It would take a cataclysm to upset the smug [[270]]hermit. This cataclysm I bring about by opening the cell. Then and there, the grub begins to twist and wriggle desperately, hating any exposure to the air and light. It takes more than an hour to recover from its excitement. Here assuredly is a grub that will never be tempted to leave its home and go wandering about like the Cionus’ larva. It is most highly domestic by inheritance and domestic it will remain.
It refuses even to go next door. In the same capsule, on the other side of the partition, a neighbour is nibbling away. Never does it pay the neighbour a visit, though it could easily do so by perforating the partition, which at this moment is an actual sort of cake, no less tender than the seeds and the placenta. Each holds the other’s share of the capsule inviolable. On the one hand is one grub; on the other hand is another; and never do the two hold the least communication through the little skylight. A grub’s home is its castle.
The Gymnetron is so happy in her cell that she stays there a long time after assuming her adult form. For ten months out of the twelve she does not leave it. In April, when the buds of the new twigs are swelling, she pierces the natal capsule, now a mighty donjon; she comes out and revels in the sun on the recent flower-spikes, which grow daily longer and thicker; she frisks in couples and, in May, establishes her family, which will [[271]]obstinately repeat the sedentary habits of the elders.
With these data before us, let us philosophize awhile. Every Weevil spends its larval life on the spot where the egg was laid. Various larvæ, it is true, when the time of metamorphosis approaches, migrate and make their way underground. The Brachycerus abandons its clove of garlic, the Balaninus its nut or acorn, the Rhynchites its vine-leaf or poplar-leaf cigar, the Ceuthorhynchus its cabbage stalk. But these instances of desertion on the part of grubs which have attained their full growth do not in any way invalidate the rule: all Weevil-larvæ grow up in the actual place where they are born.
Now here, by a most unexpected change of tactics, the Cionus-grub, while still quite young, quits its natal cell, the capsule of the mullein; it longs for the outer world, that it may browse in the open air on the bark of a twig; and this entails upon it two inventions elsewhere unknown: the sticky coat, which gives it a firm hold when it moves from place to place, and the gold-beater’s-skin ampulla, which serves to house the nymph.
What is the cause of this aberration? Two theories are suggested, one based on decadence, the other on progress. Of old, we tell ourselves, the mother Cionus, far back in the ages, used to obey the conventions of her tribe. Like the other Weevils that munch unripe seeds, she favoured [[272]]large capsules, enough to feed a sedentary family. Later, by inadvertence or flightiness or for some other reason, she turned her attention to the stingy scollop-leaved mullein. Faithful to ancient custom she rightly chose for her domain a plant of the same family as that which she first exploited; but it unfortunately happens that the mullein adopted is incapable of feeding a single grub in its fruit, which is too small for the purpose. The mother’s ineptitude has led to decadence; the perils of a wandering life have taken the place of a peaceful, sedentary existence. The species is on the high road to extinction.
Again, we might argue as follows, at the outset, the Cionus had the scallop-leaved mullein as her portion; but, since the grubs do not thrive when thus installed, the mother is searching for a better means of setting them up in life. Gradual experiment will one day show her the way. From time to time, indeed, I find her on Vervascum maiale or Verbascum thapsus, both of which have large capsules; only she is there by accident, in the course of a trip, thinking of obtaining a good drink and not of laying her eggs. Sooner or later, the future will establish her there for the sake of her family. The species is in process of improvement.
By dressing up the matter in uncouth phrases, calculated to conceal the vagueness of the thought behind them, we might represent the Cionus as [[273]]a magnificent example of the changes which the centuries bring about in the habits of insects. This would sound extremely learned, but would it be very intelligible? I doubt it. When my eyes fall upon a page bristling with barbarous and so-called scientific locution, I say to myself:
‘Take care! The author has not quite grasped what he is saying, or he would have found, in the vocabulary hammered out by so many brilliant minds, words that would express his thought more plainly.’
Boileau,[3] who has been denied poetic inspiration, but who certainly possessed common-sense and plenty of it, tells us: