THE BLACK-BELLIED TARANTULA

The Spider has a bad name: to most of us, she represents an odious,

noxious animal, which every one hastens to crush under foot. Against

this summary verdict the observer sets the beast's industry, its talent

as a weaver, its wiliness in the chase, its tragic nuptials and other

characteristics of great interest. Yes, the Spider is well worth

studying, apart from any scientific reasons; but she is said to be

poisonous and that is her crime and the primary cause of the repugnance

wherewith she inspires us. Poisonous, I agree, if by that we understand

that the animal is armed with two fangs which cause the immediate death

of the little victims which it catches; but there is a wide difference

between killing a Midge and harming a man. However immediate in its

effects upon the insect entangled in the fatal web, the Spider's poison

is not serious for us and causes less inconvenience than a Gnat-bite.

That, at least, is what we can safely say as regards the great majority

of the Spiders of our regions.



Nevertheless, a few are to be feared; and foremost among these is the

Malmignatte, the terror of the Corsican peasantry. I have seen her

settle in the furrows, lay out her web and rush boldly at insects larger

than herself; I have admired her garb of black velvet speckled with

carmine-red; above all, I have heard most disquieting stories told about

her. Around Ajaccio and Bonifacio, her bite is reputed very dangerous,

sometimes mortal. The countryman declares this for a fact and the doctor

does not always dare deny it. In the neighbourhood of Pujaud, not far

from Avignon, the harvesters speak with dread of _Theridion lugubre_, {1}

first observed by Leon Dufour in the Catalonian mountains; according to

them, her bite would lead to serious accidents. The Italians have

bestowed a bad reputation on the Tarantula, who produces convulsions and

frenzied dances in the person stung by her. To cope with 'tarantism,'

the name given to the disease that follows on the bite of the Italian

Spider, you must have recourse to music, the only efficacious remedy, so

they tell us. Special tunes have been noted, those quickest to afford

relief. There is medical choreography, medical music. And have we not

the tarentella, a lively and nimble dance, bequeathed to us perhaps by

the healing art of the Calabrian peasant?



Must we take these queer things seriously or laugh at them? From the

little that I have seen, I hesitate to pronounce an opinion. Nothing

tells us that the bite of the Tarantula may not provoke, in weak and very

impressionable people, a nervous disorder which music will relieve;

nothing tells us that a profuse perspiration, resulting from a very

energetic dance, is not likely to diminish the discomfort by diminishing

the cause of the ailment. So far from laughing, I reflect and enquire,

when the Calabrian peasant talks to me of his Tarantula, the Pujaud

reaper of his _Theridion lugubre_, the Corsican husbandman of his

Malmignatte. Those Spiders might easily deserve, at least partly, their

terrible reputation.



The most powerful Spider in my district, the Black-bellied Tarantula,

will presently give us something to think about, in this connection. It

is not my business to discuss a medical point, I interest myself

especially in matters of instinct; but, as the poison-fangs play a

leading part in the huntress' manoeuvres of war, I shall speak of their

effects by the way. The habits of the Tarantula, her ambushes, her

artifices, her methods of killing her prey: these constitute my subject.

I will preface it with an account by Leon Dufour, {2} one of those

accounts in which I used to delight and which did much to bring me into

closer touch with the insect. The Wizard of the Landes tells us of the

ordinary Tarantula, that of the Calabrias, observed by him in Spain:



'_Lycosa tarantula_ by preference inhabits open places, dry, arid,

uncultivated places, exposed to the sun. She lives generally--at

least when full-grown--in underground passages, regular burrows, which

she digs for herself. These burrows are cylindrical; they are often

an inch in diameter and run into the ground to a depth of more than a

foot; but they are not perpendicular. The inhabitant of this gut

proves that she is at the same time a skilful hunter and an able

engineer. It was a question for her not only of constructing a deep

retreat that could hide her from the pursuit of her foes: she also had

to set up her observatory whence to watch for her prey and dart out

upon it. The Tarantula provides for every contingency: the

underground passage, in fact, begins by being vertical, but, at four

or five inches from the surface, it bends at an obtuse angle, forms a

horizontal turning and then becomes perpendicular once more. It is at

the elbow of this tunnel that the Tarantula posts herself as a

vigilant sentry and does not for a moment lose sight of the door of

her dwelling; it was there that, at the period when I was hunting her,

I used to see those eyes gleaming like diamonds, bright as a cat's

eyes in the dark.



