The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Insect, by Jules Michelet This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Insect Author: Jules Michelet Illustrator: Giacomelli Release Date: November 26, 2013 [EBook #44287] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INSECT *** Produced by Chris Curnow, Tom Cosmas and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) [i] [ii] cover See page 158. [iii] THE PURSUIT. THE INSECT BY JULES MICHELET. WITH 140 ILLUSTRATIONS BY GIACOMELLI, ILLUSTRATOR OF "THE BIRD." [vi] [iv] [v] LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW; EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1875. Preface. he Insect" is one of the four remarkable works in which the late M. Michelet embodied the results of a loving and persevering study of Nature. These works are absolutely unique; the poetry of Science was never before illustrated on so large a scale, or with so much vividness of fancy, or in so eloquent a style. The aspects of Nature were never before examined with so strong an enthusiasm or so definite an individuality,—with so eager a desire to identify them with the feelings, hopes, and aspirations of humanity. Michelet approached his subject neither as philosopher nor as poet, but yet with something of the spirit of both. His philosophy and poetry, however, were both subordinate to his ardent sympathy with what he conceived to be the soul, the personality of Nature; and whether his attention was directed to the life of ocean, the bird, the insect, or the mountain-plant, he still sought for some evidence of its special and distinct existence, with thoughts and emotions, as it were, and a character of its own. It was almost as if he saw in Nature a likeness to, and a kinship with, humanity. No doubt, in expressing these views he was occasionally led into a certain extravagance, and his enthusiasm not infrequently outran or overmastered his judgment. He lacked the profound insight and sober reflection of Wordsworth, and accuracy of detail was often sacrificed for the sake of a brilliant generalization. But, after making due allowance for defects inseparable, perhaps, from a genius rather passionate and impulsive than analytic and self-composed, it must be admitted that the lover of Nature has cause to be grateful for the fine fancies, rich illustrations, and suggestive analogies crowded into the books we speak of. A recent writer, M. Monod,[A] has pronounced upon them an animated eulogium: —"Scientific men may discover in these books errors, inaccuracies, and exaggerations; but, in spite of all, they have shown that the physical sciences, though accused of withering the soul, and robbing Nature of poetry and life of enchantment, contain the elements of a profound and varied poetry, that never loses its charm, because it is not dependent on the caprices of taste and fashion, but has its source in the unchangeable reality of things. Many have said that science will drive out religion and poetry; Michelet finds in every branch of [vii] science the demonstration of a new faith, revealing to him a harmony till then unperceived, centred in the supreme unity of the Divine mind and of the Absolute Being." Macmillan's Magazine, July 1874, pp. 231, 232. Whether the reader endorses this high eulogium or not, he will certainly, in "The Insect," as in "The Bird," find a new stimulus to the study of Nature, and a fresh proof of the power and fancy of one of the greatest of modern French writers. Of the present translation, it is necessary only to say that it has been executed with a conscientious adherence to the original, and with an effort to preserve, as far as possible, its peculiarities of style. If it should be thought that in the attempt something of freedom and fluency has been sacrificed, it is hoped the critic will acknowledge that something of faithfulness has been gained. The author of "The Insect" took much interest in the presentation of it and its companions to the English reader in an English dress, and was pleased to express his approval of the manner in which the Translator had accomplished his task. It remains to be added that the exquisite Illustrations, by M. H. Giacomelli, have all been specially drawn and engraved for the English edition. W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. INTRODUCTION. I.THE LIVING INFINITE, 17 II.OUR STUDIES AT PARIS AND IN SWITZERLAND, 23 III.OUR STUDIES AT FONTAINEBLEAU, 36 IV.OUR STUDIES AT FONTAINEBLEAU (CONTINUED), 46 BOOK I.