THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION

The Scorpion is an uncommunicative insect, occult in his manners and unpleasant to deal with, so much so that his history, apart from the findings of anatomy, is reduced to little or nothing. The scalpel of the masters has made us acquainted with his organic structure; but, so far as I know, no observer has thought of interviewing him, with any sort of persistence, on the subject of his private habits. Ripped up, after a preliminary maceration in alcohol, he is very well-known indeed; acting within the domain of his instincts, he is hardly known at all. And yet none of the segmented animals were more deserving of a detailed biography. He has at all times struck the popular imagination, even to the point of being numbered among the signs of the zodiac.

Fear made the gods, said Lucretius. Deified by terror, the Scorpion is glorified in the sky by a constellation and in the almanac by the symbol for the month of October. Let us try to make him speak.

Before housing my animals, let us give a brief description of them. The common Black Scorpion (Scorpio Europæus, Lin.), distributed over the greater part of South Europe, is known to all. He frequents the dark spots near our dwelling-places; on rainy days in autumn, he makes his way into our houses, sometimes even under [[224]]our bed-clothes. The hateful animal causes us more fright than damage. Although not unusual in my present abode, his visits have never had consequences of the least seriousness. The weird beast, overrated in reputation, is repulsive rather than dangerous.

Much more to be feared and much less well-known generally is the Languedocian Scorpion, isolated in the Mediterranean provinces. Far from seeking our dwelling-houses, he keeps out of the way, in untilled solitudes. Beside the Black Scorpion, he is a giant who, when full-grown, measures eight to nine centimetres in length.[1] His colouring is that of pale, withered straw.

The tail, which is really the animal’s belly, is a series of five prismatic joints, like little kegs whose staves meet in undulating ridges resembling strings of beads. Similar cords cover the arms and fore-arms of the claws and divide them into long facets. Others run sinuously along the back and imitate the joints of a cuirass, the pieces of which might have been collected by a capricious milling-punch. These bead-like projections produce a fiercely robust armour, which is characteristic of the Languedocian Scorpion. It is as though the animal had been fashioned out of chips with blows of the adze.

The tail ends in a sixth joint, which is vesicular and smooth. This is the gourd in which the poison, a formidable fluid resembling water in appearance, is elaborated and held in reserve. A curved, brown and very sharp sting ends the apparatus. A pore, visible only under the lens, opens at some distance from the point. Through this, the venomous humour is injected into the puncture. The sting is very hard and very sharp-pointed. Holding it between the tips of my fingers, I can push it through [[225]]a sheet of cardboard as easily as though I were using a needle.

Owing to its powerful curve, the sting points downwards when the tail is held in a straight line. To use his weapon, the Scorpion must therefore raise it, turn it round and strike upwards. In fact, this is his invariable practice. The tail bends over the animal’s back and comes forward before pinking the adversary held down with the claws. The animal, for that matter, is almost always in this posture: whether in motion or at rest, he curves his tail over his chine. He very rarely drags it slackened in a straight line.

The pincers, buccal hands suggesting the claws of the Crayfish, are organs of battle and information. When moving forwards, the animal holds them in front of him, with the fingers opened, to take stock of things encountered on the way. When he wants to stab, the claws catch the adversary and hold him motionless, while the sting operates above the assailant’s back. Lastly, when he has to nibble a morsel for any length of time, they serve as hands and keep the prey within reach of the mouth. They are never used for walking, for support or for the work of excavation.

That falls to the real legs. These are abruptly truncated and end in a group of little curved, moveable claws, faced by a short, fine point, which, in a manner of speaking, serves as a thumb. The stump is finished off with rough bristles. The whole constitutes an excellent grapnel, which explains the Scorpion’s capacity for roaming round the trellis-work of my wire bells, for standing there very long in a reversed position and, lastly, for clambering up a vertical wall, notwithstanding his clumsiness and awkwardness. [[226]]

Below, immediately after the legs, are the combs, strange organs, an exclusive attribute of the Scorpions. They owe their name to their structure, consisting of a long row of scales arranged close together in the manner of the teeth of our ordinary combs. The anatomists are inclined to ascribe to these the functions of a gearing-apparatus capable of keeping the couple connected at the moment of pairing.

In order to observe their domestic manners, I lodge my captives in a large glass volery, with big potsherds to serve them as a refuge. There are a couple of dozen Scorpions, all told. In April, when the Swallow returns to us and the Cuckoo sounds his first note, a revolution takes place among my hitherto peaceable Scorpions. Several of them, in the colonies which I have established in the open air, in my garden, go wandering about at night and do not return to their homes. A more serious matter: often, under the same piece of crockery, are two Scorpions, of whom one is in the act of devouring the other. Is it a matter of burglary among insects of the same order, who, falling into vagabond ways at the commencement of the fine weather, thoughtlessly enter their neighbours’ houses and there meet with their undoing, unless they be the stronger? One would almost think it, so calmly is the intruder eaten up, for days at a time and by small mouthfuls, even as an ordinary prey would be.

PLATE X

The large glass case containing the Scorpions.

Now here is something to give us a hint. The devoured are invariably of middling size. Their lighter shade of colouring, their less protuberant bellies mark them as males, always males. The others, larger, more paunchy, and a little darker in shade, do not end in this unhappy fashion. So it is probably not a case of brawls between [[227]]neighbours who, jealous of their solitude, soon settle the doom of any visitor and eat him afterwards, a radical means of putting a stop to further indiscretions; it is rather a question of nuptial rites tragically performed by the matron after pairing.

Spring returns once more. I have prepared the large glass cage in advance and peopled it with five-and-twenty inhabitants, each with his bit of earthenware. From mid-April onwards, every evening, towards night-fall, between seven and nine o’clock, great animation reigns within this crystal palace. That which seemed deserted by day now becomes a joyous scene. As soon as supper is finished, the whole household runs out to look at it. A lantern hung outside the panes allows us to follow events.

It is our diversion after the worries of the day; it is our play-house. In this theatre of simple folk, the performances are so interesting that, the moment the lantern is lighted, we all, old and young, come and take our seats in the pit: all, including even Tom, the house-dog. Tom, it is true, indifferent to Scorpion affairs, like the genuine philosopher that he is, lies down at our feet and dozes, but only with one eye, keeping the other always open on his friends, the children.

