Tartarin de Tarascon. English

by Alphonse Daudet

  Tartarin, however, showed no sign of leaving for Africa... did he reallyhave any intention of going? That is a delicate question and one towhich his biographer would find difficulty in replying. The fact is thatthe menagerie had now been gone for three months but the killer of lionshad not budged... could it be that our innocent hero, blinded perhapsby a new mirage, honestly believed that he had been to Africa, andby talking so much about his hunting expedition believed that it hadactually taken place. Unfortunately, if this was the case and Tartarinhad once more fallen victim to the mirage, the people of Tarascon hadnot. When it was observed that after three months of waiting the hunterhad not packed a single bag, people began to talk.

  "This will turn out to be another Shanghai." Said Costecalde, smiling,and this remark spread round the town like wildfire, for people had losttheir belief in Tartarin. The ignorant, the chicken-hearted, people likeBezuquet, whom a flea could put to flight, and who could not fire a gunwithout closing both eyes, these above all were pitiless. At the club,on the esplanade, they accosted poor Tartarin with little mockingremarks, "Et autremain, what about this trip then?" At Costecalde'sshop his opinion was no longer law. The hat hunters had deserted theirleader.

  Then there were the epigrams. President Ladeveze who in his spare timedabbled in provencal poetry, composed a little song in dialect whichwas a great success. It concerned a certain hunter named master Gervaisewhose redoubtable rifle was to exterminate every last lion in Africa.Sadly this rifle had a singular fault, although always loaded it neverwent off.... It never went off... you will understand the allusion. Thissong achieved instant popularity, and when Tartarin was passing, thestevedores on the quay and the grubby urchins hanging round his doorwould chant this insulting little ditty... only they sang it from a safedistance because of the double muscles.

  The great man himself pretended to see nothing, to hear nothing.Although at heart this underhand, venomous campaign hurt him deeply, inspite of his suffering, he continued to go about his life with a smile;but sometimes the mask of cheerful indifference which pride had pinnedon his features slipped, then instead of laughter one saw indignationand grief. So it was one morning when some street urchins were chantingtheir jeers beneath the window of the room where our poor hero wastrimming his beard. Suddenly the window was thrown open and Tartarin'shead appeared, his face covered in soapsuds, waving a razor and shavingbrush and shouting "Sword-thrusts, gentlemen, sword-thrusts, notpin-pricks!" Fine words but wasted on a bunch of brats about two brickstall.

  Amid the general defection, the army alone stood firmly by Tartarin,the brave Commandant Bravida continued to treat him with esteem. "He's astout fellow," He persisted in saying, and this affirmation was wortha good deal more, I should imagine, than anything said by Bezuquet thechemist.

  The gallant Commandant had never uttered a word about the Africanjourney, but at last, when the public clamour became too loud to ignore,he decided to speak.

  One evening, the unhappy Tartarin was alone in his study thinking sadthoughts, when the Commandant appeared, somberly dressed and gloved,with every button fastened "Tartarin!" said the former captain, withauthority, "Tartarin, you must go!" and he stood, upright and rigid inthe doorway, the very embodiment of duty.

  All that was implied in that "Tartarin you must go" Tartarin understood.Very pale, he rose to his feet and cast a tender look round hispleasant study, so snug, so warm, so well lit, and at the the large,so comfortable armchair, at his books, his carpet and at the big whiteblinds of his window, beyond which swayed the slender stems of thelittle garden. Then advancing to the the brave Commandant, he took hishand, shook it vigorously and in a voice close to tears said stoically,"I shall go, Bravida." And he did go as he had said he would. Though notbefore he had gathered the necessary equipment.

  First, he ordered from Blompard two large cases lined with copper andwith a large plaque inscribed TARTARIN DE TARASCON. FIREARMS. Thelining and the engraving took a long time. He ordered from M. Tastevina magnificent log-book in which to write his journal. Then he sent toMarseille for a whole cargo of preserved food, for pemmican tabletsto make soup, for a bivouac tent of the latest design, which could beerected or struck in a few minutes, a pair of sea-boots, two umbrellas,a waterproof and a pair of dark glasses to protect his eyes. Finally,Bezuquet the chemist made up a medicine chest full of sticking plaster,pills and lotions. All these preparations were made in the hope thatby these and other delicate attentions he could appease the fury ofTartarin-Sancho, which, since the departure had been decided, had ragedunabated by day and by night.

