Part 12

Shines with a double silver cord's display.

A robe she wears as red as any coal,

And, oh, I love her in my inmost soul.

--Put money in your pocket, little fool,

And to Treguier take your way to school.

Go to Treguier, and there study well,

Become a priest and follow the church bell.

--Keep your money in your own purse for me,

For, by my faith, no priest nor monk I 'll be.

My books throw in the fire, and let them burn,

Or give them to my brother in his turn.

No priest or monk I ever shall be made,

My heart demands the love of a fair maid.

A lovely maid of Cornouaille, I ween,

With eyes of blue and locks of amber sheen.

And if I cannot have that golden head,

Prepare the mass, for soon I shall be dead.

In The Secrets of the Clerk there is a more delicate fancy, and the gracious avowal has all the charm of a natural and touching imagery:--

THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK.

Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,

I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.

I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,

When I think of her I love so deep.

Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,

In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.

When I see you come through the forest grove,

On its leaves I write the secrets of my love.

--But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,

To hold the secrets close which their page receives.

When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,

Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.

'T were safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.

Graven deep they'd rest, and never take their flight.

The amatory folk-songs of Brittany have their peculiar images and phrases, like those of all other countries, and which are repeated without variation as almost essential characteristics. The reader of Scottish ballads knows how invariably the recipient of a letter first smiles and then has his eyes blinded by tears, and recalls the constant repetition of familiar images and descriptions. So in the Breton folk-songs the lover constantly declares that he has worn out three pairs of sabots in coming to see her without being able to find out her thought, and that he has watched in the wind and rain through the night with no consolation but the sound of her soft breathing through the key-hole of the door; to which the cruel or coquettish damsel replies that she has no objection to tell him her thought, which is that he should buy a new pair of shoes, or that he should take himself home as soon as possible. The piece entitled In the White Cabin at the Foot of the Mountain is a characteristic specimen of these songs, whose effect of simplicity can only be retained by an absolutely literal translation: --

In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain

Is my sweet, my love.

Is my love, is my desire,

And all my happiness.

Before the night I must see her

Or my little heart will break.

My little heart will not break

For my lovely dear I have seen.

Fifty night I have been

At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.

The rain and the wind whipped me,

Until my garments dripped.

Nothing came to console me

Except the sound of breathing from her bed.

Except the sound of breathing from her bed,

Which came through the little hole for the key.

Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,

Her thought I do not know.

The fourth pair I have begun to wear,

Her thought I do not know.

Five pairs, alas, in good count,

Her thought I do not know.

--If it is my thought you wish to know,

It is not I, who will make a mystery of it.

There are three roads on each side of my house,

Choose one among them.

Choose whichever you like among them,

Provided it will take you far from here.

--More is worth love, since it pleases me,

Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.

Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,

Wealth serves for nothing.

Wealth passes like the yellow pears:

Love endures for ever.

More is worth a handful of love

Than an oven full of gold and silver.

Another form of the love song than the melancholy apostrophe to the mistress, and the simple moralizing which accompanies it, is the gay chant, which was composed to the dance measures played by the _biniou_ and the _bombarde_ at the village fêtes, and which was sung in accord with them. On these occasions, which were chiefly the Pardons, or gatherings to celebrate the days of the Patron Saints, when the religious exercises are concluded, the young men engage in athletic competition, wrestling and jumping for prizes under the eyes of their sweethearts, and the festivities wind up with dancing on the green, and the scene is as gay as if it had no connection with religion. Every Breton story teller, and every writer on the life and customs of Brittany, has delighted to depict these scenes, which are the rendezvous of youthful lovers and the embodiment of vigorous and healthy gayety, with all the picturesqueness of country life and color. The element of these dance songs is their lively and strongly accented melody to accompany the dancing air and illustrate the movements, as in the following specimen:--

Sunday I have seen,

Sunday I will see,

Three of my young lovers,

Who 'll come and dance with me.

Dance between the two,

And pass before them gay,

Dance between the three,

And wave them all away.

