Mirèio

Front matter

O.

BY

FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL.

Preface

THE words, "Translated from the Provençal," suggest to the ordinary reader only a confused and dazzling image of mediæval life amid southern scenery,—troubadours and courts of love, knights, ladies, and tournaments. Few of us have even been aware that the long-buried root of Romance poetry has of late sent up a green and graceful shoot, and that one of the most charming episodes of recent literary history concerns what is known in France as the Provençal revival. The story is thus told by Saint-René Taillandier, in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," for October, 1859:—

"This new Provençal poetry, which has created a certain sensation of late, had a very simple and touching origin. The son of a gardener of Saint-Rémy, educated in our French schools, wrote verses at the age of twenty, as one fresh from college is apt to do,—simple, unpretending verses, by no means poésie du diable, as a witty critic calls the over-hold attempts of youth, but rather poésie de famille, which was destined never to trangress the limits of the fireside. These verses the gardener's son designed for his mother, and he sat up late one night to read them to her. But the youth was under a strange illusion. The poor woman had long since forgotten the little French which she had learned at school, and the verses which she had inspired were written in a tongue she could not understand. The humble minstrel was a thoughtful soul, and this discovery overwhelmed him with sadness. 'And so,' he mused, 'my mother is debarred from those intellectual joys which delight me. When she has finished her day's toil, she may not listen to noble thoughts expressed in a melodious form. In the middle and north of France some few of the accents of our poets may gladden the shop of the mechanic and the cottage of the laborer. A song, a strophe, a canticle, a grand or joyous strain, may possibly linger in their memory; but, with us, where is the poetry of the poor? Our Provençal tongue has been for centuries dishonored by low singers, tavern catches, vulgar squibs, uncouth and licentious rhymes. Such is the groundwork of our popular literature! Well, then, since our mothers do not comprehend enough of French to understand the songs which filial tenderness has inspired, let us sing in the language of our mothers! Since we have no popular literature save that of the ale-house, let us create one for the hearths of our sires and grand-sires.' The boy of Saint-Rémy had written French verses without the slightest literary pretension. Henceforth he will write Provençal verses, with the very definite aim of substituting a frank, healthful, honest, yet gay and genuinely popular style of poetry for that riot of coarse speech which had slain modesty in the ears of the young. Such was the birth of that new Provençal poetry which is to-day illustrated by the success of 'Mirèio.

The name of this gardener of Saint-Rémy was Joseph Roumanille. He was a country school-master, as well as a rustic poet and a loving son; and he contrived to inspire with his own enthusiasm for their dishonored dialect, and to enlist in an ardent crusade for its restoration to literary honor, a class of apt and brilliant pupils, the youngest and most remarkable of whom was Frédéric Mistral, the author of "Mirèio." His master and his comrades, the chief of whom are apostrophized by name in the beginning of the Sixth Canto, had attempted only lyrics in their regenerate native tongue. Mistral conceived the bolder idea of employing it for the unfashionable uses of pastoral story, and of making it the medium of a study from nature, of the yet primitive and picturesque rural life of southern France. Discarding all classical models, and seeking to draw his inspiration straight from the soil, he pro a work at once beautiful and unique, and which created a marvellous excitement in the orderly circles of literary France. Critics of the sensational and conjectural order shouted in ecstasy that this was "primeval poesy," a "draught from the fountain-head," and, with the true French instinct for dramatic effect, proclaimed the author to be an unlettered peasant, a daily farm-laborer. In truth M. Mistral was a youth of fortune, the son of what we should call a "gentleman farmer" of Maiano, or Maillane, and had received a liberal education at the college of Montpellier, after graduating from the tuition of Roumanille.

