The fight does not last long. One of the Scorpions receives the full force of the other's poisoned weapon. It is all over: in a few minutes the wounded one succ.u.mbs. The victor very calmly proceeds to gnaw the fore-part of the victim's cephalothorax, or, in less crabbed terms, the bit at which we look for a head and find only the entrance to a belly. The mouthfuls are small, but long-drawn-out. For four or five days, almost without a break, the cannibal nibbles at his murdered comrade. To eat the vanquished, that's good warfare, the only sort excusable. What I do not understand, nor shall until we tin the meat on the battle-field for food, is our wars between nations.

We now have authentic information: the Scorpion's sting is fatal, promptly fatal, to the Scorpion himself. Let us come to the matter of suicide, such as it has been described to us. When surrounded by a circle of live embers, the animal, so we are told, stabs itself with its sting and finds an end of its torment in voluntary death. This would be very fine on the creature's part if it were true. We shall see.

In the centre of a ring of burning charcoal, I place the largest specimen from my menagerie. The bellows increase the glow. At the first smart of the heat, the animal moves backwards within the circle of fire. It collides by inadvertence with the burning barrier. Now follows a disorderly retreat, in every direction, at random, renewing the agonizing contact. At each attempt to escape, the burning is repeated more severely than before. The animal becomes frantic. It darts forward and scorches itself. In a desperate frenzy, it brandishes its weapon, crooks it, straightens it, lays it down flat and raises it again, all with such disorderly haste that I am quite unable to follow its movements accurately.

The moment ought to have come for the Scorpion to release himself from his torture with a blow of the stiletto. And indeed, with a sudden spasm, the long-suffering creature becomes motionless, lies at full-length, flat upon the ground. There is not a movement; the inertia is complete. Is the Scorpion dead? It really looks like it.

Perhaps he has pinked himself with a thrust of his sting that escaped me in the turmoil of the last efforts. If he has actually stabbed himself, if he has resorted to suicide, then he is dead beyond a doubt: we have just seen how quickly he succ.u.mbs to his own venom.

In my uncertainty, I pick up the apparently dead body with the tip of my forceps and lay it on a bed of cool sand. An hour later, the alleged corpse returns to life, as l.u.s.ty as before the ordeal. I repeat the process with a second and third specimen. The results are the same. After the frantic plunges of the desperate victim, we have the same sudden inertia, with the creature sprawling flat as though struck by lightning, and the same return to life on the cool sand.

It seems probable that those who invented the story of the Scorpion committing suicide were deceived by this sudden swoon, this paralysing spasm, into which the high temperature of the enclosure throws the exasperated beast. Too quickly convinced, they left the victim to burn to death. Had they been less credulous and withdrawn the animal in good time from its circle of fire, they would have seen the apparently dead Scorpion return to life and thus a.s.sert its profound ignorance of suicide.

Apart from man, no living thing knows the last resource of a voluntary end, because none has a knowledge of death. As for us, to feel that we have the power to escape from the miseries of life is a n.o.ble prerogative, upon which it is good to meditate, as a sign of our elevation above the commonalty of the animal world; but in point of fact it becomes cowardice if from the possibility we pa.s.s to action.

He who proposes to go to that length should at least repeat to himself what Confucius, the great philosopher of the yellow race, said five-and-twenty centuries ago. Having surprised a stranger in the woods fixing to the branch of a tree a rope wherewith to hang himself, the Chinese sage addressed him in words the gist of which was as follows:

"However great your misfortunes, the greatest of all would be to yield to despair. All the rest can be repaired; this one is irreparable. Do not believe that all is lost for you and try to convince yourself of a truth which has been proved indisputable by the experience of the centuries. And that truth is this: so long as a man has life, there is no need for him to despair. He may pa.s.s from the greatest misery to the greatest joy, from the greatest misfortune to the highest felicity. Take courage and, as though you were this very day beginning to recognize the value of life, strive at every moment to make the most of it."

This humdrum Chinese philosophy is not without merit. It suggests the moralizing of the fabulist:

"_... Qu'on me rende impotent, Cul-de-jatte, goutteux, manchot, pourvu qu'en somme Je vive, c'est a.s.sez: je suis plus que content._"[2]

[Footnote 2: "... So powerless let me lie, Gout-ridden, legless, armless; if only, after all, I live, it is enough: more than content am I."]

Yes, yes, La Fontaine and Kung the philosopher are right: life is a serious matter, which it will not do to throw away into the first bush by the roadside like a useless garment. We must look upon it not as a pleasure, nor yet as a punishment, but as a duty of which we have to acquit ourselves as well as we can until we are given leave to depart.

To antic.i.p.ate this leave is cowardly and foolish. The power to disappear at will through death's trap-door does not justify us in deserting our post; but it opens to us certain vistas which are absolutely unknown to the animal.

We alone know how life's pageant closes, we alone can foresee our end, we alone profess devotion to the dead. Of these high matters none other has any suspicion. When would-be scientists proclaim aloud, when they declare that a wretched insect knows the trick of simulating death, we will ask them to look more closely and not to confound the hypnosis due to terror with the pretence of a condition unknown to the animal world.

Ours alone is the clear vision of an end, ours alone the glorious instinct of the beyond. Here, filling its modest part, speaks the voice of entomology, saying:

"Have confidence; never did an instinct fail to keep its promises."

CHAPTER XVI THE CRIOCERES

I am a stubborn disciple of St. Thomas the Apostle and, before I agree to anything, I want to see and touch it, not once, but twice, thrice, an indefinite number of times, until my incredulity bows beneath the weight of evidence. Well, the Rhynchites[1] have told us that the build does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decide the trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. I question three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At the proper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them, whenever I want to ask them for information.

[Footnote 1: A genus of Weevils, the essays upon whom will appear in a later volume to be ent.i.tled _The Life of Weevil_.--_Translator's Note_.]

The first is the Crioceris of the Lily, or Lily-beetle. Since Latin words offend our modesty let us just once mention her scientific name, _Crioceris merdigera_, LIN., without translating it, or, above all, repeating it. Decency forbids. I have never been able to understand why natural history need inflict upon a lovely flower or an engaging animal an odious name.

As a matter of fact, our Crioceris, so ill-treated by the nomenclators, is a sumptuous creature. She is nicely shaped, neither too large nor too small, and a beautiful coral red, with jet-black head and legs. Everybody knows her who in the spring has ever glanced at the lily, when its stem is beginning to show in the centre of the rosette of leaves. A Beetle, of less than the average size and coloured sealing-wax red, is perched up on the plant. Your hand goes out to seize her. Forthwith, paralysed with fright, she drops to the ground.

Let us wait a few days and return to the lily, which is gradually growing taller and beginning to show its buds, gathered together in a bundle. The red insect is still there. Further, the leaves, which are seriously bitten into, are reduced to tatters and soiled with little heaps of greenish ordure. It looks as if some witchcraft had mashed up the leaves and then splashed the mess all over the place.

Well, this filth moves, travels slowly along. Let us overcome our repugnance and poke the heaps with a straw. We uncover, indeed we unclothe an ugly, pot-bellied, pale-orange larva. It is the grub of the Crioceris.

The origin of the garment of which we have just stripped it would be unmentionable, save in the world of the insect, that manufacturer devoid of shame. This doublet is, in fact, obtained from the creature's excretions. Instead of evacuating downwards, on the superannuated principle, the Crioceris' larva evacuates upwards and receives upon its back the waste products of the intestine, materials which move from back to front as each fresh pat is dabbed upon the others. Reaumur has complacently described how the quilt moves forward from the tail to the head by wriggling along inclined planes, making so many dips in the undulating back. There is no need to return to this stercoral mechanism after the master has done with it.

We now know the reasons that procured the Lily-beetle an ignominious t.i.tle, confined to the official records: the grub makes itself an overcoat of its excrements.

Once the garment is completed so as to cover the whole of the creature's dorsal surface, the clothing-factory does not cease work on that score. At the back a fresh hem is added from moment to moment; but the overlapping superfluity in front drops off of its own weight at the same time. The coat of dung is under continual repair, being renovated and lengthened at one end as it wears and grows shorter at the other.

Sometimes also the stuff is too thick and the heap capsizes. The denuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obliging intestine repairs the disaster without delay.

Whether by reason of the clipping that results from the excessive length of a piece which is always on the loom, or of accidents that cause a part or the whole of the load to fall off, the grub of the Crioceris leaves acc.u.mulations of dirt in its track, till the lily, the symbol of purity, becomes a very cess-pool. When the leaves have been browsed, the stem next loses its cuticle, thanks to the nibbling of the grub, and is reduced to a ragged distaff. The flowers even, which have opened by now, are not spared: their beautiful ivory chalices are changed into latrines.

The perpetrator of the misdeed embarks on his career of defilement early. I wanted to see him start, to watch him lay the first course of his excremental masonry. Does he serve an apprenticeship? Does he work badly at first, then a little better and then well? I now know all about it: there is no noviciate, there are no clumsy attempts; the workmanship is perfect from the outset, the product ejected spreads over the hinder part. Let me tell you what I saw.

The eggs are laid in May, on the under surface of the leaves, in short trails averaging from three to six. They are cylindrical, rounded at both ends, of a bright orange-red, glossy and varnished with a glutinous wash which makes them stick to the leaves throughout their length. The hatching takes ten days. The sh.e.l.l of the egg, now a little wrinkled, but still of a bright orange colour, retains its position, so that the group of eggs, apart from its slightly withered appearance, remains just as it was.

The young larva measures a millimetre and a half[2] in length. The head and legs are black, the rest of the body a dull amber-red. On the first segment of the thorax is a brown sash, interrupted in the middle; lastly, there is a small black speck on each side, behind the third segment. This is the initial costume. Presently orange-red will take the place of the pale amber. The tiny creature, which is exceedingly fat, sticks to the leaf with its short legs and also with its hind-quarters, which act as a lever and push the round belly forwards. The motion reminds you of a cripple sitting in a bowl.

[Footnote 2: .959 inch.--_Translator's Note_.]

