Canto VII

The Old Men

Fixing a troubled eye on the old man,
Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began,
The while a mighty wind,71 the poplars bending,
Its howl unto the poor lad’s voice was lending:
“I am mad, father, as I oft of late
Have said. Thinkest thou I’m jesting when I say’t?”

Before his nut-shell cot the Rhône beside
Sat Ambroi on a fallen trunk, and plied
His trade. And, as he peeled the osier withe,
Vincen received it, and, with fingers lithe
And strong, bent the white rods to basket form,
Sitting upon the door-stone. With the storm

Of wind was the Rhône’s bosom agitated,
The waves drove seaward like a herd belated;
But round about the but an azure mere
Spread tranquilly. The billows brake not here:
A pleasant shelter gave the willow-trees,
And beavers gnawed their bitter bark in peace.

While yonder, through the deep of limpid water,
Darted at intervals the dark brown otter,
Following the silver-flashing fish. Among
The reeds and willows, pendulines had hung
Their tiny nests, white woven with the wool
Plucked from the poplar when its flowers are full.

And here the small things fluttered full of glee,
Or swang on wind-rocked stems right lazily.
Here, too, a sprightly lassie, golden-haired⁠—
Head like a crown-cake!72⁠—back and forward fared,
And spread on a fig-tree a fishing-net
Unwieldy and with water dripping yet.

Birds, beavers, otters, feared the maid no more
Than whispering reeds or willows of the shore.
This was the daughter of the basket-weaver,
The little Vinceneto. No one ever
Had even bored her ears, poor child! yet so
Her eyes were damson-blue, her bosom low⁠—

A caper-blossom by the riverside,
Wooed by the splashing of the amorous tide.
But now old Ambroi, with his long white beard
Flowing o’er all his breast, his head upreared,
And answered Vincen’s outcry: “What is’t? Mad?
You are a blockhead! that is all, my lad!”

“Ah!” said the other, “for the ass to stray,
Sweet must the mead be. But what do I say?
Thou knowest her! If she to Arles should fare,
All other maids would hide them in despair;
For, after her, I think the mould was broken.
And what say to the words herself hath spoken,

“ ‘You I will have!’ ”⁠—“Why, naught, poor fool! say I:
Let poverty and riches make reply!”
“O father!” Vincen cried, “go, I implore thee,
To Lotus Farm, and tell them all the story!
Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain!
Tell them that I can plough a stony plain,

“Or harrow, or prune vines with any man!
Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can
Plough double! Tell them I revere the old;
And, if they part us for the sake of gold,
We shall both die, and they may bury us!”
“Oh, fie! But you are young who maunder thus,”

Quoth Master Ambroi. “All this talk I know.
The white hen’s egg,73 the chaffinch on the bough,
You’ll have the pretty bird this very minute!
Whistle, bring sugared cake, or die to win it;
Yet will the chaffinch never come, be sure,
And perch upon your finger! You are poor!”

“Plague on my poverty!” poor Vincen cried,
Tearing his hair. “Is God who hath denied
All that could make life worthy⁠—is He just?
And wherefore are we poor? And wherefore must
We still the refuse of the vineyard gather,
While others pluck the purple clusters rather?”

Lifting his hands, the old man sternly said,
“Weave on, and drive this folly from your head!
Shall the corn-ears rebuke the reaper, pray?
Or silly worm to God the Father say,
‘Why am I not a star in heaven to shine?’
Or shall the ox to be a drover pine,

“So to eat corn instead of straw? Nay, nay!
Through good and ill we all must hold our way.
The hand’s five fingers were unequal made.
Be you a lizard, as your Master bade,
And dwell content upon your wall apart,
And drink your sunbeam with a thankful heart!”

“I tell thee, father, I this maid adore
More than my sister, than my Maker more;
And if I have her not, ’tis death, I say!”
Then to the rough stream Vincen fled away;
While little Vinceneto burst out weeping,
Let fall her net, and near the weaver creeping⁠—

“O father! ere thou drive my brother wild,
Listen to me!” began the eager child:
“For where I served the master had a daughter;
And had a labourer, too, who loved and sought her,
Just as our Vincen loves Mirèio.
She was named Alis; he, Sivèstre: and so

“He laboured like a wolf because he loved.
Skilful and prompt, quiet and saving proved,
And took such care, master slept tranquilly;
But once⁠—mark, father, how perverse men be!⁠—
One morning master’s wife, as it befell,
O’erheard Sivèstre his love to Alis tell.

“So when at dinner all the men were sitting,
The master gave Sivèstre a wrathful greeting.
‘Traitor!’ he cried, with his eyes all aglow,
‘You are discovered! Take your wage, and go!’
We looked at one another in dismay,
As the good servant rose, and went his way.

