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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16f8da1 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #56040 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56040) diff --git a/old/56040-0.txt b/old/56040-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 32f8731..0000000 --- a/old/56040-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9005 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memoirs of Mistral, by -Frédéric Mistral - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Memoirs of Mistral - -Author: Frédéric Mistral - -Translator: Constance Elizabeth Maud - -Release Date: November 23, 2017 [EBook #56040] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, ellinora, Bryan Ness and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL - - BOOKS BY - - CONSTANCE E. MAUD - - - AN ENGLISH GIRL IN PARIS - Tenth Thousand, 6s. - - MY FRENCH FRIENDS. 6s. - - THE RISING GENERATION. 6s. - - FELICITY IN FRANCE. - Fourth Edition, 6s. - - WAGNER’S HEROES. - Illustrated by H. G. FELL. - Sixth Impression, 5s. - - WAGNER’S HEROINES. - Illustrated by W. T. MAUD. - Third Impression, 5s. - - [Illustration: Portrait, 1907] - - - - - MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL - - RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY - - CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD - - Ich singe wie der Vogel singt - Der in den Zweigen wohnet - Das Lied, das aus der Kehle dringt - Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet. - - GOETHE. - - LYRICS FROM THE PROVENÇAL BY - ALMA STRETTELL - (MRS. LAWRENCE HARRISON) - - _ILLUSTRATED_ - - LONDON - EDWARD ARNOLD - 1907 - - [_All rights reserved_] - - - - - TO MY FRIEND - - THÉRÈSE ROUMANILLE - - (MADAME BOISSIÈRE) - - - I DEDICATE THIS ENGLISH RENDERING OF MISTRAL’S MEMOIRS - AND TALES, WHICH WITHOUT HER KINDLY ASSISTANCE - I SHOULD NOT HAVE UNDERTAKEN, FOR TO HER - I OWE ALL I KNOW OF THE LITERARY AND - PATRIOTIC WORK OF THE FÉLIBRES - AND OF THE REAL LIFE OF - PROVENCE - - - - -PREFACE - - -It was one lovely day in early spring two years ago that, on the -occasion of a visit to the great poet of Provence, I first heard of -these Memories of his youth. - -Mistral had been for many years collecting and editing material for this -volume, and was at the moment just completing a French translation from -the Provençal original, which he laughingly assured us he was glad we -had interrupted, since he found it _un travail brute_. - -The enthusiastic reception accorded to this French edition, not only in -Paris but throughout the reading world of France, encourages me to think -that perhaps in England, also, considering the increased interest caused -by the _entente cordiale_ in all things concerning France, an English -translation of this unique description of Provençal country life sixty -years ago may be welcome; and in America too, where the name and -life-work of Mistral have always been better known than in England. - -The fact that Mistral and his great collaborators in the Félibre -movement, Roumanille, Aubanel, Félix Gras, Anselme Mathieu and others, -wrote entirely in the language of their beloved Provence, no doubt -accounts for their works being so little known outside their own -country, though latterly the name of Mistral has been brought -prominently forward by his election as a recipient last year of the -Nobel Prize for patriotic literature, and also by his refusal to accept -a Chair among the Olympians of the French Academy. In spite of his -rejection of the latter honour, which was a matter of principle, he -could scarcely fail to have been gratified by the compliment paid in -offering to him what is never offered without being first solicited, the -would-be member being obliged to present himself for election and also -to endeavour personally to win the support of each of the sacred Forty. - -Of all Mistral’s works his first epic poem, _Mireille_, is the best -known outside France, chiefly no doubt because the invincible charm and -beauty of this work make themselves felt even through the imperfect -medium of a prose translation, and partly perhaps because Gounod gave it -a certain vogue by adapting it as the libretto for his opera of -_Mireille_. - -President Roosevelt has shown his appreciation not only of _Mireille_ -but of the life-work of the author in the following letter, a French -translation of which is to be seen framed in Mistral’s Provençal Museum -at Arles. - - WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, - - _December 15, 1904_. - - MY DEAR M. MISTRAL,--Mrs. Roosevelt and I were equally pleased with - the book and the medal, and none the less because for nearly twenty - years we have possessed a copy of _Mireille_. That copy we shall - keep for old association’s sake; though this new copy with the - personal inscription by you must hereafter occupy the place of - honour. - - All success to you and your associates! You are teaching the lesson - that none need more to learn than we of the West, we of the eager, - restless, wealth-seeking nation; the lesson that after a certain - not very high level of material well-being has been reached, then - the things that really count in life are the things of the spirit. - Factories and railways are good up to a certain point; but courage - and endurance, love of wife and child, love of home and country, - love of lover for sweetheart, love of beauty in man’s work and in - nature, love and emulation of daring and of lofty endeavour, the - homely workaday virtues and the heroic virtues--these are better - still, and if they are lacking no piled-up riches, no roaring, - clanging industrialism, no feverish and many-sided activity shall - avail either the individual or the nation. I do not undervalue - these things of a nation’s body; I only desire that they shall not - make us forget that beside the nation’s body there is also the - nation’s soul. - - Again thanking you, on behalf of both of us, - -Believe me -Very faithfully yours, -THEODORE ROOSEVELT. - - To M. Frédéric Mistral. - -The Nobel Prize has been devoted to the same patriotic cause as that to -which the poet has invariably consecrated everything he possesses. In -this instance the gift from Sweden has gone towards the purchase of an -ancient palace in Arles, which in future will be the Félibréan Museum, -the present hired building being far too small for the purpose. The -object of the museum is to be for all times a record and storehouse of -Provençal history, containing the weapons, costumes, agricultural -implements, furniture, documents, &c., dating from the most ancient -times up to the present day. - -The Memoirs, which Monsieur Mistral defines as “Mes Origines,” end with -the publication of his _Mireille_ in the year 1859 at the age of -twenty-eight. He adds as a supplement a chapter written some three years -later, a souvenir of Alphonse Daudet (also among the prophets), which -gives a picture of the way these youthful poet-patriots practised the -Gai-Savoir in the spring-time and heyday of their lives. - -I have added also a short summary translated from the writings of -Monsieur Paul Mariéton, which brings the history of Félibrige and its -Capoulié up to the present date. - -CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD. - -CHELSEA, _June 1907_. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAP. PAGE - -I. CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 1 - -II. MY FATHER 24 - -III. THE MAGI KINGS 32 - -IV. NATURE’S SCHOOL 45 - -V. AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 61 - -VI. AT MONSIEUR MILLET’S SCHOOL 80 - -VII. THREE EARLY FÉLIBRES 104 - -VIII. HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 120 - -IX. DAME RIQUELLE AND THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 131 - -X. MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 147 - -XI. THE RETURN TO THE FARM 165 - -XII. FONT-SÉGUGNE 185 - -XIII. “THE PROVENÇAL ALMANAC” 198 - -XIV. JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES 235 - -XV. JEAN ROUSSIÈRE 250 - -XVI. “MIREILLE” 270 - -XVII. THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 286 - -APPENDIX 307 - -MISTRAL’S POEMS IN THE PROVENÇAL 324 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - _To face - page_ - -Frédéric Mistral _Frontispiece_ - -Mas du Juge--Birthplace of Frédéric Mistral 18 - -Mistral in 1864 60 - -Arlesiennes at Maillane 84 - -Joseph Roumanille 106 - -Anselm Mathieu 158 - -Théodore Aubanel 158 - -Mas des Pommiers--Home of Joseph Roumanille 188 - -Madame Frédéric Mistral, First Queen of the Félibres 196 - -Félix Gras, Poet and Félibre 202 - -Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu 226 - -Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), Second Queen of -the Félibres 266 - -Paul Mariéton, Chancelier des Félibres 307 - -Madame Gasquet (_née_ Mlle. Girard), Third Queen of the -Félibres 318 - -Madame Bischoffsheim (_née_ Mlle. de Chevigney), Fourth and -present Queen of the Félibres 326 - - - - -MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL - - - - -CHAPTER I - -CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE - - -As far back as I can remember I see before me, towards the south, a -barrier of mountains, whose slopes, rocks and gorges stand out in the -distance with more or less clearness according to the morning or evening -light. It is the chain of the Alpilles, engirdled with olive-trees like -a wall of classic ruins, a veritable belvedere of bygone glory and -legend. - -It was at the foot of this rampart that Caius Marius, Saviour of Rome, -and to this day a popular hero throughout the land, awaited the -barbarian hordes behind the walls of his camp. The record of his -triumphs and trophies engraved on the Arch and Mausoleum of Saint-Rémy -has been gilded by the sun of Provence for two thousand years past. - -On the slopes of these hills are to be seen the remains of the great -Roman aqueduct, which once carried the waters of Vaucluse to the Arena -of Arles; an aqueduct still called by the country people Ouide di -Sarrasin (stonework of the Saracens), for it was by this waterway the -Spanish Moors marched to Arles. On the jagged rocks of these Alpilles -the Princes of Baux built their stronghold, and in these same aromatic -valleys, at Baux, Romanin, and Roque-Martine, the beautiful châtelaines -in the days of the troubadours held their Courts of Love. - -It is at Mont-Majour, on the plains of the Camargue, that the old Kings -of Arles sleep beneath the flag-stones of the cloisters, and in the -grotto of the Vallon d’Enfer of Cordes that our fairies still wander, -while among these ruins of old Roman and feudal days the Golden Goat -lies buried. - -My native village, Maillane, facing the Alpilles, holds the middle of -the plain, a wide fertile plain, still called in Provençal, “Le Caieou,” -no doubt in memory of the Consul Caius Marius. - -An old worthy of this district, “a famous wrestler known as the little -Maillanais,” once assured me that in all his travels throughout the -length and breadth of Languedoc and Provence never had he seen a plain -so smooth as this one of ours. For if one ploughed a furrow straight as -a die for forty miles from the Durance river down to the sea, the water -would flow without hindrance owing to the steady gradient. And, in spite -of our neighbours treating us as frog-eaters, we Maillanais always agree -there is not a prettier country under the sun than ours. - -The old homestead where I was born, looking towards the hills and -adjoining the Clos-Créma, was called “the Judge’s Farm.” We worked the -land with four yoke of oxen, and kept a head-carter, several ploughmen, -a shepherd, a dairy-woman whom we called “the Aunt,” besides hired men -and women engaged by the month according to the work of the season, -whether for the silk-worms, the hay, the weeding, the harvest and -vintage, the season of sowing, or that of olive gathering. - -My parents were yeomen, and belonged to those families who live on their -own land and work it from one generation to another. The yeomen of the -country of Arles form a class apart, a sort of peasant aristocracy, -which, like every other, has its pride of caste. For whilst the peasant -of the village cultivates with spade and hoe his little plot of ground, -the yeoman farmer, agriculturist on a large scale of the Camargue and -the Crau, also puts his hand to the plough as he sings his morning -song. - -If we Mistrals wish, like so many others, to boast of our descent, -without presumption we may claim as ancestors the Mistrals of Dauphiny, -who became by alliance Seigneurs of Montdragon and also of Romanin. The -celebrated monument shown at Valence is the tomb of these Mistrals. And -at Saint-Rémy, the home of my family and birthplace of my father, the -Hôtel of the Mistrals of Romanin may still be seen, known by the name of -the Palace of Queen Joan. - -The crest of the Mistrals is three clover leaves with the somewhat -audacious device, “All or Nothing.” For those who, like ourselves, read -a horoscope in the fatality of patronymics and the mystery of chance -encounters, it is a curious coincidence to find in the olden days the -Love Court of Romanin united to the Manor of the Mistrals, and the name -of Mistral designating the great wind of the land of Provence, and -lastly, these three trefoils significantly pointing to the destiny of -our family. The trefoil, so I was informed by the Sâr Peladan, when it -has four leaves becomes a talisman, but with three expresses -symbolically the idea of the indigenous plant, development and growth by -slow degrees in the same spot. The number three signifies also the -household, father, mother, and son in the mystic sense. Three trefoils, -therefore, stand for three successive harmonious generations, or nine, -which number in heraldry represents wisdom. The device “All or Nothing” -is well suited to those sedentary flowers which will not bear -transplanting and are emblematic of the enured landholder. - - * * * * * - -But to leave these trifles. My father, who lost his first wife, married -again at the age of fifty-five, and I was the offspring of this second -marriage. It was in the following manner my parents met each other: - -One summer’s day on the Feast of St. John, Master François Mistral stood -in the midst of his cornfields watching the harvesters as they mowed -down the crop with their sickles. A troop of women followed the -labourers, gleaning the ears of corn which escaped the rake. Among them -my father noticed one, a handsome girl, who lingered shyly behind as -though afraid to glean like the rest. Going up to her he inquired: “Who -are you, pretty one? What is your name?” - -“I am the daughter of Étienne Poulinet,” the young girl replied, “the -Mayor of Maillane. My name is Delaïde.” - -“Does the daughter of Master Poulinet, Mayor of Maillane, come, then, to -glean?” asked my father in surprise. - -“Sir, we are a large family,” she answered, “six daughters and two sons; -and our father, though he is fairly well off, when we ask him for -pocket-money to buy pretty clothes, tells us we must go and earn it. -That is why I have come here to glean.” - -Six months after this meeting, which recalls the old biblical scene -between Ruth and Boaz, the brave yeoman asked the Mayor of Maillane for -his daughter’s hand in marriage; and I was born of their union. - -My entry into the world took place on September 8th, 1830. My father, -according to his wont, was that afternoon in his fields when they sent -from the house to announce my arrival. The messenger, so soon as he came -within hearing, called to him: “Master, come--the mistress is just -delivered.” - -“How many?” asked my father. - -“One, my faith--a fine son.” - -“A son, may God make him good and wise.” - -And without another word, as though nothing had happened out of the -ordinary, the good man went on with his work, and not until it was -finished did he return slowly to the house. This did not indicate that -he lacked heart, but, brought up in the Roman traditions of the old -Provençeaux, his manners possessed the external ruggedness of his -ancestors. - -I was baptized Frédéric, in memory, it appears, of a poor little urchin -who, at the time of the courtship between my parents, was employed in -carrying to and fro their love missives, and died shortly after. My -birthday having fallen on Our Lady’s Day, in September, my mother had -desired to give me the name of Nostradamus, both in gratitude to Our -Lady and in memory of the famous astrologer of Saint-Rémy, author of -“Les Centuries.” But this mystic and mythical name which the maternal -instinct had so happily lit upon was unfortunately refused both by the -mayor and the priest. - -Vaguely, as through a distant mist, it seems to me I can remember those -early years when my mother, then in the full glory of her youth and -beauty, nourished me with her milk and bore me in her arms, presenting -with pride among our friends “her king”; and ceremoniously the friends -and relations receiving us with the customary congratulations, offering -me a couple of eggs, a slice of bread, a pinch of salt, and a match, -with these sacramental words: - -“Little one, be full as an egg, wholesome as bread, wise as salt, and -straight as a match.” - -Perhaps some will think it childish to relate these things. But after -all every one is free to tell their own tale, and I find great pleasure -in returning, in thought, to my first swaddling clothes, my cradle of -mulberry wood, and my wheel-cart, for there I revive the sweetest joys -of my young mother. - -When I was six months old I was released from the bands which swathed -me, Nanounet, my grandmother, having strongly counselled that I should -be kept tightly bound for this period. “Children well swathed,” said -she, “are neither bandy-legged nor knock-kneed.” - -On St. Joseph’s Day, according to the custom of Provence, I was “given -my feet.” Triumphantly my mother bore me to the church of Maillane, and -there on the saint’s altar, while she held me by the skirts and my -godmother sang to me “Avène, avène, avène” (Come, come, come), I was -made to take my first steps. - -Every Sunday we went to Maillane for the Mass. It was at least two miles -distant. All the way my mother rocked me in her arms. Oh, how I loved -to rest on that tender breast, in that soft nest! But a time came, I -must have been five years old, when midway to the village my poor mother -put me down, bidding me walk, for I was too heavy to be carried any -more. - -After Mass I used to go with my mother to visit my grandparents in the -fine vaulted kitchen of white stone, where usually congregated the -notabilities of the place, Monsieur Deville, Monsieur Dumas, Monsieur -Raboux, the younger Rivière, and discussed politics as they paced the -stone-flagged floor to and fro between the fireplace and the dresser. - -Monsieur Dumas, who had been a judge and resigned in the year 1830, was -specially fond of giving his advice to the young mothers present, such -as these words of wisdom, for example, which he repeated regularly every -Sunday: - -“Neither knives, keys, or books should be given to children--for with a -knife the child may cut himself, a key he may lose, and a book he may -tear.” - -Monsieur Dumas did not come alone: with his opulent wife and their -eleven or twelve children they filled the parlour, the fine ancestral -parlour, all hung with Marseilles tapestry on which were represented -little birds and baskets of flowers. There, to show off the fine -education of his progeny, proudly he made them declaim, verse by verse, -a little from one, a little from another, the story of Théramène. - -This accomplished, he would turn to my mother: - -“And your young one, Delaïde--do you not teach him to recite something?” - -“Yes,” replied my mother simply; “he can say the little rhyme of ‘Jean -du Porc.’” - -“Come, little one, recite ‘Jean du Porc,’” cried every one to me. - -Then with a bow to the company I would timidly falter: - - Quau es mort?--Jan dóu Porc. - Quau lou plouro?--Lou rei Mouro. - Quau lou ris?--La perdris. - Quau lou canto?--La calandro. - Quau ié viro à brand?--Lou quiéu de la sartan. - Quau n’en porto dòu?--Lou quiéu dóu peiròu.[1] - -It was with these nursery rhymes, songs, and tales that our parents in -those days taught us the good Provençal tongue. But at present, vanity -having got the upper hand in most families, it is with the system of the -worthy Monsieur Dumas that children are taught, and little nincompoops -are turned out who have no more attachment or root in their country than -foundlings, for it’s the fashion of to-day to abjure all that belongs to -tradition. - -It is now time that I said a little of my maternal grandfather, the -worthy goodman Étienne. He was, like my father, yeoman farmer, of an old -family and a good stock, but with this difference, that whereas the -Mistrals were workers, economists and amassers of wealth, who in all the -country had not their like, the Poulinets were careless and -happy-go-lucky, disliked hard work, let the water run and spent their -harvests. My grandsire Étienne was, in short, a veritable Roger -Bontemps.[2] - -In spite of having eight children, six of whom were girls, directly -there was a fête anywhere, he was off with his boon companions for a -three days’ spree. His outing lasted as long as his crowns; then, -adaptive as a glove, his pockets empty, he returned to the house. -Grandmother Nanon, a godly woman, would greet him with reproaches: - -“Art thou not ashamed, profligate, to devour the dowries of thy -daughters?” - -“Hé, goodie! What need to worry! Our little girls are pretty, they will -marry without dowries. And I fear me, as thou sayest, my good Nanon, we -shall have nothing for the last.” - -Thus teasing and cajolling the good woman, he made the usurers give him -mortgages on her dowry, lending him money at the rate of fifty or a -hundred per cent., and when his gambling friends came round to visit him -at sundown the incorrigible scapegraces would make a carouse in the -chimney corner, singing all in unison: - -“We are three jolly fellows who haven’t a sou.” - -There were times when my poor grandmother well-nigh despaired at seeing, -one by one, the best portions of her inheritance disappear, but he would -laugh at her fears: - -“Why, goosey, cry about a few acres of land, they are common as -blackberries,” or: - -“That land, why, my dear, its returns did not pay the taxes.” - -And again: “That waste there? Why it was dry as heather from our -neighbours’ trees.” - -He had always a retort equally prompt and light-hearted. Even of the -usurers he would say: - -“My faith, but it is a happy thing there are such people. Without them, -how should we spendthrifts and gamblers find the needful cash at a time -when money is merchandise?” - -In those days Beaucaire with its famous fair was the great point of -attraction on the Rhône. People of all nations, even Turks and negroes, -journeyed there both by land and water. Everything made by the hand of -man, whether to feed, to clothe, to house, to amuse or to ensnare, from -the grindstones of the mill, bales of cloth or canvas, rings and -ornaments made of coloured glass, all were to be found in profusion at -Beaucaire, piled up in the great vaulted storehouses, the market-halls, -the merchant vessels in the harbour or the booths in the meadows. It was -a universal exhibition held yearly in the month of July of all the -industries of the south. - -Needless to say, my grandsire took good care never to miss this occasion -of going to Beaucaire for four or five days’ dissipation. Under the -pretext of purchasing articles for the household--such as pepper, -cloves, ginger--he went off to the fair, a handkerchief in every pocket -and others new and uncut wound like a belt round his waist, for he -consumed much snuff. There he strolled about from morn till eve among -the jugglers, the mountebanks, the clowns, and, above all, the gypsies, -watching these last with interest as they disputed and squabbled over -the purchase of some skinny donkey. - -Punch and Judy possessed perennial joys for him. Open-mouthed he stood -among the crowd, laughing like a boy at the old jokes, and experiencing -an unholy joy as the blows were showered on the puppets representing law -and order. - -This was always the chance for the watchful pickpocket to quietly -abstract one by one his handkerchiefs, a thing foreseen by my grandsire, -who, on discovering the loss, invariably, without more ado, unwound his -belt and used the new ones, with the result that on returning home he -presented himself to his family with a nose dyed blue from the unwashed -cotton. - -“So I see,” cries my grandmother, “they have stolen your handkerchiefs -again.” - -“Who told you that?” asks her good man in surprise. - -“Your blue nose,” answers she. - -“Well, that Punch and Judy show was worth it,” maintains the -incorrigible grandsire. - -When his daughters, of whom, as I have said, my mother was one, were of -an age to marry, being neither awkward nor disagreeable, in spite of -their lack of dowry, suitors appeared on the scene. But when the fathers -of these youths inquired of my grandsire how much he was prepared to -give to his daughter, Master Étienne fired up in wrath: - -“How much do I give my daughter? Idiot! I give your lad a fine young -filly, well trained and handled, and you ask me to add lands and money! -Who wants my daughters must take them as they are or leave them. God be -thanked, in the breadpan of Master Étienne there is always a loaf.” - -It was a fact that each one of the six daughters of my grandfather were -married for the sake of their fine eyes only, and made good marriages -too. - -“A pretty girl,” says the proverb, “carries her dowry in her face.” - -But I must not leave this budding time of my childhood without plucking -one more of memory’s blooms. - -Behind the Judge’s Farm where I was born there was a moat, the waters of -which supplied our old draw-well. The water, though not deep, was clear -and rippling, and on a summer’s day the place was to me one of -irresistible attraction. - -The draw-well moat! It was the book in which, while amusing myself, I -learnt my first lessons in natural history. There were fish, both -stickleback and young carp, which, as they passed down the stream in -shoals, I endeavoured to catch with a small canvas bag that had once -served for nails, suspended on a long reed. There were little -dragon-flies, green, blue, and black, who, as they alighted on the reeds -gently, oh so gently, I seized with my small fingers--that is when they -did not escape me, lightly and silently, with a shimmer of their gauzy -wings; there also was to be found a kind of brown insect with a white -belly which leaped in the water and moved his tiny paws like a cobbler -at work. Little frogs too, with dark gold-spotted backs showing among -the tufts of moss, and who, on seeing me, nimbly plunged in the stream; -and the triton, a sort of aquatic salamander, who wriggled round in a -circle; and great horned beetles, those scavengers of the pools, called -by us the “eel-killers.” - -Add to all these a mass of aquatic plants, such as the cats-tail, that -long cottony blossom of the typha-plant; and the water-lily, its wide -round leaves and white cup magnificently outspread on the water’s smooth -surface; the gladiole with its clusters of pink flowers and the pale -narcissus mirrored in the stream; the duckweed with its minute leaves; -the ox-tongue, which flowers like a lustre; and the forget-me-not, -myosotis, named in Provence “eyes of the Child Jesus.” - -But of all this wonder-world, what held my fancy most was the -water-iris, a large plant growing at the water’s edge in big clumps, -with long sword-shaped leaves and beautiful yellow blooms raising high -their heads like golden halberds. The golden lilies, which on an azure -field form the arms of France and of Provence, were undoubtedly -suggested by these same water-iris, for the lily and the iris are really -of the same family, and the azure of the coat-of-arms faithfully -represents the water by the edge of which the iris grows. - -It was a summer’s day, about the harvest time. All the people of the -farm-house were out at work, helping to bind up the sheaves. Some -twenty men, bare-armed, marched by twos and fours, round the horses and -mules who were treading hard. Some took off the ears of corn or tossed -the straw with their long wooden forks, while others, bare-foot, danced -gaily in the sunshine on the fallen grain. High in the air, upheld by -the three supports of a rustic crane, the winnowing cradle was -suspended. A group of women and girls with baskets threw the corn and -husks into the net of the sieve, and the master, my father, vigorous and -erect, swung the sieve towards the wind, turning the bad grains on to -the top. When the wind abated or at intervals ceased, my father, with -the motionless sieve in his hands, facing the wind and gazing out into -the blue, would say in all seriousness, as though addressing a friendly -god: “Come, blow, blow, dear wind.” - -And I have seen the “mistral,” on my word, in obedience to the wish of -the patriarch, again and again draw breath, thus carrying off the refuse -while the blessed fine wheat fell in a white shower on the conical heap -visibly rising in the midst of the winnowers. - -At sunset, after the grain had been heaped up with shovels, and the men, -all powdered with dust, had gone off to wash at the well and draw water -for the beasts, my father with great strides - -[Illustration: MAS DU JUGE--BIRTHPLACE OF FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL.] - -would measure the heap of corn, tracing upon it a cross with the handle -of the spade and uttering the words: “God give thee increase.” - -I must have been scarcely four years old and still wearing petticoats, -when one lovely afternoon during this threshing season, after rolling as -children love to do in the new straw, I directed my steps towards the -draw-well moat. - -For some days past the fair water-iris had commenced to open, and my -hands tingled to pluck some of the lovely golden buds. - -Arrived at the stream, gently I slipped down to the edge of the water -and thrust out my hand to grab the flower, but it was too far off; I -stretched, and behold me in an instant up to the neck in water. - -I cried out. My mother hurried to the rescue, hauled me out, bestowing a -slap or two, and drove me like a dripping duck before her to the house. - -“Let me catch you again, little good-for-nothing, at that moat!” - -“I wanted to pick the water-iris,” I pleaded. - -“Oh yes, go there again to pick iris! Don’t you know, then, little -rascal, there is a snake hidden in the grass, a big snake who swallows -whole, both birds and children.” - -She undressed me, taking off my small shoes, socks, and shirt, and -while my clothes dried put me on my Sunday sabots and suit, with the -warning: - -“Take care now to keep yourself clean.” - -Behold me again out of doors; on the new straw I executed a happy caper, -then catching sight of a white butterfly hovering over the stubble, off -I went, my blonde curls flying in the wind and--all at once there I was -again at the moat! - -Oh, my beautiful yellow flowers! They were still there, proudly rising -out of the water, showing themselves off in a manner it was impossible -to withstand. Very cautiously I descend the bank planting my feet -squarely; I thrust out my hand, I lean forward, stretching as far as I -can ... and splash ... I am in the water again. - -Woe is me! While about me the bubbles gurgled and among the rushes I -thought I spied the great snake, a loud voice cried out: - -“Mistress, run quick, that child is in the water again.” - -My mother came running. She seized me and dragged me all black from the -muddy bank, and the first thing I received was a resounding smack. - -“You will go back to those flowers? You will try to drown yourself? A -new suit ruined, little rascal--little monster! nearly killing me with -fright!” - -Bedraggled and crying, I returned to the farm-house, head hanging. Again -I was undressed, and this time arrayed in my festal suit. Oh, that fine -suit! I can still see it with the bands of black velvet, and gold dots -on a blue ground. - -Surveying myself in my bravery, I asked my mother: “But what am I to do -now?” - -“Go take care of the chickens,” she said; “don’t let them stray--and you -stay in the shade.” - -Full of zeal I ran off to the chickens, who were pecking about for ears -of corn in the stubble. While at my post, curiously enough I perceive -all at once a crested pullet giving chase to--what do you think? Why, a -grasshopper, the kind with red and blue wings. Both, with me after them, -for I wished to examine those wings, were soon dancing over the fields -and, as luck would have it, we found ourselves before long at the -draw-well moat. - -And there were those golden flowers again mirrored in the water and -exciting my desire; but a desire so passionate, delirious, excessive, as -to make me entirely forget my two previous disasters. - -“This time,” I said to myself, “I will certainly succeed.” - -So descending the bank I twisted around my hand a reed that grew there, -and leaning over the water very prudently, tried once again to reach the -iris blooms with the other hand. But misery! the reed broke and played -me false--into the middle of the stream I plunged head foremost. - -I righted myself as best I could and shrieked like a lost one. Every one -came running. - -“There’s the little imp, in the water again! This time, you incorrigible -youngster, your mother will give you the whipping you deserve.” - -But she did not. Down the pathway I saw her coming, the poor mother, and -tears were in her eyes. - -“O Lord,” she cried, “but I won’t whip him; he might have a fit--this -boy is not like others. By all the saints he does nothing but run after -flowers; he loses all his toys scrambling in the cornfields after -nosegays. Now, as a climax, he has thrown himself three times within an -hour into this moat! I can only clean him up, and thank heaven he is not -drowned.” - -We mingled our tears together as we went home, then once indoors, saint -that she was, my mother again unclothed and dried me, and to ward off -all evil consequences administered a dose of vermifuge before putting me -to bed, where worn out with emotion I soon fell asleep. - -Can any one guess of what I dreamt? Why, of my iris flowers!... In a -lovely stream of water which wound all round the farm-house, a limpid, -transparent, azure stream like the waters of the fountain at Vaucluse, I -beheld the most beautiful clumps of iris covered with a perfect wonder -of golden blossoms! Little dragon-flies with blue silk wings came and -settled on the flowers, while I swam about naked in the laughing rivulet -and plucked by handfuls and armfuls those enchanting yellow blooms. And -the more I picked the more sprang up. - -All at once I heard a voice calling to me, “Frédéric!” I awoke, and to -my joy I saw--a great bunch of golden iris all shining by my side. - -The Master himself, my worshipful sire, had actually gone to pick those -flowers I so longed for; and the Mistress, my dear sweet mother, had -placed them on my bed. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MY FATHER - - -My early years were passed at the farm in the company of labourers, -reapers and shepherds. - -When occasionally a townsman visited our farm, one of those who affected -to speak only French, it puzzled me sorely and even disconcerted me to -see my parents all at once take on a respectful manner to the stranger, -as though they felt him to be their superior. I was perplexed, too, at -hearing another tongue. - -“Why is it,” I asked, “that man does not speak like we do?” - -“Because he is a gentleman,” I was told. - -“Then I will never be a gentleman,” I replied resentfully. - -I remarked also that when we received visitors, such, for instance, as -the Marquis de Barbentane, our neighbour, my father, who when speaking -of my mother before the servants called her “the mistress,” to the -Marquis merely referred to her as “my wife.” The grand Marquis and his -lady, the Marquise, a sister of the great Général de Gallifet, whenever -they came used to bring me cakes and sweets, but in spite of this, no -sooner did I see them driving up in their carriage than, like the young -savage that I was, off I ran and hid in the hay-loft. In vain my poor -mother would call “Frédéric.” Crouching in the hay and holding my -breath, I waited until I heard the departing carriage wheels of our -guests, and my mother declaiming for the benefit of all: “It is -insufferable; here are Monsieur de Barbentane and Madame de Barbentane, -who come on purpose to see that child, and he goes off and hides -himself!” - -And when I crept out of my hiding-place, instead of the sweets, I -received a good spanking. - -What I really loved, however, was to go off with Papoty, our head-man, -when he set out with the plough behind the two mules. - -“Come on, youngster, and I’ll teach you to plough,” he would call -enticingly. - -Then and there off I would go, bareheaded and barefooted, briskly -following in the furrow, and as I ran, picking the flowers, primroses -and blue musk, turned up by the blade. - -How joyous it was, this atmosphere of rustic life. Each season in turn -brought its round of labour. Ploughing, sowing, shearing, reaping, the -silk-worms, the harvests, the threshing, the vintage and the olive -gathering, unrolled before my eyes the majestic acts of the agricultural -life, always a stern, hard life, yet always one of calm and freedom. - -A numerous company of labourers came and went at the farm, weeders, -haymakers, men hired by the day or the month, who with the goad, the -rake, or the fork a-shoulder toiled with the free noble gestures of the -peasants so well depicted in Léopold Robert’s pictures. - -At the dinner or supper hour, the men, one after the other, trooped into -the farm-house, seating themselves according to their station around the -big table. Then the master, my father, at the head, would question them -gravely on the work of the day, the state of the flocks, of the ground -or the weather. The repast ended, the chief carter shut to the blade of -his big clasp-knife, the signal for all to rise. - -In stature, in mind, as well as in character, my father towered above -these country folk, a grand old patriarch, dignified in speech, just in -his rule, beneficent to the poor, severe only to himself. - -He loved to recall the early days when as a volunteer he served in the -army during the revolution, and to recount tales of the war as we sat -round the hearth in the evening. - -Once during the Reign of Terror he had been requisitioned to carry corn -to Paris, where famine was then raging. It was just after they had -killed the king, and France was paralysed with consternation and -horror. One winter’s day, returning across Bourgogne, with a cold sleet -beating in his face and his cart-wheels half buried in the muddy road, -he met a carrier of his own village. The two compatriots shook hands, -and my father inquired whither the other was bound in this villainous -weather: - -“I am for Paris, citizen,” replied the man, “taking there our church -bells and altar saints.” - -“Accursed fellow,” cried my father, trembling with wrath and -indignation, and taking off his hat as he looked at the church relics. -“I suppose you think on your return they will make you a Deputy for this -devil’s work?” - -The iconoclast skulked off with an oath and went on his way. - -My father, I should observe, was profoundly religious. In the evening, -summer and winter, it was his custom to gather round him the household, -and kneeling on his chair, head uncovered and hands crossed, his white -hair in a queue tied with a black ribbon, he would pray and read the -gospels aloud to us. - -My father read but three books in his life: the New Testament, the -“Imitation,” and “Don Quixote”; the latter he loved because it recalled -his campaign in Spain, and helped to pass the time when a rainy season -forced him indoors. In his youth schools were rare, and it was from a -poor pedlar, who made his rounds of the farms once a week, that my -father learnt his alphabet. - -On Sunday after vespers, according to the old-time usage as head of the -house, he did the weekly accounts, debit and credit with annotations, in -a great volume called “Cartabèou.” - -Whatever the weather, he was always content. When he heard grumbling, -either at tempestuous winds or torrential rains, “Good people,” he would -say, “the One above knows very well what He is about and also what we -need.... Supposing these great winds which revivify our Provence and -clear off the fogs and vapours of our marshes never blew? And if, -equally, we were never visited by the heavy rains which supply the wells -and springs and rivers? We need all sorts, my children.” - -Though he would not scorn to pick up a faggot on the road and carry it -to the hearth, and though he was content with vegetables and brown bread -for his daily fare, and was so abstemious always as to mix water with -his wine, yet at his table the stranger never failed to find a welcome, -and his hand and purse were ever open to the poor. - -Faithful to the old customs, the great festival of the year on our farm -was Christmas Eve. That day the labourers knocked off work early, and my -mother presented to each one, wrapped up in a cloth, a fine oil-cake, a -stick of nougat, a bunch of dried figs, a cream cheese, a salad of -celery, and a bottle of wine. - -Then every man returned to his own village and home to burn the Yule -log. Only some poor fellow who had no home would remain at the farm, and -occasionally a poor relation, an old bachelor for example, would arrive -at night saying: - -“A merry Christmas, cousin. I have come to help you burn the Yule log.” - -Then, a merry company, we all sallied forth to fetch the log, which -according to tradition must be cut from a fruit-tree. Walking in line we -bore it home, headed by the oldest at one end, and I, the last born, -bringing up the rear. Three times we made the tour of the kitchen, then, -arrived at the flagstones of the hearth, my father solemnly poured over -the log a glass of wine, with the dedicatory words: - -“Joy, joy. May God shower joy upon us, my dear children. Christmas -brings us all good things. God give us grace to see the New Year, and if -we do not increase in numbers may we at all events not decrease.” - -In chorus, we responded: - -“Joy, joy, joy!” and lifted the log on the fire-dogs. Then as the first -flame leapt up my father would cross himself, saying, “Burn the log, O -fire,” and with that we all sat down to the table. - -Oh, that happy table, blessed in the truest sense, peace and joy in -every heart of the united family assembled round it. In the place of the -ordinary lamp suspended from the ceiling, on this occasion we lit the -three traditional candles, regarded by the company not without anxiety, -lest the wick should turn towards any one--always a bad augury. At each -end of the table sprouted some corn in a plate of water, set to -germinate on St. Barbara’s Day, and on the triple linen tablecloths[3] -were placed the customary dishes, snails in their shells, fried slices -of cod and grey mullet garnished with olives, cardoon, scholium, -peppered celery, besides a variety of sweetmeats reserved for this -feast, such as hearth-cakes, dried raisins, almond nougat, tomatoes, and -then, most important of all, the big Christmas loaf, which is never -partaken of until one-quarter has been bestowed on the first passing -beggar. - -During the long evening which followed before starting out for the -midnight Mass, gathered round the log fire we told tales of past days -and recalled the grand old folks who were gone, and little by little my -worthy father never failed to come back to his favourite Spanish wars -and the famous siege of Figuières. - -On New Year’s Day, again, our home was the centre of hospitality, and we -were greeted at early dawn by a crowd of our poorer neighbours, old -people, women and children, who came round the farm-house singing their -good wishes for the coming year. My father and mother, with kindly -response, presented to each one a gift of two long loaves and two round -ones. To all the poor of the village we also gave, in accordance with -the tradition of our house, two batches of bread. - -Every evening my father included this formula in his evening prayer: - - Did I live a hundred years - A hundred years I would bake, - And a hundred years give to the poor. - -At his funeral the poor who mourned him said with fervour: “May he have -as many angels to bear him to Paradise as he gave us loaves of bread.” - -This is a picture of the simple and noble patriarchal life of Provence -in my youth. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE MAGI KINGS - - -The eve of the Feast of Epiphany it was the custom for all the children -of our countryside to go forth to meet the three kings, the wise men -from the East, who with their camels and attendants and all their suite -came in procession to Maillane there to adore the Holy Child. - -One such occasion I well remember. - -With hearts beating in joyful excitement, eyes full of visions, we -sallied forth on the road to Arles a numerous company of shock-headed -urchins and blonde-headed maidens with little hoods and sabots, bearing -our offerings of cakes for the kings, dried figs for their pages, and -hay for the camels. - -The east wind blew, which means it was cold. The sun sank, lurid, into -the Rhône. The streams were frozen, and the grass at the water’s edge -dried up. The bark of the leafless trees showed ruddy tints, and the -robin and wren hopped shivering from branch to branch. Not a soul was to -be seen in the fields, save perhaps some poor widow picking up sticks -or a ragged beggar seeking snails beneath the dead hedges. - -“Where go you so late, children?” inquired some passer-by. - -“We go to meet the kings,” we answered confidently. - -And like young cocks, our heads in the air, along the white, wind-swept -road we continued our way, singing and laughing, sliding and hopping. - -The daylight waned. The bell-tower of Maillane disappeared behind the -trees, the tall dark pointed cypresses and the wide barren plain -stretched away into the dim distance. We strained our eyes as far as -they could see, but in vain. Nothing was in sight save some branch -broken by the wind laying on the stubbly field. Oh, the sadness of those -mid-winter evenings when all nature seemed dumb and suffering. - -Then we met a shepherd, his cloak wrapped tightly round him, returning -from tending his sheep. He asked whither we were bound so late in the -day. We inquired anxiously had he seen the kings, and were they still a -long way off. Oh, the joy when he replied that he had passed the kings -not so very long since--soon we should see them. Off we set running with -all speed, running to meet the kings and present our cakes and handfuls -of hay. - -Then, just as the sun disappeared behind a great dark cloud and the -bravest among us began to flag--suddenly, behold them in sight. - -A joyful shout rang from every throat as the magnificence of the royal -pageant dazzled our sight. - -A flash of splendour and gorgeous colour shone in the rays of the -setting sun, while the blazing torches showed the gleams of gold on -crowns set with rubies and precious stones. - -The kings! The kings! See their crowns! See their mantles--their flags, -and the procession of camels and horses which are coming. - -We stood there entranced. But instead of approaching us little by little -the glory and splendour of the vision seemed to melt away before our -eyes with the sinking sun, extinguished in the shadows. Crestfallen we -stood there, gaping to find ourselves alone on the darkening highway. - -Which way did the kings go? - -They passed behind the mountain. - -The white owl hooted. Fear seized us, and huddling together we turned -homewards, munching the cakes and figs we had brought for the kings. - -Our mothers greeted us with, “Well, did you see them?” - -Sadly we answered, “Only afar--they passed behind the mountain.” - -“But which road did you take?” - -“The road to Arles.” - -“Oh, poor lambs--but the kings never come by that road. They come from -the East--you should have taken the Roman road. Ah dear, what a pity, -you should have seen them enter Maillane. It was a beautiful sight, with -their tambours and trumpets, the pages and the camels--it was a show! -Now they are gone to the church to offer their adoration. After supper -you shall go and see them!” - -We supped with speed, I at my grandmother’s, and then we ran to the -church. It was crowded, and, as we entered, the voices of all the -people, accompanied by the organ, burst forth into the superbly majestic -Christmas hymn: - - This morn I met the train - Of the three great kings from the East; - This morn I met the train - Of the kings on the wide high road. - -We children, fascinated, threaded our way between the women, till we -reached the Chapel of the Nativity. There, suspended above the altar, -was the beautiful star, and bowing the knee in adoration before the Holy -Child we beheld at last the three kings. Gaspard, with his crimson -mantle, offering a casket of gold; Melchior, arrayed in yellow, bearing -in his hands a gift of incense; and Balthazar, with his cloak of blue, -presenting a vase of the sadly prophetic myrrh. How we admired the -finely dressed pages who upheld the kings’ flowing mantles, and the -great humped camels whose heads rose high above the sacred ass and ox; -also the Holy Virgin and Saint Joseph, besides all the wonderful -background, a little mountain in painted paper with shepherds and -shepherdesses bringing hearth-cakes, baskets of eggs, swaddling clothes, -the miller with a sack of corn, the old woman spinning, the -knife-grinder at his wheel, the astonished innkeeper at his window, in -short, all the traditional crowd who figure in the Nativity, and, above -and beyond all, the Moorish king. - -Many a time since those early days it has chanced that I have found -myself upon the road to Arles at this same Epiphany season about dusk. -Still the robin and the wren haunt the long hawthorn hedge. Still some -poor old beggar may be seen searching for snails in the ditch, and still -the hoot of the owl breaks the stillness of the winter evening. But in -the rays of the setting sun I see no more the glory and crowns of the -old kings. - -Which way have they passed, the kings? - -Behind the mountain. - -Alas this melancholy and sadness clings always around the things seen -with the eyes of our youth. However grand, however beautiful the -landscape we have known in early days, when we return, eager to see it -once more, something is ever lacking, something or some one! - - “Oh, let me, dreaming, lose myself down yonder - Where widespread cornfields, red with poppies, lie, - As when a little lad, I used to wander - And lose myself, beneath the self-same sky. - - Some one, searching every cover, - Seeks for me, the whole field over, - Saying her angelus piously; - But where yon the skylarks, singing, - Through the sun their way are winging, - I follow so fast and eagerly. - O poor mother! loving-hearted, - Dear, great soul! thou hast departed; - No more shall I hear thee, calling me.”[4] - (From “Les Isclo d’Or.” Trans. Alma Strettell). - -Who can give me back the ideal joy and delight of my child-heart as I -sat at my mother’s knee drinking in the wonder-tales and fables, the old -songs and rhymes, as she sang and spoke them in the soft sweet language -of Provence. - -There was the “Pater des Calandes,” Marie-Madeleine the poor -fisher-girl, The Cabin-boy of Marseilles, the Swineherd, the Miser, and -how many other tales and legends of Provence to which the cradle of my -early years was rocked, filling my dreams with poetic visions. Thus from -my mother I drew not only nourishment for my body but for my mind and -soul, the sweet honey of noble tradition and faith in God. - -In the present day, the narrow materialistic system refuses to reckon -with the wings of childhood, the divine instincts of the budding -imagination and its necessity to wonder, that faculty which formerly -gave us our saints and heroes, poets and artists. The child of to-day no -sooner opens his eyes than his elders try to wither up both heart and -soul. Poor lunatics! Life and the day-school, above all the school of -experience, will teach him but too soon the mean realities of life, and -the disillusions, analectic and scientific, of all that so enchanted our -youth. - -If some tiresome anatomist told the young lover that the fair maiden of -his heart, in the bloom of her youth and beauty, was but a grim skeleton -when robbed of her outer covering, would he not be justified in shooting -him out of hand? - -In connection with those traditions and wonder-tales of Provence, -familiar to my childhood, I cannot do better than quote old Dame -Renaude, a gossip of our village when I was a boy. - -Still I can picture her seated on a log and sunning herself at her door. -She is withered, shrivelled and lined, the poor old soul, like a dried -fig. Brushing away the teasing flies, she drinks in the sunshine, dozes -and sleeps the hours away. - -“Taking a little nap in the sun, Tante Renaude?” - -“Well, see you, I was neither exactly waking nor sleeping--I said my -paternosters and I dreamt a bit--and praying, you know, one is apt to -doze. Aye, but it is a bad thing when one is past work--the time hangs -heavy on hand.” - -“Won’t you catch cold sitting out of doors?” - -“Me, catch cold? Why I am dry as matchwood. If I was boiled I shouldn’t -furnish a drop of oil.” - -“If I were you I would stroll round quietly and have a chat with some -old crony--it would help pass the time.” - -“The old gossips of my time are nearly all gone, soon there won’t be one -left. True, there is still the old Geneviève, deaf as a plough, and old -Patantane in her dotage, and Catherine de Four who does nothing but -groan--I’ve enough of my own ailments. Oh no, it is better to be alone.” - -“Why not go and have a chat with the washer-women down there at the -wash-house?” - -“What, those hussies? who backbite and pull each other to pieces, first -one and then the other, the livelong day. They abuse every one and then -laugh like idiots. The good God will send a judgment on them one of -these days. Aye, but it was not so in our time.” - -“What did you talk about in your time?” - -“In our time? Why, we told old histories and tales which it was a -pleasure to listen to, such as ‘The Beast with Seven Heads,’ ‘Fearless -John,’ and ‘The Great Body without a Soul.’ Why one of those tales would -last us three or four evenings. At that time we spun our own wool and -hemp. Winter time after supper we used to take our distaffs and meet -together in some big sheep-barn, and while the men fed and folded the -beasts and outside the north wind blew and the dogs howled at the -prowling wolves, we women huddled together with the young lambs and -their mothers, and as our spinning-wheels hummed busily, told each other -tales. - -“We believed in those days in things which they laugh at now, but which -all the same were seen by people I myself know, people whose word was -to be trusted. There was my Aunt Mïan, wife of the basket-maker whose -grandsons live at the Clos de Pain-Perdu; one day when she was picking -up sticks, she saw all at once a fine white hen. It seemed quite tame, -but when my Aunt put out her hand gently the hen eluded her, and -commenced pecking in the grass a little way off. Very cautiously again -Aunt Mïan approached the hen, who seemed to desire to be caught. But -directly my aunt thought she had got her, off she was--the aunt -following, more and more determined to catch her. More than an hour she -led her a dance, then as the sun went down Mïan took fright and turned -home. Lucky for her she did, for had she gone after that white hen all -night, the Holy Virgin only knows where the creature would have landed -the poor woman! - -“Folks told, too, of a black horse or mule, some said it was a huge sow, -which appeared to the young rakes as they came out of the public-house. -One night at Avignon a lot of good-for-nothings on the spree saw a black -horse suddenly come out of the Camband Sewer. - -“‘Oh, look!’ says one of them, ‘here’s a fine horse, blest if I don’t -mount him,’ and the horse let him get on quietly enough. - -“‘Why there’s room for me, too,’ says another, and up he got. - -“‘And me, too,’ says a third. He jumped up also, and as one by one they -mounted, that horse’s back became longer and longer, till, if you’ll -believe it, there were a dozen of those young fools on this same horse! -Then a thirteenth cries out: - -“‘Lord--Holy Virgin and sainted Joseph, I believe there’s room for -another’! But at these words the beast vanished, and our twelve riders -found themselves on their feet looking sheepish enough, I can tell you. -Lucky for them that the last one had pronounced the names of the saints, -for otherwise that evil beast would have carried them straight to the -devil. - -“And then, O Lord, there were the witch-cats. Why yes, those black cats -they called the ‘Mascots,’ for they were said to make money come to the -house where they lived. You knew the old Tarlavelle, eh?--she who left -such a pile of crowns when she died--well, she had a black cat, and she -took care to give it the first helping at every meal. And there was my -poor uncle, going to bed one night by the light of the moon, what does -he see but a black cat crossing the road. He, thinking no harm, threw a -stone at the cat--when, lo and behold, the beast turned round, gave him -an evil look, and hissed out, ‘Thou hast hit Robert!’ Strange things! -To-day they seem like dreams, nobody ever mentions them--yet there must -have been something in it all, or why should every one have been so -afraid. Eh, and there were many others,” continued Renaude, “awful -strange creatures like the Night-witch, who seated herself on your chest -and squeezed the breath out of you. And the Wier-wolf, and the Jack o’ -Lantern, and the Fantastic Sprite. Why, just fancy, one day--I might -have been eleven years old--I was returning from the catechism class -when, passing near a poplar, I heard a laugh coming from the very top of -the tree. I looked up, and there was the Fantastic Sprite grinning -between the leaves and making me signs to climb up. Why, I wouldn’t have -gone up that tree for a hundred onions--I took to my heels and ran as if -I’d gone crazy. Oh, I can tell you, when we talked of these things round -the hearth at nights not one of us would have gone outside. Poor -children, what a fright we were in. But we soon grew up, and then came -the time for lovers, and the lads would call to us to come out and walk -or dance by the moonlight. At first we refused for fear we might meet -the White Hen or the Fantastic Sprite, but when they called us ‘sillies’ -to believe such blind grandmother’s tales, and said they’d scare away -the hobgoblins--boys of that age have got no sense, and make you laugh -with their nonsense even against your will--why, gradually we ceased to -think so much of it. For one thing we soon had too much to do. Why, I -had eleven children, who all turned out well, thank God, besides others -I looked after. When one is not rich and has all those brats to do for, -one’s hands are pretty full, I can tell you.” - -“Well, Tante Renaude, may the good God protect you.” - -“Oh, now I am well ripened--let Him pluck me as soon as He will.” And -with her big handkerchief the old body flicks at the flies, and nodding -her head, quietly leans back and continues to drink in the sunshine. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -NATURE’S SCHOOL - - -At eight years old I was sent to school with a little blue satchel to -carry my books and my lunch. Not before, thank God, for in all that -touched my inner development and the education and temperament of my -young poet’s soul, I certainly learnt far more through the games and -frolics of my country childhood than by the tiresome repetition of the -school routine. - -In our time, the dream of all youngsters who went to school was to play -truant, once at least, in a thoroughly successful manner. To have -accomplished this was to be regarded by the others as on a par with -brigands, pirates, and other heroes. - -In Provence it is the custom for such an exploit to be carried out by -running away to a far and unknown country, being careful to confide the -project to no one. The time chosen by the young Provençal for this -adventure is when he has, by some fault, or the sad error of -disobedience, good cause to fear that on his return home he will be -welcomed rather too warmly! - -When, therefore, this fate looms over some unlucky fellow, he just gives -school and parents the slip, and defying consequences, off he goes on -his travels with a “Long live liberty!” - -Oh, the delight, the joy, at that age to feel complete master of -oneself, and the bridle hanging loose, to roam where fancy beckons, away -into the blue distance, down into the swamp, or may be up to the -mountain heights! - -But--after a while comes hunger. Playing truant in the summer time, that -evil is not so serious. There are fields of broad beans, fair orchards -with their crops of apples, pears, and peaches, cherry-trees delighting -the eye, fig-trees offering their ripe fruit, and bulging melons that -cry out “Eat me.” And then those lovely vines, the stock of the golden -grape. Ah!--I fancy I can see them yet! - -Of course if the game was played in winter, things were not quite so -smiling. Some young scamps would boldly visit farms where they were -unknown and ask for food, and some again, more unscrupulous rascals, -would steal the eggs and even take the stale nest-egg, drinking and -gulping it down with relish. Others, however, were of prouder stuff; -they had not run away from home and school for any misdemeanour, but -either from pure thirst of independence or because of some injustice -which, having deeply wounded the heart, made the victim flee man and his -habitation. These would pass the nights sleeping amidst the corn, in the -fields of millet, sometimes under a bridge or in some shed or -straw-stack. When hungry they gathered from the hedges and the fields -mulberries, sloes, almonds left on the trees, or little bunches of -grapes from the wild vine. They did not even object to the fruit of the -wych-elm, which they called white bread, nor unearthed onions, -choke-pears, beech-nuts, nor at a pinch to acorns. For to all these -truants each day was a glorious game, and every step a bound of delight. -What need of companions when all the beasts and insects were your -playfellows? You could understand what they were after, what they said, -what they thought, and they appeared to understand you quite as well. - -You caught a grasshopper and examined her little shining wings. Very -gently you stroked her with your hand to make her sing, then sent her -away with a straw in her mouth. Or, resting full length on a bank, you -find a lady-bird climbing up your finger, and at once you sing to her: - - “Lady-bird, fly, - Be off to the school,” &c. - -and as the lady-bird stretches her wings she replies: - -“Go home yourself--I am quite happy where I am.” - -Then a praying-mantis kneels before you and you ask: - - “Praying-mantis, art so wise, - Know you where the sly fox lies?” - -The mantis raises a long thin arm and points to the mountains. - -A lizard sits warming himself in the sun and you address him with the -correct formula: - - “Little lizard, be my friend - ’Gainst all snakes that bite and bend, - Then I’ll give you grains of salt - When before my house you halt.” - -“Your house! And when will you be back there?” the lizard says as -plainly as you could yourself, and, with a whisk, disappears in his -hole. - -Should you meet a snail, you greet him in this fashion: - - “Oh, snail with one eye, - Your horns let me spy, - Or the blacksmith I’ll call - To smash house and all.” - -It was home, always home, to which every one harked back; till at last, -after having destroyed sufficient nests--and made sufficient holes in -nether garments--being weary of pipes made from barley-straws and of -whistles made of willow twigs, besides having set one’s teeth on edge -with green apples and other sour fruit, suddenly the truant is seized -with home-sickness, a great longing at the heart turns the feet -homewards and lowers the once proud head. - -Being of true Provençal stock, I also must needs make my escapade before -I had been three months at school. It happened thus. - -Three or four young rascals, who, under pretext of cutting grass or -collecting wood, idled away the livelong day, came to meet me one -morning as I set out for school at Maillane. - -“You little simpleton, what do you want to go to school for?” said they. -“Boxed in all day between four walls, punished for this or that, your -fingers rapped with a ruler! Bah! come and play with us----!” - -Ah me! how crystal clear the water ran in the brook; how the larks sang -up there in the blue; the cornflowers, the iris, the poppies, the -rose-campions, how fair they bloomed in the sunshine which played on the -green meadows. So I said to myself: - -“School! Well, that can wait till to-morrow.” And then, with trousers -turned up, off we went to the water. We paddled, we splashed, we fished -for tadpoles, we made mud pies, and then smeared our bare little legs -with black slime to make ourselves boots! Afterwards, in the dust of -some hollow by the wayside, we played at soldiers: - - Rataplan, Rataplan, - I’m a military man, &c. - -What fun it was! no king’s children were our equals. And then with the -bread and provisions in my satchel, we had a fine picnic on the grass. - -But all such joys must end. The schoolmaster informed against me, and -behold me arraigned before my sire’s judgment-seat: - -“Now hear me, Frédéric, the next time you miss school to go off paddling -in the brook, I will break a stick over your back--do not forget.” - -In spite of this, three days after, through sheer thoughtlessness, I -again cut school and went off to the brook. - -Did he spy on me, or was it mere chance that brought him that way? Just -as I and my boon companions were splashing about with naked legs, at a -few paces from us suddenly I behold my sire. My heart gave one bound. - -He stood still and called to me: - -“So that is it!.... You know what I promised you? Very well, I shall be -ready for you this evening.” - -Nothing more, and he went on his way. - -My good father, good as the Blessed Bread, had never given me even a -slap, but he had a loud voice and a rough way of speaking, and I feared -him as I did fire. - -“Ha!” I said to myself, “this time, but _this_ time, he will kill you. -Assuredly he has gone to prepare the rod.” - -My companions, little scamps, snapped their fingers with glee, and -cried: - -“Aha! aha! what a drubbing you’ll get! Aha! aha! on your bare back too!” - -“All is up,” I said to myself. “I must be off--I must run away.” - -So I went. As well as I remember I took a road that led right up to the -Crau d’Eyragues. But at that time, poor little wretch, I hardly knew -where I was going, and after walking for an hour or so, it seemed to me -that I had gone far enough to have arrived in America. - -The sun began to go down. I was tired, and frightened too. “It is -getting late,” I thought, “and where shall I find my supper? I must go -and beg at some farm.” - -So, turning out of the road, I discreetly approached a little white -farm-house. It had almost a welcoming air, with its pig-sties, -manure-heap, well, and vine arbour, all protected from the east wind by -a cypress hedge. - -Very timidly I approached the doorstep, and, looking in, saw an old body -stirring some soup. She was dirty and dishevelled; to eat what she -cooked one required indeed the sauce of hunger. Unhooking the pot from -the chain on which it swung, the old woman placed it on the kitchen -floor, and with a long spoon she poured the soup over some slices of -bread. - -“I see, granny, you are making some soup,” I remarked pleasantly. - -“Yes,” she answered curtly; “and where do you come from, young one?” - -“I come from Maillane. I have run away, and--I should be much obliged if -you would give me something to eat.” - -“Oh, indeed,” replied the ugly old dame in growling tones. “Then just -sit you down on the doorstep and not on my chairs!” - -I obeyed by winding myself up into a ball on the lowest step. - -“If you please, what is this place called?” I asked meekly. - -“Papeligosse.” - -“Papeligosse?” I repeated in dismay. - -For in Provence when they wish, in joke, to convey to children the idea -of a far distant land, they call it Papeligosse. At that age I believed -in Papeligosse, in Zibe-Zoube, in Gafe-l’Ase, and other visionary -regions as firmly as in my Paternoster. So when the old woman uttered -that magic word, a cold shiver went down my back, realising myself so -far from home. - -“Ah yes,” she continued as she finished her cooking, “and you must know -that in this country the lazy ones get nothing to eat--so if you want -any soup, my boy, you must work for it.” - -“Oh, I will--what shall I do?” I inquired eagerly. - -“This is what we will do, you and I, both of us. We will stand at the -foot of the stairs and have a jumping match. The one who jumps farthest -shall have a good bowl of soup--the other shall eat with his eyes -only--understand, eh?” - -I agreed readily, not only proud that I should earn my supper and amuse -myself into the bargain, but also feeling no doubts as to the result of -the match; it was a pity indeed if I could not jump farther than a -rickety old body. - -So, feet together, we placed ourselves at the foot of the staircase, -which in all farm-houses stands opposite the front door, close to the -threshold. - -“Now,” cried the old woman, “one,” and she swung her arms as though to -get a good start. - -“Two--three,” I added, and then sprang with all my might, triumphantly -clearing the threshold. But that cunning old body had only pretended to -spring; quick as light she shut the door, and drawing the bolt cried out -to me: - -“Little rascal--go back to your parents--they will be getting -anxious--come, off with you!” - -There I stood, unlucky urchin, feeling like a basket with the bottom -knocked out. What was I to do? Go home? Not for a kingdom. I could -picture my father ready to receive me, the menacing rod in his hand. To -add to my trouble, it was getting dark, and I no longer knew the road by -which I had come. I resolved to trust in God. - -Behind the farm, a path led up the hill between two high banks. I -started off, regardless of risks. “Onward, Frédéric,” said I. - -After clambering up the steep path, then down and up again, I felt tired -out. It was hardly surprising at eight years old, and with an empty -stomach since midday. At last I came on a broken-down cottage in a -neglected vineyard. They must have set it on fire at one time, for the -cracked walls were black with smoke. There were no doors or windows, and -the beams only held up half the roof, which had fallen in on one side. -It might have been the abode of a nightmare! - -But--“needs must” as they say when there is no choice. So, worn out, and -half dead with sleep, I climbed on to one of the beams, laid down, and -in a twinkling fell sound asleep. - -I don’t know how long I lay there, but in the middle of a leaden slumber -I became aware of three men sitting round a charcoal fire, laughing and -talking. - -“Am I dreaming?” I asked myself in my sleep. “Am I dreaming, or is this -real?” - -But the heavy sense of well-being, into which drowsiness plunges one, -prevented any feeling of fear, and I continued to sleep placidly. - -I suppose that at last the smoke began to suffocate me, and on a sudden -I started up with a cry of fright. Since I did not die then and there of -sheer horror, I am convinced I shall never die. - -Imagine three wild gypsy faces, all turned on you at the same -moment--and with oh, such eyes! such awful eyes! - -“Don’t kill me! don’t kill me!” I shrieked. - -The gypsies, who had been almost as startled as I, burst out laughing, -and one of them said: - -“You young scamp, you can boast that you gave us a nice scare!” - -When I found they could laugh and talk like myself, I took courage, and -noticed at the same time what a good smell came from their pot. - -They made me get down from my perch and demanded where I came from, to -whom I belonged, why I was there, and a string of other questions. - -Satisfied at length of my identity, one of the robbers--for they were -robbers--said to me: - -“Since you are playing truant, I suppose you are hungry. Here, eat -this.” - -And he threw me a shoulder of lamb, half cooked, as though I were a dog. -I then noticed they had just been roasting a young lamb, stolen probably -from some fold. - -After we had, in this primitive fashion, all made a good meal, the three -men rose, collected their traps and in low tones took counsel together; -then one of them turned to me: - -“Look here, youngster, since you are a bit of a brick we don’t want to -harm you, but all the same, we can’t have you spying which way we go, so -we are going to pop you into that barrel there. When the day comes you -can call out and the first passer-by can release you--if he likes!” - -“All right,” I said submissively. “Put me into the barrel.” To tell the -truth I was very glad to get off so cheaply. - -In the corner of the hovel stood a battered cask, used, doubtless, at -the time of the vintage for fermenting the grape. - -They caught hold of me by the seat of my trousers, and pop! into the -cask I went. So there I found myself, in the middle of the night, in a -cask, on the floor of a cottage in ruins. - -I crouched down, poor little wretch, rolling myself up like a ball, and -while waiting for the dawn I said my prayers in low tones to scare the -evil spirits. - -But--imagine my dismay when suddenly I heard, in the dark, something -prowling and snorting, round my cask! I held my breath as though I were -dead, and committed myself to God and the sainted Virgin. Still I heard -it, that dread something going round and round me, sniffing and -pushing--what the devil was it? My heart thumped and knocked like a -hammer. - -But to finish my tale: at last the day commenced to dawn, and the -pattering that caused me such fear seemed to me to be growing a little -more distant. Very cautiously I peeped out by means of the bunghole, and -there, not far off, I beheld--a wolf, my good friends--nothing short of -a wolf the size of a donkey! An enormous wolf with eyes that glared like -two lamps. - -Attracted by the odour of the cooked lamb he had come there, and finding -nothing but bones, the close proximity of a Christian child’s tender -flesh filled him with hungry longing. But the curious thing was that, -far from feeling fear at the sight of this beast, I experienced a great -relief. The fact was, I had so dreaded some nocturnal apparition that -the sight of even such a wolf gave me courage. - -“All very fine,” I thought, “but I’ve not done with him yet. If that -beast finds out that the cask is open at the top, he will jump in also -and crunch me up with one bite of those teeth. I must think of a plan to -outwit him!” - -Some movement I made caught the sharp ear of the wolf, and with one -bound he was back at the cask, prowling round and lashing the sides with -his long tail. Promptly I passed my small hand through the bunghole, -seized hold of that tail, and pulling it inside, grasped it tightly with -both hands. The wolf, as though he had five hundred devils after him, -started off, dragging the cask over rocks and stones, through fields and -vineyards. We must have rolled together over all the ups and downs of -Eyragues, of Lagoy, and of Bourbourel. - -“Oh mercy! pity! dear Virgin, dear Saint Joseph,” I cried out. “Where is -this wolf taking me? And if the cask breaks he will gobble me up in a -moment.” - -Then all of a sudden, crash went the cask--the tail escaped from my -hands, and--far off, quite in the distance, I saw my wolf escaping at a -gallop. On looking round, what was my astonishment to find myself close -to the New Bridge, on the road that leads to Maillane from Saint-Rémy, -not more than a quarter of an hour from our farm. The barrel must have -knocked up against the parapet of the bridge and come to pieces in that -way. - -It is hardly necessary to say that after such adventures the thought of -the rod in my father’s hand no longer possessed any terrors for me, and -running as though the wolf were after me I soon found myself at home. - -At the back of the farm-house I saw in the field my father ploughing a -long furrow. He leant against the handle and called to me laughing: -“Ha, ha, my fine fellow, run in quick to your mother--she has not slept -a wink all night!” - -And I ran in to my mother. - -Omitting nothing, I related to my parents all my thrilling adventures, -but when I came to the story of the robbers and the cask and the -enormous wolf: - -“Ah, little simpleton,” they cried, “why it was fright made you dream -all that!” - -It was useless my assuring them again and again that it was true as the -Gospel; I could never get any one to believe me. - -[Illustration: MISTRAL IN 1864.] - - - - -CHAPTER V - -AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET - - -When my parents found that my whole heart was set upon play and that -nothing could keep me from idling away the livelong day in the fields -with the village boys, they came to the stern resolve to send me away to -a boarding-school. - -So one morning a small folding-bed, a deal box to hold my papers, -together with a bristly pigskin trunk containing my books and -belongings, were placed in the farm cart, and I departed with a heavy -heart, accompanied by my mother to console me, and followed by our big -dog “Le Juif,” for St. Michel de Frigolet. - -It was an old monastery, situated in the Montagnette, about two hours’ -distance from the farm, between Graveson, Tarascon, and Barbentane. At -the Revolution the property of Saint-Michel had been sold for a little -paper money, and the deserted monastery, spoiled of its goods, -uninhabited and solitary, remained desolate up there in the midst of the -wilds, open to the four winds and to the wild beasts. Occasionally -smugglers used it as a powder factory; shepherds as a shelter for their -sheep in the rain; or gamblers from neighbouring towns--Graveson, -Maillane, Barbentane, Château-Renard--resorted there to hide and to -escape the police. And there, by the light of a few pale candles, while -gold pieces clinked to the shuffling of cards, oaths and blasphemies -echoed under the arches where so recently psalms had been raised. Their -game finished, the libertines then ate, drank and made merry until dawn. - -About the year 1832 some mendicant friars established themselves there. -They replaced the bell in the old Roman tower, and on Sunday they set it -ringing. - -But they rang in vain, no one mounted the hill for the services, for no -one had faith in them. And the Duchesse De Berry, having just at this -time come to Provence to incite the Carlists against the King, -Louis-Philippe, I remember that it was whispered that these fugitive -brothers, under their black gabardines, were in reality nothing but -soldiers (or bandits) plotting for some doubtful intrigue. - -It was after the departure of these brothers that a worthy native of -Cavaillon, by name Monsieur Donnat, bought the Convent of Saint-Michel -on credit and started there a school for boys. - -He was an old bachelor, yellow and swarthy in face, with lank hair, flat -nose, a large mouth, and big teeth. He wore a long black frock-coat and -bronzed shoes. Very devout he was and as poor as a church mouse, but he -devised a means for starting his school and collecting pupils without a -penny in his purse. - -For example, he would go to Graveson, Tarascon, Barbentane, or -Saint-Pierre looking up the farmer who had sons. - -“I wish to tell you,” he would begin, “that I have opened a school at -St. Michel de Frigolet. You have now, at your door, an excellent -institution for instructing your boys and helping them to pass their -examinations.” - -“That is all very fine for rich people, sir,” the father of the family -would answer, “but we are poor folk, and can’t afford all that education -for our boys. They can always learn enough at home to work on the land.” - -“Look here,” says Monsieur Donnat, “there is nothing better than a good -education. You need not worry about payment. You will give me every year -so many loads of wheat and so many barrels of wine or casks of oil--in -that way we will arrange matters.” - -The good farmer gladly agreed his boy should go to St. Michel de -Frigolet. Monsieur Donnat then went on to a shopkeeper and began in this -wise: - -“A fine little boy that is of yours!--and he looks wide awake too! Now -you don’t want to make a pounder of pepper of him, do you?” - -“Ah, sir, if we could we would give him a little education, but colleges -are so expensive, and when one isn’t rich----” - -“Are you on the look-out for a college?” exclaimed Monsieur Donnat. -“Why, send him to my school, up there at Saint-Michel, we will teach him -a little Latin and make a man of him! And--as to payment, we will take -toll of the shop. You will have in me another customer, and a good -customer, I can tell you!” - -And without further question the shopkeeper confided his son to Monsieur -Donnat. - -In this way Monsieur Donnat gathered into his school some forty small -boys of the neighbourhood, myself among them. Out of the number, some -parents, like my own, paid in money, but quite three-fourths paid in -kind--provisions, goods, or their labour. In one word, Monsieur Donnat, -before the Republic, social and democratic, had easily, and without any -hubbub, solved the problem of the Bank of Exchange, a measure which the -famous Proudhon in 1848 preached in vain. - -One of the scholars I remember well. I think he was from Nîmes, and we -called him Agnel; he was rather like a girl, gentle and pretty, with -something sad in his look. Our parents came often to see us and brought -us cakes and other good things. But Agnel appeared to have no relations, -no one came to see him and he never spoke of those belonging to him. -Only on one occasion had a tall strange gentleman of haughty and -mysterious aspect appeared at the convent and inquired for Agnel. The -interview, which was private, had lasted for about half an hour, after -which the tall gentleman had departed and never reappeared. This gave -rise to the conjecture that Agnel was a child of superior though -illegitimate birth, being brought up in hiding at Saint-Michel. I lost -sight of him completely on leaving. - -Our instructors consisted, to begin with, of our master, the worthy -Monsieur Donnat, who, when at home, took the lower classes, but half the -time he was away gleaning pupils. Then there were two or three poor -devils, old seminarists, who, having thrown cap and gown to the winds, -were well content to earn a few crowns, besides being well housed, fed -and washed; we boasted also a priestling, Monsieur Talon by name, who -said Mass for us; and, finally, a little hunchback, Monsieur Lavagne, -the professor of music. For our cook we had a negro, and to wait at -table and do the washing a woman of Tarascon, some thirty years old. To -complete this happy family there were the worthy parents of Monsieur -Donnat--the father, poor old chap, coifed in a red cap, and assisted by -the donkey, was employed to fetch the provisions; and the old -white-capped dame acted as barber to us, when necessary. - -In those days Saint-Michel was of much less importance than it has since -become. There existed merely the cloisters of the old Augustine monks -with the little green in the middle, while to the south in a small group -rose the refectory, chapter-house, kitchen, stables, and lastly, the -dilapidated Church of Saint-Michel. The walls of the latter were covered -with frescoes representing a flaming fiery hell of damned souls, and -demons armed with pitch-forks, taking active part in the deadly combat -between the devil and the great archangel. - -Outside this cluster of buildings stood a small buttressed chapel -dedicated to Our Lady of Succour, with a porch at the side. Great tufts -of ivy covered the walls, and inside it was decorated with rich gildings -enclosing pictures, attributed to Mignard, representing the Life of the -Virgin. Queen Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV., had so adorned the -chapel, in accordance with a vow made to the Virgin should she become -the mother of a son. - -During the Revolution, this chapel, a real gem hidden among the -mountains, had been saved by the good country people, who piled up -faggots in front of the porch, so hiding the entrance. Here it was that -every morning, at five o’clock in summer and six in winter, we were -taken to hear Mass, and here it was that with faith, a real angelic -faith, I prayed--we all prayed. Here also, on Sundays, we sang Mass and -vespers, each one prayer-book in hand; and here, on the great -feast-days, the country people came to admire the voice of the little -Frédéric; for I had, at that age, a pretty clear voice like a girl’s. At -the Elevation, when we sang motets, it was I who had the solos, and I -well remember one in which I specially distinguished myself commencing -with these words: - - O mystery incomprehensible, - Great God Thou art not loved. - -In front of the little chapel grew some nettle-trees, the sweet blossoms -of which, hanging in tempting clusters, often lured us to climb the -branches, to the destruction of our garments. There was also a well, -bored and cut in the rock, which, by a subterranean outlet, poured its -waters down into a basin, and, descending further, watered the kitchen -garden. Below the garden, at the entrance of the valley, grew a clump of -white poplars, brightening up the rather barren landscape. - -For Saint-Michel was a wild solitary spot, the old monastery being built -on a plateau in a narrow passage between the mountains, far from the -haunts of men, as the inscription over the entrance truly testified: - - “I fled from the cities, where injustice and - vanity reign unchecked, and sought for solitude. - This is the place I have chosen for my habitation. - Here shall I find rest.” - -The spurs of the mountains around were covered with thyme, rosemary, -asphodel, box and lavender. In some protected corners grew vines, which -produced, strange to say, a vintage of some renown--the famous wine of -Frigolet. A few olive-trees were planted on the spur of the hills, and -here and there in the broken stony ground, rows of almond-trees, -tortuous, rugged and stunted. In the clefts of the rocks might be seen -occasional wild fig-trees. This was all the vegetation these rocky hills -could show, the rest was only waste land and crushed boulders. But how -good it smelt, this odour of the mountains, how intoxicating as we drank -it in at sunrise! - -The generality of schoolboys are penned up in big cold courtyards -between four walls, but we had the mountains for our playground. On -Thursdays, and every day at recreation hours, no sooner were we let out -than we were off like partridges, over valley and mountain, until the -convent bell rang out the recall. No danger of our suffering from -dulness. In the glorious summer sunshine the ortolan sang afar his “Tsi -tsi béau”; and we rolled in the sweet thyme or roamed in search of -forgotten almonds and green grapes left on the vines. We gathered -mushrooms, set traps for the birds, searched the ravines for those -fossils called in all that countryside “Saint Stephen’s stones,” hunted -in the grottos for the Golden Goat, and climbed and tumbled about till -our parents found it hardly possible to keep us decently clothed or -shod. - -Ragged and tattered as a troop of young gypsies, how we revelled in that -wonderful country of mountains, gorges, and ravines, with their superb -Provençal names, so sonorous and characteristic, they seem to bear the -impress of the genius of the people. The “Mourre de la Nur,” from whose -summit one could see the white coast-line of the Mediterranean, and -where at sunset on Saint John’s day we lit the bonfires; the Baume de -l’Argent, where formerly they made counterfeit coin; the Roque Pied de -Bœuf, on which was the mark of a bull’s hoof; and the Roque d’Acier, -dominating the Rhône, with its boats and rafts as they float down the -stream: national monuments these, of our land and our language, sweet -with the scent of thyme, rosemary and lavender, glowing with colours of -gold and azure. O Land where Nature smiles so divinely, what dreams of -delight thou didst reveal to my childhood! - -But to return to Saint-Michel. We had, as I have said, a certain -chaplain, Monsieur Talon, a little abbé from Avignon. He was short, -stout, with a rubicund visage like a beggar’s water-gourd. The -Archbishop of Avignon had deprived him of his benefice because he was -somewhat given to tippling, and sent him to us to be out of the way. - -One Saint’s day--a Thursday--we had all been taken over to a -neighbouring village, Boulbon, to march in the procession--the big boys -swung incense, the little ones scattered flowers, while Monsieur Talon -was invited, most imprudently alas! to be the officiating priest. - -All the town turned out; men, women, and girls lined the streets, gaily -decorated with flags and bunting. The confraternities waved their -banners, the fresh voices of the white-robed choristers intoned the -Canticles, and with devout heads bowed before the Host; we swung our -censers and strewed our flowers, when all at once a murmur ran through -the crowd, and, great heavens! down the centre of the street with the -Host in his hands, the golden cope on his back, came poor Monsieur Talon -swaying like a pendulum. - -He had dined at the presbytery, and had no doubt been pressed to too -much of that good vintage of Frigolet, which mounts so quickly to the -head. The unhappy man, red as much from shame as from the wine, could -not hold himself straight. Supported by the deacon and sub-deacon, one -on each side, he entered the church with the procession. But finding -himself before the altar, Monsieur Talon could say nothing save, -“Oremus, oremus, oremus,” and finally they were obliged to remove him to -the sacristy. - -The scandal this caused may be imagined! Less, however, in that -particular district than elsewhere, for all this took place in a parish -where the “divine bottle” still celebrates its rites, as in the days of -Bacchus. Near Boulbon, in the mountains, stands an old chapel dedicated -to Saint-Marcellin, and on the first day of June the men of Boulbon go -there in procession, each carrying a bottle of wine. - -Women are not allowed to take part in this ceremony for, according to -the Roman tradition, our women formerly drank nothing but water, and to -reconcile the young girls to this ancient _régime_ they were told, and -are still told, that water is good for the complexion. - -The Abbé Talon never failed to escort us every year to the Procession of -Bottles. Having taken our places in the chapel, the Curé of Boulbon, -turning to the congregation, would say: - -“My brethren--uncork your bottles, and let there be silence for the -benediction.” - -Then, having donned a red cope, he solemnly chanted the prescribed -formula for the benediction of the wine, and after saying “Amen,” we all -made the sign of the cross and took a pull at our bottles. The curé and -the mayor, after clinking glasses religiously on the steps of the altar, -also drank. On the morrow, when the fête was over, if there happened to -be a drought at the time, the bust of Saint-Marcellin was borne in a -procession through all the country-side, for the Boulbonnais declare -that good Saint-Marcellin blesses both wine and water. - -Another pilgrimage, also of a festive nature, and now quite gone out of -fashion, was that of Saint-Anthime. It took place at Montagnette, and -was got up by the people of Graveson, when there happened to be a -scarcity of rain. - -Intoning their litanies and followed by a crowd of people, their heads -covered with sacks, the priests would carry Saint-Anthime, a highly -coloured bust with prominent eyes, beard, and mitre, to the Church of -Saint-Michel, and there the whole blessed day, the provisions spread out -on the fragrant grass, they would await the rain, and devoutly drink the -wine of Frigolet. And I can stake my word that, more than once, the -return journey was made in a flood of rain; this may have been owing to -the hymns, for our forefathers had a saying that, “Singing brings the -rain.” - -If, however, Saint-Anthime, in spite of litanies and pious libations, -did not manage to collect the clouds, then the jolly penitents, on their -return to Graveson, would punish him for his lack of power by plunging -him three times in the brook of Lones. This curious custom of dipping -the images of saints in water, to compel them to send rain, prevailed -in many districts, at Toulouse, for instance, and I have heard of it -even in Portugal. - -Our mothers never failed to take us in our childhood to the church at -Graveson, there to show us Saint-Anthime and also Béluget, a -Jack-of-the-Clock, who struck the hours in the belfry. - -In concluding my experiences at Saint-Michel, I recollect, in a -dreamlike fashion, that towards the end of my first year, just before -the holidays, we played a comedy called _The Children of Edward_, by -Casimir Delavigne. To me was allotted the part of a young princess, and -my mother supplied me for the occasion with a muslin dress which she -borrowed from a little girl of our neighbourhood. This white dress was, -later, the cause of a pretty little romance, which I will tell further -on. - -In the second year of my schooling, having begun to learn Latin, I wrote -to my parents to send me some books, and a few days after, looking down -into the valley, behold I saw mounting the path to the convent, my -father astride on Babache, the good old mule of thirty years’ service, -well known at all the market towns around. For my father always rode -Babache, whether to the market, or going the round of his fields with -the long weeding-fork, which he used from his saddle, cutting down the -thistles and weeds. - -Upon reaching the convent, my father emptied an enormous sack which he -had brought with him on his saddle. - -“See, Frédéric,” he called, “I have brought thee a few books and some -paper!” - -Therewith he pulled from the sack, one after the other, four or five -dictionaries bound in parchment, a mass of paper books--“Epitome,” “De -Viris Illustribus,” “Selecta Historiæ,” “Conciones,” &c.--a huge bottle -of ink, a bundle of goose quills, and enough writing paper to last me -seven years, to the end of my school time in fact. It was from Monsieur -Aubanel, printer at Avignon, and father of the future famous and beloved -Félibre, at that time unknown to me, that my worthy parent had with such -promptness made this provision for my education. - -At our pleasant monastery of St. Michel de Frigolet, however, I had no -leisure to use much writing material. Monsieur Donnat, our master, for -one reason or another, was seldom at his own establishment, and, as the -proverb truly says, “When the cat is away, the mice will play.” The -masters, badly paid, had always some excuse for cutting short the -lesson, and when the parents visited the school, there was often no one -to be seen. On their inquiring for the boys, some of us would be found -actively engaged in repairing the stone wall which upheld a slanting -field, while others would be among the vines revelling in the discovery -of forgotten little bunches of grapes or mushrooms. Unfortunately, these -circumstances did not conduce to much confidence in our headmaster. -Another thing which contributed to the decline of the school was that, -in order to increase the numbers, poor Monsieur Donnat took pupils who -paid little or nothing, and these were not the boys who ate least. - -The end came at last in a characteristic manner. We had, as I have said, -a negro as cook, and one fine day this individual, without warning, -packed his box and disappeared. This was the signal for a general -disbanding. No cook meant no broth for us, and the professors one by one -left us in the lurch. Monsieur Donnat was, as usual, absent. His mother, -poor old soul, tried her hand for a day or two at boiling potatoes, but -one morning the old father Donnat told us sadly: “My children, there are -no more potatoes to boil--you had better all go home!” - -And at once, like a flock of kids let loose from the fold, we ran off to -gather tufts of thyme from the hills to carry away as a remembrance of -this beautiful and beloved country--for Frigolet signifies in the -Provençal tongue a place where thyme abounds. - -Then, shouldering our little bundles, by twos and threes we scattered -over the valleys and hills, some up, some down, but none of us without -many a backward look and sigh of regret at departing. - -Poor Monsieur Donnat! After all his efforts in every direction to make -his school a success, he ended his days, alas! in the almshouse. - -But before taking leave of St. Michel de Frigolet, I must add one word -as to what became of the old monastery. After being abandoned for twelve -years it was bought by a White Monk, Father Edmond. In 1854 he restored -it under the Law of Saint-Norbert, the Order of Prémontré, which had -ceased to exist in France. Thanks to the activity, the preaching and -collecting of this zealous missioner, the little monastery fast grew -into importance. Numerous buildings, crowned with embattled walls, were -added; a new church, magnificently ornamented, raised its three naves, -surmounted by a couple of big clock-towers. A hundred monks or lay -brothers peopled the cells, and every Sunday all the neighbourhood -mounted the hillside to witness the pomp of the High Mass. In 1880 the -Abbot of the White Brothers had become so popular that upon the -Republic ordering the closing of the convents, over a thousand peasants -came up from the plain and shut themselves in the monastery to protest -in person against the radical decree. And it was then that we saw a -whole army in marching order--cavalry, infantry, generals and captains, -with baggage waggons and all the apparatus of war--camping around the -monastery of St. Michel de Frigolet, seriously going through this -comic-opera siege, which four or five policemen, had they chosen, could -easily have brought to a termination. - -Every morning during this siege, which lasted a week, the country -people, taking their provisions, posted themselves on the hills and -spurs of the mountains which dominated the monastery, and watched from -afar the progress of events. The prettiest sight I well remember was the -girls from Barbentane, Boulbon, Saint-Rémy, and Maillane, encouraging -the besieged with enthusiastic singing and waving of kerchiefs: - - Catholic and Provençal, - Our faith shall know no fear. - With ardour let us cheer, - Catholic and Provençal. - -This was alternated with invectives, jokes, and hootings addressed to -the officers, as the latter marched past with fierce aspect. Excepting -only the genuine indignation aroused by the injustice of these -proceedings in every heart, it would be hard to find a more burlesque -siege than this of Frigolet, which furnished the subject of Sinnibaldi -Doria’s “Siege of Caderousse,” and also a heroic poem by the Abbé Faire, -neither of them half as comic as the original. Alphonse Daudet, who had -already written of the convent of the White Brothers in his story “The -Elixir of Brother Gaucher,” also gave us, in his last romance on -Tarascon, the hero Tartarin valiantly joining the besieged in the -Convent of Saint-Michel. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -AT MONSIEUR MILLET’S SCHOOL - - -After that experience, my parents had to find me another school, not too -distant from Maillane, nor of too exalted a condition, for we country -people were not proud. So they placed me at a school in Avignon, with -Monsieur Millet, who lived in the Rue Pétramale. - -This time, it was Uncle Bénoni who acted as charioteer. Although -Maillane is not more than about six miles from Avignon, at a time when -no railways existed, and the roads were broken with heavy waggon wheels, -and one had to cross the large bed of the Durance by ferry, the journey -to Avignon was a matter of some importance. - -Three of my aunts, with my mother, Uncle Bénoni, and myself, all -scrambled into the cart, in which was placed a straw mattress, and thus, -a goodly caravan load, we started at sunrise. - -I said advisedly “three of my aunts.” Few people, I am sure, can boast -of as many aunts as I had. There were a round dozen. First and foremost -came the Great-aunt Mistrale, then Aunt Jeanneton, Aunt Madelon, Aunt -Véronique, Aunt Poulinette, Aunt Bourdette, Aunt Françoise, Aunt Marie, -Aunt Rion, Aunt Thérèse, Aunt Mélanie and Aunt Lisa. All of them, -to-day, are dead and buried, but I love to say over the names of those -good women, who, like beneficent fairies, each with her own special -attraction, circled round the cradle of my childhood. Add to my aunts -the same number of uncles, and then the cousins, their numerous progeny, -and you can form some idea of my relations. - -Uncle Bénoni was my mother’s brother and the youngest of the -family--dark, thin, loosely made, with a turned-up nose and eyes black -as jet. By trade he was a land-surveyor, but he had the reputation of an -idler, and was even proud of it. He had a passion for three things, -however--dancing, music and jesting. - -There was not a better dancer in Maillane, nor one more amusing. At the -feast of Saint-Eloi or of Sainte-Agathe, when he and Jésette, the -wrestler, danced the _contredanse_ on the green together, every one -crowded there to see him as he imitated the pigeon’s flight. He played, -more or less well, on every sort of instrument, violin, bassoon, horn, -clarinette, but it was with the tambour-pipes that he excelled, In his -youth Bénoni had not his equal at serenading the village beauties, or -for sounding the revel on a May night. And whenever there was a -pilgrimage to be made, either to Notre Dame de Lumière, or to -Saint-Gent, to Vaucluse or Les Saintes-Maries, Bénoni was invariably the -charioteer, and the life and soul of the party, ever willing, nay, -delighted, to leave his own work, the daily round of the quiet home, and -to be off for a jaunt. - -Parties of fifteen to twenty young people in every cart would start off -at dawn, foremost among them my uncle, seated on the shaft acting as -driver, and keeping up a ceaseless flow of chaff, banter and laughter, -during the whole journey. - -There was one strange idea he had somehow got fixed in his head, and -that was, when he married, to wed no one save a girl of noble birth. - -“But such girls wish to marry men of noble birth,” he was warned. - -“Well,” retorted Bénoni, “are not we noble too, in our family? Do you -imagine that we Poulinets are a set of clowns like you folk. Our -ancestor was a noble exile, he wore a cloak lined with red velvet, -buckles on his shoes, and silk stockings!” - -At last, by dint of patient inquiries, he really did hear of a family -belonging to the old aristocracy, nearly ruined and with seven -unmarried, dowerless daughters. The father, a dissipated fellow, was in -the habit of selling a portion of his property every year to his -creditors, and they ended by acquiring everything, even the château. So -my gallant Uncle Bénoni put on his best attire, and one fine day -presented himself as a suitor. The eldest of the girls, though daughter -of a marquis and Commander of Malta, to escape the inevitable destiny of -becoming an old maid, ended by accepting him. - -It was from such a source that the pretty story entitled “Fin du -Marquisat d’Aurel” was taken, written by Henri de la Madeleine, and -telling of a noble family fallen to the plebeian class. - -As I said, my uncle was an idle fellow. Often about the middle of the -day, when he should have been digging or forking in the garden, he would -fling aside his tools, and retiring to the shade, draw out his flute and -start a _rigaudon_. At the sound of music, the girls at work in the -neighbouring fields would come running, and forthwith he would play a -_sauterelle_ and start them all dancing. - -In winter he seldom got up before midday. - -“Where can one be so snug, so warm, as in one’s bed?” he laughed. - -And when we asked if he did not get bored staying in bed, his reply was: - -“Not I! When I am sleepy I sleep, and when I am not, I say psalms for -the dead.” - -Curiously enough, this light-hearted son of Provence never missed a -funeral, and the service over, he was always the last to leave the -cemetery, remaining behind that he might pray for his own family and for -others. Then, resuming his old gaiety, he would observe: - -“Another one gone--carried into the city of Saint Repose!” - -In his turn he had also to go there. He was eighty-three and the doctor -had told his family there was nothing more to be done. - -“Bah,” answered, Bénoni, “what’s the good of worrying. It is the sickest -man that will die first.” - -He always had his flute on the table beside him. - -“Those idiots gave me a bell to ring; but I made them fetch my flute, -which answers far better. If I want anything I just play an air instead -of calling or ringing.” - -And so it happened that he died with his flute in his hand, and they -placed it with him in his coffin. This gave rise to the story started by -the girls of the silk-mill at Maillane, that as the clock struck twelve, -old Bénoni, flute in hand, rose from - -[Illustration: ARLESIENNES AT MAILLANE.] - -his grave and began playing a veritable devil’s dance, whereupon all the -other corpses also arose carrying their coffins, and there in the middle -of the “Grand Clos,” having set fire to the coffins in order to warm -themselves, they proceeded to perform a mad jig round the fire till -daybreak, to the sound of Bénoni’s flute. - -Having now introduced Uncle Bénoni, I must return to my journey with -him. Accompanied by my mother and my three aunts, we all set out for -Avignon. The whole way, as we jogged along, we discussed the state of -the crops, the plantations, the vineyards that we passed. I was told, -one after the other, all the traditional tales that marked the road to -Avignon; for example, how, at the bridge of “La Folie,” the wizards -formerly held their wild dances, and how at La Croisière the highwaymen -would stop the traveller with; “Your money or your life”; this was -liable to occur also at the Croix de la Lieue and the Rocher d’Aiguille. - -At last we arrived at the sandy bed of the Durance. A year before the -flood had swept away the bridge, and it was necessary to cross the river -by a ferry-boat. We found some hundred carts there awaiting their turn -to go over. We waited with the rest for about two hours, and then -embarked, after chasing home “Le Juif,” the big dog, who had followed us -so far. - -It was past twelve o’clock when we finally reached Avignon. We stabled -our horses, like all those from our village, at the Hôtel de Provence, a -little inn on the Place du Corps-Saint, and for the rest of the day we -roamed about the town. - -“Would you like me to treat you to the theatre?” said Uncle Bénoni; -“they are giving _Maniclo_ and the _Bishop of Castro_ this evening.” - -“Oh, let us go and see _Maniclo_!” we responded in chorus. - -It was my first visit to the theatre and my star ordained I should see a -play of Provence. As for the _Bishop of Castro_, it was a sombre piece -that did not much interest us, and my aunts maintained that they played -_Maniclo_ much better at Maillane. For at that time, in our villages, we -got up plays both comic and tragic during the winter months. I have seen -the _Death of Cæsar, Zaire, Joseph and his Brethren_, played by the -villagers, their costumes made up out of their wives’ skirts and the -counterpanes from their beds. They loved the tragedies, and followed -with great pleasure the mournful declamation of the five-act piece. But -they also gave _L’Avocat Pathelin_, translated into Provençale, and -various lively comedies from the Marseillaise _répertoire_. Bénoni was -always the leading spirit of these evenings, where, with his violin, he -accompanied the songs, and as a youngster I remember taking part in -several plays and earning much applause. - -The morning after _Maniclo_ came the inevitable parting, and with a -heart heavy as a pea that had soaked nine days, I bade farewell to my -mother, and went to be shut up in the school of Monsieur Millet, Rue -Pétramale. Monsieur Millet was a big man, tall, with heavy eyebrows, a -red face, little pig’s eyes, feet like an elephant’s, hideous square -fingers and slovenly appearance. - -A woman from the hills, fat and uncomely, cooked for us and managed the -house. I never ate so many carrots before or since, carrots badly cooked -in a flour sauce. In three months, my poor little body was reduced to a -skeleton. - -Avignon, the predestined, where one day the Gai-Savoir was to effect the -renaissance, was not at that time the bright town of to-day. She had not -enlarged her Place de l’Horloge, nor widened out the Place Pic, nor -constructed the Grande Rue. The Roque de Dom, which commands the town, -was no lovely garden laid out as for a king, but, save for the cemetery, -a bare and barren rock, while the ramparts, half in ruins, were -surrounded by ditches full of rubbish and stagnant water. Rough -street-porters formed the city corporation, and made laws as they chose -for the town suburbs. It was they and their chief, a sort of Hercules -nicknamed “Four Arms,” who swept away the Town Hall of Avignon in 1848. - -Here, as in Italy, every week each house was visited by a black-clad -penitent, who, face covered, with two holes for eyes, went round shaking -his money-box chaunting solemnly: - -“For the poor prisoners!” - -In the streets one constantly ran up against all sorts of local -celebrities. There was the Sister Boute-Cuire, her covered basket on her -arm, and a big crucifix on her ample bosom; or the plasterer Barret, who -in some street fight with the Liberals had once lost his hat, and -thereupon sworn never to wear one again till Henri V. was on the throne, -a vow that involved his going bare-headed for the rest of his life. And -at every corner were to be seen the picturesque pensioners of Avignon, a -branch of the Military Hotel in Paris, with their wide-brimmed hats and -long blue capes, venerable remnants of ancient wars, maimed, lame and -blind, who with wooden legs and cautious steps hammered their careful -way along the cobbled pavements. - -The town was passing through a state of unrest and upheaval between the -old and new _règimes_, the members of which still fought in secret. -Terrible memories of past evils, abuses, reproaches, yet survived, and -were very bitter between people of a certain age. The Carlists talked -incessantly of the Orange Tribunal, of Jourdan Coupe-têtes, of the -massacres of La Glacière. The Liberals were always ready to retaliate -with the year 1815, and the assassination of Marshal Brune, whose corpse -had been thrown into the Rhône, while his property was plundered and the -murderers let go unpunished. Among these latter, Pointer left so -notorious a reputation that, did any upstart achieve sudden success in -his business, it was at once said of him, “Here are some of Maréchal -Brune’s _louis_ cropping up again.” - -The people of Avignon, like those of Aix and Marseilles, and indeed of -all the towns of Provence at that time, regretted the disappearance of -the Lily and the White Flag. The warm sympathy on the part of our -predecessors for the royal cause was not, I think, so much a political -opinion as an unconscious and popular protest against the aggressive -centralisation, which the Jacobinism of the first Empire had made so -odious. - -The Lily had always been to the Provençals (who bore it in their -national coat of arms) the symbol of a time when their customs, -traditions and franchise were respected by the Government; but to think -that our fathers wished to return to the abuses which obtained before -the Revolution would be a great error, for it was Provence who sent -Mirabeau to the Etats Généraux, and there was no part of France where -the Revolution was carried on with more passionate fervour than in -Provence. - -The ancient city of Avignon is so steeped in bygone glories that it is -impossible to take a step without awakening some memory of the past. -Close to the spot where our school was situated once stood the Convent -of Sainte-Claire, and it was in that convent chapel that Petrarch first -beheld his Laura one April morning in 1327. - -Our quarter had other associations in those days of a more lugubrious -character, owing to the near proximity of the University and the Medical -School. No little shoeblack or chimney-sweep could ever be induced to -come and work at our school, for it was firmly believed that the -students laid in wait to catch all the small boys, for the purpose of -bleeding and skinning them, and afterwards dissecting their corpses. - -It was not less interesting for us, children of villages for the most -part, when we went out to ramble about in the labyrinth of alleys that -formed our neighbourhood, such as the “Little Paradise,” which had been -a “hot quarter,” and was so still, or the Street of Brandy, or of the -“Cat,” or the “Cock,” or the Devil! But what a difference between this -and the beautiful valleys all flowered with asphodel, and the fine air, -the peace and the liberty of St. Michel de Frigolet. Some days my heart -would ache with home-sickness, and yet Monsieur Millet, who was a good -devil at bottom, ended by taming me. He was from Caderousse, a farmer’s -son, like myself, and he had a great admiration for the famous poem, -“The Siege of Caderousse.” He knew it by heart, and sometimes, while -explaining some grand fight of the Greeks or the Trojans, he would -suddenly give a shake to his grey tuft of hair and exclaim: - -“Now see, this is one of the finest bits of Virgil, isn’t it? Listen, my -children, and you shall hear that Favre, the songster of the Siege of -Caderousse, follows very close at Virgil’s heels.” - -How they appealed to us, these recitations in our own tongue--so full of -savour! The fat Millet would shout with laughter, and I, who had -retained in my blood more than the others the honeyed essence of my -childhood, found nothing gave me more pleasure than these fruits of my -own country. - -Monsieur Millet would go every day about five o’clock to read the news -in the Café Baretta, which he called the “Café of talking animals.” It -was kept, if I am not mistaken, by the uncle, or perhaps grandfather, of -Mademoiselle Baretta of the Théatre-Français; then, the next day, if he -were in a good temper, he would give us an epitome, not without a touch -of malice, of the eternal growling of the old politicians assembled -there, who at that time talked of nothing but the “Little One,” as they -called Henri V. - -It was that year I made my first communion in the Church of -Saint-Didier, and it was the bellringer Fanot, of whom Roumanille sang -later in his “Cloche Montée,” who daily rang us in for the Catechism. -Two months before the confirmation Monsieur Millet took us to the church -to be catechised. And there, with the other boys and girls, who were -also being prepared, we were ranged in rows on benches in the middle of -the nave. Chance willed that I, being among the last row of boys, should -find myself next a charming little girl placed in the first row of -girls. She was called Praxède, and had cheeks like the first blush of a -fresh rose. Children are queer things! We met every day, sitting next -to each other, and without premeditation our elbows would touch, we -would breathe in sympathy, whisper and shake over our little jokes till -(the angels must have smiled to see it) we ended by actually being in -love! - -But what an innocent love! how full of mystic aspirations! Those same -angels, if they feel for each other reciprocal affection, must know just -such an emotion. We were both but twelve years old, the age of Beatrice -when Dante first saw her, and it was the vision of this young budding -maiden that evoked the “Paradise” of the great Florentine poet. There is -an expression in our language exactly rendering this soul delight which -intoxicates two young people in the first spring-time of youth, it -signifies being of one accord, “_nous nous agréions_.” It is true we -never met except in church, but the mere sight of each other filled our -hearts with happiness. I smiled at her, she smiled back, our voices were -united in the same songs of divine love, we made the same signs of -grace, and our souls were uplifted by the same mysteries of a simple -spontaneous faith. O dawn of love, blooming with a joy as innocent as -the daisy by the clear brook! First fleeting dawn of pure love! - -Still I can picture Mademoiselle Praxède, as I saw her for the last -time--dressed all in white, crowned with a wreath of may, most sweet to -look upon beneath her transparent veil, as she mounted the steps of the -altar by my side, like a bride--lovely little bride of the Lamb. - -Our confirmation once over, the episode was finished. Vainly, for long -afterwards, when we passed down the Rue de la Lice, where she lived, my -hungry eyes scanned the green shutters of the home of Praxède, but I -never saw her again. She had been sent to a convent school. The thought -that my sweet little friend of the rosy cheeks and charming smile was -lost to me for ever gave me a disgust for everything in life, and I fell -into a state of languor and melancholy. - -When the holidays arrived and I returned to the farm, my mother found me -pale and feverish, and decided, in order both to cure and to divert me, -that I should go with her on a pilgrimage to Saint-Gent, the patron of -all those suffering from fever. - -To Saint-Gent is also attributed the power of sending rain, which makes -him a sort of demi-god to the peasants on both sides of the Durance. - -“I went to Saint-Gent before the Revolution,” said my father. “I was ten -years old and I walked the whole way barefoot with my poor mother. But -we had more faith in those days.” So we started one fine night in -September, by the light of the moon, with Uncle Bénoni, of whom I have -already spoken, as driver. - -Other pilgrims bound for the fête joined us from Château-Renard, from -Noves, Thor, and from Pernes, their carts, covered like our own with -canvas stretched over wooden hoops, formed a long procession down the -road. Singing and shouting in chorus the canticle of Saint-Gent, a -magnificent old tune--Gounod, by the way, introduced it into his opera -of _Mireille_--we passed through the sleeping villages to the sound of -cracking whips, and not till the following afternoon about four o’clock -did we all arrive at the Gorge de Bausset, where, with “Long live -Saint-Gent,” we descended. There, in the very place where the venerated -hermit passed his days of penitence, the old people repeated to the -younger ones all they had heard tell of the saint. - -“Gent,” they said, “was one of us, the son of peasants, a fine youth -from Monteux, who, at the age of fifteen, retired into the desert to -consecrate himself to God. He tilled the earth with two cows. One day a -wolf attacked and devoured one of his cows. Gent caught the wolf, and -harnessing him to the plough, made him work, yoked with the other cow. -Meanwhile at Monteux, since Gent departed, no rain had fallen for seven -years, so the Montelaix said to his mother Imberti: - -“Good woman, you must go and find your son and tell him that since he -left us we have not had a drop of rain.” - -The mother of Gent, by dint of searching and crying, at last found her -son, here, where we are at this moment, in the Gorge de Bausset, and as -his mother was thirsty, Gent pressed the steep rock with two of his -fingers and two springs jetted forth, one of wine, the other of water. -The spring of wine has dried up, but the water runs still, and it is as -the hand of God for healing all bad fevers. - -There are two yearly pilgrimages to the Hermitage of Saint-Gent. The -first one, in May, is specially for the country people, the Montelaix, -and they carry his statue from Monteux to Bausset, a pilgrimage of some -six miles, made on foot in memory of the flight of the saint. - -Here is the letter which Aubanel wrote to me in 1866, when he also made -the pilgrimage. - - * * * * * - -“MY DEAR FRIEND,--With Grivolas I have just returned from a pilgrimage -to Saint-Gent. It is a wonderful, sublime, and poetical experience, and -that nocturnal journey bearing the image of the saint has left on my -soul a unique impression. The mayor lent us a carriage, and we followed -with the pilgrims through fields and woods by the light of the moon, to -the song of nightingales, from eight o’clock in the evening till past -midnight. It was so impressive and mysterious--strange and -beautiful--that one felt the tears start. Four youths lightly clothed in -nankin, running like hares, flying like birds, set out with the sacred -burden, preceded by a man on horseback, galloping and signalling their -approach with pistol-shots. The people of the farms hurried out to see -the saint pass, men, women, children and old people, stopped the -carriers, kissing the statue, praying, weeping, gesticulating. Then off -went the bearers again more swiftly than ever, while the women cried -after them: - -“‘Happy journey, boys.’ - -“And the men added: - -“‘May the good saint uphold you.’ - -“And so they run till they pant for breath. Oh! that journey through the -night, and that little troop going forth into the darkness under the -protection of God and Saint-Gent, into the desert, no one knew whither. -I assure you there was in all this a profound note of poetry that made -an indelible impression on my mind.” - -The second pilgrimage of Saint-Gent takes place in September, and it was -to that we went. Now as Saint-Gent had only been canonised by the voice -of the people, the priests take very little notice of him, and the -townsfolk still less. It is the people of the soil who recognise the -right of the good saint to be canonised, he who was simply one of -themselves, spoke and worked even as they, and who, with but moderate -delays, sends them the rain they pray for, and cures their fevers. His -cult is so fervent that, in the narrow gorge dedicated to the legend of -his memory, sometimes as many as 20,000 pilgrims are assembled. - -Tradition records that Saint-Gent slept on a bed of stone with his head -down and his feet up; so all the pilgrims, in a spirit of devotion not -unmixed with gaiety, go and lie like fallen trees in the bed of -Saint-Gent, which is a hollow formed in the sloping rock; the women also -place themselves there, carefully holding each other’s skirts in a -decorous position. - -We, too, lay in the stone bed like the others, and I went with my mother -to see the “Spring of the Wolf,” and the “Spring of the Cow.” Then on to -the Chapel of Saint-Gent, surrounded by a group of old walnut-trees, and -containing his tomb. And lastly, we visited the “terrible rock,” as the -old canticle calls it, from whence flows the miraculous fount which -cures fever. - -Full of wonder at all these tales, these beliefs and visions, my soul -intoxicated by the scent of the plants and the sight of this place, -still hallowed by the impress of the saint’s feet, with the beautiful -faith of my twelve years I drank freely of the spring, and--people may -think what they please--from that moment I had no more fever. Therefore -do not be astonished that the daughter of the Félibre, the poor -Mireille, when lost in the Crau and dying of thirst, calls on the good -Saint-Gent to come to her rescue. (_Mireille_, Song viii.) - - * * * * * - -On my return to Avignon, a new arrangement was made for carrying on our -classes. We continued to live at the school of the fat Monsieur Millet, -but were taken twice a day to the Royal College, to attend the -University course as day scholars, and it was in this way that for five -years (1843-1847) I continued my education. - -The masters of the college were not then, as now, young professors with -degrees and coats of the latest cut. The professional chairs were -occupied in our day by some of the drastic greybeards of the old -University. For example, in the fourth class we had the worthy Monsieur -Blanc, formerly a sergeant-major in the Imperial army, who, when our -replies were inadequate, promptly hurled at our heads the first book he -could lay hands on. In another class, Monsieur Lamy, a rabid classic, -who held in abhorrence the innovations of Victor Hugo; while for -rhetoric we had a rough patriot named Monsieur Chaulaire, who detested -the English, and with vehement emotion, banging his fist on the desk, -was wont to recite to us the warlike songs of Béranger. - -One year I remember specially, for how it happened I have no idea, but -at the distribution of prizes in the church of the college, in presence -of the assembled fine world of Avignon, I found myself carrying off all -the prizes, even that for conduct. Every time my name was called, I -timidly advanced to fetch the beautiful book and the laurel crown from -the hand of the headmaster, then, returning through the applauding -crowd, I threw my trophies in my mother’s lap, and every one turned to -look with curiosity and astonishment at the beautiful Provençale who, -her face beaming with happiness but still calm and dignified, piled up -in her rush basket the laurels of her son. Afterwards, at the farm--_sic -transit gloria mundi_--these aforesaid laurels were placed on the -chimney-piece behind the pots. - -Whatever was done, however, in the way of education to distract me from -my natural bent, the love of my own language remained always my ruling -passion, and many circumstances tended to nurture it. - -On one occasion, having read, in I forget what journal, some Provençal -verses of Jasmin to Loïsa Puget, and recognising that there were poets -who still glorified the _langue d’Oc_, seized with a fine enthusiasm, I -did likewise for the celebrated hairdresser, and composed an -appreciation which begins thus: - - Poet, honour to thy Gascon mother! - -but, poor little chap, I received no answer. Of course I know the poor -’prentice verses deserved none, but--no use denying it--this disdain -hurt me, and when in after life I in my turn received such offerings, -remembering my own discomfort, I always felt it a duty to acknowledge -them with courtesy. - -About the age of fourteen, the longing for my native fields and the -sound of my native tongue grew on me to such a degree that it ended by -making me quite ill from home-sickness. - -Like the prodigal son, I said to myself, “How much happier are the -servants and shepherds of our farm, down there, who eat the good bread -that my mother provides; the friends of my childhood, too, my comrades -of Maillane, who live at liberty in the country, labouring, sowing, -reaping, and gathering olives, beneath the blessed sun of God, than I -who drudge between four walls, over translations and compositions.” - -My sorrow was mixed with a strong distaste for the unreal world where I -was immured, and with a constant drawing towards some vague ideal which -I discerned in the blue distance of the horizon. So it fell out that one -day while reading, I think, the _Magazin des Familles_, I came upon a -description of the silent and contemplative life of the Monks of La -Chartreuse at Valbonne. - -Thereupon I became possessed with the idea of this conventual life, and -escaping from the school one fine afternoon I set out alone, determined -and desperate, on the road to Pont Saint-Esprit, which winds along the -banks of the Rhône, for I knew Valbonne was somewhere in that -neighbourhood. - -“There,” I said to myself, “I will go and knock at the door of the -convent, imploring and weeping until they consent to admit me. Then once -inside I will roam all day, in bliss, among the trees of the forest--I -will steep myself in thoughts of God and sanctify myself as did the good -Saint-Gent.” - -Then suddenly a thought arrested me: - -“And thy mother,” I said to myself, “to whom, miserable boy, thou hast -not even bidden farewell, and who, when she learns thou hast -disappeared, will seek thee by hill and by dale, poor woman, weeping -disconsolate as did the mother of Gent!” - -Turning about, with a heavy heart and hesitating steps I made my way -back to the farm, in order to embrace my parents once more before -forsaking the world; but the nearer I drew to the paternal home, the -faster my monkish ideas and proud resolution melted in the warmth of my -filial love, as a ball of snow dissolves before the fire. At the door of -the farm, where I arrived late, my mother cried out in astonishment at -the sight of me: - -“But why have you left your school before the holidays?” - -And I, already ashamed of my flight, replied in a broken voice: “I am -home-sick--I cannot go back to that fat old Millet, where one has only -carrots to eat.” - -But the next day our shepherd, Ronquet, took me back to my abhorred -jail, with the promise, however, that I should be liberated at the end -of the term. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THREE EARLY FELIBRES - - -Like the cats who continually move their young ones from place to place, -at the opening of the next school year my mother took me off to Monsieur -Dupuy, a native of Carpentras, who kept a school in Avignon near the -Pont-Troué. And here, in furtherance of my ambitions as a budding -Provençalist, I had indeed my “nozzle in the hay.” - -Monsieur Dupuy was the brother of Charles Dupuy, a former Deputy of La -Drôme, and author of “Petit Papillons,” a delicate morsel of our modern -Provençal. Our Dupuy also tried his hand at Provençal poetry, but he did -not boast about it, and therein showed wisdom. - -Shortly after my arrival, there came to the school a young professor -with a fine black beard, a native of Saint-Rémy, whose name was Joseph -Roumanille. As we were neighbours--Maillane and Saint-Rémy being in the -same canton--and our families, both of the farming class, had known each -other for years past, we were soon friends. Before long I found another -bond which drew us still closer, namely, that the young professor was -also interested in writing verses in the language of Provence. - -On Sundays we went to Mass and vespers at the Carmelite church. Our -places were behind the High Altar, in the choir-stalls, and there our -young voices mingled with those of the choristers, among whom was Denis -Cassan, another Provençal poet, and one of the most popular at the -carousals of the students’ quarter. We saw him, however, clad in a -surplice, with a foolish phlegmatic air, as he intoned the responses and -psalms. The street where he lived now bears his name. - -One Sunday during vespers, the idea came into my head to render in -Provençal verse the penitential psalms, so in the half-opened book I -began furtively to scribble down my version in pencil. - -But Monsieur Roumanille, who was in charge, came behind me, and seizing -the paper I was writing, read it and then showed it to the headmaster, -Monsieur Dupuy. The latter, it seems, viewed the matter leniently; so -after vespers, during our walk round the ramparts, Roumanille called me -to him. - -“So, my little Mistral, you amuse yourself by writing verses in -Provençal?” - -“Sometimes,” I admitted. - -“Would you like me to repeat you some verses. Listen!” And then in his -deep sympathetic voice he recited to me one after another of his own -poems--“Les Deux Agneux,” “Le Petit Joseph,” “Paulon,” “Madeleine et -Louisette,” a veritable outburst of April flowers and meadow blooms, -heralds of the Félibrean spring time. Filled with delight, I listened, -feeling that here was the dawn for which my soul had been waiting to -awake to the light. - -Up to that time I had only read a few stray scraps in the Provençal, and -it had always aggravated me to find that our language (Jasmin and the -Marquis de Lafare alone excepted) was usually used only in derision. But -here was Roumanille, with this splendid voice of his, expressing, in the -tongue of the people, with dignity and simplicity, all the noblest -sentiments of the heart. - -Thus it came to pass that notwithstanding the difference of a dozen -years between our ages, for Roumanille was born in 1818, we clasped -hands, he happy to find a confidant quite prepared to understand his -muse, and I, trembling with joy at entering the sanctuary of my dreams; -and thus, as sons of the same God, we were united in - -[Illustration: JOSEPH ROUMANILLE.] - -the bonds of friendship under so happy a star that for half a century we -walked together, devoted to the same patriotic cause, without our -affection or our zeal ever knowing diminution. - -Roumanille had sent his first verses to a Provençal journal, -_Boui-Abaisso_, which was published weekly at Marseilles by Joseph -Désanat, and which for the bards of the day was an admirable outlet. For -the language has never lacked exponents, and especially at the time of -the _Boui-Abaisso_ (1841-1846) there was a strong movement at Marseilles -in favour of the dialect, which, had it done nothing but promote writing -in Provençal, deserves our gratitude. - -Also we must recognise that such popular poets as Désanat of Tarascon, -or Bellot Chailan, Bénédit and Gelu, pre-eminently Gelu, each of whom in -his way expressed the buoyant joyous spirit of southern Provence, have -never, in their particular line, been surpassed. Another, Camille -Reyband, a poet of Carpentras, a poet, too, of noble dimensions, in a -grand epistle he addressed to Roumanille, laments the fate of the -Provençal speech, neglected by idiots who, declares he, “Follow the -example of the gentlemen of the towns, and leave to the wise old -forefathers our unfortunate language while they render the French -tongue, which they fundamentally distort into the worst of _patois_.” - -Reyband seemed to foretell the Renaissance which was then hatching when -he made this appeal to the editor of the _Boui-Abaisso_: - -“Before we separate, my brothers, let us defend ourselves against -oblivion. Together let us build up a colossal edifice, some Tower of -Babel made from the bricks of Provence. At the summit, whilst singing, -engrave your names, for you, my friends, are worthy to be remembered. As -for me, whom a grain of praise intoxicates and overcomes, and who only -sings as does the cicada, and can but contribute towards your monument a -pinch of gravel and a little poor cement, I will dig for my Muse a tomb -in the sand, and when, having finished your imperishable work, you look -down, my brothers, from the height of your blue sky, you will no longer -be able to see me.” - -All these gentlemen were, however, imbued with this erroneous idea that -the language of the people, good though they felt it to be, was only -suitable for common or droll subjects, and hence they took no pains -either to purify or to restore it. - -Since the time of Louis XIV. the old traditions for the spelling of our -language had become almost obsolete. The poets of the meridian had, -partly through carelessness or ignorance, adopted the French spelling. -And this utterly false system cut at the root of our beautiful speech. -Every one began to carry out his own orthographical fancies, until it -reached such a point that the various dialects of the Oc language, owing -to this constant disfigurement in the writing, no longer bore any -resemblance one to another. - -Roumanille, when reading the manuscripts of Saboly in the library at -Avignon, was struck by the good effect of our language when written in -the old style employed by the ancient troubadours. He wished, young as I -was, to have my help in restoring the true orthography, and in perfect -accord concerning the plan of reform, we boldly started in to moult, as -it were, and renew the skin of our language. Instinctively we felt that -for the unknown work which awaited us in the future we should need a -fine tool, a tool freshly ground. For the orthography was not all. Owing -to the imitative and middle-class spirit of prejudice, which -unfortunately is ever on the increase, many of the most gritty words of -the Provençal tongue had been discarded as vulgar, and in their place, -the poets who preceded the Félibres, even those of repute, had commonly -employed, without any critical sense, corrupt forms and bastard words -of uneducated French. Having thus determined, Roumanille and I, to write -our verses in the language of the people, we saw it was necessary to -bring out strongly the energy, freshness, and richness of expression -that characterised it, and to render the pureness of speech used in -districts untouched by extreme influences. - -Even so the Roumanians, the poet Alexander tells us, when they wished to -elevate their national tongue which the _bourgeois_ class had lost or -corrupted, went to seek it out in the villages and mountains among the -primitive peasants. - -In order to conform the written Provençal as much as possible to the -pronunciation in general use in Provence, we decided to suppress certain -letters or etymological finals fallen into disuse, such as the “s” of -the plural, the “t” of the particle, the “r” of the infinitive, and the -“ch” in certain words like “fach,” “dich,” “puech,” &c. - -But let no one think that these innovations, though they concerned none -save a small circle of _patois_ poets, as we were then called, were -introduced into general usage without a severe struggle. From Avignon to -Marseilles, all those who wrote or rhymed in the language contested for -their routine or their fashion, and promptly took the field against the -reformers. A war of pamphlets containing envenomed articles between -these opponents and we young Avignons continued to rage for many years. - -At Marseilles, the exponents of trivialities, the white-beard -rhymesters, the envious and the growlers assembled together of an -evening behind the old bookshop of the librarian Boy, there bitterly to -bewail the suppression of the “s” and sharpen their weapons against the -innovators. - -Roumanille the valiant, ever ready to stand in the breech, launched -against the adversaries the Greek fire we were all diligently employed -in preparing in the crucible of the Gai-Savoir. And because we had on -our side, not only a just and good cause, but faith, enthusiasm, -youth--and something else besides--it ended in our being, as I will show -you later, victors on the field of battle. - - * * * * * - -But to return to the school of Monsieur Dupuy. - -One afternoon we were in the courtyard, playing at “Three jumps,” when -in our midst appeared a new pupil. He was tall and well made, with a -Henri IV. nose, a hat cocked to one side, and an air of maturity -heightened by the unlit cigar in his mouth. His hands thrust in the -pockets of his short coat, he came up just as if he were one of us. - -“Well, what are you after?” said he. “Would you like me to see if I can -do these three jumps?” - -And without more ado, light as a cat, he took a run and went three hands -beyond the highest jump that had been touched. We clapped him, and -demanded where he had sprung from. - -“From Châteauneuf,” he answered--“the country where they grow good wine. -Perhaps you have never heard of Châteauneuf, Châteauneuf-du-Pape?” - -“Yes, we have. And what is your name?” - -“Anselme Mathieu,” he replied. - -And with these words he plunged his two hands into his pockets and -brought out a store of old cigar-ends, which he offered round with a -courteous and smiling air. - -We, who for the most part had never dared to smoke (unless, indeed, as -children the roots of the mulberry-tree), thereupon regarded with great -respect this hero, who did things in so grand a manner, and was -evidently accustomed to high life. - -Thus it was that I first met Mathieu, the gentle author of the -“Farandole.” On one occasion, I told this story to our friend Daudet, -who loved Mathieu, and the idea of the old ends of cigars pleased him so -much that in his romance “Jack,” he makes use of it with his little -negro prince, who performs the same act of largess. - -With Roumanille and Mathieu, we were thus a trio who formed the nucleus -of those who a little later were to found the Félibrige. The gallant -Mathieu--heaven knows how he contrived it--was never seen except at the -hours of food or recreation. On account of his already grown-up air, -though not more than sixteen, and certainly backward in his studies, he -had been allowed a room on the top story under the pretext that he could -thus work more freely, and there in his attic, the walls of which he had -decorated with pictures, nude figures and plaster casts of Pradier, all -day long he dreamed and smoked, made verses, and, a good part of the -time, leant out of the window, watching the people below, or the -sparrows carrying food to their young under the eaves. Then he would -joke, rather broadly, with Mariette the chamber-maid, ogle the master’s -daughter, and, when he descended from his heights, relate to us all -sorts of gossip. - -But on one subject he always took himself seriously, and that was his -patent of nobility: - -“My ancestors were marquises,” he told us gravely, “Marquises of -Montredon. At the time of the Revolution, my grandfather gave up his -title, and afterwards, finding himself ruined, he would not resume it -since he could not keep it up properly.” - -There was always something romantic and elusive in the existence of -Mathieu. He would disappear at times like the cats who go to Rome. - -In vain we would call him: “Mathieu!” - -But no Mathieu would appear. Where was he? Up there among the tiles, and -over the house-tops he would make his way to the trysts he held, so he -told us, with a girl beautiful as the day. - -On one occasion, while we were all watching the procession of the -Fête-Dieu at Pont-Troué, Mathieu said to me: - -“Frédéric, shall I show you my beloved?” - -“Rather!” I replied promptly. - -“Very well,” said he. “Now look, when the young choir-maidens pass, -shrouded in their white tulle veils, notice they will all wear a flower -pinned in the middle of their dress, but one, you will see, fair as a -thread of gold, she will wear her flower at the side.... See,” he cried -presently, “there she is!” - -“Why, my dear fellow, she is a star!” I cried with enthusiasm. “How have -you managed to make a conquest of such a lovely girl?” - -“I will tell you. She is the daughter of the confectioner at the -Carretterie. From time to time I went there to buy some peppermint -drops or pastry-fingers--in this way I arrived at making myself known to -the dear child, as the Marquis de Montredon, and one day when she was -alone in the shop, I said to her: ‘Beauteous maiden, if only I could -know that you are as foolish as I am, I would propose an excursion.’ - -“‘Where?’ she inquired. - -“‘To the moon,’ I answered. - -“She burst out laughing, but I continued: ‘This is how it could be done. -You, my darling, would mount to the terrace which runs along the top of -your house, just at any hour when you could or you would, and I, who lay -my heart and my fortune at your feet, would meet you, and there beneath -the sky I would cull for you the flowers of love.’ - -“And so it came to pass. At the top of my beloved one’s house, as in -many others, there is a platform where they dry the linen. I have -nothing to do but climb on the roof, and from gutter-spout to -gutter-spout I go to find my fair one, who there spreads or folds the -washing. Then, hand in hand, lip against lip, but always courteously as -between lady and cavalier, we are in Paradise.” - -And thus it was that our Anselme, future Félibre of the Kisses, studied -his Breviary of Love, and passed his classes in gentle ease on the -house-tops of Avignon. - -At the Royal College, where we attended the history classes, there was -never any question of modern politics. But Sergeant Monnier, one of our -masters, an enthusiastic Republican, could not resist taking upon -himself this instruction. During the recreation hour, he would walk up -and down the courtyard, a history of the Revolution in his hand, working -himself up as he read aloud, gesticulating, swearing, and shouting with -enthusiasm. - -“Now this is fine! Listen to this! Oh, they were grand men! Camille -Desmoulins, Mirabeau, Bailly, Virgniaud, Danton, Saint-Just, -Boisset-d’Anglas! We are worms in this day, by all the gods! besides -those giants of the National Convention!” - -“Oh, very grand indeed, your mock giants!” Roumanille would answer when -he happened to be there. “Cut-throats, over-throwers of the Crucifix, -unnatural monsters, ever devouring one another! Why, Bonaparte, when he -wanted them, brought them up like pigs in the market!” - -And so they would attack each other until the easy-going Mathieu -appeared on the scene and made peace by causing both to join in a laugh -at some absurdity of his own. - -About this time Roumanille, in order to supplement his little emolument, -had taken a post as reader in Sequin’s printing house, and, thanks to -this position, he was able to have his first volume of verses, “Les -Paquerettes,” printed there at small cost. While he corrected his -proofs, he would regale us with these poems, much to our delight. - -Thus one day succeeded another in these simple and familiar -surroundings, till in the month of August 1847 I finished my studies, -and, happy as a foal released and turned out to grass, I bade farewell -to Monsieur Dupuy’s school and returned home to the farm. - - * * * * * - -But before leaving the pontifical city, I must say one word about the -religious pomps and shows which, in our young day, were celebrated in -high state at Avignon for a fortnight at a time. Notre Dame-de-Dom (the -cathedral), and the four parishes, Saint-Agricol, Saint-Pierre, -Saint-Didier, and Saint-Symphorien, rivalled each other in their -splendour. - -So soon as the sacristan, ringing his bell, had gone along the streets -proclaiming where the Host, borne beneath the daïs, was to pass, all the -town set to work sweeping, watering, strewing green boughs, and erected -decorations. From the balconies of the rich were hung tapestries of -embroidered silks and damasks, the poor from their windows hung out -coverings of patchwork, their rugs and quilts. At the Portail-Maillanais -and in the low quarters of the city, they covered the walls with white -sheets and adorned the pavements with a litter of boxwood. Street altars -were raised at intervals, high as pyramids, adorned with candelabrums -and vases of flowers. All the people, sitting outside their houses on -chairs, awaited the procession and ate little cakes. - -The young men of the mercantile and artisan classes walked about, -swaggering and eyeing the young girls, or throwing them roses as they -sat beneath the awnings, while all along the streets the scent of -incense filled the air. - -At last came the procession, headed by the beadle clad all in red, and -followed by a train of white-robed virgins, the confraternities, monks -and priests, choirs and musicians, threading their way slowly to the -beating of tambourines, and one heard as they passed the low murmur of -the devout reciting their rosaries. - -Then, while an impressive silence reigned everywhere, all prostrated -themselves, and the officiating priest elevated the Host beneath a -shower of yellow broom. - -But one of the most striking things was the procession of Penitents, -which began after sunset by the light of torches. And especially that of -the White Penitents, wearing their cowls and cloaks, and marching past -step by step, like ghosts, carrying, some of them, small tabernacles, -others reliquaries or bearded busts, others burning perfumes, or an -enormous eye in a triangle, or a serpent twisted round a tree--one might -have imagined them to be an Indian procession of Brahmins. - -These Orders dated from the time of the League and the Western Schism, -and the heads and dignitaries of these confraternities were taken from -the noblest families in Avignon. Aubanel, one of our great Félibres, was -all his life a zealous White Penitent, and, at his death, was buried in -the habit of the brotherhood. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE - - -“Well now,” said my father, “have you finished?” - -“I have finished, so far,” I replied, “only ... I will now have to go to -Nîmes and take my bachelor’s degree--a step which gives me a certain -amount of apprehension.” - -“Forward then--quick march! When I was a soldier, my son, we had harder -steps than that to take before the Siege of Figuières,” said my sire. - -So I made my preparations forthwith for the journey to Nîmes, where at -that time the degrees were taken. My mother folded up my Sunday coat and -two white shirts in a big check handkerchief fastened together with four -pins. My father presented me with a small linen bag containing crowns to -the amount of £6, and added the caution: - -“Take thou care neither to lose nor to squander them.” - -My bundle under my arm, hat cocked over one ear, and a vine-stick in my -hand, I then departed. - -Arrived at Nîmes, I met a crowd of other students from all the -neighbourhood, come up, like myself, to take their degrees. They were -for the most part accompanied by their parents, fine-looking ladies and -gentlemen with their pockets full of letters of introduction, one to the -Prefect, another to the Grand Vicar, and another to the head examiner. -These fortunate youths swaggered about with an air which said: “We are -cocksure of success.” - -I who knew not a soul felt myself very small fry. All my hope lay in -Saint Baudile, the patron of Nîmes whose votive ribbon I had worn as a -child, and to whom I now addressed a fervent petition that he would -incline the hearts of the examiners towards me. - -We were shut up in a big bare room of the Hôtel de Ville, and there an -old professor dictated to us in nasal tones some Latin verse. He -terminated with a pinch of snuff, and the announcement that we had an -hour in which to render the Latin into French. - -Full of zeal we set to work. With the aid of the dictionary, the task -was accomplished, and at the termination of the hour our snuff-taker -collected the papers and dismissed us for the day. - -The students dispersed all over the town and I found myself standing -there alone in the street, my small bundle under my arm and vine-stick -in hand. The first thing was to find a lodging, some inn not too ruinous -yet passably comfortable. As I had plenty of time on my hands, I made -the tour of Nîmes about ten times, scanning the hostelries and inns with -critical eye. But the hotels, with their black-coated flunkeys, who -looked me up and down long before I even approached them, and the airs -and graces of the fashionable folk of whom I saw passing glimpses, made -me coil up into my shell. - -At last a sign-board caught my eye with the inscription, “Au -Petit-Saint-Jean.” Here was something familiar at last. - -The name made me at once feel at home. Saint John was a special friend -with us, he it was who brought good harvests, also we grew the grass of -Saint John, ate the apples of Saint John, and celebrated his feast with -bonfires. I entered the little inn with confidence therefore, a -confidence which was amply justified. - -In the courtyard were covered carts and trucks, while groups of -Provençales stood there laughing and gossiping. I stepped into the -dining-room and sat down at the table. The room was crowded and nearly -all the seats occupied by market-gardeners. They had come in from -Saint-Rémy, Château-Renard, Barbentane, for the weekly market, and were -all well acquainted. Their conversation related entirely to their -business: - -“Well, Benezet,” said one, “how much did your mad-apples fetch to-day?” - -“Bad luck; the market was glutted--I had to give them away.” - -“And the leek-seed?” asked another. - -“There is a fair prospect of a sale--if the rumour of war turns out true -they will use it for making powder, so they say.” - -“And the onions?” - -“They went off at once.” - -“And the pumpkins?” - -“Had to give them to the pigs.” - -For an hour I listened to this on all sides, eating steadily without -saying a word. Then my opposite neighbour addressed me: - -“And you, young man? If it is not indiscreet, may I ask if you are in -the gardening line?” - -“I replied modestly that I had come to Nîmes for another purpose, -namely, to pass as bachelor.” - -The company turned round and gazed at me with interest. - -“What did he say,” they asked each other; “Bachelor? He must have said -‘battery’ hazarded one--it is a conscript, any one can see, and he -wishes to get into the battery.” - -I laughed and tried to explain my position and the ordeal before me when -the learned professors would put me through my paces in Latin, Greek, -mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, philosophy, and every imaginable -branch of knowledge besides. “If we do well they allow us to become -lawyers, doctors, judges, even sub-prefects,” I concluded. - -“And if you do badly?” inquired my audience eagerly. - -“We are sent back to the asses’ bench,” I replied; “to-morrow I shall -know my fate.” - -“Eh, but this is one of the right sort,” they cried in chorus. “Suppose -we all remain on another day to see whether he comes through all right -or whether he is left in the hole. Now, what are they going to ask you -to-morrow, for example?” - -I told them it would be concerning all the battles that had ever been -fought since the world began, Jews, Romans, Saracens; and not only the -battles but the names of the generals who took part in them, the kings -and queens reigning at the time, together with their children and even -their bastards. - -“But how then can the learned men occupy themselves with such trifles!” -cried my new friends. “It is very evident they have nothing better to -do. If they had to get up and hoe potatoes every morning they would not -waste time over the battles of the Saracens, who are dead and gone, or -the bastards of Herod. Well, what else do they ask you?” - -I replied that I should be required also to know the names of all the -mountains and all the rivers in the world. - -Here I was interrupted by a gardener from Saint-Rémy with a big guttural -voice, who inquired whether I knew where was the source of the Fountain -of Vaucluse, and if it were true that seven rivers, each of them big -enough to float a ship, sprang from that fountain. He had it on good -authority also--could I confirm it?--that a shepherd had let fall his -crook in the water at Vaucluse, and had found it again in a spring at -Saint-Rémy! - -I had hardly time to think of a suitable and judicious answer before -another of the company posed me with the question as to why the sea was -salt. - -Here I considered myself on safe ground, and was beginning to reel off -in airy fashion: “Because it contains sulphate of potassium, sulphate of -magnesia, chloride----” - -“No, no, that’s all wrong,” interrupted my questioner. “It was a -fisherman who told me--he was from Martigne and should know. The sea is -salt owing to the many ships carrying cargoes of salt which have been -wrecked during past years.” - -I discreetly gave way before this authority and hastened to enumerate -other subjects on which I was about to be examined by the professors, -such as the cause of thunder, lightning, frost and wind. - -“Allow me to interrupt you, young man,” broke in the first speaker -again. “You should be able then to tell us from whence comes the -mistral, that accursed mischievous wind of our country. I have always -heard that it issues from a hole in a certain great rock, and that if -one could only cork up the hole, there would be an end of the mistral. -Now that would be an invention worth the making!” - -“The Government would oppose it,” said another; “if it were not for the -mistral, Provence would be the garden of France! Nothing would hold us -back--we should become too rich to please the rest.” - -“Finally,” I continued, “we have to know all about the number, size, and -distance of the stars--how many miles our earth is from the sun, &c.” - -“That passes everything,” cried a native of Noves. “Who is going up -there to measure the distance? Cannot you see, young man, that the -professors are laughing at you? A pretty science indeed to measure the -miles between the sun and the moon; they will be teaching you next that -pigeons are suckled! Now if you would tell me at what quarter of the -moon to sow celery or to cure the pig-disease, I would say, ‘Here we -have a real useful science’--but all this boy prates of is pure -rubbish!” - -The rest of the company, however, stood up for me loyally, declaring -that, however, questionable the subjects I had studied, it was certain I -must have a wonderful head to have stowed away such a lot inside. - -Some of the girls whispered together, with kindly glances of sympathy in -my direction. “Poor little chap, how pale he is--one can see all that -reading has done him no good--if he had passed his time at the tail of -the plough he would have more colour in his cheeks--and what is the good -after all of knowing so much!” - -“Well, comrades,” cried my first friend, “I vote we see him through to -the end, this lad from Maillane! If we were at a bull-fight we should -wait to see who got the prize, or at least the cockade.--Let us stay -over night that we may know if he passes as a bachelor, eh?” - -“Good,” agreed the rest in chorus, “we will wait and see him through to -the end.” - -The following morning, with my heart in my mouth, I returned to the -Hôtel de Ville, together with the other candidates, many of whom I -noticed wore a far less confident air than the day before. In a big -hall, seated before a long table piled with papers and books, were five -great and learned professors come expressly from Montpellier arrayed in -their ermine-bordered capes and black caps. They were members of the -Faculty of Letters, and among them, curiously enough, was Monsieur -Saint-René Taillandier, who, a few years later, was to become the warm -supporter of the Félibre movement. But at this time we were, of course, -strangers to each other, and nothing would have more surprised the -illustrious professor than had he known that the country lad who stood -stammering before him was one day to be numbered among his best friends. - -I was wild with joy--I had passed! I went off down into the town as -though borne along by angels. It was broiling hot, and I remember I was -thirsty. As I passed the cafés, swinging my little vine-stick high in -the air, I panted at the sight of the glasses of foaming beer, but I was -such a novice in the ways of the world that I had never yet set foot -inside a café, and I dared not go in. - -So I continued my triumphal march round the town, wearing an air of such -radiant happiness and satisfaction that the very passers-by nudged one -another and observed: “He has evidently got his degree--that one!” - -When at last I came upon a drinking-fountain and quenched my thirst in -the fresh cool water, I would not have changed places with the ‘King of -Paris.’ - -But the finest thing of all was on my return to the “Petit-Saint-Jean,” -where my friends the gardeners awaited me impatiently. On seeing me, -glowing with joy enough to disperse a fog, they shouted: “He has -passed!” - -Men, women, girls, came rushing out, and there followed a grand -handshaking and embracing all round. One would have said manna had -fallen from heaven. - -Then my friend from Saint-Rémy took up the speech. His eyes were wet -with emotion. - -“Maillanais!” he addressed me, “we are all pleased with you. You have -shown these little professor gentlemen that not only ants, but men, can -be born of the soil. Come, children, let us all have a turn at the -_farandole_.” - -Then taking hands, there in the courtyard of the inn, we all farandoled -with a will. After that we dined with equal heartiness, eating, drinking -and singing, till the time came to start for home. - -It is fifty-eight years ago. But I never visit Nîmes and see in the -distance the sign of the “Petit-Saint-Jean” without that scene of my -youth coming back to me fresh as yesterday, and a warm feeling arises in -my heart for those dear people who first made me experience the good -fellowship of my kind and the joys of popularity. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -DAME RIQUELLE AND THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 - - -The winter of 1847-1848 began happily enough. The people settled down -quietly again to their business of making a tolerably good harvest, and -the hateful subject of politics was dropped, thank God. In our country -of Maillane we even started, for our amusement, some representations of -popular tragedies and comedies, into which I threw myself with all the -fervour of my seventeen years. Then in the month of February, suddenly -the Revolution burst upon us, and good-bye to all the gentle arts of -blessed peace-time. - -At the entrance of the village, in a small vine-clad cottage, there -dwelt at this time a worthy old body named Riquelle. She wore the -Arlesian dress of bygone days, her large white coife surmounted by a -broad-brimmed black felt hat, while a white band, passing under the -chin, framed her cheeks. By her distaff and the produce of her small -plot of ground she supported herself, but one saw from the care she took -of her person, as well as by her speech, that she had known better -days. - -My first recollection of Riquelle dated back to when, at about seven -years old, I was in the habit of passing her door on my way to school. -Seated on the little bench at her threshold, her fingers busy knitting, -she would call to me: - -“Have you not some fine tomatoes on your farm, my little lad? Bring me -one next time you come along.” - -Time after time she asked me this, and I, boy-like, invariably forgot -all about it, till one day I mentioned to my father that old Riquelle -never saw me without asking for tomatoes. - -“The accursed old dame,” growled my father angrily; “tell her they are -not ripe, do you hear, neither have they ripened for many a long year.” - -The next time I saw Riquelle I gave her this message, and she dropped -the subject. - -Many years later, the day after the Proclamation of the Revolution of -1848, coming to the village to inquire the latest news, the first person -I saw was Dame Riquelle standing there in her doorway, all alert and -animated, with a great topaz ring blazing on her finger. - -“Hé, but the tomatoes have ripened this year,” she cried out to me. -“They are going to plant the ‘trees of liberty,’[5] and we shall all eat -of those good apples of Paradise.... Oh, Sainte-Marianne, I never -thought to live to see it again! Frédéric, my boy, become a Republican.” - -I remarked on the fine ring she wore. - -“Ha, yes, it is a fine ring,” she rejoined. “Fancy--I have not worn it -since the day Bonaparte quitted this country for the island of Elba! A -friend gave me this ring in the days--ah, what days those were--when we -all danced the ‘Carmagnole.’” - -So saying she raised her skirt, and, making a step or two of the old -dance, entered her cottage chuckling softly at the recollection of those -bygone days. - -But when I recounted the incident to my father his recollections were of -a graver kind. - -“I also saw the Republic,” he said, “and it is to be hoped the atrocious -things which took place then will never be repeated. They killed the -King Louis XVI., and the beautiful Queen, his wife, besides princesses, -priests, and numberless good people of all sorts. Then foreign kings -combined and made war upon France. In order to defend the Republic, -there was a general conscription. All were called out, the lame, the -blind, the halt--not a man but had to enlist. I remember how we met a -regiment of Allobrogians on their way to Toulon. One of them seized my -young brother, and placing his naked sword across the boy’s neck--he -was but twelve years old--commanded him to cry out ‘Long live the -Republic,’ or he would finish him off. The boy did as he was told, but -the fright killed him. The nobles and the good priests, all were -suspected, and those who could emigrate did so, in order to escape the -guillotine. The Abbé Riousset, disguised as a shepherd, made his way to -Piedmont with the flocks of Monsieur de Lubières. We managed to save -Monsieur Victorin Cartier, whose lands we farmed. For three months we -hid him in a cave we dug out under the wine-casks, and whenever the -municipal officers or the police of the district came down upon us to -count the lambs we had in the fold, and the loaves of bread in the pans, -in accordance with the law, my poor mother would hasten to fry a big -omelette at the stove. - -“When once they had eaten and drunk their fill, they would forget, or -pretend to do so, to take further perquisites, and off they would go, -carrying great branches of laurel with which to greet the victorious -armies of the Republic. The châteaux were pillaged, the very dove-cotes -demolished, the bells melted down, and the crosses broken. In the -churches they piled up great mounds of earth on which they planted -pine-trees, oaks and junipers. The church at Maillane was turned into a -club, and if you refused to go to their meetings you were at once -denounced and notified as ‘suspect.’ Our priest, who happened -unfortunately to be a coward and a traitor, announced one day from the -pulpit that all he had hitherto preached was a lie. He roused such -indignation that, had not every man lived in fear of his neighbour, they -would have stoned him. It was this same priest who another time wound up -his discourse with the injunction that any one who knew of or aided in -hiding a ‘suspect,’ would be held guilty of mortal sin unless he -denounced such a one at once to the Commune. Finally, they ended by -abolishing all observance of Sundays and feast-days, and instead, every -tenth day, in great pomp they adored the Goddess of Reason--and would -you know who was the goddess at Maillane? Why, none other than the old -dame Riquelle!” - -We all exclaimed in surprise. - -“Riquelle,” continued my father, “was at that time eighteen years old. A -handsome, well-grown girl, one of the most admired in all the country. I -was about the same age. Her father was Mayor of Maillane and by trade a -shoemaker--he made me a pair of shoes I remember wearing when I joined -the army. Well, imagine it--I saw this same Riquelle in the garments, or -rather the lack of garments, of a heathen goddess, a red cap on her -head, seated on the altar of the church.” - -All this my father recounted at supper one evening about the year 1848. - -Some eleven years after, I, finding myself in Paris just after the -publication of _Mireille_, was dining at the house of the hospitable -banker Milland, he who delighted to assemble every week at his board a -gathering of artists, savants, and men of letters. We were about fifty, -and I had the honour of sitting on one side of our charming hostess, -while Méry was on the other. Towards the end of dinner an old man very -simply attired addressed me in Provençal from the further end of the -table, inquiring if I came from Maillane. It was the father of my host, -and I rose and sat down beside him. - -“Do you happen to know the daughter of the once famous Mayor of -Maillane, Jacques Riquelle?” he inquired. - -“Riquelle the goddess? Aye, indeed,” I answered; “we are right good -friends.” - -“Well, fifty years ago,” said the old man, “when I went to Maillane to -sell horses and mules----” - -“You gave her a topaz ring!” I cried with a sudden inspiration. - -The old fellow shook his sides with laughter and answered, delighted: -“What, she told you about that? Ah, my dear sir----” - -But at this moment we were interrupted by the banker, who, in accordance -with his custom, after every meal came to pay his respects to his worthy -father, whereupon the latter, placing his hands patriarchal fashion on -his son’s head, bestowed on him his benediction. - -But to return to my own story. In spite of the views held by my family, -this outburst of liberty and enterprise, which breaks down the old -fences when a revolution is rife, had found me already aflame and eager -to follow the onrush. At the first proclamation signed with the -illustrious name of Lamartine my muse awoke and burst forth into fiery -song, which the local papers of Arles and Avignon hastened to publish: - - Réveillez-vous enfants de la Gironde, - Et tressaillez dans vos sepulcres froids; - La liberté va rajeunir le monde ... - Guerre éternelle entre nous et les rois. - -A mad enthusiasm seized me for all humanitarian and liberal ideas; and -my Republicanism, while it scandalised the Royalists of Maillane, who -regarded me as a turncoat, delighted the Republicans, who, being in the -minority, were enchanted at getting me to join them in shouting the -“Marseillaise.” - -And here, in Provence, as elsewhere, all this brought in its train -broils and internal divisions. The Reds proclaimed their sentiments by -wearing a belt and scarf of scarlet, while the Whites wore green. The -former carried a buttonhole of thyme, emblem of the mountain, and the -latter a sprig of the royal lily. The Republicans planted the “trees of -liberty” at every corner, and by night the Royalists kicked them down. -Thereupon followed riots and knife-thrusts; till before long this good -people, these Provenceaux of the same race, who a month before had been -living in brotherly love and good fellowship, were all ready to make -mincemeat of one another for a party wrangle that led to nothing. - -All students of the same year took sides and split into rival parties, -neither of which ever lost an opportunity of a skirmish. Every evening -we Reds, after washing down our omelettes with plenty of good wine, -issued from the inn according to the correct village fashion, in shirt -sleeves, with a napkin round our necks. Down the street we went to the -sound of the tambour, dancing the “Carmagnole” and singing at the pitch -of our voices the latest song in vogue. - -We finished the evening usually by keeping high carnival, and yelling -“Long live Marianne,”[6] as we waved high our red belts. - -One fine day, as I appeared in the morning, none too early, after an -evening of this kind, I found my father awaiting me. “Come this way, -Frédéric,” he said in his most serious and impressive manner, “I wish to -speak to you.” - -“You are in for it this time, Frédéric,” thought I to myself; “now all -the fat is in the fire!” Following him in silence, he led the way to a -quiet spot at the back of the farm, where he made me sit down on the -bank by his side. - -“What is this they tell me?” he began. “That you, my son, have joined -these young scamps who go about yelling ‘Long live Marianne’--that you -dance the ‘Carmagnole,’ waving your red sash? Ah, Frédéric, you are -young--know you it was with that dance and those same cries the -Revolutionists set up the scaffold? Not content with having published in -all the papers a song in which you pour contempt on all kings---- But -what harm have they done you, may I ask, these unfortunate kings?” - -I must confess I found this question somewhat difficult to answer, and -my sire continued: - -“Monsieur Durand-Maillane, a learned man, since he it was who presided -at the famous Convention, and wise as he was learned, refused to sign -the death warrant of the King, and speaking one day to his nephew -Pélissier, also member of the Convention, he warned him: ‘Pélissier,’ -said he, ‘thou art young and thou wilt surely see the day when the -people will have to pay with many thousands of heads for this death of -their King.’ A prophecy which was verified only too fully by twenty -years of ruthless war.” - -“But,” I protested, “this Republic desires harm to no man. They have -just abolished capital punishment for political offenders. Some of the -first names in France figure in the provisionary Government--the -astronomer Arago, the great poet Lamartine; our ‘trees of liberty’[7] -are blessed by the priests themselves. And, let me ask you, my father,” -I insisted, “is it not a fact that before 1789 the aristocrats oppressed -the people somewhat beyond endurance?” - -“Well,” conceded my worthy sire, “I will not deny there were abuses, -great abuses--I can cite you an example. One day--I must have been -about fourteen years old--I was coming from Saint-Rémy with a waggon of -straw trusses. The mistral blew with such force I failed to hear a voice -behind calling to me to make way for a carriage to pass. The owner, who -was a priest of the nobility, Monsieur de Verclos, managed at last to -pass me, and as he did so gave me a lash with his whip across the face, -which covered me with blood. There were some peasants pasturing close -by, and their indignation was such at this action that they fell upon -the man of God, in spite of his Order being at that time held sacred, -and beat him without mercy. Ah, undoubtedly,” reflected my father, -“there were some bad specimens among them, and the Revolution just at -first attracted a good many of us. But gradually everything went wrong -and as usual the good paid for the bad.” - - * * * * * - -And so with the Revolution of 1848; all at first appeared to be on good -and straight lines. We Provenceaux were represented in the National -Assembly by such first-class men as Berryer, Lamartine, Lamennais, -Béranger, Lacordaire, Garnier-Pagès, Marie, and a poet of the people -named Astouin. But the party-spirited reactionaries soon poisoned -everything; the butcheries and massacres of June horrified the nation. -The moderates grew cold, the extremists became venomous, and all my -fair young visions of a platonic Republic were overcast with gloomy -doubt. Happily light from another quarter shed its beams on my soul. -Nature, revealing herself in the grand order, space and peace of the -rustic life, opened her arms to me; it was the triumph of Ceres. - -In the present day, when machinery has almost obliterated agriculture, -the cultivation of the soil is losing more and more the noble aspect of -that sacred art and of its idyllic character. Now at harvest time the -plains are covered with a kind of monster spider and gigantic crab, -which scratch up the ground with their claws, and cut down the grain -with cutlasses, and bind the sheaves with wire; then follow other -monsters snorting steam, a sort of Tarascon dragon who seizes on the -fallen wheat, cuts the straw, sifts the grain, and shakes out the ears -of corn. All this is done in latest American style, a dull matter of -business, with never a song to make toil a gladness, amid a whirl of -noise, dust, and hideous smoke, and the constant dread, if you are not -constantly on the watch, that the monster will snap off one of your -limbs. This is Progress, the fatal Reaper, against whom it is useless to -contend, bitter result of science, that tree of knowledge whose fruit -is both good and evil. - -But at the time of which I write, the old methods were still in use, -with all the picturesque apparatus of classic times. - -So soon as the corn took on a shade of apricot, throughout the Commune -of Arles, a messenger went the round of the mountain villages blowing -his horn and crying: “This is to give notice that the corn in Arles is -ripening.” - -Thereupon the mountaineers, in groups of threes and fours, with their -wives and daughters, their donkeys and mules, made ready to descend to -the plains for harvesting. A couple of harvesters, together with a boy -or young girl to stack the sheaves, made up a _solque_, and the men -hired themselves out in gangs of so many _solques_, who undertook the -field by contract. At the head of the group walked the chief, making a -pathway through the corn, while another, called the bailiff, organised -and directed the work. - -As in the days of Cincinnatus, Cato and Virgil, we reaped with the -sickle, the fingers of the right hand protected by a shield of twisted -reeds or rushes. - -At Arles, about the time of Saint John’s Day, thousands of these harvest -labourers might be seen assembled in the Place des Hommes, their -scythes slung on their backs, standing and lying about while waiting to -be hired. - -In the mountain districts a man who had never done his harvesting in the -plains of Arles found it hard, so they said, to get any girl to marry -him, and it was on this custom Félix Gras founded the story of his epic -poem “Les Charbonniers.” - -On our own farm we hired from seven to eight of these groups every year -at harvest-time. It was a fine upset throughout the house when these -folk arrived. All sorts of special utensils were unearthed for the -occasion, barrels made of willow wood, enormous earthenware pans, big -pots and jugs for wine, a whole battery of the rough pottery made at -Apt. It was a time of constant feasting and gaiety, above all when we -lit the bonfires on Saint John’s Day and danced round them singing the -harvest songs. - -Every day at dawn the reapers ranged themselves in line, and so soon as -the chief had opened out a pathway through the cornfield all glistening -with morning dew, they swung their blades, and as they slowly advanced -down fell the golden corn. The sheaf-binders, most of whom were young -girls in the freshness of their youthful bloom, followed after, bending -low over the fallen grain, laughing and jesting with a gaiety it -rejoiced one’s heart to see. Then as the sun appeared bathing the sky -all rosy red and sending forth a glory of golden rays, the chief, -raising high in the air his scythe, would cry, “Hail to the new day,” -and all the scythes would follow suit. Having thus saluted the newly -risen sun, again they fell to work, the cornfield bowing down as they -advanced with rhythmic harmonious movement of their bare arms. From time -to time the bailiff cried out, mustering his troop for another turn. At -last, after four hours’ vigorous work, the chief would give the word for -all to rest. Whereupon, after washing the handles of their scythes in -the nearest stream, they would sit down on the sheaves in the middle of -the stubble, and take their first repast. - -It was my work, with the aid of Babache, our old mule, to take round the -provisions in rope baskets. - -The harvesters had five meals a day, beginning with the breakfast at -seven o’clock, which consisted of anchovies spread on bread steeped in -oil and vinegar, together with raw onions, an invariable accompaniment. -At ten o’clock they had the “big drink,” as it was called, with -hard-boiled eggs and cheese; at one o’clock dinner, soup and vegetables; -at four a large salad, with which were eaten crusts rubbed with garlic; -and finally the supper, consisting either of pork or mutton and -sometimes an omelette strongly flavoured with onion, a favourite -harvesting dish. In the field they drank by turns from a barrel taken -round by the chief and swung on a pole, which he balanced on the -shoulder of the one drinking. For their meals in the field they had one -plate between three, each one helping himself with a big wooden spoon. - -When the reapers’ work was done, came the gleaners to gather the stray -ears left among the stubble. Troops of these women went the rounds of -the farms, sleeping at night under small tents, which served to protect -them from the mosquito. A third of their gleanings, according to the -usage in the country of Arles, went always to the hospital. - -Such were the people, fine children of the soil, who were not only my -models but my teachers in the art of poetry. It was in this company, the -grand sun of Provence streaming down on me as I lay full length beneath -a willow-tree, that I learnt to pipe and sing such songs as “Les -Moissons” and others in “Les Iles d’Or.” - - - - -CHAPTER X - -MADEMOISELLE LOUISE - - -That year, my parents, seeing me gaping idly at the moon, sent me to Aix -to study law, for these good souls were wise enough to know that my -bachelor’s degree was but an insufficient guarantee either of wisdom or -of science. But before my departure for the Sextine city I met with an -adventure which both interested and touched me. - -In a neighbouring farmhouse, a family from the town had settled, and -going to church we sometimes met the daughters. Towards the end of -summer, they, with their mother, came to call, and my mother -appropriately offered them curds; for we had on our farm fine herds of -cattle, and milk in abundance. My mother herself superintended the -dairy, making not only the curds but the cream cheeses, those small -cheeses of the country of Arles, so much appreciated by Beland de la -Belaudière, the Provençal poet in the time of the Valois kings: - - A la ville des Baux, pour un florin vaillant - Vous avez un tablier plein de fromages - Qui fond au gosier comme sucre fin.[8] - -Like the shepherdesses sung by Virgil, each day my mother, carrying on -her hip the earthenware pot and skimmer, descended to the dairy and -filled up the various moulds with the fine flaking curds from her pot. -The cheeses made, she left them to drain upon the osiers, which I myself -delighted to cut for her down by the stream. - -So on this occasion we partook with these young girls of a bowl of -curds. One of them, about my own age, with a face which recalled those -Greek profiles sculptured on the ancient monuments in the plains of -Saint-Rémy, regarded me tenderly with her great dark eyes. Her name was -Louise. - -We visited the peacocks, with their rainbow-hued tails outspread, the -bees in their long row of sheltered hives, the bleating lambs in the -fold, the well with its pent-roof supported by pillars of -stone--everything, in fact, which could interest them. Louise seemed to -move in a dream of delight. - -When we were in the garden, while my mother chatted with hers, and -gathered pears for our guests, Louise and I sat down together on the -parapet of the old well. - -“I want to tell you something,” began Mademoiselle Louise. “Do you -remember a little frock, a muslin frock that your mother took to you one -day when you were at school at St. Michel de Frigolet?” - -“Yes--to act my part in the piece called _Les Enfants d’Edouard_.” - -“Well then--that dress, monsieur, was mine.” - -“But did they not return it to you?” I asked like an imbecile. - -“Oh yes,” she said, a little confused, “I only spoke of it as--one might -of anything.” - -Then her mother called her. - -Louise gave me her hand; such a cold hand, and since the hour was late -they went home. - -A week later, towards sunset, Mademoiselle Louise appeared again at our -door, this time accompanied only by a friend. - -“Good afternoon,” said she. “We have come to buy some of those juicy -pears you gave us the other day from your garden.” - -My mother invited them to be seated, but Louise declined, saying it was -too late, and I accompanied them to gather the pears. - -Louise’s friend, Courrade by name, was from Saint-Rémy, a handsome girl, -with thick brown hair encircled by her Arlesienne ribbon; charming as -Louise was, she acted imprudently in bringing such a friend. - -Arrived in the orchard, while I lowered the branches, Courrade, raising -her pretty round arms, bare to the elbow, set to work and picked the -pears. Louise, looking very pale, encouraged her, and bade her choose -the most ripe. My heart was already stirred, though by which of the -girls I could not say, when Louise, as if she had something to -communicate, drew me to one side, and we sauntered slowly towards the -group of cypresses, where, side by side, we sat down on a stone bench, I -somewhat embarrassed, she regarding me with emotion. - -“Frédéric,” she began, “the other day I spoke to you of a frock which at -the age of eleven I lent you to wear in the play at St. Michel de -Frigolet.... You have read the story of Déjanire and Hercules?” - -“Yes,” I answered laughing, “and also of the tunic which the beautiful -Déjanire gave to poor Hercules, and which set his blood on fire.” - -“Ah!” said the young girl, “in this case it is just the reverse, for -that little white muslin dress which you had touched--which you had -worn--from the moment I put it on once more, I loved you. Do not be -angry with me for this confession, which I know must appear strange, -even mad, in your eyes. Ah, do not be angry,” she begged, weeping, “for -this divine fire, conveyed to me by the fatal dress, and which from that -time has never ceased to consume me, I have hidden deep within my heart, -oh, Frédéric, for seven long years!” - -I took her little feverish hand in mine, and would have replied by -folding her in my arms; but gently she pushed me from her: - -“No, Frédéric,” she said, “as yet we cannot say whether the poem of -which I have sung the first stanza will ever go further.... I must now -leave you. Think on what I have said, and remember that since I am one -of those who cannot change, whatever your answer may be, my heart is -given to you for ever.” - -So saying she rose, and running up to her friend Courrade, called to her -to bring the pears that they might weigh and pay for them. - -We returned to the house, and having settled for the pears they left. My -feelings were difficult to analyse. I found myself both charmed and -disturbed by this sudden appearance of young maidens upon the scene, -both of whom in a certain fashion appealed strongly to me. Long I -strolled among the trees, watching the sun’s rays grow slanting and the -doves fly home to roost, and in spite of a feeling of exhilaration, and -even happiness, on sounding myself I perceived that I was in a rare fix. - -The “Disciple of Venus” says truly, “Love will not brook command.” This -heroic young maid, armed with nought but her grace and her virginity, -was she not justified in thinking to come off victorious? Charming as -she was, and herself charmed by her long dream of love, no wonder if she -thought that in the words of Dante, “Love that has no lover pardons -love,” and that a young man living as I was an isolated country life, -would respond with emotion at the first cooing note. She did not realise -that love, being the gift and abandonment of all one’s being, no sooner -does the soul feel itself pursued with the object of capture, than it -flies off like the bird to whom the charmer calls in vain. - -So it was that in presence of this chain of flowers, this rose, who -unfolded all her sweetness for me, I coiled up with reserve, whereas -towards the other, who, in her capacity of devoted friend and -confidante, seemed to avoid my approach and my glance, I felt myself -irresistibly drawn. For at that age I must confess to having already -formed very definite ideas on the subject of love and the beloved. One -day, either in the near or the far future, I told myself, I should meet -her, my fate, in that same land of Arles, a superb country maiden, -wearing the Arlesian costume like a queen, galloping on her steed across -the plains of the Crau, a trident in her hand; after a long and ardent -wooing, one fine day my song of love would win her, and in triumph I -should conduct her to our farm, where, like my mother before her, she -should reign over her pastoral subjects. Already as I look back, I see -that I dreamt of my “Mireille,” and this ideal of blooming beauty -already conceived by me, though only in the silence and secrecy of my -heart, told greatly against the chances of poor Mademoiselle Louise, -who, according to the standard of my vision, was far too much of a young -lady. - -After this we started a correspondence, or rather an interchange of love -on one side and friendship on the other, which lasted over a period of -some three years or more--all the time I was at Aix in fact. On my side -I endeavoured gallantly to humour her sentiment for myself, so that, -little by little if I could, I might change it to a feeling less -embarrassing for both of us. But Louise, in spite of this, grew ever -more and more fixed in her infatuation, winging to me one missive after -another of despairing farewell. The following was the last of these -letters: - - * * * * * - -“I have loved but once, and I shall die, I vow to you, with the name of -Frédéric engraven on my heart. Ah! the sleepless nights I have passed -thinking of my hapless fate! And yesterday, reading over your vain -attempts at consolation, the effort to keep back my weeping almost made -my heart break. The doctor announced that I had fever, a nervous -breakdown, and prescribed rest. How I rejoiced to think I was indeed -seriously ill! I felt even happy at the thought of dying and awaiting -you in that other world where your letter declares we shall surely -meet.... But hear me, Frédéric, I beseech you, since it is indeed true -that before long you will hear I have quitted this world, shed I beg, -one tear of regret for me. Two years ago I made you a promise: it was to -pray God every day to give you happiness--perfect happiness; never have -I failed to offer up that prayer, and I shall never fail while life -lasts. On your side, I beseech you, therefore, do not forget me, -Frédéric; but when you see beneath your feet the withered yellow leaves, -let them remind you of my young life withered by tears, dried up by -grief, and when you pass by a brooklet, listen to its gentle murmur, and -hear in that plaintive sound the echo of my love, and when some little -bird brushes you with its soft wing, let that tiny messenger say to you -that I am ever near you. Forget not your poor Louise, oh, Frédéric, I -pray you.” - - * * * * * - -This was the final adieu sent to me by the poor young girl, sealed with -her own blood and accompanied by a medallion of the Holy Virgin, covered -with her kisses, and encased in a small velvet cover on which she had -embroidered my initials with her chestnut hair, encircled by a wreath of -ivy, and the words, “Behold in me the strand of ivy, ever my love -embraces thee.” - -Poor dear Louise! Not long after this she took the veil and became a -nun, and in a few years died. Even now it moves me to melancholy when I -think of her young life withered before its bloom by this ill-starred -love. To her memory I dedicate this little record, and offer it to her -_Manes_ hovering perhaps still around me. - - * * * * * - -The town of Aix (Head of Justice was the old significance), where I -betook myself to make my law studies, by reason of its honourable past -as capital of Provence and parliamentary city, possessed an air of -soberness and dignity somewhat in contradiction with the Provençal -atmosphere. The stately air given by the shady trees of the beautiful -public drive, the fountains, monuments and palaces of bygone days, -together with the numerous black-robed magistrates, lawyers and -professors to be seen in the streets, all contributed towards the severe -and rather cold aspect which characterised this city. - -In my time, however, this impression was but a surface one, and among -the students there was a gaiety of race, an intimate good-fellowship, -quite in keeping with the traditions left by the good King René of old. - -I remember even worthy counsellors and judges of the Court who, when at -home, either in town or country house, amused themselves and their -friends playing the tambourine;[9] while grave and learned doctors, such -as d’Astros, brother of the Cardinal of that name, delivered at the -Academy lectures in the simple and joyous tongue of their native -Provençal. One of the best methods this for keeping alive the national -soul, and which in Aix has never lapsed. Count Portalis, for example, -one of the grand jurists of the Napoleon Code, wrote a play in -Provençal. Then there was Monsieur Diouloufet, famous librarian of the -French Athens[10] (as Aix once called herself), who, in the reign of -Louis XVIII., sang in the language of Provence his poems of “Les -Magnans”; while Monsieur Mignet, the illustrious historian and -academician, came every year to Aix on purpose to play bowls, the -national game of his youth, his panacea for restoring and renovating all -men being “to drink in the sunshine of Provence, speak the language of -Provence, eat a _ragoût_ of Provence, and every morning play a game of -bowls.” - -I had been in Aix a few months when, walking one afternoon near the Hot -Springs, to my joy I suddenly caught sight of the profile, and quite -unmistakable nose, of my friend Anselme Mathieu of Châteauneuf. - -In his usual casual way he greeted me. “This water is really hot--it is -not pretence my dear fellow, it positively smokes.” - -“When did you arrive?” I asked him with a hearty grip of the hand. “And -what good wind blew you here?” - -“The night before last,” said he. “Faith, I said to myself, since -Mistral is off to Aix to read for law, I had better do likewise.” - -I congratulated him on the happy inspiration, and inquired whether he -had taken his bachelor’s degree, without which it was useless to think -of being admitted to the Law Faculty. - -“Oh yes,” he laughed. “I passed out with the wooden spoon! But if they -refuse me a diploma in the courts of law, no man can prevent my taking -one in the courts of love! Why, only to-day,” he continued, “I made the -acquaintance of a charming young laundress, a little sunburnt it is -true, but with lips like a cherry, teeth like a puppy, unruly curls -peeping from out her white cap, a bare throat, little turned-up nose, -dimpled arms----” - -“Hold, villain,” I remonstrated, “it strikes me your eyes were not -idle.” - -“Frédéric, you are on a wrong scent,” he answered solemnly. “Think not -that I, a scion of the noble house of Montredon, irresponsible though I -may be, would lose my heart to a little chit of a laundress--but, I -don’t know if you share this feeling, I find it impossible to pass a -pretty face without turning round to gaze at it. In short, after a -little conversation with the girl, we arranged that she should - -[Illustration: ANSELM MATHIEU.] - -[Illustration: THÉODORE AUBANEL.] - -wash for me and come to fetch my things next week!” - -I upbraided him for an unscrupulous scoundrel, but he interrupted me -again, saying I had not yet grasped the situation, and begging me to -listen to the end of his tale. - -“While chatting with my little friend,” he continued, “I noticed she was -rubbing away at a dainty chemise of finest linen, trimmed with lace. It -excited my curiosity and admiration--I inquired to whom it belonged? -‘This chemise,’ the young girl answered, ‘belongs to one of the most -beautiful ladies in Aix--a _baronne_ of some thirty summers, married, -poor thing, to an old curmudgeon who is a judge of the Courts and -jealous as a Turk.’ ‘She must be bored to death,’ I cried. ‘Ah yes,’ she -replied, ‘she is bored to death, poor lady. There she sits on her -balcony waiting, one would say, for some gallant gentleman who shall -come to the rescue.’ I inquired her name, but here she demurred, saying -she was but the laundress, and had no right to mix herself up in affairs -that did not concern her. Not a word more could I get out of her; but,” -added Mathieu hopefully, “when she comes for my washing next week, it is -a pity if I don’t make her open her lips by bestowing two or three good -kisses upon them.” - -“And when you know the name of the lady, what then?” I asked. - -“What then? Why, my dear fellow, I have bread in the cupboard for three -years! While you other poor devils are grinding away at your law -studies, I, like the troubadours of old Provence, shall at my leisure -study beneath my lady’s balcony the gentle art of the laws of love.” - -And this was, in effect, precisely the task undertaken and accomplished -by the Chevalier Mathieu during the three following years at Aix. - - * * * * * - -Ah, the good days we spent in excursions all over the country! Now a -picnic by the Bridge of Arc, in a dell just off the dusty high road to -Marseilles, or a party to Tholonet to sniff up the fine fumes of the -wine of Langesse. Another time it was a students’ duel in the valley of -Infernets, the pistols charged with pellets of mud; or again a merry -company on the diligence to Toulon, through the lovely woods of Cuge and -across the Gorge of Ollioules. The students of Aix had led much the same -life since the good old days of the Popes of Avignon and the time of -Queen Joan. - -While we were thus amusing ourselves in the noble city of the Counts of -Provence, Roumanille, more wise and staid, was publishing at Avignon, -in the periodical called the _Commune_, admirable dialogues, full of -wisdom, good sense and courage, as, for example, “Le Thym,” “Un Rouge et -un Blanc,” “Les Prêtres,” work which both popularised and dignified the -Provençal tongue. From this he proceeded, on the strength of the -reputation won by his “Pâquerettes” and his daring pamphlets, to -convoke, through the means of his journal, all Provençal singers of the -day, old and young. The outcome of this rallying movement was a -publication in 1852, _Les Provençales_, presented to the public with an -introduction of ardent enthusiasm by the learned and eminent savant, -Monsieur Saint-René Taillandier, then residing at Montpellier. - -In this first venture appeared contributions from d’Astros and Gaut of -Aix; Aubert, Bellot, Bénédit, Bourelly, and Barthélemy of Marseilles; -Bondin, Cassan, Giéra of Avignon; Tarascon was represented by Gautier, -and Beaucaire by Bonnet; Châteauneuf by Anselme Mathieu; Carpentras by -Reybaud and Dupuy; Cavaillon by Castil-Blaze, then there was Garcin, -warm-hearted son of that Marshal d’Alliens mentioned in _Mireille_; and -Crousillat of Salon, besides a group of Languedoc poets--Moquin-Tandon, -Peyrottes, Lafare-Alois; and Jasmin, who contributed one poem. - -The principal contributor, however, was Roumanille, then in full flower -of production, his last work, entitled “Les Crèches,” having elicited -from the great Sainte-Beuve the declaration that it was worthy of -Klopstock. - -Théodore Aubanel, then in his twenty-second year, began to send forth -his first master-strokes, “Le 9 Thermidor,” “Les Faucheurs,” “A la -Toussaint.” And finally, I also, aflame with the fine ardour of -patriotism, sent in my ten short pieces, among which were “Amertume,” -“Le Mistral,” “Une Course de Taureaux,” and a “Bonjour à Tous,” which -last notified our new start. - - * * * * * - -But to return to the gay Mathieu and his love adventure with the lady of -Aix, the conclusion of which I left untold. - -Whenever I came across this student in the laws of love, I inquired -without fail of his progress. - -His patience and perseverance, he announced to me one day, had been -rewarded, and Lélette, the little laundress, at last consented to show -him the house of the fair _baronne_. Beneath her balcony he had from -that time paced to and fro, unwearyingly, until finally observed by the -object of his adoration--a lady, declared Mathieu, of matchless -beauty--and the sequel proved of good taste also, since the other -evening, smiling charmingly upon her devoted cavalier, she had let fall -from the heaven above him--a flower. - -Thereupon Mathieu produced a faded carnation in proof of his tale, and -gazing with tender rapture, blew a kiss skywards. - -After this, several months elapsed, without my catching a sight of -Mathieu. I resolved to go and look him up. - -Mounting to his attic, I found my friend reclining with one foot on a -chair. - -Bidding me a hearty welcome, he poured forth his latest news and the -history of his accident. - -“Imagine, my dear fellow--I had hit upon a plan for a nocturnal visit to -my divine lady. Everything was arranged--Lélette, my little laundress, -lent us a hand. I entered the garden at eleven o’clock, and by the -trellis of the rosetree which creeps to her window, I climbed up. You -may imagine how my heart beat! For she, my sovereign lady, had promised -to stretch out her dainty hand that I might press thereon my kisses. -Heavens!--the shutters opened softly--and a hand, my Frédéric, a hand I -quickly recognised was not that of my adored, shook down on my upturned -nose--the cinders of a pipe! I waited for no more, but sliding to the -ground, I fled. I leapt the garden wall, and, confound it--sprained my -foot!” - -He laughed, and I joined him till we nearly dislocated our jaws. I -inquired if he had sent for a doctor? That office he informed me had -been undertaken by the mother of Lélette--a worthy dame who kept a -tavern near the Porte d’Italie. This old body, being a sorceress in her -way, had steeped the sprained foot in white wine, muttering weird -incantations the while, and, after bandaging the foot tightly, concluded -the ceremony by making the sign of the cross three times with her great -toe. - -“So here I am,” said Mathieu, “waiting till Providence sees fit to heal -me ... and reading meanwhile the ‘Pâquerettes’ of our friend Roumanille. -The time does not hang heavy, for little Lélette brings me my simple -fare twice a day, and in default of ortolans I am thankful for -sparrows.” - -Whether Mathieu, well named, as he afterwards was, the “Félibre of the -Kisses,” drew on his gorgeous imagination for the whole of this romantic -episode, I cannot pretend to say; enough that I repeat it as he told it -to me. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE RETURN TO THE FARM - - -I had now become a full-blown lawyer, like scores of others, and, as you -may have remarked, I did not overwork myself! Proud as a young bird that -has found a worm, I returned home, arriving just at the hour of supper, -which was being served on the stone table in the open, under the vine -trellis, by the last rays of the setting sun. - -“Good evening, everybody!” I cried. - -“God bless you, Frédéric.” - -“Father, mother, it is all right!” I announced, “and I have really -finished this time!” - -“Well, that is a good job!” cried Madeleine, the young Piedmontaise, who -served at table. - -Then, still standing, and before all the labourers, I gave an account of -my last undertaking. As I finished, my venerable father remarked: - -“Well, my boy, I have now done my duty by you. You have had much more -schooling than I ever had. It is now for you to choose the road that -suits you--I leave you free.” - -“Hearty thanks, my father,” I answered. - -And then and there--at that time I was one and twenty--with my foot on -the threshold of the paternal home, and my eyes looking towards the -Alpilles, I formed the resolution, first, to raise and revivify in -Provence the sentiment of race that I saw being annihilated by the false -and unnatural education of all the schools; secondly, to promote that -resurrection by the restoration of the native and historic language of -the country, against which the schools waged war to the death; and -lastly, to make that language popular by illuminating it with the divine -flame of poetry. - -All these ideas hummed vaguely in my soul. This eddying and surging of -the Provençal sap filled my being, and, free from all conventional -literary influences, strong in the independence which gave me wings, and -assured that nothing could now deter me, the sight of the labourers one -evening, singing as they followed the plough in the furrow, inspired me -with the opening song of _Mireille_. - -This poem, the child of love, was peaceably and leisurely brought to -birth under the influence of the warm golden sunshine and the breath of -the wide sweeping winds of Provence. At the same time I took over the -charge of the farm, under the direction of my father, who, at eighty -years of age, had become blind. It was a life well suited to me, and -this was all I cared for--to be happy in my home and with certain chosen -friends. We were indifferent to Paris in those days of innocence. My -highest ambition was that Arles, which rose ever on my horizon as did -Mantua on that of Virgil, should one day recognise my poetry as her own. - -Thus, thinking only of the country people of the Crau and the Camargue, -I could truly say in _Mireille_: - -“We sing but for you, shepherds and people of the farms.” - -I had no definite plan in commencing _Mireille_, except the broad lines -of a love-story between two beautiful children of Provence, both with -the temperament of their country though of different ranks in life, and -to let the ball roll in the unpremeditated way that happens in real -life, apparently at the pleasure of the winds. - -Mireille, the happy name which breathes its own poetry, was destined to -be that of my heroine, for I had heard it in our home from my cradle, -though nowhere else. - -When old Nanon, my maternal grandmother, wished to compliment one of her -daughters she would say: - -“That is Mireille, the beautiful Mireille of my heart!” - -And my mother in fun would say sometimes of a young girl: - -“There, do you see her? That is the Mireille of my heart.” - -But when I questioned concerning Mireille, no one could tell me -anything; hers was a lost history of which nothing remained but the name -of the heroine, and a gleam of beauty lost in a mist of love. It was -enough, however, to bring good fortune to a poem, which perhaps--who can -tell?--was the reconstruction of a true romance, revealed through the -intuition granted to the poet. - -The Judge’s Farm was at this time the best of all soils for the growth -of idyllic poetry. Was not this epic of Provence, with its background of -blue and its frame of the Alpilles, living and singing around me? Did I -not see Mireille passing, not only in my dreams of a young man, but also -in actual person? Now in the sweet village maidens who came to gather -mulberry leaves for the silk-worms, now in the charming white-coifed -haymakers, gleaners and reapers who came and went through the corn, the -hay, the olives and the vines. - -And the actors of my drama, my labourers, harvesters, cowherds and -shepherds, did they not gladden my eyes from early morn till eve? Could -one possibly find a grander prototype for my Master Ramon than the -patriarch François Mistral, he whom all the world, even my mother, -called “The Master”? My dear father! Sometimes, when the work was -pressing and help was needed, either for the hay or to draw water from -the well, he would call out, “Where is Frédéric?” Perhaps at that moment -I had crept away under a sheltering willow in pursuit of some flying -rhyme, and my poor mother would answer: - -“He is writing.” - -And at once the stern voice of the good man would soften as he said: - -“Then do not disturb him.” - -For, having himself read nothing but the Scriptures and “Don Quixote,” -writing in his eyes appeared a sort of religious exercise. - -This respect of the unlettered for the mystery of the pen is very well -shown in the opening of one of our popular legends: - - Monseigneur Saint-Anselme was learned and wise, - One day, by his writing, he rose to the skies, &c. - -Another person who, without knowing it, influenced my epic muse was our -old cousin Tourette, from the village of Mouriès; a sort of colossus, -strong of limb but lame, with great leather gaiters over his boots; he -was known in all that part as “The Major,” having, in 1815, served as -drum-major in the National Guards, under the command of the Duc -d’Angoulême, he who wished to arrest Napoleon on his return from the -Isle of Elba. “The Major” had, in his youth, dissipated his fortune by -gambling, and in his old age, reduced to poverty, he came, every winter, -to pass some time with us at the farm. On his departure, my father -always saw that he took with him some bushels of corn. During the summer -time he travelled over the Crau and the Camargue, now helping the -shepherds to shear the sheep, now the mowers of the marshes to bind the -rushes, or the salters to collect and heap up the salt. Certainly no one -could equal him in knowledge of the country of Arles and its work. He -knew the names of every farm, and every pasture, of the head shepherds, -and of each stud of horses or of wild bulls. And he talked of it all -with an eloquence, a picturesqueness, a richness of Provençal expression -which it was a pleasure to hear. Describing, for instance, the Comte de -Mailly as very rich in house property, he would say: “He possesses seven -acres of roofing.” - -The girls who were engaged for the olive gathering at Mouriès would -hire him to tell them stories in the evenings. They gave him, I think, -each one, a halfpenny for the evening. He kept them in fits of laughter, -for he knew all the stories, more or less humorous, that from one to -another were transmitted among the people, such as “Jean de la Vache,” -“Jean de la Mule,” “Jean de l’Ours,” “Le Doreur,” &c. - -Directly the snow began to fall we knew “The Major” would soon make his -appearance. And he never failed. - -“Good-day, cousin.” - -“Cousin, good-day.” - -And there he was. His hand shaken and his stick deposited, unobtrusively -he took up his accustomed seat in his corner, and, while eating a good -slice of bread and butter and cheese, he would give us the news. - -Cousin Tourette being, like most dreamers, a bit of an idler, had all -his life dreamt of a remunerative post where there would be very little -work. - -“I should like,” he told us, “the situation of reckoner of cod-fish. At -Marseilles, for instance, in one of those big shops where they unload, a -man can, while seated, earn, so I am told, by counting the fish in -dozens, his twelve hundred francs a year!” - -Poor old Major! He died, like many another, without having realised his -cod-fish dream. - -I can never forget either, among those who helped me to make the poetry -of _Mireille_, the woodcutter Siboul, a fine fellow from Montfrin, in a -suit of velvet, who came every year towards the end of the autumn with -his great billhook to trim our undergrowth of willow. While he worked -away busily, what shrewd observations he would make to me about the -Rhône, its currents, eddies, lagoons and bays, the soil and the islands! -Also about the animals that frequented the dikes, the otters that lodged -in the hollow trees, the beavers who work as deftly as woodcutters, the -birds who suspend their nests from the white poplars, besides endless -stories of the osier-cutters and basket-makers of Vallabrèque and that -district. - -My chief instructor, however, in the botany of Provence was our -neighbour Xavier, a peasant herbalist, who told me the Provençal names -and virtues of all the simples and herbs of Saint-Jean and of -Saint-Roch. And thus I collected such a good store of botanical -knowledge that, without wishing to speak slightingly of the learned -professors of our schools, either high or low, I believe those gentlemen -would have found it difficult to pass the examination I could, for -instance, on the subject of thistles. - -Suddenly, like a bomb, during this quiet, growing time of my _Mireille_, -burst the news of the Revolution of December 2, 1851. - -I had never been one of those fanatics to whom the Republic meant -religion, country, justice--everything; and the Jacobites, by their -intolerance, their mania for levelling, their hardness, brutality and -materialism, had disgusted and wounded me more than once, and now the -action of the Government in uprooting the very law to which they had -sworn fidelity, filled me with indignation, and dissipated once and for -all any illusions about those future federations which I had once hoped -would be the outcome of a Republic of France. - -Some of my colleagues from the Law School placed themselves at the head -of the insurgent bands who were raised in Le Var in the name of the -Constitution; but the greater number, in Provence as elsewhere, some -disgusted by the turbulence of the opposing party, others dazzled by the -brilliance of the first Empire, applauded the change of Government. Who -could have foretold that the new Empire would tumble to pieces as it -did, in a terrible war and national wreck? - -So it came to pass that I abandoned, once and for all, inflammatory -politics, even as one casts off a burden on the road in order to walk -more lightly, and from henceforth I gave myself up entirely to my -country and my art--my Provence, from whom I had never received aught -but pure joy. - -One evening, about this time, withdrawn in contemplation, roaming in -quest of my rhymes,--for I have always found my verses by the highways -and byways--I met an old man tending his sheep. It was the worthy Jean, -a character well known to me. The sky was covered with stars, the -screech-owl hooted, and the following dialogue took place: - -“You have wandered far, Mister Frédéric,” began the shepherd. - -“I am taking a little air, Master Jean,” I answered. - -“You are going for a turn among the stars?” - -“Master Jean, you have said it. I am so heartily sick, disillusioned and -disheartened with the things of earth, that I wish to-night to ascend -and lose myself in the kingdom of the stars.” - -“Well, I myself,” said he, “make an excursion there nearly every night, -and I assure you the journey is one of the most beautiful.” - -“But how does one manage to find one’s way in that unfathomable depth of -light?” - -“If you would like to follow me, sir, while the sheep eat, I will guide -you gently and show you all.” - -“Worthy Jean, I take you at your word,” I readily agreed. - -“Now, let us mount by that road which shows all white from north to -south: it is the road of Saint-Jacques. It goes from France straight -over to Spain. When the Emperor Charlemagne made war with the Saracens, -the great Saint-Jacques of Galice marked it out before him to show him -the way.” - -“It is what the pagans called the Milky Way,” I observed. - -“Possibly,” he replied with indifference. “I tell you what I have always -heard. Now, do you see that fine chariot with its four wheels which -dazzles all the north? That is the Chariot of the Souls. The three stars -which precede it are the three beasts of the team, and the small star -which is near the third is named the Charioteer.” - -“They are what the books call the Great Bear.” - -“As you please--but look, look, all around are falling stars--they are -the poor souls who have just entered Paradise. Make the sign of the -Cross, Mister Frédéric.” - -“Beautiful angels, may God be with you!” - -“But see,” he went on, “a fine star shining there, not far from the -chariot. It is the drover of the skies.” - -“Which in astronomy they call Arcturus.” - -“That is of no importance. Now look over there in the north at the star -which scarcely scintillates: that is the seaman’s star, otherwise called -the Tramontane. She is nearly always visible, and serves as a signal to -sailors, they think themselves lost if they lose the Tramontane.” - -“Also called the Polar Star,” said I; “it is found in the Little Bear, -and as the north wind comes from there, the sailors of Provence, like -those of Italy, say they are going to the Bear when they go against that -wind.” - -“Now turn your head,” said the shepherd, “you will see the Chicken-coop -twinkling, or, if you like it better, the Brood of Chickens.” - -“Which the learned have named the Pleiades, and the Gascon, the Dog’s -Cart.” - -“That’s so,” he allowed. “A little lower shine the Signalmen, specially -appointed to mark the hours for the shepherds. Some call them the ‘Three -Kings,’ others the ‘Three Bells.’” - -“Just so, it is Orion and his Belt.” - -“Very well,” conceded my friend, “now still lower, always towards the -meridian, shines Jean de Milan.” - -“Sirius, if I mistake not.” - -“Jean de Milan is the torch of the stars,” he continued. “Jean de Milan -had been invited one day, with the Signalmen and the Young Chicken, so -they say, to a wedding, the wedding of the beautiful Maguelone, of whom -we will speak again. The Young Chicken set out, it appears, early, and -took the high road. The Signalmen, having taken a lower cut, at last -arrived there also. Jean de Milan slept on, and when he rose took a -short cut, and to stop them, threw his stick flying in the air--which -caused them to be called ever since, by some people, the Stick of Jean -de Milan.” - -“And that one, far away, which is just showing its nose above the -mountain?” I inquired. - -“That is the Cripple,” he replied. “He also was asked to the wedding, -but as he limps, poor devil, he goes but slowly. Also, he gets up late -and goes to bed early.” - -“And that one going down, over there, in the west, and shining like a -bride?” I asked. - -“Ah, that is our own--the Shepherds’ Star, the Star of the Morning, -which lights us at dawn when we unfold the sheep, and at sundown when we -drive them in. That is she, the Queen of stars, the beautiful star, -Maguelone, the lovely Maguelone, pursued unceasingly by Pierre de -Provence, with whom, every seven years, takes place her marriage.” - -“The conjunction, I believe, of Venus and Jupiter, or occasionally of -Saturn.” - -“According to taste,” replied my guide--“but, hist, Labrit! Oh, the -rascally dog, the scoundrel! Whilst we talk, the sheep have scattered. -Hist, bring them back! I must go myself. Good evening, Mister Frédéric, -take care you do not lose yourself.” - -“Good-night, friend Jean.” - -Let us, also, return, like the shepherd, to our sheep. - -About this time, in a publication called _Les Provençales_, to which -many Provençal writers, old and young, contributed, I and other of the -younger poets engaged in a correspondence on the subject of the language -and of our productions. The result of these discussions, which became -extremely animated, was the idea of a Conference of Provençal poets. And -under the directorship of Roumanille and of Gaut, both of whom had been -contributors to the journal _Lou Boui-Abaisse_, the first meeting was -held on August 29, 1852, at Arles, in a room in the ancient -archbishop’s palace, under the presidency of Doctor d’Astros, oldest -member of the Bards. Here we all met and made acquaintance, Aubanel, -Aubert, Bourelly, Cassan, Crousillat, Désanet, Garcin, Gaut, Gelu, -Mathieu, Roumanille, myself and others. Thanks to the good -Carpentrassian, Bonaventure Laurent, our portraits had the honour of -being in _L’Illustration_ (September 18, 1852). - -Roumanille, when inviting Monsieur Moquin-Tandon, professor of the -Faculty of Science at Toulouse, and a gifted poet in his tongue of -Montpellier, had begged him to bring Jasmin to Arles. But the author of -“Marthe la folle,” the illustrious poet of Gascony, answered the -invitation of Moquin-Tandon: “Since you are going to Arles, tell them -they may gather together in forties and in hundreds, but they will never -make the noise that I have made quite alone!” - -“That is Jasmin from head to foot!” Roumanille said to me. “That reply -reproduces him much more faithfully than does the bronze statue raised -at Agen in his honour.” - -In short, the hairdresser of Agen, in spite of his genius, was always -somewhat surly with those who, like himself, wished to sing in our -tongue. Roumanille, since we are on the subject, some years previously, -had sent him his “Pâquerettes,” dedicating to him “Madeleine,” one of -the best poems of the collection. Jasmin did not even deign to thank -him. But in 1848, when the Gascon passed through Avignon, on the -occasion of his assisting at a concert given by the harpist, -Mademoiselle Roaldes, Roumanille and several others went to offer their -respects afterwards to the poet, who had made tears flow as he recited -his “Souvenirs.” - -“Who are you then?” asked Jasmin of the poet of Saint-Rémy. - -“One of your admirers, Joseph Roumanille.” - -“Roumanille!