Frédéric Mistral | Page 4

in his home before a company of
friends some poems in French that he had written, he observed tears in
his mother's eyes. She could not understand the poetry his friends so
much admired. Roumanille, much moved, resolved to write no verses
that his mother could not enjoy, and henceforth devoted himself
ardently to the task of purifying and perfecting the dialect of
Saint-Rémy. It has been said, no less truthfully than poetically, that
from a mother's tear was born the new Provençal poetry, destined to so
splendid a career.
We of the English-speaking race are apt to wonder at this love of a

local dialect. This vigorous attempt to create a first-rate literature,
alongside and independent of the national literature, seems strange or
unnatural. We are accustomed to one language, spoken over immense
areas, and we rejoice to see it grow and spread, more and more
perfectly unified. With all their local color, in spite of their expression
of provincial or colonial life, the writings of a Kipling are read and
enjoyed wherever the English language has penetrated. In Italy we find
patriots and writers working with utmost energy to bring into being a
really national language. Nearly all the governments of Europe seek to
impose the language of the capital upon the schools. Unification of
language seems a most desirable thing, and, superficially considered,
the tendency would appear to be in that direction. But the truth is that
there exists all over Europe a war of tongues. The Welsh, the Basques,
the Norwegians, the Bohemians, the Finns, the Hungarians, are of one
mind with Daudet and Mistral, who both express the sentiment, "He
who holds to his language, holds the key of his prison."
So Roumanille loved and cherished the melodious speech of the Rhone
valley. He hoped to see the langue d'oc saved from destruction, he
strove against the invasion of the northern speech that threatened to
overwhelm it. He wrote sweet verses and preached the gospel of the
home-speech. One day he discovered a boy whom he calls "l'enfant
sublime," and the pupil soon carried his dreams to a realization far
beyond his fondest hopes. Not Roumanille, but Frédéric Mistral has
made the new Provençal literature what it is. In him were combined all
the qualities, all the powers requisite for the task, and the task grew
with time. It became more than a question of language. Mistral soon
came to seek not only the creation of an independent literature, he
aimed at nothing less than a complete revolution, or rather a complete
rebirth, of the mental life of southern France. Provence was to save her
individuality entire. Geographically at the central point of the lands
inhabited by the so-called Latin races, she was to regain her ancient
prominence, and cause the eyes of her sisters to turn her way once more
with admiration and affection. The patois of Saint-Rémy has been
developed and expanded into a beautiful literary language. The inertia
of the Provençals themselves has been overcome. There is undoubtedly
a new intellectual life in the Rhone valley, and the fame of the Félibres

and their great work has gone abroad into distant lands.
The purpose, then, of the present dissertation, will be to give an
account of the language of the Félibres, and to examine critically the
literary work of their acknowledged chief and guiding spirit, Frédéric
Mistral.
The story of his life he himself has told most admirably in the preface
to the first edition of Lis Isclo d'Or, published at Avignon in 1874. He
was born in 1830, on the 8th day of September, at Maillane. Maillane is
a village, near Saint-Rémy, situated in the centre of a broad plain that
lies at the foot of the Alpilles, the westernmost rocky heights of the
Alps. Here the poet is still living, and here he has passed his life almost
uninterruptedly. His father's home was a little way out of the village,
and the boy was brought up at the mas,[1] amid farm-hands and
shepherds. His father had married a second time at the age of fifty-five,
and our poet was the only child of this second marriage.
The story of the first meeting of his parents is thus told by the poet:--
"One year, on St. John's day, Maître François Mistral was in the midst
of his wheat, which a company of harvesters were reaping. A throng of
young girls, gleaning, followed the reapers and raked up the ears that
fell. Maître François (Mèste Francés in Provençal), my father, noticed a
beautiful girl that remained behind as if she were ashamed to glean like
the others. He drew near and said to her:--
"'My child, whose daughter are you? What is your name?'
"The young girl replied, 'I am the daughter of Etienne