Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,
A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,
A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v14 - Ibn to Juv
This greatest scholar and
writer of modern Japan was born in Matsuzaka in Ise in the year 1730, and
died in 1801. «To him more than to any other one man is due the move.
ment which has restored the Mikado to his ancestral rights. »]
He great object in painting any one is to make as true a like-
ness of him as possible,-a likeness of his face (that is of
course the first essential), and also of his figure, and even
of his very clothes. Great attention should therefore be paid
to the smallest details of a portrait. Now in the present day,
T"
## p. 8185 (#385) ###########################################
JAPANESE LITERATURE
8185
painters of the human face set out with no other intention than
that of showing their vigor of touch, and of producing an elegant
picture. The result is a total want of likeness to the subject.
Indeed, likeness to the subject is not a thing to which they
attach any importance. From this craving to display vigor and
to produce elegant pictures there results a neglect of details.
Pictures are dashed off so sketchily that not only is there no
likeness to the face of the person painted, but wise and noble
men are represented with an expression of countenance befitting
none but rustics of the lowest degree. This is worthy of the
gravest censure. If the real features of a personage of antiquity
are unknown, it should be the artist's endeavor to represent such
a personage in a manner appropriate to his rank or virtues. The
man of great rank should be represented as having a dignified
air, so that he may appear to have been really great. The vir-
tuous man, again, should be painted so as to look really virtuous.
But far from conforming to this principle, the artists of modern
times, occupied as they are with nothing but the desire of dis-
playing their vigor of touch, represent the noble and virtuous
alike as if they had been rustics or idiots.
The same ever-present desire for mere technical display makes
our artists turn beautiful women's faces into ugly ones. It will
perhaps be alleged that a too elegant representation of mere
beauty of feature may result in a less valuable work of art; but
when it does so the fault must lie with the artist. His business
is to paint the beautiful face, and at the same time not to pro-
duce a picture artistically inferior. In any case, fear for his own
.
reputation as an artist is a wretched excuse for turning a beau-
tiful face into an ugly one. On the contrary, a beautiful woman
should be painted as beautiful as possible; for ugliness repels the
beholder. At the same time it often happens in such pictures as
those which are sold in the Yedo shops, that the strained effort
to make the faces beautiful ends in excessive ugliness and vul-
garity, to say nothing of artistic degradation.
Our warlike paintings (that is, representations of fierce war-
riors fighting) have nothing human about the countenances. The
immense round eyes, the angry nose, the great mouth, remind
one of demons. Now, will any one assert that this unnatural,
demoniacal fashion is the proper way to give an idea of the very
fiercest warrior's look ? No! The warrior's fierceness should in-
deed be depicted, but he should at the same time be recognized
## p. 8186 (#386) ###########################################
8186
JAPANESE LITERATURE
as a simple human being. It is doubtless to such portraits of
warriors that a Chinese author alludes, when, speaking of Japan-
ese paintings, he says that the figures in them are like those of
the anthropophagous demons of Buddhist lore.
As his country-
men do not ever actually meet living Japanese, such of them as
read his book will receive the impression that all our country.
men resemble demons in appearance. For though the Japanese,
through constant reading of Chinese books, are well acquainted
with Chinese matters, the Chinese, who never read our liter-
ature, are completely ignorant on our score, and there can be
little doubt that the few stray allusions to us that do occur are
implicitly believed in. This belief of foreigners in our portraits
as an actual representation of our people will have the effect of
making them imagine - when they see our great men painted
like rustics and our beautiful women like frights — that the Jap-
anese men are really contemptible in appearance and all the
Japanese women hideous. Neither is it foreigners alone who will
be thus misled. Our own very countrymen will not be able to
resist the impression that the portraits they see of the unknown
heroes of antiquity do really represent those heroes' faces.
## p. 8187 (#387) ###########################################
8187
JACQUES JASMIN
(1798–1864)
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
ACQUES JASMIN, the barber-poet of Gascony, and the legit-
imate father of modern Provençal song, was born at Agen,
in the Department of Lot-et-Garonne, March 6th, 1798. He
wrote with charming ease and vivacity in his native Languedocian
dialect; which is closely allied to that of the Bouches-du-Rhône,
made famous not long afterward by the more formal efforts of Fré-
déric Mistral and the self-styled Félibres. The humble parents of
Jasmin, . after a signally unsuccessful effort to prepare him for the
priesthood, apprenticed the boy to a barber;
and he gayly gave to his first volume of
verses, which appeared in 1825, the appro-
priate name of Papillotos,' or Curl-Papers.
These naïve compositions consisted mainly
of such occasional pieces as are always in
request from the local poet of a provin-
cial neighborhood: hymns for celebrations,
birthday odes, dedications, and elegies:
"improvisations obligées,” Sainte-Beuve
impatiently called them, which, while they
showed the musical capacities of the Gas-
con patois, and its great richness in onoma-
topæic words and phrases, were far from JACQUES JASMIN
revealing the full range of the singer's
power. « One can only pay a poetical debt by means of an im-
promptu,” was Jasmin's own quaint apology, in after years, for the
conventionality of his youthful efforts; but impromptus, though very
good money of the heart, are almost always bad money of the head. ”
At the age of thirty-two, five years after the adventurous fight
of the Papillotos,' Jasmin told with fascinating simplicity and an
inimitable mixture of pathos and fun, in an autobiographical poem
entitled Soubenes) or Souvenirs, the tale of his own early struggles
and privations (he came literally of a line of paupers), and his auda-
cious conquest of a position among men of letters. The touching story
of The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuillé, admirably translated into Eng-
lish verse by Longfellow, appeared about 1835; Françonette in 1840;
as
## p. 8188 (#388) ###########################################
8188
JACQUES JASMIN
and subsequently, at intervals of several years, “The Twin Brothers,
(Simple Martha,' and (The Son's Week. )
(Françonette,' a romantic and highly wrought narrative in verse,
of religious persecution, sorcery, and passion, was held, both in Jas-
min's own frank judgment and that of his ablest critics, to be the
Gascon's masterpiece. It won him warm and wide recognition, not
only in France but throughout literary Europe. Writers of the rank
of Pontmartin and Charles Nodier, and highest of all Sainte-Beuve,
proceeded to make elaborate studies of the poems and their dialect,
lauded their originality, and confessed their distinction. Learned
societies and foreign potentates caused medals to be struck in honor
of the whilom barber's apprentice. He was made Chevalier of the
Legion of Honor in 1846; in 1852 his works were crowned by the
French Academy, and he received the very exceptional prize of five
thousand francs. The head of the parvenu poet was not at all turned
by his abrupt recognition in high quarters. Sainte-Beuve had said,
with his own exquisite discrimination, that the finest of Jasmin's
qualities as a writer was his intellectual sobriety. He proved that he
possessed this rare quality in the moral order as well. It is the
trait by which he is most distinguished from the younger school of
Provençal poets, with their proposed immortalities;— their somewhat
over-solemn and oppressive consciousness of descent from the Trouba-
dours, and a mighty poetic mission to fulfill. Jasmin is never pomp-
ous, and hardly ever dithyrambic. He is above everything natural
and humane; equally impulsive and spontaneous in his laughter and
his tears, and always essentially clean. He wrote slowly and with
untiring care; bringing out his principal poems, as we have seen,
about five years apart.
