Volume 15 — LOUIS HONORÉ FRECHETTE
Reading edition
(1839-)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
ouis Honoré Fréchette, the best known of the French-Canadian poets, was born near the forties, at Lévis, a suburb of Quebec. He is patriotic; his genius is plainly that of New France, while the form of it is of that older France which produced the too exquisite sonnets of Voiture; and what counts greatly with the Canadians, he has received the approbation of the Academy; he is a personage in Paris, where he spends a great deal of time. From 'Nos Gens de Lettres' (Our Literary Workers: Montreal, 1873), we learn that the father of M. Fréchette was a man of business, and that he did not encourage his son's poetic tendencies to the detriment of the practical side of his character.
Lévis has traditions which are part of that stirring French-Canadian history now being made known to us by Mrs. Catherwood and Gilbert Parker. And the great St. Lawrence spoke to him in
"All those nameless voices, which are Beating at the heart."
At the age of eight he began to write verses. He was told by his careful father that poets never become rich; but he still continued to make verses. He grew to be a philosopher as well as a poet, and a little later became firmly of Horace's opinion, that a poet to be happy does not need riches gained by work. His father, who no doubt felt that a philosopher of this cult was not fit for the world, sent him to the Seminary at Quebec. At the Seminary he continued to write verses. The teachers there found merit in the verses. The "nameless voices" still beat at his heart, though the desks of the preparatory college had replaced the elms of the St. Lawrence. But poets are so rare that even when one is caught young, his captors doubt his species. The captors in this case determined to see whether Pegasus could trot as well as gallop. "Transport yourself, little Fréchette," they said, "to the Council of Clermont and be a troubadour." What is time to the poet? He became a troubadour: but this was not enough; his preceptors were still in doubt; they locked him in a room and gave him as a subject the arrival of Mgr. de Laval in Canada. An hour passed; the first sufferings of the young poet having abated, he produced his verses. It was evident that Pegasus could acquire any pace. His talent was questioned no more.
As he became older, Fréchette had dreams of becoming a man of action, and began to learn telegraphy at Ogdensburg; but he found the art too long and life too brief. He went back to the seminary and contributed 'Mes Loisirs' (My Spare Hours) to the college paper. From the seminary—the Petit Seminaire, of course,—he went to the College of Ste. Anne, to Nicolet, and finally to Laval University, "singing, and picking up such crumbs of knowledge as suited his taste."
In 1864 M. Fréchette was admitted to practice at the bar of Quebec. He was a poet first and always; but just at this time he was second a journalist, third a politician, and perhaps fourth a barrister. He began to publish a paper, Le Journal de Lévis. It failed: disgusted, he bade farewell to Canada, and began in Chicago the publication of L'Observateur: it died in a day. He poured forth his complaints in 'Voix d'un Exilé' (The Voice of an Exile). "Never," cries M. Darveau in 'Nos Gens de Lettres' (Our Literary Workers), "did Juvenal scar the faces of the corrupt Romans as did Fréchette lash the shoulders of our wretched politicians." His L'Amérique, a journal started in Chicago, had some success, but it temporarily ruined Fréchette, as the Swiss whom he had placed in charge of it suddenly changed its policy, and made it sympathize with Germany in the Franco-Prussian war.
Fréchette's early prose is fiery and eloquent; his admirers compared it to that of Louis Veuillot and Junius, for the reason, probably, that he used it to denounce those whom he hated politically. Fréchette's verse has the lyrical ring. And although M. Camille Doucet insisted that the French Academy in crowning his poems honored a Frenchman, it must be remembered that Fréchette is both an American and a British subject; and these things, not likely to disarm Academical conservatism, made the action the more significant of the poet's value.
