Fabre's Writings 



tempted to give up or to flinch under the 

 burden of grief or disappointment, instead 

 of listening to the voice of their talents, the 

 appeal of their friends, the summons of God 

 Himself to generous and devoted action, 

 and to the great harvest of souls and ideas. 



For forty years [says Fabre] I have struggled 

 with unshakable courage against the sordid mis- 

 eries of life ; and the corner of earth I have dreamed 

 of has come at last. 



The wish is realised. It is a little late, O my 

 pretty insects! I greatly fear that the peach is of- 

 fered to me when I am beginning to have no teeth 

 wherewith to eat it. Yes, it is a little late; the 

 wide horizons of the outset have shrunk into a low 

 and stifling canopy, more and more straitened day 

 by day. Regretting nothing in the past, save those 

 whom I have lost; regretting nothing, not even 

 my first youth ; hoping nothing either, I have 

 reached the point at which, worn out by the experi- 

 ence of things, we ask ourselves if life be worth 

 the living. 1 



In the touching, desolate accents of these 

 lives we may, no doubt, hear the echoes of 

 a whole lifetime of toil and trial; but above 

 all they express the cruel grief which had 

 just wrung the kindly, tender heart of the 

 great scientist. He was still suffering from 



1 Souvenirs, EL, p. 3. The Life of the Fly, chap, i., 

 "The Harmas." 



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