THE COLLABORATORS
“M. Fabre’s life-story is one of the finest that could be related,”
said M. Laffite lately, in a leading article in La Nature. “It is
simple. It is the humble and tragic story of a persistent struggle
between two irreducible adversaries, on the one hand the most
precarious conditions of the struggle for life, and on the other the
power of a vocation, as though riveted to his being, which urged him
despite everything to observation, study, and an understanding of the
world of living creatures, and in particular of the insects.” [119]
Such, indeed, is one of the most striking aspects of the great
naturalist’s life, and that under which it appears more especially in
its early stages. But there is another aspect, perhaps even more
remarkable, under which it was to reveal itself more particularly in
later years. Considering the first of these aspects, we shudder at the
violence of the battles fought for the triumph of his ideal and his
vocation; considering the second, we are filled with delighted
admiration by the fascinating and triumphant results achieved by this
ideal; I mean the marvels and allurements of entomology.
Under the clear gaze of this observer of genius, as at the bidding of a
magic ring, a whole world of tiny creatures rises and moves before him,
recalling the world of Lilliput, but still more marvellous, and more
fertile in dramatic incident of every kind. “No romance of Jules
Verne’s or Fenimore Cooper’s is more exciting.” [120]
Fabre is the first of writers to be conquered by the spectacle that
unfolds itself before his eyes; conquered in the whole of his
activities, in his imagination and sensibility, and in his style, which
quite naturally adorns itself with the colours of his insects; and no
less naturally quivers and vibrates with their emotions. Others before
him had studied the life of insects. “But no one had put so much
persevering perspicacity into his study of them; no one above all had
spoken with such enthusiasm, with such poetical feeling, of the wonders
of which it is full; no one had identified himself, as did Fabre, with
the creatures that he studied.
“The insect is no longer, for him, the lowest of creatures, disdained
by all; you would think it was a person, a friend, whose thoughts and
emotions he divines, in whose joys and sorrows he shares; he speaks to
it, reassures it, consoles it, advises it by voice and gesture, and
even helps it in its labours when it seems at the end of its resources.
Of all these shared feelings, these anxieties experienced in common, he
retains a vivid memory, and his ready, sympathetic, vibrant pen runs
across the page, halts, starts off again, scratching the paper,
uttering cries of joy, or weeping, as it records the drama all of whose
vicissitudes he has experienced.”
Not in vain are the insects “the children of summer,” and not in vain
has he contemplated them “in the blessed season” under the brilliance
and the ardours of noon. “All the sunshine of Provence is reflected by
his picturesque style; and it seems as though a miraculous fairyland is
unfolded before us, whose scenery is all of the mother-of-pearl, the
gold, and the rainbow hues that Nature has spread upon the aerial oars
of the Dragon-flies and the Bees, on the cuirass of the Scarabæi, on
the blazing fans that the Butterflies wave voluptuously, intoxicating
themselves with the nectar of the flowers.
“Nothing in all this is far-fetched or deliberate. Henri Fabre has
never plumed himself on his literary achievements; it is his real self,
it is his whole mind that expresses itself in his Souvenirs; the mind
of an ardent and passionately interested but precise observer, a mind
open to every emotion,” [121] and sensitive to all the impressions
received from all these little lives, that have no secrets from him.
This mind and these lives, intimately and sincerely mingled, and
ingenuously reflected in the pages of his books; this is the secret of
the most vital, the most picturesque, and the least conventional style
that can be imagined.
Thus, it is that, aiding his imagination and his sensibility, the
insects themselves became the entomologist’s foremost collaborators.
Was not this the most graceful way of recognising the services which he
has rendered them, and of repaying the love which he has always borne
them?
If they have received much, they have also given much; so much, that we
may well ask who can have gained the most—they or the entomologist—by
this exchange of benefits? Were one of their number aware of the merits
of their partnership he would doubtless consider that they have
contributed to his fame no less than he has magnified theirs.
Conquered himself without reservation by the unexpected beauties of
entomology, Fabre was fortunate enough to see a like fascination
exerting itself, as a result of his teaching and example, in those
about him, his neighbours and his friends, just as it now exerts itself
through his books upon all his readers.
