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 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 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.
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. Those who
are exposed to interminable fasts, and are compelled to gorge
themselves to excess when the occasion offers, must have special
digestive powers.
If the Scorpion attacks the Lycosa, who would be capable of making a
serious defence were she to rush upon the enemy, instead of proudly
standing with her breast uncovered, what will be the fate of the meek
Epeiræ? [16] All, even the largest, the Angular, the Banded, and the
Silky Epeira, are fiercely attacked, all the more since these poor
spinners, demoralized by fear, do not even try to fling their hanks of
cord, which so promptly paralyse the assailant. In their webs, with a
lavish discharge of snares, they would master the ferocious Mantis,
[17] the formidable Hornet, or the big Locust, that expert kicker. Away
from their own homes, faced by an enemy and not a victim, they utterly
forget their potent methods of binding the foe. When stung, they all
instantly succumb, struck dead like the Lycosa; and the Scorpion feasts
upon them.
Under the stone, the Spider-lover never meets the Lycosa or the Epeiræ,
who frequent other regions; but he may, at long intervals, find other
Spiders, addicted like himself to sheltering in rocky refuges, and
notably the timid Clotho. [18] He is therefore pretty familiar with
this sort of game, and any fair-sized Spider suits him, provided that
he be hungry.
I suspect him of being by no means indifferent to the capture of a
Praying Mantis, another highly meritorious dish. Certainly he does not
go in search of her on the bushes, the usual resort of this ravenous
insect: his means of climbing, which are excellently adapted to scaling
a wall, would never permit him to walk on the wavering support of the
leaves. He must strike when the mother is pregnant, towards the end of
the summer. As a matter of fact, I fairly often find the nest of the
Praying Mantis fastened to the lower surface of the lumps of stone
haunted by the Scorpion.
The highwayman may make his approach, in quest of victuals, on a
peaceful night, just when the labouring mother is whipping the froth of
her egg-filled casket. [19] What happens then I have never witnessed;
probably I never shall: it would be asking too much of luck. Let us
fill the gap by artificial means.
In the cock-pit of an earthenware dish, I provoke a duel between a
Scorpion and a Mantis, both selected of a good size. If necessary, I
stimulate them, urge them to the encounter. I already know that not all
the blows of the tail take effect: very often they are mere raps on the
head. Sparing of his poison and scorning to sting when there is no
pressing need, the Scorpion repels the intruder with a sudden back
stroke of the tail, without using the needle. In our various
experiments we will count only the blows which draw blood in proof that
the sting has penetrated.
When seized with the tweezers, the Mantis instantly adopts the spectral
attitude, [20] with the saw-toothed legs open and the wings displayed
like an heraldic crest. This scare-crow attitude, so far from
succeeding, makes the attack all the easier: the sting plunges into the
base, between the two lethal limbs, and lingers for some time in the
wound. When it is withdrawn, there is still a drop of poison oozing at
the tip.
Then and there the Mantis draws up her legs in the throes of death. The
belly heaves, the caudal appendages wave by fits and starts, the tarsi
give faint quivers. On the other hand, the lethal legs, the antennæ,
and the mouth-parts are motionless. This condition is followed, in less
than fifteen minutes, by complete inertia.
The Scorpion does not think out his blows; he strikes at random any
point within reach. This time he has stabbed a part which is eminently
vulnerable, because of the proximity of the principal nerve-centres; he
has stung the Mantis in the breast, between the lethal legs, precisely
where the Mantis-killing Tachytes [21] wounds her victim with the
object of paralysing it. The act is fortuitous and not intentional: the
lout is not an expert anatomist like the Wasp. As luck would have it,
death was instantaneous. What would happen if the sting were delivered
in another, less dangerous part of the body?
I change the operator, to make sure that the poison-phial is charged. I
shall take the same precaution in the various subsequent encounters:
each fresh victim will have a fresh executioner, whose full powers have
been restored by a long rest.
The Mantis, another powerful matron, stands half-erect, turns her head
[22] and looks at him warily over her shoulder. She assumes her
spectral attitude, with puffing sounds produced by rubbing the wings
together. Her boldness at first succeeds: she manages to seize her
adversary’s tail with her toothed fore-arms. As long as she holds
tight, the Scorpion is disarmed and unable to hurt her.
But fatigue supervenes, enhanced by terror. The Mantis had seized the
tail brandished in front of her as she might have harpooned any other
part of the body, without doubting the efficiency of her manœuvre. The
poor simpleton opens her trap. She is lost. The Scorpion stings her in
the abdomen, not far from the third pair of legs. Complete collapse
ensues, like that of a piece of clockwork whose mainspring is broken.
It is not in my power to obtain stings at this or that point as I
choose: the irascible Scorpion does not lend himself to the liberty of
attempting to guide his weapon. I make the most of the various
instances that occur in the hazards of the contest. Some of them are
worth recording, because of the great distance from the centres of
innervation.
This time the Mantis is stung on one of the lethal limbs, in the
fine-skinned joint of the arm and fore-arm. This results in immediate
inertia of the limb affected and soon after of the second. The other
legs curl up: there are pulsations of the abdomen; and absolute
immobility quickly follows. Death is almost instantaneous.
Another is stung in the joint between the shank and the thigh of one of
the middle legs. Suddenly the four hind-legs fold back; the wings which
the insect had not outspread at the moment of the attack, are unfurled
convulsively, as in the spectral attitude, and remain outspread even
after death. The murderous legs flounder about in disorder: they
clutch, they open, they close again; the antennæ move, the palpi
tremble, the abdomen throbs, the caudal appendages wave to and fro.
Another fifteen minutes of this tumultuous death-struggle: and all is
still; the Mantis is no more.
And so in all the instances in which my curiosity, greatly excited by
the stirring aspect of the tragedy, indulges whatever the point
attacked, whether near the nerve-centres or farther away, the Mantis
always succumbs, sometimes instantly, sometimes after a few minutes’
convulsions. Rattlesnakes, Vipers, Puff-adders and other venomous
Snakes of dreadful renown do not kill their victims more promptly.
At first I regarded this as due to a highly-strung organism, which is
all the more sensitive and vulnerable because it is better equipped.
Picked creatures both, said I to myself, the Spider and the Mantis die
instantaneously from an injury which a ruder creature would endure for
hours and days, perhaps even without any great inconvenience. Let us
then try the Mole-cricket, the detested Taiocebo of the Provençal
gardener. A strange beast indeed is this root-cutter; powerful, too,
clumsy and of a lower type. When you grip it firmly in your hand, it
makes you let go by digging into your skin with the toothed toes of its
hind-legs, copied from the Mole’s.
When brought into contact in a narrow arena, Scorpion and Mole-cricket
look each other in the face and seem to recognize each other. Can there
have been encounters between them from time to time? It is very
doubtful. The Mole-cricket is an inmate of our gardens, of rich soil in
which green vegetables convoke underground vermin; the Scorpion is
faithful to the sun-scorched slopes on which dry grasses find it
difficult to grow. Meetings are hardly probable between the inhabitants
of barren and of fruitful soil.
Though unknown to each other, they none the less realize the gravity of
the danger confronting them. With no provocation from me, the Scorpion
rushes at the Mole-cricket, who, for her part, assumes an aggressive
posture, with her shears ready to disembowel her foe. Rubbing her upper
wings together, she entones a sort of war-song, a dull buzzing. The
Scorpion does not leave her time to finish her ditty; he brings his
tail into play. The Mole-cricket’s thorax bears a stout, arched cuirass
encasing the back. To the rear of this impenetrable armour there is a
deep crease, covered with fine skin. It is here that the sting enters.
Forthwith, without more ado, the monster is overthrown; she collapses,
as though struck by lightning.
