songs of youthful passion, when the instinct of love wakes in the hearts
of the young man and the maid; and they sing, also, as naturally
and simply as birds do in pairing time. There is often a touching
inconsequence in these simple strains, a transcript of nature as it
speaks to the heart, and finds almost inarticulate utterance in emotions
of joy and sorrow, which is like the warbling of a bird, often ending
its trill of gladness with a plaintive note. And the verses entitled The
Song of the Nightingale, with its inconsequent but natural imageries
at the close, which has an effect beyond the reach of art, has this
penetrating and realistic effect:--
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sing, sing, nightingale, it is early you are singing.
Not earlier than you, young man. Hunting are you going?
Good luck to you, little comrade. I am not going a-hunt
ing.
I am on my way to Kerlosquet, where my love is dwelling.
The nightingale then asked him, being a curious gossip,
There are many houses at Kerlosquet, to which one are you
going?
The young man answered her in a tone of humor,
Good luck to you, little comrade, I am not at confession.
In a moment after he saw his mistress coming;
By her color and her looks he saw that she was ailing.
Anxiously he asked her, feeling for her sadness,
Are you sick at heart, or sick in your spirit?
And she answered, with a little smile so gracious,
I am not subject to sickness, no, by the mercy of Jesus.
--The spider does well to spin his web,
To spin and to spread it and to dry it on the meadow.
A breath of wind will come and bear it away.
The hearts of young men are like it.
The most numerous producers of love songs in the Breton folk-poetry are
the _cloer_, or young theological students, to whose title the English
word clerk, as it was understood in the time of Chaucer, is the nearest
equivalent. These young men, mostly the sons of peasants or persons in
humble circumstances, are destined for the priesthood, for which they
have manifested a vocation by their special intellectual brightness or
devotional temperament. They are naturally the pride and hope of
their families, to whom the office of priest is a position of worldly
advancement and religious reverence, and the ballads tell touching tales
of sacrifices by poor parents to enable their son to pursue his studies.
They are sent to the seminaries attached to the abbeys in the various
cathedral towns, from which they return in the vacation to mingle
with the life of the people. Although destined for the priesthood, the
instinct of youthful passion breaks out, as they meet the young
maidens of the neighborhood in the fields or at the village fêtes and
gatherings, and there are struggles of love and longing, which sometimes
end peacefully in the surrender of the affection to the demands of the
priestly vow, sometimes in the tragedy of broken hearts and a double
devotion to religious celibacy, and sometimes, under the influence of
a stronger passion, in the renunciation of the priesthood and marriage
with the object of affection. These young clerks are, naturally, objects
of great attraction to the young maidens by the contrast of their
superior manners and education to the duller and coarser young men of
the peasant class, and this attraction results in many dramas of love,
not to mention the deeper tragedies of blighted passions and ruined
lives. From their superior intellectual activity and education the young
clerks are the most fertile and eloquent of the folk-poets, and by
far the greater number of the love songs in the Sonniou are their
production, and relate to the condition in which their affections
are bound and limited. Their songs are genuine folk-poetry in their
simplicity and strength of expression, except in the few instances where
sophomoric pedantry overloads them with mythologie terms and academic
phrases, and they often express a deep feeling with simple and natural
eloquence. In The Ditty of Love the young girl appeals to the clerk to
abandon the priesthood, since there are enough priests in the country,
and expect the blessing of God in marrying the one who loves him, and
then resigns herself to the consolation they will have in hearing the
bells of each other's convents and their voices raised in psalm:--
THE DITTY OF LOVE.
When from my books I turn to the sight of the world,
I am touched by a prick, which troubles my spirit.
I fancy I hear the sweet voice of my mistress
Speak with a tone that is melting with sadness.
Whenever my mistress raises her voice in song,
The fairies of the mountain reëcho the air.
The fishes in the sea dart about rejoicing,
And the sailors on the deck dance gaily as they hear it.
The rocks upon the mountain split themselves asunder
In hearing her voice and seeing her beauty.
When I cast a glance, which rests upon my mistress,
It seems to me I see the queen of all the maidens.
Her dainty hands are mingled with red and with white,
And her eyes are brilliant as the stars in the sky.
Her two cheeks are roses of a natural color,
And her lips are as sweet as the pure honeycomb.
-- Good morning, my fair maiden, on my knees I fall
To ask your benediction to become a Capuchin.
To ask your benediction to become a Recollet,
In St. Francis convent, in the village of Morlaix.
--Oh, enough of Recollets has St. Francis's convent,
And enough of priests has the village of Morlaix.
There are enough of priests everywhere in the country,
Marry the one you love, and God will also love you.
If you become a Recollet at St. Francis convent,
I will go to the Calvary and there become a nun.
There we will hear together the bells of our two convents,
And there we will be singing the praises of our Lord.
There we will be singing, with our lifted voices,
The _Gloria in Excelsis_ and the _Salve Regina._
The hero of the piece entitled I will be neither Priest nor Monk is made
of more determined stuff, and demands that his books shall be thrown
into the fire, and liberty given him to marry the object of his love, or
else he will die:--
I WILL BE NEITHER PRIEST NOR MONK.
Between the prairie and the grassy hill,
There is a bridge, I know it to my will.
No one can pass at eve along its planks,
Because of scholars rude, who play their pranks.
When at prayers I should be at grand mass,
No pater nor ave from my lips does pass.
Across my shoulder I only fix my glance
On the young girl, who causes my mischance.
I see my sweet beneath the shadowed nave,
As the lily fair, and as the red gold brave.
A cambric cap upon her head sets well,
Which cost, at least, six ecus for an ell.
And underneath a fine coiffure of lace,
That like a lily's margin frames her face.
Her petticoat, so rounded and so gay,
Shines with a double silver cord's display.
A robe she wears as red as any coal,
And, oh, I love her in my inmost soul.
--Put money in your pocket, little fool,
And to Treguier take your way to school.
Go to Treguier, and there study well,
Become a priest and follow the church bell.
--Keep your money in your own purse for me,
For, by my faith, no priest nor monk I 'll be.
My books throw in the fire, and let them burn,
Or give them to my brother in his turn.
No priest or monk I ever shall be made,
My heart demands the love of a fair maid.
A lovely maid of Cornouaille, I ween,
With eyes of blue and locks of amber sheen.
And if I cannot have that golden head,
Prepare the mass, for soon I shall be dead.
In The Secrets of the Clerk there is a more delicate fancy, and the
gracious avowal has all the charm of a natural and touching imagery:--
THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK.
Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,
I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.
I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,
When I think of her I love so deep.
Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,
In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.
When I see you come through the forest grove,
On its leaves I write the secrets of my love.
--But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,
To hold the secrets close which their page receives.
When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,
Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.
'T were safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.
Graven deep they'd rest, and never take their flight.
The amatory folk-songs of Brittany have their peculiar images and
phrases, like those of all other countries, and which are repeated
without variation as almost essential characteristics. The reader of
Scottish ballads knows how invariably the recipient of a letter first
smiles and then has his eyes blinded by tears, and recalls the constant
repetition of familiar images and descriptions. So in the Breton
folk-songs the lover constantly declares that he has worn out three
pairs of sabots in coming to see her without being able to find out her
thought, and that he has watched in the wind and rain through the night
with no consolation but the sound of her soft breathing through the
key-hole of the door; to which the cruel or coquettish damsel replies
that she has no objection to tell him her thought, which is that he
should buy a new pair of shoes, or that he should take himself home as
soon as possible. The piece entitled In the White Cabin at the Foot of
the Mountain is a characteristic specimen of these songs, whose effect
of simplicity can only be retained by an absolutely literal translation:
--
In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain
Is my sweet, my love.
Is my love, is my desire,
And all my happiness.
Before the night I must see her
Or my little heart will break.
My little heart will not break
For my lovely dear I have seen.
Fifty night I have been
At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.
The rain and the wind whipped me,
Until my garments dripped.
Nothing came to console me
Except the sound of breathing from her bed.
Except the sound of breathing from her bed,
Which came through the little hole for the key.
Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,
Her thought I do not know.
The fourth pair I have begun to wear,
Her thought I do not know.
