"If my face is sad, on my faith, it is because a black moth hovering

about hath alarmed me."

And Margaï says, "Thy voice, once so sweet, to-day seems a trembling

sound beneath the earth; I shudder at it."

"If my voice is so hoarse, it is because while waiting for thee I lay

upon my back in the grass."

"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 grass. And it is said that at the

wedding of poor Margaï 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 Margaï. 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 dóu Meissounié_ (The Reaper's Death) is a noble,

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 _Mirèio_. 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

God!" "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 grass, 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 God, 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 Scraping 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 God 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 classified as Songs,

Romances, Sirventés, Reveries, Plaints, Sonnets, Nuptial Songs, etc.

The _Cansoun_ (Songs) are sung at every reunion of the Félibrige. 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 Ship), 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 Félibres _par excellence_; it was composed for the

reception of a silver cup, sent to the Félibres by the Catalans. The

_coupo felibrenco_ is now a feature of all their banquets. The song

expresses the enthusiasm of the Félibres 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 Félibres 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 _Mirèio_, 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 Provençal

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,

Nàutri, li bon Prouvençau

Vers li serre li plus aut

Enauren la lengo

De nòsti 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

Provençals, toward the highest summits, raise the language of our

valleys.

The Sirventés addressed to the Catalan poets begins:--

"Fraire de Catalougno, escoutas! Nous an di

Que fasias peralin reviéure 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 surpassed, 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."

In the _Poem to the Latin Race_ we read:--

"Thy mother tongue, the great stream that spreads abroad in seven

branches, pouring out love and light like an echo from Paradise, thy

golden speech, O Romance daughter of the King-People, is the song that

will live on human lips as long as speech shall have reason."

Elsewhere we find:--

"Oh, maintain thy historic speech. It is the proof that always thou

carriest on high and free, thy coat of arms. In the language, a mystery,

an old treasure is found. Each year the nightingale puts on new plumage,

but keeps its song."

One entire poem, _Espouscado_, is a bitterly indignant protest against

those who would suppress the dialect, against the regents and the

rectors whom "we must pay with our pennies to hear them scoff at the

language that binds us to our fathers and our soil!" And the poet cries

out, "No, no, we'll keep our rebellious _langue d'oc_, grumble who will.

We'll speak it in the stables, at harvest-time, among the silkworms,

among lovers, among neighbors, etc., etc. It shall be the language of

joy and of brotherhood. We'll joke and laugh with it;--and as for the

army, we'll take it to the barracks to keep off homesickness."

And his anger rising, he exclaims:--

"O the fools, the fools, who wean their children from it to stuff them

with self-sufficiency, fatuity, and hunger! Let them get drowned in the

throng! But thou, O my Provence, be not disturbed about the sons that

disown thee and repudiate thy speech. They are dead, they are still-born

children that survive, fed on bad milk."

And he concludes:--

"But, eldest born of Nature, you, the sun-browned boys, who speak with

the maidens in the ancient tongue, fear not; you shall remain the

masters! Like the walnuts of the plain, gnarled, stout, calm,

motionless, exploited and ill-treated as you may be, O peasants (as they

call you), you will remain masters of the land!"

This was written in 1888. The quotations might be multiplied; these

suffice, however, to show the intense love of the poet for "the language

of the soil," the energy with which he has constantly struggled for its

maintenance. He is far from looking upon the multiplication of dialects

as an evil, points to the literary glory of Greece amid her many forms

of speech, and does not even seek to impose his own language upon the

rest of southern France. He sympathizes with every attempt, wherever

made, the world over, to raise up a patois into a language. Statesmen

will probably think otherwise, and there are nations which would at

once take an immense stride forward if they could attain one language

and a purely national literature. The modern world does not appear to be

marching in accordance with Mistral's view.

The poems inspired by the love of the ancient ideals and literature of

Provence are very beautiful. They have in general a fascinating swing

and rhythm, and are filled with charming imagery. One of the best is

_L'Amiradou_ (The Belvedere), the story of a fairy imprisoned in the

castle at Tarascon, "who will doubtless love the one who shall free

her." Three knights attempt the rescue and fail. Then there comes along

a little Troubadour, and sings so sweetly of the prowess of his

forefathers, of the splendor of the Latin race, that the guard are

charmed and the bolts fly back. And the fairy goes up to the top of the

tower with the little Troubadour, and they stand mute with love, and

look out over all the beautiful landscape, and the old monuments of

Provence with their lessons. This is the kingdom of the fairy, and she

bestows it upon him. "For he who knows how to read in this radiant

book, must grow above all others, and all that his eye beholds, without

paying any tithe, is his in abundance."

The lilt of this little _romance_, with its pretty repetitions, is

delightful, and the symbolism is, of course, perfectly obvious.

There is the touching story of the Troubadour Catalan, slain by robbers

in the Bois de Boulogne, where the Pré de Catalan now is; there is the

tale that accounts for the great chain that hangs across the gorge at

Moustiers, a chain over six hundred feet long, bearing a star in the

centre. A knight, being prisoner among the Saracens, vows to hang the

chain before the chapel of the Virgin, if ever he returns home.

"A ti pèd, vierge Mario,

Ma cadeno penjarai,

Se jamai

Tourne mai

A Moustié, dins ma patrio!"

There is the tale of the Princess Clémence, daughter of a king of

Provence. Her father was deformed, and the heir-presumptive to the

French crown sought her in marriage. In order that the prince might be

sure she had inherited none of the father's deformity, she was called

upon to show herself in the garb of Lady Godiva before his ambassadors.

This rather delicate subject is handled with consummate art.

The idea of federalism is found expressed with sufficient clearness in

various parts of these poems of the Golden Isles, and the patriotism of

the poet, his love of France, is perfectly evident, in spite of all that

has been said to the contrary. In the poem addressed to the Catalans,

after numerous allusions to the dissensions and rebellions of bygone

days, we read:--

"Now, however, it is clear; now, however, we know that in the divine

order all is for the best; the Provençals, a unanimous flame, are part

of great France, frankly, loyally; the Catalans, with good-will, are

part of magnanimous Spain. For the brook must flow to the sea, and the

stone must fall on the heap; the wheat is best protected from the

treacherous cold wind when planted close; and the little boats, if they

are to navigate safely, when the waves are black and the air dark, must

sail together. For it is good to be many, it is a fine thing to say, 'We

are children of France!'"

But in days of peace let each province develop its own life in its own

way.

"And France and Spain, when they see their children warming themselves

together in the sunbeams of the fatherland, singing matins out of the

same book, will say, 'The children have sense enough, let them laugh and

play together, now they are old enough to be free.'

"And we shall see, I promise you, the ancient freedom come down, O

happiness, upon the smallest city, and love alone bind the races

together; and if ever the black talon of the tyrant is seen, all the

races will bound up to drive out the bird of prey!"

Of all the poems of Mistral expressing this order of ideas, the one

entitled _The Countess_ made the greatest stir. It appeared in 1866, and

called forth much angry discussion and imputation of treason from the

enemies of the new movement. _The Countess_ is an allegorical

representation of Provence; the fair descendant of imperial ancestors is

imprisoned in a convent by her half-sister France. Formerly she

possessed a hundred fortified towns, twenty seaports; she had olives,

fruit, and grain in abundance; a great river watered her fields; a

great wind vivified the land, and the proud noblewoman could live

without her neighbor, and she sang so sweetly that all loved her, poets

and suitors thronged about her.

Now, in the convent where she is cloistered all are dressed alike, all

obey the rule of the same bell, all joy is gone. The half-sister has

broken her tambourines and taken away her vineyards, and gives out that

her sister is dead.

Then the poet breaks into an appeal to the strong to break into the

great convent, to hang the abbess, and say to the Countess, "Appear

again, O splendor! Away with grief, away! Long life to joy!"

Each stanza is followed by the refrain:--

"Ah! se me sabien entèndre!

Ah! se me voulien segui!"

Ah! if they could understand me!

Ah! if they would follow me!

Mistral disdained to reply to the storm of accusations and

incriminations raised by the publication of this poem. _Lou Saumede la

Penitènci_, that appeared in 1870, set at rest all doubts concerning his

deep and sincere patriotism.

_The Psalm of Penitence_ is possibly the finest of the short poems. It

is certainly surpassed by no other in intensity of feeling, in genuine

inspiration, in nobility and beauty of expression. It is a hymn of

sorrow over the woes of France, a prayer of humility and resignation

after the disaster of 1870. The reader must accept the idea, of course,

that the defeat of the French was a visitation of Providence in

punishment for sin.

"Segnour, à la fin ta coulèro

Largo si tron

Sus nòsti front:

E dins la niue nosto galèro

Pico d'a pro

Contro li ro."

Lord, at last thy wrath hurls its thunderbolts upon our foreheads:

And in the night our vessel strikes its prow against the rocks.

France was punished for irreligion, for closing the temples, for

abandoning the sacraments and commandments, for losing faith in all

except selfish interest and so-called progress, for contempt of the

Bible and pride in science.

The poet makes confession:--

"Segnour, sian tis enfant proudigue;

Mai nàutri sian

Ti vièi crestian:

Que ta Justiço nous castigue,

Mai au trepas

Nous laisses pas!"

Lord, we are thy prodigal sons; but we are thy Christians of old:

Let thy justice chastise us, but give us not over unto death!

Then the poet prays in the name of all the brave men who gave up their

lives in battle, in the name of all the mothers who will never again see

their sons, in the name of the poor, the strong, the dead, in the name

of all the defeats and tears and sorrow, the slaughter and the fires,

the affronts endured, that God disarm his justice, and he concludes:--

"Segnour, voulen deveni d'ome;

En libertà

Pos nous bouta!

Sian Gau-Rouman e gentilome,

E marchan dre

Dins noste endré.

"Segnour, dóu mau sian pas Pencauso.

Mando eiçabas

Un rai de pas!

Segnour, ajudo nosto Causo,

E reviéuren

E t'amaren."

Lord, we desire to become men; thou canst set us free!

We are Gallo-Romans and of noble race, and we walk upright in our

land.

Lord, we are not the cause of the evil. Send down upon us a ray of

peace! Lord, aid our Cause, and we shall live again and love thee.

The poem called _The Stone of Sisyphus_ completes sufficiently the

evidence necessary to exculpate Mistral of the charge of antipatriotism

and makes clear his thought. Provence was once a nation, she consented

years ago to lose her identity in the union with France. Now it is

proposed to heap up all the old traditions, the Gai Savoir, the glory of

the Troubadours, the old language, the old customs, and burn them on a

pyre. Well, France is a great people and _Vive la nation_. But some

would go further, some would suppress the nation: "Down with the

frontiers, national glories are an abomination! Wipe out the past, man

is God! _Vive l'humanité_!" Our patrimony we repudiate. What are Joan of

Arc, Saint Louis, and Turenne? All that is old rubbish.

Then the people cry with Victor Hugo, "_Emperaire, siegues maudi, maudi,

maudi! nous as vendu_" and hurl down the Vendôme column, burn Paris,

slaughter the priests, and then, worn out, commence again, like

Sisyphus, to push the rock of progress.

So much for the conservatism of Mistral.

We shall conclude this story of the shorter poems with some that are not

polemical or essentially Provençal; three or four are especially

noteworthy. _The Drummer of Arcole_, _Lou Prègo-Diéu_, _Rescontre_

(Meeting), might properly find a place in any anthology of general

poetry, and an ode on the death of Lamartine is sincere and beautiful.

Such poems must be read in the original.

The first one, _The Drummer of Arcole_, is the story of a drummer boy

who saved the day at Arcole by beating the charge; but after the wars

are over, he is forgotten, and remains a drummer as before, becomes old

and regrets his life given up to the service of his country. But one

day, passing along the streets of Paris, he chances to look up at the

Pantheon, and there in the huge pediment he reads the words, "_Aux

grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante_."

"'Drummer, raise thy head!' calls out a passer-by! 'The one up there,

hast thou seen him?' Toward the temple that stood superb the old man

raised his bewildered eyes. Just then the joyous sun shook his golden

locks above enchanted Paris....

"When the soldier saw the dome of the Pantheon rising toward heaven, and

with his drum hanging at his side, beating the charge, as if it were

real, he recognized himself, the boy of Arcole, away up there, right at

the side of the great Napoleon, intoxicated with his former fury, seeing

himself, so high, in full relief, above the years, the clouds, the

storms, in glory, azure, sunshine, he felt a gentle swelling in his

heart, and fell dead upon the pavement."

_Lou Prègo-Diéu_ is a sweet poem embodying a popular belief. Prègo-diéu

is the name of a little insect, so called from the peculiar arrangement

of its legs and antennse that makes it appear to be in an attitude of

prayer. Mistral's poetic ideas have been largely suggested to him by

popular beliefs and the stories he heard at his fireside when a boy.

This poem is one of the best of the kind he has produced, and, being

eminently, characteristic, will find juster treatment in a literal

translation than in a commentary. The first half was written during the

time he was at work upon _Mirèio_ in 1856, the second in 1874. We quote

the first stanza in the original, for the sake of showing its rhythm.

"Ero un tantost d'aquel estiéu

Que ni vihave ni dourmiéu:

Fasiéu miejour, tau que me plaise,

Lou cahessòu

Toucant lou sòn

A l'aise."

I

It was one afternoon this summer, while I was neither awake nor asleep.

I was taking a noon siesta, as is my pleasure, my head at ease upon the

ground.

And greenish among the stubble, upon a spear of blond barley, with a

double row of seeds, I saw a prègo-diéu.

"Beautiful insect," said I, "I have heard that, as a reward for thy

ceaseless praying, God hath given thee the gift of divination.

"Tell me now, good friend, if she I love hath slept well; tell what she

is thinking at this hour, and what she is doing; tell me if she is

laughing or weeping."

The insect, that was kneeling, stirred upon the tube of the tiny,

leaning ear, and unfolded and waved his little wings.

And his speech, softer than the softest breath of a zephyr wafted in a

wood, sweet and mysterious, reached my ear.

"I see a maiden," said he, "in the cool shade beneath a cherry tree; the

waving branches touch her; the boughs hang thick with cherries.

"The cherries are fully ripe, fragrant, solid, red, and, amid the smooth

leaves, make one hungry, and, hanging, tempt one.

"But the cherry tree offers in vain the sweetness and the pleasing color

of its bright, firm fruit, red as coral.

"She sighs, trying to see if she can jump high enough to pluck them.

Would that my lover might come! He would climb up, and throw them down

into my apron."

So I say to the reapers: "Reapers, leave behind you a little corner

uncut, where, during the summer, the prègo-diéu may have shelter."

II

This autumn, going down a sunken road, I wandered off across the fields,

lost in earthly thoughts.

And, once more, amid the stubble, I saw, clinging to a tiny ear of

grain, folded up in his double wing, the prègo-diéu.

"Beautiful insect," said I then, "I have heard that, as a reward for thy

ceaseless praying, God hath given thee the gift of divination.

"And that if some child, lost amid the harvest fields, asks of thee his

way, thou, little creature, showest him the way through the wheat.

"In the pleasures and pains of this world, I see that I, poor child, am

astray; for, as he grows, man feels his wickedness.

"In the grain and in the chaff, in fear and in pride, in budding hope,

alas for me, I see my ruin.

"I love space, and I am in chains; among thorns I walk barefoot; Love is

God, and Love sins; every enthusiasm after action is disappointed.

"What we accomplished is wiped out; brute instinct is satisfied, and the

ideal is not reached; we must be born amid tears, and be stung among the

flowers.

"Evil is hideous, and it smiles upon me; the flesh is fair, and it rots;

the water is bitter, and I would drink; I am languishing, I want to die

and yet to live.

"I am falling faint and weary; O prègo-diéu, cause some slight hope of

something true to shine upon me; show me the way."

And straightway I saw that the insect stretched forth its slender arm

toward Heaven; mysterious, mute, earnest, it was praying.

* * * * *

Such reference to religious doubt is elsewhere absent from Mistral's

work. His faith is strong, and the energy of his life-work has its

source largely, not only in this religious faith, but in his firm belief

in himself, in his race, and in the mission he has felt called upon to

undertake. Reflected obviously in the above poem is the growth of the

poet in experience and in thought.

Lastly, among the poems of his _Isclo d'Or_, we wish to call attention

to one that, in its theme, recalls _Le Lac_, _La Tristesse d'Olympio_,

and _Le Souvenir_. The poet comes upon the scene of his first love, and

apostrophizes the natural objects about him. All four poets intone the

strain, "Ye rocks and trees, guard the memory of our love."

"O coumbo d'Uriage

Bos fresqueirous,

Ounte aven fa lou viage

Dis amourous,

O vau qu'aven noumado

Noste univers,

Se perdes ta ramado

Gardo mi vers."

O vale of Uriage, cool wood, where we made our lovers' journey; O vale

that we called our world, if thou lose thy verdure, keep my verses.

Ye flowers of the high meadows that no man knoweth, watered by Alpine

snows, ye are less pure and fresh in the month of April than the little

mouth that smiles for me.

