The only serene face among us was that of the Butterfly Hunter. The eyes
of the Altruist were clouded by the wrath of denunciation; the Lad’s
were full of unfulfilled desire; and my own, I knew, were troubled: they
had been for so long a time a mirror for pictures of sorrow. Into
Janet’s face crept more and more often the puzzled expression of those
who mistake their own bad moods for philosophic thought.
But the Hunter of Butterflies wore a look of peace.
I mistook this at first for the peace of attainment. It was not that: he
was still pursuing—pursuing his butterfly.
He was, they told me, a noted entomologist. Many years ago he had
discovered a very rare butterfly, the _Erebia winifredæ_. He had
classified and named it, but had never been able to follow its entire
history. With the scientist’s fine sense of the importance of the least
details he was still studying it.
This winter he had come to the city in order to work with a member of
the faculty in the university. They were attempting to raise the insect
under artificial conditions, and were carefully watching its growth.
The difficulty of observing it in its home is very great, for it can be
found only during certain portions of the year, and at great altitudes.
It lives in the Himalaya Mountains, and in the Caucasus, just below the
snow-line, in the bleak regions of rock and sedge.
I heard the story of its discovery. Years ago, when the scientist was
young, he had gone with an exploring party through India to the southern
side of the Himalayas. On one long walk he lost his way, and found
himself at the bottom of a deep gully, whose walls were apparently too
steep to climb. He was alone.
There was nothing to do except to scale the cliff. It was a perilous
journey. After hours of painful struggle the young man reached the top,
in a state of utter exhaustion. By a last effort he drew himself up over
the edge of the precipice, and lay fainting for a time, prostrate on the
rock.
When he woke, he found under his outstretched hand a little dark
butterfly, with gold dust on its wings. It was his butterfly, and it
made his name famous.
Every summer since that time he had climbed to the limit of vegetation,
and had camped there on desolate mountain sides for weeks, watching the
butterfly’s growth. He knew where and how it laid its eggs. He knew on
what it fed. He had watched it change from grub to winged creature, and
yet it baffled him.
He could not find out the length of its life. The seasons of warmth at
the altitude of its home were short, and a part of its existence was
passed in seasons when he could not study it.
He had brought home a collection of specimens with which to experiment.
A room upstairs was devoted to them. Several times I was invited to
enter.
I liked to watch the Butterfly Hunter as he bent his gray head over the
cocoons. He was a tall man, and slender and lithe as a boy, from much
walking.
That kindly, weather-beaten face puzzled me. I could not tell whether or
no traces of passionate human experience lay hidden under the look of
absorbing interest in the specimens he held in his hand.
He would bend over the little gray winding-sheets, touch one with his
finger, reverently, then look on in silence.
_His_ butterfly!