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THE CHILDREN’S LIFE OF
THE BEE I ON THE
THRESHOLD OF THE HIVE I HAVE
not yet forgotten the first apiary I saw, where I learned to love the
bees. It
was many years ago, in a large village of Dutch Flanders, the sweet and
pleasant country that rejoices in brilliant flowers; a country that
gladly
spreads out before us, as so many pretty toys, her illuminated gables
and
wagons and towers; her cupboards and clocks that gleam at the end of
the
passage; her little trees marshaled in line along quays and
canal-banks,
waiting, one almost might think, for some splendid procession to pass;
her boats
and her barges with sculptured sterns, her flower-like doors and
windows, her
spotless dams and many-coloured drawbridges; and her little varnished
houses,
bright as new pottery, from which bell-shaped dames come forth, all
a-glitter
with silver and gold, to milk the cows in the white-hedged fields, or
spread
the linen on flowery lawns that are cut into patterns of oval and
lozenge and
are most amazingly green. To this
spot an aged philosopher had retired, having become a little weary; and
here he
had built his refuge. His happiness lay all in the beauties of his
garden; and
best-loved, and visited most often, were the bee-hives. There were
twelve of
them, twelve domes of straw; and some he had painted a bright pink, and
some a
clear yellow, but most were a tender blue, for he had noticed the
fondness of
the bees for this color. These hives stood against the wall of the
house, in
the angle formed by one of those pleasant and graceful Dutch kitchens
whose
earthenware dresser, all bright with copper and brass, was reflected
through
the open door on to the peaceful water of the canal. And the water,
carrying
these familiar images beneath its curtain of poplars, led one’s eyes to
a calm
horizon of meadows and of mills. Here, as
in all places, the hives lent a new meaning to the flowers and the
silence, the
balm of the air and the rays of the sun. One seemed to have drawn very
near to
all that was happiest in nature. One was content to sit down and rest
at this
radiant cross-road, along which the busy and tuneful bearers of all
country
perfumes were incessantly passing from dawn until dusk. One heard the
musical
voice of the garden, whose loveliest hours seemed to rejoice and to
sing of
their gladness. One came here, to the school of the bees, to be taught
how nature
is always at work, always scheming and planning; and to learn too the
lesson of
whole-hearted labor which is always to benefit others. In order
to follow, as simply as possible, the life of the bees through the
year, we
will take a hive that awakes in the Spring and duly starts on its
labors; and
then we shall meet, in their order, all the great events of the bees.
These
are, first of all, the formation and departure of the swarm; then, the
foundation of the new city, the birth and flight of the young queens,
the
massacre of the males, and, last of all, the return of the sleep of
winter. We
will try to give the reasons for each event, and to show the laws and
habits
that bring it about; and so, when we have arrived at the end of the
bees’ short
year, which extends only from April to the last days of September, we
shall
have gazed on all the mysteries of the palace of honey. Before we
knock at the door, and let our inquisitive glance travel round, it need
merely
be said that the hive is composed of a queen, who is the mother of all
her
people; of thousands of female worker-bees, who are neuters or
spinsters; and,
finally, of some hundreds of males, who never do any work, and are
known as
drones. When for
the first time we take the cover off a hive we cannot help some feeling
of
fear, as though we were looking at something not meant for our eyes,
something
alarming and frightening. We have always thought of the bee as rather a
dangerous creature. There is the distressful recollection of its sting,
which
produces so peculiar a pain that one knows not with what to compare it:
a sort
of dreadful dryness, as though a flame of the desert had scorched the
wounded
limb; and one asks oneself whether these daughters of the sun may not
have
distilled a dazzling poison from their father’s rays, in order to
defend the
treasure which they have gathered during his shining hours. There is
no doubt that if some person, who neither knows nor respects the habits
of the
bee, were suddenly to fling open the hive, this would turn itself
immediately
into a burning-bush of heroism and fury; but the slight amount of skill
needed
to deal with the matter can be readily acquired. Let but a little smoke
be
deftly applied, let us be gentle and careful in our movements, and the
heavily-armed workers will permit themselves to be robbed without the
least
thought of using their sting. It is not the fact, as some people have
stated,
that the bees recognize their owner, nor have they any fear of man;
but, when
the smoke reaches them, when they become aware of what is happening, so
quietly
and without any haste or disturbance, they imagine that this is not the
attack
of an enemy against whom any defense is possible, but that it is some
natural
catastrophe, to which they will do well to submit. Instead of vainly
struggling, therefore, their one thought is to safeguard their future;
and they
rush at once to their reserves of honey, into which they eagerly plunge
themselves in order to possess the material for starting a new city
immediately, no matter where, should the old one be destroyed or they
compelled
to abandon it. A person
who knows nothing of bees will be a little disappointed the first time
he looks
into a hive. Let us say that it is an observation-hive, made of glass,
with
black curtains and shutters and only one comb, thus enabling the
spectator to
study both sides. These hives can be placed in a drawing-room or a
library
without any inconvenience or danger. The bees that live in the one I
have in my
study in Paris are able even in that great city to do their own
marketing, as
it were in other words, to find the food they require and to prosper.
