Men, Women and Ghosts






The Fruit Shop

   Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,
   High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;
   A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown
   She pluckered her little brows into
   As she picked her dainty passage through
   The dusty street.  "Ah, Mademoiselle,
   A dirty pathway, we need rain,
   My poor fruits suffer, and the shell
   Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain
   Here in the sun it has shrunk again.
   The baker down at the corner says
   We need a battle to shake the clouds;
   But I am a man of peace, my ways
   Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.
   Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!
   Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.
   Let me dust off that wicker chair.  It's cool
   In here, for the green leaves I have run
   In a curtain over the door, make a pool
   Of shade.  You see the pears on that stool—
   The shadow keeps them plump and fair."
   Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves
   Held back the sun, a greenish flare
   Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves
   Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,
   Shot from the golden letters, broke
   And splintered to little scattered lights.
   Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke
   Bonnet tilted itself to rights,
   And her face looked out like the moon on nights
   Of flickering clouds.  "Monsieur Popain, I
   Want gooseberries, an apple or two,
   Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;
   Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?
   I've only a couple of francs for you."
   Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.
   What could he do, the times were sad.
   A couple of francs and such demands!
   And asking for fruits a little bad.
   Wind-blown indeed!  He never had
   Anything else than the very best.
   He pointed to baskets of blunted pears
   With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,
   All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.
   Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.
   He took up a pear with tender care,
   And pressed it with his hardened thumb.
   "Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there
   Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come
   Only from having a dish at home.
   And those grapes!  They melt in the mouth like wine,
   Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.
   They're only this morning off the vine,
   And I paid for them down in silver money.
   The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony
   Brought them in at sunrise to-day.
   Those oranges—Gold!  They're almost red.
   They seem little chips just broken away
   From the sun itself.  Or perhaps instead
   You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,
   When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.
   Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,
   They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships
   Make it a little hard for our rigs.
   They must be forever giving the slips
   To the cursed English, and when men clips
   Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts
   A bit in price.  Those almonds now,
   I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts
   A life or two in a nigger row
   With the man who grew them, it does seem how
   They would come dear; and then the fight
   At sea perhaps, our boats have heels
   And mostly they sail along at night,
   But once in a way they're caught; one feels
   Ivory's not better nor finer—why peels
   From an almond kernel are worth two sous.
   It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.
   "Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.
   There's plenty of cheaper things to choose."
   He picked some currants out of a wide
   Earthen bowl.  "They make the tongue
   Almost fly out to suck them, bride
   Currants they are, they were planted long
   Ago for some new Marquise, among
   Other great beauties, before the Chateau
   Was left to rot.  Now the Gardener's wife,
   He that marched off to his death at Marengo,
   Sells them to me; she keeps her life
   From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.
   She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade
   When her man was young, and the young Marquis
   Couldn't have enough garden.  The flowers he made
   All new!  And the fruits!  But 'twas said that he
   Was no friend to the people, and so they laid
   Some charge against him, a cavalcade
   Of citizens took him away; they meant
   Well, but I think there was some mistake.
   He just pottered round in his garden, bent
   On growing things; we were so awake
   In those days for the New Republic's sake.
   He's gone, and the garden is all that's left
   Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,
   And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft
   Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,
   Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft
   Or worm among them, and as for theft,
   How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,
   But they're finer than any grown this way."
   Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring
   Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down
   And shook it, two coins fell with a ding
   Of striking silver, beneath her gown
   One rolled, the other lay, a thing
   Sparked white and sharply glistening,
   In a drop of sunlight between two shades.
   She jerked the purse, took its empty ends
   And crumpled them toward the centre braids.
   The whole collapsed to a mass of blends
   Of colours and stripes.  "Monsieur Popain, friends
   We have always been.  In the days before
   The Great Revolution my aunt was kind
   When you needed help.  You need no more;
   'Tis we now who must beg at your door,
   And will you refuse?"  The little man
   Bustled, denied, his heart was good,
   But times were hard.  He went to a pan
   And poured upon the counter a flood
   Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.
   He took a melon with rough green rind
   And rubbed it well with his apron tip.
   Then he hunted over the shop to find
   Some walnuts cracking at the lip,
   And added to these a barberry slip
   Whose acrid, oval berries hung
   Like fringe and trembled.  He reached a round
   Basket, with handles, from where it swung
   Against the wall, laid it on the ground
   And filled it, then he searched and found
   The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.
   "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"
   She smiled, "The next time that I call,
   Monsieur.  You know that very well."
   'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.
   Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.
   She took her basket and stepped out.
   The sunlight was so bright it flashed
   Her eyes to blindness, and the rout
   Of the little street was all about.
   Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.
   The heavy basket was a care.
   She heard a shout and almost grazed
   The panels of a chaise and pair.
   The postboy yelled, and an amazed
   Face from the carriage window gazed.
   She jumped back just in time, her heart
   Beating with fear.  Through whirling light
   The chaise departed, but her smart
   Was keen and bitter.  In the white
   Dust of the street she saw a bright
   Streak of colours, wet and gay,
   Red like blood.  Crushed but fair,
   Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.
   Monsieur Popain joined her there.
   "Tiens, Mademoiselle,
         c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!"

All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg