THE SISYPHUS
You are not tired, I hope, of hearing about the Scavenger Beetles with
a talent for making balls. I have told you of the Sacred Beetle and of
the Spanish Copris, and now I wish to say a few words of yet another of
these creatures. In the insect world we meet with a great many model
mothers: it is only fair, for once to draw attention to a good father.
Now a good father is rarely seen except among the higher animals. The
bird is excellent in this respect, and the furred folk perform their
duties honourably. Lower in the scale of living creatures the father is
generally indifferent to his family. Very few insects are exceptions to
this rule. This heartlessness, which would be detestable in the higher
ranks of the animal kingdom, where the weakness of the young demands
prolonged care, is excusable among insect fathers. For the robustness
of the new-born insect enables it to gather its food unaided, provided
it be in a suitable place. When all that the Pieris need do for the
safety of the race is to lay her eggs on the leaves of a cabbage, of
what use would a father’s care be? The mother’s botanical instinct
needs no assistance. At laying-time the other parent would be in the
way.
Most insects adopt this simple method of upbringing. They merely choose
a dining-room which will be the home of the family once it is hatched,
or else a place that will allow the young ones to find suitable fare
for themselves. There is no need for the father in such cases. He
generally dies without lending the least assistance in the work of
setting up his offspring in life.
Things do not always happen, however, in quite such a primitive
fashion. There are tribes that provide a dowry for their families, that
prepare board and lodging for them in advance. The Bees and Wasps in
particular are masters in the industry of making cellars, jars, and
satchels, in which the ration of honey is hoarded: they are perfect in
the art of creating burrows stocked with the game that forms the food
of their grubs.
Well, this enormous labour, which is one of building and provisioning
combined, this toil in which the insect’s whole life is spent, is done
by the mother alone. It wears her out; it utterly exhausts her. The
father drunk with sunlight, stands idle at the edge of the workyard,
watching his plucky helpmate at her job.
Why does he not lend the mother a helping hand? It is now or never. Why
does he not follow the example of the Swallow couple, both of whom
bring their bit of straw, their blob of mortar to the building and
their Midge to the young ones? He does nothing of the kind. Possibly he
puts forward his comparative weakness as an excuse. It is a poor
argument; for to cut a disk out of a leaf, to scrape some cotton from a
downy plant, to collect a little bit of cement in muddy places would
not overtax his strength. He could very easily help, at any rate as a
labourer; he is quite fit to gather materials for the mother, with her
greater intelligence, to fit in place. The real reason of his
inactivity is sheer incapability.
It is strange that the most gifted of the industrial insects should
know nothing of a father’s duties. One would expect the highest talents
to be developed in him by the needs of the young; but he remains as
dull-witted as a Butterfly, whose family is reared at so small a cost.
We are baffled at every turn by the question: Why is a particular
instinct given to one insect and denied to another?
It baffles us so thoroughly that we are extremely surprised when we
find in the scavenger the noble qualities that are denied to the
honey-gatherer. Various Scavenger Beetles are accustomed to help in the
burden of housekeeping, and know the value of working in double
harness. The Geotrupes couple, for instance, prepare their larva’s food
together: the father lends his mate the assistance of his powerful
press in the manufacture of the tightly packed sausage-shaped ration.
He is a splendid example of domestic habits, and one extremely
surprising amid the general egoism.
To this example my constant studies of the subject have enabled me to
add three others, all furnished by the Guild of Scavengers.
One of them is the Sisyphus, the smallest and most zealous of all our
pill-rollers. He is the liveliest and most agile of them all, and recks
nothing of awkward somersaults and headlong falls on the impossible
roads to which his obstinacy brings him back again and again. It was in
reference to these wild gymnastics that Latreille gave him the name of
Sisyphus.
As you know, that unhappy wretch of classical fame had a terrible task.
He was forced to roll a huge stone uphill; and each time he succeeded
in toiling to the top of the mountain the stone slipped from his grasp
and rolled to the bottom. I like this myth. It is the history of a good
many of us. So far as I am concerned, for half a century and more I
have painfully climbed the steep ascent, spending my strength
recklessly in the struggle to hoist up to safety that crushing burden,
my daily bread. Hardly is the loaf balanced when it slips off, slides
down, and is lost in the abyss.
The Sisyphus with whom we are now concerned knows none of these bitter
trials. Untroubled by the steep slopes he gaily trundles his load, at
one time bread for himself, at another bread for his children. He is
very scarce in these parts; and I should never have managed to secure a
suitable number of subjects for my studies had it not been for an
assistant whom I have already mentioned more than once.
I speak of my little son Paul, aged seven. He is my enthusiastic
companion on my hunting expeditions, and knows better than any one of
his age the secrets of the Cicada, the Locust, the Cricket, and
especially the Scavenger Beetle. Twenty paces away his sharp eyes will
distinguish the real mound that marks a burrow from casual heaps of
earth. His delicate ears catch the Grasshopper’s faint song, which is
quite unheard by me. He lends me his sight and hearing; and I, in
exchange, present him with ideas, which he receives attentively.
Little Paul has his own insect-cages, in which the Sacred Beetle makes
pears for him; his own little garden, no larger than a
pocket-handkerchief, where he grows beans, often digging them up to see
if the tiny roots are any longer; his forest plantation, in which stand
four oaks a hand’s-breadth high, still furnished on one side with the
acorn that feeds them. It all makes a welcome change from grammar,
which gets on none the worse for it.
When the month of May is near at hand Paul and I get up early one
morning—so early that we start without our breakfast—and we explore, at
the foot of the mountain, the meadows where the flocks have been. Here
we find the Sisyphus. Paul is so zealous in his search that we soon
have a sufficient number of couples.
All that is needed for their well-being is a wire-gauze cover, with a
bed of sand and a supply of their food—to obtain which we too turn
scavengers. These creatures are so small, hardly the size of a
cherry-stone! And so curious in shape withal! A dumpy body, the hinder
end of which is pointed, and very long legs, resembling a Spider’s when
outspread. The hind-legs are of amazing length, and are curved, which
is most useful for clasping and squeezing the pellet.
Soon the time comes for establishing the family. With equal zeal father
and mother alike take part in kneading, carting, and stowing away the
provisions for the young ones. With the cleaver of the fore-legs a
morsel of the right size is cut from the food placed at their disposal.
The two insects work at the piece together, giving it little pats,
pressing it, and shaping it into a ball as large as a big pea.
As in the Sacred Beetle’s workshop, the accurately round shape is
obtained without the mechanical trick of rolling the ball. The material
is modelled into a sphere before it is moved, before it is even
loosened from its support. Here, once more, we have an expert in
geometry familiar with the best form for preserving food.
The ball is soon ready. It must now, by vigorous rolling, be given the
crust which will protect the soft stuff within from becoming too dry.
The mother, who can be recognised by her slightly larger size,
harnesses herself in the place of honour, in front. With her long
hind-legs on the ground and her fore-legs on the ball, she hauls it
towards her, backwards. The father pushes behind in the reverse
position, head downwards. It is precisely the same method as that of
the Sacred Beetle when working in twos, but it has another object. The
Sisyphus team conveys a store of food for the grubs, whereas the big
pill-rollers trundle a banquet which they themselves will eat up
underground.
The couple start off along the ground. They have no definite goal, but
walk in a direct line, without regard to the obstacles that lie in the
way. In this backward march the obstacles could not be avoided; but
even if they were seen the Sisyphus would not try to go round them. For
she even makes obstinate attempts to climb the wire-work of my cage.
This is an arduous and impossible task. Clawing the meshes of the gauze
with her hind-legs the mother pulls the load towards her; then, putting
her fore-legs round it, she holds it suspended in air. The father,
finding nothing to stand upon, clings to the ball—encrusts himself in
it, so to speak, thus adding his weight to that of the lump, and taking
no further pains. The effort is too great to last. The ball and its
rider, forming one mass, fall to the floor. The mother, from above,
looks down for a moment in surprise, and then drops to recover the load
and renew her impossible attempt to scale the side. After repeated
falls the climb is abandoned.
Even on level ground the carting is not carried on without difficulty.
At every moment the load swerves on some mound made by a bit of gravel;
and the team topple over and kick about, upside down. This is a trifle,
the merest trifle. These tumbles, which so often fling the Sisyphus on
his back, cause him no concern; one would even think he liked them.
After all, the ball has to be hardened and made of the right
consistency. And this being the case, bumps falls, and jolts are all
part of the programme. This mad steeple-chasing goes on for hours.
At last the mother, regarding the work as completed, goes off a little
way in search of a suitable spot. The father mounts guard, squatting on
the treasure. If his companion’s absence be unduly long, he relieves
his boredom by spinning the ball nimbly between his uplifted hind legs.
He treats his precious pellet as a juggler treats his ball. He tests
its perfect shape with his curved legs, the branches of his compasses.
No one who sees him frisking in that jubilant attitude can doubt his
lively satisfaction—the satisfaction of a father assured of his
children’s future.
“It is I,” he seems to say, “I who kneaded this round loaf, I who made
this bread for my sons!”
And he lifts on high, for all to see, this magnificent testimony to his
industry.
Meanwhile the mother has chosen a site for the burrow. A shallow pit is
made, a mere beginning of the work. The ball is rolled near it. The
father, that vigilant guardian, does not let go, while the mother digs
with her legs and forehead. Soon the hollow is big enough to hold the
pellet. She insists on having it quite close to her; she must feel it
bobbing up and down behind her, on her back, safe from parasites,
before she decides to go farther. She is afraid of what might happen to
it if it were left on the edge of the burrow until the home were
completed. There are plenty of Midges and other such insects to grab
it. One cannot be too careful.
The ball therefore is inserted, half in and half out of the
partly-formed basin. The mother, underneath, gets her legs round it and
pulls: the father above, lets it down gently, and sees that the hole is
not choked up with falling earth. All goes well. The digging is resumed
and the descent continues, always with the same caution; one of the
insects pulling the load, the other regulating the drop and clearing
away anything that might hinder the operation. A few more efforts, and
the ball disappears underground with the two miners. What follows for
some time to come can only be a repetition of what has already been
done. We must wait half a day or so.
If we keep careful watch we shall see the father come up again to the
surface by himself, and crouch in the sand near the burrow. Detained
below by duties in which her companion can be of no assistance to her,
the mother usually postpones her appearance till the morrow. At last
she shows herself. The father leaves the place where he was snoozing,
and joins her. The reunited couple go back to the spot where their
food-stuffs are to be found, and having refreshed themselves they
gather up more materials. The two then set to work again. Once more
they model, cart, and store the ball together.
I am delighted with this constancy. That it is really the rule I dare
not declare. There must, no doubt, be flighty, fickle Beetles. No
matter: the little I have seen gives me a high opinion of the domestic
habits of the Sisyphus.
It is time to inspect the burrow. At no great depth we find a tiny
niche, just large enough to allow the mother to move round her work.
The smallness of the chamber tells us that the father cannot remain
there for long. When the studio is ready, he must go away to leave the
sculptress room to turn.
The contents of the cellar consist of a single ball, a masterpiece of
art. It is a copy of the Sacred Beetle’s pear on a very much reduced
scale, its smallness making the polish of the surface and the elegance
of the curves all the more striking. Its diameter, at the broadest
point, measures one-half to three-quarters of an inch.
One more observation about the Sisyphus. Six couples under the
wire-gauze cover gave me fifty-seven pears containing one egg each—an
average of over nine grubs to each couple. The Sacred Beetle is far
from reaching this figure. To what cause are we to attribute this large
brood? I can see but one: the fact that the father works as well as the
mother. Family burdens that would exceed the strength of one are not
too heavy when there are two to bear them.