THE SACRED BEETLE
I
THE BALL
It is six or seven thousand years since the Sacred Beetle was first
talked about. The peasant of ancient Egypt, as he watered his patch of
onions in the spring, would see from time to time a fat black insect
pass close by, hurriedly trundling a ball backwards. He would watch the
queer rolling thing in amazement, as the peasant of Provence watches it
to this day.
The early Egyptians fancied that this ball was a symbol of the earth,
and that all the Scarab’s actions were prompted by the movements of the
heavenly bodies. So much knowledge of astronomy in a Beetle seemed to
them almost divine, and that is why he is called the Sacred Beetle.
They also thought that the ball he rolled on the ground contained the
egg, and that the young Beetle came out of it. But as a matter of fact,
it is simply his store of food.
It is not at all nice food. For the work of this Beetle is to scour the
filth from the surface of the soil. The ball he rolls so carefully is
made of his sweepings from the roads and fields.
This is how he sets about it. The edge of his broad, flat head is
notched with six teeth arranged in a semi-circle, like a sort of curved
rake; and this he uses for digging and cutting up, for throwing aside
the stuff he does not want, and scraping together the food he chooses.
His bow-shaped fore-legs are also useful tools, for they are very
strong, and they too have five teeth on the outside. So if a vigorous
effort be needed to remove some obstacle the Scarab makes use of his
elbows, that is to say he flings his toothed legs to right and left,
and clears a space with an energetic sweep. Then he collects armfuls of
the stuff he has raked together, and pushes it beneath him, between the
four hinder-legs. These are long and slender, especially the last pair,
slightly bowed and finished with a sharp claw. The Beetle then presses
the stuff against his body with his hind-legs, curving it and spinning
it round and round till it forms a perfect ball. In a moment a tiny
pellet grows to the size of a walnut, and soon to that of an apple. I
have seen some gluttons manufacture a ball as big as a man’s fist.
When the ball of provisions is ready it must be moved to a suitable
place. The Beetle begins the journey. He clasps the ball with his long
hind-legs and walks with his fore-legs, moving backwards with his head
down and his hind-quarters in the air. He pushes his load behind him by
alternate thrusts to right and left. One would expect him to choose a
level road, or at least a gentle incline. Not at all! Let him find
himself near some steep slope, impossible to climb, and that is the
very path the obstinate creature will attempt. The ball, that enormous
burden, is painfully hoisted step by step, with infinite precautions,
to a certain height, always backwards. Then by some rash movement all
this toil is wasted: the ball rolls down, dragging the Beetle with it.
Once more the heights are climbed, and another fall is the result.
Again and again the insect begins the ascent. The merest trifle ruins
everything; a grass-root may trip him up or a smooth bit of gravel make
him slip, and down come ball and Beetle, all mixed up together. Ten or
twenty times he will start afresh, till at last he is successful, or
else sees the hopelessness of his efforts and resigns himself to taking
the level road.
Sometimes the Scarab seems to enter into partnership with a friend.
This is the way in which it usually happens. When the Beetle’s ball is
ready he leaves the crowd of workers, pushing his prize backwards. A
neighbour, whose own task is hardly begun, suddenly drops his work and
runs to the moving ball, to lend a hand to the owner. His aid seems to
be accepted willingly. But the new-comer is not really a partner: he is
a robber. To make one’s own ball needs hard work and patience; to steal
one ready-made, or to invite oneself to a neighbour’s dinner, is much
easier. Some thieving Beetles go to work craftily, others use violence.
Sometimes a thief comes flying up, knocks over the owner of the ball,
and perches himself on top of it. With his fore-legs crossed over his
breast, ready to hit out, he awaits events. If the owner raises himself
to seize his ball the robber gives him a blow that stretches him on his
back. Then the owner gets up and shakes the ball till it begins
rolling, and perhaps the thief falls off. A wrestling-match follows.
The two Beetles grapple with one another: their legs lock and unlock,
their joints intertwine, their horny armour clashes and grates with the
rasping sound of metal under a file. The one who is successful climbs
to the top of the ball, and after two or three attempts to dislodge him
the defeated Scarab goes off to make himself a new pellet. I have
sometimes seen a third Beetle appear, and rob the robber.
But sometimes the thief bides his time and trusts to cunning. He
pretends to help the victim to roll the food along, over sandy plains
thick with thyme, over cart-ruts and steep places, but he really does
very little of the work, preferring to sit on the ball and do nothing.
When a suitable place for a burrow is reached the rightful owner begins
to dig with his sharp-edged forehead and toothed legs, flinging armfuls
of sand behind him, while the thief clings to the ball, shamming dead.
The cave grows deeper and deeper, and the working Scarab disappears
from view. Whenever he comes to the surface he glances at the ball, on
which the other lies, demure and motionless, inspiring confidence. But
as the absences of the owner become longer the thief seizes his chance,
and hurriedly makes off with the ball, which he pushes behind him with
the speed of a pickpocket afraid of being caught. If the owner catches
him, as sometimes happens, he quickly changes his position, and seems
to plead as an excuse that the pellet rolled down the slope, and he was
only trying to stop it! And the two bring the ball back as though
nothing had happened.
If the thief has managed to get safely away, however, the owner can
only resign himself to his loss, which he does with admirable
fortitude. He rubs his cheeks, sniffs the air, flies off, and begins
his work all over again. I admire and envy his character.
At last his provisions are safely stored. His burrow is a shallow hole
about the size of a man’s fist, dug in soft earth or sand, with a short
passage to the surface, just wide enough to admit the ball. As soon as
his food is rolled into this burrow the Scarab shuts himself in by
stopping up the entrance with rubbish. The ball fills almost the whole
room: the banquet rises from floor to ceiling. Only a narrow passage
runs between it and the walls, and here sit the banqueters, two at
most, very often only one. Here the Sacred Beetle feasts day and night,
for a week or a fortnight at a time, without ceasing.
II
THE PEAR
As I have already said, the ancient Egyptians thought that the egg of
the Sacred Beetle was within the ball that I have been describing. I
have proved that it is not so. One day I discovered the truth about the
Scarab’s egg.
A young shepherd who helps me in his spare time came to me one Sunday
in June with a queer thing in his hand. It was exactly like a tiny pear
that had lost all its fresh colour and had turned brown in rotting. It
was firm to the touch and very graceful in shape, though the materials
of which it was formed seemed none too nicely chosen. The shepherd
assured me there was an egg inside it; for a similar pear, crushed by
accident in the digging, had contained a white egg the size of a grain
of wheat.
At daybreak the next morning the shepherd and I went out to investigate
the matter. We met among the browsing sheep, on some slopes that had
lately been cleared of trees.
A Sacred Beetle’s burrow is soon found: you can tell it by the fresh
little mound of earth above it. My companion dug vigorously into the
ground with my pocket trowel, while I lay down, the better to see what
was being unearthed. A cave opened out, and there I saw, lying in the
moist earth, a splendid pear upon the ground. I shall not soon forget
my first sight of the mother Beetle’s wonderful work. My excitement
could have been no greater had I, in digging among the relics of
ancient Egypt, found the sacred insect carved in emerald.
We went on with our search, and found a second hole. Here, by the side
of the pear and fondly embracing it, was the mother Beetle, engaged no
doubt in giving it the finishing touches before leaving the burrow for
good. There was no possible doubt that the pear was the nest of the
Scarab. In the course of the summer I found at least a hundred such
nests.
The pear, like the ball, is formed of refuse scraped up in the fields,
but the materials are less coarse, because they are intended for the
food of the grub. When it comes out of the egg it is incapable of
searching for its own meals, so the mother arranges that it shall find
itself surrounded by the food that suits it best. It can begin eating
at once, without further trouble.
The egg is laid in the narrow end of the pear. Every germ of life,
whether of plant or animal, needs air: even the shell of a bird’s egg
is riddled with an endless number of pores. If the germ of the Scarab
were in the thick part of the pear it would be smothered, because there
the materials are very closely packed, and are covered with a hard
rind. So the mother Beetle prepares a nice airy room with thin walls
for her little grub to live in, during its first moments. There is a
certain amount of air even in the very centre of the pear, but not
enough for a delicate baby-grub. By the time he has eaten his way to
the centre he is strong enough to manage with very little air.
There is, of course, a good reason for the hardness of the shell that
covers the big end of the pear. The Scarab’s burrow is extremely hot:
sometimes the temperature reaches boiling point. The provisions, even
though they have to last only three or four weeks, are liable to dry up
and become uneatable. When, instead of the soft food of its first meal,
the unhappy grub finds nothing to eat but horrible crusty stuff as hard
as a pebble, it is bound to die of hunger. I have found numbers of
these victims of the August sun. The poor things are baked in a sort of
closed oven. To lessen this danger the mother Beetle compresses the
outer layer of the pear—or nest—with all the strength of her stout,
flat fore-arms, to turn it into a protecting rind like the shell of a
nut. This helps to ward off the heat. In the hot summer months the
housewife puts her bread into a closed pan to keep it fresh. The insect
does the same in its own fashion: by dint of pressure it covers the
family bread with a pan.
I have watched the Sacred Beetle at work in her den, so I know how she
makes her pear-shaped nest.
With the building-materials she has collected she shuts herself up
underground so as to give her whole attention to the business in hand.
The materials may be obtained in two ways. As a rule, under natural
conditions, she kneads a ball in the usual way and rolls it to a
favourable spot. As it rolls along it hardens a little on the surface
and gathers a slight crust of earth and tiny grains of sand, which is
useful later on. Now and then, however, the Beetle finds a suitable
place for her burrow quite close to the spot where she collects her
building-materials, and in that case she simply bundles armfuls of
stuff into the hole. The result is most striking. One day I see a
shapeless lump disappear into the burrow. Next day, or the day after, I
visit the Beetle’s workshop and find the artist in front of her work.
The formless mass of scrapings has become a pear, perfect in outline
and exquisitely finished.
The part that rests on the floor of the burrow is crusted over with
particles of sand, while the rest is polished like glass. This shows
that the Beetle has not rolled the pear round and round, but has shaped
it where it lies. She has modelled it with little taps of her broad
feet, just as she models her ball in the daylight.
By making an artificial burrow for the mother Beetle in my own
workshop, with the help of a glass jar full of earth, and a peep-hole
through which I can observe operations, I have been able to see the
work in its various stages.
The Beetle first makes a complete ball. Then she starts the neck of the
pear by making a ring round the ball and applying pressure, till the
ring becomes a groove. In this way a blunt projection is pushed out at
one side of the ball. In the centre of this projection she employs
further pressure to form a sort of crater or hollow, with a swollen
rim; and gradually the hollow is made deeper and the swollen rim
thinner and thinner, till a sack is formed. In this sack, which is
polished and glazed inside, the egg is laid. The opening of the sack,
or extreme end of the pear, is then closed with a plug of stringy
fibres.
There is a reason for this rough plug—a most curious exception, when
nothing else has escaped the heavy blows of the insect’s leg. The end
of the egg rests against it, and, if the stopper were pressed down and
driven in, the infant grub might suffer. So the Beetle stops the hole
without ramming down the stopper.
III
THE GROWING-UP OF THE SCARAB
About a week or ten days after the laying of the egg, the grub is
hatched, and without delay begins to eat its house. It is a grub of
remarkable wisdom, for it always starts its meal with the thickest part
of the walls, and so avoids making a hole through which it might fall
out of the pear altogether. It soon becomes fat; and indeed it is an
ungainly creature at best, with an enormous hump on its back, and a
skin so transparent that if you hold it up to the light you can see its
internal organs. If the early Egyptian had chanced upon this plump
white grub he would never have suspected it to contain, in an
undeveloped state, the sober beauty of the Scarab!
When first it sheds its skin the insect that appears is not a
full-grown Scarab, though all the Scarab’s features can be recognised.
There are few insects so beautiful as this delicate creature with its
wing-cases living in front of it like a wide pleated scarf and its
fore-legs folded under its head. Half transparent and as yellow as
honey, it looks as though it were carved from a block of amber. For
four weeks it remains in this state, and then it too casts its skin.
Its colouring now is red-and-white,—so many times does the Sacred
Beetle change its garments before it finally appears black as ebony! As
it grows blacker it also grows harder, till it is covered with horny
armour and is a full-grown Beetle.
All this time he is underground, in the pear-shaped nest. Great is his
longing to burst the shell of his prison and come into the sunshine.
Whether he succeeds in doing so depends on circumstances.
It is generally August when he is ready for release, and August as a
rule is the driest and hottest month of the year. If therefore no rain
falls to soften the earth, the cell to be burst and the wall to be
broken defy the strength of the insect, which is helpless against all
that hardness. The soft material of the nest has become an impassable
rampart; it has turned into a sort of brick, baked in the kiln of
summer.
I have, of course, made experiments on insects that are ready to be
released. I lay the hard, dry shells in a box where they remain dry;
and sooner or later I hear a sharp, grating sound inside each cell. It
is the prisoner scraping the wall with the rakes on his forehead and
his fore-feet. Two or three days pass, and no progress seems to have
been made.
I try to help a couple of them by opening a loophole with my knife; but
these favoured ones make no more progress than the others.
In less than a fortnight silence reigns in all the shells. The
prisoners, worn out with their efforts, have all died.
Then I take some other shells, as hard as the first, wrap them in a wet
rag, and put them in a corked flask. When the moisture has soaked
through them I rid them of the wrapper, but keep them in the flask.
This time the experiment is a complete success. Softened by the wet the
shells are burst by the prisoner, who props himself boldly on his legs,
using his back as a lever, or else scrapes away at one point till the
walls crumble to pieces. In every case the Beetle is released.
In natural conditions, when the shells remain underground, the same
thing occurs. When the soil is burnt by the August sun it is impossible
for the insect to wear away his prison, which is hard as a brick. But
when a shower comes the shell recovers the softness of its early days:
the insect struggles with his legs and pushes with his back, and so
becomes free.
At first he shows no interest in food. What he wants above all is the
joy of the light. He sets himself in the sun, and there, motionless,
basks in the warmth.
Presently, however, he wishes to eat. With no one to teach him, he sets
to work, exactly like his elders, to make himself a ball of food. He
digs his burrow and stores it with provisions. Without ever learning
it, he knows his trade to perfection.