Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 9

These are only specimens of the way in which Jasmin was received during his missions of philanthropy. He went from north to south, from east to west, by river and by road, sleeping where he could, but always happy and cheerful, doing his n.o.ble work with a full and joyous heart.

He chirruped and sang from time to time as if his mouth was full of nightingales. And he was never without enthusiastic mult.i.tudes to listen to his recitals, and to share their means with the poor and afflicted.

We might fill this little story with a detailed account of his journeyings; but a summary account is all that is at present necessary.

We shall afterwards return to the subject.

Endnotes to Chapter VIII.

{1} Mr. George Dolby, in his work 'Charles d.i.c.kens as I knew him,'

tells "the story of the famous 'reading tours,' the most brilliantly successful enterprises that were ever undertaken." Chappell and Co. paid him 1500 sterling for thirty readings in London and the provinces, by which they realised 5000 sterling. Arthur Smith and Mr. Headland were his next managers, and finally Mr. George Dolby. The latter says that Mr. d.i.c.kens computed the money he netted under the Smith and Headland management at about 12,000 sterling; and under Dolby's management "he cleared nearly 33,000 sterling."

{2} In Gascon: "Las carreros diouyon fleuri, Tan gran poete bay sourti; Diouyon fleuri, diouyon graua, Tan gran poete bay pa.s.sa."

CHAPTER IX. JASMIN'S 'FRANCONNETTE.'

Jasmin published no further poems for three or four years. His time was taken up with his trade and his philanthropic missions. Besides, he did not compose with rapidity; he elaborated his poems by degrees; he arranged the plot of his story, and then he clothed it with poetical words and images. While he walked and journeyed from place to place, he was dreaming and thinking of his next dramatic poem--his Franconnette, which many of his critics regard as his masterpiece.

Like most of his previous poems, Jasmin wrote Franconnette in the Gascon dialect. Some of his intimate friends continued to expostulate with him for using this almost dead and virtually illiterate patois. Why not write in cla.s.sical French? M. Dumon, his colleague at the Academy of Agen, again urged him to employ the national language, which all intelligent readers could understand.

"Under the reign of our Henry IV.," said M. Dumon, "the Langue d'Oil became, with modifications, the language of the French, while the Langue d'Oc remained merely a patois. Do not therefore sing in the dialect of the past, but in the language of the present, like Beranger, Lamartine, and Victor Hugo.

"What," asked M. Dumon, "will be the fate of your original poetry? It will live, no doubt, like the dialect in which it is written; but is this, the Gascon patois, likely to live? Will it be spoken by our posterity as long as it has been spoken by our ancestors? I hope not; at least I wish it may be less spoken. Yet I love its artless and picturesque expressions, its lively recollections of customs and manners which have long ceased to exist, like those old ruins which still embellish our landscape. But the tendency which is gradually effacing the vestiges of our old language and customs is but the tendency of civilisation itself.

"When Rome fell under the blows of the barbarians, she was entirely conquered; her laws were subjected at the same time as her armies. The conquest dismembered her idiom as well as her empire.... The last trace of national unity disappeared in this country after the Roman occupation. It had been Gaul, but now it became France. The force of centralisation which has civilised Europe, covering this immense chaos, has brought to light, after more than a hundred years, this most magnificent creation the French monarchy and the French language. Let us lament, if you will, that the poetical imagination and the characteristic language of our ancestors have not left a more profound impression. But the sentence is p.r.o.nounced; even our Henry IV. could not change it. Under his reign the Langue d'Oil became for ever the French language, and the Langue d'Oc remained but a patois.

"Popular poet as you are, you sing to posterity in the language of the past. This language, which you recite so well, you have restored and perhaps even created; yet you do not feel that it is the national language; this powerful instrument of a new era, which invades and besieges yours on all sides like the last fortress of an obsolete civilisation."

Jasmin was cut to the quick by this severe letter of his friend, and he lost not a moment in publishing a defence of the language condemned to death by his opponent. He even displayed the force and harmony of the language which had been denounced by M. Dumon as a patois. He endeavoured to express himself in the most characteristic and poetical style, as evidence of the vitality of his native Gascon. He compared it to a widowed mother who dies, and also to a mother who does not die, but continues young, lovely, and alert, even to the last. Dumon had published his protest on the 28th of August, 1837, and a few days later, on the 2nd of September, Jasmin replied in the following poem:--

"There's not a deeper grief to man Than when his mother, faint with years, Decrepit, old, and weak and wan, Beyond the leech's art appears;

When by her couch her son may stay, And press her hand, and watch her eyes, And feel, though she revives to-day, Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

It is not thus, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she will call Our second mother: Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall!

Our mother-tongue--all melody-- While music lives can never die.

