THE RINGED CALICURGUS
The non-cuirassed victims, pervious to the sting over almost the whole
of their body, such as Common Caterpillars and “Land-surveying”
Caterpillars, Cetonia and Anoxia grubs, whose sole means of defence,
apart from their mandibles, consists in rollings and contortions,
summoned another prey to my glass bell: the Spider, almost as
ill-protected, but armed with formidable poison-fangs. How, more
particularly, does the Ringed Calicurgus, or Pompilus, set to work to
deal with the black-bellied Tarantula, the terrible Lycosa Narbonensis,
who slays mole and sparrow with a bite and imperils the life of man?
How does the bold Pompilus overcome an adversary stronger than herself,
better-endowed in virulence of poison and capable of making a meal of
her assailant? Among the hunting insects, none faces such
disproportionate contests, in which appearances seem to point to the
aggressor as the prey and to the prey as the aggressor.
The problem deserved patient study. True, judging by the Spider’s
structure, I anticipated a single stab in the centre of the thorax; but
this did not explain the victory of the Hymenopteron, emerging safe and
sound from her encounter with a quarry of that description. The matter
must be looked into. The chief difficulty is the scarcity of the
Calicurgus. To obtain the Tarantula is easy enough: the part of the
neighbouring upland as yet untilled by the vine-planters supplies me
with as many as I need. To capture the Calicurgus is a different story.
I count upon her so little that I consider a special search quite
useless. To look for one would, perhaps, be the very way not to find
one. Let us leave it to chance to decide whether I shall have one or
not.
I have one. I caught her unexpectedly on the flowers. The next day, I
lay in a stock of half-a-dozen Tarantulas. Perhaps I shall be able to
use them one after the other, in repeated duels. On my return from my
expedition in search of Lycosæ, chance smiles upon me again and
gratifies my desires to the full. A second Calicurgus presents herself
before my net: she is dragging her heavy, paralyzed Arachnid by the
leg, in the dust of the high-road. I set great store by my find: there
is an urgency about laying the egg; and I believe that the mother will
accept an exchange without much hesitation.
So behold my two captives, each under a glass bell with her Tarantula.
I am all eyes. What a drama I may expect, in a moment! I wait,
anxiously.... But ... but ... what is this? Which of the two is the
attacker? Which of the two the attacked? The characters seem inverted.
The Calicurgus, unfit for climbing up the smooth walls of the bell,
strides along the outer circumference of the arena. With proud, swift
gait and quivering wings and antennæ, she comes and goes. She soon sets
eyes upon the Lycosa, marches up to her without the least sign of fear,
turns around her and seems about to seize one of her legs. But, at that
moment, the Tarantula rises almost perpendicularly, using her four
hind-legs to stand upon and her four front-legs erect, outspread, ready
to thrust and parry. The poison-fangs yawn wide: a drop of venom hangs
from their point. The mere sight of them makes my flesh creep. In this
terrible attitude, presenting her powerful chest and the black velvet
of her belly to her enemy, the Arachnid overawes the Pompilus, who
abruptly turns to the right-about and retreats. The Lycosa then closes
her case of poisoned daggers and returns to her natural position,
standing on her eight legs; but, at the least aggressive movement on
the part of the Hymenopteron, she resumes her threatening posture.
Nay, she does better: suddenly, she leaps and flings herself upon the
Calicurgus, grapples with her nimbly and gnaws her with her fangs. The
other, without replying with her sting, releases herself and emerges
unscathed from the fierce encounter. Time after time, I witness the
attack; and nothing serious ever happens to the Hymenopteron, who
quickly extricates herself and seems to have felt nothing. Her
manœuvres are resumed as boldly and swiftly as at the start.
Does this mean that the creature escaping from the terrible fangs is
invulnerable? Obviously not. A real bite would be fatal to her. Big,
tough Acridians succumb: why should not she, with her delicate
organization, succumb as well? The Arachnid’s daggers, therefore, make
vain feints; their points do not enter the antagonist’s flesh. If the
blows were real, I should see bleeding wounds, I should see the fangs
closed for a moment upon the point seized, whereas all my watchfulness
fails to perceive anything of the sort. Are the fangs powerless, then,
to pierce the Calicurgus’ envelope? Not that either. I have seen them
go through the corselet of the Acridians, which possesses much greater
resisting power and which cracks like a broken breastplate. Once more,
whence comes this strange immunity of the Calicurgus between the legs
and under the daggers of the Tarantula? I do not know. At a time when
she is in mortal danger in front of her enemy, the Lycosa threatens her
with her fangs and cannot bring herself to bite, prevented by a
reluctance which I do not undertake to explain.