  Chapter 10.

  At last the great day arrived. From first light the whole of Terasconwas afoot, blocking the Avignon road and the approaches to the littlehouse of the baobab. There were people at windows, on roofs, up trees.Bargees from the Rhone, stevedores, boot-blacks, clerks, weavers,the club members, in fact the whole town. Then there were people fromBeaucaire who had come across the bridge, market-gardeners fromthe suburbs, carts with big hoods, vignerons mounted on fine mulesornamented with ribbons, tassels, bows and bells, and even here andthere some pretty girls from Arles, with blue kerchiefs round theirheads, riding on the crupper behind their sweethearts on the smalliron-grey horses of the Camargue. All this crowd pushed and jostledbefore Tartarin's gate, the gate of this fine M. Tartarin who was goingto kill lions in the country of the "Teurs". (In Tarascon: Africa,Greece, Turkey and Mesopotamia formed a vast, vague almost mythicalcountry which was called the Teurs... that is the Turks). Throughoutthis mob the hat shooters came and went, proud of the triumph of theirleader, and leaving in their wake, as it were, little trails of glory.

  In front of the house of the baobab there were two large handcarts. Fromtime to time the gate was opened and one could see men walking busilyabout in the garden. They carried out trunks, cases and carpet-bagswhich they piled onto the carts. On the arrival of each new package thecrowd stirred and a description of the article was shouted out. "That'shis tent! There's the preserved foods! The medicine chest! The armschest!" While the hat shooters gave a running commentary.

  Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, there was a great movement in the crowd.The garden gate swung back violently on its hinges.... "It's him!....Its him!" they cried.

  It was indeed him. When he appeared on the threshold, two criesof amazement rose from the crowd:--"He's a Teur!.... He's wearingsun-glasses!".... Tartarin, it is true, had believed that as he was goingto Algeria he should adopt Algerian costume. Large baggy pantaloons ofwhite cloth, a small tight jacket with metal buttons, a red sash woundround his stomach and on his head a gigantic "Chechia" (a red floppybonnet) with an immensely long blue tassel dangling from its crown.Added to this, he carried two rifles, one on each shoulder, a huntingknife stuck into the sash round his middle, a cartridge-bag slung onone side and a revolver in a leather holster on the other. That wasit. Ah!... forgive me... I forgot the sun-glasses, a huge pair of bluesun-glasses which were just the very thing to correct any suggestion ofextravagance in his turnout.

  "Vive Tartarin!... Vive Tartarin!" Yelled the people. The great mansmiled but did not wave, partly because of the rifles, which were givinghim some trouble and partly because he had learned what little value onecan place on popular favour. Perhaps even, in the depths of his soul, hecursed these terrible compatriots who were forcing him to leave, to quithis pretty little house with its green shutters and white walls, but ifso he did not show it. Calm and proud, though a little pale, he marcheddown the pathway, inspected his handcarts and seeing that all was inorder set off jauntily on the road to the station, without looking backeven once at the house of the baobab.

  On his arrival at the station he was greeted by the station-master,a former soldier, who shook him warmly by the hand several times. TheParis-Marseille express had not yet arrived, so Tartarin and his generalstaff went into the waiting-room. To keep back the following crowd thestation-master closed the barriers.

  For fifteen minutes Tartarin paced back and forward, surrounded by thehat
shooters. He spoke to them of his coming expedition, promising tosend them skins, and entering their orders in his note-book as if theywere a list of groceries. As tranquil as was Socrates at the momentwhen he drank the hemlock, the bold Tartarin had a word for everyone.He spoke simply and affably, as if before departing he wished to leavebehind a legacy of charm, happy memories and regrets. To hear theirchief speak thus brought tears to the eyes of the hat shooters, and tosome, such as the president Ladeveze and the chemist Bezuquet, even atwinge of remorse. Some of the station staff were dabbing their eyes incorners, while outside the crowd peered through the railings and shouted"Vive Tartarin!"

