Canto
II
The Leaf-Picking
Sing, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
In their third sleep the silkworms lie,
And lovely is the weather
Like brown bees that in open glades
From rosemary gather honey,
The mulberry-trees swarm full of maids,
Glad as the air is sunny!
It chanced one morn—it was May’s loveliest—
Mirèio gathered leaves among the rest.
It chanced, moreover, on that same May morning,
The little gypsy, for her own adorning,
Had cherries in her ears, for rings, suspended,
Just as our Vincen’s footsteps thither tended.
Like Latin seaside people everywhere,
He wore a red cap on his raven hair,
With a cock’s feather gayly set therein;
And, prancing onward, with a stick made spin
The flints from wayside stone-heaps, and set flying
The lazy adders in his pathway lying.
When suddenly, from the straight, leafy alley,
“Whither so fast?” a voice comes musically.
Mirèio’s. Vincen darts beneath the trees,
Looks up, and soon the merry maiden sees.
Perched on a mulberry-tree, she eyed the lad
Like some gray-crested lark, and he was glad.
“How then, Mirèio, comes the picking on?
Little by little, all will soon be done!
May I not help thee?”—“That were very meet,”
She said, and laughed upon her airy seat.
Sprang Vincen like a squirrel from the clover,
Ran nimbly up the tree, and said, moreover—
“Now since old Master Ramoun hath but thee,
Come down, I pray, and strip the lower tree!
I’ll to the top!” As busily the maiden
Wrought on, she murmured, “How the soul doth gladden
To have good company! There’s little joy
In lonely work!”—“Ay is there!” said the boy:
“For when in our old hut we sit alone,
Father and I, and only hear the Rhône
Rush headlong o’er the shingle, ’tis most drear!
Not in the pleasant season of the year,
For then upon our travels we are bound,
And trudge from farm to farm the country round.
“But when the holly-berries have turned red,
And winter comes, and nights are long,” he said,
“And sitting by the dying fire we catch
Whistle or mew of goblin at the latch;
And I must wait till bed-time there with him,
Speaking but seldom, and the room so dim,”—
Broke in the happy girl, unthinkingly,
“Ah! but your mother, Vincen, where is she?”
“Mother is dead.” The two were still awhile:
Then he, “But Vinceneto could beguile
The time when she was there. A little thing,
But she could keep the hut.”—“I’m wondering—
“You have a sister, Vincen?”—“That have I!
A merry lass and good,” was the reply:
“For down at Font-dou-Rèi, in Beaucaire,
Whither she went to glean, she was so fair
And deft at work that all were smitten by her;
And there she stays as servant by desire.”
“And you are like her?”—“Now that makes me merry.
Why, she is blonde, and I brown as a berry!
But wouldst thou know whom she is like, the elf?
Why, even like thee, Mirèio, thine own self!
Your two bright heads, with all their wealth of hair
Like myrtle-leaves, would make a perfect pair.
“But, ah! thou knowest better far to gather
The muslin of thy cap than doth the other!
My little sister is not plain nor dull,
But thou—thou art so much more beautiful!”
“Oh, what a Vincen!” cried Mirèio,
And suddenly the half-culled branch let go.
Sing, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
In their third sleep the silkworms lie,
And lovely is the weather.
Like brown bees that in open glades
From rosemary gather honey,
The mulberry-trees swarm full of maids,
Glad as the air is sunny!
“And so you fancy I am fair to view,
Fairer than Vinceneto?” “That I do!”
“But what advantage have I more than she?”
“Mother divine!” he cried, impetuously,
“That of the goldfinch o’er the fragile wren—
Grace for the eye—song for the hearts of men
“What more? Ah, my poor sister! Hear me speak—
Thou wilt not get the white out of the leek:
Her eyes are like the water of the sea,
Blue, clear—thine, black, and they flash gloriously.
And, O Mirèio! when on me they shine,
I seem to drain a bumper of cooked wine!
“My sister hath a silver voice and mellow—
I love to hear her sing the Peirounello—
But, ah! my sweet young lady, every word
Thou’st given me my spirit more hath stirred,
My ear more thrilled, my very heart-strings wrung,
More than a thousand songs divinely sung!
“With roaming all the pastures in the sun,
My little sister’s face and neck are dun
As dates; but thou, most fair one, I think well,
Art fashioned like the flowers of Asphodel.
