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The Life of the Spider, by J. Henri Fabre,
CHAPTER I:
THE BLACK-BELLIED TARANTULA
The Spider has a bad name: to most of us,
she represents an odious,
noxious animal, which every one hastens to crush
under foot. Against
this summary verdict the observer sets the beast's
industry, its talent
as a weaver, its wiliness in the chase, its tragic
nuptials and other
characteristics of great interest. Yes, the Spider is
well worth
studying, apart from any scientific reasons; but she is said to
be
poisonous and that is her crime and the primary cause of the
repugnance
wherewith she inspires us. Poisonous, I agree, if by that we
understand
that the animal is armed with two fangs which cause the immediate
death
of the little victims which it catches; but there is a wide
difference
between killing a Midge and harming a man. However immediate in
its
effects upon the insect entangled in the fatal web, the Spider's
poison
is not serious for us and causes less inconvenience than a
Gnat-bite.
That, at least, is what we can safely say as regards the great
majority
of the Spiders of our regions.
Nevertheless, a few are to be
feared; and foremost among these is the
Malmignatte, the terror of the
Corsican peasantry. I have seen her
settle in the furrows, lay out her web
and rush boldly at insects larger
than herself; I have admired her garb of
black velvet speckled with
carmine-red; above all, I have heard most
disquieting stories told about
her. Around Ajaccio and Bonifacio, her bite
is reputed very dangerous,
sometimes mortal. The countryman declares this
for a fact and the doctor
does not always dare deny it. In the neighbourhood
of Pujaud, not far
from Avignon, the harvesters speak with dread of
_Theridion lugubre_, {1}
first observed by Leon Dufour in the Catalonian
mountains; according to
them, her bite would lead to serious accidents. The
Italians have
bestowed a bad reputation on the Tarantula, who produces
convulsions and
frenzied dances in the person stung by her. To cope with
'tarantism,'
the name given to the disease that follows on the bite of the
Italian
Spider, you must have recourse to music, the only efficacious remedy,
so
they tell us. Special tunes have been noted, those quickest to
afford
relief. There is medical choreography, medical music. And have we
not
the tarentella, a lively and nimble dance, bequeathed to us perhaps
by
the healing art of the Calabrian peasant?
Must we take these queer
things seriously or laugh at them? From the
little that I have seen, I
hesitate to pronounce an opinion. Nothing
tells us that the bite of the
Tarantula may not provoke, in weak and very
impressionable people, a nervous
disorder which music will relieve;
nothing tells us that a profuse
perspiration, resulting from a very
energetic dance, is not likely to
diminish the discomfort by diminishing
the cause of the ailment. So far from
laughing, I reflect and enquire,
when the Calabrian peasant talks to me of
his Tarantula, the Pujaud
reaper of his _Theridion lugubre_, the Corsican
husbandman of his
Malmignatte. Those Spiders might easily deserve, at least
partly, their
terrible reputation.
The most powerful Spider in my
district, the Black-bellied Tarantula,
will presently give us something to
think about, in this connection. It
is not my business to discuss a medical
point, I interest myself
especially in matters of instinct; but, as the
poison-fangs play a
leading part in the huntress' manoeuvres of war, I shall
speak of their
effects by the way. The habits of the Tarantula, her
ambushes, her
artifices, her methods of killing her prey: these constitute my
subject.
I will preface it with an account by Leon Dufour, {2} one of
those
accounts in which I used to delight and which did much to bring me
into
closer touch with the insect. The Wizard of the Landes tells us of
the
ordinary Tarantula, that of the Calabrias, observed by him in
Spain:
'_Lycosa tarantula_ by preference inhabits open places, dry,
arid,
uncultivated places, exposed to the sun. She lives
generally--at
least when full-grown--in underground passages, regular
burrows, which
she digs for herself. These burrows are cylindrical; they
are often
an inch in diameter and run into the ground to a depth of more
than a
foot; but they are not perpendicular. The inhabitant of this
gut
proves that she is at the same time a skilful hunter and an able
engineer. It was a question for her not only of constructing a deep
retreat that could hide her from the pursuit of her foes: she also had
to
set up her observatory whence to watch for her prey and dart out
upon
it. The Tarantula provides for every contingency: the
underground
passage, in fact, begins by being vertical, but, at four
or five inches
from the surface, it bends at an obtuse angle, forms a
horizontal turning
and then becomes perpendicular once more. It is at
the elbow of this
tunnel that the Tarantula posts herself as a
vigilant sentry and does not
for a moment lose sight of the door of
her dwelling; it was there that, at
the period when I was hunting her,
I used to see those eyes gleaming like
diamonds, bright as a cat's
eyes in the dark.
'The outer orifice
of the Tarantula's burrow is usually surmounted by
a shaft constructed
throughout by herself. It is a genuine work of
architecture, standing as
much as an inch above the ground and
sometimes two inches in diameter, so
that it is wider than the burrow
itself. This last circumstance, which
seems to have been calculated
by the industrious Spider, lends itself
admirably to the necessary
extension of the legs at the moment when the
prey is to be seized. The
shaft is composed mainly of bits of dry wood
joined by a little clay
and so artistically laid, one above the other,
that they form the
scaffolding of a straight column, the inside of which
is a hollow
cylinder. The solidity of this tubular building, of this
outwork, is
ensured above all by the fact that it is lined, upholstered
within,
with a texture woven by the Lycosa's {3} spinnerets and
continued
throughout the interior of the burrow. It is easy to imagine
how
useful this cleverly-manufactured lining must be for preventing
landslip or warping, for maintaining cleanliness and for helping her
claws
to scale the fortress.
'I hinted that this outwork of the burrow was
not there invariably; as
a matter of fact, I have often come across
Tarantulas' holes without a
trace of it, perhaps because it had been
accidentally destroyed by the
weather, or because the Lycosa may not
always light upon the proper
building-materials, or, lastly, because
architectural talent is
possibly declared only in individuals that have
reached the final
stage, the period of perfection of their physical and
intellectual
development.
'One thing is certain, that I have had
numerous opportunities of
seeing these shafts, these out-works of the
Tarantula's abode; they
remind me, on a larger scale, of the tubes of
certain Caddis-worms.
The Arachnid had more than one object in view in
constructing them:
she shelters her retreat from the floods; she protects
it from the
fall of foreign bodies which, swept by the wind, might end
by
obstructing it; lastly, she uses it as a snare by offering the
Flies
and other insects whereon she feeds a projecting point to settle
on.
Who shall tell us all the wiles employed by this clever and
daring
huntress?
'Let us now say something about my rather
diverting Tarantula-hunts.
The best season for them is the months of May
and June. The first
time that I lighted on this Spider's burrows and
discovered that they
were inhabited by seeing her come to a point on the
first floor of her
dwelling--the elbow which I have mentioned--I thought
that I must
attack her by main force and pursue her relentlessly in order
to
capture her; I spent whole hours in opening up the trench with a
knife
a foot long by two inches wide, without meeting the
Tarantula. I
renewed the operation in other burrows, always with the same
want of
success; I really wanted a pickaxe to achieve my object, but I was
too
far from any kind of house. I was obliged to change my plan of
attack
and I resorted to craft. Necessity, they say, is the mother
of
invention.
'It occurred to me to take a stalk, topped with
its spikelet, by way
of a bait, and to rub and move it gently at the
orifice of the burrow.
I soon saw that the Lycosa's attention and desires
were roused.
Attracted by the bait, she came with measured steps towards
the
spikelet. I withdrew it in good time a little outside the hole, so
as
not to leave the animal time for reflexion; and the Spider
suddenly,
with a rush, darted out of her dwelling, of which I hastened to
close
the entrance. The Tarantula, bewildered by her unaccustomed
liberty,
was very awkward in evading my attempts at capture; and I
compelled
her to enter a paper bag, which I closed without
delay.
'Sometimes, suspecting the trap, or perhaps less pressed by
hunger,
she would remain coy and motionless, at a slight distance from
the
threshold, which she did not think it opportune to cross. Her
patience outlasted mine. In that case, I employed the following
tactics:
after making sure of the Lycosa's position and the direction
of the
tunnel, I drove a knife into it on the slant, so as to take the
animal in
the rear and cut off its retreat by stopping up the burrow.
I seldom
failed in my attempt, especially in soil that was not stony.
In these
critical circumstances, either the Tarantula took fright and
deserted her
lair for the open, or else she stubbornly remained with
her back to the
blade. I would then give a sudden jerk to the knife,
which flung both the
earth and the Lycosa to a distance, enabling me
to capture her. By
employing this hunting-method, I sometimes caught
as many as fifteen
Tarantulae within the space of an hour.
'In a few cases, in which the
Tarantula was under no misapprehension
as to the trap which I was setting
for her, I was not a little
surprised, when I pushed the stalk far enough
down to twist it round
her hiding-place, to see her play with the spikelet
more or less
contemptuously and push it away with her legs, without
troubling to
retreat to the back of her lair.
'The Apulian
peasants, according to Baglivi's {4} account, also hunt
the Tarantula by
imitating the humming of an insect with an oat-stalk
at the entrance to
her burrow. I quote the passage:
'"_Ruricolae nostri quando eas
captare volunt, ad illorum latibula
accedunt, tenuisque avenacae fistulae
sonum, apum murmuri non
absimilem, modulantur. Quo audito, ferox exit
Tarentula ut muscas vel
alia hujus modi insecta, quorum murmur esse putat,
captat; captatur
tamen ista a rustico insidiatore_." {5}
'The
Tarantula, so dreadful at first sight, especially when we are
filled with
the idea that her bite is dangerous, so fierce in
appearance, is
nevertheless quite easy to tame, as I have often found
by
experiment.
'On the 7th of May 1812, while at Valencia, in Spain, I
caught a fair-
sized male Tarantula, without hurting him, and imprisoned
him in a
glass jar, with a paper cover in which I cut a trap-door. At
the
bottom of the jar I put a paper bag, to serve as his habitual
residence. I placed the jar on a table in my bedroom, so as to have
him
under frequent observation. He soon grew accustomed to captivity
and
ended by becoming so familiar that he would come and take from my
fingers
the live Fly which I gave him. After killing his victim with
the fangs of
his mandibles, he was not satisfied, like most Spiders,
to suck her head:
he chewed her whole body, shoving it piecemeal into
his mouth with his
palpi, after which he threw up the masticated
teguments and swept them
away from his lodging.
'Having finished his meal, he nearly always
made his toilet, which
consisted in brushing his palpi and mandibles, both
inside and out,
with his front tarsi. After that, he resumed his air of
motionless
gravity. The evening and the night were his time for taking
his walks
abroad. I often heard him scratching the paper of the
bag. These
habits confirm the opinion, which I have already expressed
elsewhere,
that most Spiders have the faculty of seeing by day and night,
like
cats.
