The incident is worth recording: it is all [[170]]the more delightful in that Fabre, instead of thrusting himself forward, sought rather to draw back, seeming more anxious to avoid than to recommend himself for administrative favours.
The chief inspectors visited our grammar-school. These personages travel in pairs: one attends to literature, the other to science. When the inspection was over and the books checked, the staff was summoned to the principal’s drawing-room, to receive the parting admonitions of the two luminaries. The man of science began. I should be sadly put to it to remember what he said. It was cold professional prose, made up of soulless words which the hearer forgot once the speaker’s back was turned, words merely boring to both. I had heard enough of these chilly sermons in my time; one more of them could not hope to make an impression on me.
The inspector in literature spoke next. At the first words which he uttered, I said to myself:
“Oho! This is a very different business!”
The speech was alive and vigorous and imageful; indifferent to scholastic commonplaces, the ideas soared, hovering gently in the serene heights of a kindly philosophy. This time, I listened with pleasure; I even felt stirred. Here was no official homily: it was full of impassioned zeal, of words that carried you with them, uttered by an honest man accomplished in the art of speaking, an orator [[171]]in the true sense of the word. In all my school experience, I had never had such a treat.
When the meeting broke up my heart beat faster than usual:
“What a pity,” I thought, “that my side, the science side, cannot bring me into contact, some day, with that inspector! It seems to me that we should become great friends.”
I inquired his name of my colleagues, who were always better-informed than I. They told me it was Victor Duruy.
Well, one day, two years later, as I was looking after my Saint-Martial laboratory in the midst of the steam from my vats, with my hands the colour of boiled lobster-claws from constant dipping in the indelible red of my dyes, there walked in, unexpectedly, a person whose features straightway seemed familiar. I was right; it was the very man, the chief-inspector whose speech had once stirred me. M. Duruy was now Minister of Public Instruction. He was styled “Your Excellency”; and this style, usually an empty formula, was well-deserved in the present case, for our new minister excelled in his exalted functions. We all held him in high esteem. He was the workers’ minister, the man for the humble toiler.
“I want to spend my last half-hour at Avignon with you,” said my visitor with a smile. “That will be a relief from the official bowing and scraping.”
Overcome by the honour paid me, I apologised for my costume—I was in my short-sleeves—and [[172]]especially for my lobster-claws, which I had tried, for a moment, to hide behind my back.
“You have nothing to apologise for. I came to see the worker. The working-man never looks better than in his overall, with the marks of his trade on him. Let us have a talk. What are you doing just now?”
I explained, in a few words, the object of my researches; I showed my product; I executed under the minister’s eyes a little attempt at printing in madder-red. The success of the experiment and the simplicity of my apparatus, in which an evaporating dish, maintained at boiling-point under a glass funnel, took the place of a steam-chamber, caused him some surprise.
“I will help you,” he said. “What do you want for your laboratory?”
“Why, nothing, Monsieur le Ministre, nothing! With a little application, the plant I have is ample.”
“What, nothing! You are unique there! The others overwhelm me with requests; their laboratories are never well enough supplied. And you, poor as you are, refuse my offers!”
“No, there is one thing which I will accept.”
“What is that?”
“The signal honour of shaking you by the hand.”
“There you are, my friend, with all my heart. But that’s not enough. What else do you want?”
“The Paris Jardin des Plantes is under your [[173]]control. Should a crocodile die, let them keep the hide for me. I will stuff it with straw and hang it from the ceiling. Thus adorned, my workshop will rival the wizard’s den.”
The minister cast his eyes round the nave and glanced up at the Gothic vault:
“Yes, it would look very well.” And he gave a laugh at my sally. “I now know you as a chemist,” he continued. “I knew you already as a naturalist and a writer. I have heard about your little animals. I am sorry that I shall have to leave without seeing them. They must wait for another occasion. My train will be starting presently. Walk with me to the station, will you? We shall be alone and we can chat a bit more on the way.”
We strolled along, discussing entomology and madder. My shyness had disappeared. The self-sufficiency of a fool would have left me dumb; the fine frankness of a lofty mind put me at my ease. I told him of my experiments in natural history, of my plans for a professorship, of my fight with harsh fate, my hopes and fears. He encouraged me, spoke to me of a better future. We reached the station and walked up and down outside, talking away delightfully.
A poor old woman passed, all in rags, her back bent by age and years of work in the fields. She furtively put out her hand for alms. Duruy felt in his waistcoat, found a two-franc piece, and placed it in the outstretched hand; I wanted to add a couple of sous as my contribution, but my pockets were [[174]]empty, as usual. I went to the beggar-woman and whispered in her ear:
“Do you know who gave you that? It’s the Emperor’s minister.”
The poor woman started; and her astounded eyes wandered from the open-handed swell to the piece of silver and from the piece of silver to the open-handed swell. What a surprise! What a windfall!
“Que lou bou Diéu ié done longo vido e santa, pécaïre!” she said in her cracked voice.
And, curtseying and nodding, she withdrew, still staring at the coin in the palm of her hand.
“What did she say?” asked Duruy.
“She wished you long life and health.”
“And pécaïre?”
“Pécaïre is a poem in itself: it sums up all the gentler passions.”
And I myself mentally repeated the artless vow. The man who stops so kindly when a beggar puts out her hand has something better in his soul than the mere qualities that go to make a minister.
We entered the station, still alone, as promised, and I quite without misgivings. Had I but foreseen what was going to happen, how I should have hastened to take my leave! Little by little a group formed in front of us. It was too late to fly: I had to screw up my courage. Came the general of division and his officers, came the prefect and his secretary, the mayor and his deputy, the school-inspector and the pick of the staff. The minister faced the ceremonial semicircle. I stood next to [[175]]him. A crowd at one side, we two on the other. Followed the regulation spinal contortions, the empty obeisances which my dear Duruy had come to my laboratory to forget. When bowing to St. Roch,[3] in his corner niche, the worshipper at the same time salutes the saint’s humble companion. I was something like St. Roch’s dog in the presence of those honours which did not concern me. I stood and looked on, with my awful red hands concealed behind my back, under the broad brim of my felt hat.
After the official compliments had been exchanged, the conversation began to languish; and the minister seized my right hand and gently drew it from the mysterious recesses of my wideawake:
“Why don’t you show those gentlemen your hands?” he said. “Most people would be proud of them.”
I vainly protested with a jerk of the elbow. I had to comply, and I displayed my lobster-claws.
“Workman’s hands,” said the prefect’s secretary. “Regular workman’s hands.”
The general, almost scandalised at seeing me in such distinguished company, added:
“Hands of a dyer and cleaner.”
“Yes, workman’s hands,” retorted the minister, “and I wish you many like them. Believe me, they will do much to help the chief industry of your [[176]]city. Skilled as they are in chemical work, they are equally capable of wielding the pen, the pencil, the scalpel, and the lens. As you here seem unaware of it, I am delighted to inform you.”
This time I should have liked the ground to open and swallow me up. Fortunately the bell rang for the train to start. I said good-bye to the minister and, hurriedly taking to flight, left him laughing at the trick which he had played me.
The incident was noised about, could not help being so, for the peristyle of a railway station keeps no secrets. I then learnt to what annoyances the shadow of the great exposes us. I was looked upon as an influential person, having the favour of the gods at my entire disposal. Place-hunters and canvassers tormented me. One wanted a licence to sell tobacco and stamps, another a scholarship for his son, another an increase of his pension. I had only to ask and I should obtain, said they.
