When the chemist has ripely considered his plan of research, he mixes
his reactives at whatever moment suits him best, and sets his retorts
on the fire. He is master of time, place, and circumstance, chooses his
own hour, isolates himself in his laboratory, where he will be
undisturbed, and brings about such or such conditions as reflexion may
suggest. He is searching out the secrets of brute nature, whose
chemical activities science can arouse at will.
The secrets of living nature—not those of anatomy, but those of life in
action, especially of instinct—offer conditions far more difficult and
delicate to the observer. Far from being able to take his own time, he
is the slave of season, day, or hour, even of the moment. If an
opportunity offer, it must be seized at once—it may be very long ere it
comes again. And as it usually comes just when one is thinking least
about it, nothing is ready whereby to turn it to account. One must
improvise there and then one’s little means of experiment, combine
one’s plan, devise one’s wiles, imagine one’s tactics, and feel only
too fortunate if inspiration come quickly enough to allow one to profit
by the chance offered. Moreover, such chances come only to one who
looks out for them, watches for days and days,—here on sandy slopes
exposed to the burning sun, there in the cauldron of some path enclosed
by high banks, or on some shelf of sandstone, the solidity of which is
not always such as to inspire confidence. If it be granted you to set
up your observatory under the scanty shade of an olive that you may
think will shelter you from a pitiless sun, then bless the fate which
is treating you like a sybarite; your lot is in Eden. Above all—keep a
sharp lookout. The spot is promising, and who knows? Any moment the
chance may come.
It has come! tardily, it is true, but it has come. Ah! could one but
observe now, in the peace of one’s study, isolated, absorbed, thinking
only of what one is studying, far from the profane passer-by who will
stop, seeing you so preoccupied where he sees nothing, will overwhelm
you with questions and take you for a diviner of springs with the magic
hazel wand, or worse, as a doubtful character, seeking by incantations
old pots full of money hidden underground. Even if you seem to him to
have the look of a Christian, he will come near, look at what you are
looking at, and smile in a fashion which leaves no possible doubt as to
his humble opinion of people who spend their time in watching flies.
You would only be too happy if this annoying visitor would depart,
laughing in his sleeve, but without disturbing everything and repeating
the disaster caused by the soles of my two conscripts.
Or if it is not the passer-by who is perplexed by your unaccountable
proceedings, it will be the garde-champêtre, that inexorable
representative of the law amid the fallow fields. Long has he had his
eye upon you. He has so often seen you wandering like a troubled ghost
for no reason that he can perceive; has so often caught you seeking
something in the ground, or knocking down some bit of wall in some
hollow way with infinite precaution that he begins to look on you as a
suspicious character, a vagabond, a gipsy, a tramp, or, at all events,
a maniac. If you have a botanical tin, to him it is the ferret-cage of
the poacher, and it will be impossible to convince him that you are not
destroying all the rabbits in the neighbouring warrens, regardless of
the laws of the chase and the rights of the owner. Beware! However
thirsty you may be, lay no finger on a cluster in the vineyard hard by;
the man of the municipal livery would be there, delighted to bear
witness and get at last an explanation of your exasperatingly
perplexing conduct.
I must do myself the justice to say that I have never committed such a
misdeed, and yet one day when I was lying on the sand, absorbed in the
domestic affairs of a Bembex, I heard beside me, “In the name of the
law, I summon you to follow me!” It was the garde-champêtre of Les
Angles, who having vainly watched for an opportunity of catching me in
some offence, and being daily more desirous of an answer to the riddle
which tormented him, had finally decided on a summons. An explanation
became necessary. The poor man did not appear in the least convinced.
“Bah! bah!” said he, “you’ll never get me to believe that you come and
roast yourself in the sun just to watch flies. I keep my eye on you,
you know, and the first time.... Well, that’s enough.” He departed. I
have always believed that my red ribbon had a good deal to do with this
departure, and I ascribe to that ribbon other similar services during
my botanical or entomological rambles. It seemed to me—was it an
illusion?—it did seem to me that during my botanical expeditions on
Mont Ventoux, the guide was more manageable than usual and the donkey
less obstinate.
The little dark red ribbon has not always protected me from the
tribulations the entomologist must expect when carrying on experiments
upon the highway. Since dawn I had been lying in ambush at the bottom
of a ravine; Sphex occitanica was the object of my early visit. A party
of three women vintagers passed on their way to work. A glance was cast
on the seated figure apparently lost in thought. “Good day” was
politely offered and politely answered. At sunset the women returned
with full baskets. The man was still there, seated on the same stone,
his eyes fixed on the same spot. My motionless figure, my persistent
stay in that lonely place, must have struck them greatly. As they
passed I saw one tap her forehead, and heard her whisper, “A poor
innocent, pe’caïre! a poor innocent!” and all three made the sign of
the cross.
An innocent, an idiot, a poor inoffensive creature who is deficient;
and all three crossed themselves—an idiot being one to them marked by
God’s seal. “How?” said I. “What cruel mockery of fate! You who are
labouring to discover what is instinct and what reason in the animal;
you yourself are a half-wit in the eyes of these women! What
humiliation! However, pe’caïre, that term of supreme commiseration in
Provençal, uttered from the bottom of the heart, made me quickly forget
the Innocent.”
It is to that same ravine that I invite my reader, if he is not
repelled by the small annoyances of which I have given him a foretaste.
S. occitanica haunts these parts, not in numbers giving one another
rendezvous when nidification is going on, but solitary individuals far
apart, wherever their vagabond peregrinations have led them. Just as
their relative S. flavipennis seeks the society of relations and the
animation of a work-yard and company, so, on the other hand, does the
Languedocian Sphex prefer calm, isolation, and solitude. Graver in
behaviour, more formal in manner, more elegant of figure, and in more
sombre attire, she always lives apart, careless of what others are
doing, disdaining companionship, a very misanthrope among Sphegidæ. S.
flavipennis is sociable; S. occitanica is unsociable—a profound
difference, alone sufficient to characterise them.
This suggests how greatly the difficulty of observing the latter is
increased. No long meditated experiment is possible, nor can one
attempt to repeat it a second time if the first has failed. If you make
preparations beforehand,—for instance, if you put in reserve a piece of
game to substitute for that of the Sphex,—it is to be feared, indeed it
is almost certain, that she will not appear, or if she comes, your
preparations turn out useless. Everything must be improvised at
once—conditions which I have not always been able to realise as I could
have wished.
Let us take courage; the position is good. Many a time I have here
surprised the Sphex reposing on a vine-leaf, exposed to the full rays
of the sun. The insect, lying flat and spread out, is voluptuously
enjoying the delights of warmth and light. From time to time a kind of
frenzy of pleasure bursts forth in her; she thrills with well-being,
drums rapidly on her resting-place with the points of her feet, and
produces a sound somewhat like the roll of a drum, or heavy rain
falling on foliage perpendicularly. You may hear this joyous drumming
several paces off. Then again comes perfect stillness, followed by a
fresh nervous commotion, and that waving of tarsi which is a sign of
supreme happiness. I have known some of these ardent sun-worshippers
suddenly leave a half-finished burrow to settle on a neighbouring vine
and take a bath of sun and light, returning reluctantly to give a
careless sweep to the hole, and finally abandon the workshop, unable
longer to resist the temptation of luxuriating on a vine leaf. Perhaps
this voluptuous resting-place is also an observatory whence to inspect
the neighbourhood, and espy and choose prey. This Sphex catches only
the ephippiger of the vine, scattered here and there on the leaves or
on any convenient bush. The game is succulent—all the more that only
females full of eggs are selected.
Let us pass over numerous expeditions, fruitless researches, and the
tedium of long waiting, and present the Sphex to the reader just as she
shows herself to the observer. Here she is, at the bottom of a hollow
way with high sandy banks. She comes on foot, but aids herself with her
wings in dragging along her heavy captive. The ephippiger’s antennæ,
like long fine threads, are the harness ropes. With her mandibles and
holding her head high, she grasps one of them, passing it between her
feet, and the prey is dragged on its back. If some unevenness of ground
should oppose itself to this style of haulage, she stops, clasps the
ample provender, and transports it by very short flights, going on foot
between whiles whenever this is possible. One never sees her undertake
sustained flights for long distances carrying prey, as do those strong
cruisers, the Bembex and Cerceris, which will carry perhaps for a good
half mile through the air, the former their Diptera, the latter their
weevils—very light prey compared with the huge ephippiger. The
overwhelming size of its captive forces S. occitanica to convey it
along the ground—a means of transit both slow and difficult. The same
reason—namely, the great size and weight of the prey—entirely upsets
the usual order followed by the Hymenoptera, in their labours,—an order
well known, and consisting in first hollowing a burrow and then
victualling it. The prey not being disproportioned to the size of the
spoiler, facility of transport by flight allows the Hymenopteron a
choice as to the position of her domicile. What matter if she has to
hunt at considerable distances? Having made a capture, she returns home
with rapid flight; it is indifferent to her whether she is near or far.
Therefore she prefers the spot where she was born, and where her
predecessors have lived; there she inherits deep galleries, the
accumulated labour of former generations; with a little repair they can
be used as avenues to new chambers, better defended than would be a
single excavation a little below the surface made annually. Such is the
case with Cerceris tuberculata and Philanthus apivorus, and even if the
inherited dwelling should not be solid enough to resist wind and
weather from one year’s end to another, and to be handed down to the
next generation, at all events the Hymenopteron finds conditions of
greater safety in spots consecrated by ancestral experience. There she
hollows out galleries, each serving as corridors to a group of cells,
thus economising the labour to be expended on the entire egg-laying.
In this way are formed, not true societies, there being no concerted
effort to a common end, but at least gatherings where the sight of
other Sphegidæ no doubt animates the labour of each. In fact, one can
notice between these small tribes, sprung from one and the same stock,
and the solitary miners, a difference in activity, recalling in one
case the emulation of a populous workshop, and in the other the dulness
of labourers in the tedium of isolation. For the animal as well as man
activity is contagious, and excited by its own example. Let us sum up.
Where there is a moderate weight for the spoiler, it is possible to
carry it on the wing for a great distance, and then the Hymenopteron
can arrange the burrows at pleasure, choosing by preference its
birthplace. From this preference of the birthplace results an
agglomeration—a coming together of insects of the same species, whence
arises emulation in their work. This first step towards social life is
the result of easy journeys. Is it not so with man? excuse the
comparison! Men, where ways are bad, build solitary cottages, while
where there are good roads, they collect in populous cities, served by
railroads, which, so to say, annihilate distance; they assemble in
immense human hives called London or Paris.
The Languedocian Sphex has quite another lot. Its prey is a heavy
ephippiger—a single morsel representing the whole sum of provender
amassed by the other predatory insects bit by bit. What the Cerceris
and other strong-flying insects do by dividing their labour is
accomplished by a single effort. The weight of the prey rendering
flight impossible, it must be brought home with all the delays and
fatigue of dragging it along the ground. This one fact obliges her to
accommodate the position of her burrow to the chances of the chase:
first the prey and then the dwelling. Hence no rendezvous at a general
meeting-place; no living among neighbours, no tribes stimulating
themselves by mutual example—only isolation where chance has led the
Sphex—solitary labour, unenthusiastic, though always conscientious.
First of all prey is sought, attacked, and paralysed. Then comes making
the burrow. A favourable spot is chosen as near as possible to that
where lies the victim, so as to abridge the toil of transport, and the
cell of the future larva is rapidly hollowed to receive an egg and food
as soon as possible. Such is the very different method shown by all my
observations. I will mention the chief of them.
If surprised in its mining, one always finds this Sphex alone—sometimes
at the bottom of some dusty niche a fallen stone has left in an old
wall—sometimes in a shelter formed by a projecting bit of sandstone,
such as is sought by the fierce-eyed lizard as a vestibule to its
retreat. The sun falls full upon it; the place is a furnace. The soil
is extremely easy to hollow, formed as it is by ancient dust which has
dropped little by little from the roof. The mandibles, which act as
pincers to dig with, and the tarsi, as rakes to clear away, soon hollow
the cavity. Then the Sphex flies off, but in a leisurely way, and
without any great expenditure of wing power, a manifest sign that the
expedition is not a long one. One’s eye can easily follow the insect
and discover where it alights, usually some ten yards off. Sometimes it
decides to go on foot. It sets out, hurrying to a spot where we will be
indiscreet enough to follow, our presence noways troubling it. Having
arrived on foot or on the wing it hunts about for a while, as one may
conclude from its indecision and short excursions on all sides. It
seeks and at last finds, or rather finds anew. The object found is an
ephippiger, half-paralysed, but still moving antennæ, tarsi, and
ovipositor—a victim which the Sphex certainly poignarded a little while
before with several stings, and then left her prey, an embarrassing
burden, while she still hesitated as to the choice of a domicile.
Perhaps she abandoned it on the very spot of the capture, leaving it
rather obvious on a grass tuft the better to find it later, and
trusting to her good memory to return where lies the booty, set to work
to explore the neighbourhood and find a suitable spot to burrow. This
done she came back for the game which was found without much
hesitation, and now she prepares to convey it home. She bestrides the
insect, seizes one or both antennæ and sets off, pulling and dragging
with all the strength of loins and jaws.
Sometimes the journey is accomplished at one trial; more frequently she
leaves her load and hurries home. Perhaps it occurs to her that the
entrance door is not wide enough for this ample morsel, perhaps she
bethinks her of some defect of detail that might interfere with
provisioning the cell. Yes, she retouches her work, enlarges the
doorway, levels the threshold, consolidates the arch, all with a few
sweeps of the tarsi. Then she returns to the ephippiger, lying on its
back a few paces distant, and drags it on again. But a new idea seems
to flash across her lively mind. She had visited the gateway but had
not looked within; who knows if all be well there? She hastens back,
leaving the ephippiger midway. The interior is visited, and apparently
some touches as with a trowel are given by the tarsi, to lend a last
finish to the walls. Without lingering over these final touches the
Sphex returns to her prey, and harnesses herself to the antennæ.
Forward! Will the journey be accomplished this time? I would not answer
for it. I have known a Sphex, perhaps more suspicious than others, or
more forgetful of the minor details of architecture, set her omissions
right or allay her suspicions by abandoning her prey five or six times
successively, and hurrying to the burrow, which each time was touched
up a little or simply entered. It is true that others go straight home,
without even stopping to rest. I must add that when the Sphex comes
home to perfect her dwelling, she does not fail to give an occasional,
distant glance at the ephippiger left on the way, to make sure that
nothing touches it. This prudence recalls that of the Scarabæus sacer
issuing from the hole which it is digging to feel its dear ball, and
bring it a little nearer.
The deduction to be drawn from the facts just stated is evident. Since
every Sphex occitanica we surprise while it burrows—be it at the very
beginning, at the first stroke of her tarsi in the dust, or later, the
dwelling being ready—makes a short expedition on foot or on the wing,
and always finds a victim already stabbed, already paralysed, one may
conclude with certainty that she first makes her capture, and later
burrows, so that the place of capture decides that of the domicile.
This reversal of method which prepares the food before the larder,
while previously we saw the larder precede the food, I attribute to the
weight of the prey being too great to carry on the wing. It is not that
S. occitanica is ill-organised for flight; on the contrary, she can
soar splendidly, but her prey would overwhelm her if she depended only
on her wings. She needs the support of the ground and must drag her
prey, and displays wonderful vigour in doing this. Loaded with prey she
always goes on foot, or takes very short flights when these spare time
and toil. Let me quote an instance taken from my latest observations on
this curious Hymenopteron.
A Sphex appeared suddenly, whence I know not, dragging an ephippiger
apparently just caught hard by. As things were she had to burrow, but
the position was as bad as possible—a highway, hard as stone. There was
no time for difficult mining, since the prey must be stored as soon as
possible; she needed light soil where the cell could be quickly made. I
have already described her favourite soil—dust deposed by years at the
bottom of some hole in a wall, or in some little hollow of a rock. The
Sphex which I was observing stopped at the foot of a country house with
a newly whitewashed façade, and measuring from six to eight metres in
height. Instinct told her that under the roof tiles she would find
hollows rich in ancient dust. Leaving her prey at the foot of the
façade, she flew on to the roof. For some time I saw her seek vainly
about. Then, having found a suitable position, she set to work under
the hollow of a tile. In ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at most
the domicile was ready; she flew down, promptly found the ephippiger,
and then had to carry up her prey. Would it be on the wing, as
circumstances suggest? Not at all; the Sphex adopted the difficult
method of escalading a vertical wall with a surface smoothed by the
mason’s trowel and from six to eight metres high. Seeing her take this
road, dragging her game between her feet, I thought at first that it
was impossible, but was soon reassured as to the outcome of this
audacious attempt. Supporting herself by the little roughnesses of the
mortar, the vigorous insect, in spite of the embarrassment of her heavy
load, made her way up this vertical plane with the same security, the
same speed, as on horizontal ground. The top is reached without any
hindrance, and the prey provisionally deposited at the edge of the roof
on the rounded bark of a tile. While the Sphex was retouching her
burrow the ill-balanced prey slipped and fell to the foot of the wall.
She must begin again, and again by means of an escalade. The same
imprudence is repeated; once more left on the curved tile the prey
slips and falls to the ground. With a calm which such accidents cannot
disturb, the Sphex for the third time hoists the ephippiger by climbing
the wall, and, better advised, drags it straight to the bottom of the
hole.
If carrying the prey on the wing has not been attempted even in such
conditions as the above, it is clear that the Sphex is incapable of
flight with so heavy a load. To this impotence we owe the few details
of habits which are the subject of this chapter. A prey not too heavy
to be carried on the wing makes a semi-sociable species of S.
flavipennis—that is to say, one seeking the company of its fellows; a
heavy prey impossible to carry through the air renders S. occitanica a
species devoted to solitary labour—a kind of savage, disdainful of the
solace derived from neighbourhood of one’s fellows. The greater or
lesser weight of their prey decides the fundamental character.