There was truly good reason for the naturalist and his young friend to exult. Henri Fabre had just discovered what he had vainly been seeking for more than thirty years. He now knew the secret of the Sacred Beetle’s nest; he knew that the loaf of the future nursling was not in the least like that which the insect rolls along the ground for its own use. He was now in a position to correct the error of centuries which he himself had accepted on the word of the masters. And thanks to whom? Thanks to a shepherd barely “brightened by a little reading” who had acted as his assistant. The poet was indeed right who said:
“On a souvent besoin d’un plus petit que soi.”
(Of those less than ourselves we oft have need.)
So much the worse for the proud who [[270]]refuse to realise this! Fabre was not of their number; and more than once it was greatly to his advantage that he was not.
In the choice of his collaborators, then, Fabre addressed himself by preference to children, for he loved their perspicacity, and above all “the naïve curiosity so like his own.”
But he would also solicit the help of the adult members of his entourage, if by their situation, their character, their good nature, or their mental temper he judged them capable of understanding him or, at all events, of giving him information and assisting him in his labours.
The gardener, the butcher, the farmers, the house-wives, the schoolmasters, the carpenter, the truffle-hunter, and I know not whom besides, were all in turn called upon to lend a hand, which they did with the best grace in the world, each according to his means and his speciality.
It is amusing to see the worthy villagers of Sérignan wondering at the naturalist’s questions, and ostensibly flattering themselves that they know more than he does of worm-eaten vegetables. On the other hand, they often consult him, thereby making amends and affording a practical recognition [[271]]of “his knowledge concerning plants and little creatures.”
A late frost came during the night, withering the leaf-buds of the mulberry-trees just as the first leaves were unfolding.
On the following day there was a great commotion in the neighbouring farm-houses; the silkworms were hatched, and suddenly there was no food for them. They must wait until the sun repaired the disaster. But what were they to do to keep the famished newly-born caterpillars alive for a few days? They knew me as an expert in the matter of plants; my cross-country harvesting expeditions had won me the reputation of a medical herbalist. With the flower of the poppy I prepared an elixir which strengthened the sight; with borage I made a syrup sovereign against whooping-cough; I distilled camomile, I extracted the essence of wintergreen. In short, my botany had given me the reputation of a quack-salver. That was something, after all.…
The housewives came seeking me from all directions; with tears in their eyes they explained how matters stood. What could they give their grubs while they were waiting for the mulberry to leaf again? A serious affair this, well deserving of commiseration. One was counting on her litter to buy a roll of linen for her daughter who was about to get married; another confided to me her plan of buying a pig, which she would fatten for the following winter; all deplored the handful of [[272]]five-franc pieces, which, placed at the bottom of the secret hiding-place in the wardrobe, in an old stocking, would have afforded relief in difficult times. Full of their woes, they unfolded before my eyes a scrap of flannel on which the little creatures were swarming:
“Regardas, Moussu; venoun espeli, et ren per lour douna! Ah! pecaïré!”
Poor people, what a hard life is yours: honourable above all, but of all the most uncertain! You exhaust yourselves with labour, and when you are almost within sight of its reward a few hours of a cold night, which has come upon you suddenly, have destroyed the harvest. To help these afflicted women would, it seemed to me, be a very difficult task. However, I tried, guided by botany, which recommended me to offer, as a substitute for the mulberry, the plants of related families: the elm, the nettle-tree, the nettle, the pellitory. Their budding leaves, chopped small, were offered to the silkworms. Other experiments, much less logical, were tried according to individual inspiration. None of them succeeded.[14] One and all, the newly-born larvæ starved to death. My fame as a quack must have suffered somewhat from this failure. But was it really my fault? No, it was the silk-worm’s, [[273]]too faithful to its mulberry-leaf.… Larvæ that live on a vegetable diet will not by any means lend themselves to a change of food. Each has its plant or group of plants, apart from which nothing is acceptable.[15]
Science as this great naturalist understands it is amiable and by no means pedantic; full of sympathy with the humble, since he himself has never ceased to be one of them, he does not disdain to consider their least preoccupations, and to become, by turns, their master and their disciple. [[274]]