Tartarin de Tarascon. English Read online

  Produced by Oliver C. Colt and David Widger

  TARTARIN DE TARASCON

  By A. Daudet.

  Translated by Oliver C. Colt.

  Introduction.

  The tale of Tartarin de Tarascon was written by Alphonse Daudet in 1872,and was one of the many works which he produced. In it he pokes gentlefun at a type of Frenchman who comes from the Midi, the area where hehimself was born. Tartarin has characteristics which may remind theEnglish-speaking reader of Toad of Toad Hall, a boastful braggart,easily deceived, but good-hearted au fond.

  The world he inhabits is, of course, very different from ours. There isno radio or television, the motor car is no more than a plaything forthe rich. There is only the beginnings of a telephone system. Much seatransport is still by sailing ship and the idea of mass air travel is inthe realm of science-fiction. France lost the Franco-Prussian war at thebattle of Sedan in 1870, which accounts for the flood of refugees fromAlsasce. She had also, in the 19th century rush to carve up the Africancontinent, seized among other places, Algeria, which she held insubjection by force of arms. So-called Big Game Hunters were regardedwith some admiration, and indeed it was a much more perilous activitythan it is today, when high power repeating rifles with telescopicsights make motor-borne "Sportsmen" little more than butchers.

  Daudet's humour is on the whole inoffensive, but anti-semitism was rifein certain circles in France. It was the era of the Dreyfus scandal, andhe indulges in one or two tasteless gibes at the expense of the Jews,which I have suppressed or at least amended. He also has a passage whichmight well offend the delicate susceptabilities of the less tolerantbelievers in Islam, although to anyone with a nodding acquaintance withthe tents of that faith, the incident is so far-fetched as to neutralise"The willing suspension of disbelief" I have therefore decided toeliminate it from this version of the story. It is not very amusing andis no great loss.

  Although Daudet's humour is in the main kindly, he does not spare theFrench colonial administration of the time. His treatment of the subjectis acidly satirical. It may be said that Daudet seems to know littleabout firearms, less about lions and nothing about camels, but he is notstriving for verisimilitude. After all, the adventures of James Bond donot mirror the reality of international espionage, nor do the exploitsof Bertie Wooster and Jeeves truely reflect life in the upper echelonsof British society.

  This is not a schoolroom exercise in translation. It might be moreaccurately described as a version in English. I have not tampered withthe story line nor made any changes in the events related, but whereI thought it necessary I have not shrunk from altering the words andphrases used in the original to describe them. All translation must bea matter of paraphrase. What sounds well in one language may soundridiculous if translated literally into another, and it is for thetranslator to judge how far this process of paraphrase may be carried.

  I have attempted to produce a text which will entertain the averagereader. Those who want to know exactly what Daudet wrote must consultthe French original.

  TARTARIN DE TARASCON

  Chapter 1.

  Although it is now some twelve or fifteen years since my first meetingwith Tartarin de Tarascon, the memory of the encounter remains as freshas if it had been yesterday.

  At that time Tartarin lived near the entrance to the town, in the thirdhouse on the left on the Avignon road, a pretty little Tarascon villa,with a garden in front, a balcony behind, very white walls and greenshutters.

  From outside the place looked perfectly ordinary, one would never havebelieved that it was the home of a hero, but when one went inside,well... My goodness! The whole establishment had an heroic air, even thegarden!

  Ah...! The Garden... there was not another like it in Europe. Not oneindigenous tree grew there, not one French flower; nothing but exoticplants, gum trees, calabashes, cotton trees, coconut palms, mangos,bananas, cactuses, figs and a baobab. One might have thought oneself inthe middle of Africa, thousands of miles from Tarascon. Of course noneof these trees was fully grown, the coconut palm was about the size ofa swede and the baobab (arbos gigantica) fitted comfortably into apot full of earth and gravel. No matter.... For Tarascon it was quitesplendid, and those citizens who were admitted, on Sundays, to have theprivilege of inspecting Tartarin's baobab went home full of admiration.

  You may imagine my emotions as I walked through this remarkablegarden... they were nothing, however, to what I felt on being admitted tothe sanctum of the great man himself.

  This building, one of the curiosities of the town, was at the end of thegarden, to which it opened through a glass door. Picture a large roomhung from floor to ceiling with firearms and swords; weapons from everycountry in the world. Guns, carbines, rifles, blunderbusses,knives, spears, revolvers, daggers, arrows, assegais, knobkerries,knuckledusters and I know not what.

  The brilliant sunlight glittered on the steel blades of sabres and thepolished butts of firearms. It was really quite a menacing scene... whatwas a little reassuring was the good order and discipline which ruledover this arsenal. Everything was neat tidy and dusted. Here and there asimple notice, reading "Poison arrows, Do not touch." or "Beware. Loadedfirearms." made one feel it safe to approach.

  In the middle of the room was a table. On the table was a flagon ofrum, a turkish tobacco pouch, The voyages of Captain Cook, storiesof adventure, treatises on falconry, descriptions of big-game huntsetc... and finally seated at the table was the man himself. Fortyto forty-five years of age, short, fat, stocky and ruddy, clad inshirt-sleeves and flannel trousers, with a close-clipped wiry beardand a flamboyant eye. In one hand he held a book and with the other hebrandished an enormous pipe, its bowl covered by a metal cap; and ashe read some stirring tale of the pursuit of hairy creatures, he made,pushing out his lower lip, a fierce grimace which gave his features,those of a comfortable Tarascon "Rentier", the same air of heartyferocity which was evident throughout the whole house. This man wasTartarin... Tartarin de Tarascon... the intrepid, great and incomparableTartarin de Tarascon.

  At that time Tartarin was not the Tartarin which he is today, the greatTartarin de Tarascon who is so popular throughout the Midi of France,however, even at this epoch, he was already the king of Tarascon.

  Let us examine how he acquired his crown. You will be aware, for astart, that everyone in these parts is a hunter. From the highest to thelowest hunting is a passion with the Tarasconais and has been ever sincethe legendary Tarasque prowled in the marshes near the town and washunted down by the citizens.

  Now, every Sunday morning, the men of Tarascon take up arms and leavetown, bag on back and gun on shoulder, with an excited collection ofdogs, with ferrets, with trumpets and hunting horns, it is a splendidspectacle.... Sadly, however, there is a shortage of game... in factthere is a total absence of game.... Animals may be dumb but they arenot stupid, so for miles around Tarascon the burrows are empty and thenests abandoned. There is not a quail, not a blackbird, not the smallestrabbit nor even the tiniest wheatear.

  These pretty little Tarascon hills, scented with lavender, myrtle androsemary are very tempting, and those fine muscat grapes, swollenwith sugar, which line the banks of the Rhone, are wonderfullyappetising... yes, but there is Tarascon in he distance, and in the worldof fur and feather Tarascon is bad news. The birds of passage seem tohave marked it with a cross on their maps, and when the long wedges ofwild duck, heading for the Camargue, see far off the town's steeples,the whole flight veers away. In short there is nothing left by way ofgame in this part of the country but an old rascal of a hare, who hasescaped by some miracle the guns of Tarascon and appears determined tostay there. This hare is well known. He has been given a name. Heis called "Speedy". He is known to live on l
and belonging toM. Bompard... which, by the way, has doubled or even tripled its value.No one has yet been able to catch him, and at the present time thereare not more than two or three fanatics who go after him. The rest havegiven up and Speedy has become something of a protected species, thoughthe Tarasconais are not very conservation minded and would make a stewof the rarest of creatures, if they managed to shoot one.

  Now, you may say, "Since game is in such short supply, what do theseTarasconais sportsmen do every Sunday?" What do they do? Eh! Mon Dieu!They go out into the country, several miles from the town. They assemblein little groups of five or six. They settle down comfortably insome shady spot. They take out of their game-bags a nice piece ofboeuf-en-daube, some raw onions, a sausage and some anchovies and theybegin a very long luncheon, washed down by one of these jolly Rhonewines, which encourage singing and laughter.

