All those I have spoken to replied to my questions with a smile in which I read their lack of faith in my knowledge of insects. "Sir," they said, "you must know that there are never grubs in the haricot bean. It is a blessed vegetable, respected by the weevil. The pea, the broad bean, the vetch, and the chick-pea all have their vermin; but the haricot, lou gounflo-gus, never. What should we do, poor folk as we are, if the Courcoussoun robbed us of it?"
The fact is that the weevil despises the haricot; a very curious dislike if we consider how industriously the other vegetables of the same family are attacked. All, even the beggarly lentil, are eagerly exploited; whilst the haricot, so tempting both as to size and flavour, remains untouched. It is incomprehensible. Why should the Bruchus, which without hesitation passes from the excellent to the indifferent, and from the indifferent to the excellent, disdain this particularly toothsome seed? It leaves the forest vetch for the pea, and the pea for the broad bean, as pleased with the small as with the large, yet the temptations of the haricot bean leave it indifferent. Why?
Apparently because the haricot is unknown to it. The other leguminous plants, whether native or of Oriental origin, have been familiar to it for centuries; it has tested their virtues year by year, and, confiding in the lessons of the past, it bases its forethought for the future upon ancient custom. The haricot is avoided as a newcomer, whose merits it has not yet learned.
The insect emphatically informs us that with us the haricot is of recent date. It has come to us from a distant country: and assuredly from the New World. Every edible vegetable attracts its consumers. If it had originated in the Old World the haricot would have had its licensed consumers, as have the pea, the lentil, and the broad bean. The smallest leguminous seed, if barely bigger than a pin's head, nourishes its weevil; a dwarf which patiently nibbles it and excavates a dwelling; but the plump, delicious haricot is spared.
This astonishing immunity can have only one explanation: like the potato and the maize-plant, the haricot is a gift of the New World. It arrived in Europe without the company of the insect which exploits it in its native country; it has found in our fields another world of insects, which have despised it because they did not know it. Similarly the potato and the ear of maize are untouched in France unless their American consumers are accidentally imported with them.
The verdict of the insect is confirmed by the negative testimony of the ancient classics; the haricot never appears on the table of the Greek or Roman peasant. In the second Eclogue of Virgil Thestylis prepares the repast of the harvesters:—
Thestylis et rapido fessis messoribus æstu
Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentes.
This mixture is the equivalent of the aïoli, dear to the Provençal palate. It sounds very well in verse, but is not very substantial. On such an occasion men would look for that fundamental dish, the plate of red haricots, seasoned with chopped onions. All in good time; this at least would ballast the stomach. Thus refreshed in the open air, listening to the song of the cigales, the gang of harvesters would take their mid-day rest and gently digest their meal in the shadows of the sheaves. Our modern Thestylis, differing little from her classic sister, would take good care not to forget the gounflo-gus, that economical resource of large appetites. The Thestylis of the past did not think of providing it because she did not know it.
The same author shows us Tityrus offering a night's hospitality to his friend Melibœus, who has been driven from his property by the soldiers of Octavius, and goes limping behind his flock of goats. We shall have, says Tityrus, chestnuts, cheese, and fruits. History does not say if Melibœus allowed himself to be tempted. It is a pity; for during the frugal meal we might have learned in a more explicit fashion that the shepherds of the ancient world were not acquainted with the haricot.