the little ones, hideous in their grotesque nudity, scattered on the
ground, than he is filled with dismay, like the school boy with all the
parts of his watch spread on the table before him. Having looked at
everything, analyzed it, touched it, he could go his way with a light
heart if only he were able to fit the pieces together again, and
reconstruct a whole. But it is too late. Our first impulse is a
death-dealing one. A sense of the uselessness of destruction is
necessary to awaken pity in us for whatever has life. I have sometimes
seen those very school boys who massacre birds for fun, go back, ashamed
of the stupid wrong committed, and awkwardly try to put the nest in its
place, with the little ones in it, then go away, looking over their
shoulder to witness the gratitude due to them from the despairing family
for their generous effort. On the following day the boys return to look,
and find a graveyard.
Many birds forsake their progeny at the least break in the usual course
of things. Unaccountable panic seizes them, abruptly quenching the
overmastering love that before had governed the activities of the pair.
If you merely touch a young pigeon, the parents will from that moment
onward hear his clamour for food with indifference--they will let him
starve, while the drama of rearing new young dimly takes shape in their
mysterious minds. Other more courageous birds will fight to the end
without yielding, they will fly into snares in the attempt to reach
their brood, they will come daily to feed their young in the cage, and
if a strange egg has been introduced into their nest, whether by the
hand of man or the cunning of the cuckoo, they will make no difference
between the bastard and their legitimate offspring.
I have witnessed some fierce battles, notably that of a pair of warblers
against a magpie, who, undeterred by the stones I was throwing, managed
in less than five minutes to remove from their nest into her own, as a
treat for her young magpies, all the little warblers just full-fed with
succulent insects. Whither turn for help against the rivalry of
appetites organized by Providence? "The reason of the strongest is
always the best," sadly observes the poet philosopher. A sorrowful
avowal, that, which leaves us, for sole comfort, the hypothetical
felicity of another world. But what could be more unjust than to exclude
from a celestial paradise these secondary creatures, victims of our
common fate, who in the beginning possessed the earthly paradise, and
were driven from it in the company of our erring ancestors, without
having followed their sinful example?
Until the order of things changes, all that the weak can do is to cry
out their protest, their vain appeal to universal justice, which, deaf,
insensible, and paralyzed, sits in mute contemplation of the disorder
composing the order of the world.
Man, the supreme arbiter of the destinies of his inferiors, has
arrogated all rights. The child who lets a bird flutter at the end of a
string only to jerk it to the ground when the poor creature finally
thought itself free, lives in his own person the evolution from the
frank cruelty of the savage to the decent hypocrisies of civilized
barbarism. Man is, indeed, the first one whom animals learn to guard
against. Wherever there are no men, or few, birds are among the first to
become fearless. I have seen nests built in wide recesses and fully
exposed to view, amid the desert ruins of the citadel of Corinth.
Better still, I once knew--it is now more than fifty years ago--a
wonderful garden, in part cultivated, in part allowed to follow the
fancies of vegetation running wild, where two old people, of beloved
memory, used to walk and take their last pleasures as life neared its
close. A large, typically French garden, with symmetrical flower beds
bordered with box. A long arbour formed a wall at the farther side, and
had at each end a circular bower, bright in springtime with the rosy
blaze of Judas trees. In the centre was a fountain covered by a high
white dome upheld by three slender Ionic columns, delicately mottled
with rose-coloured lichens. At the summit of the dome the sculptor had
carved a vase of formal shape, from which sprang a sheaf of flowers that
took from the mosses overgrowing it an appearance of life. Under the
arch was a bird with spread wings, bearing the motto of the former
masters of the domain, whose name you will find in Hozier: "Altiora
contendimus omnes." The monument dated from the end of the 16th century.
Its remains, scattered in "artistic ruins," now decorate an ornamental
grove.
