Bouvard and Pecuchet

Gustave Flaubert, Mark Polizzotti

• Editorial: Dalkey Archive Press
• Año: 2005
• ISBN:
  9781564786999
• Categoría: Literature
• Categoría: Literature General

In his own words, the novel is "a kind of encyclopedia made into farce... A book in which I shall spit out my bile." At the center of this book are Bouvard and Pécuchet, two retired clerks who set out in a search for truth and knowledge with persistent optimism in light of the fact that each new attempt at learning about the world ends in disaster.

In the literary tradition of Rabelais, Cervantes, and Swift, this story is told in that blend of satire and sympathy that only genius can compound, and the reader becomes genuinely fond of these two Don Quixotes of Ideas. Apart from being a new translation, this edition includes Flaubert's Dictionary of Received Ideas.

Bouvard and Pécuchet

One

AS THE TEMPERATURE THAT DAY had risen to ninety-two degrees, Boulevard Bourdon was completely deserted. Lower down, the Canal Saint-Martin, contained by a lock at each end, stretched its inky water in a straight line. In the middle was a barge loaded with wood, and on the bank were twin rows of barrels.

Past the canal, between buildings buttressed by scaffolding, emerged patches of clear blue sky, and beneath the sun’s rays the white facades, slate roofs, and granite quays shone brilliantly. An indistinct murmur rose far off in the sultry atmosphere, and everything seemed muted by the Sunday quiet, the melancholy of summer afternoons.

Two men appeared.

One was coming from the Bastille, the other from the Jardin des Plantes. The taller one, wearing a linen suit, walked with his hat pushed back, vest unbuttoned and tie in his hand. The shorter one, whose body disappeared inside a brown frock coat, lowered his head beneath a cap with a pointed visor.

When they reached the middle of the boulevard, they both sat down, at the same moment, on the same bench.

To wipe their foreheads, they removed their hats, which each man placed next to him. The short man noticed the name Bouvard written in his neighbor’s, while the latter made out the word Pécuchet in the cap belonging to the fellow in the coat.

“Fancy that!” he said. “We both had the idea of writing our names in our hats.”

“I should say so! Someone could walk off with mine at the office!”

“You don’t say—I work in an office, too.”

At which point they looked at each other.

Pécuchet was immediately charmed by Bouvard’s friendly appearance. His bluish, heavy-lidded eyes smiled in his florid face. His trousers, which puckered at the cuff over buckskin shoes, had a wide flap in front that molded his stomach and caused his shirt to puff out at the belt line; and his blond hair, waving into soft curls, made him look like an overgrown child. His lips gave off a kind of low, continual whistle.

Bouvard was struck by Pécuchet’s serious demeanor. He seemed to be wearing a wig, so flat and black was the hair covering his high skull. His long nose made his face seem in constant profile. His legs, encased in twill stovepipes, were disproportionate to the length of his torso, and he had a strong, cavernous voice.

He let out a sigh: “It would be so much nicer in the country!”

But according to Bouvard, the suburbs were impossible because of all the noise from the dance halls. Pécuchet felt the same way. Still, he was getting tired of the capital; Bouvard too.

And their eyes wandered over the heaps of paving stones, the hideous water in which a bundle of straw was floating, the smokestack of a factory rising up from the horizon. The sewers gave off a fetid stench. When they turned around, they saw only the walls of the municipal granary.

All things considered (and Pécuchet found this surprising), it was hotter in the streets than at home. Bouvard encouraged him to remove his coat. Personally, he couldn’t care less what people thought!

Suddenly a drunk zigzagged across the sidewalk; and, from the topic of laborers, they launched into a discussion of politics. They were of the same opinion, though Bouvard was perhaps a bit more liberal.

A clanking noise rang out on the cobblestones in a cloud of dust: it was three hackney cabs heading toward Bercy, carrying a bride with her bouquet, some bourgeois in white tie, ladies sunk to the armpits in their skirts, two or three little girls, and a student. The sight of this wedding led Bouvard and Pécuchet to talk of women, whom they declared to be frivolous, shrewish, and stubborn. That being said, they were often better than men; at other times they seemed worse. In short, you were better off living without them. Pécuchet, for his part, had remained a bachelor.

“I’m a widower, myself,” said Bouvard. “No children.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well.” Ultimately, though, living alone could get rather depressing.

