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To what fair problems does not the habit of frequenting her give
rise! To
set them forth worthily, the marvellous art which the little
printer was
to acquire were not too much. One needs the pen of a Michelet;
and I
have but a rough, blunt pencil. Let us try, nevertheless: even
when
poorly clad, truth is still beautiful.
I will therefore once more
take up the story of the Spider's instinct, a
story of which the preceding
chapters have given but a very rough idea.
Since I wrote those earlier
essays, my field of observation has been
greatly extended. My notes have
been enriched by new and most remarkable
facts. It is right that I should
employ them for the purpose of a more
detailed biography.
The
exigencies of order and clearness expose me, it is true, to
occasional
repetitions. This is inevitable when one has to marshal in an
harmonious
whole a thousand items culled from day to day, often
unexpectedly, and
bearing no relation one to the other. The observer is
not master of his
time; opportunity leads him and by unsuspected ways. A
certain question
suggested by an earlier fact finds no reply until many
years after. Its
scope, moreover, is amplified and completed with views
collected on the
road. In a work, therefore, of this fragmentary
character, repetitions,
necessary for the due co-ordination of ideas, are
inevitable. I shall be as
sparing of them as I can.
Let us once more introduce our old friends the
Epeira and the Lycosa, who
are the most important Spiders in my
district. The Narbonne Lycosa, or
Black-bellied Tarantula, chooses her
domicile in the waste, pebbly lands
beloved of the thyme. Her dwelling, a
fortress rather than a villa, is a
burrow about nine inches deep and as wide
as the neck of a claret-bottle.
The direction is perpendicular, in so far as
obstacles, frequent in a
soil of this kind, permit. A bit of gravel can be
extracted and hoisted
outside; but a flint is an immovable boulder which the
Spider avoids by
giving a bend to her gallery. If more such are met with,
the residence
becomes a winding cave, with stone vaults, with lobbies
communicating by
means of sharp passages.
This lack of plan has no
attendant drawbacks, so well does the owner,
from long habit, know every
corner and storey of her mansion. If any
interesting buzz occur overhead,
the Lycosa climbs up from her rugged
manor with the same speed as from a
vertical shaft. Perhaps she even
finds the windings and turnings an
advantage, when she has to drag into
her den a prey that happens to defend
itself.
As a rule, the end of the burrow widens into a side-chamber, a
lounge or
resting-place where the Spider meditates at length and is content
to lead
a life of quiet when her belly is full.
A silk coating, but a
scanty one, for the Lycosa has not the wealth of
silk possessed by the
Weaving Spiders, lines the walls of the tube and
keeps the loose earth from
falling. This plaster, which cements the
incohesive and smooths the rugged
parts, is reserved more particularly
for the top of the gallery, near the
mouth. Here, in the daytime, if
things be peaceful all around, the Lycosa
stations herself, either to
enjoy the warmth of the sun, her great delight,
or to lie in wait for
game. The threads of the silk lining afford a firm
hold to the claws on
every side, whether the object be to sit motionless for
hours, revelling
in the light and heat, or to pounce upon the passing
prey.
Around the orifice of the burrow rises, to a greater or lesser
height, a
circular parapet, formed of tiny pebbles, twigs and straps borrowed
from
the dry leaves of the neighbouring grasses, all more or less
dexterously
tied together and cemented with silk. This work of rustic
architecture
is never missing, even though it be no more than a mere
pad.
When she reaches maturity and is once settled, the Lycosa
becomes
eminently domesticated. I have been living in close communion with
her
for the last three years. I have installed her in large earthen pans
on
the window-sills of my study and I have her daily under my
eyes. Well,
it is very rarely that I happen on her outside, a few inches
from her
hole, back to which she bolts at the least alarm.
We may take
it, then, that, when not in captivity, the Lycosa does not go
far afield to
gather the wherewithal to build her parapet and that she
makes shift with
what she finds upon her threshold. In these conditions,
the building-stones
are soon exhausted and the masonry ceases for lack of
materials.
The
wish came over me to see what dimensions the circular edifice would
assume,
if the Spider were given an unlimited supply. With captives to
whom I myself
act as purveyor the thing is easy enough. Were it only
with a view to
helping whoso may one day care to continue these relations
with the big
Spider of the waste-lands, let me describe how my subjects
are
housed.
A good-sized earthenware pan, some nine inches deep, is filled
with a
red, clayey earth, rich in pebbles, similar, in short, to that of
the
places haunted by the Lycosa. Properly moistened into a paste,
the
artificial soil is heaped, layer by layer, around a central reed, of
a
bore equal to that of the animal's natural burrow. When the
receptacle
is filled to the top, I withdraw the reed, which leaves a
yawning,
perpendicular shaft. I thus obtain the abode which shall replace
that of
the fields.
To find the hermit to inhabit it is merely the
matter of a walk in the
neighbourhood. When removed from her own dwelling,
which is turned topsy-
turvy by my trowel, and placed in possession of the
den produced by my
art, the Lycosa at once disappears into that den. She
does not come out
again, seeks nothing better elsewhere. A large wire-gauze
cover rests on
the soil in the pan and prevents escape.
In any case,
the watch, in this respect, makes no demands upon my
diligence. The prisoner
is satisfied with her new abode and manifests no
regret for her natural
burrow. There is no attempt at flight on her
part. Let me not omit to add
that each pan must receive not more than
one inhabitant. The Lycosa is very
intolerant. To her, a neighbour is
fair game, to be eaten without scruple
when one has might on one's side.
