Jasmin was now a bright, vivid, and handsome fellow, a favourite with
men, women, and children. Of course, an attractive young man, with a
pleasant, comfortable home, could not long remain single. At length love
came to beautify his existence. "It was for her sake," he says, "that I
first tried to make verses in the sweet patois which she spoke so well;
verses in which I asked her, in rather lofty phrases, to be my guardian
angel for life."
Mariette{1} was a pretty dark-eyed girl. She was an old companion of
Jasmin's, and as they began to know each other better, the acquaintance
gradually grew into affection, and finally into mutual love. She was of
his own class of life, poor and hardworking. After the day's work was
over, they had many a pleasant walk together on the summer evenings,
along the banks of the Garonne, or up the ascending road toward the
Hermitage and the rocky heights above the town. There they pledged their
vows; like a poet, he promised to love her for ever. She believed him,
and loved him in return. The rest may be left to the imagination.
Jasmin still went on dreaming and rhyming! Mariette was a lovely subject
for his rhymes. He read his verses to her; and she could not but be
pleased with his devotion, even though recited in verse. He scribbled
his rhymes upon his curl-papers; and when he had read them to his
sweetheart, he used them to curl the hair of his fair customers. When
too much soiled by being written on both sides, he tore them up; for as
yet, he had not the slightest idea of publishing his verses.
When the minds of the young pair were finally made up, their further
courtship did not last very long. They were willing to be united.
"Happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing."
The wedding-day at length arrived! Jasmin does not describe his bride's
dress. But he describes his own. "I might give you," he says in his
Souvenirs, "a picture of our happy nuptial day. I might tell you at
length of my newly dyed hat, my dress coat with blue facings, and my
home-spun linen shirt with calico front. But I forbear all details. My
godfather and godmother were at the wedding. You will see that the purse
did not always respond to the wishes of the heart."
It is true that Jasmin's wedding-garment was not very sumptuous, nor was
his bride's; but they did the best that they could, and looked forward
with hope. Jasmin took his wife home to the pleasant house on the
Gravier; and joy and happiness sat down with them at their own fireside.
There was no Charivari, because their marriage was suitable. Both had
been poor, and the wife was ready and willing to share the lot of
her young husband, whether in joy or sorrow. Their home was small and
cosy--very different from the rat-haunted house of his lame mother and
humpbacked father.
Customers came, but not very quickly. The barber's shop was somewhat
removed from the more populous parts of the town. But when the customers
did come, Jasmin treated them playfully and humorously. He was as lively
as any Figaro; and he became such a favourite, that when his customers
were shaved or had their hair dressed, they invariably returned, as well
as recommended others to patronize the new coiffeur.
His little shop, which was at first nearly empty, soon became fuller
and fuller of customers. People took pleasure in coming to the
hair-dresser's shop, and hearing him recite his verses. He sang, he
declaimed, while plying his razor or his scissors. But the chins and
tresses of his sitters were in no danger from his skipping about, for he
deftly used his hands as well as his head. His razor glistened lightly
over the stubbly beards, and his scissors clipped neatly over the locks
of his customers.
Except when so engaged, he went on rhyming. In a little town, gossip
flies about quickly, and even gets into the local papers.
One day Jasmin read in one of the Agen journals, "Pegasus is a beast
that often carries poets to the hospital." Were the words intended for
him? He roared with laughter. Some gossip had bewitched the editor.
Perhaps he was no poet. His rhymes would certainly never carry him to
the hospital. Jasmin's business was becoming a little more lucrative..
It is true his house was not yet fully furnished, but day by day he was
adding to the plenishing. At all events his humble home protected him
and his wife from wind and weather.
On one occasion M. Gontaud, an amiable young poet, in a chaffing way,
addressed Jasmin as "Apollo!" in former times regarded as the god of
poetry and music. The epistle appeared in a local journal. Jasmin read
it aloud to his family. Gontaud alleged in his poem that Apollo had met
Jasmin's mother on the banks of the Garonne, and fell in love with her;
and that Jasmin, because of the merits of his poetry, was their son.
