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 [[176]]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[3] 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. [[177]]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. [[178]]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[4] of the period has bequeathed us any information in this respect. Ortolans are roasted skewered on a spit; to add the seasoning of [[179]]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.