Ye thunders and stern voices of the peaks, murmurings of wild woods,

torrents from the mountains, there is a voice that dominates you all,

the clear, beautiful voice of my love.

Alas! vale of Uriage, we may never return to thy leafy nooks. She, a

star, vanisheth in air, and I, folding my tent, go forth into the

wilderness.

* * * * *

Apart from the intrinsic worth of the thought or sentiment, there is

found in Mistral the essential gift of the poet, the power of

expression--of clothing in words that fully embody the meaning, and seem

to sing, in spontaneous musical flow, the inner inspiration. He is

superior to the other poets of the Félibrige, not only in the energy,

the vitality of his personality, and in the fertility of his ideas, but

also in this great gift of language. Even if he creates his vocabulary

as he goes along, somewhat after the fashion of Ronsard and the

_Pléiade_, he does this in strict accordance with the genius of his

dialect, fortunately for him, untrammelled by traditions, and, what is

significant, he does it acceptably. He is the master. His fellow-poets

proclaim and acclaim his supremacy. No one who has penetrated to any

degree into the genius of the Romance languages can fail to agree that

in this point exists a master of one of its forms.

CHAPTER III

THE TEAGEDY, LA RÈINO JANO

The peculiar qualities and limitations of Mistral are possibly nowhere

better evidenced than in this play. Full of charming passages,

frequently eloquent, here and there very poetic, it is scarcely

dramatic, and certainly not a tragedy either of the French or the

Shakespearian type. The most striking lines, the most eloquent tirades,

arise less from the exigences of the drama than from the constant desire

of the poet to give expression to his love of Provence. The attention of

the reader is diverted at every turn from the adventures of the persons

in the play to the glories and the beauties of the lovely land in which

our poet was born. The matter of a play is certainly contained in the

subject, but the energy of the author has not been spent upon the

invention of strong situations, upon the clash of wills, upon the

psychology of his characters, upon the interplay of passions, but rather

upon strengthening in the hearts of his Provençal hearers the love of

the good Queen Joanna, whose life has some of the romance of that of

Mary, Queen of Scots, and upon letting them hear from her lips and from

the lips of her courtiers the praises of Provence.

Mistral enumerates eight dramatic works treating the life of his

heroine. They are a tragedy in five acts and a verse by Magnon (Paris,

1656), called _Jeanne Ire, reine de Naples_; a tragedy in five acts and

in verse by Laharpe, produced in 1781, entitled, _Jeanne de Naples_; an

opéra-comique in three acts, the book by De Leuven and Brunswick, the

music by Monpon and Bordèse, produced in 1840; an Italian tragedy, _La

Regina Griovanna_, by the Marquis of Casanova, written about 1840; an

Italian opera, the libretto by Ghislanzoni, who is known as the

librettist of _Aïda_, the music by Petrella (Milan, 1875); a play in

verse by Brunetti, called _Griovanna I di Napoli_ (Naples, 1881); a

Hungarian play by Rakosi, _Johanna es Endre_, and lastly the trilogy of

Walter Savage Landor, _Andrea of Hungary_, _Griovanna of Naples_, and

_Fra Rupert_ (London, 1853). Mistral's play is dated May, 1890.

It may be said concerning the work of Landor, which is a poem in

dramatic form rather than a play, that it offers scarcely any points of

resemblance with Mistral's beyond the few essential facts in the lives

of Andrea and Joanna. Both poets take for granted the innocence of the

Queen. It is worth noting that Provence is but once referred to in the

entire work of the English poet.

The introduction that precedes Mistral's play quotes the account of the

life of the Queen from the _Dictionnaire_ of Moréri (Lyons, 1681), which

we here translate.

"Giovanna, first of the name, Queen of Jerusalem, Naples, and Sicily,

Duchess of Apulia and Calabria, Countess of Provence, etc., was a

daughter of Charles of Sicily, Duke of Calabria, who died in 1328,

before his father Robert, and of Marie of Valois, his second wife. She

was only nineteen years of age when she assumed the government of her

dominions after her grandfather's death in 1343. She had already been

married by him to his nephew, Andrea of Hungary. This was not a happy

marriage; for the inclinations of both were extremely contrary, and the

prince was controlled by a Franciscan monk named Robert, and the

princess by a washerwoman called Filippa Catenese. These indiscreet

advisers brought matters to extremes, so that Andrea was strangled in

1345. The disinterested historians state ingenuously that Joanna was not

guilty of this crime, although the others accuse her of it. She married

again, on the 2d of August, 1346. Her second husband was Louis of

Tarento, her cousin; and she was obliged to leave Naples to avoid the

armed attack of Louis, King of Hungary, who committed acts of extreme

violence in this state. Joanna, however, quieted all these things by her

prudence, and after losing this second husband, on the 25th of March,

1362, she married not long afterward a third, James of Aragon, Prince of

Majorca, who, however, tarried not long with her. So seeing herself a

widow for the third time, she made a fourth match in 1376 with Otto of

Brunswick, of the House of Saxony; and as she had no children, she

adopted a relative, Charles of Duras.... This ungrateful prince revolted

against Queen Joanna, his benefactress.... He captured Naples, and laid

siege to the Castello Nuovo, where the Queen was. She surrendered.

Charles of Duras had her taken to Muro, in the Basilicata, and had her

put to death seven or eight months afterward. She was then in her

fifty-eighth year.... Some authors say that he caused her to be

smothered, others that she was strangled; but the more probable view is

that she was beheaded, in 1382, on the 5th of May. It is said that a

Provençal astrologer, doubtless a certain Anselme who lived at that

time, and who is very famous in the history of Provence, being

questioned as to the future husband of the young princess, replied,

'Maritabitur cum ALIO.' This word is composed of the initials of the

names of her four husbands, Andrea, Louis, James, and Otto. This

princess, furthermore, was exceedingly clever, fond of the sciences and

of men of learning, of whom she had a great many at her court, liberal

and beautiful, prudent, wise, and not lacking in piety. She it is that

sold Avignon to the popes. Boccaccio, Balde, and other scholars of her

time speak of her with praise."

In offering an explanation of the great popularity enjoyed by Joanna of

Naples among the people of Provence, the poet does not hesitate to

acknowledge that along with her beauty, her personal charm, her

brilliant arrival on the gorgeous galley at the court of Clement VI,

whither she came, eloquent and proud, to exculpate herself, her long

reign and its vicissitudes, her generous efforts to reform abuses, must

be counted also the grewsome procession of her four husbands; and this

popularity, he says, is still alive, after five centuries. The poet

places her among such historic figures as Caius Marius, Ossian, King

Arthur, Count Raymond of Toulouse, the good King René, Anne of Brittany,

Roland, the Cid, to which the popular mind has attached heroic legends,

race traditions, and mysterious monuments. The people of Provence still

look back upon the days of their independence when she reigned, a sort

of good fairy, as the good old times of Queen Joanna. Countless castles,

bridges, churches, monuments, testify to her life among this

enthusiastic people. Roads and ruins, towers and aqueducts, bear her

name. Proverbs exist wherein it is preserved. "For us," says Mistral,

"the fair Joanna is what Mary Stuart is for the Scotch,--a mirage of

retrospective love, a regret of youth, of nationality, of poetry passed

away. And analogies are not lacking in the lives of the two royal,

tragic enchantresses." Petrarch, speaking of her and her young husband

surrounded by Hungarians, refers to them as two lambs among wolves. In a

letter dated from Vancluse, August, 1346, he deplores the death of the

King, but makes no allusion to the complicity of the Queen.

Boccaccio proclaims her the special pride of Italy, so gracious, gentle,

and kindly, that she seemed rather the companion than the queen of her

subjects.

Our author cites likewise some of her accusers, and considers most of

the current sayings against her as apocryphal. Some of these will not

bear quotation in English. Mistral evidently wishes to believe her

innocent, and he makes out a pretty good case. He approves the remark of

Scipione Ammirato, that she contracted four successive marriages through

a desire to have direct heirs. Another notices that had she been

dissolute, she would have preferred the liberty of remaining a widow.

The poet cites Pope Innocent VI, who gave her the golden rose, and sets

great store upon the expression of Saint Catherine of Siena, who calls

her "Venerabile madre in Gesù Cristo," and he concludes by saying, "We

prefer to concur in the judgment of the good Giannone (1676-1748), which

so well agrees with our traditions."

