THE GOLD BEETLES: THEIR FOOD
As I write the first lines of this chapter, I think of the Chicago
slaughter-yards. Those horrible meat-factories where, in the course of
the year, men cut up over a million Bullocks and nearly two million
Pigs, which, entering the factory alive, come out at the other end
changed into tins of preserved meat, lard, sausages and rolled hams. I
think of them because the Carabus, or Ground-beetle, is about to show
us a similar swiftness in butchery.
I have twenty-five Gold-beetles (Carabus auratus, Lin.) in a large
glass vivarium. At present they are motionless, cowering under a bit of
board which I gave them as a shelter. With their bellies cooled by the
sand and their backs warmed by the board, which is visited by the
searching rays of the sun, they slumber and digest their food. By good
luck I chance upon a procession of Pine-caterpillars [89] descending
from their tree in search of a favourable spot for burial, the prelude
to the underground cocoon. Here is an excellent herd for the
slaughter-house of the Carabi.
I collect them and place them in the vivarium. The procession soon
forms again; the caterpillars, about a hundred and fifty in number,
move in an undulating line. They pass near the piece of board, in
single file, like the Pigs at Chicago. This is the propitious moment. I
let slip my wild animals, that is to say, I remove their shelter.
The sleepers forthwith awaken, scenting the rich prey defiling close at
hand. One of them runs forward; three or four others follow, arousing
the whole assembly; those who are buried emerge; the whole band of
cut-throats falls upon the passing herd. Then comes an unforgettable
sight. The mandibles get to work in all directions; the procession is
attacked in the van, in the rear, in the middle; the victims are
assailed in the back or the belly at random. The hairy skins are ripped
open, their contents escape in a rush of entrails green with the
pine-needles that constitute the food; the caterpillars writhe
convulsively and lash out with their tails, suddenly coiling and
uncoiling, clinging with their feet, dribbling and biting. Those as yet
unscathed dig desperately in an attempt to take refuge underground. Not
one succeeds. They are hardly half-way down before the Carabus hastens
up, pulls them out and rips them open.
If the butchery were not occurring in a dumb world, we should have all
the frightful hubbub of the Chicago massacres. But it needs the ear of
the imagination to hear the shrieks and lamentations of the
eviscerated. This ear I possess; and I am seized with remorse for
having provoked such sufferings.
The Beetles are now rummaging everywhere in the heap of dead and dying,
each tugging and tearing at a morsel which he carries off to swallow
privately, away from envious eyes. After this mouthful, another is
hurriedly cut off the carcase, followed by more still, as long as any
dismembered bodies remain. In a few minutes the procession is reduced
to a few shreds of still quivering flesh.
There were a hundred and fifty caterpillars; the butchers are
twenty-five. This makes six victims to each Carabus. If the insect had
nothing to do but to kill indefinitely, like the labourers in the
meat-factories, and if the staff consisted of a hundred disembowellers,
a very modest figure compared with that of the ham-boners, the total
number of victims, in a ten hours’ day, would be thirty-six thousand.
No Chicago cannery ever achieved such an output.
The speed of the assassination is even more remarkable when we consider
the difficulties of the attack. The Carabus has nothing like the
endless chain which seizes the Pig by one leg, hoists it up and swings
it along to the butcher’s knife; he has nothing like the sliding plank
which brings the Bullock’s forehead beneath the slaughterer’s mallet;
he has to fall upon his prey, overpower it and steer clear of its tusks
and claws. Moreover, what he disembowels he eats on the spot. What a
massacre it would be if the insect had nothing to do but kill!
What do we learn from the Chicago slaughter-houses and the
Gold-beetle’s feasting? This: the man of lofty morals is nowadays a
rather rare exception. Under the skin of the civilized being we nearly
always find the ancestor, the savage contemporary with the Cave-bear.
True humanity does not yet exist; it is being very gradually formed by
the leaven of the centuries and the lessons of conscience; it is
progressing towards better things with heart-breaking slowness.
It was only yesterday that slavery disappeared, the foundation of the
ancient community, and that people perceived that a man, even though
black, is really a man and as such deserving of consideration.
What was woman in the old days? What she still is in the East: a pretty
little animal without a soul. The question was discussed at great
length by the scholars. The great seventeenth-century bishop Bossuet
[90] himself, looked upon woman as the diminutive of man. The proof lay
in the origin of Eve: she was the superfluous bone, the thirteenth rib
which Adam had in the beginning. It has at last been admitted that
woman possesses a soul similar to our own and even its superior in
tenderness and devotion. She has been permitted to educate herself,
which she does with a zeal at least equal to that of her rival. But the
law, that gloomy cavern which is still the lurking-place of so many
barbarities, continues to regard her as incompetent, as a minor.
The abolition of slavery and the education of women are two enormous
strides upon the path of moral progress. Our grandchildren will go
further. They will see, with a clear vision, capable of piercing every
obstacle, that war is the most absurd of our eccentricities; that
conquerors, fighters of battles and despoilers of nations are execrable
scourges; that a hand-shake is better than a rifle-bullet; that the
happiest people is not that which possesses the most artillery but that
which labours in peace and produces abundantly; and that the amenities
of existence do not positively clamour for frontiers, beyond which the
vexatious custom-house-officer awaits us, searching our pockets and
plundering our luggage.
They will see all this, our grandsons, and many other wonders which
to-day rank as crazy dreams. Whither will it lead us, this ascent?
Towards the blue skies of the ideal? To no very great height, I fear.
We are afflicted with an indelible taint, a sort of original sin, if we
may give the name of sin to a state of affairs in which our free will
plays no part. We are built that way and we cannot help it. It is the
taint of the belly, that inexhaustible source of brutality.
The intestine rules the world. In the midst of our gravest affairs the
question of bread and butter rises imperious. So long as there are
stomachs that digest—and as yet we see no possibility of dispensing
with them—we must have the wherewithal to satisfy them and the strong
will live by the misfortunes of the weak. Life is an abyss which only
death can fill. Hence endless butcheries, on which man, Gold-beetles
and others feed; hence the perpetual massacres that have made of the
world a slaughter-house beside which those of Chicago hardly count.
But the feasters are legion and the victuals are not abundant in
proportion. Those who have not envy those who have; the famished show
their teeth to the sated. Then follows the battle for the right of
possession. Man raises armies to defend his harvests, his cellars, his
granaries; and this is war. Shall we ever see the end of it? Alas and
seven times alas! So long as there are Wolves in the world, there must
be Sheep-dogs to defend the flock!
Carried away by our thoughts, we have left our Beetles far behind. Let
us hurry back to them. What was my reason for provoking the massacre of
the Processionaries who were on the point of quietly burying themselves
when I confronted them with their butchers? Was it to enjoy the
spectacle of a frantic massacre? Certainly not: I have always pitied
the sufferings of animals; and the life of the smallest is worthy of
respect. To overcome that compassion, the demands of scientific
research were needed; and these are sometimes cruel.
I had in view the habits of the Gold-beetle, the little ranger of our
gardens who, for this reason, is popularly known as the Gardener. How
far does he deserve to be called a helper? What does the Carabus hunt?
Of what vermin does he rid our flower-beds? We have seen a promising
start made with the Pine Processionary. Let us continue in the same
direction.
On various occasions late in April, the enclosure provides me with
processions, now longer, now shorter. I capture them and place them in
the glass vivarium. No sooner is the banquet served than the feasting
begins. The caterpillars are ripped open, by a single consumer or by
several at one time. In less than fifteen minutes the herd is
completely exterminated. Nothing remains but shapeless lumps, which are
carried hither and thither to be consumed under the shelter of the
board. The well-provided Beetle decamps, with his booty in his teeth,
anxious to feast in peace. He is met by companions who, enticed by the
morsel dangling from the fugitive’s jaws, turn highwaymen. First two,
then three try to rob the lawful owner. Each grabs the fragment, tugs
at it, proceeds to swallow it without serious dispute. There is no
actual battle, no exchange of bites as with Dogs disputing a bone.
Everything is confined to attempts at theft. If the owner retains his
hold, they all eat peacefully in common, mandibles touching mandibles,
until the piece is torn apart and each retires with his shred.
The Pine Processionary, seasoned with that stinging poison which,
during my earlier investigations, brought out such a violent rash upon
my skin, must be a very pungent dish. My Carabi thoroughly enjoy it.
The more processions I provide, the more they consume. The fare is
highly appreciated. Nevertheless, no one, so far as I know, has ever
met the Gold Beetle or her larva in the silken purses of the Bombyx.
[91] I have not the slightest hope that I shall one day find them there
myself. These purses are inhabited only in winter, when the Carabus,
indifferent to food and overcome by torpor, lies snugly underground.
But in April, when the caterpillars march in procession, seeking a good
site for burial and metamorphosis, the Beetle, if he has the good luck
to encounter them, must profit largely by the windfall.
The furry nature of the game does not put him off; nevertheless, the
hairiest of our caterpillars, the so-called Hedgehog, [92] with its
undulating mane, half-red, half-black, does seem to be too much for the
glutton. For days on end it wanders about the cage in the assassins’
society. The Carabi seem to ignore its presence. From time to time, one
of them will stop, circumnavigate the hairy creature, examine it and
try to dig into the bristling fleece. Rebuffed at once by the long,
thick, hairy palisade, he retires without biting to the quick. Proud
and unscathed, the caterpillar proceeds upon its way with undulating
back.
This cannot last. In a moment of hunger, emboldened moreover by the
co-operation of his fellows, the poltroon decides upon a serious
attack. There are four of them, very busy around the Hedgehog, which,
worried before and behind, ends by succumbing. It is ripped open and
devoured as greedily as any defenceless caterpillar would be.
I supply my menagerie with various caterpillars, naked or hairy, as I
chance to find them. All are accepted with the utmost zest, on the one
condition that their size is not excessive as compared with that of the
murderer. Too small, they are despised: the morsel would not provide an
adequate mouthful. Those of the Spurge Hawk-moth and the Great Peacock
Moth, for instance, would suit the Carabus, were it not that, at the
first bite, the intended victim, by a twist of its powerful rump, hurls
its assailant afar. After a few assaults, each followed by a distant
tumble, the insect helplessly and regretfully abandons the attack. The
prey is too vigorous. I have kept the two sturdy caterpillars caged
with my savage Beetles for a fortnight; and nothing very serious has
happened to them. The abrupt intervention of a suddenly lifted rump
overawed the ferocious mandibles.
We will award a first good mark to the Gold Beetle, for exterminating
any not too powerful caterpillar. The merit is spoilt by one flaw. The
insect is not a climber: it hunts on the ground, not in the foliage
overhead. I have never seen it explore the twigs of the smallest shrub.
In my cages, it pays no attention to the most enticing quarry fixed to
a tuft of thyme, a few inches high. This is a great pity. If the insect
could only climb and undertake overhead raids, how quickly would a gang
of three or four purge the cabbage of its scourge, the Pieris
Caterpillar! The very best always have some defect.
The Gold Beetle must be given another good mark with reference to
Slugs. He feeds on all of them, including even the biggest, the Grey
Slug, flecked with dark spots. The corpulent creature is soon disposed
of, when attacked by three or four knackers. They make by choice for
that part of the back which is protected by an inner shell, a sort of
slab of mother-of-pearl that covers the region of the heart and lung.
The stony particles of which the shell is constructed abound here
rather than elsewhere; and the Carabus seems to like this mineral
condiment. In the same way, the favourite morsel in the Snail is the
mantle, speckled with chalky dots. Easily caught and highly appreciated
in flavour, the Slug, crawling at night towards the tender lettuces,
must often provide the Gold Beetles with a meal. Together with the
caterpillar, he appears to be the Beetle’s usual fare.
