application about the talents of monkeys, because these vary as
widely as the animals themselves. Some traits are indeed common to
all, but most of their characteristics vary considerably in the
different species. A disposition which in one is scarcely observable is
pronounced in another, a trait which is prominent here is sought for
in vain there. But if we compare the different families, groups, and
species together, we shall observe a surprising, because unsuspected
gradation of talents and abilities. It is instructive to proceed in
this way.
[Illustration: Fig. 43.--Common Marmoset or Ouistiti (_Hapale
Jacchus_).]
We must regard the graceful, little, clawed monkeys or marmosets of
South and Central America as the least developed members of the monkey
order. They have the same dentition as the higher monkeys, but they
have flat nails only on the large toe, while on all the other toes
and the fingers they have narrow claw-like nails, which place their
hands and feet, or the former at any rate, on the level of paws. These
outward features correspond to their mental endowments. Monkeyhood,
we may say, has not reached its full development in the family of
marmosets. Not only in form and colour, but in their carriage, in their
whole character and behaviour, even in their voice, they remind us of
the rodents. They seldom sit upright, and at the best are rather like
squirrels than like other monkeys; they prefer to stand on all-fours
with the body horizontal; they do not climb easily and freely, with
hands and feet clasping the branch, like others of their order, but,
sticking their claws into it, they press close to it and glide along,
not of course slowly or unskilfully, but rather as rodents than as
monkeys. Their voice, too, is quite different from that of all the
higher monkeys; it is a whistling in high notes which now reminds
one of the chirping of a bird, now of the squeaking of rats and
mice, but perhaps most of all of the sound made by the guinea-pig.
Their behaviour generally is decidedly rodent-like. They exhibit the
uneasiness and restlessness, the curiosity, shyness, and timidity,
the inconstancy of squirrels. Their little heads only remain a few
seconds in one position, and their dark eyes are directed now towards
this object now towards that, but always hastily, and obviously
without comprehension, although they seem to look out on the world
intelligently enough. Every action they perform shows their slight
power of judgment. As if without will, they act on the suggestion of
the moment; they forget what they have just been doing as soon as their
attention is diverted, and they prove just as fickle in the expression
of their contentment as of their displeasure. At one moment they are
good-humoured, apparently quite satisfied with their lot, perhaps
grateful for caresses from a friendly hand, the next they are snarling
at their keeper just as if their lives were in danger, showing their
teeth, and trying to bite. As irritable and excitable as all monkeys
and rodents, they yet lack the individuality which every higher monkey
exhibits, for one acts exactly like another, without originality and
always in a somewhat commonplace fashion. They have all the attributes
of cowards--the complaining voice, the reluctance to adapt themselves
to the inevitable, the whining acceptance of all circumstances, the
morbidly suspicious habit of finding in every action of another
creature some hostility to themselves, the desire to swagger while in
reality they carefully keep out of the way of every real or supposed
danger, and an incapacity either to make resolutions or to carry them
out. Just because there is so little of the true monkey about them they
are preferred by women and despised by men.
On a decidedly higher level stand the Broad-nosed or New-World
monkeys, which also inhabit America, though even in these, the full
character of the true monkey is not attained. The dentition numbers
a molar more on each side of the jaws than in the higher apes, thus
there are thirty-six teeth instead of thirty-two; all the fingers
and toes have flat nails; the body seems more slender than it is,
because the limbs are very long; the tail is used, in many cases, as
a powerful grasping-organ. The one-sidedness of their development is
very characteristic. Exclusively arboreal like the marmosets, they are
awkward, even clumsy when away from the branches of the trees. On the
ground their gait is extremely ungainly, uncertain, and tottering,
particularly in those species which have a prehensile tail, but even
their climbing does not come at all near that of the Old-World monkeys.
For increase of the number of organs of locomotion does not necessarily
result in increased power, still less in greater variety of movement;
on the contrary, it often means one-sidedness, and it certainly does
so in the case of the New-World monkeys. Their prehensile tail is not
to them a fifth, but a first hand, used in hanging or fixing the body,
in lifting things or dragging them along, and so on; but it does not
make their movements more rapid or free, it adds to safety but not to
agility. Thanks to the constant use of the tail, its owner never runs
a risk of falling from the lofty branches--safe because high--to the
dangerous ground beneath, but neither is he able to make any free or
daring movement. Slowly he sends his prehensile tail in advance of
every step, always catching hold with it first, and only then letting
go with hands or feet. Thus he binds himself to the branch rather than
climbs upon it, and never thinks of attempting a leap whose success
is in the least doubtful. In this constant carefulness for his own
precious person the broad-nosed monkey impresses one not so much with
his prudence as with his slowness, and it is noteworthy that the whole
character of the New-World monkeys bears this out. Their voice is not
quite so monotonous as that of the marmosets, but it is unpleasant,
not to say tiresome. It runs through many grades, from a whine to a
roar, but it has, invariably, a mournful character, and the whole
demeanour of the animal, when it cries, is pessimistic. After a cool,
dewy night, the morning sun shines warm and golden through the trees,
and a thousand-toned song of joy and greeting leaps forth in welcome
from a million throats. The howlers prepare to offer their tribute of
praise also. But how? They have climbed to the dry top branches of a
giant tree which rises high above its fellows, have fastened themselves
securely by their tails, and are warming themselves comfortably in
the sunshine. Then a feeling of well-being moves them to raise their
voices. One of them, distinguished, it is said, by a specially high,
shrill voice, acts as leader, and, looking fixedly at his companions,
begins to chant. The rest look at him with the same motionless vacant
stare and join in; and frightfully their song resounds through the
forest, now grunting, now howling, now snarling, now rattling, as
if all the beasts of the forest were waging deadly warfare. The
astounding performance begins with a bellowing solo; these bellowings
become louder, follow each other more rapidly as the excitement of
the singer--which is probably present though not apparent--increases
and spreads to other members of the community; then they change into
howling and roaring, and they end as they began. If one looks at the
long-bearded, serious singers one can scarcely keep from smiling;
but soon the indescribable discords they produce become as wearisome
as their monotonous climbing, or rather creeping movements. What one
does another imitates, but whatever they may do, howsoever they may
act, their behaviour is always monotonous. Very much like these, or
not essentially different, are all the monkeys with prehensile tails;
though a few prominent members of the family, the Capuchin monkeys for
instance, are rather more free and independent. In general, they are as
heavy mentally as physically--usually very gentle, good-natured, and
confiding, but stupid, peevish, fretful, and some of them obstinate,
malicious, and spiteful. They thus stand considerably higher than the
marmosets, but far below the Old-World monkeys. Probably it would
hardly be doing them injustice to say that they possess the bad
qualities without the good qualities of their Old-World cousins. Their
gentleness and good-nature--apart from the fact that these are not
found in all the species, do not in the least make up for their general
lack of enterprise, boldness, cheerfulness, liveliness, and decision,
circumspection and ingenuity--qualities which place the Old-World
monkeys so high--while their everlasting whining and complaining
counterbalance, in our eyes, all the qualities which might attract us
to them.
[Illustration: Fig. 44.--Red Howling Monkeys (_Mycetes seniculus_).]
The monkeys of the Old World, like those of the New, fall into two
groups to which the rank of families may perhaps be granted, although
the dentition is essentially alike in both. We call the one type
Dog-like, the other Man-like, and we may go the length of saying that
the former teach us what monkeyhood really is, while the latter rise
above it. For the first group especially, my opening remarks hold
good. Among them we find monkeys beautiful and ugly, attractive and
repulsive, lively and serious, good-natured and malicious. Really
misshapen monkeys there are none, for we must admit that even those
which appear to us ugly are symmetrical in form. Yet some of them
are, in many respects, odd-looking creatures. Their chief external
characteristics are, the more or less protruding muzzle, reminding one
of a dog’s, the proportionately short arms, the tail, always present
though often shortened to a mere stump, the more or less developed
ischial callosities, and the cheek-pouches present in most species. The
dentition includes the usual number of thirty-two teeth arranged in an
unbroken series. They occur in all three continents of the Old World,
and are most numerous in Africa.
Their endowments and characteristics place them far above the marmosets
and New-World monkeys. They usually walk very well, though some
of them hobble along in a comical fashion; they are able, without
difficulty, to stand on their legs alone, thus raising themselves to
their full height, and in that position they can walk more or less
easily. They climb well under all circumstances, though some do so only
among trees, others among the rocks; some of them are also excellent
swimmers. The climbing of the arboreal species is almost like flight,
if I may so speak--for their skill among the branches surpasses all
expectation. Leaps of from eight to ten yards are to them quite
possible achievements. From the topmost boughs of a tree they leap to
a lower one, which is forcibly bent downwards by the shock, from this
at the moment of rebound they give themselves a strong impetus, and,
stretching tail and hind-legs out behind them to steer their course,
shoot like an arrow through the air. The branch of a tree, even if it
be covered with the sharpest thorns, is to them a well-made road, a
climbing plant is a path or a ladder according to its position. They
climb forwards or backwards, on the under or upper side of a branch;
in leaping or falling they catch a thin twig with one hand, and remain
hanging as long as they please in every imaginable position; then they
climb leisurely on the branch, and proceed on their way as coolly as
if they were on level ground. If the hand misses the desired twig it
is caught by the foot; if it breaks under the sudden shock they catch
in falling at a second, a third, and if all break they spring to
the ground, no matter the distance, and climb up again by the first
available trunk or climbing-plant. Compared with the clinging and
creeping of their relatives in the New World theirs appears, and really
is, a free, unfettered motion which surmounts all obstacles. The former
are blunderers, the latter finished artists; the former slaves of the
trees, the latter lords of the branches.
