venturesome, and possibly also as unduly human. It may be urged that
the bees, in all probability, have no idea of the kind; that their
care for the future, love of the race, and many other feelings we
choose to ascribe to them, are truly no more than forms assumed by
the necessities of life, the fear of suffering or death, and the
attraction of pleasure. Let it be so; look on it all as a figure of
speech; it is a matter to which I attach no importance. The one
thing certain here, as it is the one thing certain in all other
cases, is that, under special circumstances, the bees will treat
their queen in a special manner. The rest is all mystery, around
which we only can weave more or less ingenious and pleasant
conjecture. And yet, were we speaking of man in the manner wherein
it were wise perhaps to speak of the bee, is there very much more we
could say? He too yields only to necessity, the attraction of
pleasure, and the fear of suffering; and what we call our intellect
has the same origin and mission as what in animals we choose to term
instinct. We do certain things, whose results we conceive to be
known to us; other things happen, and we flatter ourselves that we
are better equipped than animals can be to divine their cause; but,
apart from the fact that this supposition rests on no very solid
foundation, events of this nature are rare and infinitesimal,
compared with the vast mass of others that elude comprehension; and
all, the pettiest and the most sublime, the best known and the most
inexplicable, the nearest and the most distant, come to pass in a
night so profound that our blindness may well be almost as great as
that we suppose in the bee.
{30}
"All must agree," remarks Buffon, who has a somewhat amusing
prejudice against the bee,--"all must agree that these flies,
individually considered, possess far less genius than the dog, the
monkey, or the majority of animals; that they display far less
docility, attachment, or sentiment; that they have, in a word, less
qualities that relate to our own; and from that we may conclude that
their apparent intelligence derives only from their assembled
multitude; nor does this union even argue intelligence, for it is
governed by no moral considerations, it being without their consent
that they find themselves gathered together. This society,
therefore, is no more than a physical assemblage ordained by nature,
and independent either of knowledge, or reason, or aim. The
mother-bee produces ten thousand individuals at a time, and in the
same place; these ten thousand individuals, were they a thousand
times stupider than I suppose them to be, would be compelled, for
the mere purpose of existence, to contrive some form of arrangement;
and, assuming that they had begun by injuring each other, they
would, as each one possesses the same strength as its fellow, soon
have ended by doing each other the least possible harm, or, in other
words, by rendering assistance. They have the appearance of
understanding each other, and of working for a common aim; and the
observer, therefore, is apt to endow them with reasons and intellect
that they truly are far from possessing. He will pretend to account
for each action, show a reason behind every movement; and from
thence the gradation is easy to proclaiming them marvels, or
monsters, of innumerable ideas. Whereas the truth is that these ten
thousand individuals, that have been produced simultaneously, that
have lived together, and undergone metamorphosis at more or less the
same time, cannot fail all to do the same thing, and are compelled,
however slight the sentiment within them, to adopt common habits, to
live in accord and union, to busy themselves with their dwelling, to
return to it after their journeys, etc., etc. And on this foundation
arise the architecture, the geometry, the order, the foresight, love
of country,--in a word, the republic; all springing, as we have
seen, from the admiration of the observer." There we have our bees
explained in a very different fashion. And if it seem more natural
at first, is it not for the very simple reason that it really
explains almost nothing? I will not allude to the material errors
this chapter contains; I will only ask whether the mere fact of the
bees accepting a common existence, while doing each other the least
possible harm, does not in itself argue a certain intelligence. And
does not this intelligence appear the more remarkable to us as we
more closely examine the fashion in which these "ten thousand
individuals" avoid hurting each other, and end by giving assistance?
And further, is this not the history of ourselves; and does not all
that the angry old naturalist says apply equally to every one of our
human societies? And yet once again: if the bee is indeed to be
credited with none of the feelings or ideas that we have ascribed to
it, shall we not very willingly shift the ground of our wonder? If
we must not admire the bee, we will then admire nature; the moment
must always come when admiration can be no longer denied us, nor
shall there be loss to us through our having retreated, or waited.
However these things may be, and without abandoning this conjecture
of ours, that at least has the advantage of connecting in our mind
certain actions that have evident connection in fact, it is certain
that the bees have far less adoration for the queen herself than for
the infinite future of the race that she represents. They are not
sentimental; and should one of their number return from work so
severely wounded as to be held incapable of further service, they
will ruthlessly expel her from the hive. And yet it cannot be said
that they are altogether incapable of a kind of personal attachment
towards their mother. They will recognise her from among all. Even
when she is old, crippled, and wretched, the sentinels at the door
will never allow another queen to enter the hive, though she be
young and fruitful. It is true that this is one of the fundamental
principles of their polity, and never relaxed except at times of
abundant honey, in favour of some foreign worker who shall be well
laden with food.
When the queen has become completely sterile, the bees will rear a
certain number of royal princesses to fill her place. But what
becomes of the old sovereign? As to this we have no precise
knowledge; but it has happened, at times, that apiarists have found
a magnificent queen, in the flower of her age, on the central comb
of the hive; and in some obscure corner, right at the back, the
gaunt, decrepit "old mistress," as they call her in Normandy. In
such cases it would seem that the bees have to exercise the greatest
care to protect her from the hatred of the vigorous rival who longs
for her death; for queen hates queen so fiercely that two who might
happen to be under the same roof would immediately fly at each
other. It would be pleasant to believe that the bees are thus
providing their ancient sovereign with a humble shelter in a remote
corner of the city, where she may end her days in peace. Here again
we touch one of the thousand enigmas of the waxen city; and it is
once more proved to us that the habits and the policy of the bees
are by no means narrow, or rigidly predetermined; and that their
actions have motives far more complex than we are inclined to
suppose.
{32}
But we are constantly tampering with what they must regard as
immovable laws of nature; constantly placing the bees in a position
that may be compared to that in which we should ourselves be placed
were the laws of space and gravity, of light and heat, to be
suddenly suppressed around us. What are the bees to do when we, by
force or by fraud, introduce a second queen into the city? It is
probable that, in a state of nature, thanks to the sentinels at the
gate, such an event has never occurred since they first came into
the world. But this prodigious conjuncture does not scatter their
wits; they still contrive to reconcile the two principles that they
appear to regard in the light of divine commands. The first is that
of unique maternity, never infringed except in the case of sterility
in the reigning queen, and even then only very exceptionally; the
second is more curious still, and, although never transgressed,
susceptible of what may almost be termed a Judaic evasion. It is the
law that invests the person of a queen, whoever she be, with a sort
of inviolability. It would be a simple matter for the bees to pierce
the intruder with their myriad envenomed stings; she would die on
the spot, and they would merely have to remove the corpse from the
hive. But though this sting is always held ready to strike, though
they make constant use of it in their fights among themselves,_ they
will never draw it against a queen;_ nor will a queen ever draw hers
on a man, an animal, or an ordinary bee. She will never unsheath her
royal weapon--curved, in scimeter fashion, instead of being
straight, like that of the ordinary bee--save only in the case of
her doing battle with an equal: in other words, with a sister queen.
No bee, it would seem, dare take on herself the horror of direct and
bloody regicide. Whenever, therefore, the good order and prosperity
of the republic appear to demand that a queen shall die, they
endeavour to give to her death some semblance of natural decease,
and by infinite subdivision of the crime, to render it almost
anonymous.
They will, therefore, to use the picturesque expression of the
apiarist, "ball" the queenly intruder; in other words, they will
entirely surround her with their innumerable interlaced bodies. They
will thus form a sort of living prison wherein the captive is unable
to move; and in this prison they will keep her for twenty-four
hours, if need be, till the victim die of suffocation or hunger.
But if, at this moment, the legitimate queen draw near, and,
scenting a rival, appear disposed to attack her, the living walls of
the prison will at once fly open; and the bees, forming a circle
around the two enemies, will eagerly watch the strange duel that
will ensue, though remaining strictly impartial, and taking no share
in it. For it is written that against a mother the sting may be
drawn by a mother alone; only she who bears in her flanks close on
two million lives appears to possess the right with one blow to
inflict close on two million deaths.
