studied Liszt yet, let alone how to teach.”

Charles put his hand in his pockets. “You can be quite stubborn sometimes.”

               I sulked all weekend. Then the phone rang and I heard Charles greeting Uncle Gus, a charming and talented professor of chemistry who’d kiss my hand at every family function. I saw my opportunity and leapt onto the piano. I started by playing a delicate sonata, crescendoed neatly and just as the energy of my performance was peaking, fumbled horribly and halted, letting the silence ring out. Charles was quiet for a moment and I wondered if he was still on the phone. Then I heard him say, “Well I suppose an extra hundred a week isn’t too hard on the budget. You really think she’s got something?” God bless Uncle Gus.

               Eventually Charles brought up the piano when we were getting into bed.

“Listen Emma, about the piano lessons –”

“Oh Charles, I know they’re too dear. I should just quit. We’ll get rid of the piano and I won’t have to be sad whenever I look at it.”

 “I was going to say that I think we can afford a few lessons.”
He was  breaking.

“I’m afraid they really arent effective unless they’re regular.”

“Tell you what. I’ll do overtime. I’ll pick up a few more patients. And you can have your tuition, twice weekly.”

I threw myself around him and squeezed him tight, knowing that soon it would be the body of my lover, not Charles, in my arms.

Charles

Winter time came around and Emma spent evenings with her piano. One night she played the same piece four times over, sighing and fretting after each play.

I sat not far away and said, “You’re sounding so good, don’t stop!”

“I sound terrible.”

“I think you sound find,” I said.

The next day I asked her to play for me again, an attempt to cheer her up.

When she did, I had to admit it was a little clumsy.

“Charles, I need lessons.” She bit her lip. “I know they’re dear but – ”

“How much?”

“$50 a session.”

I straightened up to disguise my surprise. “Maybe we can find something cheaper. A lot of lesser known trainers are very talented.”

She looked doubtful but smiled bravely. “Okay, we’ll shop around.”

I bumped into Mrs. Liegard the following day. She asked after Emma and I told her about the little phase my wife was going through. Liegard said her daughters took lessons for only $10 a session, and I asked her to write the tutor’s contact details down for me. When I presented it to Emma, she brisked and took the note.

“It says VCA here,” she said. “This tutor is a college student, probably a first year. How old are Liegard’s daughters now?”

“Twelve and seven,” I said.

“I guess they haven’t been playing very long.”

Emma didn’t open the piano for a while and it broke my heart to see the way she’d glance at it, sulking through the house. I was on the phone with Uncle Gus when she finally returned to it.

“What is that delightful sound?” he cooed. 

“It’s my wife,” I said.

“She is talented. Is she having lessons?”

I told him no.

“You stingy bastard,” he said. “Do yourself a favour and buy her a course for Valentine’s Day.”

Uncle Gus was right. The distance between Emma and I was widening every night. She had come up against a wall, and seemed to anguish over the now silent piano. I brought it up one night as we prepared for bed.

“Listen Emma, about your lessons –”

“Charles,” she interrupted. “I know they’re too dear. I should just quit. We’ll get rid of the piano. Then I won’t have to be sad whenever I look at it.”

“I did our budget yesterday, and I think we can afford a few lessons for you.”

“Oh Charles, you’re so sweet. But they’d really be no use unless they were regular. It’s like going to the gym, you know.”

I hated to see her big eyes sad. I pulled her into my arms. “I’ll pick up a few more patients,” I said. “I’ll do overtime.”

She threw arms around me and I held her close for the rest of the night. 

Emma 1st person POV

My plan required patience and persuasion. First, I feigned great musical fervour.

I played all the time. One evening with Charles listening, I began the same piece four times over, making a show of fretting over small errors. Charles cried, “Bravo! Very good. You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

The fool hadn’t noticed my mistakes. “Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time I played notes that distorted the melody to ghastliness. Charles confessed I had gone off a little.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lip and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them, I countered.”

The next day when he came home he bellowed,

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I suppressed a smile, shrugged my shoulders but did not open the piano. But when I passed by it (if Charles were there), I sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

When anyone came to see me, I made certain to inform them that I had given up music.

People commiserated, “What a pity! She had so much talent!”

As I expected, they spoke to Charles about it. They put him to shame, especially the chemist whom I overheard in the study.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles asked me once again, about the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it, looking away as if it mattered not at all.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but an occasional respite would never do. “But lessons are only of use when followed up.”

My darling husband acquiesced. With his witless permission, I travelled to town weekly to be with my lover. At the end of a month Charles made mention to my considerable progress.

“The pinnacle of my passion,” I said.

Charles 1^st person POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that Emma seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening as I listened to her, she began the same piece four times over, for no apparent reason that I could discern.

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play again.

“Very well; to please you!”

I had to admit she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short, she said,

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said with a chuckle. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

And so I did. The next day when I came home I looked at her cautiously until I could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it, she sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to me about it, putting me to shame, especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

I asked Emma once more this question of the piano. She replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go would be like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus I gave her permission to go to town once a week for lessons, with happy results, for at the end of a month she had made considerable progress.

Emma’s POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I conceived a plan I felt had some merit.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I challenged him.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and at last burst out, “How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and refused to open my piano again. But I made certain when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), to sigh–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons.

“What a pity!” they might say. “She had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, especially the chemist. I was pleased to hear him take Bovary to task one evening:

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given me such satisfaction–I felt certain that to see it go would be unbearable to Bovary.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I obtained my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month he even told me I had made considerable progress.

Charles’ POV

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, but I, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play me something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

I had to confess she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said I, in some shock. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” Emma pouted.

The next day when I came home I hesitated, watching her, but at least burst out,

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when I observed her passing it, she often sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even chastised me, I felt, especially the chemist:

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

At last I felt I must return once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano—she loved it so–to see her let it go seemed too cruel.

“If you liked,” I finally relented, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

Thus I granted my permission for her to go to town once a week for regular lessons. At the end of a month I was delighted to observe that she had made considerable progress.

 Emma’s POV

After dinner I sat down at the piano.  I rested my hands on my thighs. I stared out the window. How am I to survive the winter?  Such short days and long nights. I feel like a caged animal, all cooped up. I must find a way to see Leon.

I played the wretched song at least four times. Each time I played fewer and fewer correct notes.

“Bravo! Very good!” Charles said. “Go on.”

“How can you say that?” I said.  “I sound atrocious. I must stop for the night. I must go to bed.” I feigned a yawn.

The very next evening, after dinner, he begged me to play again.  How could I use my poor playing to my advantage?

“Ah well,” I said, walking toward the piano. “If you insist.”

I played even worse than the night before.  I saw Charles grimace out of the corner of my eye.  He came around my back and rubbed my shoulders.  He rested his hands below my collarbone.

“You play splendidly.”

“Oh! How can you say that?” Tears rolled down my cheeks.  “I need lessons so desperately but they cost so much.” I bent my elbows and placed them on his resting hands.

“Yes, they are quite an expense darling.” He came around, faced me, and leaned in. “I bet we can find less expensive teachers.  I’ll make some inquiries.”

“Would you?” I said.  “You are so wonderful.”  I kissed his cheek.

When Charles returned the next day he said nothing. Should I ask him what he learned?

“Well, Charles? What did you learn?” I said, during dessert, when I could take it no longer.

“Piano lessons are expensive,” he scowled. “Madame Liegard made me feel that 20 francs was a bargain.  She accused me of being cheap and unrefined.”

“Don’t let what Madame said bother you,” I said, stirring my tea. “I can think of plenty of other uses for my time.”

Each time I passed the piano, I looked at it wistfully.  In Charles’ presence, I commented on how much I missed playing.  Two weeks later, I suggested that we throw a dinner party.  The night of the dinner, after all the guests seemed satiated, they began calling for me to play.

“Oh no,” I said. “I have given up the piano.”

The women protested. The men insisted.

“What a pity!” the chemist said.  “You are so talented.”  He turned directly to Charles, “How can you let her waste her talent?”

Charles seemed to be at a loss for words until he said, “She’s only taking a break.”

“Yes,” I said.  “A little respite.”

In bed that evening I wrapped my arms around him. “I know you didn’t mean that about taking a break.  So I think you should sell the piano.”

“I suppose a few lessons wouldn’t hurt,” Charles said.

