Social Life in the Insect World | Page 4

the sap which the sun has matured. Plunging her
proboscis into the bung-hole, she drinks deliciously, motionless, and
wrapt in meditation, abandoned to the charms of syrup and of song.
Let us watch her awhile. Perhaps we shall witness unlooked-for
wretchedness and want. For there are many thirsty creatures wandering
hither and thither; and at last they discover the Cigale's private well,
betrayed by the oozing sap upon the brink. They gather round it, at first
with a certain amount of constraint, confining themselves to lapping the
extravasated liquor. I have seen, crowding around the honeyed
perforation, wasps, flies, earwigs, Sphinx-moths, Pompilidæ,
rose-chafers, and, above all, ants.
The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the belly of the
Cigale, who kindly raises herself on her claws, leaving room for the
importunate ones to pass. The larger, stamping with impatience,
quickly snatch a mouthful, withdraw, take a turn on the neighbouring
twigs, and then return, this time more enterprising. Envy grows keener;
those who but now were cautious become turbulent and aggressive, and
would willingly drive from the spring the well-sinker who has caused it
to flow.

In this crowd of brigands the most aggressive are the ants. I have seen
them nibbling the ends of the Cigale's claws; I have caught them
tugging the ends of her wings, climbing on her back, tickling her
antennæ. One audacious individual so far forgot himself under my eyes
as to seize her proboscis, endeavouring to extract it from the well!
Thus hustled by these dwarfs, and at the end of her patience, the
giantess finally abandons the well. She flies away, throwing a jet of
liquid excrement over her tormentors as she goes. But what cares the
Ant for this expression of sovereign contempt? She is left in possession
of the spring--only too soon exhausted when the pump is removed that
made it flow. There is little left, but that little is sweet. So much to the
good; she can wait for another drink, attained in the same manner, as
soon as the occasion presents itself.
[Illustration: DURING THE DROUGHTS OF SUMMER THIRSTING
INSECTS, AND NOTABLY THE ANT, FLOCK TO THE
DRINKING-PLACES OF THE CIGALE.]
As we see, reality completely reverses the action described by the fable.
The shameless beggar, who does not hesitate at theft, is the Ant; the
industrious worker, willingly sharing her goods with the suffering, is
the Cigale. Yet another detail, and the reversal of the fable is further
emphasised. After five or six weeks of gaiety, the songstress falls from
the tree, exhausted by the fever of life. The sun shrivels her body; the
feet of the passers-by crush it. A bandit always in search of booty, the
Ant discovers the remains. She divides the rich find, dissects it, and
cuts it up into tiny fragments, which go to swell her stock of provisions.
It is not uncommon to see a dying Cigale, whose wings are still
trembling in the dust, drawn and quartered by a gang of knackers. Her
body is black with them. After this instance of cannibalism the truth of
the relations between the two insects is obvious.
Antiquity held the Cigale in high esteem. The Greek Béranger,
Anacreon, devoted an ode to her, in which his praise of her is singularly
exaggerated. "Thou art almost like unto the Gods," he says. The
reasons which he has given for this apotheosis are none of the best.
They consist in these three privileges: [Greek: gêgenês, apathês,

hanaimosarke]; born of the earth, insensible to pain, bloodless. We will
not reproach the poet for these mistakes; they were then generally
believed, and were perpetuated long afterwards, until the exploring eye
of scientific observation was directed upon them. And in minor poetry,
whose principal merit lies in rhythm and harmony, we must not look at
things too closely.
Even in our days, the Provençal poets, who know the Cigale as
Anacreon never did, are scarcely more careful of the truth in
celebrating the insect which they have taken for their emblem. A friend
of mine, an eager observer and a scrupulous realist, does not deserve
this reproach. He gives me permission to take from his pigeon-holes the
following Provençal poem, in which the relations between the Cigale
and the Ant are expounded with all the rigour of science. I leave to him
the responsibility for his poetic images and his moral reflections,
blossoms unknown to my naturalist's garden; but I can swear to the
truth of all he says, for it corresponds with what I see each summer on
the lilac-trees of my garden.
LA CIGALO E LA FOURNIGO.
I.
Jour de Dièu, queto caud! Bèu tèms pèr la Cigalo, Que, trefoulido, se
regalo D'uno raisso de fio; bèu tèms per la meissoun. Dins lis erso d'or,
lou