Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 3

It is true that Jasmin's wedding-garment was not very sumptuous, nor was his bride's; but they did the best that they could, and looked forward with hope. Jasmin took his wife home to the pleasant house on the Gravier; and joy and happiness sat down with them at their own fireside.

There was no Charivari, because their marriage was suitable. Both had been poor, and the wife was ready and willing to share the lot of her young husband, whether in joy or sorrow. Their home was small and cosy--very different from the rat-haunted house of his lame mother and humpbacked father.

Customers came, but not very quickly. The barber's shop was somewhat removed from the more populous parts of the town. But when the customers did come, Jasmin treated them playfully and humorously. He was as lively as any Figaro; and he became such a favourite, that when his customers were shaved or had their hair dressed, they invariably returned, as well as recommended others to patronize the new coiffeur.

His little shop, which was at first nearly empty, soon became fuller and fuller of customers. People took pleasure in coming to the hair-dresser's shop, and hearing him recite his verses. He sang, he declaimed, while plying his razor or his scissors. But the chins and tresses of his sitters were in no danger from his skipping about, for he deftly used his hands as well as his head. His razor glistened lightly over the stubbly beards, and his scissors clipped neatly over the locks of his customers.

Except when so engaged, he went on rhyming. In a little town, gossip flies about quickly, and even gets into the local papers.

One day Jasmin read in one of the Agen journals, "Pegasus is a beast that often carries poets to the hospital." Were the words intended for him? He roared with laughter. Some gossip had bewitched the editor.

Perhaps he was no poet. His rhymes would certainly never carry him to the hospital. Jasmin's business was becoming a little more lucrative..

It is true his house was not yet fully furnished, but day by day he was adding to the plenishing. At all events his humble home protected him and his wife from wind and weather.

On one occasion M. Gontaud, an amiable young poet, in a chaffing way, addressed Jasmin as "Apollo!" in former times regarded as the G.o.d of poetry and music. The epistle appeared in a local journal. Jasmin read it aloud to his family. Gontaud alleged in his poem that Apollo had met Jasmin's mother on the banks of the Garonne, and fell in love with her; and that Jasmin, because of the merits of his poetry, was their son.

Up flamed the old pair! "What, Catherine?" cried the old man, "is it true that you have been a coquette? How! have I been only the foster-father of thy little poet?" "No! No!" replied the enraged mother; "he is all thine own! Console thyself, poor John; thou alone hast been my mate. And who is this 'Pollo, the humbug who has deceived thee so?

Yes, I am lame, but when I was washing my linen, if any c.o.xcomb had approached me, I would have hit him on the mouth with a stroke of my mallet!" "Mother," exclaimed the daughter, "'Pollo is only a fool, not worth talking about; where does he live, Jacques?" Jasmin relished the chaff, and explained that he only lived in the old mythology, and had no part in human affairs. And thus was Apollo, the ancient G.o.d of poetry and music, sent about his business.

Years pa.s.sed on, the married pair settled down quietly, and their life of happiness went on pleasantly. The honeymoon had long since pa.s.sed.

Jasmin had married at twenty, and Mariette was a year younger.

When a couple live together for a time, they begin to detect some little differences of opinion. It is well if they do not allow those little differences to end in a quarrel. This is always a sad beginning of a married life.

There was one thing about her husband that Mariette did not like. That was his verse-making. It was all very well in courtship, but was it worth while in business? She saw him scribbling upon curl-papers instead of attending to his periwigs. She sometimes interrupted him while he was writing; and on one occasion, while Jasmin was absent on business, she went so far as to burn his pens and throw his ink into the fire!

Jasmin was a good-natured man, but he did not like this treatment. It was not likely to end in a quiet domestic life. He expostulated, but it was of little use. He would not give up his hobby. He went on rhyming, and in order to write down his verses he bought new pens and a new bottle of ink. Perhaps he felt the germs of poetic thought moving within him. His wife resented his conduct. Why could he not attend to the shaving and hair-dressing, which brought in money, instead of wasting his time in scribbling verses on his curl-papers?

M. Charles Nodier, member of the French Academy, paid a visit to Agen in 1832. Jasmin was then thirty-four years old. He had been married fourteen years, but his name was quite unknown, save to the people of Agen. It was well known in the town that he had a talent for versification, for he was accustomed to recite and chaunt his verses to his customers.

One quiet morning M. Nodier was taking a leisurely walk along the promenade of the Gravier, when he was attracted by a loud altercation going on between a man and a woman in the barber's shop. The woman was declaiming with the fury of a Xantippe, while the man was answering her with Homeric laughter. Nodier entered the shop, and found himself in the presence of Jasmin and his wife. He politely bowed to the pair, and said that he had taken the liberty of entering to see whether he could not establish some domestic concord between them.

"Is that all you came for?" asked the wife, at the same time somewhat calmed by the entrance of a stranger. Jasmin interposed--

"Yes, my dear--certainly; but---" "Your wife is right, sir," said Nodier, thinking that the quarrel was about some debts he had incurred.

"Truly, sir," rejoined Jasmin; "if you were a lover of poetry, you would not find it so easy to renounce it."

"Poetry?" said Nodier; "I know a little about that myself."

"What!" replied Jasmin, "so much the better. You will be able to help me out of my difficulties."

"You must not expect any help from me, for I presume you are oppressed with debts."