Let me try to give the reader an idea of what happens. A numerous assembly soon gathers near the glass panes in the zone discreetly lit by the lantern. Every elsewhere, here, there, single Scorpions walk about and, attracted by the light, leave the shade and hasten to the illuminated festival. The very moths betray no greater readiness to flutter to the rays of our lamps. The newcomers mingle with the crowd, while others, tired with their diversions, withdraw into the shade, snatch a few [[228]]moments’ rest and then impetuously return upon the scene.

These hideous devotees of gaiety provide a dance not wholly unattractive. Some come from afar: gravely they emerge from out the darkness; then, suddenly, with a rush as swift and easy as a slide, they join the crowd, in the light. Their agility reminds one of mice scudding with short steps. They seek one another and fly precipitately as soon as they touch, as though they had mutually burnt their fingers. Others, after tumbling about a little with their play-fellows, make off hurriedly, wildly. They take fresh courage in the dark and return.

At times, there is a brisk tumult: a confused mass of swarming legs, snapping claws, tails curving and clashing, threatening or fondling, it is hard to say which. In the affray, under favourable conditions, double specks light up and gleam like carbuncles. One would take them for eyes that shoot flashing glances; in reality they are two polished, reflecting facets, which occupy the front of the head. All, large and small alike, take part in the brawl; it might be a battle to the death, a general massacre; and it is just a wanton frolic. Even so do kittens bemaul each other. Soon, the group disperses; all make off from all sorts of places, without a scratch, without a sprain.

Behold the fugitives collecting once more before the lantern. They pass and pass again; they come and go, often meet front to front. He who is in the greatest hurry walks over the back of the other, who lets him have his way without any protest but a movement of the crupper. It is no time for blows: at most, two Scorpions meeting will exchange a cuff, that is to say, a rap of the caudal [[229]]staff. In their society, this friendly thump, in which the point of the sting plays no part, is a sort of a fisticuff in frequent use.

There are better things than mingled legs and brandished tails: there are sometimes poses of the highest originality. Front to front and claws drawn back, two wrestlers assume the acrobat’s “straight bend,” that is to say, resting only on the fore-quarters, they raise the whole back of the body, so much so that the chest displays the four little lung-sacs uncovered. Then the tails, held vertically erect in a straight line, exchange mutual rubs, glide one over the other, while their extremities are hooked together and repeatedly fastened and unfastened. Suddenly, the friendly pyramid falls to pieces and each runs off hurriedly, without ceremony.

What were those two wrestlers trying to do, in their eccentric posture? Was it a set-to between two rivals? It would seem not, so peaceful is the encounter. My subsequent observations were to tell me that this was the mutual teasing of a betrothed couple. To declare his flame, the Scorpion does the straight bend.

To continue as I have begun and give a homogeneous picture of the thousand tiny particulars gathered day by day would have its advantages: the story would be sooner told; but, at the same time, deprived of its details, which vary greatly between one observation and the next and are difficult to group, it would be less interesting. Nothing must be neglected in the relation of manners so strange and as yet so little known. At the risk of repeating one’s self here and there, it is preferable to adhere to chronological order and to tell the story by fragments, as one’s observations reveal fresh facts. Order will emerge from this disorder; for each of the more remarkable [[230]]evenings supplies some feature that corroborates and completes those which go before. I will therefore continue my narration in the form of a diary.

25 April, 1904.—Hullo! What is this, which I have not yet seen? My eyes, ever on the watch, look upon the affair for the first time. Two Scorpions face each other, with claws outstretched and fingers clasped. It is a question of a friendly grasp of the hand and not the prelude of a battle, for the two partners behave to each other in the most peaceful way. There is one of either sex. One is paunchy and browner than the other: that is the female; the other is comparatively slim and pale: that is the male. With their tails prettily curled, the couple stroll with measured steps along the pane. The male is ahead and walks backwards, without jolt or jerk, without any resistance to overcome. The female follows obediently, clasped by her finger-tips and face to face with her leader.

The stroll has halts that alter nothing in the manner of the tie; it is resumed, now here, now there, from end to end of the enclosure. Nothing shows the object which the strollers have in view. They loiter, they dawdle, they most certainly exchange ogling glances. Even so, in my village, on Sundays, after vespers, do the youth of both sexes saunter along the hedges, every Jack with his Jill.

Often they tack about. It is always the male who decides which fresh direction the pair shall take. Without releasing her hands, he turns gracefully to the left or right about and places himself side by side with his companion. Then, for a moment, with his tail laid flat, he strokes her spine. The other stands motionless, impassive. [[231]]

For over an hour, without tiring, I watch these interminable comings and goings. A part of the household lends me its eyes in the presence of the strange sight which no one in the world has yet seen, at least with a vision capable of observing. In spite of the lateness of the hour, so upsetting to our habits, our attention is concentrated and no essential thing escapes us.

At last, at about ten o’clock, an event happens. The male has lit upon a potsherd the shelter of which seems to suit him. He releases his companion with one hand, with one alone, and, continuing to hold her with the other, he scratches with his legs and sweeps with his tail. A grotto opens. He enters and, slowly, without violence, drags the patient Scorpioness after him. Soon, both have disappeared. A plug of sand closes the dwelling. The couple are at home.

To disturb them would be a blunder: I should be interfering too soon, at an inopportune moment, if I tried at once to see what was happening below. The preliminary stages may last for the best part of the night; and it does not do for me, who have turned eighty, to sit up so late. I feel my legs giving way; and my eyes seem full of sand. Let us go to sleep.

All night long, I dream of Scorpions. They crawl under my bed-clothes, they pass over my face; and I am not particularly excited, so many curious things do I see in my imagination. The next morning, at day-break, I raise the stoneware. The female is alone. Of the male there is no trace, either in the home or in the neighbourhood. First disappointment, to be followed by many others.

10 May.—It is nearly seven o’clock in the evening; the sky is overcast with signs of an approaching shower. [[232]]Under one of the potsherds is a motionless couple, face to face, with linked fingers. Cautiously I raise the potsherd and leave the occupants uncovered, so as to study the results of the interview at my ease. The darkness of the night falls and nothing, it seems to me, will disturb the calm of the home deprived of its roof. A brisk shower compels me to retire. They, under the lid of the cage, have no need to take shelter against the rain. What will they do, left to their business as they are, but deprived of a canopy to their alcove?

