JACQUES BONHOMME, THE LANDED PEASANT-PROPRIETOR OF FRANCE.
Jacques Bonhomme is a small landowner, fond of his country, his cottage,
his fields, his cow, and his _gros sous_. His great aim is to be
independent of the world, and to this end he takes great care of his
pence, and has no need of any French John Bright to tell him that if he
does so, the pounds will take care of themselves; it is a sentiment
inborn in him. If you wish to make him happy, when he brings you a load
of wood or a cask of cider, pay him in silver five-franc pieces--his
coin of predilection. He will take gold without repugnance, but will
look askance at a banknote. If you were to tender him a check, the odds
are ten to one that he would immediately go for a policeman.
He does not seek to imitate the dweller in cities, either in his habits,
speech, or dress. All he has on his back is not worth more than four or
five francs, but his blouse is new when he buys it, and it belongs to
him, as my black coat belongs to me. His food costs him about fourpence
or fivepence a day at the outside, but it is wholesome and abundant. He
keeps early hours and saves his candles, he lives a healthy life and
saves doctors' bills. When he lies down to die, it is in his own bed,
and his parish has not to pay for his funeral.
Every French village has its poor, but pauperism is unknown, for Jacques
Bonhomme is charitable, and he always finds means to send a basin of
soup to a neighbor whom he knows to be in want of one. It is only for
the loafer that he has no pity; when he has called a fellow-creature
_faineant_, he has used the strongest invective in his vocabulary.
In politics, he takes very little interest, if any. All governments are
acceptable to him, except perhaps the one that happens to be in power
when he gets bad weather for the harvest. How else explain the fact
that changes of government have always been made in Paris without his
sanction, or even his opinion being asked for; and that the seven
million five hundred thousand men who vote for the Republic to-day, are
the seven million five hundred thousand who, when they were asked by the
Emperor, in the year of the Plebiscite, whether they would still have
him or not, answered almost to a man: "I will."
Jacques Bonhomme scarcely knew what a Plebiscite was; but he went to see
his parish priest, who said to him:
"Are you married, Jacques?"
"Yes, _monsieur le cure_."
"Well, and what did they make you say on your wedding day?"
"_Ma foi, monsieur le cure_, they made me say, _I will_."
"Well, my good fellow, that is all the Emperor asks you to say; that is
voting."
Whereupon Jacques went and threw his _oui_ in the electoral box.
There is one form of government, however, of which he would dread the
return: the government of the _cures_. He has not forgotten the tithe
and the _corvee_, nor the days when the monks used to come and pay
little visits to his wife and his cupboard, to bless his children, and
relieve him of his superfluous butter and eggs.
He is no great churchgoer; yet, when he meets his parish priest, he
touches his cap, but almost as he would touch it to an equal.
He is beginning to know how to hold a pen, but he rarely uses one except
for the purpose of adding up his little accounts. As to letter-writing,
he sees no fun in a frivolous pastime that would cost him three _sous_.
He has been placed by Nature on a fertile soil that yields him all he
needs, and if you were to talk to him of emigration, he would stare and
ask you what crime he had committed to deserve transportation. There is
no more home-abiding creature upon the face of the earth.
You may tell him you are going round the world. He will let you go. He
is not jealous.
On the wall of the village schoolroom he has seen a map of the world,
but although he is willing to believe that it fairly represents the
earth we live on, he would fain have seen the name of his dear village
on it. He doubts not that the earth is round, since his _cure_ and his
schoolmaster say so; but the only proof he has of it is the sight of the
line of horizon that greets his eyes, when he climbs the hill-top.
I know two or three of these honest French workers, who were induced to
go to Paris in 1878, to see the Universal Exhibition. Such was their
suspicion of the gay capital that, before setting out, they sewed their
golden louis in the lining of their coats, and had their wills made by
the notary.
* * * * *
The French peasant is peaceful, sober, and laborious. He possesses in a
remarkable degree that invaluable quality than which there is no higher
intelligence for the solution of the great problem of existence, which
consists in patiently accepting one's fate, however hard it may be, and
making the best of it. His ideal of life is the independence which is
the fruit of labor, and he is satisfied with very little in the days of
his strength, because the prospect of eating his own bread when his
strength is gone makes him happy. He is thrifty and self-denying, but he
is not deficient in any of the generous sentiments. He befriends his
poorer relatives, he can be hospitable and charitable, and a patriot,
too, when occasion calls, as history has proved. But he is no
fire-eater, no yearner after social regeneration by baptism of blood, no
dreamer of new worlds to conquer, nor the revival of dying feuds in
ghastly wars. The surging passions of the capital, bred and fed by vice
and improvidence, are horrible to him. He wishes the world to be at
peace, so that he may be left alone, and be allowed to raise his flocks
and grow his corn and wine in peace.
It is when he is making a purchase, at the fair or at the market, that
Jacques is to be seen in his element.
Look at him as he takes a preliminary turn or two around the little
rickety stall. He hesitates a long while before making up his mind; he
knows that if he seems to have a fancy for any particular article, he
will probably be asked a good price for it. So it is only cautiously,
and with a look of indifference on his face, that he at length draws
near. Next, taking up the coveted object with the limpest of fingers, he
gives off sundry little grunts of disapprobation. He turns it over and
over, looks at it well on all sides, shakes his head, and invariably
finishes by dropping it back in its place again.
Then he turns, and makes as though he would go away, but after having
taken a few steps, he brings up, comes back, and indicating the object
of his maneuvers with a contemptuous finger, says to the vender:
"What do you want for _that_?"
And you should see the face he makes as he says "_that_."
He has scarcely heard the reply before he exclaims: "You mean that for a
joke, I suppose."
Watch him a little later, as he goes off, carrying his purchase in
triumph, and you will plainly see that he has made a bargain.
If Solomon had known Jacques Bonhomme, we might be inclined to think
that it was he whom the Hebrew king had in his mind's eye, as he wrote:
"It is naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he has gone his
way, then he boasteth."
Jacques' manner is no less remarkable when he has to part with the value
in cash.
He seldom carries his money in his trousers' or waistcoat pocket. He
confides it to the depths of a long purse, from which it is only to be
extracted with difficulty, and this purse is hidden inside his blouse,
and carefully attached to it by a strong leather string.
When the operation of paying has to be performed, Jacques gently lifts
his blouse, and, making a rather wry face, draws forth his purse from
its hiding-place. In the act of untying the leather string, he is as
unhappy-looking a creature as you may well behold. He rarely faces the
enemy on these occasions. He turns his back to you, and pretends to have
great difficulty in getting his money out of his recalcitrant purse.
Perhaps he hopes you will get tired of waiting, and say to him: "Never
mind, Jacques, you can pay me another day."
When at last he has the money in his hand, he turns toward you, holds it
out, draws it back, but eventually makes up his mind to the loss of this
little portion of his patrimony.
Then he begins to wonder whether you have not taken him in; but, as it
is too late to draw back, he resolves that he will be a match for you
next time.