So the bold Summer with his tawny hand
Dare not caress thy forehead white and bland.
“Moreover, Vinceneto is more slim
Than dragon-flies that o’er the brooklet skim.
Poor child! In one year grew she up to this;
But verily in thy shape is naught amiss.”
Again Mirèio, turning rosy red,
Let fall her branch, and “What a Vincen!” said.
Sing, magnarello, merrily,
The green leaves ever piling!
Two comely children sit on high,
Amid the foliage, smiling.
Sing, magnarello, loud and oft:
Your merry labour hasten.
The guileless pair who laugh aloft
Are learning love’s first lesson.
Cleared from the hills meanwhile the mists of morn,
And o’er the ruined towers, whither return
Nightly the grim old lords of Baux, they say;
And o’er the barren rocks ’gan take their way
Vultures, whose large, white wings are seen to gleam
Resplendent in the noontide’s burning beam.
Then cried the maiden, pouting, “We have done
Naught! Oh, shame to idle so! Some one
Said he would help me; and that some one still
Doth naught but talk, and make me laugh at will.
Work now, lest mother say I am unwary
And idle, and too awkward yet to marry!
“Ah! my brave friend, I think should one engage you
To pick leaves by the quintal, and for wage, you
Would all the same sit still and feast your eyes,
Handling the ready sprays in dreamy wise!”
Whereat the boy, a trifle disconcerted,
“And so thou takest me for a gawky!” blurted.
“We’ll see, my fair young lady,” added he,
“Which of us two the better picker be!”
They ply both hands now. With vast animation,
They bend and strip the branches. No occasion
For rest or idle chatter either uses
(The bleating sheep, they say, her mouthful loses),
Until the mulberry-tree is bare of leaves,
And these the ready sack at once receives,
At whose distended mouth—ah, youth is sweet!—
Mirèio’s pretty taper hand will meet
In strange entanglement that somehow lingers
That Vincen’s, with its brown and burning fingers.
Both started. In their cheeks the flush rose higher:
They felt the heat of some mysterious fire.
They dropped the mulberry-leaves as if afraid,
And, tremulous with passion, the boy said—
“What aileth thee, my lady? answer me!
Did any hidden hornet dare sting thee?”
Well-nigh inaudible, with head bent low,
“I know not, Vincen,”—thus Mirèio.
And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,
And for a while spake not again, but rather
Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well
The one who first should laugh, would break the spell.
Their hearts beat high, the green leaves fell like rain;
And, when the time for sacking came again,
Whether by chance or by contrivance, yet
The white hand and the brown hand always met.
Nor seemed there any lack of happiness
The while their labour failed not to progress.
Sing, magnarello, merrily,
As the green leaves you gather!
The sun of May is riding high,
And ardent is the weather.
Now suddenly Mirèio whispered, “Hark!
What can that be?” and listened like a lark
Upon a vine, her small forefinger pressing
Against her lip, and eager eyes addressing
To a bird’s nest upon a leafy bough,
Just opposite the one where she was now.
“Ah! wait a little while!” with bated breath,
So the young basket-weaver answereth,
And like a sparrow hopped from limb to limb
Toward the nest. Down in the tree-trunk dim,
Close peering through a crevice in the wood,
Full-fledged and lively saw he the young brood.
And, sitting firmly the rough bough astride,
Clung with one hand, and let the other glide
Into the hollow trunk. Above his head
Mirèio leaned with her cheeks rosy red.
“What sort?” she whispered from her covert shady.
“Beauties!”—“But what?”—“Blue tomtits, my young lady!”
Then laughed the maiden, and her laugh was gay:
“See, Vincen! Have you never heard them say
That when two find a nest in company,
On mulberry, or any other tree,
The Church within a year will join those two?
And proverbs, father says, are always true.”
“Yea,” quoth the lad; “but do not thou forget
That this, our happy hope, may perish yet,
If all the birdies be not caged forthwith.”
“Jesu divine!” the maiden murmureth:
“Put them by quickly! It concerns us much
Our birdies should be safe from alien touch.”
“Why, then, the very safest place,” said he,
“Methinks, Mirèio, would thy bodice be!”
“Oh, surely!” So the lad explores the hollow,
His hand withdrawing full of tomtits callow.
Four were they; and the maid in ecstasy
Cries “Mon Dieu!” and lifts her hands on high.
“How many! What a pretty brood it is!
There! There, poor darlings, give me just one kiss!”
