EXPERIMENTS IN AGRICULTURE.
How happy they felt when they awoke next morning! Bouvard smoked a pipe,
and Pécuchet took a pinch of snuff, which they declared to be the best
they had ever had in their whole lives. Then they went to the window to
observe the landscape.
In front of them lay the fields, with a barn and the church-bell at the
right and a screen of poplars at the left.
Two principal walks, forming a cross, divided the garden into four
parts. The vegetables were contained in wide beds, where, at different
spots, arose dwarf cypresses and trees cut in distaff fashion. On one
side, an arbour just touched an artificial hillock; while, on the other,
the espaliers were supported against a wall; and at the end, a railed
opening gave a glimpse of the country outside. Beyond the wall there was
an orchard, and, next to a hedge of elm trees, a thicket; and behind the
railed opening there was a narrow road.
They were gazing on this spectacle together, when a man, with hair
turning grey, and wearing a black overcoat, appeared walking along the
pathway, striking with his cane all the bars of the railed fence. The
old servant informed them that this was M. Vaucorbeil, a doctor of some
reputation in the district. She mentioned that the other people of note
were the Comte de Faverges, formerly a deputy, and an extensive owner of
land and cattle; M. Foureau, who sold wood, plaster, all sorts of
things; M. Marescot, the notary; the Abbé Jeufroy; and the widow Bordin,
who lived on her private income. The old woman added that, as for
herself, they called her Germaine, on account of the late Germain, her
husband. She used to go out as a charwoman, but would be very glad to
enter into the gentlemen's service. They accepted her offer, and then
went out to take a look at their farm, which was situated over a
thousand yards away.
When they entered the farmyard, Maître Gouy, the farmer, was shouting at
a servant-boy, while his wife, on a stool, kept pressed between her legs
a turkey-hen, which she was stuffing with balls of flour.
The man had a low forehead, a thin nose, a downward look, and broad
shoulders. The woman was very fair-haired, with her cheek-bones speckled
with bran, and that air of simplicity which may be seen in the faces of
peasants on the windows of churches.
In the kitchen, bundles of hemp hung from the ceiling. Three old guns
stood in a row over the upper part of the chimney-piece. A dresser
loaded with flowered crockery occupied the space in the middle of the
wall; and the window-panes with their green bottle-glass threw over the
tin and copper utensils a sickly lustre.
The two Parisians wished to inspect the property, which they had seen
only once--and that a mere passing glance. Maître Gouy and his wife
escorted them, and then began a litany of complaints.
All the appointments, from the carthouse to the boilery, stood in need
of repair. It would be necessary to erect an additional store for the
cheese, to put fresh iron on the railings, to raise the boundaries, to
deepen the ponds, and to plant anew a considerable number of apple trees
in the three enclosures.
Then they went to look at the lands under cultivation. Maître Gouy ran
them down, saying that they ate up too much manure; cartage was
expensive; it was impossible to get rid of stones; and the bad grass
poisoned the meadows. This depreciation of his land lessened the
pleasure experienced by Bouvard in walking over it.
They came back by the hollow path under an avenue of beech trees. On
this side the house revealed its front and its courtyard. It was painted
white, with a coating of yellow. The carthouse and the storehouse, the
bakehouse and the woodshed, made, by means of a return, two lower wings.
The kitchen communicated with a little hall. Next came the vestibule, a
second hall larger than the other, and the drawing-room. The four rooms
on the first floor opened on the corridor facing the courtyard. Pécuchet
selected one of them for his collections. The last was to be the
library; and, on opening some of the presses, they found a few ancient
volumes, but they had no fancy for reading the titles of them. The most
urgent matter was the garden.
Bouvard, while passing close to the row of elm trees, discovered under
their branches a plaster figure of a woman. With two fingers she held
wide her petticoat, with her knees bent and her head over her shoulder,
as if she were afraid of being surprised.
"I beg your pardon! Don't inconvenience yourself!"--and this pleasantry
amused them so much that they kept repeating it twenty times a day for
three months.
Meanwhile, the people of Chavignolles were desirous to make their
acquaintance. Persons came to look at them through the railed fence.
They stopped up the openings with boards. This thwarted the inhabitants.
To protect himself from the sun Bouvard wore on his head a handkerchief,
fastened so as to look like a turban. Pécuchet wore his cap, and he had
a big apron with a pocket in front, in which a pair of pruning-shears,
his silk handkerchief, and his snuff-box jostled against one another.
Bare-armed, side by side, they dug, weeded, and pruned, imposing tasks
on each other, and eating their meals as quickly as ever they could,
taking care, however, to drink their coffee on the hillock, in order to
enjoy the view.
If they happened to come across a snail, they pounced on it and crushed
it, making grimaces with the corners of their mouths, as if they were
cracking nuts. They never went out without their grafting implements,
and they used to cut the worms in two with such force that the iron of
the implement would sink three inches deep. To get rid of caterpillars,
they struck the trees furiously with switches.
Bouvard planted a peony in the middle of the grass plot, and tomatoes so
that they would hang down like chandeliers under the arch of the arbour.
Pécuchet had a large pit dug in front of the kitchen, and divided it
into three parts, where he could manufacture composts which would grow
a heap of things, whose detritus would again bring other crops,
providing in this way other manures to a limitless extent; and he fell
into reveries on the edge of the pit, seeing in the future mountains of
fruits, floods of flowers, and avalanches of vegetables. But the
horse-dung, so necessary for the beds, was not to be had, inasmuch as
the farmers did not sell it, and the innkeepers refused to supply it. At
last, after many searches, in spite of the entreaties of Bouvard, and
flinging aside all shamefacedness, he made up his mind to go for the
dung himself.
It was in the midst of this occupation that Madame Bordin accosted him
one day on the high-road. When she had complimented him, she inquired
about his friend. This woman's black eyes, very small and very
brilliant, her high complexion, and her assurance (she even had a little
moustache) intimidated Pécuchet. He replied curtly, and turned his back
on her--an impoliteness of which Bouvard disapproved.
Then the bad weather came on, with frost and snow. They installed
themselves in the kitchen, and went in for trellis-work, or else kept
going from one room to another, chatted by the chimney corner, or
watched the rain coming down.
Since the middle of Lent they had awaited the approach of spring, and
each morning repeated: "Everything is starting out!" But the season was
late, and they consoled their impatience by saying: "Everything is going
to start out!"
At length they were able to gather the green peas. The asparagus gave a
good crop; and the vine was promising.
Since they were able to work together at gardening, they must needs
succeed at agriculture; and they were seized with an ambition to
cultivate the farm. With common sense and study of the subject, they
would get through it beyond a doubt.
But they should first see how others carried on operations, and so they
drew up a letter in which they begged of M. de Faverges to do them the
honour of allowing them to visit the lands which he cultivated.
The count made an appointment immediately to meet them.
After an hour's walking, they reached the side of a hill overlooking the
valley of the Orne. The river wound its way to the bottom of the valley.
Blocks of red sandstone stood here and there, and in the distance larger
masses of stone formed, as it were, a cliff overhanging fields of ripe
corn. On the opposite hill the verdure was so abundant that it hid the
house from view. Trees divided it into unequal squares, outlining
themselves amid the grass by more sombre lines.
Suddenly the entire estate came into view. The tiled roofs showed where
the farm stood. To the right rose the château with its white façade, and
beyond it was a wood. A lawn descended to the river, into which a row of
plane trees cast their shadows.
The two friends entered a field of lucern, which people were spreading.
Women wearing straw hats, with cotton handkerchiefs round their heads,
and paper shades, were lifting with rakes the hay which lay on the
ground, while at the end of the plain, near the stacks, bundles were
being rapidly flung into a long cart, yoked to three horses.
