II.
WHAT is the secret of that horror inspired by the centipede? …
It is but very faintly related to our knowledge that the creature
is venomous;—the results of the bite are only temporary swelling
and a brief fever;—it is less to be feared than the bite of
other tropical insects and reptiles which never inspire the same
loathing by their aspect. And the shapes of venomous creatures
are not always shapes of ugliness. The serpent has elegance of
form as well as attractions of metallic tinting;—the tarantula,
or the matoutou-falaise, have geometrical beauty. Lapidaries
have in all ages expended rare skill upon imitations of serpent
grace in gold and gems;—a princess would not scorn to wear a
diamond spider. But what art could utilize successfully the form
of the centipede? It is a form of absolute repulsiveness,—a
skeleton-shape half defined:—the suggestion of some old reptile-spine
astir, crawling with its fragments of ribs.
No other living thing excites exactly the same feeling produced
by the sight of the centipede,—the intense loathing and peculiar
fear. The instant you see a centipede you feel it is absolutely
necessary to kill it; you cannot find peace in your house while
you know that such a life exists in it: perhaps the intrusion of
a serpent would annoy and disgust you less. And it is not
easy to explain the whole reason of this loathing. The form
alone has, of course, something to do with it,—a form that seems
almost a departure from natural laws. But the form alone does not
produce the full effect, which is only experienced when you see
the creature in motion. The true horror of the centipede,
perhaps, must be due to the monstrosity of its movement,—
multiple and complex, as of a chain of pursuing and inter-
devouring lives: there is something about it that makes you
recoil, as from a sudden corrupt swarming-out. It is confusing,
—a series of contractings and lengthenings and, undulations so
rapid as to allow of being only half seen: it alarms also,
because the thing seems perpetually about to disappear, and
because you know that to lose sight of it for one moment involves
the very unpleasant chance of finding it upon you the next,—
perhaps between skin and clothing.
But this is not all:—the sensation produced by the centipede is
still more complex—complex, in fact, as the visible organization
of the creature. For, during pursuit,—whether retreating or
attacking, in hiding or fleeing,—it displays a something which
seems more than instinct: calculation and cunning,—a sort of
malevolent intelligence. It knows how to delude, how to
terrify;—it has marvellous skill in feinting;—it is an
abominable juggler. …