"I have learned,” he said on one occasion,
“that in moments of heat and emotion we are all alike eloquent and
laconic — prompt both in speech and action; that is to say, we are
unconscious poets. And I have also learned that it is possible for a
muse to become all this wittingly, and by dint of patient toil. ” No
man was ever better pleased by the approval of high authorities than
Jasmin; and he was so far reassured about his first metrical experi-
ments by the commendation of Sainte-Beuve, that he issued a new
edition of his early lyrics, including a mock-heroic poem called “The
Charivari, which he merrily dedicated to the prince of critics. "Away
on your snow-white paper wings! ” is the burden of his light-hearted
envoi, «for now you know that an angel protects you.
He has even
dressed you up in fine French robes, and put you in the Deux
Mondes ! » But he was also quite equal to forming an independent
opinion of his own performances; and when some one congratu-
lated him on having revived the traditions of the Troubadours, the
irrepressible Gascon shouted in reply, “Troubadours indeed! Why,
## p. 8189 (#389) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8189
I am
a great deal better poet than any of the Troubadours! Not
one of them has written a long poem of sustained interest like my
Françonette! ! ) There is at least no petty vanity here.
Jasmin may almost be said to have introduced the fashion, in
modern times, of reading or reciting his own poems in public. He
had a powerful and mellow voice, and declaimed with great dramatic
effect. He made none of those bold and brilliant experiments in
metre which allured the younger Félibres, but clung always to the
measures long approved in legal” French poetry; especially to Alex-
andrines and iambic tetrameters, and to their association in that sort
of irregular ballad measure of which La Fontaine had proved the
flexibility in classic French, and its peculiar fitness for poetical narra-
tive. Jasmin lived always in the South, but visited the capital occas-
ionally in his later years, and took the lionizing which he received
there as lightly as he had taken the medals and snuff-boxes of royal
dilettanti, or the habitual starvation, varied by frequent floggings, of
his wayward and squalid infancy. He died at Agen on the 4th of
October, 1864, in the sixty-seventh year of his age.
A popular edition of his complete works, in parallel Gascon and
French, was issued in Paris in 1860 — one year after the first publica-
tion there of Mistral's (Miréio. ' The rather coarse wood-cut likeness
which serves as a frontispiece to this volume represents a striking
and very attractive face: broad, open, and massive in feature, shrewd
and yet sweet in expression. It is a peasant's face in every line, but
full of power; and the head is carried high, with all the unconscious
fierté of old South-European race.
Full details concerning the first and most interesting period of
Jasmin's remarkable career are to be found in the Souvenirs,' which
begin, as the poet always preferred to begin a story, in a low and
quiet key, confidentially and colloquially:-
:-
“Now will I keep my promise, and will tell
How I was born, and what my youth befell. ”
Harmet aux preston
## p. 8190 (#390) ###########################################
8190
JACQUES JASMIN
A SIMPLE STORY
From My Souvenirs
NY
ow will I keep my promise, and will tell
How I was born, and what my youth befell.
The poor decrepit century passed away;
Had barely two more years on earth to stay,
When in a dingy and a dim retreat,
An old rat-palace in a narrow street,
Behind a door, Shrove Tuesday morn,
Just as the day flung its black nightcap by,
Of mother lame, and humpbacked sire, was born
A boy,- and it was I.
When princes come to life, the cannon thunder
With joy; but when I woke,
Being but a tailor's son, it was no wonder
Not even a cracker spoke.
Only a certain charivarian band
Before our neighbor's door had ta’en its stand,
Whereby my little virgin ears were torn
With dreadful din of kettle and of horn,
Which only served to echo wide the drone
Of forty couplets of my father's own.
Suddenly life became a pastime gay.
We can but paint what we have felt, they say:
Why, then must feeling have begun for me
At seven years old; for then myself I see,
With paper cap on head and horn in hand,
Following my father in the village band.
Was I not happy while the horns were blowing ?
Or better still, when we by chance were going,
A score or more, as we were wont to, whiles,
To gather fagots on the river isles ?
Bare heads, bare feet, our luncheon carrying,
Just as the noontide bells began to ring,
We would set forth. Ah, that was glee!
Singing The Lamb thou gavest me! )
I'm merry at the very memory!
Nathless, I was a dreamy little thing;
One simple word would strike me mute full often,
And I would hark, as to a viol string,
And knew not why I felt my heart so soften:
## p. 8191 (#391) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8191
And that was school, a pleasant word enow;
But when my mother at her spinning-wheel
Would pause and look on me with pitying brow,
And breathe it to my grandsire, I would feel
A sudden sorrow as I eyed the twain,-
A mystery, a long whole moment's pain.
And something else there was that made me sad:
I liked to fill a little pouch I had,
At the great fairs, with whatso I could glean,
And then to bid my mother look within;
And if my purse but showed her I had won
A few poor coins, a sou for service done,
Sighing, "Ah, my poor little one,” she said,
« This comes in time;) and then my spirit bled.
Yet laughter soon came back, and I
Was giddier than before, a very butterfly.
.
At last a winter came when I could keep
No more my footstool; for there chanced a thing
So strange, so sorrowful, so harrowing,
That long, long afterwards it made me weep.
Sweet ignorance, why is thy kind disguise
So early rent from happy little eyes ?
I mind one Monday,—'twas my tenth birthday,
The other boys had throned me king, in play,
When I was smitten by a sorry sight:
Two cartmen bore some aged helpless wight,
In an old willow chair, along the way.
I watched them as they near and nearer drew;
And what saw I? Dear God, could it be true ?
'Twas my own grandsire, and our household all
Following. I saw but him. With sudden yearning,
I sprang and kissed him. He, my kiss returning,
For the first time some piteous tears let fall.