An hour later, the rain ceases and I return to my Scorpions. They are gone. They have taken up their abode under a neighbouring potsherd. Still with their fingers linked, the female is outside and the male indoors, preparing the home. At intervals of ten minutes, the members of my family relieve one another, so as not to lose the exact moment of the pairing, which appears to me to be imminent. Useless cares: at eight o’clock, it being now quite dark, the couple, dissatisfied with the spot, set out on a fresh ramble, hand in hand, and go in search elsewhere. The male, walking backwards, leads the march, chooses the dwelling as he pleases; the female follows with docility. It is an exact repetition of what I saw on the 25th of April. At last, a tile is found to suit them. The male goes in first, but, this time, without letting go of his companion for a moment, with one hand or the other. The nuptial chamber is prepared with a few sweeps of the tail. Gently drawn towards him, the Scorpioness enters in the wake of her guide.

I visit them a couple of hours later, thinking that I have given them time enough to finish their preparations. I raise the potsherd. They are there in the same posture, [[233]]face to face and hand in hand. I shall see no more to-day.

The next day, nothing new either. One in front of the other, meditatively, without stirring a limb, the gossips, holding each other by the finger-tips, continue their endless interview under the tile. In the evening, at sunset, after sitting linked together for four-and-twenty hours, the couple separate. He goes away from the tile, she remains; and matters have not advanced by an inch.

This observation gives us two facts to remember. After the stroll to celebrate the betrothal, the couple need the mystery and quiet of a shelter. Never would the nuptial conclusion take place in the open air, amid the bustling crowd, in sight of all. Remove the roof of the house, by night or day, with all possible discretion; and the husband and wife, who seem absorbed in meditation, march off in search of another spot. Also, the stay under the cover of a stone is a long one: we have just seen it spun out to twenty-four hours and even then without a decisive result.

12 May.—What will this evening’s watch teach us? The weather is calm and hot, favourable to nocturnal pastimes. A couple has formed: I did not witness the start. This time the male is greatly inferior in size to his corpulent mate. Nevertheless, the skinny wight performs his duty gallantly. Walking backwards, according to rule, with his tail rolled trumpetwise, he marches the fat Scorpioness around the glass ramparts. After one circuit follows another, sometimes in the same, sometimes in the opposite direction.

Stops are frequent. Then the two foreheads touch, bend a little to left and right, as if there were whispers [[234]]exchanged in each other’s ears. The little fore-legs flutter in fevered caresses. What are they saying to each other? How shall we translate their silent epithalamium into words?

The whole household turns out to see this curious group, which our presence in no way disturbs. The pair are pronounced to be “pretty”; and the expression is not exaggerated. Semi-translucent and shining in the light of the lantern, they seem carved out of a block of yellow amber. Their arms outstretched, their tails rolled into graceful volutes, they wander on with a slow movement and with measured tread.

Nothing puts them out. Should some vagabond, taking the evening air and keeping to the wall like themselves, meet them on their way, he stands aside—for he understands these delicate matters—and leaves them a free passage. Lastly, the shelter of a tile receives the strolling pair, the male entering first and backwards: that goes without saying. It is nine o’clock.

The idyll of the evening is followed, during the night, by a hideous tragedy. Next morning, we find the Scorpioness under the potsherd of the previous day. The little male is by her side, but slain and more or less devoured. He lacks the head, a claw, a pair of legs. I place the corpse in the open, on the threshold of the home. All day long, the recluse does not touch it. When night returns, she goes out and, meeting the defunct on her passage, carries him off to a distance to give him a decent funeral, that is to finish eating him.

This act of cannibalism agrees with what the open-air colony showed me last year. From time to time, I would find, under the stones, a pot-bellied female making a comfortable ritual meal off her companion of the night. [[235]]I suspected that the male, if he did not break loose in time, once his functions were fulfilled, was devoured, wholly or partly, according to the matron’s appetite. I now have the certain proof before my eyes. Yesterday, I saw the couple enter their home after the usual preliminary, the stroll; and, this morning, under the same tile, at the moment of my visit, the bride is consuming her mate.

We are entitled to believe that the poor wretch has attained his ends. Were he still necessary to the brood, he would not yet be eaten. The actual couple have therefore been quick about the business, whereas I see others fail to finish after provocations and contemplations exceeding in duration the time which it takes the hour-hand to go twice round the clock. Circumstances which it is impossible to state with precision—the condition of the atmosphere, perhaps, the electric tension, the temperature, the individual ardour of the couple—to a large extent accelerate or delay the finale of the pairing; and this is what constitutes the serious difficulty for the observer anxious to seize the exact moment whereat the as yet uncertain function of the combs might be revealed.

14 May.—It is certainly not hunger that sets my animals in commotion night after night. The quest of food has nothing to say to their evening rounds. I have served up a varied bill of fare to the busy crowd, a fare chosen from that which they appear to like best. It includes tender morsels in the shape of young Crickets; small Locusts, fleshier and in better condition than the Acridians; Moths minus their wings. In a more advanced season, I add Dragon-flies, a highly-appreciated dish, as is proved by their equivalent, the full-grown Ant-lion, of whom I often find the scraps, the wings, in the Scorpions’ cave. [[236]]

This luxurious game leaves them indifferent; none of them pays attention to it. Amid the hubbub, the Crickets hop, the Moths beat the ground with the stumps of their wings, the Dragon-flies quiver; and the passers-by take no notice. They tread them underfoot, they topple them over, they push them away with a stroke of the tail; in short, they absolutely refuse to look at them. They have other business in hand.

Almost all of them move along the glass wall. Some of them obstinately attempt to scale it: they hoist themselves on their tails, fall down, try again elsewhere. With their outstretched fists they knock against the pane; they want to get away at all costs. And yet the grounds are large enough, there is room for all; the walks lend themselves to long strolls. No matter: they want to roam afar. If they were free, they would disperse in every direction. Last year, at the same time, the colonists of the enclosure left the village and I never saw them again.

The spring pairing-season enjoins journeys upon them. The shy hermits of yesterday now leave their cells and go on love’s pilgrimage; heedless of food, they set out in quest of their kind. Among the stones of their territory there must be choice spots at which meetings take place, at which assemblies are held. If I were not afraid of breaking my legs, at night, over the rocky obstacles of their hills, I should love to assist at their matrimonial festivals, amid the delights of liberty. What do they do up there, on their bare slopes? Much the same, apparently, as in the glass enclosure. Having made their choice of a bride, they take her about, for a long stretch of time, hand in hand, through the tufts of lavender. If they miss the attractions of my lantern, [[237]]they have the moon, that incomparable lamp, to light them.

