Tartarin de Tarascon. English

by Alphonse Daudet

  At the end of the garden he opened the heavy iron gate. He opened itbrusquely, violently, so that it banged against the wall. If "They" hadbeen behind it, it would have made a fine mess of them. Unfortunatelythey were not behind it.

  Having opened the gate Tartarin went out, cast a quick look right andleft, closed the gate swiftly and double locked it. Then he set off.

  On the Avignon road there was not so much as a cat. Doors were shut andcurtains drawn across windows. Here and there a street light blinked inthe mist rising from the Rhone.

  Superb and calm Tartarin de Tarascon strode through the night, his heelsstriking the road with measured tread and the metal tip of his caneraising sparks from the paving-stones. On boulevards, roads or lanes hewas always careful to walk in the middle of the causeway, an excellentprecaution which allows one to see approaching danger and moreover toavoid things which at night, in the streets of Tarascon, sometimes fallfrom windows. Seeing this prudence you should not entertain the notionthat Tartarin was afraid. No! He was just being cautious.

  The clearest evidence that Tartarin was unafraid is that he went to theclub not by the short way but by the longest and darkest way, througha tangle of mean little streets, at the end of which one glimpsed thesinister gleam of the Rhone. He almost hoped that at a bend in one ofthese alleys "They" would come rushing from the shadows to attack himfrom behind. They would have had a hot reception I can promise you;but sadly Tartarin was never fated to encounter any danger... not even adog... not even a drunk... Nothing.

  Sometimes however there was an alarm. The sound of footsteps... Muffledvoices. Tartarin comes to a halt, peering into the shadows, sniffingthe air, straining his ears. The steps draw nearer, the voices moredistinct... there can be no doubt..."They" are here. With heavingbreast and eyes ablaze Tartarin is gathering himself like a jaguar andpreparing to leap on his foes, when suddenly out of the gloom a goodTarasconais voice calls "Look! There's Tartarin! Hulloa there Tartarin!"Malediction! It is Bezuquet the chemist and his family who have beensinging their ballad at the Costecaldes. "Bon soir, bon soir" growlsTartarin, furious at his mistake, and shouldering his cane he disappearsangrily into the night.

  Arrived at the club the fearless Tarasconais waits a little longer,walking up and down in front of the door before entering. In theend, tired of waiting for "them" and certain that they will not showthemselves, he throws a last look of defiance into the dark and mutterscrossly "Nothing... nothing... always nothing" With that our hero goes into play bezique with the Commandant.

  Chapter 5.

  With this lust for adventure, this need for excitement, this longing forjourneys to Lord knows where, how on earth, you may ask, does it happenthat Tartarin had never left Tarascon? For it is a fact that up to theage of forty-five the bold Tarasconais had never slept away from hishome town. He had never even made the ritual journey to Marseille whichevery good Provencal makes when he comes of age. He might, of course,have visited Beaucaire, albeit Beaucaire is not very far from Tarascon,as one has only to cross the bridge over the Rhone. Regrettably,however, this wretched bridge is so often swept by high winds, is solong and so flimsy and the river at that point is so wide that... Mafoi... you will understand...!

  At this point I think one has to admit that there were two sides to ourhero's character. On the one hand was the spirit of Don Quixote, devotedto chivalry, to heroic ideals, to grandiose romantic folly, but lackingthe body of the celebrated hidalgo, that thin, bony apology of a body,careless of material wants, capable of going for twenty nights withoutunbuckling its breastplate and surviving for twenty-four hours on ahandful of rice. Tartarin, on the other hand, had a good solid body,fat, heavy, sybaritic, soft and complaining, full of bourgeois appetitesand domestic necessities, the short-legged, full-bellied body of SanchoPanza.

  Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the same man! You may imagine thearguments, the quarrels, the fights. Carried away by some lurid taleof adventure, Tartarin-Quixote would clamour to be off to the fields ofglory, to set sail for distant lands, but then Tartarin-Sancho ringingfor the maid servant, would say "Jeanette, my chocolate." Upon whichJeanette would return with a fine cup of chocolate, hot, silky andscented, and some succulent grilled snacks, flavoured with anise;greatly pleasing Tartarin-Sancho and silencing the cries ofTartarin-Quixote.

  That is how it happens that Tartarin de Tarascon had never leftTarascon.

  Chapter 6.

  There was one occasion when Tartarin nearly went on a longjourney. The three brothers Garcio-Camus, Tarasconais who were inbusiness in Shanghai, offered him the management of one of theirestablishments. Now this was the sort of life he needed. Importanttransactions. An office full of clerks to control. Relations withRussia, Persia, Turkey. In short, Big Business, which in Tartarin's eyeswas of enormous proportions.

  The establishment had another advantage in that it was sometimesattacked by bandits. On these occasions the gates were slammed shut, thestaff armed themselves, the consular flag was hoisted and "Pan! Pan!"They fired through the windows at the bandits.

  I need hardly tell you with what enthusiasm Tartarin-Quixote greetedthis proposal; unfortunately Tartarin-Sancho did not see the matter inthe same light, and as his views prevailed the affair came to nothing.

  At the time there was a great deal of talk in the town. Was he going ornot going? It was a matter for eager discussion.

  Although in the end Tartarin did not go, the event brought him a greatdeal of credit. To have nearly gone to Shanghai and actually to havegone there was for Tarascon much the same thing. As a result of so muchtalk about Tartarin's journey, people ended by believing that he hadjust returned, and in the evenings at the club the members would ask himfor a description of the life in Shanghai, the customs, the climate, andbig business.

  Tartarin, who had gathered much information from the brothers was happyto reply to their questions, and before long he was not entirely surehimself whether he had been to Shanghai or not; so much so that whendescribing for the hundredth time the raid by bandits he got to thepoint of saying "Then I dished out arms to my staff. Hoisted theconsular flag and we fired 'Pan! Pan!' Through the windows at thebandits." On hearing this the members would exchange suitably solemnlooks.

  Tartarin then, you will say, is just a frightful liar. No!.... Athousand times no! How is that? you may say, he must know vey well thathe has not been to Shanghai... to be sure he knows... only.... Perhaps thetime has come when we should settle the question of the reputation forlying which has been given to the people of the Midi.

  There are no liars in the Midi, neither at Marseille, nor Nimes, norToulouse, nor Tarascon. The man of the Midi does not lie, he deceiveshimself. He does not always speak the truth but he believes he speaksit. His untruth, for him, is not a lie, it is a sort of mirage. Tounderstand better you must visit the Midi yourself. You will see acountryside where the sun transfigures everything and makes it largerthan life-size. The little hills of Provence, no bigger than the ButteMontmartre will seem to you gigantic. The Maison Carree at Nimes, apretty little Roman temple, will seem to you as big as Notre Dame. Youwill see that the only liar in the Midi, if there is one, is the sun;everything that he touches he exaggerates. Can you be surprised thatthis sun shining down on Tarascon has been able to make a retiredCaptain Quartermaster into the gallant Commandant Bravida, to make athing like a turnip into a baobab and a man who almost went to Shanghaiinto one who has really been there.

  Chapter 7.

  Now that we have shown Tartarin as he was in his private life, beforefame had crowned his head with laurels. Now that we have recounted thestory of his heroic existance in modest surroundings, the story of hisjoys and sorrows, his dreams and his hopes, let us hurry forward to theimportant pages of his history and to the event which lent wings to hisdestiny.

  It was one evening at Costecalde the gunsmith's; Tartarin was explainingto some listeners the working of a pin-fire rifle, then something quitenew, when suddenly the door was opened and a hat hunter rushed intothe room
in a great state shouting "A lion! a lion!" General amazement,fright, tumult and confusion. Tartarin grabbed a bayonet, Costecalde ranto close the door. The newcomer was surrounded and questioned nosily.What they learned was that the Menagerie Mitaine, returning from thefair at Beaucaire, had arranged to make a stop of several days atTarascon, and had just set itself up in the Place du Chateau with acollection of snakes, seals, crocodiles, and a magnificent Africanlion.... An African lion at Tarascon!... such a thing had never been seenbefore, never in living memory.

  The brave band of hat hunters gazed proudly at one another. Their manlyfeatures glowed with pleasure and, in every corner of the shop, firmhandshakes were silently exchanged. The emotion was so overwhelming, sounforseen that no one could find a word to say. Not even Tartarin. Paleand trembling, with the new rifle clutched in his hands, he stood in atrance at the shop counter. A lion!... an African lion!... nearby... a fewpaces away... A lion, the ferocious king of the beasts... the quarry ofhis dreams... one of the leading actors in that imaginary cast whichplayed out such fine dramas in his fantasies. It was too much forTartarin to bear. Suddenly the blood flooded to his cheeks. His eyesblazed, and with a convulsive gesture he slapped the rifle onto hisshoulder, then turning to the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster.Ret) he said in a voice of thunder, "Come, Commandant, let us go andsee this." "Excuse me. Excuse me. My new rifle." The prudent Costecaldehazarded timidly, but Tartarin was already in the street, and behind himall the hat hunters fell proudly into step.

  When they arrived at the menagerie it was already crowded. The bravepeople of Tarascon, too long deprived of sensational spectacles, haddescended on the place and taken it by storm. The big madame Mitainewas in her element; dressed in an oriental costume, her arms bare to theelbows and with iron bracelets round her ankles, she had a whip in onehand and in the other a live chicken. She welcomed the Tarasconais tothe show, and as she too had "Double muscles" she aroused almost as muchinterest as the animals in her charge.

  The arrival of Tartarin with the rifle on his shoulder producedsomething of a chill, all the bold Tarasconais who had been walkingtranquilly before the cages, unarmed, trusting, with no notion ofdanger, became suddenly alarmed at the sight of the great Tartarinentering the place, carrying this lethal weapon. There must be somethingto fear if he, their hero.... In the blink of an eye the area in front ofthe cages was deserted, children were crying with fright and the ladieswere eying the doorway. Bezuquet the chemist left hurridly, saying thathe was going to fetch a gun.

  Little by little, however, the attitude of Tartarin restored theircourage. Calm and erect, the intrepid Tarasconais strolled round themenagerie. He passed the seals without stopping. He cast a contemptuouseye on the container full of noise, where the boa was swallowing itschicken, and at last halted in front of the lion's cage.... A dramaticconfrontation.... The lion of Tarascon and the lion of the Atlasmountains face to face.

  On one side stood Tartarin, his legs planted firmly apart, his armsresting on his rifle, on the other was the lion, a gigantic lion,sprawling in the straw, blinking its eyes drowsily and resting itsenormous yellow-haired muzzle on its front paws... they regarded oneanother calmly... then something odd happened. Perhaps it was the sightof the rifle, perhaps it recognised an enemy of its kind, but the lionwhich up until then had looked on the people of Tarascon with sovereigndisdain, yawning in their faces, seemed to feel a stirring of anger.First it sniffed and uttered a rumbling growl, it stretched out itsforefeet and unsheathed its claws, then it got up, raised its head,shook its mane, opened its huge maw and directed at Tartarin a mostear-splitting roar.

  This was greeted by a cry of terror. Tarascon, in panic, rushed for thedoors. Everyone, men, women, children, the hat shooters and even thebrave Commandant Bravida himself. Only Tartarin did not move... heremained firm and resolute before the cage, a light shining in his eyes,and wearing that grim expression which the town knew so well. After afew moments, the hat shooters, somewhat reassured by his attitude andthe solidity of the cage bars, rejoined their chief, to hear him mutter"Now that is something worth hunting." And that was all that he said.

  Chapter 8.

  Although at the memagerie he had said nothing more, he had alreadysaid too much. The following day all the talk of the town was of theimpending departure of Tartarin for Africa, to shoot lions.

  You will bear witness that the good fellow had not breathed a wordof this, but you know how it is... the mirage.... In short the whole ofTarascon could talk of nothing else.

  On the pavement, at the club, at Costecalde's shop, people accosted oneanother with an air of excitement.

  "Et autrement, have you heard the latest, au moins?"

  "Et autrement, what now, is Tartarin going, au moins?" For in Tarasconevery remark begins with "Et autrement" which is pronounced "autremain"and ends with "au moins" which is pronounced "au mouain" and in thesedays the sound of "autremain" and "au mouain" was enough to rattle thewindows.

  The most surprised person in the town to hear that he was leaving forAfrica was Tartarin, but now see the effects of vanity. Instead ofreplying that he was not going and had never intended to go, poorTartarin, on the first occasion that the subject was broached adopted asomewhat evasive air, "He!... He!... perhaps... I can't say." On thesecond occasion, now a little more accustomed to the idea, he replied"Probably" and on the third "Yes, definitely."

  Eventually, one evening at the club, carried away by some glasses ofegg-nog, the public interest and the plaudits, he declared formally thathe was tired of shooting at hats and was going shortly in pursuit of thegreat lions of Africa.