When we attempted discreetly to lift the veil of his first retirement
from Orange, which seemed to us peculiarly characteristic of his
private life, we had occasion to note the eminently domestic nature of
his life and work, and the assiduous collaboration in the common task
of the first-born of his children. We have seen Antonia, Claire, Jules
and Emile [122] rivalling one another in their eagerness to assist in
their father’s observations, and this charming devotion outlived the
youthful ardour of the early springtide of life.
Sometimes, too, the children anticipate their father’s entomological
desires. For example, his son Emile sends him from the neighbourhood of
Marseilles a nest of resin-working Hymenoptera. [123] His daughter
Claire sends him, from another part of Provence, an entomological
document of such value that it “reawakened all the enthusiasm of his
early years.” It related to one of his favourite insects, another
Hymenopteron, the Nest-building Odynerus.
It was the end of February. The weather was mild; the sun was kind.
Setting out in a family party, with food for the children, apples,
and a piece of a loaf in the basket, we were going to see the
almond-trees in flower. When it was time for lunch we halted under
the great oak-trees, when Anna, the youngest of the household,
always on the look-out for small creatures with her new,
six-year-old eyes, called to me, at a few paces’ distance from our
party. “An animal,” she said, “two, three, four—and pretty ones!
Come and see, papa, come and see!” [124]
This was one of the rarest discoveries: a dozen specimens of the Pearly
Trox, which were making a meal off a little rabbit’s down which some
fox’s stomach had been unable to exploit. “There is every sort of taste
in this world, so that nothing shall be wasted!”
And not once or twice, but every moment almost, little Paul, [125]
Marie Pauline, [126] and Anna enliven the narrative by their delightful
appearances and their inventive activity. Little Paul above all is an
auxiliary of the highest value, who deserves to be introduced to the
reader as an acknowledged collaborator:
I speak of my son Paul, a little chap of seven. My assiduous
companion on my hunting expeditions, he knows better than any one
of his age the secrets of the Cicada, the Locust, the Cricket, and
especially the Dung-beetle, his great delight. Twenty paces away,
his sharp eyes will distinguish the real mound that marks a burrow
from casual heaps of earth; his delicate ears catch the
Grasshopper’s faint stridulation, which to me remains silent. He
lends me his sight and hearing; and I, in exchange, present him
with ideas, which he receives attentively, raising wide, blue,
questioning eyes to mine.
Little Paul’s exploits are innumerable, and nothing deters him. “He
will gather handfuls of the most repulsive caterpillars with no more
apprehension than if he were picking a bunch of violets.” Several times
a day he scrupulously inspects the under sides of the dead moles placed
for purposes of observation in the harmas, takes note of the labours of
the Necrophori, and, without more ado, seizes upon the fugitives and
returns them to their workshop. He alone of the household ventures to
lend his assistance in such a disgusting task.
Little Paul is always equal to the circumstances. If he is cool he is
no less enthusiastic, but it is a well-directed enthusiasm. For proof I
need only cite the night of the Great Peacock, the honour of which was
due almost wholly to little Paul.
It was a “memorable night,” the night of the Great Peacock.
Who does not know the magnificent Moth, the largest in Europe, clad
in maroon velvet with a necktie of white fur? The wings, with their
sprinkling of grey and brown, crossed by a faint zigzag and edged
with smoky white, have in the centre a round patch, a great eye
with a black pupil and a variegated iris containing successive
black, white, chestnut, and purple arcs.
Well, on the morning of the 6th of May, a female emerges from her
cocoon in my presence, on the table of my insect laboratory. I
forthwith cloister her, still damp with the humours of the
hatching, under a wire-gauze bell-jar. For the rest, I cherish no
particular plans. I incarcerate her from mere habit, the habit of
the observer always on the look-out for what may happen.
It was a lucky thought. At nine o’clock in the evening, just as the
household is going to bed, there is a great stir in the room next
to mine. Little Paul, half-undressed, is rushing about, jumping and
stamping, knocking the chairs over like a mad thing. I hear him
call me:
“Come quick!” he screams. “Come and see these Moths, big as birds!
The room is full of them!”
