LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA
SAN DIEGO
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, 55.
WAGNER'S HEROINES.
Illustrated by W. T. MAUD.
Third Impression, 55.
i WARD ARNOLD 19O7.
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
1st Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.
GOETHE.
LYRICS FROM THE PROVENCAL BY
ALMA STRETTELL
(MRS. LAWRENCE HARRISON)
ILLUSTRATED
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1907
\_All rights reserved]
TO MY FRIEND
THERESE ROUMANILLE
(MADAME BOISSIERE)
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 FELIBRES
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 Provengal 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 Provengal
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.
viii PREFACE
The fact that Mistral and his great collaborators
in the Felibre movement, Roumanille, Aubanel,
Felix 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 Olym-
pians 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 him-
self 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
PREFACE ix
not only of Mireille but of the life-work of the
author in the following letter, a French transla-
tion of which is to be seen framed in Mistral's
Proven?al Museum at Aries.
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
x PREFACE
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. Frederic Mistral.
The Nobel Prize has been devoted to the same
patriotic cause as that to which the poet has in-
variably consecrated everything he possesses.
In this instance the gift from Sweden has gone
towards the purchase of an ancient palace in
Aries, which in future will be the Felibrean 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 Pro-
vencal history, containing the weapons, costumes,
agricultural implements, furniture, documents,
&c., dating from the most ancient times up to
the present day.
PREFACE
XI
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 Marieton,
which brings the history of Felibrige and its
Capoulie up to the present date.
CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD.
CHELSEA, June 1907.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PACE
I. CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE ..... i
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 FELIBRES 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-SEGUGNE 185
XIII. "THE PROVENQAL ALMANAC" .... 198
XIV, JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES . . .235
XV. JEAN ROUSSI&RE 250
XVI. " MIREILLE " . . . . . .270
XVII. THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE . . . . 286
APPENDIX . . . . . . 37
MISTRAL'S POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL . . 324
ILLUSTRATIONS
To/ace
page
Fr6d6ric Mistral
Mas du Juge Birthplace of Frederic Mistral 18
Mistral in 1864 .......... 60
Arlcsiennes at Maillane ........ 84
Joseph Roumanille ......... 106
Anselm Mathieu ......... 158
Th6odore Aubanel ......... 158
Mas des Pommiers Home of Joseph Roumanille . . . 188
Madame Fr6d6ric Mistral, First Queen of the Felibres . 196
Felix Gras, Poet and F61ibre ....... 203
Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu ....... 226
Therese Roumanille (Madame Boissiere), Second Queen of
the Felibres .......... 266
Paul Mansion, Chancelier des Felibres ..... 307
Madame Gasquet (nee Mile. Girard), Third Queen of the
Felibres .......... 318
Madame Bischoffsheim (nee Mile, de Chevigney), Fourth and
present Queen of the Felibres ...... 326
-
MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE
As far back as I can remember I see before me,
dfc
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-Remy has been gilded
by the sun of Provence for two thousand years
past.
On the slopes of these hills are to be seen the
A
2 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
remains of the great Roman aqueduct, which once
carried the waters of Vaucluse to the Arena of
Aries ; 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 Aries. 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 beauti-
ful chatelaines 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 Aries 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 Provengal, " 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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 3
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-Cre"ma,
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 Aries 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,
4 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Mont dragon
and also of Romanin. The celebrated monument
shown at Valence is the tomb of these Mistrals.
And at Saint-Remy, the home of my family and
birthplace of my father, the Hotel 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 coinci-
dence 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 Sar 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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 5
signifies also the household, father, mother, and
son in the mystic sense. Three trefoils, there-
fore, stand for three successive harmonious genera-
tions, 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 Frangois 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 Etienne Poulinet," the
young girl replied, " the Mayor of Maillane. My
name is Delaide."
6 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 mes-
senger, 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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 7
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 Provengeaux,
his manners possessed the external ruggedness
of his ancestors.
I was baptized Frederic, 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-Remy, 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 cus-
tomary congratulations, offering me a couple of
8 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
" Avene, avene, avene " (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,
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 9
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 nota-
bilities of the place, Monsieur Deville, Monsieur
Dumas, Monsieur Raboux, the younger Riviere,
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.
io MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
There, to show off the fine education of his pro-
geny, proudly he made them declaim, verse by
verse, a little from one, a little from another, the
story of Theramene.
This accomplished, he would turn to my
mother :
" And your young one, Dela'ide do you not
teach him to recite something ? "
" Yes," replied my mother simply ; "he can
say the little rhyme of ' Jean du Pore.' '
"Come, little one, recite ' Jean du Pore/ " cried
every one to me.
Then with a bow to the company I would
timidly falter :
Quau es mort ? Jan dou Pore.
Quau lou plouro ? Lou rei Mouro.
Quau lou ris ? La perdris.
Quau lou canto ? La calandro.
Quau ie viro a brand ? Lou quieu de la sartan.
Quau n'en porto d6u ? Lou quieu d6u peir6u.*
* 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;
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE n
It was with these nursery rhymes, songs, and
tales that our parents in those days taught us the
good Provencal 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 nin-
compoops are turned out who have no more
attachment or root in their country than found-
lings, 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 Etienne. 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 grand-
sire Etienne was, in short, a veritable Roger
Bontemps.*
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 !
* A legendary character renowned as a spendthrift.
12 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
In spite of having eight children, six of whom
were girls, directly there was a fete 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 ? "
" He, 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 caj oiling 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.' 1
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 :
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 13
' 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 spend-
thrifts 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 Rhone.
People of all nations, even Turks and negroes,
journeyed there both by land and water. Every-
thing 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 store-
houses, 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.
14 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
Needless to say, my grandsire took good care
never to miss this occasion of going to Beau-
caire for four or five days' dissipation. Under
the pretext of purchasing articles for the house-
hold 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 ex-
periencing 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 grand-
sire, 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.
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 15
" 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 Etienne
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 bread-
pan of Master Etienne 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."
16 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 17
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 grow-
ing 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
i8 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 19
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 after-
noon 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,
20 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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,
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 21
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 1 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.
22 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 23
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,
" Frederic!" 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 General de
MY FATHER 25
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 " Frederic." 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
26 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Leopold 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 revolu-
tion, 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
MY FATHER 27
the king, and France was paralysed with con-
sternation 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 house-
hold, 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
28 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 " Cartabeou."
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
MY FATHER 29
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 :
" J ov > 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."
30 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
In chorus, we responded :
" Jy> }y> Jy ' " an d 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* 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
* The three tablecloths are graduated in size, commencing
with the largest, and are de rigueur for festal occasions.
MY FATHER 31
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 Figuieres.
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 patri-
archal 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 attend-
ants' 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 Aries
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 Rhone. 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
THE MAGI KINGS 33
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,
c
34 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.
THE MAGI KINGS 35
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 Aries."
" 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 slight, 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
36 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Aries 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
THE MAGI KINGS 37
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." *
(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.
* For Provenal text, see p. 324.
38 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 child-
hood, the divine instincts of the budding imagina-
tion 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 ?
THE MAGI KINGS 39
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 match-
wood. 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 Genevieve, deaf as a plough, and old
Patantane in her dotage, and Catherine de Four
40 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.
Wfa" We believed in those days in things which they
laugh at now, but which all the same were seen
THE MAGI KINGS 41
by people I myself know, people whose word was
to be trusted. There was my Aunt Mian, 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 cau-
tiously again Aunt Mian 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 Mian 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.
42 MEMOIRS Op MISTRAL
" ' 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 Tar-
lavelle, 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
THE MAGI KINGS 43
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 crea-
tures 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
44 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
thooe brats to do for, one's hands are pretty full,
I can tell you."
' Well, Xante 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 hand-
kerchief the old body flicks at the flies, and
nodding her head, quietly leans back and con-
tinues 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 tempera-
ment 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 accom-
plished 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
Provenal 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 !
46 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 un-
scrupulous 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
NATURE'S SCHOOL 47
from pure thirst of independence or because of
some injustice which, having deeply wounded
the heart, made the victim flee man and his habita-
tion. 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.
48 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
NATURE'S SCHOOL 49
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 Provengal 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 f or ? " 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."
D
50 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, Frederic, 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 :
NATURE'S SCHOOL 51
" 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."
52 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
So, turning out of the road, I discreetly ap-
proached 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.
NATURE'S SCHOOL 53
" 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-1'Ase, and
other visionary regions as firmly as in my Pater-
noster. 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
54 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, Frederic," 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
NATURE'S SCHOOL 55
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 night-
mare !
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 suffo-
cate 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 !
56 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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.
NATURE'S SCHOOL 57
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 com-
menced to dawn, and the pattering that caused
58 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
NATURE'S SCHOOL 59
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-Remy,
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:
60 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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.
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 pig-
skin 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 Montag-
nette, 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, unin-
habited and solitary, remained desolate up there
in the midst of the wilds, open to the four winds
and to the wild beasts. Occasionally smugglers
62 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
used it as a powder factory ; shepherds as a shelter
for their sheep in the rain ; or gamblers from
neighbouring towns Graveson, Maillane, Bar-
bentane, Chateau-Renard resorted there to hide
and to es'cape 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 liber-
tines 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 Mon-
sieur Donnat, bought the Convent of Saint -Michel
on credit and started there a school for boys.
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 63
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 institu-
tion 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
64 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 lu's
school some forty small boys of the neighbour-
hood, 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 prob-
lem of the Bank of Exchange, a measure which
the famous Proudhon in 1848 preached in vain.
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 65
One of the scholars I remember well. I think
he was from Nimes, 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 j and, finally, a little hunchback,
66 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 67
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 Frederic ; 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.
68 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 69
land and crushed boulders. But how good it
smelt, this odour of the mountains, how intoxi-
cating 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 beau"; 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 country-
side " 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 Provengal names, so sonorous and
characteristic, they seem to bear the impress of
the genius of the people. The " Mourre de la
70 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Y Argent, where formerly they
made counterfeit coin ; the Roque Pied de
Boeuf, on which was the mark of a bull's hoof ;
and the Roque d'Acier, dominating the Rhone,
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 abbe 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.
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 71
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
72 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
regime they were told, and are still told, that water
is good for the complexion.
The Abbe Talon never failed to escort us every
year to the Procession of Bottles. Having taken
our places in the chapel, the Cure 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 cure and the mayor, after clinking
glasses religiously on the steps of the altar, also
drank. On the morrow, when the fete 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
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 73
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- Ant hime, 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
74 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 child-
hood to the church at Graveson, there to show us
Saint- An thime and also Beluget, 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 neighbour-
hood. 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-f ork, which he used from his saddle,
cutting down the thistles and weeds.
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 75
Upon reaching the convent, my father emptied
an enormous sack which he had brought with
him on his saddle.
" See, Frederic," 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 parch-
ment, a mass of paper books " Epitome," " De
Viris Illustribus," " Selecta Historiae," " Con-
dones," &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 Felibre, 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
76 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 circum-
stances 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
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 77
signifies in the Proven9al 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 Premontre, 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
78 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
become so popular that upon the Republic order-
ing the closing of the convents, over a thousand
peasants came up from the plain and shut them-
selves 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-Remy, and Maillane,
encouraging the besieged with enthusiastic singing
and waving of kerchiefs :
Catholic and Provencal,
Our faith shall know no fear.
With ardour let us cheer,
Catholic and Provencal.
This was alternated with invectives, jokes, and
hootings addressed to the officers, as the latter
AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 79
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 Abbe 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 Petramale.
This time, it was Uncle Benoni 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
Benoni, 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
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL Si
Jeanneton, Aunt Madelon, Aunt Veronique, Aunt
Poulinette, Aunt Bourdette, Aunt Frangoise,
Aunt Marie, Aunt Rion, Aunt Therese, Aunt
Melanie 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 Benoni 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 repu-
tation 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 Saint e-Agathe, when he and Jesette, 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 Benoni had not his
82 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
equal at serenading the village beauties, or for
sounding the revel on a May night. And when-
ever there was a pilgrimage to be made, either to
Notre Dame de Lumiere, or to Saint-Gent, to
Vaucluse or Les Saintes-Maries, Benoni was in-
variably 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 Benoni, " 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,
AT MONSIEUR MILLETS SCHOOL 83
nearly ruined and with seven unmarried, dower-
less 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 chateau. So my
gallant Uncle Benoni 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 inevit-
able 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 neighbour-
ing 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.
84 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Benoni, " 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 Benoni, flute in hand, rose from
ARLESIENNES AT MAILLANE.
AT MONSIEUR MILLETS SCHOOL 85
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 Benoni's flute.
Having now introduced Uncle Benoni, 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 Croisiere
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
86 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Hotel 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 Benoni ; " 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 main-
tained 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 Ccesar,
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 Provencale, and various
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 87
lively comedies from the Marseillaise repertoire.
Benoni 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 Petramale. 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 1'Horloge, nor
widened out the Place Pic, nor constructed the
Grande Rue. The Roque de Dom, which com-
mands 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,
88 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 89
and upheaval between the old and new regimes,
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-tetes,
of the massacres of La Glaciere. The Liberals were
always ready to retaliate with the year 1815, and
the assassination of Marshal Brune, whose corpse
had been thrown into the Rhone, while his pro-
perty 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 Marechal
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 Proven9als
(who bore it in their national coat of arms) the
go MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Generaux, 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 by-
gone 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 after-
wards dissecting their corpses.
It was not less interesting for us, children of
villages for the most part, when we went out to
AT MONSIEUR MILLETS SCHOOL 91
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
92 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Cafe Baretta, which
he called the " Caf6 of talking animals." It was
kept, if I am not mistaken, by the uncle, or perhaps
grandfather, of Mademoiselle Baretta of the
Theatre-Frangais ; 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 bell-
ringer Fanot, of whom Roumanille sang later in his
" Cloche Montee," 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 Praxede, and had cheeks like the first blush
of a fresh rose. Children are queer things ! We
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 93
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 intoxi-
cates two young people in the first spring-time of
youth, it signifies being of one accord, " nous nous
agreions." 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 Praxede, as I
94 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Praxede, 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."
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 95
So we started one fine night in September, by
the light of the moon, with Uncle Benoni, of whom
I have already spoken, as driver.
Other pilgrims bound for the fete j oined us from
Chateau-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, intro-
duced 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 con-
secrate 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 har-
nessing him to the plough, made him work, yoked
with the other cow. Meanwhile at Monteux, since
96 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Her-
mitage 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
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 97
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, gallop-
ing 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."
G
98 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 dedi-
cated 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,"
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 99
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 Felibre, 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 con-
tinued 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 grey-
beards of the old University. For example, in
the fourth class we had the worthy Monsieur Blanc,
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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 innova-
tions 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 Beranger.
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 head-
master, 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 Provencale 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.
AT MONSIEUR MILLETS SCHOOL 101
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 Provengal verses of Jasmin to
Lo'isa 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 my4own discomfort, I
always felt it a duty to acknowledge them with
courtesy.
About the age of fourteen, the longing forjny
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 saidjto myself, " How
much happier are the servants and shepherds of
our farm, down there, who eat the good bread that
102 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
my mother provides ; the friends of my child-
hood, 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 Families, 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 Rhone, 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."
AT MONSIEUR MILLET'S SCHOOL 103
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 hesi-
tating 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 warmttf 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-Troue.
And here, in furtherance of my ambitions as a
budding Provensalist, I had indeed my " nozzle
in the hay."
Monsieur Dupuy was the brother of Charles
Dupuy, a former Deputy of La Drome, and author
of " Petit Papillons," a delicate morsel of our
modern Provensal. Our Dupuy also tried his
hand at Provenal 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-Remy, whose name was Joseph
Roumanille. As we were neighbours Maillane
and Saint-Remy being in the same canton and
our families, both of the farming class, had known
each other for years past, we were soon friends.
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 105
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 Proven-
$al 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 phleg-
matic 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 Provenal verse the peni-
tential 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 head-
master, 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 Provenal ? "
io6 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 Felibrean 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 Provengal, 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, ex-
pressing, 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
JOSEPH ROUMANILLE.
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 107
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 Pro-
vengal journal, Boui-Abaisso, which was published
weekly at Marseilles by Joseph Desanat, 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 Provenal,
deserves our gratitude.
Also we must recognise that such popular
poets as Desanat of Tarascon, or Bellot Chailan,
Benedit 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 Provencal
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
io8 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 over-
comes, 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
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 109
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 Provengal tongue
had been discarded as vulgar, and in their place,
the poets who preceded the Felibres, even those
of repute, had commonly employed, without any
critical sense, corrupt forms and bastard words
no MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Provengal 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 intro-
duced 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
THREE EARLY FELIBRES in
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 pre-
paring 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.