Disorderly movements follow. The digging-legs are paralysed; they no
longer grip at the straw which I hold out to them. The others thresh to
and fro, stretch out and flex themselves again; the four palpi with the
large, fleshy tufts meet in a bunch, separate, come together again and
pat the object which I place within their reach; the antennæ wave
feebly; the belly throbs with deep pulsations. Gradually, these
death-throes decrease in violence. At length, in a couple of hours’
time, the tarsi, the last to die, cease quivering. The clumsy creature
has succumbed no less completely than the Lycosa and the Mantis, but
after a longer death-struggle.
It remains to be ascertained whether the stab under the armour of the
thorax does not possess a special efficiency, because of the proximity
of the nerve-centres. I repeat the experiment with other patients and
other operators. Sometimes the sting enters the chink in the armour;
more often it touches some part of the abdomen. In this case, even
though the stab is delivered at the extreme tip, the result is always
sudden death. The only perceptible difference is that, instead of being
instantly paralyzed, the digging-legs continue for some time to
struggle like the rest. When struck by the Scorpion in any part
whatever, the Mole-cricket therefore is always mortally wounded; the
powerful insect gives up the ghost after a few convulsive struggles.
Now comes the turn of the Grey Locust, [23] the largest and most active
of our Acridians. The Scorpion appears perturbed by the proximity of
this turbulent kicker. The Locust, on her side, would be only too well
pleased to get away. She hops and bumps against the pane of glass with
which I have covered the arena to prevent escape. From time to time she
drops on the back of the Scorpion, who flees to avoid this sudden fall.
At last, losing patience, the runaway stings the Locust in the belly.
The shock must be of extraordinary violence, for one of the
big-haunched legs immediately falls off, through one of those
spontaneous disarticulations to which Locusts and Grasshoppers are
addicted at desperate moments. The other is paralyzed. Stretched
straight out and up, it is no longer able to obtain a purchase on the
ground. The Locust’s hopping-days are over. Meanwhile, the four front
legs make disorderly movements and are incapable of progression. When
laid on its side, the insect nevertheless turns over and resumes the
normal position, all but the large hind-leg, which is still impotent
and sticking into the air.
Fifteen minutes pass; and the insect falls, never to rise again. The
spasms, the stretching of the legs, the quivering of the tarsi, the
waving of the antennæ continue for a long time yet. This condition,
becoming more and more aggravated, may last till next day; but
sometimes the inertia is complete in less than an hour.
Another powerful Acridian, the Tryxalis [24], with the immensely long
shanks and the sugar-loaf head, ends like the Locust: her death-agony
lasts some hours. Among the sword-bearers, the Grasshoppers, I have
seen this gradual paralysis, which is not yet death, but which is no
longer life, prolonged for a week. This time the subject is the Vine
Ephippiger. [25]
The pot-bellied creature has been stung in the abdomen. There are cries
of distress from the cymbals at the moment of the wound; and the insect
falls on its side, with all the appearances of imminent death.
Nevertheless the wounded Ephippiger makes a fight for it. At the end of
two days, she is kicking so hard with her ataxic legs, incapable of
locomotion, that the idea occurs to me to come to her assistance and
doctor her up a little. I administer as a cordial, on the tip of a
straw, some grape-juice, which is readily accepted.
It seems as though the draught is effectual; the insect appears to be
recovering. Nothing of the sort, alas! On the seventh day after the
sting, the patient dies. The Scorpion’s sting is inexorable, for any
insect, even of the strongest. One dies on the spot; another lingers
for days; but all succumb in the end. Even though my Ephippiger were to
survive for a week, I should know better than to ascribe this to my
doctoring with grape-juice: the Grasshopper’s long resistance must be
attributed to her temperament.
We must consider above all things the gravity of the wound, which
varies greatly according to the dose of poison injected. It is not in
my power to regulate its emission: besides, the Scorpion is freakish in
the flow of the poison from his phial: in one case he is stingy, and in
another prodigal. For this reason the discrepancy is great between the
data furnished by the Ephippiger. My notes speak of subjects succumbing
after a brief interval, whereas others, more numerous, take a long time
to die.
