The Wonders of Instinct: Chapters in the Psychology of Insects

Chapter 14. the Cabbage-Caterpillar.

INDEX.

Note:--Chapters 5 and 6 have been translated by Mr. Bernard Miall; the remainder by Mr. Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE HARMAS. 1. The author and his two daughters in the lilac-walk. 2. J.H. Fabre's house at Serignan.

THE EMPUSA.

INSECTS AT REST. Bees and wasps asleep, extended in space by the strength of their mandibles.

THE LARVA OF THE GREAT CAPRICORN. 1. The grub. 2. The grub digging its galleries in the trunk of the oak.

THE GREAT CAPRICORN: THE MALE AND THE FEMALE.

EXPERIMENTS.

EXPERIMENT 1. The mole is fixed fore and aft, with a lashing of raphia, to a light horizontal cross-bar resting on two forks. The Necrophori, after long tiring themselves in digging under the body, end by severing the bonds.

EXPERIMENT 2. A dead mouse is placed on the branches of a tuft of thyme. By dint of jerking, shaking and tugging at the body, the Burying-beetles succeed in extricating it from the twigs and bringing it down.

EXPERIMENT 3. With a ligament of raphia, the Mole is fixed by the hind feet to a twig planted vertically in the soil. The head and shoulders touch the ground. By digging under these, the Necrophori at the same time uproot the gibbet, which eventually falls, dragged over by the weight of its burden.

EXPERIMENT 4. The stake is slanting; the Mole touches the ground, but at a point two inches from the base of the gibbet. The Burying-beetles begin by digging to no purpose under the body. They make no attempt to overturn the stake. In this experiment they obtain the Mole at last by employing the usual method, that is by gnawing the bond.

THE BLUEBOTTLE LAYING HER EGGS IN THE SLIT OF A DEAD BIRD'S BEAK.

THE LYCOSA LIFTING HER WHITE BAG OF EGGS TOWARDS THE SUN, TO ASSIST THE HATCHING. The Lycosa lying head downwards on the edge of her pit, holding in her hind-legs her white bag of eggs and lifting them towards the sun, to assist the hatching.

THE BANDED EPEIRA INSCRIBING HER FLOURISH, AFTER FINISHING HER WEB.

THE BANDED EPEIRA LETTING HERSELF DROP BY THE END OF HER THREAD.

THE BANDED EPEIRA SWATHING HER CAPTURE. The web has given way in many places during the struggle.

OSMIA-NESTS IN A BRAMBLE TWIG.

OSMIA-NESTS INSIDE A REED.

ARTIFICIAL HIVE INVENTED BY THE AUTHOR TO STUDY THE OSMIA'S LAYING. It consists of reed-stumps arranged Pan-pipe fashion.

OLD NESTS USED BY THE OSMIA IN LAYING HER EGGS.

1. Nest of the Mason-bee of the Shrubs.

2. Osmia-grubs in empty shells of the Garden Snail.

3. Nests of the Mason-bee of the Sheds.

THE GLOW-WORM: a, male; b, female.

THE CABBAGE CATERPILLAR: a, the caterpillars; b, the cocoons of their parasite, Microgaster glomeratus.

THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT.

Chapter 1. the Harmas.

This is what I wished for, hoc erat in votis: a bit of land, oh, not so very large, but fenced in, to avoid the drawbacks of a public way; an abandoned, barren, sun-scorched bit of land, favoured by thistles and by Wasps and Bees. Here, without fear of being troubled by the passers-by, I could consult the Ammophila and the Sphex (two species of Digger-or Hunting-wasps.--Translator's Note.) and engage in that difficult conversation whose questions and answers have experiment for their language; here, without distant expeditions that take up my time, without tiring rambles that strain my nerves, I could contrive my plans of attack, lay my ambushes and watch their effects at every hour of the day. Hoc erat in votis. Yes, this was my wish, my dream, always cherished, always vanishing into the mists of the future.

And it is no easy matter to acquire a laboratory in the open fields, when harassed by a terrible anxiety about one's daily bread. For forty years have I fought, with steadfast courage, against the paltry plagues of life; and the long-wished-for laboratory has come at last. What it has cost me in perseverance and relentless work I will not try to say. It has come; and, with it--a more serious condition--perhaps a little leisure. I say perhaps, for my leg is still hampered with a few links of the convict's chain.

