!

V.

JO

UCSB LIBRARY

THE LIFE OF THE
CATERPILLAR

BOOKS BY J. HENRI FABRE

THE LIFE OF THE SPIDER
THE LIFE OF THE FLY

THE MASON-BEES
BRAMBLE-BEES AND OTHERS

THE HUNTING WASPS
THE LIFE OF THE CATERPILLAR

THE LIFE OF THE
CATERPILLAR

BY

J. HENRI FABRE

TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

OF TUB ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY OP LOWDO»

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1916

coprmcHT. 1916
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

CONTENTS

MM

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE ..... 5

CHAPTER

I THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : LAY-
ING THE EGGS .... 9

II THE PINE PROCESSIONARY: THE

NEST; THE COMMUNITY . . 27

III THE PINE PROCESSIONARY: THE

PROCESSION 56

IV THE PINE PROCESSIONARY: ME-

TEOROLOGY 9O

V THE PINE PROCESSIONARY: THE

MOTH Ill

VI THE PINE PROCESSIONARY: THE

STINGING POWER . . . . 128

VII THE ARBUTUS CATERPILLAR . 150

VIII AN INSECT VIRUS .... l6l

IX THE PSYCHES: THE LAYING . 1 86

X THE PSYCHES: THE CASES . . 217

XI THE GREAT PEACOCK . . . 246

5

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

XII THE BANDED MONK . . . . 279

XIII THE SENSE OF SMELL . . . 3OO

XIV THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR . 331
INDEX .......... 373

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

THIS, the sixth volume of the Collected
Edition of Fabre's Entomological
Works in English, is the first that I am pre-
paring for publication since the author's
death, on the nth of October, 1915, at an
exceedingly advanced age. It contains all the
essays, fourteen in number, which he wrote
on Butterflies and Moths, or their caterpil-
lars.

Three of these, the chapters entitled The
Great Peacock, The Banded Monk and The
Sense of Smell, are included under the titles
of The Great Peacock, The Oak Eggar and
A Truffle-hunter: the Bolboceras Gallicus in
a volume of miscellaneous extracts from the
Souvenirs entomologiques translated by Mr.
Bernard Miall and published by the Century
Company. The volume in question is named
Social Life in the Insect World; and I
strongly recommend it to the reader, if only
because of the excellent photographs ifrom
nature with which it is illustrated.

Chapter III. of the present volume, The
Pine Processionary : the Procession, has ap-

Translator's Note

peared in the Fortnightly Review; and Chap-
ter XIV., The Cabbage Caterpillar, the last
essay but one from the author's pen, written,
I believe, within two or three years of his
death, was first printed in the Century Maga-
zine, some time before its publication in the
original. It does not form part of the Sou-
venirs entomologiques. The remaining es-
says are new in their English guise.

Once more I wish to record my gratitude
to Miss Frances Rodwell for the faithful as-
sistance which she has lent me in the prepara-
tion of this volume, as in that of all the earlier
volumes of the series.

ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS.
CHELSEA, 1916,

CHAPTER I

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : THE EGGS
AND THE HATCHING

THIS caterpillar has already had his story
told by Reaumur,1 but it was a story
marked by gaps. These were inevitable in
the conditions under which the great man
worked, for he had to receive all his mate-
rials by barge from the distant Bordeaux
Landes. The transplanted insect could not be
expected to furnish its biographer with other
than fragmentary evidence, very weak in those
biological details which form the principal
charm of entomology. To study the habits
of insects one must observe them long and
closely on their native heath, so to speak, in
the place where their instincts have full and
natural play.

With caterpillars foreign to the Paris cli-
mate and brought from the other end of
France, Reaumur therefore ran the risk of

*Rene Antoine Ferchault de Reaumur (1683-1757),
inventor of the Reaumur thermometer and author of
Memoir es pour servir A I'histoire nature lie des insect es.
— Translator's Note.

The Life of the Caterpillar

missing many most interesting facts. This is
what actually happened, just as it did on a
later occasion in the case of another alien, the
Cicada.1 Nevertheless, the information which
he was able to extract from a few nests sent
to him from the Landes is of the highest
value.

Better served than he by circumstances, I
will take up afresh the story of the Proces-
sionary Caterpillar of the Pine. If the subject
does not come up to my hopes, it will certainly
not be for lack of materials. In my harmas2
laboratory, now stocked with a few trees in
addition to its bushes, stand some vigorous
fir-trees, the Aleppo pine and the black Aus-
trian pine, a substitute for that of the Landes.
Every year the caterpillar takes possession of
them and spins his great purses in their
branches. In the interest of the leaves, which
are horribly ravaged, as though there had
been a fire, I am obliged each winter to make

1For the Cicada or Cigale, an insect remotely akin
to the Grasshopper and found more particularly in the
south of France, cf. Social Life in the Insect World, by
J. H. Fabre, translated by Bernard Miall : chaps, i to iv.
— Translator's Note.

2The harmas was the enclosed piece of waste ground
in which the author used to study his insects in their
natural state.— Translator's Note.

The Processionary: the Eggs

a strict survey and to extirpate the nests with
a long forked batten.

You voracious little creatures, if I let you
have your way, I should soon be robbed of
the murmur of my once so leafy pines ! To-
day I will seek compensation for all the
trouble I have taken. Let us make a com-
pact. You have a story to tell. Tell it me ;
and for a year, for two years or longer, until
I know more or less all about it, I shall leave
you undisturbed, even at the cost of lament-
able suffering to the pines.

Having concluded the treaty and left the
caterpillars in peace, I soon have abundant
material for my observations. In return for
my indulgence I get some thirty nests within
a few steps of my door. If the collection
were not large enough, the pine-trees in the
neighbourhood would supply me with any
necessary additions. But I have a preference
and a decided preference for the population
of my own enclosure, whose nocturnal habits
are much easier to observe by lantern-light.
With such treasures daily before my eyes, at
any time that I wish and under natural con-
ditions, I cannot fail to see the Processionary's
story unfolded at full length. Let us try.
ii

The Life of the Caterpillar

And first of all the egg, which Reaumur
did not see. In the first fortnight of August,
let us inspect the lower branches of the pines,
on a level with our eyes. If we pay the least
attention, we soon discover, here and there,
on the foliage, certain little whitish cylinders
spotting the dark green. These are the
Bombyx' eggs : each cylinder is the cluster laid
by one mother.

The pine-needles are grouped in twos.
Each pair is wrapped at its base in a cylindri-
cal muff which measures about an inch long
by a fifth or sixth of an inch wide. This
muff, which has a silky appearance and is
white slightly tinted with russet, is covered
with scales that overlap after the manner of
the tiles on a roof; and yet their arrange-
ment, though fairly regular, is by no means
geometrical. The general aspect is more or
less that of an immature walnut-catkin.

The scales are almost oval in form, semi-
transparent and white, with a touch of brown
at the base and of russet at the tip. They
are free at the lower end, which tapers
slightly, but firmly fixed at the upper end,
which is wider and blunter. You cannot de-
tach them either by blowing on them or by

The Processionary: the Eggs

rubbing them repeatedly with a hair-pencil.
They stand up, like a fleece stroked the wrong
way, if the sheath is rubbed gently upwards,
and retain this bristling position indefinitely;
they resume their original arrangement when
the friction is in the opposite direction. At
the same time, they are as soft as velvet to
the touch. Carefully laid one upon the
other, they form a roof that protects the
eggs. It is impossible for a drop of rain
or dew to penetrate under this shelter of soft
tiles.

The origin of this defensive covering is
self-evident: the mother has stripped a part
of her body to protect her eggs. Like the
Eider-duck, she has made a warm overcoat
for them out of her own down. Reaumur
had already suspected as much from a very
curious peculiarity of the Moth. Let me
quote the passage :

"The females," he says, "have a shiny
patch on the upper part of their body, near
the hind-quarters. The shape and gloss of
this disk attracted my attention the first time
that I saw it. I was holding a pin, with which
I touched it, to examine its structure. The

13

The Life of the Caterpillar

contact of the pin produced a little spectacle
that surprised me: I saw a cloud of tiny
spangles at once detach themselves. These
spangles scattered in every direction: some
seemed to be shot into the air, others to the
sides; but the greater part of the cloud fell
softly to the ground.

"Each of those bodies which I am calling
spangles is an extremely slender lamina, bear-
ing some resemblance to the atoms of dust
on the Moths' wings, but of course much big-
ger. . . . The disk that is so noticeable on
the hind-quarters of these Moths is there-
fore a heap — and an enormous heap — of
these scales. . . . The females seem to use
them to wrap their eggs in ; but the Moths of
the Pine Caterpillar refused to lay while in my
charge and consequently did not enlighten me
as to whether they use the scales to cover
their eggs or as to what they are doing with
all those scales gathered round their hinder
part, which were not given them and placed
in that position to serve no purpose."

You were right, my learned master: that
dense and regular crop of spangles did not
grow on the Moth's tail for nothing. Is

The Processionary: the Eggs

there anything that has no object? You did
not think so ; I do not think so either. Every-
thing has its reason for existing. Yes, you
were well-inspired when you foresaw that the
cloud of scales which flew out under the point
of your pin must serve to protect the eggs.

I remove the scaly fleece with my pincers
and, as I expected, the eggs appear, looking
like little white-enamel beads. Clustering
closely together, they make nine longitudinal
rows. In one of these rows I count thirty-
five eggs. As the nine rows are very nearly
alike, the contents of the cylinder amount in
all to about three hundred eggs, a respectable
family for one mother!

The eggs of one row or file alternate
exactly with those in the two adjoining files,
so as to leave no empty spaces. They sug-
gest a piece of bead-work produced with ex-
quisite dexterity by patient fingers. It would
be more correct still to compare them with
a cob of Indian corn, with its neat rows of
seeds, but a greatly reduced cob, the tininess
of whose dimensions makes its mathematical
precision all the more remarkable. The
grains of the Moth's spike have a slight tend-
ency to be hexagonal, because of their mu-

15

The Life of the Caterpillar

tual pressure; they are stuck close together,
so much so that they cannot be separated. If
force is used, the layer comes off the leaf
in fragments, in small cakes always consisting
of several eggs apiece. The beads laid are
therefore fastened together by a glutinous
varnish; and it is on this varnish that the
broad base of the defensive scales is fixed.

It would be interesting, if a favourable
opportunity occurred, to see how the mother
achieves that beautifully regular arrangement
of the eggs and also how, as soon as she has
laid one, all sticky with varnish, she makes a
roof for it with a few scales removed one
by one from her hind-quarters. For the
moment, the very structure of the finished
work tells us the course of the procedure. It
is evident that the eggs are not laid in longi-
tudinal files, but in circular rows, in rings,
which lie one above the other, alternating
their grains. The laying begins at the bot-
tom, near the lower end of the double pine-
leaf; it finishes at the top. The first eggs in
order of date are those of the bottom ring;
the last are those of the top ring. The ar-
rangement of the scales, all in a longitudinal
direction and attached by the end facing the
16

The Processionaryj the Eggs

top of the leaf, makes any other method of
progression inadmissible.

Let us consider in the light of reflection
the elegant edifice now before our eyes.
Young or old, cultured or ignorant, we shall
all, on seeing the Bombyx' pretty little spike,
exclaim :

"How handsome!"

And what will strike us most will be not
the beautiful enamel pearls, but the way in
which they are put together with such geome-
trical regularity. Whence we can draw a great
moral, to wit, that an exquisite order governs
the work of a creature without consciousness,
one of the humblest of the humble. A paltry
Moth follows the harmonious laws of order.

If Micromegas1 took it into his head to
leave Sirius once more and visit our planet,
would he find anything to admire among us?
Voltaire shows him to us using one of the
diamonds of his necklace as a magnifying-
glass in order to obtain some sort of view of
the three-master which has run aground on
his thumb-nail. He enters into conversation

aThe eponymous hero of Voltaire's story of "the little
great man," published in 1752 in imitation of Gulliver's
Travels. — Translator's Note.

17

The Life of the Caterpillar

with the crew. A nail-paring, curved like a
horn, encompasses the ship and serves as a
speaking-trumpet ; a tooth-pick, which touches
the vessel with its tapering end and the lips
of the giant, some thousand fathoms above,
with the other, serves as a telephone. The
outcome of the famous dialogue is that, if we
would form a sound judgment of things and
see them under fresh aspects, there is nothing
like changing one's planet.

The probability then is that the Sirian
would have had a rather poor notion of our
artistic beauties. To him our masterpieces
of statuary, even though sprung from the
chisel of a Phidias, would be mere dolls of
marble or bronze, hardly more worthy of in-
terest than the children's rubber dolls are to
us; our landscape-paintings would be re-
garded as dishes of spinach smelling unpleas-
antly of oil; our opera-scores would be de-
scribed as very expensive noises.

These things, belonging to the domain of
the senses, possess a relative aesthetic value,
subordinated to the organism that judges
them. Certainly the Venus of Melos and the
Apollo Belvedere are superb works; but even
so it takes a special eye to appreciate them.
18

The Processionary: the Eggs

Micromegas, if he saw them, would be full
of pity for the leanness of human forms. To
him the beautiful calls for something other
than our sorry, frog-like anatomy.

Show him, on the other hand, that sort of
abortive windmill by means of which Pytha-
goras, echoing the wise men of Egypt, teaches
us the fundamental properties of the right-
angled triangle. Should the good giant, con-
trary to our expectation, happen not to know
about it, explain to him what the windmill
means. Once the light has entered his mind,
he will find, just as we do, that there is beauty
there, real beauty, not certainly in that hor-
rible hieroglyphic, the figure, but in the un-
changeable relation between the lengths of the
three sides ; he will admire as much as we do
geometry the eternal balancer of space.

There is, therefore, a severe beauty, be-
longing to the domain of reason, the same in
every world, the same under every sun,
whether the suns be single or many, white or
red, blue or yellow. This universal beauty is
order. Everything is done by weight and
measure, a great statement whose truth
breaks upon us all the more vividly as we
probe more deeply into the mystery of things.
19

The Life of the Caterpillar

Is this order, upon which the equilibrium of
the universe is based, the predestined result
of a blind mechanism? Does it enter into
the plans of an Eternal Geometer, as Plato
had it? Is it the ideal of a supreme lover of
beauty, which would explain everything?

Why all this regularity in the curve of the
petals of a flower, why all this elegance in
the chasings on a Beetle's wing-cases ? Is that
infinite grace, even in the tiniest details, com-
patible with the brutality of uncontrolled
forces? One might as well attribute the
artist's exquisite medallion to the steam-
hammer which makes the slag sweat in the
melting.

These are very lofty thoughts concerning a
miserable cylinder which will bear a crop of
caterpillars. It cannot be helped. The mo-
ment one tries to dig out the least detail of
things, up starts a why which scientific inves-
tigation is unable to answer. The riddle of
the world has certainly its explanation other-
where than in the little truths of our labora-
tories. But let us leave Micromegas to phi-
losophize and return to the commonplaces of
observation.

The Pine Bombyx has rivals in the art of

The Processionary: the Eggs

gracefully grouping her egg-beads. Among
their number is the Neustrian Bombyx, whose
caterpillar is known by the name of "Livery,"
because of his costume. Her eggs are as-
sembled in bracelets around little branches
varying greatly in nature, apple- and pear-
branches chiefly. Any one seeing this elegant
work for the first time would be ready to
attribute it to the fingers of a skilled stringer
of beads. My small son Paul opens eyes wide
with surprise and utters an astonished "Oh!"
each time that he comes upon the dear little
bracelet. The beauty of order forces itself
upon his dawning attention.

Though not so long and marked above all
by the absence of any wrapper, the ring of
the Neustrian Bombyx reminds one of the
other's cylinder, stripped of its scaly covering.
It would be easy to multiply these instances
of elegant grouping, contrived now in one
way, now in another, but always with consum-
mate art. It would take up too much time,
however. Let us keep to the Pine Bombyx.

The hatching takes place in September, a
little earlier in one case, a little later in
another. So that I may easily watch the new-
born caterpillars in their first labours, I have

The Life of the Caterpillar

placed a few egg-laden branches in the wind-
ow of my study. They are standing in a
glass of water which will keep them proper-
ly fresh for some time.

The little caterpillars leave the egg in the
morning, at about eight o'clock. If I just
lift the scales of the cylinder in process of
hatching, I see black heads appear, which
nibble and burst and push back the torn ceil-
ings. The tiny creatures emerge slowly, some
here and some there, all over the surface.

After the hatching, the scaly cylinder is as
regular and as fresh in appearance as if it
were still inhabited. We do not perceive that
it is deserted until we raise the spangles.
The eggs, still arranged in regular rows, are
now so many yawning goblets of a slightly
translucent white; they lack the cap-shaped
lid, which has been rent and destroyed by the
new-born grubs.

The puny creatures measure a millimetre1
at most in length. Devoid as yet of the bright
red that will soon be their adornment, they
are pale-yellow, bristling with hairs, some
shortish and black, others rather longer and
white. The head, of a glossy black, is big

1.03Q inch.— Translator's Note.

22

The Processionary : the Hatching

in proportion. Its diameter is twice that of
the body. This exaggerated size of the head
implies a corresponding strength of jaw,
capable of attacking tough food from the
start. A huge head, stoutly clad in horn, is
the predominant feature of the budding cater-
pillar.

These macrocephalous ones are, as we see,
well-armed against the hardness of the pine-
needles, so well-armed in fact that the meal
begins almost immediately. After roaming
for a few moments at random among the
scales of the common cradle, most of the
young caterpillars make for the double leaf
that served as an axis for the native cylinder
and spread themselves over it at length.
Others go to the adjacent leaves. Here
as well as there they fall to; and the gnawed
leaf is hollowed into faint and very narrow
grooves, bounded by the veins, which are left
intact.

From time to time, three or four who have
eaten their fill fall into line and walk in step,
but soon separate, each going his own way.
This is practice for the coming processions.
If I disturb them ever so little, they sway
the front half of their bodies and wag their
23

The Life of the Caterpillar

heads with a jerky movement similar to the
action of an intermittent spring.

But the sun reaches the corner of the wind-
ow where the careful rearing is in progress.
Then, sufficiently refreshed, the little family
retreats to its native soil, the base of the
double leaf, gathers into an irregular group
and begins to spin. Its work is a gauze
globule of extreme delicacy, supported on
some of the neighbouring leaves. Under this
tent, a very wide-meshed net, a siesta is taken
during the hottest and brightest part of the
day. In the afternoon, when the sun has gone
from the window, the flock leaves its shelter,
disperses around, sometimes forming a little
procession within a radius of an inch, and
starts browsing again.

Thus the very moment of hatching pro-
claims talents which age will develop without
adding to their number. In less than an hour
from the bursting of the egg, the caterpillar
is both a processionary and a spinner. He
also flees the light when taking refreshment.
We shall soon find him visiting his grazing-
grounds only at night.

The spinner is very feeble, but so active
that in twenty-four hours the silken globe at-

The Processionary : the Hatching

tains the bulk of a hazel-nut and in a couple
of weeks that of an apple. Nevertheless, it
is not the nucleus of the great establishment
in which the winter is to be spent. It is a
provisional shelter, very light and inexpensive
in materials. The mildness of the season
makes anything else unnecessary. The young
caterpillars freely gnaw the logs, the poles be-
tween which the threads are stretched, that is
to say, the leaves contained within the silken
tent. Their house supplies them at the same
time with board and lodging. This excellent ar-
rangement saves them from having to go out,
a dangerous proceeding at their age. For these
puny ones, the hammock is also the larder.
Nibbled down to their veins, the supporting
leaves wither and easily come unfastened from
the branches ; and the silken globe becomes a
hovel that crumbles with the first gust of
wind. The family then moves on and goes
elsewhere to erect a new tent, lasting no longer
than the first. Even so does the Arab move
on, as the pastures around his camel-hide
dwelling become exhausted. These temporary
establishments are renewed several times over,
always at greater heights than the last, so
much so that the tribe, which was hatched on

25

The Life of the Caterpillar

the lower branches trailing on the ground,
gradually reaches the higher boughs and
sometimes the very summit of the pine-tree.

In a few weeks' time, a first moult replaces
the humble fleece of the start, which is pale-
coloured, shaggy and ugly, by another which
lacks neither richness nor elegance. On the
dorsal surface, the various segments, ex-
cepting the first three, are adorned with a
mosaic of six little bare patches, of a bright
red, which stand out a little above the dark
background of the skin. Two, the largest,
are in front, two behind and one, almost dot-
shaped, on either side of the quadrilateral.
The whole is surrounded by a palisade of
scarlet bristles, divergent and lying almost
flat. The other hairs, those of the belly and
sides, are longer and whitish.

In the centre of this crimson marquetry
stand two clusters of very short bristles,
gathered into flattened tufts which gleam in
the sun like specks of gold. The length of
the caterpillar is now about two centimetres1
and his width three or four millimetres.2
Such is the costume of middle age, which, like
the earlier one, was unknown to Reaumur.

1About three-quarters of an inch. — Translator's Note.
2.H7 to .156 inch. — Translator's Note.
26

CHAPTER II

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : THE NEST; THE
COMMUNITY

NOVEMBER arrives, however, bringing
cold weather; the time has come to build
the stout winter tabernacle. High up in the
pine the tip of a bough is chosen, with suitably
close-packed and convergent leaves. The
spinners surround it with a spreading network,
which bends the adjacent leaves a little nearer
and ends by incorporating them into the
fabric. In this way they obtain an enclosure
half silk, half leaves, capable of withstanding
the inclemencies of the weather.

Early in December the work has increased
to the size of a man's two fists or more. In
its ultimate perfection, it attains a volume of
nearly half a gallon by the end of winter.

It is roughly egg-shaped, tapering to a cert-
ain length below and extended into a sheath
which envelops the supporting branch. The
origin of this silky extension is as follows:
every evening between seven and nine o'clock,

27

The Life of the Caterpillar

weather permitting, the caterpillars leave the
nest and go down the bare part of the
bough which forms the pole of the tent. The
road is broad, for this axis is sometimes
as wide as the neck of a claret-bottle. The
descent is accomplished without any attempt
at order and always slowly, so much so that
the first caterpillars to come out have not yet
dispersed before they are caught up by the
others. The branch is thus covered by a con-
tinuous bark of caterpillars, made up of the
whole community, which gradually divides
into squads arid disperses to this side and that
on the nearest branches to crop their leaves.
Now not one of the caterpillars moves a step
without working his spinneret. Therefore the
broad downward path, which on the way
back will be the ascending path, is covered,
as the result .of constant traffic, with a multi-
tude of threads forming an unbroken sheath.
It is obvious that this sheath, in which each
caterpillar, passing backwards and forwards
on his nocturnal rambles, leaves a double
thread, is not an indicator laid down with the
sole object of simplifying the journey back to
the nest : a mere ribbon would be enough for
that. Its use might well be to strengthen the
28

The Processionary : the Nest

edifice, to give it deeper foundations and to
join it by a multitude of cables to the steady
branch.

The whole thing thus consists, above, of
the home distended into an ovoid and, below,
of the stalk, the sheath surrounding the sup-
port and adding its resistance to that of the
numerous other fastenings.

Each nest that has not yet had its shape
altered by the prolonged residence of the
caterpillars shows in the centre a bulky, milk-
white shell, with around it a wrapper of dia-
phanous gauze. The central mass, formed
of thickly-woven threads, has for a wall a
thick quilt into which are absorbed, as sup-
ports, numbers of leaves, green and intact.
The thickness of this wall may be anything
up to three-quarters of an inch.

At the top of the dome are round openings,
varying greatly in number and distribution, as
wide across as an ordinary lead-pencil. These
are the doors of the house, through which the
caterpillars go in and out. All around the
shell are projecting leaves, which the insects'
teeth have respected. From the tip of each
leaf there radiate, in graceful, undulating
curves, threads which, loosely interlaced, form

29

The Life of the Caterpillar

a light tent, a spacious verandah of careful
workmanship, especially in the upper part.
Here we find a broad terrace on which, in the
daytime, the caterpillars come and doze in
the sun, heaped one upon the other, with
rounded backs. The network stretching
overhead does duty as an awning: it mode-
rates the heat of the sun's rays; it also saves
the sleepers from a fall when the bough rocks
in the wind.

Let us take our scissors and rip open the
nest from end to end longitudinally. A wide
window opens and allows us to see the ar-
rangement of the inside. The first thing to
strike us is that the leaves contained in the
enclosure are intact and quite sound. The
young caterpillars in their temporary esta-
blishments gnaw the leaves within the silken
wrapper to death ; they thus have their larder
stocked for a few days without having to quit
their shelter in bad weather, a condition made
necessary by their weakness. When they
grow stronger and start working on their win-
ter home, they are very careful not to touch
the leaves. Why these new scruples?

The reason is evident. If bruised, those
leaves, the framework of the house, would
30

The Processionary : the Nest

very soon wither and then be blown off with
the first breath of wind. The silken purse,
torn from its base, would collapse. On the
other hand, if the leaves are respected, they
remain vigorous and furnish a stout support
against the assaults of winter. A solid fast-
ening is superfluous for the summer tent,
which lasts but a day; it is indispensable to
the permanent shelter which will have to bear
the burden of heavy snows and the buffeting
of icy winds. Fully alive to these perils, the
spinner of the pine-tree considers himself
bound, however importunate his hunger,
not to saw through the rafters of his
house.

Inside the nest, therefore, opened by my
scissors I see a thick arcade of green leaves,
more or less closely wrapped in a silky sheath
whence dangle shreds of cast skin and strings
of dried droppings. In short, this interior
is an extremely unpleasant place, a rag-shop
and a sewage-farm in one, and corresponds
in no way with the imposing exterior. All
around is a solid wall of quilting and of
closely-woven leaves. There are no cham-
bers, no compartments marked off by parti-
tion-walls. It is a single room, turned into a
31

The Life of the Caterpillar

labyrinth by the colonnade of green leaves
placed in rows one above the other through-
out the oval hall. Here the caterpillars
stay when resting, gathered on the columns,
heaped in confused masses.

When we remove the hopeless tangle at the
top, we see the light filtering in at certain
points of the roof. These luminous points cor-
respond with the openings that communicate
with the outer air. The network that forms
a wrapper to the nest has no special exits.
To pass through it in either direction, the
caterpillars have only to push the sparse
threads aside slightly. The inner wall, a com-
pact rampart, has its doors; the flimsy outer
veil has none.

It is in the morning, at about ten o'clock,
that the caterpillars leave their night-apart-
ment and come to take the sun on their ter-
race, under the awning which the points of
the leaves hold up at a distance. They spend
the whole day there dozing. Motionless,
heaped together, they steep themselves de-
liciously in warmth and from time to time be-
tray their bliss by nodding and wagging their
heads. At six or seven o'clock, when it grows
dark, the sleepers awake, bestir themselves,

The Processionary : the Nest

separate and go their several ways over the
surface of the nest.

We now behold an indeed delightful spec-
tacle. Bright-red stripes meander in every
direction over the white sheet of silk. One
goes up, another comes down, a third moves
aslant; others form a short procession. And,
as they solemnly walk about in a splendid dis-
order, each glues to the ground which it covers
the thread that constantly hangs from its lip.

Thus is the thickness of the shelter in-
creased by a fine layer added immediately
above the previous structure; thus is the
dwelling strengthened by fresh supports. The
adjoining green leaves are taken into the net-
work and absorbed in the building. If the
tiniest bit of them remains free, curves radiate
from that point, increasing the size of the
veil and fastening it at a greater distance.
Every evening, therefore, for an hour or two,
great animation reigns on the surface of the
nest, if the weather permits; and the work
of consolidating and thickening the structure
is carried on with indefatigable zeal.

Do they foresee the future, these wary ones
who take such precautions against the rigours
of winter? Obviously not. Their few

33

The Life of the Caterpillar

months' experience — if indeed experience can
be mentioned in connection with a caterpillar
— tells them of savoury bellyfuls of green
stuff, of gentle slumbers in the sun on the ter-
race of the nest; but nothing hitherto has
made them acquainted with cold, steady rain,
with frost, snow and furious blasts of wind.
And these creatures, knowing naught of win-
ter's woes, take the same precautions as if they
were thoroughly aware of all that the incle-
ment season holds in store for them. They
work away at their house with an ardour that
seems to say:

"Oh, how nice and warm we shall be in
our beds here, nestling one against the other,
when the pine-tree swings aloft its frosted
candelabra ! Let us work with a will ! Labore-
musf"

Yes, caterpillars, my friends, let us work
with a will, great and small, men and grubs
alike, so that we may fall asleep peacefully;
you with the torpor that makes way for your
transformation into Moths, we with that last
sleep which breaks off life only to renew it.
Lab or emus!

Anxious to watch my caterpillars' habits in
detail, without having to sally forth by lan-
34

The Processionary : the Nest

tern-light, often in bad weather, to see what
happens in the pine-trees at the end of the en-
closure, I have installed half-a-dozen nests
in a greenhouse, a modest, glazed shelter
which, though hardly any warmer than the air
outside, at least affords protection from the
wind and rain. Fixed in the sand, at a height
of about eighteen inches, by the base of the
bough that serves as both an axis and a frame-
work, each nest receives for rations a bundle
of little pine-branches, which are renewed as
soon as they are consumed. I take my lan-
tern every evening and pay my boarders a
visit. This is the way in which most of my
facts are obtained.

After the day's work comes the evening
meal. The caterpillars descend from the nest,
adding a few more threads to the silvery
sheath of the support, and reach the posy of
fresh green stuff which is lying quite near. It
is a magnificent sight to see the red-coated
band lined up in twos and threes on ?ach
needle and in ranks so closely formed that the
green sprigs of the bunch bend under the load.

The diners, all motionless, all poking their
heads forward, nibble in silence, placidly.
Their broad black foreheads gleam in the

35

The Life of the Caterpillar

rays of the lantern. A shower of granules
drops on the sand below. These are the
residues of easy-going stomachs, only too
ready to digest their food. By to-morrow
morning the soil will have disappeared under
a greenish layer of this intestinal hail. Yes,
indeed, it is a sight to see, one far more stimu-
lating than that of the Silk-worms' mess- room.
Young and old, we are all so much interested
in it that our evenings almost invariably end in
a visit to the greenhouse caterpillars.

The meal is prolonged far into the night.
Satisfied at last, some sooner, some later, they
go back to the nest, where for a little longer,
feeling their silk-glands filled, they continue
spinning on the surface. These hard workers
would scruple to cross the white carpet with-
out contributing a few threads. It is getting
on for one or even two o'clock in the morn-
ing when the last of the band goes indoors.

My duty as a foster-father is daily to re-
new the bunch of sprigs, which are shorn to
the last leaf; on the other hand, my duty as
an historian is to enquire to what extent the
diet can be varied. The district supplies me
with Processionaries on the Scotch pine, the
maritime pine and the Aleppo pine indif-
36

The Processionary : the Nest

ferently, but never on the other Conifers.
Yet one would think that any resin-scented
leaf ought to suit. So says chemical analysis.

We must mistrust the chemist's retort when
it pokes its nose into the kitchen. It may suc-
ceed in making butter out of tallow-candles
and brandy out of potatoes ; but, when it tells
us that the products are identical, we shall do
well to refuse these abominations. Science,
astonishingly rich as it is in poison, will never
provide us with anything fit to eat, because,
though the raw substance falls to a large ex-
tent within its domain, that same substance
escapes its methods the moment that it is
wanted organized, divided and subdivided in-
definitely by the process of life, as needed
by the stomach, whose requirements are not
to be met by measured doses of our reagents.
The raw material of cell and fibre may per-
haps be artificially obtained, some day; cell
and fibre themselves, never. There's the rub
with your chemical feeding.

The caterpillars loudly proclaim the insur-
mountable difficulty of the problem. Relying
on my chemical data, I offer them the dif-
ferent substitutes for the pine growing in my
enclosure : the spruce, the yew, the thuja, the

37

The Life of the Caterpillar

juniper, the cypress. What! Am I asking
them, Pine Caterpillars, to bite into that?
They will take good care not to, despite the
tempting resinous smell ! They would die of
hunger rather than touch it! One conifer
and one only is excepted: the cedar. My
charges browse upon its leaves with no appre-
ciable repugnance. Why the cedar and not
the others? I do not know. The caterpil-
lar's stomach, fastidious as our own, has its
secrets.

Let us pass to other tests. I have just slit
open longitudinally a nest whose internal
structure I want to explore. Owing to the
natural shrinkage of the split swan's-down, the
cleft reaches two fingers' breadth in the centre
and tapers at the top and bottom. What will
the spinners do in the presence of such a
disaster? The operation is performed by day,
while the caterpillars are slumbering in heaps
upon the dome. As the living-room is de-
serted at this time, I can cut boldly with the
scissors without risk of damaging any part
of the population.

My ravages do not wake the sleepers : all
day long not one appears upon the breach.
This indifference looks as though it were due
38

The Processionary : the Nest

to the fact that the danger is not yet known.
Things will be different to-night, when the
busy work begins again. However dull they
may be, the caterpillars will certainly notice
that hugh window which freely admits the
deadly draughts of winter; and, possessing
any amount of padding, they will crowd
round the dangerous gap and stop it up in a
trice. Thus do we argue, forgetting the ani-
mal's intellectual darkness.

What really happens is that, when night
falls, the indifference of the caterpillars re-
mains as great as ever. The breach in the
tent provokes not a sign of excitement. They
move to and fro on the surface of the nest;
they work, they spin as usual. There is no
change, absolutely none, in their behaviour.
When the road covered chances to bring some
of them to the brink of the ravine, we see
no alacrity on their part, no sign of anxiety,
no attempt to close up the two edges of the
slit. They simply strive to accomplish the
difficult crossing and to continue their stroll
as though they were walking on a perfect
web. And they manage it somehow or other,
by fixing the thread as far as the length of
their body permits.

39

The Life of the Caterpillar

Having once crossed the gulf, they pursue
their way imperturbably, without stopping any
more at the breach. Others come upon the
scene and, using the threads already laid as
foot-bridges, pass over the rent and walk on,
leaving their own thread as they go. Thus
the first night's work results in the laying over
the cleft of a filmy gauze, hardly perceptible,
but just sufficient for the traffic of the colony.
The same thing is repeated on the nights that
follow; and the crevice ends by being closed
with a scanty sort of Spider's web. And that
is all.

There is no improvement by the end of the
winter. The window made by my scissors
is still wide open, though thinly veiled; its
black spindle shape shows from the top of
the nest to the bottom. There is no darn
in the split texture, no piece of swan's-down
let in between the two edges to restore the
roof to its original state. If the accident had
happened in the open air and not under glass,
the foolish spinners would probably have died
of cold in their cracked house.

Twice renewed with the same results, this
test proves that the Pine Caterpillars are not
alive to the danger of their split dwelling.

The Processionary : the Nest

Expert spinners though they be, they seem
as unconscious of the ruin of their work as
the spools in a factory are of a broken thread.
They could easily make good the damage by
stopping up the breach with the silk that is
lavished elsewhere without urgent need; they
could weave upon it a material as thick and
solid as the rest of the walls. But no, they
placidly continue their habitual task; they spin
as they spun yesterday and as they will spin
to-morrow, strengthening the parts that are
already strong, thickening what is already
thick enough; and not one thinks of stopping
the disastrous gap. To let a piece into that
hole would mean weaving the tent all over
again from the beginning; and no insect, how-
ever industrious, goes back to what it has
already done.

I have often called attention to this feature
in animal psychology; notably I have de-
scribed the ineptitude of the caterpillar of the
Great Peacock Moth.1 When the experi-
menter lops the top off the complicated eel-
trap which forms the pointed end of the co-
coon, this caterpillar spends the silk remaining

1In the course of an essay on aberration of instinct in
a certain Mason-wasp which is not yet translated into
English. — Translator's Note.

41

The Life of the Caterpillar

to him in work of secondary importance, in-
stead of making good the series of cones, each
fitting into the other, which are so essential to
the hermit's protection. He continues his
normal task imperturbably,. as though nothing
out of the way had taken place. Even so does
the spinner in the pine-tree act with his burst
tent.

Your foster-parent must perpetrate yet
another piece of mischief, O my Proces-
sionary; but this time it shall be to your
advantage ! It does not take me long to per-
ceive that the nests intended to last through
the winter often contain a population much
greater than that of the temporary shelters
woven by the very young caterpillars. I also
notice that, when they have attained their ulti-
mate dimensions, these nests differ very con-
siderably in size. The largest of them are
equal to five or six of the smallest. What is
the cause of these variations?

Certainly, if all the eggs turned out well,
the scaly cylinder containing the laying of a
single mother would be enough to fill a splen-
did purse : there are three hundred enamelled
beads here for hatching. But in families
which swarm unduly an enormous waste al-

The Processionary: the Community

ways takes places and restores the balance of
things; if the called are legion, the chosen are
a well thinned-out troop, as is proved by the
Cicada, the Praying Mantis1 and the Cricket.

The Pine Processionary, another crucible
of organic matter of which various devourers
take advantage, is also reduced in numbers
immediately after the hatching. The delicate
mouthful has shrunk to a few dozens of sur-
vivors around the light globular network in
which the family passes the sunny autumn
days. Soon they will have to be thinking of
the stoutly-built winter tent. At such a time,
it would be a boon if they could be many, for
from union springs strength.

I suspect an easy method of fusion among
a few families. To serve them as a guide
in their peregrinations about the tree, the
caterpillars have their silk ribbon, which they
follow on their return, after describing a bend.
They may also miss it and strike another, one
differing in no respect from their own. This
new ribbon marks the way to some nest
situated in the neighbourhood. The strayed

*A predatory insect, akin to the Locusts and Crickets,
which, when at rest, adopts an attitude resembling that
of prayer. Cf. Social Life in the Insect World: chaps,
v to vii. — Translator's Note.

43

The Life of the Caterpillar

caterpillars, failing to distinguish it from their
own ribbon, follow it conscientiously and in
this manner end by reaching a strange dwell-
ing. Suppose them to be peacefully received :
what will happen?

Once fused, the several groups assembled
by the accident of the path will form a power-
ful city, fitted to produce great works; the
concerted weaklings will give rise to a strong,
united body. This would explain the thickly-
populated, bulky nests situated so near to
others that have remained puny. The former
would be the work of a syndicate incorporat-
ing the interests of spinners collected from
different parts; the latter would belong to
families left in isolation by the luck of the
road.

It remains to be seen whether the chance-
comers, guided by a strange ribbon, meet with
a good reception in the new abode. The ex-
periment is easily made upon the nests in the
greenhouse. In the evening, at the hours
devoted to grazing, I remove with a pruning-
shears the different little branches covered
with the population of one nest and lay them
on the provisions of the neighbouring nest,
which provisions are also overrun with cater-

The Processionary: the Community

pillars. Or I can make shorter work of it
by taking the whole bunch, well covered with
the troop, of the first pouch and planting it
right beside the bunch of the second, so that
the leaves of the two mingle a little at the
edges.

There is not the least quarrelling between
the real proprietors and the new arrivals.
Both go on peacefully browsing, as though
nothing had happened. And all without hesi-
tation, when bed-time comes, make for the
nest, like brothers who have always lived to-
gether; all do some spinning before retiring
to rest, thicken the blanket a little and are
then swallowed up in the dormitory. By
repeating the same operation next day and, if
necessary, the day after, in order to collect
the laggards, I succeed without the slightest
difficulty in wholly depopulating the first nest
and transferring all its caterpillars to the
second.

I venture to do something better still. The
same method of transportation allows me to
quadruple the output of a spinning-mill by
adding to it the workers of three similar es-
tablishments. And, if I limit myself to this
increase, the reason is not that any confusion

45

The Life of the Caterpillar

manifests itself in this shifting of quarters,
but that I see no bounds to my experiment,
so cheerfully do the caterpillars accept any
addition to their number. The 'more spin-
ners, the more spinning: a very judicious rule
of conduct.

Let us add that the caterpillars which have
been transported cherish no regrets for their
old house. They are quite at home with the
others and make no attempt to regain the
nest whence they were banished by my arti-
fices. It is not the distance that discourages
them, for the empty dwelling is only half a
yard away at most. If, for the purpose of
my studies, I wish to restock the deserted
nest, I am obliged once more to resort to
transportation, which invariably proves suc-
cessful.

Later, in February, when an occasional fine
day allows of long processions on the walls
and the sand-covered shelf of the green-
house, I am able to watch the fusing of two
groups without personally intervening. All
that I have to do is patiently to follow the
evolutions of a file on the march. I see it
sometimes, after leaving one nest, enter a
different one, guided by some fortuitous
46

The Processionary: the Community

change of route. Thenceforward the stran-
gers form part of the community on the same
footing as the others. In a like fashion, when
the caterpillars walk abroad upon the tree
at night, the scanty groups of the outset must
increase and gather the number of spinners
which an extensive building requires.

Everything for everybody. So says the
Pine Processionary, nibbling his leaves with-
out quarrelling in the least over his neigh-
bours' mouthfuls, or else entering — and being
always peacefully received — another's home
precisely as he would his own. Whether a
member of the tribe or a stranger, he finds
room in the refectory and room in the dormi-
tory. The others' nest is his nest. The
others' grazing-ground is his grazing-ground,
in which he is entitled to his fair share, one
neither greater nor smaller than the share of
his habitual or casual companions.

Each for all and all for each. So says
the Processionary, who every evening spends
his little capital of silk on enlarging a shelter
that is often new to him. What would he do
with his puny skein, if alone? Hardly any-
thing. But there are hundreds and hundreds
of them in the spinning-mill; and the result

47

The Life of the Caterpillar

of their infinitesimal contributions, woven into
a common stuff, is a thick blanket capable
of resisting the winter. In working for
himself, each works for the others; and
these on their side work as zealously for
each. O lucky animals that know nothing
of property, the mother of strife! O en-
viable cenobites, who practise the strictest
communism !

These habits of the caterpillars invite a
few reflections. Generous minds, richer in
illusions than in logic, set communism before
us as the sovran cure for human ills. Is it
practicable among mankind? At all times
there have been, there still are and there
always will be, fortunately, associations in
which it is possible to forget in common some
small part of the hardships of life; but is it
possible to generalize?

The caterpillars of the pine can give us
much valuable information in this respect.
Let us have no false shame: our material
needs are shared by the animals; they strug-
gle as we do to take part in the general ban-
quet of the living; and the manner in which
they solve the problem of existence is not to
be despised. Let us then ask ourselves what
48

The Processionary: the Community

are the reasons that cause cenobitism to flour-
ish among the Processionaries.

One answer suggests itself inevitably, to be-
gin with : the food problem, that terrible dis-
turber of the world's tranquillity, is here non-
existent. Peace reigns as soon as the stomach
is certain of being filled without a struggle.
A pine-needle or even less suffices for the
caterpillar's meal; and that needle is always
there, waiting to be eaten, is there in inex-
haustible numbers, almost on the threshold of
the home. When dinner-time arrives, we
caterpillars go out, we take the air, we walk
a little in procession; then, without laborious
seeking, without jealous rivalries, we seat our-
selves at the banquet. The table is plenti-
fully spread and will never be bare, so large
and generous is the pine; all that we need
do is, from one evening to the next, to move
our dining-room a little farther on. Conse-
quently, there are no present and no future
cares on the subject of provisions: the cater-
pillar finds food to eat almost as easily as he
finds air to breathe.

The atmosphere feeds all creatures on air
with a bounty which it is not necessary to
crave. All unknown to itself, without the

The Life of the Caterpillar

agency of any effort or labour, the animal re-
ceives its share of the most vital of elements.
The niggardly earth, on the contrary, sur-
renders its gifts only when laboriously forced.
Not fruitful enough to satisfy every need, it
leaves the division of the food to the fierce
eagerness of competition.

The mouthful to be procured engenders
war between consumers. Look at two
Ground-beetles coming at the same time upon
a bit of Earth-worm. Which of the two
shall have the morsel? The matter shall
be decided by battle, desperate, ferocious
battle. With these famished ones, who eat
at long intervals and do not always eat
their fill, communal life is out of the
question.

The Pine Caterpillar is free from these
woes. He finds the earth as generous as the
atmosphere ; he finds eating as easy as breath-
ing. Other instances of perfect communism
might be named. All occur among species
living on a vegetable diet, provided however
that victuals are plentiful and obtainable with-
out a hard search. An animal diet, on the
contrary, a prey, always more or less difficult
to secure, banishes cenobitism. Where the
so

The Processionary : the Community

portion is too small for one, what excuse
would there be for guests ?

The Pine Processionary knows nothing of
privation. He knows as little of family ties,
another source of unrelenting competition.
To make ourselves a place in the sun is but
a half of the struggle imposed upon us by
life: we must also, as far as possible, pre-
pare a place for our successors; and, as the
preservation of the species is of greater im-
portance than that of the individual, the
struggle for the future is even fiercer than the
struggle for the present. Every mother re-
gards the welfare of her offspring as her pri-
mary law. Perish all else, provided that the
brood flourish ! Every one for himself is her
maxim, imposed by the rigours of the general
conflict; every one for himself is her rule, the
safeguard of the future.

With maternity and its imperious duties,
communism ceases to be practicable. At first
sight, certain Hymenoptera1 seem to declare
the contrary. We find, for instance, the
Mason-bees of the Sheds2 nesting in myriads

1The order of insects embracing the Bees, Wasps,
Ants, Saw-flies, Ichneumon-flies, etc. — Translator's Note.

2Cf. The Mason-bees, by J. Henri Fabre, translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, passim. — Translator's
Note.

