Insect life: Souvenirs of a naturalist

by Jean-Henri Fabre

DUNG BEETLES GATHERING PROVENDER

Provender being gathered, the next thing is to retire from the mêlée, and carry it to a fitting place. Now we see some of the most characteristic habits of the Scarabæus. He sets out at once, embracing the ball with the long hind legs, whose talons, planted in the mass, serve as pivots—leans on the intermediary legs as pivots, and using as levers the flat of the toothed forefeet, which press the ground alternately, journeys backward with his load, the body bent, the head low, and the hinder part upraised. The hind feet, which are the chief organs in the mechanism, move continually, going and coming and changing the place where the talons are stuck in, to alter the axis of rotation, to keep the load balanced and advance by an alternate push right and left. Thus the ball comes in contact with the ground in every part of it, which gives it a perfect shape and lends consistency to the outer layer by a uniform pressure. Courage! it moves, it rolls, and the journey’s end will be reached, though not without trouble. Here is a first difficulty. The beetle [[8]]has to cross a slope, and the heavy ball would naturally follow the incline, but for reasons best known to itself, the insect prefers to cross this natural slope—an audacious plan, which one false step or a grain of sand to upset the balance will defeat. The false step is made, the ball rolls to the bottom of the valley, and the insect, upset by the impetus of its load, staggers, gets again on its legs, and hastens to harness itself afresh. The mechanism works capitally. But look out, scatterbrain! follow the hollow of the valley, it will spare labour and misadventure. The road is good and quite level, and your ball will roll along with no exertion. Not a bit of it. The insect has made up its mind to remount the slope already so fatal to it. Perhaps it suits it to return to the heights. Against that I have nothing to say, the Scarabæus knows better than I do whether it be advisable to dwell in lofty regions. At all events, take this path which will lead you up by a gentle incline. Not at all. If there be near at hand some very stiff slope impossible to climb, then that slope this wrong-headed insect prefers. Then begins the labour of Sisyphus. With endless precautions the monstrous load is painfully hoisted, step by step to a certain height, the beetle always going tail first. One asks one’s self by what miracle of statics such a mass can be kept on the slope. Ah! a clumsy movement brings all this toil to naught. Down goes the ball, dragging the beetle with it. The escalade is repeated, soon followed by a fresh fall. The attempt is renewed, and better managed at the difficult points; a nasty grass-root, which occasioned the previous tumbles, is prudently [[9]]turned; we have almost got to the top. But gently! gently! the ascent is perilous, and a mere nothing may ruin all. A leg slips on a bit of smooth gravel, and ball and scavenger roll down together. The beetle begins all over again, with tireless obstinacy. Ten times, twenty times, will it attempt that further ascent, until persistency vanquishes all obstacles, or until, better advised, it takes the level road.

The scavenger does not always roll his ball single-handed, but frequently takes a partner, or rather, a partner takes him. The affair is usually managed thus: the ball being prepared, a beetle comes out of the throng, pushing it backwards. One of the newcomers, whose own work is hardly begun, leaves its task and runs to the ball, now in motion, to lend a hand to the lucky proprietor, who appears to accept the proffered aid in an amiable spirit. The two work as partners, each doing its best to convey the ball to a place of safety. Was a treaty made in the workshop, a tacit agreement to share the cake? While one kneaded and shaped, was the other tapping rich veins whence to extract choice material for their common use? I have never observed such collaboration, but have always seen every beetle exclusively occupied by his own affairs on the field of labour, so that the last comer has no acquired rights.

Is it, then, an association of the two sexes, a couple about to set up house? For a time I thought so. The two scavengers pushing a ball, one before and one behind, with equal zeal, used to remind me of certain couplets once on a time popular on barrel-organs—

Pour monter notre ménage, hélas comment ferons-nous?

Toi devant, moi derrière, nous pousserons le tonneau.

[[10]]

But the evidence of the scalpel forces me to give up this family idyll. There is no outward sign of sex in the Scarabæus, but on dissecting a couple employed on one and the same ball they often turned out to be of the same sex. In fact, there is neither community of family nor community of labour. What, then, is the reason of the apparent partnership? Merely an attempt at filching. The eager fellow-worker, under pretence of giving a helping hand, cherishes the project of carrying off the ball at the earliest opportunity. To make one for itself at the heap demands labour and patience; to abstract a ready-made one, or at least to foist one’s self in as a sharer of the feast, is much more convenient. If the owner’s watchfulness should slacken, one will flee with the treasure; if too closely looked after, one can at least sit down at table on the pretext of services rendered. With such tactics all turns to profit, so that pillage is carried on as one of the most lucrative of trades. Some, as I have just said, play an underhand game, hastening to the aid of some comrade who has not the least need of them, and under the cloak of charitable assistance conceal a highly indelicate greed. Others, bolder or more confident in their strength, go straight to the goal and rob by main force. Every moment some such scene as this will take place. A beetle departs alone, rolling his ball, his own property, acquired by conscientious labour; another comes flying, whence I know not, drops heavily, folds his smoky wings under their elytra, and with the back of his toothed feet oversets the proprietor, which, being hindside before, cannot defend itself. While the latter [[11]]struggles to its feet the aggressor stations itself on the top of the ball, as a point of vantage whence to repel attack, folds its feet under its breast, ready for action, and awaits events. The bereaved owner moves round the ball, seeking a favourable point whence to attempt an assault; the thief revolves on the top of the citadel, constantly facing him. If the former raises itself for an escalade, the latter gives it a cuff which stretches it flat on its back. Secure on the top of the fortress, the besieged would bring to nought for all time the efforts of its adversary to recover its lost property if the besieger did not alter his tactics. Sapping threatens to bring down both citadel and garrison. The ball being undermined, staggers and rolls, carrying with it the robber, struggling his hardest to keep at the top, which he generally succeeds in doing, thanks to the hurried gymnastics that enable him to regain the altitude lost by the rotation of his standing place. If a false movement should bring him to the ground, the chances become equal, and the contest turns to a wrestling match. Robber and robbed grapple body to body, breast to breast. Their feet twist and untwist, their joints intertwine, their horny armour clashes and grinds with the harsh sound of filed metal. Then one will succeed in throwing its adversary on the back, and, freeing itself, hastily takes up a position on the top of the ball, and the siege is recommenced, now by the robber, now by the robbed, as the chances of the fight may have decided. The former, no doubt a hardy brigand and adventurer, often gets the best of it. After two or three defeats the ex-owner wearies of the contest [[12]]and returns philosophically to the heap and makes a new ball. As for the other, when all fear of a surprise is over, he harnesses himself to the conquered ball and pushes it whither it seems good to him. I have occasionally seen a third thief rob the robber. And upon my word I was not sorry.

Vainly do I ask myself what Prudhon introduced into Scarabæus-morality the audacious paradox that “Property spells theft,” or what diplomatist taught the dung-beetle that “they may take who have the power, and they may keep who can.” I have not the evidence required to lead me to the origin of these spoliations which have become a habit, or of this abuse of strength in order to seize a ball of dirt. All that I can affirm is that among beetles theft is universal. These dung rollers pillage one another with a cool effrontery really matchless. I leave it to future observers to elucidate this curious problem in the psychology of animals, and return to the couple rolling their balls in partnership.