The first act opens with a picture that might tempt a painter of Italian

scenes. The Queen and her gay court are seated on the lawn of the palace

garden at Naples, overlooking the bay and islands. At the very outset we

hear of the Gai Savoir, and the Queen utters the essentially Provençal

sentiment that "the chief glory the world should strive for is light,

for joy and love are the children of the sun, and art and literature the

great torches." She calls upon Anfan of Sisteron to speak to her of her

Provence, "the land of God, of song and youth, the finest jewel in her

crown," and Anfan, in long and eloquent tirades, tells of Toulouse and

Nice and the Isles of Gold, reviews the settling of the Greeks, the

domination of the Romans, and the sojourn of the Saracens; Aix and

Arles, les Baux, Toulon, are glorified again; we hear of the old

liberties of these towns where men sleep, sing, and shout, and of the

magnificence of the papal court at Avignon.

"Enfin, en Avignoun, i'a lou papo! grandour

Poudé, magnificènci, e poumpo e resplendour,

Que mestrejon la terro e fan, sènso messorgo,

Boufa l'alen de Diéu i ribo de la Sorgo."

Lastly, in Avignon, there's the Pope! greatness, power,

magnificence, pomp, and splendor, dominating the earth, and without

exaggeration, causing the breath of God to blow upon the banks of

the Sorgue.

We learn that the brilliancy and animation of the court at Avignon

outshine the glories of Rome, and in language that fairly glitters with

its high-sounding, highly colored words. We hear of Petrarch and Laura,

and the associations of Vaucluse.

At this juncture the Prince arrives, and is struck by the resemblance of

the scene to a court of love; he wonders if they are not discussing the

question whether love is not drowned in the nuptial holy water font, or

whether the lady inspires the lover as much with her presence as when

absent. And the Queen defends her mode of life and temperament; she

cannot brook the cold and gloomy ways of the north. Were we to apply

the methods of Voltaire's strictures of Corneille to this play, it might

be interesting to see how many _vers de comédie_ could be found in these

scenes of dispute between the prince consort and his light-hearted wife.

"A l'avans! zóu! en fèsto arrouinas lou Tresor!"

Go ahead! that's right, ruin the treasury with your feasts!

and to his objections to so many flattering courtiers, the Queen

replies:--

"Voulès que moun palais devèngue un mounastié?"

Do you want my palace to become a monastery?

Joanna replies nobly and eloquently to the threats of her husband to

assume mastery over her by violent means, and, in spite of the

anachronism (the poet makes her use and seemingly invent the term

_Renascence_), her defence of the arts and science of her time is

forceful and enthusiastic, and carries the reader along. That this sort

of eloquence is dramatic, appears, however, rather doubtful.

The next scene interests us more directly in the characters before us.

The Prince, left alone with his confidant, Fra Rupert, gives expression

to his passionate love for the Queen, and pours forth the bitterness of

his soul to see it unrequited. The fierce Hungarian monk denounces,

rather justly, it appears to us, the license and levity of the Italian

court, and incites Andrea to an appeal to the Pope, "a potentate that

has no army, whose dominion extends from pole to pole, who binds and

unbinds at his will, upholds, makes, or unmakes thrones as an almighty

master."

But Andrea fears the Queen would never pardon him.

"E se noun ai en plen lou mèu si caresso,

L'empèri universal! m'es un gourg d'amaresso!"

And if I have not fully the honey of her caresses

The empire of the world is to me a gulf of bitterness.

Finally the monk and La Catanaise stand alone before us. This woman is

the Queen's nurse, who loves her with a fierce sort of passion, and it

is she who commits the crime that causes the play to be called a

tragedy. This final scene brings out a flood of the most violent

vituperation from this veritable virago, some of it exceedingly low in

tone. The friar leaves with the threat to have a red-hot nail run

through her hellish tongue, and La Catanaise, standing alone, gives

vent to her fury in threats of murder.

The next act reveals the Hall of Honor in the Castel-Nuovo at Naples.

Andrea in anger proclaims himself king, and in the presence of the Queen

and the Italian courtiers gives away one after another all the offices

and honors of the realm to his Hungarian followers. A conflict with

drawn swords is about to ensue, when the Queen rushes between the

would-be combatants, reminding them of the decree of the Pope; but

Andrea in fury accuses the Queen of conduct worthy a shameless

adventuress, and cites the reports that liken her to Semiramis in her

orgies. The Prince of Taranto throws down his glove to the enraged

Andrea, who replies by a threat to bring him to the executioner. The

Prince of Taranto answers that the executioner may be the supreme law

for a king,

"Mai pèr un qu'a l'ounour dins lou piés e dins l'amo,

Uno escorno, cousin, se purgo emé la lamo."

But for one who has honor in his breast and his soul,

An insult, cousin, is purged with the sword.

Andrea turns to his knights, and leaving the room with them points to

the flag bearing the block and axe as emblems. The partisans of Joanna

remain full of indignation. La Catanaise addresses them. The Sicilians,

she says, waste no time in words, but have a speedier method of

punishing a wrong, and she reminds them of the massacre at Palermo. The

Prince of Taranto discountenances the proposed crime, for the Queen's

fair name would suffer. But the fierce woman points to the flag. "Do you

see that axe hanging from a thread? You are all cowards! Let me act

alone." And the Prince nobly replies, "Philippine, battles are fought in

the sunlight; men of our renown, men of my stamp, do not crouch down in

the dark shadow of a plot." And the Catanaise again shows the flag. "Do

you see the axe falling upon the block?"

Joanna enters to offer the Prince her thanks for his chivalrous defence

of her fair name, and dismisses the other courtiers. The ensuing brief

scene between the Queen and the Prince is really very eloquent and very

beautiful. The Queen recalls the fact that she was married at nine to

Andrea, then only a child too; and she has never known love. The poorest

of the shepherdesses on the mountains of Calabria may quench her thirst

at the spring, but she, the Queen of the Sun, if to pass away the time,

or to have the appearance of happiness, she loves to listen to the echo

of song, to behold the joy and brilliancy of a noble fête, her very

smile becomes criminal. And the Prince reminds her that she is the

Provençal queen, and that in the great times of that people, if the

consort were king, love was a god, and he recalls the names of all the

ladies made famous by the Troubadours. Thereupon the Queen in an

outburst of enthusiasm truly Felibrean invokes the God of Love, the God

that slew Dido, and speaks in the spirit of the days of courtly love, "O

thou God of Love, hearken unto me. If my fatal beauty is destined sooner

or later to bring about my death, let this flame within me be, at least,

the pyre that shall kindle the song of the poet! Let my beauty be the

luminous star exalting men's hearts to lofty visions!"

The chivalrous Prince is dismissed, and Joanna is alone with, her

thoughts. The little page Dragonet sings outside a plaintive song with

the refrain:--

"Que regrèt!

Jamai digues toun secrèt."

What regret!

Never tell thy secret.

La Catanaise endeavors to excite the fears of the Queen, insinuating

that the Pope may give the crown to Andrea. Joanna has no fear.

"We shall have but to appear before the country with this splendor of

irresistible grace, and like the smoke borne away by the breeze,

suddenly my enemies shall disappear."

We may ask whether such self-praise comes gracefully from the Queen

herself, whether she might not be less conscious of her own charm. La

Catanaise is again alone on the scene, threatening. "The bow is drawn,

the hen setting." This last comparison, the reader will remark, would be

simply impossible as the termination of an act in a serious English

play. This last scene, too, is wofully weak and purposeless.

The conversation of three courtiers at the beginning of Act III apprises

us of the fact that the Pope has succeeded in bringing about a

reconciliation between the royal pair, and that they are both to be

crowned, and as a matter of precaution, the nurse Philippine, and the

monk Fra Rupert are to be sent upon their several ways. The scene is

next filled by the conspirators, La Catanaise directing the details of

the plots. It is made clear that the Queen is utterly ignorant of these

proceedings, which are after all useless; for we fail to see what valid

motive these plotters have to urge them on to their contemptible deed. A

brilliant banquet scene ensues, wherein Anfan of Sisteron sings a song

of seven stanzas about the fairy Mélusine, and seven times Dragonet

sings the refrain, "Sian de la raço di lesert" (We are of the race of

the lizards). And there are enthusiastic tirades in praise of the Queen

and of Provence, and all is merry. But Andrea spills salt upon the

table, which evil augury seems to be taken seriously. This little

episode is foolish, and unwrorthy of a tragedy. We are on the verge of

an assassination. Either the gloomy forebodings and the terror of the

event should be impressed upon us, or the exaggerated gayety and high

spirits of the revellers should by contrast make the coming event seem

more terrible; but the spilling of salt is utterly trivial. After the

feast La Catanaise and her daughter proceed to their devilish work, in

the room now lighted only by the pale rays of the moon, while the voice

of the screech-owl is heard outside. The trap is set for the King; he is

strangled just out of sight with the silken noose. The Queen is roused

by her nurse. The palace is in an uproar, and the act terminates with a

passionate demand for vengeance and justice on the part of Fra Rupert.

And now the Fourth Act. Here Mistral is in his element; here his love of

rocky landscapes, of azure seas and golden islands, of song and

festivity, finds full play. The tragedy is forgotten, the dramatic

action completely interrupted,--never mind. We accompany the Queen on

her splendid galley all the way from Naples to Marseilles. She leaves

amid the acclamations of the Neapolitans, recounts the splendors of the

beautiful bay, and promises to return "like the star of night coming out

of the mist, laurel in hand, on the white wings of her Provençal

galley." The boat starts, the rowers sing their plaintive rhythmic

songs, the Queen is enraptured by the beauty of the fleeing shores, the

white sail glistens in the glorious blue above. She is lulled by the

motion of the boat and the waving of the hangings of purple and gold.

Midway on her journey she receives a visit from the Infante of Majorca,

James of Aragon, who seems to be wandering over that part of the sea;

then the astrologer Anselme predicts her marriage with _Alio_ and her

death. She shall be visited with the sins of her ancestors; the blood

spilled by Charles of Anjou cries for vengeance. The Queen passes

through a moment of gloom. She dispels it, exclaiming: "Be it so, strike

where thou wilt, O fate, I am a queen; I shall fight, if need be, until

death, to uphold my cause and my womanly honor. If my wild planet is

destined to sink in a sea of blood and tears, the glittering trace I

shall leave on the earth will show at least that I was worthy to be thy

great queen, O brilliant Provence!"

She descends into the ship, and the rowers resume their song. Later we

arrive at Nice, where the Queen is received by an exultant throng. She

forgets the awful predictions and is utterly filled with delight. She

will visit all the cities where she is loved, her ambition is to see her

flag greeted all along the Mediterranean with shouts of joy and love.

She feels herself to be a Provençale. "Come, people, here I am; breathe

me in, drink me in! It is sweet to me to be yours, and sweet to please

you; and you may gaze in love and admiration upon me, for I am your

queen!"

The journey is resumed. We pass the Isles of Gold, and the raptures are

renewed. At Marseilles the Queen is received by the Consuls, and swears

solemnly to respect all the rights, customs, and privileges of the land,

and the Consul exacts as the last oath that she swear to see that the

noble speech of Arles shall be maintained and spoken in the land of

Provence. The act closes with the sentiment, "May Provence triumph in

every way!"

The last act brings us to the great hall of the papal palace at Avignon,

where the Pope is to pronounce judgment upon the Queen. Fra Rupert,

disguised as a pilgrim, harangues the throng, and two Hungarian knights

are beaten in duel by Galéas of Mantua. This duel, with its alternate

cries of Dau! Dau! Tè! Tè! Zóu! Zóu! is difficult to take seriously and

reminds us of Tartarin. The Queen enters in conversation with Petrarch.

The Hungarian knights utter bitter accusations against the Queen, who

gives them in place of iron chains the golden chains about her neck,

whereupon the knights gallantly declare their hearts are won forever.

The doors open at the back and we see the papal court. Bertrand des

Baux gives a hideous account of the torture and death of those who had

a hand in the death of Andrea. The Queen makes a long speech, expressing

her deep grief at the calumnies and slander that beset her. The court

and people resolve themselves into a kind of opera chorus, expressing

their various sentiments in song. The Queen next reviews her life with

Andrea, and concludes:--

"And it seemed to me noble and worthy of a queen to melt with a glance

the cold of the frost, to make the almond tree blossom with a smile, to

be amiable to all, affable, generous, and lead my people with a thread

of wool! Yes, all the thought of my mad youth was to be loved and to

reign by the power of love. Who could have foretold that, afterward, on

the day of the great disaster, all this should be made a reproach

against me! that I should be accused, at the age of twenty, of

instigating an awful crime!"

And she breaks down weeping. The page, the people, the pilgrim, and the

astrologer again sing in a sort of operatic ensemble their various

emotions. The Pope absolves the Queen, the pilgrim denounces the verdict

furiously, and is put to death by Galéas of Mantua. So ends the play.

_La Rèino Jano_ is a pageant rather than a tragedy. It is full of song

and sunshine, glow and glitter. The characters all talk in the

exaggerated and exuberant style of Mistral, who is not dramatist enough

to create independent being, living before us. The central personage is

in no sense a tragic character. The fanatical Fra Rupert and the low,

vile-tongued Catanaise are not tragic characters. The psychology

throughout is decidedly upon the surface.

The author in his introduction warns us that to judge this play we must

place ourselves at the point of view of the Provençals, in whom many an

expression or allusion that leaves the ordinary reader or spectator

untouched, will possibly awaken, as he hopes, some particular emotion.

This is true of all his literature; the Provençal language, the

traditions, the memories of Provence, are the web and woof of it all.

It is interesting to note the impression made by the language upon a

Frenchman and a critic of the rank of Jules Lemaître. He says in

concluding his review of this play:--

"The language is too gay, it has too much sing-song, it is too

harmonious. It does not possess the rough gravity of the Spanish, and

has too few of the _i_'s and _e_'s that soften the sonority of the

Italian. I may venture to say it is too expressive, too full of

onomatopœia. Imagine a language, in which to say, "He bursts out

laughing," one must use the word _s'escacalasso_! There are too many

_on_'s and _oun_'s and too much _ts_ and _dz_ in the pronunciation. So

that the Provençal language, in spite of everything, keeps a certain

patois vulgarity. It forces the poet, so to say, to perpetual

song-making. It must be very difficult, in that language, to have an

individual style, still more difficult to express abstract ideas. But it

is a merry language."

The play has never yet been performed, and until a trial is made, one is

inclined to think it would not be effective, except as a spectacle. It

is curious that the Troubadours produced no dramatic literature

whatever, and that the same lack is found in the modern revival.

Aubanel's _Lou Pan dóu Pecat_ (The Bread of Sin), written in 1863, and

performed in 1878 at Montpellier, seems to have been successful, and

was played at Paris at the Théâtre Libre in 1888, in the

verse-translation made by Paul Arène. Aubanel wrote two other plays,

_Lou Pastre_, which is lost, and _Lou Raubatòn_, a work that must be

considered unfinished. Two plays, therefore, constitute the entire

dramatic production in the new language.

PART THIRD

CONCLUSIONS

CONCLUSIONS

It would be idle to endeavor to determine whether Mistral is to be

classed as a great poet, or whether the Félibres have produced a great

literature, and nothing is defined when the statement is made that

Mistral is or is not a great poet. His genius may be said to be limited

geographically, for if from it were eliminated all that pertains

directly to Provence, the remainder would be almost nothing. The only

human nature known to the poet is the human nature of Provence, and

while it is perfectly true that a human being in Provence could be

typical of human nature in general, and arouse interest in all men

through his humanity common to all, the fact is, that Mistral has not

sought to express what is of universal interest, but has invariably

chosen to present human life in its Provençal aspects and from one point

of view only. A second limitation is found in the unvarying exteriority

of his method of presenting human nature. Never does he probe deeply

into the souls of his Provençals. Very vividly indeed does he reproduce

their words and gestures; but of the deeper under-currents, the inner

conflicts, the agonies of doubt and indecision, the bitterness of

disappointments, the lofty aspirations toward a higher inner life or a

closer communion with the universe, the moral problems that shake a

human soul, not a syllable. Nor is he a poet who pours out his own soul

into verse.

External nature is for him, again, nature as seen in Provence. The rocks

and trees, the fields and the streams, do not awaken in him a stir of

emotions because of their power to compel a mood in any responsive

poetic soul, but they excite him primarily as the rocks and trees, the

fields and streams of his native region. He is no mere word-painter.

Rarely do his descriptions appear to exist for their own sake. They

furnish a necessary, fitting, and delightful background to the action of

his poems. They are too often indications of what a Provençal ought to

consider admirable or wonderful, they are sometimes spoiled by the

poet's excessive partiality for his own little land. His work is ever

the work of a man with a mission.

There is no profound treatment of the theme of love. Each of the long

poems and his play have a love story as the centre of interest, but the

lovers are usually children, and their love utterly without

complications. There is everywhere a lovely purity, a delightful

simplicity, a straightforward naturalness that is very charming, but in

this theme as in the others, Mistral is incapable of tragic depths and

heights. So it is as regards the religious side of man's nature. The

poet's work is filled with allusions to religion; there are countless

legends concerning saints and hermits, descriptions of churches and the

papal palace, there is the detailed history of the conversion of

Provence to Christianity, but the deepest religious spirit is not his.

Only twice in all his work do we come upon a profounder religious sense,

in the second half of _Lou Prègo-Diéu_ and in _Lou Saume de la

Penitènci_. There is no doubt that Mistral is a believer, but religious

feeling has not a large place in his work; there are no other

meditations upon death and destiny.

And this _âme du Midi, spirit of Provence_, the genius of his race that

he has striven to express, what is it? How shall it be defined or

formulated? Alphonse Daudet, who knew it, and loved it, whose Parisian

life and world-wide success did not destroy in him the love of his

native Provence, who loved the very food of the Midi above all others,

and jumped up in joy when a southern intonation struck his ear, and who

was continually beset with longings to return to the beloved region, has

well defined it. He was the friend of Mistral and followed the poet's

efforts and achievements with deep and affectionate interest. It is not

difficult to see that the satire in the "Tartarin" series is not unkind,

nor is it untrue. Daudet approved of the Félibrige movement, though what

he himself wrote in Provençal is insignificant. He believed that the

national literature could be best vivified by those who most loved their

homes, that the best originality could thus be attained. He has

said:[17]--

"The imagination of the southerners differs from that of the northerners

in that it does not mingle the different elements and forms in

literature, and remains lucid in its outbreaks. In our most complex

natures you never encounter the entanglement of directions, relations,

and figures that characterizes a Carlyle, a Browning, or a Poe. For this

reason the man of the north always finds fault with the man of the south

for his lack of depth and darkness.

"If we consider the most violent of human passions, love, we see that

the southerner makes it the great affair of his life, but does not allow

himself to become disorganized. He likes the talk that goes with it, its

lightness, its change. He hates the slavery of it. It furnishes a

pretext for serenades, fine speeches, light scoffing, caresses. He finds

it difficult to comprehend the joining together of love and death, which

lies in the northern nature, and casts a shade of melancholy upon these

brief delights."

Daudet notes the ease with which the southerner is carried away and

duped by the mirage of his own fancy, his semi-sincerity in excitement

and enthusiasm. He admired the natural eloquence of his Provençals. He

found a justification for their exaggerations.

"Is it right to accuse a man of lying, who is intoxicated with his own

eloquence, who, without evil intent, or love of deceit, or any instinct

of scheming or false trading, seeks to embellish his own life, and other

people's, with stories he knows to be illusions, but which he wishes

were true? Is Don Quixote a liar? Are all the poets deceivers who aim to

free us from realities, to go soaring off into space? After all, among

southerners, there is no deception. Each one, within himself, restores

things to their proper proportions."

Daudet had Mistral's love of the sunshine. He needed it to inspire him.

He believed it explained the southern nature.

Concerning the absence of metaphysics in the race he says:--

"These reasonings may culminate in a state of mind such as we see

extolled in Buddhism, a colorless state, joyless and painless, across

which the fleeting splendors of thought pass like stars. Well, the man

of the south cares naught for that sort of paradise. The vein of real

sensation is freely, perpetually open, open to life. The side that

pertains to abstraction, to logic, is lost in mist."

We have referred to the power of story-telling among the Provençals and

their responsiveness as listeners. Daudet mentions the contrast to be

observed between an audience of southerners and the stolid,

self-contained attitude of a crowd in the north.

The evil side of the southern temperament, the faults that accompany

these traits, are plainly stated by the great novelist. Enthusiasm turns

to hypocrisy, or brag; the love of what glitters, to a passion for

luxury at any cost; sociability, the desire to please, become weakness

and fulsome flattery. The orator beats his breast, his voice is hoarse,

choked with emotion, his tears flow conveniently, he appeals to

patriotism and the noblest sentiments. There is a legend, according to

Daudet, which says that when Mirabeau cried out, "We will not leave

unless driven out at the point of the bayonet," a voice off at one side

corrected the utterance, murmuring sarcastically, "And if the bayonets

come, we make tracks!"

The southerner, when he converses, is roused to animation readily. His

eye flashes, his words are uttered with strong intonations, the

impressiveness of a quiet, earnest, self-contained manner is unknown to

him.

Daudet is a novelist and a humorist. Mistral is a poet; hence, although

he professes to aim at a full expression of the "soul of his Provence,"

there are many aspects of the Provençal nature that he has not touched

upon. He has omitted all the traits that lend themselves to satirical

treatment, and, although he is in many ways a remarkable realist, he has

very little dramatic power, and seems to lack the gift of searching

analysis of individual character. It is hardly fair to reckon it as a

shortcoming in the poet and apostle of Provence that he presents only

what is most beautiful in the life about him. The novelist offers us a

faithful and vivid image of the men of his own day. The poet glorifies

the past, clings to tradition, and exhorts his countrymen to return to

it.

Essentially and above all else a conservative, Mistral has the gravest

doubts about so-called modern progress. Undoubtedly honest in desiring

the well-being of his fellow Provençals, he believes that this can be

preserved or attained only by a following of tradition. There must be no

breaking with the past. Daudet, late in life, adhered to this doctrine.

His son quotes him as saying:--

"I am following, with gladness, the results of the impulse Mistral has

given. Return to tradition! that is our salvation in the present going

to pieces. I have always felt this instinctively. It came to me clearly

only a few years ago. It is a bad thing to become wholly loosened from

the soil, to forget the village church spire. Curiously enough poetry

attaches only to objects that have come down to us, that have had long

use. What is called _progress_, a vague and very doubtful term, rouses

the lower parts of our intelligence. The higher parts vibrate the better

for what has moved and inspired a long series of imaginative minds,

inheriting each from a predecessor, strengthened by the sight of the

same landscapes, by the same perfumes, by the touch of the same

furniture, polished by wear. Very ancient impressions sink into the

depth of that obscure memory which we may call the _race-memory_, out of

which is woven the mass of individual memories."

Mistral is truly the poet of the Midi. One can best see how superior he

is as an artist in words by comparing him with the foremost of his

fellow-poets. He is a master of language. He has the eloquence, the

enthusiasm, the optimism of his race. His poetic earnestness saves his

tendency to exaggerate. His style, in all its superiority, is a southern

style, full of interjections, full of long, sonorous words. His thought,

his expressions, are ever lucid. His art is almost wholly objective. His

work has extraordinary unity, and therefore does not escape the monotony

that was unavoidable when the poet voluntarily limited himself to a

single purpose in life, and to treatment of the themes thereunto

pertaining. Believers in material progress, those who look for great

changes in political and social conditions, will turn from Mistral with

indifference. His contentment with present things, and his love of the

past, are likely to irritate them. Those who seek in a poet consolation

in the personal trials of life, a new message concerning human destiny,

a new note in the everlasting themes that the great poets have sung,

will be disappointed.

A word must be said of him as a writer of French. In the earlier years

he felt the weight of the Academy. He did not feel that French would

allow full freedom. He was scrupulous and timid. He soon shook off this

timidity and became a really remarkable wielder of the French tongue.

His translations of his own works have doubtless reached a far wider

public than the works themselves, and are certainly characterized by

great boldness, clearness, and an astonishingly large vocabulary.

His earlier work is clearly inspired by his love of Greek literature,

and those qualities in Latin literature wherein the Greek genius shines

through, possibly also by some mysterious affinity with the Greek spirit

resulting from climate or atavism. This never entirely left him. When

later he writes of Provence in the Middle Age, of the days of the

Troubadours, his manner does not change; his work offers no analogies

here with the French Romantic school.

No poet, it would seem, was ever so in love with his own language; no

artist ever so loved the mere material he was using. Mistral loves the

words he uses, he loves their sound, he loves to hear them from the lips

of those about him; he loves the intonations and the cadences of his

verse; his love is for the speech itself aside from any meaning it

conveys. A beautiful instrument it is indeed. Possibly nothing is more

peculiarly striking about him than this extreme enthusiasm for his

golden speech, his _lengo d'or_.

To him must be conceded the merit of originality, great originality. In

seeking the source of many of his conceptions, one is led to the

conclusion, and his own testimony bears it out, that they are the

creations of his own fancy. If there is much prosaic realism in the

_Poem of the Rhone_, the Prince and the Anglore are purely the children

of Mistral's almost naïve imagination, and Calendau and Esterello are

attached to the real world of history by the slenderest bonds. When we

seek for resemblances between his conceptions and those of other poets,

we can undoubtedly find them. Mireille now and then reminds of Daphnis

and Chloe, of Hermann and Dorothea, of Evangeline, but the differences

are far more in evidence than the resemblances. Esterello is in an

attitude toward Calendau not without analogy to that of Beatrice toward

Dante, but it would be impossible to find at any point the slightest

imitation of Dante. Some readers have been reminded of Faust in reading

_Nerto_, but beyond the scheme of the Devil to secure a woman's soul,

there is little similarity. Nothing could be more utterly without

philosophy than _Nerto_. Mistral has drawn his inspirations from within

himself; he has not worked over the poems and legends of former poets,

or sought much of his subject-matter in the productions of former ages.

He has not suffered from the deep reflection, the pondering, and the

doubt that destroy originality.

If Mistral had written his poems in French, he would certainly have

stood apart from the general line of French poets. It would have been

impossible to attach him to any of the so-called "schools" of poetry

that have followed one another during this century in France. He is as

unlike the Romantics as he is unlike the Parnassians. M. Brunetière

would find no difficulty in applying to his work the general epithet of

"social" that so well characterizes French literature considered in its

main current, for Mistral always sings to his fellow-men to move them,

to persuade them, to stir their hearts. Almost all of his poems in the

lyrical form show him as the spokesman of his fellows or as the leader

urging them to action. He is therefore not of the school of "Art for

Art's sake," but his art is consecrated to the cause he represents.

His thought is ever pure and high; his lessons are lessons of love, of

noble aims, of energy and enthusiasm. He is full of love for the best in

the past, love of his native soil, love of his native landscapes, love

of the men about him, love of his country. He is a poet of the "Gai

Saber," joyous and healthy, he has never felt a trace of the bitterness,

the disenchantment, the gloom and the pain of a Byron or a Leopardi. He

is eminently representative of the race he seeks to glorify in its own

eyes and in the world's, himself a type of that race at its very best,

with all its exuberance and energy, with its need of outward

manifestation, life and movement. An important place must be assigned to

him among those who have bodied forth their poetic conceptions in the

various euphonious forms of speech descended from the ancient speech of

Rome.

In Provence, and far beyond its borders, he is known and loved. His

activity has not ceased. His voice is still heard, clear, strong,

hopeful, inspiring. _Mireille_ is sung in the ruined Roman theatre at

Aries, museums are founded to preserve Provençal art and antiquities,

the Felibrean feasts continue with unabated enthusiasm. Mistral's life

is a successful life; he has revived a language, created a literature,

inspired a people. So potent is art to-day in the old land of the

Troubadours. All the charm and beauty of that sunny land, all that is

enchanting in its past, all the best, in the ideal sense, that may be

hoped for in its future, is expressed in his musical, limpid, lovely

verse. Such a poet and such a leader of men is rare in the annals of

literature. Such complete oneness of purpose and of achievement is rare

among men.

[Footnote 17: See _Revue de Paris_, 15 avril, 1898.]

APPENDIX

We offer here a literal prose translation of the _Psalm of Penitence_.

THE PSALM OF PENITENCE

I

Lord, at last thy wrath hurleth its thunderbolts upon our foreheads, and

in the night our vessel strikes its prow against the rocks.

Lord, thou cuttest us down with the sword of the barbarian like fine

wheat, and not one of the cravens that we shielded comes to our defence.

Lord, thou twistest us like a willow wand, thou breakest down to-day all

our pride; there is none to envy us, who but yesterday were so proud.

Lord, our land goeth to ruin in war and strife; and if thou withhold thy

mercy, great and small will devour one another.

Lord, thou art terrible, thou strikest us upon the back; in awful

turmoil thou breakest our power, compelling us to confess past evil.

II

Lord, we had strayed away from the austerity of the old laws and ways.

Virtues, domestic customs, we had destroyed and demolished.

Lord, giving an evil example, and denying thee like the heathen, we had

one day closed up thy temples and mocked thy Holy Christ.

Lord, leaving behind us thy sacraments and commandments, we had brutally

lost belief in all but self-interest and progress!

Lord, in the waste heavens we have clouded thy light with our smoke, and

to-day the sons mock the nakedness and purity of their fathers.

Lord, we have blown upon thy Bible with the breath of false knowledge;

and holding ourselves up like the poplar trees, we wretched beings have

declared ourselves gods.

Lord, we have left the furrow, we have trampled all respect under foot;

and with the heavy wine that intoxicates us we defile the innocent.

III

Lord, we are thy prodigal children, but we are thy Christians of old;

let thy justice chastise us, but give us not over unto death.

Lord, in the name of so many brave men, who went forth fearless,

valiant, docile, grave, and then fell in battle;

Lord, in the name of so many mothers, who are about to pray to God for

their sons, and who next year, alas! and the year thereafter, shall see

them no more;

Lord, in the name of so many women who have at their bosoms a little

child, and who, poor creatures, moisten the earth and the sheets of

their beds with tears;

Lord, in the name of the poor, in the name of the strong, in the name of

the dead who shall die for their country, their duty, and their faith;

Lord, for so many defeats, so many tears and woes, for so many towns

ravaged, for so much brave, holy blood;

Lord, for so many adversities, for so much mourning throughout our

France, for so many insults upon our heads;

IV

Lord, disarm thy justice. Cast down thine eye upon us, and heed the

cries of the bruised and wounded!

Lord, if the rebellious cities, through their luxury and folly, have

overturned the scale-pan of thy balance, resisting and denying thee;

Lord, before the breath of the Alps, that praiseth God winter and

summer, all the trees of the fields, obedient, bow together;

Lord, France and Provence have sinned only through forgetfulness; do

thou forgive us our offences, for we repent of the evil of former days.

Lord, we desire to become men, thou canst set us free. We are

Gallo-Romans, and of noble race, and we walk upright in our land.

Lord, we are not the cause of the evil, send down upon us a ray of

peace. Lord, help our cause, and we shall live again and love thee.

THE PRESENT CAPOULIÉ OF THE FÉLIBRIGE.

M. Pierre Devoluy, of the town of Die, was elected at Arles, in April,

1901. The Consistory was presided over by Mistral.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

The following list contains the most important works that have been

published concerning Mistral and the Félibrige. Numerous articles have

appeared in nearly all the languages of Europe in various magazines. Of

these only such are mentioned as seem worthy of special notice.

WORKS CONCERNING THE FÉLIBRIGE IN GENERAL

_America_

JANVIER, THOMAS A., Numerous articles in the Century Magazine, New York,

1893, and following years.

_An Embassy to Provence_. New York, 1893.

PRESTON, HARRIETT, _Mistral's Calendau_. The Atlantic Monthly, New

York, 1874.

_Aubanel's Miòugrano entreduberto_. The Atlantic Monthly, New

York, 1874.

_England_

CRAIG, DUNCAN, _Miéjour Provençal Legend, Life, Language, and

Literature_. London.

_The Handbook of the Modern Provençal Language_.

CROMBIE, J.W., _The Poets and Peoples of Foreign Lands: Frédéric

Mistral_. Elliot, London, 1890.

HARTOG, CECIL, _Poets of Provence_. London Contemporary Review, 1894.

_France_

BOISSIN, FIRMIN, _Le Midi littéraire contemporain_. Douladoure,

Toulouse, 1887.

DE BOUCHAUD, _Roumanille et le Félibrige_. Mougin, Lyons, 1896.

BRUN, C., _L'Evolution félibréenne_. Paquet, Lyons, 1896.

DONNADIEU, F., _Les Précurseurs des Félibres_. Quantin, Paris, 1888.

HENNION, C., _Les Fleurs félibresques_. Paris, 1893.

JOURDANNE, G., _Histoire du Félibrige_. Roumanille, Avignon, 1897.

LINTILHAC, E., _Les Félibres à travers leur monde et leur poésie_.

Lemerre, Paris, 1895.

_Précis de la littérature française_. Paris, 1890.

LEGRÉ, L., _Le Poète Théodore Aubanel_. Paris, 1894.

MARGON, A. DE, _Les Précurseurs des Félibres_. Béziers, 1891.

MARIÉTON, PAUL, _La Terre provençale_. Lemerre, Paris, 1894.

Article _Félibrige_ in the _Grande Encyclopédie_.

Article _Mistral_ in the _Grande Encyclopédie_.

MICHEL, S., _La Petite Patrie_. Roumanille, Avignon, 1894.

NOULET, B., _Essai sur l'histoire littéraire des patois du midi de la

France, aux VIIIe siécle_. Montpellier, 1877.

PARIS, GASTON, _Penseurs et poètes_. Calmann-Lévy, Paris, 1896.

RESTORI, _Histoire de la littérature provençale depuis les temps les

plus reculés jusqu'à nos jours_. Montpellier, 1895. (Translated

from the Italian.)

ROQUE-FERRIER, A., _Mélanges de critique littéraire et de philologie_.

Montpellier, 1892.

SAINT-RENÉ-TAILLANDIER, V., _Etudes littéraires_. Plon et Cie,

Paris, 1881.

TAVERNIER, E., _La Renaissance provençale et Roumanille_. Gervais,

Paris, 1884.

_Le mouvement littéraire provençal et Lis Isclo d'Or de Frédéric

Mistral_. Aix, 1876.

