JEAN ROUSSIÈRE
“Good morning, Mr. Frédéric. They tell me that you have need of a man on
the farm.”
“Yes--from whence comest thou?”
“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’--near to Avignon.”
“And what canst thou do?”
“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer,
carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on
occasions, pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of
sewers, which is the lowest of all!”
“And they call thee?”
“Jean Roussière, and Rousseyron--and Seyron for short.”
“How much do you ask?--it is for taking care of the beasts.”
“About fifteen louis.”
“I will give thee a hundred crowns.”
“All right for a hundred crowns.”
That is how I engaged Jean Roussière, he who taught me the old
folk-melody of “Magali”--a jovial fellow and made on the lines of a
Hercules. The last year that I lived at the farm, with my blind father,
in the long watches of our solitude Jean Roussière never failed to keep
me interested and amused, good fellow that he was. At his work he was
excellent and always enlivened his beasts by some cheering song.
Naturally artistic in all he did, even if it was heaping a rick of straw
or a pile of manure, or stowing away a cargo, he knew how to give the
harmonious line or, as they say, the graceful sweep. But he had the
defects of his qualities and was rather too fond of taking life in an
easy and leisurely fashion, even passing part of it in an afternoon nap.
A charming talker at all times, it was worth hearing him as he spoke of
the days when he led the big teams of horses on the towing-path, tugging
the barges up the Rhône to Valence and to Lyons.
“Just fancy!” he said, “at the age of twenty, I led the finest turn-out
on the banks of the Rhône! A turn-out of twenty-four stallions, four
abreast, dragging six barges! Ah, what fine mornings those were, when we
set out on the banks of the big river and silently, slowly, this fleet
moved up the stream!”
And Jean Roussière would enumerate all the places on the two banks; the
inns, the hostesses, the streams, the sluices, the roads and the fords
from Arles to the Revestidou, from the Coucourde to the Ermitage. But
his greatest happiness and triumph was at the feast of Saint-Eloi.
“I will show your Maillanais,” he said, “if they have not already seen
it, how we ride a little mule!”
Saint-Eloi is, in Provence, the feast of the agriculturists. All over
Provence on that day the village priests bless the cattle, asses, mules
and horses; and the people owning the beasts partake of the “blessed
bread,” that excellent “blessed bread” flavoured with aniseed and yellow
with eggs, which they call _tortillarde_. At Maillane it was our custom
on that day to deck a chariot with green boughs and harness to it forty
or fifty beasts, caparisoned as in the time of the tournaments, with
beards, embroidered saddle-cloths, plumes, mirrors and crescents of
brass. The whip was put up to auction, that is to say, the office of
Prior was put up to public auction:
“Thirty francs for the whip!--a hundred francs!--two hundred francs!
Once--twice--thrice!”
The presidency of the feast fell to the highest bidder. The chariot of
green boughs led the procession, a cavalcade of joyful labourers, each
one walking proudly near his own horse or mule, and cracking his whip.
In the chariot, accompanied by the musicians playing the tambourine and
flute, the Prior was seated. On the mules, fathers placed their little
ones astride, the latter holding on happily to the trappings. The
horses’ collars were all ornamented with a cake of the blessed bread, in
the form of a crown, and a pennon in paper bearing a picture of
Saint-Eloi; and carried on the shoulders of the Priors of the past years
was an image of the saint, in full glory, like a golden bishop, the
crozier in his hand.
Drawn by the fifty mules or donkeys round the village rolled the
chariot, in a cloud of dust, with the farm labourers running like mad by
the side of their beasts, all in their shirt sleeves, hats at the back
of their heads, a belt round the waist, and low shoes.
That year Jean Roussière, mounting our mule Falette, astonished the
spectators. Light as a cat, he jumped on the animal, then off again,
remounted, now sitting on one side, now standing upright on the crupper,
there in turn doing the goose step, the forked tree and the frog, on the
mule’s back--in short, giving a sort of Arab horseman’s performance.
But where he shone with even greater lustre was at the supper of
Saint-Eloi, for after the chariot procession the Priors give a feast.
Every one having eaten and drunk their fill and said grace, Roussière
rose and addressed the company.
“Comrades! Here you are, a crowd of good-for-nothings and rascals, who
have kept the Saint-Eloi for the past thousand years, and yet I will
wager none of you know the history of your great patron.”
The company confessed that all they had heard was that their saint had
been a blacksmith.
“Yes, but I am going to tell you how he became a saint.” And while
soaking a crisp _tortillarde_ in his glass of Tavel wine, the worthy
Roussière proceeded:
“Our Lord God the Father, one day in Paradise, wore a troubled air. The
child Jesus inquired of him:
“‘What is the matter, my Father?’
“‘I have,’ replied God, ‘a case that greatly plagues me. Hold, look down
there!’
“‘Where?’ asked Jesus.
“‘Down there, in the Limousin, to the right of my finger: thou seest, in
that village, near the city, a smithy, a large fine smithy?’
“‘I see--I see.’
“‘Well, my son, there is a man that I should like to have saved: they
call him Master Eloi. He is a reliable, good fellow, a faithful observer
of my Commandments, charitable to the poor, kind-hearted to every one,
of exemplary conduct, hammering away from morning to night without evil
speaking or blasphemy. Yes, he seems to me worthy to become a great
saint.’
“‘And what prevents it?’ asked Jesus.
“‘His pride, my son. Because he is a good worker, a worker of the first
order, Eloi thinks that no one on earth is above him, and presumption is
perdition.’
“‘My Lord Father,’ said Jesus, ‘if you will permit me to descend to the
earth I will try and convert him.’
“‘Go, my dear son.’
“And the good Jesus descended. Dressed like an apprentice, his tool-bag
on his back, the divine workman alighted right in the street where Eloi
dwelt. Over the blacksmith’s door was the usual signboard, and on it
this inscription:
“‘Eloi the blacksmith, master above all other masters, forges a shoe in
two heatings.’
“The little apprentice stepped on to the threshold and taking off his
hat:
“‘God give you good-day, master, and to the company,’ said he; ‘have
you need of any help?’
“‘Not for the moment,’ answered Eloi.
“‘Farewell then, master: it will be for another time.’
“And the good Jesus continued his road. In the street he saw a group of
men talking, and Jesus said in passing:
“‘I should not have thought that in such a smithy, where there must be,
one would think, so much doing, they would refuse me work.’
“‘Wait a bit, my lad,’ said one of the neighbours. ‘What salutation did
you make to Master Eloi!’
“‘I said, as is usual, “God give you good-day, master, and to the
company!’
“‘Ah, but that is not what you should have said. You should have
addressed him as, “Master above all other masters.” There, look at the
board!’
“‘That is true,’ said Jesus. ‘I will try again.’ And with that he
returned to the smithy.
“‘God give you good-day, master above all other masters. Have you no
need of an apprentice?’
“‘Come in, come in,’ replied Eloi. ‘I have been thinking that we could
give you work also. But listen to this once and for all: When you
address me, you must say, “Master, above all other masters,” see
you--this is not to boast, but men like me, who can forge a shoe in two
heatings, there are not two in Limousin!’
“‘Oh,’ replied the apprentice, ‘in our country, we do it with one
heating!’
“‘Only one heating! Go to, boy, be silent then--why the thing is not
possible.’
“‘Very well, you shall see, master above all other masters!’
“Jesus took a piece of iron, threw it into the forge, blew, made up the
fire, and when the iron was red--red, and incandescent--he took it out
with his hand.
“‘Oh--poor simpleton!’ the head apprentice cried to him, ‘thou wilt
scorch thy fingers!’
