Yes, but because she makes them. She bestows life and withdraws it; has the secret of their destinies, and that of the compensations in the course of possible progress. But as for us, we have no power over them, except to make them suffer.
This is a grave reflection. We are not talking here of any childish sensibility. On the contrary, neither children nor men of science cherish any such feeling. But a man—man accustomed to reason with himself and estimate his acts—will not lightly deprive any creature of that gift of life which it is utterly out of his power to confer on the most insignificant. This consideration impressed us strongly. And at first a person, a woman, more impressionable and more scrupulous than myself, who had come hither with the design of making a collection of the insects of Fontainebleau, hesitated, deferred the task; and then, having interrogated her conscience, felt compelled to renounce it. Without uttering a word of censure upon scientific collections, which are absolutely indispensable, it is certain that we ought not to find a pastime in death. Note that many of these creatures are much less important in form and colour than by attitude and movement, which cannot be preserved at the extremity of a pin!
Our first discussion of this kind was in reference to the fate of a very remarkable butterfly (a sphinx, if I mistake not), which we caught in a net to examine for a moment. I had admired it for several days, coming and going among the flowers,—not, like most of its race, flying hap-hazard, but choosing them discreetly, and then, with a very fine, very long and arrowy proboscis, sucking by small sips, and very quickly withdrawing, as if acted upon by a steel spring. The movement was one of incomparable grace, of coquettish sobriety; just as if it said: "Enough for to-day,—enough! But, to-morrow!" I have never seen anything more graceful.
It is only a gray butterfly, and not at all remarkable. Who that sees it dead would divine that, in charming nimbleness, it is the favourite of Nature, in which she has exhausted all her grace?
We opened the net. And not long afterwards we had the pleasure of seeing the same butterfly, which, in bad weather, came one evening to take shelter with us, and found a resting-place in our chamber. In the morning, wishful to enjoy the sunshine, it flew away.
I ought to add, moreover, that all the shipwrecked unfortunates of the latter end of autumn, guided by a very sure but very surprising instinct, willingly came to our house,—some on a temporary visit, others to remain with us. A young bullfinch, in a bad condition, and who had evidently met with more than one adventure, arrived all bewildered, and even on the first day ate from our hands. The same thing happened with a still more miserable creature,—a little tiny red-tail, which had been barbarously deprived of its head-feathers that it might be sold for a nightingale. This creature, so ill-treated by men, which might justly have been afraid of them, not only took at the very first the seed from our hands and lips, but would not sleep except on the mistress's finger.
As for insects, their domestication is impossible. But many, nevertheless, seem able to live with man, to appreciate peaceable people and mildness of character. Last winter, two pretty red lady-birds had taken up their residence on our table, among our books and papers, which were being constantly moved about. What to give them, we knew not; they passed the whole season without eating, or appearing to receive any injury. The warmth of the apartment seemed agreeable to them.