Read Ebook: Tartarin de Tarascon by Daudet Alphonse Colt Oliver C Translator

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Ebook has 309 lines and 28285 words, and 7 pages

How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, reading amongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing down his book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting that he was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear, "Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite know himself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed. "Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which his wretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling and swaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malay pirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"

Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... they never appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would come to Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in the evenings when he went to the club.

The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. The Chinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave taking to the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arming himself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hour after the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as the sailors say.

On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carried a sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right a revolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, in the privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a pass at the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed his muscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed the garden... steadily... unhurriedly... ? l'Anglais. That is the mark of true courage.

At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened it brusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" had been behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunately they were not behind it.

Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right and left, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.

On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut and curtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked in the mist rising from the Rh?ne.

Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heels striking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his cane raising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes he was always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellent precaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover to avoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fall from windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notion that Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.

The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to the club not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, through a tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed the sinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one of these alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack him from behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you; but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even a dog... not even a drunk... Nothing.

Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffled voices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffing the air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices more distinct... there can be no doubt..."They" are here. With heaving breast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar and preparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a good Tarasconais voice calls "Look! There's Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!" Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have been singing their ballad at the Costecaldes. "Bon soir, bon soir" growls Tartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappears angrily into the night.

Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer, walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In the end, tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not show themselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutters crossly "Nothing... nothing... always nothing" With that our hero goes in to play bezique with the Commandant.

With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing for journeys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happen that Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to the age of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from his home town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille which every good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course, have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon, as one has only to cross the bridge over the Rh?ne. Regrettably, however, this wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is so long and so flimsy and the river at that point is so wide that... Ma foi... you will understand...!

At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to our hero's character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devoted to chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lacking the body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body, careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights without unbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on a handful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body, fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetites and domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of Sancho Panza.

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine the arguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid tale of adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields of glory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringing for the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon which Jeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky and scented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise; greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries of Tartarin-Quixote.

That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never left Tarascon.

There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a long journey. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were in business in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of their establishments. Now this was the sort of life he needed. Important transactions. An office full of clerks to control. Relations with Russia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's eyes was of enormous proportions.

The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimes attacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, the staff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!" They fired through the windows at the bandits.

I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greeted this proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter in the same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.

At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going or not going? It was a matter for eager discussion.

Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a great deal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to have gone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so much talk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he had just returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask him for a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, and big business.

Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happy to reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely sure himself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that when describing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to the point of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted the consular flag and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at the bandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemn looks.

Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... A thousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well that he has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps the time has come when we should settle the question of the reputation for lying which has been given to the people of the Midi.

There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, nor Toulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceives himself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaks it. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. To understand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see a countryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it larger than life-size. The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the Butte Montmartre will seem to you gigantic. The Maison Carr?e at Nimes, a pretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. You will see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun; everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be surprised that this sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retired Captain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make a thing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghai into one who has really been there.

Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, before fame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted the story of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of his joys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to the important pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to his destiny.

It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith's; Tartarin was explaining to some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quite new, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed into the room in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!" General amazement, fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ran to close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily. What they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from the fair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days at Tarascon, and had just set itself up in the Place du Ch?teau with a collection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent African lion.... An African lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seen before, never in living memory.

The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manly features glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firm handshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, so unforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Pale and trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in a trance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a few paces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry of his dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast which played out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much for Tartarin to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyes blazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto his shoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant, let us go and see this." "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle." The prudent Costecalde hazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind him all the hat hunters fell proudly into step.

When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The brave people of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, had descended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitaine was in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to the elbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in one hand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais to the show, and as she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as much interest as the animals in her charge.

The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder produced something of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walking tranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion of danger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarin entering the place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be something to fear if he, their hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front of the cages was deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladies were eying the doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying that he was going to fetch a gun.

Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored their courage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round the menagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuous eye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing its chicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramatic confrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlas mountains face to face.

On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his arms resting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion, sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting its enormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded one another calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sight of the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lion which up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereign disdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger. First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out its forefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head, shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a most ear-splitting roar.

This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for the doors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even the brave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... he remained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes, and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After a few moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude and the solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter "Now that is something worth hunting." And that was all that he said.

Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had already said too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of the impending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.

You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a word of this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole of Tarascon could talk of nothing else.

On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted one another with an air of excitement.

"Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?"

"Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?" For in Tarascon every remark begins with "Et autrement" which is pronounced "autremain" and ends with "au moins" which is pronounced "au mouain" and in these days the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to rattle the windows.

The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving for Africa was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead of replying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poor Tartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted a somewhat evasive air, "H?!... H?!... perhaps... I can't say." On the second occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied "Probably" and on the third "Yes, definitely."

Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses of egg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally that he was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of the great lions of Africa.

A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog, handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before the little house of the baobab.

Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travelling to Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into the house, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, he made the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazy dreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastrophes which would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever, dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless for Tartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dress warmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed, Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor fellow saw himself already torn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, and the other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out that these were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they had not yet actually started.

Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without some preparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measure Tartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers, the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caill?? and the like, there he saw that those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for these distant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger, thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.

Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of "Eau bouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of several slices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a little thyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine how Tartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.

Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methods of training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he would go round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at a brisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then to accustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went into the garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with his rifle, on watch behind the baobab.

Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hat hunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in the shadows, as they passed the Place du Ch?teau, a figure pacing up and down behind the cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmoved to the roaring of lions in the African night.

While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, all Tarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shooting was abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist's the piano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides flies drying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had brought everything to a halt.

You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. He was seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greater triumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to the menagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage, how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point one aims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and so on... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledge about lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and so he spoke of these matters with much authority.

Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home of president Ladev?ze or the brave Commandant Bravida when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then with his elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave a moving description of all the dangers which awaited him "Over there" He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of rivers poisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpions and clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lions of the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the mating season.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from the table and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of the lion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! Pan!" The whistle of the bullet. Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table faces are grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, the ladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfather brandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the next room, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startled out of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frightened demand lights.

Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he really have any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one to which his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is that the menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lions had not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhaps by a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, and by talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it had actually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarin had once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon had not. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunter had not packed a single bag, people began to talk.

"This will turn out to be another Shanghai." Said Costecalde, smiling, and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had lost their belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people like Bezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gun without closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club, on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mocking remarks, "Et autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde's shop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted their leader.

Then there were the epigrams. President Ladev?ze who in his spare time dabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect which was a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaise whose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa. Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it never went off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. This song achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, the stevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his door would chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safe distance because of the double muscles.

The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing. Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, in spite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile; but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinned on his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignation and grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chanting their jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero was trimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin's head appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shaving brush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, not pin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two bricks tall.

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