Canto
III
The Cocooning
When the crop is fair in the olive-yard,
And the earthen jars are ready
For the golden oil from the barrels poured,
And the big cart rocks unsteady
With its tower of gathered sheaves, and strains
And groans on its way through fields and lanes;
When brawny and bare as an old athlete
Comes Bacchus the dance a-leading,
And the labourers all, with juice-dyed feet,
The vintage of Crau are treading,
And the good wine pours from the brimful presses,
And the ruddy foam in the vats increases;
When under the leaves of the Spanish broom
The clear silkworms are holden,
An artist each, in a tiny loom,
Weaving a web all golden—
Fine, frail cells out of sunlight spun,
Where they creep and sleep by the million—
Glad is Provence on a day like that,
’Tis the time of jest and laughter:
The Ferigoulet and the Baume Muscat
They quaff, and they sing thereafter.
And lads and lasses, their toils between,
Dance to the tinkling tambourine.
“Methinks, good neighbours, I am Fortune’s pet.
Ne’er in my trellised arbor saw I yet
A silkier bower, cocoons more worthy praise,
Or richer harvest, since the year of grace
When first I laid my hand on Ramoun’s arm
And came, a youthful bride, to Lotus Farm.”
So spake Jano Mario, Ramoun’s wife,
The fond, proud mother who had given life
To our Mirèio. Unto her had hied,
The while were gathered the cocoons outside,
Her neighbours. In the silk-worm-room they throng;
And, as they aid the picking, gossip long.
To these Mirèio tendered now and then
Oak-sprigs and sprays of rosemary; for when
The worms, lured by the mountain odour, come
In myriads, there to make their silken home,
The sprays and sprigs, adornèd in such wise,
Are like the golden palms of Paradise.
“On Mother Mary’s altar yesterday,”
Jano Mario said, “I went to lay
My finer sprays, by way of tithe. And so
I do each year; for you, my women, know
That, when the holy Mother will, ’tis she
Who sendeth up the worms abundantly.”
“Now, for my part,” said Zèu of Host Farm,
“Great fears have I my worms will come to harm.
You mind that ugly day the east wind blew—
I left my window open—if you knew
Ever such folly!—and to my affright
Upon my floor are twenty, now turned white.”
To Zèu thus the crone Taven replied—
A witch, who from the cliffs of Baux had hied
To help at the cocooning: “Youth is bold,
The young think they know better than the old;
And age is torment, and we mourn the fate
Which bids us see and know—but all too late,
“Ye are such giddy women, every one,
That, if the hatching promise well, ye run
Straightway about the streets the tale to tell.
‘Come see my silkworms! ’Tis incredible
How fine they are!’ Envy can well dissemble:
She hastens to your room, her heart a-tremble
“With wrath. And ‘Well done, neighbour!’ she says cheerly:
‘This does one good! You’ve still your caul on, clearly!’
But when your head is turned, she casts upon ’em—
The envious one—a look so full of venom,
It knots and burns ’em up. And then you say
It was the east wind plastered ’em that way!”
“I don’t say that has naught to do with it,”
Quoth Zèu. “Still it had been quite as fit
For me to close the window.”—“Doubt you, then,
The harm the eye can do,” went on Taven,
“When in the head it glistens balefully?”
And Zèu scanned, herself with piercing eye.
“Ye are such fools, ye seem to think,” she said,
“That scraping with a scalpel on the dead
Would win its honey-secret from the bee!
But may not a fierce look, now answer me,
The unborn babe for evermore deform,
And dry the cow’s milk in her udders warm?
“An owl may fascinate a little bird;
A serpent, flying geese, as I have heard,
How high soe’er they mount. And if one keep
A fixed gaze upon silkworms, will they sleep?
Moreover, is there, neighbours, in the land
So wise a virgin that she can withstand
“The fiery eyes of passionate youth?” Here stopped
The hag, and damsels four their cocoons dropped;
“In June as in October,” murmuring,
“Her tongue hath evermore a barbèd sting,
The ancient viper! What the lads, say you?
Let them come, then! We’ll see what they can do?”
But other merry ones retorted, “No!
We want them not! Do we, Mirèio?”
“Not we! Nor is it always cocooning,
So I’ll a bottle from the cellar bring
That you will find delicious.” And she fled
Toward the house because her cheeks grew red.
“Now, friends,” said haughty Lauro, with decision,
“This is my mind, though poor be my condition:
I’ll smile on no one, even though my lover
As king of fairy-land his realm should offer.
A pleasure were it, could I see him lying,
And seven long years before my footstool sighing.”
