MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
BOOKS BY
CONSTANCE E. MAUD
AN ENGLISH GIRL IN PARIS
Tenth Thousand, 6s.
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[Illustration: Portrait, 1907]
MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY
CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD
Ich singe wie der Vogel singt
Der in den Zweigen wohnet
Das Lied, das aus der Kehle dringt
Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.
GOETHE.
LYRICS FROM THE PROVENÇAL BY
ALMA STRETTELL
(MRS. LAWRENCE HARRISON)
_ILLUSTRATED_
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1907
[_All rights reserved_]
TO MY FRIEND
THÉRÈSE ROUMANILLE
(MADAME BOISSIÈRE)
I DEDICATE THIS ENGLISH RENDERING OF MISTRAL’S MEMOIRS
AND TALES, WHICH WITHOUT HER KINDLY ASSISTANCE
I SHOULD NOT HAVE UNDERTAKEN, FOR TO HER
I OWE ALL I KNOW OF THE LITERARY AND
PATRIOTIC WORK OF THE FÉLIBRES
AND OF THE REAL LIFE OF
PROVENCE
PREFACE
It was one lovely day in early spring two years ago that, on the
occasion of a visit to the great poet of Provence, I first heard of
these Memories of his youth.
Mistral had been for many years collecting and editing material for this
volume, and was at the moment just completing a French translation from
the Provençal original, which he laughingly assured us he was glad we
had interrupted, since he found it _un travail brute_.
The enthusiastic reception accorded to this French edition, not only in
Paris but throughout the reading world of France, encourages me to think
that perhaps in England, also, considering the increased interest caused
by the _entente cordiale_ in all things concerning France, an English
translation of this unique description of Provençal country life sixty
years ago may be welcome; and in America too, where the name and
life-work of Mistral have always been better known than in England.
The fact that Mistral and his great collaborators in the Félibre
movement, Roumanille, Aubanel, Félix Gras, Anselme Mathieu and others,
wrote entirely in the language of their beloved Provence, no doubt
accounts for their works being so little known outside their own
country, though latterly the name of Mistral has been brought
prominently forward by his election as a recipient last year of the
Nobel Prize for patriotic literature, and also by his refusal to accept
a Chair among the Olympians of the French Academy. In spite of his
rejection of the latter honour, which was a matter of principle, he
could scarcely fail to have been gratified by the compliment paid in
offering to him what is never offered without being first solicited, the
would-be member being obliged to present himself for election and also
to endeavour personally to win the support of each of the sacred Forty.
Of all Mistral’s works his first epic poem, _Mireille_, is the best
known outside France, chiefly no doubt because the invincible charm and
beauty of this work make themselves felt even through the imperfect
medium of a prose translation, and partly perhaps because Gounod gave it
a certain vogue by adapting it as the libretto for his opera of
_Mireille_.
President Roosevelt has shown his appreciation not only of _Mireille_
but of the life-work of the author in the following letter, a French
translation of which is to be seen framed in Mistral’s Provençal Museum
at Arles.
WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON,
_December 15, 1904_.
MY DEAR M. MISTRAL,--Mrs. Roosevelt and I were equally pleased with
the book and the medal, and none the less because for nearly twenty
years we have possessed a copy of _Mireille_. That copy we shall
keep for old association’s sake; though this new copy with the
personal inscription by you must hereafter occupy the place of
honour.
All success to you and your associates! You are teaching the lesson
that none need more to learn than we of the West, we of the eager,
restless, wealth-seeking nation; the lesson that after a certain
not very high level of material well-being has been reached, then
the things that really count in life are the things of the spirit.
Factories and railways are good up to a certain point; but courage
and endurance, love of wife and child, love of home and country,
love of lover for sweetheart, love of beauty in man’s work and in
nature, love and emulation of daring and of lofty endeavour, the
homely workaday virtues and the heroic virtues--these are better
still, and if they are lacking no piled-up riches, no roaring,
clanging industrialism, no feverish and many-sided activity shall
avail either the individual or the nation. I do not undervalue
these things of a nation’s body; I only desire that they shall not
make us forget that beside the nation’s body there is also the
nation’s soul.
Again thanking you, on behalf of both of us,
Believe me
Very faithfully yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
To M. Frédéric Mistral.