Yes! she still lives, her words still ring; Her children yet her carols sing; And thousand years may roll away Before her magic notes decay.

The people love their ancient songs, and will While yet a people, love and keep them still: These lays are as their mother; they recall Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all The many little things that please the heart, The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part.

These songs are as sweet waters, where we find Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.

In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door, By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er, These songs are round us--near our cradles sigh, And to the grave attend us when we die.

Oh, think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long, Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!

There are who bid this music sound no more, And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!

You, who were born where its first daisies grew, Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,

Slept in its arms, and wakened to its kiss, Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone-- You can forsake it in an hour like this!

Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown-- And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!"{1}

This is but a paraphrase of Jasmin's poem, which, as we have already said, cannot be verbally translated into any other language. Even the last editor of Jasmin's poems--Boyer d'Agen--does not translate them into French poetry, but into French prose. Much of the aroma of poetry evaporates in converting poetical thoughts from one language into another.

Jasmin, in one part of his poem, compares the ancient patois to one of the grand old elms in the Promenade de Gravier, which, having in a storm had some of its branches torn away, was ordered by the local authorities to be rooted up. The labourers worked away, but their pick-axes became unhafted. They could not up-root the tree; they grew tired and forsook the work. When the summer came, glorious verdure again clothed the remaining boughs; the birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the neighbours rejoiced that its roots had been so numerous and the tree had been so firmly planted.

Jasmin's description of his mother-tongue is most touching. Seasons pa.s.s away, and, as they roll on, their echoes sound in our ears; but the loved tongue shall not and must not die. The mother-tongue recalls our own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone a.s.sociations, which press into our minds while sitting by the evening fire. This tongue is the language of our toils and labours; she comes to us at our birth, she lingers at our tomb.

"No, no--I cannot desert my mother-tongue!" said Jasmin. "It preserves the folk-lore of the district; it is the language of the poor, of the labourer, the shepherd, the farmer and grape-gatherers, of boys and girls, of brides and bridegrooms. The people," he said to M. Dumon, "love to hear my songs in their native dialect. You have enough poetry in cla.s.sical French; leave me to please my compatriots in the dialect which they love. I cannot give up this harmonious language, our second mother, even though it has been condemned for three hundred years. Why!

she still lives, her voice still sounds; like her, the seasons pa.s.s, the bells ring out their peals, and though a hundred thousand years may roll away, they will still be sounding and ringing!"

Jasmin has been compared to Dante. But there is this immense difference between them. Dante was virtually the creator of the Italian language, which was in its infancy when he wrote his 'Divine Comedy' some six hundred years ago, while Jasmin was merely reviving a gradually-expiring dialect. Drouilhet de Sigalas has said that Dante lived at the sunrise of his language, while Jasmin lived at its sunset. Indeed, Gascon was not a written language, and Jasmin had to collect his lexicon, grammar, and speech mostly from the peasants who lived in the neighbourhood of Agen. Dante virtually created the Italian language, while Jasmin merely resuscitated for a time the Gascon dialect.

Jasmin was not deterred by the expostulations of Dumon, but again wrote his new epic of Franconnette in Gascon. It took him a long time to clothe his poetical thoughts in words. Nearly five years had elapsed since he recited The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille to the citizens of Bordeaux; since then he had written a few poetical themes, but he was mainly thinking and dreaming, and at times writing down his new epic Franconnette. It was completed in 1840, when he dedicated the poem to the city of Toulouse.

The story embodied in the poem was founded on an ancient tradition. The time at which it occurred was towards the end of the sixteenth century, when France was torn to pieces by the civil war between the Huguenots and the Catholics. Agen was then a centre of Protestantism. It was taken and retaken by both parties again and again. The Huguenot captain, Truelle, occupied the town in April 1562; but Blaize de Montluc, "a fierce Catholic," as he is termed by M. Paul Joanne, a.s.sailed the town with a strong force and recaptured it. On entering the place, Montluc found that the inhabitants had fled with the garrison, and "the terrible chief was greatly disappointed at not finding any person in Agen to slaughter."{2} Montluc struck with a heavy hand the Protestants of the South. In the name of the G.o.d of Mercy he hewed the Huguenots to pieces, and, after spreading desolation through the South, he retired to his fortress at Estellac, knelt before the altar, took the communion, and was welcomed by his party as one of the greatest friends of the Church.

The civil war went on for ten years, until in August 1572 the ma.s.sacre of Saint Bartholomew took place. After that event the word "Huguenot"

was abolished, or was only mentioned with terror. Montluc's castle of Estellac, situated near the pretty village of Estanquet, near Roquefort--famous for its cheese--still exists; his cabinet is preserved, and his tomb and statue are to be seen in the adjoining garden. The princ.i.p.al scenes of the following story are supposed to have occurred at Estanquet, a few miles to the south of Agen.