  Then a bell rang. There was a rumbling noise of wheels. A piercingwhistle split the heavens... All aboard!... All aboard!... GoodbyeTartarin!... Goodbye Tartarin!. "Goodbye everyone" murmured the greatman, and on the cheeks of the brave Commandant Bravida he planted afarewell salute to his beloved Tarascon. Then he hurried along theplatform and got into a carriage full of Parisian ladies, who almostdied of fright at the appearance of this strange man with his revolverand rifles.

  Chapter 11.

  On the first day of December 186-, in the clear bright winter sunshineof Provence, the startled inhabitants of Marseille witnessed the arrivalof a Teur. Never had they seen one like this before, though God knowsthere is no shortage of Teurs in Marseille. The Teur, need I tell you,was none other than Tartarin de Tarascon, who was proceeding down thequay followed by his case of arms, his medicine chest and his preservedfoods, in search of the embarkation point of the Compagnie Touache andthe ferry-boat "Le Zouave" which was to carry him away.

  His ears still ringing with the cheers of Tarascon and bemused by thebrightness of the sky and the smell of the sea, Tartarin marched along,his rifles slung on his shoulders, gazing around in wonder at thismarvellous port of Marseille, which he was seeing for the first time andwhich quite dazzled him. He almost felt that he was dreaming and thatlike Sinbad he was wandering in one of the fabulous cities of theThousand and one Nights.

  As far as the eye could see, there stretched a jumble of masts andyards, criss-crossing in all directions. The flags of a multitude ofnations fluttering in the wind. The ships level with the quay, theirbowsprits projecting over the edge like a row of bayonets, and belowthem the carved and painted wooden figureheads of nymphs, goddessesand saintly virgins from which the ships took their names. From time totime, between the hulls one could see a patch of sea, like a great sheetof cloth spattered with oil, while in the entanglement of yardarms ahost of seagulls made pretty splashes of white against the blue sky.On the quay, amid the streams which trickled from the soapworks, thick,green, streaked with black, full of oil and soda, there was a wholepopulation of customs officers, shipping agents, and stevedores withtrollies drawn by little Corsican ponies. There were shops sellingstrange sweetmeats. Smoke enshrouded huts where seamen were cooking.There were merchants selling monkeys, parrots, rope, sailcloth andfantastic collections of bric-a-brac where, heaped up pell-mell, wereold culverins, great gilded lanterns, old blocks and tackle, old rustinganchors, old rigging, old megaphones, old telescopes, dating from thetime of Jean Bart.

  There were women selling shellfish, crouched bawling beside their wares,sailors passing, some with pots of tar, some with steaming pots of stew,others with baskets full of squid which they were taking to wash in thefresh water of the fountains. Everywhere prodigious heaps of merchandiseof every kind. Silks, minerals, baulks of timber, ingots of lead,carobs, rape-seed, liquorice, sugar cane, great piles of dutch cheeses.East and west hugger-mugger.

  Here is the grain berth. Stevedores empty the sacks onto the quay froma scaffold, the grain pours down in a golden torrent raising a cloud ofpale dust, and is loaded by men wearing red fezes into carts, whichset off followed by a regiment of women and children with brushes andbuckets for gleaning.

  There is the careening basin. The huge vessels lie over on one side andare flamed with fires of brushwood to rid them of seaweed, while theiryardarms soak in the water. There is a smell of pitch and the deafeninghammering of shipwrights lining the hulls with sheets of copper.

  Sometimes, between the masts, a gap opened and Tartarin could see theharbour mouth and the movement of ships. An English frigate leaving forMalta, spruce and scrubbed, with officers in yellow gloves, or a bigMarseilles brig, casting off amid shouting and cursing, with, in thebows, a fat captain in an overcoat and a top hat, supervising themanoeuvre in broad provencal. There were ships outward bound, runningbefore the wind with all sails set, there were others, far out at sea,beating their way in and seeming in the sunshine to be floating on air.

  Then, all the time the most fearsome racket. The rumbling of cartwheels, the cries of the sailors, oaths, songs, the sirens ofsteam-boats, the drums and bugles of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas,the bells of nearby churches and, up above, the mistral, which took allof these sounds, rolled them together, shook them up and mingledthem with its own voice to make mad, wild, heroic music, like a greatfanfare, urging one to set sail for distant lands, to spread one's wingsand go. It was to the sound of this fine fanfare that Tartarin embarkedfor the country of lions.

  Chapter 12.

