Chapter 33

To understand Béranger's songs and to excuse them somewhat, we must remember that the French always delighted in witty songs and tales, and pardoned the immorality of the works on account of the wit and humor. This is what is called _l'esprit gaulois_, and is seen principally in old French poetry, in the fabliaux, the farces, and 'Le Roman de Renart.' Molière had much of this, as also had La Fontaine and Voltaire, and Béranger's wildest songs appear mild and innocent when compared with those of the Chat Noir. In his joyous songs he continues the traditions of the farces and fabliaux of the Middle Ages, and in his political songs he uses wit and satire just as in the _sottises_ of the time of Louis XII.

Béranger's first volume of songs appeared at the beginning of the second Restoration; and although it was hostile to the Bourbons, the author was not prosecuted. In 1821, when his second volume was published, he resigned his position as clerk at the University, and was brought to trial for having written immoral and seditious songs. He was condemned, after exciting scenes in court, to three months' imprisonment and a fine of five hundred francs, and in 1828 to nine months' imprisonment and a fine of ten thousand francs, which was paid by public subscription.

No doubt he contributed to the Revolution of July, 1830; but although he was a republican, he favored the monarchy of Louis Philippe, saying that "it was a plank to cross over the gutter, a preparation for the republic." The king wished to see him and thank him, but Béranger replied that "he was too old to make new acquaintances." He was invited to apply for a seat in the French Academy, and refused that honor as he had refused political honors and positions. He said that he "wished to be nothing"; and when in 1848 he was elected to the Constitutional Assembly, he resigned his seat almost immediately. He has been accused of affectation, and of exaggeration in his disinterestedness; but he was naturally timid in public, and preferred to exert an influence over his countrymen by his songs rather than by his voice in public assemblies.

Béranger was kind and generous, and ever ready to help all who applied to him. He had a pension given to Rouget de l'Isle, the famous author of the 'Marseillaise,' who was reduced to poverty, and in 1835 he took into his house his good aunt from Péronne, and gave hospitality also to his friend Mlle. Judith Frère. In 1834 he sold all his works to his publisher, Perrotin, for an annuity of eight hundred francs, which was increased to four thousand by the publisher. On this small income Béranger lived content till his death on July 16th, 1857. The government of Napoleon III. took charge of his funeral, which was solemnized with great pomp. Although Béranger was essentially the poet of the middle classes, and was extremely popular, care was taken to exclude the people from the funeral procession. While he never denied that he was the grandson of a tailor, he signed _de_ Béranger, to be distinguished from other writers of the same name. The _de_, however, had always been claimed by his father, who had left him nothing but that pretense of nobility.

For forty years, from 1815 to his death, Béranger was perhaps the most popular French writer of his time, and he was ranked amongst the greatest French poets. There has been a reaction against that enthusiasm, and he is now severely judged by the critics. They say that he lacked inspiration, and was vulgar, bombastic, and grandiloquent. Little attention is paid to him, therefore, in general histories of French literature. But if he is not entitled to stand on the high pedestal given to him by his contemporaries, we yet cannot deny genius to the man who for more than a generation swayed the hearts of the people at his will, and exerted on his countrymen and on his epoch an immense influence.

Many of his songs are coarse and even immoral; but his muse was often inspired by patriotic subjects, and in his poems on Napoleon he sings of the exploits of the great general defending French soil from foreign invasion, or he delights in the victories of the Emperor as reflecting glory upon France. Victor Hugo shared this feeling when he wrote his inspiring verses in praise of the conqueror. Both poets, Béranger and Hugo, contributed to create the Napoleonic legend which facilitated the election of Louis Napoleon to the presidency in 1848, and brought about the Second Empire. What is more touching than 'The Reminiscences of the People'? Are we not inclined to cry out, like the little children listening to the old grandmother who speaks of Napoleon: "He spoke to you, grandmother! He sat down there, grandmother! You have yet his glass, grandmother!" The whole song is poetic, natural, and simple. François Coppée, the great poet, said of it: "Ah! if I had only written 'The Reminiscences of the People,' I should not feel concerned about the judgment of posterity."