'On the 28th of June, my Tarantula cast his skin. It
was his last
moult and did not perceptibly alter either the colour of his
attire or
the dimensions of his body. On the 14th of July, I had to
leave
Valencia; and I stayed away until the 23rd. During this time,
the
Tarantula fasted; I found him looking quite well on my return. On
the
20th of August, I again left for a nine days' absence, which my
prisoner bore without food and without detriment to his health. On
the
1st of October, I once more deserted the Tarantula, leaving him
without
provisions. On the 21st, I was fifty miles from Valencia and,
as I
intended to remain there, I sent a servant to fetch him. I was
sorry to
learn that he was not found in the jar, and I never heard
what became of
him.
'I will end my observations on the Tarantulae with a short
description
of a curious fight between those animals. One day, when I had
had a
successful hunt after these Lycosae, I picked out two full-grown
and
very powerful males and brought them together in a wide jar, in
order
to enjoy the sight of a combat to the death. After walking round
the
arena several times, to try and avoid each other, they were not
slow
in placing themselves in a warlike attitude, as though at a
given
signal. I saw them, to my surprise, take their distances and sit
up
solemnly on their hind-legs, so as mutually to present the shield
of
their chests to each other. After watching them face to face
like
that for two minutes, during which they had doubtless provoked
each
other by glances that escaped my own, I saw them fling themselves
upon
each other at the same time, twisting their legs round each other
and
obstinately struggling to bite each other with the fangs of the
mandibles. Whether from fatigue or from convention, the combat was
suspended; there was a few seconds' truce; and each athlete moved away
and
resumed his threatening posture. This circumstance reminded me
that, in
the strange fights between cats, there are also suspensions
of
hostilities. But the contest was soon renewed between my two
Tarantulae
with increased fierceness. One of them, after holding
victory in the
balance for a while, was at last thrown and received a
mortal wound in the
head. He became the prey of the conqueror, who
tore open his skull and
devoured it. After this curious duel, I kept
the victorious Tarantula
alive for several weeks.'
My district does not boast the ordinary
Tarantula, the Spider whose
habits have been described above by the Wizard of
the Landes; but it
possesses an equivalent in the shape of the Black-bellied
Tarantula, or
Narbonne Lycosa, half the size of the other, clad in black
velvet on the
lower surface, especially under the belly, with brown chevrons
on the
abdomen and grey and white rings around the legs. Her favourite home
is
the dry, pebbly ground, covered with sun-scorched thyme. In my
_harmas_
{6} laboratory there are quite twenty of this Spider's
burrows. Rarely
do I pass by one of these haunts without giving a glance
down the pit
where gleam, like diamonds, the four great eyes, the four
telescopes, of
the hermit. The four others, which are much smaller, are not
visible at
that depth.
Would I have greater riches, I have but to walk
a hundred yards from my
house, on the neighbouring plateau, once a shady
forest, to-day a dreary
solitude where the Cricket browses and the Wheat-ear
flits from stone to
stone. The love of lucre has laid waste the
land. Because wine paid
handsomely, they pulled up the forest to plant the
vine. Then came the
Phylloxera, the vine-stocks perished and the once green
table-land is now
no more than a desolate stretch where a few tufts of hardy
grasses sprout
among the pebbles. This waste-land is the Lycosa's paradise:
in an
hour's time, if need were, I should discover a hundred burrows within
a
limited range.
These dwellings are pits about a foot deep,
perpendicular at first and
then bent elbow-wise. The average diameter is an
inch. On the edge of
the hole stands a kerb, formed of straw, bits and
scraps of all sorts and
even small pebbles, the size of a hazel-nut. The
whole is kept in place
and cemented with silk. Often, the Spider confines
herself to drawing
together the dry blades of the nearest grass, which she
ties down with
the straps from her spinnerets, without removing the blades
from the
stems; often, also, she rejects this scaffolding in favour of a
masonry
constructed of small stones. The nature of the kerb is decided by
the
nature of the materials within the Lycosa's reach, in the
close
neighbourhood of the building-yard. There is no selection:
everything
meets with approval, provided that it be near at
hand.
Economy of time, therefore, causes the defensive wall to vary
greatly as
regards its constituent elements. The height varies also. One
enclosure
is a turret an inch high; another amounts to a mere rim. All have
their
parts bound firmly together with silk; and all have the same width as
the
subterranean channel, of which they are the extension. There is here
no
difference in diameter between the underground manor and its outwork,
nor
do we behold, at the opening, the platform which the turret leaves
to
give free play to the Italian Tarantula's legs. The
Black-bellied
Tarantula's work takes the form of a well surmounted by its
kerb.
When the soil is earthy and homogeneous, the architectural type is
free
from obstructions and the Spider's dwelling is a cylindrical tube;
but,
when the site is pebbly, the shape is modified according to
the
exigencies of the digging. In the second case, the lair is often
a
rough, winding cave, at intervals along whose inner wall stick blocks
of
stone avoided in the process of excavation. Whether regular
or
irregular, the house is plastered to a certain depth with a coat of
silk,
which prevents earth-slips and facilitates scaling when a prompt exit
is
required.
Baglivi, in his unsophisticated Latin, teaches us how to
catch the
Tarantula. I became his _rusticus insidiator_; I waved a spikelet
at
the entrance of the burrow to imitate the humming of a Bee and
attract
the attention of the Lycosa, who rushes out, thinking that she
is
capturing a prey. This method did not succeed with me. The Spider,
it
is true, leaves her remote apartments and comes a little way up
the
vertical tube to enquire into the sounds at her door; but the wily
animal
soon scents a trap; it remains motionless at mid-height and, at the
least
alarm, goes down again to the branch gallery, where it is
invisible.