“Ah!” said Clemenço, “should a king me woo,
And say he loved me, without much ado
I’d grant the royal suit! And chiefly thus
Were he a young king and a glorious.
A king of men, in beauty, I’d let come
And freely lead me to his palace home!
“But see! If I were once enthronèd there,
A sovereign and an empress, in a fair
Mantle bedecked, of golden-flowered brocade,
With pearls and emeralds dazzling round my head,
Then would my heart for my poor country yearn;
And I, the queen, would unto Baux return.
“And I would make my capital at Baux,
And on the rock where lie its ruins low
I would rebuild our ancient castle, and
A white tower on the top thereof should stand
Whose head should touch the stars. Thither retiring,
If rest or solace were the queen desiring,
“We’d climb the turret-stair, my prince and I,
And gladly throw the crown and mantle by.
And would it not be blissful with my love,
Aloft, alone to sit, the world above?
Or, leaned upon the parapet by his side,
To search the lovely landscape far and wide,
“Our own glad kingdom of Provence descrying,
Like some great orange-grove beneath us lying
All fair? And, ever stretching dreamily
Beyond the hills and plains, the sapphire sea;
While noble ships, tricked out with streamers gay,
Just graze the Château d’If, and pass away?
“Or we would turn to lightning-scathed Ventour,
Who, while the lesser heights before him cower,
His hoary head against the heaven raises,
As I have seen, in solitary places
Of beech and pine, with staff in agèd hand,
Some shepherd-chief, his flock o’erlooking, stand.
“Again, we’d follow the great Rhône awhile,
Adown whose banks the cities brave defile,
And dip their lips and drink, with dance and song.
Stately is the Rhône’s march, and very strong;
But even he must bend at Avignon
His haughty head to Notre Dame des Doms.
“Or watch the ever-varying Durance,
Now like some fierce and ravenous goat advance
Devouring banks and bridges; now demure
As maid from rustic well who bears her ewer,
Spilling her scanty water as she dallies,
And every youth along her pathway rallies.”
So spake her sweet Provençal majesty,
And rose with brimful apron, and put by
Her gathered treasure. Two more maids were there,
Twin sisters, the one dark, the other fair—
Azaläis, Viòulano. The stronghold
Of Estoublon sheltered their parents old.
And oft these two to Lotus Farmstead came;
While that mischievous lad, Cupid by name,
Who loves to sport with generous hearts and tender,
Had made the sisters both their love surrender
To the same youth. So Azaläis said—
The dark one—lifting up her raven head:
“Now, damsels, play awhile that I were queen.
The Marseilles ships, the Beaucaire meadows green.
Smiling La Ciotat, and fair Salon,
With all her almond trees, to me belong.
Then the young maids I’d summon by decree,
From Arles, Baux, Barbentano, unto me.
“ ‘Come, fly like birds!’ the order should be given;
And I, of these, would choose the fairest seven,
And royal charge upon the same would lay,
The false love and the true in scales to weigh.
And then would merry counsel holden be;
For sure it is a great calamity
“That half of those who love, with love most meet,
Can never marry, and their joy complete.
But when I, Azaläis, hold the helm,
I proclamation make, that in my realm
True lovers wounded in their cruel sport
Shall aye find mercy at the maiden’s court.
“And if one sell her robe of honour white,
Whether it be for gold or jewel bright,
And if one offer insult, or betray
A fond heart, unto such as these alway
The high court of the seven maids shall prove
The stern avenger of offended love.
“And if two lovers the same maid desire,
Or if two maids to the same lad aspire,
My council’s duty it shall be to choose
Which loves the better, which the better sues,
And which is worthier of a happy fate.
Moreover, on my maidens there shall wait
“Seven sweet poets, who from time to time
Shall write the laws of love in lovely rhyme
Upon wild vine-leaves or the bark of trees;
And sometimes, in a stately chorus, these
Will sing the same, and then their couplets all
Like honey from the honey-comb will fall.”
So, long ago, the whispering pines among,
Faneto de Gautèume may have sung,
When she the glory of her star-crowned head
On Roumanin and on the Alpines shed;
Or Countess Dio, of the passionate lays,
Who held her courts of love in the old days.
But now Mirèio, to the room returning,
With face as radiant as an Easter morning,
A flagon bore; and, for their spirits’ sake,
Besought them all her beverage to partake:
“For this will make us work with heartier will;
So come, good women, and your goblets fill!”
Then, pouring from the wicker-covered flask
A generous drink for whosoe’er might ask,
(A string of gold the falling liquor made),
“I mixed this cordial mine own self,” she said:
“One leaves it in a window forty days,
That it may mellow in the sun’s hot rays.
