they know not whence, fear of the hardened judge who refers the case to
his learning rather than to his conscience--our peasants in Western
France with difficulty make up their minds to set in motion the
so-called "protective" machinery of the law. Even the settlement of a
dispute before a justice of the peace seems an extreme measure, and they
have recourse to it only under great stress, which is a matter for
rejoicing, for such is the "social order," that without this fortunate
tendency, mankind, being entirely composed of people who complain, or
have reason to complain, law courts would need to be made big enough to
accommodate the entire human race.
In the country, sources of disagreement abound. The limb of a tree
stretching beyond a fixed boundary, a vagrant root, a fruit dropping on
the wrong side of a hedge, the use of a stream, a right of way, may
bring up interpretations of customs giving to conflicting interests
occasion for dispute. Before coming to the last expedient of going to
law, quarrels, insults, and blows perform their office of preparing the
way for reconciliation, which eventually results from nervous or
muscular exhaustion. A good hand-to-hand fight would constitute a
"judgment of God" not without its merits, but for the temptation to
"appeal" by nocturnal reprisals on innocent crops.
All that might take one very far. Which is the reason why we often find
in country districts certain natural-born arbiters, who bear the same
relation to judges that sorcerers do to doctors. The judge is the
Hippocrates of social maladies, even as the physician is the judge of
physiological disorders. The power to judge and the power to heal are
acquired by some mysterious method concerning which rustic clients and
patients have very misty notions. Judge and physician often make
mistakes, and these create in men's minds a dismay greater than the
comfort induced by their most authentic successes.
Is even learning absolutely necessary to make one competent to judge and
to heal? In olden days this ability was a gift from heaven, a matter
exclusively of divine inspiration, which invested a man with the
requisite faculties. Why should it no longer be the same? The peasant's
slow wit still clings to the old conceptions and retains the imprint of
past beliefs. He therefore prefers the wizard to the doctor, whom
science has stripped of the prestige of mysteriousness. In the same way,
he prefers--rather than to seek advice from competent sources--to
consult concerning his rights, or the conduct of his affairs, one of his
own sort, totally ignorant, and playing the part of doctor of law from
inspiration.
I once knew, long, long ago, alas, one of these improvised Solomons,
whose reputation for legal knowledge had spread from parish to parish
over a considerable area of the Woodland of the Vendée. Baptist Merian,
better known by the name of Master Baptist, was a peasant of uncouth
appearance, who personally looked after the property apportioned to him
by heaven and the inheritance laws. He was a big fellow whose
once-powerful muscles were becoming overlaid with fat as he neared his
seventieth year, the period when I first happened upon him in the
exercise of his functions. His purplish, pockmarked face very nearly
concealed in its fleshy folds two small gray eyes which pierced an
interlocutor directly through. He had a voice of thunder, and the
gestures of a thunderer. He had the imposing utterance of one passing
absolute judgments on men and things. He was like Zeus whose frown shook
Olympus, when he gave orders to take the mare to pasture or harness the
oxen to the plough. And yet he was at bottom a timorous spirit, very
attentive to the suggestions of prudence, and careful never to push any
matter to a violent issue.
His adversary, whoever contradicted him, was generally called a
"blockhead," and when Master Baptist had thus pronounced himself nothing
remained for the sentenced one but to bow his head in silence, which was
what all around him were in the habit of doing. No one could have told
whence he derived his legal authority. He made no claim to anything so
contemptible as a knowledge of the law, for he could scarcely read, and
with difficulty could sign his name. He was none too pleasant a
neighbour, and had on various occasions started lawsuits which he had
wisely brought to a close by a more or less advantageous settlement,
giving as his reason that the judge in his opinion was a "blockhead."
The consideration he enjoyed was not lessened by this, for he continued
to speak of his litigations as if he had won his cases; it was even
noticeable that the magistrate who had earned that unpleasant epithet
from his client lost, to a certain extent, the respect in which the
community had held him.
