One day, Charney was breathing the fresh air in the little court of the
fortress, at the accustomed hour, his head declining, his eyes downcast,
his arms crossed behind him, pacing with slow and measured steps, as if
his deliberation tended to enlarge the precincts of his dominion.
Spring was breaking. A milder air breathing around, tantalized him
with a vain inclination to enjoy the season of liberty, as master of
his time and territory. He was proceeding to number, one by one, the
stones paving the courtyard, (doubtless to verify the accuracy of former
calculations—for it was by no means the first time they had put his
arithmetic to the test), when he perceived a small mound of earth rising
between two stones of the pavement, cleft slightly at its summit.
The Count stopped short—his heart beat hurriedly without any rational
grounds for emotion, except that every trivial incident affords matter of
hope or fear to a captive. In the most indifferent objects, in the most
unimportant events, the prisoner discerns traces of a mysterious project
for his deliverance.
Who could decide that this trifling irregularity on the surface might
not indicate important operations under ground? Subterraneous issues
might have been secretly constructed, and the earth be about to open
and afford him egress towards the mountains! Perhaps his former friends
and accomplices had been sapping and mining, to procure access to his
dungeon, and restore him to light and liberty!
He listened! he fancied he could detect the low murmur of a subterraneous
sound. He raised his head, and the loud and rapid clang of the tocsin
saluted his ear. The ramparts were echoing with the prolonged roll of
drums, like the call to arms in time of war. He started—he passed his
trembling hand over his forehead, on which cold dews of intense agitation
were already rising. Is his liberation at hand? Is France submitted to
the domination of a new ruler?
The illusion of the captive vanished as it came. Reflection soon restored
him to reason. He no longer possesses accomplices—he never possessed
friends! Again he lends a listening ear, and the same noises recur; but
they mislead his mind no longer. The supposed tocsin is only the church
bell which he has been accustomed to hear daily at the same hour, and the
drums, the usual evening signal for retreat to quarters. With a bitter
smile, Charney begins to compassionate his own folly, which could mistake
the insignificant labors of some insect or reptile, some wandering mole
or field-mouse, for the result of human fidelity, or the subversion of a
mighty empire.
Resolved, however, to bring the matter to the test, Charney, bending over
the little hillock, gently removed the earth from its summit; when he
had the mortification to perceive that the wild though momentary emotion
by which he had been overcome, was not produced by so much as the labors
of an animal armed with teeth and claws! but by the efforts of a feeble
plant to pierce the soil—a pale and sickly scatterling of vegetation.
Deeply vexed, he was about to crush with his heel the miserable weed,
when a refreshing breeze, laden with the sweets of some bower of
honeysuckles, or syringas, swept past, as if to intercede for mercy
towards the poor plant, which might perhaps hereafter reward him with
its flowers and fragrance.
A new conjecture conspired to suspend his act of vengeance. How has
this tender plant, so soft and fragile as to be crushed with a touch,
contrived to pierce and cleave asunder the earth, dried and hardened
into a mass by the sun, daily trodden down by his own footsteps, and all
but cemented by the flags of granite between which it was enclosed? On
stooping again to examine the matter with more attention, he observed at
the extremity of the plant a sort of fleshy valve affording protection to
its first and tenderest leaves, from the injurious contact of any hard
bodies they might have to encounter in penetrating the earthy crust in
search of light and air.
“This, then, is the secret?” cried he, already interested in his
discovery. “Nature has imparted strength to the vegetable germ, even
as the unfledged bird which is able to break asunder with its beak the
egg-shell in which it is imprisoned; happier than myself—in possession
of unalienable instruments to secure its liberation!” And after gazing
another minute on the inoffensive plant, he lost all inclination for its
destruction.
[Illustration]
On resuming his walk the next day, with wide and careless steps, Charney
was on the point of setting his foot on it, from inadvertence; but
luckily recoiled in time. Amused to find himself interested in the
preservation of a weed, he paused to take note of its progress. The plant
was strangely grown; and the free light of day had already effaced the
pale and sickly complexion of the preceding day. Charney was struck by
the power inherent in vegetables to absorb rays of light, and, fortified
by the nourishment, borrow, as it were, from the prism, the very colours
predestined to distinguish its various parts of organization.
“The leaves,” thought he, “will probably imbibe a hue different from
that of the stem. And the flowers? what colour, I wonder, will be the
flowers? Nourished by the same sap as the green leaves and stem, how do
they manage to acquire, from the influence of the sun, their variegations
of azure, pink, or scarlet? For already their hue is appointed. In spite
of the confusion and disorder of all human affairs, matter, blind as it
is, marches with admirable regularity: still blindly, however! for lo,
the fleshy lobes which served to facilitate for the plant its progress
through the soil, though now useless, are feeding their superfluous
substance at its expense, and weighing upon its slender stalk!”
But, even as he spoke, daylight became obscured. A chilly spring evening,
threatening a frosty night, was setting in; and the two lobes, gradually
rising, seemed to reproach him with his objections, by the practical
argument of enclosing the still tender foliage, which they secured from
the attacks of insects or the inclemency of the weather, by the screen of
their protecting wings.
