This man must be something of a sorcerer, and his science must have something of magic in it, thus to mobilise his wife and children around the burrow of an insect; to keep them there a whole morning without recking of the heat and fatigue, and to bring them to their hands and knees before the apparition of a Dung-beetle.
This magic power of entomology, or let us rather say this demoniacal proselytism of the entomologist in favour of his beloved science, was exerted not only upon his family, but upon all persons liable to be subjected to his influence or capable of serving his projects.
It was upon children that he fixed his choice in the first place. Fabre had always made children so welcome, had always treated them so graciously, that he was assured beforehand of their enthusiastic support of [[265]]his proposals, even if he was not forestalled by their offers of service. Allured by the coin or the slice of bread and jam, or the sugar-plums, and also, we may say, stimulated by the evident good faith of the master, and the delightful drollery of his enterprises, all the juvenile unemployed of Sérignan vie with one another as purveyors to the entomological laboratory. They zealously keep the larder of the Scarabæi supplied, without neglecting that of the Sexton-beetles and tutti quanti. Thanks to them, not a creature in the entomological laboratory goes hungry. The most difficult to provide for have always a well-spread table, although this is not always easy to ensure. One has to allow for the thoughtlessness of children and the hazards of the chase.
But in spite of their heedlessness, and because of their very ingenuousness, there are connections in which the child is an incomparable helper, difficult or even impossible to replace. This Fabre was often to prove.
To continue an investigation into the olfactory faculties of insects a moth is required which is rather rare and difficult to capture. Can he obtain this moth?
Yes, I shall find him; indeed I have him already. A little chap of seven, with a wide-awake [[266]]face that doesn’t get washed every day, bare feet and a pair of tattered breeches held up by a bit of string, a boy who comes regularly to supply the house with turnips and tomatoes, arrives one morning carrying his basket of vegetables. After the few sous due to his mother for the greens have been counted one by one into his hand, he produces from his pocket something which he found the day before, beside a hedge, while picking grass for the rabbits:
“And what about this?” he asks, holding the thing out to me. “What about this? Will you have it?”
“Yes, certainly, I’ll have it. Try and find me some more, as many as you can, and I’ll promise you plenty of rides on the roundabout on Sunday. Meanwhile, my lad, here’s a penny for you. Don’t make a mistake when you give in your accounts; put it somewhere where you won’t mix it up with the turnip-money.”[11]
The precious discovery was none other than the cocoon from which would presently emerge the desired Moth, vainly sought after during twenty years’ residence in Sérignan.
Of all children Fabre must have had a weakness for the most rustic specimens; for those who, by virtue of their situation and by inclination, lived more nearly in contact [[267]]with Nature and the animal creation. If they are ever so little wide-awake, they are at once, for him, friends whose society he seeks and helpers whose assistance he appreciates. Such is the “young shepherd, a friend of the household,” who is without a peer in catching the pill-rolling beetles,[12] so greatly does he excel in profiting by the truly exceptional advantages which the pastoral calling offers from this point of view.
In such company insect-hunting is so engaging and profitable that our naturalist decides to accompany him. Among these memorable mornings there is one which deserves particular mention, for it was truly a historic occasion:
The young shepherd who had been told in his spare time to watch the doings of the Sacred Beetle came to me in high spirits, one Sunday in the latter part of June, to say that he thought the time had come to begin our investigations. He had detected the insect issuing from the ground, had dug at the spot where it made its appearance, and had found, at no great depth, the queer thing which he was bringing me.
Queer it was, and calculated to upset the little that I thought I knew. In shape it was exactly like a tiny pear that had lost all its fresh colour [[268]]and turned brown in rotting. What could this curious object be, this pretty plaything that seemed to have come from a turner’s workshop? Was it made by human hands? Was it a model of the fruit of the pear-tree intended for some children’s museum? One would say so.
The shepherd was at his post by daybreak. I joined him on some slopes that had been lately cleared of their trees, where the hot summer sun, which strikes with such force on the back of one’s neck, could not reach us for two or three hours. In the cool morning air, with the sheep browsing under Sultan’s care, the two of us started on our search.
A Sacred Beetle’s burrow is soon found: you can tell it by the fresh little mound of earth above it. With a vigorous turn of the wrist, my companion digs away with the little pocket-trowel which I have lent him. Incorrigible earthscraper that I am, I seldom set forth without this light but serviceable tool. While he digs I lie down, the better to see the arrangement and furniture of the cellar which we are unearthing, and I am all eyes. The shepherd uses the trowel as a lever and, with his other hand, holds back and pushes aside the soil.
Here we are! A cave opens out, and, in the moist warmth of the yawning vault, I see a splendid pear lying full-length upon the ground. No, I shall not soon forget this first revelation of the Scarab’s maternal masterpiece. My excitement could have been no greater had I been an archæologist digging among the ancient relics of Egypt [[269]]and lighting upon the sacred insect of the dead, carved in emerald, in some Pharaonic crypt. O ineffable moment, when truth suddenly shines forth! What other joys can compare with that holy rapture! The shepherd was in the seventh heaven; he laughed in response to my smile and was happy in my gladness.[13]