The Nobel Prize has been devoted to the same patriotic cause as that to
which the poet has invariably consecrated everything he possesses. In
this instance the gift from Sweden has gone towards the purchase of an
ancient palace in Arles, which in future will be the Félibréan Museum,
the present hired building being far too small for the purpose. The
object of the museum is to be for all times a record and storehouse of
Provençal history, containing the weapons, costumes, agricultural
implements, furniture, documents, &c., dating from the most ancient
times up to the present day.
The Memoirs, which Monsieur Mistral defines as “Mes Origines,” end with
the publication of his _Mireille_ in the year 1859 at the age of
twenty-eight. He adds as a supplement a chapter written some three years
later, a souvenir of Alphonse Daudet (also among the prophets), which
gives a picture of the way these youthful poet-patriots practised the
Gai-Savoir in the spring-time and heyday of their lives.
I have added also a short summary translated from the writings of
Monsieur Paul Mariéton, which brings the history of Félibrige and its
Capoulié up to the present date.
CONSTANCE ELISABETH MAUD.
CHELSEA, _June 1907_.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE 1
II. MY FATHER 24
III. THE MAGI KINGS 32
IV. NATURE’S SCHOOL 45
V. AT ST. MICHEL DE FRIGOLET 61
VI. AT MONSIEUR MILLET’S SCHOOL 80
VII. THREE EARLY FÉLIBRES 104
VIII. HOW I TOOK MY DEGREE 120
IX. DAME RIQUELLE AND THE REPUBLIC OF 1848 131
X. MADEMOISELLE LOUISE 147
XI. THE RETURN TO THE FARM 165
XII. FONT-SÉGUGNE 185
XIII. “THE PROVENÇAL ALMANAC” 198
XIV. JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES 235
XV. JEAN ROUSSIÈRE 250
XVI. “MIREILLE” 270
XVII. THE REVELS OF TRINQUETAILLE 286
APPENDIX 307
MISTRAL’S POEMS IN THE PROVENÇAL 324
ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face
page_
Frédéric Mistral _Frontispiece_
Mas du Juge--Birthplace of Frédéric Mistral 18
Mistral in 1864 60
Arlesiennes at Maillane 84
Joseph Roumanille 106
Anselm Mathieu 158
Théodore Aubanel 158
Mas des Pommiers--Home of Joseph Roumanille 188
Madame Frédéric Mistral, First Queen of the Félibres 196
Félix Gras, Poet and Félibre 202
Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu 226
Thérèse Roumanille (Madame Boissière), Second Queen of
the Félibres 266
Paul Mariéton, Chancelier des Félibres 307
Madame Gasquet (_née_ Mlle. Girard), Third Queen of the
Félibres 318
Madame Bischoffsheim (_née_ Mlle. de Chevigney), Fourth and
present Queen of the Félibres 326
MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD AT MAILLANE
As far back as I can remember I see before me, towards the south, a
barrier of mountains, whose slopes, rocks and gorges stand out in the
distance with more or less clearness according to the morning or evening
light. It is the chain of the Alpilles, engirdled with olive-trees like
a wall of classic ruins, a veritable belvedere of bygone glory and
legend.
It was at the foot of this rampart that Caius Marius, Saviour of Rome,
and to this day a popular hero throughout the land, awaited the
barbarian hordes behind the walls of his camp. The record of his
triumphs and trophies engraved on the Arch and Mausoleum of Saint-Rémy
has been gilded by the sun of Provence for two thousand years past.
On the slopes of these hills are to be seen the remains of the great
Roman aqueduct, which once carried the waters of Vaucluse to the Arena
of Arles; an aqueduct still called by the country people Ouide di
Sarrasin (stonework of the Saracens), for it was by this waterway the
Spanish Moors marched to Arles. On the jagged rocks of these Alpilles
the Princes of Baux built their stronghold, and in these same aromatic
valleys, at Baux, Romanin, and Roque-Martine, the beautiful châtelaines
in the days of the troubadours held their Courts of Love.
It is at Mont-Majour, on the plains of the Camargue, that the old Kings
of Arles sleep beneath the flag-stones of the cloisters, and in the
grotto of the Vallon d’Enfer of Cordes that our fairies still wander,
while among these ruins of old Roman and feudal days the Golden Goat
lies buried.
My native village, Maillane, facing the Alpilles, holds the middle of
the plain, a wide fertile plain, still called in Provençal, “Le Caieou,”
no doubt in memory of the Consul Caius Marius.
An old worthy of this district, “a famous wrestler known as the little
Maillanais,” once assured me that in all his travels throughout the
length and breadth of Languedoc and Provence never had he seen a plain
so smooth as this one of ours. For if one ploughed a furrow straight as
a die for forty miles from the Durance river down to the sea, the water
would flow without hindrance owing to the steady gradient. And, in spite
of our neighbours treating us as frog-eaters, we Maillanais always agree
there is not a prettier country under the sun than ours.
The old homestead where I was born, looking towards the hills and
adjoining the Clos-Créma, was called “the Judge’s Farm.” We worked the
land with four yoke of oxen, and kept a head-carter, several ploughmen,
a shepherd, a dairy-woman whom we called “the Aunt,” besides hired men
and women engaged by the month according to the work of the season,
whether for the silk-worms, the hay, the weeding, the harvest and
vintage, the season of sowing, or that of olive gathering.
My parents were yeomen, and belonged to those families who live on their
own land and work it from one generation to another. The yeomen of the
country of Arles form a class apart, a sort of peasant aristocracy,
which, like every other, has its pride of caste. For whilst the peasant
of the village cultivates with spade and hoe his little plot of ground,
the yeoman farmer, agriculturist on a large scale of the Camargue and
the Crau, also puts his hand to the plough as he sings his morning
song.
If we Mistrals wish, like so many others, to boast of our descent,
without presumption we may claim as ancestors the Mistrals of Dauphiny,
who became by alliance Seigneurs of Montdragon and also of Romanin. The
celebrated monument shown at Valence is the tomb of these Mistrals. And
at Saint-Rémy, the home of my family and birthplace of my father, the
Hôtel of the Mistrals of Romanin may still be seen, known by the name of
the Palace of Queen Joan.
The crest of the Mistrals is three clover leaves with the somewhat
audacious device, “All or Nothing.” For those who, like ourselves, read
a horoscope in the fatality of patronymics and the mystery of chance
encounters, it is a curious coincidence to find in the olden days the
Love Court of Romanin united to the Manor of the Mistrals, and the name
of Mistral designating the great wind of the land of Provence, and
lastly, these three trefoils significantly pointing to the destiny of
our family. The trefoil, so I was informed by the Sâr Peladan, when it
has four leaves becomes a talisman, but with three expresses
symbolically the idea of the indigenous plant, development and growth by
slow degrees in the same spot. The number three signifies also the
household, father, mother, and son in the mystic sense. Three trefoils,
therefore, stand for three successive harmonious generations, or nine,
which number in heraldry represents wisdom. The device “All or Nothing”
is well suited to those sedentary flowers which will not bear
transplanting and are emblematic of the enured landholder.
* * * * *
But to leave these trifles. My father, who lost his first wife, married
again at the age of fifty-five, and I was the offspring of this second
marriage. It was in the following manner my parents met each other:
One summer’s day on the Feast of St. John, Master François Mistral stood
in the midst of his cornfields watching the harvesters as they mowed
down the crop with their sickles. A troop of women followed the
labourers, gleaning the ears of corn which escaped the rake. Among them
my father noticed one, a handsome girl, who lingered shyly behind as
though afraid to glean like the rest. Going up to her he inquired: “Who
are you, pretty one? What is your name?”
“I am the daughter of Étienne Poulinet,” the young girl replied, “the
Mayor of Maillane. My name is Delaïde.”
“Does the daughter of Master Poulinet, Mayor of Maillane, come, then, to
glean?” asked my father in surprise.
“Sir, we are a large family,” she answered, “six daughters and two sons;
and our father, though he is fairly well off, when we ask him for
pocket-money to buy pretty clothes, tells us we must go and earn it.
That is why I have come here to glean.”
Six months after this meeting, which recalls the old biblical scene
between Ruth and Boaz, the brave yeoman asked the Mayor of Maillane for
his daughter’s hand in marriage; and I was born of their union.
My entry into the world took place on September 8th, 1830. My father,
according to his wont, was that afternoon in his fields when they sent
from the house to announce my arrival. The messenger, so soon as he came
within hearing, called to him: “Master, come--the mistress is just
delivered.”