“Herein are mountain herbs, in number three.
The liquor keeps their odour perfectly:
It strengthens one.” Here brake in other voices:
“Listen, Mirèio! Tell us what your choice is;
For these have told what they would do, if they
Were queens, or came to great estate one day.
“In such a case, Mirèio, what would you?”
“Who, I? How can I tell what I would do?
I am so happy in our own La Crau
With my dear parents, wherefore should I go?”
“Ah, ha!” outspake another maiden bold:
“Little care you for silver or for gold.
“But on a certain morn, I mind it well—
Forgive me, dear, that I the tale should tell!—
’Twas Tuesday: I had gathered sticks that day,
And, fagot on my hip, had won my way
Almost to La Crous-Blanco, when I ’spied
You in a tree, with some one by your side
“Who chatted gayly. A lithe form he had”—
“Whence did he come?” they cried. “Who was the lad?”
Said Noro, “To tell that were not so easy,
Because among the thick-leaved mulberry-trees he
Was hidden half; yet think I ’twas the clever
Vincen, the Valabregan basket-weaver!”
“Oh!” cried the damsels all, with peals of laughter,
“See you not what the little cheat was after?
A pretty basket she would fain receive,
And made this poor boy in her love believe!
The fairest maiden the whole country over
Has chosen the barefoot Vincen for her lover!”
So mocked they, till o’er each young countenance
In turn there fell a dark and sidelong glance—
Taven’s—who cried, “A thousand curses fall
Upon you, and the vampire seize you all!
If the good Lord from heaven this way came,
You girls, I think, would giggle all the same.
“ ’Tis brave to laugh at this poor lad of osiers;
But mark! the future may make strange disclosures,
Poor though he be. Now hear the oracle!
God in his house once wrought a miracle;
And I can show the truth of what I say,
For, lasses, it all happened in my day.
“Once, in the wild woods of the Luberon,
A shepherd kept his flock. His days were long;
But when at last the same were well-nigh spent,
And toward the grave his iron frame was bent,
He sought the hermit of Saint Ouquèri,
To make his last confession piously.
“Alone, in the Vaumasco valley lost,
His foot had never sacred threshold crost,
Since he partook his first communion.
Even his prayers were from his memory gone;
But now he rose and left his cottage lowly,
And came and bowed before the hermit holy.
“ ‘With what sin chargest thou thyself, my brother?’
The solitary said. Replied the other,
The aged man, ‘Once, long ago, I slew
A little bird about my flock that flew—
A cruel stone I flung its life to end:
It was a wagtail, and the shepherds’ friend.’
“ ‘Is this a simple soul,’ the hermit thought,
‘Or is it an impostor?’ And he sought
Right curiously to read the old man’s face
Until, to solve the riddle, ‘Go,’ he says,
‘And hang thy shepherd’s cloak yon beam upon,
And afterward I will absolve my son.’
“A single sunbeam through the chapel strayed;
And there it was the priest the suppliant bade
To hang his cloak! But the good soul arose,
And drew it off with mien of all repose,
And threw it upward. And it hung in sight
Suspended on the slender shaft of light!
“Then fell the hermit prostrate on the floor,
‘Oh, man of God!’ he cried, and he wept sore,
‘Let but the blessed hand these tears bedew,
Fulfil the sacred office for us two!
No sins of thine can I absolve, ’tis clear:
Thou art the saint, and I the sinner here!’ ”
Her story ended, the crone said no more;
But all the laughter of the maids was o’er.
Only Laureto dared one little joke:
“This tells us ne’er to laugh at any cloak!
Good may the beast be, although rough the hide;
But, girls, methought young mistress I espied
“Grow crimson as an autumn grape, because
Vincen’s dear name so lightly uttered was.
There’s mystery here! Mirèio, we are jealous!
Lasted the picking long that day? Pray, tell us!
When two friends meet, the hour is winged with pleasure;
And, for a lover, one has always leisure!”
“Oh, fie!” Mirèio said. “Enough of joking!
Mind your work now, and be not so provoking!
You would make swear the very saints! But I
Promise you one and all, most faithfully,
I’ll seek a convent while my years are tender,
Sooner than e’er my maiden heart surrender!”
Then brake the damsels into merry chorus:
“Have we not pretty Magali before us?
Who love and lovers held in such disdain
That, to escape their torment, she was fain
To Saint Blasi’s in Arles away to hie,
And bury her sweet self from every eye.”
