“Good morning, Mr. FrÉdÉric. They tell me that you have need of a man on the farm.”

“Yes—from whence comest thou?”

“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’—near to Avignon.”

“And what canst thou do?”

“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer, carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on occasions, pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of sewers, which is the lowest of all!”

“And they call thee?”

“Jean RoussiÈre, and Rousseyron—and Seyron for short.”

“How much do you ask?—it is for taking care of the beasts.”

“About fifteen louis.”

“I will give thee a hundred crowns.”

“All right for a hundred crowns.”

That is how I engaged Jean RoussiÈre, he who taught me the old folk-melody of “Magali”—a jovial fellow and made on the lines of a Hercules. The last year that I lived at the farm, with my blind father, in the long watches of our solitude Jean RoussiÈre never failed to keep me interested and amused, good fellow that he was. At his work he was excellent and always enlivened his beasts by some cheering song.

Naturally artistic in all he did, even if it was heaping a rick of straw or a pile of manure, or stowing away a cargo, he knew how to give the harmonious line or, as they say, the graceful sweep. But he had the defects of his qualities and was rather too fond of taking life in an easy and leisurely fashion, even passing part of it in an afternoon nap.

A charming talker at all times, it was worth hearing him as he spoke of the days when he led the big teams of horses on the towing-path, tugging the barges up the RhÔne to Valence and to Lyons.

“Just fancy!” he said, “at the age of twenty, I led the finest turn-out on the banks of the RhÔne! A turn-out of twenty-four stallions, four abreast, dragging six barges! Ah, what fine mornings those were, when we set out on the banks of the big river and silently, slowly, this fleet moved up the stream!”

And Jean RoussiÈre would enumerate all the places on the two banks; the inns, the hostesses, the streams, the sluices, the roads and the fords from Arles to the Revestidou, from the Coucourde to the Ermitage. But his greatest happiness and triumph was at the feast of Saint-Eloi.

“I will show your Maillanais,” he said, “if they have not already seen it, how we ride a little mule!”

Saint-Eloi is, in Provence, the feast of the agriculturists. All over Provence on that day the village priests bless the cattle, asses, mules and horses; and the people owning the beasts partake of the “blessed bread,” that excellent “blessed bread” flavoured with aniseed and yellow with eggs, which they call tortillarde. At Maillane it was our custom on that day to deck a chariot with green boughs and harness to it forty or fifty beasts, caparisoned as in the time of the tournaments, with beards, embroidered saddle-cloths, plumes, mirrors and crescents of brass. The whip was put up to auction, that is to say, the office of Prior was put up to public auction:

“Thirty francs for the whip!—a hundred francs!—two hundred francs! Once—twice—thrice!”

The presidency of the feast fell to the highest bidder. The chariot of green boughs led the procession, a cavalcade of joyful labourers, each one walking proudly near his own horse or mule, and cracking his whip. In the chariot, accompanied by the musicians playing the tambourine and flute, the Prior was seated. On the mules, fathers placed their little ones astride, the latter holding on happily to the trappings. The horses’ collars were all ornamented with a cake of the blessed bread, in the form of a crown, and a pennon in paper bearing a picture of Saint-Eloi; and carried on the shoulders of the Priors of the past years was an image of the saint, in full glory, like a golden bishop, the crozier in his hand.

Drawn by the fifty mules or donkeys round the village rolled the chariot, in a cloud of dust, with the farm labourers running like mad by the side of their beasts, all in their shirt sleeves, hats at the back of their heads, a belt round the waist, and low shoes.

That year Jean RoussiÈre, mounting our mule Falette, astonished the spectators. Light as a cat, he jumped on the animal, then off again, remounted, now sitting on one side, now standing upright on the crupper, there in turn doing the goose step, the forked tree and the frog, on the mule’s back—in short, giving a sort of Arab horseman’s performance.

But where he shone with even greater lustre was at the supper of Saint-Eloi, for after the chariot procession the Priors give a feast. Every one having eaten and drunk their fill and said grace, RoussiÈre rose and addressed the company.