You will
have been told, when you are shown this little glass box, that it is
the home
of a most extraordinary activity; that it is governed by a number of
wise laws,
that it enshrines deep mysteries; and all you will see is a mass of
little,
reddish groups, somewhat resembling roasted coffee-berries or bunches
of
raisins, all huddled up against the glass. They look more dead than
alive;
their movements are slow, and seem confused and without any purpose. We
ask
ourselves, can these be the dazzling creatures we had seen, but a
moment ago,
flashing and sparkling as they darted among the pearls and the gold of
a
thousand wide-open flowers? Now, in
the darkness, they seem to be shivering; to be numbed, suffocated, so
closely
are they huddled together. They look as though they were prisoners; or
shall we
say queens who have lost their throne, who have had their one moment of
glory
in the midst of their radiant garden, and are now compelled to return
to the
dingy misery of their poor overcrowded home. It is
with them as it is with all the real things in life; they must be
studied, and
we have to learn how to study them. Much is happening inside this mass
that seems
so inactive, but it will take you some time to grasp it and see it. The
truth
is that every single creature in the little groups that appear scarcely
to move
is hard at work, each one at its own particular trade. There is not one
of them
that knows what it means to be idle; and those, for instance, that seem
fast
asleep, as they hang in great clusters against the glass, are entrusted
with
the most mysterious and fatiguing task of all; it is their duty to
create the
marvelous wax. But we shall tell later, and in its place, precisely
what each
of the bees is doing; for the moment we will merely point out why it is
that
the different classes of workers all cluster together so strangely. The
fact is
that the bee, even more than the ant, is only happy when she is in the
midst of
a crowd; she can only live in the crowd. When she leaves the hive,
which is so
densely packed that she has to keep on butting with her head in order
to pass,
she is out of her element, away from what she loves. She will dive for
an instant
into flower-filled space, as the swimmer will dive into the sea that is
filled
with pearls; but, just as the swimmer must come to the surface and
breathe the
air, so must she, at regular intervals, return and breathe the crowd or
she
will die. Take her away from her comrades, and however abundant the
food may
be, however gentle the climate, she will perish in a few days, not of
hunger or
cold, but merely of loneliness. She needs the crowd, she needs her own
city,
just as she needs the honey on which she lives. This craving for
companionship
in some way helps us to understand the nature of the laws that govern
the hive.
For in these laws the individual bee, the one bee apart from the other,
simply
does not count. Her entire life is sacrifice, and only sacrifice, to
the bees
as a race; as it were, to the everlasting community, of which she forms
part. This, however, has not always been the case, for there is a lower order of bees that prefers to work alone, and very miserably too, sometimes never seeing its young, and at others, like the bumble-bee, living in the midst of its own little family. From these we arrive, through one stage after another, to the almost perfect but pitiless society of our hives, where the individual bee exists only for the republic of which it forms a part, and where that republic itself will at all times be sacrificed in the interests of the immortal city of the future. |
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