STITCH-GNAWER AND LITTLE TROTTER.
_Gnawer._ Well, what do you say to all this, my little pupil?
_Trotter._ I say you are a sorcerer. As to the will of the late Mr.
Michonnet, what has become of it? have you hidden it?
_Gnawer._ I inherit my father’s love of books and curious documents.
He was a learned rat, having devoured some of the oldest and dryest
works in his master’s library. It will not surprise you, therefore,
to learn that this morning I gratified my natural taste, and at the
same time served my young friends, by breakfasting off the will of
the deceased Michonnet. Thus, thanks to my timely aid, a lawsuit—one
of the greatest evils of this lying age—has been nipped in the bud,
and a wedding concluded. You see, my dear pupil, that notwithstanding
our miserable condition, we, if we do not neglect our opportunity,
can render the greatest service to humanity. But what ails you that
you caress your tail so pensively?
_Trotter._ Oh, I was only thinking that we would neglect our
opportunities were we not present after the wedding breakfast. There
will be no end of good things going.
_Gnawer._ Very good. You have wisely abandoned the idea of suicide?
_Trotter._ I should rather think I have. The world has many traps;
but it has also its tit bits of old cheese, for which sudden death
would spoil one’s appetite.
_Gnawer._ These are sage reflections, but pray bear in mind the
lesson of the lost will. The destruction of this instrument, so small
in itself, happily turned the tide of events for generations to come.
The wise householder sets his foot on the spark that would have {107}
consumed his whole substance. The loving heart crushes the first
cruel word that would wreck his happiness. The mariner marks the
little cloud on the horizon, furls his sails, and his trusty bark
rides out the tempest. Your humble servant has gnawed through the
lines by which an unworthy father left an inheritance of misery to
his children.
[Illustration]
{108}
THE SUFFERINGS OF A BEETLE.
[Illustration]
Violet, who is the most amiable and sensible dove in the world,
wore, the other day, a very pretty pin in her collar. A lettered
antiquarian owl told her it was perfectly charming.
“Indeed,” said Violet, “it is a present from my godmother, and
represents an insect on a peony leaf. By means of this talisman
common sense is secured, enabling one to see all things in their true
light, not through the illusive medium of passion.”
The owl approached to examine the jewel, but the dove, perceiving
that her white neck against which it rested interfered with his
minute inspection, took it off and gave it to him.
“I will return it to-morrow,” said the bird of night. “During my
nocturnal studies the insect may disclose its history, then will I
know the secret of your wisdom and beauty.”
As soon as the owl reached home, seeking the retirement of his
study, he placed the pin on the table. Directly he had done so, the
beetle walked about on the leaf. The insect was green, and its whole
demeanour spoke of a worthy and candid nature. Passing a polished
foot over its eyes, stretching out first one wing then the other, it
directed its pointed proboscis to the owl, and with a mingled air
of modesty and intelligence proceeded to relate its story in the
following words:—
“I was born on the banks of the Seine, in a garden named after a
temple of the goddess Isis. My parents had been consigned to their
last resting-place by weevils, when I woke to the consciousness of
existence beneath the shade of a _Mimosa pigra_, the sensitive idler,
whose juice was my first aliment. The wife of an excellent gardener
{109} had taken me in, but while she was absent at market I expanded
my wings and flew away. My companions were simply beasts, so I found
my sweetest associates in wild flowers, and poppies became my special
favourites. I was already well grown, and amused myself by looking
for bushy roses, and chasing the busy bees who stopped for a moment
to joke with me. Alas! these joyous days passed like a dream. A
craving for the unknown gradually forced itself upon me and rendered
my simple habits contemptible. I at length decided to raise the veil
of the future, and have my fortune told by a weird capricorn beetle
who passed for a soothsayer, and who spent her days in a lonely part
of the garden.
“She wore a long robe covered with cabalistic signs. Setting out for
her cave, the crone received me graciously, and after describing
certain mystic circles with her horns, she examined my foot, saying,
‘Thou art one of a noble line. The horns of thy forefathers have been
proudly exalted, and as woefully depressed by fate. Whence comest
thou to this lonely place? I had deemed thy race long extinct, had I
not seen thee. The armour of thy ancestors can alone be found in the
collections of entomologists. Happiness may never be thine!’
“ ‘Now then, old woman,’ I said, ‘my ancestors are dead and no
manner of good to me. Tell me, once for all, am I likely to play an
important part in the world, or am I not? I feel fit for anything.’
“ ‘Hear him, ye powers invisible!’ cried the witch. ‘Thou wouldst
willingly be a Don Juan! consent to drink the nectar of the gods!
feast with the immortals, and cancel the debt of thine imprudence by
suffering the tortures of Tantalus. Like Prometheus, thou wouldst
steal the celestial fire at the risk of being torn by vultures. Alas!
thou wilt need no prompting to find misery enough and to spare. I
will endow thee with the vile instinct of common sense, remove the
mask from all that glitters and is not gold; dissolve the fair form
of things, and reveal the ghastly skeletons they conceal.’
“I left this cave and its hideous old witch, feeling discomfited by
her strange prognostics. For all that, I still burned with the desire
to cast myself into the garden of Isis, where thousands of insects
swarmed, rejoicing in its intoxicating air. One day, while taking a
morning walk through a kitchen-garden, I fell in with a rhinoceros
beetle meditating beneath the shade of a lettuce. Trusting to his
wisdom, I humbly besought him to favour me with some of those flowery
and precious counsels which Mentor bestowed upon Telemachus. {110}
[Illustration]
{111}
“ ‘It will afford me the greatest pleasure in life,’ he replied.
‘Your appearance recalls some famous old pictures in Lord Diamond’s
collection. You evidently come of a brilliant line of beetles. Do you
see the bloom of luxury in yonder garden? Your horns and credentials
will at once gain you an introduction there into our set—the finest
society in the world. The life will be new to you, but the jargon
is easy. You must make some polite contortions before the mistress
of the house, and when you have listened attentively to all the
current nonsense of the day, you will be regaled with a little hot
water, after which you can amuse yourself with the dragon-flies. Take
care to listen patiently to all the unkind things whispered about
intimate friends. You are not required to make remarks. Judicious
silence will better establish your claims to sentiment, poetic
feeling, and profundity, than any remarks you could hope to offer.
Your acquirements will be gauged by your power of appreciating the
wit or wisdom of those who address you. Above all, be careful to whom
you give your heart, as you are almost certain to be deceived. These
will make up the list of your pleasures, while your duties will be
light and easily performed. Five or six times a year military dress
must be worn and tactics studied, when you shall be required to obey
implicitly the orders of the hornets.’
“ ‘Five or six times!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a frightful task!’
“ ‘The country requires it. Go now and enjoy your privileges. You are
warned.’
“This gloomy picture of my prospective joys and privileges would
have scared any beetle less green and less intrepid than myself. The
impetuosity of youth carried me on, and I looked upon the rhinoceros
as an old croaker, who had seen too much of the world and of this
particular garden.
“ ‘Come with me,’ said he at last, ‘society waits our appearance.’
“I formed a close intimacy with a May bug, who one day said, ‘I shall
take you to the theatre, and other places of amusement, where we may
spend a pleasant evening.’
“My new friend asked if I was a lover of music. ‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘in
the garden of my nativity we had some very fine tom-tits.’
“ ‘We have something much better than that to offer you. I shall
introduce you to the Academy, where we shall listen to the sublime in
art.’
“My companion, before entering, readjusted his feelers and collar.
{112} He then procured tickets from a wood-louse stationed at the
entrance of a large acanthus flower. The concert-hall was filled
by one of the most brilliant assemblages of the season. Certain
well-known members of the insect aristocracy thronged the private
boxes, gazing around with that air of superfine insolence which
freezes the muscles of the face into an expression of languid-icy
indifference. Slender-waisted wasps and dragon-flies formed charming
groups; while a crowd of restless fleas filled the upper gallery.
Flies in solemn black—as if mourning for the frivolity of the
hour—were seated in the pit, patiently waiting to regale their ears
with the music.
“ ‘This gathering,’ I said, ‘conveys a pleasing impression to my
mind. It is astonishing to see youth and beauty so thoroughly
engrossed with the prospect of listening to good music.’
“ ‘Do not deceive yourself, my friend,’ replied the May bug. ‘It is
not the art of the musician that is the chief attraction. These are,
most of them, slaves of fashion, who know little and care less about
music. Chut! here is the first harvest-fly about to open the concert
with her celebrated song.’
“The singer, decked in resplendent wings, sang something thoroughly
dramatic. Her notes, sometimes loud, sometimes low, deep, high, long,
short, were hurled into the hall in a manner so utterly perplexing
that I whispered to my friend, ‘Do you think she is all right?’
“ ‘Right?’ he replied. ‘My uninitiated friend, you are listening
to a prima donna, the finest soprano on the stage. The rendering
of the cantata is sublime. Mark the modulations of the voice, the
syncopation of the passages, the—so to speak—rhythmical delivery, the
volume of sound filling every corner of the room, the’——
“ ‘But after all,’ said I, interrupting him, ‘as a mere display of
the variety of sounds contained in the voice, the performance is
perhaps very fine, yet I would rather listen to the heart-song of a
linnet than all the throat-melodies of the world.’
“ ‘Believe me, you must be mistaken,’ said the Bug. ‘She is a
universal favourite; and, moreover, anything so popular must be in
itself good.’
“The fly was followed by a band of a hundred cathedral crickets
who intoned a chorus. They seemed to be so nervously affected each
one about his notes that the fall of the curtain afforded me great
relief. {113}
“The interval was filled by the evolutions of a grasshopper ballet
corps, who exercised their feet and legs quite as much as the others
had their lungs. It seems—so my companion says—they express in their
gestures and steps many of the most subtle feelings of the heart. As
for myself, I failed to perceive anything beyond the rather indecent
gambols of a band of immodestly-dressed female grasshoppers. The
display, although utterly devoid of the refinement which each male
member of the assembly claimed as his special attribute, seemed to
afford unmixed delight. To tell the truth, I myself was beginning to
take some interest in the spectacle, when the whole band disappeared,
and the din of instruments began louder than ever. Oh my poor head!
how it ached! I was compelled to seek the fresh air.
“ ‘Is this what you promised me?’ I said to the May-bug. ‘I asked for
songs, and in place of them you have taken me to listen to a troop of
liberated fiends, who play all manner of tricks with divine harmony!
Take me, I pray you, where one may listen to music unaccompanied by
swords, torches, and operatic tinsel.’
“ ‘Come, then,’ said my friend, ‘we will go to a place where music
is heard in all its purity. There you will be enchanted by the rich
voice of a trumpeter beetle of world-wide fame.’
“We winged our way to a fine red tulip that marked the entrance of
the hall. As soon as we had seated ourselves, the trumpeter appeared
and sang the finest air in a masterpiece. This time I was delighted;
his rich deep voice reminded one of the boom of distant thunder, the
roll of the sea, or the noise of a steam-power mill. The song was
short, and followed by the croaking chorus of miserable crickets. The
contrast was so marked as to be revolting. Here my friend explained
that each musical star is always attended by a constellation of
minor luminaries, whose feeble light is borrowed from the centre
round which they revolve. Theatrical managers profit by their study
of natural phenomena. They say, ‘As there is only one sun in heaven
gladdening the earth, so in the theatre we should have one star at a
time, so managed as to make the most of its refulgence.’ Two stars
cannot be allowed to cross each other’s track on the stage. Such an
irregularity would result in the total eclipse of the one, and in
theatrical chaos.
“ ‘Come, let us go elsewhere. Like a boy with sweets, I have kept
the best to the last. You must tighten the drum of your ear, adjust
your sense of hearing to its finest pitch, in order to appreciate the
delicate strains that should touch your heart.’ {114}
[Illustration]
{115}
“ ‘I hope,’ I replied, ‘to tune my tympanum so as to gather up the
finest chords.’
“ ‘I am by no means certain about that,’ said my Mentor. ‘Even I
myself, who am thoroughly initiated, lose some of the finest phrases.
One must know by a sort of intuition how to discover the sentiments
of the composer, just as a gourmet selects the carp’s tongue, while a
vulgar person polishes the bones. Wherein do you think consists the
charm of instrumental music?’
“ ‘In the selection of a choice melody,’ I replied, ‘and the happy
association of such harmony as shall lend it force and beauty; just
as in a picture the true artist so marshals his lights and colours as
to give power of expression to his composition.’
“ ‘You are quite wrong,’ said he; ‘such notions are at least a
century old. Nowadays the charm of music consists in the agility
of the performer’s hands, in the shaggy vegetable-looking growth
of the insect who manipulates the sonorous tool. It is undeniable
that the harmony and sweetness of instrumental music lies in the
nervous appearance of the animal who wakes the articulation of his
instrument, in the colour of his skin, roll of his eyes, and the
curious manner in which he curves his spine round the violoncello.
We are about to listen to one of those profound artists who give a
mystic, and at the same time lucid, rendering of the vague harmony
that breathes in the moods and passions of life.’
“ ‘Oh, bother!’ I said, ‘such fine affairs will be far beyond my
dull comprehension. No matter, lead on, my curiosity exceeds my
discretion.’
“May-bug introduced me into the open calyx of a _Datura fastuosa_,
richly decorated for an instrumental concert, to which one could only
gain admittance by paying a very high price. The assembly was even
more brilliant than that of the Academy. A number of insects were
ranged round an instrument with a very long tail, from which were to
be drawn prodigies of harmony by the feet of a famous centipede.
“After waiting two hours the artists at last arrived; the Centipede
seated himself before his instrument, and looking calmly round at all
present, a profound silence was at once established. The piece opened
with a succession of thunder peals rolling on from the lowest to the
highest notes on the board. The performer then addressed himself,
though I thought regretfully, to some of the medium keys, after
which {116} commenced a vague slow adagio of an undistinguishable
measure, rendered still more confusing by graces of manipulation.
The air was poor, but what matters the poorness of the stuff when
it is so covered with embroidering as to become invisible? This
was only a prelude to give a foretaste of the piece. As there were
many thunderings and preliminary canterings over the keys—reminding
one of a horse getting into form for a great leap—I fancied that
something grand would follow; yet it was quite the contrary. The dark
foreboding cloud of the introduction cleared away, and was succeeded
by a popular ballet-tune, a brisk lively air, which seemed to dance
gaily over the green turf.
“This spurious air, which had sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, had
been danced to for at least ten years; one had had enough of it in
every possible form, but the audience seemed to recognise in the air
a delightful old friend.
“At the close of this inspired theme and its endless chain of
varieties the performer played the tune with one foot on the base
keys, while the remaining ninety-nine feet were producing a furious
running accompaniment on the treble, ascending and descending in
interminable runs of demi-semiquavers.
“These were repeated over and over to the infinitely growing delight
of the assembly. All at once the clamour ceased and the virtuoso
counted time with the treble, like the slow tolling of the bell of
doom that seemed to say, ‘Tremble! tremble! thy death is at hand!’
The artist-executioner then seized the doomed air as a Turk would
a Christian, tore off its limbs one by one, cut up its simple
face, twisted its fingers, and dashed its common metre into the
splinters of six-eight time. Here, in a frenzy of rage, he tossed the
disjointed members on to the hot anvil of his key-board and pounded
them into dust, blinding and stifling one’s senses.
“The Centipede continued to hammer louder and louder, faster and
faster, keeping the dust of the pulverised air floating in a tempest
around, and his audience in a tumult of excitement. The measure was
left to look out for itself amid the din and confusion. The insects,
seized with the contagion of the musical slaughter, kept time with
the fluctuating measure until their bodies shook as if with palsy.
“Composedly retiring within myself, I escaped the excitement, while
the piece concluded with prolonged banging of chords, by which one
discovered the true genius of the Centipede.
“ ‘Oh, the power of music!’ said a moth to her neighbour. ‘My {117}
soul has been wafted to the luminous spheres of the firmament, ah
me!’ and she fainted away. Another exclaimed, ‘How wonderful! In
these few minutes I have climbed to the last rung of the ladder of
passion, love, jealousy, despair, fury—I have experienced all these
in the twinkling of an eye. For pity’s sake, some air—open a window!’
‘Oh!’ cried a third, ‘I have become the slave of harmony. Why can
it not leave my imagination to slumber in peace? I have seen white
ants devouring their young; bees stinging each other; mosquitoes
drawing blood from stones; centipedes committing suicide; charming
butterflies metamorphosed into death’s-head moths.’
“ ‘Alas!’ said an old Cantharis, ‘what delight, what bliss to possess
such genius! This centipede is truly wonderful! wonderful!!’
“I turned towards a large gadfly who appeared to have some common
sense, and inquired timidly if it were not my ignorance which
rendered me unable to appreciate the marvels which are being
applauded.
“ ‘Imprudent fellow!’ replied he, drawing me into a corner. ‘If you
were heard letting fall such remarks you would be torn to pieces by
the Cantharis. You had better go with the herd; say it’s no end of
soul-stirring, you know, and all that kind of thing. It is fashion,
my boy. The Centipede is all the rage.’
“ ‘Thanks for your warning, but is one compelled to come and listen
to these torments of h-harmony?’
“ ‘No, not exactly compelled, and yet we cannot escape it. It’s
supposed to be the correct thing to do.’
“The emotion had now subsided, and we had to listen to a
distinguished earwig violinist, who followed so closely in the strain
of his predecessor that I will dismiss him without further comment.
“Before leaving the hall I was introduced to the Centipede, and
congratulated him on his power over his instrument. The fellow turned
away indignantly, saying, ‘You take me, then, for a sort of musical
machine. A day is coming in which I shall prove to the universe that
my own compositions are alone worthy of my genius as a performer.
Good-evening, Mr. Beetle.’ A slight touch of vanity this, but the
faintest trace of it! Ugh!
“The May-bug approached me with a triumphant air, ‘I told you we
should have a splendid evening.’ {118}
“ ‘So very splendid,’ I replied, ‘I should like at once to sleep off
its effect.’
“Next day my guide led me to understand that it was expedient to go
and visit some death’s-head moths who view nature from their own
ideal standpoint and endeavour to imitate its forms and colours.
“The majority of these unfortunates had nothing more left than mere
stumps of their once ample wings; they had lost them in ambitious
flight while yet too young. The first moth we visited spoke very
highly of his craft.
“ ‘Nothing good can ever be achieved,’ he said, ‘without art, and
there is no art without its rules. The precepts of the masters must
be followed. No composition can possibly be worth the canvas on which
it is painted unless it will bear the tests of law. To produce a good
picture, it is necessary to select from nature’s storehouse; but to
select only such elements as are pleasing to the eye and taste, and
to reject all that are offensive. I have striven to carry out and
embody all the rules of art in the composition I am about to show
you.’
“The Moth then unveiled a large canvas, representing a battle of the
animalcules, seen by the microscope in a drop of water. He could not
have hit upon a happier subject to display not alone his knowledge of
art, but of the fierce passions which characterise even the lowest
living organisms. The distinct genera and species were treated with
masterly skill. The complicities of structure in the Rotifera lent
force and dignity to the action; while the breadth of expression in
some of the mouths, the dangerous attitude of the heads, the curves
of the tails and antennæ, all contributed to render this one of the
most striking productions of modern art.
“In the next studio we visited, the Moth had met with an accident; he
had singed his wings by venturing too near his light (candle-light).
For all that, we found him a most enthusiastic limner, who discoursed
like a lunatic on the subtle fire of genius. His speciality was
portrait-painting, about which he had his own notions.
“ ‘It is necessary,’ he said, ‘in order to idealise the subject, to
carefully study the habits of plant life, and impart something of its
grace and tenderness to the outlines of the insect who is sitting
for a portrait. It is wonderful to observe the effect produced by
peculiar habits of life, and most necessary for the artist to note
their influences in the treatment of a subject. One requires to
make one’s self master of the life and thoughts of the sitter, so
as to give a poetic rendering {119} to his idiosyncrasy. Thus the
low-life vulgar habits of a patron which impress their stamp on his
physiognomy must be studiously concealed beneath a virtuous mask
of paint and outline. In this way we depict what the insect under
happier influences might have been, in place of what he really is.’
[Illustration]
“ ‘In other words,’ I said, ‘you portray your client as the insect
{120} God made him before he himself wrecked the fair image by giving
himself up to the works of the devil. In this way I suppose you serve
God and Mammon at the same time. After all, truth is truth, whether
on canvas or in conversation, and it seems to me that you prostitute
your sublime art by handing down painted lies to posterity.’ We had
to leave this studio, as the new light I had thrown on this moth’s
studies singed his wings afresh.
“My Mentor next led me to a brilliant group of the _Coccus cacti_,
or cochineal insects, from the forests of the ‘Far East,’ who were
awkwardly colouring dead leaves.
“ ‘Strangers,’ said one of them, ‘there has been only one great epoch
for the fine arts.’
“I was about to suggest that there had been four great epochs, and to
concede that one of the four had perhaps been the greatest of all.
“ ‘The ancients!’
“ ‘That will do,’ said one of the painters. ‘The ancients were
children, chrysalides groping in darkness.’
“ ‘Perhaps you deem the Augustine epoch the greatest?’
“ ‘The age of Augustus! What of that? We know nothing about it.’
“ ‘Perhaps, then, the period of the Renaissance?’
“ ‘The Renaissance! A period of beggarly decadence!’
“ ‘Ah, then, to revive signifies to decline.’
“ ‘Decidedly; so far as the Renaissance goes.’
“ ‘The only period remaining is the seventeenth century.’ My voice
was here stifled by groans.
“ ‘Who is this Coleopterous? Have you lived in a hole? Learn, Sir
Beetle, that which is known and sanctioned now-a-days we utterly
condemn and ignore, while all that is obscure, lost in the dust of
oblivion, we bring to light and restore with the varnish of our
enthusiasm. Depend upon it, there has never been but one really grand
epoch, which lasted twenty years and three months. This was in the
twelfth century, during the time of Averroes. The Saracens brought
art to the highest pitch of perfection.’
“ ‘Let us leave these driveling fools,’ I whispered to my companion.
“ ‘Willingly.’
“Our next flight was across the garden to a spot I had never seen
before. Its name was taken from an ancient causeway on which it
had {121} been erected. We entered a rich tulip where a number of
insects were assembled.
“ ‘Here you see,’ said my companion, ‘the whole entomological
race—peacock-butterflies, admirals, generals, princes, counts,
satyrs, even Vulcan and Argus.’ You are aware the beetles are
descended from an Egyptian race of insects accustomed to translate
hieroglyphics of the physiognomy, and thus read the secrets of the
heart.
“I therefore understood at a glance that all the females of this vast
assembly were ranged in a ring for no better purpose than criticising
each other’s appearance and dress. They were indeed, without a single
exception, secretly employed in picking each other’s robes, jewels,
and looks to pieces. The males stood at some distance. I remarked
to my friend that this chosen society appeared to me dull and
miserable. Not wishing to judge hastily, I determined to listen to
the conversation.
“A group of sporting spiders were wholly engrossed with talk about
hunting, dining, and betting, and how their blandishments had done
for some gay thoughtless flies who had been decoyed into their
chambers in pursuit of pleasure, and rewarded with death. Two fine
females were whispering behind their fans. I slipped quietly up to
them to listen. Imagine my surprise when I heard them using the slang
of the lowest vermin living.
“Their chief theme was the best means of draining their husbands’
purses to enable them to pursue their selfish pleasure, while I found
out that their devoted partners were nearly driven to despair to make
ends meet. My horns stood up on my head with horror. Addressing my
companion, I said, ‘Is this what you call the pleasures of the world?
In the modest field where I was born, it was not so. When a simple
insect puts on her best dress, she wears her sweetest smiles all for
her fond husband.’