'The outer orifice of the Tarantula's burrow is usually surmounted by

a shaft constructed throughout by herself. It is a genuine work of

architecture, standing as much as an inch above the ground and

sometimes two inches in diameter, so that it is wider than the burrow

itself. This last circumstance, which seems to have been calculated

by the industrious Spider, lends itself admirably to the necessary

extension of the legs at the moment when the prey is to be seized. The

shaft is composed mainly of bits of dry wood joined by a little clay

and so artistically laid, one above the other, that they form the

scaffolding of a straight column, the inside of which is a hollow

cylinder. The solidity of this tubular building, of this outwork, is

ensured above all by the fact that it is lined, upholstered within,

with a texture woven by the Lycosa's {3} spinnerets and continued

throughout the interior of the burrow. It is easy to imagine how

useful this cleverly-manufactured lining must be for preventing

landslip or warping, for maintaining cleanliness and for helping her

claws to scale the fortress.



'I hinted that this outwork of the burrow was not there invariably; as

a matter of fact, I have often come across Tarantulas' holes without a

trace of it, perhaps because it had been accidentally destroyed by the

weather, or because the Lycosa may not always light upon the proper

building-materials, or, lastly, because architectural talent is

possibly declared only in individuals that have reached the final

stage, the period of perfection of their physical and intellectual

development.



'One thing is certain, that I have had numerous opportunities of

seeing these shafts, these out-works of the Tarantula's abode; they

remind me, on a larger scale, of the tubes of certain Caddis-worms.

The Arachnid had more than one object in view in constructing them:

she shelters her retreat from the floods; she protects it from the

fall of foreign bodies which, swept by the wind, might end by

obstructing it; lastly, she uses it as a snare by offering the Flies

and other insects whereon she feeds a projecting point to settle on.

Who shall tell us all the wiles employed by this clever and daring

huntress?



'Let us now say something about my rather diverting Tarantula-hunts.

The best season for them is the months of May and June. The first

time that I lighted on this Spider's burrows and discovered that they

were inhabited by seeing her come to a point on the first floor of her

dwelling--the elbow which I have mentioned--I thought that I must

attack her by main force and pursue her relentlessly in order to

capture her; I spent whole hours in opening up the trench with a knife

a foot long by two inches wide, without meeting the Tarantula. I

renewed the operation in other burrows, always with the same want of

success; I really wanted a pickaxe to achieve my object, but I was too

far from any kind of house. I was obliged to change my plan of attack

and I resorted to craft. Necessity, they say, is the mother of

invention.



'It occurred to me to take a stalk, topped with its spikelet, by way

of a bait, and to rub and move it gently at the orifice of the burrow.

I soon saw that the Lycosa's attention and desires were roused.

Attracted by the bait, she came with measured steps towards the

spikelet. I withdrew it in good time a little outside the hole, so as

not to leave the animal time for reflexion; and the Spider suddenly,

with a rush, darted out of her dwelling, of which I hastened to close

the entrance. The Tarantula, bewildered by her unaccustomed liberty,

was very awkward in evading my attempts at capture; and I compelled

her to enter a paper bag, which I closed without delay.



'Sometimes, suspecting the trap, or perhaps less pressed by hunger,

she would remain coy and motionless, at a slight distance from the

threshold, which she did not think it opportune to cross. Her

patience outlasted mine. In that case, I employed the following

tactics: after making sure of the Lycosa's position and the direction

of the tunnel, I drove a knife into it on the slant, so as to take the

animal in the rear and cut off its retreat by stopping up the burrow.

I seldom failed in my attempt, especially in soil that was not stony.

In these critical circumstances, either the Tarantula took fright and

deserted her lair for the open, or else she stubbornly remained with

her back to the blade. I would then give a sudden jerk to the knife,

which flung both the earth and the Lycosa to a distance, enabling me

to capture her. By employing this hunting-method, I sometimes caught

as many as fifteen Tarantulae within the space of an hour.



'In a few cases, in which the Tarantula was under no misapprehension

as to the trap which I was setting for her, I was not a little

surprised, when I pushed the stalk far enough down to twist it round

her hiding-place, to see her play with the spikelet more or less

contemptuously and push it away with her legs, without troubling to

retreat to the back of her lair.



'The Apulian peasants, according to Baglivi's {4} account, also hunt

the Tarantula by imitating the humming of an insect with an oat-stalk

at the entrance to her burrow. I quote the passage:



'"_Ruricolae nostri quando eas captare volunt, ad illorum latibula

accedunt, tenuisque avenacae fistulae sonum, apum murmuri non

absimilem, modulantur. Quo audito, ferox exit Tarentula ut muscas vel

alia hujus modi insecta, quorum murmur esse putat, captat; captatur

tamen ista a rustico insidiatore_." {5}



'The Tarantula, so dreadful at first sight, especially when we are

filled with the idea that her bite is dangerous, so fierce in

appearance, is nevertheless quite easy to tame, as I have often found

by experiment.



'On the 7th of May 1812, while at Valencia, in Spain, I caught a fair-

sized male Tarantula, without hurting him, and imprisoned him in a

glass jar, with a paper cover in which I cut a trap-door. At the

bottom of the jar I put a paper bag, to serve as his habitual

residence. I placed the jar on a table in my bedroom, so as to have

him under frequent observation. He soon grew accustomed to captivity

and ended by becoming so familiar that he would come and take from my

fingers the live Fly which I gave him. After killing his victim with

the fangs of his mandibles, he was not satisfied, like most Spiders,

to suck her head: he chewed her whole body, shoving it piecemeal into

his mouth with his palpi, after which he threw up the masticated

teguments and swept them away from his lodging.



'Having finished his meal, he nearly always made his toilet, which

consisted in brushing his palpi and mandibles, both inside and out,

with his front tarsi. After that, he resumed his air of motionless

gravity. The evening and the night were his time for taking his walks

abroad. I often heard him scratching the paper of the bag. These

habits confirm the opinion, which I have already expressed elsewhere,

that most Spiders have the faculty of seeing by day and night, like

cats.



'On the 28th of June, my Tarantula cast his skin. It was his last

moult and did not perceptibly alter either the colour of his attire or

the dimensions of his body. On the 14th of July, I had to leave

Valencia; and I stayed away until the 23rd. During this time, the

Tarantula fasted; I found him looking quite well on my return. On the

20th of August, I again left for a nine days' absence, which my

prisoner bore without food and without detriment to his health. On

the 1st of October, I once more deserted the Tarantula, leaving him

without provisions. On the 21st, I was fifty miles from Valencia and,

as I intended to remain there, I sent a servant to fetch him. I was

sorry to learn that he was not found in the jar, and I never heard

what became of him.



'I will end my observations on the Tarantulae with a short description

of a curious fight between those animals. One day, when I had had a

successful hunt after these Lycosae, I picked out two full-grown and

very powerful males and brought them together in a wide jar, in order

to enjoy the sight of a combat to the death. After walking round the

arena several times, to try and avoid each other, they were not slow

in placing themselves in a warlike attitude, as though at a given

signal. I saw them, to my surprise, take their distances and sit up

solemnly on their hind-legs, so as mutually to present the shield of

their chests to each other. After watching them face to face like

that for two minutes, during which they had doubtless provoked each

other by glances that escaped my own, I saw them fling themselves upon

each other at the same time, twisting their legs round each other and

obstinately struggling to bite each other with the fangs of the

mandibles. Whether from fatigue or from convention, the combat was

suspended; there was a few seconds' truce; and each athlete moved away

and resumed his threatening posture. This circumstance reminded me

that, in the strange fights between cats, there are also suspensions

of hostilities. But the contest was soon renewed between my two

Tarantulae with increased fierceness. One of them, after holding

victory in the balance for a while, was at last thrown and received a

mortal wound in the head. He became the prey of the conqueror, who

tore open his skull and devoured it. After this curious duel, I kept

the victorious Tarantula alive for several weeks.'



My district does not boast the ordinary Tarantula, the Spider whose

habits have been described above by the Wizard of the Landes; but it

possesses an equivalent in the shape of the Black-bellied Tarantula, or

Narbonne Lycosa, half the size of the other, clad in black velvet on the

lower surface, especially under the belly, with brown chevrons on the

abdomen and grey and white rings around the legs. Her favourite home is

the dry, pebbly ground, covered with sun-scorched thyme. In my _harmas_

{6} laboratory there are quite twenty of this Spider's burrows. Rarely

do I pass by one of these haunts without giving a glance down the pit

where gleam, like diamonds, the four great eyes, the four telescopes, of

the hermit. The four others, which are much smaller, are not visible at

that depth.



Would I have greater riches, I have but to walk a hundred yards from my

house, on the neighbouring plateau, once a shady forest, to-day a dreary

solitude where the Cricket browses and the Wheat-ear flits from stone to

stone. The love of lucre has laid waste the land. Because wine paid

handsomely, they pulled up the forest to plant the vine. Then came the

Phylloxera, the vine-stocks perished and the once green table-land is now

no more than a desolate stretch where a few tufts of hardy grasses sprout

among the pebbles. This waste-land is the Lycosa's paradise: in an

hour's time, if need were, I should discover a hundred burrows within a

limited range.



These dwellings are pits about a foot deep, perpendicular at first and

then bent elbow-wise. The average diameter is an inch. On the edge of

the hole stands a kerb, formed of straw, bits and scraps of all sorts and

even small pebbles, the size of a hazel-nut. The whole is kept in place

and cemented with silk. Often, the Spider confines herself to drawing

together the dry blades of the nearest grass, which she ties down with

the straps from her spinnerets, without removing the blades from the

stems; often, also, she rejects this scaffolding in favour of a masonry

constructed of small stones. The nature of the kerb is decided by the

nature of the materials within the Lycosa's reach, in the close

neighbourhood of the building-yard. There is no selection: everything

meets with approval, provided that it be near at hand.



