Heroes of science

by P. Martin Duncan

After a six weeks’ visit, Cuvier returned to Paris, and occupied his former positions and dignities.

Cuvier was slightly built in his young days, and moderately tall; but the sedentary nature of his work and his carelessness about taking proper exercise, produced corpulence in his later years, and his extreme near-sightedness brought on a slight stoop in his shoulders. His hair had been light in colour, and to the last it flowed in fine curls over one of the noblest heads ever seen. He was handsome and had regular features, with an aquiline nose, a broad forehead, and keen eyes. The love of order, which was his very peculiarity in his work, was seen in little things, for Cuvier was almost feminine in his attention to dress. He even took in hand the costume of the University, and designed the embroidery of his court suits. Cuvier’s manners were dignified and yet not ceremonious; for accustomed to mingle with the highest of all classes and countries, and naturally desirous of paying a just tribute of respect and good will to everybody, he was likely to be generally polished and courteous. He was stately enough sometimes, and his reserve with strangers who were not open with him was mainly—as is usually the case with others—from mere shyness and timidity. To the young he was always kind and sympathizing. When at the Institute Cuvier’s manner was always stately, for he was with his peers there, and perhaps he might have occasionally felt it necessary to retain an appearance of reserve during the sometimes not very scientific discussions of that mixed assemblage.

Cuvier, notwithstanding his great patience when he was at work, and his singular placidity when on the face of a difficult point in natural history or anatomy, was what is called a “Turk” at home, and with others. Accustomed to most minute exactitude, and to regulate his hands by his rapidly working brain, he was singularly impatient with other people who had to serve under him. He used to hasten his workmen, so that his orders were often performed with difficulty. He was hard to bear with, and any waste of time the result of carelessness, put him in a rage. Anything wrong at table in his house, to be kept waiting, or some trifling disobedience, would rouse an absurd amount of anger. His irritability was excessive, and he frequently forgot himself in his scoldings, and had to make reparation afterwards. But he was always ready to testify that he had been wrong, and to do his best to make amends; nevertheless, he did not improve in this particular, and he never had great control over his feelings. No labour, however minute and prolonged, irritated him when he believed that it was requisite for the attainment of an object; still he could not listen to a few pages of a book which taught nothing, without expressing himself very decidedly. From what has been written of Cuvier’s domestic life, it could not have been very enjoyable by those around him, and yet it was the kind of life which has to be led by most prominent men in science, art, and literature. Work, everlasting work, with but little relaxation. He certainly wasted no time. Before and after breakfast he saw anybody who wished to have an audience of him. By seven in the morning he was dressed, and began preparing his day’s work and that of his assistants, so that by ten o’clock, when he breakfasted, he had time to look at the newspapers, to read correspondence, and look over any particular works. After breakfast he dressed for the day and began work. His carriage was punctual to a moment, and no one was allowed to keep him waiting. When the ladies were to accompany him, they made a point of being as exact to time as was possible; and he seems to have enjoyed the sight of his womankind rushing downstairs with their shawls streaming after them and their gloves half on their hands. The instant he had given his orders he would thrust himself into a corner of the carriage and set to work reading, but suffered the ladies to talk as much as they pleased. The family dinner hour was half-past six; and if Cuvier had a few moments to spare before that time, he would occasionally join his friends in Madame Cuvier’s room, but more frequently he seems to have given even this short time to study. One or two intimate friends joined the circle at dinner, and then Cuvier’s conversation was delightful. On proceeding to the drawing-room Cuvier sometimes gratified his friends by an hour’s stay amongst them before he retired to his occupation or his visits, but so untiring was his industry, that he often set the whole party to work aiding him in his researches. If he had any foreign works he would often amuse his friends by verifying the figures in them, one after the other. It must be said that this everlasting work was trying to people who were with Cuvier, for no sooner did friends come to stay with him than he began to use them in tracing drawings on paper. He kept them at work, for when he returned from his labours he generally asked for the tasks he had thus set. Nevertheless, many found it a real pleasure to work for him, for he was very grateful for such assistance. Cuvier’s hours of relaxation were few. Change of employment afforded him relief, and conversation still greater. At the close of the day’s labour, when he found it impossible to work any longer, he was accustomed to throw himself on a sofa, hide his eyes from the light, and listen to the reading of his wife or daughter, and sometimes of his secretary, M. Laurillard. These nightly readings lasted two hours, and thus Cuvier became more or less acquainted with the current literature and good works of the day. Very likely he did not listen, and went to sleep, but that is not stated of him by those who wrote his domestic habits.

Cuvier was so downright that he did not like any one who indulged in satire, or who ridiculed the conduct of others. He never did this sort of thing, and he carefully discouraged it in those about him, even when embellished with sallies of wit and drollery, and his rebukes to those who indulged in sarcasm were accompanied by a sharpness of expression generally very unusual to him. He bore but little malice, and it is said that the annoyances and disappointments of his public career left no trace of bitterness of spirit; and he was always willing to lay the fault on the ignorance rather than on the bad feeling of the offenders.