Their voice is as highly developed as their power of movement. Theirs
is no chirping or whistling, no whining or howling; on the contrary,
they utter many different sounds expressing the mood of the moment,
and quite intelligible even to us. Comfort or discomfort, desire or
satisfaction, good-will or ill-will, love or hate, indifference or
anger, joy or pain, confidence or mistrust, attraction or repugnance,
affection or dislike, submissiveness or defiance, but above all any
sudden emotion, such as fear or horror, find adequate expression,
comparatively limited though the voice may be.[70]
What we may call their mental endowments correspond to their physical
powers. It may be well to emphasize that the hand, which among them
first attains to full development, gives them a considerable advantage
over other animals, and makes some of their actions appear more
remarkable than they really are; for instance, it renders them capable
of many skilful devices which would be impossible to a dog and to any
of those animals which we are wont to reckon among the cleverest of
mammals. A high degree of deliberateness must be conceded to them.
Their excellent memory treasures up the most various impressions, and
their discriminating intelligence makes these a store of experiences,
which are turned to good account as opportunity offers. Thus they
act with full consciousness of what they are doing, according
to circumstances, and not as impotent slaves of a power outside
themselves, but with independence, freedom, and variety, cunningly
seizing every advantage, and making use of every expedient which they
believe will further their end. They distinguish between cause and
effect, and attempt to achieve or nullify the latter by applying or
removing the former. They not only recognize what benefits or injures
them, but they know whether they do right or wrong, judging either
from the standard of some loved one, or that of some master.[71] It
is not blind chance, but a recognition of what is profitable that
regulates and guides their actions, makes them submit to the judgment
of the most capable, moves them to live and act together, teaches
them to form communities for the weal or woe of the individual, to
share joy and sorrow, good fortune and misfortune, safety and danger,
plenty and scarcity,--in other words, to form an alliance based on
reciprocity--which teaches them to employ powers and means not theirs
by inheritance, and, finally, presses into their hands weapons with
which Nature did not supply them. Passions of all kinds, it is true,
often gain a victory over their circumspection; but these very passions
are proof of the liveliness of their sensations, or, what comes to
the same thing, of their mental activity. They are as susceptible as
children, as irritable as weak-minded men, and thus very sensitive
to every kind of treatment they may receive; to love and dislike,
to encouraging praise and chilling blame, to pleasant flattery and
wounding ridicule, to caresses and chastisement. Nevertheless they are
not so easily managed, still less so easily trained to anything, as
a dog or any other clever domestic animal, for they are self-willed
in a high degree, and almost as conceited as human beings. They learn
without difficulty, but only when they wish to, and by no means
always when they ought to, for their self-conceit rebels against any
submission which they do not see to be to their own advantage. They
are quite aware that they are liable to be punished, and may loudly
express their disapprobation of the expected chastisement beforehand,
yet still refuse to do what is required of them; while, on the other
hand, they will execute it willingly and with the liveliest expressions
of understanding, when the task happens to suit their humour. Whoever
ventures to doubt their self-esteem has only to watch their way
of treating other animals. Unless terrified by their strength and
dangerousness, they invariably regard other animals as playthings,
whether they tease them and play tricks upon them, or fondle them and
load them with caresses.
Some examples, for which I myself can vouch, or which I know to be
thoroughly authentic, may strengthen the assertions I have just made.
As I was travelling in Bogosland, on my first ride into the mountains
I fell in with a large band of the Hamadryas baboons, referred to by
Sheikh Kemal el Din Demiri in his narrative. Drying their streaming
hair in the sunshine, they sat picturesquely grouped on the highest
points of a cliff, and, on being greeted with rifle bullets, they
beat an organized retreat and fled. Continuing my journey through
the narrow, winding, rocky valley of the Mensa, I came upon them
some time later, this time in the valley itself, just as they were
preparing to ascend the rocky wall of the other side to seek safety
from such annoying disturbances. A considerable number had already
crossed the valley; the majority were in the act of crossing. Our dogs,
beautiful, slender greyhounds, accustomed to fight successfully with
hyænas and other beasts of prey, rushed towards the baboons, which,
from a distance, looked more like beasts of prey than monkeys, and
drove them hastily up the precipices to right and left. But only the
females took to flight; the males, on the other hand, turned to face
the dogs, growled, beat the ground fiercely with their hands, opened
their mouths wide and showed their glittering teeth, and looked at
their adversaries so furiously and maliciously that the hounds, usually
bold and battle-hardened, shrank back discomfited, and almost timidly
sought safety beside us. Before we had succeeded in stirring them up
to show fight, the position of the monkeys had changed considerably,
and when the dogs charged a second time nearly all the herd were in
safety. But one little monkey about half a year old had been left
behind. It shrieked loudly as the dogs rushed towards it, but succeeded
in gaining the top of a rock before they had arrived. Our dogs placed
themselves cleverly, so as to cut off its retreat, and we hoped that
we might be able to catch it. But that was not to be. Proudly and with
dignity, without hurrying in the least, or paying any heed to us,
an old male stepped down from the security of the rocks towards the
hard-pressed little one, walked towards the dogs without betraying
the slightest fear, held them in check with glances, gestures, and
quite intelligible sounds, slowly climbed the rock, picked up the
baby-monkey, and retreated with it, before we could reach the spot,
and without the visibly disconcerted dogs making the slightest attempt
to prevent him. While the patriarch of the troop performed this brave
and self-sacrificing deed, the other members, densely crowded on the
cliff, uttered sounds which I had never before heard from baboons. Old
and young, males and females, roared, screeched, snarled, and bellowed
all together, so that one would have thought they were struggling with
leopards or other dangerous beasts. I learned later that this was
the monkeys’ battle-cry: it was intended obviously to intimidate us
and the dogs, possibly also to encourage the brave old giant, who was
running into such evident danger before their eyes.[72]
[Illustration: Fig. 45.--Old Baboon Rescuing Young One.]
A few days later I learned by experience that these self-reliant
animals are a match even for men. On our return from the Bogosland, we
fell in with a large herd, possibly the same one, and we opened fire
upon them from the valley with seven double rifles. Our shots had an
indescribable effect. The same battle-cry which I had heard before
rang out again, and, as if at the command of a general, they prepared
for resistance. While the screaming females with the young ones fled
in all haste over the crest of the rock beyond range of our guns, the
adult males, casting furious glances, beating the ground with their
hands, and barking rather than roaring, sprang upon projecting stones
and ledges, looked down on the valley for a few moments, continually
growling, snarling, or screaming, and then began to roll stones down
upon us with so much vigour and adroitness that we immediately saw
that our lives were in danger and took to flight. If it had not been
possible for us to clamber up the opposite wall of the narrow valley,
and so to escape the monkeys’ fire, we should have been utterly routed.
The clever animals not only conducted their defence on a definite plan,
but they acted in co-operation, striving for a common end, and exerting
all their united strength to attain it. One of our number saw one
monkey drag his stone up a tree that he might hurl it down with more
effect; I myself saw two combining their strength to set a heavy stone
a-rolling.
No animals but the higher apes adopt such means of defence, and
no other male animal runs into danger to rescue a helpless young
one of his species. Such traits must not be ignored, and cannot be
misinterpreted, for they speak for themselves better and more loudly
than all the sophistical analysis which refuses to admit that animals
have intelligence and the power of spontaneous action.
That the dog-like monkeys recognize and distinguish between cause and
effect can be certified by every unprejudiced observer. They open doors
and windows, drawers, cupboards, and boxes, untie knots, and overcome
other obstacles when they have once seen how to set about it; but they
also invent means to attain similar ends. A female baboon, which I
brought up in my family, got hold of a kitten with the intention of
making a pet of it and mothering it, but was scratched by the terrified
bundling. The monkey carefully examined the kitten’s paws, pressed
the claws forward, looked at them from above, from beneath, and from
the side, and then bit them off to secure herself against further
scratches. My brother and I used to startle the same baboon by pouring
a little heap of powder on the ground in front of her, and setting
it alight by means of a piece of burning tinder. The sudden blazing
up of the powder gave our baboon such a fright every time that she
screamed loudly and sprang back as far as her tether would allow. After
this trick had been played upon her several times in succession, she
protected herself from further annoyance by beating the glowing tinder
with her hand till the spark was extinguished, and then eating up the
powder. In another case she conjured up fear and horror for herself.
Like all monkeys without exception, she regarded creeping things, and
above all snakes, with a boundless horror which was most amusing. We
often teased her by putting a snake, live, dead, or stuffed, into a
broad tin box, which was handed to her closed. After a time she knew
the box and its contents perfectly, but her curiosity always mastered
her, and she opened it every time, to run away screaming directly
afterwards.
Not content with recognizing causes really present, this monkey,
when she suffered any annoyance, sought for probable ones. Something
or someone must bear the blame of her discomfort. Thus her anger
was directed against the first person who came in sight. If she was
chastised, she was not angry with her master and keeper, but with
anyone else who was present during her punishment; such a one must have
been the cause of the harsh treatment she received from her usually
kind master. She had thus exactly the same suspicions as small-minded
human beings are apt to have in like circumstances.