The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles Part 17

With very rare exceptions, fortuitous accidents, not one thinks of circ.u.mventing the barrier by way of the base; not one manages to get outside by means of a slanting tunnel, not even though he be a miner by profession, as are the Dung-beetles _par excellence_. Captives under the wire dome and anxious to escape, Sacred Beetles, Geotrupes, Copres, Gymnopleuri,[3] Sisyphi,[4] all see about them the free s.p.a.ce, the joys of the open sunlight; and not one thinks of going round under the rampart, which would present no difficulty to their pickaxes.

[Footnote 3: Cf. _The Sacred Beetle and Others_: chap.

vii.--_Translator's Note_.]

[Footnote 4: Cf. _idem_: chap. xv.--_Translator's Note_.]

Even in the higher ranks of animality, examples of similar mental obfuscation are not lacking. Audubon[5] tells us how, in his days, wild Turkeys were caught in North America. In a clearing known to be frequented by these birds, a great cage was constructed with stakes driven into the ground. In the centre of the enclosure opened a short tunnel, which dipped under the palisade and returned to the surface outside the cage by a gentle slope, which was open to the sky. The central opening, wide enough to give a bird free pa.s.sage, occupied only a portion of the enclosure, leaving around it, against the circle of stakes, a wide unbroken zone. A few handfuls of maize were scattered in the interior of the trap, as well as round about it, and in particular along the sloping path, which pa.s.sed under a sort of bridge and led to the centre of the contrivance. In short, the Turkey-trap presented an ever-open door. The bird found it in order to enter, but did not think of looking for it in order to go out.

[Footnote 5: John James Audubon (1780-1851), the noted American ornithologist, of French descent, author of _Birds of America_ (1827-1830) and _Ornithological Biography_ (1831-1839).--_Translator's Note_.]

According to the famous American ornithologist, the Turkeys, lured by the grains of maize, descended the insidious slope, entered the short underground pa.s.sage and beheld, at the end of it, plunder and the light. A few steps farther and the gluttons emerged, one by one, from beneath the bridge. They distributed themselves about the enclosure.

The maize was abundant; and the Turkeys' crops grew swollen.

When all was gathered, the band wished to retreat, but not one of the prisoners paid any attention to the central hole by which he had arrived. Gobbling uneasily, they pa.s.sed again and again across the bridge whose arch was yawning beside them; they circled round against the palisade, treading a hundred times in their own footprints; they thrust their necks, with their crimson wattles, through the bars; and there, with their beaks in the open air, they fought and struggled until they were exhausted.

Remember, O inept one, what happened but a little while ago; think of the tunnel that led you hither! If that poor brain of yours contains an atom of ability, put two ideas together and remind yourself that the pa.s.sage by which you entered is there and open for your escape!

You will do nothing of the kind. The light, an irresistible attraction, holds you subjugated against the palisade; and the shadow of the yawning pit, which has but lately permitted you to enter and will quite as readily permit you to go out, leaves you indifferent. To recognize the use of this opening you would have to reflect a little, to recall the past; but this tiny retrospective calculation is beyond your powers. So the trapper, returning a few days later, will find a rich booty, the entire flock imprisoned!

Of poor intellectual repute, does the Turkey deserve his name for stupidity? He does not appear to be more limited than another. Audubon depicts him as endowed with certain useful ruses, in particular when he has to baffle the attacks of his nocturnal enemy, the Virginian Owl. As for his behaviour in the snare with the underground pa.s.sage, any other bird, impa.s.sioned of the light, would do the same.

Under rather more difficult conditions, the Necrophorus repeats the ineptness of the Turkey. When he wishes to return to the daylight, after resting in a short burrow against the rim of the cover, the Beetle, seeing a little light filtering through the loose soil, reascends the entrance-well, incapable of telling himself that he has only to prolong the tunnel as far in the opposite direction to reach the outer world beyond the wall and gain his freedom. Here again is one in whom we shall seek in vain for any sign of reflection. Like the rest, in spite of his legendary renown, he has no guide but the unconscious promptings of instinct.

CHAPTER XIII THE GIANT SCARITES

The military profession can hardly be said to favour the talents.

Consider the Carabus, or Ground-beetle, that fiery warrior among the insect people. What can he do? In the way of industry, nothing or next to nothing. Nevertheless the dull butcher is magnificent in his indescribably sumptuous jerkin. It has the refulgency of copper pyrites, of gold, of Florentine bronze. While clad in black, he enriches his sombre costume with a vivid amethyst hem. On the wing-cases, which fit him like a cuira.s.s, he wears little chains of alternate pins and bosses.

Of a handsome and commanding figure, slender and pinched in at the waist, the Carabus is the glory of our collections, but only for the sake of his appearance. He is a frenzied murderer; and that is all. We will ask nothing more of him. The wisdom of antiquity represented Hercules, the G.o.d of strength, with the head of an idiot. And indeed merit is not great when limited to brute force. And this is the case with the Carabus.

To see him so richly adorned, who would not wish to find him a fine subject for investigation, one worthy of history, a subject such as humbler natures provide with lavish generosity? From this ferocious ransacker of entrails we expect nothing of the kind. His art is that of slaying.

