fabre, poet of science-第26章

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Megachile；　although　it　could　easily　destroy　it；　is　indifferent　to　the

presence　of　a　miserable　midge；　〃the　bandit　who　is　always　there；　meditating

its　crime〃；　the　Bembex；　confronted　with　the　Tachinarius；　cannot　control　its

terror；　but　nevertheless　resigns　itself；　while　squeaking　with　fright。



If　each　creature　is　what　it　is　only　because　it　is　a　necessary　part　of　the

plan　of　the　supreme　Artisan　who　has　constructed　the　universe；　why　have　some

the　right　of　life　and　death　and　others　the　terrible　duty　of　immolation？



Do　not　both　obey；　not　the　gloomy　law　of　carnage；　but　a　kind　of　sovereign

and　exquisite　sacrifice；　some　sort　of　unconscious　idea　of　submission　to　a

superior　and　collective　interest？



This　hypothesis；　which　was　one　day　suggested　to　Fabre　by　a　friend　of　great

intellectual　culture　（11/8。）；　charmed　and　interested　him　keenly。　I　noticed

that　he　was　more　than　usually　attentive；　and　he　seemed　to　me　to　be　suddenly

reassured　and　appeased。　For　him　it　was　as　though　a　faint　ray　of　light　had

suddenly　fallen　among　these　impenetrable　and　distressing　problems。



It　seemed　to　him　that　by　setting　before　our　eyes　the　spectacle　of　so　many

woes；　universally　distributed；　and　doubtless　necessary；　woes　which　do　not

spare　even　the　humblest　of　creatures；　the　Sovereign　Intelligence　intends　to

exhort　us　to　examine　ourselves　truly　and　to　dispose　us　to　greater　love　and

pity　and　resignation。



All　his　work　is　highly　and　essentially　religious；　and　while　he　has　given　us

a　taste　for　nature；　he　has　not　also　endeavoured　to　give　us；　according　to

the　expression　of　Bossuet　〃the　taste　for　God；〃　or　at　least　a　sense　of　the

divine？　In　opposing　the　doctrine　of　evolution；　which　reduces　the　animal

world　to　the　mere　virtualities　of　the　cell；　in　revealing　to　us　all　these

marvels　which　seem　destined　always　to　escape　human　comprehension；　finally；

by　referring　us　more　necessarily　than　ever　to　the　unfathomable　problem　of

our　origins；　Fabre　has　reopened　the　door　of　mystery；　the　door　of　the　divine

Unknown；　in　which　the　religion　of　men　must　always　renew　itself。　We　should

belittle　his　thought；　we　should　dwarf　the　man　himself；　were　we　to　seek　to

confine　to　any　particular　thesis　his　spiritualistic　conception　of　the

universe。



Fabre　recognizes　and　adores　in　nature　only　the　great　eternal　Power；　whose

imprint　is　everywhere　revealed　by　the　phenomena　of　matter。



For　this　reason　he　has　all　his　life　remained　free　from　all　superstition　and

has　been　completely　indifferent　to　dogmas　and　miracles；　which　to　his　mind

imply　not　only　a　profound　ignorance　of　science；　but　also　a　gross　and

complete　miscomprehension　of　the　divine　Intelligence。　He　kneels　upon　the

ground　or　among　the　grasses　only　the　more　closely　to　adore　that　force；　the

source　of　all　order；　the　intuitive　knowledge　of　which；　innate　in　all

creatures；　even　in　the　tiny　immovable　minds　of　animals；　is　merely　a

magnificent　and　gratuitous　gift。　The　office　in　which　he　eagerly

communicates　is　that　glorious　and　formidable　Mass　in　which　the　ragged

sower；　〃noble　in　his　tatters；　a　pontiff　in　shabby　small…clothes；　solemn　as

a　God；　blesses　the　soil；　more　majestic　than　the　bishop　in　his　glory　at

Easter…tide。〃　（11/9。）　It　is　there　that　he　finds　his　〃Ideal；〃　in　the　incense

of　the　perfumes　〃which　are　softly　exhaled　from　the　shapely　flowers；　from

their　censers　of　gold；〃　in　the　heart　of　all　creatures；　〃chaffinch　and

siskin；　skylark　and　goldfinch；　tiny　choristers〃　piping　and　trilling；

〃elaborating　their　motets〃　to　the　glory　of　Him　who　gave　them　voice　and

wings　on　the　fifth　day　of　Genesis。　He　fraternizes　with　all；　with　his　dogs