Leon Dufour's appears to me a better method if it were only
practicable
in the conditions wherein I find myself. To drive a knife
quickly into
the ground, across the burrow, so as to cut off the Tarantula's
retreat
when she is attracted by the spikelet and standing on the upper
floor,
would be a manoeuvre certain of success, if the soil were
favourable.
Unfortunately, this is not so in my case: you might as well try
to dig a
knife into a block of tufa.
Other stratagems become
necessary. Here are two which were successful: I
recommend them to future
Tarantula-hunters. I insert into the burrow, as
far down as I can, a stalk
with a fleshy spikelet, which the Spider can
bite into. I move and turn and
twist my bait. The Tarantula, when
touched by the intruding body,
contemplates self-defence and bites the
spikelet. A slight resistance
informs my fingers that the animal has
fallen into the trap and seized the
tip of the stalk in its fangs. I
draw it to me, slowly, carefully; the
Spider hauls from below, planting
her legs against the wall. It comes, it
rises. I hide as best I may,
when the Spider enters the perpendicular
tunnel: if she saw me, she would
let go the bait and slip down again. I thus
bring her, by degrees, to
the orifice. This is the difficult moment. If I
continue the gentle
movement, the Spider, feeling herself dragged out of her
home, would at
once run back indoors. It is impossible to get the suspicious
animal out
by this means. Therefore, when it appears at the level of the
ground, I
give a sudden pull. Surprised by this foul play, the Tarantula has
no
time to release her hold; gripping the spikelet, she is thrown
some
inches away from the burrow. Her capture now becomes an easy
matter.
Outside her own house, the Lycosa is timid, as though scared, and
hardly
capable of running away. To push her with a straw into a paper bag
is
the affair of a second.
It requires some patience to bring the
Tarantula who has bitten into the
insidious spikelet to the entrance of the
burrow. The following method
is quicker: I procure a supply of live
Bumble-bees. I put one into a
little bottle with a mouth just wide enough to
cover the opening of the
burrow; and I turn the apparatus thus baited over
the said opening. The
powerful Bee at first flutters and hums about her
glass prison; then,
perceiving a burrow similar to that of her family, she
enters it without
much hesitation. She is extremely ill-advised: while she
goes down, the
Spider comes up; and the meeting takes place in the
perpendicular
passage. For a few moments, the ear perceives a sort of
death-song: it
is the humming of the Bumble-bee, protesting against the
reception given
her. This is followed by a long silence. Then I remove the
bottle and
dip a long-jawed forceps into the pit. I withdraw the
Bumble-bee,
motionless, dead, with hanging proboscis. A terrible tragedy
must have
happened. The Spider follows, refusing to let go so rich a
booty. Game
and huntress are brought to the orifice. Sometimes,
mistrustful, the
Lycosa goes in again; but we have only to leave the
Bumble-bee on the
threshold of the door, or even a few inches away, to see
her reappear,
issue from her fortress and daringly recapture her prey. This
is the
moment: the house is closed with the finger, or a pebble and, as
Baglivi
says, '_captatur tamen ista a rustico insidiatore_,' to which I will
add,
'_adjuvante Bombo_.' {7}
The object of these hunting methods was
not exactly to obtain Tarantulae;
I had not the least wish to rear the Spider
in a bottle. I was
interested in a different matter. Here, thought I, is an
ardent
huntress, living solely by her trade. She does not prepare
preserved
foodstuffs for her offspring; {8} she herself feeds on the prey
which she
catches. She is not a 'paralyzer,' {9} who cleverly spares her
quarry so
as to leave it a glimmer of life and keep it fresh for weeks at a
time;
she is a killer, who makes a meal off her capture on the spot. With
her,
there is no methodical vivisection, which destroys movement
without
entirely destroying life, but absolute death, as sudden as
possible,
which protects the assailant from the counter-attacks of the
assailed.
Her game, moreover, is essentially bulky and not always of the
most
peaceful character. This Diana, ambushed in her tower, needs a
prey
worthy of her prowess. The big Grasshopper, with the powerful jaws;
the
irascible Wasp; the Bee, the Bumble-bee and other wearers of
poisoned
daggers must fall into the ambuscade from time to time. The duel
is
nearly equal in point of weapons. To the venomous fangs of the
Lycosa
the Wasp opposes her venomous stiletto. Which of the two bandits
shall
have the best of it? The struggle is a hand-to-hand one. The
Tarantula
has no secondary means of defence, no cord to bind her victim, no
trap to
subdue her. When the Epeira, or Garden Spider, sees an insect
entangled
in her great upright web, she hastens up and covers the captive
with
corded meshes and silk ribbons by the armful, making all
resistance
impossible. When the prey is solidly bound, a prick is
carefully
administered with the poison-fangs; then the Spider retires,
waiting for
the death-throes to calm down, after which the huntress comes
back to the
game. In these conditions, there is no serious danger.
In
the case of the Lycosa, the job is riskier. She has naught to serve
her but
her courage and her fangs and is obliged to leap upon the
formidable prey, to
master it by her dexterity, to annihilate it, in a
measure, by her
swift-slaying talent.