Never was a spot less disturbed by the activities of the world, nowhere
was solitude more calculated to win man from his fellows and leave him
to the companionship of trees and animals. Beyond the arbour lay a
meadow, a brook, woods. No human habitation anywhere near. Peace--the
great peace of nature. Sheltered by the high wall, animals lived happy
and unafraid of man, from whom they received only kindness. I can
remember goldfinch nests among the rose bushes within reach of my hand.
I was early taught to touch them only with my eyes.
In her very bedroom, the lady of the manor gave shelter to swallows.
Traces of nests may still be seen on the great rafters of the ceiling.
In spring, one day at dawn, the travellers, arriving from their great
journey, would come tapping with beak and claw at the high windows. The
aged dame would immediately rise and let in her friends. Greetings would
ensue--enthusiastic greetings after the long separation. Three or four
birds, sometimes half a dozen, would wheel about the vast chamber, with
little sharp cries expressing joy in their return and their hospitable
reception. They perched on the great wardrobes, and twittered for
happiness, their little ruby throats swelling below their black hoods.
All day long they came and went. Soon, one might see a swallow drop on
to the water of a trench, and rest there with wings outspread, then rise
into the air, and gather on her wet feathers the dust of earth needed to
make mortar for her nest. Then began the work of masonry. The
basket-shaped wall rose quickly, formed of thin layers of clay, one
above another, and as soon as the nest was finished, an indentation
fashioned in the edge by the dainty black beak informed one that the
laying of eggs had begun.
Three or four nests among the rafters became in time a whole aviary, for
the young birds, returning the following year, often selected their
birthplace as a home. There they reared their family. At first peep of
dawn, the father from outside and the mother from inside begged to have
the window opened. They met each other with expressions of delight and
flew skyward in quest of the supply of insects imperiously demanded by
the noisy and hungry nestlings. As soon as the successful hunter
appeared, and before he could fairly get his claws into the earthen
parapet, six gaping throats were outstretched to catch the prey. This
business filled the day. A newspaper, spread on the floor, received all
incongruous happenings. In the evening, when the lamp was lighted, we
were sometimes startled by a sudden outburst of quarrelling up among the
rafters. It might be that a small bird was out of his customary place,
and was beginning his apprenticeship in life by defending his rights,
as well as he could, against the selfish infringements of an
enterprising brother. A muffled call from the mother stilled the tumult,
and fear of punishment brought the children back to moderation, or
perhaps resignation. And then autumn took on the sharpness of winter,
and all the swallows, assembled on the summit of a neighbouring elm,
held a great council of departure. They talked the whole day. But their
discussion, unlike ours, was a preface to action. They started before
sunrise of the day after. Sadly their old friend bade them farewell:
"Go, my dear ones, you intend to come back, but the time is not far when
I shall no longer be here to open the window at your home coming!" The
swallows still return. But for a long time, a very long time, the window
has not been opened.
Alas! the loveliest part of the setting has likewise disappeared. The
white dome of the fountain, with its rosy colonnade, has been broken up,
and replaced by a hideous rockery in the style of Chatou. The seemly
classic rectangular flower beds, with their severe arrangement, have
made room for a wide lawn dotted with artistic plots of shrubbery. The
long arbour and the Judas trees have blazed in the fireplace on winter
evenings. But, near or far, imagination can restore them. I find myself
walking through twisted underbrush to spy upon domestic scenes in nests.
I have retained a particularly vivid memory of the tragedy which
revealed to me for the first time the distressing vicissitudes of the
struggle for life.
At the foot of the long arbour lay a dying birdling. He had as yet no
feathers, but a thin black down covered his bluish skin now painfully
heaving with the last spasms of agony. My first motion was to climb in
search of the nest from which the victim had fallen. I had not mounted a
yard from the ground before I found a little dead body similar to the
one I had just seen, and while I peered upward into the shadow, what
should tumble on to my head but a third member of the same brood. I
finally distinguished the nest, and soon little, stifled cries warned me
of something going on in it. I bent to one side, to get a better view,
and discovered in the midst of the down-lined dwelling a great grayish
black bird surrounded by three wretched wee ones who had not as yet been
tossed into the abyss, but who were rendered miserably uncomfortable by
the inordinate growth of their big brother.
