THE
LIFE AND LOVE
OF THE INSECT
BY
J. HENRI FABRE
TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1911
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
The author of these essays was born at Sérignan, in Provence, in the
year 1823, and was long in coming to his own. His birthday, indeed, is
now celebrated annually (Henri Fabre is still alive) at both Sérignan
and Orange; but, as Maurice Maeterlinck, writing of this “Insect’s
Homer ... whose brow should be girt with a double and radiant crown,”
says:
“Fame is often forgetful, negligent, behindhand or unjust; and the
crowd is almost ignorant of the name of J. H. Fabre, who is one of
the most profound and inventive scholars and also one of the purest
writers and, I was going to add, one of the finest poets of the
century that is just past.”
Fabre’s Souvenirs Entomologiques form ten volumes, containing two to
three hundred essays in all. The present book is a translation of the
greater part of a volume of selected essays, comprising, in addition to
those here presented, three that appeared in a volume entitled Insect
Life and published ten years ago by Messrs. Macmillan, in a version
from the able pen of the author of Mademoiselle Mori. This volume
contained also the first of the four articles descriptive of the habits
of the Sacred Beetle; and the publishers desire me to express their
thanks to Messrs. Macmillan for permission to include in The Life and
Love of the Insect a variant of that first chapter from Insect Life.
The omission of three essays included in the French volume of
selections explains the absence of reference to certain insects
represented in some of the photographic plates.
I should like to mention my personal sense of gratitude to a gentleman
belonging to a class of workers whose services are not always
recognized in the manner which they deserve. I speak of Mr. Marmaduke
Langdale, my untiring, eager and accurate “searcher,” whose work at
both branches of the British Museum—to say nothing of his uncommonly
thorough acquaintance with the French language—has greatly assisted me
in my task of translation and saved me, I suspect, from making more
than one blunder.
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS.
Chelsea, 11 July, 1911.
CONTENTS
PAGE
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE v
CHAPTER
I. THE SACRED BEETLE 1
II. THE SACRED BEETLE: THE PEAR 18
III. THE SACRED BEETLE: THE MODELLING 32
IV. THE SACRED BEETLE: THE GRUB, THE METAMORPHOSIS,
THE HATCHING CHAMBER 42
V. THE SPANISH COPRIS 63
VI. THE ONTHOPHAGI 79
VII. A BARREN PROMISE 88
VIII. A DUNG BEETLE OF THE PAMPAS 99
IX. THE GEOTRUPES: THE PUBLIC HEALTH 113
X. THE MINOTAURUS TYPHŒUS 127
XI. THE TWO BANDED SCOLIA 143
XII. THE RINGED CALICURGUS 157
XIII. THE OLD WEEVILS 171
XIV. LEAF ROLLERS 184
XV. THE HALICTI 199
XVI. THE HALICTI: THE PORTRESS 210
XVII. THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION 223
XVIII. THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION: THE FAMILY 243
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
PLATE I.—1. The Sacred Beetle. 2. The Sacred Beetle rolling
his pill. 3. Rolling the pill to the eating burrow Frontispiece
PLATE II.—Burrow and pear-shaped ball of the Sacred Beetle facing 20
Fig. 1.—Section of the Sacred Beetle’s pill, showing the egg
and the hatching-chamber 24
PLATE III.—1. The Sacred Beetle pushing away and overturning a
thieving friend who tries to force his assistance upon him.
2. Crypt in which the Beetle shapes a grub’s provision into
a pear facing 36
Fig. 2.—The Sacred Beetle’s pill dug out cupwise to receive
the egg 39
Fig. 3.—Grub of the Sacred Beetle 46
Fig. 4.—Digestive apparatus of the Sacred Beetle 47
PLATE IV.—1 and 2. The Spanish Copris, male and female. 3. The
pair jointly kneading the big load, which, divided into egg-
shaped pills, will furnish provisions for each grub of the
brood. 4. The mother alone in her burrow: five pills are already
finished; a sixth is in process of construction facing 72
Fig. 5.—The Copris’s pill: first state 72
Fig. 6.—The Spanish Copris’s pill dug out cupwise to receive
the egg 73
Fig. 7.—The Spanish Copris’s pill: section showing the hatching-
chamber and the egg 73
Fig. 8.—Phanæus Milo 102
Fig. 9.—Work of Phanæus Milo. A, the whole piece, actual size.