When in the full swing of his career, Cuvier gave very interesting soirées on Saturday evenings, and it is said that they were the most brilliant and interesting meetings of their kind in Paris. They were much frequented by the scientific world of the time, and the rooms were as much open to the prince as to the last young student who had just begun to study natural history. In this society Cuvier was an amusing conversationalist, a great asker of questions; and as he could talk well on a variety of subjects, he made his guests at home, and gave the meetings a character for freedom of expression of opinion. A light repast concluded the evening, and a select few remained to partake of it. The chat was amusing, curiosities were shown about, and the last anecdotes about nature and the newest ideas were shown and considered, and, reserving himself to the last, Cuvier would relate something that crowned the whole; and all around were struck by the occasional complete change given to the train of thought, or were forced to join in a general shout of laughter. The period of these brilliant soirées was that of the prime of the lovely daughter who was so fondly loved by Cuvier. A perfect lady, of great grace and goodness, was Clementine Cuvier. She was a highly-gifted girl, and her resemblance to her father was remarkable. She had a delicate constitution, and gradually faded away, dying of rapid consumption at last amidst the joyful preparations for her marriage. A great change then took place in Cuvier, who mourned his daughter greatly. Society was given up for a long time, and when the evening meetings were resumed, the life of them seemed to be gone, and the dejection of Madame Cuvier added to the feeling. After the death of his own daughter, Cuvier became more than ever attached to his step-daughter, and his care and anxiety on her account manifested itself on all occasions. If she were ill he would be up and down stairs over and over again, and worried himself about even the most trivial symptoms. Although so greatly occupied and so often absorbed in scientific pursuits, he never neglected the opportunity of doing good in his way. His private charities were large and well bestowed. His purse was ever open to the needy and unfortunate of all countries and stations, and the miserable inhabitants of the dens of Paris and the modest student struggling under adversity were alike the recipients of his bounty. Many hotels in the neighbourhood of the colleges and institutions had students in them, living in the top stories, who were so poor that they had to subscribe to get a book or two between them. They would occasionally be surprised by a visit from their great teacher. He came to offer, with the greatest courtesy, the assistance he knew they required; and if they were ill he did not rest satisfied until he had obtained advice and nourishment for them. Himself keenly alive to the slightest rudeness or neglect, and grateful for the smallest proof of affection, he knew how to give, not only with a liberal hand, but with a delicacy which never wounded the most sensitive temper. The year 1832 was a melancholy one for Paris; for political disturbances and cholera prevailed. The disease raged around Cuvier’s neighbourhood, and he saw many cut off from it in the midst of their youth and strength. At this time he gave up his evening visits and the few relaxations he permitted himself to enjoy. Secluding himself from society, except that of his own family, he had no sooner performed his daily routine of public duties than he returned to his studies with a zeal and closeness of application that was doubtless injurious to his health, though he himself said that he had never worked with such enjoyment. On Tuesday, May 8th, he opened the third and concluding part of his course of lectures at the College of France on the history of science, and it was his last discourse. Strangely enough, it was as if it were to be his last, so impressive, so grandly comprehensive, was the diction; and he treated the subject in a manner which proved that he had been thinking much about the mysterious and supernatural environment which most men of great experience can recognize in nature. Cuvier in this lecture dealt with the meaning of the changes which had occurred on the surface of the earth in relation to the succession of animals and plants on the globe and the present creation. He stated the manner in which he proposed to view the present in relation to the past, a task which was to lead his hearers, independently of narrow systems, back to that supreme intelligence which rules, enlightens, and vivifies, and which gives to every creature the especial conditions of its existence. He noticed how each being contains in itself an infinite variety, an admirable arrangement for the purposes for which it was intended: that each being is good, perfect, and capable of life, according to its order and species, and in its individuality. He concluded by saying, “These will be the objects of our future investigations, if time, health, and strength are given to me to continue and to finish them with you.” The lecture hall was slowly left by Cuvier’s hearers and students, and an undefined sadness seemed to weigh upon his late hearers, who seemed to linger with the impression that his days were numbered. On the evening of the same day, Cuvier felt some pain in his right arm, which was supposed to proceed from rheumatism. The next morning he presided over the Committee of the Interior with his usual ability and activity; but at dinner that day he felt some difficulty in swallowing, and the numbness in the arm increased. When he felt himself thus ill, in order to take away the attention of Madame Cuvier, he said, “I must eat more soup,” swallowing bread even being impossible. Advice was sought, but during the next day both arms became paralyzed, and the swallowing was worse. He made his will with perfect calmness, and it evinced the tenderest solicitude for those whose cares and affections had comforted his life, and for those who had aided him most in his scientific labours. He could not sign the will, but it was attested by four witnesses. Convinced that all human skill was in vain, he nevertheless submitted to treatment by his medical men. Paralysis crept on, and the legs were attacked, his speech was affected, and he muttered, “It is the nerves of volition that are affected.” He spoke of his last lecture, and said to a friend who called, “Behold a very different person to the man of Tuesday; nevertheless I had great things still to do. All was ready in my head, after thirty years of labour and research; there remained but to write, and now the hands fail and carry with them the head.” Cuvier gradually sank, but kept his intelligence nearly to the last. It was his wish to be buried privately, interred in the cemetery of Père le Chaise, under the tombstone which covered his beloved child; but it was not possible to avoid the public demonstration of respect. The funeral procession was followed by the representatives of all the great learned bodies of France.

