forget. It was not well stocked, still less harmonious; the season
of moulting and of silence had begun. We were not the less keenly
attracted by and interested in the naïve attitude of a few individuals.
Ordinarily their song and their plumage, the bird's two principal
attributes, preoccupy us, and prevent us from observing their lively
and original pantomime. One bird, the American mocking-bird, has a
comedian's genius, distinguishing all his songs by a mimicry strictly
appropriate to their character, and often very ironical. Our birds
do not possess this singular art; but, without skill, and unknown
to themselves, they express, by significant and frequently pathetic
movements, the thoughts which traverse their brain.
On this particular day, the queen of the market was a black-capped
warbler, an artist-bird of great value, set apart in the display
from the other birds, like a peerless jewel. She fluttered, _svelte_
and charming all in her was grace. Accustomed to captivity by a long
training, she seemed to regret nothing, and could only communicate
to the soul happy and gentle impressions. She was plainly a being of
perfect geniality, and of such harmony of song and movement, that in
seeing her move I thought I heard her sing.
Lower, very much lower, in a narrow cage, a bird somewhat larger in
size, very inhumanly confined, gave me a curious and quite opposite
impression. This was a chaffinch, and the first which I had seen blind.
No spectacle could be more painful. The man who would purchase by such
a deed of cruelty this victim's song, must have a nature alien to all
harmony, a barbarous soul. His attitude of labour and torture rendered
his song very painful to me. The worst of it is that it was human; it
reminded one of the turns of the head and the ungracious motions of the
shoulders which short-sighted persons, or men become blind, indulge
in. Such is never the case with those born blind. With a violent but
continual effort, grown habitual, the head inclined to the right, with
empty eyes he sought the light. The neck was outstretched, to sink
again between the shoulders, and swelled out to gain new strength--the
neck short, the shoulders bent. This unhappy virtuoso, whose song,
like himself, was dissembled and deformed, had been a mean image of
the ugliness of the slave-artist, if not ennobled by that indomitable
effort to pursue the light, seeking it always on high, and ever
centering his song in the invisible sun which he had treasured up in
his soul.
[Illustration]
Moderately capable of profiting by instruction, this bird repeats,
with a marvellous metallic _timbre_, the song of his native wood,
and preserves the particular accent of the country in which he was
born; there being as many dialects of chaffinches as there are
different districts. He remains faithful to his own; he sings only his
cradle-song, and that with an uniform rate, but with a wild passion and
an extraordinary emulation. Set opposite a rival, he will repeat it
eight hundred successive times; occasionally he dies of it. I am not
astonished that the Belgians enthusiastically celebrate the combats
of this hero of the national song, the chorister of their forest of
Ardennes, decreeing prizes, crowns, even triumphal arches, to those
acts of supreme devotion in which life is yielded for victory.
Still lower down than the chaffinch, and in a very small and wretched
cage, peopled pell-mell with half-a-dozen birds of very different
sizes, I was shown a prisoner which I had not distinguished, a young
nightingale caught that very morning. The fowler, by a skilful
Machiavelism, had placed the little captive in a world of very joyous
slaves, quite accustomed to their confinement. These were young
troglodytes, recently born in a cage; he had rightly calculated that
the sight of the sports of innocent infancy sometimes beguiles great
grief.
Great evidently, nay, overpowering, was his, and more impressive than
any of those sorrows which we express by tears. A dumb agony, pent up
within himself, and longing for the darkness. He had withdrawn into
the shade as far as might be, to the bottom of the cage, half hidden
in a small eating-trough, making himself large and swollen with his
slightly-bristling feathers, closing his eyes, never opening them even
when he was disturbed, shaken by the frolicsome and careless pastimes
of the young turbulents, which frequently drove one another against
him. Plainly he would neither see, nor hear, nor eat, nor console
himself. These self-imposed shadows were, as I clearly saw, an effort,
in his cruel suffering, _not to be_, an intentional suicide. With
his mind he embraced death, and died, so far as he was able, by the
suspension of his senses and of all external activity.