Up flamed the old pair! "What, Catherine?" cried the old man, "is
it true that you have been a coquette? How! have I been only the
foster-father of thy little poet?" "No! No!" replied the enraged mother;
"he is all thine own! Console thyself, poor John; thou alone hast been
my mate. And who is this 'Pollo, the humbug who has deceived thee so?
Yes, I am lame, but when I was washing my linen, if any coxcomb had
approached me, I would have hit him on the mouth with a stroke of my
mallet!" "Mother," exclaimed the daughter, "'Pollo is only a fool, not
worth talking about; where does he live, Jacques?" Jasmin relished the
chaff, and explained that he only lived in the old mythology, and had
no part in human affairs. And thus was Apollo, the ancient god of poetry
and music, sent about his business.
Years passed on, the married pair settled down quietly, and their life
of happiness went on pleasantly. The honeymoon had long since passed.
Jasmin had married at twenty, and Mariette was a year younger.
When a couple live together for a time, they begin to detect some little
differences of opinion. It is well if they do not allow those little
differences to end in a quarrel. This is always a sad beginning of a
married life.
There was one thing about her husband that Mariette did not like. That
was his verse-making. It was all very well in courtship, but was it
worth while in business? She saw him scribbling upon curl-papers instead
of attending to his periwigs. She sometimes interrupted him while he was
writing; and on one occasion, while Jasmin was absent on business, she
went so far as to burn his pens and throw his ink into the fire!
Jasmin was a good-natured man, but he did not like this treatment. It
was not likely to end in a quiet domestic life. He expostulated, but it
was of little use. He would not give up his hobby. He went on rhyming,
and in order to write down his verses he bought new pens and a new
bottle of ink. Perhaps he felt the germs of poetic thought moving within
him. His wife resented his conduct. Why could he not attend to the
shaving and hair-dressing, which brought in money, instead of wasting
his time in scribbling verses on his curl-papers?
M. Charles Nodier, member of the French Academy, paid a visit to Agen
in 1832. Jasmin was then thirty-four years old. He had been married
fourteen years, but his name was quite unknown, save to the people
of Agen. It was well known in the town that he had a talent for
versification, for he was accustomed to recite and chaunt his verses to
his customers.
One quiet morning M. Nodier was taking a leisurely walk along the
promenade of the Gravier, when he was attracted by a loud altercation
going on between a man and a woman in the barber's shop. The woman was
declaiming with the fury of a Xantippe, while the man was answering her
with Homeric laughter. Nodier entered the shop, and found himself in the
presence of Jasmin and his wife. He politely bowed to the pair, and said
that he had taken the liberty of entering to see whether he could not
establish some domestic concord between them.
"Is that all you came for?" asked the wife, at the same time somewhat
calmed by the entrance of a stranger. Jasmin interposed--
"Yes, my dear--certainly; but---" "Your wife is right, sir," said
Nodier, thinking that the quarrel was about some debts he had incurred.
"Truly, sir," rejoined Jasmin; "if you were a lover of poetry, you would
not find it so easy to renounce it."
"Poetry?" said Nodier; "I know a little about that myself."
"What!" replied Jasmin, "so much the better. You will be able to help me
out of my difficulties."
"You must not expect any help from me, for I presume you are oppressed
with debts."
"Ha, ha!" cried Jasmin, "it isn't debts, it's verses, Sir."
"Yes, indeed," said the wife, "it's verses, always verses! Isn't it
horrible?"
"Will you let me see what you have written?" asked Nodier, turning to
Jasmin.
"By all means, sir. Here is a specimen." The verses began:
"Femme ou demon, ange ou sylphide,
Oh! par pitie, fuis, laisse-moi!
Doux miel d'amour n'est que poison perfide,
Mon coeur a trop souffert, il dort, eloigne-toi.
"Je te l'ai dit, mon coeur sommeille;
Laisse-le, de ses maux a peine il est gueri,
Et j'ai peur que ta voix si douce a mon oreille
Par un chant d'amour ne l'eveille,
Lui, que l'amour a taut meurtri!"