Five pairs, alas, in good count,
Her thought I do not know.
--If it is my thought you wish to know,
It is not I, who will make a mystery of it.
There are three roads on each side of my house,
Choose one among them.
Choose whichever you like among them,
Provided it will take you far from here.
--More is worth love, since it pleases me,
Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.
Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,
Wealth serves for nothing.
Wealth passes like the yellow pears:
Love endures for ever.
More is worth a handful of love
Than an oven full of gold and silver.
Another form of the love song than the melancholy apostrophe to the
mistress, and the simple moralizing which accompanies it, is the gay
chant, which was composed to the dance measures played by the _biniou_
and the _bombarde_ at the village fêtes, and which was sung in accord
with them. On these occasions, which were chiefly the Pardons, or
gatherings to celebrate the days of the Patron Saints, when the
religious exercises are concluded, the young men engage in athletic
competition, wrestling and jumping for prizes under the eyes of their
sweethearts, and the festivities wind up with dancing on the green,
and the scene is as gay as if it had no connection with religion.
Every Breton story teller, and every writer on the life and customs of
Brittany, has delighted to depict these scenes, which are the rendezvous
of youthful lovers and the embodiment of vigorous and healthy gayety,
with all the picturesqueness of country life and color. The element
of these dance songs is their lively and strongly accented melody
to accompany the dancing air and illustrate the movements, as in the
following specimen:--
Sunday I have seen,
Sunday I will see,
Three of my young lovers,
Who 'll come and dance with me.
Dance between the two,
And pass before them gay,
Dance between the three,
And wave them all away.
Press the foot of that;
And wink the eye at this;
Mock the other's pride;
There is no greater bliss.
When you come to call,
Pray let me know the hour;
I will grease my cakes
And put eggs in the flour.
I will oil the door;
The hinges will not creak;
In the closet bed
I 'll lie, and will not speak.
Come not through the yard,
My flowers you will tread,
My onions, and my cress,
My peas and berries red.
Throw straw upon the fire
To show your darling head.
It might be expected that in a country so much under the influence
of the sea, and in which so large a proportion of the inhabitants are
sailors, fishers on the stormy and dangerous coast or in the distant
waters of Newfoundland and Iceland, there would be a large number of
sea songs. The folk-lore of Brittany is particularly rich in stories
and legends of the sea, composed by the fishermen to while away the long
hours of the passage to Newfoundland or the nightwatches in the misty
seas of Iceland; or embodying the mysterious and superstitious terrors
of the fishermen of the coast in the face of storms and foaming reefs;
and the impress of supernatural power in the ocean and the storm is
very strong upon the imaginations of the Breton people. But the sailors
themselves, like the laborers in the fields, do not seem to have the
inspiration and poetical gift to put their thoughts into song. M. Luzel
has been able to collect but a comparatively few of genuine sailor
songs, and these are mostly tavern choruses or rude and commonplace
chants, with but very little of the salt of the seas and the voice of
the breeze in them. The women sometimes chant at the spinning-wheel
songs of warning against the dangers and perils of becoming a sailor's
wife, of which the following is an example:--
DO NOT MARRY A SAILOR.
Maidens young, who wish to wed,
Take advice from an old head.
If you marry, as you say,
Do not take a sailor gay.
If you take a sailor gay,
You will sorrow night and day.
When the farmer's wife's in bed
The sailor's wife the floor must tread.
When the wind arises shrill,
Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill.
Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill,
And in her veins the blood run chill.
Every moment she seeks the door,
--Mercy, how the torrents pour!
If I had store of money red,
I know the husband I would wed.
I'd wed the heir of a good house,
Who can reap the fields he ploughs.
Who can reap the fields he ploughs,
And in his stable has good cows.
Both night and day whom I can see,
And who will sleep by the side of me.
While the poor sailor, day and night,
Lives in peril and affright.
Day and night must work and wake,
And of a plank his cradle make.
