ADVANCED THEORIES

The species of the genus Sphex are fairly numerous, but are for the most part strangers to my country. As far as I know, the French fauna numbers only three, all lovers of the hot sun of the olive district, namely, the Yellow-winged Sphex (Sphex flavipennis), the White-edged Sphex (S. albisecta), and the Languedocian Sphex (S. occitanica). Now it is not without a lively interest that the observer notices in the case of these three freebooters a choice of provisions which is in strict accordance with the rigid laws of entomological classification. To feed their grubs, all three choose solely Orthoptera.The first hunts Crickets, the second Locusts, the third Ephippigers.

The prey selected have such great outward differences one from the other that to associate them and grasp their similarity calls for the practised eye of the entomologist or the no less experienced eye of the Sphex. Pray compare the Cricket with the Locust: the first has a large, round, stumpy head, is short and thickset and black all over, with red stripes on his hinder thighs; the second is greyish in colour, long and slim, with a small, tapering head, leaps forward by suddenly unbending his long hind-legs and continues this flight with wings furled like a fan. Next compare both of these with the Ephippiger, who carries his musical instrument, two shrill cymbals shaped like concave scales, on his back and who waddles along with his pendulous belly, ringed pale-green and buttercup-yellow and armed with a long dirk. Place the three side by side and you will agree with me that, to guide her in choosing between such dissimilar species, while still keeping to the same entomological order, the Sphex must have an eye so expert that no man—not your ordinary layman, but a man of science—need be ashamed to own it.

In the face of these singular predilections, which seem to have had their limits laid down for them by some master of classification, by a Latreille, for instance, it becomes interesting to investigate whether the Sphex-wasps that are not natives of our country hunt game of the same order. Unfortunately, information on this point is scanty and, in the case of most of the species, is lacking altogether. The chief cause of this regrettable lacuna is the superficial method generally adopted. People catch an insect, stick a long pin through it, fix it in the cork-bottomed box, gum a label with a Latin name underneath its feet, and let its history end there. It is not thus that I understand the duties of an entomological biographer. It is no use telling me that this or that species has so many joints to its antennæ, so many nervures to its wings, so many hairs on a region of the belly or thorax; I do not really know the insect until I am acquainted with its manner of life, its instincts and its habits.

And see the immense and luminous advantage which a description of this kind, told in two or three words, would possess over those long descriptive details, sometimes so hard to grasp. Suppose that you wish to make the Languedocian Sphex known to me and you begin by describing the number and distribution of the nervures of the wings; you speak to me of cubital nervures and recurrent nervures. Next comes the insect’s pen-portrait. Black here, rusty red there, smoky brown at the tips of the wings; black velvet in this part, silvery down in that, a smooth surface in a third. It is all very definite and minute: we must do this much justice to the precision and patience of the narrator; but it is very long and also it is by no means always clear, so much so that we may be excused if we are not quite able to follow it, even when we are not altogether new to the business. But add to the tedious description merely this: ‘Hunts Ephippigers’; and these two words at once shed light: there is no possibility of my now mistaking my Sphex, for she alone possesses the monopoly of that particular prey. To give this illuminating note, what would be needed? The habit of really observing and of not making entomology consist of so many series of impaled insects.

But let us pass on and examine the little that is known about the hunting methods of the foreign Sphex-wasps. I open Lepeletier de Saint-Fargeau’s2 Natural History of Hymenoptera and find that, on the other side of the Mediterranean, in our Algerian provinces, the Yellow-winged Sphex and the White-edged Sphex retain the same habits that characterize them here. They capture Orthoptera in the land of palm-trees even as they do in the land of olive-trees. Though separated from the others by the vast width of the sea, the hunting compatriots of the Kabyles and the Berbers pursue the same game as their kindred in Provence. I also see that a fourth species, the African Sphex (S. afra), is the scourge of the Locusts in the neighbourhood of Oran. Lastly, I remember reading, I forget where, of a fifth species which also wages war on Locusts in the steppes near the Caspian. Thus, on the borders of the Mediterranean, we have five different species of Sphex, whose larvæ all live on a diet of Orthoptera.

Now let us cross the equator and go right down to the southern hemisphere, to the islands of Mauritius and Réunion: we shall here find not a Sphex, but a closely-allied Wasp of the same tribe, the Compressed Chlorion, hunting the horrible Kakerlak, that ravager of the foodstuffs in the ships and harbours of the colonies. These Kakerlaks are none other than Cockroaches, whereof one species haunts our dwellings. Who does not know the evil-smelling insect, which, thanks to its flat body, like that of a huge Bug, slips at night through the gaps in furniture and the crannies of partitions and invades any place containing provisions to be devoured? This is the Black-beetle of our houses, a disgusting counterpart of the no less disgusting prey beloved of the Chlorion. What is there about the Kakerlak to cause him to be selected as a prey by a near cousin of our Sphex-wasps? It is quite simple: with his Bug shape, the Kakerlak also is an Orthopteron, just as much as the Cricket, the Ephippiger or the Locust. From these six examples, the only ones known to me and of such different origins, we might perhaps deduce that all the Sphex hunt Orthoptera. At any rate, without adopting so general a conclusion, we see what the food of their larvæ must be in most cases.

There is a reason for this surprising choice. What is it? What are the grounds for a diet which, within the strict limits of one entomological order, is composed here of stinking Kakerlaks, there of somewhat dry, but highly-flavoured Locusts, elsewhere again of plump Crickets or fat Ephippigers? I confess that I cannot tell, that I am absolutely in the dark; and I leave the problem to others. At the same time, we may observe that the Orthoptera are among insects what the Ruminants are among mammals. Endowed with a mighty paunch and a placid temperament, they graze contentedly and soon put on flesh. They are numerous, widely distributed and slow in movement, which renders them easy to catch; moreover, they are of a large size, making fine heads of game. Who can say if the Sphex-wasps, powerful huntresses, requiring big prey, do not find in these Ruminants of the insect world what we ourselves find in our domestic Ruminants, the Sheep and the Ox, peaceable victims yielding plenty of flesh? It is just a possibility, but no more.

I have something better than a possibility to offer in reply to another and no less important question. Do the Orthopteron-eaters ever vary their diet? Should the favourite type of game fall short, can they not accept a different one? Does the Languedocian Sphex consider that there is nothing in the world worth having but fat Ephippigers? Does the White-edged Sphex allow none but Locusts to figure on her table; and the Yellow-winged Sphex none but Crickets? Or, according to time, place and circumstances, does each make up for the lack of her favourite victuals by others more or less equivalent? To ascertain such facts, if they exist, would be of the greatest importance, for they would tell us if the inspirations of instinct are absolute and unchangeable, or if they vary and within what limits. It is true that the cells of one and the same Cerceris contain the most varied species of either the Buprestis or the Weevil group, which shows that the huntress has a great latitude of choice; but this extension of the hunting-fields cannot be presumed in the case of the Sphex-wasps, whom I have seen so faithful to an exclusive victim, always the same for each of them, and who moreover find, among the Orthoptera, groups that differ very widely in shape. Nevertheless, I have had the good fortune to come upon one case, one only, of complete change in the larva’s nourishment; and I record it the more willingly in the Sphegian archives inasmuch as such facts, scrupulously observed, will one day form foundation-stones for any one who cares to build up the psychology of instinct on a solid basis.

Here are the facts. The scene is enacted on a towing-path along the Rhône. On one side is the mighty stream, with its roaring waters; on the other is a thick hedge of osiers, willows, and reeds; between the two runs a narrow walk, with a carpet of fine sand. A Yellow-winged Sphex appears, hopping along, dragging her prey. What do I see! The prey is not a Cricket, but a common Acridian, a Locust! And yet the Wasp is really the Sphex with whom I am so familiar, the Yellow-winged Sphex, the keen Cricket-huntress. I can hardly believe the evidence of my own eyes.

The burrow is not far off: the insect enters it and stores away the booty. I sit down, determined to wait for a new expedition, to wait hours if necessary, so that I may see if the extraordinary capture is repeated. My sitting attitude makes me take up the whole width of the path. Two raw conscripts heave in sight, their hair newly cut, wearing that inimitable automaton look which the first days of barrack-life bestow. They are chatting together, talking no doubt of home and the girl they left behind them; and each is innocently whittling a willow-switch with his knife. I am seized with a sudden apprehension. Ah, it is no easy matter to experiment on the public road, where, when the long-awaited event occurs at last, the arrival of a wayfarer is likely to disturb or ruin opportunities that may never return! I rise, anxiously, to make way for the conscripts; I stand back in the osier-bed and leave the narrow passage free. To do more would have been unwise. To say, ‘Don’t go this way, my good lads,’ would have made bad worse. They would have suspected some trap hidden under the sand, giving rise to questions to which no reply that I could have made would have sounded satisfactory. Besides, my request would have turned those idlers into lookers-on, very embarrassing company in such studies. I therefore got up without speaking and trusted to my lucky star. Alas and alack, my star betrayed me: the heavy regulation boot came straight down upon the ceiling of the Sphex! A shudder ran through me as though I myself had received the impress of the hobnailed sole.

