Frederic Mistral Part 14

Is the _Poem of the Rhone_ a great poem? Whether it is or not, it accomplishes admirably the purpose of its author, to fix in beautiful verse the former life of the Rhone. That much of it is prosaic was inevitable; the nature of the subject rendered it so. It is full of beauties, and the poet who wrote _Mireio_ and completed it before his thirtieth year, has shown that in the last decade of his threescore years and ten he could produce a work as full of fire, energy, life, and enthusiasm as in the stirring days when the Felibrige was young. In this poem there occurs a pa.s.sage put into the mouth of the Prince, which gives a view of life that we suspect is the poet's own. He here calls the Prince a young sage, and as we look back over Mistral's life, and review its aims, and the conditions in which he has striven, we incline to think that here, in a few words, he has condensed his thought.

"For what is life but a dream, a distant appearance, an illusion gliding on the water, which, fleeing ever before our eyes, dazzles us like a mirror flas.h.i.+ng, entices and lures us on! Ah, how good it is to sail on ceaselessly toward one's desire, even though it is but a dream! The time will come, it is near, perhaps, when men will have everything within their reach, when they will possess everything, when they will know and have proved everything; and, regretting the old mirages, who knows but what they will not grow weary of living!"

CHAPTER II

LIS ISCLO D'OR

The lover of poetry will probably find more to admire and cherish in this volume than in any other that has come from the pen of its author, excepting, possibly, the best pa.s.sages of _Mireio_. It is the collection of his short poems that appeared from time to time in different Provencal publications, the earliest dating as far back as 1848, the latest written in 1888. They are a very complete expression of his poetic ideas, and contain among their number gems of purest poesy. The poet's lyre has not many strings, and the strains of sadness, of pensive melancholy, are almost absent. Mistral has once, and very successfully, tried the theme of Lainartine's _Lac_, of Musset's _Souvenir_, of Hugo's _Tristesse d'Olympio_; but his poem is not an elegy, it has not the intensity, the pa.s.sion, the deep undertone of any of the three great Romanticists. _La Fin dou Meissounie_ is a beautiful, pathetic, and touching tale, that easily brings a tear, and _Lou Saume de la Penitenci_ is without doubt one of the n.o.blest poems inspired in the heart of any Frenchman by the disaster of 1870. But these poems, though among the best according to the feeling for poetry of a reader from northern lands, are not characteristic of the volume in general. The dominant strain is energy, a clarion-call of life and light, an appeal to his fellow-countrymen to be strong and independent; the sun of Provence, the language of Provence, the ideals of Provence, the memories of Provence, these are his themes. His poetry is not personal, but social. Of his own joys and sorrows scarce a word, unless we say what is doubtless the truth, that his joys and sorrows, his regrets and hopes, are identical with those of his native land, and that he has blended his being completely with the life about him. The volume contains a great number of pieces written for special occasions, for the gatherings of the Felibres, for their weddings. Many of them are addressed to persons in France and out, who have been in various ways connected with the Felibrige. Of these the greeting to Lamartine is especially felicitous in expression, and the following stanza from it forms the dedication of _Mireio_:--

"Te counsacre Mireio: eo moun cor e moun amo, Es la flour de mis an; Es un rasin de Crau qu' eme touto sa ramo Te porge un pasan."

The entire poem, literally translated, is as follows:--

If I have the good fortune to see my bark early upon the waves, Without fear of winter, Blessings upon thee, O divine Lamartine, Who hast taken the helm!

If my prow bears a bouquet of blooming laurel, It is thou hast made it for me; If my sail swelleth, it is the breath of thy glory That bloweth it.

Therefore, like a pilot who of a fair church Climbeth the hill And upon the altar of the saint that hath saved him at sea Hangeth a miniature s.h.i.+p.

I consecrate Mireio to thee; 'tis my heart and my soul, 'Tis the flower of my years; 'Tis a cl.u.s.ter of grapes from the Crau that with all its leaves A peasant offers thee.

Generous as a king, when thou broughtest me fame In the midst of Paris, Thou knowest that, in thy home, the day thou saidst to me, "Tu Marcellus eris!"

Like the pomegranate in the ripening sunbeam, My heart opened, And, unable to find more tender speech, Broke out in tears.

It is interesting to notice that the earliest poem of our author, _La Bella d'Avoust_, is a tale of the supernatural, a poem of mystery; it is an order of poetic inspiration rather rare in his work, and this first poem is quite as good as anything of its kind to be found in _Mireio_ or _Nerto_. It has the form of a song with the refrain:--

Ye little nightingales, ye gra.s.shoppers, be still!