This was only about a fourth part of the verses which Jasmin had
composed.{2} Nodier confessed that he was greatly pleased with them.
Turning round to the wife he said, "Madame, poetry knocks at your
door; open it. That which inspires it is usually a noble heart and a
distinguished spirit, incapable of mean actions. Let your husband make
his verses; it may bring you good luck and happiness."
Then, turning to the poet, and holding out his hand, he asked, "What is
your name, my friend?"
"Jacques Jasmin," he timidly replied. "A good name," said Nodier. "At
the same time, while you give fair play to your genius, don't give
up the manufacture of periwigs, for this is an honest trade, while
verse-making might prove only a frivolous distraction."
Nodier then took his leave, but from that time forward Jasmin and he
continued the best of friends. A few years later, when the first volume
of the Papillotos appeared, Nodier published his account of the above
interview in Le Temps. He afterwards announced in the Quotidienne the
outburst of a new poet on the banks of the Garonne--a poet full of
piquant charm, of inspired harmony--a Lamartine, a Victor Hugo, a Gascon
Beranger!
After Nodier's departure, Madame Jasmin took a more favourable view of
the versification of her husband. She no longer chided him. The shop
became more crowded with customers. Ladies came to have their hair
dressed by the poet: it was so original! He delighted them with singing
or chanting his verses. He had a sympathetic, perhaps a mesmeric voice,
which touched the souls of his hearers, and threw them into the sweetest
of dreams.
Besides attending to his shop, he was accustomed to go out in the
afternoons to dress the hair of four or five ladies. This occupied him
for about two hours, and when he found the ladies at home, he returned
with four or five francs in his purse. But often they were not at home,
and he came home francless. Eventually he gave up this part of
his trade. The receipts at the shop were more remunerative. Madame
encouraged this economical eform; she was accustomed to call it Jasmin's
coup d'etat.
The evenings passed pleasantly. Jasmin took his guitar and sang to his
wife and children; or, in the summer evenings they would walk under
the beautiful elms in front of the Gravier, where Jasmin was ready for
business at any moment. Such prudence, such iligence, could not but have
its effect. When Jasmin's first volume of the Papillotos was published,
it was received with enthusiasm.
"The songs, the curl-papers," said Jasmin, "brought in such a rivulet
of silver, that, in my poetic joy, I broke into morsels and burnt in the
fire that dreaded arm-chair in which my ancestors had been carried to
the hospital to die."
Madame Jasmin now became quite enthusiastic. Instead of breaking the
poet's pens and throwing his ink into the fire, she bought the best
pens and the best ink. She even supplied him with a comfortable desk,
on which he might write his verses. "Courage, courage!" she would say.
"Each verse that you write is another tile to the roof and a rafter to
the dwelling; therefore make verses, make verses!"
The rivulet of silver increased so rapidly, that in the course of a
short time Jasmin was enabled to buy the house in which he lived--tiles,
rafters, and all. Instead of Pegasus carrying him to the hospital, it
carried him to the office of the Notary, who enrolled him in the list of
collectors of taxes. He was now a man of substance, a man to be trusted.
The notary was also employed to convey the tenement to the prosperous
Jasmin. He ends the first part of his Souvenirs with these words:
"When Pegasus kicks with a fling of his feet,
He sends me to curl on my hobby horse fleet;
I lose all my time, true, not paper nor notes,
I write all my verse on my papillotes."{3}
Endnotes to chapter IV.
{1} In Gascon Magnounet; her pet name Marie, or in French Mariette.
Madame Jasmin called herself Marie Barrere.
{2} The remaining verses are to be found in the collected edition of
his works--the fourth volume of Las Papillotos, new edition, pp. 247-9,
entitled A une jeune Voyayeuse.
{3} Papillotes, as we have said, are curl-papers. Jasmin's words, in
Gascon, are these:
"Quand Pegazo reguiuno, et que d'un cot de pe
Memboyo friza mas marotos,
Perdi moun ten, es bray, mais noun pas moun pape,
Boti mous beis en papillotos!"