On Vegetarianism
By Elisée Reclus (1830-1905)
(First printed in the HUMANE REVIEW, January, 1901. Reprinted as pamphlet several
times)
MEN of such high standing in hygiene and biology having made a profound study
of questions relating to normal food, I shall take good care not to display
my incompetence by expressing an opinion as to animal and vegetable nourishment.
Let the cobbler stick to his last. As I am neither chemist nor doctor, I shall
not mention either azote or albumen, nor reproduce the formulas of analysts,
but shall content myself simply with giving my own personal impressions, which,
at all events, coincide with those of many vegetarians. I shall move within
the circle of my own experiences, stopping here and there to set down some observation
suggested by the petty incidents of life.
First of all I should say that the search for truth had nothing to do with the
early impressions which made me a potential vegetarian while still a small boy
wearing baby-frocks. I have a distinct remembrance of horror at the sight of
blood. One of the family had sent me, plate in hand, to the village butcher,
with the injunction to bring back some gory fragment or other. In all innocence
I set out cheerfully to do as I was bid, and entered the yard where the slaughtermen
were. I still remember this gloomy yard where terrifying men went to and fro
with great knives, which they wiped on blood-besprinkled smocks. Hanging from
a porch an enormous carcase seemed to me to occupy an extraordinary amount of
space; from its white flesh a reddish liquid was trickling into the gutters.
Trembling and silent I stood in this blood-stained yard incapable of going forward
and too much terrified to run away. I do not know what happened to me ; it has
passed from my memory. I seem to have heard that I fainted, and that the kind-hearted
butcher carried roe into his own house ; I did not weigh more than one of those
lambs he slaughtered every morning.
Other pictures cast their shadows over my childish years, and, like that glimpse
of the slaughter-house, mark so many epochs in my life. I can see the sow belonging
to some peasants, amateur butchers, and therefore all the more cruel. I remember
one of them bleeding the animal slowly, so that the blood fell drop by drop;
for, in order to make really good black puddings, it appears essential that
the victim should have suffered proportionately. She cried without ceasing,
now and then uttering groans and sounds of despair almost human; it seemed like
listening to a child.
And in fact the domesticated pig is for a year or so a child of the house ;
pampered that he may grow fat, and returning a sincere affection for all the
care lavished on him, which has but one aim - so many inches of bacon. But when
the affection is reciprocated by the good woman who takes care of the pig, fondling
him and speaking in terms of endearment to him, is she not considered ridiculous
- as if it were absurd, even degrading, to love an animal that loves us?
One of the strongest impressions of my childhood is that of having witnessed
one of those rural dramas, the forcible killing of a pig by a party of villagers
in revolt against a dear old woman who would not consent to the murder of her
fat friend. The village crowd burst into the pigstye and dragged the beast to
the slaughter place where all the apparatus for the deed stood waiting, whilst
the unhappy dame sank down upon a stool weeping quiet tears. I stood beside
her and saw those tears without knowing whether I should sympathise with her
grief, or think with the crowd that the killing of the pig was just, legitimate,
decreed by common sense as well as by destiny.
Each of us, especially those who have lived in a provincial spot, far away from
vulgar ordinary towns, where everything is methodically classed and disguised
- each of us has seen something of these barbarous acts committed by flesh-eaters
against the beasts they eat. There is no need to go into some Porcopolis of
North America, or into a saladero of La Plata, to contemplate the horrors of
the massacres which constitute the primary condition of our daily food. But
these impressions wear off in time; they yield before the baneful influence
of daily education, which tends to drive the individual towards mediocrity,
and takes out of him anything that goes to the making of an original personality.
Parents, teachers, official or friendly, doctors, not to speak of the powerful
individual whom we call "everybody," all work together to harden the
character of the child with respect to this "four-footed food," which,
nevertheless, loves as we do, feels as we do, and, under our influence, progresses
or retrogresses as we do.
It is just one of the sorriest results of our flesh-eating habits that the animals
sacrificed to man's appetite have been systematically and methodically made
hideous, shapeless, and debased in intelligence and moral worth. The name even
of the animal into which the boar has been transformed is used as the grossest
of insults ; the mass of flesh we see wallowing in noisome pools is so loathsome
to look at that we agree to avoid all similarity of name between the beast and
the dishes we make out of it. What a difference there is between the moufflon's
appearance and habits as he skips about upon the mountain rocks, and that of
the sheep which has lost all individual initiative and becomes mere debased
flesh-so timid that it dares not leave the flock, running headlong into the
jaws of the dog that pursues it. A similar degradation has befallen the ox,
whom now-a-days we see moving with difficulty in the pastures, transformed by
stock-breeders into an enormous ambulating mass of geometrical forms, as if
designed beforehand for the knife of the butcher. And it is to the production
of such monstrosities we apply the term "breeding"! This is how man
fulfils his mission as educator with respect to his brethren, the animals.
For the matter of that, do we not act in like manner towards all Nature? Turn
loose a pack of engineers into a charming valley, in the midst of fields and
trees, or on the banks of some beautiful river, and you will soon see w hat
they would do. They would do everything in their power to put their own work
in evidence, and to mask Nature under their heaps of broken stones and coal.
All of them would be proud, at least, to see their locomotives streaking the
sky with a network of dirty yellow or black smoke. Sometimes these engineers
even take it upon themselves to improve Nature. Thus, when the Belgian artists
protested recently to the Minister of Railroads against his desecration of the
most beautiful parts of the Meuse by blowing up the picturesque rocks along
its banks, the Minister hastened to assure them that henceforth they should
have nothing to complain about, as he would pledge himself to build all the
new workshops with Gothic turrets!
In a similar spirit the butchers display before the eyes of the public, even
in the most frequented streets, disjointed carcasses, gory lumps of meat, and
think to conciliate our æstheticism by boldly decorating the flesh they
hang out with garlands of roses!
When reading the papers, one wonders if all the atrocities of the war in China
are not a bad dream instead of a lamentable reality. How can it be that men
having had the happiness of being caressed by their mother, and taught in school
the words "justice" and "kindness," how can it be that these
wild beasts with human faces take pleasure in tying Chinese together by their
garments and their pigtails before throwing them into a river? How is it that
they kill off the wounded, and make the prisoners dig their own graves before
shooting them? And who are these frightful assassins? They are men like ourselves,
who study and read as we do, w ha have brothers, friends, a wife or a sweetheart
; sooner or later we run the chance of meeting them, of taking them by the hand
without seeing any traces of blood there.
But is there not some direct relation of cause and effect between the food of
these executioners, who call themselves "agents of civilisation,"
and their ferocious deeds? They, too, are in the habit of praising the bleeding
flesh as a generator of health, strength, and intelligence. They, too, enter
without repugnance the slaughter house, where the pavement is red and slippery,
and where one breathes the sickly sweet odour of blood. Is there then so much
difference between the dead body of a bullock and that of a man? The dissevered
limbs, the entrails mingling one with the other, are very much alike : the slaughter
of the first makes easy the murder of the second, especially when a leader's
order rings out, or from afar comes the word of the crowned master, "Be
pitiless."
A French proverb says that "every bad case can be defended." This
saying had a certain amount of truth in it so long as the soldiers of each nation
committed their barbarities separately, for the atrocities attributed to them
could afterwards be put down to jealousy and national hatred. But in China,
now, the Russians, French, English, and Germans have not the modesty to attempt
to screen each other. Eyewitnesses, and even the authors themselves, have sent
us information in every language, some cynically, and others with reserve. The
truth is no longer denied, but a new morality has been created to explain it.
This morality says there are two laws for mankind, one applies to the yellow
races and the other is the privilege of the white. To assassinate or torture
the first named is, it seems, henceforth permissible, whilst it is wrong to
do so to the second.
Is not our morality, as applied to animals, equally elastic? Harking on dogs
to tear a fox to pieces teaches a gentleman how to make his men pursue the fugitive
Chinese. The two kinds of hunt belong to one and the same "sport"
; only, when the victim is a man, the excitement and pleasure are probably all
the keener. Need we ask the opinion of him who recently invoked the name of
Attila, quoting this monster as a model for his soldiers?
It is not a digression to mention the horrors of war in connection with the
massacre of cattle and carnivorous banquets. The diet of individuals corresponds
closely to their manners. Blood demands blood. On this point any one who searches
among his recollections of the people whom he has known will find there can
be no possible doubt as to the contrast which exists between vegetarians and
coarse eaters of flesh, greedy drinkers of blood, in amenity of manner, gentleness
of disposition and regularity of life.
It is true these are qualities not highly esteemed by those "superior persons,"
who, without being in any way better than other mortals, are always more arrogant,
and imagine they add to their own importance by depreciating the humble and
exalting the strong. According to them, mildness signifies feebleness : the
sick are only in the way, and it would be a charity to get rid of them. If they
are not killed, they should at least be allowed to die. But it is just these
delicate people who resist disease better than the robust. Full-blooded and
high-coloured men are not always those who live longest : the really strong
are not necessarily those who carry their strength on the surface, in a ruddy
complexion, distended muscle, or a sleek and oily stoutness. Statistics could
give us positive information on this point, and would have done so already,
but for the numerous interested persons who devote so much time to grouping,
in battle array, figures, whether true or false, to defend their respective
theories.
But, however this may be, we say simply that, for the great majority of vegetarians,
the question is not whether their biceps and triceps are more solid than those
of the flesh-eaters, nor whether their organism is better able to resist the
risks of life and the chances of death, which is even more important : for them
the important point is the recognition of the bond of affection and goodwill
that links man to the so-called lower animals, and the extension to these our
brothers of the sentiment which has already put a stop to cannibalism among
men. The reasons which might be pleaded by anthropophagists against the disuse
of human flesh in their customary diet would be as well-founded as those urged
by ordinary flesh-eaters today. The arguments that were opposed to that monstrous
habit are precisely those we vegetarians employ now. The horse and the cow,
the rabbit and the cat, the deer and the hare, the pheasant and the lark, please
us better as friends than as meat. We wish to preserve them either as respected
fellow-workers, or simply as companions in the joy of life and friendship.
"But," you will say, "if you abstain from the flesh of animals,
other flesh-eaters, men or beasts, will eat them instead of you, or else hunger
and the elements will combine to destroy them." Without doubt the balance
of the species will be maintained, as formerly, in conformity with the chances
of life and the inter-struggle of appetites ; but at least in the conflict of
the races the profession of destroyer shall not be ours. We will so deal with
the part of the earth which belongs to us as to make it as pleasant as possible,
not only for ourselves, but also for the beasts of our household. We shall take
up seriously the educational rôle which has been claimed by man since
prehistoric times. Our share of responsibility in the transformation of the
existing order of things does not extend beyond ourselves and our immediate
neighbourhood. If we do but little, this little will at least be our work.
One thing is certain, that if we held the chimerical idea of pushing the practice
of our theory to its ultimate and logical consequences, without caring for considerations
of another kind, we should fall into simple absurdity. In this respect the principle
of vegetarianism does not differ from any other principle; it must be suited
to the ordinary conditions of life. It is clear that we have no intention of
subordinating all our practices and actions, of every hour and every minute,
to a respect for the life of the infinitely little; we shall not let ourselves
die of hunger and thirst, like some Buddhist, when the microscope has shown
us a drop of water swarming with animalculæ. We shall not hesitate now
and then to cut ourselves a stick in the forest, or to pick a flower in a garden;
we shall even go so far as to take a lettuce, or cut cabbages and asparagus
for our food, although we fully recognise the life in the plant as well as in
animals. But it is not for us to found a new religion, and to hamper ourselves
with a sectarian dogma ; it is a question of making our existence as beautiful
as possible, and in harmony, so far as in us lies, with the æsthetic conditions
of our surroundings.
Just as our ancestors, becoming disgusted with eating their fellow-creatures,
one fine day left off serving them up to their tables; just as now, among flesh-eaters,
there are many who refuse to eat the flesh of man's noble companion, the horse,
or of our fireside pets, the dog and cat-so is it distasteful to us to drink
the blood and chew the muscle of the ox, whose labour helps to grow our corn.
We no longer want to hear the bleating of sheep, the bellowing of bullocks,
the groans and piercing shrieks of the pigs, as they are led to the slaughter.
We aspire to the time when we shall not have to walk swiftly to shorten that
hideous minute of passing the haunts of butchery with their rivulets of blood
and rows of sharp hooks, whereon carcasses are hung up by blood-stained men,
armed with horrible knives. We want some day to live in a city where we shall
no longer see butchers' shops full of dead bodies side by side with drapers'
or jewellers', and facing a druggist's, or hard by a window filled with choice
fruits, or with beautiful books, engravings or statuettes, and works of art.
We want an environment pleasant to the eye and in harmony with beauty.
And since physiologists, or better still, since our own experience tells us
that these ugly joints of meat are not a form of nutrition necessary for our
existence, we put aside all these hideous foods which our ancestors found agreeable,
and the majority of our contemporaries still enjoy. We hope before long that
flesh-eaters will at least have the politeness to hide their food. Slaughter
houses are relegated to distant suburbs ; let the butchers' shops be placed
there too, where, like stables, they shall be concealed in obscure corners.
It is on account of the ugliness of it that we also abhor vivisection and all
dangerous experiments, except when they are practised by the man of science
on his own person. It is the ugliness of the deed which fills us with disgust
when we see a naturalist pinning live butterflies into his box, or
destroying an ant-hill in order to count the ants. We turn with dislike from
the engineer who robs Nature of her beauty by imprisoning a cascade in conduit-pipes,
and from the Californian woodsman who cuts down a tree, four thousand years
old and three hundred feet high, to show its rings at fairs and exhibitions.
Ugliness in persons, in deeds, in life, in surrounding Nature-this is our worst
foe. Let us become beautiful ourselves, and let our life be beautiful!
What then are the foods which seem to correspond better with our ideal of beauty
both in their nature and in their needful methods of preparation? They are precisely
those which from all time have been appreciated by men of simple life; the foods
which can do best without the lying artifices of the kitchen. They are eggs,
grains, fruits; that is to say, the products of animal and vegetable life which
represent in their organisms both the temporary arrest of vitality and the concentration
of the elements necessary to the formation of new lives. The egg of the animal,
the seed of the plant, the fruits of the tree, are the end of an organism which
is no more, and the beginning of an organism which does not yet exist. Man gets
them for his food without killing the being that provides them, since they are
formed at the point of contact between two generations. Do not our men of science
who study organic chemistry tell us, too, that the egg of the animal or plant
is the best storehouse of every vital element? Omne vivum ex ovo.