The count advanced, followed by his manager. He was dressed in dimity;
and his stiff figure and mutton-chop whiskers gave him at the same time
the air of a magistrate and a dandy. Even when he was speaking, his
features did not appear to move.
As soon as they had exchanged some opening courtesies, he explained his
system with regard to fodder: the swathes should be turned without
scattering them; the ricks should be conical, and the bundles made
immediately on the spot, and then piled together by tens. As for the
English rake, the meadow was too uneven for such an implement.
A little girl, with her stockingless feet in old shoes, and showing her
skin through the rents in her dress, was supplying the women with cider,
which she poured out of a jug supported against her hip. The count asked
where this child came from, but nobody could tell. The women who were
making the hay had picked her up to wait on them during the harvesting.
He shrugged his shoulders, and just as he was moving away from the spot,
he gave vent to some complaints as to the immorality of our country
districts.
Bouvard eulogised his lucern field.
It was fairly good, in spite of the ravages of the _cuscute_.[2]
The future agriculturists opened their eyes wide at the word "cuscute."
On account of the number of his cattle, he resorted to artificial
meadowing; besides, it went well before the other crops--a thing that
did not always happen in the case of fodder.
"This at least appears to me incontestable."
"Oh! incontestable," replied Bouvard and Pécuchet in one breath. They
were on the borders of a field which had been carefully thinned. A
horse, which was being led by hand, was dragging along a large box,
mounted on three wheels. Seven ploughshares below were opening in
parallel lines small furrows, in which the grain fell through pipes
descending to the ground.
"Here," said the count, "I sow turnips. The turnip is the basis of my
quadrennial system of cultivation."
And he was proceeding to deliver a lecture on the drill-plough when a
servant came to look for him, and told him that he was wanted at the
château.
His manager took his place--a man with a forbidding countenance and
obsequious manners.
He conducted "these gentlemen" to another field, where fourteen
harvesters, with bare breasts and legs apart, were cutting down rye. The
steels whistled in the chaff, which came pouring straight down. Each of
them described in front of him a large semicircle, and, all in a line,
they advanced at the same time. The two Parisians admired their arms,
and felt smitten with an almost religious veneration for the opulence of
the soil. Then they proceeded to inspect some of the ploughed lands. The
twilight was falling, and the crows swooped down into the ridges.
As they proceeded they met a flock of sheep pasturing here and there,
and they could hear their continual browsing. The shepherd, seated on
the stump of a tree, was knitting a woollen stocking, with his dog
beside him.
The manager assisted Bouvard and Pécuchet to jump over a wooden fence,
and they passed close to two orchards, where cows were ruminating under
the apple trees.
All the farm-buildings were contiguous and occupied the three sides of
the yard. Work was carried on there mechanically by means of a turbine
moved by a stream which had been turned aside for the purpose. Leathern
bands stretched from one roof to the other, and in the midst of dung an
iron pump performed its operations.
The manager drew their attention to little openings in the sheepfolds
nearly on a level with the floor, and ingenious doors in the pigsties
which could shut of their own accord.
The barn was vaulted like a cathedral, with brick arches resting on
stone walls.
In order to amuse the gentlemen, a servant-girl threw a handful of oats
before the hens. The shaft of the press appeared to them enormously big.
Next they went up to the pigeon-house. The dairy especially astonished
them. By turning cocks in the corners, you could get enough water to
flood the flagstones, and, as you entered, a sense of grateful coolness
came upon you as a surprise. Brown jars, ranged close to the barred
opening in the wall, were full to the brim of milk, while the cream was
contained in earthen pans of less depth. Then came rolls of butter, like
fragments of a column of copper, and froth overflowed from the tin pails
which had just been placed on the ground.
But the gem of the farm was the ox-stall. It was divided into two
sections by wooden bars standing upright their full length, one portion
being reserved for the cattle, and the other for persons who attended
on them. You could scarcely see there, as all the loopholes were closed
up. The oxen were eating, with little chains attached to them, and their
bodies exhaled a heat which was kept down by the low ceiling. But
someone let in the light, and suddenly a thin stream of water flowed
into the little channel which was beside the racks. Lowings were heard,
and the horns of the cattle made a rattling noise like sticks. All the
oxen thrust their muzzles between the bars, and proceeded to drink
slowly.
The big teams made their way into the farmyard, and the foals began to
neigh. On the ground floor two or three lanterns flashed and then
disappeared. The workpeople were passing, dragging their wooden shoes
over the pebbles, and the bell was ringing for supper.
The two visitors took their departure.
All they had seen delighted them, and their resolution was taken. After
that evening, they took out of their library the four volumes of _La
Maison Rustique_, went through Gasperin's course of lectures, and
subscribed to an agricultural journal.
In order to be able to attend the fairs more conveniently, they
purchased a car, which Bouvard used to drive.
Dressed in blue blouses, with large-brimmed hats, gaiters up to their
knees, and horse-dealers' cudgels in their hands, they prowled around
cattle, asked questions of labourers, and did not fail to attend at all
the agricultural gatherings.
Soon they wearied Maître Gouy with their advice, and especially by their
depreciation of his system of fallowing. But the farmer stuck to his
routine. He asked to be allowed a quarter, putting forward as a reason
the heavy falls of hail. As for the farm-dues, he never furnished any of
them. His wife raised an outcry at even the most legitimate claims. At
length Bouvard declared his intention not to renew the lease.
Thenceforth Maître Gouy economised the manures, allowed weeds to grow
up, ruined the soil; and he took himself off with a fierce air, which
showed that he was meditating some scheme of revenge.
Bouvard had calculated that 20,000 francs, that is to say, more than
four times the rent of the farm, would be enough to start with. His
notary sent the amount from Paris.
The property which they had undertaken to cultivate comprised fifteen
hectares[3] of grounds and meadows, twenty-three of arable land, and
five of waste land, situated on a hillock covered with stones, and known
by the name of La Butte.[4]
They procured all the indispensable requirements for the purpose: four
horses, a dozen cows, six hogs, one hundred and sixty sheep, and for the
household two carters, two women, a shepherd, and in addition a big dog.
In order to get cash at once, they sold their fodder. The price was paid
to them directly, and the gold napoleons counted over a chest of oats
appeared to them more glittering than any others, more rare and
valuable.
In the month of November they brewed cider. It was Bouvard that whipped
the horse, while Pécuchet on the trough shovelled off the strained
apples.
They panted while pressing the screw, drew the juice off into the vat,
looked after the bung-holes, with heavy wooden shoes on their feet; and
in all this they found a huge diversion.
Starting with the principle that you cannot have too much corn, they got
rid of about half of their artificial meadows; and, as they had not rich
pasturing, they made use of oil-cakes, which they put into the ground
without pounding, with the result that the crop was a wretched one.
The following year they sowed the ground very thickly. Storms broke out,
and the ears of corn were scattered.
Nevertheless, they set their hearts on the cheese, and undertook to
clear away the stones from La Butte. A hamper carried away the stones.
The whole year, from morn to eve, in sunshine or in rain, the
everlasting hamper was seen, with the same man and the same horse,
toiling up the hill, coming down, and going up again. Sometimes Bouvard
walked in the rear, making a halt half-way up the hill to dry the sweat
off his forehead.
As they had confidence in nobody, they treated the animals themselves,
giving them purgatives and clysters.
Serious irregularities occurred in the household. The girl in the
poultry-yard became _enceinte_. Then they took married servants; but the
place soon swarmed with children, cousins, male and female, uncles, and
sisters-in-law. A horde of people lived at their expense; and they
resolved to sleep in the farm-house successively.