When the conscripts had passed, I proceeded to save what I could of the ruined burrow’s contents. The Sphex was there, crushed and mangled; and with her not only the Locust whom I had seen carried down, but two others as well, making three Locusts in all instead of the usual Crickets. What was the reason of this curious change? Were there no Crickets in the neighbourhood of the burrow and was the distressed Wasp making up for them with Locusts: a case of Hobson’s choice, in fact? I hesitate to believe it, for there was nothing about the neighbourhood to warrant the supposition that the favourite game was absent. Another, luckier than I, will unriddle this new and unknown mystery. The fact remains that the Yellow-winged Sphex, either from imperious necessity or for some reason that escapes me, sometimes replaces her chosen prey, the Cricket, with another prey, the Locust, presenting no external resemblance to the first, but itself also an Orthopteron.

The observer on whose authority Lepeletier de Saint-Fargeau says a word or two touching the habits of this same Sphex witnessed a similar storing away of Locusts in Africa, near Oran. He surprised a Yellow-winged Sphex dragging an Acridian along. Was it an accidental case, like that which I witnessed on the banks of the Rhône? Was it an exception or the rule? Can there be a lack of Crickets in the country around Oran and does the Wasp fill their place with Acridians? The force of circumstances compels me to put the question without finding a reply.

This is the place to interpolate a certain passage from Lacordaire’s3 Introduction to Entomology against which I am eager to protest. Here it is:

‘Darwin,4 who wrote a book on purpose to prove the identity of the intellectual principle actuating men and animals, was walking one day in his garden when he saw on the path a Sphex who had just possessed herself of a Fly almost as large as herself. He saw her cut off the victim’s head and abdomen with her mandibles, keeping only the thorax, to which the wings remained attached, after which she flew away; but a breath of wind, striking the Fly’s wings, made the Sphex spin round and prevented her progress; hereupon she alighted again on the path, cut off one of the Fly’s wings and then the other, and, after thus destroying the cause of her difficulties, resumed her flight with what remained of her prey. This fact carries with it manifest signs of reasoning power. Instinct might have led this Sphex to cut off her victim’s wings before carrying it to her nest, as do some species of the same genus; but here there was a sequence of ideas and results from those ideas, which are quite inexplicable unless we allow the intervention of reason.’

This little story, which so lightly grants reason to an insect, lacks I will not say truth, but even mere likelihood, not in the act itself, which I accept without reserve, but in the motives for the act. Darwin saw what he tells us; only, he was mistaken as to the heroine of the drama, the drama itself and its significance. He was profoundly mistaken; and I will prove it.

First of all, the old English scientist was bound to know enough about the creatures to which he gives these high dignities to call things by their right names. Let us therefore take the word Sphex in its strict scientific meaning. Under this assumption, by what strange aberration was this English Sphex, if any such there be, choosing a Fly for her prey, when her kinswomen hunt such different game, Orthoptera? Even admitting what I consider to be inadmissible, a Fly to form the quarry of a Sphex, other difficulties come crowding up. It is now duly proved that the Burrowing Wasps do not take dead bodies to their larvæ, but a victim merely numbed, paralysed. Then what is the meaning of this prey of which the Sphex cuts off the head, the abdomen, the wings? The stump carried away is no more than a fragment of a corpse, which would infect the cell with its rottenness, without being of any use to the larva, whose hatching is not due for some days yet. It is as clear as daylight: when making his observation, Darwin did not have before him a Sphex in the strict sense of the word. Then what did he see?

The term Fly, by which the captured prey is designated, is a very elastic word, which can be applied to the immense order of Diptera and which therefore leaves us undecided among thousands of species. The expression Sphex is most likely also employed in an equally indefinite sense. At the end of the eighteenth century, when Darwin’s book appeared, this expression was used to denote not only the Sphegidæ proper, but particularly the Crabronidæ. Now, among the latter, some, when storing provisions for their larvæ, hunt Diptera, Flies, the prey required by the unknown Hymenopteron of the English naturalist. Then was Darwin’s Sphex a Crabro? No; for these Dipteron-hunters, like the hunters of any other prey, want game that keeps fresh, motionless but half-alive, for the fortnight or three weeks required for the hatching of the eggs and the complete development of the larvæ. All these little ogres need meat killed that day and not gone bad or even a little high. This is a rule to which I know of no exception. The word Sphex cannot be accepted therefore, even with its old meaning.

Instead of a precise fact, really worthy of science, we have a riddle to read. Let us continue to examine the riddle. Different species of the Crabro family are so like the Social Wasps in size, in shape and in their black-and-yellow livery as to deceive any eye unversed in the delicate distinctions of entomology. To any one who has not made a special study of such subjects a Crabro is a Common Wasp. May it not have happened that the English observer, looking at things from a height and thinking unworthy of strict investigation the tiny fact which nevertheless was to corroborate his transcendental theories and help to bestow reason upon an animal, made a mistake in his turn, but one in the other direction and quite pardonable, by taking a Wasp for a Crabro? I would almost dare swear so; and here are my reasons.

Wasps, if not always, at least often bring up their family on animal food; but, instead of accumulating a provision of game in each cell beforehand, they distribute the food to the larvæ, one by one and several times a day; they feed them with their mouths, as the father and mother feed young birds with their beaks. And the mouthful consists of a fine mash of chewed insects, ground between the mandibles of the Wasp nurse. The favourite insects for the preparation of this infants’ food are Diptera, especially Common Flies; when fresh meat can be had, it is a windfall eagerly turned to account. Who has not seen Wasps boldly enter our kitchens or pounce upon the meat hanging in the butchers’ shops, to cut off a scrap that suits them and carry it away forthwith, as spolia opima for the use of the grubs? When the half-closed shutters admit a streak of sunlight to the floor of a room, where the Housefly is taking a luxurious nap or polishing her wings, who has not seen the Wasp rush in, swoop down upon the Fly, crush her in her mandibles and make off with the booty? Once again, a morsel reserved for the carnivorous nurselings.

The prey is dismembered now on the spot where captured, now on the way, now at the nest. The wings, which possess no nutritive value, are cut off and rejected; the legs, which are poor in juices, are also sometimes disdained. There remains a mutilated corpse, head, thorax, abdomen, united or separated, which the Wasp chews and rechews to reduce it to the pap beloved of the larvæ. I have tried to take the place of the nurses in this method of rearing grubs on Fly-soup. The subject of my experiment was a nest of Polistes gallica, the Wasp who fastens her little rosette of brown-paper cells to the roots of a shrub. My kitchen-table was a flat piece of marble on which I crushed the Fly-pap after cleaning the heads of game, that is to say, after removing the parts that were too tough, the wings and legs; lastly, the feeding-spoon was a fine straw, at the tip of which the dish was served, from cell to cell, to each nurseling, which opened its mandibles just as the young birds in the nest might do. I used to go to work in exactly the same way and succeeded no better when bringing up broods of Sparrows, that joy of my childhood. All went well as long as my patience did not fail me, tried as it was by the cares of so finikin and absorbing an education.

The obscurity of the enigma gives way to the full light of truth thanks to the following observation, made with all the deliberateness which strict precision calls for. In the early days of October, two large clumps of asters in blossom outside the door of my study became the meeting-place of a host of insects, among which the Hive-bee and an Eristalis-fly (Eristalis tenax) predominate. A gentle murmur rose from them, like that of which Virgil sings:

Sæpe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro.

But, where the poet finds but an incitement to the delights of sleep, the naturalist beholds a subject for study: all this small folk making holiday on the last flowers of the year will perhaps furnish him with some fresh data. Behold me then on observation duty before the two clumps with their thousands of lilac petals.

The air is absolutely still, the sun blazing, the atmosphere heavy: signs of an approaching storm, but conditions eminently favourable to the work of the Hymenoptera, who seem to foresee to-morrow’s rain and redouble their activity to improve the opportunity. And so the Bees plunder eagerly, while the Eristales fly clumsily from flower to flower. At times, the peaceable multitude, filling its crop with nectar, is disturbed by the sudden invasion of the Wasp, a ravening insect attracted hither by prey, not honey.

Equally ardent in carnage, but very unequal in strength, two species divide the hunting between them: the Common Wasp (Vespa vulgaris), who catches Eristales, and the Hornet (Vespa crabro), who preys on Hive-bees. The methods are the same in either case. Both bandits explore the expanse of flowers with an impetuous flight, going backwards and forwards in a thousand directions, and then make a sudden rush for the coveted prey, which is on its guard and flies away, while the kidnapper’s impetus brings her up with a bump against the deserted flower. Then the pursuit continues in the air, as though a Sparrow-hawk were chasing a Lark. But the Bee and the Eristalis, by taking brisk turns, soon baffle the attempts of the Wasp, who resumes her evolutions above the clustering blossoms. At last, sooner or later, some quarry less quick at flight is captured. Forthwith, the Common Wasp drops on to the lawn with her Eristalis; I also instantly lie on the ground, quietly removing with my hands the dead leaves and bits of grass that might interfere with my view; and I witness the following tragedy, if I have taken proper precautions not to scare the huntress.

First, there is a wild struggle in the tangle of the grass between the Wasp and the Eristalis, who is bigger than her assailant. The Fly is unarmed, but powerful; a shrill buzz of her wings tells of her desperate resistance. The Wasp carries a dagger; but she does not understand the methodical use of it, is unacquainted with the vulnerable points so well known to the marauders who need a prey that keeps fresh for long. What her nurselings want is a mess of Flies that moment reduced to pulp; and, so long as this is achieved, the Wasp cares little how the game is killed. The sting therefore is used blindly, without any method. We see it pointed indifferently at the victim’s back, sides, head, thorax, or belly, according to the chances of the scuffle. The Hunting Wasp paralysing her victim acts like a surgeon who directs his scalpel with a skilled hand; the Social Wasp killing her prey behaves like a common assassin who stabs at random. For this reason the Eristalis’ resistance is prolonged; and her death is the result of scissor-cuts rather than dagger-thrusts. When the victim is duly garrotted, motionless between its ravisher’s legs, the head falls under a snap of the mandibles; then the wings are cut off at their juncture with the shoulder; the legs follow, severed one by one; lastly, the belly is flung aside, but emptied of the entrails, which the Wasp appears to add to the one favoured portion. This choice morsel is solely the thorax, which is richer in lean meat than the rest of the Eristalis’ body. Without further delay the Wasp flies off with it, carrying it in her legs. On reaching the nest, she will make it into potted Fly and serve it in mouthfuls to the larvæ.

The Hornet who has caught a Bee acts in much the same manner; but, in the case of an assailant of her dimensions, the struggle cannot last long, notwithstanding the victim’s sting. The Hornet may prepare her dish on the very flower where the capture was effected, or more often on some twig of an adjacent shrub. The Bee’s crop is first ripped open and the honey that runs out of it lapped up. The prize is thus a twofold one: a drop of honey for the huntress to feast upon and the Bee herself for the larvæ. Sometimes the wings are removed and also the abdomen; but generally the Hornet is satisfied with reducing the Bee to a shapeless mass, which she carries off without disdaining anything. Those parts which have no nutritive value, especially the wings, will be rejected on arriving at the nest. Lastly, she sometimes prepares the mash in the actual hunting-field, that is to say, she crushes the Bee between her mandibles after removing the wings, the legs, and at times the abdomen as well.

Here then, in all its details, is the incident observed by Darwin. A Wasp (Vespa vulgaris) catches a big Fly (Eristalis tenax); she cuts off the victim’s head, wings, abdomen, and legs with her mandibles and keeps only the thorax, which she carries off flying. But here there is not the least breath of wind to explain the carving process; besides, the thing happens in a perfect shelter, in the thick tangle of the grass. The butcher rejects such parts of her prey as she considers valueless to her larvæ; and that is all about it.

In short, the heroine of Darwin’s story is certainly a Wasp. Then what becomes of that rational calculation on the part of the insect which, the better to contend with the wind, cuts off its prey’s abdomen, head and wings and keeps only the thorax? It becomes a most simple incident, leading to none of the mighty consequences which the writer seeks to deduce from it: the very trivial incident of a Wasp who begins to carve up her prey on the spot and keeps only the stump, the one part which she considers fit for her larvæ. Far from seeing the least sign of reason in this, I look upon it as a mere act of instinct, one so elementary that it is really not worth expatiating upon.

To disparage man and exalt animals in order to establish a point of contact, followed by a point of union, has been and still is the general tendency of the ‘advanced theories’ in fashion in our day. Ah, how often are these ‘sublime theories,’ that morbid craze of the time, based upon ‘proofs’ which, if subjected to the light of experiment, would lead to as ridiculous results as the learned Erasmus Darwin’s Sphex!