Then, at the edge of the quay, a prostitute appeared with a soldier. Ashen-faced, dark-haired, and pitted with smallpox, she was leaning on the military man’s arm, dragging her worn-out heels and swinging her hips. When she had passed by, Bouvard made a smutty remark. Pécuchet turned beet-red, and no doubt to avoid answering he glanced pointedly at a priest who was coming their way.

The clergyman slowly walked down the avenue of thin elms lining the sidewalk, and Bouvard expressed relief once the man’s tricorn hat was no longer in sight, for he despised Jesuits. Pécuchet, without quite absolving them, showed some deference for religion.

Meanwhile, dusk was beginning to fall, and some window blinds facing them had been raised. The passersby increased in number. Seven o’clock sounded.

Their words flowed tirelessly, remarks following upon anecdotes, philosophical musings upon personal observations. They denigrated the Public Works department, the Tobacco Authority, business, the theater, our Navy, and the entire human race, like men who had suffered grave disappointments. Each one, listening to the other, rediscovered forgotten parts of himself. And although they had passed the age of naïve emotions, they both felt a new pleasure, a kind of blossoming, the charm of affections newly born.

Twenty times they had stood up, sat down again, and had walked the length of the boulevard from upstream lock to downstream, each time meaning to take their leave but unable to, retained by a kind of fascination.

They had nonetheless shaken hands and were about to part company when Bouvard blurted out, “How about having dinner together?”

“I was thinking the same thing!” answered Pécuchet. “But I didn’t dare suggest it.”

And he let himself be led to a cozy little restaurant opposite the town hall. Bouvard asked for the menu.

Pécuchet shied away from spices as if they would set his body on fire. This became the subject of a medical discussion. After which, they praised the advances of science: so many things to know, so much research—if only one had the time! Alas, one’s livelihood absorbed it all. Their arms flew up in amazement and they nearly hugged each other across the table when they discovered that they were both copy-clerks, Bouvard in a business office, Pécuchet at the Naval Ministry—which didn’t keep him from devoting a few moments to his studies every evening. He had noted some errors in Mr. Thiers’s book, and spoke with the highest respect of a certain Professor Dumouchel.

Bouvard had the advantage in other respects. His horsehair watch chain and the way he stirred the remoulade sauce bespoke an experienced man of the world, and while he ate, the corner of his napkin tucked under his armpit, he spouted forth observations that made Pécuchet laugh. It was a peculiar laugh, a single low note, always the same, emitted at long intervals. Bouvard’s was continuous and resonant and uncovered his teeth; it made his shoulders shake and the patrons near the door turn around.

When the meal was over, they went somewhere else for coffee. Pécuchet, glancing at the gaslights, deplored the conspicuous luxury, then offhandedly dismissed the newspapers. Bouvard was more indulgent: he liked writers in general and in his youth had leaned toward becoming an actor.

He tried to do balancing tricks with a billiard cue and two ivory balls, like his friend Barberou. They invariably fell to the floor and rolled away, getting lost among people’s legs. The waiter, who got up each time to go fetch them on all fours, ended up complaining. Pécuchet quarreled with him, and when the owner appeared he ignored his pleas and even quibbled over the bill. He then suggested they finish their evening peacefully at his place, which was just a short walk away on Rue Saint-Martin.

No sooner had they entered than Pécuchet put on a kind of print flannel nightshirt, then showed Bouvard around his apartment. The corners of a pine desk, placed in the center of the room, made it difficult to circulate. And all around in haphazard piles—on shelves, on the three chairs, on the old couch, and in the corners—were several volumes of the Roret Encyclopedia, the Hypnotist’s Manual, something by Fénéon, and other books, along with stacks of papers, two coconuts, various medallions, a fez, and shells brought back from Le Havre by Dumouchel. A coating of dust gave a velvety finish to the walls, which had once been painted yellow. A shoe brush was lying at the foot of the bed, whose sheets hung to the floor. On the ceiling one could see a large black stain produced by smoke from the lamp.

Bouvard, no doubt because of the smell, asked if he could open a window.

“My papers will blow all over the place!” cried Pécuchet, who was also afraid of drafts. Still, he was panting in that little room, heated since morning by the slate roofing.

Bouvard said, “If I were you, I’d take off that flannel.”

“What!” Pécuchet hung his head, terrified at the idea of being without his protective wrap.

“Walk me home,” Bouvard proposed. “The fresh air will make you feel cooler.”

