THE ERGATES; THE COSSUS
This is Shrove Tuesday, a relic of the saturnalia of old; and I have it
in my mind to do some strange cooking, which would have delighted the
soul of a Roman gourmet. When I let my imagination run away with me, I
want my folly to achieve some measure of notoriety. I must have
witnesses, connoisseurs who will be able, each in his fashion, to
appreciate the merits of an unknown fare of which none but the
classical scholar has ever heard before. A question so serious must be
debated in council.
There will be eight of us: my family, to begin with, and then two
friends, probably the only persons in the village in whose presence I
may venture on these eccentricities of the table without provoking
comments on what would be regarded as a depraved taste.
One of them is the schoolmaster. Let us call him by his name, Julian,
as he has no objection and is not afraid of what foolish people will
say if ever they get to hear of our banquet. He is a man of liberal
views and scientific training, whose mind is always open to admit the
truth in any guise.
The second, Marius Guigne, is blind. A joiner by trade, he wields his
saw and plane in the blackest darkness with as sure a hand as any
skilled craftsman who enjoys the full use of his eyes can exercise in
broad daylight. He lost his sight when a boy, after knowing the
blessings of the sunshine and the miracles of colour. To make up for
the perpetual gloom in which he lives, he has acquired a gentle and
ever-cheerful philosophy, a passionate desire to fill as best he can
the gaps left by his meagre primary education, an ear exquisitely
refined in musical matters and a sensitiveness of skin which is very
unusual in fingers hardened by the labour of the carpenter’s shop. When
he and I are talking, if he wants to know something about this or that
geometrical property, he holds out his hand to me, wide open. It is our
black-board. I trace with my forefinger the figure to be constructed
and accompany the light contact with a short explanation. That is
enough to make him understand the idea which the plane, the saw and the
lathe will translate into actuality.
On Sunday afternoons, especially in winter, when three or four logs
blazing on the hearth afford a pleasant change from the fierce blast of
the mistral, these two meet at my house. We three form the village
Athenæum, the rustic Academy where everything is discussed except the
hateful subject, politics. Philosophy, morals, literature, philology,
science, history, numismatics, archæology by turns furnish matter for
our exchange of ideas, in accordance with the unforeseen twists of the
conversation. At one of these gatherings, which lighten my solitude,
today’s dinner was plotted. The unusual dish consists of Cossi, a
famous delicacy in the days of antiquity.
The Romans, when they had devoured their fill of nations, besotted by
excessive luxury, took to eating worms. Pliny tells us:
“Romanis in hoc luxuria esse coepit, praegrandesque roborum vermes
delicatiore sunt in cibo; cossus vocant.” [47]
What are these worms exactly? The Latin naturalist is not very
explicit; he tells us nothing at all except that they live in the
trunks of oaks. No matter: with this detail we cannot go astray. The
worm in question is the larva of the Great Capricorn (Cerambyx heros).
[48] A frequent inmate of the oak, it is, in fact, a lusty grub and
attracts one’s attention by its resemblance to a fat, white sausage.
But the expression prægrandesque roborum vermes should, to my thinking,
be generalized a little. Pliny was no precisian. Having occasion to
speak of a big worm, he mentions that of the oak, the commonest of the
larger ones; and he overlooks the others or takes them for granted,
probably failing to distinguish them from the first.
Let us not keep too strictly to the tree mentioned in the Latin text,
but consider what the old author had really in mind when he spoke of
these worms. We shall find other worms no less worthy of the title of
Cossus than the Oak-worm, for instance the worm of the chestnut-tree,
the larva of the Stag-beetle.
One indispensable condition must be fulfilled to earn the celebrated
name: the grub must be plump, of a good size and not too repulsive in
appearance. Now by a curious freak of scientific nomenclature it
happens that the name of Cossus has been allotted to the mighty
caterpillar [49] whose galleries honeycomb old willows: a hideous,
malodorous creature, the colour of wine-lees. No gullet, not even a
Roman’s, would have dared to swallow anything so loathsome. The Cossus
of the modern naturalists is certainly not that of the epicures of old.