The grubs emerging from any one group of eggs at once begin to browse, each beside the empty skin of its egg. Here, singly, they nibble and dig themselves a little pit in the thickness of the leaf, while sparing the cuticle of the opposite surface. This leaves a translucent floor, a support which enables them to consume the walls of the excavation without risking a fall.

Seeking for better pasture, they move lazily on. I see them scattered at random; a few of them are grouped in the same trench; but I never see them browsing economically abreast as Reaumur relates. There is no order, no understanding between messmates, contemporaries though they be and all sprung from the same row of eggs. Nor is any heed paid to economy: the lily is so generous!

Meanwhile, the paunch swells and the intestine labours. Here we are! I see the first bit of the overcoat evacuated. As is natural in extreme infancy, it is liquid and there is not much of it. The scanty flow is used all the same and is laid methodically, right at the far end of the back. Let the little grub be. In less than a day, piece by piece, it will have made itself a suit.

The artist is a master from the first attempt. If its baby-flannel is so good to start with, what will the future ulster be, when the stuff, brought to perfection, is of much better quality? Let us proceed; we know what we want to know concerning the talents of this manufacturer of excremental broadcloth.

What is the purpose of this nasty great-coat? Does the grub employ it to keep itself cool, to protect itself against the attacks of the sun?

It is possible: a tender skin need not be afraid of blistering under such a soothing poultice. Is it the grub's object to disgust its enemies? This again is possible: who would venture to set tooth to such a heap of filth? Or can it be simply a caprice of fashion, an outlandish fancy? I will not say no. We have had the crinoline, that senseless bulwark of steel hoops; we still have the extravagant stove-pipe hat, which tries to mould our heads in its stiff sheath.

Let us be indulgent to the evacuator nor disparage his eccentric wardrobe. We have eccentricities of our own.

To feel our way a little in this delicate question, we will question the near kinsmen of the Lily-beetle. In my acre or two of pebbles I have planted a bed of asparagus. The crop, from the culinary point of view, will never repay me for my trouble: I am rewarded in another fashion. On the scanty shoots which I allow to display themselves freely in plumes of delicate green, two Crioceres abound in the spring: the field species (_C. campestris_, LIN.) and the twelve-spotted species (_C. duodecimpunctata_, LIN.). A splendid windfall, far better than any bundle of asparagus.

The first has a tricolor costume which is not without merit. Blue wing-cases, braided with white on the outer edge and each adorned with three white dots; a red corselet, with a blue disk in the centre. Its eggs are olive-green and cylindrical and, instead of lying flat, grouped in short lines, after the manner of the lily-dweller's, occur singly and stand on end on the leaves of the asparagus-plant, on the twigs, on the flower-buds, more or less everywhere, without any fixed order.

Though living in the open air on the leaves of its plant and thus exposed to all the various perils that may threaten the Lily-grub, the larva of the Field Crioceris knows nothing whatever of the art of sheltering itself beneath a layer of ordure. It goes through life naked and always perfectly clean.

It is of a bright greenish yellow, fairly fat behind and thinner in front. Its princ.i.p.al organ of locomotion is the end of the intestine, which protrudes, curves like a flexible finger, clasps the twig and supports the creature while pushing it forward. The true legs, which are short and placed too far in front with regard to the length of the body, would find it very difficult by themselves to drag the heavy ma.s.s that comes after. Their a.s.sistant, the a.n.a.l finger, is remarkably strong. With no support, the larva turns over, head downwards, and remains suspended when shifting from one sprig to another. This Jack-in-the-bowl is a rope-dancer, a consummate acrobat, performing its evolutions amid the slender sprigs without fear of a fall.

Its att.i.tude in repose is curious. The heavy stern rests on the two hind-legs and especially on the crooked finger, the end of the intestine. The fore-part is lifted in a graceful curve, the little black head is raised and the creature looks rather like the crouching Sphinx of antiquity. This pose is common at times of slumber and blissful digestion in the sun.

An easy prey is this naked, plump, defenceless grub, snoozing in the heat of a blazing day. Various Gnats, of humble size, but very likely terribly treacherous, haunt the foliage of the asparagus. The larva of the Crioceris, motionless in its sphinx-like att.i.tude, does not appear to be on its guard against them, even when they come buzzing above its rump. Can they be as harmless as their peaceful frolics seem to proclaim? It is extremely doubtful: the Fly rabble are not there merely to imbibe the scanty exudations of the plant. Experts in mischief, they have no doubt hastened hither with another object.

And, in truth, on the greater number of the Crioceris-larvae we find, adhering firmly to the skin, certain white specks, very small and of a china-white. Can these be the sowing of a bandit, the sp.a.w.n of a Midge?

I collect the grubs marked with these white specks and rear them in captivity. A month later, about the middle of June, they shrivel, wrinkle and turn brown. All that is left of them is a dry skin which tears from end to end, half uncovering a Fly-pupa. A few days later, the parasite emerges.

It is a small, greyish Fly, fiercely bristling with spa.r.s.e hairs, half the size of the House-fly, whom it resembles slightly. It belongs to the Tachina group, who, in their larval form, so often inhabit the bodies of caterpillars.