B, the same opened, showing the pill of sausage-meat, the clay
gourd, the chamber containing the egg and the ventilating-shaft 104
Fig. 10.—Work of Phanæus Milo: the largest of the gourds observed
(natural size) 108
PLATE V.—1. Onthophagus Taurus. 2. Onthophagus Vacca. 3. The
Stercoraceous Geotrupe. 4. The Wide-necked Scarab. 5. Cleonus
Ophthalmicus. 6. Cerceris Tuberculata. 7. Buprestis Ærea facing 80
Fig. 11.—The Stercoraceous Geotrupe’s sausage 121
Fig. 12.—Section of the Stercoraceous Geotrupe’s sausage at its
lower end, showing the egg and the hatching-chamber 122
PLATE VI.—Minotaurus Typhœus, male and female. Excavating
Minotaurus’ burrow facing 132
PLATE VII.—The Minotaurus couple engaged on miller’s and baker’s
work facing 137
PLATE VIII.—1. The Common or Garden Scolia. 2. The Two-banded
Scolia. 3. Grub of Cetonia Aurata progressing on its back.
4. The Two-banded Scolia paralyzing a Cetonia grub. 5. Cetonia
grubs progressing on their backs, with their legs in the air;
two are in a resting position, rolled up facing 146
PLATE IX.—1. Lycosa Narbonensis. 2. The Ringed Calicurgus.
3. Ammophila Hirsuta. 4. Ammophila Sabulosa. 5. Scroll of
Rhynchites Vitis. 6. Scroll of Rhynchites Populi facing 162
PLATE X.—The large glass case containing the Scorpions facing 226
PLATE XI.—1. Nuptial allurements, showing “the straight bend.”
2. The wedding stroll. 3. The couple enter the nuptial
dwelling facing 240
PLATE XII.—1. The Languedocian Scorpion devouring a cricket.
2. After pairing-time: the female feasting on her Scorpion.
3. The mother and her family, with emancipation-time at
hand facing 252
THE SACRED BEETLE
THE LIFE AND LOVE OF
THE INSECT
CHAPTER I
THE SACRED BEETLE
The building of the nest, the safeguard of the family, furnishes the
loftiest expression of the instinctive faculties. That ingenious
architect, the bird, teaches us as much; and the insect, with its still
more varied talents, repeats the lesson, telling us that maternity is
the supreme inspirer of the instinct. Placed in charge of the duration
of the species, which is of more serious interest than the preservation
of individuals, maternity awakens a marvellous foresight in the
drowsiest intelligence; it is the thrice sacred hearth wherein smoulder
and then suddenly burst forth those incomprehensible psychic gleams
which give us the impression of an infallible reasoning power. The more
maternity asserts itself, the higher does instinct ascend.
The most worthy of our attention in this respect are the Hymenoptera,
upon whom the cares of maternity devolve in their fulness. All these
favourites of instinct prepare board and lodging for their offspring.
They become past masters in a host of industries for the sake of a
family which their faceted eyes never behold and which, nevertheless,
the maternal foresight knows quite well. One becomes a manufacturer of
cotton goods and mills cotton-wool bottles; another sets up as a
basket-maker and weaves hampers out of scraps of flowers; a third turns
mason and builds rooms of cement and domes of road-metal; a fourth
starts a pottery-works, in which the clay is kneaded into shapely vases
and jars and bulging pots; yet another adopts the calling of a pitman
and digs mysterious warm, moist passages underground. A thousand trades
similar to ours and often even unknown to our industrial system are
employed in the preparation of the abode. Next come the victuals of the
expected nurslings: piles of honey, loaves of pollen, stores of
preserved game, cunningly paralyzed. In such works as these, having the
future of the family for their exclusive object, the highest
manifestations of the instinct are displayed under the impulse of
maternity.