“Come, Noro, you, whose voice is ever thrilling,
Who charm us all, sing now, if you are willing,
The song of Magali, the cunning fairy,
Who love had shunned by all devices airy.
A bird, a vine, a sunbeam she became,
Yet fell herself, love’s victim all the same!
“Queen of my soul!” sang Noro, and the rest
Fell straightway to their work with twofold zest;
And as, when one cicala doth begin
Its high midsummer note, the rest fall in
And swell the chorus, so the damsels here
Sang the refrain with voices loud and clear:—
“Magali, queen of my soul,
The dawn is near!
Hark to my tambourine,
Hide not thy bower within,
Open and hear!
“The sky is full of stars,
And the wind soft;
But, when thine eyes they see,
The stars, O Magali,
Will pale aloft!”
“Idle as summer breeze
The tune thou playest!
I’ll vanish in the sea,
A silver eel will be,
Ere thou me stayest.”
“If thou become an eel,
And so forsake me,
I will turn fisher too
And fish the water blue
Until I take thee!”
“In vain with net or line
Thou me implorest:
I’ll be a bird that day,
And wing my trackless way
Into the forest!”
“If thou become a bird,
And so dost dare me,
I will a fowler be,
And follow cunningly
Until I snare thee!”
“When thou thy cruel snare
Settest full surely,
I will a flower become,
And in my prairie home
Hide me securely!”
“If thou become a flower,
Before thou thinkest
I’ll be a streamlet clear,
And all the water bear
That thou, love, drinkest!”
“When thou, a stream, dost feed
The flower yonder,
I will turn cloud straightway,
And to America
Away I’ll wander.”
“Though thou to India
Fly from thy lover,
Still I will follow thee:
I the sea-breeze will be
To waft thee over!”
“I can outstrip the breeze
Fast as it flieth:
I’ll be the swift sun-ray
That melts the ice away
And the grass drieth!”
“Sunlight if thou become,
Are my wiles ended?
I’ll be a lizard green,
And quaff the golden sheen
To make me splendid!”
“Be thou a Triton, hid
In the dark sedges!
I’m the moon by whose ray
Fairies and witches pay
Their mystic pledges!”
“If thou the moon wilt be
Sailing in glory,
I’ll be the halo white
Hovering every night
Around and o’er thee!”
“Yet shall thy shadowy arm
Embrace me never!
I will turn virgin rose,
And all my thorns oppose
To thee for ever!”
“If thou become a rose,
Vain too shall this be!
Seest thou not that I,
As a bright butterfly,
Freely may kiss thee?”
“Urge, then, thy mad pursuit:
Idly thou’lt follow!
I’ll in the deep wood bide;
I’ll in the old oak hide,
Gnarlèd and hollow.”
“In the dim forest glade
Wilt thou be hidden?
I’ll be the ivy-vine,
And my long arms entwine
Round thee unbidden!”
“Fold thine arms tightly, then:
Clasp the oak only!
I’ll a white sister be!
Far off in St. Blasi,
Secure and lonely!”
“Be thou a white-veiled nun
Come to confession,
I will be there as priest,
Thee freely to divest
Of all transgression!”
The startled women their cocoons let fall.
“Noro, make haste!” outspake they one and all:
“What could our hunted Magali answer then?
A nun, poor dear, who had already been
A cloud, a bird, a fish, an oak, a flower,
The sun, the moon, the stream, in one short hour?”
“Ah, yes!” said Noro, “I the rest will sing:
She was, I think, the cloister entering;
And that mad fowler dared to promise her
He would in the confessional appear,
And shrive her. Therefore hear what she replies:
The maid hath yet another last device:”—
“Enter the sacred house!
I shall be sleeping,
Robed in a winding-sheet,
Nuns at my head and feet,
Above me weeping.”
“If thou wert lifeless dust,
My toils were o’er:
I’d be the yawning grave,
Thee in my arms to have
For evermore!”
“Now know I thou art true,
Leave me not yet!
Come, singer fair, and take,
And wear it for my sake,
This annulet!”
“Look up, my blessed one,
The heaven scan!
Since the stars came to see
Thee, O my Magali,
They are turned wan!”
A silence fell, the sweet song being ended:
Only with the last moving notes had blended
The voices of the rest. Their heads were drooping,
As they before the melody were stooping,
Like slender reeds that lean and sway for ever
Before the flowing eddies of a river.
Till Noro said, “Now is the air serene;
And here the mowers come, their scythes to clean
Beside the vivary brook. Mirèio, dear,
Bring us a few St. John’s Day apples here.
And we will add a little new-made cheese,
And take our lunch beneath the lotus-trees.”