CHAPTER XISONG, DANCE, AND LEGEND

ST. TROPHIME, ARLES.By Joseph Pennell.

CHAPTER X

ARLES

A few more turns of the kaleidoscope of life, and we find ourselves sitting in a Roman amphitheatre among a crowd of spectators.

That odious descendant of the Roman games, the bullfight, does, at certain times, carry on in a far milder form the ancient tale of agony in this very arena, but the present performance given by a troup of Laplanders is of quite another character.

The people of Arles had come in considerable crowds to see them, but what interested us was the spectators, not the Laplanders. It was Sunday, and many of the women had on their famous costume: a black skirt,white muslin or tarlatan fichu, a picturesque white cap with a band of embossed black velvet round it, which hangs gracefully at one side. The Arlésiennes are beautiful, and carry themselves perfectly.

A picturesque costume is popularly said to "make people look handsome;" as if the dress created a beauty that was not really there!

At Arles, by comparing the faces of those who wear the costume with those who have abandoned it for modern garb, one can clearly realise that beauty—which consists in relations of line and tint—is notmadebutrevealedby its setting. One sees, too, how, on the other hand, it can, by the same means, be disguised and hidden, just as it would be easy to disguise the symmetry of some fine freehand design by tacking on to its outline a random selection of octahedrons or oblate spheroids. This, be it added, is too often the sort of process pursued by the designer of modern costume.

The beauty of the Arlésiennes is attributed to their Greek descent from the original founders of the city. Judging by appearance, one would say there was a strong touch of Saracen blood mingling with the clearer current of the classic.

The hair is generally black, the eyes dark, the features regular and often noble in character.

Arles is a place of narrow streets, of ruins, of tombs. It stands in a wilderness of vast lagoons at the mouths of the Rhone, and in ancient times it could only be reached by water, for the land was all covered with these meres to the foot of the Alpilles. In the time of the Romans and during the Middle Ages these great waters were navigated by theutriculares, or raftsmen, whose flat craft were made of extended skins.

Merchandise from Central Gaul had to come to Arles to be transshipped on its way to the East or elsewhere,viâthe Mediterranean. The raftsmen carried it over the shallow water round the city, and plied a roaring local trade as well.

At Arles all interested in architecture will be apt to linger before the very remarkable church of St. Trophime.

The interest lies in the characteristic Provençal blending of the pure Roman style with its offshoot, the Romanesque, an architecture which forms a curious analogue to the Romance languages, formed during the same period when things Roman were falling to pieces, yet were still the only standards and models, the type of all possible achievements in human life and art.

The Romanesque is thepatoisof the classic architecture (with a history singularly analogous to that of the language), developing finally into the eloquent Gothic of our great cathedrals. But it was in the north, not in the south—just as in the language—that the more evolved form established itself. That leaves to the southern speech and architecture a primitive charm all their own.

Of the porch of St. Trophime the engaged pillars are classic as to their capitals, Romanesque in the half barbaric carving of their bases. The figures in the niches formed by the pillars are Roman in general type, yet with a touch of Byzantine, which may be described as the architectural Romance dialect of the East.

The interior was a surprise. The half-barbaric richness of the porch had disappeared. The choir had something of the northern Gothic, but the nave was severe, and indeed rigid in character, yet with none of the massiveness that makes the Norman version of Romanesque so fine. In another country one would have concluded that the interior was of earlier date than the highly decorated porch; but in Provence this rigid manner belongs to the second period of architecture, when theCistercians—afraid, apparently, lest imaginative decoration might make things too pleasant and beautiful for sinful mortals—introduced a new style in which such irrelevancies were sternly banished: hence even the piers of the nave are merely square blocks of masonry. One must hope that the worshippers of St. Trophime received commensurate spiritual benefit for the deprivation thus imposed upon them.

The church gives one a sense of chill, of hardness; an atmosphere from which all the inspiration and intuition of religious feeling has been driven out, and only the intolerance and cold-blooded pieties remain.

It is exceedingly interesting none the less, for it is so fine an example of the emotionless Cistercian style of the twelfth century—the twelfth century, strange to relate, when the troubadours were singing their loudest and best, when the great castles were overflowing with gaiety, and all the land was full of dance and song.

The cloisters belong to the earlier and richer period, the pillars being carved with real Romanesque beasts and birds of the most aggrieved and untamed character, with vigorous foliage and volutes, and every variety of ornament; yet all balanced with that perfect instinct of the mediæval carver, never afraid to let himself go, to plunge into a profusion almost riotous, while always some sane inner guidance builds up the richness into a beautiful whole, wherein the quality of reserve which seemed so recklessly broken down in the spendthrift detail reappears as by miracle to bind all into one. There is no lack of emotion here. It informs every rampant beast and indignant bird, every living curve of leaf and swirl of volute; but it is like the clamour of tumultuous music, all welded together into harmony.

In this city of the lagoons there are endless associationsof Roman days and of days far earlier, as well as tangible relics of those dim ages that, at best, remain so profound a mystery even to the most learned. Of the Greek colony a few marbles remain, and a few words. The Provençal herdsmen in the mountains call their breadarto, from the Greekαρτος. The sea also ispelagre(πελαγος), and there are a few more as obviously or more indirectly derived.

It was to Arles, among other Provençal places, that St. Martha came to convert the people to Christianity. With a little company of saints, she arrived one day in the gay pagan city just when they were all celebrating the festival of Venus. And forthwith St. Trophimus—the beloved friend of St. Paul—lifted up his voice and addressed the laughing, dancing crowd, and suddenly, with a great crash, the statue of the goddess fell to the earth, and the people were converted. Encouraged by this rapid discomfiture of one of the most powerful of the Olympians, the little band dispersed through the country—St. Eutropius to Orange, St. Saturnin to Toulouse, and St. Martha to Tarascon to reform the Tarasque, with what success we shall presently know.

Perhaps it was because the weather had lost its brilliance that Arles seemed to us a little sad. Its beautiful, poplar-bordered Aliscamps, the famous avenue of tombs, was scarcely a cheering place to loiter in at the close of a winter afternoon. It brought home too clearly the Roman idea of death: sombre, cold, grim, merciless. Sometimes, not very often, the tombs revealed regret for the dead that appeared more than conventional; sometimes one seemed to discern, breathing out of the damp-stained marble, a passion of grief that was unbearably hopeless; human love beating, beating for ever, with bleeding hands, against a hateful, unyielding doorway. One had to hurry past those tombs....

LES ALISCAMPS, ARLES.By Joseph Pennell.

This avenue is the sole remains of what was once a very large Roman cemetery, destroyed when the railway came to the city. Among the tombs was found one of Julia, daughter of Lucius Tyrannus, proudly representing in sculpture all the musical instruments on which she could play, among them an organ, said to be the earliest example known. Marble sarcophagi are ranged in rows beneath the poplars, leading the eye along the solemn glade to the church of St. Honorat, another fine example of Provençal Romanesque, with a bell tower built on lines almost purely Roman.

St. Virgilius, under whose direction it was erected, had no little trouble at the beginning of his work. The pillars of the church had arrived, and were just goingto be set up, when the workmen found that they could not get them lifted, do what they would. The reason was obvious. They found sitting solidly on the columns a very small but very determined demon, and budge he would not. He sat there square and firm, resolved that the obnoxious church should never be completed if he had any say in the matter. At last, in despair, they had to send for St. Virgilius, who was Bishop of Arles, and with holy-water and various exorcisms the obstructive demon was driven away and the columns triumphantly hoisted into their places, where one can see them to this day. It seemed to us that that demon had not altogether departed from the church. The place was gloomy, uncanny, damp, and unwholesome, but undoubtedly a fine example of its style.

St. Virgilius, no doubt on account of his saintship, was much beset by demons and false appearances—a very discouraging feature in the lives of the saints.

He was one night looking out over the lagoons, when he saw a phantom ship, and a voice called out saying that the crew was bound for Jerusalem and had come to take St. Virgilius with them. But the wary saint replied, "No, thank you; not until I know who you are!" And he made the sign of the cross, and instantly the ship became a drift of mist, and rolled away across the water.

This is said to be a version of the legend of the "Flying Dutchman."