In the rest of the entomological order, the mother’s cares are
generally very summary. In most cases, they are confined to the laying
of the eggs in favourable spots, where the grub can find a bed and food
at its own risk and peril. Where education is so rustic, talents are
superfluous. Lycurgus banished the arts from his republic, as
enervating. In like manner, the higher inspirations of the instinct are
banished among insects brought up in Spartan simplicity. The mother
neglects the gentle cares of the cradle; and the prerogatives of the
intellect, the best of all, diminish and disappear, so true is it that
for the animal, even as for ourselves, the family is a source of
perfection.
While the Hymenoptera, so extremely thoughtful of their progeny, fill
us with wonder, the others, which abandon theirs to the chances of good
luck or bad, must seem to us, by comparison, of but little interest.
These others form almost the entirety; at least, to my knowledge, among
the fauna of our country-sides, there is only one other instance of
insects preparing board and lodging for their family, as do the
gatherers of honey and the buriers of baskets full of game.
And, strange to say, those insects vying in maternal tenderness with
the flower-despoiling tribe of Bees are none other than the
Dung-beetles, the dealers in ordure, the scavengers of the meadows
contaminated by the herd. We must pass from the scented corollas of the
flower-bed to the droppings left on the high-road by the mule to find a
second example of devoted mothers and lofty instincts. Nature abounds
in these antitheses. What are our ugliness and beauty, our cleanliness
and dirt to her? With refuse, she creates the flower; from a little
manure, she extracts the blessed grain of the wheat.
Notwithstanding their filthy trade, the Dung-beetles occupy a very
respectable rank. Thanks to their usually imposing size; to their
severe and irreproachably glossy garb; to their short, stout, thickset
shape; to the quaint ornamentation either of their brow or, also, of
their thorax, they cut an excellent figure in the collector’s boxes,
especially when to our own species, oftenest of an ebon black, we add a
few tropical species flashing with gleams of gold and ruddy copper.
They are the sedulous guests of our herds, for which reason several of
them emit a mild flavour of benzoic acid, the aromatic of the
sheepfolds. Their pastoral habits have impressed the nomenclators, who,
too often, alas, careless of euphony, have changed their note this time
and headed their descriptions with such names as Melibæus, Tityrus,
Amyntas, Corydon, Mopsus and Alexis. We have here the whole series of
bucolic denominations made famous by the poets of antiquity. Virgil’s
eclogues have lent their vocabulary for the Dung-beetles’
glorification.
What alacrity around one and the same dropping! Never did adventurers
hurrying from the four corners of the earth display such eagerness in
working a Californian claim. Before the sun becomes too hot, they are
there in their hundreds, large and small, promiscuously, of every sort,
shape and size, hastening to carve themselves a slice of the common
cake. There are some that work in the open air and scrape the surface;
there are some that dig themselves galleries in the thick of the heap,
in search of choice veins; others work the lower stratum and bury their
spoil without delay in the underlying ground; others—the smallest—stand
aside to crumble a morsel that has fallen from the mighty excavations
of their more powerful fellow-workers. Some, the newcomers and, no
doubt, the hungriest, consume their meal on the spot; but the greater
number mean to put by a substance that will allow them to spend long
days in plenty, down in some safe retreat. A nice, fresh dropping is
not found just when you want it, amid the fields bare of thyme; a
windfall of that sort is as manna from the sky; only fortune’s
favourites receive so fair a portion. Wherefore the riches of to-day
are prudently stored for the morrow.
The stercoraceous scent has carried the glad tidings half a mile
around; and all have hastened up to gather provisions. A few laggards
are still arriving, a-wing or on foot.
Who is this that trots towards the heap, fearing lest he come too late?
His long legs move with a sudden, awkward action, as though driven by
some mechanism within his belly; his little red antennæ spread their
fan, a sign of anxious greed. He is coming, he has come, not without
sending some few banqueters sprawling. It is the Sacred Beetle, clad
all in black, the biggest and most famous of our Dung-beetles. Ancient
Egypt held him in veneration and looked upon him as a symbol of
immortality. Here he now sits at table, beside his fellow-guests, each
of whom is giving the last touches to his ball with the flat of his
broad fore-legs or else enriching it with yet one more layer before
retiring to enjoy the fruit of his labours in peace. Let us follow the
construction of the famous ball in all its phases.
The shield, that is to say, the broad, flat edge of the head, is
notched with six angular teeth arranged in a semicircle. This
constitutes the tool for digging and separating, the rake that lifts
and casts aside the unnutritious vegetable fibres, goes for something
better, scrapes and collects it together. A choice is thus made, for
these dainty epicures differentiate between one thing and another: a
casual choice, if the Beetle be interested in his own provender, but a
most scrupulous choice, when it becomes a question of constructing the
maternal ball.
For his own needs, the Beetle is less fastidious and contents himself
with a wholesale selection. The notched shield scoops and digs,
eliminates and gathers somewhat at random. The fore-legs play a mighty
part in the work. They are flattened, curved into the segment of a
circle, supplied with powerful nervures and armed on the outside with
five sturdy teeth. If a powerful effort be needed to remove an obstacle
or to force a way through the thickest part of the heap, the
Dung-beetle makes play with his elbows, that is to say, he flings his
toothed legs to right and left and clears a semi-circular space with a
vigorous thrust of the rake. Room once made, a different kind of work
is found for these same limbs: they collect armfuls of the material
raked together by the shield and push it under the insect’s belly,
between the four hind-legs. These are shaped for the turner’s trade.
The legs, especially the last two, are long and slender, slightly bowed
and ending in a very sharp claw. One has but to look at them to
recognize a pair of spherical compasses capable of embracing a globular
body in their curved branches and improving its form. In fact, their
mission is to shape the ball.
Armful by armful, the material is heaped up under the belly, between
the four legs, which, by a slight pressure, impart their own curve to
it and give it a first fashion. Then, betweenwhiles, the rough-hewn
pill is set spinning betwixt the four branches of the two spherical
compasses; it turns under the Dung-beetle’s belly until it is rolled
into a perfect ball. Should the surface layer lack plasticity and
threaten to peel off, should some too-stringy part refuse to yield to
the action of the wheel, the fore-legs correct the faulty places; their
broad beaters pat the ball to give consistency to the new layer and to
imbed the recalcitrant scraps into the mass.
Under a hot sun, when the work is urgent, one stands amazed at the
turner’s feverish activity. And thus the business proceeds apace: what
was but lately a scanty pellet is now a ball the size of a walnut; soon
it will be a ball the size of an apple. I have seen greedy-guts
manufacture a ball the size of one’s fist. Here, of a certainty, is
food in the larder for days to come!
The provisions are made. The next thing is to withdraw from the fray
and carry the victuals to a fitting place. Here the most striking
characteristics of the Scarab begin to show themselves. The Dung-beetle
sets out without delay; he embraces the sphere with his two long
hind-legs, whose terminal claws, planted in the mass, serve as rotatory
pivots; he obtains a purchase with the middle pair of legs; and, using
the armlets of his fore-legs for leverage, he travels backwards with
his load, bending his body, with his head down and his hinder part in
the air. The hind-legs, the principal factor in the machinery, move
continually, coming and going, shifting the claws to change the axis of
rotation, maintain the equilibrium of the load and push it on by
alternate thrusts to right and left. In this way, the ball finds itself
touching the ground by turns with every point of its surface, a process
which perfects its shape and gives an even consistency to its outer
layer by means of pressure uniformly divided.
And now, cheerily! It moves, it rolls; we shall get there, though not
without accident. Here is a first difficult step: the Beetle is wending
his way athwart a slope and the heavy mass tends to follow the incline;
but the insect, for reasons best known to itself, prefers to cut across
this natural road, a bold plan which a false step or a grain of sand
disturbing the balance may defeat. The false step is made; the ball
rolls to the bottom of the valley; and the insect, toppled over by the
impetus of its load, kicks about, gets up on its legs again and hastens
to harness itself once more. The mechanism is working better than ever.
But look out, you scatterbrain! Follow the dip of the valley: that will
save you labour and mishap; the road is good and level; your ball will
roll quite easily. Not a bit of it! The insect prepares once more to
mount the slope that was already its undoing. Perhaps it suits it to
return to the heights. Against that I have nothing to say: the Scarab’s
opinion is more far-seeing than mine as to the advisability of keeping
to lofty regions. But, at least, take this path, which will lead you up
by a gentle incline! Not at all! If he find himself near some very
steep slope, impossible to climb, that is what the obstinate fellow
prefers. And now begins a labour of Sisyphus. The ball, that enormous
burden, is painfully hoisted, step by step, with infinite precautions,
to a certain height, always backwards. I ask myself by what static
miracle so great a mass can be kept upon the slope. Oh! An ill-planned
movement frustrates all this toil: the ball comes down, dragging the
beetle with it! The escalade is repeated, soon to be followed by
another fall. The attempt is renewed, better-managed this time at the
difficult points; a confounded grass-root, the cause of the previous
tumbles, is carefully turned. We are almost there; but gently, gently!
The ascent is dangerous and a mere nothing may yet spoil all. For see,
a leg slips on a smooth bit of gravel! Down come ball and Dung-beetle,
all mixed up together. And the Beetle begins over again, with
indefatigable persistency. Ten times, a score of times, he will attempt
the thankless ascent, until his obstinacy vanquishes all obstacles, or
until, recognizing the uselessness of his efforts, he takes to the
level road.
The Scarab does not always push his precious ball alone: sometimes he
takes a partner; or, to be accurate, the partner takes him. This is how
the thing usually happens: once his ball is ready, a Dung-beetle issues
from the crowd and leaves the work-yard, pushing his spoil behind him.
A neighbour, one of the newcomers, whose own task is hardly begun,
suddenly drops his work and runs to the ball now rolling, to lend a
hand to the lucky owner, who seems to accept the proffered aid kindly.
Henceforth, the two cronies work as partners. Each does his best to
push the pellet to a place of safety. Was a compact really concluded in
the work-yard, a tacit agreement to share the cake between them? While
one was kneading and moulding the ball, was the other tapping rich
veins whence to extract choice materials and add them to the common
store? I have never observed such a collaboration; I have always seen
each Dung-beetle occupied solely with his own affairs in the works. The
last-comer, therefore, has no acquired rights.
Is it, then, a partnership between the two sexes, a couple intending to
set up house? I thought so for a time. The two beetles, one before, one
behind, pushing the heavy ball with equal zeal, reminded me of a song
which the barrel-organs used to grind out some years ago:
Pour monter notre menage, hélas! comment feront-nous?
Toi devant et moi derrière, nous pousserons le tonneau. [1]
The evidence of the scalpel compelled me to abandon this domestic
idyll. There is no outward difference between the two sexes in the
Dung-beetle. I, therefore, dissected the two beetles engaged in
conveying one and the same ball; and they often proved to belong to the
same sex.
