Read Ebook: The Life of the Scorpion by Fabre Jean Henri Miall Bernard Translator Teixeira De Mattos Alexander Translator

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Let us consider separately the insects of a superior order, subject to complete transformations. The word metamorphosis applied to them means a change of form. Now is it only the shape that changes when the caterpillar turns into a Moth, or when the grub in the leaf-mould becomes a Cetonia? More than this occurs and much more, as the Scorpion's sting informs us.

A profound and comprehensive renewal is effected in the vital statics of the metamorphosed insect; the substance, which is actually still the same, enters into fusion, subtilizes its atomic structure and becomes liable to sensory vibrations which are the first appanage of the nubile specimen. The armour of the wing-cases, the blades, tufts and quivering stems of the antennae, the legs fit for running and wings fit for flying: all these are magnificent and yet all these are nothing.

Something else towers high above them. The transformed insect has acquired a new life, more active and richer in sensations. A second birth has taken place in which all is renewed, in the invisible and intangible even more than in the material domain. It is more than a molecular rearrangement; it is the development of aptitudes unknown in the past. The larva, generally a mere scrap of intestine, lived a placid and very monotonous existence and lo, in view of the future instincts, metamorphosis revolutionizes its substance, distils its humours and refines the centres of energy atom by atom. An enormous leap is made towards progress, but the new state has not the sturdy equilibrium of the first, perfection has been gained at the cost of stability; and so the insect dies of an ordeal which the grub would support with impunity.

With the Acridians and the Orthoptera in general, conditions are quite different. Here there is no real metamorphosis, utterly changing the structure, the mode of life and the habits. The insect remains, all its life long, very much what it was on leaving the egg. It is born in a shape which the future will hardly modify, with habits which will not be altered by time. It undergoes no renovation, no sudden growth. In its infancy already it possesses the temperament of the adult; and as such it is deprived of the immunity enjoyed by rudimentary organisms.

Exempted from a probationary period in the grub state, the short-coated Locust suffers from the drawbacks of a too rapid development. He perishes as quickly as the adult, whom he resembles in all but a few details.

I will not deny that the explanation which I have given may not be the right one; and I will not insist upon it. A cast of the net into the depths of the unknown does not always bring up to the surface the correct idea, a very rare catch. A far-reaching fact is acquired nevertheless, even though it remain unexplained. Metamorphosis modifies the organic substance to the degree of changing its innermost properties. The Scorpion's poison, a reagent of transcendental chemistry, distinguishes the flesh of the larva from that of the adult; it is kindly to the first and deadly to the second.

This curious result raises a question which is not alien to the vainglorious theories affecting attenuated viruses, serums and vaccines. A larva subject to complete metamorphosis is stung by the Scorpion; we might readily say that it has been vaccinated, in the sense that it has been inoculated with a virus fatal under the future conditions, but tolerable in its effects in the present stage. The patient does not seem affected by the sting; it begins to eat again and continues its larval work as usual.

The virus, however, cannot fail to act, in one way or another, on the animal's blood or nerves. Might it not lessen the vulnerability which results from the transformation? Can the adult be rendered immune by a habit acquired during the larval stage? Might it be able to resist the virus as Mithridates was able to resist poison? In short, is the insect with a complete metamorphosis whose larva has been stung capable of itself withstanding the sting? That is the question.

The confirmatory arguments are so urgent that we are at first tempted to answer:

"Yes, the adult will resist."

But we will leave experiment to speak for itself. With this object preparations are made with four sets of subjects. The first consists of twelve Cetonia-larvae, which, after being stung in October, have been revaccinated, that is to say, stung a second time, in May. The second set is also composed of twelve Cetonia-larvae, but these have been stung once only, in May. Four chrysalids of the Spurge Hawk-moth form the third. They belong to caterpillars stung once, in June. Lastly, I have some cocoons spun by the Silkworm whose vaccination, attended by a flow of blood, I have described above. The Scorpion will once more play his part with each lot after the hatching has taken place.