H2 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 Chateauneuf," he answered " the
country where they grow good wine. Perhaps you
have never heard of Chateauneuf, Chateauneuf-
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,"
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 113
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 Felibrige. 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 j oke,
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
H
114 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Fete-Dieu at Pont-Troue,
Mathieu said to me :
" Frederic, 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 ! "
1 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 tQ
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 115
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.
" f 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 Felibre
of the Kisses, studied his Breviary of Love, and
n6 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Revolu-
tion 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.
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 117
About this time Roumanille, in order to supple-
ment 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 fare-
well 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 dais, was to pass, all the
town ^ set to work sweeping, watering, strewing
green boughs, and erected decorations. From the
n8 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
balconies of the rich were hung tapestries of em-
boidered 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.
THREE EARLY FELIBRES 119
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 per-
fumes, 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 Felibres, 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 Nimes 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 Figuieres," said my sire.
So I made my preparations forthwith for the
j ourney to Nimes, where at that time the degrees
were taken. My mother folded up my Sunday
coat and two white shirts in a big check hand-
kerchief fastened together with four pins. My
father presented me with a small linen bag con-
taining 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.
HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 121
Arrived at Nimes, 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
Nimes 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 Hotel
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
122 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Nimes 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 Provencales 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-
HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 123
gardeners. They had come in from Saint-Remy,
Chateau-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 1 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 Nimes
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 '
124 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 125
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-Remy with a big guttural voice, who in-
quired 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-Remy !
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
126 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 127
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 ? "
128 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 Hotel 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 pro-
fessors 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-Rene Taillandier, who, a few years later,
was to become the warm supporter of the Felibre
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 stammer-
ing 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 cafes, 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
HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 129
yet set foot inside a cafe, 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-Remy 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."
i
130 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
Nimes 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 popu-
lar 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 sur-
mounted 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.
132 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.' 1
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 Proclama-
tion 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.
" He, but the tomatoes have ripened this
year," she cried out to me. "They are going to
plant the ' trees of liberty/ * and we shall all eat of
* Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 133
those good apples of Paradise. . . . Oh, Sainte-
Marianne, I never thought to live to see it
again ! Frederic, 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 chuck-
ling 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,
134 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Abbe Riousset, disguised as a shepherd, made
his way to Piedmont with the flocks of Monsieur
de Lubieres. 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 chateaux
were pillaged, the very dove-cotes demolished,
the bells melted down, and the crosses broken.
In the churces they piled up great mounds of
earth on which they planted pine-trees, oaks and
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 135
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 unfor-
tunately 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 neigh-
bour, they would have stoned him. It was this
same priest who another time wound up his dis-
course 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
136 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 M6ry was on the other. Towards
the end of dinner an old man very simply attired
addressed me in Provencal 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 "
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 137
' 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
Aries and Avignon hastened to publish :
Reveillez-vous enfants de la Gironde,
Et tressaillez dans vos sepulcres froids ;
La liberte va rajeunir le monde . . .
Guerre eternelle 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
138 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
regarded me as a turncoat, delighted the Repub-
licans, who, being in the minority, were en-
chanted 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 mince-
meat 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
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 139
"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/' *
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, Frederic," he said in his most serious and
impressive manner, " I wish to speak to you."
" You are in for it this time, Frederic," thought
I to myself ; " now all the fat is in the fire ! " Fol-
lowing 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, Frederic, 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 ? "
* Signifying the Republic.
140 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Con-
vention, and wise as he was learned, refused to
sign the death warrant of the King, and speaking
one day to his nephew Pelissier, also member of
the Convention, he warned him : ' Pelissier,'
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 pro-
visionary Government the astronomer Arago, the
great poet Lamartine ; our t trees of liberty ' * 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
i * Poles crowned with Phrygian caps.
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 141
fourteen years old I was coming from Saint-
Re"my 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, Beranger, Lacordaire,
Garnier-Pages, Marie, and a poet of the people
named Astouin. But the party-spirited reaction-
aries soon poisoned everything; the butcheries
and massacres of June horrified the nation. The
142 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
moderates grew cold, the extremists became veno-
mous, and all my fair young visions of a pla-
tonic 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 con-
stant 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,
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 143
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 Aries, a messenger
went the round of the mountain villages blowing
his horn and crying : ' This is to give notice that
the corn in Aries 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 Aries, about the time of Saint John's Day,
thousands of these harvest labourers might be seen
144 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
assembed in the Place des Homines, 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 Aries found it
hard, so they said, to get any girl to marry him,
and it was on this custom Felix 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
THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 145
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 con-
sisted of anchovies spread on bread steeped in oil
and vinegar, together with raw onions, an invari-
able 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
K
146 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Aries, 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 lies d'Or."
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
Aries, so much appreciated by Beland de la
Belaudiere, the Provencal poet in the time of the
Valois kings :
148 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
A la ville des Baux, pour un florin vaillant
Vous avez un tablier plein de fromages
Qui fond au gosier comme sucre fin.*
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-Re"my, 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
* 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.
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 149
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 Made-
moiselle 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.
150 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
Louise's friend, Courrade by name, was from
Saint-Remy, 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 some-
thing 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.
" Frederic," 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 Dejanire and
Hercules ? "
" Yes," I answered laughing, " and also of the
tunic which the beautiful Dejanire 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
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 151
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, Frederic, 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, Frederic," 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 cha r med and
disturbed by this sudden appearance of young
maidens upon the scene, both of whom in a certain
152 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 happi-
ness, 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 vir-
ginity, was she not justified in thinking to come
off victorious ? Charming as she was, and her-
self 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
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 153
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 Aries, 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
154 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Frederic 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, Frederic, 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, Frederic ; but when you see beneath
your feet the withered yellow leaves, let them
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 155
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, Frederic,
I pray you."
This was the final adieu sent to me by the poor
young girl, sealed with her own blood and accom-
panied 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
156 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Provengal 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 Rene 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 ; * 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 Proven9al. One of the best methods this
for keeping alive the national soul, and which in
Aix has never lapsed. Count Portalis, for example,
* The national instrument of Provence.
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 157
one of the grand jurists of the Napoleon Code,
wrote a play in Provencal. Then there was
Monsieur Diouloufet, famous librarian of the
French Athens * (as Aix once called herself), who,
in the reign of Louis XVII I., 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 pur-
pose 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 ragodt 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 Chateauneuf.
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
* Athene du Midi.
158 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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."
" Frederic, 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 conversa-
tion with the girl, we arranged that she should
ANSELM MATHIEU.
THKOUORE AUBANEL.
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 159
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 con-
tinued, " I noticed she was rubbing away at a
dainty chemise of finest linen, trimmed with lace.
It excited my curiosity and admiration I in-
quired 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 cur-
mudgeon 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 laun-
dress, 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."
160 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 under-
taken 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 Mar-
seilles, 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 Pretres," work which both popu-
larised and dignified the Provengal tongue. From
this he proceeded, on the strength of the reputa-
tion won by his " Paquerettes " and his daring
pamphlets, to convoke, through the means of
his journal, all Provengal singers of the day, old
and young. The outcome of this rallying move-
ment was a publication in 1852, Les Provenpales,
presented to the public with an introduction of
ardent enthusiasm by the learned and eminent
savant, Monsieur Saint-Rene Taillandier, then
residing at Montpellier.
In this first venture appeared contributions from
d' Astros and Gaut of Aix ; Aubert, Bellot,
Benedit, Bourelly, and Barthelemy of Marseilles ;
Bondin, Cassan, Gira of Avignon; Tarascon
was represented by Gautier, and Beaucaire by
Bonnet; Chateauneuf by Anselme Mathieu ; Car-
pentras 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 Lan-
guedoc poets Moquin-Tandon, Peyrottes, Lafare-
Alois ; and Jasmin, who contributed one poem.
L
162 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
The principal contributor, however, was
Roumanille, then in full flower of production, his
last work, entitled "Les Creches," having elicited
from the great Sainte-Beuve the declaration that
it was worthy of Klopstock.
Theodore 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 a 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 Lelette, 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, unweary-
ingly, until finally observed by the object of his
adoration a lady, declared Mathieu, of matchless
MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 163
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 carna-
tion 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 Lelette, my little
laundress, lent us a hand. I entered the garden
at eleven o'clock, and by the trellis of the rose-
tree 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 Frederic, a hand I quickly recognised
was not that of my adored, shook down on my
upturned nose the cinders of a pipe ! I waited
164 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Lelette a worthy
dame who kept a tavern near the Porte d' Italic.
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 ' Paquerettes ' of our friend
Roumanille. The time does not hang heavy, for
little Lelette 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 " Felibre of the Kisses," drew on his
gorgeous imagination for the whole of this ro-
mantic 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, Frederic."