Master Baptist was not one of those geniuses who need to blow their
horn. Respectful of everybody's right to manage his own affairs, he
never ventured to offer advice to any one. At the most, if he saw a
field which did not carry out his idea of a proper rotation of crops, or
a field badly fenced, or an animal in poor condition, he would express
his view that the owner was a "blockhead," and public opinion could do
nothing but record the condemnation, from which there was no appeal. Far
from protesting against Master Baptist's uniform verdicts, people would
at the least disagreement, the first difficulty, come running to him to
explain their case, inquire what their chances were of success, and
often beg him to arbitrate.
With great dignity, with benevolence, even, he would receive these
visitors--if it were winter, by the hearth in the kitchen, which is the
countryman's parlour; if warm weather, by the house door, a few feet
from the black drain into which the sink emptied the odoriferous extract
of culinary operations. Comfortably seated in a quaint semicircular
armchair, the wool-stuffed cushion of which was covered with ticking, he
would listen to the men who had come to consult him and who remained
standing, cap in hand, while they told their interminable and tangled
stories. When they stopped for lack of breath, Master Baptist would ask
questions, which usually called forth prolix replies. Finally he would
speak:
"Peter, it is you who are the blockhead." And Peter would have no choice
but to submit to John. Both would then pull their blue caps over their
ears and sit down for a glass of white wine, which by a reversal of
ancient custom constituted the fee of judge to litigants. Often they
came from a great distance to find out which was the blockhead, and
having found out, departed content, glad to have ended the quarrel
without assistance from the omniscient bench.
It was something of an undertaking at that time to reach the
out-of-the-way hamlet where Master Baptist uttered his oracles. Now,
country roads connect "The Pines" with the rest of the world. I used to
reach it in those days by way of the rocky ridge stretching for two
miles between Mouilleron-en-Pareds and La Chataignerie. "The Rocks," as
the ridge is locally called, form the last buttress of the Woodland
hills. From the top a vast wooded stretch is visible, every field being
enclosed by a belt of tall trees. The rocks themselves are covered with
gorse and furze, and giant chestnut trees, twisted and gnarled by old
storms. Suddenly the rocks part, and in the hollow they reveal lie
meadows enlivened by the song of running water. There humble huts group
themselves in hamlets, concealed by the high trees. "The Pines," Master
Baptist's domain, was doubtless distinguished in former days by the
presence of a pine tree. The tree disappeared under the axe of time. But
a cluster of houses remains, sheltered from the world by the high
rampart of "The Rocks."
One day, as I was hunting in that neighbourhood, I suddenly from my
hill-top perceived the roofs of "The Pines," before anything had
betrayed the fact that a human habitation was at hand. The strangeness
of the place, as a place to live in, aroused my curiosity. I had met
Master Baptist at Mouilleron. The occasion seemed propitious for a
renewal of the acquaintance. I entered a courtyard littered with manure,
and there, behind a yoke of oxen drinking at a trough, I discovered the
master of the house, seated in his dooryard, surrounded by his poultry,
and busy as usual dealing justice.
It was vacation time. Baptist's son, a law student at Poitiers and a
prospective notary, was cheerfully loading dung into a cart (no one
dreamed of calling upon him for enlightenment), while the unlettered
father learnedly dispensed the law. In front of the solemn arbitrator,
and at a respectful distance from him, a man stood waiting open mouthed
for the solicited verdict. With a kindly wave of the hand, Master
Baptist motioned to me to wait until the audience should be closed. I
therefore remained where I was, and watched the plaintiff--a big,
gray-headed fellow who was mechanically twisting between his hands the
greasy crown of a brimless hat.
"You are sure that all you have told me is true?" Master Baptist was
saying, and I could see that he was inclined to apply his epithet of
"blockhead" to the absent party in the dispute.
"I have told you everything just as it is," answered the other.
"Then you may tell Michael that he is a blockhead. Be sure you tell him
so, will you?"
"Yes, Master Baptist, I will tell him this very evening. But what if he
says it isn't so?"
"If he answers that it isn't so, no later than to-morrow you will have
notice served on him."
The idea of sending his adversary a stamped document seemed to fill the
plaintiff with keen joy.
"I surely will serve notice on him!" he gleefully exclaimed.
Then, scratching his head: "But suppose he won't have notice served on
him, what then?"