“Where wilt thou go? and why wilt thou forsake
Us little ones who love thee? ” was my cry.
“Dear, they are taking me," my grandsire spake,
«Unto the almshouse, where the Jasmins die. ”
Kissed me once more, closed his blue eyes, passed on.
Far through the trees we followed them, be sure.
In five more days the word came he was gone.
For me sad wisdom woke that Monday morn:
Then knew I first that we were very poor.
## p. 8192 (#392) ###########################################
8192
JACQUES JASMIN
Myself, nor less nor more, I'll draw for you,
And, if not fair, the likeness shall be true.
Now saw I why our race, from sire to son,
For many lives, had never died at home;
But time for crutches having come,
The almshouse claimed its own.
I saw why one brisk woman every morn
Paused, pail in hand, my grandame's threshold by:
She brought her - not yet old, though thus forlorn -
The bread of charity.
And ah, that wallet! by two cords uphung,
Wherein my hands for broken bread went straying,–
Grandsire had borne it round the farms among,
A morsel from his ancient comrades praying.
Poor grandsire! When I kept him company,
The softest bit was evermore for me!
All this was shame and sorrow exquisite.
I played no more at leap-frog in the street,
But sat and dreamed about the seasons gone.
And if chance things my sudden laughter won,
Flag, soldier, hoop, or kite, -it died away
Like the pale sunbeam of a weeping day.
One morn my mother came, as one with gladness crazed,
Crying, Come, Jacques, to school! Stupid, I stood and gazed.
“»
« To school! What then? are we grown rich ? » I cried amazed.
“Nay, nay, poor little one! Thou wilt not have to pay!
Thy cousin gives it thee, and I am blessed this day. ”
Behold me then, with fifty others set,
Mumbling my lesson in the alphabet.
I had a goodly memory; or so they used to say.
Thanks to this pious dame, therefore,
'Twixt smiles and tears it came to pass
That I could read in six months more;
In six months more could say the mass;
In six months more I might aspire
To tantum ergo and the choir ;
In six months more, still paying nothing,
I passed the sacred college gate;
In six months more, with wrath and loathing
They thrust me forth. Ah, luckless fate!
'Twas thus: a tempting prize was offered by-and-by
Upon the term's last week, and my theme won the same.
## p. 8193 (#393) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8193
(A cassock 'twas, and verily
As autumn heather old and dry. )
Nathless, when mother dear upon Shrove Monday came,
My cheeks fired when we kissed; along my veins the blood
Racing in little blobs did seem.
More darns were in the cassock, well I understood,
Than errors in my theme;
But glad at heart was I, and the gladder for her glee.
What love was in her touch! What looks she gave her son!
«Thank God, thou learnest well! » said she;
“For this is why, my little one,
Each Tuesday comes a loaf, and so rude the winter blows,
It is welcome, as He knows. "
(
Thereon I gave my word I would very learned be;
And when she turned away, content was in her eyes.
So I pondered on my frock, and my sire, who presently
Should come and take my measure. It happened otherwise.
The marplot de'il himself had sworn
It should not be, so it would seem,
Nor holy gown by me be worn.
Wherefore my steps he guided to a quiet court and dim,
Drove me across, and bade me stop
Under a ladder slight and tall,
Where a pretty peasant maiden, roosted against the wall,
Was dressing pouter pigeons, there atop.
Oft as I saw a woman, in the times whereof I write,
Slid a tremor through my veins, and across my dreary day
There flashed a sudden vision on my sight
Of a life all velvet, so to say:
Thus, when I saw Catrine (rosy she was, and sweet),
I was fain to mount a bit, till I discerned
A pair of comely legs, a pair of snowy feet,
And all my silly heart within me burned.
One tell-tale sigh I gave, and my damsel veered, alas!
Then huddled up with piteous cries;
The ladder snapped before my eyes.
She fell! - escape for me none was!
And there we twain lay sprawling upon the court-yard floor,
I under and she o'er!
But while so dulcet vengeance is wrought me by my stars,
What step is this upon the stair? Who fumbles at the bars?
XIV-513
## p. 8194 (#394) ###########################################
8194
JACQUES JASMIN
(
Alackaday! Who opes the door?
The dread superior himself! And he my pardon re!
Thou knowest the Florence Lion, — the famous picture where
The mother sees, in stark despair,
The onslaught of the monster wild
Who will devour her darling child;
And, fury in her look, nor heeding life the least,
With piercing cry, “My boy! ) leaps on the savage beast;
Who, wondering and withstood,
Seemeth to quench the burning of his cruel thirst for blood,
And the baby is released:
Just so the reverend canon, with madness in his eye,
Sprang on my wretched self, and “My sweetmeats! ” was his
cry;
And the nobler lion's part, alas, was not for me!
For the jar was empty half and the bottom plain to see!
“Out of this house, thou imp of hell:
Thou'rt past forgiveness now! Dream not of such a thing! ”
And the old canon, summoning
His forces, shook my ladder well.
Then with a quaking heart I turned me to descend,
Still by one handle holding tight
The fatal jar, which dropped outright
And shattered, and so came the end!
Behold me now in dire disgrace,
An outcast in the street, in the merry carnival,
As black as any Moor, with all
The sweetmeat stains upon my face!
My woes, meseemed, were just begun.
“Ho for the masque! ) a gamin cried;
Full desperately did I run,
But a mob of howling urchins thronged me on every side,
Raised at my heels a cloud of dust,
And roared, “The masque is full of must! ”
As on the wind's own pinions borne
I fled, and gained our cot forlorn,
And in among my household burst,
Starved, dripping, dead with rage and thirst.
Uprose a cry of wonderment from sisters, mother, sire,
And while we kissed I told them all, whereon a silence fell.
Seeing bean-porridge on the fire,
I said I would my hunger quell.
## p. 8195 (#395) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8195
Wherefore then did they make as though they heard not me,
Standing death-still? At last arose my mother dear,
Most anxiously, most tenderly.
Why are we tarrying ? ” said she,
“No more will come. Our all is here. "
»
But I, “No more of what ? Ah, tell me, for God's sake! ) -
Sorely the mystery made me quake,-
“What wast thou waiting, mother mild ? ”
I trembled, for I guessed. And she, “The loaf, my child! ”
So I had ta'en their bread away! O squalor and distress!
Accursed sweetmeats! Naughty feet!
I am base indeed! O silence full of bitterness!
Gentles, who pitying weep for every woe ye meet,
My anguish ye may guess!
No money and no loaf! A sorry tale, I ween.
Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,
A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.
