fabre, poet of science- 第29部分

the　bottom　of　a　well。〃



But　the　manner　of　speaking；　describing；　and　depicting　is　none　the　less　an

integral　part　of　the　truth　when　it　is　a　matter　of　expounding　and

transmitting　the　latter。　To　express　it　feebly　is　often　to　compromise　it；　to

diminish　it；　and　even　to　betray　it。　There　are　terms　which　say　better　than

others　what　has　to　be　said。　〃Words　have　their　physiognomy；　if　there　are

lifeless　words；　there　are　also　picturesque　and　richly…coloured　words；

comparable　to　the　brush　strokes　which　scatter　flecks　of　light　on　the　grey

background　of　the　picture。〃　There　are　particular　terms　of　expression；

felicities　which　present　things　in　a　better　light；　and　the　writer　must

search　in　his　memory；　his　imagination；　and　his　heart；　for　the　fitting

accent；　for　the　flexibility　of　language　and　the　wealth　of　words　which　are

needful　if　he　would　fully　succeed　in　the　portrayal　of　living　creatures；　if

he　would　tender　the　living　truth；　reproduce　in　all　its　light　and　shade　the

spectacle　of　the　world；　arouse　the　imagination；　and　faithfully　interpret

the　mysterious　spirit　which　impregnates　matter　and　is　reflected　in　thought。



The　artist　then　comes　forward　to　co…ordinate　all　these　scattered　fragments；

to　assemble　them；　to　breathe　vitality　into　them；　to　restore　these　inert

truths　to　life。



But　what　a　strange　manner　of　working　was　Fabre's；　what　a　curious　method　of

composition！　However　full　of　ideas　his　mind　might　be；　he　was　incapable　of

expressing　them　if　he　remained　in　one　place　and　assumed　the　ordinary

preliminary　attitude　of　a　man　preparing　to　write。　Seated　and　motionless；

his　limbs　at　rest；　pen　in　hand；　with　a　blank　page　before　him；　it　seemed　to

him　that　all　his　faculties　became　of　a　sudden　paralysed。　He　must　first　move

about；　activity　helped　him　to　pursue　his　ideas；　it　was　in　action　that　he

recovered　his　ardour　and　uncovered　the　sources　of　inspiration。　Just　as　he

never　observed　without　enthusiasm；　so　he　found　it　impossible　to　write

without　exaltation；　and　it　was　precisely　because　he　so　ardently　loved　the

truth　that　he　felt　himself　compelled　to　show　it　in　all　its　beauty。



Moving　like　a　circus…horse　about　the　great　table　of　his　laboratory；　he

would　begin　to　tramp　indefatigably　round　and　round；　so　that　his　steps　have

worn　in　the　tiles　of　the　floor　an　ineffaceable　record　of　the　concentric

track　in　which　they　moved　incessantly　for　thirty　years。



His　mind　would　grow　clear　and　active　as　he　walked；　smoking　his　pipe　and

〃using　his　marrow…bones。〃　（12/1。）　He　was　already　at　work；　he　was

〃hammering〃　his　future　chapters　in　his　brain；　for　the　idea　would　be　all　the

more　precise　as　the　form　was　more　finished　and　more　irreproachable；　more

closely　identified　with　the　thought；　he　would　wait　until　the　word　quivered；

palpitated；　and　lived；　until　the　transcription　was　no　longer　an　illusion；　a

phantom；　a　vision　devoid　of　reality；　but　a　faithful　echo；　a　sincere

translation；　a　finished　interpretation；　reflecting　entire　the　fundamental

essence　of　the　thing；　in　a　word；　a　work　of　art；　a　parallel　to　nature。



Then　only　would　he　sit　before　the　little　walnut…wood　table　〃spotted　with

ink　and　scarred　with　knife…cuts；　just　big　enough　to　hold　the　inkstand；　a

halfpenny　bottle；　and　his　open　notebook〃：　that　same　little　table　at　which；

in　other　days；　by　force　of　meditation；　he　achieved　his　first　degrees。