“Thereafter, for three weeks, when we were working,
We used to see him round the farmstead lurking⁠—
A sorry sight; for all his clothes were torn,
And his face very pale and wild and worn.
And oft at eve he to the trellis came,
And called the little mistress by her name.

“Erelong the hay-rick at its corners four
Burnt all a-flame. And, father, something more!
They drew a drownèd man out of the well.”
Then Ambroi, in gruff tones half-audible,
“A little child a little trouble gives,
And more and more for every year he lives.”

Therewith put his long spatterdashes on
Which he himself had made in days bygone,
His hobnailed shoes, and long red cap, and so
Straightway set forth upon the road to Crau.
’Twas harvest-time, the eve of St. John’s day,
The hedgerow paths were crowded all the way

With troops of dusty, sunburnt mountaineers
Hired for the reaping of the golden ears.
In fig-wood quivers were their sickles borne,
Slung to a belt across the shoulder worn.
By twos and twos they came, and every pair
Had its own sheaf-binder. And carts were there,

Bearing the weary elders, and beside
The pipes and tambourines with ribbons tied.
Anon by fields of beardless wheat they passed,
Lashed into billows by the noisy blast;
And “Mon Dieu, but that is noble grain!”
They cried. “What tufts of ears! There shall we gain

“Right pleasant reaping! The wind bows them over;
But see you not how quickly they recover?
Is all the wheat-crop of Provence thus cheering,
Grandfather?” asked a youth, old Ambroi nearing.
“The red is backward still,” he made reply;
“But, if this windy weather last, deem I

“Sickles will fail us ere the work be done.
How like three stars the Christmas candles shone!
That was a blessed sign of a good year!”
“Now, grandfather, may the good God thee hear,
And in thy granary the same fulfil!”
So Ambroi and the reapers chatted still

In friendly wise, under the willows wending;
For these as well to Lotus Farm were tending.
It also chanced that Master Ramoun went
That eve to hearken for the wheat’s complaint
Against the wind, wild waster of the grain;
And, as he strode over the yellow plain

From north to south, he heard the golden corn
Murmuring, “See the ills that we have borne,
Master, from this great gale. It spills our seed
And blurs our bloom!”⁠—“Put on your gloves of reed,”
Sang others, “else the ants will be more fleet,
And rob us of our all but hardened wheat.

“When will the sickles come?” And Ramoun turned
Toward the trees, and even then discerned
The reapers rising in the distance dim;
Who, as they nearer drew, saluted him
With waving sickles flashing in the sun.
Then roared the master, “Welcome, every one!

“A very God-send!” cried he, loud and long;
And soon the sheaf-binders about him throng,
Saying, “Shake hands! Why, Holy Cross, look here!
What heaps of sheaves, good master, will this year
Cumber your treading-floor!”⁠—“Mayhap,” said he:
“We cannot alway judge by what we see.

“Till all is trod, the truth will not be known.
I have known years that promised,” he went on,
“Eighty full bushels to the acre fairly,
And yielded in their stead a dozen barely.
Yet let us be content!” And, with a smile,
He shook their hands all round in friendly style,

And gossiped with old Ambroi affably.
So entered all the homestead path, and he
Called out once more, “Come forth, Mirèio mine:
Prepare the chiccory and draw the wine!”
And she right lavishly the table spread;
While Ramoun first him seated at its head,

And the rest in their order, for the lunch.
Forthwith the labourers began to crunch
Hard-crusted bread their sturdy teeth between,
And hail the salad made of goats-beard green;
While fair as an oat-leaf the table shone,
And in superb profusion heaped thereon

Were odorous cheese, onions and garlic hot,
Grilled egg-plant, fiery peppers, and what not,
To sting the palate. Master Ramoun poured
The wine, king in the field and at the board;
Raising his mighty flagon now and then,
And calling for a bumper on the men.

“To keep the sickles keen on stony ground,
They must be often whetted, I have found.”
The reapers held their goblets, bidden so,
And red and clear the wine began to flow.
“Ay, whet the blades!” the cheery master cries;
And furthermore gives order in this wise:

“Now eat your fill, and all your strength restore.
But go thereafter, as you used of yore,
And branches in the copse-wood cut, and bring
In fagots; thus a great heap gathering.
And when ’tis night, my lads, we’ll do the rest!
For this the fête is of Saint John the blest⁠—

“Saint John the reaper, and the friend of God.”
So spake the lord of all these acres broad.
The high and noble art of husbandry,
The rule of men, none better knew than he,
Or how to make a golden harvest grow
From dark sods moistened by the toiler’s brow.

