Marcel went jumping from right to left, like a spaniel running at field-sports. Bouvard was compelled to call him back every five minutes. Pécuchet advanced step by step, holding the rod by the two branches, with the point upwards. Often it seemed to him that a force and, as it were, a cramp-iron drew it towards the ground; and Marcel very rapidly made a notch in the neighbouring trees, in order to find the place later.
Pécuchet, however, slackened his pace. His mouth was open; the pupils of his eyes were contracted. Bouvard questioned him, caught hold of his shoulders, and shook him. He did not stir, and remained inert, exactly like La Barbée. Then he said he felt around his heart a kind of compression, a singular experience, arising from the rod, no doubt, and he no longer wished to touch it.
They returned next day to the place where the marks had been made on the trees. Marcel dug holes with a spade; nothing, however, came of it, and each time they felt exceedingly sheepish. Pécuchet sat down by the side of a ditch, and while he mused, with his head raised, striving to hear the voices of the spirits through his astral body, asking himself whether he even had one, he fixed his eyes on the peak of his cap; the ecstasy of the previous day once more took possession of him. It lasted a long time, and became dreadful.
Above some oats in a by-path appeared a felt hat: it was that of M. Vaucorbeil on his mare.
Bouvard and Marcel called out to him.
The crisis was drawing to an end when the physician arrived. In order to examine Pécuchet he lifted his cap, and perceiving a forehead covered with coppery marks:
"Ha! ha! Fructus belli! Those are love-spots, my fine fellow! Take care of yourself. The deuce! let us not trifle with love."
Pécuchet, ashamed, again put on his cap, a sort of head-piece that swelled over a peak shaped like a half-moon, the model of which he had taken from the Atlas of Amoros.
The doctor's words astounded him. He kept thinking of them with his eyes staring before him, and suddenly had another seizure.
Vaucorbeil watched him, then, with a fillip, knocked off his cap.
Pécuchet recovered his faculties.
"I suspected as much," said the physician; "the glazed peak hypnotises you like a mirror; and this phenomenon is not rare with persons who look at a shining substance too attentively."
He pointed out how the experiment might be made on hens, then mounted his nag, and slowly disappeared from their view.
Half a league further on they noticed, in a farmyard, a pyramidal object stretched out towards the horizon. It might have been compared to an enormous bunch of black grapes marked here and there with red dots. It was, in fact, a long pole, garnished, according to the Norman custom, with cross-bars, on which were perched turkeys bridling in the sunshine.
"Let us go in." And Pécuchet accosted the farmer, who yielded to their request.
They traced a line with whiting in the middle of the press, tied down the claws of a turkey-cock, then stretched him flat on his belly, with his beak placed on the line. The fowl shut his eyes, and soon presented the appearance of being dead. The same process was gone through with the others. Bouvard passed them quickly across to Pécuchet, who ranged them on the side on which they had become torpid.
The people about the farm-house exhibited uneasiness. The mistress screamed, and a little girl began to cry.
Bouvard loosened all the turkeys. They gradually revived; but one could not tell what might be the consequences.
At a rather tart remark of Pécuchet, the farmer grasped his pitchfork tightly.
"Clear out, in God's name, or I'll smash your head!"
They scampered off.
No matter! the problem was solved: ecstasy is dependent on material causes.
What, then, is matter? What is spirit? Whence comes the influence of the one on the other, and the reciprocal exchange of influence?
In order to inform themselves on the subject, they made researches in the works of Voltaire, Bossuet, Fénelon; and they renewed their subscription to a circulating library.
The ancient teachers were inaccessible owing to the length of their works, or the difficulty of the language; but Jouffroy and Damiron initiated them into modern philosophy, and they had authors who dealt with that of the last century.
Bouvard derived his arguments from Lamettrie, Locke, and Helvetius; Pécuchet from M. Cousin, Thomas Reid, and Gérando. The former adhered to experience; for the latter, the ideal was everything. The one belonged to the school of Aristotle, the other to that of Plato; and they proceeded to discuss the subject.