Press the foot of that;

And wink the eye at this;

Mock the other's pride;

There is no greater bliss.

When you come to call,

Pray let me know the hour;

I will grease my cakes

And put eggs in the flour.

I will oil the door;

The hinges will not creak;

In the closet bed

I 'll lie, and will not speak.

Come not through the yard,

My flowers you will tread,

My onions, and my cress,

My peas and berries red.

Throw straw upon the fire

To show your darling head.

It might be expected that in a country so much under the influence of the sea, and in which so large a proportion of the inhabitants are sailors, fishers on the stormy and dangerous coast or in the distant waters of Newfoundland and Iceland, there would be a large number of sea songs. The folk-lore of Brittany is particularly rich in stories and legends of the sea, composed by the fishermen to while away the long hours of the passage to Newfoundland or the nightwatches in the misty seas of Iceland; or embodying the mysterious and superstitious terrors of the fishermen of the coast in the face of storms and foaming reefs; and the impress of supernatural power in the ocean and the storm is very strong upon the imaginations of the Breton people. But the sailors themselves, like the laborers in the fields, do not seem to have the inspiration and poetical gift to put their thoughts into song. M. Luzel has been able to collect but a comparatively few of genuine sailor songs, and these are mostly tavern choruses or rude and commonplace chants, with but very little of the salt of the seas and the voice of the breeze in them. The women sometimes chant at the spinning-wheel songs of warning against the dangers and perils of becoming a sailor's wife, of which the following is an example:--

DO NOT MARRY A SAILOR.

Maidens young, who wish to wed,

Take advice from an old head.

If you marry, as you say,

Do not take a sailor gay.

If you take a sailor gay,

You will sorrow night and day.

When the farmer's wife's in bed The sailor's wife the floor must tread.

When the wind arises shrill,

Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill.

Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill,

And in her veins the blood run chill.

Every moment she seeks the door,

--Mercy, how the torrents pour!

If I had store of money red,

I know the husband I would wed.

I'd wed the heir of a good house,

Who can reap the fields he ploughs.

Who can reap the fields he ploughs,

And in his stable has good cows.

Both night and day whom I can see,

And who will sleep by the side of me.

While the poor sailor, day and night,

Lives in peril and affright.

Day and night must work and wake,

And of a plank his cradle make.

The Breton women, who spend hours at the spinning-wheel, as in all other countries, accompany the monotonous and musical drone with long chants, that hypnotize the sense of labor, which are often merely improvisations with as little sense and meaning as the lullabies for infants. But here is one into which the old spinner puts the thoughts of her willingness to make sacrifice of her all in order that her son might be educated as a priest, and her hopes of reward from his filial piety. The soothing and monotonous melody is necessarily lost in the translation.

THE SONG OF THE OLD SPINNER.

My wheel and my bonnet of straw

And my waist of white linen

Shall be all yours, my young clerk,

That you may make yourself a priest.

And my porringers and my spoons,

He shall have them all at one time.

And my old warp, and my brake,

And my old carder besides.

And when he is a priest

I shall have a broidered robe.

And my shoes will have ribbons,

And my collar will be fluted.

And a cap upon my head,

Like that of a damsel of quality.

One of the most notable and singular features in Breton folk-poetry is the feeling displayed toward animals. Almost human attributes of wisdom and affection are bestowed upon them, and, unlike many primitive races, the Breton peasantry have a great tenderness toward the dumb companions of their labors. When they kill them it is from necessity, and with a genuine sensibility for their sufferings, which may have its ancient root in a tradition of animal worship, such as led the North American Indian to apologize to the bear, whom he was killing with his arrows. At any rate it is a very creditable feeling, and adds to the respect and liking which the Breton character inspires, that there should be this tenderness for the old horse, who has ploughed the fields and borne burdens until his strength is spent; for the old goat, who has given milk for the children; and even for the pig, who has inhabited the pen by the cabin. In the folk-songs this feeling is represented by various pieces of verse, giving the last wills and testaments of old animals, who bequeath, sometimes in a spirit of humor, and sometimes with affectionate tenderness, portions of their bodies and qualities of their spirits to their human friends and companions. There is thus the testament of the goat, the old sow, and the old mare. The latter displays a touching feeling, and the impression of quaint absurdity gives way to a more tender emotion and that touch of pathos which is evoked by all animal affection and animal suffering.

