CHAPTER X

[Contents]CHAPTER XTHE PROFESSOR: AVIGNON (1852–1870)In 1852 the Professor of Physics and Chemistry in thelycéeof Ajaccio was transferred to thelycéeof Avignon.Fabre was not yet twenty-seven. His youth, his enthusiasm, his good humour, the simplicity of his manners, and the vivacity of his mind naturally endeared him to young people eager for knowledge and the ideal. A few lines from theSouvenirsgive us some idea of the relations between master and pupils: “There were five or six of us: I was the oldest, their master, but still more their companion and their friend; they were young fellows with warm hearts and cheerful imaginations, overflowing with that springtide sap of life which makes us so expansive, so desirous of knowledge.”One guesses that he is speaking of one of those country walks on which, with a guide such as Fabre, everything became a source of instruction and an object of wonder and admiration.[129]These excursions into the world of the fields, the delight of his youth and his earliest childhood, were henceforth to form the first item on his programme of studies. Mathematics were dropped, as Moquin-Tandon had advised. Physics and chemistry were put in their proper place, in the teaching of thelycée, and the whole of the young professor’s free energies were expended upon the research work of the naturalist.Necessarily limited by his occupation as a teacher, his investigations could not at ordinary times extend beyond the neighbourhood of Avignon. One of his favourite localities for observation, by reason of its nearness and its entomological wealth, was the table-land of Les Angles, opposite the town on the right bank of the Rhône. Morning or evening, he made quick work of crossing the river and climbing the cliff which divides it from the barren table-land which he calls his “little Arabia Petræa.”Presently his Thursdays and holidays were devoted to more distant and more prolonged observations. His steps took him, by preference, down-stream from Avignon, along the right bank of the Rhône, opposite the embouchure of the Durance, to a spot known as the Bois des Issarts. Not that he was[130]drawn thither by the mossy carpets or the twilight of lofty forest trees which form the charm of our woodlands. The burning plains where the Cicada shrilled and the olive flourished know nothing of these delightful retreats, so full of shadow and coolness. Here is Fabre’s own description:The Bois des Issarts is a coppice of holm-oaks no higher than one’s head and sparingly distributed in scanty clumps which, even at their feet, hardly temper the force of the sun’s rays. When I used to settle myself in some part of the coppice suitable for my observations, on certain afternoons in the dog-days of July and August, I had the shelter of a large umbrella. If I neglected to furnish myself with this embarrassing adjunct to a long walk, my only resource against sunstroke was to lie down at full length behind some sandy knoll; and, when the veins in my temples were throbbing to bursting point, my last hope lay in putting my head down a rabbit-burrow. Such are one’s means of keeping cool in the Bois des Issarts.What was there to draw him and retain him in such places, so unpropitious for the holiday of a professor on vacation? Ah! they are the favourite resort of the Bembex, one of his favourite insects. “A blazing sun, a sky magnificently blue, sandy slopes[131]to dig in, game in abundance to feed the larvæ, a peaceful spot hardly ever disturbed by a passing step”: all things combined to attract the digger-wasp to such localities.I was, however, not the only one to profit by the shade of my umbrella; I was generally surrounded by numerous companions. Gad-flies of various species would take refuge under the silken dome, and sit peacefully on every part of the tightly-stretched cover. I was rarely without their society when the heat became overpowering. To while away the hours when I had nothing to do, it amused me to watch their great gold eyes, which shone like carbuncles under my canopy; I loved to follow their solemn progress when some part of the ceiling became too hot and obliged them to move a little way on.One day, bang! The tight cover resounded like the skin of a drum. Perhaps an oak had dropped an acorn on the umbrella. Presently, one after the other, bang, bang, bang! Can some practical joker have come to disturb my solitude and fling acorns or little pebbles at my umbrella? I leave my tent and inspect the neighbourhood: nothing! The same sharp sound is repeated. I look up at the ceiling, and the mystery is explained. The Bembex of the vicinity, who all consume Gad-flies, had discovered the rich provender that was keeping me company, and were impudently penetrating my shelter to seize the flies on the ceiling.[132]Things were going to perfection; I had only to sit still and look.Every moment a Bembex would enter, swift as lightning, and dart up to the silken ceiling, which resounded with a sharp thud. Some rumpus was going on aloft, where the eye could, no longer distinguish between attacker and attacked, so lively was the fray. The struggle did not last for an appreciable time: the Wasp would retire forthwith with a victim between her legs.Obviously this suddenness of attack, followed by the swift removal of the prey, does not allow the Bembex to regulate her dagger-play.1With ever-increasing accuracy, by the combined efforts of observation and experiment, that rich entomological material was amassed which was one day to serve for the erection of one of the finest and most enduring monuments of contemporary science.We should form but a very incomplete idea of the sort of work to which the future author of theSouvenirsbegan to devote himself at this early stage of his professorship were we merely to note his frequent visits to Les Angles and his long sessions beneath his umbrella in the Bois des Issarts.Apart from this favourite field of observation,[133]the enthusiastic curiosity of the naturalist found scope for its exercise on every hand.Whether at home or abroad, whether passing along the public highway or visiting a friend, it was enough for an insect to appear to capture and retain his attention without regard for the circumstances and without a thought as to what might be said of him. On one occasion a Pelopæus, that is, a Potter-wasp (πηλοποίος) holding her pellet of mud in her jaws, came to his fireside one washing-day, seeking access to the nest which she was building behind the breast of the fireplace. More anxious about the Wasp than about the washing, he controlled the fire so that it should not too greatly incommode the little mason by eddies of smoke or flame, and for two good hours he followed the coming and going of the Pelopæus, and the progress of her nest-building. This was in the early days of his Avignon professorship.2Another day it was once again the strange mud-worker which attracted his attention, not in his own house this time but in the kitchen of Roberty, one of the chief farmhouses on the outskirts of Avignon. Returning to dinner from their work in the fields, the farm[134]hands had hung, on pegs driven into the wall, one his blouse and another his hat. While they were devoting their attention to the soup, the guest had his eyes fixed upon the Pelopæi which came prowling about the men’s clothes and found them so well adapted to their needs that they began to build their nests upon them. Unfortunately for the builders and the spectator, the men soon rose from the table and shook their belongings, dislodging masses of mud already as large as an acorn. Ah! If he had been the owner of those garments, how gladly he would have allowed the Pelopæi to work their will, in order to learn the fate of a nest built upon the shifting surface of a smock-frock.3The unavoidable limitations imposed by observations undertaken at home are not more disappointing to the investigator than the possible disturbance caused by passers-by should he attempt to watch the insect on the public highways. Here is an example. The professor, on one of his “days off,” is quietly[135]strolling along a narrow footpath on the banks of the Rhône: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. 