Neither community of family nor community of toil! Then what is the
motive for this apparent partnership? It is just simply an attempt at
robbery. The eager fellow-worker, under the deceitful pretence of
lending a helpful hand, nurses the scheme of purloining the ball at the
first opportunity. To make one’s own ball at the heap implies drudgery
and patience; to steal one ready-made, or at least to foist one’s self
as a guest, is a much easier matter. Should the owner’s vigilance
slacken, you can run away with the treasure; should you be too closely
watched, you can sit down to table uninvited, pleading services
rendered. It is, “Heads I win, tails you lose,” in these tactics, so
that pillage is exercised as one of the most lucrative of trades. Some
go to work craftily, in the way I have just described: they come to the
aid of a comrade who has not the least need of them and hide a most
indelicate greed under the cloak of charitable assistance. Others,
bolder perhaps, more confident in their strength, go straight to the
goal and commit robbery with violence.
Scenes are constantly happening such as this: a Scarab walks off,
peacefully and alone, rolling his ball, his lawful property, acquired
by conscientious work. Another comes flying up, I know not whence,
drops down heavily, folds his smoky wings under their elytra and, with
the back of his toothed armlets, knocks over the owner, who is
powerless to ward off the attack in his harnessed posture. While the
dispossessed one struggles to his feet, the other perches himself atop
the ball, the best position from which to repel the assailant. With his
armlets folded under his breast, ready at all points, he awaits events.
The victim of the theft moves round the ball, seeking a favourable spot
at which to attempt the assault; the thief spins round on the roof of
the citadel, constantly facing him. If the first raise himself in order
to scale the wall, the second gives him a cuff that stretches him on
his back. Safe at the top of his fortress, the besieged Beetle would
baffle his adversary’s attempts indefinitely, if the latter did not
change his tactics to recover his property. Sapping is brought into
play to bring down the citadel with the garrison. The ball, shaken from
below, staggers and rolls, carrying with it the robber, who makes
violent efforts to maintain his position on the top. This he succeeds
in doing, though not always, thanks to hurried feats of gymnastics that
enable him to regain a level from which the rolling of his support
tends to drive him. Should a false movement bring him to the ground,
the chances become equal and the struggle turns into a wrestling-match.
Robber and robbed grapple at close quarters, breast to breast. Their
legs twist and untwist, their joints intertwine, their horny armour
clashes and grinds with the rasping sound of filed metal. Then that one
of the two who succeeds in throwing his adversary and releasing himself
hurriedly takes up a position on the top of the ball. The siege is
renewed, now by the robber, now by the robbed, as the chances of the
hand-to-hand conflict may have determined. The former, no doubt a hardy
filibuster and adventurer, often has the best of the fight. Then, after
two or three defeats, the ejected Beetle wearies and returns
philosophically to the heap, there to make himself a new pellet. As for
the other, with all fear of a surprise at an end, he harnesses himself
to the conquered ball and pushes it whither he pleases. I have
sometimes seen a third thief appear upon the scene and rob the robber.
Nor can I honestly say that I was sorry.
I ask myself in vain what Proudhon [2] introduced into Beetle-morality
the daring paradox that “property is based on plunder,” or what
diplomatist taught Dung-beetles the savage maxim that “might is right.”
I have no facts whereby to trace the origin of these spoliations which
have become a custom, of this abuse of strength to capture a lump of
ordure. All that I can say is that theft is in general use among the
Scarab tribe. These Dung-rollers rob one another among themselves with
a calm effrontery of which I know no other instance. I leave it to
future observers to elucidate this curious problem in animal psychology
and I return to the two partners rolling their ball in concert.
Let us call the two fellow-workers partners, although that is not the
proper name for them, seeing that the one forces himself upon the
other, who probably accepts outside help only for fear of a worse evil.
The meeting, however, is absolutely peaceful. The Beetle owning the
ball does not cease work for an instant at the arrival of his
assistant; and the newcomer seems animated by the best intentions and
sets to work on the spot. The way in which the two partners harness
themselves differs. The owner occupies the chief position, the place of
honour: he pushes behind the load, with his hind-legs in the air and
his head down. The assistant is in front, in the reverse position, head
up, toothed arms on the ball, long hind-legs on the ground. Between the
two, the ball rolls along, pushed before him by the first, dragged
towards him by the second.