Franconnette, like The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille, is a story of rivalry in love; but, though more full of adventure, it ends more happily. Franconnette was a village beauty. Her brilliant eyes, her rosy complexion, her cherry lips, her lithe and handsome figure, brought all the young fellows of the neighbourhood to her feet. Her father was a banished Huguenot, but beauty of person sets differences of belief at defiance.

The village lads praised her and tried to win her affections; but, like beauties in general, surrounded by admirers, she was a bit of a flirt.

At length two rivals appeared--one Marcel, a soldier under Montluc, favoured by Franconnette's grandmother, and Pascal, the village blacksmith, favoured by the girl herself. One Sunday afternoon a number of young men and maidens a.s.sembled at the foot of Montluc's castle of Estellac on the votive festival of St. Jacques at Roquefort.

Franconnette was there, as well as Marcel and Pascal, her special admirers. Dancing began to the music of the fife; but Pascal, the handsomest of the young men, seemed to avoid the village beauty.

Franconnette was indignant at his neglect, but was anxious to secure his attention and devotion. She danced away, sliding, whirling, and pirouetting. What would not the admiring youths have given to impress two kisses on her lovely cheek!{3}

In these village dances, it is the custom for the young men to kiss their partners, if they can tire them out; but in some cases, when the girl is strong; and an accomplished dancer, she declines to be tired until she wishes to cease dancing. First one youth danced with Franconnette, then another; but she tired them all. Then came Marcel, the soldier, wearing his sabre, with a c.o.c.kade in his cap--a tall and stately fellow, determined to win the reward. But he too, after much whirling and dancing, was at last tired out: he was about to fall with dizziness, and then gave in. On goes the dance; Franconnette waits for another partner; Pascal springs to her side, and takes her round the waist. Before they had made a dozen steps, the girl smiles and stops, and turns her blushing cheeks to receive her partner's willing kisses.

Marcel started up in a rage, and drawing himself to his full height, he strode to Pascal. "Peasant!" he said, "thou hast supplied my place too quickly," and then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes. Pascal was not felled; he raised his arm, and his fist descended on Marcel's head like a bolt. The soldier attempted to draw his sabre. When Pascal saw this, he closed with Marcel, grasped him in his arms, and dashed him to the ground, crushed and senseless.

Marcel was about to rise to renew the duel, when suddenly Montluc, who happened to be pa.s.sing with the Baron of Roquefort, stepped forward and sternly ordered the combatants to separate. This terrible encounter put an end to the fete. The girls fled like frightened doves. The young men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers. Marcel was not discouraged. On recovering his speech, he stammered out, grinding his teeth: "They shall pay clearly for this jesting; Franconnette shall have no other husband than myself."

Many months pa.s.sed. The harvest was gathered in. There were no more out-door fetes or dances. The villagers of Estanquet a.s.sembled round their firesides. Christmas arrived with it games and carol-singing. Then came the Feast of Lovers, called the Buscou,{4} on the last day of the year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the finest flax. Franconnette was there, and appointed queen of the games. After the winding was over, the songs and dances began to the music of a tambourin. The queen, admired by all, sang and danced like the rest.

Pascal was not there; his mother was poor, and she endeavoured to persuade him to remain at home and work. After a short struggle with himself, Pascal yielded. He turned aside to his forge in silent dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying, while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the prettiest were always the most sensible," says Jasmin, "how much my Franconnette might have accomplished;" but instead of this, she flitted from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, singing, dancing, and, as usual, bewitching all.

Then Thomas, Pascal's friend, asked leave to sing a few verses; and, fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like sweetness the following song, ent.i.tled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.'

We have translated it, as nearly as possible, from the Gascon dialect.

"Faribolo pastouro, Sereno al co de glas, Oh! digo, digo couro Entendren tinda l'houro Oun t'amistouzaras.

Toutjour fariboulejes, Et quand parpailloulejes La foulo que mestrejes, Sur toun cami set met

Et te siet.

Mais res d'acos, maynado, Al bounhur pot mena; Qu'es acos d'estre aymado, Quand on sat pas ayma?"

"Wayward shepherd maid, Syren with heart of ice, Oh! tell us, tell us! when We listen for the hour When thou shalt feel Ever so free and gay, And when you flutter o'er The number you subdue, Upon thy path they fall At thy feet.

But nothing comes of this, young maid, To happiness it never leads; What is it to be loved like this If you ne'er can love again?"

Such poetry however defies translation. The more exquisite the mastery of a writer over his own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce it in another. But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's translation,{5} as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.