We may without trouble observe him at his bandit's work. I rear him in a large breeding-cage on a layer of fresh sand. A few potsherds scattered about the surface enable him to take shelter beneath the rocks; a tuft of gra.s.s planted in the centre makes a grove and enlivens the establishment.

Three species compose the population: the common _Jardiniere_, or Golden Beetle, the usual inmate of our gardens; _Procrustes coriaceus_, the sombre and powerful explorer of the gra.s.sy thickets at the foot of walls; and the rare Purple Carabus, who trims the ebony of his wing-cases with metallic violet. I feed them on Snails, after partly removing the sh.e.l.l.

Hidden at first promiscuously under the potsherds, the Carabi make a rush for the wretched Snail, who, in his despair, alternately puts out and withdraws his horns. Three of them at a time, then four, then five begin by devouring the edge of his mantle, specked with chalky atoms.

This is the favourite morsel. With their mandibles, those stout pincers, they lay hold of it through the froth; they tug at it, tear off a shred and retire to a distance to swallow it at their ease.

Meanwhile the legs, streaming with slime, pick up grains of sand and become covered with heavy gaiters, which are extremely c.u.mbersome but to which the Beetle pays no attention. Heavy with mire, he staggers back to his prey and cuts off another morsel. He will think of polishing his boots presently. Others do not stir, but gorge themselves on the spot, with the whole fore-part of their body immersed in the froth. The feast lasts for hours on end. The guests do not leave the joint until the distended belly lifts the roof of the wing-cases and uncovers the nudities of the stern.

Fonder of shady nooks, the Procrustes form a separate company. They drag the Snail into their lair, under the shelter of a potsherd, and there, peacefully and in common, dismember the mollusc. They love the Slug, as easier to cut up than the Snail, who is defended by his sh.e.l.l; they regard the Testacella,[1] who bears a chalky sh.e.l.l, shaped like a Phrygian cap, right at the hinder end of her foot, as a delicious t.i.t-bit. The game has firmer flesh and is less nauseously slimy.

[Footnote 1: Or Sh.e.l.l-bearing Slug, found along the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean.--_Translator's Note_.]

To feast gluttonously on a Snail whom I myself have rendered defenseless by breaking her sh.e.l.l is nothing for a warrior to boast about; but we shall soon see the Carabus display his daring. I offer a Pine-chafer, in the pink of strength, to the Golden Beetle, whose appet.i.te has been whetted by a few days' fasting. The victim is a colossus beside the Golden Carabus; an Ox facing a Wolf.

The beast of prey prowls round the peaceful creature and selects its moment. It rushes forward, recoils, hesitates and returns to the charge. And lo, the giant is overthrown! Incontinently the other devours him, ransacking his belly. If this had happened in a higher order of the animal world, it would make one's flesh creep to watch the Carabus half immersed in the big c.o.c.kchafer and rooting out his entrails.

I test the eviscerator with a more difficult quarry. This time the victim is _Oryctes nasicornis_, the powerful Rhinoceros Beetle, an invincible giant, one would think, under the shelter of his armour.

But the hunter knows the weak point of the horn-clad prey, the fine skin protected by the wing-cases. By means of attacks which the a.s.sailant renews as soon as they are repulsed by the a.s.sailed, the Carabus contrives to raise the cuira.s.s slightly and to slip his head beneath it. From the moment that the pincers have made a gash in the vulnerable skin, the Rhinoceros is lost. Soon there will be nothing left of the colossus but a pitiful empty carcase.

Those who wish for a more hideous conflict must apply to _Calosoma sycophanta_, the handsomest of our flesh-eating insects, the most majestic in costume and size. This prince of Carabi is the butcher of the caterpillars. He is not to be overawed even by the st.u.r.diest of rumps.

His struggle with the huge caterpillar of the Great Peac.o.c.k Moth[2] is a thing to see once, not oftener: a single experience of such horrors is enough to disgust one. The contortions of the eviscerated insect, which, with a sudden heave of the loins, hurls the bandit in the air and lets him fall, belly uppermost, without managing to make him release his hold; the green entrails spilt quivering on the ground; the tramping gait of the murderer, drunk with slaughter, slaking his thirst at the springs of a horrible wound: these are the main features of the combat. If entomology had no other scenes to show us, I should without the least regret turn my back upon my insects.

[Footnote 2: Cf. _The Life of the Caterpillar_: chap.

xi.--_Translator's Note_.]

Next day, offer the sated Beetle a Green Gra.s.shopper or a White-faced Decticus, serious adversaries both, armed with powerful lower jaws.

With these big-bellied creatures the slaughter will begin anew, as eagerly as on the day before. It will be repeated later with the Pine- chafer and the Rhinoceros Beetle, accompanied by the usual atrocious tactics of the Carabi. Even better than these last does the Calosoma know the weak point of the armoured Beetles, concealed beneath the wing-cases. And this will go on so long as we keep him provided with victims, for this drinker of blood is never satiated.

Acrid exhalations, the products of a fiery temperament, accompany this frenzy for carnage. The Carabi elaborate caustic humours; the Procrustes squirts a jet of vinegar at any one who takes hold of him; the Calosoma makes the fingers smell of mouldy drugs; certain Beetles, such as the Brachini,[3] understand explosives and singe the aggressor's whiskers with a volley of musketry.

[Footnote 3: Or Bombardier Beetles. When disturbed, they eject a fluid which volatilizes, on contact with the air, with a slight report.-- _Translator's Note_.]

Distillers of corrosives, gunners throwing lyddite, bombers employing dynamite: what can all these violent creatures, so well equipped for battle, do beyond committing slaughter? Nothing. We find no art, no industry, not even in the larva, which practices the adult's trade and meditates its crimes while wandering under the stones. Nevertheless it is to one of these dull-witted warriors that I am deliberately proposing to apply to-day, prompted by the wish to solve a certain question. Let me tell you what it is.

You have surprised this or that insect, motionless on a bough, blissfully basking in the sun. Your hand is raised, open, ready to descend on it and seize it. Hardly have you made the movement when the insect drops to the ground. It is a wearer of armoured wing-cases, slow to disengage the wings from their h.o.r.n.y sheath, or perhaps an incomplete form, with no wing-surfaces. Incapable of sudden flight, the surprised insect lets itself fall. You look for it in the gra.s.s, often in vain. If you do find it, it is lying on its back, with its legs folded, without stirring.

It is shamming dead, people will tell you; it is pretending, in order to escape its enemy. Man is certainly unknown to it; we count for nothing in its little world. What does it care for our hunting, whether we be children or scientists? It does not fear the collector with his long pin; but it realizes danger in general; and it dreads its natural enemy, the insectivorous bird, which swallows it with a single snap. To outwit the a.s.sailant, it lies upon its back, draws up its legs and simulates death. The bird, or any other persecutor, will despise it in this condition; and its life will be saved.

This, we are a.s.sured, is how the insect would reason if suddenly surprised. The trick has long been famous. Once upon a time, two friends, at the end of their resources, sold the skin of a Bear before they had killed the brute. The encounter was unfortunate: they had to take to their heels. One of them stumbled, fell, held his breath and shammed dead. The Bear came up, turned the man over and over, explored him with his paw and his muzzle, sniffed at his face:

"He smells already," he said and, without more ado, turned away.

That Bear was a simpleton.

The bird would not be duped by this clumsy stratagem. In those happy days when the discovery of a nest marked a red-letter day, I never saw my Sparrows or Greenfinches refuse a Locust because he was not moving, or a Fly because she was dead. Any mouthful that does not kick is eagerly accepted, provided that it be fresh and pleasant to the taste.

If the insect, therefore, relies on the appearance of death, it would seem to me to be very badly inspired. More wary than the Bear in the fable, the bird, with its perspicacious eye, will recognize the fraud in a moment and proceed to business. Besides, had the object really been a corpse, but still fresh, it would none the less have gobbled it up.

More insistent doubts occur to my mind when I consider the serious consequences to which the insect's artfulness might lead. It shams dead, says the popular idiom, which recks little of weighing the value of its term; it simulates death, scientific language repeats, happy to find some gleams of reason in the insect. What truth is there in this unanimous statement, which in the one case is too unreflecting and in the other too much inclined to favour theoretical fancies?

Logical arguments are insufficient here. It is essential that we should obtain the verdict of experiment, which alone can furnish a valid reply. But to which of the insects shall we go first?

I remember something that dates back some forty years. Delighted with a recent University triumph, I was staying at Cette, on my return from Toulouse, where I had just pa.s.sed my examination as a licentiate in natural science. It gave me a fine chance of renewing my acquaintance with the seaside flora, which had delighted me a few years before on the sh.o.r.es of the wonderful Gulf of Ajaccio. It would have been foolish to neglect it. A degree does not confer the right to cease studying. If one really has a touch of the sacred fire in one's veins, one remains a student all one's life, not of books, which are a poor resource, but of the great, inexhaustible school of actual things.

One day, then, in July, in the cool stillness of the dawn, I was botanizing on the foresh.o.r.e at Cette. For the first time I plucked the _Convolvulus soldanella_, which trails along the high-water mark its ropes of glossy green leaves and its great pink bellflowers. Withdrawn into his white, flat, heavily-keeled sh.e.l.l, a curious Snail, _Helix explanata_, was slumbering, in groups, on the bent gra.s.ses.

The dry shifting sands showed here and there long series of imprints, recalling, on a smaller scale and under another form, the tracks of little birds in the snow which used to arouse a delightful flutter in my youthful days. What do these imprints mean?

I follow them, a hunter on the trail of a new species. At the end of each track, by digging to no great depth, I unearth a magnificent Carabus, whose very name is almost unknown to me. It is the Giant Scarites (_S. gigas_, FAB.).

I make him walk on the sand. He exactly reproduces the tracks which put me on the alert. It was certainly he who, questing for game in the night, marked the trail with his feet. He returned to his lair before daylight; and now not a single Beetle is to be seen in the open.