Then Vincent spoke of selection. He explained how in order to obtain the finest seedlings, the ordinary plan is to choose the most robust specimens; and then he told them of the fantastic experiment of one audacious horticulturist, who, out of a horror of routine—it really seemed almost like a challenge—took it into his head, on the contrary, to select the most weakly—with the result that he obtained blooms of incomparable beauty.
Robert, who had at first listened with only half an ear, like a person who merely expects to be bored, now made no attempt to interrupt. His attention delighted Lilian, who took it as a compliment to her lover.
“You ought to tell us,” said she, “of what you were saying the other day about fish and their power of accommodation to the different amounts of salt in the sea. … That was it, wasn’t it?”
“Except for certain regions,” went on Vincent, “the sea’s degree of saltness is pretty constant; and marine fauna as a rule tolerates only very slight variations of density. But the regions I was telling you about are nevertheless not uninhabited; the regions I mean are those which are subject to intense evaporation and in which, therefore, the proportion of water to salt is greatly reduced—or, on the contrary, those where the constant inflow of fresh water dilutes the salt and, so to speak, un-salts the sea—those that are near the mouths of great rivers, or such enormous currents as the Gulf Stream. In such regions the animals called stenohaline grow enfeebled to the point of perishing; and as they become incapable of defending themselves, they inevitably fall a prey to the animals called euryhaline, so that the euryhalines live by choice on the confines of the great currents, where the density of the water varies and where the stenohalines meet their death. You understand, don’t you, that the stenos are those which can exist only in water whose degree of saltness is unvarying; whilst the eurys. …”
“Are the pickles,” interrupted Robert,3 who always referred everything back to himself, and only took an interest in that part of a theory which he could turn to account.
“Most of them are ferocious,” added Vincent gravely.
“I told you it was better than any novel!” cried Lilian, ecstatically.
Vincent seemed transfigured—indifferent to the impression he was making. He was extraordinarily grave and went on in a lower tone as if he were talking to himself:
“The most astonishing discovery of recent times—at any rate the one that has taught me most—is the discovery of the photogenic apparatus of deep-sea creatures.”
“Oh, tell us about it!” cried Lilian, letting her cigarette go out and her ice melt on her plate.
“You know, no doubt, that the light of day does not reach very far down into the sea. Its depths are dark … huge gulfs, which for a long time were thought to be uninhabited; then people began dragging them, and quantities of strange animals were brought up from these infernal regions—animals that were blind, it was thought. What use would the sense of sight be in the dark? Evidently they had no eyes; they wouldn’t, they couldn’t have eyes. Nevertheless, on examination it was found to people’s amazement that some of them had eyes; that they almost all had eyes, and sometimes antennae of extraordinary sensibility into the bargain. Still people doubted and wondered: why eyes with no means of seeing? Eyes that are sensitive—but sensitive to what? … And at last it was discovered that each of these animals which people at first insisted were creatures of darkness, gives forth and projects before and around it its own light. Each of them shines, illuminates, irradiates. When they were brought up from the depths at night and turned out on to the ship’s deck, the darkness blazed. Moving, many-coloured fires, glowing, vibrating, changing—revolving beacon-lamps—sparkling of stars and jewels—a spectacle, say those who saw it, of unparalleled splendour.”
Vincent stopped. No one spoke for a long time.
“Let’s go home,” said Lilian suddenly; “I’m cold.”
Lady Lilian took her seat beside the chauffeur, so as to be sheltered by the glass screen. The two men at the back of the open carriage carried on their own conversation. Robert had hardly spoken during the whole of the dinner; he had listened to Vincent talking; now it was his turn.
“Fish like us, my dear boy, perish in calm waters,” said he to begin with, giving his friend a thump on the shoulder. He allowed himself a few familiarities with Vincent, but would not have suffered him to reciprocate them; for that matter, Vincent was not disposed to. “Do you know, I think you’re simply splendid! What a lecturer you’d make! Upon my word, you ought to quit doctoring. I really can’t see you prescribing laxatives and having no company but the sick. A chair of comparative biology, or something of that sort is what you want.”
“Yes,” said Vincent, “I have sometimes thought so.”
“Lilian ought to be able to manage it. She could get her friend the Prince of Monaco to interest himself in your researches. It’s his line, I believe. I must speak to her about it.”
“She has suggested it already.”
“Oh, so I see there’s no possibility of doing you a service,” said he, pretending to be vexed. “Just as I wanted to ask you one for myself, too.”
“It’s your turn to be in my debt. You think I’ve got a very short memory.”
“What? You’re still thinking of that five thousand francs? But you’ve paid it back, my dear fellow. You owe me nothing at all now—except a little friendship, perhaps.” He added these
