But how were they to be distinguished?
"By means of tact," answered Pécuchet.
"And tact—where does that come from?"
"From taste."
"What is taste?"
It is defined as a special discernment, a rapid judgment, the power of distinguishing certain relationships.
"In short, taste is taste; but all that does not tell the way to have it."
It is necessary to observe the proprieties. But the proprieties vary; and, let a work be ever so beautiful, it will not be always irreproachable. There is, however, a beauty which is indestructible, and of whose laws we are ignorant, for its genesis is mysterious.
Since an idea cannot be interpreted in every form, we ought to recognise limits amongst the arts, and in each of the arts many forms; but combinations arise185 in which the style of one will enter into another without the ill result of deviating from the end—of not being true.
The too rigid application of truth is hurtful to beauty, and preoccupation with beauty impedes truth. However, without an ideal there is no truth; this is why types are of a more continuous reality than portraits. Art, besides, only aims at verisimilitude; but verisimilitude depends on the observer, and is a relative and transitory thing.
So they got lost in discussions. Bouvard believed less and less in æsthetics.
"If it is not a humbug, its correctness will be demonstrated by examples. 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 history demands. M. Droz, a professor, blames Shakespeare for his mixture of the serious and the comic. Nisard, another professor, thinks that André Chénier is, as a poet, beneath the seventeenth century. Blair, an Englishman, finds fault with the picture of the harpies in Virgil. Marmontel groans over the liberties taken by Homer. Lamotte does not admit the immortality of his heroes. Vida is indignant at his similes. In short, all the makers of rhetorics, poetics, and æsthetics, appear to me idiots."
"You are exaggerating," said Pécuchet.
He was disturbed by doubts; for, if (as Longinus observes) ordinary minds are incapable of faults, the faults must be associated with the masters, and we are bound to admire them. This is going too far. However, the masters are the masters. He would have liked to make the doctrines harmonise with the186 works, the critics with the poets, to grasp the essence of the Beautiful; and these questions exercised him so much 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 a request 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 an intermediary? And all night Bouvard's imagination wandered.
Next day, about two o'clock, he was walking in the corridor, and glancing 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 in the armchair, and, after a preliminary exchange of courtesies, said that, tired of waiting for Madame Bordin, he had started before her. She wished to buy the Ecalles from him.
Bouvard experienced a kind of chilling sensation, and he hurried towards Pécuchet's room.
Pécuchet did not know what reply to make. He was in an anxious frame of mind, as M. Vaucorbeil was to be there presently.
At length Madame Bordin arrived. The delay was explained by the manifest attention she had given to her toilette, which consisted of a cashmere frock, a hat, and fine kid gloves—a costume befitting a serious occasion.
After much frivolous preliminary talk she asked whether a thousand crown-pieces would not be sufficient.187
"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 a solicitor; and, depositing it on the table, said:
"These are pamphlets! They deal with reform—a burning question; but here is a thing which no doubt belongs to you."
And he handed Bouvard the second volume of the Mémoires du Diable.
Mélie, just now, had been reading it in the kitchen; and, as one ought to watch over the morals of persons of that class, he thought he was doing 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 too flattering."
"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 young daughter. I have one."
"And a charming one!" said the notary, with the expression of countenance he wore on the days of marriage contracts.
"Well, for her sake, or rather for that of the persons that surround her, I prohibit them in my house, for the people, my dear sir——"
"What have the people done?" said Vaucorbeil, appearing suddenly at the door.188
Pécuchet, who had recognised his voice, came to mingle with the company.
"I maintain," returned the count, "that it is necessary to prevent them from 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 Louis Philippe, recalling the Pritchard case, and the September laws against the liberty of the press:
"And that of the stage," added Pécuchet.
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 Pécuchet.
Without replying to the argument, M. de Faverges stigmatised those works in which the holiest things are scoffed at: the family, property, marriage.
"Well, and Molière?" said Bouvard.
Marescot, a man of literary taste, retorted that Molière would not pass muster 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 type of the Queen in the character of Mary Tudor."
"What!" exclaimed Bouvard, "I, an author, I have no right——"189
"No, sir, you have no right to show us crime without putting beside it a corrective—without presenting to us a lesson."
Vaucorbeil thought also that art ought to have an object—to aim at the improvement 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 Pécuchet. "Do you consider his works well written?"
"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 own business transaction. It was too late to conclude it. She went off on Marescot's arm.
The count distributed his pamphlets, requesting them to hand them round to other people.