But if the combat last too long, without any result, if the circular
weapons glide harmlessly over the heavy cuirasses, if one of the
queens appear anxious to make her escape, then, be she the
legitimate sovereign or be she the stranger, she will at once be
seized and lodged in the living prison until such time as she
manifest once more the desire to attack her foe. It is right to add,
however, that the numerous experiments that have been made on this
subject have almost invariably resulted in the victory of the
reigning queen, owing perhaps to the extra courage and ardour she
derives from the knowledge that she is at home, with her subjects
around her, or to the fact that the bees, however impartial while
the fight is in progress, may possibly display some favouritism in
their manner of imprisoning the rivals; for their mother would seem
scarcely to suffer from the confinement, whereas the stranger almost
always emerges in an appreciably bruised and enfeebled condition.
{33}
There is one simple experiment which proves the readiness with which
the bees will recognise their queen, and the depth of the attachment
they bear her. Remove her from the hive, and there will soon be
manifest all the phenomena of anguish and distress that I have
described in a preceding chapter. Replace her, a few hours later,
and all her daughters will hasten towards her, offering honey. One
section will form a lane, for her to pass through; others, with head
bent low and abdomen high in the air, will describe before her great
semicircles throbbing with sound; hymning, doubtless, the chant of
welcome their rites dictate for moments of supreme happiness or
solemn respect.
But let it not be imagined that a foreign queen may with impunity be
substituted for the legitimate mother. The bees will at once detect
the imposture; the intruder will be seized, and immediately enclosed
in the terrible, tumultuous prison, whose obstinate walls will be
relieved, as it were, till she dies; for in this particular instance
it hardly ever occurs that the stranger emerges alive.
And here it is curious to note to what diplomacy and elaborate
stratagem man is compelled to resort in order to delude these little
sagacious insects, and bend them to his will. In their unswerving
loyalty, they will accept the most unexpected events with touching
courage, regarding them probably as some new and inevitable fatal
caprice of nature. And, indeed, all this diplomacy notwithstanding,
in the desperate confusion that may follow one of these hazardous
expedients, it is on the admirable good sense of the bee that man
always, and almost empirically, relies; on the inexhaustible
treasure of their marvellous laws and customs, on their love of
peace and order, their devotion to the public weal, and fidelity to
the future; on the adroit strength, the earnest disinterestedness,
of their character, and, above all, on the untiring devotion with
which they fulfil their duty. But the enumeration of such procedures
belongs rather to technical treatises on apiculture, and would take
us too far.*
*The stranger queen is usually brought into the hive
enclosed in a little cage, with iron wires, which is hung
between two combs. The cage has a door made of wax and
honey, which the workers, their anger over, proceed to gnaw,
thus freeing the prisoner, whom they will often receive
without any ill-will. Mr. Simmins, manager of the great
apiary at Rottingdean, has recently discovered another
method of introducing a queen, which, being extremely simple
and almost invariably successful, bids fair to be generally
adopted by apiarists who value their art. It is the
behaviour of the queen that usually makes her introduction a
matter of so great difficulty. She is almost distracted,
flies to and fro, hides, and generally comports herself as
an intruder, thus arousing the suspicions of the bees, which
are soon confirmed by the workers' examination. Mr. Simmins
at first completely isolates the queen he intends to
introduce, and lets her fast for half an hour. He then lifts
a corner of the inner cover of the orphaned hive, and places
the strange queen on the top of one of the combs. Her former
isolation having terrified her, she is delighted to find
herself in the midst of the bees; and being famished she
eagerly accepts the food they offer her. The workers,
deceived by her assurance, do not examine her, but probably
imagine that their old queen has returned, and welcome her
joyfully. It would seem, therefore, that, contrary to the
opinion of Huber and all other investigators, the bees are
not capable of recognising their queen. In any event, the
two explanations, which are both equally plausible--though
the truth may lurk, perhaps, in a third, that is not yet
known to us--only prove once again how complex and obscure
is the psychology of the bee. And from this, as from all
questions that deal with life, we can draw one conclusion
only: that, till better obtain, curiosity still must rule in
our heart.