—METAMORPHOSIS. I.TERROR AND REPUGNANCE OF CHILDHOOD, 57 II.COMPASSION, 67 III.WORLD-BUILDERS, 79 IV.LOVE AND DEATH, 89 V.THE ORPHAN: ITS FEEBLENESS, 99 VI.THE MUMMY, NYMPH, OR CHRYSALIS, 109 VII.THE PHŒNIX, 119 BOOK II.—MISSION AND ARTS OF THE INSECT. I.SWAMMERDAM, 129 II.THE MICROSCOPE:—HAS THE INSECT A PHYSIOGNOMY? 143 III.THE INSECT AS THE AGENT OF NATURE IN THE ACCELERATION OF DEATH AND LIFE, 155 IV.THE INSECT AS MAN'S AUXILIARY, 165 V.A PHANTASMAGORIA OF LIGHT AND COLOUR, 175 VI.THE SILKWORM, 185 [A] [viii] [ix] VII.INSTRUMENTS OF THE INSECT: AND ITS CHEMICAL ENERGIES, AS IN THE COCHINEAL AND THE CANTHARIDES, 193 VIII.ON THE RENOVATION OF OUR ARTS BY THE STUDY OF THE INSECT, 201 IX.THE SPIDER—INDUSTRY—THE STOPPAGE, 211 X.THE HOME AND LOVES OF THE SPIDER, 223 BOOK III.—COMMUNITIES OF INSECTS. I.THE CITY IN THE SHADOWS: THE TERMITES, OR WHITE ANTS, 235 II.THE ANTS:—THEIR DOMESTIC ECONOMY—THEIR NUPTIALS, 245 III.THE ANTS:—THEIR FLOCKS AND THEIR SLAVES, 259 IV.THE ANTS:—CIVIL WAR—EXTERMINATION OF THE COMMUNITY, 271 V.THE WASPS: THEIR FURY OF IMPROVISATION, 283 VI."THE BEES" OF VIRGIL, 293 VII.THE BEE IN THE FIELDS, 301 VIII.THE BEES AS ARCHITECTS: THE CITY, 311 IX.HOW THE BEES CREATE THE PEOPLE AND THE COMMON MOTHER, 321 CONCLUSION, 333 ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES, 341 ANALYSIS OF SUBJECTS, 363 List of Illustrations DRAWN BY H. GIACOMELLI. Engraved by Page The Pursuit, Rouget, Frontispiece A Home among the Mountains—Lucerne, Sargent, 15 On the Watch, Berveiller, 17 Border—Amongst the Flowers, Berveiller, 18 Border—Insect Life, Berveiller, 19 Border—Mailed Insects, Méaulle, 20 Border—Bees and Beetles, Méaulle, 21 Border—Grasshoppers and Beetles, Méaulle, 22 Tailpiece—Naturalist's "Traps," Berveiller, 22 Border—Caterpillars, Coste, 23 Tailpiece—The Author's Implements, Ansseau, 35 The Forest of Fontainebleau, Rouget, 39 The Woodpecker, Berveiller, 46 [x] Tailpiece—Flowers, Morison, 52 Fallen Fruit, Whymper, 55 Horned Beetles, Méaulle, 57 The Childhood's Home of Madame Michelet, Rouget, 59 Tailpiece—Insect Prey, Méaulle, 63 A Winged Intruder, Sargent, 65 War! Méaulle, 67 Between Chillon and Clarens, Jonnard, 71 The Field—Various Insects, Berveiller, 72 Tailpiece—An Etherized Prisoner, Méaulle, 75 World-Builders, Méaulle, 77 Polyzoa, Jonnard, 79 "Food for Fishes," Jonnard, 82 Coral Island, Whymper, 84 Tailpiece—Shells, Jonnard, 85 Sunshine and Shade, Jonnard, 87 Love and Death, Méaulle, 89 In the Wood, Sargent, 91 Gathering Sweets, Berveiller, 92 Tailpiece—A Shady Nook, Morison, 95 Nest of Humble-Bee, Rouget, 97 "The Chilly One," Sargent, 99 Tailpiece—Cocoon, Berveiller, 105 The Dragon-Fly, Jonnard, 107 The Sacred Beetle of the Egyptians, Jonnard, 109 Butterflies and Flowers, Jonnard, 112 Tailpiece—Chrysalis, Sargent, 115 The Phœnix, Méaulle, 117 Seeking the Light, Whymper, 119 A Winged Warrior, Berveiller, 122 The Imperial Weevil, Berveiller, 123 Tailpiece—The Weevil on the Mountain-Top, Morison, 124 Swammerdam, Méaulle, 127 Dutch Landscape, Méaulle, 129 "Melancholy Meads," Ansseau, 132 A Tempest on the Dutch Coast, Méaulle, 137 Tailpiece—The Task, Ansseau, 139 Under the Microscope, Méaulle, 141 A Philosopher's "Den," Coste, 143 Tailpiece—A Finished Task, Ansseau, 151 A Coleopterous Giant, Méaulle, 153 An Agent of Nature, Rouget, 155 "Rhinoceros-like Cuirassiers", Méaulle, 159 Tailpiece—Horned Beetle, Méaulle, 162 Man's Auxiliary, Rouget, 163 Carabidæ, Jonnard, 165 Hunting the Enemy, Ansseau, 168 Tailpiece—The Pilgrim Locust, Ansseau, 172 Aerial Beauties, Sargent, 173 The Acrocinus, Whymper, 175 Streaked Taupin, and Earwig, Ansseau, 176 Buprestidans, Coste, 179 Tailpiece—Butterfly and Flower, Berveiller, 182 Insect Manufacturers, Méaulle, 183 The Dead-Leaf Moth, Sargent, 185 Cocoons, Jonnard, 188 Tailpiece—A Prisoner, Jonnard, 189 Long-Horned Beetles, Méaulle, 191 [xi] [xii] Insects and their Weapons, Méaulle, 193 Tailpiece—Cat and Cantharides, Ansseau, 197 A Thing of Beauty, Jonnard, 199 Leaf-Rollers, Berveiller, 201 Grasshopper of Guiana, Ansseau, 203 Cassida, Coste, 205 Tailpiece—Insects "Fantastic and Wonderful," Méaulle, 207 The Spider, Rouget, 209 Aquatic Spiders, Jonnard, 211 On the Look-out, Berveiller, 216 Blue-Bottles and Beetles, Ansseau, 217 Tailpiece—Bird-catching Spider, Berveiller, 219 The Garden Spider, Jonnard, 221 Trap-door Spider and House, Sargent, 223 Spider and Butterfly, Méaulle, 226 Tailpiece—The Musical Spider, Ansseau, 230 The City in the Shadows, Méaulle, 233 Ruins Caused by the Termites in Valencia, Méaulle, 235 Tailpiece—Termites (Solders, Worker, and Female) from the Coast of Guinea, Berveiller, 241 Ants at Work, Rouget, 243 The Nuptials of the Ants, Jonnard, 245 Nest of Russet Ants, Rouget, 249 