" 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.
166 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 pro-
mote 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 Provengal 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
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 167
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 Aries,
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 :
168 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 hay-
makers, 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
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 169
gladden my eyes from early morn till eve ? Could
one possibly find a grander prototype for my
Master Ramon than the patriarch Fra^ois 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 Frederic ? " Perhaps
at that moment I had crept away under a shel-
tering 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 Mouries ; a sort of
170 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Due d'Angouleme, 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 Aries 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 Proven9al expres-
sion 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 gather-
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 171
ing at Mouries 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 1'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 ! "
172 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Rhone, 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 Vallabreque and that
district.
My chief instructor, however, in the botany
of Provence was our neighbour Xavier, a peasant
herbalist, who told me the Provengal 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 pro-
fessors of our schools, either high or low, I believe
those gentlemen would have found it difficult to
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 173
pass the examination I could, for instance, on the
subject of thistles.
Suddenly, like a bomb, during this quiet, grow-
ing 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 Govern-
ment 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 ?
174 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 high-
ways 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 Frederic,"
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."
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 175
" 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 " T
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 Frederic."
176 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 177
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 .^ueen of
' M
178 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Frederic, 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
Proven$ales, to which many Proven9al 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 Provenal poets. And under the directorship
of Roumanille and of Gaut, both of whom had been
contributors to the journal Lou Boui-Abaisse y
the first meeting was held on August 29, 1852,
at Aries, in a room in the ancient archbishop's
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 179
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, Desanet, Garcin, Gaut, Gelu,
Mathieu, Roumanille, myself and others. Thanks
to the good Carpentrassian, Bonaventure Lau-
rent, our portraits had the honour of being in
U 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 Mont-
pellier, had begged him to bring Jasmin to Aries.
But the author of " Marthe la folle," the illustrious
poet of Gascony, answered the invitation of
Moquin-Tandon : " Since you are going to Aries,
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 ! " Rou~
manille 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 " Paquerettes,"
8o MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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-Remy.
" 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 ' Paquerettes,' 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 Con-
gress at Aries 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 Nimes also wrote to us :
" My friends, if you have to battle one day
for your cause, remember it was at Aries that
you held your first meeting, and that your torch
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 181
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 Aries had succeeded too well
not to be renewed. The following year, on August
21, 1853, a * 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 Aries. 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 !
182 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
Besides those I have mentioned as figuring at the
Congress of Aries, here are the new names that
appeared at the Congress of Aix : Leon Alegre,
the Abbe Aubert, Autheman Bellot, Brunet,
Chalvet, the Abbe Lambert, Lejourdan, Peyrottes,
Ricard-Berard, Tavan, Vidal, &c., and three
poetesses, Mesdemoiselles Reine Garde, Leonide
Constans, and Hortense Rolland.
A literary seance 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 Proven9al
towns, and on a banner of crimson velvet were
inscribed the names of the principal Provengal
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 "Mireio"
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
THE RETURN TO THE FARM 183
Provengal, 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 suc-
cesses were produced by the song of the peasant
Tavan, " Les Frisons de Mariette," and the recita-
tion 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 Felibree 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' fete, 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 ' Felibres ' 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
184 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, Crou-
sillat, they who have the fire of youth, will unwind
the tangled skein of our Proven9al 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-
Remy or on the heights of Chateauneuf, we met
together for our small intimate festivities, our
Provengal 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 " Noels " 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 Inno-
cents." 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
i86 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Aries 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
FONT-SEGUGNE 187
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, an-
nounced by the beating of tambours and pre-
sided over by old Jesette, 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 Quequine, 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' reunions were at Saint-Remy
we met at the house of Roumanille's parents,
i88 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
Uanquette 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 con-
fusion 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 in-
scribed on the tomb of his parents in the cemetery
at Saint-Remy :
\
T6 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.
FONT-SEGUGNE 189
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 Felibre 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-Segugne, pre-
destined to play an important part in our enter-
prise, that perhaps we most enjoyed ourselves in
the charming country house belonging to the
family of Giera. Paul, the eldest son, was a notary
at Avignon, and an enthusiastic supporter of our
movement. His mother, a dignified and gracious
igo MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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-Segugne 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-Segugne : " 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 moun-
tain 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 1' Amour," Aubanel drew the
portrait of his enchantress :
FONT-SEGUGNE 191
" 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-Segugne, 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."
192 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
On the walls of the room at the chateau 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
chateau 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 chateau
of Font-Se*gugne.
Paul Giera, a joking spirit who signed his name
backwards as " Glaup " ; Roumanille, a pro-
pagandist who, without appearing to do so, un-
ceasingly fanned the flame of the sacred fire all
around him ; Aubanel, converted by Roumanille
FONT-SEGUGNE 193
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, Frederic, ready to send on the
wings of the mistral, like the mountain shep-
herds 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
Aries and at Aix, every attempt on the part of
the young school of Avignon patriots to rehabili-
tate the Proven9al tongue had been badly received
and dismissed, the seven at Font-Segugne deter-
mined to band together and take the enterprise
in hand.
t " And now," said Glaup, " as we are forming a
N
194 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, appro-
priated 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 ' Felibres ' of the Law."
" The seven Felibres of the Law but here we
are ! " cried they all in chorus : " Felibre is the
name."
FONT-SEGUGNE 195
Then Glaup, filling up the seven glasses with a
bottle of Chateauneuf which had been just seven
years in the cellar, proposed the health of the
Felibres. "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
Felibres numbering not less than seven members
shall be called a ' Felibrerie/ in memory, gentle-
men, of the Pleiades of Avignon."
"And I," said Roumanille, "beg to propose
the pretty verb ' felibriser,' signifying to meet
together as we are now doing."
" I wish to add," said Mathieu, " the term
' felibree ' to signify a festivity of Provengal poets."
" And I," struck in Tavan, " give the adjective
' felibreen ' to all things descriptive of our move-
ment."
" And to the ladies who shall sing in the tongue
of Provence I dedicate the name of ' Felibresse/ "
said Aubanel.
Upon which Brunet added promptly :
" And the children of all Felibres I baptize
' Felibrillons.' "
" And let me conclude," I cried, " with this
national word, ' Felibrige,' which shall designate
our work and association."
Then Glaup took up the speech again :
196 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 com-
pleted in the "Treasury of the Felibres,"* a
* Monsieur Paul Marieton in his " Terre Provencale " says
of this work : " The history of a people is contained in this
book. No one can ever know what devotion, knowledge, dis-
crimination 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 Felibres "
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."
MME. FREDERIC MISTRAL, IST QUEEN OF THE FELIBRES.
FONT-SEGUGNE 197
dictionary of the Provensal tongue, including
every variety of derivation and idiom, a work to
which I devoted twenty years of my life.
In the Provencal Almanac for 1855, Paul
Giera 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-
Segugne that we also decided on a small annual
publication which should be a connecting-link
between all Felibres, 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 Provencal Almanac, numbering 112 pages.
And conspicuous among the contributions was
our " Song of the Felibres," which set forth the
programme of our popular Renaissance.
CHAPTER XIII
THE "PROVENCAL ALMANAC"
i
THE Provencal 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 thou-
sand, 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
Felibre movement, the quantity of tales, legends,
witticisms, and jokes culled from all parts of the
THE "PROVENQAL ALMANAC' 199
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 redis-
covered, faithfully portrayed such as they were, in
this Almanac of the Felibres.
Roumanille has published in a separate volume,
" Tales of Provence," the flower of those attrac-
tive 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 Arene, E. Blavat, and
other good friends.
THE GOOD PILGRIM
LEGEND OF PROVENCE
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.
200 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 accom-
plishing 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 j ourney
to Rome .... Alas ! I am old as earth J I can
THE "PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 201
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 :
" Esperit, 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 over-
take 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, com-
plaining and moaning the whole year through, he
202 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 com-
mands, one must go."
And Esperit, 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 wonder-
ful 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 Esperit.
" 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. Esperit and the angel then set forth on
FELIX GRAS. POET AND FELIBRE.
THE "PROVENCAL ALMANAC 1 203
the road to Rome ; and thus, joyfully, through sun-
shine 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 sanc-
tuaries, 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 Esperit with his companion went to rest
under the porch of Saint Peter, and Esperit 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 Esperit awoke. The angel had disappeared.
204 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired
after him, nowhere could he be found, and Esperit
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.
