IV
More than ninety years of life and almost as many of labour, nearly five years of overwhelming fame, and almost as many of unspeakable suffering: must not a man be “built of heart of oak,” as they say in Aveyron, to survive so many trials?
Like the oaks of his native parts, the patriarch of Sérignan continued to brave the assaults of time, and even when he began to feel that his life was declining, it seemed as though it was only withdrawing itself from its long and manifold ramifications in the external world to take refuge, as in an inexpugnable asylum, in the depths and roots of his being. He was one of those of whom people say with us that they “cannot die.”
Fabre’s work is immortal—that is agreed. But the artisan?
Let us resume our comparison. Like the oak that loses its boughs, one after the other, he saw falling one by one the several factors of his life. His life was the harmas, that paradise of insects, that laboratory after his own heart, where he could make his observations under the blue sky, to the song of the [[387]]Cicadæ, amid the thyme, lavender, and rosemary. Now he was seen there no longer; hardly were the traces of his footsteps yet visible through the untrimmed boughs that crossed the paths and the grass that was invading them.
His life: it was his study, his museum of natural history, his laboratory, where, with closed doors, face to face with Nature, he repeated, in order to perfect them, to consign them to writing, his open-air researches, his observations of the to-day or yesterday. Now he no longer sets foot in it, and now one saw—with what respect and tenderness—only the marks left by his footsteps upon the tiled floor, as he came and went about the big observation-table, which occupies all the middle of the room, in pursuit of the solution of the problems propounded by his insects.
And we have a feeling that we are looking upon, and handling, relics, when on this table we still see the pocket-lenses, the microscopes and modest apparatus which has served for his experiments. And we have the same feeling before the collections in the glass-topped cases of polished pine which stand against the whitewashed walls, and before the hundred and twenty volumes of [[388]]the magnificent herbarium which stand in a row beneath them, and before the innumerable portfolios of mycological plates, in which vivid colour is blended so well with delicacy of drawing, and before the registers and stacks of notes in fine, clear handwriting, without erasures, which promised a fresh series of Souvenirs.
Must they be left thus abandoned previous to their being dispersed or falling into other hands—all these precious fragments of an incomparable life, and these venerable premises, consecrated by such rare memories?
The great naturalist’s disciples could not resign themselves to the thought, and by a touching inspiration of filial piety they have found the means to secure these treasures, as by a love stronger than death, against this harrowing dispersal.
To keep the dead in their last dwelling, or attract them thither, the ancient Egyptians used to place there the image of their earthly dwelling, offering them at least a reduced facsimile of their life’s environment, of the objects and premises which had in some sort made part of their life and their soul.
Fabre’s friends sought to do still better. In order to preserve it in its integrity, they [[389]]determined to acquire the Harmas, with its plantations, its collections, and all its dependencies, and in order to make their homage as complete as possible they made, with this object, an appeal for international subscriptions, which were unhappily interrupted by the war.
“This is the museum which we wish to dedicate to him,” said the chief promoter of this pious undertaking,[12] “so that in after years, when the good sage who knew the language of the innumerable little creatures of the country-side shall rest beneath the cypresses of his harmas, at the foot of the laurestinus bushes, amidst the thyme and the sage that the bees will still rifle, all those whom he has taught, all those whom he has charmed, may feel that something of his soul still wanders in his garden and animates his house.”
However, the soul of the “good sage” which they thus sought to capture and hold here on earth—in short, to imprison in his work and its environment—made its escape and took flight toward loftier regions and wider horizons.
To see him in the twilight of the dining-room [[390]]where he silently finished his life, majestically leaning back in his arm-chair, with his best shirt and old-fashioned necktie, his eyes still bright in his emaciated face, his lips fine and still mobile, but thin with age and at moments trembling with emotion, or moved by a sudden inspiration—to see him thus, would you not say that he was still observing? Yes, but his observations are now of an invisible world, a world even richer in mysteries and revelations than the world below, so patiently explored for more than fifty years.
One day, when two professors of the Grand-Séminaire de Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux[13] had come to see him, as the time drew near to bid them good-bye, the old man held out his hands and tucked them under their arms, and, not without difficulty, rose from his arm-chair, and arm-in-arm with them advanced, tile by tile, to the threshold of the house, whither he had determined to accompany them. Suddenly, pressing their arms more closely and alluding to their cassocks and their vocation, he said, energetically: “You have chosen the better part”; and, holding them back for a last word, he [[391]]added: “Life is a horrible phantasmagoria. But it leads us to a better future.”
This future the naturalist liked to conceive in accordance with the images familiar to his mind, as being a more complete understanding of the great book of which he had deciphered only a few words, as a more perfect communion with the offices of nature, in the incense of the perfumes “that are softly exhaled by the carven flowers from their golden censers,” amid the delightful symphonies in which are mingled the voices of crickets and Cicadæ, chaffinches and siskins, skylarks and goldfinches, “those tiny choristers,” all singing and fluttering, “trilling their motets to the glory of Him who gave them voice and wings on the fifth day of Genesis.”[14]
This last passage might be underlined, for now more than ever, in our thoughts of this scientist, of whom it has been said that “with a taste for Nature he has given us an appreciation of God,” the work cannot be divorced from the artisan without the grossest inconsistency.
One who had the good fortune to become intimate with Fabre during the last days of his life tells how eagerly the naturalist [[392]]used to accept the wild flowers which he brought in from his walks, how tenderly he would caress them with his frail fingers and brilliant eyes. Both looks and gestures expressed an infinite admiration for the pure and simple work of Nature as God has ordained it:
“And when one evening,” says his friend, “I remarked that these little miracles clearly proved the existence of a divine Artificer: ‘For me, I do not believe in God’ declared the scientist, repeating for the last time his famous and paradoxical profession of faith: ‘I do not believe in God, because I see Him in all things and everywhere.’ ”
Another day he expressed his firm and profound conviction to the same friend, in a slightly different form. “God is Light!” he said dreamily.—“And you always see Him shining?” “No,” he said suddenly, “God does not shine; He obtrudes Himself.”
The man who thus bows before God has truly attained, on the heights of human knowledge, what we may call with him the threshold of eternal life. To him God sends His angels to open the gates, that he may enter by the straight paths of the Gospel and the Church. [[393]]
After the death of Mme. Fabre in 1912, a nursing Sister of the Congregation of Saint-Roch de Viviers was installed at the Harmas; her name was Sister Adrienne.
The old man appreciated her services so greatly that he was overcome with dejection by the very thought that she might be recalled by her superiors, according to the rule of her Order, after the lapse of a certain period of time. And he would gratefully press her hand when the good Sister sought to relieve his anxiety and inspire him with the hope that she would be allowed to remain in his service till the end of his days.
He found her simplicity, her delicacy, her good nature, and her devotion so delightful that he could not refrain from telling her so plainly in the direct, forcible manner familiar to him: “You are invaluable, Sister; you are admirable. I love religion as you practise it.”
“He has often told me,” she writes, “that when he could not sleep at night, he used to pray, to think of God, and address to Him a prayer which he would himself compose.”
In the spring of 1914 the aged naturalist, who was more than ninety years of age, felt that his strength was failing more perceptibly, [[394]]so that the doctors diagnosed a fatal outcome in the near future.
On receiving the news of this alarming condition, Monseigneur the Archbishop of Avignon hastened to the Harmas. The invalid expressed his delight and gratitude for the visit. Their relations were so cordial that the prelate decided to continue them by a series of admirable letters which have fortunately been published.
In these letters, with great delicacy, Monseigneur Latty avoided all that might run contrary to the naturalist’s opinions, and very gently endeavoured to induce him to die as a Christian.
To draw him more surely to the light that shines from the Cross and the grace which raises the soul above itself, he asks him to recite every evening, in unison with him, the beautiful prayer of the dying Saviour, which he calls “the prayer of the heights,” the height of Golgotha, the height of life: In manus tuus Domine commendo spiritum meum. (Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.)
However, Fabre was not yet at the end of his Calvary. Contrary to the expectation of the doctors, a return of strength enabled him to live to see another Spring, and it needed [[395]]nothing less than the terrible shocks of the tempest unloosed upon Europe to overcome the powers of resistance that had braved so many storms.
During the summer of 1915 his weakness grew more marked, so that there was no hope of many more days of life. The curé of Sérignan having been mobilised, the absence of the priest at this time was a cause of great anxiety to Sister Adrienne—always on the watch for the soul ready to escape her.