Annihilate is the word: the Bumble-bees whom I draw
from the fatal hole
are a sufficient proof. As soon as that shrill buzzing,
which I called
the death-song, ceases, in vain I hasten to insert my forceps:
I always
bring out the insect dead, with slack proboscis and limp
legs. Scarce a
few quivers of those legs tell me that it is a quite recent
corpse. The
Bumble-bee's death is instantaneous. Each time that I take a
fresh
victim from the terrible slaughter-house, my surprise is renewed at
the
sight of its sudden immobility.
Nevertheless, both animals have
very nearly the same strength; for I
choose my Bumble-bees from among the
largest (_Bombus hortorum_ and _B.
terrestris_). Their weapons are almost
equal: the Bee's dart can bear
comparison with the Spider's fangs; the sting
of the first seems to me as
formidable as the bite of the second. How comes
it that the Tarantula
always has the upper hand and this moreover in a very
short conflict,
whence she emerges unscathed? There must certainly be some
cunning
strategy on her part. Subtle though her poison may be, I cannot
believe
that its mere injection, at any point whatever of the victim, is
enough
to produce so prompt a catastrophe. The ill-famed rattlesnake does
not
kill so quickly, takes hours to achieve that for which the Tarantula
does
not require a second. We must, therefore, look for an explanation
of
this sudden death to the vital importance of the point attacked by
the
Spider, rather than to the virulence of the poison.
What is this
point? It is impossible to recognize it on the Bumble-bees.
They enter the
burrow; and the murder is committed far from sight. Nor
does the lens
discover any wound upon the corpse, so delicate are the
weapons that produce
it. One would have to see the two adversaries
engage in a direct contest. I
have often tried to place a Tarantula and
a Bumble-bee face to face in the
same bottle. The two animals mutually
flee each other, each being as much
upset as the other at its captivity.
I have kept them together for
twenty-four hours, without aggressive
display on either side. Thinking more
of their prison than of attacking
each other, they temporize, as though
indifferent. The experiment has
always been fruitless. I have succeeded
with Bees and Wasps, but the
murder has been committed at night and has
taught me nothing. I would
find both insects, next morning, reduced to a
jelly under the Spider's
mandibles. A weak prey is a mouthful which the
Spider reserves for the
calm of the night. A prey capable of resistance is
not attacked in
captivity. The prisoner's anxiety cools the hunter's
ardour.
The arena of a large bottle enables each athlete to keep out of
the
other's way, respected by her adversary, who is respected in her
turn.
Let us reduce the lists, diminish the enclosure. I put Bumble-bee
and
Tarantula into a test-tube that has only room for one at the
bottom. A
lively brawl ensues, without serious results. If the Bumble-bee
be
underneath, she lies down on her back and with her legs wards off
the
other as much as she can. I do not see her draw her sting. The
Spider,
meanwhile, embracing the whole circumference of the enclosure with
her
long legs, hoists herself a little upon the slippery surface and
removes
herself as far as possible from her adversary. There, motionless,
she
awaits events, which are soon disturbed by the fussy
Bumble-bee. Should
the latter occupy the upper position, the Tarantula
protects herself by
drawing up her legs, which keep the enemy at a
distance. In short, save
for sharp scuffles when the two champions are in
touch, nothing happens
that deserves attention. There is no duel to the
death in the narrow
arena of the test-tube, any more than in the wider lists
afforded by the
bottle. Utterly timid once she is away from home, the Spider
obstinately
refuses the battle; nor will the Bumble-bee, giddy though she be,
think
of striking the first blow. I abandon experiments in my
study.
We must go direct to the spot and force the duel upon the
Tarantula, who
is full of pluck in her own stronghold. Only, instead of the
Bumble-bee,
who enters the burrow and conceals her death from our eyes, it
is
necessary to substitute another adversary, less inclined to
penetrate
underground. There abounds in the garden, at this moment, on the
flowers
of the common clary, one of the largest and most powerful Bees that
haunt
my district, the Carpenter-bee (_Xylocopa violacea_), clad in
black
velvet, with wings of purple gauze. Her size, which is nearly an
inch,
exceeds that of the Bumble-bee. Her sting is excruciating and produces
a
swelling that long continues painful. I have very exact memories on
this
subject, memories that have cost me dear. Here indeed is an
antagonist
worthy of the Tarantula, if I succeed in inducing the Spider to
accept
her. I place a certain number, one by one, in bottles small in
capacity,
but having a wide neck capable of surrounding the entrance to the
burrow.
As the prey which I am about to offer is capable of overawing
the
huntress, I select from among the Tarantulae the lustiest, the
boldest,
those most stimulated by hunger. The spikeleted stalk is pushed
into the
burrow. When the Spider hastens up at once, when she is of a good
size,
when she climbs boldly to the aperture of her dwelling, she is
admitted
to the tourney; otherwise, she is refused. The bottle, baited with
a
Carpenter-bee, is placed upside down over the door of one of the
elect.
The Bee buzzes gravely in her glass bell; the huntress mounts from
the
recesses of the cave; she is on the threshold, but inside; she looks;
she
waits. I also wait. The quarters, the half-hours pass:
nothing. The
Spider goes down again: she has probably judged the attempt
too
dangerous. I move to a second, a third, a fourth burrow: still
nothing;
the huntress refuses to leave her lair.
Fortune at last
smiles upon my patience, which has been heavily tried by
all these prudent
retreats and particularly by the fierce heat of the dog-
days. A Spider
suddenly rushes from her hole: she has been rendered
warlike, doubtless, by
prolonged abstinence. The tragedy that happens
under the cover of the bottle
lasts for but the twinkling of an eye. It
is over: the sturdy Carpenter-bee
is dead. Where did the murderess
strike her? That is easily ascertained:
the Tarantula has not let go;
and her fangs are planted in the nape of the
neck. The assassin has the
knowledge which I suspected: she has made for the
essentially vital
centre, she has stung the insect's cervical ganglia with
her
poison-fangs. In short, she has bitten the only point a lesion in
which
produces sudden death. I was delighted with this murderous skill,
which
made amends for the blistering which my skin received in the
sun.
Once is not custom: one swallow does not make a summer. Is what I
have
just seen due to accident or to premeditation? I turn to other
Lycosae.
Many, a deal too many for my patience, stubbornly refuse to dart
from
their haunts in order to attack the Carpenter-bee. The formidable
quarry
is too much for their daring. Shall not hunger, which brings the
wolf
from the wood, also bring the Tarantula out of her hole? Two,
apparently
more famished than the rest, do at last pounce upon the Bee and
repeat
the scene of murder before my eyes. The prey, again bitten in the
neck,
exclusively in the neck, dies on the instant. Three murders,
perpetrated
in my presence under identical conditions, represent the fruits
of my
experiment pursued, on two occasions, from eight o'clock in the
morning
until twelve midday.
I had seen enough. The quick
insect-killer had taught me her trade as
had the paralyzer {10} before her:
she had shown me that she is
thoroughly versed in the art of the butcher of
the Pampas. {11} The
Tarantula is an accomplished _desnucador_. It remained
to me to confirm
the open-air experiment with experiments in the privacy of
my study. I
therefore got together a menagerie of these poisonous Spiders,
so as to
judge of the virulence of their venom and its effect according to
the
part of the body injured by the fangs. A dozen bottles and
test-tubes
received the prisoners, whom I captured by the methods known to
the
reader. To one inclined to scream at the sight of a Spider, my
study,
filled with odious Lycosae, would have presented a very
uncanny
appearance.
Though the Tarantula scorns or rather fears to
attack an adversary placed
in her presence in a bottle, she scarcely
hesitates to bite what is
thrust beneath her fangs. I take her by the thorax
with my forceps and
present to her mouth the animal which I wish
stung. Forthwith, if the
Spider be not already tired by experiments, the
fangs are raised and
inserted. I first tried the effects of the bite upon
the Carpenter-bee.
When struck in the neck, the Bee succumbs at once. It was
the lightning
death which I witnessed on the threshold of the burrows. When
struck in
the abdomen and then placed in a large bottle that leaves its
movements
free, the insect seems, at first, to have suffered no serious
injury. It
flutters about and buzzes. But half an hour has not elapsed
before death
is imminent. The insect lies motionless upon its back or
side. At most,
a few movements of the legs, a slight pulsation of the belly,
continuing
till the morrow, proclaim that life has not yet entirely
departed. Then
everything ceases: the Carpenter-bee is a corpse.
The
importance of this experiment compels our attention. When stung in
the neck,
the powerful Bee dies on the spot; and the Spider has not to
fear the dangers
of a desperate struggle. Stung elsewhere, in the
abdomen, the insect is
capable, for nearly half an hour, of making use of
its dart, its mandibles,
its legs; and woe to the Lycosa whom the
stiletto reaches. I have seen some
who, stabbed in the mouth while
biting close to the sting, died of the wound
within the twenty-four
hours. That dangerous prey, therefore, requires
instantaneous death,
produced by the injury to the nerve-centres of the neck;
otherwise, the
hunter's life would often be in jeopardy.
The
Grasshopper order supplied me with a second series of victims:
Green
Grasshoppers as long as one's finger, large-headed Locusts,
Ephippigerae.
{12} The same result follows when these are bitten in the
neck:
lightning death. When injured elsewhere, notably in the abdomen,
the
subject of the experiment resists for some time. I have seen
a
Grasshopper, bitten in the belly, cling firmly for fifteen hours to
the
smooth, upright wall of the glass bell that constituted his
prison. At
last, he dropped off and died. Where the Bee, that delicate
organism,
succumbs in less than half an hour, the Grasshopper, coarse
ruminant that
he is, resists for a whole day. Put aside these differences,
caused by
unequal degrees of organic sensitiveness, and we sum up as follows:
when
bitten by the Tarantula in the neck, an insect, chosen from among
the
largest, dies on the spot; when bitten elsewhere, it perishes also,
but
after a lapse of time which varies considerably in the
different
entomological orders.
This explains the long hesitation of
the Tarantula, so wearisome to the
experimenter when he presents to her, at
the entrance to the burrow, a
rich, but dangerous prey. The majority refuse
to fling themselves upon
the Carpenter-bee. The fact is that a quarry of
this kind cannot be
seized recklessly: the huntress who missed her stroke by
biting at random
would do so at the risk of her life. The nape of the neck
alone
possesses the desired vulnerability. The adversary must be nipped
there
and no elsewhere. Not to floor her at once would mean to irritate
her
and make her more dangerous than ever. The Spider is well aware of
this.
In the safe shelter of her threshold, therefore, prepared to beat a
quick
retreat if necessary, she watches for the favourable moment; she
waits
for the big Bee to face her, when the neck is easily grabbed. If
this
condition of success offer, she leaps out and acts; if not, weary of
the
violent evolutions of the quarry, she retires indoors. And that,
no
doubt, is why it took me two sittings of four hours apiece to
witness
three assassinations.
Formerly, instructed by the paralysing
Wasps, I had myself tried to
produce paralysis by injecting a drop of ammonia
into the thorax of those
insects, such as Weevils, Buprestes, {13} and
Dung-beetles, whose compact
nervous system assists this physiological
operation. I showed myself a
ready pupil to my masters' teaching and used to
paralyze a Buprestis or a
Weevil almost as well as a Cerceris {14} could have
done. Why should I
not to-day imitate that expert butcher, the
Tarantula? With the point of
a fine needle, I inject a tiny drop of ammonia
at the base of the skull
of a Carpenter-bee or a Grasshopper. The insect
succumbs then and there,
without any other movement than wild
convulsions. When attacked by the
acrid fluid, the cervical ganglia cease to
do their work; and death
ensues. Nevertheless, this death is not immediate;
the throes last for
some time. The experiment is not wholly satisfactory as
regards
suddenness. Why? Because the liquid which I employ, ammonia, cannot
be
compared, for deadly efficacy, with the Lycosa's poison, a
pretty
formidable poison, as we shall see.
I make a Tarantula bite the
leg of a young, well-fledged Sparrow, ready
to leave the nest. A drop of
blood flows; the wounded spot is surrounded
by a reddish circle, changing to
purple. The bird almost immediately
loses the use of its leg, which drags,
with the toes doubled in; it hops
upon the other. Apart from this, the
patient does not seem to trouble
much about his hurt; his appetite is
good. My daughters feed him on
Flies, bread-crumb, apricot-pulp. He is sure
to get well, he will
recover his strength; the poor victim of the curiosity
of science will be
restored to liberty. This is the wish, the intention of
us all. Twelve
hours later, the hope of a cure increases; the invalid takes
nourishment
readily; he clamours for it, if we keep him waiting. But the leg
still
drags. I set this down to a temporary paralysis which will
soon
disappear. Two days after, he refuses his food. Wrapping himself in
his
stoicism and his rumpled feathers, the Sparrow hunches into a ball,
now
motionless, now twitching. My girls take him in the hollow of
their
hands and warm him with their breath. The spasms become more
frequent. A
gasp proclaims that all is over. The bird is dead.
There
was a certain coolness among us at the evening-meal. I read mute
reproaches,
because of my experiment, in the eyes of my home-circle; I
read an unspoken
accusation of cruelty all around me. The death of the
unfortunate Sparrow
had saddened the whole family. I myself was not
without some remorse of
conscience: the poor result achieved seemed to me
too dearly bought. I am
not made of the stuff of those who, without
turning a hair, rip up live Dogs
to find out nothing in particular.
Nevertheless, I had the courage to
start afresh, this time on a Mole
caught ravaging a bed of lettuces. There
was a danger lest my captive,
with his famished stomach, should leave things
in doubt, if we had to
keep him for a few days. He might die not of his
wound, but of
inanition, if I did not succeed in giving him suitable food,
fairly
plentiful and dispensed at fairly frequent intervals. In that case,
I
ran a risk of ascribing to the poison what might well be the result
of
starvation. I must therefore begin by finding out if it was possible
for
me to keep the Mole alive in captivity. The animal was put into a
large
receptacle from which it could not get out and fed on a varied diet
of
insects--Beetles, Grasshoppers, especially Cicadae {15}--which
it
crunched up with an excellent appetite. Twenty-four hours of
this
regimen convinced me that the Mole was making the best of the bill
of
fare and taking kindly to his captivity.
I make the Tarantula bite
him at the tip of the snout. When replaced in
his cage, the Mole keeps on
scratching his nose with his broad paws. The
thing seems to burn, to
itch. Henceforth, less and less of the provision
of Cicadae is consumed; on
the evening of the following day, it is
refused altogether. About thirty-six
hours after being bitten, the Mole
dies during the night and certainly not
from inanition, for there are
still half a dozen live Cicadae in the
receptacle, as well as a few
Beetles.
The bite of the Black-bellied
Tarantula is therefore dangerous to other
animals than insects: it is fatal
to the Sparrow, it is fatal to the
Mole. Up to what point are we to
generalize? I do not know, because my
enquiries extended no
further. Nevertheless, judging from the little
that I saw, it appears to me
that the bite of this Spider is not an
accident which man can afford to treat
lightly. This is all that I have
to say to the doctors.
To the
philosophical entomologists I have something else to say: I have
to call
their attention to the consummate knowledge of the
insect-killers, which vies
with that of the paralyzers. I speak of
insect-killers in the plural, for
the Tarantula must share her deadly art
with a host of other Spiders,
especially with those who hunt without
nets. These insect-killers, who live
on their prey, strike the game dead
instantaneously by stinging the
nerve-centres of the neck; the
paralyzers, on the other hand, who wish to
keep the food fresh for their
larvae, destroy the power of movement by
stinging the game in the other
nerve-centres. Both of them attack the
nervous chain, but they select
the point according to the object to be
attained. If death be desired,
sudden death, free from danger to the
huntress, the insect is attacked in
the neck; if mere paralysis be required,
the neck is respected and the
lower segments--sometimes one alone, sometimes
three, sometimes all or
nearly all, according to the special organization of
the victim--receive
the dagger-thrust.
Even the paralyzers, at least
some of them, are acquainted with the
immense vital importance of the
nerve-centres of the neck. We have seen
the Hairy Ammophila munching the
caterpillar's brain, the Languedocian
Sphex munching the brain of the
Ephippigera, with the object of inducing
a passing torpor. But they simply
squeeze the brain and do even this
with a wise discretion; they are careful
not to drive their sting into
this fundamental centre of life; not one of
them ever thinks of doing so,
for the result would be a corpse which the
larva would despise. The
Spider, on the other hand, inserts her double dirk
there and there alone;
any elsewhere it would inflict a wound likely to
increase resistance
through irritation. She wants a venison for consumption
without delay
and brutally thrusts her fangs into the spot which the others
so
conscientiously respect.
If the instinct of these scientific
murderers is not, in both cases, an
inborn predisposition, inseparable from
the animal, but an acquired
habit, then I rack my brain in vain to understand
how that habit can have
been acquired. Shroud these facts in theoretic mists
as much as you
will, you shall never succeed in veiling the glaring evidence
which they
afford of a pre-established order of
things.
CHAPTER II: THE BANDED EPEIRA
In the
inclement season of the year, when the insect has nothing to do
and retires
to winter quarters, the observer profits by the mildness of
the sunny nooks
and grubs in the sand, lifts the stones, searches the
brushwood; and often he
is stirred with a pleasurable excitement, when he
lights upon some ingenious
work of art, discovered unawares. Happy are
the simple of heart whose
ambition is satisfied with such treasure-trove!
I wish them all the joys
which it has brought me and which it will
continue to bring me, despite the
vexations of life, which grow ever more
bitter as the years follow their
swift downward course.
Should the seekers rummage among the wild grasses
in the osier-beds and
copses, I wish them the delight of finding the
wonderful object that, at
this moment, lies before my eyes. It is the work
of a Spider, the nest
of the Banded Epeira (_Epeira fasciata_,
LATR.).
A Spider is not an insect, according to the rules of
classification; and
as such the Epeira seems out of place here. {16} A fig
for systems! It
is immaterial to the student of instinct whether the animal
have eight
legs instead of six, or pulmonary sacs instead of
air-tubes. Besides,
the Araneida belong to the group of segmented animals,
organized in
sections placed end to end, a structure to which the terms
'insect' and
'entomology' both refer.
Formerly, to describe this
group, people said 'articulate animals,' an
expression which possessed the
drawback of not jarring on the ear and of
being understood by all. This is
out of date. Nowadays, they use the
euphonious term 'Arthropoda.' And to
think that there are men who
question the existence of
progress! Infidels! Say, 'articulate,' first;
then roll out, 'Arthropoda;'
and you shall see whether zoological science
is not progressing!
In
bearing and colouring, _Epeira fasciata_ is the handsomest of the
Spiders of
the South. On her fat belly, a mighty silk-warehouse nearly
as large as a
hazel-nut, are alternate yellow, black and silver sashes,
to which she owes
her epithet of Banded. Around that portly abdomen, the
eight long legs, with
their dark- and pale-brown rings, radiate like
spokes.
Any small prey
suits her; and, as long as she can find supports for her
web, she settles
wherever the Locust hops, wherever the Fly hovers,
wherever the Dragon-fly
dances or the Butterfly flits. As a rule,
because of the greater abundance
of game, she spreads her toils across
some brooklet, from bank to bank among
the rushes. She also stretches
them, but not assiduously, in the thickets of
evergreen oak, on the
slopes with the scrubby greenswards, dear to the
Grasshoppers.
Her hunting-weapon is a large upright web, whose outer
boundary, which
varies according to the disposition of the ground, is
fastened to the
neighbouring branches by a number of moorings. The structure
is that
adopted by the other weaving Spiders. Straight threads radiate at
equal
intervals from a central point. Over this framework runs a
continuous
spiral thread, forming chords, or cross-bars, from the centre to
the
circumference. It is magnificently large and magnificently
symmetrical.
In the lower part of the web, starting from the centre, a
wide opaque
ribbon descends zigzag-wise across the radii. This is the
Epeira's trade-
mark, the flourish of an artist initialling his
creation. '_Fecit_ So-
and-so,' she seems to say, when giving the last throw
of the shuttle to
her handiwork.
That the Spider feels satisfied when,
after passing and repassing from
spoke to spoke, she finishes her spiral, is
beyond a doubt: the work
achieved ensures her food for a few days to
come. But, in this
particular case, the vanity of the spinstress has naught
to say to the
matter: the strong silk zigzag is added to impart greater
firmness to the
web.
Increased resistance is not superfluous, for the
net is sometimes exposed
to severe tests. The Epeira cannot pick and choose
her prizes. Seated
motionless in the centre of her web, her eight legs
wide-spread to feel
the shaking of the network in any direction, she waits
for what luck will
bring her: now some giddy weakling unable to control its
flight, anon
some powerful prey rushing headlong with a reckless
bound.
The Locust in particular, the fiery Locust, who releases the
spring of
his long shanks at random, often falls into the trap. One imagines
that
his strength ought to frighten the Spider; the kick of his spurred
levers
should enable him to make a hole, then and there, in the web and to
get
away. But not at all. If he does not free himself at the first
effort,
the Locust is lost.
Turning her back on the game, the Epeira
works all her spinnerets,
pierced like the rose of a watering-pot, at one and
the same time. The
silky spray is gathered by the hind-legs, which are
longer than the
others and open into a wide arc to allow the stream to
spread. Thanks to
this artifice, the Epeira this time obtains not a thread,
but an
iridescent sheet, a sort of clouded fan wherein the component threads
are
kept almost separate. The two hind-legs fling this shroud gradually, by
rapid alternate armfuls, while, at the same time, they turn the prey over and
over, swathing it completely. |
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