Fabre The Life and Love of the Insect

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-779-2
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 203 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Amazing! A collection of methodical observations of select insects, from dung beetles to scorpions, by an early French entomologist. His eloquent and charming language, utter dedication, and love of the subject permeate the essays. Reading this book feels like looking over the shoulder of Fabre as he digs up dung beetle nests, watches courting scorpions walk for hours hand-in-hand, and wonders over every tiny marvel. (Goodreads)

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fabre, Jean-Henri

Leseproben

CHAPTER II
THE SACRED BEETLE: THE PEAR
A young shepherd, who had been told in his spare time to watch the doings of the Sacred Beetle, came to me in high spirits, one Sunday, in the second half of June, to say that he thought the time had come to commence a search. He had detected the insect issuing from the ground, had dug at the spot where it made its appearance and had found, at no great depth, the queer thing which he was bringing me. Queer it was and calculated to upset the little which I thought I knew. In shape, it was exactly like a tiny pear that had lost all the colour of its freshness and turned brown in rotting. What could this curious object be, this pretty plaything that seemed to come from a turner’s workshop? Was it made by human hands? Was it a model of the fruit of the pear-tree intended for some child’s collection? One would say so. The children come round me; they look at the treasure-trove with longing eyes; they would like to add it to the contents of their toy-box. It is much prettier in shape than an agate marble, much more graceful than an ivory egg or a box-wood top. The material, it is true, seems none too nicely chosen; but it is firm to the touch and very artistically curved. In any case, the little pear discovered underground must not go to swell the collection of nursery treasures until we have found out more about it. Can it really be the Scarab’s work? Is there an egg inside it, a grub? The shepherd assures me that there is. A similar pear, crushed by accident in the digging, contained, he says, a white egg, the size of a grain of wheat. I dare not believe it, so greatly does the object which he has brought me differ from the ball which I expected to see. To open the puzzling “find” and ascertain its contents would perhaps be imprudent: such an act of violence might jeopardize the life of the germ enclosed, always provided that the Scarab’s egg be there, a matter of which the shepherd seems convinced. And then, I imagine, the pear-shape, opposed to every accepted idea, is probably accidental. Who knows if chance has anything like it in store for me in the future? It were wise to keep the thing as it is, to await events; above all, it were wise to go in search of information on the spot. The shepherd was at his post by daybreak the next morning. I joined him on some slopes that had been lately cleared of their trees, where the hot summer sun, which strikes so powerfully on the neck, could not reach us for two or three hours. In the cool air of morning, with the flock browsing under the care of the sheep-dog, we went in search together. Scarabæus’ burrow is soon found: it is recognizable by the recent mole-hill that surmounts it. My companion digs with a vigorous wrist. I have lent him my little pocket-trowel, the light, but workmanlike tool which, incorrigible earth-scraper that I am, I seldom omit to take with me when I go out. I lie down, the better to see the arrangement and furnishing of the hypogeum in process of excavation; and I am all eyes. The shepherd uses the trowel as a lever and, with his free hand, pushes back the rubbish. Here we are! A cave opens out and, in the moist warmth of the yawning vault, I see a splendid pear lying full-length upon the ground. I shall certainly long remember this first revelation of the maternal work of the Scarab. My excitement could have been no greater were I an archæologist digging among the ancient relics of Egypt and lighting upon the sacred insect of the dead, carved in emerald, in some Pharaonic crypt. O blessed joys of truth suddenly shining forth, what others are there to compare with you! The shepherd was in the seventh heaven: he laughed in response to my smile and was happy in my gladness. Luck does not repeat itself: “Non bis in idem,” says the old adage. And here have I twice had under my eyes this curious shape of the pear. Could it be the normal shape, not subject to exception? Must we abandon all thought of a sphere similar to those which the insect rolls on the ground? Let us continue and we shall see. A second hole is found. Like the previous one, it contains a pear. The two discoveries are as like as two peas; they might have issued from the same mould. And a valuable detail is this: in the second burrow, beside the pear and lovingly embracing it, is the mother Beetle, engaged, no doubt, in giving it the finishing touches before leaving the underground cave for good. All doubts are dispelled: I know the worker and I know the work. The rest of the morning confirmed these premisses to the full: before an intolerable sun drove me from the slope explored, I possessed a dozen pears identical in shape and almost in dimensions. On various occasions, the mother was present in the workshop. PLATE II Burrow and pear-shaped ball of the Sacred Beetle. Let me tell, to finish with this part of our subject, what the future held in store for me. During the whole of the dog-days, from the end of June until September, I renewed almost daily my visits to the spots frequented by the Scarab; and the burrows dug up with my trowel supplied me with an amount of evidence exceeding my fondest hopes. The insects brought up in the volery supplied me with further documents, though these, it is true, were rare and not to be compared with the riches of the open fields. All told, at least some hundred nests passed through my hands; and it was always the graceful shape of the pear, never, absolutely never, the round shape of the pill, never the ball of which the books tell us. And now let us unfold the authentic story, calling to witness none save facts actually observed and reobserved. The Sacred Beetle’s nest is betrayed on the outside by a heap of shifted earth, by a little mole-hill formed of the superfluous rubbish which the mother, when closing up the abode, has been unable to replace, as a part of the excavation must be left empty. Under this heap is a shallow pit, about two-fifths of an inch deep, followed by a horizontal gallery, either straight or winding, which ends in a large hall, spacious enough to hold a man’s fist. This is the crypt in which the egg lies wrapped in food and subjected to the incubation of a burning sun, at a few inches underground; this is the roomy workshop in which the mother, enjoying full liberty of movement, has kneaded and shaped the future nursling’s bread into a pear. This stercoral bread has its main axis lying in a horizontal position. Its shape and size remind one exactly of those little poires de Saint-Jean which, thanks to their bright colouring, their flavour and their early ripeness, delight the children’s tribe. The bulk varies within narrow limits. The largest dimensions are 45 millimetres in length by 30 millimetres in width;1 the smallest are 35 millimetres by 28.2 Without being as polished as stucco, the surface, which is absolutely regular, is carefully smoothed under a thin layer of red earth. At first, when of recent construction, soft as potter’s clay, the pyriform loaf soon, in the course of desiccation, acquires a stout crust that refuses to yield under the pressure of fingers. Wood itself is no harder. This bark is the defensive wrapper which isolates the recluse from this world and allows him to consume his victuals in profound peace. But, should desiccation reach the central mass, then the danger becomes extremely serious. We shall have occasion to return to the woes of the grub exposed to a diet of too-stale bread. What dough does the Scarab’s bake-house use? Who are the purveyors? The mule and the horse? By no means. And yet I expected to find it so—and so would everybody—at seeing the insect draw so eagerly, for its own use, upon the plentiful garner of an ordinary lump of dung. For that is where it habitually manufactures the rolling ball which it goes and consumes in some underground retreat. Whereas coarse bread, crammed with bits of hay, is good enough for the mother, she becomes more dainty where her family are concerned. She now wants fine pastry, rich in nourishment and easily digested; she now wants the ovine manna: not that which the sheep of a dry habit scatters in trails of black olives, but that which, elaborated in a less parched intestine, is kneaded into biscuits all of a piece. That is the material required, the dough exclusively used. It is no longer the poor and stringy produce of the horse, but an unctuous, plastic, homogeneous thing, soaked through and through with nourishing juices. Its plasticity, its delicacy are admirably adapted to the artistic work of the pear, while its alimentary qualities suit the weak stomach of the newborn progeny. Little though the bulk be, the grub will here find sufficient food. This explains the smallness of the alimentary pears, a smallness that made me doubt the origin of my find, before I came upon the mother in the presence of the provisions. I was unable to see in those little pears the bill of fare of a future Sacred Beetle, himself so great a glutton and of so remarkable a size. Where is the egg in that nutritive mass so novel in shape? One would be inclined to place it in the centre of the fat, round paunch. This central point is best-protected against accidents from the outside, best-endowed with an even temperature. Besides, the budding grub would here find a deep layer of food on every side of it and would not be exposed to the mistakes of the first few mouthfuls. Everything being alike on every side of it, it would not be called upon to choose; wherever it chanced to apply its novice tooth, it could continue without hesitation its first dainty repast. All this seemed so very...