I hurry in. There is enough to justify the child’s enthusiastic and
hyperbolical exclamations, an invasion as yet unprecedented in our
house, a raid of giant Moths. Four are already caught and lodged in
a bird-cage. Others, more numerous, are fluttering on the ceiling.
At this sight, the prisoner of the morning is recalled to my mind.
“Put on your things, laddie,” I say to my son. “Leave your cage and
come with me. We shall see something interesting.”
We run downstairs to go to my study, which occupies the right wing
of the house. In the kitchen I find the servant, who is also
bewildered by what is happening and stands flicking her apron at
great Moths whom she took at first for Bats.
The Great Peacock, it would seem, has taken possession of pretty
well every part of the house. What will it be around my prisoner,
the cause of this incursion? Luckily, one of the two windows of the
study had been left open. The approach is not blocked.
We enter the room, candle in hand. What we see is unforgettable.
With a soft flick-flack the great Moths fly around the bell-jar,
alight, set off again, come back, fly up to the ceiling and down.
They rush at the candle, putting it out with a stroke of their
wings; they descend on our shoulders, clinging to our clothes,
grazing our faces. The scene suggests a wizard’s cave, with its
whirl of Bats. Little Paul holds my hand tighter than usual, to
keep up his courage.
How many of them are there? About a score. Add to these the number
that have strayed into the kitchen, the nursery, and the other
rooms of the house; and the total of those who have arrived from
the outside cannot fall far short of forty. As I said, it was a
memorable evening, this Great Peacock evening. Coming from every
direction and apprised I know not how, here are forty lovers eager
to pay their respects to the marriageable bride born that morning
amid the mysteries of my study. [127]
How could the news of the joyful event have reached them? No doubt by
some mysterious wireless telegraphy which has not yet found its Branly.
A few days later the miracle was repeated before the wondering eyes of
the naturalist and his faithful acolyte, by another moth, which in this
case celebrated its nuptials by daylight in the bright sunshine.
Let us hasten to say that the entomological zeal of this little
moth-hunter did not fade with the feverish activity of the very young.
As we see him in 1897, at the age of seven, so we find him at fifteen
in 1906. The importance and value of his services had only increased as
his capacities increased, and as the vigour and muscular activity of
his beloved father diminished. He lent him his limbs for excursions by
day and by night.
What will he not do to please his father? As eagerly as he lends him
his legs on his long expeditions, he lends him his arms for all the
tasks that are forbidden his eighty years: for example, the excavation
of the deep galleries of certain burrowing insects.
The rest of the family, including the mother, being no less
zealous, commonly accompanies us. Their eyes are none too many when
the trench grows deep and the tiny details uncovered by the spade
have to be scanned from a distance. What one does not see, another
does. “Huber, having grown blind, studied bees through the
meditation of a sharp-sighted and devoted servant. I am better off
than the great Swiss naturalist. My own sight, which is still
pretty good, although a good deal fatigued, is assisted by the
sharp-sighted eyes of my whole family. If I am still able to pursue
my investigations I owe it to them; let me thank them duly!” [128]
This man must be something of a sorcerer, and his science must have
something of magic in it, thus to mobilise his wife and children around
the burrow of an insect; to keep them there a whole morning without
recking of the heat and fatigue, and to bring them to their hands and
knees before the apparition of a Dung-beetle.
This magic power of entomology, or let us rather say this demoniacal
proselytism of the entomologist in favour of his beloved science, was
exerted not only upon his family, but upon all persons liable to be
subjected to his influence or capable of serving his projects.
It was upon children that he fixed his choice in the first place. Fabre
had always made children so welcome, had always treated them so
graciously, that he was assured beforehand of their enthusiastic
support of his proposals, even if he was not forestalled by their
offers of service. Allured by the coin or the slice of bread and jam,
or the sugar-plums, and also, we may say, stimulated by the evident
good faith of the master, and the delightful drollery of his
enterprises, all the juvenile unemployed of Sérignan vie with one
another as purveyors to the entomological laboratory. They zealously
keep the larder of the Scarabæi supplied, without neglecting that of
the Sexton-beetles and tutti quanti. Thanks to them, not a creature in
the entomological laboratory goes hungry. The most difficult to provide
for have always a well-spread table, although this is not always easy
to ensure. One has to allow for the thoughtlessness of children and the
hazards of the chase.
