CHAPTER II.
COMPASSION.
One day, into the studio of the painter Gros entered a pupil of his, a handsome and careless young man, who had thought it clever to pin to his hat a beautiful butterfly, which, having just been captured, was still struggling painfully. The artist, indignant, broke out into a violent passion. "What, wretch!" he cried, "is this your feeling for the Beautiful? You find an exquisite creature, and can make no better use of it than to crucify and kill it barbarously! Begone, begone, and return here no more! Never again make your appearance in my presence!"
This speech will not surprise those who are acquainted with the great master's vivid sensibility, and his reverence for the Beautiful. What is more astonishing is that an anatomist, a man living with the scalpel always in his hand--Lyonnet--should speak in the same sense, and so speak in reference to insects which are to ordinary observers the least interesting. That able and patient man has opened up, as we know, an entirely new channel for science by his colossal investigation of the willow-grub, from which we learn that the muscular development of the insect is identical with that of the higher animals. Lyonnet congratulates himself that he was able to bring his prolonged labours to a conclusion without killing more than eight or nine individuals of the species he wished to describe.
A noble result of study! In fathoming life by this persevering toil, far from growing coldly indifferent, he became more intensely sympathetic. The minute details of the infinitely little had revealed to him the sources of the keen sensibility which Nature has hidden everywhere. He had found it existing at the bottom of the animal scale, and thus he acquired a due reverence for every form of life.
We are sometimes disquieted, repelled, and dismayed by insects exactly in proportion to our ignorance. Nevertheless almost every species, especially in our European climates, is perfectly harmless. But we suspect the unknown; and we are apt to kill those with which we are not acquainted, by way of acquiring knowledge.
I remember that, one morning in June, about four o'clock, when the sun was already high in the heavens, I was aroused somewhat abruptly, though still much fatigued and very sleepy. I was living in the country, and my chamber, which faced the east, having neither curtain nor shutter, the sun's rays fell full upon my bed. A magnificent drone, I do not know how, had made its way into the room, and joyously fluttered and buzzed in the sunshine. I grew weary of the noise. I arose, and thinking he wished to sally forth, threw open the window. But no; such was not his intention. The morning, though beautiful, was very fresh and damp: he preferred to remain indoors, in a more genial temperature, which dried and warmed him. Without, it was four A.M.; within, it was already noon. He acted precisely as I should have done, and would not depart. Willing to give him time, I left the window open, and returned to my bed; but I could not sleep. The fresh air from without entering into the room, my drone entered further and further, and buzzed about and around. The obstinate and importunate guest excited in me an angry feeling, and I started up, determined to expel him by main force. A handkerchief was my weapon, but undoubtedly I made use of it very unskilfully. I stunned, confused, and frightened the drone; he whirled round and round in a dizzy fit, but thought less than ever of quitting the chamber. My impatience increased: I pursued him with greater, with too great impetuosity. He fell on the window-sill, and rose no more.
* * * * *
Was he dead, or stunned? I would not close the window, thinking that in the latter case the air might revive him, and he would fly away. Meanwhile, by no means satisfied with what I had done, I threw myself on my bed. On the whole, it was his own fault. Why did he not escape? Such was my first reflection; but afterwards I grew more severe in self-judgment, and accused my impatience. So great is the tyranny of man, he can endure nothing. Like all kings, this lord of creation is impetuous, and at the slightest contradiction breaks out into a fury, and kills.
Very beautiful was the morning; fresh, and yet, by degrees, growing almost warm; a happy mixture of temperature, proper to that delightful country and that season of the year: it was Normandy, and the month of June. The peculiar characteristic of this month, distinguishing it from all those that follow, is, that it gives birth to the innocent species which live on vegetable food, but to none of the murderous races which need a living prey,--that it breeds flies, but not spiders. Death has not yet begun, and love reigns everywhere. All these ideas occurred to me, but proved by no means agreeable; for at this blessed, sacred time, when a universal confidence prevails, I had already _killed_: man alone had broken the peace of God. The thought was very bitter. Whether the victim was great or small, mattered but little; the dead was always the dead. And it was without any serious occasion, without provocation, that I had brutally disturbed the sweet harmony of Spring, and spoiled the universal idyl.