And, lavishing a thousand fond caresses,
Tenderly, carefully, the four she presses
Inside her waist, obeying Vincen’s will;
While he, “Hold out thy hands! there are more still!”
“Oh sweet! The little eyes in each blue head
Are sharp as needles,” as Mirèio said
Softly, three more of the wee brood she pressed
Into their smooth, white prison with the rest,
Who, when bestowed within that refuge warm,
Thought they were in their nest and safe from harm.
“Are there more, Vincen?”—“Ay!” he answered her.
“Then, Holy Virgin! you’re a sorcerer!”
“Thou simple maid! About St. George’s day,
Ten, twelve, and fourteen eggs, these tomtits lay.
Ay, often. Now let these the others follow!
They are the last: so good-bye, pretty hollow!”
But ere the words were spoken, and the maid
In her flowered neckerchief had fairly laid
Her little charge, she gave a piercing wail:
“Oh me! oh me!” then murmured, and turned pale;
And, laying both her hands upon her breast,
Moaned, “I am dying!” and was sore distressed,
And could but weep: “Ah, they are scratching me!
They sting! Come quickly, Vincent, up the tree!”
For on the last arrival had ensued
Wondrous commotion in the hidden brood;
The fledglings latest taken from the nest
Had sore disorder wrought among the rest.
Because within so very small a valley
All could not lie at ease, so must they gayly
Scramble with claw and wing down either slope,
And up the gentle hills, thus to find scope:
A thousand tiny somersets they turn,
A thousand pretty rolls they seem to learn.
And “Ah, come quick!” is still the maiden’s cry,
Trembling like vine-spray when the wind is high,
Or like a heifer stung with cattle-flies.
And, as she bends and writhes in piteous wise,
Leaps Vincen upward till he plants his feet
Once more beside her on her airy seat.
Sing, magnarello, heap your leaves,
While sunny is the weather!
He comes to aid her when she grieves:
The two are now together.
“Thou likest not this tickling?” kindly said he.
“What if thou wert like me, my gentle lady,
And hadst to wander barefoot through the nettles?”
So proffering his red sea-cap, there he settles
Fast as she draws them from her neckerchief
The birdies, to Mirèio’s vast relief.
Yet ah, poor dear, the downcast eyes of her!
She dares not look at her deliverer
For a brief space. But soon a smile ensues,
And the tears vanish, as the morning dews
That drench the flowers and grass at break of day
Roll into little pearls and pass away.
And then there came a fresh catastrophe:
The branch whereon they sat ensconced in glee
Snapped, broke asunder, and with ringing shriek
Mirèio flung her arms round Vincen’s neck,
And he clasped hers, and they whirled suddenly
Down through the leaves upon the supple rye.
Listen, wind of the Greek, wind of the sea,
And shake no more the verdant canopy!
Hush for one moment, O thou childish breeze!
Breathe soft and whisper low, beholding these!
Give them a little time to dream of bliss—
To dream at least, in such a world as this!
Thou too, swift streamlet of the prattling voice,
Peace, prithee! In this hour, make little noise
Among the vocal pebbles of thy bed!
Ay, little noise! Because two souls have sped
To one bright region. Leave them there, to roam
Over the starry heights—their proper home!
A moment, and she struggled to be free
From his embrace. The flower of the quince-tree
Is not so pale. Then backward the two sank,
And gazed at one another on the bank,
Until the weaver’s son the silence brake,
And thus in seeming wrath arose and spake:
“Shame on thee, thou perfidious mulberry!
A devil’s tree! A Friday-planted tree!
Blight seize and wood-louse eat thee! May thy master
Hold thee in horror for this day’s disaster!
Tell me thou art not hurt, Mirèio!”
Trembling from head to foot, she answered, “No:
“I am not hurt; but as a baby weeps
And knows not why—there’s something here that keeps
Perpetual tumult in my heart. A pain
Blinds me and deafens me, and fills my brain,
So that my blood in a tumultuous riot
Courses my body through, and won’t be quiet.”
“May it not be,” the simple boy replied,
“Thou fearest to have thy mother come and chide
Thy tardy picking—as when I come back
Late from the blackberry-field with face all black,
And tattered clothes?” Mirèio sighed again,
“Ah, no! This is another kind of pain!”
