THE CLYTHRÆ

The Lily-beetle dresses herself: with her ordure she makes herself a cosy gown, an infamous garment, it is true, but an excellent protection against parasites and sunstroke. The weaver of fæcal cloth has hardly any imitators. The Hermit-crab dresses himself: he selects to fit him, from the discarded wardrobe of the Sea-snail, an empty shell, damaged by the waves; he slips his poor abdomen, which is incapable of hardening, inside it and leaves outside his great fists of unequal size, clad in stone boxing-gloves. This is yet another example rarely followed.

With a few exceptions, all the more remarkable because they are so rare, the animal, in fact, is not burdened by the need of clothing itself. Endowed, without having to manufacture a thing, with all that it wants, it knows nothing of the art of adding defensive extras to its natural covering.

The bird has no need to take thought of its plumage, the furry beast of its coat, the reptile of its scales, the Snail of his shell, the Ground-beetle of his jerkin. They display no ingenuity with the object of securing protection from the inclemencies of the atmosphere. Hair, down, scales, mother-of-pearl and other items of the animal's apparel: these are all produced of their own accord, on an automatic loom.

Man, for his part, is naked; and the severities of the climate oblige him to wear an artificial skin to protect his own. This poverty has given rise to one of our most attractive industries.

He invented clothing who, shivering with cold, first thought of flaying the Bear and covering his shoulders with the brute's hide. In a distant future this primitive cloak was gradually to be replaced by cloth, the product of our industry. But under a mild sky the traditional fig-leaf, the screen of modesty, was for a long while sufficient. Among peoples remote from civilization, it still suffices in our day, together with its ornamental complement, the fish-bone through the cartilage of the nose, the red feather in the hair, the string round the loins. We must not forget the smear of rancid butter, which serves to keep off the Mosquito and reminds us of the unguent employed by the grub that dreads the Tachina.

In the first rank of the animals protected against the bite of the atmosphere without the intervention of a handicraft are those which go clad in hair, dressed free of cost in fleeces, furs or pelts. Some of these natural coats are magnificent, surpassing our downiest velvets in softness.

Despite the progress of weaving, man is still jealous of them. To-day, as in the ages when he sheltered under a rock, he values furs greatly for the winter. At all seasons he holds them in high esteem as ornamental accessories; he glories in sewing on his attire a shred of some wretched flayed beast. The ermine of kings and judges, the white rabbit-tails with which the university graduate adorns his left shoulder on solemn occasions carry us back in thought to the age of the cave-dwellers.

Moreover, the fleecy animals still clothe us in a less primitive fashion. Our woollens are made of hairs interlaced. Ever since the beginning, without hoping to find anything better, man has clothed himself at the expense of the hairy orders of creation.

The bird, a more active producer of heat, whose maintenance is a more delicate matter, covers itself with feathers, which overlap evenly, and puts round its body a thick cushion of air on a bed of down. It has on its tail a pot of cosmetic, a bottle of hair-oil, a fatty gland from which the beak obtains an ointment wherewith it preens the feathers one by one and renders them impermeable to moisture. A great expender of energy by reason of the exigencies of flight, it is essentially, chilly creature that it is, better-adapted than any other to the retention of heat.

For the slow-moving reptile the scales suffice, preserving it from hurtful contacts, but playing hardly any part as a bulwark against changes of temperature.

In its liquid environment, which is far more constant than the air, the fish requires no more. Without effort on its part, without violent expenditure of motor force, the swimmer is borne up by the mere pressure of the water. A bath whose temperature varies but little enables it to live in ignorance of excessive cold or heat.

In the same way, the mollusc, for the most part a denizen of the seas, leads a blissful life in its shell, which is a defensive fortress rather than a garment. Lastly the crustacean confines itself to making a suit of armour out of its mineral skin.

In all these, from the hairy to the crustaceous, the real coat, the coat turned out by a special industry, does not exist. Hair, fur, feather, scale, shell, stony armour require no intervention of the wearer; they are natural products, not the artificial creations of the animal. To find clothiers able to place upon their backs that which their organization refuses them, we must descend from man to certain insects.