20 May.—The sight of the first invitation to a stroll is not an event upon which we can count every evening. Several emerge from under their stones already linked in couples. In this concatenation of clasped fingers, they have passed the whole day, motionless, one in front of the other and meditating. When night comes, they resume, without separating for a moment, the walk around the glass begun on the evening before, or even earlier. No one knows when or how the junction was effected. Others meet unawares in sequestered passages difficult of inspection. By the time that I see them, it is too late: the equipage is on the way.

To-day, chance favours me. The acquaintance is made before my eyes, in the full light of the lantern. A frisky, sprightly male, in his hurried rush through the crowd, suddenly finds himself face to face with a passer-by who takes his fancy. She does not say no; and things go quickly.

The foreheads touch, the claws work; the tails swing with a wide movement: they stand up vertically, hook together at the tips and softly stroke each other with a slow caress. The two animals perform the acrobat’s “straight bend,” in the manner already described. Soon, the raised bodies collapse; fingers are clasped and the couple starts on its stroll without more ado. The pyramidal pose, therefore, is really the prelude to the harnessing. The pose, it is true, is not rare between two individuals of the same sex who meet; but it is then less correct and, above all, less marked by ceremony. At such times, we find movements of impatience, instead of friendly excitations; the tails strike in lieu of caressing each other. [[238]]

Let us watch the male, who hurries away backwards, very proud of his conquest. Other females are met, who form an audience and look on inquisitively, perhaps enviously. One of them flings herself upon the ravished bride, embraces her with her legs and makes an effort to stop the equipage. The male exhausts himself in attempts to overcome this resistance; in vain he shakes, in vain he pulls: the thing won’t go. Undistressed by the accident, he throws up the game. A neighbour is there, close by. Cutting parley short, this time without any further declaration, he takes her hands and invites her to a stroll. She protests, releases herself and runs away.

From among the group of onlookers, a second is solicited, in the same free and easy manner. She accepts, but there is nothing to tell us that she will not escape from her seducer on the way. But what does the coxcomb care? There are more where she came from! And what does he want, when all is said? The first-comer!

This first-comer he ends by finding, for here he is, leading his conquest by the hand. He passes into the belt of light. Exerting all his strength, he makes jerky movements of drawing towards him, if the other refuse to come, but behaves with gentleness, when he obtains a docile obedience. Pauses, sometimes rather prolonged, are frequent.

Then the male indulges in curious exercises. Bringing his claws, or let us say, his arms towards him and then again stretching them straight out, he compels the female to play a similar alternate game. The two of them form a system of jointed rods, or lazy-tongs, opening and closing their quadrilateral turn and turn about. After this [[239]]gymnastic drill, the mechanism contracts and remains stationary.

The foreheads now touch; the two mouths come together with tender effusions. The word “kisses” comes to one’s mind to express these caresses. It is not applicable; for head, face, lips, cheeks, all are missing. The animal, clipped as though with the pruning shears, has not even a muzzle. Where we look for a face we are confronted with a dead wall of hideous jaws.

And to the Scorpion this represents the supremely beautiful! With his fore-legs, more delicate, more agile than the others, he pats the horrible mask, which in his eyes is an exquisite little face; voluptuously he gnaws and tickles with his lower jaws the equally hideous mouth opposite. It is all superb in its tenderness and simplicity. The Dove is said to have invented the kiss. But I know that he had a fore-runner in the Scorpion.

Dulcinea lets her admirer have his way and remains passive, not without a secret longing to slip off. But how is she to set about it? It is quite easy. The Scorpioness makes a cudgel of her tail and brings it down with a bang upon the wrists of her too-ardent wooer, who there and then lets go. The match is broken off, for the time being. To-morrow, the sulking-fit will be over and things will resume their course.

25 May.—This blow of the cudgel teaches us that the docile companion revealed by the first observations is capable of whims, of obstinate refusals, of sudden divorces. Let us give an example.

This evening, he and she, a seemly couple, are out for a stroll. A tile is found and appears to suit. Letting go with one claw, so as to have some freedom of action, the male works with his legs and tail to clear the entrance. [[240]]He goes in. By degrees, as the dwelling is dug out, the female follows him, meekly and gently, so one would think.

Soon, the place and time perhaps not suiting her, she reappears and half-emerges, backwards. She struggles against her abductor, who, on his side, pulls her to him, without, as yet, showing himself. A lively contest ensues, one making every effort outside the cabin, the other inside. They go backwards and forwards by turns; and success is undecided. At last, with a sudden exertion, the Scorpioness drags her companion out.

The unbroken team is in the open; the walk is resumed. For a good hour, they veer to one side along the pane, veer back to the other and then return to the tile of just now, to the exact same tile. As the way is already open, the male enters without delay and pulls like mad. Outside, the Scorpioness resists. Stiffening her legs, which plough the soil, and buttressing her tail against the arch of the tile, she refuses to go in. I like this resistance. What would the pairing be without the playful toying of the preludes?

Under the stone, however, the ravisher insists and contrives to such good purpose that the rebel obeys. She enters. It has just struck ten. If I have to sit up for the rest of the night, I will wait for the result; I shall turn the potsherd at the fitting moment to catch a glimpse of what is happening underneath. Good opportunities are rare: let us make the most of this one. What shall I see?

Nothing at all. In half an hour or less, the refractory one frees herself, issues from the shelter and flees. The other at once runs up from the back of the cabin, stops on the threshold and looks out. His beauty has escaped [[241]]him. He has been jilted. Sheepishly, he returns indoors. I follow his example.

PLATE XI

June sets in. For fear of a disturbance caused by too brilliant an illumination, I have hitherto kept the lantern hung outside, at some distance from the pane. The insufficient light does not allow me to observe certain details as to the manner in which the couple are linked when strolling. Do they both play an active part in the scheme of the clasped hands? Are their fingers interlinked alternately? Or does only one of the pair act; and, if so, which? Let us ascertain exactly; the thing is not without importance.