Silent I stood awhile, and my mother blankly scanned,
While she, as in a dream, gazed on her own left hand;
Then put her Sunday kerchief by,
And rose and spake right cheerily,
And left us for a while; and when she came once more,
Beneath her arm a little loaf she bore.
Then all anew a-talking fell
And to the table turned. Ah, well!
They laughed, but I was full of thought,
And evermore my wandering eyes my mother sought.
Sorry was I, and mute, for a doubt that me possessed,
And drowned the noisy clamor of the rest.
But what I longed to see perpetually withdrew
And shyly hid from view,
Until at last, soup being done,
My gentle mother made a move
As she would cut the loaf, signing the cross above.
Then stole I one swift look the dear left hand upon,
And ah, it was too true! - the wedding-ring was gone!
One beauteous eve in summer, when the world was all abroad,
Swept onward by the human stream that toward the palace bore,
Unthinkingly the way I trod,
And followed eager hundreds o'er
.
## p. 8196 (#396) ###########################################
8196
JACQUES JASMIN
The threshold of an open door.
Good Heaven! where was 1 ? What might mean
The lifting of that linen screen ?
O lovely, lovely vision! O country strange and fair!
How they sing in yon bright world! and how sweetly talk they too!
Can ears attend the music rare,
Or eyes embrace the dazzling view ?
«Why, yon is Cinderella! ” I shouted in my maze.
« Silence! ” quoth he who sat by me.
«Why, then ? Where are we, sir ? What is this whereon we gaze
« Thou idiot! This is the Comedy ! »
Ah, yes! I knew that magic name,
Full oft at school had heard the same;
And fast the fevered pulses flew
In my low room the dark night through.
“O fatherland of poesy! O paradise of love!
Thou art a dream to me no more! Thy mighty spell I prove.
And thee, sweet Cinderella, my guardian I make,
And to-morrow I turn player for thy sake! ”
But slumber came at dawn, and next the flaming look
Of my master, who awoke me. How like a leaf I shook!
«Where wast thou yesternight? Answer me, ne'er-do-weel!
And wherefore home at midnight steal ? ”
« sir, how glorious was the play!
“The play, indeed! 'Tis very true what people say:
Thou art stark crazy, wretched boy,
To make so vile an uproar through all the livelong night!
To sing and spout, and rest of sober souls destroy.
Thou who hast worn a cassock, nor blushest for thy plight!
Thou'lt come to grief, I warn thee so!
Quit shop, mayhap, and turn thyself a player low! ”
“Ay, master dear, that would I be! »
What, what? Hear I aright? ” said he.
Art blind? and dost not know the gate
That leadeth to the almshouse straight ? )
At this terrific word, the heart in me went down
As though a club had fallen thereon;
And Cinderella fled her throne in my light head.
The pang I straightway did forget;
And yet, meseems, yon awful threat
Made softer evermore my attic bed.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in "Troubadours and Trouvères?
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers
## p. 8197 (#397) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8197
THE SIREN WITH THE HEART OF ICE
From Françonette)
THO
HOU whom the swains environ,
O maid of wayward will,
O icy-hearted siren,
The hour we all desire when
Thou too, thou too shalt feel!
Thy gay wings thou dost futter,
Thy airy nothings utter,
While the crowd can only mutter
In ecstasy complete
At thy feet.
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Sunshine, the heavens adorning,
We welcome with delight;
But thy sweet face returning
With every Sunday morning
Is yet a rarer sight.
We love thy haughty graces,
Thy swallow-like swift paces;
Thy song the soul upraises;
Thy lips, thine eyes, thy hair-
All are fair,
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy going from them widows
All places utterly.
The hedge-rows and the meadows
Turn scentless; gloomy shadows
Discolor the blue sky.
Then, when thou comest again,
Farewell fatigue and pain!
Life glows in every vein.
O'er every slender finger
We would linger.
## p. 8198 (#398) ###########################################
8198
JACQUES JASMIN
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy pet dove, in his fitting,
Doth warn thee, lady fair!
Thee, in the wood forgetting;
Brighter for his dim setting
He shines, for love is there!
Love is the life of all:
Oh, answer thou his call,
Lest the flower of thy days fall,
And the grace whereof we wot
Be forgot!
For, till great love shall move thee,
Thy victories are vain.
'Tis little men should love thee:
Learn thou to love again.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in (Troubadours and Trouvères. )
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÉ
ONLY the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:
Let me attempt it with an English quill;
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
I
A"
T The foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castel-Cuillé,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph's Eve:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending:
## p. 8199 (#399) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8199
When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain,
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Towards St. Amant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies
Singing their chant:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,-
A rustic bridal, ah, how sweet it is!
To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
Gayly frolicking,
A band of youngsters,
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,
With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest,
## p. 8200 (#400) ###########################################
8200
JACQUES JASMIN
While the bride, with roguish eyes,
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
« Those who catch me
Married verily
This year shall be ! »
And all pursue with eager haste,
And all attain what they pursue,
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it St. Joseph would say to us all
That love o’erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers: they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress?
It is that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer's blight -
The pestilence that walks by night -
Took the young bride's sight away.
All at the father's stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.
Wearied at home, ere long the lover Aled;
Returned but three short days ago,
The golden chain they round him throw;
He is enticed and onward led;
## p. 8201 (#401) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8201
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.
Then suddenly a maiden cried,
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane! ) And by a fountain's side
A woman, bent and gray with years,
Under the mulberry-trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain :
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day;
And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers :
She never deceives, she never errs.
But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe;
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue
Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand
Making the sign of the cross, doth say:
« Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb! »
And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain ?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resuined the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear.
And down green alley's
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain:
## p. 8202 (#402) ###########################################
8202
JACQUES JASMIN
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
II
And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary :-
“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived, yet keeps aloof so far!
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
Forever night! forever night!
When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above;
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget — and heaven - and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then -- when one is blind?
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah, woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Savior dear;
## p. 8203 (#403) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8203
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he! »
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms but sightless eyes;
'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries :-
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by:
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ?
For all are there but you and I! )
“Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!
Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be? »
“My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend! »
C
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length the bridal song again
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
«Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay:
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said! ”
“I know it! » answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart cruished as in a vise !
## p. 8204 (#404) ###########################################
8204
JACQUES JASMIN
«Paul, be not sad! 'Tis a holiday:
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for awhile alone. ”
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul;
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold, - art chill as death:
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet? ”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come ere long:
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy;
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste — what sayest thou ?
