THE COMMON WASP
In September, with my little son Paul, who lends me his good sight and
his artless attention, undisturbed as yet by anxious thoughts, I sally
forth at a venture, questioning the edges of the foot-paths with my
glance. At twenty yards’ distance my companion has just seen rising
from the ground, shooting up and flying away, now one and now another
swiftly moving object, as though some tiny crater in eruption in the
grass were hurling forth projectiles.
“Wasps’-nest!” he cries. “Sure as anything, a Wasps’-nest!”
We approach discreetly, fearing to attract the attention of the fierce
community. It is indeed a Wasps’-nest. At the entrance to the
vestibule, a round opening large enough to admit a man’s thumb, the
inmates come and go, busily passing one another in opposite directions.
Brrr! A shudder runs through me at the thought of the unpleasant time
which we should have were we to draw the attack of the irascible
soldiery by too close an inspection. Without making further
investigations, which might cost us dear, let us mark the spot. We will
return at nightfall, when the whole legion will have come home from the
fields.
The conquest of a nest of Common Wasps (Vespa vulgaris, Linn.) would be
a rather serious undertaking if one did not practise a certain
prudence. Half a pint of petrol, a reed-stump nine inches long, a
good-sized lump of clay or loam, ready tempered by kneading: such is my
equipment, which I have come to consider the best and simplest, after
various trials with less effectual means.
The asphyxiating-method is indispensable here, unless we employ costly
expedients out of all keeping with my resources. The excellent Réaumur,
when he wanted to place a live Wasps’-nest in a glass case, with a view
to observing the habits of the inmates, had willing lackeys, seasoned
to their painful job, who, allured by a handsome reward, paid for the
scientist’s gratification with their skins. I, who should have to pay
with my own skin, think twice before digging up the coveted nest. I
begin by suffocating the inhabitants. Dead Wasps do not sting. It is a
brutal method, but perfectly safe.
Besides, I have no need to revise the observations of the Master,
himself so capable an observer. My ambition is limited to certain
matters of detail, which I shall be able to study with a small number
of survivors. These I can spare by moderating the dose of
asphyxiating-fluid.
I use petrol by preference because it is cheap and because its effects
are less overwhelming than those of bisulphide of carbon. The question
is how to introduce it into the cavity containing the Wasps’-nest. A
vestibule, or entrance-passage, about nine inches long and very nearly
horizontal, gives access to the underground chambers. To pour the
liquid straight into the mouth of this tunnel would be a blunder that
might have grievous consequences at the moment of excavation. So small
a quantity of petrol would be absorbed by the soil on its way to the
nest and would never reach its destination; and next day, when we might
think that we were digging without risk, we should find an infuriated
swarm under the spade.
The bit of reed prevents this mishap. Inserted into the gallery, it
forms a watertight conduit and conveys the liquid to the cavern without
the loss of a drop. A funnel is useful, as it enables us to pour the
liquid quickly. The entrance to the dwelling is forthwith tightly
stoppered with the lump of clay which we bring with us ready kneaded,
for most often there is no water on the spot. We have now nothing to do
but wait.
Carrying a lantern and a basket with the implements, Paul and I set
out, at nine o’clock in the evening, to perform an operation of this
sort. The weather is mild and the moon gives a little light. The
farmhouse Dogs are bandying distant yelps; the Screech-owl is hooting
in the olive-trees; the Italian Crickets [65] are performing their
symphony in the bushes. And we chat about insects, the one asking
questions, eager to learn, the other telling the little that he knows.
Delightful nights of Wasp-hunting, you well atone for our loss of sleep
and make us forget the stings which are likely to incur!
Here we are! The pushing of the reed into the passage is the most
delicate matter. Sentries may well emerge from this guard-house and
attack the operator’s hand during the hesitation caused by the unknown
direction of the gallery. The danger is provided for. One of us keeps
watch; he will drive away the assailants with his handkerchief, should
any appear. Besides, an idea is not so very expensive if we acquire it
at the cost of a swelling and a smart itching.
This time there is no mishap. The conduit is in place; it sends the
contents of my flask streaming into the cavern. We hear the threatening
buzz of the underground population. Quick, the wet clay, to close the
door; quick, a kick or two of the heel upon the clod, to consolidate
the closing! There is nothing more to be done. It is striking eleven;
let us be off to bed.
Provided with a spade and trowel, we are back on the spot at dawn.
Numbers of Wasps, belated in the fields, have been out all night. They
will turn up as we are digging, but the chill of the morning will
render them less aggressive; and a few flicks of the handkerchief will
be enough to make them keep their distance. Let us hasten therefore,
before the sun grows hot.
A trench of sufficient width to give us freedom of movement is dug in
front of the entrance-passage, whose position is indicated by the reed,
which remains where it was. Next, the perpendicular side of the ditch
is carefully cut away in slices. Thus conducted, at a depth of some
twenty inches, our digging at last reveals the Wasps’-nest intact,
slung from the roof of a spacious cavity.
It is indeed a superb achievement, as large as a fair-sized pumpkin. It
hangs free on every side, except at the top, where various roots,
mostly rootstocks of couch-grass, penetrate the thickness of the wall
and fasten the nest firmly. Its shape is round wherever the softness
and the homogeneous character of the ground have permitted a
symmetrical excavation. In stony soil, the sphere becomes misshapen, a
little more here, a little less there, according to the obstacles
encountered.
A space of a hand’s breadth is always left open between the paper
monument and the sides of the subterranean vault. This is the wide
street along which the builders move unhindered at their continual task
of enlarging and strengthening the nest. The one lane by which the city
communicates with the outer world opens into it. The unoccupied space
under the nest is much greater. It is rounded into a big basin which
allows the general wrapper to be enlarged as fresh layers of cells are
added to those above. This receptacle, shaped like the bottom of a
copper, is also the great cess-pool into which the multitudinous refuse
of the Wasps’-nest falls and accumulates.
The size of the cavern raises a question. The Wasps themselves dug the
cellar. Of that there is no doubt: cavities like this, so large and so
accurately formed, do not exist ready-made. That the mother foundress
at the beginning, working by herself and eager to get on quickly,
availed herself of some chance refuge, due perhaps to the excavations
of the Mole, is possible; but the rest of the work, the making of the
enormous crypt, was done by the Wasps alone. Then what has become of
the rubbish, the mass of earth whose bulk would be that of a cube
measuring some twenty inches on every side?
The Ant erects the excavated material into a cone-shaped hillock on the
threshold of her abode. With her two or three bushels of earth, what a
mound would not the Wasp achieve, if heaping were her habit! But far
from it: she leaves not a scrap of rubbish outside her door; everything
is perfectly tidy. What has she done with the cumbrous mass?
The answer is supplied by various peaceable insects which are easy to
observe. Consider a Mason-bee clearing an old nest which she proposes
to use; watch a Leaf-cutter cleaning out an Earth-worm’s burrow in
which to stack her leafy bags. Holding a trifle of some sort in their
teeth, a shred of silky tapestry or a crumb of earth, they fly off at a
furious speed, to drop their infinitesimal load at a distance. Then
they immediately face about, return to the workshop and undertake a new
flight out of all proportion to the result achieved. The insect, one
would think, is afraid to encumber the site by merely brushing the tiny
fragments away with its feet; it must take to its wings to disperse its
insignificant sweepings afar.
The Wasps work in the same manner. There are thousands and thousands of
them digging at the cellar and enlarging it as the need occurs. Each
carrying her particle of earth in her mandibles, they gain the outer
world, fly to a distance and drop their burden, some nearer, some
farther away, in all directions. Thus distributed over wide areas, the
excavated earth leaves no visible trace.
The material of the Wasps’-nest is a thin, flexible brown paper,
streaked with paler bands, according to the nature of the wood
utilized. Made in a single, continuous sheet, according to the methods
of the Median Wasp (Vespa media), this substance would constitute an
indifferent protection against the cold. But, while the balloon-maker
understands the art of preserving heat by means of a cushion of air
contained between several wrappers enclosed one within the other, the
Common Wasp, no less versed in the laws of thermal science, arrives at
the same result by different means. With her paper-pulp she
manufactures broad scales which overlap loosely and are superimposed in
numerous layers. The whole forms a coarse blanket, of a thick, spongy
texture and well-filled with stagnant air. The temperature under such a
shelter, in the hot weather, must be truly tropical.