  I wish that I was a painter, a really good painter, so that I couldpresent to you a picture of the different positions adopted byTartarin's chechia during the three days of the passage from France toAlgeria.

  I would show it to you first at the departure, proud and stately as itwas then, crowning that noble Tarascon head. I would show it next when,having left the harbour, the Zouave began to lift on the swell. I wouldshow it fluttering and astonished, as if feeling the first premonitionsof distress.

  Then, in the gulf of Lion, when the Zouave was further offshore andthe sea a little rougher, I would present it at grips with the storm,clutching, bewildered, at the head of our hero, its long blue woollentassel streaming in the spume and gusting wind.

  The fourth position. Six in the evening. Off the coast of Corsica. Thewretched chechia is leaning over the rail and sadly contemplating thedepths of the ocean.

  Fifth and last position. Down in a narrow cabin, in a little bed whichhas the appearance of a drawer in a commode, something formless anddesolate rolls about, moaning, on the pillow. It is the chechia, theheroic chechia, now reduced to the vulgar status of a night-cap, andjammed down to the ears of a pallid and convulsing invalid.

  Ah! If the townsfolk of Tarascon could have seen the great Tartarin,lying in his commode drawer, in the pale, dismal light which filteredthrough the porthole, amongst the stale smell of cooking and wet wood,the depressing odour of the ferry boat. If they had heard him groanat every turn of the propeller, ask for tea every five minutes, andcomplain to the steward in the weak voice of a child, would they haveregretted having forced him to leave? On my word, the poor Tuer deservedpity. Overcome by sea-sickness, he had not the will even to loosenhis sash or rid himself of his weapons. The hunting knife with the bighandle dug into his ribs. His revolver bruised his leg, and the finalstraw was the nagging of Tartarin-Sancho, who never ceased whining andcarping:--"Imbecile! Va! I warned you didn't I?.... But you had to go toAfrica!.... Well now you're on your way, how do you like it?"

  What was every bit as cruel was that, shut in his cabin, between hisgroans he could hear the other passengers in the saloon, laughing,eating, singing, playing cards. The society in the Zouave was ascheerful as it was diverse. There were some officers on their way torejoin their units, a bevy of tarts from Marseille, a rich Mahommedanmerchant, returning from Mecca, some strolling players, a Montenegranprince, a great joker this, who did impersonations.... Not one of thesepeople was sea-sick and they spent the time drinking champagne with thecaptain of the Zouave, a fat "Bon viveur" from Marseille, who had anestablishment there and another in Algiers, and who rejoiced in the nameof Barbassou. Tartarin hated all these people. Their gaity redoubled hismisery.

  At last, in the afternoon of the third day, there was some unusualactivity on board the ship, which roused our hero from his torpo
r. Thebell in the bows rang out... the heavy boots of the sailors could beheard running on the deck... "Engine ahead!... engine astern!." Shoutedthe hoarse voice of Captain Barbassou. Then "Stop engine!"

  The engine stopped, there was a little tremor and then nothing. Theferry lay rocking gently from side to side, like a balloon in the air.This strange silence horrified Tartarin. "My God! We are sinking!" Hecried in a voice of terror, and recovering his strength as if by magic,he rushed up onto the deck.

  Chapter 13.

  The Zouave was not sinking. She had just dropped her anchor in a fineanchorage of deep, dark water. Opposite, on the hillside, was Algiers,its little matt-white houses running down to the sea, huddled oneagainst the other, like a pile of white washing laid out on a riverbank. Up above a great sky of satin blue... but oh!... So blue!

  Tartarin, somewhat recovered from his fright, gazed at the landscape,while listening respectfully to the Montenegrin prince, who standingbeside him, pointed out the different quarters of the town. The Casbah,the upper town, the Rue Bab-Azoum. Very well educated this prince ofMontenegro. What is more he knew Algiers well and spoke Arabic. Tartarinhad decided to cultivate his acquaintance when suddenly, along the railon which they were leaning, he saw a row of big black hands grasping itfrom below. Almost immediately a curly black head appeared in front ofhim and before he could open his mouth the deck was invaded from allside by a swarm of pirates; black, yellow, half naked, hideous andterrible. Tartarin knew at once that it was "Them" The fearsome "Them"who he had so often expected at night in the streets of Tarascon. Nowthey had arrived.