THE WILL OF THE OLD MARE.

Between Pontrieaux and Kerlouet

Is dead an old mare.

She cried, the old mare,

To have he£ shoes pulled off.

She cried loud enough to split her voice,

--Pull the nails from my sabots.

It is eighteen months, without falsehood,

Since I have been in a stable.

If it is not in the great barnyard of Kerlouet,

There I have often lodged.

I bequeath my patience

To him, Oliver le Judic.

Which he has cruelly proved this year,

In that he has lost his wife.

In that this year his wife is dead.

To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing.

I pray to give the hairs of my tail,

To him, Pierre Perrot.

That he may make a light fly-flap

To keep the flies from the horses in summer.

And when the other horses fling and kick,

He will remember the blind mare.

Carry my head to the ferry of Frinaoudour,

To serve as a little boat upon the water.

To pass from one bank to the other

Those who go to hunt at Plourivo.

Those who go to hunt at Plourivo,

The rabbit, the fox and the wild duck.

As has been said, the chief value of folk-song is in its genuineness, in the accuracy with which it reflects not only the emotions, but the habits and customs of the people, so that their peculiar life becomes visible before our eyes. There is an indefinable charm, not only in the impression of reality, but in the very rudeness and imperfection of the speech, which gives an effect beyond literary art, when deep emotion or domestic pathos are seen through it. We seem to get nearer the primitive heart of mankind than under the effect of the most accomplished literary skill, and there are awakened the homely and tender feelings which lie deep within our nature. The genuine fairy tale created by the vivid and credulous imagination of the uncultivated mind, and the genuine folk-song, the outburst of simple and natural emotion, take a hold upon even the most cultivated intellects as the highest literary art fails to do. The folk-songs of Brittany have this charm as well as their own peculiar provincial flavor; and the very crudeness and imperfection of the Sonniou in M. Luzel's collection have more power than all the elaborate poetry and picturesqueness of M. Yillemarque's Celtic fabrications.

THE FOLK-SONGS OF POITOU.

|While there is much that is common in the folk-songs of all the provinces of France, the same stories and the same turns of expression, showing, if not a common origin, a very wide and thorough intercommunication,--as, for instance, in the beautiful and pathetic ballad of Jean Renaud, which is found almost everywhere in slightly differing variants,--each section has its own local peculiarities illustrating the temperament and the origin of the people.

It is needless to say that there is a strongly marked note of difference between the melancholy and finely sensitive songs of the people of Brittany and the gay and joyous chants and ballads of those of Gascony and Provence. It would be inevitable from the widely different natures of the two people, and their origin from distinct and strongly divergent native stocks. But this distinction goes further, and marked shades of difference in feeling and sentiment may be found in the character and temperament of the folk-songs and music of the inhabitants of the same province, who are of common origin and consanguinity, with the same native language, and the same habits and customs. This is due in a great measure to a difference in their surroundings, and the influence of external nature, whether gay or morose, fertile or barren, upon the minds and characters of the people. Thus in his splendid collection of the Chants and Chansons Populaires des Provinces de l'Ouest, M. Jerome Burgeaud tells us that the plaintive and melancholy airs of the inhabitants of the deep woods and heavy marshes of La Vendee become gay and cheerful in Poitou, and sparkle with brilliant mirth in Saintonge and the Angumois, without changing their notes or form, simply from the difference in the scenery and its influence upon the spirits of the people. The ancient Poitou, comprising the upper portion of the region between the Loire and Garonne, is full of smiling and rich fields, where the grapes burgeon in deep black clusters, and the yellow wheat-ears hang heavy and full, and the warm sun and the savory air fill the blood of the people with lightness and gayety. They are not so ebullient and joyous, it may be, as the inhabitants of the still warmer and more smiling regions of Gascony and Languedoc, but the contrast is very marked between them and their northern neighbors, whose very mirth has a melancholy tinge, and in whom even drunkenness is a protest against sorrow rather than the natural extravagance of light-heartedness.