“Comrades! Here you are, a crowd of good-for-nothings and rascals, who have kept the Saint-Eloi for the past thousand years, and yet I will wager none of you know the history of your great patron.”

The company confessed that all they had heard was that their saint had been a blacksmith.

“Yes, but I am going to tell you how he became a saint.” And while soaking a crisp tortillarde in his glass of Tavel wine, the worthy RoussiÈre proceeded:

“Our Lord God the Father, one day in Paradise, wore a troubled air. The child Jesus inquired of him:

“‘What is the matter, my Father?’

“‘I have,’ replied God, ‘a case that greatly plagues me. Hold, look down there!’

“‘Where?’ asked Jesus.

“‘Down there, in the Limousin, to the right of my finger: thou seest, in that village, near the city, a smithy, a large fine smithy?’

“‘I see—I see.’

“‘Well, my son, there is a man that I should like to have saved: they call him Master Eloi. He is a reliable, good fellow, a faithful observer of my Commandments, charitable to the poor, kind-hearted to every one, of exemplary conduct, hammering away from morning to night without evil speaking or blasphemy. Yes, he seems to me worthy to become a great saint.’

“‘And what prevents it?’ asked Jesus.

“‘His pride, my son. Because he is a good worker, a worker of the first order, Eloi thinks that no one on earth is above him, and presumption is perdition.’

“‘My Lord Father,’ said Jesus, ‘if you will permit me to descend to the earth I will try and convert him.’

“‘Go, my dear son.’

“And the good Jesus descended. Dressed like an apprentice, his tool-bag on his back, the divine workman alighted right in the street where Eloi dwelt. Over the blacksmith’s door was the usual signboard, and on it this inscription:

“‘Eloi the blacksmith, master above all other masters, forges a shoe in two heatings.’

“The little apprentice stepped on to the threshold and taking off his hat:

“‘God give you good-day, master, and to the company,’ said he; ‘have you need of any help?’

“‘Not for the moment,’ answered Eloi.

“‘Farewell then, master: it will be for another time.’

“And the good Jesus continued his road. In the street he saw a group of men talking, and Jesus said in passing:

“‘I should not have thought that in such a smithy, where there must be, one would think, so much doing, they would refuse me work.’

“‘Wait a bit, my lad,’ said one of the neighbours. ‘What salutation did you make to Master Eloi!’

“‘I said, as is usual, “God give you good-day, master, and to the company!’

“‘Ah, but that is not what you should have said. You should have addressed him as, “Master above all other masters.” There, look at the board!’

“‘That is true,’ said Jesus. ‘I will try again.’ And with that he returned to the smithy.

“‘God give you good-day, master above all other masters. Have you no need of an apprentice?’

“‘Come in, come in,’ replied Eloi. ‘I have been thinking that we could give you work also. But listen to this once and for all: When you address me, you must say, “Master, above all other masters,” see you—this is not to boast, but men like me, who can forge a shoe in two heatings, there are not two in Limousin!’

“‘Oh,’ replied the apprentice, ‘in our country, we do it with one heating!’

“‘Only one heating! Go to, boy, be silent then—why the thing is not possible.’

“‘Very well, you shall see, master above all other masters!’

“Jesus took a piece of iron, threw it into the forge, blew, made up the fire, and when the iron was red—red, and incandescent—he took it out with his hand.

“‘Oh—poor simpleton!’ the head apprentice cried to him, ‘thou wilt scorch thy fingers!’

“‘Have no fear!’ answered Jesus. ‘Thanks to God, in our country we have no need of pincers.’ And the little workman seizes with his hand the iron heated to white heat, carries it to the anvil, and with his hammer, pif, paf, in the twinkle of an eye, stretches it, flattens it, rounds it and stamps it so well that one would have said it was cast.

“‘Oh, I, too,’ said Master Eloi, ‘I could do that if I wanted to.’

