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 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. [35] 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 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.
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.
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 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 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 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
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.
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. 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, 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 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. 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.
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, 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.
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 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. 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 him. He has been jilted. Sheepishly, he returns
indoors. I follow his example.
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 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.