“‘Have no fear!’ answered Jesus. ‘Thanks to God, in our country we have
no need of pincers.’ And the little workman seizes with his hand the
iron heated to white heat, carries it to the anvil, and with his hammer,
pif, paf, in the twinkle of an eye, stretches it, flattens it, rounds it
and stamps it so well that one would have said it was cast.
“‘Oh, I, too,’ said Master Eloi, ‘I could do that if I wanted to.’
“He then takes a piece of iron, throws it in the forge, blows, makes up
the fire, and when the iron is red hot, goes to take it as his
apprentice had done and carry it to the anvil--but he burns his fingers
badly! In vain he tried to hurry, to harden himself to endure the burn,
he was forced to let go his hold and run for the pincers. In the
meantime the shoe for the horse grew cold--and only a few sparks burnt
out. Ah! poor Master Eloi, he might well hammer, and put himself in a
sweat--to do it with one heating was impossible.
“‘But listen,’ said the apprentice, ‘I seem to hear the gallop of a
horse.’
“Master Eloi at once stalked to the door and sees a cavalier, a splendid
cavalier, drawing up at the smithy. Now this was Saint-Martin.
“‘I come a long way,’ he said, ‘my horse has lost a shoe, and I am in a
great hurry to find a blacksmith.’
“Master Eloi bridled up.
“‘My lord,’ said he, ‘you could not have chanced better. You have come
to the first blacksmith of Limousin--of Limousin and of France, who may
well call himself “master of all the masters,” and who forges a shoe in
two heats. Here lad, hold the horse’s hoof,’ he called.
“‘Hold the hoof!’ cried Jesus. ‘In our country we do not find that
necessary.’
“‘Well, what next,’ cried the master blacksmith, ‘that is a little too
much! And how can one shoe a horse, in your country, without holding the
hoof?’
“‘But faith, nothing is easier, as you shall see.’
“And so saying, the young man seized a knife, went up to the horse, and
crack! cut off the hoof. He carried it into the smithy, fastened it in
the vice, carefully heated the hoof, fastened on the new shoe that he
had just made; with the shoeing hammer he knocked in the nails, then
loosening the vice, returned the foot to the horse, spat on it and
fitted it, saying, as he made the sign of the Cross, ‘May God grant that
the blood dries up,’ and there was the foot finished, shod and healed as
no one had ever seen before and as no one will ever see again.
“The first apprentice opened his eyes wide as the palm of your hand,
while Master Eloi’s assistants began to perspire.
“‘Ho,’ said Eloi at last, ‘my faith, but I will do it like that--do it
just as well.’
“He sets himself to the task. Knife in hand he approaches the horse, and
crack! he cuts off the foot, carries it into the smithy, fastens it into
the vice, and shoes it at his ease, just like the young apprentice.
“But then came the hitch, he must put it back in place. He approaches
the horse, spits on the shoe, applies it to the fetlock as best he can.
Alas! the salve does not stick, the blood flows, and the foot falls!
Then was the proud soul of Master Eloi illuminated: and he went back
into the smithy there to prostrate himself at the feet of the young
apprentice. But Jesus had disappeared, and also the horse and the
cavalier. Tears gushed from the eyes of Master Eloi; he recognised, poor
man, that there was a master above him, and above all. Throwing aside
his apron he left the forge and went out into the world to teach the
word of the Lord Jesus.”
Great applause followed the conclusion of this legend, applause both for
Saint-Eloi and for Jean Roussière.
* * * * *
Before I leave the worthy Jean I must mention that it was he who sang to
me the popular air to which I put the serenade of Magali, an air so
sweet, so melodious, that many regretted not finding it in Gounod’s
opera of _Mireille_. The only person in all the world that I ever heard
sing that particular air was Jean Roussière, who was apparently the
last to retain it. It was a strange coincidence that he should come, by
chance as it were, and sing it to me, at the moment when I was looking
for the Provençal note of my love-song, and thus enable me to save it
just at the moment when, like so many other things, it was about to be
relegated to oblivion.
