Bouvard and Pecuchet

by Gustave Flaubert

  "This is beyond me!" said Pécuchet.

  After Saint-Simon and Fourier the problem resolves itself into questions of wages.

  Louis Blanc, in the interests of the working class, wishes to abolish external commerce; Lafarelle to tax machinery; another to take off the drink duties, to restore trade wardenships, or to distribute soups.

  Proudhon conceives the idea of a uniform tariff, and claims for the state the monopoly of sugar.

  "These socialists," said Bouvard, "always call for tyranny."

  "Oh, no!"

  "Yes, indeed!"

  "You are absurd!"

  "Well, I am shocked at you!"

  They sent for the works of which they had only summaries. Bouvard noted a number of passages, and, pointing them out, said:

  "Read for yourself. They offer as examples to us the Essenes, the Moravian Brethren, the Jesuits of Paraguay, and even the government of prisons."

  "'Amongst the Icarians breakfast was over in twenty minutes; women were delivered at the hospitals. As for books, it was forbidden to print them without the authorisation of the Republic.'"

  "But Cabet is an idiot."

  "Here, now, we have from Saint-Simon: 'The publicists should submit their works to a committee of manufacturers.'

  "And from Pierre Leroux: 'The law will compel the citizens to listen to an orator.'223

  "And from Auguste Comte: 'The priests will educate the youth, will exercise supervision over literary works, and will reserve to themselves the power of regulating procreation.'"

  These quotations troubled Pécuchet. In the evening, at dinner, he replied:

  "I admit that there are absurdities in the works of the inventors of Utopias; nevertheless they deserve our sympathy. The hideousness of the world tormented them, and, in order to make it beautiful, they endured everything. Recall to mind More decapitated, Campanella put seven times to the torture, Buonarotti with a chain round his neck, Saint-Simon dying of want; many others. They might have lived in peace; but no! they marched on their way with their heads towards the sky, like heroes."

  "Do you believe," said Bouvard, "that the world will change, thanks to the theories of some particular gentleman?"

  "What does it matter?" said Pécuchet; "it is time to cease stagnating in selfishness. Let us look out for the best system."

  "Then you expect to find it?"

  "Certainly."

  "You?"

  And, in the fit of laughter with which Bouvard was seized, his shoulders and stomach kept shaking in harmony. Redder than the jams before them, with his napkin under his armpits, he kept repeating, "Ha! ha! ha!" in an irritating fashion.

  Pécuchet left the room, slamming the door after him.

  Germaine went all over the house to call him, and he was found at the end of his own apartment224 in an easy chair, without fire or candle, his cap drawn over his eyes. He was not unwell, but had given himself up to his own broodings.

  When the quarrel was over they recognised that a foundation was needed for their studies—political economy.

  They inquired into supply and demand, capital and rent, importation and prohibition.

  One night Pécuchet was awakened by the creaking of a boot in the corridor. The evening before, according to custom, he had himself drawn all the bolts; and he called out to Bouvard, who was fast asleep.

  They remained motionless under the coverlets. The noise was not repeated.

  The servants, on being questioned, said they had heard nothing.

  But, while walking through the garden, they remarked in the middle of a flower-bed, near the gateway, the imprint of a boot-sole, and two of the sticks used as supports for the trees were broken. Evidently some one had climbed over.

  It was necessary to give notice of it to the rural guard.

  As he was not at the municipal building, Pécuchet thought of going to the grocer's shop.

  Who should they see in the back shop, beside Placquevent, in the midst of the topers, but Gorju—Gorju, rigged out like a well-to-do citizen, entertaining the company!

  This meeting was taken as a matter of course.

  So on they lapsed into a discussion about progress.

  Bouvard had no doubt it existed in the domain of science. But in that of literature it was not so225 manifest; and if comfort increases, the poetic side of life disappears.

  Pécuchet, in order to bring home conviction on the point, took a piece of paper: "I trace across here an undulating line. Those who happen to travel over it, whenever it sinks, can no longer see the horizon. It rises again nevertheless, and, in spite of its windings, they reach the top. This is an image of progress."