The Breton women, who spend hours at the spinning-wheel, as in all other
countries, accompany the monotonous and musical drone with long chants,
that hypnotize the sense of labor, which are often merely improvisations
with as little sense and meaning as the lullabies for infants. But here
is one into which the old spinner puts the thoughts of her willingness
to make sacrifice of her all in order that her son might be educated as
a priest, and her hopes of reward from his filial piety. The soothing
and monotonous melody is necessarily lost in the translation.
THE SONG OF THE OLD SPINNER.
My wheel and my bonnet of straw
And my waist of white linen
Shall be all yours, my young clerk,
That you may make yourself a priest.
And my porringers and my spoons,
He shall have them all at one time.
And my old warp, and my brake,
And my old carder besides.
And when he is a priest
I shall have a broidered robe.
And my shoes will have ribbons,
And my collar will be fluted.
And a cap upon my head,
Like that of a damsel of quality.
One of the most notable and singular features in Breton folk-poetry is
the feeling displayed toward animals. Almost human attributes of wisdom
and affection are bestowed upon them, and, unlike many primitive races,
the Breton peasantry have a great tenderness toward the dumb companions
of their labors. When they kill them it is from necessity, and with a
genuine sensibility for their sufferings, which may have its ancient
root in a tradition of animal worship, such as led the North American
Indian to apologize to the bear, whom he was killing with his arrows.
At any rate it is a very creditable feeling, and adds to the respect and
liking which the Breton character inspires, that there should be this
tenderness for the old horse, who has ploughed the fields and borne
burdens until his strength is spent; for the old goat, who has given
milk for the children; and even for the pig, who has inhabited the pen
by the cabin. In the folk-songs this feeling is represented by various
pieces of verse, giving the last wills and testaments of old animals,
who bequeath, sometimes in a spirit of humor, and sometimes with
affectionate tenderness, portions of their bodies and qualities of
their spirits to their human friends and companions. There is thus
the testament of the goat, the old sow, and the old mare. The latter
displays a touching feeling, and the impression of quaint absurdity
gives way to a more tender emotion and that touch of pathos which is
evoked by all animal affection and animal suffering.
THE WILL OF THE OLD MARE.
Between Pontrieaux and Kerlouet
Is dead an old mare.
She cried, the old mare,
To have he£ shoes pulled off.
She cried loud enough to split her voice,
--Pull the nails from my sabots.
It is eighteen months, without falsehood,
Since I have been in a stable.
If it is not in the great barnyard of Kerlouet,
There I have often lodged.
I bequeath my patience
To him, Oliver le Judic.
Which he has cruelly proved this year,
In that he has lost his wife.
In that this year his wife is dead.
To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing.
I pray to give the hairs of my tail,
To him, Pierre Perrot.
That he may make a light fly-flap
To keep the flies from the horses in summer.
And when the other horses fling and kick,
He will remember the blind mare.
Carry my head to the ferry of Frinaoudour,
To serve as a little boat upon the water.
To pass from one bank to the other
Those who go to hunt at Plourivo.
Those who go to hunt at Plourivo,
The rabbit, the fox and the wild duck.
As has been said, the chief value of folk-song is in its genuineness,
in the accuracy with which it reflects not only the emotions, but the
habits and customs of the people, so that their peculiar life becomes
visible before our eyes. There is an indefinable charm, not only in the
impression of reality, but in the very rudeness and imperfection of the
speech, which gives an effect beyond literary art, when deep emotion or
domestic pathos are seen through it. We seem to get nearer the primitive
heart of mankind than under the effect of the most accomplished literary
skill, and there are awakened the homely and tender feelings which lie
deep within our nature. The genuine fairy tale created by the vivid
and credulous imagination of the uncultivated mind, and the genuine
folk-song, the outburst of simple and natural emotion, take a hold upon
even the most cultivated intellects as the highest literary art fails
to do. The folk-songs of Brittany have this charm as well as their own
peculiar provincial flavor; and the very crudeness and imperfection
of the Sonniou in M. Luzel's collection have more power than all
the elaborate poetry and picturesqueness of M. Yillemarque's Celtic
fabrications.