Then　he　would　begin　to　write；　〃his　pen　dipped　not　in　ink　only〃　but　in　his

heart's　blood　（12/2。）；　first　of　all　in　ordinary　ruled　notebooks　bound　in

black　cloth；　in　which　he　noted；　day　by　day；　hour　by　hour；　the　observations

of　every　moment；　the　results　of　his　experiments；　together　with　his　thoughts

and　reflections。　Little　by　little　those　documents　would　come　together　which

elucidated　and　completed　one　another；　and　at　last　the　book　was　written。

These　notebooks；　these　copious　records；　are　remarkable　for　the　regularity

of　the　writing　and　the　often　impeccable　finish　of　the　first　draught。

Although　here　and　there　the　same　data　are　transcribed　several　times　in

succession；　and　each　time　struck　through　with　a　vigorous　stroke　of　the　pen；

there　are　whole　pages；　and　many　pages　together；　without　a　single　erasure。

The　handwriting；　excessively　smallone　might　think　it　had　been　traced　by

the　feet　of　a　flybecomes　in　later　years　so　minute　that　one　almost　needs　a

magnifying　glass　to　decipher　it。



These　notebooks　are　not　the　final　manuscript。　The　entomologist　would　write

a　new　and　more　perfect　copy　on　loose　sheets　of　paper；　making　one　draught

after　another；　patiently　fashioning　his　style　and　polishing　his　work；

although　many　passages　were　included　without　revision　as　they　were　written

in　the　first　instance。



The　greatest　magician　of　modern　letters；　versed　in　all　the　artifices　of　the

French　language；　speaking　one　day　of　Fabre　and　his　writings；　made　in　my

hearing　the　assertion　that　he　was　not；　properly　speaking；　an　artist。　He

might　well　be　a　great　naturalist；　a　veteran　of　science；　an　observer　of

genius；　but　he　was　by　no　means　and　would　never　be　a　writer　according　to　the

canons　of　the　craft。



But　how　many　others；　like　him；　in　their　time　regarded　as　〃pitiable　in

respect　of　their　language；〃　charm　us　to…day；　simply　because　they　were

gifted　with　imagination　and　the　power　of　giving　life　to　their　work！　（12/3。）



To　tell　the　truth；　Fabre　is　absolutely　careless　of　all　literary　procedure；

and　solely　preoccupied　with　bringing　his　style　into　harmony　with　his

thoughts；　he　is　not　in　the　least　a　manufacturer　of　literary　phrases。　There

is　no　trace　of　artistic　writing　in　his　books；　and　it　is　only　his　manner　of

feeling　and　of　expressing　himself　that　makes　him　so　dear　to　us。



What　touches　us　in　him　is　the　accent；　the　simplicity；　the　measure；　the　good

sense；　and　the　perfect　equilibrium　of　each　of　these　pages：　simple；　often

commonplace；　even　incorrect　or　trivial；　but　so　alive；　so　human；　that　the

blood　seems　to　flow　in　them。　It　is　the　lover　in　Fabre　that　draws　us　to　him；

nothing　quite　like　his　work　has　been　seen　since　the　days　of　Jean　de　La

Fontaine。



He　has　liberated　science；　he　laughs　at　the　specialists　who　take　refuge

behind　their　〃barbarian　terminologies；〃　at　the　〃jargon〃　of　those　〃who　see

the　world　only　through　the　wrong　end　of　the　glass〃；　at　the　exaggerated

importance　which　they　attribute　to　insignificant　details；　the　narrowness　of

classifications；　and　the　chaos　of　systems；　all　that　incoherent；　remote；　and

inaccessible　science；　which　he；　on　the　contrary；　strives　to　render　pleasant

and　attractive。



This　is　why　the　great　scientist　has　endeavoured　to　speak　like　other　people；

preferring；　to　the　harsh　consonants　of　technical　phrases　which　sound　〃like

