THE CLOTHO SPIDER
Prettily shaped and clad, as far as a Spider can be, the Clotho Spider
is, above all, a very clever spinstress. She is named after the Clotho
of antiquity, the youngest of the Three Fates, who holds the distaff
whence our destinies are spun. It is a pity that the Fate Clotho cannot
spin as soft lives for us as the exquisite silk the Spider Clotho spins
for herself!
If we would make the acquaintance of the Clotho Spider we must go up
the rocky slopes in the olive-land, scorched and blistered by the sun,
turn over the flat stones, those of a fair size, search, above all,
the piles which the shepherds set up for a seat from which to watch
the sheep browsing amongst the lavender below. Do not be too easily
disheartened if you do not find her at first. The Clotho is rare; not
every spot suits her. If we are lucky, we shall see, clinging to the
lower surface of the stone which we have lifted, a queer-looking thing,
shaped like the dome of a building turned upside down, and about half
the size of a tangerine orange. The outside is hung with small shells,
bits of earth, and, especially, dried insects.
[Illustration]
The edge of the dome is scalloped into a dozen pointed scallops, the
points of which spread and are fixed to the stone. A flat roof closes
the top of the dwelling.
Where is the entrance? All the arches of the edge open upon the roof;
not one leads inside. Yet the owner of the house must go out from time
to time, if only in search of food; on returning from her expedition,
she must go in again. How does she make her exits and her entrances? A
straw will tell us the secret.
Pass it over the threshold of the various arches. It finds them all
carefully closed, apparently. But one of the scallops, if cleverly
coaxed, opens at the edge into two lips and stands slightly ajar. This
is the door, which at once shuts again of its own elasticity. Nor is
this all: the Spider, when she returns home, often bolts herself in;
that is to say, she joins and fastens the two leaves of the door with a
little silk.
The Clotho, when in danger, runs quickly home; she opens the chink
with a touch of her claw, enters and disappears. The door closes of
itself and is supplied, in case of need, with a lock consisting of a
few threads. No burglar, on the outside of so many arches, one and all
alike, will ever discover under which one the fugitive vanished so
suddenly.
Let us open the Spider’s cabin. What luxury! We have read how the
Princess in the fairy-tale was unable to rest, if there was a crumpled
rose-leaf in her bed. The Clotho is quite as fastidious. Her couch is
more delicate than swan’s-down and whiter than the fleece of clouds
where brood the summer storms. It is the ideal blanket. Above is a
canopy or tester of equal softness. Between the two nestles the Spider,
short-legged, clad in somber garments, with five yellow favors on her
back.
Rest in this exquisite retreat demands that it be perfectly steady,
especially on gusty days, when sharp draughts creep under the stone
dwelling. By taking a careful look at her we can see how the Spider
manages this. The arches that bear the weight of the building are
fastened to the stone at each end. Moreover, where they touch, you may
see a cluster of diverging threads that creep along the stone and cling
to it throughout their length, which spreads afar. I have measured some
that were fully nine feet long. These are so many cables; they are like
the ropes and pegs that hold the Arab’s tent in position.
Another detail attracts our attention: whereas the inside of the house
is exquisitely clean, the outside is covered with dirt, bits of earth,
chips of rotten wood, little pieces of gravel. Often there are worse
things still: hung up or embedded are the dry carcasses of Beetles that
favor under-rock shelters; parts of Thousand-legged Worms, bleached by
the sun; snail-shells, chosen from among the smallest.
These relics are plainly, for the most part, table-leavings, broken
victuals. Unskilled in laying traps, the Clotho lives upon the insects
who wander from one stone to another. Whoever ventures under the slab
at night is strangled by the hostess; and the dried-up carcass, instead
of being flung to a distance, is hung to the silken wall, as though
the Spider wished to make a bogey-house of her home. But this cannot
be her aim. To act like the ogre who hangs his victim from the castle
battlements is the worst way to disarm suspicion in the passers-by whom
you are lying in wait to capture.
There are other reasons which increase our doubts. The shells hung up
are most often empty; but there are also some occupied by the Snail,
alive and untouched. What can the Spider do with these snail-shells
wherein the animal retreats so far that she cannot reach it? The
Spider cannot break the hard shell or get at the hermit through the
opening. Then why should she collect these prizes, whose slimy flesh
is probably not to her taste? We begin to suspect a simple question
of ballast and balance. The House Spider prevents her web, spun in a
corner of the wall, from losing its shape at the least breath of air,
by loading it with crumbling plaster and allowing tiny fragments of
mortar to accumulate. The Clotho Spider dumps down on her abode any
more or less heavy object, mainly corpses of insects, because she need
not look for these and finds them ready to hand after each meal. They
are weights, not trophies; they take the place of materials that must
otherwise be collected from a distance and lifted to the top. In this
way, a breastwork is obtained that strengthens and steadies the house.
Further balance is often given by tiny shells and other objects hanging
a long way down. The Clotho knows the laws of balancing; by means of
additional weights, she is able to lower the center of gravity and thus
to give her dwelling the proper equilibrium and roominess.
Now what does she do in her softly-wadded home? Nothing, that I know
of. With a full stomach, her legs luxuriously stretched over the down
carpet, she does nothing, thinks of nothing; she listens to the sound
of the earth revolving on its axis. It is not sleep, still less is it
waking; it is a middle state where the Spider is conscious of nothing
except that she is happy. We ourselves, when comfortably in bed, enjoy,
just before we fall asleep, a few moments of bliss, when we neither
think nor worry; and those moments are among the sweetest in our lives.
The Clotho Spider seems to know similar moments and to make the most of
them.
[Illustration]