The fierce Hornet (Vespa crabo, Linn.), chief of the Wasp clan by
virtue of her strength and her warlike audacity, conforms to the same
principles of the globular configuration and of air imprisoned between
partition-walls. In the cavernous hollow of a willow or in the recesses
of some empty granary, she manufactures a yellow, striped, very brittle
cardboard, composed of an agglomeration of woody fragments. Her
spherical nest is wrapped in an enclosure of broad convex scales, a
sort of tiles which, welded to one another and arranged in multiple
layers, leave between them wide intervals in which the air is held
motionless.
To employ an athermous substance such as air, in order to check the
loss of heat; to anticipate our manufacturers of eiderdown quilts; to
give the containing walls of the nest the shape that encloses the
greatest capacity within the smallest wrapper; to adopt as a cell the
hexagonal prism, which economizes space and material; these are
scientific actions that accord with the data of our physics and
geometry. We are told that the Wasp, proceeding from improvement to
improvement, worked out her sensible building for herself. I cannot
believe this when I see the whole nest perish, a victim to my tricks,
which would easily have been baffled if the insect possessed the least
power of reflection.
These wonderful architects amaze us by their stupidity in the presence
of a trifling difficulty. Outside their work of the moment there is a
complete absence of all lucidity such as the progressive invention of
the nest would demand. Of the various tests that assure me of this, I
will mention the following, which is easily made.
The Common Wasp has chanced to set up her dwelling in the enclosure.
The establishment is beside one of the walks. No member of the
household dares venture in that part; it would be dangerous to go near
it. We must rid ourselves of these bad neighbours, who terrify the
children. It will also be a good thing to profit by this excellent
opportunity of experimenting with appliances which could not be used in
the open fields, where the little country bumpkins would soon smash my
glass to bits.
All that is required is a large chemist’s bell-glass. At night, when
all is dark and the Wasps have gone home, I place it over the entrance
of the burrow, after first flattening the soil. To-morrow, when the
Wasps resume their labours and find themselves checked in their flight,
will they succeed in contriving a passage under the rim of the
bell-glass? Will these sturdy workers, who are capable of digging a
spacious cavern, realize that a very short subterranean tunnel will set
them free? That is the question.
To-morrow arrives. The bright sunlight falls upon the glass container.
The workers ascend in a crowd from under ground, eager to go in search
of provisions. They butt against the transparent wall, tumble down,
pick themselves up again and whirl round and round in a crazy swarm.
Some, weary of dancing this continual saraband, alight on the ground,
wander peevishly at random and then reenter their dwelling. Others take
their places as the sun grows hotter. Well, not one of them, note this,
not one of them scratches with her feet at the base of the treacherous
circle. This means of escape is too far above their mental capacity.
A few Wasps have spent the night out of doors. Here they are, coming in
from the fields. Round and round the bell-glass they fly; at last,
after much hesitation, one of them decides to dig under the edge of the
enclosing wall. Others are quick to follow her lead. A passage is
opened without difficulty. The Wasps go in. I do not interfere with
them. When all the loiterers have reentered the nest, I close the
breach with some earth. The narrow opening, if seen from within, might
help the Wasps to escape; and I wish to leave the prisoners the honour
of inventing the liberating tunnel.
However poor the Wasp may be in judicious inspirations, escape has now
become probable. Benefiting by their recent experience, the loiterers
who have just entered will, I thought, set the others an example; they
will teach them the tactics of digging at the base of the rampart.
I judged my diggers too hastily. Of example set and taken, of learning
by experience, there is not a sign. Inside the bell-glass not an
attempt is made to employ the method which succeeded so well in the
case of the home-comers. The insect population whirls round and round
in the torrid atmosphere of the glass, but indulges in no enterprise.
It flounders about, decimated from day to day by famine and the
excessive heat. At the end of a week, not a creature is left alive. A
heap of corpses covers the ground. Incapable of any innovation in its
customs, the city has perished.