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.4[136]And the unfortunate observer cries, with an emotion which he does not attempt to conceal:Alas! It is no easy matter to experiment on the public road, where, when the long-waited event occurs at last, the arrival of a wayfarer is likely to disturb or ruin opportunities that may never return!But the entomological hero does not allow himself to be discouraged by those unfortunate encounters with the profane, nor does he shrink from the humiliation which they sometimes inflict upon him. The following is a characteristic example:Ever since daybreak I have been ambushed, sitting on a stone, at the bottom of a ravine. The subject of my matutinal visit is the Languedocian Sphex. Three women, vine-pickers, pass in a group, on the way to their work. They give a glance at the man seated, apparently absorbed in reflection. At sunset the same pickers pass again, carrying their full baskets on their heads. The man is still there, sitting on the same stone, with his eyes fixed on the same place. My motionless attitude, my long persistency in remaining at that deserted spot, must have impressed them deeply. As they passed by me, I saw one of them tap her forehead and heard her whisper to the others:[137]“Un paouré inoucént, pécaïre!”And all three made the sign of the Cross.5This last scene was enacted on one of the deeply-sunken roads on the outskirts of Carpentras, whither Fabre was fond of repairing for his researches. From an early period, indeed, his craze for exploration had led him far beyond the Avignon district. On this third stage of his excursions, he struck out to some extent in all directions, but the locality which he preferred for his insect-hunting was undoubtedly the “Sunken Road,” as it was called, in the neighbourhood of Carpentras. A lonely valley with a sandy soil, with high, steep slopes on either hand, its flanks deeply scored into ravines and burned by the sun, the “Sunken Road” was an ideal home for the Hymenoptera, those lovers of sunny slopes and soils that are easily worked; and this was enough to make it the favourite haunt of the intrepid biologist.6Among the Hymenoptera that frequent the slopes and embankments of the “Sunken Road,” in addition to the Hunting-wasps, which feed their larvæ on living flesh, there are other species which provide them with[138]honey. These also attracted the naturalist’s attention; these also provided a protracted test for his ingenuity and patience, and finally rewarded his pains beyond all hopes.The following is an interesting description of the naturalist’s encounter with a swarm of Bees in the “Sunken Road” while endeavouring to observe the installation of the Sitares in the cell of the Anthophora:In front of a high expanse of earth a swarm stimulated by the sun, which floods it with light and heat, is dancing a crazy ballet. It is a hover of Anthophoræ, a few feet thick and covering an area which matches the sort of house-front formed by the perpendicular soil. From the tumultuous heart of the cloud rises a monotonous, threatening murmur, while the bewildered eye strays through the inextricable evolutions of the eager throng. With the rapidity of a lightning-flash, thousands of Anthophoræ are incessantly flying off and scattering over the country-side in search of booty; thousands of others also are incessantly arriving, laden with honey or mortar, and keeping up the formidable proportions of the swarm.I was at that time something of a novice as regards the nature of these insects.“Woe,” said I to myself, “woe to the reckless wight bold enough to enter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand upon the dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded[139]by the furious host, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousand stings!”At this thought, rendered still more alarming by the recollection of certain misadventures of which I had been the victim when seeking to observe too closely the combs of the Hornet (Vespa crabro), I felt a shiver of apprehension pass through my body.Yet, to obtain light upon the question which brings me hither, I must needs penetrate the fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching the works which I intend to upset; lens in hand, I must scrutinise, unmoved amid the whirl, the things that are happening in the cells. The use moreover of a mask, of gloves, of a covering of any kind, is impracticable, for extreme dexterity of the fingers and complete liberty of sight are essential to the investigations which I have to make. No matter: even though I leave this wasps’-nest with a face swollen beyond recognition, I must to-day obtain a decisive solution of the problem which has preoccupied me too long.My preparations are made at once: I button my clothes tightly, so as to afford the Bees the least possible opportunity, and I enter the heart of the swarm. A few blows of the mattock, which arouse a far from reassuring crescendo in the humming of the Anthophoræ, soon place me in possession of a lump of earth; and I beat a hasty retreat, greatly astonished to find myself still safe and sound and unpursued. But the lump of earth which I have removed is from a part too near the surface; it[140]contains nothing but Osmia-cells, which do not interest me for the moment. A second expedition is made, lasting longer than the first; and, though my retreat is effected without great precipitation, not an Anthophora has touched me with her sting, nor even shown herself disposed to fall upon the aggressor.This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the work in progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells, spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ and crushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastation results merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is not followed by any hostile demonstration.Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was able for hours to pursue my investigations at my leisure, seated on a stone in the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receiving a single sting, although I took no precautions whatever. Country-folk, happening to pass and beholding me seated, unperturbed in the midst of the whirl of Bees, stopped aghast to ask me whether I had bewitched them, whether I charmed them, since I appeared to have nothing to fear from them:“Mé, moun bel ami, li-z-avé doun escounjurado què vous pougnioun pas, canèu de sort!”My miscellaneous impediments spread over the ground, boxes, glass jars and tubes, tweezers and magnifying-glasses, were certainly regarded by these good people as the implements of my wizardry.[141]I can assert to-day, after a long experience, that only the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps, and the Bumble-bees know how to devise a common defence; and only they dare fall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance.But we would not leave the banks of the “Sunken Road,” which have been made classic by Fabre’s observations on the Cerceris, the Sitaris andtutti quanti, without letting the reader hear an echo of the heartfelt accents in which the now ageing scientist speaks of these spots which witnessed his first endeavours and his first achievements as an entomologist, when he returns to them thirty years later to complete his data respecting the Anthophora’s parasites:Illustrious ravines whose banks are calcined by the sun, if I have in some small degree contributed to your fame, you, in your turn, have afforded me some happy hours of oblivion spent in the joy of learning. You, at least, have never lured me with vain hopes; all that you have promised me you have given me, often a hundredfold. You are my promised land, in which I fain would finally have pitched my observer’s tent. It has not been possible to realise my desire. Let me at least salute in passing my beloved insects of other days.A wave of the hat to the Tuberculated Cerceris,[142]which I see on yonder bank busied with warehousing her Cleonus. As I saw her long ago, so I see her to-day.… Watching her at work, a younger blood flows in my veins; I scent, as it were, the fragrance of some renewal of life. But time passes; let us pass on.Yet another greeting here. I hear rustling overhead, above that ledge, a community of Sphex-wasps, stabbing their Crickets! Let us give them a friendly glance, but no more. My acquaintances here are too numerous: I have not time to resume all my old relations.Without stopping, a wave of the hat to the Eumenes … the Philanthus … the Tachytes.…At last we are there!7This last exclamation, a cry from the heart, which reveals the object of this latest visit, is addressed to the murmuring city of the Anthophoræ, in which he had formerly made such valuable discoveries, and in which there was still something left to discover: so true is it that even in those regions which have been most fully explored the scientist worthy of the name never flatters himself that he has reached the final limits of knowledge.[143]1Souvenirs,I., pp. 221, 240–241.The Hunting Wasps, chap. xiv., “The Bembex.”↑2Souvenirs,IV., 3–5.↑3However, the audacious insect had other surprises in store for him: his notes speak of nests found more or less by chance near the still of a distillery, on the top of a steam-engine in a silk mill, on the walls and furniture of a farmhouse kitchen, and even in the interior of a gourd in which the farmer kept his shot on the chimney-piece; in a word, wherever there was warmth and not too much light.Souvenirs,IV., p. 8–12.↑4Souvenirs,I., p. 122.The Hunting Wasps, chap. vii., “Advanced Theories.”↑5Souvenirs,I., p. 136.The Hunting Wasps, chap. viii., “The Languedocian Sphex.”↑6Souvenirs,I., pp. 50, 52;II., p. 262et seq.↑7Souvenirs,II., pp. 262–303,III., 194–195.The Glow-Worm, chap. ii., “The Sitaris;”The Life of the Fly, chap. iv., “Larval Dimorphism.”↑