At these words Master Baptist rose on a gust of excitement. I am not
aware what his idea was of a man "who will not have notice served on
him." But the case manifestly appeared to him out of all measure
horrific. An agonized silence followed. Then the storm burst.
"If he refuses to have notice served on him," thundered Master Baptist,
"you may take your two hoofs and give him a couple of swift kicks in the
shins."
Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The point of law was solved. The
plaintiff, his spirit forever at rest, vigorously fell upon his judge's
hand and pressed it, along with what was left of his hat.
"That's it! That's it! My two hoofs--I will not fail!"
As for me, I was filled with admiration at the point chosen for giving
full force to the arguments of jurisprudence--the part of the leg where,
just under the skin, the tibia presents a collection of nervous fibres
which a nimble wooden shoe can crush against the bone, is certainly a
well-chosen spot, and calculated to give effectiveness to the energy of
the opposing party.
The white wine was brought. The student of law left his dung heap to
come and clink glasses.
"All the same," said the good client, dropping into his chair, "I should
like to know a question for which Master Baptist would have no answer."
"Oh, well," replied the judge, modestly, "one sees so many things. That
is how one learns."
XIV
THE BULLFINCH AND THE MAKER OF WOODEN SHOES
In connection with the scandalous conduct of a lady pigeon I shall
presently speak of comparative psychology in the world of animals. The
capacity of animals for emotion and sentiment is naturally the first
psychic phenomenon presenting itself to the observer. Their manner of
expressing the sensations received from the exterior world, and the
impulses resulting from those sensations constitute what may without
derision be called the moral life of animals, leading, just as it does
in the case of man, to the best adjustment possible between the
individual organism and surrounding conditions.
Many good people will doubtless be distressed by the idea that morality,
in which they take such pride, though not always preaching it by
example, instead of falling from heaven in the form of indisputable
commands, has its roots far down in the animate hierarchy. If they were
willing to reflect, they would be able to understand that undeniable
analogies of organism involve a corresponding analogy of function.
Nothing further is necessary to show the high significance of a study
of comparative sentimentality and the morality illustrating it,
determined by the organism that the great mass of living creatures have
in common. The amusing side of the thing is that the majority of those
who will cry out against this statement will in the same breath speak of
the "intelligence" of animals, and will quote some story about a dog or
cat or elephant, without suspecting that their very manner of presenting
the problem solves the question of its principle, and leaves them with
the sole resource of rebelling against the consequences of that
principle.
But it is not my intention to speak, as the reader may be thinking, of
Montargis' dog, or any other animal known to history, for the
astonishing proofs of sagacity he may have given. As I mean to relate a
very simple but authentic story of brotherly love between a bullfinch
and a maker of wooden shoes, my subject is more particularly the
exchange of sentiments between two species of animal, a phenomenon in
which the kinship of souls is very clearly demonstrated.
It is common enough for man to give affection to the animals that
surround him, an affection generally proportioned to the service he
expects of them. Disinterestedness is rarely coupled with power.
Man having made himself the strongest of living creatures, annexes and
subordinates such animals as he needs for the satisfaction of his wants.
The hunter loves his dog, but if the latter fails to retrieve, what
harsh words are showered on him, to say nothing of blows, the danger of
which perpetually hangs over a dog. Friendship between man and man is
all too often based upon arrangements in some way profitable to both. Is
it surprising, then, if an analysis of the affections of the more
elementary orders of the living hierarchy explains the condescension of
the strong for the defenceless weak by attributing it to self-interest?
And may not the devotion of the weak to the strong arise partly from a
need for protection? But self-interest does not account for
everything--whatever utilitarian philosophy may say.
I once knew a cock whose favourite haunt was the back of a Percheron
mare in the stable. It may be that the bird's greed relieved the
quadruped of certain irritating parasites. But why did the cock never
turn to any other than his special friend, the mare? And why would any
other fowl have been swiftly shaken off her back? The two animals "took
to each other," that is all one can say. You should have seen the mare
look over her shoulder with beatific eyes when her cock appeared, and
seen him stand on her complaisant rump, flapping his wings and crowing
triumphantly.
I say nothing of the animals in our menageries, who are trained to
tolerate one another for the astonishment of the idle spectator. They
exemplify a distortion of nature. But we see daily very strong
attachments between cats and dogs, who are natural enemies. Is the dog,
whom we accuse of servility for licking the hand of the master who beats
him, above or beneath the dignity of friendship? He is certainly not
moved by cowardice, for he will hurl himself against anyone attacking
that same brutal man of whom he might justly complain. Is it, then, that
the forgiveness preached by the Gospel is easier for him than for us?
Are dogs more "Christian" than men? That would make obvious the reason
why men often misinterpret dogs.
We cannot deny that signs of altruism, born principally of love,
manifest themselves on all sides in the animal world. The defence of the
young is the commonest instance of it. The courtship of the male is also
marked by exhibitions of generosity, even as it is on the Boulevard.
When a cock finds a worm, does he not summon his entire harem, and
magnificently toss the savoury morsel to them?
The bullfinch and the maker of wooden shoes who loved each other
tenderly had no remotest expectation of reward beside the pleasure of
living and telling their love, each in his own language at first, and
later, each, as far as he could, in the language of the other. I have
forgotten the shoemaker's name, but I could go blindfold to his house on
the main street of the village in the Vendée where I used yearly to
spend a happy month of vacation. I can see his white sign board with a
magnificent yellow wooden shoe agreeably surrounded by decorative
additions. I can see the little door with glass panes, giving access to
the shop, hardly larger than a wardrobe, where rows of wooden shoes hung
from the ceiling, were hooked to the walls, littered the floor, and even
overran into the street.
The little court behind the shop has remained particularly vivid in my
memory. That was the workshop. There, with both hands clasped around the
tool that flung chips into his face, the artist would miraculously draw
from a block of wood braced against his chest the form of a wooden shoe.
Julius II, watching the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel as they sprang
from Michael Angelo's brush, could not have been more impressed than was
my youth before the prodigies performed by the shoemaker.
He, for the increase of my pleasure, seemed to share it; he accompanied
the manoeuvres of his adze with commentaries calculated to drive well
into my soul the particular merits of his work. He was a poor, pale,
thin, fragile being, himself carved down as if by an adze, rubbed flat
and hollowed out by sickness. Folds of white skin below his hairless
chin trembled when he moved. His eyes were of no colour. He had a nasal,
far-away voice, like that of a consumptive ventriloquist. I never knew
anything about him. I do not believe he had any family--I never saw a
petticoat that seemed to belong in the house. All day long he worked at
his wooden shoes without a word, perhaps without a thought, happy in his
little friend the bullfinch on whom were centred all the emotions of his
existence.
Although I have forgotten the man's name, I remember the bullfinch's. It
was Mignon. There was nothing to make him look different from the rest
of his kind. As you entered the shop, you saw against the wall a large
cage decorated with rude carvings, on which the shoemaker had lavished
all the fancy of his art. In this, hopping from one wooden bar to the
other, was a little bright red ball with a black head, lighted by two
jet-black eyes gleaming with intelligence. The tiny hooked beak
retreating into the throat did not appear fashioned for conversation,
yet if during the shoemaker's absence you crossed the threshold, a
muffled voice, which seemed to issue from the depths of the walls,
greeted you with a cry, repeated over and over: "Someone in the shop,
someone in the shop," etc., etc. By the smothered quality, the nasal
tone, you recognized the master's voice. But it was not he who spoke,
for you could see him coming from the courtyard with his mouth shut,
while the sentinel's warning continued. It was the bullfinch, who with
unfailing vigilance stood guard over the rows of wooden shoes.
For Mignon talked like a "real person," with a dainty articulation much
clearer than that of the most accomplished parrot. The shoemaker had, I
suppose, taken him from the nest, and taught him from tenderest infancy.
In close association with, and under the suggestion of, a mentality
which spared no pains in the education of a friend, the bird had by a
loving effort raised himself to the level of the man who had lagged
behind in the evolution of his own race. They had met on the same plane,
and both having capacity for affection had seized upon each other with
atomic grapnels better than they might have done had both been human.
