The succession of so many men filled them with a desire to understand them more thoroughly, to enter into their lives. They wanted to read the originals—Gregory of Tours, Monstrelet, Commines, all those whose names were odd or agreeable. But the events got confused through want of knowledge of the dates.
Fortunately they possessed Dumouchel's work on mnemonics, a duodecimo in boards with this epigraph: "To instruct while amusing."
It combined the three systems of Allevy, of Pâris, and of Fenaigle.
Allevy transforms numbers into external objects, the number 1 being expressed by a tower, 2 by a bird, 3 by a camel, and so on. Pâris strikes the imagination by means of rebuses: an armchair garnished with clincher-nails will give "Clou, vis—Clovis"; and, as the sound of frying makes "ric, ric," whitings in a stove will recall "Chilperic." Fenaigle divides the universe into houses, which contain rooms, each having four walls with nine panels, and each panel bearing an emblem. A pharos on a mountain will tell the name of "Phar-a-mond" in Pâris's system; and, according to Allevy's directions, by placing above a mirror, which signifies 4, a bird 2, and a hoop 0, we shall obtain 420, the date of that prince's accession.
For greater clearness, they took as their mnemotechnic basis their own house, their domicile, associating a distinct fact with each part of it; and the courtyard, the garden, the outskirts, the entire country, had for them no meaning any longer except as objects for facilitating memory. The boundaries in the fields defined certain epochs; the apple trees were genealogical stems, the bushes battles; everything became symbolic. They sought for quantities of absent things on their walls, ended by seeing them, but lost the recollection of what dates they represented.
Besides the dates are not always authentic. They learned out of a manual for colleges that the birth of Jesus ought to be carried back five years earlier than the date usually assigned for it; that there were amongst the Greeks three ways of counting the Olympiads, and eight amongst the Latin of making the year begin. So many opportunities for mistakes outside of those which result from the zodiacs, from the epochs, and from the different calendars!
And from carelessness as to dates they passed to contempt for facts.
What is important is the philosophy of history!
Bouvard could not finish the celebrated discourse of Bossuet.
"The eagle of Meaux is a farce-actor! He forgets China, the Indies, and America; but is careful to let us know that Theodosius was 'the joy of the universe,' that Abraham 'treated kings as his equals,' and that the philosophy of the Greeks has come down from the Hebrews. His preoccupation with the Hebrews provokes me."
Pécuchet shared this opinion, and wished to make him read Vico.
"Why admit," objected Bouvard, "that fables are more true than the truths of historians?"
Pécuchet tried to explain myths, and got lost in the Scienza Nuova.
"Will you deny the design of Providence?"
"I don't know it!" said Bouvard. And they decided to refer to Dumouchel.
The professor confessed that he was now at sea on the subject of history.
"It is changing every day. There is a controversy as to the kings of Rome and the journeys of Pythagoras. Doubts have been thrown on Belisarius, William Tell, and even on the Cid, who has become, thanks to the latest discoveries, a common robber. It is desirable that no more discoveries should be made, and the Institute ought even to lay down a kind of canon prescribing what it is necessary to believe!"
In a postscript he sent them some rules of criticism taken from Daunou's course of lectures:
"To cite by way of proof the testimony of multitudes is a bad method of proof; they are not there to reply.
"To reject impossible things. Pausanias was shown the stone swallowed by Saturn.
"Architecture may lie: instance, the arch of the Forum, in which Titus is called the first conqueror of Jerusalem, which had been conquered before him by Pompey.
"Medals sometimes deceive. Under Charles IX. money was minted from the coinage of Henry II.
"Take into account the skill of forgers and the interestedness of apologists and calumniators."
Few historians have worked in accordance with these rules, but all in view of one special cause, of one religion, of one nation, of one party, of one system, in order to curb kings, to advise the people, or to offer moral examples.
The others, who pretend merely to narrate, are no better; for everything cannot be told—some selection must be made. But in the selection of documents some special predilection will have the upper hand, and, as this varies according to the conditions under which the writer views the matter, history will never be fixed.
"It is sad," was their reflection. However, one might take a subject, exhaust the sources of information concerning it, make a good analysis of them, then condense it into a narrative, which would be, as it were, an epitome of the facts reflecting the entire truth.
"Do you wish that we should attempt to compose a history?"
"I ask for nothing better. But of what?"
"Suppose we write the life of the Duke of Angoulême?"
"But he was an idiot!" returned Bouvard.
"What matter? Personages of an inferior mould have sometimes an enormous influence, and he may have controlled the machinery of public affairs."
The books would furnish them with information; and M. de Faverges, no doubt, would have them himself, or could procure them from some elderly gentleman of his acquaintance.
They thought over this project, discussed it, and finally determined to spend a fortnight at the municipal library at Caen in making researches there.
The librarian placed at their disposal some general histories and some pamphlets with a coloured lithograph portrait representing at three-quarters' length Monseigneur the Duke of Angoulême.
The blue cloth of his uniform disappeared under the epaulets, the stars, and the large red ribbon of the Legion of Honour; a very high collar surrounded his long neck; his pear-shaped head was framed by the curls of his hair and by his scanty whiskers and heavy eyelashes; and a very big nose and thick lips gave his face an expression of commonplace good-nature.
When they had taken notes, they drew up a programme:
"Birth and childhood but slightly interesting. One of his tutors is the Abbé Guénée, Voltaire's enemy. At Turin he is made to cast a cannon; and he studies the campaigns of Charles VIII. Also he is nominated, despite his youth, colonel of a regiment of noble guards.
"1797.—His marriage.
"1814.—The English take possession of Bordeaux. He runs up behind them and shows his person to the inhabitants. Description of the prince's person.
"1815.—Bonaparte surprises him. Immediately he appeals to the King of Spain; and Toulon, were it not for Masséna, would have been surrendered to England.
"Operations in the South. He is beaten, but released under the promise to restore the crown diamonds carried off at full gallop by the King, his uncle.
"After the Hundred Days he returns with his parents and lives in peace. Several years glide away.
"War with Spain. Once he has crossed the Pyrenees, victories everywhere follow the grandson of Henry IV. He takes the Trocadéro, reaches the pillars of Hercules, crushes the factions, embraces Ferdinand, and returns.
"Triumphal arches; flowers presented by young girls; dinners at the Prefecture; 'Te Deum' in the cathedrals. The Parisians are at the height of intoxication. The city offers him a banquet. Songs containing allusions to the hero are sung at the theatre.
"The enthusiasm diminishes; for in 1827 a ball organised by subscription proves a failure.
"As he is High Admiral of France, he inspects the fleet, which is going to start for Algiers.
"July 1830.—Marmont informs him of the state of affairs. Then he gets into such a rage that he wounds himself in the hand with the general's sword. The King entrusts him with the command of all the forces.
"He meets detachments of the line in the Bois de Boulogne, and has not a word to say to them.
"From St. Cloud he flies to the bridge of Sèvres. Coldness of the troops. That does not shake him. The Royal family leave Trianon. He sits down at the foot of an oak, unrolls a map, meditates, remounts his horse, passes in front of St. Cyr, and sends to the students words of hope.
"At Rambouillet the bodyguards bid him good-bye. He embarks, and during the entire passage is ill. End of his career.
"The importance possessed by the bridges ought here to be noticed. First, he exposes himself needlessly on the bridge of the Inn; he carries the bridge St. Esprit and the bridge of Lauriol; at Lyons the two bridges are fatal to him, and his fortune dies before the bridge of Sèvres.
"List of his virtues. Needless to praise his courage, to which he joined a far-seeing policy. For he offered every soldier sixty francs to desert the Emperor, and in Spain he tried to corrupt the Constitutionalists with ready money.
"His reserve was so profound that he consented to the marriage arranged between his father and the Queen of Etruria, to the formation of a new cabinet after the Ordinances, to the abdication in favour of Chambord—to everything that they asked him.
"Firmness, however, was not wanting in him. At Angers, he cashiered the infantry of the National Guard, who, jealous of the cavalry, had succeeded by means of a stratagem in forming his escort, so that his Highness found himself jammed into the ranks at the cost of having his knees squeezed. But he censured the cavalry, the cause of the disorder, and pardoned the infantry—a veritable judgment of Solomon.
"His piety manifested itself by numerous devotions, and his clemency by obtaining the pardon of General Debelle, who had borne arms against him.