But when evening came they felt depressed, for the filthiness of the
room was offensive to them; and besides, Germaine, who brought in the
meals, grumbled at every journey. They were preyed upon in all sorts of
ways. The threshers in the barn stuffed corn into the pitchers out of
which they drank. Pécuchet caught one of them in the act, and exclaimed,
while pushing him out by the shoulders:
"Wretch! You are a disgrace to the village that gave you birth!"
His presence inspired no respect. Moreover, he was plagued with the
garden. All his time would not have sufficed to keep it in order.
Bouvard was occupied with the farm. They took counsel and decided on
this arrangement.
The first point was to have good hotbeds. Pécuchet got one made of
brick. He painted the frames himself; and, being afraid of too much
sunlight, he smeared over all the bell-glasses with chalk. He took care
to cut off the tops of the leaves for slips. Next he devoted attention
to the layers. He attempted many sorts of grafting--flute-graft,
crown-graft, shield-graft, herbaceous grafting, and whip-grafting. With
what care he adjusted the two libers! how he tightened the ligatures!
and what a heap of ointment it took to cover them again!
Twice a day he took his watering-pot and swung it over the plants as if
he would have shed incense over them. In proportion as they became green
under the water, which fell in a thin shower, it seemed to him as if he
were quenching his own thirst and reviving along with them. Then,
yielding to a feeling of intoxication, he snatched off the rose of the
watering-pot, and poured out the liquid copiously from the open neck.
At the end of the elm hedge, near the female figure in plaster, stood a
kind of log hut. Pécuchet locked up his implements there, and spent
delightful hours there picking the berries, writing labels, and putting
his little pots in order. He sat down to rest himself on a box at the
door of the hut, and then planned fresh improvements.
He had put two clumps of geraniums at the end of the front steps.
Between the cypresses and the distaff-shaped trees he had planted
sunflowers; and as the plots were covered with buttercups, and all the
walks with fresh sand, the garden was quite dazzling in its abundance of
yellow hues.
But the bed swarmed with larvæ. In spite of the dead leaves placed there
to heat the plants, under the painted frames and the whitened
bell-glasses, only a stunted crop made its appearance. He failed with
the broccoli, the mad-apples, the turnips, and the watercress, which he
had tried to raise in a tub. After the thaw all the artichokes were
ruined. The cabbages gave him some consolation. One of them especially
excited his hopes. It expanded and shut up quickly, but ended by
becoming prodigious and absolutely uneatable. No matter--Pécuchet was
content with being the possessor of a monstrosity!
Then he tried his hand at what he regarded as the _summum_ of art--the
growing of melons.
He sowed many varieties of seed in plates filled with vegetable mould,
which he deposited in the soil of the bed. Then he raised another bed,
and when it had put forth its virgin buddings he transplanted the best
of them, putting bell-glasses over them. He made all the cuttings in
accordance with the precepts of _The Good Gardener_. He treated the
flowers tenderly; he let the fruits grow in a tangle, and then selected
one on either arm, removed the others, and, as soon as they were as
large as nuts, he slipped a little board around their rind to prevent
them from rotting by contact with dung. He heated them, gave them air,
swept off the mist from the bell-glasses with his pocket-handkerchief,
and, if he saw lowering clouds, he quickly brought out straw mattings to
protect them.
He did not sleep at night on account of them. Many times he even got up
out of bed, and, putting on his boots without stockings, shivering in
his shirt, he traversed the entire garden to throw his own counterpane
over his hotbed frames.
The melons ripened. Bouvard grinned when he saw the first of them. The
second was no better; neither was the third. For each of them Pécuchet
found a fresh excuse, down to the very last, which he threw out of the
window, declaring that he could not understand it at all.
The fact was, he had planted some things beside others of a different
species; and so the sweet melons got mixed up with the kitchen-garden
melons, the big Portugal with the Grand Mogul variety; and this anarchy
was completed by the proximity of the tomatoes--the result being
abominable hybrids that had the taste of pumpkins.
Then Pécuchet devoted his attention to the flowers. He wrote to
Dumouchel to get shrubs with seeds for him, purchased a stock of heath
soil, and set to work resolutely.
But he planted passion-flowers in the shade and pansies in the sun,
covered the hyacinths with dung, watered the lilies near their blossoms,
tried to stimulate the fuchsias with glue, and actually roasted a
pomegranate by exposing it to the heat of the kitchen fire.
When the weather got cold, he screened the eglantines under domes of
strong paper which had been lubricated with a candle. They looked like
sugarloaves held up by sticks.
The dahlias had enormous props; and between these straight lines could
be seen the winding branches of a Sophora Japonica, which remained
motionless, without either perishing or growing.
However, since even the rarest trees flourish in the gardens of the
capital, they must needs grow successfully at Chavignolles; and Pécuchet
provided himself with the Indian lilac, the Chinese rose, and the
eucalyptus, then in the beginning of its fame. But all his experiments
failed; and at each successive failure he was vastly astonished.
Bouvard, like him, met with obstacles. They held many consultations,
opened a book, then passed on to another, and did not know what to
resolve upon when there was so much divergence of opinion.
Thus, Puvis recommends marl, while the Roret Manual is opposed to it. As
for plaster, in spite of the example of Franklin, Riefel and M. Rigaud
did not appear to be in raptures about it.
According to Bouvard, fallow lands were a Gothic prejudice. However,
Leclerc has noted cases in which they are almost indispensable. Gasparin
mentions a native of Lyons who cultivated cereals in the same field for
half a century: this upsets the theory as to the variation of crops.
Tull extols tillage to the prejudice of rich pasture; and there is Major
Beetson, who by means of tillage would abolish pasture altogether.
In order to understand the indications of the weather, they studied the
clouds according to the classification of Luke Howard. They contemplated
those which spread out like manes, those which resemble islands, and
those which might be taken for mountains of snow--trying to distinguish
the nimbus from the cirrus and the stratus from the cumulus. The shapes
had altered even before they had discovered the names.
The barometer deceived them; the thermometer taught them nothing; and
they had recourse to the device invented in the time of Louis XIV. by a
priest from Touraine. A leech in a glass bottle was to rise up in the
event of rain, to stick to the bottom in settled weather, and to move
about if a storm were threatening. But nearly always the atmosphere
contradicted the leech. Three others were put in along with it. The
entire four behaved differently.
After many reflections, Bouvard realised that he had made a mistake. His
property required cultivation on a large scale, the concentrated system,
and he risked all the disposable capital that he had left--thirty
thousand francs.
Stimulated by Pécuchet, he began to rave about pasture. In the pit for
composts were heaped up branches of trees, blood, guts,
feathers--everything that he could find. He used Belgian cordial, Swiss
wash, lye, red herrings, wrack, rags; sent for guano, tried to
manufacture it himself; and, pushing his principles to the farthest
point, he would not suffer even urine or other refuse to be lost. Into
his farmyard were carried carcasses of animals, with which he manured
his lands. Their cut-up carrion strewed the fields. Bouvard smiled in
the midst of this stench. A pump fixed to a dung-cart spattered the
liquid manure over the crops. To those who assumed an air of disgust, he
used to say, "But 'tis gold! 'tis gold!" And he was sorry that he had
not still more manures. Happy the land where natural grottoes are found
full of the excrements of birds!
The colza was thin; the oats only middling; and the corn sold very badly
on account of its smell. A curious circumstance was that La Butte, with
the stones cleared away from it at last, yielded less than before.
He deemed it advisable to renew his material. He bought a Guillaume
scarifier, a Valcourt weeder, an English drill-machine, and the great
swing-plough of Mathieu de Dombasle, but the ploughboy disparaged it.