Ridiculous attire, of which we are so proud, made from the slaver of a caterpillar or the fleece of a silly sheep: among its inventors the first and foremost is the Crioceris-larva, with its jacket of dung! In the art of clothing itself, it preceded the Eskimo, who scrapes the bowels of the seal to make himself a suit of dittos; it forestalled our ancestor the troglodyte, who borrowed the fur-coat of his contemporary the Cave-bear. We had not got beyond the fig-leaf, when the Crioceris already excelled in the manufacture of homespun, both providing the raw material and piecing it together.

For reasons of economy and easy acquisition, its disgusting method, but with very elegant modifications, suits the clan of the Clythræ and Cryptocephali, those pretty and magnificently coloured Beetles. Their larva, a naked little grub, makes itself a long, narrow pot, in which it lives just like the Snail in his shell. As a coat and as a dwelling the timid creature makes use of a jar, better still, of a graceful vase, the product of its industry.

Once inside, it never comes out. If anything alarms it, with a sudden recoil it withdraws completely into its urn, the opening of which is closed with the disk formed by the flat top of the head. When quiet is restored, it ventures to put out its head and the three segments with legs to them, but is very careful to keep the rest, which is more delicate and fastened to the back, inside.

With tiny steps, weighted by the burden, it makes its way along, lifting its earthenware container behind it in a slanting position. It makes one think of Diogenes, dragging his house, a terra-cotta tub, about with him. The thing is rather unwieldy, because of the weight, and is liable to heel over, owing to the excessive height of the centre of gravity. It makes progress all the same, tilting like a busby rakishly cocked over one ear. One of our Land-snails, the Bulimus, whose shell is continued into a turret, moves almost in the same fashion, tumbling repeatedly as he goes.

The Clythra's is a shapely jar and does credit to the insect's art of pottery. It is firm to the touch, of earthy appearance and smooth as stucco inside, while the outside is relieved by delicate diagonal, symmetrical ribs, which are the traces of successive enlargements. The back part is slightly dilated and is rounded off at the end with two slight bumps. These two terminal projections, with the central furrow which divides them, and the ribs marking additions, which match on either side, are evidence of work done in two parts, in which the artist has followed the rules of symmetry, the first condition of the beautiful.

The front part is of rather smaller diameter and is cut off on a slant, which enables the jar to be lifted and supported on the larva's back as it moves. Lastly, the mouth is circular, with a blunt edge.

Any one finding one of these jars for the first time, among the stones at the foot of an oak, and wondering what its origin could be, would be greatly puzzled. Is it the stone of some unknown fruit, emptied of its kernel by the patient tooth of the Field-mouse? Is it the capsule of a plant, from which the lid has dropped, allowing the seeds to fall? It has all the accuracy, all the elegance of the masterpieces of the vegetable kingdom.

After learning the origin of the object, he would be no less doubtful as to the nature of the materials, or rather of their cement. Water will not soften, will not disintegrate the shell. This must be so, else the first shower of rain would reduce the grub's garment to pulp. Fire does not affect it greatly either. When exposed to the flame of a candle, the jar, without changing shape, loses its brown colour and assumes the tint of burnt ferruginous earth. The groundwork of the material therefore is of a mineral nature. It remains for us to discover what the cement can be that gives the earthy element its brown colour, holds it together and makes it solid.

The grub is ever on its guard. At the least flurry, it shrinks into its shell and does not budge for a long time. Let us be as patient as the grub. We shall surely, some day or other, manage to surprise it at work. And indeed I do. It suddenly backs into its jar, disappearing inside entirely. In a moment it reappears, carrying a brown pellet in its mandibles. It kneads the pellet and works it up with a little earth gathered on the threshold of its dwelling; it softens the mixture as required and then spreads it artistically in a thin strip on the edge of the sheath.

The legs take no part in the job. Only the mandibles and the palpi work, acting as tub, trowel, beater and roller in one.

Once more the grub backs into its shell: once more it returns, bringing a second clod, which is prepared and used in the same manner. Five or six times over, it repeats the process, until the whole circumference of the mouth has been increased by the addition of a rim.

The potter's compound, as we have seen, consists of two ingredients. One of these, the first earth that comes to hand, is collected on the threshold of the workshop; the other is fetched from inside the pot, for, each time that the grub returns, I see it carrying a brown pellet in its teeth. What does it keep in the back-shop? Though we can scarcely find out by direct observation, we can at least guess.