This inept behaviour reminds me of the story of the wild Turkeys as
told by Audubon. [66] A bait consisting of a few grains of millet lures
them into a short underground passage, which leads to the centre of a
wattled cage. When fed to repletion, the flock is ready to depart; but
to use for their departure the way by which they entered, though it
still yawns in the centre of the enclosure, is a manœuvre of too high
an order for the stupid Turkeys. This path is dark, whereas daylight
shines between the bars. The birds therefore revolve indefinitely
against the trelliswork, until the trapper arrives and wrings their
necks.
An ingenious Fly-trap is employed in our homes. It consists of a
water-bottle with an opening at the bottom and standing on three low
supports. Inside, some soap-suds form a ring-shaped lake around the
orifice. A lump of sugar, placed beneath the entrance, acts as the
bait. The Flies make for the sugar. On leaving it, seeing the light
above them, they rise with a vertical flight and enter the trap, where
they wear themselves out, beating their wings against the transparent
wall. All perish by drowning, because they are incapable of the
rudimentary notion of going out by the way they came.
Even so with the Wasps under my bell-glass: they know how to get in,
but do not know how to get out. On ascending from their burrow, they go
to the light. Finding broad daylight in their transparent prison, they
consider their aim accomplished. An obstacle checks their flight, it is
true; no matter: the whole area is brightly lit up; and this is enough
to delude the prisoners, who, despite the continual warning of their
collisions with the glass, endeavour, obstinately and without
attempting anything else, to fly farther in the direction of the
luminous void.
The Wasps returning from the fields are in a different situation. They
are passing from light to darkness. Moreover, even without the
intervention of the experimenter’s wiles, they are sure occasionally to
find the threshold of their dwelling obstructed by fallen earth, the
result of rain or of the feet of the passers-by. The next action of the
homing Wasps is bound to follow: they search about, sweep, dig and end
by finding the entrance-tunnel. This power of scenting their house
through the soil and this eagerness to clear the doorway of their
dwelling are innate aptitudes: they form part of the resources bestowed
upon the species for its preservation in the midst of daily accidents.
Here there is no need of reflection or calculation: the earthy obstacle
has been familiar to one and all since Wasps first came into the world.
They therefore scrape and go in.
At the foot of the bell-glass, the same order of things obtains.
Topographically, the position of the Wasps’-nest is perfectly
well-known; but direct access has become impossible. What is to be
done? After a brief hesitation, the process of digging and clearing is
adopted according to ancient custom; and the difficulty is overcome. In
short, the Wasp knows how to reenter her home, in spite of certain
obstacles, because the action here accomplished conforms with what is
always done in similar circumstances and does not call upon the shadowy
intellect for any fresh gleam of light.
But she does not know how to get out, though the difficulty remains
precisely the same. Like the Turkey of the American naturalist, she is
defeated by this problem: to recognize as good for going out the road
which was recognized as good for going in. Impatient to escape, both
bird and insect rush frantically to and fro, exhausting themselves in
their striving towards the light; and neither pays any attention to the
underground passage, which would so readily give them their liberty.
Neither of them thinks of it, because to do so would require a little
reflection and would thwart the impulse of the moment, which is to flee
far into the daylight. Wasps and Turkeys alike perish, rather than
improve the present by the lessons of the past, when called upon to
modify their usual tactics be it ever so slightly.
The Wasp has been extolled for inventing the round Wasps’-nest and the
hexagonal cell, that is to say, for rivalling our geometricians in
solving the problem of the forms which are most economical of space and
material. Men attribute to her ingenuity the magnificent discovery of
the surrounding wrapper cushioned with air, than which our own
physicists could imagine no better provision against cold. And these
superb inventions are supposed to have been achieved quite simply by
the clumsy intellect which is unable to use an entrance-door as an
exit-door! Such marvels inspired by such ineptitude leave me profoundly
incredulous. Actions of this kind have a higher origin.
We will now open the thick envelope of the nest. The interior is
occupied by the combs, or disks of cells, lying horizontally and
fastened one to the other by solid pillars. The number varies. Towards
the end of the season it may be as many as ten, or even more. The
orifice of the cells is on the lower surface. In this strange world,
the young grow, sleep and receive their food head downwards.