“But I need to commit to them weekly,” I said. “That is, if I am to make any progress.”

“Oh, all right,” Charles said, on the verge of sleep.

Suddenly, I was wide-awake at the prospect of seeing Leon weekly.

 Charles POV

After dinner Emma sat down at the piano.  She didn’t begin to play right away.  She stared out the window into the evening darkness.  Then, she began to play over and over the same song.  Each time she played it sounded worse.

“Bravo! Very good!” I said, finishing my tea while sitting on the couch.  “Go on.”

“How can you say that?” Emma said.  “I sound atrocious. I must stop for the night. I must go to bed.”  She yawned.

I wanted to be a supportive husband.  The very next evening, after dinner, I asked her to play again.

“Ah well,” Emma said, walking toward the piano. “If you insist.”

She played even worse than the night before.  Hiding my disappointment, I strolled to her and rubbed her neck and shoulders.

“You play splendidly.” My hands rested below her collarbone.

“Oh! How can you say that?”

Although I could not see her face, I knew she was crying.

“I need lessons so desperately but they cost so much,” Emma said, resting her hands on mine.

“Yes, they are quite an expense darling.” I said. When I came around the piano she pouted and lowered her eyes.

“I bet we can find less expensive teachers,” I said. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

“Would you?” she said.  “You are so wonderful.” She kissed my cheek.

I said nothing when I returned the next day.  I didn’t want to disappoint her with my news.

“Well, Charles? What did you learn?” Emma said.  She waited until we were having dessert.

“Piano lessons are expensive.” I said. “Madame Liegard made me feel that 20 francs was a bargain.  She accused me of being cheap and unrefined.”

“Don’t let what Madame said bother you,” she said stirring her tea. “I can think of plenty of other uses for my time.”

Over the next few days I saw her glance wistfully at the piano and heard her sigh.  Two weeks later, she suggested that we throw a dinner party.  After dinner the guests called for Emma to play. I should have expected this but I did not. I waited to see what she would do.

“Oh no,” she said. “I have given up the piano.”

The women protested. The men insisted.

“What a pity!” the chemist said.  “You are so talented.”  He turned directly to me, “How can you let her waste her talent?”

“She’s only taking a break,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.  “A little respite.”

The guests all nodded.

In bed that evening she draped her arms around me and waited until I was about to fall asleep.

 “I know you didn’t mean that about taking a break.  So I think you should sell the piano,” she said.

 “I suppose a few lessons wouldn’t hurt.”

“But I need to commit to them weekly,” she said. “That is, if I am to make any progress.”

“Oh, all right,” I said.

Her point of view

It was at about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that I endeavored to appear seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not apparently noticing any difference cried–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play something again.

“Very well; to please you.”

And Charles confessed that I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! It is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems tome that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day when he came home he looked at me shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from and excellent mistress.”

I shrugged and did not open the piano again. But when I passed by it (if Bovary were there), I would sigh–

“Ah! My poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see me, I did not fail to inform them I had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated me–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given me so much satisfaction.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” I replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was I set about obtaining my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I was even considered to have made considerable progress.

######

His point of view:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while I, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play me something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

I confess she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short–

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I said. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

The next day when I came home I looked at her, and at last could no longer keep back the words.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it, she sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her–

“What a pity! she had so much talent!”

They even spoke to me about it. They put me to shame, and especially the chemist.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

So I returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano that had given her vanity so much satisfaction–to see it go was to me like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was she set about obtaining my permission to go to town once a week for her lesson. At the end of a month she had made considerable progress.

One evening I was listening with pleasure to her playing when, for no apparent reason, she began the same piece four times over. She seemed increasingly vexed by errors only she could hear, and I did my best to reassure her, crying–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

I did not at all wish her to be discouraged, so the next day I asked her to play again.

And this time, I was sorry to say, she had indeed gone off a little.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips, “Twenty francs, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather.” I tried to laugh a little to lift her mood. “But perhaps one might do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

I spent most of the next day asking around, and couldn’t wait to tell her what I had discovered.