A cuckoo had deposited her egg there, and the parents, stupidly
deceived, lavishing the same care upon the intruder as upon their own
young, had succeeded only in absurdly favouring the strongest.
Meanwhile, he had grown to twice or thrice the size of his "brothers,"
and without, presumably, seeking any satisfaction but his "liberty," as
the economists put it, he was taking up the room of others, for the sole
reason that the development of his organs required it.
Like all young birds, the baby cuckoo automatically flapped his wings,
to exercise his joints. In a normal nest, this movement of each inmate
is limited and regulated by the same movement on the part of the others.
But here, too great strength was in conflict with too great weakness,
and the cuckoo's thick, stumpy wings, on which feathers were already
appearing, spread to the very edge of the nest, lifting the feeble
little ones on to the monster's back, whence a shake flung them
overboard. The crime occurred even while I watched. The worst of it was
seeing the stupid parents, in spite of all, diligently feeding the
infamous fratricide. Careless of the lamentations of their own children,
they could see in the nest only the huge hollow of a voracious beak,
which gobbled whatever they brought, notwithstanding the timid efforts
of the competitors, doomed beforehand to defeat. And so the
disproportion in growth augmented daily, the one taking everything, and
the others condemned to watch him helplessly. The social question is
repeated in every thicket on earth!
_For the principle of the thing_, I replaced two little birds in the
nest. They were promptly hurled to the ground. Next day, the whole crime
was accomplished, and the false father and the false mother were still
idiotically wearing themselves out to nourish their children's murderer.
What to do about it? How many human stories there are, in the likeness
of that incident! One cannot even justly blame the cuckoo, if the great
principle: "Remove yourself, that I may have your place!" remains in
this universe the watchword added by Providence to the express
recommendation to love one another.
XVI
A DOMESTIC DRAMA
I am fond of observing animals, real ones, whose spirit has not been
perverted by the insufferable pretence and affectations which are all
too often accompaniments of the human form. Whoever watches them with a
seeing eye may gather deep lessons from the activities of animal life.
In man and beast the motions of being are governed by one philosophy,
however much trouble the sacristans of letters may take to separate
under the heads of "instinct" and "thought" phenomena differing in
degree but identical in nature.
Analogies of structure and function in the entire hierarchy of the
organic world were one day perceived, and Lamarck and Darwin drew from
these their well-known conclusions, to the confusion of biblical
tradition. Comparative anatomy and comparative physiology are now
flourishing sciences of which academicians find it less easy to
assimilate the results than to proclaim the failure. At the point we
have reached in the knowledge of vital manifestations all along the
scale of living creatures, unlimited material is day by day accumulating
for the science of comparative psychology which will soon be
established.
While experts are elaborating general laws, the profane may be permitted
to set down the observations suggested to them by the passing show of
life. In this character I wish to relate a domestic drama the scene of
which, I grieve to say, was my own garden. The actors, fair readers,
were simple pigeons. The difference between feathers and hair will
perhaps seem to you to excuse many things. You shall compare and judge.
My only ambition is to point out analogies resulting from the nature of
things, and lead such of my contemporaries as do me the honour to read
what I write, to a wider comprehension of the human soul.
Our natural tendency is to observe the thoughts and feelings of our
equals rather than those of animals. They touch us more nearly, and we
often need, in the course of our study of humanity, to balance the
indulgence of our judgments upon ourselves by the severity of our
judgments upon others. Only, man under observation has the advantage of
articulate speech, which is, of course, a disadvantage to the observer.
For everyone will agree that man makes use of this chiefly to pervert,
to conceal, or at the very least to disguise, the truth. Hence arise
difficulties of analysis, which are not encountered among the innocent
beasts of the field whom the imperfection of their organism obliges to
show themselves as nature made them. In defining the characteristics of
man, it has been said that he alone among animals is gifted with
laughter, with ability to light a fire, and to state abstractions by
means of articulate speech. We must not neglect to mention his
conspicuous faculty for lying. Animals can dissimulate, for the purpose
of seizing the weaker, or escaping from the stronger. Man alone has
received from Providence the gift of a perfect mendacity. So he often
disparages animals, and accuses them of cynicism! Ah--if dogs could
speak!
