Those who wish for a more hideous conflict must apply to Calosoma sycophanta, the handsomest of our flesh-eating insects, the most majestic in costume and size. This prince of Carabi is the butcher of the caterpillars. He is not to be overawed even by the sturdiest of rumps.

His struggle with the huge caterpillar of the Great Peacock Moth[2] is a thing to see once, not oftener: a single experience of such horrors is enough to disgust one. The contortions of the eviscerated insect, which, with a sudden heave of the loins, hurls the bandit in the air and lets him fall, belly uppermost, without managing to make him release his hold; the green entrails spilt quivering on the ground; the tramping gait of the murderer, drunk with slaughter, slaking his thirst at the springs of a horrible wound: these are the main features of the combat. If entomology had no other scenes to show us, I should without the least regret turn my back upon my insects.

[Footnote 2: Cf. The Life of the Caterpillar: chap. xi.—Translator's Note.]

Next day, offer the sated Beetle a Green Grasshopper or a White-faced Decticus, serious adversaries both, armed with powerful lower jaws. With these big-bellied creatures the slaughter will begin anew, as eagerly as on the day before. It will be repeated later with the Pine- chafer and the Rhinoceros Beetle, accompanied by the usual atrocious tactics of the Carabi. Even better than these last does the Calosoma know the weak point of the armoured Beetles, concealed beneath the wing-cases. And this will go on so long as we keep him provided with victims, for this drinker of blood is never satiated.

Acrid exhalations, the products of a fiery temperament, accompany this frenzy for carnage. The Carabi elaborate caustic humours; the Procrustes squirts a jet of vinegar at any one who takes hold of him; the Calosoma makes the fingers smell of mouldy drugs; certain Beetles, such as the Brachini,[3] understand explosives and singe the aggressor's whiskers with a volley of musketry.

[Footnote 3: Or Bombardier Beetles. When disturbed, they eject a fluid which volatilizes, on contact with the air, with a slight report.— Translator's Note.]

Distillers of corrosives, gunners throwing lyddite, bombers employing dynamite: what can all these violent creatures, so well equipped for battle, do beyond committing slaughter? Nothing. We find no art, no industry, not even in the larva, which practices the adult's trade and meditates its crimes while wandering under the stones. Nevertheless it is to one of these dull-witted warriors that I am deliberately proposing to apply to-day, prompted by the wish to solve a certain question. Let me tell you what it is.

You have surprised this or that insect, motionless on a bough, blissfully basking in the sun. Your hand is raised, open, ready to descend on it and seize it. Hardly have you made the movement when the insect drops to the ground. It is a wearer of armoured wing-cases, slow to disengage the wings from their horny sheath, or perhaps an incomplete form, with no wing-surfaces. Incapable of sudden flight, the surprised insect lets itself fall. You look for it in the grass, often in vain. If you do find it, it is lying on its back, with its legs folded, without stirring.

It is shamming dead, people will tell you; it is pretending, in order to escape its enemy. Man is certainly unknown to it; we count for nothing in its little world. What does it care for our hunting, whether we be children or scientists? It does not fear the collector with his long pin; but it realizes danger in general; and it dreads its natural enemy, the insectivorous bird, which swallows it with a single snap. To outwit the assailant, it lies upon its back, draws up its legs and simulates death. The bird, or any other persecutor, will despise it in this condition; and its life will be saved.

This, we are assured, is how the insect would reason if suddenly surprised. The trick has long been famous. Once upon a time, two friends, at the end of their resources, sold the skin of a Bear before they had killed the brute. The encounter was unfortunate: they had to take to their heels. One of them stumbled, fell, held his breath and shammed dead. The Bear came up, turned the man over and over, explored him with his paw and his muzzle, sniffed at his face:

"He smells already," he said and, without more ado, turned away.

That Bear was a simpleton.

The bird would not be duped by this clumsy stratagem. In those happy days when the discovery of a nest marked a red-letter day, I never saw my Sparrows or Greenfinches refuse a Locust because he was not moving, or a Fly because she was dead. Any mouthful that does not kick is eagerly accepted, provided that it be fresh and pleasant to the taste.

If the insect, therefore, relies on the appearance of death, it would seem to me to be very badly inspired. More wary than the Bear in the fable, the bird, with its perspicacious eye, will recognize the fraud in a moment and proceed to business. Besides, had the object really been a corpse, but still fresh, it would none the less have gobbled it up.

More insistent doubts occur to my mind when I consider the serious consequences to which the insect's artfulness might lead. It shams dead, says the popular idiom, which recks little of weighing the value of its term; it simulates death, scientific language repeats, happy to find some gleams of reason in the insect. What truth is there in this unanimous statement, which in the one case is too unreflecting and in the other too much inclined to favour theoretical fancies?

Logical arguments are insufficient here. It is essential that we should obtain the verdict of experiment, which alone can furnish a valid reply. But to which of the insects shall we go first?

I remember something that dates back some forty years. Delighted with a recent University triumph, I was staying at Cette, on my return from Toulouse, where I had just passed my examination as a licentiate in natural science. It gave me a fine chance of renewing my acquaintance with the seaside flora, which had delighted me a few years before on the shores of the wonderful Gulf of Ajaccio. It would have been foolish to neglect it. A degree does not confer the right to cease studying. If one really has a touch of the sacred fire in one's veins, one remains a student all one's life, not of books, which are a poor resource, but of the great, inexhaustible school of actual things.

One day, then, in July, in the cool stillness of the dawn, I was botanizing on the foreshore at Cette. For the first time I plucked the Convolvulus soldanella, which trails along the high-water mark its ropes of glossy green leaves and its great pink bellflowers. Withdrawn into his white, flat, heavily-keeled shell, a curious Snail, Helix explanata, was slumbering, in groups, on the bent grasses.

The dry shifting sands showed here and there long series of imprints, recalling, on a smaller scale and under another form, the tracks of little birds in the snow which used to arouse a delightful flutter in my youthful days. What do these imprints mean?

I follow them, a hunter on the trail of a new species. At the end of each track, by digging to no great depth, I unearth a magnificent Carabus, whose very name is almost unknown to me. It is the Giant Scarites (S. gigas, FAB.).

I make him walk on the sand. He exactly reproduces the tracks which put me on the alert. It was certainly he who, questing for game in the night, marked the trail with his feet. He returned to his lair before daylight; and now not a single Beetle is to be seen in the open.

Another characteristic thrusts itself upon my notice. If I shake him for a moment and then place him on the ground upon his back, he remains a long time without stirring. No other insect has yet displayed such persistent immobility, though I confess that my investigations in this respect have been only superficial. The detail is so thoroughly engraved on my memory that, forty years later, when I want to experiment on the insects which are experts in the art of simulating death, I at once think of the Scarites.

A friend sends me a dozen from Cette, from the very beach on which I once passed a delightful morning in the company of this skilful mimic of the dead. They reach me in perfect condition, mixed up in the same package with some Pimeliae (P. bipunctata, FAB.), their compatriots in the sands beside the sea. Of these last, a pitiable crew, many have been disembowelled, absolutely emptied; others have merely stumps instead of legs; a few, but only a few, are unwounded.

It was what one might have expected of these Carabidae, lawless hunters one and all. Tragic events took place in the box during the journey from Cette to Serignan. The Scarites gormandized riotously on the peaceable Pimeliae.

Their tracks, which I followed long ago on the actual spot, bore evidence to their nocturnal rounds, apparently in search of their prey, the pot-bellied Pimelia, whose sole defence consists of a strong armour of welded wing-cases.[4] But what can such a cuirass avail against the bandit's ruthless pincers?

[Footnote 4: The Pimelia is a wingless Beetle.—Translator's Note.]

He is indeed a mighty hunter, this Nimrod of the sea-shore. All black and glossy, like a jet bugle, his body is divided by a very narrow groove at the waist. His weapon of offence consists of a pair of claw-like mandibles of extraordinary vigour. None of our insects equals him in strength of jaw, if we except the Stag-beetle, who is far better armed, or rather decorated, for the antlered mandibles of the inmate of the oak are ornaments of the male's attire, not a panoply of battle.

The brutal Carabid, the eviscerator of the Pimeliae, knows how strong he is. If I tease him a little on the table, he at once adopts a posture of defence. Well braced upon his short legs, especially the fore-legs, which are toothed like rakes, he dislocates himself in two, so to speak, thanks to the groove that divides him behind the corselet; he proudly raises the fore-part of the body, his wide, heart-shaped thorax and massive head, opening his threatening pincers to their full extent. He is now an awesome sight. More: he has the audacity to rush at the finger which has touched him. Here of a surety is one not easily intimidated. I look twice before I handle him.

I lodge my strangers partly under a wire-gauze cover and partly in glass jars, all supplied with a layer of sand. Each of them without delay digs himself a burrow. The insect bends his head a long way down and, with the points of his mandibles, brought together to form a pick-axe, he hews, digs and excavates with a will. The fore-legs, spread out and armed with hooks, gather the dust and rubbish into a load which is thrust backwards. In this way, a mound rises on the threshold of the burrow. The dwelling grows deeper quickly and by a gentle slope reaches the bottom of the jar.

Checked in the downward direction, the Scarites now digs against the glass wall and continues his work horizontally until he has obtained a length of nearly twelve inches in all.

This arrangement of the gallery, almost the whole of which runs just under the glass, is very useful to me, enabling me to follow the insect in the privacy of its home. If I wish to observe its underground operations, all that I need do is to remove the opaque sheath which I have been careful to put over the jar, in order to spare the creature the annoyance of the light.

When the house is deemed to be long enough, the Scarites returns to the entrance, which he works more carefully than the rest. He makes a funnel of it, a pit with shifting, sloping sides. It is the Ant-lion's crater on a larger scale and constructed in a more rustic fashion. This mouth is continued by an inclined plane, kept free of all rubbish. At the foot of the slope is the vestibule of the horizontal gallery. Here, as a rule, the hunter lurks, motionless, with his pincers half open. He is waiting.