"The soul is immaterial," said Pécuchet.
"By no means," said his friend. "Lunacy, chloroform, a bleeding will overthrow it; and, inasmuch as it is not always thinking, it is not a substance which does nothing but think."
"Nevertheless," rejoined Pécuchet, "I have in myself something superior to my body, which sometimes confutes it."
"A being in a being — homo duplex! Look here, now! Different tendencies disclose opposite motives. That's all!"
"But this something, this soul, remains identical amid all changes from without. Therefore, it is simple, indivisible, and thus spiritual."
"If the soul were simple," replied Bouvard, "the newly-born would recollect, would imagine, like the adult. Thought, on the contrary, follows the development of the brain. As to its being indivisible, neither the perfume of a rose nor the appetite of a wolf, any more than a volition or an affirmation, is cut in two."
"That makes no difference," said Pécuchet. "The soul is exempt from the qualities of matter."
"Do you admit weight?" returned Bouvard. "Now, if matter can fall, it can in the same way think. Having had a beginning, the soul must come to an end, and as it is dependent on certain organs, it must disappear with them."
"For my part, I maintain that it is immortal. God could not intend — — "
"But if God does not exist?"
"What?" And Pécuchet gave utterance to the three Cartesian proofs: "'Primo: God is comprehended in the idea that we have of Him; secundo: Existence is possible to Him; tertio: How can I, a finite being, have an idea of the Infinite? And, since we have this idea, it comes to us from God; therefore, God exists.'"
He passed on to the testimony of conscience, the traditions of different races, and the need of a Creator.
"When I see a clock — — "
"Yes! yes! That's a well-known argument. But where is the clockmaker's father?"
"However, a cause is necessary."
Bouvard was doubtful about causes. "From the fact that one phenomenon succeeds another phenomenon, the conclusion is drawn that it is caused by the first. Prove it."
"But the spectacle of the universe indicates an intention and a plan."
"Why? Evil is as perfectly organised as good. The worm that works its way into a sheep's head and causes it to die, is as valuable from an anatomical point of view as the sheep itself. Abnormalities surpass the normal functions. The human body could be better constructed. Three fourths of the globe are sterile. That celestial lamp-post, the moon, does not always show itself! Do you think the ocean was destined for ships, and the wood of trees for fuel for our houses?"
Pécuchet answered: "Yet the stomach is made to digest, the leg to walk, the eye to see, although there are dyspepsias, fractures, and cataracts. No arrangements without an end. The effects came on at the exact time or at a later period. Everything depends on laws; therefore, there are final causes."
Bouvard imagined that perhaps Spinoza would furnish him with some arguments, and he wrote to Dumouchel to get him Saisset's translation.
Dumouchel sent him a copy belonging to his friend Professor Varelot, exiled on the 2nd of December.
Ethics terrified them with its axioms, its corollaries. They read only the pages marked with pencil, and understood this:
"'The substance is that which is of itself, by itself, without cause, without origin. This substance is God. He alone is extension, and extension is without bounds.'"
"
What can it be bound with?"
"'But, though it be infinite, it is not the absolute infinite, for it contains only one kind of perfection, and the Absolute contains all.'"
They frequently stopped to think it out the better. Pécuchet took pinches of snuff, and Bouvard's face glowed with concentrated attention.
"Does this amuse you?"
"Yes, undoubtedly. Go on forever."
"'God displays Himself in an infinite number of attributes which express, each in its own way, the infinite character of His being. We know only two of them — extension and thought.
"'From thought and extension flow innumerable modes, which contain others. He who would at the same time embrace all extension and all thought would see there no contingency, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound amongst themselves by necessary laws.'"
"Ah! that would be beautiful!" exclaimed Bouvard.
"'If God had a will, an end, if He acted for a cause, that would mean that He would have some want, that He would lack some one perfection. He would not be God.
