If this swinging-process fails entirely when its object is to make the
insect lose its bearings, what influence can it have upon the Cat? Is
the method of whirling the animal round in a bag, to prevent its return,
worthy of confidence? I believed in it at first, so close-allied was it
to the hopeful idea suggested by the great Darwin. But my faith is now
shaken: my experience with the insect makes me doubtful of the Cat. If
the former returns after being whirled, why should not the latter? I
therefore embark upon fresh experiments.
And, first of all, to what extent does the Cat deserve his reputation of
being able to return to the beloved home, to the scenes of his amorous
exploits on the tiles and in the hay-lofts? The most curious facts are
told of his instinct; children's books on natural history abound with
feats that do the greatest credit to his prowess as a pilgrim. I do
not attach much importance to these stories: they come from casual
observers, uncritical folk given to exaggeration. It is not everybody
who can talk about animals correctly. When some one not of the craft
gets on the subject and says to me, 'Such or such an animal is black,' I
begin by finding out if it does not happen to be white; and many a time
the truth is discovered in the converse proposition. Men come to me and
sing the praises of the Cat as a travelling-expert. Well and good: we
will now look upon the Cat as a poor traveller. And that would be the
extent of my knowledge if I had only the evidence of books and of people
unaccustomed to the scruples of scientific examination. Fortunately,
I am acquainted with a few incidents that will stand the test of my
incredulity. The Cat really deserves his reputation as a discerning
pilgrim. Let us relate these incidents.
One day--it was at Avignon--there appeared upon the garden-wall a
wretched-looking Cat, with matted coat and protruding ribs, so thin
that his back was a mere jagged ridge. He was mewing with hunger. My
children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery. Bread
soaked in milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took it. And the
mouthfuls succeeded one another to such good purpose that he was
sated and went off, heedless of the 'Puss! Puss!' of his compassionate
friends. Hunger returned; and the starveling reappeared in his wall-top
refectory. He received the same fare of bread soaked in milk, the same
soft words. He allowed himself to be tempted. He came down from the
wall. The children were able to stroke his back. Goodness, how thin he
was!
It was the great topic of conversation. We discussed it at table: we
would tame the vagabond, we would keep him, we would make him a bed
of hay. It was a most important matter: I can see to this day, I shall
always see the council of rattleheads deliberating on the Cat's fate.
They were not satisfied until the savage animal remained. Soon he grew
into a magnificent Tom. His large round head, his muscular legs, his
reddish fur, flecked with darker patches, reminded one of a little
jaguar. He was christened Ginger because of his tawny hue. A mate joined
him later, picked up in almost similar circumstances. Such was the
origin of my series of Gingers, which I have retained for little short
of twenty years through the vicissitudes of my various removals.
The first of these removals took place in 1870. A little earlier, a
minister who has left a lasting memory in the University, that fine
man, Victor Duruy (Jean Victor Duruy (1811-1894), author of a number
of historical works, including a well-known "Histoire des Romains", and
minister of public instruction under Napoleon III. from 1863 to 1869.
Cf. "The Life of the Fly": chapter 20.--Translator's Note.), had
instituted classes for the secondary education of girls. This was the
beginning, as far as was then possible, of the burning question of
to-day. I very gladly lent my humble aid to this labour of light. I
was put to teach physical and natural science. I had faith and was not
sparing of work, with the result that I rarely faced a more attentive or
interested audience. The days on which the lessons fell were red-letter
days, especially when the lesson was botany and the table disappeared
from view under the treasures of the neighbouring conservatories.
That was going too far. In fact, you can see how heinous my crime was: I
taught those young persons what air and water are; whence the lightning
comes and the thunder; by what device our thoughts are transmitted
across the seas and continents by means of a metal wire; why fire
burns and why we breathe; how a seed puts forth shoots and how a flower
blossoms: all eminently hateful things in the eyes of some people, whose
feeble eyes are dazzled by the light of day.
The little lamp must be put out as quickly as possible and measures
taken to get rid of the officious person who strove to keep it alight.
The scheme was darkly plotted with the old maids who owned my house and
who saw the abomination of desolation in these new educational methods.
I had no written agreement to protect me. The bailiff appeared with a
notice on stamped paper. It baldly informed that I must move out within
four weeks from date, failing which the law would turn my goods and
chattels into the street. I had hurriedly to provide myself with a
dwelling. The first house which we found happened to be at Orange. Thus
was my exodus from Avignon effected.