Seeing that I am obtaining nothing but alarms and scrimmages devoid of
seriousness, I decide to alter the conditions of the prize-ring and to
make it resemble more closely the natural state. My work-table is but a
poor substitute for the soil; besides, the Arachnid has not her
stronghold, her burrow, which maybe plays a part of some importance in
both attack and defence. A stump of reed is stuck perpendicularly in a
large pan filled with earth. This shall represent the Lycosa’s pit. In
the middle, I plant a few heads of echinops, made appetizing with
honey, as a refectory for the Pompilus; a pair of Crickets, renewed as
soon as consumed, shall keep up the strength of the Tarantula. This
comfortable abode, exposed to the sun, receives the two captives under
a woven-wire cover, well-ventilated and suitable for a long stay.
My artifices lead to no result; the session ends without business done.
A day passes, two days, three days; and still nothing. The Calicurgus
is unremitting in her attentions to the honeyed thistle-heads; the
Tarantula calmly nibbles away at her Cricket. If the other comes within
reach of her, she quickly draws herself up and, with a gesture, orders
her to be off. The artificial burrow, the reed-stump, fulfils its
purpose nicely. Lycosa and Calicurgus take refuge in it by turns, but
without quarrelling. And that is all. The drama of which the prologue
promised so well now seems to me indefinitely postponed.
A last resource remains; and I base great hopes upon it. This is to
move my Calicurgi to the very spot of their investigations and to
install them at the door of the Arachnid’s house, above the natural
burrow. I take the field with an apparatus which I am dragging for the
first time into the open, consisting of a glass cover, another of woven
wire, together with the different instruments necessary to handle and
shift my irascible and dangerous subjects. My search for burrows among
the pebbles and the tufts of thyme and lavender soon meets with
success.
Here is a splendid one. The insertion of a straw informs me that it is
inhabited by a Tarantula of a size suited to my plans. I sweep and
flatten down the neighbourhood of the orifice to receive the wire bell,
under which I place a Pompilus. This is a fitting moment to light one’s
pipe and wait, stretched on the pebbles.... A further disappointment!
Half an hour passes and the Hymenopteron confines herself to turning
round the wire, as she did in my study. Not a sign of cupidity on her
part in the presence of that burrow at the bottom of which I see the
Tarantula’s diamond eyes gleaming.
The wire-work enclosure is replaced by one of glass, the walls of which
cannot be scaled, thus obliging the insect to remain on the ground and
at last to take notice of the pit, which it seems to ignore. This time,
we are more successful. After a few strolls round the circuit, the
Calicurgus casts eyes upon the cavity that yawns beneath her feet. She
goes down it. This boldness staggers me. I should never have dared
expect as much as that. To fling yourself suddenly upon the Tarantula
when she is outside her domain is all very well; but to plunge into the
lair when the terrible animal is waiting for you there with her double
poisoned dagger! What will come of this temerity? A flutter of wings
rises from the depths. Run to earth in her private apartments, the
Lycosa is doubtless struggling with the intruder. That noise of wings
is the song of victory of the Calicurgus, unless, indeed, it be her
death-song. The murderer may well be the murdered. Which of the two
will emerge from below alive?
It is the Lycosa, who hurriedly scampers out and takes up her stand at
the entrance to the burrow in her position of defence, with her fangs
open and her four front-legs outstretched. Is the other stabbed? Not at
all, for she comes out forthwith, not without receiving a cuff, as she
passes, from the Arachnid, who at once returns to her den. Dislodged
from the basement a second and a third time, the Tarantula always comes
up again without a wound, always waits for the invader on the
door-sill, administers punishment and pops in again. In vain I
alternate my two Pompili and change the burrow: I do not succeed in
seeing anything more. Certain conditions, which my stratagems fail to
realize, are lacking to the fulfilment of the drama.
Discouraged by the repetition of my fruitless experiments, I throw up
the game, having gained, however, a fact of some value: the Calicurgus
descends, without the least fear, into the Tarantula’s den and turns
her out. I imagine that things happen in the same way outside my bells.
Evicted from her home, the Arachnid is more timorous and lends herself
better to the attack. Besides, in the constraint of a narrow burrow,
the operator would not be able to wield her lancet with the precision
which her plans demand. The bold incursion shows us once again, more
clearly than the hand-to-hand encounters on my table, the Lycosa’s
reluctance to drive her fangs into her adversary. When the two are face
to face at the bottom of the lair, that surely would be the time of
times to have a word with the enemy. The Tarantula is at home; every
nook and corner of the bastion is familiar to her. The intruder is
constrained in her movements; she does not know her way about. Quick, a
bite, my poor Lycosa, and your persecutor’s done for! You refrain, I
know not why; and your reluctance is the rash one’s salvation. The
silly sheep does not reply to the butcher’s knife with a butt from his
horned forehead. Can you be the sheep of the Calicurgus?