Cuvier was too generous, and too desirous for the advancement of his branch of natural history knowledge, to die very rich. He had several important sources of income, and there is no doubt that, had he chosen so to do, he could have saved much money. He spent largely when it was necessary to procure specimens from abroad, and to dig out fossils at home, and his private charities were numerous. He only left about the sum of four thousand pounds sterling, a library worth about the same sum, and a house for his family. There is no doubt that Cuvier was, in his private life, a very estimable man, and that in his public life he upheld the teachings of his conscience to his disadvantage. It was to be expected that a man whose work proved the great antiquity of the kinds of animals now living on the surface of the earth, and the existence of a great philosophy in nature which linked the past and present animals in a scheme which showed that life had been continuous for ages, would be abused and called an atheist by some ignorant people or other. His true character has been written as follows:—“He promoted the cause of true religion by every means in his power, both public and private; he was a warm supporter of the Bible Society, and caused the Old and New Testaments to be widely disseminated in every part of Protestant France. In his letters to the heads of colleges and masters of schools, he strongly recommended them to teach for the love of God, himself pointing out their duties according to that great rule. He adhered consistently and persistently to the Protestant faith, when it was well known that a change to the Roman Catholic would have been the surest step to the attainment of the highest honours in the state. He caused a number of chapels to be established, in order to give facility for attending divine worship; and he never would receive a salary for attending and administering to the interests of the Protestant religion. He discharged faithfully all the duties of his office, with a zeal which showed that he had a much higher motive than that of gain or reputation. Humility and forgiveness marked his character; he was thankful for the correction of errors; he gloried as much in the discoveries of another as his own; and in the triumph of joint labours, unhesitatingly gave the preference to his colleague. He suffered his servants to expostulate with him, and the very nature of his amusements was social and cheerful. He felt ingratitude keenly, and also unkindness and injustice, but they made him sad rather than angry. His antagonists openly indulged in the most irritating and violent taunts, or secretly intrigued against him; the former never excited him beyond a clear, firm, and dignified reply, wrung from him only when reply was absolutely necessary; and the latter nothing but candid remonstrances. To these high attributes we may add charity. The failings of others were never trumpeted forth by Cuvier; he did not even tolerate playful satire, however disguised by wit; his earnest desire was to make all happy around him, even by a sacrifice of his own convenience; and his resignation was great, under calamities which bereaved him of the dearest objects of his affection; all these things appear to establish his character as a Christian.”

The character of Cuvier was hardly equal to this panegyric, for he held his own boldly enough, and faced his enemies with no feeble humility; moreover, the details of his everyday life prove that he was sufficiently exacting, and that everything had to give way to his will. Nevertheless, it is true that that will was to advance knowledge in the right direction, and that it was stimulated by an earnest desire for truth. Men like Cuvier are very apt to be misunderstood by their most intimate friends. When studying the collections of animals, and when comparing the forms of ancient and modern life, Cuvier mentally recognized a divine wisdom and the work of the God he worshipped. That was his worship, and he probably cared all the less for the oratory of the pulpit, which he was expected to listen to. He was not a constant attendant at his church, and this seems even to have afflicted his daughter when on her death-bed, according to some reports. But in all probability she knew her father’s worth and real religion, better than outside friends and detractors, and prayed that he might receive that support which alone could enable him to bear the heaviest of sorrows with resignation.

Judging the man by his fruit and life, it must be admitted that Cuvier was one of the greatest students and teachers of nature that have lived, his work, being true, lasts; moreover, there is no doubt that he had but few failings, and a great amount of wisdom and virtue. Certainly he was a staunch friend to religious education, and if one could have known his heart, it is very possible that his apparent ambition and desire of social greatness and position may have been influenced by the knowledge that influence and dignity would further his work both as an anatomist and zoologist, and as a responsible promoter of education.

The lives of these heroes have been mainly taken from the life of John Ray in the Ray Society’s publications, and from an excellent little book, by an anonymous author, called “Cuvier and Zoology,” and from the “Mémoires de L’Académie des Sciences.”