To please his friend, Mignon had accepted articulate speech as a means
of communication, for, needless to say, his vocabulary was not limited
to the sentry challenge: "Who goes there?" but grew daily more
extensive. On the other side, which was no less remarkable, the human
teacher had let himself be taught the fluty language of his woodland
friend. When the shoemaker wished to convey something to his feathered
comrade, he would break forth in "twee-twees," accompanied by a sort of
hoarse, throaty trill whose slightest inflection is comprehensible to
all the bullfinches in the world. They had thus two languages at their
disposal from which each could draw according to the inspiration of the
moment. A strange dialogue, in which it was often the man who said
"twee-twee," while the bird answered with dictionary words.
The door of the cage always stood open. But Mignon loved the peace of
his home. In his natural state the bullfinch prefers the most secluded
and silent spot in the forest. His character is both trusting and
contemplative. I remember once finding a nest of bullfinches in an
ancient oak. The father and mother could not believe that I was an
enemy. They perched on a bough at hardly more than a yard's distance
from me, without a flutter or a note of alarm, as if to give me time and
opportunity to admire their little ones. They made no sound until my
departure, when, as if to do the honours of the thicket, they uttered
farewell "twee-twees." As he was afraid of cats and dogs, Mignon never
went into the street. The shop and the courtyard were his whole domain,
with the cage for meals and meditation.
In the courtyard, among the reddish alder logs, Mignon would come and go
with evident enjoyment, scratching the wood to whet his beak, or
searching it for dainty bits. I can still see those splendid shafts,
golden yellow, marbled with sanguine red, on which the bird would
sometimes stand motionless, swelling his copper-coloured throat, or at
other times hop and flutter and cheep and softly twitter, to win a
glance or a silent smile from his friend. Then he would fly straight to
the shoemaker's shoulder and peck his face and say: "Good morning, my
friend, I love you, indeed I do. Have you slept well?" The answer to
which would be given in human "twee-twees," until the neglected wooden
shoe recalled the forgetful workman to his duty.
Best of all was the song and dance.
"Come now, Mignon, dance the polka for your friend."
Mignon would stretch himself proudly to his full height, uttering three
rhythmic "twee-twees," and hop from one foot to the other, keeping
perfect time. He seemed to enjoy himself hugely, and the shoemaker, who
supplemented the music by an exact imitation of it, expressed boundless
delight by the contortions of his colourless face.
A childish amusement, some will say. Yet what is more important than
loving? And if we love, what matters the way of expressing a deep mutual
tenderness? The shoemaker did not exhibit his friend's accomplishments
to the casual or the indifferent. The desire to "show off" was foreign
to these two. They simply lived for each other, and their intimacy
behind closed doors, far from jealous eyes, must have had exquisite
sweetness.
I am aware that there should be some effective ending to my story. The
truth is that I know nothing beyond what I have told. The maker of
wooden shoes and the bullfinch have remained very much alive in my
memory--the end of the episode has escaped it. Did I go there one day
and not find them? Or is it not more likely that I ceased to go there?
It was all so long ago!
I am certain that whichever of them went first was not long survived by
the other. At least, I like to think so, for if the shoemaker had
replaced Mignon by another bullfinch, or if Mignon had found it in his
heart to dance the polka for Brossard, the nailer, who used to make such
a racket on the other side of the street, I should lose a supreme
illusion concerning the heart of man and bird. If we lose our faith in
man, whom experience may lead us to suspect of selfishness, let us
retain our respectful esteem for animals.
XV
ABOUT NESTS
Children are always interested in nests--thrilled by the mystery of
them, filled with admiring wonder at the cunning of the little feathered
creature in concealing its brood from the enemy, whether it be man or
hawk, crow or magpie. The impulse to appropriate any living thing (an
instinct inherited from his carnivorous ancestors), indeed, a whole
collection of irresistible impulses direct the murderous sporting
instinct of the future lord of creation toward the delicate feathery
structure. Sympathy is as yet non-existent in the child man, for he has
never suffered. He is carried away by delight in the unknown, his eyes
widen with wonder, his hands reach out, and at the first touch
irretrievable harm is done.