My two subjects are once more installed in my study, under their wire
domes, with the bed of sand, the reed-stump burrow and renewed honey.
They here find their first Lycosæ, feeding on crickets. The
cohabitation extends over three weeks, without other incidents than
scrimmages and threatenings, which become rarer from day to day. No
serious hostility on either side. At last, the Calicurgi die: their day
is past. A pitiful ending to a spirited start.
Shall I abandon the problem? Oh, no! It is not the first that has been
unable to deter me from an eagerly-cherished plan. Fortune favours the
persevering. She proves this by offering me, in September, a fortnight
after the death of my Tarantula-hunters, a different Calicurgus,
captured for the first time. It is Calicurgus Curra, clad in the same
showy style as her predecessors and almost of the same size.
I know nothing about the new-comer: I wonder what she would like. A
spider, that is certain: but which? A huntress of her build calls for
big game: perhaps the Silky Epeira, perhaps the Banded Epeira, the two
fattest Arachnids in the country, next to the Tarantula. The first
hangs her great vertical web, in which the Crickets are caught, from
one brake of brushwood to the next. I shall find her in the copses on
the adjacent hills. The other stretches hers across the ditches and
little water-courses frequented by the Dragon-flies. I shall find her
near the Aygues, on the bank of the irrigation-canals fed by that
torrent. Two excursions procure me the two Epeiræ. Next day, I offer
them together to my captive, who shall choose according to her tastes.
The choice is soon made: Epeira Fasciata obtains the preference. But
she does not yield without protest. At the Hymenopteron’s approach, she
draws herself up and assumes a defensive attitude copied from that of
the Lycosa. The Calicurgus does not mind the threats: under her
harlequin attire, she is quick to strike and swift of foot. A few brisk
cuffs are exchanged and the Epeira lies overturned on her back. The
Calicurgus is on top of her, belly to belly, head to head; with her
legs, she overpowers the Arachnid’s legs; with her mandibles, she grips
the cephalothorax. She curves her abdomen vigorously, bringing it
underneath; she draws her sting and....
One moment, reader, if you please. Where is the sting going to
penetrate? According to what we have learnt from the other paralyzers,
it will be in the chest, to destroy the movement of the legs. You think
so? I believed it too. Well, without wasting time in apologizing for
our very excusable common error, let us confess that the animal is
cleverer than we are. It knows how to make certain of success by means
of a preparatory trick which you and I had not thought of. Oh, what a
school is that of the animals! Is it not a fact that, before striking
the adversary, it is wise to take steps not to be hit yourself?
Calicurgus Scurra does not disregard this counsel of prudence. The
Epeira carries under her throat two sharp daggers, with a drop of
poison at the tip; the Calicurgus is lost if the Arachnid bite her.
Nevertheless, her anæsthetizing operation requires perfect security of
the lancet. What is to be done in this peril, which would perplex the
most confident surgeon? We must first disarm the patient and operate
upon him later.
Behold, the Calicurgus’ sting, aimed from back to front, enters the
Epeira’s mouth, with minute precautions and emphatic persistency. Upon
the instant, the poison-fangs close limply and the formidable prey is
rendered harmless. The Hymenopteron’s abdomen then extends its arch and
drives in the needle behind the fourth pair of legs, on the median
line, almost at the juncture of the belly. The skin is thinner and more
easily penetrable at this spot than elsewhere. The rest of the chest is
covered with a firm breast-plate, which the sting would perhaps not
succeed in perforating. The nerve-centres, the seat of the movement of
the legs, are situated a little higher than the wounded spot; but the
aiming of the weapon from back to front enables it to reach them. This
last blow produces paralysis of the eight legs together.
To enlarge upon the proceeding would spoil the eloquence of this
manœuvre. First, for the protection of the operator, a stab in the
mouth, that fearsomely armed point, to be dreaded above all others;
next, for the protection of the grub, a second stab in the
nerve-centres of the thorax, to destroy all movement. I suspected
indeed that the sacrificers of powerful Arachnids were endowed with
special talents; but I was far from expecting their daring logic, which
disarms before it paralyzes. This must also be the scheme followed by
the Tarantula-huntress, who refused to disclose her secret under my
bells. I know her method now, divulged as it is by a colleague. She
turns the horrible Lycosa on her back, deadens her daggers by stinging
her in the mouth and then, with a single prick of the needle, contrives
the paralysis of the legs at her ease.