The wish is realized. It is a little late, O! my pretty insects! I greatly fear that the peach is offered to me when I am beginning to have no teeth wherewith to eat it. Yes, it is a little late: the wide horizons of the outset have shrunk into a low and stifling canopy, more and more straitened day by day. Regretting nothing in the past, save those whom I have lost; regretting nothing, not even my first youth; hoping nothing either, I have reached the point at which, worn out by the experience of things, we ask ourselves if life be worth the living.

Amid the ruins that surround me, one strip of wall remains standing, immovable upon its solid base: my passion for scientific truth. Is that enough, O! my busy insects, to enable me to add yet a few seemly pages to your history? Will my strength not cheat my good intentions? Why, indeed, did I forsake you so long?

Friends have reproached me for it. Ah, tell them, tell those friends, who are yours as well as mine, tell them that it was not forgetfulness on my part, not weariness, nor neglect: I thought of you; I was convinced that the Cerceris' (A species of Digger-wasp.--Translator's Note.) cave had more fair secrets to reveal to us, that the chase of the Sphex held fresh surprises in store. But time failed me; I was alone, deserted, struggling against misfortune. Before philosophizing, one had to live. Tell them that, and they will pardon me.

Others have reproached me with my style, which has not the solemnity, nay, better, the dryness of the schools. They fear lest a page that is read without fatigue should not always be the expression of the truth. Were I to take their word for it, we are profound only on condition of being obscure. Come here, one and all of you--you, the sting-bearers, and you, the wing-cased armour-clads--take up my defence and bear witness in my favour. Tell of the intimate terms on which I live with you, of the patience with which I observe you, of the care with which I record your actions. Your evidence is unanimous: yes, my pages, though they bristle not with hollow formulas nor learned smatterings, are the exact narrative of facts observed, neither more nor less; and whoso cares to question you in his turn will obtain the same replies.

And then, my dear insects, if you cannot convince those good people, because you do not carry the weight of tedium, I, in my turn, will say to them:

"You rip up the animal and I study it alive; you turn it into an object of horror and pity, whereas I cause it to be loved; you labour in a torture-chamber and dissecting-room, I make my observations under the blue sky, to the song of the Cicadae (The Cicada Cigale, an insect akin to the Grasshopper and found more particularly in the south of France.--Translator's Note.); you subject cell and protoplasm to chemical tests, I study instinct in its loftiest manifestations; you pry into death, I pry into life. And why should I not complete my thought: the boars have muddied the clear stream; natural history, youth's glorious study, has, by dint of cellular improvements, become a hateful and repulsive thing. Well, if I write for men of learning, for philosophers, who, one day, will try to some extent to unravel the tough problem of instinct, I write also, I write above all things, for the young, I want to make them love the natural history which you make them hate; and that is why, while keeping strictly to the domain of truth, I avoid your scientific prose, which too often, alas, seems borrowed from some Iroquois idiom!"

But this is not my business for the moment: I want to speak of the bit of land long cherished in my plans to form a laboratory of living entomology, the bit of land which I have at last obtained in the solitude of a little village. It is a "harmas," the name given, in this district (The country round Serignan, in Provence.--Translator's Note.), to an untilled, pebbly expanse abandoned to the vegetation of the thyme. It is too poor to repay the work of the plough; but the Sheep passes there in spring, when it has chanced to rain and a little grass shoots up.

My harmas, however, because of its modicum of red earth swamped by a huge mass of stones, has received a rough first attempt at cultivation: I am told that vines once grew here. And, in fact, when we dig the ground before planting a few trees, we turn up, here and there, remains of the precious stock, half carbonized by time. The three-pronged fork, therefore, the only implement of husbandry that can penetrate such a soil as this, has entered here; and I am sorry, for the primitive vegetation has disappeared. No more thyme, no more lavender, no more clumps of kermes-oak, the dwarf oak that forms forests across which we step by lengthening our stride a little. As these plants, especially the first two, might be of use to me by offering the Bees and Wasps a spoil to forage, I am compelled to reinstate them in the ground whence they were driven by the fork.

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