For service-purposes, open spaces, with rows of connecting pillars,
divide the various stories. Here is a continual coming and going of
nurses, busily attending to their grubs. Lateral doorways, between the
outer envelope and the stack of combs, give easy access to every part.
Lastly, on one side of the wrapper, the open gate of the city stands,
devoid of architectural adornment, a modest aperture lost among the
thin flakes of the surrounding surface. Facing it is the underground
vestibule leading to the outer world.
The cells of the lower combs are larger than those of the upper; they
are set aside for the rearing of the females and the males, while those
in the stories up above serve for the neuters, who are a little
smaller. At first the community requires, before all else, an abundance
of workers, of celibates exclusively addicted to work, who enlarge the
dwelling and prepare it to become a flourishing city. Preoccupations
for the future belong to a later stage. More capacious cells are
constructed, some intended for the males, others for the females.
According to figures which I will give later, the sexed population
represents about one-third of the whole.
Let us also observe that, in a Wasps’-nest which has reached an
advanced age, the cells in the upper stories have their walls gnawed
right down to the base. They are ruins of which naught remains but the
foundations. Useless from the moment when the community, now rich in
workers, has only to be completed by the appearance of the two sexes,
the tiny chambers have been pulled down; and their paper, once more
reduced to pulp, has been used for the construction of the large cells,
which form the cradles of the sexed grubs. With the additional material
brought from without, the demolished cells have served for building new
and bigger cells; they have also perhaps provided the wherewithal for a
few more scales to the outer wrapper. Sparing of her time, the Wasp
does not trouble to exploit distant sources when she has available
materials in the house. She knows as well as we do how to make old
things into new.
In a complete nest the total number of cells amounts to thousands.
Here, for example, are the statistics of one of my specimens. The combs
are numbered in the order of seniority: the oldest and therefore the
topmost in the stack is no. 1; the most recent and therefore the
undermost is no. 10.
Combs, in their Diameter, Number
order from top in inches of cells
to bottom
1 3.94 300
2 6.28 600
3 7.87 2,000
4 9.45 2,200
5 9.84 2,300
6 10.23 1,300
7 9.45 1,200
8 9.06 1,000
9 7.87 700
10 5.12 300
------
Total ... 11,900 cells.
Obviously the figures in this table must be regarded as approximate.
The number of cells varies greatly in different nests and cannot be
calculated very accurately. The counting is correct, in the case of
each comb, to a hundred or so. Despite the elasticity of these figures,
my result agrees very well with that obtained by Réaumur, who, in a
nest of fifteen combs, counted sixteen thousand cells. The master adds:
“With only ten thousand cells, as there is perhaps not a cell which
does not, on an average, serve to rear three larvæ, a Wasps’-nest
produces over thirty thousand Wasps a year.”
Thirty thousand, say the statistics. What becomes of this multitude
when the bad weather arrives? I shall find out. We are now in December;
there are occasional frosts, though they are not yet very serious. I
know of a nest. I owe it to the man who provides me with Moles, a
worthy fellow who, for a few halfpence, makes good the poverty of my
vegetable-beds with his own produce. Despite the inconvenience which
the proximity caused him, he has preserved the nest for me in his
garden, among the cauliflowers. I can visit it at any moment that I
consider opportune.
The moment has come. Preliminary asphyxiation with petrol is no longer
necessary: the cold weather will have calmed the fierce ardour of the
inmates. The torpid insects will be pacific enough: with a little
caution I shall be able to molest them with impunity. Early in the
morning, then, the investing-trench is dug with the spade, amid the
grass white with hoar-frost. The work proceeds satisfactorily. Not a
Wasp stirs. Here is the nest facing us, hanging from the roof of the
cavern.
At the bottom of the crypt, rounded like a basin, lie the dead and
dying; I could pick them up by the handful. It looks as though the
Wasps, when they feel their strength fail them, leave their dwelling
and allow themselves to fall into the catacombs of the burrow. It may
even be the duty of the able-bodied ones to cast the dead out of the
nest. The paper tabernacle must not be defiled by corpses.
