Moth in the Bell Jar

When I was a boy growing up in the village of Burbage in the East Midlands, we would trap Elephant-Hawk Moths under our glasses of lemonade in the summer. When one of us caught a moth under our glass, all the other boys would gather around and watch the brightly coloured creature flit and flutter helplessly, dashing its wings against the glass, scrambling for a way out. We loved watching the pink and green shades of the moth’s wings dither, making pretty patterns in the air. Sometimes, we would let the poor creature out but, on many occasions, on hearing our mothers call us in for tea and sandwiches, we would forget about the little moth in the glass. The next day, we would find its lifeless body turned over on the grass. As a young boy growing up in a village where nothing much ever happened, I was invigorated by those summer days out in the garden and soon developed a keen fascination with insects, animals and the natural world.

The day I turned nineteen, I moved to Leicester to study Zoology at the university. I got a summer job working at a gothic curiosity shop in an alleyway off the town centre where I spent my days dusting curious artefacts and polishing antiques. The owner of the shop, Mr. Pennyworth was an amateur Lepidopterist, and his old shop was littered with specimens of moths and butterflies, arranged neatly in glass cases. I immersed myself in identifying the butterflies and moths and would make records of the specimens for Mr. Pennyworth. Six-spot burnet, Angel shades, Scalloped Oak, Silver Y, Painted Lady, Brimstone, Anania Funebris. In addition to the many curious specimens, Mr. Pennyworth had an excellent collection of old Lepidoptery books, and I spent many afternoons browsing through the musty pages of Insectorum sive Minimorum Animalium Theatrum, Metamorphosis Naturalis or Papilionum Brittaniae icones.

One Thursday afternoon in late June, while dusting a specimen case at the back corner of the shop, I glimpsed in the corner of my eye a cylindrical object covered in a worn piece of faded brown muslin. I lifted the cloth intently to find a grimy bell jar underneath. The jar was so engulfed in dust that it appeared opaque. I scavenged one of my soapy cleaning rags from the storeroom and scrubbed the worst of the grime off the jar. When it was clean, I could see within the transparent glass, in the belly of the jar a delicate paper insect, green and pink, flitting rapidly in hypnotic patterns. A little paper Elephant-Hawk Moth sat attached to a wire that agitated the insect, creating swirls of bright green and pink hues. I watched the little contraption in wonder for a few minutes before I found myself recoil at its awfulness. The little creature looked so life-like, its uncanny realism unsettled me, bringing back memories of Elephant-Moths turned over lifeless in lemonade glasses.

“You can have that if you fancy it”, I heard Mr. Pennyworth come up behind me.

“A young doctor bought it in a couple of years ago. A psychiatrist. Said he wanted to get rid of it. Said it reminded him of his patients.”

I gazed into the belly of the jar, captured by the dancing creature whirling and dashing about inside it. It was really quite charming. I had never seen anything like it before.

“I’ll give it to your half-price, considering you work here. It’s ten pounds on the price tag but you can have it for five.”

I looked back at the jar hesitantly and felt a chill run down my shoulder, through my arms and down to my fingers. I tried my best to focus on the strange beauty of the moth, but nothing could shake the awful coldness that I felt when looking upon the object.

“Thanks Mr. Pennyworth. I think I’d rather not have it. It reminds me too much of home.”

That afternoon, however, while browsing through Papilionum Brittaniae icones., I found myself lingering on the entry for Deilephila Elpenor, commonly known as Elephant-Hawk Moth.

The Elephant Hawk-Moth (Deilephila elpenor)

45- to 60-mm wingspan.

The caterpillar's likeness to an elephant's boot led to the creation of the moth's English name.

The adults have a sleek appearance and have attractive pink and green shades.

From May to July, they fly and visit flowers like honeysuckle (Lonicera) to collect nectar.

Epilobium angustifolium, also known as rosebay willowherb, is the primary food source for the larvae, but they also consume other plants like bedstraw (Galium)…

As the day drew to a close, the customers petered out and the light in the shop grew dim. I found my gaze wandering unconsciously over to the bell jar.

“I’ll tell you what, boy, you can have it for three pounds.”, said Mr. Pennyworth when he caught me staring at the jar for the fourth time.

“Alright, sir. I think I will have it after all”, I replied slightly reluctantly. Something about that jar draw me to it and I felt a magnetic attraction suck me into its inner sanctum where the helpless moth conducted its mesmerising pirouettes.

I took the jar home with me and set it upon my bedside table. That night, I fell asleep watching the little moth flutter, closing my eyes to patterns of pink and green, with the smell of the freshly cut summer grass in Burbage lingering in my memory. I was awakened abruptly in the middle of the night to frantic sounds of knocking and rustling. When I glanced towards the bell jar, I saw that the moth was throwing its body against the glass walls, fluttering its wings desperately, as if looking for a way out. Unsure if I was still dreaming, I covered the jar with an old pillowcase and drifted quickly back to sleep.

As the summer days grew longer, my nights became increasingly shorter and more disturbed. I found myself hearing the moth, banging it’s wings against the walls of the jar, under the pillowcase, fluttering and rustling through the night. I moved the jar to my writing desk first and then out into the hallway but still, I could hear the fluttering. A few weeks after I had bought the jar, the sounds seemed to suddenly cease. I drew back the pillowcase to find that the little creature had stopped moving. Deducing a fault in the mechanism, I carefully removed the glass top from the base of the jar and set it aside. I then reached down towards the delicate paper wings of the Elephant-Moth inside. One of the wings had torn on the top corner and, as I pinched to pick up the tiny thing, I cut my finger on the tear in the wing. I let out a cry as a wetness swept upon my hand and I watched two drops of blood drip from my finger onto the base of the jar. Frustrated, I determined to take the artefact back to Mr. Pennyworth the next day, hastened to nurse my finger and called it a night. The next morning, I returned the jar and the offending creature back to the shop and, much to Pennyworth’s disappointment, got my three pounds back. Having got rid of the jar, I felt a weight lift off me and I anticipated a good slumber after many nights of restlessness.

That night, however, I was haunted my stranger dreams than ever before. I dreamt I was in a glass jar, fluttering rapidly, throwing my body against the glass walls, trying desperately to escape. My frail body dashing against the hard surface, pangs of pain shooting up my body as I battered myself. In the morning, I felt incredibly tired, too tired even to open my eyes. I lay down exhausted, cold and ten years older than I was. I attempted peel my eyelids open delicately, but my lids were heavy, my vision blurred. The room swam before me, while the daylight and colours mixed together in a hazy fog. I tried to get up, but my arms and legs wouldn’t move. I blinked rapidly, trying to get my vision into focus but all the world swam before me. Suddenly, I could make out the faint outlines of a stout man who I recognised as Mr. Pennyworth. What was Pennyworth doing in my room? The more I peered, though, the more it struck me that I wasn’t, in fact, in my room but rather, in Pennyworth’s curiosity shop. I could assess the shapes of his glass specimen cases, the front desk and I could hear, at intervals, the familiar tinkle of the bell as the door of the curiosity shop opened to let a customer in. I tried to shake myself awake from the nightmare I seemed to still be in, but the scene persisted. When I tried to move, I felt a feeling of flying through the air and then a sharp pain as I hit something hard. I tried again to move and again, hit a cold, hard surface. As I looked around me, I saw the light filter through the transparent glass of the bell jar and felt under me, my legs attached to a flexible wire. “Mr. Pennyworth!” I tried to scream but no sound left my mouth. I dashed against the glass incessantly, turning in circles around my transparent prison. Finally, I seemed to have caught Pennyworth’s attention. I saw his broad outline move towards me. “It’s me, Mr. Pennyworth”, I thought, dashing my body desperately. Pennyworth peered into the glass with his beaky nose. holding up what looked like a brown piece of old muslin. I almost imagined a hint of a smile on his face. He dropped the brown muslin over the jar leaving me blind and alone, only left with the fading memories of fresh grass, lemonade and far away summers in Burbage.