IX.
THE MOTH.
Probably you have heard of Hapley--not W. T. Hapley, the son, but thecelebrated Hapley, the Hapley of _Periplaneta Hapliia_, Hapley theentomologist.
If so you know at least of the great feud between Hapley and ProfessorPawkins, though certain of its consequences may be new to you. For thosewho have not, a word or two of explanation is necessary, which the idlereader may go over with a glancing eye, if his indolence so incline him.
It is amazing how very widely diffused is the ignorance of such reallyimportant matters as this Hapley-Pawkins feud. Those epoch-makingcontroversies, again, that have convulsed the Geological Society are, Iverily believe, almost entirely unknown outside the fellowship of thatbody. I have heard men of fair general education even refer to the greatscenes at these meetings as vestry-meeting squabbles. Yet the great hateof the English and Scotch geologists has lasted now half a century, andhas "left deep and abundant marks upon the body of the science." And thisHapley-Pawkins business, though perhaps a more personal affair, stirredpassions as profound, if not profounder. Your common man has no conceptionof the zeal that animates a scientific investigator, the fury ofcontradiction you can arouse in him. It is the _odium theologicum_ ina new form. There are men, for instance, who would gladly burn ProfessorRay Lankester at Smithfield for his treatment of the Mollusca in theEncyclopaedia. That fantastic extension of the Cephalopods to cover thePteropods ... But I wander from Hapley and Pawkins.
It began years and years ago, with a revision of the Microlepidoptera(whatever these may be) by Pawkins, in which he extinguished a new speciescreated by Hapley. Hapley, who was always quarrelsome, replied by astinging impeachment of the entire classification of Pawkins.[A] Pawkinsin his "Rejoinder"[B] suggested that Hapley's microscope was as defectiveas his power of observation, and called him an "irresponsible meddler"--Hapley was not a professor at that time. Hapley in his retort,[C] spoke of"blundering collectors," and described, as if inadvertently, Pawkins'revision as a "miracle of ineptitude." It was war to the knife. However,it would scarcely interest the reader to detail how these two great menquarrelled, and how the split between them widened until from theMicrolepidoptera they were at war upon every open question in entomology.There were memorable occasions. At times the Royal Entomological Societymeetings resembled nothing so much as the Chamber of Deputies. On thewhole, I fancy Pawkins was nearer the truth than Hapley. But Hapley wasskilful with his rhetoric, had a turn for ridicule rare in a scientificman, was endowed with vast energy, and had a fine sense of injury in thematter of the extinguished species; while Pawkins was a man of dullpresence, prosy of speech, in shape not unlike a water-barrel, overconscientious with testimonials, and suspected of jobbing museumappointments. So the young men gathered round Hapley and applauded him. Itwas a long struggle, vicious from the beginning and growing at last topitiless antagonism. The successive turns of fortune, now an advantage toone side and now to another--now Hapley tormented by some success ofPawkins, and now Pawkins outshone by Hapley, belong rather to the historyof entomology than to this story.
[Footnote A: "Remarks on a Recent Revision of Microlepidoptera."_Quart. Journ. Entomological Soc._, 1863.]
[Footnote B: "Rejoinder to certain Remarks," etc. _Ibid._ 1864.]
[Footnote C: "Further Remarks," etc. _Ibid._]
But in 1891 Pawkins, whose health had been bad for some time, publishedsome work upon the "mesoblast" of the Death's Head Moth. What themesoblast of the Death's Head Moth may be does not matter a rap in thisstory. But the work was far below his usual standard, and gave Hapley anopening he had coveted for years. He must have worked night and day tomake the most of his advantage.
In an elaborate critique he rent Pawkins to tatters--one can fancy theman's disordered black hair, and his queer dark eyes flashing as he wentfor his antagonist--and Pawkins made a reply, halting, ineffectual, withpainful gaps of silence, and yet malignant. There was no mistaking hiswill to wound Hapley, nor his incapacity to do it. But few of those whoheard him--I was absent from that meeting--realised how ill the man was.
Hapley got his opponent down, and meant to finish him. He followed with asimply brutal attack upon Pawkins, in the form of a paper upon thedevelopment of moths in general, a paper showing evidence of a mostextraordinary amount of mental labour, and yet couched in a violentlycontroversial tone. Violent as it was, an editorial note witnesses that itwas modified. It must have covered Pawkins with shame and confusion offace. It left no loophole; it was murderous in argument, and utterlycontemptuous in tone; an awful thing for the declining years of a man'scareer.
The world of entomologists waited breathlessly for the rejoinder fromPawkins. He would try one, for Pawkins had always been game. But when itcame it surprised them. For the rejoinder of Pawkins was to catchinfluenza, proceed to pneumonia, and die.
It was perhaps as effectual a reply as he could make under thecircumstances, and largely turned the current of feeling against Hapley.The very people who had most gleefully cheered on those gladiators becameserious at the consequence. There could be no reasonable doubt the fret ofthe defeat had contributed to the death of Pawkins. There was a limit evento scientific controversy, said serious people. Another crushing attackwas already in the press and appeared on the day before the funeral. Idon't think Hapley exerted himself to stop it. People remembered howHapley had hounded down his rival, and forgot that rival's defects.Scathing satire reads ill over fresh mould. The thing provoked comment inthe daily papers. This it was that made me think that you had probablyheard of Hapley and this controversy. But, as I have already remarked,scientific workers live very much in a world of their own; half thepeople, I dare say, who go along Piccadilly to the Academy every year,could not tell you where the learned societies abide. Many even think thatresearch is a kind of happy-family cage in which all kinds of men lie downtogether in peace.
In his private thoughts Hapley could not forgive Pawkins for dying. Inthe first place, it was a mean dodge to escape the absolute pulverisationHapley had in hand for him, and in the second, it left Hapley's mind witha queer gap in it. For twenty years he had worked hard, sometimes farinto the night, and seven days a week, with microscope, scalpel,collecting-net, and pen, and almost entirely with reference to Pawkins.The European reputation he had won had come as an incident in that greatantipathy. He had gradually worked up to a climax in this lastcontroversy. It had killed Pawkins, but it had also thrown Hapley out ofgear, so to speak, and his doctor advised him to give up work for a time,and rest. So Hapley went down into a quiet village in Kent, and thoughtday and night of Pawkins, and good things it was now impossible to sayabout him.
At last Hapley began to realise in what direction the pre-occupationtended. He determined to make a fight for it, and started by trying toread novels. But he could not get his mind off Pawkins, white in the faceand making his last speech--every sentence a beautiful opening for Hapley.He turned to fiction--and found it had no grip on him. He read the "IslandNights' Entertainments" until his "sense of causation" was shocked beyondendurance by the Bottle Imp. Then he went to Kipling, and found he "provednothing," besides being irreverent and vulgar. These scientific peoplehave their limitations. Then unhappily, he tried Besant's "Inner House,"and the opening chapter set his mind upon learned societies and Pawkins atonce.
So Hapley turned to chess, and found it a little more soothing. He soonmastered the moves and the chief gambits and commoner closing positions,and began to beat the Vicar. But then the cylindrical contours of theopposite king began to resemble Pawkins standing up and gaspingineffectually against check-mate, and Hapley decided to give up chess.
Perhaps the study of some new branch of science would after all be betterdiversion. The best rest is change of occupation. Hapley determined toplunge at diatoms, and had one of his smaller microscopes and Halibut'smonograph sent down from London. He thought that perhaps if he could getup a vigorous quarrel with Halibut, he might be able to begin life afreshand forget Pawkins. And very s
oon he was hard at work in his habitualstrenuous fashion, at these microscopic denizens of the way-side pool.
It was on the third day of the diatoms that Hapley became aware of a noveladdition to the local fauna. He was working late at the microscope, andthe only light in the room was the brilliant little lamp with the specialform of green shade. Like all experienced microscopists, he kept both eyesopen. It is the only way to avoid excessive fatigue. One eye was over theinstrument, and bright and distinct before that was the circular field ofthe microscope, across which a brown diatom was slowly moving. With theother eye Hapley saw, as it were, without seeing. He was only dimlyconscious of the brass side of the instrument, the illuminated part of thetable-cloth, a sheet of notepaper, the foot of the lamp, and the darkenedroom beyond.
Suddenly his attention drifted from one eye to the other. The table-clothwas of the material called tapestry by shopmen, and rather brightlycoloured. The pattern was in gold, with a small amount of crimson and paleblue upon a greyish ground. At one point the pattern seemed displaced, andthere was a vibrating movement of the colours at this point.
Hapley suddenly moved his head back and looked with both eyes. His mouthfell open with astonishment.
It was a large moth or butterfly; its wings spread in butterfly fashion!
It was strange it should be in the room at all, for the windows wereclosed. Strange that it should not have attracted his attention whenfluttering to its present position. Strange that it should match thetable-cloth. Stranger far that to him, Hapley, the great entomologist, itwas altogether unknown. There was no delusion. It was crawling slowlytowards the foot of the lamp.
"New Genus, by heavens! And in England!" said Hapley, staring.
Then he suddenly thought of Pawkins. Nothing would have maddened Pawkinsmore...And Pawkins was dead!
Something about the head and body of the insect became singularlysuggestive of Pawkins, just as the chess king had been.
"Confound Pawkins!" said Hapley. "But I must catch this." And lookinground him for some means of capturing the moth, he rose slowly out of hischair. Suddenly the insect rose, struck the edge of the lampshade--Hapleyheard the "ping"--and vanished into the shadow.
In a moment Hapley had whipped off the shade, so that the whole room wasilluminated. The thing had disappeared, but soon his practised eyedetected it upon the wall-paper near the door. He went towards it poisingthe lamp-shade for capture. Before he was within striking distance,however, it had risen and was fluttering round the room. After the fashionof its kind, it flew with sudden starts and turns, seeming to vanish hereand reappear there. Once Hapley struck, and missed; then again.
The third time he hit his microscope. The instrument swayed, struck andoverturned the lamp, and fell noisily upon the floor. The lamp turned overon the table and, very luckily, went out. Hapley was left in the dark.With a start he felt the strange moth blunder into his face.
It was maddening. He had no lights. If he opened the door of the room thething would get away. In the darkness he saw Pawkins quite distinctlylaughing at him. Pawkins had ever an oily laugh. He swore furiously andstamped his foot on the floor.
There was a timid rapping at the door.
Then it opened, perhaps a foot, and very slowly. The alarmed face of thelandlady appeared behind a pink candle flame; she wore a night-cap overher grey hair and had some purple garment over her shoulders. "What_was_ that fearful smash?" she said. "Has anything----" The strangemoth appeared fluttering about the chink of the door. "Shut that door!"said Hapley, and suddenly rushed at her.
The door slammed hastily. Hapley was left alone in the dark. Then in thepause he heard his landlady scuttle upstairs, lock her door, and dragsomething heavy across the room and put against it.
It became evident to Hapley that his conduct and appearance had beenstrange and alarming. Confound the moth! and Pawkins! However, it was apity to lose the moth now. He felt his way into the hall and found thematches, after sending his hat down upon the floor with a noise like adrum. With the lighted candle he returned to the sitting-room. No moth wasto be seen. Yet once for a moment it seemed that the thing was flutteringround his head. Hapley very suddenly decided to give up the moth and go tobed. But he was excited. All night long his sleep was broken by dreams ofthe moth, Pawkins, and his landlady. Twice in the night he turned out andsoused his head in cold water.
One thing was very clear to him. His landlady could not possiblyunderstand about the strange moth, especially as he had failed to catchit. No one but an entomologist would understand quite how he felt. She wasprobably frightened at his behaviour, and yet he failed to see how hecould explain it. He decided to say nothing further about the events oflast night. After breakfast he saw her in her garden, and decided to goout and talk to reassure her. He talked to her about beans and potatoes,bees, caterpillars, and the price of fruit. She replied in her usualmanner, but she looked at him a little suspiciously, and kept walking ashe walked, so that there was always a bed of flowers, or a row of beans,or something of the sort, between them. After a while he began to feelsingularly irritated at this, and to conceal his vexation went indoors andpresently went out for a walk.
The moth, or butterfly, trailing an odd flavour of Pawkins with it, keptcoming into that walk, though he did his best to keep his mind off it.Once he saw it quite distinctly, with its wings flattened out, upon theold stone wall that runs along the west edge of the park, but going up toit he found it was only two lumps of grey and yellow lichen. "This," saidHapley, "is the reverse of mimicry. Instead of a butterfly looking like astone, here is a stone looking like a butterfly!" Once something hoveredand fluttered round his head, but by an effort of will he drove thatimpression out of his mind again.
In the afternoon Hapley called upon the Vicar, and argued with him upontheological questions. They sat in the little arbour covered with briar,and smoked as they wrangled. "Look at that moth!" said Hapley, suddenly,pointing to the edge of the wooden table.
"Where?" said the Vicar.
"You don't see a moth on the edge of the table there?" said Hapley.
"Certainly not," said the Vicar.
Hapley was thunderstruck. He gasped. The Vicar was staring at him. Clearlythe man saw nothing. "The eye of faith is no better than the eye ofscience," said Hapley awkwardly.
"I don't see your point," said the Vicar, thinking it was part of theargument.
That night Hapley found the moth crawling over his counterpane. He sat onthe edge of the bed in his shirt sleeves and reasoned with himself. Was itpure hallucination? He knew he was slipping, and he battled for his sanitywith the same silent energy he had formerly displayed against Pawkins. Sopersistent is mental habit, that he felt as if it were still a strugglewith Pawkins. He was well versed in psychology. He knew that such visualillusions do come as a result of mental strain. But the point was, he didnot only _see_ the moth, he had heard it when it touched the edge ofthe lampshade, and afterwards when it hit against the wall, and he hadfelt it strike his face in the dark.
He looked at it. It was not at all dreamlike, but perfectly clear andsolid-looking in the candle-light. He saw the hairy body, and the shortfeathery antennae, the jointed legs, even a place where the down wasrubbed from the wing. He suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraidof a little insect.
His landlady had got the servant to sleep with her that night, because shewas afraid to be alone. In addition she had locked the door, and put thechest of drawers against it. They listened and talked in whispers afterthey had gone to bed, but nothing occurred to alarm them. About eleventhey had ventured to put the candle out, and had both dozed off to sleep.They woke up with a start, and sat up in bed, listening in the darkness.
Then they heard slippered feet going to and fro in Hapley's room. A chairwas overturned, and there was a violent dab at the wall. Then a chinamantel ornament smashed upon the fender. Suddenly the door of the roomopened, and they heard him upon the landing. They clung to one another,listening. He seemed to be dancing upon the
staircase. Now he would godown three or four steps quickly, then up again, then hurry down into thehall. They heard the umbrella stand go over, and the fanlight break. Thenthe bolt shot and the chain rattled. He was opening the door.
They hurried to the window. It was a dim grey night; an almost unbrokensheet of watery cloud was sweeping across the moon, and the hedge andtrees in front of the house were black against the pale roadway. They sawHapley, looking like a ghost in his shirt and white trousers, running toand fro in the road, and beating the air. Now he would stop, now he woulddart very rapidly at something invisible, now he would move upon it withstealthy strides. At last he went out of sight up the road towards thedown. Then, while they argued who should go down and lock the door, hereturned. He was walking very fast, and he came straight into the house,closed the door carefully, and went quietly up to his bedroom. Theneverything was silent.
"Mrs. Colville," said Hapley, calling down the staircase next morning, "Ihope I did not alarm you last night."
"You may well ask that!" said Mrs. Colville.
"The fact is, I am a sleep-walker, and the last two nights I have beenwithout my sleeping mixture. There is nothing to be alarmed about, really.I am sorry I made such an ass of myself. I will go over the down toShoreham, and get some stuff to make me sleep soundly. I ought to havedone that yesterday."
But half-way over the down, by the chalk pits, the moth came upon Hapleyagain. He went on, trying to keep his mind upon chess problems, but it wasno good. The thing fluttered into his face, and he struck at it with hishat in self-defence. Then rage, the old rage--the rage he had so oftenfelt against Pawkins--came upon him again. He went on, leaping andstriking at the eddying insect. Suddenly he trod on nothing, and fellheadlong.
There was a gap in his sensations, and Hapley found himself sitting on theheap of flints in front of the opening of the chalk-pits, with a legtwisted back under him. The strange moth was still fluttering round hishead. He struck at it with his hand, and turning his head saw two menapproaching him. One was the village doctor. It occurred to Hapley thatthis was lucky. Then it came into his mind with extraordinary vividness,that no one would ever be able to see the strange moth except himself, andthat it behoved him to keep silent about it.
Late that night, however, after his broken leg was set, he was feverishand forgot his self-restraint. He was lying flat on his bed, and he beganto run his eyes round the room to see if the moth was still about. Hetried not to do this, but it was no good. He soon caught sight of thething resting close to his hand, by the night-light, on the greentable-cloth. The wings quivered. With a sudden wave of anger he smote atit with his fist, and the nurse woke up with a shriek. He had missed it.
"That moth!" he said; and then, "It was fancy. Nothing!"
All the time he could see quite clearly the insect going round the corniceand darting across the room, and he could also see that the nurse sawnothing of it and looked at him strangely. He must keep himself in hand.He knew he was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand. But as thenight waned the fever grew upon him, and the very dread he had of seeingthe moth made him see it. About five, just as the dawn was grey, he triedto get out of bed and catch it, though his leg was afire with pain. Thenurse had to struggle with him.
On account of this, they tied him down to the bed. At this the moth grewbolder, and once he felt it settle in his hair. Then, because he struckout violently with his arms, they tied these also. At this the moth cameand crawled over his face, and Hapley wept, swore, screamed, prayed forthem to take it off him, unavailingly.
The doctor was a blockhead, a just-qualified general practitioner, andquite ignorant of mental science. He simply said there was no moth. Had hepossessed the wit, he might still, perhaps, have saved Hapley from hisfate by entering into his delusion, and covering his face with gauze, ashe prayed might be done. But, as I say, the doctor was a blockhead, anduntil the leg was healed Hapley was kept tied to his bed, and with theimaginary moth crawling over him. It never left him while he was awake andit grew to a monster in his dreams. While he was awake he longed forsleep, and from sleep he awoke screaming.
So now Hapley is spending the remainder of his days in a padded room,worried by a moth that no one else can see. The asylum doctor calls ithallucination; but Hapley, when he is in his easier mood, and can talk,says it is the ghost of Pawkins, and consequently a unique specimen andwell worth the trouble of catching.