The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles

On the contrary, at those critical moments, you give a start; you move, you resume your normal attitude, you run away. Your fraud is discovered; or, to put it more plainly, there is no trick. Your inertia is not simulated; it is real. It is a condition of temporary torpor into which you are plunged by your delicate nervous organization. A mere nothing makes you fall into it; a mere nothing withdraws you from it, above all a bath of light, that sovran stimulus of activity.

In respect of prolonged immobility as the result of emotion, I find a rival of the Giant Scarites in a large black Buprestis, with a flour-speckled corselet, a lover of the blackthorn, the hawthorn and the apricot-tree. His name is Capnodis tenebrionis, LIN. At times I see him, with his legs closely folded and his antennæ lowered, prolonging his motionless posture upon his back for more than an hour. At other times the insect is bent upon escaping, apparently influenced by atmospheric conditions of which I do not know the secret. One or two minutes' immobility is as much as I can then obtain.

Let me recapitulate: in my various subjects the attitude of death is of very variable duration, governed as it is by a host of unsuspected circumstances. Let us take advantage of favourable opportunities, which are fairly frequent. I subject the Cloudy Buprestis to the different tests undergone by the Giant Scarites. The results are the same. When you have seen the first, you have seen the second. There is no need to linger over them.

I will only mention the promptness with which the Buprestis, lying motionless in the shade, recovers his activity when I carry him away from my table into the broad sunlight of the window. After a few seconds of this bath of heat and light, the insect half-opens his wing-cases, using them as levers, and turns over, ready to take flight if my hand did not instantly snap him up. He is a passionate lover of the light, a devotee of the sun, intoxicating himself in its rays upon the bark of his blackthorn-trees on the hottest afternoons.

This love of tropical temperature suggests the following question: what would happen if I were to chill the creature in its immobile posture? I foresee a more prolonged inertia. The chill, of course, must not be great, for it would be followed by the lethargy into which insects capable of surviving the winter fall when benumbed by the cold.

On the contrary, the Buprestis must as far as possible retain his full vitality. The lowering of the temperature must be gentle, very moderate and such that the insect, under similar climatic conditions, would retain his powers of action in ordinary life. I have a convenient refrigerator at my disposal. It is the water of my well, whose temperature, in summer, is nearly twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit below that of the surrounding air.

The Buprestis, in whom I have just produced inertia by means of a few taps, is installed on his back in a little flask which I seal hermetically and immerse in a bucket full of this cold water. To keep the bath as cool as at first, I gradually renew it, taking care not to shake the flask in which the patient is lying, in his attitude of death.

The result rewards my pains. After five hours under water, the insect is still motionless. Five hours, I say, five long hours; and I might certainly say longer, if my exhausted patience had not put an end to the experiment. But this is enough to banish any idea of fraud on the insect's part. Here, beyond a doubt, the insect is not shamming dead. He is actually somnolent, deprived of the power of movement by an internal disturbance which my teasing produced at the outset and which is prolonged beyond its usual limits by the surrounding coolness.

I try the effect of a slight decrease in temperature upon the Giant Scarites by subjecting him to a similar sojourn in the cold water of the well. The result does not respond to the hopes which the Buprestis gave me. I do not succeed in obtaining more than fifty minutes' inertia. I have often obtained as long periods of immobility without resorting to the refrigerating artifice.

It might have been foreseen. The Buprestis, a lover of the burning sunshine, is affected by the cold bath in a different degree from the Scarites, who prowls about by night and spends his day in the basement. A fall of a few degrees in temperature takes the chilly insect by surprise and has no effect upon the one accustomed to the coolness underground.

Other experiments on these lines tell me nothing more. I see the inert condition persisting sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorter period, according as the insect seeks the sunlight or avoids it. Let us change our method.

I evaporate a few drops of sulphuric ether in a glass jar and put in a Stercoraceous Geotrupes and a specimen of Buprestis tenebrionis, at the same time. In a few moments both subjects are motionless, anæsthetized by the etheric vapour. I take them out quickly and lay them on their backs in the open air.