The efforts of the couple are not always very harmonious, the more so
as the helper has his back to the road to be traversed, while the
owner’s view is impeded by the load. Hence arise constant accidents,
absurd tumbles, taken cheerfully and in good part: each picks himself
up quickly and resumes the same position as before. On level ground,
this system of draught does not correspond with the dynamic force
expended, for lack of precision in the combined movements: the Scarab
at the back would do as well and better if left to himself. And so the
helper, after giving a proof of his good-will at the risk of disturbing
the mechanism, decides to keep still, without, of course, abandoning
the precious ball, which he already looks upon as his: finding is
keeping; a ball touched is a ball gained. He will commit no such
imprudence: the other might give him the slip!
He, therefore, gathers his legs under his belly, flattens himself,
encrusts himself, so to speak, on the ball and becomes one with it.
Henceforth, the whole concern—ball and Beetle clinging to its
surface—rolls along, pushed by the lawful owner. Whether the load
passes over his body, whether he occupies the top, the bottom or the
side of the rolling burden matters little to the intruder, who sits
tight and lies low. A singular helper this, who has himself driven in a
carriage to secure his share of the victuals!
But a steep ascent heaves in sight and gives him a fine part to play.
He now, on the stiff slope, takes the lead, holding the heavy mass with
his toothed arms, while his mate seeks a purchase to hoist the load a
little higher. Thus, by a combination of well-managed efforts, the one
above gripping, the one below pushing, I have seen them together mount
acclivities where the stubborn determination of one alone would have
come to naught. But not all have the same zeal at these difficult
moments: there are some who, on slopes where their assistance is most
needed, seem not in the least aware of the difficulties to overcome.
While the unhappy Sisyphus exhausts himself in endeavours to pass the
dangerous place, the other quietly leaves him to do his best and,
himself encrusted on the ball, rolls down with it, when it comes to
grief, and is hoisted up with it anew.
Let us suppose the Scarab fortunate enough to have found a loyal
partner; or, better still, let us suppose that he has met no
self-invited colleague. The burrow is ready. It is a cavity dug in soft
earth, usually in sand, shallow, the size of one’s fist and
communicating with the outside by a short channel just large enough for
the passage of the ball. As soon as the provisions are safely housed,
the Scarab shuts himself in by stopping up the entrance to his dwelling
with rubbish reserved for the purpose in a corner. Once the door is
closed, no sign outside betrays the banqueting-hall. And, now, welcome
mirth and jollity! All is for the best in the best of all possible
worlds! The table is sumptuously laid; the ceiling tempers the heat of
the sun and allows but a mild, moist heat to penetrate; the calm, the
darkness, the concert of the crickets overhead all favour the digestive
functions. So great has been my illusion that I have caught myself
listening at the door, expecting to hear the revellers burst into that
famous snatch from the opera of Galatée: [3]
Ah! qu’il est doux de ne rien faire
Quand tout s’agite autour de nous. [4]
Who would dare disturb the bliss of such a banquet? But the wish to
learn is capable of all things; and I had the courage. I will set down
here the result of my violations of the sanctity of domestic life: the
ball by itself fills almost the whole of the room; the rich repast
rises from floor to ceiling. A narrow passage runs between it and the
walls. Here sit the banqueters, two at most, very often but one, belly
to table, back to the wall. Once the seat is chosen, no one stirs; all
the vital forces are absorbed by the digestive faculties. No little
movements, which might cause the loss of a mouthful; no dainty toying
with the food, which might cause the waste of some. Everything has to
pass, properly and in order. To see them so pensively seated around a
ball of dung, one would think that they were aware of their task as
scavengers of the earth and that they consciously devoted themselves to
that marvellous chemistry which out of filth brings forth the flower,
the joy of our eyes, and the Beetles’ elytra, the ornament of our lawns
in spring. For the purpose of this transcendental work, which is to
turn into live matter the residue discarded by the horse and the mule,
despite the perfection of their digestive organs, the Dung-beetle must
needs be specially equipped. And, in point of fact, anatomy compels us
to admire the prodigious length of his intestine, which, folded and
refolded upon itself, slowly elaborates the materials in its profuse
circuits and exhausts them to the very last serviceable atom. From that
whence the stomach of the herbivorous animal has been able to extract
nothing, this powerful alembic wrings riches that, at a mere touch,
turn into ebon armour in the Sacred Scarab and a breast-plate of gold
and rubies in other Dung-beetles.
Now this wonderful metamorphosis of ordure has to be accomplished in
the shortest possible time: the general health demands it. And so the
Scarab is endowed with matchless digestive powers. Once housed in the
company of food, day and night he will not cease eating and digesting
until the provisions be exhausted. It is easy, with a little practice,
to bring up the Scarab in captivity, in a volery. In this way, I
obtained the following evidence, which will tell us of the high
digestive capacity of the famous Dung-beetle.
When the whole ball has been through the mill, the hermit reappears in
the light of day, seeks his fortune, finds it, shapes himself a new
ball and begins all over again. On a very hot, calm, sultry day—the
atmospheric conditions most favourable to the gastronomic enjoyments of
my anchorites—watch in hand, I observe one of the consumers in the open
air, from eight o’clock in the morning until eight o’clock at night.
The Scarab appears to have come across a morsel greatly to his taste,
for, during those twelve hours, he never stops feasting, remains
permanently at table, stationary at one spot. At eight o’clock in the
evening, I pay him a last visit. His appetite seems undiminished. I
find the glutton in as fine fettle as at the start. The banquet,
therefore, must have lasted some time longer, until the total
disappearance of the lump. Next morning, in fact, the Scarab is gone
and, of the fine piece attacked on the previous day, naught remains but
crumbs.
Once round the clock and more, for a single sitting at table, is a fine
display of gormandizing in itself; but here is something much better by
way of rapidity of digestion. While, in front of the insect, the matter
is being continuously chewed and swallowed, behind it, with equal
continuity, the matter reappears, stripped of its nutritive particles
and spun into a little black cord, similar to a cobbler’s thread. The
Scarab never evacuates except at table, so quickly are his digestive
labours performed. The apparatus begins to work at the first few
mouthfuls; it ceases its office soon after the last. Without a break
from beginning to end of the meal and always hanging to the discharging
orifice, the thin cord is piled in a heap which is easy to unroll so
long as it is not dried up.
The thing works with the regularity of a chronometer. Every minute, or,
rather, to be accurate, every four-and-fifty seconds, an eruption takes
place and the thread is lengthened by three to four millimetres. [5] At
long intervals, I employ the pincers, unfasten the cord and unroll the
heap along a graduated rule, to estimate the produce. The total
measurement for twelve hours is 2·88 metres. [6] As the meal and its
necessary complement, the work of the digestive apparatus, went on for
some time longer after my last visit, paid at eight o’clock in the
evening by the light of a lantern, it follows that my subject must have
spun an unbroken stercoraceous cord well over three yards in length.
Given the diameter and the length of the thread, it is easy to
calculate its volume. Nor is it difficult to arrive at the exact volume
of the insect by measuring the amount of water which it displaces when
immersed in a narrow cylinder. The figures thus obtained are not
uninteresting: they tell us that, at a single festive sitting, in a
dozen hours, the Scarab digests very nearly its own volume in food.
What a stomach! And especially what a rapidity, what a power of
digestion! From the first mouthfuls, the residuum forms itself into a
thread that stretches, stretches out indefinitely as long as the meal
lasts. In that amazing laboratory, which perhaps never puts up its
shutters, unless it be when victuals are lacking, the material only
passes through, is worked upon at once by the reagents in the stomach
and at once exhausted. We may well believe that a crucible so quick to
purify dirt plays its part in the general hygiene.