--I remember that name. But I thought it belonged to a dead -author.” - -“Monsieur, as you see,” answered the author of the ‘Pâquerettes,’ who -never allowed any one to tread on his toes, “I am young enough, if it -please God, some day to write your epitaph.” - -One who was much more gracious to our Congress at Arles was the good -Reboul, who wrote to us thus: “May God bless you. May your fights be -feasts, your rivals, friends! He who created the skies made those of our -country so wide and so blue that there is room for all stars.” - -Jules Canonge of Nîmes also wrote to us: “My friends, if you have to -battle one day for your cause, remember it was at Arles that you held -your first meeting, and that your torch was lit in the proud and noble -city which has for arms and for motto, ‘The sword and the wrath of the -lion.’” - -The Congress at Arles had succeeded too well not to be renewed. The -following year, on August 21, 1853, at the suggestion of Gaut, the -jovial poet of Aix, an assembly was held at that city. This “Festival of -the Bards,” was twice as large as that held at Arles. It was on this -occasion that Brizeux, the grand bard of Brittany, addressed to us his -greetings and his wishes: - - With olive branches shall your heads be crowned; - Only the moors have I, where sad flowers blow: - The one, a sign of peace and joyous round; - The other, but a symbol of our woe. - - Let us unite them, friends. Our sons henceforth - Shall wear these flowers upon their brow no more, - Nor sound th’ entrancing songs of our dear North, - When we, the faithful few, have gone before. - - Yet, can it die, the fresh and gentle breeze? - The storm-winds bear it hence upon their wing, - But it comes back to kiss the mossy leas. - Can the song die the nightingale did sing? - - Nay, nay: our glorious speech in its decline, - O fair Provence, thou wilt restore and save! - Thro’ long years yet that errant voice of thine - Shall sigh, O Merlin, whispering o’er my grave! - -Besides those I have mentioned as figuring at the Congress of Arles, -here are the new names that appeared at the Congress of Aix: Léon -Alègre, the Abbé Aubert, Autheman Bellot, Brunet, Chalvet, the Abbé -Lambert, Lejourdan, Peyrottes, Ricard-Bérard, Tavan, Vidal, &c., and -three poetesses, Mesdemoiselles Reine Garde, Léonide Constans, and -Hortense Rolland. - -A literary _séance_ was held after lunch in the Town Hall, before all -the grand world of Aix. The big hall was courteously decorated with the -colours of Provence and the arms of all the Provençal towns, and on a -banner of crimson velvet were inscribed the names of the principal -Provençal poets of the last century. - -The Mayor of Aix, who also held the post of deputy, was at that time -Monsieur Rigaud, the same who later made a translation of “Mirèio” into -French verse. - -After the overture, sung by a choir to the words of Jean-Batiste, and -beginning: - - Troubadours of Provence - For us this day is glorious. - Behold the glad Renaissance - Of the language of the South! - -the President d’Astros discoursed delightfully in Provençal, and then, -in turn, each poet contributed some piece of his own. - -Roumanille, much applauded, recited one of his tales, and sang “La Jeune -Aveugle;” Aubanel gave us “Des Jumeaux,” and I the “Fin du Moissonneur.” -But the greatest successes were produced by the song of the peasant -Tavan, “Les Frisons de Mariette,” and the recitation of the mason -Lacroix, who made us all shiver with his “Pauvre Martine.” - -Emile Zola, then a scholar at the College of Aix, was present at this -meeting, and forty years afterwards this is what he said in the -discourse he gave at the Felibrée of Sceaux (1892): - -“I was fifteen or sixteen years old, and I can see myself as a -school-boy escaping from college in order to be present in the great -room of the Town Hall at Aix at a poets’ fête, somewhat resembling the -one I have the honour to preside over to-day. Mistral was there, -declaiming his ‘Fin du Moissonneur’; Roumanille and Aubanel also, and -many others who, a few years later, were to be the ‘Félibres’ and who -were then but ‘Troubadours.’ At the banquet that night we had the -pleasure of raising our glasses to the health of old Bellot, who had -made a great name, not only in Marseilles but throughout Provence, as a -comic poet, and who, overcome at seeing this outburst of patriotic -enthusiasm, replied to us somewhat sadly: - -“‘I am but a bungler. In my poor life I have blackened much paper. But -Gaut, Mistral, Crousillat, they who have the fire of youth, will unwind -the tangled skein of our Provençal tongue.’” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -FONT-SEGUGNE - - -We were a set of youthful spirits at that time in Provence, all closely -banded together with the object of a literary revival for our national -tongue. We went at it heart and soul. - -Nearly every Sunday, sometimes at Avignon, sometimes at Maillane, in the -gardens of Saint-Rémy or on the heights of Châteauneuf, we met together -for our small intimate festivities, our Provençal banquets, at which the -poetry was of a finer flavour than the meats, and our enthusiasm -intoxicated a good deal more than the wine. - -It was on these occasions that Roumanille regaled us with his “Noëls” -and “Dreamers” freshly coined from the mint, and that Aubanel, still -holding the faith, but tugging at the leading-strings, recited to us his -“Massacre of the Innocents.” _Mireille_ also, from time to time, -appeared in newly turned-out strophes. - -Every year about the Eve of Sainte-Agathe, “the poets,” as they began to -call us, assembled at the Judge’s Farm, and there for three days lived -the gypsy’s free unfettered life. Sainte-Agathe belongs properly to -Sicily, where she is often invoked against the fires of Etna, but in -spite of this she receives great devotion from the people of Arles and -Maillane, the girls of the village regarding it as a coveted honour to -serve as a priestess of her altar, and on the eve of her feast, before -opening the dance on the green, the young couples, with their musicians, -always commenced by giving a serenade to Sainte-Agathe outside the -parish church. We, with the other gallants of the countryside, also went -to pay our respects to the patroness of Maillane. - -It is a curious thing, this homage offered to dead and gone saints, -throughout the length and breadth of the land, in the north even as in -the south, and continuing uninterruptedly for centuries upon centuries. -What a passing and ephemeral thing in comparison is the fame and homage -awarded to the poet, artist, scholar, or even warrior, remembered as -they are by only a few admirers. Victor Hugo himself will never attain -the fame of even the least saint on the calendar; take, for example, -Saint-Gent, who for seven hundred years has seen his thousands of -faithful flocking annually to his shrine in the mountains. No one more -readily than Victor Hugo recognised this truth, for, asked one day by a -flatterer what glory in this world could excel that which crowned the -poet, he answered promptly, “That of the saint.” - -Mathieu was in great request at the village dances, and we all watched -him with admiration as he danced, now with Villette, now with Gango or -Lali, my pretty cousins. In the meadow by the mill took place the -wrestling contests, announced by the beating of tambours and presided -over by old Jésette, the famous champion of former days, who, marching -up and down, pitted one against the other, in strident tones enforcing -the rules of the game. - -One of us would ask him if he remembered how he had made the wrestler -Quéquine, or some other rival, bite the dust, and once started, the old -athlete would rehearse with delight his ancient victories, how he -floored Bel-Arbre of Aramon, not to mention Rabasson, Creste d’Apt and, -above all, Meissonier, the Hercules of Avignon, before whom no one could -stand up. Ah, in those days he might truly say he had been invincible! -He had gone by the name of the “Little Maillanais”--“the Flexible.” - -When our poets’ réunions were at Saint-Rémy we met at the house of -Roumanille’s parents, Jean-Denis and Pierrette, well-to-do -market-gardeners living on their own land. On these occasions we dined -in the open air under the shade of a vine-covered arbour. The best -painted plates were had out in our honour, while Zine and Antoinette, -the two sisters of our friend, handsome brunettes in their twenties, -ministered to our wants and served us with the excellent _blanquette_ -they had themselves prepared. - -A rugged old soldier was this Jean-Denis, father of Joseph Roumanille. -He had served under Bonaparte, as he somewhat disdainfully called the -Emperor, had fought in the battle of Waterloo and gained the Cross, -which, however, in the confusion following the defeat, he never -received. When his son, in after years, gained a decoration under -MacMahon, he remarked: “The son receives what the father earned.” - -The following is the epitaph Roumanille inscribed on the tomb of his -parents in the cemetery at Saint-Rémy: - - To Jean-Denis Roumanille - Gardener. A man of worth and courage. 1791-1875. - And to Pierrette his Spouse - Good, pious and strong. 1793-1875. - They lived as Christians and died in peace. - God keep them. - -[Illustration: MAS DES POMMIERS--HOME OF JOSEPH ROUMANILLE.] - -Our meetings in Avignon were held at Aubanel’s home in the street of -Saint-Marc, which to-day is called by the name of the great Félibre -poet. The house had formerly been a cardinal’s palace, and has since -been destroyed in making a new street. Just inside the vestibule stood -the great wooden press with its big screw, which for two hundred years -had served for printing the parochial and educational works of all the -State. - -Here we would take up our abode, somewhat awed by the odour of sanctity -which seemed to emanate from those episcopal walls, and even more by -Jeanneton, the old cook, who eyed us with a look which said plainly: -“Why, here they are again!” - -The kindly welcome, however, of our host’s father, official printer to -his Holiness the Pope, and the joviality of his uncle, the venerable -Canon, soon put us at our ease. - -At Brunet’s and also Mathieu’s we sometimes held our revels, but it was -at Font-Ségugne, predestined to play an important part in our -enterprise, that perhaps we most enjoyed ourselves in the charming -country house belonging to the family of Giéra. Paul, the eldest son, -was a notary at Avignon, and an enthusiastic supporter of our movement. -His mother, a dignified and gracious lady, two sisters, charming, -joyous young girls, and a younger brother, Jules, devoted to the work of -the White Penitents, made up the circle of this delightful home. - -Font-Ségugne is situated near the Camp-Cabel, facing in the distance the -great Ventoux mountain, and a few miles from the Fountain of Vaucluse. -It takes its name from a little spring which runs at the foot of the -castle. A delicious little copse of oaks, acacias and planes protects -the place from winter winds and the summer sun. - -Tavan, the peasant poet of Gadagne, says of Font-Ségugne: “It is the -favourite trysting-spot of the village lovers on Sundays, for there they -find a grateful shade, solitude, quiet nooks, little stone benches -covered with ivy, winding paths among the trees, a lovely view, the song -of birds, the rustling of leaves, the rippling of brooks! Where better -than in such a spot can the solitary wander and dream of love, or the -happy pair resort, and love?” - -Here we came, to re-create ourselves like mountain birds--Roumanille, -Mathieu, Brunet, Tavan, Crousillat, and, above all, Aubanel, under the -spell of the eyes of Zani, a fair young friend of the young ladies of -the house: - -In his “Livre de l’Amour,” Aubanel drew the portrait of his -enchantress: - -“Soon I shall see her--the young maiden with her slender form clad in a -soft gown of grey--with her smooth brow and her beauteous eyes, her long -black hair and lovely face. Soon I shall see her, the youthful virgin, -and she will say to me ‘Good evening.’ Oh Zani, come quickly!” - -In after years, when his Zani had taken the veil, he writes of -Font-Ségugne, recalling the past: - -“It is summer--the nights are clear. Over the copse the moon mounts and -shines down on Camp-Cabel. Dost thou remember, behind the convent walls, -thou with thy Spanish face, how we chased each other, running, racing -like mad, among the trees, till in the dark wood thou wast afraid? And -ah, how sweet it was when my arm stole round thy slender waist, and to -the song of the nightingales we danced together, while thou didst mingle -thy fresh young voice with the notes of the birds. Ah, sweet little -friend, where are they now, those songs and joys! When tired of running, -of laughing, of dancing, I remember how we sat down beneath the -oak-trees to rest. My hand, a lover’s hand, played with thy long raven -tresses which, loosened, fell about thee--and smiling gently as a mother -on her child, thou didst not forbid me.” - -On the walls of the room at the château where Zani had once slept, he -wrote these lines: - -“O little chamber--dear little chamber! How small to hold so many -remembrances! As I cross the threshold it seems to me I hear them -come--those two sweet maids Zani and Julia. But never will they sleep -again in this little room--those days are flown for ever--Julia dwells -no more on earth, and my Zani is a nun.” - -No spot more favourable could have been imagined wherein to cradle a -glorious dream, to bring to flower the bloom of an ideal, than this -château on the hillside, surrounded by the serene blue distances, -enlivened by these lovely laughing maidens and a group of young men -vowed to the worship of the Beautiful under the three headings of -Poetry, Love, and Provence, a trinity which for them formed always a -unity. - -It was written in the stars that one Sunday of flowers, May 21, 1854, at -the full tide of spring and youth, seven poets should meet at this -château of Font-Ségugne. - -Paul Giéra, a joking spirit who signed his name backwards as “Glaup”; -Roumanille, a propagandist who, without appearing to do so, unceasingly -fanned the flame of the sacred fire all around him; Aubanel, converted -by Roumanille to our tongue, and who, under the influence of love’s -sun, was at this moment bursting into bloom with his “Pomegranate”; -Mathieu, lost in visions of a reawakened Provence, and, as ever, the -gallant squire of all fair damsels; Brunet with his face resembling the -Christ, dreaming his utopia of a terrestrial Paradise; and the peasant -Tavan, who, stretched on the grass, sang all day like the cicada; -finally, Frédéric, ready to send on the wings of the mistral, like the -mountain shepherds to their flocks, his hailing cry to all brothers of -the race, and to plant his standard on the summit of the Ventoux. - -At dinner, the conversation turned that evening, as so often before, on -the best means of rescuing our language from the decadence into which it -had fallen since those ruling classes, faithless to the honour of -Provence, had relegated the language to the position of a mere dialect. -And, in view of the fact that at the last two Congresses, both at Arles -and at Aix, every attempt on the part of the young school of Avignon -patriots to rehabilitate the Provençal tongue had been badly received -and dismissed, the seven at Font-Ségugne determined to band together and -take the enterprise in hand. - -“And now,” said Glaup, “as we are forming a new body we must have a new -name. The old one of “minstrel” will not do, as every rhymer, even he -who has nothing to rhyme about, adopts it. That of troubadour is no -better, for, appropriated to designate the poets of a certain period, it -has been tarnished by abuse. We must find something new.” - -Then I took up the speech: - -“My friends,” said I, “in an old country legend I believe we shall find -the predestined name.” And I proceeded: “His Reverence Saint-Anselme, -reading and writing one day from the Holy Scriptures, was lifted up into -the highest heaven. Seated near the Infant Christ he beheld the Holy -Virgin. Having saluted the aged saint, the Blessed Virgin continued her -discourse to her Infant Son, relating how she came to suffer for His -sake seven bitter wounds.” Here I omitted the recital of the wounds -until I came to the following passage: “The fourth wound that I suffered -for Thee, O my precious Son, it was when I lost Thee, and seeking three -days and three nights found Thee not until I entered the Temple, where -Thou wast disputing with the scribes of the Law, with the seven -‘Félibres’ of the Law.” - -“The seven Félibres of the Law--but here we are!” cried they all in -chorus: “Félibre is the name.” - -Then Glaup, filling up the seven glasses with a bottle of Châteauneuf -which had been just seven years in the cellar, proposed the health of -the Félibres. “And since we have begun baptizing,” he continued, “let us -adopt all the vocabulary which can be legitimately derived from our new -name. I suggest, therefore, that every branch of Félibres numbering not -less than seven members shall be called a ‘Félibrerie,’ in memory, -gentlemen, of the Pleiades of Avignon.” - -“And I,” said Roumanille, “beg to propose the pretty verb ‘félibriser,’ -signifying to meet together as we are now doing.” - -“I wish to add,” said Mathieu, “the term ‘félibrée’ to signify a -festivity of Provençal poets.” - -“And I,” struck in Tavan, “give the adjective ‘félibréen’ to all things -descriptive of our movement.” - -“And to the ladies who shall sing in the tongue of Provence I dedicate -the name of ‘Félibresse,’” said Aubanel. - -Upon which Brunet added promptly: - -“And the children of all Félibres I baptize ‘Félibrillons.’” - -“And let me conclude,” I cried, “with this national word, ‘Félibrige,’ -which shall designate our work and association.” - -Then Glaup took up the speech again: - -“But this is not all, my friends--behold us, ‘the wise ones of the -Law’--but how about the Law? Who is going to make it?” - -“I am,” I answered unhesitatingly, “even if I have to give twenty years -of my life to it; I will undertake to show that our speech is a -language, not a dialect, and I will reconstruct the laws on which it was -once formed.” - -How strange it seems to look back on that scene--like some fairy-tale, -and yet it was from that day of light-hearted festivity, of youthful -ideals and enthusiasms, that sprang the gigantic task completed in the -“Treasury of the Félibres,”[11] a - -[Illustration: MME. FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL, 1ST QUEEN OF THE FÉLIBRES.] - -dictionary of the Provençal tongue, including every variety of -derivation and idiom, a work to which I devoted twenty years of my life. - -In the _Provençal Almanac_ for 1855, Paul Giéra writes: - -“When the Law is completed which is being now prepared by one of our -number, and which will clearly set forth the why and wherefore of -everything, all opponents will be finally silenced.” - -It was on this memorable occasion at Font-Ségugne that we also decided -on a small annual publication which should be a connecting-link between -all Félibres, the standard-bearer of our ideas, and a means of -communicating them to the people. - -Having settled all these points, we suddenly bethought us that this same -May 21 was no other than the Feast of the Star (Saint-Estelle), and even -as the Magi, recognising the mystic influx of some high conjunction, we -saluted the Star so opportunely presiding over the cradle of our -redemption. - -That same year, 1855, appeared the first number of the _Provençal -Almanac_, numbering 112 pages. And conspicuous among the contributions -was our “Song of the Félibres,” which set forth the programme of our -popular Renaissance. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -THE “PROVENÇAL ALMANAC” - - -The _Provençal Almanac_, welcomed by the country-people, delighted in by -the patriots, highly favoured by the learned and eagerly looked forward -to by the artistic, rapidly gained a footing with the public, and the -publication, which the first year had numbered five hundred copies, -quickly increased to twelve hundred, three thousand, five, seven, and -then ten thousand, which figure remained the lowest average during a -period of from fifteen to twenty years. - -As this periodical was essentially one for the family circle, this -figure represents, I should judge, at least fifty thousand readers. It -is impossible to give any idea of the trouble, devotion and pride which -both Roumanille and I bestowed unceasingly on this beloved little work -during the first forty years. Without mentioning the numerous poems -which were published in it, and those Chronicles wherein were contained -the whole history of the Félibre movement, the quantity of tales, -legends, witticisms, and jokes culled from all parts of the country -made this publication a unique collection. The essence of the spirit of -our race was to be found here, with its traditions and characteristics, -and were the people of Provence to one day disappear, their manner of -living and thinking would be rediscovered, faithfully portrayed such as -they were, in this Almanac of the Félibres. - -Roumanille has published in a separate volume, “Tales of Provence,” the -flower of those attractive stories he contributed in profusion to the -Almanac. I have never collected my tales, but will here give a few -specimens of those which were among the most popular of my -contributions, and which have been widely circulated in translations by -Alphonse Daudet, Paul Arène, E. Blavat, and other good friends. - - -THE GOOD PILGRIM - -LEGEND OF PROVENCE - -I - -Master Archimbaud was nearly a hundred years old. He had been formerly a -rugged man of war, but now, crippled and paralysed with age, he never -left his bed, being unable to move. - -Old Master Archimbaud had three sons. One morning he called the eldest -to him and said: - -“Come here, Archimbalet! While lying quiet in my bed and meditating, for -the bedridden have time for reflection, I remembered that once in the -midst of a battle, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed if God -delivered me to go on a pilgrimage to Rome.... Alas, I am as old as -earth! and can no longer go on a journey; I wish, my son, that thou -wouldst make that pilgrimage in my stead; sorely it troubles me to die -without accomplishing my vow.” - -The eldest son replied: - -“What the devil has put this into your head, a pilgrimage to Rome and I -don’t know where else! Father, eat, drink, lie still in your bed and say -as many Paternosters as you please! but the rest of us have something -else to do.” - -The next morning, Master Archimbaud called to him his second son: - -“Listen, my son,” he said; “meditating here on my bed and reviewing the -past--for, seest thou, in bed one has leisure for thinking--I remembered -that once, in a fight, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed to God -to make the great journey to Rome.... Alas! I am old as earth! I can no -longer go to the wars. Greatly I desire that thou wouldest in my stead -make the pilgrimage to Rome.” - -The second son replied: - -“Father, in two weeks we shall have the hot weather! Then the fields -must be ploughed, the vines dressed, the hay cut. Our eldest must take -the flocks to the mountains; the youngest is nought but a boy. Who will -give the orders if I go to Rome, idling by the roads? Father, eat, -sleep, and leave us in peace.” - -Next morning good Master Archimband called his youngest son: - -“Espérit, my child, approach,” said he; “I promised the good God to make -a pilgrimage to Rome.... But I am old as earth! I can no longer go to -the wars.... I would gladly send thee in my place, poor boy. But thou -art too young, thou dost not know the way; Rome is very far, my God! -should some misfortune overtake thee ...!” - -“My father, I will go,” answered the youth. - -But the mother cried: - -“I will not have thee go! This old dotard, with his war and his Rome, -will end by getting on our nerves; not content with grumbling, -complaining and moaning the whole year through, he will send now this -poor dear innocent where he will only get lost.” - -“Mother,” said the young son, “the wish of a father is an order from -God! When God commands, one must go.” - -And Espérit, without further talk, went and filled a small gourd with -wine, took some bread and onions in his knapsack, put on his new shoes, -chose a good oaken stick from the wood-house, threw his cloak over his -shoulder, embraced his old father, who gave him much good advice, bade -farewell to all his relations, and departed. - - -II - -But before taking the road, he went devoutly to hear the blessed Mass; -and was it not wonderful that on leaving the church he found on the -threshold a beautiful youth who addressed him in these words: - -“Friend, are you not going to Rome?” - -“I am,” said Espérit. - -“And I also, comrade: If it pleases you, we could make the journey -together.” - -“Willingly, my friend.” - -Now this gracious youth was an angel sent by God. Espérit and the angel -then set forth on - -[Illustration: FÉLIX GRAS. POET AND FÉLIBRE.] - -the road to Rome; and thus, joyfully, through sunshine and shower, -begging their bread and singing psalms, the little gourd at the end of a -stick, they arrived at last in the city of Rome. - -Having rested, they paid their devotions at the great church of Saint -Peter, they visited in turn the basilicas, the chapels, the oratories, -the sanctuaries, and all the sacred monuments, kissed the relics of the -Apostles Peter and Paul, of the virgins, the martyrs, and also of the -true Cross, and finally, before leaving, they saw the Pope, who gave -them his blessing. - -Then Espérit with his companion went to rest under the porch of Saint -Peter, and Espérit fell asleep. Now in his sleep the pilgrim saw in a -dream his mother and his brothers burning in hell, and he saw himself -with his father in the eternal glory of the Paradise of God. - -“Alas! if this is so,” he cried, “I beseech thee, my God, that I may -take out of the flames my mother, my poor mother, and my brothers!” - -And God replied: - -“As for thy brothers, it is impossible, for they have disobeyed my -commandments; but thy mother, perhaps, if thou canst, before her death, -make her perform three charities.” - -Then Espérit awoke. The angel had disappeared. - -In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired after him, nowhere could -he be found, and Espérit was obliged to leave Rome all alone. - -He went toward the sea-coast, where he picked up some shells with which -he ornamented his cloak and his hat, and from there, slowly, by high -roads and by-paths, valleys, and mountains, begging and praying, he came -again to his own country. - - -III - -It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He -had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged -and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary -and his shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his -way to the paternal door and, knocking, said gently: - -“For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.” - -“Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here--a set of -vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!” - -“Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give him -something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in the -same need!” - -Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of -bread, gave it to the poor beggar. - -The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’ -house, saying: - -“For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor -pilgrim.” - -“What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well I -gave to you yesterday--these gluttons would eat one out of house and -home.” - -“Alas, good wife!” interposed the good old Archimbaud, “didst thou not -eat yesterday and yet thou hast eaten again to-day? Who knows but our -son may be in the same sad plight!” - -And again his wife relenting went off and fetched a slice of bread for -the poor beggar. - -The next day Espérit returned again to his home and said: - -“For God’s sake, my mistress, grant shelter to the poor pilgrim.” - -“Nay,” cried the hard old body, “be off with you and lodge with the -ragamuffins!” - -“Alas, wife!” interposed again the good old Archimbaud, “give him -shelter: who knows if our own child, our poor Espérit, is not at this -very hour exposed to the severity of the storm.” - -“Ah, yes, thou art right,” said the mother, softening, and she went at -once and opened the door of the stable; then poor Espérit entered, and -on the straw behind the beasts he crouched down in a corner. - -At early dawn the following morning the mother and brothers of Espérit -went to open the stable door.... Behold the stable was all illumined, -and there lay the pilgrim, stiff and white in death, while four tall -tapers burned around him. The straw on which he was stretched was -glistening, the spiders’ webs, shining with rays, hung from the beams -above, like the draperies of a mortuary chapel. The beasts of the stall, -mules and oxen, pricked up startled ears, while their great eyes brimmed -with tears. A perfume of violets filled the place, and the poor pilgrim, -his face all glorious, held in his clasped hands a paper on which was -written: “I am your son.” - -Then all burst into tears, and falling on their knees, made the sign of -the cross: Espérit was henceforth a saint. - -(_Almanach Provençal_, 1879.) - - -JARJAYE IN PARADISE - -JARJAYE, a street-porter of Tarascon, having just died, with closed eyes -fell into the other world. Down and down he fell! Eternity is vast, -pitch-black, limitless, lugubrious. Jarjaye knew not where to set foot, -all was uncertainty, his teeth chattered, he beat the air. But as he -wandered in the vast space, suddenly he perceived in the distance, a -light, it was far off, very far off. He directed himself towards it; it -was the door of the good God. - -Jarjaye knocked, bang, bang, on the door. - -“Who is there?” asked Saint Peter. - -“It’s me!” answered Jarjaye. - -“Who--thou?” - -“Jarjaye.” - -“Jarjaye of Tarascon?” - -“That’s it--himself!” - -“But you good-for-nothing,” said Saint Peter, “how have you the face to -demand entrance into the blessed Paradise, you who for the last twenty -years have never said your prayers, who, when they said to you, -‘Jarjaye, come to Mass,’ answered ‘I only go to the afternoon Mass!’ -thou, who in derision calledst the thunder, ‘the drum of the snails;’ -thou did’st eat meat on Fridays, saying, ‘What does it matter, it is -flesh that makes flesh, what goes into the body cannot hurt the soul;’ -thou who, when they rang the Angelus, instead of making the sign of the -cross like a good Christian, cried mocking, ‘A pig is hung on the bell’; -thou who, when thy father admonished thee, ‘Jarjaye, God will surely -punish thee,’ answered, ‘The good God, who has seen him? Once dead one -is well dead.’ Finally, thou who didst blaspheme and deny the holy oil -and baptism, is it possible that thou darest to present thyself here?” - -The unhappy Jarjaye replied: - -“I deny nothing, I am a sinner. But who could know that after death -there would be so many mysteries! Any way, yes, I have sinned. The -medicine is uncorked--if one must drink it, why one must. But at least, -great Saint Peter, let me see my uncle for a little, just to give him -the latest news from Tarascon.” - -“What uncle?” - -“My Uncle Matéry, he who was a White Penitent.” - -“Thy Uncle Matéry! He is undergoing a hundred years of purgatory!” - -“Malédiction! a hundred years! Why what had he done amiss?” - -“Thou rememberest that he carried the cross in the procession. One day -some wicked jesters gave each other the word, and one of them said, -‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross;’ and a little further -another repeated, ‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross,’ and at -last another said like this, ‘Look, look at Matéry, what is he -carrying?’ Matéry got angry, it appears, and answered, ‘A jackanapes -like thee.’ And forthwith he had a stroke and died in his anger.” - -“Well then, let me see my Aunt Dorothée, who was very, very religious.” - -“Bah! she must be with the devil, I don’t know her.” - -“It does not astonish me in the least that she should be with the devil, -for in spite of being so devout and religious, she was spiteful as a -viper. Just imagine----” - -“Jarjaye, I have no leisure to listen to thee: I must go and open to a -poor sweeper whose ass has just sent him to Paradise with a kick.” - -“Oh, great Saint Peter, since you have been so kind, and looking costs -nothing, I beg you let me just peep into the Paradise which they say is -so beautiful.” - -“I will consider it--presently, ugly Huguenot that thou art!” - -“Now come, Saint Peter, just remember that down there at Tarascon my -father, who is a fisherman, carries your banner in the procession, and -with bare feet----” - -“All right,” said the saint, “for your father’s sake I will allow it, -but see here, scum of the earth, it is understood that you only put the -end of your nose inside.” - -“That is enough.” - -Then the celestial porter half opening the door said to Jarjaye: - -“There--look.” - -But he, suddenly turning his back, stepped into Paradise backwards. - -“What are you doing?” asked Saint Peter. - -“The great light dazzles me,” replied the Tarasconais, “I must go in -backwards. But, as you ordered, when I have put in my nose, be easy, I -will go no further.” - -Now, thought he, delighted, I have got my nose in the hay. - -The Tarasconais was in Paradise. - -“Oh,” said he, “how happy one feels! how beautiful it is! What music!” - -After a moment the doorkeeper said: - -“When you have gaped enough, you will go out, for I have no more time to -waste.” - -“Don’t you worry,” said Jarjaye. “If you have anything to do, go about -your business. I will go out when I will go out. I am not the least in a -hurry.” - -“But that was not our agreement!” - -“My goodness, holy man, you seem very distressed! It would be different -if there were not plenty of room. But thank God, there is no squash!” - -“But I ask you to go, for if the good God were to pass by----” - -“Oh! you arrange that as you can. I have always heard, that he who finds -himself well off, had better stay. I am here--so I stay.” - -Saint Peter frowned and stamped. He went to find St. Yves. - -“Yves,” he said, “You are a barrister--you must give me an opinion.” - -“Two if you like,” replied Saint Yves. - -“I am in a nice fix! This is my dilemma,” and he related all. “Now what -ought I to do?” - -“You require,” said Saint Yves, “a good solicitor, and must then cite by -bailiff the said Jarjaye to appear before God.” - -They went to look for a good solicitor, but no one had ever seen such a -person in Paradise. They asked for a bailiff--still more impossible to -find. Saint Peter was at his wits’ end. - -Just then Saint Luke passed by. - -“Peter, you look very melancholy! Has our Lord been giving you another -rebuke?” - -“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t talk of it--I am in the devil of a fix, do -you see. A certain Jarjaye has got into Paradise by a trick, and I don’t -know how to get him out.” - -“Where does he come from, this Jarjaye?” - -“From Tarascon.” - -“A Tarasconais?” cried Saint Luke. “Oh! what an innocent you are! There -is nothing, nothing easier than to make him go out. Being, as you know, -a friend of cattle, the patron of cattle-drovers, I am often in the -Camargue, Arles, Beaucaire, Nîmes, Tarascon, and I know that people. I -have studied their peculiarities, and how to manage them. Come--you -shall see.” - -At that moment there went by a flight of cherubs. - -“Little ones!” called Saint Luke, “here, here!” - -The cherubs descended. - -“Go quietly outside Paradise--and when you get in front of the door, run -past crying out: ‘The oxen--the oxen!’” - -So the cherubs went outside Paradise and when they were in front of the -door they rushed past crying, “Oxen, oxen! Oh see, see the -cattle-drover!” - -Jarjaye turned round, amazed. - -“Thunder! What, do they drive cattle here? I am off!” he cried. - -He rushed to the door like a whirlwind and, poor idiot, went out of -Paradise. - -Saint Peter quickly closed the door and locked it, then putting his head -out of the grating: - -“Well, Jarjaye,” he called jeeringly, “how do you find yourself now?” - -“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Jarjaye. “If they had really been -cattle I should not have regretted my place in Paradise!” - -And so saying he plunged, head foremost, into the abyss. - -(_Almanach Provençal_, 1864.) - - -THE FROG OF NARBONNE - -I - -Young Pignolet, journeyman carpenter, nicknamed the “Flower of Grasse,” -one afternoon in the month of June returned in high spirits from making -his tour of France. The heat was overpowering. In his hand he carried -his stick furbished with ribbons, and in a packet on his back his -implements (chisels, plane, mallet) folded in his working-apron. -Pignolet climbed the wide road of Grasse by which he had descended when -he departed some three or four years before. On his way, according to -the custom of the Companions of the Guild of Duty, he stopped at -“Sainte-Baume” the tomb of Master Jacques, founder of the Association. -After inscribing his surname on a rock, he descended to Saint-Maximin, -to pay his respects and take his colours from Master Fabre, he who -inaugurates the Sons of Duty. Then, proud as Cæsar, his kerchief on his -neck, his hat smart with a bunch of many-coloured ribbons, and hanging -from his ears two little compasses in silver, he valiantly strode on -through a cloud of dust, which powdered him from head to foot. - -What a heat! Now and again he looked at the fig-trees to see if there -was any fruit, but they were not yet ripe. The lizards gaped in the -scorched grass, and the foolish grasshopper, on the dusty olives, the -bushes and long grass, sang madly in the blazing sun. - -“By all the Saints, what heat!” Pignolet ejaculated at intervals. -Having some hours previously drank the last drop from his gourd, he -panted with thirst, and his shirt was soaking. “But forwards!” he said. -“Soon we will be at Grasse. Oh heavens, what a blessing! what a joy to -embrace my father, my mother, and to drink from a jug of water of the -spring of Grasse! Then to tell of my tour through France and to kiss -Mïon on her fresh cheeks, and, soon as the feast of the Madeleine -arrives to marry her, and never leave home any more. Onward, -Pignolet--only another little step!” - -At last he is at the entrance to Grasse, and in four strides at his -father’s workshop. - - -II - -“My boy! Oh, my fine boy,” cried the old Pignol, leaving his work, -“welcome home. Marguerite! the youngster is here! Run, draw some wine, -prepare a meal, lay the cloth. Oh! the blessing to see thee home again! -How art thou?” - -“Not so bad, God be thanked. And all of you, at home, father, are you -thriving?” - -“Oh! like the poor old things we are ... but hasn’t he grown tall, the -youngster!” And all the world embraced him, father, mother, neighbours, -friends, and the girls! They took his packet from him and the children -fingered admiringly the fine ribbons on his hat and walking-stick. The -old Marguerite, with brimming eyes, quickly lighted the stove with a -handful of chips, and while she floured some dried haddock wherewith to -regale the young man, the old man sat down at a table with his son, and -they drank to his happy return, clinking glasses. - -“Now here,” began old Master Pignol, “in less than four years thou hast -finished thy tour of France and behold thee, according to thy account, -passed and received as Companion of the Guild of Duty! How everything -changes! In my time it required seven years, yes, seven good years, to -achieve that honour. It is true, my son, that there in the shop I gave -thee a pretty good training, and that for an apprentice, already thou -didst not handle badly the plane and the jointer. But any way, the chief -thing is thou shouldst know thy business, and thou hast, so at least I -believe, now seen and known all that a fine fellow should know, who is -son of a master.” - -“Oh father, as for that,” replied the young man, “without boasting, I -think nobody in the carpenter’s shop could baffle me.” - -“Very well,” said the old man, “see here while the cod-fish is singing -in the pot, just relate to me what were the finest objects thou didst -note in running round the country?” - - -III - -“To begin with, father, you know that on first leaving Grasse, I went -over to Toulon where I entered the Arsenal. It’s not necessary to tell -you all that is inside there, you have seen it as well as I.” - -“Yes, pass on, I know it.” - -“After leaving Toulon I went and hired myself out at Marseilles, a fine -large town, advantageous for the workman, where some comrades pointed -out to me, a sea-horse which serves as a sign at an inn.” - -“Well?” - -“Faith, from there, I went north to Aix, where I admired the sculptures -of the porch of Saint-Saviour.” - -“I have seen that.” - -“Then, from there, we went to Arles, and we saw the roof of the Commune -of Arles.” - -“So well constructed that one cannot imagine how it holds itself in the -air.” - -“From Arles, my father, we went to the city of Saint-Gille, and there -we saw the famous Vis----” - -“Yes, yes, a wonder both in structure and outline. Which shows us, my -son, that in other days as well as to-day there were good workmen.” - -“Then we directed our steps from Saint-Gille to Montpellier, and there -they showed us the celebrated Shell....” - -“Oh yes--which is in the Vignolle, and the book calls it the ‘horn of -Montpellier.’” - -“That’s it; and from there we marched to Narbonne.” - -“Ah! that is what I was waiting for!” - -“But why, my father? At Narbonne I saw the ‘Three Nurses,’ and then the -Archbishop’s palace, also the wood carvings in the church of -Saint-Paul.” - -“And then?” - -“My father, the song says nothing more than: - -“‘Carcassone and Narbonne are two very good towns, to take on the way to -Bezièrs; Pézénas is quite nice; but the prettiest girls are at -Montpellier.’” - -“Why bungler! Didst thou not see the Frog?” - -“But what frog?” - -“The Frog which is at the bottom of the font of the church of Saint -Paul. Ah! I am no longer surprised that thou hast finished so quickly -thy tour of France, booby! The frog at Narbonne! the masterpiece which -men go to see from all the ends of the earth! And this idiot,” cried the -old Pignol getting more and more excited, “this wicked waster, who gives -himself out as ‘companion,’ has not even seen the Frog at Narbonne! Oh! -that a son of a master should have to hang his head for shame in his -father’s house. No, my son, never shall that be said. Now eat, drink, -and go to thy bed, but to-morrow morning, if thou wilt be on good terms -with me, return to Narbonne and see the Frog!” - - -IV - -Poor Pignolet knew that his father was not one to retract and that he -was not joking. So he ate, drank, went to bed, and the next morning, at -dawn, without further talk, having stocked his knapsack with food, he -started off to Narbonne. - -With his feet bruised and swollen, exhausted by heat and thirst, along -the dusty roads and highway tramped poor Pignolet. - -At the end of seven or eight days he arrived at the town of Narbonne, -from whence, according to the proverb, “comes no good wind and no good -person.” Pignolet--he was not singing this time, let it be -understood--without taking the time to eat a mouthful or drink a drop at -the inn, at once walked off to the church of Saint-Paul and straight to -the font to look at the Frog. - -And truly there in the marble vase, beneath the clear water, squatted a -frog with reddish spots, so well sculptured that he seemed alive, -looking up, with a bantering expression in his two yellow eyes at poor -Pignolet, come all the way from Grasse on purpose to see him. - -“Ah, little wretch!” cried the carpenter in sudden wrath. “Thou hast -caused me to tramp four hundred miles beneath that burning sun! Take -that and remember henceforth Pignolet of Grasse!” - -And therewith the bully draws from his knapsack a mallet and chisel. -Bang!--at a stroke he takes off one of the frog’s legs! They say that -the holy water became suddenly red as though stained with blood, and -that the inside of the font, since then, has remained reddened. - -(_Almanach Provençal_, 1890.) - - -THE YOUNG MONTELAISE - -Once upon a time there lived at Monteux, the village of the good -Saint-Gent and of Nicolas Saboly, a girl fair and fine as gold. They -called her Rose. She was the daughter of an innkeeper. And as she was -good and sang like an angel, the curé of Monteux placed her at the head -of the choristers of his church. - -It happened one year that, for the feast of the patron Saint of Monteux, -the father of Rose engaged a solo singer. - -This singer, who was young, fell in love with the fair Rose, and faith, -she fell in love with him. Then, one fine day, these two children, -without much ado, were married, and the little Rose became Madame -Bordas. Good-bye to Monteux! They went away together. Ah! how delightful -it was, free as the air and young as the bubbling spring of water, to -live without a care, in the full tide of love, and sing for a living. - -The beautiful fête where Rose first sang was that of Sainte-Agathe, the -patroness of Maillane. - -It was at the Café de la Paix (now Café du Soleil), and the room was -full as an egg. Rose, not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside -willow, stood straight up on the platform, with her fair hair, and -pretty bare arms, her husband at her feet accompanying her on the -guitar. The place was thick with smoke, for it was full of peasants, -from Graveson, Saint-Rémy, Eyrague, besides those of Maillane. But one -heard not a word of rough language. They only said: - -“Isn’t she pretty! And such a fine style! She sings like an organ! and -she does not come from afar--only just from Monteux.” - -It is true that Rose only gave them beautiful songs. She sang of her -native land, the flag, battles, liberty and glory, and with such -passionate fervour and enthusiasm it stirred all hearts. Then, when she -had finished she cried, “Long live Saint Gent!” - -Applause followed enough to bring down the house. The girl descended -among the audience and smiling, made the collection. The sous rained -into the wooden bowl, and smiling and content as though she had a -hundred thousand francs, she poured the money into her husband’s guitar, -saying to him: - -“Here--see--if this lasts, we shall soon be rich!” - - -II - -When Madame Bordas had done all the fêtes of our neighbourhood, she -became ambitious to try the towns. There, as in the villages, the -Montelaise shone. She sang “la Pologne” with her flag in her hand, she -put into it so much soul, such emotion, that she made every one tremble -with excitement. - -At Avignon, at Cette, Toulouse and Bordeaux she was adored by the -people. At last she said: - -“Now only Paris remains.” - -So she went to Paris. Paris is the pinnacle to which all aspire. There -as in the provinces she soon became the idol of the people. - -It was during the last days of the Empire; ‘the chestnut was commencing -to smoke,’ and Rose Bordas sang the _Marseillaise_. Never had a singer -given this song with such enthusiasm, such frenzy; to the workmen of the -barricades she represented an incarnation of joyous liberty, and Tony -Révillon, a Parisian poet of the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in -the newspaper. - - -III - -Then, alas! came quickly, one on the heels of the other, war, defeat, -revolution, and siege, followed by the Commune and its devil’s train. -The foolish Montelaise, lost in it all as a bird in the tempest, -intoxicated by the smoke, the whirl, the favour of the populace, sang to -them “Marianne” like a little demon. She would have sung in the -water--still better in the fire. - -One day a riot surrounded her in the street and carried her off like a -straw to the palace of the Tuileries. - -The reigning populace were giving a fête in the Imperial salon. Arms, -black with powder, seized “Marianne”--for Madame Bordas was Marianne to -them--and mounted her on the throne in the midst of red flags. - -“Sing to us,” they cried, “the last song that shall echo round the walls -of this accursed palace.” - -And the little Montelaise, with a red cap on her fair hair, sang--“La -Canaille.” - -A formidable cry of “Long live the Republic!” followed the last refrain, -and a solitary voice, lost in the crowd, sang out in answer, “Vivo Sant -Gènt.” - -Rose could not see for the tears which brimmed in her blue eyes and she -became pale as death. - -“Open, give her air!” they cried, seeing that she was about to faint. - -Ah no! poor Rose, it was not air she needed, it was Monteux, it was -Saint Gent in the mountains and the innocent joy of the fêtes of -Provence. - -The crowd, in the meanwhile, with its red flags went off shouting -through the open door. - -Over Paris, louder and louder, thundered the cannonade, sinister noises -ran along the streets, prolonged fusillades were heard in the distance, -the smell of petroleum was overpowering, and before very long tongues of -fire mounted from the Tuileries up to the sky. - -Poor little Montelaise! No one ever heard of her again. - -(_Almanach Provençal_, 1873.) - - -THE POPULAR MAN - -The Mayor of Gigognan invited me, last year, to his village festivity. -We had been for seven years comrades of the ink-horn at the school of -Avignon, but since then had never met. - -“By the blessing of God,” he cried on seeing me, “thou art just the -same, lively as a blue-bottle, handsome as a new penny--straight as an -arrow--I would have known thee in a thousand.” - -“Yes, I am just the same,” I replied, “only my sight is a little -shorter, my temples a little wrinkled, my hair a little whitened, -and--when there is snow on the hills, the valleys are seldom hot.” - -“Bah!” said he, “my dear boy, the old bull runs on a straight track, -only he who desires it grows old. Come, come to dinner.” - -According to time-honoured custom a village fête in Provence is the -occasion for real feasting, and my friend Lassagne had not failed to -prepare such a lordly feast as one might set before a king. Dressed -lobster, fresh trout from the Sorgue, nothing but fine meats and choice -wines, a little glass to whet the appetite at intervals, besides -liqueurs of all sorts, and to wait on us at table a young girl of twenty -who--I will say no more! - -We had arrived at the dessert, when all at once we heard in the street -the cheering buzz of the tambourine. The youth of the place had come, -according to custom, to serenade the mayor. - -“Open the door, Françonnette,” cried the worthy man. “Go fetch the -hearth-cakes and come, rinse out the glasses.” - -[Illustration: MISTRAL AND HIS DOG PAN-PERDU.] - -In the meanwhile the musicians banged away at their tambourines. When -they had finished, the leaders of the party with flowers in their -buttonholes entered the room together with the town-clerk proudly -carrying high on a pole the prizes prepared for the games, and followed -by the dancers of the _farandole_ and a crowd of girls. - -The glasses were filled with the good wine of Alicante. All the -cavaliers, each one in his turn, cut a slice of cake, and clicked -glasses all round to the health of his Worship the Mayor. Then his -Worship the Mayor, when all had drunk and joked for a while, addressed -them thus: - -“My children, dance as much as you like, amuse yourselves as much as you -can, and be courteous to all strangers. You have my permission to do -anything you like, except fight or throw stones.” - -“Long live Monsieur Lassagne!” cried the young people. They went off and -the _farandole_ commenced. When we were alone again I inquired of my -friend: - -“How long is it that thou hast been Mayor of Gigognan?” - -“Fifty years, my dear fellow.” - -“Seriously? Fifty years?” - -“Yes, yes, it is fifty years. I have seen eleven governments, my boy, -and I do not intend to die, if the good God helps me, until I have -buried another half-dozen.” - -“But how hast thou managed to keep thy sash[12] amidst so much confusion -and revolution?” - -“Eh! my good friend, there is the asses’ bridge. The people, the honest -folk, require to be led. But in order to lead them it is necessary to -have the right method. Some say drive with the rein tight. Others, drive -with the rein loose; but I--do you know what I say?--take them along -gaily.” - -“Look at the shepherds; the good shepherds are not those who have always -a raised stick; neither are they those that lie down beneath a willow -and sleep in the corner of the field. The good shepherd is he who walks -quietly ahead of his flock and plays the pipes. The beasts who feel -themselves free, and who are really so, browse with appetite on the -pasture and the thistle. When they are satisfied and the hour comes to -return home, the shepherd pipes the retreat and the contented flock -follow him to the sheepfold. My friend, I do the same, I play on the -pipes, and my flock follow.” - -“Thou playest on the pipes; that is all very well.... But still, among -thy flock thou hast some Whites, and some Reds, some headstrong and -some queer ones, as there are everywhere! Now, when an election for a -deputy takes place, for example, how dost thou manage?” - -“How I manage? Eh, my good soul. I leave it alone. For to say to the -Whites, ‘Vote for the Republic,’ would be to lose one’s breath and one’s -Latin, and to say to the Reds, ‘Vote for Henri V.,’ would be as -effectual as to spit on that wall.” - -“But the undecided ones, those who have no opinion, the poor innocents, -all the good people who tack cautiously as the wind blows?” - -“Ah, those there, when sometimes in the barber’s shop they ask me my -advice, ‘Hold,’ I say to them, ‘Bassaquin is no better than Bassacan.’ -Whether you vote for Bassaquin or Bassacan this summer you will have -fleas. For Gigognan it is better to have a good rain than all the -promises of the candidates. Ah! it would be a different matter if you -nominated one of the peasant class. But so long as you do not nominate -peasants for deputies, as they do in Sweden and Denmark, you will not be -represented. The lawyers, doctors, journalists, small shopkeepers of all -sorts whom you return, ask but one thing: to stay in Paris as much as -possible, raking in all they can, and milking the poor cow without -troubling their heads about our Gigognan! But if, as I say, you -delegated the peasants, they would think of saving, they would diminish -the big salaries, they would never make war, they would increase the -canals, they would abolish the duties, and hasten to settle affairs in -order to return before the harvest. Just imagine that there are in -France twenty million tillers of the soil, and they have not the sense -to send three hundred of them to represent the land! What would they -risk by trying it? It would be difficult for the peasants’ deputy to do -worse than these others!” - -And every one replies: “Ah! that Monsieur Lassagne! though he is joking, -there is some sense in what he says.” - -“But,” I said, “as to thee personally, thee Lassagne, how hast thou -managed to keep thy popularity in Gigognan, and thy authority for fifty -years?” - -“Oh, that is easy enough,” he laughed. “Come, let us leave the table, -and take a little turn. When we have made the tour of Gigognan two or -three times, thou wilt know as much as I do.” - -We rose from the table, lit our cigars and went out to see the fun. In -the road outside a game of bowls was going on. One of the players in -throwing his ball unintentionally struck the mark, replacing it by his -own ball, and thus gaining two points. - -“Clever rascal,” cried Monsieur Lassagne, “that is something like play. -My compliments, Jean-Claude! I have seen many a game of bowls but on my -life never a better shot!” - -We passed on. After a little we met two young girls. - -“Now look at that,” said Lassagne in a loud voice; “they are like two -queens. What a pretty figure, what a lovely face! And those earrings of -the last fashion! Those two are the flowers of Gigognan!” - -The two girls turned their heads and smilingly greeted us. In crossing -the square, we passed near an old man seated in front of his door. - -“Well now, Master Quintrand,” said Monsieur Lassagne, “shall we enter -the lists this year with the first or second class of wrestlers?” - -“Ah! my poor sir, we shall wrestle with no one at all,” replied Master -Quintrand. - -“Do you remember Master Quintrand, the year when Meissonier, Guéquine, -Rabasson, presented themselves on the meadow, the three best wrestlers -of Provence, and you threw them on their shoulders, all three of them!” - -“Eh, you don’t need to remind me,” said the old wrestler, lighting up. -“It was the year when they took the citadel of Antwerp. The prize was a -hundred crowns and a sheep for the second winner. The prefect of Avignon -shook me by the hand! The people of Bédarride were ready to fight with -those of Courtezon, on my account.... Ah! what a time, compared with the -present! Now their wrestling will.... Better not speak of it, for one no -longer sees men, not men, dear sir.... Besides, they have an -understanding with each other.” - -We shook hands with the old man and continued our walk. - -“Come now,” I said to Lassagne, “I begin to understand--it is done with -the soap ball!” - -“I have not finished yet,” he made answer. - -Just then the village priest came out of his presbytery. - -“Good day, gentlemen!” - -“Good day, Monsieur le Curé,” said Lassagne. “Ah, one moment, since we -have met I want to tell you: this morning at Mass, I noticed that our -church is becoming too small, especially on fête days. Do you think it -would be a mistake to attempt enlarging it?” - -“On that point, Monsieur le Maire, I am of your opinion--it is true that -on feast days one can scarcely turn round.” - -“Monsieur le Curé, I will see about it: at the first meeting of the -Municipal Council I will put the question, and if the prefecture will -come to our assistance----” - -“Monsieur le Maire, I am delighted, and I can only thank you.” - -As we left the ramparts, we saw coming a flock of sheep taking up all -the road. Lassagne called to the shepherd. - -“Just at the sound of thy bells, I said, ‘this must be Georges!’ And I -was not mistaken: what a pretty flock! what fine sheep! But how well you -manage to feed them! I am sure that, taking one with another, they are -not worth less than ten crowns each!” - -“That is true certainly,” replied Georges. “I bought them at the Cold -Market this winter; nearly all had lambs, and they will give me a second -lot I do believe.” - -“Not only a second lot, but such beasts as those could give you twins!” - -“May God hear you! Monsieur Lassagne!” - -We had hardly finished talking to the shepherd when we overtook an old -woman gathering chicory in the ditches. - -“’Hold, it is thou, Bérengère,” said Lassagne, accosting her. “Now -really from behind with thy red kerchief I took thee for Téréson, the -daughter-in-law of Cacha, thou art exactly like her!” - -“Me! Oh Monsieur Lassagne, but think of it! I am seventy years old!” - -“Oh come, come, from behind if thou couldst see thyself, thou hast no -need of pity. I have seen worse baskets at the vintage!” - -“This Monsieur Lassagne, he must always have his joke,” said the old -woman, shaking with laughter; and turning to me she added: - -“Believe me, sir, it is not just a way of speaking, but this Monsieur -Lassagne is the cream of men. He is friendly with all. He will chat, see -you, with the smallest in the country even to the babies! That is why he -has been fifty years Mayor of Gigognan, and will be to the end of his -days.” - -“Well, my friend,” said Lassagne to me, “It is not I, is it, that have -said it! All of us like nice things, we like compliments, and we are all -gratified by kind manners. Whether dealing with women, with kings, or -with the people, he who would reign must please. And that is the secret -of the Mayor of Gigognan. - -(_Almanach Provençal_, 1883.) - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES - - -All my life I had heard of the Camargue and of Les Saintes-Maries and -the pilgrimage to their shrine, but I had never as yet been there. In -the spring of the year 1855 I wrote to my friend Mathieu, ever ready for -a little trip, and proposed we should go together and visit the saints. - -He agreed gladly, and we met at Beaucaire in the Condamine quarter, from -where a pilgrim party annually started on May 24 to the sea-coast -village of Les Saintes-Maries. - -A little after midnight Mathieu and I set forth with a crowd of country -men and women, young girls and children, packed into waggons close as -sardines in a tin; we numbered fourteen in our conveyance. - -Our worthy charioteer, one of those typical Provenceaux whom nothing -dismays, seated us on the shaft, our legs dangling. Half the time he -walked by the side of his horse, the whip round his neck, constantly -relighting his pipe. When he wanted a rest he sat on a small seat niched -in between the wheels, which the drivers call “carrier of the weary.” - -Just behind me, enveloped in her woollen wrap and stretched on a -mattress by her mother’s side, her feet planted unconcernedly in my -back, was a young girl named Alarde. Not having, however, as yet made -the acquaintance of these near neighbours, Mathieu and I conversed with -the driver, who at once inquired from whence we hailed. On our replying -from Maillane, he remarked that he had already guessed by our speech -that we had not travelled far. - -“The Maillane drivers,” he added, “‘upset on a flat plain’; you know -that saying?” - -“Not all of them,” we laughed. - -“’Tis but a jest,” he answered. “Why there was one I knew, a carter of -Maillane, who was equipped, I give you my word, like Saint George -himself--Ortolan, his name was.” - -“Was that many years ago?” I asked. - -“Aye, sirs, I am speaking of the good old days of the wheel, before -those devourers with their railroads had come and ruined us all: the -days when the fair of Beaucaire was in its splendour, and the first -barge which arrived for the fair was awarded the finest sheep in the -market, and the victorious bargeman used to hang the sheep-skin as a -trophy on the main-mast. Those were the days in which the towing-horses -were insufficient to tug up the Rhône the piles of merchandise which -were sold at the fair of Beaucaire, and every man who drove a waggon, -carriage, cart, or van was cracking his whip along the high roads from -Marseilles to Paris, and from Paris to Lille, right away into Flanders. -Ah, you are too young to remember that time.” - -Once launched on his pet theme Lamoureux discoursed, as he tramped -along, till the light of the moon waned and gave place to dawn. Even -then the worthy charioteer would have continued his reminiscences had it -not been that, as the rays of the awakening sun lit up the wide -stretches of the great plains of the Camargue lying between the delta of -the two Rhônes, we arrived at the Bridge of Forks. - -In our eyes, even a more beautiful sight than the rising sun (we were -both about five and twenty) was the awakening maiden who, as I have -mentioned already, had been packed in just behind us with her mother. -Shaking off the hood of her cloak, she emerged all smiling and fresh, -like a goddess of youth. A dark red ribbon caught up her blonde hair -which escaped from the white coif. With her delicate clear skin, curved -lips half opened in a rapt smile, she looked like a flower shaking off -the morning dew. We greeted her cordially, but Mademoiselle Alarde paid -no attention to us. Turning to her mother she inquired anxiously: - -“Mother, say--are we still far from the great saints?” - -“My daughter, we are still, I should say, eighteen or twenty miles -distant.” - -“Will he be there, my betrothed?--say then--will he be there?” she asked -her mother. - -“Oh hush, my darling,” answered the mother quickly. - -“Ah, how slowly the time goes,” sighed the young girl. Then discovering -all at once that she was ravenously hungry, she suggested breakfast. -Spreading a linen cloth on her knees, she and her mother thereupon -brought out of a wicker basket a quantity of provisions--bread, sausage, -dates, figs, oranges--and, without further ceremony, set to work. We -wished them “good appetite,” whereupon the young girl very charmingly -invited us to join them, which we did on condition that we contributed -the contents of our knapsacks to the repast. Mathieu at once produced -two bottles of good Nerthe wine, which, having uncorked, we poured into -a cup and handed round to each of the party in turn, including the -driver; so behold us a happy family. - -At the first halt Mathieu and I got down to stretch our legs. We -inquired of our friend Lamoureux who the young girl might be. He -answered that hers was a sad story. One of the prettiest girls in -Beaucaire, she had been jilted about three months ago by her betrothed, -who had gone off to another girl, rich, but ugly as sin. The effect of -this had been to send Alarde almost out of her mind; the beautiful girl -was in fact not quite sane, declared Lamoureux, though to look at her -one would never guess it. The poor mother, at her wits’ end to know what -to do, was taking her child to Les Saintes-Maries to see if that would -divert her mind and perhaps cure her. - -We expressed our astonishment that any man could be such a scoundrel as -to forsake a young girl so lovely and sweet-looking. - -Arrived at the Jasses d’Albaron, we halted to let the horses have a feed -from their nose-bags. The young girls of Beaucaire who were with us took -this opportunity of surrounding Alarde, and singing a roundel in her -honour: - - Au branle de ma tante - Le rossignol y chante - Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs - Belle, belle Alarde tournez vous. - - La belle s’est tournée, - Son beau l’a regardé: - Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs. - Belle, belle Alarde, embrassez vous. - -But the result of this well-meant attention was very disastrous, for the -poor Alarde burst out into hysterical laughter, crying, “My lover, my -lover,” as though she were demented. - -Soon after, however, we resumed our journey, for the sky, which since -dawn had been flecked with clouds, became every moment more threatening. -The wind blew straight from the sea, sweeping the black masses of cloud -towards us till all the blue sky was obliterated. The frogs and toads -croaked in the marshes, and our long procession of waggons struggled -slowly through the vast salt plains of the Camargue. The earth felt the -coming storm. Flights of wild ducks and teal passed with a warning cry -over our heads. The women looked anxiously at the black sky. “We shall -be in a nice plight if that storm takes us in the middle of the -Camargue,” said they. - -“Well, you must put your skirts over your heads,” laughed Lamoureux. “It -is a known fact that such clouds bring rain.” - -We passed a mounted bull-driver, his trident in his hand, collecting -his scattered beasts. “You’ll get wet,” he prophesied cheerfully. - -A drizzle commenced; then larger drops announced that the water was -going to fall in good earnest. In no time the wide plain was converted -into a watery waste. Seated beneath the awning of the waggon, we saw in -the distance troops of the Camargue horses shaking their long manes and -tails as they started off briskly for the rising grounds and the -sandbanks. - -Down came the rain! The road, drowned in the deluge, became -impracticable. The wheels got clogged, the beasts were unable to drag us -further. Far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but one -vast lake. - -“All must get down!” cried the drivers unanimously. “Women and girls -too, if you do not wish to sleep beneath the tamarisk-bush.” - -“Walk in the water?” cried some in dismay. - -“Walk barefoot, my dears,” answered Lamoureux; “thus you will earn the -great pardon of which you all have need, for I know the sins of some of -you are weighing devilish heavy.” - -Old and young, women and girls, all got down, and with laughter and -shrieks, every one began to prepare themselves for wading, taking off -their shoes and tucking up their clothes. The drivers took the children -astride on their shoulders, and Mathieu gallantly offered himself to the -old lady in our waggon, the mother of the pretty Alarde: - -“If you mount on my back,” he said, “I will undertake to carry you -safely to the ‘Dead Goat.’” The old lady, who was so fat she walked with -difficulty even on dry ground, did not refuse such a noble offer. - -“You, my Frédéric, can charge yourself with Alarde,” said Mathieu with a -wink to me, “and we will change from time to time to refresh ourselves, -eh?” - -And forthwith we each took up our burden without further ceremony, an -example which was soon followed by all the young men in the other -waggons. - -Mathieu and his old girl laughed like fools. As for myself, when I felt -the soft round arms of Alarde round my neck as she held the umbrella -over our heads, I own it to this day, I would not have given up that -journey across the Camargue in the rain and slush for a king’s ransom. - -“Oh goodness, if my betrothed could see me now,” repeated Alarde at -intervals; “my betrothed, who no longer loves me--my boy, my handsome -boy!” - -It was in vain that I tried to steal in with my little compliments and -soft speeches, she neither heard nor saw me--but I could feel her breath -on my neck and shoulder; I had only to turn my head a little and I could -have kissed her, her hair brushed against mine; the close proximity of -this youth and freshness bewitched me, and while she dreamt only of her -lover, I, for my part, tried to imagine myself a second Paul carrying my -Virginia. - -Just at the happiest moment of my illusion, Mathieu, gasping beneath the -weight of the fat mamma, cried out: - -“Let us change for a bit! I can go no further, my dear fellow.” - -At the trunk of a tamarisk, therefore, we halted and exchanged burdens, -Mathieu taking the daughter, while I, alas, had the mother. And thus for -over two miles, paddling in water up to our knees, we travelled, -changing at intervals and making light of fatigue because of the reward -we both got out of the romantic _rôle_ of Paul! - -At last the heavy rain began to abate, the sky to clear and the roads to -become visible. We remounted the waggons, and about four o’clock in the -afternoon, suddenly we saw rise out of the distant blue of sea and sky, -with its Roman belfry, russet merlons and buttresses, the church of Les -Saintes-Maries. - -There was a general exclamation of joyful greeting to the great saints, -for this far-away shrine, standing isolated on the edge of the great -plain, is the Mecca of all the Gulf of Lyons. What impresses one most is -the harmonious grandeur of the vast sweep of land and sea, arched over -by the limitless dome of sky, which, more perfectly here than anywhere -else, appears to embrace the entire terrestrial horizon. - -Lamoureux turned to us saying: “We shall just arrive in time to perform -the office of lowering the shrines; for, gentlemen, you must know that -it is we of Beaucaire to whom is reserved the right before all others of -turning the crane by which the relics of the saints are lowered.” - -The sacred remains of Mary, mother of James the Less, Mary Salome, -mother of James and John, and of Sarah, their servant, are kept in a -small chapel high up just under the dome. From this elevated position, -by means of an aperture which gives on to the church, the shrines are -slowly lowered by a rope over the heads of the worshipping crowd. - -So soon as we had unharnessed, which we did on the sandbanks covered -with tamarisk and orach by which the village is surrounded, we made our -way quickly to the church. - -“Light them up well, the dear blessed saints,” cried a group of -Montpellier women selling candles and tapers, medals and images at the -church door. - -The church was crammed with people of all kinds, from Languedoc, from -Arles, the maimed and the halt, together with a crowd of gypsies, all -one on the top of the other. The gypsies buy bigger candles than anybody -else, but devote their attention exclusively to Saint Sarah, who, -according to their belief, was one of their nation. It is here at Les -Saintes-Maries that these wandering tribes hold their annual assemblies, -and from time to time elect their queen. - -It was difficult to get in at the church. A group of market women from -Nîmes, muffled up in black and dragging after them their twill cushions -whereon to sleep all night in the church, were quarrelling for the -chairs. “I had this before you.”--“No, but I hired it,” &c. A priest was -passing “The Sacred Arm” from one to the other to be kissed; to the sick -people they were giving glasses of briny water drawn from the saints’ -well in the middle of the nave, and which on that day they say becomes -sweet. Some, by way of a remedy, were scraping the dust off an ancient -marble block fixed in the wall, and reported to be the “saints’ -pillow.” A smell of burning tapers, incense, heat and stuffiness -suffocated one, while one’s ears were deafened by each group singing -their own particular canticles at the pitch of their voices. - -Then in the air, slowly the shrines begin to descend, and the crowd -bursts into shouts and cries of “O great Saint Marys!” And as the cord -unrolls, screams and contortions increase, arms are raised, faces -upturned, every one awaits a miracle. Suddenly, from the end of the -church, rushing across the nave, as though she had wings, a beautiful -girl, her fair hair falling about her, flung herself towards the -floating shrines, crying: “O great saints--in pity give me back the love -of my betrothed.” - -All rose to their feet. “It is Alarde!” exclaimed the people from -Beaucaire, while the rest murmured awestruck, “It is Saint Mary Magdalen -come to visit her sisters.” Every one wept with emotion. - -The following day took place the procession on the sea-shore to the soft -murmur and splash of the breaking waves. In the distance, on the high -seas, two or three ships tacked about as though coming in, while all -along the coast extended the long procession, ever seeming to lengthen -out with the moving line of the waves. - -It was just here, says the legend,[13] that the three Saint Marys in -their skiff were cast ashore in Provence after the death of Our Lord. -And looking out over the wide glistening sea, that lies in the midst of -such visions and memories, illuminated by the radiant sunshine, it -seemed to us in truth we were on the threshold of Paradise. - -Our little friend Alarde, looking rather pale after the emotions of the -previous day, was one of a group of maidens chosen to bear on their -shoulders the “Boat of the Saints,” and many murmurs of sympathy -followed her as she passed. This was the last we saw of her, for, so -soon as the saints had reascended to their chapel, we took the omnibus -for Aigues-Mortes, together with a crowd of people returning to -Montpellier and Lundy, who beguiled the way by singing in chorus hymns -to the Saints of the Sea. - - -STANZAS FROM “MIREILLE”[14] - - The sisters and the brothers, we - Who followed him ever constantly, - To the raging sea were cruelly driven - In a crazy ship without a sail, - Without an oar, ’mid the angry gale; - We women could only weep and wail-- - The men uplifted their eyes to Heaven! - - A gust tempestuous drives the ship - O’er fearsome waves, in the wild storm’s grip; - Martial and Saturninus, lowly - In prayer kneel yonder on the prow; - Old Trophimus with thoughtful brow - Sits closely wrapped in his mantle now - By Maximus, the Bishop holy. - - There on the deck, amid the gloom, - Stands Lazarus, of shroud and tomb - Always the mortal pallor keeping; - His glance the raging gulf defies; - And with the doomed ship onward flies - Martha his sister; there, too, lies - Magdalen, o’er her sorrows weeping. - - Upon a smooth and rockless strand - Alleluiah! our ship doth land. - Prostrate we fall on the wet sand, crying: - “Our lives, that He from storm did save, - Here are they ready, Death to brave, - And preach the law that once He gave, - O Christ, we swear it, even dying!” - - At that glad name, most glorious still, - Noble Provence seemed all a-thrill; - Forest and moor throughout their being - Were stirred and answered that new cry; - As when a dog, his master nigh, - Goes out to meet him joyfully, - And welcome gives, the master seeing. - - The sea some shells to shore had cast ... - Thou gav’st a feast to our long fast-- - _Our Father, Thou who art in Heaven;_ - And for our thirst, a fountain clear - Rose limpid ’mid the sea-plants here; - And, marvellous, still rises near - The church where we were burial given. - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -JEAN ROUSSIÈRE - - -“Good morning, Mr. Frédéric. They tell me that you have need of a man on -the farm.” - -“Yes--from whence comest thou?” - -“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’--near to Avignon.” - -“And what canst thou do?” - -“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer, -carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on -occasions, pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of -sewers, which is the lowest of all!” - -“And they call thee?” - -“Jean Roussière, and Rousseyron--and Seyron for short.” - -“How much do you ask?--it is for taking care of the beasts.” - -“About fifteen louis.” - -“I will give thee a hundred crowns.” - -“All right for a hundred crowns.” - -That is how I engaged Jean Roussière, he who taught me the old -folk-melody of “Magali”--a jovial fellow and made on the lines of a -Hercules. The last year that I lived at the farm, with my blind father, -in the long watches of our solitude Jean Roussière never failed to keep -me interested and amused, good fellow that he was. At his work he was -excellent and always enlivened his beasts by some cheering song. - -Naturally artistic in all he did, even if it was heaping a rick of straw -or a pile of manure, or stowing away a cargo, he knew how to give the -harmonious line or, as they say, the graceful sweep. But he had the -defects of his qualities and was rather too fond of taking life in an -easy and leisurely fashion, even passing part of it in an afternoon nap. - -A charming talker at all times, it was worth hearing him as he spoke of -the days when he led the big teams of horses on the towing-path, tugging -the barges up the Rhône to Valence and to Lyons. - -“Just fancy!” he said, “at the age of twenty, I led the finest turn-out -on the banks of the Rhône! A turn-out of twenty-four stallions, four -abreast, dragging six barges! Ah, what fine mornings those were, when we -set out on the banks of the big river and silently, slowly, this fleet -moved up the stream!” - -And Jean Roussière would enumerate all the places on the two banks; the -inns, the hostesses, the streams, the sluices, the roads and the fords -from Arles to the Revestidou, from the Coucourde to the Ermitage. But -his greatest happiness and triumph was at the feast of Saint-Eloi. - -“I will show your Maillanais,” he said, “if they have not already seen -it, how we ride a little mule!” - -Saint-Eloi is, in Provence, the feast of the agriculturists. All over -Provence on that day the village priests bless the cattle, asses, mules -and horses; and the people owning the beasts partake of the “blessed -bread,” that excellent “blessed bread” flavoured with aniseed and yellow -with eggs, which they call _tortillarde_. At Maillane it was our custom -on that day to deck a chariot with green boughs and harness to it forty -or fifty beasts, caparisoned as in the time of the tournaments, with -beards, embroidered saddle-cloths, plumes, mirrors and crescents of -brass. The whip was put up to auction, that is to say, the office of -Prior was put up to public auction: - -“Thirty francs for the whip!--a hundred francs!--two hundred francs! -Once--twice--thrice!” - -The presidency of the feast fell to the highest bidder. The chariot of -green boughs led the procession, a cavalcade of joyful labourers, each -one walking proudly near his own horse or mule, and cracking his whip. -In the chariot, accompanied by the musicians playing the tambourine and -flute, the Prior was seated. On the mules, fathers placed their little -ones astride, the latter holding on happily to the trappings. The -horses’ collars were all ornamented with a cake of the blessed bread, in -the form of a crown, and a pennon in paper bearing a picture of -Saint-Eloi; and carried on the shoulders of the Priors of the past years -was an image of the saint, in full glory, like a golden bishop, the -crozier in his hand. - -Drawn by the fifty mules or donkeys round the village rolled the -chariot, in a cloud of dust, with the farm labourers running like mad by -the side of their beasts, all in their shirt sleeves, hats at the back -of their heads, a belt round the waist, and low shoes. - -That year Jean Roussière, mounting our mule Falette, astonished the -spectators. Light as a cat, he jumped on the animal, then off again, -remounted, now sitting on one side, now standing upright on the crupper, -there in turn doing the goose step, the forked tree and the frog, on the -mule’s back--in short, giving a sort of Arab horseman’s performance. - -But where he shone with even greater lustre was at the supper of -Saint-Eloi, for after the chariot procession the Priors give a feast. -Every one having eaten and drunk their fill and said grace, Roussière -rose and addressed the company. - -“Comrades! Here you are, a crowd of good-for-nothings and rascals, who -have kept the Saint-Eloi for the past thousand years, and yet I will -wager none of you know the history of your great patron.” - -The company confessed that all they had heard was that their saint had -been a blacksmith. - -“Yes, but I am going to tell you how he became a saint.” And while -soaking a crisp _tortillarde_ in his glass of Tavel wine, the worthy -Roussière proceeded: - -“Our Lord God the Father, one day in Paradise, wore a troubled air. The -child Jesus inquired of him: - -“‘What is the matter, my Father?’ - -“‘I have,’ replied God, ‘a case that greatly plagues me. Hold, look down -there!’ - -“‘Where?’ asked Jesus. - -“‘Down there, in the Limousin, to the right of my finger: thou seest, in -that village, near the city, a smithy, a large fine smithy?’ - -“‘I see--I see.’ - -“‘Well, my son, there is a man that I should like to have saved: they -call him Master Eloi. He is a reliable, good fellow, a faithful observer -of my Commandments, charitable to the poor, kind-hearted to every one, -of exemplary conduct, hammering away from morning to night without evil -speaking or blasphemy. Yes, he seems to me worthy to become a great -saint.’ - -“‘And what prevents it?’ asked Jesus. - -“‘His pride, my son. Because he is a good worker, a worker of the first -order, Eloi thinks that no one on earth is above him, and presumption is -perdition.’ - -“‘My Lord Father,’ said Jesus, ‘if you will permit me to descend to the -earth I will try and convert him.’ - -“‘Go, my dear son.’ - -“And the good Jesus descended. Dressed like an apprentice, his tool-bag -on his back, the divine workman alighted right in the street where Eloi -dwelt. Over the blacksmith’s door was the usual signboard, and on it -this inscription: - -“‘Eloi the blacksmith, master above all other masters, forges a shoe in -two heatings.’ - -“The little apprentice stepped on to the threshold and taking off his -hat: - -“‘God give you good-day, master, and to the company,’ said he; ‘have -you need of any help?’ - -“‘Not for the moment,’ answered Eloi. - -“‘Farewell then, master: it will be for another time.’ - -“And the good Jesus continued his road. In the street he saw a group of -men talking, and Jesus said in passing: - -“‘I should not have thought that in such a smithy, where there must be, -one would think, so much doing, they would refuse me work.’ - -“‘Wait a bit, my lad,’ said one of the neighbours. ‘What salutation did -you make to Master Eloi!’ - -“‘I said, as is usual, “God give you good-day, master, and to the -company!’ - -“‘Ah, but that is not what you should have said. You should have -addressed him as, “Master above all other masters.” There, look at the -board!’ - -“‘That is true,’ said Jesus. ‘I will try again.’ And with that he -returned to the smithy. - -“‘God give you good-day, master above all other masters. Have you no -need of an apprentice?’ - -“‘Come in, come in,’ replied Eloi. ‘I have been thinking that we could -give you work also. But listen to this once and for all: When you -address me, you must say, “Master, above all other masters,” see -you--this is not to boast, but men like me, who can forge a shoe in two -heatings, there are not two in Limousin!’ - -“‘Oh,’ replied the apprentice, ‘in our country, we do it with one -heating!’ - -“‘Only one heating! Go to, boy, be silent then--why the thing is not -possible.’ - -“‘Very well, you shall see, master above all other masters!’ - -“Jesus took a piece of iron, threw it into the forge, blew, made up the -fire, and when the iron was red--red, and incandescent--he took it out -with his hand. - -“‘Oh--poor simpleton!’ the head apprentice cried to him, ‘thou wilt -scorch thy fingers!’ - -“‘Have no fear!’ answered Jesus. ‘Thanks to God, in our country we have -no need of pincers.’ And the little workman seizes with his hand the -iron heated to white heat, carries it to the anvil, and with his hammer, -pif, paf, in the twinkle of an eye, stretches it, flattens it, rounds it -and stamps it so well that one would have said it was cast. - -“‘Oh, I, too,’ said Master Eloi, ‘I could do that if I wanted to.’ - -“He then takes a piece of iron, throws it in the forge, blows, makes up -the fire, and when the iron is red hot, goes to take it as his -apprentice had done and carry it to the anvil--but he burns his fingers -badly! In vain he tried to hurry, to harden himself to endure the burn, -he was forced to let go his hold and run for the pincers. In the -meantime the shoe for the horse grew cold--and only a few sparks burnt -out. Ah! poor Master Eloi, he might well hammer, and put himself in a -sweat--to do it with one heating was impossible. - -“‘But listen,’ said the apprentice, ‘I seem to hear the gallop of a -horse.’ - -“Master Eloi at once stalked to the door and sees a cavalier, a splendid -cavalier, drawing up at the smithy. Now this was Saint-Martin. - -“‘I come a long way,’ he said, ‘my horse has lost a shoe, and I am in a -great hurry to find a blacksmith.’ - -“Master Eloi bridled up. - -“‘My lord,’ said he, ‘you could not have chanced better. You have come -to the first blacksmith of Limousin--of Limousin and of France, who may -well call himself “master of all the masters,” and who forges a shoe in -two heats. Here lad, hold the horse’s hoof,’ he called. - -“‘Hold the hoof!’ cried Jesus. ‘In our country we do not find that -necessary.’ - -“‘Well, what next,’ cried the master blacksmith, ‘that is a little too -much! And how can one shoe a horse, in your country, without holding the -hoof?’ - -“‘But faith, nothing is easier, as you shall see.’ - -“And so saying, the young man seized a knife, went up to the horse, and -crack! cut off the hoof. He carried it into the smithy, fastened it in -the vice, carefully heated the hoof, fastened on the new shoe that he -had just made; with the shoeing hammer he knocked in the nails, then -loosening the vice, returned the foot to the horse, spat on it and -fitted it, saying, as he made the sign of the Cross, ‘May God grant that -the blood dries up,’ and there was the foot finished, shod and healed as -no one had ever seen before and as no one will ever see again. - -“The first apprentice opened his eyes wide as the palm of your hand, -while Master Eloi’s assistants began to perspire. - -“‘Ho,’ said Eloi at last, ‘my faith, but I will do it like that--do it -just as well.’ - -“He sets himself to the task. Knife in hand he approaches the horse, and -crack! he cuts off the foot, carries it into the smithy, fastens it into -the vice, and shoes it at his ease, just like the young apprentice. - -“But then came the hitch, he must put it back in place. He approaches -the horse, spits on the shoe, applies it to the fetlock as best he can. -Alas! the salve does not stick, the blood flows, and the foot falls! -Then was the proud soul of Master Eloi illuminated: and he went back -into the smithy there to prostrate himself at the feet of the young -apprentice. But Jesus had disappeared, and also the horse and the -cavalier. Tears gushed from the eyes of Master Eloi; he recognised, poor -man, that there was a master above him, and above all. Throwing aside -his apron he left the forge and went out into the world to teach the -word of the Lord Jesus.” - -Great applause followed the conclusion of this legend, applause both for -Saint-Eloi and for Jean Roussière. - - * * * * * - -Before I leave the worthy Jean I must mention that it was he who sang to -me the popular air to which I put the serenade of Magali, an air so -sweet, so melodious, that many regretted not finding it in Gounod’s -opera of _Mireille_. The only person in all the world that I ever heard -sing that particular air was Jean Roussière, who was apparently the -last to retain it. It was a strange coincidence that he should come, by -chance as it were, and sing it to me, at the moment when I was looking -for the Provençal note of my love-song, and thus enable me to save it -just at the moment when, like so many other things, it was about to be -relegated to oblivion. - -The name of Magali, an abbreviation of Marguerite, I heard one day as I -was returning home from Saint-Rémy. A young shepherdess was tending a -flock of sheep along the Grande Roubine. “Oh! Magali, art not coming -yet?” cried a boy to her as he passed by. The limpid name struck me as -so pretty that at once I sang: - - -MAGALI.[15] - - “O Magali, belovèd maid, - Forth from thy casement lean! - And listen to my serenade - Of viols and tambourine.” - - “Were ever stars so many seen! - The wind to rest is laid; - But when thy face thou shalt unveil, - These stars shall pale!” - - “So as for rustling leaves, I care - For this thy roundelay! - I’ll turn into an eel, and fare - To the blonde sea away!” - - “O Magali, if thou wilt play - At turning fish, beware! - For I the fisherman will be - And fish for thee.” - - “Oh, and if thou thy nets would’st fling - As fisherman, then stay! - I’ll be a bird upon the wing, - And o’er the moors away.” - - “O Magali, and would’st thou stray, - A wild bird wandering? - I’ll take my gun and speedily - Give chase to thee.” - - “For partridge or for warbler’s breed - If thou thy snares would’st lay, - Upon the vast and flowery mead - As flower I’ll hide away.” - - “O Magali, if thou a spray - Of blossom art indeed, - The limpid brook then I will be - And water thee.” - - “And if thou art the limpid brook, - I’ll be a cloud, and heigh! - I shall be gone, ere thou can’st look, - To far Americay!” - - “O Magali, and though the way - To furthest Ind you took, - I’d make myself the wind at sea - And carry thee.” - - “Wert thou the wind, by some device - I’d fly another way; - I’d be the shaft, that melts the ice, - From the great orb of day.” - - “O Magali, wert thou a ray - Of sunshine--in a trice - The emerald lizard I would be, - And drink in thee.” - - “And wert thou, hidden ’mid the fern, - A salamander--nay, - I’d be the full moon, that doth turn, - For witches, night to day.” - - O Magali, would’st thou essay - To be the moon, I’d learn - A soft and silver mist to be - Enfolding thee.” - - “But though the mist enfold, not so - Shalt thou me yet waylay! - For I a pure, fair rose shall grow - And ’mid my branches sway.” - - “O Magali, and though you may - Be loveliest rose, yet know - That I the butterfly shall be - Which kisseth thee.” - - “Go to! pursuer, thou’lt not win, - Though thou should’st run for aye; - For in some forest oak’s rough skin - I will myself array.” - - “O Magali, though thou grow grey - The doleful tree within, - A branch of ivy will I be - Embracing thee.” - - “And if thou dost, thou wilt embrace - Only an oak’s decay, - For in the convent of Saint-Blaise, - A White Nun, I will pray.” - - “O Magali, when comes that day, - There in the holy place - Father Confessor will I be, - And hark to thee.” - - “Pass but the gate, and in my stead - Thou wilt find, well-a-day! - The nuns all sadly busièd - Me in my shroud to lay.” - - “O Magali, and if cold clay - Thou make thyself, and dead, - Earth I’ll become, and there thou’lt be, - At last, for me.” - - “I half begin to think, in sooth, - Thou speakest earnestly! - Then take my ring of glass, fair youth, - In memory of me.” - - “Thou healest me, O Magali! - And mark how, of a truth, - The stars, since thou did’st drop thy veil, - Have all grown pale!” - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - -It was in the autumn of this year 1855 that the first cloud overshadowed -my happy youth. It was the sorrow of losing my father. He had become -quite blind, and as far back as the previous Christmas we had been -anxious about him. For on that occasion he whom the festival had always -filled with joy, this year seemed overcome by a deep depression which we -felt augured badly for the future. It was in vain that as usual we lit -the three sacred candles and spread the table with the three white -cloths; in vain that I offered him the mulled wine, hoping to hear from -his lips the sacramental “Good cheer.” Groping, alas! with his long thin -arms, he seated himself with never a word. In vain also my mother tried -to tempt him with the dishes of Christmas, one after the other--the -plate of snails, the fish of Martique, the almond nougat, the cake of -oil. Wrapt in pensive thought the poor old man supped in silence. A -shadow, a forerunner of death, was over him, and his blindness oppressed -him. Once he looked up and spoke. - -“Last year at Christmas I could still see the light of the candles; but -this year, nothing, nothing. Help me, O blessed Virgin.” - -In the first days of September he departed this life. Having received -the last sacrament with sincerity and faith, the strong faith of simple -souls, he turned to his family, who all stood weeping around his bed: - -“Come, come, my children,” he said to us. “I am going--and to God I give -thanks for all that I owe him: my long life and my labour, which He has -blessed.” - -Then he called me to him and asked: - -“Frédéric, what sort of weather is it?” - -“It rains, my father,” I replied. - -“Ah well,” he said, “if it rains it its good for the seeds.” - -Then he gave up his soul to God. I can never forget that moment! They -covered his head with the sheet, and near the bed, that big bed in the -white alcove where in broad daylight I had been born, they lit a long -pale taper. The shutters of the room were half closed. The labourers -were ordered to unyoke at once. The maid, in the kitchen, turned over -the cauldrons and pots on the dresser. - -Around the ashes of the fire, which had been extinguished, we seated -ourselves in a silent circle, my mother at the corner of the big -chimney, bearing, according to the custom of the widows of Provence, as -sign of mourning, a white fichu on her head. And all day the neighbours, -men and - -[Illustration: THÉRÈSE ROUMANILLE (MADAME BOISSIÈRE), 2ND QUEEN OF THE -FÉLIBRES.] - -women, relations and friends, came to offer us their sympathy, greeting -us one after another with the customary “May our Lord preserve you!” - -And lengthily, piously, they went through the condolences in honour of -the “poor master.” - -The next day all Maillane assisted at the funeral ceremony; and in their -prayers for him, the poor added always: - -“God grant that as many angels may accompany him to heaven as he has -given us loaves of bread!” - -The coffin was borne by hand with cloths, the lid off in order that for -the last time the people might see him with crossed hands in his white -shroud. Behind walked Jean Roussière carrying the wax taper which had -watched over his master. - -As for me, while the passing-bell sounded in the distance, I went to -weep alone in the fields, for the tree of the house had fallen. The Mas -du Juge, the home of my childhood, was now desolate and deserted in my -eyes as though it had lost its guardian spirit. The head of the family, -Master François my father, had been the last of the patriarchs of -Provence, a faithful preserver of traditions and customs, and the last, -at least for me, of that austere generation, religious, humble, and -self-controlled, who had patiently gone through the miseries and -convulsions of the Revolution, giving to France the disinterested -devotion which flamed up in her great holocausts, and the indefatigable -service of her big armies. - -One week later the division of property took place. The farm produce and -the “stacks,” the horses, oxen, sheep, poultry--all were divided into -lots. The furniture, our dear old things, the big four-poster beds, the -kneading-trough of iron-work, the meal-chest, the polished wardrobes, -the carved kneading-trough, the table, the mirror, all which, ever since -my childhood, I had seen as a part of my home life, the rows of plates, -the painted china, which never left the shelves of the dresser, the -sheets of hemp that my mother herself had woven; agricultural -implements, waggons, ploughs, harness, tools, utensils of every -kind--all these were collected and set out on the threshing-floor of the -farm, to be divided in three divisions by an expert. The servants, hired -either by the year or the month, left one after the other. And to the -paternal farm,[16] which was not in my division, I had to say good-bye. - -One afternoon, with my mother and the dog, and Jean Roussière who acted -as charioteer, we departed with heavy hearts, to dwell henceforth in the -house at Maillane which in the division had fallen to me. - -It was from personal experience I could write later on in _Mireille_ of -home-sickness: - - Comme au mas, comme au temps de mon pére, hélas! hélas! - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -“MIREILLE” - - -The following year (1856), at the time of the fête of Sainte-Agathe, -patroness of Maillane, I received a visit from a well-known poet in -Paris. Fate, or rather the good star of the Félibres, brought him just -in the propitious hour. It was Adolphe Dumas--a fine figure of a man -some fifty years old, of an æsthetic pallor, with long hair turning grey -and a brown moustache like a lap-dog. His black eyes were full of fire, -and he had a habit of accompanying his ringing voice with a fine waving -gesture of the hand. He was tall, but lame, dragging a crippled leg as -he walked. He reminded one of a cypress of Provence agitated by the -wind. - -“Is it you, then, Monsieur Mistral, who write verses in the Provençal?” -he began to me in a joking tone as he held out his hand. - -“Yes, it is I,” I replied. “At your service, Monsieur.” - -“Certainly, I hope that you can serve me. The Minister for Public -Instruction, Monsieur Fortoul, of Digne, has given me the commission to -come and collect the popular songs of Provence, such as ‘Le Mousse de -Marseille,’ ‘La Belle Margoton,’ ‘Les Noces du Papillon,’ and if you -know of any, I am here to collect them.” - -And talking over this matter I sang to him, as it happened, the serenade -of Magali, freshly arranged for the poem of _Mireille_. - -Adolphe Dumas started up all alert. - -“But where did you find that pearl?” he cried. - -“It is part,” I answered, “of a Provençal poem in twelve cantos to which -I am just giving the finishing touches.” - -“Oh, these good Provencaux!” he laughed. “You are always the same, -determined to keep your tattered language, like the donkeys who will -walk along the borders of the roads to graze upon thistles. It is in -French, my dear friend, it is in the language of Paris that we must sing -of our Provence to-day if we wish to be heard. Now, listen to this: - - “J’ai revu sur mon roc, vieille, nue, appauvrie, - La maison des parents, la première patrie, - L’ombre du vieux mûrier, le banc de pierre étroit, - Le nid de l’hirondelle avait au bord du toit, - Et la treille, à présent sur les murs égarée, - Qui regrette son maître et retombe éplorée; - Et dans l’herbe et l’oubli qui poussent sur le seuil, - J’ai fait pieusement agenouiller l’orgueil, - J’ai rouvert la fenêtre où me vint la lumière, - Et j’ai rempli de chants la couche de ma mère!” - -“But come, tell me, since poem there is, tell me something of your -Provençal production.” - -I then read him something out of _Mireille_, I forget what. - -“Ah! if you are going to talk like that,” said Dumas after my -recitation, “I take off my hat and greet the source of a new poetry, of -an indigenous poetry hitherto unknown. It teaches me, who have left -Provence for thirty years, and who thought her language dead, that -behind this dialect used by the common people, the half-_bourgeois_ and -the half-ladies, there exists a second language, that of Dante and -Petrarch. But take care to follow their methods, which did not consist, -as some think, in using the language as they found it, or in making a -mixture of the dialects of Florence, Bologna and Milan. They collected -the oil and then constructed a language which they made perfect while -generalising it. All who preceded the Latin writers of the great time of -Augustus, with the exception of Terence, were but trash. Of the popular -tongue, use only a few white straws with the grain that may be there. I -feel certain that you have the requisite sap running in your youthful -veins to ensure success. Already I begin to see the possibility of the -rebirth of a language founded upon Latin, which shall be beautiful and -sonorous as the best Italian.” - - * * * * * - -The story of Adolphe Dumas was like a fairy-tale. Born of the people, -his parents kept a little inn between Orgon and Cabane. Dumas had a -sister named Laura, beautiful as the day and innocent as a spring of -fresh water. One day, lo and behold, some strolling players passed -through the village, and gave in the evening a performance at the little -inn. One of them played the part of a prince. The gold tinsel of his -costume glittering beneath the big lanterns gave him, in the eyes of -poor little Laura, the appearance of a king’s son. Innocent, alas! as -many a one before, Laura allowed herself, so the story goes, to be -beguiled and carried off by this prince of the open road. She travelled -with the company and embarked at Marseilles. Too soon she learnt her mad -mistake, and not daring to return home, in desperation she took the -coach for Paris, where she arrived one morning in torrents of rain. -There she found herself on the street, alone and destitute. A gentleman, -driving past, noticed the young Provençale in tears. Stopping his -carriage he asked her: “My pretty child, what is the matter--why do you -weep so bitterly?” - -In her naïve way Laura told him her story. The gentleman, who was rich, -suddenly touched and taken with her beauty and simplicity, made her get -into his carriage, took her to a convent, had her carefully educated, -and then married her. But the beautiful bride, who had a noble heart, -did not forget her own relations. She sent for her little brother -Adolphe to Paris, and gave him a good education, and that is how Adolphe -Dumas, a poet by nature and an enthusiast, one day found himself in the -midst of the literary movement of 1830. Verses of all sorts, dramas, -comedies, poems, bubbled forth one after another from his seething -brain: “La Cité des Hommes,” “La Mort de Faust et de Don Juan,” “Le Camp -des Croisés,” “Provence,” “Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” “L’Ecole des -Familles,” “Les Servitudes Volontaires,” &c. But, just as in the army, -though all may do their duty every one does not receive the Legion of -Honour, in spite of his pluck and the comparative success of his plays -in the Paris theatres, the poet Dumas, like our drummer-boy of Arcole, -remained always the undecorated soldier. This it was, no doubt, which -made him say later on in Provençal: - -“At forty years and more, when every one is angling, still I dip my -bread in the poor man’s soup. Let us be content if we have a soul at -peace, a pure heart and clean hands. ‘What has he earned?’ the world -will ask, ‘He carries his head erect.’ ‘What does he do?’ ‘He does his -duty.’” - -But if Dumas had gained no special laurels, he had won the esteem of the -most distinguished brothers-in-arms, and Hugo, Lamartine, Béranger, De -Vigny, the great Dumas, Jules Janin, Mignet, Barbey d’Aurevilly were -among his friends. - -Adolphe Dumas, with his ardent temperament, his experience of struggling -days in Paris, and the memory of his childhood on the Durance, came to -the determination to issue a passenger’s ticket to Félibrige between -Avignon and Paris. - -My poem of Provence was at last finished, though not yet printed, when -one day my friend Frédéric Legré, a young Marseillais who formerly -frequented Font-Ségugne, said to me: - -“I am going to Paris--will you come too?” - -I accepted the invitation, and it was thus that on the spur of the -moment, for the first time, I visited Paris, where I stayed one week. I -had, needless to say, brought my manuscript, and after spending the -first two days in sight-seeing and admiring, from Notre-Dame to the -Louvre, and from the Place Vendôme to the great Arc de Triomphe, we -went, as was proper, and paid our respects to the good Dumas. - -“Well, and that _Mireille_,” he asked me, “is she finished?” - -“She is finished,” I said, “and here she is--in manuscript.” - -“Come now, since you are here, you will read me a song.” - -And when I had read the first canto, “Go on!” said Dumas. - -I read the second, then the third, then the fourth canto. - -“That is enough for to-day,” said the good man. “Come to-morrow at the -same time, we will continue the reading; but this much I may assure -you,” he added, “if your work keeps up to this level, you may win finer -laurels than at present you have any idea of.” - -I returned the next day and read four more cantos, and the day after we -finished the poem. - -That same day (August 26, 1856) Adolphe Dumas wrote to the editor of the -_Gazette de France_ the following letter: - -“The _Gazette du Midi_ has already made known to the _Gazette de France_ -the arrival in Paris of young Mistral, the poet of Provence. Who is -this Mistral? No one knows anything of him. When I am asked, I answer -fearing my words should find no credence, so surprising will be my -statements at a time when the prevalence of imitation poetry makes one -believe that all true poetry and poets are dead. In ten years’ time the -Academy will, when all the world has already done so, recognise another -glory to French literature. The clock of the Institute is often an hour -behind the century, but I wish to be the first to discover one who may -be truly called the Virgil of Provence, and who, like the shepherd of -Mantua, sings to his countrymen songs worthy of Gallus and of Scipio. -Many have long desired for our beautiful country of the south, Roman -both in speech and religion, the poem which shall express in her own -tongue the sacred beliefs and pure customs of our land. I have the poem -in my hands, it consists of twelve songs. It is signed Frédéric Mistral, -of the village of Maillane, and I countersign it with my word of honour, -which I have never given falsely, and with the full weight of my -responsibility.” - -This letter was received with jeers by certain papers. “The mistral is -incarnated, it appears, in a poem. We shall see if it will be anything -except wind.” - -But Dumas, content with the effect of the bomb, said, clasping my hand: - -“Now, my dear fellow, return to Avignon and get your _Mireille_ printed. -We have thrown down the glove, now let the critics talk. They must each -one have their say in turn.” - -Before I left Paris my devoted compatriot wished to present me to -Lamartine, his friend, and this is how the great man recounts the visit -in his “Cours familier de Littérature” (quarantième entretien, 1859): - -“As the sun was setting, Adolphe Dumas entered my room, followed by a -fine, modest-looking young man, dressed with a sober elegance which -recalled the lover of Laura, when he brushed his black tunic and combed -his smooth hair in the city of Avignon. It was Frédéric Mistral, the -young village poet, destined to become in Provence, what Burns the -ploughman was in Scotland, the Homer of his native land. - -“His expression was straightforward, modest and gentle, with nothing in -it of that proud tension of the features or of that vacancy of the eye -which too often characterises those men of vanity rather than genius, -styled popular poets. He had the comeliness of sincerity, he pleased, he -interested, he touched; one recognised in his masculine beauty the son -of one of those beautiful Arlesiennes, living statues of Greece, who -still move in our south. - -“Mistral sat down without ceremony at my dinner-table in Paris, -according to the laws of ancient hospitality, as I would have seated -myself at the farm table of his mother at Maillane. The dinner was -quiet, the conversation intimate and frank. The evening passed quickly -and pleasantly in my little garden about the size of the kerchief of -Mireille, to the song of blackbirds in the fresh cool night air. - -“The young man recited some verses in the sweet nervous idiom of -Provence, which combines the Latin pronunciation with the grace of -Attica and the serenity of Tuscany. My knowledge of the Latin dialects, -which I spoke up to the age of twelve in the mountains of my country, -made these fine idioms intelligible to me. The verses of Mistral were -liquid and melodious, they pleased without intoxicating me. The genius -of the young man was not there, the medium was too restricted for his -soul; he needed, as did Jasmin, that other singer of indigenous growth, -his epic poem in which to spread his wings. He returned to his village, -there at his mother’s hearth and beside the flocks to find his last -inspirations. On taking leave, he promised to send me the first printed -copy of his _Mireille_.” - -After this memorable occasion I paid my farewell respects to Lamartine. -He lived at that time on the ground floor in the Rue de la -Ville-l’Evêque. It was evening. Burdened with his debts and somewhat -forsaken, the great man drowsed on a sofa, smoking a cigar, while some -visitors spoke in low voices around him. - -All at once a servant came to announce that a Spaniard, a harpist called -Herrera, asked permission to play some of the music of his country -before Monsieur de Lamartine. - -“Let him come in,” said the poet. - -When the harpist had played his tunes, Lamartine, in a whisper to his -niece, Madame de Cessia, asked if there was any money in the drawers of -his bureau. - -“There are still two louis,” she replied. - -“Give them to Herrera,” said the kind-hearted Lamartine. - -I returned to Provence to get my poem printed, and so soon as it issued -from the printing office of Seguin at Avignon, I directed the first -proof to Lamartine, who wrote to Reboul[17] the following letter: - -“I have read _Mirèio_. Nothing until now has appeared of such national, -vital, inimitable growth of the South. There is a virtue in the sun of -Provence. I have received such a thrust both in the spirit and the heart -that I was impelled to write a discourse on the poem. Tell this to -Monsieur Mistral. Since the Homerics of Archipel, no such spring of -primitive poetry has gushed forth. I cried, even as you did, ‘It is -Homer!’” - -Adolphe Dumas wrote me: - - _March, 1859._ - - “Another joyful letter for you, my dear friend. I went, last - evening, to Lamartine. On seeing me enter, he received me with - exclamations of enthusiasm, using much the same expressions as I - did in my letter to the _Gazette de France_. He has read and - understood, he says, your poem from one end to the other. He read - it and re-read it three times; he cannot leave it, and reads - nothing else. His niece, that beautiful person whom you saw, added - that she has been unable to steal it from him for one instant to - read it herself, and he is going to devote an entire lecture to you - and _Mirèio_. He asked me for biographical notes on you and on - Maillane. I sent them to him this morning. You were the subject of - general conversation all the evening, and your poem was rehearsed - by Lamartine and by me from the first word to the last. If this - lecture speaks thus of you, your fame is assured throughout the - world. He says you are ‘A Greek of the Cyclades.’ He has written of - you to Reboul, ‘He is a Homer.’ He charges me to write you _all - that I will_, and he added I cannot say too much, he is so entirely - delighted. So be very happy, you and your dear mother, of whom I - retain a charming remembrance.” - -I wish to record here a very singular fact of maternal intuition. I had -given to my mother a copy of _Mirèio_, but without having spoken to her -of Lamartine’s opinion, of which I was still ignorant. At the end of the -day, when I thought she had made acquaintance with the work, I asked her -what she thought of it, and she answered me, deeply moved: - -“A very strange thing happened to me when I opened thy book: a flash of -light, like a star, dazzled me suddenly, and I was obliged to delay the -reading until later!” - -One may believe it or no, but I have always thought that this vision of -my beloved and sainted mother was a very real sign of the influence of -Sainte-Estelle, otherwise of the star that had presided at the -foundation of Félibrige. - -The fortieth discourse of the “Cours familier de Littérature” appeared a -month later (1859) under the title of “The Appearance of an Epic Poem in -Provence.” Lamartine devoted eighty pages to the poem of _Mireille_, and -this glorification was the crowning event of the numberless articles -which had welcomed the rustic epic in the press of Provence, of -Languedoc, and of Paris. I testified my gratitude in the Provençal -quatrain, which I inscribed at the head of the second edition. - - -TO LAMARTINE. - - To thee alone _Mireille_ I dedicate; - My heart, my soul, my flower, the best of me, - A bunch of Crau’s sweet grapes and leaves, that late - A peasant offers thee. - - _September 8, 1859._ - -And the following is the elegy that I published on the death of the -great man, ten years later (1869). - - -ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LAMARTINE.[18] - - When the day-star draws near to the hour of his setting, - When dusk clothes the hills, and the shepherds are letting - Their sheep and their herds and their dogs go free, - Then up from the marshlands, all groaning together, - Come the wails of the toilers through sweltering weather: - “That sunshine was nearly the death of me!” - - Thou, of God’s holy words the magnanimous preacher, - Even so, Lamartine, O my father, my teacher, - When by song, and by deed, and consoling tear, - Thou did’st lavish thy love and thy light unsparing, - Till the world had its fill, and the world, not caring, - Grew weary and sated, and would not hear: - - Then each one his taunt through the mist must needs fling thee, - And each one a stone from his armoury sling thee: - Thy splendour but hurt us, and tired our sight; - For a star that grows dim and no longer can light them, - And a crucified god--these will ever delight them, - The ignorant crowd--and the toads love night. - - Oh, then were there seen things prodigious, by Heaven! - Fresh youth to the soul of the world had he given, - He, of purest poesy mighty source; - Yet the new young rhymesters were moved to laughter - O’er his sadness prophetic, and said thereafter - “That he knew not the poet’s art, of course!” - - High-Priest of the great Adonaï, he raises - The soul of our creeds by the heavenly praises - He hymns on the strings of Sion’s golden harp! - Yet, calling to witness the Scriptures proudly, - “A man irreligious” they dub him loudly, - The Pharisee bigots who mouth and carp. - - He, the great, tender heart who has sung the disaster - Of our monarchs ancestral, and he, the master - Who with pomp of marble has built their tomb, - On him all the gapers who vow adoration - To the Royalist cause, have pronounced condemnation; - They call him insurgent--and give him room. - - He, the voice apostolic, while all men wondered, - The great word “Republic” hath hurled and thundered - Across the world’s skies, till the peoples thrilled! - Yet him, by a frenzy unspeakable smitten, - Have all the mad dogs of Democracy bitten, - And growled at him, snarled at him as they willed! - - To the crater of fire, he, great patriot, had given - Wealth, body and soul, and his country had striven - To save from the burning volcano’s flame; - Yet when, poor, he was begging his bread, all denied him, - The bigwigs and burghers as spendthrift decried him, - And, shut up in ease, to their boroughs came. - - When he saw himself then in disaster forsaken-- - With his cross, and by anguish and suffering shaken, - Alone he ascended his Calvary; - And at dusk some good souls heard a long, long sighing, - And then, through the spaces, this cry undying - Rang out: “Eloi, lama sabachthani.” - - But none dared draw nigh to that hill-top lonely, - So he waited in patience and silence only, - With his deep eyes closed and his hands spread wide; - Till, calm as the mountains at heaven’s high portal, - Amidst his ill-fortune, and fame immortal, - Without ever speaking a word, he died. - - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE - -(A REMINISCENCE OF ALPHONSE DAUDET) - - -Alphonse Daudet, writing of his youth in the “Lettres de mon Moulin” and -“Trente Ans de Paris,” has told with the finest bloom of his pen some of -the pranks he played with the early Félibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, -Baux, and Châteauneuf--that first crop of Félibres who in those days ran -about the country of Provence for the fun of running, to keep themselves -going, and above all to stir up again in the hearts of the people the -Gai-Savoir of the Troubadours. There is, however, one joyous day of -adventure we spent together some forty years ago, of which Daudet has -not told. - -Alphonse Daudet was at that time secretary to the Duc de Morny, honorary -secretary be it understood, for the utmost that the young man ever did -was to go once a month to see if his patron, the President of the -Senate, was flourishing and in a good temper. Amongst other exquisite -things from his pen, Daudet had written a love-poem called “Les -Prunes.” All Paris knew it by heart, and Monsieur de Morny, hearing it -recited one evening in a drawing-room, requested the author might be -presented to him, with the result that he took the young man under his -patronage. To say nothing of his wit, which flashed like a diamond, -Daudet was a handsome fellow, brown, with a clear skin and black eyes -with long lashes, a budding beard and thick crop of hair which he -allowed to grow so long that the Duke, every time the author of “Les -Prunes” called on him at the Senate, would repeat, with disapproving -finger pointing at the offending locks: - -“Well poet--and when are we going to cut off this wig?” - -“Next week, Monseigneur,” the poet invariably replied. - -About once a month the great Duc de Morny made the same observation to -the little Daudet, and every time the poet made the same answer. But the -Duke himself was more likely to fall than Daudet’s mane. - -At that age the future chronicler of the prodigious adventures of -Tartarin of Tarascon was a merry youth, who kept pace with the wind, -impatient to know everything, an audacious Bohemian, frank and free with -his tongue, throwing himself headlong in the swim of life with laughter -and noise, always on the look-out for adventures. He had quicksilver in -his veins. - -I remember one evening, when we were supping at the Chêne-Vert, a -pleasant inn in the neighbourhood of Avignon, hearing music for a dance -that was going on just below the terrace where we were dining. Daudet -suddenly jumped down, a flying leap of some nine or ten feet, crashing -through the branches of a vine trellis and landing in the midst of the -dancers, who took him for a devil. - -Another time, from the height of the road which passes at the foot of -the Pont du Gard, he threw himself, without knowing how to swim, into -the River Gardon, to see, so he said, if the water was deep. Had not a -fisherman caught hold of him with his boathook, my poor Alphonse would -most certainly have drunk what we call “the soup of eleven o’clock!” - -Another time, on the bridge that leads from Avignon to the island of -Barthelasse, he madly climbed on the narrow parapet, and racing along at -the risk of tumbling over into the Rhône, he cried out, for the -edification of some country people who heard him: “It is from here, by -thunder! that we threw the corpse of Brune into the Rhône, yes, the -Maréchal Brune! And may it serve as an example to those northerners and -barbarians if ever they return to annoy us!” - -One day in September, at Maillane, I received a little note from friend -Daudet, one of those notes minute as a parsley leaf, well known to all -his friends, in which he said to me: - - “MY FRÉDÉRIC,--To-morrow, Wednesday, I leave Fontvieille to come - and meet thee at Saint-Gabriel. Mathieu and Grivolas will join us - by the road from Tarascon. The place of meeting is the ale-house, - where we shall await thee about nine o’clock or half-past. And - there, at Sarrasine’s, the lovely landlady of the place, having - drunk a glass, we will set out on foot for Arles. Do not fail. - -“Thy RED HOOD.” - - - -On the day mentioned, between eight and nine o’clock, we all found -ourselves at Saint-Gabriel, at the foot of the chapel which guards the -mountain. At Sarrasine’s, we drank a cherry brandy, and then--forward on -the white road. - -We inquired of a roadmender how far it was to Arles. - -“When you get to the tomb of Roland,” he answered, “you will still have -two hours’ walk.” - -We inquired where was the tomb of Roland. - -“Down there where you see a group of cypresses on the banks of the -Viqueirat.” - -“And this Roland, who was he?” - -“He was, so they say, a famous captain of the time of the Saracens.... -His teeth, I will wager, no longer hurt him.” - -Greetings to thee, Roland! We never expected, when we set out, to find -still living, in the fields and meadows of Trebon, the legendary glory -of the Companion of Charlemagne. But to continue. Just as the Man of -Bronze struck twelve, gaily we descended upon Arles, entering by the -Porte de la Cavalerie, all of us white with dust. As we had the appetite -of Spaniards we went at once to breakfast at the Hôtel Pinus. - -We were not badly served; and when one is young, making merry with -friends and rejoicing to be alive, there is nothing like dining together -for engendering high spirits. - -There was one thing, however, which disturbed our equanimity. A waiter -in a black coat, with pomaded head, and whiskers standing out like birch -brooms, hovered perpetually around us, a napkin under his arm, never -taking his eyes off us, and under pretext of changing our plates, -listening eagerly to all our foolish talk. - -“We must get rid of him. Here, waiter!” said Daudet. - -The limpet approached. “Yes, sir?” - -“Quick, fetch me a dish--a large silver dish.” - -“To place upon it?” inquired the waiter, puzzled. - -“A jackanapes,” replied Daudet in a voice of thunder. - -The changer of plates did not wait for any more, and from that moment -left us in peace. - -“What I dislike about these hotels,” said Mathieu, “is that since the -commercial traveller introduced the northern fashions, whether at -Avignon, Augoulême, Draguignan, or even at Brier-la-Gaillarde, they now -all give you the same insipid dishes--carrot broth, veal and sorrel, -roast beef half cooked, cauliflower with butter, and a variety of -eatables with neither taste nor savour. In Provence, if you want to find -the old-fashioned cooking of the country which was appetising and -savoury, you must go to the little inn frequented by the country -people.” - -“What if we go this evening,” cried Grivolas the painter. - -“Let us go,” we all agreed. - -We paid without further delay, lighted our cigars and sallied forth to -take our cup of coffee in a popular _café_, and then in the narrow -streets, cool, and white with limestone, flanked by stately old houses -on either side, we strolled about till the twilight fell, looking at the -queenly Arlesienne beauties on their doorsteps or behind the transparent -window curtains, for I must own they had counted considerably as a -latent motive in our descent upon Arles. - -We passed the Arena, its great gates wide open, and the Roman theatre -with its two majestic columns. We visited Saint-Trophime and the -cloisters, the famous Head without a Nose, the Palaces of the Lion, of -the Porcelets, of Constantine, and of the Grand Prior. - -Sometimes on the narrow pavement we ran up against a donkey belonging to -some water-carrier selling water from the Rhône in barrels. We also -encountered troops of sunburnt gleaners, newly returned from the -country, carrying on their heads the heavy load of gleanings, and beside -these the vendors of snails, shouting at the pitch of their voices: - -“Who will buy fresh snails from the fields!” - -About sunset we inquired of a woman, who stood just outside the -fish-market knitting a stocking, if she could direct us to some little -inn or tavern, unpretentious, but clean, where we could dine in simple -apostolic fashion. - -The woman, thinking we were joking, cried out to her neighbours, who, -at her shout of laughter, came to their doors coifed with the coquettish -headgear of Arles. - -“See, here are some gentlemen looking for a tavern at which to sup--do -you know of one?” - -“Send them,” cried one, “to the Rue Pique-Monte.” - -“Or to the ‘Little Cat,’” said another. - -“Or to the ‘Widow Come Here.’” - -“Or to the Gate of the Chestnuts.” - -“Don’t mock us, my dears,” said I. “We want some quiet little place -within the reach of anybody, where honest people go.” - -“Very well,” said a fat man seated on a post, smoking his pipe, with a -face coloured like a beggar’s gourd, “why not go to Counënc’s? See here, -gentlemen, I will conduct you,” he continued, rising and shaking out his -pipe; “I have to go by that way. It is on the other side of the Rhône, -in the suburb of Trinquetaille. It is not an hotel of the first order, -my faith, but the watermen, the bargees and the boatmen who come from -Condrieu, feed there and are not discontented. The owner is from Combs, -a village near Beaucaire, which supplies some bargemen. I myself, who -have the honour of addressing you, am master of a boat, and I have done -my share of sailing.” - -We inquired if he had been far afield. - -“Oh no,” he replied, “I have only sailed in the small coasting trade as -far as Havre-de-Grace, but it is a true saying that there is never a -boatman who does not face danger--and for sure, had it not been for the -Great Saintes-Maries, who have always protected me, there are many -times, my friends, when we should have gone under.” - -“And they call you?” - -“Master Gafet! Always at your service should you at any time run down to -Sambuc or to Graz to see the vessels embedded in the sand at the river’s -mouth.” - -So, chatting pleasantly, we arrived at the bridge of Trinquetaille, at -that time still a bridge of boats. As we passed over the moving planks -which connected the chain of boats one felt beneath the heaving river, -powerful and living, on whose mighty bosom one rose and sank as it drew -breath. Having crossed the Rhône, we turned to the left on the quay, and -there, beneath an old trellis, bending over the trough of the well, we -saw--how shall I describe her?--a kind of witch, and one-eyed to boot, -scraping and opening some lively eels. At her feet some cats were -gnawing and fighting as she threw the heads down to them. - -“That is ‘La Counënque,’” announced Master Gafet. - -It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed -but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But--here we were! - -“Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide. - -“Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to -saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.” - -“See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?” - -“Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have -nothing else.” - -“Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in--come -in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.” - -Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all -five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille. - - * * * * * - -In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the -walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from -fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord -Counënc supping with them. - -From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung flycatchers in -the shape of tamarinds, where the flies settled and were afterwards -caught in a bag. We sat down on benches at another table, opposite the -bargemen, who, on seeing us, became silent. - -While the hash was preparing on the stove, “La Counënque,” to give us an -appetite, brought some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde, a -dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fermented cheese, preserved -olives, botargo of Martinique, and slices of braised haddock. - -“And thou who saidst there was nothing to eat!” cried Master Gafet, -cutting the bread with his big hooked knife; “but it is a wedding -feast!” - -“By our Lady,” answered the one-eyed, “if you had let us know -beforehand, we might have prepared you a _blanquette à la mode_--or an -omelette--but when people drop down on you in the twilight like a hair -in the soup, you understand, gentlemen, one has to give them what one -can.” - -Daudet, who in his whole life had never before seen such specimens of -the Camargue, seized one of the onions--fine flat onions, golden as a -Christmas loaf--and boldly crunched and swallowed it, leaf by leaf, with -his fine strong teeth, to the accompaniment of some fermented cheese and -haddock. It is only fair to mention we also did our best to help him, -while Master Gafet, raising every now and again the brimming jug of Crau -wine, his face ablaze as I never saw the like. - -“Oh these young bloods!” said he, “the onion makes one drink and keeps -up the thirst.” - -In less than half an hour one could have lighted a match on any one of -our cheeks. Then the hash (catigot) arrived, a dish in which a -shepherd’s crook could have stood upright, salted like the sea, and -peppered like the devil. - -“Salting and peppering make one find the wine very good,” said the fat -Gafet; “let us clink glasses, my boys.” - -The bargemen meantime, having finished their kid, ended their repast, as -is the custom of the watermen of Condrieu, with a plate of fat soup. -Each one poured a big glass of wine into his plate, then, lifting it -with both hands, all together they drank off the mixture at one gulp, -smacking their lips with pleasure. The master of a raft, who wore his -beard like a collar, then sang a song which, if I remember, finished -like this: - - When our fleet arrives - On the way to Toulon, - We salute the town - With a roll of cannon. - -“Thunder! but we must give them one back,” cried Daudet. And he burst -out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the -Vaulois: - - To Lourmarin--Light-horseman - There they die! - To Lourmarin--Light-horseman - Quickly fly! &c. - -Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus: - - The maidens of Valence - Know naught of love’s sweet way, - But those of fair Provence - Enjoy it night and day. - -“Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making -castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the -one-eyed interrupted us: - -“Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for -brawling at nights.” - -“The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added -Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.” - -The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at -the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de -Morny wrote in his best hand: - - A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate. - F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. - A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. - P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon. - -“And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever -dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou -hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If -after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will -make him dance.” - -We settled our bill, and accompanied by the admiring glances of all, we -left with the air of princes who had just revealed their identity. -Arrived at the footpath of the bridge of Trinquetaille: - -“What if we danced a bit of a _farandole_?” proposed the indefatigable -and charming novelist of the “Mule du Pape.” “The bridges of Provence -are only made for that.” - -So forward. In the clear, limpid light of the September moon, which was -reflected in the water, behold us stepping gaily and singing on the -bridge. - -About midway across we saw advancing a procession of Arlesiennes, of -delicious Arlesiennes, each one with her cavalier, walking and bowing, -laughing and talking. The rustling of petticoats, the _frou-frou_ of -silk, the soft murmurs of the happy couples as they spoke together in -the peaceful night with the thrill of the Rhône that glided between the -boats, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten. - -“A wedding!” cried the fat Gafet, who had not yet left us. - -“A wedding,” echoed Daudet, who, with his short sight, only just -perceived the advancing party. “An Arlesienne wedding! A moonlight -wedding! A wedding in the middle of the Rhône!” - -And taken with a sudden mad impulse, our buck sprang forward, threw -himself on the neck of the bride, and kissed her with a will. - -Then followed a pretty row! We were all in for it, and if ever we were -hard put to it in our lives, it was certainly on that occasion. Twenty -fellows with raised sticks surrounded us: - -“To the Rhône with the rascals!” - -“What is it all about?” cried Master Gafet, pushing back the crowd. -“Can’t you see we have been drinking? Drinking to the health of the -bride in the Trinquetaille, and that to commence drinking again would do -us harm?” - -“Long live the bridal couple!” we all exclaimed. And thanks to the -valiant Gafet, whom every one knew, and to his presence of mind, the -thing ended there. - - * * * * * - -The next question was where to go next? The Man of Bronze had just -struck eleven o’clock. We decided to make the tour of the Aliscamps.[19] - -Passing down the Lice d’Arles we went the round of the ramparts, and by -the light of the moon descended the avenue of poplars leading to the -cemetery of the old Arles of the Romans. And while wandering amongst the -tombs and sarcophagi, showing white on either side in long rows, we -solemnly chaunted the fine ballad by Camille Reybaud: - - The poplars growing in the churchyard here - Salute the dead that in these graves abide-- - If thou the sacred mysteries dost fear - Oh never pass the churchyard by so near! - - The long, white grave-stones in the churchyard here - Have flung their heavy covers open wide. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - Upon the greensward in the churchyard here - The dead men all stand upright side by side. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - They all embrace within the churchyard here, - These mute and silent brothers who have died. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - ’Tis keeping holiday, the churchyard here, - And dancing to and fro the dead men glide. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - Across the churchyard now the moon shines clear; - Each maiden seeks her love, each lad his bride. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - No more they find them, in the churchyard here, - Their loves of yore, that would not be denied. - If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c. - - Oh open me the churchyard wicket wide! - Let my love in, to comfort them that died!... - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - -Suddenly, from a yawning tomb three paces from us, we heard in dolorous -sepulchral tones these words: - -“Let sleep in peace those who sleep!” - -We remained petrified, and all around us in the moonlight a deep silence -reigned. - -At last Mathieu said softly to Grivolas: - -“Didst thou hear?” - -“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.” - -“Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed -sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to -lodge at night in the empty tombs.” - -“What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some -beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her -sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!” - -Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in: - - “De l’abbaye passant les portes - Autour de moi, tu trouverais - Des nonnes l’errante cohorte - Car en suaire je serais!” - - “O Magali, si tu te fais - La pauvre morte - La terre alors je me ferais - Là je t’aurai!” - -After which we all shook hands with Master Gafet and made our way -quickly to the railway station, there to take the train for Avignon. - -Seven years later, the year, alas! of the great catastrophe, I received -this letter: - - “PARIS, _December 31, 1870_. - - “MY CHIEFTAIN,--I send thee, by the balloon just rising, a heap of - kisses. And it gives me pleasure to be able to send them in the - language of Provence, for so I am assured that the Barbarians, - should this balloon fall into their hands, cannot read a word of my - writing, nor publish my letter in their _Mercure de Souabe_. It is - cold, it is dark: we eat horse, cat, camel, and hippopotamus! Ah, - for the good onions, the _catigot_, and fermented cheese of the - tavern of Trinquetaille! - - “The guns burn our fingers. Wood is becoming scarce. The armies of - the Loire come not! But that does not matter--we will keep the - cockroaches from Berlin wearing themselves out for some time yet in - front of our ramparts.... And then if Paris is lost, I know of some - good patriots who are ready to take Monsieur de Bismarck round the - little streets of our poor capital. Farewell, my chief--three big - kisses, one from me, one from my wife, and the other from my son. - With that a happy New Year as always, until this day next year. Thy - Félibre, - -“ALPHONSE DAUDET.” - - - -And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a good Provençal! Just -because he jokes and ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and Tante -Portals, and other imbeciles of this country, who try to Frenchify the -language of our Provence. For that Tartarin owes him a grudge! - -No! The mother lioness is not angry, and will never be angry, with the -young lion who, in fighting, sometimes gives her a scratch. - -[Illustration: PAUL MARIÉTON, CHANCELIER DES FÉLIBRES.] - - - - -APPENDIX - - -The following extract, translated from the biographical notice of -Frédéric Mistral, written for “La Grande Encyclopédie” by Monsieur Paul -Mariéton, for many years Chancelier des Félibres and a French poet and -writer of note, takes up the history of Félibrige where the Memoirs -leave off: - - * * * * * - -The unanimity of votes accorded to _Mireille_[20] by the members of the -French Academy set the seal of sanction to the Provençal Renaissance, -and reinforced Mistral himself with faith and resolution to carry out -his mission. Up till that time he had said truly, as in the opening -strophe of _Mireille_, that he “sang only for the shepherds and people -of the soil!”--“What will they say at Arles?” was his one thought as he -wrote _Mireille_. But before the completion of his epic his ambition -for his native tongue had widened. The notes in the Appendix and the -French translation published with the Provençal testify to this fact. -Already he was beginning to realise the leading part he was about to -play in the society founded at Font-Ségugne. The school of Roumanille, -of which, in virtue of _Mireille_, Mistral was now chief, added to its -members daily. - -The rules of the language were now fixed, the language of the Félibres, -and thanks to _L’Armana_ (an annual publication initiated and edited by -Roumanille) were little by little adopted by the people. This classic -vulgate--with which Mistral, by pruning and enriching his native -dialect, had, like another Dante, dowered his country--had become -immortal, having given birth to a masterpiece. It now remained to give a -national tendency to the movement. It was by raising the ambitions of a -race, and annexing the sympathy of the “Félibres” among them, by showing -them their ancestry from remotest times, and bringing to light their -inalienable rights, that Mistral evolved out of a literary renaissance a -great patriotic cause. - -With his _Ode aux Catalans_ (1859) and his _Chant de la Coupe_, Mistral -sealed the alliance between the Provençals and the Catalans, their -brethren both of race and tongue. This was ratified when in 1868 -Mistral, together with Roumieux, Paul Meyer, and Bonaparte Wyse, met at -the Barcelona fête in response to the call of the Catalonians. - - -SONG OF THE CUP.[21] - - Men of Provence, this Cup has come to us - Pledge of our Catalonian brothers’ troth, - Then let us each in turn drain from it thus - The pure wine of our native vineyard’s growth. - - O sacred cup - Filled brimming up! - Pour out to overflowing - Enthusiasms glowing, - The energy pour out that doth belong - Of right unto the strong. - - Of an ancestral people proud and free - Perchance we are the end, we faithful few: - And should the “Félibres” fall, it well may be - The end and downfall of our nation too. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - Yet, in a race that germinates again - We are perchance the first-fruits of our earth, - We are perchance the pillars that maintain, - The knights that lead, the country of our birth. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - Pour out for us the golden hopes once more, - The visions that our youth was wont to see, - And, with remembrance of the days of yore, - Faith in the days that are about to be. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - Pour for us, mingled with thy generous wine, - Knowledge of Truth and Beauty, both in one, - And lofty joys and ravishments divine - That laugh at Death and bid its fears begone. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - Pour out for us the gift of poesy, - That all things living we may fitly sing; - The only true ambrosial nectar she - That changes man, to god transfiguring. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - Ye that at last with us consenting are, - Now for the glory of this land most dear, - O Catalonian brothers, from afar - Unite with us in this communion here. - - O sacred cup, &c. - - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - -Thus little by little the Félibrige, first started by Roumanille and -promoted by his political pamphlets, his Christmas Songs and Popular -Tales, was developed by Mistral into a national movement. This was shown -clearly in his second important work, _Calandal_, a poem in twelve -cantos (1867), which from that time divided the honours with -_Mireille_. - -The two poems were in striking contrast one to the other. _Mireille_ -depicted the Provence of the Crau and the Camargue, _Calandal_ the -Provence of the mountains and the sea. _Mireille_ was virgin honey, -_Calandal_ the lion’s mane. In the latter poem, Mistral attempted to -give perhaps too much local colour to please the general public, in -spite of the incomparable style. The reception of this work by the -Félibres, however, was enthusiastic, the heroic symbolism and eloquence -of the poet, speaking in the name of all vindicators of his race, gave -birth to a set of mystic patriots and created the Félibréen religion. - -Little by little, thanks to the vital impulse given by Mistral, -Félibrige crossed the Rhône. After having aroused some fervent -proselytes, such as Louis Roumieux and Albert Arnavielle at Nîmes and -Alais, it resulted at Montpellier in the inauguration of the “Society -for studying Ancient Languages,” under the auspices of Baron de -Tourtoulon. The work of this group scientifically justified the raising -and purifying of the Oc language. Strengthened by the support of the -learned and lettered officials, up to that period refractory, the -Félibrige movement, already Provençal and Catalan, now became Latin -also. - -The memorable occasion of the Centenary Fête of Petrarch in 1874 at -Avignon, presided over by Aubanel and initiated by Monsieur de -Berluc-Perussis, was the first international consecration of the new -literature and of the glory of Mistral. - -A large assembly of the philological Société Romane in 1875, followed by -the Latin Fêtes at Montpellier in 1876, at which the young wife of the -poet was elected Queen of the Félibres, definitely confirmed the -importance of a poetic renaissance which the author of _Mireille_ and -_Calandal_ had developed from a small intimate society into a wide -social movement. - -Three years previously (1875) the intellectual sovereignty of Mistral -had impressed itself on all the south of France by the publication of -his collected poems “Lis Isclo d’Or” (“The Golden Isles”) which revealed -the serene genius of the master, his extraordinary versatility and his -unquestionable title to represent his race. - -Shortly after, at Avignon, the poet was proclaimed Grand Master -(_Capoulié_) of the literary federation of the Meridional provinces, and -became the uncontested chief of a crusade of the Oc country for the -reconquest of its historic dignity and position. - -The sort of pontificate with which Mistral was from henceforth invested -in no way arrested the outflowing of his songs. A new poem, _Nerto_, -lighter in form than hitherto, in the style of the romantic epics of the -renaissance, suddenly drew the attention of the critics again to the -poet of Provence, and the charm and infinite variety of his genius. - -Having already compared him to Homer, to Theocritus, and to Longus, they -now found in his work the illusive seduction of Ariosto. A visit that he -paid to Paris in 1884, after an absence of twenty years, sealed his fame -in France and his glory in Provence. He was surrounded by an army of -followers. Paris, which knew hitherto only the poet, now recognised a -new literature in the person of its chief. The French Academy crowned -_Nerto_ as before they had crowned _Mireille_. Mistral celebrated there -in the French capital the fourth centenary of the union of Provence and -France; “as a joining together of one principality to another -principality,” according to the terms of the ancient historical -contract. - -He returned to his Provence consecrated chief of a people. The Provençal -Renaissance continued to extend daily. Mistral endowed the movement at -last with the scientific and popular weapon essential for its defence, a -national dictionary. It was the crowning work of his life, “The -Treasury of Félibrige.” All the various dialects of the Oc language are -represented in this vast collection of an historic tongue, rich, -melodious, vital, rescued and reinstated by its indefatigable defenders -at a moment when all conspired to hasten its decrepitude. - -All the meanings and acceptations, accompanied by examples culled from -every writer in the Oc language, every idiom and proverb, are patiently -collected together in this encyclopædic _tresaurus_ which could never be -replaced. - -The Institute awarded him a prize of four hundred francs. - -In 1890 Mistral published a work he had for some time contemplated, _La -Rèino Jano_ (_Queen Joan_) a Provençal tragedy. In spite of the rare -beauty and picturesque eloquence of many of the cantos, this poem, -evoking as it does the Angevine Provence of the fourteenth century, -obtained only half the success of _Nerto_ from the public. The French do -not share with the Félibres the cult of Queen Joan. - -If this essentially national tragedy was judged in Paris a merely -moderately good drama, it must be remembered that the Parisians did not -take into account the familiar popularity which Mistral knew to exist -for his heroine among his own people. - -While awaiting the production of _Queen Joan_ at the Roman Theatre of -Orange, restored by the Félibres, Mistral continued the active side of -his work. - -The spreading of the movement on all sides called for more influential -organs than either the Almanac or the annual publication. After having -contributed for forty years to the _Armana_ and having presided at the -inauguration of the Félibréen Review in 1885, he became principal editor -in 1890 of a Provençal paper in Avignon, _L’Aioli_, which under his -auspices became the quarterly monitor of Félibrige. - -While still retaining the leadership of the movement, Mistral published -here and there sundry chapters of his Memoirs, also exhortations to his -people, lectures, poems, and chronicles. - -In 1897 he published another poem, like the former seven years in the -making, _Le Poème du Rhône_. It is the most delicate and most -ingenuously epic of his productions. Above all, he showed in this work -his profound symbolism, revealed not only in the depth and breadth of -his thought, but in the originality of his versification. Taking the -traditions of the country, he has woven them into the winding silk cord -of the living, glistening, eternal Rhône, this poem of the river’s -course. He has inspired his people to restore the honour of these -traditions by the radiant example and fruitful labour of his own life. - -The Memoirs best reveal the deep roots of his patriotism. In describing -his harmonious existence, the master relates his experience both as a -celebrated writer and as a Provençal farmer. Portraits of great men and -of great peasants stand out in his record. One can judge of him as a -prose writer by the Tales and Addresses appearing here and there during -a period of forty years, pages which often equalled in beauty the finest -songs of the poet. His letters also, which sowed unceasingly the good -grain of the Renaissance, will, when published one day, show even better -than the translation of his verse what a great writer the French have in -Mistral. - -His life after all has been his finest poem. In order to bring about the -realisation of his ideal, the raising of his country, he has in turn -shown himself poet, orator, philologist, and, above all, patriot. The -“new life” that his work has infused into the body of Félibrige has not -only regenerated his own Provence by erecting a social ideal, it has -also promoted the diffusion of a patriotic sentiment which has become -general throughout France, and which may be defined as federalism or -simply decentralisation. The ideas of Mistral on this subject of local -centres permitting the free expansion of individual energies are well -known. It can only be accomplished, according to his theory, by a new -constituency, the electors of the existing system being too taken up -organising the redivision of the departments to enter into other -questions. But he has always refused to become the leader of a political -movement. “He who possesses his language holds the key which shall free -him from his chains,” Mistral has always said, meaning thereby that in -the language dwells the soul of a people. Thus restricting himself to -the leadership of a linguistic movement he desired to remain always a -poet. It is the purity of his fame which has given such power to his -position. By the charm of his personality he won large crowds, just as -by his writings he charmed the lettered and the educated. For he was -always possessed by a profound belief in the vitality of his language -and faith in a renewal of its glory, and absolutely opposed in this -respect to Jasmin, who invariably proclaimed himself as the last of the -poets of the Oc tongue. If Mistral is not the only worker in the -Provençal Renaissance, it is at all events owing to his genius that the -movement took wing and lived. Before he arose the ancient and -illustrious Oc language was in the same deplorable condition as were the -Arenas of Nîmes and of Arles at the beginning of the century. Degraded, -unsteady, enveloped by parasite hovels, their pure outline was being -obliterated by the disfiguring leprosy. One day came reform, and, taking -control, swept away the hovels and rubbish, restoring to their bygone -splendour these amphitheatres of the old Romans. - -Even so, barbarous jargons had defaced the idiom of Provence. Then with -his following of brilliant and ardent patriots Mistral came and -dispersed the degenerating _patois_, restoring to its former beauty the -Greek purity of form belonging to the edifice of our ancestors and -fitting it for present use. - -PAUL MARIETON. - -Every year in May, on the Feast of Sainte-Estelle, the four branches of -Félibrige are convoked to important assizes at some place on Provençal -soil. At the end of the banquet which follows the floral sports, and -after the address of the chief, the latter raises high the Grail of the -poetic mysteries, and intones the _Song of the Cup_. The hymn of the -faith and cause of the race is taken up gravely - -[Illustration: MADAME GASQUET (NÉE MLLE. GIRARD), 3RD QUEEN OF THE -FÉLIBRES.] - -and the refrain joined in by all the company. Then the cup goes round -fraternally and each member, before touching it with his lips, in turn -rehearses his vow of fidelity. - -The assizes of Sainte-Estelle are followed by a meeting of the -consistory, who elect the new members. The consistory is composed of a -chief or _capoulié_, of a chancellor, and fifty senior members chosen -from among the four branches. Every branch, Provence, Languedoc, -Aquitaine, and the affiliated branch of La Catalogne, is presided over -by its own syndicate, and nominates an assistant to the _capoulié_. -Félibrige numbers to-day many thousand members, without counting the -foreign associations in other parts of France, such as the Félibres of -the west, inaugurated by Renan in 1884, and the Cigales of Paris, first -started by the Provenceaux of that city, as Paul Arène declared: - -“Pour ne pas perdre l’accent, nous fondâmes la Cigale....” - -The classic cicada is now the badge of the Order and is worn by all -members at their fêtes. - -Every seven years takes place a great meeting and floral feast, on which -occasion three first prizes are awarded for poetry, prose, and Félibréen -work, and a Queen of Félibrige is elected. - -Their queen presides at the principal assizes of the cause. The first to -be chosen was Madame Mistral, the young wife of the chief, at -Montpellier in 1878. The second was Mademoiselle Thérèse Roumanille -(Madame Boissière), daughter of the poet. The third was Madame Gasquet, -_née_ Mademoiselle Girard; and the fourth and present queen is Madame -Bischoffsheim, _née_ Mademoiselle de Chevignè. A procession of -Félibresses form an escort to the reigning queen. - -The Provençal Renaissance has counted many distinguished women writers -and poets among its members. Among the first of these _trouveresses_ -were Madame Roumanille, wife of the poet, whose work was crowned at the -Fête of Apt in 1863; Madame d’Arband (1863); Mademoiselle Riviére, whose -“Belugo” was sung by all our leaders (1868); Madame Lazarin Daniel, -Félibresse of the Crau; Madame Gautier-Brémond of Tarascon, celebrated -for her “Velo-blanco” (1887); not to mention the many whose names in -recent years have been an honour to the cause. - -It was on the occasion of the Fête at Montpellier, May 25, 1878, that -the “Hymne à la Race Latine” was recited on the Place du Peyron, that -song which has since become a national possession and pride. - - -TO THE LATIN RACE.[22] - - Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, - Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun - The russet grape is bubbling in the press, - And gushing forth the wine of God shall run. - - With hair all loosened to the sacred breeze - From Tabor’s Mount--thou art the race of light, - That lives of joy, and round about whose knees - Enthusiasm springs, and pure delight; - The Apostolic race, that through the land - Sets all the bells a-ringing once again; - Thou art the trumpet that proclaims--the hand - That scatters far and wide the bounteous grain. - - Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, &c. - - Thy mother-tongue, that mighty stream that flows - Afar through seven branches, never dies; - But light and love outpouring, onward goes, - An echo that resounds from Paradise. - O Roman daughter of the People-King, - Thy golden language, it is still the song - That human lips unceasingly shall sing-- - While words yet have a meaning--ages long. - - Arise, arise renewed, &c. - - Thy blood illustrious on every side - Hath been outpoured for justice and for right; - Thy mariners across the distant tide - Have sailed to bring an unknown world to light. - A hundred times the pulsing of thy thought - Hath shattered and brought low thy kings of yore; - Ah! but for thy divisions, who had sought - Ever to rule thee, or to frame thy law! - - Arise, arise renewed, &c. - - Kindling thy torch at radiances divine - From the high stars, ’tis thou hast given birth, - In shapes of marble and in pictured line, - To Beauty’s self, incarnate upon earth. - The native country thou of god-like Art, - All graces and all sweetness come from thee, - Thou art the source of joy for every heart, - Yea, thou art youth, and ever more shalt be. - - Arise, arise renewed, &c. - - With thy fair women’s pure and noble forms - The world’s pantheons everywhere are stored; - And at thy triumphs, yea, thy tears, thy storms, - Men’s hearts must palpitate with one accord; - The earth’s in blossom when thy meadows bloom, - And o’er thy follies every one goes mad; - But when thy glory is eclipsed in gloom - The whole world puts on mourning and is sad. - - Arise, arise renewed, &c. - - Thy limpid sea, that sea serene, where fleet - The whitening sails innumerable ply, - That crisps the soft, wet sand about thy feet, - And mirrors back the azure of the sky, - That ever-smiling sea, God poured its flood - From out His splendour with a lavish hand, - To bind the brown-hued peoples of thy blood - With one unbroken, scintillating band. - - Arise, arise renewed, &c. - - Upon thy sun-kissed slopes, on every side - The olive grows, the tree of peace divine, - And all thy lands are crownèd with the pride - Of thy prolific, broadly-spreading vine. - O Latin race, in faithful memory - Of that thy glorious, ever-shining past, - Arise in hope toward thy destiny, - One brotherhood beneath the Cross at last! - - Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, - Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun! - The russet grape is bubbling in the press, - And gushing forth the wine of God shall run! - - (Trans. Alma Strettell.) - -To conclude with the words of Mistral quoted from one of his addresses: - -“If thou wouldst that the blood of thy race maintain its virtue, hold -fast to thy historic tongue.... In language there lies a mystery, a -precious treasure.... Every year the nightingale renews his feathers, -but he changes not his note.” - -C. E. MAUD. - - -MISTRAL’S POEMS IN THE PROVENÇAL - -GREVANÇO - -II - -(_From_ “Lis Isclo d’Or.”) - - Oh! vers li plano de tousello - Leissas me perdre pensatiéu, - Dins li grand blad plen de rousello - Ounte drouloun iéu me perdiué! - - Quaucun me bousco - De tousco en tousco - En recitant soun angelus; - E, cantarello, - Li calandrello - Ièu vau seguènt dins lou trelus ... - - Ah! pauro maire, - Bèu cor amaire, - Cridant moun noum t’ausirai plus! - - -LES SAINTES-MARIES (_Mireille_). - - Nautre, li sorre emé li fraire - Que lou seguian pèr tout terraire, - Sus uno ratamalo, i furour de la mar, - E sènso velo e sènso remo, - Fuguerian embandi. Li femo - Toumbavian un riéu de lagremo; - Lis ome vers lou cèu pourtavon soun regard. - - Uno ventado tempestouso - Sus la marino sóuvertouso - Couchavo lou batèu: Marciau e Savournin - Soun ageinouia sus la poupo; - Apensamenti, dins sa roupo - Lou vièi Trefume s’agouloupo; - Contro éu èro asseta l’evesque Massemin. - - Dre sus lou tèume, aquéu Lazàri - Que de la toumbo e dóu susàri - Avié’ncaro garda la mourtalo palour, - Sèmblo afrounta lou gourg que reno: - Em’éu la nau perdudo enmeno - Marto sa sorre, e Madaleno, - Couchado en un cantoun, que plouro sa doulour. - - Contro uno ribo sènso roco, - Alleluia! la barco toco; - Sus l’areno eigalouso aqui nous amourran - E cridan tóuti: Nòsti tèsto - Qu’as póutira de la tempèsto, - Fin-qu’au coutèu li vaqui lèsto - A prouclama ta lèi, o Crist! Te lou juran! - - A-n-aquèu noum, de jouïssènço, - La noblo terro de Prouvènço - Parèis estrementido; à-n-aquéu crid nouvèu, - E lou bouscas e lou campèstre - An trefouli dins tout soun èstre, - Coume un chin qu’en sentènt soun mèstre - Ié cour à l’endavans e ié fai lou bèu-bèu. - - La mar avié jita d’arcèli ... - Pater noster, qui es in cœli,-- - A nosto longo fam mandères un renos; - A nosto set, dins lis engano - Faguères naisse uno fountano; - E miraclouso, e lindo, e sano, - Gisclo enca dins la glèiso ounte soun nòstis os! - - -MAGALI. - - O Magali, ma tant amado, - Mete la tèsto au fenestroun! - Escouto un pau aquesto aubado - De tambourin e de vióuloun. - - Es plen d’estello, aperamount! - L’auro es toumbado, - Mai lis estello paliran, - Quand te veiran! - - --Pas mai que dóu murmur di broundo - De toun aubado iéu fau cas! - Mai iéu m’envau dins la mar bloundo - Me faire anguielo de roucas. - - --O Magali! se tu te fas - Lou pèis de l’oundo, - Iéu, lou pescaire me farai, - Te pescarai! - - --Oh! mai, se tu te fas pescaire, - Ti vertoulet quand jitaras, - Iéu me farai l’aucèu voulaire, - M’envoularai dins li campas. - -[Illustration: MADAME BISCHOFFSHEIM (NÉE MLLE DE CHEVIGNÉ), 4TH AND -PRESENT QUEEN OF THE FÉLIBRES.] - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - L’aucèu de l’aire, - Iéu lou cassaire me farai, - Te cassarai. - - --I perdigau, i bouscarido, - Se vènes, tu, cala ti las, - Iéu me farai l’erbo flourido - E m’escoundrai dins li pradas. - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - La margarido, - Iéu l’aigo lindo me farai, - T’arrousarai. - - --Se tu te fas l’eigueto lindo, - Iéu me farai lou nivoulas, - E lèu m’enanarai ansindo - A l’Americo, perabas! - - --O Magali, se tu t’envas - Alin is Indo, - L’auro de mar iéu me farai, - Te pourtarai! - - --Se tu te fas la marinado, - Iéu fugirai d’un autre las: - Iéu me farai l’escandihado - Dóu grand soulèu que found lou glas! - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - La souleiado, - Lou verd limbert iéu me farai, - E te béurai! - - --Se tu te rèndes l’alabreno - Que se rescound dins lou bartas, - Iéu me rendrai la luno pleno - Que dins la niue fai lume i masc! - - --O Magali, se tu fas - Luno sereno, - Iéu bello nèblo me farai, - T’acatarai. - - --Mai se la nèblo m’enmantello, - Tu, pèr acò, noun me tendras - Iéu, bello roso vierginello, - M’espandirai dins l’espinas! - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - La roso bello, - Lou parpaioun iéu me farai, - Te beisarai. - - --Vai, calignaire, courre, courre! - Jamai, amai m’agantaras: - Iéu, de la rusco d’un grand roure - Me vestirai dins lou bouscas. - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - L’aubre di mourre, - Iéu lou clot d’èurre me farai, - T’embrassarai! - - --Se me vos prene à la brasseto, - Rèn qu’un vièi chaine arraparas ... - Iéu me farai blanco moungeto - Dóu mounastié dóu grand Sant Blas! - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - Mounjo blanqueto, - Iéu, capelan, counfessarai, - E t’ausirai! - - --Se dóu couvènt passes li porto, - Tóuti li mounjo trouvaras - Qu’à moun entour saran pèr orto, - Car en susàri me veiras! - - --O Magali, se tu te fas - La pauro morto, - Adounc la terro me farai, - Aqui t’aurai! - - --Aro coumence enfin de crèire - Que noun me parles en risènt. - Vaqui moun aneloun de vèire - Per souvenènço, o bèu jouvènt! - - --O Magali, me fas de bèn!... - Mai, tre te vèire, - Ve lis estello, o Magali, - Coume an pali! - - -SOULOMI. - -SUS LA MORT DE LAMARTINE. - - Quand l’ouro dóu tremount es vengudo pèr l’astre, - Sus li mourre envahi pèr lou vèspre, li pastre - Alargon sis anouge e si fedo e si can; - E dins li baisso palunenco - Lou grouün rangoulejo en bramadisso unenco: - “Aquéu soulèu èro ensucant!” - - Di paraulo de Diéu magnanime escampaire, - Ansin, o Lamartine, o moun mèstre, o moun paire, - En cantico, en acioun, en lagremo, en soulas, - Quand aguerias à noste mounde - Escampa de lumiero e d’amour soun abounde, - E que lou mounde fuguè las, - - Cadun jitè soun bram dins la nèblo prefoundo, - Cadun vous bandiguè la pèiro de sa foundo, - Car vosto resplendour nous fasié mau is iue, - Car uno estello que s’amosso, - Car un diéu clavela, toujour agrado en foço, - E li grapaud amon la niue.... - - E’m’acò, l’on veguè de causo espetaclouso! - Eu, aquelo grand font de pouësio blouso - Qu’avié rejouveni l’amo de l’univers, - Li jóuini pouèto riguèron - De sa malancounié proufetico, e diguèron - Que sabié pas faire li vers. - - De l’Autisme Adounai éu sublime grand-prèire - Que dins sis inne sant enaurè nòsti crèire - Sus li courdello d’or de l’arpo de Sioun, - En atestant lis Escrituro - Li devot Farisen cridèron sus l’auturo - Que n’avié gens de religioun. - - Eu, lou grand pietadous, que, sus la catastrofo - De nòstis ancian rèi, avié tra sis estrofo - E qu’en mabre poumpous i’avié fa’n mausoulèu, - Dóu Reialisme li badaire - Trouvèron á la fin qu’èro un descaladaire, - E tóuti s’aliunchèron lèu. - - Eu, lou grand óuratour, la voues apoustoulico, - Que faguè dardaia lou mot de Republico - Sus lou front, dins lou cèu di pople tresanant, - Pèr uno estranjo fernesio - Tóuti li chin gasta de la Demoucracio - Lou mourdeguèron en renant. - - Eu, lou grand ciéutadin que dins la goulo en flamo - Avié jita soun viéure e soun cors e soun amo, - Pèr sauva dóu voulcan la patrio en coumbour, - Quand demandè soun pan, pechaire! - Li bourgés e li gros l’apelèron manjaire, - E s’estremèron dins soun bourg. - - Adounc, en se vesènt soulet dins soun auvàri, - Doulènt, emé sa crous escalè soun Calvàri ... - E quàuqui bònis amo, eiça vers l’embruni. - Entendeguèron un long gème, - E pièi, dins lis espàci, aqueste crid suprème: - Heli! lamma sabacthani! - - Mai degun s’avastè vers la cimo deserto ... - Emé li dous iue clin e li dos man duberto, - Dins un silènci grèu alor éu s’amaguè; - E, siau coume soun li mountagno, - Au mitan de sa glòri e de sa malamagno, - Sènso rèn dire mouriguè. - - -LA COUPO - - Prouvençau, veici la coupo - Que nous vèn di Catalan: - A-de-rèng beguen en troupo - Lou vin pur de noste plant! - - Coupo santo - E versanto, - Vuejo à plen bord, - Vuejo abord - Lis estrambord - E l’enavans di fort! - - D’un vièi pople fièr e libre - Sian bessai la finicioun; - E, se toumbon li Felibre, - Toumbara nosto nacioun. - - Coupo santo, &c. - - D’uno raço que regreio - Sian bessai li proumié gréu; - Sian bessai de la patrio - Li cepoun emai li priéu. - - Coupo santo, &c. - - Vuejo-nous lis esperanço - E li raive dóu jouvènt, - Dóu passat la remembranço - E la fe dins l’an que vèn. - - Coupo santo, &c. - - Vuejo-nous la couneissènço - Dóu Verai emai dóu Bèu, - E lis àuti jouïssènço - Que se trufon dóu toumbèu. - - Coupo santo, &c. - - Vuejo-nous la Pouësio - Pèr canta tout ço que viéu, - Car es elo l’ambrousio - Que tremudo l’ome en diéu. - - Coupo santo, &c. - - Pèr la glòri dóu terraire - Vautre enfin que sias counsènt, - Catalan, de liuen, o fraire, - Coumunien tóutis ensèn! - - Coupo santo - E versanto, - Vuejo à plen bord, - Vuejo abord - Lis estrambord - E l’enavans di fort! - - -A LA RAÇO LATINO. - -(PEÇO DICHO A MOUNT-PELIÉ SUS LA PLAÇO DÓU PEIROU, LOU 25 DE MAI DE -1878.) - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, - Souto la capo dóu soulèu! - Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino, - Lóu vin de Diéu gisclara lèu. - - Emé toun péu que se desnouso - A l’auro santo dóu Tabor, - Tu siés la raço lumenouso - Que viéu de joio e d’estrambord; - Tu siés la raço apoustoulico - Que sono li campano à brand: - Tu siés la troumpo que publico - E siés la man que trais lou gran. - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - Ta lengo maire, aquéu grand flume - Que pèr sèt branco s’espandis, - Largant l’amour, largant lou lume - Coume un resson de Paradis, - Ta lengo d’or, fiho roumano - Dóu Pople-Rèi, es la cansoun - Que rediran li bouco umano, - Tant que lou Verbe aura resoun. - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - Toun sang ilustre, de tout caire, - Pèr la justiço a fa rajòu; - Pereilalin ti navegaire - Soun ana querre un mounde nòu; - Au batedis de ta pensado - As esclapa cènt cop ti rèi ... - Ah! se noun ères divisado - Quau poudrié vuei te faire lèi? - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - A la belugo dis estello - Abrant lou mou de toun flambèu, - Dintre lou mabre e sus la telo - As encarna lou subre-bèu. - De l’art divin siés la patrio - E touto gràci vèn de tu; - Siés lou sourgènt de l’alegrio - E siés l’eterno jouventu! - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - Di formo puro de ti femo - Li panteon se soun poupla; - A ti triounfle, à ti lagremo - Tóuti li cor an barbela; - Flouris la terro, quand fas flòri; - De ti foulié cadun vèn fòu; - E dins l’esclùssi de ta glòri - Sèmpre lou mounde a pourta dòu. - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - Ta lindo mar, la mar sereno - Ounte blanquejon li veissèu, - Friso à ti pèd sa molo areno - En miraiant l’azur dóu cèu. - Aquelo mar toujour risènto, - Diéu l’escampè de soun clarun - Coume la cencho trelusènto - Que dèu liga ti pople brun. - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c. - - Sus ti coustiero souleiouso - Crèis l’óulivié, l’aubre de pas, - E de la vigno vertuiouso - S’enourgulisson ti campas: - Raço latino, en remembranço - De toun destin sèmpre courous, - Aubouro-te vers l’esperanço, - Afrairo-te souto la Crous! - - Aubouro-te, raço latino, - Souto la capo dóu soulèu! - Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino, - Lou vin de Diéu gisclara lèu! - - -Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO LIMITED Tavistock Street, London - - -FOOTNOTES: - - [1] JINGLE OF JOHN O’ THE PIG’S HEAD. - - Come tell me, who is dead?-- - ’Tis John o’ the Pig’s Head. - And who his dirge doth sing?-- - Why, ’tis the Moorish King. - And who laughs o’er him now? - The partridge doth, I trow. - - Who makes a lay for him that’s gone?-- - The mangle with its creaking stone. - Who was it that his knell began?-- - The bottom of the frying-pan. - Who wears for him a mourning veil?-- - The kettle’s sooty tail! - - - [2] A legendary character renowned as a spendthrift. - - [3] The three tablecloths are graduated in size, commencing with the - largest, and are _de rigueur_ for festal occasions. - - [4] For Provençal text, _see_ p. 324. - - [5] Poles crowned with Phrygian caps. - - [6] Signifying the Republic. - - [7] Poles crowned with Phrygian caps. - - [8] - - In the city of the Baux for a florin’s value - You have an apron full of cheeses - Which melt in the mouth like fine sugar. - - - [9] The national instrument of Provence. - - [10] Athène du Midi. - - [11] Monsieur Paul Mariéton in his “Terre Provençale” says of this - work: “The history of a people is contained in this book. No one can - ever know what devotion, knowledge, discrimination and intuition such - a work represents, undertaken and concluded as it was during the - twenty best years of a poet’s life. All the words of the Oc language - in its seven different dialects, each one compared with its equivalent - in the Latin tongue, all the proverbs and idioms of the South together - with every characteristic expression either in use or long since out - of vogue, make up this incomparable Thesaurus of a tenacious language, - which is no more dead to-day than it was three hundred years ago, - and which is now reconquering the hearts of all the faithful.” This - “Treasury of the Félibres” opens with the following lines: - - “O people of the South, hearken now to my words: - - “If thou would’st regain the lost Empire of thy speech and equip - thyself anew, dig deep in this mine.” - - [12] The Mayor’s sash of office. - - [13] Mistral has glorified this legend in his _Mireille_, where the - saints appear to the young girl and recount to her their Odyssey (pp. - 427-437, _Mireille_).--C. E. M. - - [14] For Provençal text _see_ p. 324. - - [15] For Provençal text _see_ p. 326. - - [16] The elder half-brother of Frédéric Mistral inherited the Mas du - Juge. - - [17] A well-known poet and writer of Nîmes, author of a small poem - regarded as a classic in France: “L’Ange et l’Enfant.” - - [18] For Provençal text _see_ p. 329. - - [19] Les Aliscamps, the famous burying-ground of the Romans. In the - old pagan days it was said that this wonderful necropolis made Arles, - the queen of cities, more opulent beneath her soil than above. Here - the great Romans in the time of Augustus and Constantine regarded it - as their privilege to be buried.--C. E. M. - - [20] _Mireille_ was crowned by the Academy, and the poet received a - prize of ten thousand francs. - - [21] For Provençal text _see_ p. 332. - - [22] For Provençal text _see_ p. 334. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memoirs of Mistral, by -Frédéric Mistral - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL *** - -***** This file should be named 56040-0.txt or 56040-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/4/56040/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, ellinora, Bryan Ness and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i11 {display: block; margin-left: 11em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i12 {display: block; margin-left: 12em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } - -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memoirs of Mistral, by -Frédéric Mistral - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Memoirs of Mistral - -Author: Frédéric Mistral - -Translator: Constance Elizabeth Maud - -Release Date: November 23, 2017 [EBook #56040] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, ellinora, Bryan Ness and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents.</a></p> - -<p class="c"><a href="#ILLUSTRATIONS">List of Illustrations</a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> - -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="354" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p class="cb">MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="2" summary="" -style="border:2px solid black;padding:1em;"> -<tr><td class="c">BOOKS BY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c"><big>CONSTANCE E. MAUD</big></td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">—</td></tr> -<tr><td>AN ENGLISH GIRL IN PARIS<br /> <small> Tenth Thousand, 6s.</small></td></tr> -<tr><td>MY FRENCH FRIENDS. 6s.</td></tr> -<tr><td>THE RISING GENERATION. 6s.</td></tr> -<tr><td>FELICITY IN FRANCE.<br /> <small>Fourth Edition, 6s.</small></td></tr> -<tr><td>WAGNER’S HEROES.<br /> <small>Illustrated by H. G. FELL.<br /> Sixth Impression, 5s.</small></td></tr> -<tr><td>WAGNER’S HEROINES.<br /> <small>Illustrated by W. T. MAUD.<br /> Third Impression, 5s.</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><a name="ill_001" id="ill_001"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_frontis_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_frontis_sml.jpg" width="308" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<h1>MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL</h1> - -<p class="cb">RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY<br /> -<br /> -CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD<br /> -</p> - -<div class="poetry" -style="margin:2em auto 2em;"><div class="poem"> -Ich singe wie der Vogel singt<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"> Der in den Zweigen wohnet</span><br /> -Das Lied, das aus der Kehle dringt<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"> Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.</span> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;"><span class="smcap">Goethe.</span></span> -</div></div> - -<p class="cb"> -LYRICS FROM THE PROVENÇAL BY<br /> -A L M A S T R E T T E L L<br /> -<small>(MRS. LAWRENCE HARRISON)</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>ILLUSTRATED</i><br /> -<br /> -LONDON<br /> -EDWARD ARNOLD<br /> -1907<br /> -<br /> -<small>[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</small><br /> -</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="c"> -TO MY FRIEND<br /> -<br /> -THÉRÈSE ROUMANILLE<br /> - -(MADAME BOISSIÈRE)<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -I DEDICATE THIS ENGLISH RENDERING OF MISTRAL’S MEMOIRS<br /> -AND TALES, WHICH WITHOUT HER KINDLY ASSISTANCE<br /> -I SHOULD NOT HAVE UNDERTAKEN, FOR TO HER<br /> -I OWE ALL I KNOW OF THE LITERARY AND<br /> -PATRIOTIC WORK OF THE FÉLIBRES<br /> -AND OF THE REAL LIFE OF<br /> -PROVENCE -</p> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was one lovely day in early spring two years ago that, on the -occasion of a visit to the great poet of Provence, I first heard of -these Memories of his youth.</p> - -<p>Mistral had been for many years collecting and editing material for this -volume, and was at the moment just completing a French translation from -the Provençal original, which he laughingly assured us he was glad we -had interrupted, since he found it <i>un travail brute</i>.</p> - -<p>The enthusiastic reception accorded to this French edition, not only in -Paris but throughout the reading world of France, encourages me to think -that perhaps in England, also, considering the increased interest caused -by the <i>entente cordiale</i> in all things concerning France, an English -translation of this unique description of Provençal country life sixty -years ago may be welcome; and in America too, where the name and -life-work of Mistral have always been better known than in England.</p> - -<p>The fact that Mistral and his great collaborators in the Félibre -movement, Roumanille, Aubanel, Félix Gras, Anselme Mathieu and others, -wrote entirely in the language of their beloved Provence, no doubt -accounts for their works being so little known outside their own -country, though latterly the name of Mistral has been brought -prominently forward by his election as a recipient last year of the -Nobel Prize for patriotic literature, and also by his refusal to accept -a Chair among the Olympians of the French Academy. In spite of his -rejection of the latter honour, which was a matter of principle, he -could scarcely fail to have been gratified by the compliment paid in -offering to him what is never offered without being first solicited, the -would-be member being obliged to present himself for election and also -to endeavour personally to win the support of each of the sacred Forty.</p> - -<p>Of all Mistral’s works his first epic poem, <i>Mireille</i>, is the best -known outside France, chiefly no doubt because the invincible charm and -beauty of this work make themselves felt even through the imperfect -medium of a prose translation, and partly perhaps because Gounod gave it -a certain vogue by adapting it as the libretto for his opera of -<i>Mireille</i>.</p> - -<p>President Roosevelt has shown his appreciation not only of <i>Mireille</i> -but of the life-work of the author in the following letter, a French -translation of which is to be seen framed in Mistral’s Provençal Museum -at Arles.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">White House, Washington</span>,<br /> -<i>December 15, 1904</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear M. Mistral</span>,—Mrs. Roosevelt and I were equally pleased with -the book and the medal, and none the less because for nearly twenty -years we have possessed a copy of <i>Mireille</i>. That copy we shall -keep for old association’s sake; though this new copy with the -personal inscription by you must hereafter occupy the place of -honour.</p> - -<p>All success to you and your associates! You are teaching the lesson -that none need more to learn than we of the West, we of the eager, -restless, wealth-seeking nation; the lesson that after a certain -not very high level of material well-being has been reached, then -the things that really count in life are the things of the spirit. -Factories and railways are good up to a certain point; but courage -and endurance, love of wife and child, love of home and country, -love of lover for sweetheart, love of beauty in man’s work and in -nature, love and emulation of daring and of lofty endeavour, the -homely workaday virtues and the heroic virtues—these are better -still, and if they are lacking no piled-up riches, no roaring, -clanging industrialism, no feverish and many-sided activity shall -avail either the individual or the nation. I do not undervalue -these things of a nation’s body; I only desire that they shall not -make us forget that beside the nation’s body there is also the -nation’s soul.</p> - -<p>Again thanking you, on behalf of both of us,</p> - -<p class="r"> -Believe me<br /> -Very faithfully yours,<br /> -<span class="smcap">Theodore Roosevelt</span>.<br /> -</p> - -<p>To M. Frédéric Mistral.</p></div> - -<p>The Nobel Prize has been devoted to the same patriotic cause as that to -which the poet has invariably consecrated everything he possesses. In -this instance the gift from Sweden has gone towards the purchase of an -ancient palace in Arles, which in future will be the Félibréan Museum, -the present hired building being far too small for the purpose. The -object of the museum is to be for all times a record and storehouse of -Provençal history, containing the weapons, costumes, agricultural -implements, furniture, documents, &c., dating from the most ancient -times up to the present day.</p> - -<p>The Memoirs, which Monsieur Mistral defines as “Mes Origines,” end with -the publication of his <i>Mireille</i> in the year 1859 at the age of -twenty-eight. He adds as a supplement a chapter written some three years -later, a souvenir of Alphonse Daudet (also among the prophets), which -gives a picture of the way these youthful poet-patriots practised the -Gai-Savoir in the spring-time and heyday of their lives.</p> - -<p>I have added also a short summary translated from the writings of -Monsieur Paul Mariéton, which brings the history of Félibrige and its -Capoulié up to the present date.</p> - -<p class="r"> -CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD.<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Chelsea</span>, <i>June 1907</i>.</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td class="rt"><small>CHAP.</small></td><td> </td> -<td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Childhood at Maillane</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="smcap">My Father</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_024">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="smcap">The Magi Kings</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_032">32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><span class="smcap">Nature’s School</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_045">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="smcap">At St. Michel de Frigolet</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_061">61</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="smcap">At Monsieur Millet’s School</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_080">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="smcap">Three Early Félibres</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><span class="smcap">How I took My Degree</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><span class="smcap">Dame Riquelle and the Republic of 1848</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_131">131</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X"><span class="smcap">Mademoiselle Louise</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_147">147</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><span class="smcap">The Return to the Farm</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_165">165</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><span class="smcap">Font-Ségugne</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">“<span class="smcap">The Provençal Almanac</span>”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_198">198</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"><span class="smcap">Journey To Les Saintes-Maries</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_235">235</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV"><span class="smcap">Jean Roussière</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_250">250</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">“<span class="smcap">Mireille</span>”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_270">270</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"><span class="smcap">The Revels of Trinquetaille</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_286">286</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"></td><td valign="top"><span class="smcap"><a href="#APPENDIX">Appendix</a></span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_307">307</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"></td><td valign="top"><span class="smcap"><a href="#page_324">Mistral’s Poems in the Provençal</a></span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_324">324</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><i>To face<br /> -page</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_001">Frédéric Mistral</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#ill_001"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_002">Mas du Juge—Birthplace of Frédéric Mistral</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_018">18</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_003">Mistral in 1864</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_060">60</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_004">Arlesiennes at Maillane</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_084">84</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_005">Joseph Roumanille</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_006">Anselm Mathieu</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_007">Théodore Aubanel</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_008">Mas des Pommiers—Home of Joseph Roumanille</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_188">188</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_009">Madame Frédéric Mistral, First Queen of the Félibres</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_196">196</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_010">Félix Gras, Poet and Félibre</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_011">Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_012">Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), Second Queen of the Félibres</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_266">266</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_013">Paul Mariéton, Chancelier des Félibres</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_307">307</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_014">Madame Gasquet (<i>née</i> Mlle. Girard), Third Queen of the Félibres</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_318">318</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ill_015">Madame Bischoffsheim (<i>née</i> Mlle. de Chevigney), Fourth and present Queen of the Félibres</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_326">326</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /><br /> -<small>CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">As</span> far back as I can remember I see before me, towards the south, a -barrier of mountains, whose slopes, rocks and gorges stand out in the -distance with more or less clearness according to the morning or evening -light. It is the chain of the Alpilles, engirdled with olive-trees like -a wall of classic ruins, a veritable belvedere of bygone glory and -legend.</p> - -<p>It was at the foot of this rampart that Caius Marius, Saviour of Rome, -and to this day a popular hero throughout the land, awaited the -barbarian hordes behind the walls of his camp. The record of his -triumphs and trophies engraved on the Arch and Mausoleum of Saint-Rémy -has been gilded by the sun of Provence for two thousand years past.</p> - -<p>On the slopes of these hills are to be seen the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> remains of the great -Roman aqueduct, which once carried the waters of Vaucluse to the Arena -of Arles; an aqueduct still called by the country people Ouide di -Sarrasin (stonework of the Saracens), for it was by this waterway the -Spanish Moors marched to Arles. On the jagged rocks of these Alpilles -the Princes of Baux built their stronghold, and in these same aromatic -valleys, at Baux, Romanin, and Roque-Martine, the beautiful châtelaines -in the days of the troubadours held their Courts of Love.</p> - -<p>It is at Mont-Majour, on the plains of the Camargue, that the old Kings -of Arles sleep beneath the flag-stones of the cloisters, and in the -grotto of the Vallon d’Enfer of Cordes that our fairies still wander, -while among these ruins of old Roman and feudal days the Golden Goat -lies buried.</p> - -<p>My native village, Maillane, facing the Alpilles, holds the middle of -the plain, a wide fertile plain, still called in Provençal, “Le Caieou,” -no doubt in memory of the Consul Caius Marius.</p> - -<p>An old worthy of this district, “a famous wrestler known as the little -Maillanais,” once assured me that in all his travels throughout the -length and breadth of Languedoc and Provence never had he seen a plain -so smooth as this one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> of ours. For if one ploughed a furrow straight as -a die for forty miles from the Durance river down to the sea, the water -would flow without hindrance owing to the steady gradient. And, in spite -of our neighbours treating us as frog-eaters, we Maillanais always agree -there is not a prettier country under the sun than ours.</p> - -<p>The old homestead where I was born, looking towards the hills and -adjoining the Clos-Créma, was called “the Judge’s Farm.” We worked the -land with four yoke of oxen, and kept a head-carter, several ploughmen, -a shepherd, a dairy-woman whom we called “the Aunt,” besides hired men -and women engaged by the month according to the work of the season, -whether for the silk-worms, the hay, the weeding, the harvest and -vintage, the season of sowing, or that of olive gathering.</p> - -<p>My parents were yeomen, and belonged to those families who live on their -own land and work it from one generation to another. The yeomen of the -country of Arles form a class apart, a sort of peasant aristocracy, -which, like every other, has its pride of caste. For whilst the peasant -of the village cultivates with spade and hoe his little plot of ground, -the yeoman farmer, agriculturist on a large scale of the Camargue and -the Crau,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> also puts his hand to the plough as he sings his morning -song.</p> - -<p>If we Mistrals wish, like so many others, to boast of our descent, -without presumption we may claim as ancestors the Mistrals of Dauphiny, -who became by alliance Seigneurs of Montdragon and also of Romanin. The -celebrated monument shown at Valence is the tomb of these Mistrals. And -at Saint-Rémy, the home of my family and birthplace of my father, the -Hôtel of the Mistrals of Romanin may still be seen, known by the name of -the Palace of Queen Joan.</p> - -<p>The crest of the Mistrals is three clover leaves with the somewhat -audacious device, “All or Nothing.” For those who, like ourselves, read -a horoscope in the fatality of patronymics and the mystery of chance -encounters, it is a curious coincidence to find in the olden days the -Love Court of Romanin united to the Manor of the Mistrals, and the name -of Mistral designating the great wind of the land of Provence, and -lastly, these three trefoils significantly pointing to the destiny of -our family. The trefoil, so I was informed by the Sâr Peladan, when it -has four leaves becomes a talisman, but with three expresses -symbolically the idea of the indigenous plant, development and growth by -slow degrees in the same spot. The number three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> signifies also the -household, father, mother, and son in the mystic sense. Three trefoils, -therefore, stand for three successive harmonious generations, or nine, -which number in heraldry represents wisdom. The device “All or Nothing” -is well suited to those sedentary flowers which will not bear -transplanting and are emblematic of the enured landholder.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But to leave these trifles. My father, who lost his first wife, married -again at the age of fifty-five, and I was the offspring of this second -marriage. It was in the following manner my parents met each other:</p> - -<p>One summer’s day on the Feast of St. John, Master François Mistral stood -in the midst of his cornfields watching the harvesters as they mowed -down the crop with their sickles. A troop of women followed the -labourers, gleaning the ears of corn which escaped the rake. Among them -my father noticed one, a handsome girl, who lingered shyly behind as -though afraid to glean like the rest. Going up to her he inquired: “Who -are you, pretty one? What is your name?”</p> - -<p>“I am the daughter of Étienne Poulinet,” the young girl replied, “the -Mayor of Maillane. My name is Delaïde.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span></p> - -<p>“Does the daughter of Master Poulinet, Mayor of Maillane, come, then, to -glean?” asked my father in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Sir, we are a large family,” she answered, “six daughters and two sons; -and our father, though he is fairly well off, when we ask him for -pocket-money to buy pretty clothes, tells us we must go and earn it. -That is why I have come here to glean.”</p> - -<p>Six months after this meeting, which recalls the old biblical scene -between Ruth and Boaz, the brave yeoman asked the Mayor of Maillane for -his daughter’s hand in marriage; and I was born of their union.</p> - -<p>My entry into the world took place on September 8th, 1830. My father, -according to his wont, was that afternoon in his fields when they sent -from the house to announce my arrival. The messenger, so soon as he came -within hearing, called to him: “Master, come—the mistress is just -delivered.”</p> - -<p>“How many?” asked my father.</p> - -<p>“One, my faith—a fine son.”</p> - -<p>“A son, may God make him good and wise.”</p> - -<p>And without another word, as though nothing had happened out of the -ordinary, the good man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> went on with his work, and not until it was -finished did he return slowly to the house. This did not indicate that -he lacked heart, but, brought up in the Roman traditions of the old -Provençeaux, his manners possessed the external ruggedness of his -ancestors.</p> - -<p>I was baptized Frédéric, in memory, it appears, of a poor little urchin -who, at the time of the courtship between my parents, was employed in -carrying to and fro their love missives, and died shortly after. My -birthday having fallen on Our Lady’s Day, in September, my mother had -desired to give me the name of Nostradamus, both in gratitude to Our -Lady and in memory of the famous astrologer of Saint-Rémy, author of -“Les Centuries.” But this mystic and mythical name which the maternal -instinct had so happily lit upon was unfortunately refused both by the -mayor and the priest.</p> - -<p>Vaguely, as through a distant mist, it seems to me I can remember those -early years when my mother, then in the full glory of her youth and -beauty, nourished me with her milk and bore me in her arms, presenting -with pride among our friends “her king”; and ceremoniously the friends -and relations receiving us with the customary congratulations, offering -me a couple of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> eggs, a slice of bread, a pinch of salt, and a match, -with these sacramental words:</p> - -<p>“Little one, be full as an egg, wholesome as bread, wise as salt, and -straight as a match.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps some will think it childish to relate these things. But after -all every one is free to tell their own tale, and I find great pleasure -in returning, in thought, to my first swaddling clothes, my cradle of -mulberry wood, and my wheel-cart, for there I revive the sweetest joys -of my young mother.</p> - -<p>When I was six months old I was released from the bands which swathed -me, Nanounet, my grandmother, having strongly counselled that I should -be kept tightly bound for this period. “Children well swathed,” said -she, “are neither bandy-legged nor knock-kneed.”</p> - -<p>On St. Joseph’s Day, according to the custom of Provence, I was “given -my feet.” Triumphantly my mother bore me to the church of Maillane, and -there on the saint’s altar, while she held me by the skirts and my -godmother sang to me “Avène, avène, avène” (Come, come, come), I was -made to take my first steps.</p> - -<p>Every Sunday we went to Maillane for the Mass. It was at least two miles -distant. All the way my mother rocked me in her arms. Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> how I loved -to rest on that tender breast, in that soft nest! But a time came, I -must have been five years old, when midway to the village my poor mother -put me down, bidding me walk, for I was too heavy to be carried any -more.</p> - -<p>After Mass I used to go with my mother to visit my grandparents in the -fine vaulted kitchen of white stone, where usually congregated the -notabilities of the place, Monsieur Deville, Monsieur Dumas, Monsieur -Raboux, the younger Rivière, and discussed politics as they paced the -stone-flagged floor to and fro between the fireplace and the dresser.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Dumas, who had been a judge and resigned in the year 1830, was -specially fond of giving his advice to the young mothers present, such -as these words of wisdom, for example, which he repeated regularly every -Sunday:</p> - -<p>“Neither knives, keys, or books should be given to children—for with a -knife the child may cut himself, a key he may lose, and a book he may -tear.”</p> - -<p>Monsieur Dumas did not come alone: with his opulent wife and their -eleven or twelve children they filled the parlour, the fine ancestral -parlour, all hung with Marseilles tapestry on which were represented -little birds and baskets of flowers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> There, to show off the fine -education of his progeny, proudly he made them declaim, verse by verse, -a little from one, a little from another, the story of Théramène.</p> - -<p>This accomplished, he would turn to my mother:</p> - -<p>“And your young one, Delaïde—do you not teach him to recite something?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied my mother simply; “he can say the little rhyme of ‘Jean -du Porc.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Come, little one, recite ‘Jean du Porc,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> cried every one to me.</p> - -<p>Then with a bow to the company I would timidly falter:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Quau es mort?—Jan dóu Porc.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau lou plouro?—Lou rei Mouro.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau lou ris?—La perdris.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau lou canto?—La calandro.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau ié viro à brand?—Lou quiéu de la sartan.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau n’en porto dòu?—Lou quiéu dóu peiròu.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p>It was with these nursery rhymes, songs, and tales that our parents in -those days taught us the good Provençal tongue. But at present, vanity -having got the upper hand in most families, it is with the system of the -worthy Monsieur Dumas that children are taught, and little nincompoops -are turned out who have no more attachment or root in their country than -foundlings, for it’s the fashion of to-day to abjure all that belongs to -tradition.</p> - -<p>It is now time that I said a little of my maternal grandfather, the -worthy goodman Étienne. He was, like my father, yeoman farmer, of an old -family and a good stock, but with this difference, that whereas the -Mistrals were workers, economists and amassers of wealth, who in all the -country had not their like, the Poulinets were careless and -happy-go-lucky, disliked hard work, let the water run and spent their -harvests. My grandsire Étienne was, in short, a veritable Roger -Bontemps.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<p>In spite of having eight children, six of whom were girls, directly -there was a fête anywhere, he was off with his boon companions for a -three days’ spree. His outing lasted as long as his crowns; then, -adaptive as a glove, his pockets empty, he returned to the house. -Grandmother Nanon, a godly woman, would greet him with reproaches:</p> - -<p>“Art thou not ashamed, profligate, to devour the dowries of thy -daughters?”</p> - -<p>“Hé, goodie! What need to worry! Our little girls are pretty, they will -marry without dowries. And I fear me, as thou sayest, my good Nanon, we -shall have nothing for the last.”</p> - -<p>Thus teasing and cajolling the good woman, he made the usurers give him -mortgages on her dowry, lending him money at the rate of fifty or a -hundred per cent., and when his gambling friends came round to visit him -at sundown the incorrigible scapegraces would make a carouse in the -chimney corner, singing all in unison:</p> - -<p>“We are three jolly fellows who haven’t a sou.”</p> - -<p>There were times when my poor grandmother well-nigh despaired at seeing, -one by one, the best portions of her inheritance disappear, but he would -laugh at her fears:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<p>“Why, goosey, cry about a few acres of land, they are common as -blackberries,” or:</p> - -<p>“That land, why, my dear, its returns did not pay the taxes.”</p> - -<p>And again: “That waste there? Why it was dry as heather from our -neighbours’ trees.”</p> - -<p>He had always a retort equally prompt and light-hearted. Even of the -usurers he would say:</p> - -<p>“My faith, but it is a happy thing there are such people. Without them, -how should we spendthrifts and gamblers find the needful cash at a time -when money is merchandise?”</p> - -<p>In those days Beaucaire with its famous fair was the great point of -attraction on the Rhône. People of all nations, even Turks and negroes, -journeyed there both by land and water. Everything made by the hand of -man, whether to feed, to clothe, to house, to amuse or to ensnare, from -the grindstones of the mill, bales of cloth or canvas, rings and -ornaments made of coloured glass, all were to be found in profusion at -Beaucaire, piled up in the great vaulted storehouses, the market-halls, -the merchant vessels in the harbour or the booths in the meadows. It was -a universal exhibition held yearly in the month of July of all the -industries of the south.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span></p> - -<p>Needless to say, my grandsire took good care never to miss this occasion -of going to Beaucaire for four or five days’ dissipation. Under the -pretext of purchasing articles for the household—such as pepper, -cloves, ginger—he went off to the fair, a handkerchief in every pocket -and others new and uncut wound like a belt round his waist, for he -consumed much snuff. There he strolled about from morn till eve among -the jugglers, the mountebanks, the clowns, and, above all, the gypsies, -watching these last with interest as they disputed and squabbled over -the purchase of some skinny donkey.</p> - -<p>Punch and Judy possessed perennial joys for him. Open-mouthed he stood -among the crowd, laughing like a boy at the old jokes, and experiencing -an unholy joy as the blows were showered on the puppets representing law -and order.</p> - -<p>This was always the chance for the watchful pickpocket to quietly -abstract one by one his handkerchiefs, a thing foreseen by my grandsire, -who, on discovering the loss, invariably, without more ado, unwound his -belt and used the new ones, with the result that on returning home he -presented himself to his family with a nose dyed blue from the unwashed -cotton.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span></p> - -<p>“So I see,” cries my grandmother, “they have stolen your handkerchiefs -again.”</p> - -<p>“Who told you that?” asks her good man in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Your blue nose,” answers she.</p> - -<p>“Well, that Punch and Judy show was worth it,” maintains the -incorrigible grandsire.</p> - -<p>When his daughters, of whom, as I have said, my mother was one, were of -an age to marry, being neither awkward nor disagreeable, in spite of -their lack of dowry, suitors appeared on the scene. But when the fathers -of these youths inquired of my grandsire how much he was prepared to -give to his daughter, Master Étienne fired up in wrath:</p> - -<p>“How much do I give my daughter? Idiot! I give your lad a fine young -filly, well trained and handled, and you ask me to add lands and money! -Who wants my daughters must take them as they are or leave them. God be -thanked, in the breadpan of Master Étienne there is always a loaf.”</p> - -<p>It was a fact that each one of the six daughters of my grandfather were -married for the sake of their fine eyes only, and made good marriages -too.</p> - -<p>“A pretty girl,” says the proverb, “carries her dowry in her face.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<p>But I must not leave this budding time of my childhood without plucking -one more of memory’s blooms.</p> - -<p>Behind the Judge’s Farm where I was born there was a moat, the waters of -which supplied our old draw-well. The water, though not deep, was clear -and rippling, and on a summer’s day the place was to me one of -irresistible attraction.</p> - -<p>The draw-well moat! It was the book in which, while amusing myself, I -learnt my first lessons in natural history. There were fish, both -stickleback and young carp, which, as they passed down the stream in -shoals, I endeavoured to catch with a small canvas bag that had once -served for nails, suspended on a long reed. There were little -dragon-flies, green, blue, and black, who, as they alighted on the reeds -gently, oh so gently, I seized with my small fingers—that is when they -did not escape me, lightly and silently, with a shimmer of their gauzy -wings; there also was to be found a kind of brown insect with a white -belly which leaped in the water and moved his tiny paws like a cobbler -at work. Little frogs too, with dark gold-spotted backs showing among -the tufts of moss, and who, on seeing me, nimbly plunged in the stream; -and the triton, a sort of aquatic salamander, who wriggled round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> in a -circle; and great horned beetles, those scavengers of the pools, called -by us the “eel-killers.”</p> - -<p>Add to all these a mass of aquatic plants, such as the cats-tail, that -long cottony blossom of the typha-plant; and the water-lily, its wide -round leaves and white cup magnificently outspread on the water’s smooth -surface; the gladiole with its clusters of pink flowers and the pale -narcissus mirrored in the stream; the duckweed with its minute leaves; -the ox-tongue, which flowers like a lustre; and the forget-me-not, -myosotis, named in Provence “eyes of the Child Jesus.”</p> - -<p>But of all this wonder-world, what held my fancy most was the -water-iris, a large plant growing at the water’s edge in big clumps, -with long sword-shaped leaves and beautiful yellow blooms raising high -their heads like golden halberds. The golden lilies, which on an azure -field form the arms of France and of Provence, were undoubtedly -suggested by these same water-iris, for the lily and the iris are really -of the same family, and the azure of the coat-of-arms faithfully -represents the water by the edge of which the iris grows.</p> - -<p>It was a summer’s day, about the harvest time. All the people of the -farm-house were out at work, helping to bind up the sheaves. Some -twenty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> men, bare-armed, marched by twos and fours, round the horses and -mules who were treading hard. Some took off the ears of corn or tossed -the straw with their long wooden forks, while others, bare-foot, danced -gaily in the sunshine on the fallen grain. High in the air, upheld by -the three supports of a rustic crane, the winnowing cradle was -suspended. A group of women and girls with baskets threw the corn and -husks into the net of the sieve, and the master, my father, vigorous and -erect, swung the sieve towards the wind, turning the bad grains on to -the top. When the wind abated or at intervals ceased, my father, with -the motionless sieve in his hands, facing the wind and gazing out into -the blue, would say in all seriousness, as though addressing a friendly -god: “Come, blow, blow, dear wind.”</p> - -<p>And I have seen the “mistral,” on my word, in obedience to the wish of -the patriarch, again and again draw breath, thus carrying off the refuse -while the blessed fine wheat fell in a white shower on the conical heap -visibly rising in the midst of the winnowers.</p> - -<p>At sunset, after the grain had been heaped up with shovels, and the men, -all powdered with dust, had gone off to wash at the well and draw water -for the beasts, my father with great strides<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_002" id="ill_002"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp018_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp018_sml.jpg" width="500" height="297" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Mas du Juge</span>—<span class="smcap">Birthplace of Frédéric Mistral</span>.</p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">would measure the heap of corn, tracing upon it a cross with the handle -of the spade and uttering the words: “God give thee increase.”</p> - -<p>I must have been scarcely four years old and still wearing petticoats, -when one lovely afternoon during this threshing season, after rolling as -children love to do in the new straw, I directed my steps towards the -draw-well moat.</p> - -<p>For some days past the fair water-iris had commenced to open, and my -hands tingled to pluck some of the lovely golden buds.</p> - -<p>Arrived at the stream, gently I slipped down to the edge of the water -and thrust out my hand to grab the flower, but it was too far off; I -stretched, and behold me in an instant up to the neck in water.</p> - -<p>I cried out. My mother hurried to the rescue, hauled me out, bestowing a -slap or two, and drove me like a dripping duck before her to the house.</p> - -<p>“Let me catch you again, little good-for-nothing, at that moat!”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to pick the water-iris,” I pleaded.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, go there again to pick iris! Don’t you know, then, little -rascal, there is a snake hidden in the grass, a big snake who swallows -whole, both birds and children.”</p> - -<p>She undressed me, taking off my small shoes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> socks, and shirt, and -while my clothes dried put me on my Sunday sabots and suit, with the -warning:</p> - -<p>“Take care now to keep yourself clean.”</p> - -<p>Behold me again out of doors; on the new straw I executed a happy caper, -then catching sight of a white butterfly hovering over the stubble, off -I went, my blonde curls flying in the wind and—all at once there I was -again at the moat!</p> - -<p>Oh, my beautiful yellow flowers! They were still there, proudly rising -out of the water, showing themselves off in a manner it was impossible -to withstand. Very cautiously I descend the bank planting my feet -squarely; I thrust out my hand, I lean forward, stretching as far as I -can ... and splash ... I am in the water again.