"Intimate details; characteristics of the Prince:
"At the château of Beauregard, in his childhood, he took pleasure in deepening, along with his brother, a sheet of water, which may still be seen. On one occasion, he visited the barracks of the chasseurs, called for a glass of wine, and drank the King's health.
"While walking, in order to mark the step, he used to keep repeating to himself: 'One, two—one, two—one, two!'
"Some of his sayings have been preserved:—
"To a deputation from Bordeaux:
"'What consoles me for not being at Bordeaux is to find myself amidst you.'
"To the Protestants of Nismes:
"'I am a good Catholic, but I shall never forget that my distinguished ancestor was a Protestant.'
"To the pupils of St. Cyr, when all was lost:
"'Right, my friends! The news is good! This is right—all right!'
"After Charles X.'s abdication:
"'Since they don't want me, let them settle it themselves.'
"And in 1814, at every turn, in the smallest village:
"'No more war; no more conscription; no more united rights.'
"His style was as good as his utterance. His proclamations surpassed everything.
"The first, of the Count of Artois, began thus:
"'Frenchmen, your King's brother has arrived!'
"That of the prince:
'"I come. I am the son of your kings. You are Frenchmen!'
"Order of the day, dated from Bayonne:
"'Soldiers, I come!'
"Another, in the midst of disaffection:
"'Continue to sustain with the vigour which befits the French soldier the struggle which you have begun. France expects it of you.'
"Lastly, at Rambouillet:
"'The King has entered into an arrangement with the government established at Paris, and everything brings us to believe that this arrangement is on the point of being concluded.'
"'Everything brings us to believe' was sublime."
"One thing vexed me," said Bouvard, "that there is no mention of his love affairs!" And they made a marginal note: "To search for the prince's amours."
At the moment when they were taking their leave, the librarian, bethinking himself of it, showed them another portrait of the Duke of Angoulême.
In this one he appeared as a colonel of cuirassiers, on a vaulting-horse, his eyes still smaller, his mouth open, and his hair straight.
How were they to reconcile the two portraits? Had he straight hair, or rather crisped—unless he carried affectation so far as to get it curled?
A grave question, from Pécuchet's point of view, for the mode of wearing the hair indicates the temperament, and the temperament the individual.
Bouvard considered that we know nothing of a man as long as we are ignorant of his passions; and in order to clear up these two points, they presented themselves at the château of Faverges. The count was not there; this retarded their work. They returned home annoyed.
The door of the house was wide open; there was nobody in the kitchen. They went upstairs, and who should they see in the middle of Bouvard's room but Madame Bordin, looking about her right and left!
"Excuse me," she said, with a forced laugh, "I have for the last hour been searching for your cook, whom I wanted for my preserves."
They found her in the wood-house on a chair fast asleep. They shook her. She opened her eyes.
"What is it now? You are always prodding at me with your questions!"
It was clear that Madame Bordin had been putting some to her in their absence.
Germaine got out of her torpor, and complained of indigestion.
"I am remaining to take care of you," said the widow.
Then they perceived in the courtyard a big cap, the lappets of which were fluttering. It was Madame Castillon, proprietress of a neighbouring farm. She was calling out: "Gorju! Gorju!"
And from the corn-loft the voice of their little servant-maid answered loudly:
"He is not there!"
At the end of five minutes she came down, with her cheeks flushed and looking excited. Bouvard and Pécuchet reprimanded her for having been so slow. She unfastened their gaiters without a murmur.
Then they went to look at the chest. The bakehouse was covered with its scattered fragments; the carvings were damaged, the leaves broken.
At this sight, in the face of this fresh disaster, Bouvard had to keep back his tears, and Pécuchet got a fit of nervous shivering.
Gorju, making his appearance almost immediately, explained the matter. He had just put the chest outside in order to varnish it, when a wandering cow knocked it down on the ground.
"Whose cow?" said Pécuchet.
"I don't know."
"Ah! you left the door open, as you did some time ago. It is your fault."
At any rate, they would have nothing more to do with him. He had been trifling with them too long, and they wanted no more of him or his work.
"These gentlemen were wrong. The damage was not so great. It would be all settled before three weeks." And Gorju accompanied them into the kitchen, where Germaine was seen dragging herself along to see after the dinner.
They noticed on the table a bottle of Calvados, three quarters emptied.
"By you, no doubt," said Pécuchet to Gorju.
"By me! never!"