  Madame Bordin entered at this point.

  It was the 3rd of December, 1851. She had the newspaper in her hand.

  They read very quickly, side by side, the news of the appeal to the people, the dissolution of the Chamber, and the imprisonment of the deputies.

  Pécuchet turned pale. Bouvard gazed at the widow.

  "What! have you nothing to say?"

  "What do you wish me to do here?" (They had forgotten to offer her a seat.) "I came here simply out of courtesy towards you, and you are scarcely civil to-day."

  And out she went, disgusted at their want of politeness.

  The astonishing news had struck them dumb. Then they went about the village venting their indignation.

  Marescot, whom they found surrounded by a pile of deeds, took a different view. The babbling of the Chamber was at an end, thank Heaven! Henceforth they would have a business policy.

  Beljambe knew nothing about the occurrences, and, furthermore, he laughed at them.

  In the market-place they stopped Vaucorbeil.226

  The physician had got over all that. "You are very foolish to bother yourselves."

  Foureau passed them by, remarking with a sly air, "The democrats are swamped."

  And the captain, with Girbal's arm in his, exclaimed from a distance, "Long live the Emperor!"

  But Petit would be sure to understand them, and Bouvard having tapped at a window-pane, the schoolmaster quitted his class.

  He thought it a good joke to have Thiers in prison. This would avenge the people.

  "Ha! ha! my gentlemen deputies, your turn now!"

  The volley of musketry on the boulevards met with the approval of the people of Chavignolles. No mercy for the vanquished, no pity for the victims! Once you revolt, you are a scoundrel!

  "Let us be grateful to Providence," said the curé, "and under Providence to Louis Bonaparte. He gathers around him the most distinguished men. The Count de Faverges will be made a senator."

  Next day they had a visit from Placquevent.

  "These gentlemen" had talked a great deal. He required a promise from them to hold their tongues.

  "Do you wish to know my opinion?" said Pécuchet. "Since the middle class is ferocious and the working-men jealous-minded, whilst the people, after all, accept every tyrant, so long as they are allowed to keep their snouts in the mess, Napoleon has done right. Let him gag them, the rabble, and exterminate them—this will never be too much for their hatred of right, their cowardice, their incapacity, and their blindness."

  Bouvard mused: "Hey! progress! what humbug!" He added: "And politics, a nice heap of dirt!"227

  "It is not a science," returned Pécuchet. "The military art is better: you can tell what will happen—we ought to turn our hands to it."

  "Oh, thanks," was Bouvard's answer. "I am disgusted with everything. Better for us to sell our barrack, and go in the name of God's thunder amongst the savages."

  "Just as you like."

  Mélie was drawing water out in the yard.

  The wooden pump had a long lever. In order to make it work, she bent her back, so that her blue stockings could be seen as high as the calf of her legs. Then, with a rapid movement, she raised her right arm, while she turned her head a little to one side; and Pécuchet, as he gazed at her, felt quite a new sensation, a charm, a thrill of intense deli
ght.

  * * *

  228

  CHAPTER VII.

  "Unlucky in Love."

  And now the days began to be sad. They studied no longer, fearing lest they might be disillusioned. The inhabitants of Chavignolles avoided them. The newspapers they tolerated gave them no information; and so their solitude was unbroken, their time completely unoccupied.

  Sometimes they would open a book, and then shut it again—what was the use of it? On other days they would be seized with the idea of cleaning up the garden: at the end of a quarter of an hour they would be fatigued; or they would set out to have a look at the farm, and come back disenchanted; or they tried to interest themselves in household affairs, with the result of making Germaine break out into lamentations. They gave it up.

  Bouvard wanted to draw up a catalogue for the museum, and declared their curios stupid.

  Pécuchet borrowed Langlois' duck-gun to shoot larks with; the weapon burst at the first shot, and was near killing him.

