CANTO IV.
THE SUITORS.
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. It befell
The last was first who came his tale to tell.
Alari was his name, a wealthy man,—
He had a thousand sheep, the story ran.
The same were wont to feed the winter long
In rich salt-pastures by Lake Entressen.
And at wheat-bolling time, in burning May,
Himself would often lead his flock, they say,
Up through the hills to pastures green and high:
They say moreover, and full faith have I,
That ever as St. Mark's came round again
Nine noted shearers Alari would retain
Three days to shear his flock. Added to these
A man to bear away each heavy fleece,
And a sheep-boy who back and forward ran
And filled the shearer's quickly emptied can.
But when the days were shortening, and the snow
Whitened the mountain summits of Gavot,
A stately sight it was that flock to see
Wind from the upper vales of Dauphiny,
And o'er the Crau pursue their devious ways,
Upon the toothsome winter grass to graze.
Also to watch them there where they defile
Into the stony road were well worth while;
The early lambkins all the rest outstripping
And merrily about the lamb-herd leaping,
The bell-decked asses with their foals beside,
Or following after them. These had for guide
A drover, who a patient mule bestrode.
Its wattled panniers bare a motley load:
Food for the shepherd-folk, and flasks of wine,
And the still bleeding hides of slaughtered kine;
And folded garments whereon oft there lay
Some weakly lamb, a-weary of the way.
Next came abreast—the captains of the host—
Five fiery bucks, their fearsome heads uptost:
With bells load jingling and with sidelong glances,
And backward curving horns, each one advances.
The sober mothers follow close behind,
Striving their lawless little kids to mind.
A rude troop and a ravenous they are,
And these the goat-herd hath in anxious care.
And after them there follow presently
The great ram-chiefs, with muzzles lifted high:
You know them by the heavy horn that lies
Thrice curved about the ear in curious wise.
Their ribs and backs with tufts of wool are decked,
That they may have their meed of due respect
As the flock's grandsires. Plain to all beholders,
With sheepskin cloak folded about his shoulders,
Strides the chief-shepherd next, with lordly swing;
The main corps of his army following.
Tumbling through clouds of dust, the great ewe-dams
Call with loud bleatings to their bleating lambs.
The little hornèd ones are gayly drest,
With tiny tufts of scarlet on the breast
And o'er the neck. While, filling the next place,
The woolly sheep advance at solemn pace.
Amid the tumult now and then the cries
Of shepherd-boy to shepherd-dog arise.
For now the pitch-marked herd innumerable
Press forward: yearlings, two-year-olds as well,
Those who have lost their lambs, and those who carry
Twin lambs unborn with footsteps slow and weary.
A ragamuffin troop brings up the rear.
The barren and past-breeding ewes are here,
The lame, the toothless, and the remnant sorry
Of many a mighty ram, lean now and hoary,
Who from his earthly labors long hath rested,
Of honor and of horns alike divested.
All these who fill the road and mountain-passes—
Old, young, good, bad, and neither; sheep, goats, asses—
Are Alari's, every one. He stands the while
And watches them, a hundred in a file,
Pass on before him; and the man's eyes laugh.
His wand of office is a maple-staff.
And when to pasture with his dogs hies he,
And leathern gaiters buttoned to the knee,
His forehead to an ample wisdom grown
And air serene might be King David's own,
When in his youth he led, as the tale tells,
The flocks at ere beside his father's wells.
This was the chief toward Lotus Farm who drew,
And presently Mirèio's self who knew
Flitting about the doorway. His heart bounded.
"Good Heaven!" he cried, "her praises they have sounded
Nowise too loudly! Ne'er saw I such grace
Or high or low, in life or pictured face!"
Only that face to see, his flock forsaking,
Alari had come. Yet now his heart was quaking
When, standing in the presence of the maid,
"Would you so gracious be, fair one," he said,
"As to point out the way these hills to cross?
For else find I myself at utter loss."
