What do we learn from the Chicago slaughter-houses and the Gold-beetle’s feasting? This: the man of lofty morals is nowadays a rather rare exception. Under the skin of the civilized being we nearly always find the ancestor, the savage contemporary with the Cave-bear. True humanity does not yet exist; it is being very gradually [[282]]formed by the leaven of the centuries and the lessons of conscience; it is progressing towards better things with heart-breaking slowness.
It was only yesterday that slavery disappeared, the foundation of the ancient community, and that people perceived that a man, even though black, is really a man and as such deserving of consideration.
What was woman in the old days? What she still is in the East: a pretty little animal without a soul. The question was discussed at great length by the scholars. The great seventeenth-century bishop Bossuet[2] himself, looked upon woman as the diminutive of man. The proof lay in the origin of Eve: she was the superfluous bone, the thirteenth rib which Adam had in the beginning. It has at last been admitted that woman possesses a soul similar to our own and even its superior in tenderness and devotion. She has been permitted to educate herself, which she does with a zeal at least equal to that of her rival. But the law, that gloomy cavern which is still the lurking-place of so many [[283]]barbarities, continues to regard her as incompetent, as a minor.
The abolition of slavery and the education of women are two enormous strides upon the path of moral progress. Our grandchildren will go further. They will see, with a clear vision, capable of piercing every obstacle, that war is the most absurd of our eccentricities; that conquerors, fighters of battles and despoilers of nations are execrable scourges; that a hand-shake is better than a rifle-bullet; that the happiest people is not that which possesses the most artillery but that which labours in peace and produces abundantly; and that the amenities of existence do not positively clamour for frontiers, beyond which the vexatious custom-house-officer awaits us, searching our pockets and plundering our luggage.
They will see all this, our grandsons, and many other wonders which to-day rank as crazy dreams. Whither will it lead us, this ascent? Towards the blue skies of the ideal? To no very great height, I fear. We are afflicted with an indelible taint, a sort of original sin, if we may give the name of sin to a state of affairs in which our free will plays no part. We are built that way [[284]]and we cannot help it. It is the taint of the belly, that inexhaustible source of brutality.
The intestine rules the world. In the midst of our gravest affairs the question of bread and butter rises imperious. So long as there are stomachs that digest—and as yet we see no possibility of dispensing with them—we must have the wherewithal to satisfy them and the strong will live by the misfortunes of the weak. Life is an abyss which only death can fill. Hence endless butcheries, on which man, Gold-beetles and others feed; hence the perpetual massacres that have made of the world a slaughter-house beside which those of Chicago hardly count.
But the feasters are legion and the victuals are not abundant in proportion. Those who have not envy those who have; the famished show their teeth to the sated. Then follows the battle for the right of possession. Man raises armies to defend his harvests, his cellars, his granaries; and this is war. Shall we ever see the end of it? Alas and seven times alas! So long as there are Wolves in the world, there must be Sheep-dogs to defend the flock!
Carried away by our thoughts, we have left our Beetles far behind. Let us hurry [[285]]back to them. What was my reason for provoking the massacre of the Processionaries who were on the point of quietly burying themselves when I confronted them with their butchers? Was it to enjoy the spectacle of a frantic massacre? Certainly not: I have always pitied the sufferings of animals; and the life of the smallest is worthy of respect. To overcome that compassion, the demands of scientific research were needed; and these are sometimes cruel.
I had in view the habits of the Gold-beetle, the little ranger of our gardens who, for this reason, is popularly known as the Gardener. How far does he deserve to be called a helper? What does the Carabus hunt? Of what vermin does he rid our flower-beds? We have seen a promising start made with the Pine Processionary. Let us continue in the same direction.
On various occasions late in April, the enclosure provides me with processions, now longer, now shorter. I capture them and place them in the glass vivarium. No sooner is the banquet served than the feasting begins. The caterpillars are ripped open, by a single consumer or by several at one time. In less than fifteen minutes the [[286]]herd is completely exterminated. Nothing remains but shapeless lumps, which are carried hither and thither to be consumed under the shelter of the board. The well-provided Beetle decamps, with his booty in his teeth, anxious to feast in peace. He is met by companions who, enticed by the morsel dangling from the fugitive’s jaws, turn highwaymen. First two, then three try to rob the lawful owner. Each grabs the fragment, tugs at it, proceeds to swallow it without serious dispute. There is no actual battle, no exchange of bites as with Dogs disputing a bone. Everything is confined to attempts at theft. If the owner retains his hold, they all eat peacefully in common, mandibles touching mandibles, until the piece is torn apart and each retires with his shred.