"Do you learn to use it!"
"Well, do you show me!"
He made an attempt to show, but blundered, and the peasants sneered. He
could never make them obey the command of the bell. He was incessantly
bawling after them, rushing from one place to another, taking down
observations in a note-book, making appointments and forgetting all
about them--and his head was boiling over with industrial speculations.
He got the notion into his head of cultivating the poppy for the purpose
of getting opium from it, and above all the milk-vetch, which he
intended to sell under the name of "family coffee."
Finally, in order to fatten his oxen the more quickly, he blooded them
for an entire fortnight.
He killed none of his pigs, and gorged them with salted oats. The pigsty
soon became too narrow. The animals obstructed the farmyard, broke down
the fences, and went gnawing at everything.
In the hot weather twenty-five sheep began to get spoiled, and shortly
afterwards died. The same week three bulls perished owing to Bouvard's
blood-lettings.
In order to destroy the maggots, he thought of shutting up the fowls in
a hencoop on rollers, which two men had to push along behind the
plough--a thing which had only the effect of breaking the claws of the
fowls.
He manufactured beer with germander-leaves, and gave it to the
harvesters as cider. The children cried, the women moaned, and the men
raged. They all threatened to go, and Bouvard gave way to them.
However, to convince them of the harmlessness of his beverage, he
swallowed several bottles of it in their presence; then he got cramps,
but concealed his pains under a playful exterior. He even got the
mixture sent to his own residence. He drank some of it with Pécuchet in
the evening, and both of them tried to persuade themselves that it was
good. Besides, it was necessary not to let it go to waste. Bouvard's
colic having got worse, Germaine went for the doctor.
He was a grave-looking man, with a round forehead, and he began by
frightening his patient. He thought the gentleman's attack of cholerine
must be connected with the beer which people were talking about in the
country. He desired to know what it was composed of, and found fault
with it in scientific terms with shruggings of the shoulders. Pécuchet,
who had supplied the recipe for it, was mortified.
In spite of pernicious limings, stinted redressings, and unseasonable
weedings, Bouvard had in front of him, in the following year, a splendid
crop of wheat. He thought of drying it by fermentation, in the Dutch
fashion, on the Clap-Meyer system: that is to say, he got it thrown down
all of a heap and piled up in stacks, which would be overturned as soon
as the damp escaped from them, and then exposed to the open air--after
which Bouvard went off without the least uneasiness.
Next day, while they were at dinner, they heard under the beech trees
the beating of a drum. Germaine ran out to know what was the matter, but
the man was by this time some distance away. Almost at the same moment
the church-bell rang violently.
Bouvard and Pécuchet felt alarmed, and, impatient to learn what had
happened, they rushed bareheaded along the Chavignolles road.
An old woman passed them. She knew nothing about it. They stopped a
little boy, who replied:
"I believe it's a fire!"
And the drum continued beating and the bell ringing more loudly than
before. At length they reached the nearest houses in the village. The
grocer, some yards away, exclaimed:
"The fire is at your place!"
Pécuchet stepped out in double-quick time; and he said to Bouvard, who
trotted by his side with equal speed:
"One, two! one, two!"--counting his steps regularly, like the chasseurs
of Vincennes.
The road which they took was a continuously uphill one; the sloping
ground hid the horizon from their view. They reached a height close to
La Butte, and at a single glance the disaster was revealed to them.
All the stacks, here and there, were flaming like volcanoes in the midst
of the plain, stripped bare in the evening stillness. Around the biggest
of them there were about three hundred persons, perhaps; and under the
command of M. Foureau, the mayor, in a tricoloured scarf, youngsters,
with poles and crooks, were dragging down the straw from the top in
order to save the rest of it.
Bouvard, in his eagerness, was near knocking down Madame Bordin, who
happened to be there. Then, seeing one of his servant-boys, he loaded
him with insults for not having given him warning. The servant-boy, on
the contrary, through excess of zeal, had at first rushed to the house,
then to the church, next to where Monsieur himself was staying, and had
returned by the other road.
Bouvard lost his head. His entire household gathered round him, all
talking together, and he forbade them to knock down the stacks, begged
of them to give him some help, called for water, and asked where were
the firemen.
"We've got to get them first!" exclaimed the mayor.
"That's your fault!" replied Bouvard.
He flew into a passion, and made use of improper language, and everyone
wondered at the patience of M. Foureau, who, all the same, was a surly
individual, as might be seen from his big lips and bulldog jaw.
The heat of the stacks became so great that nobody could come close to
them any longer. Under the devouring flames the straw writhed with a
crackling sound, and the grains of corn lashed one's face as if they
were buckshot. Then the stack fell in a huge burning pile to the ground,
and a shower of sparks flew out of it, while fiery waves floated above
the red mass, which presented in its alternations of colour parts rosy
as vermilion and others like clotted blood. The night had come, the wind
was swelling; from time to time, a flake of fire passed across the black
sky.
Bouvard viewed the conflagration with tears in his eyes, which were
veiled by his moist lids, and his whole face was swollen with grief.
Madame Bordin, while playing with the fringes of her green shawl, called
him "Poor Monsieur!" and tried to console him. Since nothing could be
done, he ought to do himself justice.
Pécuchet did not weep. Very pale, or rather livid, with open mouth, and
hair stuck together with cold sweat, he stood apart, brooding. But the
curé who had suddenly arrived on the scene, murmured, in a wheedling
tone:
"Ah! really, what a misfortune! It is very annoying. Be sure that I
enter into your feelings."
The others did not affect any regret. They chatted and smiled, with
hands spread out before the flame. An old man picked out burning straws
to light his pipe with; and one blackguard cried out that it was very
funny.
"Yes, 'tis nice fun!" retorted Bouvard, who had just overheard him.
The fire abated, the burning piles subsided, and an hour later only
ashes remained, making round, black marks on the plain. Then all
withdrew.
Madame Bordin and the Abbé Jeufroy led MM. Bouvard and Pécuchet back to
their abode.
On the way the widow addressed very polite reproaches to her neighbour
on his unsociableness, and the ecclesiastic expressed his great surprise
at not having up to the present known such a distinguished parishioner
of his.
When they were alone together, they inquired into the cause of the
conflagration, and, in place of recognising, like the rest of the world,
that the moist straw had taken fire of its own accord, they suspected
that it was a case of revenge. It proceeded, no doubt, from Maître Gouy,
or perhaps from the mole-catcher. Six months before Bouvard had refused
to accept his services, and even maintained, before a circle of
listeners, that his trade was a baneful one, and that the government
ought to prohibit it. Since that time the man prowled about the
locality. He wore his beard full-grown, and appeared to them
frightful-looking, especially in the evening, when he presented himself
outside the farmyard, shaking his long pole garnished with hanging
moles.
The damage done was considerable, and in order to know their exact
position, Pécuchet for eight days worked at Bouvard's books, which he
pronounced to be "a veritable labyrinth." After he had compared the
day-book, the correspondence, and the ledger covered with pencil-notes
and discharges, he realised the truth: no goods to sell, no funds to get
in, and in the cash-box zero. The capital showed a deficit of
thirty-three thousand francs.
Bouvard would not believe it, and more than twenty times they went over
the accounts. They always arrived at the same conclusion. Two years
more of such farming, and their fortune would be spent on it! The only
remedy was to sell out.
To do that, it was necessary to consult a notary. The step was a
disagreeable one: Pécuchet took it on himself.
In M. Marescot's opinion, it was better not to put up any posters. He
would speak about the farm to respectable clients, and would let them
make proposals.
