The Life of the Spider | Page 9

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