One entire poem, Espouscado, is a bitterly indignant protest against those who would suppress the dialect, against the regents and the rectors whom “we must pay with our pennies to hear them scoff at the language that binds us to our fathers and our soil!” And the poet cries out, “No, no, we’ll keep our rebellious langue d’oc, grumble who will. We’ll speak it in the stables, at harvest-time, among the silkworms, among lovers, among neighbors, etc., etc. It shall be the language of joy and of brotherhood. We’ll joke and laugh with it;—and as for the army, we’ll take it to the barracks to keep off homesickness.”
And his anger rising, he exclaims:—
“O the fools, the fools, who wean their children from it to stuff them with self-sufficiency, fatuity, and hunger! Let them get drowned in the throng! But thou, O my Provence, be not disturbed about the sons that disown thee and repudiate thy speech. They are dead, they are still-born children that survive, fed on bad milk.”
And he concludes:—
“But, eldest born of Nature, you, the sun-browned boys, who speak with the maidens in the ancient tongue, fear not; you shall remain the masters! Like the walnuts of the plain, gnarled, stout, calm, motionless, exploited and ill-treated as you may be, O peasants (as they call you), you will remain masters of the land!”
This was written in 1888. The quotations might be multiplied; these suffice, however, to show the intense love of the poet for “the language of the soil,” the energy with which he has constantly struggled for its maintenance. He is far from looking upon the multiplication of dialects as an evil, points to the literary glory of Greece amid her many forms of speech, and does not even seek to impose his own language upon the rest of southern France. He sympathizes with every attempt, wherever made, the world over, to raise up a patois into a language. Statesmen will probably think otherwise, and there are nations which would at once take an immense stride forward if they could attain one language and a purely national literature. The modern world does not appear to be marching in accordance with Mistral’s view.
The poems inspired by the love of the ancient ideals and literature of Provence are very beautiful. They have in general a fascinating swing and rhythm, and are filled with charming imagery. One of the best is L’Amiradou (The Belvedere), the story of a fairy imprisoned in the castle at Tarascon, “who will doubtless love the one who shall free her.” Three knights attempt the rescue and fail. Then there comes along a little Troubadour, and sings so sweetly of the prowess of his forefathers, of the splendor of the Latin race, that the guard are charmed and the bolts fly back. And the fairy goes up to the top of the tower with the little Troubadour, and they stand mute with love, and look out over all the beautiful landscape, and the old monuments of Provence with their lessons. This is the kingdom of the fairy, and she bestows it upon him. “For he who knows how to read in this radiant book, must grow above all others, and all that his eye beholds, without paying any tithe, is his in abundance.”