Hear the song of the beauty of August!

Marga of Val-Mairane, intoxicated with love, goes down into the plain two hours before the day. Descending the hill, she is wild. "In vain,"

she says, "I seek him, I have missed him. Ah, my heart trembles."

The poem is full of imagery, delicate and pretty. Marga is so lovely that in the clouds the moon, enshrouded, says to the cloud very softly, "Cloud, beautiful cloud, pa.s.s away, my face would let fall a ray on Marga, thy shadow hinders me." And the bird offers to console her, and the glow-worm offers his light to guide her to her lover. Marga comes and goes until she meets her lover in the shadow of the trees. She tells of her weeping, of the moon, the birdling, and the glow-worm. "But thy brow is dark, art thou ill? Shall I return to my father's house?"

"If my face is sad, on my faith, it is because a black moth hovering about hath alarmed me."

And Marga says, "Thy voice, once so sweet, to-day seems a trembling sound beneath the earth; I shudder at it."

"If my voice is so hoa.r.s.e, it is because while waiting for thee I lay upon my back in the gra.s.s."

"I was dying with longing, but now it is with fear. For the day of our elopement, beloved, thou wearest mourning!"

"If my cloak be sombre and black, so is the night, and yet the night also glimmers."

When the star of the shepherds began to pale, and when the king of stars was about to appear, suddenly off they went, upon a black horse.

And the horse flew on the stony road, and the ground shook beneath the lovers, and 'tis said fantastic witches danced about them until day, laughing loudly.

Then the white moon wrapped herself again, the birdling on the branch flew off in fright, even the glow-worm, poor little thing, put out his lamp, and quickly crept away under the gra.s.s. And it is said that at the wedding of poor Marga there was little feasting, little laughing, and the betrothal and the dancing took place in a spot where fire was seen through the crevices.

"Vale of Val-Mairane, road to the Baux, never again o'er hill or plain did ye see Marga. Her mother prays and weeps, and will not have enough of speaking of her lovely shepherdess."

This weird, legendary tale was composed in 1848. The next effort of the poet is one of his masterpieces, wherein his inspiration is truest and most poetical. _La Fin dou Meissounie_ (The Reaper's Death) is a n.o.ble, genuinely pathetic tale, told in beautifully varied verse, full of the love of field work, and aglow with sympathy for the toilers. The figure of the old man, stricken down suddenly by an accidental blow from the scythe of a young man mowing behind him, as he lies dying on the rough ground, urging the gleaners to go on and not mind him, praying to Saint John,--the patron of the harvesters,--is one not to be forgotten. The description of the mowing, the long line of toilers with their scythes, the fierce sun making their blood boil, the sheaves falling by hundreds, the ruddy grain waving in the breath of the mistral, the old chief leading the band, "the strong affection that urged the men on to cut down the harvest,"--all is vividly pictured, and foretells the future poet of _Mireio_. The words of the old man are full of his energy and faith: "The wheat, swollen and ripe, is scattering in the summer wind; do not leave to the birds and ants, O binders, the wheat that comes from G.o.d!" "What good is your weeping? better sing with the young fellows, for I, before you all, have finished my task. Perhaps, in the land where I shall be presently, it will be hard for me, when evening comes, to hear no more, stretched out upon the gra.s.s, as I used to, the strong, clear singing of the youth rising up amid the trees; but it appears, friends, that it was my star, or perhaps the Master, the One above, seeing the ripe grain, gathers it in. Come, come, good-by, I am going gently. Then, children, when you carry off the sheaves upon the cart, take away your chief on the load of wheat."

And he begs Saint John to remember his olive trees, his family, who will sup at Christmas-tide without him. "If sometimes I have murmured, forgive me! The sickle, meeting a stone, cries out, O master Saint John, the friend of G.o.d, patron of the reapers, father of the poor, up there in Paradise, remember me."

And after the old man's death "the reapers, silent, sickle in hand, go on with the work in haste, for the hot mistral was shaking the ears."

Among these earlier poems are found some cleverly told, homely tales, with a pointed moral. Such are _La Plueio_ (The Rain), _La Rascladuro de Petrin_ (The Sc.r.a.ping from the Kneading-trough). They are really excellent, and teach the lesson that the tillers of the soil have a holy calling, of which they may be proud, and that G.o.d sends them health and happiness, peace and liberty. The second of the poems just mentioned is a particularly amusing story of choosing a wife according to the care she takes of her kneading-trough, the idea being derived from an old fablieau. There are one or two others purely humorous and capitally told. After 1860, however, the poet abandoned these homely, simple tales, that doubtless realized Roumanille's ideas of one aspect of the literary revival he was seeking to bring about.

The poems are not arranged chronologically, but are cla.s.sified as Songs, Romances, Sirventes, Reveries, Plaints, Sonnets, Nuptial Songs, etc.

The _Cansoun_ (Songs) are sung at every reunion of the Felibrige. They are set to melodies well known in Provence, and are spirited and vigorous indeed. The Germans who write about Provence are fond of making known the fact that the air of the famous _Hymn to the Sun_ is a melody written by Kuecken. There is _Lou Bastimen_ (The s.h.i.+p), as full of dash and go as any English sea ballad. _La Coutigo_ (The Tickling) is a dialogue between a mother and her love-sick son. _La Coupo_ (The Cup) is the song of the Felibres _par excellence_; it was composed for the reception of a silver cup, sent to the Felibres by the Catalans. The _coupo felibrenco_ is now a feature of all their banquets. The song expresses the enthusiasm of the Felibres for their cause. The refrain is, "Holy cup, overflowing, pour out in plenty the enthusiasms and the energy of the strong." The most significant lines are:--

Of a proud, free people We are perhaps the end; And, if the Felibres fall, Our nation will fall.

Of a race that germs anew Perhaps we are the first growth; Of our land we are perhaps The pillars and the chiefs.

Pour out for us hope And dreams of youth, The memory of the past And faith in the coming year.

The ideas and sentiments, then, that are expressed in the shorter poems of Mistral, written since the publication of _Mireio_, have been, in the main, the ancient glories and liberties of Provence, a clinging to national traditions, to local traditions, and to the religion and ideas of ancestors, a profound dislike of certain modern ideas of progress, hatred of the levelling influence of Paris, love of the Provencal speech, belief in the Latin race, in the Roman Catholic Church, unshaken faith in the future, love of the ideal and hatred of what is servile and sordid, an ardent love of Nature, an intense love of life and movement.

These things are reflected in every variety of word and figure. He is not the poet of the romantic type, self-centred, filling his verse with the echoes of his own loves and joys and woes, nor is his poetry as large as humanity; Provence, France, the Latin race, are the limits beyond which it has no message or interest.

Possibly no poet ever wrote as many lines to laud the language he was using. Such lines abound in each volume he has produced.

"Se la lengo di moussu Toumbo en gargavaio Se tant d'escrivan coussu Pescon de ravaio, Nautri, li bon Prouvencau Vers li serre li plus aut Enauren la lengo De nsti valengo."

If the language of the messieurs falls among the sweepings, if so many comfortably well-off writers fish for small fry, we, the good Provencals, toward the highest summits, raise the language of our valleys.

The Sirventes addressed to the Catalan poets begins:--

"Fraire de Catalougno, escoutas! Nous an di Que fasias peralin revieure e resplendi Un di rampau de nosto lengo."

Brothers from Catalonia, listen! We have heard that ye cause one of the branches of our language to revive and flourish yonder.

In the same poem, the poet sings of the Troubadours, whom none have since surpa.s.sed, who in the face of the clergy raised the language of the common people, sang in the very ears of the kings, sang with love, and sang freely, the coming of a new world and contempt for ancient fears, and later on he says:--

"From the Alps to the Pyrenees, hand in hand, poets, let us then raise up the old Romance speech! It is the sign of the family, the sacrament that binds the sons to the forefathers, man to the soil! It is the thread that holds the nest in the branches. Fearless guardians of our beautiful speech, let us keep it free and pure, and bright as silver, for a whole people drinks at this spring; for when, with faces on the ground, a people falls into slavery, if it holds its language, it holds the key that delivers it from the chains."

The final stanza of the poem, written in honor of Jasmin in 1870, is as follows:--

"For our dead and our fathers, and our sacred rights as a people and as poets, that yesterday were trampled beneath the feet of the usurper, and, outraged, cried out, now live again in glory! Now, between the two seas the language of Oc triumphs. O Jasmin, thou hast avenged us!"

In the _Rock of Sisyphus_ the poet says, "Formerly we kept the language that Nature herself put upon our lips."