Si

The Life of the Caterpillar

on the same tiles and building a monumental
edifice at which all the mothers work. Is this
really a community? Not at all. It is a city
in which the inhabitants have neighbours, not
collaborators. Each mother kneads her pots
of honey; each amasses a dowry for her off-
spring and nothing but a dowry for her off-
spring; each wears herself out for her family
and only for her family. Oh, it would be a
serious business if some one merely came and
alighted on the brim of a cell that did not
belong to her; the mistress of the house would
give her to understand, by means of a sound
drubbing, that manners such as those are not
to be endured ! She would have to skedaddle
very quickly, unless she wanted a fight. The
rights of property are sacred here.

Even the much more social Hive-bee is no
exception to the rule of maternal egoism. To
each hive one mother. If there be two, civil
war breaks out and one of them perishes by
the other's dagger or else quits the country,
followed by a part of the swarm. Although
virtually fit to lay eggs, the other Bees, to
the number of some twenty thousand, re-
nounce maternity and vow themselves to celi-
bacy in order to bring up the prodigious
52

The Processionary : the Community

family of the one and only mother. Here,
communism reigns, under certain aspects ; but,
for the immense majority, motherhood is
forthwith abolished.

Even so with the Wasps, the Ants, the
Termites1 and the various social insects. Life
in common costs them dear. Thousands and
thousands remain incomplete and become the
humble auxiliaries of a few who are sexually
endowed. But, whenever maternity is the
general portion, individualism reappears, as
among the Mason-bees, notwithstanding their
show of communism.

The Pine Caterpillars are exempt from the
duty of preserving the race. They have no
sex, or rather are obscurely preparing one, as
undecided and rudimentary as all that is not
yet but must one day be. With the blossom-
ing of maternity, that flower of adult age,
individual property will not fail to appear,
attended by its rivalries. The insect now so
peaceable will, like the others, have its dis-
plays of selfish intolerance. The mothers
will isolate themselves, jealous of the double
pine-needle in which the cylinder of eggs is
to be fixed; the males, fluttering their wings,

1 White Ants.— Translator's Note.
53

The Life of the Caterpillar

will challenge one another for the possession
of the coveted bride. It is not a serious strug-
gle among these easy-going ones, but still it
presents a faint picture of those mortal affrays
which the mating so often produces. Love
rules the world by battle ; it too is a hotbed of
competition.

The caterpillar, being almost sexless, is in-
different to amorous instincts. This is the
first condition for living pacifically in com-
mon. But it is not enough. The perfect
concord of the community demands among all
its members an equal division of strength and
talent, of taste and capacity for work. This
condition, which perhaps is the most import-
ant of all, is fulfilled preeminently. If there
were hundreds, if there were thousands of
them in the same nest, there would be no dif-
ference between any of them.

They are all the same size and equally
strong; all wear the same dress; all possess
the same gift for spinning; and all with equal
zeal expend the contents of their silk-glands
for the general welfare. No one idles, no
one lounges along when there is work to be
done. With no other stimulus than the sat-
isfaction of doing their duty, every evening,

54

The Processionary: the Community

when the weather is favourable, they all spin
with equal industry and drain to the last drop
their reservoirs of silk, which have become
distended during the day. In their tribe there
is no question of skilled or unskilled, of strong
or weak, of abstemious or gluttonous; there
are neither hard-workers nor idlers, neither
savers nor spendthrifts. What one does the
others do, with a like zeal, no more and no
less well. It is a splendid world of equality
truly, but, alas, a world of caterpillars !

If it suited us to go to school to the Pine
Processionary, we should soon see the inanity
of our levelling and communistic theories.
Equality is a magnificent political catchword,
but little more. Where is it, this equality of
ours? In our social groups, could we find
as many as two persons exactly equal in
strength, health, intelligence, capacity for
work, foresight and all the other gifts which
are the great factors of prosperity? Where
should we find anything analogous to the exact
parity prevailing among caterpillars? No-
where. Inequality is our law. .And a good
thing, too.

A sound which is invariably the same, how-
ever often multiplied, does not constitute a
55

The Life of the Caterpillar

harmony. We need dissimilarities, sounds
loud and soft, deep and shrill; we need even
discords which, by their harshness, throw into
relief the sweetness of the chords. In the
same way, human societies are harmonious
only with the aid of contraries. If the dreams
of our levellers could be realized, we should
sink to the monotony of the caterpillar so-
cieties; art, science, progress and the lofty
flights of the imagination would slumber in-
definitely in the dead calm of mediocrity.

Besides, if this general levelling were ef-
fected, we should still be very far from com-
munism. To achieve that, we should have
to do away with the family, as the caterpil-
lars and Plato teach us; we should need
abundance of food obtained without any ef-
fort. So long as a mouthful of bread is diffi-
cult to acquire, demanding an industry and
labour of which we are not all equally capable,
so long as the family remains the sacred rea-
son for our foresight, so long will the
generous theory of all for each and each for
all be absolutely impracticable.

And then should we gain by abolishing the
struggle for the daily bread of ourselves and
those dependent on us? It is very doubtful.

56

The Processionary : the Community

We should be getting rid of this world's two
great joys, work and the family, the only joys
that give any value to life; we should be
stifling exactly that which makes our great-
ness. And the result of this bestial sacrilege
would be a community of human caterpillars.
Thus does the Pine Processionary teach us
by his example.

CHAPTER III

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : THE PROCESSION

DROVER Dingdong's Sheep followed
the Ram which Panurge had maliciously
thrown overboard and leapt nimbly into the
sea, one after the other, "for you know," says
Rabelais, "it is the nature of the sheep al-
ways to follow the first, wheresoever it goes ;
which makes Aristotle mark them for the
most silly and foolish animals in the world."1

The Pine Caterpillar is even more sheep-
like, not from foolishness, but from necessity :
where the first goes all the others go, in a
regular string, with not an empty space be-
tween them.

They proceed in single file, in a continuous
row, each touching with its head the rear of
the one in front of it. The complex twists
and turns described in his vagaries by the
caterpillar leading the van are scrupulously
described by all the others. No Greek theoria
winding its way to the Eleusinian festivals was
IV., chap, viii.— Translator's Note.
58

The Processionary: the Procession

ever more orderly. Hence the name of
Processionary given to the gnawer of the
pine.

His character is complete when we add that
he is a rope-dancer all his life long : he walks
only on the tight-rope, a silken rail placed
in position as he advances. The caterpillar
who chances to be at the head of the proces-
sion dribbles his thread without ceasing and
fixes it on the path which his fickle preferences
cause him to take. The thread is so tiny that
the eye, though armed with a magnifying-
glass, suspects it rather than sees it.

But a second caterpillar steps on the slender
footboard and doubles it with his thread; a
third trebles it; and all the others, however
many there be, add the sticky spray from their
spinnerets, so much so that, when the proces-
sion has marched by, there remains, as a
record of its passing, a narrow white ribbon
whose dazzling whiteness shimmers in the
sun. Very much more sumptuous than ours,
their system of road-making consists in uphol-
stering with silk instead of macadamizing.
We sprinkle our roads with broken stones and
level them by the pressure of a heavy steam-
roller; they lay over their paths a soft satin

59

The Life of the Caterpillar

rail, a work of general interest to which each
contributes his thread.

What is the use of all this luxury? Could
they not, like other caterpillars, walk about
without these costly preparations? I see two
reasons for their mode of progression. It
is night when the Processionaries sally forth
to browse upon the pine-leaves. They leave
their nest, situated at the top of a bough, in
profound darkness ; they go down the denuded
pole till they come to the nearest branch that
has not yet been gnawed, a branch which be-
comes lower and lower by degrees as the con-
sumers finish stripping the upper storeys; they
climb up this untouched branch and spread
over the green needles.

When they have had their suppers and be-
gin to feel the keen night air, the next thing
is to return to the shelter of the house.
'Measured in a straight line, the distance is
not great, hardly an arm's length ; but it can-
not be covered in this way on foot. The
caterpillars have to climb down from one
crossing to the next, from the needle to the
twig, from the twig to the branch, from the
branch to the bough and from the bough, by
a no less angular path, to go back home. It
60

The Processionary: the Procession

is useless to rely upon sight as a guide on this
long and erratic journey. The Processionary,
it is true, has five ocular specks on either side
of his head, but they are so infinitesimal, so
difficult to make out through the magnifying-
glass, that we cannot attribute to them any
great power of vision. Besides, what good
would those short-sighted lenses be in the
absence of light, in black darkness?

It is equally useless to think of the sense
of smell. Has the Processional any olfactory
powers or has he not ? I do not know. With-
out giving a positive answer to the question,
I can at least declare that his sense of smell
is exceedingly dull and in no way suited to
help him find his way. This is proved, in
my experiments, by a number of hungry cater-
pillars that, after a long fast, pass close be-
side a pine-branch without betraying any
eagerness or showing a sign of stopping. It
is the sense of touch that tells them where
they are. So long as their lips do not chance
to light upon the pasture-land, not one of them
settles there, though he be ravenous. They
do not hasten to food which they have scented
from afar; they stop at a branch which they
encounter on their way.
61

The Life of the Caterpillar

Apart from sight and smell, what remains
to guide them in returning to the nest? The
ribbon spun on the road. In the Cretan laby-
rinth, Theseus would have been lost but for
the clue of thread with which Ariadne sup-
plied him. The spreading maze of the pine-
needles is, especially at night, as inextricable
a labyrinth as that constructed for Minos.
The Processionary finds his way through it,
without the possibility of a mistake, by the
aid of his bit of silk. At the time for going
home, each easily recovers either his own
thread or one or other of the neighbouring
threads, spread fanwise by the diverging herd;
one by one the scattered tribe line up on the
common ribbon, which started from the nest ;
and the sated caravan finds its way back to
the manor with absolute certainty.

Longer expeditions are made in the day-
time, even in winter, if the weather be fine.
Our caterpillars then come down from the
tree, venture on the ground, march in proces-
sion for a distance of thirty yards or so. The
object of these sallies is not to look for food,
for the native pine-tree is far from being ex-
hausted: the shorn branches hardly count amid
the vast leafage. Moreover, the caterpillars
62

The Processionary: the Procession

observe complete abstinence till nightfall.
The trippers have no other object than a con-
stitutional, a pilgrimage to the outskirts to
see what these are like, possibly an inspection
of the locality where, later on, they mean to
bury themselves in the sand for their meta-
morphosis.

It goes without saying that, in these greater
evolutions, the guiding cord is not neglected.
It is now more necessary than ever. All con-
tribute to it from the produce of their spin-
nerets, as is the invariable rule whenever there
is a progression. Not one takes a step for-
ward without fixing to the path the thread
hanging from his lip.

If the series forming the procession be at
all long, the ribbon is dilated sufficiently to
make it easy to find; nevertheless, on the
homeward journey, it is not picked up with-
out some hesitation. For observe that the
caterpillars when on the march never turn
completely; to wheel round on their tight-rope
is a method utterly unknown to them. In
order therefore to regain the road already
covered, they have to describe a zig-zag whose
windings and extent are determined by the
leader's fancy. Hence come gropings and
63

The Life of the Caterpillar

roamings which are sometimes prolonged to
the point of causing the herd to spend the
night out of doors. It is not a serious mat-
ter. They collect into a motionless cluster.
To-morrow the search will start afresh and
will sooner or later be successful. Oftener
still the winding curve meets the guide-thread
at the first attempt. As soon as the first
caterpillar has the rail between his legs, all
hesitation ceases; and the band makes for the
nest with hurried steps.

The use of this silk-tapestried roadway is
evident from a second point of view. To pro-
tect himself against the severity of the win-
ter which he has to face when working, the
Pine Caterpillar weaves himself a shelter in
which he spends his bad hours, his days of
enforced idleness. Alone, with none but the
meagre resources of his silk-glands, he would
find difficulty in protecting himself on the top
of a branch buffeted by the winds. A sub-
stantial dwelling, proof against snow, gales
and icy fogs, requires the cooperation of a
large number. Out of the individual's piled-
up atoms, the community obtains a spacious
and durable establishment.

The enterprise takes a long time to com-
64

The Processionary: the Procession

plete. Every evening, when the weather per-
mits, the building has to be strengthened and
enlarged. It is indispensable, therefore, that
the corporation of workers should not be dis-
solved while the stormy season continues and
the insects are still in the caterpillar stage.
But, without special arrangements, each noc-
turnal expedition at grazing-time would be a
cause of separation. At that moment of ap-
petite for food there is a return to indi-
vidualism. The caterpillars become more or
less scattered, settling singly on the branches
around; each browses his pine-needle sepa-
rately. How are they to find one another
afterwards and become a community again?

The several threads left on the road make
this easy. With that guide, every caterpillar,
however far he may be, comes back to his
companions without ever missing the way.
They come hurrying from a host of twigs,
from here, from there, from above, from be-
low; and soon the scattered legion reforms
into a group. The silk thread is something
more than a road-making expedient : it is the
social bond, the system that keeps the mem-
bers of the community indissolubly united.

At the head of every procession, long or

65

The Life of the Caterpillar

short, goes a first caterpillar whom I will call
the leader of the march or file, though the
word leader, which I use for want of a bet-
ter, is a little out of place here. Nothing, in
fact, distinguishes this caterpillar from the
others: it just depends upon the order in
which they happen to line up ; and mere chance
brings him to the front. Among the Proces-
sionaries, every captain is an officer of for-
tune. The actual leader leads; presently he
will be a subaltern, if the file should break up
in consequence of some accident and be
formed anew in a different order.

His temporary functions give him an atti-
tude of his own. While the others follow
passively in a close file, he, the captain, tosses
himself about and with an abrupt movement
flings the front of his body hither and thither.
As he marches ahead he seems to be seeking
his way. Does he in point of fact explore the
country ? Does he choose the most practicable
places? Or are his hesitations merely the re-
sult of the absence of a guiding thread on
ground that has not yet been covered? His
subordinates follow very placidly, reassured
by the cord which they hold between their
legs; he, deprived of that support, is uneasy.
66

The Processionary: the Procession

Why cannot I read what passes under his
black, shiny skull, so like a drop of tar? To
judge by actions, there is here a small dose
of discernment which is able, after experi-
menting, to recognize excessive roughnesses,
over-slippery surfaces, dusty places that offer
no resistance and, above all, the threads left
by other excursionists. This is all or nearly
all that my long acquaintance with the Pro-
cessionaries has taught me as to their men-
tality. Poor brains, indeed; poor creatures,
whose commonwealth has its safety hanging
upon a thread !

The processions vary greatly in length.
The finest that I have seen manoeuvring on
the ground measured twelve or thirteen yards
and numbered about three hundred caterpil-
lars, drawn up with absolute precision in a
wavy line. But, if there were only two in a
row, the order would still be perfect: the
second touches and follows the first.

By February I have processions of all
lengths in the greenhouse What tricks can I
play upon them ? I see only two : to do away
with the leader; and to cut the thread.

The suppression of the leader of the file
produces nothing striking. If the thing is

67

The Life of the Caterpillar

done without creating a disturbance, the pro-
cession does not alter its ways at all. The
second caterpillar, promoted to captain,
knows the duties of his rank off-hand: he se-
lects and leads, or rather he hesitates and
gropes.

The breaking of the silk ribbon is not very
important either. I remove a caterpillar
from the middle of the file. With my scis-
sors, so as not to cause a commotion in the
ranks, I cut the piece of ribbon on which he
stood and clear away every thread of it. As
a result of this breach, the procession ac-
quires two marching leaders, each independent
of the other. It may be that the one in the
rear joins the file ahead of him, from which
he is separated by but a slender interval; in
that case, things return to their original con-
dition. More frequently, the two parts do not
become reunited. In that case, we have two
distinct processions, each of which wanders
where it pleases and diverges from the other.
Nevertheless, both will be able to return to
the nest by discovering sooner or later, in the
course of their peregrinations, the ribbon on
the other side of the break.

These two experiments are only moderately
68

The Processionary : the Procession

interesting. I have thought out another, one
more fertile in possibilities. I propose to
make the caterpillars describe a close circuit,
after the ribbons running from it and liable
to bring about a change of direction have been
destroyed. The locomotive engine pursues its
invariable course so long as it is not shunted
on to a branch-line. If the Processionaries
find the silken rail always clear in front of
them, with no switches anywhere, will they
continue on the same track, will they persist
in following a road that never comes to an
end? What we have to do is to produce this
circuit, which is unknown under ordinary con-
ditions, by artificial means.

The first idea that suggests itself is to seize
with the forceps the silk ribbon at the back
of the train, to bend it without shaking it and
to bring the end of it ahead of the file. If
the caterpillar marching in the van steps upon
it, the thing is done: the others will follow
him faithfully. The operation is very simple
in theory but very difficult in practice and
produces no useful results. The ribbon, which
is extremely slight, breaks under the weight of
the grains of sand that stick to it and arc
lifted with it. If it does not break, the cater-

The Life of the Caterpillar

pillars at the back, however delicately we
may go to work, feel a disturbance which
makes them curl up or even let go.

There is a yet greater difficulty : the leader
refuses the ribbon laid before him; the cut
end makes him distrustful. Failing to see the
regular, uninterrupted road, he slants off to
the right or left, he escapes at a tangent. If
I try to interfere and to bring him back to
the path of my choosing, he persists in his re-
fusal, shrivels up, does not budge; and soon
the whole procession is in confusion. We
will not insist : the method is a poor one, very
wasteful of effort for at best a problematical
success.

We ought to interfere as little as possible
and obtain a natural closed circuit. Can it
be done ? Yes. It lies in our power, without
the least meddling, to see a procession march
along a perfect circular track. I owe this re-
sult, which is eminently deserving of our at-
tention, to pure chance.

On the shelf with the layer of sand in which
the nests are planted stand some big palm-
vases measuring nearly a yard and a half in
circumference at the top. The caterpillars
often scale the sides and climb up to the
70

The Processionary : the Procession

moulding which forms a cornice around the
opening. This place suits them for their pro-
cessions, perhaps because of the absolute firm-
ness of the surface, where there is no fear
of landslides, as on the loose, sandy soil be-
low; and also, perhaps, because of the hori-
zontal position, which is favorable to repose
after the fatigue of the ascent. It provides
me with a circular track all ready-made. I
have nothing to do but wait for an occasion
propitious to my plans. This occasion is not
long in coming.

On the 3Oth of January, 1896, a little be-
fore twelve o'clock in the day, I discover a
numerous troop making their way up and
gradually reaching the popular cornice. Slow-
ly, in single file, the caterpillars climb the
great vase, mount the ledge and advance in
regular procession, while others are constantly
arriving and continuing the series. I wait for
the string to close up, that is to say, for the
leader, who keeps following the circular
moulding, to return to the point from which
he started. My object is achieved in a quarter
of an hour. The closed circuit is realized
magnificently, in something very nearly ap-
proaching a circle.

The Life of the Caterpillar

The next thing is to get rid of the rest
of the ascending column, which would disturb
the fine order of the procession by an excess
of newcomers; it is also important that we
should do away with all the silken paths, both
new and old, that can put the cornice into
communication with the ground. With a
thick hair-pencil I sweep away the surplus
climbers; with a big brush, one that leaves
no smell behind it — for this might after-
wards prove confusing — I carefully rub
down the vase and get rid of every
thread which the caterpillars have laid
on the march. When these prepara-
tions are finished, a curious sight awaits
us.

In the uninterrupted circular procession
there is4 no longer a leader. Each caterpillar
is preceded by another on whose heels he fol-
lows, guided by the silk track, the work of
the whole party; he again has a companion
close behind him, following him in the same
orderly way. And this is repeated without
variation throughout the length of the chain.
None commands, or rather none modifies the
trail according to his fancy; all obey, trusting
in the guide who ought normally to lead the
72

The Processionary : the Procession

march and who in reality has been abolished
by my trickery.

From the first circuit of the edge of the
tub the rail of silk has been laid in position
and is soon turned into a narrow ribbon by
the procession, which never ceases dribbling
its thread as it goes. The rail is simply
doubled and has no branches anywhere, for
my brush has destroyed them all. What will
the caterpillars do on this deceptive, closed
path? Will they walk endlessly round and
round until their strength gives out entirely?

The old schoolmen were fond of quoting
Buridan's1 Ass, that famous Donkey who,
when placed between two bundles of hay,
starved to death because he was unable to
decide in favour of either by breaking the
equilibrium between two equal but opposite
attractions. They slandered the worthy ani-
mal. The Ass, who is no more foolish than
any one else, would reply to the logical snare
by feasting off both bundles. Will my cater-

1Jean Buridan (circa i^oo-circa 1360), a famous
scholastic doctor, who was several times rector of the
university of Paris and subsequently founded the uni-
versity of Vienna. He forms the subject of many
legends, including that of the argument known by his
name, of which no trace is to be found in any of his
works.— Translator's Note.

73

The Life of the Caterpillar

pillars show a little of his mother wit? Will
they, after many attempts, be able to break
the equilibrium of their closed circuit, which
keeps them on a road without a turning?
Will they make up their minds to swerve to
this side or that, which is the only method of
reaching their bundle of hay, the green branch
yonder, quite near, not two feet off ?

I thought that they would and I was
wrong. I said to myself:

"The procession will go on turning for
some time, for an hour, two hours perhaps;
then the caterpillars will perceive their mis-
take. They will abandon the deceptive road
and make their descent somewhere or other."

That they should remain up there, hard
pressed by hunger and the lack of cover,
when nothing prevented them from going
away, seemed to me inconceivable imbecility.
Facts, however, forced me to accept the in-1
credible. Let us describe them in detail.

The circular procession begins, as I have
said, on the 3Oth of January, about midday,
in splendid weather. The caterpillars march
at an even pace, each touching the stern of the
one in front of him. The unbroken chain
eliminates the leader with his changes of direc-

74

The Processionary : the Procession

tion; and all follow mechanically, as faithful
to their circle as are the hands of a watch.
The headless file has no liberty left, no will;
it has become mere clock-work. And this
continues for hours and hours. My success
goes far beyond my wildest suspicions. I
stand amazed at it, or rather I am stupefied.

Meanwhile, the multiplied circuits change
the original rail into a superb ribbon a twelfth
of an inch broad. I can easily see it glittering
on the red ground of the pot. The day is
drawing to a close and no alteration has yet
taken place in the position of the trail. A
striking proof confirms this.

The trajectory is not a plane curve, but one
which, at a certain point, deviates and goes
down a little way to the lower surface of the
cornice, returning to the top some eight inches
farther. I marked these two points of devia-
tion in pencil on the vase at the outset. Well,
all that afternoon and, more conclusive still,
on the following days, right to the end of this
mad dance, I see the string of caterpillars dip
under the ledge at the first point and come
to the top again at the second. Once the first
thread is laid, the road to be pursued is perma-
nently established.

75

The Life of the Caterpillar

If the road does not vary, the speed does.
I measure nine centimetres1 a minute as the
average distance covered. But there are more
or less lengthy halts; the pace slackens at
times, especially when the temperature falls.
At ten o'clock in the evening the walk is little
more than a lazy swaying of the body. I
foresee an early halt, in consequence of the
cold, of fatigue and doubtless also of
hunger.

Grazing-time has arrived. The caterpil-
lars have come crowding from all the nests
in the greenhouse to browse upon the pine-
branches planted by myself beside the silken
purses. Those in the garden do the same,
for the temperature is mild. The others,
lined up along the earthenware cornice, would
gladly take part in the feast; they are bound
to have an appetite after a ten hours' walk.
The branch stands green and tempting not a
hand's breadth away. To reach it they need
but go down; and the poor wretches, foolish
slaves of their ribbon that they are, cannot
make up their minds to do so. I leave the
famished ones at half-past ten, persuaded that
they will take counsel with their pillow and
13IA inches. — Translator's Note.
76

The Processionary : the Procession

that on the morrow things will have resumed
their ordinary course.

I was wrong. I was expecting too much
of them when I accorded them that faint
gleam of intelligence which the tribulations of
a distressful stomach ought, one would think,
to have aroused. I visit them at dawn. They
are lined up as on the day before, but motion-
less. When the air grows a little warmer,
they shake off their torpor, revive and start
walking again. The circular procession be-
gins anew, like that which I have already
seen. There is nothing more and nothing less
to be noted in their machine-like obstinacy.

This time it is a bitter night. A cold snap
has supervened, was indeed foretold in the
evening by the garden caterpillars, who re-
fused to come out despite appearances which
to my duller senses seemed to promise a con-
tinuation of the fine weather. At daybreak
the rosemary-walks are all asparkle with rime
and for the second time this year there is a
sharp frost. The large pond in the garden
is frozen over. What can the caterpillars in
the conservatory be doing? Let us go and
see.

All are ensconced in their nests, except the

77

The Life of the Caterpillar

stubborn processionists on the edge of the
vase, who, deprived of shelter as they are,
seem to have spent a very bad night. I find
them clustered in two heaps, without any at-
tempt at order. They have suffered less from
the cold, thus huddled together.

'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any
good. The severity of the night has caused
the ring to break into two segments which
will, perhaps, afford a chance of safety. Each
group, as it revives and resumes its walk, will
presently be headed by a leader who, not being
obliged to follow a caterpillar in front of him,
will possess some liberty of movement and
perhaps be able to make the procession swerve
to one side. Remember that, in the ordinary
processions, the caterpillar walking ahead acts
as a scout. While the others, if nothing oc-
curs to create excitement, keep to their ranks,
he attends to his duties as a leader and is con-
tinually turning his head to this side and that,
investigating, seeking, groping, making his
choice. And things happen as he decides : the
band follows him faithfully. Remember also
that, even on a road which has already been
travelled and beribboned, the guiding cater-
pillar continues to explore.
78

The Processionary : the Procession

There is reason to believe that the Proces-
sionaries who have lost their way on the ledge
will find a chance of safety here. Let us
watch them. On recovering from their tor-
por, the two groups line up by degrees into
two distinct files. There are therefore two
leaders, free to go where they please, inde-
pendent of each other. Will they succeed in
leaving the enchanted circle? At the sight of
their large black heads swaying anxiously
from side to side, I am inclined to think so
for a moment. But I am soon undeceived.
As the ranks fill out, the two sections
of the chain meet and the circle is recon-
stituted. The momentary leaders once more
become simple subordinates; and again the
caterpillars march round and round all
day.

For the second time in succession, the night,
which is very calm and magnificently starry,
brings a hard frost. In the morning the Pro-
cessionaries on the tub, the only ones who
have camped out unsheltered, are gathered
into a heap which largely overflows both sides
of the fatal ribbon. I am present at the
awakening of the numbed ones. The first to
take the road is, as luck will have it, outside

79

The Life of the Caterpillar

the track. Hesitatingly he ventures into un-
known ground. He reaches the top of the
rim and descends upon the other side on the
earth in the vase. He is followed by six
others, no more. Perhaps the rest of the
troop, who have not fully recovered from
their nocturnal torpor, are to lazy to bestir
themselves.

The result of this brief delay is a return
to the old track. The caterpillars embark on
the silken trail and the circular march is re-
sumed, this time in the form of a ring with
a gap in it. There is no attempt, however, to
strike a new course on the part of the guide
whom this gap has placed at the head. A
chance of stepping outside the magic circle has
presented itself at last ; and he does not know
how to avail himself of it.

As for the caterpillars who have made their
way to the inside of the vase, their lot is hard-
ly improved. They climb to the top of the
palm, starving and seeking for food. Finding
nothing to eat that suits them, they retrace
their steps by following the thread which they
have left on the way, climb the ledge of the
pot, strike the procession again and, without
further anxiety, slip back into the ranks.

The Processionary : the Procession

Once more the ring is complete, once more
the circle turns and turns.

Then when will the deliverance come?
There is a legend that tells of poor souls
dragged along in an endless round until the
hellish charm is broken by a drop of holy
water. What drop will good fortune sprinkle
on my Processionaries to dissolve their circle
and bring them back to the nest? I see only
two means of conjuring the spell and ob-
taining a release from the circuit. These two
means are two painful ordeals. A strange
linking of cause and effect: from sorrow and
wretchedness good is to come.

And, first, shrivelling as the result of cold.
The caterpillars gather together without any
order, heap themselves some on the path,
some, more numerous these, outside it.
Among the latter there may be, sooner or
later, some revolutionary who, scorning the
beaten track, will trace out a new road and
lead the troop back home. We have just
seen an instance of it. Seven penetrated to
the interior of the vase and climbed the palm.
True, it was an attempt with no result, but
still an attempt. For complete success, all
that need be done would have been to take the
81

The Life of the Caterpillar

opposite slope. An even chance is a great
thing. Another time we shall be more suc-
cessful.

In the second place, the exhaustion due to
fatigue and hunger. A lame one stops,
unable to go farther. In front of the de-
faulter the procession still continues to wend
its way for a short time. The ranks close
up and an empty space appears. On coming
to himself and resuming the march, the cater-
pillar who has caused the breach becomes a
leader, having nothing before him. The least
desire for emancipation is all that he wants
to make him launch the band into a new path
which perhaps will be the saving path.

In short, when the Processionaries' train
is in difficulties, what it needs, unlike ours, is
to run off the rails. The side-tracking is left
to the caprice of a leader who alone is capable
of turning to the right or left; and this leader
is absolutely non-existent so long as the ring
remains unbroken. Lastly, the breaking of the
circle, the one stroke of luck, is the result of
a chaotic halt, caused principally by excess of
fatigue or cold.

The liberating accident, especially that of
fatigue, occurs fairly often. In the course of

The Processionary: the Procession

the same day, the moving circumference is
cut up several times into two or three sec-
tions; but continuity soon returns and no
change takes place. Things go on just the
same. The bold innovator who is to save the
situation has not yet had his inspiration.

There is nothing new on the fourth day,
after an icy night like the previous one; no-
thing to tell except the following detail. Yes-
terday I did not remove the trace left by the
few caterpillars who made their way to the
inside of the vase. This trace, together with
a junction connecting it with the circular road,
is discovered in the course of the morning.
Half the troop takes advantage of it to visit
the earth in the pot and climb the palm; the
other half remains on the ledge and continues
to walk along the old rail. In the afternoon
the band of emigrants rejoins the others, the
circuit is completed and things return to their
original condition.

We come to the fifth day. The night
frost becomes more intense, without however
as yet reaching the greenhouse. It is fol-
lowed by bright sunshine in a calm and limpid
sky. As soon as the sun's rays have warmed
the panes a little, the caterpillars, lying in
83

The Life of the Caterpillar

heaps, wake up and resume their evolutions
on the ledge of the vase. This time the fine
order of the beginning is disturbed and a cert-
ain disorder becomes manifest, apparently an
omen of deliverance near at hand. The
scouting-path inside the vase, which was up-
holstered in silk yesterday and the day before,
is to-day followed to its origin on the rim
by a part of the band and is then abandoned
after a short loop. The other caterpillars
follow the usual ribbon. The result of this
bifurcation is two almost equal files, walking
along the ledge in the same direction, at a
short distance from each other, sometimes
meeting, separating farther on, in every case
with some lack of order.

Weariness increases the confusion. The
crippled, who refuse to go on, are many.
Breaches increase; files are split up into sec-
tions each of which has its leader, who pokes
the front of his body this way and that to
explore the ground. Everything seems to
point to the disintegration which will bring
safety. My hopes are once more disap-
pointed. Before the night the single file is
reconstituted and the invincible gyration re-
sumed.

The Processionary: the Procession

Heat comes, just as suddenly as the cold
did. To-day, the 4th of February, is a beauti-
ful, mild day. The greenhouse is full of
life. Numerous festoons of caterpillars, is-
suing from the nests, meander along the sand
on the shelf. Above them, at every moment,
the ring on the ledge of the vase breaks up
and comes together again. For the first time
I see daring leaders who, drunk with heat,
standing only on their hinder prolegs at the
extreme edge of the earthenware rim, fling
themselves forward into space, twisting about,
sounding the depths. The endeavour is fre-
quently repeated, while the whole troop stops.
The caterpillars' heads give sudden jerks;
their bodies wriggle.

One of the pioneers decides to take the
plunge. He slips under the ledge. Four fol-
low him. The others, still confiding in the
perfidious silken path, dare not copy him and
continue to go along the old road.

The short string detached from the general
chain gropes about a great deal, hesitates long
on the side of the vase; it goes half-way down,
then climbs up again slantwise, rejoins and
takes its place in the procession. This time
the attempt has failed, though at the foot of

8s

The Life of the Caterpillar

the vase, not nine inches away, there lay a
bunch of pine-needles which I had placed
there with the object of enticing the hungry
ones. Smell and sight told them nothing.
Near as they were to the goal, they went up
again.

No matter, the endeavour has its uses.
Threads were laid on the way and will serve
as a lure to further enterprise. The road of
deliverance has its first landmarks. And two
days later, on the eighth day of the experi-
ment, the caterpillars — now singly, anon in
small groups, then again in strings of some
length — come down from the ledge by
following the staked-out path. At sun-
set the last of the laggards is back in the
nest.

Now for a little arithmetic. For seven
times twenty-four hours the caterpillars have
remained on the ledge of the vase. To make
an ample allowance for stops due to the weari-
ness of this one or that and above all for the
rest taken during the colder hours of the night,
we will deduct one-half of the time. This
leaves eighty-four hours' walking. The
average pace is nine centimetres1 a minute.

X3J4 inches. — Translator's Note.
86

The Processionary : the Procession

The aggregate distance covered, therefore, is
453 metres, a good deal more than a quarter
of a mile, which is a great walk for these
little crawlers. The circumference of the vase,
the perimeter of the track, is exactly I m. 35.1
Therefore the circle covered, always in the
same direction and always without result,
was described three hundred and thirty-five
times.

These figures surprise me, though I am
already familiar with the abysmal stupidity
of insects as a class whenever the least acci-
dent occurs. I feel inclined to ask myself
whether the Processionaries were not kept up
there so long by the difficulties and dangers
of the descent rather than by the lack of any
gleam of intelligence in their benighted minds.
The facts, however, reply that the descent is
as easy as the ascent.

The caterpillar has a very supple back, well
adapted for twisting round projections or slip-
ping underneath. He can walk with the same
ease vertically or horizontally, with his back
down or up. Besides, he never moves for-
ward until he has fixed his thread to the
ground. With this support to his feet, he
*4 feet 5 inches.— Translator's Note.
8?

The Life of the Caterpillar

has no falls to fear, no matter what his
position.

I had a proof of this before my eyes du-
ring a whole week. As I have already said,
the track, instead of keeping on one level,
bends twice, dips at a certain point under the
ledge of the vase and reappears at the top a
little farther on. At one part of the cir-
cuit, therefore, the procession walks on the
lower surface of the rim; and this inverted
position implies so little discomfort or dan-
ger that it is renewed at each turn for all
the caterpillars from first to last.

It is out of the question then to suggest
the dread of a false step on the edge of the
rim which is so nimbly turned at each point of
inflexion. The caterpillars in distress, starved,
shelterless, chilled with cold at night, cling
obstinately to the silk ribbon covered hun-
dreds of times, because they lack the rudi-
mentary glimmers of reason which would
advice them to abandon it.

Experience and reflection are not in their
province. The ordeal of a five hundred yards'
march and three to four hundred turns teach
them nothing; and it takes casual circum-
stances to bring them back to the nest. They

The Processionary : the Procession

would perish on their insidious ribbon if the
disorder of the nocturnal encampments and
the halts due to fatigue did not cast a few
threads outside the circular path. Some three
or four move along these trails, laid without
an object, stray a little way and, thanks to
their wanderings, prepare the descent, which
is at last accomplished in short strings fa-
voured by chance.

The school most highly honoured to-day is
very anxious to find the origin of reason in
the dregs of the animal kingdom. Let me
call its attention to the Pine Processionary.

CHAPTER IV

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : METEOROLOGY

IN JANUARY a second moult occurs,
leaving the caterpillar less fair to the eye,
while at the same time endowing him with
some very peculiar organs. When the mo-
ment has come to shed their skins, the Pro-
cessionaries cluster higgledy-piggledy on the
dome of the nest and there, if the weather
be mild, remain motionless day and night. It
would seem as though the fact of their con-
tact, of their mutual discomfort, while thus
heaped together, furnishes a resistance, a ful-
crum, which favours the process of excoriation.
After this second moult, the hairs on the
middle of the back are of a dull reddish
colour, which is made paler still by the inter-
position of numerous long white hairs. But
this faded costume is accompanied by the
singular organs which attracted the attention
of Reaumur, who was greatly perplexed as
to their function. In the place originally oc-
cupied by the scarlet mosaic, eight segments
of the caterpillar are now cleft by a broad

The Processionary : Meteorology

transversal gash, a sort of thick-lipped mouth,
which opens and gapes wide at the caterpil-
lar's will, or closes without leaving a visible
trace.

From each of these expanding mouths rises
a tumour with a fine, colourless skin, as though
the creature were exposing its tender inside
and inflating it, for the appearance is almost
that which would be presented by the viscera
protruding through skin incised by the scalpel.
Two large dark-brown dots occupy the front
face of the protuberance. At the back are
two short, flat tufts of russet bristles, which
in the sunlight shine with a rich brilliancy.
All around is a radiating border of long white
hairs, spread almost flat.

This protuberance is extremely sensitive.
At the slightest irritation it goes in again and
disappears under the dark integument. In its
place opens an oval crater, a sort of huge
stoma, which swiftly brings its lips together,
closes and entirely disappears. The long
white hairs that form a moustache and im-
perial around this mouth follow the move-
ments of the contracting lips. After first
radiating from a centre and lying flat, these
hairs rise like levelled wheat which the wind

The Life of the Caterpillar

has caught from beneath and meet to form a
transversal crest, perpendicular to the crea-
ture's back.

This hairy erection produces a sudden
modification in the caterpillar's aspect. The
red shiny bristles have disappeared, buried
under the dark skin; the white hairs, now
standing on end, form a hirsute mane; an
ashy tinge has crept into the general colour
of the costume.

When calm is restored, as soon happens,
the slits open and yawn afresh; the sensitive
protuberances emerge, quick to disappear
once more should any cause for alarm occur.
These alternate expansions and contractions
are rapidly repeated. I provoke them at will
in various ways. A slight puff of tobacco-
smoke immediately causes the stomata to
yawn and the protuberances to emerge. One
would think that the insect was putting itself
on its guard and displaying some special ap-
paratus of information. Before long the pro-
tuberances go in again. A second puff of
smoke brings them out once more. But, if
the smoke is too abundant, too acrid, the
caterpillar wriggles and writhes without open-
ing his apparatus.

The Processionary : Meteorology

Or else I touch one or other of these un-
covered protuberances, very delicately, with
a bit of straw. The pimple affected imme-
diately contracts, draws into itself, like the
horns of the Snail, and is replaced by a ga-
ping mouth, which in its turn closes. Usually,
but not always, the segment excited by the
contact of my straw is imitated by the others,
both front and back, which close their ap-
paratus one by one.

When undisturbed and in repose, the cater-
pillar generally has his dorsal slits expanded;
in moving, he sometimes opens and sometimes
closes them. In either case expansion and
contraction are frequently repeated. Con-
stantly coming together and retreating under
the skin, the lips of the mouth-like opening
therefore end by losing their brittle mous-
taches of russet hairs, which break off. In this
way a sort of dust collects at the bottom of
the crater, a dust formed of broken hairs,
which, thanks to their barbs, soon collect into
little tufts. When the slit expands rather sud-
denly, the central projection shoots out on
the insect's sides its load of hairy remnants,
which the least breath blows into a cloud of
golden atoms highly disagreeable to the ob-

93

The Life of the Caterpillar

server. I shall have something to say
presently of the itch to which he is at such
times exposed.

Are these peculiar stomata designed merely
to collect the adjoining bristles and to grind
them to powder? Are these fine-skinned
papillae, which inflate and ascend from the
depths of their hiding-place, intended to get
rid of the accumulation of broken hairs? Or
is it the sole function of this peculiar ap-
paratus to prepare, at the expense of the cater-
pillar's fleece, an irritant dust which shall act
as a means of defence? Nothing tells us so.

Certainly the caterpillar is not armed
against the enquirer who from time to time
takes it into his head to come and examine
him through a magnifying-glass. It is even
very doubtful whether he troubles at all about
those passionate caterpillar-lovers, Calosoma
sycophant^- among insects and the Cuckoo
among birds. Those who consume such fare
have a stomach expressly fashioned for the
purpose, a stomach that laughs at blistering
hairs and possibly finds an appetizing stimu-
lant in their sting. No, I do not see the mo-
tives that prompted the Procession a ry to
1A large carnivorous Beetle.— Translator's Note.
94

The Processionary : Meteorology

cleave his back with so many slits, if he merely
strips himself of his hair to throw an irri-
tating dust in our eyes. There must certainly
be something else in question.

Reaumur mentions these openings, of
which he made a brief study. He calls them
stigmata and is inclined to take them for ex-
ceptional breathing-holes. That they are not,
O my master; no insect contrives air-holes on
its back! Moreover, the magnify ing-glass re-
veals no channel of communication with the
interior. Respiration plays no part here; the
solution of the enigma must lie elsewhere.

The protuberances that rise from those ex-
panded cavities are formed of a soft, pale,
hairless membrane, which gives the impression
of a visceral hernia, as though the caterpillar
were wounded and exposing its delicate en-
trails to the air. The sensitiveness just here
is great. The lightest touch with the point
of a hair-pencil causes the immediate in-
drawing of the protuberances and the closing
of the containing lips.

The touch of a solid object even is not

essential. I pick up a tiny drop of water on

the point of a pin and, without shaking it off,

present this drop to the sensitive projection.

95

The Life of the Caterpillar

At the moment when contact occurs the ap-
paratus contracts and closes up. The recoil
of the Snail's horns, withdrawing the visual
and olfactory organs into their sheaths, is no
prompter.

Everything seems to prove that these op-
tional tumours, appearing and disappearing
at the caterpillar's will, are instruments of
sensorial perception. The caterpillar exposes
them to obtain information ; he shelters them
under his skin to preserve their delicate func-
tions. Now what is it that they perceive?
This is a difficult question, in which the habits
of the Processionary alone can afford us a
little guidance.

During the whole winter, the Pine Cater-
pillars are active only at night. In the day-
time, when the weather is fine, they readily
repair to the dome of the nest and there re-
main motionless, gathered into heaps. It is
the hour of the open-air siesta, under the pale
December and January sun. As yet none
leaves the home. It is quite late in the even-
ing, towards nine o'clock, when they set out,
marching in an irregular procession, to browse
on the leaves of the branches hard by. Their
grazing is a protracted affair. The flock re-
96

The Processionary : Meteorology

turns late, some time after midnight, when
the temperature falls too low.

Secondly, it is in the heart of winter, du-
ring the roughest months, that the Proces-
sionary displays his full activity. Indefatiga-
bly at this time of year he spins, adding each
night a new web to his silken tent; at this
time, whenever the weather permits, he ven-
tures abroad on the neighbouring boughs to
feed, to grow and to renew his skein of silk.

By a very remarkable exception, the harsh
season marked by inactivity and lethargic re-
pose in other insects is for him the season of
bustle and labour, on condition, of course,
that the inclemencies of the weather do not
exceed certain limits. If the north wind blow
too violently, so that it is like to sweep the
flock away; if the cold be too piercing, so that
there is a risk of freezing to death; if it snow,
or rain, or if the mist thicken into an icy
drizzle, the caterpillars prudently stay at
home, sheltering under their weatherproof
tent.

It would be convenient to some extent to
foresee these inclemencies. The caterpillar
dreads them. A drop of rain sets him in a
flutter; a snowflake exasperates him. To

97

The Life of the Caterpillar

start for the grazing-grounds at dark of night,
in uncertain weather, would be dangerous, for
the procession goes some distance and travels
slowly. The flock would fare ill before re-
gaining shelter did any sudden atmospheric
trouble supervene, an event of some frequency
in the bad season of the year. So that he
may be informed in this particular during his
nocturnal winter rambles, can the Pine Cater-
pillar be endowed with some sort of meteoro-
logical aptitudes? Let us describe how the
suspicion occurred to me.

Divulged I know not how, my rearing of
caterpillars under glass acquired a certain re-
nown. It was talked about in the village.
The forest-ranger, a sworn enemy to de-
structive insects, wanted to see the grazing of
the famous caterpillars, of whom he had re-
tained a too poignant memory ever since the
day when he gathered and destroyed their
nests in a pine-wood under his charge. It
was arranged that he should call the same
evening.

He arrives at the appointed hour, accom-
panied by a friend. For a moment we sit
and chat in front of the fire; then, when the
clock strikes nine, the lantern is lit and we

98

The Processionary : Meteorology

all three enter the greenhouse. The visitors
are eager for the spectacle of which they have
heard such wonderful things, while I am cert-
ain of satisfying their curiosity.

But, but . . . what is this? Not a cater-
pillar on the nests, not one on the fresh ration
of branches ! Last night and on the previous
nights they came out in countless numbers;
to-night not one reveals himself. Can it be
that they are merely late in going to dinner?
Can their habitual punctuality be at fault be-
cause appetite has not yet arrived? We must
be patient. ... Ten o'clock. Nothing.
Eleven. Still nothing. Midnight was at hand
when we abandoned our watch, convinced that
it would be vain to prolong the sitting. You
can imagine what an abject fool I looked
at having thus to send my guests away.

Next day I thought that I dimly perceived
the explanation of this disappointment. It
rained in the night and again in the morning.
Snow, not the earliest of the year, but so
far the most abundant, whitened the brow of
the Ventoux.1 Had the caterpillars, more

1The highest mountain in the neighbourhood of
Serignan. Cf. The Hunting Wasps, by J. Henri Fabre,
translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos : chap. xi.
— Translator's Note.

99

The Life of the Caterpillar

sensitive than any of us to atmospheric
changes, refused to venture forth because they
anticipated what was about to happen? Had
they foreseen the rain and the snow, which
nothing seemed to announce, at all events to
us? After all, why not? Let us continue to
observe them and we shall see whether the
coincidence is fortuitous or not.