Time was when, unaware of this fierce
intolerance, which is more savage
still at breeding-time, I saw hideous
orgies perpetrated in my
overstocked cages. I shall have occasion to
describe those tragedies
later.
Let us meanwhile consider the isolated
Lycosae. They do not touch up the
dwelling which I have moulded for them
with a bit of reed; at most, now
and again, perhaps with the object of
forming a lounge or bedroom at the
bottom, they fling out a few loads of
rubbish. But all, little by
little, build the kerb that is to edge the
mouth.
I have given them plenty of first-rate materials, far superior to
those
which they use when left to their own resources. These consist,
first,
for the foundations, of little smooth stones, some of which are as
large
as an almond. With this road-metal are mingled short strips of
raphia,
or palm-fibre, flexible ribbons, easily bent. These stand for
the
Spider's usual basket-work, consisting of slender stalks and dry
blades
of grass. Lastly, by way of an unprecedented treasure, never
yet
employed by a Lycosa, I place at my captives' disposal some thick
threads
of wool, cut into inch lengths.
As I wish, at the same time,
to find out whether my animals, with the
magnificent lenses of their eyes,
are able to distinguish colours and
prefer one colour to another, I mix up
bits of wool of different hues:
there are red, green, white and yellow
pieces. If the Spider have any
preference, she can choose where she
pleases.
The Lycosa always works at night, a regrettable circumstance,
which does
not allow me to follow the worker's methods. I see the result;
and that
is all. Were I to visit the building-yard by the light of a
lantern, I
should be no wiser. The animal, which is very shy, would at once
dive
into her lair; and I should have lost my sleep for
nothing. Furthermore,
she is not a very diligent labourer; she likes to take
her time. Two or
three bits of wool or raphia placed in position represent a
whole night's
work. And to this slowness we must add long spells of utter
idleness.
Two months pass; and the result of my liberality surpasses
my
expectations. Possessing more windfalls than they know what to do
with,
all picked up in their immediate neighbourhood, my Lycosae have
built
themselves donjon-keeps the like of which their race has not yet
known.
Around the orifice, on a slightly sloping bank, small, flat,
smooth
stones have been laid to form a broken, flagged pavement. The
larger
stones, which are Cyclopean blocks compared with the size of the
animal
that has shifted them, are employed as abundantly as the
others.
On this rockwork stands the donjon. It is an interlacing of
raphia and
bits of wool, picked up at random, without distinction of
shade. Red and
white, green and yellow are mixed without any attempt at
order. The
Lycosa is indifferent to the joys of colour.
The ultimate
result is a sort of muff, a couple of inches high. Bands of
silk, supplied
by the spinnerets, unite the pieces, so that the whole
resembles a coarse
fabric. Without being absolutely faultless, for there
are always awkward
pieces on the outside, which the worker could not
handle, the gaudy building
is not devoid of merit. The bird lining its
nest would do no better. Whoso
sees the curious, many-coloured
productions in my pans takes them for an
outcome of my industry,
contrived with a view to some experimental mischief;
and his surprise is
great when I confess who the real author is. No one
would ever believe
the Spider capable of constructing such a
monument.
It goes without saying that, in a state of liberty, on our
barren waste-
lands, the Lycosa does not indulge in such sumptuous
architecture. I
have given the reason: she is too great a stay-at-home to go
in search of
materials and she makes use of the limited resources which she
finds
around her. Bits of earth, small chips of stone, a few twigs, a
few
withered grasses: that is all, or nearly all. Wherefore the work
is
generally quite modest and reduced to a parapet that hardly
attracts
attention.
My captives teach us that, when materials are
plentiful, especially
textile materials that remove all fears of landslip,
the Lycosa delights
in tall turrets. She understands the art of
donjon-building and puts it
into practice as often as she possesses the
means.
This art is akin to another, from which it is apparently
derived. If the
sun be fierce or if rain threaten, the Lycosa closes the
entrance to her
dwelling with a silken trellis-work, wherein she embeds
different
matters, often the remnants of victims which she has
devoured. The
ancient Gael nailed the heads of his vanquished enemies to the
door of
his hut. In the same way, the fierce Spider sticks the skulls of
her
prey into the lid of her cave. These lumps look very well on the
ogre's
roof; but we must be careful not to mistake them for warlike
trophies.
The animal knows nothing of our barbarous bravado. Everything at
the
threshold of the burrow is used indiscriminately: fragments of
Locust,
vegetable remains and especially particles of earth. A Dragon-fly's
head
baked by the sun is as good as a bit of gravel and no better.
And
so, with silk and all sorts of tiny materials, the Lycosa builds a
lidded cap
to the entrance of her home. I am not well acquainted with
the reasons that
prompt her to barricade herself indoors, particularly as
the seclusion is
only temporary and varies greatly in duration. I obtain
precise details from
a tribe of Lycosae wherewith the enclosure, as will
be seen later, happens to
be thronged in consequence of my investigations
into the dispersal of the
family.
At the time of the tropical August heat, I see my Lycosae, now
this
batch, now that, building, at the entrance to the burrow, a
convex
ceiling, which is difficult to distinguish from the surrounding
soil. Can
it be to protect themselves from the too-vivid light? This is
doubtful;
for, a few days later, though the power of the sun remain the same,
the
roof is broken open and the Spider reappears at her door, where
she
revels in the torrid heat of the dog-days.
Later, when October
comes, if it be rainy weather, she retires once more
under a roof, as though
she were guarding herself against the damp. Let
us not be too positive of
anything, however: often, when it is raining
hard, the Spider bursts her
ceiling and leaves her house open to the
skies.
Perhaps the lid is
only put on for serious domestic events, notably for
the laying. I do, in
fact, perceive young Lycosae who shut themselves in
before they have attained
the dignity of motherhood and who reappear,
some time later, with the bag
containing the eggs hung to their stern.
The inference that they close the
door with the object of securing
greater quiet while spinning the maternal
cocoon would not be in keeping
with the unconcern displayed by the
majority. I find some who lay their
eggs in an open burrow; I come upon some
who weave their cocoon and cram
it with eggs in the open air, before they
even own a residence. In
short, I do not succeed in fathoming the reasons
that cause the burrow to
be closed, no matter what the weather, hot or cold,
wet or dry.
The fact remains that the lid is broken and repaired
repeatedly,
sometimes on the same day. In spite of the earthy casing, the
silk woof
gives it the requisite pliancy to cleave when pushed by the
anchorite and
to rip open without falling into ruins. Swept back to the
circumference
of the mouth and increased by the wreckage of further ceilings,
it
becomes a parapet, which the Lycosa raises by degrees in her long
moments
of leisure. The bastion which surmounts the burrow, therefore, takes
its
origin from the temporary lid. The turret derives from the
split
ceiling.
What is the purpose of this turret? My pans will tell
us that. An
enthusiastic votary of the chase, so long as she is not
permanently
fixed, the Lycosa, once she has set up house, prefers to lie in
ambush
and wait for the quarry. Every day, when the heat is greatest, I see
my
captives come up slowly from under ground and lean upon the
battlements
of their woolly castle-keep. They are then really magnificent in
their
stately gravity. With their swelling belly contained within
the
aperture, their head outside, their glassy eyes staring, their
legs
gathered for a spring, for hours and hours they wait, motionless,
bathing
voluptuously in the sun.
Should a tit-bit to her liking happen
to pass, forthwith the watcher
darts from her tall tower, swift as an arrow
from the bow. With a dagger-
thrust in the neck, she stabs the jugular of
the Locust, Dragon-fly or
other prey whereof I am the purveyor; and she as
quickly scales the
donjon and retires with her capture. The performance is a
wonderful
exhibition of skill and speed.
Very seldom is a quarry
missed, provided that it pass at a convenient
distance, within the range of
the huntress' bound. But, if the prey be
at some distance, for instance on
the wire of the cage, the Lycosa takes
no notice of it. Scorning to go in
pursuit, she allows it to roam at
will. She never strikes except when sure
of her stroke. She achieves
this by means of her tower. Hiding behind the
wall, she sees the
stranger advancing, keeps her eyes on him and suddenly
pounces when he
comes within reach. These abrupt tactics make the thing a
certainty.
Though he were winged and swift of flight, the unwary one who
approaches
the ambush is lost.
This presumes, it is true, an exemplary
patience on the Lycosa's part;
for the burrow has naught that can serve to
entice victims. At best, the
ledge provided by the turret may, at rare
intervals, tempt some weary
wayfarer to use it as a resting-place. But, if
the quarry do not come to-
day, it is sure to come to-morrow, the next day,
or later, for the
Locusts hop innumerable in the waste-land, nor are they
always able to
regulate their leaps. Some day or other, chance is bound to
bring one of
them within the purlieus of the burrow. This is the moment to
spring
upon the pilgrim from the ramparts. Until then, we maintain a
stoical
vigilance. We shall dine when we can; but we shall end by
dining.
The Lycosa, therefore, well aware of these lingering
eventualities, waits
and is not unduly distressed by a prolonged
abstinence. She has an
accommodating stomach, which is satisfied to be
gorged to-day and to
remain empty afterwards for goodness knows how long. I
have sometimes
neglected my catering-duties for weeks at a time; and my
boarders have
been none the worse for it. After a more or less protracted
fast, they
do not pine away, but are smitten with a wolf-like hunger. All
these
ravenous eaters are alike: they guzzle to excess to-day, in
anticipation
of to-morrow's dearth.
In her youth, before she has a
burrow, the Lycosa earns her living in
another manner. Clad in grey like her
elders, but without the
black-velvet apron which she receives on attaining
the marriageable age,
she roams among the scrubby grass. This is true
hunting. Should a
suitable quarry heave in sight, the Spider pursues it,
drives it from its
shelters, follows it hot-foot. The fugitive gains the
heights, makes as
though to fly away. He has not the time. With an upward
leap, the
Lycosa grabs him before he can rise.
I am charmed with the
agility wherewith my yearling boarders seize the
Flies which I provide for
them. In vain does the Fly take refuge a
couple of inches up, on some blade
of grass. With a sudden spring into
the air, the Spider pounces on the
prey. No Cat is quicker in catching
her Mouse.
But these are the
feats of youth not handicapped by obesity. Later, when
a heavy paunch,
dilated with eggs and silk, has to be trailed along,
those gymnastic
performances become impracticable. The Lycosa then digs
herself a settled
abode, a hunting-box, and sits in her watch-tower, on
the look-out for
game.
When and how is the burrow obtained wherein the Lycosa, once a
vagrant,
now a stay-at-home, is to spend the remainder of her long life? We
are
in autumn, the weather is already turning cool. This is how the
Field
Cricket sets to work: as long as the days are fine and the nights not
too
cold, the future chorister of spring rambles over the fallows,
careless
of a local habitation. At critical moments, the cover of a dead
leaf
provides him with a temporary shelter. In the end, the burrow,
the
permanent dwelling, is dug as the inclement season draws nigh.
The
Lycosa shares the Cricket's views: like him, she finds a thousand
pleasures
in the vagabond life. With September comes the nuptial badge,
the
black-velvet bib. The Spiders meet at night, by the soft moonlight:
they
romp together, they eat the beloved shortly after the wedding; by
day, they
scour the country, they track the game on the short-pile,
grassy carpet, they
take their fill of the joys of the sun. That is much
better than solitary
meditation at the bottom of a well. And so it is
not rare to see young
mothers dragging their bag of eggs, or even already
carrying their family,
and as yet without a home.
In October, it is time to settle down. We
then, in fact, find two sorts
of burrows, which differ in diameter. The
larger, bottle-neck burrows
belong to the old matrons, who have owned their
house for two years at
least. The smaller, of the width of a thick
lead-pencil, contain the
young mothers, born that year. By dint of long and
leisurely
alterations, the novice's earths will increase in depth as well as
in
diameter and become roomy abodes, similar to those of the
grandmothers.
In both, we find the owner and her family, the latter sometimes
already
hatched and sometimes still enclosed in the satin
wallet.
Seeing no digging-tools, such as the excavation of the dwelling
seemed to
me to require, I wondered whether the Lycosa might not avail
herself of
some chance gallery, the work of the Cicada or the
Earth-worm. This
ready-made tunnel, thought I, must shorten the labours of
the Spider, who
appears to be so badly off for tools; she would only have to
enlarge it
and put it in order. I was wrong: the burrow is excavated, from
start to
finish, by her unaided labour.
Then where are the
digging-implements? We think of the legs, of the
claws. We think of them,
but reflection tells us that tools such as
these would not do: they are too
long and too difficult to wield in a
confined space. What is required is the
miner's short-handled pick,
wherewith to drive hard, to insert, to lever and
to extract; what is
required is the sharp point that enters the earth and
crumbles it into
fragments. There remain the Lycosa's fangs, delicate
weapons which we at
first hesitate to associate with such work, so illogical
does it seem to
dig a pit with surgeon's scalpels.
The fangs are a
pair of sharp, curved points, which, when at rest, crook
like a finger and
take shelter between two strong pillars. The Cat
sheathes her claws under
the velvet of the paw, to preserve their edge
and sharpness. In the same
way, the Lycosa protects her poisoned daggers
by folding them within the case
of two powerful columns, which come plumb
on the surface and contain the
muscles that work them.
Well, this surgical outfit, intended for stabbing
the jugular artery of
the prey, suddenly becomes a pick-axe and does rough
navvy's work. To
witness the underground digging is impossible; but we can,
at least, with
the exercise of a little patience, see the rubbish carted
away. If I
watch my captives, without tiring, at a very early hour--for the
work
takes place mostly at night and at long intervals--in the end I
catch
them coming up with a load. Contrary to what I expected, the legs
take
no part in the carting. It is the mouth that acts as the barrow. A
tiny
ball of earth is held between the fangs and is supported by the palpi,
or
feelers, which are little arms employed in the service of
the
mouth-parts. The Lycosa descends cautiously from her turret, goes
to
some distance to get rid of her burden and quickly dives down again
to
bring up more.
We have seen enough: we know that the Lycosa's
fangs, those lethal
weapons, are not afraid to bite into clay and
gravel. They knead the
excavated rubbish into pellets, take up the mass of
earth and carry it
outside. The rest follows naturally; it is the fangs that
dig, delve and
extract. How finely-tempered they must be, not to be blunted
by this
well-sinker's work and to do duty presently in the surgical operation
of
stabbing the neck!
I have said that the repairs and extensions of
the burrow are made at
long intervals. From time to time, the circular
parapet receives
additions and becomes a little higher; less frequently
still, the
dwelling is enlarged and deepened. As a rule, the mansion remains
as it
was for a whole season. Towards the end of winter, in March more than
at
any other period, the Lycosa seems to wish to give herself a little
more
space. This is the moment to subject her to certain tests.
We
know that the Field Cricket, when removed from his burrow and caged
under
conditions that would allow him to dig himself a new home should
the fit
seize him, prefers to tramp from one casual shelter to another,
or rather
abandons every idea of creating a permanent residence. There
is a short
season whereat the instinct for building a subterranean
gallery is
imperatively aroused. When this season is past, the
excavating artist, if
accidentally deprived of his abode, becomes a
wandering Bohemian, careless of
a lodging. He has forgotten his talents
and he sleeps out.
That the
bird, the nest-builder, should neglect its art when it has no
brood to care
for is perfectly logical: it builds for its family, not for
itself. But what
shall we say of the Cricket, who is exposed to a
thousand mishaps when away
from home? The protection of a roof would be
of great use to him; and the
giddy-pate does not give it a thought,
though he is very strong and more
capable than ever of digging with his
powerful jaws.
What reason can
we allege for this neglect? None, unless it be that the
season of strenuous
burrowing is past. The instincts have a calendar of
their own. At the given
hour, suddenly they awaken; as suddenly,
afterwards, they fall asleep. The
ingenious become incompetent when the
prescribed period is ended.
On a
subject of this kind, we can consult the Spider of the waste-lands.
I catch
an old Lycosa in the fields and house her, that same day, under
wire, in a
burrow where I have prepared a soil to her liking. If, by my
contrivances
and with a bit of reed, I have previously moulded a burrow
roughly
representing the one from which I took her, the Spider enters it
forthwith
and seems pleased with her new residence. The product of my
art is accepted
as her lawful property and undergoes hardly any
alterations. In course of
time, a bastion is erected around the orifice;
the top of the gallery is
cemented with silk; and that is all. In this
establishment of my building,
the animal's behaviour remains what it
would be under natural
conditions.
But place the Lycosa on the surface of the ground, without
first shaping
a burrow. What will the homeless Spider do? Dig herself a
dwelling, one
would think. She has the strength to do so; she is in the
prime of life.
Besides, the soil is similar to that whence I ousted her and
suits the
operation perfectly. We therefore expect to see the Spider
settled
before long in a shaft of her own construction.
We are
disappointed. Weeks pass and not an effort is made, not one.
Demoralized by
the absence of an ambush, the Lycosa hardly vouchsafes a
glance at the game
which I serve up. The Crickets pass within her reach
in vain; most often she
scorns them. She slowly wastes away with fasting
and boredom. At length,
she dies.
Take up your miner's trade again, poor fool! Make yourself a
home, since
you know how to, and life will be sweet to you for many a long
day yet:
the weather is fine and victuals plentiful. Dig, delve, go
underground,
where safety lies. Like an idiot, you refrain; and you
perish. Why?
Because the craft which you were wont to ply is forgotten;
because the
days of patient digging are past and your poor brain is unable to
work
back. To do a second time what has been done already is beyond your
wit.
For all your meditative air, you cannot solve the problem of how
to
reconstruct that which is vanished and gone.
Let us now see what we
can do with younger Lycosae, who are at the
burrowing-stage. I dig out five
or six at the end of February. They are
half the size of the old ones; their
burrows are equal in diameter to my
little finger. Rubbish quite
fresh-spread around the pit bears witness
to the recent date of the
excavations.
Relegated to their wire cages, these young Lycosae behave
differently
according as the soil placed at their disposal is or is not
already
provided with a burrow made by me. A burrow is hardly the word: I
give
them but the nucleus of a shaft, about an inch deep, to lure them
on.
When in possession of this rudimentary lair, the Spider does not
hesitate
to pursue the work which I have interrupted in the fields. At
night, she
digs with a will. I can see this by the heap of rubbish flung
aside. She
at last obtains a house to suit her, a house surmounted by the
usual
turret.
The others, on the contrary, those Spiders for whom the
thrust of my
pencil has not contrived an entrance-hall representing, to a
certain
extent, the natural gallery whence I dislodged them, absolutely
refuse to
work; and they die, notwithstanding the abundance of
provisions.
The first pursue the season's task. They were digging when I
caught
them; and, carried away by the enthusiasm of their activity, they go
on
digging inside my cages. Taken in by my decoy-shaft, they deepen
the
imprint of the pencil as though they were deepening their real
vestibule.
They do not begin their labours over again; they continue
them.
The second, not having this inducement, this semblance of a
burrow
mistaken for their own work, forsake the idea of digging and
allow
themselves to die, because they would have to travel back along the
chain
of actions and to resume the pick-strokes of the start. To begin
all
over again requires reflection, a quality wherewith they are not
endowed.
To the insect--and we have seen this in many earlier cases--what
is done
is done and cannot be taken up again. The hands of a watch do not
move
backwards. The insect behaves in much the same way. Its activity
urges
it in one direction, ever forwards, without allowing it to retrace
its
steps, even when an accident makes this necessary.
What the
Mason-bees and the others taught us erewhile the Lycosa now
confirms in her
manner. Incapable of taking fresh pains to build herself
a second dwelling,
when the first is done for, she will go on the tramp,
she will break into a
neighbour's house, she will run the risk of being
eaten should she not prove
the stronger, but she will never think of
making herself a home by starting
afresh.
What a strange intellect is that of the animal, a mixture of
mechanical
routine and subtle brain-power! Does it contain gleams that
contrive,
wishes that pursue a definite object? Following in the wake of so
many
others, the Lycosa warrants us in entertaining a
doubt.
CHAPTER V: THE NARBONNE LYCOSA: THE
FAMILY
For three weeks and more, the Lycosa trails the bag of eggs
hanging to
her spinnerets. The reader will remember the experiments
described in
the third chapter of this volume, particularly those with the
cork ball
and the thread pellet which the Spider so foolishly accepts in
exchange
for the real pill. Well, this exceedingly dull-witted mother,
satisfied
with aught that knocks against her heels, is about to make us
wonder at
her devotion.
