Frederic Mistral Part 16

The first one, _The Drummer of Arcole_, is the story of a drummer boy who saved the day at Arcole by beating the charge; but after the wars are over, he is forgotten, and remains a drummer as before, becomes old and regrets his life given up to the service of his country. But one day, pa.s.sing along the streets of Paris, he chances to look up at the Pantheon, and there in the huge pediment he reads the words, "_Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante_."

"'Drummer, raise thy head!' calls out a pa.s.ser-by! 'The one up there, hast thou seen him?' Toward the temple that stood superb the old man raised his bewildered eyes. Just then the joyous sun shook his golden locks above enchanted Paris....

"When the soldier saw the dome of the Pantheon rising toward heaven, and with his drum hanging at his side, beating the charge, as if it were real, he recognized himself, the boy of Arcole, away up there, right at the side of the great Napoleon, intoxicated with his former fury, seeing himself, so high, in full relief, above the years, the clouds, the storms, in glory, azure, suns.h.i.+ne, he felt a gentle swelling in his heart, and fell dead upon the pavement."

_Lou Prego-Dieu_ is a sweet poem embodying a popular belief. Prego-dieu is the name of a little insect, so called from the peculiar arrangement of its legs and antennse that makes it appear to be in an att.i.tude of prayer. Mistral's poetic ideas have been largely suggested to him by popular beliefs and the stories he heard at his fireside when a boy.

This poem is one of the best of the kind he has produced, and, being eminently, characteristic, will find juster treatment in a literal translation than in a commentary. The first half was written during the time he was at work upon _Mireio_ in 1856, the second in 1874. We quote the first stanza in the original, for the sake of showing its rhythm.

"Ero un tantost d'aquel estieu Que ni vihave ni dourmieu: Fasieu miejour, tau que me plaise, Lou cahessu Toucant lou sn A l'aise."

I

It was one afternoon this summer, while I was neither awake nor asleep.

I was taking a noon siesta, as is my pleasure, my head at ease upon the ground.

And greenish among the stubble, upon a spear of blond barley, with a double row of seeds, I saw a prego-dieu.

"Beautiful insect," said I, "I have heard that, as a reward for thy ceaseless praying, G.o.d hath given thee the gift of divination.

"Tell me now, good friend, if she I love hath slept well; tell what she is thinking at this hour, and what she is doing; tell me if she is laughing or weeping."

The insect, that was kneeling, stirred upon the tube of the tiny, leaning ear, and unfolded and waved his little wings.

And his speech, softer than the softest breath of a zephyr wafted in a wood, sweet and mysterious, reached my ear.

"I see a maiden," said he, "in the cool shade beneath a cherry tree; the waving branches touch her; the boughs hang thick with cherries.

"The cherries are fully ripe, fragrant, solid, red, and, amid the smooth leaves, make one hungry, and, hanging, tempt one.

"But the cherry tree offers in vain the sweetness and the pleasing color of its bright, firm fruit, red as coral.

"She sighs, trying to see if she can jump high enough to pluck them.

Would that my lover might come! He would climb up, and throw them down into my ap.r.o.n."

So I say to the reapers: "Reapers, leave behind you a little corner uncut, where, during the summer, the prego-dieu may have shelter."

II

This autumn, going down a sunken road, I wandered off across the fields, lost in earthly thoughts.

And, once more, amid the stubble, I saw, clinging to a tiny ear of grain, folded up in his double wing, the prego-dieu.

"Beautiful insect," said I then, "I have heard that, as a reward for thy ceaseless praying, G.o.d hath given thee the gift of divination.

"And that if some child, lost amid the harvest fields, asks of thee his way, thou, little creature, showest him the way through the wheat.

"In the pleasures and pains of this world, I see that I, poor child, am astray; for, as he grows, man feels his wickedness.

"In the grain and in the chaff, in fear and in pride, in budding hope, alas for me, I see my ruin.

"I love s.p.a.ce, and I am in chains; among thorns I walk barefoot; Love is G.o.d, and Love sins; every enthusiasm after action is disappointed.

"What we accomplished is wiped out; brute instinct is satisfied, and the ideal is not reached; we must be born amid tears, and be stung among the flowers.

"Evil is hideous, and it smiles upon me; the flesh is fair, and it rots; the water is bitter, and I would drink; I am languis.h.i.+ng, I want to die and yet to live.

"I am falling faint and weary; O prego-dieu, cause some slight hope of something true to s.h.i.+ne upon me; show me the way."

And straightway I saw that the insect stretched forth its slender arm toward Heaven; mysterious, mute, earnest, it was praying.

