Doctor's Wife

Elizabeth Braddon Mary

Description

Flaubert's Madame Bovary is regarded as a masterpiece of nineteenth-century literature. However, that novel hinges on a singularly unsympathetic portrayal of the title character. In this innovative novel, author Mary Elizabeth Braddon gives Mme Bovary a bully pulpit of her own, presenting the same story from the doctor's wife's perspective.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775454861
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE
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MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
 
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The Doctor's Wife First published in 1864 ISBN 978-1-77545-486-1 © 2011 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - A Young Man from the Country Chapter II - A Sensation Author Chapter III - Isabel Chapter IV - The End of George Gilbert's Holiday Chapter V - George at Home Chapter VI - Too Much Alone Chapter VII - On the Bridge Chapter VIII - About Poor Joe Tillet's Young Wife Chapter IX - Miss Sleaford's Engagement Chapter X - A Bad Beginning Chapter XI - "She Only Said, 'My Life is Weary!'" Chapter XII - Something Like a Birthday Chapter XIII - "Oh, My Cousin, Shallow-Hearted!" Chapter XIV - Under Lord Thurston's Oak Chapter XV - Roland Says, "Amen" Chapter XVI - Mr. Lansdell Relates an Adventure Chapter XVII - The First Warning Chapter XVIII - The Second Warning Chapter XIX - What Might Have Been! Chapter XX - "Oceans Should Divide Us" Chapter XXI - "Once More the Gate Behind Me Falls" Chapter XXII - "My Love's a Noble Madness" Chapter XXIII - A Little Cloud Chapter XXIV - Lady Gwendoline Does Her Duty Chapter XXV - "For Love Himself Took Part Against Himself" Chapter XXVI - A Popular Preacher Chapter XXVII - "And Now I Live, and Now My Life is Done!" Chapter XXVIII - Trying to Be Good Chapter XXIX - The First Whisper of the Storm Chapter XXX - The Beginning of a Great Change Chapter XXXI - Fifty Pounds Chapter XXXII - "I'll Not Believe but Desdemona's Honest" Chapter XXXIII - Keeping a Promise Chapter XXXIV - Retrospective Chapter XXXV - "'Twere Best at Once to Sink to Peace" Chapter XXXVI - Between Two Worlds Chapter the Last -"If Any Calm, a Calm Despair"
Chapter I - A Young Man from the Country
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There were two surgeons in the little town ofGraybridge-on-the-Wayverne, in pretty pastoral Midlandshire,—Mr.Pawlkatt, who lived in a big, new, brazen-faced house in the middle ofthe queer old High Street; and John Gilbert, the parish doctor, wholived in his own house on the outskirts of Graybridge, and worked veryhard for a smaller income than that which the stylish Mr. Pawlkattderived from his aristocratic patients.
John Gilbert was an elderly man, with a young son. He had married latein life, and his wife had died very soon after the birth of this son. Itwas for this reason, most likely, that the surgeon loved his child aschildren are rarely loved by their fathers—with an earnest,over-anxious devotion, which from the very first had been somethingwomanly in its character, and which grew with the child's growth. Mr.Gilbert's mind was narrowed by the circle in which he lived. He hadinherited his own patients and the parish patients from his father, whohad been a surgeon before him, and who had lived in the same house, withthe same red lamp over the little old-fashioned surgery-door, foreight-and-forty years, and had died, leaving the house, the practice,and the red lamp to his son.
If John Gilbert's only child had possessed the capacity of a Newton orthe aspirations of a Napoleon, the surgeon would nevertheless have shuthim up in the surgery to compound aloes and conserve of roses, tinctureof rhubarb and essence of peppermint. Luckily for the boy, he was only acommon-place lad, with a good-looking, rosy face; clear grey eyes, whichstared at you frankly; and a thick stubble of brown hair, parted in themiddle and waving from the roots. He was tall, straight, and muscular; agood runner, a first-rate cricketer, tolerably skilful with a pair ofboxing-gloves or single-sticks, and a decent shot. He wrote a fairbusiness-like hand, was an excellent arithmetician, remembered asmattering of Latin, a random line here, and there from those Romanpoets and philosophers whose writings had been his torment at a certainclassical and commercial academy at Wareham. He spoke and wrotetolerable English, had read Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott, andinfinitely preferred the latter, though he made a point of skipping thefirst few chapters of the great novelist's fictions in order to get atonce to the action of the story. He was a very good young man, went tochurch two or three times on a Sunday, and would on no account havebroken any one of the Ten Commandments on the painted tablets above thealtar by so much as a thought. He was very good; and, above all, he wasvery good-looking. No one had ever disputed this fact: George Gilbertwas eminently good-looking. No one had ever gone so far as to call himhandsome; no one had ever presumed to designate him plain. He had thosehomely, healthy good looks which the novelist or poet in search of ahero would recoil from with actual horror, and which the practical mindinvoluntarily associates with tenant-farming in a small way, or the saleof butcher's meat.