On this memorable day, therefore, the I3th
of December, 1895, I institute the caterpil-
lars' meteorological observatory. I have at
my disposal absolutely none of the apparatus
dear to science, not even a modest ther-
mometer, for my unlucky star continues in the
ascendant, proving as unkind to-day as when
I learnt chemistry with pipe-bowls for cruci-
bles and bottles that once contained sweets for
retorts. I confine myself to visiting nightly
the Processionaries in the greenhouse and
those in the garden. It is a hard task, espe-
cially as I have to go to the far end of the
enclosure, often in weather when one would
not turn a Dog out of doors. I set down
the acts of the caterpillars, whether they come
out or stay at home; I note the state of the
sky during the day and at the moment of my
evening examination.

The Processionary : Meteorology

To this list I add the meteorological chart
of Europe which the Temps publishes daily.
If I want more precise data, I request the
Normal School at Avignon to send me, on
occasions of violent disturbances, the barome-
trical records of its observatory. These are
the only documents at my disposal.

Before we come to the results obtained, let
me once more repeat that my caterpillars'
meteorological institute has two stations : one
in the greenhouse and one in the open air,
on the pines in the enclosure. The first, pro-
tected against the wind and rain, is that which
I prefer: it provides more regular and more
continuous information. In fact, the open-
air caterpillars often enough refuse to come
out, even though the general conditions be
favourable. It is enough to keep them at
home if there be too strong a wind shaking
the boughs, or even a little moisture dripping
on the web of the nests. Saved from these
two perils, the greenhouse caterpillars have
only to consider atmospheric incidents of a
higher order. The small variations escape
them; the great alone make an impression on
them: a most useful point for the observer
and going a long way towards solving the

The Life of the Caterpillar

problem for him. The colonies under glass,
therefore, provide most of the material for my
notes; the colonies in the open air add their
testimony, which is not always quite clear.

Now what did they tell me, those green-
house caterpillars who, on the i3th of Decem-
ber, refused to show themselves to my guest,
the forest-ranger? The rain that was to fall
that night could hardly have alarmed them:
they were so well sheltered. The snow about
to whiten Mont Ventoux was nothing to
them : it was so far away. Moreover, it was
neither snowing yet nor raining. Some ex-
traordinary atmospheric event, profound and
of vast extent, must have been occurring.
The charts in the Temps and the bulletin of
the Normal School told me as much.

A cyclonic disturbance, coming from the
British Isles, was passing over our district; an
atmospheric depression the like of which the
season had not as yet known, had spread in
our direction, reaching us on the i3th and
persisting, in a more or less accentuated form,
until the 22nd. At Avignon the barometer
suddenly fell half an inch, to 29.1 in., on
the ijth and lower still, to 29 in., on the
1 9th.

The Processionary : Meteorology

During this period of ten days, the garden
caterpillars made no sortie on the pine-trees.
True, the weather was changeable. There
were a few showers of fine rain and some
violent gusts of the mistral; but more fre-
quently there were days and nights when the
sky was superb and the temperature moder-
ate. The prudent anchorites would not al-
low themselves to be caught. The low pres-
sure peristed, menacing them; and so they
stopped at home.

In the greenhouse things happen rather dif-
ferently. Sorties take place, but the staying-5n
days are still more numerous. It looks as
though the caterpillars, alarmed at first by the
unexpected things happening overhead, had
reassured themselves and resumed work, feel-
ing nothing, in their shelter, of what they
would have suffered out of doors — rain, snow
and furious mistral blasts — and had then sus-
pended their work again when the threats of
bad weather increased.

There is, indeed, a fairly accurate agree-
ment between the oscillations of the barome-
ter and the decisions of the herd. When the
column of mercury rises a little, they come
out ; when it falls they remain at home. Thus
103

The Life of the Caterpillar

on the 1 9th, the night of the lowest press-
ure, 29 in., not a caterpillar ventures out-
side.

As the wind and rain can have no effect
on my colonies under glass, one is led to sup-
pose that atmospheric pressure, with its
physiological results, so difficult to define, is
here the principal factor. As for the tem-
perature, within moderate limits there is no
need to discuss it. The Processionaries have
a robust constitution, as behoves spinners who
work in the open air in midwinter. However
piercing the cold, so long as it does not freeze,
when the hour comes for working or feeding
they spin on the surface of the nest or browse
on the neighbouring branches.

Another example. According to the me-
teorological chart in the Temps, a depression
whose centre is near the lies Sanguinaires, at
the entrance of the Gulf of Ajaccio, reaches
my neighbourhood, with a minimum of 29.2
in., on the 9th of January. A tempestuous
wind gets up. For the first time this year
there is a respectable frost. The ice on the
large pond in the garden is two or three inches
thick. This wild weather lasts for five days.
Of course, the garden caterpillars do not
104

The Processionary : Meteorology

sally forth on the pine-trees while these are
battered by such a gale.

The remarkable part of the business is that
the greenhouse caterpillars do not venture
out of their nests either. And yet for them
there are no boughs dangerously shaken, no
cold piercing beyond endurance, for it is not
freezing under the glass. What keeps them
in can be only the passage of that wave of
depression. On the I5th the storm ceases;
and the barometer remains between 29.6 and
30 in. for the rest of the month and a good
part of February. During this long period
there are magnificent sorties every evening,
especially in the greenhouse.

On the 23rd and 24th of February, sud-
denly the Processionaries stop at home again,
for no apparent reason. Of the six nests
under cover, only two have a few rare cater-
pillars out on the pine-branches, while previ-
ously, in the case of all six, I used every night
to see the leaves bending under the weight of
an innumerable multitude. Warned by this
forecast, I enter in my notes:

"Some deep depression is about to reach
us."

And I have guessed right. Two days later,
105

The Life of the Caterpillar

sure enough, the meteorological record of the
Temps gives me the following information:
a minimum of 29.2 in., coming from the Bay
of Biscay on the 22nd, reaches Algeria on
the 23rd and spreads over the Provence
coast on the 24th. There is a heavy snow-
fall at Marseilles on the 25th.

"The ships," I read in my paper, "present
a curious spectacle, with their yards and rig-
ging white. That is how the people of Mar-
seilles, little used to such sights, picture Spitz-
bergen and the North Pole."

Here certainly is the gale which my cater-
pillars foresaw when they refused to go out
last night and the night before; here is the
centre of disturbance which revealed itself at
Serignan by a violent and icy north wind on
the 25th and the following days. Again I
perceive that the greenhouse caterpillars are
alarmed only at the approach of the wave
of atmospheric disturbance. Once the first
uneasiness caused by the depression had
abated, they came out again, on the 25th and
the following days, in the midst of the gale,
as though nothing extraordinary were hap-
pening.

106

The Processionary : Meteorology

From the sum of my observations it appears
that the Pine Processionary is eminently sensi-
tive to atmospheric vicissitudes, an excel-
lent quality, having regard to his way of
life in the sharp winter nights. He fore-
sees the storm which would imperil his
excursions.

His capacity for scenting bad weather very
soon won the confidence of the household.
When we had to go into Orange to renew our
provisions, it became the rule to consult him
the night before; and, according to his ver-
dict, we went or stayed at home. His oracle
never deceived us. In the same way, simple
folk that we were, we used in the old days
to interrogate the Dor-beetle,1 another
doughty nocturnal worker. But, a little de-
moralized by imprisonment in a cage and ap-
parently devoid of any special sensitive ap-
paratus, performing his evolutions, moreover,
in the mild autumn evenings, the celebrated
Dung-beetle could never rival the Pine Cater-
pillar, who is active during the roughest sea-
son of the year and endowed, as everything

^Geotrupes stercorarius, a large Dung-beetle. Cf. The
Life and Love of the Insect, by J. Henri Fabre, translated
by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos: chap, ix — Translator's
Note.

IQ7

The Life of the Caterpillar

would seem to affirm, with organs quick to
perceive the great atmospheric fluctuations.

Rural lore abounds in meteorological fore-
casts derived from animals. The Cat, sit-
ting in front of the fire and washing behind
her ears with a saliva-smeared paw, fore-
tells another cold snap ; the Cock, crowing at
unusual hours, announces the return of fine
weather; the Guinea-fowl, with her screech-
ing, as of a scythe on the grindstone, points to
rain; the Hen, standing on one leg, her plu-
mage ruffled, her head sunk on her neck, feels
a hard frost coming; the pretty green Tree-
frog inflates his throat like a bladder at
the approach of a storm and, according to
the Provencal peasant, says:

"Ploitra, ploiira; it will rain, it will rain!"

This rustic meteorology, the heritage of the
centuries, does not show up so badly beside
our scientific meteorology.

Are not we ourselves living barometers?
Every veteran complains of his glorious
scars when the weather is about to break.
One man, though unwounded, suffers from
insomnia or from bad dreams ; another,
though a brain-worker, cannot drag an idea
out of his impotent head. Each of us, in
108

The Processionary : Meteorology

his own way, is tried by the passage of those
huge funnels which form in the atmosphere
and hatch the storm.

Could the insect, with its exceptionally
delicate organization, escape this kind of im-
pression? It is unbelievable. The insect,
more than any other ceature, should be an
animated meteorological instrument, as truth-
ful in its forecasts, if we knew how to read
them, as the lifeless instruments of our obser-
vatories, with their mercury and their catgut.
All, in different degrees, possess a general im-
pressionability analogous to our own and exer-
cised without the aid of specific organs. Some,
better-gifted because of their mode of life,
might well be furnished with special meteoro-
logical apparatus.

The Pine Processionary seems to belong to
this number. In his second costume, when
the segments bear on their dorsal faces an
elegant red mosaic, he differs apparently from
other caterpillars only by a more delicate gen-
eral impressionability, unless this mosaic be
endowed with aptitudes unknown elsewhere.
If the nocturnal spinner is still none too
generously equipped, it must be remembered
that the season which he passes in this con-
109

The Life of the Caterpillar

dition is nearly always clement. The really
formidable nights hardly set in before Janu-
ary. But then, as a safeguard in his pere-
grinations, the Pine Processionary cleaves his
back with a series of mouths which yawn open
to sample the air from time to time and to
give a warning of the sudden storm.

Until further evidence is forthcoming,
therefore, the dorsal slits are, to my mind,
meteorological instruments, barometers in-
fluenced by the main fluctuations of the atmo-
sphere. To go beyond suspicions, though
these are well based, is for me impossible. I
lack the equipment necessary to delve more
deeply into the subject. But I have given a
hint. It is for those who are better favoured
in the matter of resources to find the final solu-
tion of this interesting problem.

no

CHAPTER V

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : THE MOTH

WHEN March comes, the caterpillars
reared in domesticity never cease pro-
cessioning. Many leave the greenhouse,
which remains open; they go in search of a
suitable spot for the approaching metamor-
phosis. This is the final exodus, the definite
abandonment of the nest and the pine-tree.
The pilgrims are much faded, whitish, with
a few russet hairs on their backs.

On the 2Oth of March I spend a whole
morning watching the evolutions of a file
some three yards in length, containing about
a hundred emigrants. The procession toils
grimly along, undulating over the dusty
ground, where it leaves a furrow. Then it
breaks into a small number of groups, which
crowd together and remain quiescent save for
sudden oscillations of the hind-quarters.
After a halt of varying duration, these groups
resume their march, henceforward forming
independent processions.

They take no settled direction. This one

The Life of the Caterpillar

goes forward, that one goes back; one turns
to the left and another to the right. There
is no rule about their marching, no positive
goal. One procession, after describing a loop,
retraces its steps. Yet there is a general tend-
ency towards that wall of the greenhouse
which faces the south and reflects the sun's
rays with added fervour. The sole guide, it
would seem, is the amount of sun which a
place obtains; the directions whence the great-
est heat comes are preferred.

After a couple of hours of marching and
countermarching, the fragmentary proces-
sions, comprising each a score of caterpillars,
reach the foot of the wall. Here the soil
is powdery, very dry, easy to burrow in, al-
though made somewhat firmer by tufts of
grass. The caterpillar at the head of the row
explores with his mandibles, digs a little, in-
vestigates the nature of the ground. The
others, trusting their leader, follow him with
docility, making no attempts of their own.
Whatever the foremost decides will be
adopted by all. Here, in the choice of a mat-
ter so important as the spot whereat the trans-
formation shall take place, there is no in-
dividual initiative. There is only one will,

112

The Processionary : the Moth

the leader's. There is only one head, so to
speak; the procession may be compared with
the chain of segments of an enormous worm.

Finally some spot is recognized as propi-
tious. The leading caterpillar halts, pushes
with his head, digs with his mandibles. The
others, still in a continuous line, arrive one by
one and likewise come to a halt. Then the
file breaks up into a swarming heap, in which
each of the caterpillars resumes his liberty.
All their backs are joggling pell-mell; all their
heads are plunged into the dust ; all their feet
are raking, all their mandibles excavating the
soil. The worm has chopped itself into a
gang of independent workers.

An excavation is formed in which, little by
little, the caterpillars bury themselves. For
some time to come, the undermined soil cracks
and rises and covers itself with little mole-
hills; then all is still. The caterpillars have
descended to a depth of three inches. This
is as far as the roughness of the soil permits
them to go. In looser soil, the excavation
would attain a much greater depth. The
greenhouse shelf, supplied with fine sand, has
provided me with cocoons placed at a depth
of from eight to twelve inches. I would not
"3

The Life of the Caterpillar

assert that the interment might not be made
still lower down. For the most part, the
burial is effected in common, by more or less
numerous clusters and at depths which vary
greatly, according to the nature of the soil.

A fortnight later, let us dig at the point
where the descent underground was made.
Here we shall find the cocoons assembled in
bunches, cocoons of sorry appearance, soiled
as they are with earthy particles held by silken
threads. When stripped of their rough ex-
terior, they are not without a certain elegance.
They are narrow ellipsoids, pointed at both
ends, measuring twenty-five millimetres in
length and nine millimetres1 in thickness. The
silk of which they are composed is very fine
and of a dull white. The fragility of the
walls is remarkable when we have seen the
enormous quantity of silk expended on the
construction of the nest.

A prodigious spinner where his winter habi-
tation is concerned, the caterpillar finds his
glands exhausted and is reduced to the strictly
necessary amount when the time conies for
making the cocoon. Too poor in silk, he
strengthens his flimsy cell with a facing of

^975 by .351 inch. — Translator's Note.
114

The Processionary : the Moth

earth. With him it is not the industry of
the Bembex,1 who inserts grains of sand in
her silky web and makes a solid casket of
the whole ; it is a summary sort of art, devoid
of delicacy, which just casually sticks to-
gether the surrounding earthy refuse.

Moreover, if circumstances demand it, the
Pine Caterpillar can do without earth. In
the very midst of the nest I have sometimes
— very rarely, it is true — discovered cocoons
which were perfectly clean. Not a scrap of
alien matter defiled their fine white silk. I
have obtained similar specimens by placing
caterpillars under a bell-glass in a pan pro-
vided only with a few pine-twigs. Better
still: an entire procession, a good-sized one
too, gathered at the opportune moment and
enclosed in a large box containing no sand nor
any material whatever, spun its cocoons with
no other support than the bare walls. These
exceptions, provoked by circumstances in
which the caterpillar is not free to act ac-
cording to his wont, does not in any way in-
validate the rule. To prepare for the trans-
formation, the Processionary buries himself,

*€£. The Hunting Wasps: chaps, xiv to xvil-Trans-

lator's Note.

"5

The Life of the Caterpillar

to the depth of nine inches and more, if the
soil permit.

Here a curious problem forces itself upon
the observer's mind. How does the Moth
contrive to ascend from the catacombs
into which the caterpillar has descended?
Not in the finery of her perfect state — the
big wings with their delicate scales, the sweep-
ing antenna-plumes — dare she brave the as-
perities of the soil, or she would issue thence
all tattered, rumpled and unrecognizable.
And this is not the case : far from it. More-
over, what means can she employ, she so
feeble, to break the crust of earth into which
the original dust will have turned after the
slightest of showers?

The Moth appears at the end of July or
in August. The burial took place in March.
Rain must have fallen during this lapse of
time, rain which beats down the soil, cements
it and leaves it to harden once evaporation
has set in. Never could a Moth, unless at-
tired and equipped with tools for the pur-
pose, break her way through such an obstacle.
She would perforce require a boring-tool and
a costume of extreme simplicity. Guided by
these considerations, I institute a few experi-
116

The Processionary : the Moth

ments which will give me the key to the
riddle.

In April I make a copious collection of
cocoons. Of these I place ten or twelve at
the bottom of test-tubes of different diameters
and, last of all, I fill the apparatus with sandy
soil, sifted and very slightly moistened. The
contents are pressed down, but in moderation,
for fear of injuring the cocoons below. When
the month of August comes, the column of
earth, damp at the outset, has set so firmly,
thanks to evaporation, that, when I reverse
the test-tube, nothing trickles out. On the
other hand, some cocoons have been kept
naked under a metallic cover. These will
teach me what the buried cocoons would not
be able to show. They furnish me, in fact,
with records of the greatest interest. On issu-
ing from the cocoon, the Pine Bombyx has
her finery bundled up and presents the appear-
ance of a cylinder with rounded ends. The
wings, the principal obstacle to underground
labour, are pressed against the breast like nar-
row scarves ; the antennae, another serious em-
barrassment, have not yet unfolded their
plumes and are turned back along the Moth's
sides. The hair, which later forms a dense
117

The Life of the Caterpillar

fleece, is laid flat, pointing backwards. The
legs alone are free, fairly active and endowed
with a certain vigour. Thanks to this arrange-
ment, which does away with all awkward pro-
jections, the ascent through the soil is made
possible.

True, every Moth, at the moment of quit-
ting her shell, is this sort of swathed mummy;
but the Pine Bombyx has in addition an ex-
ceptional aptitude rendered necessary by the
fact that she hatches under the ground.
While the others, once out of the cocoon,
hasten to spread their wings and are power-
less to defer their development, she, by virtue
of an indispensable privilege, remains in her
compact and wrapped-up condition as long
as circumstances demand it. Under my bell-
glasses I see some who, though born upon the
surface, for twenty-four hours drag them-
selves over the sand or cling to the pine-
branches, before untying their sashes and un-
furling them as wings.

This delay is evidently essential. To as-
cend from beneath the earth and reach the
open air, the Moth has to bore a long tun-
nel, which requires time. She will take good
care not to spread her finery before emer-
118

The Processionary : the Moth

ging, for it would hamper her and would it-
self be rumpled and badly creased. There-
fore the cylindrical mummy persists until the
deliverance is effected; and, if liberty happen
to be acquired before the appointed moment,
the final evolution does not take place until
after a lapse of time in conformity with
usage.

We are acquainted with the equipment
for emergence, the tight-fitting jerkin in-
dispensable in a narrow gallery. Now,
where is the boring-tool? The legs, though
free, would here be insufficient: they
would scrape the earth laterally, enlar-
ging the diameter of the shaft, but could
not prolong the exit vertically, above the
insect's head. This tool must be in
front.

Pass the tip of your finger over the Moth's
head. You will feel a few very rough
wrinkles. The magnifying-glass shows us
more. We find, between the eyes and higher
up, four or five transversal scales, so set as
to overlap one another; they are hard and
black and are trimmed crescent-wise at the
ends. The longest and strongest is the upper-
most, which is in the middle of the forehead.
119

The Life of the Caterpillar

There you have the centre-bit of your boring-
tool.

To make our tunnels in granitic rocks we
tip our drills with diamond points. For a
similar task the Bombyx, a living drill, wears
implanted on her forehead a row of crescents,
hard and durable as steel, a regular twist-
bit. Without suspecting its use, Reaumur
was perfectly aware of this marvellous im-
plement, which he called scaly stairs :

"What does it profit this Moth," he asks,
"that she should thus have the front of her
head formed like scaly stairs? That is just
what I do not know."

My test-tubes, learned master, will tell us.
By good fortune, of the numerous Moths as-
cending from the bottom of my apparatus
through a column of sand solidified by the
evaporation of the original moisture, some are
making their way upwards against the side
of the tube, enabling me to follow their ma-
noeuvres. I see them raising their cylindrical
bodies, butting with their heads, jerking now
in one direction, now in another. The nature
of their task is obvious. The centre-bits, with
an alternating movement, are boring into the
agglutinated sand. The powdery wreckage

The Processionary : the Moth

trickles down from overhead and is at once
thrust backward by the legs. A little space
forms at the top of the vault ; and the Moth
moves so much nearer to the surface. By
the following day, the whole column, ten
inches in height, will be perforated with a
straight, perpendicular shaft.

Shall we now form an idea of the total
work performed? Let us turn the test-tube
upside down. The contents, as I have said,
will not fall out, for they have set into a
block; but from the tunnels bored by the
Moth trickles all the sand crumbled by the
crescents of the drill. The result is a cylin-
drical gallery, of the width of a lead-pencil,
very cleanly cut and reaching to the bottom
of the solid mass.

Are you satisfied, my master? Do you
now perceive the great utility of the scaly
stairs ? Would you not say that we have here
a magnificent example of an instrument super-
latively fitted for a definite task? I share this
opinion, for I think, with you, that a
sovereign Reason has in all things coordi-
nated the means and the end.

But let me tell you: we are called old-
fashioned, you and I ; with our conception of

121

The Life of the Caterpillar

a world ruled by an Intelligence, we are quite
out of the swim. Order, balance, harmony:
that is all silly nonsense. The universe is a.
fortuitous arrangement in the chaos of the
possible. What is white might as easily be
black, what is round might be angular, what
is regular might be shapeless and harmony
might just as well be discord. Chance has de-
cided all things.

Yes, we are a pair of prejudiced old fogeys
when we linger with a certain fondness over
the marvels of perfection. Who troubles
about these futilities nowadays? So-called
serious science, the science which spells
honour, profit and renown, consists in slicing
your animal with very costly instruments into
tiny circular sections. My housekeeper does
as much with a bunch of carrots, with no
higher pretention than to concoct a modest
dish, which is not an invariable success. In
the problem of life are we more successful
when we have split a fibre into four and cut
a cell into shavings? It hardly seems so.
The riddle is as dark as ever. Ah, how much
better is your method, my dear master; above
all, how much loftier your philosophy, how
much more wholesome and invigorating!

The Processionary : the Moth

Here at last is the Moth at the surface.
With the deliberate slowness demanded by so
delicate an operation, she spreads her bunched
wings, extends her antennae and puffs out her
fleece. Her costume is a modest one : upper
wings grey, striped with a few crinkly brown
streaks; under-wings white; thorax covered
with thick grey fur; abdomen clad in bright-
russet velvet. The last segment has a pale-
gold sheen. At first sight it appears bare.
It is not, however; but, in place of hairs like
those of the other segments, it has, on its dor-
sal surface, scales so well assembled and so
close together that the whole seems to form a
continuous block, like a nugget.

Let us touch this trinket with the point of
a needle. However gently we rub, a multi-
tude of scales come off and flutter at the least
breath, shining like mica spangles. Their
concave form, their shape, an elongated oval,
their colouring, white in the lower half but
reddish gold in the upper, give them, if we
allow for the difference in size, a certain re-
semblance to the scales surrounding the heads
of some of the centaury tribe. Such is the
golden fleece of which the mother will de-
spoil herself in order to cover the cylinder of
123

The Life of the Caterpillar

her eggs. The nugget of her hind-quarters,
exfoliated spangle by spangle, will form a
roof for the germs arranged like the grain in
a corn-cob.

I was anxious to watch the actual placing
of these pretty tiles, which are fixed at the
pale end with a speck of cement, leaving the
coloured end free. Circumstances did not
favour me. Inactive all day, motionless on
some needle of the lower branches, the Moth,
whose life is very short, moves only in the
darkness of the night. Both her mating
and egg-laying are nocturnal. On the
morrow, all is finished: the Bombyx has
lived. Under these conditions, it was
impossible, by the doubtful beams of a
lantern, to follow satisfactorily the labour
of the mother on the pine-trees in the
garden.

I was no more fortunate with the captives
in my bell-glasses. A few did lay their eggs,
but always at a very advanced hour of the
night, an hour which found my vigilance at
fault. The light of a candle and eyes heavy
with sleep were of little avail when it came
to analysing the subtle operations of the
mother as she puts her scales in place. We
124

The Processionary : the Moth

will say nothing of the little that was imper-
fectly seen.

Let us close with a few words of sylvi-
cultural practice. The Pine Processionary is
a voracious caterpillar who, while respecting
the terminal bud, protected by its scales and
its resinous varnish, completely denudes the
bough and imperils the tree by leaving it bald.
The green pine-needles, that mane in which
the vegetable vigour of the tree resides, are
shorn to the roots. How are we to remedy
this?

When consulted on the subject, the forest-
ranger of my parish told me that the custom
is to go from tree to tree with pruning-shears
fitted on a long pole and to cut down the nests,
afterwards burning them. The method is a
troublesome one, for the silken purses are
often at considerable heights. Moreover, it
is not without danger. Attacked by the hairy
dust, the destroyers soon experience intolera-
ble discomfort, a torture of irritation which
makes them refuse to continue the work. To
my thinking it would be better to operate
before the appearance of the nests.

The Pine Bombyx is a very bad flyer. In-
capable of soaring, almost like the Silk-moth,

125

The Life of the Caterpillar

she flutters about and blunders to earth again ;
and her best efforts barely succeed in bringing
her to the lower branches, which almost drag
along the ground. Here are deposited the
cylinders of eggs, at a height of six feet at
most. It is the young caterpillars who, from
one provisional encampment to another,
gradually ascend, attaining, stage by stage,
the summits upon which they weave their final
dwellings. Once we grasp this peculiarity, the
rest is plain sailing.

In August we inspect the lower foliage of
the tree : an easy examination, for it is car-
ried on no higher than our heads. Towards
the far end of the twigs it is easy to espy
the Bombyx' eggs, packed into cylinders that
resemble scaly catkins. Their size and their
whitish colour make them show up amid the
sombre green. Gathered with the double
pine-needle that bears them, these cylinders
are crushed under foot, a summary fashion
of stamping out an evil before it spreads.

This I have done in the case of the few
pine-trees in my enclosure. And the same
might be done in the wider forest expanses
and more especially in parks and gardens,
where symmetrical foliation is one of the
126

The Processionary : the Moth

great beauties of the tree. I will add that
it is wise to prune every bough that droops
to earth and to keep the foot of the conifer
bare to a height of six feet or so. In the ab-
sence of these lower stairs, the only ones that
the Bombyx with her clumsy flight can reach,
she will not be able to populate the tree.

127

CHAPTER VI

THE PINE PROCESSIONARY : THE STINGING
POWER

THE Pine Processionary has three cos-
tumes : that of infancy, a scanty, ragged
fleece, a mixture of black and white; that of
middle age, the richest of the three, when the
segments deck themselves on their dorsal sur-
face with golden tufts and a mosaic of bare
patches, scarlet in colour; and that of ma-
turity, when the rings are cleft by slits which
one by one open and close their thick lips,
champing and grinding their bristling russet
beards and chewing them into little pellets,
which are thrown out on the creature's sides
when the bottom of the pocket swells up like
a tumour.

When wearing this last costume, the cater-
pillar is very disagreeable to handle, or even
to observe at close quarters. I happened,
quite unexpectedly, to learn this more tho-
roughly than I wished.

After unsuspectingly passing a whole morn-
128

The Stinging Power

ing with my insects, stooping over them, mag-
nifying-glass in hand, to examine the work-
ing of their slits, I found my forehead and
eyelids suffering with redness for twenty-four
hours and afflicted with an itching even more
painful and persistent than that produced by
the sting of a nettle. On seeing me come
down to dinner in this sad plight, with my
eyes reddened and swollen and my face
unrecognizable, the family anxiously en-
quired what had happened to me and were
not reassured until I told them of my mis-
hap.

I unhesitatingly attribute my painful ex-
perience to the red hairs ground to powder
and collected into flakes. My breath sought
them out in the open pockets and carried them
to my face, which was very near. The un-
thinking intervention of my hands, which now
and again sought to ease the discomfort,
merely aggravated the ill by spreading the
irritating dust.

No, the search for truth on the back of
the Processionary is not all sunshine. It was
only after a night's rest that I found myself
pretty well recovered, the incident having no
further ill effects. Let us continue, however.

129

The Life of the Caterpillar

It is well to substitute premeditated experi-
ments for chance facts.

The little pockets of which the dorsal slits
form the entrance are encumbered, as I have
said, with hairy refuse, either scattered or
gathered into flakes. With the point of a
paint-brush I collect, when they gape open, a
little of their contents and rub it on my wrist
or on the inside of my fore-arm.

I have not long to wait for the result.
Soon the skin turns red and is covered with
pale lenticular swellings, similar to those pro-
duced by a nettle-sting. Without being very
sharp, the pain was extremely unpleasant. By
the following day, itching, redness and lenticu-
lar swellings had all disappeared. This is the
usual sequence of events; but let me
not omit to say that the experiment does
not always succeed. The efficacy of the
fluffy dust appears subject to great varia-
tions.

There have been occasions when I have
rubbed myself with the whole caterpillar, or
with his cast skin, or with the broken hairs
gathered on a paint-brush, without producing
any unpleasant results. The irritant dust
seems to vary in quality according to certain
130

The Stinging Power

circumstances which I have not been able to
discover.

From my various tests it is evident that the
discomfort is caused by the delicate hairs
which the lips of the dorsal mouths, gaping
and closing again, never cease grinding, to
the detriment of their beards and moustaches.
The edges of these slits, as their bristles rub
off, furnish the stinging dust.

Having established this fact, let us proceed
to more serious experiments. In the middle
of March, when the Processionaries for the
most part have migrated underground, I de-
cide to open a few nests, as I wish to collect
their last inhabitants for the purpose of my
investigations. Without taking any precau-
tions, my fingers tug at the silken dwelling,
which is made of solid stuff; they tear it into
shreds, search it through and through, turn it
inside out and back again.

Once more and this time in a more serious
fashion, I am the victim of my unthinking
enthusiasm. Hardly is the operation com-
pleted, when the tips of my fingers begin to
hurt in good earnest, especially in the more
delicate part protected by the edge of the nail.
The feeling is like the sharp pain of a sore

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The Life of the Caterpillar

that is beginning to fester. All the rest of
the day and all through the night, the pain
persists, troublesome enough to rob me of
my sleep. It does not quiet down until the
following day, after twenty-four hours of
petty torment.

How did this new misadventure befall me?
I had not handled the caterpillars : indeed,
there were very few of them in the nest at
the time. I had come upon no shed skins,
for the moults do not take place inside the
silken purse. When the moment has come to
doff the second costume, that of the red mo-
saic, the caterpillars cluster outside, on the
dome of their dwelling, and there leave in a
single heap their old clothes entangled with
bits of silk. What is left to explain the un-
pleasant consequences to which the handling
of the nest exposes us ?

The broken red bristles are left, the fallen
hairs forming a dust that is invisible with-
out a very careful examination. For a
long time the Processionaries crawl and
swarm about the nest; they pass to and fro,
penetrating the thickness of the wall when
they go to the pastures and when they return
to their dormitory. Whether motionless or
132

The Stinging Power

on the move, they are constantly opening and
closing their apparatus of information, the
dorsal mouths. At the moment of closing, the
lips of these slits, rolling on each other like
the cylinders of a flattening-mill, catch hold
of the fluff near them, tear it out and break
it into fragments which the bottom of the
pocket, presently reascending, shoots outside.

Thus myriads of irritant particles are dis-
seminated and subtly introduced into every
part of the nest. The shirt of Nessus burnt
the veins of whoso wore it; the silk of the
Processionary, another poisoned fabric, sets
on fire the fingers that handle it.

The loathsome hairs long retain their viru-
lence. I was once sorting out some handfuls
of cocoons, many of which were diseased. As
the hardness of the contents was usually an
indication that something was wrong, I tore
open the doubtful cocoons with my fingers, in
order to save the non-contaminated chrysalids.
My sorting was rewarded with the same kind
of pain, especially under the edges of the
nails, as I had already suffered when tearing
the nests.

The cause of the irritation on this occasion
was sometimes the dry skin discarded by the

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The Life of the Caterpillar

Processionary on becoming a chrysalis and
sometimes the shrivelled caterpillar turned
into a sort of chalky cylinder through the
invasion of the malignant fungus. Six
months later, these wretched cocoons were still
capable of producing redness and irritation.

Examined under the microscope, the russet
hairs, the cause of the itching, are stiff rods,
very sharp at either end and armed with barbs
along the upper half. Their structure has
absolutely nothing in common with nettle-
hairs, those tapering phials whose hard point
snaps off, pouring an irritant fluid into the
tiny wound.

The plant from whose Latin name, Urtica,
we derive the word urtication borrowed the
design of its weapon from the fangs of the
venomous serpents; it obtains its effect, not
by the wound, but by the poison introduced
into the wound. The Processionary employs
a different method. The hairs, which have
naught resembling the ampullary reservoir of
the nettle-hairs, must be poisoned on the sur-
face, like the assegais of the Kafirs and
Zulus.

Do they really penetrate the epidermis?
Are they like the savage's javelin, which can-

134

The Stinging Power

not be extracted once it has gone in? With
their barbs, do they enter all the more deeply
because of the quivering of the outraged flesh?
There is no ground for believing anything of
the kind. In vain do I scrutinize the injured
spot through the magnifying-glass; I can see
no sign of the implanted dart. Neither could
Reaumur, when an encounter with the Oak
Processionary set him scratching himself. He
had his suspicions, but could state nothing
definitely.

No; despite their sharp points and their
barbs, which make them, under the micro-
scope, such formidable spears, the Proces-
sionary's russet hairs are not darts designed
to imbed themselves in the skin and to pro-
voke irritation by pricking.

Many caterpillars, all most inoffensive,
have a coat of bristles which, under the micro-
scope, resolve themselves into barbed javelins,
quite harmless in spite of their threatening
aspect. Let me mention a couple of these
peaceable halberdiers.

Early in spring, we see, crossing the paths,
a briskly-moving caterpillar who inspires repu-
nance by his ferocious hairiness, which ripples
like ripe corn. The ancient naturalists, with

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The Life of the Caterpillar

their artless and picturesque nomenclature,
called him the Hedgehog. The term isworthy
of the creature, which, in the moment of
danger, rolls itself up like a Hedgehog, pre-
senting its spiny armour on all sides to the
enemy. On its back is a dense mixture of
black hairs and hairs of ashen-gray; while on
the sides and fore-part of the body is a stiff
mane of bright russet. Black, grey or russet,
all this fierce-looking coat is heavily barbed.

One hesitates to touch this horror with the
finger-tips. Still, encouraged by my example,
seven-year-old Paul, with his tender child's
skin, gathers handfuls of the repulsive insect
with no more apprehension than if he were
picking a bunch of violets. He fills his
boxes with it; he rears it on elm-leaves and
handles it daily, for he knows that from this
frightful creature he will one day obtain a
superb Moth (Chelonia caja, LINN.), clad
in scarlet velvet, with the lower wings red and
the upper white, sprinkled with brown spots.

What resulted from the child's familiarity
with the shaggy creature ? Not even a trace
of itching on his delicate skin. I do not speak
of mine, which is tanned by the years.

In the osier-beds of our local stream, the
136

The Stinging Power

rushing Aygues, a thorny shrub abounds
which, at the advent of autumn, is covered
with an infinity of very sour red berries.
Its crabbed boughs, which bear but little ver-
dure, are hidden under their clusters of ver-
milion balls. It is the sallow thorn or sea
buckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides).

In April, a very hairy but rather pretty
caterpillar lives at the expense of this shrub's
budding leaves. He has on his back five dense
tufts of hair, set side by side and arranged
like the bristles of a brush, tufts deep-black
in the centre and white at the edges. He
waves two divergent plumes in front of him
and sports a third on his crupper, like a
feathery tail. These three are black hair-
pencils of extreme delicacy.

His greyish Moth, flattened motionless on
the bark, stretches his long fore-legs, one
against the other, in front of him. You would
take them, at a first glance, for antennae of
exaggerated proportions. This pose of the
extended limbs has won the insect the scientific
label of Orgyia, arm's length; and also the
vulgar and more expressive denomination of
Patte etendue, or outstretched paw.

Little Paul has not failed, with my aid, to

i37

The Life of the Caterpillar

rear the pretty bearer of the tufts and brushes.
How many times, with his sensitive finger,
has he not stroked the creature's furry cos-
tume? He found it softer than velvet. And
yet, enlarged under the microscope, the cater-
pillar's hairs are horrible barbed spears, no
less menacing than those of the Processionary.
The resemblance goes no farther: handled
without precautions, the tufted caterpillar
does not provoke even a simple rash. No-
thing could be more harmless than his coat.

It is evident, then, that the cause of the
irritation lies elsewhere than in the barbs. If
the barbed bristles were enough to poison the
fingers, most hairy caterpillars would be dan-
gerous, for nearly all have spiny bristles. We
find, on the contrary, that virulence is be-
stowed upon a very small number, which are
not distinguished from the rest by any special
structure of the hair.

That the barbs have a part to play, that of
fixing the irritant atom upon the epidermis,
of keeping it anchored in its place, is, after all,
possible; but the shooting pains cannot by
any means be caused by the mere prick of so
delicate a harpoon.

Much less slender, the hairs clustered
138

The Stinging Power

into pads on the prickly pears are fero-
ciously barbed. Woe to the fingers that
handle this kind of velvet too confidently I
At the least touch they are pierced with har-
poons whose extraction involves a severe tax
upon our patience. Other inconvenience there
is little or none, for the action of the barb is
in this case purely mechanical. Supposing — a
very doubtful thing — that the Processionary's
hairs could penetrate our skin, they would act
likewise, only with less effect, if they had
merely their sharp points and their barbs.
What then do they possess in addition ?

They must have, not inside them, like the
hairs of the nettle, but outside, on the surface,
an irritant agent ; they must be coated with a
poisonous mixture, which makes them act by
simple contact.

Let us remove this virus, by means of a
solvent; and the Processionary's darts, re-
duced to their insignificant mechanical action,
will be harmless. The solvent, on the other
hand, rid of all hairs by filtration, will be
charged with the irritant element, which we
shall be able to test without the agency of the
hairs. Isolated and concentrated, the sting-
ing element, far from losing by this treat-

139

The Life of the Caterpillar

ment, ought to gain in virulence. So reflec-
tion tells us.

The solvents tried are confined to three:
water, spirits of wine and sulphuric ether. I
employ the latter by preference, although the
other two, spirits of wine especially, have
yielded satisfactory results. To simplify the
experiment, instead of submitting to the action
of the solvent the entire caterpillar, who
would complicate the extract with his fats
and his nutritive juices, I prefer to employ
the cast skin alone.

I therefore collect, on the one hand, the
heap of dry skins which the moult of the
second phase has left on the dome of the silken
dwelling and, on the other hand, the skins
which the caterpillars have rejected in their
cocoons before becoming chrysalids; and I
leave the two lots to infuse, separately, in sul-
phuric ether for twenty-four hours. The in-
fusion is colourless. The liquid, carefully
filtered, is exposed to spontaneous evapora-
tion ; and the skins are rinsed with ether in the
filter, several times over.

There are now two tests to be made: one
with the skins and one with the product of
maceration. The first is as conclusive as can
140

The Stinging Power

be. Hairy as in the normal state and per-
fectly dried, the skins of both lots, drained
by the ether, produce not the slightest effect,
although I rub myself with them, without the
least caution, at the juncture of the fingers, a
spot very sensitive to stinging.

The hairs are the same as before the action
of the solvent: they have lost none of their
barbs, of their javelin-points; and yet they are
ineffectual. They produce no pain or incon-
venience whatever. Deprived of their toxic
smearing, these thousands of darts become so
much harmless velvet. The Hedgehog Cater-
pillar and the Brush Caterpillar are not more
inoffensive.

The second test is more positive and so
conclusive in its painful effects that one hardly
likes to try it a second time. When the
ethereal infusion is reduced by spontaneous
evaporation to a few drops, I soak in it a slip
of blotting-paper folded in four, so as to form
a square measuring something over an inch.
Too unsuspecting of my product, I do things
on a lavish scale, both as regards the super-
ficial area of my poor epidermis and the
quantity of the virus. To any one who might
wish to renew the investigation I should re-
141

The Life of the Caterpillar

commend a less generous dose. Lastly, the
square of paper, that novel sort of mustard-
plaster, is applied to the under surface of the
fore-arm. A thin waterproof sheeting covers
it, to prevent it from drying too rapidly ; and
a bandage holds it in place.

For the space of ten hours, I feel nothing;
then I experience an increasing itch and a
burning sensation acute enough to keep me
awake for the greater part of the night. Next
day, after twenty-four hours of contact, the
poultice is removed. A red mark, slightly
swollen and very clearly outlined, occu-
pies the square which the poisoned paper
covered.

The skin feels sore, as though it had been
cauterized, and looks as rough as shagreen.
From each of its tiny pustules trickles a drop
of serous fluid, which hardens into a substance
similar in colour to gum-arabic. This oozing
continues for a couple of days and more.
Then the inflamation abates ; the pain, hitherto
very trying, quiets down; the skin dries and
comes off in little flakes. All is over, except
the red mark, which remains for a long time,
so tenacious in its effects is this extract of
Processionary. Three weeks after the ex-
142

The Stinging Power

periment, the little square on the fore-arm
subjected to the poison is still discoloured.

For thus branding one's self, does one at
least obtain some small reward? Yes. A
little truth is the balm spread upon the wound ;
and indeed truth is a sovran balm. It will
come presently to solace us for much greater
sufferings.

For the moment, this painful experiment
shows us that the irritation has not as its
primary cause the hairiness of the Procession-
ary. Here is no hair, no barb, no dart. All
of that has been retained by the filter. We
have nothing now but a poisonous agent ex-
tracted by the solvent, the ether. This ir-
ritant element recalls, to a certain extent,
that of cantharides, which acts by simple con-
tact. My square of poisoned blotting-paper
was a sort of plaster, which, instead of raising
the epidermis in great blisters, makes it bristle
with tiny pustules.

The part played by the barbed hairs, those
atoms which the least movement of the air
disseminates in all directions, is confined to
conveying to our face and hands the irritant
substance in which they are impregnated.
Their barbs hold them in place and thus per-

143

The Life of the Caterpillar

mit the virus to act. It is even probable that,
by means of slight scratches which would
otherwise pass unnoticed, they assist the action
of the stinging fluid.

Shortly after handling the Processionaries,
a delicate epidermis becomes tumefied, red and
painful. Without being immediate, the action
of the caterpillar is prompt. The extract
made with ether, on the other hand, causes
pain and rubefaction only after a longish in-
terval. What does it need to produce more
rapid ulceration? To all appearances, the
action of the hairs.

The direct stinging caused by the caterpillar
is nothing like so serious as that produced by
the ethereal extract concentrated in a few
drops. Never before, in my most painful mis-
adventures, whether with the silken purses or
their inhabitants, have I seen my skin covered
with serous pustules and peeling off in flakes.
This time it is a veritable sore, anything but
pleasing to the eye.

The aggravation is easily explained. I
soaked in the ether some fifty discarded skins.
The few drops which remained after the
evaporation and which were absorbed by the
square of blotting-paper represented, there-
144

The Stinging Power

fore, the virulence of a single insect fifty
times increased. My little blistering-plaster
was equivalent to the contact of fifty cater-
pillars at the same spot. There is no doubt
that, if we left them to steep in considerable
numbers, we should obtain extracts of really
formidable strength. It is quite possible that
medical science will one day make good use
of this powerful counter-irritant, which is ut-
terly different from cantharides.

Whether voluntary victims of our curiosity,
which, while affording no other satisfaction
than that of knowledge, exposes us to an into-
lerable itch, or sufferers through an accident,
what can we do to give a little relief to the
irritation caused by the Processionary ? It is
good to know the origin of the evil, but it
would be better to apply a remedy.

One day, with both hands sore from the
prolonged examination of a nest, I try without
success lotions of alcohol, glycerine, oil and
soapsuds. Nothing does any good. I then
remember a palliative employed by Reaumur
against the sting of the Oak Processionary.
Without telling us how he came to know of
the strange specific, the master rubbed himself
with parsley and felt a good deal the better

145

The Life of the Caterpillar

for it. He adds that any other leaf would
probably assuage the irritation in the same
way.

This is a fitting occasion for reopening the
subject. Here, in a corner of the garden, is
parsley, green and abundant as one could wish.
What other plant can we compare with it? I
choose the purslain, the spontaneous guest of
my vegetable-beds. Mucilaginous and fleshy
as it is, it readily crushes, yielding an emollient
liniment. I rub one hand with parsley and
the other with purslain, pressing hard enough
to reduce the leaves to a paste. The result
deserves attention.

With the parsley, the burning is a little less
acute, it is true, but, though relieved, it per-
sists for a long time yet and continues trouble-
some. With the purslain, the petty torture
ceases almost at once and so completely that
I no longer notice it. My nostrum possesses
incontestable virtues. I recommend it quietly,
without blatant advertisement, to any one
who may be persecuted by the Processionary.
Foresters, in their war upon caterpillars'
nests, should find great relief from it.

I have also obtained good results with the
leaves of the tomato and the lettuce; and,
146

The Stinging Power

without pursuing this botanical survey further,
I remain convinced, with Reaumur, that any
tender juicy foliage would possess a certain
efficacy.

As for the mode of action of this specific, I
admit that I do not understand it, any more
than I can perceive the mode of action of the
caterpillar's virus. Moliere's medical student
explained the soporific properties of opium by
saying :

"Quia est in eo virtus dormitava cujus est
proprietas sensus assoupire."