“How many?” asked my father.
“One, my faith--a fine son.”
“A son, may God make him good and wise.”
And without another word, as though nothing had happened out of the
ordinary, the good man went on with his work, and not until it was
finished did he return slowly to the house. This did not indicate that
he lacked heart, but, brought up in the Roman traditions of the old
Provençeaux, his manners possessed the external ruggedness of his
ancestors.
I was baptized Frédéric, in memory, it appears, of a poor little urchin
who, at the time of the courtship between my parents, was employed in
carrying to and fro their love missives, and died shortly after. My
birthday having fallen on Our Lady’s Day, in September, my mother had
desired to give me the name of Nostradamus, both in gratitude to Our
Lady and in memory of the famous astrologer of Saint-Rémy, author of
“Les Centuries.” But this mystic and mythical name which the maternal
instinct had so happily lit upon was unfortunately refused both by the
mayor and the priest.
Vaguely, as through a distant mist, it seems to me I can remember those
early years when my mother, then in the full glory of her youth and
beauty, nourished me with her milk and bore me in her arms, presenting
with pride among our friends “her king”; and ceremoniously the friends
and relations receiving us with the customary congratulations, offering
me a couple of eggs, a slice of bread, a pinch of salt, and a match,
with these sacramental words:
“Little one, be full as an egg, wholesome as bread, wise as salt, and
straight as a match.”
Perhaps some will think it childish to relate these things. But after
all every one is free to tell their own tale, and I find great pleasure
in returning, in thought, to my first swaddling clothes, my cradle of
mulberry wood, and my wheel-cart, for there I revive the sweetest joys
of my young mother.
When I was six months old I was released from the bands which swathed
me, Nanounet, my grandmother, having strongly counselled that I should
be kept tightly bound for this period. “Children well swathed,” said
she, “are neither bandy-legged nor knock-kneed.”
On St. Joseph’s Day, according to the custom of Provence, I was “given
my feet.” Triumphantly my mother bore me to the church of Maillane, and
there on the saint’s altar, while she held me by the skirts and my
godmother sang to me “Avène, avène, avène” (Come, come, come), I was
made to take my first steps.
Every Sunday we went to Maillane for the Mass. It was at least two miles
distant. All the way my mother rocked me in her arms. Oh, how I loved
to rest on that tender breast, in that soft nest! But a time came, I
must have been five years old, when midway to the village my poor mother
put me down, bidding me walk, for I was too heavy to be carried any
more.
After Mass I used to go with my mother to visit my grandparents in the
fine vaulted kitchen of white stone, where usually congregated the
notabilities of the place, Monsieur Deville, Monsieur Dumas, Monsieur
Raboux, the younger Rivière, and discussed politics as they paced the
stone-flagged floor to and fro between the fireplace and the dresser.
Monsieur Dumas, who had been a judge and resigned in the year 1830, was
specially fond of giving his advice to the young mothers present, such
as these words of wisdom, for example, which he repeated regularly every
Sunday:
“Neither knives, keys, or books should be given to children--for with a
knife the child may cut himself, a key he may lose, and a book he may
tear.”
Monsieur Dumas did not come alone: with his opulent wife and their
eleven or twelve children they filled the parlour, the fine ancestral
parlour, all hung with Marseilles tapestry on which were represented
little birds and baskets of flowers. There, to show off the fine
education of his progeny, proudly he made them declaim, verse by verse,
a little from one, a little from another, the story of Théramène.
This accomplished, he would turn to my mother:
“And your young one, Delaïde--do you not teach him to recite something?”
“Yes,” replied my mother simply; “he can say the little rhyme of ‘Jean
du Porc.’”
“Come, little one, recite ‘Jean du Porc,’” cried every one to me.
Then with a bow to the company I would timidly falter:
Quau es mort?--Jan dóu Porc.
Quau lou plouro?--Lou rei Mouro.
Quau lou ris?--La perdris.
Quau lou canto?--La calandro.
Quau ié viro à brand?--Lou quiéu de la sartan.
Quau n’en porto dòu?--Lou quiéu dóu peiròu.[1]
It was with these nursery rhymes, songs, and tales that our parents in
those days taught us the good Provençal tongue. But at present, vanity
having got the upper hand in most families, it is with the system of the
worthy Monsieur Dumas that children are taught, and little nincompoops
are turned out who have no more attachment or root in their country than
foundlings, for it’s the fashion of to-day to abjure all that belongs to
tradition.
