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.

Instructor Response

Charles:

Cathryn. Excellent. And what you’ve done changes the impact from the original. I’ve included below what I might do with this–changes in style mostly for ideas.

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  played 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 Well,she had gone went off a little again. She played, wrong notes and blundering; 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 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!” she said Emma.

The next day I came home and  looked at her shyly sternly. “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 And 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,” he said. 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, at the chemist‘s insistence,  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. (Trying to keep dramatic irony here where the reader knows more than the character.)

Emma:

Cathryn: again, excellent work. I’ve included my changes just for ideas about different style approach.

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

One evening I sat and listened as she  played the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation. I, not  noticing any difference, Charles cried–“Bravo! Very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

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

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

“Very well; to please you!”

 I confessed she had gone I played off a little: She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short, I said, “Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but–” She I bit my lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is–rather,” I  He 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!” I said Emma.

The next day  I Charles came home and  looked at her me shyly. “How obstinate you are sometimes!” I  He 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 I shrugged my shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when I Charles was in the room.  I’d  pass by it, and sighed– “Ah! my poor piano!”

And when anyone came to see her me, she did not fail to I informed them she I 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,Charles about it. The chemist  especially put me him to shame.

“You are wrong to treat Emma so,” he said. “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 when Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma, I replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it.

“No, no,” I he protested, “this poor piano has given your vanity so much satisfaction.” To see it go, I thought, might drive you to indefinable suicide of a part of herself.

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

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

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

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

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