I place the lantern inside, in the centre of the cage. There is a good light everywhere. Far from being scared, the Scorpions gain in gladness. They hasten up around the beacon; some even try to climb it, so as to be nearer the flame. They succeed in doing so by means of the frames containing the glass squares. They hang on to the edges of the tin strips and stubbornly, heedless of slipping, end by reaching the top. There, motionless, lying partly on the glass, partly on the support of the metal casing, they gaze the whole evening long, fascinated by the glory of the wick. They remind me of the Great Peacock Moths that used to hang in ecstasy under the reflector of my lamp.

At the foot of the beacon, in the full light, a couple loses no time in doing the straight bend. The two fence prettily with their tails and then go a-strolling. The male alone acts. With the two fingers of each claw, he has seized the two fingers of the corresponding claw of the Scorpioness in a bunch. He alone exerts himself and squeezes; he alone is at liberty to break the team when he likes: he has but to open his pincers. The [[242]]female cannot do so; she is a prisoner, handcuffed by her seducer.

In rather infrequent cases, one can see even finer things. I have caught the Scorpion dragging his sweetheart by the two fore-arms; I have seen him pull her by one leg and by the tail. She had resisted the advances of the outstretched hand; and the bully, forgetful of all reserve, had thrown her on her side and clawed hold of her at random. The thing is quite clear: we have to do with a regular rape, abduction with violence. Even so did Romulus’ youths rape the Sabine women. [[243]]

[1] 3 to 3½ inches.—Translator’s Note. [↑]

[[Contents]]

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION: THE FAMILY

Book-knowledge is a poor resource in the problems of life; assiduous converse with facts is preferable here to the best-stocked library. In many cases, ignorance is a good thing: the mind retains its freedom of investigation and does not stray along roads that lead nowhither, suggested by one’s reading. I have experienced this once again.

An anatomical monograph—the work, indeed, of a master—had told me that the Languedocian Scorpion is big with young in September. Oh, how much better should I have done not to consult it! The thing happens much earlier, at least in my part of the country; and, as the rearing does not last long, I should have seen nothing, had I tarried for September. A third year of observation, tiresome to wait for, would have become necessary, in order at last to witness a sight which I foresaw to be of the highest interest. But for exceptional circumstances, I should have allowed the fleeting opportunity to pass, lost a year and perhaps even abandoned the subject.

Yes, ignorance can have its advantages; the new is found far from the beaten track. One of our most illustrious masters, little suspecting the lesson he was giving me, taught me that some time since. One fine day, Pasteur rang unexpectedly at my front-door: the same [[244]]who was soon to acquire such world-wide celebrity. His name was familiar to me. I had read the scholar’s fine work on the dissymmetry of tartaric acid; I had followed with the greatest interest his researches on the generation of Infusoria.

Each period has its scientific crotchet: to-day, we have transformism; at that time, they had spontaneous generation. With his balloons made sterile or fecund at will, with his experiments so magnificent in their severity and simplicity, Pasteur gave the death-blow to the lunacy which pretended to see life springing from a chemical conflict in the seat of putrefaction.

In the midst of this contest so victoriously elucidated, I welcomed my distinguished visitor as best I could. The savant came to me first of all for certain particulars. I owed this signal honour to my standing as his colleague in physics and chemistry. Oh, such a poor, obscure colleague!

Pasteur’s tour through the Avignon region had sericiculture for its object. For some years, the silk-worm nurseries had been in confusion, ravaged by unknown plagues. The worms, for no appreciable reason, were falling into a putrid deliquescence, hardening, so to speak, into plaster sugar-plums. The downcast peasant saw one of his chief crops disappearing; after much care and trouble, he had to fling his nurseries on the dung-heap.

A few words were exchanged on the prevailing blight; and then, without further preamble, my visitor said:

“I should like to see some cocoons. I have never seen any; I know them only by name. Could you get me some?”

“Nothing easier. My landlord happens to sell cocoons; and he lives in the next house. If you will wait a moment, I will bring you what you want.” [[245]]

Four steps took me to my neighbour’s, where I crammed my pockets with cocoons. I came back and handed them to the savant. He took one, turned and turned it between his fingers; he examined it curiously, as one would a strange object from the other end of the world. He put it to his ear and shook it:

“Why, it makes a noise!” he said, quite surprised. “There’s something inside!”

“Of course there is.”

“What is it?”

“The chrysalis.”

“How do you mean, the chrysalis?”

“I mean the sort of mummy into which the caterpillar changes before becoming a moth.”

“And has every cocoon one of those things inside it?”

“Obviously. It is to protect the chrysalis that the caterpillar spins.”

“Really!”

And, without more words, the cocoons passed into the pocket of the savant, who was to instruct himself at his leisure touching that great novelty, the chrysalis. I was struck by this magnificent assurance. Pasteur had come to regenerate the silk-worm, while knowing nothing about caterpillars, cocoons, chrysalises or metamorphoses. The ancient gymnasts came naked to the fight. The talented combatant of the plague of our silk-worm nurseries hastened to the battle likewise naked, that is to say, destitute of the simplest notions about the insect which he was to deliver from danger. I was staggered; nay, more, I was wonderstruck.

I was not so much amazed by what followed. Pasteur was occupied at the time with another question, that [[246]]of the improvement of wine by heating. Suddenly changing the conversation:

“Show me your cellar,” he said.

I! I show my cellar, my private cellar, poor I, who, in those days, with my pitiful teacher’s salary, could not indulge in the luxury of a little wine and brewed myself a sort of small cider by setting a handful of moist sugar and some apples already steeped in spoilt cider to ferment in a cask! My cellar! Show my cellar! Why not my barrels, my cobwebbed bottles, each labelled with its age and vintage! My cellar!

Full of confusion, I avoided the request and tried to turn the conversation. But he persisted:

“Show me your cellar, please.”

There was no resisting such firmness. I pointed with my finger to a corner in the kitchen where stood a chair with no seat to it; and, on that chair, a demi-john containing two or three gallons:

“That’s my cellar, sir.”

“Is that your cellar?”

“I have no other.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all, alas!”

“Really!”