{34}
As regards this personal affection of which we have spoken, there is
one word more to be said. That such affection exists is certain, but
it is certain also that its memory is exceedingly short-lived. Dare
to replace in her kingdom a mother whose exile has lasted some days,
and her indignant daughters will receive her in such a fashion as to
compel you hastily to snatch her from the deadly imprisonment
reserved for unknown queens. For the bees have had time to transform
a dozen workers' habitations into royal cells, and the future of the
race is no longer in danger. Their affection will increase, or
dwindle, in the degree that the queen represents the future. Thus we
often find, when a virgin queen is performing the perilous ceremony
known as the "nuptial flight," of which I will speak later, that her
subjects are so fearful of losing her that they will all accompany
her on this tragic and distant quest of love. This they will never
do, however, if they be provided with a fragment of comb containing
brood-cells, whence they shall be able to rear other queens. Indeed,
their affection even may turn into fury and hatred should their
sovereign fail in her duty to that sort of abstract divinity that we
should call future society, which the bees would appear to regard
far more seriously than we. It happens, for instance, at times, that
apiarists for various reasons will prevent the queen from joining a
swarm by inserting a trellis into the hive; the nimble and slender
workers will flit through it, unperceiving, but to the poor slave of
love, heavier and more corpulent than her daughters, it offers an
impassable barrier. The bees, when they find that the queen has not
followed, will return to the hive, and scold the unfortunate
prisoner, hustle and ill-treat her, accusing her of laziness,
probably, or suspecting her of feeble mind. On their second
departure, when they find that she still has not followed, her
ill-faith becomes evident to them, and their attacks grow more
serious. And finally, when they shall have gone forth once more, and
still with the same result, they will almost always condemn her, as
being irremediably faithless to her destiny and to the future of the
race, and put her to death in the royal prison.
{35}
It is to the future, therefore, that the bees subordinate all
things; and with a foresight, a harmonious co-operation, a skill in
interpreting events and turning them to the best advantage, that
must compel our heartiest admiration, particularly when we remember
in how startling and supernatural a light our recent intervention
must present itself to them. It may be said, perhaps, that in the
last instance we have given, they place a very false construction
upon the queen's inability to follow them. But would our powers of
discernment be so very much subtler, if an intelligence of an order
entirely different from our own, and served by a body so colossal
that its movements were almost as imperceptible as those of a
natural phenomenon, were to divert itself by laying traps of this
kind for us? Has it not taken us thousands of years to invent a
sufficiently plausible explanation for the thunderbolt? There is a
certain feebleness that overwhelms every intellect the moment it
emerges from its own sphere, and is brought face to face with events
not of its own initiation. And, besides, it is quite possible that
if this ordeal of the trellis were to obtain more regularly and
generally among the bees, they would end by detecting the pitfall,
and by taking steps to elude it. They have mastered the intricacies
of the movable comb, of the sections that compel them to store their
surplus honey in little boxes symmetrically piled; and in the case
of the still more extraordinary innovation of foundation wax, where
the cells are indicated only by a slender circumference of wax, they
are able at once to grasp the advantages this new system presents;
they most carefully extend the wax, and thus, without loss of time
or labour, construct perfect cells. So long as the event that
confronts them appear not a snare devised by some cunning and
malicious god, the bees may be trusted always to discover the best,
nay, the only human, solution. Let me cite an instance; an event,
that, though occurring in nature, is still in itself wholly
abnormal. I refer to the manner in which the bees will dispose of a
mouse or a slug that may happen to have found its way into the hive.
The intruder killed, they have to deal with the body, which will
very soon poison their dwelling. If it be impossible for them to
expel or dismember it, they will proceed methodically and
hermetically to enclose it in a veritable sepulchre of propolis and
wax, which will tower fantastically above the ordinary monuments of
the city. In one of my hives last year I discovered three such tombs
side by side, erected with party-walls, like the cells of the comb,
so that no wax should be wasted. These tombs the prudent
grave-diggers had raised over the remains of three snails that a
child had introduced into the hive. As a rule, when dealing with
snails, they will be content to seal up with wax the orifice of the
shell. But in this case the shells were more or less cracked and
broken; and they had considered it simpler, therefore, to bury the
entire snail; and had further contrived, in order that circulation
in the entrance-hall might not be impeded, a number of galleries
exactly proportionate, not to their own girth, but to that of the
males, which are almost twice as large as themselves. Does not this
instance, and the one that follows, warrant our believing that they
would in time discover the cause of the queen's inability to follow
them through the trellis? They have a very nice sense of proportion,
and of the space required for the movement of bodies. In the regions
where the hideous death's-head sphinx, the acherontia atropos,
abounds, they construct little pillars of wax at the entrance of the
hive, so restricting the dimension as to prevent the passage of the
nocturnal marauder's enormous abdomen.
{36}