“He then takes a piece of iron, throws it in the forge, blows, makes up the fire, and when the iron is red hot, goes to take it as his apprentice had done and carry it to the anvil—but he burns his fingers badly! In vain he tried to hurry, to harden himself to endure the burn, he was forced to let go his hold and run for the pincers. In the meantime the shoe for the horse grew cold—and only a few sparks burnt out. Ah! poor Master Eloi, he might well hammer, and put himself in a sweat—to do it with one heating was impossible.

“‘But listen,’ said the apprentice, ‘I seem to hear the gallop of a horse.’

“Master Eloi at once stalked to the door and sees a cavalier, a splendid cavalier, drawing up at the smithy. Now this was Saint-Martin.

“‘I come a long way,’ he said, ‘my horse has lost a shoe, and I am in a great hurry to find a blacksmith.’

“Master Eloi bridled up.

“‘My lord,’ said he, ‘you could not have chanced better. You have come to the first blacksmith of Limousin—of Limousin and of France, who may well call himself “master of all the masters,” and who forges a shoe in two heats. Here lad, hold the horse’s hoof,’ he called.

“‘Hold the hoof!’ cried Jesus. ‘In our country we do not find that necessary.’

“‘Well, what next,’ cried the master blacksmith, ‘that is a little too much! And how can one shoe a horse, in your country, without holding the hoof?’

“‘But faith, nothing is easier, as you shall see.’

“And so saying, the young man seized a knife, went up to the horse, and crack! cut off the hoof. He carried it into the smithy, fastened it in the vice, carefully heated the hoof, fastened on the new shoe that he had just made; with the shoeing hammer he knocked in the nails, then loosening the vice, returned the foot to the horse, spat on it and fitted it, saying, as he made the sign of the Cross, ‘May God grant that the blood dries up,’ and there was the foot finished, shod and healed as no one had ever seen before and as no one will ever see again.

“The first apprentice opened his eyes wide as the palm of your hand, while Master Eloi’s assistants began to perspire.

“‘Ho,’ said Eloi at last, ‘my faith, but I will do it like that—do it just as well.’

“He sets himself to the task. Knife in hand he approaches the horse, and crack! he cuts off the foot, carries it into the smithy, fastens it into the vice, and shoes it at his ease, just like the young apprentice.

“But then came the hitch, he must put it back in place. He approaches the horse, spits on the shoe, applies it to the fetlock as best he can. Alas! the salve does not stick, the blood flows, and the foot falls! Then was the proud soul of Master Eloi illuminated: and he went back into the smithy there to prostrate himself at the feet of the young apprentice. But Jesus had disappeared, and also the horse and the cavalier. Tears gushed from the eyes of Master Eloi; he recognised, poor man, that there was a master above him, and above all. Throwing aside his apron he left the forge and went out into the world to teach the word of the Lord Jesus.”

Great applause followed the conclusion of this legend, applause both for Saint-Eloi and for Jean RoussiÈre.

Before I leave the worthy Jean I must mention that it was he who sang to me the popular air to which I put the serenade of Magali, an air so sweet, so melodious, that many regretted not finding it in Gounod’s opera of Mireille. The only person in all the world that I ever heard sing that particular air was Jean RoussiÈre, who was apparently the last to retain it. It was a strange coincidence that he should come, by chance as it were, and sing it to me, at the moment when I was looking for the ProvenÇal note of my love-song, and thus enable me to save it just at the moment when, like so many other things, it was about to be relegated to oblivion.

