CHAPTER XXV

THE SONG OF THE RHONE

With the spirit of the country, the whole crew and company of the Caburle—MaÎtre Apian's barge in Mistral's poem—seems to be imbued. Even the little maiden Anglore—in love with a water-sprite—even she has caught something of the large abandon of the great stream.

Warned that the Prince—whom she believes to be the Drac—will fascinate and then desert her, she cries: "Eh! bien qu'il me fascine. Si mon destin est tel, moi, je me laisserai choir a la pipÉe, comme au gouffre bÉant tombe la feuille."

The whole poem is steeped in the movement and sunshine of the river: the charm of the life on its banks, especially in times now past; the plying of the barges up and down, laden with merchandise, the towns and ancient castles that they pass, the gay spirit of the passengers along this buoyant thoroughfare, "l'orniÈre du monde" as MaÎtre Apian calls it, the owner of the "most famous equipage of the whole river"—seven barges and forty horses for towing. In the finest of them, the Caburle, he sets forth from the neighbourhood of Lyons to descend the river to Beaucaire for the great fair, his other barges following, with cargo and with food for the horses.

And so the little flotilla goes on its way down the current, the Caburle leading, with the image of St. Nicholas at its prow, and at the poop, placed high on the rudder, the mariner's cross, painted red and carved (one winter when the waters had been caught in the grip of the frost) by MaÎtre Apian himself. And the instruments of the Passion: nails, lance, hammer, and all associated with it directly or indirectly, are piously represented.

And there is a friendly rivalry between them, for the first boat to arrive at the meadow of Beaucaire receives, as a welcome from the citizens, a fine sheep. Alas! as we know, the days of the fair of Beaucaire are over!

"DespachatiÉu, en aio, fourro-bourro."

"In haste, agitated, pell-mell," the mariners bestir themselves, and the merry, busy procession moves down stream. MaÎtre Apian lifts his cap.

"To the Rhone!" he cries, and all who are with him uncover their heads, and make the sign of the cross, dipping their fingers in the wave—for the river is blessed every year, with a fine procession at the Pont St. Esprit, and so it is holy water.

A most singular and very "mixed" company the Caburle carries with her down the river during twelve long cantos: among them, curiously enough, William of Orange, son of the King of Holland, who had been sent to Provence for his health. Besides him there are three Venetian ladies who keep their companions lively with songs and jests. And this little blond prince—whom the doctors think the mistral is likely to benefit—has come to seek the flower of the Rhone of which he has heard so much—

Then they all tell him that it is the flowering rush that nourishes itself in the water—which "l'Anglore" loves to gather. And the little blond prince pricks up his ears and wants to know who or what is l'Anglore. And thereby hangs a tale.

"La voilÀ, la voilÀ," they all cry on the barges.

Her hand on her hip, Anglore, with a branch of the flower of the Rhone in her hand, stands on the bank waiting and smiling. Since her infancy she has come to watch these boats arriving, the great flat boats that they call sisselands on the river. Well known to all the sailors, she would exchange greetings and friendly badinage with them as they passed. And the men would throw apples and pears into her apron as she held it out to catch them. She was a familiar figure along the water-side, and bore the nickname of Anglore, the lizard, because she was always basking in the sun on the banks. But she was not idle. Assiduously she sifted with her little sieve the grains of gold that the ArdÈche brought down after the rains. Her father was a pilot at the Pont St. Esprit to guide the boats past the "spurs of the treacherous buttresses." And the sailors, having passed the Trois Donzelles and the Îles Margeries, would say joyously—

And there, sure enough, she was, with her red handkerchief on her head, busy at work. And they would cry, "OhÉ, has she not made her fortune, l'Anglore?"

And Anglore replies, "AÏe! pauvrette, ils n'en jettent pas tant d'or dans l'ArdÈche, ces gueux de CÉvennols! Mais vous passez bien vite."

"Le RhÔne est fier (high) there is no stopping, belle jeunesse! But when we go up stream on our return, and the horses pull at the ropes, then we will bring you some dates."

"Bon voyage aux marins," she cries farewell.

"Adieu, Mignonne!"

And one of the crew, Jean Roche, throws her several kisses as the barge moves away. He has a tender interest in the maiden, who however has no heart to give him, for she has been fascinated by a most singular lover, the Drac, or Spirit of the Rhone who lives under the green waters and entices unwary maidens down and down to his shimmering home beneath the flood.

It seems to intoxicate the children of the riverside.

