Bouvard and Pécuchet: A Tragi-comic Novel of Bourgeois Life, part 1

  CHAPTER V.

  ROMANCE AND THE DRAMA.

  They first read Walter Scott.

  It was like the surprise of a new world.

  The men of the past who had for them been only phantoms or names, becameliving beings, kings, princes, wizards, footmen, gamekeepers, monks,gipsies, merchants, and soldiers, who deliberate, fight, travel, trade,eat and drink, sing and pray, in the armouries of castles, on theblackened benches of inns, in the winding streets of cities, under thesloping roofs of booths, in the cloisters of monasteries. Landscapesartistically arranged formed backgrounds for the narratives, like thescenery of a theatre. You follow with your eyes a horseman gallopingalong the strand; you breathe amid the heather the freshness of thewind; the moon shines on the lake, over which a boat is skimming; thesun glitters on the breast-plates; the rain falls over leafy huts.Without having any knowledge of the models, they thought these pictureslifelike and the illusion was complete.

  And so the winter was spent.

  When they had breakfasted, they would instal themselves in the littleroom, one at each side of the chimney-piece, and, facing each other,book in hand, they would begin to read in silence. When the day woreapace, they would go out for a walk along the road, then, havingsnatched a hurried dinner, they would resume their reading far into thenight. In order to protect himself from the lamp, Bouvard wore bluespectacles, while Pecuchet kept the peak of his cap drawn over hisforehead.

  Germaine had not gone, and Gorju now and again came to dig in thegarden; for they had yielded through indifference, forgetful of materialthings.

  After Walter Scott, Alexandre Dumas diverted them after the fashion of amagic-lantern. His personages, active as apes, strong as bulls, gay aschaffinches, enter on the scene and talk abruptly, jump off roofs to thepavement, receive frightful wounds from which they recover, are believedto be dead, and yet reappear. There are trap-doors under the boards,antidotes, disguises; and all things get entangled, hurry along, and arefinally unravelled without a minute for reflection. Love observes theproprieties, fanaticism is cheerful, and massacres excite a smile.

  Rendered hard to please by these two masters, they could not toleratethe balderdash of the _Belisaraire_, the foolery of the _NumaPompilius_, of Marchangy, and Vicomte d'Arlincourt. The colouring ofFrederic Soulie (like that of the book-lover Jacob) appeared to theminsufficient; and M. Villemain scandalised them by showing at page 85 ofhis _Lascaris_, a Spaniard smoking a pipe--a long Arab pipe--in themiddle of the fifteenth century.

  Pecuchet consulted the _Biographie Universelle_, and undertook to reviseDumas from the point of view of science.

  The author in _Les Deux Dianes_ makes a mistake with regard to dates.The marriage of the Dauphin, Francis, took place on the 15th of October,1548, and not on the 20th of May, 1549. How does he know (see _Le Pagedu Duc de Savoie_) that Catherine de Medicis, after her husband's death,wished to resume the war? It is not very probable that the Duke of Anjouwas crowned at night in a church, an episode which adorns _La Dame deMontsoreau_. _La Reine Margot_ especially swarms with errors. The Dukeof Nevers was not absent. He gave his opinion at the council before thefeast of St. Bartholomew, and Henry of Navarre did not follow theprocession four days after. Henry III. did not come back from Poland soquickly. Besides, how many flimsy devices! The miracle of the hawthorn,the balcony of Charles IX., the poisoned glass of Jeanned'Albret--Pecuchet no longer had any confidence in Dumas.

  He even lost all respect for Walter Scott on account of the oversightsin his _Quentin Durward_. The murder of the Archbishop of Liege isanticipated by fifteen years. The wife of Robert de Lamarck was Jeanned'Arschel and not Hameline de Croy. Far from being killed by a soldier,he was put to death by Maximilian; and the face of Temeraire, when hiscorpse was found, did not express any menace, inasmuch as the wolves hadhalf devoured it.

  None the less, Bouvard went on with Walter Scott, but ended by gettingweary of the repetition of the same effects. The heroine usually livesin the country with her father, and the lover, a plundered heir, isre-established in his rights and triumphs over his rivals. There arealways a mendicant philosopher, a morose nobleman, pure young girls,facetious retainers, and interminable dialogues, stupid prudishness, andan utter absence of depth.

  In his dislike to bric-a-brac, Bouvard took up George Sand.

