[46]

Many of those who have written on bees have thought fit to adorn the truth; I myself have no such desire.  For studies of this description to possess any interest, it is essential that they should remain absolutely sincere.  Had the conclusion been forced upon me that bees are incapable of communicating to each other news of an event occurring outside the hive, I should, I imagine, as a set-off against the slight disappointment this discovery would have entailed, have derived some degree of satisfaction in recognising once more that man, after all, is the only truly intelligent being who inhabits our globe.  And there comes too a period of life when we have more joy in saying the thing that is true than in saying the thing that merely is wonderful.  Here as in every case the principle holds that, should the naked truth appear at the moment less interesting, less great and noble than the imaginary embellishment it lies in our power to bestow, the fault must rest with ourselves who still are unable to perceive the astonishing relation in which this truth always must stand to our being, and to universal law; and in that case it is not the truth, but our intellect, that needs embellishment and ennoblement.

I will frankly confess, therefore, that the marked bee often returns alone.  Shall we believe that in bees there exists the same difference of character as in men; that of them too some are gossips, and others prone to silence?  A friend who stood by and watched my experiment, declared that it was evidently mere selfishness or vanity that caused so many of the bees to refrain from revealing the source of their wealth, and from sharing with others the glory of an achievement that must seem miraculous to the hive.  These were sad vices indeed, which give not forth the sweet odour, so fragrant and loyal, that springs from the home of the many thousand sisters.  But, whatever the cause, it often will also happen that the bee whom fortune has favoured will return to the honey accompanied by two or three friends.  I am aware that Sir John Lubbock, in the appendix to his book on “Ants, Bees, and Wasps,” records the results of his investigations in long and minute tables; and from these we are led to infer that it is a matter of rarest occurrence for a single bee to follow the one who has made the discovery.  The learned naturalist does not name the race of bees which he selected for his experiments, or tell us whether the conditions were especially unfavourable.  As for myself I only can say that my own tables, compiled with great care,—­and every possible precaution having been taken that the bees should not be directly attracted by the odour of the honey,—­establish that on an average one bee will bring others four times out of ten.

I even one day came across an extraordinary little Italian bee, whose belt I had marked with a touch of blue paint.  In her second trip she brought two of her sisters, whom I imprisoned, without interfering with her.  She departed once more, and this time returned with three friends, whom I again confined, and so till the end of the afternoon, when, counting my prisoners, I found that she had told the news to no less than eighteen bees.