Mirèio

“ Her love, till her frail stem breaks with the strain.
“Now free at last, but dying, she doth raise
Her pale lips for her sister’s last embrace.
So I! One kiss, and I will die to-night!
We are all alone!” Mirèio’s cheek grew white.
Then sprang he, wild-eyed as a lissome beast,
And clasped her. Hurriedly the maid released
Herself from his too daring touch. ”

“ Waved o'er them waiting, and, from time to time,
Humming some fragment of the weaver's rhyme.
Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone.
A social spirit had the little one,
And she and Vincen chatted happily.
'Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see
Meeting and parting, coming still and going
Like aster-flowers10 when merry winds are blowing.
"Now tell me, Vincen," thus Mirèio,
"If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go
Bearing your burdens the wild country over,
Some haunted castle you do not discover,
Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet,
While we in the home-nest for ever sit?" ”

“ But it is safe to prophesy that neither Mistral nor any other felibre will ever give us another “Mirèio”—so spontaneous, artless, and impassioned, so dewy with the memories of the poet’s own childhood on a Provençal farm, or mas, so gay with the laughter and moving with the tears of simple folk, reflecting in so flawless a mirror every change of the seasons, every aspect of the free, primitive, bucolic life of the Mediterranean shore. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ WHEN violets are blue in the blue shadows
Of the o’erhanging trees,
The youth who stray in pairs about the meadows
Are glad to gather these.
When peace descends upon the troubled Ocean,
And he his wrath forgets,
Flock from Martigue the boats with wing-like motion,
The fishes fill their nets.
And when the girls of Crau bloom into beauty
(And fairer earth knows not) ,
Aye are there suitors ready for their duty
In castle and in cot.
Thus to Mirèio’s home came seeking her
A trio notable,—a horse-tamer,
A herdsman, and a shepherd. ”

“ 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 away so fast?" a voice comes gayly,
Mirèio's. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Mirèio hasted no less anxiously
Than Magalouno in the days gone by,
Who searched the wood with sad, inquiring glance
For her lost lover, Pèire of Provence,
When cruel waves divorced him from her side,
And left her lone and wretched. Soon espied
The maid, upon the boundary of the lea,
Folds where her sire’s own shepherds could she see
Already milking. Some the sheep compelled,
Against the pen-side by the muzzle held,
To suckle quietly their tawny lambs.
Always arose the bleat of certain dams;
While other childless ones the shepherds guide
Toward the milker. ”

“ And “Have you seen Mirèio?” is their cry.
While Ramoun and his wife by the fireside
Are sitting, lost in grief, and swollen-eyed,
And at their hearts the bitterness of death.
“Doubtless,” they said, “her reason wandereth.
Oh, what a mad and wretched maid it is!
Oh, what a heavy, cruel downfall this!
“Oh, dire disgrace! Our beauty and our hope
So with the last of trampers to elope!
Fled with a gypsy! And who shall discover
The secret hole of this kidnapping lover,
Where he the shameless one concealèd hath?”
And, as they spake, they knit their brows in wrath. ”

“ Mirèio dear, no gems I’d tender you,
But a carved box-wood cup,—mine own work too!”
Therewith he brought to light a goblet fair,
Wrapped like some sacred relic with all care,
And carven of box-wood green. It was his pleasure
Such things to fashion in his hours of leisure;
And, sitting rapt upon some wayside stone,
He wrought divinely with a knife alone.
He carved him castanets with fingers light,
So that his flock would follow him at night
Through the dark fields, obedient to their tones. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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! ”

“ So in the stillness doth Mirèio dash
Along the hurdles, like a lightning flash,{128}
Lifting a wailing cry that never varies,—
“Will none go with me to the holy Maries,
Of all the shepherds?” They and the sheep hear it,
And see the maiden flitting like a spirit,
And huddle up, and bow their heads, as though
Smit by a sudden gale. The farm-dogs know
Her voice, but never stir her flight to stay.
And now is she already far away,
Threads the dwarf-oaks, and like a partridge rushes
Over the holly and the camphyre bushes,
Her feet scarce touching earth. ”