Providence happily came to her assistance; and a Breton priest, who had come to the South to recover his health, and had for some time been acquainted with the master, was admitted to terms of intimacy. After some hesitation he decided to speak to the scientist of the Sacrament of Penitence. With that beautiful simplicity of his, and to the astonishment of the priest, Fabre, who seemed expecting the invitation, replied:
“Whenever you will.”
“Purified by absolution, fortified by the Extreme Unction, received, in full consciousness, into the Church, Fabre displayed a wonderful serenity. Pressing the hand of the priest who was officiating, he listened to the recommendation of the soul. And when he [[396]]heard the sacred words that were familiar to him—In manus tuus, Domine—his lips moved as though to pronounce the Amen of supreme acceptance, while his gaze, which was beginning to grow dim, settled upon the Sister’s crucifix.”
It was the 11th October 1915, at six o’clock of the evening, that the great scientist so gently surrendered his soul to God.
The obsequies, celebrated on the 16th October, “were simple and affecting, as he would have liked them to be. For a few moments before leaving the church, the old naturalist’s fine face was again exposed. It reflected an immense serenity. On his peaceful features one divined the satisfaction of the man who is departing with his work accomplished. In his parchment-like hands he clasped a wooden crucifix with ivory tips. Beside his head was a wreath of laurestinus. Beside one arm was his great black felt hat.”
The service was celebrated by the Arch-priest of Orange, in the little church; and then the harsh, rocky soil received the body of him who had so often stooped over it.
This “life of J. H. Fabre told by himself” would not be complete if we did not give here the text of the epitaph which he himself had composed beforehand. It is [[397]]magnificent: it gives one the impression of an unfurling of wings:
“Quos periisse putamus
Præmissi sunt.
Minime finis, sed limen
Vitæ excelsioris.”
Fabre was preceded to the tomb by several months by Mistral, who was seven years his junior. “Very different in an equal fame, these two men are inseparable. Mistral and Fabre both represented Provence; one was born there and never left it, and to some extent created it; the other adopted and was adopted by it, and, like his illustrious compatriot, covered it with glory.”[15]
But while Fabre represented Provence, which saw the unfolding of his rich and vital nature, and while it lavished upon him all the beauty of its sky, all the brilliance of its Latin soul, all the savour of its musical and picturesque language, and all the entomological wealth of its sunny hills, he none the less represents the Rouergue, whence he derived his innate qualities and his earliest habits, his love of nature and the insects, his [[398]]thirst for God and the Beyond, his indefatigable love of work, his tenacious enthusiasm for study, his irresistible craving for solitude, the strange, powerful, striking and picturesque grace of his language, his almost rustic simplicity, his blunt frankness, his proud timidity, his no less proud independence, and with all these the ingenuous and unusual sensitiveness and sincere modesty of his character.
THE END
[1] This chapter was written by the Abbé Fabre especially for the English edition.—B. M. [↑]
[2] This was the pilgrimage of the young girls of the Université des Annales politiques et littéraires. [↑]
[3] The French words are “Cousins,” “Cousines.” Cousin = cousin, good friend, crony.—B. M. [↑]
[4] Jules Clarétie, Jean Richepin, Adolphe Brisson, etc. [↑]
[5] E. Lavisse, quoted by Dr. Legros, op. cit., p. 81. [↑]
[6] M. l’Abbé Germain, ex-curé of Sérignan. [↑]
[8] In Provence, as in Italy, the plaster statues sold by itinerant Italians are known as santi belli = beautiful saints.—B. M. [↑]
[9] The text is from Ecclesiastes, i. 2: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” but Fabre cites it according to the Discours contre Eutrope, in which he had learnt it at school, alluding to the appropriate reflection of Saint John Chrysostom: Ἀεὶ ρεν, ράλιστα Σενπνε ἠχαιρον εἰπεῖν; ματαιότης, etc. (Semper quidem, nunc vero maxime opportunum est dicere: Vanitas, etc.) [↑]
[12] Dr. Legros, Les Annales politiques et littéraires, April 12, 1914. [↑]
[13] The Abbé Joseph Betton and his friend, the Abbé Juiot. [↑]
[14] J. H. Fabre, cited by Dr. Legros. [↑]
[15] E. Laguet, Annales politiques et littéraires, April 6, 1914. [↑]