The Poitevin peasant is naturally gay, and his light-heartedness is manifested in the great number, as well as in the good humor and cheerfulness, of his folk-songs. Of course the common sorrows of mankind weigh upon him; he feels the stings of poverty and the pains and sordidness of labor; the conscription tears him from his home and his beloved; and he experiences the tragedies of love and death. These things stir his mind and find a place in his folk-songs, but the prevailing spirit which governs his expression in music and song is not of melancholy brooding and sorrow, like that of his Celtic neighbors, but gayety and joyousness. He finds the smiling world a pleasant place to live in; his love is the natural and happy ebullition of his warm temperament; and his experiences of life are cheerful.

The gayety of the Poitevin temperament finds its expression in the immense number of "rounds" as they are called in English, which give the vocal measure and accompaniment to the vigorous and joyous dances. The youths and the maidens, when they meet at the rustic gatherings, or even in the intervals of labor in the fields, join hands by a natural instinct, and improvise a dance to the rhythm of their own voices, and the "rounds" which they sing, although often mere nonsense, or at least without a consecutive meaning, have a note of gayety and an ebullition of joyousness, which is inimitable, as thus:--

Vous, qui menez la ronde,

Menez la rondement.

Son cotillon en branle, en branle,

Son cotillon en branle au vent.

Foule, foule, foulons l'herbe,

L'herbe foule reviendra.

Brnnette, allons, gai, gai, gai,

Brunette, allons, gai, gaiment.

--words which interpret the air and accent the steps with an absolute perfection, which a translation cannot render, although it may give an idea of the vivacity and _entrain_.

You, who lead the round,

Lead it roundily.

Her petticoat in motion, in motion,

Her petticoat in motion to the wind.

Tread, tread, come tread the grass,

The trodden grass will spring again

Brunette, come, gay, gay, gay,

Brunette, come, gay, gaily.

All these, like the ancient choruses with which the Greek maidens accompanied their dances of "woven paces and waving hands," with or without the note of a primitive reed to accent the melody, are reproduced in the grosser spirit of the laboring peasant, but equally instinctive with life and gayety, and the natural expression of youthful existence in the open air and under balmy skies.

One of the most characteristic features of the Poitevin peasant is his cunning, his fondness for rustic ruses, and the sharp repartee or trick, which puts to shame the person of a station above his own. The heroines of many of his favorite ballads and songs are endowed with this quality, and he chuckles with a hearty zest at the simple wit with which the shrewd shepherdess puts down the amorous gallant learned in the schools, or escapes the dangerous importunity of a gentleman on the highway or a seignorial hunter in the fields. The folksongs of Poitou are full of such examples, and M. Bugeaud, and M. Leon Pineau, who has followed him in gleaning in the same field (Le Folk-Lore du Poitou), have given a number of specimens. The following shows what simple repartee appeals to the rustic sense of humor:--

NANON.

What is there, Nanon,

In these valleys green?

There is a fool, kind sir,

When you are therein.

Pray tell me, Nanon,

Where does this road go?

When you have found out,

Then you will know.

Come, my dear Nanon,

Under the green shade.

Would you have me think

Of heat you 're afraid?

Is he then happy,

The shepherd you know?

If he is unhappy,

He does n't seem so.

You love him, Nanon,

As I adore you?

Yes, indeed, kind sir,

And much better too.

Pray tell me, Nanon,

Who made you so smart?

You, too, have studied,

And learned things by heart.

In my father's house,

I have studied deep.--

I got my learning

In watching my sheep.

One of the favorite ruses is that by which the shepherd maid induces the gallant to let her go, on some frivolous excuse and a promise to return, and then mocks him for his credulity. A similar jest, with the proverb that when you hold a quail in hand you should pluck it, is very common in French folk-song, as, indeed, in that of all nations. This is one of the Poitevin versions:--

THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE GENTLEMAN.

It was a gentleman returning from the army,

Upon the road he met a shepherd maid;

He dismounted quickly, and went to sit beside her.

Cunning was the maid, and wept as if afraid.

"Have mercy, gentleman, you 'll spoil my fine, white cap,

I 'll go and put it off, and come back quite soon."

The gallant gentleman found the time quite tedious,

The maiden did not come; he whistled a blank tune.

"John, my little John, go and tell the maiden

To come back at once, for she must be asleep."

"Good fortune it is to me that I have got away,

By the grace of God I have no shame to weep."

"Little John returned to where his master waited,

Whistling a blank tune beneath the willow tree,

"Alas, my master, the maid is very cunning;

She is safe at home, and sends you mockery."

The gallant ceased his tune, and swore in bitter anger,

"If again that maid I meet by any hap,

Either in the highroad, or on the flowery meadow,

I will have no mercy on her fine, white cap."

Then the love songs of Poitou have a light and humorous turn, a jest at the fickleness of the runaway lover, and the easy consolation of the young maiden, whose desire is more to have a lover than that he should be any particular person. La Belle Rosalie illustrates this gay mockery of youthful love.

THE FAIR ROSALIE.

The fair Rosalie

Has lost her lover bold,

Is n't she unhappy,

Only fifteen years old!

He promised to return,--

The deep woods were to blame,--

But she has waited vainly;

The traitor never came.

"Nightingale that sings,

Nightingale that flies,

Tell me, tell me truly,

Where my lover lies."

"Your lover, maiden fair,

Has gone across the Rhine.

Captains three are with him,

And he is brave and fine.

"Exchange your woman's dress

For a soldier's coat of blue:

In thirty days you 'll find him,

If you his route pursue."

When she arrived at Bruges,

She found her lover there,

Training with the soldiers,

With banners floating fair.

"If I had known, my dear,

You would have followed me,

You would not have found me,

For I'd have crossed the sea."

"Am I not unhappy,

To march so far to find

The traitor, whom I love,

And who is so unkind?

"Nightingale that sings,

And who hast flown so far,

Tell me, tell me truly,

Where other lovers are."

But all the other lads

Have sought for other brides,

And taken for their spouses

The sabres at their sides.

The Veille des Noces gayly mocks the impatience of the young maiden for the dawn of her wedding day, which will not allow her to rest quiet in bed, or endure without reply the rebuke of her more contented mother:--

THE NIGHT BEFORE MY WEDDING.

The night before my wedding,

Guess what happened me.

I rose up to the window,

If daybreak I could see--

The dawn of day,

The lovely dawn of day,

Of light and love so gay.

I rose up to my window,

If daybreak I could see,

The lovely moon still shining

Was all that greeted me.

The lovely moon still shining,

Was all the sign of light.

I thought it must be four o'clock,

But 't was not yet midnight.

I thought it must be four o'clock,

But midnight had not sped.

My mother, who was listening,

Heard the cross words I said.

My mother, who was listening,

Heard the sad sighs I drew.

"Be silent, little fool," she said,

"Or God will punish you!

"Be silent, little fool," she said,

Or God will bring you loss."

"O, mother dear, do you not know

What't is that makes me cross?

"O, mother dear, do you not know,

What't is that gives me pain,

You lie at ease, but I do not;

I must get up again."

There is also a flavor of mockery in the naïve dialogue between the shepherd, Joseph, and his mistress, whom he has come to waken in the morning, and to invite to spend the day with him on the mountain. The shepherdess wants to be assured of something more substantial than mere affection before she yields to the temptation.

JOSEPH.

Joseph, your faithful shepherd,

Has come to waken you,

Arise, my lovely maiden,

My lovely maiden, rise--

The sun shines bright and new.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

Whither shall we go?

Above, upon the mountains

Where shining streamlets flow,

Where we will gather violets,

And rosemary also.

Alas, my faithful shepherd,

What shall be our food?

A pie of tender larks,

And cakes so sweet and good,

And see, beneath my mantle