While revolving all these thoughts, I glanced occasionally from my bed towards the window, and watched if the drone did not stir a little, if he were really dead. Unhappily he gave not a sign: his immobility was complete.
This lasted for half-an-hour, or about three-quarters; then suddenly--without, so far as I could see, the slightest preliminary movement--my drone arose with a strong and steady flight, and without the slightest hesitancy, as if nothing had befallen him. He passed out into the garden, which by that time was thoroughly warmed and filled with sunshine.
I confess that I found in his escape a happiness and a relief; but as for my drone, he had never lost heart. I perceived that he had thought in his tiny prudence that if, by the least sign, he had betrayed his returning vitality, his executioner would have finished him. Accordingly, he imitated death with wonderful fidelity, waiting until he had quite recovered his strength and breath,--until his wings, dry and warm, were fully ready to carry him away; and then, at one leap, he was off, without saying _adieu_.
* * * * *
It was during a journey in Switzerland,--in the land of the Hallers, the Hubers, and the Bonnets,--that we began to study seriously; no longer contenting ourselves with collections which only displayed the exterior, but determined on examining the inner organs with microscope and scalpel. Then also we committed our first crimes.
I have no need to say that this preoccupation, this emotion--far more dramatic than one would have supposed--interfered with our journey. The sublime, enchanting, and solemn scenes of Switzerland lost, no doubt, their due power over us. But life--suffering life (and we were compelled to make it suffer)--diverted our thoughts. The hymn or eternal epopea of these infinitely great could scarcely vie with the drama of our infinitely little organisms. A fly hid from us the Alps; the agony of a beetle, which was ten days dying, veiled Mont Blanc from our gaze; in the anatomy of an ant we forgot the Jungfrau.
It matters not; for who shall rightly determine what is really great or little? Everything is great, everything important, everything equal in the bosom of nature and the impartiality of universal love. And where is it more perceptible than in the infinite travail of the little organic world on which our eyes were fixed? To lift them towards the mountains, or lower them towards the insects, was one and the same thing.
EXTRACT FROM MADAME MICHELET'S JOURNAL.
"On the 20th of July, a very hot day, but freshened nevertheless by the morning breeze which disported on the lake between Chillon and Clarens, I went out for a walk alone, my husband remaining indoors to write. The sun shot athwart our valleys of the Pays de Vaud, and poured his full splendour on the opposite mountains of Savoy. The lake, already illumined, reflected the sharp ridges of the rocks, whose base, clothed in pastures, lends life and freshness to its borders.
"By-and-by the sun turned, and the scene changed. A warm ray of light penetrated beyond Chillon, the long defile of the Valais, illuminated the pointed Dent du Midi, and coloured in vapour the summit of the remote St. Bernard. But to this scene of glory I preferred the morning hour, when our Montreux reposed in shadow. It was the hour of divine service at its little church, whose terrace, half-way down the slope, propped up by sharp acclivities, wooded, and therefore obscure, pours out the crystal waters on the thirsty vineyards lying below. Beneath the terrace a beautiful mossy grot, glittering with stalactites, preserves a delightful feeling of freshness. The fane above, surrounded by hospitable wooden seats; a small library (a second temple), whence the vine-dressers borrow books; and, finally, a pretty fountain, combine in a graceful little picture, austerely charming. At morning especially, in the half-misty veil which foretokens a day of heat, this beautiful spot has all the effect of a religious thought, concentrating in itself, and yet extended over that immense panorama which the mind embraces, admires, and blesses.
"I frequently resorted thither, ascending the first slope of the mountain, solitary, and enriched with flowers. I took with me a book, and yet I never read. The prospect was too absorbing. Whether the eye ranged afar over the level mirror of the lake, and the rocks of Meillerie, with their forests, meadows, and precipices; or hovered close at hand about the nest of Clarens and the low towers of Chillon; or, finally, returned to the pretty villas, with their green lattices, of our friends the physician and the pastor,[G] in whose company my husband laboured;--I remained there in a kind of dream, and my heart, deeply moved, felt the sweetness of a holy harmony.
[Footnote G: It was our good fortune to reside, while at Montreux--the most beautiful spot on the wide earth--with a very estimable and rare individual, whom I should have thought of Italian or Spanish birth, if I had not known her to be a Genevese, and the sister of the able and enthusiastic historian of Geneva. Next door lived an eminent physician, of simple character, but all the more learned in natural studies.]
