The drawback of the holidays consisted, for Metchnikoff, in coming away from his laboratory and in the impossibility of following his diet in a hotel or a boarding-house. We therefore resolved to hire a cottage in some quiet place, to organise a small laboratory, and to continue our usual mode of life.

St. LegÉr-en-Yvelines, where we had spent part of the preceding summer, answered all our requirements. We took a small villa there and called it “Norka,” which means in Russian “little hole,” “little refuge,” and came there for the holidays in July 1914.

Elie seemed pleased to be there; thanks to the laboratory, he could easily vary his occupations, for continuous reading fatigued him. His reflections having led him to the problem of natural death, he had for some time been seeking for a subject on which he could study the mechanism of the phenomenon. He had formerly studied the May-flies (EphemeridÆ), predestined to a natural death by their rudimentary buccal organs, incapable of use in feeding. But the life of those insects, a life of a few hours or a few days at the most, was too short to allow the necessary researches. The males of the Rotifera, which are also deprived of buccal organs and even of digestive organs, were too small in size for physiological experiments. Thus, those two examples of natural death among multicellular beings were unsuitable to the projected study.

He found a more favourable subject in the moth of the silk-worm (Bombyx mori); the rudimentary buccal organs of that insect make all feeding impossible and predestine it to a natural death. The dimensions of the silk-worm moth are large enough and it has a life duration of twenty-five or thirty days, therefore sufficient to allow the study of the mechanism by which its death is brought about. Metchnikoff procured a quantity of silk-worms, and soon the moths hatched and covered all the mantelpieces and tables in Norka with white flakes. He ascertained that it was not hunger which brought about the death of the moths, for their organism was not in the least exhausted.

The nutrition of the latter takes place at the expense of the fatty substance which remains after the metamorphosis of the chrysalis into a moth. The dissolution of this fatty substance produces toxins which pass into the urine. Thus the obvious cause of the death of the moth is an acid intoxication by toxic urine secreted in the bladder. As the latter does not empty itself, urÆmia becomes inevitable.

The majority of moths contain no micro-organisms which could suggest death by infection.

The only theoretic objection against a natural death might consist in the existence of “invisible microbes.” Indeed, the question of invisible microbes revealed in certain infections perturbed Metchnikoff’s mind to such an extent that, during his last illness, he used to say that it would have been a curse to his ulterior activity, a sort of ghost preventing all definite conclusions in problems connected with the absence or presence of microbes. The last word on natural death, he said, will only be spoken when, owing to the improvement of the microscope, those microbes which are as yet invisible to us will become visible. Nevertheless, as far as can be judged at present, the death of the Bombyx mori is due, not to external causes, but to the structure of the insect itself, and is therefore a natural death.

During these holidays, Metchnikoff also wrote reminiscences of his friend the physiologist SetchÉnoff.[30]

We went quietly for fairly long walks; Metchnikoff rested on the shores of his favourite lake (Vilpert), and his health was very satisfactory.

After the intense heat, some rain came and the weather became ideal; there was a perceptible lull in nature; the underwood was becoming purple with heather; the corn was ripening; harvest had begun, and sheaves stood up in the fields. All was calm and peaceful; we never tired of the charm of the forest, of the fields, of the beautiful rustic surroundings, and our souls sang in unison with Nature....

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning in the pure sky, the news of the war burst out!

The possibility had so often been mentioned in late years that no one believed in it. Even now, on the eve of the catastrophe, it was hoped that all would settle down....

Until the last moment Metchnikoff refused to believe in it; he could not admit that a pacific solution was impossible. “How is it possible that in Europe, in a civilised country, mutual interests should not be reconciled without killing?” he said. “A war would be madness, even from the point of view of Germany, who risks having to face three great powers. No, war is not possible.”

And yet war was spreading all over Europe.

The situation of France seemed critical, for the country had just gone through a series of internal storms. The labour question, that of income tax, and that of the three years’ military service had raised sharp controversies; the Caillaux affair had revealed hidden sores in political life; the insane assassination of JaurÈs, of which the reason was still unknown, gave rise to the blackest prognostications.

Already on the 28th July, date of the declaration of war by Austria against Serbia, anxiety had become intense, but it was hoped that Russia would settle matters between the two countries, and that the trouble would remain local.

On the 1st August, Germany declared war on Russia, and it became obvious that the storm was coming on apace. The aspect of life suddenly changed; a feeling of dread and expectancy unnerved everybody; mobilisation was mentioned; automobiles at full speed hurried along the roads; the harvest was hastily gathered.... We could no longer work, go for walks, or admire nature without a feeling of heavy anxiety.

We went about like automatons, all our thoughts centred on one point—the threatening, inevitable war. Everything had put on a sinister aspect, and Nature herself joined in the general gloom; the weather became stormy, thunder rolled alarmingly, heavy clouds hurried and met in a gigantic struggle, evoking the image of other coming struggles. During the night of the 1st August the storm never ceased, we could not sleep; all night long, frenzied automobiles raced along the high road, sounding their lugubrious horns. In the middle of the night, we heard some one knocking at the doors of the police station opposite. What was happening? In the darkness, illumined by flashes of lightning, we saw horsemen with lanterns; they were messengers bringing the orders for mobilisation. It was proclaimed the next day.

The population gathered at the mairie, a grave, silent crowd; the few words exchanged only concerned war and partings. Old men, who had lived through 1870, were low-spirited; young ones, on the contrary, were excited.

We had to think of our return home, which might be difficult later. We went into the forest for the last time; the evening was mild and calm after the storm. The peace and beauty around us were such that we longed not to believe in the terrible reality. But we had to bid farewell to all that had charmed us. We went once again into the meadows near Norka. The hayricks were standing in rows, their soft, golden silhouettes harmoniously outlined against the hilly background purple with heather. We sat down on the mown grass. Suddenly, in the calm of the evening, bells began to sound. It was not the distant and poetic call for vespers, nor the sad sound of the passing bell, but the hard, sinister, ill-omened tocsin, warning the whole countryside, down to the most distant, most peaceful hamlets and to the wood-cutters in the forest, that mobilisation had commenced....

Another storm broke out in the night. Again the rolling of the thunder shook our nerves and seemed like the echo of distant battles; again mysterious automobiles and horsemen raced along the road, and everything, every sound, every shadow seemed sinister.

We did not feel any fear, but a kind of insupportable nervous tension. Later, when we were much nearer real danger, we did not experience this electric, almost morbid feeling.

The next day, Germany had declared war on France.

It was only with much difficulty that we found a carriage to take us to the station. On the road we were constantly being passed by various vehicles, crowded with soldiers and young men going off. The little station was full of people, the train also. Moved and excited, the people shouted, “Vive la France!” and sent friendly salutes to unknown soldiers in the train. Women, seeing their men off, were trying to be gay; they encouraged the departing ones, and only wept after they were gone. The general impression, both moral and material, was excellent; every one seemed equal to his task, conscious of his duty, and desirous of fulfilling it well. The mobilisation seemed well organised, everything was being accomplished without any flurry or bustle, even the trains were almost punctual.

All small personal interests and party quarrels which had latterly poisoned life now suddenly disappeared; everywhere the desire to be useful was noticeable; people became better, there was more sympathy, more solidarity; the distance between classes seemed to decrease, the common trial made all equal.

There was beauty in that moment, for it showed that the greatest of evils might yet exalt and purify the human soul.