From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

When the fur has been cleaned, and, if necessary, brushed into sleekness, the monkeys begin to think of breakfast. This presents no difficulty, for they refuse nothing that is edible, and a tax is levied on the animal and the vegetable kingdom alike. Forest and mountainous districts afford fruits, leaf and flower buds, birds’ nests with eggs or young, snails and grubs; gardens yield fruit and vegetables, fields supply cereals and pulses. Here a ripening ear is broken off, there a juicy fruit is gathered, in the tree a bird’s nest is plundered, on the ground a stone is turned over, in a settlement a garden is stripped or a field robbed, and something is carried away from all. If he has time, every single monkey destroys ten times as much as he eats, and can therefore very materially damage the produce of the farmer, gardener, or fruit-grower. At the beginning of an expedition each monkey, in his anxiety to secure himself a meal whatever may happen, devours almost indiscriminately whatever he can reach; then, if he possesses cheek-pouches, he stuffs these as full as possible; but as soon as his most pressing necessities are relieved, he selects and criticises every bite, carefully examining and smelling every fruit he plucks, every ear he breaks, before eating it, and indeed in most cases simply throwing one thing after another carelessly away to seize something different, which as often as not is rejected in its turn. “We sow, and the monkeys reap,” the inhabitants of the Eastern Soudan complained to me, and with justice. Against thieves like these, neither fence nor wall, lock nor bolt, are sufficient protection; they climb the first, and open the last; and what they cannot eat they carry away. It is at once amusing and painful to watch them feeding, for then, as at all times, their behaviour is a mixture of boldness and artfulness, bravado and cunning, love of enjoyment and caution, and indeed also of trickery and spitefulness, impudence and malevolence. All their skill and dexterity is brought into play when an undertaking seems dangerous. They run, climb, leap, if need be even swim to overcome obstacles; but in no case do they forget their care for their individual safety. The commander always leads the way, and coaxes, calls, chides, warns, cries, scolds, and punishes as seems to him good; the herd follows and obeys, but without ever entirely trusting him. In danger every member of the herd looks out for its own safety, rejoining the leader after that is assured; the mothers with a young one at their breasts, or on their backs, are an exception, for they are, or seem to be, less concerned about their own safety than that of their child.

When their expeditions are not attended with danger they often rest, and give the young ones opportunity to amuse themselves together; but when there is any danger they finish their expedition and then enjoy a period of rest and relaxation, during which they often indulge in a siesta to help their digestion. In the afternoon they set out on another foraging expedition; towards sundown they repair to their usual sleeping-place, which is as far as possible out of the reach of beasts of prey, and, after prolonged wrangling and disputing, scolding and brawling, they seek their well-earned rest.

Apart from occasional compulsory or apparently profitable migrations, the order of the day above described suffers little change. Reproduction, which brings about such marked changes in the lives of other animals, has very little influence on that of the monkeys, for it is limited to no special time, and the mothers carry their young ones with them wherever they go. The young ones, of which most species produce only one at a birth, come into the world as well-developed creatures, with open eyes, but according to our ideas they are extremely ugly, and, notwithstanding their comparatively advanced development, very helpless creatures.[68] They appear ugly because their wrinkled faces and wide open, lively eyes give them the expression of an old man, and their short hair makes their long fore limbs look longer than they really are; they show themselves helpless in that they can make no use of these limbs except to attach themselves to their mother’s breast. Here they hang, with arms and hands round her neck, legs and feet round her hips, without seeming to move anything but their heads for weeks together, and the mother is therefore able, without being appreciably burdened, to go about her ordinary affairs, and wanders as usual along the most breakneck paths, or indulges in the boldest leaps. After some time, rarely within a month, the little ones begin to attempt some movements, but perform them so awkwardly that they excite pity rather than laughter. Perhaps because of this very helplessness, the little monsters are watched and handled by their mothers with such tenderness that the expression “monkey-love” is fully justified. Every monkey mother finds constant occupation in looking after her baby. Now she licks it, now cleans its coat, now lays it to her breast, now holds it in both hands as if she wished to feast her eyes on it, and now she rocks it as if to lull it to sleep. If she sees that she is watched she turns away, as if she grudged anyone else a sight of her darling. When it is older and able to move about it is sometimes allowed to leave its mother’s breast for a little, and to play with others like itself, but it remains meanwhile under strict control, and, if it does not obey instantly, is punished with slaps and pinches. The maternal care extends even to the food. Greedy as the mother generally is, she divides every bite with her young one, yet she does not allow it to hurt itself by too hasty or immoderate eating, but interferes, in such a case, with motherly prudence. But there is rarely any necessity for such interference or for severe punishment, for the monkey-child is obedient enough to be held up as an example to many a human one. Very touching is the conduct of the mother when her little one is obviously suffering; if it dies she is in despair. For hours, even days, she carries the little corpse about with her, refuses all nourishment, sits indifferently in the same spot, and often literally pines to death.[69] The young monkey itself is incapable of such deep grief, and it is also better taken care of than most other animals if it loses its mother. For the next best member of the band, whether male or female, possessed by that love of mothering something, which is strong in all monkeys, takes charge of the little orphan and caresses it warmly. Unfortunately, however, the foster-parent is often at war with its better self about its beloved food, and it may leave a young one, not old enough to help itself, to pine with hunger, perhaps even to die of starvation.