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now!
writer of modern Japan was born in Matsuzaka in Ise in the year 1730, and
died in 1801. «To him more than to any other one man is due the move.
ment which has restored the Mikado to his ancestral rights. »]
He great object in painting any one is to make as true a like-
ness of him as possible,-a likeness of his face (that is of
course the first essential), and also of his figure, and even
of his very clothes. Great attention should therefore be paid
to the smallest details of a portrait. Now in the present day,
T"
## p. 8185 (#385) ###########################################
JAPANESE LITERATURE
8185
painters of the human face set out with no other intention than
that of showing their vigor of touch, and of producing an elegant
picture. The result is a total want of likeness to the subject.
Indeed, likeness to the subject is not a thing to which they
attach any importance. From this craving to display vigor and
to produce elegant pictures there results a neglect of details.
Pictures are dashed off so sketchily that not only is there no
likeness to the face of the person painted, but wise and noble
men are represented with an expression of countenance befitting
none but rustics of the lowest degree. This is worthy of the
gravest censure. If the real features of a personage of antiquity
are unknown, it should be the artist's endeavor to represent such
a personage in a manner appropriate to his rank or virtues. The
man of great rank should be represented as having a dignified
air, so that he may appear to have been really great. The vir-
tuous man, again, should be painted so as to look really virtuous.
But far from conforming to this principle, the artists of modern
times, occupied as they are with nothing but the desire of dis-
playing their vigor of touch, represent the noble and virtuous
alike as if they had been rustics or idiots.
The same ever-present desire for mere technical display makes
our artists turn beautiful women's faces into ugly ones. It will
perhaps be alleged that a too elegant representation of mere
beauty of feature may result in a less valuable work of art; but
when it does so the fault must lie with the artist. His business
is to paint the beautiful face, and at the same time not to pro-
duce a picture artistically inferior. In any case, fear for his own
.
reputation as an artist is a wretched excuse for turning a beau-
tiful face into an ugly one. On the contrary, a beautiful woman
should be painted as beautiful as possible; for ugliness repels the
beholder. At the same time it often happens in such pictures as
those which are sold in the Yedo shops, that the strained effort
to make the faces beautiful ends in excessive ugliness and vul-
garity, to say nothing of artistic degradation.
Our warlike paintings (that is, representations of fierce war-
riors fighting) have nothing human about the countenances. The
immense round eyes, the angry nose, the great mouth, remind
one of demons. Now, will any one assert that this unnatural,
demoniacal fashion is the proper way to give an idea of the very
fiercest warrior's look ? No! The warrior's fierceness should in-
deed be depicted, but he should at the same time be recognized
## p. 8186 (#386) ###########################################
8186
JAPANESE LITERATURE
as a simple human being. It is doubtless to such portraits of
warriors that a Chinese author alludes, when, speaking of Japan-
ese paintings, he says that the figures in them are like those of
the anthropophagous demons of Buddhist lore.
As his country-
men do not ever actually meet living Japanese, such of them as
read his book will receive the impression that all our country.
men resemble demons in appearance. For though the Japanese,
through constant reading of Chinese books, are well acquainted
with Chinese matters, the Chinese, who never read our liter-
ature, are completely ignorant on our score, and there can be
little doubt that the few stray allusions to us that do occur are
implicitly believed in. This belief of foreigners in our portraits
as an actual representation of our people will have the effect of
making them imagine - when they see our great men painted
like rustics and our beautiful women like frights — that the Jap-
anese men are really contemptible in appearance and all the
Japanese women hideous. Neither is it foreigners alone who will
be thus misled. Our own very countrymen will not be able to
resist the impression that the portraits they see of the unknown
heroes of antiquity do really represent those heroes' faces.
## p. 8187 (#387) ###########################################
8187
JACQUES JASMIN
(1798–1864)
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
ACQUES JASMIN, the barber-poet of Gascony, and the legit-
imate father of modern Provençal song, was born at Agen,
in the Department of Lot-et-Garonne, March 6th, 1798. He
wrote with charming ease and vivacity in his native Languedocian
dialect; which is closely allied to that of the Bouches-du-Rhône,
made famous not long afterward by the more formal efforts of Fré-
déric Mistral and the self-styled Félibres. The humble parents of
Jasmin, . after a signally unsuccessful effort to prepare him for the
priesthood, apprenticed the boy to a barber;
and he gayly gave to his first volume of
verses, which appeared in 1825, the appro-
priate name of Papillotos,' or Curl-Papers.
These naïve compositions consisted mainly
of such occasional pieces as are always in
request from the local poet of a provin-
cial neighborhood: hymns for celebrations,
birthday odes, dedications, and elegies:
"improvisations obligées,” Sainte-Beuve
impatiently called them, which, while they
showed the musical capacities of the Gas-
con patois, and its great richness in onoma-
topæic words and phrases, were far from JACQUES JASMIN
revealing the full range of the singer's
power. « One can only pay a poetical debt by means of an im-
promptu,” was Jasmin's own quaint apology, in after years, for the
conventionality of his youthful efforts; but impromptus, though very
good money of the heart, are almost always bad money of the head. ”
At the age of thirty-two, five years after the adventurous fight
of the Papillotos,' Jasmin told with fascinating simplicity and an
inimitable mixture of pathos and fun, in an autobiographical poem
entitled Soubenes) or Souvenirs, the tale of his own early struggles
and privations (he came literally of a line of paupers), and his auda-
cious conquest of a position among men of letters. The touching story
of The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuillé, admirably translated into Eng-
lish verse by Longfellow, appeared about 1835; Françonette in 1840;
as
## p. 8188 (#388) ###########################################
8188
JACQUES JASMIN
and subsequently, at intervals of several years, “The Twin Brothers,
(Simple Martha,' and (The Son's Week. )
(Françonette,' a romantic and highly wrought narrative in verse,
of religious persecution, sorcery, and passion, was held, both in Jas-
min's own frank judgment and that of his ablest critics, to be the
Gascon's masterpiece. It won him warm and wide recognition, not
only in France but throughout literary Europe. Writers of the rank
of Pontmartin and Charles Nodier, and highest of all Sainte-Beuve,
proceeded to make elaborate studies of the poems and their dialect,
lauded their originality, and confessed their distinction. Learned
societies and foreign potentates caused medals to be struck in honor
of the whilom barber's apprentice. He was made Chevalier of the
Legion of Honor in 1846; in 1852 his works were crowned by the
French Academy, and he received the very exceptional prize of five
thousand francs. The head of the parvenu poet was not at all turned
by his abrupt recognition in high quarters. Sainte-Beuve had said,
with his own exquisite discrimination, that the finest of Jasmin's
qualities as a writer was his intellectual sobriety. He proved that he
possessed this rare quality in the moral order as well. It is the
trait by which he is most distinguished from the younger school of
Provençal poets, with their proposed immortalities;— their somewhat
over-solemn and oppressive consciousness of descent from the Trouba-
dours, and a mighty poetic mission to fulfill. Jasmin is never pomp-
ous, and hardly ever dithyrambic. He is above everything natural
and humane; equally impulsive and spontaneous in his laughter and
his tears, and always essentially clean. He wrote slowly and with
untiring care; bringing out his principal poems, as we have seen,
about five years apart.
