8 April 1889

Last night I once again took up my vantage point by the window of the smoking room to admire the passing of the queen of the night. Each year, this barn owl projects the shadow of its silent flight between the park and the attics of the outbuildings where, I believe, it has always nested. At this time of the year it is feeding its young, which are gluttonous creatures that can never get their fill of the bloody flesh of the game captured in these surroundings. I have greatly expanded my collection of specimens of this bird, carried out by the famous taxidermist Rowland Ward in London. I gaze every day upon its white mask while devoting myself to my writing. Its wings spread, it seems ready to pounce upon me, as if I were its prey. But what else could one expect from wildlife? I know well that nature is more at ease in balance than in serenity. And yet! What a pity it is that peasants, frightened by an appearance they take to be demonic, nail the animal to the doors of their farms. In some years we shall enter into a new century, and the infinite progress of science and industry will force these superstitions to retreat. But what will we lose when this happens? I often wish, like the English scientist Charles Waterton, to build an immense wall around my estate, to make of it an ark that would resist too sudden change but also too slow inertias. But I have not the faith of old Noah and ultimately can do nothing but observe.