The name of Magali, an abbreviation of Marguerite, I heard one day as I
was returning home from Saint-Rémy. A young shepherdess was tending a
flock of sheep along the Grande Roubine. “Oh! Magali, art not coming
yet?” cried a boy to her as he passed by. The limpid name struck me as
so pretty that at once I sang:
MAGALI.[15]
“O Magali, belovèd maid,
Forth from thy casement lean!
And listen to my serenade
Of viols and tambourine.”
“Were ever stars so many seen!
The wind to rest is laid;
But when thy face thou shalt unveil,
These stars shall pale!”
“So as for rustling leaves, I care
For this thy roundelay!
I’ll turn into an eel, and fare
To the blonde sea away!”
“O Magali, if thou wilt play
At turning fish, beware!
For I the fisherman will be
And fish for thee.”
“Oh, and if thou thy nets would’st fling
As fisherman, then stay!
I’ll be a bird upon the wing,
And o’er the moors away.”
“O Magali, and would’st thou stray,
A wild bird wandering?
I’ll take my gun and speedily
Give chase to thee.”
“For partridge or for warbler’s breed
If thou thy snares would’st lay,
Upon the vast and flowery mead
As flower I’ll hide away.”
“O Magali, if thou a spray
Of blossom art indeed,
The limpid brook then I will be
And water thee.”
“And if thou art the limpid brook,
I’ll be a cloud, and heigh!
I shall be gone, ere thou can’st look,
To far Americay!”
“O Magali, and though the way
To furthest Ind you took,
I’d make myself the wind at sea
And carry thee.”
“Wert thou the wind, by some device
I’d fly another way;
I’d be the shaft, that melts the ice,
From the great orb of day.”
“O Magali, wert thou a ray
Of sunshine--in a trice
The emerald lizard I would be,
And drink in thee.”
“And wert thou, hidden ’mid the fern,
A salamander--nay,
I’d be the full moon, that doth turn,
For witches, night to day.”
O Magali, would’st thou essay
To be the moon, I’d learn
A soft and silver mist to be
Enfolding thee.”
“But though the mist enfold, not so
Shalt thou me yet waylay!
For I a pure, fair rose shall grow
And ’mid my branches sway.”
“O Magali, and though you may
Be loveliest rose, yet know
That I the butterfly shall be
Which kisseth thee.”
“Go to! pursuer, thou’lt not win,
Though thou should’st run for aye;
For in some forest oak’s rough skin
I will myself array.”
“O Magali, though thou grow grey
The doleful tree within,
A branch of ivy will I be
Embracing thee.”
“And if thou dost, thou wilt embrace
Only an oak’s decay,
For in the convent of Saint-Blaise,
A White Nun, I will pray.”
“O Magali, when comes that day,
There in the holy place
Father Confessor will I be,
And hark to thee.”
“Pass but the gate, and in my stead
Thou wilt find, well-a-day!
The nuns all sadly busièd
Me in my shroud to lay.”
“O Magali, and if cold clay
Thou make thyself, and dead,
Earth I’ll become, and there thou’lt be,
At last, for me.”
“I half begin to think, in sooth,
Thou speakest earnestly!
Then take my ring of glass, fair youth,
In memory of me.”
“Thou healest me, O Magali!
And mark how, of a truth,
The stars, since thou did’st drop thy veil,
Have all grown pale!”
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)
It was in the autumn of this year 1855 that the first cloud overshadowed
my happy youth. It was the sorrow of losing my father. He had become
quite blind, and as far back as the previous Christmas we had been
anxious about him. For on that occasion he whom the festival had always
filled with joy, this year seemed overcome by a deep depression which we
felt augured badly for the future. It was in vain that as usual we lit
the three sacred candles and spread the table with the three white
cloths; in vain that I offered him the mulled wine, hoping to hear from
his lips the sacramental “Good cheer.” Groping, alas! with his long thin
arms, he seated himself with never a word. In vain also my mother tried
to tempt him with the dishes of Christmas, one after the other--the
plate of snails, the fish of Martique, the almond nougat, the cake of
oil. Wrapt in pensive thought the poor old man supped in silence. A
shadow, a forerunner of death, was over him, and his blindness oppressed
him. Once he looked up and spoke.