THE FOLK-SONGS OF POITOU.
|While there is much that is common in the folk-songs of all the
provinces of France, the same stories and the same turns of expression,
showing, if not a common origin, a very wide and thorough
intercommunication,--as, for instance, in the beautiful and pathetic
ballad of Jean Renaud, which is found almost everywhere in slightly
differing variants,--each section has its own local peculiarities
illustrating the temperament and the origin of the people.
It is needless to say that there is a strongly marked note of difference
between the melancholy and finely sensitive songs of the people of
Brittany and the gay and joyous chants and ballads of those of Gascony
and Provence. It would be inevitable from the widely different natures
of the two people, and their origin from distinct and strongly divergent
native stocks. But this distinction goes further, and marked shades of
difference in feeling and sentiment may be found in the character and
temperament of the folk-songs and music of the inhabitants of the same
province, who are of common origin and consanguinity, with the same
native language, and the same habits and customs. This is due in a great
measure to a difference in their surroundings, and the influence of
external nature, whether gay or morose, fertile or barren, upon the
minds and characters of the people. Thus in his splendid collection of
the Chants and Chansons Populaires des Provinces de l'Ouest, M.
Jerome Burgeaud tells us that the plaintive and melancholy airs of the
inhabitants of the deep woods and heavy marshes of La Vendee become gay
and cheerful in Poitou, and sparkle with brilliant mirth in Saintonge
and the Angumois, without changing their notes or form, simply from
the difference in the scenery and its influence upon the spirits of the
people. The ancient Poitou, comprising the upper portion of the region
between the Loire and Garonne, is full of smiling and rich fields, where
the grapes burgeon in deep black clusters, and the yellow wheat-ears
hang heavy and full, and the warm sun and the savory air fill the blood
of the people with lightness and gayety. They are not so ebullient
and joyous, it may be, as the inhabitants of the still warmer and more
smiling regions of Gascony and Languedoc, but the contrast is very
marked between them and their northern neighbors, whose very mirth has
a melancholy tinge, and in whom even drunkenness is a protest against
sorrow rather than the natural extravagance of light-heartedness.
The Poitevin peasant is naturally gay, and his light-heartedness
is manifested in the great number, as well as in the good humor and
cheerfulness, of his folk-songs. Of course the common sorrows of
mankind weigh upon him; he feels the stings of poverty and the pains and
sordidness of labor; the conscription tears him from his home and his
beloved; and he experiences the tragedies of love and death. These
things stir his mind and find a place in his folk-songs, but the
prevailing spirit which governs his expression in music and song is not
of melancholy brooding and sorrow, like that of his Celtic neighbors,
but gayety and joyousness. He finds the smiling world a pleasant place
to live in; his love is the natural and happy ebullition of his warm
temperament; and his experiences of life are cheerful.
The gayety of the Poitevin temperament finds its expression in the
immense number of "rounds" as they are called in English, which give the
vocal measure and accompaniment to the vigorous and joyous dances. The
youths and the maidens, when they meet at the rustic gatherings, or
even in the intervals of labor in the fields, join hands by a natural
instinct, and improvise a dance to the rhythm of their own voices, and
the "rounds" which they sing, although often mere nonsense, or at least
without a consecutive meaning, have a note of gayety and an ebullition
of joyousness, which is inimitable, as thus:--
Vous, qui menez la ronde,
Menez la rondement.
Son cotillon en branle, en branle,
Son cotillon en branle au vent.
Foule, foule, foulons l'herbe,
L'herbe foule reviendra.
Brnnette, allons, gai, gai, gai,
Brunette, allons, gai, gaiment.
--words which interpret the air and accent the steps with an absolute
perfection, which a translation cannot render, although it may give an
idea of the vivacity and _entrain_.
You, who lead the round,
Lead it roundily.
Her petticoat in motion, in motion,
Her petticoat in motion to the wind.
Tread, tread, come tread the grass,
The trodden grass will spring again
Brunette, come, gay, gay, gay,
Brunette, come, gay, gaily.
All these, like the ancient choruses with which the Greek maidens
accompanied their dances of "woven paces and waving hands," with
or without the note of a primitive reed to accent the melody, are
reproduced in the grosser spirit of the laboring peasant, but equally
instinctive with life and gayety, and the natural expression of youthful
existence in the open air and under balmy skies.