“I went to Barfucheres today! Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

But she merely she shrugged her shoulders, and did not open her piano again. I thought perhaps it had all been a passing whim, yet I often heard her saying–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

A few days later I fell into conversation with the chemist, and the subject arose of Emma’s piano playing. He said he was sorry to hear she had given it up, and was convinced something more must be done.

‘One should never let the faculties of nature lie fallow,’ he said. ‘Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children.”

Well, of course I did not wish for Emma’s talents to go to waste, or for anyone to think I was not dedicated to musical education. So once again I

But Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell the poor piano! Well, this I could not bear. This piano, which had so pleased her delicate vanity – to sell it would be like killing off a part of her own self!

I made up my mind.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

To my relief this brought her back to herself: it seemed we had finally found the solution.

“But lessons,” she added thoughtfully, “are only of use when followed up.”

She was quite right of course.

And so it came about that she diligently travelled in to town to see me (REMOVE) each week. And it was quite clear what natural talent she had, for though we never seemed to do much playing in the lessons, at the end of a month she had made considerable progress. (THIS SEEMS TO SWITCH POV FROM THE HUSBAND TO THE PIANO TEACHER. IF YOU AGREE, EASILY CORRECTED)

About this time I determined to alert Charles to my great passion for music.

One evening, as he listened, I began the same piano piece four times over and complained loudly of my vexation. He, however, declared he could hear no difference, crying-

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time I deliberately played so many wrong notes that Charles had to confess I had gone off a little.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lip, “Twenty francs, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling in a way I felt was rather stupid. “But perhaps one might do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day he fidgeted about until I asked him what was wrong.

“I went to Barfucheres today,’ he said excitedly. ‘Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

That did not please me at all. I decided not to open the piano until he came round to my way of thinking. Whenever I passed and he was nearby I let out a heavy sigh–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And I did not hesitate to let my visitors know I had given up music. When they asked why I spoke vaguely of an ‘important reason’.

“What a pity!’ they said. ‘You have such talent!”

They even approached Charles directly. Indeed, from what the chemist told me, it seems they quite put him to shame for letting my talents go to waste.

Well, after that Charles was quite insistent. But I had no interest in playing for playing’s sake! I told him it would be better to sell off the piano than play when I was so untutored.

Charles seemed quite aghast. To sell something so important to my self-esteem and pleasure? Why, he declared, it would be like killing off part of my very self!

I did not contradict him in the slightest, but remained silently forlorn until he spoke again.

“If you liked,” he said at last, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

I tilted my head as if considering this offer most carefully.

“But lessons,” I said, “are only of use when followed up.”

Well, he could not disagree with that, and so at last we were quite of accord.

Thus I obtained my husband’s permission to visit Charles [my lover?] every week. And so that no-one should think otherwise, I was careful to show at the end of a month that I had made considerable progress.

CORRECTED

About this time I determined to alert Charles to my great passion for music.

One evening, as he listened, I began the same piano piece four times over and complained loudly of my vexation. He, however, declared he could hear no difference, crying–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time I deliberately played so many wrong notes that Charles had to confess I had gone off a little.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lip, “Twenty francs, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling in a way I felt was rather stupid. “But perhaps one might do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I said.

The next day he fidgeted about until I asked him what was wrong.

“I went to Barfucheres today,’ he said excitedly. ‘Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

That did not please me at all. I decided not to open the piano until he came round to my way of thinking. Whenever I passed and he was nearby I let out a heavy sigh–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And I did not hesitate to let my visitors know I had given up music. When they asked why I spoke vaguely of an ‘important reason’.

“What a pity!’ they said. ‘You have such talent!”

They even approached Charles directly. Indeed, from what the chemist told me, it seems they quite put him to shame for letting my talents go to waste.

Well, after that Charles was quite insistent. But I had no interest in playing for playing’s sake! I told him it would be better to sell off the piano than play when I was so untutored.

Charles seemed quite aghast. To sell something so important to my self-esteem and pleasure? Why, he declared, it would be like killing off part of my very self!

I did not contradict him in the slightest, but remained silently forlorn until he spoke again.

“If you liked,” he said at last, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

I tilted my head as if considering this offer most carefully.

“But lessons,” I said, “are only of use when followed up.”

Well, he could not disagree with that, and so at last we were quite of accord.

