The Fruit Shop
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;A straw poke bonnet which hid the frownShe pluckered her little brows intoAs she picked her dainty passage throughThe dusty street. “Ah, Mademoiselle,A dirty pathway, we need rain,My poor fruits suffer, and the shellOf this nut’s too big for its kernel, lainHere in the sun it has shrunk again.The baker down at the corner saysWe need a battle to shake the clouds;But I am a man of peace, my waysDon’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 coolIn here, for the green leaves I have runIn a curtain over the door, make a poolOf shade. You see the pears on that stool—The shadow keeps them plump and fair.”Over the fruiterer’s door, the leavesHeld back the sun, a greenish flareQuivered and sparked the shop, the sheavesOf sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,Shot from the golden letters, brokeAnd splintered to little scattered lights.Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her pokeBonnet tilted itself to rights,And her face looked out like the moon on nightsOf flickering clouds. “Monsieur Popain, IWant 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 hadAnything else than the very best.He pointed to baskets of blunted pearsWith 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 thereIs like lavender, and sweet thoughts comeOnly 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 ponyBrought them in at sunrise to-day.Those oranges—Gold! They’re almost red.They seem little chips just broken awayFrom the sun itself. Or perhaps insteadYou’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 shipsMake it a little hard for our rigs.They must be forever giving the slipsTo the cursed English, and when men clipsThrough powder to bring them, why dainties mountsA bit in price. Those almonds now,I’ll strip off that husk, when one discountsA life or two in a nigger rowWith the man who grew them, it does seem howThey would come dear; and then the fightAt sea perhaps, our boats have heelsAnd mostly they sail along at night,But once in a way they’re caught; one feelsIvory’s not better nor finer—why peelsFrom 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 wideEarthen bowl. “They make the tongueAlmost fly out to suck them, brideCurrants they are, they were planted longAgo for some new Marquise, amongOther great beauties, before the ChateauWas left to rot. Now the Gardener’s wife,He that marched off to his death at Marengo,Sells them to me; she keeps her lifeFrom snuffing out, with her pruning knife.She’s a poor old thing, but she learnt the tradeWhen her man was young, and the young MarquisCouldn’t have enough garden. The flowers he madeAll new! And the fruits! But ’twas said that heWas no friend to the people, and so they laidSome charge against him, a cavalcadeOf citizens took him away; they meantWell, but I think there was some mistake.He just pottered round in his garden, bentOn growing things; we were so awakeIn those days for the New Republic’s sake.He’s gone, and the garden is all that’s leftNot in ruin, but the currants and apricots,And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleftFull of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eftOr 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 ringOf her striped silk purse, tipped it upside downAnd shook it, two coins fell with a dingOf striking silver, beneath her gownOne rolled, the other lay, a thingSparked white and sharply glistening,In a drop of sunlight between two shades.She jerked the purse, took its empty endsAnd crumpled them toward the centre braids.The whole collapsed to a mass of blendsOf colours and stripes. “Monsieur Popain, friendsWe have always been. In the days beforeThe Great Revolution my aunt was kindWhen you needed help. You need no more;’Tis we now who must beg at your door,And will you refuse?” The little manBustled, denied, his heart was good,But times were hard. He went to a panAnd poured upon the counter a floodOf pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.He took a melon with rough green rindAnd rubbed it well with his apron tip.Then he hunted over the shop to findSome walnuts cracking at the lip,And added to these a barberry slipWhose acrid, oval berries hungLike fringe and trembled. He reached a roundBasket, with handles, from where it swungAgainst the wall, laid it on the groundAnd filled it, then he searched and foundThe 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 flashedHer eyes to blindness, and the routOf 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 grazedThe panels of a chaise and pair.The postboy yelled, and an amazedFace from the carriage window gazed.She jumped back just in time, her heartBeating with fear. Through whirling lightThe chaise departed, but her smartWas keen and bitter. In the whiteDust of the street she saw a brightStreak 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!”