by George Moore
Bouvard and Pecuchet were two little city clerks, who became acquainted in a way that seemed marvellous to both of them. It was their wont to seek a certain bench after dinner, and to spend what remained of their dinner-hour watching the passers-by. One day they took off their hats to mop their brows: Bouvard looked into Pecuchet’s, Pecuchet looked into Bouvard’s, both were amazed by the coincidence; they had gotten their hats from the same hatter! A great friendship arose out of this circumstance, the twain meeting every day, delighting more and more in each other’s company; and when Bouvard inherits considerable wealth he renounces his clerkship and invites Pecuchet to come to live with him. The first thing to do is to get a fine appartement, but life in a flat becomes monotonous; they must perforce do something to relieve the tedium of an unmeasured idleness; market gardening strikes their imagination, for a reason which I have forgotten, and having read the best books on the subject of vegetable growing they buy some land, but only to discover after considerable loss of money that the vegetables grown by their neighbours, ignorant peasants, are far better than theirs and cheaper. It is thirty years since I read Bouvard and Pecuchet, but nobody forgets the story of the melon. Bouvard and Pecuchet had learnt all the material facts about the growing of melons from books, and one would have thought that that was enough, but no; the melon is one of the most immoral of vegetables, and if great care be not taken it will contract incestuous alliances with uncles and aunts, sisters and brothers; and Bouvard and Pecuchet were not sufficiently concerned with the morals of their pet. They were content to watch it growing day after day bigger and bigger, exceeding the size of all melons; prodigious, gigantic, brobdingnagian, were the adjectives they murmured. At last the day came to cut the wonderful fruit. It was splendid on the table; it had all the qualities that a melon should have, all but one — it was uneatable. Bouvard spat his mouthful into the grate; Pecuchet spat his, I think, out of the window.
Bouvard and Pecuchet turn from agriculture to Druidic remains, and Pecuchet feels that his life would be incomplete without a love adventure. The serving-maid seems to him suitable to his enterprise; and having assurances of her purity from her, emboldened, he follows her into the wood-shed. A painful disease is the strange ending of this romance, and as soon as Pecuchet is restored to health the twain are inspired to write a tragedy. But having no knowledge of dramatic construction they send to Paris for books on the subject, and in these books they read of the faults that the critics have discovered in Shakespeare and Molière and Racine and other famous writers, and they resolve to avoid these faults. Pecuchet wanders from tragedy to Biblical criticism, and no one forgets the scene between him and Monsieur le Curé under a dripping umbrella. Biblical criticism is succeeded by another folly, and then by another; I do not remember the book in detail, but the best-established theories are always being overturned by the simplest fact.
This great book was described as an extravaganza by the critics of the time, and it was said that Flaubert’s admiration of human stupidity was so great that he piled absurdity upon absurdity, exceeding the modesty of Nature; but nothing is so immodest as Nature, and when she picked up the theme suggested by Flaubert and developed it, human stupidity gave forth flowers that would have delighted and saddened him, saddened him, for it is difficult to imagine him writing his book if he had lived to watch the Department at work in Ireland. He would have turned away regretfully saying: I have been anticipated; Plunkett and Gill have transferred my dreams into real life; and he would have admitted that some of their experiments equalled those that he had in mind — for instance, the calf that the Department sent to the Cork Exhibition as an example of the new method of rearing calves.
Bouvard and Pecuchet (we will drop the Plunkett and Gill) invited all the Munster farmers to view the animal, and they had been impressed by its appearance, a fine happy beast it seemed to be; but very soon it began to droop, causing a good deal of anxiety, and the news of its death was brought one evening to the Imperial Hotel where Bouvard and Pecuchet were lodging. After a hurried consultation Pecuchet looked at his watch. We have several hours before us to find a similar calf. But, Pecuchet, do you think that we are justified, er — er — er, in replacing a dead calf by a healthy one? At this question Pecuchet flamed a little. The honour of the Department is at stake, he said; we must think of the Department. The Department, er — er — er, is judged by its results. Again a light flamed into Pecuchet’s eyes, and though he did not say it, it was clear that he looked upon the Department as something existing of and through itself which could not be judged by its mere works. There has been some foul play. Our enemies, he muttered, and sent a telegram to the expert of the Department to come down at once. A post mortem was ordered, but no new fact was discovered, and the advice of the vet was that the new method should be abandoned and the second calf be fed upon milk and linseed meal, and upon this natural diet it prospered exceedingly.
Bouvard and Pecuchet’s experiments were not limited to teaching the finest herdsmen in the world how to raise cattle; it was necessary that they should spread themselves over the entire range of human activities in order to get rid of the one hundred and seventy thousand a year that the Department was receiving from the State. A good many hundred pounds were lost in a shoe factory in Ballina, but what are a few hundred pounds when one is dealing with one hundred and seventy thousand a year? And there were moments of sad perplexity in the lives of our reformers. A gleam came into Pecuchet’s eyes. Have you thought of anything? said Bouvard, and Pecuchet answered that it had just occurred to him it would be a great advantage to Ireland and to the Department if a method could be discovered of turning peat into coal. These experiments will be costly, Pecuchet. How much do you think we can spend? Pecuchet was full of hope, but the factory turned out so complete and sudden a failure that it had to be closed at once. Oyster beds were laid in Galway and given in charge of a young man who had read all that that had ever been written on the subject of oyster culture. The Colonel told me that he met him at a tennis party, and the charming young man, who was a great social advantage to the neighbourhood, explained to the Colonel that Portuguese oysters could only live three or four days in the creek; Whitstables could endure our waters a little longer. The French oyster, he said, is the shortest lived of all.
I thought, said the Colonel, that the object of the Department was to cultivate rather than to destroy oysters.
We are only experimenting; we must have facts, he answered, and next day on their way to the creek the Colonel said: There must be a drain hereabouts, and pointing to one flowing over the oyster beds, he added: I think this accounts for a great deal of the mortality in which you are experimenting. A gloom came into the young man’s face and he promised to write up a report for the Department.
I think it was the fishing interests of Galway that next attracted the attention of Bouvard and Pecuchet. The fishermen were in sad need of piers, and the Department undertook the construction of some two or three, but a very few spring tides cast them hither and thither; some of them can still be reached at low tide, some show a few rocks out in the bay, and these are much appreciated by gannets in the breeding season.
Bouvard felt the disappearance of the piers deeply, and so did Pecuchet, but they found consolation in the thought that experimentation is the source of all knowledge, and one day Bouvard said to Pecuchet: Our staff is miserably underpaid. You are quite right, Bouvard, you are a rich man and can do without a salary, but for the honour of the Department it seems to me that I should be placed on a level with the Under-Secretary; we must never forget that ours is a great State Department.
And the twain fell to thinking how some more money might be expended for the good of Ireland. The establishment of a bacon factory was considered, and the advantage lectures on the minding of pigs would be to the inhabitants of the west of Ireland. The egg and poultry industry might be greatly benefited by a little knowledge. Lecturers were sought and found, and they departed to instruct, and capons were
imported from Surrey to improve the strains, and there was great lamentation at the end of the hatching season. Some wonderful letters reached the Department, strangely worded letters from which I have room for only one sentence: Sorra cock was among the cocks you sent us. Pecuchet rang the bell, but the poultry expert was out at the time, and a deputation was waiting in the ante-room. After listening to all the evidence on the subject of cooking he agreed that the culinary utensils at the disposal of the peasant were antiquated and it was arranged that ladies should be sent out; one arrived at Ballinrobe, and the peasants learnt from her how to make meringues. But meringues were a little beyond the reach of the peasants’ bill of fare, and after a long correspondence with the Department the lecturers were ordered to substitute macaroni au gratin, and I remember a girl coming back from Ballinrobe bringing the dish with her, and her enthusiasm about it was the same as Bouvard’s and Pecuchet’s over the melon, and its success was the same as the melon’s; one of the family spat it into the grate, another spat it out of the window. The Department had forgotten that Catholics do not like cheese.
Undeterred by such incidents as these, the wheels of the Department grind on and on, reproducing all the events of Flaubert’s book in every detail, but sooner or later Nature outstrips the human imagination, and Flaubert would have thrown up his arms in significant gesture if he were alive to hear the story of how Bouvard and Pecuchet decided one day to improve the breed of asses in Ireland.
The ass is an animal much used in Ireland by the peasant, Bouvard began; Pecuchet acquiesced, and during the course of the evening it was agreed that it would be a great advantage to the country if the Irish ass were improved. Books on the subject of the ass were sent for to London, and it was discovered that the Spanish asses were the finest of all, and Bouvard said to Pecuchet: We must import sires. Pecuchet hesitated, and with his usual instinct for compromise suggested Shetland ponies. Bouvard was of opinion that the Shetland pony was too small for the friendly ass, but Pecuchet said that there were in Kerry asses of a sufficient size, and a breed of small mules would be of great use in the mountainy districts. Bouvard pointed out that mules were sterile; Pecuchet referred Bouvard to The Reminiscences of a Veterinary Surgeon; and he read in this book that mules had been seen with foals. There was no case, however, of these foals having bred in their turn, so the mule must be said to be sterile in the second generation for certain. The mule is, moreover, a vicious animal, and Bouvard passed the book back to Pecuchet, and for one reason or another it was decided that the Department would be well advised to leave the mule alone and direct all its attention to the improvement of the ass.
What do you think, Pecuchet, of the Scotch ass?
Our importations from Scotland have been considerable lately.
You would like something Continental, Pecuchet. The Spanish ass, you will see, is highly recommended; but the sires are expensive; two hundred pounds are paid for the tall ass standing over fourteen hands high, and able to cover a sixteen-hands mare; and we should have to import at least fifty sires to affect visibly the Irish strain. You see that would be ten thousand pounds, and we could hardly risk so large an outlay. You will notice that the Egyptian ass is described as being smaller than the Spanish, altogether a lighter animal, and we could buy Egyptian sires for a hundred apiece; they run from seventy-five to a hundred pounds. We might get them cheaper still by taking a large number.
Pecuchet was in favour of a small commission that would take evidence regarding not only the Egyptian, but the Barbary and the Arabian ass, but this commission Bouvard pointed out would be a delay and an expense, and an order was sent to Alexandria to purchase asses. The Department of Agriculture in Ireland was anxious to buy sire asses, sure foal-getters, and the selection was confided to — whom? The archives of the Department would have to be searched for the name of the agent, a useless labour, for no blame attaches to him; his selection was approved by everybody, and the herd was much admired as it trotted and cantered through the morning sunlight on the way to the docks, beautiful little animals, alert as flies, shaking their ears and whisking their long, well-furnished tails, a sight to behold, as docile as they were beautiful, until they reached the gangway. But as soon as they were asked to step on board every one was equally determined to stay in his own country, and much pressure had to be used, and some accidents happened; but human energy prevailed; the asses were all shipped in the end, and it was thought that no untoward incident could happen, so admirable were the arrangements for their reception. Every ass had a stall to himself, and to make sure that there could be no mutual biting and kicking each one was barred in his stall. And it was this very bar that proved the undoing of Bouvard and Pecuchet’s great experiment. The temper of the asses had already been tried, and they were not roused to such a stubbornness by the bar that they preferred to die rather than to stale without stretching themselves, and when the steamer put into Malta only seven were able to proceed down the gangway. The telegram that brought the news of the loss of ten asses set Bouvard and Pecuchet pondering.
Sea-sickness, I suppose, said Pecuchet.
It may have been home-sickness, Bouvard replied. Be that as it may, the seven must be landed at Marseilles, and a telegram with these instructions was sent to Malta. It reached there in time, but the boat was delayed by the breaking of a screw, and the grooms, unsuspicious of the reluctance of the ass to stale, again dropped the bars on their hind quarters, with the result that one after another those grand asses burst their bladders, only one arriving at Marseilles, a forlorn and decrepit scarecrow ass that would not as much as look at the pretty white and black and brown asses that had come up from Kerry. He chased them with bared teeth out of his field. Pecuchet thought that a chestnut ass might tempt him, but the colour is rare among asses, and after a long search the task of finding one was given up as hopeless, the expert declaring that it was doubtful if even a chestnut ass would revive any of the fervour of old Nile in him: a gaunt, taciturn, solitary animal, that moved away from human and ass kind, a vicious unkempt brute that had once turned on Pecuchet; but he had sat on the fence in time; a silent animal by day, and noisy at midnight, when Bouvard sat considering his book for Ireland. On the table by his side lay the Different Methods of Famous Authors, and learning from it that Byron wrote late at night and drank soda-water, Bouvard determined that he, too, would sit up late and drink soda-water, but strange to relate, though his health declined, his book did not progress. His mind was teeming with ideas, but he found it very difficult to disentangle them, and adopted a new method of work. Balzac used to go to sleep early in the evening, and wake up at twelve and write all night and all day, drinking black coffee, but a very few days proved to Bouvard that his health was not equal to the strain, and he resolved to adopt another method. It was also stated in the Different Methods of Great Authors that Dumas was often glad to call in a collaborator, and this seemed an excellent idea, for what concerned Bouvard were not his rhythms, but his ideas. Others could put his ideas into rhythms, and the help of all kinds of people was evoked. We used to hear a great deal about Bond, a German economist, and Coyne, a gentleman engaged in the Department, was entrusted with the task of gathering statistics. Memoranda of all kinds were piled up; a commission sent to Denmark to report on the working of Danish dairies came back with the information that the dairies in Denmark were kept remarkably clean. The Commission was accompanied by a priest, and he returned much shocked, as well he might be, for he had found no organised religion whatever in Denmark. One day a chapter was sent round and everybody was asked to mark what he thought should be omitted and to add what he thought should be included. Dear Edward did not think that Bouvard had gone far enough in his praise of the Gaelic, and Pecuchet, whom we met going out to luncheon, declined to give any opinion on the subject of Bouvard’s book.
I will not speak on the subject. (Then, I said to myself, there is a subject on which Pecuchet is not willing to advise, and with interest heightening I listened to Pecuchet.) I h
ave told Bouvard, he said, that he cannot be at once the saviour and the critic of Irish society. If you must write a book, Bouvard, I have said, write what your own eyes have seen and your ears have heard. It would be better if he didn’t write the book at all, he added, but if he must write one let him write a book out of himself. But if he persists in his philosophy he will harm the Department. Pecuchet threw up his arms, and I said to Edward: There is a certain good fellowship in Pecuchet; he would save his old pal from his vanity, the vanity of a book which he hopes will prove him to be far-seeing — i.e. the deep thinker, the brooding sage of Foxrock. And so long as breath remains in my body I will avouch that Pecuchet was firm in his determination not to have anything to do with Bouvard’s book. He threw up his hands when I came to him with the news that Bouvard had tired of coffee and unseemly hours, and had sent his manuscript to Rolleston, who had turned up his shirt-sleeves and thrown it into a tub, and had sent it home carefully starched and ironed. The book got a good many reviews — the Fool’s Hour it was, for the Catholic Celt let a great screech out of him and demanded that the redeemer should be put in the pillory.
My friend, John Redmond, will set up a Nationalist candidate against him for South Dublin; he will be beaten at the polls, wailed Pecuchet. And very soon after the defeat predicted by Pecuchet the Nationalist members began to remind the Government that Bouvard remained at the head of the Department, though it had always been understood that the Vice-President of the Department should be a member of the House of Commons. The Nationalists yelped singly and in concert, and so loud grew the pack that Pecuchet could restrain Bouvard no longer, and he went down to Galway to try his luck. A nice kind of luck he’ll meet there, Pecuchet said, and when Bouvard returned from Galway crestfallen, Pecuchet determined to speak out. He was not unmindful of past favours, but the kindest thing he could do would be to remind Bouvard that his clinging to office was undignified.
