by Paul Vibert
I confess that I was amazed, astounded, overwhelmed; in my long career as a scientist, I had never been privileged to witness such a spectacle. There was no possible doubt: the fish and the bird, the pike and the parrot, recognized one another!
I made feverish enquiries and learned that the lock was no more than a hundred years old, but that it had been attended by the same family, from father to son, and that the parrot had been given to the first lock-keeper by a poor family of fisher-folk resident there for centuries.
I immediately examined the parrot, and by means of attentive study of its tongue and teeth was able to acquire the conviction that it had been born in 1460—which is to say, seven years after the fall of Constantinople!
Everything then became as clear as day to me. The pike and the parrot, old contemporaries, had definitely recognized one another, and the memory of birds and fish could no longer be put in doubt.
That, Monsieur and most honored colleague, is the result of my inquiry. You have been its inspiration. I believe that it will constitute a considerable advance in natural history, and I beg you to believer in my eternal gratitude.
Deign to accept, etc.
I have nothing to add to this interesting missive, only too glad to have been able, in my modest fashion, to assist in the definitive scientific determination of the surprising longevity, and even more surprising memory, of fish and birds.
Animal Intelligence
How I was able to reconstitute a language dead for centuries.
On the banks of the Amazon. Informative parrots.
A feathered Philemon and Baucis.
Thirty years ago, my father was able to demonstrate that a certain primitive language of the Redskins of North America was almost identical, word for word, to the Basque language, or at least its twin sister—which I shall publish one day, it the necessities of daily life should ever permit it.
Today, I simply wish to tell the story, briefly, of how I was able to reconstitute a language that had been absolutely dead for centuries on the banks, as enchanting as they are malarial, of the Amazon—which is, as everyone knows, in South America.
I had been there for more than six weeks, studying the whole range of the local hummingbirds—which, beneath their dazzling plumage, are merely ambulant carrion, and fall into decomposition as soon as they are caught—when I was taken by surprise one day by a terrible storm in the heart of the forest, still virgin in spite of its advanced age.
I and my faithful escort were about to be drenched to the skin when we discovered a crack in a rock that gave access to a veritable grotto. After having explored it with circumspection and several lanterns, we began by building a large fire at the opening, and warmed ourselves voluptuously, while smoking a pipe.
We had scarcely been resting in this fashion for a quarter of an hour when two superb large green parrots with rosy breasts, like those of little cockatoos, came to settle on branches close by, and began uttering a number of amicable cries—hum! hum!—as if to say: here we are, hello; it’s a long time since we’ve seen a human.
Surprised, naturally, I began speaking to them politely, and, while watching them, saw that they were a male and a female, certainly very old.
In a friendly fashion, but without allowing themselves to be caught, the two peculiar parrots started talking, pronouncing entire sentences—which, of course, I did not understand. From that moment on, though, keenly interested, I resolved to stay in the grotto in order to clarify the mystery, as strange as it was philological, that I scented there.
In no time at all, I had the grotto papered with a few rolls of colored wallpaper that I had brought for an entirely different purpose. Installed in relative comfort, I made haste to try to tame the two parrots—which, it seemed, wanted nothing more, to the extent that, a week later, they came to perch in a familiar fashion on my wrist. Then we held long conversations—without understanding one another, of course—although, for a lump of sugar, I was able to get my parrots to dictate hundred of phrases to me, slowly and methodically, with admirable articulation. By that means, I discovered that they knew more than three hundred sentences, which I wrote down religiously.
My parrots—which, according to an examination of their teeth and feet, had to be at least eight hundred years old—were definitely much superior to a phonograph.
Once in possession of three hundred and eleven sentences, I set compiling a dictionary, in alphabetical order, of all the words pronounced—postponing the grammar until a later date, when I would be in possession of further elements of information. As a result, I had more than five hundred completely unknown words, in a language absolutely dead for centuries, of which the two parrots were assuredly the last custodians.
Then an idea of genius occurred to me. I started pronouncing words in their language while touching the objects around me: trees, water, rocks, items of furniture, my companions, etc., etc. Admirably, the parrots understood, and, with a marvelous lucidity, were able to give me the meaning of at least four-fifths of the words they were pronouncing.
That was enough for me, and by that means, all their sentences were admirably clarified.
From then on, I got down to work, simultaneously writing a great dictionary and national grammar of that vanished language, in which I was fortunate enough to find many points of contact with Phoenician and, in consequence, Hebrew. This offers further proof that the two Americas were colonized in remotest antiquity by the Phoenicians—which is to say, the trading branch of the Jewish people.
You might now be wondering how I managed to reconstitute an entire language with 1500 words, even knowing what they meant—their exact significance.
Nothing simpler, and my dictionary—still in manuscript, because I have not yet found a serious publisher—includes exactly 91,007 words, including the technical terminology of those distant and primitive eras.