There is a sound overhead. It is a specimen of game which I have just introduced, a Cicada, a luscious morsel. The drowsy trapper at once wakes; he moves his palpi, which quiver with cupidity. Cautiously, step by step, he climbs his inclined plane. He takes a glance outside the funnel. The Cicada is seen.

The Scarites darts out of his pit, runs forward, seizes the Cicada and drags her backwards. The struggle is brief, thanks to the trap of the entrance, which yawns like a funnel to receive even a bulky quarry and contracts into a crumbling precipice that paralyses all resistance. The slope is fatal: who crosses the brink can no longer escape the murderer.

Head first, the Cicada dives into the abyss, down which the spoiler drags her by successive jerks. She is drawn into the low-ceilinged tunnel. Here the wings cease to flutter, for lack of space. She reaches the knacker's cellar, at the end of the corridor. The Scarites now works at her for some time with his pincers, in order to reduce her to complete immobility, fearing lest she should escape; then he returns to the mouth of the charnel-house.

It is not everything to possess plenty of game; the question next arises how to consume it in peace. The door is therefore closed against importunate callers, that is to say, the insect fills the entrance to the tunnel with his mound of rubbish. Having taken this precaution, he goes back again and sits down to his meal. He will not reopen his hiding-place nor remake the pit at the entrance until later, when the Cicada has been digested and hunger makes its reappearance. Let us leave the glutton with his quarry.

The brief morning which I spent with him in his native place did not enable me to watch him at his hunting, on the sands of the beach; but the facts gathered in captivity are enough to tell us all about it. They show us in the Scarites a bold hero who is not to be intimidated by the biggest or strongest adversary.

We have seen him coming up from underground, falling on the passers-by, seizing them at some distance from the burrow and dragging them forcibly into his cut-throat den. The Rose-chafer, the Common Cockchafer are but small deer for him. He dares to attack the Cicada, he dares to dig his hooks into the corpulent Pine-chafer. He is a fearless ruffian, ready for any crime.

Under natural conditions his audacity can be no less. On the contrary, the familiar spots, freedom of movement, unlimited space and his beloved salt air excite the warrior to yet greater feats of daring.

He has dug himself a refuge in the sand, with a wide, crumbling mouth. This is not so that he may, like the Ant-lion, wait at the bottom of his funnel for the passing of a victim which stumbles on the shifting slope and rolls into the pit. The Scarites disdains these petty poachers' methods, these fowlers' snares; he prefers a run across country.

His long trails on the sand tell us of nocturnal rounds in search of big game, often the Pimelia, sometimes the Half-spotted Scarab.[5] The find is not consumed on the spot. To enjoy it at his ease, he needs the peaceful darkness of the underground manor; and so the captive, seized by one leg with the pincers, is forcibly dragged along the ground.

[Footnote 5: Cf. The Sacred Beetle and Others: chaps. ii. and vii.— Translator's Note.]

If no precautions were taken, the introduction of the victim into the burrow would be impracticable, with a huge quarry offering a desperate resistance. But the entrance to the tunnel is a wide crater, with crumbling walls. However large he be, the captive, tugged from below, enters and tumbles into the pit. The crumbling rubbish immediately buries him and paralyses his movements. The thing is done. The bandit now proceeds to close his door and empty his prey's belly.



CHAPTER XIV THE SIMULATION OF DEATH

The first insect that we will put to the question is that audacious disemboweller, the savage Scarites. To provoke his state of inertia is a very simple matter: I handle him for a moment, rolling him between my fingers; better still, I drop him on the table, twice or thrice in succession, from a small height. When the shock due to the fall has been administered and, if need be, repeated, I turn the insect on its back.

This is enough: the prostrate Beetle no longer stirs, lies as though dead. The legs are folded on the belly, the antennae extended like the arms of a cross, the pincers open. A watch beside me tells me the exact minute of the beginning and the end of the experiment. Nothing remains but to wait and especially to arm one's self with patience, for the insect's immobility lasts long enough to become tedious to the observer watching for something to happen.

The duration of the lifeless posture varies greatly on the same day, under the same atmospheric conditions and with the same subject, though I cannot fathom the causes which shorten or lengthen it. How to investigate the external influences, so numerous and often so slight, which intervene in such a case; above all, how to scrutinize the insect's private impressions: these are impenetrable mysteries. Let us confine ourselves to recording the results.

Immobility continues fairly often for as long as fifty minutes; in certain cases, even, it lasts more than an hour. The most frequent length of time averages twenty minutes. If nothing disturbs the Beetle, if I cover him with a glass shade, protecting him from the Flies, who are importunate visitors in the hot weather prevailing at the time of my experiment, the inertia is complete: not a quiver of the tarsi, nor of the palpi, nor of the antennae. Here indeed is a simulacrum of death, with all its inertia.

At last the apparently deceased comes back to life. The tarsi quiver, those of the fore-legs first; the palpi and the antennae move slowly to and fro: this is the prelude to the awakening. Now the legs begin to kick. The insect bends slightly at its pinched waist; it buttresses itself on its head and back; it turns over. There it goes, jogging away, ready to become an apparent corpse once more if I renew my shock tactics.

Let us repeat the experiment immediately. The newly resuscitated Beetle is for a second time lying motionless on his back. He prolongs his make-believe of death longer than he did at first. When he wakes up, I renew the test a third, a fourth, a fifth time, with no intervals of repose. The duration of the motionless condition increases each time. To quote the figures, the five consecutive experiments, from the first to the last, have continued respectively for 17, 20, 25, 33 and 50 minutes. Starting with a quarter of an hour, the attitude of death ends by lasting nearly a whole hour.

Without being constant, similar facts recur repeatedly in my experiments, the duration, of course, varying. They tell us that as a general rule the Scarites lengthens the period of his lifeless posture the oftener the experiment is repeated. Is this a matter of practice, or is it an increase of cunning employed in the hope of finally tiring a too persistent enemy? It would be premature to draw conclusions: the cross-examination of the insect has not yet been thorough enough.

Let us wait. Besides, we need not imagine that it is possible to go on like this until our patience is exhausted. Sooner or later, flurried by my pestering, the Scarites refuses to sham dead. Scarcely is he laid on his back after a fall, when he turns over and takes to his heels, as though he judged a stratagem which succeeded so indifferently to be henceforth useless.

If we were to stop here, it would certainly seem that the insect, a cunning hoaxer, seeks, as a means of defence, to cheat those who attack him. He counterfeits death; he repeats the process, becoming more persistent in his fraud in proportion as the aggression is repeated; he abandons his trickery when he deems it futile. But hitherto we have subjected him only to a friendly examination-in-chief. The time has come to put a string of searching questions and to trick the trickster if there be really any deception.

The Beetle under experiment is lying on the table. He feels beneath him a hard body which gives him no chance of digging. As he cannot hope to take refuge underground, an easy task for his nimble and vigorous tools, the Scarites lies low in his death-like pose, keeping it up, if need be, for an hour. If he were reclining on the sand, the loose soil with which he is so familiar, would he not regain his activity more rapidly, would he not at least betray by a few twitches his desire to escape into the basement?

I was expecting to see him do so; and I was mistaken. Whether I place him on wood, glass, sand or garden mould, the Beetle in no way modifies his tactics. On a surface readily excavated he continues his immobility as long as on an unassailable surface.

This indifference to the nature of the support half opens the door to doubt; what follows opens it wide. The patient is on the table before me and I watch him closely. With his gleaming eyes, overshadowed by his antennae, he also sees me; he watches me; he observes me, if I may so express myself. What can be the visual impression of the insect when face to face with that monstrosity, man? How does the pigmy measure the enormous monument that is the human body? Seen from the depths of the infinitely little, the immense perhaps is nothing.

We will not go so far as that; we will admit that the insect watches me, recognizes me as his persecutor. So long as I am here, he will suspect me and refuse to budge. If he does decide to do so, it will be after he has exhausted my patience. Let us therefore move away. Then, since any trickery will be needless, he will hasten to take to his legs again and make off.

I move ten paces farther from him, to the other end of the room. I hide, I do not move a muscle, for fear of breaking the silence. Will the insect pick itself up? No, my precautions are superfluous. Alone, left to itself, perfectly quiet, it remains motionless for as long a time as when I was standing close beside it.

Perhaps the clear-sighted Scarites has seen me in my corner, at the other end of the room; perhaps a subtle scent has revealed my presence to him. We will do more, then. I cover him with a bell-glass which will save him from being worried by the Flies and I leave the room; I go downstairs into the garden. There is no longer anything likely to disturb him. Doors and windows are closed. Not a sound from without; no cause for alarm indoors. What will happen in the midst of that profound silence?

Nothing more and nothing less than usual. After twenty, forty minutes' waiting out of doors, I come upstairs again and return to my insect. I find him as I left him, lying motionless on his back.

This experiment, many times repeated with different subjects, throws a vivid light upon the question. It expressly assures us that the attitude of death is not the ruse of an insect in danger. Here there is nothing to alarm the creature. Around him all is silence, solitude, repose. When he persists in his immobility it cannot now be to deceive an enemy. I have no doubt about it: there is something else involved.

Besides, why should he need special defensive artifices? I could understand that a weak, pacific, ill-protected insect might resort to ruses when in danger; but in him, the warlike bandit, so well armoured, it is more than I can understand. No insect on his native sea-shore has the strength to resist him. The most powerful of them, the Sacred Beetle and the Pimelia, are easy-going creatures which, so far from molesting him, are fine booty for his burrow.

Can he be threatened by the birds? It is very doubtful. As a Carabus, he is saturated with acrid humours which must make his body a far from pleasing mouthful. For the rest, he lives hidden from the light of day in a burrow where no one sees him; he emerges only at night, when the birds are no longer inspecting the beach. There are no beaks about for him to fear.

And this butcher of the Pimeliae and even occasionally of the Sacred Beetles, this bully whom no danger threatens, is supposed to be such a coward as to sham death on the slightest alarm! I take the liberty of doubting this more and more.