“ ‘Well,’ said my Mentor, ‘what can one do? Fashion is king here, and
he is a hard task-master. All these are his slaves in every detail of
life, dress, and language.’
“ ‘But,’ I said, ‘if one thinks only of personal adornment, putting
on one’s back all one’s worldly possessions, how fares the household?’
“ ‘The household!’ replied he; ‘who ever thinks of that? Domestic
bliss belonged to our grandmothers.’
“ ‘And the budget? those two famous ends of the year which it is so
important to join together decently.’
“ ‘That does not matter either to you or to me.’ {122}
“Two rather unsightly insects were putting their heads together in a
corner. ‘Who are those two creatures?’ I inquired.
“ ‘They are ant-lions of finance. Their habits are droll. They meet
together in the morning in a temple consecrated to their operations.
There they plan how best they may undermine the finest structures of
their neighbours. Their form of worship is perhaps the most dangerous
in the world, as they sacrifice many victims, simple and innocent
ones. When one of these ant-lions has done a good day’s work, sucked
the life’s blood from some widow or orphan, he is the pleasantest
evening companion imaginable. That bejewelled female with the dirty
diamond-ringed neck and fingers is one of their wives.’
“I soon left the husbands to talk over their pitfalls, and listened
to the gossip of their wives.
“ ‘My dear friend,’ said one of them, ‘you have a musical cousin
always about you of whom we may talk undisturbed.’
“ ‘Bah! we do not get on; he grumbles so if I eat sweets while
rendering _sonatas_ or _quatuors_ of Haydn or Mozart.’
“The sad counsels of the old Rhinoceros came to my mind, and I began
to understand that he had been at least truthful. My reflections were
here interrupted by an altercation between two insects. The questions
discussed were taken up by all the others. I afterwards learned the
nature of the questions, and the decisions were the following:—
“1st, Green tea is more destructive to the nerves than black tea.
“2d, Self-love is the motive of all action in insects.
“3d, The hill of St. Denis is about as steep as that of Clichy.
“4th, It is cheaper to live in France than in England.
“5th, It is better to be rich than poor.
“6th, Friendship is a sentiment weaker than love.
“This last question was given up as insoluble at the request of the
ephemera present. An Alpine hermit made a note of it, so as to be
able to meditate on the subject at leisure in the solitude of his
cell. I then, taking my friend by the arm, inquired, ‘Is there no
spot in this large garden where one could find an insect that would
converse without pretending to be interesting?’
“ ‘Yes,’ he replied, scratching his pate with an air of
embarrassment; ‘follow me.’
“We flew away into the dark night, but my guide made so many circuits
that I perceived he was quite at a loss where to go. {123}
“ ‘I do not think,’ he said, ‘it would be worth while to take you
into that vast swamp where one lives in isolation like a water-rat.
Let us cross the river. On its bank yonder are lilies to whom I might
introduce you. They live in peace and silence, fearing to defile
themselves by unkind sentiments.’
“ ‘Is there any gaiety there?’
“ ‘In the land of lilies one is sadder than elsewhere, but the reason
of that is too long to enter upon here.’
“Tired of these flights, I profited by the darkness to leave my
companion. A bright star, as if by chance, directed me to the third
floor of a climbing rose, and there at last I found the object of my
search, a good honest family of lady-birds established in a simple
and commodious dwelling. Most amiable creatures, living without show
or ostentation. Our conversation was animated by a genial gaiety, and
we sat down to a simple supper. My place was between two hostesses
who proved most agreeable companions.”
Here the Beetle relapsed into silence.
“Mr. Beetle,” said the Owl, “I feel certain your history does not end
here.”
“That is true, Mr. Philosopher,” said the insect; “I had reserved a
portion. From the happy moment that separated me from my Mentor I
have only once felt pain. A certain day, at a certain hour, I was
summoned to put on my military dress and mount guard at a place
pointed out to me. I had to obey under pain of death, in common with
many other insects of peace, who were compelled to imitate wasps
and hornets in order to secure the safety of the country, which was
in no real danger. After a day and a night of this warlike parade,
I again obtained my liberty. I had caught cold and toothache, but
seeing a poppy on my way, I plunged into it and swallowed some opium,
which brought on profound sleep. At last I was roused by the voice
of a magpie, who had seized me round the waist with his iron beak.
He was an old collector, and, more than that, a sorcerer. ‘Here,’
said my captor, ‘I have found a pretty beetle, which I shall place in
the middle of a peony leaf, and give to my godchild as a jewel and
talisman to protect her against the sway of fashion.’
“I permitted myself to be placed on the leaf and attached to the dove
Violet’s neck, where I have determined to remain, as the situation
suits me, and I hope to make her lucky.” {124}
[Illustration]
“Sir,” said the Owl, “it seems to me that you are studiously
concealing the most interesting part of your narrative. A beetle of
your wide experience cannot have passed through the world without
some love adventures. I strongly suspect you fell in love with your
lady-bird hostess. Pray allay my curiosity.” {125}
The little green Beetle hereupon bestowed one searching look upon
the Owl, and drawing in his legs and horns, lapsed into silence,
simulating death so cleverly that his interrogator became alarmed.
The Owl put on his spectacles to examine the insect more closely.
He then saw for the first time that it was an emerald mounted on an
enamelled leaf. The sun beginning to appear, he became drowsy, and
pulling his hood over his eyes, fell into a profound sleep.
Awaking at last, he discovered that the story of the green Beetle
was but a dream, and returning the pin to Violet, he recounted the
history of the transformed jewel as if it had been his own invention.
[Illustration]
{126}
A FOX IN A TRAP.
[Illustration]
The following story was found among the papers of a distinguished
“Orang-Outan” member of the Academies:—
“No, decidedly not!” I cried; “it shall never be said that I chose
for the hero of my tale a cowardly, sneaking, voracious brute, whose
name has become synonymous with cunning, hypocrisy, and knavery—a
fox, in fact.”
“You are wrong,” replied one whose presence I had overlooked.
I must tell you that my lonely hours had been beguiled by a creature
of a species hitherto undescribed by the naturalist, who performed
slight services, and was at that moment engaged in arranging the
books in my library. The reader will no doubt be surprised to learn
that an orang-outan—literally, man of the woods or wilds—possessed a
library. His astonishment will be still greater when he is informed
that the chief works in my collection were penned by philosophic
apes, and that most of them contain elaborate disquisitions on the
descent of apes from the human species. This by the way.
Perhaps the dependant who addressed me would be called a “familiar
spirit.” Although spirits are not totally unknown, I am unacquainted
with those of the familiar type; I will therefore, with your leave,
name this one Breloque.
“You are wrong,” he repeated.
“Why?” I indignantly inquired. “Will your love of paradox tempt you
to defend the cursed, corrupted race?”
“I think,” replied Breloque, leaning on the table with an air of
arrogance most ludicrous to behold, “that bad reputations, as well
as {127} good ones, are sometimes usurped, and that the species in
question, or at least one example with whom I became acquainted, is
the victim of an error of this sort.”
“So then,” I said, “you are speaking from personal experience?”
[Illustration]
“Quite so, sir; and were it not that I fear wasting your precious
moments, I would try and convince you of your error.”
“I am willing to listen, but what will the result be?”
“Nothing.”
“That is satisfactory. Sit down in this arm-chair, and should I go to
sleep, do not stop, I pray you, as that would awake me.”
After taking a pinch of snuff from my box, Breloque, nothing loath,
commenced thus:—
“You are fully aware, sir, that notwithstanding the affection which
attaches me to your person, I have never submitted to the slavery
that would have been distasteful to both. I have my leisure hours,
when I think of many things; just as you have yours, when you think
of nothing. Oh, I have many ways of passing my time. Have you ever
been out fishing with the line?”
“Yes,” I replied; “that is to say, I often used to go in a costume
expressly suited to fishing, and sit from sunrise to sunset on the
borders of a stream. I had a superb rod mounted with silver, like an
Oriental weapon, but without its danger. Alas! I have passed {128}
many sweet hours, and made many bad verses, but I never caught a
single fish.”
“Angling, sir, appeals to the imagination in your case, and has
nothing to do with the happiness of the true angler. Few persons
are so framed as to appreciate the charms of which you speak. Your
mind, filled with dreamy, vague hope, follows the soft motion of the
transparent water, marks and profits by the events of the insect
world that clouds its clear face. To the fisher of poetic mind the
capture of one of the silver dwellers in the stream can only bring
regret, remorse.”
[Illustration]
I made a sign of assent.
“Yet,” he continued, “few persons regard the sport in this light.”
“That is true,” I replied.
Breloque, unaccustomed to find one entering so fully into his views,
felt flattered.
“Sir,” he said in a tone marked by perfect self-satisfaction, “I
have thought deeply on subjects most profound, and I feel convinced,
if the world would only give me a fair hearing, I could earn a wide
reputation—nor would it be a borrowed one.” {129}
“Apropos of borrowed fame, let us hear the history of your fox. You
abuse the privilege granted by thus trifling with my patience.”
“Ah, sir, you misjudge me. This is only a subtle, roundabout way
of leading your mind up to the theme. I am now all for you, and
will only permit myself to put one question—What do you think of
butterfly-catching?”
[Illustration]
“Wretch!” I exclaimed, “am I here to discuss the fortunes of all
created things before the one which occupies me? You forget the
hatred that fills my breast, the mask of hypocrisy which the fox
craftily assumes to attract tender chickens, lambs, doves, and his
thousand victims.”
“What calumnies!” replied Breloque. “I hope to avenge the fox of all
his enemies by proving that in love he is stupid, unselfish, and
tender-hearted. For the moment I have the honour of returning to the
butterfly-hunt.”
I made an impatient gesture, to which he replied with such a look
of supplication that I was completely disarmed. Besides, I had the
imprudence to let him see that the exciting pastime interested me.
{130}
Breloque satisfied, took a second pinch of snuff, and half lay down
in his arm-chair.
“I am happy, sir,” he said, “to see you take delight in the truly
worthy pleasures of life. Can you point out a being more to be envied
or recommended to the consideration of his fellow-creatures than the
one we encounter early in the morning, joyous and breathless, beating
the long grass with his stick? In his button-hole hung a bit of cork
armed with long pins used to spike—without pain—his lovely victims.
He soothes himself with the notion that these little insects, brought
by the zephyrs, cannot suffer pain, as they never utter a complaint.
For my part, I think the butterflies rather enjoy the prospect of
being dried like mummies, and displayed in choice collections. But we
are off the line of our subject.”
“You are right for once,” I said.
“I shall return to it. As speaking in general terms pains you, I will
talk of my own experiences in the field. One day, when carried away
by the ardour of the hunt. It is altogether different from fishing,
of which we were just talking.”
I rose to go, but he quietly made me resume my seat.
“Do not be impatient. I only spoke of fishing as a comparison, for
you to note the difference. Fishing with bait requires the most
perfect rest, while the hunt, on the contrary, demands activity.”
“You have fairly caught me and pinned me down,” I replied, laughing.
“That is a cruel remark; but I shall now be careful to stick to my
narrative. You are as capricious as the gay butterfly I was engaged
in pursuing. He was a marvellous _Apollon_ in the mountains of
Franche Compté. I stopped quite out of breath in a little glade into
which he had led me, thinking he would profit by this moment to
escape; but, either from sheer insolence or frolic, he alighted on a
long stem of grass, which bent under his weight, seeming to set me
at defiance. Collecting all my energy, I determined to surprise him.
I approached with stealthy steps, my eyes riveted on him, my legs
strained in an attitude as uncomfortable as it was undignified, my
heart swelling with an emotion more easily imagined than described.
At this moment a horrid cock crowed lustily, and away flew my coveted
prize. Inconsolable, I down upon a stone and expended my remaining
breath in heaping invective on the head of my musical enemy, menacing
him with every kind of death, and I {131} own, to my horror, even
mentioning a poisoned pill. I was delighting in guilty preparations
to carry my threats into effect, when a paw was placed on my arm, and
I beheld two soft eyes looking into mine, those of a young fox, sir,
of charming form. All his externals were in his favour, betokening a
loyal noble character. Although you yourself are against his species,
I somehow contracted a liking for the fox before me. This modest
animal heard my menaces against the cock.
“ ‘Do not give way to passion, sir,’ he said in such a sad tone that
I was moved even to tears. ‘She would die of grief.’
“I did not quite understand. ‘Who do you mean?’ I inquired.
“ ‘Cocotte!’ he replied with sweet simplicity.
“I felt still in the dark; yet conjectured it was some love story. I
have always been passionately fond of romance, and you?”
“That depends entirely on circumstances.”
“Say at once you detest love tales. However, you must resign yourself
to hearing this one.”
“I should name my objections at once, were I not afraid of wounding
your feelings, so I prefer bravely taking my part and listening to
your story; ennui does not kill.”
“So it is said, yet I have known people who have almost succumbed to
ennui. But to return to the fox.
“ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you interest me deeply. You seem unhappy. Can I
serve you in any way?’
“ ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘my grief must remain unalleviated. No one
has the power to make her return my love.’
“ ‘Cocotte?’ I said quietly.
“ ‘Cocotte,’ he replied, sighing.
“The greatest service one can render a disconsolate lover, next to
destroying him, is to listen to him. He is happy while recounting
his troubles. Knowing the truth of this, I asked and obtained his
confidence.
[Illustration]
“ ‘Sir,’ said this interesting quadruped, ‘since you wish me to
relate some of the incidents of my life, I must go back several
years, as my misfortunes commenced with my birth. I owe my
introduction into life to one of the choicest foxes of the time. For
all that, I am happy to say I inherit almost nothing of the subtle
nature of my parents. My utter abhorrence of their ways inspired me
with tastes opposed to {132} the interest of my family. A large
dog with whom I became acquainted taught me to befriend the weak
and helpless. Many hours have I spent, not only listening to his
counsel, but observing how careful he was to put his virtuous maxims
into practice. He won my gratitude by saving my life. A country
steward caught me in his {133} master’s vineyard beneath a vine,
where I had taken shelter from the heat of the sun, after quenching
my thirst with a grape. I was ignominiously arrested and brought
before the proprietor, a “justice of the peace,” whose fierce aspect
did not calm my fears. But this powerful, superb animal proved most
kind; he forgave me, admitted me to his table, where, in addition
to more substantial fare, I was fed on the precepts of virtue and
morality. To him I owe the sensibility of my heart, the culture of
my mind, and even the pleasure of being able to relate my experience
in intelligible language. Numerous griefs and wrongs chequered my
existence up to the fatal hour when, like Romeo, I gave my heart to
a creature from whom our family feuds seemed to have parted me for
ever. Less fortunate than Romeo, I was not loved in return.’
“ ‘Who,’ I said, ‘is the fair charmer so insensible to your love? Who
is the lover preferred before you?’
“ ‘The charming one,’ he replied with humility, ‘is a hen, and my
rival a cock.’
“I was confounded. ‘Sir,’ at last I said to him, ‘do not for an
instant attribute my remarks to our newly-formed friendship. I for
one have always looked with scorn and contempt on individuals of
this vain type. What more stupidly pretentious, what more ridiculous
than a cock, whose stiff strut of pride causes him to stumble in his
sublimest moods? The unbridled pomp and vanity of the cock renders
him the meanest and most ridiculous of birds.’
“ ‘There are many hens, sir, who are not of your opinion,’ said my
young friend, sighing. ‘Alas! the love of Cocotte is a proof of the
value of a picturesque physique coupled with bold assurance. I hoped
that my boundless devotion would one day be rewarded by her love.
I had spiritualised an attachment which generally displays itself
in a rather material fashion when the fox woos the hen. But happy
love knows no pity! Cocotte saw me suffer without remorse. My rival
enjoyed my troubles, for in the game of insolence and fatuity he has
no rival. My friends scorned and abandoned me, and, to crown all,
my noble protector ended his days in an honourable retreat. Alone
now, I would feel wretched but for the memory of this fatal passion,
which has still its inexplicable charm. I am bound to Cocotte, and
to the end of my days must defend her against my fellows, and wear
the chains she has coiled around me. I would die happy if only I
could {134} prove to her that I am not unworthy of her pity! You
are so indulgent, sir, I venture to think that the circumstances
which introduced me to Cocotte may not be indifferent to you. I first
beheld her during a blood conventicle held last summer, at which I
unwillingly assisted. It was through my father’s influence that I
was admitted. I was detested by my friends, and could take no part
in eating feathered creatures like the one I loved. A number of my
relations had agreed among themselves to seize a farmyard during
the absence of the master and dogs. You may descry the house not
far from here. The most careful preparations, such as would make
your hair stand on end—(pardon me, I did not notice your wig)—were
made for a general slaughter of the dwellers in the yard. In spite
of my tender heart I lent myself with a rather good grace to aid in
carrying out their schemes. It may have been with some touch of pride
more worthy of men than foxes, I felt prepared to prove, dreamer
as I was, that in the hour of danger I could be trusted. The plot,
the memory of which makes me shudder, did not seem at all odious at
the time. At last, under cover of night, we made a triumphant entry
into the ill-defended yard. Our victims were asleep—hens go to roost
early. One only remained watching—that was Cocotte. The first glance
of her fair form floored me—to make use of a vulgar phrase. Here
I was, a fox in love. I breathed soft words to the night air; she
listened to me as one accustomed to homage. I retired to devise some
means of saving her. Do not fail to note that my love began in an
unselfish thought. This is so rare as to be worthy of special remark.
When I approached the bloodthirsty foxes, I advised them to begin
decently and in order by devouring the eggs. My proposal was adopted
by a large majority. Thus gaining time to reflect, I had decided on
nothing when I had to mount guard; the thought then flashed across my
mind that a false alarm would save my darling, I at once cried, “Flee
who may!” Most of the robbers were already laden with spoil, some had
nothing, yet they fled, all of them, leaving me master of the field.
The cock awoke, and discovering that his harem had been invaded,
crowed lustily, compelling me to retreat. I kept watch over that
farmyard for many days, but could never win a kind look from Cocotte,
who, although frequently beaten by her unfaithful lord, seemed daily
to grow fonder of his society. Nevertheless, I would not have tried
to {135} gain her love by unveiling the character of my rival, and
depriving her of her dearest illusions.’
[Illustration]
“ ‘The image of my old instructor often rises before me, and I
feel, {136} while he raised me out of my own level by education, he
rendered me more unhappy than the most ignorant and besotted of my
kind. What more can I say? the incidents of an unrequited love are
so few that I am surprised at the brevity of my tale when recalling
the misery of my life. Now, I shall leave you, the sun is going down;
think {137} of me, sir, when you hear it said that foxes are wicked.
Do not forget that you have met a kindly-disposed, sensitive, and
therefore miserable fox.’ ”
[Illustration]
“Is that all?” I said.
“Of course,” replied Breloque, “unless the interest you feel in my
story prompts you to inquire what became of the different personages.”
“Interest never prompts me to do anything,” I replied; “I like
everything to be in its proper place. It is therefore better to know
what the characters are now doing, than to risk meeting them in
places where they are least expected.”
“The fox,” continued Breloque, “came across our common enemy. One day
venturing to carry off Cocotte, he was shot by the farmer, who hung
his tail up as a trophy.”
“What became of the cock?”
“Listen; he is crowing, the cowardly, stupid, selfish rascal!”
“Have you not for the fox the same hatred I have for the cock?”
“Do not deceive yourself; the fox was the craftiest rogue you ever
met. Had he succeeded in deluding the farmer as he deceived you, his
thirst would have been slaked with the blood of Cocotte. He would
have proved as benevolent as a Bashi-Bazouk in Bulgaria.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said Breloque, “but I am sorry for it.”
[Illustration]
{138}
TEXT-BOOK
_FOR THE GUIDANCE OF ANIMALS STUDYING FOR HONOURS._
[Illustration]
MR. EDITOR,—DONKEYS have long felt the need of asserting their rights
before the tribunal of animals, and putting down the injustice which
has made them the living types of stupidity.
If skill is wanting in the writer of this manuscript, courage is not.
Moreover, let me conjure the silent sage to examine himself in order
to find out the secret of his success in society, and ten chances
to one he will admit that it all comes of his being an ass. Without
donkeys in political circles, majorities would never be obtained, so
that an ass may pass as a type of those governed.
But my intention is not to talk politics. I only wish to prove that
we have many more opportunities, were they rightly used, of securing
honours than fall to the lot of highly gifted and cultured creatures.
My master was a simple schoolmaster in the environs of Paris. He was
a good teacher, and a thoroughly miserable character. We had this
peculiarity in common, if we had our choice, we would have decided to
live well and do nothing. This characteristic, common both to asses
and men, is vulgarly called ambition, at the same time I think it is
only the spontaneous growth of modern society. I myself had opened
a class, and taught in a manner which excited my master’s jealousy,
although he acknowledged himself struck by the results of my method.
“Why is it,” he one day said to me, “that the children of men take
so much longer to learn to read, write, and become useful members of
society, than young donkeys do to learn how to earn a living? How is
it that asses have so profited by all that their fathers knew before
them, that their education is, so to speak, born in them? So it is,
indeed, with every species of animal excepting the human. Why is man
not born with his mind and faculties fully developed?”
Although my master was quite ignorant of natural history, he {139}
imagined that these questions in themselves were so thoroughly
scientific and posing as to entitle him to a place under the Minister
of Public Instruction, where he might extend his valuable reflections
at the expense of the State.
[Illustration]
We entered Paris by the Fabourg St. Mareian. When we reached the
elevated ground near the Barrier d’Italie, in full view of the
metropolis, we each delivered an oration in our own way.
“Tell me, O Sacred Shrine wherein the budget is cooked, when will the
signature of some _parvenu_ professor obtain for me food, raiment,
and shelter, the cross of the Legion of Honour, and a chair of no
matter what, no matter where, &c.? {140}
“Believe me, I should say so much good of every one that no harm
could be breathed against me.
“Tell me how shall I reach the Minister and convince him of my
fitness to wear my country’s honours.”
I followed my master’s eloquent appeal.
“O charming Jardin des Plantes, where animals are so well fed,
will you never open to me your stables of twenty feet square? your
Swiss valleys thirty yards wide? Shall I ever be one of those happy
animals who roll on the clover of the budget, or stalled beneath
graceful trellis-work bearing the superscription, ‘An African donkey,
presented by So-and-so, captain of a ship, &c.?’ ”
After saluting the city of acrobats and fortune-tellers, we entered
the noxious defiles of a celebrated fabourg famed for leather and
science. At last we found shelter in a wretched inn crowded with
Savoyards with their marmots, Italians with their monkeys, Avergnats
with their dogs, Parisians with their white mice, harpers with their
stringless harps, and husky-voiced songsters. My master had with him
six francs, the only barrier between us and suicide. The inn called
The Mercy is one of these philanthropic establishments where one may
sleep for a penny a night, and enjoy a meal for fourpence halfpenny.
It also boasts a stable, where all sorts of animals may be lodged
promiscuously. My master naturally placed me there.
Marmus, such was my master’s name, could not avoid contemplating the
throng of depraved beasts to which I was added. A monkey in marquis
furbelows, plumed head-dress, and gold waistband; quick as gunpowder,
was flirting with a military hero of popular burlesque; an old
rabbit, well up in his exercises; an intelligent poodle of modern
dramatic fame spoke of the capriciousness of the public to an old ape
seated on his troubadour’s hat; a group of grey mice were admiring a
cat taught to respect canaries, and engaged in conversation with a
marmot.
“Confound these creatures!” exclaimed my master; “I thought I had
discovered a new science, that of comparing instincts, now I am
cruelly undeceived by this stableful of beasts, who are all of them
the same as men!”
“Ah, sir,” said a shaggy-looking young man, “you desire to gain
a reputation for learning, and yet you pause at trifles. Know,
ambitious one, that in order to succeed you must allow your external
appearance to indicate the height of your aspirations. The traveller
who seeks to {141} make his way into a _terra incognita_ must not
encumber himself with baggage. Our great explorers were men who wore
an expression of resolute earnestness, and carried an umbrella and a
tooth-pick. They penetrated to the heart of savagedom, and brought
back to civilisation a wayworn exterior and the power of discoursing
on the perils of their journeys.”
“To what great genius have I the honour of speaking?”
“A poor fellow who has tried everything, and lost everything except
his enormous appetite, and who, while waiting for something to turn
up, lives by selling newspapers, and lodges here. Who are you, pray?”
“A resigned elementary teacher, who naturally does not know much, but
who has asked himself this question, ‘Why is it that animals possess
_à priori_ the special science of their lives called instinct, while
man learns nothing without extraordinary toil?’ ”
“Because science is in its infancy!” exclaimed the adventurer. “Have
you ever studied ‘Puss in Boots’?”
“I used to tell it to my pupils when they had been good.”
“Well, my dear sir, it points the line of conduct for all to follow
who wish to succeed. What did the cat do? He told every one that his
master possessed lands; he was believed. Do you understand that it is
enough to make known that one is, one has, one intends to have? What
does it matter, if you have nothing, if others believe that you have
all?”
“But ‘_væ soli!_’ says the Scripture. In fact, in politics, as in
love, two are better than one. You have invented Instinctology, and
you shall have a chair of _Comparative Instinct_; you shall be the
great modern sage, and I shall announce it to the whole world—to
Europe, to Paris, to the Minister, to his secretary, his clerks and
supernumeraries. Mahomet became a prophet, not because he was gifted
with prophetic inspiration, but because his followers proclaimed him
prophet.”
“I am quite willing to become a great _savant_,” said my master
resignedly, “but I shall be asked to explain my theories.”
“What! would it be a science if you could explain it?”
“Yet a point to start from will be necessary.”
“Yes,” replied the young journalist, “we ought to have some animal
that would upset all the theories of our learned men. Baron Cerceau,
for example, has devoted his life to placing animals in absolute
divisions. That is his plan, but now other great naturalists are
knocking down all the strongholds of the Baron. Let us take part
in the war of words {142} and hypothetical ideas. According to us,
instinct will be the leading feature in animals, by which alone,
according to the degree of instinct, they must be classified.
Now, although instinct will submit to infinite modifications, it
is nevertheless still _one_ in its essence, and nothing can prove
the unity of all things better than this. We shall thus say there
is only one animal, as there is only one instinct, the instinct
which characterises all animal organisations. The, so to speak,
appropriation of the element of life which circumstances change
without affecting the principle. We come in with a new science
opposed to the Baron, and in favour of the new school of philosophy
which advocates zoological unity. We shall no doubt sell our
discoveries in a good market; our opponents must buy us up.”
“Well,” said Marmus, “science has no conscience. But shall I have no
need of my donkey?”
“What! have you a donkey?” exclaimed the adventurer; “we are saved!!
We shall turn him into an extraordinary zebra, and puzzle the whole
learned world by some singularity which shall derange their most
cherished conclusions. _Savants_ live by nomenclature, let us reverse
it; they will be alarmed, they will capitulate, they will try to gain
us over, and, like so many who have gone before, we may be gained
over at our own price. There are in this house mountebanks who hold
wonderful secrets, men having dwarfs, bearded women, and a host of
monstrosities. A few politenesses will win us the means of concocting
revolutionary matter such as shall astonish the world of science.”
To what science was I to become a prey? During the night several
transversal incisions were made in my skin, after my coat had been
clipped. To these a gipsy vagrant applied some strong liquor, and a
few days afterwards I became celebrated. In the papers Parisians read
as follows:—
“One of our most courageous travellers, Adam Marmus, after passing
through the central wilds of Africa, has at last returned, bringing
with him from the Mountains of the Moon a Zebra so peculiar as to
derange the fundamental principles of naturalists who advocate a
system of merciless division, not even admitting that the horse,
in its wild state, was ever found with a black coat. The singular
yellow bands of the new Zebra are most puzzling, and can only
be explained by the learned Marmus in the work he is about to
give to the world. This work, the result of many years’ toil and
observation, will be devoted to an elucidation of _Comparative
Instinct_, {143} a science discovered by the illustrious author and
traveller. The Zebra, the only trophy of a journey unparalleled in
the annals of discovery, walks like a giraffe. Thus it is proved
beyond doubt that instinct modifies the forms and the attributes of
animals, which are also greatly affected by geographical position.
From these hitherto unknown facts the zoologists will be enabled
to lay a new foundation of truth upon which to raise the fabric
of natural history. Adam Marmus has consented to make known his
discoveries in a course of public lectures.”
All the papers repeated this audacious fable. While all Paris was
occupied with the new science, Marmus and his friend took up their
quarters in a respectable hotel in the Rue de Tournon, where I was
carefully kept in a stable under lock and key. All the learned
societies sent delegates, who could not disguise the anxiety caused
by this blow to the doctrine of the great Baron. If the forms and
attributes of animals changed with their abodes, science was upset!
The genius who dared to maintain that life accommodated itself to
all should certainly be upheld. The only distinctions now existing
between animals could be understood by all.
Natural science was worse than useless; the Oyster, the Lion, the
Zoophyte, and man all belonged to the same stock, and were only
modified by the simplicity or complicity of their organs. Saltenbeck
the Belgian, Vos-man-Betten, Sir Fairnight, Gobtonswell, the learned
Sottenbach, Craneberg, the beloved disciples of the French professor,
were ranged against the Baron and his nomenclature. Never had a more
irritating fact been thrown between two belligerent parties. Behind
the Baron were the academicians, the university men, legions of
professors, and the government, lending their support to a theory,
the only one in harmony with Scripture.
Marmus and his friend remained firm. To the questions of academicians
they replied by bare facts, avoiding the exposition of their
doctrine. One professor, when leaving, said to them—
“Gentlemen, the opinion which you hold is without doubt directed
against the convictions of our most reliable men of science, and in
favour of the new schism of zoological unity. The system, in the
interest of science, ought not to be brought to light.”
“Say, rather, in the interest of scientific men,” said Marmus.
“Be it so,” replied the professor; “it must be nipped in the bud, for
after all, gentlemen, it is Pantheism.”
“You think so?” said the journalist. “How can one admit the
{144} existence of material molecular force which renders matter
independent of the Creator.”
“Why should not the Creator have ordered that everything should be
subject to, and dependent upon, one universal law?” said Marmus.
[Illustration]
“You see,” said his friend in a whisper to the professor, “he is as
profound as Newton. Why do you not present him to the Minister of
Public Instruction?”
“I shall do so at once,” rejoined the professor, happy to make
himself master of the owner of the Zebra. “Perhaps the minister
{145} would be pleased to see our curious animal before any one else,
and you will of course accompany him.”
“I thank you.”
“He would then be able to appreciate the service which such a journey
has rendered to science,” continued our friend. “Mr. Marmus has not
visited the Mountains of the Moon for nothing. You shall see this for
yourself; the animal walks like a giraffe. As to the yellow bands,
they are caused by the temperature, which was found to be several
degrees Fahrenheit, and many degrees Reaumur.”
“Perhaps it is your intention to engage in public instruction?”
“Splendid career!” cried the journalist starting.
“I do not allude to the profession of noodles, which consists in
taking the students out for an airing, and neglecting them at home;
but to teaching at the Athenæum, which leads to nothing, save to
securing a professorship and pupils, which pave the way to all sorts
of good things. We will talk of that again. All this took place early
in the nineteenth century, when ministers felt the need of making
themselves popular.”
The partizans of zoological unity learned that a minister was about
to inspect the precious Zebra, and fearing intrigue, the worthy
disciples of our great opponent flocked to see the illustrious
Marmus. My masters obstinately refused to exhibit me, as I had not
acquired my giraffe step, and the chemical application to my Zebra
bands had not yet completed the illusion. A young disciple discoursed
on the new discovery with eloquence and force, and my cunning masters
profited by his learning.”
“Our Zebra,” said the journalist, “carries conviction to the most
incredulous.”
“Zebra,” said Marmus. “It is no longer a Zebra, but a fact which
engenders a new science.”
“Your science,” responded the unitariste, “strengthens the ground
taken up by Sir J. Fairnight on the subject of Spanish, Scotch, and
Swiss sheep, who eat more or less, according to the sort of herbage
in pasture lands.”
“But,” exclaimed our friend, “the products, are they not also
different in different latitudes and under different atmospheric
conditions. Our Zebra explains why butter is white in the Brie in
Normandy, and the butter and cheese yellow in Neufchâtel and Meaux.”
“You have placed your finger on the point of greatest vitality,”
{146} cried the enthusiastic disciple; “little facts solve great
problems. The question of cheese bears a subtle affinity to the
greater questions of zoological form and comparative instinct.
Instinct is the entire animal, just as thought is man concentrated.
If instinct is modified and changed according to the latitude in
which it is developed, it is clear that it must be the same with the
_Zoon_, with the exterior living form. There is but one principle of
instinct.”
“One for all beings,” said Marmus.
“Then,” continued the disciple, “nomenclatures are all very well for
us to indicate the different degrees of instinct, but they no longer
constitute a science.”
“This, sir,” said the journalist, “is death to the Mollusks, the
Articulata, the Radiata, Mammifera, Cirropedia, Acephala, and
Crustacea. In fact, it breaks down all the strongholds of natural
history, and simplifies everything so thoroughly as to destroy
accepted science.
“Believe me,” said the disciple, “men of science will defend their
position. There will be much ink spilt and pens spoiled in the
contest, to say nothing of the reams of paper that will be destroyed
in keeping the wounds open. Poor naturalists! No, they will hardly
allow a single genius to wrest from their hands the labours of so
many lives.”
“We shall be as much calumniated as your great philosopher himself.
Ah! Fontenelle was right. When we have secured truth, let us close
our fists tightly over it.”
“Shall you be afraid, gentlemen?” said the disciple; “shall you be
traitors to the sacred cause of the animals?”
“No, sir,” cried Marmus, “I shall never abandon the science to which
I have devoted the best days of my life; and to prove my sincerity we
must conjointly edit the history of the Zebra.”
“We are saved,” exclaimed Marmus, when the disciple had gone.
Soon after, the ablest pupil of the great philosopher drew up a
notice of the Zebra. Under the name of Marmus he launched out boldly,
and formed the new science. This pamphlet enabled us at once to enter
into the enjoyable phase of celebrity. My master and his friend were
overwhelmed with invitations to dinners, dances, receptions, morning
and evening parties. They were proclaimed learned and illustrious
everywhere. They indeed had too many supporters, ever for a moment to
doubt their being geniuses of the highest order. A copy of the work
by Marmus was sent to the Baron. The Academy of Science then found
the affair so grave that not a member dared give his opinion.” {147}
“We must see, we must wait,” they said. Sathenbeck, the learned
Belgian, is coming by express, Vas-man-Bitten from Holland, and the
illustrious Fabricus Gobtouswell are on their way to see the Zebra.
The young and ardent disciple of zoological unity was engaged on a
memoir which contained terrible conclusions, directed against the
Baron’s dogmas. Already a party was forming to promote unity applied
to botany. The illustrious professors, Condolle and Mirbel, hesitated
out of consideration for the authority of the Baron.
I was now ready for inspection. My mountebank artist, in addition
to finishing my bands, had furnished me with a cow’s tail, while
my yellow stripes gave me the appearance of an animated Austrian
sentry-box.
“It is astonishing,” said the minister, as he gazed upon my coat for
the first time.
“Astonishing!” echoed the professor; “but, thank goodness, not
inexplicable.”
“I am puzzled,” said the minister, “how best to reconcile this new
discovery with all our preconceived notions of zoology.”
“A most difficult problem,” suggested Marmus.
“It seems strange,” said the great man, “that this African Zebra
should live in the temperature of the Rue de Tournon.”
This was treading on delicate ground, but my master was equal to the
occasion, although on hearing the remark I began to walk like an ass.
“Yes,” replied Marmus, “I hope he may live until my lectures are
over.”
“You are a clever fellow, but bear in mind that your new and
popular science must be moulded to fit in with the doctrines of the
worthy Baron. Perhaps it would lend dignity to your cause were you
represented by a pupil.”
Here the Baron entered, and overhearing the remark, said:—
“Ah, sir, I have a pupil of great promise, who repeats admirably what
he is taught. We call this sort of man a vulgariser.”
“And we,” said the journalist, “call him a parrot. Those men render
real service to science as they talk it down to the level of the
popular mind.”
“Well, that is settled,” said Marmus, taking the Baron’s hand; “let
us pull together.”
The minister said: “Marmus, you deserve, and shall receive, the
substantial reward of genius in such honour and support as your
country has to bestow.” {148}
The Geographical Society, jealously wishing to imitate the
government, offered to defray the entire cost of the journey to
the Mountains of the Moon, which offer was ultimately carried into
effect. These timely aids came in opportunely as my master had been
burning the financial candle at both ends.
The journalist was placed as librarian in the Jardin des Plantes, and
abused the opportunity which leisure afforded him by running down my
master and his science. Nevertheless Marmus coined a wide reputation
out of the base metal of the parrot’s jargon, and sustained his
hard-earned fame by discreet and modest silence. He was elected
professor of something somewhere, and would no doubt have filled the
post honourably had a time and place ever been named when he would be
required to fill a chair.
As for myself, I was bought for the London Zoological Gardens, where
change of climate and kind treatment rendered me the wonder of the
world, as I gradually changed from a strange Zebra to a domesticated
Cockney ass.
[Illustration]
{149}
THE INCONSISTENCIES OF A GREYHOUND.
[Illustration]
The theatre has always had a peculiar charm for me, and yet there are
few persons who have greater reason to hold it in utter abhorrence,
for it was there at about nine o’clock one evening that I first
beheld my husband. As you may well suppose every detail of our
meeting is indelibly fixed in my mind. I have indeed many grave
reasons for not forgetting it. In all frankness, I wish to accuse no
one, but I was never meant for married life. Elegant, attractive,
fitted only to revel in the pleasures of the world, and feast on
the joys of a great life, space, luxury, brilliancy, were necessary
to me. I was born to be a duchess, and married—O heavens! the first
clarionet player at the Dogs’ theatre. It was a serious joke! Was it
not? It has moved me to laughter times without number. Yes! he really
played the clarionet every evening from eight to eleven, the easy
parts too, at least, he told me so. I daresay it was not true for I
never found that he played false to me.
During the day he was second trombone to the parish of dogs, and
above all, his greatest ambition was a hat in the National Guards.
These details may seem grotesque. Pray forgive me if they are, as I
only wish to discharge my duty.
One evening when I was at the theatre, I noticed between the acts
a big burly dog in the orchestra wearing spectacles, a cap, and
blowing his nose in a checked cotton handkerchief. He made so much
noise that all heads were turned towards him. Had any one said that
that creature would be my future husband I should not have replied.
I should have treated the remark with silent contempt. Yet under
the most embarrassing circumstances, with all eyes turned upon him,
and amid a peal of laughter my future spouse slowly and carefully
folded his handkerchief, looking at the company over his spectacles,
at the same {150} time changing the mouthpiece of his instrument
with a calmness perfectly charming to behold. This singular proof of
_sang-froid_ caused me to turn my eye-glass upon him. He no doubt
remarked this movement, for he immediately took off his cap, adjusted
the short hair on his big head, replaced his spectacles, settled his
tie, and pulled down his waistcoat. There is no monster, however
ugly, who would not do the same, in his position. His eye which
caught mine seemed to me most brilliant.
There was as little doubt of his ugliness as of his strange emotion.
I was young, silly and coquettish, so it amused me to be looked at
like this. The chief mounted his throne and the music commenced anew.
The fat clarionet player cast a last glance at me, and then pulled
himself together for work. He had started a trifle behind-hand, and
galloped over his part to make up for lost time—turning over two
pages at once, and running up and down with his big fingers on his
unfortunate pipe, producing the most hideous snortings imaginable—the
conductor, red as a peony flower, called to him in the midst of the
noise menacing him with his bow. His neighbours pushed him, trod
on his toes, hooted him, and showered invectives on his head, but
he calmly pursued his notes, no doubt blowing through his pipe a
hurricane of rage. Knowing I was the sole cause of the delirium I
felt flattered; I pitied and loved him! After about a quarter of
an hour he stopped, and placing his clarionet between his legs,
proceeded to rub his round head with his cotton handkerchief.
On leaving the play, at about half-past eleven, it rained slightly,
and on passing the stage entrance we were nearly knocked down by an
individual wearing a white hairy hat. I can still see him coming out
of the door and bearing down upon us—I say us, because my mother was
with me; I had not yet ventured to the theatre alone.
“Ladies,” cried the Bull-dog, “you have, I daresay, already guessed
that the white hat shelters the clarionet. Ladies, stop for heaven’s
sake!”
“Why? how? How dare you accost us in this manner; stand on one side,
sir, stand on one side!” said my mother with a lofty air.
Before such a show of nobility the musician stammered, only taking
off his hat. “It rains, ladies, and you have no umbrella, deign to
accept mine.”
My mother who has always been careful, feared water quite as much as
she did fire, and accordingly was fain to accept this umbrella, never
dreaming that it would lead me to the altar of Hymen. {151}
I purposely refrain from dwelling on details as uninteresting to the
reader as they are irritating to myself. The bold musician taking
advantage of the introduction afforded by an unlucky shower of rain
had paid us several visits, when at last my mother said to me,
“Eliza, tell me frankly, what do you think of him?”
“Who, mamma?” I said inquiringly; “the musician?”
“Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your
hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.”
“But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.”
“So do I, my dear; but you have not answered my question.”
“Oh! ah! well! he is vulgar, grotesque, and is as disagreeable as the
rain.”
“Quite so,” said my mother; “but again that is not the point. Does he
please you when viewed as a sober, steady, desirable husband?”
“I won’t say he does not,” and I burst into tears.
“Come, no nonsense,” said my mother; “I know you would like to be
married, and this Bull-dog has many advantages. His double position
as clarionet and trombone to the parish secures for him a comfortable
living. What more can one require of a husband? I think, my child,
that physical beauty and grace are only fleeting, besides you
yourself have beauty enough and to spare to adorn a whole family.
It is by the intelligent union of opposite natures that conjugal
felicity is best secured. Well, that being so, it becomes a positive
advantage for you to acquire a thoroughly ugly husband, a heavy,
taciturn, serious, hard-working husband, who is certain to be a model
of economy and affection.”
I saw at a glance that my mother was right, and gave my consent. Had
it all to be done over again, I think now I should do exactly as I
did then. A sure, steady husband is a great prize in life. It is
always good to have bread on the shelf, and one must be very stupid
indeed not to be able to get little luxuries.
I therefore said: “Let us marry!”
Do not human beings say: “Let us take our degree; it will be the
making of us.”
To say my honeymoon was long and delightful, or that I discovered a
hitherto unknown mine of devotion and romance beneath the hard crust
of my husband’s unsightly exterior, would be simply fiction. It is
much nearer the mark to say at once that the coarse {152} nature
of my spouse soon revealed itself in all its odiousness. His every
look, every movement, wounded my refined susceptibility. He rose at
daybreak, and awoke me with the snorting of his clarionet, which he
played with that degree of obstinacy and labour which belongs to
mediocrity.
“Softly, my dear, softly; I tell you it would be better so,” I would
say.
He strove with all his might to modulate the notes, but for all that
his tenderest passages made everything tremble. I even shook with
rage! What irritated me most was that his instrument monopolised his
whole attention.
“Won’t you take a walk? have a little fresh air?” I would say to him.
“You must feel tired, dear.”
I could have beaten him. When we walked out together he used to stop
and gossip at all the street corners, turning up all sorts of filthy
heaps. Oh, how he made me suffer; he was born to be a butcher’s dog.
How many times has he not left me to pick up a bone, or quarrel with
some inoffensive dog? His loud laugh and vulgar conversation with
ill-conditioned curs, and . . .
I began to hate him; he bothered me, irritated me beyond measure. I
own he would have cut himself in quarters to make our home happy, and
he worked like a slave. But, alas! money can never compensate for a
badly-assorted match. Little by little I withdrew myself from his
company, and took to loitering about alone. I frequented a public
garden, the resort of the aristocratic world, where every one was
seen to advantage. My delight knew no bounds when I discovered that I
was much noticed. I had found my own set at last.
One day I remember walking along a shady alley when I heard a
voice whisper, “Oh, madam, how happy would he be who, in the
midst of the crowd, could attract your attention.” These words,
so respectfully uttered, and so full of a something, a sort of
passionate earnestness, pleased me immensely. I turned and beheld
a well-dressed, beautiful insect flying near me. His manner was so
graceful and his flight so fashionable, that I at once perceived he
had moved in the higher circles of the air-istocracy; besides, he
seemed to me to know his value, and to account himself a very fine
fellow indeed.
“Ah, Greyhound!” he said, “how beautiful you are. What a fine head
you have—a true type of the classic. Your feet would hardly {153}
soil a lily-leaf. Your silky dress, too, is so simple; yet it is
enough to set off such charms as yours.”
[Illustration]
I quickened my pace, trembling at the audacity of this polished
flatterer. Still he followed, and his voice vibrated in my ear like
{154} delicious music. He had evidently no ordinary appreciation of
the beautiful.
“You are married, sweet one?” he added.
I could not resist the temptation of fancying that my fetters were
broken, so I replied gaily, “No, I am a widow, sir!”
I saw no harm in this flirtation. What danger was there, after all,
in the fact that an insect thought me pretty, and expressed his
admiration? It cannot be too well impressed, upon all whom it may
concern, that beauty must be appreciated; the public gaze is the
sun, which warms it into bloom, and sustains its vitality; cold
indifference first mars, and then destroys it. Our coquetry simply
expresses a natural craving for being seen, a thoroughly honest
and respectable ambition. I had no shade of guilty intention, or
exaggerated pride; it was only the consciousness of a tribute, paid
daily by the sun to the flower which opens to display its charms to
the heavenly gaze. I looked upon this tribute of the world as my
right. To prove that I was the most virtuous greyhound in Paris, I
felt intoxicated by the words of my new admirer.
“Your eyes are terribly bright,” said my husband on my return home.
He was polishing a bone in a corner of our kennel—where he had picked
it up, I do not know—“your voice is sweeter than usual.”
“To please you, my eyes must grow dim and my voice husky,” I replied.
Nothing is more galling than these simple remarks some people are
always making, and asking why you detest them. My spouse was growing
more and more distasteful to me. The trouble he takes to please me
is most annoying. I hate to profit by his ridiculous labour, to
eat his bread; all the time thinking that I owe it to the infernal
clarionet he plays so badly. His irritating temper is killing me,
his unutterable calm and absolute self-control compel me to shut up
within myself all my bad temper, my indignation, my scorn! This sort
of thing is perfectly frightful when one is nervous.
Life became a burden, and the polished insect soon found it out, for
he followed me about with his dreamy, delicious buzzing.
“Greyhound, you are unhappy! you are suffering! I feel it, I see it.
Grief ought not to touch a heart so tender,” he said in tones so
pathetic, that I looked upon him as a deliverer.
“Care will line your forehead and tarnish your beauty!”
I shuddered. What he said was, alas! too true, anxiety would {155}
certainly rob me of my charms, clog my steps, and veil my eyes. His
words kindled my wrath against my husband, who would surely bring
this grief upon me.
“Well,” pursued the insect, “why not amuse yourself, come with me
into the woods. Go on in front, and I shall follow, so that I may
admire you, and drive away your gloom with my songs. Come, let us fly
from the city-throng, and fill our breasts with the pure air of the
fields.”
I was choking; air I must have, air at any price. “To-morrow at such
an hour, be at such a place, and we shall go out together.”
It must not be thought, that by granting a rendezvous to this insect,
I yielded to foolish sentiment. I simply did it to oblige him,
because he rendered justice to my charms, and spoke ceaselessly about
me.
When I reached home that evening, I suppose my face must have
expressed more than usual disgust, for my musician stood looking at
me for several minutes without uttering a single word, and then two
large tears rolled down his cheeks; he was grotesque. Nothing is more
dreadful than an ugly animal, who adds to his ugliness the horrors of
grief. I expected a scene and reproaches, my heart swelled within me,
as I said to myself, “Let him but speak, get angry, curse me; I will
do the same, and oppose anger to anger. Passion is like a storm, when
it has burst and is over, it refreshes the earth. I began to sing
snatches of songs, like little bits of forked lightning, to bring
about the crisis. But he did nothing, and said nothing, two or three
times he sniffed badly, and carefully placing his clarionet in its
dirty case, put on his cap, and said—
“Good night, my dear, I am going to the theatre.”
What did these tears mean; did he think that he was odious to me?
He did not seem jealous; how could he be so? was I not the most
irreproachable, and, at the same time, most miserable of wives? Oh,
if I had only something to break, scratch, or bite! How he does make
me suffer!
Next day at the appointed hour, we met at our rendezvous. My fine
companion, who had been impatiently waiting for me, exclaimed, “How
beautiful you are! let us start for the woods.”
“Yes,” I replied, quite flattered, “I am ready.”
So off we started. Although my mind was made up, a certain foreboding
of evil troubled me. I could not throw it off. It occurred to me that
I had gone too far, and was approaching the edge of a volcano. {156}
[Illustration]
{157}
“What is the matter, dear?” said the insect.
“Do you not see those ambulating musicians over there at that window?”
“Yes; they are showing performing Beetles to the inmates of the
house. It seems to me they have to work hard for a living.”
“Doubtless, but I am afraid, they look so strange. Please let us go
some round-about way; I am trembling.”
We followed a street to the left, and continued our course, yet I
felt uneasy. It was a presentiment, for that day I had one of the
most disagreeable meetings imaginable. We were just emerging from the
suburbs when I descried in a corner an obscure mass, which turned out
to be one of those performing Bears who figure at fairs and markets.
He was making a Tortoise go through all sorts of wonderful exercises.
Nothing was more natural than to meet this Bear, and yet I shivered
all over. As my fears seemed unfounded, we continued to advance, and
came close to the performer. The keen eye of this monster shot forth
fire, and he sprang forward to bar my way.
“What are you doing here, madam?” he exclaimed, crossing his arms.
“Pray what does it matter to you what madam is doing here?” said my
protector. “On my honour you are a bold fellow. Who are you, I pray?
Speak! Who are you?”
“Who am I?” he breathed heavily. “I am the husband of this lady.”
Saying which, he threw off the bearskin disguise, and revealed the
clarionet, the musician, the Bull dog, my husband, in fact, pale as
death and a prey to horrible passion. He was frightful; although, to
tell the truth, I liked him better excited, furious, grinding his
teeth with rage, than calm and resigned, with tears in his eyes. He
was really not so ugly as usual. Unfortunately the picture was spoilt
by the cap which he kept on his head. That was a fault not to be
pardoned. Readers of the opposite sex will hardly understand how it
is that no detail escapes us.
“Madam,” said my husband gravely.
This was another defect of his, to be grave! It was evident that he
had prepared a speech, and weighed its effects. The insect hidden
behind my ear said in a low voice: “What! is it possible, my queen of
beauty, that you are married to this brute?”
I blushed to the tip of my nose. {158}
“Madam,” continued my master. “Mada”—
Here he sneezed in the most comical manner. Perhaps a hair of the
bearskin had got lodged in his nose. I laughed loudly, and quite as
involuntarily as he had sneezed.
“Madam, follow me,” continued my husband, quite losing his head.
“This is too much; follow me!”
“I advise him not to touch you,” said my protector, still hiding
behind my ear; “as I really think I should not be responsible for my
actions. I feel savage!”
He had not time to finish his sentence. My husband, as quick as
lightning, seized him as he was flying, and mutilated him horribly.
I do not know what followed. I became mad, and by a violent effort
disengaged myself from my husband’s paws, and jumping over his
head, started off. I soon turned to look back, and saw the Bull-dog
struggling with the police, making desperate efforts to get free,
but the bearskin got entangled about his feet, and paralysed his
movements, and at last he was carried off prisoner, followed by a
jeering crowd.
So, I reflected, I am free; and pursued my way. The pure bracing
air and deep blue of the sky had lost their charm. My breast was
filled with indignation. I felt humiliated by this absurd jealousy,
this scandalous outburst at once comic and tragic. The comic element
annoyed me most. This prosaic clarionet appearing all at once upon
the scene to dispel the dream of my life—can he ever be forgiven?
After wandering about till I was giddy, I bent my steps homeward,
and on entering found the place empty. It seemed to me I had lost
something or some one. In truth, the deserted kennel filled me with
strange longings for my poor husband. One gets used even to ugly,
awkward things. If camels were at one fell swoop deprived of their
humps, they would feel strange without them.
At this moment a letter was handed to me, ornamented with an imposing
seal. It was an invitation from the authorities to be present at my
husband’s examination. The disguise in which he had been found, as
well as a weapon discovered in his shoe, told badly against him.
Next day after breakfast—I had risen very late—and after finishing
my toilet set out for prison to cheer my husband. It proved a
great trial to my nerves. I passed through damp, dark corridors,
enormous keys grating in horrible locks; heavy doors barred with
iron were {159} opened, and I entered a place crowded by miserable,
ill-conditioned, dirty, repulsive animals.
[Illustration]
Picking my steps into the midst of this filthy den, afraid to breathe
{160} the vitiated air, I beheld my husband seated in a corner.
Expecting reproaches and a tragic scene, I held myself in readiness
to stand my ground. But contrary to my expectations he lay down at my
feet and sobbed, begging my forgiveness.
I was quite touched—although the scene afforded amusement to the
other prisoners—and resolved to do my best to obtain his release. I
am naturally tender-hearted, too much so indeed. It was most proper
on his part, that he owned his faults and ugliness, and rendered
homage to my beauty.
I went at once to the presiding judge, who, viewing me over his
spectacles, was astonished at my attractive appearance. He was
clever, amiable, and leisurely, so that the trial of my husband
lasted a long time.
Now is the moment when I must own a strange fact, and let in the
light on a hitherto dark recess in my heart. Hardly was my Bull-dog
incarcerated than my hatred of him changed to affection. He was no
longer there for me to grumble at, and every time my eyes caught
his clarionet in the corner they filled with tears. I was almost
frightened at the power this morally and physically imperfect
creature had over me, and the place he had filled in my life. His
comical face, his cap, even his silence were wanting. I never knew
where to vent my bad temper, which at times made me feel fit to
burst. I tried to distract my attention, fearing lest my health
should give way, but it was of no avail. I hardly dare to say it, I
loved my Bull-dog, the jealous clarionet, I loved him! For all that,
consideration for my feelings prevented me repeating my visit to the
noxious prison which caused me a dreadful attack of neuralgia.
Thanks to my keeping him out of sight, his image became idealised
in my imagination. In my dreams he appeared clothed in charms not
his own. The news of his release was such a shock to my nerves that
I nearly fainted. I rejoiced in his freedom. Soon after he arrived,
but oh dear, how ugly he was! His coat was dirty, and his whole being
steeped in an odour most offensive. A block of ice had fallen on my
heart.
“My Greyhound! my wife! my darling!” he cried, running to meet me.
“Good morning, my friend,” I replied, averting my nose. I had no
courage to say more, my dreams had vanished.
All this passed long ago. Now my indignation brings the smile to
my lips. Nothing more. I have learned to make the most of my {161}
bargain. If I made a mistake, and married a clarionet in place of a
first-class tenor, I determined not to die of grief, but rather to be
as brave as beautiful, and devote myself to cultivating all that was
good in my Bull-dog. He has left off wearing his cap, and positively
plays better; his walk is improved, and, by the dim light of the
lamp, his profile is marked by a certain character.
“How pretty you are, little heartless one,” he sometimes says. I
reply in the same tone, “How ugly you are, my fat jealous one.”
[Illustration]
{162}
[Illustration]
TOPAZ THE PORTRAIT-PAINTER.
[Illustration]
I am his heir, I was his confidant, so that no one can better relate
his history than myself.
Born in a virgin forest in Brazil—where his mother rocked him
on interlacing boughs—when quite young he was caught by Indian
hunters and sold at Rio, with a collection of parrots, paroquets,
humming-birds, and buffalo-skins. He was brought to Havre in a ship,
where he became the pet of the sailors, who, in addition to teaching
him to handle the ropes, made him acquainted with all manner of
tricks. His sea-life was so full of fun and frolic, that he would
never have regretted quitting his forest home had he not left the
warm sunshine behind.
The captain of the ship, who had read “Voltaire,” called him Topaz,
after Rustan’s good valet, because he had a bare, yellow face. Before
arriving in port, Topaz had received an education similar to that of
his {163} fellow countryman on the barge, Vert-Vert, who shocked the
nuns by his manner. That of Topaz was also decidedly briny, as was
quite natural from his nautical experience. Once in France, he might
easily have passed for a second Lazarelle de Tormes, or another Gil
Blas, if one cared to name all the masters under which he studied up
to the time of full-grown Monkeyhood.
Suffice it to say, that as a youth he lodged in an elegant boudoir in
the rue Neuve-Saint-Georges, where he was the delight of a charming
personage, who finished his education by treating him as a spoilt
child. He led an easy life, and was happier than a prince. In an
unlucky hour he bit the nose of a respectable old dotard called the
Count, the protector of his fair mistress. This liberty so incensed
the old gentleman, he at once declared that the lady must choose
between him and the beast, one of the two must leave the house.
The tyranny of a rich, old husband prevailed, and Topaz was secretly
sent to the studio of a young artist, to whom the lady had been
sitting for her portrait.
This event, simple in itself, opened up for him a new career. Seated
on a wooden form in place of a silken couch, eating crusts of stale
bread and drinking plain water instead of orange syrup, Topaz was
brought to well-doing by misery, the great teacher of morality and
virtue, when it does not sink the sufferer deeper into the slough of
debauchery and vice. Having nothing better to do, Topaz reflected
on his precarious, dependent position, and his mind was filled with
a longing for liberty, labour, and glory. He felt he had come to
the critical point of his life, when it was necessary for him to
choose a profession. No career seemed to offer the same freedom
and boundless prospects as that followed by the successful artist.
This became a settled conviction in his mind, and, like Pareja the
slave of Velasquez, he set himself to picking up the secrets of the
limner’s art, and might be seen daily perched on the top of the
easel, watching each mixture of colour, and each stroke of the brush.
As soon as his master’s back was turned, he descended, and going over
the work with a light hand, and a second coat of colours, retired
one or two paces to admire the effect. During such moments he might
be heard muttering between his teeth, the words used by Corregio,
and later by the crowd of youthful geniuses with which Paris is
inundated: _Ed io anche son pittore_. One day, when his vanity caused
him to forget his usual prudence, the master caught him at work.
He had entered his studio elated with joy, having {164} received
a commission to paint a cartoon of the Deluge, for a church at
Boulogne-sur-Mer, where it rains all the year round. Nothing renders
one so generous as self-satisfaction; instead, therefore, of taking
the mahl-stick and beating his disciple, “In good faith,” he said,
like a second Velasquez, “since you wish to be an artist, I give you
your liberty, and, instead of my servant, I make you my pupil.”
Here Topaz became an historical pilferer; he arranged his hair like
the powdered wig of a country priest, caught together the straggling
hairs of his beard into a point, put on a high-peaked hat, dressed
himself in a tight-fitting coat over which the ruffle of his shirt
fell in folds, and, in short, tried to look as much as possible like
a portrait of Van Dyck. Thus attired, with his portfolio under his
arm, and colour-box in hand, he began to frequent the schools. But,
alas! like so many apprentice artists, who are men with all their
faculties fully developed, Topaz followed the empty dreams of his
ambition, rather than the teaching of common sense. It was not long
before he found this out. When the works of his master were not
available, he had to begin with the bare canvas, and unaided lay in
outline, form, light, shadow, and colour; when, in fact, instead of
imitation, originality and talent were required, then, alas! good-bye
to the visions of Topaz. It was no good his working, perspiring,
worrying, knocking his head, tearing his beard. Pegasus, always
restive, refused to carry him to the Helicon of fortune and renown.
In plain English, he did nothing worth the materials wasted in its
production: masters and pupils urged him to choose some other means
of making a living.
“Be a mason, or a shoemaker; your talent lies more in the direction
of trade!” It was in truth a pity that Topaz—full-grown ape as he
was—should have been the slave of his narrow pride and vanity. That
he should have aspired to fill a grand, generous, imposing, humanlike
roll. I have often heard him say he would follow the example of the
men of the Middle Ages, study medicine among the Arabs; and then
return to teach it to the Christians. His foolish ambition was to
transmit, from cultured men to apes, the knowledge of art, and, by
idealising his fellows in portraiture, to place them on the level of
the Lords of Creation. His chagrin was as profound as his project
had been visionary. Wounded by the dreadful fall his vanity had
sustained, sulky, ashamed, discontented with the world and with
himself, Topaz, losing his sleep, appetite, and vivacity, fell into a
languishing illness {165} which threatened his life. Happily he had
no physician, Nature fought out the battle for herself, and won.
About this time Daguerre, a scenic artist, completed the discovery
which has rendered his name famous. He made an important step in
science by fixing the photographic image, so that objects, animate
and inanimate, might be caught on a silver plate. Thus photography
became the handmaid of science and art. I had just made the
acquaintance of a musical genius—human—to whom nature had refused
both voice and ear; he sang out of tune, danced out of time, and for
all that, was passionately fond of music. He had masters for the
piano, flute, hunting-horn, and accordion. He tried the different
methods of Wilhem, Paston, Cheve, and Jocotot. None of them answered,
he could neither produce time nor harmony; what did he do in order
to satisfy his taste? He bought a barrel-organ and took his money’s
worth out of it, by turning the handle night and day. He certainly
had the wrist of a musician.
It was a similar expedient which brought back Topaz to life, with
its hopes of fame, fortune, and apostolic insignia. The Jesuits and
Turks say the end justifies the means, so, acting on this philosophic
saying, Topaz adroitly stole a purse from a rich financier who was
sleeping in his master’s studio, while the latter was trying to
paint his portrait. With this treasure he bought his barrel-organ,
a photographic camera, and learning how to use it, he all at once
became artist, painter, and man of science.
This talent acquired, added to a brace of fine names, he felt already
half way towards reaching the coveted goal. To realise his hopes, he
took his passage at Havre in a ship about to cross the Atlantic, and
after a prosperous voyage, again set foot on the shore where, only
a few years before, he had embarked for France. What a change had
come over his position. From Monkey-boy he had become Monkey-man.
In place of a prisoner of war he had become free, and above all,
from an ignorant brute—the condition in which Nature sent him into
the world—he had developed into a sort of civilised ape. His heart
beat fast as he landed on his native soil. It was sweet to visit
familiar scenes, after so long an absence. Without losing so much
time as I take to write, he started off, camera on back, to seek the
grand solitudes of his infancy, where he hoped to become the pioneer
of progress. In his secret heart—he owned it to me—there was still
the burning desire for fame. He hoped to create a sensation, to be
regarded as {166} more than a common beast to enjoy the victory he
would so easily win, over the natives of the country, by his title
of Illustrious Traveller, backed by his knowledge and his wonderful
machine. These were his true sentiments, but he cherished the
delusion that he was impelled onwards by the irresistible force which
urges forward the predestined ones—the leaders of mankind—to play
their part in the world. Arrived at the scene of his birth, without
even looking up his friends and relatives, Topaz pitched his camp
in a vast glade, a sort of public common which Nature had reserved
in the forest. There, aided by a black-faced Sapajo called Ebony,
after the other servant of Rustan, who became his slave after the
manner of men, who find in colour a sufficient reason for drawing the
line which separates master from slave, Topaz set up an elegant hut
of branches beneath an ample shade of banana leaves, and above his
door he placed a signboard, bearing the fable, “Topaz, painter after
the Parisian fashion;” and on the door itself, in smaller letters,
“Entrance to the Studio.” After sending a number of magpies to
announce his arrival, to all the country round, he opened his shop.
In order to place his services within the reach of all—as no currency
had ever yet been instituted—Topaz adopted the ancient custom of
receiving payment in kind. A hundred nuts, a bunch of bananas, six
cocoa-nuts, and twenty sugar-canes, was the price of a portrait. As
the inhabitants of the Brazilian forest were still in the golden age,
they knew nothing whatever about property, heritage, or the rights
of mine and thine. They knew that the earth and its fruits were free
to all, and that a good living might be picked off the trees, and an
indifferent living off the ground. Topaz had many difficulties to
contend against; by no means the least was the fact that no one is
great in his own country, and especially among his own friends. The
first visits he received were from monkeys, a quick and curious, but
also a very spiteful, race.
Hardly had they seen the camera in action before they set to work
to make spurious imitations of the dark box. Instead of admiring,
honouring, and recompensing their brother for his toil in bringing
this art-treasure to their country, they strove to discover his
secret, and reap the profits of his labour. Here, then, was our
artist at war with counterfeiters. Happily it was not a simple case
of reprinting an English book in Germany or America. The apes might
puzzle their brains, and toil with their four feet, and even combine
one with the {167} other—amongst them, as elsewhere, one can easily
find accomplices to carry out a bad scheme,—all they could do, was to
make a box and cover like the camera and focusing cloth of Topaz; but
they had neither lens nor chemicals. After many trials and as many
failures, they became furious, and planned the ruin of Topaz; thus
proving the truth of the saying, “One must look for enemies among
one’s fellow-countrymen, friends, and relations; even in one’s own
house”—
“Araña; quien te araño Otra araña como yo.”
But no matter, merit makes its own way in defiance of envy and
hatred, and finds its true level like oil that rises to the surface
of water. It so happened that a personage of importance, an animal
of weight, a Boar in fact, passing through the glade and seeing the
signboard, paused to reflect. It seemed to this Boar that one need
not of necessity be a quack or charlatan, because one comes from a
distance, or because one offers something new and startling; also
that a wise, moderate, impartial spirit always takes the trouble to
examine things before condemning them. Another and much more private
reason tempted the thoughtful Boar to test the stranger’s talent;
for side by side with the great actions of life there is frequently
some petty, contemptible secret, and personal motive which, as it
were, supplies the mainspring of action. This little motive is always
studiously concealed, even from its owner’s view, like the mainspring
of a watch in its shining case. But the little spring, true to its
work, marks the time on the dial, the hour, minute, and second, which
heralds the birth of all that is noble, and all that is mean in
life. This applies with kindred force to the instinct of brutes, and
aspirations of men.
Our Boar was a lineal descendant of the companion of Ulysses who,
touched by the wand of Circé, is supposed to have addressed his
captain thus—
“How am I changed? My beauty as a boar I’ll prove,
How knowest thou, one form is worst, another best?
Grace and good breeding are in my form express’d,
At least it has been said so by those who know.”
He was a trifle foppish and very much in love. It was to make a gift
to his betrothed he wished for a portrait.
[Illustration]
Entering the studio he paid down double the usual price, as this
Boar was the most liberal member of his government. He then seated
himself solidly down in his appointed place where his steadiness
and {168} unconcern rendered him a capital subject for the camera.
Topaz on his part exercised all his skill in posing, lighting, and
photographing. The portrait was a perfect gem, his lordship was
delighted. The little {169} image seemed to reduce his bulk in
every way, while the silvery grey of the metallic plate replaced
with advantage the sombre monotony of his dark coat. It was a most
agreeable surprise, and fast as his bulk and dignity would permit
him, he hastened to present the picture to his idol. The loved
one was in rapture, and by a peculiar feminine instinct she first
suspended the miniature round her neck, then, as instinctively,
called together her relatives and friends to form an admiring circle
around her lover’s portrait. Thanks to her enthusiasm, before the day
was over, all the animal inhabitants for miles round were appraised
of the marvellous talent of Topaz, who soon became quite the rage.
His cabin was visited at all hours of the day, the camera was never
for a moment idle. As for Sapajo he had more than enough to do in
preparing the plates for every new comer. With the exception of the
apes there was not a single creature in earth, air, or water, who had
not sat for a likeness to the famous Topaz.
One of his chief patrons was a Royal bird, the sovereign of a winged
principality, who arrived surrounded by a brilliant staff of general
officers and aide-de-camps. The artist was greatly annoyed by the
remarks of a group of obsequious courtiers who bent over the desk
alternately praising the prince, and criticising the portraits. The
finished work, nevertheless, afforded satisfaction to the potentate
who, proud of his tufted crown and brilliant feathers, gazed fondly
down upon his image.
His conduct was quite different from that of the Boar. Although the
king was accompanied by a splendid pea-hen, his wife by morganatic
marriage, he himself retained the portrait, and, like Narcissus,
before the fountain, fell in love with his own image. Happy are they
who love themselves. They need not fear coldness, or disdain. They
can feel no grief of absence, or pangs of jealousy. If the sayings of
human philosophers are true, love is only a form of self-esteem which
leaves its habitual abode, seeking to extend its dominion over the
passions of another.
To return to Topaz, he touched up his portraits to suit the taste
and vanity of his customers. In this, it must be owned, he did not
always succeed. Some of his clients were all beak, and had no focus
in them; others could not sit steady for a second, the result was,
they figured on the plate with two heads, and a group of hands like
Vishnu, the heathen god. They jerked their tails at some fatal
moment, rendering them invisible in the photograph. Pelicans thought
{170} their beaks too long. Cockatoos complained of the shortness
of theirs. Goats said their beards had been tampered with. Boars
held that their eyes were too piercing. Squirrels wanted action.
Chameleons changing colour; while the donkey thought his portrait
incomplete without the sound of his mellifluous voice. Most comical
of all—the owl, who had shut his eyes to the sun, maintained that he
was represented stone-blind, thus destroying his chief attraction.
In the laboratory of Topaz, as in the painter’s studio, might be
seen constantly in attendance a troop of young lions, the sons of
the aristocracy, who came to loiter away their leisure. They prided
themselves in being judges of art, called all the muscles of the face
by their anatomical names; and spoke of graceful sweeps, handling
of the brush, tooling, modelling, breadth of expression, &c., &c.
Under pretext of enjoying the society of the artist, they twitted
and laughed at his clients. To the crow, if he showed face at the
entrance with his glossy black coat, and gouty, magisterial step,
they cried in chorus—
“Oh! good morning, Mr. Crow, come in, nothing shows up so well as a
good, black coat.” Then they gently reminded him of his adventure
with the fox and the stolen cheese.
One day a good fellow, a duck, left his reeds and swamps, and came
with much ado to the studio, desirous of seeing his image to greater
perfection than in his native stream. As soon as he appeared, one of
the clique approached and taking off his cap, said—
“Ah, sir, you must be a great observer, you constantly move from side
to side. What is the news?”
No one escaped their sarcasm; many were offended, many more lost
their temper, and as for Topaz, he lost some of his best customers.
But he really could not afford to offend the lions, as they belonged
to good families, and were careful to flatter his vanity; besides,
they were by no means bad fellows, when in their generous moods.
[Illustration]