Generally, the Grasshoppers resist better than the Locusts. The
Ephippiger bears witness to this and, next to her, so does the
White-faced Decticus, [26] the chief of the sword-bearing clan. The
insect with the large mandibles and the ivory head is stabbed near the
middle of the abdomen, on the dorsal surface. The wounded Decticus,
apparently not gravely injured, walks about and tries to hop. Half an
hour later, however, the poison is working. The abdomen is convulsed,
curves into a wide hook and, with its open gap, incapable of closing,
plows through the rough surface of the soil. The proud creature has
become a pitiful cripple. Six hours later, the insect is lying on its
side. It exhausts itself in unsuccessful attempts to rise on its feet.
Little by little, the crisis subsides. On the second day, the Decticus
is dead, really dead: not a limb stirs.
Late in the afternoon, the great black-and-yellow Dragon-fly flies to
and fro in a straight line, swiftly and silently, along the hedges. She
is the corsair who levies tribute on all who navigate those peaceful
waters. Her ardent life, her fiery activity point to a more delicate
nervous system than that of the Locust, the placid ruminant of the
pastures. And in fact, when stung by the Scorpion, she dies almost as
quickly as the Praying Mantis.
The Cicada, [27] another spendthrift of energy, who from morning till
night, in the dog-days, never ceases singing by jerking his abdomen up
and down, beating time to the cadence of his cymbals, likewise dies
very speedily. Talents have to be paid for: where the dull-witted hold
out, the gifted succumb.
The large Beetles, in their horny armour, are invulnerable. Never will
the Scorpion, a clumsy fencer who lunges at random, find the narrow
joints in their breast-plates. As for piercing the hard wrapper at some
spot or another, this would need a protracted effort, which the patient
would hardly permit in the scuffle of his defence. Besides, these
boring-tactics are unknown to the brutal Scorpion, who delivers a
sudden stab.
One region alone lends itself to the sudden onslaught of the sting.
This is the upper surface of the abdomen, which is quite soft and
protected by the wing-cases. I uncover this region by holding up the
wings and wing-cases with a pair of tweezers; or again I first remove
both with the scissors. This mutilation is not a serious matter and
would not prevent the patient from surviving quite a long time. The
insect is presented to the Scorpion in this condition. It is chosen
among the largest, Oryctes, [28] Capricorn, [29] Scarab, [30] Carabus,
[31] Cetonia, [32] Cockchafer, [33] Geotrupes. [34]
All perish by the sting, but the length of the death-struggle varies
very greatly. To give a few examples: after convulsive stretching of
the limbs, the Scarab Beetle hoists himself on his legs as high as he
can, hunches his back and marks time, for lack of co-ordination in the
locomotor mechanism. He capsizes, incapable of recovering his footing;
he kicks wildly. At length, in a few hours, immobility sets in; the
insect is dead.
The Capricorns, Cerambyx heros, who lives in the oak, and C. cerdo, who
lives in the hawthorn and the cherry-laurel, begin in the same way with
a sort of cataleptic fit which sometimes lasts for a fairly long time.
To some of them death does not come until the next day; others are
unable to hold out for more than three or four hours.
The result is the same with the Cetonia or Rose-chafer, the Common
Cockchafer, and the magnificently antlered Pine-chafer. [35]
A pitiful sight is that of the Golden Carabus, or Gold Beetle, [36]
dying of the sting. Unable to stand on its legs convulsively extended
into stilts, the insect tumbles over, picks itself up again, again
falls down and again hoists itself to its feet, only to fall once more.
The tip of the intestine, with its horny armour, sticks out and swells
as though the creature were about to discharge its entrails; the crop
belches a black torrent that swamps the head; the golden wing-cases,
lifting their cuirass, reveal the poor nudities of the abdomen. Next
morning, the tarsi are still quivering. Death is not far off. The
swarthy Procrustes, the Gold Beetles’s near kinsman, comes to his end
in the same wretched fashion. To him we shall return.
Would you, on the other hand, see a stoic, who knows how to die
decently? Make the Scorpion sting Oryctes nasicornis, commonly known as
the Rhinoceros. None of our beetles equals him for hardy bearing.
Despite the horn on his nose, he is a peace-lover, dwelling, during his
larval period, in old olive-stumps. When stabbed by the Scorpion, he
seems at first to feel nothing. He walks about soberly, as usual, and
keeps his balance.
But suddenly the atrocious poison works. The legs no longer obey with
their customary accuracy; the wounded Beetle staggers and falls on his
back. He will never rise again. Lying in this posture for three or four
days, with no struggle beyond some vague dying movements, he very
quietly gives up the ghost.
How do the Moths and Butterflies behave in their turn? These delicate
creatures must be very sensitive to the sting; I am persuaded of it
before I put them to the test. Nevertheless, as scrupulous observers,
let us experiment. A Swallowtail and a Vulcan perish the moment they
are stung. I expected it. The Spurge Hawk-moth and the Striped
Hawk-moth offer no more resistance: they too suffer sudden death, just
like the Dragon-fly, the Lycosa and the Mantis.
But, to my great surprise, the Great Peacock Moth seems invulnerable.
True, the attack is difficult to deliver. The sting goes astray in the
soft down, which at each stroke flies away in flocks. Despite repeated
blows, I am not sure whether the sting has actually struck home. I
accordingly strip the abdomen laying bare the skin. After taking this
precaution, I plainly see the weapon driven in. Penetration is now
indubitable; it was preceded by other, more doubtful stabs; and yet the
big Moth remains impassive.
I place her under a wire-gauze cover standing on the table. She grips
the trellis-work and remains there all day long without moving. The
wings, outspread to their full width, give not a quiver. Next morning
there is no change: the victim of the operation is still hanging to the
wires by the hooks of her front tarsi. I remove her and lay her on the
table, with her belly uppermost. The big body shakes with rapid
tremors. Is this the end?
Not at all. The apparently dying Moth revives, flaps her wings and with
a sudden effort, recovers her feet. She climbs up the trellis and again
hangs from it. In the afternoon, I lay her on her back for the second
time. The wings are actuated by a gentle movement, almost a shudder, as
a result of which the prostrate insect glides over the table. It climbs
up the trellis again and all movement ceases.
Let us leave the poor Moth in peace: when she is really no more, she
will drop off. Well, the fall does not take place until the fourth day
after the sting or stings. Life is exhausted. The deceased is a female.
The force of maternity, stronger than any mortal terror, postpones
death’s hour: the Moth laid her eggs before she died.
Should we entertain the very natural thought of attributing this long
resistance to the colossus’ powerful constitution, the frail product of
our Silkworm nurseries, the Mulberry Bombyx, would tell us that we must
seek the cause elsewhere. He, the infirm dwarf who has just the
strength to beat his wings and flutter round his female, offers no less
resistance to the sting than the Great Peacock. The reason for this
passivity is probably as follows:
The Great Peacock and the Mulberry-moth are incomplete entities, very
different from the Hawk-moth, that ardent explorer of corollas in the
gloaming, and the Swallowtail Butterfly and the Mulberry-moth, those
untiring pilgrims to the chapel of flowers. They have no mouth
implements; they take no nourishment. Deprived of the stimulus of food,
they live but a few days, long enough to lay fertile eggs. This
diminished vitality must go with a no less delicate and consequently
less fragile organism.
Let us descend a few steps in the series of the segmented animals and
question the uncouth Millipede. The Scorpion knows him. The colony in
the enclosure has shown me the Scorpion feeding on the Cryptops and the
Lithobius, the result of his hunting. These to him are harmless
mouthfuls, incapable of defence. I propose to-day to place him in touch
with the Great Centipede known as the Scolopendra (Smorsitans), the
mightiest of our Myriapods.