It is not surprising that Arles should have had so many splendid Roman buildings, for not only did it become a Roman colony,[10]but it was the residence of Roman emperors, and was nicknamed the Rome of Gaul—Gallula Roma, Arelas.

The museum was rich in relics of the Imperial occupation. There is a beautiful bust of the Empress Liviaamong the treasures, and one exquisite little head of a boy, son of one of the Cæsars, a delicate, pathetic little face, evidently an individual, not a type.

The collection also boasts a Phœnician tomb which looks as if it were made yesterday, and some fine reliefs of dancing figures, decorated foliage, instinct with that quality of beauty, lightness, magic that the Gods have bestowed upon the art of Greece. This quality comes into strong evidence in this museum, where there are Pagan and Christian sarcophagi side by side in large numbers. Fine as are the earlier Christian sculptures (that is, on tombs before the withdrawal of protection from Christian cemeteries),[11]they are not to be compared with the pure pagan work; and the later tombs of Christian origin are "rude and childish in design and execution."

One can spend hours wandering about the nooks and corners of the city, loitering by the river-side, where there are the wretched remains, worse than ruined, of a palace of Constantine; lingering about the silent theatre where the famous Venus of Arles was found.

Cyril, an enthusiastic deacon, had the building destroyed, knocked down all the statues and all the noble pillars, of which only two sad ones are now standing above the ruin.

One might sit for hours unmolested on some fragment of the seats once so gaily filled with fashionable citizens of the Empire, for though the ruins are surrounded by houses on three sides there is little sign of life in those quiet and ancient dwellings of the citizens of Arles. The fine tower of St. Trophime rises conspicuously behind them, a true southern tower, square and solid, with the three stories marked with flat arcading and round-topped windows: simple, characteristic, with a grave charm which is almost impossible to define, yet very obvious.

ARLES FROM THE RIVER.By Joseph Pennell.

The parapet dividing the auditorium from the stage is still standing here and there, and from this the two columns rise into the air, supporting even yet a fragment of the entablature on their ornate capitals.

Cyril, the iconoclastic deacon, had the place smashed up in indignation at the levity of the performance.

There is little levity now at any rate to trouble any deacon, however serious! One feels, looking at the desolation, and listening to the silence—for it is a silence that throbs and cries more loudly than ever the audience applauded in days gone by—one feels as if the good Cyril need hardly have troubled himself to interfere so stormily with the doings of the people. He could not stamp out "human levity" by knocking down fine columns and statues. He might stamp out human happiness and the sense of the beautiful, perhaps, and help to make a coarser, duller race to inhabit the earth. But happily the "levity" must survive in some form or other, devastate our deacons never so wisely!

ROMAN THEATER, ARLES.By E. M. Synge.

"At eventide it delighted him much to sit by the blazing fire of fagots on the hearth and tell us tales of the Reign of Terror, when during the Revolution he had dug a pit and had hidden there many a poor fugitive. Then my mother would sing the sweet old Provençal songs,La Bello Margountoud,L'aucen engabia...."Ballads and stories would be told by her while I drank in with delight the wild legends of Provence."—Mistral's Account of his Parents.

"Ballads and stories would be told by her while I drank in with delight the wild legends of Provence."—Mistral's Account of his Parents.

CHAPTER XI

SONG, DANCE, AND LEGEND

There are so many famous things connected with Provence that one never comes to the end of them. There are dances and festivals and fires on St. John's Eve in honour of Baal (as there are, or were till quite lately, in Scotland). There are rich wines and the far-famedbouillabaisse, a dish of fish of mixed sorts, boiled with saffron, and, to feminine palates, extremely nasty!

Great was our delight to see, in passing a side-road leading to a small hostelry, a sign-board with the mystic word printed in triumphant letters. This was local colour indeed! Our enthusiasm rose to boiling-point; I doubt if even our critical friend could have chilled us at that moment.

Here was Provence andbouillabaisse; nothing disappointing; the concoction not one whit less nauseous than one might have expected!

Dumas writes with ardour about the dish:—

"While polenta and macaroni possess all the characteristics of primitive and antediluvian simplicity,bouillabaisseis the result of the most advanced state of culinary civilisation; comprising in itself a whole epic of unexpected episodes and extraordinary incidents."

The celebrated wines of Chateauneuf-des-Papes, Sainte Baume, and others I doubt if we tasted; but all the wines seemed ambrosial to us; especially when it was "weather for singing the Peyrenolle," a very ancient song of which only the name remains in this saying of the people.

The dance of thefarandoleis of Greek origin and must be infinitely graceful, but alas! we only heard of it, never saw it danced. The dancers join hands to form chains, each chain led by a man or a woman, who plays a merry air on thegaboulet. These chains, following their leaders, then form into lines, passing rapidly before one another in contrary directions—like divergent currents—dancing in time to the music. And then they swing off into circles and dance round and round maypoles and walnut-trees, till the whole place is wild with merriment. On occasions of great rejoicing the people used to dance thefarandolethrough the streets, all joining in the whirling circles, rich and poor. It was like a wind of joy flying through the city!

The people of Provence have also some Saracen dances, bequeathed to them by that marauding people when they lived in the Mountains of the Moors, in their rock-set fortresses:Li Mourescoandlis Ouliveto, which was danced after the olive harvest.

This pervasive characteristic of dance and song for which Provence is so famous, doubtless springs from the fact that this people have never ceased to be pagans.

The clergy of the Middle Ages in vain tried to suppress this element. There are strange stories of the mingling of ancient customs and diversions with Christian ceremonies: dancing and songs, the antique chorus, and love-poems sung or recited in the very churches; ecclesiastical discipline being far less stringent in the south than in the north of France, where classic influenceshad been weaker. Religion was associated in the minds of the Provençals with gaiety and festivals; and the clergy, in order to attract and retain the people, had found it necessary to recognise this pagan spirit which took its origin in far-off generations when the Greeks founded Marseilles and its numerous off-shoots; when for five and a half centuries the Romans ruled and civilised the country. In the ninth and tenth centuries, moreover, the clergy and the people of the south were more or less closely assimilated, and this touch of paganism in the priesthood made possible what at first sight challenges belief.

At Limoges, for instance, during the feast of St. Martial, the people used to substitute for the words of the Latin liturgy some original couplets in the Romance tongue: "St. Martial, pray for us, and we will dance for you," and they furthermore broke out into a dance in the church, without the faintest sense of incongruity; for to these people worship, song, and rhythmic movement were parts of one and the same impulse.

And—if one comes to that—on what ground have they been divorced?

The feast of Flora was celebrated in Provence till the sixteenth century, when it was suppressed; the "mimes" and actors of antiquity were familiar figures of the Middle Ages; among them a class of women jongleurs who went about from city to city; and the wild feast of the Lupercal is said to have had its mediæval representative in this essentially pagan land.

This was the epoch when Latin had about ceased to be a living tongue, and from its corpse, so to speak, had arisen a multitude of dialects all over the Roman world, among them the Romance or Provençal, theLangue d'Oc, in which poems and legends were now written. Authors at this time were nearly always monks, but theytreated their subjects with much freedom, as, for instance, in theVision of St. Paul,[12]who descends to the Infernal Regions to visit the "cantons of hell" and to see the luckless sinners in their misery, each tormented appropriately according to the nature of their transgression. The poem was evidently a crude forerunner of the Divine Comedy.

From this popular literature the troubadour poetry of the next centuries sprang, without, however, extinguishing its predecessors, which continued to exist side by side with the new forms of art.

That character makes destiny is very clearly evidenced in Provençal history. This rich, eventful, romantic story is just what a people renowned forbonté d'esprit, grace, good looks, poetry, eloquence, sentiment, passion, must inevitably weave for themselves in the course of ages. From the time when paleolithic man was making rude stone implements and living in caves or holes in the earth, this country has been busily forming and developing the human body and soul, perhaps in a more clear and visible sequence of progress that can easily be traced elsewhere.

The variety and persistence of ancient legends and customs serves to indicate the road of evolution from stage to stage with picturesque vividness. The prehistoric is not far off in this land, where Time loses its illusory quality and seems to assume the character that all philosophers attribute to it when they speak of theEternal Now.

The mountains contiguous to the mountains of the Moors, the beautiful Esterelles, so familiar to visitors on the Riviera, have a legend of a fairy Estelle, or Esterella, who used to be worshipped there and to receive sacrifices. The woodcutters dread the apparition. Her smile is ofsuch unearthly beauty that any man who sees her is so fascinated that he is for ever drawn by a resistless longing to find her again, and some "have spent years leaping from crag to crag, while others have wandered away to lead the life of a hermit in forest shades." Is this a myth typifying the search after the Ideal and the Beautiful?

The Incourdoules have their Golden Goat which haunts the most inaccessible fastnesses, living in a cavern full of precious stones and treasure.[13]

One day a mysterious man appeared and began to build acabanoun, or hut, in a lonely spot. He wore a sheepskin, red turban, and blue sash; and when a woodcutter spoke to him he laughed mockingly and cried:—

"Taragnigna, Taragnigna!Fai attension a la mouissara.Vau a la vigna,Vau a la vigna—Vai-ti-pia!Vai-ti-pia!Taragnigna mia!"

"Taragnigna, Taragnigna!

Fai attension a la mouissara.

Vau a la vigna,

Vau a la vigna—

Vai-ti-pia!

Taragnigna mia!"

("Cobweb! cobweb!Mark that spy!I am going to the vineyard.I am going to the vineyard.We are in danger—we are lost!Cobweb mine!")

("Cobweb! cobweb!

Mark that spy!

I am going to the vineyard.

We are in danger—we are lost!

Cobweb mine!")

Whereupon an enormous black spider came swinging from the branch of a pine, with menacing looks. The woodcutter said it was as large as atesa-negra(blackhead or linnet). He flees in horror, but can't resist returning on the morrow to the mysteriouscabanoun. He feels a shivering feeling creep over him as he approaches, and isagain greeted by a burst of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha, mon vieux, toccan li cique sardino ensen" ("Let us touch the five sardines together, neighbour,"i.e., shake hands—common Provençal expression).

"Taragnigna! Taragnigna!Fai attension a moun Vesin!"

"Taragnigna! Taragnigna!

Fai attension a moun Vesin!"

and the great spider fixed his eyes on Sieur Guizol, the woodcutter, and ran nimbly down its silken cord. Then the strange host comes down from among the rafters and begins to talk. Finally, he tells his guest that he has come to seek theCabro d'Or, and breaks out again in a wild song—"Taragnigna, you and I are going to make our fortunes."

"Barba Garibo, e giorno, leve vo!Porte de zenzibo,Dame do a tre mério.Un ome come voCh' ha vist tante causeE ben giust che se repauseChe vos par d'aisso?Barba Garibo! Barba Garibo!"

"Barba Garibo, e giorno, leve vo!

Porte de zenzibo,

Dame do a tre mério.

Un ome come vo

Ch' ha vist tante cause

E ben giust che se repause

Che vos par d'aisso?

Barba Garibo! Barba Garibo!"

("Uncle Garibo! it is day, arouse thyself!Bring dry raisins,Two or three small new potatoes—A man like you,Who so many things hast seen,It is most just he should repose himself.What think you of it? What think you of it?Uncle Garibo! Uncle Garibo!")

("Uncle Garibo! it is day, arouse thyself!

Bring dry raisins,

Two or three small new potatoes—

A man like you,

Who so many things hast seen,

It is most just he should repose himself.

What think you of it? What think you of it?

Uncle Garibo! Uncle Garibo!")

And the spider seemed to dance in a wild ecstasy, vibrating on his line with immense impetus, quite close to Sieur Guizol's face.

Then Guizol asks if his host really believes in theGolden Goat, and the man addresses the spider indignantly.

"Ha! dost thou hear him Taragnigna? He doubts that theCabro d'Orlives here! But he won't doubt when he gets some of his gold!"

And then he goes on to say that after that he will marry Guizol's daughter, Rosette, and they will all go down to the woodcutter's home, and the spider shall dance Li Mouresco every night.