"I have learned,” he said on one occasion,
“that in moments of heat and emotion we are all alike eloquent and
laconic — prompt both in speech and action; that is to say, we are
unconscious poets. And I have also learned that it is possible for a
muse to become all this wittingly, and by dint of patient toil. ” No
man was ever better pleased by the approval of high authorities than
Jasmin; and he was so far reassured about his first metrical experi-
ments by the commendation of Sainte-Beuve, that he issued a new
edition of his early lyrics, including a mock-heroic poem called “The
Charivari, which he merrily dedicated to the prince of critics. "Away
on your snow-white paper wings! ” is the burden of his light-hearted
envoi, «for now you know that an angel protects you.
He has even
dressed you up in fine French robes, and put you in the Deux
Mondes ! » But he was also quite equal to forming an independent
opinion of his own performances; and when some one congratu-
lated him on having revived the traditions of the Troubadours, the
irrepressible Gascon shouted in reply, “Troubadours indeed! Why,
## p. 8189 (#389) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8189
I am
a great deal better poet than any of the Troubadours! Not
one of them has written a long poem of sustained interest like my
Françonette! ! ) There is at least no petty vanity here.
Jasmin may almost be said to have introduced the fashion, in
modern times, of reading or reciting his own poems in public. He
had a powerful and mellow voice, and declaimed with great dramatic
effect. He made none of those bold and brilliant experiments in
metre which allured the younger Félibres, but clung always to the
measures long approved in legal” French poetry; especially to Alex-
andrines and iambic tetrameters, and to their association in that sort
of irregular ballad measure of which La Fontaine had proved the
flexibility in classic French, and its peculiar fitness for poetical narra-
tive. Jasmin lived always in the South, but visited the capital occas-
ionally in his later years, and took the lionizing which he received
there as lightly as he had taken the medals and snuff-boxes of royal
dilettanti, or the habitual starvation, varied by frequent floggings, of
his wayward and squalid infancy. He died at Agen on the 4th of
October, 1864, in the sixty-seventh year of his age.
A popular edition of his complete works, in parallel Gascon and
French, was issued in Paris in 1860 — one year after the first publica-
tion there of Mistral's (Miréio. ' The rather coarse wood-cut likeness
which serves as a frontispiece to this volume represents a striking
and very attractive face: broad, open, and massive in feature, shrewd
and yet sweet in expression. It is a peasant's face in every line, but
full of power; and the head is carried high, with all the unconscious
fierté of old South-European race.
Full details concerning the first and most interesting period of
Jasmin's remarkable career are to be found in the Souvenirs,' which
begin, as the poet always preferred to begin a story, in a low and
quiet key, confidentially and colloquially:-
:-
“Now will I keep my promise, and will tell
How I was born, and what my youth befell. ”
Harmet aux preston
## p. 8190 (#390) ###########################################
8190
JACQUES JASMIN
A SIMPLE STORY
From My Souvenirs
NY
ow will I keep my promise, and will tell
How I was born, and what my youth befell.
The poor decrepit century passed away;
Had barely two more years on earth to stay,
When in a dingy and a dim retreat,
An old rat-palace in a narrow street,
Behind a door, Shrove Tuesday morn,
Just as the day flung its black nightcap by,
Of mother lame, and humpbacked sire, was born
A boy,- and it was I.
When princes come to life, the cannon thunder
With joy; but when I woke,
Being but a tailor's son, it was no wonder
Not even a cracker spoke.
Only a certain charivarian band
Before our neighbor's door had ta’en its stand,
Whereby my little virgin ears were torn
With dreadful din of kettle and of horn,
Which only served to echo wide the drone
Of forty couplets of my father's own.
Suddenly life became a pastime gay.
We can but paint what we have felt, they say:
Why, then must feeling have begun for me
At seven years old; for then myself I see,
With paper cap on head and horn in hand,
Following my father in the village band.
Was I not happy while the horns were blowing ?
Or better still, when we by chance were going,
A score or more, as we were wont to, whiles,
To gather fagots on the river isles ?
Bare heads, bare feet, our luncheon carrying,
Just as the noontide bells began to ring,
We would set forth. Ah, that was glee!
Singing The Lamb thou gavest me! )
I'm merry at the very memory!
Nathless, I was a dreamy little thing;
One simple word would strike me mute full often,
And I would hark, as to a viol string,
And knew not why I felt my heart so soften:
## p. 8191 (#391) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8191
And that was school, a pleasant word enow;
But when my mother at her spinning-wheel
Would pause and look on me with pitying brow,
And breathe it to my grandsire, I would feel
A sudden sorrow as I eyed the twain,-
A mystery, a long whole moment's pain.
And something else there was that made me sad:
I liked to fill a little pouch I had,
At the great fairs, with whatso I could glean,
And then to bid my mother look within;
And if my purse but showed her I had won
A few poor coins, a sou for service done,
Sighing, "Ah, my poor little one,” she said,
« This comes in time;) and then my spirit bled.
Yet laughter soon came back, and I
Was giddier than before, a very butterfly.
.
At last a winter came when I could keep
No more my footstool; for there chanced a thing
So strange, so sorrowful, so harrowing,
That long, long afterwards it made me weep.
Sweet ignorance, why is thy kind disguise
So early rent from happy little eyes ?
I mind one Monday,—'twas my tenth birthday,
The other boys had throned me king, in play,
When I was smitten by a sorry sight:
Two cartmen bore some aged helpless wight,
In an old willow chair, along the way.
I watched them as they near and nearer drew;
And what saw I? Dear God, could it be true ?
'Twas my own grandsire, and our household all
Following. I saw but him. With sudden yearning,
I sprang and kissed him. He, my kiss returning,
For the first time some piteous tears let fall.
“Where wilt thou go? and why wilt thou forsake
Us little ones who love thee? ” was my cry.