Economy of time, therefore, causes the defensive wall to vary greatly as

regards its constituent elements. The height varies also. One enclosure

is a turret an inch high; another amounts to a mere rim. All have their

parts bound firmly together with silk; and all have the same width as the

subterranean channel, of which they are the extension. There is here no

difference in diameter between the underground manor and its outwork, nor

do we behold, at the opening, the platform which the turret leaves to

give free play to the Italian Tarantula's legs. The Black-bellied

Tarantula's work takes the form of a well surmounted by its kerb.



When the soil is earthy and homogeneous, the architectural type is free

from obstructions and the Spider's dwelling is a cylindrical tube; but,

when the site is pebbly, the shape is modified according to the

exigencies of the digging. In the second case, the lair is often a

rough, winding cave, at intervals along whose inner wall stick blocks of

stone avoided in the process of excavation. Whether regular or

irregular, the house is plastered to a certain depth with a coat of silk,

which prevents earth-slips and facilitates scaling when a prompt exit is

required.



Baglivi, in his unsophisticated Latin, teaches us how to catch the

Tarantula. I became his _rusticus insidiator_; I waved a spikelet at

the entrance of the burrow to imitate the humming of a Bee and attract

the attention of the Lycosa, who rushes out, thinking that she is

capturing a prey. This method did not succeed with me. The Spider, it

is true, leaves her remote apartments and comes a little way up the

vertical tube to enquire into the sounds at her door; but the wily animal

soon scents a trap; it remains motionless at mid-height and, at the least

alarm, goes down again to the branch gallery, where it is invisible.



Leon Dufour's appears to me a better method if it were only practicable

in the conditions wherein I find myself. To drive a knife quickly into

the ground, across the burrow, so as to cut off the Tarantula's retreat

when she is attracted by the spikelet and standing on the upper floor,

would be a manoeuvre certain of success, if the soil were favourable.

Unfortunately, this is not so in my case: you might as well try to dig a

knife into a block of tufa.



Other stratagems become necessary. Here are two which were successful: I

recommend them to future Tarantula-hunters. I insert into the burrow, as

far down as I can, a stalk with a fleshy spikelet, which the Spider can

bite into. I move and turn and twist my bait. The Tarantula, when

touched by the intruding body, contemplates self-defence and bites the

spikelet. A slight resistance informs my fingers that the animal has

fallen into the trap and seized the tip of the stalk in its fangs. I

draw it to me, slowly, carefully; the Spider hauls from below, planting

her legs against the wall. It comes, it rises. I hide as best I may,

when the Spider enters the perpendicular tunnel: if she saw me, she would

let go the bait and slip down again. I thus bring her, by degrees, to

the orifice. This is the difficult moment. If I continue the gentle

movement, the Spider, feeling herself dragged out of her home, would at

once run back indoors. It is impossible to get the suspicious animal out

by this means. Therefore, when it appears at the level of the ground, I

give a sudden pull. Surprised by this foul play, the Tarantula has no

time to release her hold; gripping the spikelet, she is thrown some

inches away from the burrow. Her capture now becomes an easy matter.

Outside her own house, the Lycosa is timid, as though scared, and hardly

capable of running away. To push her with a straw into a paper bag is

the affair of a second.



It requires some patience to bring the Tarantula who has bitten into the

insidious spikelet to the entrance of the burrow. The following method

is quicker: I procure a supply of live Bumble-bees. I put one into a

little bottle with a mouth just wide enough to cover the opening of the

burrow; and I turn the apparatus thus baited over the said opening. The

powerful Bee at first flutters and hums about her glass prison; then,

perceiving a burrow similar to that of her family, she enters it without

much hesitation. She is extremely ill-advised: while she goes down, the

Spider comes up; and the meeting takes place in the perpendicular

passage. For a few moments, the ear perceives a sort of death-song: it

is the humming of the Bumble-bee, protesting against the reception given

her. This is followed by a long silence. Then I remove the bottle and

dip a long-jawed forceps into the pit. I withdraw the Bumble-bee,

motionless, dead, with hanging proboscis. A terrible tragedy must have

happened. The Spider follows, refusing to let go so rich a booty. Game

and huntress are brought to the orifice. Sometimes, mistrustful, the

Lycosa goes in again; but we have only to leave the Bumble-bee on the

threshold of the door, or even a few inches away, to see her reappear,

issue from her fortress and daringly recapture her prey. This is the

moment: the house is closed with the finger, or a pebble and, as Baglivi

says, '_captatur tamen ista a rustico insidiatore_,' to which I will add,

'_adjuvante Bombo_.' {7}



The object of these hunting methods was not exactly to obtain Tarantulae;