I examine the Epeira immediately after the operation and the Tarantula
when the Calicurgus drags her by one leg to her burrow, at the foot of
a wall. For a little while longer, a minute at most, the Epeira
convulsively moves her legs. As long as these dying quivers last, the
Pompilus does not let go of her prey. She seems to be watching the
progress of the paralysis. With the tip of her mandibles, she
repeatedly explores the mouth of the Arachnid, as though to make sure
that the poison-fangs are really harmless. Next, all becomes quiet; and
the Calicurgus makes ready to drag her prey elsewhither. It is then
that I take possession of it.
What strikes me first of all is the absolute inertness of the fangs,
which I tickle with a straw without succeeding in rousing them from
their torpor. The feelers, on the contrary, the feelers, their
immediate neighbours, move backwards and forwards the moment I touch
them. I put the Epeira away safely in a flask and subject her to a
fresh examination a week later. Irritability has returned in part.
Under the stimulus of the straw, I see the limbs move a little,
especially the lower joints, legs and tarsi. The feelers are even more
irritable and mobile. These various movements, however, are devoid of
vigour or coordination; and the Spider cannot use them to turn herself
and still less to shift her position. As for the poison-fangs, I
stimulate them in vain; I do not succeed in inducing them to open, or
even to move. They are, therefore, profoundly paralyzed and in a
special manner. I thought as much, at the beginning, from the peculiar
persistency displayed by the dart in stinging the mouth.
At the end of September, almost a month after the operation, the Epeira
is in the same condition, neither dead nor alive: the feelers still
quiver at the touch of the straw; and nothing else stirs. Finally,
after six or seven weeks of lethargy, real death supervenes, together
with its companion, corruption.
The Tarantula of the Ringed Calicurgus, whom I steal from her owner
while she is dragging her along, offers the same peculiarities for my
inspection. The poison-fangs absolutely refuse to be irritated by the
tickling of the straw, a fresh proof added to that of analogy to show
that the Lycosa, like the Epeira, has been stung in the mouth. The
feelers, on the other hand, are and for weeks remain exceedingly
irritable and mobile. I insist upon this point, the interest of which
will soon become apparent.
It was not possible for me to obtain a second attack from my Calicurgus
Scurra: the tedium of captivity injured the exercise of her talents.
Besides, the Epeira had occasionally something to say to this refusal:
a certain stratagem of war twice employed before my eyes could easily
rout the aggressor. Let me describe the thing, if only to raise a
little in our esteem those silly Arachnids, who, provided with weapons
of perfection, dare not use them against their feebler, but pluckier
assailant.
The Epeira occupies the wall of the woven-wire enclosure, with her
eight legs sprawling over the trellis-work; the Calicurgus moves about
under the top of the dome. Panic-stricken at the sight of the enemy,
the spider drops to the ground, with her belly in the air and her legs
bunched up. The other goes to her, takes hold of her, examines her and
places herself in a position to sting her in the mouth. But she does
not unsheathe her dart. I see her leaning attentively over the
poison-fangs, as though to enquire into the nature of the terrible
machinery; and then she moves away. The spider remains motionless, so
much so that I believe her dead, paralyzed without my knowing it, at a
moment when I was not looking. I take her out of the volery to examine
her at my ease. But no sooner is she laid upon the table than she comes
to life and promptly scurries away. The trickster was shamming for dead
under the Calicurgus’ dagger and so artfully that I was taken in by
her. She hoodwinked one cleverer than myself, the Calicurgus, who
inspected her very closely and did not consider a dead body worthy of
her steel. Perhaps the simpleton already noticed a “high” smell, like
the bear in the fable.
This trick, if trick there be, appears to me to turn most often to the
disadvantage of the Arachnid: Tarantula, Epeira or another, as the case
may be. The Calicurgus, who has just thrown her on her back, after a
brisk wrestling-match, knows well enough that the insect on the ground
is not dead. The Spider, thinking to protect herself, shams the
lifelessness of a corpse; the assailant takes advantage of this to
strike her most dangerous blow, the stab in the mouth. If the
poison-tipped fangs were to open then, to snap, to bite in their
despair, the Calicurgus would never dare expose the tip of her stomach
to their mortal sting. The pretence of death is just what causes the
success of the huntress in her risky operation. We are told, O
ingenuous Epeiræ, that the struggle for life counselled you to adopt
that inert attitude in your own defence. Well, the struggle for life
has shown herself a very bad counsellor. You would do better to believe
in common sense and learn, by degrees, at your cost, that a quick
parry-and-thrust, especially when your resources permit of it, is still
the best way of striking awe into the enemy.
THE OLD WEEVILS