But this tale is concerned with pigeons, and when I tell you that
sitting at my work table I have my dovecote all day under my eyes, you
will understand that I am necessarily familiar with the manoeuvres of
the amorous tribe. The pigeon has a reputation for sentimentality. He is
inclined toward voluptuousness, and has officially but one mate. His
fidelity has been sufficient to arouse the wonder of man. Poetry, music,
and art, after long centuries, still find a rich subject in the
attachment of turtle doves.
"Two pigeons loved with a tender love----"
It is still usual for the fruit vender in Rue St. Denis, swooning in the
conjugal arms, to call her spouse "My pigeon!" and for him to answer in
a sigh, "My dove!" Well--at the risk of bringing disillusion to these
ingenuous souls, and driving them to search for other comparisons, I
feel obliged to establish facts in their truth, and show pigeons guilty
of human frailty.
The ones whose story it is my sad duty to record were two big blue
"Romans," united by the most demonstrative tenderness. They had no other
occupation than to bill and coo all day long. After their eggs had been
laid, they took turns at sitting on them, each for half a day at a
time--and as soon as the little ones had their first feathers, returned
to their ardent lovemaking.
One day I perceived on a chestnut tree belonging to me a big white
pigeon who seemed to find the neighbourhood to its liking. After a few
short turns about the place, the newcomer, in the course of its search
for food, settled upon the home of the two Romans, and deliberately
entered it, attracted by the buckwheat and corn. Mr. Pigeon drove the
intruder out. He returned, and the performance of expulsion began over
again. This game lasted all day.
The obstinacy of the newcomer seemed to me to indicate the weaker
sex--which diagnosis was confirmed by my recognition that the Roman
pigeon, while upholding his rights as first occupant, merely went
through the motions of battle, and never effectively attacked his
opponent. For eight days this proceeding continued. Several hundred
times a day the white pigeon flew from the tree to the dovecote, only to
turn back at the first threat of the tenant's beak, and then return at
once from her branch to the blue pigeon's door, where, owing to his
prompt hostility, she would barely alight.
Wearying of the performance, I, finally, with a desire to protect my
friends, the Romans, caught the white bird, and presented it to a friend
who was improving some property in the wilds of Sannois. My chestnut
tree relapsed into peace, and the feathered pair continued to taste the
joys of love.
Two months later, to my surprise, I perceived my white visitor on the
chestnut tree. She had already recommenced her visits to the Roman
family, and seemed very little affected by the hostile reception given
to her persistent offers of friendship. At the same time a letter from
Sannois informed me that the prisoner, taking advantage of a hole in the
netting, had escaped. Touched by the sentiment that had brought a
wandering soul back from such a distance to the home of her choice, I
resolved worthily to exercise the hospitality so perseveringly demanded
of me. I had a new house built, and I gave a beautiful husband to the
lady whose heart was so obviously oppressed by the weight of solitude.
Peace settled upon the amorous pigeon world. Each bent his energies, in
accordance with established order, to the occupation of reproducing
himself, and seemed to find happiness therein.
Who does not know that the joys of this world are brief?
One day the white lady's husband was found dead, without having given
any sign of illness. His funeral was scarcely over, I blush to say,
before the light creature began visiting the Roman pair again. I soon
noticed that the male pigeon had reached a sort of reconcilement to
those obstinate visits. He continued, to be sure, to drive the intruder
away, but so nervelessly that she returned after a few flaps of her
wings, without even bothering to go back as far as the chestnut tree.
Soon, I realized that the fascinating person with the white plumage had
free access to the home of her neighbours. When I inquired into the
reason for the Roman not barring his entrance to the stranger, I found
that his mate, hunched in a ball, was seriously ill, and that the
perturbed husband would not leave her. I greatly admired this exemplary
conduct. The trouble was that the stranger, taking advantage of the open
door, formed the annoying habit of perching there inside, day and night.