Let us say likewise : the crushed herb calms
the burning itch because it possesses a calm-
ing virtue whose property is to assuage
itching.

The quip is a good deal more philosophical
than it looks. What do we know of our
remedies or of anything? We perceive
effects, but we cannot get back to their
causes.

In my village and for some distance around
it, there is a popular belief that to relieve the
pain of a Wasp's or Bee's sting all that we
need do is to rub the part stung with three
sorts of herbs. Take, they say, three kinds of
herbs, the first that come to hand, make them

147

The Life of the Caterpillar

into a bunch and rub hard. The prescription,
by all accounts, is infallible.

I thought at first that this was one of those
therapeutic absurdities which have their birth
in rustic imaginations. After making a trial,
I admit that what sounds like a nonsensical
remedy sometimes has something genuine
about it. Friction with three kinds of herbs
does actually deaden the sting of the Wasp
or Bee.

I hasten to add that the same success is
achieved with a single herb ; and so the result
agrees with what the parsley and purslain
have taught us in respect of the irritation
caused by the Processionary.

Why three herbs when one is enough?
Three is the preeminently lucky number; it
smacks of witchcraft, which is far from de-
tracting from the virtues of the unguent. All
rustic medicine has a touch of magic about it;
and there is merit in doing things by threes.

Perhaps the specific of the three herbs may
even date back to the materia medica of an-
tiquity. Dioscorides recommends rpicpvKkov:
it is, he states, good for the bite of venomous
serpents. To determine this celebrated three-
leaved plant exactly would not be easy. Is it
148

The Stinging Power

a common clover? The psoralea, with its
pitchy odour? The menyanthes, or uck-bean,
that inmate of the chilly peat-bogs? The
oxalis, the wood-sorrel of the country-side?
We cannot tell for certain. The botany of
those days was innocent of the descriptive
conscientiousness of ours. The plant which
acted as a poison-antidote grouped its leaves
by threes. That is its essential characteristic.
Again the cabalistic number, essential to
medical virtues as conceived by the first heal-
ers. The peasant, a tenacious conservative,
has preserved the ancient remedy, but, by a
happy inspiration, has changed the three
original leaves into three different herbs; he
has elaborated the -cpicpvk\ov into the three-
fold foliage which he crushes on the Bee's
sting. I seem to perceive a certain relation
between these artless ways and the crushing
of parsley as described by Reaumur,

149

CHAPTER VII

THE ARBUTUS CATERPILLAR

I HAVE not found many species of urtica-
ting caterpillars in the small corner of my
investigations. I know of two only : the Pine
Caterpillar and the Arbutus Caterpillar. The
latter belongs to the genus Liparis. His
Moth, who is a glorious snowy white, with
the last rings of the abdomen bright russet,
is very like Liparis auriflua, FAB., from whom
she differs not only in size — she is smaller —
but, above all, in the field of operations se-
lected by her caterpillar. Is the species class-
ified in our lists ? I do not know ; and really
it is hardly worth while to enquire. What
does a Latin name matter, when one cannot
mistake the insect? I shall be sparing of de-
tail concerning the Arbutus Caterpillar, for
he is far less interesting in his habits than the
Pine Processionary. Only his ravages and his
poison deserve serious attention.

On the Serignan hills, sunny heights upon
which the Mediterranean vegetation comes
to an end, the arbutus, or strawberry-tree,
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The Arbutus Caterpillar

abounds: a magnificent shrub, with lustrous
evergreen foliage, vermilion fruit, round and
fleshy as strawberries, and hanging clusters of
little white bells resembling those of the lily
of the valley. When the frosts come at the
approach of December, nothing could be more
charming than the arbutus, decking its gay
verdure with both fruits and flowers, with
coral balls and plump little bells. Alone of
our flora, it combines the flowering of to-day
with the ripening of yesterday.

Then the bright-red raspberries — the dar-
bouses, as we call them here — beloved by the
Blackbird, grow soft and sweet to the palate.
The housewives pluck them and make them
into preserves that are not without merit. As
for the shrub itself, when the season for cut-
ting has come, it is not, despite its beauty,
respected by the woodman. It serves, like any
trivial brushwood, in the making of faggots
for heating ovens. Frequently, too, the showy
arbutus is ravaged by a caterpillar yet more
to be dreaded than the woodcutter. After
this glutton has been at it, it could not look
more desolate had it been scorched and black-
ened by fire.

The Moth, a pretty little, snow-white Bom-
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The Life of the Caterpillar

byx, with superb antennary plumes and a cot-
ton-wool tippet on her thorax, lays her eggs
on a leaf of the arbutus and, in so doing,
starts the evil.

You see a little cushion with pointed ends,
rather less than an inch in length; a white
eiderdown, tinged with russet, thick, very soft
and formed of hairs fixed with a little gum by
the end that points towards the upper ex-
tremity of the leaf. The eggs are sunk in
the thickness of this soft shelter. They pos-
sess a metallic sheen and look like so many
nickel granules.

Hatching takes place in September. The
first meals are made at the expense of the
native leaf; the later ones at the expense of
the leaves all around. One surface only is
nibbled, usually the upper; the other remains
intact, trellised by the network of veins,
which are too horny for the new-born grubs.

The consumption of leaves is effected with
scrupulous economy. Instead of grazing at
hazard and using up the pasturage at the dic-
tates of individual caprice, the flock progresses
gradually from the base to the tip of the leaf,
with all heads ranged in a frontal attack,
almost in a straight line. Not a bite is taken

152

The Arbutus Caterpillar

beyond this line, until all that lies on this side
of it is eaten up.

As it advances, the flock throws a few
threads across the denuded portion, where
nothing remains but the veins and the epi-
dermis of the opposite surface. Thus is
woven a gossamer veil serving as a shelter
from the fierce rays of the sun and as the
parachute which is essential to these weak-
lings, whom a puff of wind would carry away.

As the result of a more rapid desiccation on
the ravaged surface, the leaf soon begins to
curl of its own accord, curving into a gondola
which is covered by a continuous awning
stretched from end to end. The herbage is
then exhausted. The flock abandons it and
begins again elsewhere in the near neighbour-
hood.

After various temporary pastures of this
kind, in November, when the cold weather is
at hand, the caterpillars settle permanently at
the end of a bough. Nibbled one by one on
their upper surfaces, the leaves of the terminal
bunch draw close to their neighbours, which,
excoriated in their turn, do the same, until
the whole forms a bundle, which looks as if it
had been scorched, lashed together with mag-

iS3

The Life of the Caterpillar

nificent white silk. This is the winter habita-
tion, whence the family, still very feeble, will
not issue until the fine weather returns.

The assembling of this leafy framework is
not due to any special industry on the cater-
pillars' part; they do not stretch their threads
from leaf to leaf and then, by pulling at these
ropes, bring the various pieces of the structure
into contact. It is merely the result of des-
iccation on the nibbled surfaces. Fixed cables,
it is true, solidly bind together the leaves
brought close to one another by the contrac-
tion due to their aridity; but they do not in
any way play the part of a motive mechanism
in the work of the assemblage.

No hauling-ropes are here, no capstans to
move the timbers. The feeble creatures would
be incapable of such effort. The thing hap-
pens of itself. Sometimes a floating thread,
the plaything of the air, enlaces some adjacent
leaf. This chance footbridge tempts the ex-
plorers, who hasten to strip the accidental
prize; and, without other labour, yet one more
leaf bends of its own accord and is added
to the enclosure. For the most part, the
house is built by eating ; a lodging is procured
by dint of banqueting.

154

The Arbutus Caterpillar

A comfortable house, tightly closed and
well-caulked, proof against rain and snow.
We, to guard ourselves against draughts, put
sand-bags against the cracks of our doors and
windows; the extravagant little Arbutus Cat-
erpillar applies pipings of silk-velvet to his
shutters. Things should be cosy inside, how-
ever damp the fog. In bad weather, the rain
drips into my house. The leaf-dwelling knows
nothing of such troubles, so true is it that
animals often enjoy advantages which rele-
gate human industry to the second rank.

In this shelter of silk and foliage, the worst
three or four months of the year are passed
in a state of complete abstinence. No out-
ings; not a bite of food. In March, this
torpor ceases ; and the recluses, those starving
bellies, shift their quarters.

The community now splits up into squads,
which spread themselves anyhow over the ad-
jacent verdure. This is the period of serious
devastation. The caterpillars no longer con-
fine themselves to nibbling one surface of the
leaf; their keen appetites demand the whole
of it, down to the stalk. And now, stage by
stage, halt by halt, the arbutus is shorn bare.

The vagabonds do not return to their win-

The Life of the Caterpillar

ter dwelling, which has become too closely
cramped. They reassemble in groups and
weave, here, there and everywhere, shapeless
tents, temporary huts, abandoned for others
as the pasturage round about becomes ex-
hausted. The denuded boughs, to all seem-
ing ravaged by fire, take on the look of
squalid drying-grounds hung with rags.

In June, having acquired their full growth,
the caterpillars leave the arbutus-tree, descend
to earth and spin themselves, amid the dead
leaves, a niggardly cocoon, in which the in-
sect's hairs to some extent supplement its silk.
A month later, the Bombyx appears.

In his final dimensions, the caterpillar mea-
sures nearly an inch and a quarter in length.
His costume does not lack richness or origin-
ality: a black skin with a double row of
orange specks on the back; long grey hairs
arranged in bunches; short, snow-white tufts
on the sides; and a couple of brown- velvet
protuberances on the first two rings of the ab-
domen and also on the last ring but one.

The most remarkable feature, however,

consists of two tiny craters, always open wide ;

two cunningly fashioned goblets which might

have been wrought from a drop of red seal-

156

The Arbutus Caterpillar

ing-wax. The sixth and seventh segments of
the abdomen are the only ones that bear these
vermilion goblets, placed in the middle of the
back. I do not know the function of these
little cups. Perhaps they should be regarded
as organs of information, similar to the Pine
Processionary's dorsal mouths.

The Arbutus Caterpillar is much dreaded
in the village. Woodcutters, faggot-binders,
brushwood-gatherers, all are unanimous in re-
viling him. They have such a painfully vivid
memory of the irritation that, when I listen
to them, I can hardly repress a movement of
the shoulders to relieve the imaginary itching
in the middle of my back. I seem to feel the
arbutus-faggot, laden with its glowing rags,
rubbing my bare skin.

It is, it appears, a disagreeable job to cut
down the shrub alive with caterpillars during
the hottest part of the day and to shake, under
the blows of the axe, that sort of upas-tree,
shedding poison in its shade. As for me, I
have no complaint to make of my relations
with the ravager of the arbutus. I have very
often handled him; I have applied his fur to
the tips of my fingers, my neck and even my
face, for hours at a time; I have ripped up

i57

The Life of the Caterpillar

the nests to extract their populations for the
purpose of my researches; but I have never
been inconvenienced. Save in exceptional cir-
cumstances, the approach of the moult per-
haps, this would need a skin less tough than
mine.

The thin skin of a child does not enjoy the
same immunity, as witness little Paul, who,
having helped me to empty some nests and to
collect the inhabitants with my forceps, was
for hours scratching his neck, which was dot-
ted with red wheals. My ingenuous assistant
was proud of his sufferings in the cause of
science, which resulted from heedlessness and
also perhaps from bravado. In twenty-four
hours, the trouble disappeared, without leav-
ing any serious consequences.

All this hardly tallies with the painful ex-
periences of which the woodcutters talk. Do
they exaggerate? That is hardly credible;
they are so unanimous. Then something must
have been lacking in my experiments : the pro-
pitious moment apparently, the proper degree
of maturity in the caterpillar, the high tem-
perature which aggravates the poison.

To show itself in its full severity, the urtica-
tion demands the cooperation of certain un-
158

The Arbutus Caterpillar

defined circumstances; and this cooperation
was wanting. Chance perhaps will one day
teach me more than I want to know; I shall
be attacked in the manner familiar to the
woodcutters and shall pass a night in torment,
tossing and turning as though on a bed of
live coals.

What the direct contact of the caterpillar
did not teach me the artifices of chemistry will
demonstrate with a violence which I was far
from expecting. I treat the caterpillar with
ether, just as I treated the slough of the Pine
Processionary. The number of the creatures
taken for the infusion — they are pretty small
as yet, are scarcely half the size which
they will attain when mature — is about a
hundred. After a couple of days' maceration,
I filter the liquid and leave it to evaporate
freely. With the few drops that remain I
soak a square of blotting-paper folded in four
and apply it to the inner surface of my fore-
arm, with a thin rubber sheet and a bandage.
It is an exact repetition of what I did with
the Pine Processionary.

Applied in the morning, the blister hardly
takes effect until the following night. Then
by degrees the irritation becomes unendurable ;

The Life of the Caterpillar

and the burning sensation is so acute that I am
tormented every moment with the desire to
tear off the bandage. However, I hold out,
but at the cost of a sleepless, feverish night.

How well I now understand what the
woodcutters tell me ! I had less than a square
inch of skin subjected to the torture. What
would it be if I had my back, shoulders, neck,
face and arms tormented in this fashion? I
pity you with all my heart, you labourers who
are troubled by the hateful creature.

On the morrow, the infernal paper is re-
moved. The skin is red and swollen, co-
vered with tiny pimples whence ooze drops
of serous fluid. For five days the itching per-
sists, with a sharp, burning pain, and the run-
ning from the pimples continues. Then the
dead skin dries and comes off in scabs. All is
over, save the redness, which is still percep-
tible a month later.

The demonstration is accomplished; the
Arbutus Caterpillar, capable as he is of pro-
ducing, under certain conditions, the same ef-
fects which I obtain by artificial means, fully
deserves his odious reputation.

CHAPTER VIII

AN INSECT VIRUS

ONE step forward has been taken, but only
a very little one as yet, in the problem of
the stinging caterpillars. The drenching with
ether teaches us that hairiness plays a very
secondary part in the matter. With its dust
of broken bristles, which the least breath
wafts in all directions, it bothers us by depo-
siting and fixing its irritant coating upon us;
but this virus does not originate in the crea-
ture's fleece; it comes from elsewhere. What
is the source of it ?

I will enter into a few details. Perhaps,
in so doing, I shall be of service to the novice.
The subject, which is very simple and sharply
defined, will show us how one question gives
rise to another; how experimental tests con-
firm or upset hypotheses, which are, as it were,
a temporary scaffolding; and, lastly, how
logic, that severe examiner, leads us by de-
grees to generalities which are far more im-
portant than anything that we were led to
anticipate at the outset.
161

The Life of the Caterpillar

And, first of all, does the Pine Procession-
ary possess a special glandular structure
which elaborates the virus, as do, for in-
stance, the poison-glands of the Wasps and
Bees? By no means. Anatomy shows that
the internal structure of the stinging cater-
pillar is similar to that of the harmless one.
There is nothing more and nothing less.

The poisonous product, of unlocalized ori-
gin, results, therefore, from a general process
in which the entire organism is brought into
play. It should, in consequence, be found in
the blood, after the manner of urea in higher
animals. This is a suggestion of grave im-
port, but after all quite valueless without the
conclusive verdict of actual experiment.

Five or six Processionaries, pricked with
the point of a needle, furnish me with a few
drops of blood. I allow these to soak into a
small square of blotting-paper, which I then
apply to my fore-arm with a waterproof
bandage. It is not without a certain anxiety
that I await the outcome of the experiment.
The result will show whether the conclusions
already forming in my mind will receive a
solid basis or vanish into thin air.

At a late hour of the night, the pain wakes
162

An Insect Virus

me, a pain which this time is an intellectual
joy. My anticipations were correct. The
blood does indeed contain the venomous sub-
stance. It causes itching, swelling, a burning
sensation, an exudation of serum and, lastly,
a shedding of the skin. I learn more than I
had hoped to learn. The test is more valuable
than that of mere contact with the caterpillar
could have been. Instead of treating myself
with the small quantity of poison with which
the hairs are smeared, I have gone to the
source of the irritant substance and I thereby
gain an increase of discomfort.

Very happy in my suffering, which sets me
on a safe path, I continue my enquiry by argu-
ing thus: the virus in the blood cannot be a
living substance, one that takes part in the
working of the organism; it is rather, like
urea, a form of decay, an offthrow of the vital
process, a waste product which is expelled as
and when it forms. If this be the case, I
ought to find it in the caterpillar's droppings,
which are made up of both the digestive and
the urinary residues.

Let us describe the new experiment, which
is no less positive than the last. I leave a few
pinches of very dry droppings, such as are

163

The Life of the Caterpillar

found in abundance in the old nests, to soak
for two days in sulphuric ether. The liquid,
coloured as it is with the chlorophyll of the
caterpillar's food, turns a dirty green. Then
I repeat precisely the process which I men-
tioned when I wanted to prove the innocuous-
ness of the hairs deprived of their poisonous
varnish. I refer to it a second time in order
thoroughly to explain the method pursued and
to save repetition in the various experiments
undertaken.

The infusion is- filtered, spontaneously eva-
porated and reduced to a few drops, with
which I soak my stinger. This consists of a
small piece of blotting-paper, folded in four
to increase the thickness of the pad and to
give it a greater power of absorption. An
area of a square inch or less suffices ; in some
cases it is even too much. A novice in this
kind of research-work, I was too lavish with
the liniment; and in return for my generosity
I had such a bad time that I make a point of
warning any reader desirous of repeating the
experiment upon his own person.

Fully soaked, the square of paper is applied
to the fore-arm, on the inner surface, where
the skin is more tender. A sheet of rubber
164

An Insect Virus

covers it and, being waterproof, guards
against the loss of the poison. Finally, a
linen bandage keeps the whole in place.

On the afternoon of the 4th of June 1897,
a memorable date for me, I test, as I have
just said, the etheric extract of the Procession-
ary's droppings. All night long, I feel a vio-
lent itching, a burning sensation and shooting
pains. On the following day, after twenty
hours of contact, I remove the dressing.

The venomous liquid, too lavishly employed
in my fear of failure, has considerably over-
flowed the limits of the square of paper. The
parts which it has touched and still more the
portion covered by the pad are swollen and
very red; moreover, in the latter case, the
skin is ridged, wrinkled and mortified. It
smarts a little and itches; and that is all.

On the following day, the swelling becomes
more pronounced and goes deep into the mus-
cles, which, when touched with the finger,
throb like an inflamed cheek. The colour is
a bright carmine and extends all round the
spot which the paper covered. This is due to
the escape of some of the liquid. There is a
plentiful discharge of serum, oozing from the
sore in tiny drops. The smarting and itching

165

The Life of the Caterpillar

increase and become so intense, especially du-
ring the night, that, to get a little sleep, I am
driven to employ a palliative, vaseline with
borax and a lint dressing.

In five days' time, it has developed into a
hideous ulcer, which looks more painful than
it really is. The red, swollen flesh, quivering
and denuded of its epidermis, provokes com-
miseration. The person who night and morn-
ing renews my dressing of lint and vaseline is
almost sick at the sight.

"One would think," she says, "that the
dogs had been gnawing your arm. I do hope
you won't try any more of those horrible de-
coctions."

I allow my sympathetic nurse to talk away
and am already meditating further experi-
ments, some of which will be equally painful.

0 sacred truth, what can rival thy power over
us mortals! Thou turnest my petty torment
into contentment; thou makest me rejoice in
my flayed arm ! What shall I gain by it all ?

1 shall know why a wretched caterpillar sets
us scratching ourselves. Nothing more; and
that is enough for me.

Three weeks later, new skin is forming, but
is covered all over with painful little pimples.
1 66

An Insect Virus

The swelling diminishes; the redness persists
and is still very marked. The effect of the
infernal paper lasts a long time. At the end
of a month, I still feel an itching, a burning
irritation, which is intensified by the warmth
of the bed-clothes. At last, a fortnight later,
all has disappeared but the redness, of which
I shall retain the marks for a long time yet,
though it grows gradually fainter and fainter.
It will take three months or more to vanish
altogether.

We now have some light on the problem :
the Processionary's virus is certainly an off-
throw of the organic factory, a waste product
of the living edifice. The caterpillar discards
it with his excrement. But the material of
the droppings has a twofold origin: the
greater part represents the digestive residuum ;
the rest, in a much smaller proportion, is com-
posed of the urinary products. To which of
the two does the virus belong? Before going
farther, let us permit ourselves a digression
which will assist us in our subsequent en-
quiries. Let us ask what advantages the Pro-
cessionary derives from his urticating product.

I already hear the answer:

"It is a means of protection, of defence.
167

The Life of the Caterpillar

With his poisoned mane, he repels the
enemy."

I do not clearly perceive the bearing of this
explanation. I think of the creature's recog-
nized enemies: of the larva of Calosoma
sycophanta, which lives in the nests of the
Processionary of the Oak and gobbles up the
inhabitants with never a thought of their burn-
ing fleece; of the Cuckoo, another mighty con-
sumer, so we are told, of the same caterpillars,
who gorges on them to the point of implant-
ing in his gizzard a bristling coat of their
hairs.

I am not aware if the Processionary of
the Pine pays a like tribute. I do know of
at least one of his exploiters. This is a
Dermestes,1 who establishes himself in the
silken city and feeds upon the remains of the
defunct caterpillars. This ghoul assures us
of the existence of other consumers, all fur-
nished with stomachs expressly fashioned for
such highly-seasoned fare. For every har-
vest of living creatures there is always a har-
vester.

No, the theory of a special virus, expressly
prepared to defend the Processionary and his
*A Bacon-beetle.— Translator's Note.
1 68

An Insect Virus

emulators in urtication, is not the last word on
the subject. I should find it difficult to believe
in such a prerogative. Why have these cater-
pillars, more than others, need of protection?
What reasons would make of them a caste
apart, endowed with an exceptional defensive
venom ? The part which they play in the en-
tomological world does not differ from that of
other caterpillars, hairy or smooth. It is the
naked caterpillars who, in default of a mane
capable of striking awe into the assailant,
ought, one would think, to arm themselves
against danger and impregnate themselves
with corrosives, instead of remaining a meek
and easy prey. Is it likely that the shaggy,
bristling caterpillar should anoint his fleece
with a formidable cosmetic and his smooth-
coated kinsman be unfamiliar with the che-
mical properties of the poison beneath his
satin skin! These contradictions do not in-
spire confidence.

Have we not here, rather, a property com-
mon to all caterpillars, smooth-skinned or
hairy? Among the latter, there might be
some, just a few, who, under certain special
conditions which will need to be defined,
would be quick to reveal by urtication the
169

The Life of the Caterpillar

venomous nature of their organic refuse;
the others, the vast majority, living outside
these conditions, even though endowed with
the necessary product, would be inexpert at
the stinging business and would not produce
irritation by contact. In all, the same virus
is to be found, resulting from an identical vital
process. Sometimes it is brought into promin-
ence by the itching which it produces; some-
times, indeed most often, it remains latent,
unrecognized, if our artifices do not intervene.

What shall these artifices be? Something
very simple. I address myself to the Silk-
worm. If there be an inoffensive caterpillar
in the world, it is certainly he. Women and
children take him up by the handful in our
Silkworm-nurseries; and their delicate fingers
are none the worse for it. The satin-skinned
caterpillar is perfectly innocuous to a skin al-
most as tender as his own.

But this lack of caustic venom is only ap-
parent. I treat with ether the excretions of
the Silkworm ; and the infusion, concentrated
into a few drops, is tested according to the
usual method. The result is wonderfully de-
finite. A smarting sore on the arm, similar in
its mode of appearance and in its effects to
170

An Insect Virus

that produced by the droppings of the Proces-
sionary, assures me that logic was right.

Yes, the virus which makes one scratch so
much, which blisters and eats away the skin,
is not a defensive product vested in only a few
caterpillars. I recognize it, with its invariable
properties, even in a caterpillar which at first
sight appears 'as though it could not possess
anything of the kind.

The Silkworm's virus, besides, is not un-
known in my village. The casual observation
of the peasant-woman has outstripped the
precise observation of the man of science. The
women and girls entrusted with the rearing of
the Silkworm — the magnanarelles as they
are called — complain of certain tribulations
caused, they say, by lou verin di magnan, the
Silkworms' poison. This trouble consists of
a violent itching of the eyelids, which become
red and swollen. In the case of the more
susceptible, there is a rash and the skin peels
off the fore-arm, which the turned-up sleeves
fail to protect during work.

I now know the cause of this little trouble,
my plucky magnanarelles. It is not contact
with the worm that afflicts you ; you need have
no fear of handling him. It is only the litter

171

The Life of the Caterpillar

that you need distrust. There, jumbled up
with the remains of the mulberry-leaves, is a
copious mass of droppings, impregnated with
the substance which has just so painfully eaten
into my skin ; there and there only is lou verin,
as you call it.

It is a relief merely to know the cause of
one's trouble ; but I will provide you with an-
other consolation. When you remove the lit-
ter and renew the leaves, you should raise the
irritant dust as little as possible; you should
avoid lifting your hands to your face, above
all to your eyes ; and it is just as well to turn
down your sleeves in order to protect your
arms. If you take these precautions, you will
suffer no unpleasantness.

The successful result obtained with the Silk-
worm caused me to foresee a similar success
with any caterpillar that I might come across.
The facts fully confirmed my expectations. I
tested the stercoral pellets of various cater-
pillars, not selected, but just as the hazard of
collecting provided them : the Great Tortoise-
shell, the Heath Fritillary, the Large Cab-
bage Butterfly, the Spurge Hawk-moth, the
Great Peacock Moth, the Death's-head Moth,
the Puss-moth, the Tiger-moth and the Arbu-
172

An Insect Virus

tus Liparis. All my tests, with not a single
exception, brought about stinging, of various
degrees of violence, it is true. I attribute
these differences in the result to the greater
or lesser quantities of the virus employed, for
it is impossible to measure the dose.

So the urticating excretion is common to all
the caterpillars. By a very unexpected rever-
sion of the usual order of things, the popular
repugnance is well-founded; prejudice be-
comes truth: all caterpillars are venomous.
We must draw a distinction, however: with
the same venomous properties, some are inof-
fensive and others, far less numerous, are to
be feared. Whence comes this difference ?

I note that the caterpillars marked out as
stinging live in communities and weave them-
selves dwellings of silk, in which they stay for
long periods. Moreover, they are furry. Of
this number are the Pine Processionary, the
Oak Processionary and the caterpillars of
various Lipares.

Let us consider the first-named in parti-
cular. His nest, a voluminous bag spun at
the tip of a branch, is magnificent in its silky
whiteness, on the outside; inside, it is a dis-
gusting cesspit. The colony remains in it all

The Life of the Caterpillar

day and for the greater part of the night. It
sallies forth in procession only in the late
hours of twilight, to browse upon the adjacent
foliage. This long internment leads to a con-
siderable accumulation of droppings in the
heart of the dwelling.

From all the threads of this labyrinth hang
chaplets of these droppings; the walls are
upholstered with them in all the corridors;
the little narrow chambers are encumbered
with them. From a nest the size of a
man's head I have obtained, with a sieve,
over three-quarters of a pint of stercoral
pellets.

Now it is in the midst of this ordure that
the caterpillars live and have their being; in
the midst of it they move, swarm and sleep.
The results of this utter contempt for the
rules of cleanliness are obvious. Certainly,
the Processionary does not soil his coat by
contact with those dry pellets; he leaves his
home with his costume neat and glossy, sug-
gesting not a suspicion of uncleanliness. No
matter: by constantly rubbing against the
droppings, his bristles are inevitably smeared
with virus and their barbs poisoned. The
caterpillar becomes irritant, because his man-

i74

An Insect Virus

ner of life subjects him to prolonged contact
with his own ordure.

Now consider the Hedgehog Caterpillar.
Why is he harmless, despite his fierce and
hirsute aspect? Because he lives in isolation
and is always on the move. His mane, apt
though it be to collect and retain irritant part-
icles, will never give us the itch, for the
simple reason that the caterpillar does not lie
on his excretions. Distributed all over the
fields and far from numerous, owing to the
caterpillar's solitary habits, the droppings,
though poisonous, cannot transfer their pro-
perties to a fleece which does not come into
contact with them. If the Hedgehog lived
in a community, in a nest serving as a cess-
pit, he would be the foremost of our stinging
caterpillars.

At first sight, the barrack-tooms of the
Silkworm-nurseries seem to fulfil the condi-
tions necessary to the surface venom of the
worms. Each change of litter results in the
removal of basketfuls of droppings from the
trays. Over this heaped-up ordure the Silk-
worms swarm. How is it that they do not
acquire the poisonous properties of their own
excrement ?

175

The Life of the Caterpillar

I see two reasons. In the first place, they
are hairless; and a brushlike coat may well
be indispensable to the collection of the virus.
In the second place, far from lying in the
filth, they live above the soiled stratum, being
largely separated from it by the bed of leaves,
which is renewed several times a day. Despite
crowding, the population of a tray has no-
thing that can be compared with the ordinary
habits pf the Processionary; and so it remains
harmless, in spite of its stercoral toxin.

These first enquiries lead us to conclusions
which themselves are very remarkable. All
caterpillars excrete an urticating matter,
which is identical throughout the series. But,
if the poison is to manifest itself and to cause
us that characteristic itching, it is indispensa-
ble that the caterpillar shall dwell in a com-
munity, spending long periods in the nest, a
silken bag laden with droppings. These fur-
nish the virus; the caterpillar's hairs collect
it and transfer it to us.

The time has come to tackle the problem
from another point of view. Is this for-
midable matter which always accompanies the
excretions a digestive residuum? Is it not
rather one of those waste substances which
176

An Insect Virus

the organism engenders while at work, waste
substances designated by the general appel-
lation of urinary products?

To isolate these products, to collect them
separately, would scarcely be practicable, if
we did not have recourse to what follows on
the metamorphosis. Every Moth, on emer-
ging from her chrysalis, rejects a copious
mixture of uric acid and various humours of
which very little is as yet known. It may
be compared with the broken plaster of a
building rebuilt on a new plan and represents
the by-products of the mighty labours accom-
plished in the transfigured insect. These re-
mains are essentially urinary products, with
no admixture of digested foodstuffs.

To what insect shall I apply for this re-
siduum? Chance does many things. I col-
lect, from the old elm-tree in the garden,
about a hundred curious caterpillars. They
have seven rows of prickles of an amber yel-
low, a sort of bush with four or five branches.
I shall learn from the Butterfly that they be-
long to the Great Tortoiseshell (Vanessa
polychloros, LlN.).

Reared on elm-leaves under a wire-gauze
cover, my caterpillars undergo their trans-
177

The Life of the Caterpillar

formation towards the end of May. Their
chrysalids are specked with brown on a
whitish ground and display on the under sur-
face six radiant silvery spots, a sort of decora-
tive tinsel, like so many mirrors. Fixed by
the tail with a silken pad, they hang from the
top of the dome, swinging at the least move-
ment and emitting vivid flashes of light from
their reflectors. My children are amazed at
this living chandelier. It is a treat for them
when I allow them to come and admire it in
my animal studio.

Another surprise awaits them, this time a
tragic one, however. A fortnight later, the
Butterflies emerge. I have placed under the
cover a large sheet of white paper, which will
receive the desired products. I call the child-
ren. What do they see on the paper?

Large spots of blood. Under their very
eyes, from up there, at the top of the dome,
a butterfly lets fall a great red drop : plop !
No joy for the children to-day; anxiety rather,
almost fear.

I send them away, saying to them :

"Be sure and remember, kiddies, what you
have just seen; and, if ever any one talks to
you about showers of blood, don't be silly and
178

An Insect Virus

frightened. A pretty Butterfly is the cause
of those blood-red stains, which have been
known to terrify country-folk. The moment
she is born, she casts out, in the form of a
red liquid, the remains of her old caterpillar
body, a body remodelled and reborn in a
beautiful shape. That is the whole secret."

When my artless visitors have departed, I
resume my examination of the rain of blood
falling under the cover. Still clinging to the
shell of its chrysalis, each Tortoiseshell ejects
and sheds upon the paper a great red drop,
which, if left standing, deposits a powdery
pink sediment, composed of urates. The
liquid is now a deep crimson.

When the whole thing is perfectly dry, I
cut out of the spotted paper some of the
richer stains and steep the bits in ether. The
spots on the paper remain as red as at the
outset; and the liquid assumes a light lemon
tint. When reduced by evaporation to a few
drops, this liquid provides me with what I
require to soak my square of blotting-paper.

What shall I say to avoid repeating my-
self? The effects of the new caustic are pre-
cisely the same as those which I experienced
when I used the droppings of the Proces-

179

The Life of the Caterpillar

sionary. The same itching, the same burning,
the same swelling with the flesh throbbing
and inflamed, the same serous exudation, the
same peeling of the skin, the same persistent
redness, which lingers for three or four
months, long after the ulceration itself has
disappeared.

Without being very painful, the sore is so
irksome and above all looks so ugly that I
swear never to let myself in for it again.
Henceforth, without waiting for the thing to
eat into my flesh, I shall remove the cater-
pillar plaster as soon as I feel a conclusive
itching.

In the course of these painful experiences,
friends upbraid me with not having recourse
to the assistance of some animal, such as the
Guinea-pig, that stock victim of the physiolo-
gists. I take no note of their reproaches.
The animal is a stoic. It says nothing of its
sufferings. If, the torture being a little too
intense, it complains, I am in no position to
interpret its cries exactly or to attribute them
to a definite impression.

The Guinea-pig will not say :

"It smarts, it itches, it burns."

He will simply say:
1 80

An Insect Virus

"That hurts."

As I want to know the details of the sensa-
tions experienced, the best thing is to resort
to my own skin, the only witness on whose evi-
dence I can rely implicitly.

At the risk of provoking a smile, I will
venture on another confession. As I begin
to see into the matter more clearly, I hesitate
to torture or destroy a single creature in God's
great community. The life of the least of
these is a thing to be respected. We can
take it away, but we cannot give it. Peace
to those innocents, so little interested in our
investigations! What does our restless
curiosity matter to their calm and sacred
ignorance? If we wish to know, let
us pay the price ourselves as far as
possible. The acquisition of an idea
is well worth the sacrifice of a bit of
skin.

The Elm Tortoiseshell, with her rain of
blood, may leave us to a certain extent in
doubt. Might not this strange red substance,
with its unusual appearance, contain a poison
which is likewise exceptional? I address my-
self therefore to the Mulberry Bombyx, to
the Pine Bombyx and to the Great Peacock.
181

The Life of the Caterpillar

I collect the uric excretions ejected by the
newly hatched Moths.

This time, the liquid is whitish, sullied here
and there with uncertain tints. There is no
blood-red colouration; but the result is the
same. The virulent energy manifests itself in
the most definite manner. Therefore the Pro-
cessionary's virus exists equally in all cater-
pillars, in all Butterflies and Moths emerging
from the chrysalis; and this virus is a by-
product of the organism, a urinary product.

The curiosity of our minds is insatiable.
The moment a reply is obtained, a fresh quest-
ion arises. Why should the Lepidoptera
alone be endowed in this manner? The or-
ganic labours accomplished within them can-
not differ greatly, as to the nature of the
materials, from those presiding over the
maintenance of life in other insects. There-
fore these others also elaborate a by-product
which has stinging powers. This can be veri-
fied— and that forthwith — with the elements
at my disposal.

The first reply is furnished by Cetonia
floricola, of which Beetle I collect half a
dozen chrysalids from a heap of leaves half-
converted into mould. A box receives my
182

An Insect Virus

find, laid on a sheet of white paper, on which
the urinary fluid of the perfect insect will fall
as soon as the caskets are broken.

The weather is favourable and I have not
long to wait. The thing is done: the mat-
ter rejected is white, the usual colour of these
residua, in the great majority of insects, at the
moment of the metamorphosis. Though by
no means abundant, it nevertheless provokes
on my fore-arm a violent itching, together
with mortification of the skin, which comes
off in flakes. The reason why it does not dis-
play a more distinct sore is that I judged it
prudent to end the experiment. The burning
and itching tell me enough as to the results of
a contact unduly prolonged.

Now to the Hymenoptera. J have not in
my possession, I regret to say, any of those
with whom my rearing-chambers used for-
merly to provide me, whether Honey-bee or
Hunting Wasps. I have only a Green Saw-
fly, whose larva lives in numerous families on
the leaves of the alder. Reared under cover,
this larva provides me with enough tiny black
droppings to fill a thimble. That is sufficient :
the urtication is quite definite.

I take next the insects with incomplete
183

The Life of the Caterpillar

transformations. My recent rearings have
given me quite a collection of excretions ema-
nating from the Orthoptera. I consult those
of the Vine Ephippiger1 and the Great Grey
Locust. Both sting to a degree which once
more makes me regret my lavish hand.

We will be satisfied with this; indeed my
arms demand as much, for, tattooed with red
squares, they refuse to make room for fresh
brandings. The examples are sufficiently
varied to impose the following conclusion : the
Processionary's virus is found in a host of
other insects, apparently even in the entire
series. It is a urinary product inherent in the
entomological organism.

The dejections of insects, especially those
evacuated at the end of the metamorphosis,
contain or are even almost entirely composed
of urates. Can the stinging material be the
inevitable associate of uric acid? It should
then form part of the excrement of the bird
and the reptile, which in both cases is very
rich in urates. Here again is a suspicion
worthy of verification by experiment.

For the moment it is impossible for me
to question the reptile ; it is easy, on the other

1A species of Grasshopper. — Translator's Note.
184

An Insect Virus

hand, to interrogate the bird, whose reply will
suffice. I accept what is offered by chance: an
insectivorous bird, the Swallow, and a grami-
nivorous bird, the Goldfinch. Well, their uri-
nary dejections, when carefully separated
from the digestive residua, have not the
slightest stinging effect. The virus that causes
itching is independent therefore of uric acid.
It accompanies it in the insect class, without
being its invariable concomitant every else-
where.

A last step remains for us to take, namely,
to isolate the stinging element and to obtain
it in quantities permitting of precise enquiries
into its nature and properties. It seems to
me that medical science might turn to account
a material whose energy rivals that of can-
tharides, if it does not exceed it. The quest-
ion appeals to me. I would gladly return to
my beloved chemistry; but I should want
reagents, apparatus, a laboratory, a whole
costly arsenal of which I must not dream, af-
flicted as I am with a terrible ailment: impe-
cuniosity, the searcher's habitual lot.

185

CHAPTER IX

THE PSYCHES: THE LAYING

IN THE springtime, old walls and dusty
roads harbour a surprise for whoso has
eyes to see. Tiny faggots, for no apparent
reason, set themselves in motion and make
their way along by sudden jerks. The inani-
mate comes to life, the immovable stirs. How
does this come about? Look closer and the
motive power will stand revealed.

Enclosed within the moving bundle is a
fairly well-developed caterpillar, prettily
striped in black and white. Seeking for food
or perhaps for a spot where the transforma-
tion can be effected, he hurries along timidly,
attired in a queer rig-out of twigs from which
nothing emerges except the head and the front
part of the body, which is furnished with six
short legs. At the least alarm he goes right
in and does not budge again. This is the
whole secret of the little roaming bundle of
sticks.

The faggot caterpillar belongs to the
Psyche group, whose name conveys an allu-
186

The Psyches: the Laying

sion to the classic Psyche, symbolical of the
soul. We must not allow this phrase to
carry our thoughts to loftier heights than is
fitting. The nomenclator, with his rather
circumscribed view of the world, did not
trouble about the soul when inventing his de-
scriptive label. He simply wanted a pretty
name ; and certainly he could have hit on no-
thing better.

To protect himself from the weather, our
chilly, bare-skinned Psyche builds himself a
portable shelter, a travelling cottage which
the owner never leaves until he becomes a
Moth. It is something better than a hut on
wheels with a thatched roof to it: it is a
hermit's frock, made of an unusual sort of
frieze. In the valley of the Danube the
peasant wears a goatskin cloak fastened with
a belt of rushes. The Psyche dons an even
more rustic apparel. He makes himself a suit
of clothes out of hop-poles. It is true that,
beneath this rude conglomeration, which
would be a regular hair-shirt to a skin as
delicate as his, he puts a thick lining of silk.
The Clythra Beetle garbs himself in pottery;
this one dresses himself in a faggot.

In April, on the walls of my chief observa-

187

The Life of the Caterpillar

tory, that famous pebbly acre with its wealth
of insect life, I find the Psyche who is to fur-
nish me with my most circumstantial and de-
tailed records.1 He is at this period in the
torpor of the approaching metamorphosis. As
we can ask him nothing else for the moment,
let us look into the construction and composi-
tion of his faggot.

It is a not irregular structure, spindle-
shaped and about an inch and a half long.
The pieces that compose it are fixed in front
and free at the back, are arranged anyhow
and would form a rather ineffective shelter
against the sun and rain if the recluse had no
other protection than his thatched roof.

The word thatch is suggested to my mind
by a summary inspection of what I see, but it
is not an exact expression in this case. On the
contrary, graminaceous straws are rare, to the
great advantage of the future family, which,
as we shall learn presently, would find nothing
to suit them in jointed planks. What pre-
dominates is remnants of very small stalks,
light, soft and rich in pith, such as are pos-
sessed by various Chicoriaceae. I recognize in

^Psyche unicolor, HUFN.; P. graminella, SCHIFFER-
MULLER .— Author's Note.

188

The Psyches: the Laying

particular the floral stems of the mouse-ear
hawkweed and the Nimes pterotheca. Next
come bits of grass-leaves, scaly twigs provided
by the cypress-tree and all sorts of little sticks,
coarse materials adopted for the lack of any-
thing better. Lastly, if the favourite cylin-
drical pieces fall short, the mantle is some-
times finished off with an ample flounced tip-
pet, that is to say, with fragments of dry
leaves of any kind.

Incomplete as it is, this list shows us that
the caterpillar apart from his preference for
pithy morsels, has no very exclusive tastes.
He employs indifferently anything that he
comes upon, provided that it be light, very
dry, softened by long exposure to the air and
of suitable dimensions. All his finds, if they
come anywhere near his estimates, are used
just as they are, without any alterations or
sawing to reduce them to the proper length.
The Psyche does not trim the laths that go
to form his roof; he gathers them as he finds
them. His work is limited to imbricating
them one after the other by fixing them at the
fore-end.

In order to lend itself to the movements of
the journeying caterpillar and in particular to

The Life of the Caterpillar

facilitate the action of the head and legs
when a new piece is to be placed in position,
the front part of the sheath requires a special
structure. Here a casing of beams is no
longer allowable, for their length and stiff-
ness would hamper the artisan and even make
his work impossible ; what is essential here
is a flexible neck, able to bend in all direc-
tions. The assemblage of stakes does, in
fact, end suddenly at some distance from the
fore-part and is there replaced by a collar
in which the silken woof is merely hardened
with very tiny ligneous particles, tending to
strengthen the material without impairing its
flexibility. This collar, which gives free
movement, is so important that all the Psyches
make equal use of it, however much the rest
of the work may differ. All carry, in front
of the faggot of sticks, a yielding neck, soft
to the touch, formed inside of a web of pure
silk and velveted outside with a fine sawdust
which the caterpillar obtains by crushing with
his mandibles any sort of dry straw.

A similar velvet, but lustreless and faded,
apparently through age, finishes the sheath at
the back, in the form of a rather long, bare
appendix, open at the end.
190

The Psyches: the Laying

Let us now remove the outside of the straw
envelope, shredding it piecemeal. The demo-
lition gives us a varying number of joists: I
have counted as many as eighty and more.
The ruin that remains is a cylindrical sheath
wherein we discover, from one end to the
other, the structure which we perceived at the
front and rear, the two parts which are natu-
rally bare. The tissue everywhere is of very
stout silk, which resists without breaking
when pulled by the fingers, a smooth tissue,
beautifully white inside, drab and wrinkled
outside, where it bristles with encrusted woody
particles.

There will be an opportunity later to dis-
cover by what means the caterpillar makes
himself so complicated a garment, in which
are laid one upon the other, in a definite
order, first, the extremely fine satin which is
in direct contact with the skin ; next, the mixed
stuff, a sort of frieze dusted with ligneous
matter, which saves the silk and gives con-
sistency to the work; lastly, the surtout of
overlapping laths.

While retaining this general threefold ar-
rangement, the scabbard offers notable varia-
tions of structural detail in the different

The Life of the Caterpillar

species. Here, for instance, is a second
Psyche,1 the most belated of the three which
I have chanced to come upon. I meet him
towards the end of June, hurrying across
some dusty path near the houses. His cases
surpass those of the previous species both in
size and in regularity of arrangement. They
form a thick coverlet, of many pieces, in which
I recognize here fragments of hollow stalks,
there bits of fine straw, with perhaps straps
formed of blades of grass. In front there
is never any mantilla of dead leaves, a trouble-
some piece of finery which, without being in
regular use, is pretty frequent in the costume
of the first-named species. At the back, no
long, denuded vestibule. Save for the indis-
pensable collar at the aperture, all the rest
is cased in logs. There is not much variety
about the thing, but, when all is said, there
is a certain elegance in its stern faultlessness.
The smallest in size and simplest in dress
is the third,2 who is very common at the end
of winter on the walls, as well as in the fur-
rows of the barks of gnarled old trees, be they

*As far as can be judged from the case only, Psyche
febretta, BOYER DE FONSCOLOMBE.— Author's Note.

*Fumea comitella and F. intermtdiella, BRUAND.— Au-
thor's Note.

192

The Psyches: the Laying

olive-trees, holm-oaks, elms or almost any
other. His case, a modest little bundle, is
hardly more than two-fifths of an inch in
length. A dozen rotten straws, gleaned at
random and fixed close to one another in a
parallel direction, represent, with the silk
sheath, his whole outlay on dress. It would
be difficult to clothe one's self more eco-
nomically.