It is difficult, if not impossible, to say anything of general application about the talents of monkeys, because these vary as widely as the animals themselves. Some traits are indeed common to all, but most of their characteristics vary considerably in the different species. A disposition which in one is scarcely observable is pronounced in another, a trait which is prominent here is sought for in vain there. But if we compare the different families, groups, and species together, we shall observe a surprising, because unsuspected gradation of talents and abilities. It is instructive to proceed in this way.

Fig. 43.—Common Marmoset or Ouistiti (Hapale Jacchus).

We must regard the graceful, little, clawed monkeys or marmosets of South and Central America as the least developed members of the monkey order. They have the same dentition as the higher monkeys, but they have flat nails only on the large toe, while on all the other toes and the fingers they have narrow claw-like nails, which place their hands and feet, or the former at any rate, on the level of paws. These outward features correspond to their mental endowments. Monkeyhood, we may say, has not reached its full development in the family of marmosets. Not only in form and colour, but in their carriage, in their whole character and behaviour, even in their voice, they remind us of the rodents. They seldom sit upright, and at the best are rather like squirrels than like other monkeys; they prefer to stand on all-fours with the body horizontal; they do not climb easily and freely, with hands and feet clasping the branch, like others of their order, but, sticking their claws into it, they press close to it and glide along, not of course slowly or unskilfully, but rather as rodents than as monkeys. Their voice, too, is quite different from that of all the higher monkeys; it is a whistling in high notes which now reminds one of the chirping of a bird, now of the squeaking of rats and mice, but perhaps most of all of the sound made by the guinea-pig. Their behaviour generally is decidedly rodent-like. They exhibit the uneasiness and restlessness, the curiosity, shyness, and timidity, the inconstancy of squirrels. Their little heads only remain a few seconds in one position, and their dark eyes are directed now towards this object now towards that, but always hastily, and obviously without comprehension, although they seem to look out on the world intelligently enough. Every action they perform shows their slight power of judgment. As if without will, they act on the suggestion of the moment; they forget what they have just been doing as soon as their attention is diverted, and they prove just as fickle in the expression of their contentment as of their displeasure. At one moment they are good-humoured, apparently quite satisfied with their lot, perhaps grateful for caresses from a friendly hand, the next they are snarling at their keeper just as if their lives were in danger, showing their teeth, and trying to bite. As irritable and excitable as all monkeys and rodents, they yet lack the individuality which every higher monkey exhibits, for one acts exactly like another, without originality and always in a somewhat commonplace fashion. They have all the attributes of cowards—the complaining voice, the reluctance to adapt themselves to the inevitable, the whining acceptance of all circumstances, the morbidly suspicious habit of finding in every action of another creature some hostility to themselves, the desire to swagger while in reality they carefully keep out of the way of every real or supposed danger, and an incapacity either to make resolutions or to carry them out. Just because there is so little of the true monkey about them they are preferred by women and despised by men.

On a decidedly higher level stand the Broad-nosed or New-World monkeys, which also inhabit America, though even in these, the full character of the true monkey is not attained. The dentition numbers a molar more on each side of the jaws than in the higher apes, thus there are thirty-six teeth instead of thirty-two; all the fingers and toes have flat nails; the body seems more slender than it is, because the limbs are very long; the tail is used, in many cases, as a powerful grasping-organ. The one-sidedness of their development is very characteristic. Exclusively arboreal like the marmosets, they are awkward, even clumsy when away from the branches of the trees. On the ground their gait is extremely ungainly, uncertain, and tottering, particularly in those species which have a prehensile tail, but even their climbing does not come at all near that of the Old-World monkeys. For increase of the number of organs of locomotion does not necessarily result in increased power, still less in greater variety of movement; on the contrary, it often means one-sidedness, and it certainly does so in the case of the New-World monkeys. Their prehensile tail is not to them a fifth, but a first hand, used in hanging or fixing the body, in lifting things or dragging them along, and so on; but it does not make their movements more rapid or free, it adds to safety but not to agility. Thanks to the constant use of the tail, its owner never runs a risk of falling from the lofty branches—safe because high—to the dangerous ground beneath, but neither is he able to make any free or daring movement. Slowly he sends his prehensile tail in advance of every step, always catching hold with it first, and only then letting go with hands or feet. Thus he binds himself to the branch rather than climbs upon it, and never thinks of attempting a leap whose success is in the least doubtful. In this constant carefulness for his own precious person the broad-nosed monkey impresses one not so much with his prudence as with his slowness, and it is noteworthy that the whole character of the New-World monkeys bears this out. Their voice is not quite so monotonous as that of the marmosets, but it is unpleasant, not to say tiresome. It runs through many grades, from a whine to a roar, but it has, invariably, a mournful character, and the whole demeanour of the animal, when it cries, is pessimistic. After a cool, dewy night, the morning sun shines warm and golden through the trees, and a thousand-toned song of joy and greeting leaps forth in welcome from a million throats. The howlers prepare to offer their tribute of praise also. But how? They have climbed to the dry top branches of a giant tree which rises high above its fellows, have fastened themselves securely by their tails, and are warming themselves comfortably in the sunshine. Then a feeling of well-being moves them to raise their voices. One of them, distinguished, it is said, by a specially high, shrill voice, acts as leader, and, looking fixedly at his companions, begins to chant. The rest look at him with the same motionless vacant stare and join in; and frightfully their song resounds through the forest, now grunting, now howling, now snarling, now rattling, as if all the beasts of the forest were waging deadly warfare. The astounding performance begins with a bellowing solo; these bellowings become louder, follow each other more rapidly as the excitement of the singer—which is probably present though not apparent—increases and spreads to other members of the community; then they change into howling and roaring, and they end as they began. If one looks at the long-bearded, serious singers one can scarcely keep from smiling; but soon the indescribable discords they produce become as wearisome as their monotonous climbing, or rather creeping movements. What one does another imitates, but whatever they may do, howsoever they may act, their behaviour is always monotonous. Very much like these, or not essentially different, are all the monkeys with prehensile tails; though a few prominent members of the family, the Capuchin monkeys for instance, are rather more free and independent. In general, they are as heavy mentally as physically—usually very gentle, good-natured, and confiding, but stupid, peevish, fretful, and some of them obstinate, malicious, and spiteful. They thus stand considerably higher than the marmosets, but far below the Old-World monkeys. Probably it would hardly be doing them injustice to say that they possess the bad qualities without the good qualities of their Old-World cousins. Their gentleness and good-nature—apart from the fact that these are not found in all the species, do not in the least make up for their general lack of enterprise, boldness, cheerfulness, liveliness, and decision, circumspection and ingenuity—qualities which place the Old-World monkeys so high—while their everlasting whining and complaining counterbalance, in our eyes, all the qualities which might attract us to them.

Fig. 44.—Red Howling Monkeys (Mycetes seniculus).