CHAPTER XTHE PROFESSOR: AVIGNON (1852–1870)

In 1852 the Professor of Physics and Chemistry in thelycéeof Ajaccio was transferred to thelycéeof Avignon.Fabre was not yet twenty-seven. His youth, his enthusiasm, his good humour, the simplicity of his manners, and the vivacity of his mind naturally endeared him to young people eager for knowledge and the ideal. A few lines from theSouvenirsgive us some idea of the relations between master and pupils: “There were five or six of us: I was the oldest, their master, but still more their companion and their friend; they were young fellows with warm hearts and cheerful imaginations, overflowing with that springtide sap of life which makes us so expansive, so desirous of knowledge.”One guesses that he is speaking of one of those country walks on which, with a guide such as Fabre, everything became a source of instruction and an object of wonder and admiration.[129]These excursions into the world of the fields, the delight of his youth and his earliest childhood, were henceforth to form the first item on his programme of studies. Mathematics were dropped, as Moquin-Tandon had advised. Physics and chemistry were put in their proper place, in the teaching of thelycée, and the whole of the young professor’s free energies were expended upon the research work of the naturalist.Necessarily limited by his occupation as a teacher, his investigations could not at ordinary times extend beyond the neighbourhood of Avignon. One of his favourite localities for observation, by reason of its nearness and its entomological wealth, was the table-land of Les Angles, opposite the town on the right bank of the Rhône. Morning or evening, he made quick work of crossing the river and climbing the cliff which divides it from the barren table-land which he calls his “little Arabia Petræa.”Presently his Thursdays and holidays were devoted to more distant and more prolonged observations. His steps took him, by preference, down-stream from Avignon, along the right bank of the Rhône, opposite the embouchure of the Durance, to a spot known as the Bois des Issarts. Not that he was[130]drawn thither by the mossy carpets or the twilight of lofty forest trees which form the charm of our woodlands. The burning plains where the Cicada shrilled and the olive flourished know nothing of these delightful retreats, so full of shadow and coolness. Here is Fabre’s own description:The Bois des Issarts is a coppice of holm-oaks no higher than one’s head and sparingly distributed in scanty clumps which, even at their feet, hardly temper the force of the sun’s rays. When I used to settle myself in some part of the coppice suitable for my observations, on certain afternoons in the dog-days of July and August, I had the shelter of a large umbrella. If I neglected to furnish myself with this embarrassing adjunct to a long walk, my only resource against sunstroke was to lie down at full length behind some sandy knoll; and, when the veins in my temples were throbbing to bursting point, my last hope lay in putting my head down a rabbit-burrow. Such are one’s means of keeping cool in the Bois des Issarts.What was there to draw him and retain him in such places, so unpropitious for the holiday of a professor on vacation? Ah! they are the favourite resort of the Bembex, one of his favourite insects. “A blazing sun, a sky magnificently blue, sandy slopes[131]to dig in, game in abundance to feed the larvæ, a peaceful spot hardly ever disturbed by a passing step”: all things combined to attract the digger-wasp to such localities.I was, however, not the only one to profit by the shade of my umbrella; I was generally surrounded by numerous companions. Gad-flies of various species would take refuge under the silken dome, and sit peacefully on every part of the tightly-stretched cover. I was rarely without their society when the heat became overpowering. To while away the hours when I had nothing to do, it amused me to watch their great gold eyes, which shone like carbuncles under my canopy; I loved to follow their solemn progress when some part of the ceiling became too hot and obliged them to move a little way on.One day, bang! The tight cover resounded like the skin of a drum. Perhaps an oak had dropped an acorn on the umbrella. Presently, one after the other, bang, bang, bang! Can some practical joker have come to disturb my solitude and fling acorns or little pebbles at my umbrella? I leave my tent and inspect the neighbourhood: nothing! The same sharp sound is repeated. I look up at the ceiling, and the mystery is explained. The Bembex of the vicinity, who all consume Gad-flies, had discovered the rich provender that was keeping me company, and were impudently penetrating my shelter to seize the flies on the ceiling.[132]Things were going to perfection; I had only to sit still and look.Every moment a Bembex would enter, swift as lightning, and dart up to the silken ceiling, which resounded with a sharp thud. Some rumpus was going on aloft, where the eye could, no longer distinguish between attacker and attacked, so lively was the fray. The struggle did not last for an appreciable time: the Wasp would retire forthwith with a victim between her legs.Obviously this suddenness of attack, followed by the swift removal of the prey, does not allow the Bembex to regulate her dagger-play.1With ever-increasing accuracy, by the combined efforts of observation and experiment, that rich entomological material was amassed which was one day to serve for the erection of one of the finest and most enduring monuments of contemporary science.We should form but a very incomplete idea of the sort of work to which the future author of theSouvenirsbegan to devote himself at this early stage of his professorship were we merely to note his frequent visits to Les Angles and his long sessions beneath his umbrella in the Bois des Issarts.Apart from this favourite field of observation,[133]the enthusiastic curiosity of the naturalist found scope for its exercise on every hand.Whether at home or abroad, whether passing along the public highway or visiting a friend, it was enough for an insect to appear to capture and retain his attention without regard for the circumstances and without a thought as to what might be said of him. On one occasion a Pelopæus, that is, a Potter-wasp (πηλοποίος) holding her pellet of mud in her jaws, came to his fireside one washing-day, seeking access to the nest which she was building behind the breast of the fireplace. More anxious about the Wasp than about the washing, he controlled the fire so that it should not too greatly incommode the little mason by eddies of smoke or flame, and for two good hours he followed the coming and going of the Pelopæus, and the progress of her nest-building. This was in the early days of his Avignon professorship.2Another day it was once again the strange mud-worker which attracted his attention, not in his own house this time but in the kitchen of Roberty, one of the chief farmhouses on the outskirts of Avignon. Returning to dinner from their work in the fields, the farm[134]hands had hung, on pegs driven into the wall, one his blouse and another his hat. While they were devoting their attention to the soup, the guest had his eyes fixed upon the Pelopæi which came prowling about the men’s clothes and found them so well adapted to their needs that they began to build their nests upon them. Unfortunately for the builders and the spectator, the men soon rose from the table and shook their belongings, dislodging masses of mud already as large as an acorn. Ah! If he had been the owner of those garments, how gladly he would have allowed the Pelopæi to work their will, in order to learn the fate of a nest built upon the shifting surface of a smock-frock.3The unavoidable limitations imposed by observations undertaken at home are not more disappointing to the investigator than the possible disturbance caused by passers-by should he attempt to watch the insect on the public highways. Here is an example. The professor, on one of his “days off,” is quietly[135]strolling along a narrow footpath on the banks of the Rhône: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. 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.4[136]And the unfortunate observer cries, with an emotion which he does not attempt to conceal:Alas! It is no easy matter to experiment on the public road, where, when the long-waited event occurs at last, the arrival of a wayfarer is likely to disturb or ruin opportunities that may never return!But the entomological hero does not allow himself to be discouraged by those unfortunate encounters with the profane, nor does he shrink from the humiliation which they sometimes inflict upon him. The following is a characteristic example:Ever since daybreak I have been ambushed, sitting on a stone, at the bottom of a ravine. The subject of my matutinal visit is the Languedocian Sphex. Three women, vine-pickers, pass in a group, on the way to their work. They give a glance at the man seated, apparently absorbed in reflection. At sunset the same pickers pass again, carrying their full baskets on their heads. The man is still there, sitting on the same stone, with his eyes fixed on the same place. My motionless attitude, my long persistency in remaining at that deserted spot, must have impressed them deeply. As they passed by me, I saw one of them tap her forehead and heard her whisper to the others:[137]“Un paouré inoucént, pécaïre!”And all three made the sign of the Cross.5This last scene was enacted on one of the deeply-sunken roads on the outskirts of Carpentras, whither Fabre was fond of repairing for his researches. From an early period, indeed, his craze for exploration had led him far beyond the Avignon district. On this third stage of his excursions, he struck out to some extent in all directions, but the locality which he preferred for his insect-hunting was undoubtedly the “Sunken Road,” as it was called, in the neighbourhood of Carpentras. A lonely valley with a sandy soil, with high, steep slopes on either hand, its flanks deeply scored into ravines and burned by the sun, the “Sunken Road” was an ideal home for the Hymenoptera, those lovers of sunny slopes and soils that are easily worked; and this was enough to make it the favourite haunt of the intrepid biologist.6Among the Hymenoptera that frequent the slopes and embankments of the “Sunken Road,” in addition to the Hunting-wasps, which feed their larvæ on living flesh, there are other species which provide them with[138]honey. These also attracted the naturalist’s attention; these also provided a protracted test for his ingenuity and patience, and finally rewarded his pains beyond all hopes.The following is an interesting description of the naturalist’s encounter with a swarm of Bees in the “Sunken Road” while endeavouring to observe the installation of the Sitares in the cell of the Anthophora:In front of a high expanse of earth a swarm stimulated by the sun, which floods it with light and heat, is dancing a crazy ballet. It is a hover of Anthophoræ, a few feet thick and covering an area which matches the sort of house-front formed by the perpendicular soil. From the tumultuous heart of the cloud rises a monotonous, threatening murmur, while the bewildered eye strays through the inextricable evolutions of the eager throng. With the rapidity of a lightning-flash, thousands of Anthophoræ are incessantly flying off and scattering over the country-side in search of booty; thousands of others also are incessantly arriving, laden with honey or mortar, and keeping up the formidable proportions of the swarm.I was at that time something of a novice as regards the nature of these insects.“Woe,” said I to myself, “woe to the reckless wight bold enough to enter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand upon the dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded[139]by the furious host, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousand stings!”At this thought, rendered still more alarming by the recollection of certain misadventures of which I had been the victim when seeking to observe too closely the combs of the Hornet (Vespa crabro), I felt a shiver of apprehension pass through my body.Yet, to obtain light upon the question which brings me hither, I must needs penetrate the fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching the works which I intend to upset; lens in hand, I must scrutinise, unmoved amid the whirl, the things that are happening in the cells. The use moreover of a mask, of gloves, of a covering of any kind, is impracticable, for extreme dexterity of the fingers and complete liberty of sight are essential to the investigations which I have to make. No matter: even though I leave this wasps’-nest with a face swollen beyond recognition, I must to-day obtain a decisive solution of the problem which has preoccupied me too long.My preparations are made at once: I button my clothes tightly, so as to afford the Bees the least possible opportunity, and I enter the heart of the swarm. A few blows of the mattock, which arouse a far from reassuring crescendo in the humming of the Anthophoræ, soon place me in possession of a lump of earth; and I beat a hasty retreat, greatly astonished to find myself still safe and sound and unpursued. But the lump of earth which I have removed is from a part too near the surface; it[140]contains nothing but Osmia-cells, which do not interest me for the moment. A second expedition is made, lasting longer than the first; and, though my retreat is effected without great precipitation, not an Anthophora has touched me with her sting, nor even shown herself disposed to fall upon the aggressor.This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the work in progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells, spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ and crushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastation results merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is not followed by any hostile demonstration.Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was able for hours to pursue my investigations at my leisure, seated on a stone in the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receiving a single sting, although I took no precautions whatever. Country-folk, happening to pass and beholding me seated, unperturbed in the midst of the whirl of Bees, stopped aghast to ask me whether I had bewitched them, whether I charmed them, since I appeared to have nothing to fear from them:“Mé, moun bel ami, li-z-avé doun escounjurado què vous pougnioun pas, canèu de sort!”My miscellaneous impediments spread over the ground, boxes, glass jars and tubes, tweezers and magnifying-glasses, were certainly regarded by these good people as the implements of my wizardry.[141]I can assert to-day, after a long experience, that only the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps, and the Bumble-bees know how to devise a common defence; and only they dare fall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance.But we would not leave the banks of the “Sunken Road,” which have been made classic by Fabre’s observations on the Cerceris, the Sitaris andtutti quanti, without letting the reader hear an echo of the heartfelt accents in which the now ageing scientist speaks of these spots which witnessed his first endeavours and his first achievements as an entomologist, when he returns to them thirty years later to complete his data respecting the Anthophora’s parasites:Illustrious ravines whose banks are calcined by the sun, if I have in some small degree contributed to your fame, you, in your turn, have afforded me some happy hours of oblivion spent in the joy of learning. You, at least, have never lured me with vain hopes; all that you have promised me you have given me, often a hundredfold. You are my promised land, in which I fain would finally have pitched my observer’s tent. It has not been possible to realise my desire. Let me at least salute in passing my beloved insects of other days.A wave of the hat to the Tuberculated Cerceris,[142]which I see on yonder bank busied with warehousing her Cleonus. As I saw her long ago, so I see her to-day.… Watching her at work, a younger blood flows in my veins; I scent, as it were, the fragrance of some renewal of life. But time passes; let us pass on.Yet another greeting here. I hear rustling overhead, above that ledge, a community of Sphex-wasps, stabbing their Crickets! Let us give them a friendly glance, but no more. My acquaintances here are too numerous: I have not time to resume all my old relations.Without stopping, a wave of the hat to the Eumenes … the Philanthus … the Tachytes.…At last we are there!7This last exclamation, a cry from the heart, which reveals the object of this latest visit, is addressed to the murmuring city of the Anthophoræ, in which he had formerly made such valuable discoveries, and in which there was still something left to discover: so true is it that even in those regions which have been most fully explored the scientist worthy of the name never flatters himself that he has reached the final limits of knowledge.[143]

In 1852 the Professor of Physics and Chemistry in thelycéeof Ajaccio was transferred to thelycéeof Avignon.

Fabre was not yet twenty-seven. His youth, his enthusiasm, his good humour, the simplicity of his manners, and the vivacity of his mind naturally endeared him to young people eager for knowledge and the ideal. A few lines from theSouvenirsgive us some idea of the relations between master and pupils: “There were five or six of us: I was the oldest, their master, but still more their companion and their friend; they were young fellows with warm hearts and cheerful imaginations, overflowing with that springtide sap of life which makes us so expansive, so desirous of knowledge.”

One guesses that he is speaking of one of those country walks on which, with a guide such as Fabre, everything became a source of instruction and an object of wonder and admiration.[129]

These excursions into the world of the fields, the delight of his youth and his earliest childhood, were henceforth to form the first item on his programme of studies. Mathematics were dropped, as Moquin-Tandon had advised. Physics and chemistry were put in their proper place, in the teaching of thelycée, and the whole of the young professor’s free energies were expended upon the research work of the naturalist.

Necessarily limited by his occupation as a teacher, his investigations could not at ordinary times extend beyond the neighbourhood of Avignon. One of his favourite localities for observation, by reason of its nearness and its entomological wealth, was the table-land of Les Angles, opposite the town on the right bank of the Rhône. Morning or evening, he made quick work of crossing the river and climbing the cliff which divides it from the barren table-land which he calls his “little Arabia Petræa.”

Presently his Thursdays and holidays were devoted to more distant and more prolonged observations. His steps took him, by preference, down-stream from Avignon, along the right bank of the Rhône, opposite the embouchure of the Durance, to a spot known as the Bois des Issarts. Not that he was[130]drawn thither by the mossy carpets or the twilight of lofty forest trees which form the charm of our woodlands. The burning plains where the Cicada shrilled and the olive flourished know nothing of these delightful retreats, so full of shadow and coolness. Here is Fabre’s own description:

The Bois des Issarts is a coppice of holm-oaks no higher than one’s head and sparingly distributed in scanty clumps which, even at their feet, hardly temper the force of the sun’s rays. When I used to settle myself in some part of the coppice suitable for my observations, on certain afternoons in the dog-days of July and August, I had the shelter of a large umbrella. If I neglected to furnish myself with this embarrassing adjunct to a long walk, my only resource against sunstroke was to lie down at full length behind some sandy knoll; and, when the veins in my temples were throbbing to bursting point, my last hope lay in putting my head down a rabbit-burrow. Such are one’s means of keeping cool in the Bois des Issarts.

What was there to draw him and retain him in such places, so unpropitious for the holiday of a professor on vacation? Ah! they are the favourite resort of the Bembex, one of his favourite insects. “A blazing sun, a sky magnificently blue, sandy slopes[131]to dig in, game in abundance to feed the larvæ, a peaceful spot hardly ever disturbed by a passing step”: all things combined to attract the digger-wasp to such localities.

I was, however, not the only one to profit by the shade of my umbrella; I was generally surrounded by numerous companions. Gad-flies of various species would take refuge under the silken dome, and sit peacefully on every part of the tightly-stretched cover. I was rarely without their society when the heat became overpowering. To while away the hours when I had nothing to do, it amused me to watch their great gold eyes, which shone like carbuncles under my canopy; I loved to follow their solemn progress when some part of the ceiling became too hot and obliged them to move a little way on.One day, bang! The tight cover resounded like the skin of a drum. Perhaps an oak had dropped an acorn on the umbrella. Presently, one after the other, bang, bang, bang! Can some practical joker have come to disturb my solitude and fling acorns or little pebbles at my umbrella? I leave my tent and inspect the neighbourhood: nothing! The same sharp sound is repeated. I look up at the ceiling, and the mystery is explained. The Bembex of the vicinity, who all consume Gad-flies, had discovered the rich provender that was keeping me company, and were impudently penetrating my shelter to seize the flies on the ceiling.[132]Things were going to perfection; I had only to sit still and look.Every moment a Bembex would enter, swift as lightning, and dart up to the silken ceiling, which resounded with a sharp thud. Some rumpus was going on aloft, where the eye could, no longer distinguish between attacker and attacked, so lively was the fray. The struggle did not last for an appreciable time: the Wasp would retire forthwith with a victim between her legs.Obviously this suddenness of attack, followed by the swift removal of the prey, does not allow the Bembex to regulate her dagger-play.1

One day, bang! The tight cover resounded like the skin of a drum. Perhaps an oak had dropped an acorn on the umbrella. Presently, one after the other, bang, bang, bang! Can some practical joker have come to disturb my solitude and fling acorns or little pebbles at my umbrella? I leave my tent and inspect the neighbourhood: nothing! The same sharp sound is repeated. I look up at the ceiling, and the mystery is explained. The Bembex of the vicinity, who all consume Gad-flies, had discovered the rich provender that was keeping me company, and were impudently penetrating my shelter to seize the flies on the ceiling.[132]Things were going to perfection; I had only to sit still and look.

Every moment a Bembex would enter, swift as lightning, and dart up to the silken ceiling, which resounded with a sharp thud. Some rumpus was going on aloft, where the eye could, no longer distinguish between attacker and attacked, so lively was the fray. The struggle did not last for an appreciable time: the Wasp would retire forthwith with a victim between her legs.

Obviously this suddenness of attack, followed by the swift removal of the prey, does not allow the Bembex to regulate her dagger-play.1

With ever-increasing accuracy, by the combined efforts of observation and experiment, that rich entomological material was amassed which was one day to serve for the erection of one of the finest and most enduring monuments of contemporary science.

We should form but a very incomplete idea of the sort of work to which the future author of theSouvenirsbegan to devote himself at this early stage of his professorship were we merely to note his frequent visits to Les Angles and his long sessions beneath his umbrella in the Bois des Issarts.

Apart from this favourite field of observation,[133]the enthusiastic curiosity of the naturalist found scope for its exercise on every hand.

Whether at home or abroad, whether passing along the public highway or visiting a friend, it was enough for an insect to appear to capture and retain his attention without regard for the circumstances and without a thought as to what might be said of him. On one occasion a Pelopæus, that is, a Potter-wasp (πηλοποίος) holding her pellet of mud in her jaws, came to his fireside one washing-day, seeking access to the nest which she was building behind the breast of the fireplace. More anxious about the Wasp than about the washing, he controlled the fire so that it should not too greatly incommode the little mason by eddies of smoke or flame, and for two good hours he followed the coming and going of the Pelopæus, and the progress of her nest-building. This was in the early days of his Avignon professorship.2

Another day it was once again the strange mud-worker which attracted his attention, not in his own house this time but in the kitchen of Roberty, one of the chief farmhouses on the outskirts of Avignon. Returning to dinner from their work in the fields, the farm[134]hands had hung, on pegs driven into the wall, one his blouse and another his hat. While they were devoting their attention to the soup, the guest had his eyes fixed upon the Pelopæi which came prowling about the men’s clothes and found them so well adapted to their needs that they began to build their nests upon them. Unfortunately for the builders and the spectator, the men soon rose from the table and shook their belongings, dislodging masses of mud already as large as an acorn. Ah! If he had been the owner of those garments, how gladly he would have allowed the Pelopæi to work their will, in order to learn the fate of a nest built upon the shifting surface of a smock-frock.3

The unavoidable limitations imposed by observations undertaken at home are not more disappointing to the investigator than the possible disturbance caused by passers-by should he attempt to watch the insect on the public highways. Here is an example. The professor, on one of his “days off,” is quietly[135]strolling along a narrow footpath on the banks of the Rhône:

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. 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.4

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. 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.4

[136]

And the unfortunate observer cries, with an emotion which he does not attempt to conceal:

Alas! It is no easy matter to experiment on the public road, where, when the long-waited event occurs at last, the arrival of a wayfarer is likely to disturb or ruin opportunities that may never return!

But the entomological hero does not allow himself to be discouraged by those unfortunate encounters with the profane, nor does he shrink from the humiliation which they sometimes inflict upon him. The following is a characteristic example:

Ever since daybreak I have been ambushed, sitting on a stone, at the bottom of a ravine. The subject of my matutinal visit is the Languedocian Sphex. Three women, vine-pickers, pass in a group, on the way to their work. They give a glance at the man seated, apparently absorbed in reflection. At sunset the same pickers pass again, carrying their full baskets on their heads. The man is still there, sitting on the same stone, with his eyes fixed on the same place. My motionless attitude, my long persistency in remaining at that deserted spot, must have impressed them deeply. As they passed by me, I saw one of them tap her forehead and heard her whisper to the others:[137]“Un paouré inoucént, pécaïre!”And all three made the sign of the Cross.5

“Un paouré inoucént, pécaïre!”

And all three made the sign of the Cross.5

This last scene was enacted on one of the deeply-sunken roads on the outskirts of Carpentras, whither Fabre was fond of repairing for his researches. From an early period, indeed, his craze for exploration had led him far beyond the Avignon district. On this third stage of his excursions, he struck out to some extent in all directions, but the locality which he preferred for his insect-hunting was undoubtedly the “Sunken Road,” as it was called, in the neighbourhood of Carpentras. A lonely valley with a sandy soil, with high, steep slopes on either hand, its flanks deeply scored into ravines and burned by the sun, the “Sunken Road” was an ideal home for the Hymenoptera, those lovers of sunny slopes and soils that are easily worked; and this was enough to make it the favourite haunt of the intrepid biologist.6

Among the Hymenoptera that frequent the slopes and embankments of the “Sunken Road,” in addition to the Hunting-wasps, which feed their larvæ on living flesh, there are other species which provide them with[138]honey. These also attracted the naturalist’s attention; these also provided a protracted test for his ingenuity and patience, and finally rewarded his pains beyond all hopes.

The following is an interesting description of the naturalist’s encounter with a swarm of Bees in the “Sunken Road” while endeavouring to observe the installation of the Sitares in the cell of the Anthophora:

In front of a high expanse of earth a swarm stimulated by the sun, which floods it with light and heat, is dancing a crazy ballet. It is a hover of Anthophoræ, a few feet thick and covering an area which matches the sort of house-front formed by the perpendicular soil. From the tumultuous heart of the cloud rises a monotonous, threatening murmur, while the bewildered eye strays through the inextricable evolutions of the eager throng. With the rapidity of a lightning-flash, thousands of Anthophoræ are incessantly flying off and scattering over the country-side in search of booty; thousands of others also are incessantly arriving, laden with honey or mortar, and keeping up the formidable proportions of the swarm.I was at that time something of a novice as regards the nature of these insects.“Woe,” said I to myself, “woe to the reckless wight bold enough to enter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand upon the dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded[139]by the furious host, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousand stings!”At this thought, rendered still more alarming by the recollection of certain misadventures of which I had been the victim when seeking to observe too closely the combs of the Hornet (Vespa crabro), I felt a shiver of apprehension pass through my body.Yet, to obtain light upon the question which brings me hither, I must needs penetrate the fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching the works which I intend to upset; lens in hand, I must scrutinise, unmoved amid the whirl, the things that are happening in the cells. The use moreover of a mask, of gloves, of a covering of any kind, is impracticable, for extreme dexterity of the fingers and complete liberty of sight are essential to the investigations which I have to make. No matter: even though I leave this wasps’-nest with a face swollen beyond recognition, I must to-day obtain a decisive solution of the problem which has preoccupied me too long.My preparations are made at once: I button my clothes tightly, so as to afford the Bees the least possible opportunity, and I enter the heart of the swarm. A few blows of the mattock, which arouse a far from reassuring crescendo in the humming of the Anthophoræ, soon place me in possession of a lump of earth; and I beat a hasty retreat, greatly astonished to find myself still safe and sound and unpursued. But the lump of earth which I have removed is from a part too near the surface; it[140]contains nothing but Osmia-cells, which do not interest me for the moment. A second expedition is made, lasting longer than the first; and, though my retreat is effected without great precipitation, not an Anthophora has touched me with her sting, nor even shown herself disposed to fall upon the aggressor.This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the work in progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells, spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ and crushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastation results merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is not followed by any hostile demonstration.Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was able for hours to pursue my investigations at my leisure, seated on a stone in the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receiving a single sting, although I took no precautions whatever. Country-folk, happening to pass and beholding me seated, unperturbed in the midst of the whirl of Bees, stopped aghast to ask me whether I had bewitched them, whether I charmed them, since I appeared to have nothing to fear from them:“Mé, moun bel ami, li-z-avé doun escounjurado què vous pougnioun pas, canèu de sort!”My miscellaneous impediments spread over the ground, boxes, glass jars and tubes, tweezers and magnifying-glasses, were certainly regarded by these good people as the implements of my wizardry.[141]I can assert to-day, after a long experience, that only the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps, and the Bumble-bees know how to devise a common defence; and only they dare fall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance.

I was at that time something of a novice as regards the nature of these insects.

“Woe,” said I to myself, “woe to the reckless wight bold enough to enter the heart of this swarm and, above all, to lay a rash hand upon the dwellings under construction! Forthwith surrounded[139]by the furious host, he would expiate his rash attempt, stabbed by a thousand stings!”

At this thought, rendered still more alarming by the recollection of certain misadventures of which I had been the victim when seeking to observe too closely the combs of the Hornet (Vespa crabro), I felt a shiver of apprehension pass through my body.

Yet, to obtain light upon the question which brings me hither, I must needs penetrate the fearsome swarm; I must stand for whole hours, perhaps all day, watching the works which I intend to upset; lens in hand, I must scrutinise, unmoved amid the whirl, the things that are happening in the cells. The use moreover of a mask, of gloves, of a covering of any kind, is impracticable, for extreme dexterity of the fingers and complete liberty of sight are essential to the investigations which I have to make. No matter: even though I leave this wasps’-nest with a face swollen beyond recognition, I must to-day obtain a decisive solution of the problem which has preoccupied me too long.

My preparations are made at once: I button my clothes tightly, so as to afford the Bees the least possible opportunity, and I enter the heart of the swarm. A few blows of the mattock, which arouse a far from reassuring crescendo in the humming of the Anthophoræ, soon place me in possession of a lump of earth; and I beat a hasty retreat, greatly astonished to find myself still safe and sound and unpursued. But the lump of earth which I have removed is from a part too near the surface; it[140]contains nothing but Osmia-cells, which do not interest me for the moment. A second expedition is made, lasting longer than the first; and, though my retreat is effected without great precipitation, not an Anthophora has touched me with her sting, nor even shown herself disposed to fall upon the aggressor.

This success emboldens me. I remain permanently in front of the work in progress, continually removing lumps of earth filled with cells, spilling the liquid honey on the ground, eviscerating larvæ and crushing the Bees busily occupied in their nests. All this devastation results merely in arousing a louder hum in the swarm and is not followed by any hostile demonstration.

Thanks to this unexpected lack of spirit in the Mason-bee, I was able for hours to pursue my investigations at my leisure, seated on a stone in the midst of the murmuring and distracted swarm, without receiving a single sting, although I took no precautions whatever. Country-folk, happening to pass and beholding me seated, unperturbed in the midst of the whirl of Bees, stopped aghast to ask me whether I had bewitched them, whether I charmed them, since I appeared to have nothing to fear from them:

“Mé, moun bel ami, li-z-avé doun escounjurado què vous pougnioun pas, canèu de sort!”

My miscellaneous impediments spread over the ground, boxes, glass jars and tubes, tweezers and magnifying-glasses, were certainly regarded by these good people as the implements of my wizardry.[141]

I can assert to-day, after a long experience, that only the Social Hymenoptera, the Hive-bees, the Common Wasps, and the Bumble-bees know how to devise a common defence; and only they dare fall singly upon the aggressor, to wreak an individual vengeance.

But we would not leave the banks of the “Sunken Road,” which have been made classic by Fabre’s observations on the Cerceris, the Sitaris andtutti quanti, without letting the reader hear an echo of the heartfelt accents in which the now ageing scientist speaks of these spots which witnessed his first endeavours and his first achievements as an entomologist, when he returns to them thirty years later to complete his data respecting the Anthophora’s parasites:

Illustrious ravines whose banks are calcined by the sun, if I have in some small degree contributed to your fame, you, in your turn, have afforded me some happy hours of oblivion spent in the joy of learning. You, at least, have never lured me with vain hopes; all that you have promised me you have given me, often a hundredfold. You are my promised land, in which I fain would finally have pitched my observer’s tent. It has not been possible to realise my desire. Let me at least salute in passing my beloved insects of other days.A wave of the hat to the Tuberculated Cerceris,[142]which I see on yonder bank busied with warehousing her Cleonus. As I saw her long ago, so I see her to-day.… Watching her at work, a younger blood flows in my veins; I scent, as it were, the fragrance of some renewal of life. But time passes; let us pass on.Yet another greeting here. I hear rustling overhead, above that ledge, a community of Sphex-wasps, stabbing their Crickets! Let us give them a friendly glance, but no more. My acquaintances here are too numerous: I have not time to resume all my old relations.Without stopping, a wave of the hat to the Eumenes … the Philanthus … the Tachytes.…At last we are there!7

A wave of the hat to the Tuberculated Cerceris,[142]which I see on yonder bank busied with warehousing her Cleonus. As I saw her long ago, so I see her to-day.… Watching her at work, a younger blood flows in my veins; I scent, as it were, the fragrance of some renewal of life. But time passes; let us pass on.

Yet another greeting here. I hear rustling overhead, above that ledge, a community of Sphex-wasps, stabbing their Crickets! Let us give them a friendly glance, but no more. My acquaintances here are too numerous: I have not time to resume all my old relations.

Without stopping, a wave of the hat to the Eumenes … the Philanthus … the Tachytes.…

At last we are there!7

This last exclamation, a cry from the heart, which reveals the object of this latest visit, is addressed to the murmuring city of the Anthophoræ, in which he had formerly made such valuable discoveries, and in which there was still something left to discover: so true is it that even in those regions which have been most fully explored the scientist worthy of the name never flatters himself that he has reached the final limits of knowledge.[143]

1Souvenirs,I., pp. 221, 240–241.The Hunting Wasps, chap. xiv., “The Bembex.”↑2Souvenirs,IV., 3–5.↑3However, the audacious insect had other surprises in store for him: his notes speak of nests found more or less by chance near the still of a distillery, on the top of a steam-engine in a silk mill, on the walls and furniture of a farmhouse kitchen, and even in the interior of a gourd in which the farmer kept his shot on the chimney-piece; in a word, wherever there was warmth and not too much light.Souvenirs,IV., p. 8–12.↑4Souvenirs,I., p. 122.The Hunting Wasps, chap. vii., “Advanced Theories.”↑5Souvenirs,I., p. 136.The Hunting Wasps, chap. viii., “The Languedocian Sphex.”↑6Souvenirs,I., pp. 50, 52;II., p. 262et seq.↑7Souvenirs,II., pp. 262–303,III., 194–195.The Glow-Worm, chap. ii., “The Sitaris;”The Life of the Fly, chap. iv., “Larval Dimorphism.”↑

1Souvenirs,I., pp. 221, 240–241.The Hunting Wasps, chap. xiv., “The Bembex.”↑

2Souvenirs,IV., 3–5.↑

3However, the audacious insect had other surprises in store for him: his notes speak of nests found more or less by chance near the still of a distillery, on the top of a steam-engine in a silk mill, on the walls and furniture of a farmhouse kitchen, and even in the interior of a gourd in which the farmer kept his shot on the chimney-piece; in a word, wherever there was warmth and not too much light.Souvenirs,IV., p. 8–12.↑

4Souvenirs,I., p. 122.The Hunting Wasps, chap. vii., “Advanced Theories.”↑

5Souvenirs,I., p. 136.The Hunting Wasps, chap. viii., “The Languedocian Sphex.”↑

6Souvenirs,I., pp. 50, 52;II., p. 262et seq.↑

7Souvenirs,II., pp. 262–303,III., 194–195.The Glow-Worm, chap. ii., “The Sitaris;”The Life of the Fly, chap. iv., “Larval Dimorphism.”↑

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