"Very well," said Bouvard, "we have time before us." He intended to get
a tenant; then they would see. "We shall not be more unlucky than
before; only now we are forced to practise economy!"
Pécuchet was disgusted with gardening, and a few days later he remarked:
"We ought to give ourselves up exclusively to tree culture--not for
pleasure, but as a speculation. A pear which is the product of three
soils is sometimes sold in the capital for five or six francs. Gardeners
make out of apricots twenty-five thousand livres in the year! At St.
Petersburg, during the winter, grapes are sold at a napoleon per grape.
It is a beautiful industry, you must admit! And what does it cost?
Attention, manuring, and a fresh touch of the pruning-knife."
It excited Bouvard's imagination so much that they sought immediately in
their books for a nomenclature for purchasable plants, and, having
selected names which appeared to them wonderful, they applied to a
nurseryman from Falaise, who busied himself in supplying them with three
hundred stalks for which he had not found a sale. They got a lock-smith
for the props, an iron-worker for the fasteners, and a carpenter for the
rests. The forms of the trees were designed beforehand. Pieces of lath
on the wall represented candelabra. Two posts at the ends of the
plat-bands supported steel threads in a horizontal position; and in the
orchard, hoops indicated the structure of vases, cone-shaped switches
that of pyramids, so well that, in arriving in the midst of them, you
imagined you saw pieces of some unknown machinery or the framework of a
pyrotechnic apparatus.
The holes having been dug, they cut the ends of all the roots, good or
bad, and buried them in a compost. Six months later the plants were
dead. Fresh orders to the nurseryman, and fresh plantings in still
deeper holes. But the rain softening the soil, the grafts buried
themselves in the ground of their own accord, and the trees sprouted
out.
When spring had come, Pécuchet set about the pruning of pear trees. He
did not cut down the shoots, spared the superfluous side branches, and,
persisting in trying to lay the "duchesses" out in a square when they
ought to go in a string on one side, he broke them or tore them down
invariably. As for the peach trees, he got mixed up with over-mother
branches, under-mother branches, and second-under-mother branches. The
empty and the full always presented themselves when they were not
wanted, and it was impossible to obtain on an espalier a perfect
rectangle, with six branches to the right and six to the left, not
including the two principal ones, the whole forming a fine bit of
herringbone work.
Bouvard tried to manage the apricot trees, but they rebelled. He lowered
their stems nearly to a level with the ground; none of them shot up
again. The cherry trees, in which he had made notches, produced gum.
At first, they cut very long, which destroyed the principal buds, and
then very short, which led to excessive branching; and they often
hesitated, not knowing how to distinguish between buds of trees and buds
of flowers. They were delighted to have flowers, but when they
recognised their mistake, they tore off three fourths of them to
strengthen the remainder.
Incessantly they kept talking about "sap" and "cambium," "paling up,"
"breaking down," and "blinding of an eye." In the middle of their
dining-room they had in a frame the list of their young growths, as if
they were pupils, with a number which was repeated in the garden on a
little piece of wood, at the foot of the tree. Out of bed at dawn, they
kept working till nightfall with their twigs carried in their belts. In
the cold mornings of spring, Bouvard wore his knitted vest under his
blouse, and Pécuchet his old frock-coat under his packcloth wrapper; and
the people passing by the open fence heard them coughing in the damp
atmosphere.
Sometimes Pécuchet drew forth his manual from his pocket, and he studied
a paragraph of it standing up with his grafting-tool near him in the
attitude of the gardener who decorated the frontispiece of the book.
This resemblance flattered him exceedingly, and made him entertain more
esteem for the author.
Bouvard was continually perched on a high ladder before the pyramids.
One day he was seized with dizziness, and, not daring to come down
farther, he called on Pécuchet to come to his aid.
At length pears made their appearance, and there were plums in the
orchard. Then they made use of all the devices which had been
recommended to them against the birds. But the bits of glass made
dazzling reflections, the clapper of the wind-mill woke them during the
night, and the sparrows perched on the lay figure. They made a second,
and even a third, varying the dress, but without any useful result.
However, they could hope for some fruit. Pécuchet had just given an
intimation of the fact to Bouvard, when suddenly the thunder resounded
and the rain fell--a heavy and violent downpour. The wind at intervals
shook the entire surface of the espalier. The props gave way one after
the other, and the unfortunate distaff-shaped trees, while swaying under
the storm, dashed their pears against one another.
Pécuchet, surprised by the shower, had taken refuge in the hut. Bouvard
stuck to the kitchen. They saw splinters of wood, branches, and slates
whirling in front of them; and the sailors' wives who, on the sea-shore
ten leagues away, were gazing out at the sea, had not eyes more wistful
or hearts more anxious. Then, suddenly, the supports and wooden bars of
espaliers facing one another, together with the rail-work, toppled down
into the garden beds.
What a picture when they went to inspect the scene! The cherries and
plums covered the grass, amid the dissolving hailstones. The Passe
Colmars were destroyed, as well as the Besi des Vétérans and the
Triomphes de Jordoigne. There was barely left amongst the apples even a
few Bon Papas; and a dozen Tetons de Venus, the entire crop of peaches,
rolled into the pools of water by the side of the box trees, which had
been torn up by the roots.
After dinner, at which they ate very little, Pécuchet said softly:
"We should do well to see after the farm, lest anything has happened to
it."
"Bah! only to find fresh causes of sadness."
"Perhaps so; for we are not exactly lucky."
And they made complaints against Providence and against nature.
Bouvard, with his elbows on the table, spoke in little whispers; and as
all their troubles began to subside, their former agricultural projects
came back to their recollection, especially the starch manufacture and
the invention of a new sort of cheese.
Pécuchet drew a loud breath; and while he crammed several pinches of
snuff into his nostrils, he reflected that, if fate had so willed it, he
might now be a member of an agricultural society, might be delivering
brilliant lectures, and might be referred to as an authority in the
newspapers.
Bouvard cast a gloomy look around him.
"Faith! I'm anxious to get rid of all this, in order that we may settle
down somewhere else!"
"Just as you like," said Pécuchet; and the next moment: "The authors
recommend us to suppress every direct passage. In this way the sap is
counteracted, and the tree necessarily suffers thereby. In order to be
in good health, it would be necessary for it to have no fruit! However,
those which we prune and which we never manure produce them not so big,
it is true, but more luscious. I require them to give me a reason for
this! And not only each kind demands its particular attentions, but
still more each individual tree, according to climate, temperature, and
a heap of things! Where, then, is the rule? and what hope have we of
any success or profit?"
Bouvard replied to him, "You will see in Gasparin that the profit cannot
exceed the tenth of the capital. Therefore, we should be doing better by
investing this capital in a banking-house. At the end of fifteen years,
by the accumulation of interest, we'd have it doubled, without having
our constitutions ground down."
Pécuchet hung down his head.
"Arboriculture may be a humbug!"
"Like agriculture!" replied Bouvard.
Then they blamed themselves for having been too ambitious, and they
resolved to husband thenceforth their labour and their money. An
occasional pruning would suffice for the orchard. The counter-espaliers
were forbidden, and dead or fallen trees should not be replaced; but he
was going to do a nasty job--nothing less than to destroy all the others
which remained standing. How was he to set about the work?
Pécuchet made several diagrams, while using his mathematical case.
Bouvard gave him advice. They arrived at no satisfactory result.
Fortunately, they discovered amongst their collection of books Boitard's
work entitled _L'Architecte des Jardins_.