A grave and simple master of the soil,
Whose frame was bending now with years and toil;
Yet oft, of old, when floors were full of wheat,
Glowing with pride he had performed the feat,
Before his youthful corps, upright to stand
Bearing two pecks upon each horny hand.

He could the influence of the moon rehearse;
Tell when her look is friendly, when adverse;
When she will raise the sap, and when depress;
The coming weather from her halo guess,
And from her silver-pale or fiery face.
Clear signs to him were birds and keen March days,

And mouldy bread and noisome August fogs,
St. Clara’s dawn, the rainbow-hued sun-dogs,
Wet seasons, times of drought and frost and plenty.
Full oft, in pleasant years, a-ploughing went he,
With six fair, handsome beasts. And, verily,
Myself have seen, and it was good to see,

The soil part silently before the share,
And its dark bosom to the sun lay bare:
The comely mules, ne’er from the furrow breaking,
Toiled on as though they care and thought were taking
For what they did. With muzzles low they went,
And arching necks like bows when these are bent,

And hasted not, nor lagged. Followed along⁠—
Eye on the mules, and on his lips a song⁠—
The ploughman, with one handle only guiding.
So, in the realm where we have seen presiding
Our old friend Ramoun, flourished every thing,
And he bare sceptre like a very king.

Now says he grace, and lifts his eyes above,
And signs the holy cross. The labourers move
Away to make the bonfire ready. These
Bring kindling; those, the boughs of dark pine-trees;
And the old men alone at table staying,
A silence fell. But Ambroi brake it, saying⁠—

“For counsel, Ramoun, am I come to thee;
For I am in a great perplexity
Thou only canst resolve. Cure see I none.
Thou knowest, Master, that I have a son
Who has been passing good until this day⁠—
It were ingratitude aught else to say;

“But there are flaws even in precious stones,
And tender lambs will have convulsions,
And the still waters are perfidious ever:
So my mad boy⁠—thou wilt believe it never⁠—
He loves the daughter of a rich freeholder,
And swears he will in his embrace enfold her!

“Ay, swears he will, the maniac! And his love
And his despair my soul to terror move.
I showed him all his folly, be thou sure,
And how wealth gains, and poverty grows poor
In this hard world. In vain! He would but call,
‘Cost what it may, tell thou her parents all⁠—

“ ‘Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain!
Tell them that I can plough a stony plain,
Or harrow, or prune vines with any man!
Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can
Plough double! Tell them I revere the old;
And, if they part us for the sake of gold,

“ ‘We shall both die, and need but burial.’
Now, Master Ramoun, I have told thee all.
Shall I, clad in my rags, for this maid sue,
Or leave my son to die of sorrow?”⁠—“Whew!”
The other. “To such wind spread thou no sail!
Nor he, nor she, will perish of this ail.

“So much, good friend, I say in utmost faith.
Nor would I, Ambroi, fret myself to death
If I were thou; but, seeing him so mad,
I would say plainly, ‘Calm your mind, my lad!
For if you raise a tempest by your passions,
I’ll teach you with a cudgel better fashions!’

“If an ass, Ambroi, for more fodder bray,
Throw him none down, but let thy bludgeon play.
Provençal families in days bygone
Were healthy, brave, and evermore at one,
And strong as plane-trees when a storm befell.
They had their strifes, indeed⁠—we know it well;

“But, when returned the holy Christmas eve,
The grandsire all his children would receive
At his own board, under a star-sown tent;
And ceased the voice of strife and all dissent,
When, lifting hands that wrinkled were and trembled,
He blessed the generations there assembled.

“Moreover, he who is a father truly
Will have his child yield him obedience duly:
The flock that drives the shepherd, soon or late,
Will meet a wolf and a disastrous fate.
When we were young, had any son withstood
His father, he, belike, had shed his blood!”

“Thou wilt kill me then, father! It is I
Whom Vincen worships thus despairingly;
And before God and our most holy Mother,
I give my soul to him, and to no other!”
A deathlike hush followed Mirèio’s word.
The wife of Ramoun was the first who stirred.

Upspringing with clasped hands and utterance wild,
“Your speech is an atrocious insult, child!
Your love’s a thorn that long hath stung us deep.
Alari, the owner of a thousand sheep,
You sent away; and keeper Veran too,
Disgusted with your scorn, his suit withdrew;

“Also the wealthy herdsman, Ourrias,
You treated as a dog and a scapegrace!
Tramp through the country with your beggar, then!
Herd with strange women and with outcast men!
And cook your pot with fortune-telling crones
Under a bridge mayhap, upon three stones.

“Go, gypsy, you are free!” the mother said;
Nor stayed Ramoun her pitiless tirade,
Though his eye like a taper burned. But now
The lightning flashed under his shaggy brow,
And his wrath brake, all barriers overbearing,
Like swollen torrent down a mountain tearing.

