Insect life: Souvenirs of a naturalist

by Jean-Henri Fabre

[To face p. 12.

GEOTRUPES STERCORARIUS FIGHTING FOR THE PELLET

But first let us dissipate an error current in books. In the magnificent work of M. Emile Blanchard, Metamorphoses, Habits, and Instincts of Animals, I find the following passage: “Sometimes our insect is stopped by an insurmountable obstacle: the ball has fallen into a hole. At such a time the Ateuchus[1] displays a really astonishing grasp of the situation, and a yet more astonishing power of communication between individuals of the same species. Recognising the impossibility of getting the ball over the obstacle, the Ateuchus seemingly abandons it, and flies away. If you are sufficiently endowed [[13]]with that great and noble virtue called Patience, remain near this forsaken ball. After a while the Ateuchus will return, and not alone; it will be followed by two, three, or four companions who, alighting at the appointed spot, will join in trying to lift up the load. The Ateuchus has been to seek reinforcements, and this explains why several beetles uniting to transport a single ball is such a common sight in dry fields.” I also read in Illiger’s Entomological Magazine: “A Gymnopleurus pilularius,[2] while constructing the ball of dung destined to contain its eggs, let it roll into a hole, whence the insect tried long and vainly to extract it. Finding this only waste of time, he hastened to a neighbouring heap of manure to seek three of his kind, which, uniting their efforts to his, succeeded in getting out the ball, and then went back to their own work.”

I humbly beg pardon of my illustrious master, M. Blanchard, but assuredly things do not happen thus. First, the two accounts are so much alike that they must have had a common origin. After observations not followed up closely enough to merit blind confidence, Illiger put forward the story of his Gymnopleurus, and the same fact has been attributed to the Scarabæus because it really is a common thing to find two of these insects busy rolling a ball, or getting it out of some difficult position. But the partnership does not at all prove that one went to ask help from the other in some difficulty. I have had a large measure of the patience [[14]]recommended by M. Blanchard; I may claim to have spent long days in the intimacy of Scarabæus sacer; I have tried every means to comprehend its manners and customs, and to study them from life, and never did I see anything which suggested that one had called its companions to its aid. As I shall presently relate, I have put the dung-beetle to proofs far more serious than that of a ball fallen into a hole, and into far graver difficulties than having to climb a slope—a thing which is mere sport for the obstinate Sisyphus, who seems to enjoy the rough gymnastics required by steep places, as if the ball grew thereby firmer, and therefore more valuable. I have invented situations where the insect had extreme need of help, and never could I detect any proof of good offices between comrades. I have seen pillaged and pillagers, and nothing else. If a number of beetles surrounded the same ball, it meant battle. My humble opinion is that several Scarabæi gathered round a pellet with intent to thieve was what gave rise to these stories of comrades called in to give a helping hand. Incomplete observations have turned an audacious robber into a serviceable companion who put his own work aside to do a friendly turn. It is no slight thing to admit that an insect has a truly surprising grasp of the situation and a facility of communication between individuals more surprising still; therefore I insist on this point, Are we to suppose that a Scarabæus in distress conceives the idea of begging for help?—flies off, explores the country round to find comrades at work on a dropping, and having found them, by some pantomime, especially by movements of the antennæ, addresses them more [[15]]or less thus: “Hullo, you there! My load is upset in a hole yonder; come and help me to get it out. I will do as much for you another time.” And are we to suppose too that his colleagues understand him? And, more wonderful still, that they leave their work, their ball newly begun, their beloved ball, exposed to the greed of others, and certain to be filched during their absence, in order to help the supplicant! I am profoundly incredulous of so much self-sacrifice, and my incredulity is borne out by all which I have seen during many long years, not in collection boxes, but on the spots where the Scarabæi work. Outside of the cares of maternity—cares in which it almost always shows itself admirable, the Insect—unless, indeed, it lives in society like bees and ants and some others—thinks and cares for nothing but itself.

Let us drop this discussion, excused by the importance of the subject. I have already said that a Scarabæus, owner of a ball which it is pushing backwards, is often joined by another which hastens to its aid with interested views, ready to rob if it gets the chance. Let us call the pair associates, though that is hardly the name for them, since one forces itself on the other, who perhaps only accepts help for fear of worse. The meeting is, however, perfectly peaceable. The arrival of the assistant does not distract the proprietor for an instant from his labours; the newcomer seems animated by the best intentions, and instantly sets to work. The way they harness themselves is different for each. The owner of the ball occupies the chief position, the place of honour; he pushes behind the load, his [[16]]hind feet upraised, his head downward. The helper is in front, in a reverse position, head raised, toothed arms on the ball, long hind legs on the ground. Between the two moves the ball, pushed before it by the one, dragged towards it by the other. The efforts of the couple are not always harmonious, especially as the assistant turns his back to the road to be traversed, and the view of the owner is bounded by his load. Hence repeated accidents and ludicrous tumbles, taken cheerfully, each hastening to pick himself up and resume his former position. On level ground this style of draught does not answer to the expenditure of energy, for want of precision in combined movements; the Scarabæus behind would do as well or better alone, and the assistant, having proved his goodwill at the risk of disturbing the mechanism, decides to keep quiet of course without abandoning the precious globe, which he looks on as already his. A ball touched is a ball acquired. He will not be so imprudent as to let go; the other would instantly take advantage of it. So he folds his legs under him, flattens himself, incrusts himself, as it were, on the ball, and becomes part of it. Ball and beetle roll together, pushed along by the lawful owner. Whether it should go over the body of the other, whether he be above, below, or on one side of the rolling load, matters not—the intruder lies low. A singular helper this, who lets himself be run over for the sake of a share in the provender! But let them come to a steep incline, and he gets a chance of displaying his usefulness. On the steep slope he takes the lead, holding up the heavy load with his toothed feet while his [[17]]comrade steadies himself to hoist the load a little higher. Thus, by a combination of judicious efforts, I have seen them mount ascents, the one above holding up, the lower one pushing, where all the obstinate efforts of a single beetle must have failed. All, however, have not the same zeal in difficult moments; some, just when their assistance is most wanted on a slope, do not appear in the least aware that there is anything to overcome. While the unhappy Sisyphus is exhausting himself in efforts to surmount his difficulties, the other remains passive, incrusted on the ball, rolling down with it, and forthwith hoisted up again.

I have often tried the following experiment on two associates in order to judge of their inventive faculties in a serious predicament. Let us suppose them on level ground, the assistant firmly seated on the ball, the other pushing. Without disturbing the latter, I nail the ball to the ground with a long, strong pin; it comes to a sudden stop. The beetle, unaware of my treachery, doubtless believes in some rut, some dandelion root or pebble stopping the way. He redoubles his efforts, struggles his hardest, but nothing moves. What has happened? Let us go and see. Twice or thrice he walks round his pellet. Discovering nothing which can explain its immovableness, he goes behind and pushes again. The ball remains motionless. Let us look above. He climbs up to find nothing but his motionless colleague, for I have taken care to drive the head of the pin in deep enough to hide the head in the mass of the ball. He examines the summit and again descends; fresh thrusts are vigorously applied in [[18]]front and on either side with the same want of success. Certainly no scavenger beetle ever yet found himself confronted by such a problem of inertia. It is the very moment for claiming assistance, a thing all the more easy that the colleague is close at hand, squatted on the top of the dome. Will the Scarabæus give him a shake, or address him somewhat thus: What are you about, lazy bones? Come and look here; something has broken down. Nothing proves that he does so, for the beetle long persists in trying to move the immovable, examining now on this side, now on that, now above, now below, while his friend still remains quiescent. In the end, however, the latter becomes aware that something unusual is going on; it is brought home to him by the uneasy comings and goings of his companion and by the immobility of the ball, so in his turn he comes down to look into the matter. Double harness does not prove more effectual than single, and matters grow complicated. The little fans of their antennæ open and shut, open again, quiver and betray their lively anxiety. Then a stroke of genius ends their perplexities. Who knows what may be underneath? They explore below the ball, and a slight excavation reveals the pin. They recognise at once that the crux is there. Had I a voice in the matter I should have said, “An excavation must be made, and the stake which holds the ball must be got out.” This very elementary proceeding, and one so easy to such expert excavators, was not adopted nor even attempted. The scavenger beetle was cleverer than the man. The two colleagues, one on this side, one [[19]]on that, insinuated themselves under the ball, which slipped up along the pin in proportion as the living wedges raised it, the softness of the material allowing of this clever manœuvre. Soon the ball was suspended at a height equal to that of the beetles’ bodies. What remained to do was more difficult. From lying flat they gradually got on their legs and pushed upward with their backs. It was hard to accomplish, the feet losing strength the more they stretched upward, but they did it. Then came a moment when they could no longer use their backs to push, the highest point possible being reached. There was a last resource, but one much less favourable to the development of strength. Now in one of the postures in which it drags a ball, now in the other,—that is to say, either head downward or the reverse,—the insect pushes with hind or fore feet. Finally, unless the pin be too long, the ball drops to the ground. The perforation is repaired as best it can be, and the ball is at once dragged onward.

But if the pin should be too long, the ball remains suspended at a height which the insect cannot increase by rearing itself up. In this case, after vain evolutions around the inaccessible maypole, the beetles give up the struggle, unless you are kind-hearted enough to complete the work yourself, and restore their treasure, or unless you aid them by raising the floor with a little flat stone, a pedestal from whence the insect can continue its work. Its use does not seem to be immediately understood, for neither beetle shows any readiness to profit by it. However, by chance or otherwise, one gets on the stone. Oh, joy! as it passed it felt the ball touch its back. [[20]]Thereupon courage returns, and the struggle begins again. Standing on its platform the beetle stretches its joints, rounds its back, and hoists the pellet. When that no longer avails, it manœuvres with its feet, now upright, now head downward. There is a new pause and new signs of uneasiness when the limit of extension is reached. Without disturbing the creature let us put another little stone on the first. By the help of the new step, which gives a support for its levers, the insect pursues its task. Adding one step to another as required, I have seen the Scarabæus, perched on a shaky pile of three or four fingers’ breadth, persisting in its labour until the ball was completely freed.

Had it some vague consciousness of the services rendered by the elevation of its point of leverage? I cannot believe it, although the beetle profited very cleverly by my platform of little stones, for if the very elementary idea of using a higher base to reach something too elevated was not beyond it, how was it that neither beetle bethought him of offering his back to the other, thus rendering the task possible? One assisting the other, they might have doubled the height attained. They are far indeed from any such combinations. Here, each pushes the ball with all its might, but pushes as if alone, without seeming to suspect the happy result which would be brought about by a combined effort. When the ball is fastened to the ground by a pin, they behave as they would when the ball is stopped by a loop of dandelion, or held by some slender bit of stalk which has got into the soft, rolling mass. My artifice brought about a stoppage not unlike [[21]]those which occur when the ball is rolling amid the many inequalities of the ground, and the insect acts as it would have acted in some circumstances where I had not interfered. It uses its back as a wedge and lever and pushes with its feet without at all varying its means of action, even when it might call a comrade to its help.

If it has to face the difficulties of a ball nailed to the ground with no assistant, its dynamic manœuvres are exactly the same, and it succeeds, so long as we give the indispensable help of a platform gradually built up. Should this help be refused, the Scarabæus, no longer stimulated by the touch of its beloved ball, loses hope, and sooner or later, no doubt with bitter regret, flies off, whither I know not. What I do know is, that it does not return with a squadron of companions whom it has implored to help it. What could it do with them, since it cannot utilise even the single comrade when one shares the ball? Perhaps, however, an experiment which suspends the pellet at a height inaccessible to the insect when its means of action are exhausted may be too much outside of ordinary conditions. Let us try a miniature ditch, deep enough and steep enough to prevent a beetle when placed at the bottom with its load from rolling it up. These are the exact conditions named by Blanchard and Illiger. What happens? When persistent yet fruitless efforts show the beetle that it can do nothing, it spreads its wings and flies off. Long, very long have I waited, on the faith of what these learned men say, expecting it to return with its friends, but I have always waited in vain. Often, too, many days later I have found the ball [[22]]just where I tried the experiment, either at the top of the pin or at the bottom of the hole, proving that nothing fresh had happened. A pellet abandoned from necessity is abandoned for good and all, without salvage by the help of other beetles. Dexterous use of wedge and lever to move the arrested ball is the highest intellectual effort I have ever seen in the Scarabæus sacer. As a counterpoise to what experiment refutes, namely, an appeal for help to brother beetles, I very willingly chronicle this feat of mechanics for the glorification of the Scarabæus. Straying over sandy plains thickset with thyme, ruts, and slopes, the ball is rolled for a while by the two partners, the material thus acquiring a firmness which they probably find palatable. By and by a favourable spot is selected. The proprietor, who has always kept the place of honour behind the ball and is the one who performs almost the whole work of draught, begins to hollow out the dining-room. Beside him is the ball, to which his associate clings, motionless. Head and toothed legs attack the sand, flinging quantities backward, and the excavation advances rapidly. Soon the insect disappears therein. Each time that he brings a load to upper air he never fails to glance at the ball to make sure that all is going on well. Now and again he brings it nearer to the edge of the cavity, feels it, and seems to gain new zeal from its contact. The other beetle, hypocrite that he is, continues to inspire confidence by his motionless attitude on the ball. Meanwhile, the underground hall grows larger and deeper, and the excavator appears more rarely, hindered by the extent of his labours. The moment is favourable, [[23]]the sleeper rouses up. The crafty partner decamps with the ball, dragging it behind him with the haste of a thief fearing to be caught in the act. This abuse of trust rouses my ire, but I let it pass in the interest of the story—time enough to interfere on behalf of morality if the upshot threaten to turn out ill.

Already the thief is some yards away. The robbed beetle comes up from his hole, looks, and finds nothing. No doubt he has himself had a hand in like proceedings. Scent and sight soon put him on the track and he hurriedly comes up with the robber, whereupon this sly dog promptly changes his position, gets on his hind legs and clasps the ball with his toothed arms as he does when acting helper. Ah, you rascal! I see through you! you would excuse yourself by declaring that the ball rolled down the slope, and that you are trying to stop it and take it home. I, however, who am an impartial witness, assert that the ball, being well balanced at the mouth of the hole, did not move of its own accord. Besides, the ground is level. I affirm that I saw you set it in motion and make off with unequivocal intentions. It was an attempt at larceny or I know nothing about it. My evidence not being taken into consideration, the owner listens mildly to his companion’s excuses, and the two roll the ball back as if nothing had happened.