“ The witch Taven, sat silent, cronching lowly
As lost in thought and utter melancholy,
Holding a sprig of brome, and muttering,
"Some call thee devil's wheat, poor little thing,
"Yet art thou one of God's own signs for good!"
Therewith Mirèio, trembling where she stood,
Was fain to tell why they had sought her thus.
"I knew it!" cried the witch, impervious,
The brome addressing still, with bended head.
"Thou poor field-flower! The trampling flock," she said,
"Browse on thy leaves and stems the whole year long ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ He said, “Give me one kiss, Mirèio dear!
“I cannot eat nor drink,” he made his moan,
“For the great love I bear you! Yea, mine own,
Your breath the life out of my blood has taken.
Go not, Mirèio! Leave me not forsaken!
From dawn to dawn, at least, let a true lover
Kneel, and your garment’s hem with kisses cover!”
“Why, Vincen,” said Mirèio, “that were sin!
Then would the black-cap and the penduline
Tell everywhere the secret they had heard!”
“No fear of that! for every tell-tale bird
I’d banish from La Crau to Arles,” said he;
“For you, Mirèio, are as heaven to me!{84}
“Now list! ”

“ They tell Mirèio, to the garden gone
To gather fruit, who, basket on her side,
Fled wildly to the spot. Thither, too, hied
The laborers all; but she, her basket falling,
Stretched forth her hands on Mother Mary calling. ”

“ The saw affirms, the land where they may dwell
And eat their bread.”—“Let mine but eaten be
With him I love: that were enough,” said she,
“To lure me from the home-nest to remove.”
“If that be so, sweet one, give me thy love!”{80}
“Thy suit,” Mirèio said, “mayhap I’ll grant!
But first, young man, yon water-lily plant
Will bear a cluster of columbine grapes.
Yon hills will melt from all their solid shapes,
That goad will flower, and all the world will go
In boats unto the citadel of Baux!”
{81}
CANTO V.
The Battle. ”

“ Folk learn to love and live in harmony.
For one must know, and also must be known;
And even then, my father, all 's not done!"
Here the dark shadow on her brow was lit
By some bright thought that e'en transfigured it.
So the drenched flowers, when morning rains are o'er,
Lift up their heavy heads, and smile once more.
Mirèio's mother held her daughter's view.
Then blandly rose the keeper, "Adieu,
Master," he said: "who in Camargue hath dwelt
Knows the mosquito-sting as soon as felt." ”

“ Their religion, which is so continually before us, furnishing the very mainspring of the fatal dénouement, is of the most superficial sort, if it can be called religion at all. Whether you are bitten by a dog, a wolf, or a snake, or lose your eyesight, or are in danger of losing your lover, you run to the shrine of some saint for help. The religious feeling really runs no deeper. In his outburst of grief upon seeing Mirèio prone upon the floor of the chapel, the unhappy boy asks what he has done to merit such a blow. ”

“ Still gazed with parted lips upon the lad.
"Well, then, Mirèio, once at Nismes," he said,
"They had foot-races on the esplanade;
And on a certain day a crowd was there
Collected, thicker than a shock of hair.
Some shoeless, coatlees, hatless, were to run:
The others only came to see the fun.
"When all at once upon the scene appears
One Lagalanto, prince of foot-racers. ”

“ We learn of his wealth in lands, in olives, in almonds, and in bees. We watch the farm-hands coming home at evening. When the basket-makers reach the gate, they find the daughter of the house, who, having just fed her silkworms, is now twisting a skein. The man and the youth ask to sleep for the night upon a haystack, and stop in friendly talk with Mirèio. The poet describes Vincèn, a dark, stalwart youth of sixteen, and tells of his skill at his trade. Mèste Ramoun invites them in to supper.Pg 105 Mirèio runs to serve them. In exquisite verse the poet depicts her grace and beauty. ”

“ We talk sometimes about the girls of Crau.
“And thy Mirèio they have all portrayed
So charmingly, that, if thou wilt,” he said,
“And if thou like me, I would gladly be
Thy son-in-law!” “God grant me this to see!”
Said Ramoun. “The brave scion of my friend
To me and mine can only honour lend.”
Then did he fold his hands and them upraise
In saint-like gratitude. “And yet,” he says,
“The child must like you too, O Veranet!
The only one will alway be a pet!
Meanwhile, in earnest of the dower I’ll give her,
The blessing of the saints be yours for ever!” ”

“ Stood Vincen; while, transported by the shock,
Mirèio would have leaped a precipice,
Had such been there. “Old scare-crow, what is this?
“What mean you,” cried Taven, “by swaying so
Your limp head like a poplar to and fro?”{103}
Then turning to the stricken twain, “My dears,
You know the Laundress? Oft-times she appears
On Mount Ventour, and then the common crowd
Are wont to take her for a long, white cloud.
“But shepherds, when they see her, pen their sheep.
The Laundress of destruction, who doth keep
The errant clouds in hand, is known too well. ”