THE FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT

Social Life in the Insect World by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT

CHAPTER I. THE FABLE OF THE CIGALE AND THE ANT

Fame is the daughter of Legend. In the world of creatures, as in the world of men, the story precedes and outlives history. There are many instances of the fact that if an insect attract our attention for this reason or that, it is given a place in those legends of the people whose last care is truth.

For example, who is there that does not, at least by hearsay, know the Cigale? Where in the entomological world shall we find a more famous reputation? Her fame as an impassioned singer, careless of the future, was the subject of our earliest lessons in repetition. In short, easily remembered lines of verse, we learned how she was destitute when the winter winds arrived, and how she went begging for food to the Ant, her neighbour. A poor welcome she received, the would-be borrower!—a welcome that has become proverbial, and her chief title to celebrity. The petty malice of the two short lines—

Vous chantiez! j'en suis bien aise,

Eh bien, dansez maintenant!

DURING THE DROUGHTS OF SUMMER THIRSTING INSECTS, AND NOTABLY THE ANT, FLOCK TO THE DRINKING-PLACES OF THE CIGALE.

As we see, reality completely reverses the action described by the fable. The shameless beggar, who does not hesitate at theft, is the Ant; the industrious worker, willingly sharing her goods with the suffering, is the Cigale. Yet another detail, and the reversal of the fable is further emphasised. After five or six weeks of gaiety, the songstress falls from the tree, exhausted by the fever of life. The sun shrivels her body; the feet of the passers-by crush it. A bandit always in search of booty, the Ant discovers the remains. She divides the rich find, dissects it, and cuts it up into tiny fragments, which go to swell her stock of provisions. It is not uncommon to see a dying Cigale, whose wings are still trembling in the dust, drawn and quartered by a gang of knackers. Her body is black with them. After this instance of cannibalism the truth of the relations between the two insects is obvious.

Antiquity held the Cigale in high esteem. The Greek Béranger, Anacreon, devoted an ode to her, in which his praise of her is singularly exaggerated. "Thou art almost like unto the Gods," he says. The reasons which he has given for this apotheosis are none of the best. They consist in these three privileges: γηγενἡϛ, ἁπαθἡϛ, ἁναιμὁσαρκε; born of the earth, insensible to pain, bloodless. We will not reproach the poet for these mistakes; they were then generally believed, and were perpetuated long afterwards, until the exploring eye of scientific observation was directed upon them. And in minor poetry, whose principal merit lies in rhythm and harmony, we must not look at things too closely.

Even in our days, the Provençal poets, who know the Cigale as Anacreon never did, are scarcely more careful of the truth in celebrating the insect which they have taken for their emblem. A friend of mine, an eager observer and a scrupulous realist, does not deserve this reproach. He gives me permission to take from his pigeon-holes the following Provençal poem, in which the relations between the Cigale and the Ant are expounded with all the rigour of science. I leave to him the responsibility for his poetic images and his moral reflections, blossoms unknown to my naturalist's garden; but I can swear to the truth of all he says, for it corresponds with what I see each summer on the lilac-trees of my garden.

LA CIGALO E LA FOURNIGO.

I.

Jour de Dièu, queto caud! Bèu tèms pèr la Cigalo,

Que, trefoulido, se regalo

D'uno raisso de fio; bèu tèms per la meissoun.

Dins lis erso d'or, lou segaire,

Ren plega, pitre au vent, rustico e canto gaire;

Dins soun gousiè, la set estranglo la cansoun.

Tèms benesi pèr tu. Dounc, ardit! cigaleto,

Fai-lei brusi, ti chimbaleto,

E brandusso lou ventre à creba ti mirau.

L'Ome enterin mando le daio,

Que vai balin-balan de longo e que dardaio

L'ulau de soun acié sus li rous espigau.

Plèn d'aigo pèr la péiro e tampouna d'erbiho

Lou coufié sus l'anco pendiho.

Si la péiro es au frès dins soun estui de bos,

E se de longo es abèurado,

L'Ome barbelo au fio d'aqueli souleiado

Que fan bouli de fes la mesoulo dis os.

Tu, Cigalo, as un biais pèr la set: dins la rusco

Tendro e jutouso d'uno busco,

L'aguio de toun bè cabusso e cavo un pous.

Lou siro monto pèr la draio.

T'amourres à la fon melicouso que raio,

E dou sourgènt sucra bèves lou teta-dous.

Mai pas toujour en pas. Oh! que nàni; de laire,

Vesin, vesino o barrulaire,

T'an vist cava lou pous. An set; vènon, doulènt,

Te prène un degout pèr si tasso.

Mesfiso-te, ma bello: aqueli curo-biasso,

Umble d'abord, soun lèu de gusas insoulènt.

Quiston un chicouloun di rèn, pièi de ti resto

Soun plus countènt, ausson la testo

E volon tout: L'auran. Sis arpioun en rastèu

Te gatihoun lou bout de l'alo.

Sus tu larjo esquinasso es un mounto-davalo;

T'aganton pèr lou bè, li bano, lis artèu;

Tiron d'eici, d'eilà. L'impaciènci te gagno.

Pst! pst! d'un giscle de pissagno

Aspèrges l'assemblado e quites lou ramèu.

T'en vas bèn liuen de la racaio,

Que t'a rauba lou pous, e ris, e se gougaio,

E se lipo li brego enviscado de mèu.

Or d'aqueli boumian abèura sens fatigo,

Lou mai tihous es la fournigo.

Mousco, cabrian, guespo e tavan embana,

Espeloufi de touto meno,

Costo-en-long qu'à toun pous lou soulcias ameno,

N'an pas soun testardige à te faire enana.

Pèr l'esquicha l'artèu, te coutiga lou mourre,

Te pessuga lou nas, pèr courre

A l'oumbro du toun ventre, osco! degun la vau.

Lou marrit-pèu prend pèr escalo

Uno patto e te monto, ardido, sus lis alo,

E s'espasso, insoulènto, e vai d'amont, d'avau.

II.

Aro veici qu'es pas de crèire.

Ancian tèms, nous dison li rèire,

Un jour d'ivèr; la fam te prenguè. Lou front bas

E d'escoundoun anères vèire,

Dins si grand magasin, la fournigo, eilàbas.

L'endrudido au soulèu secavo,

Avans de lis escoundre en cavo,

Si blad qu'aviè mousi l'eigagno de la niue.

Quand èron lest lis ensacavo.

Tu survènes alor, emé de plour is iue.

Iè disés: "Fai bèn fre; l'aurasso

D'un caire à l'autre me tirasso

Avanido de fam. A toun riche mouloun

Leisso-me prène pèr ma biasso.

Te lou rendrai segur au bèu tèms di meloun.

"Presto-me un pan de gran." Mai, bouto,

Se cresès que l'autro t'escouto,

T'enganes. Di gros sa, rèn de rèn sara tièu.

"Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto;

Crebo de fam l'ivèr, tu que cantes l'estièu."

Ansin charro la fablo antico

Pèr nous counséia la pratico

Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun

De si bourso.—Que la coulico

Rousiguè la tripaio en aqueli coudoun!

Me fai susa, lou fabulisto,

Quand dis que l'ivèr vas en quisto

De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai.

De blad! Que n'en fariès, ma fisto!

As ta fon melicouso e demandes rèn mai.

Que t'enchau l'ivèr! Ta famiho

A la sousto en terro soumiho,

Et tu dormes la som que n'a ges de revèi;

Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho.

Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou véi,

De tu magro péu dessecado

La marriasso fai becado;

Te curo lou perus, te chapouto à moucèu,

T'encafourno pèr car-salado,

Requisto prouvisioun, l'ivèr, en tèms de neu.

III.

Vaqui l'istori veritablo

Bèn liuen dôu conte de la fablo.

Que n'en pensas, canèu de sort!

—O rammaissaire de dardeno

Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno

Que gouvernas lou mounde emé lou coffre-fort,

Fasès courre lou bru, canaio,

Que l'artisto jamai travaio

E dèu pati, lou bedigas.

Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco

La Cigalo a cava la rusco,

Raubas soun bèure, e pièi, morto, la rousigas.

So speaks my friend in the expressive Provençal idiom, rehabilitating the creature so libelled by the fabulist.

Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as follows:—

I.

Fine weather for the Cigale! God, what heat!

Half drunken with her joy, she feasts

In a hail of fire. Pays for the harvest meet;

A golden sea the reaper breasts,

Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long,

For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.

A blessed time for thee, little Cigale.

Thy little cymbals shake and sound,

Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall!

Man meanwhile swings his scythe around;

Continually back and forth it veers,

Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.

Grass-plugged, with water for the grinder full,

A flask is hung upon his hip;

The stone within its wooden trough is cool,

Free all the day to sip and sip;

But man is gasping in the fiery sun,

That makes his very marrow melt and run.

Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst: the bark,

Tender and juicy, of the bough.

Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it. Mark

The narrow passage welling now;

The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside,

Who drinkest of the flood, the honeyed tide.

Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive,

Neighbours and wives, or wanderers vile;

They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive

Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile;

Beauty, beware! the wallet-snatcher's face,

Humble at first, grows insolent apace.

They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take;

Soon discontent, their heads they toss;

They crave for all, and all will have. They rake

Their claws thy folded wings across;

Thy back a mountain, up and down each goes;

They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.

This way and that they pull. Impatient thou:

Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous taste

O'er the assembly sprinklest. Leave the bough

And fly the rascals thus disgraced,

Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure

Now lick their honey'd lips, and feed at leisure.

See these Bohemians without labour fed!

The ant the worst of all the crew—

Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head,

All of them sharpers thro' and thro',

Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace—

None more than she was eager for thy place,

More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread,

Or nose to pinch, and then to run

Under the shade thine ample belly spread;

Or climb thy leg for ladder; sun

Herself audacious on thy wings, and go

Most insolently o'er thee to and fro.

II.

Now comes a tale that no one should believe.

In other times, the ancients say,

The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve.

Thou didst in secret see one day

The ant below the ground her treasure store away.

The wealthy ant was drying in the sun

Her corn the dew had wet by night,

Ere storing it again; and one by one

She filled her sacks as it dried aright.

Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,

Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise

Blows me this way and that to-day.

I die of hunger. Of your riches please

Fill me my bag, and I'll repay,

When summer and its melons come this way.

"Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to!

Think you the ant will lend an ear?

You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you!

"Be off, and scrape some barrel clear!

You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!"

'Tis thus the ancient fable sings

To teach us all the prudence ripe

Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string

That tie their purses. May the gripe

Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!

He angers me, this fable-teller does,

Saying in winter thou dost seek

Flies, grubs, corn—thou dost never eat like us!

—Corn! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak?

Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek.

To thee what matters winter? Underground

Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou

The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound.

Thy body, fallen from the bough,

Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now.

The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide

A banquet makes; in little bits

She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside,

And stores thee where in wealth she sits:

Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.

III.

Here is the tale related duly,

And little resembling the fable, truly!

Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it.

It isn't the story as you would make it!

Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say,

Who govern the world with the cash-box—hey?

You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk,

That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work;

And so let him suffer, the imbecile!

Be you silent! 'Tis you, I think,

When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink,

Drive her away, her drink to steal;

And when she is dead—you make your meal!

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