fabre, poet of science-第40节

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harmonious　only　thus；　by　the　concourse　of　dissimilarities。〃　（15/14。）



And　what　a　puerile　Utopia；　what　a　disappointing　illusion　is　that　of

communism！　Let　us　see　under　what　conditions；　at　the　price　of　what

sacrifices；　nature　here　and　there　realizes　it。



Among　the　bees　〃twenty　thousand　renounce　maternity　and　devote　themselves　to

celibacy　to　raise　the　prodigious　family　of　a　single　mother。〃



Among　the　ants；　the　wasps；　the　termites　〃thousands　and　thousands　remain

incomplete　and　become　humble　auxiliaries　of　a　few　who　are　sexually　gifted。〃



Would　you　by　chance　reduce　man　to　the　life　of　the　Processional

caterpillars；　content　to　nibble　the　pine…needles　among　which　they　live；　and

which；　satisfied　to　march　continually　along　the　same　tracks；　find　within

reach　an　abundant；　easy；　and　idle　subsistence？　All　have　the　same　size；　the

same　strength；　the　same　aptitudes。　No　initiative。　〃What　one　does　the　others

do；　with　equal　zeal；　neither　better　nor　worse。〃　On　the　other　hand；　there　is

〃no　sex；　no　love。〃　And　what　would　be　a　society　in　which　there　was　no　work

done　for　pleasure　and　from　which　love　and　the　family　were　banished？　What

would　be　the　effect　upon　its　progress；　its　welfare；　its　happiness？　Would

not　all　that　make　the　charm　of　life　disappear　for　good？　However　imperfect

our　present　society　may　be；　however　mysterious　its　destinies；　it　is　not　in

socialism　that　Fabre　foresees　the　perfection　of　future　humanity；　for　to　him

the　true　humanity　does　not　as　yet　exist；　it　is　making　its　way；　it　is　slowly

progressing；　and　in　this　evolution　he　wishes　with　all　his　heart　to　believe。

Modern　humanity　is　as　yet　only　a　shapeless　grimacing　caricature；　and　its

life　is　like　a　play　written　by　madmen　and　played　by　drunken　actors；

according　to　those　profound　words　of　the　great　poet；　with　which　his　mind　is

in　some　sort　imbued；　which　he　often　repeats；　and　which　he　has　transcribed

at　the　head　of　one　of　his　last　records　as　an　epigraph　and　a　constant

reminder。



And　you　who　groan　over　the　distressing　problem　of　depopulation；　lend　an　ear

to　the　lesson　of　the　Copris；　〃which　trebles　its　customary　batch　of

offspring　in　times　of　abundance；　and　in　times　of　dearth　imitates　the

artisan　of　the　city　who　has　only　just　enough　to　live　on；　or　the　bourgeois；

whose　numerous　wants　are　more　and　more　costly　to　satisfy；　limiting　the

number　of　its　offspring　lest　they　should　go　in　want；　often　reducing　the

number　of　its　children　to　a　single　one。〃　（15/15。）



Instead　of　running　after　so　many　false　appearances　and　false　pleasures；

learn　to　return　to　simpler　tastes；　to　more　rustic　manners；　free　yourselves

from　a　mass　of　factitious　needs；　steep　yourself　anew　in　the　antique

sobriety；　whose　desires　were　sager；　return　to　the　fields；　the　source　of

abundance；　and　the　earth；　the　eternal　foster…mother！



And　in　this　appeal　to　return　to　nature；　which　perhaps　since　the　time　of

Rousseau　has　never　been　worded　so　eloquently；　Fabre　has　in　view　if　not　the

strong；　the　predestined；　who　are　called　elsewhere；　and　who　are　actuated　by

the　sense　of　great　tasks　to　be　performed；　at　least　all　those　of　rural

origin；　all　those　for　whom　the　love　of　the　family；　the　daily　task；　and　a

peaceful　heart　are　really　the　great　things　of　life；　the　things　that　count；

the　things　that　suffice。



He　himself；　although　he　was　one　of　the　strong；　did　not　care　to　break　any　of

the　ties　that　bound　him　to　his　origins。　Like　the　Osmia；　〃which　retains　a

tenacious　memory　of　its　home；〃　the　beloved　village　of　his　childhood　has

never　been　effaced　from　his　memory；　and　for　a　long　time　the　desire　to　leave

his　bones　there　haunted　him。　His　mind　often　returned　to　it；　he　thought　that

there；　better　than　anywhere　else；　he　would　find　peace；　that　it　would　please

him　to　wander　among　the　rocks；　the　trees；　the　stones　which　he　had　so　loved；

in　the　old　days；　and　that　all　these　things　would　recognize　him　too。



One　day；　however；　when　I　was　begging　him　to　make　up　his　mind　on　this　point…

…it　was　one　of　those　peaceful　evenings　which　are　troubled　under　the　plane…

trees　only　by　the　tinkling　of　the　fountainhe　confided　to　me　that　his

beloved　Sérignan　had　at　last；　in　his　secret　preferences；　obliterated　the

old　longing。　As　he　advanced　in　life；　in　fact；　although　he　never　forgot　his

rude　natal　countryside；　he　felt　that　new　links　were　daily　binding　him　more

closely　to　those　heaths　and　mountains　on　which　his　heart　had　been　so　often

thrilled　with　the　intense　joy　of　discovery；　and　that　it　was　indeed　in　this

soil；　to　him　so　full　of　delight；　amid　its　beautiful　hymenoptera　and

scarabaei；　that　he　would　wish　to　be　buried。



Fabre　is　by　no　means　the　misanthrope　that　some　have　chosen　to　think　him。　He

delights　in　the　society　of　women；　and　knows　how　to　welcome　them　gracefully；

and　more　than　any　one　he　is　sensitive　to　the　pleasant　and　stimulating

impressions　produced　by　the　conversation　of　cultivated　people。



He　is　no　less　fond　of　the　arts；　provided　he　finds　in　them　a　sincere

interpretation　of　life。　This　is　why　the　theatre；　with　its　false　values；　its

tinsel　and　affectation；　has　to　him　seemed　a　gross　deformation　of　the

reality；　ever　since　the　day　when　at　Ajaccio　he　attended　a　performance　of

〃Norma；〃　in　which　the　moon　was　represented　by　a　round　transparent　disc；　lit

from　behind　by　a　lantern　hanging　at　the　end　of　a　string；　whose　oscillation

revealed　by　turns　first　the　luminary　and　then　the　transparency。　This　was

enough　to　disgust　him　for　ever　with　the　theatre　and　the　opera；　whose

motionless　choruses；　contrasting　with　the　sometimes　frantic　movement　of　the

music；　left　him　with　a　memory　of　an　insane　and　illogical　performance。



Nevertheless；　he　adored　music；　of　which　he　knew　something；　having　learned

it；　as　he　learned　his　drawing；　without　a　master；　but　he　preferred　the　naive

songs　of　the　country；　or　the　melody　of　a　flute；　to　the　most　scholarly

concert…music。　（15/16。）　In　the　intimacy　of　the　modest　chamber　which　serves

as　the　family　salon；　with　its　few　shabby　and　old…fashioned　pieces　of

furniture；　he　plays　on　an　indifferent　harmonium　little　airs　of　his　own

composition；　the　subjects　of　which　were　at　first　suggested　by　his　own

poetry。　Like　Rollinat；　Fabre　rightly　considers　that　music　should　complete；

accentuate；　and　release　that　which　poetry　has　perforce　left　incomplete　or

indefinite。　This　is　why　he　makes　the　bise　laugh　and　sing　and　roar；　why　he

imitates　the　organ…tones　of　the　wind　in　the　pines；　and　seeks　to　reproduce

some　of　the　innumerable　rhythms　of　nature；　the　frenzy　of　the　lizard；　the

wriggling　of　the　stickle…back；　the　jumping　gait　of　the　frog；　the　shrill　hum

of　the　mosquito；　the　complaint　of　the　cricket；　the　moving　of　the　Scarabaei；

and　the　flight　of　the　Libellulae。



Too　busy　by　day　to　find　time　for　much　reading；　it　was　at　night　that　he

would　shut　himself　up。　Retiring　early　to　his　little　chamber；　with　bare

walls　and　bare　tile　floor；　and　a　window　opening　to　the　garden；　he　would　lie

on　his　low　bed；　with　curtains　of　green　serge；　and　would　often　read　far　into

the　night。



This　philosopher；　to　whose　books　the　philosophers　of　the　future　will　resort

for　new　theories　and　original　ideas；　refuses　to　have　any　commerce　with

other　philosophers；　disdaining　their　systems　and　preferring　to　go　straight

to　the　facts。　Even　when　he　took　up　Darwin's　〃Origin　of　Species〃　he　did

little　more　than　open　the　book；　so　wearisome　and　uninteresting；　he　told　me；

did　he　find　the　reading　of　it。　On　the　other　hand；　he　is　full　of　the　ancient

philosophers；　and　as　he　did　not　read　them　very　extensively　in　his　youth　and

middle　age；　he　has　returned　to　them　finally　with　love　and　predilection　for

〃these　good　old　books。〃　Unlike　many　thinkers　of　the　day；　he　is　persuaded

that　we　cannot　with　impunity　dispense　with　classic　studies；　and　he　rightly

considers　that　science　and　the　humanities　are　not　rivals；　but　allies。　Above

all　he　has　a　particular　affection　for　Virgil；　one　may　say　that　he　is

steeped　in　his　poetry；　and　he　knows　La　Fontaine　by　heart。　The　style　of　the

latter　is　curiously　like　his　own；　and　Fabre　owns　himself　as　his　disciple；

certainly　La　Fontaine's　is　the　most　active　influence　which　his　work

reveals。　He　has　a　profound　acquaintance　with　Rabelais；　who　was　always　his

〃friend〃　and　who　constantly　crops　up　in　his　conversation　and　his　chance

remarks。



After　these　his　intellectual　foster…parents　have　been　Courrier；　Toussenel；

of　whom　he　is　passionately　fond；　and　Rousseau；　of　whom　he　cares　for　little

but　his　〃Lettres　sur　la　botanique；〃　full　of　such　fresh　impressions；　in

which　we　feel　not　the　literary　man　but　the　〃craftsman〃；　he　also　cherishes

Michelet；　so　full　of　intuition；　although　he　never　handled　actual　things　and

knew　nothing　of　the　practice　of　the　sciences；　not　learned；　but　overflowing

with　love；　his　magic　pen；　his　powers　of　evocation；　and　his　deft　brushwork

delight　Fabre；　despite　the　poverty　and　insufficiency　of　his　fundamental

facts　（15/17。）；　sometimes　Michelet　had　been　his　inspiration。　The　two　do

really　resemble　one　another；　Michelet　was　no　less