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

Instructor Response

You’ve done very well. I admire your skill here. I’ve pointed out (often obvious) passages where POV seems to make (often subtle) differences in the effectiveness of the prose. You might continue to work on other assignments related to POV for practice. Many thanks for the submission.
WHC

Emma

One evening when Charles was listening to me play, I began the same piece four times, each time with (may use “expressing” here, replacing “with”) much vexation, not noticing any difference, (This is awkward in her point of view because how does she notice him not noticing? Yet the idea is essential to the passage. Just needs to be restructured.)  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 miserable (to stay in point of view)

“Ah! my poor piano!” I said pitifully (as if consumed with pity. Again, to stay in POV. Adverbs are tricky. You don’t mean she sighed miserably, I think. You mean she felt miserable.)

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. (This seems effective in her POV, ironic!)

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–  Notice how different the vexation seems when in first-person rather than in narrator POV. And it presents a little problem: Wouldn’t Charles, in his ignorance, probably not perceive the vexation at this instant? Not important, really, but just to point out how POV changes the milieu of the scene and how the prose takes on different effects and meaning.

“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–(Note the difference of this idea in Emma’s POV, and how POV changes the writing’s effectiveness. In Charles’s POV, it seems awkward and out of place.)

“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  This is, as you know, from the narrator’s POV. It points out, on occasion, how first-person POV can become awkward for the writer. Here, Charles might say, “I suspected she went to town to see her lover, but at the end of the month she had made considerable progress, or at least I thought so.” But this doesn’t work well, either. It seems to be too much exposition. Again, just to point out variable interpretations presented in different POVs.

Great!
All the best,
WHC
1/23/16

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