Bouvard met his protest by observing:
"You are the only man in the house."
"Well, and what about the women?" rejoined the workman, with a side wink.
Germaine caught him up:
"You'd better say 'twas I!"
"Certainly it was you."
"And perhaps 'twas I smashed the press?"
Gorju danced about.
"Don't you see that she's drunk?"
Then they squabbled violently with each other, he with a pale face and a biting manner, she purple with rage, tearing tufts of grey hair from under her cotton cap. Madame Bordin took Germaine's part, while Mélie took Gorju's.
The old woman burst out:
"Isn't it an abomination that you two should be spending days together in the grove, not to speak of the nights?—a sort of Parisian, eating up honest women, who comes to our master's house to play tricks on them!"
Bouvard opened his eyes wide.
"What tricks?"
"I tell you he's making fools of you!"
"Nobody can make a fool of me!" exclaimed Pécuchet, and, indignant at her insolence, exasperated by the mortification inflicted on him, he dismissed her, telling her to go and pack. Bouvard did not oppose this decision, and they went out, leaving Germaine in sobs over her misfortune, while Madame Bordin was trying to console her.
In the course of the evening, as they grew calmer, they went over these occurrences, asked themselves who had drunk the Calvados, how the chest got broken, what Madame Castillon wanted when she was calling Gorju, and whether he had dishonoured Mélie.
"We are not able to tell," said Bouvard, "what is happening in our own household, and we lay claim to discover all about the hair and the love affairs of the Duke of Angoulême."
Pécuchet added: "How many questions there are in other respects important and still more difficult!"
Whence they concluded that external facts are not everything. It is necessary to complete them by means of psychology. Without imagination, history is defective.
"Let us send for some historical romances!"
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, became living 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 the blackened benches of inns, in the winding streets of cities, under the sloping roofs of booths, in the cloisters of monasteries. Landscapes artistically arranged formed backgrounds for the narratives, like the scenery of a theatre. You follow with your eyes a horseman galloping along the strand; you breathe amid the heather the freshness of the wind; the moon shines on the lake, over which a boat is skimming; the sun glitters on the breast-plates; the rain falls over leafy huts. Without having any knowledge of the models, they thought these pictures lifelike and the illusion was complete.
When they had breakfasted, they would instal themselves in the little room, 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 wore apace, they would go out for a walk along the road, then, having snatched a hurried dinner, they would resume their reading far into the night. In order to protect himself from the lamp, Bouvard wore blue spectacles, while Pécuchet kept the peak of his cap drawn over his forehead.
Germaine had not gone, and Gorju now and again came to dig in the garden; for they had yielded through indifference, forgetful of material things.
After Walter Scott, Alexandre Dumas diverted them after the fashion of a magic-lantern. His personages, active as apes, strong as bulls, gay as chaffinches, enter on the scene and talk abruptly, jump off roofs to the pavement, receive frightful wounds from which they recover, are believed to be dead, and yet reappear. There are trap-doors under the boards, antidotes, disguises; and all things get entangled, hurry along, and are finally unravelled without a minute for reflection. Love observes the proprieties, fanaticism is cheerful, and massacres excite a smile.
Rendered hard to please by these two masters, they could not tolerate the balderdash of the Belisaraire, the foolery of the Numa Pompilius, of Marchangy, and Vicomte d'Arlincourt. The colouring of Frédéric Soulié (like that of the book-lover Jacob) appeared to them insufficient; and M. Villemain scandalised them by showing at page 85 of his Lascaris, a Spaniard smoking a pipe—a long Arab pipe—in the middle of the fifteenth century.
Pécuchet consulted the Biographie Universelle, and undertook to revise Dumas 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 Page du 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 Anjou was crowned at night in a church, an episode which adorns La Dame de Montsoreau. La Reine Margot especially swarms with errors. The Duke of Nevers was not absent. He gave his opinion at the council before the feast of St. Bartholomew, and Henry of Navarre did not follow the procession four days after. Henry III. did not come back from Poland so quickly. Besides, how many flimsy devices! The miracle of the hawthorn, the balcony of Charles IX., the poisoned glass of Jeanne d'Albret—Pécuchet no longer had any confidence in Dumas.
He even lost all respect for Walter Scott on account of the oversights in his Quentin Durward. The murder of the Archbishop of Liège is anticipated by fifteen years. The wife of Robert de Lamarck was Jeanne d'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 his corpse was found, did not express any menace, inasmuch as the wolves had half devoured it.
None the less, Bouvard went on with Walter Scott, but ended by getting weary of the repetition of the same effects. The heroine usually lives in the country with her father, and the lover, a plundered heir, is re-established in his rights and triumphs over his rivals. There are always a mendicant philosopher, a morose nobleman, pure young girls, facetious retainers, and interminable dialogues, stupid prudishness, and an utter absence of depth.
In his dislike to bric-à-brac, Bouvard took up George Sand.
He went into raptures over the beautiful adulteresses and noble lovers, would have liked to be Jacques, Simon, Lélio, and to have lived in Venice. He uttered sighs, did not know what was the matter with him, and felt himself changed.
Pécuchet, who was working up historical literature studied plays. He swallowed two Pharamonds, three Clovises, four Charlemagnes, several Philip Augustuses, a crowd of Joan of Arcs, many Marquises de Pompadours, and some Conspiracies of Cellamare.
Nearly all of them appeared still more stupid than the romances. For there exists for the stage a conventional history which nothing can destroy. Louis XI. will not fail to kneel before the little images in his hat; Henry IV. will be constantly jovial, Mary Stuart tearful, Richelieu cruel; in short, all the characters seem taken from a single block, from love of simplicity and regard for ignorance, so that the playwright, far from elevating, lowers, and, instead of instructing, stupefies.
As Bouvard had spoken eulogistically to him about George Sand, Pécuchet proceeded to read Consuelo, Horace, and Mauprat, was beguiled by the author's vindication of the oppressed, the socialistic and republican aspect of her works, and the discussions contained in them.
According to Bouvard, however, these elements spoiled the story, and he asked for love-tales at the circulating library.
They read aloud, one after the other, La Nouvelle Héloïse, Delphine, Adolphe, and Ourika. But the listener's yawns proved contagious, for the book slipped out of the reader's hand to the floor.
They found fault with the last-mentioned works for making no reference to the environment, the period, the costume of the various personages. The heart alone is the theme—nothing but sentiment! as if there were nothing else in the world.
They next went in for novels of the humorous order, such as the Voyage autour de ma Chambre, by Xavier de Maistre, and Sous les Tilleuls, by Alphonse Karr. In books of this description the author must interrupt the narrative in order to talk about his dog, his slippers, or his mistress.
A style so free from formality charmed them at first, then appeared stupid to them, for the author effaces his work while displaying in it his personal surroundings.
Through need of the dramatic element, they plunged into romances of adventure. The more entangled, extraordinary, and impossible the plot was, the more it interested them. They did their best to foresee the dénouement, became very excited over it, and tired themselves out with a piece of child's play unworthy of serious minds.
The work of Balzac amazed them like a Babylon, and at the same time like grains of dust under the microscope.
In the most commonplace things arise new aspects. They never suspected that there were such depths in modern life.
"What an observer!" exclaimed Bouvard.
"For my part I consider him chimerical," Pécuchet ended by declaring. "He believes in the occult sciences, in monarchy, in rank; is dazzled by rascals; turns up millions for you like centimes; and middle-class people are not with him middle-class people at all, but giants. Why inflate what is unimportant, and waste description on silly things? He wrote one novel on chemistry, another on banking, another on printing-machines, just as one Ricard produced The Cabman, The Water-Carrier and The Cocoa-Nut Seller. We should soon have books on every trade and on every province; then on every town and on the different stories of every house, and on every individual—which would be no longer literature but statistics or ethnography."
The process was of little consequence in Bouvard's estimation. He wanted to get information—to acquire a deeper knowledge of human nature. He read Paul de Kock again, and ran through the Old Hermits of the Chaussée d'Antin.
"Why lose one's time with such absurdities?" said Pécuchet.
"But they might be very interesting as a series of documents."
"Go away with your documents! I want something to lift me up, and take me away from the miseries of this world."
And Pécuchet, craving for the ideal, led Bouvard unconsciously towards tragedy.
The far-off times in which the action takes place, the interests with which it is concerned, and the high station of its leading personages impressed them with a certain sense of grandeur.
One day Bouvard took up Athalie, and recited the dream so well that Pécuchet wished to attempt it in his turn. From the opening sentence his voice got lost in a sort of humming sound. It was monotonous and, though strong, indistinct.
Bouvard, full of experience, advised him, in order to render it well-modulated, to roll it out from the lowest tone to the highest, and to draw it back by making use of an ascending and descending scale; and he himself went through this exercise every morning in bed, according to the precept of the Greeks. Pécuchet, at the time mentioned, worked in the same fashion: each had his door closed, and they went on bawling separately.
The features that pleased them in tragedy were the emphasis, the political declamations, and the maxims on the perversity of things.
They learned by heart the most celebrated dialogues of Racine and Voltaire, and they used to declaim them in the corridor. Bouvard, as if he were at the Théâtre Français, strutted, with his hand on Pécuchet's shoulder, stopping at intervals; and, with rolling eyes, he would open wide his arms, and accuse the Fates. He would give forth fine bursts of grief from the Philoctète 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 while exclaiming, "Monster, worthy of me!" was indeed terrible. Pécuchet forgot his part in it. The ability, and not the will, was what he lacked.
On one occasion, in the Cléopâtre of Marmontel, he fancied that he could reproduce the hissing of the asp, just as the automaton invented for the purpose by Vaucanson might have done it. The abortive effort made them laugh all the evening. The tragedy sank in their estimation.
Bouvard was the first to grow tired of it, and, dealing frankly with the subject, demonstrated how artificial and limping it was, the silliness of its incidents, and the absurdity of the disclosures made to confidants.
They then went in for comedy, which is the school for fine shading. Every sentence must be dislocated, every word must be underlined, and every syllable must be weighed. Pécuchet could not manage it, and got quite stranded in Celimène. Moreover, he thought the lovers very cold, the disputes a bore, and the valets intolerable—Clitandre and Sganarelle as unreal as Ægistheus and Agamemnon.
There remained the serious comedy or tragedy of everyday life, where we see fathers of families afflicted, servants saving their masters, rich men offering others their fortunes, innocent seamstresses and villainous corrupters, a species which extends from Diderot to Pixérécourt. All these plays preaching about virtue disgusted them by their triviality.
The drama of 1830 fascinated them by its movement, its colouring, its youthfulness. They made scarcely any distinction between Victor Hugo, Dumas, or Bouchardy, and the diction was no longer to be pompous or fine, but lyrical, extravagant.
One day, as Bouvard was trying to make Pécuchet understand Frédéric Lemaître's acting, Madame Bordin suddenly presented herself in a green shawl, carrying with her a volume of Pigault-Lebrun, the two gentlemen being so polite as to lend her novels now and then.
"But go on!" for she had been a minute there already, and had listened to them with pleasure.
They hoped she would excuse them. She insisted.
"Faith!" said Bouvard, "there's nothing to prevent——"
Pécuchet, through bashfulness, remarked that he could not act unprepared and without costume.
"To do it effectively, we should need to disguise ourselves!"
And Bouvard looked about for something to put on, but found only the Greek 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 that encumbered the floor had whitened with their dust the velvet of the armchairs. 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 Pécuchet was afraid of parts which called for too much action.
"She would prefer some classical piece! Phèdre, for instance."
"Be it so."
Bouvard set forth the theme: "It is about a queen whose husband has a son by another wife. She has fallen madly in love with the young man. Are we there? Start!
And, addressing Pécuchet's side-face, he gushed out admiration of his port, his visage, "that charming head"; grieved at not having met him with the Greek fleet; would have gladly been lost with him in the labyrinth.
The border of the red cap bent forward amorously, and his trembling voice and his appealing face begged of the cruel one to take pity on a hopeless flame.
Pécuchet, turning aside, breathed hard to emphasise his emotion.
Madame Bordin, without moving, kept her eyes wide open, as if gazing at people whirling round; Mélie was listening behind the door; Gorju, in his shirt-sleeves, was staring at them through the window. Bouvard made a dash into the second part. His acting gave expression to the delirium of the senses, remorse, despair; and he flung himself on the imaginary sword of Pécuchet with such violence that, slipping over some of the stone 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 three pieces: Robert le Diable in the capital, Le Jeune Mari at Rouen, and another at Falaise which was very funny, and which was called La Brouette du Vinaigrier.[10]
Finally, Bouvard suggested to her the great scene of Tartuffe in the second act.