"Mirèio" first appeared at Paris in September, 1859, having beside the Provençal a parallel French version of the author's own, or rather a prose translation divided into verses to correspond with the stanzas of the original. This translation is absolutely literal, following the very order of the Provençal words, even when least consonant with French usage; and strange French it is, as French, to one who knows only the acknowledged models,—artless, abrupt, homely, not to say sauvage, but always poetical and always fascinating. Indeed the critic quoted above does not hesitate to affirm his belief that M. Mistral wrote from the first with an eye to his Parisian audience, and even manipu his Provençal verse in order to make the French rendering of it more effective. "Remarkable," he says, "as this translation seems, it is most artfully adapted to impress a cultivated audience. Its very strangeness recommends it; just as in reading a literal translation of a German or English poem, we are always tempted to believe that the brusquerie of form, the abrupt and grotesque turns of expression, attest the vigor of the original text. But, strange or not, the translation has captivated the critics. The Provençal is not always understood, and that not by the common people merely, but even by those most accomplished in the language. And this is why the success of 'Mirèio,' instead of being announced to Paris by Provence, was not imposed upon but certainly recommended to Provence by the suffrages of Paris."

No doubt there is a degree of truth in this. A young poet,—and Mistral was but twenty-seven when "Mirèio" first appeared,—however earnestly devoted to the restoration of a decayed literature, must needs be principally influenced in his work by the hope of winning personal fame; and fame in Mistral's case depended on a Parisian success. But it matters little comparatively with what view he wrote, seeing that he produced the most original poem of modern times,—a poem rustic in theme, unconventional in treatment, full of the sunshine and the untaught grace of out-door life, yet stamped with the inalienable dignity of high literary descent. M. Mistral seldom reminds us of any other author. When he does, it is of the greatest. Vincen and Mirèio occasionally recall Romeo and Juliet; but only, it may be, through their youth, their abandon, their southern precocity, and their similar misfortunes, while their passion has far more of childlike innocence than that of the immortal lovers of Verona. And if it seem, at first sight, audacious in our author to declare himself even a humble pupil of Homer, it should be remembered that, in one respect at least,—Matthew Arnold would call it a capital one,—he signally justifies the pretension. Lively and simple,—whether by instinct or by art,—he is invariably noble. How far I have been able to preserve these traits in the ensuing version the reader shall decide.

I must, however, hasten to disclaim any thing approaching to a critical knowledge of the rich and charming Provençal dialect,—or rather language, for it is more than a dialect. I know it only through a close comparison of the original "Mirèio" with the parallel French version before mentioned, assisted by occasional references to Raynouard's "Résumé de la Grammaire Romaine." I had first learned to admire "Mirèio" through the English prose-version of Mr. C H. Grant, to which I feel myself not a little indebted. In artlessness of narrative, in vigor and felicity of ex , I have never hoped to surpass this unrhymed and unmeasured version, which needed, as it seemed to me, only a rhythmic form to render it worthy of the essentially musical original.

What that form should be, I found, when I came myself to think of translating "Mirèio" into verse, a question of no little difficulty. The Provençal measure is very un-English and alluring,—highly ornate in melody, abounding in double and triple rhymes, echoes and assonances; in general effect most like the elaborate Latin metres invented by the monks of the Middle Age, as Bernard of Cluny's in "De Contemptu Mundi." I can think of no English verse at all resembling it unless it be Whittier's in one of the best of his earlier poems,—Lines written at Hampton Beach:—

"So when Time's veil shall fall asunder The soul may know No sudden change, no curious wonder, Nor sink the weight of mystery under, But with the inward rise, and with the vastness grow."

But this is far simpler than Mistral's. Hopeless as the notion seemed, I did make an attempt to transfer this florid measure to our sober English tongue, but soon became convinced that a few pages at most would exhaust its possibilities and render it wofully tedious. Only the plainest and most transparent of English metres could, I thought, endure and adapt itself with sustained facility to the abrupt action and widely varying emotion of the original. The one finally selected, which is essentially the same as that employed by Mr. William Morris in the "Earthly Paradise," seemed to me on the whole best adapted to the purposes of English narrative-verse.

And in general with regard to this matter of adhering to the metre of the original in poetical translations, I suspect it to be imperative chiefly in lyric poetry or where the two languages are near akin. I have never yet seen a German metre which could not, by means of a little patience and ingenuity, be transferred to English; but with the liquid, lingering rhythm of the Latin tongues it is quite otherwise. There the genius of our language is defied, and it is useless rebelling against philological fate. I cannot better illustrate than by a reference to Mr. Duffield's laborious, and, in some sort, highly successful rendering into similar English verse, of Bernard of Cluny's hymn mentioned above, where the sad and stately melody of,—

"Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, Hic breve fletur, Non breve vivere, non breve plangere, Retribuetur,"

so sweetly echoed in Dr. Neale's familiar,—

"Brief life it here our portion," &c.,

becomes in the hands of the exact (?) translator,—

"Briefly we tarry here, briefly are harried here, Here is brief sorrow; But not to brevity comes our longevity Due on that morrow,"

the movement whereof I have heard compared by a sensitive critic to the clanking of chains.

A second English translation of "Mirèio," by H. Crichton, was published by Macmillan & Co., London, in 1868. This version, which I examined with interest after my own was completed, is a metrical one, but seems to have failed to win English readers to an adequate appreciation of "Mirèio."

One word about my imperfect rhymes, the rather as there is a species of critic whose peculiar aliment such rhymes seem to be. I hope I have not strained too far that by-law of prosody which authorizes their occasional employment. In a long poem composed like this of consecutive rhyming lines, and where the poverty of our language in perfect rhymes soon becomes painfully apparent, they are, I venture to think, not only allowable, but agreeable. Rhymes in which the consonant sounds correspond, while the vowel sounds only approximate,—and this is the only kind of imperfect rhyme I have ever employed,—are the counterpart of assonances in which the vowels correspond, but not the consonants. They have, it seems to me, their precise equivalent in minor harmonies, and relieve the ear in a long composition no less than they.

And so I take leave of "Mirèo," my constant and always lovable companion of last summer and autumn, and resign her to the public.

HARRIET W. PRESTON.

Danvers, Feb. 27, 1872.

Canto I

CANTO I.

LOTUS1 FARM.

I SING the love of a Provençal maid; How through the wheat-fields of La Crau2 she strayed, Following the fate that drew her to the sea. Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she; And I, who tell the rustic tale of her, Would fain he Homer's humble follower.

What though youth’s aureole was her only crown? And never gold she wore nor damask gown? I’ll build her up a throne out of my song, And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue. Mine be the simple speech that ye all know, Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.

God of my country, who didst have Thy birth Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth, Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God, How, when the lusty summer is abroad, And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he,— Brute, greedy man,—and qnite despoils the tree.

Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft Some little branch inviolate aloft, Tender and airy up against the blue, Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto: Only the birds shall come and banquet there, When, at St. Magdalene's, the fruit is fair.

Methinks I see yon airy little bough: It mocks me with its freshness even now; The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high Fruitage and foliage that cannot die. Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech, To soar until the birds' own home I reach!

Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhone, There lived a basket-weaver and his son, In a poor hut set round with willow-trees (For all their humble wares were made from these); And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend, And horses' cribs and broken baskets mend.

And so one evening, as they trudged their round With osier bundles on their shoulders bound, "Father," young Vincen said, "the clouds look wild About old Magalouno's3 tower up-piled. If that gray rampart fell, 'twould do us harm: We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm."

"Nay, nay!" the old man said, "no rain to-night! 'Tis the sea-breeze that shakes the trees. All right! A western gale were different." Vincen mused: "Are many ploughs at Lotus farmstead used?" "Six ploughs!" the basket-weaver answered slow: "It is the finest freehold in La Crau.

"Look! There 's their olive-orchard, intermixt With rows of vines and almond-trees betwixt. The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath For every day in all the year a path! There 's ne'er another such the beauty is; And in each path are just so many trees."

"O heavens! How many hands at harvest-tide So many trees must need!" young Vincen cried. "Nay: for 'tis almost Hallowmas, you know, When all the girls come flocking in from Baux,4 And, singing, heap with olives green and dun The sheets5 and sacks, and call it only fun."

The sun was sinking, as old Ambroi said; On high were little clouds a-flush with red; Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode The laborers slowly home, each with his goad Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor; 'Twas supper-time, the day of toil was o'er.