Dead Wasps likewise abound in the open air, on the threshold of the
crypt. Did they come to die there of their own accord? Or did the
survivors, as a hygienic measure, carry them out of doors? I incline to
the idea of the summary funeral. The dying insect, still kicking, is
seized by one leg and dragged to the Gemoniæ. The night cold will kill
it outright. These brutal obsequies tally with other instances of
savagery, to which we shall return.
In this double cemetery, inside and outside the burrow, the three
classes of the population are represented promiscuously. The neuters
are the most numerous; next come the males. That these should disappear
is quite natural; their part is played. But the future mothers, the
females with flanks rich in eggs, these also perish. Fortunately the
Wasps’-nest is not yet entirely deserted. Through a rent I can see a
swarm amply sufficient for my plans. We will take the nest away with us
and arrange matters for an observation which will last some time and
which can be conducted leisurely at home.
The nest will be more convenient to watch if dismembered. Cutting the
connecting pillars, I separate the shelves of combs and stack them
afresh, giving them a wide fragment of the wrapper as a roof. The Wasps
are then re-established in their dwelling, but in limited numbers, to
avoid the confusion of a crowd. I keep the more able-bodied and reject
the others. The females, the chief object of my examination, are not
far from a hundred strong. Peaceable now and half-numbed, the
population of the nest may safely be subjected to this sifting and
shifting. Tweezers are all that I need. The whole nest, installed in a
large earthen pan, is covered with a wire-gauze dome. We have only to
follow events day by day.
Two factors of decay seem to play a leading part when the Wasps’-nest
is depopulated on the advent of the bad weather: hunger and cold. In
the winter there is no more provender, no more sweet fruit, the Wasps’
principal food. Lastly, notwithstanding their underground shelter, the
frost puts an end to the starved creatures. Is this really what
happens? We shall see.
The pan containing the Wasps is in my study, where a fire is lit daily
in winter, partly for my benefit and partly for that of my insects. It
never freezes there; and the sun shines into the room for the greater
part of the day. In this mild retreat the risks of depopulation by cold
are eliminated. Nor is there any fear of famine. Under the wire cover
is a saucer filled with honey; grape-pips, furnished by my last bunches
kept on the straw, vary the diet. With such provisions as these, if any
deaths occur among the swarm, starvation will not be responsible.
Matters being thus arranged, all goes fairly well in the beginning.
After hiding between the combs at night, the Wasps come out when the
sun shines on the wire cover. They emerge into the light and stand in
it, pressed closely one against the other. Presently they become more
animated: they climb to the wire roof, move idly to and fro, descend
and quench their appetite at the pool of honey or at the grape-pips.
The neuters take to flight, wheel round, cluster on the trelliswork;
the bravely-horned males curl their antennæ with quite a sprightly air;
the heavier females take no part in these diversions.
A week goes by. The visits to the refectory, though brief, seem to
speak of a certain well-being; nevertheless, without apparent cause,
mortality now makes a sudden appearance. A neuter is resting in the
sun, motionless, on the side of a comb. There is nothing about it to
denote ill-health. Suddenly it drops down, falls on its back, moves its
abdomen for a moment, kicks its legs about and all is over: it is dead.
As for the females, they too give me cause for alarm. I surprise one as
she is crawling out of the nest. Lying on her back, she stretches her
limbs, twitches her abdomen and, after a few convulsions, lies
absolutely still. I believe her dead. She is nothing of the sort. After
a sun-bath, a sovran cordial, she recovers her legs again and goes back
to the stack of combs. Yet the resuscitated Wasp is not saved. During
the afternoon she is seized with a second fit, which this time leaves
her really lifeless, with her legs in the air.
Death, if it be only the death of a Wasp, is always a solemn thing,
worthy of our meditation. Day by day, with a curiosity not devoid of
emotion, I watch the end of my insects. One detail especially strikes
me: the neuters succumb suddenly. They come to the surface, slip down,
fall on their backs and rise no more, as though they were struck by
lightning. They have had their day; they are slain by age, that
inexorable toxin. Even so does a piece of clockwork become inert when
its mainspring has unwound its last spiral.
But the females, the last-born of the community, far from being
overcome by decrepitude, are, on the contrary, just entering upon life.
They have the vigour of youth; and so, when the winter sickness seizes
them, they are capable of a certain resistance, whereas the old workers
perish suddenly. In the same way, the males, so long as their part is
not played out, resist the cold fairly well. My cage contains a few,
always nimble and alert. I see them making advances to their
companions, without greatly insisting. They are repulsed with a
friendly push of the leg. The time is past for the raptures of the
pairing. Those lingerers have let the right moment slip; they will die
useless.
The females whose end is near are easily distinguished from the others
by the disorder of their appearance. Their backs are dusty. Those who
are hale and hearty, once they have taken their meal on the brim of the
saucer of honey, settle in the sun and dust themselves without ceasing.
There is an incessant brushing of the wings and abdomen, with gentle,
sensitive extensions of the hind-legs; the fore-legs repeatedly stroke
the head and the thorax. Thus the black-and-yellow costume is kept
perfectly glossy. Those who are ailing, careless of cleanliness, stand
motionless in the sun or wander languidly about. They no longer brush
their clothes.
This indifference to dress is a bad sign. Two or three days later, in
fact, the dusty female leaves the nest for the last time and goes on
the roof, to enjoy yet a little of the sunlight; then, her nerveless
claws relinquishing their hold, she slides quietly to the ground and
does not get up again. She declines to die in her beloved paper home,
where the code of the Wasps ordains absolute cleanliness.
If the neuters, those fierce hygienists, were still there, they would
seize the helpless creature and drag her outside. Themselves the first
victims of the winter evil, they are lacking; and the dying Wasp
proceeds to perform her own funeral rites by dropping herself into the
charnel-pit at the bottom of the cavern. For reasons of health, an
indispensable condition with such a multitude, these stoics refuse to
die in the actual house, among the combs. The last survivors retain
this repugnance to the very end. For them it is a law which never falls
into disuse, however greatly reduced the population may be. No corpse
can be allowed to remain in the babies’ dormitory.
My cage becomes emptier day by day, notwithstanding the mild
temperature of the room, notwithstanding the saucer of honey at which
the able-bodied come to sip. At Christmas I have only a dozen females
left. On the 6th of January, with snow out of doors, the last of them
perishes.
Whence arises this mortality, which mows down the whole of my Wasps? My
attentions have preserved them from the calamities which at first sight
might appear to cause their death under the usual conditions. Fed upon
honey and grapes, they have not suffered from famine: warmed by the
heat of my fire, they have not suffered from cold; cheered almost daily
by the sun’s rays and living in their own nest, they have not suffered
from home-sickness. Then what have they died of?
I can understand the disappearance of the males. These are henceforth
useless; the pairing has taken place and the eggs are fertile. I can
less easily explain the death of the neuters, who, on the return of
spring, would be of such great assistance when new colonies are
founded. What I do not understand at all is the death of the females. I
had nearly a hundred; and not one has survived the first few days of
the new year. Having left their nymphal cells in October and November,
they still possessed the vigorous attributes of youth; they represented
the future; yet this sacred quality of prospective motherhood has not
saved them. Even as the feeble males retired from business, even as the
workers exhausted by labour, they too have succumbed.
We must not blame their internment under wire for their death. The same
thing happens in the open country. The various nests inspected at the
end of December all reveal a similar mortality. The females die almost
as rapidly as the rest of the population.
This was to be expected. The number of females who are daughters of the
same nest is unknown to me. However, the profusion of their dead bodies
in the charnel-pit of the colony tells me that they must be counted by
the hundred, perhaps by the thousand. One female is enough to found a
city of thirty thousand inhabitants. If all were to prosper, what a
scourge! The Wasps would tyrannize over the country-side.
The order of things demands that the vast majority shall die, killed
not by an accidental epidemic and the inclemency of the season, but by
an inevitable destiny, which performs its work of destruction with the
same energy as that which it displays in the task of procreation. One
question thereupon arises: since a single female, preserved in one way
or another, is enough to maintain the species, why does a Wasps’-nest
contain so many aspirant mothers? Why a multitude in place of one? Why
so many victims? A perturbing problem, in which our intelligence fails
to see its way.