"Oh, yes!" replied the girl, ingenuously,
"Thou takest the straight road, and comest thereby
Into Pèiro-malo desert. Then
Follow the winding path till thou attain
A portico1 with an old tomb anear:
Two statues of great generals it doth bear.
Antiquities they call them hereabout."
"Thanks, many!" said the youth. "I had come out
A thousand of my woolly tribe, or so,
To lead into the mountains from La Crau.
We leave to-morrow. I their way direct,
And sleeping-spots and feeding-ground select.
"They bear my mark, and are of fine breed, all;
And for my shepherdess, when one I call
My own, the nightingales will ever sing.
And dared I hope you 'd take my offering,
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.
And on the ringing collars, and the bones
That served for bell-tongues, he would cut with skill
Faces and figures, flowers and birds, at will.
As for the goblet he was tendering,
You would have said that no such fairy thing
Was ever wrought by shepherd's knife or wit:
A full-flowered poppy wreathed the rim of it;
And in among the languid flowers there
Two chamois browsed, and, these the handles were.
A little lower down were maidens three,
And certes they were marvellous to see:
Near by, beneath a tree, a shepherd-lad
Slept, while on tiptoe stole the maidens glad,
And sought to seal his lips, ere he should waken,
With a grape-cluster from their basket taken.
Yet even now he smiles at their illusion,
So that the foremost maid is all confusion.
The odor of the goblet proved it new:
The giver had not drunk therefrom; and you
Had said, but for their woody coloring,
The carven shapes were each a living thing.
Mirèio scanned the fair cup curiously.
"A tempting offering thine, shepherd!" said she:
But suddenly, "A finer one than this
Hath my heart's lord! Shepherd, his love it is!
Mine eyes close, his impassioned glances feeling:
I falter with the rapture o'er me stealing!"
So saying, she vanished like a tricksy sprite;
And Alari turned, and in the gray twilight
Ruefully, carefully, he folded up
And bore away again his carven cup,
Deeming it sad and strange this winsome elf
Her love should yield to any but himself.
Soon to the farm came suitor number two,
A keeper of wild horses from Sambu,2—
Veran, by name. About his island home
In the great prairies, where the asters bloom,
He need to keep a hundred milk-white steeds,
Who nipped the heads of all the lofty reeds.
A hundred steeds! Their long manes flowing free
As the foam-crested billows of the sea!
Wavy and thick and all unshorn were they;
And when the horses on their headlong way
Plunged all together, their dishevelled hair
Seemed the white robes of creatures of the air.
I say it to the shame of human kind:
Camargan3 steeds were never known to mind
The cruel spur more than the coaxing hand.
Only a few or so, I understand,
By treachery seduced, have halter worn,
And from their own salt prairies been borne;
Yet the day comes when, with a vicious start,
Their riders throwing, suddenly they part,
And twenty leagues of land unresting scour,
Snuffing the wind, till Vacarès4 once more
They find, the salt air breathe, and joy to be
In freedom after ten years' slavery.
For these wild steeds are with the sea at home;
Have they not still the color of the foam?
Perchance they brake from old King Neptune's car;
For when the sea turns dark and moans afar,
And the ships part their cables in the bay,
The stallions of Carmargue rejoicing neigh,
Their sweeping tails like whipcord snapping loudly;
Or pawing the earth, all, fiercely and proudly,
As though their flanks were stung as with a rod
By the sharp trident of the angry god,
Who makes the rain a deluge, and the ocean
Stirs to its depths in uttermost commotion.
And these were all Veran's. Therefore one day
The island-chieftain paused upon his way
Across La Crau beside Mirèio's door;
For she was famed, and shall be evermore,
For beauty, all about the delta wide
Where the great Rhone meeteth the ocean tide.
Confident came Veran to tell his passion,
With paletot, in the Arlesian fashion,
Long, light, and backward from his shoulders flowing;
His gay-hued girdle like a lizard glowing,
The while his head an oil-skin cap protected,
Wherefrom the dazzling sun-rays were reflected.