"And here we are!" the boy cried. "I can see The straw-heaped threshing-floor, so hasten we!" "But stay!" the other. "Now, as I'm alive, The Lotus Farm 's the place for sheep to thrive,— The pine-woods all the summer, and the sweep Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep!

"And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling, And look at that delicious stream forth welling Inside the vivary! And mark the bees! Autumn makes havoc in their colonies; But every year, when comes the bright May weather, Yon lotus-grove a hundred swarms will gather."

"And one thing more!" cried Vincen, eagerly, "The very best of all, it seems to me,— I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here. Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year, She bade us bring her olive-baskets two, And fit her little one with handles new."

So saying, they drew the farm-house door a-nigh, And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood, Watching her silk-worms at their leafy food. Then master Ambroi let his osiers fall, And sang out cheerily, "Good-even, all!"

"Father, the same to you!" the damsel said. "I had come out my distaff-point to thread, It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray? From Valabrègo?"6 Ambroi answered, "Yea. I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw, 'We 'll sleep at Lotus Farm, upon the straw.'"

Whereat, with no more words, father and son Hard by upon a roller sat them down, And fell to their own work right busily. A half-made cradle chanced the same to be. Fast through the nimble fingers of the two The supple osier bent and crossed and flew.

Certes, our Vincen was a comely lad. A bright face and a manly form he had, Albeit that summer he was bare sixteen. Swart were his cheeks; bat the dark soil, I ween, Bears the fine wheat, and black grapes make the wine That sets our feet a-dance, our eyes a-shine.

Full well he knew the osier to prepare, And deftly wrought: but ofttimes to his share Fell coarser work; for he the panniers made Wherewith the farmers use their beasts to lade, And divers kinds of baskets, huge and rough, Handy and light. Ay, he had skill enough!

And likewise brooms of millet-grass, and such,— And baskets of split-cane. And still his touch Was sure and swift; and all his wares were strong, And found a ready sale the farms among. But now, from fallow field and moorland waste, The laborers were trooping home at last.

Then hasted sweet Mirèio to prepare, With her own hands and in the open air, Their evening meal. There was a broad flat stone Served for a table, and she set thereon One mighty dish, where each man plunged his ladle. Oar weavers wrought meanwhile upon their cradle.

Until Ramoun, the master of the farm, Cried, "How is this?"—brusque was his tone and warm. "Come to your supper, Ambroi: no declining! Put up the crib, my man: the stars are shining. And thou, Mirèio, run and fetch a bowl: The travellers must be weary, on my soul!"

Wherefore the basket-weaver, well-content, Rose with his son and to the table went, And sat him down and cut the bread for both; While bright Mirèio hasted, nothing loth, Seasoned a, dish of beans with olive oil, And came and sat before them with a smile.

Not quite fifteen was this same fair Mirèio. Ah, me! the purple coast of Font Vièio,7 The hills of Baux, the desolate Crau plain, A shape like hers will hardly see again. Child of the merry sun, her dimpled face Bloomed into laughter with ingenuous grace.

Eyes had she limpid as the drops of dew; And, when she fixed their tender gaze on you, Sorrow was not. Stars in a summer night Are not more softly, innocently bright: And beauteous hair, all waves and rings of jet; And breasts, a double peach, scarce ripened yet.

Shy, yet a joyous little sprite she was; And, finding all her sweetness in a glass. You would have drained it at a single breath. But to our tale, which somewhat lingereth. When every man his day's toil had rehearsed (So, at my father's farm, I heard them first),—

"Now, Ambroi, for a song!" they all began: "Let us not sleep above our supper, man!" But he, "Peace! peace! My friends, do ye not know On every jester, God, they say, doth blow And sets him spinning like a top along? Sing yourselves, lads,—you who are young and strong."

"No jest, good father, none!" they answered him, "But, since the wine o'erflows your goblet's brim, Drink with us, Ambroi, and then to your song!" "Ay, ay, when I was young—but that was long Ago—I 'd sing to any man's desire; But now my voice is but a broken lyre."

"But, Master Ambroi," urged Mirèio, "Sing one song, please, because 'twill cheer us so." "My pretty one," the weaver said again, "Only the husks of my old voice remain; But if these please you, I cannot say nay," And drained his goblet, and began straightway:—

I.