Whether she come up from her shaft to lean
upon the kerb and bask in the
sun, whether she suddenly retire underground in
the face of danger, or
whether she be roaming the country before settling
down, never does she
let go her precious bag, that very cumbrous burden in
walking, climbing
or leaping. If, by some accident, it become detached from
the fastening
to which it is hung, she flings herself madly on her treasure
and
lovingly embraces it, ready to bite whoso would take it from
her. I
myself am sometimes the thief. I then hear the points of
the
poison-fangs grinding against the steel of my pincers, which tug in
one
direction while the Lycosa tugs in the other. But let us leave
the
animal alone: with a quick touch of the spinnerets, the pill is
restored
to its place; and the Spider strides off, still
menacing.
Towards the end of summer, all the householders, old or young,
whether in
captivity on the window-sill or at liberty in the paths of the
enclosure,
supply me daily with the following improving sight. In the
morning, as
soon as the sun is hot and beats upon their burrow, the
anchorites come
up from the bottom with their bag and station themselves at
the opening.
Long siestas on the threshold in the sun are the order of the
day
throughout the fine season; but, at the present time, the
position
adopted is a different one. Formerly, the Lycosa came out into the
sun
for her own sake. Leaning on the parapet, she had the front half of
her
body outside the pit and the hinder half inside.
The eyes took
their fill of light; the belly remained in the dark. When
carrying her
egg-bag, the Spider reverses the posture: the front is in
the pit, the rear
outside. With her hind-legs she holds the white pill
bulging with germs
lifted above the entrance; gently she turns and
returns it, so as to present
every side to the life-giving rays. And
this goes on for half the day, so
long as the temperature is high; and it
is repeated daily, with exquisite
patience, during three or four weeks.
To hatch its eggs, the bird covers them
with the quilt of its breast; it
strains them to the furnace of its
heart. The Lycosa turns hers in front
of the hearth of hearths, she gives
them the sun as an incubator.
In the early days of September, the young
ones, who have been some time
hatched, are ready to come out. The pill rips
open along the middle
fold. We read of the origin of this fold in an earlier
chapter. {24}
Does the mother, feeling the brood quicken inside the satin
wrapper,
herself break open the vessel at the opportune moment? It
seems
probable. On the other hand, there may be a spontaneous bursting,
such
as we shall see later in the Banded Epeira's balloon, a tough
wallet
which opens a breach of its own accord, long after the mother has
ceased
to exist.
The whole family emerges from the bag
straightway. Then and there, the
youngsters climb to the mother's back. As
for the empty bag, now a
worthless shred, it is flung out of the burrow; the
Lycosa does not give
it a further thought. Huddled together, sometimes in
two or three
layers, according to their number, the little ones cover the
whole back
of the mother, who, for seven or eight months to come, will carry
her
family night and day. Nowhere can we hope to see a more
edifying
domestic picture than that of the Lycosa clothed in her
young.
From time to time, I meet a little band of gipsies passing along
the high-
road on their way to some neighbouring fair. The new-born babe
mewls on
the mother's breast, in a hammock formed out of a kerchief. The
last-
weaned is carried pick-a-back; a third toddles clinging to its
mother's
skirts; others follow closely, the biggest in the rear, ferreting in
the
blackberry-laden hedgerows. It is a magnificent spectacle of
happy-go-
lucky fruitfulness. They go their way, penniless and
rejoicing. The sun
is hot and the earth is fertile.
But how this
picture pales before that of the Lycosa, that incomparable
gipsy whose brats
are numbered by the hundred! And one and all of them,
from September to
April, without a moment's respite, find room upon the
patient creature's
back, where they are content to lead a tranquil life
and to be carted
about.
The little ones are very good; none moves, none seeks a quarrel
with his
neighbours. Clinging together, they form a continuous drapery, a
shaggy
ulster under which the mother becomes unrecognizable. Is it an
animal, a
fluff of wool, a cluster of small seeds fastened to one
another? 'Tis
impossible to tell at the first glance.
The equilibrium
of this living blanket is not so firm but that falls
often occur, especially
when the mother climbs from indoors and comes to
the threshold to let the
little ones take the sun. The least brush
against the gallery unseats a part
of the family. The mishap is not
serious. The Hen, fidgeting about her
Chicks, looks for the strays,
calls them, gathers them together. The Lycosa
knows not these maternal
alarms. Impassively, she leaves those who drop off
to manage their own
difficulty, which they do with wonderful
quickness. Commend me to those
youngsters for getting up without whining,
dusting themselves and
resuming their seat in the saddle! The unhorsed ones
promptly find a leg
of the mother, the usual climbing-pole; they swarm up it
as fast as they
can and recover their places on the bearer's back. The
living bark of
animals is reconstructed in the twinkling of an eye.
To
speak here of mother-love were, I think, extravagant. The Lycosa's
affection
for her offspring hardly surpasses that of the plant, which is
unacquainted
with any tender feeling and nevertheless bestows the nicest
and most delicate
care upon its seeds. The animal, in many cases, knows
no other sense of
motherhood. What cares the Lycosa for her brood! She
accepts another's as
readily as her own; she is satisfied so long as her
back is burdened with a
swarming crowd, whether it issue from her ovaries
or elsewhence. There is no
question here of real maternal affection.
I have described elsewhere the
prowess of the Copris {25} watching over
cells that are not her handiwork and
do not contain her offspring. With
a zeal which even the additional labour
laid upon her does not easily
weary, she removes the mildew from the alien
dung-balls, which far exceed
the regular nests in number; she gently scrapes
and polishes and repairs
them; she listens to them attentively and enquires
by ear into each
nursling's progress. Her real collection could not receive
greater care.
Her own family or another's: it is all one to her.
The
Lycosa is equally indifferent. I take a hair-pencil and sweep the
living
burden from one of my Spiders, making it fall close to another
covered with
her little ones. The evicted youngsters scamper about, find
the new mother's
legs outspread, nimbly clamber up these and mount on the
back of the obliging
creature, who quietly lets them have their way.
They slip in among the
others, or, when the layer is too thick, push to
the front and pass from the
abdomen to the thorax and even to the head,
though leaving the region of the
eyes uncovered. It does not do to blind
the bearer: the common safety
demands that. They know this and respect
the lenses of the eyes, however
populous the assembly be. The whole
animal is now covered with a swarming
carpet of young, all except the
legs, which must preserve their freedom of
action, and the under part of
the body, where contact with the ground is to
be feared.
My pencil forces a third family upon the already overburdened
Spider; and
this too is peacefully accepted. The youngsters huddle up
closer, lie
one on top of the other in layers and room is found for all. The
Lycosa
has lost the last semblance of an animal, has become a nameless
bristling
thing that walks about. Falls are frequent and are followed by
continual
climbings.
I perceive that I have reached the limits not of
the bearer's good-will,
but of equilibrium. The Spider would adopt an
indefinite further number
of foundlings, if the dimensions of her back
afforded them a firm hold.
Let us be content with this. Let us restore each
family to its mother,
drawing at random from the lot. There must necessarily
be interchanges,
but that is of no importance: real children and adopted
children are the
same thing in the Lycosa's eyes.
One would like to
know if, apart from my artifices, in circumstances
where I do not interfere,
the good-natured dry-nurse sometimes burdens
herself with a supplementary
family; it would also be interesting to
learn what comes of this association
of lawful offspring and strangers. I
have ample materials wherewith to
obtain an answer to both questions. I
have housed in the same cage two
elderly matrons laden with youngsters.
Each has her home as far removed from
the other's as the size of the
common pan permits. The distance is nine
inches or more. It is not
enough. Proximity soon kindles fierce jealousies
between those
intolerant creatures, who are obliged to live far apart, so as
to secure
adequate hunting-grounds.
One morning, I catch the two
harridans fighting out their quarrel on the
floor. The loser is laid flat
upon her back; the victress, belly to
belly with her adversary, clutches her
with her legs and prevents her
from moving a limb. Both have their
poison-fangs wide open, ready to
bite without yet daring, so mutually
formidable are they. After a
certain period of waiting, during which the
pair merely exchange threats,
the stronger of the two, the one on top, closes
her lethal engine and
grinds the head of the prostrate foe. Then she calmly
devours the
deceased by small mouthfuls.
Now what do the youngsters
do, while their mother is being eaten? Easily
consoled, heedless of the
atrocious scene, they climb on the conqueror's
back and quietly take their
places among the lawful family. The ogress
raises no objection, accepts them
as her own. She makes a meal off the
mother and adopts the
orphans.
Let us add that, for many months yet, until the final
emancipation comes,
she will carry them without drawing any distinction
between them and her
own young. Henceforth, the two families, united in so
tragic a fashion,
will form but one. We see how greatly out of place it
would be to speak,
in this connection, of mother-love and its fond
manifestations.
Does the Lycosa at least feed the younglings who, for
seven months, swarm
upon her back? Does she invite them to the banquet when
she has secured
a prize? I thought so at first; and, anxious to assist at
the family
repast, I devoted special attention to watching the mothers
eat. As a
rule, the prey is consumed out of sight, in the burrow; but
sometimes
also a meal is taken on the threshold, in the open air. Besides,
it is
easy to rear the Lycosa and her family in a wire-gauze cage, with a
layer
of earth wherein the captive will never dream of sinking a well,
such
work being out of season. Everything then happens in the
open.
Well, while the mother munches, chews, expresses the juices and
swallows,
the youngsters do not budge from their camping-ground on her
back. Not
one quits its place nor gives a sign of wishing to slip down and
join in
the meal. Nor does the mother extend an invitation to them to come
and
recruit themselves, nor put any broken victuals aside for
them. She
feeds and the others look on, or rather remain indifferent to what
is
happening. Their perfect quiet during the Lycosa's feast points to
the
posession of a stomach that knows no cravings.
Then with what are
they sustained, during their seven months' upbringing
on the mother's
back? One conceives a notion of exudations supplied by
the bearer's body, in
which case the young would feed on their mother,
after the manner of
parasitic vermin, and gradually drain her strength.
We must abandon this
notion. Never are they seen to put their mouths to
the skin that should be a
sort of teat to them. On the other hand, the
Lycosa, far from being
exhausted and shrivelling, keeps perfectly well
and plump. She has the same
pot-belly when she finishes rearing her
young as when she began. She has not
lost weight: far from it; on the
contrary, she has put on flesh: she has
gained the wherewithal to beget a
new family next summer, one as numerous as
to-day's.
Once more, with what do the little ones keep up their
strength? We do
not like to suggest reserves supplied by the egg as
rectifying the
beastie's expenditure of vital force, especially when we
consider that
those reserves, themselves so close to nothing, must be
economized in
view of the silk, a material of the highest importance, of
which a
plentiful use will be made presently. There must be other powers at
play
in the tiny animal's machinery.
Total abstinence from food could
be understood, if it were accompanied by
inertia: immobility is not
life. But the young Lycosae, although usually
quiet on their mother's back,
are at all times ready for exercise and for
agile swarming. When they fall
from the maternal perambulator, they
briskly pick themselves up, briskly
scramble up a leg and make their way
to the top. It is a splendidly nimble
and spirited performance. Besides,
once seated, they have to keep a firm
balance in the mass; they have to
stretch and stiffen their little limbs in
order to hang on to their
neighbours. As a matter of fact, there is no
absolute rest for them. Now
physiology teaches us that not a fibre works
without some expenditure of
energy. The animal, which can be likened, in no
small measure, to our
industrial machines, demands, on the one hand, the
renovation of its
organism, which wears out with movement, and, on the other,
the
maintenance of the heat transformed into action. We can compare it
with
the locomotive-engine. As the iron horse performs its work, it
gradually
wears out its pistons, its rods, its wheels, its boiler-tubes, all
of
which have to be made good from time to time. The founder and the
smith
repair it, supply it, so to speak, with 'plastic food,' the food
that
becomes embodied with the whole and forms part of it. But, though
it
have just come from the engine-shop, it is still inert. To acquire
the
power of movement, it must receive from the stoker a supply of
'energy-
producing food;' in other words, he lights a few shovelfuls of coal
in
its inside. This heat will produce mechanical work.
Even so with
the beast. As nothing is made from nothing, the egg
supplies first the
materials of the new-born animal; then the plastic
food, the smith of living
creatures, increases the body, up to a certain
limit, and renews it as it
wears away. The stoker works at the same
time, without stopping. Fuel, the
source of energy, makes but a short
stay in the system, where it is consumed
and furnishes heat, whence
movement is derived. Life is a fire-box. Warmed
by its food, the animal
machine moves, walks, runs, jumps, swims, flies, sets
its locomotory
apparatus going in a thousand manners.
To return to the
young Lycosae, they grow no larger until the period of
their emancipation. I
find them at the age of seven months the same as
when I saw them at their
birth. The egg supplied the materials necessary
for their tiny frames; and,
as the loss of waste substance is, for the
moment, excessively small, or even
_nil_, additional plastic food is not
needed so long as the beastie does not
grow. In this respect, the
prolonged abstinence presents no difficulty. But
there remains the
question of energy-producing food, which is indispensable,
for the little
Lycosa moves, when necessary, and very actively at that. To
what shall
we attribute the heat expended upon action, when the animal
takes
absolutely no nourishment?
An idea suggests itself. We say to
ourselves that, without being life, a
machine is something more than matter,
for man has added a little of his
mind to it. Now the iron beast, consuming
its ration of coal, is really
browsing the ancient foliage of arborescent
ferns in which solar energy
has accumulated.
Beasts of flesh and blood
act no otherwise. Whether they mutually devour
one another or levy tribute
on the plant, they invariably quicken
themselves with the stimulant of the
sun's heat, a heat stored in grass,
fruit, seed and those which feed on
such. The sun, the soul of the
universe, is the supreme dispenser of
energy.
Instead of being served up through the intermediary of food and
passing
through the ignominious circuit of gastric chemistry, could not
this
solar energy penetrate the animal directly and charge it with
activity,
even as the battery charges an accumulator with power? Why not
live on
sun, seeing that, after all, we find naught but sun in the fruits
which
we consume?
Chemical science, that bold revolutionary, promises
to provide us with
synthetic food-stuffs. The laboratory and the factory
will take the
place of the farm. Why should not physical science step in as
well? It
would leave the preparation of plastic food to the chemist's
retorts; it
would reserve for itself that of energy-producing food, which,
reduced to
its exact terms, ceases to be matter. With the aid of some
ingenious
apparatus, it would pump into us our daily ration of solar energy,
to be
later expended in movement, whereby the machine would be kept
going
without the often painful assistance of the stomach and its
adjuncts.
What a delightful world, where one would lunch off a ray of
sunshine!
Is it a dream, or the anticipation of a remote reality? The
problem is
one of the most important that science can set us. Let us first
hear the
evidence of the young Lycosae regarding its
possibilities.
For seven months, without any material nourishment, they
expend strength
in moving. To wind up the mechanism of their muscles, they
recruit
themselves direct with heat and light. During the time when she
was
dragging the bag of eggs behind her, the mother, at the best moments
of
the day, came and held up her pill to the sun. With her two
hind-legs,
she lifted it out of the ground, into the full light; slowly she
turned
it and returned it, so that every side might receive its share of
the
vivifying rays. Well, this bath of life, which awakened the germs,
is
now prolonged to keep the tender babes active.
Daily, if the sky be
clear, the Lycosa, carrying her young, comes up from
the burrow, leans on the
kerb and spends long hours basking in the sun.
Here, on their mother's back,
the youngsters stretch their limbs
delightedly, saturate themselves with
heat, take in reserves of motor
power, absorb energy.
They are
motionless; but, if I only blow upon them, they stampede as
nimbly as though
a hurricane were passing. Hurriedly, they disperse;
hurriedly, they
reassemble: a proof that, without material nourishment,
the little animal
machine is always at full pressure, ready to work. When
the shade comes,
mother and sons go down again, surfeited with solar
emanations. The feast of
energy at the Sun Tavern is finished for the
day. It is repeated in the same
way daily, if the weather be mild, until
the hour of emancipation comes,
followed by the first mouthfuls of solid
food. |
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