Observe that, in this attitude, there was no indication of malicious,
bitter, or choleric feeling, nothing to remind one of his neighbour,
the morose chaffinch, with his attitude of violent and torturing
exertion. Even the indiscretion of the young birdlings which, without
care or respect, occasionally threw themselves upon him, could call
forth no mark of impatience. He said, obviously: "What matters it to
one who is no more?" Although his eyes were closed, I did not the less
easily read him. I perceived an artist's soul, all tenderness and all
light, without rancour and without harshness against the barbarity of
the world and the ferocity of fate. And it was through this that he
lived, through this that he could not die, because he found within
himself, in his great sorrow, the all-powerful cordial inherent in his
nature: _internal light, song_. In the language of nightingales, these
two words convey the same meaning.
I comprehended that he did not die, because even then, despite himself,
despite his keen desire of death, he could not do otherwise than sing.
His heart chanted a voiceless strain, which I heard perfectly well:--
"_Lascia che io pianga!
La Libertà._"
Liberty!-Suffer me to weep!
I had not expected to find here once more that song which, in the old
time, and by another mouth (a mouth which shall never again be opened),
had already pierced my heart, and left a wound which no time shall
efface.
I demanded of his custodian if he were for sale. The shrewd fellow
replied that he was too young to be sold, that as yet he did not eat
alone; a statement evidently untrue, for he was not that year's bird;
but the man wished to keep him for disposal in the winter, when, his
voice returning, he would fetch a higher price.
Such a nightingale, born in freedom, which alone is the true
nightingale, bears a very different value to one born in a cage:
he sings quite differently, having known liberty and nature, and
regretting both. The better part of the great artist's genius is
suffering.
_Artist!_ I have said the word, and I will not unsay it. This is not
an analogy, a comparison of things having a resemblance: no, it is the
thing itself.
The nightingale, in my opinion, is not the chief, but the only one, of
the winged people to which this name can be justly given.
And why? He alone is a creator; he alone varies, enriches, amplifies
his song, and augments it by new strains. He alone is fertile and
diverse in himself; other birds are so by instruction and imitation.
He alone resumes, contains almost all; each of them, of the most
brilliant, suggests a couplet to the nightingale.
Only one other bird, like him, attains sublime results in the bold and
simple--I mean the lark, the daughter of the sun. And the nightingale
also is inspired by the light; so that, when in captivity, alone,
and deprived of love, it suffices to unloose his song. Confined for
a while in darkness, then suddenly restored to the day, he runs riot
with enthusiasm, he bursts into hymns of joy. This difference,
nevertheless, exists between the two birds: the lark never sings in
the night; hers is not the nocturnal melody, the hidden meaning of the
grand effects of evening, the deep poesy of the shadows, the solemnity
of midnight, the aspirations before dawn--in a word, that infinitely
varied poem which translates and reveals to us, in all its changes, a
great heart brimful of tenderness. The lark's is the lyrical genius;
the nightingale's, the epic, the drama, the inner struggle,--from
thence, a light apart. In deep darkness, it looks into its soul, into
love; soaring at times, it would seem, beyond the individual love into
the ocean of love infinite.
[Illustration]
And will you not call him an artist? He has the artist's temperament,
and exalted to a degree which man himself rarely attains. All
which belongs to it--all its merits, all its defects--in him are
superabundant. He is mild and timid, mistrustful, but not at all
cunning. He takes no heed to his safety, and travels alone. He is
burningly jealous, equalling the chaffinch in fiery emulation. "He will
break his heart to sing," says one of his historians.[27] He listens;
he takes up his abode, especially where an echo exists, to listen
and reply. Nervous to an excess, one sees him in captivity sometimes
sleeping long through the day with perturbing dreams; sometimes
struggling, starting up, and wildly battling. He is subject to nervous
attacks and epilepsy.
