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.