Ill
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 unrecog-
nisable. 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 Archim-
baud from his bed, " give him something : who
knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment
in the same need ! "
THE "PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 205
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 gl at tons 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 Esperit 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 Esperit, is not at this very
hour exposed to the severity of the storm."
206 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" Ah, yes, thou art right," said the mother,
softening, and she went at once and opened the
door of the stable ; then poor Esperit 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 Esperit 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 : Esperit was
henceforth a saint.
(Almanack Provencal, 1879.)
THE "PROVENQAL ALMANAC" 207
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
208 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Matery, he who was a White Peni-
tent."
" Thy Uncle Matery ! He is undergoing a
hundred years of purgatory ! "
" Malediction ! a hundred years ! Why what
had he done amiss ? "
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 209
" 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 Matery, who is carrying the cross ; ' and
a little further another repeated, ' Look at Matery,
who is carrying the cross,' and at last another
said like this, ' Look, look at Matery, what is he
carrying ? ' Matery got angry, it appears, and
answered, ' A jackanapes like thee.' And forth-
with he had a stroke and died in his anger."
" Well then, let me see my Aunt Dorothee, 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 ! "
c
210 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" Now come, Saint Peter, just remember that
down there at Tarascon my father, who is a fisher-
man, 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."
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 211
" 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 dis-
tressed ! 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
212 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, Aries,
Beaucaire, Nimes, 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
"THE PROVENAL ALMANAC" 213
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 i "
And so saying he plunged, head foremost, into
the abyss.
(Almanack Provenfal, 1864.)
THE FROG OF NARBONNE
I
Young Pignolet, journeyman carpenter, nick-
named the " Flower of Grasse," one afternoon
in the month of June returned in high spirits
214 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Com-
panions 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 Caesar, his ker-
chief 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
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 215
ejaculated at intervals. Having some hours pre-
viously 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 M'ion 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. Mar-
guerite ! 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,
216 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 car-
penter's shop could baffle me."
" Very well," said the old man, " see here while
"THE PROVENQAL ALMANAC" 217
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 Aries, and we
saw the roof of the Commune of Aries."
" So well constructed that one cannot imagine
how it holds itself in the air."
" From Aries, my father, we went to the city
2i8 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
of Saint-Gille, and there we saw the famous
Vis "
" Yes, yes, a wonder both in structure and out-
line. 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 cele-
brated 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 Beziers ; Pezenas
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
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 219
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 ' com-
panion/ 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
220 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 ne 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 knap-
sack 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.
(Almanack Provenfal, 1890.)
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 221
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 inn-
keeper. And as she was good and sang like an
angel, the cure 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 fete where Rose first sang was
that of Sainte-Agathe, the patroness of Maillane.
It was at the Cafe de la Paix (now Cafe du
Soleil), and the room was full as an egg. Rose,
not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside
222 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 pea-
sants, from Graveson, Saint-Remy, Eyrague, be-
sides 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 pas-
sionate 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 ! "
THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 223
II
When Madame Bordas had done all the fetes
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 barri-
cades she represented an incarnation of joyous
liberty, and Tony Revillon, a Parisian poet of
the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in
the newspaper.
224 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 fete 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 Gent."
'THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC' 225
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 fetes 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.
(Almanack Provencal, 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
p
226 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
fete 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, Fransonnette," cried the
worthy man. " Go fetch the hearth-cakes and
come, rinse out the glasses."
MISTRAL AND HIS DOG PAN-PERDU.
"THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 227
In the meanwhile the musicians banged away
at their tambourines. When they had finished,
the leaders of the party with flowers in their button-
holes 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 faran-
dole 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,
228 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
if the good God helps me, until I have buried
another half-dozen."
" But how hast thou managed to keep thy sash *
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 con-
tented 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
* The Mayor's sash of office.
'THE PROVENQAL ALMANAC" 229
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 pro-
mises 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
230 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 throw-
ing his ball unintentionally struck the mark,
'THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 231
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, Guequine, 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
232 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 B6darride 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 Cure," 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 fete
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."
'THE PROVENCAL ALMANAC" 233
" Monsieur le Cure, 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, Berengere," said Lassagne,
accosting her. " Now really from behind with
thy red kerchief I took thee for Tereson, the
234 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 grati-
fied 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.
(Almanack Provenpal, 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
236 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
LES SAINTES-MARIES 237
as a trophy on the main-mast. Those were the
days in which the towing-horses were insufficient
to tug up the Rhone 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 Rhones, 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
238 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 atten-
tion 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 in-
vited 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
LES SAINTES-MARIES 239
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 J asses 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 ~r^' '
Belle, belle Alarde tournez vous.
240 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
La belle s'est tourn6e,
Son beau 1'a regarde :
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 threaten-
ing. The wind blew straight from the sea, sweep-
ing the black masses of cloud towards us till all
the bue 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
LES SAINTES-MARIES 241
his hand, collecting his scattered beasts. " You'll
get wet," he prophesied cheerfully.
A drizzle commenced ; then larger drops an-
nounced 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 unani-
mously. " 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 La-
moureux ; " 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
Q
242 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 diffi-
culty even on dry ground, did not refuse such a
noble offer.
" You, my Frederic, 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 be-
trothed, who no longer loves me my boy, my
handsome boy ! "
It was in vain that I tried to steal in with my
LES SAINTES-MARIES 243
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 rSle 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.
244 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.
LES SAINTES-MARIES 245
" 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 Aries, 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 Nimes, 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
246 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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.
LES SAINTES-MARIES 247
It was just here, says the legend,* 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"f
The sisters and the brothers, we
Who followed him ever constantly,
* 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.
t For Provencal text see p. 324.
248 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 reckless 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 ;
LES SAINTES-MARIES 249
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 ROUSSIERE
" GOOD morning, Mr. Frederic. 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 Roussiere, 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 Roussiere, he who
taught me the old folk-melody of "Magali"
JEAN ROUSSIERE 251
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 Roussiere 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 Rhone 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 Rhone !
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 Roussiere would enumerate all the
252 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
places on the two banks ; the inns, the hostesses,
the streams, the sluices, the roads and the fords
from Aries 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
JEAN ROUSSIERE 253
procession, a cavalcade of joyful labourers, each
one walking proudly near his own horse or mule,
and cracking his whip. In the chariot, accom-
panied 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 Roussiere, 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 horse-
man's performance.
254 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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, Roussiere 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 Roussiere
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.'
JEAN ROUSSIERE 255
' 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 presump-
tion 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
256 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 neigh-
bours. ' 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 appren-
tice ? '
" ' Come in, come in/ replied Eloi. ' I have
been thinking that we could give you work also.
JEAN ROUSSIERE 257
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
R
258 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 black-
smith 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.
JEAN ROUSSIERE 259
" ' Hold the hoof ! ' cried Jesus. ' In our
country we do not find that necessary.'
" ' Well, what next/ cried the master black-
smith, ' 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
260 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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
Roussiere.
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 par-
ticular air was Jean Roussiere, who was apparently
JEAN ROUSSIERE 261
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 Provencal 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 Mar-
guerite, I heard one day as I was returning home
from Saint-Remy. 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.*
" O Magali, beloved maid,
Forth from thy casement lean !
And listen to my serenade
Of viols and tambourine."
i
" 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 ! "
* For Provencal text see p. 326.
262 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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."
" 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."
JEAN ROUSSIERE 263
" 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 1
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."
264 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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."
" 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 busied
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.)
JEAN ROUSSIERE 265
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 pre-
vious 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
266 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
sincerity and faith, the strong faith of simple
souls, he turned to his family, who all stood
weeping around his bed :
11 Come, come, my children," he said to us. u 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 :
" Frederic, what sort of weather is it ? "
" It rains, my father," I replied.
" Ah well," he said, "if it rains it is 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
THERESE ROUMANILLE (MADAME BOISSIERE),
2ND QUEEN OF THE FELIBRES.
JEAN ROUSSIERE 267
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 accom-
pany 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 Roussiere carry-
ing 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
Franois my father, had been the last of the patri-
archs of Provence, a faithful preserver of traditions
and customs, and the last, at least for me, of that
austere generation, religious, humble, and self-
2 68 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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,* which was not in my
division, I had to say good-bye.
One afternoon, with my mother and the dog,
* The elder half-brother of Frdric Mistral inherited the
Mas du Juge.
JEAN ROUSSIERE 269
and Jean Roussiere 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 p6re,
helas ! helas !