"Ha, ha!" cried Jasmin, "it isn't debts, it's verses, Sir."

"Yes, indeed," said the wife, "it's verses, always verses! Isn't it horrible?"

"Will you let me see what you have written?" asked Nodier, turning to Jasmin.

"By all means, sir. Here is a specimen." The verses began:

"Femme ou demon, ange ou sylphide, Oh! par pitie, fuis, laisse-moi!

Doux miel d'amour n'est que poison perfide, Mon coeur a trop souffert, il dort, eloigne-toi.

"Je te l'ai dit, mon coeur sommeille; Laisse-le, de ses maux a peine il est gueri, Et j'ai peur que ta voix si douce a mon oreille Par un chant d'amour ne l'eveille, Lui, que l'amour a taut meurtri!"

This was only about a fourth part of the verses which Jasmin had composed.{2} Nodier confessed that he was greatly pleased with them.

Turning round to the wife he said, "Madame, poetry knocks at your door; open it. That which inspires it is usually a n.o.ble heart and a distinguished spirit, incapable of mean actions. Let your husband make his verses; it may bring you good luck and happiness."

Then, turning to the poet, and holding out his hand, he asked, "What is your name, my friend?"

"Jacques Jasmin," he timidly replied. "A good name," said Nodier. "At the same time, while you give fair play to your genius, don't give up the manufacture of periwigs, for this is an honest trade, while verse-making might prove only a frivolous distraction."

Nodier then took his leave, but from that time forward Jasmin and he continued the best of friends. A few years later, when the first volume of the Papillotos appeared, Nodier published his account of the above interview in Le Temps. He afterwards announced in the Quotidienne the outburst of a new poet on the banks of the Garonne--a poet full of piquant charm, of inspired harmony--a Lamartine, a Victor Hugo, a Gascon Beranger!

After Nodier's departure, Madame Jasmin took a more favourable view of the versification of her husband. She no longer chided him. The shop became more crowded with customers. Ladies came to have their hair dressed by the poet: it was so original! He delighted them with singing or chanting his verses. He had a sympathetic, perhaps a mesmeric voice, which touched the souls of his hearers, and threw them into the sweetest of dreams.

Besides attending to his shop, he was accustomed to go out in the afternoons to dress the hair of four or five ladies. This occupied him for about two hours, and when he found the ladies at home, he returned with four or five francs in his purse. But often they were not at home, and he came home francless. Eventually he gave up this part of his trade. The receipts at the shop were more remunerative. Madame encouraged this economical eform; she was accustomed to call it Jasmin's coup d'etat.

The evenings pa.s.sed pleasantly. Jasmin took his guitar and sang to his wife and children; or, in the summer evenings they would walk under the beautiful elms in front of the Gravier, where Jasmin was ready for business at any moment. Such prudence, such iligence, could not but have its effect. When Jasmin's first volume of the Papillotos was published, it was received with enthusiasm.

"The songs, the curl-papers," said Jasmin, "brought in such a rivulet of silver, that, in my poetic joy, I broke into morsels and burnt in the fire that dreaded arm-chair in which my ancestors had been carried to the hospital to die."

Madame Jasmin now became quite enthusiastic. Instead of breaking the poet's pens and throwing his ink into the fire, she bought the best pens and the best ink. She even supplied him with a comfortable desk, on which he might write his verses. "Courage, courage!" she would say.

"Each verse that you write is another tile to the roof and a rafter to the dwelling; therefore make verses, make verses!"

The rivulet of silver increased so rapidly, that in the course of a short time Jasmin was enabled to buy the house in which he lived--tiles, rafters, and all. Instead of Pegasus carrying him to the hospital, it carried him to the office of the Notary, who enrolled him in the list of collectors of taxes. He was now a man of substance, a man to be trusted.

The notary was also employed to convey the tenement to the prosperous Jasmin. He ends the first part of his Souvenirs with these words:

"When Pegasus kicks with a fling of his feet, He sends me to curl on my hobby horse fleet; I lose all my time, true, not paper nor notes, I write all my verse on my papillotes."{3}

Endnotes to chapter IV.

{1} In Gascon Magnounet; her pet name Marie, or in French Mariette.

Madame Jasmin called herself Marie Barrere.

{2} The remaining verses are to be found in the collected edition of his works--the fourth volume of Las Papillotos, new edition, pp. 247-9, ent.i.tled A une jeune Voyayeuse.

{3} Papillotes, as we have said, are curl-papers. Jasmin's words, in Gascon, are these:

"Quand Pegazo reguiuno, et que d'un cot de pe Memboyo friza mas marotos, Perdi moun ten, es bray, mais noun pas moun pape, Boti mous beis en papillotos!"

CHAPTER V. JASMIN AND GASCON.--FIRST VOLUME OF "PAPILLOTES."

Jasmin's first efforts at verse-making were necessarily imperfect. He tried to imitate the works of others, rather than create poetical images of his own. His verses consisted mostly of imitations of the French poems which he had read. He was overshadowed by the works of Boileau, Gresset, Rousseau, and especially by Beranger, who, like himself, was the son of a tailor.

The recollections of their poetry pervaded all his earlier verses. His efforts in cla.s.sical French were by no means successful. It was only when he had raised himself above the influence of authors who had preceded him, that he soared into originality, and was proclaimed the Poet of the South.