The author divides them into a great number of styles. First there is
the melancholy and romantic style, which is distinguished by
immortelles, ruins, tombs, and "a votive offering to the Virgin,
indicating the place where a lord has fallen under the blade of an
assassin." The terrible style is composed of overhanging rocks,
shattered trees, burning huts; the exotic style, by planting Peruvian
torch-thistles, "in order to arouse memories in a colonist or a
traveller." The grave style should, like Ermenonville, offer a temple to
philosophy. The majestic style is characterised by obelisks and
triumphal arches; the mysterious style by moss and by grottoes; while a
lake is appropriate to the dreamy style. There is even the fantastic
style, of which the most beautiful specimen might have been lately seen
in a garden at Würtemberg--for there might have been met successively a
wild boar, a hermit, several sepulchres, and a barque detaching itself
from the shore of its own accord, in order to lead you into a boudoir
where water-spouts lave you when you are settling yourself down upon a
sofa.
Before this horizon of marvels, Bouvard and Pécuchet experienced a kind
of bedazzlement. The fantastic style appeared to them reserved for
princes. The temple to philosophy would be cumbersome. The votive
offering of the Madonna would have no signification, having regard to
the lack of assassins, and--so much the worse for the colonists and the
travellers--the American plants would cost too much. But the rocks were
possible, as well as the shattered trees, the immortelles, and the moss;
and in their enthusiasm for new ideas, after many experiments, with the
assistance of a single man-servant, and for a trifling sum, they made
for themselves a residence which had no analogy to it in the entire
department.
The elm hedge, open here and there, allowed the light of day to fall on
the thicket, which was full of winding paths in the fashion of a
labyrinth. They had conceived the idea of making in the espalier wall an
archway, through which the prospect could be seen. As the arch could not
remain suspended, the result was an enormous breach and a fall of
wreckage to the ground.
They had sacrificed the asparagus in order to build on the spot an
Etruscan tomb, that is to say, a quadrilateral figure in dark plaster,
six feet in height, and looking like a dog-hole. Four little pine trees
at the corners flanked the monument, which was to be surmounted by an
urn and enriched by an inscription.
In the other part of the kitchen garden, a kind of Rialto projected over
a basin, presenting on its margin encrusted shells of mussels. The soil
drank up the water--no matter! they would contrive a glass bottom which
would keep it back.
The hut had been transformed into a rustic summer-house with the aid of
coloured glass.
At the top of the hillock, six trees, cut square, supported a tin
head-piece with the edges turned up, and the whole was meant to signify
a Chinese pagoda.
They had gone to the banks of the Orne to select granite, and had broken
it, marked the pieces with numbers, and carried them back themselves in
a cart, then had joined the fragments together with cement, placing them
one above the other in a mass; and in the middle of the grass arose a
rock resembling a gigantic potato.
Something further was needed to complete the harmony. They pulled down
the largest linden tree they had (however, it was three quarters dead),
and laid it down the entire length of the garden, in such a way that one
would imagine it had been carried thither by a torrent or levelled to
the ground by a thunderstorm.
The task finished, Bouvard, who was on the steps, cried from a distance:
"Here! you can see best!"--"See best!" was repeated in the air.
Pécuchet answered:
"I am going there!"--"Going there!"
"Hold on! 'Tis an echo!"--"Echo!"
The linden tree had hitherto prevented it from being produced, and it
was assisted by the pagoda, as it faced the barn, whose gables rose
above the row of trees.
In order to try the effect of the echo, they amused themselves by giving
vent to comical phrases: Bouvard yelled out language of a blackguard
description.
He had been several times at Falaise, under the pretence of going there
to receive money, and he always came back with little parcels, which he
locked up in the chest of drawers. Pécuchet started one morning to
repair to Bretteville, and returned very late with a basket, which he
hid under his bed. Next day, when he awoke, Bouvard was surprised. The
first two yew trees of the principal walk, which the day before were
still spherical, had the appearance of peacocks, and a horn with two
porcelain knobs represented the beak and the eyes. Pécuchet had risen at
dawn, and trembling lest he should be discovered, he had cut the two
trees according to the measurement given in the written instructions
sent him by Dumouchel.
For six months the others behind the two above mentioned assumed the
forms of pyramids, cubes, cylinders, stags, or armchairs; but there was
nothing equal to the peacocks. Bouvard acknowledged it with many
eulogies.
Under pretext of having forgotten his spade, he drew his comrade into
the labyrinth, for he had profited by Pécuchet's absence to do, himself
too, something sublime.
The gate leading into the fields was covered over with a coating of
plaster, under which were ranged in beautiful order five or six bowls of
pipes, representing Abd-el-Kader, negroes, naked women, horses' feet,
and death's-heads.
"Do you understand my impatience?"
"I rather think so!"
And in their emotion they embraced each other.
Like all artists, they felt the need of being applauded, and Bouvard
thought of giving a great dinner.
"Take care!" said Pécuchet, "you are going to plunge into
entertainments. It is a whirlpool!"
The matter, however, was decided. Since they had come to live in the
country, they had kept themselves isolated. Everybody, through eagerness
to make their acquaintance, accepted their invitation, except the Count
de Faverges, who had been summoned to the capital by business. They fell
back on M. Hurel, his factotum.
Beljambe, the innkeeper, formerly a _chef_ at Lisieux, was to cook
certain dishes; Germaine had engaged the services of the poultry-wench;
and Marianne, Madame Bordin's servant-girl, would also come. Since four
o'clock the range was wide open; and the two proprietors, full of
impatience, awaited their guests.
Hurel stopped under the beech row to adjust his frock-coat. Then the
curé stepped forward, arrayed in a new cassock, and, a second later, M.
Foureau, in a velvet waistcoat. The doctor gave his arm to his wife,
who walked with some difficulty, assisting herself with her parasol. A
stream of red ribbons fluttered behind them--it was the cap of Madame
Bordin, who was dressed in a lovely robe of shot silk. The gold chain of
her watch dangled over her breast, and rings glittered on both her
hands, which were partly covered with black mittens. Finally appeared
the notary, with a Panama hat on his head, and an eyeglass--for the
professional practitioner had not stifled in him the man of the world.
The drawing-room floor was waxed so that one could not stand upright
there. The eight Utrecht armchairs had their backs to the wall; a round
table in the centre supported the liqueur case; and above the
mantelpiece could be seen the portrait of Père Bouvard. The shades,
reappearing in the imperfect light, made the mouth grin and the eyes
squint, and a slight mouldiness on the cheek-bones seemed to produce the
illusion of real whiskers. The guests traced a resemblance between him
and his son, and Madame Bordin added, glancing at Bouvard, that he must
have been a very fine man.
After an hour's waiting, Pécuchet announced that they might pass into
the dining-room.
The white calico curtains with red borders were, like those of the
drawing-room, completely drawn before the windows, and the sun's rays
passing across them, flung a brilliant light on the wainscotings, the
only ornament of which was a barometer.
Bouvard placed the two ladies beside him, while Pécuchet had the mayor
on his left and the curé on his right.
They began with the oysters. They had the taste of mud. Bouvard was
annoyed, and was prodigal of excuses, and Pécuchet got up in order to
go into the kitchen and make a scene with Beljambe.
During the whole of the first course, which consisted of a brill with a
vol-au-vent and stewed pigeons, the conversation turned on the mode of
manufacturing cider; after which they discussed what meats were
digestible or indigestible. Naturally, the doctor was consulted. He
looked at matters sceptically, like a man who had dived into the depths
of science, and yet did not brook the slightest contradiction.
At the same time, with the sirloin of beef, Burgundy was supplied. It
was muddy. Bouvard, attributing this accident to the rinsing of the
bottles, got them to try three others without more success; then he
poured out some St. Julien, manifestly not long enough in bottle, and
all the guests were mute. Hurel smiled without discontinuing; the heavy
steps of the waiters resounded over the flooring.