CHAPTER XVI
"MIREILLE"
THE following year (1856), at the time of the fete
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 Felibres, brought
him just in the propitious hour. It was Adolphe
Dumas a fine figure of a man some fifty years
old, of an aesthetic 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 Provengal ? " 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
"MIREILLE" 271
to come and collect the popular songs of Provence,
such as ' Le Mousse de Marseille/ ' La Belle Mar-
goton,' ' 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 Proven9al
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 premiere patrie,
L'ombre du vieux mtirier, le bane de pierre etroit,
Le nid de 1'hirondelle avail au bord du toit,
Et la treille, a present sur les murs egare'e,
Qui regrctte son maitre et retombe e"ploree ;
Et dans 1'herbe et 1'oubli qui poussent sur le se.uil,
J'aijaitj>ieusement agenouiller 1'orgueil,
272 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
J'ai rouvert la fenetre ou me vint la lumiSre,
Et j'ai rempli de chants la couche de ma mre ! "
" But come, tell me, since poem there is, tell
me something of your Provengal 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 indi-
genous 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
'MIREILLE" 273
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 tne 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 cos-
tume 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 Provencale in tears.
Stopping his carriage he asked her : " My pretty
274 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
child, what is the matter why do you weep so
bitterly ? "
In her naive 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 Cite des Hommes,"
"La Mort de Faust et de Don Juan," "Le
Camp des Croises," " Provence," " Mademoiselle
de la Valliere," "L'Ecole des Families," "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 Provengal :
"MIREILLE" 275
" 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, Beranger,
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
memor}?- of his childhood on the Durance, came
to the determination to issue a passenger's ticket
to Felibrige between Avignon and Paris.
My poem of Provence was at last finished,
though not yet printed, when one day my friend
Frederic Legre, a young Marseillais who formerly
frequented Font-Segugne, 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, 1
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
276 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
and admiring, from Notre-Dame to the Louvre,
and from the Place Vendome 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
"MIREILLE" 277
young Mistral, the poet of Provence. Who is
this Mistral ? No one knows anything of him.
When I am asked,! answer fearing my words should
find no credence, so surprising will be my state-
ments 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 Frederic 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."
278 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Litterature " (quarantieme
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 Frederic 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 ten-
sion 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
"MIREILLE" 279
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
28o MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
leave, he promised to send me the first printed
copy of his Mireille."
After this memorable occasion I paid my fare-
well respects to Lamartine. He lived at that time
on the ground floor in the Rue dela Ville-l'Eveque.
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 permis-
sion 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, Lamar-
tine, 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 * the following
letter :
* A well-known poet and writer of Nimes, author of a small
poem regarded as a classic in France : " L'Ange et 1'Enfant."
'MIREILLE" 281
" I have read Mireio. Nothing until now has
appeared of such national, vital, inimitable growth
of the South. There is a virtue in the sun of Pro-
vence. 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 Mon-
sieur 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 enthu-
siasm, 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 Mireio. 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 Lamar-
282 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
tine 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 MirZio, but without having spoken to her
of Lamartine's opinion, of which I was still igno-
rant. 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 Felibrige.
"MIREILLE" 283
The fortieth discourse of the " Cours familier
de Litterature " 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 Provencal 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.*
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 ! "
* For Proven9al text see
284 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Adona'i, 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.
"MIREILLE" 285
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
Felibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, Baux, and
Chateauneuf that first crop of Felibres 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 Due de Morny, honorary secretary be it under-
stood, 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
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 287
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 Due 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
288 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Chene-Vert, a pleasant inn in the neighbour-
hood 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 Garden, 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 Rhone, 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 Rhone, yes, the Marechal Brune ! And may
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 289
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 FREDERIC, 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 Aries. 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 moun-
tain. 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 Aries.
' 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.
290 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
" 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 ex-
pected, 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 Aries, 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 Hotel
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.
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 291
" 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, Augouleme, 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
292 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
a popular cafe, and then in the narrow streets, cool,
and white with limestone, flanked by stately old
houses on either side, we strolled about till the twi-
light fell, looking at the queenly Arlesienne beauties
on their doorsteps or behind the transparent window
curtains, for I must own they had counted consider-
ably as a latent motive in our descent upon Aries.
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 Constan-
tine, 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 Rhone in barrels. We also
encountered troops of sunburnt gleaners, newly re-
turned 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
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 293
to her neighbours, who, at her shout of laughter,
came to their doors coifed with the coquettish
headgear of Aries.
"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 any-
body, 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 Counenc'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 Rhone,
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."
294 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 con-
nected 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 Rhone, 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.
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 295
' That is ' La Counenque,' " 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 !
" Counenque, 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." I
" 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 Counenc supping with them.
From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by
296 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Counenque," to give us an appetite, brought
some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde,
a dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fer-
mented 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 a 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 accom-
paniment of some fermented cheese and haddock.
It is only fair to mention we also did our best to
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 297
help him, while Master Gaf et, 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,"
298 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 " Counenque " 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 :
REVELS OF TRINOUETAILLE 299
A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate.
F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
A. Mathieu, Felibre of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon.
" And if any one," he continued, " if any one,
O Counenque, 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 Trinque-
taille :
" What if we danced a bit of a farandole ? "
proposed the indefatigable and charming novelist
of the " Mule du Pape." " The bridges of Pro-
vence 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,
300 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 Rhone 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
Rhone ! "
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 Rhone 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
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 301
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.*
Passing down the Lice d' Aries 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 Aries of the Romans. And
while wandering amongst the tombs and sarco-
phagi, 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.
* Les Aliscamps, the famous burying-ground of the
Romans. In the old pagan days it was said that this wonderful
necropolis made Aries, 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.
302 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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 ? "
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 303
" 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 Aries, 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
j oined in :
" De 1'abbaye passant les portes
Autour de moi, tu trouverais
Des nonnes 1'errante cohorte
Car en suaire je serais ! "
" O Magali, si tu te fais
La pauvre morte
La terre alors je me ferais
L 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 :
304 MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
*' 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 Bar-
barians, 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 hippo-
potamus ! Ah, for the good onions, the catigot,
and fermented cheese of the tavern of Trinque-
taille !
' 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 cock-
roaches 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 Felibre,
"ALPHONSE DAUDET."
And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a
REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 305
good Provengal ! Just because he jokes and
ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and
Xante 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.
PAUL MARIETON, CHANCELIER DBS FELIBRF.S.
APPENDIX
THE following extract, translated from the
biographical notice of Frederic Mistral, written
for " La Grande Encyclopedic" by Monsieur
Paul Marieton, for many years Chancelier des
Felibres and a French poet and writer of note,
takes up the history of Felibrige where the
Memoirs leave off :
The unanimity of votes accorded to Mireille * by
the members of the French Academy set the seal
of sanction to the Provencal Renaissance, and
reinforced Mistral himself with faith and resolu-
tion 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 Aries ? " was his one thought as he wrote
Mireille. But before the completion of his epic
* Mireille was crowned by the Academy, and the poet
received a prize of ten thousand francs.
308 APPENDJI|X
his ambition for his native tongue had widened.
The notes in the Appendix and the French transla-
tion published with the Provengal testify to this
fact. Already he was beginning to realise the
leading part he was about to play in the society
founded at Font-Segugne. The school of Rou-
manille, 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 Felibres, 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 " Felibres " 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 Provenals and the Catalans, their brethren
APPENDIX 309
both of race and tongue. This was ratified
when in 1868 Mistral, together with Roumieux,
Paul Meyer, and Bonaparte Wyse, met at the
Barcelona fete in response to the call of the
Catalonians.
SONG OF THE CUP.*
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 " Felibres " 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.
* For Provencal text see p. 332,
3io APPENDIX
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.
sacred cup, &c.
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)
Thus little by little the Felibrige, 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,
APPENDIX 311
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 Felibres, however, was enthu-
siastic, 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 Felibreen religion.
Little by little, thanks to the vital impulse
given by Mistral, Felibrige crossed the Rhone.
After having aroused some fervent proselytes,
such as Louis Roumieux and Albert Arnavielle
at Nimes 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 scien-
tifically 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 Felibrige movement, already
Provenal and Catalan, now became Latin also.
The memorable occasion of the Centenary
312 APPENDIX
Fete 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 Societe
Romane in 1875, followed by the Latin Fetes at
Montpellier in 1876, at which the young wife of the
poet was elected Queen of the Felibres, 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 pro-
claimed Grand Master (Capoulie) 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
APPENDIX 313
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 Provenal Renaissance con-
tinued to extend daily. Mistral endowed the
movement at last with the scientific and popular
weapon essential for its defence, a national dic-
tionary. It was the crowning work of his life,
314 APPENDIX
" The Treasury of Felibrige." 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 encyclopaedic 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 RZino Jano (Queen
Joan) a Provengal 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 Felibres
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.