Other works of Béranger's are on serious subjects, as 'Mary Stuart's Farewell to France,' 'The Holy Alliance,' 'The Swallows,' and 'The Old Banner,' All his songs have a charm. His wit is not of the highest order, and he lacks the _finesse_ of La Fontaine, but he is often quaint and always amusing in his songs devoted to love and Lisette, to youth and to wine. He is not one of the greatest French lyric poets, and cannot be compared with Lamartine, Hugo, Musset, and Vigny; nevertheless he has much originality, and is without doubt the greatest song-writer that France has produced. He elevated the song and made it both a poem and a drama, full of action and interest.

Béranger wrote slowly and with great care, and many of his songs cost him much labor. He was filled with compassion for the weak, for the poor and unfortunate; he loved humanity, and above all he dearly loved France. Posterity will do him justice and will preserve at least a great part of his work. M. Ernest Legouvé in his interesting work, 'La Lecture en Action,' relates that one day, while walking with Béranger in the Bois de Boulogne, the latter stopped in the middle of an alley, and taking hold of M. Legouvé's hand, said with emotion, "My dear friend, my ambition would be that one hundred of my lines should remain." M. Legouvé adds, "There will remain more than that," and his words have been confirmed. If we read aloud, if we sing them, we too shall share the enthusiasm of our fathers, who were carried away by the pathos, the grandeur, the wit, the inexpressible charm of the unrivaled _chansonnier_.

FROM 'THE GIPSIES'

(LES BOHÉMIENS)

To see is to have. Come, hurry anew! Life on the wing Is a rapturous thing. To see is to have. Come, hurry anew! For to see the world is to conquer it too.

* * * * *

So naught do we own, from pride left free, From statutes vain, From heavy chain; So naught do we own, from pride left free,-- Cradle nor house nor coffin have we.

But credit our jollity none the less, Noble or priest, or Servant or master; But credit our jollity none the less.-- Liberty always means happiness.

THE GAD-FLY

(LA MOUCHE)

In the midst of our laughter and singing, 'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay, What gad-fly is over us winging, That returns when we drive him away? 'Tis some god. Yes, I have a suspicion Of our happiness jealous, he's come: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum.

Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly, I am certain that we must have here Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely Annoyed by our joy and our cheer. He tells us in tones of monition Of the clouds and the tempests to come: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing, And says, "It is time to retire: At your age one stops drinking and laughing, Stops loving, nor sings with such fire;"-- An alarm that sounds ever its mission When the sweetest of flames overcome: Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie! His dart is a menace alway. He has touched her, she swoons--she is dizzy: Come, Cupid, and drive him away. Pursue him; compel his submission, Until under your strokes he succumb. Let us drive him away to perdition, That he bore us no more with his hum.

Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning In the wine that Lizzetta has poured. Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning, That again he may reign at our board. He was threatened just now with dismission, And a fly made us all rather glum: But we've sent him away to perdition; He will bore us no more with his hum.

Translation of Walter Learned.

DRAW IT MILD

(LES PETITS COUPS)

Let's learn to temper our desires, Not harshly to constrain; And since excess makes pleasure less, Why, so much more refrain. Small table--cozy corner--here We well may be beguiled; Our worthy host old wine can boast: Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

He who would many an evil shun Will find my plan the best-- To trim the sail as shifts the gale, And half-seas over rest. Enjoyment is an art--disgust Is bred of joy run wild; Too deep a drain upsets the brain: Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

Our indigence--let's cheer it up; 'Tis nonsense to repine; To give to Hope the fullest scope Needs but one draught of wine. And oh! be temperate, to enjoy, Ye on whom Fate hath smiled; If deep the bowl, your thirst control: Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

What, Phyllis, dost thou fear? at this My lesson dost thou scoff? Or would'st thou say, light draughts betray The toper falling off? Keen taste, eyes keen--whate'er be seen Of joy in thine, fair child, Love's philtre use, but don't abuse: Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

Yes, without hurrying, let us roam From feast to feast of gladness; And reach old age, if not quite sage, With method in our madness! Our health is sound, good wines abound; Friends, these are riches piled. To use with thrift the twofold gift: Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

Translation of William Young.

THE KING OF YVETOT

There was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days a-bed; And every night, as night came round, By Jenny with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass, That four lusty meals made he; And step by step, upon an ass, Rode abroad, his realms to see; And wherever he did stir, What think you was his escort, sir? Why, an old cur. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me.

