A moth genus unknown by H. G. Wells. Probably you have heard
of Haply, not w T. Happily the Sun, but the celebrated Happily
the Haply of Periplaneta Haplier Haply the entomologist. If so, you know at
least of the great feud between Happily and Professor Pawkins, though certain of its
consequences may be new to you for those of you who have not a word
of two of explanation is necessary, which the idle reader 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 really important matters as this Haply Pawkins
feud. Those epoch making controversies again that have convulsed the geological society are I
verily believe almost entirely unknown outside the fellowship of that body. I have heard
men of fair general education even refer to the great scenes at these meetings as
vestry meeting squabbles. Yet the great hate of the English and Scottish geologists has
lasted now half a century, and has left deep and abundant marks upon the
body of the science and this Haply Porkins business, though perhaps a more personal
affair stirred passions as profound, if not profounder. Your common man has no
conception of the zeal that animates a scientific investigator. The fury of contradiction you
can arouse in him. It is the odium theologicum in a new form.
There are men, for instance, who would gladly burn Professor Ray Lancaster at
Smithfield for his treatment of the mollusca in Encyclopedia, that fantastic extension of the
cephalopods to cover terrapods. But I wonder from Hapley and Porkins it began years
and years ago with their revision of the micro Lepidoptera, whatever these might be
by Porke, in which he extinguished a new species created by happily Haply,
who was always Quarrelsome replied by a stinging impeachment of the entire classification of Pawkins's
footnote remarks on a recent revision of Microlepidoptera Quarterly Journal, Entomological Society, eighteen
sixty three end footnote Pawkins in his rejoinder footnote Rejoinder to certain remarks, etc.
Ibbid eighteen sixty four end footnote suggested that Haply's microscope was as defective as
his powers of observation, and called him an irresponsible meddler. Haply was not
a professor at that time. Happily, in his retort footnote Further Remarks,
etc. Ibbod End footnote spoke of blundering collectors and described as if inadvertently,
Pawkins's revision as a miracle of ineptitude. It was a war to the knife.
However, it would scarcely interest the reader to detail how these two great
men quarreled, and how the split between them widened, until from the microlepidoptera
they were at war upon every open question in entomology. There were memorable occasions.
At times the Royal Entomological Society meetings resembled nothing so much as the Chamber
of Deputies. On the whole, I fancy Pawkins was nearer the truth than
Happily, but Happily was skillful with his rhetoric, had a turn of ridicule
rare in a scientific man, was endowed with vast energy, and had a
fine sense of injury in the matter of the extinguished species. While Pawkins was
a man of dull presence, prosy of speech, in shape not unlike a
water barrel, over, conscientious with testimonials, and suspected of jobbing museum appointments.
So the young men gathered around happily and applauded him. It was a
long struggle, vicious from the beginning, and growing at last to pitiless antagonism.
The successive turns of fortune, now an advantage to one side, and
now to another, now happily tormented by some success of Pawkins, and now
Pawkins outshone by haply belong rather to the history of entomology than to this story.
But in eighteen ninety one Pawkins, whose health had been bad for some
time, published some work upon the mesoblast of the Death's head Moth. What
the mesoblast of the Death's head Moth may be does not matter a rap in
the story. But the work was far below his usual standard, and gave
Happily an opening he had coveted for years. He must have worked night and
day to make the most of his advantage. In an elaborate critique, he
rent Pawkins to tatters. One can fancy the man's disordered black hair and his
queer dark eyes flashing as he went for his antagonist, and Pawkins made a
reply, halting, ineffectual, with painful gasps of silence, and yet malignant.
There was no mistaking his will to wound happily, nor his incapacity to
do so. But few of those who heard him, I was absent from
that meeting, realized how ill a man was. Happily had got his opponent
down and meant to finish him. He followed with simply brutal attack upon Pawkins
in the form of a paper upon the development of moths in general, a
paper showing evidence of the most extraordinary amount of mental labor, and yet couch
in a violently controversial tone. Violent as it was an editorial note. Witnesses
that it was modified. It must have covered Pawkins with shame and confusion of
face. It left no loophole. It was murderous in argument, an utterly
contemptuous in tone, an awful thing for the declining years of a man's career.
The world of entomologists waited breathlessly for the rejoinder from Pawkins. He would
try one, for Pawkins had always been game, But when it came,
it surprised them for the rejoinder of Pawkins was to catch influenza, to proceed
to pneumonia, and to die. It was perhaps as effectual a reply as
he could make under the circumstances, and largely turned the current of feeling against
Happily. The very people who had most gleefully cheered on the gladiators became serious
at the consequence. There could be no reasonable doubts the fret of the defeat
had contributed to the death of Pawkins. There was a limit even to scientific
controversy, said serious people. Another crushing attack was already in the press,
and appeared on the day before the funeral. I don't think Happily exerted himself
to stop it. People remembered how Happily had hounded down his rival, and
forgot that his rival's defects scathe thing satire reads ill over fresh mold. The
thing provoked comments in the daily papers. This it was that made me think
that you had probably heard of Happly and his controversy. But as I have
already remarked, scientific workers live very much in a world of their own.
Half the people there, I say, who go along Piccadilly to the Academy
ever, year could not tell you where the learned societies abide. Many even
think that research is a kind of happy family cage, in which all kinds
of men lie down together in peace. In his private thoughts, Happily could
not forgive Porkins for dying. In the first place, it was a mean
dodge to escape the absolute pulverization Happily had in mind for him, And in
the second it left Haply's mind with a queer gap in it. For twenty
years he had worked hard, sometimes far into 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 great antipathy he had gradually worked up to a climax In's last
controversy. It had killed Pawkins, but it had also thrown Happily out of
gear, so to speak, and his doctor advised him to give up work
for a time and rest. So Happily went down into a quiet village in
Kent and thought day and night of Pawkins and good things. It was now
impossible to say about him. At last, happily began to realize in what
direction the preoccupation tended. He determined to make a fight for it, and
started by trying to read novels, but he could not get his mind of
Pawkins white in the face and making his last speech every sentence a beautiful opening.
For Haply, he turned to fiction and found it had no grip on
him. He read The Iron Knight's Entertainments until his sense of causation was shocked
beyond endurance by the bottle imp Then he went to Kipling and found he proved
nothing besides being irrelevant and vulgar. These scientific people have their limitations. Then,
unhappily, he tried Bissants in a House, and the opening chapter set
his mind upon learner societies and Pawkins at once. So happily turned to chess
and found it a little more soothing. He soon mastered the moves and the
chief gambits and the commoner closing positions, and began to beat the vicar.
But then the cylindrical contours of the opposite king began to resemble Pawkins standing up
and gasping ineffectually against checkmates, and happily decided to give up chess. Perhaps
the study of some new branch of science would, after all be better diversion.
The best rest is change of occupation. Happily determined to plunge into dire
Tom's and had one of his smaller microscopes and Halibert's monograph sent down from London.
He thought that perhaps if he could get up a vigorous quarrel with Halibit,
he might be able to begin life afresh and forget pawkins. And very
soon he was hard at work in his habitual strenuous fashion at these very microscopic
denizens of the wayside pool. It was on the third day of the diet
Toms that Happily became aware of a novel addition to the local fauna. He
was working late at the microscope, and the only light in the room was
a brilliant little lamp with a special form of green lampshade. Like all experienced
microscopists, he kept both eyes open. It is the only way to avoid
excessive fatigue. One eye was over the instrument and bright and distinct. Before
that was the circular field of the microscope, a cross which a brown diet
Tom was slowly moving. But the other eye happily saw as it were without
seeing footnote. The reader unaccustomed to microscopes may easily understand this by rolling a
newspaper in the form of a tube and looking through it at a book,
keeping the other eye open end footnote. He was only dimly conscious of the
brass side of the instrument, the illuminated part of the tablecloth, a sheet
of notepaper, the foot of the lamp, and the darkened room beyond.
Suddenly his attention drifted from one eye to the other. The tablecloth was of
the material called tapestry by shopmen, and rather brightly colored. The pattern was
in gold, with a small amount of crimson and pale blue upon a grayish
background. At one point the pattern seemed displaced, and there was a vibrating
movement of colors. At this point, Happily suddenly moved his head back and
looked with both eyes. His mouth fell 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 were closed.
Strange that it should not have attracted his attention when it fluttered into its present
position. Strange that it should match the tablecloth stranger far to him, Happily,
the great entomologist, it was altogether unknown. There was no delusion.
It was crawling slowly towards the foot of the lamp. Genus unknown by heavens
and in England, said happily, staring. Then suddenly he thought of Pawkins.
