Part 11 (1/2)

”Peter, it is you who are the blockhead.” And Peter would have no choice but to submit to John. Both would then pull their blue caps over their ears and sit down for a gla.s.s of white wine, which by a reversal of ancient custom const.i.tuted the fee of judge to litigants. Often they came from a great distance to find out which was the blockhead, and having found out, departed content, glad to have ended the quarrel without a.s.sistance from the omniscient bench.

It was something of an undertaking at that time to reach the out-of-the-way hamlet where Master Baptist uttered his oracles. Now, country roads connect ”The Pines” with the rest of the world. I used to reach it in those days by way of the rocky ridge stretching for two miles between Mouilleron-en-Pareds and La Chataignerie. ”The Rocks,” as the ridge is locally called, form the last b.u.t.tress of the Woodland hills. From the top a vast wooded stretch is visible, every field being enclosed by a belt of tall trees. The rocks themselves are covered with gorse and furze, and giant chestnut trees, twisted and gnarled by old storms. Suddenly the rocks part, and in the hollow they reveal lie meadows enlivened by the song of running water. There humble huts group themselves in hamlets, concealed by the high trees. ”The Pines,” Master Baptist's domain, was doubtless distinguished in former days by the presence of a pine tree. The tree disappeared under the axe of time. But a cl.u.s.ter of houses remains, sheltered from the world by the high rampart of ”The Rocks.”

One day, as I was hunting in that neighbourhood, I suddenly from my hill-top perceived the roofs of ”The Pines,” before anything had betrayed the fact that a human habitation was at hand. The strangeness of the place, as a place to live in, aroused my curiosity. I had met Master Baptist at Mouilleron. The occasion seemed propitious for a renewal of the acquaintance. I entered a courtyard littered with manure, and there, behind a yoke of oxen drinking at a trough, I discovered the master of the house, seated in his dooryard, surrounded by his poultry, and busy as usual dealing justice.

It was vacation time. Baptist's son, a law student at Poitiers and a prospective notary, was cheerfully loading dung into a cart (no one dreamed of calling upon him for enlightenment), while the unlettered father learnedly dispensed the law. In front of the solemn arbitrator, and at a respectful distance from him, a man stood waiting open mouthed for the solicited verdict. With a kindly wave of the hand, Master Baptist motioned to me to wait until the audience should be closed. I therefore remained where I was, and watched the plaintiff--a big, gray-headed fellow who was mechanically twisting between his hands the greasy crown of a brimless hat.

”You are sure that all you have told me is true?” Master Baptist was saying, and I could see that he was inclined to apply his epithet of ”blockhead” to the absent party in the dispute.

”I have told you everything just as it is,” answered the other.

”Then you may tell Michael that he is a blockhead. Be sure you tell him so, will you?”

”Yes, Master Baptist, I will tell him this very evening. But what if he says it isn't so?”

”If he answers that it isn't so, no later than to-morrow you will have notice served on him.”

The idea of sending his adversary a stamped doc.u.ment seemed to fill the plaintiff with keen joy.

”I surely will serve notice on him!” he gleefully exclaimed.

Then, scratching his head: ”But suppose he won't have notice served on him, what then?”

At these words Master Baptist rose on a gust of excitement. I am not aware what his idea was of a man ”who will not have notice served on him.” But the case manifestly appeared to him out of all measure horrific. An agonized silence followed. Then the storm burst.

”If he refuses to have notice served on him,” thundered Master Baptist, ”you may take your two hoofs and give him a couple of swift kicks in the s.h.i.+ns.”

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The point of law was solved. The plaintiff, his spirit forever at rest, vigorously fell upon his judge's hand and pressed it, along with what was left of his hat.

”That's it! That's it! My two hoofs--I will not fail!”

As for me, I was filled with admiration at the point chosen for giving full force to the arguments of jurisprudence--the part of the leg where, just under the skin, the tibia presents a collection of nervous fibres which a nimble wooden shoe can crush against the bone, is certainly a well-chosen spot, and calculated to give effectiveness to the energy of the opposing party.

The white wine was brought. The student of law left his dung heap to come and clink gla.s.ses.

”All the same,” said the good client, dropping into his chair, ”I should like to know a question for which Master Baptist would have no answer.”

”Oh, well,” replied the judge, modestly, ”one sees so many things. That is how one learns.”

XIV

THE BULLFINCH AND THE MAKER OF WOODEN SHOES

In connection with the scandalous conduct of a lady pigeon I shall presently speak of comparative psychology in the world of animals. The capacity of animals for emotion and sentiment is naturally the first psychic phenomenon presenting itself to the observer. Their manner of expressing the sensations received from the exterior world, and the impulses resulting from those sensations const.i.tute what may without derision be called the moral life of animals, leading, just as it does in the case of man, to the best adjustment possible between the individual organism and surrounding conditions.

Many good people will doubtless be distressed by the idea that morality, in which they take such pride, though not always preaching it by example, instead of falling from heaven in the form of indisputable commands, has its roots far down in the animate hierarchy. If they were willing to reflect, they would be able to understand that undeniable a.n.a.logies of organism involve a corresponding a.n.a.logy of function.

Nothing further is necessary to show the high significance of a study of comparative sentimentality and the morality ill.u.s.trating it, determined by the organism that the great ma.s.s of living creatures have in common. The amusing side of the thing is that the majority of those who will cry out against this statement will in the same breath speak of the ”intelligence” of animals, and will quote some story about a dog or cat or elephant, without suspecting that their very manner of presenting the problem solves the question of its principle, and leaves them with the sole resource of rebelling against the consequences of that principle.

But it is not my intention to speak, as the reader may be thinking, of Montargis' dog, or any other animal known to history, for the astonis.h.i.+ng proofs of sagacity he may have given. As I mean to relate a very simple but authentic story of brotherly love between a bullfinch and a maker of wooden shoes, my subject is more particularly the exchange of sentiments between two species of animal, a phenomenon in which the kins.h.i.+p of souls is very clearly demonstrated.

It is common enough for man to give affection to the animals that surround him, an affection generally proportioned to the service he expects of them. Disinterestedness is rarely coupled with power.