DE TERRIS, J., _Roumanille et la littérature provençale_. Blond,

Paris, 1894.

DE VINAC, M., _Les Félibres_. Richaud, Gap, 1882.

_Germany_

BÖHMER, E., _Die provenzalische Dichtung der Gegenwart_.

Heilbronn, 1870.

KOSCHWITZ, E., _Ueber die provenzalischen Feliber und ihre Vorgänger_.

Berlin, 1894.

_Grammaire historique de la langue des Félibres_. Greifswald and

Paris, 1894.

A study of Bertuch's translation of Nerto in the _Litteraturblatt für

germanische und romanische Philologie_. 1892.

A study of Provençal phonetics with a translation of the _Cant dóu

Soulèu. Sonderabdruck aus der Zeitschrift für französische Sprache

und Litteratur_. Berlin, 1893.

SCHNEIDER, B., _Bemerkungen zur litterarischen Bewegung auf

neuprovenzalischem Sprachgebiete_. Berlin, 1887.

WELTER, N., _Frederi Mistral, der Dichter der Provence_.

Marburg, 1899.[18]

_Italy_

LICER, MARIA, _I Felibri_, in the _Roma letteraria_. June, 1893.

PORTAL, E., _Appunti letterari: Sulla poesia provenzale_. Pedone,

Palermo, 1890.

_La Letteratura provenzale moderna_. Reber, Palermo, 1893.

_Scritti vari di letteratura classica provenzale moderna_. Reber,

Palermo, 1895.

RESTORI, A., _Letteratura provenzale_. Hoepli, Milan, 1892.

ZUCCARO, L., _Un avvenimento letterario; Mistral tragico in the Scena

illustrata_. Florence, 1891.

_Il Felibrigio, rinascimento delle lettere provenzali, Concordia_.

Novara, 1892.

_Spain_

TUBINO, _Historia del renacimiento literario contemporaneo en Cataluña,

Baleares y Valencia_. Madrid, 1881.

MISTRAL'S WORKS

Mirèio. 1859.

Calendau. Avignon, 1867. Paris, Lemerre, 1887.

Lis Isclo d'Or. 1876.

Nerto. Hachette, Paris, 1884.

Lou Tresor dóu Fébrige. Aix, 1886.

La Rèino Jano. Lemerre, Paris, 1890.

Lou Pouèmo dóu Rose. Lemerre, Paris, 1897.

TRANSLATIONS OF MISTRAL'S WORKS

H. GRANT, _An English Version of F. Mistral's Mirèio from the Original

Provençal_. London.

HARRIETT PRESTON, _Mistral's Mirèio. A Provençal Poem Translated_.

Roberts Bros., Boston, 1872. Second edition, 1891.

A. BERTUCH, _Der Trommler von Arcole_. Deutsche Dichtung, Dresden, 1890.

_Nerto_. Trübner, Strassburg, 1890.

_Mirèio_. Trübner, Strassburg, 1892.

_Espouscado_. Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Litteratur,

XV2, p. 267.

HENNION, _Mireille_. Traduction en vers français.

E. RIGAUD, _Mireille_. Metrical translation into French, with the

original form of stanza.

JAROSLAV VRCHLICHKY. Translation of several poems of Mistral into

Bohemian, under the title, _Z básni Mistralovych_, in the Review,

_Kvety_. Prague, 1886.

_Hostem u Basniku_. Prague, 1891. Contains seven poems by Aubanel and

thirteen by Mistral.

DOM SIGISMOND BOUSKA, _Le Tambour d'Arcole_, in the Review, _Lumir_.

Prague, 1893.

Cantos IV and V of _Mirèio_, in the Review, _Vlast_. Prague, 1894.

PELAY BOIZ, _Mirèio_, in Catalan.

ROCA Y ROCA, _Calendau_. Lo Gay Saber, Barcelona, 1868.

C. BARALLAT Y FALGUERA, _Mireya, poema provenzal de Frederico Mistral

puesto en prosa española_.

MARIA LICER, _L'Angelo_ (Canto VI of _Nerto_). Italian. Iride,

Casal, 1889.

A. NAUM, _Traduceri_. Jassy, 1891. (Translation into Rumanian of

Canto IV of _Mirèio_, _The Song of Magali_, and _The Drummer

of Arcole_.)

T. CANNIZZARO, _La Venere d'Arli_, in _Vita Intima_. Milan, 1891.

[Footnote 18: The present work was completed in manuscript before the

reception of Welter's book.]

INDEX

Aasen, Ivan, 94.

Alexandrine verse, 78, 89.

Alpilles, 11.

Amiradou, 76, 196.

Arène, Paul, 21, 234.

Ariosto, 20, 151.

Armana prouvençau, 17, 28.

Aubanel, Théodore, 15, 17, 21, 36, 88, 233.

Aucassin and Nicolette, 170.

Balageur, Victor, 31, 32.

Bello d'Avoust, 184.

Berluc-Pérussis, 33.

Boileau, 102.

Bonaparte-Wyse, 31, 33.

Bornier, Henri de, 33.

Bréal, Michel, 34, 72.

Brunet, Jean, 16.

Brunetière, 79, 249.

Byron, 250.

Calendau, 18, 79, 127.

Capoulié, 19, 35, 36.

Catalans, 31.

Cigale. Société de la, 20, 33.

Countess, the, 199.

Cup, 31, 32, 190.

Dante, 40, 73, 130, 133, 160, 248.

Darmesteter, 41.

Daudet, 9, 21, 69, 152, 240 _seq._

Dictionary of the Provençal language, 20, 92.

Drac, 165 _seq._

Drummer of Arcole, 78, 204.

Espouscado, 194.

Evangeline, 122.

Faust, 248.

Félibre, 5, 27.

Félibrige, 24 _seq._

Félibrige de Paris, 16, 20, 33.

Félibrige, foundation of, 15.

Félibrige organized, 19, 34.

Fin dón Meissounié, 186.

Floral games, 20, 32, 35.

Font-Ségugne, 17.

Fourès Auguste, 37.

Garcin, Eugène, 15.

Giéra, Paul, 15.

Goethe, 123.

Gounod, 18.

Gras, Félix, 36, 37, 38.

Grévy, 20.

Homer, 13, 123.

Hugo, Victor, 79, 138, 181, 203.

Isclo d'Or, 19, 181.

Janvier, Mrs. Thomas A., 38.

Jasmin, 6, 14, 29, 43, 73, 193.

Jeanroy, 27.

Jourdanne, 24, 37.

Koschwitz, 49.

Lamartine, 17, 29, 103, 130, 181, 182, 183, 204.

Landor, Walter Savage, 213, 214.

Latin race, 30, 191, 193.

Legouvé, 20.

Lemaître, Jules, 232.

Leopardi, 250.

Lintilhac, Eugène, 72.

Littré, 94.

Longfellow, 6.

Maillane, 10, 12.

Marot, 81.

Mary, Queen of Scots, 213, 217.

Mas, 11.

Mathieu, Anselme, 13, 16, 21, 26.

Meissoun, 14.

Meyer, Paul, 33.

Mila y Fontanals, 34.

Mirabeau, 131, 243.

Mirèio, 12, 17, 28, 79, 99.

Mistral's marriage, 19.

Mistral's Memoirs, 21.

Mont-Ventoux, 148.

Museum of Arles, 21.

Musset, 181.

Napoleon, 164.

Nerto, 20, 151.

Noulet, 43.

Paris, Gaston, 34, 69,115.

Petrarch, 18, 19, 33, 34, 36, 73, 148, 220.

Poem of the Rhone, 21, 76, 89, 159.

Political separatism, 15.

Prègo-Diéu 84, 204, 205 _seq._, 239.

Provençal language, 43, 191 _seq._

Psalm of Penitence, 84, 182, 200 _seq._, 239, 253.

Queens of the Félibrige, 36.

Rèino Jano, 21, 89, 212.

Rock of Sisyphus, 193, 208.

Ronsard, 211.

Roumanille, 7, 9, 14, 15, 17, 21, 26, 30, 36, 70.

Saboly, 6.

Sainte-Beuve, 6.

Saint-Rémy, 7, 10.

Simon de Montfort, 37.

Songs, 189.

Sonnets of Mistral, 86.

Tartarin, 69, 230, 240.

Tavan, Alphonse, 15,

Translation, 87, 89, 178, 247.

Tresor dón Felibrige, 20, 92.

Troubadours, 40, 44, 87, 112, 132, 147, 225, 251.

Versification, 75.

Villemain, 29.

Virgil, 13.

Voltaire, 221.

End of Project Gutenberg's Frédéric Mistral, by Charles Alfred Downer