  Then they lived in the midst of that rural solitude so depressing when the grey sky covers in its229 monotony a heart without hope. The step of a man in wooden shoes is heard as he steals along by the wall, or perchance it is the rain dripping from the roof to the ground. From time to time a dead leaf just grazes one of the windows, then whirls about and flies away. The indistinct echoes of some funeral bell are borne to the ear by the wind. From a corner of the stable comes the lowing of a cow. They yawned in each other's faces, consulted the almanac, looked at the clock, waited for meal-time; and the horizon was ever the same—fields in front, the church to the right, a screen of poplars to the left, their tops swaying incessantly in the hazy atmosphere with a melancholy air.

  Habits which they formerly tolerated now gave them annoyance. Pécuchet became quite a bore from his mania for putting his handkerchief on the tablecloth. Bouvard never gave up his pipe, and would keep twisting himself about while he was talking. They started disputes about the dishes, or about the quality of the butter; and while they were chatting face to face each was thinking of different things.

  A certain occurrence had upset Pécuchet's mind.

  Two days after the riot at Chavignolles, while he was airing his political grievance, he had reached a road covered with tufted elms, and heard behind his back a voice exclaiming, "Stop!"

  It was Madame Castillon. She was rushing across from the opposite side without perceiving him.

  A man who was walking along in front of her turned round. It was Gorju; and they met some six feet away from Pécuchet, the row of trees separating them from him.

  "Is it true," said she, "you are going to fight?"230

  Pécuchet slipped behind the ditch to listen.

  "Well, yes," replied Gorju; "I am going to fight. What has that to do with you?"

  "He asks me such a question!" cried she, flinging her arms about him. "But, if you are killed, my love! Oh! remain!"

  And her blue eyes appealed to him, still more than her words.

  "Let me alone. I have to go."

  There was an angry sneer on her face.

  "The other has permitted it, eh?"

  "Don't speak of her."

  He raised his fist.

  "No, dear; no. I don't say anything." And big tears trickled down her cheeks as far as the frilling of her collarette.

  It was midday. The sun shone down upon the fields covered with yellow grain. Far in the distance carriage-wheels softly slipped along the road. There was a torpor in the air—not a bird's cry, not an insect's hum. Gorju cut himself a switch and scraped off the bark.

  Madame Castillon did not raise her head again. She, poor woman, was thinking of her vain sacrifices for him, the debts she had paid for him, her future liabilities, and her lost reputation. Instead of complaining, she recalled for him the first days of their love, when she used to go every night to meet him in the barn, so that her husband on one occasion, fancying it was a thief, fired a pistol-shot through the window. The bullet was in the wall still. "From the moment I first knew you, you seemed to me as handsome as a prince. I love your eyes, your voice, your walk, your smell," and in a lower tone231 she added: "and as for your person, I am fairly crazy about it."

  He listened with a smile of gratified vanity.

  She clasped him with both hands round the waist, her head bent as if in adoration.

  "My dear heart! my dear love! my soul! my life! Come! speak! What is it you want? Is it money? We'll get it. I was in the wrong. I annoyed you. Forgive me; and order clothes from the tailor, drink champagne—enjoy yourself. I will allow everything—everything."

  She murmured with a supreme effort, "Even her—as long as you come back to me."

  He just touched her lips with his, drawing one arm around her to prevent her from falling; and she kept murmuring, "Dear heart! dear love! how handsome you are! My God! how handsome you are!"

  Pécuchet, without moving an inch, his chin just touching the top of the ditch, stared at them in breathless astonishment.

  "Come, no swooning," said Gorju. "You'll only have me missing the coach. A glorious bit of devilment is getting ready, and I'm in the swim; so just give me ten sous to stand the conductor a drink."

  She took five francs out of her purse. "You will soon give them back to me. Have a little patience. He has been a good while paralysed. Think of that! And, if you liked, we could go to the chapel of Croix-Janval, and there, my love, I would swear before the Blessed Virgin to marry you as soon as he is dead."

  "Ah! he'll never die—that husband of yours."