</p> - -<p>Woe is me! While about me the bubbles gurgled and among the rushes I -thought I spied the great snake, a loud voice cried out:</p> - -<p>“Mistress, run quick, that child is in the water again.”</p> - -<p>My mother came running. She seized me and dragged me all black from the -muddy bank, and the first thing I received was a resounding smack.</p> - -<p>“You will go back to those flowers? You will try to drown yourself? A -new suit ruined,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> little rascal—little monster! nearly killing me with -fright!”</p> - -<p>Bedraggled and crying, I returned to the farm-house, head hanging. Again -I was undressed, and this time arrayed in my festal suit. Oh, that fine -suit! I can still see it with the bands of black velvet, and gold dots -on a blue ground.</p> - -<p>Surveying myself in my bravery, I asked my mother: “But what am I to do -now?”</p> - -<p>“Go take care of the chickens,” she said; “don’t let them stray—and you -stay in the shade.”</p> - -<p>Full of zeal I ran off to the chickens, who were pecking about for ears -of corn in the stubble. While at my post, curiously enough I perceive -all at once a crested pullet giving chase to—what do you think? Why, a -grasshopper, the kind with red and blue wings. Both, with me after them, -for I wished to examine those wings, were soon dancing over the fields -and, as luck would have it, we found ourselves before long at the -draw-well moat.</p> - -<p>And there were those golden flowers again mirrored in the water and -exciting my desire; but a desire so passionate, delirious, excessive, as -to make me entirely forget my two previous disasters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<p>“This time,” I said to myself, “I will certainly succeed.”</p> - -<p>So descending the bank I twisted around my hand a reed that grew there, -and leaning over the water very prudently, tried once again to reach the -iris blooms with the other hand. But misery! the reed broke and played -me false—into the middle of the stream I plunged head foremost.</p> - -<p>I righted myself as best I could and shrieked like a lost one. Every one -came running.</p> - -<p>“There’s the little imp, in the water again! This time, you incorrigible -youngster, your mother will give you the whipping you deserve.”</p> - -<p>But she did not. Down the pathway I saw her coming, the poor mother, and -tears were in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“O Lord,” she cried, “but I won’t whip him; he might have a fit—this -boy is not like others. By all the saints he does nothing but run after -flowers; he loses all his toys scrambling in the cornfields after -nosegays. Now, as a climax, he has thrown himself three times within an -hour into this moat! I can only clean him up, and thank heaven he is not -drowned.”</p> - -<p>We mingled our tears together as we went home, then once indoors, saint -that she was, my mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> again unclothed and dried me, and to ward off -all evil consequences administered a dose of vermifuge before putting me -to bed, where worn out with emotion I soon fell asleep.</p> - -<p>Can any one guess of what I dreamt? Why, of my iris flowers!... In a -lovely stream of water which wound all round the farm-house, a limpid, -transparent, azure stream like the waters of the fountain at Vaucluse, I -beheld the most beautiful clumps of iris covered with a perfect wonder -of golden blossoms! Little dragon-flies with blue silk wings came and -settled on the flowers, while I swam about naked in the laughing rivulet -and plucked by handfuls and armfuls those enchanting yellow blooms. And -the more I picked the more sprang up.</p> - -<p>All at once I heard a voice calling to me, “Frédéric!” I awoke, and to -my joy I saw—a great bunch of golden iris all shining by my side.</p> - -<p>The Master himself, my worshipful sire, had actually gone to pick those -flowers I so longed for; and the Mistress, my dear sweet mother, had -placed them on my bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /><br /> -<small>MY FATHER</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">My</span> early years were passed at the farm in the company of labourers, -reapers and shepherds.</p> - -<p>When occasionally a townsman visited our farm, one of those who affected -to speak only French, it puzzled me sorely and even disconcerted me to -see my parents all at once take on a respectful manner to the stranger, -as though they felt him to be their superior. I was perplexed, too, at -hearing another tongue.</p> - -<p>“Why is it,” I asked, “that man does not speak like we do?”</p> - -<p>“Because he is a gentleman,” I was told.</p> - -<p>“Then I will never be a gentleman,” I replied resentfully.</p> - -<p>I remarked also that when we received visitors, such, for instance, as -the Marquis de Barbentane, our neighbour, my father, who when speaking -of my mother before the servants called her “the mistress,” to the -Marquis merely referred to her as “my wife.” The grand Marquis and his -lady, the Marquise, a sister of the great Général de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> Gallifet, whenever -they came used to bring me cakes and sweets, but in spite of this, no -sooner did I see them driving up in their carriage than, like the young -savage that I was, off I ran and hid in the hay-loft. In vain my poor -mother would call “Frédéric.” Crouching in the hay and holding my -breath, I waited until I heard the departing carriage wheels of our -guests, and my mother declaiming for the benefit of all: “It is -insufferable; here are Monsieur de Barbentane and Madame de Barbentane, -who come on purpose to see that child, and he goes off and hides -himself!”</p> - -<p>And when I crept out of my hiding-place, instead of the sweets, I -received a good spanking.</p> - -<p>What I really loved, however, was to go off with Papoty, our head-man, -when he set out with the plough behind the two mules.</p> - -<p>“Come on, youngster, and I’ll teach you to plough,” he would call -enticingly.</p> - -<p>Then and there off I would go, bareheaded and barefooted, briskly -following in the furrow, and as I ran, picking the flowers, primroses -and blue musk, turned up by the blade.</p> - -<p>How joyous it was, this atmosphere of rustic life. Each season in turn -brought its round of labour. Ploughing, sowing, shearing, reaping, the -silk-worms, the harvests, the threshing, the vintage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> and the olive -gathering, unrolled before my eyes the majestic acts of the agricultural -life, always a stern, hard life, yet always one of calm and freedom.</p> - -<p>A numerous company of labourers came and went at the farm, weeders, -haymakers, men hired by the day or the month, who with the goad, the -rake, or the fork a-shoulder toiled with the free noble gestures of the -peasants so well depicted in Léopold Robert’s pictures.</p> - -<p>At the dinner or supper hour, the men, one after the other, trooped into -the farm-house, seating themselves according to their station around the -big table. Then the master, my father, at the head, would question them -gravely on the work of the day, the state of the flocks, of the ground -or the weather. The repast ended, the chief carter shut to the blade of -his big clasp-knife, the signal for all to rise.</p> - -<p>In stature, in mind, as well as in character, my father towered above -these country folk, a grand old patriarch, dignified in speech, just in -his rule, beneficent to the poor, severe only to himself.</p> - -<p>He loved to recall the early days when as a volunteer he served in the -army during the revolution, and to recount tales of the war as we sat -round the hearth in the evening.</p> - -<p>Once during the Reign of Terror he had been requisitioned to carry corn -to Paris, where famine was then raging. It was just after they had -killed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> the king, and France was paralysed with consternation and -horror. One winter’s day, returning across Bourgogne, with a cold sleet -beating in his face and his cart-wheels half buried in the muddy road, -he met a carrier of his own village. The two compatriots shook hands, -and my father inquired whither the other was bound in this villainous -weather:</p> - -<p>“I am for Paris, citizen,” replied the man, “taking there our church -bells and altar saints.”</p> - -<p>“Accursed fellow,” cried my father, trembling with wrath and -indignation, and taking off his hat as he looked at the church relics. -“I suppose you think on your return they will make you a Deputy for this -devil’s work?”</p> - -<p>The iconoclast skulked off with an oath and went on his way.</p> - -<p>My father, I should observe, was profoundly religious. In the evening, -summer and winter, it was his custom to gather round him the household, -and kneeling on his chair, head uncovered and hands crossed, his white -hair in a queue tied with a black ribbon, he would pray and read the -gospels aloud to us.</p> - -<p>My father read but three books in his life: the New Testament, the -“Imitation,” and “Don Quixote”; the latter he loved because it recalled -his campaign in Spain, and helped to pass the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> when a rainy season -forced him indoors. In his youth schools were rare, and it was from a -poor pedlar, who made his rounds of the farms once a week, that my -father learnt his alphabet.</p> - -<p>On Sunday after vespers, according to the old-time usage as head of the -house, he did the weekly accounts, debit and credit with annotations, in -a great volume called “Cartabèou.”</p> - -<p>Whatever the weather, he was always content. When he heard grumbling, -either at tempestuous winds or torrential rains, “Good people,” he would -say, “the One above knows very well what He is about and also what we -need.... Supposing these great winds which revivify our Provence and -clear off the fogs and vapours of our marshes never blew? And if, -equally, we were never visited by the heavy rains which supply the wells -and springs and rivers? We need all sorts, my children.”</p> - -<p>Though he would not scorn to pick up a faggot on the road and carry it -to the hearth, and though he was content with vegetables and brown bread -for his daily fare, and was so abstemious always as to mix water with -his wine, yet at his table the stranger never failed to find a welcome, -and his hand and purse were ever open to the poor.</p> - -<p>Faithful to the old customs, the great festival<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> of the year on our farm -was Christmas Eve. That day the labourers knocked off work early, and my -mother presented to each one, wrapped up in a cloth, a fine oil-cake, a -stick of nougat, a bunch of dried figs, a cream cheese, a salad of -celery, and a bottle of wine.</p> - -<p>Then every man returned to his own village and home to burn the Yule -log. Only some poor fellow who had no home would remain at the farm, and -occasionally a poor relation, an old bachelor for example, would arrive -at night saying:</p> - -<p>“A merry Christmas, cousin. I have come to help you burn the Yule log.”</p> - -<p>Then, a merry company, we all sallied forth to fetch the log, which -according to tradition must be cut from a fruit-tree. Walking in line we -bore it home, headed by the oldest at one end, and I, the last born, -bringing up the rear. Three times we made the tour of the kitchen, then, -arrived at the flagstones of the hearth, my father solemnly poured over -the log a glass of wine, with the dedicatory words:</p> - -<p>“Joy, joy. May God shower joy upon us, my dear children. Christmas -brings us all good things. God give us grace to see the New Year, and if -we do not increase in numbers may we at all events not decrease.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<p>In chorus, we responded:</p> - -<p>“Joy, joy, joy!” and lifted the log on the fire-dogs. Then as the first -flame leapt up my father would cross himself, saying, “Burn the log, O -fire,” and with that we all sat down to the table.</p> - -<p>Oh, that happy table, blessed in the truest sense, peace and joy in -every heart of the united family assembled round it. In the place of the -ordinary lamp suspended from the ceiling, on this occasion we lit the -three traditional candles, regarded by the company not without anxiety, -lest the wick should turn towards any one—always a bad augury. At each -end of the table sprouted some corn in a plate of water, set to -germinate on St. Barbara’s Day, and on the triple linen tablecloths<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -were placed the customary dishes, snails in their shells, fried slices -of cod and grey mullet garnished with olives, cardoon, scholium, -peppered celery, besides a variety of sweetmeats reserved for this -feast, such as hearth-cakes, dried raisins, almond nougat, tomatoes, and -then, most important of all, the big Christmas loaf, which is never -partaken of until one-quarter has been bestowed on the first passing -beggar.</p> - -<p>During the long evening which followed before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> starting out for the -midnight Mass, gathered round the log fire we told tales of past days -and recalled the grand old folks who were gone, and little by little my -worthy father never failed to come back to his favourite Spanish wars -and the famous siege of Figuières.</p> - -<p>On New Year’s Day, again, our home was the centre of hospitality, and we -were greeted at early dawn by a crowd of our poorer neighbours, old -people, women and children, who came round the farm-house singing their -good wishes for the coming year. My father and mother, with kindly -response, presented to each one a gift of two long loaves and two round -ones. To all the poor of the village we also gave, in accordance with -the tradition of our house, two batches of bread.</p> - -<p>Every evening my father included this formula in his evening prayer:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Did I live a hundred years<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hundred years I would bake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a hundred years give to the poor.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>At his funeral the poor who mourned him said with fervour: “May he have -as many angels to bear him to Paradise as he gave us loaves of bread.”</p> - -<p>This is a picture of the simple and noble patriarchal life of Provence -in my youth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /><br /> -<small>THE MAGI KINGS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> eve of the Feast of Epiphany it was the custom for all the children -of our countryside to go forth to meet the three kings, the wise men -from the East, who with their camels and attendants and all their suite -came in procession to Maillane there to adore the Holy Child.</p> - -<p>One such occasion I well remember.</p> - -<p>With hearts beating in joyful excitement, eyes full of visions, we -sallied forth on the road to Arles a numerous company of shock-headed -urchins and blonde-headed maidens with little hoods and sabots, bearing -our offerings of cakes for the kings, dried figs for their pages, and -hay for the camels.</p> - -<p>The east wind blew, which means it was cold. The sun sank, lurid, into -the Rhône. The streams were frozen, and the grass at the water’s edge -dried up. The bark of the leafless trees showed ruddy tints, and the -robin and wren hopped shivering from branch to branch. Not a soul was to -be seen in the fields, save perhaps some poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> widow picking up sticks -or a ragged beggar seeking snails beneath the dead hedges.</p> - -<p>“Where go you so late, children?” inquired some passer-by.</p> - -<p>“We go to meet the kings,” we answered confidently.</p> - -<p>And like young cocks, our heads in the air, along the white, wind-swept -road we continued our way, singing and laughing, sliding and hopping.</p> - -<p>The daylight waned. The bell-tower of Maillane disappeared behind the -trees, the tall dark pointed cypresses and the wide barren plain -stretched away into the dim distance. We strained our eyes as far as -they could see, but in vain. Nothing was in sight save some branch -broken by the wind laying on the stubbly field. Oh, the sadness of those -mid-winter evenings when all nature seemed dumb and suffering.</p> - -<p>Then we met a shepherd, his cloak wrapped tightly round him, returning -from tending his sheep. He asked whither we were bound so late in the -day. We inquired anxiously had he seen the kings, and were they still a -long way off. Oh, the joy when he replied that he had passed the kings -not so very long since—soon we should see them. Off we set running with -all speed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> running to meet the kings and present our cakes and handfuls -of hay.</p> - -<p>Then, just as the sun disappeared behind a great dark cloud and the -bravest among us began to flag—suddenly, behold them in sight.</p> - -<p>A joyful shout rang from every throat as the magnificence of the royal -pageant dazzled our sight.</p> - -<p>A flash of splendour and gorgeous colour shone in the rays of the -setting sun, while the blazing torches showed the gleams of gold on -crowns set with rubies and precious stones.</p> - -<p>The kings! The kings! See their crowns! See their mantles—their flags, -and the procession of camels and horses which are coming.</p> - -<p>We stood there entranced. But instead of approaching us little by little -the glory and splendour of the vision seemed to melt away before our -eyes with the sinking sun, extinguished in the shadows. Crestfallen we -stood there, gaping to find ourselves alone on the darkening highway.</p> - -<p>Which way did the kings go?</p> - -<p>They passed behind the mountain.</p> - -<p>The white owl hooted. Fear seized us, and huddling together we turned -homewards, munching the cakes and figs we had brought for the kings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<p>Our mothers greeted us with, “Well, did you see them?”</p> - -<p>Sadly we answered, “Only afar—they passed behind the mountain.”</p> - -<p>“But which road did you take?”</p> - -<p>“The road to Arles.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor lambs—but the kings never come by that road. They come from -the East—you should have taken the Roman road. Ah dear, what a pity, -you should have seen them enter Maillane. It was a beautiful sight, with -their tambours and trumpets, the pages and the camels—it was a show! -Now they are gone to the church to offer their adoration. After supper -you shall go and see them!”</p> - -<p>We supped with speed, I at my grandmother’s, and then we ran to the -church. It was crowded, and, as we entered, the voices of all the -people, accompanied by the organ, burst forth into the superbly majestic -Christmas hymn:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This morn I met the train<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the three great kings from the East;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This morn I met the train<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the kings on the wide high road.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>We children, fascinated, threaded our way between the women, till we -reached the Chapel of the Nativity. There, suspended above the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> altar, -was the beautiful star, and bowing the knee in adoration before the Holy -Child we beheld at last the three kings. Gaspard, with his crimson -mantle, offering a casket of gold; Melchior, arrayed in yellow, bearing -in his hands a gift of incense; and Balthazar, with his cloak of blue, -presenting a vase of the sadly prophetic myrrh. How we admired the -finely dressed pages who upheld the kings’ flowing mantles, and the -great humped camels whose heads rose high above the sacred ass and ox; -also the Holy Virgin and Saint Joseph, besides all the wonderful -background, a little mountain in painted paper with shepherds and -shepherdesses bringing hearth-cakes, baskets of eggs, swaddling clothes, -the miller with a sack of corn, the old woman spinning, the -knife-grinder at his wheel, the astonished innkeeper at his window, in -short, all the traditional crowd who figure in the Nativity, and, above -and beyond all, the Moorish king.</p> - -<p>Many a time since those early days it has chanced that I have found -myself upon the road to Arles at this same Epiphany season about dusk. -Still the robin and the wren haunt the long hawthorn hedge. Still some -poor old beggar may be seen searching for snails in the ditch, and still -the hoot of the owl breaks the stillness of the winter evening. But in -the rays of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> setting sun I see no more the glory and crowns of the -old kings.</p> - -<p>Which way have they passed, the kings?</p> - -<p>Behind the mountain.</p> - -<p>Alas this melancholy and sadness clings always around the things seen -with the eyes of our youth. However grand, however beautiful the -landscape we have known in early days, when we return, eager to see it -once more, something is ever lacking, something or some one!</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Oh, let me, dreaming, lose myself down yonder<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Where widespread cornfields, red with poppies, lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">As when a little lad, I used to wander<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And lose myself, beneath the self-same sky.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i1">Some one, searching every cover,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Seeks for me, the whole field over,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Saying her angelus piously;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">But where yon the skylarks, singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Through the sun their way are winging,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I follow so fast and eagerly.<br /></span> -<span class="i1">O poor mother! loving-hearted,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Dear, great soul! thou hast departed;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">No more shall I hear thee, calling me.”<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i3">(From “Les Isclo d’Or.” Trans. Alma Strettell).<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Who can give me back the ideal joy and delight of my child-heart as I -sat at my mother’s knee drinking in the wonder-tales and fables, the old -songs and rhymes, as she sang and spoke them in the soft sweet language -of Provence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<p>There was the “Pater des Calandes,” Marie-Madeleine the poor -fisher-girl, The Cabin-boy of Marseilles, the Swineherd, the Miser, and -how many other tales and legends of Provence to which the cradle of my -early years was rocked, filling my dreams with poetic visions. Thus from -my mother I drew not only nourishment for my body but for my mind and -soul, the sweet honey of noble tradition and faith in God.</p> - -<p>In the present day, the narrow materialistic system refuses to reckon -with the wings of childhood, the divine instincts of the budding -imagination and its necessity to wonder, that faculty which formerly -gave us our saints and heroes, poets and artists. The child of to-day no -sooner opens his eyes than his elders try to wither up both heart and -soul. Poor lunatics! Life and the day-school, above all the school of -experience, will teach him but too soon the mean realities of life, and -the disillusions, analectic and scientific, of all that so enchanted our -youth.</p> - -<p>If some tiresome anatomist told the young lover that the fair maiden of -his heart, in the bloom of her youth and beauty, was but a grim skeleton -when robbed of her outer covering, would he not be justified in shooting -him out of hand?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<p>In connection with those traditions and wonder-tales of Provence, -familiar to my childhood, I cannot do better than quote old Dame -Renaude, a gossip of our village when I was a boy.</p> - -<p>Still I can picture her seated on a log and sunning herself at her door. -She is withered, shrivelled and lined, the poor old soul, like a dried -fig. Brushing away the teasing flies, she drinks in the sunshine, dozes -and sleeps the hours away.</p> - -<p>“Taking a little nap in the sun, Tante Renaude?”</p> - -<p>“Well, see you, I was neither exactly waking nor sleeping—I said my -paternosters and I dreamt a bit—and praying, you know, one is apt to -doze. Aye, but it is a bad thing when one is past work—the time hangs -heavy on hand.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you catch cold sitting out of doors?”</p> - -<p>“Me, catch cold? Why I am dry as matchwood. If I was boiled I shouldn’t -furnish a drop of oil.”</p> - -<p>“If I were you I would stroll round quietly and have a chat with some -old crony—it would help pass the time.”</p> - -<p>“The old gossips of my time are nearly all gone, soon there won’t be one -left. True, there is still the old Geneviève, deaf as a plough, and old -Patantane in her dotage, and Catherine de Four<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> who does nothing but -groan—I’ve enough of my own ailments. Oh no, it is better to be alone.”</p> - -<p>“Why not go and have a chat with the washer-women down there at the -wash-house?”</p> - -<p>“What, those hussies? who backbite and pull each other to pieces, first -one and then the other, the livelong day. They abuse every one and then -laugh like idiots. The good God will send a judgment on them one of -these days. Aye, but it was not so in our time.”</p> - -<p>“What did you talk about in your time?”</p> - -<p>“In our time? Why, we told old histories and tales which it was a -pleasure to listen to, such as ‘The Beast with Seven Heads,’ ‘Fearless -John,’ and ‘The Great Body without a Soul.’ Why one of those tales would -last us three or four evenings. At that time we spun our own wool and -hemp. Winter time after supper we used to take our distaffs and meet -together in some big sheep-barn, and while the men fed and folded the -beasts and outside the north wind blew and the dogs howled at the -prowling wolves, we women huddled together with the young lambs and -their mothers, and as our spinning-wheels hummed busily, told each other -tales.</p> - -<p>“We believed in those days in things which they laugh at now, but which -all the same were seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> by people I myself know, people whose word was -to be trusted. There was my Aunt Mïan, wife of the basket-maker whose -grandsons live at the Clos de Pain-Perdu; one day when she was picking -up sticks, she saw all at once a fine white hen. It seemed quite tame, -but when my Aunt put out her hand gently the hen eluded her, and -commenced pecking in the grass a little way off. Very cautiously again -Aunt Mïan approached the hen, who seemed to desire to be caught. But -directly my aunt thought she had got her, off she was—the aunt -following, more and more determined to catch her. More than an hour she -led her a dance, then as the sun went down Mïan took fright and turned -home. Lucky for her she did, for had she gone after that white hen all -night, the Holy Virgin only knows where the creature would have landed -the poor woman!</p> - -<p>“Folks told, too, of a black horse or mule, some said it was a huge sow, -which appeared to the young rakes as they came out of the public-house. -One night at Avignon a lot of good-for-nothings on the spree saw a black -horse suddenly come out of the Camband Sewer.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Oh, look!’ says one of them, ‘here’s a fine horse, blest if I don’t -mount him,’ and the horse let him get on quietly enough.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Why there’s room for me, too,’ says another, and up he got.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And me, too,’ says a third. He jumped up also, and as one by one they -mounted, that horse’s back became longer and longer, till, if you’ll -believe it, there were a dozen of those young fools on this same horse! -Then a thirteenth cries out:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Lord—Holy Virgin and sainted Joseph, I believe there’s room for -another’! But at these words the beast vanished, and our twelve riders -found themselves on their feet looking sheepish enough, I can tell you. -Lucky for them that the last one had pronounced the names of the saints, -for otherwise that evil beast would have carried them straight to the -devil.</p> - -<p>“And then, O Lord, there were the witch-cats. Why yes, those black cats -they called the ‘Mascots,’ for they were said to make money come to the -house where they lived. You knew the old Tarlavelle, eh?—she who left -such a pile of crowns when she died—well, she had a black cat, and she -took care to give it the first helping at every meal. And there was my -poor uncle, going to bed one night by the light of the moon, what does -he see but a black cat crossing the road. He, thinking no harm, threw a -stone at the cat—when, lo and behold, the beast turned round, gave him -an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> evil look, and hissed out, ‘Thou hast hit Robert!’ Strange things! -To-day they seem like dreams, nobody ever mentions them—yet there must -have been something in it all, or why should every one have been so -afraid. Eh, and there were many others,” continued Renaude, “awful -strange creatures like the Night-witch, who seated herself on your chest -and squeezed the breath out of you. And the Wier-wolf, and the Jack o’ -Lantern, and the Fantastic Sprite. Why, just fancy, one day—I might -have been eleven years old—I was returning from the catechism class -when, passing near a poplar, I heard a laugh coming from the very top of -the tree. I looked up, and there was the Fantastic Sprite grinning -between the leaves and making me signs to climb up. Why, I wouldn’t have -gone up that tree for a hundred onions—I took to my heels and ran as if -I’d gone crazy. Oh, I can tell you, when we talked of these things round -the hearth at nights not one of us would have gone outside. Poor -children, what a fright we were in. But we soon grew up, and then came -the time for lovers, and the lads would call to us to come out and walk -or dance by the moonlight. At first we refused for fear we might meet -the White Hen or the Fantastic Sprite, but when they called us ‘sillies’ -to believe such blind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> grandmother’s tales, and said they’d scare away -the hobgoblins—boys of that age have got no sense, and make you laugh -with their nonsense even against your will—why, gradually we ceased to -think so much of it. For one thing we soon had too much to do. Why, I -had eleven children, who all turned out well, thank God, besides others -I looked after. When one is not rich and has all those brats to do for, -one’s hands are pretty full, I can tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Tante Renaude, may the good God protect you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, now I am well ripened—let Him pluck me as soon as He will.” And -with her big handkerchief the old body flicks at the flies, and nodding -her head, quietly leans back and continues to drink in the sunshine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><br /> -<small>NATURE’S SCHOOL</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">At</span> eight years old I was sent to school with a little blue satchel to -carry my books and my lunch. Not before, thank God, for in all that -touched my inner development and the education and temperament of my -young poet’s soul, I certainly learnt far more through the games and -frolics of my country childhood than by the tiresome repetition of the -school routine.</p> - -<p>In our time, the dream of all youngsters who went to school was to play -truant, once at least, in a thoroughly successful manner. To have -accomplished this was to be regarded by the others as on a par with -brigands, pirates, and other heroes.</p> - -<p>In Provence it is the custom for such an exploit to be carried out by -running away to a far and unknown country, being careful to confide the -project to no one. The time chosen by the young Provençal for this -adventure is when he has, by some fault, or the sad error of -disobedience, good cause to fear that on his return home he will be -welcomed rather too warmly!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span></p> - -<p>When, therefore, this fate looms over some unlucky fellow, he just gives -school and parents the slip, and defying consequences, off he goes on -his travels with a “Long live liberty!”</p> - -<p>Oh, the delight, the joy, at that age to feel complete master of -oneself, and the bridle hanging loose, to roam where fancy beckons, away -into the blue distance, down into the swamp, or may be up to the -mountain heights!</p> - -<p>But—after a while comes hunger. Playing truant in the summer time, that -evil is not so serious. There are fields of broad beans, fair orchards -with their crops of apples, pears, and peaches, cherry-trees delighting -the eye, fig-trees offering their ripe fruit, and bulging melons that -cry out “Eat me.” And then those lovely vines, the stock of the golden -grape. Ah!—I fancy I can see them yet!</p> - -<p>Of course if the game was played in winter, things were not quite so -smiling. Some young scamps would boldly visit farms where they were -unknown and ask for food, and some again, more unscrupulous rascals, -would steal the eggs and even take the stale nest-egg, drinking and -gulping it down with relish. Others, however, were of prouder stuff; -they had not run away from home and school for any misdemeanour, but -either<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> from pure thirst of independence or because of some injustice -which, having deeply wounded the heart, made the victim flee man and his -habitation. These would pass the nights sleeping amidst the corn, in the -fields of millet, sometimes under a bridge or in some shed or -straw-stack. When hungry they gathered from the hedges and the fields -mulberries, sloes, almonds left on the trees, or little bunches of -grapes from the wild vine. They did not even object to the fruit of the -wych-elm, which they called white bread, nor unearthed onions, -choke-pears, beech-nuts, nor at a pinch to acorns. For to all these -truants each day was a glorious game, and every step a bound of delight. -What need of companions when all the beasts and insects were your -playfellows? You could understand what they were after, what they said, -what they thought, and they appeared to understand you quite as well.</p> - -<p>You caught a grasshopper and examined her little shining wings. Very -gently you stroked her with your hand to make her sing, then sent her -away with a straw in her mouth. Or, resting full length on a bank, you -find a lady-bird climbing up your finger, and at once you sing to her:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Lady-bird, fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Be off to the school,” &c.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">and as the lady-bird stretches her wings she replies:</p> - -<p>“Go home yourself—I am quite happy where I am.”</p> - -<p>Then a praying-mantis kneels before you and you ask:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Praying-mantis, art so wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Know you where the sly fox lies?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">The mantis raises a long thin arm and points to the mountains.</p> - -<p>A lizard sits warming himself in the sun and you address him with the -correct formula:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Little lizard, be my friend<br /></span> -<span class="i1">’Gainst all snakes that bite and bend,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Then I’ll give you grains of salt<br /></span> -<span class="i1">When before my house you halt.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Your house! And when will you be back there?” the lizard says as -plainly as you could yourself, and, with a whisk, disappears in his -hole.</p> - -<p>Should you meet a snail, you greet him in this fashion:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Oh, snail with one eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Your horns let me spy,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Or the blacksmith I’ll call<br /></span> -<span class="i1">To smash house and all.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It was home, always home, to which every one harked back; till at last, -after having destroyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> sufficient nests—and made sufficient holes in -nether garments—being weary of pipes made from barley-straws and of -whistles made of willow twigs, besides having set one’s teeth on edge -with green apples and other sour fruit, suddenly the truant is seized -with home-sickness, a great longing at the heart turns the feet -homewards and lowers the once proud head.</p> - -<p>Being of true Provençal stock, I also must needs make my escapade before -I had been three months at school. It happened thus.</p> - -<p>Three or four young rascals, who, under pretext of cutting grass or -collecting wood, idled away the livelong day, came to meet me one -morning as I set out for school at Maillane.</p> - -<p>“You little simpleton, what do you want to go to school for?” said they. -“Boxed in all day between four walls, punished for this or that, your -fingers rapped with a ruler! Bah! come and play with us——!”</p> - -<p>Ah me! how crystal clear the water ran in the brook; how the larks sang -up there in the blue; the cornflowers, the iris, the poppies, the -rose-campions, how fair they bloomed in the sunshine which played on the -green meadows. So I said to myself:</p> - -<p>“School! Well, that can wait till to-morrow.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> And then, with trousers -turned up, off we went to the water. We paddled, we splashed, we fished -for tadpoles, we made mud pies, and then smeared our bare little legs -with black slime to make ourselves boots! Afterwards, in the dust of -some hollow by the wayside, we played at soldiers:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rataplan, Rataplan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m a military man, &c.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>What fun it was! no king’s children were our equals. And then with the -bread and provisions in my satchel, we had a fine picnic on the grass.</p> - -<p>But all such joys must end. The schoolmaster informed against me, and -behold me arraigned before my sire’s judgment-seat:</p> - -<p>“Now hear me, Frédéric, the next time you miss school to go off paddling -in the brook, I will break a stick over your back—do not forget.”</p> - -<p>In spite of this, three days after, through sheer thoughtlessness, I -again cut school and went off to the brook.</p> - -<p>Did he spy on me, or was it mere chance that brought him that way? Just -as I and my boon companions were splashing about with naked legs, at a -few paces from us suddenly I behold my sire. My heart gave one bound.</p> - -<p>He stood still and called to me:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>“So that is it!.... You know what I promised you? Very well, I shall be -ready for you this evening.”</p> - -<p>Nothing more, and he went on his way.</p> - -<p>My good father, good as the Blessed Bread, had never given me even a -slap, but he had a loud voice and a rough way of speaking, and I feared -him as I did fire.</p> - -<p>“Ha!” I said to myself, “this time, but <i>this</i> time, he will kill you. -Assuredly he has gone to prepare the rod.”</p> - -<p>My companions, little scamps, snapped their fingers with glee, and -cried:</p> - -<p>“Aha! aha! what a drubbing you’ll get! Aha! aha! on your bare back too!”</p> - -<p>“All is up,” I said to myself. “I must be off—I must run away.”</p> - -<p>So I went. As well as I remember I took a road that led right up to the -Crau d’Eyragues. But at that time, poor little wretch, I hardly knew -where I was going, and after walking for an hour or so, it seemed to me -that I had gone far enough to have arrived in America.</p> - -<p>The sun began to go down. I was tired, and frightened too. “It is -getting late,” I thought, “and where shall I find my supper? I must go -and beg at some farm.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<p>So, turning out of the road, I discreetly approached a little white -farm-house. It had almost a welcoming air, with its pig-sties, -manure-heap, well, and vine arbour, all protected from the east wind by -a cypress hedge.</p> - -<p>Very timidly I approached the doorstep, and, looking in, saw an old body -stirring some soup. She was dirty and dishevelled; to eat what she -cooked one required indeed the sauce of hunger. Unhooking the pot from -the chain on which it swung, the old woman placed it on the kitchen -floor, and with a long spoon she poured the soup over some slices of -bread.</p> - -<p>“I see, granny, you are making some soup,” I remarked pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered curtly; “and where do you come from, young one?”</p> - -<p>“I come from Maillane. I have run away, and—I should be much obliged if -you would give me something to eat.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed,” replied the ugly old dame in growling tones. “Then just -sit you down on the doorstep and not on my chairs!”</p> - -<p>I obeyed by winding myself up into a ball on the lowest step.</p> - -<p>“If you please, what is this place called?” I asked meekly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span></p> - -<p>“Papeligosse.”</p> - -<p>“Papeligosse?” I repeated in dismay.</p> - -<p>For in Provence when they wish, in joke, to convey to children the idea -of a far distant land, they call it Papeligosse. At that age I believed -in Papeligosse, in Zibe-Zoube, in Gafe-l’Ase, and other visionary -regions as firmly as in my Paternoster. So when the old woman uttered -that magic word, a cold shiver went down my back, realising myself so -far from home.</p> - -<p>“Ah yes,” she continued as she finished her cooking, “and you must know -that in this country the lazy ones get nothing to eat—so if you want -any soup, my boy, you must work for it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will—what shall I do?” I inquired eagerly.</p> - -<p>“This is what we will do, you and I, both of us. We will stand at the -foot of the stairs and have a jumping match. The one who jumps farthest -shall have a good bowl of soup—the other shall eat with his eyes -only—understand, eh?”</p> - -<p>I agreed readily, not only proud that I should earn my supper and amuse -myself into the bargain, but also feeling no doubts as to the result of -the match; it was a pity indeed if I could not jump farther than a -rickety old body.</p> - -<p>So, feet together, we placed ourselves at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> foot of the staircase, -which in all farm-houses stands opposite the front door, close to the -threshold.</p> - -<p>“Now,” cried the old woman, “one,” and she swung her arms as though to -get a good start.</p> - -<p>“Two—three,” I added, and then sprang with all my might, triumphantly -clearing the threshold. But that cunning old body had only pretended to -spring; quick as light she shut the door, and drawing the bolt cried out -to me:</p> - -<p>“Little rascal—go back to your parents—they will be getting -anxious—come, off with you!”</p> - -<p>There I stood, unlucky urchin, feeling like a basket with the bottom -knocked out. What was I to do? Go home? Not for a kingdom. I could -picture my father ready to receive me, the menacing rod in his hand. To -add to my trouble, it was getting dark, and I no longer knew the road by -which I had come. I resolved to trust in God.</p> - -<p>Behind the farm, a path led up the hill between two high banks. I -started off, regardless of risks. “Onward, Frédéric,” said I.</p> - -<p>After clambering up the steep path, then down and up again, I felt tired -out. It was hardly surprising at eight years old, and with an empty -stomach since midday. At last I came on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> broken-down cottage in a -neglected vineyard. They must have set it on fire at one time, for the -cracked walls were black with smoke. There were no doors or windows, and -the beams only held up half the roof, which had fallen in on one side. -It might have been the abode of a nightmare!</p> - -<p>But—“needs must” as they say when there is no choice. So, worn out, and -half dead with sleep, I climbed on to one of the beams, laid down, and -in a twinkling fell sound asleep.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how long I lay there, but in the middle of a leaden slumber -I became aware of three men sitting round a charcoal fire, laughing and -talking.</p> - -<p>“Am I dreaming?” I asked myself in my sleep. “Am I dreaming, or is this -real?”</p> - -<p>But the heavy sense of well-being, into which drowsiness plunges one, -prevented any feeling of fear, and I continued to sleep placidly.</p> - -<p>I suppose that at last the smoke began to suffocate me, and on a sudden -I started up with a cry of fright. Since I did not die then and there of -sheer horror, I am convinced I shall never die.</p> - -<p>Imagine three wild gypsy faces, all turned on you at the same -moment—and with oh, such eyes! such awful eyes!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t kill me! don’t kill me!” I shrieked.</p> - -<p>The gypsies, who had been almost as startled as I, burst out laughing, -and one of them said:</p> - -<p>“You young scamp, you can boast that you gave us a nice scare!”</p> - -<p>When I found they could laugh and talk like myself, I took courage, and -noticed at the same time what a good smell came from their pot.</p> - -<p>They made me get down from my perch and demanded where I came from, to -whom I belonged, why I was there, and a string of other questions.</p> - -<p>Satisfied at length of my identity, one of the robbers—for they were -robbers—said to me:</p> - -<p>“Since you are playing truant, I suppose you are hungry. Here, eat -this.”</p> - -<p>And he threw me a shoulder of lamb, half cooked, as though I were a dog. -I then noticed they had just been roasting a young lamb, stolen probably -from some fold.</p> - -<p>After we had, in this primitive fashion, all made a good meal, the three -men rose, collected their traps and in low tones took counsel together; -then one of them turned to me:</p> - -<p>“Look here, youngster, since you are a bit of a brick we don’t want to -harm you, but all the same, we can’t have you spying which way we go, so -we are going to pop you into that barrel there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> When the day comes you -can call out and the first passer-by can release you—if he likes!”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I said submissively. “Put me into the barrel.” To tell the -truth I was very glad to get off so cheaply.</p> - -<p>In the corner of the hovel stood a battered cask, used, doubtless, at -the time of the vintage for fermenting the grape.</p> - -<p>They caught hold of me by the seat of my trousers, and pop! into the -cask I went. So there I found myself, in the middle of the night, in a -cask, on the floor of a cottage in ruins.</p> - -<p>I crouched down, poor little wretch, rolling myself up like a ball, and -while waiting for the dawn I said my prayers in low tones to scare the -evil spirits.</p> - -<p>But—imagine my dismay when suddenly I heard, in the dark, something -prowling and snorting, round my cask! I held my breath as though I were -dead, and committed myself to God and the sainted Virgin. Still I heard -it, that dread something going round and round me, sniffing and -pushing—what the devil was it? My heart thumped and knocked like a -hammer.</p> - -<p>But to finish my tale: at last the day commenced to dawn, and the -pattering that caused<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> me such fear seemed to me to be growing a little -more distant. Very cautiously I peeped out by means of the bunghole, and -there, not far off, I beheld—a wolf, my good friends—nothing short of -a wolf the size of a donkey! An enormous wolf with eyes that glared like -two lamps.</p> - -<p>Attracted by the odour of the cooked lamb he had come there, and finding -nothing but bones, the close proximity of a Christian child’s tender -flesh filled him with hungry longing. But the curious thing was that, -far from feeling fear at the sight of this beast, I experienced a great -relief. The fact was, I had so dreaded some nocturnal apparition that -the sight of even such a wolf gave me courage.</p> - -<p>“All very fine,” I thought, “but I’ve not done with him yet. If that -beast finds out that the cask is open at the top, he will jump in also -and crunch me up with one bite of those teeth. I must think of a plan to -outwit him!”</p> - -<p>Some movement I made caught the sharp ear of the wolf, and with one -bound he was back at the cask, prowling round and lashing the sides with -his long tail. Promptly I passed my small hand through the bunghole, -seized hold of that tail, and pulling it inside, grasped it tightly with -both hands. The wolf, as though he had five<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> hundred devils after him, -started off, dragging the cask over rocks and stones, through fields and -vineyards. We must have rolled together over all the ups and downs of -Eyragues, of Lagoy, and of Bourbourel.</p> - -<p>“Oh mercy! pity! dear Virgin, dear Saint Joseph,” I cried out. “Where is -this wolf taking me? And if the cask breaks he will gobble me up in a -moment.”</p> - -<p>Then all of a sudden, crash went the cask—the tail escaped from my -hands, and—far off, quite in the distance, I saw my wolf escaping at a -gallop. On looking round, what was my astonishment to find myself close -to the New Bridge, on the road that leads to Maillane from Saint-Rémy, -not more than a quarter of an hour from our farm. The barrel must have -knocked up against the parapet of the bridge and come to pieces in that -way.</p> - -<p>It is hardly necessary to say that after such adventures the thought of -the rod in my father’s hand no longer possessed any terrors for me, and -running as though the wolf were after me I soon found myself at home.</p> - -<p>At the back of the farm-house I saw in the field my father ploughing a -long furrow. He leant against the handle and called to me laughing:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> -“Ha, ha, my fine fellow, run in quick to your mother—she has not slept -a wink all night!”</p> - -<p>And I ran in to my mother.</p> - -<p>Omitting nothing, I related to my parents all my thrilling adventures, -but when I came to the story of the robbers and the cask and the -enormous wolf:</p> - -<p>“Ah, little simpleton,” they cried, “why it was fright made you dream -all that!”</p> - -<p>It was useless my assuring them again and again that it was true as the -Gospel; I could never get any one to believe me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_003" id="ill_003"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 409px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp060_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp060_sml.jpg" width="409" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Mistral in 1864.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /><br /> -<small>AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> my parents found that my whole heart was set upon play and that -nothing could keep me from idling away the livelong day in the fields -with the village boys, they came to the stern resolve to send me away to -a boarding-school.</p> - -<p>So one morning a small folding-bed, a deal box to hold my papers, -together with a bristly pigskin trunk containing my books and -belongings, were placed in the farm cart, and I departed with a heavy -heart, accompanied by my mother to console me, and followed by our big -dog “Le Juif,” for St. Michel de Frigolet.</p> - -<p>It was an old monastery, situated in the Montagnette, about two hours’ -distance from the farm, between Graveson, Tarascon, and Barbentane. At -the Revolution the property of Saint-Michel had been sold for a little -paper money, and the deserted monastery, spoiled of its goods, -uninhabited and solitary, remained desolate up there in the midst of the -wilds, open to the four winds and to the wild beasts. Occasionally -smugglers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> used it as a powder factory; shepherds as a shelter for their -sheep in the rain; or gamblers from neighbouring towns—Graveson, -Maillane, Barbentane, Château-Renard—resorted there to hide and to -escape the police. And there, by the light of a few pale candles, while -gold pieces clinked to the shuffling of cards, oaths and blasphemies -echoed under the arches where so recently psalms had been raised. Their -game finished, the libertines then ate, drank and made merry until dawn.</p> - -<p>About the year 1832 some mendicant friars established themselves there. -They replaced the bell in the old Roman tower, and on Sunday they set it -ringing.</p> - -<p>But they rang in vain, no one mounted the hill for the services, for no -one had faith in them. And the Duchesse De Berry, having just at this -time come to Provence to incite the Carlists against the King, -Louis-Philippe, I remember that it was whispered that these fugitive -brothers, under their black gabardines, were in reality nothing but -soldiers (or bandits) plotting for some doubtful intrigue.</p> - -<p>It was after the departure of these brothers that a worthy native of -Cavaillon, by name Monsieur Donnat, bought the Convent of Saint-Michel -on credit and started there a school for boys.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>He was an old bachelor, yellow and swarthy in face, with lank hair, flat -nose, a large mouth, and big teeth. He wore a long black frock-coat and -bronzed shoes. Very devout he was and as poor as a church mouse, but he -devised a means for starting his school and collecting pupils without a -penny in his purse.</p> - -<p>For example, he would go to Graveson, Tarascon, Barbentane, or -Saint-Pierre looking up the farmer who had sons.</p> - -<p>“I wish to tell you,” he would begin, “that I have opened a school at -St. Michel de Frigolet. You have now, at your door, an excellent -institution for instructing your boys and helping them to pass their -examinations.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very fine for rich people, sir,” the father of the family -would answer, “but we are poor folk, and can’t afford all that education -for our boys. They can always learn enough at home to work on the land.”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” says Monsieur Donnat, “there is nothing better than a good -education. You need not worry about payment. You will give me every year -so many loads of wheat and so many barrels of wine or casks of oil—in -that way we will arrange matters.”</p> - -<p>The good farmer gladly agreed his boy should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> go to St. Michel de -Frigolet. Monsieur Donnat then went on to a shopkeeper and began in this -wise:</p> - -<p>“A fine little boy that is of yours!—and he looks wide awake too! Now -you don’t want to make a pounder of pepper of him, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, sir, if we could we would give him a little education, but colleges -are so expensive, and when one isn’t rich——”</p> - -<p>“Are you on the look-out for a college?” exclaimed Monsieur Donnat. -“Why, send him to my school, up there at Saint-Michel, we will teach him -a little Latin and make a man of him! And—as to payment, we will take -toll of the shop. You will have in me another customer, and a good -customer, I can tell you!”</p> - -<p>And without further question the shopkeeper confided his son to Monsieur -Donnat.</p> - -<p>In this way Monsieur Donnat gathered into his school some forty small -boys of the neighbourhood, myself among them. Out of the number, some -parents, like my own, paid in money, but quite three-fourths paid in -kind—provisions, goods, or their labour. In one word, Monsieur Donnat, -before the Republic, social and democratic, had easily, and without any -hubbub, solved the problem of the Bank of Exchange, a measure which the -famous Proudhon in 1848 preached in vain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<p>One of the scholars I remember well. I think he was from Nîmes, and we -called him Agnel; he was rather like a girl, gentle and pretty, with -something sad in his look. Our parents came often to see us and brought -us cakes and other good things. But Agnel appeared to have no relations, -no one came to see him and he never spoke of those belonging to him. -Only on one occasion had a tall strange gentleman of haughty and -mysterious aspect appeared at the convent and inquired for Agnel. The -interview, which was private, had lasted for about half an hour, after -which the tall gentleman had departed and never reappeared. This gave -rise to the conjecture that Agnel was a child of superior though -illegitimate birth, being brought up in hiding at Saint-Michel. I lost -sight of him completely on leaving.</p> - -<p>Our instructors consisted, to begin with, of our master, the worthy -Monsieur Donnat, who, when at home, took the lower classes, but half the -time he was away gleaning pupils. Then there were two or three poor -devils, old seminarists, who, having thrown cap and gown to the winds, -were well content to earn a few crowns, besides being well housed, fed -and washed; we boasted also a priestling, Monsieur Talon by name, who -said Mass for us; and, finally, a little hunchback,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> Monsieur Lavagne, -the professor of music. For our cook we had a negro, and to wait at -table and do the washing a woman of Tarascon, some thirty years old. To -complete this happy family there were the worthy parents of Monsieur -Donnat—the father, poor old chap, coifed in a red cap, and assisted by -the donkey, was employed to fetch the provisions; and the old -white-capped dame acted as barber to us, when necessary.</p> - -<p>In those days Saint-Michel was of much less importance than it has since -become. There existed merely the cloisters of the old Augustine monks -with the little green in the middle, while to the south in a small group -rose the refectory, chapter-house, kitchen, stables, and lastly, the -dilapidated Church of Saint-Michel. The walls of the latter were covered -with frescoes representing a flaming fiery hell of damned souls, and -demons armed with pitch-forks, taking active part in the deadly combat -between the devil and the great archangel.</p> - -<p>Outside this cluster of buildings stood a small buttressed chapel -dedicated to Our Lady of Succour, with a porch at the side. Great tufts -of ivy covered the walls, and inside it was decorated with rich gildings -enclosing pictures, attributed to Mignard, representing the Life of the -Virgin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> Queen Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV., had so adorned the -chapel, in accordance with a vow made to the Virgin should she become -the mother of a son.</p> - -<p>During the Revolution, this chapel, a real gem hidden among the -mountains, had been saved by the good country people, who piled up -faggots in front of the porch, so hiding the entrance. Here it was that -every morning, at five o’clock in summer and six in winter, we were -taken to hear Mass, and here it was that with faith, a real angelic -faith, I prayed—we all prayed. Here also, on Sundays, we sang Mass and -vespers, each one prayer-book in hand; and here, on the great -feast-days, the country people came to admire the voice of the little -Frédéric; for I had, at that age, a pretty clear voice like a girl’s. At -the Elevation, when we sang motets, it was I who had the solos, and I -well remember one in which I specially distinguished myself commencing -with these words:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O mystery incomprehensible,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Great God Thou art not loved.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In front of the little chapel grew some nettle-trees, the sweet blossoms -of which, hanging in tempting clusters, often lured us to climb the -branches, to the destruction of our garments.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> There was also a well, -bored and cut in the rock, which, by a subterranean outlet, poured its -waters down into a basin, and, descending further, watered the kitchen -garden. Below the garden, at the entrance of the valley, grew a clump of -white poplars, brightening up the rather barren landscape.</p> - -<p>For Saint-Michel was a wild solitary spot, the old monastery being built -on a plateau in a narrow passage between the mountains, far from the -haunts of men, as the inscription over the entrance truly testified:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">“I fled from the cities, where injustice and<br /></span> -<span class="i0">vanity reign unchecked, and sought for solitude.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This is the place I have chosen for my habitation.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here shall I find rest.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The spurs of the mountains around were covered with thyme, rosemary, -asphodel, box and lavender. In some protected corners grew vines, which -produced, strange to say, a vintage of some renown—the famous wine of -Frigolet. A few olive-trees were planted on the spur of the hills, and -here and there in the broken stony ground, rows of almond-trees, -tortuous, rugged and stunted. In the clefts of the rocks might be seen -occasional wild fig-trees. This was all the vegetation these rocky hills -could show, the rest was only waste<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> land and crushed boulders. But how -good it smelt, this odour of the mountains, how intoxicating as we drank -it in at sunrise!</p> - -<p>The generality of schoolboys are penned up in big cold courtyards -between four walls, but we had the mountains for our playground. On -Thursdays, and every day at recreation hours, no sooner were we let out -than we were off like partridges, over valley and mountain, until the -convent bell rang out the recall. No danger of our suffering from -dulness. In the glorious summer sunshine the ortolan sang afar his “Tsi -tsi béau”; and we rolled in the sweet thyme or roamed in search of -forgotten almonds and green grapes left on the vines. We gathered -mushrooms, set traps for the birds, searched the ravines for those -fossils called in all that countryside “Saint Stephen’s stones,” hunted -in the grottos for the Golden Goat, and climbed and tumbled about till -our parents found it hardly possible to keep us decently clothed or -shod.</p> - -<p>Ragged and tattered as a troop of young gypsies, how we revelled in that -wonderful country of mountains, gorges, and ravines, with their superb -Provençal names, so sonorous and characteristic, they seem to bear the -impress of the genius of the people. The “Mourre de la<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> Nur,” from whose -summit one could see the white coast-line of the Mediterranean, and -where at sunset on Saint John’s day we lit the bonfires; the Baume de -l’Argent, where formerly they made counterfeit coin; the Roque Pied de -Bœuf, on which was the mark of a bull’s hoof; and the Roque d’Acier, -dominating the Rhône, with its boats and rafts as they float down the -stream: national monuments these, of our land and our language, sweet -with the scent of thyme, rosemary and lavender, glowing with colours of -gold and azure. O Land where Nature smiles so divinely, what dreams of -delight thou didst reveal to my childhood!</p> - -<p>But to return to Saint-Michel. We had, as I have said, a certain -chaplain, Monsieur Talon, a little abbé from Avignon. He was short, -stout, with a rubicund visage like a beggar’s water-gourd. The -Archbishop of Avignon had deprived him of his benefice because he was -somewhat given to tippling, and sent him to us to be out of the way.</p> - -<p>One Saint’s day—a Thursday—we had all been taken over to a -neighbouring village, Boulbon, to march in the procession—the big boys -swung incense, the little ones scattered flowers, while Monsieur Talon -was invited, most imprudently alas! to be the officiating priest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<p>All the town turned out; men, women, and girls lined the streets, gaily -decorated with flags and bunting. The confraternities waved their -banners, the fresh voices of the white-robed choristers intoned the -Canticles, and with devout heads bowed before the Host; we swung our -censers and strewed our flowers, when all at once a murmur ran through -the crowd, and, great heavens! down the centre of the street with the -Host in his hands, the golden cope on his back, came poor Monsieur Talon -swaying like a pendulum.</p> - -<p>He had dined at the presbytery, and had no doubt been pressed to too -much of that good vintage of Frigolet, which mounts so quickly to the -head. The unhappy man, red as much from shame as from the wine, could -not hold himself straight. Supported by the deacon and sub-deacon, one -on each side, he entered the church with the procession. But finding -himself before the altar, Monsieur Talon could say nothing save, -“Oremus, oremus, oremus,” and finally they were obliged to remove him to -the sacristy.</p> - -<p>The scandal this caused may be imagined! Less, however, in that -particular district than elsewhere, for all this took place in a parish -where the “divine bottle” still celebrates its rites, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> in the days of -Bacchus. Near Boulbon, in the mountains, stands an old chapel dedicated -to Saint-Marcellin, and on the first day of June the men of Boulbon go -there in procession, each carrying a bottle of wine.</p> - -<p>Women are not allowed to take part in this ceremony for, according to -the Roman tradition, our women formerly drank nothing but water, and to -reconcile the young girls to this ancient <i>régime</i> they were told, and -are still told, that water is good for the complexion.</p> - -<p>The Abbé Talon never failed to escort us every year to the Procession of -Bottles. Having taken our places in the chapel, the Curé of Boulbon, -turning to the congregation, would say:</p> - -<p>“My brethren—uncork your bottles, and let there be silence for the -benediction.”</p> - -<p>Then, having donned a red cope, he solemnly chanted the prescribed -formula for the benediction of the wine, and after saying “Amen,” we all -made the sign of the cross and took a pull at our bottles. The curé and -the mayor, after clinking glasses religiously on the steps of the altar, -also drank. On the morrow, when the fête was over, if there happened to -be a drought at the time, the bust of Saint-Marcellin was borne in a -procession through all the country-side, for the Boulbonnais<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> declare -that good Saint-Marcellin blesses both wine and water.</p> - -<p>Another pilgrimage, also of a festive nature, and now quite gone out of -fashion, was that of Saint-Anthime. It took place at Montagnette, and -was got up by the people of Graveson, when there happened to be a -scarcity of rain.</p> - -<p>Intoning their litanies and followed by a crowd of people, their heads -covered with sacks, the priests would carry Saint-Anthime, a highly -coloured bust with prominent eyes, beard, and mitre, to the Church of -Saint-Michel, and there the whole blessed day, the provisions spread out -on the fragrant grass, they would await the rain, and devoutly drink the -wine of Frigolet. And I can stake my word that, more than once, the -return journey was made in a flood of rain; this may have been owing to -the hymns, for our forefathers had a saying that, “Singing brings the -rain.”</p> - -<p>If, however, Saint-Anthime, in spite of litanies and pious libations, -did not manage to collect the clouds, then the jolly penitents, on their -return to Graveson, would punish him for his lack of power by plunging -him three times in the brook of Lones. This curious custom of dipping -the images of saints in water, to compel them to send rain, prevailed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> -in many districts, at Toulouse, for instance, and I have heard of it -even in Portugal.</p> - -<p>Our mothers never failed to take us in our childhood to the church at -Graveson, there to show us Saint-Anthime and also Béluget, a -Jack-of-the-Clock, who struck the hours in the belfry.</p> - -<p>In concluding my experiences at Saint-Michel, I recollect, in a -dreamlike fashion, that towards the end of my first year, just before -the holidays, we played a comedy called <i>The Children of Edward</i>, by -Casimir Delavigne. To me was allotted the part of a young princess, and -my mother supplied me for the occasion with a muslin dress which she -borrowed from a little girl of our neighbourhood. This white dress was, -later, the cause of a pretty little romance, which I will tell further -on.</p> - -<p>In the second year of my schooling, having begun to learn Latin, I wrote -to my parents to send me some books, and a few days after, looking down -into the valley, behold I saw mounting the path to the convent, my -father astride on Babache, the good old mule of thirty years’ service, -well known at all the market towns around. For my father always rode -Babache, whether to the market, or going the round of his fields with -the long weeding-fork, which he used from his saddle, cutting down the -thistles and weeds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>Upon reaching the convent, my father emptied an enormous sack which he -had brought with him on his saddle.</p> - -<p>“See, Frédéric,” he called, “I have brought thee a few books and some -paper!”</p> - -<p>Therewith he pulled from the sack, one after the other, four or five -dictionaries bound in parchment, a mass of paper books—“Epitome,” “De -Viris Illustribus,” “Selecta Historiæ,” “Conciones,” &c.—a huge bottle -of ink, a bundle of goose quills, and enough writing paper to last me -seven years, to the end of my school time in fact. It was from Monsieur -Aubanel, printer at Avignon, and father of the future famous and beloved -Félibre, at that time unknown to me, that my worthy parent had with such -promptness made this provision for my education.</p> - -<p>At our pleasant monastery of St. Michel de Frigolet, however, I had no -leisure to use much writing material. Monsieur Donnat, our master, for -one reason or another, was seldom at his own establishment, and, as the -proverb truly says, “When the cat is away, the mice will play.” The -masters, badly paid, had always some excuse for cutting short the -lesson, and when the parents visited the school, there was often no one -to be seen. On their inquiring for the boys, some of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> us would be found -actively engaged in repairing the stone wall which upheld a slanting -field, while others would be among the vines revelling in the discovery -of forgotten little bunches of grapes or mushrooms. Unfortunately, these -circumstances did not conduce to much confidence in our headmaster. -Another thing which contributed to the decline of the school was that, -in order to increase the numbers, poor Monsieur Donnat took pupils who -paid little or nothing, and these were not the boys who ate least.</p> - -<p>The end came at last in a characteristic manner. We had, as I have said, -a negro as cook, and one fine day this individual, without warning, -packed his box and disappeared. This was the signal for a general -disbanding. No cook meant no broth for us, and the professors one by one -left us in the lurch. Monsieur Donnat was, as usual, absent. His mother, -poor old soul, tried her hand for a day or two at boiling potatoes, but -one morning the old father Donnat told us sadly: “My children, there are -no more potatoes to boil—you had better all go home!”</p> - -<p>And at once, like a flock of kids let loose from the fold, we ran off to -gather tufts of thyme from the hills to carry away as a remembrance of -this beautiful and beloved country—for Frigolet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> signifies in the -Provençal tongue a place where thyme abounds.</p> - -<p>Then, shouldering our little bundles, by twos and threes we scattered -over the valleys and hills, some up, some down, but none of us without -many a backward look and sigh of regret at departing.</p> - -<p>Poor Monsieur Donnat! After all his efforts in every direction to make -his school a success, he ended his days, alas! in the almshouse.</p> - -<p>But before taking leave of St. Michel de Frigolet, I must add one word -as to what became of the old monastery. After being abandoned for twelve -years it was bought by a White Monk, Father Edmond. In 1854 he restored -it under the Law of Saint-Norbert, the Order of Prémontré, which had -ceased to exist in France. Thanks to the activity, the preaching and -collecting of this zealous missioner, the little monastery fast grew -into importance. Numerous buildings, crowned with embattled walls, were -added; a new church, magnificently ornamented, raised its three naves, -surmounted by a couple of big clock-towers. A hundred monks or lay -brothers peopled the cells, and every Sunday all the neighbourhood -mounted the hillside to witness the pomp of the High Mass. In 1880 the -Abbot of the White Brothers had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> become so popular that upon the -Republic ordering the closing of the convents, over a thousand peasants -came up from the plain and shut themselves in the monastery to protest -in person against the radical decree. And it was then that we saw a -whole army in marching order—cavalry, infantry, generals and captains, -with baggage waggons and all the apparatus of war—camping around the -monastery of St. Michel de Frigolet, seriously going through this -comic-opera siege, which four or five policemen, had they chosen, could -easily have brought to a termination.</p> - -<p>Every morning during this siege, which lasted a week, the country -people, taking their provisions, posted themselves on the hills and -spurs of the mountains which dominated the monastery, and watched from -afar the progress of events. The prettiest sight I well remember was the -girls from Barbentane, Boulbon, Saint-Rémy, and Maillane, encouraging -the besieged with enthusiastic singing and waving of kerchiefs:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Catholic and Provençal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our faith shall know no fear.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ardour let us cheer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Catholic and Provençal.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">This was alternated with invectives, jokes, and hootings addressed to -the officers, as the latter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> marched past with fierce aspect. Excepting -only the genuine indignation aroused by the injustice of these -proceedings in every heart, it would be hard to find a more burlesque -siege than this of Frigolet, which furnished the subject of Sinnibaldi -Doria’s “Siege of Caderousse,” and also a heroic poem by the Abbé Faire, -neither of them half as comic as the original. Alphonse Daudet, who had -already written of the convent of the White Brothers in his story “The -Elixir of Brother Gaucher,” also gave us, in his last romance on -Tarascon, the hero Tartarin valiantly joining the besieged in the -Convent of Saint-Michel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><br /> -<small>AT MONSIEUR MILLET’S SCHOOL</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> that experience, my parents had to find me another school, not too -distant from Maillane, nor of too exalted a condition, for we country -people were not proud. So they placed me at a school in Avignon, with -Monsieur Millet, who lived in the Rue Pétramale.</p> - -<p>This time, it was Uncle Bénoni who acted as charioteer. Although -Maillane is not more than about six miles from Avignon, at a time when -no railways existed, and the roads were broken with heavy waggon wheels, -and one had to cross the large bed of the Durance by ferry, the journey -to Avignon was a matter of some importance.</p> - -<p>Three of my aunts, with my mother, Uncle Bénoni, and myself, all -scrambled into the cart, in which was placed a straw mattress, and thus, -a goodly caravan load, we started at sunrise.</p> - -<p>I said advisedly “three of my aunts.” Few people, I am sure, can boast -of as many aunts as I had. There were a round dozen. First and foremost -came the Great-aunt Mistrale, then Aunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> Jeanneton, Aunt Madelon, Aunt -Véronique, Aunt Poulinette, Aunt Bourdette, Aunt Françoise, Aunt Marie, -Aunt Rion, Aunt Thérèse, Aunt Mélanie and Aunt Lisa. All of them, -to-day, are dead and buried, but I love to say over the names of those -good women, who, like beneficent fairies, each with her own special -attraction, circled round the cradle of my childhood. Add to my aunts -the same number of uncles, and then the cousins, their numerous progeny, -and you can form some idea of my relations.</p> - -<p>Uncle Bénoni was my mother’s brother and the youngest of the -family—dark, thin, loosely made, with a turned-up nose and eyes black -as jet. By trade he was a land-surveyor, but he had the reputation of an -idler, and was even proud of it. He had a passion for three things, -however—dancing, music and jesting.</p> - -<p>There was not a better dancer in Maillane, nor one more amusing. At the -feast of Saint-Eloi or of Sainte-Agathe, when he and Jésette, the -wrestler, danced the <i>contredanse</i> on the green together, every one -crowded there to see him as he imitated the pigeon’s flight. He played, -more or less well, on every sort of instrument, violin, bassoon, horn, -clarinette, but it was with the tambour-pipes that he excelled, In his -youth Bénoni had not his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> equal at serenading the village beauties, or -for sounding the revel on a May night. And whenever there was a -pilgrimage to be made, either to Notre Dame de Lumière, or to -Saint-Gent, to Vaucluse or Les Saintes-Maries, Bénoni was invariably the -charioteer, and the life and soul of the party, ever willing, nay, -delighted, to leave his own work, the daily round of the quiet home, and -to be off for a jaunt.</p> - -<p>Parties of fifteen to twenty young people in every cart would start off -at dawn, foremost among them my uncle, seated on the shaft acting as -driver, and keeping up a ceaseless flow of chaff, banter and laughter, -during the whole journey.</p> - -<p>There was one strange idea he had somehow got fixed in his head, and -that was, when he married, to wed no one save a girl of noble birth.</p> - -<p>“But such girls wish to marry men of noble birth,” he was warned.</p> - -<p>“Well,” retorted Bénoni, “are not we noble too, in our family? Do you -imagine that we Poulinets are a set of clowns like you folk. Our -ancestor was a noble exile, he wore a cloak lined with red velvet, -buckles on his shoes, and silk stockings!”</p> - -<p>At last, by dint of patient inquiries, he really did hear of a family -belonging to the old aristocracy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> nearly ruined and with seven -unmarried, dowerless daughters. The father, a dissipated fellow, was in -the habit of selling a portion of his property every year to his -creditors, and they ended by acquiring everything, even the château. So -my gallant Uncle Bénoni put on his best attire, and one fine day -presented himself as a suitor. The eldest of the girls, though daughter -of a marquis and Commander of Malta, to escape the inevitable destiny of -becoming an old maid, ended by accepting him.</p> - -<p>It was from such a source that the pretty story entitled “Fin du -Marquisat d’Aurel” was taken, written by Henri de la Madeleine, and -telling of a noble family fallen to the plebeian class.</p> - -<p>As I said, my uncle was an idle fellow. Often about the middle of the -day, when he should have been digging or forking in the garden, he would -fling aside his tools, and retiring to the shade, draw out his flute and -start a <i>rigaudon</i>. At the sound of music, the girls at work in the -neighbouring fields would come running, and forthwith he would play a -<i>sauterelle</i> and start them all dancing.</p> - -<p>In winter he seldom got up before midday.</p> - -<p>“Where can one be so snug, so warm, as in one’s bed?” he laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>And when we asked if he did not get bored staying in bed, his reply was:</p> - -<p>“Not I! When I am sleepy I sleep, and when I am not, I say psalms for -the dead.”</p> - -<p>Curiously enough, this light-hearted son of Provence never missed a -funeral, and the service over, he was always the last to leave the -cemetery, remaining behind that he might pray for his own family and for -others. Then, resuming his old gaiety, he would observe:</p> - -<p>“Another one gone—carried into the city of Saint Repose!”</p> - -<p>In his turn he had also to go there. He was eighty-three and the doctor -had told his family there was nothing more to be done.</p> - -<p>“Bah,” answered, Bénoni, “what’s the good of worrying. It is the sickest -man that will die first.”</p> - -<p>He always had his flute on the table beside him.</p> - -<p>“Those idiots gave me a bell to ring; but I made them fetch my flute, -which answers far better. If I want anything I just play an air instead -of calling or ringing.”</p> - -<p>And so it happened that he died with his flute in his hand, and they -placed it with him in his coffin. This gave rise to the story started by -the girls of the silk-mill at Maillane, that as the clock struck twelve, -old Bénoni, flute in hand, rose from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_004" id="ill_004"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 328px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp084_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp084_sml.jpg" width="328" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Arlesiennes at Maillane.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">his grave and began playing a veritable devil’s dance, whereupon all the -other corpses also arose carrying their coffins, and there in the middle -of the “Grand Clos,” having set fire to the coffins in order to warm -themselves, they proceeded to perform a mad jig round the fire till -daybreak, to the sound of Bénoni’s flute.</p> - -<p>Having now introduced Uncle Bénoni, I must return to my journey with -him. Accompanied by my mother and my three aunts, we all set out for -Avignon. The whole way, as we jogged along, we discussed the state of -the crops, the plantations, the vineyards that we passed. I was told, -one after the other, all the traditional tales that marked the road to -Avignon; for example, how, at the bridge of “La Folie,” the wizards -formerly held their wild dances, and how at La Croisière the highwaymen -would stop the traveller with; “Your money or your life”; this was -liable to occur also at the Croix de la Lieue and the Rocher d’Aiguille.</p> - -<p>At last we arrived at the sandy bed of the Durance. A year before the -flood had swept away the bridge, and it was necessary to cross the river -by a ferry-boat. We found some hundred carts there awaiting their turn -to go over. We waited with the rest for about two hours, and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> -embarked, after chasing home “Le Juif,” the big dog, who had followed us -so far.</p> - -<p>It was past twelve o’clock when we finally reached Avignon. We stabled -our horses, like all those from our village, at the Hôtel de Provence, a -little inn on the Place du Corps-Saint, and for the rest of the day we -roamed about the town.</p> - -<p>“Would you like me to treat you to the theatre?” said Uncle Bénoni; -“they are giving <i>Maniclo</i> and the <i>Bishop of Castro</i> this evening.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let us go and see <i>Maniclo</i>!” we responded in chorus.</p> - -<p>It was my first visit to the theatre and my star ordained I should see a -play of Provence. As for the <i>Bishop of Castro</i>, it was a sombre piece -that did not much interest us, and my aunts maintained that they played -<i>Maniclo</i> much better at Maillane. For at that time, in our villages, we -got up plays both comic and tragic during the winter months. I have seen -the <i>Death of Cæsar, Zaire, Joseph and his Brethren</i>, played by the -villagers, their costumes made up out of their wives’ skirts and the -counterpanes from their beds. They loved the tragedies, and followed -with great pleasure the mournful declamation of the five-act piece. But -they also gave <i>L’Avocat Pathelin</i>, translated into Provençale, and -various<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> lively comedies from the Marseillaise <i>répertoire</i>. Bénoni was -always the leading spirit of these evenings, where, with his violin, he -accompanied the songs, and as a youngster I remember taking part in -several plays and earning much applause.</p> - -<p>The morning after <i>Maniclo</i> came the inevitable parting, and with a -heart heavy as a pea that had soaked nine days, I bade farewell to my -mother, and went to be shut up in the school of Monsieur Millet, Rue -Pétramale. Monsieur Millet was a big man, tall, with heavy eyebrows, a -red face, little pig’s eyes, feet like an elephant’s, hideous square -fingers and slovenly appearance.</p> - -<p>A woman from the hills, fat and uncomely, cooked for us and managed the -house. I never ate so many carrots before or since, carrots badly cooked -in a flour sauce. In three months, my poor little body was reduced to a -skeleton.</p> - -<p>Avignon, the predestined, where one day the Gai-Savoir was to effect the -renaissance, was not at that time the bright town of to-day. She had not -enlarged her Place de l’Horloge, nor widened out the Place Pic, nor -constructed the Grande Rue. The Roque de Dom, which commands the town, -was no lovely garden laid out as for a king, but, save for the cemetery, -a bare and barren rock, while the ramparts, half in ruins,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> were -surrounded by ditches full of rubbish and stagnant water. Rough -street-porters formed the city corporation, and made laws as they chose -for the town suburbs. It was they and their chief, a sort of Hercules -nicknamed “Four Arms,” who swept away the Town Hall of Avignon in 1848.</p> - -<p>Here, as in Italy, every week each house was visited by a black-clad -penitent, who, face covered, with two holes for eyes, went round shaking -his money-box chaunting solemnly:</p> - -<p>“For the poor prisoners!”</p> - -<p>In the streets one constantly ran up against all sorts of local -celebrities. There was the Sister Boute-Cuire, her covered basket on her -arm, and a big crucifix on her ample bosom; or the plasterer Barret, who -in some street fight with the Liberals had once lost his hat, and -thereupon sworn never to wear one again till Henri V. was on the throne, -a vow that involved his going bare-headed for the rest of his life. And -at every corner were to be seen the picturesque pensioners of Avignon, a -branch of the Military Hotel in Paris, with their wide-brimmed hats and -long blue capes, venerable remnants of ancient wars, maimed, lame and -blind, who with wooden legs and cautious steps hammered their careful -way along the cobbled pavements.</p> - -<p>The town was passing through a state of unrest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> and upheaval between the -old and new <i>règimes</i>, the members of which still fought in secret. -Terrible memories of past evils, abuses, reproaches, yet survived, and -were very bitter between people of a certain age. The Carlists talked -incessantly of the Orange Tribunal, of Jourdan Coupe-têtes, of the -massacres of La Glacière. The Liberals were always ready to retaliate -with the year 1815, and the assassination of Marshal Brune, whose corpse -had been thrown into the Rhône, while his property was plundered and the -murderers let go unpunished. Among these latter, Pointer left so -notorious a reputation that, did any upstart achieve sudden success in -his business, it was at once said of him, “Here are some of Maréchal -Brune’s <i>louis</i> cropping up again.”</p> - -<p>The people of Avignon, like those of Aix and Marseilles, and indeed of -all the towns of Provence at that time, regretted the disappearance of -the Lily and the White Flag. The warm sympathy on the part of our -predecessors for the royal cause was not, I think, so much a political -opinion as an unconscious and popular protest against the aggressive -centralisation, which the Jacobinism of the first Empire had made so -odious.</p> - -<p>The Lily had always been to the Provençals (who bore it in their -national coat of arms) the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> symbol of a time when their customs, -traditions and franchise were respected by the Government; but to think -that our fathers wished to return to the abuses which obtained before -the Revolution would be a great error, for it was Provence who sent -Mirabeau to the Etats Généraux, and there was no part of France where -the Revolution was carried on with more passionate fervour than in -Provence.</p> - -<p>The ancient city of Avignon is so steeped in bygone glories that it is -impossible to take a step without awakening some memory of the past. -Close to the spot where our school was situated once stood the Convent -of Sainte-Claire, and it was in that convent chapel that Petrarch first -beheld his Laura one April morning in 1327.</p> - -<p>Our quarter had other associations in those days of a more lugubrious -character, owing to the near proximity of the University and the Medical -School. No little shoeblack or chimney-sweep could ever be induced to -come and work at our school, for it was firmly believed that the -students laid in wait to catch all the small boys, for the purpose of -bleeding and skinning them, and afterwards dissecting their corpses.</p> - -<p>It was not less interesting for us, children of villages for the most -part, when we went out to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> ramble about in the labyrinth of alleys that -formed our neighbourhood, such as the “Little Paradise,” which had been -a “hot quarter,” and was so still, or the Street of Brandy, or of the -“Cat,” or the “Cock,” or the Devil! But what a difference between this -and the beautiful valleys all flowered with asphodel, and the fine air, -the peace and the liberty of St. Michel de Frigolet. Some days my heart -would ache with home-sickness, and yet Monsieur Millet, who was a good -devil at bottom, ended by taming me. He was from Caderousse, a farmer’s -son, like myself, and he had a great admiration for the famous poem, -“The Siege of Caderousse.” He knew it by heart, and sometimes, while -explaining some grand fight of the Greeks or the Trojans, he would -suddenly give a shake to his grey tuft of hair and exclaim:</p> - -<p>“Now see, this is one of the finest bits of Virgil, isn’t it? Listen, my -children, and you shall hear that Favre, the songster of the Siege of -Caderousse, follows very close at Virgil’s heels.”</p> - -<p>How they appealed to us, these recitations in our own tongue—so full of -savour! The fat Millet would shout with laughter, and I, who had -retained in my blood more than the others the honeyed essence of my -childhood, found nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> gave me more pleasure than these fruits of my -own country.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Millet would go every day about five o’clock to read the news -in the Café Baretta, which he called the “Café of talking animals.” It -was kept, if I am not mistaken, by the uncle, or perhaps grandfather, of -Mademoiselle Baretta of the Théatre-Français; then, the next day, if he -were in a good temper, he would give us an epitome, not without a touch -of malice, of the eternal growling of the old politicians assembled -there, who at that time talked of nothing but the “Little One,” as they -called Henri V.</p> - -<p>It was that year I made my first communion in the Church of -Saint-Didier, and it was the bellringer Fanot, of whom Roumanille sang -later in his “Cloche Montée,” who daily rang us in for the Catechism. -Two months before the confirmation Monsieur Millet took us to the church -to be catechised. And there, with the other boys and girls, who were -also being prepared, we were ranged in rows on benches in the middle of -the nave. Chance willed that I, being among the last row of boys, should -find myself next a charming little girl placed in the first row of -girls. She was called Praxède, and had cheeks like the first blush of a -fresh rose. Children are queer things! We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> met every day, sitting next -to each other, and without premeditation our elbows would touch, we -would breathe in sympathy, whisper and shake over our little jokes till -(the angels must have smiled to see it) we ended by actually being in -love!</p> - -<p>But what an innocent love! how full of mystic aspirations! Those same -angels, if they feel for each other reciprocal affection, must know just -such an emotion. We were both but twelve years old, the age of Beatrice -when Dante first saw her, and it was the vision of this young budding -maiden that evoked the “Paradise” of the great Florentine poet. There is -an expression in our language exactly rendering this soul delight which -intoxicates two young people in the first spring-time of youth, it -signifies being of one accord, “<i>nous nous agréions</i>.” It is true we -never met except in church, but the mere sight of each other filled our -hearts with happiness. I smiled at her, she smiled back, our voices were -united in the same songs of divine love, we made the same signs of -grace, and our souls were uplifted by the same mysteries of a simple -spontaneous faith. O dawn of love, blooming with a joy as innocent as -the daisy by the clear brook! First fleeting dawn of pure love!</p> - -<p>Still I can picture Mademoiselle Praxède, as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> saw her for the last -time—dressed all in white, crowned with a wreath of may, most sweet to -look upon beneath her transparent veil, as she mounted the steps of the -altar by my side, like a bride—lovely little bride of the Lamb.</p> - -<p>Our confirmation once over, the episode was finished. Vainly, for long -afterwards, when we passed down the Rue de la Lice, where she lived, my -hungry eyes scanned the green shutters of the home of Praxède, but I -never saw her again. She had been sent to a convent school. The thought -that my sweet little friend of the rosy cheeks and charming smile was -lost to me for ever gave me a disgust for everything in life, and I fell -into a state of languor and melancholy.</p> - -<p>When the holidays arrived and I returned to the farm, my mother found me -pale and feverish, and decided, in order both to cure and to divert me, -that I should go with her on a pilgrimage to Saint-Gent, the patron of -all those suffering from fever.</p> - -<p>To Saint-Gent is also attributed the power of sending rain, which makes -him a sort of demi-god to the peasants on both sides of the Durance.</p> - -<p>“I went to Saint-Gent before the Revolution,” said my father. “I was ten -years old and I walked the whole way barefoot with my poor mother. But -we had more faith in those days.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> So we started one fine night in -September, by the light of the moon, with Uncle Bénoni, of whom I have -already spoken, as driver.</p> - -<p>Other pilgrims bound for the fête joined us from Château-Renard, from -Noves, Thor, and from Pernes, their carts, covered like our own with -canvas stretched over wooden hoops, formed a long procession down the -road. Singing and shouting in chorus the canticle of Saint-Gent, a -magnificent old tune—Gounod, by the way, introduced it into his opera -of <i>Mireille</i>—we passed through the sleeping villages to the sound of -cracking whips, and not till the following afternoon about four o’clock -did we all arrive at the Gorge de Bausset, where, with “Long live -Saint-Gent,” we descended. There, in the very place where the venerated -hermit passed his days of penitence, the old people repeated to the -younger ones all they had heard tell of the saint.</p> - -<p>“Gent,” they said, “was one of us, the son of peasants, a fine youth -from Monteux, who, at the age of fifteen, retired into the desert to -consecrate himself to God. He tilled the earth with two cows. One day a -wolf attacked and devoured one of his cows. Gent caught the wolf, and -harnessing him to the plough, made him work, yoked with the other cow. -Meanwhile at Monteux, since<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> Gent departed, no rain had fallen for seven -years, so the Montelaix said to his mother Imberti:</p> - -<p>“Good woman, you must go and find your son and tell him that since he -left us we have not had a drop of rain.”</p> - -<p>The mother of Gent, by dint of searching and crying, at last found her -son, here, where we are at this moment, in the Gorge de Bausset, and as -his mother was thirsty, Gent pressed the steep rock with two of his -fingers and two springs jetted forth, one of wine, the other of water. -The spring of wine has dried up, but the water runs still, and it is as -the hand of God for healing all bad fevers.</p> - -<p>There are two yearly pilgrimages to the Hermitage of Saint-Gent. The -first one, in May, is specially for the country people, the Montelaix, -and they carry his statue from Monteux to Bausset, a pilgrimage of some -six miles, made on foot in memory of the flight of the saint.</p> - -<p>Here is the letter which Aubanel wrote to me in 1866, when he also made -the pilgrimage.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—With Grivolas I have just returned from a pilgrimage -to Saint-Gent. It is a wonderful, sublime, and poetical experience, and -that nocturnal journey bearing the image of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> saint has left on my -soul a unique impression. The mayor lent us a carriage, and we followed -with the pilgrims through fields and woods by the light of the moon, to -the song of nightingales, from eight o’clock in the evening till past -midnight. It was so impressive and mysterious—strange and -beautiful—that one felt the tears start. Four youths lightly clothed in -nankin, running like hares, flying like birds, set out with the sacred -burden, preceded by a man on horseback, galloping and signalling their -approach with pistol-shots. The people of the farms hurried out to see -the saint pass, men, women, children and old people, stopped the -carriers, kissing the statue, praying, weeping, gesticulating. Then off -went the bearers again more swiftly than ever, while the women cried -after them:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Happy journey, boys.’</p> - -<p>“And the men added:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>May the good saint uphold you.’</p> - -<p>“And so they run till they pant for breath. Oh! that journey through the -night, and that little troop going forth into the darkness under the -protection of God and Saint-Gent, into the desert, no one knew whither. -I assure you there was in all this a profound note of poetry that made -an indelible impression on my mind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span></p> - -<p>The second pilgrimage of Saint-Gent takes place in September, and it was -to that we went. Now as Saint-Gent had only been canonised by the voice -of the people, the priests take very little notice of him, and the -townsfolk still less. It is the people of the soil who recognise the -right of the good saint to be canonised, he who was simply one of -themselves, spoke and worked even as they, and who, with but moderate -delays, sends them the rain they pray for, and cures their fevers. His -cult is so fervent that, in the narrow gorge dedicated to the legend of -his memory, sometimes as many as 20,000 pilgrims are assembled.</p> - -<p>Tradition records that Saint-Gent slept on a bed of stone with his head -down and his feet up; so all the pilgrims, in a spirit of devotion not -unmixed with gaiety, go and lie like fallen trees in the bed of -Saint-Gent, which is a hollow formed in the sloping rock; the women also -place themselves there, carefully holding each other’s skirts in a -decorous position.</p> - -<p>We, too, lay in the stone bed like the others, and I went with my mother -to see the “Spring of the Wolf,” and the “Spring of the Cow.” Then on to -the Chapel of Saint-Gent, surrounded by a group of old walnut-trees, and -containing his tomb. And lastly, we visited the “terrible rock,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> as the -old canticle calls it, from whence flows the miraculous fount which -cures fever.</p> - -<p>Full of wonder at all these tales, these beliefs and visions, my soul -intoxicated by the scent of the plants and the sight of this place, -still hallowed by the impress of the saint’s feet, with the beautiful -faith of my twelve years I drank freely of the spring, and—people may -think what they please—from that moment I had no more fever. Therefore -do not be astonished that the daughter of the Félibre, the poor -Mireille, when lost in the Crau and dying of thirst, calls on the good -Saint-Gent to come to her rescue. (<i>Mireille</i>, Song viii.)</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>On my return to Avignon, a new arrangement was made for carrying on our -classes. We continued to live at the school of the fat Monsieur Millet, -but were taken twice a day to the Royal College, to attend the -University course as day scholars, and it was in this way that for five -years (1843-1847) I continued my education.</p> - -<p>The masters of the college were not then, as now, young professors with -degrees and coats of the latest cut. The professional chairs were -occupied in our day by some of the drastic greybeards of the old -University. For example, in the fourth class we had the worthy Monsieur -Blanc,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> formerly a sergeant-major in the Imperial army, who, when our -replies were inadequate, promptly hurled at our heads the first book he -could lay hands on. In another class, Monsieur Lamy, a rabid classic, -who held in abhorrence the innovations of Victor Hugo; while for -rhetoric we had a rough patriot named Monsieur Chaulaire, who detested -the English, and with vehement emotion, banging his fist on the desk, -was wont to recite to us the warlike songs of Béranger.</p> - -<p>One year I remember specially, for how it happened I have no idea, but -at the distribution of prizes in the church of the college, in presence -of the assembled fine world of Avignon, I found myself carrying off all -the prizes, even that for conduct. Every time my name was called, I -timidly advanced to fetch the beautiful book and the laurel crown from -the hand of the headmaster, then, returning through the applauding -crowd, I threw my trophies in my mother’s lap, and every one turned to -look with curiosity and astonishment at the beautiful Provençale who, -her face beaming with happiness but still calm and dignified, piled up -in her rush basket the laurels of her son. Afterwards, at the farm—<i>sic -transit gloria mundi</i>—these aforesaid laurels were placed on the -chimney-piece behind the pots.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<p>Whatever was done, however, in the way of education to distract me from -my natural bent, the love of my own language remained always my ruling -passion, and many circumstances tended to nurture it.</p> - -<p>On one occasion, having read, in I forget what journal, some Provençal -verses of Jasmin to Loïsa Puget, and recognising that there were poets -who still glorified the <i>langue d’Oc</i>, seized with a fine enthusiasm, I -did likewise for the celebrated hairdresser, and composed an -appreciation which begins thus:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Poet, honour to thy Gascon mother!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">but, poor little chap, I received no answer. Of course I know the poor -’prentice verses deserved none, but—no use denying it—this disdain -hurt me, and when in after life I in my turn received such offerings, -remembering my own discomfort, I always felt it a duty to acknowledge -them with courtesy.</p> - -<p>About the age of fourteen, the longing for my native fields and the -sound of my native tongue grew on me to such a degree that it ended by -making me quite ill from home-sickness.</p> - -<p>Like the prodigal son, I said to myself, “How much happier are the -servants and shepherds of our farm, down there, who eat the good bread -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> my mother provides; the friends of my childhood, too, my comrades -of Maillane, who live at liberty in the country, labouring, sowing, -reaping, and gathering olives, beneath the blessed sun of God, than I -who drudge between four walls, over translations and compositions.”</p> - -<p>My sorrow was mixed with a strong distaste for the unreal world where I -was immured, and with a constant drawing towards some vague ideal which -I discerned in the blue distance of the horizon. So it fell out that one -day while reading, I think, the <i>Magazin des Familles</i>, I came upon a -description of the silent and contemplative life of the Monks of La -Chartreuse at Valbonne.</p> - -<p>Thereupon I became possessed with the idea of this conventual life, and -escaping from the school one fine afternoon I set out alone, determined -and desperate, on the road to Pont Saint-Esprit, which winds along the -banks of the Rhône, for I knew Valbonne was somewhere in that -neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>“There,” I said to myself, “I will go and knock at the door of the -convent, imploring and weeping until they consent to admit me. Then once -inside I will roam all day, in bliss, among the trees of the forest—I -will steep myself in thoughts of God and sanctify myself as did the good -Saint-Gent.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span></p> - -<p>Then suddenly a thought arrested me:</p> - -<p>“And thy mother,” I said to myself, “to whom, miserable boy, thou hast -not even bidden farewell, and who, when she learns thou hast -disappeared, will seek thee by hill and by dale, poor woman, weeping -disconsolate as did the mother of Gent!”</p> - -<p>Turning about, with a heavy heart and hesitating steps I made my way -back to the farm, in order to embrace my parents once more before -forsaking the world; but the nearer I drew to the paternal home, the -faster my monkish ideas and proud resolution melted in the warmth of my -filial love, as a ball of snow dissolves before the fire. At the door of -the farm, where I arrived late, my mother cried out in astonishment at -the sight of me:</p> - -<p>“But why have you left your school before the holidays?”</p> - -<p>And I, already ashamed of my flight, replied in a broken voice: “I am -home-sick—I cannot go back to that fat old Millet, where one has only -carrots to eat.”</p> - -<p>But the next day our shepherd, Ronquet, took me back to my abhorred -jail, with the promise, however, that I should be liberated at the end -of the term.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><br /> -<small>THREE EARLY FELIBRES</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Like</span> the cats who continually move their young ones from place to place, -at the opening of the next school year my mother took me off to Monsieur -Dupuy, a native of Carpentras, who kept a school in Avignon near the -Pont-Troué. And here, in furtherance of my ambitions as a budding -Provençalist, I had indeed my “nozzle in the hay.”</p> - -<p>Monsieur Dupuy was the brother of Charles Dupuy, a former Deputy of La -Drôme, and author of “Petit Papillons,” a delicate morsel of our modern -Provençal. Our Dupuy also tried his hand at Provençal poetry, but he did -not boast about it, and therein showed wisdom.</p> - -<p>Shortly after my arrival, there came to the school a young professor -with a fine black beard, a native of Saint-Rémy, whose name was Joseph -Roumanille. As we were neighbours—Maillane and Saint-Rémy being in the -same canton—and our families, both of the farming class, had known each -other for years past, we were soon friends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> Before long I found another -bond which drew us still closer, namely, that the young professor was -also interested in writing verses in the language of Provence.</p> - -<p>On Sundays we went to Mass and vespers at the Carmelite church. Our -places were behind the High Altar, in the choir-stalls, and there our -young voices mingled with those of the choristers, among whom was Denis -Cassan, another Provençal poet, and one of the most popular at the -carousals of the students’ quarter. We saw him, however, clad in a -surplice, with a foolish phlegmatic air, as he intoned the responses and -psalms. The street where he lived now bears his name.</p> - -<p>One Sunday during vespers, the idea came into my head to render in -Provençal verse the penitential psalms, so in the half-opened book I -began furtively to scribble down my version in pencil.</p> - -<p>But Monsieur Roumanille, who was in charge, came behind me, and seizing -the paper I was writing, read it and then showed it to the headmaster, -Monsieur Dupuy. The latter, it seems, viewed the matter leniently; so -after vespers, during our walk round the ramparts, Roumanille called me -to him.</p> - -<p>“So, my little Mistral, you amuse yourself by writing verses in -Provençal?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span></p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” I admitted.</p> - -<p>“Would you like me to repeat you some verses. Listen!” And then in his -deep sympathetic voice he recited to me one after another of his own -poems—“Les Deux Agneux,” “Le Petit Joseph,” “Paulon,” “Madeleine et -Louisette,” a veritable outburst of April flowers and meadow blooms, -heralds of the Félibrean spring time. Filled with delight, I listened, -feeling that here was the dawn for which my soul had been waiting to -awake to the light.</p> - -<p>Up to that time I had only read a few stray scraps in the Provençal, and -it had always aggravated me to find that our language (Jasmin and the -Marquis de Lafare alone excepted) was usually used only in derision. But -here was Roumanille, with this splendid voice of his, expressing, in the -tongue of the people, with dignity and simplicity, all the noblest -sentiments of the heart.</p> - -<p>Thus it came to pass that notwithstanding the difference of a dozen -years between our ages, for Roumanille was born in 1818, we clasped -hands, he happy to find a confidant quite prepared to understand his -muse, and I, trembling with joy at entering the sanctuary of my dreams; -and thus, as sons of the same God, we were united in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_005" id="ill_005"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 365px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp106_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp106_sml.jpg" width="365" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Joseph Roumanille.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">the bonds of friendship under so happy a star that for half a century we -walked together, devoted to the same patriotic cause, without our -affection or our zeal ever knowing diminution.</p> - -<p>Roumanille had sent his first verses to a Provençal journal, -<i>Boui-Abaisso</i>, which was published weekly at Marseilles by Joseph -Désanat, and which for the bards of the day was an admirable outlet. For -the language has never lacked exponents, and especially at the time of -the <i>Boui-Abaisso</i> (1841-1846) there was a strong movement at Marseilles -in favour of the dialect, which, had it done nothing but promote writing -in Provençal, deserves our gratitude.</p> - -<p>Also we must recognise that such popular poets as Désanat of Tarascon, -or Bellot Chailan, Bénédit and Gelu, pre-eminently Gelu, each of whom in -his way expressed the buoyant joyous spirit of southern Provence, have -never, in their particular line, been surpassed. Another, Camille -Reyband, a poet of Carpentras, a poet, too, of noble dimensions, in a -grand epistle he addressed to Roumanille, laments the fate of the -Provençal speech, neglected by idiots who, declares he, “Follow the -example of the gentlemen of the towns, and leave to the wise old -forefathers our unfortunate language while they render the French<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> -tongue, which they fundamentally distort into the worst of <i>patois</i>.”</p> - -<p>Reyband seemed to foretell the Renaissance which was then hatching when -he made this appeal to the editor of the <i>Boui-Abaisso</i>:</p> - -<p>“Before we separate, my brothers, let us defend ourselves against -oblivion. Together let us build up a colossal edifice, some Tower of -Babel made from the bricks of Provence. At the summit, whilst singing, -engrave your names, for you, my friends, are worthy to be remembered. As -for me, whom a grain of praise intoxicates and overcomes, and who only -sings as does the cicada, and can but contribute towards your monument a -pinch of gravel and a little poor cement, I will dig for my Muse a tomb -in the sand, and when, having finished your imperishable work, you look -down, my brothers, from the height of your blue sky, you will no longer -be able to see me.”</p> - -<p>All these gentlemen were, however, imbued with this erroneous idea that -the language of the people, good though they felt it to be, was only -suitable for common or droll subjects, and hence they took no pains -either to purify or to restore it.</p> - -<p>Since the time of Louis XIV. the old traditions for the spelling of our -language had become almost obsolete. The poets of the meridian had, -partly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> through carelessness or ignorance, adopted the French spelling. -And this utterly false system cut at the root of our beautiful speech. -Every one began to carry out his own orthographical fancies, until it -reached such a point that the various dialects of the Oc language, owing -to this constant disfigurement in the writing, no longer bore any -resemblance one to another.</p> - -<p>Roumanille, when reading the manuscripts of Saboly in the library at -Avignon, was struck by the good effect of our language when written in -the old style employed by the ancient troubadours. He wished, young as I -was, to have my help in restoring the true orthography, and in perfect -accord concerning the plan of reform, we boldly started in to moult, as -it were, and renew the skin of our language. Instinctively we felt that -for the unknown work which awaited us in the future we should need a -fine tool, a tool freshly ground. For the orthography was not all. Owing -to the imitative and middle-class spirit of prejudice, which -unfortunately is ever on the increase, many of the most gritty words of -the Provençal tongue had been discarded as vulgar, and in their place, -the poets who preceded the Félibres, even those of repute, had commonly -employed, without any critical sense, corrupt forms and bastard words<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> -of uneducated French. Having thus determined, Roumanille and I, to write -our verses in the language of the people, we saw it was necessary to -bring out strongly the energy, freshness, and richness of expression -that characterised it, and to render the pureness of speech used in -districts untouched by extreme influences.</p> - -<p>Even so the Roumanians, the poet Alexander tells us, when they wished to -elevate their national tongue which the <i>bourgeois</i> class had lost or -corrupted, went to seek it out in the villages and mountains among the -primitive peasants.</p> - -<p>In order to conform the written Provençal as much as possible to the -pronunciation in general use in Provence, we decided to suppress certain -letters or etymological finals fallen into disuse, such as the “s” of -the plural, the “t” of the particle, the “r” of the infinitive, and the -“ch” in certain words like “fach,” “dich,” “puech,” &c.</p> - -<p>But let no one think that these innovations, though they concerned none -save a small circle of <i>patois</i> poets, as we were then called, were -introduced into general usage without a severe struggle. From Avignon to -Marseilles, all those who wrote or rhymed in the language contested for -their routine or their fashion, and promptly took the field against the -reformers. A war of pamphlets<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> containing envenomed articles between -these opponents and we young Avignons continued to rage for many years.</p> - -<p>At Marseilles, the exponents of trivialities, the white-beard -rhymesters, the envious and the growlers assembled together of an -evening behind the old bookshop of the librarian Boy, there bitterly to -bewail the suppression of the “s” and sharpen their weapons against the -innovators.</p> - -<p>Roumanille the valiant, ever ready to stand in the breech, launched -against the adversaries the Greek fire we were all diligently employed -in preparing in the crucible of the Gai-Savoir. And because we had on -our side, not only a just and good cause, but faith, enthusiasm, -youth—and something else besides—it ended in our being, as I will show -you later, victors on the field of battle.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But to return to the school of Monsieur Dupuy.</p> - -<p>One afternoon we were in the courtyard, playing at “Three jumps,” when -in our midst appeared a new pupil. He was tall and well made, with a -Henri IV. nose, a hat cocked to one side, and an air of maturity -heightened by the unlit cigar in his mouth. His hands thrust in the -pockets of his short coat, he came up just as if he were one of us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, what are you after?” said he. “Would you like me to see if I can -do these three jumps?”</p> - -<p>And without more ado, light as a cat, he took a run and went three hands -beyond the highest jump that had been touched. We clapped him, and -demanded where he had sprung from.</p> - -<p>“From Châteauneuf,” he answered—“the country where they grow good wine. -Perhaps you have never heard of Châteauneuf, Châteauneuf-du-Pape?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we have. And what is your name?”</p> - -<p>“Anselme Mathieu,” he replied.</p> - -<p>And with these words he plunged his two hands into his pockets and -brought out a store of old cigar-ends, which he offered round with a -courteous and smiling air.</p> - -<p>We, who for the most part had never dared to smoke (unless, indeed, as -children the roots of the mulberry-tree), thereupon regarded with great -respect this hero, who did things in so grand a manner, and was -evidently accustomed to high life.</p> - -<p>Thus it was that I first met Mathieu, the gentle author of the -“Farandole.” On one occasion, I told this story to our friend Daudet, -who loved Mathieu, and the idea of the old ends of cigars pleased him so -much that in his romance “Jack,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> he makes use of it with his little -negro prince, who performs the same act of largess.</p> - -<p>With Roumanille and Mathieu, we were thus a trio who formed the nucleus -of those who a little later were to found the Félibrige. The gallant -Mathieu—heaven knows how he contrived it—was never seen except at the -hours of food or recreation. On account of his already grown-up air, -though not more than sixteen, and certainly backward in his studies, he -had been allowed a room on the top story under the pretext that he could -thus work more freely, and there in his attic, the walls of which he had -decorated with pictures, nude figures and plaster casts of Pradier, all -day long he dreamed and smoked, made verses, and, a good part of the -time, leant out of the window, watching the people below, or the -sparrows carrying food to their young under the eaves. Then he would -joke, rather broadly, with Mariette the chamber-maid, ogle the master’s -daughter, and, when he descended from his heights, relate to us all -sorts of gossip.</p> - -<p>But on one subject he always took himself seriously, and that was his -patent of nobility:</p> - -<p>“My ancestors were marquises,” he told us gravely, “Marquises of -Montredon. At the time of the Revolution, my grandfather gave up his -title, and afterwards, finding himself ruined, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> would not resume it -since he could not keep it up properly.”</p> - -<p>There was always something romantic and elusive in the existence of -Mathieu. He would disappear at times like the cats who go to Rome.</p> - -<p>In vain we would call him: “Mathieu!”</p> - -<p>But no Mathieu would appear. Where was he? Up there among the tiles, and -over the house-tops he would make his way to the trysts he held, so he -told us, with a girl beautiful as the day.</p> - -<p>On one occasion, while we were all watching the procession of the -Fête-Dieu at Pont-Troué, Mathieu said to me:</p> - -<p>“Frédéric, shall I show you my beloved?”</p> - -<p>“Rather!” I replied promptly.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said he. “Now look, when the young choir-maidens pass, -shrouded in their white tulle veils, notice they will all wear a flower -pinned in the middle of their dress, but one, you will see, fair as a -thread of gold, she will wear her flower at the side.... See,” he cried -presently, “there she is!”</p> - -<p>“Why, my dear fellow, she is a star!” I cried with enthusiasm. “How have -you managed to make a conquest of such a lovely girl?”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you. She is the daughter of the confectioner at the -Carretterie. From time to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> time I went there to buy some peppermint -drops or pastry-fingers—in this way I arrived at making myself known to -the dear child, as the Marquis de Montredon, and one day when she was -alone in the shop, I said to her: ‘Beauteous maiden, if only I could -know that you are as foolish as I am, I would propose an excursion.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Where?’ she inquired.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>To the moon,’ I answered.</p> - -<p>“She burst out laughing, but I continued: ‘This is how it could be done. -You, my darling, would mount to the terrace which runs along the top of -your house, just at any hour when you could or you would, and I, who lay -my heart and my fortune at your feet, would meet you, and there beneath -the sky I would cull for you the flowers of love.’</p> - -<p>“And so it came to pass. At the top of my beloved one’s house, as in -many others, there is a platform where they dry the linen. I have -nothing to do but climb on the roof, and from gutter-spout to -gutter-spout I go to find my fair one, who there spreads or folds the -washing. Then, hand in hand, lip against lip, but always courteously as -between lady and cavalier, we are in Paradise.”</p> - -<p>And thus it was that our Anselme, future Félibre of the Kisses, studied -his Breviary of Love, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> passed his classes in gentle ease on the -house-tops of Avignon.</p> - -<p>At the Royal College, where we attended the history classes, there was -never any question of modern politics. But Sergeant Monnier, one of our -masters, an enthusiastic Republican, could not resist taking upon -himself this instruction. During the recreation hour, he would walk up -and down the courtyard, a history of the Revolution in his hand, working -himself up as he read aloud, gesticulating, swearing, and shouting with -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Now this is fine! Listen to this! Oh, they were grand men! Camille -Desmoulins, Mirabeau, Bailly, Virgniaud, Danton, Saint-Just, -Boisset-d’Anglas! We are worms in this day, by all the gods! besides -those giants of the National Convention!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very grand indeed, your mock giants!” Roumanille would answer when -he happened to be there. “Cut-throats, over-throwers of the Crucifix, -unnatural monsters, ever devouring one another! Why, Bonaparte, when he -wanted them, brought them up like pigs in the market!”</p> - -<p>And so they would attack each other until the easy-going Mathieu -appeared on the scene and made peace by causing both to join in a laugh -at some absurdity of his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<p>About this time Roumanille, in order to supplement his little emolument, -had taken a post as reader in Sequin’s printing house, and, thanks to -this position, he was able to have his first volume of verses, “Les -Paquerettes,” printed there at small cost. While he corrected his -proofs, he would regale us with these poems, much to our delight.</p> - -<p>Thus one day succeeded another in these simple and familiar -surroundings, till in the month of August 1847 I finished my studies, -and, happy as a foal released and turned out to grass, I bade farewell -to Monsieur Dupuy’s school and returned home to the farm.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But before leaving the pontifical city, I must say one word about the -religious pomps and shows which, in our young day, were celebrated in -high state at Avignon for a fortnight at a time. Notre Dame-de-Dom (the -cathedral), and the four parishes, Saint-Agricol, Saint-Pierre, -Saint-Didier, and Saint-Symphorien, rivalled each other in their -splendour.</p> - -<p>So soon as the sacristan, ringing his bell, had gone along the streets -proclaiming where the Host, borne beneath the daïs, was to pass, all the -town set to work sweeping, watering, strewing green boughs, and erected -decorations. From the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> balconies of the rich were hung tapestries of -embroidered silks and damasks, the poor from their windows hung out -coverings of patchwork, their rugs and quilts. At the Portail-Maillanais -and in the low quarters of the city, they covered the walls with white -sheets and adorned the pavements with a litter of boxwood. Street altars -were raised at intervals, high as pyramids, adorned with candelabrums -and vases of flowers. All the people, sitting outside their houses on -chairs, awaited the procession and ate little cakes.</p> - -<p>The young men of the mercantile and artisan classes walked about, -swaggering and eyeing the young girls, or throwing them roses as they -sat beneath the awnings, while all along the streets the scent of -incense filled the air.</p> - -<p>At last came the procession, headed by the beadle clad all in red, and -followed by a train of white-robed virgins, the confraternities, monks -and priests, choirs and musicians, threading their way slowly to the -beating of tambourines, and one heard as they passed the low murmur of -the devout reciting their rosaries.</p> - -<p>Then, while an impressive silence reigned everywhere, all prostrated -themselves, and the officiating priest elevated the Host beneath a -shower of yellow broom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span></p> - -<p>But one of the most striking things was the procession of Penitents, -which began after sunset by the light of torches. And especially that of -the White Penitents, wearing their cowls and cloaks, and marching past -step by step, like ghosts, carrying, some of them, small tabernacles, -others reliquaries or bearded busts, others burning perfumes, or an -enormous eye in a triangle, or a serpent twisted round a tree—one might -have imagined them to be an Indian procession of Brahmins.</p> - -<p>These Orders dated from the time of the League and the Western Schism, -and the heads and dignitaries of these confraternities were taken from -the noblest families in Avignon. Aubanel, one of our great Félibres, was -all his life a zealous White Penitent, and, at his death, was buried in -the habit of the brotherhood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br /> -<small>HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE</small></h2> - -<p>“Well now,” said my father, “have you finished?”</p> - -<p>“I have finished, so far,” I replied, “only ... I will now have to go to -Nîmes and take my bachelor’s degree—a step which gives me a certain -amount of apprehension.”</p> - -<p>“Forward then—quick march! When I was a soldier, my son, we had harder -steps than that to take before the Siege of Figuières,” said my sire.</p> - -<p>So I made my preparations forthwith for the journey to Nîmes, where at -that time the degrees were taken. My mother folded up my Sunday coat and -two white shirts in a big check handkerchief fastened together with four -pins. My father presented me with a small linen bag containing crowns to -the amount of £6, and added the caution:</p> - -<p>“Take thou care neither to lose nor to squander them.”</p> - -<p>My bundle under my arm, hat cocked over one ear, and a vine-stick in my -hand, I then departed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>Arrived at Nîmes, I met a crowd of other students from all the -neighbourhood, come up, like myself, to take their degrees. They were -for the most part accompanied by their parents, fine-looking ladies and -gentlemen with their pockets full of letters of introduction, one to the -Prefect, another to the Grand Vicar, and another to the head examiner. -These fortunate youths swaggered about with an air which said: “We are -cocksure of success.”</p> - -<p>I who knew not a soul felt myself very small fry. All my hope lay in -Saint Baudile, the patron of Nîmes whose votive ribbon I had worn as a -child, and to whom I now addressed a fervent petition that he would -incline the hearts of the examiners towards me.</p> - -<p>We were shut up in a big bare room of the Hôtel de Ville, and there an -old professor dictated to us in nasal tones some Latin verse. He -terminated with a pinch of snuff, and the announcement that we had an -hour in which to render the Latin into French.</p> - -<p>Full of zeal we set to work. With the aid of the dictionary, the task -was accomplished, and at the termination of the hour our snuff-taker -collected the papers and dismissed us for the day.</p> - -<p>The students dispersed all over the town and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> I found myself standing -there alone in the street, my small bundle under my arm and vine-stick -in hand. The first thing was to find a lodging, some inn not too ruinous -yet passably comfortable. As I had plenty of time on my hands, I made -the tour of Nîmes about ten times, scanning the hostelries and inns with -critical eye. But the hotels, with their black-coated flunkeys, who -looked me up and down long before I even approached them, and the airs -and graces of the fashionable folk of whom I saw passing glimpses, made -me coil up into my shell.</p> - -<p>At last a sign-board caught my eye with the inscription, “Au -Petit-Saint-Jean.” Here was something familiar at last.</p> - -<p>The name made me at once feel at home. Saint John was a special friend -with us, he it was who brought good harvests, also we grew the grass of -Saint John, ate the apples of Saint John, and celebrated his feast with -bonfires. I entered the little inn with confidence therefore, a -confidence which was amply justified.</p> - -<p>In the courtyard were covered carts and trucks, while groups of -Provençales stood there laughing and gossiping. I stepped into the -dining-room and sat down at the table. The room was crowded and nearly -all the seats occupied by market-gardeners.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> They had come in from -Saint-Rémy, Château-Renard, Barbentane, for the weekly market, and were -all well acquainted. Their conversation related entirely to their -business:</p> - -<p>“Well, Benezet,” said one, “how much did your mad-apples fetch to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Bad luck; the market was glutted—I had to give them away.”</p> - -<p>“And the leek-seed?” asked another.</p> - -<p>“There is a fair prospect of a sale—if the rumour of war turns out true -they will use it for making powder, so they say.”</p> - -<p>“And the onions?”</p> - -<p>“They went off at once.”</p> - -<p>“And the pumpkins?”</p> - -<p>“Had to give them to the pigs.”</p> - -<p>For an hour I listened to this on all sides, eating steadily without -saying a word. Then my opposite neighbour addressed me:</p> - -<p>“And you, young man? If it is not indiscreet, may I ask if you are in -the gardening line?”</p> - -<p>“I replied modestly that I had come to Nîmes for another purpose, -namely, to pass as bachelor.”</p> - -<p>The company turned round and gazed at me with interest.</p> - -<p>“What did he say,” they asked each other; “Bachelor? He must have said -‘battery’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> hazarded one—it is a conscript, any one can see, and he -wishes to get into the battery.”</p> - -<p>I laughed and tried to explain my position and the ordeal before me when -the learned professors would put me through my paces in Latin, Greek, -mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, philosophy, and every imaginable -branch of knowledge besides. “If we do well they allow us to become -lawyers, doctors, judges, even sub-prefects,” I concluded.</p> - -<p>“And if you do badly?” inquired my audience eagerly.</p> - -<p>“We are sent back to the asses’ bench,” I replied; “to-morrow I shall -know my fate.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, but this is one of the right sort,” they cried in chorus. “Suppose -we all remain on another day to see whether he comes through all right -or whether he is left in the hole. Now, what are they going to ask you -to-morrow, for example?”</p> - -<p>I told them it would be concerning all the battles that had ever been -fought since the world began, Jews, Romans, Saracens; and not only the -battles but the names of the generals who took part in them, the kings -and queens reigning at the time, together with their children and even -their bastards.</p> - -<p>“But how then can the learned men occupy themselves with such trifles!” -cried my new friends. “It is very evident they have nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> better to -do. If they had to get up and hoe potatoes every morning they would not -waste time over the battles of the Saracens, who are dead and gone, or -the bastards of Herod. Well, what else do they ask you?”</p> - -<p>I replied that I should be required also to know the names of all the -mountains and all the rivers in the world.</p> - -<p>Here I was interrupted by a gardener from Saint-Rémy with a big guttural -voice, who inquired whether I knew where was the source of the Fountain -of Vaucluse, and if it were true that seven rivers, each of them big -enough to float a ship, sprang from that fountain. He had it on good -authority also—could I confirm it?—that a shepherd had let fall his -crook in the water at Vaucluse, and had found it again in a spring at -Saint-Rémy!</p> - -<p>I had hardly time to think of a suitable and judicious answer before -another of the company posed me with the question as to why the sea was -salt.</p> - -<p>Here I considered myself on safe ground, and was beginning to reel off -in airy fashion: “Because it contains sulphate of potassium, sulphate of -magnesia, chloride——”</p> - -<p>“No, no, that’s all wrong,” interrupted my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> questioner. “It was a -fisherman who told me—he was from Martigne and should know. The sea is -salt owing to the many ships carrying cargoes of salt which have been -wrecked during past years.”</p> - -<p>I discreetly gave way before this authority and hastened to enumerate -other subjects on which I was about to be examined by the professors, -such as the cause of thunder, lightning, frost and wind.</p> - -<p>“Allow me to interrupt you, young man,” broke in the first speaker -again. “You should be able then to tell us from whence comes the -mistral, that accursed mischievous wind of our country. I have always -heard that it issues from a hole in a certain great rock, and that if -one could only cork up the hole, there would be an end of the mistral. -Now that would be an invention worth the making!”</p> - -<p>“The Government would oppose it,” said another; “if it were not for the -mistral, Provence would be the garden of France! Nothing would hold us -back—we should become too rich to please the rest.”</p> - -<p>“Finally,” I continued, “we have to know all about the number, size, and -distance of the stars—how many miles our earth is from the sun, &c.”</p> - -<p>“That passes everything,” cried a native of Noves. “Who is going up -there to measure the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> distance? Cannot you see, young man, that the -professors are laughing at you? A pretty science indeed to measure the -miles between the sun and the moon; they will be teaching you next that -pigeons are suckled! Now if you would tell me at what quarter of the -moon to sow celery or to cure the pig-disease, I would say, ‘Here we -have a real useful science’—but all this boy prates of is pure -rubbish!”</p> - -<p>The rest of the company, however, stood up for me loyally, declaring -that, however, questionable the subjects I had studied, it was certain I -must have a wonderful head to have stowed away such a lot inside.</p> - -<p>Some of the girls whispered together, with kindly glances of sympathy in -my direction. “Poor little chap, how pale he is—one can see all that -reading has done him no good—if he had passed his time at the tail of -the plough he would have more colour in his cheeks—and what is the good -after all of knowing so much!”</p> - -<p>“Well, comrades,” cried my first friend, “I vote we see him through to -the end, this lad from Maillane! If we were at a bull-fight we should -wait to see who got the prize, or at least the cockade.—Let us stay -over night that we may know if he passes as a bachelor, eh?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<p>“Good,” agreed the rest in chorus, “we will wait and see him through to -the end.”</p> - -<p>The following morning, with my heart in my mouth, I returned to the -Hôtel de Ville, together with the other candidates, many of whom I -noticed wore a far less confident air than the day before. In a big -hall, seated before a long table piled with papers and books, were five -great and learned professors come expressly from Montpellier arrayed in -their ermine-bordered capes and black caps. They were members of the -Faculty of Letters, and among them, curiously enough, was Monsieur -Saint-René Taillandier, who, a few years later, was to become the warm -supporter of the Félibre movement. But at this time we were, of course, -strangers to each other, and nothing would have more surprised the -illustrious professor than had he known that the country lad who stood -stammering before him was one day to be numbered among his best friends.</p> - -<p>I was wild with joy—I had passed! I went off down into the town as -though borne along by angels. It was broiling hot, and I remember I was -thirsty. As I passed the cafés, swinging my little vine-stick high in -the air, I panted at the sight of the glasses of foaming beer, but I was -such a novice in the ways of the world that I had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> yet set foot -inside a café, and I dared not go in.</p> - -<p>So I continued my triumphal march round the town, wearing an air of such -radiant happiness and satisfaction that the very passers-by nudged one -another and observed: “He has evidently got his degree—that one!”</p> - -<p>When at last I came upon a drinking-fountain and quenched my thirst in -the fresh cool water, I would not have changed places with the ‘King of -Paris.’</p> - -<p>But the finest thing of all was on my return to the “Petit-Saint-Jean,” -where my friends the gardeners awaited me impatiently. On seeing me, -glowing with joy enough to disperse a fog, they shouted: “He has -passed!”</p> - -<p>Men, women, girls, came rushing out, and there followed a grand -handshaking and embracing all round. One would have said manna had -fallen from heaven.</p> - -<p>Then my friend from Saint-Rémy took up the speech. His eyes were wet -with emotion.</p> - -<p>“Maillanais!” he addressed me, “we are all pleased with you. You have -shown these little professor gentlemen that not only ants, but men, can -be born of the soil. Come, children, let us all have a turn at the -<i>farandole</i>.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span></p> - -<p>Then taking hands, there in the courtyard of the inn, we all farandoled -with a will. After that we dined with equal heartiness, eating, drinking -and singing, till the time came to start for home.</p> - -<p>It is fifty-eight years ago. But I never visit Nîmes and see in the -distance the sign of the “Petit-Saint-Jean” without that scene of my -youth coming back to me fresh as yesterday, and a warm feeling arises in -my heart for those dear people who first made me experience the good -fellowship of my kind and the joys of popularity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><br /> -<small>DAME RIQUELLE AND THE REPUBLIC OF 1848</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> winter of 1847-1848 began happily enough. The people settled down -quietly again to their business of making a tolerably good harvest, and -the hateful subject of politics was dropped, thank God. In our country -of Maillane we even started, for our amusement, some representations of -popular tragedies and comedies, into which I threw myself with all the -fervour of my seventeen years. Then in the month of February, suddenly -the Revolution burst upon us, and good-bye to all the gentle arts of -blessed peace-time.</p> - -<p>At the entrance of the village, in a small vine-clad cottage, there -dwelt at this time a worthy old body named Riquelle. She wore the -Arlesian dress of bygone days, her large white coife surmounted by a -broad-brimmed black felt hat, while a white band, passing under the -chin, framed her cheeks. By her distaff and the produce of her small -plot of ground she supported herself, but one saw from the care she took -of her person, as well as by her speech, that she had known better -days.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span></p> - -<p>My first recollection of Riquelle dated back to when, at about seven -years old, I was in the habit of passing her door on my way to school. -Seated on the little bench at her threshold, her fingers busy knitting, -she would call to me:</p> - -<p>“Have you not some fine tomatoes on your farm, my little lad? Bring me -one next time you come along.”</p> - -<p>Time after time she asked me this, and I, boy-like, invariably forgot -all about it, till one day I mentioned to my father that old Riquelle -never saw me without asking for tomatoes.</p> - -<p>“The accursed old dame,” growled my father angrily; “tell her they are -not ripe, do you hear, neither have they ripened for many a long year.”</p> - -<p>The next time I saw Riquelle I gave her this message, and she dropped -the subject.</p> - -<p>Many years later, the day after the Proclamation of the Revolution of -1848, coming to the village to inquire the latest news, the first person -I saw was Dame Riquelle standing there in her doorway, all alert and -animated, with a great topaz ring blazing on her finger.</p> - -<p>“Hé, but the tomatoes have ripened this year,” she cried out to me. -“They are going to plant the ‘trees of liberty,’<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> and we shall all eat -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> those good apples of Paradise.... Oh, Sainte-Marianne, I never -thought to live to see it again! Frédéric, my boy, become a Republican.”</p> - -<p>I remarked on the fine ring she wore.</p> - -<p>“Ha, yes, it is a fine ring,” she rejoined. “Fancy—I have not worn it -since the day Bonaparte quitted this country for the island of Elba! A -friend gave me this ring in the days—ah, what days those were—when we -all danced the ‘Carmagnole.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>So saying she raised her skirt, and, making a step or two of the old -dance, entered her cottage chuckling softly at the recollection of those -bygone days.</p> - -<p>But when I recounted the incident to my father his recollections were of -a graver kind.</p> - -<p>“I also saw the Republic,” he said, “and it is to be hoped the atrocious -things which took place then will never be repeated. They killed the -King Louis XVI., and the beautiful Queen, his wife, besides princesses, -priests, and numberless good people of all sorts. Then foreign kings -combined and made war upon France. In order to defend the Republic, -there was a general conscription. All were called out, the lame, the -blind, the halt—not a man but had to enlist. I remember how we met a -regiment of Allobrogians on their way to Toulon. One of them seized my -young brother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> and placing his naked sword across the boy’s neck—he -was but twelve years old—commanded him to cry out ‘Long live the -Republic,’ or he would finish him off. The boy did as he was told, but -the fright killed him. The nobles and the good priests, all were -suspected, and those who could emigrate did so, in order to escape the -guillotine. The Abbé Riousset, disguised as a shepherd, made his way to -Piedmont with the flocks of Monsieur de Lubières. We managed to save -Monsieur Victorin Cartier, whose lands we farmed. For three months we -hid him in a cave we dug out under the wine-casks, and whenever the -municipal officers or the police of the district came down upon us to -count the lambs we had in the fold, and the loaves of bread in the pans, -in accordance with the law, my poor mother would hasten to fry a big -omelette at the stove.</p> - -<p>“When once they had eaten and drunk their fill, they would forget, or -pretend to do so, to take further perquisites, and off they would go, -carrying great branches of laurel with which to greet the victorious -armies of the Republic. The châteaux were pillaged, the very dove-cotes -demolished, the bells melted down, and the crosses broken. In the -churches they piled up great mounds of earth on which they planted -pine-trees, oaks and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> junipers. The church at Maillane was turned into a -club, and if you refused to go to their meetings you were at once -denounced and notified as ‘suspect.’ Our priest, who happened -unfortunately to be a coward and a traitor, announced one day from the -pulpit that all he had hitherto preached was a lie. He roused such -indignation that, had not every man lived in fear of his neighbour, they -would have stoned him. It was this same priest who another time wound up -his discourse with the injunction that any one who knew of or aided in -hiding a ‘suspect,’ would be held guilty of mortal sin unless he -denounced such a one at once to the Commune. Finally, they ended by -abolishing all observance of Sundays and feast-days, and instead, every -tenth day, in great pomp they adored the Goddess of Reason—and would -you know who was the goddess at Maillane? Why, none other than the old -dame Riquelle!”</p> - -<p>We all exclaimed in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Riquelle,” continued my father, “was at that time eighteen years old. A -handsome, well-grown girl, one of the most admired in all the country. I -was about the same age. Her father was Mayor of Maillane and by trade a -shoemaker—he made me a pair of shoes I remember wearing when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> joined -the army. Well, imagine it—I saw this same Riquelle in the garments, or -rather the lack of garments, of a heathen goddess, a red cap on her -head, seated on the altar of the church.”</p> - -<p>All this my father recounted at supper one evening about the year 1848.</p> - -<p>Some eleven years after, I, finding myself in Paris just after the -publication of <i>Mireille</i>, was dining at the house of the hospitable -banker Milland, he who delighted to assemble every week at his board a -gathering of artists, savants, and men of letters. We were about fifty, -and I had the honour of sitting on one side of our charming hostess, -while Méry was on the other. Towards the end of dinner an old man very -simply attired addressed me in Provençal from the further end of the -table, inquiring if I came from Maillane. It was the father of my host, -and I rose and sat down beside him.</p> - -<p>“Do you happen to know the daughter of the once famous Mayor of -Maillane, Jacques Riquelle?” he inquired.</p> - -<p>“Riquelle the goddess? Aye, indeed,” I answered; “we are right good -friends.”</p> - -<p>“Well, fifty years ago,” said the old man, “when I went to Maillane to -sell horses and mules—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“You gave her a topaz ring!” I cried with a sudden inspiration.</p> - -<p>The old fellow shook his sides with laughter and answered, delighted: -“What, she told you about that? Ah, my dear sir——”</p> - -<p>But at this moment we were interrupted by the banker, who, in accordance -with his custom, after every meal came to pay his respects to his worthy -father, whereupon the latter, placing his hands patriarchal fashion on -his son’s head, bestowed on him his benediction.</p> - -<p>But to return to my own story. In spite of the views held by my family, -this outburst of liberty and enterprise, which breaks down the old -fences when a revolution is rife, had found me already aflame and eager -to follow the onrush. At the first proclamation signed with the -illustrious name of Lamartine my muse awoke and burst forth into fiery -song, which the local papers of Arles and Avignon hastened to publish:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Réveillez-vous enfants de la Gironde,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Et tressaillez dans vos sepulcres froids;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">La liberté va rajeunir le monde ...<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Guerre éternelle entre nous et les rois.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">A mad enthusiasm seized me for all humanitarian and liberal ideas; and -my Republicanism, while it scandalised the Royalists of Maillane, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> -regarded me as a turncoat, delighted the Republicans, who, being in the -minority, were enchanted at getting me to join them in shouting the -“Marseillaise.”</p> - -<p>And here, in Provence, as elsewhere, all this brought in its train -broils and internal divisions. The Reds proclaimed their sentiments by -wearing a belt and scarf of scarlet, while the Whites wore green. The -former carried a buttonhole of thyme, emblem of the mountain, and the -latter a sprig of the royal lily. The Republicans planted the “trees of -liberty” at every corner, and by night the Royalists kicked them down. -Thereupon followed riots and knife-thrusts; till before long this good -people, these Provenceaux of the same race, who a month before had been -living in brotherly love and good fellowship, were all ready to make -mincemeat of one another for a party wrangle that led to nothing.</p> - -<p>All students of the same year took sides and split into rival parties, -neither of which ever lost an opportunity of a skirmish. Every evening -we Reds, after washing down our omelettes with plenty of good wine, -issued from the inn according to the correct village fashion, in shirt -sleeves, with a napkin round our necks. Down the street we went to the -sound of the tambour, dancing the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> “Carmagnole” and singing at the pitch -of our voices the latest song in vogue.</p> - -<p>We finished the evening usually by keeping high carnival, and yelling -“Long live Marianne,”<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> as we waved high our red belts.</p> - -<p>One fine day, as I appeared in the morning, none too early, after an -evening of this kind, I found my father awaiting me. “Come this way, -Frédéric,” he said in his most serious and impressive manner, “I wish to -speak to you.”</p> - -<p>“You are in for it this time, Frédéric,” thought I to myself; “now all -the fat is in the fire!” Following him in silence, he led the way to a -quiet spot at the back of the farm, where he made me sit down on the -bank by his side.</p> - -<p>“What is this they tell me?” he began. “That you, my son, have joined -these young scamps who go about yelling ‘Long live Marianne’—that you -dance the ‘Carmagnole,’ waving your red sash? Ah, Frédéric, you are -young—know you it was with that dance and those same cries the -Revolutionists set up the scaffold? Not content with having published in -all the papers a song in which you pour contempt on all kings—— But -what harm have they done you, may I ask, these unfortunate kings?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span></p> - -<p>I must confess I found this question somewhat difficult to answer, and -my sire continued:</p> - -<p>“Monsieur Durand-Maillane, a learned man, since he it was who presided -at the famous Convention, and wise as he was learned, refused to sign -the death warrant of the King, and speaking one day to his nephew -Pélissier, also member of the Convention, he warned him: ‘Pélissier,’ -said he, ‘thou art young and thou wilt surely see the day when the -people will have to pay with many thousands of heads for this death of -their King.’ A prophecy which was verified only too fully by twenty -years of ruthless war.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I protested, “this Republic desires harm to no man. They have -just abolished capital punishment for political offenders. Some of the -first names in France figure in the provisionary Government—the -astronomer Arago, the great poet Lamartine; our ‘trees of liberty’<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> -are blessed by the priests themselves. And, let me ask you, my father,” -I insisted, “is it not a fact that before 1789 the aristocrats oppressed -the people somewhat beyond endurance?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” conceded my worthy sire, “I will not deny there were abuses, -great abuses—I can cite you an example. One day—I must have been -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> fourteen years old—I was coming from Saint-Rémy with a waggon of -straw trusses. The mistral blew with such force I failed to hear a voice -behind calling to me to make way for a carriage to pass. The owner, who -was a priest of the nobility, Monsieur de Verclos, managed at last to -pass me, and as he did so gave me a lash with his whip across the face, -which covered me with blood. There were some peasants pasturing close -by, and their indignation was such at this action that they fell upon -the man of God, in spite of his Order being at that time held sacred, -and beat him without mercy. Ah, undoubtedly,” reflected my father, -“there were some bad specimens among them, and the Revolution just at -first attracted a good many of us. But gradually everything went wrong -and as usual the good paid for the bad.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>And so with the Revolution of 1848; all at first appeared to be on good -and straight lines. We Provenceaux were represented in the National -Assembly by such first-class men as Berryer, Lamartine, Lamennais, -Béranger, Lacordaire, Garnier-Pagès, Marie, and a poet of the people -named Astouin. But the party-spirited reactionaries soon poisoned -everything; the butcheries and massacres of June horrified the nation. -The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> moderates grew cold, the extremists became venomous, and all my -fair young visions of a platonic Republic were overcast with gloomy -doubt. Happily light from another quarter shed its beams on my soul. -Nature, revealing herself in the grand order, space and peace of the -rustic life, opened her arms to me; it was the triumph of Ceres.</p> - -<p>In the present day, when machinery has almost obliterated agriculture, -the cultivation of the soil is losing more and more the noble aspect of -that sacred art and of its idyllic character. Now at harvest time the -plains are covered with a kind of monster spider and gigantic crab, -which scratch up the ground with their claws, and cut down the grain -with cutlasses, and bind the sheaves with wire; then follow other -monsters snorting steam, a sort of Tarascon dragon who seizes on the -fallen wheat, cuts the straw, sifts the grain, and shakes out the ears -of corn. All this is done in latest American style, a dull matter of -business, with never a song to make toil a gladness, amid a whirl of -noise, dust, and hideous smoke, and the constant dread, if you are not -constantly on the watch, that the monster will snap off one of your -limbs. This is Progress, the fatal Reaper, against whom it is useless to -contend, bitter result of science,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> that tree of knowledge whose fruit -is both good and evil.</p> - -<p>But at the time of which I write, the old methods were still in use, -with all the picturesque apparatus of classic times.</p> - -<p>So soon as the corn took on a shade of apricot, throughout the Commune -of Arles, a messenger went the round of the mountain villages blowing -his horn and crying: “This is to give notice that the corn in Arles is -ripening.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon the mountaineers, in groups of threes and fours, with their -wives and daughters, their donkeys and mules, made ready to descend to -the plains for harvesting. A couple of harvesters, together with a boy -or young girl to stack the sheaves, made up a <i>solque</i>, and the men -hired themselves out in gangs of so many <i>solques</i>, who undertook the -field by contract. At the head of the group walked the chief, making a -pathway through the corn, while another, called the bailiff, organised -and directed the work.</p> - -<p>As in the days of Cincinnatus, Cato and Virgil, we reaped with the -sickle, the fingers of the right hand protected by a shield of twisted -reeds or rushes.</p> - -<p>At Arles, about the time of Saint John’s Day, thousands of these harvest -labourers might be seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> assembled in the Place des Hommes, their -scythes slung on their backs, standing and lying about while waiting to -be hired.</p> - -<p>In the mountain districts a man who had never done his harvesting in the -plains of Arles found it hard, so they said, to get any girl to marry -him, and it was on this custom Félix Gras founded the story of his epic -poem “Les Charbonniers.”</p> - -<p>On our own farm we hired from seven to eight of these groups every year -at harvest-time. It was a fine upset throughout the house when these -folk arrived. All sorts of special utensils were unearthed for the -occasion, barrels made of willow wood, enormous earthenware pans, big -pots and jugs for wine, a whole battery of the rough pottery made at -Apt. It was a time of constant feasting and gaiety, above all when we -lit the bonfires on Saint John’s Day and danced round them singing the -harvest songs.</p> - -<p>Every day at dawn the reapers ranged themselves in line, and so soon as -the chief had opened out a pathway through the cornfield all glistening -with morning dew, they swung their blades, and as they slowly advanced -down fell the golden corn. The sheaf-binders, most of whom were young -girls in the freshness of their youthful bloom, followed after, bending -low over the fallen grain, laughing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> and jesting with a gaiety it -rejoiced one’s heart to see. Then as the sun appeared bathing the sky -all rosy red and sending forth a glory of golden rays, the chief, -raising high in the air his scythe, would cry, “Hail to the new day,” -and all the scythes would follow suit. Having thus saluted the newly -risen sun, again they fell to work, the cornfield bowing down as they -advanced with rhythmic harmonious movement of their bare arms. From time -to time the bailiff cried out, mustering his troop for another turn. At -last, after four hours’ vigorous work, the chief would give the word for -all to rest. Whereupon, after washing the handles of their scythes in -the nearest stream, they would sit down on the sheaves in the middle of -the stubble, and take their first repast.</p> - -<p>It was my work, with the aid of Babache, our old mule, to take round the -provisions in rope baskets.</p> - -<p>The harvesters had five meals a day, beginning with the breakfast at -seven o’clock, which consisted of anchovies spread on bread steeped in -oil and vinegar, together with raw onions, an invariable accompaniment. -At ten o’clock they had the “big drink,” as it was called, with -hard-boiled eggs and cheese; at one o’clock dinner, soup and vegetables; -at four a large salad, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> which were eaten crusts rubbed with garlic; -and finally the supper, consisting either of pork or mutton and -sometimes an omelette strongly flavoured with onion, a favourite -harvesting dish. In the field they drank by turns from a barrel taken -round by the chief and swung on a pole, which he balanced on the -shoulder of the one drinking. For their meals in the field they had one -plate between three, each one helping himself with a big wooden spoon.</p> - -<p>When the reapers’ work was done, came the gleaners to gather the stray -ears left among the stubble. Troops of these women went the rounds of -the farms, sleeping at night under small tents, which served to protect -them from the mosquito. A third of their gleanings, according to the -usage in the country of Arles, went always to the hospital.</p> - -<p>Such were the people, fine children of the soil, who were not only my -models but my teachers in the art of poetry. It was in this company, the -grand sun of Provence streaming down on me as I lay full length beneath -a willow-tree, that I learnt to pipe and sing such songs as “Les -Moissons” and others in “Les Iles d’Or.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br /><br /> -<small>MADEMOISELLE LOUISE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> year, my parents, seeing me gaping idly at the moon, sent me to Aix -to study law, for these good souls were wise enough to know that my -bachelor’s degree was but an insufficient guarantee either of wisdom or -of science. But before my departure for the Sextine city I met with an -adventure which both interested and touched me.</p> - -<p>In a neighbouring farmhouse, a family from the town had settled, and -going to church we sometimes met the daughters. Towards the end of -summer, they, with their mother, came to call, and my mother -appropriately offered them curds; for we had on our farm fine herds of -cattle, and milk in abundance. My mother herself superintended the -dairy, making not only the curds but the cream cheeses, those small -cheeses of the country of Arles, so much appreciated by Beland de la -Belaudière, the Provençal poet in the time of the Valois kings:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A la ville des Baux, pour un florin vaillant<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vous avez un tablier plein de fromages<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Qui fond au gosier comme sucre fin.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Like the shepherdesses sung by Virgil, each day my mother, carrying on -her hip the earthenware pot and skimmer, descended to the dairy and -filled up the various moulds with the fine flaking curds from her pot. -The cheeses made, she left them to drain upon the osiers, which I myself -delighted to cut for her down by the stream.</p> - -<p>So on this occasion we partook with these young girls of a bowl of -curds. One of them, about my own age, with a face which recalled those -Greek profiles sculptured on the ancient monuments in the plains of -Saint-Rémy, regarded me tenderly with her great dark eyes. Her name was -Louise.</p> - -<p>We visited the peacocks, with their rainbow-hued tails outspread, the -bees in their long row of sheltered hives, the bleating lambs in the -fold, the well with its pent-roof supported by pillars of -stone—everything, in fact, which could interest them. Louise seemed to -move in a dream of delight.</p> - -<p>When we were in the garden, while my mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> chatted with hers, and -gathered pears for our guests, Louise and I sat down together on the -parapet of the old well.</p> - -<p>“I want to tell you something,” began Mademoiselle Louise. “Do you -remember a little frock, a muslin frock that your mother took to you one -day when you were at school at St. Michel de Frigolet?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—to act my part in the piece called <i>Les Enfants d’Edouard</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Well then—that dress, monsieur, was mine.”</p> - -<p>“But did they not return it to you?” I asked like an imbecile.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” she said, a little confused, “I only spoke of it as—one might -of anything.”</p> - -<p>Then her mother called her.</p> - -<p>Louise gave me her hand; such a cold hand, and since the hour was late -they went home.</p> - -<p>A week later, towards sunset, Mademoiselle Louise appeared again at our -door, this time accompanied only by a friend.</p> - -<p>“Good afternoon,” said she. “We have come to buy some of those juicy -pears you gave us the other day from your garden.”</p> - -<p>My mother invited them to be seated, but Louise declined, saying it was -too late, and I accompanied them to gather the pears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<p>Louise’s friend, Courrade by name, was from Saint-Rémy, a handsome girl, -with thick brown hair encircled by her Arlesienne ribbon; charming as -Louise was, she acted imprudently in bringing such a friend.</p> - -<p>Arrived in the orchard, while I lowered the branches, Courrade, raising -her pretty round arms, bare to the elbow, set to work and picked the -pears. Louise, looking very pale, encouraged her, and bade her choose -the most ripe. My heart was already stirred, though by which of the -girls I could not say, when Louise, as if she had something to -communicate, drew me to one side, and we sauntered slowly towards the -group of cypresses, where, side by side, we sat down on a stone bench, I -somewhat embarrassed, she regarding me with emotion.</p> - -<p>“Frédéric,” she began, “the other day I spoke to you of a frock which at -the age of eleven I lent you to wear in the play at St. Michel de -Frigolet.... You have read the story of Déjanire and Hercules?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered laughing, “and also of the tunic which the beautiful -Déjanire gave to poor Hercules, and which set his blood on fire.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said the young girl, “in this case it is just the reverse, for -that little white muslin dress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> which you had touched—which you had -worn—from the moment I put it on once more, I loved you. Do not be -angry with me for this confession, which I know must appear strange, -even mad, in your eyes. Ah, do not be angry,” she begged, weeping, “for -this divine fire, conveyed to me by the fatal dress, and which from that -time has never ceased to consume me, I have hidden deep within my heart, -oh, Frédéric, for seven long years!”</p> - -<p>I took her little feverish hand in mine, and would have replied by -folding her in my arms; but gently she pushed me from her:</p> - -<p>“No, Frédéric,” she said, “as yet we cannot say whether the poem of -which I have sung the first stanza will ever go further.... I must now -leave you. Think on what I have said, and remember that since I am one -of those who cannot change, whatever your answer may be, my heart is -given to you for ever.”</p> - -<p>So saying she rose, and running up to her friend Courrade, called to her -to bring the pears that they might weigh and pay for them.</p> - -<p>We returned to the house, and having settled for the pears they left. My -feelings were difficult to analyse. I found myself both charmed and -disturbed by this sudden appearance of young maidens upon the scene, -both of whom in a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> fashion appealed strongly to me. Long I -strolled among the trees, watching the sun’s rays grow slanting and the -doves fly home to roost, and in spite of a feeling of exhilaration, and -even happiness, on sounding myself I perceived that I was in a rare fix.</p> - -<p>The “Disciple of Venus” says truly, “Love will not brook command.” This -heroic young maid, armed with nought but her grace and her virginity, -was she not justified in thinking to come off victorious? Charming as -she was, and herself charmed by her long dream of love, no wonder if she -thought that in the words of Dante, “Love that has no lover pardons -love,” and that a young man living as I was an isolated country life, -would respond with emotion at the first cooing note. She did not realise -that love, being the gift and abandonment of all one’s being, no sooner -does the soul feel itself pursued with the object of capture, than it -flies off like the bird to whom the charmer calls in vain.</p> - -<p>So it was that in presence of this chain of flowers, this rose, who -unfolded all her sweetness for me, I coiled up with reserve, whereas -towards the other, who, in her capacity of devoted friend and -confidante, seemed to avoid my approach and my glance, I felt myself -irresistibly drawn. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> at that age I must confess to having already -formed very definite ideas on the subject of love and the beloved. One -day, either in the near or the far future, I told myself, I should meet -her, my fate, in that same land of Arles, a superb country maiden, -wearing the Arlesian costume like a queen, galloping on her steed across -the plains of the Crau, a trident in her hand; after a long and ardent -wooing, one fine day my song of love would win her, and in triumph I -should conduct her to our farm, where, like my mother before her, she -should reign over her pastoral subjects. Already as I look back, I see -that I dreamt of my “Mireille,” and this ideal of blooming beauty -already conceived by me, though only in the silence and secrecy of my -heart, told greatly against the chances of poor Mademoiselle Louise, -who, according to the standard of my vision, was far too much of a young -lady.</p> - -<p>After this we started a correspondence, or rather an interchange of love -on one side and friendship on the other, which lasted over a period of -some three years or more—all the time I was at Aix in fact. On my side -I endeavoured gallantly to humour her sentiment for myself, so that, -little by little if I could, I might change it to a feeling less -embarrassing for both of us. But Louise, in spite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> of this, grew ever -more and more fixed in her infatuation, winging to me one missive after -another of despairing farewell. The following was the last of these -letters:</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>“I have loved but once, and I shall die, I vow to you, with the name of -Frédéric engraven on my heart. Ah! the sleepless nights I have passed -thinking of my hapless fate! And yesterday, reading over your vain -attempts at consolation, the effort to keep back my weeping almost made -my heart break. The doctor announced that I had fever, a nervous -breakdown, and prescribed rest. How I rejoiced to think I was indeed -seriously ill! I felt even happy at the thought of dying and awaiting -you in that other world where your letter declares we shall surely -meet.... But hear me, Frédéric, I beseech you, since it is indeed true -that before long you will hear I have quitted this world, shed I beg, -one tear of regret for me. Two years ago I made you a promise: it was to -pray God every day to give you happiness—perfect happiness; never have -I failed to offer up that prayer, and I shall never fail while life -lasts. On your side, I beseech you, therefore, do not forget me, -Frédéric; but when you see beneath your feet the withered yellow leaves, -let them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> remind you of my young life withered by tears, dried up by -grief, and when you pass by a brooklet, listen to its gentle murmur, and -hear in that plaintive sound the echo of my love, and when some little -bird brushes you with its soft wing, let that tiny messenger say to you -that I am ever near you. Forget not your poor Louise, oh, Frédéric, I -pray you.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>This was the final adieu sent to me by the poor young girl, sealed with -her own blood and accompanied by a medallion of the Holy Virgin, covered -with her kisses, and encased in a small velvet cover on which she had -embroidered my initials with her chestnut hair, encircled by a wreath of -ivy, and the words, “Behold in me the strand of ivy, ever my love -embraces thee.”</p> - -<p>Poor dear Louise! Not long after this she took the veil and became a -nun, and in a few years died. Even now it moves me to melancholy when I -think of her young life withered before its bloom by this ill-starred -love. To her memory I dedicate this little record, and offer it to her -<i>Manes</i> hovering perhaps still around me.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The town of Aix (Head of Justice was the old significance), where I -betook myself to make my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> law studies, by reason of its honourable past -as capital of Provence and parliamentary city, possessed an air of -soberness and dignity somewhat in contradiction with the Provençal -atmosphere. The stately air given by the shady trees of the beautiful -public drive, the fountains, monuments and palaces of bygone days, -together with the numerous black-robed magistrates, lawyers and -professors to be seen in the streets, all contributed towards the severe -and rather cold aspect which characterised this city.</p> - -<p>In my time, however, this impression was but a surface one, and among -the students there was a gaiety of race, an intimate good-fellowship, -quite in keeping with the traditions left by the good King René of old.</p> - -<p>I remember even worthy counsellors and judges of the Court who, when at -home, either in town or country house, amused themselves and their -friends playing the tambourine;<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> while grave and learned doctors, such -as d’Astros, brother of the Cardinal of that name, delivered at the -Academy lectures in the simple and joyous tongue of their native -Provençal. One of the best methods this for keeping alive the national -soul, and which in Aix has never lapsed. Count Portalis, for example,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> -one of the grand jurists of the Napoleon Code, wrote a play in -Provençal. Then there was Monsieur Diouloufet, famous librarian of the -French Athens<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> (as Aix once called herself), who, in the reign of -Louis XVIII., sang in the language of Provence his poems of “Les -Magnans”; while Monsieur Mignet, the illustrious historian and -academician, came every year to Aix on purpose to play bowls, the -national game of his youth, his panacea for restoring and renovating all -men being “to drink in the sunshine of Provence, speak the language of -Provence, eat a <i>ragoût</i> of Provence, and every morning play a game of -bowls.”</p> - -<p>I had been in Aix a few months when, walking one afternoon near the Hot -Springs, to my joy I suddenly caught sight of the profile, and quite -unmistakable nose, of my friend Anselme Mathieu of Châteauneuf.</p> - -<p>In his usual casual way he greeted me. “This water is really hot—it is -not pretence my dear fellow, it positively smokes.”</p> - -<p>“When did you arrive?” I asked him with a hearty grip of the hand. “And -what good wind blew you here?”</p> - -<p>“The night before last,” said he. “Faith, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> said to myself, since -Mistral is off to Aix to read for law, I had better do likewise.”</p> - -<p>I congratulated him on the happy inspiration, and inquired whether he -had taken his bachelor’s degree, without which it was useless to think -of being admitted to the Law Faculty.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” he laughed. “I passed out with the wooden spoon! But if they -refuse me a diploma in the courts of law, no man can prevent my taking -one in the courts of love! Why, only to-day,” he continued, “I made the -acquaintance of a charming young laundress, a little sunburnt it is -true, but with lips like a cherry, teeth like a puppy, unruly curls -peeping from out her white cap, a bare throat, little turned-up nose, -dimpled arms——”</p> - -<p>“Hold, villain,” I remonstrated, “it strikes me your eyes were not -idle.”</p> - -<p>“Frédéric, you are on a wrong scent,” he answered solemnly. “Think not -that I, a scion of the noble house of Montredon, irresponsible though I -may be, would lose my heart to a little chit of a laundress—but, I -don’t know if you share this feeling, I find it impossible to pass a -pretty face without turning round to gaze at it. In short, after a -little conversation with the girl, we arranged that she should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_006" id="ill_006"></a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_007" id="ill_007"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp158_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp158_sml.jpg" width="500" height="440" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td><span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Anselm Mathieu.</span></span> -</td><td> - </td> -<td><span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Théodore Aubanel.</span></span></td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p class="nind">wash for me and come to fetch my things next week!”</p> - -<p>I upbraided him for an unscrupulous scoundrel, but he interrupted me -again, saying I had not yet grasped the situation, and begging me to -listen to the end of his tale.</p> - -<p>“While chatting with my little friend,” he continued, “I noticed she was -rubbing away at a dainty chemise of finest linen, trimmed with lace. It -excited my curiosity and admiration—I inquired to whom it belonged? -‘This chemise,’ the young girl answered, ‘belongs to one of the most -beautiful ladies in Aix—a <i>baronne</i> of some thirty summers, married, -poor thing, to an old curmudgeon who is a judge of the Courts and -jealous as a Turk.’ ‘She must be bored to death,’ I cried. ‘Ah yes,’ she -replied, ‘she is bored to death, poor lady. There she sits on her -balcony waiting, one would say, for some gallant gentleman who shall -come to the rescue.’ I inquired her name, but here she demurred, saying -she was but the laundress, and had no right to mix herself up in affairs -that did not concern her. Not a word more could I get out of her; but,” -added Mathieu hopefully, “when she comes for my washing next week, it is -a pity if I don’t make her open her lips by bestowing two or three good -kisses upon them.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<p>“And when you know the name of the lady, what then?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“What then? Why, my dear fellow, I have bread in the cupboard for three -years! While you other poor devils are grinding away at your law -studies, I, like the troubadours of old Provence, shall at my leisure -study beneath my lady’s balcony the gentle art of the laws of love.”</p> - -<p>And this was, in effect, precisely the task undertaken and accomplished -by the Chevalier Mathieu during the three following years at Aix.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Ah, the good days we spent in excursions all over the country! Now a -picnic by the Bridge of Arc, in a dell just off the dusty high road to -Marseilles, or a party to Tholonet to sniff up the fine fumes of the -wine of Langesse. Another time it was a students’ duel in the valley of -Infernets, the pistols charged with pellets of mud; or again a merry -company on the diligence to Toulon, through the lovely woods of Cuge and -across the Gorge of Ollioules. The students of Aix had led much the same -life since the good old days of the Popes of Avignon and the time of -Queen Joan.</p> - -<p>While we were thus amusing ourselves in the noble city of the Counts of -Provence, Roumanille, more wise and staid, was publishing at Avignon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> -in the periodical called the <i>Commune</i>, admirable dialogues, full of -wisdom, good sense and courage, as, for example, “Le Thym,” “Un Rouge et -un Blanc,” “Les Prêtres,” work which both popularised and dignified the -Provençal tongue. From this he proceeded, on the strength of the -reputation won by his “Pâquerettes” and his daring pamphlets, to -convoke, through the means of his journal, all Provençal singers of the -day, old and young. The outcome of this rallying movement was a -publication in 1852, <i>Les Provençales</i>, presented to the public with an -introduction of ardent enthusiasm by the learned and eminent savant, -Monsieur Saint-René Taillandier, then residing at Montpellier.</p> - -<p>In this first venture appeared contributions from d’Astros and Gaut of -Aix; Aubert, Bellot, Bénédit, Bourelly, and Barthélemy of Marseilles; -Bondin, Cassan, Giéra of Avignon; Tarascon was represented by Gautier, -and Beaucaire by Bonnet; Châteauneuf by Anselme Mathieu; Carpentras by -Reybaud and Dupuy; Cavaillon by Castil-Blaze, then there was Garcin, -warm-hearted son of that Marshal d’Alliens mentioned in <i>Mireille</i>; and -Crousillat of Salon, besides a group of Languedoc poets—Moquin-Tandon, -Peyrottes, Lafare-Alois; and Jasmin, who contributed one poem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>The principal contributor, however, was Roumanille, then in full flower -of production, his last work, entitled “Les Crèches,” having elicited -from the great Sainte-Beuve the declaration that it was worthy of -Klopstock.</p> - -<p>Théodore Aubanel, then in his twenty-second year, began to send forth -his first master-strokes, “Le 9 Thermidor,” “Les Faucheurs,” “A la -Toussaint.” And finally, I also, aflame with the fine ardour of -patriotism, sent in my ten short pieces, among which were “Amertume,” -“Le Mistral,” “Une Course de Taureaux,” and a “Bonjour à Tous,” which -last notified our new start.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But to return to the gay Mathieu and his love adventure with the lady of -Aix, the conclusion of which I left untold.</p> - -<p>Whenever I came across this student in the laws of love, I inquired -without fail of his progress.</p> - -<p>His patience and perseverance, he announced to me one day, had been -rewarded, and Lélette, the little laundress, at last consented to show -him the house of the fair <i>baronne</i>. Beneath her balcony he had from -that time paced to and fro, unwearyingly, until finally observed by the -object of his adoration—a lady, declared Mathieu, of matchless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> -beauty—and the sequel proved of good taste also, since the other -evening, smiling charmingly upon her devoted cavalier, she had let fall -from the heaven above him—a flower.</p> - -<p>Thereupon Mathieu produced a faded carnation in proof of his tale, and -gazing with tender rapture, blew a kiss skywards.</p> - -<p>After this, several months elapsed, without my catching a sight of -Mathieu. I resolved to go and look him up.</p> - -<p>Mounting to his attic, I found my friend reclining with one foot on a -chair.</p> - -<p>Bidding me a hearty welcome, he poured forth his latest news and the -history of his accident.</p> - -<p>“Imagine, my dear fellow—I had hit upon a plan for a nocturnal visit to -my divine lady. Everything was arranged—Lélette, my little laundress, -lent us a hand. I entered the garden at eleven o’clock, and by the -trellis of the rosetree which creeps to her window, I climbed up. You -may imagine how my heart beat! For she, my sovereign lady, had promised -to stretch out her dainty hand that I might press thereon my kisses. -Heavens!—the shutters opened softly—and a hand, my Frédéric, a hand I -quickly recognised was not that of my adored, shook down on my upturned -nose—the cinders of a pipe! I waited<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> for no more, but sliding to the -ground, I fled. I leapt the garden wall, and, confound it—sprained my -foot!”</p> - -<p>He laughed, and I joined him till we nearly dislocated our jaws. I -inquired if he had sent for a doctor? That office he informed me had -been undertaken by the mother of Lélette—a worthy dame who kept a -tavern near the Porte d’Italie. This old body, being a sorceress in her -way, had steeped the sprained foot in white wine, muttering weird -incantations the while, and, after bandaging the foot tightly, concluded -the ceremony by making the sign of the cross three times with her great -toe.</p> - -<p>“So here I am,” said Mathieu, “waiting till Providence sees fit to heal -me ... and reading meanwhile the ‘Pâquerettes’ of our friend Roumanille. -The time does not hang heavy, for little Lélette brings me my simple -fare twice a day, and in default of ortolans I am thankful for -sparrows.”</p> - -<p>Whether Mathieu, well named, as he afterwards was, the “Félibre of the -Kisses,” drew on his gorgeous imagination for the whole of this romantic -episode, I cannot pretend to say; enough that I repeat it as he told it -to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><br /> -<small>THE RETURN TO THE FARM</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I had</span> now become a full-blown lawyer, like scores of others, and, as you -may have remarked, I did not overwork myself! Proud as a young bird that -has found a worm, I returned home, arriving just at the hour of supper, -which was being served on the stone table in the open, under the vine -trellis, by the last rays of the setting sun.</p> - -<p>“Good evening, everybody!” I cried.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, Frédéric.”</p> - -<p>“Father, mother, it is all right!” I announced, “and I have really -finished this time!”</p> - -<p>“Well, that is a good job!” cried Madeleine, the young Piedmontaise, who -served at table.</p> - -<p>Then, still standing, and before all the labourers, I gave an account of -my last undertaking. As I finished, my venerable father remarked:</p> - -<p>“Well, my boy, I have now done my duty by you. You have had much more -schooling than I ever had. It is now for you to choose the road that -suits you—I leave you free.”</p> - -<p>“Hearty thanks, my father,” I answered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<p>And then and there—at that time I was one and twenty—with my foot on -the threshold of the paternal home, and my eyes looking towards the -Alpilles, I formed the resolution, first, to raise and revivify in -Provence the sentiment of race that I saw being annihilated by the false -and unnatural education of all the schools; secondly, to promote that -resurrection by the restoration of the native and historic language of -the country, against which the schools waged war to the death; and -lastly, to make that language popular by illuminating it with the divine -flame of poetry.</p> - -<p>All these ideas hummed vaguely in my soul. This eddying and surging of -the Provençal sap filled my being, and, free from all conventional -literary influences, strong in the independence which gave me wings, and -assured that nothing could now deter me, the sight of the labourers one -evening, singing as they followed the plough in the furrow, inspired me -with the opening song of <i>Mireille</i>.</p> - -<p>This poem, the child of love, was peaceably and leisurely brought to -birth under the influence of the warm golden sunshine and the breath of -the wide sweeping winds of Provence. At the same time I took over the -charge of the farm, under the direction of my father, who, at eighty -years of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> age, had become blind. It was a life well suited to me, and -this was all I cared for—to be happy in my home and with certain chosen -friends. We were indifferent to Paris in those days of innocence. My -highest ambition was that Arles, which rose ever on my horizon as did -Mantua on that of Virgil, should one day recognise my poetry as her own.</p> - -<p>Thus, thinking only of the country people of the Crau and the Camargue, -I could truly say in <i>Mireille</i>:</p> - -<p>“We sing but for you, shepherds and people of the farms.”</p> - -<p>I had no definite plan in commencing <i>Mireille</i>, except the broad lines -of a love-story between two beautiful children of Provence, both with -the temperament of their country though of different ranks in life, and -to let the ball roll in the unpremeditated way that happens in real -life, apparently at the pleasure of the winds.</p> - -<p>Mireille, the happy name which breathes its own poetry, was destined to -be that of my heroine, for I had heard it in our home from my cradle, -though nowhere else.</p> - -<p>When old Nanon, my maternal grandmother, wished to compliment one of her -daughters she would say:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<p>“That is Mireille, the beautiful Mireille of my heart!”</p> - -<p>And my mother in fun would say sometimes of a young girl:</p> - -<p>“There, do you see her? That is the Mireille of my heart.”</p> - -<p>But when I questioned concerning Mireille, no one could tell me -anything; hers was a lost history of which nothing remained but the name -of the heroine, and a gleam of beauty lost in a mist of love. It was -enough, however, to bring good fortune to a poem, which perhaps—who can -tell?—was the reconstruction of a true romance, revealed through the -intuition granted to the poet.</p> - -<p>The Judge’s Farm was at this time the best of all soils for the growth -of idyllic poetry. Was not this epic of Provence, with its background of -blue and its frame of the Alpilles, living and singing around me? Did I -not see Mireille passing, not only in my dreams of a young man, but also -in actual person? Now in the sweet village maidens who came to gather -mulberry leaves for the silk-worms, now in the charming white-coifed -haymakers, gleaners and reapers who came and went through the corn, the -hay, the olives and the vines.</p> - -<p>And the actors of my drama, my labourers, harvesters, cowherds and -shepherds, did they not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> gladden my eyes from early morn till eve? Could -one possibly find a grander prototype for my Master Ramon than the -patriarch François Mistral, he whom all the world, even my mother, -called “The Master”? My dear father! Sometimes, when the work was -pressing and help was needed, either for the hay or to draw water from -the well, he would call out, “Where is Frédéric?” Perhaps at that moment -I had crept away under a sheltering willow in pursuit of some flying -rhyme, and my poor mother would answer:</p> - -<p>“He is writing.”</p> - -<p>And at once the stern voice of the good man would soften as he said:</p> - -<p>“Then do not disturb him.”</p> - -<p>For, having himself read nothing but the Scriptures and “Don Quixote,” -writing in his eyes appeared a sort of religious exercise.</p> - -<p>This respect of the unlettered for the mystery of the pen is very well -shown in the opening of one of our popular legends:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Monseigneur Saint-Anselme was learned and wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One day, by his writing, he rose to the skies, &c.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Another person who, without knowing it, influenced my epic muse was our -old cousin Tourette, from the village of Mouriès; a sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> colossus, -strong of limb but lame, with great leather gaiters over his boots; he -was known in all that part as “The Major,” having, in 1815, served as -drum-major in the National Guards, under the command of the Duc -d’Angoulême, he who wished to arrest Napoleon on his return from the -Isle of Elba. “The Major” had, in his youth, dissipated his fortune by -gambling, and in his old age, reduced to poverty, he came, every winter, -to pass some time with us at the farm. On his departure, my father -always saw that he took with him some bushels of corn. During the summer -time he travelled over the Crau and the Camargue, now helping the -shepherds to shear the sheep, now the mowers of the marshes to bind the -rushes, or the salters to collect and heap up the salt. Certainly no one -could equal him in knowledge of the country of Arles and its work. He -knew the names of every farm, and every pasture, of the head shepherds, -and of each stud of horses or of wild bulls. And he talked of it all -with an eloquence, a picturesqueness, a richness of Provençal expression -which it was a pleasure to hear. Describing, for instance, the Comte de -Mailly as very rich in house property, he would say: “He possesses seven -acres of roofing.”</p> - -<p>The girls who were engaged for the olive gathering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> at Mouriès would -hire him to tell them stories in the evenings. They gave him, I think, -each one, a halfpenny for the evening. He kept them in fits of laughter, -for he knew all the stories, more or less humorous, that from one to -another were transmitted among the people, such as “Jean de la Vache,” -“Jean de la Mule,” “Jean de l’Ours,” “Le Doreur,” &c.</p> - -<p>Directly the snow began to fall we knew “The Major” would soon make his -appearance. And he never failed.</p> - -<p>“Good-day, cousin.”</p> - -<p>“Cousin, good-day.”</p> - -<p>And there he was. His hand shaken and his stick deposited, unobtrusively -he took up his accustomed seat in his corner, and, while eating a good -slice of bread and butter and cheese, he would give us the news.</p> - -<p>Cousin Tourette being, like most dreamers, a bit of an idler, had all -his life dreamt of a remunerative post where there would be very little -work.</p> - -<p>“I should like,” he told us, “the situation of reckoner of cod-fish. At -Marseilles, for instance, in one of those big shops where they unload, a -man can, while seated, earn, so I am told, by counting the fish in -dozens, his twelve hundred francs a year!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span></p> - -<p>Poor old Major! He died, like many another, without having realised his -cod-fish dream.</p> - -<p>I can never forget either, among those who helped me to make the poetry -of <i>Mireille</i>, the woodcutter Siboul, a fine fellow from Montfrin, in a -suit of velvet, who came every year towards the end of the autumn with -his great billhook to trim our undergrowth of willow. While he worked -away busily, what shrewd observations he would make to me about the -Rhône, its currents, eddies, lagoons and bays, the soil and the islands! -Also about the animals that frequented the dikes, the otters that lodged -in the hollow trees, the beavers who work as deftly as woodcutters, the -birds who suspend their nests from the white poplars, besides endless -stories of the osier-cutters and basket-makers of Vallabrèque and that -district.</p> - -<p>My chief instructor, however, in the botany of Provence was our -neighbour Xavier, a peasant herbalist, who told me the Provençal names -and virtues of all the simples and herbs of Saint-Jean and of -Saint-Roch. And thus I collected such a good store of botanical -knowledge that, without wishing to speak slightingly of the learned -professors of our schools, either high or low, I believe those gentlemen -would have found it difficult to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> pass the examination I could, for -instance, on the subject of thistles.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, like a bomb, during this quiet, growing time of my <i>Mireille</i>, -burst the news of the Revolution of December 2, 1851.</p> - -<p>I had never been one of those fanatics to whom the Republic meant -religion, country, justice—everything; and the Jacobites, by their -intolerance, their mania for levelling, their hardness, brutality and -materialism, had disgusted and wounded me more than once, and now the -action of the Government in uprooting the very law to which they had -sworn fidelity, filled me with indignation, and dissipated once and for -all any illusions about those future federations which I had once hoped -would be the outcome of a Republic of France.</p> - -<p>Some of my colleagues from the Law School placed themselves at the head -of the insurgent bands who were raised in Le Var in the name of the -Constitution; but the greater number, in Provence as elsewhere, some -disgusted by the turbulence of the opposing party, others dazzled by the -brilliance of the first Empire, applauded the change of Government. Who -could have foretold that the new Empire would tumble to pieces as it -did, in a terrible war and national wreck?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span></p> - -<p>So it came to pass that I abandoned, once and for all, inflammatory -politics, even as one casts off a burden on the road in order to walk -more lightly, and from henceforth I gave myself up entirely to my -country and my art—my Provence, from whom I had never received aught -but pure joy.</p> - -<p>One evening, about this time, withdrawn in contemplation, roaming in -quest of my rhymes,—for I have always found my verses by the highways -and byways—I met an old man tending his sheep. It was the worthy Jean, -a character well known to me. The sky was covered with stars, the -screech-owl hooted, and the following dialogue took place:</p> - -<p>“You have wandered far, Mister Frédéric,” began the shepherd.</p> - -<p>“I am taking a little air, Master Jean,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“You are going for a turn among the stars?”</p> - -<p>“Master Jean, you have said it. I am so heartily sick, disillusioned and -disheartened with the things of earth, that I wish to-night to ascend -and lose myself in the kingdom of the stars.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I myself,” said he, “make an excursion there nearly every night, -and I assure you the journey is one of the most beautiful.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<p>“But how does one manage to find one’s way in that unfathomable depth of -light?”</p> - -<p>“If you would like to follow me, sir, while the sheep eat, I will guide -you gently and show you all.”</p> - -<p>“Worthy Jean, I take you at your word,” I readily agreed.</p> - -<p>“Now, let us mount by that road which shows all white from north to -south: it is the road of Saint-Jacques. It goes from France straight -over to Spain. When the Emperor Charlemagne made war with the Saracens, -the great Saint-Jacques of Galice marked it out before him to show him -the way.”</p> - -<p>“It is what the pagans called the Milky Way,” I observed.</p> - -<p>“Possibly,” he replied with indifference. “I tell you what I have always -heard. Now, do you see that fine chariot with its four wheels which -dazzles all the north? That is the Chariot of the Souls. The three stars -which precede it are the three beasts of the team, and the small star -which is near the third is named the Charioteer.”</p> - -<p>“They are what the books call the Great Bear.”</p> - -<p>“As you please—but look, look, all around are falling stars—they are -the poor souls who have just entered Paradise. Make the sign of the -Cross, Mister Frédéric.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>“Beautiful angels, may God be with you!”</p> - -<p>“But see,” he went on, “a fine star shining there, not far from the -chariot. It is the drover of the skies.”</p> - -<p>“Which in astronomy they call Arcturus.”</p> - -<p>“That is of no importance. Now look over there in the north at the star -which scarcely scintillates: that is the seaman’s star, otherwise called -the Tramontane. She is nearly always visible, and serves as a signal to -sailors, they think themselves lost if they lose the Tramontane.”</p> - -<p>“Also called the Polar Star,” said I; “it is found in the Little Bear, -and as the north wind comes from there, the sailors of Provence, like -those of Italy, say they are going to the Bear when they go against that -wind.”</p> - -<p>“Now turn your head,” said the shepherd, “you will see the Chicken-coop -twinkling, or, if you like it better, the Brood of Chickens.”</p> - -<p>“Which the learned have named the Pleiades, and the Gascon, the Dog’s -Cart.”</p> - -<p>“That’s so,” he allowed. “A little lower shine the Signalmen, specially -appointed to mark the hours for the shepherds. Some call them the ‘Three -Kings,’ others the ‘Three Bells.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Just so, it is Orion and his Belt.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” conceded my friend, “now still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> lower, always towards the -meridian, shines Jean de Milan.”</p> - -<p>“Sirius, if I mistake not.”</p> - -<p>“Jean de Milan is the torch of the stars,” he continued. “Jean de Milan -had been invited one day, with the Signalmen and the Young Chicken, so -they say, to a wedding, the wedding of the beautiful Maguelone, of whom -we will speak again. The Young Chicken set out, it appears, early, and -took the high road. The Signalmen, having taken a lower cut, at last -arrived there also. Jean de Milan slept on, and when he rose took a -short cut, and to stop them, threw his stick flying in the air—which -caused them to be called ever since, by some people, the Stick of Jean -de Milan.”</p> - -<p>“And that one, far away, which is just showing its nose above the -mountain?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“That is the Cripple,” he replied. “He also was asked to the wedding, -but as he limps, poor devil, he goes but slowly. Also, he gets up late -and goes to bed early.”</p> - -<p>“And that one going down, over there, in the west, and shining like a -bride?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Ah, that is our own—the Shepherds’ Star, the Star of the Morning, -which lights us at dawn when we unfold the sheep, and at sundown when we -drive them in. That is she, the Queen of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> stars, the beautiful star, -Maguelone, the lovely Maguelone, pursued unceasingly by Pierre de -Provence, with whom, every seven years, takes place her marriage.”</p> - -<p>“The conjunction, I believe, of Venus and Jupiter, or occasionally of -Saturn.”</p> - -<p>“According to taste,” replied my guide—“but, hist, Labrit! Oh, the -rascally dog, the scoundrel! Whilst we talk, the sheep have scattered. -Hist, bring them back! I must go myself. Good evening, Mister Frédéric, -take care you do not lose yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night, friend Jean.”</p> - -<p>Let us, also, return, like the shepherd, to our sheep.</p> - -<p>About this time, in a publication called <i>Les Provençales</i>, to which -many Provençal writers, old and young, contributed, I and other of the -younger poets engaged in a correspondence on the subject of the language -and of our productions. The result of these discussions, which became -extremely animated, was the idea of a Conference of Provençal poets. And -under the directorship of Roumanille and of Gaut, both of whom had been -contributors to the journal <i>Lou Boui-Abaisse</i>, the first meeting was -held on August 29, 1852, at Arles, in a room in the ancient -archbishop’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> palace, under the presidency of Doctor d’Astros, oldest -member of the Bards. Here we all met and made acquaintance, Aubanel, -Aubert, Bourelly, Cassan, Crousillat, Désanet, Garcin, Gaut, Gelu, -Mathieu, Roumanille, myself and others. Thanks to the good -Carpentrassian, Bonaventure Laurent, our portraits had the honour of -being in <i>L’Illustration</i> (September 18, 1852).</p> - -<p>Roumanille, when inviting Monsieur Moquin-Tandon, professor of the -Faculty of Science at Toulouse, and a gifted poet in his tongue of -Montpellier, had begged him to bring Jasmin to Arles. But the author of -“Marthe la folle,” the illustrious poet of Gascony, answered the -invitation of Moquin-Tandon: “Since you are going to Arles, tell them -they may gather together in forties and in hundreds, but they will never -make the noise that I have made quite alone!”</p> - -<p>“That is Jasmin from head to foot!” Roumanille said to me. “That reply -reproduces him much more faithfully than does the bronze statue raised -at Agen in his honour.”</p> - -<p>In short, the hairdresser of Agen, in spite of his genius, was always -somewhat surly with those who, like himself, wished to sing in our -tongue. Roumanille, since we are on the subject, some years previously, -had sent him his “Pâquerettes,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> dedicating to him “Madeleine,” one of -the best poems of the collection. Jasmin did not even deign to thank -him. But in 1848, when the Gascon passed through Avignon, on the -occasion of his assisting at a concert given by the harpist, -Mademoiselle Roaldes, Roumanille and several others went to offer their -respects afterwards to the poet, who had made tears flow as he recited -his “Souvenirs.”</p> - -<p>“Who are you then?” asked Jasmin of the poet of Saint-Rémy.</p> - -<p>“One of your admirers, Joseph Roumanille.”</p> - -<p>“Roumanille!—I remember that name. But I thought it belonged to a dead -author.”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur, as you see,” answered the author of the ‘Pâquerettes,’ who -never allowed any one to tread on his toes, “I am young enough, if it -please God, some day to write your epitaph.”</p> - -<p>One who was much more gracious to our Congress at Arles was the good -Reboul, who wrote to us thus: “May God bless you. May your fights be -feasts, your rivals, friends! He who created the skies made those of our -country so wide and so blue that there is room for all stars.”</p> - -<p>Jules Canonge of Nîmes also wrote to us: “My friends, if you have to -battle one day for your cause, remember it was at Arles that you held -your first meeting, and that your torch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> was lit in the proud and noble -city which has for arms and for motto, ‘The sword and the wrath of the -lion.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>The Congress at Arles had succeeded too well not to be renewed. The -following year, on August 21, 1853, at the suggestion of Gaut, the -jovial poet of Aix, an assembly was held at that city. This “Festival of -the Bards,” was twice as large as that held at Arles. It was on this -occasion that Brizeux, the grand bard of Brittany, addressed to us his -greetings and his wishes:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With olive branches shall your heads be crowned;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Only the moors have I, where sad flowers blow:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The one, a sign of peace and joyous round;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The other, but a symbol of our woe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let us unite them, friends. Our sons henceforth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall wear these flowers upon their brow no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor sound th’ entrancing songs of our dear North,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When we, the faithful few, have gone before.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet, can it die, the fresh and gentle breeze?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The storm-winds bear it hence upon their wing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But it comes back to kiss the mossy leas.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Can the song die the nightingale did sing?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nay, nay: our glorious speech in its decline,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O fair Provence, thou wilt restore and save!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thro’ long years yet that errant voice of thine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall sigh, O Merlin, whispering o’er my grave!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<p>Besides those I have mentioned as figuring at the Congress of Arles, -here are the new names that appeared at the Congress of Aix: Léon -Alègre, the Abbé Aubert, Autheman Bellot, Brunet, Chalvet, the Abbé -Lambert, Lejourdan, Peyrottes, Ricard-Bérard, Tavan, Vidal, &c., and -three poetesses, Mesdemoiselles Reine Garde, Léonide Constans, and -Hortense Rolland.</p> - -<p>A literary <i>séance</i> was held after lunch in the Town Hall, before all -the grand world of Aix. The big hall was courteously decorated with the -colours of Provence and the arms of all the Provençal towns, and on a -banner of crimson velvet were inscribed the names of the principal -Provençal poets of the last century.</p> - -<p>The Mayor of Aix, who also held the post of deputy, was at that time -Monsieur Rigaud, the same who later made a translation of “Mirèio” into -French verse.</p> - -<p>After the overture, sung by a choir to the words of Jean-Batiste, and -beginning:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Troubadours of Provence<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For us this day is glorious.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Behold the glad Renaissance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the language of the South!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">the President d’Astros discoursed delightfully in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> Provençal, and then, -in turn, each poet contributed some piece of his own.</p> - -<p>Roumanille, much applauded, recited one of his tales, and sang “La Jeune -Aveugle;” Aubanel gave us “Des Jumeaux,” and I the “Fin du Moissonneur.” -But the greatest successes were produced by the song of the peasant -Tavan, “Les Frisons de Mariette,” and the recitation of the mason -Lacroix, who made us all shiver with his “Pauvre Martine.”</p> - -<p>Emile Zola, then a scholar at the College of Aix, was present at this -meeting, and forty years afterwards this is what he said in the -discourse he gave at the Felibrée of Sceaux (1892):</p> - -<p>“I was fifteen or sixteen years old, and I can see myself as a -school-boy escaping from college in order to be present in the great -room of the Town Hall at Aix at a poets’ fête, somewhat resembling the -one I have the honour to preside over to-day. Mistral was there, -declaiming his ‘Fin du Moissonneur’; Roumanille and Aubanel also, and -many others who, a few years later, were to be the ‘Félibres’ and who -were then but ‘Troubadours.’ At the banquet that night we had the -pleasure of raising our glasses to the health of old Bellot, who had -made a great name, not only in Marseilles but throughout Provence, as a -comic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> poet, and who, overcome at seeing this outburst of patriotic -enthusiasm, replied to us somewhat sadly:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I am but a bungler. In my poor life I have blackened much paper. But -Gaut, Mistral, Crousillat, they who have the fire of youth, will unwind -the tangled skein of our Provençal tongue.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span><span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><br /> -<small>FONT-SEGUGNE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> were a set of youthful spirits at that time in Provence, all closely -banded together with the object of a literary revival for our national -tongue. We went at it heart and soul.</p> - -<p>Nearly every Sunday, sometimes at Avignon, sometimes at Maillane, in the -gardens of Saint-Rémy or on the heights of Châteauneuf, we met together -for our small intimate festivities, our Provençal banquets, at which the -poetry was of a finer flavour than the meats, and our enthusiasm -intoxicated a good deal more than the wine.</p> - -<p>It was on these occasions that Roumanille regaled us with his “Noëls” -and “Dreamers” freshly coined from the mint, and that Aubanel, still -holding the faith, but tugging at the leading-strings, recited to us his -“Massacre of the Innocents.” <i>Mireille</i> also, from time to time, -appeared in newly turned-out strophes.</p> - -<p>Every year about the Eve of Sainte-Agathe, “the poets,” as they began to -call us, assembled at the Judge’s Farm, and there for three days<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> lived -the gypsy’s free unfettered life. Sainte-Agathe belongs properly to -Sicily, where she is often invoked against the fires of Etna, but in -spite of this she receives great devotion from the people of Arles and -Maillane, the girls of the village regarding it as a coveted honour to -serve as a priestess of her altar, and on the eve of her feast, before -opening the dance on the green, the young couples, with their musicians, -always commenced by giving a serenade to Sainte-Agathe outside the -parish church. We, with the other gallants of the countryside, also went -to pay our respects to the patroness of Maillane.</p> - -<p>It is a curious thing, this homage offered to dead and gone saints, -throughout the length and breadth of the land, in the north even as in -the south, and continuing uninterruptedly for centuries upon centuries. -What a passing and ephemeral thing in comparison is the fame and homage -awarded to the poet, artist, scholar, or even warrior, remembered as -they are by only a few admirers. Victor Hugo himself will never attain -the fame of even the least saint on the calendar; take, for example, -Saint-Gent, who for seven hundred years has seen his thousands of -faithful flocking annually to his shrine in the mountains. No one more -readily than Victor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> Hugo recognised this truth, for, asked one day by a -flatterer what glory in this world could excel that which crowned the -poet, he answered promptly, “That of the saint.”