Our captain was Bailly Suffren; We had sailed from Toulon, Five hundred sea-faring Provençaux, Stout-hearted and strong:

'Twas the sweet hope of meeting the English that made our hearts burn, And till we had thrashed them we vowed we would never return.

II.

But all the first month of our cruise We saw never a thing From the shrouds, save hundreds and hundreds Of gulls on the wing; And in the next dolorous month, we 'd a tempest to fight, And had to be bailing out water by day and by night.

III.

By the third, we were driven to madness At meeting no foe For our thundering cannon to sweep From the ocean. When lo! "Hands aloft!" Captain cried. At the maintop one heard the command. And the long Arab coast on the lee-bow intently he scanned.

IV.

Till, "God's thunder!" he cried. "Three big vessels Bear down on us strong; Run the guns to the ports! Blaze away!" Shouted Bailly Suffren. "Sharp, lads! Of our Antibes figs we will give them a taste, And see how they like those," Captain said, "ere we offer the rest!"

V.

A crash fit to deafen! Before The words left his lips We had sent forty balls through the hulls Of the Englishers' ships! One was done for already. And now the guns only heard we, The cracking of wood and perpetual groan of the sea.

VI.

And now we were closing. Oh, rapture! We lay alongside, And our gallant commander stood cool On the deck, and he cried, "Well done, my brave boys! But enough! Cease your firing, I say, For the time has come now to anoint them with oil of Aix."

VII.

Then we sprang to our dirks and our hatchets, As they had been toys; And, grapnel in band, the Provençal Cried, "Board 'em, my boys!" A shout and a leap, and we stood on the Englishers' deck; And then, ah, 'twas then we were ready our vengeance to wreak!

VIII.

Then, oh, the great slaughter! The crash Of the mainmast ensuing! And the blows and the turmoil of men Fighting on 'mid the ruin! More than one wild Provençal I saw seize a foe in his place, And hug till he strained his own life out in deadly embrace.

And then old Ambroi paused. "Ah, yes!" said he, "You do not quite believe my tale, I see. Nathless these things all happened, understand: Did I not hold the tiller with this hand? Were I to live a thousand. years, I say, I should remember what befell that day."

"What, father, you were there and saw the fun?" The laborers cried in mischief. "Three to one, They flattened you like scythes beneath the hammer!" "Who, me? The English?" the old tar 'gan stammer, Upspringing; then, with smile of fine disdain, Took up the burden of his tale again:—

IX.

So with blood-dabbled feet fought we on Four hours, until dark, Then, our eyes being cleared of the powder, We missed from our bark Fivescore men. But the king of the English lost ships of renown: Three good vessels with all hands on board to the bottom went down.

X.

And now, our sides riddled with shot, Once more homeward hie we, Yards splintered, masts shivered, sails tattered; But brave Captain Bailly

Spake us words of good cheer. "My comrades, ye have done well! To the great king of Paris the tale of your valor I'll tell!"

XI.

"Well said, Captain dear!" we replied: "Sure the king will hear you When you speak. But for as, his poor mariners, What will he do,— Who left our all gladly, our homes and our firesides," we said, "For his sake, and lo! now in those homes there is crying for bread?

XII.

"Ah, Admiral, never forget When all bow before you. With a love like the love of your seamen None will adore you! Why, say but the word, and, ere homeward our footsteps we turn, Aloft on the tips of our fingers a king you are borne!"

XIII.

A Martigau,8 mending his nets One eve, made this ditty. Our admiral bade us farewell, And sought the great city. Were they wroth with his glory up there at the court? Who can say? But we saw our beloved commander no more from that day!

A timely ending thus the minstrel made, Else the fast-coming tears his tale had stayed; But for the laborers,—they sat intent, Mute all, with parted lips, and forward bent As if enchanted. Even when he was done, For a brief space they seemed to hearken on.

"And such were aye the songs," said the old man, "Sung in the good old days when Martha span.9 Long-winded, maybe, and the tunes were queer. But, youngsters, what of that? They suit my ear. Your new French airs mayhap may finer be; But no one understands the words, you see!"