"'Thus our world is but one point in the whole of things, and the universe, impenetrable by our knowledge, is a portion of an infinite number of universes emitting close to ours infinite modifications. Extension envelops our universe, but is enveloped by God, who contains in His thought all possible universes, and His thought itself is enveloped in His substance.'"
It appeared to them that this substance was filled at night with an icy coldness, carried away in an endless course towards a bottomless abyss, leaving nothing around them but the Unseizable, the Immovable, the Eternal.
This was too much for them, and they renounced it. And wishing for something less harsh, they bought the course of philosophy, by M. Guesnier, for the use of classes.
The author asks himself what would be the proper method, the ontological or the psychological.
The first suited the infancy of societies, when man directed his attention towards the external world. But at present, when he turns it in upon himself, "we believe the second to be more scientific."
The object of psychology is to study the acts which take place in our own breasts. We discover them by observation.
"Let us observe." And for a fortnight, after breakfast, they regularly searched their consciousness at random, hoping to make great discoveries there — and made none, which considerably astonished them.
"'One phenomenon occupies the ego, viz., the idea. What is its nature? It has been supposed that the objects are put into the brain, and that the brain transmits these images to our souls, which gives us the knowledge of them.'"
But if the idea is spiritual, how are we to represent matter? Thence comes scepticism as to external perceptions. If it is material, spiritual objects could not be represented. Thence scepticism as to the reality of internal notions.
"For another reason let us here be careful. This hypothesis will lead us to atheism."
For an image, being a finite thing, cannot possibly represent the Infinite.
"Yet," argued Bouvard, "when I think of a forest, of a person, of a dog, I see this forest, this person, this dog. Therefore the ideas do represent them."
And they proceeded to deal with the origin of ideas.
According to Locke, there are two originating causes — sensation and reflection; and Condillac reduces everything to sensation.
But then reflection will lack a basis. It has need of a subject, of a sentient being; and it is powerless to furnish us with the great fundamental truths: God, merit and demerit, the Just, the Beautiful — ideas which are all innate, that is to say, anterior to facts, and to experience, and universal.
"If they were universal we should have them from our birth."
"By this word is meant dispositions to have them; and Descartes — — "
"Your Descartes is muddled, for he maintains that the fœtus possesses them, and he confesses in another place that this is in an implied fashion."
Pécuchet was astonished. "Where is this found?"
"In Gérando." And Bouvard tapped him lightly on the stomach.
"Make an end of it, then," said Pécuchet.
Then, coming to Condillac:
"'Our thoughts are not metamorphoses of sensation. It causes them, puts them in play. In order to put them in play a motive power is necessary, for matter of itself cannot produce movement.' And I found that in your Voltaire," Pécuchet added, making a low bow to him.
Thus they repeated again and again the same arguments, each treating the other's opinion with contempt, without persuading his companion that his own was right.
But philosophy elevated them in their own estimation. They recalled with disdain their agricultural and political preoccupations.
At present they were disgusted with the museum. They would have asked nothing better than to sell the articles of virtù contained in it. So they passed on to the second chapter: "Faculties of the Soul."
"'They are three in number, no more: that of feeling, that of knowing, and that of willing.
"'In the faculty of feeling we should distinguish physical sensibility from moral sensibility. Physical sensations are naturally classified into five species, being transmitted through the medium of the senses. The facts of moral sensibility, on the contrary, owe nothing to the body. What is there in common between the pleasure of Archimedes in discovering the laws of weight and the filthy gratification of Apicius in devouring a wild-boar's head?
"'This moral sensibility has five genera, and its second genus, moral desires, is divided into five species, and the phenomena of the fourth genus, affection, are subdivided into two other species, amongst which is the love of oneself — a legitimate propensity, no doubt, but one which, when it becomes exaggerated, takes the name of egoism.
"'In the faculty of knowing we find rational perception, in which there are two principal movements and four degrees.