In addition to the larvæ of the Capricorn and the Stag-beetle, which
have been identified by the writers with Pliny’s famous worm, I know
another which, in my opinion, would fulfil the requisite conditions
even better. I will tell you how I discovered it.
The short-sighted law of the land has nothing to say to the slayer of
noble trees, the unimaginative fool who, for a handful of crown-pieces,
pillages the stately woods, lays bare the countryside, dries up the
clouds and turns the soil into a parching slag-heap. There was in my
neighbourhood a magnificent clump of pine-trees, the joy of the
Black-bird, the Thrush, the Jay, and other passers-by, of whom I was
one and not the least assiduous. The owner had it cut down. Two or
three years after the massacre, I visited the spot.
The pines had disappeared, converted into timber and firewood; nothing
remained but the enormous stumps, which were too difficult to extract.
They were doomed to rot where they stood. Not only had the weather left
its marks upon them, but their interior was full of wide galleries, the
signs of a vigorous population completing the work of death begun by
man. It struck me that it would be as well to enquire what was swarming
inside them. The landlord had made the most of his coppice; he left it
to me to make the most of the ideas which it suggested, since these had
no value for him.
One fine afternoon in winter, all my family foregather and, with my son
Paul wielding a heavy implement, we proceed to break up a couple of
stumps. The wood, hard and dry outside, has been transformed inside
into very soft layers, like slabs of touchwood. In the midst of this
moist, warm decay, a worm as thick as my thumb abounds. Never have I
seen a fatter one.
Its ivory whiteness is pleasing to the eye and its satin-like delicacy
is soft to the touch. If we can for once emancipate ourselves from
gastronomic prejudices, it is even appetizing, resembling as it does a
translucent bag filled to bursting-point with fresh butter. At the
sight of it, an idea occurs to us: this must be the Cossus, the true
Cossus, far superior to the coarse grub of the Capricorn. Why not try
the much-vaunted fare? Here is a capital opportunity, which perhaps
will never occur again.
We gather a plentiful crop, therefore, in the first place so that we
may study the grub, whose shape proclaims it to be the larva of a
Longicorn, or Long-horned Beetle, and in the second place to
investigate the culinary problem. We want to know what insect exactly
is represented by this larva; we also want to discover the edible value
of the Cossus. It is Shrove Tuesday, a propitious date for such
extravagances of the table.
I know not with what sauce the Cossus was eaten in the days of the
Cæsars; no Aepicus [50] of the period has bequeathed us any information
in this respect. Ortolans are roasted skewered on a spit; to add the
seasoning of any complicated dressing would be a profanation. Let us do
the same with the Cossi, those Ortolans of entomology. Stuck in a row
on a skewer, they are grilled over red-hot charcoal. A pinch of salt,
the necessary condiment of our meats, is the only extraneous relish.
The roast turns a golden brown, shrivels slowly and sheds a few oily
tears, which take fire on touching the coal and burn with a fine white
flame. The dish is ready. Let us serve it hot.
Encouraged by my example, my family bravely attack their skewerfuls.
The schoolmaster hesitates, a victim to his fancy, which pictures the
fat worms of a moment ago crawling about his plate. He picks out the
smallest ones, as less likely to provoke unpleasant reminiscences. The
blind man is not so much at the mercy of his imagination, gives his
undivided attention to the dish before him and eats with every sign of
satisfaction.
All are of one opinion. The joint is juicy, tender, and very savoury.
The taste reminds one a little of burnt almonds flavoured with the
merest suggestion of vanilla. In short, the dish of worms is pronounced
to be most agreeable, one might even say first-rate. What would it not
be if the art of the ancient epicures had been lavished on its cooking!
The skin alone leaves something to be desired: it is very tough. One
might describe the new dish as the daintiest of force-meat, wrapped in
parchment; the inside is delicious, but the outside defies the teeth. I
offer it to my Cat: she refuses it, though she is very fond of
sausage-skin. The two Dogs, my assiduous acolytes at dinner-time,
refuse it likewise, refuse it obstinately, certainly not because of its
hard texture, for their omnivorous gullets are sublimely indifferent to
difficulties of deglutition. But their subtle sense of smell recognizes
in the proffered morsel something unfamiliar, something absolutely
unknown to all their race; and, after sniffing at it, they draw back as
suspiciously as though I had offered them a mustard-sandwich. It is too
new to them.
