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Read Ebook: Memoirs of Mistral by Mistral Fr D Ric Maud Constance Elizabeth Translator Strettell Alma Translator
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Ebook has 1511 lines and 74804 words, and 31 pages
CHAP. PAGE
MISTRAL'S POEMS IN THE PROVEN?AL 324
Mas du Juge--Birthplace of Fr?d?ric Mistral 18
Mistral in 1864 60
Arlesiennes at Maillane 84
Joseph Roumanille 106
Anselm Mathieu 158
Th?odore Aubanel 158
Mas des Pommiers--Home of Joseph Roumanille 188
Madame Fr?d?ric Mistral, First Queen of the F?libres 196
F?lix Gras, Poet and F?libre 202
Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu 226
Th?r?se Roumanille , Second Queen of the F?libres 266
Paul Mari?ton, Chancelier des F?libres 307
Madame Gasquet , Third Queen of the F?libres 318
Madame Bischoffsheim , Fourth and present Queen of the F?libres 326
MEMOIRS OF MISTRAL
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-R?my 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 , 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 ch?telaines 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 Proven?al, "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-Cr?ma, 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-R?my, the home of my family and birthplace of my father, the H?tel 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 S?r 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 Fran?ois 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 ?tienne Poulinet," the young girl replied, "the Mayor of Maillane. My name is Dela?de."
"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 Proven?eaux, his manners possessed the external ruggedness of his ancestors.
I was baptized Fr?d?ric, 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-R?my, 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 "Av?ne, av?ne, av?ne" , 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 Rivi?re, 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 Th?ram?ne.
This accomplished, he would turn to my mother:
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