</p> - -<p>Mathieu was in great request at the village dances, and we all watched -him with admiration as he danced, now with Villette, now with Gango or -Lali, my pretty cousins. In the meadow by the mill took place the -wrestling contests, announced by the beating of tambours and presided -over by old Jésette, the famous champion of former days, who, marching -up and down, pitted one against the other, in strident tones enforcing -the rules of the game.</p> - -<p>One of us would ask him if he remembered how he had made the wrestler -Quéquine, or some other rival, bite the dust, and once started, the old -athlete would rehearse with delight his ancient victories, how he -floored Bel-Arbre of Aramon, not to mention Rabasson, Creste d’Apt and, -above all, Meissonier, the Hercules of Avignon, before whom no one could -stand up. Ah, in those days he might truly say he had been invincible! -He had gone by the name of the “Little Maillanais”—“the Flexible.”</p> - -<p>When our poets’ réunions were at Saint-Rémy we met at the house of -Roumanille’s parents,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> Jean-Denis and Pierrette, well-to-do -market-gardeners living on their own land. On these occasions we dined -in the open air under the shade of a vine-covered arbour. The best -painted plates were had out in our honour, while Zine and Antoinette, -the two sisters of our friend, handsome brunettes in their twenties, -ministered to our wants and served us with the excellent <i>blanquette</i> -they had themselves prepared.</p> - -<p>A rugged old soldier was this Jean-Denis, father of Joseph Roumanille. -He had served under Bonaparte, as he somewhat disdainfully called the -Emperor, had fought in the battle of Waterloo and gained the Cross, -which, however, in the confusion following the defeat, he never -received. When his son, in after years, gained a decoration under -MacMahon, he remarked: “The son receives what the father earned.”</p> - -<p>The following is the epitaph Roumanille inscribed on the tomb of his -parents in the cemetery at Saint-Rémy:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poemc"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To Jean-Denis Roumanille<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gardener. A man of worth and courage. 1791-1875.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to Pierrette his Spouse<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Good, pious and strong. 1793-1875.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They lived as Christians and died in peace.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God keep them.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_008" id="ill_008"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp188_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp188_sml.jpg" width="500" height="331" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Mas des Pommiers—Home of Joseph Roumanille.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Our meetings in Avignon were held at Aubanel’s home in the street of -Saint-Marc, which to-day is called by the name of the great Félibre -poet. The house had formerly been a cardinal’s palace, and has since -been destroyed in making a new street. Just inside the vestibule stood -the great wooden press with its big screw, which for two hundred years -had served for printing the parochial and educational works of all the -State.</p> - -<p>Here we would take up our abode, somewhat awed by the odour of sanctity -which seemed to emanate from those episcopal walls, and even more by -Jeanneton, the old cook, who eyed us with a look which said plainly: -“Why, here they are again!”</p> - -<p>The kindly welcome, however, of our host’s father, official printer to -his Holiness the Pope, and the joviality of his uncle, the venerable -Canon, soon put us at our ease.</p> - -<p>At Brunet’s and also Mathieu’s we sometimes held our revels, but it was -at Font-Ségugne, predestined to play an important part in our -enterprise, that perhaps we most enjoyed ourselves in the charming -country house belonging to the family of Giéra. Paul, the eldest son, -was a notary at Avignon, and an enthusiastic supporter of our movement. -His mother, a dignified and gracious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> lady, two sisters, charming, -joyous young girls, and a younger brother, Jules, devoted to the work of -the White Penitents, made up the circle of this delightful home.</p> - -<p>Font-Ségugne is situated near the Camp-Cabel, facing in the distance the -great Ventoux mountain, and a few miles from the Fountain of Vaucluse. -It takes its name from a little spring which runs at the foot of the -castle. A delicious little copse of oaks, acacias and planes protects -the place from winter winds and the summer sun.</p> - -<p>Tavan, the peasant poet of Gadagne, says of Font-Ségugne: “It is the -favourite trysting-spot of the village lovers on Sundays, for there they -find a grateful shade, solitude, quiet nooks, little stone benches -covered with ivy, winding paths among the trees, a lovely view, the song -of birds, the rustling of leaves, the rippling of brooks! Where better -than in such a spot can the solitary wander and dream of love, or the -happy pair resort, and love?”</p> - -<p>Here we came, to re-create ourselves like mountain birds—Roumanille, -Mathieu, Brunet, Tavan, Crousillat, and, above all, Aubanel, under the -spell of the eyes of Zani, a fair young friend of the young ladies of -the house:</p> - -<p>In his “Livre de l’Amour,” Aubanel drew the portrait of his -enchantress:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<p>“Soon I shall see her—the young maiden with her slender form clad in a -soft gown of grey—with her smooth brow and her beauteous eyes, her long -black hair and lovely face. Soon I shall see her, the youthful virgin, -and she will say to me ‘Good evening.’ Oh Zani, come quickly!”</p> - -<p>In after years, when his Zani had taken the veil, he writes of -Font-Ségugne, recalling the past:</p> - -<p>“It is summer—the nights are clear. Over the copse the moon mounts and -shines down on Camp-Cabel. Dost thou remember, behind the convent walls, -thou with thy Spanish face, how we chased each other, running, racing -like mad, among the trees, till in the dark wood thou wast afraid? And -ah, how sweet it was when my arm stole round thy slender waist, and to -the song of the nightingales we danced together, while thou didst mingle -thy fresh young voice with the notes of the birds. Ah, sweet little -friend, where are they now, those songs and joys! When tired of running, -of laughing, of dancing, I remember how we sat down beneath the -oak-trees to rest. My hand, a lover’s hand, played with thy long raven -tresses which, loosened, fell about thee—and smiling gently as a mother -on her child, thou didst not forbid me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span></p> - -<p>On the walls of the room at the château where Zani had once slept, he -wrote these lines:</p> - -<p>“O little chamber—dear little chamber! How small to hold so many -remembrances! As I cross the threshold it seems to me I hear them -come—those two sweet maids Zani and Julia. But never will they sleep -again in this little room—those days are flown for ever—Julia dwells -no more on earth, and my Zani is a nun.”</p> - -<p>No spot more favourable could have been imagined wherein to cradle a -glorious dream, to bring to flower the bloom of an ideal, than this -château on the hillside, surrounded by the serene blue distances, -enlivened by these lovely laughing maidens and a group of young men -vowed to the worship of the Beautiful under the three headings of -Poetry, Love, and Provence, a trinity which for them formed always a -unity.</p> - -<p>It was written in the stars that one Sunday of flowers, May 21, 1854, at -the full tide of spring and youth, seven poets should meet at this -château of Font-Ségugne.</p> - -<p>Paul Giéra, a joking spirit who signed his name backwards as “Glaup”; -Roumanille, a propagandist who, without appearing to do so, unceasingly -fanned the flame of the sacred fire all around him; Aubanel, converted -by Roumanille<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> to our tongue, and who, under the influence of love’s -sun, was at this moment bursting into bloom with his “Pomegranate”; -Mathieu, lost in visions of a reawakened Provence, and, as ever, the -gallant squire of all fair damsels; Brunet with his face resembling the -Christ, dreaming his utopia of a terrestrial Paradise; and the peasant -Tavan, who, stretched on the grass, sang all day like the cicada; -finally, Frédéric, ready to send on the wings of the mistral, like the -mountain shepherds to their flocks, his hailing cry to all brothers of -the race, and to plant his standard on the summit of the Ventoux.</p> - -<p>At dinner, the conversation turned that evening, as so often before, on -the best means of rescuing our language from the decadence into which it -had fallen since those ruling classes, faithless to the honour of -Provence, had relegated the language to the position of a mere dialect. -And, in view of the fact that at the last two Congresses, both at Arles -and at Aix, every attempt on the part of the young school of Avignon -patriots to rehabilitate the Provençal tongue had been badly received -and dismissed, the seven at Font-Ségugne determined to band together and -take the enterprise in hand.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Glaup, “as we are forming a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> new body we must have a new -name. The old one of “minstrel” will not do, as every rhymer, even he -who has nothing to rhyme about, adopts it. That of troubadour is no -better, for, appropriated to designate the poets of a certain period, it -has been tarnished by abuse. We must find something new.”</p> - -<p>Then I took up the speech:</p> - -<p>“My friends,” said I, “in an old country legend I believe we shall find -the predestined name.” And I proceeded: “His Reverence Saint-Anselme, -reading and writing one day from the Holy Scriptures, was lifted up into -the highest heaven. Seated near the Infant Christ he beheld the Holy -Virgin. Having saluted the aged saint, the Blessed Virgin continued her -discourse to her Infant Son, relating how she came to suffer for His -sake seven bitter wounds.” Here I omitted the recital of the wounds -until I came to the following passage: “The fourth wound that I suffered -for Thee, O my precious Son, it was when I lost Thee, and seeking three -days and three nights found Thee not until I entered the Temple, where -Thou wast disputing with the scribes of the Law, with the seven -‘Félibres’ of the Law.”</p> - -<p>“The seven Félibres of the Law—but here we are!” cried they all in -chorus: “Félibre is the name.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span></p> - -<p>Then Glaup, filling up the seven glasses with a bottle of Châteauneuf -which had been just seven years in the cellar, proposed the health of -the Félibres. “And since we have begun baptizing,” he continued, “let us -adopt all the vocabulary which can be legitimately derived from our new -name. I suggest, therefore, that every branch of Félibres numbering not -less than seven members shall be called a ‘Félibrerie,’ in memory, -gentlemen, of the Pleiades of Avignon.”</p> - -<p>“And I,” said Roumanille, “beg to propose the pretty verb ‘félibriser,’ -signifying to meet together as we are now doing.”</p> - -<p>“I wish to add,” said Mathieu, “the term ‘félibrée’ to signify a -festivity of Provençal poets.”</p> - -<p>“And I,” struck in Tavan, “give the adjective ‘félibréen’ to all things -descriptive of our movement.”</p> - -<p>“And to the ladies who shall sing in the tongue of Provence I dedicate -the name of ‘Félibresse,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said Aubanel.</p> - -<p>Upon which Brunet added promptly:</p> - -<p>“And the children of all Félibres I baptize ‘Félibrillons.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“And let me conclude,” I cried, “with this national word, ‘Félibrige,’ -which shall designate our work and association.”</p> - -<p>Then Glaup took up the speech again:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>“But this is not all, my friends—behold us, ‘the wise ones of the -Law’—but how about the Law? Who is going to make it?”</p> - -<p>“I am,” I answered unhesitatingly, “even if I have to give twenty years -of my life to it; I will undertake to show that our speech is a -language, not a dialect, and I will reconstruct the laws on which it was -once formed.”</p> - -<p>How strange it seems to look back on that scene—like some fairy-tale, -and yet it was from that day of light-hearted festivity, of youthful -ideals and enthusiasms, that sprang the gigantic task completed in the -“Treasury of the Félibres,”<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_009" id="ill_009"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 342px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp196_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp196_sml.jpg" width="342" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Mme. Frédéric Mistral, 1st Queen of the Félibres.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">a dictionary of the Provençal tongue, including every variety of -derivation and idiom, a work to which I devoted twenty years of my life.</p> - -<p>In the <i>Provençal Almanac</i> for 1855, Paul Giéra writes:</p> - -<p>“When the Law is completed which is being now prepared by one of our -number, and which will clearly set forth the why and wherefore of -everything, all opponents will be finally silenced.”</p> - -<p>It was on this memorable occasion at Font-Ségugne that we also decided -on a small annual publication which should be a connecting-link between -all Félibres, the standard-bearer of our ideas, and a means of -communicating them to the people.</p> - -<p>Having settled all these points, we suddenly bethought us that this same -May 21 was no other than the Feast of the Star (Saint-Estelle), and even -as the Magi, recognising the mystic influx of some high conjunction, we -saluted the Star so opportunely presiding over the cradle of our -redemption.</p> - -<p>That same year, 1855, appeared the first number of the <i>Provençal -Almanac</i>, numbering 112 pages. And conspicuous among the contributions -was our “Song of the Félibres,” which set forth the programme of our -popular Renaissance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><br /> -<small>THE “PROVENÇAL ALMANAC”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> <i>Provençal Almanac</i>, welcomed by the country-people, delighted in by -the patriots, highly favoured by the learned and eagerly looked forward -to by the artistic, rapidly gained a footing with the public, and the -publication, which the first year had numbered five hundred copies, -quickly increased to twelve hundred, three thousand, five, seven, and -then ten thousand, which figure remained the lowest average during a -period of from fifteen to twenty years.</p> - -<p>As this periodical was essentially one for the family circle, this -figure represents, I should judge, at least fifty thousand readers. It -is impossible to give any idea of the trouble, devotion and pride which -both Roumanille and I bestowed unceasingly on this beloved little work -during the first forty years. Without mentioning the numerous poems -which were published in it, and those Chronicles wherein were contained -the whole history of the Félibre movement, the quantity of tales, -legends, witticisms, and jokes culled from all parts of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> country -made this publication a unique collection. The essence of the spirit of -our race was to be found here, with its traditions and characteristics, -and were the people of Provence to one day disappear, their manner of -living and thinking would be rediscovered, faithfully portrayed such as -they were, in this Almanac of the Félibres.</p> - -<p>Roumanille has published in a separate volume, “Tales of Provence,” the -flower of those attractive stories he contributed in profusion to the -Almanac. I have never collected my tales, but will here give a few -specimens of those which were among the most popular of my -contributions, and which have been widely circulated in translations by -Alphonse Daudet, Paul Arène, E. Blavat, and other good friends.</p> - -<h3>THE GOOD PILGRIM<br /><br /> - -<small>LEGEND OF PROVENCE</small></h3> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p>Master Archimbaud was nearly a hundred years old. He had been formerly a -rugged man of war, but now, crippled and paralysed with age, he never -left his bed, being unable to move.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span></p> - -<p>Old Master Archimbaud had three sons. One morning he called the eldest -to him and said:</p> - -<p>“Come here, Archimbalet! While lying quiet in my bed and meditating, for -the bedridden have time for reflection, I remembered that once in the -midst of a battle, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed if God -delivered me to go on a pilgrimage to Rome.... Alas, I am as old as -earth! and can no longer go on a journey; I wish, my son, that thou -wouldst make that pilgrimage in my stead; sorely it troubles me to die -without accomplishing my vow.”</p> - -<p>The eldest son replied:</p> - -<p>“What the devil has put this into your head, a pilgrimage to Rome and I -don’t know where else! Father, eat, drink, lie still in your bed and say -as many Paternosters as you please! but the rest of us have something -else to do.”</p> - -<p>The next morning, Master Archimbaud called to him his second son:</p> - -<p>“Listen, my son,” he said; “meditating here on my bed and reviewing the -past—for, seest thou, in bed one has leisure for thinking—I remembered -that once, in a fight, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed to God -to make the great journey to Rome.... Alas! I am old as earth! I can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> no -longer go to the wars. Greatly I desire that thou wouldest in my stead -make the pilgrimage to Rome.”</p> - -<p>The second son replied:</p> - -<p>“Father, in two weeks we shall have the hot weather! Then the fields -must be ploughed, the vines dressed, the hay cut. Our eldest must take -the flocks to the mountains; the youngest is nought but a boy. Who will -give the orders if I go to Rome, idling by the roads? Father, eat, -sleep, and leave us in peace.”</p> - -<p>Next morning good Master Archimband called his youngest son:</p> - -<p>“Espérit, my child, approach,” said he; “I promised the good God to make -a pilgrimage to Rome.... But I am old as earth! I can no longer go to -the wars.... I would gladly send thee in my place, poor boy. But thou -art too young, thou dost not know the way; Rome is very far, my God! -should some misfortune overtake thee ...!”</p> - -<p>“My father, I will go,” answered the youth.</p> - -<p>But the mother cried:</p> - -<p>“I will not have thee go! This old dotard, with his war and his Rome, -will end by getting on our nerves; not content with grumbling, -complaining and moaning the whole year through, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> will send now this -poor dear innocent where he will only get lost.”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said the young son, “the wish of a father is an order from -God! When God commands, one must go.”</p> - -<p>And Espérit, without further talk, went and filled a small gourd with -wine, took some bread and onions in his knapsack, put on his new shoes, -chose a good oaken stick from the wood-house, threw his cloak over his -shoulder, embraced his old father, who gave him much good advice, bade -farewell to all his relations, and departed.</p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>But before taking the road, he went devoutly to hear the blessed Mass; -and was it not wonderful that on leaving the church he found on the -threshold a beautiful youth who addressed him in these words:</p> - -<p>“Friend, are you not going to Rome?”</p> - -<p>“I am,” said Espérit.</p> - -<p>“And I also, comrade: If it pleases you, we could make the journey -together.”</p> - -<p>“Willingly, my friend.”</p> - -<p>Now this gracious youth was an angel sent by God. Espérit and the angel -then set forth on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_010" id="ill_010"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 325px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp202_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp202_sml.jpg" width="325" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Félix Gras. Poet and Félibre.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">the road to Rome; and thus, joyfully, through sunshine and shower, -begging their bread and singing psalms, the little gourd at the end of a -stick, they arrived at last in the city of Rome.</p> - -<p>Having rested, they paid their devotions at the great church of Saint -Peter, they visited in turn the basilicas, the chapels, the oratories, -the sanctuaries, and all the sacred monuments, kissed the relics of the -Apostles Peter and Paul, of the virgins, the martyrs, and also of the -true Cross, and finally, before leaving, they saw the Pope, who gave -them his blessing.</p> - -<p>Then Espérit with his companion went to rest under the porch of Saint -Peter, and Espérit fell asleep. Now in his sleep the pilgrim saw in a -dream his mother and his brothers burning in hell, and he saw himself -with his father in the eternal glory of the Paradise of God.</p> - -<p>“Alas! if this is so,” he cried, “I beseech thee, my God, that I may -take out of the flames my mother, my poor mother, and my brothers!”</p> - -<p>And God replied:</p> - -<p>“As for thy brothers, it is impossible, for they have disobeyed my -commandments; but thy mother, perhaps, if thou canst, before her death, -make her perform three charities.”</p> - -<p>Then Espérit awoke. The angel had disappeared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span></p> - -<p>In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired after him, nowhere could -he be found, and Espérit was obliged to leave Rome all alone.</p> - -<p>He went toward the sea-coast, where he picked up some shells with which -he ornamented his cloak and his hat, and from there, slowly, by high -roads and by-paths, valleys, and mountains, begging and praying, he came -again to his own country.</p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p>It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He -had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged -and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary -and his shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his -way to the paternal door and, knocking, said gently:</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.”</p> - -<p>“Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here—a set of -vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!”</p> - -<p>“Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give him -something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in the -same need!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<p>Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of -bread, gave it to the poor beggar.</p> - -<p>The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’ -house, saying:</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor -pilgrim.”</p> - -<p>“What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well I -gave to you yesterday—these gluttons would eat one out of house and -home.”</p> - -<p>“Alas, good wife!” interposed the good old Archimbaud, “didst thou not -eat yesterday and yet thou hast eaten again to-day? Who knows but our -son may be in the same sad plight!”</p> - -<p>And again his wife relenting went off and fetched a slice of bread for -the poor beggar.</p> - -<p>The next day Espérit returned again to his home and said:</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake, my mistress, grant shelter to the poor pilgrim.”</p> - -<p>“Nay,” cried the hard old body, “be off with you and lodge with the -ragamuffins!”</p> - -<p>“Alas, wife!” interposed again the good old Archimbaud, “give him -shelter: who knows if our own child, our poor Espérit, is not at this -very hour exposed to the severity of the storm.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, thou art right,” said the mother, softening, and she went at -once and opened the door of the stable; then poor Espérit entered, and -on the straw behind the beasts he crouched down in a corner.</p> - -<p>At early dawn the following morning the mother and brothers of Espérit -went to open the stable door.... Behold the stable was all illumined, -and there lay the pilgrim, stiff and white in death, while four tall -tapers burned around him. The straw on which he was stretched was -glistening, the spiders’ webs, shining with rays, hung from the beams -above, like the draperies of a mortuary chapel. The beasts of the stall, -mules and oxen, pricked up startled ears, while their great eyes brimmed -with tears. A perfume of violets filled the place, and the poor pilgrim, -his face all glorious, held in his clasped hands a paper on which was -written: “I am your son.”</p> - -<p>Then all burst into tears, and falling on their knees, made the sign of -the cross: Espérit was henceforth a saint.</p> - -<p class="r"> -(<i>Almanach Provençal</i>, 1879.)<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span></p> - -<h3>JARJAYE IN PARADISE</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jarjaye</span>, a street-porter of Tarascon, having just died, with closed eyes -fell into the other world. Down and down he fell! Eternity is vast, -pitch-black, limitless, lugubrious. Jarjaye knew not where to set foot, -all was uncertainty, his teeth chattered, he beat the air. But as he -wandered in the vast space, suddenly he perceived in the distance, a -light, it was far off, very far off. He directed himself towards it; it -was the door of the good God.</p> - -<p>Jarjaye knocked, bang, bang, on the door.</p> - -<p>“Who is there?” asked Saint Peter.</p> - -<p>“It’s me!” answered Jarjaye.</p> - -<p>“Who—thou?”</p> - -<p>“Jarjaye.”</p> - -<p>“Jarjaye of Tarascon?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it—himself!”</p> - -<p>“But you good-for-nothing,” said Saint Peter, “how have you the face to -demand entrance into the blessed Paradise, you who for the last twenty -years have never said your prayers, who, when they said to you, -‘Jarjaye, come to Mass,’ answered ‘I only go to the afternoon Mass!’ -thou, who in derision calledst the thunder, ‘the drum of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> snails;’ -thou did’st eat meat on Fridays, saying, ‘What does it matter, it is -flesh that makes flesh, what goes into the body cannot hurt the soul;’ -thou who, when they rang the Angelus, instead of making the sign of the -cross like a good Christian, cried mocking, ‘A pig is hung on the bell’; -thou who, when thy father admonished thee, ‘Jarjaye, God will surely -punish thee,’ answered, ‘The good God, who has seen him? Once dead one -is well dead.’ Finally, thou who didst blaspheme and deny the holy oil -and baptism, is it possible that thou darest to present thyself here?”</p> - -<p>The unhappy Jarjaye replied:</p> - -<p>“I deny nothing, I am a sinner. But who could know that after death -there would be so many mysteries! Any way, yes, I have sinned. The -medicine is uncorked—if one must drink it, why one must. But at least, -great Saint Peter, let me see my uncle for a little, just to give him -the latest news from Tarascon.”</p> - -<p>“What uncle?”</p> - -<p>“My Uncle Matéry, he who was a White Penitent.”</p> - -<p>“Thy Uncle Matéry! He is undergoing a hundred years of purgatory!”</p> - -<p>“Malédiction! a hundred years! Why what had he done amiss?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<p>“Thou rememberest that he carried the cross in the procession. One day -some wicked jesters gave each other the word, and one of them said, -‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross;’ and a little further -another repeated, ‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross,’ and at -last another said like this, ‘Look, look at Matéry, what is he -carrying?’ Matéry got angry, it appears, and answered, ‘A jackanapes -like thee.’ And forthwith he had a stroke and died in his anger.”</p> - -<p>“Well then, let me see my Aunt Dorothée, who was very, very religious.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! she must be with the devil, I don’t know her.”</p> - -<p>“It does not astonish me in the least that she should be with the devil, -for in spite of being so devout and religious, she was spiteful as a -viper. Just imagine——”</p> - -<p>“Jarjaye, I have no leisure to listen to thee: I must go and open to a -poor sweeper whose ass has just sent him to Paradise with a kick.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, great Saint Peter, since you have been so kind, and looking costs -nothing, I beg you let me just peep into the Paradise which they say is -so beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“I will consider it—presently, ugly Huguenot that thou art!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<p>“Now come, Saint Peter, just remember that down there at Tarascon my -father, who is a fisherman, carries your banner in the procession, and -with bare feet——”</p> - -<p>“All right,” said the saint, “for your father’s sake I will allow it, -but see here, scum of the earth, it is understood that you only put the -end of your nose inside.”</p> - -<p>“That is enough.”</p> - -<p>Then the celestial porter half opening the door said to Jarjaye:</p> - -<p>“There—look.”</p> - -<p>But he, suddenly turning his back, stepped into Paradise backwards.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing?” asked Saint Peter.</p> - -<p>“The great light dazzles me,” replied the Tarasconais, “I must go in -backwards. But, as you ordered, when I have put in my nose, be easy, I -will go no further.”</p> - -<p>Now, thought he, delighted, I have got my nose in the hay.</p> - -<p>The Tarasconais was in Paradise.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said he, “how happy one feels! how beautiful it is! What music!”</p> - -<p>After a moment the doorkeeper said:</p> - -<p>“When you have gaped enough, you will go out, for I have no more time to -waste.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t you worry,” said Jarjaye. “If you have anything to do, go about -your business. I will go out when I will go out. I am not the least in a -hurry.”</p> - -<p>“But that was not our agreement!”</p> - -<p>“My goodness, holy man, you seem very distressed! It would be different -if there were not plenty of room. But thank God, there is no squash!”</p> - -<p>“But I ask you to go, for if the good God were to pass by——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! you arrange that as you can. I have always heard, that he who finds -himself well off, had better stay. I am here—so I stay.”</p> - -<p>Saint Peter frowned and stamped. He went to find St. Yves.</p> - -<p>“Yves,” he said, “You are a barrister—you must give me an opinion.”</p> - -<p>“Two if you like,” replied Saint Yves.</p> - -<p>“I am in a nice fix! This is my dilemma,” and he related all. “Now what -ought I to do?”</p> - -<p>“You require,” said Saint Yves, “a good solicitor, and must then cite by -bailiff the said Jarjaye to appear before God.”</p> - -<p>They went to look for a good solicitor, but no one had ever seen such a -person in Paradise. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> asked for a bailiff—still more impossible to -find. Saint Peter was at his wits’ end.</p> - -<p>Just then Saint Luke passed by.</p> - -<p>“Peter, you look very melancholy! Has our Lord been giving you another -rebuke?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t talk of it—I am in the devil of a fix, do -you see. A certain Jarjaye has got into Paradise by a trick, and I don’t -know how to get him out.”</p> - -<p>“Where does he come from, this Jarjaye?”</p> - -<p>“From Tarascon.”</p> - -<p>“A Tarasconais?” cried Saint Luke. “Oh! what an innocent you are! There -is nothing, nothing easier than to make him go out. Being, as you know, -a friend of cattle, the patron of cattle-drovers, I am often in the -Camargue, Arles, Beaucaire, Nîmes, Tarascon, and I know that people. I -have studied their peculiarities, and how to manage them. Come—you -shall see.”</p> - -<p>At that moment there went by a flight of cherubs.</p> - -<p>“Little ones!” called Saint Luke, “here, here!”</p> - -<p>The cherubs descended.</p> - -<p>“Go quietly outside Paradise—and when you get in front of the door, run -past crying out: ‘The oxen—the oxen!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>So the cherubs went outside Paradise and when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> they were in front of the -door they rushed past crying, “Oxen, oxen! Oh see, see the -cattle-drover!”</p> - -<p>Jarjaye turned round, amazed.</p> - -<p>“Thunder! What, do they drive cattle here? I am off!” he cried.</p> - -<p>He rushed to the door like a whirlwind and, poor idiot, went out of -Paradise.</p> - -<p>Saint Peter quickly closed the door and locked it, then putting his head -out of the grating:</p> - -<p>“Well, Jarjaye,” he called jeeringly, “how do you find yourself now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Jarjaye. “If they had really been -cattle I should not have regretted my place in Paradise!”</p> - -<p>And so saying he plunged, head foremost, into the abyss.</p> - -<p class="r"> -(<i>Almanach Provençal</i>, 1864.)<br /> -</p> - -<h3>THE FROG OF NARBONNE</h3> - -<h4>I</h4> - -<p>Young Pignolet, journeyman carpenter, nicknamed the “Flower of Grasse,” -one afternoon in the month of June returned in high spirits<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> from making -his tour of France. The heat was overpowering. In his hand he carried -his stick furbished with ribbons, and in a packet on his back his -implements (chisels, plane, mallet) folded in his working-apron. -Pignolet climbed the wide road of Grasse by which he had descended when -he departed some three or four years before. On his way, according to -the custom of the Companions of the Guild of Duty, he stopped at -“Sainte-Baume” the tomb of Master Jacques, founder of the Association. -After inscribing his surname on a rock, he descended to Saint-Maximin, -to pay his respects and take his colours from Master Fabre, he who -inaugurates the Sons of Duty. Then, proud as Cæsar, his kerchief on his -neck, his hat smart with a bunch of many-coloured ribbons, and hanging -from his ears two little compasses in silver, he valiantly strode on -through a cloud of dust, which powdered him from head to foot.</p> - -<p>What a heat! Now and again he looked at the fig-trees to see if there -was any fruit, but they were not yet ripe. The lizards gaped in the -scorched grass, and the foolish grasshopper, on the dusty olives, the -bushes and long grass, sang madly in the blazing sun.</p> - -<p>“By all the Saints, what heat!” Pignolet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> ejaculated at intervals. -Having some hours previously drank the last drop from his gourd, he -panted with thirst, and his shirt was soaking. “But forwards!” he said. -“Soon we will be at Grasse. Oh heavens, what a blessing! what a joy to -embrace my father, my mother, and to drink from a jug of water of the -spring of Grasse! Then to tell of my tour through France and to kiss -Mïon on her fresh cheeks, and, soon as the feast of the Madeleine -arrives to marry her, and never leave home any more. Onward, -Pignolet—only another little step!”</p> - -<p>At last he is at the entrance to Grasse, and in four strides at his -father’s workshop.</p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>“My boy! Oh, my fine boy,” cried the old Pignol, leaving his work, -“welcome home. Marguerite! the youngster is here! Run, draw some wine, -prepare a meal, lay the cloth. Oh! the blessing to see thee home again! -How art thou?”</p> - -<p>“Not so bad, God be thanked. And all of you, at home, father, are you -thriving?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! like the poor old things we are ... but hasn’t he grown tall, the -youngster!” And all the world embraced him, father, mother, neighbours,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> -friends, and the girls! They took his packet from him and the children -fingered admiringly the fine ribbons on his hat and walking-stick. The -old Marguerite, with brimming eyes, quickly lighted the stove with a -handful of chips, and while she floured some dried haddock wherewith to -regale the young man, the old man sat down at a table with his son, and -they drank to his happy return, clinking glasses.</p> - -<p>“Now here,” began old Master Pignol, “in less than four years thou hast -finished thy tour of France and behold thee, according to thy account, -passed and received as Companion of the Guild of Duty! How everything -changes! In my time it required seven years, yes, seven good years, to -achieve that honour. It is true, my son, that there in the shop I gave -thee a pretty good training, and that for an apprentice, already thou -didst not handle badly the plane and the jointer. But any way, the chief -thing is thou shouldst know thy business, and thou hast, so at least I -believe, now seen and known all that a fine fellow should know, who is -son of a master.”</p> - -<p>“Oh father, as for that,” replied the young man, “without boasting, I -think nobody in the carpenter’s shop could baffle me.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said the old man, “see here while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> the cod-fish is singing -in the pot, just relate to me what were the finest objects thou didst -note in running round the country?”</p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p>“To begin with, father, you know that on first leaving Grasse, I went -over to Toulon where I entered the Arsenal. It’s not necessary to tell -you all that is inside there, you have seen it as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, pass on, I know it.”</p> - -<p>“After leaving Toulon I went and hired myself out at Marseilles, a fine -large town, advantageous for the workman, where some comrades pointed -out to me, a sea-horse which serves as a sign at an inn.”</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“Faith, from there, I went north to Aix, where I admired the sculptures -of the porch of Saint-Saviour.”</p> - -<p>“I have seen that.”</p> - -<p>“Then, from there, we went to Arles, and we saw the roof of the Commune -of Arles.”</p> - -<p>“So well constructed that one cannot imagine how it holds itself in the -air.”</p> - -<p>“From Arles, my father, we went to the city<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> of Saint-Gille, and there -we saw the famous Vis——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, a wonder both in structure and outline. Which shows us, my -son, that in other days as well as to-day there were good workmen.”</p> - -<p>“Then we directed our steps from Saint-Gille to Montpellier, and there -they showed us the celebrated Shell....”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes—which is in the Vignolle, and the book calls it the ‘horn of -Montpellier.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“That’s it; and from there we marched to Narbonne.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is what I was waiting for!”</p> - -<p>“But why, my father? At Narbonne I saw the ‘Three Nurses,’ and then the -Archbishop’s palace, also the wood carvings in the church of -Saint-Paul.”</p> - -<p>“And then?”</p> - -<p>“My father, the song says nothing more than:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Carcassone and Narbonne are two very good towns, to take on the way to -Bezièrs; Pézénas is quite nice; but the prettiest girls are at -Montpellier.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Why bungler! Didst thou not see the Frog?”</p> - -<p>“But what frog?”</p> - -<p>“The Frog which is at the bottom of the font of the church of Saint -Paul. Ah! I am no longer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> surprised that thou hast finished so quickly -thy tour of France, booby! The frog at Narbonne! the masterpiece which -men go to see from all the ends of the earth! And this idiot,” cried the -old Pignol getting more and more excited, “this wicked waster, who gives -himself out as ‘companion,’ has not even seen the Frog at Narbonne! Oh! -that a son of a master should have to hang his head for shame in his -father’s house. No, my son, never shall that be said. Now eat, drink, -and go to thy bed, but to-morrow morning, if thou wilt be on good terms -with me, return to Narbonne and see the Frog!”</p> - -<h4>IV</h4> - -<p>Poor Pignolet knew that his father was not one to retract and that he -was not joking. So he ate, drank, went to bed, and the next morning, at -dawn, without further talk, having stocked his knapsack with food, he -started off to Narbonne.</p> - -<p>With his feet bruised and swollen, exhausted by heat and thirst, along -the dusty roads and highway tramped poor Pignolet.</p> - -<p>At the end of seven or eight days he arrived at the town of Narbonne, -from whence, according to the proverb, “comes no good wind and no good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> -person.” Pignolet—he was not singing this time, let it be -understood—without taking the time to eat a mouthful or drink a drop at -the inn, at once walked off to the church of Saint-Paul and straight to -the font to look at the Frog.</p> - -<p>And truly there in the marble vase, beneath the clear water, squatted a -frog with reddish spots, so well sculptured that he seemed alive, -looking up, with a bantering expression in his two yellow eyes at poor -Pignolet, come all the way from Grasse on purpose to see him.</p> - -<p>“Ah, little wretch!” cried the carpenter in sudden wrath. “Thou hast -caused me to tramp four hundred miles beneath that burning sun! Take -that and remember henceforth Pignolet of Grasse!”</p> - -<p>And therewith the bully draws from his knapsack a mallet and chisel. -Bang!—at a stroke he takes off one of the frog’s legs! They say that -the holy water became suddenly red as though stained with blood, and -that the inside of the font, since then, has remained reddened.</p> - -<p class="r"> -(<i>Almanach Provençal</i>, 1890.)<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<h3>THE YOUNG MONTELAISE</h3> - -<p>Once upon a time there lived at Monteux, the village of the good -Saint-Gent and of Nicolas Saboly, a girl fair and fine as gold. They -called her Rose. She was the daughter of an innkeeper. And as she was -good and sang like an angel, the curé of Monteux placed her at the head -of the choristers of his church.</p> - -<p>It happened one year that, for the feast of the patron Saint of Monteux, -the father of Rose engaged a solo singer.</p> - -<p>This singer, who was young, fell in love with the fair Rose, and faith, -she fell in love with him. Then, one fine day, these two children, -without much ado, were married, and the little Rose became Madame -Bordas. Good-bye to Monteux! They went away together. Ah! how delightful -it was, free as the air and young as the bubbling spring of water, to -live without a care, in the full tide of love, and sing for a living.</p> - -<p>The beautiful fête where Rose first sang was that of Sainte-Agathe, the -patroness of Maillane.</p> - -<p>It was at the Café de la Paix (now Café du Soleil), and the room was -full as an egg. Rose, not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> -willow, stood straight up on the platform, with her fair hair, and -pretty bare arms, her husband at her feet accompanying her on the -guitar. The place was thick with smoke, for it was full of peasants, -from Graveson, Saint-Rémy, Eyrague, besides those of Maillane. But one -heard not a word of rough language. They only said:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she pretty! And such a fine style! She sings like an organ! and -she does not come from afar—only just from Monteux.”</p> - -<p>It is true that Rose only gave them beautiful songs. She sang of her -native land, the flag, battles, liberty and glory, and with such -passionate fervour and enthusiasm it stirred all hearts. Then, when she -had finished she cried, “Long live Saint Gent!”</p> - -<p>Applause followed enough to bring down the house. The girl descended -among the audience and smiling, made the collection. The sous rained -into the wooden bowl, and smiling and content as though she had a -hundred thousand francs, she poured the money into her husband’s guitar, -saying to him:</p> - -<p>“Here—see—if this lasts, we shall soon be rich!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<h4>II</h4> - -<p>When Madame Bordas had done all the fêtes of our neighbourhood, she -became ambitious to try the towns. There, as in the villages, the -Montelaise shone. She sang “la Pologne” with her flag in her hand, she -put into it so much soul, such emotion, that she made every one tremble -with excitement.</p> - -<p>At Avignon, at Cette, Toulouse and Bordeaux she was adored by the -people. At last she said:</p> - -<p>“Now only Paris remains.”</p> - -<p>So she went to Paris. Paris is the pinnacle to which all aspire. There -as in the provinces she soon became the idol of the people.</p> - -<p>It was during the last days of the Empire; ‘the chestnut was commencing -to smoke,’ and Rose Bordas sang the <i>Marseillaise</i>. Never had a singer -given this song with such enthusiasm, such frenzy; to the workmen of the -barricades she represented an incarnation of joyous liberty, and Tony -Révillon, a Parisian poet of the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in -the newspaper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<h4>III</h4> - -<p>Then, alas! came quickly, one on the heels of the other, war, defeat, -revolution, and siege, followed by the Commune and its devil’s train. -The foolish Montelaise, lost in it all as a bird in the tempest, -intoxicated by the smoke, the whirl, the favour of the populace, sang to -them “Marianne” like a little demon. She would have sung in the -water—still better in the fire.</p> - -<p>One day a riot surrounded her in the street and carried her off like a -straw to the palace of the Tuileries.</p> - -<p>The reigning populace were giving a fête in the Imperial salon. Arms, -black with powder, seized “Marianne”—for Madame Bordas was Marianne to -them—and mounted her on the throne in the midst of red flags.</p> - -<p>“Sing to us,” they cried, “the last song that shall echo round the walls -of this accursed palace.”</p> - -<p>And the little Montelaise, with a red cap on her fair hair, sang—“La -Canaille.”</p> - -<p>A formidable cry of “Long live the Republic!” followed the last refrain, -and a solitary voice, lost in the crowd, sang out in answer, “Vivo Sant -Gènt.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span></p> - -<p>Rose could not see for the tears which brimmed in her blue eyes and she -became pale as death.</p> - -<p>“Open, give her air!” they cried, seeing that she was about to faint.</p> - -<p>Ah no! poor Rose, it was not air she needed, it was Monteux, it was -Saint Gent in the mountains and the innocent joy of the fêtes of -Provence.</p> - -<p>The crowd, in the meanwhile, with its red flags went off shouting -through the open door.</p> - -<p>Over Paris, louder and louder, thundered the cannonade, sinister noises -ran along the streets, prolonged fusillades were heard in the distance, -the smell of petroleum was overpowering, and before very long tongues of -fire mounted from the Tuileries up to the sky.</p> - -<p>Poor little Montelaise! No one ever heard of her again.</p> - -<p class="r"> -(<i>Almanach Provençal</i>, 1873.)<br /> -</p> - -<h3>THE POPULAR MAN</h3> - -<p>The Mayor of Gigognan invited me, last year, to his village festivity. -We had been for seven years comrades of the ink-horn at the school of -Avignon, but since then had never met.</p> - -<p>“By the blessing of God,” he cried on seeing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> me, “thou art just the -same, lively as a blue-bottle, handsome as a new penny—straight as an -arrow—I would have known thee in a thousand.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am just the same,” I replied, “only my sight is a little -shorter, my temples a little wrinkled, my hair a little whitened, -and—when there is snow on the hills, the valleys are seldom hot.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said he, “my dear boy, the old bull runs on a straight track, -only he who desires it grows old. Come, come to dinner.”</p> - -<p>According to time-honoured custom a village fête in Provence is the -occasion for real feasting, and my friend Lassagne had not failed to -prepare such a lordly feast as one might set before a king. Dressed -lobster, fresh trout from the Sorgue, nothing but fine meats and choice -wines, a little glass to whet the appetite at intervals, besides -liqueurs of all sorts, and to wait on us at table a young girl of twenty -who—I will say no more!</p> - -<p>We had arrived at the dessert, when all at once we heard in the street -the cheering buzz of the tambourine. The youth of the place had come, -according to custom, to serenade the mayor.</p> - -<p>“Open the door, Françonnette,” cried the worthy man. “Go fetch the -hearth-cakes and come, rinse out the glasses.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_011" id="ill_011"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 349px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp226_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp226_sml.jpg" width="349" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>In the meanwhile the musicians banged away at their tambourines. When -they had finished, the leaders of the party with flowers in their -buttonholes entered the room together with the town-clerk proudly -carrying high on a pole the prizes prepared for the games, and followed -by the dancers of the <i>farandole</i> and a crowd of girls.</p> - -<p>The glasses were filled with the good wine of Alicante. All the -cavaliers, each one in his turn, cut a slice of cake, and clicked -glasses all round to the health of his Worship the Mayor. Then his -Worship the Mayor, when all had drunk and joked for a while, addressed -them thus:</p> - -<p>“My children, dance as much as you like, amuse yourselves as much as you -can, and be courteous to all strangers. You have my permission to do -anything you like, except fight or throw stones.”</p> - -<p>“Long live Monsieur Lassagne!” cried the young people. They went off and -the <i>farandole</i> commenced. When we were alone again I inquired of my -friend:</p> - -<p>“How long is it that thou hast been Mayor of Gigognan?”</p> - -<p>“Fifty years, my dear fellow.”</p> - -<p>“Seriously? Fifty years?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, it is fifty years. I have seen eleven governments, my boy, -and I do not intend to die,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> if the good God helps me, until I have -buried another half-dozen.”</p> - -<p>“But how hast thou managed to keep thy sash<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> amidst so much confusion -and revolution?”</p> - -<p>“Eh! my good friend, there is the asses’ bridge. The people, the honest -folk, require to be led. But in order to lead them it is necessary to -have the right method. Some say drive with the rein tight. Others, drive -with the rein loose; but I—do you know what I say?—take them along -gaily.”</p> - -<p>“Look at the shepherds; the good shepherds are not those who have always -a raised stick; neither are they those that lie down beneath a willow -and sleep in the corner of the field. The good shepherd is he who walks -quietly ahead of his flock and plays the pipes. The beasts who feel -themselves free, and who are really so, browse with appetite on the -pasture and the thistle. When they are satisfied and the hour comes to -return home, the shepherd pipes the retreat and the contented flock -follow him to the sheepfold. My friend, I do the same, I play on the -pipes, and my flock follow.”</p> - -<p>“Thou playest on the pipes; that is all very well.... But still, among -thy flock thou hast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> some Whites, and some Reds, some headstrong and -some queer ones, as there are everywhere! Now, when an election for a -deputy takes place, for example, how dost thou manage?”</p> - -<p>“How I manage? Eh, my good soul. I leave it alone. For to say to the -Whites, ‘Vote for the Republic,’ would be to lose one’s breath and one’s -Latin, and to say to the Reds, ‘Vote for Henri V.,’ would be as -effectual as to spit on that wall.”</p> - -<p>“But the undecided ones, those who have no opinion, the poor innocents, -all the good people who tack cautiously as the wind blows?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, those there, when sometimes in the barber’s shop they ask me my -advice, ‘Hold,’ I say to them, ‘Bassaquin is no better than Bassacan.’ -Whether you vote for Bassaquin or Bassacan this summer you will have -fleas. For Gigognan it is better to have a good rain than all the -promises of the candidates. Ah! it would be a different matter if you -nominated one of the peasant class. But so long as you do not nominate -peasants for deputies, as they do in Sweden and Denmark, you will not be -represented. The lawyers, doctors, journalists, small shopkeepers of all -sorts whom you return, ask but one thing: to stay in Paris as much as -possible, raking in all they can, and milking the poor cow without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> -troubling their heads about our Gigognan! But if, as I say, you -delegated the peasants, they would think of saving, they would diminish -the big salaries, they would never make war, they would increase the -canals, they would abolish the duties, and hasten to settle affairs in -order to return before the harvest. Just imagine that there are in -France twenty million tillers of the soil, and they have not the sense -to send three hundred of them to represent the land! What would they -risk by trying it? It would be difficult for the peasants’ deputy to do -worse than these others!”</p> - -<p>And every one replies: “Ah! that Monsieur Lassagne! though he is joking, -there is some sense in what he says.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I said, “as to thee personally, thee Lassagne, how hast thou -managed to keep thy popularity in Gigognan, and thy authority for fifty -years?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is easy enough,” he laughed. “Come, let us leave the table, -and take a little turn. When we have made the tour of Gigognan two or -three times, thou wilt know as much as I do.”</p> - -<p>We rose from the table, lit our cigars and went out to see the fun. In -the road outside a game of bowls was going on. One of the players in -throwing his ball unintentionally struck the mark,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> replacing it by his -own ball, and thus gaining two points.</p> - -<p>“Clever rascal,” cried Monsieur Lassagne, “that is something like play. -My compliments, Jean-Claude! I have seen many a game of bowls but on my -life never a better shot!”</p> - -<p>We passed on. After a little we met two young girls.</p> - -<p>“Now look at that,” said Lassagne in a loud voice; “they are like two -queens. What a pretty figure, what a lovely face! And those earrings of -the last fashion! Those two are the flowers of Gigognan!”</p> - -<p>The two girls turned their heads and smilingly greeted us. In crossing -the square, we passed near an old man seated in front of his door.</p> - -<p>“Well now, Master Quintrand,” said Monsieur Lassagne, “shall we enter -the lists this year with the first or second class of wrestlers?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! my poor sir, we shall wrestle with no one at all,” replied Master -Quintrand.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember Master Quintrand, the year when Meissonier, Guéquine, -Rabasson, presented themselves on the meadow, the three best wrestlers -of Provence, and you threw them on their shoulders, all three of them!”</p> - -<p>“Eh, you don’t need to remind me,” said the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> wrestler, lighting up. -“It was the year when they took the citadel of Antwerp. The prize was a -hundred crowns and a sheep for the second winner. The prefect of Avignon -shook me by the hand! The people of Bédarride were ready to fight with -those of Courtezon, on my account.... Ah! what a time, compared with the -present! Now their wrestling will.... Better not speak of it, for one no -longer sees men, not men, dear sir.... Besides, they have an -understanding with each other.”</p> - -<p>We shook hands with the old man and continued our walk.</p> - -<p>“Come now,” I said to Lassagne, “I begin to understand—it is done with -the soap ball!”</p> - -<p>“I have not finished yet,” he made answer.</p> - -<p>Just then the village priest came out of his presbytery.</p> - -<p>“Good day, gentlemen!”</p> - -<p>“Good day, Monsieur le Curé,” said Lassagne. “Ah, one moment, since we -have met I want to tell you: this morning at Mass, I noticed that our -church is becoming too small, especially on fête days. Do you think it -would be a mistake to attempt enlarging it?”</p> - -<p>“On that point, Monsieur le Maire, I am of your opinion—it is true that -on feast days one can scarcely turn round.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<p>“Monsieur le Curé, I will see about it: at the first meeting of the -Municipal Council I will put the question, and if the prefecture will -come to our assistance——”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur le Maire, I am delighted, and I can only thank you.”</p> - -<p>As we left the ramparts, we saw coming a flock of sheep taking up all -the road. Lassagne called to the shepherd.</p> - -<p>“Just at the sound of thy bells, I said, ‘this must be Georges!’ And I -was not mistaken: what a pretty flock! what fine sheep! But how well you -manage to feed them! I am sure that, taking one with another, they are -not worth less than ten crowns each!”</p> - -<p>“That is true certainly,” replied Georges. “I bought them at the Cold -Market this winter; nearly all had lambs, and they will give me a second -lot I do believe.”</p> - -<p>“Not only a second lot, but such beasts as those could give you twins!”</p> - -<p>“May God hear you! Monsieur Lassagne!”</p> - -<p>We had hardly finished talking to the shepherd when we overtook an old -woman gathering chicory in the ditches.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Hold, it is thou, Bérengère,” said Lassagne, accosting her. “Now -really from behind with thy red kerchief I took thee for Téréson, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> -daughter-in-law of Cacha, thou art exactly like her!”</p> - -<p>“Me! Oh Monsieur Lassagne, but think of it! I am seventy years old!”</p> - -<p>“Oh come, come, from behind if thou couldst see thyself, thou hast no -need of pity. I have seen worse baskets at the vintage!”</p> - -<p>“This Monsieur Lassagne, he must always have his joke,” said the old -woman, shaking with laughter; and turning to me she added:</p> - -<p>“Believe me, sir, it is not just a way of speaking, but this Monsieur -Lassagne is the cream of men. He is friendly with all. He will chat, see -you, with the smallest in the country even to the babies! That is why he -has been fifty years Mayor of Gigognan, and will be to the end of his -days.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my friend,” said Lassagne to me, “It is not I, is it, that have -said it! All of us like nice things, we like compliments, and we are all -gratified by kind manners. Whether dealing with women, with kings, or -with the people, he who would reign must please. And that is the secret -of the Mayor of Gigognan.</p> - -<p class="r"> -(<i>Almanach Provençal</i>, 1883.)<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><br /> -<small>JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> my life I had heard of the Camargue and of Les Saintes-Maries and -the pilgrimage to their shrine, but I had never as yet been there. In -the spring of the year 1855 I wrote to my friend Mathieu, ever ready for -a little trip, and proposed we should go together and visit the saints.</p> - -<p>He agreed gladly, and we met at Beaucaire in the Condamine quarter, from -where a pilgrim party annually started on May 24 to the sea-coast -village of Les Saintes-Maries.</p> - -<p>A little after midnight Mathieu and I set forth with a crowd of country -men and women, young girls and children, packed into waggons close as -sardines in a tin; we numbered fourteen in our conveyance.</p> - -<p>Our worthy charioteer, one of those typical Provenceaux whom nothing -dismays, seated us on the shaft, our legs dangling. Half the time he -walked by the side of his horse, the whip round his neck, constantly -relighting his pipe. When he wanted a rest he sat on a small seat niched -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> between the wheels, which the drivers call “carrier of the weary.”</p> - -<p>Just behind me, enveloped in her woollen wrap and stretched on a -mattress by her mother’s side, her feet planted unconcernedly in my -back, was a young girl named Alarde. Not having, however, as yet made -the acquaintance of these near neighbours, Mathieu and I conversed with -the driver, who at once inquired from whence we hailed. On our replying -from Maillane, he remarked that he had already guessed by our speech -that we had not travelled far.</p> - -<p>“The Maillane drivers,” he added, “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>upset on a flat plain’; you know -that saying?”</p> - -<p>“Not all of them,” we laughed.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis but a jest,” he answered. “Why there was one I knew, a carter of -Maillane, who was equipped, I give you my word, like Saint George -himself—Ortolan, his name was.”</p> - -<p>“Was that many years ago?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Aye, sirs, I am speaking of the good old days of the wheel, before -those devourers with their railroads had come and ruined us all: the -days when the fair of Beaucaire was in its splendour, and the first -barge which arrived for the fair was awarded the finest sheep in the -market, and the victorious bargeman used to hang the sheep-skin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> as a -trophy on the main-mast. Those were the days in which the towing-horses -were insufficient to tug up the Rhône the piles of merchandise which -were sold at the fair of Beaucaire, and every man who drove a waggon, -carriage, cart, or van was cracking his whip along the high roads from -Marseilles to Paris, and from Paris to Lille, right away into Flanders. -Ah, you are too young to remember that time.”</p> - -<p>Once launched on his pet theme Lamoureux discoursed, as he tramped -along, till the light of the moon waned and gave place to dawn. Even -then the worthy charioteer would have continued his reminiscences had it -not been that, as the rays of the awakening sun lit up the wide -stretches of the great plains of the Camargue lying between the delta of -the two Rhônes, we arrived at the Bridge of Forks.</p> - -<p>In our eyes, even a more beautiful sight than the rising sun (we were -both about five and twenty) was the awakening maiden who, as I have -mentioned already, had been packed in just behind us with her mother. -Shaking off the hood of her cloak, she emerged all smiling and fresh, -like a goddess of youth. A dark red ribbon caught up her blonde hair -which escaped from the white coif. With her delicate clear skin, curved -lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> half opened in a rapt smile, she looked like a flower shaking off -the morning dew. We greeted her cordially, but Mademoiselle Alarde paid -no attention to us. Turning to her mother she inquired anxiously:</p> - -<p>“Mother, say—are we still far from the great saints?”</p> - -<p>“My daughter, we are still, I should say, eighteen or twenty miles -distant.”</p> - -<p>“Will he be there, my betrothed?—say then—will he be there?” she asked -her mother.</p> - -<p>“Oh hush, my darling,” answered the mother quickly.</p> - -<p>“Ah, how slowly the time goes,” sighed the young girl. Then discovering -all at once that she was ravenously hungry, she suggested breakfast. -Spreading a linen cloth on her knees, she and her mother thereupon -brought out of a wicker basket a quantity of provisions—bread, sausage, -dates, figs, oranges—and, without further ceremony, set to work. We -wished them “good appetite,” whereupon the young girl very charmingly -invited us to join them, which we did on condition that we contributed -the contents of our knapsacks to the repast. Mathieu at once produced -two bottles of good Nerthe wine, which, having uncorked, we poured into -a cup and handed round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> to each of the party in turn, including the -driver; so behold us a happy family.</p> - -<p>At the first halt Mathieu and I got down to stretch our legs. We -inquired of our friend Lamoureux who the young girl might be. He -answered that hers was a sad story. One of the prettiest girls in -Beaucaire, she had been jilted about three months ago by her betrothed, -who had gone off to another girl, rich, but ugly as sin. The effect of -this had been to send Alarde almost out of her mind; the beautiful girl -was in fact not quite sane, declared Lamoureux, though to look at her -one would never guess it. The poor mother, at her wits’ end to know what -to do, was taking her child to Les Saintes-Maries to see if that would -divert her mind and perhaps cure her.</p> - -<p>We expressed our astonishment that any man could be such a scoundrel as -to forsake a young girl so lovely and sweet-looking.</p> - -<p>Arrived at the Jasses d’Albaron, we halted to let the horses have a feed -from their nose-bags. The young girls of Beaucaire who were with us took -this opportunity of surrounding Alarde, and singing a roundel in her -honour:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Au branle de ma tante<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Le rossignol y chante<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Belle, belle Alarde tournez vous.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">La belle s’est tournée,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Son beau l’a regardé:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Belle, belle Alarde, embrassez vous.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">But the result of this well-meant attention was very disastrous, for the -poor Alarde burst out into hysterical laughter, crying, “My lover, my -lover,” as though she were demented.</p> - -<p>Soon after, however, we resumed our journey, for the sky, which since -dawn had been flecked with clouds, became every moment more threatening. -The wind blew straight from the sea, sweeping the black masses of cloud -towards us till all the blue sky was obliterated. The frogs and toads -croaked in the marshes, and our long procession of waggons struggled -slowly through the vast salt plains of the Camargue. The earth felt the -coming storm. Flights of wild ducks and teal passed with a warning cry -over our heads. The women looked anxiously at the black sky. “We shall -be in a nice plight if that storm takes us in the middle of the -Camargue,” said they.</p> - -<p>“Well, you must put your skirts over your heads,” laughed Lamoureux. “It -is a known fact that such clouds bring rain.”</p> - -<p>We passed a mounted bull-driver, his trident in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> his hand, collecting -his scattered beasts. “You’ll get wet,” he prophesied cheerfully.</p> - -<p>A drizzle commenced; then larger drops announced that the water was -going to fall in good earnest. In no time the wide plain was converted -into a watery waste. Seated beneath the awning of the waggon, we saw in -the distance troops of the Camargue horses shaking their long manes and -tails as they started off briskly for the rising grounds and the -sandbanks.</p> - -<p>Down came the rain! The road, drowned in the deluge, became -impracticable. The wheels got clogged, the beasts were unable to drag us -further. Far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but one -vast lake.</p> - -<p>“All must get down!” cried the drivers unanimously. “Women and girls -too, if you do not wish to sleep beneath the tamarisk-bush.”</p> - -<p>“Walk in the water?” cried some in dismay.</p> - -<p>“Walk barefoot, my dears,” answered Lamoureux; “thus you will earn the -great pardon of which you all have need, for I know the sins of some of -you are weighing devilish heavy.”</p> - -<p>Old and young, women and girls, all got down, and with laughter and -shrieks, every one began to prepare themselves for wading, taking off -their shoes and tucking up their clothes. The drivers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> took the children -astride on their shoulders, and Mathieu gallantly offered himself to the -old lady in our waggon, the mother of the pretty Alarde:</p> - -<p>“If you mount on my back,” he said, “I will undertake to carry you -safely to the ‘Dead Goat.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> The old lady, who was so fat she walked with -difficulty even on dry ground, did not refuse such a noble offer.</p> - -<p>“You, my Frédéric, can charge yourself with Alarde,” said Mathieu with a -wink to me, “and we will change from time to time to refresh ourselves, -eh?”</p> - -<p>And forthwith we each took up our burden without further ceremony, an -example which was soon followed by all the young men in the other -waggons.</p> - -<p>Mathieu and his old girl laughed like fools. As for myself, when I felt -the soft round arms of Alarde round my neck as she held the umbrella -over our heads, I own it to this day, I would not have given up that -journey across the Camargue in the rain and slush for a king’s ransom.</p> - -<p>“Oh goodness, if my betrothed could see me now,” repeated Alarde at -intervals; “my betrothed, who no longer loves me—my boy, my handsome -boy!”</p> - -<p>It was in vain that I tried to steal in with my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> little compliments and -soft speeches, she neither heard nor saw me—but I could feel her breath -on my neck and shoulder; I had only to turn my head a little and I could -have kissed her, her hair brushed against mine; the close proximity of -this youth and freshness bewitched me, and while she dreamt only of her -lover, I, for my part, tried to imagine myself a second Paul carrying my -Virginia.</p> - -<p>Just at the happiest moment of my illusion, Mathieu, gasping beneath the -weight of the fat mamma, cried out:</p> - -<p>“Let us change for a bit! I can go no further, my dear fellow.”</p> - -<p>At the trunk of a tamarisk, therefore, we halted and exchanged burdens, -Mathieu taking the daughter, while I, alas, had the mother. And thus for -over two miles, paddling in water up to our knees, we travelled, -changing at intervals and making light of fatigue because of the reward -we both got out of the romantic <i>rôle</i> of Paul!</p> - -<p>At last the heavy rain began to abate, the sky to clear and the roads to -become visible. We remounted the waggons, and about four o’clock in the -afternoon, suddenly we saw rise out of the distant blue of sea and sky, -with its Roman belfry, russet merlons and buttresses, the church of Les -Saintes-Maries.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<p>There was a general exclamation of joyful greeting to the great saints, -for this far-away shrine, standing isolated on the edge of the great -plain, is the Mecca of all the Gulf of Lyons. What impresses one most is -the harmonious grandeur of the vast sweep of land and sea, arched over -by the limitless dome of sky, which, more perfectly here than anywhere -else, appears to embrace the entire terrestrial horizon.</p> - -<p>Lamoureux turned to us saying: “We shall just arrive in time to perform -the office of lowering the shrines; for, gentlemen, you must know that -it is we of Beaucaire to whom is reserved the right before all others of -turning the crane by which the relics of the saints are lowered.”</p> - -<p>The sacred remains of Mary, mother of James the Less, Mary Salome, -mother of James and John, and of Sarah, their servant, are kept in a -small chapel high up just under the dome. From this elevated position, -by means of an aperture which gives on to the church, the shrines are -slowly lowered by a rope over the heads of the worshipping crowd.</p> - -<p>So soon as we had unharnessed, which we did on the sandbanks covered -with tamarisk and orach by which the village is surrounded, we made our -way quickly to the church.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span></p> - -<p>“Light them up well, the dear blessed saints,” cried a group of -Montpellier women selling candles and tapers, medals and images at the -church door.</p> - -<p>The church was crammed with people of all kinds, from Languedoc, from -Arles, the maimed and the halt, together with a crowd of gypsies, all -one on the top of the other. The gypsies buy bigger candles than anybody -else, but devote their attention exclusively to Saint Sarah, who, -according to their belief, was one of their nation. It is here at Les -Saintes-Maries that these wandering tribes hold their annual assemblies, -and from time to time elect their queen.</p> - -<p>It was difficult to get in at the church. A group of market women from -Nîmes, muffled up in black and dragging after them their twill cushions -whereon to sleep all night in the church, were quarrelling for the -chairs. “I had this before you.”—“No, but I hired it,” &c. A priest was -passing “The Sacred Arm” from one to the other to be kissed; to the sick -people they were giving glasses of briny water drawn from the saints’ -well in the middle of the nave, and which on that day they say becomes -sweet. Some, by way of a remedy, were scraping the dust off an ancient -marble block fixed in the wall, and reported to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> the “saints’ -pillow.” A smell of burning tapers, incense, heat and stuffiness -suffocated one, while one’s ears were deafened by each group singing -their own particular canticles at the pitch of their voices.</p> - -<p>Then in the air, slowly the shrines begin to descend, and the crowd -bursts into shouts and cries of “O great Saint Marys!” And as the cord -unrolls, screams and contortions increase, arms are raised, faces -upturned, every one awaits a miracle. Suddenly, from the end of the -church, rushing across the nave, as though she had wings, a beautiful -girl, her fair hair falling about her, flung herself towards the -floating shrines, crying: “O great saints—in pity give me back the love -of my betrothed.”</p> - -<p>All rose to their feet. “It is Alarde!” exclaimed the people from -Beaucaire, while the rest murmured awestruck, “It is Saint Mary Magdalen -come to visit her sisters.” Every one wept with emotion.</p> - -<p>The following day took place the procession on the sea-shore to the soft -murmur and splash of the breaking waves. In the distance, on the high -seas, two or three ships tacked about as though coming in, while all -along the coast extended the long procession, ever seeming to lengthen -out with the moving line of the waves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span></p> - -<p>It was just here, says the legend,<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> that the three Saint Marys in -their skiff were cast ashore in Provence after the death of Our Lord. -And looking out over the wide glistening sea, that lies in the midst of -such visions and memories, illuminated by the radiant sunshine, it -seemed to us in truth we were on the threshold of Paradise.</p> - -<p>Our little friend Alarde, looking rather pale after the emotions of the -previous day, was one of a group of maidens chosen to bear on their -shoulders the “Boat of the Saints,” and many murmurs of sympathy -followed her as she passed. This was the last we saw of her, for, so -soon as the saints had reascended to their chapel, we took the omnibus -for Aigues-Mortes, together with a crowd of people returning to -Montpellier and Lundy, who beguiled the way by singing in chorus hymns -to the Saints of the Sea.</p> - -<p class="c">STANZAS FROM “MIREILLE”<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sisters and the brothers, we<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who followed him ever constantly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the raging sea were cruelly driven<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a crazy ship without a sail,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Without an oar, ’mid the angry gale;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We women could only weep and wail—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men uplifted their eyes to Heaven!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A gust tempestuous drives the ship<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er fearsome waves, in the wild storm’s grip;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Martial and Saturninus, lowly<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In prayer kneel yonder on the prow;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Old Trophimus with thoughtful brow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sits closely wrapped in his mantle now<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By Maximus, the Bishop holy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There on the deck, amid the gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stands Lazarus, of shroud and tomb<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Always the mortal pallor keeping;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His glance the raging gulf defies;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And with the doomed ship onward flies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Martha his sister; there, too, lies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Magdalen, o’er her sorrows weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Upon a smooth and rockless strand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alleluiah! our ship doth land.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Prostrate we fall on the wet sand, crying:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Our lives, that He from storm did save,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Here are they ready, Death to brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And preach the law that once He gave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Christ, we swear it, even dying!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At that glad name, most glorious still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Noble Provence seemed all a-thrill;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forest and moor throughout their being<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Were stirred and answered that new cry;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As when a dog, his master nigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Goes out to meet him joyfully,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And welcome gives, the master seeing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sea some shells to shore had cast ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou gav’st a feast to our long fast—<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Our Father, Thou who art in Heaven;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2">And for our thirst, a fountain clear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rose limpid ’mid the sea-plants here;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And, marvellous, still rises near<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The church where we were burial given.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><br /> -<small>JEAN ROUSSIÈRE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Good</span> morning, Mr. Frédéric. They tell me that you have need of a man on -the farm.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—from whence comest thou?”</p> - -<p>“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’—near to Avignon.”</p> - -<p>“And what canst thou do?”</p> - -<p>“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer, -carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on -occasions, pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of -sewers, which is the lowest of all!”</p> - -<p>“And they call thee?”</p> - -<p>“Jean Roussière, and Rousseyron—and Seyron for short.”</p> - -<p>“How much do you ask?—it is for taking care of the beasts.”</p> - -<p>“About fifteen louis.”</p> - -<p>“I will give thee a hundred crowns.”</p> - -<p>“All right for a hundred crowns.”</p> - -<p>That is how I engaged Jean Roussière, he who taught me the old -folk-melody of “Magali”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span>—a jovial fellow and made on the lines of a -Hercules. The last year that I lived at the farm, with my blind father, -in the long watches of our solitude Jean Roussière never failed to keep -me interested and amused, good fellow that he was. At his work he was -excellent and always enlivened his beasts by some cheering song.</p> - -<p>Naturally artistic in all he did, even if it was heaping a rick of straw -or a pile of manure, or stowing away a cargo, he knew how to give the -harmonious line or, as they say, the graceful sweep. But he had the -defects of his qualities and was rather too fond of taking life in an -easy and leisurely fashion, even passing part of it in an afternoon nap.</p> - -<p>A charming talker at all times, it was worth hearing him as he spoke of -the days when he led the big teams of horses on the towing-path, tugging -the barges up the Rhône to Valence and to Lyons.</p> - -<p>“Just fancy!” he said, “at the age of twenty, I led the finest turn-out -on the banks of the Rhône! A turn-out of twenty-four stallions, four -abreast, dragging six barges! Ah, what fine mornings those were, when we -set out on the banks of the big river and silently, slowly, this fleet -moved up the stream!”</p> - -<p>And Jean Roussière would enumerate all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> places on the two banks; the -inns, the hostesses, the streams, the sluices, the roads and the fords -from Arles to the Revestidou, from the Coucourde to the Ermitage. But -his greatest happiness and triumph was at the feast of Saint-Eloi.</p> - -<p>“I will show your Maillanais,” he said, “if they have not already seen -it, how we ride a little mule!”</p> - -<p>Saint-Eloi is, in Provence, the feast of the agriculturists. All over -Provence on that day the village priests bless the cattle, asses, mules -and horses; and the people owning the beasts partake of the “blessed -bread,” that excellent “blessed bread” flavoured with aniseed and yellow -with eggs, which they call <i>tortillarde</i>. At Maillane it was our custom -on that day to deck a chariot with green boughs and harness to it forty -or fifty beasts, caparisoned as in the time of the tournaments, with -beards, embroidered saddle-cloths, plumes, mirrors and crescents of -brass. The whip was put up to auction, that is to say, the office of -Prior was put up to public auction:</p> - -<p>“Thirty francs for the whip!—a hundred francs!—two hundred francs! -Once—twice—thrice!”</p> - -<p>The presidency of the feast fell to the highest bidder. The chariot of -green boughs led the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> procession, a cavalcade of joyful labourers, each -one walking proudly near his own horse or mule, and cracking his whip. -In the chariot, accompanied by the musicians playing the tambourine and -flute, the Prior was seated. On the mules, fathers placed their little -ones astride, the latter holding on happily to the trappings. The -horses’ collars were all ornamented with a cake of the blessed bread, in -the form of a crown, and a pennon in paper bearing a picture of -Saint-Eloi; and carried on the shoulders of the Priors of the past years -was an image of the saint, in full glory, like a golden bishop, the -crozier in his hand.</p> - -<p>Drawn by the fifty mules or donkeys round the village rolled the -chariot, in a cloud of dust, with the farm labourers running like mad by -the side of their beasts, all in their shirt sleeves, hats at the back -of their heads, a belt round the waist, and low shoes.</p> - -<p>That year Jean Roussière, mounting our mule Falette, astonished the -spectators. Light as a cat, he jumped on the animal, then off again, -remounted, now sitting on one side, now standing upright on the crupper, -there in turn doing the goose step, the forked tree and the frog, on the -mule’s back—in short, giving a sort of Arab horseman’s performance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span></p> - -<p>But where he shone with even greater lustre was at the supper of -Saint-Eloi, for after the chariot procession the Priors give a feast. -Every one having eaten and drunk their fill and said grace, Roussière -rose and addressed the company.</p> - -<p>“Comrades! Here you are, a crowd of good-for-nothings and rascals, who -have kept the Saint-Eloi for the past thousand years, and yet I will -wager none of you know the history of your great patron.”</p> - -<p>The company confessed that all they had heard was that their saint had -been a blacksmith.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I am going to tell you how he became a saint.” And while -soaking a crisp <i>tortillarde</i> in his glass of Tavel wine, the worthy -Roussière proceeded:</p> - -<p>“Our Lord God the Father, one day in Paradise, wore a troubled air. The -child Jesus inquired of him:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What is the matter, my Father?’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I have,’ replied God, ‘a case that greatly plagues me. Hold, look down -there!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Where?’ asked Jesus.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Down there, in the Limousin, to the right of my finger: thou seest, in -that village, near the city, a smithy, a large fine smithy?’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I see—I see.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Well, my son, there is a man that I should like to have saved: they -call him Master Eloi. He is a reliable, good fellow, a faithful observer -of my Commandments, charitable to the poor, kind-hearted to every one, -of exemplary conduct, hammering away from morning to night without evil -speaking or blasphemy. Yes, he seems to me worthy to become a great -saint.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And what prevents it?’ asked Jesus.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>His pride, my son. Because he is a good worker, a worker of the first -order, Eloi thinks that no one on earth is above him, and presumption is -perdition.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>My Lord Father,’ said Jesus, ‘if you will permit me to descend to the -earth I will try and convert him.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Go, my dear son.’</p> - -<p>“And the good Jesus descended. Dressed like an apprentice, his tool-bag -on his back, the divine workman alighted right in the street where Eloi -dwelt. Over the blacksmith’s door was the usual signboard, and on it -this inscription:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Eloi the blacksmith, master above all other masters, forges a shoe in -two heatings.’</p> - -<p>“The little apprentice stepped on to the threshold and taking off his -hat:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>God give you good-day, master, and to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> the company,’ said he; ‘have -you need of any help?’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Not for the moment,’ answered Eloi.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Farewell then, master: it will be for another time.’</p> - -<p>“And the good Jesus continued his road. In the street he saw a group of -men talking, and Jesus said in passing:</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I should not have thought that in such a smithy, where there must be, -one would think, so much doing, they would refuse me work.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Wait a bit, my lad,’ said one of the neighbours. ‘What salutation did -you make to Master Eloi!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I said, as is usual, “God give you good-day, master, and to the -company!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Ah, but that is not what you should have said. You should have -addressed him as, “Master above all other masters.” There, look at the -board!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>That is true,’ said Jesus. ‘I will try again.’ And with that he -returned to the smithy.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>God give you good-day, master above all other masters. Have you no -need of an apprentice?’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Come in, come in,’ replied Eloi. ‘I have been thinking that we could -give you work also.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> But listen to this once and for all: When you -address me, you must say, “Master, above all other masters,” see -you—this is not to boast, but men like me, who can forge a shoe in two -heatings, there are not two in Limousin!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Oh,’ replied the apprentice, ‘in our country, we do it with one -heating!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Only one heating! Go to, boy, be silent then—why the thing is not -possible.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Very well, you shall see, master above all other masters!’</p> - -<p>“Jesus took a piece of iron, threw it into the forge, blew, made up the -fire, and when the iron was red—red, and incandescent—he took it out -with his hand.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Oh—poor simpleton!’ the head apprentice cried to him, ‘thou wilt -scorch thy fingers!’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Have no fear!’ answered Jesus. ‘Thanks to God, in our country we have -no need of pincers.’ And the little workman seizes with his hand the -iron heated to white heat, carries it to the anvil, and with his hammer, -pif, paf, in the twinkle of an eye, stretches it, flattens it, rounds it -and stamps it so well that one would have said it was cast.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Oh, I, too,’ said Master Eloi, ‘I could do that if I wanted to.’</p> - -<p>“He then takes a piece of iron, throws it in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> forge, blows, makes up -the fire, and when the iron is red hot, goes to take it as his -apprentice had done and carry it to the anvil—but he burns his fingers -badly! In vain he tried to hurry, to harden himself to endure the burn, -he was forced to let go his hold and run for the pincers. In the -meantime the shoe for the horse grew cold—and only a few sparks burnt -out. Ah! poor Master Eloi, he might well hammer, and put himself in a -sweat—to do it with one heating was impossible.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But listen,’ said the apprentice, ‘I seem to hear the gallop of a -horse.’</p> - -<p>“Master Eloi at once stalked to the door and sees a cavalier, a splendid -cavalier, drawing up at the smithy. Now this was Saint-Martin.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I come a long way,’ he said, ‘my horse has lost a shoe, and I am in a -great hurry to find a blacksmith.’</p> - -<p>“Master Eloi bridled up.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>My lord,’ said he, ‘you could not have chanced better. You have come -to the first blacksmith of Limousin—of Limousin and of France, who may -well call himself “master of all the masters,” and who forges a shoe in -two heats. Here lad, hold the horse’s hoof,’ he called.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span></p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Hold the hoof!’ cried Jesus. ‘In our country we do not find that -necessary.’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Well, what next,’ cried the master blacksmith, ‘that is a little too -much! And how can one shoe a horse, in your country, without holding the -hoof?’</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But faith, nothing is easier, as you shall see.’</p> - -<p>“And so saying, the young man seized a knife, went up to the horse, and -crack! cut off the hoof. He carried it into the smithy, fastened it in -the vice, carefully heated the hoof, fastened on the new shoe that he -had just made; with the shoeing hammer he knocked in the nails, then -loosening the vice, returned the foot to the horse, spat on it and -fitted it, saying, as he made the sign of the Cross, ‘May God grant that -the blood dries up,’ and there was the foot finished, shod and healed as -no one had ever seen before and as no one will ever see again.</p> - -<p>“The first apprentice opened his eyes wide as the palm of your hand, -while Master Eloi’s assistants began to perspire.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Ho,’ said Eloi at last, ‘my faith, but I will do it like that—do it -just as well.’</p> - -<p>“He sets himself to the task. Knife in hand he approaches the horse, and -crack! he cuts off the foot, carries it into the smithy, fastens it into -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> vice, and shoes it at his ease, just like the young apprentice.</p> - -<p>“But then came the hitch, he must put it back in place. He approaches -the horse, spits on the shoe, applies it to the fetlock as best he can. -Alas! the salve does not stick, the blood flows, and the foot falls! -Then was the proud soul of Master Eloi illuminated: and he went back -into the smithy there to prostrate himself at the feet of the young -apprentice. But Jesus had disappeared, and also the horse and the -cavalier. Tears gushed from the eyes of Master Eloi; he recognised, poor -man, that there was a master above him, and above all. Throwing aside -his apron he left the forge and went out into the world to teach the -word of the Lord Jesus.”</p> - -<p>Great applause followed the conclusion of this legend, applause both for -Saint-Eloi and for Jean Roussière.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Before I leave the worthy Jean I must mention that it was he who sang to -me the popular air to which I put the serenade of Magali, an air so -sweet, so melodious, that many regretted not finding it in Gounod’s -opera of <i>Mireille</i>. The only person in all the world that I ever heard -sing that particular air was Jean Roussière, who was apparently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> the -last to retain it. It was a strange coincidence that he should come, by -chance as it were, and sing it to me, at the moment when I was looking -for the Provençal note of my love-song, and thus enable me to save it -just at the moment when, like so many other things, it was about to be -relegated to oblivion.</p> - -<p>The name of Magali, an abbreviation of Marguerite, I heard one day as I -was returning home from Saint-Rémy. A young shepherdess was tending a -flock of sheep along the Grande Roubine. “Oh! Magali, art not coming -yet?” cried a boy to her as he passed by. The limpid name struck me as -so pretty that at once I sang:</p> - -<h3>MAGALI.<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor1">[15]</a></h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, belovèd maid,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Forth from thy casement lean!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And listen to my serenade<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of viols and tambourine.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Were ever stars so many seen!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The wind to rest is laid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when thy face thou shalt unveil,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">These stars shall pale!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“So as for rustling leaves, I care<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For this thy roundelay!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll turn into an eel, and fare<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the blonde sea away!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, if thou wilt play<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At turning fish, beware!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I the fisherman will be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fish for thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Oh, and if thou thy nets would’st fling<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As fisherman, then stay!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll be a bird upon the wing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And o’er the moors away.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, and would’st thou stray,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A wild bird wandering?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll take my gun and speedily<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Give chase to thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“For partridge or for warbler’s breed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If thou thy snares would’st lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon the vast and flowery mead<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As flower I’ll hide away.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, if thou a spray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of blossom art indeed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The limpid brook then I will be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And water thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And if thou art the limpid brook,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’ll be a cloud, and heigh!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shall be gone, ere thou can’st look,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To far Americay!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, and though the way<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To furthest Ind you took,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d make myself the wind at sea<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And carry thee.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Wert thou the wind, by some device<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’d fly another way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d be the shaft, that melts the ice,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the great orb of day.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, wert thou a ray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of sunshine—in a trice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The emerald lizard I would be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And drink in thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And wert thou, hidden ’mid the fern,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A salamander—nay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d be the full moon, that doth turn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For witches, night to day.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Magali, would’st thou essay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To be the moon, I’d learn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A soft and silver mist to be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Enfolding thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“But though the mist enfold, not so<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shalt thou me yet waylay!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I a pure, fair rose shall grow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And ’mid my branches sway.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, and though you may<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be loveliest rose, yet know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I the butterfly shall be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which kisseth thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Go to! pursuer, thou’lt not win,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Though thou should’st run for aye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For in some forest oak’s rough skin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will myself array.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, though thou grow grey<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The doleful tree within,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A branch of ivy will I be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Embracing thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And if thou dost, thou wilt embrace<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Only an oak’s decay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For in the convent of Saint-Blaise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A White Nun, I will pray.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, when comes that day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There in the holy place<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Father Confessor will I be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And hark to thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Pass but the gate, and in my stead<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou wilt find, well-a-day!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The nuns all sadly busièd<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Me in my shroud to lay.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, and if cold clay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou make thyself, and dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Earth I’ll become, and there thou’lt be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At last, for me.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I half begin to think, in sooth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou speakest earnestly!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then take my ring of glass, fair youth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In memory of me.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Thou healest me, O Magali!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And mark how, of a truth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars, since thou did’st drop thy veil,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have all grown pale!”<br /></span> -<span class="i10">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span></p> - -<p>It was in the autumn of this year 1855 that the first cloud overshadowed -my happy youth. It was the sorrow of losing my father. He had become -quite blind, and as far back as the previous Christmas we had been -anxious about him. For on that occasion he whom the festival had always -filled with joy, this year seemed overcome by a deep depression which we -felt augured badly for the future. It was in vain that as usual we lit -the three sacred candles and spread the table with the three white -cloths; in vain that I offered him the mulled wine, hoping to hear from -his lips the sacramental “Good cheer.” Groping, alas! with his long thin -arms, he seated himself with never a word. In vain also my mother tried -to tempt him with the dishes of Christmas, one after the other—the -plate of snails, the fish of Martique, the almond nougat, the cake of -oil. Wrapt in pensive thought the poor old man supped in silence. A -shadow, a forerunner of death, was over him, and his blindness oppressed -him. Once he looked up and spoke.</p> - -<p>“Last year at Christmas I could still see the light of the candles; but -this year, nothing, nothing. Help me, O blessed Virgin.”</p> - -<p>In the first days of September he departed this life. Having received -the last sacrament with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> sincerity and faith, the strong faith of simple -souls, he turned to his family, who all stood weeping around his bed:</p> - -<p>“Come, come, my children,” he said to us. “I am going—and to God I give -thanks for all that I owe him: my long life and my labour, which He has -blessed.”</p> - -<p>Then he called me to him and asked:</p> - -<p>“Frédéric, what sort of weather is it?”</p> - -<p>“It rains, my father,” I replied.</p> - -<p>“Ah well,” he said, “if it rains it its good for the seeds.”</p> - -<p>Then he gave up his soul to God. I can never forget that moment! They -covered his head with the sheet, and near the bed, that big bed in the -white alcove where in broad daylight I had been born, they lit a long -pale taper. The shutters of the room were half closed. The labourers -were ordered to unyoke at once. The maid, in the kitchen, turned over -the cauldrons and pots on the dresser.</p> - -<p>Around the ashes of the fire, which had been extinguished, we seated -ourselves in a silent circle, my mother at the corner of the big -chimney, bearing, according to the custom of the widows of Provence, as -sign of mourning, a white fichu on her head. And all day the neighbours, -men and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_012" id="ill_012"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 451px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp266_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp266_sml.jpg" width="451" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), 2nd Queen of the -Félibres.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">women, relations and friends, came to offer us their sympathy, greeting -us one after another with the customary “May our Lord preserve you!”</p> - -<p>And lengthily, piously, they went through the condolences in honour of -the “poor master.”</p> - -<p>The next day all Maillane assisted at the funeral ceremony; and in their -prayers for him, the poor added always:</p> - -<p>“God grant that as many angels may accompany him to heaven as he has -given us loaves of bread!”</p> - -<p>The coffin was borne by hand with cloths, the lid off in order that for -the last time the people might see him with crossed hands in his white -shroud. Behind walked Jean Roussière carrying the wax taper which had -watched over his master.</p> - -<p>As for me, while the passing-bell sounded in the distance, I went to -weep alone in the fields, for the tree of the house had fallen. The Mas -du Juge, the home of my childhood, was now desolate and deserted in my -eyes as though it had lost its guardian spirit. The head of the family, -Master François my father, had been the last of the patriarchs of -Provence, a faithful preserver of traditions and customs, and the last, -at least for me, of that austere generation, religious, humble, and -self-controlled,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> who had patiently gone through the miseries and -convulsions of the Revolution, giving to France the disinterested -devotion which flamed up in her great holocausts, and the indefatigable -service of her big armies.