  When all have had enough, they whistle for the dogs, load their guns andcommence the shoot. That is to say each of these gentlemen takes off hishat, sends it spinning through the air with all his strength and takesa pot-shot at it. The one who hits his hat most frequently is proclaimedking of the hunt and returns to Tarascon that evening in triumph, hisperforated hat hanging from the end of his gun and to the accompanimentof much barking and blowing of trumpets.

  One need hardly tell you that there is a brisk trade in hats in thetown, and there are even hatters who sell hats already full of holes andtears for use by the less skillful, but scarcely anyone is known to buythem except Bezuquet the chemist.

  As a hat shooter Tartarin had no equal. Every Sunday morning he leftwith a new hat. Every evening he returned with a rag. In the littlehouse of the baobab, the attic was full of these glorious trophies.All of Tarascon recognised him as their master in this respect. Thegentlemen elected him as their chief justice in matters relating tothe chase and arbitrator in any dispute, so that every day, between thehours of three and four in the afternoon, at Costecalde the gunsmith'sone could see the plump figure of a man, seated gravely on a greenleather arm-chair, in the middle of the shop, which was full of hathunters standing about and arguing. It was Tartarin delivering justice.Nimrod doubling as Soloman.

  Chapter 2.

  In addition to their passion for hunting the good people of Tarasconhad another passion, which was for drawing-room ballads. The number ofballads which were sung in this part of the world passed all belief. Allthe old sentimental songs, yellowing in ancient cardboard boxes, couldbe found in Tarascon alive and flourishing. Each family had its ownballad and in the town this was well understood. One knew, for example,that for Bezuquet the chemist it was:-"Thou pale star whom I adore."

  For the gunsmith Costecalde:-"Come with me to the forest glade."

  For the Town Clark:--"If I was invisible, no one would see me." (a comicsong) Two or three times a week people would gather in one house oranother and sing, and the remarkable thing is that the songs were alwaysthe same. No matter for how long they had been singing them, the peopleof Tarascon had no desire to change them. They were handed down infamilies from father to son and nobody dared to interfere with them,they were sacrosanct. They were never even borrowed. It would neveroccur to the Bezuquets to sing the Costecaldes' song or to theCostecaldes to sing that of the Bezuquets. You might suppose thathaving known them for some forty years they might sometimes sing them tothemselves, but no, everyone stuck to his own.

  In the matter of ballads, as in that of hats, Tartarin played a leadingrole. His superiority over his fellow citizens arose from the fact thathe did not have a song of his own, and so he could take part in all ofthem, only it was extremely difficult to get him to sing at all.

  Returning early from some drawing-room success, our hero preferred toimmerse himself in his books on hunting or spend the evening at theclub rather than join in a sing-song round a Nimes piano, between twoTarascon candles. He felt that musical evenings were a little beneathhim.

  Sometimes, however, when there was music at Bezuquet the chemists,he would drop in as if by chance, and after much persuasion he wouldconsent to take part in the great duet from "Robert le Diable" withmadame Bezuquet the elder.

  Anyone who has not heard this has heard nothing. For my part, if I liveto be a hundred, I shall always recall the great Tartarin approachingthe piano with solemn steps, leaning his elbow upon it, making hisgrimace and in the greenish light reflected from the chemist's jars,trying to give his homely face the savage and satanic expression ofRobert le Diable.

  As soon as he had taken up his position, a quiver of expectation ranthrough the gathering. One felt that something great was about tohappen.

  After a moment of silence, madame Bezuquet the elder, accompanyingherself on the piano, began:

  "Robert, thou whom I adore

  And in whom I trust,

  You see my fear (twice)

  Have mercy on yourself

  And mercy on me."

  She added, sotto voce, "Its you now Tartarin."

  Then Tartarin, with arm extended, clenched fist and quivering nostrils,said three times in a formidable voice which rolled like a clap ofthunder in the entrails of the piano "Non! Non! Non!" Which as a goodsoutherner he pronounced "Nan. Nan. Nan" Upon which madame Bezuquetrepeated "Mercy on yourself and on me" "Nan! Nan! Nan!" BellowedTartarin even more loudly... and the matter ended there.... It was notvery long, but it was so well presented, so well acted, so diabolic thata frisson ran round the pharmacy and he was made to repeat his "Nan.Nan. Nan." four or five times.