APPENDIX 315
While awaiting the production of Queen Joan
at the Roman Theatre of Orange, restored by the
Felibres, 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
Felibreen Review in 1885, he became principal
editor in 1890 of a Provencal paper in Avignon,
L'Aioli, which under his auspices became the
quarterly monitor of Felibrige.
While still retaining the leadership of the move-
ment, 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 Poeme du
Rhone. It is the most delicate and most ingenu-
ously 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 versifica-
tion. Taking the traditions of the country, he
has woven them into the winding silk cord of the
living, glistening, eternal Rhone, this poem of
3i6 APPENDIX
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 exist-
ence, the master relates his experience both as a
celebrated writer and as a Provengal 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 Felibrige has not only
regenerated his own Provence by erecting a social
ideal, it has also promoted the diffusion of a
APPENDIX 317
patriotic sentiment which has become general
throughout France, and which may be denned as
federalism or simply decentralisation. The ideas
of Mistral on this subject of local centres per-
mitting 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 move-
ment. " 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 per-
sonality 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 Provenal
318 APPENDIX
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 Nimes and of Aries 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 belong-
ing to the edifice of our ancestors and fitting it
for present use. PAUL MARIETON.
Every year in May, on the Feast of Saint e-Estelle,
the four branches of Felibrige are convoked to
important assizes at some place on Provencal 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
MADAME GASQUET (NEE MLLE. GIRARD), 3RD QUEEN OF THE FKI.IBRES.
APPENDIX 319
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 capoulie, 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 pre-
sided over by its own syndicate, and nominates
an assistant to the capoulie. Felibrige numbers
to-day many thousand members, without counting
the foreign associations in other parts of France,
such as the Felibres of the west, inaugurated by
Renan in 1884, and the Cigales of Paris, first
started by the Provenceaux of that city, as Paul
Arne declared :
"Pour ne pas perdre 1' accent, nous fondames
laCigale. . . ."
The classic cicada is now the badge of the Order
and is worn by all members at their fetes.
Every seven years takes place a great meeting
and floral feast, on which occasion three first
prizes are awarded for poetry, prose, and Felibre"en
work, and a Queen of Felibrige is elected.
320 APPENDIX
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 Therese
Roumanille (Madame Boissiere), daughter of the
poet. The third was Madame Gasquet, nee
Mademoiselle Girard ; and the fourth and present
queen is Madame Bischoffsheim, nee Mademoiselle
de Chevigne. A procession of Felibr esses form an
escort to the reigning queen.
The Proven9al Renaissance has counted many
distinguished women writers and poets among its
members. Among the first of these trouver esses
were Madame Roumanille, wife of the poet,
whose work was crowned at the Fete of Apt in
1863 ; Madame d'Arband (1863) ; Mademoiselle
Riviere, whose " Belugo " was sung by all our
leaders (1868) ; Madame Lazarin Daniel, Felibresse
of the Crau ; Madame Gautier-Bremond of Tar-
ascon, 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 Fte at Mont-
pellier, May 25, 1878, that the "Hymne a la
Race Latine" was recited on the Place du
Peyron, that song which has since become a
national possession and pride.
APPENDIX 321
TO THE LATIN RACE.*
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 shah 1 sing
While words yet have a meaning ages long.
Arise, arise renewed, &c.
* For Provencal text see p. 334.
x
322 APPENDIX
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 1
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.
APPENDIX 323
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 crowned 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 nightin-
gale renews his feathers, but he changes not his
note." C. E. MAUD.
MISTRAL'S POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
GREVANCO
ii
(From " Lis ISCLO D'OR.")
Oh ! vers li piano de tousello
Leissas me perdre pensatieu,
Dins li grand blad plen de rousello
Ounte drouloun ieu me perdiue !
Quaucun me bousco
De tousco en tousco
En recitant soun angelus ;
E, cantarello,
Li calandrello
Ieu vau seguent dins lou trelus . .
Ah ! pauro maire,
Beu cor amaire,
Cridant moun noum t'ausirai plus !
LES SAINTES-M ARIES (Mireille).
Nautre, li sorre erne li fraire
Que lou seguian per tout terraire,
Sus uno ratamalo, i furour de la mar,
E senso velo e senso remo,
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 325
Fuguerian embandi. . Li femo
Toumbavian un rie"u de lagremo ;
Lis ome vers lou ceu pourtavon soun regard.
Uno ventado tempestouso
Sus la marine s6uvertouso
Couchavo lou bat6u : Marciau e Savournin
Soun ageinouia sus la poupo ;
Apensamenti, dins sa roupo
Lou viei Trefume s'agouloupo ;
Contro 6u ero asseta 1'evesque Massemin.
Dre sus lou te"ume, aqueu Lazari
Que de la toumbo e dou susari
Avie'ncaro garda la mourtalo palour,
Semblo afrounta lou gourg que reno :
Em'eu la nau perdudo enmeno
Marto sa sorre, e Madaleno,
Couchado en un cantoun, que plouro sa doulour.
Contro uno ribo sSnso roco,
Alleluia ! la barco toco ;
Sus 1'areno eigalouso aqui nous amourran
E cridan touti : Nosti testo
Qu'as poutira de la tempesto,
Fin-qu'au couteu li vaqui lesto
A prouclama ta lei, o Crist ! Te lou juran !
A-n-aqueu noum, de joui'ssen?o,
La noblo terro de Prouvengo
Pareis estrementido ; a-n-aqueu crid nouv&i,
E lou bouscas e lou campe"stre
An trefouli dins tout soun estre,
Coume un chin qu'en sentent soun mfetre
16 cour a 1'endavans e ie" fai lou beu-beu.
326 POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
La mar avie* jita d'arceli . . .
Pater noster, qui es in coeli,
A nosto longo fam mandates un renos ;
A nosto set, dins lis engano
Fagueres naisse uno fountano ;
E miraclouso, e Undo, e sano,
Gisclo enca dins la gleiso ounte soun nostis os
MAGALI.
O Magali, ma tant amado,
Mete la testo au fenestroun !
Escouto un pau aquesto aubado
De tambourin e de viouloun.
Es plen d'estello. aperamount !
L'auro es toumDado,
Mai lis estello paliran,
Quand te veiran !
Pas mai que dou murmur di broundo
De toun aubado i6u fau cas !
Mai i6u m'envau dins la mar bloundo
Me faire anguielo de roucas.
O Magali ! se tu te fas
Lou peis de 1'oundo,
Ie"u, lou pescaire me farai,
Te pescarai !
Oh ! mai, se tu te fas pescaire,
Ti vertoulet quand jitaras,
Ie"u me farai 1'auceu voulaire,
M'envoularai dins li campas.
MADAME BISCHOFKSHEIM (NEE MLLE. DE CHEVIGNK),
4TH AND PRESENT QUEEN OF THE FEI.IBRES.
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 327
O Magali, se tu te fas
L'auceu de 1'aire,
Ieu lou cassaire me farai,
Te cassarai.
I perdigau, i bouscarido,
Se venes, tu, cala ti las,
leu me farai 1'erbo flourido
E m'escoundrai dins li pradas.
O Magah, se tu te fas
La margarido,
leu 1'aigo lindo me farai,
T'arrousarai.
Se tu te fas 1'eigueto lindo,
I6u me farai lou nivoulas,
E 16u m'enanarai ansindo
A I'Americo, perabas !
O Magali, se tu t'envas
Alin is Indo,
L'auro de mar ieu me farai,
Te pourtarai !
Se tu te fas la marinade,
fugirai d'un autre las :
me farai 1'escandihado
Dou grand souleu que found lou glas !
O Magali, se tu te fas
La souleiado,
Lou verd limbert ieu me farai,
E te beurai !
328 POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
Se tu te rndes 1'alabreno
Que se rescound dins lou bartas,
I6u me rendrai la luno pleno
Que dins la niue fai lume i masc !
O Magali, se tu fas
Luno sereno,
Ie"u bello neblo me farai,
T'acatarai.
Mai se la neblo m'enmantello,
Tu, per ac6, noun me tendras ;
I6u, bello roso vierginello,
M'espandirai dins 1'espinas !
Magali, se tu te fas
La roso bello,
Lou parpaioun i6u me farai,
Te beisarai.
Vai, calignaire, courre, courre !
Jamai, jamai m'agantaras:
I6u, de la rusco d'un grand route
Me vestirai dins lou bouscas.
O Magali, se tu te fas
L'aubre di mourre,
I6u lou clot d'eurre me farai,
T'embrassarai !
- - Se me vos prene a la brasseto,
Rn qu'un viei chaine arraparas . . .
leu me farai bianco moungeto
D6u mounasti6 dou grand Sant Bias !
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 329
O Magali, se tu te fas
Mounjo blanqueto,
I6u, capelan, counfessarai,
E t'ausirai !
Se dou couvnt passes li porto,
Touti li mounjo trouvaras
Qu'a moun entour saran per orto,
Car en susari me veiras !
O Magali, se tu te fas
La pauro morto,
Adounc la terro me farai,
Aqui t'aurai !
Aro coumence enfin de cr&re
Que noun me paries en risent.
Vaqui moun aneloun de veire
Per souvenen?o, o beu jouvdnt !
O Magali, me fas de bn ! , , ,
Mai, tre te vire,
Ve lis estello, o Magali,
Coume an pali !
SOULOMI.
SUS LA MORT DE LAMARTINE.
Quand 1'ouro d6u tremount es vengudo pr 1'astre,
Sus li mourre envahi per lou vespre, li pastre
Alargon sis anouge e si fedo e si can ;
E dins li baisso palunenco
Lou grouiin rangoulejo en bramadisso unenco :
" Aqu6u souleu ero ensucant ! "
330 POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
Di paraulo de Dieu magnanime escampaire,
Ansin, o Lamartine, o moun mdstre, o moun paire,
En cantico, en acioun, en lagremo, en soulas,
Quand aguerias a noste mounde
Escampa de lumiero e d' amour soun abounde,
E que lou mounde fugue" las,
Cadun jite soun bram dins la neblo prefoundo,
Cadun vous bandigue la peiro de sa foundo,
Car vosto resplendour nous fasi6 mau is iue,
Car uno estello que s'amosso,
Car un dieu clavela, toujour agrado en fo^o,
E li grapaud amon la niue . . .
E'm'ac6, Ton vegue de causo espetaclouso !
Eu, aquelo grand font de pouesio blouso
Qu'avie rejouveni Tamo de 1'univers,
Li jouini poueto rigueron
De sa malancounie proufetico, e disueTon
Que sabie pas aire li vers.
De 1'Autisme Adounai 6u sublime grand-preire
Que dins sis inne sant enaur nosti creire
Sus li courdello d'or de 1'arpo de Sioun,
En atestant lis Escrituro
Li devot Farisen crideron sus 1'auturo
Que n'avie gens de religioun.
Eu, lou grand pietadous, que, sus la catastrofo
De n6stis ancian rei, avie tra sis estrofo
E qu'en mabre poumpous i'avi6 fa'n mausouleu,
D6u Reialisme li badaire
Trouveron a la fin qu'ero un descaladaire,
E touti s'aliunchdron leu.
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 331
Eu, lou grand ouratour, la voues apoustoulico,
Que fague dardaia lou mot de Republico
Sus lou front, dins lou ceu di pople tresanant,
Pr uno estranjo fernesio
Touti li chin gasta de la Demoucracio
Lou mourdegueron en renant.
Eu, lou grand ci6utadin que dins la goulo en flamo
Avi6 jita soun vieure e soun cors e soun amo,
Per sauva dou voulcan la patrio en coumbour,
Quand demande soun pan, pechaire !
Li bourges e li gros 1'apeleron manjaire,
E s'estremeron dins soun bourg.
Adounc, en se vesent soulet dins soun auvari,
Doulent, em6 sa crous escale soun Calvari . . .
E quauqui b6nis amo, ei^a vers 1'embruni.
Entendegueron un long geme,
E piei, dins lis espaci, aqueste crid supreme :
Heli ! lamma sabacthani !
Mai degun s'avastd vers la cimo deserto . . .
Em6 li dous iue clin e li dos man duberto,
Dins un silenci gru alor eu s'amagud ;
E, siau coume soun li mountagno,
Au mitan de sa g!6ri e de sa malamagno,
Snso ren dire mourigue'.
332 POEMS IN THE PROVENQAL
LA COUPO
Prouvengau, veici la coupo
Que nous ven di Catalan :
A-de-rng beguen en troupo
Lou vin pur de noste plant !
Coupo santo
E versanto,
Vuejo a plen bord,
Vuejo abord
Lis estrambord
E 1'eriavans di fort !
D'un viei pople fier e libre
Sian bessai la finicioun ;
E, se toumbon li Felibre,
Toumbara nosto nacioun.
Coupo santo, &c.
D'uno ra?o que regreio
Sian bessai li proumie" gre"u ;
Sian bessai de la patrio
Li cepoun emai li prie'u.
Coupo santo, &c.
Vuejo-nous lis esperanO
E li raive d6u jouvnt,
Dou passat la remembrango
E la fe dins 1'an que ven.
Coupo santo, &c.
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 333
Vue jo-nous la couneiss6n?o
D6u Verai emai d6u Beu,
E lis auti jou'issenso
Que se trufon dou toumbeu.
Coupo santo, &c.
Vue jo-nous la Pouesio
Pr canta tout 90 que vieu,
Car es elo 1'ambrousio
Que tremudo 1'ome en di&i.
Coupo santo, &c.
Per la glori dou terraire
Vautre enfin que sias counsnt,
Catalan, de liuen, o fraire,
Coumunien toutis ensen !
Coupo santo
E versanto,
Vuejo a plen bord,
Vue jo abord
Lis estrambord
E 1'enavans di fort
334 POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
A LA RACO LATINO.
i
(PECO DICHO A MOUNT-PELIE sus LA PLACO D6u PEIROU,
LOU 25 DE MAI DE 1878.)
Aubouro-te, raco latino,
Souto la capo dou souleu !
Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino,
Lou vin de Dieu gisclara leu.
Erne toun pu que se desnouso
A 1'auro santo dou Tabor,
Tu sies la rago lumenouso
Que vieu de joio e d'estrambord ;
Tu sies la rago apoustoulico
Que sono li campano a brand :
Tu sies la troumpo que publico
E sies la man que trais lou gran.
Aubouro-te, rago latino, &c.
Ta lengo maire, aqueu grand flume
Que per se"t branco s'espandis,
Largant 1' amour, largant lou lume
Coume un resson de Paradis,
Ta lengo d'or, fiho roumano
Dou Pople-Rei, es la cansoun
Que rediran li bouco umano,
Tant que lou Verbe aura resoun.
Aubouro-te, ra9O latino, &c.
POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL 335
Toun sang ilustre, de tout caire,
Per la justice a fa rajou ;
Pereilalin ti navegaire
Soun ana querre un mounde n6u ;
Au batedis de ta pensado
As esclapa cnt cop ti rdi . . .
Ah ! se noun res divisado
Quau poudrie vuei te faire lei ?
Aubouro-te, raQo latino, &c.
A la belugo dis estello
Abrant lou mou de toun flambeu,
Dintre lou mabre e sus la telo
As encarna lou subre-beu.
De 1'art divin si6s la patrio
E touto graci ven de tu ;
Sies lou sourgent de 1'alegrio
E si6s 1'eterno jouventu !
Aubouro-te, ra9o latino, &c.
Di formo puro de ti femo
Li panteon se soun poupla ;
A ti triounfle, a ti lagremo
Touti li cor an barbela ;
Flouris la terro, quand fas fl&ri ;
De ti foulie cadun ven f6u ;
E dins 1'esclussi de ta gl6ri
Sempre lou mounde a pourta d6u.
Aubouro-te, ra9O latino, &c.
336 POEMS IN THE PROVENCAL
Ta Undo mar, la mar sereno
Ounte blanquejon li veisseu,
Friso a ti ped sa molo areno
En miraiant 1'azur dou ceu.
Aquelo mar toujour risSnto,
Di6u 1'escampe de soun clarun
Coume la cencho trelusento
Que du liga ti pople brun.
Aubouro-te, rac.o latino, &c.
Sus ti coustiero souleiouso
Creis 1'oulivi^, 1'aubre de pas,
E de la vigno vertuiouso
S'enourgulisson ti campas :
Rao latino, en remembrango
De toun destin sempre courous,
Aubouro-te vers I'esperan^o,
Afrairo-te souto la Crous !
Aubouro-te, rago latino,
Souto la capo dou souleu !
Lou rasin brun boui dins la tino,
Lou vin de Dieu gisclara leu !
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