We must add the Earthworm, Lumbricus terrestris, often found outside
its burrow in rainy weather. Even the biggest do not intimidate the
aggressor. I dish up an Earthworm eight inches long and as thick as my
little finger. The enormous annelid is attacked as soon as seen: six
Carabi come hastening up together. As its only means of defence, the
victim writhes forwards and backwards, wriggling and rolling upon
itself. The monstrous worm drags with it, now on top and now below, the
stubborn carvers, who do not let go and work alternately in their
normal position or with upturned bellies. Constantly rolling and
pitching, burying itself in the sand and reappearing, it does not
succeed in discouraging them. It would be difficult to find a parallel
to their tenacity.
They continue to bite at the points once bitten; they hold tight and
let the desperate worm flounder at will, until the tough, leathery skin
ends by giving way. The contents pour forth in a blood-stained mess,
into which the gluttons plunge their heads. Others hurry up to be in at
the death; and soon the mighty worm is a ruin odious to look upon. I
put an end to the orgy, lest the gormandizers, heavy with food, should
for a long time resist the experiments which I am contemplating. Their
frantic feasting tells me pretty clearly that they would finish the
huge saveloy if I did not interfere.
To make amends, I throw them an Earthworm of medium size. Ripped open
at different points and tugged to and fro, the worm is divided into
sections which each Beetle carries off as secured and moves away to
consume in seclusion. So long as the dish is not cut up, the banqueters
eat peacefully among themselves, often head to head, with their
mandibles fixed in the same wound; but, so soon as they feel that they
have lopped off a bit that suits them, they hasten to make away with
their plunder, far from any covetous envy. The bulk is general
property, without strife or contest; but the particle extracted belongs
to the individual and must be nimbly carried out of the reach of any
thievish enterprises.
Let us vary the provisions as far as my resources will permit. Some
Cetoniæ (C. floricola) remain in the Gold Beetles’ company for a couple
of weeks. They are unmolested; they are hardly vouchsafed a passing
glance. Does this mean indifference to the particular game? Does it
mean that the game is difficult to attack? We shall see. I remove the
wings and wing-cases. The news that there are cripples about soon
spreads. The Carabi hasten along and greedily root in their bellies.
After a brief spell, the Cetoniæ are drained dry. The fare therefore is
deemed excellent, and it was the harness of the tight wing-cases that
at first intimidated the ravenous Beetles.
The result is the same with the big Black Chrysomela-beetle (Timarcha
tenebricosa). The intact insect is disdained by the Carabus, who often
encounters it in the vivarium and passes on, without trying to open the
hermetically sealed meat-tin. But, if I remove the wing-cases, it is
very satisfactorily devoured, notwithstanding its orange-yellow
secretions. Again, the same Chrysomela’s fat larva, with its delicate,
bare skin, makes a treat for the Carabus. Its almost metallic,
bronze-black colour causes no hesitation in the hunter. As soon as
seen, the tasty morsel is grabbed, ripped open and consumed. The bronze
pill is regarded as a choice titbit; as many are devoured as I am able
to serve.
Under the strongly-built roof of their wing-cases, the Cetonia and the
Black Chrysomela are safe from the attacks of the Gold Beetle, who has
not the knack of forcing open the cuirass to reach the tender abdomen.
If, on the other hand, the tin is less precisely closed, the ravener
finds it an easy matter to lift the defensive sheaths of his prey and
attain his ends. After a few attempts, he raises the wing-cases of
Cerambyx cerdo and of many others from behind; he opens his oyster,
pushes aside the shells and lays bare the succulent dainties of the
abdomen. Any Beetle is accepted, if it be possible to force open the
tin.
I serve a Great Peacock, fresh from the cocoon. The Gold Beetle does
not make a fierce rush for the magnificent titbit. He approaches warily
at intervals, trying to nibble at the abdomen. But, at the first touch
of the mandibles, the Moth grows excited, beats the ground with her
wide wings and, with a sudden flap, hurls the aggressor to a distance.
Attack is impossible with such game as this, for ever fluttering and
giving vigorous jerks. I cut off the big Moth’s wings. The assailants
are soon on the spot. There are seven of them tugging and biting the
cripple’s belly. The down flies off in tufts, the skin breaks and the
seven Beetles besetting the quarry dive into the entrails. It is like a
pack of Wolves devouring a horse. In a little while the Great Peacock
is eviscerated.
The Carabus has no particular liking for the Snail (Helix aspersa) so
long as he remains intact. I place two in the midst of my Beetles, whom
a couple of days’ fasting has rendered more than usually enterprising.
The molluscs are ensconced within their shells; and these are stuck
into the sand of the cage mouth upwards. The Carabi come up and stop
for a moment, in turns; they taste the slime and at once go away in
disgust, without insisting further. Slightly bitten here and there, the
Snail foams by driving out the small reserve of air contained in his
pulmonary sac. This viscous froth constitutes his protection. The
passing Beetle who takes a modest mouthful of this retires forthwith,
not caring to dig any more.
The foamy covering is highly effective. I leave the two Snails all day
in the presence of the famished Beetles. No disaster befalls them. Next
morning I find them as fresh and fit as before. To save the Carabus
from that odious froth, I lay bare the two molluscs over an expanse as
wide as my thumb-nail, removing a fragment of the shell in the region
of the pulmonary sac. The attack now becomes prompt and persistent.
Five or six Gold Beetles at a time take their stands around the breach
that lays bare the non-slimy flesh. There would be more of them if
there were room for a greater number, for some eager Carabi arrive who
try to slip in between the occupants. Above the breach a sort of
scrimmage forms, in which those nearest the victim dig and uproot its
flesh, while the others look on or steal a bit from their neighbour’s
lips. In one afternoon, the Snail is emptied almost to the bottom of
his spiral.
Next day, when the carnage is at its height, I remove the prey and
replace it by an untouched Snail, fixed in the sand with the opening at
the top. Aroused by a bath of water, the animal comes out of its shell,
protruding its swan-like neck and extending to their full length its
telescopic eye-stalks, which seem quite placidly to contemplate the
frantic saraband of the ravenous Beetles. The imminent danger of
evisceration does not prevent it from fully displaying its tender
flesh, an easy prey on which, one would think, the gluttons, deprived
of their meat, will fling themselves to continue the interrupted feast.
But what is this? None of the Gold Beetles pays any attention to the
magnificent quarry, which, swaying with a wave-like motion, is largely
uncovered by its fortress. If one of the starvelings, more greatly
daring than the others, ventures to dig a tooth into the mollusc, the
Snail contracts, goes indoors and begins to foam. This is enough to
repel the assailant. All the afternoon and all night, the victim
remains thus in the presence of five-and-twenty disembowellers; and
nothing serious happens.
This same experiment, repeated on sundry occasions, proves that the
Gold Beetle does not attack the unwounded Snail, even when the latter,
after a shower of rain, is crawling over the wet grass, protruding all
the fore-part of his body from the shell. The Carabus wants cripples,
helpless inmates of broken shells; he wants a breach which enables him
to bite at a point not liable to slaver. In these circumstances, the
“Gardener” can do little to restrain the Snail’s misdeeds. When injured
by accident, more or less badly crushed, the ravager of our garden
stuff would soon die without the Gold Beetle’s intervention.
From time to time, to vary the diet, I feed a piece of butcher’s meat
to my charges. The Carabi eagerly flock around it, diligently taking up
their stand, mincing it into tiny morsels and devouring it. This food,
unknown to their race save perhaps in the form of a Mole disembowelled
by the peasant’s spade, suits them as well as does the caterpillar.
They like any sort of meat, excepting fish-meat. One day the bill of
fare consisted of a Sardine. The guzzlers came trotting up, took a few
mouthfuls and then withdrew without touching it again. It was too much
of a novelty for them.
I must not forget to mention that the cage is provided with a
drinking-trough, that is to say, a saucer full of water. The Gold
Beetles often come and drink at it after their meals. Parched after
their heating diet and, moreover, daubed all over with slime after
cutting up a Snail, they quench their thirst at the saucer, rinse their
mouths and bathe their tarsi, which are shod in sticky boots heavy with
sand. After this ablution, they make for their shelter under the bit of
board and quietly enjoy a long siesta.