If e'er he went into excess, 'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; But he who would his subjects bless, Odd's fish!--must wet his whistle first; And so from every cask they got, Our king did to himself allot At least a pot. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me.

To all the ladies of the land A courteous king, and kind, was he-- The reason why, you'll understand, They named him Pater Patriae. Each year he called his fighting men, And marched a league from home, and then Marched back again. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me.

Neither by force nor false pretense, He sought to make his kingdom great, And made (O princes, learn from hence) "Live and let live" his rule of state. 'Twas only when he came to die, That his people who stood by Were known to cry. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king for me.

The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings, Famed in the country for good wine. The people in their Sunday trim, Filling their glasses to the brim, Look up to him, Singing "ha, ha, ha!" and "he, he, he! That's the sort of king for me."

Version of W.M. Thackeray.

FORTUNE

Rap! rap!--Is that my lass-- Rap! rap!--is rapping there? It is Fortune. Let her pass! I'll not open the door to her. Rap! rap!--

All of my friends are making gay My little room, with lips wine-wet: We only wait for you, Lisette! Fortune! you may go your way. Rap! rap!--

If we might credit half her boast, What wonders gold has in its gift! Well, we have twenty bottles left And still some credit with our host. Rap! rap!--

Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes, And mantles more than sumptuous: Lord! but the purple's naught to us,-- We're just now taking off our coats. Rap! rap!--

She treats us as the rawest youths, With talk of genius and of fame: Thank calumny, alas, for shame! Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths. Rap! rap!--

Far from our pleasures, we care not Her highest heavens to attain; She fills her big balloons in vain Till we have swamped our little boat. Rap! rap!--

Yet all our neighbors crowd to be Within her ring of promises, Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses Will cheat us more agreeably. Rap! rap!--

THE PEOPLE'S REMINISCENCES

(LES SOUVENIRS DU PEUPLE)

Ay, many a day the straw-thatched cot Shall echo with his glory! The humblest shed, these fifty years, Shall know no other story. There shall the idle villagers To some old dame resort, And beg her with those good old tales To make their evenings short. "What though they say he did us harm? Our love this cannot dim; Come, granny, talk of him to us; Come, granny, talk of him."

"Well, children--with a train of kings, Once he passed by this spot; 'Twas long ago; I had but just Begun to boil the pot. On foot he climbed the hill, whereon I watched him on his way: He wore a small three-cornered hat; His overcoat was gray. I was half frightened till he said 'Good day, my dear!' to me." "O granny, granny, did he speak? What, granny! you and he?"

"Next year, as I, poor soul, by chance Through Paris strolled one day, I saw him taking, with his court, To Notre Dame his way. The crowd were charmed with such a show; Their hearts were filled with pride: 'What splendid weather for the fête! Heaven favors him!' they cried. Softly he smiled, for God had given To his fond arms a boy." "Oh, how much joy you must have felt! O granny, how much joy!"

"But when at length our poor Champagne By foes was overrun, He seemed alone to hold his ground; Nor dangers would he shun. One night--as might be now--I heard A knock--the door unbarred-- And saw--good God! 'twas he, himself, With but a scanty guard. 'Oh, what a war is this!' he cried, Taking this very chair." "What! granny, granny, there he sat? What! granny, he sat there?"

"'I'm hungry,' said he: quick I served Thin wine and hard brown bread; He dried his clothes, and by the fire In sleep dropped down his head. Waking, he saw my tears--'Cheer up, Good dame!' says he, 'I go 'Neath Paris' walls to strike for France One last avenging blow.' He went; but on the cup he used Such value did I set-- It has been treasured."--"What! till now? You have it, granny, yet?"

"Here 'tis: but 'twas the hero's fate To ruin to be led; He whom a Pope had crowned, alas! In a lone isle lies dead. 'Twas long denied: 'No, no,' said they, 'Soon shall he reappear! O'er ocean comes he, and the foe Shall find his master here.' Ah, what a bitter pang I felt, When forced to own 'twas true!" "Poor granny! Heaven for this will look-- Will kindly look on you."

Translation of William Young.