  Afterwards Tartarin wiped his forehead, smiled at the ladies, winked atthe men and went off triumphantly to the club, where, with a casual air,he would say, "I've just come from the Bezuquets. They had me singing inthe duet from Robert le Diable." What is more he believed it.

  Chapter 3.

  It was to the possession of these various talents that Tartarin owed hishigh standing in the town. There were, however, other ways in which hehad made his mark on society.

  In Tarascon the army supported Tartarin. The gallant Commandant Bravida(Quartermaster. Ret) said of him "He's a stout fellow," and one maysuppose that having kitted out so many stout fellows in his time, heknew what he was talking about.

  The magistrature supported Tartarin. Two or three times, on a fullbench, the aged president Ladeveze had said of him "He's quite acharacter".

  Finally, the people supported Tartarin, his stolid appearance, theheroic reputation he had somehow acquired, the distribution of smallsums of money and a few clips round the ear to the youngsters who hungaround his doorstep, had made him lord of the neighbourhood and kingof the Tarascon market-place. On the quay, on sunday evenings, whenTartarin returned from the hunt, his hat dangling from the end of hisgun, the stevedores would nod to him respectfully and eying the armsbulging the sleeves of his tightly buttoned jacket, would murmur to oneanother, "He's strong he is. He's got double muscles." The possession ofdouble muscles is something you hear about only in Tarascon.

  However, in spite of his numerous talents, double muscles, popularfavour and the so precious esteem of the gallant Commandant Bravida(Quartermaster. Ret) Tartarin was not happy. This small-town lifeweighed him down, stifled him. The great man of Tarascon was boredwith Tarascon. The fact is that for an heroic nature such as his, for adaring and adventurous spirit which dreamt of battles, explorations, biggame hunting, desert sands, hurricanes and typhoons, to go every Sundayhat shooting and for the rest of the time dispense justice at Costecaldethe gunsmith's was... well... hardly satisfying. It was enough indeed tosend one into a decline.

  In vain, in order to widen his horizon and forget for a while the cluband the market square, did he surround himself with African plants; invain did he pile up a collection of weapons; in vain did he pore overtales of daring-do trying to escape by the power of his imagination fromthe pitiless grip of reality. Alas all that he did to satisfy his lustfor adventure seemed only to increase it. The sight of his weapons kepthim in a perpetual state of furious agitation. His rifles, his arrowsand his spears r
ang out war-cries. In the branches of the baobab thewind whispered enticingly of great voyages.

  How often on these heavy summer afternoons, when he was alone, readingamongst his weaponry, did Tartarin jump to his feet and throwing downhis book rush to the wall to arm himself, then, quite forgetting thathe was in his own house at Tarascon, cry, brandishing a gun or a spear,"Let them all come"!!... Them?... What them? Tartarin did not quite knowhimself, "Them" was everything that attacked, that bit, that clawed."Them" was the Indian brave dancing round the stake to which hiswretched prisoner was tied. It was the grizzly bear, shuffling andswaying, licking bloodstained lips. The Toureg of the desert, the Malaypirate, the Corsican bandit. In a word it was "Them!"

  Alas it was fruitless for the fearless Tartarin to challenge them... theynever appeared; but though it seemed unlikely that they would cometo Tarascon, Tartarin was always ready for them, particularly in theevenings when he went to the club.

  Chapter 4.

  The knight of the temple preparing for a sortie against the Saracen. TheChinese warrior equipping himself for battle. The Comanchee brave takingto the warpath were as nothing compared to Tartarin de Tarascon arminghimself to go to the club at nine o'clock on a dark evening, an hourafter the bugle had blown the retreat. He was cleared for action as thesailors say.

  On his left hand he had a metal knuckleduster. In his right he carrieda sword-stick. In his left pocket there was a cosh and in his right arevolver. Stuck into his waistband was a knife. Before setting out, inthe privacy of his den, he carried out a few exercises. He made a passat the wall with his sword-stick, drew his revolver, flexed hismuscles and then taking his identity papers he crossed thegarden... steadily... unhurriedly... a l'Anglais. That is the mark of truecourage.