Vaucorbeil was leaving, when Pécuchet stopped him.
"You are forgetting me, doctor."
His yellow physiognomy was pitiable, with his moustaches and his black hair, which was hanging down under a silk handkerchief badly fastened.
"Purge you
rself," said the doctor. And, giving him two little slaps as if to a child: "Too much nerves, too much artist!"
"No, surely!"
They summed up what they had just heard. The morality of art is contained for every person in that190 which flatters that person's interests. 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 Pécuchet, "that we shall soon have some squabbling."
For he saw everything in dark colours, perhaps on account of his jaundice.
* * *
191
CHAPTER VI.
Revolt of the People.
In the morning of the 25th of February, 1848, the news was brought to Chavignolles, by a person who had come from Falaise, that Paris was covered with barricades, and the next day the proclamation of the Republic was posted up outside the mayor's office.
This great event astonished the inhabitants.
But when they learned that the Court of Cassation, the Court of Appeal, the Court of Exchequer, the Chamber of Notaries, the order of advocates, the Council of State, the University, the generals, and M. de la Roche-Jacquelein himself had given promise of their adherence to the provisional government, their breasts began to expand; and, as trees of liberty were planted at Paris, the municipal council decided that they ought to have them at Chavignolles.
Bouvard made an offer of one, his patriotism exulting in the triumph of the people; as for Pécuchet, the fall of royalty confirmed his anticipations so exactly that he must needs be satisfied.
Gorju, obeying them with zeal, removed one of the poplar trees that skirted the meadow above La192 Butte, and transported it to "the Cows' Pass," at the entrance of the village, the place appointed for the purpose.
Before the hour for the ceremony, all three awaited the procession. They heard a drum beating, and then beheld a silver cross. After this appeared two torches borne by the chanters, then the curé, with stole, surplice, cope, and biretta. Four altar-boys escorted him, a fifth carried the holy-water basin, and in the rear came the sacristan. He got up on the raised edge of the hole in which stood the poplar tree, adorned with tri-coloured ribbons. On the opposite side could be seen the mayor and his two deputies, Beljambe and Marescot; then the principal personages of the district, M. de Faverges, Vaucorbeil, Coulon, the justice of the peace, an old fogy with a sleepy face. Heurtaux wore a foraging-cap, and Alexandre Petit, the new schoolmaster, had put on his frock-coat, a threadbare green garment—his Sunday coat. The firemen, whom Girbal commanded, sword in hand, stood in single file. On the other side shone the white plates of some old shakos of the time of Lafayette—five or six, no more—the National Guard having fallen into desuetude at Chavignolles. Peasants and their wives, workmen from neighbouring factories, and village brats, crowded together in the background; and Placquevent, the keeper, five feet eight inches in height, kept them in check with a look as he walked to and fro with folded arms.
The curé's speech was like that of other priests in similar circumstances. After thundering against kings, he glorified the Republic. "Do we not say 'the republic of letters,' 'the Christian republic'?193 What more innocent than the one, more beautiful than the other? Jesus Christ formulated our sublime device: the tree of the people was the tree of the Cross. In order that religion may give her fruits, she has need of charity." And, in the name of charity, the ecclesiastic implored his brethren not to commit any disorder; to return home peaceably.
Then he sprinkled the tree while he invoked the blessing of God. "May it grow, and may it recall to us our enfranchisement from all servitude, and that fraternity more bountiful than the shade of its branches. Amen."
Some voices repeated "Amen"; and, after an interval of drum-beating, the clergy, chanting a Te Deum, returned along the road to the church.
Their intervention had produced an excellent effect. The simple saw in it a promise of happiness, the patriotic a mark of deference, a sort of homage rendered to their principles.
Bouvard and Pécuchet thought they should have been thanked for their present, or at least that an allusion should have been made to it; and they unbosomed themselves on the subject to Faverges and the doctor.
What mattered wretched considerations of that sort? Vaucorbeil was delighted with the Revolution; so was the count. He execrated the Orléans family. They would never see them any more! Good-bye to them! All for the people henceforth! And followed by Hurel, his factotum, he went to meet the curé.
Foureau was walking with his head down, between the notary and the innkeeper, irritated by the ceremony, as he was apprehensive of a riot; and instinctively he turned round towards Placquevent, who,194 together with the captain, gave vent to loud regrets at Girbal's unsatisfactoriness and the sorry appearance of his men.
Some workmen passed along the road singing the "Marseillaise," with Gorju among them brandishing a stick; Petit was escorting them, with fire in his eyes.
"I don't like that!" said Marescot. "They are making a great outcry, and getting too excited."
"Oh, bless my soul!" replied Coulon; "young people must amuse themselves."
Foureau heaved a sigh. "Queer amusement! and then the guillotine at the end of it!" He had visions of the scaffold, and was anticipating horrors.
Chavignolles felt the rebound of the agitation in Paris. The villagers subscribed to the newspapers. Every morning people crowded to the post-office, and the postmistress would not have been able to get herself free from them had it not been for the captain, who sometimes assisted her. Then would follow a chat on the green.
The first violent discussion was on the subject of Poland.
Heurtaux and Bouvard called for its liberation.
M. de Faverges took a different view.
"What right have we to go there? That would be to let loose Europe against us. No imprudence!"
And everybody approving of this, the two Poles held their tongues.
On another occasion, Vaucorbeil spoke in favour of Ledru-Rollin's circulars.
Foureau retorted with a reference to the forty-five centimes.
"But the government," said Pécuchet, "has suppressed slavery."195
"What does slavery matter to me?"
"Well, what about the abolition of the death-penalty in political cases?"
"Faith," replied Foureau, "they would like to abolish everything. However, who knows? the tenants are already showing themselves very exacting."
"So much the better! The proprietors," according to Pécuchet, "had been too much favoured. He that owns an estate——"
Foureau and Marescot interrupted him, exclaiming that he was a communist.
"I—a communist!"
And all kept talking at the same time. When Pécuchet proposed to establish a club, Foureau had the hardihood to reply that they would never see such a thing at Chavignolles.
After this, Gorju demanded guns for the National Guard, the general opinion having fixed on him as instructor. The only guns in the place were those of the firemen. Girbal had possession of them. Foureau did not care to deliver them up.
Gorju looked at him.
"You will find, however, that I know how to use them."
For he added to his other occupations that of poaching, and the innkeeper often bought from him a hare or a rabbit.
"Faith! take them!" said Foureau.
The same evening they began drilling. It was under the lawn, in front of the church. Gorju, in a blue smock-frock, with a neckcloth around his loins, went through the movements in an automatic fashion. When he gave the orders, his voice was gruff.
"Draw in your bellies!"196
And immediately, Bouvard, keeping back his breath, drew in his stomach, and stretched out his buttocks.
"Good God! you're not told to make an arch."
Pécuchet confused the ranks and the files, half-turns to the right and half-turns to the left; but the most pitiable sight wa
s the schoolmaster: weak and of a slim figure, with a ring of fair beard around his neck, he staggered under the weight of his gun, the bayonet of which incommoded his neighbours.
They wore trousers of every colour, dirty shoulder-belts, old regimentals that were too short, leaving their shirts visible over their flanks; and each of them pretended that he had not the means of doing otherwise. A subscription was started to clothe the poorest of them. Foureau was niggardly, while women made themselves conspicuous. Madame Bordin gave five francs, in spite of her hatred of the Republic. M. de Faverges equipped a dozen men, and was not missing at the drill. Then he took up his quarters at the grocer's, and gave those who came in first a drink.
The powerful then began fawning on the lower class. Everyone went after the working-men. People intrigued for the favour of being associated with them. They became nobles.
Those of the canton were, for the most part, weavers; others worked in the cotton mills or at a paper factory lately established.
Gorju fascinated them by his bluster, taught them the shoe trick,[16] and brought those whom he treated as chums to Madame Castillon's house for a drink.197
But the peasants were more numerous, and on market days M. de Faverges would walk about the green, make inquiries as to their wants, and try to convert them to his own ideas. They listened without answering, like Père Gouy, ready to accept any government so long as it reduced the taxes.
By dint of babbling, Gorju was making a name for himself. Perhaps they might send him into the Assembly!
M. de Faverges also was thinking of it, while seeking not to compromise himself.
The Conservatives oscillated between Foureau and Marescot, but, as the notary stuck to his office, Foureau was chosen—a boor, an idiot. The doctor waxed indignant. Rejected in the competition, he regretted Paris, and the consciousness of his wasted life gave him a morose air. A more distinguished career was about to open for him—what a revenge! He drew up a profession of faith, and went to read it to MM. Bouvard and Pécuchet.
They congratulated him upon it. Their opinions were identical with his. However, they wrote better, had a knowledge of history, and could cut as good a figure as he in the Chamber. Why not? But which of them ought to offer himself? And they entered upon a contest of delicacy.
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