Barber, Poet, Philanthropistt
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Samuel Smiles >> Barber, Poet, Philanthropistt
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Franconnette remained quiet, concealing her emotions. Then the
games began. They played at Cache Couteau or Hunt the Slipper.
Dancing came next; Franconnette was challenged by Laurent,
and after many rounds the girl was tired, and Laurent claimed the
kisses that she had forfeited. Franconnette flew away like a
bird; Laurent ran after her, caught her, and was claiming the
customary forfeit, when, struggling to free herself, Laurent
slipped upon the floor, fell heavily, and broke his arm.
Franconnette was again unfortunate. Ill-luck seems to have
pursued the girl. The games came to an end, and the young people
were about to disperse when, at this unlucky moment, the door
was burst open and a sombre apparition appeared. It was the
Black Forest sorcerer, the supposed warlock of the neighbourhood.
"Unthinking creatures," he said, "I have come from my gloomy
rocks up yonder to open your eyes. You all adore this
Franconnette. Behold, she is accursed! While in her cradle her
father, the Huguenot, sold her to the devil. He has punished
Pascal and Laurent for the light embrace she gave them.
He warned in time and avoid her. The demon alone has a claim to
her."
The sorcerer ended; sparks of fire surrounded him, and after
turning four times round in a circle he suddenly disappeared!
Franconnette's friends at once held aloof from her. They called
out to her," Begone!" All in a maze the girl shuddered and
sickened; she became senseless, and fell down on the floor in a
swoon. The young people fled, leaving her helpless. And thus
ended the second fete which began so gaily.
The grossest superstition then prevailed in France, as
everywhere. Witches and warlocks were thoroughly believed in,
far more so than belief in God and His Son. The news spread
abroad that the girl was accursed and sold to the Evil One, and
she was avoided by everybody. She felt herself doomed. At
length she reached her grandmother's house, but she could not
work, she could scarcely stand. The once radiant Franconnette
could neither play nor sing; she could only weep.
Thus ended two cantos of the poem. The third opens with a lovely
picture of a cottage by a leafy brookside in the hamlet of
Estanquet. The spring brought out the singing-birds to pair and
build their nests. They listened, but could no longer hear the
music which, in former years, had been almost sweeter than their
own. The nightingales, more curious than the rest, flew into the
maid's garden; they saw her straw hat on a bench, a rake and
watering-pot among the neglected jonquils, and the rose branches
running riot. Peering yet further and peeping into the cottage
door, the curious birds discovered an old woman asleep in her
arm-chair, and a pale, quiet girl beside her, dropping tears
upon her lily hands. "Yes, yes, it is. Franconnette," says the
poet. "You will have guessed that already. A poor girl, weeping
in solitude, the daughter of a Huguenot, banned by the Church
and sold to the devil! Could anything be more frightful?"
Nevertheless her grandmother said to her, "My child, it is not
true; the sorcerer's charge is false. He of good cheer, you are
more lovely than ever." One gleam of hope had come to
Franconnette; she hears that Pascal has defended her everywhere,
and boldly declared her to be the victim of a brutal plot. She
now realised how great was his goodness, and her proud spirit
was softened even to tears. The grandmother put in a good word
for Marcel, but the girl turned aside. Then the old woman said,
"To-morrow is Easter Day; go to Mass, pray as you never prayed
before, and take the blessed bread, proving that you are
numbered with His children for ever."
The girl consented, and went to the Church of Saint Peter on
Easter morning. She knelt, with her chaplet of beads, among the
rest, imploring Heaven's mercy. But she knelt alone in the midst
of a wide circle. All the communicants avoided her. The
churchwarden, Marcel's uncle, in his long-tailed coat,
with a pompous step, passed her entirely by, and refused her the
heavenly meal. Pascal was there and came to her help. He went
forward to the churchwarden and took from the silver plate the
crown piece[6] of the holy element covered with flowers,
and took and presented two pieces of the holy bread to
Franconnette--one for herself, the other for her grandmother.
From that moment she begins to live a new life, and to
understand the magic of love. She carries home the blessed bread
to the ancient dame, and retires to her chamber to give herself
up, with the utmost gratefulness, to the rapturous delight of
loving. "Ah," says Jasmin in his poem, "the sorrowing heart aye
loveth best!"
Yet still she remembers the fatal doom of the sorcerer that she
is sold for a price to the demon. All seem to believe the
hideous tale, and no one takes her part save Pascal and her
grandmother. She kneels before her little shrine and prays to
the Holy Virgin for help and succour.
At the next fete day she repaired to the church of Notre Dame de
bon Encontre,[7] where the inhabitants of half a dozen of the
neighbouring villages had assembled, with priests and crucifixes,
garlands and tapers, banners and angels. The latter, girls about
to be confirmed, walked in procession and sang the Angelus at
the appropriate hours. The report had spread abroad that
Franconnette would entreat the Blessed Virgin to save her
from the demon. The strangers were more kind to her than her
immediate neighbours, and from many a pitying heart the prayer
went up that a miracle might be wrought in favour of the
beautiful maiden. She felt their sympathy, and it gave her
confidence. The special suppliants passed up to the altar one by
one--Anxious mothers, disappointed lovers, orphans and
children. They kneel, they ask for blessings, they present their
candles for the old priest to bless, and then they retire.
Now came the turn of Franconnette. Pascal was in sight and
prayed for her success. She went forward in a happy frame of
mind, with her taper and a bouquet of flowers. She knelt before
the priest. He took the sacred image and presented it to her;
but scarcely had it touched the lips of the orphan when a
terrible peal of thunder rent the heavens, and a bolt of
lightning struck the spire of the church, extinguishing her
taper as well as the altar lights. This was a most unlucky
coincidence for the terrified girl; and, cowering like a lost
soul, she crept out of the church. The people were in
consternation. "It was all true, she was now sold to the devil!
Put her to death, that is the only way of ending our
misfortunes!"
The truth is that the storm of thunder and lightning prevailed
throughout the neighbourhood. It is a common thing in southern
climes. The storm which broke out at Notre Dame destroyed the
belfry; the church of Roquefort was demolished by a bolt of
lightning, the spire of Saint Pierre was ruined. The storm was
followed by a tempest of hail and rain. Agen was engulfed by the
waters; her bridge was destroyed,[8] and many of the
neighbouring vineyards were devastated. And all this ruin was
laid at the door of poor Franconnette!
The neighbours--her worst enemies--determined to burn the
daughter of the Huguenot out of her cottage. The grandmother
first heard the cries of the villagers: "Fire them, let them
both burn together." Franconnette rushed to the door and pleaded
for mercy. "Go back," cried the crowd, "you must both roast
together." They set fire to the rick outside and then proceeded
to fire the thatch of the cottage. "Hold, hold!" cried a stern
voice, and Pascal rushed in amongst them. "Cowards! would you
murder two defenceless women? Tigers that you are, would you
fire and burn them in their dwelling?"
Marcel too appeared; he had not yet given up the hope of winning
Franconnette's love. He now joined Pascal in defending her and
the old dame, and being a soldier of Montluc, he was a powerful
man in the neighbourhood. The girl was again asked to choose
between the two. At last, after refusing any marriage under
present circumstances, she clung to Pascal. "I would have died
alone," she said, "but since you will have it so, I resist no
longer. It is our fate; we will die together." Pascal was
willing to die with her, and turning to Marcel he said: "I have
been more fortunate than you, but you are a brave man and you
will forgive me. I have no friend, but will you act as a squire
and see me to my grave?" After struggling with his feelings,
Marcel at last said: "Since it is her wish, I will be your
friend."
A fortnight later, the marriage between the unhappy lovers took
place. Every one foreboded disaster. The wedding procession
went down the green hill towards the church of Notre Dame. There
was no singing, no dancing, no merriment, as was usual on such
occasions. The rustics shuddered at heart over the doom of
Pascal. The soldier Marcel marched at the head of the
wedding-party. At the church an old woman appeared, Pascal's
mother. She flung her arms about him and adjured him to fly from
his false bride, for his marriage would doom him to death.
She even fell at the feet of her son and said that he should pass
over her body rather than be married. Pascal turned to Marcel
and said: "Love overpowers me! If I die, will you take care of
my mother?"
Then the gallant soldier dispelled the gloom which had
overshadowed the union of the loving pair. "I can do no more,"
he said; "your mother has conquered me. Franconnette is good,
and pure, and true. I loved the maid, Pascal, and would have
shed my blood for her, but she loved you instead of me.
"Know that she is not sold to the Evil One. In my despair I
hired the sorcerer to frighten you with his mischievous tale,
and chance did the rest. When we both demanded her, she
confessed her love for you. It was more than I could bear,
and I resolved that we should both die.
"But your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own.
Live, Pascal, for your wife and your mother! You need have no
more fear of me. It is better that I should die the death of a
soldier than with a crime upon my conscience."
Thus saying, he vanished from the crowd, who burst into cheers.
The happy lovers fell into each other's arms. "And now," said
Jasmin, in concluding his poem, "I must lay aside my pencil.
I had colours for sorrow; I have none for such happiness as
theirs!"
Footnotes to Chapter IX.
[1] The whole of Jasmin's answer to M. Dumon will be found in
the Appendix at the end of this volume.
[2]'Gascogne et Languedoc,' par Paul Joanne, p. 95 (edit. 1883).
[3] The dance still exists in the neighbourhood of Agen.
When there a few years ago, I was drawn by the sound of a fife
and a drum to the spot where a dance of this sort was going on.
It was beyond the suspension bridge over the Garonne, a little to
the south of Agen. A number of men and women of the
working-class were assembled on the grassy sward, and were
dancing, whirling, and pirouetting to their hearts' content.
Sometimes the girls bounded from the circle, were followed by
their sweethearts, and kissed. It reminded one of the dance so
vigorously depicted by Jasmin in Franconnette.
[4] Miss Harriet Preston, of Boston, U.S., published part of a
translation of Franconnette in the 'Atlantic Monthly' for
February, 1876, and adds the following note: "The buscou, or
busking, was a kind of bee, at which the young people assembled,
bringing the thread of their late spinning, which was divided
into skeins of the proper size by a broad and thin plate of
steel or whalebone called a busc. The same thing, under
precisely the same name, figured in the toilets of our
grandmothers, and hence, probably, the Scotch use of the verb to
busk, or attire."
[5] Miss Louisa Stuart Costello in 'Bearn and the Pyrenees.'
[6] A custom which then existed in certain parts of France.
It was taken by the French emigrants to Canada, where it existed
not long ago. The crown of the sacramental bread used to be
reserved for the family of the seigneur or other communicants of
distinction.
[7] A church in the suburbs of Agen, celebrated for its legends
and miracles, to which numerous pilgrimages are made in the
month of May.
[8] A long time ago the inhabitants of the town of Agen
communicated with the other side of the Garonne by means of
little boats. The first wooden bridge was commenced when
Aquitaine was governed by the English, in the reign of Richard
Coeur-de-lion, at the end of the twelfth century. The bridge was
destroyed and repaired many times, and one of the piles on which
the bridge was built is still to be seen. It is attributed to
Napoleon I. that he caused the first bridge of stone to be
erected, for the purpose of facilitating the passage of his
troops to Spain. The work was, however, abandoned during his
reign, and it was not until the Restoration that the bridge was
completed. Since that time other bridges, especially the
suspension bridge, have been erected, to enable the inhabitants
of the towns on the Garonne to communicate freely with each
other.
CHAPTER X.
JASMIN AT TOULOUSE.
It had hitherto been the custom of Jasmin to dedicate his poems
to one of his friends; but in the case of Franconnette he
dedicated the poem to the city of Toulouse. His object in making
the dedication was to express his gratitude for the banquet
given to him in 1836 by the leading men of the city, at which
the President had given the toast of "Jasmin, the adopted son of
Toulouse."
Toulouse was the most wealthy and prosperous city in the South
of France. Among its citizens were many men of literature, art,
and science. Jasmin was at first disposed to dedicate
Franconnette to the city of Bordeaux, where he had been so
graciously received and feted on the recitation of his Blind
Girl of Castel-Cuille; but he eventually decided to dedicate the
new poem to the city of Toulouse, where he had already achieved
a considerable reputation.
Jasmin was received with every honour by the city which had
adopted him. It was his intention to read the poem at Toulouse
before its publication. If there was one of the towns or cities
in which his language was understood--one which promised by
the strength and depth of its roots to defy all the chances of
the future--that city was Toulouse, the capital of the Langue
d'Oc.
The place in which he first recited the poem was the Great Hall
of the Museum. When the present author saw it about two years
ago, the ground floor was full of antique tombs, statues, and
monuments of the past; while the hall above it was crowded with
pictures and works of art, ancient and modern.