Such reference to religious doubt is elsewhere absent from Mistral's work. His faith is strong, and the energy of his life-work has its source largely, not only in this religious faith, but in his firm belief in himself, in his race, and in the mission he has felt called upon to undertake. Reflected obviously in the above poem is the growth of the poet in experience and in thought.

Lastly, among the poems of his _Isclo d'Or_, we wish to call attention to one that, in its theme, recalls _Le Lac_, _La Tristesse d'Olympio_, and _Le Souvenir_. The poet comes upon the scene of his first love, and apostrophizes the natural objects about him. All four poets intone the strain, "Ye rocks and trees, guard the memory of our love."

"O coumbo d'Uriage Bos fresqueirous, Ounte aven fa lou viage Dis amourous, O vau qu'aven noumado Noste univers, Se perdes ta ramado Gardo mi vers."

O vale of Uriage, cool wood, where we made our lovers' journey; O vale that we called our world, if thou lose thy verdure, keep my verses.

Ye flowers of the high meadows that no man knoweth, watered by Alpine snows, ye are less pure and fresh in the month of April than the little mouth that smiles for me.

Ye thunders and stern voices of the peaks, murmurings of wild woods, torrents from the mountains, there is a voice that dominates you all, the clear, beautiful voice of my love.

Alas! vale of Uriage, we may never return to thy leafy nooks. She, a star, vanisheth in air, and I, folding my tent, go forth into the wilderness.

Apart from the intrinsic worth of the thought or sentiment, there is found in Mistral the essential gift of the poet, the power of expression--of clothing in words that fully embody the meaning, and seem to sing, in spontaneous musical flow, the inner inspiration. He is superior to the other poets of the Felibrige, not only in the energy, the vitality of his personality, and in the fertility of his ideas, but also in this great gift of language. Even if he creates his vocabulary as he goes along, somewhat after the fas.h.i.+on of Ronsard and the _Pleiade_, he does this in strict accordance with the genius of his dialect, fortunately for him, untrammelled by traditions, and, what is significant, he does it acceptably. He is the master. His fellow-poets proclaim and acclaim his supremacy. No one who has penetrated to any degree into the genius of the Romance languages can fail to agree that in this point exists a master of one of its forms.

CHAPTER III

THE TEAGEDY, LA ReINO JANO

The peculiar qualities and limitations of Mistral are possibly nowhere better evidenced than in this play. Full of charming pa.s.sages, frequently eloquent, here and there very poetic, it is scarcely dramatic, and certainly not a tragedy either of the French or the Shakespearian type. The most striking lines, the most eloquent tirades, arise less from the exigences of the drama than from the constant desire of the poet to give expression to his love of Provence. The attention of the reader is diverted at every turn from the adventures of the persons in the play to the glories and the beauties of the lovely land in which our poet was born. The matter of a play is certainly contained in the subject, but the energy of the author has not been spent upon the invention of strong situations, upon the clash of wills, upon the psychology of his characters, upon the interplay of pa.s.sions, but rather upon strengthening in the hearts of his Provencal hearers the love of the good Queen Joanna, whose life has some of the romance of that of Mary, Queen of Scots, and upon letting them hear from her lips and from the lips of her courtiers the praises of Provence.

Mistral enumerates eight dramatic works treating the life of his heroine. They are a tragedy in five acts and a verse by Magnon (Paris, 1656), called _Jeanne Ire, reine de Naples_; a tragedy in five acts and in verse by Laharpe, produced in 1781, ent.i.tled, _Jeanne de Naples_; an opera-comique in three acts, the book by De Leuven and Brunswick, the music by Monpon and Bordese, produced in 1840; an Italian tragedy, _La Regina Griovanna_, by the Marquis of Casanova, written about 1840; an Italian opera, the libretto by Ghislanzoni, who is known as the librettist of _Ada_, the music by Petrella (Milan, 1875); a play in verse by Brunetti, called _Griovanna I di Napoli_ (Naples, 1881); a Hungarian play by Rakosi, _Johanna es Endre_, and lastly the trilogy of Walter Savage Landor, _Andrea of Hungary_, _Griovanna of Naples_, and _Fra Rupert_ (London, 1853). Mistral's play is dated May, 1890.

It may be said concerning the work of Landor, which is a poem in dramatic form rather than a play, that it offers scarcely any points of resemblance with Mistral's beyond the few essential facts in the lives of Andrea and Joanna. Both poets take for granted the innocence of the Queen. It is worth noting that Provence is but once referred to in the entire work of the English poet.

The introduction that precedes Mistral's play quotes the account of the life of the Queen from the _Dictionnaire_ of Moreri (Lyons, 1681), which we here translate.