The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



It was a wizard's cave certainly, just as I had 

 pictured it. At the top of the steeple, a rusty 

 weathercock creaked mournfully; in the dusk great 

 Bats flew all around the edifice or dived down the 

 throats of the gargoyles ; at night Owls hooted upon 

 the copings of the leads. It was inside, under the 

 immensities of the vault, that my chemist used to 

 perform. What infernal mixtures did he com- 

 pound? Should I ever know? 



It is the day for his visit. He comes to see us 

 with no pointed cap: in ordinary garb, in fact, 

 with nothing very queer about him. He bursts 

 into our schoolroom like a hurricane. His red 

 face is half-buried in the enormous stiff collar that 

 digs into his ears. A few wisps of red hair adorn 

 his temples; the top of his head shines like an old 

 ivory ball. In a dictatorial voice and with wooden 

 gestures, he questions two or three of the boys; 

 after a moment's bullying, he turns on his heel 

 and goes off in a whirlwind as he came. No, this 

 is not the man, a capital fellow at heart, to inspire 

 me with a pleasant idea of the things which he 

 teaches. 



Two windows of his laboratory look out upon 

 the garden of the school. One can just lean on 

 them; and I often go and peep in, trying to make 

 out, in my poor brain, what chemistry can really 

 be. Unfortunately, the room into which my eyes 

 penetrate is not the sanctuary, but a mere out- 

 house where the learned implements and crockery 

 are washed. Leaden pipes with taps run down 

 the walls; wooden vats occupy the corners. Some- 

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