I am confirmed in my doubts by the Smooth-skinned Scarites (S. lavigatus, FAB.), a denizen of the same shores. The first insect is a giant; the second, by comparison, is a dwarf. Otherwise he displays the same shape, the same jet-black costume, the same armour, the same habits of brigandage. Well, the Smooth-skinned Scarites, in spite of his weakness and his smallness, is almost ignorant of the trick of pretending to be dead. When molested for a moment and then turned on his back, he at once picks himself up and flees. I can hardly obtain a few seconds' immobility; once only, daunted by my obstinacy, the dwarf remains motionless for a quarter of an hour.

How different from the giant, motionless the moment that he is thrown upon his back, sometimes picking himself up only after an hour of inaction! It is the reverse of what ought to happen, if the apparent death were really a defensive ruse. The giant, confident in his strength, should disdain this cowardly posture; the timid dwarf should be quick to have recourse to it. And it is just the other way about. What is there behind all this?

Let us try the influence of danger. With what natural enemy shall I confront the big Scarites, motionless on his back? I know none. Let us then create a make-believe assailant. The Flies put me on the track of one.

I have spoken of their importunity during my investigations in the hot season. If I do not employ a bell-glass or keep an assiduous watch, rarely does the shrewish Dipteron fail to alight upon my patient and explore him with her proboscis. We will let her have her way this time.

Hardly has the Fly grazed this apparent corpse with her legs, when the Scarites' tarsi quiver as though twitched by a slight electric shock. If the visitor be merely passing, matters go no farther; but, if she persist, particularly near the Beetle's mouth, moist with saliva and disgorged secretions of food, the tormented Scarites promptly kicks, turns over and makes off.

Perhaps he did not think it opportune to prolong his fraud in the face of so contemptible an enemy. He resumes his activity because he has recognized the absence of danger. Then let us call in another interloper, one of formidable size and strength. I happen to have handy a Great Capricorn, with powerful claws and mandibles. That the long-horned insect is a peaceful creature I am well aware; but the Scarites does not know it; on the sands of the shore he has never encountered such a colossus as this, who is capable of impressing less timid creatures than he. Fear of the unknown will merely aggravate the situation.

Guided by the tip of my straw, the Capricorn sets his foot upon the prostrate insect. The Scarites' tarsi begin to quiver immediately. If the contact be prolonged or multiplied, or if it become aggressive, the dead insect gets on its legs again and scuttles off, just as the titillations of the Fly have already shown me. When danger is imminent and all the more to be dreaded because its nature is unknown, the trick of the simulation of death disappears and flight takes its place.

The following experiment is not without value. I take some hard substance and knock the foot of the table on which the insect is lying on its back. The shock is very slight, not enough to shake the table perceptibly. The whole thing is limited to the inner vibrations of a resilient body which has received a blow. But it is quite enough to disturb the insect's immobility. At each tap the tarsi are flexed and quiver for a moment.

Lastly, let us try the effect of light. So far, the patient has been treated in the shade of my cabinet, away from the direct sunlight. The sun is shining full upon the window. What will the motionless insect do if I carry it thither, from my table to the window, into the bright light? That we can find out in a moment. Under the direct rays of the sun, the Scarites immediately turns over and moves off.

This is enough. Patient, persecuted creature, you have half-betrayed your insect. When the Fly tickles you, drains your moist lip, treats you as a corpse whose juices she would like to suck; when the huge Capricorn appears to your horrified gaze and puts a foot on your belly, as though to take possession of his prey; when the table quivers, that is to say, when, for you, the ground shakes, undermined perhaps by some invader of your burrow; when a bright light surrounds you, favouring the designs of your enemies and imperilling your safety as an insect that loves the dark, then, in truth, it would be wiser not to move, if really your chief resource, when danger threatens you, is to simulate death.

On the contrary, at those critical moments, you give a start; you move, you resume your normal attitude, you run away. Your fraud is discovered; or, to put it more plainly, there is no trick. Your inertia is not simulated; it is real. It is a condition of temporary torpor into which you are plunged by your delicate nervous organization. A mere nothing makes you fall into it; a mere nothing withdraws you from it, above all a bath of light, that sovran stimulus of activity.

In respect of prolonged immobility as the result of emotion, I find a rival of the Giant Scarites in a large black Buprestis, with a flour-speckled corselet, a lover of the blackthorn, the hawthorn and the apricot-tree. His name is Capnodis tenebrionis, LIN. At times I see him, with his legs closely folded and his antennae lowered, prolonging his motionless posture upon his back for more than an hour. At other times the insect is bent upon escaping, apparently influenced by atmospheric conditions of which I do not know the secret. One or two minutes' immobility is as much as I can then obtain.

Let me recapitulate: in my various subjects the attitude of death is of very variable duration, governed as it is by a host of unsuspected circumstances. Let us take advantage of favourable opportunities, which are fairly frequent. I subject the Cloudy Buprestis to the different tests undergone by the Giant Scarites. The results are the same. When you have seen the first, you have seen the second. There is no need to linger over them.

I will only mention the promptness with which the Buprestis, lying motionless in the shade, recovers his activity when I carry him away from my table into the broad sunlight of the window. After a few seconds of this bath of heat and light, the insect half-opens his wing-cases, using them as levers, and turns over, ready to take flight if my hand did not instantly snap him up. He is a passionate lover of the light, a devotee of the sun, intoxicating himself in its rays upon the bark of his blackthorn-trees on the hottest afternoons.

This love of tropical temperature suggests the following question: what would happen if I were to chill the creature in its immobile posture? I foresee a more prolonged inertia. The chill, of course, must not be great, for it would be followed by the lethargy into which insects capable of surviving the winter fall when benumbed by the cold.

On the contrary, the Buprestis must as far as possible retain his full vitality. The lowering of the temperature must be gentle, very moderate and such that the insect, under similar climatic conditions, would retain his powers of action in ordinary life. I have a convenient refrigerator at my disposal. It is the water of my well, whose temperature, in summer, is nearly twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit below that of the surrounding air.

The Buprestis, in whom I have just produced inertia by means of a few taps, is installed on his back in a little flask which I seal hermetically and immerse in a bucket full of this cold water. To keep the bath as cool as at first, I gradually renew it, taking care not to shake the flask in which the patient is lying, in his attitude of death.

The result rewards my pains. After five hours under water, the insect is still motionless. Five hours, I say, five long hours; and I might certainly say longer, if my exhausted patience had not put an end to the experiment. But this is enough to banish any idea of fraud on the insect's part. Here, beyond a doubt, the insect is not shamming dead. He is actually somnolent, deprived of the power of movement by an internal disturbance which my teasing produced at the outset and which is prolonged beyond its usual limits by the surrounding coolness.

I try the effect of a slight decrease in temperature upon the Giant Scarites by subjecting him to a similar sojourn in the cold water of the well. The result does not respond to the hopes which the Buprestis gave me. I do not succeed in obtaining more than fifty minutes' inertia. I have often obtained as long periods of immobility without resorting to the refrigerating artifice.

It might have been foreseen. The Buprestis, a lover of the burning sunshine, is affected by the cold bath in a different degree from the Scarites, who prowls about by night and spends his day in the basement. A fall of a few degrees in temperature takes the chilly insect by surprise and has no effect upon the one accustomed to the coolness underground.

Other experiments on these lines tell me nothing more. I see the inert condition persisting sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorter period, according as the insect seeks the sunlight or avoids it. Let us change our method.

I evaporate a few drops of sulphuric ether in a glass jar and put in a Stercoraceous Geotrupes and a specimen of Buprestis tenebrionis, at the same time. In a few moments both subjects are motionless, anaesthetized by the etheric vapour. I take them out quickly and lay them on their backs in the open air.

Their attitude is exactly that which they would have assumed under the influence of a shock or any other cause of alarm. The Buprestis has his legs symmetrically folded against his chest and belly; the Geotrupes has his outspread, stretched in disorder, rigid and as though attacked by catalepsy. You could not tell if they were dead or alive.

They are not dead. In a minute or two, the Geotrupes' tarsi twitch, the palpi quiver, the antennae wave gently to and fro. Then the fore-legs move; and a quarter of an hour has not elapsed before the other legs are struggling. The activity of the insect made motionless by the concussion of a shock would reawaken in precisely the same fashion.

As for the Buprestis, he is in a state of inertia so profound that at first I really believe him to be dead. He recovers during the night; and next day I find him in possession of his usual activity. The ether experiment, which I took care to stop at the moment when it produced the desired effect, has not been fatal to him; but it has had much more serious consequences for him than for the Geotrupes. The insect more sensitive to the alarm due to concussion or to a fall of temperature is also the more sensitive to the action of ether.

Thus the enormous difference which I observe in these two insects, with regard to the inertia provoked by a shock or by handling them in one's fingers, is explained by nice differences of impressionability. Whereas the Buprestis remains motionless for nearly an hour, the Geotrupes is struggling violently after a minute or two. And even then I rarely attain this limit.

In what respect has the Geotrupes, to defend itself, less need of the stratagem of simulated death than the Black Buprestis, well protected by his massive build and his armour, which is so hard that it resists the point of a pin and even of a needle? We should be perplexed by the same question in respect of a multitude of insects, some of which remain motionless while others do not; and we could not possibly foresee what would happen from the genus of the subject, its form, or its way of living.

Buprestis tenebrionis, for example, exhibits a persistent inertia. Will it be the same, because of similarity of structure, with other members of the same group? Not at all. My chance finds provide me with the Brilliant Buprestis (B. rutilans, FAB.), and the Nine-spotted Buprestis (Ptosima novemmaculata, FAB.). The first resists all my attempts. The splendid creature grips my fingers, grips my tweezers and insists on getting up the moment that I lay it on its back. The second readily becomes immobile; but how brief is its attitude of death! Four or five minutes at most.

A Melasoma-beetle, Omocrates abbreviatus, OLIV., whom I frequently discover under the broken stones on the neighbouring hills, continues motionless for over an hour. He rivals the Scarites. We must not forget to add that very often the awakening takes place within a few minutes.