THE OLD TRAMP

(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)

Here in this gutter let me die: Weary and sick and old, I've done. "He's drunk," will say the passers-by: All right, I want no pity--none. I see the heads that turn away, While others glance and toss me sous: "Off to your junket! go!" I say: Old tramp,--to die I need no help from you.

Yes, of old age I'm dying now: Of hunger people never die. I hoped some almshouse might allow A shelter when my end was nigh; But all retreats are overflowed, Such crowds are suffering and forlorn. My nurse, alas! has been the road: Old tramp,--here let me die where I was born.

When young, it used to be my prayer To craftsmen, "Let me learn your trade." "Clear out--we've got no work to spare; Go beg," was all reply they made. You rich, who bade me work, I've fed With relish on the bones you threw; Made of your straw an easy bed: Old tramp,--I have no curse to vent on you.

Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal; But no, I'd rather beg my bread. At most I thieved a wayside meal Of apples ripening overhead. Yet twenty times have I been thrown In prison--'twas the King's decree; Robbed of the only thing I own: Old tramp,--at least the sun belongs to me.

The poor man--is a country his? What are to me your corn and wine, Your glory and your industries, Your orators? They are not mine. And when a foreign foe waxed fat Within your undefended walls, I shed my tears, poor fool, at that: Old tramp,--his hand was open to my calls.

Why, like the hateful bug you kill, Did you not crush me when you could?

Or better, teach me ways and skill To labor for the common good?

The ugly grub an ant may end, If sheltered from the cold and fed.

You might have had me for a friend: Old tramp,--I die your enemy instead.

Translated for the 'World's Best Literature.'

FIFTY YEARS

(ClNQUANTE ANS)

Wherefore these flowers? floral applause? Ah, no, these blossoms came to say That I am growing old, because I number fifty years to-day. O rapid, ever-fleeting day! O moments lost, I know not how! O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray! Alas, for I am fifty now!

Sad age, when we pursue no more-- Fruit dies upon the withering tree: Hark! some one rapped upon my door. Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me-- Or else the doctor calls. Not yet Must I expect his studious bow. Once I'd have called, "Come in, Lizzette"-- Alas, for I am fifty now!

In age what aches and pains abound. The torturing gout racks us awhile; Blindness, a prison dark, profound; Or deafness that provokes a smile. Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim With flickering ray. Children, allow Old Age the honor due to him-- Alas, for I am fifty now!

Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know, Who rubs his hands in joyous mood; The sexton knocks and I must go-- Farewell, my friends the human brood! Below are famine, plague, and strife; Above, new heavens my soul endow: Since God remains, begin, new life! Alas, for I am fifty now!

But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth, Tempting my soul with dainty ways, Shall hide from it the sombre truth, This incubus of evil days. Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then, Scatter your roses on my brow, And let me dream of youth again-- Alas, for I am fifty now!

Translation of Walter Learned.

THE GARRET

With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where in my youth I weathered it so long, With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song; Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun: Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes; 'tis a garret--let him know't who will--- There was my bed--full hard it was and small; My table there--and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun: For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one!

And see my little Jessy, first of all; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise: Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did women look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears; We rise,--we join in the triumphant strain,-- Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won-- Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone--the place is sad and strange-- How far, far off, these happy times appear! All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here-- To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour: Give me the days when I was twenty-one.

Version of W.M. Thackeray.

MY TOMB

(MON TOMBEAU)

What! whilst I'm well, beforehand you design, At vast expense, for me to build a shrine? Friends, 'tis absurd! to no such outlay go; Leave to the great the pomp and pride of woe. Take what for marble or for brass would pay-- For a dead beggar garb by far too gay-- And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf: The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff!

A mausoleum worthy of my thanks At least would cost you twenty thousand francs: Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky, As gay recluses, be it ours to try. Concerts and balls, where Beauty's self invites, Shall furnish us our castle of delights; I'll run the risk of finding life too sweet: The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat!

But old I grow, and Lizzy's youthful yet: Costly attire, then, she expects to get; For to long fast a show of wealth resigns-- Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines! You to my fair one something surely owe; A Cashmere shawl she's looking for, I know: 'Twere well for life on such a faithful breast The money for my tomb right gayly to invest!