The Silkworm Moth is the first to respond to my impatience. The Moth is there in two or three weeks' time, bustling about in readiness for the pairing. The stab received as a caterpillar has not cooled his ardour in the very least. I subject him to the test. The attack is laboured and the blow is not clearly struck. No matter: all those attacked perish after a death-struggle lasting a day or two. The previous vaccination has made no difference to the result: they succumbed before and they succumb after.

But these are feeble witnesses, on whom it is not wise to rely. I shall achieve more, I feel convinced, with the Hawk-moths and especially with those sturdy subjects the Cetoniae. Well, the Hawk-moths whose caterpillars have received the virus which theoretically should render them immune retain their normal vulnerability: when attacked by the sting, they succumb instantly, exactly like the others, who did not at the larval age undergo a preventative inoculation.

Perhaps the number of days elapsing between the stinging of the caterpillar and of the moth was not sufficient to enable the virus to act upon the organism to the requisite degree. It might need a longer space of time to bring about the inward modifications caused by the action of the poison on the insect's organism. The Cetonia-larvae will perhaps be able to dispense with this period.

I have a set of twelve of them, stung twice over, first in October and then in May. The perfect insect bursts its cocoon at the end of July. Ten months therefore have elapsed since the first sting and three months since the second. Is the adult now immune?

Not at all. When subjected to the Scorpion, my twelve vaccinated specimens all perish, no more and no less quickly than their fellows who were born quietly in their heap of rotten leaves. Twelve others, pricked only once, in May, succumb with the same promptness. In the case of both sets, my devices, which inspired me with confidence at first, miscarry pitifully, to my extreme confusion.

I try another method, that of transfusion of blood, which is related to serotherapy. Since it resists the Scorpion's sting, the larva of the Cetonia must have blood endowed with special qualities, apt to neutralize the virulence of the poison. If transferred from the larva to the adult, might not this blood communicate its qualities and render the perfect insect invulnerable?

Now what comes of this treatment? Nothing at all. I wait a day or two to give the injected fluids time to diffuse and act. The Cetonia is then presented to the Scorpion. Veil your face, O foolish physiologist: the creature perishes as it would have done before your presumptuous attempts at surgery. We cannot manipulate animals as we can the reagents of chemistry.

THE LANGUEDOCIAN SCORPION: PRELUDES TO THE WEDDING

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 whom I have established in the colony in the enclosure, leave their shelter at nightfall, go wandering about and do not return to their homes. A more serious business: often, under the same stone, are two Scorpions of whom one is in the act of devouring the other. Is this a case of brigandage among creatures of the same order, who, falling into vagabond ways when the fine weather sets in thoughtlessly enter their neighbours' houses and there meet with their undoing unless they be the stronger? One would almost think it, so quickly is the intruder eaten up, for days at a time and in small mouthfuls, even as the usual game would be.

Now here is something to give us a hint. The Scorpions devoured are invariably of middling size. Their lighter 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 these are probably not brawls between neighbours who, jealous of their solitude, would soon settle the hash of any visitor and eat him afterwards, a drastic method of putting a stop to further indiscretions; they are rather nuptial rites, tragically performed by the matron after pairing. To determine how much ground there is for this suspicion is beyond my powers until next year: I am still too badly equipped.

Spring returns once more. I have prepared the large glass cage in advance and stocked it with twenty-five inhabitants, each with his bit of crockery. From mid-April onwards, every evening, when it grows dark, between seven and nine o'clock, great animation reigns in the crystal palace. That which seemed deserted by day now becomes a scene of festivity. As soon as supper is finished, the whole household runs out to look on. A lantern hung outside the panes allows us to follow events.

