The two sexes dwell apart. Both are extremely domestic in their habits. Whose business is it to make a move? Does the caller go in search of the called? Does the serenaded one come to the serenader? If, at pairing-time, sound were the sole guide where homes are far apart, it would be necessary for the silent partner to go to the noisy one’s trysting-place. But I imagine that, in order to save appearances—and this accords with what I learn from my prisoners—the Cricket has special faculties that guide him towards his mute lady-love.
When and how is the meeting effected? I suspect that things take place in the friendly [[339]]gloaming and upon the very threshold of the bride’s home, upon that sanded esplanade, that state courtyard, which lies just outside the entrance.
A nocturnal journey like this, at some twenty paces’ distance, is a serious undertaking for the Cricket. When he has accomplished his pilgrimage, how will he, the stay-at-home, with his imperfect knowledge of topography, find his own house again? To return to his Penates must be impossible. He roams, I fear, at random, with no place to lay his head. He has neither the time nor the heart to dig himself the new burrow which would be his salvation; and he dies a wretched death, forming a savoury mouthful for the Toad on his night rounds. His visit to the lady Cricket has cost him his home and his life. What does he care! He has done his duty as a Cricket.
This is how I picture events when I combine the probabilities of the open country with the realities of the vivarium. I have several couples in one cage. As a rule, my captives refrain from digging themselves a dwelling. The hour has passed for any long waiting or long wooing. They wander about the enclosed space, without troubling about [[340]]a fixed home, or else lie low under the shelter of a lettuce-leaf.
Peace reigns in the household until the quarrelsome instincts of pairing-time break out. Then affrays between suitors are frequent and lively, though not serious. The two rivals stand face to face, bite each other in the head, that solid, fang-proof helmet, roll each other over, pick themselves up and separate. The vanquished Cricket makes off as fast as he can; the victor insults him with a boastful ditty; then, moderating his tone, he veers and tacks around the object of his desires.
He makes himself look smart and, at the same time, submissive. Gripping one of his antennæ with a claw, he takes it in his mandibles to curl it and grease it with saliva. With his long spurred and red-striped hind-legs, he stamps the ground impatiently and kicks out at nothing. His emotion renders him dumb. His wing-cases, it is true, quiver rapidly, but they give forth no sound, or at most an agitated rustling.
A vain declaration! The female Cricket runs and hides herself in a curly bit of lettuce. She lifts the curtain a little, however, and looks out and wishes to be seen. [[341]]
Et fugit ad salices; et se cupit ante videri,[1]
said the delightful eclogue, two thousand years ago. Thrice-consecrated strategy of love, thou art everywhere the same!
The song is resumed, intersected by silences and murmuring quavers. Touched by so much passion, Galatea, I mean Dame Cricket, issues from her hiding-place. The other goes up to her, suddenly spins round, turns his back to her and flattens his abdomen against the ground. Crawling backwards, he makes repeated efforts to slip underneath. The curious backward manœuvre at last succeeds. Gently, my little one, gently! Discreetly flattened out, you manage to slide under. That’s done it! We have our couple. A spermatophore, a granule smaller than a pin’s head, hangs where it ought to. The meadows will have their Crickets next year.