Moretum (The Salad)

Now had night completed ten of winter's hours, and with his crowing the sentinel cock had proclaimed day's advent, when Simylus, the rustic tiller of a meagre farm, fearful of stern hunger on the coming morn, slowly, from the cheap pallet whereon they were outstretched, uplifts his limbs, and with anxious hand feels his way through the lifeless night, and gropes for the hearth, which at last, not unscathed, he finds. From a burnt-out log still lingered a tiny stream of smoke, while ashes concealed the gleam of buried coals. Bending low his head, to these he applies his lamp aslant, draws out with a needle the dried-up wick, and with many a puff wakes up the sluggish fire. Rousing at last a gleam, though hard the task, he draws back, and with sheltering hand guards the light from the draught, while his key, peeping through, unlocks the closet-door. On the ground was outpoured a poor heap of corn: from this he helps himself to as much as the measure, which runs up to sixteen pounds in weight, would hold.

And now, faring forth, he takes his place at the mill and on a tiny shelf, firmly fastened for such needs on the wall, he sets his trusty light. Then from his garment he frees his twin arms, and, girt in shaggy goat's hide, with tail-brush he carefully sweeps the stones and hollow of the mill. Next he summons his two hands to work, dividing them between the two-fold tasks: the left is bent on serving the grain, the right on piling the mill. This, in constant round, turns and drives the wheel (the grain, bruised by the stones' swift blows, runs down); the left, at intervals, seconds her wearied sister, and takes her turn. Anon he sings rustic songs, and with rude strains solaces his toil; at times he shouts to Scybale. She was his only help, African in stock, her whole form proclaiming her country: her hair curly, her lips swollen and her hue dusky, her chest broad, her breast hanging low, her belly somewhat pinched, her legs thin, her feet broad and ample. Her rough shoes were torn with many a rent. Her he calls, and bids her place on the fire fuel to burn, and over the flame heat cold water. Soon as the revolving mill has filled up the measure due, his hand then transfers to a sieve the bruised meal and shakes it, and lo! the husks remain on the upper side. The corn, clean and pure, sinks down, filtering through the crevices. Then straightway on a smooth table he lays it out, pours o'er it warm water, packs together the now mingled moisture and meal, kneads it by hand till hardened and, the liquid subdued, from time to time sprinkles the heap with salt. And now he smooths off his vanquished work, with open palms broadens it into its rounded form, and marks it in four parts, stamped in equal divisions. Then he puts it in the hearth (Scybale first had cleaned a fitting place), and covers it with tiles, heaping up the fire above. And while Vulcan and Vesta are playing their part, Simylus meanwhile in that idle hour is not slack, but seeks for himself another resource, and lest Ceres alone should not please the palate, he gathers dainties to add thereto. Near his hearth no larder hung from the ceiling; gammons and slices of bacon dried and salted were wanting, but old cheeses, their rounded surface pierced midway with rushes, were suspended in baskets of close-woven fennel. Therefore the prudent hero toils to provide himself with another resource.

Adjoining the cottage was a garden, sheltered by a few osiers and reeds of slender stalk, ever springing up afresh: small in extent, but rich in various herbs. Naught did it lack that a poor man's need demands; at times the wealthy would turn to the poor man's stock for more. And naught did he spend thereon, but his daily toil was his guide: if ever rains or a holiday kept him idle in his cottage; if perchance the labouring plough was idle, that time fell to the garden. He knew how to set out various plants, to entrust seeds to the hidden soil, and about his plots to train some rills, conveniently near. Here throve cabbage, here beets, their arms far outspread, with rich sorrel, mallows, and elecampane; here skirret and leeks, that owe their name to the head, and lettuce that brings pleasing relief to sumptuous banquets: here sharp-pointed radish, and the heavy gourd, that swells into its broad belly. But this crop was not for the owner (for who more frugal than he?) but for the people; and every ninth day on his shoulders he would carry faggots to town for sale. Thence he would home return, light of neck, but heavy of pocket, and seldom attended by the city-market's wares. His hunger red onion tames, and his plot of cut-leek, and nasturtium that with sharp taste pinches the face, and endive, and cole-wort that calls back a lagging love.

At this hour, too, with some such plan in his thoughts had he entered the garden. At first, lightly digging up the ground with his fingers, he draws out four garlic bulbs with thick fibres, then plucks slender parsley-leaves and unbending rue, and coriander, trembling on its scanty stalk. These culled, he sat down by the pleasant fire, and loudly calls to the maid for a mortar. Then he strips the single heads of their rough membranes, and despoils them of the outermost skins, scattering about on the ground the parts thus slighted and casting them away. The bulb, saved with the leaves, he dips in water, and drops into the mortar's hollow circle. Thereon he sprinkles grains of salt, adds cheese hardened with consuming salt, and heaps on top the herbs we have named; and while his left hand gathers up the tunic about his shaggy flanks, his right first crushes with a pestle the fragrant garlic, then grinds all evenly in the juicy mixture. Round and round passes the hand: little by little the elements lose their peculiar strength; the many colours blend into one, yet neither is this wholly green, for milk-white fragments still resist, nor is it a shining milky-white, for it is varied by so many herbs. Often the strong odour smites the man's open nostrils, and with wrinkled nose he condemns his breakfast fare, often drawing the back of his hand across his tearful eyes, and cursing in anger the innocent smoke.

The work goes on apace: no longer in uneven course, as before, but heavier in weight, the pestle moves on in slower circles. Therefore he lets fall upon it some drops of Minerva's oil, pouring o'er it strong vinegar in scanty stream, then once more stirs up the dish and handles the mixture afresh. And now at length he passes two fingers round all the mortar, and into one ball packs the sundry pieces, so that, in reality as in name, there is fashioned a perfect moretum.

Meanwhile Scybale too, industrious maid, draws forth the bread, which he gladly welcomes to his hands; and now that fear of hunger is driven away, care-free for the day, Simylus dons his well-matched leggings and sheltering cap, forces his submissive bullocks under their leather-bound yokes, and drives them to the fields, there in the earth burying his plough.