Not a word more; nothing further from the savant. Pasteur, that was evident, had never tasted the highly-spiced dish which the vulgar call la vache enragée. Though my cellar—the dilapidated chair and the more than half-empty demi-john—said nothing about the fermentation to be combated by heating, it spoke eloquently of another thing which my illustrious visitor seemed not to understand. A microbe escaped from it and a very terrible microbe: that of ill-fortune strangling good-will. [[247]]

In spite of the unlucky introduction of the cellar, I remain none the less struck by his serene assurance. He knows nothing of the transformation of insects; he has just seen a cocoon for the first time and learnt that there is something inside that cocoon, the rough draft of the moth that shall be; he is ignorant of what is known to the meanest school-boy of our southern parts; and this novice, whose artless questions surprise me so greatly, is about to revolutionize the hygiene of the silk-worm nurseries. In the same way, he will revolutionize medicine and general hygiene.

His weapon is thought, heedless of details and soaring over the whole question. What cares he for metamorphoses, larvæ, nymphæ, cocoons, pupæ, chrysalises and the thousand and one little secrets of entomology! For the purposes of his problem, perhaps, it is just as well to be ignorant of all that. Ideas retain their independence and their daring flight more easily; movements are freer, when released from the leading-strings of the known.

Encouraged by the magnificent example of the cocoons rattling in Pasteur’s astonished ears, I have made it a rule to adopt the method of ignorance in my investigations into instincts. I read very little. Instead of turning the pages of books, an expensive proceeding quite beyond my means, instead of consulting other people, I persist in obstinately interviewing my subject until I succeed in making him speak. I know nothing. So much the better: my queries will be all the freer, now in this direction, now in the opposite, according to the lights obtained. And if, by chance, I do open a book, I take care to leave a pigeon-hole in my mind wide open to doubt; for the soil which I am clearing bristles with weeds and brambles. [[248]]

For lack of taking this precaution, I very nearly lost a year. Relying on what I had read, I did not look for the family of the Languedocian Scorpion until September; and I obtained it quite unexpectedly in July. This difference between the real and the anticipated date I ascribe to the disparity of the climate: I make my observations in Provence and my informant, Léon Dufour, made his in Spain. Notwithstanding the master’s high authority, I ought to have been on my guard. I was not; and I should have lost the opportunity if, as luck would have it, the Common Black Scorpion had not taught me. Ah, how right was Pasteur not to know the chrysalis!

The Common Scorpion, smaller and much less active than the other, was brought up, for purposes of comparison, in humble glass jars that stood on the table in my study. The modest apparatus did not take up much room and were easy to examine; and I made a point of visiting them daily. Every morning, before sitting down to blacken a few pages of my diary with prose, I invariably lifted the piece of cardboard which I used to shelter my boarders and enquired into the happenings of the night. These daily visits were not so feasible in the large glass cage, whose numerous dwellings required a general over-throw, if they were to be examined one by one and then methodically replaced in condition as discovered. With my jars of Black Scorpions, the inspection was the matter of a moment.

It was well for me that I always had this auxiliary establishment before my eyes. On the 22nd of July, at six o’clock in the morning, raising the cardboard screen, I found the mother beneath it, with her little ones grouped on her chine like a sort of white mantlet. I experienced [[249]]one of those seconds of sweet contentment which, at intervals, reward the long-suffering observer. For the first time, I had before my eyes the fine spectacle of the Scorpioness clad in her young. The delivery was quite recent; it must have taken place during the night; for, on the previous evening, the mother was bare.

Further successes awaited me: on the next day, a second mother is whitened with her brood; the day after that, two others at a time are in the same condition. That makes four. It is more than my ambition hoped for. With four families of Scorpions and a few quiet days before me, I can find sweets in life.

All the more so as fortune loads me with her favours. Ever since the first discovery in the jars, I have been thinking of the glass cage and asking myself whether the Languedocian Scorpion might not be as precocious as her black sister. Let us go quick and see.

I turn over the twenty-five tiles. A glorious success! I feel one of those hot waves of enthusiasm with which I was familiar at twenty rush through my old veins. Under three of the lot of tiles, I find a mother burdened with her family. One has little ones already shooting up, about a week old, as the sequel of my observations informed me; the two others have borne their children recently, in the course of last night, as is proved by certain remnants jealously guarded under the paunch. We shall see presently what those remnants represent.

July runs to an end, August and September pass and nothing more occurs to swell my collection. The period of the family, therefore, for both Scorpions is the second fortnight in July. From that time onward, everything is finished. And yet, among my guests in the glass cage, there remain females as big and fat as those [[250]]from whom I have obtained an offspring. I reckoned on these too for an increase in the population; all the appearances authorized me to do so. Winter comes and none of them has answered my expectations. The business, which seemed close at hand, has been put off to next year: a fresh proof of long pregnancy, very singular in the case of an animal of an inferior order.

I transfer each mother and her product, separately, into medium-sized receptacles, which facilitate the niceties of the observation. At the early hour of my visit, those brought to bed during the night have still a part of the brood sheltered under their belly. Pushing the mother aside with a straw, I discover, amid the heap of young not yet hoisted on the maternal back, objects that utterly upset all that the books have taught me on this subject. The Scorpions, they say, are viviparous. The learned expression lacks exactitude: the young do not see the light directly with the formation which we know of.

And this must be so. How would you have the outstretched claws, the sprawling legs, the shrivelled tails go through the maternal passages? The cumbrous little animal could never pass through the narrow outlets. It must needs come into the world packed up and sparing of space.

The remnants found under the mothers, in fact, show me eggs, real eggs, similar, or very nearly, to those which anatomy extracts from the ovaries at an advanced stage of pregnancy. The little animal, economically compressed to the dimensions of a grain of rice, has its tail laid along its belly, its claws flattened against its chest, its legs pressed to its sides, so that the small, easy-gliding, oval lump leaves not the smallest protuberance. On the forehead, dots of an intense black mark the eyes. The [[251]]tiny insect floats in a drop of transparent moisture, which is for the moment its world, its atmosphere, contained by a pellicle of exquisite delicacy.

These objects are really eggs. There were thirty or forty of them, at first, in the Languedocian Scorpion’s litter; not quite so many in the Black Scorpion’s. Interfering too late in the nocturnal lying-in, I am present at the finish. The little that remains, however, is sufficient to convince me. The Scorpion is in reality oviparous; only her eggs hatch very speedily and the liberation of the young follows very soon after the laying.

