In Paris, Metchnikoff has some very interesting experiments in progress with bats. He uses the large tropical fruit-eating bats, or “flying foxes.” They have a very short intestine, and very few bacteria and of very few kinds are to be found in its contents. On the other hand, there are as many as thirty distinct kinds of bacteria producing putrefaction or other chemical change in the digestive canal of man—and their quantity is gigantic. They pervade the whole contents of the human digestive canal by millions. By properly feeding the flying foxes in his laboratory in Paris Metchnikoff has actually succeeded in getting rid of all bacteria from their digestive canal, so that he now has adult mammalian animals, not very remote from man in their structure, food, and internal chemistry, which are absolutely free from the intestinal parasitic bacteria which he supposes to cause poisoning and senile changes in man. It is obvious, without pursuing the matter into further detail here, that Metchnikoff is now in a position to test his views as to the action of particular kinds of bacteria—he has animals which are free from them. He can make an experiment, keeping some of his bats still free from bacteria and causing some to be largely infected by this or that kind, and he can compare the result in regard to the health and chemical condition of the animals. So, too, the patients from whom the lower intestine has been removed may very probably furnish him (through his assistant who remains in London) with important facts for comparison with the condition of persons who have not been deprived of this part of the digestive apparatus.
I have given this sketch of what my friend is doing in order to furnish some notion of the kind of investigation which he pursues. He does not expect to extend the “lease” of human life, but by ascertaining in a definite scientific way the true rules of internal and external “hygiene” he does hope to give mankind an increased “expectation” of life; in fact, to enable a vastly larger number of men and women to enjoy that lease to the full, and to die without disappointment and regret, even with contentment and pleasure, at the end of it.
Metchnikoff was in Russia in the spring of 1909, and spent a day with Tolstoi. They were “fêted” and photographed together, the greatest artist and the greatest scientist of Russia. Tolstoi is 81 years of age. He took Metchnikoff out alone for a drive in his pony-cart so as to talk with him without interruption. “What do you think of life?” was the first question he asked, and one which it took my friend some time to answer. In regard to vegetarianism the two great men did not agree. When Metchnikoff declared that there was less cruelty on man’s part in killing wild animals to eat them than in leaving them to die by the tooth and claw of predaceous animals or from starvation, Tolstoi observed that that was argument and reason, and that he paid no attention to them; he only guided himself (he said) by sentiment, which he felt sure told him what was good and right! He was, however, deeply interested in an account of the cannibalism of savage races of men, concerning which he seemed to be quite uninformed. He also was profoundly interested in Metchnikoff’s view that Goethe, in the second part of Faust, is chiefly bent upon depicting the persistence of the amorous passion in old age—of which Goethe himself was an example—and Tolstoi declared that this gave a new meaning to the poem, which he had always hitherto found dull and unintelligible. But when Metchnikoff described in glowing words the joy and even rapture with which man will hereafter welcome the repose and mystery of death, having completed a long and healthy life of some hundred years, Tolstoi declared that this was indeed a fine conception, although it was entirely subversive of his own notions as to the significance of life and death. Tolstoi also stated that he had written his stories rapidly and without effort, but that his essays on morality and religion had cost him great labour; and, further, that he could not now remember the former, though the latter still were developing and incessantly occupied his thought.
It was admitted with regret by Darwin that he ceased in middle age to care for poetry and art, though there seems to be no doubt that he mistook fatigue and preoccupation of mind for a real change in taste and power of appreciation. It is interesting to place beside this the case of the great literary artist, Tolstoi, who not only frankly confesses that he refuses to be guided by reason and follows sentiment, but is also profoundly ignorant upon all the most ordinary topics of human life outside his own village, and of all Nature and her workings. Would Tolstoi have been a greater or a smaller artist if he had had a larger knowledge of the things that are? Was Darwin’s great scientific achievement really related to an innate indifference to what is called “poetry”? I will not now discuss the matter, but I am convinced that so far as natural gift is concerned, the keenest scientific capacity is not only compatible with the fullest sensibility to art and with the power of poetical vision and expression, but is often accompanied by them; and, further, that the work of an artist, if he is a great artist, cannot be hampered by knowledge. It is only the small talent or the feeble genius that can be paralysed rather than developed by the fullest experience and the widest knowledge. Necessary incompatibility of mental qualities has no place in this matter; what has led to the erroneous assumption that it has, is the excessive exercise by exceptional individuals of certain powers—a specialism necessary for effort and success, but deliberately chosen, and not due to an inborn one-sidedness.
[VII]
THE LAND OF AZURE BLUE
The Côte d’Azur whither many of my readers will be travelling—in thought, if not in reality—about Easter time, is well named the Land of Azure Blue, for it is the blueness of the sea, of the sky, and of the distant rocks and mountains, as well as much of the vegetation, which is when the sun shines, its special charm. And although one has some wet and some cloudy days, yet the sun does shine there with a strength and brilliancy not to be enjoyed in the early part of the year on the Atlantic and North Sea coast. This tract of country, more commonly known to English people as the Riviera, has very special meteorological conditions owing to its position as the narrow strip of shore-line existing between the vast mass of the Western Alps and the Mediterranean Sea. It is warmed by the sea, and lies too close under the mountains to be caught by any winds from the north, and at many points is also effectively protected from both east and west winds by rocky spurs of the great mountain chain.
The Riviera is a constant source of delight to those who love flowers and beautiful vegetation of all kinds. But few of its visitors appreciate the fact that it is really from end to end one big garden, cultivated for ages by its inhabitants, and full of plants introduced by man which at present seem at first sight to be characteristic natives of it, but are, in reality, quite distinct from its primitive vegetation. This primitive vegetation is now represented only in what is locally called the “maquis”—what we should, perhaps, term the “scrub” or “bush” in English. It comprises some pines, the juniper, the lovely rock roses, balsams, rosemary, the giant heath (bruyère), from which our briar-root pipes are made, the larger thyme, the myrtle, the rose of Provence, two kinds of lavender, and many aromatic plants with grey hairy leaves, and often provided with sharp thorns as additional defences against browsing goats. The delicious perfumes of these hardy inhabitants of the dry, rocky grounds, where little or no grass can flourish, are developed by them as a protection against browsing animals, who cannot tolerate much of these pungent volatile oils, although mankind extracts them and uses them in the manufacture of such scents as eau-de-Cologne and also in cookery.
Many a visitor to the Riviera never strays from the cultivated fields and roadways into this scrub-land. The olive tree, which forms so prominent and beautiful a feature in the panorama of gardens which unrolls itself as we steam or drive along the coast from Toulon to Mentone and from Mentone to Genoa and Spezzia, is not a native plant; it was introduced in prehistoric times, and has been again and again re-established by emigrants from Italy; but it was brought to Italy from the East. It is astonishing how many of the cultivated trees of the Riviera have the same kind of history—the vine came from India in prehistoric times, the fig tree more recently from Persia, the lemon from India, the orange and the peach tree from China. All of them were introduced in very ancient times to the eastern parts of the Mediterranean basin, and so gradually were carried to the shores of the Ligurian sea, and would die out here were they not to a certain extent under the care of ownership.