THE PSYCHES
I
A WELL-DRESSED CATERPILLAR
In the springtime, those who have eyes to see may find a surprise on
old walls and dusty roads. Certain tiny faggots, for no apparent
reason, set themselves in motion and make their way along by sudden
jerks. The lifeless comes to life: the immovable moves. This is indeed
amazing. If we look closer, however, we shall solve the riddle.
Enclosed within the moving bundle is a fair-sized Caterpillar, prettily
striped with black and white. He is seeking for food, and perhaps for
some spot where he can turn into a Moth. He hurries along timidly,
dressed in a queer garment of twigs, which completely covers the whole
of him except his head and the front part of his body, with its six
short legs. At the least alarm he disappears entirely into his case,
and does not budge again. This is the secret of the walking bundle of
sticks. It is a Faggot Caterpillar, belonging to the group known as the
Psyches.
To protect himself from the weather the chilly, bare-skinned Psyche
builds himself a portable shelter, a travelling cottage which the owner
never leaves until he becomes a Moth. It is, indeed, something better
than a hut on wheels, with a thatched roof to it: it is more like a
hermit’s frock, made of an unusual kind of material. In the valley of
the Danube the peasant wears a goatskin cloak fastened with a belt of
rushes. The Psyche wears even rougher raiment than this: he makes
himself a suit of clothes out of sticks. And since this would be a
regular hair-shirt to a skin so delicate as his, he puts in a thick
lining of silk.
In April, on the walls of my chief workshop—my stony harmas with its
wealth of insect life—I find the Psyche who will supply me with my most
detailed information. He is in the torpid state which shows he will
soon become a Moth. It is a good opportunity for examining his bundle
of sticks, or case.
It is a fairly regular object, shaped like a spindle, and about an inch
and a half long. The pieces that compose it are fixed in front and free
at the back. They are arranged anyhow, and would form rather a poor
shelter against the sun and rain if the hermit had no other protection
than this.
At the first glance it appears like thatch; but thatch is not an exact
description of it, for grain-stems are rarely found in it. The chief
materials are remnants of very small stalks, light, soft, and rich in
pith; next in order come bits of grass-leaves, scaly twigs from the
cypress-tree, and all sorts of little sticks; and lastly, if the
favourite pieces run short, fragments of dry leaves.
In short the Caterpillar, while preferring pithy pieces, will use
anything he comes across, provided it be light, very dry, softened by
long exposure, and of the right size. All his materials are used just
as they are, without any alterations or sawings to make them the proper
length. He does not cut the laths that form his roof; he gathers them
as he finds them. His work is limited to fixing them at the fore-end.
In order to lend itself to the movements of the travelling Caterpillar,
and particularly to enable the head and legs to move freely while a new
piece is being fixed in position, the front part of this case or sheath
must be made in a special way. Here a casing of sticks is no longer
suitable, for their length and stiffness would hamper the workman and
even make his work impossible. What is required here is a flexible
neck, able to move in all directions. The collection of stakes,
therefore, ends suddenly at some distance from the fore-part, and is
there replaced by a collar where the silk lining is merely hardened
with very tiny particles of wood, which strengthen the material without
making it less flexible. This collar, which allows of free movement, is
so important that all the Psyches use it, however greatly the rest of
their work may differ. All carry, in front of the bundle of sticks, a
yielding neck, soft to the touch, formed inside of a web of pure silk
and coated outside with a velvety sawdust, which the Caterpillar
obtains by crushing up any sort of dry straw.
The same kind of velvet, but dull and faded—apparently through
age—finishes the sheath at the back, in the form of a rather long
projection, open at the end.
When I remove the outside of the straw casing, shredding it piece by
piece, I find a varying number of laths, or tiny sticks. I have counted
as many as eighty, and more. Underneath it I find, from one end of the
Caterpillar to the other, the same kind of inner sheath that was
formerly visible at the front and back only. This inner sheath is
composed everywhere of very strong silk, which resists without breaking
when pulled by the fingers. It is a smooth tissue, beautifully white
inside, drab and wrinkled outside, where it bristles with a crust of
woody particles.
Later on we shall see how the Caterpillar makes himself this
complicated garment, formed of three layers, one placed upon the other
in a definite order. First comes the extremely fine satin which is in
direct contact with the skin; next, the mixed stuff dusted with woody
matter, which saves the silk and gives strength to the work; and lastly
the outer casing of overlapping sticks.
Although all the Psyches wear this threefold garment, the different
species make distinct variations in the outer case. There is one kind,
for instance, whom I am apt to meet towards the end of June, hurrying
across some dusty path near the houses. His case surpasses that of the
first species, both in size and in regularity of arrangement. It forms
a thick coverlet of many pieces, in which I recognise fragments of
hollow stalks, bits of fine straw, and perhaps blades of grass. In
front there is never any flounce of dead leaves, a troublesome piece of
finery which is pretty frequent, though not always used, in the costume
of the first species I described. At the back there is no long
projection beyond the outer covering. Save for the indispensable collar
at the neck, the whole Caterpillar is cased in sticks. There is not
much variety about the thing, but, when all is said, there is a certain
beauty in its stern faultlessness.
There is a smaller and more simply dressed Psyche who is very common at
the end of winter on the walls, as well as in the bark of gnarled old
trees, whether olive-trees or elms, or indeed almost any other. His
case, a modest little bundle, is hardly more than two-fifths of an inch
in length. A dozen rotten straws, picked up at random and fixed close
to one another in a parallel direction, represent, with the silk
sheath, his whole outlay on dress.
It would be difficult to clothe oneself more economically.
II
A DEVOTED MOTHER
If I gather a number of little Psyches in April and place them in a
wire bell-jar, I can find out more about them. Most of them are in the
chrysalis state, waiting to be turned into Moths, but a few are still
active and clamber to the top of the wire trellis. There they fix
themselves by means of a little silk cushion, and both they and I must
wait for weeks before anything further happens.
At the end of June the male Psyche comes out of his case, no longer a
Caterpillar, but a Moth. The case, or bundle of sticks, you will
remember, had two openings, one in front and one at the back. The front
one, which is the more regular and carefully made, is permanently
closed by being fastened to the support on which the chrysalis is
fixed; so the Moth, when he is hatched, is obliged to come out by the
opening at the back. The Caterpillar turns round inside the case before
he changes into a Moth.
Though they wear but a simple pearl-grey dress and have insignificant
wings, hardly larger than those of a Common Fly, these little male
Moths are graceful enough. They have handsome feathery plumes for
antennæ, and their wings are edged with delicate fringes. For the
appearance of the female Psyche, however, little can be said.
Some days later than the others she comes out of the sheath, and shows
herself in all her wretchedness. Call that little fright a Moth! One
cannot easily get used to the idea of so miserable a sight: as a
Caterpillar she was no worse to look at. There are no wings, none at
all; there is no silky fur either. At the tip of her round, tufty body
she wears a crown of dirty-white velvet; on each segment, in the middle
of the back, is a large, rectangular, dark patch—her sole attempts at
ornament. The mother Psyche renounces all the beauty which her name of
Moth seems to promise.
As she leaves her chrysalid sheath she lays her eggs within it, thus
bequeathing the maternal cottage (or the maternal garment, if you will)
to her heirs. As she lays a great many eggs the affair takes some
thirty hours. When the laying is finished she closes the door and makes
everything safe against invasion. For this purpose some kind of wadding
is required. The fond mother makes use of the only ornament which, in
her extreme poverty, she possesses. She wedges the door with the
coronet of velvet which she carries at the tip of her body.
Finally she does even more than this. She makes a rampart of her body
itself. With a convulsive movement she dies on the threshold of her
recent home, her cast chrysalid skin, and there her remains dry up.
Even after death she stays at her post.
If the outer case be now opened it will be found to contain the
chrysalid wrapper, uninjured except for the opening in front, by which
the Psyche came out. The male Moth, when obliged to make his way
through the narrow pass, would find his wings and his plumes very
cumbersome articles. For this reason he makes a start for the door
while he is still in the chrysalis state, and comes half-way out. Then,
as he bursts his amber-coloured tunic, he finds, right in front of him,
an open space where flight is possible.
But the mother Moth, being unprovided with wings and plumes, is not
compelled to take any such precautions. Her cylinder-like form is bare,
and differs very little from that of the Caterpillar. It allows her to
crawl, to slip into the narrow passage, and to come forth without
difficulty. So she leaves her cast skin behind her, right at the back
of the case, well covered by the thatched roof.
And this is an act of prudence, showing her deep concern for the fate
of her eggs. They are, in fact, packed as though in a barrel, in the
parchment-like bag formed by the cast skin. The Moth has methodically
gone on laying eggs in that receptacle till it is full. Not satisfied
with bequeathing her house and her velvet coronet to her offspring, as
the last act of her life she leaves them her skin.
Wishing to observe the course of events at my ease I once took one of
these chrysalid bags, stuffed with eggs, from its outer casing of
sticks, and placed it by itself, beside its case, in a glass tube. In
the first week of July I suddenly found myself in possession of a large
family. The hatching took place so quickly that the new-born
Caterpillars, about forty in number, had already clothed themselves in
my absence.
They wore a garment like a sort of Persian head-dress, in dazzling
white plush. Or, to be more commonplace, a white cotton night-cap
without a tassel. Strange to say, however, instead of wearing their
caps on their heads, they wore them standing up from their
hind-quarters, almost perpendicularly. They roamed about gaily inside
the tube, which was a spacious dwelling for such mites. I was quite
determined to find out with what materials and in what manner the first
outlines of the cap were woven.
Fortunately the chrysalid bag was far from being empty. I found within
the rumpled wrapper a second family as numerous as those already out of
the case. Altogether there must have been five or six dozen eggs. I
transferred to another place the little Caterpillars who were already
dressed, keeping only the naked new-comers in the tube. They had bright
red heads; the rest of their bodies was dirty-white; and they measured
hardly a twenty-fifth of an inch in length.
I had not long to wait. The next day, little by little, singly or in
groups, the little laggards left the chrysalid bag. They came out
without breaking that frail object, through the opening in front made
by their mother. Not one of them used it as a dress-material, though it
had the delicacy and amber colouring of an onion-skin; nor did any of
them make use of a certain fine quilting that lines the inside of the
bag and forms an exquisitely soft bed for the eggs. One would have
thought this downy stuff would make an excellent blanket for the chilly
creatures, but not a single one used it. There would not be enough to
go round.
They all went straight to the coarse outer casing of sticks, which I
had left in contact with the chrysalid skin containing the eggs. The
matter was urgent, they evidently felt. Before making your entrance
into the world and going a-hunting, you must first be clad. All
therefore, with equal fury, attacked the old sheath and hastily dressed
themselves in their mother’s old clothes.
Some turned their attention to bits that happened to be opened
lengthwise, scraping the soft white inner layer; others, greatly
daring, penetrated into the tunnel of a hollow stalk and collected
their materials in the dark. The courage of these was rewarded; they
secured first-rate materials and wove garments of dazzling white. There
were others who bit deeply into the piece they chose, and made
themselves a motley covering, in which the snowy whiteness was marred
by darker particles.
The tools the little Caterpillars use for this purpose are their
mandibles, which are shaped like wide shears and have five strong teeth
apiece. The two blades fit into each other, and form an instrument
capable of seizing and slicing any fibre, however small. Under the
microscope it is seen to be a wonderful specimen of mechanical
precision and power. If the Sheep had a similar tool in proportion to
her size, she could browse on the stems of trees instead of the grass.
It is very instructive to watch these Psyche-grubs toiling to make
themselves a cotton night-cap. There are numbers of things to remark,
both in the finish of the work and the skill of the methods they
employ. They are so tiny that while I observe them through my
magnifying glass I must be careful not to breathe, lest I should
overturn them or puff them away. Yet this speck is expert in the art of
blanket-making. An orphan, born but a moment ago, it knows how to cut
itself a garment out of its mother’s old clothes. Of its methods I will
tell you more presently, but first I must say another word with regard
to its dead mother.
I have spoken of the downy quilting that covers the inside of the
chrysalid bag. It is like a bed of eiderdown, on which the little
Caterpillars rest for a while after leaving the egg. Warmly nestling in
this soft rug they prepare themselves for their plunge into the outer
world of work.
The Eider robs herself of her down to make a luxurious bed for her
brood; the mother Rabbit shears from her own body the softest part of
her fur to provide a mattress for her new-born family. And the same
thing is done by the Psyche.
The mass of soft wadding that makes a warm coverlet for the baby
Caterpillar is a material of incomparable delicacy. Through the
microscope it can be recognised as the scaly dust, the intensely fine
down in which every Moth is clad. To give a snug shelter to the little
grubs who will soon be swarming in the case, to provide them with a
refuge in which they can play about and gather strength before entering
the wide world, the Psyche strips herself of her fur like the mother
Rabbit.
This may possibly be done mechanically; it may be the unintentional
effect of rubbing repeatedly against the low-roofed walls; but there is
nothing to tell us so. Even the humblest mother has her foresight. It
is quite likely that the hairy Moth twists about, and goes to and fro
in the narrow passage, in order to get rid of her fleece and prepare
bedding for her family.
I have read in books that the young Psyches begin life by eating up
their mother. I have seen nothing of the sort, and I do not even
understand how the idea arose. Indeed, she has given up so much for her
family that there is nothing left of her but some thin, dry strips—not
enough to provide a meal for so numerous a brood. No, my little
Psyches, you do not eat your mother. In vain do I watch you: never,
either to clothe or to feed himself, does any one of you lay a tooth
upon the remains of the deceased.
III
A CLEVER TAILOR
I will now describe in greater detail the dressing of the grubs.
The hatching of the eggs takes place in the first fortnight of July.
The head and upper part of the little grubs are of a glossy black, the
next two segments are brownish, and the rest of the body is a pale
amber. They are sharp, lively little creatures, who run about with
short, quick steps.
For a time, after they are out of the bag where they are hatched, they
remain in the heap of fluff that was stripped from their mother. Here
there is more room, and more comfort too, than in the bag whence they
came; and while some take a rest, others bustle about and exercise
themselves in walking. They are all picking up strength before leaving
the outer case.
They do not stay long amid this luxury. Gradually, as they gain vigour,
they come out and spread over the surface of the case. Work begins at
once, a very urgent work—that of dressing themselves. By and by they
will think of food: at present nothing is of any importance but
clothes.
Montaigne, when putting on a cloak which his father had worn before
him, used to say, “I dress myself in my father.” Well, the young
Psyches in the same way dress themselves in their mother. (In the same
way, it must be remembered; not in her skin, but in her clothes.) From
the outer case of sticks, which I have sometimes described as a house
and sometimes as a garment, they scrape the material to make themselves
a frock. The stuff they use is the pith of the little stalks,
especially of the pieces that are split lengthwise, because the
contents are more easily taken from these.
The manner of beginning the garment is worth noting. The tiny creature
employs a method as ingenious as any that we could hope to discover.
The wadding is collected in pellets of infinitesimal size. How are
these little pellets to be fixed and joined together? The manufacturer
needs a support, a base; and this support cannot be obtained on the
Caterpillar’s own body. The difficulty is overcome very cleverly. The
pellets are gathered together, and by degrees fastened to one another
with threads of silk—for the Caterpillar, as you know, can spin silk
from his own body as the Spider spins her web. In this way a sort of
garland is formed, with the pellets or particles swinging in a row from
the same rope. When it is long enough this garland is passed round the
waist of the little creature, in such a way as to leave its six legs
free. Then it ties the ends together with a bit of silk, so that it
forms a girdle round the grub’s body.
This girdle is the starting-point and support of the whole work. To
lengthen it, and enlarge it into a complete garment, the grub has only
to fix to it the scraps of pith which the mandibles never cease tearing
from the case. These scraps or pellets are sometimes placed at the top,
sometimes at the bottom or side, but they are always fixed at the
fore-edge. No device could be better contrived than this garland, first
laid out flat and then buckled like a belt round the body.
Once this start is made the weaving goes on well. Gradually the girdle
grows into a scarf, a waistcoat, a short jacket, and lastly a sack, and
in a few hours it is complete—a conical hood or cloak of magnificent
whiteness.
Thanks to his mother’s care the little grub is spared the perils of
roaming about in a state of nakedness. If she did not place her family
in her old case they might have great difficulty in clothing
themselves, for straws and stalks rich in pith are not found
everywhere. And yet, unless they died of exposure, it appears that
sooner or later they would find some kind of garment, since they seem
ready to use any material that comes to hand. I have made many
experiments with new-born grubs in a glass tube.
From the stalks of a sort of dandelion they scraped, without the least
hesitation, a superb white pith, and made it into a delicious white
cloak, much finer than any they would have obtained from the remains of
their mother’s clothes. An even better garment was woven from some pith
taken from the kitchen-broom. This time the work glittered with little
sparks, like specks of crystal or grains of sugar. It was my
manufacturers’ masterpiece.
The next material I offered them was a piece of blotting-paper. Here
again my grubs did not hesitate: they lustily scraped the surface and
made themselves a paper coat. Indeed, they were so much pleased with
this that when I gave them their native case they scorned it,
preferring the blotting-paper.
To others I gave nothing at all. Not to be baffled, however, they
hastened to scrape the cork of the tube and break it into atoms. Out of
these they made themselves a frock of cork-grains, as faultless as
though they and their ancestors had always made use of this material.
The novelty of the stuff, which perhaps no Caterpillar had ever used
before, made no difference in the cut of the garment.
Finding them ready to accept any vegetable matter that was dry and
light, I next tried them with animal and mineral substances. I cut a
strip from the wing of a Great Peacock Moth, and placed two little
naked Caterpillars upon it. For a long time they both hesitated. Then
one of them resolved to use the strange carpet. Before the day was over
he had clothed himself in grey velvet made of the Great Peacock’s
scales.
I next took some soft, flaky stones, such as will break at the merest
touch into atoms nearly as fine as the dust on a Butterfly’s wing. On a
bed of this powdery stuff, which glittered like steel filings, I placed
four Caterpillars in need of clothes. One, and one alone, decided to
dress himself. His metallic garment, from which the light drew flashes
of every colour of the rainbow, was very rich and sumptuous, but
mightily heavy and cumbrous. Walking became laborious under that load
of metal. Even so must a Byzantine Emperor have walked at ceremonies of
State.
In cases of necessity, then, the young Caterpillar does not shrink from
acts of sheer madness. So urgent is his need to clothe himself that he
will weave mineral matter rather than go naked. Food means less to him
than clothes. If I make him fast for a couple of days, and then, having
robbed him of his garment, place him on his favourite food, a leaf of
very hairy hawkweed, he will make himself a new coat before satisfying
his hunger.
This devotion to dress is due, not to any special sensitiveness to
cold, but to the young Caterpillar’s foresight. Other Caterpillars take
shelter among the leaves, in underground cells, or in the cracked bark
of trees, but the Psyche spends his winter exposed to the weather. He
therefore prepares himself, from his birth, for the perils of the cold
season.
As soon as he is threatened with the rains of autumn he begins to work
upon his outer case. It is very rough at first. Straws of uneven length
and bits of dry leaves are fastened, with no attempt at order, behind
the neck of the sack or undergarment, which must remain flexible so as
to allow the Caterpillar to bend freely in every direction. These
untidy first logs of the outer case will not interfere with the final
regularity of the building: they will be pushed back and driven out as
the sack grows longer in front.
After a time the pieces are longer and more carefully chosen, and are
all laid on lengthwise. The placing of a straw is done with surprising
speed and skill. The Caterpillar turns it round and round between his
legs, and then, gripping it in his mandibles, removes a few morsels
from one end, and immediately fixes them to the end of the sack. He
probably does this in order that the silk may obtain a firmer hold, as
a plumber gives a touch of the file to a point that is to be soldered.
Then, by sheer strength of jaw, he lifts and brandishes his straw in
the air before laying it on his back. At once the spinneret sets to
work and fixes it in place. Without any groping about or correcting,
the thing is done. By the time the cold weather arrives the warm case
is complete.
But the silky felt of the interior is never thick enough to please the
Caterpillar. When spring comes he spends all his spare time in
improving his quilt, in making it ever thicker and softer. Even if I
take off his outer case he refuses to rebuild it: he persists in adding
new layers to the lining, even when there is nothing to be lined. The
sack is lamentably flabby; it sags and rumples. He has no protection
nor shelter. No matter. The hour for carpentry has passed. The hour has
come for upholstering; and he upholsters obstinately, padding a
house—or lining a garment—that no longer exists. He will perish
miserably, cut up by the Ants, as the result of his too-rigid instinct.