“Last year at Christmas I could still see the light of the candles; but
this year, nothing, nothing. Help me, O blessed Virgin.”
In the first days of September he departed this life. Having received
the last sacrament with sincerity and faith, the strong faith of simple
souls, he turned to his family, who all stood weeping around his bed:
“Come, come, my children,” he said to us. “I am going--and to God I give
thanks for all that I owe him: my long life and my labour, which He has
blessed.”
Then he called me to him and asked:
“Frédéric, what sort of weather is it?”
“It rains, my father,” I replied.
“Ah well,” he said, “if it rains it its good for the seeds.”
Then he gave up his soul to God. I can never forget that moment! They
covered his head with the sheet, and near the bed, that big bed in the
white alcove where in broad daylight I had been born, they lit a long
pale taper. The shutters of the room were half closed. The labourers
were ordered to unyoke at once. The maid, in the kitchen, turned over
the cauldrons and pots on the dresser.
Around the ashes of the fire, which had been extinguished, we seated
ourselves in a silent circle, my mother at the corner of the big
chimney, bearing, according to the custom of the widows of Provence, as
sign of mourning, a white fichu on her head. And all day the neighbours,
men and
[Illustration: THÉRÈSE ROUMANILLE (MADAME BOISSIÈRE), 2ND QUEEN OF THE
FÉLIBRES.]
women, relations and friends, came to offer us their sympathy, greeting
us one after another with the customary “May our Lord preserve you!”
And lengthily, piously, they went through the condolences in honour of
the “poor master.”
The next day all Maillane assisted at the funeral ceremony; and in their
prayers for him, the poor added always:
“God grant that as many angels may accompany him to heaven as he has
given us loaves of bread!”
The coffin was borne by hand with cloths, the lid off in order that for
the last time the people might see him with crossed hands in his white
shroud. Behind walked Jean Roussière carrying the wax taper which had
watched over his master.
As for me, while the passing-bell sounded in the distance, I went to
weep alone in the fields, for the tree of the house had fallen. The Mas
du Juge, the home of my childhood, was now desolate and deserted in my
eyes as though it had lost its guardian spirit. The head of the family,
Master François my father, had been the last of the patriarchs of
Provence, a faithful preserver of traditions and customs, and the last,
at least for me, of that austere generation, religious, humble, and
self-controlled, who had patiently gone through the miseries and
convulsions of the Revolution, giving to France the disinterested
devotion which flamed up in her great holocausts, and the indefatigable
service of her big armies.
One week later the division of property took place. The farm produce and
the “stacks,” the horses, oxen, sheep, poultry--all were divided into
lots. The furniture, our dear old things, the big four-poster beds, the
kneading-trough of iron-work, the meal-chest, the polished wardrobes,
the carved kneading-trough, the table, the mirror, all which, ever since
my childhood, I had seen as a part of my home life, the rows of plates,
the painted china, which never left the shelves of the dresser, the
sheets of hemp that my mother herself had woven; agricultural
implements, waggons, ploughs, harness, tools, utensils of every
kind--all these were collected and set out on the threshing-floor of the
farm, to be divided in three divisions by an expert. The servants, hired
either by the year or the month, left one after the other. And to the
paternal farm,[16] which was not in my division, I had to say good-bye.
One afternoon, with my mother and the dog, and Jean Roussière who acted
as charioteer, we departed with heavy hearts, to dwell henceforth in the
house at Maillane which in the division had fallen to me.
It was from personal experience I could write later on in _Mireille_ of
home-sickness:
Comme au mas, comme au temps de mon pére, hélas! hélas!