The mother of Anglore tells her children of the dangers of the river; of "the blues" of the calm water where it is of profound depth. It is here that the Drac loves to disport himself: a fishlike creature, svelte as a lamprey, twisting himself joyously in the whirl of the waters, with greenish hair which floats on the waves like seaweed. Anglore hears the story of the young woman of Beaucaire beating her linen on the river banks, when she suddenly sees the Drac in the water, and he makes a sign of invitation to his palace of crystal where he promises to show her all his riches, the wreckage of shipping for many a year. And the maiden, unable to resist the strange fascination, is drawn under the waves in a sort of dream; and for seven long years she lives with the Drac in his fresh green grotto filled with watery light.

And Anglore, on one hot, still night, goes down to the banks in the moonlight. In the profound silence she hears the murmur of the river. The glowworms are throwing their strange glamour on the grass and the nightingales are answering one another in the woods; and then suddenly the girl seems to lose her head, and flinging off her few garments, plunges into the stream.

It is a half fearful pleasure as she moves through its cool freshness. If a fish ricochets over the surface in pursuit of a fly, if a little whirlpool makes a tiny sound of in-sucking as it twirls in the rush, if a bat cries, her heart gives a sick beat. But it is joy to be thus clothed by the sumptuous mantle of the torrent; "to be mingled, confounded with the great Rhone." Suddenly, in the moonlight, deep down, stretched upon the moss—the Drac! His eyes fix her, fascinate; and fearful, stupefied, she has to go towards the sorcerer who murmurs words of mysterious love. And then, all at once, Anglore, feeling his cold arms round her, springs up and sees gliding through the water a vague shadow, serpentine and white, and floating on the surface a flowering reed!

A narrow escape! But the quaint part of the story is yet to come. When the barge of MaÎtre Apian makes its return journey the crew throws the rope ashore and Anglore knots it round an old stake. Then Jean Roche takes Anglore in his arms and lifts her on board, and every one crowds round to welcome her.

"Eh bÈn, que dis Angloro?" they cry.

"Dise tout bÈn de vous," she replies politely.

Then Jean Roche says, "Santo que canto! If thou wert not more sensible than I, Anglore, dost thou know what we would do?"

"Pancaro, digo" (Pas encore, dis).

"Well, to-morrow evening we would go together to see the plays at Beaucaire, the two of us, arm in arm, on the meadow we would go and see the gypsies who tell fortunes; we would stroll round to all the booths, and I would buy you a beautiful ring."

"Of glass?" asks Anglore.

"No, of gold. And at the end of the fair I would bring you back as my wife at Saint Maurice."

But Anglore laughs and puts him off, and finally tells him that he has been forestalled by one who would drown him in the depths of the Rhone if he caught him fishing in his "lone."[30]

So poor Jean Roche relapses into dismal silence. Presently the Prince of Orange, radiant, and carrying a branch of the flower of the Rhone, issues from his tent on the barge where he has been sleeping, humming, still half asleep, the Venetian song of the three lively ladies—

And Anglore suddenly turns very pale and nearly faints.

"C'est lui! c'est lui!" she cries wildly; and it turns out that she takes the prince for the Drac! And he, with his mind turning on the object of his search, says that he recognises her. "O fleur du Rhone epanouie sur l'eau."

Rather embarrassing for Monsieur le Prince! However he is quite equal to the occasion. He presents her with the flower, and then—suddenly he trembles! It is scarcely necessary to add (we are in Provence) that the next canto is occupied with the loves of Anglore and the blond prince.

These go simply and smoothly on board the barge, where the mariners show the most astonishing tact and never seem to get in the way. When the Prince asks Anglore what she would say if he told her he was really the son of the King of Holland, she replies, "My Drac, I should simply say that you can transfigure yourself into any form that may be agreeable to you, and if you have taken that of the Prince of Orange it is for some freak or mad fancy. Oh! my Drac, of what use is it to try to hide yourself?"

What was there to be done (the poem demands) but instantly to embrace "la folatre"? It is hard to say, adds the poet, "which is the more intoxicated, more under the spell of enchantment."

And so, in their great happiness they float down stream.

Fields, vineyards, olive-groves, castles, cities, drift by as in a beautiful dream.

All the while the hot ProvenÇal sun is beating on the barge, and the sorceress river is flowing and flowing: the whole scene a symbol of the country and its magic. After one has swept down and toiled up the Rhone in the Caburle, one knows a little more of what it all means, this fief of the sun and wind, this Land of the Passionate River!