Now how does this liberation take place? I enjoy the remarkable privilege of witnessing it. I see the mother with the point of her mandibles delicately seizing, lacerating, tearing off and lastly swallowing the membrane of the egg. She strips her new-born offspring with the fastidious care and fondness of the sheep and the cat when eating the fetal wrappers. Not a scratch on that scarce-formed flesh, not a strain, in spite of the clumsiness of the tool employed.

I cannot get over my surprise: the Scorpion has initiated the living into acts of maternity bordering on our own. In the distant days of the coal vegetation, when the first Scorpion appeared, the gentle passions of childbirth were already preparing. The egg, the equivalent of the long-sleeping seed, the egg, as already possessed by the reptile and the fish and later to be possessed by the bird and almost the whole body of insects, was the contemporary of an infinitely more delicate organism which ushered in the viviparousness of the higher animals. The incubation of the germ did not take place outside, in the heart of the threatening conflict of things; it was accomplished in the mother’s womb. [[252]]

The progressive movements of life know no gradual stages, from fair to good, from good to excellent; they proceed by leaps and bounds, in some cases advancing, in some recoiling. The ocean has its ebb and flow. Life, that other ocean, more unfathomable than the ocean of the waters, has its ebb and flow likewise. Will it have any others? Who can say that it will? Who can say that it will not?

If the sheep were not to assist by swallowing the wrappers after picking them up with her lips, never would the lamb succeed in extricating itself from its swaddling-clothes. In the same way, the little Scorpion calls for its mother’s aid. I see some that, caught in stickiness, move about helplessly in the half-torn ovarian sac and are unable to free themselves. It wants a touch of the mother’s teeth to complete the deliverance. It is doubtful even whether the young insect contributes to effect the laceration. Its weakness is of no avail against that other weakness, the natal envelope, though this be as slender as the inner integument of an onion-skin.

The young chick has a temporary callosity at the end of its beak, which it uses to peck, to break the shell. The young Scorpion, condensed to the dimensions of a grain of rice to economize space, waits inertly for help from without. The mother has to do everything. She works with such a will that the accessories of childbirth disappear altogether, even the few sterile eggs being swept away with the others in the general flow. Not a remnant lingers behind of the now useless tatters; everything has returned to the mother’s stomach; and the spot of ground that has received the laying is swept absolutely clear.

PLATE XII

So here we have the young nicely wiped, clean and free. They are white. Their length, from the forehead to the [[253]]tip of the tail, measures nine millimetres[1] in the Languedocian Scorpion and four[2] in the Black. As the liberating toilet is completed, they climb, first one and then the other, on the maternal spine, hoisting themselves, without excessive haste, along the claws, which the Scorpion keeps flat on the ground, in order to facilitate the ascent. Close-grouped one against the other, entangled at random, they form a continuous cloth on the mother’s back. With the aid of their little claws, they are pretty firmly settled. One finds some difficulty in sweeping them away with the point of a hair pencil without more or less hurting the feeble creatures. In this state, neither steed nor burden budges: it is the fit moment for experimenting.

The Scorpion, clad in her young assembled to form a white muslin mantlet, is a spectacle worthy of attention. She remains motionless, with her tail curled on high. If I bring a rush of straw too near the family, she at once lifts her two claws in an angry attitude, rarely adopted in her own defence. The two fists are raised in a sparring posture, the nippers open wide, ready to thrust and parry. The tail is seldom brandished: to loosen it suddenly would give a shock to the spine and perhaps make a part of the burden fall to the ground. The bold, sudden, imposing menace of the fists suffices.

My curiosity takes no notice of it. I push off one of the little ones and place it facing its mother, at a finger’s breadth away. The mother does not seem to trouble about the accident: motionless she was, motionless she remains. Why excite herself about that slip? The fallen child will be quite able to manage for itself. It gesticulates, it moves about; and then, finding one of [[254]]the maternal claws within its reach, it clambers up pretty nimbly and joins the crowd of its brothers. It resumes its seat in the saddle, but without, by a long way, displaying the agility of the Lycosa’s sons, who are expert riders, versed in the art of vaulting on horseback.

The test is repeated on a larger scale. This time, I sweep a part of the load to the ground; the little ones are scattered, to no very great distance. There is a somewhat prolonged moment of hesitation. While the brats wander about, without quite knowing where to go, the mother at last becomes alarmed at the state of things. With her two arms—I am speaking of the chelæ—with her two arms joined in a semi-circle, she rakes and gathers the sand so as to bring the strayers to her. This is done awkwardly, clumsily, with no precautions against accidental crushing. The Hen, with a soft clucking call, makes the wandering chicks return to the pale; the Scorpion collects her family with a sweep of the rake. All are safe and sound nevertheless. As soon as they come in contact with the mother, they climb up and form themselves again into a dorsal group.

Strangers are admitted to this group, as well as the legitimate offspring. If, with the camel-hair broom, I dislodge a mother’s family, wholly or in part, and place it within reach of a second mother, herself carrying her family, the latter will collect the young ones by armfuls, as she would her own offspring, and very kindly allow the newcomers to mount upon her back. One would say that she adopts them, were the expression not too ambitious. There is no adoption. It is the same blindness as that of the Lycosa, who is incapable of distinguishing between her own family and the family of others, and welcomes all that swarms about her legs. [[255]]

I expected to come upon excursions similar to those of the Lycosa, whom it is not unusual to meet scouring the heath with her pack of children on her back. The Scorpion knows nothing of these diversions. Once she becomes a mother, for some time she does not leave her home, not even in the evening, at the hour when others sally forth to frolic. Barricaded in her cell, not troubling to eat, she watches over the upbringing of her young.

As a matter of fact, those frail creatures have a delicate test to undergo: they have, one might say, to be born a second time. They prepare for it by immobility and by an inward labour not unlike that which turns the larva into the perfect insect. In spite of their fairly correct appearance as Scorpions, the young ones have rather indistinct features, which look as though seen through a mist. One is inclined to credit them with a sort of child’s smock, which they must throw off in order to become slim and acquire a definite shape.

Eight days spent without moving, on the mother’s back, are necessary to this work. Then there takes place an excoriation which I hesitate to describe by the expression “casting of the skin,” so greatly does it differ from the true casting of the skin, undergone later at repeated intervals. For the latter, the skin splits over the thorax; and the animal emerges through this single fissure, leaving a dry cast garment behind it, similar in shape to the Scorpion that has just thrown it off. The empty mould retains the exact outline of the moulded animal.