About fifteen hundred persons assembled to listen to Jasmin in
the Great Hall. "It is impossible," said the local journal,[1]
"to describe the transport with which he was received." The vast
gallery was filled with one of the most brilliant assemblies
that had ever met in Toulouse. Jasmin occupied the centre of the
platform. At his right and left hand were seated the Mayor,
the members of the Municipal Council, the Military Chiefs,
the members of the Academy of Jeux-Floraux,[2] and many
distinguished persons in science, literature, and learning.
A large space had been reserved for the accommodation of ladies,
who appeared in their light summer dresses, coloured like the
rainbow; and behind them stood an immense number of the citizens
of Toulouse.
Jasmin had no sooner begun to recite his poem than it was clear
that he had full command of his audience. Impressed by his
eloquence and powers of declamation, they were riveted to their
seats, dazzled and moved by turns, as the crowd of beautiful
thoughts passed through their minds. The audience were so much
absorbed by the poet's recitation that not a whisper was heard.
He evoked by the tones and tremor of his voice their sighs,
their tears, their indignation. He was by turns gay, melancholy,
artless, tender, arch, courteous, and declamatory. As the drama
proceeded, the audience recognised the beauty of the plot and
the poet's knowledge of the human heart. He touched with grace
all the cords of his lyre. His poetry evidently came direct from
his heart: it was as rare as it was delicious.
The success of the recitation was complete, and when Jasmin
resumed his seat he received the most enthusiastic applause.
As the whole of the receipts were, as usual, handed over by
Jasminto the local charities, the assembly decided by acclamation
that a subscription should be raised to present to the poet, who
had been adopted by the city, some testimony of their admiration
for his talent, and for his having first recited to them and
dedicated to Toulouse his fine poem of Franconnette.
Jasmin handed over to the municipality the manuscript of his
poem in a volume beautifully bound. The Mayor, in eloquent
language, accepted the work, and acknowledged the fervent thanks
of the citizens of Toulouse.
As at Bordeaux, Jasmin was feted and entertained by the most
distinguished people of the city. At one of the numerous
banquets at which he was present, he replied to the speech of
the chairman by an impromptu in honour of those who had so
splendidly entertained him. But, as he had already said:
"Impromptus may be good money of the heart, but they are often
the worst money of the head."[3]
On the day following the entertainment, Jasmin was invited to a
"grand banquet" given by the coiffeurs of Toulouse, where they
presented him with "a crown of immortelles and jasmines,"
and to them also he recited another of his impromptus.[4]
Franconnette was shortly after published, and the poem was
received with almost as much applause by the public as it had
been by the citizens of Toulouse. Sainte-beuve, the prince of
French critics, said of the work:--
"In all his compositions Jasmin has a natural, touching idea;
it is a history, either of his invention, or taken from some
local tradition. With his facility as an improvisatore, aided
by the patois in which he writes,... when he puts his dramatis
personae into action, he endeavours to depict their thoughts,
all their simple yet lively conversation, and to clothe them in
words the most artless, simple, and transparent, and in a
language true, eloquent, and sober: never forget this latter
characteristic of Jasmin's works."[5]
M. de Lavergne says of Franconnette, that, of all Jasmin's work,
it is the one in which he aimed at being most entirely popular,
and that it is at the same time the most noble and the most
chastened. He might also have added the most chivalrous.
"There is something essentially knightly," says Miss Preston,
"in Pascal's cast of character, and it is singular that at the
supreme crisis of his fate he assumes, as if unconsciously,
the very phraseology of chivalry.
"Some squire (donzel) should follow me to death.
It is altogether natural and becoming in the high-minded smith."
M. Charles Nodier--Jasmin's old friend--was equally complimentary
in his praises of Franconnette. When a copy of the poem was sent
to him, with an accompanying letter, Nodier replied:--
"I have received with lively gratitude, my dear and illustrious
friend, your beautiful verses, and your charming and
affectionate letter. I have read them with great pleasure and
profound admiration. A Although ill in bed, I have devoured
Franconnette and the other poems. I observe, with a certain
pride, that you have followed my advice, and that you think in
that fine language which you recite so admirably, in place of
translating the patois into French, which deprives it of its
fullness and fairness. I thank you a thousand times for your
very flattering epistle. I am too happy to expostulate with you
seriously as to the gracious things you have said to me; my name
will pass to posterity in the works of my friends; the glory of
having been loved by you goes for a great deal."