  He went into raptures over the beautiful adulteresses and noble lovers,would have liked to be Jacques, Simon, Lelio, and to have lived inVenice. He uttered sighs, did not know what was the matter with him, andfelt himself changed.

  Pecuchet, who was working up historical literature studied plays. Heswallowed two _Pharamonds_, three _Clovises_, four _Charlemagnes_,several _Philip Augustuses_, a crowd of _Joan of Arcs_, many _Marquisesde Pompadours_, and some _Conspiracies of Cellamare_.

  Nearly all of them appeared still more stupid than the romances. Forthere exists for the stage a conventional history which nothing candestroy. Louis XI. will not fail to kneel before the little images inhis hat; Henry IV. will be constantly jovial, Mary Stuart tearful,Richelieu cruel; in short, all the characters seem taken from a singleblock, from love of simplicity and regard for ignorance, so that theplaywright, far from elevating, lowers, and, instead of instructing,stupefies.

  As Bouvard had spoken eulogistically to him about George Sand, Pecuchetproceeded to read _Consuelo_, _Horace_, and _Mauprat_, was beguiled bythe author's vindication of the oppressed, the socialistic andrepublican aspect of her works, and the discussions contained in them.

  According to Bouvard, however, these elements spoiled the story, and heasked for love-tales at the circulating library.

  They read aloud, one after the other, _La Nouvelle Heloise_, _Delphine_,_Adolphe_, and _Ourika_. But the listener's yawns proved contagious, forthe book slipped out of the reader's hand to the floor.

  They found fault with the last-mentioned works for making no referenceto the environment, the period, the costume of the various personages.The heart alone is the theme--nothing but sentiment! as if there werenothing else in the world.

  They next went in for novels of the humorous order, such as the _Voyageautour de ma Chambre_, by Xavier de Maistre, and _Sous les Tilleuls_, byAlphonse Karr. In books of this description the author must interruptthe narrative in order to talk about his dog, his slippers, or hismistress.

  A style so free from formality charmed them at first, then appearedstupid to them, for the author effaces his work while displaying in ithis personal surroundings.

  Through need of the dramatic element, they plunged into romances ofadventure. The more entangled, extraordinary, and impossible the plotwas, the more it interested them. They did their best to foresee the_denouement_, became very excited over it, and tired themselves out witha piece of child's play unworthy of serious minds.

  The work of Balzac amazed them like a Babylon, and at the same time likegrains of dust under the microscope.

  In the most commonplace things arise new aspects. They never suspectedthat there were such depths in modern life.

  "What an observer!" exclaimed Bouvard.

  "For my part I consider him chimerical," Pecuchet ended by declaring."He believes in the occult sciences, in monarchy, in rank; is dazzled byrascals; turns up millions for you like centimes; and middle-classpeople are not with him middle-class people at all, but giants. Whyinflate what is unimportant, and waste description on silly things? Hewrote one novel on chemistry, another on banking, another onprinting-machines, just as one Ricard produced _The Cabman_, _TheWater-Carrier_ and _The Cocoa-Nut Seller_. We should soon have books onevery trade and on every province; then on every town and on thedifferent stories of every house, and on every individual--which wouldbe no longer literature but statistics or ethnography."

  The process was of little consequence in Bouvard's estimation. He wantedto get information--to acquire a deeper knowledge of human nature. Heread Paul de Kock again, and ran through the _Old Hermits of theChaussee d'Antin_.

  "Why lose one's time with such absurdities?"
said Pecuchet.

  "But they might be very interesting as a series of documents."

  "Go away with your documents! I want something to lift me up, and takeme away from the miseries of this world."

  And Pecuchet, craving for the ideal, led Bouvard unconsciously towardstragedy.

  The far-off times in which the action takes place, the interests withwhich it is concerned, and the high station of its leading personagesimpressed them with a certain sense of grandeur.

  One day Bouvard took up _Athalie_, and recited the dream so well thatPecuchet wished to attempt it in his turn. From the opening sentence hisvoice got lost in a sort of humming sound. It was monotonous and, thoughstrong, indistinct.

  Bouvard, full of experience, advised him, in order to render itwell-modulated, to roll it out from the lowest tone to the highest, andto draw it back by making use of an ascending and descending scale; andhe himself went through this exercise every morning in bed, according tothe precept of the Greeks. Pecuchet, at the time mentioned, worked inthe same fashion: each had his door closed, and they went on bawlingseparately.

  The features that pleased them in tragedy were the emphasis, thepolitical declamations, and the maxims on the perversity of things.