This pigmy, apparently so uninteresting,
shall supply us with our first records of the
curious life-story of the Psyches. I gather
him in profusion in April and instal him in
a wire bell-jar. What he eats I know not.
My ignorance would be grievous under other
conditions; but at present I need not trouble
about provisions. Taken from their walls
and trees, where they had suspended them-
selves for their transformation, most of my
little Psyches are in the chrysalis state. A
few of them are still active. They hasten to
clamber to the top of the trellis-work; they
fix themselves there perpendicularly by means
of a little silk cushion ; then everything is still.

June comes to an end ; and the male Moths
are hatched, leaving the chrysalid wrapper
half caught in the case, which remains fixed

193

The Life of the Caterpillar

where it is and will remain there indefinitely
until dismantled by the weather. The emer-
gence is effected through the hinder end of
the bundle of sticks, the only way by which it
can be effected. Having permanently closed
the top opening, the real door of the house,
by fastening it to the support which he has
chosen, the caterpillar therefore has turned
the other way round and undergone his trans-
formation in a reversed position, which
enables the adult insect to emerge through the
outlet made at the back, the only one now
free.

For that matter, this is the method fol-
lowed by all the Psyches. The case has two
apertures. The front one, which is more regu-
lar and more carefully constructed, is at the
caterpillar's service so long as larval activity
lasts. It is closed and firmly fastened to its
support at the time of the nymphosis. The
hinder one, which is faulty and even hidden
by the sagging of the sides, is at the Moth's
service. It does not really open until right
at the end, when pushed by the chrysalis or
the adult insect.

In their modest pearl-grey dress, with their
insignificant wing-equipment, hardly exceed
194

The Psyches: the Laying

ing that of a Common Fly, our little Moths
are still not without elegance. They have
handsome feathery plumes for antennae ; their
wings are edged with delicate fringes. They
whirl very fussily inside the bell-jar; they skim
the ground, fluttering their wings ; they crowd
eagerly around certain sheaths which nothing
on the outside distinguishes from the others.
They alight upon them and sound them with
their plumes.

This feverish agitation marks them as
lovers in search of their brides. This one
here, that one there, each of them finds his
mate. But the coy one does not leave her
home. Things happen very discreetly through
the wicket left open at the free end of the
case. The male stands on the threshold of
this back-door for a little while; and then it
is over: the wedding is finished. There is
no need for us to linger over these nuptials
in which the parties concerned do not know,
do not see each other.

I hasten to place in a glass tube the few
cases in which the mysterious events have hap-
pened. Some days later, the recluse comes
out of the sheath and shows herself in all her
wretchedness. Call that little fright a Moth !

i95

The Life of the Caterpillar

One cannot easily get used to the idea of
such poverty. The caterpillar of the start was
no humbler-looking. There are no wings,
none at all; no silky fur either. At the tip
of the abdomen, a round, tufty pad, a crown
of dirty-white velvet ; on each segment, in the
middle of the back, a large rectangular dark
patch: these are the sole attempts at orna-
ment. The mother Psyche renounces all the
beauty which her name of Moth promised.

From the centre of the hairy coronet a long
ovipositor stands out, consisting of two parts,
one stiff, forming the base of the implement,
the other soft and flexible, sheathed in the
first just as a telescope fits in its tube. The
laying mother bends herself into a hook, grips
the lower end of her case with her six feet
and drives her probe into the back-window, a
window which serves manifold purposes, al-
lowing of the consummation of the clande-
stine marriage, the emergence of the fertilized
bride, the installation of the eggs and, lastly,
the exodus of the young family.

There, at the free end of her case, the

mother remains for a long time, bowed and

motionless. What can she be doing in this

contemplative attitude? She is lodging her

196

The Psyches: the Laying

eggs in the house which she has just left ; she
is bequeathing the maternal cottage to her
heirs. Some thirty hours pass and the ovi-
positor is at last withdrawn. The laying is
finished.

A little wadding, supplied by the coronet
on the hind-quarters, closes the door and al-
lays the dangers of invasion. The fond
mother makes a barricade for her brood of
the sole ornament which, in her extreme in-
digence, she possesses. Better still, she makes
a rampart of her body. Bracing herself con-
vulsively on the threshold of her home, she
dies there, dries up there, devoted to her
family even after death. It needs an accident,
a breath of air, to make her fall from her
post.

Let us now open the case. It contains the
chrysalid wrapper, intact except for the front
breach through which the Psyche emerged.
The male, because of his wings and his
plumes, very cumbersome articles when he is
about to make his way through the narrow
pass, takes advantage of his chrysalis state
to make a start for the door and come out
half-way. Then, bursting his amber tunic,
the delicate Moth finds an open space, where

The Life of the Caterpillar

flight is possible, right in front of him. The
mother, unprovided with wings and plumes,
is not compelled to observe any such precau-
tions. Her cylindrical form, bare and differ-
ing but little from that of the caterpillar,
allows her to crawl, to slip into the narrow
passage and to come forth without obstacle.
Her cast chrysalid skin is, therefore, left
right at the back of the case, well covered by
the thatched roof.

And this is an act of prudence marked by
exquisite tenderness. The eggs, in fact, are
packed in the barrel, in the parchmentlike
wallet formed by the slough. The mother
has thrust her telescopic ovipositor to the bot-
tom of that receptacle and has methodically
gone on laying until it is full. Not satisfied
with bequeathing her home and her velvet
coronet to her offspring, as a last sacrifice she
leaves them her skin.

With a view to observing at my ease the
events which are soon to happen, I extract
one of these chrysalid bags, stuffed with eggs,
from its faggot and place it by itself, beside
its case, in a glass tube. I have not long to
wait. In the first week of July, I find myself
all of a sudden in possession of a large family.
198

The Psyches: the Laying

The quickness of the hatching balked my
watchfulness. The new-born caterpillars,
about forty in number, have already had time
to garb themselves.

They wear a Persian head-dress, a mage's
tiara in dazzling white plush. Or, to aban-
don high-flown language, let us say a cotton
night-cap without a tassel; only the cap does
not stand up from the head: it covers the
hind-quarters. Great animation reigns in the
tube, which is a spacious residence for such
vermin. They roam about gaily, with their
caps sticking up almost perpendicular to the
floor. With a tiara like that and things to
eat, life must be sweet indeed.

But what do they eat? I try a little of
everything that grows on the bare stone and
the gnarled old trees. Nothing is welcomed.
More eager to dress than to feed themselves,
the Psyches scorn what I set before them.
My ignorance as an insect-breeder will not
matter, provided that I succeed in seeing with
what materials and in what manner the first
outlines of the cap are woven.

I may fairly hope to achieve this ambition,
as the chrysalid bag is far from having ex-
hausted its contents. I find in it, teeming
199

The Life of the Caterpillar

amid the rumpled wrapper of the eggs, an
additional family as numerous as the swarm
that is already out. The total laying must
therefore amount to five or six dozen. I trans-
fer to another receptacle the precocious band
which is already dressed and keep only the
naked laggards in the tube. They have
bright red heads, with the rest of their bodies
dirty white; and they measure hardly a
twenty-fifth of an inch in length.

My patience is not long put to the test.
Next day, little by little, singly or in groups,
the belated grubs quit the chrysalid bag.
They come out without breaking the frail wal-
let, through the front breach made by the
liberation of the mother. Not one of them
utilizes it as a dress-material, though it has
the delicacy and amber colouring of an onion-
skin; nor do any of them make use of a fine
quilting which lines the inside of the bag and
forms an exquisitely soft bed for the eggs.
This down, whose origin we shall have to in-
vestigate presently, ought, one would say, to
make an excellent blanket for these chilly
ones, impatient to cover themselves up. Not
a single one uses it; there would not be
enough to go round.

The Psyches: the Laying

All go straight to the coarse faggot, which
I left in contact with the wallet that was the
chrysalis. Time presses. Before making
your entrance into the world and going
agrazing, you must first be clad. All there-
fore, with equal fury, attack the old sheath
and hastily dress themselves in the mother's
cast clothes. Some turn their attention to bits
that happen to be open lengthwise and scrape
the soft, white inner layer; others, greatly
daring, penetrate into the tunnel of a hollow
stalk and go and collect their cotton goods
in the dark. At such times the materials are
first-class; and the garment woven is of a
dazzling white. Others bite deep into the
piece which they select and make themselves
a motley garment, in which dark-coloured
particles mar the snowy whiteness of the rest.

The tool which they use for their gleaning
consists of the mandibles, shaped like wide
shears with five strong teeth apiece. The two
planes fit into each other and form an im-
plement capable of seizing and slicing any
fibre, however small. Seen under the micro-
scope, it is a wonderful specimen of mechanic-
al precision and power. Were the Sheep
similarly equipped in proportion to her size,

The Life of the Caterpillar

she would browse upon the bottom of the
trees instead of cropping the grass.

A very instructive workshop is that of the
Psyche-vermin toiling to make themselves a
cotton night-cap. There are numbers of
things to remark in both the finish of the
work and the ingenuity of the methods em-
ployed. To avoid repeating ourselves, we
will say nothing about these yet, but wait for
a little and return to the subject when setting
forth the talents of a second Psyche, of larger
stature and easier to observe. The two
weavers observe exactly the same procedure.

Nevertheless let us take a glance at the
bottom of the egg-cup, a general workyard in
which I instal my dwarfs as the cases turn
them out. There are some hundreds of them,
with the sheaths from which they came and
an assortment of clipped stalks, chosen from
among the driest and richest in pith. What
a whirl ! What bewildering animation !

In order to see man, Micromegas cut him-
self a lens out of a diamond of his necklace;
he held his breath lest the storm from his
nostrils should blow the mite away. I in
my turn will be the good giant, newly arri-
ving from Sirius; I screw a magnifying-glass

The Psyches: the Laying

into my eye and am careful not to breathe for
fear of overturning and sweeping out of ex-
istence my cotton-workers. If I need one of
them, to focus him under a stronger glass, I
lime him as it were, seizing him with the fine
point of a needle which I have passed over
my lips. Taken away from his work, the
tiny caterpillar struggles at the end of the
needle, shrivels up, makes himself, small as he
is, still smaller; he strives to withdraw as far
as possible into his clothing, which as yet is
incomplete, the merest flannel vest or even a
narrow scarf, covering nothing but the top of
his shoulders. Let us leave him to complete
his coat. I give a puff; and the creature is
swallowed up in the crater of the egg-cup.

And this speck is alive. It is industrious;
it is versed in the art of blanket-making. An
orphan, born that moment, it knows how to
cut itself out of its dead mother's old clothes
the wherewithal to clothe itself in its turn.
Soon it will become a carpenter, an assembler
of timber, to make a defensive covering for
its delicate fabric. What must instinct be, to
be capable of awakening such industries in an
atom I

It is at the end of June also that I obtain,
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The Life of the Caterpillar

in his adult shape, the Psyche whose scab-
bard is continued underneath by a long, naked
vestibule. Most of the cases are fastened by
a silk pad to the trelliswork of the cage and
hang vertically, like stalactites. Some few of
them have never left the ground. Half im-
mersed in the sand, they stand erect, with their
rear in the air and their fore-part buried and
firmly anchored to the side of the pan by
means of a silky paste.

This inverted position excludes any idea of
weight as a guide in the caterpillar's prepara-
tions. An adept at turning round in his
cabin, he is careful, before he sinks into the
immobility of pupadom, to turn his head now
upwards, now downwards, towards the open-
ing, so that the adult insect, which is much
less free than the larva in its movements, may
reach the outside without obstacle.

Moreover, it is the pupa itself, the un-
bending chrysalis, incapable of turning and
obliged to move all in one piece, which, stub-
bornly crawling, carries the male to the
threshold of the case. It emerges half way
at the end of the uncovered silky vestibule
and there breaks, obstructing the opening
with its slough as it does so. For a time the
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The Psyches: the Laying

Moth stands still on the roof of the cottage,
allowing his humours to evaporate, his wings
to spread and gather strength; then at last
the gallant takes flight, in search of her
for whose sake he has made himself so spruce.

He wears a costume of deepest black, all
except the edges of the wings, which, having
no scales, remain diaphanous. His antennae,
likewise black, are wide and graceful plumes.
Were they on a larger scale, they would
throw the feathered beauty of the Marabou
and Ostrich into the shade. The bravely be-
plumed one visits case after case in his tor-
tuous flight, prying into the secrets of those
alcoves. If things go as he wishes, he settles,
with a quick flutter of his wings, on the ex-
tremity of the denuded vestibule. Comes the
wedding, as discreet as that of the smaller
Psyche. Here is yet another who does not
see or at most catches a fleeting glimpse of
her for whose sake he has donned Marabou-
feathers and a black-velvet cloak.

The recluse on her side is equally impa-
tient. The lovers are short-lived; they die
in my cages within three or four days, so
that, for long intervals, until the hatching of
some late-comer, the female population is
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The Life of the Caterpillar

short of suitors. So, when the morning sun,
already hot, strikes the cage, a very singular
spectacle is repeated many times before my
eyes. The entrance to the vestibule swells
imperceptibly, opens and emits a mass of in-
finitely delicate down. A Spider's web,
carded and made into wadding, would give
nothing of such gossamer fineness. It is a
vaporous cloud. Then, from out of this in-
comparable eiderdown, appear the head and
fore-part of a very different sort of caterpil-
lar from the original collector of straws.

It is the mistress of the house, the mar-
riageable Moth, who, feeling her hour about
to come and failing to receive the expected
visit, herself makes the advances and goes, as
far as she can, to meet her plumed swain.
He does not come hastening up and for good
reason: there is not a male left in the esta-
blishment. For two or three hours the poor
forsaken one leans, without moving, from her
window. Then, tired of waiting, very gently
she goes indoors again, backwards, and re-
turns to her cell.

Next day, the day after and later still, as
long as her strength permits, she reappears
on her balcony, always in the morning, in the
206

The Psyches: the Laying

soft rays of a warm sun and always on a sofa
of that incomparable down, which disperses
and turns to vapour if I merely fan it with
my hand. Again no one comes. For the last
time the disappointed Moth goes back to her
boudoir, never to leave it again. She dies
in it, dries up, a useless thing. I hold my bell-
jars responsible for this crime against mother-
hood. In the open fields, without a doubt,
sooner or later wooers would have appeared,
coming from the four winds.

The said bell-jars have an even more piti-
ful catastrophe on their conscience. Some-
times, leaning too far from her window, mis-
calculating the balance between the front of
the body, which is at liberty, and the back,
which remains sheathed in its case, the Moth
allows herself to drop to the ground. It is
all up now with the fallen one and her lineage.
Still, there is one good thing about it. Acci-
dents such as this lay bare the mother Psyche,
without our having to break into her house.

What a miserable creature she is, a great
deal uglier than the original caterpillar!
Here transfiguration spells disfigurement,
progress means retrogression. What we have
before our eyes is a wrinkled satchel, an
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The Life of the Caterpillar

earthy-yellow sausage; and this horror, worse
than a maggot, is a Moth in the full bloom
of life, a genuine adult Moth. She is the
betrothed of the elegant black Bombyx, all
plumed with Marabou-feathers, and repre-
sents to him the last word in beauty. As the
proverb says, beauty lies in lovers' eyes : a
profound truth which the Psyche confirms in
striking fashion.

Let us describe the ugly little sausage. A
very small head, a paltry globule, disap-
pearing almost entirely in the folds of the first
segment. What need is there of cranium and
brains for a germ-bag ! And so the tiny crea-
ture almost does without them, reduces them
to the simplest expression. Nevertheless,
there are two black ocular specks. Do these
vestigial eyes see their way about? Not very
clearly, we may be sure. The pleasures of
light must be very small for this stay-at-home,
who appears at her window only on rare
occasions, when the male Moth is late in
arriving.

The legs are well-shaped, but so short and

weak that they are of no use at all for locoj

motion. The whole body is a pale yellow,

semitransparent in front, opaque and stuffed

208

The Psyches: the Laying

with eggs behind. Underneath the first seg-
ments is a sort of neck-band, that is to say,
a dark stain, the vestige of a crop showing
through the skin. A pad of short down ends
the oviferous part at the back. It is all that
remains of a fleece, of a thin velvet which
the insect rubs off as it moves backwards and
forwards in its narrow lodging. This forms
the flaky mass which whitens the trysting-
window at the wedding-time and also lines
the inside of the sheath with down. In
short, the creature is little more than a bag
swollen with eggs for the best part of its
length. I know nothing lower in the scale of
wretchedness.

The germ-bag moves, but not, of course,
with those vestiges of legs which form too
short and feeble supports; it gets about in a
way that allows it to progress on its back,
belly or side indifferently. A groove is hol-
lowed out at the hinder end of the bag, a
deep, dividing groove which cuts the insect
into two. It runs to the front part, spreading
like a wave, and gently and slowly reaches
the head. This undulation constitutes a step.
When it is done, the animal has advanced
about a twenty-fifth part of an inch.
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The Life of the Caterpillar

To go from one end to the other of a
box two inches long and filled with fine sand,
the living sausage takes nearly an hour. It
is by crawling like this that it moves about
in its case, when it comes to the threshold
to meet its visitor and goes in again.

For three or four days, exposed to the
roughness of the soil, the oviferous bag leads
a wretched life, creeping about at random,
or, more often, standing still. No Moth pays
attention to the poor thing, who possesses no
attractions outside her home; the lovers pass
by with an indifferent air. This coolness is
logical enough. Why should she become a
mother, if her family is to be abandoned to
the inclemencies of the public way? And so,
after falling by accident from her case, which
would have been the cradle of the youngsters,
the wanderer withers in a few days and dies
childless.

The fertilized ones — and these are the
more numerous — the prudent ones who have
saved themselves from a fall by being less
lavish with their appearances at the window,
reenter the sheath and do not show them-
selves again once the Moth's visit to the
threshold is over. Let us wait a fortnight

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The Psyches: the Laying

and then open the case lengthwise with our
scissors. At the end, in the widest part, oppo-
site the vestibule, is the slough of the chrysa-
lis, a long, fragile, amber-coloured sack, open
at the end that contains the head, the end
facing the exit-passage. In this sack, which
she fills like a mould, lies the mother, the
egg-bladder, now giving no sign of life.

From this amber sheath, which presents all
the usual characteristics of a chrysalis, the
adult Psyche emerged, in the guise of a
shapeless Moth, looking like a big maggot;
at the present time, she has slipped back into
her old jacket, moulding herself into it in
such a way that it becomes difficult to
separate the container from the contents.
One would take the whole thing for a single
body.

It seems very likely that this cast skin,
which occupies the best place in the home,
formed the Psyche's refuge when, weary of
waiting on the threshold of her hall, she re-
tired to the back room. She has therefore
gone in and out repeatedly. This constant
going and coming, this continual rubbing
against the sides of a narrow corridor, just
wide enough for her to pass through, ended

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The Life of the Caterpillar

by stripping her of her down. She had a
fleece to start with, a very light and scanty
fleece, it is true, but still a vestige of the cos-
tume which Moths are wont to wear. This
fluff she has lost. What has she done with
it?

The Eider robs herself of her down to
make a luxurious bed for her brood ; the new-
born Rabbits lie on a mattress which their
mother cards for them with the softest part
of her fur, shorn from the belly and neck,
wherever the shears of her front teeth can
reach it. This fond tenderness is shared by
the Psyche, as you will see.

In front of the chrysalid bag is an abund-
ant mass of extra-fine wadding, similar to
that of which a few flocks used to fall out-
side on the occasions when the recluse went
to her window. Is it silk? Is it spun mus-
lin? No; but it is something of incom-
parable delicacy. The microscope recognizes
it as the scaly dust, the impalpable down in
which every Moth is clad. To give a snug
shelter to the little caterpillars who will soon
be swarming in the case, to provide them with
a refuge in which they can play about and
gather strength before entering the wide
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The Psyches: the Laying

world, the Psyche has stripped herself of her
fur like the mother Rabbit.

This denudation may be a mere mechanical
result, an unintentional effect of repeated rub-
bing against the low-roofed walls; but there
is nothing to tell us so. Maternity has its
foresight, even among the humblest. I
therefore picture the hairy Moth twisting
about, going to and fro in the narrow pass-
age in order to get rid of the fleece and
prepare bedding for her offspring. It is even
possible that she manages to use her lips, that
vestige of a mouth, in order to pull out the
down that refuses to come away of itself.

No matter what the method of shearing
may be, a mound of scales and hairs fills up
the case in front of the chrysalid bag. For
the moment, it is a barricade preventing access
to the house, which is open at the hinder end;
soon, it will be a downy couch on which the
little caterpillars will rest for a while after
leaving the egg. Here, warmly ensconced in a
rug of extreme softness, they call a halt as a
preparation for the emergence and the work
that follows it.

Not that silk is lacking: on the contrary,
it abounds. The caterpillar lavished it du-
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The Life of the Caterpillar

ring his time as a spinner and a picker-up of
straws. The whole interior of the case is
padded with thick white satin. But how
greatly preferable to this too-compact and
luxurious upholstery is the delightful eider-
down bedding of the new-born youngsters!

We know the preparations made for the
coming family. Now, where are the eggs?
At what spot are they laid? The smallest
of my three Psyches, who is less misshapen
than the others and freer in her movements,
leaves her case altogether. She possesses a
long ovipositor and inserts it, through the
exit-hole, right into the chrysalid slough,
which is left where it was in the form of a
bag. This slough receives the laying. When
the operation is finished and the bag of eggs
is full, the mother dies outside, hanging on to
the case.

The two other Psyches, who do not carry
telescopic ovipositors and whose only method
of changing their position is a dubious sort
of crawling, have more singular customs to
show us. One might quote with regard to
them what used to be said of the Roman
matrons, those model mothers :

"Domi mansit, lanam fecit."

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The Psyches: the Laying

Yes, lanam fecit. The Psyche does not
really work the wool on the distaff; but at
least she bequeathes to her sons her own
fleece converted into a heap of wadding. Yes,
domi mansit. She never leaves her house,
not even for her wedding, not even for the
purpose of laying her eggs.

We have seen how, after receiving the visit
of the male, the shapeless Moth, that un-
couth sausage, retreats to the back of her
case and withdraws into her chrysalid slough,
which she fills exactly, just as though she had
never left it. The eggs are in their place then
and there; they occupy the regulation sack
favoured by the various Psyches. Of what
use would a laying be now? Strictly speak-
ing, there is none, in fact; that is to say, the
eggs do not leave the mother's womb. The
living pouch which has engendered them
keeps them within itself.

Soon this bag loses its moisture by evapo-
ration; it dries up and at the same time re-
mains sticking to the chrysalid wrapper, that
firm support. Let us open the thing. What
does the magnifying- glass show us? A few
trachean threads, lean bundles of muscles,
nervous ramifications, in short, the relics of

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The Life of the Caterpillar

a form of vitality reduced to its simplest ex-
pression. Taken all around, very nearly no-
thing. The rest of the contents is a mass of
eggs, an agglomeration of germs numbering
close upon three hundred. In a word, the
insect is one enormous ovary, assisted by just
so much as enables it to perform its functions.

216

CHAPTER X

THE PSYCHES: THE CASES

THE hatching of the eggs takes place in
the first fortnight of July. The little
grubs measure about one twenty-fifth of an
inch. Their head and the upper part of the
first thoracic segment are a glossy black, the
next two segments brownish and the rest of
the body a pale amber. Sharp, lively little
creatures, who run about with short, quick
steps, they swarm all over the spongy, hairy
tissue resulting from the cast-off clothing of
the eggs.

The books tell me that the little Psyches
begin by eating up their mother: a loathsome
banquet for which the said books must ac-
cept responsibility. I see nothing of the sort;
and I do not even understand how the idea
arose. The mother bequeaths to her sons her
case, whose straws are searched for wadding,
the material of the first coat; out of her chry-
salid slough and her skin she makes them a
two-fold shelter for the hatching-time; with
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The Life of the Caterpillar

her down she prepares a defensive barricade
for them and a place wherein to wait before
emerging. Thus all is given, all spent with
a view to the future. Save for some thin, dry
strips which my lens can only with difficulty
distinguish, there is nothing left that could
provide a cannibal feast for so numerous a
family.

No, my little Psyches, you do not eat your
mother. In vain do I watch you: never,
either to clothe or to feed himself, does any
one of you lay a tooth upon the remains of
the deceased. The maternal skin is left un-
touched, as are those other insignificant relics,
the layer of muscular tissue and the network
of air-ducts. The sack left behind by the
chrysalis also remains intact.

The time comes to quit the natal wallet.
An outlet has been contrived long beforehand,
saving the youngsters from committing any
act of violence against what was once their
mother. There is no sacrilegious cutting to
be done with the shears; the door opens of
itself.

When she was a wriggling speck of sau-
sage, the mother's front segments were re-
markably translucent, forming a contrast with
218

The Psyches: the Cases

the rest of the body. This was very prob-
ably a sign of a less dense and less tough
texture than elsewhere. The sign is not mis-
leading. The dry gourd to which the mother
is now reduced has for a neck those diapha-
nous rings, which, as they withered, became
extremely fragile. Does this neck, this oper-
culum fall of its own accord, or is it pushed
off by the pigmies impatient to get away?
I do not know for certain. This, however,
I can say, that blowing on it is enough to
make it drop off.

In anticipation therefore of the emergence,
an exceedingly easy and perhaps even spon-
taneous method of decapitation is prepared in
the mother's lifetime. To manufacture a
delicate neck for yourself so that you may be
easily beheaded at the proper time and thus
leave the way free to the youngsters is an
act of devotion in which the most unconscious
maternal affection stands sublimely revealed.
That miserable maggot, that sausage Moth,
scarce able to crawl and yet so clear-sighted
where the future is concerned, staggers the
mind of any one who knows how to think.

The brood emerge from the natal wallet
through the window just opened by the fall of
219

The Life of the Caterpillar

the head. The chrysalid sack, the second
wrapper, presents no obstacle; it has remained
open since the adult Psyche left it. Next
comes the mass of eiderdown, the heap of
fluff of which the mother stripped herself.
Here the little caterpillars stop. Much more
spaciously and comfortably lodged than in the
bag whence they have come, some take a rest,
others bustle about, exercise themselves in
walking. All pick up strength in preparation
for their exodus into the daylight.

They do not stay long amid this luxury.
Gradually, as they gain vigour, they come
out and spread over the surface of the case.
Work begins at once, a very urgent work,
that of the wardrobe. The first mouthfuls
will come afterwards, when we are dressed.

Montaigne, when putting on the cloak
which his father had worn before him, used
a touching expression. He said :

"I dress myself in my father."

The young Psyches in the same way dress
themselves in their mother: they cover them-
selves with the clothes left behind by the de-
ceased, they scrape from it the wherewithal
to make themselves a cotton frock. The ma-
terial employed is the pith of the little stalks,
220

The Psyches: the Cases

especially of the pieces which, split length-
wise, are more easily stripped of their con-
tents. The grub first finds a spot to suit it.
Having done so, it gleans, it planes with its
mandibles. Thus a superbly white wadding
is extracted from old logs.

The manner of beginning the garment is
worth noting. The tiny creature employs as
judicious a method as any which our own in-
dustry could hope to discover. The wadding
is collected in infinitesimal pellets. How are
these little particles to be fixed as and when
they are detached by the shears of the man-
dibles? The manufacturer needs a support,
a base; and this support cannot be obtained
on the caterpillar's own body, for any adher-
ence would be seriously embarrassing and
would hamper freedom of movement. The
difficulty is overcome very cleverly. Scraps
of plush are gathered and by degrees fastened
to one another with threads of silk. This
forms a sort of rectilinear garland in which
the particles collected swing from a common
rope. When these preparations are deemed
sufficient, the little creature passes the garland
round its waist, at about the third segment of
the thorax, so as to leave its six legs free;

The Life of the Caterpillar

then it ties the two ends with a bit of silk.
The result is a girdle, generally incomplete,
but soon completed with other scraps fast-
ened to the silk ribbon that carries every-
thing.

This girdle is the base of the work, the
support. Henceforth, to lengthen the piece,
to enlarge it into the perfect garment, the
grub has only to fix, always at the fore-
edge, with the aid of its spinnerets, now at
the top, now at the bottom or side, the scraps
of pith which the mandibles never cease ex-
tracting. Nothing could be better thought
out than this initial garland laid out flat and
then buckled like a belt around the loins.

Once this base is laid, the weaving-loom
is in full swing. The piece woven is first a
tiny string around the waist ; next, by the ad-
dition of fresh pellets, always at the fore-
edge, it grows into a scarf, a waistcoat, a
short jacket and lastly a sack, which gradu-
ally makes its way backwards, not of itself,
but through the action of the weaver, who
slips forward in the part of the case already
made. In a few hours, the garment is com-
pleted. It is by that time a conical hood, a
cloak of magnificent whiteness and finish.

222

The Psyches: the Cases

We now know all about it. On leaving
the maternal hut, without searching, without
distant expeditions which would be so danger-
ous at that age, the little Psyche finds in the
tender beams of the roof the wherewithal to
clothe himself. He is spared the perils of
roaming in a state of nudity. When he leaves
the house, he will be quite warm, thanks to
the mother, who takes care to instal her
family in the old case and gives it choice ma-
terials to work with.

If the grub-worm were to drop out of the
hovel, if some gust of wind swept him to a
distance, most often the poor mite would be
lost. Ligneous straws, rich in pith, dry and
retted to a turn, are not to be found every-
where. It would mean the impossibility of
any clothing and, in that dire poverty, an
early death. But, if suitable materials are
encountered, equal in quality to those be-
queathed by the mother, how is it that the
exile is unable to make use of them? Let us
look into this.

I segregate a few new-born grubs in a glass

tube and give them for their materials some

split pieces of straw, picked from among the

old stalks of a sort of dandelion, Pterotheca

223

The Life of the Caterpillar

nemausensis. Though robbed of the inherit-
ance of the maternal manor, the grubs seem
very well satisfied with my bits. Without the
least hesitation, they scrape out of them a
superb white pith and make it into a delicious
cloak, much handsomer than that which they
would have obtained with the ruins of the
native house, this latter cloak being always
more or less flawed with darker materials,
whose colour has been impaired by long ex-
posure to the air. On the other hand, the
Nimes dandelion, a relic of last spring, has its
central part, which I myself lay bare, a spot-
less white; and the cotton nightcap achieves
the very perfection of whiteness.

I obtain an even better result with rounds
of sorghum-pith taken from the kitchen-
broom. This time, the work has glittering
crystalline points and looks like a thing built
of grains of sugar. It is my manufacturers'
masterpiece.

These two successes authorize me to vary
the raw material still further. In the absence
of new-born caterpillars, who are not always
at my disposal, I employ grubs which I have
undressed, that is to say, which I have taken
out of their caps. To these divested ones I
224

The Psyches: the Cases

give, as the only thing to work upon, a strip of
paper free from paste and easy to pick to
pieces, in short, a piece of blotting-paper.

Here again there is no hesitation. The
grubs lustily scrape this surface, new to them
though it be, and make themselves a paper
coat of it. Cadet Roussel,1 of famous me-
mory, had a coat of similar stuff, but much
less fine and silky. My paper-clad charges
are so well-pleased with their materials that
they scorn their native case, when it is after-
wards placed at their disposal, and continue
to scrape lint from the industrial product.

Others are given nothing in their tube, but
are able to get at the cork that closes the glass
dwelling-house. This is enough. The un-
draped ones hasten to scrape the cork, to
break it into atoms and out of these to make
themselves a granulated frock, as faultlessly
elegant as though their race had always made
use of this material. The novelty of the stuff,
employed perhaps for the first time, has made
no change in the cut of the coat.

*A fictitious character, a sort of dolt, created by some
wit in a French regiment quartered in Brabant about
the year 1792. Cadet Roussel's entertaining exploits
were perpetuated in a contemporary ballad. — Trans-
lator's Note,

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The Life of the Caterpillar

To sum up, they accept any vegetable mat-
ter that is dry, light and not too resistant.
Would they behave likewise towards animal
materials and especially mineral materials, on
condition that these are of a suitable thinness ?
I take a Great Peacock's wing, left over from
my experiments in the nuptial telegraphy of
this Moth,1 and cut from it a strip on which
I place, at the bottom of a tube, two little
caterpillars stripped of their clothing. The
two prisoners have nothing else at their dis-
posal. Any drapery that they want must be
got out of this scaly expanse.

They hesitate for a long time in the pre-
sence of that strange carpet. In twenty-four
hours' time, one of the caterpillars has started
no work and seems resolved to let himself die,
naked as he is. The other, stouter-hearted,
or perhaps less injured by the brutal stripping-
process, explores the slip for a little while and
at last resolves to make use of it. Before the
day is over, he has clothed himself in grey
velvet out of the Great Peacock's scales. Con-
sidering the delicacy of the materials, the
work is exquisitely correct.

1Cf. Chapter XI. of the present volume. — Translator's
Note.

226

The Psyches: the Cases

Let us go a step farther in our explora-
tions. For the soft, yielding wadding col-
lected from a plant, or the down gleaned
from the wing of a Moth, we will substitute
rough stone. In their final state, I know, the
Psyches' cases are often laden with grains of
sand and earthy particles; but these are acci-
dental bricks, which have been inadvertently
touched by the spinneret and incorporated
unintentionally in the thatch. The delicate
creatures know too well the drawbacks of a
pebbly pillow to seek the support of stone.
Mineral matter is distasteful to them; and it
is mineral matter that now has to be worked
like wool.

True, I select such stones in my collection
as are least out of keeping with the feeble
powers of my grubs. I possess a specimen
of flaky hematite. At the merest touch of a
hair-pencil it breaks into atoms almost as
minute as the dust which a Butterfly's wing
leaves on our fingers. On a bed of this ma-
terial, which glitters like a steel filing, I esta-
blish four young caterpillars extracted from
their clothing. I foresee a check in this ex-
periment and consequently increase the num-
ber of my subjects.

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The Life of the Caterpillar

It is as I thought. The day passes and the
four caterpillars remain bare. Next day,
however, one, one alone, decides to clothe
himself. His work is a tiara with metallic
facets, in which the light plays with flashes of
every colour of the rainbow. It is very rich,
very sumptuous, but mightily heavy and cum-
brous. Walking becomes laborious under
that load of metal. Even so must a Byzan-
tine emperor have progressed at ceremonies
of state, after donning his gold-worked dal-
matic.

Poor little creature! More sensible than
man, you did not select that ridiculous mag-
nificence of your own free will; it was I who
forced it on you. Here, to make amends, is a
disk of sorghum-pith. Fling off your proud
tiara, thrust it from you quickly and place in
its stead a cotton night-cap, which is much
healthier. This is done on the second day.

The Psyche has his favourite materials
when starting as a manufacturer: a vegetable
lint collected from any ligneous scrap well
softened by the air, a lint usually supplied by
the old roof of the maternal hut. In the
absence of the regulation fabric, he is able to
make use of animal velvet, in particular of the

The Psyches: the Cases

scaly fluff of a Moth. In case of necessity, he
does not shrink from acts of sheer madness:
he weaves mineral matter, so urgent is his
need to clothe himself.

This need outweighs that of nourishment.
I take a young caterpillar from his grazing-
ground, a leaf of very hairy hawkweed which,
after many attempts, I have found to suit him
as food because of its green blade and as wool
because of its white fleece. I take him, I say,
from his refectory and leave him to fast for
a couple of days. Then I strip him and put
him back on his leaf. And I see him, unmind-
ful of eating, in spite of his long fast, first
labouring to make himself a new coat by col-
lecting the hairs of the hawkweed. His appe-
tite will be satisfied afterwards.

Is he then so susceptible to cold? We are
in the midst of the dog-days. The sun shoots
down a fiery torrent that brings the wild con-
cert of the Cicadae up to fever-pitch. In the
baking heat of the study where I am question-
ing my animals, I have flung off hat and neck-
tie and am working in my shirt-sleeves; and,
in this oven, what the Psyche clamours for is,
above all things, a warm covering. Well, lit-
tle shiverer, I will satisfy you !
229

The Life of the Caterpillar

I expose him to the direct rays of the sun,
on the window-ledge. This time, it is too
much of a good thing; I have gone beyond
all bounds. The sun-scorched one wriggles
about, flourishes his abdomen, always a sign
of discomfort. But the making of the hawk-
weed cassock is not suspended on this account;
on the contrary, it is pursued more hurriedly
than ever. Could this be because of the ex-
cessive light? Is not the cotton-wool bag a
retreat wherein the caterpillar isolates him-
self, sheltering from the importunities of
broad daylight, and gently digests and sleeps?
Let us get rid of the light, while retaining a
warm temperature.

After a preliminary stripping, the little
caterpillars are now lodged in a cardboard
box, which I place in the sunniest corner of
my window. The temperature here is well
over 100° F. No matter: the swan's-down
sack is remade at a sitting of a few hours.
Tropical heat and the quiet that goes with
darkness have made no difference in the in-
sect's habits.

Neither the degree of heat nor the degree
of light explains the pressing need of rai-
ment. Where are we to seek the reason for
230

The Psyches: the Cases

that hurry to get clad? I can see none save
a presentiment of the future. The Psyche
caterpillar has the winter before him. He
knows nothing of a common shelter in a
silken purse, of cabins among close-touching
leaves, of underground cells, of retreats under
old cracked bark, of hairy roofs, of cocoons,
in short of the different methods employed
by other caterpillars to protect themselves
against the severity of the weather. He has
to spend the winter exposed to the inclemen-
cies of the air. This peril causes his particu-
lar talent.

He builds himself a roof whose imbricated
and diverging stalks will allow cold dews and
drops of melted snow to trickle away at a
distance, when the case is fixed and hanging
vertically. Under this covering, he weaves a
thick silk lining, which will make a soft mat-
tress and a rampart against the effects of the
cold. Once these precautions are taken,
the wiinter 'may come and the north wind
rage: the Psyche is sleeping peacefully in his
hut.

But all this is not improvised as the stormy
season approaches. It is a delicate work
which takes time to carry out. All his life-
231

The Life of the Caterpillar

long the caterpillar labours at it, improving
it, adding to it, strengthening it incessantly.
And, in order to acquire greater skill, he be-
gins his apprenticeship at the moment when
he leaves the egg. As preliminary practice
for the thick overcoat of full-grown age, he
tries his hand on cotton capes. Even so does
the Pine Processionary, as soon as hatched,
weave first delicate tents, then gauzy cupolas,
as harbingers of the mighty wallet in which
the community will make its home. Both
alike are harassed from the day of their
birth by the presentiment of the future;
they start life by binding themselves appren-
tices to the trade that is to safeguard them
one day.

No, the Psyche is not more sensitive to
cold than any other smooth-skinned cater-
pillar; he is a creature of foresight. De-
prived in winter of the shelters granted to
the others, he prepares himself, from his
birth, for the building of a home that will
be his salvation and practises for it by ma-
king fripperies of wadding suited to his
strength. He foresees the rigours of winter
during the blazing dog-days.

They are now all clad, my young caterpil-
232

The Psyches: the Cases

lars, numbering nearly a thousand. They
wander restlessly in large glass receptacles,
closed with a sheet of glass. What do you
seek, little ones, swinging your pretty, snow-
white cloaks as you go? Food, of course.
After all that fatigue, you need refresh-
ment. Despite your numbers, you will not
be too heavy a burden on my resources : you
can manage with so little ! But what do you
ask for? You certainly do not count on me
for your supplies. In the open fields you
would have found victuals to your liking
much more easily than I can hope to find them
for you. Since my wish to know all about
you places you in my charge, I have a duty
which I must observe: that of feeding you.
What do you want?

The part of Providence is a very difficult
one -to play. The purveyor of foodstuffs,
thinking of the morrow, taking his precau-
tions so that the home may be always more or
less supplied, performs the most deserving but
also the most laborious of functions. The
little ones wait trustingly, persuaded that
things happen of themselves, while he an-
xiously resorts to every kind of ingenuity and
trouble, wondering whether the right thing

233

The Life of the Caterpillar

will come. Ah, how well long practice has
taught me to know the trade, with all its wor-
ries and all its joys !

Behold me to-day the Providence of a thou-
sand nurselings thrust upon me by my studies.
I try a little of everything. The tender leaves
of the elm appear to suit. If I serve them up
one day, I find them next morning nibbled on
the surface, in small patches. Tiny grains of
impalpable black dust, scattered here and
there, tell me that the intestines have been
at work. This gives me a moment of satis-
faction which will be readily understood by
any breeder of a herd whose diet is unknown.
The hope of success gains strength: I know
how to feed my vermin. Have I discovered
the. best method at the first attempt? I dare
not think so.

I continue therefore to vary the fare, but
the results hardly come up to my wishes. The
flock refuses my assorted green stuff and even
ends by taking a dislike to the elm-leaves. I
am beginning to believe that I have failed ut-
terly, when a happy inspiration occurs to me.
I have recognized among the bits that go to
form the case a few fragments of the mouse-
ear hawkweed (Hieracium pilosella). So the
234

The Psyches: the Cases

Psyche frequents that plant. Why should he
not browse it? Let us try.

The mouse-ear displays its little round flow-
ers in profusion in a stony field just beside my
house, at the foot of the wall where I have
so often found Psyche-cases hanging. I
gather a handful and distribute it among my
different folds. This time the food-problem
is solved. The Psyches forthwith settle in
solid masses on the hairy leaves and nibble at
them greedily in small patches, in which the
epidermis of the other surface remains un-
touched.

We will leave them to their grazing, with
which they seem quite satisfied, and ask our-
selves a certain question relating to cleanli-
ness. How does the little Psyche get rid of
his digestive refuse? Remember that he is
enclosed in a sack. One dare not entertain
the thought of ordure ejected and accumula-
ting at the far end of the dazzling white plush
cap. Filth cannot dwell under so elegant a
covering. How is the sordid evacuation man-
aged?

Despite the fact that it ends in a conical
point, in which the lens reveals no break of
continuity, the sack is not closed at the hind-

The Life of the Caterpillar

er end. Its method of manufacture, by
means of a waistband whose fore-edge in-
creases in dimensions in proportion as the
rear-edge is pushed farther back, proves this
sufficiently. The hinder end becomes pointed
simply owing to the shrinking of the material,
which contracts of itself at the part where the
caterpillar's decreasing diameter no longer
distends it. There is thus at the point a per-
manent hole whose lips remain closed. The
caterpillar has only to go a little way back
and the stuff expands, the hole widens, the
road is open and the excretions fall to the
ground. On the other hand, so soon as the
caterpillar takes a step forward into his case,
the rubbish-shoot closes of itself. It is a very
simple and very ingenious mechanism, as good
as anything contrived by our seamstresses to
cope with the shortcomings of a boy's first
pair of breeches.

Meanwhile the grub grows and its tunic
continues to fit it, is neither too large nor too
small, but just the right size. How is this
done? If the text-books were to be credited,
I might expect to see the caterpillar split his
sheath lengthwise when it became too tight
and afterwards enlarge it by means of a piece
236

The Psyches: the Cases

woven between the edges of the rent. That
is what our tailors do; but it is not the Psy-
ches' method at all. They know something
much better. They keep on working at their
coat, which is old at the back, new in front
and always a perfect fit for the growing body.

Nothing is easier than to watch the daily
progress in size. A few caterpillars have just
made themselves a hood of sorghum-pith.
The work is perfectly beautiful ; it might have
been woven out of snow-flakes. I isolate
these smartly-dressed ones and give them as
weaving-materials some brown scales chosen
from the softest parts that I can find in old
bark. Between morning and evening, the
hood assumes a new appearance: the tip of
the cone is still a spotless white, but all the
front part is coarse drapery, very different in
colouring from the original plush. Next day,
the sorghum felt has wholly disappeared and
is replaced, from one end of the cone to the
other, by a frieze of bark.

I then take away the brown materials and
put sorghum-pith in their stead. This time
the coarse, dark stuff retreats gradually to-
wards the top of the hood, while the soft,
white stuff gains in width, starting from the

237

The Life of the Caterpillar

mouth. Before the day is over, the original
elegant mitre will be reconstructed entirely.

This alternation can be repeated as often
as we please. Indeed, by shortening each
period of work, we can easily obtain, with the
two sorts of material, composite products,
showing alternate light and dark belts.

The Psyche, as you see, in no way follows
the methods of our tailors, with their piece
taken out and another piece let in. In order
to have a coat always to his size, he never
ceases working at it. The particles collected
are constantly being fixed just at the edge of
the sack, so that the new drapery increases
progressively in dimensions, keeping pace
with the caterpillar's growth. At the same
time the old stuff recedes, is driven back to-
wards the tip of the cone. Here, through its
own springiness, it contracts and closes the
muff. Any surplus matter disintegrates, falls
into shreds and gradually disappears as the
insect roams about and knocks against the
things which it meets. The case, new at the
front and old at the back, is never too tight
because it is always being renewed.

After the very hot period of the year, there
comes a moment when light wraps are no
238

The Psyches: the Cases

longer seasonable. Autumnal rains threaten,
followed by winter frosts. It is time to make
ourselves a thick great-coat with a cape of
thatch arranged in a series of waterproof tip-
pets. It begins with a great lack of accuracy.
Straws of uneven length and bits of dry leaves
are fastened, with no attempt at order, behind
the neck of the sack, which must still retain
its flexibility so as to allow the caterpillar to
bend freely in every direction.

Few as yet, rather short and placed any-
how, sometimes lengthways and sometimes
across, these untidy first logs of the roof will
not interfere with the final regularity of the
building: they are destined to disappear and
will be pushed back and be driven out at last
as the sack grows in front.