There is strong and noble passion in 'La Voix d'un Exilé' and in the 'Ode to the Mississippi.' His arraignment of the Canadian politicians may be forgotten without loss,—no doubt he has by this time forgiven them,—but the real feeling of the poet, who finds in the Mississippi the brother of his beloved St. Lawrence, is permanent:—
"Adieu, vallons ombreux, mes campagnes fleuries, Mes montagnes d'azur et mes blondes prairies, Mon fleuve harmonieux, mon beau del embaumé— Dans les grandes cités, dans les bois, sur les grêves, Ton image flottera dans mes rêves, O mon Canada, bien aimé. Je n'écouterai plus, dans nos forêts profondes, Dans nos près verdoyants, et sur nos grandes ondes, Toutes ces voix sans nom qui font battre le coeur."
[Farewell, shaded valleys, my flowery meadows, my azure mountains and my pale prairies, my musical stream, my fair sky! In the great towns, in the wood, along the water-sides, thy scenes will float on in my dreams, O Canada, my beloved!
I shall hear no more, in our deep forests, in our verdant meads and upon our broad waters, all those nameless voices which make one's heart throb.]
In 1865 the first book of poems which appealed to the world from French Canada appeared. It was Fréchette's 'Mes Loisirs' (My Spare Hours). Later came 'Pêle-Mêle' (Pell-Mell), full of fine cameo-like poems,—but like cameos that are flushed by an inner and vital fire. Longfellow praised 'Pêle-Mêle': it shows the influence of Hugo and Lamartine; it has the beauty of De Musset, with more freshness and "bloom" than that poet of a glorious past possessed; but there are more traces of Lamartine in 'Pêle-Mêle' than of Hugo.
"Fréchette's imagination," says an admiring countryman of his, "is a chisel that attacks the soulless block; and with it he easily forms a column or a flower." His poems have grown stronger as he has become more mature. There is a great gain in dramatic force, so that it has surprised none of his readers that he should have attempted tragedy with success. He lost some of that quality of daintiness which distinguished 'Le Matin' (Morning), 'La Nuit' (Night), and 'Fleurs Fanées' (Faded Flowers). The 'Pensées d'Hiver' (Winter Reflections) had this quality, but 'La Dernière Iroquoise' (The Last Iroquois) rose above it, and like much of 'Les Fleurs Boréales' (Boreal Flowers) and his latest work, it is powerful in spirit, yet retains the greatest chastity of form.
M. Fréchette translated several of Shakespeare's plays for the Théâtre Français. After 'Les Fleurs Boréales' was crowned by the Academy, there appeared 'Les Oiseaux de Neige' (The Snow-Birds), 'Feuilles Volantes' (Leaves in the Wind), and 'La Forêt Vierge' (The Virgin Forest). The volume which shows the genius of Fréchette at its highest is undoubtedly 'La Légende d'un Peuple' (The Legend of a Race), which has an admirable preface by Jules Claretie.
OUR HISTORY
Fragments from 'La Légende d'un Peuple': translated by Maurice Francis Egan
O history of my country,—set with pearls unknown,— With love I kiss thy pages venerated. O register immortal, poem of dazzling light Written by France in purest of her blood! Drama ever acting, records full of pictures Of high facts heroic, stories of romance, Annals of the giants, archives where we follow, As each leaf we turn, a life resplendent, And find a name respected or a name beloved, Of men and women of the antique time! Where the hero of the past and the hero of the future Give the hand of friendship and the kiss of love; Where the crucifix and sword, the plowshare and the volume,— Everything that builds and everything that saves,— Shine, united, living glories of past time And of time that is to be. The glories of past time, serene and pure before you, O virtues of our day! Hail first to thee, O Cartier, brave and hardy sailor, Whose footstep sounded on the unexplored shores Of our immense St. Lawrence. Hail, Champlain, Maisonneuve, illustrious founders of two cities, Who show above our waves their rival beauties. There was at first only a group of Bretons Brandishing the sword-blade and the woodman's axe, Sea-wolves bronzed by sea-winds at the port of St. Malo; Cradled since their childhood beneath the sky and water. Men of iron and high of heart and stature, They, under eye of God, set sail for what might come. Seeking, in the secrets of the foggy ocean, Not the famous El Dorados, but a soil where they might plant, As symbols of their saving, beside the cross of Christ, The flag of France. After them came blond-haired Normans And black-eyed Pontevins, robust colonists, To make the path a road, and for this holy work To offer their strong arms: the motive was the same; The dangers that they fronted brought out prodigies of courage. They seemed to know no dangers; or rather, They seemed to seek the ruin that they did not meet. Frightful perils vainly rose before them, And each element against them vainly had conspired: These children of the furrow founded an empire! Then, conquering the waves of great and stormy lakes, Crossing savannahs with marshes of mud, Piercing the depths of the forests primeval, Here see our founders and preachers of Faith! Apostles of France, princes of our God, Having said farewell to the noise of the world, They came to the bounds of the New World immense To sow the seed of the future, And to bear, as the heralds of eternal law, To the end of the world the torch of progress. Leaning on his bow, ferociously calm, The child of the forest, bitter at heart, A hunted look mingling with his piercing glance, Sees the strangers pass,—encamped on the plain or ambushed in the woods,— And thinks of the giant spirits he has seen in his dreams. For the first time he trembles and fears— Then casting off his deceitful calm, He will rush forth, uttering his war-cry, To defend, foot by foot, his soil so lately virgin, And ferocious, tomahawk in hand, bar this road to civilization!
A cowardly king, tool of a more cowardly court, Satyr of the Parc aux cerfs, slave at the Trianon, Plunged in the horrors of nameless debauches, At the caprice of Pompadour dancing like an atom,— The blood of his soldiers and the honor of his kingdom, Of our dying heroes hearing he no voice. Montcalm, alas! conquered for the first time, Falling on the field of battle, wrapped in his banner. Lévis, last fighter of the last fight, Tears—avenging France and her pride!— A supreme triumph from fate.
That was all. In front of our tottering towers The stranger planted his insolent colors, And an old flag, wet with bitter tears, Closed its white wings and went across the sea!
CAUGHNAWAGA
Paraphrased by Maurice Francis Egan
A world in agony breathes its last sigh! Gaze on the remnants of an ancient race,— Great kings of desert terrible to face, Crushed by the new weights that upon them lie; Stand near the Falls, and at this storied place You see a humble hamlet;—by-and-by You'll talk of ambuscades and treacherous chase. Can history or sight a traitor be? Where are the red men of the rolling plains? Ferocious Iroquois,—ah, where is he?— Without concealment (this for all our pains!) The Chief sells groceries for paltry gains, With English tang in speech of Normandy!
LOUISIANA
Paraphrased from 'Les Feuilles Volantes,' by Maurice Francis Egan
Land of the Sun! where Fancy free Weaveth her woof beneath a sky of gold, Another Andalusia, thee I see; Thy charming memories my heart-strings hold, As if the song of birds had o'er them rolled. In thy fresh groves, where scented orange glows, Circle vague loves about my longing heart; Thy dark banana-trees, when soft wind flows, In concert weird take up their sombre part, As evening shadows, listening, float and dart. 'Neath thy green domes, where the lianas cling, Show tropic flowers with wide-opened eyes, With arteries afire till morn-birds sing; More than old Werthier, in new love's surprise, Stand on the threshold of thy Paradise. Son of the North, I, of the realm of snows,— Vision afar, but always still a power,— In these soft nights and in the days of rose, Dreaming I feel, e'en in the saddest hour, Within my heart unclose a golden flower.
THE DREAM OF LIFE
To My Son
Paraphrased from 'Les Feuilles Volantes,' by Maurice Francis Egan
At twenty years, a poet lone, I, when the rosy season came, Walked in the woodland, to make moan For some fair dame; And when the breezes brought to me The lilac spent in fragrant stream, I wove her infidelity In love's young dream. A lover of illusions, I! Soon other dreams quite filled my heart, And other loves as suddenly Took old love's part. One Glory, a deceitful fay, Who flies before a man can stir, Surprised my poor heart many a day,— I dreamed of her! But now that I have grown so old, At lying things I grasp no more. My poor, deceived heart takes hold Of other lore. Another life before us glows, Casts on all faithful souls its gleam: Late, late, my heart its glory knows,— Of it I dream!