  They learned by heart the most celebrated dialogues of Racine andVoltaire, and they used to declaim them in the corridor. Bouvard, as ifhe were at the Theatre Francais, strutted, with his hand on Pecuchet'sshoulder, stopping at intervals; and, with rolling eyes, he would openwide his arms, and accuse the Fates. He would give forth fine bursts ofgrief from the _Philoctete_ of La Harpe, a nice death-rattle from_Gabrielle de Vergy_, and, when he played Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse,the way in which he represented that personage gazing at his son whileexclaiming, "Monster, worthy of me!" was indeed terrible. Pecuchetforgot his part in it. The ability, and not the will, was what helacked.

  On one occasion, in the _Cleopatre_ of Marmontel, he fancied that hecould reproduce the hissing of the asp, just as the automaton inventedfor the purpose by Vaucanson might have done it. The abortive effortmade them laugh all the evening. The tragedy sank in their estimation.

  Bouvard was the first to grow tired of it, and, dealing frankly with thesubject, demonstrated how artificial and limping it was, the sillinessof its incidents, and the absurdity of the disclosures made toconfidants.

  They then went in for comedy, which is the school for fine shading.Every sentence must be dislocated, every word must be underlined, andevery syllable must be weighed. Pecuchet could not manage it, and gotquite stranded in _Celimene_. Moreover, he thought the lovers very cold,the disputes a bore, and the valets intolerable--Clitandre andSganarelle as unreal as AEgistheus and Agamemnon.

  There remained the serious comedy or tragedy of everyday life, where wesee fathers of families afflicted, servants saving their masters, richmen offering others their fortunes, innocent seamstresses and villainouscorrupters, a species which extends from Diderot to Pixerecourt. Allthese plays preaching about virtue disgusted them by their triviality.

  The drama of 1830 fascinated them by its movement, its colouring, itsyouthfulness. They made scarcely any distinction between Victor Hugo,Dumas, or Bouchardy, and the diction was no longer to be pompous orfine, but lyrical, extravagant.

  One day, as Bouvard was trying to make Pecuchet understand FredericLemaitre's acting, Madame Bordin suddenly presented herself in a greenshawl, carrying with her a volume of Pigault-Lebrun, the two gentlemenbeing so polite as to lend her novels now and then.

  "But go on!" for she had been a minute there already, and had listenedto them with pleasure.

  They hoped she would excuse them. She insisted.

  "Faith!" said Bouvard, "there's nothing to prevent----"

  Pecuchet, through bashfulness, remarked that he could not act unpreparedand without costume.

  "To do it effectively, we should need to disguise ourselves!"

  And Bouvard looked about for something to put on, but found only theGreek cap, which he snatched up.

  As the corridor was not big enough, they went down to the drawing-room.Spiders crawled along the walls, and the geological specimens thatencumbered the floor had whitened with their dust the velvet of thearmchairs. On the chair which had least dirt on it they spread a cover,so that Madame Bordin might sit down.

  It was necessary to give her something good.

  Bouvard was in favour of the _Tour de Nesle_. But Pecuchet was afraid ofparts which called for too much action.

  "She would prefer some classical piece! _Phedre_, for instance."

  "Be it so."

  Bouvard set forth the theme: "It is about a queen whose husband has ason by another wife. She has fallen madly in love with the young man.Are we there? Start!

  "'Yes, prince! for Theseus I grow faint, I burn-- I love him!'"[9]

  And, addressing Pecuchet's side-face, he gushed out admiration of hisport, his visage, "that charming head"; grieved at not having met himwith the Greek fleet; would have gladly been lost with him in thelabyrinth.

  The border of the red cap bent forward amorously, and his tremblingvoice and his appealing face begged of the cruel one to take pity on ahopeless flame.

  Pecuchet, turning aside, breathed hard to emphasise his emotion.

  Madame Bordin, without moving, kept her eyes wide open, as if gazing atpeople whirling round; Melie was listening behind the door; Gorju, inhis shirt-sleeves, was staring at them through the window. Bouvard madea dash into the second part. His acting gave expression to the deliriumof the senses, remorse, despair; and he flung himself on the imaginarysword of Pecuchet with such violence that, slipping over some of thestone specimens, he was near tumbling on the ground.

  "Pay no attention! Then Theseus arrives, and she poisons herself."

  "Poor woman!" said Madame Bordin.

  After this they begged of her to choose a piece for them.

  She felt perplexed about making a selection. She had seen only threepieces: _Robert le Diable_ in the capital, _Le Jeune Mari_ at Rouen, andanother at Falaise which was very funny, and which was called _LaBrouette du Vinaigrier_.[10]

  Finally, Bouvard suggested to her the great scene of Tartuffe in thesecond act.

  Pecuchet thought an explanation was desirable:

  "You must know that Tartuffe----"

  Madame Bordin interrupted him: "We know what a Tartuffe is."

  Bouvard had wished for a robe for a certain passage.

  "I see only the monk's habit," said Pecuchet.

  "No matter; bring it here."

  He reappeared with it and a copy of Moliere.

  The opening was tame, but at the place where Tartuffe caresses Elmire'sknees, Pecuchet assumed the tone of a gendarme:

  "_What is your hand doing there?_"

  Bouvard instantly replied in a sugary voice:

  "_I am feeling your dress; the stuff of it is marrowy._"

  And he shot forth glances from his eyes, bent forward his mouth, sniffedwith an exceedingly lecherous air, and ended by even addressing himselfto Madame Bordin.

  His impassioned gaze embarrassed her, and when he stopped, humble andpalpitating, she almost sought for something to say in reply.

  Pecuchet took refuge in the book: "_The declaration is quite gallant._"

  "Ha! yes," cried she; "he is a bold wheedler."

  "Is it not so?" returned Bouvard confidently. "But here's another with amore modern touch about it." And, having opened his coat, he squattedover a piece of ashlar, and, with his head thrown back, burst forth:

  "Your eyes' bright flame my vision floods with joy. Sing me some song like those, in bygone years, You sang at eve, your dark eye filled with tears."[11]

  "That is like me," she thought.

  "Drink and be merry! let the wine-cup flow: Give me this hour, and all the rest may go!"[12]

  "How droll you are!" And she laughed with a little laugh, which made herthroat rise up, and exposed her teeth.

  "Ah! say, is i
t not sweet To love and see your lover at your feet?"[13]

  He knelt down.

  "Finish, then."

  "'Oh! let me sleep and dream upon thy breast, My beauty, Dona Sol, my love!'[14]

  "Here the bells are heard, and they are disturbed by a mountaineer."

  "Fortunately; for, but for that----" And Madame Bordin smiled, in placeof finishing the sentence.

  It was getting dark. She arose.

  It had been raining a short time before, and the path through the beechgrove not being dry enough, it was more convenient to return across thefields. Bouvard accompanied her into the garden, in order to open thegate for her.

  At first they walked past the trees cut like distaffs, without a wordbeing spoken on either side. He was still moved by his declamation, andshe, at the bottom of her heart, felt a certain kind of fascination, acharm which was generated by the influence of literature. There areoccasions when art excites commonplace natures; and worlds may beunveiled by the clumsiest interpreters.

  The sun had reappeared, making the leaves glisten, and casting luminousspots here and there amongst the brakes. Three sparrows with littlechirpings hopped on the trunk of an old linden tree which had fallen tothe ground. A hawthorn in blossom exhibited its pink sheath; lilacsdrooped, borne down by their foliage.

  "Ah! that does one good!" said Bouvard, inhaling the air till it filledhis lungs.

  "You are so painstaking."

  "It is not that I have talent; but as for fire, I possess some of that."

  "One can see," she returned, pausing between the words, "that you--werein love--in your early days."

  "Only in my early days, you believe?"

  She stopped. "I know nothing about it."

  "What does she mean?" And Bouvard felt his heart beating.

  A little pool in the middle of the gravel obliging them to step aside,they got up on the hedgerow.

  Then they chatted about the recital.

  "What is the name of your last piece?"

  "It is taken from _Hernani_, a drama."

  "Ha!" then slowly and as if in soliloquy, "it must be nice to have agentleman say such things to you--in downright earnest."

  "I am at your service," replied Bouvard.

  "You?"

  "Yes, I."

  "What a joke!"

  "Not the least in the world!"

  And, having cast a look about him, he caught her from behind round thewaist and kissed the nape of her neck vigorously.

  She became very pale as if she were going to faint, and leaned one handagainst a tree, then opened her eyes and shook her head.

  "It is past."

  He looked at her in amazement.

  The grating being open, she got up on the threshold of the littlegateway.

  There was a water-channel at the opposite side. She gathered up all thefolds of her petticoat and stood on the brink hesitatingly.

  "Do you want my assistance?"

  "Unnecessary."

  "Why not?"