I have—this was my second idea of genius—applied to linguistics the quasi-divinatory methods of reconstitution devised by the immortal Cuvier.24 It’s as simple as saying hello, you see, except that it was necessary to think of it. Even then, setting modesty aside, it undoubtedly requires a certain skill and a good deal of flair to make use of that method, as instructive as it is experimental, successfully—which did not prevent me being able, by that means, not only to reconstitute a language but also to shed new light on ancient Phoenician colonization.
But all that doesn’t make one’s fortune; so, at the time of writing, I am happy to inform my numerous readers that I am still in search of a publisher for my dictionary and my grammar—for I forgot to say that, also thanks to me two parrots, who led me to a few tombstones, I have discovered the characters, which are merely phonetic Hebrew letters, scarcely altered by their distant transplantation centuries ago.
That should be worth a million or two.
Finally, my two faithful parrots—Philemon and Baucis, as I call them—did not want to leave me. They are in Paris with me, quite healthy but very sensitive to the cold. According to my calculations, they cannot be far off a thousand years old—a fine age.25
The three of us—including myself, the pen-holder—are in the process of setting up an open course in this beautiful language, dead for more than four centuries, at the Collège de France or the École des Langues Orientales. I might be mistake, but it seems to me that on the day the course begins, I and my two companions will have a famous success, and it must be admitted that, owing to the rarity of the event, the persistence invested in it, and the collaboration of a philologist with two birds, we shall not be undeserving of it.
That will be one in the eye for the Dutch canaries that play cards on the boulevards during the New Year’s festivities.
Oh. I forgot to say that Baucis can sing the songs of prehistoric times admirably; one might think it were plainsong.
Strange!
Author’s Note: It is evident that the intelligence and memory of animals is quite extraordinary; to convince yourself of it, first read this cu
rious note by Henri de Parville:
What a brave beast a dog is, and how intelligent! Read the following story told by Professor Forel of Morges, Switzerland.26 He calls our attention to an act of reflective intelligence that guided two poor dogs to seek help for their master and indicates as particularly worthy of admiration the collaboration of the two animals, which must have deliberated and reached agreement on what to do in the grave predicament that was tormenting them:
“Several days ago, the caretaker of the hotel at Z’meiden, above Tourtemagne, in the Valaisian district of Loèche, came out of the house to chop wood. He had spent the winter alone with two dogs, his two brave and faithful companions in solitude, a wolf-hound and a griffon, smaller in size but clever and intelligent. As the master was chopping his wood at the foot of a little wall, not far from the large roof covering the hotel, the layer of snow accumulated on the roof unexpectedly slid off. It hit the man, plastering him against the wall and imprisoning him up to the shoulders, only his head projecting above the avalanche. The snow was moist, heavy and ice-cold. It was impossible for the unfortunate fellow to move his arms or legs. The dogs saw their master in this predicament. They drew near and tried to scrape away the snow to free him. A vain attempt! Then they conferred. Suddenly, as rapidly as an arrow, they launched themselves down into the valley. Their master’s brother lived down there, in Ems. They would tell him about the accident that had occurred and begged him to come to the aid of their friend, who was about to die.
“Flat out, they ran through the snow. The journey takes a good walker four hours; they covered the distance in less than an hour. The avalanche had fallen at about midday. Within an hour they were yapping, barking, wailing and howling in front of the house from which salvation ought to emerge. The chalet door was opened and the two dogs, covered in sweat and fuming, were invited in. They refused. That generated anxiety. Why were the brave animals wailing like that? Had the brother suffered some misfortune up there at the hotel? The peasant quickly put on his coat and leggings and equipped himself with a spade and a rope. He went to ask his friends to make up a rescue party. The dogs took the lead; their barking, sinister a little while before, when they were announcing the fatal news, had changed its nature. They were now cries of summons and encouragement. They ran ahead, indicating the route and wagging their tails.
“It took seven hours for the rescuers to reach the hotel. When they arrived, it was nine o’clock at night. The dogs had preceded them. The caretaker, still trapped in the snow, had lost consciousness. The two dogs, crouched near the dying man’s head, were licking his face to warm him up and bring him back to life. He was dug out. The unfortunate fellow was half-frozen. Without his intelligent four-legged friends, he would have perished.”
Ems is at an altitude of 1330 meters, Z’meiden at 1847 meters. The distance between the two stations, as the crow flies, is nine kilometers.
This happened in July or August 1900, and in February 1901 Scaramouche confirmed my excellent opinion of animals in the following note:
“A reader in the Aube tells us about a curious manifestation of intelligence in a dog. A peasant took a flock of fourteen sheep on foot to the principal town of the canton. The flock was sold to a buyer who left the same evening, going home in a hurry to his village, which was a good way off, with a population of about five hundred.
“It had been agreed that the dog, which was accustomed to accompanying the fourteen sheep and answered to the name of Parisian, would be ceded to the buyer at a bargain price. Night having fallen during the journey, however, he found a means of separating the fourteen animals with which he was familiar from the larger flock without anyone noticing, retracing their steps and bringing them back to the accustomed fold.
“One can imagine the bewilderment of the worthy countryman, who had sold his lock for a good price, on finding them back home the following day. He returned the sheep—but he kept Parisian.”
One could multiply these examples infinitely; these seem conclusive enough to me, and I shall leave it there—for now!
The Human Microbe
I. The Hummingbirds. The selection of smallness.
Lilliput surpassed.
Curious endeavors.
There was a recent exhibition—as the English say—in Paris of a truly curious company of dwarfs, to which the Petit Journal devoted a long article, from which I have extracted the following lines, with the sole aim of showing them to my readers right away:
“For several, the Cirque Nouveau has been presenting, among other exhibits, a company of dwarfs, ‘the Hummingbirds,’ the tallest of whom measures 92 centimeters, and weighs 17 kilograms.
“Although not very heavy, this individual, M. Henry, weighs more than any other member of the company, and is the strongest—its Hercules. The athletic feats that he accomplishes every evening are truly surprising.
“The other individuals, of lesser height, juggle, dance and sing under the supervision of and after introduction by M. Piccolomini, the head man of the company, the writer on behalf of them all, the reason and the common sense: a blond-haired man of twenty-nine with a face that is both energetic and gentle, an honest gaze and a proud mouth ornamented with a fine moustache, but only 90 centimeters tall.
“One of Piccolomini’s brothers is an officer in the Italian navy.
“We should also mention another of these heroes, or, rather, the heroine of the drama that has so profoundly disturbed the company of the Hummingbirds: Mlle. Thérèse, a graceful dancer, blonde and flirtatious—very flirtatious, as we shall see—standing all of 81 centimeters tall.
“For two years, Mlle. Thérèse has been the intimate friend of M. Piccolomini. A daughter—a little doll—was born to them fourteen months ago. The child is in Ugra in Hungary, in the home of her father’s mother.
“Three months ago, one the banks of the beautiful blue Danube, before coming to Paris, Piccolomini and Thérèse made plans for the future, of which marriage was to be the first step. The ceremony was to take place without delay.
“Little man proposes, however, and little god disposes. Dazzled and fascinated by M. Henry’s Herculean feats of strength, the inconstant blonde allowed herself to be led up the garden path and elope with her new lover…”
Having read these lines, I said to myself one fine evening—which is only a manner of speaking, for it was raining torrentially—that I ought to go to see the Hummingbirds with my own eyes. (I say own because I wash every morning.27)
Incontinently, I hired—I say hired because it was pouring down, as I’ve already observed—a sapin, so-called because it was made of maple-wood, and had myself taken to the Cirque Nouveau in the Rue Saint-Honoré, which is called after a famous cream-cake, thinking all the while about Gulliver in the charming city of Lilliput, and Swift’s humor, so keen, so naturally witty and so argumentative.
Once comfortably seated, I chanced to find myself next to an old and most distinguished gentleman, who began talking to me about the Hummingbirds we would shortly be seeing, in a knowledgeable manner.
“Are you by chance Monsieur,” I asked him, laughing, “an impresario yourself—a manager of dwarfs?”
“Not at all,” he said, laughing in his turn. “It’s my accent that has deceived you. I am indeed a Yankee, but not of the Barnum family; I’m simply a physician and physiologist, seriously occupied with science—which is, in fact, quite rare in my country, still too new to have taken its scientific investigations very far.”
Once the ice was broken, I told him that I had been to America myself, and it did not take us long to become the best friends in the world.
While young ballerinas, as thin as half a hundred nails, broke through paper disks in front of us with the gauche and clumsy elegance of ill-dressed errand-girls, the young American—for he was still young—brought me up to date with his endeavors.
“The whole world is making ingenious use of selection, to obtain enormous cattle, swine and poultry. It’s the fable of the frog, put
into action in all the agricultural competitions in the entire world, and when someone succeeds in showing you a rabbit as big as a calf, he’s sure to carry off the gold medal.
“Well, after long study—or, rather, after meditations as profound as the coal mines of Hainault—I arrived at the very simple observation that, since the beginning of the world, its fauna has been continually getting smaller…as witness the disappearance of mastodons, mammoths, plesiosaurs, ichthyosaurs, megalosaurs, etc. etc., which have already disappeared from the surface of the globe thousands of years ago.
“To put it another way, one might believe that the great architect of the universe wanted to imitate humans, unless it is the latter who are imitating him, and that after the cyclopean and megalithic animals—if I might express myself thus with respect to fauna—he wanted to revert to the doubtless modest but divinely harmonious proportions of Greek temples, the Venus de Milo…”
“Bravo!” I said, enthusiastically.
“Yes, and in trying to makes things larger, with these agricultural competitions, humans are going against the wishes of nature, which is marching slowly but surely toward the city of Lilliput, by making the methods of the Colas Reduction its own.28
“That’s why Swift was a great man, a true prophet who has had a pure and overwhelming vision of the future, across the centuries…”
Increasingly carried away by the grandiosity of the American’s vision, I interrupted him again, involuntarily, and said: “But morally speaking, look at our little men, our petty passions, our petty ambitions for petty goals and petty ribbons, our petty ministers—we’re already there!”
