CHAPTER XVII

[Contents]CHAPTER XVIITHE COLLABORATORS“M. Fabre’s life-story is one of the finest that could be related,” said M. Laffite lately, in a leading article inLa 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.”1Such, 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[254]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.”2Fabre 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[255]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[256]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 hisSouvenirs; the mind of an ardent and passionately interested but precise observer, a mind open to every emotion,”3and 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?[257]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 Emile4rivalling 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[258]their father’s entomological desires. For example, his son Emile sends him from the neighbourhood of Marseilles a nest of resin-working Hymenoptera.5His 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!”6This 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[259]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,7Marie Pauline,8and 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[260]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 theharmas, 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[261]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[262]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.9How could the news of the joyful event have reached them? No doubt by some mysterious[263]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[264]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!”10This 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[265]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 andtutti 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[266]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.”11The 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[267]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,12so 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[268]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[269]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.13There 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[270]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[271]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[272]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.14One 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,[273]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.15Science 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.[274]126th March 1910.↑2E. Perrier,Revue hebdomadaire, October 22, 1910.↑3E. Perrier,loc cit.↑4Souvenirs,I., pp. 304–306, 320;II., pp. 112, 130, 131;III., p. 16;IV., pp. 142, 167, 183;VI., p. 15;VIII., p. 159.↑5Souvenirs,IV., pp. 167–168, 182–183.The Mason Wasps, chap. viii., “The Nest-building Odynerus.”↑6Ibid.,VI., pp. 4, 118–119, 249, 383;VIII., p. 295;X., pp. 15, 86, 112, etc.↑7Souvenirs,I., p. 246;VI., p. 249;VIII., p. 3;X., p. 11, etc.↑8Ibid.,VII., p. 29;VIII., pp. 5, 272;X., pp. 111, 254, etc. For Lucie, his grand-daughter, aged six, seeII., p. 149.↑9Souvenirs,VII., pp. 139–41.The Life of the Caterpillar, chap. xi., “The Great Peacock”; alsoSocial Life in the Insect World, chap. xiv.↑10Souvenirs,X., p. 111.↑11Souvenirs,VII., 360.↑12Souvenirs,V., pp. 43–44.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. iv., “The Sacred Beetle: The Pear.”↑13Souvenirs,V., pp. 27–29.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. i., “The Sacred Beetle.”↑14It is exceedingly curious that neither Fabre nor the silk-growers knew what every English schoolboy knows so well—that silkworms thrive upon lettuce leaves, the ordinary substitute, in England, for the mulberry-leaf. Botany, of course, would not suggest such a substitute.—B. M.↑15Souvenirs,III., pp. 297–299.↑

CHAPTER XVIITHE COLLABORATORS

“M. Fabre’s life-story is one of the finest that could be related,” said M. Laffite lately, in a leading article inLa 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.”1Such, 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[254]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.”2Fabre 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[255]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[256]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 hisSouvenirs; the mind of an ardent and passionately interested but precise observer, a mind open to every emotion,”3and 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?[257]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 Emile4rivalling 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[258]their father’s entomological desires. For example, his son Emile sends him from the neighbourhood of Marseilles a nest of resin-working Hymenoptera.5His 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!”6This 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[259]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,7Marie Pauline,8and 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[260]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 theharmas, 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[261]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[262]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.9How could the news of the joyful event have reached them? No doubt by some mysterious[263]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[264]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!”10This 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[265]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 andtutti 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[266]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.”11The 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[267]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,12so 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[268]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[269]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.13There 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[270]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[271]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[272]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.14One 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,[273]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.15Science 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.[274]

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[254]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.”2

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[255]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[256]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 hisSouvenirs; the mind of an ardent and passionately interested but precise observer, a mind open to every emotion,”3and 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?[257]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 Emile4rivalling 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[258]their father’s entomological desires. For example, his son Emile sends him from the neighbourhood of Marseilles a nest of resin-working Hymenoptera.5His 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!”6

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[259]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,7Marie Pauline,8and 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[260]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 theharmas, 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[261]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[262]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.9

Well, on the morning of the 6th of May, a female emerges from her cocoon in my presence, on[261]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[262]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.9

How could the news of the joyful event have reached them? No doubt by some mysterious[263]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[264]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!”10

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[265]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 andtutti 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[266]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.”11

“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.”11

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[267]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,12so 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[268]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[269]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.13

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[268]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[269]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.13

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.)

“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[270]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[271]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[272]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.14One 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,[273]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.15

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[272]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.14One 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,[273]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.15

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.[274]

126th March 1910.↑2E. Perrier,Revue hebdomadaire, October 22, 1910.↑3E. Perrier,loc cit.↑4Souvenirs,I., pp. 304–306, 320;II., pp. 112, 130, 131;III., p. 16;IV., pp. 142, 167, 183;VI., p. 15;VIII., p. 159.↑5Souvenirs,IV., pp. 167–168, 182–183.The Mason Wasps, chap. viii., “The Nest-building Odynerus.”↑6Ibid.,VI., pp. 4, 118–119, 249, 383;VIII., p. 295;X., pp. 15, 86, 112, etc.↑7Souvenirs,I., p. 246;VI., p. 249;VIII., p. 3;X., p. 11, etc.↑8Ibid.,VII., p. 29;VIII., pp. 5, 272;X., pp. 111, 254, etc. For Lucie, his grand-daughter, aged six, seeII., p. 149.↑9Souvenirs,VII., pp. 139–41.The Life of the Caterpillar, chap. xi., “The Great Peacock”; alsoSocial Life in the Insect World, chap. xiv.↑10Souvenirs,X., p. 111.↑11Souvenirs,VII., 360.↑12Souvenirs,V., pp. 43–44.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. iv., “The Sacred Beetle: The Pear.”↑13Souvenirs,V., pp. 27–29.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. i., “The Sacred Beetle.”↑14It is exceedingly curious that neither Fabre nor the silk-growers knew what every English schoolboy knows so well—that silkworms thrive upon lettuce leaves, the ordinary substitute, in England, for the mulberry-leaf. Botany, of course, would not suggest such a substitute.—B. M.↑15Souvenirs,III., pp. 297–299.↑

126th March 1910.↑

2E. Perrier,Revue hebdomadaire, October 22, 1910.↑

3E. Perrier,loc cit.↑

4Souvenirs,I., pp. 304–306, 320;II., pp. 112, 130, 131;III., p. 16;IV., pp. 142, 167, 183;VI., p. 15;VIII., p. 159.↑

5Souvenirs,IV., pp. 167–168, 182–183.The Mason Wasps, chap. viii., “The Nest-building Odynerus.”↑

6Ibid.,VI., pp. 4, 118–119, 249, 383;VIII., p. 295;X., pp. 15, 86, 112, etc.↑

7Souvenirs,I., p. 246;VI., p. 249;VIII., p. 3;X., p. 11, etc.↑

8Ibid.,VII., p. 29;VIII., pp. 5, 272;X., pp. 111, 254, etc. For Lucie, his grand-daughter, aged six, seeII., p. 149.↑

9Souvenirs,VII., pp. 139–41.The Life of the Caterpillar, chap. xi., “The Great Peacock”; alsoSocial Life in the Insect World, chap. xiv.↑

10Souvenirs,X., p. 111.↑

11Souvenirs,VII., 360.↑

12Souvenirs,V., pp. 43–44.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. iv., “The Sacred Beetle: The Pear.”↑

13Souvenirs,V., pp. 27–29.The Sacred Beetle and Others, chap. i., “The Sacred Beetle.”↑

14It is exceedingly curious that neither Fabre nor the silk-growers knew what every English schoolboy knows so well—that silkworms thrive upon lettuce leaves, the ordinary substitute, in England, for the mulberry-leaf. Botany, of course, would not suggest such a substitute.—B. M.↑

15Souvenirs,III., pp. 297–299.↑

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