insults〃　or　have　the　air　of　〃a　magical　invocation；　which　make　certain

scientific　works　read　like　so　much　gibberish；〃　the　〃naive　and　picturesque

appellation；　the　familiar；　trivial　name；　the　popular；　living　term　which

directly　interprets　the　exact　signification　of　the　habits　of　an　insect；　or

informs　us　fully　of　its　dominant　characteristic；　or　which；　at　least；　leaves

nothing　to　conjecture。〃



He　considers　it　useless　and　even　inconvenient　to　abandon　many　charming

expressions；　appropriate　and　significant　as　they　are；　which　may　be　borrowed

from　the　good　old　French　tongue；　and　in　this　he　resembles　the　immortal　de

Jussieu；　who　in　his　botanical　classifications　was　careful　not　to　discard

the　old　popular　denominations　which　Theophrastus；　Virgil；　and　Linnaeus　had

thought　fit　to　bestow　upon　plant　and　tree。



It　is　for　the　same　reasons　that　he　loves　the　Proven？al　tongue；　that

beautiful　idiom；　that　superb　language；　rich　in　music；　in　sonorous　words；　so

suggestive　and　so　full　of　colour；　many　of　whose　terms；　saying　precisely

what　they　intend　to　say；　have　no　equivalent　in　French。　He　has　learned　the

language；　and　reads　it：　in　particular　Roumanille；　whose　easy；　familiar

style　pleases　him　better　than　the　grandiloquence　of　Mistral；　although　he

delights　also　in　Calendal；　whose　lyrical　powers　fill　him　with　enthusiasm。

》From　this　ancient　tongue；　which　was　early　as　familiar　to　him　as　the　French；

he　borrowed　certain　mannerisms；　certain　tricks　of　style；　certain

neologisms；　and　also；　to　some　extent；　his　simplicity　of　manner　and　the

cadence　of　his　prose。



It　was　not　without　difficulty　that　he　attained　this　mastery。　Measure　the

gulf　between　his　first　volumes　and　his　last；　in　the　first　the　style　is

slightly　nerveless　and　indefinite：　it　was　only　as　he　gradually　advanced　in

his　career　that　he　acquired　what　may　be　called　his　final　manner；　or

achieved；　in　his　narratives；　a　perfect　literary　style。　The　most

substantially　constructed；　the　most　happily　expressed　of　his　pages　were

written　principally　in　his　extreme　old　age。　Not　only　is　there　no　sign　of

failing　in　these；　but　in　his　latest　〃Souvenirs〃　the　perfection　of　form　is

perhaps　even　more　remarkable　than　the　wealth　of　matter。



How　vitally　his　scrupulous　records　impress　the　mind's　eye；　how　firmly　they

establish　themselves　in　the　memory！



Even　if　one　has　never　seen　the　Pelopaeus；　one　readily　conceives　an

impression　of　〃her　wasp…like　costume；　and　curving　abdomen；　suspended　at　the

end　of　a　long　thread。〃　What　exactitude　in　this　snapshot；　taken　at　the

moment　when　the　insect　is　occupied　in　scooping　out　of　the　mire　the　lump　of

mud　intended　for　the　construction　of　her　nest：　〃like　a　skilled　housekeeper；

with　her　clothing　carefully　tucked　up　that　it　may　not　be　soiled；　the　wings

vibrating；　the　limbs　rigidly　straightened；　the　black　abdomen　well　raised　on

the　end　of　its　yellow　stalk；　she　rakes　the　mud　with　the　points　of　her

mandibles；　skimming　the　shining　surface。〃　（12/4。）



He　draws；　in　passing；　this　charming　sketch　of　the　gadfly；　the　pest　of

horses；　which　nourishes　itself　with　their　blood：　



〃Gadflies　of　several　species　used　to　take　refuge　under　the　silken　dome　of

my　umbrella；　and　there　they　would　quietly　rest；　one　here；　one　there；　on　the

tightly　stretched　fabric；　I　rarely　lacked　their　company　when　the　heat　was

overpowering。　T