  Gorju had turned on his heel. She caught hold of him again, and clinging to his shoulders:232

  "Let me go with you. I will be your servant. You want some one. But don't go away! don't leave me! Death rather! Kill me!"

  She crawled towards him on her knees, trying to seize his hands in order to kiss them. Her cap fell off, then her comb, and her hair got dishevelled. It was turning white around her ears, and, as she looked up at him, sobbing bitterly, with red eyes and swollen lips, he got quite exasperated, and pushed her back.

  "Be off, old woman! Good evening."

  When she had got up, she tore off the gold cross that hung round her neck, and flinging it at him, cried:

  "There, you ruffian!"

  Gorju went off, lashing the leaves of the trees with his switch.

  Madame Castillon ceased weeping. With fallen jaw and tear-dimmed eyes she stood motionless, petrified with despair; no longer a being, but a thing in ruins.

  What he had just chanced upon was for Pécuchet like the discovery of a new world—a world in which there were dazzling splendours, wild blossomings, oceans, tempests, treasures, and abysses of infinite depth. There was something about it that excited terror; but what of that? He dreamed of love, desired to feel it as she felt it, to inspire it as he inspired it.

  However, he execrated Gorju, and could hardly keep from giving information about him at the guard-house.

  Pécuchet was mortified by the slim waist, the regular curls, and the smooth beard of Madame Castillon's lover, as well as by the air of a conquering233 hero which the fellow assumed, while his own hair was pasted to his skull like a soaked wig, his torso wrapped in a greatcoat resembled a bolster, two of his front teeth were out, and his physiognomy had a harsh expression. He thought that Heaven had dealt unkindly with him, and felt that he was one of the disinherited; moreover, his friend no longer cared for him.

  Bouvard deserted him every evening. Since his wife was dead, there was nothing to prevent him from taking another, who, by this time, might be coddling him up and looking after his house. And now he was getting too old to think of it.

  But Bouvard examined himself in the glass. His cheeks had kept their colour; his hair curled just the same as of yore; not a tooth was loose; and, at the idea that he had still the power to please, he felt a return of youthfulness. Madame Bordin rose in his memory. She had made advances to him, first on the occasion of the burning of the stacks, next at the
dinner which they gave, then in the museum at the recital, and lastly, without resenting any want of attention on his part, she had called three Sundays in succession. He paid her a return visit, and repeated it, making up his mind to woo and win her.

  Since the day when Pécuchet had watched the little servant-maid drawing water, he had frequently talked to her, and whether she was sweeping the corridor or spreading out the linen, or taking up the saucepans, he could never grow tired of looking at her—surprised himself at his emotions, as in the days of adolescence. He had fevers and languors on account of her, and he was stung by the picture left234 in his memory of Madame Castillon straining Gorju to her breast.

  He was about to clasp her in his arms

  He questioned Bouvard as to the way libertines set about seducing women.

  "They make them presents; they bring them to restaurants for supper."

  "Very good. But after that?"

  "Some of them pretend to faint, in order that you may carry them over to a sofa; others let their handkerchiefs fall on the ground. The best of them plainly make an appointment with you." And Bouvard launched forth into descriptions which inflamed Pécuchet's imagination, like engravings of voluptuous scenes.

  "The first rule is not to believe what they say. I have known those who, under the appearance of saints, were regular Messalinas. Above all, you must be bold."

  But boldness cannot be had to order.

  From day to day Pécuchet put off his determination, and besides he was intimidated by the presence of Germaine.

  Hoping that she would ask to have her wages paid, he exacted additional work from her, took notice every time she got tipsy, referred in a loud voice to her want of cleanliness, her quarrelsomeness, and did it all so effectively that she had to go.

  Then Pécuchet was free! With what impatience he waited for Bouvard to go out! What a throbbing of the heart he felt as soon as the door closed!

  Mélie was working at a round table near the window by the light of a candle; from time to time she broke the threads with her teeth, then she half-closed her eyes while adjusting it in the slit of the needle.235 At first he asked her what kind of men she liked. Was it, for instance, Bouvard's style?