The Life of the Scorpion

by Jean-Henri Fabre

CHAPTER III

THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION: THE POISON

In attacking small game, his usual fare, the Scorpion hardly uses his weapon. He seizes the insect with his two pincers and thus holds it the whole time within reach of his mouth, which nibbles slowly. Sometimes, if the victim struggles and disturbs the repast, the tail comes curving down and, with a series of little taps, deprives the patient of the power of movement. When all is said, the sting plays but a very subordinate part in the acquisition of food.

It is really of no use to the animal except in a moment of danger, face to face with an enemy. I do not know against what foes the formidable beast may have to defend itself. Who among the frequenters of the stony wastes would venture to attack it? Though I do not know on what occasions, in the normal course of things, the Scorpion [[54]]is obliged to take measures of defence. I can at least resort to artifice and arrange encounters which will force him to fight in grim earnest. To judge of the violence of his poison, I propose to place him in the presence of various powerful foes, without leaving the domain of entomology.

A Languedocian Scorpion and a Narbonne Lycosa are put into a large jar, with a layer of sand at the bottom, which affords a less slippery foothold than the glass. The two are similarly equipped with poisonous fangs. Which of the two will gain the upper hand and eat the other? While the Lycosa is the less powerful, she has the advantage of agility, which enables her to leap on her adversary and attack him unexpectedly. Before the defender, who is slow in countering, is able to adopt the fighting attitude, the other will deliver her stroke and flee before the brandished sting. The chances would seem to favour the active Spider.

The events do not correspond with these probabilities. So soon as she perceives the enemy, the Lycosa stands half-erect, opens her fangs, on which a drop of poison is gathering, and boldly waits. The Scorpion approaches [[55]]with short steps, extending his pincers in front of him. With his two-fingered hands he seizes and holds the Spider, who protests desperately, opening and closing her fangs without being able to bite, kept as she is at a distance. The struggle becomes impossible with such an adversary, armed with long pincers which hold the foe helpless at arm’s length and prevent her approach.

Without any sort of contest, therefore, the Scorpion curves his tail, brings it down in front of his forehead and drives the sting, entirely at his ease, into the victim’s black breast. This is not the instantaneous thrust of the Wasps and the other four-winged fighters: to make the weapon penetrate requires a certain effort. The knotted tail pushes, swaying slightly: it turns the sting to and fro as we twist a pointed tool with our fingers to make it enter a hard substance. When the hole is made, the sting lingers in the wound for a moment, doubtless to allow time for a larger dose of virus to escape. The result is overwhelming. No sooner is the sturdy Lycosa stung than she draws up her legs. She is dead. [[56]]

I have treated myself to this stirring spectacle with half-a-dozen victims. What the first experiment showed me the others repeated. There is always the instant attack by the Scorpion the moment he sees the Lycosa, always the tactics of the tongs holding the enemy at a distance, always the sudden death of the spitted Spider. If I crushed the animal underfoot, the inertia produced would be no more immediate. It is as though the Lycosa had been struck dead by lightning.

To eat the vanquished enemy is the rule, all the more inasmuch as the plump Spider is a magnificent prey, such as but rarely falls to the Scorpion’s lot in his usual hunting-grounds. Then and there, without delay, he sits down to his meal, commencing with the head, his customary routine with any sort of game. Motionless, he crunches and swallows, in tiny mouthfuls. Everything is consumed, excepting a few joints of the legs, which are tough morsels. The Gargantuan feast lasts for twenty-four hours.

When the banquet is over, we wonder how the dish has managed to disappear into a belly hardly larger than the thing eaten. [[57]]Those who are exposed to interminable fasts, and are compelled to gorge themselves to excess when the occasion offers, must have special digestive powers.