“Or possibly a sun-stroke may have lighted
Upon thee!” And the eager Vincen cited
An ancient crone among the hills of Baux,
Taven by name, “who on the forehead—so—
A glass of water sets: the ray malign
The dazed brain for the crystal will resign.”
“Nay, nay!” impetuously the maiden cried,
“Floods of May sunshine never terrified
The girls of Crau. Why should I hold you waiting?
Vincen, in vain my heart is palpitating!
My secret cannot bide a home so small:
I love you, Vincen, love you!—That is all!”
The river-banks, the close-pruned willows hoary,
Green grass and ambient air, hearing this story,
Were full of glee. But the poor basket-weaver,
“Princess, that thou who art so fair and clever,
Shouldst have a tongue given to wicked lying!
Why, it confounds me! It is stupefying!
“What! thou in love with me? Mirèio,
My poor life is yet happy. Do not go
And make a jest thereof! I might believe
Just for one moment, and thereafter grieve
My soul to death. Ah, no! my pretty maid,
Laugh no more at me in this wise!” he said.
“Now may God shut me out of Paradise,
Vincen, if I have ever told you lies!
Go to! I love you! Will that kill you, friend?
But if you will be cruel, and so send
Me from your side, ’tis I who will fall ill,
And at your feet lie low till sorrow kill!”
“No more! no more!” cried Vincen, desperately:
“There is a gulf ’twixt thee and me! The stately
Queen of the Lotus Farm art thou, and all
Bow at thy coming, hasten to thy call,
While I, a vagrant weaver, only wander,
Plying my trade from Valabrègo yonder.”
“What care I?” cried the fiery girl at once.
Sharp as a sheaf-binder’s came her response.
“May not my lover, then, a baron be,
Or eke a weaver, if he pleases me?
But if you will not have me pine away,
Why look so handsome, even in rags, I say?”
He turned and faced her. Ah, she was enchanting!
And as a charmèd bird falls dizzy, panting,
So he. “Mirèio, thou’rt a sorceress!
And I bedazzled by thy loveliness.
Thy voice, too, mounts into this head of mine,
And makes me like a man o’ercome with wine.
“Why, can it be, Mirèio? Seest thou not
Even now with thy embrace my brain is hot.
I am a pack-bearer, and well may be
A laughing-stock for evermore to thee,
But thou shalt have the truth, dear, in this hour:
I love thee, with a love that could devour!
“Wert thou to ask—lo, love I thee so much!—
The golden goat, that ne’er felt mortal touch
Upon its udders, but doth only lick
Moss from the base of the precipitous peak
Of Baux—I’d perish in the quarries there,
Or bring thee down the goat with golden hair!
“So much, that, if thou saidst, ‘I want a star,’
There is no stream so wild, no sea so far,
But I would cross; no headsman, steel or fire,
That could withhold me. Yea, I would climb higher
Than peaks that kiss the sky, that star to wrest;
And Sunday thou shouldst wear it on thy breast!
“O my Mirèio! Ever as I gaze,
Thy beauty fills me with a deep amaze.
Once, when by Vaucluse grotto I was going,
I saw a fig-tree in the bare rock growing;
So very spare it was, the lizards gray
Had found more shade beneath a jasmine spray.
“But, round about the roots, once every year
The neighbouring stream comes gushing, as I hear,
And the shrub drinks the water as it rises,
And that one drink for the whole year suffices.
Even as the gem is cut to fit the ring,
This parable to us is answering.
“I am the fig-tree on the barren mountain;
And thou, mine own, art the reviving fountain!
Surely it would suffice me, could I feel
That, once a year, I might before thee kneel,
And sun myself in thy sweet face, and lay
My lips unto thy fingers, as to-day!”
Trembling with love, Mirèio hears him out,
And lets him wind his arms her neck about
And clasp her as bewildered. Suddenly,
Through the green walk, quavers an old wife’s cry:
“How now, Mirèio? Are you coming soon?
What will the silkworms have to eat at noon?”
As ofttimes, at the coming on of night,
A flock of sparrows on a pine alight
And fill the air with joyous chirruping,
Yet, if a passing gleaner pause and fling
A stone that way, they to the neighbouring wood,
By terror winged, their instant flight make good;
So, with a tumult of emotion thrilled,
Fled the enamoured two across the field.
But when, her leaves upon her head, the maid
Turned silently toward the farm, he stayed—
Vincen—and breathless watched her in her flight
Over the fallow, till she passed from sight.