And first the youth to Master Ramoun drew.
"Good-morrow to you, and good fortune too!"
He said. "I come from the Camargan Rhone,
As keeper Pèire's grandson I am known.
Thou mindest him! For twenty years or more
My grandsire's horses trod thy threshing-floor.
"Three dozen had the old man venerable,
As thou, beyond a doubt, rememberest well.
But would I, Master Ramoun, it were given
To thee to see the increase of that leaven!
Let ply the sickles! We the rest will do,
For now have we an hundred lacking two!"
"And long, my son," the old man said, "pray I
That you may see them feed and multiply.
I knew your grandsire well for no brief time;
But now on him and me the hoary rime
Of age descends, and by the home lamp's ray
We sit content, and no more visits pay."
"But, Master Ramoun," cried the youthful lover,
"All that I want thou dost not yet discover!
Far down at Sambu, in my island home,
When the Crau folk for loads of litter come,
And we help cord them down, it happens so
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 honor lend."
Then did he feld his hands and them upraise
In saint-like gratitude. "And yet," he says,
"The child must like you too, O Veranet!5
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!"
Forthwith summoned Ramoun his little daughter,
And told her of the friend who thus had sought her.
Pale, trembling, and afraid, "O father dear!"
She said, "is not thy wisdom halting here?
For I am but a child: thou dost forget.
Surely thou wouldst not send me from thee yet!
"Slowly, so thou hast often said to me,
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."
Also that summer came to Lotus Place
One from Petite Camargue,6 called Ourrias.
Breaker and brander of wild cattle, he;
And black and furious all the cattle be
Over those briny pastures wild who run,
Maddened by flood and fog and scalding sun.
Alone this Ourrias had them all in charge
Summer and winter, where they roamed at large.
And so, among the cattle born and grown,
Their build, their cruel heart, became his own;
His the wild eye, dark color, dogged look.
How often, throwing off his coat, he took
His cudgel,—savage weaner!—never blenching,
And first the young calves from the udders wrenching,
Upon the wrathful mother fell so madly
That cudgel after cudgel brake he gladly,
Till she, by his brute fury masterèd,
Wild-eyed and lowing to the pine-copse fled!
Oft in the branding at Camargue had he
Oxen and heifers, two-year-olds and three,
Seized by the horns and stretched upon the ground.
His forehead bare the scar of an old wound
Fiery and forked like lightning. It was said
That once the green plain with his blood was red.
On a great branding-day befell this thing:
To aid the mighty herd in mastering,
Li Santo, Agui Morto,7 Albaron,8
And Faraman9 a hundred horsemen strong
Had sent into the desert. And the herd
Roused from its briny lairs, and, forward spurred
By tridents of the branders close behind,
Fell on the land like a destroying wind.
Heifers and bulls in headlong gallop borne
Plunged, crushing centaury10 and salicorne;11
And at the branding-booth at last they mustered,
Just where a crowd three hundred strong had clustered.
A moment, as it scared, the beasts were still.
Then, when the cruel spur once more they feel,
They start afresh, into a run they break,
And thrice the circuit of the arena make;
As marterns fly a dog, or hawks afar
By eagles in the Luberon hunted are.
Then Ourrias—what ne'er was done before—
Leaped from his horse beside the circus-door
Amid the crowd. The cattle start again,
All saving five young bulls, and scour the plain;
But these, with flaming eyes and horns defying
Heaven itself, are through the arena flying.
And he pursues them. As a mighty wind
Drives on the clouds, he goads them from behind,
And presently outstrips them in the race;
Then thumps them with the cruel goad he sways,
Dances before them as infuriate,
And lets them feel his own fists' heavy weight.
The people clap and shout, while Ourrias
White with Olympic dust encountered has
One bull, and seized him by the horns at length;
And now 'tis head to muzzle, strength for strength.