It is our distraction after the worries of the day; it is our play-house. In this theatre for simple folk, the performances are so highly interesting that, the moment the lantern is lighted, all of us, great and small alike, come and take our places in the stalls; all, down to Tom, the House-dog. Tom, it is true, indifferent to Scorpion affairs, like the true philosopher that he is, lies 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 region discreetly lit by the lanterns. 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 eagerness to flutter to the rays of our lamps. The newcomers mingle with the crowd, while others, tired of their pastimes, withdraw into the shade, snatch a few moments' rest and then impetuously return upon the scene.

These hideous devotees of gaiety provide a dance that is not wholly devoid of charm. Some come from afar: solemnly they emerge from the shadow; 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 scurrying along with their tiny steps. They seek one another and fly precipitately the moment 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 violent tumult: a confused mass of swarming legs, snapping claws, tails curving and clashing, threatening or fondling, it is hard to say which. In this affray, under favourable conditions, twin specks of light flare and shine like carbuncles. One would take them for eyes that emit 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 in all sorts of directions, without a scratch, without a sprain.

Behold the fugitives collecting once more beneath the lantern. They pass and pass again; they come and go, often meeting 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 body. 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 community, 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 entangled legs and brandished tails; there are sometimes poses of the highest originality. Face to face, with claws drawn back, two wrestlers proceed to stand on their heads like acrobats, that is to say, resting only on the fore-quarters, they raise the whole hinder portion of the body, so much so that the chest displays the four little lung pockets uncovered. Then the tails, held vertically erect in a straight line, exchange mutual rubs, gliding 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 these 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 stands on his head.

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 sooner be told; but, at the same time deprived of its details, which vary greatly between one observation and the next and are difficult to piece together, 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.

The stroll is interrupted by halts that do not affect the method of conjunction; 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 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, which upsets all our habits, our attention is concentrated and no essential thing escapes us.

At last, about ten o'clock, something happens. The male has hit upon a potsherd whose shelter 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.

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 daybreak, I lift 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.

An hour later, the rain ceases and I return to my Scorpions. They are gone. They have taken up their abode under a neighbouring tile. 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 be imminent. Wasted pains: 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 prospecting elsewhere. The male, walking backwards, leads the way, 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 neither hand releases his companion for a moment. 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've given them time enough to finish their preparations. I lift 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. Each sits confronting 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 nuptials be consummated 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 sojourn 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.

Pauses are frequent. Then the foreheads touch, bend a little to left and right, as if the two were whispering in each other's ears. The little fore-legs flutter in feverish 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 team, which our presence in no way disturbs. The pair are pronounced to be "pretty"; and the expression is not exaggerated. Semitranslucent and shining in the light of the lantern, they seem carved out of a block of amber. Their arms outstretched, their tails rolled into graceful spirals, 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 deceased 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 their usual preliminary, the stroll; and, this morning, under the same tile, at the moment of my visit, the bride is consuming her mate.

Well, one supposes that the poor wretch has attained his ends. Were he still necessary to the race, he would not be eaten yet. The couple before us have therefore been quick about the business, whereas, I see that others fail to finish after provocations and contemplations exceeding in duration the time which it takes the hour-hand to go twice around the clock. Circumstances 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 constitutes a serious difficulty for the observer anxious to seize the exact moment whereat the as yet uncertain function of the combs might be revealed.

This luxurious game leaves them indifferent; they pay no attention to it. Amid the hubbub, the Locusts hop, the Moths beat the ground with the stumps of their wings, the Dragon-flies quiver; and the Scorpions pass. They tread them underfoot, they topple them over, they push them aside 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 skirt 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 forces them to set forth exploring. The shy hermits of yesterday now leave their cells and go on love's pilgrimage; heedless of food, they go in quest of their kind. Among the stones of their domain 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 picked 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.

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 confronting a fair passer-by who takes his fancy. She does not gainsay him; and things move quickly.

The foreheads touch, the claws engage; the tails swing with a spacious gesture: they stand up vertically, hook together at the tips and softly stroke each other with a slow caress. The two animals stand on their heads in the manner already described. Soon, the raised bodies sink to the ground; fingers are clasped and the couple start on their 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 on the meeting; 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 fondling each other.

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