He is kindly--he is ferocious. Let me explain myself. His heart is full
of tenderness for the weak and little. Give him orphans to watch over,
he will take charge of them, and clasp them to his heart; a male, and
aged, he nourishes and tends them as carefully as any mother-bird. On
the other hand, he is exceedingly cruel towards his prey, is greedy
and voracious; the flame which burns inly, and keeps him almost always
thin, makes him constantly feel the need of recruitment, and it is also
one of the reasons that he is so easily ensnared. It is enough to set
your bait in the morning; especially in April and May, when he exhausts
himself by singing throughout the night. In the morning, weakened,
frail, avid, he pounces blindly on the snare. Moreover, he is very
curious, and, in order to examine a novel object, will expose himself
to be caught.
Once captured, if you do not take the precaution to tie his wings, or
rather to cover the interior and pad the upper part of the cage, he
will kill himself by the frantic fury of his movements.
This violence is on the surface. At bottom, he is gentle and docile: it
is these qualities which raise him so high, and make him in truth an
artist. He is not only the most inspired, but the most tractable, the
most "civilizable," the most laborious of birds.
It is a charming sight to see the fledglings gathered round their
father, listening to him attentively, and profiting by his lessons to
form the voice, to correct their faults, to soften their novice-like
roughness, to render their young organs supple.
But how much more curious it is to see him training himself, judging,
perfecting himself, paying especial attention when he ventures on
new themes! This steadfast perseverance, which springs from his
reverence for his art and from a kind of inward religion, is the
morality of the artist, his divine consecration, which seals him
as one apart--distinguishes him from the vain improvisatore, whose
unconscientious babble is a simple echo of nature.
Thus love and light are undoubtedly his point of departure; but art
itself, the love of the beautiful, confusedly seen in glimpses, and
very keenly felt, are a second aliment, which sustains his soul, and
supplies it with a new inspiration. And this is boundless--a day opened
on the infinite.
[Illustration]
The true greatness of the artist consists in overshooting his mark,
in doing more than he willed; and, moreover, in passing far beyond
the goal, in crossing the limits of the possible, and looking
beyond--beyond.
Hence arise great sorrows, an inexhaustible source of melancholy;
hence the sublime folly of weeping over misfortunes which he has never
experienced. Other birds are astonished, and occasionally inquire of
him what is the cause of his grief, what does he regret. When free and
joyous in his forest-home, he does not the less vouchsafe for his reply
the strain which my captive chanted in his silence:
"Lascia che io pianga!"
Suffer me, suffer me to weep!
[Illustration: THE NIGHTINGALE.]
[Illustration]
THE NIGHTINGALE:
CONTINUED.
The hours of silence are not barren for the nightingale. He gathers
his ideas and reflects; he broods over the songs which he has heard or
has himself attempted; he modifies and improves them with perfect tact
and taste. For the false notes of an ignorant master he substitutes
ingenious and harmonious variations. The imperfect strain which he has
learned, but has not repeated, he then reproduces; but made indeed his
own, appropriated by his own genius, and converted into a nightingale's
melody.
"Do not be discouraged," says a quaint old writer, "if the young bird
be not willing to repeat your lesson, and continue to warble; soon he
will show you that he has not forgotten the lessons received in autumn
and winter--_a fit season for meditation, owing to the length of the
nights_; he will repeat them in the spring-time."
It is very interesting to follow, during the winter, the nightingale's
thoughts, in his darkened cage, wrapped round with a green cloth, which
partially deceives his gaze, and reminds him of his forest. In December
he begins to dream aloud, to descant, to describe in pathetic notes the
things passing before his mind--the loved and absent objects. Mayhap
he then forgets that migration has been forbidden him, and thinks he
has arrived in Africa or in Syria, in lands lighted by a more generous
sun. It may be that he sees this sun; sees the rose reblossom, and
recommences for her, as say the Persian poets, his hymn of impossible
love,--"_O sun! O sea! O rose!_"--(_Rückert._)
For myself, I believe simply that this noble and pathetic hymn, with
its lofty accent, is nought else but himself, his life of love and
combat, his nightingale's drama. He beholds the woods, the beloved
object which transfigures them. He sees her tender vivacity, and the
thousand graces of the winged life which we are unable to perceive. He
speaks to her; she answers him. He takes upon himself two characters,
and, to the full, sonorous voice of the male, replies in soft, brief
utterances. What then? I doubt not that already the rapturousness
of his life breaks upon him--the tender intimacy of the nest, the
little lowly dwelling which would have been his Eden. He believes
in it; he shuts his eyes, and completes the illusion. The egg is
hatched; his Yule-tide miracle disclosed; his son issues forth--the
future nightingale, even at its birth sublimely melodious. He listens
ecstatically, in the night of his gloomy cage, to the future song of
his offspring.
And all this, to be sure, passes before him in a poetical confusion,
where obstacles and strife break up and disturb love's festival. No
happiness here below is pure. A _third_ intervenes. The captive in his
solitude grows irritated and eager; he struggles visibly against his
unseen adversary--_that other_, the unworthy rival which is present to
his mind.
The scene is developed before him, just as it would have transpired
in spring, when the male birds returning, towards March or April,
and before the re-appearance of the hens, resolve to decide among
themselves their great duel of jealousy. For when the latter arrive,
all must be calm and peaceful; there should prevail nothing but love,
tranquillity, and tenderness. The battle endures some fifteen days; and
if the female birds return sooner, the effort grows deadly. The story
of Roland is literally realized; he sounded his ivory horn, even to
the extinction of strength and life. These, too, sing until their last
breath--until death: they will triumph or die.
If it be true, as we are assured, that the lovers are two or three
times more numerous than the lady-loves, you may conceive the violence
of this burning emulousness, in which, perhaps, lurks the first spark
and the secret of their genius.
The fate of the vanquished is terrible--worse than death. He is
constrained to fly; to quit the province, the country; to sink into
the comrade of the lower races of birds; while his song is degraded
into a _patois_. He forgets and disgraces himself; becomes vulgarized
among this vulgar people; little by little growing ignorant of his
own tongue, of theirs, of any tongue. We sometimes discover among
these exiles birds which preserve only the external likeness of the
nightingale.
Though the rival is expelled, nothing as yet is done. The victor must
please, must subdue her. Oh! bright moment, soft inspiration of the
new song which shall touch that little proud Wild-heart, and compel it
to abandon liberty for love! The test imposed by the hen-bird in other
species is assistance in building or excavating the nest; that the
male may show he is skilful, and will take his offspring to his heart.
The effect is sometimes admirable. The woodpecker, as we have seen,
is elevated from a workman into an artist, and from a carpenter into
a sculptor. But, alas! the nightingale does not possess this talent;
he knows not how to do anything. The least among the small birds is a
hundred times more adroit with his bill, his wing, his claw. He has
only his voice which he can make use of; there his power breaks forth,
there he will be irresistible. Others may display their works, but his
work is himself; he shows, he reveals himself, and he appears sublime
and grand.
I have never heard him at this solemn moment without thinking that not
only should he touch her heart, but transform, ennoble, and exalt her,
inspire her with a lofty ideal, with the enchanted dream of a glorious
nightingale which shall be hereafter the offspring of their love.
Let us resume. So far, we have particularized three songs.
The drama of the battle-song, with its alternations of envy, pride,
bravado, stern and jealous fury.
The song of solicitation, of soft and tender entreaty, but mingled with
haughty movements of an almost imperious impatience, wherein genius is
visibly astonished that it still remains unrecognized, is irritated at
the delay, and laments it; returning quickly, however, to its tone of
reverent pleading.
Finally comes the song of triumph: "I am the conqueror, I am loved, the
king, the divinity, and the creator." In this last word lies all the
intensity of life and love; for it is she, above all, that creates,
mirroring and reflecting his genius, and so transforming herself that
henceforth there is not in her a movement, a breath, a flutter of the
wings, which does not owe its melodiousness to him, rendered visible in
this enchanted grace.
Thence spring the nest, the egg, the infant. All these are an embodied
and living song. And this is the reason that he does not stir from
her for a moment, during the sacred labour of incubation. He does not
remain in the nest, but on a neighbouring branch, slightly elevated
above it. He knows marvellously well that his voice is most potent
at a distance. From this exalted position, the all-powerful magician
continues to fascinate and fertilize the nest; he co-operates in the
great mystery, and still inspires with song, and heart, and breath, and
will, and tenderness.
This is the time that you should hear him, should hear him in his
native woods, should participate in the emotions of this powerful
fecundity, the most proper perhaps to reveal, to enable us to
comprehend here below the great hidden Deity which eludes us. He
recedes before us at every step, and science does no more than put a
little further back the veil wherein he conceals himself. "Behold,"
said Moses, "behold him who passes, I have seen him by the skirts." "Is
it not he," said Linné, "who passes? I have seen him in outline." And
for myself, I close my eyes; I perceive him with an agitated heart, I
feel him stirring within me on a night enchanted by the voice of the
nightingale.
[Illustration]
Let us draw near; it is a lover: yet keep you distant, for it is a god.
The melody, now vibrating with a glowing appeal to the senses, anon
grows sublime and amplified by the effects of the wind; it is a strain
of sacred harmony which swells through all the forest. Near at hand, it
is occupied with the nest, their love, the son which will be born; but
afar, another is the beloved, another is the son: it is Nature, mother
and daughter, eternal love, which hymns and glorifies itself; it is the
infinite of love which loves in all things and sings in all; these are
the tendernesses, the canticles, the songs of gratitude, which go up
from earth to heaven.
* * * * *
"Child, I have felt this in our southern fields, during the beautiful
starry nights, near my father's house. At a later time, I felt it more
keenly, especially in the vicinity of Nantes, in the lonesome vineyard
of which I have spoken in a preceding page. The nights, less sparkling,
were lightly veiled with a warm haze, through which the stars
discreetly sent their tender glances. A nightingale nestled on the
ground, in a spot but half concealed, under my cedar tree, and among
the periwinkle-flowers. He began towards midnight, and continued until
dawn; happily, manifestly proud, in his solitary vigil, and filling
the majestic silence with his voice. No one interrupted him except,
near morning, the cock, a creature of a different world, a stranger
to the songs of the spirit, but a punctual sentinel, who felt himself
conscientiously compelled to indicate the hour and warn the workman.
"The other persisted for some time in his strain, seeming to say, like
Juliet to Romeo: 'No, it is not the day.'
"His stationing himself near us showed that he feared nothing, that he
knew how profound a security he might enjoy by the side of two hermits
of work, very busy, very benevolent, and not less occupied than the
winged solitary in their song and their dream. We could watch him
at our ease, either fluttering about _en famille_, or maintaining a
rivalry in song with a haughty neighbour who sometimes came to brave
him. In course of time we became, I think, rather agreeable to him, as
assiduous auditors, amateurs, perhaps connoisseurs. The nightingale
feels the want of appreciation and applause; he plainly has a great
regard for man's attentive ear, and fully comprehends his admiration.
"Once more I can see him, at some ten or fifteen paces distant, hopping
forward in accordance with my movements, preserving the same interval
between us, so as to keep always out of reach, but at the same time to
be heard and admired.
"The attire in which you are clothed is by no means a matter of
indifference to him. I have observed that birds in general do not like
black, and that they are afraid of it. I was dressed quite to his
fancy, in white shaded with lilac, with a straw hat ornamented with a
few blossoms. Every minute I could see him fix upon me his black eye,
of a singular vivacity, wild and gentle, sometimes a little proud,
which said plainly, 'I am free, and I have wings; against me thou canst
do nothing. But I am very willing to sing for thee.'
"We had a succession of severe storms at breeding-time, and on one
occasion the thunder rolled near us. No scene can be more affecting
than the approach of these moments: the air fails; fish rise to the
surface in order to breathe a little; the flower bends languidly;
everything suffers, and tears flow unbidden. I could see clearly that
his feelings were in unison with the general distress. From his bosom,
oppressed like mine, broke a kind of hoarse sob, like a wild cry.
[Illustration]