Later on, when the pieces are longer and
better-chosen, they are all carefully laid longi-
tudinally. The placing of a straw is done
with surprising quickness and dexterity. If
the log which he has found suits him, the
caterpillar takes it between his legs and turns
it round and round. Gripping it with his
mandibles by one end, as a rule he removes
a few morsels from this part and immediately
fixes them to the neck of the sack. His ob-

239

The Life of the Caterpillar

ject in laying bare the raw and rough sur-
faces, to which the silk will stick better, may
be to obtain a firmer hold. Even so the
plumber gives a touch of the file at the point
that is to be soldered.

Then, by sheer strength of jaw, the cater-
pillar lifts his beam, brandishes it in the air
and, with a quick movement of his rump, lays
it on his back. The spinneret at once sets to
work on the end caught. And the thing is
done: without any groping about or correct-
ing, the log is added to the others, in the di-
rection required.

The fine days of autumn are spent in toil of
this kind, performed leisurely and intermit-
tently, when the stomach is full. By the time
that the cold weather arrives, the house is
ready. When the air is once more warm, the
Psyche resumes his walks abroad: he roams
along the paths, strolls over the friendly
greensward, takes a few mouthfuls and then,
when the hour has come, prepares for his
transformation by hanging from the wall.

These springtime wanderings, long after

the case is completely finished, made me want

to know if the caterpillar would be capable of

repeating his sack-weaving and roof-building

240

The Psyches: the Cases

operations. I take him out of his case and
place him, stark naked, on a bed of fine, dry
sand. I give him as materials to work with
some old stalks of Nimes dandelion, cut up
into sticks of the same length as the pieces
that make the case.

The evicted insect disappears under the
heap of ligneous straws and hurriedly starts
spinning, taking as pegs for its cords anything
that its lips encounter: the bed of sand under-
foot, the canopy of twigs overhead. So do-
ing, it binds together, in extricable confusion,
all the pieces touched by the spinneret, long
and short, light and heavy, at random. In
the centre of this tangled scaffolding, a work
is pursued of a quite different nature from
that of hut-building. The caterpillar weaves
and does nothing else, not even attempting to
assemble into a proper roofing the materials
of which he is able to dispose.

The Psyche owning a perfect case, when
he resumes his activity with the fine weather,
scorns his old trade as an assembler of logs,
a trade practised so zealously during the pre-
vious summer. Now that his stomach is satis-
fied and his silk-glands distended, he devotes
his spare time solely to improving the quilting
241

The Life of the Caterpillar

of his case. The silky felt of the interior is
never thick or soft enough to please him. The
thicker and softer it is, the better for his own
comfort during the process of transformation
and for the safety of his family afterwards.

Well, my knavish tricks have now robbed
him of everything. Does he perceive the dis-
aster? Though the silk and timber at his
disposal permit, does he dream of rebuilding
the shelter, so essential first to his chilly back
and secondly to his family, who will cut it up
to make their first home? Not a bit of it.
He slips under the mass of twigs where I let
it fall and there begins to work exactly as
he would have done under normal conditions.

This shapeless roof and this sand on which
the jumble of rafters are lying now represent
to the Psyche the walls of the regulation
home; and, without in any way modifying his
labours to meet the exigencies of the moment,
the caterpillar upholsters the surfaces within
his reach with the same zest that he would
have displayed in adding new layers to the
quilted lining which has disappeared. Instead
of being pasted on the proper wall, the pre-
sent hangings come in contact with the rough
surface of the sand and the hopeless tangle
242

The Psyches: the Cases

of the straws; and the spinner takes no
notice.

The house is worse than ruined: it no
longer exists. No matter : the caterpillar con-
tinues his actual work; he loses sight of the
real and upholsters the imaginary.1 And yet
everything ought to apprise him of the ab-
sence of any roofing. The sack with which
he has managed to cover himself, very skil-
fully for that matter, is lamentably flabby.
It sags and rumples at every movement of
the insect's body. Moverover, it is made
heavy with sand and bristles with spikes in
every direction, which catch in the dust of the
road and make all progress impossible. Thus
anchored to the ground, the caterpillar wastes
his strength in efforts to shift his position.
It takes him hours to make a start and to
move his cumbrous dwelling a fraction of an
inch.

With his normal case, in which all the
beams are imbricated from front to back with
scientific precision, he gets along very nimbly.

1 For other instances of what Fabre calls "the insect's
mental incapacity in the presence of the accidental" I
would refer the reader to one essay inter alia, entitled,
Some Reflections upon Insect Psychology, which forms
chap. vii. of The Mason-bees. — Translator's Note.

243

The Life of the Caterpillar

His collection of logs, all fixed in front and
all free at the back, forms a boat-shaped
sledge which slips and glides through ob-
stacles without difficulty. But, though pro-
gress be easy, retreat is impracticable, for each
piece of the framework causes the thing to
stop, owing to its free end.

Well, the sack of my victim is covered with
laths pointing this way and that, just in the
position in which they happened to be caught
by the spinneret, as it fastened its threads
here and there, indiscriminately. The bits in
front are so many spurs which dig into the
sand and neutralize all efforts to advance; the
bits at the side are rakes whose resistance can-
not be overcome. In such conditions, the in-
sect is bound to be stranded and to perish on
the spot.

If I were advising the caterpillar, I should
say:

"Go back to the art in which you excel ; ar-
range your bundle neatly; point the cumbrous
pieces lengthwise, in an orderly fashion; do
something to your sack, which hangs too
loosely; give it the necessary stiffness with a
few props to act as a busk; do now, in your
distress, what you knew so well how to do be-
244

The Psyches: the Cases

fore; summon up your old carpentering-tal-
ents and you will be saved."

Useless advice ! The time for carpentry is
over. The hour has come for upholstering;
and he upholsters obstinately, padding a house
which no longer exists. He will perish miser-
ably, cut up by the Ants, as the result of his
too-rigid instinct.

Many other instances have already told us
as much. Like running water which does not
climb slopes and which does not flow back to
its source, the insect never retraces its actions.
What is done is done and cannot be recom-
menced. The Psyche, but now a clever car-
penter, will die for want of knowing how to
fix a beam.

245

CHAPTER XI

THE GREAT PEACOCK

IP WAS a memorable evening. I shall call
it the Great Peacock evening. Who does
not know the magnificent Moth, the largest
in Europe, clad in maroon velvet with a
necktie of white fur? The wings, with their
sprinkling of grey and brown, crossed by a
faint zig-zag and edged with smoky white,
have in the centre a round patch, a great eye
with a black pupil and a variegated iris con-
taining successive black, white, chestnut and
purple arcs.

No less remarkable is the caterpillar, in
colour an undecided yellow. On the top of
thinly-scattered tubercles, crowned with a
palisade of black hairs, are set beads of tur-
quoise blue. His stout brown cocoon, so curi-
ous with its exit-shaft shaped like an eel-trap,
is usually fastened to the bark at the base of
old almond-trees. The caterpillar feeds on
the leaves of the same tree.

Well, on the morning of the 6th of May,
a female emerges from her cocoon in my
246

The Great Peacock

presence, on the table of my insect-laboratory.
I forthwith cloister her, still damp with the
humours of the hatching, under a wire-gauze
bell-jar. For the rest, I cherish no particular
plans. I incarcerate her from mere habit, the
habit of the observer always on the look-out
for what may happen.

It was a lucky thought. At nine o'clock in
the evening, just as the household is going to
bed, there is a great stir in the room next to
mine. Little Paul, half-undressed, is rushing
about, jumping and stamping, knocking the
chairs over like a mad thing. I hear him call
me:

"Come quick!" he screams. "Come and
see these Moths, big as birds ! The room is
full of them!"

I hurry in. There is enough to justify the
child's enthusiastic and hyperbolical exclama-
tions, an invasion as yet unprecedented in our
house, a (raid of giant Moths. Four are
already caught and lodged in a bird-cage.
Others, more numerous, are fluttering on the
ceiling.

At this sight, the prisoner of the morning
is recalled to my mind.

"Put on your things, laddie," I say to my

247

The Life of the Caterpillar

son. "Leave your cage and come with me.
We shall see something interesting."

We run downstairs to go to my study,
which occupies the right wing of the house.
In the kitchen I find the servant, who is also
bewildered by what is happening and stand*
flicking her apron at great Moths whom she
took at first for Bats.

The Great Peacock, it would seem, has
taken possession of pretty well every part of
the house. What will it be around my prisoner,
the cause of this incursion? Luckily, one of
the two windows of the study had been left
open. The approach is not blocked.

We enter the room, candle in hand. What
we see is unforgetable. With a soft flick-
flack the great Moths fly around the bell-
jar, alight, set off again, come back, fly up to
the ceiling and down. They rush at the
candle, putting it out with a stroke of their
wings; they descend on our shoulders, cling-
ing to our clothes, grazing our faces. The
scene suggests a wizard's cave, with its whirl
of Bats. Little Paul holds my hand tighter
than usual, to keep up his courage.

How many of them are there? About a
score. Add to these the number that have
248

The Great Peacock

strayed into the kitchen, the nursery and the
other rooms of the house; and the total of
those who have arrived from the outside can-
not fall far short of forty. As I said, it was a
memorable evening, this Great Peacock even-
ing. Coming from every direction and ap-
prised I know not how, here are forty lovers
eager to pay their respects to the marriage-
able bride born that morning amid the mys-
teries of my study.

For the moment let us disturb the swarm
of wooers no further. The flame of the
candle is a danger to the visitors, who fling
themselves into it madly and singe their
wings. We will resume the observation to-
morrow with an experimental interrogatory
thought out beforehand.

But first let us clear the ground and speak
of what happens every night during the week
that my observation lasts. Each time it is
pitch dark, between eight and ten o'clock,
when the Moths arrive one by one. It is
stormy weather, the sky is very much over-
cast and the darkness is so profound that even
in the open air, in the garden, far from the
shadow of the trees, it is hardly possible to
see one's hand before one's face.
249

The Life of the Caterpillar

In addition to this darkness there is the
difficulty of access. The house is hidden by
tall plane-trees; it is approached by a walk
thickly bordered with lilac- and rose-trees,
forming a sort of outer vestibule; it is pro-
tected against the mistral by clumps of pines
and screens of cypresses. Clusters of bushy
shrubs make a rampart a few steps away from
the door. It is through this tangle of
branches, in complete darkness, that the Great
Peacock has to tack about to reach the ob-
ject of his pilgrimage.

Under such conditions, the Brown Owl
would not dare leave the hole in his olive-
tree. The Moth, better-endowed with his
faceted optical organs than the night-bird
with its great eyes, goes forward without
hesitating and passes through without knock-
ing against things. He directs his tortuous
flight so skilfully that, despite the obstacles
overcome, he arrives in a state of perfect
freshness, with his big wings intact, with not
a scratch upon him. The darkness is light
enough for him.

Even if we grant that it perceives certain
rays unknown to common retinae, this extra-
ordinary power of sight cannot be what
250

The Great Peacock

warns the Moth from afar and brings him
hurrying to the spot. The distance and the
screens interposed make this quite impossible.

Besides, apart from deceptive refractions,
of which there is no question in this case, the
indications provided by light are so precise
that we go straight to the thing seen. Now
the Moth sometimes blunders, not as to the
general direction which he is to take, but as to
the exact spot where the interesting events
are happening. I have said that the child-
ren's nursery, which is at the side of the
house opposite my study, the real goal of my
visitors at the present moment, was occupied
by the Moths before I went there with a light
in my hand. These certainly were ill-
informed. There was the same throng of
hesitating visitors in the kitchen; but here the
light of a lamp, that irresistible lure to noctur-
nal insects, may have beguiled the eager ones.

Let us consider only the places that were
in the dark. In these there are several stray
Moths. I find them more or less everywhere
around the actual spot aimed at. For in-
stance, when the captive is in my study, the
visitors do not all enter by the open window,
the safe and direct road, only two or three

251

The Life of the Caterpillar

yards away from the caged prisoner. Several
of them come in downstairs, wander about
the hall and at most reach the staircase, a
blind alley barred at the top by a closed door.

These data tell us that the guests at this
nuptial feast do not make straight for their
object, as they would if they derived their in-
formation from some kind of luminous ra-
diation, whether known or unknown to our
physical science. It is something else that ap-
prises them from afar, leads them to the prox-
imity of the exact spot and then leaves the
final discovery to the airy uncertainty of ran-
dom searching. It is very much like the way
in which we ourselves are informed by hear-
ing and smell, guides which are far from ac-
curate when we want to decide the precise
point of origin of the sound or the smell.

What are the organs of information that
direct the rutting Moth on his nightly pil-
grimage? One suspects the antennae, which,
in the males, do in fact seem to be question-
ing space with their spreading tufts of
feathers. Are those glorious plumes mere
ornaments, or do they at the same time play
a part in the perception of the effluvia that
guide the enamoured swain? A conclusive
252

The Great Peacock

experiment seems to present no difficulty.
Let us try it.

On the day after the invasion, I find in the
study eight of my visitors of the day before.
They are perched motionless on the trans-
oms of the second window, which is kept
closed. The others, when their dance was
over, about ten o'clock in the evening, went
out as they came in, that is to say, through the
first window, which is left open day and night.
Those eight persevering ones are just what I
want for my schemes.

With a sharp pair of scissors, without
otherwise touching the Moths, I cut off their
antennae, near the base. The patients take
hardly any notice of the operation. Not one
moves; there is scarcely a flutter of the wings.
These are excellent conditions: the wound
does not seem at all serious. Undistraught
by pain, the Moths bereft of their horns will
adapt themselves all the better to my plans.
The rest of the day is spent in placid immo-
bility on the cross-bars of the window.

There are still a few arrangements to be
made. It is important in particular to shift
the scene of operations and not to leave the
female before the eyes of the maimed ones

The Life of the Caterpillar

at the moment when they resume their noc-
turnal flight, else the merit of their quest
would disappear. I therefore move the bell-
jar with its captives and place it under a porch
at the other end of the house, some fifty yards
from my study.

When night comes, I go to make a last in-
spection of my eight victims. Six have flown
out through the open window; two remain
behind, but these have dropped to the floor
and no longer have the strength to turn over
if I lay them on their backs. They are ex-
hausted, dying. Pray do not blame my surgi-
cal work. This quick decreptitude occurs
invariably, even without the intervention of
my scissors.

Six, in better condition, have gone off.
Will they return to the bait that attracted
them yesterday? Though deprived of their
antennae, will they be able to find the cage,
now put in another place, at a considerable
distance from its original position?

The cage is standing in the dark, almost
in the open air. From time to time, I go out
with a lantern and a Butterfly-net. Each
visitor is captured, examined, catalogued and
forthwith let loose in an adjoining room, of

254

The Great Peacock

which I close the door. This gradual elimina-
tion will enable me to tell the exact number,
with no risk of counting the same Moth more
than once. Moreover, the temporary gaol,
which is spacious and bare, will in no way en-
danger the prisoners, who will find a quiet re-
treat there and plenty of room. I shall take
similar precautions during my subsequent in-
vestigations.

At half past ten no more arrive. The sit-
ting is over. In all, twenty-five males have
been caught, of whom only one was without
antennae. Therefore, of the six on whom I
operated yesterday and who were hale
enough to leave my study and go back to the
fields, one alone has returned to the bell-jar.
It is a poor result, on which I dare not rely
when it comes to asserting or denying that
the antennae play a guiding part. We must
begin all over again, on a larger scale.

Next morning I pay a visit to the prisoners
of the day before. What I see is not en-
couraging. Many are spread out on the
floor, almost lifeless. Several of them give
hardly a sign of life when I take them in my
fingers. What can I hope from these crip-
ples? Still, let us try. Perhaps they will

255

The Life of the Caterpillar

recover their vigour when the time comes to
dance the lovers' round.

The twenty-four new ones undergo ampu-
tation of the antennae. The old, hornless one
is left out of count, as dying or close to it.
Lastly, the prison-door is left open for the
remainder of the day. He who will may
leave the room, he who can shall join in the
evening festival. In order to put such as go
out to the test of searching for the bride, the
cage, which they would be sure to notice on
the threshold, is once more removed. I shift
it to a room in the opposite wing, on the
ground-floor. The access to this room is of
course left free.

Of the twenty-four deprived of their an-
tennae, only sixteen go outside. Eight re-
main, powerless to move. They will soon die
where they are. Out of the sixteen who have
left, how many are there that return to the
cage in the evening? Not one! I sit up to
capture just seven, all newcomers, all sport-
ing feathers. This result would seem to
show that the amputation of the antennae is a
rather serious matter. Let us not draw con-
clusions yet: a doubt remains and an import-
ant one.

256

The Great Peacock

"A nice state I'm in!" said Mouflard, the
Bull-pup, when his pitiless breeder had docked
his ears. "How dare I show my face before
the other Dogs?"

Can it be that my Moths entertain Master
Mouflard's apprehensions? Once deprived of
their fine plumes, dare they no longer appear
amidst their rivals and a-wooing go? Is
it bashfulness on their part or lack of
guidance? Or might it not rather be ex-
haustion after a wait that exceeds the
duration of an ephemeral flame? Experi-
ment shall tell us.

On the fourth evening, I take fourteen
Moths, all new ones, and imprison them, as
they arrive, in a room where I intend them to
pass the night. Next morning, taking ad-
vantage of their daytime immobility, I re-
move a little of the fur from the centre of
their corselet. The silky fleece comes off so
easily that this slight tonsure does not in-
convenience the insects at all ; it deprives them
of no organ which may be necessary to them
later, when the time comes to find the cage.
It means nothing to the shorn ones; to me it
means the unmistakable sign that the callers
have repeated their visit.

257

The Life of the Caterpillar

This time there are no weaklings incapable
of flight. At night, the fourteen shaven
Moths escape into the open. Of course the
place of the cage is once more changed. In
two hours, I capture twenty Moths, including
two tonsured ones, no more. Of those who
lost their antennae two days ago, not one puts
in an appearance. Their nuptial time is over
for good and all.

Only two return out of the fourteen
marked with a bald patch. Why do the
twelve others hang back, although supplied
with what we have assumed to be their guides,
their antennary plumes? Why again that
formidable list of defaulters, which we find
nearly always after a night of sequestration?
I perceive but one reply: the Great Peacock
is quickly worn out by the ardours of pairing-
time.

With a view to his wedding, the one and
only object of his life, the Moth is gifted
with a wonderful prerogative. He is able to
discover the object of his desire in spite of
distance, obstacles and darkness. For two or
three evenings, he is allowed a few hours
wherein to indulge his search and his amor-
ous exploits. If he cannot avail himself of
358

The Great Peacock

them, all is over : the most exact of compasses
fails, the brightest of lamps expires. What is
the use of living after that? Stoically we with-
draw into a corner and sleep our last sleep,
which is the end of our illusions and of our
woes alike.

The Great Peacock becomes a Moth only
in order to perpetuate his species. He knows
nothing of eating. While so many others,
jolly companions one and all, flit from flower
to flower, unrolling the spiral of their pro-
boscis and dipping it into the honeyed cups,
he, the incomparable faster, wholly freed
from the bondage of the belly, has no thought
of refreshment. His mouth-parts are mere
rudiments, vain simulacra, not real organs
capable of performing their functions. Not
a sup enters his stomach : a glorious privilege,
save that it involves a brief existence. The
lamp needs its drop of oil, if it is not to be
extinguished. The Great Peacock renounces
that drop, but at the same time he renounces
long life. Two or three evenings, just time
enough to allow the couple to meet, and that
is all : the big Moth has lived.

Then what is the meaning of the staying
away of those who have lost their antennae?

The Life of the Caterpillar

Does it show that the absence of these organs
has made them incapable of finding the wire
bell in which the prisoner awaits them? Not
at all. Like the shorn ones, whose operation
has left them uninjured, they prove only that
their time is up. Whether maimed or intact,
they are unfit for duty because of their age;
and their non-return is valueless as evidence.
For lack of the time necessary for experi-
menting, the part played by the antennae es-
capes us. Doubtful it was and doubtful it
remains.

My caged prisoner lives for eight days.
Every evening she draws for my benefit a
swarm of visitors, in varying numbers, now
to one part of the house, now to another, as
I please. I catch them, as they come, with
the net and transfer them, the moment they
are captured, to a closed room, in which they
spend the night. Next morning, I mark them
with a tonsure on the thorax.

The aggregate of the visitors during those
eight evenings amounts to a hundred and
fifty, an astounding number when I consider
how hard I had to seek during the following
two years to collect the materials necessary
for continuing these observations. Though
260

The Great Peacock

not impossible to find in my near neighbour-
hood, the cocoons of the Great Peacock are
at least very rare, for old almond-trees, on
which the caterpillars live, are scarce in these
parts. For two winters I visited every one of
those decayed trees at the lower part of the
trunk, under the tangle of hard grasses in
which they are clad, and time after time I
returned empty-handed. Therefore my hun-
dred and fifty Moths came from afar,
from very far, within a radius of per-
haps a mile and a half or more. How
did they know of what was happening in my
study ?

The perceptive faculties can receive inform-
ation from a distance by means of three
agents: light, sound and smell. Is it permis-
sible to speak of vision in this instance? I
will readily admit that sight guides the visit-
ors once they have passed through the open
window. But before that, in the mystery out
of doors! It would not be enough to grant
them the fabulous eye of the Lynx, which was
supposed to see through walls; we should
have to admit a keenness of sight which could
be exercised miles away. It is useless to dis-
cuss anything so outrageous ; let us pass on.
261

The Life of the Caterpillar

Sound is likewise out of the question. The
great fat Moth, capable of sending a sum-
mons to such a distance, is mute even to the
most acute hearing. It is just possible that
she possesses delicate vibrations, passionate
quivers, which might perhaps be perceptible
with the aid of an extremely sensitive micro-
phone; but remember that the visitors have
to be informed at considerable distances,
thousands of yards away. Under these con-
ditions, we cannot waste time thinking of
acoustics. That would be to set silence the
task of waking the surrounding air.

There remains the sense of smell. In the
domain of our senses, scent, better than any-
thing else, would more or less explain the on-
rush of the Moths, even though they do not
find the bait that allures them until after a
certain amount of hesitation. Are there, in
point of fact, effluvia similar to what we call
odour, effluvia of extreme subtlety, absolutely
imperceptible to ourselves and yet capable of
impressing a sense of smell better-endowed
than ours ? There is a very simple experiment
to be made. It is a question of masking those
effluvia, of stifling them under a powerful and
persistent odour, which masters the olfactory

The Great Peacock

sense entirely. The too-strong scent will neu-
tralize the very faint one.

I begin by sprinkling naphthaline in the
room where the males will be received this
evening. Also, in the bell-jar, beside the fe-
male, I lay a big capsule full of the same stuff.
When the visiting-hour comes, I have only to
stand in the doorway of the room to get a
distinct smell of gas-works. My artifice fails.
The Moths arrive as usual, they enter the
room, pass through its tarry atmosphere and
make for the cage with as much certainty of
direction as though in unscented surroundings.

My confidence in the olfactory explanation
is shaken. Besides, I am now unable to go
on. Worn out by her sterile wait, my pri-
soner dies on the ninth day, after laying her
unfertilized eggs on the wirework of the
cage. In the absence of a subject of experi-
ment, there is no more to be done until next
year.

This time I shall take my precautions, I
shall lay in a stock so as to be able to repeat
as often as I wish the experiments which I
have already tried and those which I am con-
templating. To work, then; and that with-
out delay.

The Life of the Caterpillar

In the summer, I proclaim myself a buyer
of caterpillars at a sou apiece. The offer ap-
peals to some urchins in the neighbourhood,
my usual purveyors. On Thursdays, emanci-
pated from the horrors of parsing,1 they scour
the fields, find the fat caterpillar from time
to time and bring him to me clinging to the
end of a stick. They dare not touch him,
poor mites ; they are staggered at my audacity
when I take him in my fingers as they might
take the familiar Silk-worm.

Reared on almond-tree branches, my me-
nagerie in a few days supplies me with mag-
nificent cocoons. In the winter, assiduous
searches at the foot of the fostering tree com-
plete my collection. Friends interested in my
enquiries come to my assistance. In short, by
dint of trouble, much running about, commer-
cial bargains and not a few scratches from
brambles, I am the possessor of an assortment
of cocoons, of which twelve, bulkier and
heavier than the others, tell me that they be-
long to females.

A disappointment awaits me, for May ar-
rives, a fickle month which brings to naught

1 Thursday is the weekly holiday in French schools. —
Translator's Note.

264

The Great Peacqck

my preparations, the cause of so much anxiety.
We have winter back again. The mistral
howls, tears the budding leaves from the
plane-trees and strews the ground with them.
It is as cold as in December. We have to
light the fires again at night and resume the
thick clothes which we were beginning to
leave off.

My Moths are sorely tried. They hatch
late and are torpid. Around my wire cages,
in which the females wait, one to-day, another
to-morrow, according to the order of their
birth, few males or none come from the out-
side. And yet there are some close at hand,
for the plumed gallants resulting from my
harvest were placed out in the garden as soon
as they were hatched and recognized. Whe-
ther near neighbours or strangers from afar,
very few arrive; and these are only half-
hearted. They enter for a moment, then dis-
appear and do not return. The lovers have
grown cold.

It is also possible that the low temperature
is unfavourable to the tell-tale effluvia, which
might well be enhanced by the warmth and
decreased by the cold, as happens with scents.
My year is lost. Oh, what laborious work is
265

The Life of the Caterpillar

this experimenting at the mercy of the sud-
den changes and deceptions of a short season !

I begin all over again, for the third time.
I rear caterpillars, I scour the country in
search of cocoons. When May returns, I am
suitably provided. The weather is fine and
responds to my hopes. I once more see the
incursions which had struck me so powerfully
at the beginning, at the time of the historic
invasion which first led to my researches.

Nightly the visitors turn up, in squads of
twelve, twenty or more. The female, a lusty,
big-bellied matron, clings firmly to the trellis-
work of the cage. She makes no movement,
gives not so much as a flutter of the wings,
seems indifferent to what is going on. Nor
is there any odour, so far as the most sensitive
nostrils in the household can judge, nor any
rustle perceptible to the most delicate hearing
among my family, all of whom are called in
to bear evidence. In motionless contempla-
tion she waits.

The others, in twos or threes or more, flop
down upon the dome of the cage, run about
it briskly in every direction, lash it with the
tips of their wings in continual movement.
There are no affrays between rivals. With
266

The Great Peacock

not a sign of jealousy in regard to the other
suitors, each does his utmost to enter the en-
closure. Tiring of their vain attempts, they
fly away and join the whirling throng of
dancers. Some, giving up all hope, escape
through the open window ; fresh arrivals take
their places; and, on the top of the cage, un-
til ten o'clock in the evening, attempts to ap-
proach are incessantly renewed, soon to be
abandoned and as soon resumed.

Every evening the cage is moved to a dif-
ferent place. I put it on the north side and
the south, on the ground-floor and the first
floor, in the right wing and fifty yards away
in the left, in the open air or hidden in a dis-
tant room. All these sudden displacements,
contrived if possible to put the seekers off the
scent, do not trouble the Moths in the least.
I waste my time and ingenuity in trying to de-
ceive them.

Recollection of places plays no part here.
Yesterday, for instance, the female was
installed in a certain room. The feathered
males came fluttering thither for a couple of
hours; several even spent the night there.
Next day, at sunset, when I move the cage, all
are out of doors. Ephemeral though they be,
267

The Life of the Caterpillar

the newest comers are ready to repeat their
nocturnal expeditions a second time and a
third. Where will they go first, these vete-
rans of a day?

They know all about the meeting-place of
yesterday. One is inclined to think that they
will go back to it, guided by memory, and
that, finding nothing left, they will proceed
elsewhither to continue their investigations.
But no : contrary to my expectations, they do
nothing of the sort. Not one reappears in the
place which was so thickly crowded last night;
not one pays even a short visit. The room is
recognized as deserted, without the prelimi-
nary enquiry which recollection would seem
to demand. A more positive guide than me-
mory summons them elsewhere.

Until now the female has been left exposed,
under the meshes of a wire gauze. The visit-
ors, whose eyes are used to piercing the black-
est gloom, can see her by the vague light of
what to us is darkness. What will happen if
I imprison her under an opaque cover? Ac-
cording to its nature, will not this cover either
set free or arrest the tell-tale effluvia?

Physical science is to-day preparing to
give us wireless telegraphy, by means of the
268

The Great Peacock

Hertzian waves. Can the Great Peacock
have anticipated our efforts in this direction?
In order to set the surrounding air in motion
and to inform pretenders miles away, can the
newly-hatched bride have at her disposal elec-
tric or magnetic waves, which one sort of
screen would arrest and another let through ?
In a word, does she, in her own manner, em-
ploy a kind of wireless telegraphy? I see
nothing impossible in this: insects are accus-
tomed to invent things quite as wonderful.

I therefore lodge the female in boxes of
various characters. Some are made of tin,
some of cardboard, some of wood. All are
hermetically closed, are even sealed with stout
putty. I also use a glass bell-jar standing on
the insulating support of a pane of glass.

Well, under these conditions of strict clo-
sing, never a male arrives, not one, however
favourable the mildness and quiet of the even-
ing. No matter its nature, whether of metal
or glass, of wood or cardboard, the closed
receptacle forms an insuperable obstacle to the
effluvia that betray the captive's whereabouts.

A layer of cotton two fingers thick gives the
same result. I place the female in a large jar,
tying a sheet of wadding over the mouth by
269

The Life of the Caterpillar

way of a lid. This is enough to keep the
neighbourhood in ignorance of the secrets of
my laboratory. No male puts in an appear-
ance.

On the other hand, make use of ill-closed,
cracked boxes, or even hide them in a drawer,
in a cupboard; and, notwithstanding this
added mystery, the Moths will arrive in num-
bers as great as when they come thronging
to the trellised cage standing in full view on
a table. I have retained a vivid recollection
of an evening when the recluse was waiting
in a hat-box at the bottom of a closed wall-
cupboard. The Moths arrived, went to the
door, struck it with their wings, knocked at
it to express their wish to enter. Passing way-
farers, coming no one knows whence across
the fields, they well knew what was inside
there, behind those boards.

We must therefore reject the idea of any
means of information similar to that of wire-
less telegraphy, for the first screen set up,
whether a good conductor or a bad, stops the
female's signals completely. To give these a
free passage and carry them to a distance, one
condition is indispensable: the receptacle in
which the female is contained must be imper-
270

The Great Peacock

fectly closed, so as to establish a communica-
tion between the inner and the outer air. This
brings us back to the probability of an odour,
though that was contradicted by my experi-
ment with naphthaline.

My stock of cocoons is exhausted and the
problem is still obscure. Shall I try again
another year, the fourth? I abandon the
thought for the following reasons: Moths
that mate at night are difficult to observe if I
want to watch their intimate actions. The
gallant certainly needs no illuminant to attain
his ends ; but my feeble human powers of vis-
ion cannot dispense with one at night. I must
have at least a candle, which is often extin-
guished by the whirling swarm. A lantern
saves us from these sudden eclipses; but its
dim light, streaked with broad shadows, does
not suit a conscientious observer like myself,
who wants to see and to see clearly.

Nor is this all. The light of a lamp diverts
the Moths from their object, distracts them
from their business and, if persistent, gravely
compromises the success of the evening. The
visitors no sooner enter the room than they
make a wild rush for the flame, singe their
fluff in it and thenceforth, frightened by the
271

The Life of the Caterpillar

scorching received, cease to be trustworthy
witnesses. When they are not burnt, when
they are kept at a distance by a glass chimney,
they perch as close as they can to the light
and there stay, hypnotized.

One evening, the female was in the dining-
room, on a table facing the open window. A
lighted paraffin-lamp, with a large white-
enamel shade, was hanging from the ceiling.
Two of the arrivals alighted on the dome of
the cage and fussed around the prisoner;
seven others, after greeting her as they passed,
made for the lamp, circled about it a little and
then, fascinated by the radiant glory of the
opal cone, perched on it, motionless, under
the shade. Already the children's hands were
raised to seize them.

"Don't," I said. "Leave them alone. Let
us be hospitable and not disturb these pilgrims
to the tabernacle of light."

All that evening, not one of the seven
budged. Next morning, they were still there.
The intoxication of light had made them for-
get the intoxication of love.

With creatures so madly enamoured of the
radiant flame, precise and prolonged experi-
ment becomes unfeasible the moment the ob-
272

The Great Peacock

server requires an artificial illuminant. I give
up the Great Peacock and his nocturnal nup-
tials. I want a Moth with different habits,
equally skilled in keeping conjugal appoint-
ments, but performing in the day-time.

Before continuing with a subject that fulfils
these conditions, let us drop chronological or-
der for a moment and say a few words about
a late-comer who arrived after I had com-
pleted my enquiries, I mean the Lesser Pea-
cock (Attacus pavonia minor, LiN.J. Some-
body brought me, I don't know where from,
a magnificent cocoon loosely wrapped in an
ample white-silk envelope. Out of this cover-
ing, with its thick, irregular folds, it was easy
to extract a case similar in shape to the Great
Peacock's, but a good deal smaller. The
fore-end, worked into the fashion of an eel-
trap by means of free and converging fibres,
which prevent access to the dwelling while
permitting egress without a breach of the
walls, indicated a kinswoman of the big noc-
turnal Moth; the silk bore the spinner's mark.

And, in point of fact, towards the end of
March, on the morning of Palm Sunday, the
cocoon with the eel-trap formation provides
me with a female of the Lesser Peacock,

273

The Life of the Caterpillar

whom I at once seclude under a wire-gauze
bell in my study. I open the window to allow
the event to be made known all over the dis-
trict; I want the visitors, if any come, to find
free entrance. The captive grips the wires
and does not move for a week.

A gorgeous creature is my prisoner, in her
brown velvet streaked with wavy lines. She
has white fur around her neck; a speck of car-
mine at the tip of the upper wings; and four
large, eye-shaped spots, in which black, white,
red and yellow-ochre are grouped in concen-
tric crescents. The dress is very like that of
the Great Peacock, but less dark in colouring.
I have seen this Moth, so remarkable for size
and costume, three or four times in my life.
It was only the other day that I first saw the
cocoon. The male I have never seen. I only
know that, according to the books, he is half
the size of the female and of a brighter and
more florid colour, with orange-yellow on the
lower wings.

Will he come, the unknown spark, the
plume-wearer on whom I have never set eyes,
so rare does he appear to be in my part of the
country? In his distant hedges will he receive
news of the bride that awaits him on my study

274

The Great Peacock

table ? I venture to feel sure of it ; and I am
right. Here he comes, even sooner than I
expected.

On the stroke of noon, as we were sitting
down to table, little Paul who is late owing
to his eager interest in what is likely to hap-
pen, suddenly runs up to us, his cheeks aglow.
In his fingers flutters a pretty Moth, a Moth
caught that moment hovering in front of my
study. Paul shows me his prize ; his eyes ask
an unspoken question.

"Hullo!" I say. "This is the very pilgrim
we were expecting. Let's fold up our nap-
kins and go and see what's happening. We
can dine later."

Dinner is forgotten in the presence of the
wonders that are taking place. With incon-
ceivable punctuality, the plume-wearers hasten
to answer the captive's magic call. They ar-
rive one by one, with a tortuous flight. All
of them come from the north. This detail
has its significance. As a matter of fact, du-
ring the past week we have experienced a
fierce return of winter. The north wind has
been blowing a gale, killing the imprudent
almond-blossoms. It was one of those fero-
cious storms which, as a rule, usher in the

275

The Life of the Caterpillar

spring in our part of the world. To-
day the temperature has suddenly grown
milder, but the wind is still blowing from the
north.

Now at this first visit all the Moths hur-
rying to the prisoner enter the enclosure from
the north; they follow the movement of the
air; not one beats against it. If their compass
were a sense of smell similar to our own, if
they were guided by odoriferous particles dis-
solved in the air, they ought to arrive from
the opposite direction. If they came from the
south, we might believe them to be informed
by effluvia carried by the wind ; coming as they
do from the north, through the mistral, that
mighty sweeper of the atmosphere, how can
we suppose them to have perceived, at a great
distance, what we call a smell? This reflux
of scented atoms in a direction contrary to the
aerial current seems to me inadmissible.

For a couple of hours, in radiant sun-
shine, the visitors come and go outside the
front of the study. Most of them search
for a long while, exploring the wall, flit-
ting along the ground. To see their hesita-
tion, one would think that they were at a loss
to discover the exact place of the bait that at-
276

The Great Peacock

tracts them. Though they have come from
very far without mistake, they seem uncertain
of their bearings once they are on the spot.
Nevertheless, sooner or later they enter the
room and pay their respects to the captive,
without much importunity. At two o'clock all
is over. Ten Moths have been here.

All through the week, each time at noon-
day, when the light is at its brightest, Moths
arrive, but in decreasing numbers. The total
is nearly forty. I see no reason to repeat
experiments which could add nothing to what
I already know; and I confine myself to sta-
ting two facts. In the first place, the Lesser
Peacock is a day insect, that is to say, he cele-
brates his wedding in the brilliant light of the
middle of the day. He needs radiant sun-
shine. The Great Peacock, on the contrary,
whom he so closely resembles in his adult form
and in the work which he does as a caterpillar,
requires the dusk of the early hours of the
night. Let him who can explain this strange
contrast of habits.

In the second place, a powerful air-current,

sweeping the other way any particles capable

of instructing the sense of smell, does not

prevent the Moths' arriving from a direction

277

The Life of the Caterpillar

opposite to that of the odoriferous flux, as
our physics imagine it.

If I am to go on with my observations, I
want a day Moth; not the Lesser Peacock,
who made his appearance too late, at a time
when I had nothing to ask him, but another,
no matter whom, provided that he be quick
at discovering nuptial feasts. Shall I find
this Moth ?

278

CHAPTER XII

THE BANDED MONK

YES, I shall find him; indeed I have him
already. A little chap of seven, with a
wideawake face that doesn't get washed every
day, bare feet and a pair of tattered breeches
held up by a bit of string, a boy who comes
regularly to supply the house with turnips and
tomatoes, arrives one morning carrying his
basket of vegetables. After the few sous due
to his mother for the greens have been
counted one by one into his hand, he produces
from his pocket something which he found
the day before, beside a hedge, while picking
grass for the Rabbits :

"And what about this?" he asks, holding
the thing out to me. "What about this? Will
you have it?"

"Yes, certainly I'll have it. Try and find
me some more, as many as you can, and I'll
promise you plenty of rides on the roundabout
on Sunday. Meanwhile, my lad, here's a
penny for you. Don't make a mistake when
you give in your accounts; put it somewhere
279

The Life of the Caterpillar

where you won't mix it up with the turnip-
money."

Dazzled with delight at the sight of so
much wealth, my little ragamuffin promises to
search with a will, already seeing visions of a
fortune to be his.

When he has gone, I examine the thing.
It is worth while. It is a handsome cocoon,
blunt-shaped, not at all unlike the product of
our Silk-worm nurseries, of a firm consistency
and a tawny colour. The cursory informa-
tion which I have picked up from books of
reference makes me almost certain that it is
the Bombyx of the Oak, the Oak Eggar. If
this is so, what luck ! I shall be able to con-
tinue my observations and perhaps complete
what the Great Peacock began to show me.

The Oak Eggar is, in fact, a classic; there
is not an entomological treatise but speaks of
his exploits in the wedding-season. They tell
us how a mother hatches in captivity, inside a
room and even hidden in a box. She is far
away from the country, amid the tumult of a
big town. The event is nevertheless divulged
to those whom it concerns in the woods and
the meadows. Guided by some inconceivable
compass, the males arrive, hastening from the
280

The Banded Monk

distant fields ; they go to the box, tap at it, fly
round and round it.

I had read of these marvels; but seeing,
seeing with one's own eyes, and at the same
time experimenting a little is quite another
matter. What does my penny purchase hold
in store for me? Will the famous Bombyx
emerge from it ?

Let us call her by her other name: the
Banded Monk. This unusual name of Monk
is suggested by the male's dress: a monk's
frock of a modest rusty brown. But in this
case the stuff is a delicious velvet, with a pale
transversal band and a little white, eye-shaped
dot on the front wings.

The Banded Monk is not, in my region, a
common Moth whom we are likely to catch
if the fancy takes us to go out with a net at
the proper season. I have never seen it about
the village, especially not in my lonely enclo-
sure, during all the twenty years that I have
spent here. I am not a fervent hunter, I ad-
mit; the collector's dead insect interests me
very little ; I want it alive, in the full exercise
of its faculties. But I make up for the ab-
sence of the collector's zeal by an attentive eye
for all that enlivens the fields. A Moth so
281

The Life of the Caterpillar

remarkable in size and costume would cert-
ainly not have escaped me had I met him.

The little seeker whom I had caught so
nicely with a promise of the roundabout never
made a second find. For three years I re-
quisitioned friends and neighbours, especially
the youngsters, those sharp-eyed scrapers of
the brushwood; I myself scraped a great deal
under masses of dead leaves, inspected stone-
heaps, examined hollow tree-trunks. My
trouble was in vain : the precious cocoon was
nowhere to be found. Suffice it to say that
the Banded Monk is very scarce in my neigh-
bourhood. The importance of this detail will
be seen when the time comes.

As I suspected, my solitary cocoon did be-
long to the famous Moth. On the 2Oth
of August there emerges a female, corpulent
and big-bellied, attired like the male, but in a
lighter frock, more in the nankeen style. I
establish her in a wire-gauze bell-jar in the
middle of my study, on the big laboratory-
table, littered with books, pots, trays, boxes,
test-tubes and other engines of science. I
have described the setting before: it is the
same as in the case of the Great Peacock. The
room is lighted by two windows looking out
282

The Banded Monk

on the garden. One is closed, the other is
kept open day and night. The Moth is placed
between the two, in the shadow, some four
or five yards away.

The rest of the day and the following day
pass without anything worth mentioning.
Hanging by her claws to the front of the trel-
liswork, on the side nearest the light, the
prisoner is motionless, inert. There is no
waving of the wings, no quivering of the an-
tennae. Even so did the female Great Pea-
cock behave.

The mother Bombyx matures; her tender
flesh hardens. By some process of which our
science has not the remotest idea, she elabor-
ates an irresistible bait which will bring call-
ers flocking to her from the four corners of
the heavens. What takes place in that fat
body, what transformations are performed
that shall presently revolutionize everything
around? Were they known to us, the Moth's
nostrums would add a cubit to our stature.

On the third day the bride is ready. The
festivities burst into full swing. I was in the
garden, already despairing of success, so long
were things delayed, when, at about three
o'clock in the afternoon, in very hot weather
283

The Life of the Caterpillar

and brilliant sunshine, I saw a host of Moths
gyrating in the embrasure of the open
window.

It is the lovers coming to call upon their
sweetheart. Some are just leaving the
room, others going in, others again are
perched upon the wall, resting as though
jaded after a long journey. I see some ap-
proaching in the distance, over the walls, over
the curtain of cypress-trees. They are hurry-
ing up from all directions, but becoming more
and more rare. I missed the beginning of the
reception; and the guests are nearly all here.

Let us go upstairs. This time, in broad
daylight, without losing a single detail, I once
more witness the bewildering spectacle into
which the great night Moth initiated me. My
study is filled with a swarm of males, whom I
estimate at a glance to number about sixty, as
far as it is possible to make a count in this
seething mass. After circling a few times
round the cage, several go to the open wind-
ow, but return again forthwith and resume
their evolutions. The most eager perch on
the cage, hustle and trample on one another,
fighting for the good places. Inside the bar-
rier, the captive waits impassively, with her
284

The Banded Monk

great paunch hanging against the wires. She
gives not a sign of emotion in the presence of
the turbulent throng.

Going in or going out, fussing round the
cage or flitting through the room, for more
than three hours they keep up their frenzied
saraband. But the sun is sinking, the tem-
perature becomes a little cooler. Chilled like-
wise is the ardour of the Moths. Many go
out and do not come in again. Others take
up their positions in readiness for the mor-
row; they settle on the transoms of the closed
window, as the Great' Peacocks did. The
celebration is over for to-day. It will cert-
ainly be renewed to-morrow, for it is still
without result, because of the wires.

But alas, to my great dismay, it is not re-
newed; and this through my own fault 1 Late
in the day, some one brings me a Praying
Mantis, worthy of attention because of her
exceptionally small size. Preoccupied with
the events of the afternoon, without thinking
what I am doing, I hastily place the carnivor-
ous insect in the cage that holds my Bombyx.
Not for a moment do I dream that this co-
habitation can turn out ill. The Mantis is
such a little, slender thing; the other is so
285

The Life of the Caterpillar

obese ! And thus I entertained no apprehen-
sions.

Ah, little did I know the bloodthirsty fury
of which the grapnelled insect is capable I
Next morning, to my bitter astonishment, I
find the tiny Mantis devouring the huge
Moth. The head and the front part of the
breast have already disappeared. Horrible
creature! What a disappointment I owe to
you! Farewell to my researches, which I
had cherished in my imagination all night
long; not for three years shall I be
able to resume them, for lack of a sub-
ject.

Bad luck must not, however, make us for-
get the little that we have learnt. At one
sitting, some sixty males came. Consider-
ing the rarity of the Monk and remember-
ing the years of fruitless searches conducted
by my assistants and myself, we stand
astounded at this number. With a female
for a bait, the undiscoverable has suddenly
become a multitude.

Now where did they come from? From
every quarter and from very far, beyond a
doubt. During my years of exploration of
my neighbourhood, I have got to know every

The Banded Monk

bush in it and every heap of stones; and I am
in a position to declare that there are no Oak
Eggars there. To make the swarm that filled
my study, the whole of the surrounding dis-
trict must have contributed, from this side
and from that, within a radius which I dare
not determine.

Three years pass; and fortune persistently
entreated at last grants me two Monk-
cocoons. Towards the middle of August,
both of them, within a few days of each other,
give me a female. This is a piece of luck
which will allow me to vary and renew my
tests.