  "Ha! you are too dangerous!" And as she jumped down, he could see herwhite stocking.

  Bouvard blamed himself for having wasted an opportunity. Bah! he shouldhave one again--and then not all women are alike. With some of them youmust be blunt, while audacity destroys you with others. In short, he wassatisfied with himself--and he did not confide his hope to Pecuchet;this was through fear of the remarks that would be passed, and not atall through delicacy.

  From that time forth they used to recite in the presence of Melie andGorju, all the time regretting that they had not a private theatre.

  The little servant-girl was amused without understanding a bit of it,wondering at the language, charmed at the roll of the verses. Gorjuapplauded the philosophic passages in the tragedies, and everything inthe people's favour in the melodramas, so that, delighted at his goodtaste, they thought of giving him lessons, with a view to making anactor of him subsequently. This prospect dazzled the workman.

  Their performances by this time became the subject of general gossip.Vaucorbeil spoke to them about the matter in a sly fashion. Most peopleregarded their acting with contempt.

  They only prided themselves the more upon it. They crowned themselvesartists. Pecuchet wore moustaches, and Bouvard thought he could not doanything better, with his round face and his bald patch, than to givehimself a head _a la_ Beranger. Finally, they determined to write aplay.

  The subject was the difficulty. They searched for it while they were atbreakfast, and drank coffee, a stimulant indispensable for the brain,then two or three little glasses. They would next take a nap on theirbeds, after which they would make their way down to the fruit garden andtake a turn there; and at length they would leave the house to findinspiration outside, and, after walking side by side, they would comeback quite worn out.

  Or else they would shut themselves up together. Bouvard would sweep thetable, lay down paper in front of him, dip his pen, and remain with hiseyes on the ceiling; whilst Pecuchet, in the armchair, would be plungedin meditation, with his legs stretched out and his head down.

  Sometimes they felt a shivering sensation, and, as it were, the passingbreath of an idea, but at the very moment when they were seizing it, ithad vanished.

  But methods exist for discovering subjects. You take a title at random,and a fact trickles out of it. You develop a proverb; you combine anumber of adventures so as to form only one. None of these devices cameto anything. In vain they ran through collections of anecdotes, severalvolumes of celebrated trials, and a heap of historical works.

  And they dreamed of being acted at the Odeon, had their thoughts fixedon theatrical performances, and sighed for Paris.

  "I was born to be an author instead of being buried in the country!"said Bouvard.

  "And I likewise," chimed in Pecuchet.

  Then came an illumination to their minds. If they had so much troubleabout it, the reason was their ignorance of the rules.

  They studied them in the _Pratique du Theatre_, by D'Aubignac, and insome works not quite so old-fashioned.

  Important questions are discussed in them: Whether comedy can be writtenin verse; whether tragedy does not go outside its limits by taking itssubject from modern history; whether the heroes ought to be virtuous;what kinds of villains it allows; up to what point horrors arepermissible in it; that the details should verge towards a single end;that the interest should increase; that the conclusion should harmonisewith the opening--these were unquestionable propositions.

  "Invent resorts that can take hold of me,"

  says Boileau. By what means were they to "invent resorts?"

  "So that in all your speeches passion's dart May penetrate, and warm, and move the heart."[15]

  How were they to "warm the heart?"

  Rules, therefore, were not sufficient; there was need, in addition, forgenius. And genius is not sufficient either. Corneille, according to theFrench Academy, understands nothing about the stage; Geoffroy disparagedVoltaire; Souligny scoffed at Racine; La Harpe blushed at Shakespeare'sname.

  Becoming disgusted with the old criticism, they wished to makeacquaintance with the new, and sent for the notices of plays in thenewspapers.

  What assurance! What obstinacy! What dishonesty! Outrages onmasterpieces; respect shown for platitudes; the gross ignorance of thosewho pass for scholars, and the stupidity of others whom they describe aswitty.

  Perhaps it is to the public that one must appeal.

  But works that have been applauded sometimes displeased them, andamongst plays that were hissed there were some that they admired.

  Thus the opinions of persons of taste are unreliable, while the judgmentof the multitude is incomprehensible.

  Bouvard submitted the problem to Barberou. Pecuchet, on his side, wroteto Dumouchel.

  The ex-commercial traveller was astonished at the effeminacy engenderedby provincial life. His old Bouvard was turning into a blockhead; inshort, "he was no longer in it at all."

  "The theatre i
s an article of consumption like any other. It isadvertised in the newspapers. We go to the theatre to be amused. Thegood thing is the thing that amuses."