Thus I obtained my husband’s permission to visit my lover in town every week. And so that no-one should suspect me, I was careful to show at the end of a month that I had made considerable progress on the piano.

About this time she was seized with great musical fervour.

One evening I was listening with pleasure to her playing when, for no apparent reason, she began the same piece four times over. She seemed increasingly vexed by errors only she could hear, and I did my best to reassure her, crying–

“Bravo! Very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

I did not at all wish her to be discouraged, so the next day I asked her to play again.

And this time, I was sorry to say, she had indeed gone off a little.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips, “Twenty francs, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather.” I tried to laugh a little to lift her mood. “But perhaps one might do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” said Emma.

I spent most of the next day asking around, and couldn’t wait to tell her what I had discovered.

“I went to Barfucheres today! Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

But she merely she shrugged her shoulders, and did not open her piano again. I thought perhaps it had all been a passing whim, yet I often heard her saying–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

A few days later I fell into conversation with the chemist, and the subject arose of Emma’s piano playing. He said he was sorry to hear she had given it up, and was convinced something more must be done.

‘One should never let the faculties of nature lie fallow,’ he said. ‘Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children.”

Well, of course I did not wish for Emma’s talents to go to waste, or for anyone to think I was not dedicated to musical education. So once again I exhorted her to play.

But Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell the poor piano! Well, this I could not bear. This piano, which had so pleased her delicate vanity – to sell it would be like killing off a part of her own self!

I made up my mind.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

To my relief this brought her back to herself: it seemed we had finally found the solution.

“But lessons,” she added thoughtfully, “are only of use when followed up.”

She was quite right of course.

And so it came about that she diligently travelled in to town each week for lessons. And it was quite clear then what natural talent she had, for at the end of a month she had made considerable progress.

Emma’s POV:

It was about this time, around the beginning of winter that is, that the idea formed in my head of being seized with a great musical fervour.

One evening when Charles was listening to me, I began the same piece four times over, each time pretending much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried–

“Bravo! Very good. You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged me to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time Charles confessed I had gone off a little. I played wrong notes and blundered.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” I challenged.

The next day when Charles came home he looked at me shyly, and at last ventured.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

I shrugged my shoulders and did not open the piano again. But when I passed by it, if Charles were there, I sighed–

“Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to visit, I made sure to inform them I had given up music. This won me commiseration.

“What a pity! you had so much talent!”

They even spoke to Charles about it. They put him to shame, especially the chemist, who suggested my musical talents would be of use in educating our child and he would this save money.

All of this made Charles bring up once more the question of the piano. I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it, but Charles was reluctant to see it go.

“If you liked,” he said, “a lesson from time to time; that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

Seeing my opportunity, I told him that lessons are only of use when followed up.

And thus it was I obtained my husband’s permission to go to town once a week to see my lover. At the end of a month I was even considered to have made considerable progress.

420 words

Charles POV:

It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that Emma was seized with great musical fervour.

One evening when I was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over. Despite her obvious vexation, I was captivated.

“Bravo! Very good. You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day I begged her to play again.

“Very well; to please you!”

This time it seemed to me she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then interrupted the piece.

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I agreed. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”

“Find them!” she said.

The next day I couldn’t wait to tell her what I had heard in town.

“How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!”

She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But every time she passed by it she seemed desolate. And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music. Then people spoke to me about it. They endeavoured to put me to shame, especially the chemist. And it was his words that struck me.

“You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child.”

He rambled on in a similar vein for a while and on thinking over his words, I decided to broach the subject with Emma again. However, she replied with some bitterness that it would be better to sell it. This seemed to me like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself, it had meant so much to her. I came up with an idea.

“If you liked,” I said, “a lesson from time to time, that wouldn’t after all be very ruinous.”

“But lessons,” she replied, “are only of use when followed up.”

And so it was agreed that once a week, she would go to town for a music lesson. At the end of a month she was considered by all to have made considerable progress.

450 words

Anne Skelly

The days grew increasingly shorter, the nights colder; the huge mansion’s walls seemed to close in. Music offered the only legitimate vent, and I would pursue it with fervor; easier said than done.