They remind me of the innocent wonder of my neighbours, the women of
the village, when they pass in front of the fishwives’ stalls at Orange
on market-days. Here are baskets filled with Shell-fish, others with
Craw-fish, others with Sea-urchins.
“Eh,” they ask one another, “are those things meant to be eaten? And
how? Roast or boiled? You wouldn’t catch me tackling that stuff.”
And, vastly surprised that there should be people capable of making a
meal off anything so loathly, they turn aside from the Sea-urchin. Even
so do my Cat and my Dogs. With them as with ourselves, exceptional food
needs an apprenticeship.
To the little that he has to say about the Cossus, Pliny adds: “Etiam
farina saginati, hi quoque altiles sunt,” which means that the worms
were fattened with meal to improve their flavour. The recipe startled
me at first, all the more so as the old naturalist is much given to
this system of fattening. He tells us of one Fulvius Hirpinus who
invented the art of rearing Snails, so highly esteemed by the
gormandizers of the day. The herd destined to be fattened were placed
in a park surrounded by water to prevent escape and furnished with
earthenware vases to serve as shelters. Fed on a paste of flour and
syrupy wine, the Snails became enormous. Notwithstanding all my respect
for the venerable naturalist, I cannot believe that molluscs thrive so
remarkably when put on a diet of flour and syrupy wine. These are
childish exaggerations, which were inevitable at first, when the
scientific spirit of research had not yet come into being. Pliny
artlessly repeats the talk of the country folk of his day.
I have much the same doubts about the Cossi that put on flesh when fed
with meal. Still, the result is less incredible than that alleged to
take place in the Snail-park. As a scrupulous observer, let me test the
method. I put a few grubs taken from the pines in a glass jar full of
flour. They receive no other food. I expected to see the larvæ,
smothered in that fine dust, dying quickly, either suffocated by the
obstruction of their air-holes or perishing for lack of suitable
nourishment.
Great was my mistake. Pliny was right: the Cossi thrive in the flour
and feed heartily on it. I have before me some that have spent a year
in this environment. They eat their way through it, scooping out
corridors and leaving behind them a brown paste, the waste product of
their digestive organs. That they are actually fatter I cannot state
for a fact; but at least they have a magnificent appearance, no less
imposing than that of others which were kept in jars filled with scraps
of their native tree-stumps. The flour is amply sufficient, if not to
fatten them, at least to keep them in excellent condition.
Enough of the Cossus and my crazy skewers. If I have studied the
question so closely, it certainly has not been with the hope of
enriching our bills of fare. No, that was not my object, even though
Brillat-Savarin [51] has said that “the invention of a new dish is a
greater benefit to humanity than the discovery of an asteroid.”. The
scarcity of the pine-tree’s plump inhabitants and the repugnance with
which the vast majority of us view any sort of vermin will always
prevent my new comestible from becoming a common article of diet. It is
probable even that it will remain a mere curiosity, which people will
take on trust without verifying its qualities. Not everybody has the
needful independence of stomach to appreciate the merits of a worm.
Still less, so far as I was concerned, was the bait of a dainty dish
the motive. My sober tastes are not easily tempted. A handful of
cherries is more to my liking than all the preparations of our
cookery-books. My sole desire was to throw light upon a point of
natural history. Have I succeeded? It may well be that I have.
Let us now consider the metamorphoses of the grub; let us strive to
obtain the adult form, so as to determine the nature of our subject,
which has hitherto remained nameless. The rearing presents no
difficulty whatever. I install my plump larvæ, straight from the
pine-tree, in flower-pots of ordinary size. I provide them with a
goodly heap of scraps from their old home, the tree-stump, choosing by
preference the central layers, which have rotted into soft flakes of
touchwood.
The grubs creep in and out of the well-stocked refectory at their own
sweet will; they crawl lazily up and down or stand still, gnawing all
the time. I need pay no further attention to them, provided the
victuals remain fresh. With this rough and ready treat I have kept them
in first-rate condition for a couple of years. My boarders have all the
happy tranquillity that comes from an untroubled digestion; and they
know nothing of home-sickness.
In the first week of July, I catch sight of a grub wiggling vigorously,
turning round and round. This exercise is to give suppleness in view of
the coming moult. The violent gymnastics take place in a large
apartment of no special structure, without cement or glaze. The big
grub, by rolling its rump to and fro, has simply pushed back all around
it the powdery ligneous matter produced by its crumbled or even
digested provisions. It has compressed and felted it together; and, as
I have taken care to keep the material suitably moist, it sets into a
fairly solid and remarkably smooth wall. It is a stucco made of
wood-pulp.
A few days later, in stiflingly hot weather, the grub sheds its skin.
The moult is effected at night and I am therefore unable to witness it;
but next morning I have the newly-divested clothing at my disposal. The
skin has been split open on the thorax up to the first segment, which
has released itself, bringing the head with it. Through this narrow
dorsal fissure, the nymph has issued by alternately stretching and
contracting, so that the cast skin forms a crumpled bag, which is
almost intact.
On the day of its deliverance, the nymph is a magnificent white, whiter
than alabaster, whiter than ivory. Add a slight transparency to the
substance of our superfine stearin candles and you will have something
nearly resembling that budding flesh in process of crystallization.
The arrangement of the limbs is faultlessly symmetrical. The folded
legs make one think of arms crossed upon the breast in a sacerdotal
attitude. Our painters have no better symbol for representing mystic
resignation to the hand of destiny. Joined together, the tarsi form two
long, knotted cords that lie along the nymph’s sides like a priest’s
stole. The wings and wing-cases, fitting by pairs into a common sheath,
are flattened into wide paddles like flakes of talc. In front, the
antennæ are bent into elegant crosiers and then slip under the knees of
the first pair of legs and rest their tips on the wing-paddles. The
sides of the corselet project slightly, like a head-dress recalling the
spreading white caps of our French nuns.
My children, when I show them this wonderful creature, find a very
happy phrase to describe it:
“It’s a little girl making her first communion,” they say, “a little
girl in her white veil.”
What a lovely gem, if it were permanent and incorruptible! An artist
seeking for a decorative subject would find an exquisite model here.
And this gem moves. At the least disturbance, it fidgets about on its
back, very much like a Gudgeon laid high and dry on the river-bank.
Feeling itself in danger, the terrified creature strives to make itself
terrifying.
Next day, the nymph is clouded with a faint smoky tint. The work of a
final transformation begins and is continued for a fortnight. At last,
towards the end of July, the nymphal garment is reduced to shreds, torn
by the movements of the stretching and waving limbs. The full-grown
insect appears, clad in rusty-red and white. The colour soon becomes
darker and gradually changes to black. The insect has completed its
development.
I recognize it as the naturalists’ Ergates faber, which, translated
into the vernacular, means “the journeyman blacksmith.” If any one
knows why this long-horned Beetle, this lover of old pine-stumps, is
called a working blacksmith, I will thank him to tell me.
The Ergates is a magnificent insect, vying with the Great Capricorn in
size, but with broader wing-cases and a slightly flatter body. The male
carries on his corselet two broad, triangular, glistening facets. These
constitute his blazon and serve no other purpose than that of masculine
adornment.
I have tried to observe by lantern-light—for the insect is nocturnal in
its habits—the nuptial charms of the blazoned Beetle of the pines in
his native surroundings. My son Paul went all over the ravaged
plantation, lantern in hand, between ten and eleven at night; he
explored the old stumps one by one. The expedition led to nothing; no
Ergates was seen, of either sex. We need not regret this failure: by
rearing the insects in the cages we learn the most interesting details
of the business.
I take the Beetles born in my study and install them, in isolated
couples, under spacious wire-gauze dish-covers placed over stacks of
refuse from the decayed pine-stumps. By way of food, I serve them with
pears cut into quarters, small bunches of grapes and slices of melon,
all favourite dainties of the Great Capricorn.
The captives rarely show themselves by day; they remain concealed under
the heap of chips. They come out at night and solemnly stroll to and
fro, now on the wire trellis, now on the pile of wood that represents
the pine-stump to which they must hasten when the egg-laying season
arrives. Never do they touch the provisions, though these are kept
fresh by almost daily renewals; never do they nibble at the fruit, at
the dainties in which the Capricorn delights. They scorn to eat.
Worse still: apparently they disdain to pair. I watch them every
evening for nearly a month. What melancholy lovers! There is no
eagerness on the part of the male, no impetuous hurry to woo his mate;
no teasing on the part of the female to stimulate her backward swain.
Each shuns the other’s company; and, when they do meet, they merely
maim each other. Under all my wire covers, five in number, sooner or
later I find either the male or the female, sometimes both, the poorer
by a few legs or one or both antennæ. The cut is so clean that it might
be the work of a pruning-shears. The sharp edge of the mandibles, which
are shaped like cleavers, explains this hacking. I myself, if I get my
fingers caught, am bitten till the blood comes.
What kind of creatures are these, among whom the sexes cannot meet
without mutilating each other, these savages with their ferocious
embraces, whose caresses are sheer mangling! For blows to be exchanged
between males, in the fierce brawl for the possession of the bride, is
an everyday occurrence: it is the rule among the greater part of the
animal creation. But here the female herself is sorely ill-treated,
perhaps after having been the first to begin.
“Ah, you’ve damaged my plume!” says the journeyman blacksmith. “All
right, I’ll break your leg for you. Take that!”
More reprisals follow. The shears are brought into action on either
side, and the fight produces a pair of cripples.
If the housing were inadequate, one could put down this brutality to
the terrified hustling of a mob of maddened creatures; but one can no
longer do so when a roomy cage leaves the two captives ample space for
their nocturnal rambles. They lack nothing in the wire dome but liberty
of flight. Could this deprivation tend to embitter their character? How
far removed are they from the Common Capricorn! He, though he form one
of a dozen huddled under the same dish-cover, for a month on end,
without any neighbours’ quarrel, bestrides his companion, and, from
time to time, caresses her with a lick of his tongue on her back. Other
people, other customs. I know one who rivals the insect of the pines in
that barbarous propensity for mutilating its fellows. This is the
Ægosoma (Æ. scabricorne, Fab.), who likewise is a lover of darkness and
sports a pair of long horns. His grub lives in the wood of old willows
hollow with age. The adult is a handsome insect, attired in bright
brown and bearing a pair of very fierce antennæ. With the Capricorn and
Ergates, he is the most noteworthy of all the Longicorns in the matter
of size.
In July, at about eleven o’clock on a warm, still night, I find him
crouching flat on the inside of the cavernous willows or oftener on the
outside, on the rough bark of the trunk. The males occur pretty
frequently. Motionless, undismayed by the sudden flashes of my lantern,
they await the coming of the females lurking in the deep crevices of
the decayed wood.
The Ægosoma also is armed with powerful shears, with mandibular
cleavers which are very useful to the new-formed adult for hewing a way
out, but which become a crying abuse among insects of the same family,
when addicted to chopping off each other’s legs and antennæ. If I do
not isolate my subjects one by one in strong paper bags, I am certain,
on returning from my nocturnal expeditions, to find none but cripples
in my box. The mandibular knife has done furious execution on the way.
Almost all the insects are the poorer by at least a leg.
In the wire cage, with chips of old willow-wood for a refuge and figs,
pears and other fruits for food, they are less intolerant. For three or
four days, my captives betray great excitement at nightfall. They run
swiftly along the trellised dome, quarrelling as they go, biting one
another, striking at one another with their cleavers. In the absence of
females, almost undiscoverable at the time of my visits, which are
possibly not late enough, I have not been able to observe their
nuptials; but I have seen acts of brutality that tell me something of
what I want to know. No less expert in chopping off legs than his
kinsman of the pines, the Ægosoma should also be somewhat deficient in
gallantry. I picture him beating his wife and crippling her a little,
not without himself receiving his share of wounds.
If these were Longicorn affairs, the scandal would not be far-reaching;
but, alas, we also have our domestic quarrels! The Beetle explains his
by his nocturnal habits: the light makes for milder manners; the
darkness tends to deprave them. The result is worse when the soul is in
darkness; and the lout who thrashes his wife is a child of the gloom.