Observe that the jar is absolutely closed behind, without the smallest waste-pipe by which the physiological needs from which the grub is certainly not immune can be relieved. The grub is boxed in and never stirs out of doors. What becomes of its excretions? Well, they are evacuated at the bottom of the pot. By a gentle movement of the rump, the product is spread upon the walls, strengthening the coat and giving it a velvet lining.

It is better than a lining; it is a precious store of putty. When the grub wants to repair its shell or to enlarge it to fit its figure, which increases daily, it proceeds to clean out its cess-pool. It turns round and, with the tips of its mandibles, collects singly, from the back, the brown pellets which it has only to work up with a little earth to make a ceramic paste of the highest quality.

Observe also that the grub's pottery is shaped like the legs of our peg-top trousers and is wider inside than at the opening. This excessive girth has its obvious use. It enables the animal to bend and turn when the contents of the cess-pit are needed for a fresh course of masonry.

A garment should be neither too short nor too tight. It is not enough to add a piece which lengthens it as the body grows longer; we must also see that it has sufficient fulness not to hamper the wearer and to give him liberty of movement.

The Snail and all the molluscs with turbinate shells increase the diameter of their corkscrew staircase by degrees, so that the last whorl is always an exact measure of their actual condition. The lower whorls, those of childhood, when they become too narrow, are not abandoned, it is true; they become lumber-rooms in which the organs of least importance to active life find shelter, drawn out into a slender appendage. The essential portion of the animal is lodged in the upper story, which increases in capacity.

The big Broken Bulimus, that lover of crumbling walls and limestone rocks leaning in the sun, sacrifices the graces of symmetry to utility. When the lower spirals are no longer wide enough, he abandons them altogether and moves higher up, into the spacious staircase of recent formation. He closes the occupied part with a stout partition-wall at the back; then, dashing against the sharp stones, he chips off the superfluous portion, the hovel not fit to live in. The broken shell loses its accurate form in the process, but gains in lightness.

The Clythra does not employ the Bulimus' method. It also disdains that of our dressmakers, who split the overtight garment and let in a piece of suitable width between the edges of the opening. To break the jar when it becomes too small would be a wilful waste of material; to split it lengthwise and increase its capacity by inserting a strip would be an imprudent expedient, which would expose the occupant to danger during the slow work of repair. The hermit of the jar can do better than that. It knows how to enlarge its gown while leaving it, except for its fulness, as it was before.

Its paradoxical method is this: of the lining it makes cloth, bringing to the outside what was inside. Little by little, as the need makes itself felt, the grub scrapes and strips the interior of its cell. Reduced to a soft paste by means of a little putty furnished by the intestine, the scrapings are applied over the whole of the outer surface, down to the far end, which the grub, thanks to its perfect flexibility, is able to reach without taking too much trouble or leaving its house.

This turning of the coat is accomplished with a delicate precision which preserves the symmetrical arrangement of the ornamental ridges; lastly, it increases the capacity by a gradual transfer of the material from the inside to the outside. This method of renewing the old coat is so accurate that nothing is thrown aside, nothing treated as useless, not even the baby-wear, which remains encrusted in the keystone at the original top of the structure.

If fresh materials were not added, obviously the jar would gain in size at the cost of thickness. The shell would become too thin, by dint of being turned in order to make space, and would sooner or later lack the requisite solidity. The grub guards against that. It has in front of it as much earth as it can wish for; it keeps putty in a back-shop; and the factory which produces it never slacks work. There is nothing to prevent it from thickening the structure at will and adding as much material as it thinks proper to the inner scrapings from the shell.

Invariably clad in a garment that is an exact fit, neither too loose nor too tight, the grub, when the cold weather comes, closes the mouth of its earthenware jar with a lid of the same mixed compound, a paste of earth and stercoral cement. It then turns round and makes its preparations for the metamorphosis, with its head at the back of the pot and its stern near the entrance, which will not be opened again. It reaches the adult stage in April and May, when the ilex becomes covered with tender shoots, and emerges from its shell by breaking open the hinder end. Now come the days of revelry on the leafage, in the mild morning sun.

