Still, the fact is that, at each great proof to which the city is put,
at each trouble that appears to the bees to possess an inevitable
character, no sooner has the infatuation spread from one to the other
among the densely quivering people than the bees fling themselves upon
their combs, violently tear the sacred lids from the provisions for the
winter, topple head foremost and plunge their whole bodies into the
sweet-smelling vats, imbibe with long draughts the chaste wine of the
flowers, gorge themselves with it, intoxicate themselves with it, till
their bronze-ringed forms lengthen and distend like compressed leather
bottles. Now the bee, when swollen with honey, can no longer curve her
abdomen at the angle required to draw her sting. She becomes, so to
speak, mechanically harmless from that moment. It is generally imagined
that the beekeeper employs the fumigator to stun, to half-asphyxiate the
warriors that gather their treasure in the blue and thus to effect an
entrance by favour of a defenceless slumber into the palace of the
innumerous sleeping amazons. This is a mistake: the smoke serves first
to drive back the guardians of the threshold, who are ever on the alert
and extremely quarrelsome; then, two or three puffs come to spread panic
among the workers: the panic provokes the mysterious orgy, and the orgy
helplessness. Thus is the fact explained that, with bare arms and
unprotected face, one can open the most populous hives, examine their
combs, shake off the bees, spread them at one's feet, heap them up, pour
them out like grains of corn and quietly gather the honey, in the midst
of the deafening cloud of ousted workers, without having to suffer a
single sting.
V
But woe to whoso touches the poor hives! Keep away from the abodes of
want! Here, smoke has lost its spell, and you shall scarce have emitted
the first puffs before twenty thousand acrid and enraged demons will
dart from within the walls, overwhelm your hands, blind your eyes and
blacken your face. No living being, except, they say, the bear and the
Sphinx Atropos, can resist the rage of the mailed legions. Above all, do
not struggle: the fury would overtake the neighbouring colonies; and
the smell of the spilt venom would enrage all the republics around.
There is no means of safety other than instant flight through the
bushes. The bee is less rancorous, less implacable than the wasp and
rarely pursues her enemy. If flight be impossible, absolute immobility
alone might calm her or put her off the scent. She fears and attacks any
too sudden movement, but at once forgives that which no longer stirs.
The poor hives live, or rather die from day to day, and it is because
they have no honey in their cellars that smoke makes no impression on
them. They cannot gorge themselves like their sisters that belong to
happier tribes; the possibilities of a future city are not there to
divert their ardour. Their only thought is to perish on the outraged
threshold, and, lean, shrunk, nimble, unrestrained, they defend it with
unheard-of heroism and desperation. Therefore, the cautious beekeeper
never displaces the indigent hives without making a preliminary
sacrifice to the hungry Furies. His offering is a honey-comb. They come
hastening up and then, the smoke assisting, they distend and intoxicate
themselves: behold them reduced to helplessness like the rich burgesses
of the plentiful cells.