But in spite of their heedlessness, and because of their very
ingenuousness, there are connections in which the child is an
incomparable helper, difficult or even impossible to replace. This
Fabre was often to prove.
To continue an investigation into the olfactory faculties of insects a
moth is required which is rather rare and difficult to capture. Can he
obtain this moth?
Yes, I shall find him; indeed I have him already. A little chap of
seven, with a wide-awake face that doesn’t get washed every day,
bare feet and a pair of tattered breeches held up by a bit of
string, a boy who comes regularly to supply the house with turnips
and tomatoes, arrives one morning carrying his basket of
vegetables. After the few sous due to his mother for the greens
have been counted one by one into his hand, he produces from his
pocket something which he found the day before, beside a hedge,
while picking grass for the rabbits:
“And what about this?” he asks, holding the thing out to me. “What
about this? Will you have it?”
“Yes, certainly, I’ll have it. Try and find me some more, as many
as you can, and I’ll promise you plenty of rides on the roundabout
on Sunday. Meanwhile, my lad, here’s a penny for you. Don’t make a
mistake when you give in your accounts; put it somewhere where you
won’t mix it up with the turnip-money.” [129]
The precious discovery was none other than the cocoon from which would
presently emerge the desired Moth, vainly sought after during twenty
years’ residence in Sérignan.
Of all children Fabre must have had a weakness for the most rustic
specimens; for those who, by virtue of their situation and by
inclination, lived more nearly in contact with Nature and the animal
creation. If they are ever so little wide-awake, they are at once, for
him, friends whose society he seeks and helpers whose assistance he
appreciates. Such is the “young shepherd, a friend of the household,”
who is without a peer in catching the pill-rolling beetles, [130] so
greatly does he excel in profiting by the truly exceptional advantages
which the pastoral calling offers from this point of view.
In such company insect-hunting is so engaging and profitable that our
naturalist decides to accompany him. Among these memorable mornings
there is one which deserves particular mention, for it was truly a
historic occasion:
The young shepherd who had been told in his spare time to watch the
doings of the Sacred Beetle came to me in high spirits, one Sunday
in the latter part of June, to say that he thought the time had
come to begin our investigations. He had detected the insect
issuing from the ground, had dug at the spot where it made its
appearance, and had found, at no great depth, the queer thing which
he was bringing me.
Queer it was, and calculated to upset the little that I thought I
knew. In shape it was exactly like a tiny pear that had lost all
its fresh colour and turned brown in rotting. What could this
curious object be, this pretty plaything that seemed to have come
from a turner’s workshop? Was it made by human hands? Was it a
model of the fruit of the pear-tree intended for some children’s
museum? One would say so.
The shepherd was at his post by daybreak. I joined him on some
slopes that had been lately cleared of their trees, where the hot
summer sun, which strikes with such force on the back of one’s
neck, could not reach us for two or three hours. In the cool
morning air, with the sheep browsing under Sultan’s care, the two
of us started on our search.
A Sacred Beetle’s burrow is soon found: you can tell it by the
fresh little mound of earth above it. With a vigorous turn of the
wrist, my companion digs away with the little pocket-trowel which I
have lent him. Incorrigible earthscraper that I am, I seldom set
forth without this light but serviceable tool. While he digs I lie
down, the better to see the arrangement and furniture of the cellar
which we are unearthing, and I am all eyes. The shepherd uses the
trowel as a lever and, with his other hand, holds back and pushes
aside the soil.
Here we are! A cave opens out, and, in the moist warmth of the
yawning vault, I see a splendid pear lying full-length upon the
ground. No, I shall not soon forget this first revelation of the
Scarab’s maternal masterpiece. My excitement could have been no
greater had I been an archæologist digging among the ancient relics
of Egypt and lighting upon the sacred insect of the dead, carved in
emerald, in some Pharaonic crypt. O ineffable moment, when truth
suddenly shines forth! What other joys can compare with that holy
rapture! The shepherd was in the seventh heaven; he laughed in
response to my smile and was happy in my gladness. [131]
There was truly good reason for the naturalist and his young friend to
exult. Henri Fabre had just discovered what he had vainly been seeking
for more than thirty years. He now knew the secret of the Sacred
Beetle’s nest; he knew that the loaf of the future nursling was not in
the least like that which the insect rolls along the ground for its own
use. He was now in a position to correct the error of centuries which
he himself had accepted on the word of the masters. And thanks to whom?
Thanks to a shepherd barely “brightened by a little reading” who had
acted as his assistant. The poet was indeed right who said:
“On a souvent besoin d’un plus petit que soi.”
(Of those less than ourselves we oft have need.)
So much the worse for the proud who refuse to realise this! Fabre was
not of their number; and more than once it was greatly to his advantage
that he was not.
In the choice of his collaborators, then, Fabre addressed himself by
preference to children, for he loved their perspicacity, and above all
“the naïve curiosity so like his own.”
But he would also solicit the help of the adult members of his
entourage, if by their situation, their character, their good nature,
or their mental temper he judged them capable of understanding him or,
at all events, of giving him information and assisting him in his
labours.
The gardener, the butcher, the farmers, the house-wives, the
schoolmasters, the carpenter, the truffle-hunter, and I know not whom
besides, were all in turn called upon to lend a hand, which they did
with the best grace in the world, each according to his means and his
speciality.
It is amusing to see the worthy villagers of Sérignan wondering at the
naturalist’s questions, and ostensibly flattering themselves that they
know more than he does of worm-eaten vegetables. On the other hand,
they often consult him, thereby making amends and affording a practical
recognition of “his knowledge concerning plants and little creatures.”
A late frost came during the night, withering the leaf-buds of the
mulberry-trees just as the first leaves were unfolding.
On the following day there was a great commotion in the
neighbouring farm-houses; the silkworms were hatched, and suddenly
there was no food for them. They must wait until the sun repaired
the disaster. But what were they to do to keep the famished
newly-born caterpillars alive for a few days? They knew me as an
expert in the matter of plants; my cross-country harvesting
expeditions had won me the reputation of a medical herbalist. With
the flower of the poppy I prepared an elixir which strengthened the
sight; with borage I made a syrup sovereign against whooping-cough;
I distilled camomile, I extracted the essence of wintergreen. In
short, my botany had given me the reputation of a quack-salver.
That was something, after all....
The housewives came seeking me from all directions; with tears in
their eyes they explained how matters stood. What could they give
their grubs while they were waiting for the mulberry to leaf again?
A serious affair this, well deserving of commiseration. One was
counting on her litter to buy a roll of linen for her daughter who
was about to get married; another confided to me her plan of buying
a pig, which she would fatten for the following winter; all
deplored the handful of five-franc pieces, which, placed at the
bottom of the secret hiding-place in the wardrobe, in an old
stocking, would have afforded relief in difficult times. Full of
their woes, they unfolded before my eyes a scrap of flannel on
which the little creatures were swarming:
“Regardas, Moussu; venoun espeli, et ren per lour douna! Ah!
pecaïré!”
Poor people, what a hard life is yours: honourable above all, but
of all the most uncertain! You exhaust yourselves with labour, and
when you are almost within sight of its reward a few hours of a
cold night, which has come upon you suddenly, have destroyed the
harvest. To help these afflicted women would, it seemed to me, be a
very difficult task. However, I tried, guided by botany, which
recommended me to offer, as a substitute for the mulberry, the
plants of related families: the elm, the nettle-tree, the nettle,
the pellitory. Their budding leaves, chopped small, were offered to
the silkworms. Other experiments, much less logical, were tried
according to individual inspiration. None of them succeeded. [132]
One and all, the newly-born larvæ starved to death. My fame as a
quack must have suffered somewhat from this failure. But was it
really my fault? No, it was the silk-worm’s, too faithful to its
mulberry-leaf.... Larvæ that live on a vegetable diet will not by
any means lend themselves to a change of food. Each has its plant
or group of plants, apart from which nothing is acceptable. [133]
Science as this great naturalist understands it is amiable and by no
means pedantic; full of sympathy with the humble, since he himself has
never ceased to be one of them, he does not disdain to consider their
least preoccupations, and to become, by turns, their master and their
disciple.