We were somewhat anxious about the moving of the Cats. We were all of us
attached to them and should have thought it nothing short of criminal to
abandon the poor creatures, whom we had so often petted, to distress
and probably to thoughtless persecution. The shes and the kittens would
travel without any trouble: all you have to do is to put them in a
basket; they will keep quiet on the journey. But the old Tom-cats were
a serious problem. I had two: the head of the family, the patriarch; and
one of his descendants, quite as strong as himself. We decided to
take the grandsire, if he consented to come, and to leave the grandson
behind, after finding him a home.
My friend Dr. Loriol offered to take charge of the forsaken one. The
animal was carried to him at nightfall in a closed hamper. Hardly
were we seated at the evening-meal, talking of the good fortune of
our Tom-cat, when we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The
shapeless bundle came and rubbed itself against our legs, purring with
happiness. It was the Cat.
I learnt his story next day. On arriving at Dr. Loriol's, he was locked
up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the unfamiliar
room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture, against the
window-panes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, threatening to
make short work of everything. Mme. Loriol was frightened by the little
lunatic; she hastened to open the window; and the Cat leapt out among
the passers-by. A few minutes later, he was back at home. And it was no
easy matter: he had to cross the town almost from end to end; he had
to make his way through a long labyrinth of crowded streets, amid a
thousand dangers, including first boys and next dogs; lastly--and this
perhaps was an even more serious obstacle--he had to pass over the
Sorgue, a river running through Avignon. There were bridges at hand,
many, in fact; but the animal, taking the shortest cut, had used none of
them, bravely jumping into the water, as its streaming fur showed. I
had pity on the poor Cat, so faithful to his home. We agreed to do our
utmost to take him with us. We were spared the worry: a few days later,
he was found lying stiff and stark under a shrub in the garden. The
plucky animal had fallen a victim to some stupid act of spite. Some one
had poisoned him for me. Who? It is not likely that it was a friend!
There remained the old Cat. He was not indoors when we started; he
was prowling round the hay-lofts of the neighbourhood. The carrier was
promised an extra ten francs if he brought the Cat to Orange with one of
the loads which he had still to convey. On his last journey he brought
him stowed away under the driver's seat. I scarcely knew my old Tom when
we opened the moving prison in which he had been confined since the
day before. He came out looking a most alarming beast, scratching and
spitting, with bristling hair, bloodshot eyes, lips white with foam. I
thought him mad and watched him closely for a time. I was wrong: it was
merely the fright of a bewildered animal. Had there been trouble with
the carrier when he was caught? Did he have a bad time on the journey?
History is silent on both points. What I do know is that the very nature
of the Cat seemed changed: there was no more friendly purring, no more
rubbing against our legs; nothing but a wild expression and the deepest
gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe him. For a few weeks longer, he
dragged his wretched existence from corner to corner; then, one day, I
found him lying dead in the ashes on the hearth. Grief, with the help of
old age, had killed him. Would he have gone back to Avignon, had he had
the strength? I would not venture to affirm it. But, at least, I think
it very remarkable that an animal should let itself die of home-sickness
because the infirmities of age prevent it from returning to its old
haunts.
What the patriarch could not attempt, we shall see another do, over a
much shorter distance, I admit. A fresh move is resolved upon, that
I may have, at length, the peace and quiet essential to my work. This
time, I hope that it will be the last. I leave Orange for Serignan.
The family of Gingers has been renewed: the old ones have passed away,
new ones have come, including a full-grown Tom, worthy in all respects
of his ancestors. He alone will give us some difficulty; the others, the
babies and the mothers, can be removed without trouble. We put them into
baskets. The Tom has one to himself, so that the peace may be kept. The
journey is made by carriage, in company with my family. Nothing striking
happens before our arrival. Released from their hampers, the females
inspect the new home, explore the rooms one by one; with their pink
noses they recognize the furniture: they find their own seats, their own
tables, their own arm-chairs; but the surroundings are different. They
give little surprised miaows and questioning glances. A few caresses and
a saucer of milk allay all their apprehensions; and, by the next day,
the mother Cats are acclimatised.
It is a different matter with the Tom. We house him in the attics, where
he will find ample room for his capers; we keep him company, to relieve
the weariness of captivity; we take him a double portion of plates to
lick; from time to time, we place him in touch with some of his family,
to show him that he is not alone in the house; we pay him a host of
attentions, in the hope of making him forget Orange. He appears, in
fact, to forget it: he is gentle under the hand that pets him, he comes
when called, purrs, arches his back. It is well: a week of seclusion and
kindly treatment have banished all notions of returning. Let us give him
his liberty. He goes down to the kitchen, stands by the table like the
others, goes out into the garden, under the watchful eye of Aglae, who
does not lose sight of him; he prowls all around with the most innocent
air. He comes back. Victory! The Tom-cat will not run away.