The pigeon stayed close by his mate, and hunched himself also in a ball
to express his sympathy, while the stranger looked, dry-eyed, on the
ruin of the home, and waited for her day.
As this day was long in coming, the hussy ventured to intrude upon the
sorrow of the suffering couple. Thereupon, the sick nurse, listening
only to the voice of duty, hurled himself upon the wicked beast, and
with beak and claw drove her across the threshold--even a little way
beyond. Alas! this was precisely the object of her detestable
machinations. The widow wished to be pursued. She succeeded, returning
incessantly to the charge--which obliged the pigeon to escort her out of
the house--and defending herself only enough to lend vivacity to the
encounter. Then, when the moment seemed opportune, she abruptly ceased
to resist, and crouching down, half spread her wings, asking that the
battle of conjugal duty be transformed into a lovers' contest. Rarely
has human creature given such an exhibition of immoral conduct.
I must say that the virtuous pigeon at first expressed his indignation
by coos expressive of fury. But what can you expect? The flesh is weak.
When temptation is offered every minute of the day there is some excuse
for stumbling. I was a witness of my Roman pigeon's weakening. I saw him
finally succumb to the suggestions of the wanton, and fall into sin! It
is true that, ashamed of his weakness, he immediately chastised vice by
pecking the one who had just given him delight, and quickly flew back to
the bed of straw where the invalid lay wondering at his prolonged
absence.
Every creature has its destiny. The betrayed wife refused to die. She
remained motionless all day long, ate copiously, in spite of her
illness, and did not waste away. Little by little the gallant husband
formed the habit of infidelity, and even ended by showing a grievous
alacrity in evil doing. I must, however, say to his credit, that if he
found the attraction of sin stronger now than the call of duty, he never
ceased to observe the strictest decorum under the conjugal roof. He
always treated the one responsible for his fall as a courtesan whose
acquaintance was not to be acknowledged. As soon as they were inside the
dovecote, the two accomplices were not acquainted. The Roman pigeon
lived faithfully at the side of his Roman wife. The white pigeon would
go to roost, with an assumption of indifference, on the highest perch.
Bourgeois decency was preserved. As we see it daily among human beings,
respectability among animals may be coupled with scandalous debauchery.
The sad, confiding little invalid seemed to express gratitude to her
spouse, by tender, cuddling motions, to which, I prefer to believe, he
did not submit without some feeling of shame. I should think that the
victim would have suspected something, if only because the two culprits
looked so remarkably above suspicion. But there are especial immunities.
This state of things might have endured indefinitely if the ill-starred
idea of an experiment had not come into my mind. I took away the sick
bird and isolated her for two days in a cage. I planned to observe the
psychology of her return home, fancying that a crisis would be
precipitated, from which virtue might issue triumphant.
At first the widower wished to make sure of his "misfortune." He
searched the garden, then the neighbouring roofs where he had formerly
spent long periods in the company of his better half. When he finally
believed that his legitimate mate had vanished into nothingness, he
plunged into bottomless deeps of bliss with the illegitimate one. What
an example to the inhabitants of Passy!
For two days a joy so scandalous reigned in the guilty establishment
that I could not resist the desire to break up the indecent festival. I
therefore took the unfortunate prisoner and exposed her well in view on
the lawn. As soon as the adulterous couple beheld her, the courtesan
hastened to the dovecote, doubtless to establish her rights of
proprietorship, and the faithless spouse fell furiously upon the wife
restored to his bosom. He beat her with wing and beak, uttering angry
coos. I supposed that he was calling her to account for her
disappearance, and reproaching her with what he might have considered a
prank, he whose heart should have been racked with remorse. It seemed to
me that he was driving her toward the dovecote, and thinking that it
might be well to sustain him in his demand that she resume her position
in the home, whence it was high time that the adventuress be expelled, I
myself put back the ailing pigeon in the spot from which I had taken her
three days before.