It is now time that I said a little of my maternal grandfather, the
worthy goodman Étienne. He was, like my father, yeoman farmer, of an old
family and a good stock, but with this difference, that whereas the
Mistrals were workers, economists and amassers of wealth, who in all the
country had not their like, the Poulinets were careless and
happy-go-lucky, disliked hard work, let the water run and spent their
harvests. My grandsire Étienne was, in short, a veritable Roger
Bontemps.[2]
In spite of having eight children, six of whom were girls, directly
there was a fête anywhere, he was off with his boon companions for a
three days’ spree. His outing lasted as long as his crowns; then,
adaptive as a glove, his pockets empty, he returned to the house.
Grandmother Nanon, a godly woman, would greet him with reproaches:
“Art thou not ashamed, profligate, to devour the dowries of thy
daughters?”
“Hé, goodie! What need to worry! Our little girls are pretty, they will
marry without dowries. And I fear me, as thou sayest, my good Nanon, we
shall have nothing for the last.”
Thus teasing and cajolling the good woman, he made the usurers give him
mortgages on her dowry, lending him money at the rate of fifty or a
hundred per cent., and when his gambling friends came round to visit him
at sundown the incorrigible scapegraces would make a carouse in the
chimney corner, singing all in unison:
“We are three jolly fellows who haven’t a sou.”
There were times when my poor grandmother well-nigh despaired at seeing,
one by one, the best portions of her inheritance disappear, but he would
laugh at her fears:
“Why, goosey, cry about a few acres of land, they are common as
blackberries,” or:
“That land, why, my dear, its returns did not pay the taxes.”
And again: “That waste there? Why it was dry as heather from our
neighbours’ trees.”
He had always a retort equally prompt and light-hearted. Even of the
usurers he would say:
“My faith, but it is a happy thing there are such people. Without them,
how should we spendthrifts and gamblers find the needful cash at a time
when money is merchandise?”
In those days Beaucaire with its famous fair was the great point of
attraction on the Rhône. People of all nations, even Turks and negroes,
journeyed there both by land and water. Everything made by the hand of
man, whether to feed, to clothe, to house, to amuse or to ensnare, from
the grindstones of the mill, bales of cloth or canvas, rings and
ornaments made of coloured glass, all were to be found in profusion at
Beaucaire, piled up in the great vaulted storehouses, the market-halls,
the merchant vessels in the harbour or the booths in the meadows. It was
a universal exhibition held yearly in the month of July of all the
industries of the south.
Needless to say, my grandsire took good care never to miss this occasion
of going to Beaucaire for four or five days’ dissipation. Under the
pretext of purchasing articles for the household--such as pepper,
cloves, ginger--he went off to the fair, a handkerchief in every pocket
and others new and uncut wound like a belt round his waist, for he
consumed much snuff. There he strolled about from morn till eve among
the jugglers, the mountebanks, the clowns, and, above all, the gypsies,
watching these last with interest as they disputed and squabbled over
the purchase of some skinny donkey.
Punch and Judy possessed perennial joys for him. Open-mouthed he stood
among the crowd, laughing like a boy at the old jokes, and experiencing
an unholy joy as the blows were showered on the puppets representing law
and order.
This was always the chance for the watchful pickpocket to quietly
abstract one by one his handkerchiefs, a thing foreseen by my grandsire,
who, on discovering the loss, invariably, without more ado, unwound his
belt and used the new ones, with the result that on returning home he
presented himself to his family with a nose dyed blue from the unwashed
cotton.
“So I see,” cries my grandmother, “they have stolen your handkerchiefs
again.”
“Who told you that?” asks her good man in surprise.
“Your blue nose,” answers she.
“Well, that Punch and Judy show was worth it,” maintains the
incorrigible grandsire.
When his daughters, of whom, as I have said, my mother was one, were of
an age to marry, being neither awkward nor disagreeable, in spite of
their lack of dowry, suitors appeared on the scene. But when the fathers
of these youths inquired of my grandsire how much he was prepared to
give to his daughter, Master Étienne fired up in wrath:
“How much do I give my daughter? Idiot! I give your lad a fine young
filly, well trained and handled, and you ask me to add lands and money!
Who wants my daughters must take them as they are or leave them. God be
thanked, in the breadpan of Master Étienne there is always a loaf.”
It was a fact that each one of the six daughters of my grandfather were
married for the sake of their fine eyes only, and made good marriages
too.
“A pretty girl,” says the proverb, “carries her dowry in her face.”
But I must not leave this budding time of my childhood without plucking
one more of memory’s blooms.
Behind the Judge’s Farm where I was born there was a moat, the waters of
which supplied our old draw-well. The water, though not deep, was clear
and rippling, and on a summer’s day the place was to me one of
irresistible attraction.
The draw-well moat! It was the book in which, while amusing myself, I
learnt my first lessons in natural history. There were fish, both
stickleback and young carp, which, as they passed down the stream in
shoals, I endeavoured to catch with a small canvas bag that had once
served for nails, suspended on a long reed. There were little
dragon-flies, green, blue, and black, who, as they alighted on the reeds
gently, oh so gently, I seized with my small fingers--that is when they
did not escape me, lightly and silently, with a shimmer of their gauzy
wings; there also was to be found a kind of brown insect with a white
belly which leaped in the water and moved his tiny paws like a cobbler
at work. Little frogs too, with dark gold-spotted backs showing among
the tufts of moss, and who, on seeing me, nimbly plunged in the stream;
and the triton, a sort of aquatic salamander, who wriggled round in a
circle; and great horned beetles, those scavengers of the pools, called
by us the “eel-killers.”
Add to all these a mass of aquatic plants, such as the cats-tail, that
long cottony blossom of the typha-plant; and the water-lily, its wide
round leaves and white cup magnificently outspread on the water’s smooth
surface; the gladiole with its clusters of pink flowers and the pale
narcissus mirrored in the stream; the duckweed with its minute leaves;
the ox-tongue, which flowers like a lustre; and the forget-me-not,
myosotis, named in Provence “eyes of the Child Jesus.”
But of all this wonder-world, what held my fancy most was the
water-iris, a large plant growing at the water’s edge in big clumps,
with long sword-shaped leaves and beautiful yellow blooms raising high
their heads like golden halberds. The golden lilies, which on an azure
field form the arms of France and of Provence, were undoubtedly
suggested by these same water-iris, for the lily and the iris are really
of the same family, and the azure of the coat-of-arms faithfully
represents the water by the edge of which the iris grows.
It was a summer’s day, about the harvest time. All the people of the
farm-house were out at work, helping to bind up the sheaves. Some
twenty men, bare-armed, marched by twos and fours, round the horses and
mules who were treading hard. Some took off the ears of corn or tossed
the straw with their long wooden forks, while others, bare-foot, danced
gaily in the sunshine on the fallen grain. High in the air, upheld by
the three supports of a rustic crane, the winnowing cradle was
suspended. A group of women and girls with baskets threw the corn and
husks into the net of the sieve, and the master, my father, vigorous and
erect, swung the sieve towards the wind, turning the bad grains on to
the top. When the wind abated or at intervals ceased, my father, with
the motionless sieve in his hands, facing the wind and gazing out into
the blue, would say in all seriousness, as though addressing a friendly
god: “Come, blow, blow, dear wind.”
And I have seen the “mistral,” on my word, in obedience to the wish of
the patriarch, again and again draw breath, thus carrying off the refuse
while the blessed fine wheat fell in a white shower on the conical heap
visibly rising in the midst of the winnowers.
At sunset, after the grain had been heaped up with shovels, and the men,
all powdered with dust, had gone off to wash at the well and draw water
for the beasts, my father with great strides
[Illustration: MAS DU JUGE--BIRTHPLACE OF FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL.]
would measure the heap of corn, tracing upon it a cross with the handle
of the spade and uttering the words: “God give thee increase.”
I must have been scarcely four years old and still wearing petticoats,
when one lovely afternoon during this threshing season, after rolling as
children love to do in the new straw, I directed my steps towards the
draw-well moat.
For some days past the fair water-iris had commenced to open, and my
hands tingled to pluck some of the lovely golden buds.
Arrived at the stream, gently I slipped down to the edge of the water
and thrust out my hand to grab the flower, but it was too far off; I
stretched, and behold me in an instant up to the neck in water.