  A loud cheer greeted this declaration, then came more egg-nog,handshakes, embraces and torchlight serenades until midnight before thelittle house of the baobab.

  Tartarin-Sancho, however, was far from pleased. The idea of travellingto Africa and hunting lions scared him stiff and when they went into thehouse, and while the serenade of honour was still going on outside, hemade the most frightful scene with Tartarin-Quixote, calling him a crazydreamer, a rash triple idiot and detailing one by one the catastropheswhich would await him on such an expedition. Shipwreck, fever,dysentery, plague, elephantiasis and so on... it was useless forTartarin-Quixote to swear that he would be careful, that he would dresswarmly, that he would take with him everything that might be needed,Tartarin-Sancho refused to listen. The poor fellow saw himself alreadytorn to pieces by lions or swallowed up in the sands of the desert, andthe other Tartarin could pacify him only a little by pointing out thatthese were plans for the future, that there was no hurry, that they hadnot yet actually started.

  Obviously one cannot embark on such an expedition without somepreparation. One cannot take off like a bird. As a first measureTartarin set about reading the reports of the great African explorers,the journals of Livingstone, Burton, Caille, and the like, there he sawthat those intrepid travellers, before they put their boots on for thesedistant excursions, prepared themselves in advance to undergo hunger,thirst, long treks and privations of all sorts.

  Tartarin decided to follow their example and took to a diet of "Eaubouillie". What is called eau bouillie in Tarascon consists of severalslices of bread soaked in warm water, with a clove of garlic, a littlethyme and a bay leaf. It is not very palatable and you may imagine howTartarin-Sancho enjoyed it.

  Tartarin de Tarascon combined this with several other sensible methodsof training. For instance, to habituate himself to long marches he wouldgo round his morning constitutional seven or eight times, sometimes at abrisk walk, sometimes at the trot with two pebbles in his mouth. Then toaccustom himself to nocturnal chills and the mists of dawn, he went intothe garden and stayed there until ten or eleven at night, alone with hisrifle, on watch behind the baobab.

  Finally, for as long as the menagerie remained in Tarascon, those hathunters who had stayed late at Costecalde's could see in the shadows, asthey passed the Place du Chateau, a figure pacing up and down behindthe cages... it was Tartarin training himself to listen unmo
ved to theroaring of lions in the African night.

  Chapter 9.

  While Tartarin was preparing himself by these strenuous methods, allTarascon had its eyes on him. Nothing else was of interest. Hat shootingwas abandoned, the ballads languished; in Bezuquet the chemist's thepiano was silent beneath a green dust cover, with cantharides fliesdrying, belly up, on the top... Tartarin's expedition had broughteverything to a halt.

  You should have seen the success of our hero in the drawing-rooms. Hewas seized, squabbled over, borrowed and stolen. There was no greatertriumph for the ladies than to go, on the arm of Tartarin, to themenagerie Mitaine and to have him explain, in front of the lion's cage,how one goes about hunting these great beasts, at what point oneaims and at what distance, whether there are many accidents, and soon... through his reading Tartarin had gained almost as much knowledgeabout lion hunting as if he had actually engaged in it himself, and sohe spoke of these matters with much authority.

  Where Tartarin really excelled, however, was after dinner at the home ofpresident Ladeveze or the brave Commandant Bravida (quartermaster. Ret)when coffee had been served and the chairs pulled together, then withhis elbow on the table, between sips of his coffee, our hero gave amoving description of all the dangers which awaited him "Over there"He spoke of long moonless watches, of pestilential marshes, of riverspoisoned by the leaves of oleanders, of snows, scorching suns, scorpionsand clouds of locusts; he also spoke of the habits of the great lionsof the Atlas, their phenomenal strength, their ferocity in the matingseason.... Then, carried away by his own words, he would rise from thetable and bound into the middle of the room, imitating the roar of thelion, the noise of the rifle "Pan! Pan!" The whistle of the bullet.Gesticulating, shouting, knocking over chairs... while at the table facesare grave, the men looking at one another and nodding their heads, theladies closing their eyes with little cries of alarm. A grandfatherbrandishes his walking-stick in a bellicose manner and, in the nextroom, the small children who have been put to bed earlier are startledout of their sleep by the banging and bellowing, and greatly frighteneddemand lights.