for the fact is established beyond any doubt,—­but were you to mutilate, or crush, on a piece of comb placed a few steps from their dwelling, twenty or thirty bees that have all issued from the same hive, those you have left untouched will not even turn their heads.  With their tongue, fantastic as a Chinese weapon, they will tranquilly continue to absorb the liquid they hold more precious than life, heedless of the agony whose last gestures almost are touching them, of the cries of distress that arise all around.  And when the comb is empty, so great is their anxiety that nothing shall be lost, that their eagerness to gather the honey which clings to the victims will induce them tranquilly to climb over dead and dying, unmoved by the presence of the first and never dreaming of helping the others.  In this case, therefore, they have no notion of the danger they run, seeing that they are wholly untroubled by the death that is scattered about them, and they have not the slightest sense of solidarity or pity.  As regards the danger, the explanation lies ready to hand; the bees know not the meaning of fear, and, with the exception only of smoke, are afraid of nothing in the world.  Outside the hive, they display extreme condescension and forbearance.  They will avoid whatever disturbs them, and affect to ignore its existence, so long as it come not too close; as though aware that this universe belongs to all, that each one has his place there, and must needs be discreet and peaceful.  But beneath this indulgence is quietly hidden a heart so sure of itself that it never dreams of protesting.  If they are threatened, they will alter their course, but never attempt to escape.  In the hive, however, they will not confine themselves to this passive ignoring of peril.  They will spring with incredible fury on any living thing, ant or lion or man, that dares to profane the sacred ark.  This we may term anger, ridiculous obstinacy, or heroism, according as our mind be disposed.

But of their want of solidarity outside the hive, and even of sympathy within it, I can find nothing to say.  Are we to believe that each form of intellect possesses its own strange limitation, and that the tiny flame which with so much difficulty at last burns its way through inert matter and issues forth from the brain, is still so uncertain that if it illumine one point more strongly the others are forced into blacker darkness?  Here we find that the bees (or nature acting within them) have organised work in common, the love and cult of the future, in a manner more perfect than can elsewhere be discovered.  Is it for this reason that they have lost sight of all the rest?  They give their love to what lies ahead of them; we bestow ours on what is around.  And we who love here, perhaps, have no love left for what is beyond.  Nothing varies so much as the direction of pity or charity.  We ourselves should formerly have been far less shocked than we are to-day at the insensibility of the bees; and to many an ancient people such conduct would not have seemed blameworthy.  And further, can we tell how many of the things that we do would shock a being who might be watching us as we watch the bees?