The dragon with the twenty-two pairs of legs is no stranger to him. I
have sometimes found the two together under the same stone. The
Scorpion was at home; the other roaming about at night, had taken
temporary shelter there. No regrettable incident had ensued from their
cohabitation. Is this always so? We shall see.
I confront the two horrors with each other in a large glass jar
containing sand. The Centipede goes round and round, hugging the wall
of the arena. He is an undulating ribbon, a finger’s breadth wide, four
or five inches long and ringed with greenish rings on an amber-coloured
ground. The long, vibrating antennæ sound the space before him; their
tips, sensitive as a finger, encounter the motionless Scorpion. The
startled animal instantly turns tail. His circuit brings him back to
the foe. There is a fresh contact, followed by a fresh flight.
But the Scorpion is now on his guard, with his arched tail advanced and
his pincers open. When the Centipede returns to the dangerous point of
his circular track, he is seized with the claws, in the neighbourhood
of the head. In vain does the long, flexible animal twine and twist;
imperturbably, the Scorpion grips it more firmly than ever with his
pincers; and no jerks, windings or unwindings succeed in making him let
go.
Meanwhile the sting is at work. Three and four times over it is driven
into the sides of the Myriapod, who, for his part, opens wide his
poison-fangs and strives to bite, without succeeding in doing so, for
the front part of his body is held in the stubborn pincers. The hinder
part alone struggles and wriggles, coils and uncoils. These efforts are
useless. Kept at a distance by the long tongs, the Scolopendra’s
poisoned fangs are unable to act. I have seen many insect battles; I
know none more horrible than that between these two monstrosities. It
is enough to make your flesh creep.
A lull enables me to part the combatants and isolate them. The
Centipede licks his bleeding wounds and recovers his strength in a few
hours. As for the Scorpion, he has suffered no damage. Next day, a
fresh assault is delivered. Three times in succession the Myriapod is
stabbed, till the blood flows. Then, fearing reprisals, the Scorpion
withdraws, as though frightened by his victory. The wounded animal does
not strike back and continues its circular flight. This is enough for
to-day. I surround the jar with a cardboard cylinder. When darkness is
thus produced, they will both keep quiet.
What happens afterwards, especially at night, I do not know. Probably
the battle begins all over again and further thrusts of the sting are
delivered. At any rate the Centipede is much weaker on the third day.
On the fourth, he is dying. The Scorpion watches him without yet daring
to devour him. At last, when there is no more movement, the huge quarry
is cut up; the head and then the first two segments are eaten. The dish
is too copious; the remainder will go bad and be wasted. His exclusive
taste for fresh meat will prevent the Scorpion from touching it.
Though stung seven times and oftener, the Centipede does not die until
the fourth day; stung once only, the powerful Lycosa perishes that very
instant. Death comes almost as quickly to the Praying Mantis, the
Sacred Beetle, the Mole-cricket and other hardy specimens which, if
impaled by the collector, would kick and struggle for weeks on the cork
slab. Any insect stabbed by the sting finds itself forthwith in a
parlous plight; the longest-lived are dead within twenty-four hours;
and here we have the Centipedes, pinked seven times over, holding out
for four days and perhaps dying from loss of blood as much as from the
effects of the poison.
Why these points of difference? Apparently they are a matter of
organisation. Life is an equilibrium whose stability varies according
to the position in the hierarchy. At the top of the ladder, a fall is
easy; at the bottom, there is a firm foothold. The finely-organised
insect succumbs, whereas the coarser Millipede resists. Is this really
the explanation? The Mole-cricket leaves us undecided. He, the boor,
perishes just as quickly as do those refined creatures, the Butterfly
and the Mantis. No, we do not yet know the secret which the Scorpion
conceals in the phial at the end of his tail.