Carpenter Ants, Berveiller, 253 Tailpiece—Ants and Flowers, Jonnard, 255 A Migration of Ants, Rouget, 257 Roses, Grubs, and Ants, Whymper, 259 A Feast for the Ants, Berveiller, 266 Tailpiece—Honey-making Ants, Ansseau, 268 The Nightingale—"Dreaming and Listening," Rouget, 269 Bramble and Ants, Berveiller, 271 Tailpiece—The Unhappy Fugitive, Berveiller, 280 The Home of the Wasps, Rouget, 281 Polystes and their Nests, Berveiller, 283 Eumenes domiformes and their Nests, Sargent, 287 Tailpiece—Wasp and Fruit, Méaulle, 289 A Tomb at Père-Lachaise, Sargent, 291 The Living and the Dead, Berveiller, 293 Tailpiece—Virgilian Bees, Berveiller, 298 The Bee in the Fields, Berveiller, 299 Bees and Wild Flowers, Berveiller, 301 Bees and Blossoms, Berveiller, 305 Tailpiece—Drone Bee, Berveiller, 308 "Busy Bees," Méaulle, 309 The Sphinx Atropos, Méaulle, 311 Tailpiece—A Winged Brigand, Méaulle, 317 Bees on the Wing, Méaulle, 319 Inside the Hive, Berveiller, 321 Bees in Search of the Natural Hive, Jonnard, 326 Tailpiece—Queen-Bee, Berveiller, 329 The Praying-Mantis, and other Insects, Berveiller, 331 Lady-Birds and Grain, Méaulle, 333 Butterfly and Moth, Jonnard, 334 The Stag-Beetle, Méaulle,, 335 Tailpiece—The Author's Visitors, Berveiller, 338 Book, Flowers, and Insects, Berveiller, 339 Stag-Beetle, Sargent, 341 Carabus Auratus, Sargent, 345 A Sacrifice to Science, Méaulle, 346 [13] [14] [15] Horned Centrote and Globular Bocydie, Sargent, 347 Beetle, Méaulle, 348 Caterpillar and Leaf, Sargent, 348 Butterfly and Flower, Sargent,, 350 Rhinoceros-horned Beetle, Méaulle, 351 Birds and Lady-Bird, Berveiller, 351 Wasps, Morison, 352 Tuft-horned Beetle, Morison, 353 Garden Spider, Morison, 354 Termite: Long-sheathed Nymph, Ansseau, 354 Rhinoceros-horned Beetle, Morison, 356 Dragon-Fly and Ants, Ansseau, 356 Wasps, Berveiller, 357 Bees, Ansseau, 358 Bird and Butterfly, Berveiller, 362 [16] [17] A HOME AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. I. THE LIVING INFINITE. We have followed the Bird in all its liberties of flight, and [18] space, and light; but the Earth which we quitted would not quit us. The sweet melodies of the winged world could not prevent us from hearing the murmur of an infinite world of shadow and silence, which, wanting the speech of man, expresses itself, nevertheless, with eloquent force, by means of a myriad mute tongues. A universal appeal made to us simultaneously by all Nature, from the depths of Earth and Sea, from the bosom of every plant, from the very air which we breathe. The eloquent appeal of the ingenious arts of the Insect, of its powers of love so vividly manifested through its wings and colours, in the brilliant scintillation with which it enkindles our nights. An appeal which becomes frightful from the number of those who make it. What is the little tribe of Birds, or that of Quadrupeds, compared with them? All the animal species, all the various forms of life, brought face to face with this one family, disappear, and are as nothing. Put the world on one side, and on the other the Insect World; the latter has the advantage. Our collections contain about one hundred thousand species. But taking into consideration that every plant at the least nourishes three, we obtain the result, according to the number of known plants, of three hundred and sixty thousand species of insects! And each, be it remembered, of prodigious fecundity. Now call to mind that every creature nourishes other creatures on its surface, in the thickness of its solids, in its fluids, and in its blood; that each insect is a little world inhabited by insects; and that these again have parasites of their own. Is this all? No; in the masses men have supposed to be mineral or inorganic, animals are now revealed to us of which it would take a thousand millions to form one inch in thickness,—the which do not the less present us with a rough sketch or outline of the Insect, and have a right to be spoken of as insects commenced. And what are the numbers of these? A single species accumulates the Apennines out of its débris, and with its atoms has raised up that enormous backbone of America, the Cordilleras. [19] [20] Having arrived at this point, we think our review is ended. Patience! The molluscs, which in the Southern Seas have created so many islands,—which literally pave, as recent soundings have shown, the twelve hundred leagues of Ocean separating us from America,—these molluscs are qualified by many naturalists with the name of embryo insects; so that their fertile tribes form, as it were, a dependency of the higher race,—candidates, one might say, for the rank of Insect. This is sublime. The reason that, nevertheless, makes me regret the little world of Birds,—those charming companions which bore me aloft on their wings not long ago,—is not their harmonious concerts, is not even the spectacle of their airy and sublime life—but because they understood me! We comprehended and we loved one another; we interchanged our languages. I spoke for the Bird, and the Bird sang for me. Having fallen from heaven at the threshold of the sombre kingdom, and in the presence of the mute and mysterious sons of night, what language am I to invent, and what signs of intelligence? How am I to exercise my wits to discover a mode of communicating with them? My voice and gestures do but drive them away. There is no glance of recognition in their eyes; no emotion visible on their inscrutable mask. Under its warrior-cuirass the Insect remains impenetrable. Does its heart—for it has one— beat after the fashion of mine? Its senses are infinitely subtle, but do they resemble my senses? It seems as if they still remained apart, unknown, ay, and without a name. It escapes us; Nature has created for it, with respect to man, a perpetual alibi. If she reveals it to us for a moment in a single gleam of love, she hides it for years in the depths of the shadowy earth or in the discreet bosom of the oaks. And even when [21] discovered, captured, opened, dissected, and examined by a microscope in every detail, it still remains to us an enigma. And an enigma of by no means reassuring character,—whose singularity almost scandalizes, while it so confuses our ideas. What shall we say of a being which breathes through its side and flanks? of a paradoxical walker, which, contrary to all other organisms, presents its back to the earth and its belly to the sky? In many respects, we may look upon the insect as a creature of contradictions. Add, moreover, that its littleness contributes to the misunderstanding. Every organ appears to us fantastic and threatening, because our weak eyes do not see it with sufficient clearness to be able to explain its structure and utility. What is imperfectly seen always perplexes; and therefore provisionally, we kill it! And it is so little, too, that we do not trouble ourselves to be just towards it. We are in no want of systems. We could willingly accept the definitive decree of a German dreamer, who sums up the whole matter in a word: "The good God made the world; but the devil made the insect!" The Insect, nevertheless, does not look upon itself as vanquished. To the systems of the philosopher and the terror of the child (which are, perhaps, both the same thing), this is its answer:— In the first place, that Justice is universal, that size has nothing to do with Right; that if one could suppose the Right to be unequal in its application, and the Universal Love to incline the balance, it would be on the side of the little. It says that it would be absurd to judge by the figure, to condemn organs of whose uses we are ignorant, which are principally the tools of special professions, the instruments of a hundred trades; that it, the insect, is the great destroyer and fabricator, the most industrious of artisans, the energetic workman of life. And, finally, it says (this pretension will perhaps appear most arrogant), that if we judge by visible signs, by works and results, it is It, among all beings, which loves most truly. Love endows it with wings, with a marvellous iris of colours, and even with visible flames. Love is for it the instantaneous or approaching death, with [22] an astonishing second sight of maternity which continues over the orphan an ingenious superintendence. And lastly, the maternal genius extends so far, that, surpassing and eclipsing the rare associations of birds and quadrupeds, it has enabled the Insect to create republics and establish cities! I admit that this weighty plea has made an impression on me. If thou toilest and lovest, O Insect, whatever may be thy aspect, I cannot separate myself from thee. We are truly somewhat akin. For what am I myself, but a worker? What has been my greatest happiness in this world? Our communion of action and destiny will open my heart, and give me a new sense with which to understand thy silence. Love—the divine force which circulates in all things, like an universal soul—is the interpreter through whose agency our insects discourse and understand each other without speech. [23] [24] II. OUR STUDIES AT PARIS AND IN SWITZERLAND. In the prolonged perusal of naturalists and travellers by which we prepared ourselves for writing "The Bird," and for which nothing less was required than the patience of a solitary woman, we gathered on the way a number of facts and details which presented the Insect to our eyes under the most varied aspects. The Insect appeared to us incessantly in company with the Bird,— here like a harmony, there as an antagonism,—but too often in profile, and as a subordinate being. I was in the middle of the sixteenth century, and while engaged for about three years in historical studies, my knowledge on this point was collected only by means of extracts, readings, and conversations every evening. The various elements of this grand study I acquired through the medium of a soul eminently gentle towards the things of nature, and generously given to love the weak; whose loyal and patient affection, indefinitely extending curiosity, picked up, so to speak, like the ant, and as so many grains of sand, the materials which we found less frequently in the more important works than in an infinity of memoirs and scattered dissertations. To live long, steadfastly, for ever,—this it is which renders weak spirits strong. Such a perseverance of taste and affection is not less necessary when one wishes to put aside one's books, and enter upon a course of observation, of long and delicate studies of life. I am not surprised that Mademoiselle Jurine contributed so largely to her father's astonishing discoveries respecting bees, nor that Madame Mérian, as the fruit of her far-off wanderings, has bequeathed to us her wise and beautiful book of drawings of the Insects of Guiana. The eyes and hands of women, so delicate and well adapted for dealing with tiny objects, are eminently appropriate for such pursuits as these. They have also a greater respect for, attention to, and condescension towards trifling existences, than man exhibits. Though poetical, they are less poets, and impose less upon the Real the tyranny of their thought. They are more docile towards it, do not dominate over it, submit themselves to it, and do not bestow on these little beings the rapid and often disdainful glance of the higher life. And when, with all this, they are patient also, they may well become excellent observers, and miniature Réaumurs. Feminine qualities are specially needful in microscopical studies. To succeed in these, one must become somewhat of a [25] woman. The microscope is amusing at a first hasty glance; but if one would make a serious use of it, it demands a certain amount of dexterity, patient tact, and especially leisure,—considerable leisure,—full liberty of time,—in order that one may indefinitely repeat the same observations, and examine the same object on different days, in the pure light of morning, in the warm ray of noon, and occasionally even at a later hour. For certain objects which we must regard as a whole are best seen through a single lens; others only through a transparency, by illuminating them beneath the mirror of the microscope. Others, insignificant or commonplace by day, grow marvellous in the evening, when the focus of the instrument concentrates the light. To conclude: their study demands—what in the present age one least possesses—an isolation from the world, a point beyond time; the support of a blameless curiosity, and of a constant and reverent love of these imperceptible existences. Theirs is a kind of virginal and solitary maternity. I was not released from my absorption in that terrible sixteenth century until the spring of 1856. "The Bird" had also made its appearance. I sought an interval of rest, and established myself at Montreux, near Clarens, on the Lake of Geneva. But this most delightful locality, awakening in me a keen perception of Nature, did not restore my tranquillity. I was still too much affected by the bloody story I had been narrating. A flame burned within me which nothing could extinguish. I rambled along the roads, with my cup of fir-wood, tasting the water at every fountain—all so fresh and so pure!—and demanding of them if any possessed the property of effacing the bitternesses of the Past and Present, and which, out of so many springs, might prove to me a Lethe. At length I found, at about half a league from Lucerne, an old convent transformed into a hostelry, where I selected for my study the parlour, a very spacious apartment, which, through its seven windows opening on the mountains, the lake, and the town—a threefold prospect—afforded me a magnificent light at all hours. From morning to evening the sun remained faithful to me, and revolved around my microscope, set in the middle of the chamber. The beautiful lake, shining in front and on every side, is not that