I quickly repeat the experiments which have
already procured me a most positive reply
from the Great Peacock. The pilgrim of
the day is no less clever than the pilgrim of
the night. He baffles all my tricks. He hast-
ens infallibly to the prisoner, in her wire-
gauze cage, in whatever part of the house the
apparatus be installed; he is able to discover
her hidden in a cupboard; he guesses her
secret presence in a box of any kind, provided
that it be not tightly closed. He ceases to
come, for lack of information, when the
casket is hermetically sealed. Thus far we
287

The Life of the Caterpillar

see merely a repetition of the feats of the
Great Peacock.

A well-closed box, the air contained in
which does not communicate with the outer
atmosphere, leaves the Monk in complete ig-
norance of the prisoner's whereabouts. Not
one arrives, even when the box is exposed for
every eye to see in the window. This brings
back, more urgently than ever, the idea of
odoriferous effluvia, intransmissible through a
wall of metal, cardboard, wood or glass, no
matter which.

When put to the test, the great night Moth
was not baffled by the naphthaline, whose po-
werful smell ought, to my thinking, to mask
ultrasubtle emanations, imperceptible to any
human nostrils. I repeat the experiment with
the Monk. This time I lavish all the re-
sources in the way of scents and stenches that
my store of drugs permits.

I place the saucers, partly inside the wire-
gauze cage, the female's prison, and partly
all round it, in a continuous circle. Some con-
tain naphthaline, others oil of lavender,
others paraffin, others, lastly, alkaline sul-
phurs smelling of rotten eggs. Short of
asphyxiating the prisoner, I can do no more.

The Banded Monk

These arrangements are made in the morn-
ing, so that the room may be thoroughly satu-
rated when the trysting-hour arrives.

In the afternoon, the study has become an
odious laboratory in which the penetrating
aroma of lavender-oil and the foul stench of
sulphuretted hydrogen predominate. Remem-
ber that I smoke in this room and plentifully
at that. Will the concentrated odours of a
gas-works, a smoker's divan, a scent-shop,
an oil-well and a chemical factory succeed in
putting off the Monk?

Not at all. A little before three, the Moths
arrive, as numerous as ever. They go to the
cage, which I have taken pains to cover with
a thick kitchen-cloth, so as to increase the diffi-
culty. Though they see nothing after they
have entered, though they are steeped in a
foreign atmosphere in which any subtle fra-
grance should have been annihilated, they fly
towards the prisoner and try to get at her by
slipping under the folds of the cloth. My
artifices are fruitless.

After this reverse, so definite in its results,
which repeats what my naphthaline experi-
ment with the Great Peacock taught me, I
ought, logically speaking, to give up the

The Life of the Caterpillar

theory that odorous effluvia serve as a guide
to the Moths invited to the nuptial feast.
That I did not do so was due to a casual ob-
servation. The unexpected, the fortuitous,
often provides us with one of those surprises
which show us the road to the truth, hitherto
sought in vain.

One afternoon, trying to discover whether
sight plays any part in the search, once that
the Moths have entered the room, I place the
female in a glass bell-jar and give her a little
oak-branch, with withered leaves, as a perch.
The apparatus is put on a table, opposite the
open window. On entering, the Moths can-
not fail to see the prisoner, standing as she
does where they are bound to pass. The pan
with its layer of sand, in which the female
spent the previous night and the morning un-
der a wire-gauze cover, is in my way. I put
it, without premeditation, on the floor at the
other end of the room, in a corner which is
only dimly lighted. It is seven yards from
the window.

The result of these preparations upsets all

my ideas. Of the Moths arriving, none stops

at the glass bell, where the female is plainly

visible, in the full light. They pass by with

290

The Banded Monk

utter indifference. Not a glance in her direc-
tion, not an enquiry. They all fly right to the
far end of the room, to the dusky corner
where I placed the tray and the cage. They
alight on the trellised top and explore it at
length, flapping their wings and hustling one
another a little. All the afternoon, until sun-
set, they dance around the deserted dome the
same saraband to which the actual presence
of the female would give rise. At last they
fly away, but not all of them. There are per-
sistent ones who refuse to go, rooted to the
spot by some magic attraction.

A strange result indeed : my Moths hasten
to where there is nothing, take their stand
there and will not be dissuaded by the re-
peated warnings of their eyes; they pass with-
out stopping for a moment by the bell-glass
in which the female cannot fail to be per-
ceived by one or other of those coming and
going. Befooled by a lure, they pay no at-
tention to the real thing.

What is it that deceives them ? The whole
of the night before and all this morning, the
female has sojourned under the wire-gauze
cover, either hanging to the trelliswork, or
resting on the sand in the pan. Whatever

291

The Life of the Caterpillar

she touched, above all with her fat belly ap-
parently, has become impregnated, as the re-
sult of long contact, with certain emanations.
There you have her bait, her love-philtre;
there you have what revolutionizes the world
of Monks. The sand retains it for a time and
spreads its effluvia around.

It is smell therefore that guides the Moths,
that gives them information at a distance.
Dominated by the sense of smell, they take
no notice of what their eyes tell them; they
pass by the glass prison in which their lady-
love is now interned ; they go to the wires, to
the sand, on which the magic cruets have shed
their contents; they race to the wilderness
where naught remains of the witch but the
scented evidence of her sojourn.

The irresistible philtre takes a certain time
to elaborate. I picture it as an exhalation
which is gradually given off and saturates
everything that touches the fat, motionless
creature. When the glass bell stands directly
on the table or, better still, on a square of
glass, the communication between the interior
and the outer air is insufficient; and the males,
perceiving nothing by the sense of smell, keep
away, however long the experiment be con-
292

The Banded Monk

tinued. At the actual moment, I cannot sub-
stantiate this non-transmission through a
screen, for, even if I establish ample com-
munication, if I separate the bell from its sup-
port by means of three wedges, the Moths
do not come at first, however many there may
be in the room. But wait for half an hour,
more or less : the alembic of feminine flavours
begins its distilling and the rush of visitors
takes place as usual.

Now that I possess these data, this unex-
pected light on the subject, I am at liberty to
vary my experiments, all of which lead to the
same conclusion. In the morning, I establish
the female under a wire-gauze cover. Her
perch is a little oak-twig similar to the last.
Here, motionless, as though dead, she remains
for long hours, buried in the tuft of leaves
that is to be impregnated with her emanations.
When visiting-time approaches, I withdraw
the twig, perfectly saturated, and lay it on a
chair, near the open window. On the other
hand, I leave the female under her cover, well
in view on the table, in the middle of the
room.

The Moths arrive, first one, then two and
three, soon five and six. They come in, go

293

The Life of the Caterpillar

out, come in again, fly up and down, go to and
fro, keeping all the time to the neighbour-
hood of the chair with its oak-branch. Not
one makes for the big table, a few paces far-
ther into the room, where the female is wait-
ing for them under the trellised dome. They
are hesitating, that is clear; they are seeking.

At last they find. And what do they find?
The very twig which in the morning had
served the pot-bellied matron as a bed. With
wings swiftly fluttering, they alight upon the
branch; they explore it above and below,
probe it, lift it and move it, until at last the
little bit of foliage drops on the floor. The
probing between the leaves continues none the
less. Under the buffeting of the wings and
the clawing of the feet, the stick is now run-
ning along the ground, like a scrap of paper
pawed by a kitten.

While the twig is moving away with its
band of explorers, two new 'arrivals come
upon the scene. On their way, they have to
pass the chair, which for a brief spell bore the
leafy stick. They stop at it and eagerly in-
vestigate the very spot which but now was
covered by the branch. And yet, in their case
as in that of the others, the real object of their

294

The Banded Monk

desires is close by them, under a wire gauze
which I have omitted to veil. No one notices
it. On the floor, the Monks continue to hustle
the mattress on which the female lay in the
morning; on the chair, they still fumble at
the spot where this bedding was first placed.
The sun goes down; the time comes to de-
part. Besides, the effluvia of passion are
growing fainter, are dispersing. The visitors
go away without more ado. Good-bye till
to-morrow.

The following tests tell me that any ma-
terial, no matter what, can take the place of
the leafy branch, that chance inspiration of
mine. Some time in advance, I place the fe-
male on a couch of cloth or flannel, of wad-
ding or paper. I even subject her to the hard-
ship of a camp-bed of wood, glass, marble or
metal. All these objects, after a contact of
sufficient length, have the same powerful at-
traction for the males as the mother Monk
herself. They retain this property to a vary-
ing extent, according to their nature. The
best are wadding, flannel, dust, sand, in short,
porous objects. Metals, marble and glass,
on the contrary, soon lose their efficacy.
Lastly, anything on which the female has
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The Life of the Caterpillar

rested communicates its virtue to other places
by simple contact, as witness the Moths
crowding to the seat of the cane-bottomed
chair after the oak-branch had fallen from it.

Let us use one of the best beds, flannel, for
instance, and we shall see a curious thing. I
place at the bottom of a long test-tube or of
a narrow-necked bottle, just wide enough to
allow of the Moth's passage, a piece of flannel
on which the mother has been lying all the
morning. The callers go into the vessels,
flounder about, do not know how to get out
again. I have invented a mouse-trap for them
by means of which I could do terrific execu-
tion. Let us release the poor things, remove
the piece of stuff and put it away in an her-
metically closed box. The infatuated Moths
go back to the test-tube, headlong reenter
the trap. They are attracted by the effluvia
which the saturated flannel has imparted to
the glass.

I am fully convinced. To summon the
Moths of the district to the wedding, to ap-
prise them at a distance of her presence and
to guide them, the bride emits an extremely
subtle scent, imperceptible to our own organs
of smell. With the mother Monk held to
296

The Banded Monk

their nostrils, those around me perceive not
the least odour, not even the youngest, whose
senses are not yet vitiated.

This quintessence easily impregnates every
object on which the female rests for any
length of time; and thenceforth the actual
object becomes as potent a centre of attraction
as the mother herself, until the emanations
are dispelled.

Nothing visible betrays the bait. On a
piece of paper, a recent resting-place around
which the visitors crowd, there is not an ap-
preciable trace, no moisture of any kind; the
surface is just as clean as before the impregna-
tion.

The product is slowly elaborated and has to
accumulate a little while before manifesting
its full strength. When taken from her
couch and placed elsewhere, the female loses
her attractions for the time and becomes an
object of indifference; it is the resting-place,
saturated by long contact, that draws the
newcomers. But the batteries are recharged
and the deserted one recovers her power.

The appearance of the warning effluvium
is delayed for a longer or shorter period ac-
cording to the species. The newly-hatched
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The Life of the Caterpillar

Moth has to mature for a time and to put her
distillery in order. A female Great Peacock,
born in the morning, sometimes has visitors
that same evening, but oftener on the second
day, after preparations lasting some forty
hours. The female Banded Monk adjourns
her summons longer than that : her banns of
marriage are not published until after two or
three days' waiting.

Let us return for a moment to the problem-'
atical functions of the antennae. The male
Monk sports a sumptuous pair, similar to
those of the Great Peacock, who vies with
him in his matrimonial expeditions. Are we
to look upon these hairy feelers as a guiding
compass? I repeat, without laying much
stress on the matter, my former amputations.
None of the patients comes back. We must
be chary of drawing inferences, however.
The Great Peacock has shown us that the
failure to return is due to more serious rea-
sons than amputation of the horns.

Moreover, a second Monk, the Clovet
Bombyx, nearly akin to the first and, like him,
superbly plumed, sets us an exceedingly per-
plexing problem. He is fairly plentiful
around my place ; even in the enclosure I find
298

The Banded Monk

his cocoon, which might easily be confused
with that of the Oak Bombyx. I am deceived
at first by the resemblance. Out of six co-
coons, from which I expected to obtain
Banded Monks, six females of the other spe-
cies hatch at the end of August. Well,
around those six females, born in my house,
never a male appears, though there is no
doubt that the tufted ones are present in the
neighbourhood.

If spreading feathered antennae are really
organs for receiving information at a distance,
why are not my richly-horned neighbours in-
formed of what is happening in my study?
Why do their fine plumes leave them indiffer-
ent to events that would bring the Banded
Monk hastening up in crowds? Once more,
the organ does not determine the aptitude.
This one is gifted and that one is not, despite
organic similarity.

299

CHAPTER XIII

THE SENSE OF SMELL

IN PHYSICS we hear of nothing nowadays
but the Rontgen rays, which penetrate
dense bodies and photograph the invisible for
us. A fine discovery, but how insignificant
in face of the surprises which the future re-
serves for us when, better-informed of the
why and wherefore of things, we supplement
with art the feebleness of our senses and suc-
ceed in rivalling, be it ever so little, the keen-
ness of perception revealed by the brute crea-
tion.

How enviable, in many cases, is this animal
superiority ! It teaches us the poverty of our
attainments; it declares the mediocrity of our
sensory apparatus; it gives us evidence of
impressions foreign to our nature; it pro-
claims realities so far in excess of our attri-
butes that they astound us.

A wretched caterpillar, the Pine Proces-
sionary, splits his back into meteorological
air-holes which snuff the coming weather and
300

The Sense of Smell

foretell the squall ; the bird of prey, with its
incomparably long sight, sees from high in
the clouds the Field-mouse squatting on the
ground; the blinded Bats guide their flight
without injury to themselves amid Spallan-
zani's1 inextricable maze of threads; the Car-
rier-pigeon, though moved a hundred leagues
from home, infallibly regains his cote across
immensities which he has never traversed un-
aided; within the limits of her humbler flight,
a Bee, the Chalicodoma,2 also spans the un-
known, accomplishes a long journey and re-
turns to her mass of cells.

The man who has never seen a Dog hunt-
ing for truffles does not know one of the finest
achievements of the sense of smell. Absorbed
in its functions, the animal trots along, with
its nose to the wind, at a moderate pace. It
stops, questions the ground with its nostrils,
scratches for a few seconds, without undue
excitement, and looks up at its master:

"Here we are," it seems to say, "here we

Abbe Lazaro Spallanzani (1729-99), an early
experimenter in natural history and author of a num-
ber of important works on the circulation of the blood,
on digestion, on generation and on microscopic ani-
mals. Cf. The Hunting Wasps: chap. xix. — Trans-
lator's Note.

2Cf. The Mason-Bees, passim.— Translator's Note.
301

The Life of the Caterpillar

arel On my word of honour as a Dog,
there's a truffle here."

And it speaks the truth. The master digs
at the point indicated. If the trowel goes
astray, the Dog shows the man how to put it
right by sniffing at the bottom of the hole.
Do not be afraid of the stones and roots in
between: despite the depth and intervening
obstacles, the tuber will come. A Dog's nose
cannot lie.

"Subtlety of smell," you say.

I have no objection, if by that you mean
that the animal's nasal passages are the or-
gan of perception; but is the thing perceived
always a mere smell, in the ordinary accept-
ation of the word, an effluvium such as our
own senses understand it? I have some rea-
son to doubt this. Let us set the matter
forth.

I have had the good fortune on several oc-
casions to accompany a Dog who was a great
expert at his trade. Certainly he was nothing
to look at, this artist whom I was so anxi-
ous to see at work: just a Dog, placid and de-
liberate in his ways, ugly, unkempt; the sort
of Dog that you would never admit to your
fireside. Talent and poverty often go hand
in hand.

302

The Sense of Smell

His master, a celebrated rabassier1 in the
village, convinced that I had no intention of
stealing his secrets and one day setting up in
competition, allowed me to join him in his
expeditions, a favour which he did not often
grant. The worthy man was quite willing to
fall in with my views, once he saw that I was
not an apprentice but merely an enquirer who
made drawings2 and wrote down lists of un-
derground vegetable things, instead of mar-
keting my bagful of treasure-trove, the glory
of the Christmas Turkey.

It was agreed between us that the Dog
should act as he pleased and receive a bit of
bread as his reward after each discovery, in-
discriminately. Every spot scratched up by
his paws was to be dug and the object indi-
cated extracted without our troubling about
its commercial value. In no case was the
master's experience to intervene and divert
the dog from a spot where practice told him

^Rabasso is the Provencal for truffle. Hence the
word rabassier to denote a truffle-hunter. — Author's
Note.

2For some account of Fabre's drawings of the fungi
of his district, cf. The Life of the Fly, by J. Henri
Fabre, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos :
chap, xvii.— Translator's Note.

303

The Life of the Caterpillar

that nothing saleable was to be found, for,
in drawing up my botanical lists, I preferred
wretched and unmarketable products to the
choicest morsels, though these of course were
welcomed when they appeared.

Thus conducted, the underground bota-
nizing was very fruitful. With his perspica-
cious nose, the Dog made me gather indif-
ferently the large and the small, the fresh and
the putrid, the scented and the unscented, the
fragrant and the stinking. I was amazed at
my collection, which comprised the greater
part of the hypogean fungi in my neighbour-
hood.

What a variety of structure and above all
of odour, the primary quality in this question
of scent 1 There are some that have nothing
more noticeable than a vague fungous musti-
ness, which is more or less evident in all.
Some smell of turnips, of rotten cabbage;
some are fetid enough to fill the collector's
house with their stench. The real truffle
alone possesses the aroma dear to the epi-
cure.

If smell, as we understand it, is the Dog's
only guide, how does he manage to find his
way through all these incongruous odours?

304

The Sense of Smell

Is he apprised of the contents of the soil by
a general emanation, the fungous effluvium
common to the different species? In that
case an extremely embarrassing question
arises.

I paid some attention to the ordinary mush-
rooms, many of which, as yet invisible, an-
nounced their coming as imminent by crack-
ing the surface of the ground. Now I never
saw the Dog stop at any of those points
where my eyes divined the cryptogam push-
ing back the earth with the thrust of its cap,
points where the ordinary fungous smell was
certainly most pronounced. He passed them
by scornfully, with not a sniff, with not a
stroke of his paw. And yet the thing was
underground; and its reek was similar to
others which he sometimes pointed out to us.

I came back from the Dog's school with
the conviction that the truffle-detecting nose
has a better guide than smell, in the sense in
which our olfactory powers 'realize it. It
must perceive, in addition, effluvia of a dif-
ferent order, full of mystery to us, who are
not equipped accordingly. Light has its dark
rays, which are without effect upon our retinae,
but not apparently upon all. Why should not

305

The Life of the Caterpillar

the domain of smell have its secret emana-
tions, unknown to our senses but perceptible
to a differently constructed organ of smell?

If the scent of the Dog leaves us perplexed
to this extent, that it is impossible for us to
say exactly or even to suspect what it per-
ceives, it at least tells us plainly that we
should be greatly mistaken to compare every-
thing by human standards. The world of
sensations is far larger than the limits of our
sensibility admit. What a number of facts
in the working of the forces of nature escape
us for want of organs delicate enough to per-
ceive them !

The unknown, that inexhaustible field
which the future will cultivate, holds harvests
in store for us beside which our present
knowledge is but a pitiful gleaning. Under
the sickle of science sheaves will one day fall
whose grain to-day would seem a senseless
paradox. Scientific illusions? Not so, if you
please, but undeniable and positive realities,
affirmed by the animal world, which in cert-
ain respects has a great advantage over the
world of man.

In spite of his long professional practice,
in spite of the aroma of the tuber which he
306

The Sense of Smell

is seeking, the rabassier cannot guess the
presence of the truffle, which ripens in winter
underground, at a depth of eighteen inches or
so; he needs the aid of the Dog or the Pig,
whose scent pries into the secrets of the soil.
Well, these secrets are known to different in-
sects even better than to our two helpers. In
order to discover the tuber on which their
family of grubs is to be fed, they possess a
scent of exceptional perfection.

Long ago, from truffles dug up spoilt and
teeming with vermin and placed in this con-
dition in a glass jar with a layer of fresh sand,
I obtained first a small red Beetle (Anisotoma
cinnamomea, PANZ.) and then various Dip-
tera, including a Sapromyzon, who, with her
sluggish flight and feeble frame, reminds me
of a Fly, clad in yellow velvet, known as
Scatophaga scybalaria, that placid frequenter
of human excrement in autumn.

The latter finds her truffle on the surface
of the ground, at the foot of a wall or hedge,
man's usual hasty refuge in the country; but
how does the other know at what point un-
derground lies hers, or rather her grubs'
truffle? To go down and hunt about in the
depths is beyond her power. Her frail

307

The Life of the Caterpillar

limbs, which the moving of a grain of sand
would warp; her wings, which, if extended,
would block her way through a gorge; her
dress of stiff silk, militating against a smooth
passage: these are all against her. The Sa-
promyzon is obliged to lay her eggs on the
surface of the soil, but she must do so at the
very spot beneath which the truffle lies, for
the tiny grubs would die if they had to roam
at random until they came upon their proven-
der, which is always sparsely distributed.

The truffle-hunting Fly is therefore in-
formed by her sense of smell of the spots fa-
vourable to her maternal plans; she possesses
the scent of the rabassier Dog, indeed pro-
bably a better one, for she knows things by
nature, having never been taught, whereas
her rival has only received an artificial educa-
tion.

It would be interesting to follow the Sa-
promyzon's manoeuvres, but the idea strikes
me as impracticable. The insect is rare, flies
away quickly and is soon out of sight. To
observe it closely, to watch it at work would
involve a great loss of time and a degree of
assiduity of which I do not feel capable. An-
other discoverer of underground fungi shall
308

The Sense of Smell

reveal what the Fly could hardly be expected
to show us.

This is a pretty little black Beetle, with a
pale and velvety belly, round as a cherry-
stone and much the same size. The insect's
official title is Bolboceras gallicus, MULS. By
rubbing the tip of its abdomen against the
edge of its wing-cases it emits a soft chirrup
similar to that of the little birds when their
mother comes home with their food. The
male wears a graceful horn on his head,
copied on a smaller scale from that of the
Spanish Copris.1

Deceived by this armour, I at first took the
insect for a member of the Dung-*beetles'
corporation and brought it up as such in cap-
tivity. I served it with these stercoral dainties
which are most appreciated by its presumed
colleagues. But never, no, never did it con-
sent to touch them. Fie, for shame 1 Dung
to a Bolboceras ! Well ! What on earth did
I take him for? The epicure expects some-
thing very different. He wants not exactly
the truffle of our banquets, but its equivalent.

1One of the Dung-beetles. Cf. The Life and Love
of the Insect: chap, v.— Translator's Note.

309

The Life of" the Caterpillar

This characteristic was not displayed to me
without patient investigation on my part. At
the southern foot of the Serignan hills, not
far from the village, stands a thicket of mari-
time pines, alternating with rows of cypress-
trees. Here, at the season of All Saints, af-
ter the autumnal rains, the mushrooms
abound that frequent the Coni ferae, in par-
ticular the delicious milk-mushroom, which
turns green at any part that is bruised and
sheds tears of blood when you break it.1 In
the mild days of autumn this is the favourite
walk of my household, being far enough to
exercise young legs and near enough not to
tire them.

They find everything there: old Magpies'
nests, formed of bundles of twigs; Jays
squabbling with one another, after filling their
crops with acorns on the oaks hard by; Rab-
bits suddenly starting out of a rosemary-bush,
showing their little white upturned scuts;
Geotrupes2 hoarding away food for the win-
ter and heaping up their rubbish on the

1Cf. The Life of the Fly: chap, xviii. — Translator's
Note.

•Cf. The Life and Love of the Insect: chap, ix.—
Translator's Note.

310

The Sense of Smell

threshold of the burrow. And then lovely
sand, soft to the touch, easy to dig into tun-
nels, easy to build into rows of huts which we
thatch with moss and surmount with a bit of
reed by way of a chimney; and the delicious
lunch off an apple to the sound of the yEolian
harps softly sighing through the pine-needles I

Yes, for the children it is a real paradise,
where one goes as a reward for well-learnt
lessons. The grown-ups also have their share
of enjoyment. As far as I am concerned, I
have for many years been watching two in-
sects here, without succeeding in discovering
their family secrets. One of them is Mino-
taurus typh&us,1 whose male carries on his
corselet three spikes pointing in front of him.
The old writers used to call him the Phalan-
gist, because of his armour, which may be
compared with the three lines of spears of the
Macedonian phalanx.

He is a robust fellow, who cares nothing
for the winter. All through the cold season,
whenever the weather turns a trifle milder,
he leaves his house discreetly, at nightfall,
and gathers, in the immediate neighbourhood

*A Dung-beetle. Cf. The Life and Love of the In-
sect: chap. x. — Translator's Note.

3"

The Life of the Caterpillar

of his burrow, a few Sheep-droppings, ancient,
olive-shaped remains dried by the summer
sun. He heaps them in a stack at the bottom
of his larder, shuts the door and eats. When
the provisions are all crumbed and drained
of their niggardly juices, he climbs back to
the surface and renews his stores. Thus does
he spend the winter, never resting from his
work, except when the weather is too severe.

The second object of my observations in
the pine-wood is the Bolboceras. His bur-
rows, distributed here and there, among those
of the Minotaur, are easily distinguished.
The Phalangist's are surmounted by a bulky
mound the materials of which are heaped into
a cylinder as long as one's finger. Each of
these rolls is a load of rubbish pushed outside
by the digger, thrusting with his back from
below. The orifice moreover is closed when-
ever the Beetle is at home, either enlarging
the shaft or peacefully enjoying his possess-
ions.

The Bolboceras' lodging is open and sur-
rounded merely by a padding of sand. Its
depth is slight, nine inches, hardly more. It
goes straight down in very loose soil. It is
easily inspected, therefore, if we take care first
312

The Sense of Smell

to dig a trench in front of it, which will enable
us later to cut away the perpendicular wall,
slice by slice, with the blade of a knife. The
burrow then appears at full length, from top
to bottom, in a semicylindrical shape.

Often the violated dwelling-house is empty.
The insect has left during the night, having
finished its business there and gone to settle
elsewhere. The Bolboceras is a nomad, a
night-walker, who leaves his home without
regret and easily acquires a new one. Some-
times also the insect is found at the bottom of
the pit : at one time a male, at another a fe-
male, but never the two at a time. The sexes,
both equally zealous in digging burrows,
work separately, not together. This is not,
in fact, a family residence, containing the
nursery of the young; it is a temporary abode,
dug by each occupant for his own comfort.

Sometimes we find nothing there but the
well-sinker, surprised during his work of ex-
cavation; sometimes, lastly — and the case is
not uncommon — the hermit of the crypt em-
braces with his legs a small hypogean fun-
gus, either intact or partly consumed. He
clutches it convulsively, refuses to be parted
from it. It is his booty, his fortune, his

313

The Life of the Caterpillar

worldly goods. Scattered crumbs tell us that
we have caught him feasting.

Let us take his prize away from him. We
shall see a sort of irregular, rugged purse,
closed on every side and varying in size be-
tween a pea and a cherry. Outside it is red-
dish, rough with little warts; inside it is
smooth and white. The spores, which are
ovoid and diaphanous, are contained, in rows
of eight, in long satchels. By these charac-
teristics we recognize an underground cryp-
togamous product, nearly related to the truf-
fles and known to botanists as Hydnocystis
arenaria, TUL.

This throws a light upon the habits of the
Bolboceras and upon the reason why his bur-
rows are so frequently renewed. In the calm
of the twilight, the little gadabout takes to
the fields, chirruping softly as he goes, cheer-
ing himself with song. He explores the soil,
questions it as to its contents, just as the Dog
does when hunting for truffles. His sense of
smell warns him when the coveted morsel is
underneath, covered by a few inches of sand.
Certain of the exact spot where the thing lies,
he digs straight down and never fails to
reach it. As long as the provisions last, he
314

The Sense of Smell

docs not go out again. Blissfully he feeds at
the bottom of the well, heedless of the door
left open or hardly barred.

When no more food remains, he moves,
looking for another loaf, which will become
the excuse for a fresh burrow, to be aban-
doned in its turn. Each fungus consumed
represents a new house, which is a mere re-
fectory, a traveller's refreshment-room. Thus
are the autumn and spring, the seasons of the
hydnocystis, spent in the pleasures of the
table, from one home to the next.

To study the rabassier insect more closely,
in my own house, I should need a little store
of its favourite fare. It would be waste of
time to seek for it myself, by digging at ran-
dom: the little cryptogam is not so plentiful
that I can hope to strike it with my trowel
without a guide. The truffle-hunter needs his
Dog; my informer shall be the Bolboceras
himself. Behold me turned into a rabassier
of a new kind. I reveal my secret, which can
only raise a smile from my original instructor
in underground botany, if he should ever hear
of my singular form of competition.

The subterranean fungi occur only at cert-
ain points, often in groups. Now the Beetle

The Life of the Caterpillar

has been this way; with his delicate scent he
has recognized the site as good, for the bur-
rows are numerous hereabouts. We will
therefore dig near the holes. The clue is ac-
curate. In a few hours, thanks to the tracks
left by the Bolboceras, I possess a handful of
hydnocystes. It is the first time that I have
gathered this particular fungus. Let us now
catch the insect. That presents no difficult-
ies : we have only to dig up the burrows.

I make my experiments the same evening,
filling a large earthen pan with fresh, sifted
sand. With a stick as thick as my finger, I
make six vertical tunnels in the sand, two
decimetres1 deep and placed at a suitable dis-
tance apart. A hydnocystis is lowered to the
bottom of each; and I insert a fine straw, to
show me the exact position later. Lastly, I
fill up the six cavities with caked sand. When
this surface has been carefully smoothed, so
that the level is everywhere the same, except
for the six straws, landmarks that mean no-
thing to the Bolboceras, I let loose my cap-
tives, covering them with a wire-gauze cage.
There are eight of them.

At first there is nothing to see save the in-

*7.8 inches. — Translator's Note.

The Sense of Smell

evitable uneasiness due to the incidents of
their exhumation, transport and confinement
in an unknown place. My exiles from home
try to escape, climb up the wire, burrow right
at the edge of the enclosure. Night falls and
things grow calmer. Two hours later, I come
to take a last look at them. Three are still
buried under a thin layer of sand. The five
others have each dug a perpendicular shaft at
the very foot of the straws which tell me
where the fungi lie. Next morning, the sixth
straw has its well like the others.

This is the moment to see what is hap-
pening underground. I remove the sand me-
thodically in vertical slices. At the bottom of
each burrow is a Bolboceras eating his truffle,
the hydnocystis.

Let us repeat the experiment with the
partly-consumed victuals. The result is the
same. At one brief, nocturnal spell of work,
the dainty is discovered underground and
reached by means of a gallery which runs
plumb to the spot where the morsel lies.
There is no hesitation, no trial excavation
guided by guesswork. This is proved by the
surface of the soil, which everywhere is just
as I left it when I smoothed it down. The

317

The Life of the Caterpillar

insect could not have made straighter for the
coveted object had it been guided by sight;
it always digs at the foot of the straws, my
sign-posts. The Dog, nosing the ground for
truffles, hardly achieves this degree of pre-
cision.

Has the hydnocystis then a very pungent
smell, able to give such positive information
to its consumer's scent? Not at all. To our
nostrils it is a neutral object, devoid of any
appreciable olfactory character. A tiny peb-
ble taken out of the ground would impress us
just as much with its faint aroma of fresh
earth. As a revealer of underground fungous
products, the Bolboceras here rivals the Dog.
He would even rise superior to the Dog, were
he able to generalize. But he is a rigorous
specialist : he knows only the hydnocystis. No-
thing else, so far as I am aware, tempts him
to dig.1

Both of them search the subsoil very
closely, at the level of the ground; and the
object which they seek is not far down. Were
they farther away, neither the Dog nor the in-

1 Since writing the above lines, I have found him
eating one of the true Tuberaceae, Tuber Requienii, TUL.,
the size of a cherry. — Author's Note.

318

The Sense of Smell

sect would notice effluvia so subtle, not even
the smell of a truffle. To make an impression
at a great distance, powerful odours are
needed, capable of perception by our olfac-
tory sense. Then the exploiters of the odor-
ous thing come hastening up on all sides from
afar.

When, for the purpose of my studies, I
require insects that dissect corpses, I expose
a dead Mole in the sun, in a distant corner of
the enclosure. As soon as the animal swells,
distended by the gases of putrefaction, and
the skin begins to turn green and the fur
to fall from it, up come numbers of Silphae1
and Dermestes,2 Necrophori3 and other Bury-
ing-beetles, of whom one would find not a
single specimen in the garden, or even in the
neighbourhood, without this bait.

They have been informed by their sense
of smell, at a great distance all around,
whereas I myself can avoid the stench by ta-
king a few steps back. Compared with their
scent, mine is contemptible; but still, in their

1Carrion-beeJtles proper. — Translator's Note.
2Bacon-beetles. — Translator's Note.
3Burying-beetles proper. — Translator's Note.

319

The Life of the Caterpillar

case as well as mine, there is really here what
our language calls a smell.

I can do better still with the flower of the
dragon arum (Arum dracunculus) , so re-
markable for its shape and for its unequalled
stench. Imagine a wide, lanceolate blade, of
a clarety purple, half a yard long and rolled
below into an ovoid pouch the size of a hen's
egg. Through the opening of this wallet
rises a central column springing from the bot-
tom, a long, bright-green club, encircled at its
base by two bracelets, one of ovaries, the
other of stamens. Such, briefly described, is
the flower, or rather the inflorescence, of the
dragon arum.

For two days it exhales a frightful stench
of carrion, worse than the proximity of a
dead Dog would yield. During the hottest
part of the day, with a wind blowing, it is
loathsome, unbearable. Let us brave the in-
fected atmosphere and go up to it; we shall
behold a curious sight.

Informed by the foul odour, which spreads
far and wide, various insects come flying
along, such insects as make sausage-meat of
small corpses — Toads, Adders, Lizards,
Hedgehogs, Moles, Field-mice — which the
320

The Sense of Smell

husbandman hits with his spade and flings
away disembowelled on the foot-path. They
swoop down upon the great leaf, which,
with its livid purple, looks like a strip
of meat gone bad; they caper about, in-
toxicated by the smell of corpse which they
love; they roll down the slope and are
swallowed up in the purse. After a few
hours of bright sunshine, the receptacle is
full.

Let us look inside, through the narrow
opening. No elsewhere could you see such a
crowd. It is a mad whirl of backs and bel-
lies, of wing-cases and legs, swarming, rolling
over and over, amid the snap of interlocked
joints, rising and falling, floating and sinking,
seething and bubbling without end. It is a
drunken revel, an epidemic of delirium
tremens.

Some, few as yet, emerging from the mass,
climb to the opening by means of the
central pole or the walls of the enclosure.
Will they take wing and make their es-
cape? Not they! Standing on the brink of
the chasm, almost free, they drop back into
the whirlpool, in a fresh bout of intoxica-
tion. The bait is irresistible. Not one of
321

The Life of the Caterpillar

them will quit the assembly until the evening,
or perhaps next morning, when the heady
fumes have evaporated. Then the mass be-
comes disentangled; and the insects extricate
themselves from one another's embraces and
slowly, as it were regretfully, leave the place
and fly away. At the bottom of this devil's
purse remains a heap of dead and dying, of
severed limbs and disjointed wing-cases, the
inevitable result of the frenzied orgy. Soon,
Wood-lice, Earwigs and Ants will arrive and
devour the deceased.

What were they doing there? Were they
the prisoners of the flower? Had it con-
verted itself into a trap which allowed them
to enter, but prevented them from escaping,
by means of a fence of converging hairs?
No, they were not prisoners; they had full
liberty to go away, as is shown by the final
exodus, which is effected without impedi-
ment. Deceived by a false odour, were they
doing their best to instal their eggs, as they
would have done under a corpse? Not that
either. There is no trace of an attempt at
egg-laying in the dragon's purse. They came,
enticed by the smell of a dead body, their su-
preme delight; they were drunk with corpse;

322

The Sense of Smell

and they spun round frantically in an under-
takers' carnival.

When the bacchanal dance is at its height,
I try to count the number of the arrivals. I
rip up the floral pouch and pour its contents
into a flask. Absolutely tipsy though they
be, many would escape during the census,
which I wish to take accurately. A few drops
of carbon bisulphide deprive the crowd of
motion. The counting then shows that there
were over four hundred. Such was the living
billow which I saw surging just now in the
dragon's purse.

The throng consists entirely of two fami-
lies, Dermestes and Saprini,1 both of whom
are very busy in spring turning derelict corpses
to account. Here is a complete list of the vis-
itors to a single flower, with the number of
representatives of each speties: Dermestes
Frischu, KUGEL., 120; D. undulatus, BRAHM,
90; D. pardalis, ScHOENH., i; Saprinus sub-
nitidus, DE MARS., i6o;5. maculatus, Ross.,
4 ; S. detersus, ILLIG., 1 5 ; S. semipunctatus,
DE MARS., 12 ; S. aneus, FABR., 2 ; S. speculi-
fer, LATR., 2. Total: 406.

'A species of small carnivorous Beetles. — Translator's
Note.

323

The Life of the Caterpillar

Another detail deserves attention just as
much as this enormous figure ; and that is the
complete absence of a number of other genera
which are as passionately fond of small
corpses as are the Dermestes and Saprini.
My charnel-houses of Moles never fail to be
visited by the Silphae and Necrophori : Silpha
sinuata, FABR. ; S. rugosa, LIN. ; S. obscura,
LlN. ; Necrophorus vestigator, HERSCH. The
reek of the dragon arum leaves them all in-
different. None of them is represented in the
ten flowers which I examine.

Nor are any Diptera, those other devotees
of corruption. Several Flies, some grey or
bluey, others a metallic green, come up, it is
true, settle on the edge of the flower and even
find their way into the fetid wallet; but they
are almost immediately undeceived and fly
away. Only the Dermestes and Saprini stay
behind. Why?

My friend Bull, as decent a Dog as ever
lived, had this among many other eccentrici-
ties: if he found in the dust of the road the
dried up corpse of a Mole flattened under the
heels of the passers-by, mummified by the
heat of the sun, he would revel in rolling him-
self over it from the tip of his nose to the end
324

The Sense of Smell

of his tail; he would rub himself in it ovef
and over again, shaken with nervous spasms,
turning first on one side, then on the other.
It was his sachet of musk, his flask of eau-de-
Cologne. When scented to his liking, he
would get up, shake himself and trot off,
pleased as Punch with his pomade. Let us
not abuse him and, above all, let us not dis-
cuss the matter. There are tastes of all kinds
in this world.

Why should not some of the insects that
dote on the smell of the dead have similar
habits? Dermestes and Saprini come to the
dragon arum; all day long they swarm in
throngs, although free to go away; many of
them die in the riot of the orgy. It is no
rich provender that keeps them, for the flower
gives them nothing to eat; it is not a question
of laying eggs, for they take good care not
to settle their grubs in that famine-stricken
spot. What are they doing here, the frenzied
ones? Apparently intoxicating themselves
with fetidness, just as Bull did on the carcass
of a Mole.

And this intoxication of smell attracts them
from every part around, from very far per-
haps, one cannot tell. Even so the Necro-

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The Life of the Caterpillar

phori, in quest of an establishment for their
young, hasten from the fields to my putrefy-
ing Moles. Both are informed by a potent
smell, which offends our nostrils sixty yards
away, but which travels ahead and delights
them at distances where our own power of
scent ceases.

The hydnocystis, the Bolboceras' treat, has
none of these violent emanations, capable of
being diffused through space; it is devoid of
smell, at least to us. The insect that hunts for
it does not come from a distance; it inhabits
the very places where the cryptogam lies.
However faint the effluvia of the under-
ground morsel, the prying epicure, equipped
for the purpose, has every facility for per-
ceiving them: he operates close by, on the
surface of the soil. The Dog's case is the
same : he goes along searching, with his nose
to the ground. Then, too, the real truffle, the
essential object of his quest, possesses a most
pronounced odour.

But what are we to say of the Great Pea-
cock and the Banded Monk, making their
way to the female born in captivity? They
hasten from the ends of the horizon. What
do they perceive at that distance ? Is it really
326

The Sense of Smell

an odour, as our physiology understands the
word? I cannot bring myself to believe it.

The Dog smells the truffle by sniffing the
earth, quite close to the tuber; he finds his
master at great distances by consulting the
scent of his footprints. But is he able to dis-
cover the truffle hundreds of yards away,
miles away? Can he join his master in the
complete absence of a trail? Certainly not.
For all his fineness of scent, the Dog is in-
capable of such a feat, which is performed,
however by the Moth, who is put off neither
by distance nor by the lack of any traces out
of doors of the female hatched on my table.

It is a recognized fact that smell, ordinary
smell, the smell that affects our nostrils, con-
sists of molecules emanating from the scented
body. The odorous matter dissolves and is
diffused throughout the air by communicating
to the air its aroma, even as sugar dissolves
and is diffused in water by communicating to
the water its sweetness. Smell and taste
touch each other at some points ; in both cases
there is a contact between the material parti-
cles that give the impression and the sensitive
papillae that receive it.

Nothing can be simpler or clearer than that

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The Life of the Caterpillar

the dragon arum elaborates an intensely
strong essence with which the air is impreg-
nated and infected all around. Thus the Der-
mestes and Saprini, those passionate lovers of
carrion smells, are informed by molecular dif-
fusion. In the same way, the putrid Toad
gives out and disseminates the stinking atoms
that are the Necrophorus' delight.

But what is materially emitted by the fe-
male Bombyx or Great Peacock? Nothing,
according to our sense of smell. And this
nothing is supposed, when the males congre-
gate, to saturate an immense circle, several
miles in radius, with its molecules! What
the horrible stench of the dragon arum is un-
able to do the absence of odour is believed to
accomplish ! However divisible matter may
be, the mind refuses to accept such conclu-
sions. It would be tantamount to reddening
a lake with an atom of carmine, to filling im-
mensity with nothing.

Another argument. When my study is
saturated beforehand with pungent odours
which ought to overcome and destroy the
most delicate effluvia, the male Moths arrive
without the least sign of embarrassment.

A loud noise kills the faint note and pre-
.328

The Sense of Smell

vents it from being heard; a bright light
eclipses a feeble gleam. These are waves of
the same nature. But the roar of thunder
cannot cause the least jet of light to pale; nor
can the dazzling glory of the sun stifle the
least sound. Being of different natures, light
and sound do not influence each other.

The experiment with the lavender-oil,
naphthaline and the rest would therefore seem
to prove that odour proceeds from two
sources. For emission substitute undulation;
and the problem of the Great Peacock is ex-
plained. Without losing any of its substance,
a luminous point shakes the ether with its
vibrations and fills a circle of indefinite width
with light. This must almost express the
working of the mother Bombyx' tell-tale dis-
charge. It does not emit molecules: it vi-
brates ; it sets in motion waves capable of
spreading to distances incompatible with a
real diffusion of matter.

In its entirety, smell would thus seem to
have two domains: that of the particles dis-
solved in the air and that of the ethereal
waves. The first alone is known to us. It
belongs also to the insect. It is this which
informs the Saprinus of the dragon arum's
329

The Life of the Caterpillar

fetidity and the Silpha and Necrophorus of
the stench of the Mole.

The second, which is far superior in its
range through space, escapes us altogether,
because we lack the necessary sensory equip-
ment. The Great Peacock and the Banded
Monk know it at the time of the nuptial re-
joicings. And many others must share it in
various degrees, according to the exigencies of
their mode of life.

Like light, odour has its X-rays. Should
science one day, instructed by the insect, en-
dow us with a radiograph of smells, this arti-
ficial nose will open out to us a world of
marvels.

330

CHAPTER XIV

THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR

THE cabbage of our modern kitchen-
gardens is a semi-artificial plant, the pro-
duce of our agricultural ingenuity quite as
much as of the niggardly gifts of nature.
Spontaneous vegetation supplied us with the
long-stalked, scanty-leaved, ill-smelling wild-
ing, as found, according to the botanists, on
the ocean cliffs. He had need of a rare in-
spiration who first showed faith in this rustic
clown and proposed to improve it in his gar-
den-patch.

Progressing by infinitestimal degrees, cul-
ture wrought miracles. It began by persua-
ding the wild cabbage to discard its wretched
leaves, beaten by the sea-winds, and to replace
them by others, ample and fleshy and close-
fitting. The gentle cabbage submitted with-
out protest. It deprived itself of the joys of
light by arranging its leaves in a large, com-
pact head, white and tender. In our day,
among the successors of those first tiny hearts,
are some that, by virtue of their massive bulk,

331

The Life of the Caterpillar

have earned the glorious name of chou
quintal, as who should say, a hundredweight
of cabbage. They are real monuments of
green stuff.

Later, man thought of obtaining a gene-
rous dish with the thousand little sprays of the
inflorescence. The cabbage consented. Under
the cover of the central leaves, it gorged with
food its sheaves of blossom, its flower-stalks,
its branches and worked the lot into a fleshy
conglomeration. This is the cauliflower, the
broccoli.

Differently entreated, the plant, economi-
zing in the centre of its shoot, set a whole
family of closs-wrapped cabbages ladder-wise
on a tall stem. A multitude of dwarf leaf-
buds took the place of the colossal head. This
is the Brussels sprout.

Next comes the turn of the stump, an un-
profitable, almost wooden thing, which seemed
never to have any other purpose than to act
as a support for the plant. But the tricks
of gardeners are capable of everything, so
much so that the stalk yields to the grower's
suggestions and becomes fleshy and swells
into an ellipse similar to the turnip, of which
it possesses all the merits of corpulence,
332

The Cabbage-caterpillar

flavour and delicacy; only the strange product
serves as a base for a few sparse leaves, the
last protests of a real stem that refuses to
lose its attributes entirely. This is the cole-
rape.

If the stem allows itself to be al-
lured, why not the root? It does in
fact, yield to the blandishments of agri-
culture : it dilates its pivot into a flat
turnip, which half emerges from the
ground. This is the rutabaga, or swede,
the turnip-cabbage of our northern dis-
tricts.