O simple people, what an illusion was yours! You could not have hit upon a worse intermediary. I figuring as a postulant! I have many faults, I admit, but that is certainly not one of them. I got rid of the importunate people as best I could, though they were utterly unable to fathom my reserve. What would they have said had they known of the minister’s offers with regard to my laboratory and my jesting reply, in which I asked for a crocodile-skin to hang from my ceiling! They would have taken me for an idiot.
Six months elapsed; and I received a letter summoning me to call upon the minister at his office. I [[177]]suspected a proposal to promote me to a more important grammar-school, and wrote begging that I might be left where I was, among my vats and my insects. A second letter arrived, more pressing than the first and signed by the minister’s own hand. This letter said:
“Come at once, or I shall send my gendarmes to fetch you.”
There was no way out of it. Twenty-four hours later I was in M. Duruy’s room. He welcomed me with exquisite cordiality, gave me his hand and, taking up a number of the Moniteur:
“Read that,” he said. “You refused my chemical apparatus; but you won’t refuse this.”
I looked at the line to which his finger pointed. I read my name in the list of the Legion of Honour. Quite stupid with surprise, I stammered the first words of thanks that entered my head.
“Come here,” said he, “and let me give you the accolade. I will be your sponsor. You will like the ceremony all the better if it is held in private, between you and me: I know you!”
He pinned the red ribbon to my coat, kissed me on both cheeks, made me telegraph the great event to my family. What a morning, spent with that good man!
I well know the vanity of decorative ribbonry and tinware, especially when, as too often happens, intrigue degrades the honour conferred; but, coming as it did, that bit of ribbon is precious to me. It is a relic, not an object for show. I keep it religiously in a drawer. [[178]]
There was a parcel of big books on the table, a collection of the reports on the progress of science drawn up for the International Exhibition of 1867, which had just closed.
“Those books are for you,” continued the minister. “Take them with you. You can look through them at your leisure: they may interest you. There is something about your insects in them. You’re to have this too: it will pay for your journey. The trip which I made you take must not be at your own expense. If there is anything over, spend it on your laboratory.”
And he handed me a roll of twelve hundred francs. In vain I refused, remarking that my journey was not so burdensome as all that; besides, his embrace and his bit of ribbon were of inestimable value compared with my disbursements. He insisted:
“Take it,” he said, “or I shall be very angry. There’s something else: you must come to the Emperor with me to-morrow, to the reception of the learned societies.”
Seeing me greatly perplexed, and as though demoralised by the prospect of an imperial interview:
“Don’t try to escape me,” he said, “or look out for the gendarmes of my letter! You saw the fellows in the bear-skin caps on your way up. Mind you don’t fall into their hands. In any case, lest you should be tempted to run away, we will go to the Tuileries together in my carriage.”
Things happened as he wished. The next day, in [[179]]the minister’s company, I was ushered into a little drawing-room at the Tuileries by chamberlains in knee-breeches and silver-buckled shoes. They were queer people to look at. Their uniforms and their stiff gait gave them the appearance, in my eyes, of Beetles who, by way of wingcases, wore a great, gold-laced dress-coat, with a key in the small of the back. There were already a score of persons from all parts waiting in the room. These included geographical explorers, botanists, geologists, antiquaries, archæologists, collectors of prehistoric flints, in short, the usual representatives of provincial scientific life.
The Emperor entered, very simply dressed, with no parade about him beyond a wide, red, watered-silk ribbon across his chest. No sign of majesty, an ordinary man, round and plump, with a large moustache and a pair of half-closed drowsy eyes. He moved from one to the other, talking to each of us for a moment as the minister mentioned our names and the nature of our occupations. He showed a fair amount of information as he changed his subject from the ice-floes of Spitsbergen to the dunes of Gascony, from a Carlovingian charter to the flora of the Sahara, from the progress in beetroot-growing to Cæsar’s trenches before Alesia. When my turn came, he questioned me upon the hypermetamorphosis of the Meloidæ, my last essay in entomology. I answered as best I could, floundering a little in the proper mode of address, mixing up the everyday monsieur with sire, a word whose use was so utterly new to me. I passed [[180]]through the dread straits, and others succeeded me. My five minutes’ conversation with an imperial majesty was, they say, a most distinguished honour. I am quite ready to believe them, but I never had a desire to repeat it.
The reception came to an end, bows were exchanged, and we were dismissed. A luncheon awaited us at the minister’s house. I sat on his right, not a little embarrassed by the privilege: on his left was a physiologist of great renown. Like the others, I spoke of all manner of things, including even Avignon Bridge. Duruy’s son, sitting opposite me, chaffed me pleasantly about the famous bridge on which everybody dances;[4] he smiled at my impatience to get back to the thyme-scented hills and the grey olive-yards rich in Grasshoppers.
“What!” said his father. “Won’t you visit our museums, our collections? There are some very interesting things there.”
“I know, Monsieur le Ministre, but I shall find better things, things more to my taste, in the incomparable museum of the fields.”
“Then what do you propose to do?”
“I propose to go back to-morrow.”
I did go back, I had had enough of Paris: never had I felt such tortures of loneliness as in that [[181]]immense whirl of humanity. To get away, to get away was my one idea.[5]
In re-reading this curious and attractive episode of Fabre’s career, our mind was haunted by the no less attractive memory of another illustrious son of our Aveyron, which shares his glory with Provence.[6]
Like the author of the Souvenirs entomologiques, the writer of the Poésie des Bêtes is the son of humble Aveyron peasants, who raised himself by his own efforts from the first to the second grade of school teachers, and whose genius, like that of Fabre, faithful to the environment in which he was born, confines itself, with jealous care, like that of the naturalist, to the “incomparable museum of the fields,” which he describes with the same clearness of vision and the same sincerity of feeling.
Like Fabre, Fabié is a modest man, who does not readily emerge from the obscurity in which his native timidity delights. In his case again it needed the perspicacity and kindliness of Duruy, “the champion of the [[182]]modest and the laborious,” to single him out and drag him out of his hole; just as, at the present time, a Parisian publicist, of whom his fine talents have made a conquest, has truly remarked, it needed the energetic intervention of his friends to give his poetic genius the supreme consecration reserved for the works of our most eminent writers: “Thank heaven, the author of the Poésie des Bêtes and Bonne Terre has friends who admire the poet as greatly as they esteem the man, and if M. François Fabié cannot make up his mind to emerge from the obscurity in which he has only too long, indeed always, enveloped himself, I venture to hope that they will not hesitate to take him by the shoulders and bring him out into the broad light of day, and that they will then propel him willy-nilly across the Pont des Arts at the end of which rises the dome of the illustrious Forty.”[7]
One might say the same of Fabre. Some one should have taken him, too, by the shoulders and pushed him forcibly across the Pont des Arts, and should then have kept his eyes upon him until he reached his destination, lest he should turn aside and fly for the Pont d’Avignon, for we must not forget that Duruy [[183]]and his gendarmes, although they were capable of making him come to Paris, were incapable of keeping him there.
Fortunately Fabre’s work is not of the kind that needs, for its survival, the factitious glitter of honours. By its own merit it assures his name of an immortality greater than that of the Immortal Forty.
There were three men, at this period of Fabre’s life, who contributed not a little to kindle or revive the fires of his scientific activity. Dufour’s essays furnished the spark that made the inward flame burst into a magnificent blaze of light. Experience and the example of Pasteur added fuel to the fire, by teaching him to keep as far as possible in close contact with nature. Duruy’s good will brought to this blaze the vivifying breath without which all ardour becomes chilled and all light extinguished.
But genius does not merely develop under the impulse of the inner life, and the influence of the external life, which in some men is more potent and more active; it is determined also by the pressure of events, of which the most painful are not always the least effectual. Who does not know that famous line of Musset’s, which has almost become a proverb: [[184]]
“L’homme est un apprenti, la douleur est son maître.”