"'Abstraction may present perils to whimsical minds.
"'Memory brings us into contact with the past, as foresight does with the future.
"'Imagination is rather a special faculty, sui generis.'"
So many intricacies in order to demonstrate platitudes, the pedantic tone of the author, and the monotony of his forms of expression — "We are prepared to acknowledge it," "Far from us be the thought," "Let us interrogate our consciousness" — the sempiternal eulogy on Dugald Stewart; in short, all this verbiage, disgusted them so much that, jumping over the faculty of willing, they went into logic.
It taught them the nature of analysis, synthesis, induction, deduction, and the principal causes of our errors.
Nearly all come from the misuse of words.
"The sun is going to bed." "The weather is becoming brown," "The winter is drawing near" — vicious modes of speech which would make us believe in personal entities, when it is only a question of very simple occurrences. "I remember such an object," "such an axiom," "such a truth" — illusion! These are ideas and not at all things which remain in me; and the rigour of language requires, "I remember such an act of my mind by which I perceived that object," "whereby I have deduced that axiom," "whereby I have admitted this truth."
As the term that describes an incident does not embrace it in all its aspects, they try to employ only abstract words, so that in place of saying, "Let us make a tour," "It is time to dine," "I have the colic," they give utterance to the following phrases: "A promenade would be salutary," "This is the hour for absorbing aliments," "I experience a necessity for disburdenment."
Once masters of logic, they passed in review the different criterions; first, that of common sense.
If the individual can know nothing, why should all individuals know more? An error, were it a hundred thousand years old, does not by the mere fact of its being old constitute truth. The multitude invariably pursues the path of routine. It is, on the contrary, the few who are guided by progress.
Is it better to trust to the evidence of the senses? They sometimes deceive, and never giv
e information save as to externals. The innermost core escapes them.
Reason offers more safeguards, being immovable and impersonal; but in order that it may be manifested it is necessary that it should incarnate itself. Then, reason becomes my reason; a rule is of little value if it is false. Nothing can show such a rule to be right.
We are recommended to control it with the senses; but they may make the darkness thicker. From a confused sensation a defective law will be inferred, which, later, will obstruct the clear view of things.
Morality remains.
This would make God descend to the level of the useful, as if our wants were the measure of the Absolute.
As for the evidence — denied by the one, affirmed by the other — it is its own criterion. M. Cousin has demonstrated it.
"I see no longer anything but revelation," said Bouvard. "But, to believe it, it is necessary to admit two preliminary cognitions — that of the body which has felt, and that of the intelligence which has perceived; to admit sensation and reason. Human testimonies! and consequently open to suspicion."
Pécuchet reflected — folded his arms. "But we are about to fall into the frightful abyss of scepticism."
In Bouvard's opinion it frightened only weak brains.
"Thank you for the compliment," returned Pécuchet. "However, there are indisputable facts. We can arrive at truth within a certain limit."
"Which? Do two and two always make four? Is that which is contained in some degree less than that which contains it? What is the meaning of nearly true, a fraction of God, the part of an indivisible thing?"
"Oh, you are a mere sophist!" And Pécuchet, annoyed, remained for three days in a sulk.
They employed themselves in running through the contents of several volumes. Bouvard smiled from time to time, and renewing the conversation, said:
"The fact is, it is hard to avoid doubt; thus, for the existence of God, Descartes', Kant's, and Leibnitz's proofs are not the same, and mutually destroy one another. The creation of the world by atoms, or by a spirit, remains inconceivable. I feel myself, at the same time, matter and thought, while all the time I am ignorant of what one or the other really is. Impenetrability, solidity, weight, seem to me to be mysteries just as much as my soul, and, with much stronger reason, the union of the soul and the body. In order to explain it, Leibnitz invented his harmony, Malebranche premotion, Cudworth a mediator, and Bossuet sees in it a perpetual miracle."
Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert Page 270