The time at length arrived for the presentation of the
testimonial of Toulouse to Jasmin. It consisted of a branch of
laurel in gold. The artist who fashioned it was charged to put
his best work into the golden laurel, so that it might be a chef
d'oeuvre worthy of the city which conferred it, and of being
treasured in the museum of their adopted poet. The work was
indeed admirably executed. The stem was rough, as in nature,
though the leaves were beautifully polished. It had a ribbon
delicately ornamented, with the words "Toulouse a Jasmin."
When the work was finished and placed in its case, the Mayor
desired to send it to Jasmin by a trusty messenger. He selected
Mademoiselle Gasc, assisted by her father, advocate and member
of the municipal council, to present the tribute to Jasmin.
It ought to have been a fete day for the people of Agen, when
their illustrious townsman, though a barber, was about to receive
so cordial an appreciation of his poetical genius from the
learned city of Toulouse. It ought also to have been a fete day
for Jasmin himself.
But alas! an unhappy coincidence occurred which saddened the day
that ought to have been a day of triumph for the poet.
His mother was dying. When Mademoiselle Gasc, accompanied by
her father, the Mayor of Agen, and other friends of Jasmin,
entered the shop, they were informed that he was by the bedside
of his mother, who was at death's door. The physician, who was
consulted as to her state, said that there might only be
sufficient time for Jasmin to receive the deputation.
He accordingly came out for a few moments from his mother's
bed-side. M. Gasc explained the object of the visit, and read to
Jasmin the gracious letter of the Mayor of Toulouse, concluding
as follows:--
"I thank you, in the name of the city of Toulouse, for the fine
poem which you have dedicated to us. This branch of laurel will
remind you of the youthful and beautiful Muse which has inspired
you with such charming verses."
The Mayor of Agen here introduced Mademoiselle Gasc, who,
in her turn, said:--
"And I also, sir, am most happy and proud of the mission which
has been entrusted to me."
Then she presented him with the casket which contained the
golden laurel. Jasmin responded in the lines entitled 'Yesterday
and To-day,' from which the following words may be quoted:--
"Yesterday! Thanks, Toulouse, for our old language and for my
poetry. Your beautiful golden branch ennobles both. And you who
offer it to me, gracious messenger--queen of song and queen of
hearts--tell your city of my perfect happiness, and that I
never anticipated such an honour even in my most golden dreams.
"To-day! Fascinated by the laurel which Toulouse has sent me,
and which fills my heart with joy, I cannot forget, my dear
young lady, the sorrow which overwhelms me--the fatal illness
of my mother--which makes me fear that the most joyful day of
my life will also be the most sorrowful."
Jasmin's alarms were justified. His prayers were of no avail.
His mother died with her hand in his shortly after the
deputation had departed. Her husband had preceded her to the
tomb a few years before. He always had a firm presentiment that
he should be carried in the arm-chair to the hospital, "where all
the Jasmins die." But Jasmin did his best to save his father
from that indignity. He had already broken the arm-chair, and
the old tailor died peacefully in the arms of his son.
Some four months after the recitation of Franconnette at
Toulouse, Jasmin resumed his readings in the cause of charity.
In October 1840 he visited Oleron, and was received with the
usual enthusiasm; and on his return to Pau, he passed the
obelisk erected to Despourrins, the Burns of the Pyrenees.
At Pau he recited his Franconnette to an immense audience amidst
frenzies of applause. It was alleged that the people of the
Pyrenean country were prosaic and indifferent to art. But M.
Dugenne, in the 'Memorial des Pyrenees,' said that it only
wanted such a bewitching poet as Jasmin--with his vibrating
and magical voice--to rouse them and set their minds on fire.
Another writer, M. Alfred Danger, paid him a still more delicate
compliment.
"His poetry," he said, "is not merely the poetry of illusions;
it is alive, and inspires every heart. His admirable delicacy!
His profound tact in every verse! What aristocratic poet could
better express in a higher degree the politeness of the heart,
the truest of all politeness."[6]
Jasmin did not seem to be at all elated by these eulogiums.
When he had finished his recitations, he returned to Agen,
sometimes on foot, sometimes in the diligence, and quietly
resumed his daily work. His success as a poet never induced him
to resign his more humble occupation. Although he received some
returns from the sale of his poems, he felt himself more
independent by relying upon the income derived from his own
business.
His increasing reputation never engendered in him, as is too
often the case with self-taught geniuses who suddenly rise into
fame, a supercilious contempt for the ordinary transactions of
life. "After all," he said, "contentment is better than riches."
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