"And thou shall give uslis Ouliveto," he adds, addressing the formidable insect; "for the Sieur does not know perhaps that I am acornamousaire."

He draws out a bagpipe and commences to play.

"What,brave ome!art thou going to dance? Now let me see if you have forgotten the farandole," and the musician lilted up a wild fantastic tune, "and Sieur Guizol's feet began to keep time to the music, and anon faster and faster as the player played, faster and faster poor Guizol danced, while the spider swung about as though in rapture."

Thus the poor woodcutter is drawn under the will of the recluse and his spider, and night after night, against his better judgment, against his wish, he goes to meet the sorcerer at the hole in the mountain where the Golden Goat guards his treasure.

Guizol is set to work to excavate, the other watching and holding aloft two pine-torches. Fortunately for Guizol, Gastoun, the lover of Rosette, had followed him one night, wondering uneasily at his regular absences from home. Suddenly the gold-seeker leaps up, seeing a flag of stone.

"The treasure!" he yells. There is not a moment to lose, for if they do not get the gold before the goat awakes, the chance is over.

"Oh, thou dear littlebletta oulivié" (olive rod used for gold finding), "thou didst not deceive me after all," the man shouts, pouncing on a vase and other buried objects. They begin to find the gold, when the sorcerer suddenly takes an iron bar and knocks down his companion and thrusts him into the hole crying, "Gold, gold, all mine now!"

But Gastoun rushes in and the two engage in a death-wrestle in the pitch darkness.

"Lo cabro d'or, lo dian!" screams the man and rushes away past his foe, who is dressed in a goat-skin; and so finally the story ends happily with the rescue of the stunned Guizol and the betrothal of Gastoun and Rosette.

When Gastoun afterwards visited thecabanounof the recluse, he found it all burnt and a blackened skull lying among the stones. "A rustling sound was heard and a huge black spider ran hastily across the stones and climbed on the dead man's skull," fixing its eyes on the intruder. Then it shot out its line and wafted itself to the few half-burnt rafters, "and there it swung round and round in a perfect gavotte." And for many a day after, as it was rumoured in the mountains, there were strange sounds at nightfall from the ruinedcabanoun, and the peasants said they heard the drone and cry of thecornemuseand saw a skeleton seated on a stone playing a horrible dance.

This story—founded on a legend that is said to exist in some form or other all over the world—affords a quick picture of the place and the people; but it is further remarkable as a story which seems founded on some case of mesmeric power, probably by no means uncommon among these mountaineers, a Celtic people, it is said, and perhaps for that reason especially sensitive to this mysterious force.

There is a version of the legend at Nice in which the treasure-chamber is under the bed of the Paglion. On a round table a life-sized gold goat and kid are watched over by an exemplary demon who takes only an hour's sleep out of the twenty-four. If a bold adventurer can then creep in and blow the golden trumpet that the demon is so ill-advised as to keep handy for the purpose at his side, that imprudent spirit is forced to remain fixed to the chair, while a swarm of little goblins come trooping in to offer their services in carrying the treasure to any spot that the seeker may decide.

The entrance to this treasure-chamber is the house of a magician between the Tina dei Pagani (the Pagan's Wine-vat, or Roman amphitheatre) and the temple of Apollo, at Cimiez. The district is somewhat haunted by demons and the sort of society that they frequent. The Witches' Rock, rising high beyond Mont Chauve in inaccessible crags, was dear to the uncanny crew, and it was here they danced their "unearthly reels."

On the Rocca di Dom at Avignon witches and wizards (mascandmasco) used to assemble in the far-off days when there were only a few windmills built upon the rock.

The story of the Hunchback of the Rocca di Dom is told of other places also, but it seems to suit this spot better than any. Duncan Craig gives a picturesque version of it.

The hunchback wandered up one night when the mistral was thundering over the hill, setting the sails of the windmills tearing madly round. And the moonlight was shining on the rock, calm through all the tumult. The man can have had no tendency to insomnia, for he fell fast asleep in the uproar, and when he woke it was to sounds of barbaric music and the clashing of cymbals. And presently La Rocca was alive with a crowd of faces, high-crowned conical hats, black satins and silks; and tothe great scandalisation of the watcher, grave and respected citizens of Avignon arm-in-arm with the witches. And they were all dancing as hard as they could dance, and the dust raised by the mistral whirled with them, and the windmill sails tore round scrooping and creaking. New arrivals would come on the scene, and these would receive strange salutations.