Their attitude is exactly that which they would have assumed under the influence of a shock or any other cause of alarm. The Buprestis has his legs symmetrically folded against his chest and belly; the Geotrupes has his outspread, stretched in disorder, rigid and as though attacked by catalepsy. You could not tell if they were dead or alive.

They are not dead. In a minute or two, the Geotrupes' tarsi twitch, the palpi quiver, the antennæ wave gently to and fro. Then the fore-legs move; and a quarter of an hour has not elapsed before the other legs are struggling. The activity of the insect made motionless by the concussion of a shock would reawaken in precisely the same fashion.

As for the Buprestis, he is in a state of inertia so profound that at first I really believe him to be dead. He recovers during the night; and next day I find him in possession of his usual activity. The ether experiment, which I took care to stop at the moment when it produced the desired effect, has not been fatal to him; but it has had much more serious consequences for him than for the Geotrupes. The insect more sensitive to the alarm due to concussion or to a fall of temperature is also the more sensitive to the action of ether.

Thus the enormous difference which I observe in these two insects, with regard to the inertia provoked by a shock or by handling them in one's fingers, is explained by nice differences of impressionability. Whereas the Buprestis remains motionless for nearly an hour, the Geotrupes is struggling violently after a minute or two. And even then I rarely attain this limit.

In what respect has the Geotrupes, to defend itself, less need of the stratagem of simulated death than the Black Buprestis, well protected by his massive build and his armour, which is so hard that it resists the point of a pin and even of a needle? We should be perplexed by the same question in respect of a multitude of insects, some of which remain motionless while others do not; and we could not possibly foresee what would happen from the genus of the subject, its form, or its way of living.

Buprestis tenebrionis, for example, exhibits a persistent inertia. Will it be the same, because of similarity of structure, with other members of the same group? Not at all. My chance finds provide me with the Brilliant Buprestis (B. rutilans, FAB.), and the Nine-spotted Buprestis (Ptosima novemmaculata, FAB.). The first resists all my attempts. The splendid creature grips my fingers, grips my tweezers and insists on getting up the moment that I lay it on its back. The second readily becomes immobile; but how brief is its attitude of death! Four or five minutes at most.

A Melasoma-beetle, Omocrates abbreviatus, OLIV., whom I frequently discover under the broken stones on the neighbouring hills, continues motionless for over an hour. He rivals the Scarites. We must not forget to add that very often the awakening takes place within a few minutes.

Can he owe his long period of inertia to the fact that he is one of the Tenebrionidæ, or Darkling Beetles? By no means, for here in the same group is Pimelia bipunctata, who turns a somersault on his round back and finds his feet the moment he has turned over; here is a Cellar-beetle (Blaps similis, LATR.), who, unable to turn with his flat back, his big belly and his welded wing-cases,[103 - The Cellar-beetle is one of the wingless Beetles. —Translator's Note.] struggles desperately after a minute or two of inertia.

The short-legged Beetles, trotting along with tiny steps, ought, one would think, to make up in cunning, more fully than the others, for their incapacity for rapid flight. The facts do not correspond with this apparently well-founded forecast. I have consulted the genera Chrysomela,[104 - Golden-apple Beetles. —Translator's Note.] Blatta,[105 - Blackbeetles or Cockroaches. —Translator's Note.] Silpha, Cleonus,[106 - A genus of Weevils. —Translator's Note.] Bolboceras,[107 - A mushroom-eating Beetle. Cf. The Life of the Fly: chap. xviii. —Translator's Note.] Cetonia, Hoplia, Coccinella,[108 - Ladybirds. —Translator's Note.] and so on. A few minutes or a few seconds are nearly always long enough for the return to activity. Several of them even obstinately refuse to sham death.

As much must be said of the Beetles well-equipped for pedestrian escape. Some remain motionless for a few seconds; others, more numerous still, behave in an ungovernable fashion. In short, there is no guide to tell us in advance:

"This one will readily assume the posture of a dead insect; this one will hesitate; that one will refuse."

There is nothing but shadowy probabilities, until experiment has given its verdict. From this muddle shall we draw a conclusion which will set our minds at rest? I hope so.

CHAPTER XV

SUICIDE OR HYPNOSIS?

You do not imitate the unfamiliar; you do not counterfeit a thing of which you know nothing: that is obvious. The simulation of death, therefore, implies a certain knowledge of death.

Well, has the insect, or rather, has any kind of animal, a presentiment that its life cannot last for ever? Does the perturbing problem of an end occur to its dense brain? I have associated a great deal with animals, I have lived on intimate terms with them and I have never observed anything to justify me in saying yes. The animal, with its humbler destiny, is spared that apprehension of the hour of death which constitutes at once our torment and our greatness.

Like the child still in the limbo of unconsciousness, it enjoys the present without taking thought of the future; free from the bitterness of a prospective ending, it lives in the blissful calm of ignorance. It is ours alone to foresee the briefness of our days; it is ours alone anxiously to question the grave regarding the last sleep.

Moreover, this glimpse of the inevitable destruction calls for a certain maturity of mind and, for that reason, is rather late in developing. I had a touching example of it this very week.

A pretty little Kitten, the joy of all the household, after languidly dragging itself about for a couple of days, died in the night. Next morning the children found it lying stark in its basket. General affliction. Anna, especially, a little girl of four, considered with a pensive glance the little friend with which she had so often played. She petted it, called it, offered it a drop of milk in a cup:

"Kitty won't play," said the child. "She doesn't want my breakfast any more. She's asleep. I've never seen her sleep like this before. When will she wake up?"

This simplicity in the presence of death's harsh problem wrung my heart. Hastily I led the girl away from the sight and had the dead Kitten secretly buried. As, from this time onward, it no longer appeared by the table at meal-times, the grief-stricken child at last understood that she had seen her little friend sleeping the profound slumber that knows no awaking. For the first time a vague idea of death found its way into her mind.

Has the insect the signal honour of knowing what we do not know in our early childhood, at a time when thought is already manifesting itself, far superior, however feeble it be, to the dull understanding of the animal? Has it the power to foresee an ending, an attribute which in its case would be inconvenient and useless? Before deciding, let us consult, not the abstruse theories of science, a doubtful guide, but the Turkey, an eminently truthful one.

I recall one of the most vivid memories that remain to me from my brief sojourn at the Royal College of Rodez. So they called it then; to-day they call it a grammar-school; what improvement as the world grows older!

The thrice-blessed Thursday had come; our bit of translation was done, our dozen Greek roots had been learnt by heart; and we trooped down to the far end of the valley, so many bands of madcaps. With our trousers turned up to our knees, we exploited, artless fishermen that we were, the peaceful waters of the river, the Aveyron. What we hoped to catch was the Loach, no bigger than our little finger, but tempting, thanks to his immobility on the sand amid the waterweeds. We fully expected to transfix him with our trident, a fork.

This miraculous catch, the object of such shouts of triumph when it succeeded, was very rarely vouchsafed to us: the Loach, the rascal, saw the fork coming and with three strokes of his tail disappeared!

We found compensation in the apple-trees in the neighbouring pastures. The apple has from all time been the urchin's delight, above all when plucked from a tree which does not belong to him. Our pockets were soon crammed with the forbidden fruit.

Another distraction awaited us. Flocks of Turkeys were not rare, roaming at their own sweet will and gobbling up the Locusts around the farms. If no watcher hove in sight, we had great sport. Each of us would seize a Turkey, tuck her head under her wing, rock it in this attitude for a moment and then place her on the ground, lying on her side. The bird no longer budged. The whole flock of Turkeys was subjected to our hypnotic handling; and the meadow assumed the aspect of a battle-field strewn with the dead and dying.

And now look out for the farmer's wife! The loud gobbling of the harassed birds had told her of our wicked pranks. She would run up armed with a whip. But we had good legs in those days! And we had a good laugh too, behind the hedges, which favoured our retreat!

