Episode 16: “The nights grow longer” from Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie

“The nights grow longer”
from Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Now has the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of Scorpio enters.
. . . .
In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke wreaths
Struggled together like foes in a burning city.  Behind him,
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.
. . . .
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
Such as at home in the olden times, his fathers before him
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.
Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated,
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her,
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,
Followed the old man’s song and united the fragments together.
As in church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock ticked.
Thus as they sat there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed boots it was Basil the blacksmith,
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.
“Welcome,” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,
“Welcome, Basil my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;
Never so much thyself art thou as when the curling
Smoke of the pipe or the forge of thy friendly and jovial face gleams
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.”
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:—
“Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
Ever the cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.”
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:—

 [Here Basil and Benedict talk about the events of the day.  Before long the notary arrives.]

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pré;
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and age of the parties,
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
Three times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver;
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
Soon was the game begun.  In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manœuver,
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in a king-row.
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure,
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mist of the meadows.
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.