The Clythra's jar is a piece of work entailing no little delicacy of execution. I can quite well see how the grub lengthens and enlarges it; but I cannot imagine how it begins it. If it has nothing to serve as a mould and a base, how does it set to work to assemble the first layers of paste into a neatly-shaped cup?

Our potters have their lathe, the tray which keeps the work rotating and implements to determine its outline. Could the Clythra, an exceptional ceramic artist, work without a base and without a guide? It strikes me as an insurmountable difficulty. I know the insect to be capable of many remarkable industrial feats; but, before admitting that the jar can be based on nothing, we should have to see the new-born artist at work. Perhaps it has resources bequeathed to it by its mother; perhaps the egg presents peculiarities which will solve the riddle. Let us rear the insect, collect its eggs; then the pottery will tell us the secret of its beginnings.

I install three species of Clythræ under wire-gauze covers, each with a bed of sand and a bottle of water containing a few young ilex-shoots, which I renew as and when they fade. All three species are common on the holm-oak: they are the Long-legged Clythra (C. longipes, FAB.), the Four-spotted Clythra (C. quadripunctata, LIN.), and the Taxicorn Clythra (C. taxicornis, FAB.).

I set up a second menagerie with some Cryptocephali, who are closely related to the Clythræ. The inmates are the Ilex Cryptocephalus (C. ilicis, OLIV.), the Two-spotted Cryptocephalus (C. bipunctatus, LIN.) and the Golden Cryptocephalus (C. hypochoeridis, LIN.), who wears a resplendent costume. For the first two I provide sprigs of ilex; for the third, the heads of a centaury (Centaurea aspera), which is the favourite plant of this living gem.

There is nothing striking in the habits of my captives, who spend the morning very quietly, the first five browsing on their oak-leaves and the sixth on her centaury-blooms. When the sun grows hot, they fly from the bunch of leaves in the centre to the wire trellis and back from the trellis to the leaves, or wander about the top of the cage in a state of great excitement.

Every moment couples are formed. They pester each other, pair without preliminaries, part without regrets and begin elsewhere all over again. Life is sweet; and there are enough for all to choose from. Several are persistent. Mounted on the back of the patient female, who lowers her head and seems untouched by the passionate storm, they shake her violently. Thus do the amorous insects declare their flame and win the consent of the hesitating fair.

The attitude of the couple now tells us the use of a certain organic detail peculiar to the Clythra. In several species, though not in all, the males' fore-legs are of inordinate length. What is the object of these extravagant arms, these curious grappling-irons out of all proportion to the insect's size? The Grasshoppers and Locusts prolong their hind-legs into levers to assist them in leaping. There is nothing of the sort here: it is the fore-legs which are exaggerated; and their excessive length has nothing to do with locomotion. The insect, whether resting or walking, seems even to be embarrassed by these outrageous stilts, which it bends awkwardly and tucks away as best it can, not knowing exactly what to do with them.

But wait for the pairing; and the extravagant becomes reasonable. The couple take up their pose in the form of a T. The male, standing perpendicularly, or nearly, represents the cross-piece and the female the shaft of the letter, lying on its side. To steady his attitude, which is so contrary to the usual position in pairing, the male flings out his long grappling-hooks, two sheet-anchors which grip the female's shoulders, the fore-edge of her corselet, or even her head.

At this moment, the only moment that counts in the adult insect's life, it is a good thing indeed to possess long arms, long hands, like Clythra longimana and C. longipes, as the scientific nomenclature calls them. Although their names are silent on the subject, the Taxicorn Clythra and the Six-spotted Clythra (C. sexmaculata, FAB.) and many others also have recourse to the same means of equilibrium: their fore-legs are utterly exaggerated.

Is the difficulty of pairing in a transversal position the explanation of the long grappling-irons thrown out to a distance? We will not be too certain, for here is the Four-spotted Clythra, who would flatly contradict us. The male has fore-legs of modest dimensions, in conformity with the usual rules; he places himself crosswise like the others and nevertheless achieves his ends without hindrance. He finds it enough to modify slightly the gymnastics of his embrace. The same may be said of the different Cryptocephali, who all have stumpy limbs. Wherever we look, we find special resources, known to some and unknown to others.