</p> - -<p>One week later the division of property took place. The farm produce and -the “stacks,” the horses, oxen, sheep, poultry—all were divided into -lots. The furniture, our dear old things, the big four-poster beds, the -kneading-trough of iron-work, the meal-chest, the polished wardrobes, -the carved kneading-trough, the table, the mirror, all which, ever since -my childhood, I had seen as a part of my home life, the rows of plates, -the painted china, which never left the shelves of the dresser, the -sheets of hemp that my mother herself had woven; agricultural -implements, waggons, ploughs, harness, tools, utensils of every -kind—all these were collected and set out on the threshing-floor of the -farm, to be divided in three divisions by an expert. The servants, hired -either by the year or the month, left one after the other. And to the -paternal farm,<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> which was not in my division, I had to say good-bye.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, with my mother and the dog,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> and Jean Roussière who acted -as charioteer, we departed with heavy hearts, to dwell henceforth in the -house at Maillane which in the division had fallen to me.</p> - -<p>It was from personal experience I could write later on in <i>Mireille</i> of -home-sickness:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Comme au mas, comme au temps de mon pére, hélas! hélas!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><br /> -<small>“MIREILLE”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> following year (1856), at the time of the fête of Sainte-Agathe, -patroness of Maillane, I received a visit from a well-known poet in -Paris. Fate, or rather the good star of the Félibres, brought him just -in the propitious hour. It was Adolphe Dumas—a fine figure of a man -some fifty years old, of an æsthetic pallor, with long hair turning grey -and a brown moustache like a lap-dog. His black eyes were full of fire, -and he had a habit of accompanying his ringing voice with a fine waving -gesture of the hand. He was tall, but lame, dragging a crippled leg as -he walked. He reminded one of a cypress of Provence agitated by the -wind.</p> - -<p>“Is it you, then, Monsieur Mistral, who write verses in the Provençal?” -he began to me in a joking tone as he held out his hand.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is I,” I replied. “At your service, Monsieur.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, I hope that you can serve me. The Minister for Public -Instruction, Monsieur Fortoul, of Digne, has given me the commission<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> to -come and collect the popular songs of Provence, such as ‘Le Mousse de -Marseille,’ ‘La Belle Margoton,’ ‘Les Noces du Papillon,’ and if you -know of any, I am here to collect them.”</p> - -<p>And talking over this matter I sang to him, as it happened, the serenade -of Magali, freshly arranged for the poem of <i>Mireille</i>.</p> - -<p>Adolphe Dumas started up all alert.</p> - -<p>“But where did you find that pearl?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“It is part,” I answered, “of a Provençal poem in twelve cantos to which -I am just giving the finishing touches.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, these good Provencaux!” he laughed. “You are always the same, -determined to keep your tattered language, like the donkeys who will -walk along the borders of the roads to graze upon thistles. It is in -French, my dear friend, it is in the language of Paris that we must sing -of our Provence to-day if we wish to be heard. Now, listen to this:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“J’ai revu sur mon roc, vieille, nue, appauvrie,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">La maison des parents, la première patrie,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">L’ombre du vieux mûrier, le banc de pierre étroit,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Le nid de l’hirondelle avait au bord du toit,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et la treille, à présent sur les murs égarée,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Qui regrette son maître et retombe éplorée;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et dans l’herbe et l’oubli qui poussent sur le seuil,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">J’ai fait pieusement agenouiller l’orgueil,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i1">J’ai rouvert la fenêtre où me vint la lumière,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et j’ai rempli de chants la couche de ma mère!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“But come, tell me, since poem there is, tell me something of your -Provençal production.”</p> - -<p>I then read him something out of <i>Mireille</i>, I forget what.</p> - -<p>“Ah! if you are going to talk like that,” said Dumas after my -recitation, “I take off my hat and greet the source of a new poetry, of -an indigenous poetry hitherto unknown. It teaches me, who have left -Provence for thirty years, and who thought her language dead, that -behind this dialect used by the common people, the half-<i>bourgeois</i> and -the half-ladies, there exists a second language, that of Dante and -Petrarch. But take care to follow their methods, which did not consist, -as some think, in using the language as they found it, or in making a -mixture of the dialects of Florence, Bologna and Milan. They collected -the oil and then constructed a language which they made perfect while -generalising it. All who preceded the Latin writers of the great time of -Augustus, with the exception of Terence, were but trash. Of the popular -tongue, use only a few white straws with the grain that may be there. I -feel certain that you have the requisite sap running in your youthful -veins to ensure success. Already I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> begin to see the possibility of the -rebirth of a language founded upon Latin, which shall be beautiful and -sonorous as the best Italian.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The story of Adolphe Dumas was like a fairy-tale. Born of the people, -his parents kept a little inn between Orgon and Cabane. Dumas had a -sister named Laura, beautiful as the day and innocent as a spring of -fresh water. One day, lo and behold, some strolling players passed -through the village, and gave in the evening a performance at the little -inn. One of them played the part of a prince. The gold tinsel of his -costume glittering beneath the big lanterns gave him, in the eyes of -poor little Laura, the appearance of a king’s son. Innocent, alas! as -many a one before, Laura allowed herself, so the story goes, to be -beguiled and carried off by this prince of the open road. She travelled -with the company and embarked at Marseilles. Too soon she learnt her mad -mistake, and not daring to return home, in desperation she took the -coach for Paris, where she arrived one morning in torrents of rain. -There she found herself on the street, alone and destitute. A gentleman, -driving past, noticed the young Provençale in tears. Stopping his -carriage he asked her: “My pretty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> child, what is the matter—why do you -weep so bitterly?”</p> - -<p>In her naïve way Laura told him her story. The gentleman, who was rich, -suddenly touched and taken with her beauty and simplicity, made her get -into his carriage, took her to a convent, had her carefully educated, -and then married her. But the beautiful bride, who had a noble heart, -did not forget her own relations. She sent for her little brother -Adolphe to Paris, and gave him a good education, and that is how Adolphe -Dumas, a poet by nature and an enthusiast, one day found himself in the -midst of the literary movement of 1830. Verses of all sorts, dramas, -comedies, poems, bubbled forth one after another from his seething -brain: “La Cité des Hommes,” “La Mort de Faust et de Don Juan,” “Le Camp -des Croisés,” “Provence,” “Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” “L’Ecole des -Familles,” “Les Servitudes Volontaires,” &c. But, just as in the army, -though all may do their duty every one does not receive the Legion of -Honour, in spite of his pluck and the comparative success of his plays -in the Paris theatres, the poet Dumas, like our drummer-boy of Arcole, -remained always the undecorated soldier. This it was, no doubt, which -made him say later on in Provençal:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<p>“At forty years and more, when every one is angling, still I dip my -bread in the poor man’s soup. Let us be content if we have a soul at -peace, a pure heart and clean hands. ‘What has he earned?’ the world -will ask, ‘He carries his head erect.’ ‘What does he do?’ ‘He does his -duty.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>But if Dumas had gained no special laurels, he had won the esteem of the -most distinguished brothers-in-arms, and Hugo, Lamartine, Béranger, De -Vigny, the great Dumas, Jules Janin, Mignet, Barbey d’Aurevilly were -among his friends.</p> - -<p>Adolphe Dumas, with his ardent temperament, his experience of struggling -days in Paris, and the memory of his childhood on the Durance, came to -the determination to issue a passenger’s ticket to Félibrige between -Avignon and Paris.</p> - -<p>My poem of Provence was at last finished, though not yet printed, when -one day my friend Frédéric Legré, a young Marseillais who formerly -frequented Font-Ségugne, said to me:</p> - -<p>“I am going to Paris—will you come too?”</p> - -<p>I accepted the invitation, and it was thus that on the spur of the -moment, for the first time, I visited Paris, where I stayed one week. I -had, needless to say, brought my manuscript, and after spending the -first two days in sight-seeing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> and admiring, from Notre-Dame to the -Louvre, and from the Place Vendôme to the great Arc de Triomphe, we -went, as was proper, and paid our respects to the good Dumas.</p> - -<p>“Well, and that <i>Mireille</i>,” he asked me, “is she finished?”</p> - -<p>“She is finished,” I said, “and here she is—in manuscript.”</p> - -<p>“Come now, since you are here, you will read me a song.”</p> - -<p>And when I had read the first canto, “Go on!” said Dumas.</p> - -<p>I read the second, then the third, then the fourth canto.</p> - -<p>“That is enough for to-day,” said the good man. “Come to-morrow at the -same time, we will continue the reading; but this much I may assure -you,” he added, “if your work keeps up to this level, you may win finer -laurels than at present you have any idea of.”</p> - -<p>I returned the next day and read four more cantos, and the day after we -finished the poem.</p> - -<p>That same day (August 26, 1856) Adolphe Dumas wrote to the editor of the -<i>Gazette de France</i> the following letter:</p> - -<p>“The <i>Gazette du Midi</i> has already made known to the <i>Gazette de France</i> -the arrival in Paris of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> young Mistral, the poet of Provence. Who is -this Mistral? No one knows anything of him. When I am asked, I answer -fearing my words should find no credence, so surprising will be my -statements at a time when the prevalence of imitation poetry makes one -believe that all true poetry and poets are dead. In ten years’ time the -Academy will, when all the world has already done so, recognise another -glory to French literature. The clock of the Institute is often an hour -behind the century, but I wish to be the first to discover one who may -be truly called the Virgil of Provence, and who, like the shepherd of -Mantua, sings to his countrymen songs worthy of Gallus and of Scipio. -Many have long desired for our beautiful country of the south, Roman -both in speech and religion, the poem which shall express in her own -tongue the sacred beliefs and pure customs of our land. I have the poem -in my hands, it consists of twelve songs. It is signed Frédéric Mistral, -of the village of Maillane, and I countersign it with my word of honour, -which I have never given falsely, and with the full weight of my -responsibility.”</p> - -<p>This letter was received with jeers by certain papers. “The mistral is -incarnated, it appears, in a poem. We shall see if it will be anything -except wind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span></p> - -<p>But Dumas, content with the effect of the bomb, said, clasping my hand:</p> - -<p>“Now, my dear fellow, return to Avignon and get your <i>Mireille</i> printed. -We have thrown down the glove, now let the critics talk. They must each -one have their say in turn.”</p> - -<p>Before I left Paris my devoted compatriot wished to present me to -Lamartine, his friend, and this is how the great man recounts the visit -in his “Cours familier de Littérature” (quarantième entretien, 1859):</p> - -<p>“As the sun was setting, Adolphe Dumas entered my room, followed by a -fine, modest-looking young man, dressed with a sober elegance which -recalled the lover of Laura, when he brushed his black tunic and combed -his smooth hair in the city of Avignon. It was Frédéric Mistral, the -young village poet, destined to become in Provence, what Burns the -ploughman was in Scotland, the Homer of his native land.</p> - -<p>“His expression was straightforward, modest and gentle, with nothing in -it of that proud tension of the features or of that vacancy of the eye -which too often characterises those men of vanity rather than genius, -styled popular poets. He had the comeliness of sincerity, he pleased, he -interested, he touched; one recognised in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> masculine beauty the son -of one of those beautiful Arlesiennes, living statues of Greece, who -still move in our south.</p> - -<p>“Mistral sat down without ceremony at my dinner-table in Paris, -according to the laws of ancient hospitality, as I would have seated -myself at the farm table of his mother at Maillane. The dinner was -quiet, the conversation intimate and frank. The evening passed quickly -and pleasantly in my little garden about the size of the kerchief of -Mireille, to the song of blackbirds in the fresh cool night air.</p> - -<p>“The young man recited some verses in the sweet nervous idiom of -Provence, which combines the Latin pronunciation with the grace of -Attica and the serenity of Tuscany. My knowledge of the Latin dialects, -which I spoke up to the age of twelve in the mountains of my country, -made these fine idioms intelligible to me. The verses of Mistral were -liquid and melodious, they pleased without intoxicating me. The genius -of the young man was not there, the medium was too restricted for his -soul; he needed, as did Jasmin, that other singer of indigenous growth, -his epic poem in which to spread his wings. He returned to his village, -there at his mother’s hearth and beside the flocks to find his last -inspirations. On taking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> leave, he promised to send me the first printed -copy of his <i>Mireille</i>.”</p> - -<p>After this memorable occasion I paid my farewell respects to Lamartine. -He lived at that time on the ground floor in the Rue de la -Ville-l’Evêque. It was evening. Burdened with his debts and somewhat -forsaken, the great man drowsed on a sofa, smoking a cigar, while some -visitors spoke in low voices around him.</p> - -<p>All at once a servant came to announce that a Spaniard, a harpist called -Herrera, asked permission to play some of the music of his country -before Monsieur de Lamartine.</p> - -<p>“Let him come in,” said the poet.</p> - -<p>When the harpist had played his tunes, Lamartine, in a whisper to his -niece, Madame de Cessia, asked if there was any money in the drawers of -his bureau.</p> - -<p>“There are still two louis,” she replied.</p> - -<p>“Give them to Herrera,” said the kind-hearted Lamartine.</p> - -<p>I returned to Provence to get my poem printed, and so soon as it issued -from the printing office of Seguin at Avignon, I directed the first -proof to Lamartine, who wrote to Reboul<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> the following letter:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span></p> - -<p>“I have read <i>Mirèio</i>. Nothing until now has appeared of such national, -vital, inimitable growth of the South. There is a virtue in the sun of -Provence. I have received such a thrust both in the spirit and the heart -that I was impelled to write a discourse on the poem. Tell this to -Monsieur Mistral. Since the Homerics of Archipel, no such spring of -primitive poetry has gushed forth. I cried, even as you did, ‘It is -Homer!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Adolphe Dumas wrote me:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -<i>March, 1859.</i></p> - -<p>“Another joyful letter for you, my dear friend. I went, last -evening, to Lamartine. On seeing me enter, he received me with -exclamations of enthusiasm, using much the same expressions as I -did in my letter to the <i>Gazette de France</i>. He has read and -understood, he says, your poem from one end to the other. He read -it and re-read it three times; he cannot leave it, and reads -nothing else. His niece, that beautiful person whom you saw, added -that she has been unable to steal it from him for one instant to -read it herself, and he is going to devote an entire lecture to you -and <i>Mirèio</i>. He asked me for biographical notes on you and on -Maillane. I sent them to him this morning. You were the subject of -general conversation all the evening, and your poem was rehearsed -by Lamartine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> and by me from the first word to the last. If this -lecture speaks thus of you, your fame is assured throughout the -world. He says you are ‘A Greek of the Cyclades.’ He has written of -you to Reboul, ‘He is a Homer.’ He charges me to write you <i>all -that I will</i>, and he added I cannot say too much, he is so entirely -delighted. So be very happy, you and your dear mother, of whom I -retain a charming remembrance.”</p></div> - -<p>I wish to record here a very singular fact of maternal intuition. I had -given to my mother a copy of <i>Mirèio</i>, but without having spoken to her -of Lamartine’s opinion, of which I was still ignorant. At the end of the -day, when I thought she had made acquaintance with the work, I asked her -what she thought of it, and she answered me, deeply moved:</p> - -<p>“A very strange thing happened to me when I opened thy book: a flash of -light, like a star, dazzled me suddenly, and I was obliged to delay the -reading until later!”</p> - -<p>One may believe it or no, but I have always thought that this vision of -my beloved and sainted mother was a very real sign of the influence of -Sainte-Estelle, otherwise of the star that had presided at the -foundation of Félibrige.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span></p> - -<p>The fortieth discourse of the “Cours familier de Littérature” appeared a -month later (1859) under the title of “The Appearance of an Epic Poem in -Provence.” Lamartine devoted eighty pages to the poem of <i>Mireille</i>, and -this glorification was the crowning event of the numberless articles -which had welcomed the rustic epic in the press of Provence, of -Languedoc, and of Paris. I testified my gratitude in the Provençal -quatrain, which I inscribed at the head of the second edition.</p> - -<h3>TO LAMARTINE.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To thee alone <i>Mireille</i> I dedicate;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My heart, my soul, my flower, the best of me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bunch of Crau’s sweet grapes and leaves, that late<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A peasant offers thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12"><i>September 8, 1859.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And the following is the elegy that I published on the death of the -great man, ten years later (1869).</p> - -<h3>ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LAMARTINE.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor1">[18]</a></h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the day-star draws near to the hour of his setting,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When dusk clothes the hills, and the shepherds are letting<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their sheep and their herds and their dogs go free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then up from the marshlands, all groaning together,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come the wails of the toilers through sweltering weather:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“That sunshine was nearly the death of me!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou, of God’s holy words the magnanimous preacher,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Even so, Lamartine, O my father, my teacher,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When by song, and by deed, and consoling tear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou did’st lavish thy love and thy light unsparing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the world had its fill, and the world, not caring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grew weary and sated, and would not hear:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then each one his taunt through the mist must needs fling thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And each one a stone from his armoury sling thee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy splendour but hurt us, and tired our sight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a star that grows dim and no longer can light them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a crucified god—these will ever delight them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ignorant crowd—and the toads love night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, then were there seen things prodigious, by Heaven!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fresh youth to the soul of the world had he given,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He, of purest poesy mighty source;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet the new young rhymesters were moved to laughter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er his sadness prophetic, and said thereafter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“That he knew not the poet’s art, of course!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">High-Priest of the great Adonaï, he raises<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The soul of our creeds by the heavenly praises<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He hymns on the strings of Sion’s golden harp!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet, calling to witness the Scriptures proudly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“A man irreligious” they dub him loudly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Pharisee bigots who mouth and carp.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He, the great, tender heart who has sung the disaster<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of our monarchs ancestral, and he, the master<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who with pomp of marble has built their tomb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On him all the gapers who vow adoration<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the Royalist cause, have pronounced condemnation;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They call him insurgent—and give him room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He, the voice apostolic, while all men wondered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The great word “Republic” hath hurled and thundered<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the world’s skies, till the peoples thrilled!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet him, by a frenzy unspeakable smitten,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have all the mad dogs of Democracy bitten,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And growled at him, snarled at him as they willed!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To the crater of fire, he, great patriot, had given<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wealth, body and soul, and his country had striven<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To save from the burning volcano’s flame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet when, poor, he was begging his bread, all denied him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bigwigs and burghers as spendthrift decried him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, shut up in ease, to their boroughs came.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When he saw himself then in disaster forsaken—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his cross, and by anguish and suffering shaken,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alone he ascended his Calvary;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at dusk some good souls heard a long, long sighing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then, through the spaces, this cry undying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rang out: “Eloi, lama sabachthani.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But none dared draw nigh to that hill-top lonely,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he waited in patience and silence only,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his deep eyes closed and his hands spread wide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till, calm as the mountains at heaven’s high portal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amidst his ill-fortune, and fame immortal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without ever speaking a word, he died.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i11">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><br /> -<small>THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE</small><br /><br /> -<small>(A REMINISCENCE OF ALPHONSE DAUDET)</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Alphonse Daudet</span>, writing of his youth in the “Lettres de mon Moulin” and -“Trente Ans de Paris,” has told with the finest bloom of his pen some of -the pranks he played with the early Félibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, -Baux, and Châteauneuf—that first crop of Félibres who in those days ran -about the country of Provence for the fun of running, to keep themselves -going, and above all to stir up again in the hearts of the people the -Gai-Savoir of the Troubadours. There is, however, one joyous day of -adventure we spent together some forty years ago, of which Daudet has -not told.</p> - -<p>Alphonse Daudet was at that time secretary to the Duc de Morny, honorary -secretary be it understood, for the utmost that the young man ever did -was to go once a month to see if his patron, the President of the -Senate, was flourishing and in a good temper. Amongst other exquisite -things from his pen, Daudet had written a love-poem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> called “Les -Prunes.” All Paris knew it by heart, and Monsieur de Morny, hearing it -recited one evening in a drawing-room, requested the author might be -presented to him, with the result that he took the young man under his -patronage. To say nothing of his wit, which flashed like a diamond, -Daudet was a handsome fellow, brown, with a clear skin and black eyes -with long lashes, a budding beard and thick crop of hair which he -allowed to grow so long that the Duke, every time the author of “Les -Prunes” called on him at the Senate, would repeat, with disapproving -finger pointing at the offending locks:</p> - -<p>“Well poet—and when are we going to cut off this wig?”</p> - -<p>“Next week, Monseigneur,” the poet invariably replied.</p> - -<p>About once a month the great Duc de Morny made the same observation to -the little Daudet, and every time the poet made the same answer. But the -Duke himself was more likely to fall than Daudet’s mane.</p> - -<p>At that age the future chronicler of the prodigious adventures of -Tartarin of Tarascon was a merry youth, who kept pace with the wind, -impatient to know everything, an audacious Bohemian, frank and free with -his tongue, throwing himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> headlong in the swim of life with laughter -and noise, always on the look-out for adventures. He had quicksilver in -his veins.</p> - -<p>I remember one evening, when we were supping at the Chêne-Vert, a -pleasant inn in the neighbourhood of Avignon, hearing music for a dance -that was going on just below the terrace where we were dining. Daudet -suddenly jumped down, a flying leap of some nine or ten feet, crashing -through the branches of a vine trellis and landing in the midst of the -dancers, who took him for a devil.</p> - -<p>Another time, from the height of the road which passes at the foot of -the Pont du Gard, he threw himself, without knowing how to swim, into -the River Gardon, to see, so he said, if the water was deep. Had not a -fisherman caught hold of him with his boathook, my poor Alphonse would -most certainly have drunk what we call “the soup of eleven o’clock!”</p> - -<p>Another time, on the bridge that leads from Avignon to the island of -Barthelasse, he madly climbed on the narrow parapet, and racing along at -the risk of tumbling over into the Rhône, he cried out, for the -edification of some country people who heard him: “It is from here, by -thunder! that we threw the corpse of Brune into the Rhône, yes, the -Maréchal Brune! And may<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> it serve as an example to those northerners and -barbarians if ever they return to annoy us!”</p> - -<p>One day in September, at Maillane, I received a little note from friend -Daudet, one of those notes minute as a parsley leaf, well known to all -his friends, in which he said to me:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">My Frédéric</span>,—To-morrow, Wednesday, I leave Fontvieille to come -and meet thee at Saint-Gabriel. Mathieu and Grivolas will join us -by the road from Tarascon. The place of meeting is the ale-house, -where we shall await thee about nine o’clock or half-past. And -there, at Sarrasine’s, the lovely landlady of the place, having -drunk a glass, we will set out on foot for Arles. Do not fail.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Thy <span class="smcap">Red Hood</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>On the day mentioned, between eight and nine o’clock, we all found -ourselves at Saint-Gabriel, at the foot of the chapel which guards the -mountain. At Sarrasine’s, we drank a cherry brandy, and then—forward on -the white road.</p> - -<p>We inquired of a roadmender how far it was to Arles.</p> - -<p>“When you get to the tomb of Roland,” he answered, “you will still have -two hours’ walk.”</p> - -<p>We inquired where was the tomb of Roland.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span></p> - -<p>“Down there where you see a group of cypresses on the banks of the -Viqueirat.”</p> - -<p>“And this Roland, who was he?”</p> - -<p>“He was, so they say, a famous captain of the time of the Saracens.... -His teeth, I will wager, no longer hurt him.”</p> - -<p>Greetings to thee, Roland! We never expected, when we set out, to find -still living, in the fields and meadows of Trebon, the legendary glory -of the Companion of Charlemagne. But to continue. Just as the Man of -Bronze struck twelve, gaily we descended upon Arles, entering by the -Porte de la Cavalerie, all of us white with dust. As we had the appetite -of Spaniards we went at once to breakfast at the Hôtel Pinus.</p> - -<p>We were not badly served; and when one is young, making merry with -friends and rejoicing to be alive, there is nothing like dining together -for engendering high spirits.</p> - -<p>There was one thing, however, which disturbed our equanimity. A waiter -in a black coat, with pomaded head, and whiskers standing out like birch -brooms, hovered perpetually around us, a napkin under his arm, never -taking his eyes off us, and under pretext of changing our plates, -listening eagerly to all our foolish talk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span></p> - -<p>“We must get rid of him. Here, waiter!” said Daudet.</p> - -<p>The limpet approached. “Yes, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Quick, fetch me a dish—a large silver dish.”</p> - -<p>“To place upon it?” inquired the waiter, puzzled.</p> - -<p>“A jackanapes,” replied Daudet in a voice of thunder.</p> - -<p>The changer of plates did not wait for any more, and from that moment -left us in peace.</p> - -<p>“What I dislike about these hotels,” said Mathieu, “is that since the -commercial traveller introduced the northern fashions, whether at -Avignon, Augoulême, Draguignan, or even at Brier-la-Gaillarde, they now -all give you the same insipid dishes—carrot broth, veal and sorrel, -roast beef half cooked, cauliflower with butter, and a variety of -eatables with neither taste nor savour. In Provence, if you want to find -the old-fashioned cooking of the country which was appetising and -savoury, you must go to the little inn frequented by the country -people.”</p> - -<p>“What if we go this evening,” cried Grivolas the painter.</p> - -<p>“Let us go,” we all agreed.</p> - -<p>We paid without further delay, lighted our cigars and sallied forth to -take our cup of coffee in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> a popular <i>café</i>, and then in the narrow -streets, cool, and white with limestone, flanked by stately old houses -on either side, we strolled about till the twilight fell, looking at the -queenly Arlesienne beauties on their doorsteps or behind the transparent -window curtains, for I must own they had counted considerably as a -latent motive in our descent upon Arles.</p> - -<p>We passed the Arena, its great gates wide open, and the Roman theatre -with its two majestic columns. We visited Saint-Trophime and the -cloisters, the famous Head without a Nose, the Palaces of the Lion, of -the Porcelets, of Constantine, and of the Grand Prior.</p> - -<p>Sometimes on the narrow pavement we ran up against a donkey belonging to -some water-carrier selling water from the Rhône in barrels. We also -encountered troops of sunburnt gleaners, newly returned from the -country, carrying on their heads the heavy load of gleanings, and beside -these the vendors of snails, shouting at the pitch of their voices:</p> - -<p>“Who will buy fresh snails from the fields!”</p> - -<p>About sunset we inquired of a woman, who stood just outside the -fish-market knitting a stocking, if she could direct us to some little -inn or tavern, unpretentious, but clean, where we could dine in simple -apostolic fashion.</p> - -<p>The woman, thinking we were joking, cried out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> to her neighbours, who, -at her shout of laughter, came to their doors coifed with the coquettish -headgear of Arles.</p> - -<p>“See, here are some gentlemen looking for a tavern at which to sup—do -you know of one?”</p> - -<p>“Send them,” cried one, “to the Rue Pique-Monte.”</p> - -<p>“Or to the ‘Little Cat,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said another.</p> - -<p>“Or to the ‘Widow Come Here.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Or to the Gate of the Chestnuts.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t mock us, my dears,” said I. “We want some quiet little place -within the reach of anybody, where honest people go.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said a fat man seated on a post, smoking his pipe, with a -face coloured like a beggar’s gourd, “why not go to Counënc’s? See here, -gentlemen, I will conduct you,” he continued, rising and shaking out his -pipe; “I have to go by that way. It is on the other side of the Rhône, -in the suburb of Trinquetaille. It is not an hotel of the first order, -my faith, but the watermen, the bargees and the boatmen who come from -Condrieu, feed there and are not discontented. The owner is from Combs, -a village near Beaucaire, which supplies some bargemen. I myself, who -have the honour of addressing you, am master of a boat, and I have done -my share of sailing.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span></p> - -<p>We inquired if he had been far afield.</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” he replied, “I have only sailed in the small coasting trade as -far as Havre-de-Grace, but it is a true saying that there is never a -boatman who does not face danger—and for sure, had it not been for the -Great Saintes-Maries, who have always protected me, there are many -times, my friends, when we should have gone under.”</p> - -<p>“And they call you?”</p> - -<p>“Master Gafet! Always at your service should you at any time run down to -Sambuc or to Graz to see the vessels embedded in the sand at the river’s -mouth.”</p> - -<p>So, chatting pleasantly, we arrived at the bridge of Trinquetaille, at -that time still a bridge of boats. As we passed over the moving planks -which connected the chain of boats one felt beneath the heaving river, -powerful and living, on whose mighty bosom one rose and sank as it drew -breath. Having crossed the Rhône, we turned to the left on the quay, and -there, beneath an old trellis, bending over the trough of the well, we -saw—how shall I describe her?—a kind of witch, and one-eyed to boot, -scraping and opening some lively eels. At her feet some cats were -gnawing and fighting as she threw the heads down to them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span></p> - -<p>“That is ‘La Counënque,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> announced Master Gafet.</p> - -<p>It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed -but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But—here we were!</p> - -<p>“Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide.</p> - -<p>“Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to -saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.”</p> - -<p>“See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have -nothing else.”</p> - -<p>“Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in—come -in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.”</p> - -<p>Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all -five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the -walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from -fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord -Counënc supping with them.</p> - -<p>From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> smoke, hung flycatchers in -the shape of tamarinds, where the flies settled and were afterwards -caught in a bag. We sat down on benches at another table, opposite the -bargemen, who, on seeing us, became silent.</p> - -<p>While the hash was preparing on the stove, “La Counënque,” to give us an -appetite, brought some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde, a -dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fermented cheese, preserved -olives, botargo of Martinique, and slices of braised haddock.</p> - -<p>“And thou who saidst there was nothing to eat!” cried Master Gafet, -cutting the bread with his big hooked knife; “but it is a wedding -feast!”</p> - -<p>“By our Lady,” answered the one-eyed, “if you had let us know -beforehand, we might have prepared you a <i>blanquette à la mode</i>—or an -omelette—but when people drop down on you in the twilight like a hair -in the soup, you understand, gentlemen, one has to give them what one -can.”</p> - -<p>Daudet, who in his whole life had never before seen such specimens of -the Camargue, seized one of the onions—fine flat onions, golden as a -Christmas loaf—and boldly crunched and swallowed it, leaf by leaf, with -his fine strong teeth, to the accompaniment of some fermented cheese and -haddock. It is only fair to mention we also did our best to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> help him, -while Master Gafet, raising every now and again the brimming jug of Crau -wine, his face ablaze as I never saw the like.</p> - -<p>“Oh these young bloods!” said he, “the onion makes one drink and keeps -up the thirst.”</p> - -<p>In less than half an hour one could have lighted a match on any one of -our cheeks. Then the hash (catigot) arrived, a dish in which a -shepherd’s crook could have stood upright, salted like the sea, and -peppered like the devil.</p> - -<p>“Salting and peppering make one find the wine very good,” said the fat -Gafet; “let us clink glasses, my boys.”</p> - -<p>The bargemen meantime, having finished their kid, ended their repast, as -is the custom of the watermen of Condrieu, with a plate of fat soup. -Each one poured a big glass of wine into his plate, then, lifting it -with both hands, all together they drank off the mixture at one gulp, -smacking their lips with pleasure. The master of a raft, who wore his -beard like a collar, then sang a song which, if I remember, finished -like this:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When our fleet arrives<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the way to Toulon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We salute the town<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a roll of cannon.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Thunder! but we must give them one back,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> cried Daudet. And he burst -out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the -Vaulois:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To Lourmarin—Light-horseman<br /></span> -<span class="i4">There they die!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Lourmarin—Light-horseman<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Quickly fly! &c.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The maidens of Valence<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Know naught of love’s sweet way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But those of fair Provence<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Enjoy it night and day.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making -castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the -one-eyed interrupted us:</p> - -<p>“Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for -brawling at nights.”</p> - -<p>“The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added -Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.”</p> - -<p>The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at -the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de -Morny wrote in his best hand:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever -dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou -hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If -after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will -make him dance.”</p> - -<p>We settled our bill, and accompanied by the admiring glances of all, we -left with the air of princes who had just revealed their identity. -Arrived at the footpath of the bridge of Trinquetaille:</p> - -<p>“What if we danced a bit of a <i>farandole</i>?” proposed the indefatigable -and charming novelist of the “Mule du Pape.” “The bridges of Provence -are only made for that.”</p> - -<p>So forward. In the clear, limpid light of the September moon, which was -reflected in the water, behold us stepping gaily and singing on the -bridge.</p> - -<p>About midway across we saw advancing a procession of Arlesiennes, of -delicious Arlesiennes, each one with her cavalier, walking and bowing, -laughing and talking. The rustling of petticoats,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> the <i>frou-frou</i> of -silk, the soft murmurs of the happy couples as they spoke together in -the peaceful night with the thrill of the Rhône that glided between the -boats, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.</p> - -<p>“A wedding!” cried the fat Gafet, who had not yet left us.</p> - -<p>“A wedding,” echoed Daudet, who, with his short sight, only just -perceived the advancing party. “An Arlesienne wedding! A moonlight -wedding! A wedding in the middle of the Rhône!”</p> - -<p>And taken with a sudden mad impulse, our buck sprang forward, threw -himself on the neck of the bride, and kissed her with a will.</p> - -<p>Then followed a pretty row! We were all in for it, and if ever we were -hard put to it in our lives, it was certainly on that occasion. Twenty -fellows with raised sticks surrounded us:</p> - -<p>“To the Rhône with the rascals!”</p> - -<p>“What is it all about?” cried Master Gafet, pushing back the crowd. -“Can’t you see we have been drinking? Drinking to the health of the -bride in the Trinquetaille, and that to commence drinking again would do -us harm?”</p> - -<p>“Long live the bridal couple!” we all exclaimed. And thanks to the -valiant Gafet, whom every one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> knew, and to his presence of mind, the -thing ended there.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The next question was where to go next? The Man of Bronze had just -struck eleven o’clock. We decided to make the tour of the Aliscamps.<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> - -<p>Passing down the Lice d’Arles we went the round of the ramparts, and by -the light of the moon descended the avenue of poplars leading to the -cemetery of the old Arles of the Romans. And while wandering amongst the -tombs and sarcophagi, showing white on either side in long rows, we -solemnly chaunted the fine ballad by Camille Reybaud:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The poplars growing in the churchyard here<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Salute the dead that in these graves abide—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries dost fear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh never pass the churchyard by so near!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The long, white grave-stones in the churchyard here<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have flung their heavy covers open wide.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Upon the greensward in the churchyard here<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The dead men all stand upright side by side.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They all embrace within the churchyard here,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">These mute and silent brothers who have died.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis keeping holiday, the churchyard here,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And dancing to and fro the dead men glide.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Across the churchyard now the moon shines clear;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Each maiden seeks her love, each lad his bride.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No more they find them, in the churchyard here,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their loves of yore, that would not be denied.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh open me the churchyard wicket wide!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Let my love in, to comfort them that died!...<br /></span> -<span class="i12">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Suddenly, from a yawning tomb three paces from us, we heard in dolorous -sepulchral tones these words:</p> - -<p>“Let sleep in peace those who sleep!”</p> - -<p>We remained petrified, and all around us in the moonlight a deep silence -reigned.</p> - -<p>At last Mathieu said softly to Grivolas:</p> - -<p>“Didst thou hear?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.”</p> - -<p>“Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed -sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to -lodge at night in the empty tombs.”</p> - -<p>“What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some -beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her -sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!”</p> - -<p>Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“De l’abbaye passant les portes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Autour de moi, tu trouverais<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Des nonnes l’errante cohorte<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Car en suaire je serais!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“O Magali, si tu te fais<br /></span> -<span class="i0">La pauvre morte<br /></span> -<span class="i0">La terre alors je me ferais<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Là je t’aurai!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">After which we all shook hands with Master Gafet and made our way -quickly to the railway station, there to take the train for Avignon.</p> - -<p>Seven years later, the year, alas! of the great catastrophe, I received -this letter:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Paris</span>, <i>December 31, 1870</i>.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My Chieftain</span>,—I send thee, by the balloon just rising, a heap of -kisses. And it gives me pleasure to be able to send them in the -language of Provence, for so I am assured that the Barbarians, -should this balloon fall into their hands, cannot read a word of my -writing, nor publish my letter in their <i>Mercure de Souabe</i>. It is -cold, it is dark: we eat horse, cat, camel, and hippopotamus! Ah, -for the good onions, the <i>catigot</i>, and fermented cheese of the -tavern of Trinquetaille!</p> - -<p>“The guns burn our fingers. Wood is becoming scarce. The armies of -the Loire come not! But that does not matter—we will keep the -cockroaches from Berlin wearing themselves out for some time yet in -front of our ramparts.... And then if Paris is lost, I know of some -good patriots who are ready to take Monsieur de Bismarck round the -little streets of our poor capital. Farewell, my chief—three big -kisses, one from me, one from my wife, and the other from my son. -With that a happy New Year as always, until this day next year. Thy -Félibre,</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Alphonse Daudet</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> good Provençal! Just -because he jokes and ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and Tante -Portals, and other imbeciles of this country, who try to Frenchify the -language of our Provence. For that Tartarin owes him a grudge!</p> - -<p>No! The mother lioness is not angry, and will never be angry, with the -young lion who, in fighting, sometimes gives her a scratch.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> </p> - -<p><a name="ill_013" id="ill_013"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 353px;"> -<a href="images/i_fp307_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp307_sml.jpg" width="353" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Paul Mariéton, Chancelier des Félibres.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX"></a>APPENDIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> following extract, translated from the biographical notice of -Frédéric Mistral, written for “La Grande Encyclopédie” by Monsieur Paul -Mariéton, for many years Chancelier des Félibres and a French poet and -writer of note, takes up the history of Félibrige where the Memoirs -leave off:</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The unanimity of votes accorded to <i>Mireille</i><a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> by the members of the -French Academy set the seal of sanction to the Provençal Renaissance, -and reinforced Mistral himself with faith and resolution to carry out -his mission. Up till that time he had said truly, as in the opening -strophe of <i>Mireille</i>, that he “sang only for the shepherds and people -of the soil!”—“What will they say at Arles?” was his one thought as he -wrote <i>Mireille</i>. But before the completion of his epic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> his ambition -for his native tongue had widened. The notes in the Appendix and the -French translation published with the Provençal testify to this fact. -Already he was beginning to realise the leading part he was about to -play in the society founded at Font-Ségugne. The school of Roumanille, -of which, in virtue of <i>Mireille</i>, Mistral was now chief, added to its -members daily.</p> - -<p>The rules of the language were now fixed, the language of the Félibres, -and thanks to <i>L’Armana</i> (an annual publication initiated and edited by -Roumanille) were little by little adopted by the people. This classic -vulgate—with which Mistral, by pruning and enriching his native -dialect, had, like another Dante, dowered his country—had become -immortal, having given birth to a masterpiece. It now remained to give a -national tendency to the movement. It was by raising the ambitions of a -race, and annexing the sympathy of the “Félibres” among them, by showing -them their ancestry from remotest times, and bringing to light their -inalienable rights, that Mistral evolved out of a literary renaissance a -great patriotic cause.</p> - -<p>With his <i>Ode aux Catalans</i> (1859) and his <i>Chant de la Coupe</i>, Mistral -sealed the alliance between the Provençals and the Catalans, their -brethren<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> both of race and tongue. This was ratified when in 1868 -Mistral, together with Roumieux, Paul Meyer, and Bonaparte Wyse, met at -the Barcelona fête in response to the call of the Catalonians.</p> - -<h3>SONG OF THE CUP.<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor1">[21]</a></h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Men of Provence, this Cup has come to us<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pledge of our Catalonian brothers’ troth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then let us each in turn drain from it thus<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The pure wine of our native vineyard’s growth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Filled brimming up!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Pour out to overflowing<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Enthusiasms glowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The energy pour out that doth belong<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of right unto the strong.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Of an ancestral people proud and free<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Perchance we are the end, we faithful few:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And should the “Félibres” fall, it well may be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The end and downfall of our nation too.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet, in a race that germinates again<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We are perchance the first-fruits of our earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We are perchance the pillars that maintain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The knights that lead, the country of our birth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pour out for us the golden hopes once more,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The visions that our youth was wont to see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, with remembrance of the days of yore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Faith in the days that are about to be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pour for us, mingled with thy generous wine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Knowledge of Truth and Beauty, both in one,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lofty joys and ravishments divine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That laugh at Death and bid its fears begone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pour out for us the gift of poesy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That all things living we may fitly sing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The only true ambrosial nectar she<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That changes man, to god transfiguring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ye that at last with us consenting are,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now for the glory of this land most dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Catalonian brothers, from afar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unite with us in this communion here.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O sacred cup, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Thus little by little the Félibrige, first started by Roumanille and -promoted by his political pamphlets, his Christmas Songs and Popular -Tales, was developed by Mistral into a national movement. This was shown -clearly in his second important work, <i>Calandal</i>, a poem in twelve -cantos (1867), which from that time divided the honours with -<i>Mireille</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span></p> - -<p>The two poems were in striking contrast one to the other. <i>Mireille</i> -depicted the Provence of the Crau and the Camargue, <i>Calandal</i> the -Provence of the mountains and the sea. <i>Mireille</i> was virgin honey, -<i>Calandal</i> the lion’s mane. In the latter poem, Mistral attempted to -give perhaps too much local colour to please the general public, in -spite of the incomparable style. The reception of this work by the -Félibres, however, was enthusiastic, the heroic symbolism and eloquence -of the poet, speaking in the name of all vindicators of his race, gave -birth to a set of mystic patriots and created the Félibréen religion.</p> - -<p>Little by little, thanks to the vital impulse given by Mistral, -Félibrige crossed the Rhône. After having aroused some fervent -proselytes, such as Louis Roumieux and Albert Arnavielle at Nîmes and -Alais, it resulted at Montpellier in the inauguration of the “Society -for studying Ancient Languages,” under the auspices of Baron de -Tourtoulon. The work of this group scientifically justified the raising -and purifying of the Oc language. Strengthened by the support of the -learned and lettered officials, up to that period refractory, the -Félibrige movement, already Provençal and Catalan, now became Latin -also.</p> - -<p>The memorable occasion of the Centenary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> Fête of Petrarch in 1874 at -Avignon, presided over by Aubanel and initiated by Monsieur de -Berluc-Perussis, was the first international consecration of the new -literature and of the glory of Mistral.</p> - -<p>A large assembly of the philological Société Romane in 1875, followed by -the Latin Fêtes at Montpellier in 1876, at which the young wife of the -poet was elected Queen of the Félibres, definitely confirmed the -importance of a poetic renaissance which the author of <i>Mireille</i> and -<i>Calandal</i> had developed from a small intimate society into a wide -social movement.</p> - -<p>Three years previously (1875) the intellectual sovereignty of Mistral -had impressed itself on all the south of France by the publication of -his collected poems “Lis Isclo d’Or” (“The Golden Isles”) which revealed -the serene genius of the master, his extraordinary versatility and his -unquestionable title to represent his race.</p> - -<p>Shortly after, at Avignon, the poet was proclaimed Grand Master -(<i>Capoulié</i>) of the literary federation of the Meridional provinces, and -became the uncontested chief of a crusade of the Oc country for the -reconquest of its historic dignity and position.</p> - -<p>The sort of pontificate with which Mistral was from henceforth invested -in no way arrested the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> outflowing of his songs. A new poem, <i>Nerto</i>, -lighter in form than hitherto, in the style of the romantic epics of the -renaissance, suddenly drew the attention of the critics again to the -poet of Provence, and the charm and infinite variety of his genius.</p> - -<p>Having already compared him to Homer, to Theocritus, and to Longus, they -now found in his work the illusive seduction of Ariosto. A visit that he -paid to Paris in 1884, after an absence of twenty years, sealed his fame -in France and his glory in Provence. He was surrounded by an army of -followers. Paris, which knew hitherto only the poet, now recognised a -new literature in the person of its chief. The French Academy crowned -<i>Nerto</i> as before they had crowned <i>Mireille</i>. Mistral celebrated there -in the French capital the fourth centenary of the union of Provence and -France; “as a joining together of one principality to another -principality,” according to the terms of the ancient historical -contract.</p> - -<p>He returned to his Provence consecrated chief of a people. The Provençal -Renaissance continued to extend daily. Mistral endowed the movement at -last with the scientific and popular weapon essential for its defence, a -national dictionary. It was the crowning work of his life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> “The -Treasury of Félibrige.” All the various dialects of the Oc language are -represented in this vast collection of an historic tongue, rich, -melodious, vital, rescued and reinstated by its indefatigable defenders -at a moment when all conspired to hasten its decrepitude.</p> - -<p>All the meanings and acceptations, accompanied by examples culled from -every writer in the Oc language, every idiom and proverb, are patiently -collected together in this encyclopædic <i>tresaurus</i> which could never be -replaced.</p> - -<p>The Institute awarded him a prize of four hundred francs.</p> - -<p>In 1890 Mistral published a work he had for some time contemplated, <i>La -Rèino Jano</i> (<i>Queen Joan</i>) a Provençal tragedy. In spite of the rare -beauty and picturesque eloquence of many of the cantos, this poem, -evoking as it does the Angevine Provence of the fourteenth century, -obtained only half the success of <i>Nerto</i> from the public. The French do -not share with the Félibres the cult of Queen Joan.</p> - -<p>If this essentially national tragedy was judged in Paris a merely -moderately good drama, it must be remembered that the Parisians did not -take into account the familiar popularity which Mistral knew to exist -for his heroine among his own people.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span></p> - -<p>While awaiting the production of <i>Queen Joan</i> at the Roman Theatre of -Orange, restored by the Félibres, Mistral continued the active side of -his work.</p> - -<p>The spreading of the movement on all sides called for more influential -organs than either the Almanac or the annual publication. After having -contributed for forty years to the <i>Armana</i> and having presided at the -inauguration of the Félibréen Review in 1885, he became principal editor -in 1890 of a Provençal paper in Avignon, <i>L’Aioli</i>, which under his -auspices became the quarterly monitor of Félibrige.</p> - -<p>While still retaining the leadership of the movement, Mistral published -here and there sundry chapters of his Memoirs, also exhortations to his -people, lectures, poems, and chronicles.</p> - -<p>In 1897 he published another poem, like the former seven years in the -making, <i>Le Poème du Rhône</i>. It is the most delicate and most -ingenuously epic of his productions. Above all, he showed in this work -his profound symbolism, revealed not only in the depth and breadth of -his thought, but in the originality of his versification. Taking the -traditions of the country, he has woven them into the winding silk cord -of the living, glistening, eternal Rhône, this poem of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> the river’s -course. He has inspired his people to restore the honour of these -traditions by the radiant example and fruitful labour of his own life.</p> - -<p>The Memoirs best reveal the deep roots of his patriotism. In describing -his harmonious existence, the master relates his experience both as a -celebrated writer and as a Provençal farmer. Portraits of great men and -of great peasants stand out in his record. One can judge of him as a -prose writer by the Tales and Addresses appearing here and there during -a period of forty years, pages which often equalled in beauty the finest -songs of the poet. His letters also, which sowed unceasingly the good -grain of the Renaissance, will, when published one day, show even better -than the translation of his verse what a great writer the French have in -Mistral.</p> - -<p>His life after all has been his finest poem. In order to bring about the -realisation of his ideal, the raising of his country, he has in turn -shown himself poet, orator, philologist, and, above all, patriot. The -“new life” that his work has infused into the body of Félibrige has not -only regenerated his own Provence by erecting a social ideal, it has -also promoted the diffusion of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> patriotic sentiment which has become -general throughout France, and which may be defined as federalism or -simply decentralisation. The ideas of Mistral on this subject of local -centres permitting the free expansion of individual energies are well -known. It can only be accomplished, according to his theory, by a new -constituency, the electors of the existing system being too taken up -organising the redivision of the departments to enter into other -questions. But he has always refused to become the leader of a political -movement. “He who possesses his language holds the key which shall free -him from his chains,” Mistral has always said, meaning thereby that in -the language dwells the soul of a people. Thus restricting himself to -the leadership of a linguistic movement he desired to remain always a -poet. It is the purity of his fame which has given such power to his -position. By the charm of his personality he won large crowds, just as -by his writings he charmed the lettered and the educated. For he was -always possessed by a profound belief in the vitality of his language -and faith in a renewal of its glory, and absolutely opposed in this -respect to Jasmin, who invariably proclaimed himself as the last of the -poets of the Oc tongue. If Mistral is not the only worker in the -Provençal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> Renaissance, it is at all events owing to his genius that the -movement took wing and lived. Before he arose the ancient and -illustrious Oc language was in the same deplorable condition as were the -Arenas of Nîmes and of Arles at the beginning of the century. Degraded, -unsteady, enveloped by parasite hovels, their pure outline was being -obliterated by the disfiguring leprosy. One day came reform, and, taking -control, swept away the hovels and rubbish, restoring to their bygone -splendour these amphitheatres of the old Romans.</p> - -<p>Even so, barbarous jargons had defaced the idiom of Provence. Then with -his following of brilliant and ardent patriots Mistral came and -dispersed the degenerating <i>patois</i>, restoring to its former beauty the -Greek purity of form belonging to the edifice of our ancestors and -fitting it for present use.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Paul Marieton.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Every year in May, on the Feast of Sainte-Estelle, the four branches of -Félibrige are convoked to important assizes at some place on Provençal -soil. At the end of the banquet which follows the floral sports, and -after the address of the chief, the latter raises high the Grail of the -poetic mysteries, and intones the <i>Song of the Cup</i>. The hymn of the -faith and cause of the race is taken up gravely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_014" id="ill_014"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_fp318_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp318_sml.jpg" width="313" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Madame Gasquet (née Mlle. Girard), 3rd Queen of the -Félibres.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and the refrain joined in by all the company. Then the cup goes round -fraternally and each member, before touching it with his lips, in turn -rehearses his vow of fidelity.</p> - -<p>The assizes of Sainte-Estelle are followed by a meeting of the -consistory, who elect the new members. The consistory is composed of a -chief or <i>capoulié</i>, of a chancellor, and fifty senior members chosen -from among the four branches. Every branch, Provence, Languedoc, -Aquitaine, and the affiliated branch of La Catalogne, is presided over -by its own syndicate, and nominates an assistant to the <i>capoulié</i>. -Félibrige numbers to-day many thousand members, without counting the -foreign associations in other parts of France, such as the Félibres of -the west, inaugurated by Renan in 1884, and the Cigales of Paris, first -started by the Provenceaux of that city, as Paul Arène declared:</p> - -<p>“Pour ne pas perdre l’accent, nous fondâmes la Cigale....”</p> - -<p>The classic cicada is now the badge of the Order and is worn by all -members at their fêtes.</p> - -<p>Every seven years takes place a great meeting and floral feast, on which -occasion three first prizes are awarded for poetry, prose, and Félibréen -work, and a Queen of Félibrige is elected.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span></p> - -<p>Their queen presides at the principal assizes of the cause. The first to -be chosen was Madame Mistral, the young wife of the chief, at -Montpellier in 1878. The second was Mademoiselle Thérèse Roumanille -(Madame Boissière), daughter of the poet. The third was Madame Gasquet, -<i>née</i> Mademoiselle Girard; and the fourth and present queen is Madame -Bischoffsheim, <i>née</i> Mademoiselle de Chevignè. A procession of -Félibresses form an escort to the reigning queen.</p> - -<p>The Provençal Renaissance has counted many distinguished women writers -and poets among its members. Among the first of these <i>trouveresses</i> -were Madame Roumanille, wife of the poet, whose work was crowned at the -Fête of Apt in 1863; Madame d’Arband (1863); Mademoiselle Riviére, whose -“Belugo” was sung by all our leaders (1868); Madame Lazarin Daniel, -Félibresse of the Crau; Madame Gautier-Brémond of Tarascon, celebrated -for her “Velo-blanco” (1887); not to mention the many whose names in -recent years have been an honour to the cause.</p> - -<p>It was on the occasion of the Fête at Montpellier, May 25, 1878, that -the “Hymne à la Race Latine” was recited on the Place du Peyron, that -song which has since become a national possession and pride.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span></p> - -<h3>TO THE LATIN RACE.<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor1">[22]</a></h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The russet grape is bubbling in the press,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And gushing forth the wine of God shall run.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With hair all loosened to the sacred breeze<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From Tabor’s Mount—thou art the race of light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That lives of joy, and round about whose knees<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Enthusiasm springs, and pure delight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Apostolic race, that through the land<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sets all the bells a-ringing once again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou art the trumpet that proclaims—the hand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That scatters far and wide the bounteous grain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy mother-tongue, that mighty stream that flows<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Afar through seven branches, never dies;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But light and love outpouring, onward goes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An echo that resounds from Paradise.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Roman daughter of the People-King,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy golden language, it is still the song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That human lips unceasingly shall sing—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While words yet have a meaning—ages long.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy blood illustrious on every side<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath been outpoured for justice and for right;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy mariners across the distant tide<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have sailed to bring an unknown world to light.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hundred times the pulsing of thy thought<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath shattered and brought low thy kings of yore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! but for thy divisions, who had sought<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ever to rule thee, or to frame thy law!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Kindling thy torch at radiances divine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the high stars, ’tis thou hast given birth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In shapes of marble and in pictured line,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To Beauty’s self, incarnate upon earth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The native country thou of god-like Art,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All graces and all sweetness come from thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou art the source of joy for every heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Yea, thou art youth, and ever more shalt be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With thy fair women’s pure and noble forms<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The world’s pantheons everywhere are stored;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at thy triumphs, yea, thy tears, thy storms,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Men’s hearts must palpitate with one accord;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The earth’s in blossom when thy meadows bloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And o’er thy follies every one goes mad;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when thy glory is eclipsed in gloom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The whole world puts on mourning and is sad.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy limpid sea, that sea serene, where fleet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The whitening sails innumerable ply,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That crisps the soft, wet sand about thy feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And mirrors back the azure of the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That ever-smiling sea, God poured its flood<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From out His splendour with a lavish hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bind the brown-hued peoples of thy blood<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With one unbroken, scintillating band.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Upon thy sun-kissed slopes, on every side<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The olive grows, the tree of peace divine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all thy lands are crownèd with the pride<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of thy prolific, broadly-spreading vine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Latin race, in faithful memory<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of that thy glorious, ever-shining past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Arise in hope toward thy destiny,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">One brotherhood beneath the Cross at last!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, arise renewed, O Latin race,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath the great cope of thy golden sun!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The russet grape is bubbling in the press,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And gushing forth the wine of God shall run!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">(Trans. Alma Strettell.)<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>To conclude with the words of Mistral quoted from one of his addresses:</p> - -<p>“If thou wouldst that the blood of thy race maintain its virtue, hold -fast to thy historic tongue.... In language there lies a mystery, a -precious treasure.... Every year the nightingale renews his feathers, -but he changes not his note.”</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">C. E. Maud.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span></p> - -<h2>MISTRAL’S POEMS IN THE PROVENÇAL</h2> - -<h3>GREVANÇO</h3> - -<p class="c">II</p> - -<p class="c">(<i>From</i> “Lis Isclo d’Or.”)</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh! vers li plano de tousello<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leissas me perdre pensatiéu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dins li grand blad plen de rousello<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ounte drouloun iéu me perdiué!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Quaucun me bousco<br /></span> -<span class="i2">De tousco en tousco<br /></span> -<span class="i0">En recitant soun angelus;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">E, cantarello,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Li calandrello<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ièu vau seguènt dins lou trelus ...<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Ah! pauro maire,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Bèu cor amaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cridant moun noum t’ausirai plus!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>LES SAINTES-MARIES (<i>Mireille</i>).</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nautre, li sorre emé li fraire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que lou seguian pèr tout terraire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus uno ratamalo, i furour de la mar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E sènso velo e sènso remo,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fuguerian embandi. Li femo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Toumbavian un riéu de lagremo;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lis ome vers lou cèu pourtavon soun regard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Uno ventado tempestouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus la marino sóuvertouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Couchavo lou batèu: Marciau e Savournin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soun ageinouia sus la poupo;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Apensamenti, dins sa roupo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou vièi Trefume s’agouloupo;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Contro éu èro asseta l’evesque Massemin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dre sus lou tèume, aquéu Lazàri<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que de la toumbo e dóu susàri<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Avié’ncaro garda la mourtalo palour,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sèmblo afrounta lou gourg que reno:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Em’éu la nau perdudo enmeno<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Marto sa sorre, e Madaleno,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Couchado en un cantoun, que plouro sa doulour.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Contro uno ribo sènso roco,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alleluia! la barco toco;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus l’areno eigalouso aqui nous amourran<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E cridan tóuti: Nòsti tèsto<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Qu’as póutira de la tempèsto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fin-qu’au coutèu li vaqui lèsto<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A prouclama ta lèi, o Crist! Te lou juran!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A-n-aquèu noum, de jouïssènço,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">La noblo terro de Prouvènço<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Parèis estrementido; à-n-aquéu crid nouvèu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E lou bouscas e lou campèstre<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An trefouli dins tout soun èstre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coume un chin qu’en sentènt soun mèstre<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ié cour à l’endavans e ié fai lou bèu-bèu.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">La mar avié jita d’arcèli ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pater noster, qui es in cœli,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A nosto longo fam mandères un renos;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A nosto set, dins lis engano<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Faguères naisse uno fountano;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E miraclouso, e lindo, e sano,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gisclo enca dins la glèiso ounte soun nòstis os!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>MAGALI.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Magali, ma tant amado,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mete la tèsto au fenestroun!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Escouto un pau aquesto aubado<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De tambourin e de vióuloun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Es plen d’estello, aperamount!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">L’auro es toumbado,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mai lis estello paliran,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Quand te veiran!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Pas mai que dóu murmur di broundo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De toun aubado iéu fau cas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mai iéu m’envau dins la mar bloundo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Me faire anguielo de roucas.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali! se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lou pèis de l’oundo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu, lou pescaire me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Te pescarai!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Oh! mai, se tu te fas pescaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ti vertoulet quand jitaras,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me farai l’aucèu voulaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">M’envoularai dins li campas.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_015" id="ill_015"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_fp326_lg.jpg"> -<img class="brdr" src="images/i_fp326_sml.jpg" width="369" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Madame Bischoffsheim (née Mlle de Chevigné), 4th and -present Queen of the Félibres.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">L’aucèu de l’aire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu lou cassaire me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Te cassarai.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—I perdigau, i bouscarido,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Se vènes, tu, cala ti las,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me farai l’erbo flourido<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E m’escoundrai dins li pradas.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">La margarido,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu l’aigo lindo me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">T’arrousarai.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Se tu te fas l’eigueto lindo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me farai lou nivoulas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E lèu m’enanarai ansindo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A l’Americo, perabas!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu t’envas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Alin is Indo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">L’auro de mar iéu me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Te pourtarai!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Se tu te fas la marinado,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu fugirai d’un autre las:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me farai l’escandihado<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dóu grand soulèu que found lou glas!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">La souleiado,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou verd limbert iéu me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E te béurai!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Se tu te rèndes l’alabreno<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que se rescound dins lou bartas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me rendrai la luno pleno<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que dins la niue fai lume i masc!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Luno sereno,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu bello nèblo me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">T’acatarai.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Mai se la nèblo m’enmantello,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tu, pèr acò, noun me tendras<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu, bello roso vierginello,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">M’espandirai dins l’espinas!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">La roso bello,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou parpaioun iéu me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Te beisarai.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Vai, calignaire, courre, courre!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jamai, amai m’agantaras:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu, de la rusco d’un grand roure<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Me vestirai dins lou bouscas.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">L’aubre di mourre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu lou clot d’èurre me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">T’embrassarai!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Se me vos prene à la brasseto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rèn qu’un vièi chaine arraparas ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu me farai blanco moungeto<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dóu mounastié dóu grand Sant Blas!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mounjo blanqueto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Iéu, capelan, counfessarai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E t’ausirai!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Se dóu couvènt passes li porto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tóuti li mounjo trouvaras<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Qu’à moun entour saran pèr orto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Car en susàri me veiras!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, se tu te fas<br /></span> -<span class="i4">La pauro morto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Adounc la terro me farai,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Aqui t’aurai!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—Aro coumence enfin de crèire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que noun me parles en risènt.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vaqui moun aneloun de vèire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Per souvenènço, o bèu jouvènt!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—O Magali, me fas de bèn!...<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mai, tre te vèire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ve lis estello, o Magali,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Coume an pali!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>SOULOMI.</h3> - -<h4>SUS LA MORT DE LAMARTINE.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Quand l’ouro dóu tremount es vengudo pèr l’astre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus li mourre envahi pèr lou vèspre, li pastre<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alargon sis anouge e si fedo e si can;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E dins li baisso palunenco<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou grouün rangoulejo en bramadisso unenco:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Aquéu soulèu èro ensucant!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Di paraulo de Diéu magnanime escampaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ansin, o Lamartine, o moun mèstre, o moun paire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">En cantico, en acioun, en lagremo, en soulas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quand aguerias à noste mounde<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Escampa de lumiero e d’amour soun abounde,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E que lou mounde fuguè las,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cadun jitè soun bram dins la nèblo prefoundo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cadun vous bandiguè la pèiro de sa foundo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Car vosto resplendour nous fasié mau is iue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Car uno estello que s’amosso,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Car un diéu clavela, toujour agrado en foço,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E li grapaud amon la niue....<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">E’m’acò, l’on veguè de causo espetaclouso!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eu, aquelo grand font de pouësio blouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Qu’avié rejouveni l’amo de l’univers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Li jóuini pouèto riguèron<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De sa malancounié proufetico, e diguèron<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que sabié pas faire li vers.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">De l’Autisme Adounai éu sublime grand-prèire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que dins sis inne sant enaurè nòsti crèire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus li courdello d’or de l’arpo de Sioun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">En atestant lis Escrituro<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Li devot Farisen cridèron sus l’auturo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que n’avié gens de religioun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Eu, lou grand pietadous, que, sus la catastrofo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De nòstis ancian rèi, avié tra sis estrofo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E qu’en mabre poumpous i’avié fa’n mausoulèu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dóu Reialisme li badaire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trouvèron á la fin qu’èro un descaladaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E tóuti s’aliunchèron lèu.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Eu, lou grand óuratour, la voues apoustoulico,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que faguè dardaia lou mot de Republico<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sus lou front, dins lou cèu di pople tresanant,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pèr uno estranjo fernesio<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tóuti li chin gasta de la Demoucracio<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou mourdeguèron en renant.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Eu, lou grand ciéutadin que dins la goulo en flamo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Avié jita soun viéure e soun cors e soun amo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pèr sauva dóu voulcan la patrio en coumbour,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quand demandè soun pan, pechaire!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Li bourgés e li gros l’apelèron manjaire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E s’estremèron dins soun bourg.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Adounc, en se vesènt soulet dins soun auvàri,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Doulènt, emé sa crous escalè soun Calvàri ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E quàuqui bònis amo, eiça vers l’embruni.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Entendeguèron un long gème,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E pièi, dins lis espàci, aqueste crid suprème:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heli! lamma sabacthani!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mai degun s’avastè vers la cimo deserto ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Emé li dous iue clin e li dos man duberto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dins un silènci grèu alor éu s’amaguè;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E, siau coume soun li mountagno,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Au mitan de sa glòri e de sa malamagno,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sènso rèn dire mouriguè.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span></p> - -<h3>LA COUPO</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Prouvençau, veici la coupo<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Que nous vèn di Catalan:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-de-rèng beguen en troupo<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Lou vin pur de noste plant!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E versanto,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Vuejo à plen bord,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Vuejo abord<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lis estrambord<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E l’enavans di fort!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">D’un vièi pople fièr e libre<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sian bessai la finicioun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E, se toumbon li Felibre,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Toumbara nosto nacioun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">D’uno raço que regreio<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sian bessai li proumié gréu;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sian bessai de la patrio<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Li cepoun emai li priéu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Vuejo-nous lis esperanço<br /></span> -<span class="i2">E li raive dóu jouvènt,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dóu passat la remembranço<br /></span> -<span class="i2">E la fe dins l’an que vèn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Vuejo-nous la couneissènço<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dóu Verai emai dóu Bèu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E lis àuti jouïssènço<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Que se trufon dóu toumbèu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Vuejo-nous la Pouësio<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pèr canta tout ço que viéu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Car es elo l’ambrousio<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Que tremudo l’ome en diéu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pèr la glòri dóu terraire<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Vautre enfin que sias counsènt,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Catalan, de liuen, o fraire,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Coumunien tóutis ensèn!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Coupo santo<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E versanto,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Vuejo à plen bord,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Vuejo abord<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lis estrambord<br /></span> -<span class="i4">E l’enavans di fort!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span></p> - -<h3>A LA RAÇO LATINO.</h3> - -<h4>(<span class="smcap">Peço Dicho a Mount-Pelié sus la Plaço dóu Peirou, lou 25 de Mai de -1878.</span>)</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Souto la capo dóu soulèu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lóu vin de Diéu gisclara lèu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Emé toun péu que se desnouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A l’auro santo dóu Tabor,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tu siés la raço lumenouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que viéu de joio e d’estrambord;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tu siés la raço apoustoulico<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que sono li campano à brand:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tu siés la troumpo que publico<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E siés la man que trais lou gran.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ta lengo maire, aquéu grand flume<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que pèr sèt branco s’espandis,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Largant l’amour, largant lou lume<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coume un resson de Paradis,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ta lengo d’or, fiho roumano<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dóu Pople-Rèi, es la cansoun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que rediran li bouco umano,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tant que lou Verbe aura resoun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Toun sang ilustre, de tout caire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pèr la justiço a fa rajòu;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pereilalin ti navegaire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soun ana querre un mounde nòu;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Au batedis de ta pensado<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As esclapa cènt cop ti rèi ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! se noun ères divisado<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quau poudrié vuei te faire lèi?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A la belugo dis estello<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Abrant lou mou de toun flambèu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dintre lou mabre e sus la telo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As encarna lou subre-bèu.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De l’art divin siés la patrio<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E touto gràci vèn de tu;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Siés lou sourgènt de l’alegrio<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E siés l’eterno jouventu!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Di formo puro de ti femo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Li panteon se soun poupla;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A ti triounfle, à ti lagremo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tóuti li cor an barbela;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flouris la terro, quand fas flòri;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De ti foulié cadun vèn fòu;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E dins l’esclùssi de ta glòri<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sèmpre lou mounde a pourta dòu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ta lindo mar, la mar sereno<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ounte blanquejon li veissèu,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Friso à ti pèd sa molo areno<br /></span> -<span class="i0">En miraiant l’azur dóu cèu.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aquelo mar toujour risènto,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Diéu l’escampè de soun clarun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coume la cencho trelusènto<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Que dèu liga ti pople brun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino, &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sus ti coustiero souleiouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crèis l’óulivié, l’aubre de pas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E de la vigno vertuiouso<br /></span> -<span class="i0">S’enourgulisson ti campas:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Raço latino, en remembranço<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De toun destin sèmpre courous,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te vers l’esperanço,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Afrairo-te souto la Crous!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aubouro-te, raço latino,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Souto la capo dóu soulèu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lou vin de Diéu gisclara lèu!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">Printed by <span class="smcap">Ballantyne & Co Limited</span><br /> -Tavistock Street, London</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> JINGLE OF JOHN O’ THE PIG’S HEAD. -</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come tell me, who is dead?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis John o’ the Pig’s Head.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And who his dirge doth sing?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why, ’tis the Moorish King.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And who laughs o’er him now?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The partridge doth, I trow.<br /></span> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who makes a lay for him that’s gone?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mangle with its creaking stone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who was it that his knell began?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bottom of the frying-pan.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who wears for him a mourning veil?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The kettle’s sooty tail!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> A legendary character renowned as a spendthrift.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> The three tablecloths are graduated in size, commencing -with the largest, and are <i>de rigueur</i> for festal occasions.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> For Provençal text, <a href="#page_324"><i>see</i> p. 324.</a></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Signifying the Republic.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> -</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the city of the Baux for a florin’s value<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You have an apron full of cheeses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which melt in the mouth like fine sugar.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> The national instrument of Provence.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Athène du Midi.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Monsieur Paul Mariéton in his “Terre Provençale” says of -this work: “The history of a people is contained in this book. No one -can ever know what devotion, knowledge, discrimination and intuition -such a work represents, undertaken and concluded as it was during the -twenty best years of a poet’s life. All the words of the Oc language in -its seven different dialects, each one compared with its equivalent in -the Latin tongue, all the proverbs and idioms of the South together with -every characteristic expression either in use or long since out of -vogue, make up this incomparable Thesaurus of a tenacious language, -which is no more dead to-day than it was three hundred years ago, and -which is now reconquering the hearts of all the faithful.” This -“Treasury of the Félibres” opens with the following lines: -</p><p> -“O people of the South, hearken now to my words: -</p><p> -“If thou would’st regain the lost Empire of thy speech and equip thyself -anew, dig deep in this mine.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> The Mayor’s sash of office.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Mistral has glorified this legend in his <i>Mireille</i>, where -the saints appear to the young girl and recount to her their Odyssey -(pp. 427-437, <i>Mireille</i>).—C. E. M.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> For Provençal text <a href="#page_324"><i>see</i> p. 324.</a></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> For Provençal text <a href="#page_326"><i>see</i> p. 326.</a></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> The elder half-brother of Frédéric Mistral inherited the -Mas du Juge.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> A well-known poet and writer of Nîmes, author of a small -poem regarded as a classic in France: “L’Ange et l’Enfant.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> For Provençal text <a href="#page_329"><i>see</i> p. 329.</a></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> Les Aliscamps, the famous burying-ground of the Romans. In -the old pagan days it was said that this wonderful necropolis made -Arles, the queen of cities, more opulent beneath her soil than above. -Here the great Romans in the time of Augustus and Constantine regarded -it as their privilege to be buried.—C. E. M.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> <i>Mireille</i> was crowned by the Academy, and the poet -received a prize of ten thousand francs.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> For Provençal text <a href="#page_332"><i>see</i> p. 332.</a></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> For Provençal text <a href="#page_334"><i>see</i> p. 334.</a></p></div> - -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memoirs of Mistral, by -Frédéric Mistral - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL *** - -***** This file should be named 56040-h.htm or 56040-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/0/4/56040/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, ellinora, Bryan Ness and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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