Finally Pécuchet put his boots back on, grumbling, “I swear, you’re a regular sorcerer!” And despite the distance he accompanied his new friend all the way home, which was at the corner of Rue de Béthune, facing the Pont de la Tournelle.

Bouvard’s room was well scrubbed and had percale curtains, walnut furniture, and a balcony with a view of the river. The two main decorations were a liqueur service in the middle of the sideboard and daguerreotypes of friends lined up along the mirror. An oil painting hung over the alcove.

“My uncle!” said Bouvard. And the candle in his hand lit a gentleman’s features.

Red whiskers widened his face, crowned by a head of hair that frizzed into a point. He was ensconced in a high cravat, a shirt with a triple collar, a velvet vest, and a black coat. Diamonds had been painted on his jabot. His eyes were slanted at the cheeks, and his smile looked vaguely sardonic.

Pécuchet couldn’t help remarking, “That could be your father!”

“He’s my godfather,” Bouvard replied offhandedly, adding that he had been baptized François Denys Bartholomée. Pécuchet’s given names were Juste Romain Cyrille. They were even the same age, forty-seven. This coincidence pleased them, but also surprised them: each had thought the other somewhat older. Afterward they spoke admiringly of Providence, which sometimes worked in such marvelous ways.

“For if we hadn’t gone out earlier to take a walk, we might have died without ever meeting!”

And, having exchanged their work addresses, they bid each other goodnight.

“Don’t go chasing the ladies, now!” Bouvard shouted down the stairwell.

Pécuchet continued down the steps without answering the off-color remark.

The next day, in the courtyard of Descambos Bros., Alsatian fabrics, 92 Rue Hautefeuille, a voice called out, “Bouvard! Monsieur Bouvard!”

The latter poked his head around the glass tiles and recognized Pécuchet, who said more loudly: “I’m not sick! I took it off!”

“What’s that?”

“This!” said Pécuchet, pointing to his chest.

The previous day’s talk, along with the temperature in the apartment and the labors of digestion, had prevented him from sleeping—until, unable to stand it any longer, he had removed his nightshirt and flung it aside. In the morning he remembered what he’d done, saw that there had been no ill effects, and had come to notify Bouvard, who as a result had risen to even greater heights in his esteem.

Pécuchet was the son of a small shopkeeper and had never known his mother, who died very young. At fifteen, they had taken him out of boarding school to place him in a real estate office. The police arrived one day and carted his boss off to prison, a terrible episode that still filled him with horror. After that, he had tried out several occupations: student of pharmacology, schoolteacher, and accountant on a steamship on the Upper Seine. Finally, a division chief, taken with his handwriting, had hired him as an administrative copy-clerk. But his awareness of his own sporadic education and intellectual shortcomings darkened his mood, so that he lived completely alone, having neither parents nor a mistress. His one diversion was his Sunday outings to inspect public works projects.

Bouvard’s earliest memories carried him back to a farm on the banks of the Loire. A man, his uncle, had brought him to Paris to teach him business. When he came of age he was given several thousand francs, and with this he took a wife and opened a confectioner’s shop. Six months later, his bride disappeared along with the cash box. Friends, high living, and especially laziness had hastened his ruin. But he had the inspiration to use his beautiful penmanship, and so for the last twelve years he had held the same job, at Descambos Bros., fabrics, 92 Rue Hautefeuille. As for his uncle, who years ago had sent him the famous portrait as a souvenir, Bouvard did not even know his whereabouts and he no longer expected anything from him. Fifteen hundred pounds in annuities and his wages as a copy-clerk afforded him the opportunity to doze off every evening in a cheap tavern.

Their meeting, then, took on the significance of a great adventure. From the start, they were bound to each other by hidden threads. Besides, how can we explain why any two people hit it off? Why is a certain peculiarity, a certain imperfection, indifferent or baneful in one person but enchanting in someone else? What we call “love at first sight” holds true for all sorts of passions. By the end of the week, they were calling each other by their first names.

Often they went to meet each other at work. The moment one appeared, the other shut his desk, and off they went together to roam the streets. Bouvard advanced with huge strides, while Pécuchet, multiplying his steps, his frock coat beating against his heels, seemed to be gliding on rollers. In the same way, their personal tastes were complementary. Bouvard smoked a pipe, was fond of cheese, and had his espresso daily. Pécuchet took snuff, had only a bit of preserves for dessert, and dipped a cube of sugar into his coffee. One was confident, rash, generous; the other discreet, p...