The name of Magali, an abbreviation of Marguerite, I heard one day as I was returning home from Saint-RÉmy. A young shepherdess was tending a flock of sheep along the Grande Roubine. “Oh! Magali, art not coming yet?” cried a boy to her as he passed by. The limpid name struck me as so pretty that at once I sang:

MAGALI.[15]

It was in the autumn of this year 1855 that the first cloud overshadowed my happy youth. It was the sorrow of losing my father. He had become quite blind, and as far back as the previous Christmas we had been anxious about him. For on that occasion he whom the festival had always filled with joy, this year seemed overcome by a deep depression which we felt augured badly for the future. It was in vain that as usual we lit the three sacred candles and spread the table with the three white cloths; in vain that I offered him the mulled wine, hoping to hear from his lips the sacramental “Good cheer.” Groping, alas! with his long thin arms, he seated himself with never a word. In vain also my mother tried to tempt him with the dishes of Christmas, one after the other—the plate of snails, the fish of Martique, the almond nougat, the cake of oil. Wrapt in pensive thought the poor old man supped in silence. A shadow, a forerunner of death, was over him, and his blindness oppressed him. Once he looked up and spoke.

“Last year at Christmas I could still see the light of the candles; but this year, nothing, nothing. Help me, O blessed Virgin.”

In the first days of September he departed this life. Having received the last sacrament with sincerity and faith, the strong faith of simple souls, he turned to his family, who all stood weeping around his bed:

“Come, come, my children,” he said to us. “I am going—and to God I give thanks for all that I owe him: my long life and my labour, which He has blessed.”

Then he called me to him and asked:

“FrÉdÉric, what sort of weather is it?”

“It rains, my father,” I replied.

“Ah well,” he said, “if it rains it its good for the seeds.”

Then he gave up his soul to God. I can never forget that moment! They covered his head with the sheet, and near the bed, that big bed in the white alcove where in broad daylight I had been born, they lit a long pale taper. The shutters of the room were half closed. The labourers were ordered to unyoke at once. The maid, in the kitchen, turned over the cauldrons and pots on the dresser.

Around the ashes of the fire, which had been extinguished, we seated ourselves in a silent circle, my mother at the corner of the big chimney, bearing, according to the custom of the widows of Provence, as sign of mourning, a white fichu on her head. And all day the neighbours, men and

women, relations and friends, came to offer us their sympathy, greeting us one after another with the customary “May our Lord preserve you!”

And lengthily, piously, they went through the condolences in honour of the “poor master.”

The next day all Maillane assisted at the funeral ceremony; and in their prayers for him, the poor added always:

“God grant that as many angels may accompany him to heaven as he has given us loaves of bread!”

The coffin was borne by hand with cloths, the lid off in order that for the last time the people might see him with crossed hands in his white shroud. Behind walked Jean RoussiÈre carrying the wax taper which had watched over his master.

As for me, while the passing-bell sounded in the distance, I went to weep alone in the fields, for the tree of the house had fallen. The Mas du Juge, the home of my childhood, was now desolate and deserted in my eyes as though it had lost its guardian spirit. The head of the family, Master FranÇois my father, had been the last of the patriarchs of Provence, a faithful preserver of traditions and customs, and the last, at least for me, of that austere generation, religious, humble, and self-controlled, who had patiently gone through the miseries and convulsions of the Revolution, giving to France the disinterested devotion which flamed up in her great holocausts, and the indefatigable service of her big armies.

One week later the division of property took place. The farm produce and the “stacks,” the horses, oxen, sheep, poultry—all were divided into lots. The furniture, our dear old things, the big four-poster beds, the kneading-trough of iron-work, the meal-chest, the polished wardrobes, the carved kneading-trough, the table, the mirror, all which, ever since my childhood, I had seen as a part of my home life, the rows of plates, the painted china, which never left the shelves of the dresser, the sheets of hemp that my mother herself had woven; agricultural implements, waggons, ploughs, harness, tools, utensils of every kind—all these were collected and set out on the threshing-floor of the farm, to be divided in three divisions by an expert. The servants, hired either by the year or the month, left one after the other. And to the paternal farm,[16] which was not in my division, I had to say good-bye.

One afternoon, with my mother and the dog, and Jean RoussiÈre who acted as charioteer, we departed with heavy hearts, to dwell henceforth in the house at Maillane which in the division had fallen to me.

It was from personal experience I could write later on in Mireille of home-sickness: