1 HENRI FABRE, as all the world now knows, is the author of half a score of well-filled volumes in which, under the title of Souvenirs entomologiques,[1] he set down the results of fifty years of observation, study and experiment on the insects that seem to us the best-known and the most familiar: different species of wasps² and wild bees, a few gnats³, flies, beetles⁵ and caterpillars⁷; in a word, all those vague, unconscious, rudimentary and almost nameless little lives which surround us on every side and which we contemplate⁸ with eyes that are amused, but already thinking of other things, when we open our window to welcome the first hours of[88] spring, or when we go into the gardens or the fields to bask⁹ in the blue summer days.
 
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We take up at random¹⁰ one of these great volumes and naturally expect to find first of all the very learned and rather dry lists of names, the very fastidious and exceedingly quaint¹¹ specifications¹² of those huge, dusty graveyards¹³ of which all the entomological treatises¹⁴ that we have read so far seem almost wholly to consist. We therefore open the book without zest¹⁵ and without unreasonable¹⁶ expectations; and forthwith, from between the open leaves, there rises and unfolds itself, without hesitation¹⁷, without interruption and almost without remission to the end of the four thousand pages, the most extraordinary of tragic¹⁸ fairy plays that it is possible for the human imagination, not to create or to conceive, but to admit and to acclimatize within itself.
 
Indeed, there is no question here of the human imagination. The insect does not[89] belong to our world. The other animals, the plants even, notwithstanding their dumb life and the great secrets which they cherish, do not seem wholly foreign to us. In spite of all, we feel a certain earthly brotherhood¹⁹ in them. They often surprise and amaze our intelligence, but do not utterly²⁰ upset it. There is something, on the other hand, about the insect that does not seem to belong to the habits, the ethics²¹, the psychology²² of our globe. One would be inclined to say that the insect comes from another planet, more monstrous²⁴, more energetic, more insane, more atrocious, more infernal than our own. One would think that it was born of some comet that had lost its course and died demented in space. In vain does it seize upon life with an authority, a fecundity²⁵ unequalled here below: we cannot accustom²⁶ ourselves to the idea that it is a thought of that nature of whom we fondly believe ourselves to be the privileged children and probably the ideal to which all the earth’s efforts tend. Only the infinitely²⁷ small disconcerts[90] us still more greatly; but what really is the infinitely small, other than an insect which our eyes do not see? There is, no doubt, in this astonishment²⁸ and lack of understanding a certain instinctive²⁹ and profound uneasiness inspired by those existences incomparably better-armed, better-equipped than our own, by those creature made up of a sort of compressed energy and activity in which we suspect our most mysterious adversaries³⁰, our ultimate rivals and, perhaps, our successors.
 
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But it is time, under the conduct of an admirable guide, to penetrate³¹ behind the scenes of our fairy play and to study at close quarters the actors and supernumeraries, loathsome³² or magnificent, as the case may be, grotesque³³ or sinister³⁴, heroic or appalling³⁵, gifted or stupid and almost always improbable and unintelligible³⁶.
 
And here, to begin with, taking the first that comes, is one of those individuals, frequent in the South, where we can see it[91] prowling around the abundant manna which the mule³⁷ scatters³⁸ heedlessly along the white roads and the stony³⁹ paths: I mean the Sacred Scarab of the Egyptians, or, more simply, the Dung-beetle⁶, the brother of our northern Geotrupes, a big Coleopteron all clad in black, whose mission in this world is to shape the more savoury parts of his find into an enormous ball which he must next roll to the underground dining-room where the incredible digestive adventure is to take its course. But destiny, jealous of all undiluted bliss⁴⁰, before admitting him to that abode⁴¹ of sheer delight, imposes upon the grave and probably sententious beetle tribulations⁴² without number, which are nearly always complicated by the arrival of an untoward⁴³ parasite⁴⁴.
 
Hardly has he begun, by dint⁴⁵ of great efforts of his forehead and his bandy legs, to roll the toothsome sphere backwards⁴⁶, when an indelicate colleague, who has been awaiting the completion of the work, appears and hypocritically offers his services.[92] The other well knows that, in this case, help and services, besides being quite unnecessary, will soon mean partition and dispossession; and he accepts the enforced collaboration⁴⁷ without enthusiasm. But, so that their respective rights may be clearly marked, the lawful⁴⁸ owner invariably retains his original place, that is to say, he pushes the ball with his forehead, whereas the compulsory⁴⁹ guest pulls it towards him on the other side. And thus it jogs along between the two gossips, amid interminable vicissitudes⁵⁰, flurried falls, ludicrous tumbles, till it reaches the place chosen to receive the treasure and to become the banqueting-hall. On arriving, the owner sets about digging out the refectory, while the sponger pretends to go innocently to sleep on the top of the bolus. The excavation⁵¹ becomes visibly wider and deeper; and soon the first Dung-beetle dives bodily into it. This is the moment for which the cunning auxiliary⁵² was waiting. He nimbly scrambles⁵³ down from the blissful eminence⁵⁴ and, pushing it with all the[93] energy that a bad conscience gives, strives to gain the offing. But the other, who is rather distrustful, interrupts his laborious⁵⁵ digging, looks over the edge, sees the sacrilegious rape⁵⁶ and leaps out of the hole. Caught in the act, the shameless and dishonest partner makes untold⁵⁸ efforts to play upon the other’s credulity, turns round and round the inestimable orb⁶⁰ and, embracing it and propping⁶¹ himself against it, with mock heroic exertions⁶², pretends to be frantically⁶³ supporting it on a non-existent slope. The two expostulate with each other in silence, gesticulate wildly with their mandibles and tarsi and then, with one accord, bring back the ball to the burrow⁶⁴.
 
It is pronounced sufficiently⁶⁵ spacious⁶⁶ and comfortable. They introduce the treasure, they close the entrance to the corridor; and now in the propitious⁶⁷ darkness and the warm damp, where the magnificent stercoral globe alone holds sway, the two reconciled messmates sit down face to face. Then, far from the light and the cares of[94] day and in the great silence of the subterranean⁶⁸ shade, solemnly commences the most fabulous⁶⁹ banquet whereof abdominal⁷⁰ imagination ever evoked⁷¹ the absolute beatitudes.
 
For two whole months, they remain cloistered⁷²; and, with their paunches gradually hollowing out the inexhaustible sphere, definite archetypes and sovereign symbols of the pleasures of the table and the delights of the belly⁷³, they eat without stopping, without interrupting themselves for a second, day or night. And, while they gorge⁷⁴, steadily⁷⁵, with a movement perceptible and constant as that of a clock, at the rate of three millimetres a minute, an endless, unbroken ribbon unwinds and stretches itself behind them, fixing the memory and recording⁷⁶ the hours, days and weeks of the prodigious⁷⁷ feast.
 
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After the Dung-beetle, that dolt⁷⁸ of the company, let us greet, also in the order of the Coleoptera, the model household of[95] Minotaurus typhaeus, who is pretty well-known and extremely gentle, in spite of his dreadful name. The female digs a huge burrow which is often more than a yard and a half deep and which consists of spiral staircases, landings, passages and numerous chambers⁷⁹. The male loads the rubbish on the three-pronged fork that surmounts⁸⁰ his head and carries it to the entrance of the conjugal⁸¹ dwelling⁸². Next, he goes into the fields in quest of the harmless droppings left by the sheep, takes them down to the first story of the crypt and reduces them to flour with his trident, while the mother, right at the bottom, collects the flour and kneads it into huge cylindrical⁸³ loaves, which will presently be food for the little ones. For three whole months, until the provisions are deemed sufficient, the unfortunate husband, without taking nourishment⁸⁴ of any kind, exhausts himself in this gigantic work. At last, his task accomplished⁸⁵, feeling his end at hand, so as not to encumber⁸⁶ the house with his wretched remains⁸⁷, he spends his[96] last strength in leaving the burrow, drags himself laboriously⁸⁸ along and, lonely and resigned, knowing that he is henceforth good for nothing, goes and dies far away among the stones.
 
Here, on another side, are some rather strange caterpillars, the Processionaries, which are not rare; as it happens, a single string of them, five or six yards long, has just climbed down from my umbrella-pines and is at this moment unfolding itself in the walks of my garden, carpeting the ground traversed with transparent⁸⁹ silk, according to the custom of the race. To say nothing of the meteorological apparatus⁹⁰ of unparalleled delicacy⁹¹ which they carry on their backs, these caterpillars, as everybody knows, have this remarkable⁹² quality, that they travel only in a troop, one after the other, like Breughel’s blind men or those of the parable⁹³, each of them obstinately⁹⁴, indissolubly following its leader; so much so that, our author having one morning disposed the file on the edge of a large stone vase, thus closing the[97] circuit, for seven whole days, during an atrocious week, amid cold, hunger and unspeakable weariness, the unhappy troop on its tragic round, without rest, respite⁹⁵ or mercy, pursued the pitiless circle until death overtook it.
 
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But I see that our heroes are infinitely too numerous and that we must not linger over our descriptions. We may at most, in enumerating⁹⁶ the more important and familiar, bestow⁹⁷ on each of them a hurried epithet⁹⁸, in the manner of old Homer. Shall I mention, for instance, the Leucospis, a parasite of the Mason-bee, who, to slay⁹⁹ his brothers and sisters in their cradle, arms himself with a horn helmet and a barbed breastplate, which he doffs¹⁰⁰ immediately after the extermination¹⁰², the safeguard of a hideous¹⁰³ right of primogeniture? Shall I tell of the marvellous anatomical knowledge of the Tachytes, of the Cerceris, of the Ammophila, of the Languedocian Sphex and many other[98] wasps, who, according as they wish to paralyse or to kill their prey¹⁰⁴ or their adversary¹⁰⁵, know exactly, without ever blundering, which nerve-centres to strike with their sting or their mandibles? Shall I speak of the art of the Eumenes, who transforms her stronghold into a complete museum adorned¹⁰⁶ with shells and with grains of translucent¹⁰⁷ quartz¹⁰⁸; of the magnificent metamorphosis of the Grey Locust¹⁰⁹; of the musical instrument owned by the Cricket, whose bow numbers one hundred and fifty triangular¹¹⁰ prisms that set in motion simultaneously¹¹¹ the four dulcimers of the wing-case? Shall I sing the fairy-like birth of the nymph of the Onthophagus, a transparent monster, with a bull’s snout, that seems carved out of a block of crystal? Would you behold¹¹² the Flesh-fly, the common Blue-bottle, daughter of the maggot, as she issues from the earth? Listen to our author:
 
“She disjoints her head into two movable halves, which, each distended¹¹³ with its[99] great red eye, by turns separate and reunite. In the intervening space, a large, glassy hernia rises and disappears, disappears and rises. When the two halves move asunder¹¹⁴, with one eye forced back to the right and the other to the left, it is as though the insect were splitting its brain-pan in order to expel the contents. Then the hernia rises, blunt at the end and swollen¹¹⁵ into a great knob. Next, the forehead closes and the hernia retreats, leaving visible only a kind of shapeless muzzle¹¹⁶. In short, a frontal pouch¹¹⁷, with deep pulsations, momentarily renewed, becomes the instrument of deliverance, the pestle¹¹⁸ wherewith the newly-hatched Dipteron bruises¹¹⁹ the sand and causes it to crumble¹²⁰. Gradually, the legs push the rubbish back and the insect advances so much towards the surface.”
 
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And monster after monster passes, such as the imagination of Bosch or Callot never conceived! The larva of the Rosechafer,[100] which, though it has legs under its belly, always travels on its back; the Blue-winged Locust, unluckier still than the Flesh-fly and possessing nothing wherewith to perforate the soil, to escape from the tomb and reach the light but a cervical bladder, a viscous¹²¹ blister¹²²; and the Empusa, who, with her curved abdomen¹²³, her great projecting eyes, her legs with knee-pieces armed with cleavers¹²⁴, her halberd, her abnormally tall mitre, would certainly be the most devilish goblin that ever walked the earth, if, beside her, the Praying Mantis¹²⁵ were not so frightful¹²⁶ that her mere¹²⁷ aspect deprives her victims of their power of movement when she assumes, in front of them, what the entomologists have termed “the spectral¹²⁸ attitude.”
 
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One cannot mention, even casually¹²⁹, the numberless industries, nearly all of absorbing interest, exercised among the rocks, under the ground, in the walls, on[101] the branches, the grass, the flowers, the fruits and down to the very bodies of the subjects studied; for we sometimes find a treble superposition of parasites¹³⁰, as in the Oil-beetles; and we see the maggot itself, the sinister guest at the last feast of all, feed some thirty brigands¹³¹ with its substance.
 
Among the Hymenoptera, which represent the most intellectual class in the world which we are studying, the building-talents of our wonderful Hive-bee are certainly equalled, in other orders of architecture, by those of more than one wild and solitary¹³² bee and notably¹³³ by the Megachile, or Leaf-cutter, a little insect which is nothing to look at and which, to house its eggs, manufactures honey-pots formed of a multitude of disks and ellipses¹³⁴ cut with mathematical precision from the leaves of certain trees. For lack of space, I am unable, to my great regret, to quote the beautiful and pellucid¹³⁵ pages which Fabre, with his usual conscientiousness¹³⁶, devotes to the exhaustive study of this admirable[102] work; nevertheless, since the occasion offers, let us listen to ............