  "But, idiot," exclaimed Pecuchet, "what amuses you is not what amusesme; and the others, as well as yourself, will be weary of it by and by.If plays are written expressly to be acted, how is it that the best ofthem can be always read?"

  And he awaited Dumouchel's reply. According to the professor, theimmediate fate of a play proved nothing. The _Misanthrope_ and _Athalie_are dying out. _Zaire_ is no longer understood. Who speaks to-day ofDucange or of Picard? And he recalled all the great contemporarysuccesses from _Fanchon la Vielleuse_ to _Gaspardo le Pecheur_, anddeplored the decline of our stage. The cause of it is the contempt forliterature, or rather for style; and, with the aid of certain authorsmentioned by Dumouchel, they learned the secret of the various styles;how we get the majestic, the temperate, the ingenuous, the touches thatare noble and the expressions that are low. "Dogs" may be heightened by"devouring"; "to vomit" is to be used only figuratively; "fever" isapplied to the passions; "valiance" is beautiful in verse.

  "Suppose we made verses?" said Pecuchet.

  "Yes, later. Let us occupy ourselves with prose first."

  A strict recommendation is given to choose a classic in order to mouldyourself upon it; but all of them have their dangers, and not only havethey sinned in point of style, but still more in point of phraseology.

  This assertion disconcerted Bouvard and Pecuchet, and they set aboutstudying grammar.

  Has the French language, in its idiomatic structure definite articlesand indefinite, as in Latin? Some think that it has, others that it hasnot. They did not venture to decide.

  The subject is always in agreement with the verb, save on the occasionswhen the subject is not in agreement with it.

  There was formerly no distinction between the verbal adjective and thepresent participle; but the Academy lays down one not very easy tograsp.

  They were much pleased to learn that the pronoun _leur_ is used forpersons, but also for things, while _ou_ and _en_ are used for thingsand sometimes for persons.

  Ought we to say _Cette femme a l'air bon_ or _l'air bonne_?--_une buchede bois sec_, or _de bois seche_?--_ne pas laisser de_, or _quede_?--_une troupe de voleurs survint_, or _survinrent_?

  Other difficulties: _Autour_ and _a l'entour_ of which Racine andBoileau did not see the difference; _imposer_, or _en imposer_,synonyms with Massillon and Voltaire; _croasser_ and _coasser_,confounded by La Fontaine, who knew, however, how to distinguish a crowfrom a frog.

  The grammarians, it is true, are at variance. Some see a beauty whereothers discover a fault. They admit principles of which they reject theconsequences, announce consequences of which they repudiate theprinciples, lean on tradition, throw over the masters, and adoptwhimsical refinements.

  Menage, instead of _lentilles_ and _cassonade_, approves of _nentilles_and _castonade_; Bonhours, _jerarchie_ and not _hierarchie_ and M.Chapsal speaks of _les oeils de la soupe_.

  Pecuchet was amazed above all at Jenin. What! _z'annetons_ would bebetter than _hannetons_, _z'aricots_ than _haricots_! and, under LouisXIV., the pronunciation was _Roume_ and _Monsieur de Lioune_, instead of_Rome_ and _Monsieur de Lionne_!

  Littre gave them the finishing stroke by declaring that there never hadbeen, and never could be positive orthography. They concluded thatsyntax is a whim and grammar an illusion.

  At this period, moreover, a new school of rhetoric declared that weshould write as we speak, and that all would be well so long as we feltand observed.

  As they had felt and believed that they had observed, they consideredthemselves qualified to write. A play is troublesome on account of thenarrowness of its framework, but the novel has more freedom. In order towrite one they searched among their personal recollections.

  Pecuchet recalled to mind one of the head-clerks in his own office, avery nasty customer, and he felt a longing to take revenge on him bymeans of a book.

  Bouvard had, at the smoking saloon, made the acquaintance of an oldwriting-master, who was a miserable drunkard. Nothing could be soludicrous as this character.

  At the end of the week, they imagined that they could fuse these twosubjects into one. They left off there, and passed on to the following:a woman who causes the unhappiness of a family; a wife, her husband, andher lover; a woman who would be virtuous through a defect in herconformation; an ambitious man; a bad priest. They tried to bindtogether with these vague conceptions things supplied by their memory,and then made abridgments or additions.

  Pecuchet was for sentiment and ideality, Bouvard for imagery andcolouring; and they began to understand each other no longer, eachwondering that the other should be so shallow.

  The science which is known as aesthetics would perhaps settle theirdifferences. A friend of Dumouchel, a professor of philosophy, sent thema list of works on the subject. They worked separately and communicatedtheir ideas to one another.

  In the first place, what is the Beautiful?

  For Schelling, it is the infinite expressing itself through the finite;for Reid, an occult quality; for Jouffroy, an indecomposable fact; forDe Maistre, that which is pleasing to virtue; for P. Andre, that whichagrees with reason.

  And there are many kinds of beauty: a beauty in the sciences--geometryis beautiful; a beauty in morals--it cannot be denied that the death ofSocrates was beautiful; a beauty in the animal kingdom--the beauty ofthe dog consists in his sense of smell. A pig could not be beautiful,having regard to his dirty habits; no more could a serpent, for itawakens in us ideas of vileness. The flowers, the butterflies, the birdsmay be beautiful. Finally, the first condition of beauty is unity invariety: there is the principle.

  "Yet," said Bouvard, "two squint eyes are more varied than two straighteyes, and produce an effect which is not so good--as a rule."

  They entered upon the question of the Sublime.

  Certain objects are sublime in themselves: the noise of a torrent,profound darkness, a tree flung down by the storm. A character isbeautiful when it triumphs, and sublime when it struggles.

  "I understand," said Bouvard; "the Beautiful is the beautiful, and theSublime the very beautiful."

  But how were they to be distinguished?

  "By means of tact," answered Pecuchet.

  "And tact--where does that come from?"

  "From taste."

  "What is taste?"

  It is defined as a special discernment, a rapid judgment, the power ofdistinguishing certain relationships.

  "In short, taste is taste; but all that does not tell the way to haveit."

  It is necessary to observe the proprieties. But the proprieties vary;and, let a work be ever so beautiful, it will not be alwaysirreproachable. There is, however, a beauty which is indestructible, andof whose laws we are ignorant, for its genesis is mysterious.

  Since an idea cannot be interpreted in every form, we ought to recogniselimits amongst the arts, and in each of the arts many forms; butcombinations arise in which the style of one will enter into anotherwithout the ill result of deviating from the end--of not being true.

  The too rigid application of truth is hurtful to beauty, andpreoccupation with beauty impedes truth. However, without an ideal thereis no truth; this is why types are of a more continuous reality thanportraits. Art, besides, only aims at verisimilitude; but verisimilitudedepends on the observer, and is a relative and transitory thing.

  So they got lost in discussions. Bouvard believed less and less inaesthetics.

  "If it is not a humbug, its correctness will be demonstrated byexamples. Now listen."

  And he read a note which had called for much research on his part:

  "'Bouhours accuses Tacitus of not having the simplicity which historydemands. M. Droz, a professor, blames Shakespeare for his mixture of theserious and the comic. Nisard, another professor, thinks that AndreChenier is, as a poet, beneath the seventeenth century. Blair, anEnglishman, finds fault with the picture
of the harpies in Virgil.Marmontel groans over the liberties taken by Homer. Lamotte does notadmit the immortality of his heroes. Vida is indignant at his similes.In short, all the makers of rhetorics, poetics, and aesthetics, appear tome idiots."

  "You are exaggerating," said Pecuchet.

  He was disturbed by doubts; for, if (as Longinus observes) ordinaryminds are incapable of faults, the faults must be associated with themasters, and we are bound to admire them. This is going too far.However, the masters are the masters. He would have liked to make thedoctrines harmonise with the works, the critics with the poets, tograsp the essence of the Beautiful; and these questions exercised him somuch that his bile was stirred up. He got a jaundice from it.

  It was at its crisis when Marianne, Madame Bordin's cook, came with arequest from her mistress for an interview with Bouvard.

  The widow had not made her appearance since the dramatic performance.Was this an advance? But why should she employ Marianne as anintermediary? And all night Bouvard's imagination wandered.

  Next day, about two o'clock, he was walking in the corridor, andglancing out through the window from time to time. The door-bell rang.It was the notary.

  He crossed the threshold, ascended the staircase, and seated himself inthe armchair, and, after a preliminary exchange of courtesies, saidthat, tired of waiting for Madame Bordin, he had started before her. Shewished to buy the Ecalles from him.

  Bouvard experienced a kind of chilling sensation, and he hurried towardsPecuchet's room.

  Pecuchet did not know what reply to make. He was in an anxious frame ofmind, as M. Vaucorbeil was to be there presently.

  At length Madame Bordin arrived. The delay was explained by the manifestattention she had given to her toilette, which consisted of a cashmerefrock, a hat, and fine kid gloves--a costume befitting a seriousoccasion.

  After much frivolous preliminary talk she asked whether a thousandcrown-pieces would not be sufficient.

  "One acre! A thousand crown-pieces! Never!"

  She half closed her eyes. "Oh! for me!"

  And all three remained silent.

  M. de Faverges entered. He had a morocco case under his arm, like asolicitor; and, depositing it on the table, said:

  "These are pamphlets! They deal with reform--a burning question; buthere is a thing which no doubt belongs to you."

  And he handed Bouvard the second volume of the _Memoires du Diable_.

  Melie, just now, had been reading it in the kitchen; and, as one oughtto watch over the morals of persons of that class, he thought he wasdoing the right thing in confiscating the book.

  Bouvard had lent it to his servant-maid. They chatted about novels.Madame Bordin liked them when they were not dismal.

  "Writers," said M. de Faverges, "paint life in colours that are tooflattering."

  "It is necessary to paint," urged Bouvard.

  "Then nothing can be done save to follow the example."

  "It is not a question of example."

  "At least, you will admit that they might fall into the hands of a youngdaughter. I have one."

  "And a charming one!" said the notary, with the expression ofcountenance he wore on the days of marriage contracts.

  "Well, for her sake, or rather for that of the persons that surroundher, I prohibit them in my house, for the people, my dear sir----"

  "What have the people done?" said Vaucorbeil, appearing suddenly at thedoor.

  Pecuchet, who had recognised his voice, came to mingle with the company.

  "I maintain," returned the count, "that it is necessary to prevent themfrom reading certain books."

  Vaucorbeil observed: "Then you are not in favour of education?"

  "Yes, certainly. Allow me----"

  "When every day," said Marescot, "an attack is made on the government."

  "Where's the harm?"

  And the nobleman and the physician proceeded to disparage LouisPhilippe, recalling the Pritchard case, and the September laws againstthe liberty of the press:

  "And that of the stage," added Pecuchet.

  Marescot could stand this no longer.

  "It goes too far, this stage of yours!"

  "That I grant you," said the count--"plays that glorify suicide."

  "Suicide is a fine thing! Witness Cato," protested Pecuchet.

  Without replying to the argument, M. de Faverges stigmatised those worksin which the holiest things are scoffed at: the family, property,marriage.

  "Well, and Moliere?" said Bouvard.

  Marescot, a man of literary taste, retorted that Moliere would not passmuster any longer, and was, furthermore, a little overrated.

  "Finally," said the count, "Victor Hugo has been pitiless--yes,pitiless--towards Marie Antoinette, by dragging over the hurdle the typeof the Queen in the character of Mary Tudor."

  "What!" exclaimed Bouvard, "I, an author, I have no right----"

  "No, sir, you have no right to show us crime without putting beside it acorrective--without presenting to us a lesson."

  Vaucorbeil thought also that art ought to have an object--to aim at theimprovement of the masses. "Let us chant science, our discoveries,patriotism," and he broke into admiration of Casimir Delavigne.

  Madame Bordin praised the Marquis de Foudras.

  The notary replied: "But the language--are you thinking of that?"

  "The language? How?"

  "He refers to the style," said Pecuchet. "Do you consider his works wellwritten?"

  "No doubt, exceedingly interesting."

  He shrugged his shoulders, and she blushed at the impertinence.

  Madame Bordin had several times attempted to come back to her ownbusiness transaction. It was too late to conclude it. She went off onMarescot's arm.

  The count distributed his pamphlets, requesting them to hand them roundto other people.

  Vaucorbeil was leaving, when Pecuchet stopped him.

  "You are forgetting me, doctor."

  His yellow physiognomy was pitiable, with his moustaches and his blackhair, which was hanging down under a silk handkerchief badly fastened.

  "Purge yourself," said the doctor. And, giving him two little slaps asif to a child: "Too much nerves, too much artist!"

  "No, surely!"

  They summed up what they had just heard. The morality of art iscontained for every person in that which flatters that person'sinterests. No one has any love for literature.

  After this they turned over the count's pamphlets.

  They found in all of a demand for universal suffrage.

  "It seems to me," said Pecuchet, "that we shall soon have somesquabbling."

  For he saw everything in dark colours, perhaps on account of hisjaundice.