Madame Vaucorbeil, who was dumpy and waddling in her gait (she was near
her confinement), had maintained absolute silence. Bouvard, not knowing
what to talk to her about, spoke of the theatre at Caen.
"My wife never goes to the play," interposed the doctor.
M. Marescot observed that, when he lived in Paris, he used to go only to
the Italian operas.
"For my part," said Bouvard, "I used to pay for a seat in the pit
sometimes at the Vaudeville to hear farces."
Foureau asked Madame Bordin whether she liked farces.
"That depends on what kind they are," she said.
The mayor rallied her. She made sharp rejoinders to his pleasantries.
Then she mentioned a recipe for preparing gherkins. However, her talents
for housekeeping were well known, and she had a little farm, which was
admirably looked after.
Foureau asked Bouvard, "Is it your intention to sell yours?"
"Upon my word, up to this I don't know what to do exactly."
"What! not even the Escalles piece?" interposed the notary. "That would
suit you, Madame Bordin."
The widow replied in an affected manner:
"The demands of M. Bouvard would be too high."
"Perhaps someone could soften him."
"I will not try."
"Bah! if you embraced him?"
"Let us try, all the same," said Bouvard.
And he kissed her on both cheeks, amid the plaudits of the guests.
Almost immediately after this incident, they uncorked the champagne,
whose detonations caused an additional sense of enjoyment. Pécuchet made
a sign; the curtains opened, and the garden showed itself.
In the twilight it looked dreadful. The rockery, like a mountain,
covered the entire grass plot; the tomb formed a cube in the midst of
spinaches, the Venetian bridge a circumflex accent over the
kidney-beans, and the summer-house beyond a big black spot, for they had
burned its straw roof to make it more poetic. The yew trees, shaped like
stags or armchairs, succeeded to the tree that seemed thunder-stricken,
extending transversely from the elm row to the arbour, where tomatoes
hung like stalactites. Here and there a sunflower showed its yellow
disk. The Chinese pagoda, painted red, seemed a lighthouse on the
hillock. The peacocks' beaks, struck by the sun, reflected back the
rays, and behind the railed gate, now freed from its boards, a perfectly
flat landscape bounded the horizon.
In the face of their guests' astonishment Bouvard and Pécuchet
experienced a veritable delight.
Madame Bordin admired the peacocks above all; but the tomb was not
appreciated, nor the cot in flames, nor the wall in ruins. Then each in
turn passed over the bridge. In order to fill the basin, Bouvard and
Pécuchet had been carrying water in carts all the morning. It had
escaped between the foundation stones, which were imperfectly joined
together, and covered them over again with lime.
While they were walking about, the guests indulged in criticism.
"In your place that's what I'd have done."--"The green peas are
late."--"Candidly, this corner is not all right."--"With such pruning
you'll never get fruit."
Bouvard was obliged to answer that he did not care a jot for fruit.
As they walked past the hedge of trees, he said with a sly air:
"Ah! here's a lady that puts us out of countenance: a thousand excuses!"
It was a well-seasoned joke; everyone knew "the lady in plaster."
Finally, after many turns in the labyrinth, they arrived in front of the
gate with the pipes. Looks of amazement were exchanged. Bouvard observed
the faces of his guests, and, impatient to learn what was their opinion,
asked:
"What do you say to it?"
Madame Bordin burst out laughing. All the others followed her example,
after their respective ways--the curé giving a sort of cluck like a hen,
Hurel coughing, the doctor mourning over it, while his wife had a
nervous spasm, and Foureau, an unceremonious type of man, breaking an
Abd-el-Kader and putting it into his pocket as a souvenir.
When they had left the tree-hedge, Bouvard, to astonish the company with
the echo, exclaimed with all his strength:
"Servant, ladies!"
Nothing! No echo. This was owing to the repairs made in the barn, the
gable and the roof having been demolished.
The coffee was served on the hillock; and the gentlemen were about to
begin a game of ball, when they saw in front of them, behind the railed
fence, a man staring at them.
He was lean and sunburnt, with a pair of red trousers in rags, a blue
waistcoat, no shirt, his black beard cut like a brush. He articulated,
in a hoarse voice:
"Give me a glass of wine!"
The mayor and the Abbé Jeufroy had at once recognised him. He had
formerly been a joiner at Chavignolles.
"Come, Gorju! take yourself off," said M. Foureau. "You ought not to be
asking for alms."
"I! Alms!" cried the exasperated man. "I served seven years in the wars
in Africa. I've only just got up out of a hospital. Good God! must I
turn cutthroat?"
His anger subsided of its own accord, and, with his two fists on his
hips, he surveyed the assembled guests with a melancholy and defiant
air. The fatigue of bivouacs, absinthe, and fever, an entire existence
of wretchedness and debauchery, stood revealed in his dull eyes. His
white lips quivered, exposing the gums. The vast sky, empurpled,
enveloped him in a blood-red light; and his obstinacy in remaining there
caused a species of terror.
Bouvard, to have done with him, went to look for the remnants of a
bottle. The vagabond swallowed the wine greedily, then disappeared
amongst the oats, gesticulating as he went.
After this, blame was attached by those present to Bouvard. Such
kindnesses encouraged disorder. But Bouvard, irritated at the
ill-success of his garden, took up the defence of the people. They all
began talking at the same time.
Foureau extolled the government. Hurel saw nothing in the world but
landed property. The Abbé Jeufroy complained of the fact that it did not
protect religion. Pécuchet attacked the taxes. Madame Bordin exclaimed
at intervals, "As for me, I detest the Republic." And the doctor
declared himself in favour of progress: "For, indeed, gentlemen, we have
need of reforms."
"Possibly," said Foureau; "but all these ideas are injurious to
business."
"I laugh at business!" cried Pécuchet.
Vaucorbeil went on: "At least let us make allowance for abilities."
Bouvard would not go so far.
"That is your opinion," replied the doctor; "there's an end of you,
then! Good evening. And I wish you a deluge in order to sail in your
basin!"
"And I, too, am going," said M. Foureau the next moment; and, pointing
to the pocket where the Abd-el-Kader was, "If I feel the want of
another, I'll come back."
The curé, before departing, timidly confided to Pécuchet that he did not
think this imitation of a tomb in the midst of vegetables quite
decorous. Hurel, as he withdrew, made a low bow to the company. M.
Marescot had disappeared after dessert. Madame Bordin again went over
her recipe for gherkins, promised a second for plums with brandy, and
made three turns in the large walk; but, passing close to the linden
tree, the end of her dress got caught, and they heard her murmuring:
"My God! what a piece of idiocy this tree is!"
At midnight the two hosts, beneath the arbour, gave vent to their
resentment.
No doubt one might find fault with two or three little details here and
there in the dinner; and yet the guests had gorged themselves like
ogres, showing that it was not so bad. But, as for the garden, so much
depreciation sprang from the blackest jealousy. And both of them,
lashing themselves into a rage, went on:
"Ha! water is needed in the basin, is it? Patience! they may see even a
swan and fishes in it!"
"They scarcely noticed the pagoda."
"To pretend that the ruins are not proper is an imbecile's view."
"And the tomb objectionable! Why objectionable? Hasn't a man the right
to erect one in his own demesne? I even intend to be buried in it!"
"Don't talk like that!" said Pécuchet.
Then they passed the guests in review.
"The doctor seems to me a nice snob!"
"Did you notice the sneer of M. Marescot before the portrait?"
"What a low fellow the mayor is! When you dine in a house, hang it! you
should show some respect towards the curios."