"Bon Vèspre, Cousin Chin!" ("Good evening, cousin dog.") "Bono sero, Cousin Cat!" "Bono niue, Coumpaire Loup!" ("Good-night, gossip Wolf.") "Coume vai, Misè Limace?" ("How are you, Mistress Snail?") "Pas maw, pas maw, Cousin Jano."

And so they danced to their Saracenic music, and presently they began to sing together a curious doggerel:—

"Dilun, Dimars e Demecre tres! Dilun, Dimars e Demecre tres!" ("Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, three.") And they sang it over and over and over again.

At last this seems to have got upon the poor man's nerves, for suddenly he starts up and shouts—

"Dijou, Divendre, e Dissate, sieis." ("Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, six.")

"Oh, lou brave gibous!" shriek the witches in chorus. "The dear hunchback has come up here to complete our verse for us; Zou, we will make a man of him."

And they come towards him in a whirling circle, dancing round and round him till he is dazed and dazzled and seems to lose consciousness, when suddenly he finds himself breathless on the rock alone and—straight as a pine!

Another hunchback, hearing of this strange cure, went up to La Rocca on a night of storm, all ready to finish the witches' rhyme for them. This time it was:—

"Dilun, Dimars, e Demecre tres,Dijou, Divendre, e Dissate sieis."

"Dilun, Dimars, e Demecre tres,

Dijou, Divendre, e Dissate sieis."

"E Dimenche, set," cried the hunchback, with enthusiasm. Whereupon there was an awful howl and a great shudder that convulsed all the wicked crew.

"Who dares to speak of the Holy Day in these our revels?" a voice asked.

"Es lou gibous, lou marrit gibous! Zou, la gibo, la gibo. Gibo davans, gibo darriè!"

And the luckless man found that, so far from being cured, he was now doubly deformed—the old hump on the back and a new one on the chest—through the malicious sorcery of the witches of La Rocca.

Provence is full of proverbs and quaint sayings, many of them very like our own country saws about the weather and so forth.

"Ne per Magio, ne per Magiàn,Non te leva o pelicàn."("Neither for May, nor for warmest May,Your winter coat should you take away.")

"Ne per Magio, ne per Magiàn,Non te leva o pelicàn."

"Ne per Magio, ne per Magiàn,

Non te leva o pelicàn."

("Neither for May, nor for warmest May,Your winter coat should you take away.")

("Neither for May, nor for warmest May,

Your winter coat should you take away.")

"Se Febraro non febregiaMars marsegia."("If February be not coldMarch will pierce the young and old.")

"Se Febraro non febregiaMars marsegia."

"Se Febraro non febregia

Mars marsegia."

("If February be not coldMarch will pierce the young and old.")

("If February be not cold

March will pierce the young and old.")

"Non est tout or che relus," is our old friend, "All is not gold that glitters."

There is a Nizard proverb very neatly put. "Experience keeps a school: and it is the only one where thoughtless men will learn."

Another saying expresses an all too common fate in afew words: "A dou mau de la cabro de Moussu Sequin, que se bategue touto la niue 'me lou loup, e piei lou matin, lou loup la manje."

("He had the bad fortune of Monsieur Sequin's goat, which fought all night with the wolf, and then the wolf eat him in the morning.")

There are many madrigals and songs of all sorts, all of them characteristic; most of them inexpressibly charming. Perhaps the best known is Magali, a quaint and tender expression of undying love which death itself cannot daunt. Magali persistently refuses and flees from the love of her adorer, who declares he will follow her even to the grave.

The following few quatrains taken here and there, will give the character of the poem:—

"Less than the sound of wind that murmursCare I for thee or heed thy lay;I'll be an eel, and in the oceanThrough the blue waters glide away."

"Less than the sound of wind that murmurs

Care I for thee or heed thy lay;

I'll be an eel, and in the ocean

Through the blue waters glide away."