I had not the least wish to rear the Spider in a bottle. I was

interested in a different matter. Here, thought I, is an ardent

huntress, living solely by her trade. She does not prepare preserved

foodstuffs for her offspring; {8} she herself feeds on the prey which she

catches. She is not a 'paralyzer,' {9} who cleverly spares her quarry so

as to leave it a glimmer of life and keep it fresh for weeks at a time;

she is a killer, who makes a meal off her capture on the spot. With her,

there is no methodical vivisection, which destroys movement without

entirely destroying life, but absolute death, as sudden as possible,

which protects the assailant from the counter-attacks of the assailed.



Her game, moreover, is essentially bulky and not always of the most

peaceful character. This Diana, ambushed in her tower, needs a prey

worthy of her prowess. The big Grasshopper, with the powerful jaws; the

irascible Wasp; the Bee, the Bumble-bee and other wearers of poisoned

daggers must fall into the ambuscade from time to time. The duel is

nearly equal in point of weapons. To the venomous fangs of the Lycosa

the Wasp opposes her venomous stiletto. Which of the two bandits shall

have the best of it? The struggle is a hand-to-hand one. The Tarantula

has no secondary means of defence, no cord to bind her victim, no trap to

subdue her. When the Epeira, or Garden Spider, sees an insect entangled

in her great upright web, she hastens up and covers the captive with

corded meshes and silk ribbons by the armful, making all resistance

impossible. When the prey is solidly bound, a prick is carefully

administered with the poison-fangs; then the Spider retires, waiting for

the death-throes to calm down, after which the huntress comes back to the

game. In these conditions, there is no serious danger.



In the case of the Lycosa, the job is riskier. She has naught to serve

her but her courage and her fangs and is obliged to leap upon the

formidable prey, to master it by her dexterity, to annihilate it, in a

measure, by her swift-slaying talent.



Annihilate is the word: the Bumble-bees whom I draw from the fatal hole

are a sufficient proof. As soon as that shrill buzzing, which I called

the death-song, ceases, in vain I hasten to insert my forceps: I always

bring out the insect dead, with slack proboscis and limp legs. Scarce a

few quivers of those legs tell me that it is a quite recent corpse. The

Bumble-bee's death is instantaneous. Each time that I take a fresh

victim from the terrible slaughter-house, my surprise is renewed at the

sight of its sudden immobility.



Nevertheless, both animals have very nearly the same strength; for I

choose my Bumble-bees from among the largest (_Bombus hortorum_ and _B.

terrestris_). Their weapons are almost equal: the Bee's dart can bear

comparison with the Spider's fangs; the sting of the first seems to me as

formidable as the bite of the second. How comes it that the Tarantula

always has the upper hand and this moreover in a very short conflict,

whence she emerges unscathed? There must certainly be some cunning

strategy on her part. Subtle though her poison may be, I cannot believe

that its mere injection, at any point whatever of the victim, is enough

to produce so prompt a catastrophe. The ill-famed rattlesnake does not

kill so quickly, takes hours to achieve that for which the Tarantula does

not require a second. We must, therefore, look for an explanation of

this sudden death to the vital importance of the point attacked by the

Spider, rather than to the virulence of the poison.



What is this point? It is impossible to recognize it on the Bumble-bees.

They enter the burrow; and the murder is committed far from sight. Nor

does the lens discover any wound upon the corpse, so delicate are the

weapons that produce it. One would have to see the two adversaries

engage in a direct contest. I have often tried to place a Tarantula and

a Bumble-bee face to face in the same bottle. The two animals mutually

flee each other, each being as much upset as the other at its captivity.

I have kept them together for twenty-four hours, without aggressive

display on either side. Thinking more of their prison than of attacking

each other, they temporize, as though indifferent. The experiment has

always been fruitless. I have succeeded with Bees and Wasps, but the

murder has been committed at night and has taught me nothing. I would

find both insects, next morning, reduced to a jelly under the Spider's

mandibles. A weak prey is a mouthful which the Spider reserves for the

calm of the night. A prey capable of resistance is not attacked in

captivity. The prisoner's anxiety cools the hunter's ardour.



The arena of a large bottle enables each athlete to keep out of the

other's way, respected by her adversary, who is respected in her turn.

Let us reduce the lists, diminish the enclosure. I put Bumble-bee and

Tarantula into a test-tube that has only room for one at the bottom. A

lively brawl ensues, without serious results. If the Bumble-bee be

underneath, she lies down on her back and with her legs wards off the

other as much as she can. I do not see her draw her sting. The Spider,

meanwhile, embracing the whole circumference of the enclosure with her

long legs, hoists herself a little upon the slippery surface and removes

herself as far as possible from her adversary. There, motionless, she

awaits events, which are soon disturbed by the fussy Bumble-bee. Should

the latter occupy the upper position, the Tarantula protects herself by

drawing up her legs, which keep the enemy at a distance. In short, save

for sharp scuffles when the two champions are in touch, nothing happens

that deserves attention. There is no duel to the death in the narrow

arena of the test-tube, any more than in the wider lists afforded by the

bottle. Utterly timid once she is away from home, the Spider obstinately

refuses the battle; nor will the Bumble-bee, giddy though she be, think

of striking the first blow. I abandon experiments in my study.



We must go direct to the spot and force the duel upon the Tarantula, who

is full of pluck in her own stronghold. Only, instead of the Bumble-bee,

who enters the burrow and conceals her death from our eyes, it is

necessary to substitute another adversary, less inclined to penetrate

underground. There abounds in the garden, at this moment, on the flowers

of the common clary, one of the largest and most powerful Bees that haunt

my district, the Carpenter-bee (_Xylocopa violacea_), clad in black

velvet, with wings of purple gauze. Her size, which is nearly an inch,

exceeds that of the Bumble-bee. Her sting is excruciating and produces a

swelling that long continues painful. I have very exact memories on this

subject, memories that have cost me dear. Here indeed is an antagonist

worthy of the Tarantula, if I succeed in inducing the Spider to accept

her. I place a certain number, one by one, in bottles small in capacity,

but having a wide neck capable of surrounding the entrance to the burrow.



As the prey which I am about to offer is capable of overawing the

huntress, I select from among the Tarantulae the lustiest, the boldest,

those most stimulated by hunger. The spikeleted stalk is pushed into the

burrow. When the Spider hastens up at once, when she is of a good size,

when she climbs boldly to the aperture of her dwelling, she is admitted

to the tourney; otherwise, she is refused. The bottle, baited with a

Carpenter-bee, is placed upside down over the door of one of the elect.

The Bee buzzes gravely in her glass bell; the huntress mounts from the

recesses of the cave; she is on the threshold, but inside; she looks; she

waits. I also wait. The quarters, the half-hours pass: nothing. The

Spider goes down again: she has probably judged the attempt too

dangerous. I move to a second, a third, a fourth burrow: still nothing;

the huntress refuses to leave her lair.



Fortune at last smiles upon my patience, which has been heavily tried by

all these prudent retreats and particularly by the fierce heat of the dog-

days. A Spider suddenly rushes from her hole: she has been rendered

warlike, doubtless, by prolonged abstinence. The tragedy that happens

under the cover of the bottle lasts for but the twinkling of an eye. It

is over: the sturdy Carpenter-bee is dead. Where did the murderess

strike her? That is easily ascertained: the Tarantula has not let go;

and her fangs are planted in the nape of the neck. The assassin has the

knowledge which I suspected: she has made for the essentially vital

centre, she has stung the insect's cervical ganglia with her

poison-fangs. In short, she has bitten the only point a lesion in which

produces sudden death. I was delighted with this murderous skill, which

made amends for the blistering which my skin received in the sun.



Once is not custom: one swallow does not make a summer. Is what I have

just seen due to accident or to premeditation? I turn to other Lycosae.

Many, a deal too many for my patience, stubbornly refuse to dart from

their haunts in order to attack the Carpenter-bee. The formidable quarry

is too much for their daring. Shall not hunger, which brings the wolf

from the wood, also bring the Tarantula out of her hole? Two, apparently

more famished than the rest, do at last pounce upon the Bee and repeat

the scene of murder before my eyes. The prey, again bitten in the neck,

exclusively in the neck, dies on the instant. Three murders, perpetrated

in my presence under identical conditions, represent the fruits of my

experiment pursued, on two occasions, from eight o'clock in the morning

until twelve midday.



I had seen enough. The quick insect-killer had taught me her trade as

had the paralyzer {10} before her: she had shown me that she is

thoroughly versed in the art of the butcher of the Pampas. {11} The

Tarantula is an accomplished _desnucador_. It remained to me to confirm

the open-air experiment with experiments in the privacy of my study. I

therefore got together a menagerie of these poisonous Spiders, so as to

judge of the virulence of their venom and its effect according to the

part of the body injured by the fangs. A dozen bottles and test-tubes

received the prisoners, whom I captured by the methods known to the

reader. To one inclined to scream at the sight of a Spider, my study,

filled with odious Lycosae, would have presented a very uncanny

appearance.



Though the Tarantula scorns or rather fears to attack an adversary placed

in her presence in a bottle, she scarcely hesitates to bite what is

thrust beneath her fangs. I take her by the thorax with my forceps and

present to her mouth the animal which I wish stung. Forthwith, if the

Spider be not already tired by experiments, the fangs are raised and

inserted. I first tried the effects of the bite upon the Carpenter-bee.

When struck in the neck, the Bee succumbs at once. It was the lightning

death which I witnessed on the threshold of the burrows. When struck in

the abdomen and then placed in a large bottle that leaves its movements

free, the insect seems, at first, to have suffered no serious injury. It

flutters about and buzzes. But half an hour has not elapsed before death

is imminent. The insect lies motionless upon its back or side. At most,

a few movements of the legs, a slight pulsation of the belly, continuing

till the morrow, proclaim that life has not yet entirely departed. Then

everything ceases: the Carpenter-bee is a corpse.



The importance of this experiment compels our attention. When stung in

the neck, the powerful Bee dies on the spot; and the Spider has not to

fear the dangers of a desperate struggle. Stung elsewhere, in the

abdomen, the insect is capable, for nearly half an hour, of making use of

its dart, its mandibles, its legs; and woe to the Lycosa whom the

stiletto reaches. I have seen some who, stabbed in the mouth while

biting close to the sting, died of the wound within the twenty-four

hours. That dangerous prey, therefore, requires instantaneous death,

produced by the injury to the nerve-centres of the neck; otherwise, the

hunter's life would often be in jeopardy.



The Grasshopper order supplied me with a second series of victims: Green

Grasshoppers as long as one's finger, large-headed Locusts, Ephippigerae.

{12} The same result follows when these are bitten in the neck:

lightning death. When injured elsewhere, notably in the abdomen, the

subject of the experiment resists for some time. I have seen a

Grasshopper, bitten in the belly, cling firmly for fifteen hours to the

smooth, upright wall of the glass bell that constituted his prison. At

last, he dropped off and died. Where the Bee, that delicate organism,

succumbs in less than half an hour, the Grasshopper, coarse ruminant that

he is, resists for a whole day. Put aside these differences, caused by

unequal degrees of organic sensitiveness, and we sum up as follows: when

bitten by the Tarantula in the neck, an insect, chosen from among the

largest, dies on the spot; when bitten elsewhere, it perishes also, but

after a lapse of time which varies considerably in the different

entomological orders.



This explains the long hesitation of the Tarantula, so wearisome to the

experimenter when he presents to her, at the entrance to the burrow, a

rich, but dangerous prey. The majority refuse to fling themselves upon

the Carpenter-bee. The fact is that a quarry of this kind cannot be

seized recklessly: the huntress who missed her stroke by biting at random

would do so at the risk of her life. The nape of the neck alone

possesses the desired vulnerability. The adversary must be nipped there

and no elsewhere. Not to floor her at once would mean to irritate her

and make her more dangerous than ever. The Spider is well aware of this.

In the safe shelter of her threshold, therefore, prepared to beat a quick

retreat if necessary, she watches for the favourable moment; she waits

for the big Bee to face her, when the neck is easily grabbed. If this

condition of success offer, she leaps out and acts; if not, weary of the

violent evolutions of the quarry, she retires indoors. And that, no

doubt, is why it took me two sittings of four hours apiece to witness

three assassinations.



Formerly, instructed by the paralysing Wasps, I had myself tried to

produce paralysis by injecting a drop of ammonia into the thorax of those

insects, such as Weevils, Buprestes, {13} and Dung-beetles, whose compact

nervous system assists this physiological operation. I showed myself a

ready pupil to my masters' teaching and used to paralyze a Buprestis or a

Weevil almost as well as a Cerceris {14} could have done. Why should I

not to-day imitate that expert butcher, the Tarantula? With the point of

a fine needle, I inject a tiny drop of ammonia at the base of the skull

of a Carpenter-bee or a Grasshopper. The insect succumbs then and there,

without any other movement than wild convulsions. When attacked by the

acrid fluid, the cervical ganglia cease to do their work; and death

ensues. Nevertheless, this death is not immediate; the throes last for

some time. The experiment is not wholly satisfactory as regards

suddenness. Why? Because the liquid which I employ, ammonia, cannot be

compared, for deadly efficacy, with the Lycosa's poison, a pretty

formidable poison, as we shall see.



I make a Tarantula bite the leg of a young, well-fledged Sparrow, ready

to leave the nest. A drop of blood flows; the wounded spot is surrounded

by a reddish circle, changing to purple. The bird almost immediately

loses the use of its leg, which drags, with the toes doubled in; it hops

upon the other. Apart from this, the patient does not seem to trouble

much about his hurt; his appetite is good. My daughters feed him on

Flies, bread-crumb, apricot-pulp. He is sure to get well, he will

recover his strength; the poor victim of the curiosity of science will be

restored to liberty. This is the wish, the intention of us all. Twelve

hours later, the hope of a cure increases; the invalid takes nourishment

readily; he clamours for it, if we keep him waiting. But the leg still

drags. I set this down to a temporary paralysis which will soon

disappear. Two days after, he refuses his food. Wrapping himself in his

stoicism and his rumpled feathers, the Sparrow hunches into a ball, now

motionless, now twitching. My girls take him in the hollow of their

hands and warm him with their breath. The spasms become more frequent. A

gasp proclaims that all is over. The bird is dead.



There was a certain coolness among us at the evening-meal. I read mute

reproaches, because of my experiment, in the eyes of my home-circle; I

read an unspoken accusation of cruelty all around me. The death of the

unfortunate Sparrow had saddened the whole family. I myself was not

without some remorse of conscience: the poor result achieved seemed to me

too dearly bought. I am not made of the stuff of those who, without

turning a hair, rip up live Dogs to find out nothing in particular.



Nevertheless, I had the courage to start afresh, this time on a Mole

caught ravaging a bed of lettuces. There was a danger lest my captive,

with his famished stomach, should leave things in doubt, if we had to

keep him for a few days. He might die not of his wound, but of

inanition, if I did not succeed in giving him suitable food, fairly

plentiful and dispensed at fairly frequent intervals. In that case, I

ran a risk of ascribing to the poison what might well be the result of

starvation. I must therefore begin by finding out if it was possible for

me to keep the Mole alive in captivity. The animal was put into a large

receptacle from which it could not get out and fed on a varied diet of

insects--Beetles, Grasshoppers, especially Cicadae {15}--which it

crunched up with an excellent appetite. Twenty-four hours of this

regimen convinced me that the Mole was making the best of the bill of

fare and taking kindly to his captivity.



I make the Tarantula bite him at the tip of the snout. When replaced in

his cage, the Mole keeps on scratching his nose with his broad paws. The

thing seems to burn, to itch. Henceforth, less and less of the provision

of Cicadae is consumed; on the evening of the following day, it is

refused altogether. About thirty-six hours after being bitten, the Mole

dies during the night and certainly not from inanition, for there are

still half a dozen live Cicadae in the receptacle, as well as a few

Beetles.



The bite of the Black-bellied Tarantula is therefore dangerous to other

animals than insects: it is fatal to the Sparrow, it is fatal to the

Mole. Up to what point are we to generalize? I do not know, because my

enquiries extended no further. Nevertheless, judging from the little

that I saw, it appears to me that the bite of this Spider is not an

accident which man can afford to treat lightly. This is all that I have

to say to the doctors.



To the philosophical entomologists I have something else to say: I have

to call their attention to the consummate knowledge of the

insect-killers, which vies with that of the paralyzers. I speak of

insect-killers in the plural, for the Tarantula must share her deadly art

with a host of other Spiders, especially with those who hunt without

nets. These insect-killers, who live on their prey, strike the game dead

instantaneously by stinging the nerve-centres of the neck; the

paralyzers, on the other hand, who wish to keep the food fresh for their

larvae, destroy the power of movement by stinging the game in the other

nerve-centres. Both of them attack the nervous chain, but they select

the point according to the object to be attained. If death be desired,

sudden death, free from danger to the huntress, the insect is attacked in

the neck; if mere paralysis be required, the neck is respected and the

lower segments--sometimes one alone, sometimes three, sometimes all or

nearly all, according to the special organization of the victim--receive

the dagger-thrust.



Even the paralyzers, at least some of them, are acquainted with the

immense vital importance of the nerve-centres of the neck. We have seen

the Hairy Ammophila munching the caterpillar's brain, the Languedocian

Sphex munching the brain of the Ephippigera, with the object of inducing

a passing torpor. But they simply squeeze the brain and do even this

with a wise discretion; they are careful not to drive their sting into

this fundamental centre of life; not one of them ever thinks of doing so,

for the result would be a corpse which the larva would despise. The

Spider, on the other hand, inserts her double dirk there and there alone;

any elsewhere it would inflict a wound likely to increase resistance

through irritation. She wants a venison for consumption without delay

and brutally thrusts her fangs into the spot which the others so

conscientiously respect.



If the instinct of these scientific murderers is not, in both cases, an

inborn predisposition, inseparable from the animal, but an acquired

habit, then I rack my brain in vain to understand how that habit can have

been acquired. Shroud these facts in theoretic mists as much as you

will, you shall never succeed in veiling the glaring evidence which they

afford of a pre-established order of things.