The monster strains his prisoned horns to free
Until he bleeds, and bellows horribly.
But vain his fury, useless all his trouble!
The neatherd had the art to torn and double
And force the huge head with his shoulder round,
And shove it roughly back, till on the ground
Christian and beast together rolled, and made
A formless heap like some huge barricade.
The tamarisks12 are shaken by the cry
Of "Brave Ourrias! That 's done valiantly!"
While five stout youths the bull pin to the sward;
And Ourrias, his triumph to record,
Seizes the red-hot iron with eager hand,
The vanquished monster on the hip to brand.
Then come a troop of girls on milk-white ponies,—
Arlesians,—flushed and panting every one is,
As o'er the arena at full gallop borne
They offer him a noble drinking-horn
Brimful of wine; then turn and disappear,
Each followed by her faithful cavalier.
The hero heeds them not. His mind is set
On the four monsters to be branded yet:
The mower toils the harder for the grass
He sees unmown. And so this Ourrias
Fought the more savagely as his foes warmed,
And conquered in the end,—but not unharmed.
White-spotted and with horns magnificent,
The fourth beast grazed the green in all content.
"Now, man, enough!" in vain the neatherds shouted;
Couched is the trident and the caution flouted;
With perspiration streaming, bosom bare,
Ourrias the spotted bull charged then and there!
He meets his enemy, a blow delivers
Full in the face; but ah! the trident shivers.
The beast becomes a demon with the wound:
The brander grasps his horns, is whirled around,—
They start together, and are borne amain,
Crushing the salicornes along the plain.
The mounted herdsmen, on their long goads leaning,
Regard the mortal fray; for each is meaning
Dire vengeance now. The man the brute would crush,
The brute bears off the man with furious rush;
The while with heavy, frothy tongue he clears
The blood that to his hanging lip adheres.
The brute prevailed. The man fell dazed, and lay
Like a vile rakeful in the monster's way.
"Sham dead!" went up a cry of agony.
Vain words! The beast his victim lifted high
On cruel horns and savage head inclined,
And flung him six and forty feet behind!
Once more a deafening outcry filled the place
And shook the tamarisks. But Ourrias
Fell prone to earth, and ever after wore he
The ugly scar that marred his brow so sorely.
Now, mounted on his mare, he paces slow
With goad erect to seek Mirèio.
It chanced the little maid was all alone.
She had, that morning, to the fountain gone;
And there, with sleeves and petticoats uprolled
And small feet dabbling in the water cold,
She was here cheese-forms cleaning with shave-grass;
And, lady saint! how beautiful she was!
"Good-morrow, pretty maid!" began the wooer,
"Thy forms will shine like mirrors, to be sure!
Will it offend thee, if I lead my mare
To drink out of thy limpid streamlet there?"
"Pray give her all thou wilt, at the dam head:
We 've water here to spare!" the maiden said.
"Fair one!" spake the wild youth, "if e'er thou come
As pilgrim or as bride to make thy home
At Sylvarèal13 by the noisy wave,
No life of toil like this down here thou 'lt have!
Our fierce black cows are never milked, but these
Roam all at large, and women sit at ease."
"Young man, in cattle-land, I 've heard them say,
Maids die of languor."—"Pretty maiden, nay:
There is no languor where two are together!"
"But brows are blistered in that burning weather,
And bitter waters drunk."—"When the sun shines,
My lady, thou shalt sit beneath the pines!"
"Ah! but they say, young man, those pines are laden
With coils of emerald serpents,"—"Fairest maiden,
We 've herons also, and flamingoes red
That chase them down the Rhone with wings outspread
Like rosy mantles."—"Then, be thou aware,
Thy pines are from my lotus-trees too far!"
"But priests and maidens, fair one, never know,
The proverb saith, the land where they may go
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!"
"Thy suit," Mirèio said, "mayhap I 'll grant!
But first, young man, yon water-lily plant
Will bear a cluster of columbine14 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!"