Nothing would have maddened Pawkins more, and Pawkins was dead. Something about
the head and body of the insect became singularly suggestive of Pawkins, just as
the chess king had confound Pawkins said happily, but I must catch this,
And looking around him for some means of capturing the moth, he rose slowly
out of his chair. Suddenly the insect rose struck the edge of the lamp
shade. Happily heard the ping, and vanished into the shadow. In a
moment, Happily had whipped off the shade so that the whole room was illuminated.
The thing had disappeared, but soon his practiced eye detected it upon the
wallpaper near the door. He went towards it, poising the lamp shade for
capture. Before he was within striking distance, however, it had risen and
was fluttering round the room. After the fashion of its kind. It flew
with sudden starts and turns, seeming to vanish here and reappear there, once
happily struck and missed. Then again the third time he hit his microscope.
The instrument swayed, struck and overturned the lamp and fell noisily on the floor.
The lamp turned over on the table and very luckily went out. Haply
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, the thing would get away. In
the darkness, he saw Porkins quite distinctly laughing at him. Porkins had ever
an oily laugh. He swore furiously and stamped 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 the landlady appeared behind a
pink candle flame. She wore a nightcap over her gray hair, and had
some purple garment over her shoulders. What was that fearful smash? She said?
Has anything? The strange moth appeared fluttering about the chink of the door.
Shut the door, said Happily, and suddenly rushed at her. The
door slammed hastily. Happily was left alone in the dark. Then, in
the pause, he heard the landlady scuttle upstairs, lock her door, and
drag something heavy across the room and put against it. It became evident to
Happily that his conduct and appearance had been strange and alarming. Confound the moths
and pawkins. However, it was a pity to lose the moth. Now
he felt his way into the hall and found the matches. After sending his
head down upon the floor with a noise like a drum. With a lighted
candle, he returned to the sitting room. No moth was to be seen.
He at once for a moment it seemed that the thing was fluttering around
his head. Happily very suddenly decided to give up the moth and go to
bed, But he was excited all night long. His sleep was broken by
dreams of the moth, pawkins, and the landlady. Twice in the night
he turned out and soused his head in cold water. One thing was very
clear to him. The landlady could not possibly understand about the strange moth,
especially as he had failed to catch it. No one but an entomologist would
understand quite how he felt. She was probably frightened at his behavior, and
yet he failed to see how he could explain it. He decided to say
nothing further about the events of last night. After breakfast, he saw her
in the garden and decided to go out and to her to reassure her.
He talked to her about beans and potatoes, bees, caterpillars, and the
price of fruit. She replied in her usual manner, but she looked at
him a little suspiciously and kept walking as he walked, so that there was
always a bed of flowers or a row of beans, or something of that
sort between them. After a while, he began to feel singularly irritated at
this, and to conceal his vexation, he went indoors and presently went out
for a walk. The moss or butterfly, trailing an odd flavor of porkins
with it, kept coming 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 the old stone wall that runs along the west edge of the
park. But going up to it, he found it was only two lumps
of gray and yellow lichen. This, said Happily, is the reverse of
mimicry. Instead of a butterfly looking like a stone, here is a stone
looking like a butterfly. Once something hovered and fluttered around his head, but
by an effort of will he drove that impression out of his mind. Again.
In the afternoon, Happily called upon the vicar and argued with him upon
theological questions. They sat in the little arbor covered with briar, and smoked
as they wrangled. Look at that moth, said Happily, 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 Happily, Certainly,
not, said the vicar. Haply was thunderstruck. He gasped. The
vicar was staring at him. Clearly the man saw nothing. The eye of
the faith is no better than the eye of science, said Happily awkwardly.
I don't see your point, said the vicar, thinking it was part of
the argument. That night, Happily found the moths crawling over his counterplane.
He sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt sleeves, reasoned with
himself. Was it pure hallucination? He knew he was slipping, and he
battled for his sanity with the same silent energy he had formerly displayed against porkins.
So persistent his mental habit that he felt as if it were a struggle
with porkins. He was well versed in psychology. He knew that such visual
illusions did not come as a result of mental strain. But the point was
he did not see the moth. He had heard it when it touched the
edge of the lamp shade, and afterwards when it hit against the wall,
and he had felt it strike his face in the dark. He looked at
it. It was not at all dream like, but perfectly clear and solid.
Looking in the candle light, he saw the hairy body, and the
short, feathery antennae, the jointed legs, even a place where the dawn
was rubbed from the wing. He suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraid
of a little insect. His landlady had got the servant to sleep with her
that night. She was afraid to be alone in addition, she had locked
the door and put the chest of drawers against it. They listened and talked
in whispers after they had gone to bed, but nothing occurred to alarm them.
About eleven they had ventured to put the candle out and had both dozed
off to sleep. Then they woke up with a start and sat up in
bed, listening in the darkness. Then they heard the slip at feet going
to and fro. In Hapley's room, a chair was overturned. There was
a violent dab at the wall, then a china mental ornament smashed upon the
fender. Suddenly the door of the room opened and they heard him upon the
landing. They clung to one another listening. He seemed to be dancing upon
the staircase. Now he would go down three or four steps quickly, then
up again, then hurry down into the hall. They heard the umbrella stand
go over, and the fan like brick. Then the bolt shot and the
chain rattled. He was opening the door. They hurried to the window.
It was a dim, gray night and almost broken sheet of watery cloud was
sweeping across the moon, and the hedge and the trees in front of the
house were black against the pale roadway, they saw happily, looking like a
ghost, in his shirt and white trousers, running to and fro in the
road and beating the air. Now he would stop. Now he would dart
very rapidly at something invisible. Now he would move upon it with stealthy strides.
At last he went out of sight up the road towards the down.
Then, while they argued who should go down and lock the door, he
returned. He was walking very fast, and he came straight into the house,
closed the door carefully, and went quietly up to his bedroom. Everything
was silent, Missus Colville said, happily, calling down the staircase. Next
morning, I hope I did not alarm you last night. You may well
ask that, said Missus Carvill. The fact is I'm a sleepwalker, and
the last two nights I have been without my sleeping mixture. There's nothing to
be alarmed about. Really, I'm sorry I made such an ass of myself.
I will go over the down to shore him and get some stuff to
make me sleep soundly. I ought to have done it yesterday, but half
way over the down by the chalk pits, the moth came upon. Happily
again, he went on trying to keep his mind upon chess problems, but
it was no good. The thing fluttered into his face, and he struck
at it with his hat in self defense. Then rage, the old rage,
the rage he had so often felt against porkins, returned once more.
He went on leaping and striking at the eddying insect. Suddenly he trod on
nothing and fell headlong. There was a gap in his sensations, and happily
found himself sitting on the heap of flints in front of the opening of the
chalk pits, with a leg twisted back underneath him. The strange moth was
still fluttering around his head. He struck at it with his hand, and
turning his head saw two men approaching him. One was the village doctor.
It occurred to Happily that this 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, and that it behooved him to keep silent about it.
Late that night, however, after his broken leg was set, he was
feverish and forgot his self restraint. He was lying flat on his bed,
and he began to run his eyes around the room to see if the moth
was still about. He tried not to do this, but it was no
good. He soon caught sight of the thing resting close to his hand by
the night light, on the green tablecloth. The wings quivered with a sudden
wave of anger. He smote at it 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 cornice and darting across the room.
And he could also see that the nurse saw nothing of it, and looked
at him strangely. He must keep himself in hand, and he knew he
was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand. But as
the night waned, the fever grew upon him, and the very dread he
had of seeing the moth made him see it about five, just as the
dawn was gray. He tried to get out of bed and catch it,
though his leg was a fire with pain. The nurse had to struggle with
him. On account of this, they tied him down to the bed.
At this the moth grew bolder, and once he felt it settled in his
hair. Then, because he struck out violently with his arms, they tied
these also. At this the moth came and crawled over his face, and
happily wept, swore, screamed, prayed for them to take it off him.
Unavailingly. The doctor was a blockhead, a half qualified general practitioner,
and quite ignorant of mental science. He simply said, there's no moth.
Had he possessed the wit, he might still perhaps have saved happily from his
fate by entering into his delusion and covering his face with gauze, as he
prayed might be done. But as I say, the doctor was a blockhead,
and until the leg was healed, haply was kept tied to his bed,
with the imaginary moth crawling over him. It never left him while he
was awake, and it grew to a monster in his dreams. While he
was awake, he longed for sleep, and from sleep he awoke screaming.
So now happily 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
it hallucination, but haply when he is in his easier mood and can talk,
says it is the ghost of Pawkins, and consequently a unique specimen and
well worth the trouble of catching end of a moth. Genus unknown,