and　his　cats；　his　tame　tortoise；　and　even　the　〃slimy　and　swollen　frog〃；　the

〃Philosopher〃　of　the　Harmas；　whose　murky　eyes　he　loves　to　interrogate　as　he

paces　his　garden　〃by　the　light　of　the　stars〃；　persuaded　that　all　are

accomplishing　a　useful　work；　and　that　all　creatures；　from　the　humblest

insect　which　has　only　nibbled　a　leaf；　or　displaced　a　few　grains　of　sand；　to

man　himself；　are　anointed　with　the　same　chrism　of　immortality。



And　as　he　has　always　set　the　pleasures　of　study　before　all　others；　he　can

imagine　no　greater　recompense　after　death　than　to　obtain　from　heaven

permission　still　to　continue　in　their　midst；　during　eternity；　his　life　of

labour　and　effort。





CHAPTER　12。　THE　INTERPRETATION　OF　NATURE。



We　have　noted　the　essential　features　of　his　precise　and　unfailing　vision

and　the　value　of　the　documents　which　record　the　work　of　Fabre；　but　the

writer　merits　no　less　attention　than　the　observer　and　the　philosopher。



In　the　domain　of　things　positive；　it　is　not　always　sufficient　to　gather　the

facts；　to　record　them；　and　to　codify　in　bare　formulae　the　results　of

inquiry。　Doubtless　every　essential　discovery　is　able　to　stand　by　itself；　in

what　would　an　inventor　profit；　for　example；　by　raising　himself　to　the　level

of　the　artist？　〃For　the　theorem　lucidity　suffices；　truth　issues　naked　from

the　bottom　of　a　well。〃



But　the　manner　of　speaking；　describing；　and　depicting　is　none　the　less　an

integral　part　of　the　truth　when　it　is　a　matter　of　expounding　and

transmitting　the　latter。　To　express　it　feebly　is　often　to　compromise　it；　to

diminish　it；　and　even　to　betray　it。　There　are　terms　which　say　better　than

others　what　has　to　be　said。　〃Words　have　their　physiognomy；　if　there　are

lifeless　words；　there　are　also　picturesque　and　richly…coloured　words；

comparable　to　the　brush　strokes　which　scatter　flecks　of　light　on　the　grey

background　of　the　picture。〃　There　are　particular　terms　of　expression；

felicities　which　present　things　in　a　better　light；　and　the　writer　must

search　in　his　memory；　his　imagination；　and　his　heart；　for　the　fitting

accent；　for　the　flexibility　of　language　and　the　wealth　of　words　which　are

needful　if　he　would　fully　succeed　in　the　portrayal　of　living　creatures；　if

he　would　tender　the　living　truth；　reproduce　in　all　its　light　and　shade　the

spectacle　of　the　world；　arouse　the　imagination；　and　faithfully　interpret

the　mysterious　spirit　which　impregnates　matter　and　is　reflected　in　thought。



The　artist　then　comes　forward　to　co…ordinate　all　these　scattered　fragments；

to　assemble　them；　to　breathe　vitality　into　them；　to　restore　these　inert

truths　to　life。



But　what　a　strange　manner　of　working　was　Fabre's；　what　a　curious　method　of

composition！　However　full　of　ideas　his　mind　might　be；　he　was　incapable　of

expressing　them　if　he　remained　in　one　place　and　assumed　the　ordinary

preliminary　attitude　of　a　man　preparing　to　write。　Seated　and　motionless；

his　limbs　at　rest；　pen　in　hand；　with　a　blank　page　before　him；　it　seemed　to

him　that　all　his　faculties　became　of　a　sudden　paralysed。　He　must　first　move

about；　activity　helped　him　to　pursue　his　ideas；　it　was　in　action　that　he

recovered　his　ardour　and　uncovered　the　sources　of　inspiration。　Just　as　he

never　observed　without　enthusiasm；　so　he　found　it　impossible　to　write

without　exaltation；　and　it　was　precisely　because　he　so　ardently　loved　the

truth　that　he　felt　himself　compelled　to　show　it　in　all　its　beauty。



Moving　like　a　circus…horse　about　the　great　table　of　his　laboratory；　he

would　begin　to　tramp　indefatigably　round　and　round；　so　that　his　steps　have

worn　in　the　tiles　of　the　floor　an　ineffaceable　record　of　the　concentric