Next morning:
'Puss! Puss!'
Not a sign of him! We hunt, we call. Nothing. Oh, the hypocrite, the
hypocrite! How he has tricked us! He has gone, he is at Orange. None
of those about me can believe in this venturesome pilgrimage. I declare
that the deserter is at this moment at Orange mewing outside the empty
house.
Aglae and Claire went to Orange. They found the Cat, as I said they
would, and brought him back in a hamper. His paws and belly were covered
with red clay; and yet the weather was dry, there was no mud. The Cat,
therefore, must have got wet crossing the Aygues torrent; and the moist
fur had kept the red earth of the fields through which he passed. The
distance from Serignan to Orange, in a straight line, is four and a half
miles. There are two bridges over the Aygues, one above and one below
that line, some distance away. The Cat took neither the one nor the
other: his instinct told him the shortest road and he followed that
road, as his belly, covered with red mud, proved. He crossed the torrent
in May, at a time when the rivers run high; he overcame his repugnance
to water in order to return to his beloved home. The Avignon Tom did the
same when crossing the Sorgue.
The deserter was reinstated in his attic at Serignan. He stayed there
for a fortnight; and at last we let him out. Twenty-four hours had
not elapsed before he was back at Orange. We had to abandon him to his
unhappy fate. A neighbour living out in the country, near my former
house, told me that he saw him one day hiding behind a hedge with a
rabbit in his mouth. Once no longer provided with food, he, accustomed
to all the sweets of a Cat's existence, turned poacher, taking toll of
the farm-yards round about my old home. I heard no more of him. He came
to a bad end, no doubt: he had become a robber and must have met with a
robber's fate.
The experiment has been made and here is the conclusion, twice proved.
Full-grown Cats can find their way home, in spite of the distance and
their complete ignorance of the intervening ground. They have, in their
own fashion, the instinct of my Mason-bees. A second point remains to be
cleared up, that of the swinging motion in the bag. Are they thrown out
of their latitude by this stratagem, are or they not? I was thinking
of making some experiments, when more precise information arrived and
taught me that it was not necessary. The first who acquainted me with
the method of the revolving bag was telling the story told him by a
second person, who repeated the story of a third, a story related on the
authority of a fourth; and so on. None had tried it, none had seen it
for himself. It is a tradition of the country-side. One and all extol
it as an infallible method, without, for the most part, having attempted
it. And the reason which they give for its success is, in their eyes,
conclusive. If, say they, we ourselves are blind-folded and then spin
round for a few seconds, we no longer know where we are. Even so with
the Cat carried off in the darkness of the swinging bag. They argue from
man to the animal, just as others argue from the animal to man: a faulty
method in either case, if there really be two distinct psychic worlds.
The belief would not be so deep-rooted in the peasant's mind, if facts
had not from time to time confirmed it. But we may assume that, in
successful cases, the Cats made to lose their bearings were young and
unemancipated animals. With those neophytes, a drop of milk is enough
to dispel the grief of exile. They do not return home, whether they have
been whirled in a bag or not. People have thought it as well to subject
them to the whirling operation by way of an additional precaution; and
the method has received the credit of a success that has nothing to do
with it. In order to test the method properly, it should have been tried
on a full-grown Cat, a genuine Tom.
I did in the end get the evidence which I wanted on this point.
Intelligent and trustworthy people, not given to jumping to conclusions,
have told me that they have tried the trick of the swinging bag to keep
Cats from returning to their homes. None of them succeeded when the
animal was full-grown. Though carried to a great distance, into another
house, and subjected to a conscientious series of revolutions, the Cat
always came back. I have in mind more particularly a destroyer of the
Goldfish in a fountain, who, when transported from Serignan to Piolenc,
according to the time-honoured method, returned to his fish; who, when
carried into the mountain and left in the woods, returned once more. The
bag and the swinging round proved of no avail; and the miscreant had to
be put to death. I have verified a fair number of similar instances,
all under most favourable conditions. The evidence is unanimous: the
revolving motion never keeps the adult Cat from returning home. The
popular belief, which I found so seductive at first, is a country
prejudice, based upon imperfect observation. We must, therefore, abandon
Darwin's idea when trying to explain the homing of the Cat as well as of
the Mason-bee.