Whereon the men, somewhat as in a dream. From table rose, and to the running stream They led their patient mules, six yoke in all. The long vine-branches from a trellised wall Waved o'er them waiting, and, from time to time, Humming some fragment of the weaver's rhyme.

Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone. A social spirit had the little one, And she and Vincen chatted happily. 'Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see Meeting and parting, coming still and going Like aster-flowers10 when merry winds are blowing.

"Now tell me, Vincen," thus Mirèio, "If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go Bearing your burdens the wild country over, Some haunted castle you do not discover, Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet, While we in the home-nest for ever sit?"

"'Tis even so, my lady, as you think. Why, currants quench the thirst as well as drink! What though we brave all weathers in our toil? Sure, we have joys that rain-drops cannot spoil The sun of noon beats fiercely on the head, But there are wayside trees unnumberèd.

"And whensoe'er return the summer hours, And olive-trees are all bedecked with flowers, We hunt the whitening orchards curiously, Still following the scent, till we descry In the hot noontide, by its emerald flash, The tiny cantharis upon the ash.

"The shops will buy the same. Or off we tramp And gather red-oak apples in the swamp,11 Or beat the ponds for leeches. Ah, that's grand! You need nor bait nor hook, but only stand And strike the water, and then one by one They come and seize your legs, and all is done.

"And thou wert never at Li Santo12 even! Dear heart! The singing there must be like heaven. 'Tis there they bring the sick from all about For healing; and the church is small, no doubt: But, ah, what cries they lift! what vows they pay To the great saints! We saw it one fête-day.

"It was the year of the great miracle. My God, that was a sight! I mind it well. A feeble boy, beautiful as Saint John, Lay on the pavement, sadly calling on The saints to give sight to his poor blind eyes, And promising his pet lamb in sacrifice.

"'My little lamb, with budding horns!' he said, 'Dear saints!' How we all wept! Then from o'erhead The blessed reliquaries13 came down slowly, Above the throngèd people bending lowly, And crying, 'Come, great saints, mighty and good! Come, save!' The church was like a wind-swept wood.

"Then the godmother held the child aloft, Who spread abroad his fingers pale and soft, And passionately grasped the reliquaries That held the bones of the three blessed Maries; Just as a drowning man, who cannot swim, Will clutch a plank that the sea heaves to him.

"And then, oh! then,—I saw it with these eyes,— By faith illumined, the blind boy outcries, 'I see the sacred relics, and I see Grandmother all in tears! Now haste,' said he, 'My lambkin with the budding horns to bring To the dear saints for a thank-offering!'

"But thou, my lady, God keep thee, I pray, Handsome and happy as thou art to-day! Yet if a lizard, wolf, or horrid snake Ever should wound thee with its fang, betake Thyself forthwith to the most holy saints, Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints."

So the hours of the summer evening passed. Hard-by the big-wheeled cart its shadow cast On the white yard. Afar arose and fell The frequent tinkle of a little bell In the dark marsh: a nightingale sang yonder; An owl made dreamy, sorrowful rejoinder.

"Now, since the night is moonlit, so the mere And trees are glorified, wilt thou not hear," The boy besought," the story of a race In which I hoped to win the prize?"—"Ah, yes!" The little maiden sighed; and, more than glad, Still gazed with parted lips upon the lad.

"Well, then, Mirèio, once at Nismes," he said, "They had foot-races on the esplanade; And on a certain day a crowd was there Collected, thicker than a shock of hair. Some shoeless, coatlees, hatless, were to run: The others only came to see the fun.

"When all at once upon the scene appears One Lagalanto, prince of foot-racers. In all Provence, and even in Italy, The fleetest-footed far behind left he. Yes: Lagalanto, the great Marseillais,— Thou wilt have heard his name before to-day.

"A leg, a thigh, he had would not look small By John of Cossa's,14 the great seneschal; And in his dresser many a pewter plate, With all his victories carved thereon in state; And you 'd have said, to see his scarfs, my lady, A wainscot all festooned with rainbows had he.