track　in　which　they　moved　incessantly　for　thirty　years。



His　mind　would　grow　clear　and　active　as　he　walked；　smoking　his　pipe　and

〃using　his　marrow…bones。〃　（12/1。）　He　was　already　at　work；　he　was

〃hammering〃　his　future　chapters　in　his　brain；　for　the　idea　would　be　all　the

more　precise　as　the　form　was　more　finished　and　more　irreproachable；　more

closely　identified　with　the　thought；　he　would　wait　until　the　word　quivered；

palpitated；　and　lived；　until　the　transcription　was　no　longer　an　illusion；　a

phantom；　a　vision　devoid　of　reality；　but　a　faithful　echo；　a　sincere

translation；　a　finished　interpretation；　reflecting　entire　the　fundamental

essence　of　the　thing；　in　a　word；　a　work　of　art；　a　parallel　to　nature。



Then　only　would　he　sit　before　the　little　walnut…wood　table　〃spotted　with

ink　and　scarred　with　knife…cuts；　just　big　enough　to　hold　the　inkstand；　a

halfpenny　bottle；　and　his　open　notebook〃：　that　same　little　table　at　which；

in　other　days；　by　force　of　meditation；　he　achieved　his　first　degrees。



Then　he　would　begin　to　write；　〃his　pen　dipped　not　in　ink　only〃　but　in　his

heart's　blood　（12/2。）；　first　of　all　in　ordinary　ruled　notebooks　bound　in

black　cloth；　in　which　he　noted；　day　by　day；　hour　by　hour；　the　observations

of　every　moment；　the　results　of　his　experiments；　together　with　his　thoughts

and　reflections。　Little　by　little　those　documents　would　come　together　which

elucidated　and　completed　one　another；　and　at　last　the　book　was　written。

These　notebooks；　these　copious　records；　are　remarkable　for　the　regularity

of　the　writing　and　the　often　impeccable　finish　of　the　first　draught。

Although　here　and　there　the　same　data　are　transcribed　several　times　in

succession；　and　each　time　struck　through　with　a　vigorous　stroke　of　the　pen；

there　are　whole　pages；　and　many　pages　together；　without　a　single　erasure。

The　handwriting；　excessively　smallone　might　think　it　had　been　traced　by

the　feet　of　a　flybecomes　in　later　years　so　minute　that　one　almost　needs　a

magnifying　glass　to　decipher　it。



These　notebooks　are　not　the　final　manuscript。　The　entomologist　would　write

a　new　and　more　perfect　copy　on　loose　sheets　of　paper；　making　one　draught

after　another；　patiently　fashioning　his　style　and　polishing　his　work；

although　many　passages　were　included　without　revision　as　they　were　written

in　the　first　instance。



The　greatest　magician　of　modern　letters；　versed　in　all　the　artifices　of　the

French　language；　speaking　one　day　of　Fabre　and　his　writings；　made　in　my

hearing　the　assertion　that　he　was　not；　properly　speaking；　an　artist。　He

might　well　be　a　great　naturalist；　a　veteran　of　science；　an　observer　of

genius；　but　he　was　by　no　means　and　would　never　be　a　writer　according　to　the

canons　of　the　craft。



But　how　many　others；　like　him；　in　their　time　regarded　as　〃pitiable　in

respect　of　their　language；〃　charm　us　to…day；　simply　because　they　were

gifted　with　imagination　and　the　power　of　giving　life　to　their　work！　（12/3。）



To　tell　the　truth；　Fabre　is　absolutely　careless　of　all　literary　procedure；

and　solely　preoccupied　with　bringing　his　style　into　harmony　with　his

thoughts；　he　is　not　in　the　least　a　manufacturer　of　literary　phrases。　There

is　no　trace　of　artistic　writing　in　his　books；　and　it　is　only　his　manner　of

feeling　and　of　expressing　himself　that　makes　him　so　dear　to　us。



What　touches　us　in　him　is　the　accent；　the　simplicity；　the　measure；　the　good

sense；　and　the　perfect　equilibrium　of　each　of　these　pages：　simple；　often

commonplace；　even　incorrect　or　trivial；　but　so　alive；　so　human；　that　the

blood　seems　to　flow　in　them。　It　is　the　lover　in　Fabre　that　draws　us　to　him；

nothing　quite　like　his　work　has　been　seen　since　the　days　of　Jean　de　La

Fontaine。



He　has　l