But, this time, it is something different. I place a few young ones in course of excoriation on a sheet of glass. They are motionless, sorely tried, it seems, almost spent. The skin bursts, without special lines of cleavage; it tears at one and the same time in front, behind, at the [[256]]sides; the legs come out of their gaiters, the claws leave their gauntlets, the tail quits its scabbard. The cast skin falls in rags on every side at a time. It is a flaying without order and in tatters. When it is done, the flayed insects present the normal appearance of Scorpions. They have also acquired agility. Although still pale in tint, they are nimble, quick to set foot to earth in order to run and play near the mother. The most striking part of this progress is the brisk growth. The young of the Languedocian Scorpion measured nine millimetres in length; they now measure fourteen.[3] Those of the Black Scorpion have grown from four to six or seven millimetres.[4] The length increases by one half, which nearly trebles the volume.

Surprised at this sudden growth, one asks one’s self what the cause can be; for the little ones have taken no food. The weight has not increased: on the contrary, it has diminished; for we must remember that the skin has been cast. The volume grows, but not the bulk. It is therefore a distension up to a certain point and may be compared with that of inorganic bodies under the influence of heat. A secret change takes place, which groups the living molecules into a more spacious combination; and the volume increases without the addition of fresh materials. One who, possessed of a fine patience and suitably equipped, cared to follow the rapid changes of this architecture would, I think, reap a harvest of some value. I, in my penury, abandon the problem to others.

The remains of the excoriation are white strips, silky rags, which, so far from falling to the ground, attach themselves [[257]]to the back of the Scorpion, especially near the basal segments of the legs, and there tangle themselves into a soft carpet on which the lately-flayed insects rest. The steed now carries a saddle-cloth well-adapted to hold her restless riders in position. Whether these have to alight or to remount, the layer of tatters, now become a solid harness, affords supports for rapid evolutions.

When I topple over the family with a slight stroke of the camel-hair pencil, it is amusing to see how quickly the unhorsed ones resume their seat in the saddle. The fringes of the housings are grasped, the tail is used as a lever and, with a bound, the horseman is in his place. This curious carpet, a real boarding-netting which allows of easy scaling, lasts, without dislocations, for nearly a week, that is to say, until the emancipation. Then it comes off of its own accord, either as a whole or piecemeal, and nothing remains of it when the young are scattered around.

Meantime, signs of the colouring appear; the tail and belly are tinged with saffron, the claws assume the soft brilliancy of transparent amber. Youth beautifies all things. The little Languedocian Scorpions are really splendid. If they remained thus, if they did not carry a poison-still, soon to become threatening, they would be pretty creatures which one would find a pleasure in rearing. Soon the wish for emancipation awakens in them. They gladly descend from the mother’s back to frolic merrily in the neighbourhood. If they stray too far, the mother cautions them and brings them back again by sweeping the rake of her arms over the sand.

At dozing-time, the sight furnished by the Scorpioness is almost as good as that of the hen and her chicks resting. [[258]]Most of the young ones are on the ground, pressed close against the mother; a few are stationed on the white saddle-cloth, a delightful cushion. There are some who clamber up the mother’s tail, perch on the top of the bend and seem to delight in looking down from that point of vantage upon the crowd. More acrobats arrive, who dislodge them and take their places. All want their share in the curiosities provided by the gazebo.

The bulk of the family is around the mother; there is a constant swarm of brats that crawl under the belly and there squat, leaving their forehead, with the gleaming black eye-points, outside. The more restless prefer the mother’s legs, which to them represent a gymnasium; they here swing as on a trapeze. Next, at their leisure, the whole troop climb up to the spine again, resume their places, settle down; and nothing more stirs, neither mother nor little ones.

This period wherein the emancipation is matured and prepared lasts for a week, exactly as long as the strange labour that trebles the volume without food. The family remains upon the mother’s back for a fortnight, all told. The Lycosa carries her young for six or seven months, during which time they are always active and lively, although unfed. What do those of the Scorpion eat, at least after the excoriation that has given them agility and a new life? Does the mother invite them to her meals and reserve the tenderest morsels of her repasts for them? She invites nobody; she reserves nothing.

I serve her a Cricket, chosen among the small game that seems to me best-suited to the delicate nature of her sons. While she gnaws the morsel, without troubling in the least about her surroundings, one of the little ones [[259]]slips down her spine, crawls along her forehead and leans over to see what is happening. He touches the jaws with the tip of his leg; then briskly he retreats, startled. He goes away; and he is well-advised. The abyss engaged in the work of mastication, so far from reserving him a mouthful, might perhaps snap him up and swallow him without giving him a further thought.

A second is hanging on behind the Cricket, of whom the mother is munching the front. He nibbles, he pulls, eager for a bit. His perseverance comes to nothing: the fare is too tough.

I have seen it pretty often: the appetite awakens; the young would gladly accept food, if the mother took the least care to offer them any, especially food adjusted to the weakness of their stomachs; but she just eats for herself and that is all.

What do you want, O my pretty little Scorpions, who have provided me with such delightful moments? You want to go away, to some distant place, in search of victuals, of the tiniest of tiny beasties. I can see it by your restless roving. You run away from the mother, who, on her side, ceases to know you. You are strong enough; the hour has come to disperse.

If I knew exactly the infinitesimal game that suited you and if I had sufficient time to procure it for you, I should love to continue your upbringing; but not among the potsherds of the native cage, in the company of your elders. I know their intolerant spirit. The ogres would eat you up, my children. Your own mothers would not spare you. You are strangers to them henceforth. Next year, at the wedding-season, they would eat you, the jealous creatures! You had better go; prudence demands it. [[260]]

Where could I lodge you and how could I feed you? The best thing is to say good-bye, not without a certain regret on my part. One of these days, I will take you and scatter you in your territory, the rock-strewn slope where the sun is so hot. There you will find brothers and sisters who, hardly larger than yourselves, are already leading solitary lives, under their little stones, sometimes no bigger than a thumb-nail. There you will learn the hard struggle for life better than you would with me.

THE END

[1] ·35 inch.—Translator’s Note. [↑]

[2] ·15 inch.—Translator’s Note. [↑]

[3] ·35 increased to ·55 inch.—Translator’s Note. [↑]

[4] ·15 increased to ·235 or ·275 inch.—Translator’s Note. [↑]

[[Contents]]

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. [[261]]

[[Contents]]