"Madame Bordin!" said Bouvard.
"Ah! that one's a schemer. Don't annoy me by talking about her."
Disgusted with society, they resolved to see nobody any more, but live
exclusively by themselves and for themselves.
And they spent days in the wine-cellar, picking the tartar off the
bottles, re-varnished all the furniture, enamelled the rooms; and each
evening, as they watched the wood burning, they discussed the best
system of fuel.
Through economy they tried to smoke hams, and attempted to do the
washing themselves. Germaine, whom they inconvenienced, used to shrug
her shoulders. When the time came for making preserves she got angry,
and they took up their station in the bakehouse. It was a disused
wash-house, where there was, under the faggots, a big, old-fashioned
tub, excellently fitted for their projects, the ambition having seized
them to manufacture preserves.
Fourteen glass bottles were filled with tomatoes and green peas. They
coated the stoppers with quicklime and cheese, attached to the rims silk
cords, and then plunged them into boiling water. It evaporated; they
poured in cold water; the difference of temperature caused the bowls to
burst. Only three of them were saved. Then they procured old sardine
boxes, put veal cutlets into them, and plunged them into a vessel of
boiling water. They came out as round as balloons. The cold flattened
them out afterwards. To continue their experiments, they shut up in
other boxes eggs, chiccory, lobsters, a hotchpotch of fish, and a
soup!--and they applauded themselves like M. Appert, "on having fixed
the seasons." Such discoveries, according to Pécuchet, carried him
beyond the exploits of conquerors.
They improved upon Madame Bordin's pickles by spicing the vinegar with
pepper; and their brandy plums were very much superior. By the process
of steeping ratafia, they obtained raspberry and absinthe. With honey
and angelica in a cask of Bagnolles, they tried to make Malaga wine; and
they likewise undertook the manufacture of champagne! The bottles of
Châblis diluted with water must burst of themselves. Then he no longer
was doubtful of success.
Their studies widening, they came to suspect frauds in all articles of
food. They cavilled with the baker on the colour of his bread; they made
the grocer their enemy by maintaining that he adulterated his chocolate.
They went to Falaise for a jujube, and, even under the apothecary's own
eyes, they submitted his paste to the test of water. It assumed the
appearance of a piece of bacon, which indicated gelatine.
After this triumph, their pride rose to a high pitch. They bought up the
stock of a bankrupt distiller, and soon there arrived in the house
sieves, barrels, funnels, skimmers, filters, and scales, without
counting a bowl of wood with a ball attached and a Moreshead still,
which required a reflecting-furnace with a basket funnel. They learned
how sugar is clarified, and the different kinds of boilings, the large
and the small system of boiling twice over, the blowing system, the
methods of making up in balls, the reduction of sugar to a viscous
state, and the making of burnt sugar. But they longed to use the still;
and they broached the fine liqueurs, beginning with the aniseed cordial.
The liquid nearly always drew away the materials with it, or rather they
stuck together at the bottom; at other times they were mistaken as to
the amount of the ingredients. Around them shone great copper pans;
egg-shaped vessels projected their narrow openings; saucepans hung from
the walls. Frequently one of them culled herbs on the table, while the
other made the ball swing in the suspended bowl. They stirred the
ladles; they tasted the mashes.
Bouvard, always in a perspiration, had no garment on save his shirt and
his trousers, drawn up to the pit of his stomach by his short braces;
but, giddy as a bird, he would forget the opening in the centre of the
cucurbit, or would make the fire too strong.
Pécuchet kept muttering calculations, motionless in his long blouse, a
kind of child's smock-frock with sleeves; and they looked upon
themselves as very serious people engaged in very useful occupations.
At length they dreamed of a cream which would surpass all others. They
would put into it coriander as in Kummel, kirsch as in Maraschino,
hyssop as in Chartreuse, amber-seed as in Vespetro cordial, and sweet
calamus as in Krambambuly; and it would be coloured red with sandalwood.
But under what name should they introduce it for commercial
purposes?--for they would want a name easy to retain and yet fanciful.
Having turned the matter over a long time, they determined that it
should be called "Bouvarine."
About the end of autumn stains appeared in the three glass bowls
containing the preserves. The tomatoes and green peas were rotten. That
must have been due to the way they had stopped up the vessels. Then the
problem of stoppage tormented them. In order to try the new methods,
they required money; and the farm had eaten up their resources.
Many times tenants had offered themselves; but Bouvard would not have
them. His principal farm-servant carried on the cultivation according to
his directions, with a risky economy, to such an extent that the crops
diminished and everything was imperilled; and they were talking about
their embarrassments when Maître Gouy entered the laboratory, escorted
by his wife, who remained timidly in the background.
Thanks to all the dressings they had got, the lands were improved, and
he had come to take up the farm again. He ran it down. In spite of all
their toils, the profits were uncertain; in short, if he wanted it, that
was because of his love for the country, and his regret for such good
masters.
They dismissed him coldly. He came back the same evening.
Pécuchet had preached at Bouvard; they were on the point of giving way.
Gouy asked for a reduction of rent; and when the others protested, he
began to bellow rather than speak, invoking the name of God, enumerating
his labours, and extolling his merits. When they called on him to state
his terms, he hung down his head instead of answering. Then his wife,
seated near the door, with a big basket on her knees, made similar
protestations, screeching in a sharp voice, like a hen that has been
hurt.
At last the lease was agreed on, the rent being fixed at three thousand
francs a year--a third less than it had been formerly.
Before they had separated, Maître Gouy offered to buy up the stock, and
the bargaining was renewed.
The valuation of the chattels occupied fifteen days. Bouvard was dying
of fatigue. He let everything go for a sum so contemptible that Gouy at
first opened his eyes wide, and exclaiming, "Agreed!" slapped his palm.
After which the proprietors, following the old custom, proposed that
they should take a "nip" at the house, and Pécuchet opened a bottle of
his Malaga, less through generosity than in the hope of eliciting
eulogies on the wine.
But the husbandman said, with a sour look, "It's like liquorice syrup."
And his wife, "in order to get rid of the taste," asked for a glass of
brandy.
A graver matter engaged their attention. All the ingredients of the
"Bouvarine" were now collected. They heaped them together in the
cucurbit, with the alcohol, lighted the fire, and waited. However,
Pécuchet, annoyed by the misadventure about the Malaga, took the tin
boxes out of the cupboard and pulled the lid off the first, then off the
second, and then off the third. He angrily flung them down, and called
out to Bouvard. The latter had fastened the cock of the worm in order to
try the effect on the preserves.
The disillusion was complete. The slices of veal were like boiled
boot-soles; a muddy fluid had taken the place of the lobster; the
fish-stew was unrecognisable; mushroom growths had sprouted over the
soup, and an intolerable smell tainted the laboratory.
Suddenly, with the noise of a bombshell, the still burst into twenty
pieces, which jumped up to the ceiling, smashing the pots, flattening
out the skimmers and shattering the glasses. The coal was scattered
about, the furnace was demolished, and next day Germaine found a spatula
in the yard.
The force of the steam had broken the instrument to such an extent that
the cucurbit was pinned to the head of the still.
Pécuchet immediately found himself squatted behind the vat, and Bouvard
lay like one who had fallen over a stool. For ten minutes they remained
in this posture, not daring to venture on a single movement, pale with
terror, in the midst of broken glass. When they were able to recover the
power of speech, they asked themselves what was the cause of so many
misfortunes, and of the last above all? And they could understand
nothing about the matter except that they were near being killed.
Pécuchet finished with these words:
"It is, perhaps, because we do not know chemistry!"
[Illustration]