I had begun the same piece for a forth time, one such quadriplegic eve, when Charles all but drove me over the edge, “Bravo! Very goodl”

My unitary, tone-deaf audience, would not abate, “You’re wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it’s execrable! My fingers are rusty; lead-like.”

Next day too he urged me in begging refrain, and I had to sport, “Very well; then, anything to please you.” My heart though floated elsewhere.

And even Charles confessed I was off somewhat, as I blundered on enough wrong notes.

“Ooh! It’s just no use. Would that I took some lessons, but…” I bit on a lip, “at twenty francs a lesson, why, that’s a fortune!”

“Well, it is somewhat steep,” Charles nervously giggled, “seems one might be able to do it for less though. There are artists of no repute – often better than the celebrities.”

“Then pray – find ‘em!”

Next day, he returned rather taciturn, but in the end could no longer hold back, “How obstinate you are at times! I went to Barfucheres today. Well, Madame Liegard assured me her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and from an excellent mistress!”

With a shrug, I let the piano be, save for when I’d pass by it and if he were around, “Ah! poor piano!”

But I did keep those who came to see me abreast of my having quit music; for important reasons, which elicited due commiseration – “Pity! You could have done wonders with such talent as yours!”

Thus was Charles put quite to shame, as he let on in a private moment; the Chemist had insisted, “You’re wrong! Never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, ol’ chap, by inducing madame to quit you compromise on the subsequent musical education of your offspring. Mothers surely ought themselves to instruct their children. That’s an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but one that’s bound to triumph ultimately. It’s no different than mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.”

Thus Charles hovered once more around the piano. “If you like,” he buckled, “a lesson from time to time – that wouldn’t be too ruinous.”

“Better to sell it,” I lashed out, knowing full well the poor piano had given my vanity so much satisfaction and to see it go would be to him an indefinable suicide of a part of my self. Would he call my bluff though?

“Yet lessons,” I added, “are only of use if followed up.”

And thus it was that I had my husband’s consent to visit town once a week, and fuse with my lover.

At month’s end I was even considered to have considerably progressed! Love is to music, what music is to love.

***

The beginning of winter seemed to seize the wife with inexplicable musical fervor. One evening, as I listened to her begin the same piece over a fourth time – each with scarce progress – I actively became a disciple of brave attempt,

“Bravo! Very good! You’re wrong to stop. Carry on!”

“Oh, no,” She protested, if shy, “it is execrable! My fingers are quite like lead.”

The next day I had to beg her to play me something again.

“Very well then; if only to please you!”

I confess she went off by far, blundering through some wrong notes; only to resign, “Ah! It’s just no use. I ought to take some lessons; but… ” she bit her sweet lip, “At twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, yes so it is, rather,” I was giggling – stupid nerves. “But surely one might be able to do it for less: there are artists of no reputation, often better than celebrities.”

“Pray – find ‘em!” Emma could be so compelling when she chose.

Next day when I got home I looked at her shyly, but finally could no longer hold back, “How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres today.”

And Emma was all ears, “Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, that too from an excellent mistress!”

Funnily, she simply shrugged her shoulders and would not touch the piano again. Yet I observed her pining as she passed by it, “Ah! My poor piano!” the lament bore through me.

And whenever anyone came to see her – my good grief – she never failed to inform the world she had given up music, albeit for important reasons.

“What a pity! You had so much talent!” The commiseration ensued with debilitating might. They would even pull me aside on it. The shame came to crest with the chemist, “You’re wrong! Never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, think, ol’ chap, by inducing madame to study you economize on the subsequent musical education of your offspring. Mothers surely ought themselves to instruct their children. That’s an idea of Rousseau’s, still rather new perhaps, but one that’s bound to triumph ultimately. It’s no different than mothers nursing their own children and vaccination.

So I returned once more to this question of the piano.

“Let it drop!” she protested bitterly, “it would be better to sell it.”

Could she not see? The darned piano had given her vanity so much satisfaction that to see it go was surely the indefinable suicide of part of herself!

“Perhaps,” I offered, “a lesson from time to time? That wouldn’t be too ruinous.”

“But lessons are only of use when followed up.”

And thus it was that she connived out of me permission to go to town once a week to see a lover, while I, by month’s end, even considered her to have made considerable progress.