The man of science was better able to comprehend this mute answer to his
cavilling, because the external surface of the vegetable bivalve had been
injured the preceding night by a snail, whose slimy trace was left upon
the verdure of the cotyledon.
[Illustration]
This curious colloquy between action and cogitation, between the plant
and the philosopher, was not yet at an end. Charney was too full of
metaphysical disquisition to allow himself to be vanquished by a good
argument.
“’Tis all very well!” cried he. “In this instance, as in others, a
fortunate coincidence of circumstances has favoured the developement of
incomplete creation. It was the inherent qualification of the nature of
the plant to be born with a lever in order to upraise the earth, and a
buckler to shelter its tender head: without which it must have perished
in the germ, like myriads of individuals of its species which proved
incapable of accomplishing their destinies. How can one guess the number
of unsuccessful efforts which nature may have made, ere she perfected a
single subject sufficiently organized! A blind man may sometimes shoot
home; but how many uncounted arrows must be lost before he attains the
mark? For millions of forgotten centuries, matter has been triturating
between negative and positive attraction. How then can one wonder that
chance should sometimes produce coincidence? This fleshy screen serves
to shelter the early leaves. Granted! But will it enlarge its dimensions
to contain the rest as they are put forth, and defend them from cold
and insects? No, no; no evidence of the calculating of a presiding
Providence! A lucky chance is the alpha and omega of the universe!”
Able logician!—profound reasoner! listen, and Nature shall find a
thousand arguments to silence your presumption! Deign only to fix your
inquiring eyes upon this feeble plant, which the munificence of Heaven
has called into existence between the stones of your prison! You are so
far right that the cotyledon will _not_ expand so as to cover with its
protecting wings the future progress of the plant. Already withering,
they will eventually fall and decay. But they will suffice to accomplish
the purpose of nature. So long as the northern wind drives down from the
Alps their heavy fogs or sprinkling of sleet, the new leaves will find a
retreat impermeable to the chilly air, caulked with resinous or viscous
matter, and expanding or closing according to the impulse of the weather;
finally distended by a propitious atmosphere, the leaflets will emerge
clinging to each other for mutual support, clothed with a furry covering
of down to secure them against the fatal influence of atmospheric
changes. Did ever mother watch more tenderly over the preservation of a
child? Such are the phenomena, Sir Count, which you might long ago have
learned to admire, had you descended from the flighty regions of human
science, to study the humble though majestic works of God! The deeper
your researches, the more positive had been your conviction; for where
dangers abound, know that the protection of the Providence which you deny
is vouchsafed a thousand and a thousand fold in pity to the blindness of
mankind!
In the weariness of captivity, Charney was soon satisfied to occupy his
idle hours by directing his attention to the transformations of the
plant. But when he attempted to contend with it in argument, the answers
of the vegetable logician were too much for him.
“To what purpose these stiff bristles, disfiguring a slender stem?”
demanded the Count. And the following morning he found them covered with
rime: thanks to their defence, the tender bark had been secured from all
contact with the frost.
“To what purpose, for the summer season, this winter garment of wool and
down?” he again inquired. And when the summer season really breathed upon
the plant, he found the new shoots array themselves in their light spring
clothing; the downy vestments, now superfluous, being laid aside.
[Illustration]
“Storms may be still impending!” cried Charney, with a bitter smile; “and
how will these slender and flexile shoots resist the cutting hail, the
driving wind?” But when the stormy rain arose, and the winds blew, the
slender plant, yielding to their intemperance, replied to the sneers of
the Count by prudent prostration. Against the hail, it fortified itself
by a new manœuvre; the leaves, rapidly uprising, adhered to the stalks
for protection; presenting to the attacks of the enemy the strong and
prominent nerves of their inferior surface; and union, as usual, produced
strength. Firmly closed together, they defied the pelting shower; and
the plant remained master of the field; not, however, without having
experienced wounds and contusions, which, as the leaves expanded in the
returning sunshine, were speedily cicatrized by its congenial warmth.
“Is chance endowed then with intelligence?” cried Charney. “Must we admit
matter to be spiritualized, or humiliate the world of intelligence into
materialism?”
Still, though self-convicted, he could not refrain from interrogating his
mute instructress. He delighted in watching, day by day, her spontaneous
metamorphoses. Often, after having examined her progress, he found
himself gradually absorbed in reveries of a more cheering nature than
those to which he had been of late accustomed. He tried to prolong the
softened mood of mind by loitering in the court beside the plant; and
one day, while thus employed, he happened to raise his eyes towards the
grated window, and saw the fly-catcher observing him. The colour rose to
his cheek, as if the spy could penetrate the subject of his meditations;
but a smile soon chased away the blush. He no longer presumed to despise
his comrade in misfortune. _He_, too, had been engaged in contemplating
one of the simplest creations of nature; and had derived comfort from the
study.
“How do I know,” argued Charney, “that the Italian may not have
discovered as many marvels in a fly, as I in a nameless vegetable?”
The first object that saluted him on his returning to his chamber, after
this admission, was the following sentence, inscribed by his own hand
upon the wall, a few months before:
“CHANCE, THOUGH BLIND, IS THE SOLE AUTHOR OF THE CREATION.”
Seizing a piece of charcoal, Charney instantly qualified the assertion,
by the addition of a single word—“Perhaps.”
[Illustration]