"O Magali, if thou dost turnEel in the ocean,Then 'tis a fisher I will beAnd fish for thee."

"O Magali, if thou dost turn

Eel in the ocean,

Then 'tis a fisher I will be

And fish for thee."

"If in the sea thy net thou castestAnd in its toils I fall a prey,I'll be a bird, and to the forestOn my light pinions fly away."

"If in the sea thy net thou castest

And in its toils I fall a prey,

I'll be a bird, and to the forest

On my light pinions fly away."

"O Magali, if thou dost turnFowl in the forest,Then 'tis a fowler I will beAnd capture thee."

"O Magali, if thou dost turn

Fowl in the forest,

Then 'tis a fowler I will be

And capture thee."

"Vain is thy passion, vain thy pursuit,Never a moment shall I stay,But in some oak's rough bark I'll guise me,And in the dark woods hide away."

"Vain is thy passion, vain thy pursuit,

Never a moment shall I stay,

But in some oak's rough bark I'll guise me,

And in the dark woods hide away."

"O Magali, if thou dost turnOak in the forest,Then 'tis the ivy I will be,And cling to thee."

"O Magali, if thou dost turn

Oak in the forest,

Then 'tis the ivy I will be,

And cling to thee."

"Should'st thou once pass yon convent's portals,Naught shalt thou find but lifeless clay;Round me the white-veiled sisters weeping,As in the grave my corpse they lay."

"Should'st thou once pass yon convent's portals,

Naught shalt thou find but lifeless clay;

Round me the white-veiled sisters weeping,

As in the grave my corpse they lay."

"O Magali, when thou, alas!Art dead and silent,I'll be the earth that buries thee:Then mine thou'lt be."

"O Magali, when thou, alas!

Art dead and silent,

I'll be the earth that buries thee:

Then mine thou'lt be."

"Now I believe no mocking mean'st thou;Faithful thy vows; my heart they move,Take from mine arm this crystal bangle,Wear it in token of my love."

"Now I believe no mocking mean'st thou;

Faithful thy vows; my heart they move,

Take from mine arm this crystal bangle,

Wear it in token of my love."

"O Magali, see how the starsThat bright were shiningNow thou art come, O Magali,Turn pale and flee."[14]

"O Magali, see how the stars

That bright were shining

Now thou art come, O Magali,

Turn pale and flee."[14]

It is most singular what an effect of song there is everywhere in this country. The rivers seem to sing as they flow; the tall yellow reeds sing as the wind stirs them; the olives have a little whispered canzo of their own, and the mistral—even he roars a sort of rough baritone in the general concert. No wonder the troubadours were born in this most lyrical of lands.

They had songs for every possible occasion: the morning song oraubade, theserenaor evening song, thecanzoor love-song, thetensofor argumentative moods, thedescortwhen reproaching a cruel lady, the complicatedsestinafor moments of unbridled literary energy, thesirventefor general expression of views, theplanhor complaint, for laments, as, for example, when Folquet of Marseilles (whose acquaintance we are to make presently) writes of the death of Count Barral, Viscount of Marseilles.[15]

"Like one who is so sad that he has lost the sense of sorrow, I feel no pain or sadness; all is buried in forgetfulness. For my loss is so overpowering that my heart cannot conceive it, nor can any man understand its greatness."

In the following translation of some extracts from a tenso, the troubadours Bernart de Ventadour and Peirol discuss relations of personal feeling and artistic creation:

Peirol.Little worth is the song that does not come from the heart, and as love has left me, I have left song and dalliance.

Bernart.Peirol, you commit great folly, if you leave off those for such a reason; if I had harboured wrath in my heart, I should have been dead a year ago, for I also can find no love nor mercy. But for all that I do not abandon singing, for there is no need of my losing two things.

And so they go on sharpening their wits in gay debate.

TheBalladais the merriest and most joyous of all these songs. It is a dance-song of the people dating from Greek times. It is sung and danced by one person only, and seems to be a sort of outburst of individual joy and delight in life. Its secret is said to lie in the "rhythmand graceful waving motion, in conjunction with the musical accent"; the effect, says Hueffer, "must have been of surpassing charm."

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