"But soon I discovered that I was not utterly alone. Bees, or drones, which had also risen early, were already at work, seeking in the cups of the flowers the honey distilled beneath the dew, penetrating into the depths of the campanulas, or skilfully gliding into the mysterious corolla of the charming Venus's Slipper. Brilliant cicindelas opened the hunt after the gnats, while more unwieldy tribes sought their livelihood at the bottom of the herbage.
"On this day, then, the 20th of July, allowing my glance to fall mechanically at my feet, and withdrawing my eyes for a moment from the too luminous picture, I saw with astonishment a scene which vividly contrasted with this attractive and holy spot,--an atrocious warlike struggle. The insect-giant which we call the stag-beetle, one of the largest of European species, a black shining mass, whose horns bristle with superb crescent-wise pincers, had seized upon a beetle of far inferior size. Nevertheless, the two enemies being equally provided with admirable defensive arms, after the fashion of the corselets, armlets, and cuisses of our ancient knights, the struggle was long and fierce. Both belonged to the murderous race which prey on little insects,--were powerful lords in the habit of devouring their vassals. Whichever had fallen victim in the fray, the Lilliputian people had certainly applauded. However, the blind instinctive movement which leads us, in such cases, to separate the combatants, induced me to interfere; and with the point of my umbrella, skilfully, delicately, and without wounding the two antagonists, I compelled the stronger of the two to release its grasp."
* * * * *
The captive thus secured was, without form of trial, adjudged to undergo our investigations as a punishment for his fratricidal voracity. Our system, however, is not to impale the insect,--a horrible punishment and a pitiful spectacle which has no end; for a month afterwards, ay, and more, you will see the poor transfixed wretches writhing in agony. Ether generally kills them rapidly, and apparently painlessly. Well, then, we _etherized_ our prisoner largely. In a moment he spun round and fell: we thought him finished. An hour or two passed, and lo! he was once more alive, once more upright on trembling feet, and attempting to walk; he fell, and again he rose. But, to tell the truth, his gait was like that of a drunken man. A child would have laughed at it. We had no desire to laugh, being obliged to poison him a second time. A stronger dose was accordingly administered; but in vain,--he came again to himself. It was a curious circumstance; but it certainly seemed as if this kind of intoxication, while weakening and almost paralyzing the faculties of motion, had all the more keenly excited the nerves, and what we may call the amorous faculties. The use he sought to make of his vacillating step and last efforts was to join a female of his species which we had found lying dead, and placed upon the table. He felt her with his palpi and trembling arms. He contrived to turn her over, and tumbled about (very probably he could not see) to assure himself whether she was alive. He would not part from her: one would have sworn that he had undertaken, though dying, to resuscitate the dead. It was a fantastic, a gloomy, and yet, for one who knows at heart that all nature is identical, a touching spectacle.
It afflicted us greatly; we attempted to shorten it by the help of the ether, and to separate this Juliet from her Romeo. But the indomitable male laughed at all our poisons, and dismally dragged himself along. We shut him up in a large box, where he did not die until after a considerable period, and incredibly large doses. His punishment--and, reader, you may justly call it _ours_--endured for fully fifteen days.
This robust, enduring being, with his inextinguishable flame of life, threw us into a prolonged reverie.
On our first dabbling in bloodshed, Nature had wished to show us, and with a master's hand, the strange and unconquerable energy with which she has endowed life. "Love is strong as death." Where do we find this saying? In the Bible. Yes; and it is also the eternal Bible. For what more powerfully consecrates existence, and renders it sympathetic, reverend, and sacred? And how great a pity it is, then, to cut it short at the divine moment when every being has its share of God!
We excused ourselves by saying that this insect, which lives six years in a single night, could have spread its wings beneath the sky but two months longer,--just long enough to perpetuate its race. We deprived it, therefore, of a very little time--a month out of six or seven years.
Yes; but that month was the epoch to which all its life had tended. Previously it had only vegetated; but then, it could really have lived and reigned, powerful and joyous. Long an insect, in that hour it would have become almost a bird, a son of the flower-enamelled earth and the genial light. We had acted like the Parcæ, which delight in cutting the thread of our lives at the very moment of happiness!