O delightful days when we put the Turkeys to sleep, can I recover the skill which I then possessed? To-day it is no longer the playful trick of a schoolboy; it is a matter of serious research. I happen to have the very subject that I need: a Turkey-hen, doomed soon to be the victim of our Christmas merry-making. I repeat with her the method of manipulation which I employed so successfully on the banks of the Aveyron. I tuck her head well under her wing and, molding it in this attitude with both hands, I rock the bird gently up and down for a couple of minutes.

The strange effect is produced; my childhood's manoeuvres obtained no better result. Laid on the ground, on her side and left to herself, my patient is a lifeless bundle. One would think her dead, if a slight rise and fall of the plumage did not reveal the breathing. She looks really like a dead bird which, in a last convulsion, had drawn its chilled feet, with their shrivelled toes, under its belly. The spectacle has a tragic air; and I feel overcome by a certain anxiety when I gaze upon the results of my evil spells. Poor Turkey! What if she were never to wake again!

We need not be afraid: she is waking; she stands up, staggering a little, it is true, with drooping tail and a shamefaced expression. That soon passes off; not a trace of it remains. In a few moments the bird is once more what it was before the experiment.

This torpor, the mean between true sleep and death, is of variable duration. When repeatedly provoked in my Turkey-hen, with suitable intervals of repose, immobility lasts sometimes for half an hour and sometimes for a few minutes. Here, as in the insect, it would be very difficult to analyse the causes of these differences. With the Guinea-fowl I succeed even better. The torpor lasts so long that I become alarmed by the bird's condition. The plumage reveals no trace of breathing. I ask myself, anxiously, whether the bird is not actually dead. I push it a little way along the ground with my foot. The patient does not stir. I do it again. And lo, the Guinea-fowl frees her head, stands up, regains her balance and scurries off! Her state of lethargy has lasted more than half an hour.

Now for the Goose. I have none. The gardener next door trusts me with his. She is brought to my house, which she fills with her trumpeting as she waddles about. Shortly afterwards there is absolute silence: the web-footed Amazon is lying on the ground, with her head tucked under her wing. Her immobility is as profound and as prolonged as that of the Turkey and the Guinea-fowl.

It is the Hen's turn now and the Duck's. They too succumb, but, so it seems to me, less persistently. Can it be that my hypnotic tricks are less efficacious with small birds than with large ones? To judge by the Pigeon, this may well be so. He yields to my art only to the extent of two minutes' sleep. A still smaller bird, a Greenfinch, is even more refractory: all that I obtain from him is a few seconds' drowsiness.

It would appear, then, that, in proportion as the activity is concentrated in a body of less volume, the torpor has less hold. The insect has already shown us this. The Giant Scarites does not stir for an hour, while the Smooth-skinned Scarites, a pigmy, wearies my persistence in turning him over; the large Cloudy Buprestis submits to my manoeuvres for a long period, whereas the Glittering Buprestis, a pigmy again, obstinately refuses to do so.

We will leave on one side, as insufficiently investigated, the influence of the bodily mass and remember only this fact, that it is possible, by a very simple artifice, to reduce a bird to a condition of apparent death. Do my Goose, my Turkey and the others resort to trickery with the object of deceiving their tormentor? It is certain that none of them thinks of shamming dead; they are actually immersed in a deep torpor; in a word, they are hypnotized.

These facts have long been known; they are perhaps the first in date in the science of hypnosis or artificial sleep. How did we, the little Rodez schoolboys, learn the secret of the Turkey's slumber? It was certainly not in our books. Coming from no one knows where, indestructible as everything that enters into children's games, it was handed down, from time immemorial, from one initiate to another.

Things are just the same to-day in my village of Sérignan, where there are numbers of youthful adepts in the art of putting poultry to sleep. Science often has very humble beginnings. There is nothing to tell us that the mischief of a pack of idle urchins is not the starting-point of our knowledge of hypnosis.