“Dear, they are taking me," my grandsire spake,
«Unto the almshouse, where the Jasmins die. ”
Kissed me once more, closed his blue eyes, passed on.
Far through the trees we followed them, be sure.
In five more days the word came he was gone.
For me sad wisdom woke that Monday morn:
Then knew I first that we were very poor.
## p. 8192 (#392) ###########################################
8192
JACQUES JASMIN
Myself, nor less nor more, I'll draw for you,
And, if not fair, the likeness shall be true.
Now saw I why our race, from sire to son,
For many lives, had never died at home;
But time for crutches having come,
The almshouse claimed its own.
I saw why one brisk woman every morn
Paused, pail in hand, my grandame's threshold by:
She brought her - not yet old, though thus forlorn -
The bread of charity.
And ah, that wallet! by two cords uphung,
Wherein my hands for broken bread went straying,–
Grandsire had borne it round the farms among,
A morsel from his ancient comrades praying.
Poor grandsire! When I kept him company,
The softest bit was evermore for me!
All this was shame and sorrow exquisite.
I played no more at leap-frog in the street,
But sat and dreamed about the seasons gone.
And if chance things my sudden laughter won,
Flag, soldier, hoop, or kite, -it died away
Like the pale sunbeam of a weeping day.
One morn my mother came, as one with gladness crazed,
Crying, Come, Jacques, to school! Stupid, I stood and gazed.
“»
« To school! What then? are we grown rich ? » I cried amazed.
“Nay, nay, poor little one! Thou wilt not have to pay!
Thy cousin gives it thee, and I am blessed this day. ”
Behold me then, with fifty others set,
Mumbling my lesson in the alphabet.
I had a goodly memory; or so they used to say.
Thanks to this pious dame, therefore,
'Twixt smiles and tears it came to pass
That I could read in six months more;
In six months more could say the mass;
In six months more I might aspire
To tantum ergo and the choir ;
In six months more, still paying nothing,
I passed the sacred college gate;
In six months more, with wrath and loathing
They thrust me forth. Ah, luckless fate!
'Twas thus: a tempting prize was offered by-and-by
Upon the term's last week, and my theme won the same.
## p. 8193 (#393) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8193
(A cassock 'twas, and verily
As autumn heather old and dry. )
Nathless, when mother dear upon Shrove Monday came,
My cheeks fired when we kissed; along my veins the blood
Racing in little blobs did seem.
More darns were in the cassock, well I understood,
Than errors in my theme;
But glad at heart was I, and the gladder for her glee.
What love was in her touch! What looks she gave her son!
«Thank God, thou learnest well! » said she;
“For this is why, my little one,
Each Tuesday comes a loaf, and so rude the winter blows,
It is welcome, as He knows. "
(
Thereon I gave my word I would very learned be;
And when she turned away, content was in her eyes.
So I pondered on my frock, and my sire, who presently
Should come and take my measure. It happened otherwise.
The marplot de'il himself had sworn
It should not be, so it would seem,
Nor holy gown by me be worn.
Wherefore my steps he guided to a quiet court and dim,
Drove me across, and bade me stop
Under a ladder slight and tall,
Where a pretty peasant maiden, roosted against the wall,
Was dressing pouter pigeons, there atop.
Oft as I saw a woman, in the times whereof I write,
Slid a tremor through my veins, and across my dreary day
There flashed a sudden vision on my sight
Of a life all velvet, so to say:
Thus, when I saw Catrine (rosy she was, and sweet),
I was fain to mount a bit, till I discerned
A pair of comely legs, a pair of snowy feet,
And all my silly heart within me burned.
One tell-tale sigh I gave, and my damsel veered, alas!
Then huddled up with piteous cries;
The ladder snapped before my eyes.
She fell! - escape for me none was!
And there we twain lay sprawling upon the court-yard floor,
I under and she o'er!
But while so dulcet vengeance is wrought me by my stars,
What step is this upon the stair? Who fumbles at the bars?
XIV-513
## p. 8194 (#394) ###########################################
8194
JACQUES JASMIN
(
Alackaday! Who opes the door?
The dread superior himself! And he my pardon re!
Thou knowest the Florence Lion, — the famous picture where
The mother sees, in stark despair,
The onslaught of the monster wild
Who will devour her darling child;
And, fury in her look, nor heeding life the least,
With piercing cry, “My boy! ) leaps on the savage beast;
Who, wondering and withstood,
Seemeth to quench the burning of his cruel thirst for blood,
And the baby is released:
Just so the reverend canon, with madness in his eye,
Sprang on my wretched self, and “My sweetmeats! ” was his
cry;
And the nobler lion's part, alas, was not for me!
For the jar was empty half and the bottom plain to see!
“Out of this house, thou imp of hell:
Thou'rt past forgiveness now! Dream not of such a thing! ”
And the old canon, summoning
His forces, shook my ladder well.
Then with a quaking heart I turned me to descend,
Still by one handle holding tight
The fatal jar, which dropped outright
And shattered, and so came the end!
Behold me now in dire disgrace,
An outcast in the street, in the merry carnival,
As black as any Moor, with all
The sweetmeat stains upon my face!
My woes, meseemed, were just begun.
“Ho for the masque! ) a gamin cried;
Full desperately did I run,
But a mob of howling urchins thronged me on every side,
Raised at my heels a cloud of dust,
And roared, “The masque is full of must! ”
As on the wind's own pinions borne
I fled, and gained our cot forlorn,
And in among my household burst,
Starved, dripping, dead with rage and thirst.
Uprose a cry of wonderment from sisters, mother, sire,
And while we kissed I told them all, whereon a silence fell.
Seeing bean-porridge on the fire,
I said I would my hunger quell.
## p. 8195 (#395) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8195
Wherefore then did they make as though they heard not me,
Standing death-still? At last arose my mother dear,
Most anxiously, most tenderly.
Why are we tarrying ? ” said she,
“No more will come. Our all is here. "
»
But I, “No more of what ? Ah, tell me, for God's sake! ) -
Sorely the mystery made me quake,-
“What wast thou waiting, mother mild ? ”
I trembled, for I guessed. And she, “The loaf, my child! ”
So I had ta'en their bread away! O squalor and distress!
Accursed sweetmeats! Naughty feet!
I am base indeed! O silence full of bitterness!
Gentles, who pitying weep for every woe ye meet,
My anguish ye may guess!
No money and no loaf! A sorry tale, I ween.
Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,
A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.
Silent I stood awhile, and my mother blankly scanned,
While she, as in a dream, gazed on her own left hand;
Then put her Sunday kerchief by,
And rose and spake right cheerily,
And left us for a while; and when she came once more,
Beneath her arm a little loaf she bore.
Then all anew a-talking fell
And to the table turned. Ah, well!
They laughed, but I was full of thought,
And evermore my wandering eyes my mother sought.
Sorry was I, and mute, for a doubt that me possessed,
And drowned the noisy clamor of the rest.
But what I longed to see perpetually withdrew
And shyly hid from view,
Until at last, soup being done,
My gentle mother made a move
As she would cut the loaf, signing the cross above.
Then stole I one swift look the dear left hand upon,
And ah, it was too true! - the wedding-ring was gone!
One beauteous eve in summer, when the world was all abroad,
Swept onward by the human stream that toward the palace bore,
Unthinkingly the way I trod,
And followed eager hundreds o'er
.
## p. 8196 (#396) ###########################################
8196
JACQUES JASMIN
The threshold of an open door.
Good Heaven! where was 1 ? What might mean
The lifting of that linen screen ?
O lovely, lovely vision! O country strange and fair!
How they sing in yon bright world! and how sweetly talk they too!
Can ears attend the music rare,
Or eyes embrace the dazzling view ?
«Why, yon is Cinderella! ” I shouted in my maze.
« Silence! ” quoth he who sat by me.
«Why, then ? Where are we, sir ? What is this whereon we gaze
« Thou idiot! This is the Comedy ! »
Ah, yes! I knew that magic name,
Full oft at school had heard the same;
And fast the fevered pulses flew
In my low room the dark night through.
“O fatherland of poesy! O paradise of love!
Thou art a dream to me no more! Thy mighty spell I prove.
And thee, sweet Cinderella, my guardian I make,
And to-morrow I turn player for thy sake! ”
But slumber came at dawn, and next the flaming look
Of my master, who awoke me. How like a leaf I shook!
«Where wast thou yesternight? Answer me, ne'er-do-weel!
And wherefore home at midnight steal ? ”
« sir, how glorious was the play!
“The play, indeed! 'Tis very true what people say:
Thou art stark crazy, wretched boy,
To make so vile an uproar through all the livelong night!
To sing and spout, and rest of sober souls destroy.
Thou who hast worn a cassock, nor blushest for thy plight!
Thou'lt come to grief, I warn thee so!
Quit shop, mayhap, and turn thyself a player low! ”
“Ay, master dear, that would I be! »
What, what? Hear I aright? ” said he.
Art blind? and dost not know the gate
That leadeth to the almshouse straight ? )
At this terrific word, the heart in me went down
As though a club had fallen thereon;
And Cinderella fled her throne in my light head.
The pang I straightway did forget;
And yet, meseems, yon awful threat
Made softer evermore my attic bed.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in "Troubadours and Trouvères?
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers
## p. 8197 (#397) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8197
THE SIREN WITH THE HEART OF ICE
From Françonette)
THO
HOU whom the swains environ,
O maid of wayward will,
O icy-hearted siren,
The hour we all desire when
Thou too, thou too shalt feel!
Thy gay wings thou dost futter,
Thy airy nothings utter,
While the crowd can only mutter
In ecstasy complete
At thy feet.
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Sunshine, the heavens adorning,
We welcome with delight;
But thy sweet face returning
With every Sunday morning
Is yet a rarer sight.
We love thy haughty graces,
Thy swallow-like swift paces;
Thy song the soul upraises;
Thy lips, thine eyes, thy hair-
All are fair,
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy going from them widows
All places utterly.
The hedge-rows and the meadows
Turn scentless; gloomy shadows
Discolor the blue sky.
Then, when thou comest again,
Farewell fatigue and pain!
Life glows in every vein.
O'er every slender finger
We would linger.
## p. 8198 (#398) ###########################################
8198
JACQUES JASMIN
Yet hark to one who proves thee
Thy victories are vain,
Until a heart that loves thee
Thou hast learned to love again!
Thy pet dove, in his fitting,
Doth warn thee, lady fair!
Thee, in the wood forgetting;
Brighter for his dim setting
He shines, for love is there!
Love is the life of all:
Oh, answer thou his call,
Lest the flower of thy days fall,
And the grace whereof we wot
Be forgot!
For, till great love shall move thee,
Thy victories are vain.
'Tis little men should love thee:
Learn thou to love again.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in (Troubadours and Trouvères. )
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÉ
ONLY the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:
Let me attempt it with an English quill;
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
I
A"
T The foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castel-Cuillé,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph's Eve:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending:
## p. 8199 (#399) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8199
When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain,
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Towards St. Amant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies
Singing their chant:-
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,-
A rustic bridal, ah, how sweet it is!
To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
Gayly frolicking,
A band of youngsters,
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,
With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest,
## p. 8200 (#400) ###########################################
8200
JACQUES JASMIN
While the bride, with roguish eyes,
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
« Those who catch me
Married verily
This year shall be ! »
And all pursue with eager haste,
And all attain what they pursue,
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it St. Joseph would say to us all
That love o’erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers: they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress?
It is that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer's blight -
The pestilence that walks by night -
Took the young bride's sight away.
All at the father's stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.
Wearied at home, ere long the lover Aled;
Returned but three short days ago,
The golden chain they round him throw;
He is enticed and onward led;
## p. 8201 (#401) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8201
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.
Then suddenly a maiden cried,
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane! ) And by a fountain's side
A woman, bent and gray with years,
Under the mulberry-trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain :
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day;
And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers :
She never deceives, she never errs.
But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe;
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue
Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand
Making the sign of the cross, doth say:
« Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb! »
And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain ?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resuined the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear.
And down green alley's
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain:
## p. 8202 (#402) ###########################################
8202
JACQUES JASMIN
« The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! ”
II
And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary :-
“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived, yet keeps aloof so far!
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
Forever night! forever night!
When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above;
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget — and heaven - and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then -- when one is blind?
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah, woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Savior dear;
## p. 8203 (#403) ###########################################
JACQUES JASMIN
8203
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he! »
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms but sightless eyes;
'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries :-
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by:
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ?
For all are there but you and I! )
“Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!
Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be? »
“My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend! »
C
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length the bridal song again
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
«Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay:
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said! ”
“I know it! » answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart cruished as in a vise !
## p. 8204 (#404) ###########################################
8204
JACQUES JASMIN
«Paul, be not sad! 'Tis a holiday:
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for awhile alone. ”
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul;
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold, - art chill as death:
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet? ”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come ere long:
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy;
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste — what sayest thou ?
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now!