“Your mother’s right!” he said. “Go! travel yonder,
And take the tempest with you where you wander!
Nay, but you shall not! Here you shall remain,
Though I should bind you with an iron chain,
Or hold like a rebellious jumart, look!
Dragged by the nostrils with an iron hook!

“Yea, though you pine with sickly melancholy,
Till from your cheeks the roses perish wholly,
Or fade as snow fades when the sun is hot
On the hillsides in spring, go shall you not!
And mark, Mirèio! Sure as the hearth’s ashes
Rest on that brick, and sure as the Rhône dashes

“Above its banks when it is overfull,
And sure as that’s a lamp, and here I rule,
You’ll see him never more!” The table leapt
Beneath his fist. Mirèio only wept.
Her heavy tears like dew on smallage rain,
Or grapes o’er ripe before a hurricane.

“And who,” resumed the old man, blind with rage⁠—
“Curse it!⁠—I say, who, Ambroi, will engage
Thou didst not with the younger ruffian plot
This vile abduction, yonder in thy cot?”
Then Ambroi also sprang infuriate⁠—
“Good God!” he cried, “we are of low estate;

“But let me tell you that our hearts are high!
No shame, no stain, is honest poverty!
I’ve served my country forty years or more
On shipboard, and I know the cannon’s roar,
So young that I could scarce a boat-hook swing
When on my first cruise I went wandering.

“I’ve seen Melinda’s empire far away,
And with Suffren have haunted India,
And done my duty over all the world
In the great wars, where’er our flag unfurled
That southern chief who passed his conquering hand
With one red sweep from Spain to Russian land,

“And at whose drum-beat every clime was quaking
Like aspen-tree before the tempest shaking;
Horrors of boarding, shipwreck’s agonies⁠—
These have I known, and darker things than these,
Days than the sea more bitter. Being poor,
No bit of motherland might I secure.

“Scorned of the rich, I might not dress the sward,
But suffer forty years without reward.
We ate dog’s food, on the hoar-frost we lay:
Weary of life, we rushed into the fray,
And so upbore the glorious name of France.
But no one holds it in remembrance!”

His caddis-cloak upon the ground he threw,
And spake no more. “What great thing wilt thou do?”
Asked Ramoun, and his tone was full of scorn.
“I, too, have heard the cannon-thunder borne
Along the valley of Toulon, have seen
The bridge of Arcole stormed, and I have been

“In Egypt when her sands were red with gore;
But we, like men, when those great wars were o’er,
Returning, fiercely fell upon the soil,
And dried our very marrow up with toil
The day began long ere the eastern glow,
The rising moon surprised us at the hoe.

“They say the Earth is generous. It is true!
But, like a nut-tree, naught she gives to you
Unless well-beaten. And if all were known,
Each clod of landed ease thus hardly won,
He who should number them would also know
The sweat-drops that have fallen from my brow.

“And must I, by Ste. Anne of Apt, be still?
Like satyr toil, of siftings eat my fill,
That all the homestead may grow wealthy, and
Myself before the world with honour stand,
Yet go and give my daughter to a tramp,
A vagabond, a straw-loft-sleeping scamp?

“God’s thunder strike you and your dog! Begone!
But I,” the master said, “will keep my swan.”
These were his last rough words; and steadily
Ambroi arose, and his cloak lifted he,
And only rested on his staff to say,
“Adieu! Mayst thou not regret this day!

“And may the good God and his angels guide
The orange-laden bark across the tide!”
Then, as he passed into the falling night,
From the branch-heap arose a ruddy light,
And one long tongue of flame the wanderer sees,
Curled like a horn by the careering breeze;

And round it reapers dancing blithesomely,
With pulsing feet, and haughty heads and free
Thrown back, and faces by the bonfire lit,
Loud crackling as the night-wind fanneth it.
The sound of coals that to the brazier fall
Blends with the fife-notes fine but musical,

And merry as the song of the hedge-sparrow.
Ah, but it thrills the old Earth to her marrow
When thou dost visit her, beloved St. John!
The sparks went whirling upward, and hummed on
The tabor gravely and incessantly,
Like the low surging of a tranquil sea.

Then did the dusky troop their sickle wave,
And three great leaps athwart the flame they gave,
And cloves of odorous garlic from a string
Upon the glowing embers they did fling,
And holy herb and John’s-wort bare anigh;
And these were purified and blessed thereby.

Then “Hail, St. John!” thrice rose a deafening shout;
And hills and plain, illumined round about,
Sparkled as though the dark were showering stars.
And sure the Saint, above the heaven’s blue bars,
The breath of all this incense doth inhale,
Wafted aloft by the unconscious gale.