Can he owe his long period of inertia to the fact that he is one of the Tenebrionidae, or Darkling Beetles? By no means, for here in the same group is Pimelia bipunctata, who turns a somersault on his round back and finds his feet the moment he has turned over; here is a Cellar-beetle (Blaps similis, LATR.), who, unable to turn with his flat back, his big belly and his welded wing-cases,[1] struggles desperately after a minute or two of inertia.

[Footnote 1: The Cellar-beetle is one of the wingless Beetles.—Translator's Note.]

The short-legged Beetles, trotting along with tiny steps, ought, one would think, to make up in cunning, more fully than the others, for their incapacity for rapid flight. The facts do not correspond with this apparently well-founded forecast. I have consulted the genera Chrysomela,[2] Blatta,[3] Silpha, Cleonus,[4] Bolboceras,[5] Cetonia, Hoplia, Coccinella,[6] and so on. A few minutes or a few seconds are nearly always long enough for the return to activity. Several of them even obstinately refuse to sham death.

[Footnote 2: Golden-apple Beetles.—Translator's Note.]

[Footnote 3: Blackbeetles or Cockroaches.—Translator's Note.]

[Footnote 4: A genus of Weevils.—Translator's Note.]

[Footnote 5: A mushroom-eating Beetle. Cf. The Life of the Fly: chap. xviii.—Translator's Note.]

[Footnote 6: Ladybirds.—Translator's Note.]

As much must be said of the Beetles well-equipped for pedestrian escape. Some remain motionless for a few seconds; others, more numerous still, behave in an ungovernable fashion. In short, there is no guide to tell us in advance:

"This one will readily assume the posture of a dead insect; this one will hesitate; that one will refuse."

There is nothing but shadowy probabilities, until experiment has given its verdict. From this muddle shall we draw a conclusion which will set our minds at rest? I hope so.



CHAPTER XV SUICIDE OR HYPNOSIS?

You do not imitate the unfamiliar; you do not counterfeit a thing of which you know nothing: that is obvious. The simulation of death, therefore, implies a certain knowledge of death.

Well, has the insect, or rather, has any kind of animal, a presentiment that its life cannot last for ever? Does the perturbing problem of an end occur to its dense brain? I have associated a great deal with animals, I have lived on intimate terms with them and I have never observed anything to justify me in saying yes. The animal, with its humbler destiny, is spared that apprehension of the hour of death which constitutes at once our torment and our greatness.

Like the child still in the limbo of unconsciousness, it enjoys the present without taking thought of the future; free from the bitterness of a prospective ending, it lives in the blissful calm of ignorance. It is ours alone to foresee the briefness of our days; it is ours alone anxiously to question the grave regarding the last sleep.

Moreover, this glimpse of the inevitable destruction calls for a certain maturity of mind and, for that reason, is rather late in developing. I had a touching example of it this very week.

A pretty little Kitten, the joy of all the household, after languidly dragging itself about for a couple of days, died in the night. Next morning the children found it lying stark in its basket. General affliction. Anna, especially, a little girl of four, considered with a pensive glance the little friend with which she had so often played. She petted it, called it, offered it a drop of milk in a cup:

"Kitty won't play," said the child. "She doesn't want my breakfast any more. She's asleep. I've never seen her sleep like this before. When will she wake up?"

This simplicity in the presence of death's harsh problem wrung my heart. Hastily I led the girl away from the sight and had the dead Kitten secretly buried. As, from this time onward, it no longer appeared by the table at meal-times, the grief-stricken child at last understood that she had seen her little friend sleeping the profound slumber that knows no awaking. For the first time a vague idea of death found its way into her mind.

Has the insect the signal honour of knowing what we do not know in our early childhood, at a time when thought is already manifesting itself, far superior, however feeble it be, to the dull understanding of the animal? Has it the power to foresee an ending, an attribute which in its case would be inconvenient and useless? Before deciding, let us consult, not the abstruse theories of science, a doubtful guide, but the Turkey, an eminently truthful one.

I recall one of the most vivid memories that remain to me from my brief sojourn at the Royal College of Rodez. So they called it then; to-day they call it a grammar-school; what improvement as the world grows older!

The thrice-blessed Thursday had come; our bit of translation was done, our dozen Greek roots had been learnt by heart; and we trooped down to the far end of the valley, so many bands of madcaps. With our trousers turned up to our knees, we exploited, artless fishermen that we were, the peaceful waters of the river, the Aveyron. What we hoped to catch was the Loach, no bigger than our little finger, but tempting, thanks to his immobility on the sand amid the waterweeds. We fully expected to transfix him with our trident, a fork.

This miraculous catch, the object of such shouts of triumph when it succeeded, was very rarely vouchsafed to us: the Loach, the rascal, saw the fork coming and with three strokes of his tail disappeared!

We found compensation in the apple-trees in the neighbouring pastures. The apple has from all time been the urchin's delight, above all when plucked from a tree which does not belong to him. Our pockets were soon crammed with the forbidden fruit.

Another distraction awaited us. Flocks of Turkeys were not rare, roaming at their own sweet will and gobbling up the Locusts around the farms. If no watcher hove in sight, we had great sport. Each of us would seize a Turkey, tuck her head under her wing, rock it in this attitude for a moment and then place her on the ground, lying on her side. The bird no longer budged. The whole flock of Turkeys was subjected to our hypnotic handling; and the meadow assumed the aspect of a battle-field strewn with the dead and dying.

And now look out for the farmer's wife! The loud gobbling of the harassed birds had told her of our wicked pranks. She would run up armed with a whip. But we had good legs in those days! And we had a good laugh too, behind the hedges, which favoured our retreat!

O delightful days when we put the Turkeys to sleep, can I recover the skill which I then possessed? To-day it is no longer the playful trick of a schoolboy; it is a matter of serious research. I happen to have the very subject that I need: a Turkey-hen, doomed soon to be the victim of our Christmas merry-making. I repeat with her the method of manipulation which I employed so successfully on the banks of the Aveyron. I tuck her head well under her wing and, molding it in this attitude with both hands, I rock the bird gently up and down for a couple of minutes.

The strange effect is produced; my childhood's manoeuvres obtained no better result. Laid on the ground, on her side and left to herself, my patient is a lifeless bundle. One would think her dead, if a slight rise and fall of the plumage did not reveal the breathing. She looks really like a dead bird which, in a last convulsion, had drawn its chilled feet, with their shrivelled toes, under its belly. The spectacle has a tragic air; and I feel overcome by a certain anxiety when I gaze upon the results of my evil spells. Poor Turkey! What if she were never to wake again!

We need not be afraid: she is waking; she stands up, staggering a little, it is true, with drooping tail and a shamefaced expression. That soon passes off; not a trace of it remains. In a few moments the bird is once more what it was before the experiment.

This torpor, the mean between true sleep and death, is of variable duration. When repeatedly provoked in my Turkey-hen, with suitable intervals of repose, immobility lasts sometimes for half an hour and sometimes for a few minutes. Here, as in the insect, it would be very difficult to analyse the causes of these differences. With the Guinea-fowl I succeed even better. The torpor lasts so long that I become alarmed by the bird's condition. The plumage reveals no trace of breathing. I ask myself, anxiously, whether the bird is not actually dead. I push it a little way along the ground with my foot. The patient does not stir. I do it again. And lo, the Guinea-fowl frees her head, stands up, regains her balance and scurries off! Her state of lethargy has lasted more than half an hour.

Now for the Goose. I have none. The gardener next door trusts me with his. She is brought to my house, which she fills with her trumpeting as she waddles about. Shortly afterwards there is absolute silence: the web-footed Amazon is lying on the ground, with her head tucked under her wing. Her immobility is as profound and as prolonged as that of the Turkey and the Guinea-fowl.

It is the Hen's turn now and the Duck's. They too succumb, but, so it seems to me, less persistently. Can it be that my hypnotic tricks are less efficacious with small birds than with large ones? To judge by the Pigeon, this may well be so. He yields to my art only to the extent of two minutes' sleep. A still smaller bird, a Greenfinch, is even more refractory: all that I obtain from him is a few seconds' drowsiness.

It would appear, then, that, in proportion as the activity is concentrated in a body of less volume, the torpor has less hold. The insect has already shown us this. The Giant Scarites does not stir for an hour, while the Smooth-skinned Scarites, a pigmy, wearies my persistence in turning him over; the large Cloudy Buprestis submits to my manoeuvres for a long period, whereas the Glittering Buprestis, a pigmy again, obstinately refuses to do so.

We will leave on one side, as insufficiently investigated, the influence of the bodily mass and remember only this fact, that it is possible, by a very simple artifice, to reduce a bird to a condition of apparent death. Do my Goose, my Turkey and the others resort to trickery with the object of deceiving their tormentor? It is certain that none of them thinks of shamming dead; they are actually immersed in a deep torpor; in a word, they are hypnotized.

These facts have long been known; they are perhaps the first in date in the science of hypnosis or artificial sleep. How did we, the little Rodez schoolboys, learn the secret of the Turkey's slumber? It was certainly not in our books. Coming from no one knows where, indestructible as everything that enters into children's games, it was handed down, from time immemorial, from one initiate to another.

Things are just the same to-day in my village of Serignan, where there are numbers of youthful adepts in the art of putting poultry to sleep. Science often has very humble beginnings. There is nothing to tell us that the mischief of a pack of idle urchins is not the starting-point of our knowledge of hypnosis.

I have just been practising on insects tricks which to all appearances are as puerile as those which we practised on the Turkeys in the days when the farmer's wife used to run after us cracking her whip. Do not laugh: a serious problem looms behind this artlessness.

My insects' condition bears a strange resemblance to that of my poultry. Both present the image of death, inertia, the contraction of convulsed limbs. In both again the immobility is dispelled before its time by the agency of a stimulus, by sound in the case of the bird, by light in that of the insect. Silence, darkness and tranquillity prolong it. Its duration varies greatly in different species and appears to increase with corpulence.

Among ourselves, who are very unequal subjects for induced sleep, the hypnotist is obliged to pick and choose. He succeeds with one and not with another. Similarly, among the insects, a selection is necessary, for they do not all of them, by a long way, respond to the experimenter's attempts. My best subjects have been the Giant Scarites and the Cloudy Buprestis; but how many others have resisted quite indomitably, or remained motionless for only a few seconds!

The insect's return to the active state presents certain peculiarities which are well worthy of attention. The key to the problem lies here. Let us return for a moment to the patients who have been subjected to the ordeal of ether. These are really hypnotized. They do not remain motionless by way of a ruse, there is no doubt upon that point; they are actually on the threshold of death; and, if I did not take them in good time out of the flask in which a few drops of ether have been evaporated, they would never recover from the torpor whose last stage is death.

Now what symptoms herald their return to activity? We know the symptoms: the tarsi tremble, the palpi quiver, the antennae wave to and fro. A man emerging from a deep sleep stretches his limbs, yawns and rubs his eyes. The insect awaking from the etheric sleep likewise has its own fashion of marking its recovery of consciousness: it flutters its tiny digits and the more mobile of its organs.

Let us now consider an insect which, upset by a shock, perturbed by some sort of excitement, is believed to be shamming dead, lying on its back. The return to activity is announced exactly in the same fashion and in the same order as after the stupefying effect of ether. First the tarsi quiver; then the palpi and antennae wave feebly to and fro.

If the creature were really shamming, what need would it have of these minute preliminaries to the awakening? Once the danger has disappeared, or is deemed to have done so, why does the insect not swiftly get upon its feet, to make off as quickly as possible, instead of dallying with untimely pretences? I am quite sure that, once the Bear was gone, the comrade who had shammed dead under the animal's nose did not think of wasting time in stretching himself or rubbing his eyes. He jumped up at once and took to his heels.

And the insect is supposed to carry its cunning to the length of counterfeiting resuscitation down to the least details! No, no and again no; it would be madness. Those quiverings of the tarsi, those awakening movements of the palpi and antennae are the obvious proof of a genuine torpor, now coming to an end, a torpor similar to that induced by ether but less intense; they show that the insect struck motionless by my artifice is not shamming dead, as the vulgar idiom has it and as the fashionable theories repeat. It is really hypnotized.

A shock which disturbs its nerve-centres, an abrupt fright which seizes upon it reduce it to a state of somnolence like that of the bird which is swung for a second or two with its head under its wing. A sudden terror sometimes deprives us human beings of the power of movement, sometimes kills us. Why should not the insect's organism, so delicate and subtle, give way beneath the grip of fear and momentarily succumb? If the emotion be slight, the insect shrinks into itself for an instant, quickly recovers and makes off; if it be profound, hypnosis supervenes, with its prolonged immobility.

The insect, which knows nothing of death and therefore cannot counterfeit it, knows nothing either of suicide, that desperate means of cutting short excessive misery. No authentic example has ever been given, to my knowledge, of an animal of any kind robbing itself of its own life. That those most richly endowed with the capacity of affection sometimes allow themselves to die of grief I grant you; but there is a great difference between this and stabbing one's self or cutting one's throat.

Yet the recollection occurs to me of the Scorpion's suicide, sworn to by some, denied by others. What truth is there in the story of the Scorpion who, surrounded by a circle of fire, puts an end to his suffering by stabbing himself with his poisoned sting? Let us see for ourselves:

Circumstances favour me. I am at this moment rearing, in large earthen pans, with a bed of sand and with potsherds for shelter, a hideous menagerie which hardly comes up to my expectations as regards the study of morals.[1] I will profit by it in another way. It consists of some twenty-four specimens of Buthus occitanus, the large White Scorpion of the south of France. The odious animal abounds, always isolated, under the flat stones of the neighbouring hills, in the sandy spots which enjoy the most sunlight. It has a detestable reputation.

[Footnote 1: For the habits of the White or Languedocian Scorpion, cf. The Life and Love of the Insect: chaps. xvii. and xviii.—Translator's Note.]

On the effects of its sting I personally have nothing to say, having always avoided, by a little caution, the danger to which my relations with the formidable captives in my study might have exposed me. Knowing nothing of it myself, I get people to tell me of it, wood-cutters in particular, who from time to time fall victims to their imprudence. One of them tells me the following story:

"After having my dinner, I was dozing for a moment among my faggots, when I was roused by a sharp pain. It was like the prick of a red-hot needle. I clapped my hand to the place. Sure enough, there was something moving! A Scorpion had crept under my trousers and stung me in the lower part of the calf. The ugly beast was full as long as my finger. Like that, sir, like that!"

And, adding gesture to speech, the worthy man extended his great fore-finger. This size did not surprise me: while insect-hunting, I have seen Scorpions as large.

"I wanted to go on with my work," he continued, "but I came out in a cold sweat; and my leg swelled up so you could see it swelling. It got as big as that, sir, as big as that."

More mimicry. Our friend spreads his two hands round his leg, at a distance, so as to denote the girth of a small barrel:

"Yes, like that, sir, like that; I had great trouble to get home, though it was only half a mile away. The swelling crept up and up. Next day it had got so high."

A gesture indicates the height.

"Yes, sir, for three days I couldn't stand up. I bore it as well as I could, with my leg stretched out on a chair. Soda-compresses did the trick; and there you are, sir, there you are."

Another woodcutter, he adds, was also stung in the lower part of the leg. He was binding faggots together at some distance and had not the strength to regain his home. He collapsed by the side of the road. Some men passing by carried him on their shoulders:

"A la cabro morto, moussu, a la cabro morto!"

The story of the rustic narrator, more versed in mimicry than in speech, does not seem to me exaggerated. A White Scorpion's sting is a very serious accident for a human being. When stung by his own kind, the Scorpion himself quickly succumbs. Here I have something better than the evidence of strangers: I have my own observations.

I take two healthy specimens from my menagerie and place them together at the bottom of a glass jar on a layer of sand. Excited with the tip of a straw which brings them face to face again whenever they draw back, the two harassed creatures decide on mortal combat. Each no doubt attributes to the other the annoyances of which I myself am the cause. The claws, those weapons of defence, are displayed in a semicircle and open to keep the adversary at a distance; the tails, in sudden jerks, are flung forward above the back; the poison-phials clash together; a tiny drop, limpid as water, beads the point of the sting.

The fight does not last long. One of the Scorpions receives the full force of the other's poisoned weapon. It is all over: in a few minutes the wounded one succumbs. The victor very calmly proceeds to gnaw the fore-part of the victim's cephalothorax, or, in less crabbed terms, the bit at which we look for a head and find only the entrance to a belly. The mouthfuls are small, but long-drawn-out. For four or five days, almost without a break, the cannibal nibbles at his murdered comrade. To eat the vanquished, that's good warfare, the only sort excusable. What I do not understand, nor shall until we tin the meat on the battle-field for food, is our wars between nations.

We now have authentic information: the Scorpion's sting is fatal, promptly fatal, to the Scorpion himself. Let us come to the matter of suicide, such as it has been described to us. When surrounded by a circle of live embers, the animal, so we are told, stabs itself with its sting and finds an end of its torment in voluntary death. This would be very fine on the creature's part if it were true. We shall see.

In the centre of a ring of burning charcoal, I place the largest specimen from my menagerie. The bellows increase the glow. At the first smart of the heat, the animal moves backwards within the circle of fire. It collides by inadvertence with the burning barrier. Now follows a disorderly retreat, in every direction, at random, renewing the agonizing contact. At each attempt to escape, the burning is repeated more severely than before. The animal becomes frantic. It darts forward and scorches itself. In a desperate frenzy, it brandishes its weapon, crooks it, straightens it, lays it down flat and raises it again, all with such disorderly haste that I am quite unable to follow its movements accurately.

The moment ought to have come for the Scorpion to release himself from his torture with a blow of the stiletto. And indeed, with a sudden spasm, the long-suffering creature becomes motionless, lies at full-length, flat upon the ground. There is not a movement; the inertia is complete. Is the Scorpion dead? It really looks like it. Perhaps he has pinked himself with a thrust of his sting that escaped me in the turmoil of the last efforts. If he has actually stabbed himself, if he has resorted to suicide, then he is dead beyond a doubt: we have just seen how quickly he succumbs to his own venom.

In my uncertainty, I pick up the apparently dead body with the tip of my forceps and lay it on a bed of cool sand. An hour later, the alleged corpse returns to life, as lusty as before the ordeal. I repeat the process with a second and third specimen. The results are the same. After the frantic plunges of the desperate victim, we have the same sudden inertia, with the creature sprawling flat as though struck by lightning, and the same return to life on the cool sand.

It seems probable that those who invented the story of the Scorpion committing suicide were deceived by this sudden swoon, this paralysing spasm, into which the high temperature of the enclosure throws the exasperated beast. Too quickly convinced, they left the victim to burn to death. Had they been less credulous and withdrawn the animal in good time from its circle of fire, they would have seen the apparently dead Scorpion return to life and thus assert its profound ignorance of suicide.

Apart from man, no living thing knows the last resource of a voluntary end, because none has a knowledge of death. As for us, to feel that we have the power to escape from the miseries of life is a noble prerogative, upon which it is good to meditate, as a sign of our elevation above the commonalty of the animal world; but in point of fact it becomes cowardice if from the possibility we pass to action.

He who proposes to go to that length should at least repeat to himself what Confucius, the great philosopher of the yellow race, said five-and-twenty centuries ago. Having surprised a stranger in the woods fixing to the branch of a tree a rope wherewith to hang himself, the Chinese sage addressed him in words the gist of which was as follows:

"However great your misfortunes, the greatest of all would be to yield to despair. All the rest can be repaired; this one is irreparable. Do not believe that all is lost for you and try to convince yourself of a truth which has been proved indisputable by the experience of the centuries. And that truth is this: so long as a man has life, there is no need for him to despair. He may pass from the greatest misery to the greatest joy, from the greatest misfortune to the highest felicity. Take courage and, as though you were this very day beginning to recognize the value of life, strive at every moment to make the most of it."

This humdrum Chinese philosophy is not without merit. It suggests the moralizing of the fabulist:

"... Qu'on me rende impotent, Cul-de-jatte, goutteux, manchot, pourvu qu'en somme Je vive, c'est assez: je suis plus que content."[2]

[Footnote 2: "... So powerless let me lie, Gout-ridden, legless, armless; if only, after all, I live, it is enough: more than content am I."]

Yes, yes, La Fontaine and Kung the philosopher are right: life is a serious matter, which it will not do to throw away into the first bush by the roadside like a useless garment. We must look upon it not as a pleasure, nor yet as a punishment, but as a duty of which we have to acquit ourselves as well as we can until we are given leave to depart.

To anticipate this leave is cowardly and foolish. The power to disappear at will through death's trap-door does not justify us in deserting our post; but it opens to us certain vistas which are absolutely unknown to the animal.

We alone know how life's pageant closes, we alone can foresee our end, we alone profess devotion to the dead. Of these high matters none other has any suspicion. When would-be scientists proclaim aloud, when they declare that a wretched insect knows the trick of simulating death, we will ask them to look more closely and not to confound the hypnosis due to terror with the pretence of a condition unknown to the animal world.

Ours alone is the clear vision of an end, ours alone the glorious instinct of the beyond. Here, filling its modest part, speaks the voice of entomology, saying:

"Have confidence; never did an instinct fail to keep its promises."



CHAPTER XVI THE CRIOCERES

I am a stubborn disciple of St. Thomas the Apostle and, before I agree to anything, I want to see and touch it, not once, but twice, thrice, an indefinite number of times, until my incredulity bows beneath the weight of evidence. Well, the Rhynchites[1] have told us that the build does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decide the trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. I question three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At the proper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them, whenever I want to ask them for information.

[Footnote 1: A genus of Weevils, the essays upon whom will appear in a later volume to be entitled The Life of Weevil.—Translator's Note.]

The first is the Crioceris of the Lily, or Lily-beetle. Since Latin words offend our modesty let us just once mention her scientific name, Crioceris merdigera, LIN., without translating it, or, above all, repeating it. Decency forbids. I have never been able to understand why natural history need inflict upon a lovely flower or an engaging animal an odious name.

As a matter of fact, our Crioceris, so ill-treated by the nomenclators, is a sumptuous creature. She is nicely shaped, neither too large nor too small, and a beautiful coral red, with jet-black head and legs. Everybody knows her who in the spring has ever glanced at the lily, when its stem is beginning to show in the centre of the rosette of leaves. A Beetle, of less than the average size and coloured sealing-wax red, is perched up on the plant. Your hand goes out to seize her. Forthwith, paralysed with fright, she drops to the ground.

Let us wait a few days and return to the lily, which is gradually growing taller and beginning to show its buds, gathered together in a bundle. The red insect is still there. Further, the leaves, which are seriously bitten into, are reduced to tatters and soiled with little heaps of greenish ordure. It looks as if some witchcraft had mashed up the leaves and then splashed the mess all over the place.

Well, this filth moves, travels slowly along. Let us overcome our repugnance and poke the heaps with a straw. We uncover, indeed we unclothe an ugly, pot-bellied, pale-orange larva. It is the grub of the Crioceris.

The origin of the garment of which we have just stripped it would be unmentionable, save in the world of the insect, that manufacturer devoid of shame. This doublet is, in fact, obtained from the creature's excretions. Instead of evacuating downwards, on the superannuated principle, the Crioceris' larva evacuates upwards and receives upon its back the waste products of the intestine, materials which move from back to front as each fresh pat is dabbed upon the others. Reaumur has complacently described how the quilt moves forward from the tail to the head by wriggling along inclined planes, making so many dips in the undulating back. There is no need to return to this stercoral mechanism after the master has done with it.

We now know the reasons that procured the Lily-beetle an ignominious title, confined to the official records: the grub makes itself an overcoat of its excrements.

Once the garment is completed so as to cover the whole of the creature's dorsal surface, the clothing-factory does not cease work on that score. At the back a fresh hem is added from moment to moment; but the overlapping superfluity in front drops off of its own weight at the same time. The coat of dung is under continual repair, being renovated and lengthened at one end as it wears and grows shorter at the other.

Sometimes also the stuff is too thick and the heap capsizes. The denuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obliging intestine repairs the disaster without delay.

Whether by reason of the clipping that results from the excessive length of a piece which is always on the loom, or of accidents that cause a part or the whole of the load to fall off, the grub of the Crioceris leaves accumulations of dirt in its track, till the lily, the symbol of purity, becomes a very cess-pool. When the leaves have been browsed, the stem next loses its cuticle, thanks to the nibbling of the grub, and is reduced to a ragged distaff. The flowers even, which have opened by now, are not spared: their beautiful ivory chalices are changed into latrines.

The perpetrator of the misdeed embarks on his career of defilement early. I wanted to see him start, to watch him lay the first course of his excremental masonry. Does he serve an apprenticeship? Does he work badly at first, then a little better and then well? I now know all about it: there is no noviciate, there are no clumsy attempts; the workmanship is perfect from the outset, the product ejected spreads over the hinder part. Let me tell you what I saw.

The eggs are laid in May, on the under surface of the leaves, in short trails averaging from three to six. They are cylindrical, rounded at both ends, of a bright orange-red, glossy and varnished with a glutinous wash which makes them stick to the leaves throughout their length. The hatching takes ten days. The shell of the egg, now a little wrinkled, but still of a bright orange colour, retains its position, so that the group of eggs, apart from its slightly withered appearance, remains just as it was.

The young larva measures a millimetre and a half[2] in length. The head and legs are black, the rest of the body a dull amber-red. On the first segment of the thorax is a brown sash, interrupted in the middle; lastly, there is a small black speck on each side, behind the third segment. This is the initial costume. Presently orange-red will take the place of the pale amber. The tiny creature, which is exceedingly fat, sticks to the leaf with its short legs and also with its hind-quarters, which act as a lever and push the round belly forwards. The motion reminds you of a cripple sitting in a bowl.

[Footnote 2: .959 inch.—Translator's Note.]

The grubs emerging from any one group of eggs at once begin to browse, each beside the empty skin of its egg. Here, singly, they nibble and dig themselves a little pit in the thickness of the leaf, while sparing the cuticle of the opposite surface. This leaves a translucent floor, a support which enables them to consume the walls of the excavation without risking a fall.

Seeking for better pasture, they move lazily on. I see them scattered at random; a few of them are grouped in the same trench; but I never see them browsing economically abreast as Reaumur relates. There is no order, no understanding between messmates, contemporaries though they be and all sprung from the same row of eggs. Nor is any heed paid to economy: the lily is so generous!

Meanwhile, the paunch swells and the intestine labours. Here we are! I see the first bit of the overcoat evacuated. As is natural in extreme infancy, it is liquid and there is not much of it. The scanty flow is used all the same and is laid methodically, right at the far end of the back. Let the little grub be. In less than a day, piece by piece, it will have made itself a suit.

The artist is a master from the first attempt. If its baby-flannel is so good to start with, what will the future ulster be, when the stuff, brought to perfection, is of much better quality? Let us proceed; we know what we want to know concerning the talents of this manufacturer of excremental broadcloth.

What is the purpose of this nasty great-coat? Does the grub employ it to keep itself cool, to protect itself against the attacks of the sun? It is possible: a tender skin need not be afraid of blistering under such a soothing poultice. Is it the grub's object to disgust its enemies? This again is possible: who would venture to set tooth to such a heap of filth? Or can it be simply a caprice of fashion, an outlandish fancy? I will not say no. We have had the crinoline, that senseless bulwark of steel hoops; we still have the extravagant stove-pipe hat, which tries to mould our heads in its stiff sheath. Let us be indulgent to the evacuator nor disparage his eccentric wardrobe. We have eccentricities of our own.

To feel our way a little in this delicate question, we will question the near kinsmen of the Lily-beetle. In my acre or two of pebbles I have planted a bed of asparagus. The crop, from the culinary point of view, will never repay me for my trouble: I am rewarded in another fashion. On the scanty shoots which I allow to display themselves freely in plumes of delicate green, two Crioceres abound in the spring: the field species (C. campestris, LIN.) and the twelve-spotted species (C. duodecimpunctata, LIN.). A splendid windfall, far better than any bundle of asparagus.

The first has a tricolor costume which is not without merit. Blue wing-cases, braided with white on the outer edge and each adorned with three white dots; a red corselet, with a blue disk in the centre. Its eggs are olive-green and cylindrical and, instead of lying flat, grouped in short lines, after the manner of the lily-dweller's, occur singly and stand on end on the leaves of the asparagus-plant, on the twigs, on the flower-buds, more or less everywhere, without any fixed order.

Though living in the open air on the leaves of its plant and thus exposed to all the various perils that may threaten the Lily-grub, the larva of the Field Crioceris knows nothing whatever of the art of sheltering itself beneath a layer of ordure. It goes through life naked and always perfectly clean.

It is of a bright greenish yellow, fairly fat behind and thinner in front. Its principal organ of locomotion is the end of the intestine, which protrudes, curves like a flexible finger, clasps the twig and supports the creature while pushing it forward. The true legs, which are short and placed too far in front with regard to the length of the body, would find it very difficult by themselves to drag the heavy mass that comes after. Their assistant, the anal finger, is remarkably strong. With no support, the larva turns over, head downwards, and remains suspended when shifting from one sprig to another. This Jack-in-the-bowl is a rope-dancer, a consummate acrobat, performing its evolutions amid the slender sprigs without fear of a fall.

Its attitude in repose is curious. The heavy stern rests on the two hind-legs and especially on the crooked finger, the end of the intestine. The fore-part is lifted in a graceful curve, the little black head is raised and the creature looks rather like the crouching Sphinx of antiquity. This pose is common at times of slumber and blissful digestion in the sun.

An easy prey is this naked, plump, defenceless grub, snoozing in the heat of a blazing day. Various Gnats, of humble size, but very likely terribly treacherous, haunt the foliage of the asparagus. The larva of the Crioceris, motionless in its sphinx-like attitude, does not appear to be on its guard against them, even when they come buzzing above its rump. Can they be as harmless as their peaceful frolics seem to proclaim? It is extremely doubtful: the Fly rabble are not there merely to imbibe the scanty exudations of the plant. Experts in mischief, they have no doubt hastened hither with another object.

And, in truth, on the greater number of the Crioceris-larvae we find, adhering firmly to the skin, certain white specks, very small and of a china-white. Can these be the sowing of a bandit, the spawn of a Midge?

I collect the grubs marked with these white specks and rear them in captivity. A month later, about the middle of June, they shrivel, wrinkle and turn brown. All that is left of them is a dry skin which tears from end to end, half uncovering a Fly-pupa. A few days later, the parasite emerges.

It is a small, greyish Fly, fiercely bristling with sparse hairs, half the size of the House-fly, whom it resembles slightly. It belongs to the Tachina group, who, in their larval form, so often inhabit the bodies of caterpillars.

The white spots sprinkled over the larva of the Crioceris were the eggs of the hateful Fly. The vermin born of those eggs have perforated the victim's paunch. By subtle wounds, which cause little pain and are almost immediately healed, they have penetrated the body, reaching the humours in which the entrails are bathed. At first the larva invaded is not aware of its danger; it continues to perform its rope-dancer's gymnastics, to fill its belly and to take its siestas in the sun, as though nothing serious had occurred.

Reared in a glass tube and often examined under the lens, my parasite-ridden larvae betray no uneasiness. The fact is that the Tachina's children display an infernal judgment in their first actions. Until the moment when they are ready for the transformation, their portion of game has to hold out, must be kept fresh and alive. They therefore gorge themselves with the reserves intended for future use, the fats, the savings which the Crioceris hoards in view of the remodelling whence the perfect insect will emerge; they consume what is not essential to the life of the moment and are very careful not to touch the organs which are indispensable at the present time. If these received a bite, the host would die and so would they. Towards the end of their growth, prudence and discretion being no longer essential, they make a complete clearance of the victim, leaving only the skin, which will serve them for a shelter.

One satisfaction is vouchsafed me in these horrible orgies: I see that the Tachina in her turn is subjected to severe reductions. How many were there on the larva's back? Perhaps eight, ten or more. One Midge, never more than one, comes out of the victim's skin, for the morsel is too small to provide food for many. What has become of the others? Has there been an internecine battle inside the poor wretch's body? Have they eaten one another up, leaving only the strongest to survive, or the one most favoured by the chances of the fight? Or has one of them, earlier developed than the rest, found himself master of the stronghold and have the others preferred to die outside rather than enter a grub already occupied, where famine would be rife if the messmates numbered even two? I am all for mutual extermination. Kinsman's flesh or stranger's flesh must be all one to the fangs of the vermin swarming in the Crioceris' belly.

Fierce though the competition is among these bandits, the Beetle's race does not threaten to die out. I review the innumerable troop on my asparagus-bed. A good half of them have Tachina-eggs plainly visible as tiny white specks on their green skins. The blemished larvae tell me of a paunch already or on the point of being invaded. On the other hand, it is doubtful whether those which are unscathed will all remain in that condition. The malefactor is incessantly prowling around the green plumes, watching for a favourable opportunity. Many larvae free from white spots to-day will show them to-morrow or some other day, so long as the Fly's season lasts.

I estimate that the vast majority of the troop will end by being infested. My rearing-experiments tell me much on this point. If I do not make a careful selection when I am stocking my wire-gauze-covers, if I go to work at random in picking the branches colonized with larvae, I obtain very few adult Crioceres; nearly all of them are resolved into a cloud of Midges.

If it were possible for us to wage war effectually upon an insect, I should advise asparagus-growers to have recourse to the Tachina, though I should cherish no illusions touching the results of the expedient. The exclusive tastes of the insect auxiliary draw us into a vicious circle: the remedy allays the evil, but the evil is inseparable from the remedy. To rid ourselves of the ravages of the asparagus-beds, we should need a great many Tachinae; and to obtain a great many Tachinae we should first of all need a great many ravagers. Nature's equilibrium balances things as a whole. Whenever Crioceres abound, the Midges that reduce them arrive in numbers; when Crioceres become rare, the Midges decrease, but are always ready to return in masses and repress a surplus of the others during a return of prosperity.

Under its thick mantle of ordure the grub of the Lily-beetle escapes the troubles so fatal to its cousin of the asparagus. Strip it of its overcoat: you will never find the terrible white specks upon its skin. The method of preservation is most effective.

Would it not be possible to find a defensive system of equal value without resorting to detestable filth? Yes, of course: the insect need only house itself under a covering where there would be nothing to fear from the Fly's eggs. This is what the Twelve-spotted Crioceris does, occupying the same quarters as the Field Crioceris, from whom she differs in size, being rather larger, and still more in her costume, which is rusty red all over, with twelve black spots distributed symmetrically on the wing-cases.

Her eggs, which are a deep olive-green and cylindrical, pointed at one pole and squared off at the other, closely resemble those of the Field Crioceris and, like these, usually stand up on the supporting surface, to which they are fastened by the square end. It would be easy to confuse the two if we had not the position which they occupy to guide us. The Field Crioceris fastens her eggs to the leaves and the thin sprays; the other plants them exclusively on the still green fruit of the asparagus, globules the size of a pea.

The grubs have to open a tiny passage for themselves and to make their own way into the fruit, of which they eat the pulp. Each globule harbours one larva, no more, or the ration would be insufficient. Often, however, I see two, three or four eggs on the same fruit. The first grub hatched is the one favoured by luck. He becomes the owner of the pill, an intolerant owner capable of wringing the neck of any who should come and sit down at table beside him. Always and everywhere this pitiless competition!

The grub of the Twelve-spotted Crioceris is a dull white, with an interrupted black scarf on the first segment of the thorax. This sedentary creature has none of the talents of the acrobat grazing on the swaying foliage of the asparagus; it cannot take a grip with its posterior, turned into a prehensile finger. What use would it have for such a prerogative, loving repose as it does and destined to put on fat in its cell, without roaming in quest of food? In the same group each species has its own gifts, according to the kind of life that awaits it.

It is not long before the occupied fruit falls to the ground. Day by day, it loses its green colour as the pulp is consumed. It becomes, at last, a pretty, diaphanous opal sphere, while the berries which have not been injured ripen on the plant and acquire a rich scarlet hue.

When there is nothing left to eat inside the skin of its pill, the grub makes a hole in it and goes underground. The Tachinae have spared it. Its opal box, the hard rind of the berry, has ensured its safety just as well as a filthy overcoat would have done and perhaps even better.



CHAPTER XVII THE CRIOCERES (continued)

The Crioceris has found safety inside its opal globe. Safety? Ah, but what an unfortunate expression I have used! Is there any one in the world who can flatter himself that he has escaped the spoiler?

In the middle of July, at the time when the Twelve-spotted Crioceris comes up from under the ground in the adult form, my rearing-jars yield me swarms of a very small Gall-fly, a slender, graceful, blue-black Chalcid, without any visible boring-tool. Has the puny creature a name? Have the nomenclators catalogued it? I do not know, nor do I much care; the main thing is to learn that the covering of the asparagus-berry, which becomes an opal globe when the grub has emptied it, has failed to save the recluse. The Tachina-midge drains her victim by herself; this other, tinier creature feasts in company. Twenty or more of them batten on the grub together.

When everything seems to foretell a quiet life, a pigmy among pigmies appears, charged with the express duty of exterminating an insect which is protected first by the casket of the berry and next by the shell, the underground work of the grub. To eat the Twelve-spotted Crioceris is its mission in life, its special function. When and how does it deliver its attack? I do not know.

At any rate, proud of her vocation and finding life sweet, the Chalcid curls her antennae into a crook and waves them to and fro: she rubs her tarsi together, a sign of satisfaction; she dusts her belly. I can hardly see her with the naked eye; and yet she is an agent of the universal extermination, a wheel in the implacable machine which crushes life as in a wine-press.

The tyranny of the belly turns the world into a robber's cave. Eating means killing. Distilled in the alembic of the stomach, the life destroyed by slaughter becomes so much fresh life. Everything is melted down again, everything has a fresh beginning in death's insatiable furnace.

Man, from the alimentary point of view, is the chief brigand, consuming everything that lives or might live. Here is a mouthful of bread, the sacred food. It represents a certain number of grains of wheat which asked only to sprout, to turn green in the sun, to shoot up into tall stalks crowned with ears. They died that we might live. Here are some eggs. Left undisturbed with the Hen, they would have emitted the Chickens' gentle cheep. They died that we might live. Here is beef, mutton, poultry. Horror, it smells of blood, it is eloquent of murder! If we gave it a thought, we should not dare to sit down to table, that altar of cruel sacrifices.

How many lives does the Swallow, to mention only the most peaceable, harvest in the course of a single day! From morning to evening he gulps down Crane-flies, Gnats and Midges joyously dancing in the sunbeams. Quick as lightning he passes; and the dancers are decimated. They perish; then their melancholy remnants fall from the nest containing the young brood, in the form of guano which becomes the turf's inheritance. And so it is with all and everything, with large and small, from end to end of the animal progression. A perpetual massacre perpetuates the flux of life.

Appalled by these butcheries, the thinker begins to dream of a state of affairs which would free us from the horrors of the maw. This ideal of innocence, as our poor nature vaguely sees it, is not an impossibility; it is partly realized for all of us, men and animals.

Breathing is the most imperious of needs. We live by the air before we live by bread; and this happens of itself, without painful struggles, without costly labour, almost without our knowledge. We do not set out, armed for war, to conquer the air by rapine, violence, cunning, barter and desperate labour; the supreme element of life enters our bodies of its own accord; it penetrates us and quickens us. Each of us has his generous share of it without giving the matter a thought.

To crown perfection, it is free. And this will last indefinitely until an ever ingenious Treasury invents distributing-taps and pneumatic receivers from which the air will be doled out to us at so much a piston-stroke. Let us hope that we shall be spared this particular item of scientific progress, for that, woe betide us, would be the end of all things: the tax would kill the tax-payer!

Chemistry, in its lighter moods, promises us, in the future, pills containing the concentrated essence of food. These cunning compounds, the product of our laboratories, would not end our longing to possess a stomach no more burdensome than our lungs and to feed even as we breathe.

The plant partly knows this secret: it draws its carbon quietly from the air, in which each leaf is impregnated with the wherewithal to grow tall and green. But the vegetable is inactive; hence its innocent life. Action calls for strongly flavoured spices, won by fighting. The animal acts; therefore it kills. The highest phase, perhaps, of a self-conscious intelligence, man, deserving nothing better, shares with the brute the tyranny of the belly as the irresistible motive of action.

But I have wandered too far afield. A living speck, swarming in the paunch of a grub, tells us of the brigandage of life. How well it understands its trade as an exterminator! In vain does the Crioceris-larva take refuge in an unassailable casket: its executioner makes herself so small that she is able to reach it.

Adopt such precautions as you please, you pitiable grubs, pose on your sprigs in the attitude of a threatening Sphinx, take refuge in the mysteries of a box, arm yourself with a cuirass of dung: you will none the less pay your tribute in the pitiless conflict; there will always be operators who, varying in cunning, in size, in implements, will inoculate you with their deadly germs.

Not even the lily-dweller, with her dirty ways, is safe. Her grub is as often the prey of another Tachina, larger than that of the Field Crioceris. The parasite, I am convinced, does not sow her eggs upon the victim so long as the latter is wrapped in its repulsive great-coat; but a moment's imprudence gives her a favourable opportunity.

When the time comes for the grub to bury itself in the ground, there to undergo the transformation, it lays aside its mantle, with the object perhaps of easing itself when it descends from the top of the plant, or else with the object of taking a bath in that kindly sunlight whereof it has hitherto tasted so little under its moist coverlet. This naked journey over the leaves, the last joy of its larval life, is fatal to the traveller. Up comes the Tachina, who, finding a clean skin, all sleek with fat, loses no time in dabbing her eggs upon it.

A census of the intact and of the injured larvae provides us with particulars which agree with what we foresaw from the nature of their respective lives. The most exposed to parasites is the Field Crioceris, whose larva lives in the open air, without any sort of protection. Next comes the Twelve-spotted Crioceris, who is established in the asparagus-berry from her early infancy. The most favoured is the Lily-beetle, who, while a grub, makes an ulster of her excretions.

For the second time, we are here confronted by three insects which look as if they had all come out of one mould, so much are they alike in shape. If the costumes were not different and the sizes dissimilar, we should not know how to tell one from another. And this pronounced resemblance in figure is accompanied by a no less pronounced lack of resemblance in instinct.

The evacuator that soils its back cannot have inspired the hermit living in cleanly retirement inside its globe; the occupant of the asparagus-berry did not advise the third to live in the open and wander like an acrobat through the leafage. None of the three has initiated the customs of the other two. All this seems to me as clear as daylight. If they have issued from the same stock, how have they acquired such dissimilar talents?

Furthermore, have these talents developed by degrees? The Lily-beetle is prepared to tell us. Her grub, let us suppose, once conceived the notion, when tormented by the Tachina, of making the stercoral slit open above. By accident, with no definite purpose in view, it emptied the contents of its intestine over its back. The natty Fly hesitated in the presence of this filth. The grub, in its cunning, recognized, as time went on, the benefit to be derived from its poultice; and what at first was an unpremeditated pollution became a prudent custom.

As success followed upon success, with the aid of the centuries, of course, for these inventions always take centuries, the dung overcoat was extended from the hinder end to the fore-part, right down to the forehead. Finding itself the gainer by this invention, setting the parasite at defiance under its coverlet, the grub made a strict law of what was an accident; and the Crioceris faithfully handed down the repulsive great-coat to her offspring.

So far this is not so bad. But things now begin to become complicated. If the insect was really the inventor of its defensive methods, if it discovered for itself the advantage of hiding under its ordure, I look to its ingenuity to keep up the tricks until the precise moment has come for burying itself. But, on the contrary, it undresses itself some time beforehand; it wanders about naked, taking the air on the leaves, at a time when its fair round belly is more than ever likely to tempt the Fly. It completely forgets, on its last day, the prudence which it acquired by the long apprenticeship of the centuries.

This sudden change of purpose, this heedlessness in the face of danger tells me that the insect forgets nothing, because it has learnt nothing, because it has invented nothing. When the instincts were being distributed, it received as its share the overcoat, of whose methods it is ignorant, though it benefits by its advantages. It has not acquired it by successive stages, followed by a sudden halt at the most dangerous moment, the moment most calculated to inspire it with distrust; it is no more and no less gifted than it was in the beginning and is unable in any way to alter its tactics against the Tachina and its other enemies.

Nevertheless, we must not be in a hurry to attribute to the garment of filth the exclusive function of protecting the grub against the parasite. It is difficult to see in what respect the Lily-grub is more deserving than the Asparagus-grub, which possesses no defensive arts. Perhaps it is less fruitful and, to make up for the poverty of the ovaries, boasts an ingenuity which safeguards the race. Nor is there anything to tell us that the soft coverlet is not at the same time a shelter which screens a too sensitive skin from the sun. And, if it were a mere fal-lal, a furbelow of larval coquetry, even that would not surprise me. The insect has tastes which we cannot judge by our own. Let us end with a doubt and proceed.

May is not over when the grub, now fully-grown, leaves the lily and buries itself at the foot of the plant, at no great depth. Working with its head and rump, it forces back the earth and makes itself a round recess, the size of a pea. To turn the cell into a hollow pill which will not be liable to collapse, all that remains for it to do is to drench the wall with a glue which soon sets and grips the sand.

To observe this work of consolidation, I unearth some unfinished cells and make an opening which enables me to watch the grub at work. The hermit is at the window in a moment. A stream of froth pours from his mouth like beaten-up white of egg. He slavers, spits profusely; he makes his product effervescence and lays it on the edge of the breach. With a few spurts of froth the opening is plugged.

I collect other grubs at the moment of their interment and install them in glass tubes with a few tiny bits of paper which will serve them as a prop. There is no sand, no building-material other than the creature's spittle and my very few shreds of paper. Under these conditions can the pill-shaped cell be constructed?

Yes, it can; and without much difficulty. Supporting itself partly on the glass, partly on the paper, the larva begins to slaver all around it, to froth copiously. After a spell of some hours, it has disappeared within a solid shell. This is white as snow and highly porous; it might almost be a globule of whipped albumen. Thus, to stick together the sand in its pill-shaped nest, the larva employs a frothy albuminous substance.

Let us now dissect the builder. Around the oesophagus, which is fairly long and soft, are no salivary glands, no silk-tubes. The frothy cement is therefore neither silk nor saliva. One organ forces itself upon our attention: it is the crop, which is very capacious, and dilated with irregular protuberances that put it out of shape. It is filled with a colourless, viscous fluid. This is certainly the raw material of the frothy spittle, the glue that binds the grains of sand together and consolidates them into a spherical whole.

When the preparations for the metamorphosis are at hand, the stomachic pouch, having no longer to do duty as a digestive laboratory, serves the insect as a factory, or a warehouse for different purposes. Here the Sitares store up their uric waste products; here the Capricorns collect the chalky paste which becomes the stone lid for the entrance to the cell; here caterpillars keep in reserve the gums and powders with which they strengthen the cocoon; hence the Hymenoptera draw the lacquer which they employ to upholster their silken edifice. And now we find the Lily-beetle using it as a store for frothy cement.[1] What an obliging organ is this digestive pouch!

[Footnote 1: This subject is continued in the essay on the Foamy Cicadella. Cf. The Life of the Grasshopper: chap. xx.—Translator's Note.]

The two Asparagus-beetles are likewise proficient dribblers, worthy rivals of their kinswoman of the lily in the matter of building. In all three cases the underground shell has the same shape and the same structure.

When, after a subterranean visit of two months' duration, the Lily-beetle returns to the surface in her adult form, a botanical problem remains to be solved before the history of the insect is completed. We are now at the height of summer. The lilies have had their day. A dry, leafless stick, surmounted by a few tattered capsules, is all that is left of the magnificent plant of the spring. Only the onion-like bulb remains a little way down. There, postponing the process of vegetation, it waits for the steady rains of the autumn, which will renew its strength and make it burgeon into a sheaf of leaves.

How does the Lily-beetle live during the summer, before the return of the green foliage dear to its race? Does it fast during the extreme heat? If abstinence is its rule of life in this season of vegetable dearth, why does it emerge from underground, why does it abandon its shell, where it could sleep so peacefully, without the necessity of eating? Can it be need of food that drives it from the substratum and sends it to the sunlight so soon as the wing-cases have assumed their vermilion hue? It is very likely. For the rest, let us look into the matter.

On the ruined stems of my white lilies I find a portion covered with a scrap of green skin. I set it before the prisoners in my jars, who emerged from their sandy bed a day or two ago. They attack it with an appetite which is extremely conclusive; the green morsel is stripped bare to the wood. Soon I have nothing left, in the way of their regulation diet, to offer my famished captives. I know that all the lilies, native or exotic, the Turk's cap lily, or Martagon, the lily of Chalcedon, the tiger lily and many others, are to their taste; I do not forget that the crown imperial fritillary and the Persian fritillary are equally welcome; but most of these delicate plants have refused the hospitality of my two acres of pebbles and those which it is more or less possible for me to grow are now as tattered as the common lily. There is not a patch of green left on them.