I cried out. My mother hurried to the rescue, hauled me out, bestowing a
slap or two, and drove me like a dripping duck before her to the house.
“Let me catch you again, little good-for-nothing, at that moat!”
“I wanted to pick the water-iris,” I pleaded.
“Oh yes, go there again to pick iris! Don’t you know, then, little
rascal, there is a snake hidden in the grass, a big snake who swallows
whole, both birds and children.”
She undressed me, taking off my small shoes, socks, and shirt, and
while my clothes dried put me on my Sunday sabots and suit, with the
warning:
“Take care now to keep yourself clean.”
Behold me again out of doors; on the new straw I executed a happy caper,
then catching sight of a white butterfly hovering over the stubble, off
I went, my blonde curls flying in the wind and--all at once there I was
again at the moat!
Oh, my beautiful yellow flowers! They were still there, proudly rising
out of the water, showing themselves off in a manner it was impossible
to withstand. Very cautiously I descend the bank planting my feet
squarely; I thrust out my hand, I lean forward, stretching as far as I
can ... and splash ... I am in the water again.
Woe is me! While about me the bubbles gurgled and among the rushes I
thought I spied the great snake, a loud voice cried out:
“Mistress, run quick, that child is in the water again.”
My mother came running. She seized me and dragged me all black from the
muddy bank, and the first thing I received was a resounding smack.
“You will go back to those flowers? You will try to drown yourself? A
new suit ruined, little rascal--little monster! nearly killing me with
fright!”
Bedraggled and crying, I returned to the farm-house, head hanging. Again
I was undressed, and this time arrayed in my festal suit. Oh, that fine
suit! I can still see it with the bands of black velvet, and gold dots
on a blue ground.
Surveying myself in my bravery, I asked my mother: “But what am I to do
now?”
“Go take care of the chickens,” she said; “don’t let them stray--and you
stay in the shade.”
Full of zeal I ran off to the chickens, who were pecking about for ears
of corn in the stubble. While at my post, curiously enough I perceive
all at once a crested pullet giving chase to--what do you think? Why, a
grasshopper, the kind with red and blue wings. Both, with me after them,
for I wished to examine those wings, were soon dancing over the fields
and, as luck would have it, we found ourselves before long at the
draw-well moat.
And there were those golden flowers again mirrored in the water and
exciting my desire; but a desire so passionate, delirious, excessive, as
to make me entirely forget my two previous disasters.
“This time,” I said to myself, “I will certainly succeed.”
So descending the bank I twisted around my hand a reed that grew there,
and leaning over the water very prudently, tried once again to reach the
iris blooms with the other hand. But misery! the reed broke and played
me false--into the middle of the stream I plunged head foremost.
I righted myself as best I could and shrieked like a lost one. Every one
came running.
“There’s the little imp, in the water again! This time, you incorrigible
youngster, your mother will give you the whipping you deserve.”
But she did not. Down the pathway I saw her coming, the poor mother, and
tears were in her eyes.
“O Lord,” she cried, “but I won’t whip him; he might have a fit--this
boy is not like others. By all the saints he does nothing but run after
flowers; he loses all his toys scrambling in the cornfields after
nosegays. Now, as a climax, he has thrown himself three times within an
hour into this moat! I can only clean him up, and thank heaven he is not
drowned.”
We mingled our tears together as we went home, then once indoors, saint
that she was, my mother again unclothed and dried me, and to ward off
all evil consequences administered a dose of vermifuge before putting me
to bed, where worn out with emotion I soon fell asleep.
Can any one guess of what I dreamt? Why, of my iris flowers!... In a
lovely stream of water which wound all round the farm-house, a limpid,
transparent, azure stream like the waters of the fountain at Vaucluse, I
beheld the most beautiful clumps of iris covered with a perfect wonder
of golden blossoms! Little dragon-flies with blue silk wings came and
settled on the flowers, while I swam about naked in the laughing rivulet
and plucked by handfuls and armfuls those enchanting yellow blooms. And
the more I picked the more sprang up.
All at once I heard a voice calling to me, “Frédéric!” I awoke, and to
my joy I saw--a great bunch of golden iris all shining by my side.
The Master himself, my worshipful sire, had actually gone to pick those
flowers I so longed for; and the Mistress, my dear sweet mother, had
placed them on my bed.