declamations, and the maxims on the perversity of things.

They learned by heart the most celebrated dialogues of Racine and
Voltaire, and they used to declaim them in the corridor. Bouvard, as if
he were at the Theatre Francais, strutted, with his hand on Pecuchet's
shoulder, stopping at intervals; and, with rolling eyes, he would open
wide his arms, and accuse the Fates. He would give forth fine bursts of
grief from the _Philoctete_ of La Harpe, a nice death-rattle from
_Gabrielle de Vergy_, and, when he played Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse,
the way in which he represented that personage gazing at his son while
exclaiming, "Monster, worthy of me!" was indeed terrible. Pecuchet
forgot his part in it. The ability, and not the will, was what he
lacked.

On one occasion, in the _Cleopatre_ of Marmontel, he fancied that he
could reproduce the hissing of the asp, just as the automaton invented
for the purpose by Vaucanson might have done it. The abortive effort
made them laugh all the evening. The tragedy sank in their estimation.

Bouvard was the first to grow tired of it, and, dealing frankly with the
subject, demonstrated how artificial and limping it was, the silliness
of its incidents, and the absurdity of the disclosures made to
confidants.

They then went in for comedy, which is the school for fine shading.
Every sentence must be dislocated, every word must be underlined, and
every syllable must be weighed. Pecuchet could not manage it, and got
quite stranded in _Celimene_. Moreover, he thought the lovers very cold,
the disputes a bore, and the valets intolerable--Clitandre and
Sganarelle as unreal as AEgistheus and Agamemnon.

There remained the serious comedy or tragedy of everyday life, where we
see fathers of families afflicted, servants saving their masters, rich
men offering others their fortunes, innocent seamstresses and villainous
corrupters, a species which extends from Diderot to Pixerecourt. All
these plays preaching about virtue disgusted them by their triviality.

The drama of 1830 fascinated them by its movement, its colouring, its
youthfulness. They made scarcely any distinction between Victor Hugo,
Dumas, or Bouchardy, and the diction was no longer to be pompous or
fine, but lyrical, extravagant.

One day, as Bouvard was trying to make Pecuchet understand Frederic
Lemaitre's acting, Madame Bordin suddenly presented herself in a green
shawl, carrying with her a volume of Pigault-Lebrun, the two