Pécuchet 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 Pécuchet.
"No matter; bring it here."
He reappeared with it and a copy of Molière.
The opening was tame, but at the place where Tartuffe caresses Elmire's knees, Pécuchet 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, sniffed with an exceedingly lecherous air, and ended by even addressing himself to Madame Bordin.
His impassioned gaze embarrassed her, and when he stopped, humble and palpitating, she almost sought for something to say in reply.
Pécuchet 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 a more modern touch about it." And, having opened his coat, he squatted over a piece of ashlar, and, with his head thrown back, burst forth:
"That is like me," she thought.
"How droll you are!" And she laughed with a little laugh, which made her throat rise up, and exposed her teeth.
He knelt down.
"Finish, then."
"Here the bells are heard, and they are disturbed by a mountaineer."
"Fortunately; for, but for that——" And Madame Bordin smiled, in place of finishing the sentence.
It was getting dark. She arose.
It had been raining a short time before, and the path through the beech grove not being dry enough, it was more convenient to return across the fields. Bouvard accompanied her into the garden, in order to open the gate for her.
At first they walked past the trees cut like distaffs, without a word being spoken on either side. He was still moved by his declamation, and she, at the bottom of her heart, felt a certain kind of fascination, a charm which was generated by the influence of literature. There are occasions when art excites commonplace natures; and worlds may be unveiled by the clumsiest interpreters.
The sun had reappeared, making the leaves glisten, and casting luminous spots here and there amongst the brakes. Three sparrows with little chirpings hopped on the trunk of an old linden tree which had fallen to the ground. A hawthorn in blossom exhibited its pink sheath; lilacs drooped, borne down by their foliage.
"Ah! that does one good!" said Bouvard, inhaling the air till it filled his 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—were in 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 a gentleman 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 the waist and kissed the nape of her neck vigorously.
She became very pale as if she were going to faint, and leaned one hand against 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 little gateway.
There was a water-channel at the opposite side. She gathered up all the folds 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 her white stocking.
Bouvard blamed himself for having wasted an opportunity. Bah! he should have one again—and then not all women are alike. With some of them you must be blunt, while audacity destroys you with others. In short, he was satisfied with himself—and he did not confide his hope to Pécuchet; this was through fear of the remarks that would be passed, and not at all through delicacy.
From that time forth they used to recite in the presence of Mélie and Gorju, 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. Gorju applauded the philosophic passages in the tragedies, and everything in the people's favour in the melodramas, so that, delighted at his good taste, they thought of giving him lessons, with a view to making an actor 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 people regarded their acting with contempt.
They only prided themselves the more upon it. They crowned themselves artists. Pécuchet wore moustaches, and Bouvard thought he could not do anything better, with his round face and his bald patch, than to give himself a head à la Béranger. Finally, they determined to write a play.
The subject was the difficulty. They searched for it while they were at breakfast, and drank coffee, a stimulant indispensable for the brain, then two or three little glasses. They would next take a nap on their beds, after which they would make their way down to the fruit garden and take a turn there; and at length they would leave the house to find inspiration outside, and, after walking side by side, they would come back quite worn out.
Or else they would shut themselves up together. Bouvard would sweep the table, lay down paper in front of him, dip his pen, and remain with his eyes on the ceiling; whilst Pécuchet, in the armchair, would be plunged in meditation, with his legs stretched out and his head down.
Sometimes they felt a shivering sensation, and, as it were, the passing breath of an idea, but at the very moment when they were seizing it, it had 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 a number of adventures so as to form only one. None of these devices came to anything. In vain they ran through collections of anecdotes, several volumes of celebrated trials, and a heap of historical works.
And they dreamed of being acted at the Odéon, had their thoughts fixed on 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 Pécuchet.
Then came an illumination to their minds. If they had so much trouble about it, the reason was their ignorance of the rules.
They studied them in the Pratique du Théâtre, by D'Aubignac, and in some works not quite so old-fashioned.
Important questions are discussed in them: Whether comedy can be written in verse; whether tragedy does not go outside its limits by taking its subject from modern history; whether the heroes ought to be virtuous; what kinds of villains it allows; up to what point horrors are permissible in it; that the details should verge towards a single end; that the interest should increase; that the conclusion should harmonise with the opening—these were unquestionable propositions.