I will not say that poor George was ungentlemanly, because he had kind,cordial manners, and a certain instinctive Christianity, which had neveryet expressed itself in any very tangible form, but which lent a genialflavour to every word upon his lips, to every thought in his heart. Hewas a very trusting young man, and thought well of all mankind; he was aTory, heart and soul, as his father and grandfather had been before him;and thought especially well of all the magnates round about Wareham andGraybridge, holding the grand names that had been familiar to him fromhis childhood in simple reverence, that was without a thought ofmeanness. He was a candid, honest, country-bred young man, who did hisduty well, and filled a small place in a very narrow circle with creditto himself and the father who loved him. The fiery ordeal of two years'student-life at St. Bartholomew's had left the lad almost as innocent asa girl; for John Gilbert had planted his son during those two awfulyears in the heart of a quiet Wesleyan family in the Seven-Sisters Road,and the boy had enjoyed very little leisure for disporting himself withthe dangerous spirits of St. Bartholomew's. George Gilbert wastwo-and-twenty, and in all the course of those two-and-twenty yearswhich made the sum of the young man's life, his father had never hadreason to reproach him by so much as a look. The young doctor was heldto be a model youth in the town of Graybridge; and it was whispered thatif he should presume to lift his eyes to Miss Sophronia Burdock, thesecond daughter of the rich maltster, he need not aspire in vain. ButGeorge was by no means a coxcomb, and didn't particularly admire MissBurdock, whose eyelashes were a good deal paler than her hair, and whoseeyebrows were only visible in a strong light. The surgeon was young, andthe world was all before him; but he was not ambitious; he felt no senseof oppression in the narrow High Street at Graybridge. He could sit inthe little parlour next the surgery reading Byron's fiercest poems,sympathizing in his own way with Giaours and Corsairs; but with nopassionate yearning stirring up in his breast, with no thought of revoltagainst the dull quiet of his life.
George Gilbert took his life as he found it, and had no wish to make itbetter. To him Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne was all the world. He had beenin London, and had felt a provincial's brief sense of surprised delightin the thronged streets, the clamour, and the bustle; but he had verysoon discovered that the great metropolis was a dirty and disreputableplace as compared to Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne, where you might havetaken your dinner comfortably off any doorstep as far as the matter ofcleanliness is concerned. The young man was more than satisfied with hislife; he was pleased with it. He was pleased to think that he was to behis father's partner, and was to live and marry, and have children, anddie at last in the familiar rooms in which he had been born. His naturewas very adhesive, and he loved the things that he had long known,because they were old and familiar to him; rather than for any merit orbeauty in the things themselves.
The 20th of July, 1852, was a very great day for George Gilbert, andindeed for the town of Graybridge generally; for on that day anexcursion train left Wareham for London, conveying such roving spiritsas cared to pay a week's visit to the great metropolis upon verymoderate terms. George had a week's holiday, which he was to spend withan old schoolfellow who had turned author, and had chambers in theTemple, but who boarded and lodged with a family at Camberwell. Theyoung surgeon left Graybridge in the maltster's carriage at eighto'clock upon that bright summer morning, in company with Miss Burdockand her sister Sophronia, who were going up to London on a visit to anaristocratic aunt in Baker Street, and who had been confided to George'scare during the journey.
The young ladies and their attendant squire were in very high spirits.London, when your time is spent between St. Bartholomew's Hospital andthe Seven-Sisters Road, is not the most delightful city in the world;but London, when you are a young man from the country, with a week'sholiday, and a five-pound note and some odd silver in your pocket,assumes quite another aspect. George was not enthusiastic; but he lookedforward to his holiday with a placid sense of pleasure, and listenedwith untiring good humour to the conversation of the maltster'sdaughters, who gave him a good deal of information about their aunt inBaker Street, and the brilliant parties given by that lady and heracquaintance. But, amiable as the young ladies were, George was gladwhen the Midlandshire train steamed into