Incomparably docile under our nursing, the
cabbage has given its all for our nourishment
and that of our cattle : its leaves, its flowers,
its buds, its stalk, its root; all that it now
wants is to combine the ornamental with the
useful, to smarten itself, to adorn our flower-
beds and cut a good figure on a drawing-room
table. It has done this to perfection, not with
its flowers, which, in their modesty, continue
intractible, but with its curly and variegated
leaves, which have the undulating grace of
Ostrich-feathers and the rich colouring of a
mixed bouquet. None who beholds it in this
magnificence will recognize the near relation

333

The Life of the Caterpillar

of the vulgar "greens" that form the basis of
our cabbage-soup.

The cabbage, first in order of date in our
kitchen-gardens, was held in high esteem by
classic antiquity, next after the bean and, later,
the pea ; but it goes much farther back, so far
indeed that no memories of its acquisition re-
main. History pays but little attention to
these details: it celebrates the battle-fields
whereon we meet our death, it scorns to speak
of the ploughed fields whereby we thrive; it
knows the names of the kings' bastards, it
cannot tell us the origin of wheat. That is
the way of human folly.

This silence respecting the precious plants
that serve as food is most regrettable. The
cabbage in particular, the venerable cabbage,
that denizen of the most ancient garden-
plots, would have had extremely interesting
things to teach us. It is a treasure in itself,
but a treasure twice exploited, first by man
and next by the caterpillar of the Pieris, the
common Large White Butterfly whom we all
know (Pieris brassica, LlN.J. This cater-
pillar feeds indiscriminately on the leaves of
all varieties of cabbage, however dissimilar
in appearance: he nibbles with the same ap-

334

The Cabbage-caterpillar

petite red cabbage and broccoli, curly greens
and savoy, swedes and turnip-tops, in short,
all that our ingenuity, lavish of time and pa-
tience, has been able to obtain from the ori-
ginal plant since the most distant ages.

But what did the caterpillar eat before our
cabbages supplied him with copious pro-
vender? Obviously the Pieris did not wait
for the advent of man and his horticultural
works in order to take part in the joys of life.
She lived without us and would have con-
tinued to live without us. A Butterfly's exist-
ence is not subject to ours, but rightfully in-
dependent of our aid.

Before the white-heart, the cauliflower, the
savoy and the others were invented, the Pieris'
caterpillar certainly did not lack food: he
browsed the wild cabbage of the cliffs, the
parent of all the latter-day wealth; but, as this
plant is not widely distributed and is, in any
case, limited to certain maritime regions, the
welfare of the Butterfly, whether on plain or
hill, demanded a more luxuriant and more
common plant for pasturage. This plant was
apparently one of the Crucifera2, more or less
seasoned with sulphuretted essence, like the
cabbages. Let us experiment on these lines.

335

The Life of the Caterpillar

I rear the Pieris' caterpillars from the egg
upwards on the wall-rocket (Diplo taxis tenui-
folia, DEC.), which imbibes strong spices
along the edge of the paths and at the foot of
the walls. Penned in a large, wire-gauze bell-
cage, they accept this provender without de-
mur; they nibble it with the same appetite as
if it were cabbage; and they end by producing
chrysalids and Butterflies. The change of fare
causes not the least trouble.

I am equally successful with other crucifers
of a less marked flavour: white mustard
(Sinapis incana, LIN.), dyer's woad (Isatis
tinctoria, LIN.), wild radish (Raphanus
raphanistrum, LIN.), whitlow pepperwort
(Lepidium draba, LIN.), hedge-mustard
(Sisymbrium officinale, SCOP.). On the other
hand, the leaves of the lettuce, the bean, the
pea, the corn-salad are obstinately refused.
Let us be content with what we have seen:
the fare has been sufficiently varied to show
us that the Cabbage-caterpillar feeds exclu-
sively on a large number of crucifers, perhaps
even on all.

As these experiments are made in the en-
closure of a bell-cage, one might imagine that
captivity impels the flock to feed, in the
336

The Cabbage-caterpillar

absence of better things, on what it would
refuse were it free to hunt for itself. Having
naught else within their reach, the starvelings
consume any and all Cruciferae, without dis-
tinction of species. Can things sometimes be
the same in the open fields, where I play none
of my tricks? Can the family of the White
Butterfly be settled on other crucifers than
the cabbage? I start a quest along the paths
near the gardens and end by finding on wild
radish and white mustard colonies as crowded
and prosperous as those established on cab-
bage.

Now, except when the metamorphosis is at
hand, the caterpillar of the White Butterfly
never travels : he does all his growing on the
identical plant whereon he saw the light. The
caterpillars observed on the wild radish, as
well as other households, are not, therefore,
emigrants who have come as a matter of fancy
from some cabbage-patch in the neighbour-
hood: they have hatched on the very leaves
where I find them. Hence I arrive at this
conclusion: the White Butterfly, who is fitful
in her flight, chooses cabbage first, to dab her
eggs upon, and different Cruciferae next,
varying greatly in appearance.

337

The Life of the Caterpillar

How does the Pieris manage to know her
way about her botanical domain? We have
seen the Larini,1 those explorers of fleshy
receptacles with an artichoke flavour, astonish
us with their knowledge of the flora of the
thistle tribe; but their lore might, at a pinch,
be explained by the method followed at the
moment of housing the egg. With their
rostrum, they prepare niches and dig out
basins in the receptacle exploited and con-
sequently they taste the thing a little before
entrusting their eggs to it. On the other
hand, the Butterfly, a nectar-drinker, makes
not the least enquiry into the savoury qualities
of the leafage; at most, dipping her proboscis
into the flowers, she abstracts a mouthful of
syrup. This means of investigation, more-
over, would be of no use to her, for the plant
selected for the establishing of her family is,
for the most part, not yet in flower. The
mother flits for a moment around the plant;
and that swift examination is enough: the
emission of eggs takes place if the provender
be found suitable.

The botanist, to recognize a crucifer, re-

XA species of Weevils found on thistle-heads. — Trans-
lator's Note.

338

The Cabbage-caterpillar

quires the indications provided by the flower.
Here the Pieris surpasses us. She does not
consult the seed-vessel, to see if it be long or
short, nor yet the petals, four in number and
arranged in a cross, because the plant, as a
rule, is not in flower; and still she recognizes
off-hand what suits her caterpillars, in spite
of profound differences that would embarrass
any but a botanical expert.

Unless the Pieris has an innate power of
discrimination to guide her, it is impossible
to understand the great extent of her vegetable
realm. She needs for her family Cruciferae,
nothing but Cruciferae; and she knows this
group of plants to perfection. I have been an
enthusiastic botanist for half a century and
more. Nevertheless, to discover if this or
that plant, new to me, is or is not one of the
Cruci ferae, in the absence of flowers and fruits
I should have more faith in the Butterfly's
statements than in all the learned records of
the books. Where science is apt to make
mistakes, instinct is infallible.

The Pieris has two families a year: one in
April and May, the othej in September. The
cabbage-patches are renewed in those same
months. The Butterfly's calendar tallies with

339

The Life of the Caterpillar

the gardener's : the moment that provisions
are in sight, consumers are forthcoming for
the feast.

The eggs are a bright orange-yellow and
do not lack prettiness when examined under
the lens. They are blunted cones, ranged side
by side on their round base and adorned with
finely-scored longitudinal ridges. They are
collected in slabs, sometimes on the upper
surface, when the leaf that serves as a sup-
port is spread wide, sometimes on the lower
surface when the leaf is pressed to the next
ones. Their number varies considerably.
Slabs of a couple of hundred are pretty fre-
quent ; isolated eggs, or eggs collected in small
groups, are, on the contrary, rare. The
mother's output is affected by the degree of
quietness at the moment of laying.

The outer circumference of the group is
irregularly formed, but the inside presents a
certain order. The eggs are here arranged
in straight rows backing against one another
in such a way that each egg finds a double
support in the preceding row. This alter-
nation, without being of an irreproachable
precision, gives a fairly stable equilibrium to
the whole.

340

The Cabbage-caterpillar

To see the mother at her laying is no easy
matter: when examined too closely, the Pieris
decamps at once. The structure of the work,
however, reveals the order of the operations
pretty clearly. The ovipositor swings slowly
first in this direction, then in that, by turns;
and a new egg is lodged in each space be-
tween two adjoining eggs in the previous row.
The extent of the oscillation determines the
length of the row, which is longer or shorter
according to the layer's fancy.

The hatching takes place in about a week.
It is almost simultaneous for the whole mass :
as soon as one caterpillar comes out of its egg,
the others come out also, as though the natal
impulse were communicated from one to the
other. In the same way, in the nest of the
Praying Mantis, a warning seems to be
spread abroad, arousing every one of the
population. It is a wave propagated in all
directions from the point first struck.

The egg does not open by means of a dehis-
cence similar to that of the vegetable-pods
whose seeds have attained maturity; it is the
new-born grub itself that contrives an exit-
way by gnawing a hole in its enclosure. In
this manner, it obtains near the top of the
341

The Life of the Caterpillar

cone a symmetrical dormer-window, clean-
edged, with no joins nor unevenness of any
kind, showing that this part of the wall
has been nibbled away and swallowed. But
for this breach, which is just wide enough for
the deliverance, the egg remains intact, stand-
ing firmly on its base. It is now that the lens
is best able to take in its elegant structure.
What it sees is a bag made of ultra-fine gold-
beater's-skin, translucent, stiff and white, re-
taining the complete form of the original
egg. A score of streaked and knotted lines
run from the top to the base. It is the wiz-
ard's pointed cap, the mitre with the grooves
carved into jewelled chaplets. All said,
the Cabbage-caterpillar's birth-casket is an ex-
quisite work of art.

The hatching of the lot is finished in a
couple of hours and the swarming family
musters on the layer of swaddling-clothes,
still in the same position. For a long time,
before descending to the fostering leaf, it
lingers on this kind of hot-bed, is even very
busy there. Busy with what? It is browsing
a strange kind of grass, the handsome mitres
that remain standing on end. Slowly and
methodically, from top to base, the new-born
342

The Cabbage-caterpillar

grubs nibble the wallets whence they have just
emerged. By to-morrow, nothing is left of
these but a pattern of round dots, the bases
of the vanished sacks.

As his first mouthfuls, therefore, the Cab-
bage-caterpillar eats the membranous wrapper
of his egg. This is a regulation diet, for I
have never seen one of the little grubs allow
itself to be tempted by the adjacent green
stuff before finishing the ritual repast whereat
skin bottles furnish forth the feast. It is the
first time that I have seen a larva make a meal
of the sack in which it was born. Of what
use can this singular fare be to the budding
caterpillar? I suspect as follows : the leaves of
the cabbage are waxed and slippery surfaces
and nearly always slant considerably. To
graze on them without risking a fall, which
would be fatal in earliest childhood, is hardly
possible unless with moorings that afford a
steady support. What is needed is bits of silk
stretched along the road as fast as progress is
made, something for the legs to grip, some-
thing to provide a good anchorage even when
the grub is upside down. The silk-tubes,
where those moorings are manufactured, must
be very scantily supplied in a tiny, new-born

343

The Life of the Caterpillar

animal; and it is expedient that they be filled
without delay with the aid of a special form of
nourishment. Then what shall the nature of
the first food be? Vegetable matter, slow to
elaborate and niggardly in its yield, does not
fulfil the desired conditions at all well, for
time presses and we must trust ourselves
safely to the slippery leaf. An animal diet
would be preferable : it is easier to digest and
undergoes chemical changes in a shorter time.
The wrapper of the egg is of a horny nature,
as silk itself is. It will not take long to trans-
form the one into the other. The grub there-
fore tackles the remains of its egg and turns
it into silk to carry with it on its first journeys.

If my surmise is well-founded, there is
reason to believe that, with a view to speedily
filling the silk-glands to which they look to
supply them with ropes, other caterpillars be-
ginning their existence on smooth and steeply-
slanting leaves also take as their first mouth-
ful the membranous sack which is all that re-
mains of the egg.

The whole of the platform of birth-sacks

which was the first camping-ground of the

White Butterfly's family is razed to the

ground ; naught remains but the round marks

344

The Cabbage-caterpillar

of the individual pieces that composed it. The
structure of piles has disappeared; the prints
left by the piles remain. The little caterpil-
lars are now on the level of the leaf which
shall henceforth feed them. They are a pale
orange-yellow, with a sprinkling of white
bristles. The head is a shiny black and re-
markably powerful; it already gives signs of
the coming gluttony. The little animal
measures scarcely two millimetres1 in length.

The troop begins its steadying-work as soon
as it comes into contact with its pasturage, the
green cabbage-leaf. Here, there, in its im-
mediate neighbourhood, each grub emits from
its spinning-glands short cables so slender that
it takes an attentive lens to catch a glimpse of
them. This is enough to ensure the equili-
brium of the almost imponderable atom.

The vegetarian meal now begins. The
grub's length promptly increases from two
millimetres to four. Soon, a moult takes place
which alters its costume: its skin becomes
speckled, on a pale-yellow ground, with a
number of black dots intermingled with white
bristles. Three or four days of rest are neces-
sary after the fatigue of breaking cover.

^078 inch.— Translator's Note.
345

The Life of the Caterpillar

When this is over, the hunger-fit starts that
will make a ruin of the cabbage within a few
weeks.

What an appetite ! What a stomach, work-
ing continuously day and night! It is a
devouring laboratory, through which the
foodstuffs merely pass, transformed at once.
I serve up to my caged herd a bunch of
leaves picked from among the biggest: two
hours later, nothing remains but the thick
midribs; and even these are attacked when
there is any delay in renewing the victuals.
At this rate, a "hundredweight-cabbage,"
doled out leaf by leaf, would not last my
menagerie a week.

The gluttonous animal, therefore, when it
swarms and multiplies, is a scourge. How
are we to protect our gardens against it? In
the days of Pliny, the great Latin naturalist,
a stake was set up in the middle of the cab-
bage-bed to be preserved; and on this stake
was fixed a Horse's skull bleached in the sun :
a Mare's skull was considered even better.
This sort of bogey was supposed to ward off
the devouring brood.

My confidence in this preservative is but an
indifferent one; my reason for mentioning it
346

The Cabbage-caterpillar

is that it reminds me of a custom still observed
in our own days, at least in my part of the
country. Nothing is so long-lived as absurd-
ity. Tradition has retained, in a simplified
form, the ancient defensive apparatus of
which Pliny speaks. For the Horse's skull
our people have substituted an eggshell on the
top of a switch stuck among the cabbages. It
is easier to arrange; also, it is quite as useful,
that is to say, it has no effect whatever.

Everything, even the nonsensical, is capable
of explanation with a little credulity. When
I question the peasants, our neighbours, they
tell me that the effect of the eggshell is as
simple as can be: the Butterflies, attracted by
the whiteness, come and lay their eggs on it.
Broiled by the sun and lacking all nourishment
on that thankless support, the little caterpil-
lars die; and that makes so many fewer.

I insist; I ask them if they have ever seen
slabs of eggs or masses of young caterpillars
on those white shells.

"Never," they reply, with one voice.

"Well, then?"

"It was done in the old days and so we go
on doing it: that's all we know; and
enough for us."

347

The Life of the Caterpillar

I leave it at that, persuaded that the me-
mory of the Horse's skull used once upon a
time is ineradicable, like all the rustic absurd-
ities implanted by the ages.

We have, when all is said, but one means
of protection, which is to watch and inspect
the cabbage-leaves assiduously and crush the
slabs of eggs between our finger and thumb
and the caterpillars with our feet. Nothing
is so effective as this method, which makes
great demands on one's time and vigilance.
What pains to obtain an unspoilt cab-
bage! And what a debt do we not owe
to those humble scrapers of the soil, those
ragged heroes who provide us with the where-
withal to live !

To eat and digest, to accumulate reserves
whence the Butterfly will issue : that is the
caterpillar's one and only business. The Cab-
bage-caterpillar performs it with insatiable
gluttony. Incessantly it browses, incessantly
digests: the supreme felicity of an animal
which is little more than an intestine. There
is never a distraction, unless it be certain see-
saw movements which are particularly curious
when several caterpillars are gra/Jng side by
side, abreast. Then, at intervals, all the heads
348

The Cabbage-caterpillar

in the row are briskly lifted and as briskly
lowered, time after time, with an automatic
precision worthy of a Prussian drill-ground.
Can it be their method of intimidating an
always possible aggressor? Can it be a
manifestation of gaiety, when the wanton sun
warms their full paunches? Whether sign of
fear or sign of bliss, this is the only exercise
that the gluttons allow themselves until the
proper degree of plumpness is attained.

After a month's grazing, the voracious ap-
petite of my caged herd is assuaged. The
caterpillars climb the trelliswork in every
direction, walk about anyhow, with their fore-
part raised and searching space. Here and
there, as they pass, the swaying herd put
forth a thread. They wander restlessly,
anxiously to travel afar. The exodus now
prevented by the trellised enclosure I once saw
under excellent conditions. At the advent of
the cold weather, I had placed a few cabbage-
stalks, covered with caterpillars, in a small
greenhouse. Those who saw the common
kitchen vegetable sumptuously lodged under
glass, in the company of the pelargonium and
the Chinese primrose, were astonished at my
curious fancy. I let them smile. I had my

349

The Life of the Caterpillar

plans: I wanted to find out how the family of
the Large White Butterfly behaves when the
cold weather sets in. Things happened just
as I wished. At the end of November, the
caterpillars, having grown to the desired ex-
tent, left the cabbages, one by one, and began
to roam about the walls. None of them fixed
himself there or made preparations for the
transformation. I suspected that they wanted
the choice of a spot in the open air, exposed to
all the rigours of winter. I therefore left
the door of the hothouse open. Soon, the
whole crowd had disappeared.

I found them dispersed all over the neigh-
bouring walls, some thirty yards off. The
thrust of a ledge, the eaves formed by a pro-
jecting bit of mortar served them as a shelter
where the chrysalid moult took place and
where the winter was passed. The Cabbage-
caterpillar possesses a robust constitution, un-
susceptible to torrid heat or icy cold. All
that he needs for his metamorphosis is an airy
lodging, free from permanent damp.

The inmates of my fold, therefore, move

about for a few days on the trelliswork,

anxious to travel afar in search of a wall.

Finding none and realizing that time presses,

350

The Cabbage-caterpillar

they resign themselves. Each one, supporting
himself on the trellis, first weaves around him-
self a thin carpet of white silk, which will
form the sustaining layer at the time of the
laborious and delicate work of the nymphosis.
He fixes his rear-end to this base by a silk pad
and his fore-part by a strap that passes under
his shoulders and is fixed on either side to the
carpet. Thus slung from his three fastenings,
he strips himself of his larval apparel and
turns into a chrysalis in the open air, with no
protection save that of the wall, which the
caterpillar would certainly have found had I
not interfered.

Of a surety, he would be short-sighted in-
deed that pictured a world of good things
prepared exclusively for our advantage. The
earth, the great foster-mother, has a generous
breast. At the very moment when nourishing
matter is created, even though it be with our
own zealous aid, she summons to the feast
host upon host of consumers, who are all the
more numerous and enterprising in proportion
as the table is more amply spread. The cherry
of our orchards is excellent eating : a maggot
contends with us for its possession. In vain
do we weigh suns and planets : our supremacy,
351

The Life of the Caterpillar

which fathoms the universe, cannot prevent a
wretched worm from levying its toll on the
delicious fruit. We make ourselves at home
in a cabbage-bed: the sons of the Pieris make
themselves at home there too. Preferring
broccoli to wild radish, they profit where we
have profited; and we have no remedy against
their competition save caterpillar-raids and
egg-crushing, a thankless, tedious and none
too efficacious work.

Every creature has its claims on life. The
Cabbage-caterpillar eagerly puts forth his
own, so much so that the cultivation of the
precious plant would be endangered if others
concerned did not take part in its defence.
These others are the auxiliaries,1 our helpers
from necessity and not from sympathy. The
words friend and foe, auxiliaries and ravagers
are here the mere conventions of a language
not always adapted to render the exact truth.
He is our foe who eats or attacks our crops;
our friend is he who feeds upon our foes.
Everything is reduced to a frenzied contest
of appetites.

1The author employs this word to denote the insects
that are helpful, while describing as "ravagers" the in-
sects that are hurtful to the farmer's crops. — Trans-
lator's Note.

352

The Cabbage-caterpillar

In the name of the might that is mine, of
trickery, of highway robbery, clear out of
that, you, and make room for me: give me
your seat at the banquet ! That is the inex-
orable law in the world of animals and more
or less, alas, in our own world as well !

Now, among our entomological auxiliaries,
the smallest in size are the best at their work.
One of them is charged with watching over
the cabbages. She is so small, she works so
discreetly that the gardener does not know
her, has not even heard of her. Were he to
see her by accident, flitting around the plant
which she protects, he would take no notice
of her, would not suspect the service rendered.
I propose to set forth the tiny midget's
deserts.

Scientists call her Microgaster glomeratus.
What exactly was in the mind of the author
of the name Microgaster, which means little
belly? Did he intend to allude to the insig-
nificance of the abdomen? Not so. How-
ever slight the belly may be, the insect never-
theless possesses one, correctly proportioned
to the rest of the body, so that the classic de-
nomination, far from giving us any informa-
tion, might mislead us, were we to trust it

353

The Life of the Caterpillar

wholly. Nomenclature, which changes from
day to day and becomes more and more caco-
phonous, is an unsafe guide. Instead of ask-
ing the animal what its name is, let us begin
by asking:

"What can you do? What is your busi-
ness?"

Well, the Microgaster's business is to ex-
ploit the Cabbage-caterpillar, a clearly-defined
business, admitting of no possible confusion.
Would we behold her works? In the spring,
let us inspect the neighbourhood of the
kitchen-garden. Be our eye never so unob-
servant, we shall notice against the walls or
on the withered grasses at the foot of the
hedges some very small yellow cocoons,
heaped into masses the size of a hazel-nut.
Beside each group lies a Cabbage-caterpillar,
sometimes dying, sometimes dead and always
presenting a most tattered appearance. These
cocoons are the work of the Microgaster's
family, hatched or on the point of hatching
into the perfect stage; the caterpillar is the
dish whereon that family has fed during its
larval state. The epithet glomeratus, which
accompanies the name of Microgaster, sug-
gests this conglomeration of cocoons. Let us

354

The Cabbage-caterpillar

collect the clusters as they are, without seeking
to separate them, an operation which would
demand both patience and dexterity, for the
cocoons are closely united by the inextricable
tangle of their surface-threads. In May, a
swarm of pigmies will sally forth, ready to
get to business in the cabbages.

Colloquial language uses the terms Midge
and Gnat to describe the tiny insects which we
often see dancing in a ray of sunlight. There
is something of everything in those aerial bal-
lets. It is possible that the persecutrix of the
Cabbage-caterpillar is there, along with many
another; but the name of Midge cannot pro-
perly be applied to her. He who says Midge
says Fly, Dipteron, two-winged insect; and
our friend has four wings, one and all
adapted for flying. By virtue of this charac-
teristic and others no less important, she be-
longs to the order of Hymenoptera.1 No
matter : as our language possesses no more
precise term outside the scientific vocabulary,
let us use the expression Midge, which pretty
well conveys the general idea. Our Midge,
the Microgaster, is the size of an average

1This order includes the Ichneumon-flies, of whom the
Microgaster is one. — Translator's Note.

355

The Life of the Caterpillar

Gnat. She measures 3 or 4 millimetres.1 The
two sexes are equally numerous and wear the
same costume, a black uniform, all but the
legs, which are pale red. In spite of this like-
ness, they are easily distinguished. The male
has an abdomen which is slightly flattened and
moreover curved at the tip ; the female, before
the laying, has hers full and perceptibly dis-
tended by its ovular contents. This rapid
sketch of the insect should be enough for
our purpose.

If we wish to know the grub and especially
to inform ourselves of its manner of living,
it is advisable to rear in a cage a numerous
herd of Cabbage-caterpillars. Whereas a
direct search on the cabbages in our garden
would give us but a difficult and uncertain
harvest, by this means we shall daily have as
many as we wish before our eyes.

In the course of June, which is the time
when the caterpillars quit their pastures and
go far afield to settle on some wall or other,
those in my fold, finding nothing better,
climb to the dome of the cage to make their
preparations and to spin a supporting network
for the chrysalid's needs. Among these spin-

J. 117 to .156 inch. — Translator's Note.
356

The Cabbage-caterpillar

ners we see some weaklings working listlessly
at their carpet. Their appearance makes us
deem them in the grip of a mortal disease.
I take a few of them and open their bellies,
using a needle by way of a scalpel. What
comes out is a bunch of green entrails, soaked
in a bright yellow fluid, which is really the
creature's blood. These tangled intestines
swarm with little, lazy grubs, varying greatly
in number, from ten or twenty at least to
sometimes half-a-hundred. They are the off-
spring of the Microgaster.

What do they feed on? The lens makes
conscientious enquiries; nowhere does it man-
age to show me the vermin attacking solid
nourishment, fatty tissues, muscles or other
parts; nowhere do I see them bite, gnaw or
dissect. The following experiment will tell
us more fully: I pour into a watch-glass the
crowds extracted from the hospitable paun-
ches. I flood them with caterpillar's blood
obtained by simple pricks; I place the pre-
paration under a glass bell-jar, in a moist
atmosphere, to prevent evaporation; I repeat
the nourishing bath by means of fresh bleed-
ings and give them the stimulant which they
would have gained from the living caterpillar.
357

The Life of the Caterpillar

Thanks to these precautions, my charges have
all the appearance of excellent health; they
drink and thrive. But this state of things can-
not last long. Soon ripe for the transform-
ation, my grubs leave the dining-room of the
watch-glass as they would have left the cater-
pillar's belly; they come to the ground to try
and weave their tiny cocoons. They fail in
the attempt and perish. They have missed a
suitable support, that is to say, the silky
carpet provided by the dying caterpillar. No
matter: I have seen enough to convince me.
The larvae of the Microgaster do not eat in
the strict sense of the word: they live on
soup; and that soup is the caterpillar's
blood.

Examine the parasites closely and you shall
see that their diet is bound to be a liquid one.
They are little white grubs, neatly segmented,
with a pointed fore-part splashed with tiny
black marks, as though the atom had been
slaking its thirst in a drop of ink. It moves
its hind-quarters slowly, without shifting its
position. I place it under the microscope.
The mouth is a pore, devoid of any apparatus
for disintegration-work: it has no fangs, no
horny nippers, no mandibles ; its attack is just
358

The Cabbage-caterpillar

a kiss. It does not chew, it sucks, it takes
discreet sips at the moisture all around it.

The fact that it refrains entirely from bi-
ting is confirmed by my autopsy of the stricken
caterpillars. In the patient's belly, notwith-
standing the number of nurselings who hardly
leave room for the nurse's entrails, every-
thing is in perfect order; nowhere do we see a
trace of mutilation. Nor does aught on the
outside betray any havoc within. The ex-
ploited caterpillars graze and move about
peacefully, giving no sign of pain. It is im-
possible for me to distinguish them from the
unscathed ones in respect of appetite and un-
troubled digestion.

When the time approaches to weave the
carpet for the support of the chrysalis, an
appearance of emaciation at last points to the
evil that is at their vitals. They spin never-
theless. They are stoics who do not forget
their duty in the hour of death. At last, they
expire, quite softly, not of any wounds, but
of anaemia, even as a lamp goes out when the
oil comes to an end. And it has to be. The
living caterpillar, capable of feeding itself
and forming blood, is a necessity for the wel-
fare of the grubs; it has to last about a

359

The Life of the Caterpillar

month, until the Microgaster's offspring have
achieved their full growth. The two calen-
dars synchronize in a remarkable way. When
the caterpillar leaves off eating and makes its
preparations for the metamorphosis, the para-
sites are ripe for the exodus. The bottle
dries up when the drinkers cease to need it;
but until that moment it must remain more or
less well-filled, although becoming limper
daily. It is important, therefore, that the
caterpillar's existence be not endangered by
wounds which, even though very tiny, would
stop the working of the blood-fountains.
With this intent, the drainers of the bottle are,
in a manner of speaking, muzzled; they have
by way of a mouth a pore that sucks without
bruising.

The dying caterpillar continues to lay the
silk of his carpet with a slow oscillation of the
head. The moment now comes for the para-
sites to emerge. This happens in June and
generally at nightfall. A breach is made on
the ventral surface or else in the sides, never
on the back: one breach only, contrived at a
point of minor resistance, at the junction of
two segments ; for it is bound to be a toilsome
business, in the absence of a set of filing-tools.
360

The Cabbage-caterpillar

Perhaps the worms take one another's places
at the point attacked and come by turns to
work at it with a kiss.

In one short spell, the whole tribe issues
through this single opening and is soon
wriggling about, perched on the surface of
the caterpillar. The lens cannot perceive the
hole, which closes on the instant. There is
not even a haemorrhage: the bottle has been
drained too thoroughly. You must press it
between your fingers to squeeze out a few
drops of moisture and thus discover the spot
of exit.

Around the caterpillar, who is not always
quite dead and who sometimes even goes on
weaving his carpet a moment longer, the ver-
min at once begin to work at their cocoons.
The straw-coloured thread, drawn from the
silk-glands by a backward jerk of the head,
is first fixed to the white network of the cater-
pillar and then produces adjacent warp-beams,
so that, by mutual entanglements, the in-
dividual works are welded together and form
an agglomeration in which each of the worms
has its own cabin. For the moment, what is
woven is not the real cocoon, but a general
scaffolding which will facilitate the construc-
361

The Life of the Caterpillar

tion of the separate shells. All these frames
rest upon those adjoining and, mixing up their
threads, become a common edifice wherein
each grub contrives a shelter for itself. Here
at last the real cocoon is spun, a pretty little
piece of closely-woven work.

In my rearing-jars, I obtain as many groups
of those tiny shells as my future experiments
can wish for. Three-fourths of the caterpil-
lars have supplied me with them, so ruthless
has been the toll of the spring births. I lodge
these groups, one by one, in separate glass
tubes, thus forming a collection on which I
can draw at will, while, in view of my ex-
periments, I keep under observation the whole
swarm produced by one caterpillar.

The adult Microgaster appears a fortnight
later, in the middle of June. There are fifty
in the first tube examined. The riotous mul-
titude is in the full enjoyment of the pairing-
season, for the two sexes always figure among
the guests of any one caterpillar. What
animation ! What an orgy of love ! The
carnival of those pigmies bewilders the ob-
server and makes his head swim.

Most of the females, wishful of liberty,
plunge down to the waist between the glass of
362

The Cabbage-caterpillar

the tube and the plug of cotton-wool that
closes the end turned to the light; but the
lower halves remain free and form a circular
gallery in front of which the males hustle one
another, take one another's places and hastily
operate. Each bides his turn, each attends to
his little matters for a few moments and then
makes way for his rivals and goes off to start
again elsewhere. The turbulent wedding lasts
all the morning and begins afresh next day, a
mighty throng of couples embracing, separa-
ting and embracing once more.

There is every reason to believe that, in
gardens, the mated ones, finding themselves in
isolated couples, would keep quieter. Here,
in the tube, things degenerate into a riot be-
cause the assembly is too numerous for the
narrow space.

What is lacking to complete its happiness ?
Apparently, a little food, a few sugary mouth-
fuls extracted from the flowers. I serve up
some provisions in the tubes: not drops of
honey, in which the puny creatures would get
stuck, but little strips of paper spread with
that dainty. They come to them, take their
stand on them and refresh themselves. The
fare appears to agree with them. With this

353

The Life of the Caterpillar

diet, renewed as the strips dry up, I can keep
them in very good condition until the end of
my inquisition.

There is another arrangement to be made.
The colonists in my spare tubes are restless
and quick of flight; they will have to be trans-
ferred presently to sundry vessels without my
risking the loss of a good number, or even the
whole lot, a loss which my hands, my forceps
and other means of coercion would be unable
to prevent by checking the nimble movements
of the tiny prisoners. The irresistible attrac-
tion of the sunlight comes to my aid. If I lay
one of my tubes horizontally on the table,
turning one end towards the full light of a
sunny window, the captives at once make for
this brighter end and play about there for a
long while, without seeking to retreat. If I
turn the tube in the opposite direction, the
crowd immediately shifts its quarters and col-
lects at the other end. The brilliant sunlight
is its great joy. With this bait, I can send
it whithersoever I please.

We will therefore place the new receptacle,
jar or test-tube, on the table, pointing the
closed end towards the window. At its mouth,
we open one of the full tubes. No other

364

The Cabbage-caterpillar

precaution is needed : even though the mouth
leaves a large interval free, the swarm hastens
into the lighted chamber. All that remains
to be done is to close the apparatus before
moving it. The observer is now in control of
the multitude, without appreciable losses, and
is able to question it at will.

We will begin by asking:

"How do you manage to lodge your germs
inside the caterpillar?"

This question and others of the same
category, which ought to take precedence of
everything else, are generally neglected by the
impaler of insects, who cares more for the
niceties of nomenclature than for glorious
realities. He classifies his subjects, dividing
them into regiments with barbarous labels, a
work which seems to him the highest express-
ion of entomological science. Names, nothing
but names: the rest hardly counts. The per-
secutor of the Pieris used to be called Micro-
gaster, that is to say, little belly : to-day she
is called Apantales, that is to say, the incom-
plete. What a fine step forward! We now
know all about it !

Can our friend at least tell us how "the
little belly" or "the incomplete" gets into the

365

The Life of the Caterpillar

caterpillar? Not a bit of it ! A book which,
judging by its recent date, should be the faith-
ful echo of our actual knowledge, informs us
that the Microgaster inserts her eggs direct
into the caterpillar's body. It goes on to say
that the parasitic vermin inhabit the chrysalis,
whence they make their way out by perfora-
ting the stout horny wrapper. Hundreds of
times have I witnessed the exodus of the
grubs ripe for weaving their cocoons; and the
exit has always been made through the skin
of the caterpillar and never through the
armour of the chrysalis. The fact that its
mouth is a mere clinging pore, deprived of
any offensive weapon, would even lead me to
believe that the grub is incapable of perfora-
ting the chrysalid's covering.

This proved error makes me doubt the
other proposition, though logical, after all,
and agreeing with the methods followed by
a host of parasites. No matter: my faith in
what I read in print is of the slightest; I
perfer to go straight to facts. Before making
a statement of any kind, I want to see, what
I call seeing. It is a slower and more labori-
ous process ; but it is certainly much safer.

I will not undertake to lie in wait for what
366

The Cabbage-caterpillar

takes place on the cabbages in the garden:
that method is too uncertain and besides does
not lend itself to precise observation. As I
have in hand the necessary materials, to wit,
my collection of tubes swarming with the
parasites newly hatched into the adult form,
I will operate on the little table in my animals'
laboratory. A jar with a capacity of about a
litre1 is placed on the table, with the bottom
turned towards the window in the sun. I put
into it a cabbage-leaf covered with caterpil-
lars, sometimes fully developed, sometimes
half-way, sometimes just out of the egg. A
strip of honeyed paper will serve the Micro-
gaster as a dining-room, if the experiment is
destined to take some time. Lastly, by the
method of transfer which I described above,
I send the inmates of one of my tubes into
the apparatus. Once the jar is closed, there
is nothing left to do but to let things take
their course and to keep an assiduous watch,
for days and weeks, if need be. Nothing
worth remarking can escape me.

The caterpillars graze placidly, heedless of

their terrible attendants. If some giddy-pates

in the turbulent swarm pass over the caterpil-

^About 1^4 pints, or .22 gallon. — Translator's Note,

367

The Life of the Caterpillar

lars' spines, these draw up their fore-part with
a jerk and as suddenly lower it again; and
that is all: the intruders forthwith decamp.
Nor do the latter seem to contemplate any
harm : they refresh themselves on the honey-
smeared strip, they come and go tumultuously.
Their short flights may land them, now in
one place, now in another, on the browsing
herd, but they pay no attention to it. What
we see is casual meetings, not deliberate en-
counters.

In vain I change the flock of caterpillars
and vary their age; in vain I change the squad
of parasites: in vain I follow events in the
jar for long hours, morning and evening, both
in a dim light and in the full glare of the sun:
I succeed in seeing nothing, absolutely no-
thing, on the parasite's side, that resembles
an attack. No matter what the ill-informed
authors say — ill-informed because they had
not the patience to see for themselves — the
conclusion at which I arrive is positive : to
inject the germs, the Microgaster never at-
tacks the caterpillars.

The invasion, therefore, is necessarily ef-
fected through the Butterfly's eggs them-
selves, as experiment will prove. My broad

The Cabbage-caterpilbr

jar would tell against the inspection of the
troop, kept at too great a distance by the glass
enclosure; and I therefore select a tube an inch
wide. I place in this a shred of cabbage-leaf,
bearing a slab of eggs, as laid by the Butter-
fly. I next introduce the inmates of one of
my spare vessels. A strip of paper smeared
with honey accompanies the new arrivals.

This happens early in July. Soon, the
females are there, fussing about, sometimes
to the extent of blackening the whole slab of
yellow eggs. They inspect the treasure, flut-
ter their wings and brush their hind-legs
against each other, a sign of keen satisfaction.
They sound the heap, probe the interstices
with their antennae and tap the individual
eggs with their palpi ; then, this one here, that
one there, they quickly apply the tip of their
abdomen to the egg selected. Each time, we
see a slender, horny prickle darting from the
ventral surface, close to the end. This is the
instrument that deposits the germ under the
film of the egg; it is the inoculation-needle.
The operation is performed calmly and me-
thodically, even when several mothers are
working at one and the same time. Where
one has been, a second goes, followed by a

369

The Life of the Caterpillar

third, a fourth and others yet, nor am I able
definitely to see the end of the visits paid to
the same egg. Each time, the needle enters
and inserts a germ.

It is impossible, in such a crowd, for the eye
to follow the successive mothers who hasten
to lay in each; but there is one quite prac-
ticable method by which we can estimate
the number of germs introduced into a single
egg, which is, later, to open the ravaged
caterpillars and count the worms which they
contain. A less repugnant means is to num-
ber the little cocoons heaped up around each
dead caterpillar. The total will tell us how
many germs were injected, some by the same
mother returning several times to the egg
already treated, others by different mothers.
Well, the number of these cocoons varies
greatly. Generally, it fluctuates in the neigh-
bourhood of twenty, but I have come across
as many as sixty-five; and nothing tells me
that this is the extreme limit. What hide-
ous industry for the extermination of a But-
terfly's progeny !

I am fortunate at this moment in having a
highly-cultured visitor, versed in the profun-
dities of philosophic thought. I make way
370

The Cabbage-caterpillar

for him before the apparatus wherein the
Microgaster is at work. For an hour and
'more, standing lens in hand, he, in his turn,
looks and sees what I have just seen; he
watches the layers who go from one egg to the
other, make their choice, draw their slender
lancet and prick what the stream of passers-
by, one after the other, have already pricked.
Thoughtful and a little uneasy, he puts down
his lens at last. Never had he been vouch-
safed so clear a glimpse as here, in my finger-
wide tube, of the masterly brigandage that
runs through all life down to that of the very
smallest.

INDEX

A

Adder, 120
Anisotoma cinnamomea,

Bull-pup, 257
Buridan, Jean, 73
Burying-beetle (see also

307

Necrophorus), 319

Ant, 5 in, 52, 322
Arbutus Caterpillar, 150-

Butterfly (see also the
varieties), 182, 227

160, 172-173

Arbutus Liparis (see Ar-

C

butus Caterpillar)

Cabbage-caterpillar, 172,

Aristotle, 58

334-362, 365-371

Ass, 73-74

Calosoma sychophanta, 94,

Attacus pavonia minor

168

(see Lesser Peacock

Carrier-pigeon, 301

Moth)

Carrion-beetle (see Sil-

Pha)

B

Cat, 108

Bacon-beetle (see Der-
mestes)

Century Co., 7
Cetonia floricola, 182-183

Banded Monk, 278-299,
326-330

Chalicodoma (see also
Mason-bee of the

Bat, 248, 301
Bee, SIB, 147-148, 162, 183
Beetle (see also the varie-

Sheds), 301
Chelonia caja (see Hedge-
hog Caterpillar)

ties), 20

Cicada, 10, 43

Bembex, 115

Cock, 108

Blackbird, 151

Common Fly (see Fly)

Bolboceras gallicus, 309,

Cricket, 43

312-319, 326

Cuckoo, 94, 1 68

Bombyx (see Arbutus

Caterpillar, Banded

D

Monk, Neustrian Bom-

Death's-head Moth, 172

byx, Pine Procession-

Dermestes (see also the

ary)

varieties below), 319-

Brown Owl, 250

325, 328

Brush Caterpillar (see Or-

Dermestes Frischii, 323

gyia)

Dermestes pardalis, 323

373

Index

Dermestes undulatus, 323
Dioscorides Pedanius, 148
Dog, 100, 301, 308, 314-

315, 318, 320, 324-327
Donkey (see Ass)
Dor-beetle (see Geotru-

pes)
Dung-beetle (see also the

varieties), 309

Earth-worm, 50

Earwig, 322

Eider, 212

Elm Tortoiseshell (see

Great Tortoiseshell

Butterfly)

Fabre, Paul, the author's
son, 21, 136-138, 247-
248, 275

Field-mouse, 301, 320

Fly, 195, 324, 355

Geotrupes, 107, 310

Gnat, 355-356

Goldfinch, 185

Grasshopper (see also
Vine Ephippiger), io»

Great Grey Locust, 184

Great Peacock Moth, 41-
42, 172, 181-182, 226,
246-274, 277, 280, 282-
283, 285, 287-289, 298,
326-330

Great Tortoiseshell But-
terfly, 172, 177-181

Green Saw-fly, 183
Ground-beetle, 50
Guinea-fowl, 108
Guinea-pig, 180-181

H

Heath Fritillary, 172

Hedgehog, 320

Hedgehog Caterpillar, 135-

136, 141, 174
Hen, 1 08
Hive-bee, 52-53
Honey-bee (see Bee)
Horse, 346-348
Hunting Wasp (see Wasp)

Ichneumon-fly, sin

Jay, 310

Large Cabbage Butterfly,
Large White Butterfly
(see Cabbage-Cater-
pillar)

Larinus, 338

Lesser Peacock Moth, 273-
278

Liparis (see also Arbutus
Caterpillar, L. auri-
flua), 173

Liparis auriflua, 150

Livery (see Neustrian
Bombyx)

Lizard, 320

Locust (see also Great
Grey Locust), 43«

374

Index

M

Magpie, 310

Mantis (see Praying Man-
tis)

Mare, 346

Mason-bee of the Sheds
(see also Chalico-
doma), 51-53

Mason-wasp, 417*

Miall, Bernard, 7, ion

Microgaster glomeratus,
353-371

Midge, 355-356

Mmotaurus typhceus, 311-
312

Mole, 318, 320, 324-326

Moliere, Jean Baptiste
Poquelin, 147

Monk (see Banded Monk)

Montaigne (Michel Ey-
quem de), 220

Moth (see also the varie-
ties), 177, 182, 212

N

Necrophorus (see also N.

vestiffator), 319, 324-

326, 328
Necrophorus vestiffator,

324
Neustrian Bombyx, 21

Oak Bombyx, Oak Eggar
(see Banded Monk)

Oak Processionary, 135,
168, 173

Orgyia, 137-139, 141

Owl (see Brown Owl)

Patte etendue (see Orgyia)

Phidias, 18

Pieris brassica (see Cab-
bage-caterpillar)

Pig, 307

Pine Bombyx (see Pine
Processionary)

Pine Processionary, 1-148,
'SO, 157. 159, 161-170,
173-176, 179, 181-182,
184, 300

Plato, 20, 56

Pliny the Elder, 346-347

Praying Mantis, 43, 285-
286

Processionary, Procession-
ary Caterpillar, Pro-
cessionary Moth (see
Oak Processionary,
Pine Processionary)

Psyche (see also the varie-
ties below), 186-244

Psyche comitella, 194-202,
214-216

Psyche febretta, 192, 214

Psyche graminella (see P.
unicolor)

Psyche intermediella (see
P. comitella)

Psyche unicolor, 186-191,
204-216

Puss-moth, 172

Pythagoras, 19

Rabbit, 212, 279, 310.
Rabelais, Francois, 58

375

Index

Reaumur, Rene Antoine
Ferchault de, 9-10, 12-
15, 26, 90, 95, 120-132,
135

Rodwell, Miss Frances, 8

Spallanzani, Lazaro, 301
Spanish Copris, 309
Spider, 40
Spurge Hawk-moth, 172

Saprinus (see also the
varieties below), 320-
325, 328

Saprinus arneus, 323
Saprinus detenus, 323
Saprinus maculatus, 323
Saprinus semipunctatus,

323

Saprinus speculifer, 323
Saprinus subnitidus, 323
Sapromyzon, 307-309
Saw-fly (see also Green

Saw-fly), SIB

Scatophaga scybalaria, 307
Silk-moth (see Silkworm)
Silkworm, 125, 170-172,

175-176, 181-182, 264
Silpha (see also the varie-
ties below), 319, 324
Silpha obscura, 324
Silpha rugosa, 324
Silpha sinuata, 324
Snail, 96

Teixeira de Mattos, Alex-
ander, 5171, 99«, io7«,
303"

Termite, 53

Tiger-moth, 172

Toad, 320

Tree-frog, 108

Turkey, 303

Fanessa polychloris (see
Great Tortoiseshell
Butterfly)

Vine Ephippiger, 184
Voltaire, Francois Marie
Arouet de, 17

W

Wasp, 5i», 52, I47-I48»

162, 183

White Ant (see Termite)
Wood-louse, 322

376