V.
Children of older years have preserved the very important class of songs distinguished as singing-games. Everyone knows the famous ronde of the Pont d'Avignon:
Sur le Pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse,
Sur le Pont d'Avignon
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
Les beaux messieurs font comme ça,
Sur le Pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse, danse,
Sur le Pont d'Avignon,
Tout le monde y danse en rond.
After the "messieurs" who bow, come the "demoiselles" who curtsey; the workwomen who sew, the carpenters who saw wood, the washerwomen who wash linen, and a host of other folks intent on their different callings. The song is an apt demonstration of what Paul de Saint-Victor called "cet instinct inné de l'imitation qui fait similer à l'enfant les actions viriles"[6]—in which instinct lies the germ of the theatre. The origin of all spectacles was a performance intended to amuse the performers, and it cannot be doubted that the singing-game throws much light on the beginnings of scenic representations.
Rondes frequently deal with love and marriage, and these, from internal evidence, cannot have been composed by or for the young people who now play them. There are in fact some which would be better forgotten by everybody, but the majority are innocent little dramas, of which it may truly be said, Honi soit qui mal y pense. It should be noticed that a distinctly satirical vein runs through many of these games, as in the "Gentleman from Spain,"—played in one form or another all over Europe and the United States,—in which the suitor would first give any money to get his bride, and then any money to get rid of her. Or the Swedish Lek (the name given in Sweden to the singing-game), in which the companions of a young girl put her sentiments to the test of telling her that father, mother, sisters, brothers, are dead—all of which she hears with perfect equanimity—but when they add that her betrothed is also dead, she falls back fainting. Then all her kindred are resuscitated without the effect of reviving her, but when she hears that her lover is alive and well, she springs up and gives chase to her tormentors.
To my mind there is no more remarkable specimen of the singing game than Jenny Jones—through which prosaic title we can discern the tender Jeanne ma joie that formed the base of it. The Scotch still say Jenny Jo, "Jo" being with them a term of endearment (e.g., "John Anderson, my Jo!"). The following variant of the game I took down from word of mouth at Bocking in Essex:—
"We've come to see Jenny Jones, Jenny Jones, (repeat).
How is she now?
Jenny is washing, washing, washing,
Jenny is washing, you can't see her now.
We've come to see Jenny Jones.
How is she now?
Jenny is folding, folding, folding,
You can't see her now.
We've come to see Jenny Jones.
How is she now?
Jenny is starching, starching, starching,
Jenny is starching, you can't see her now.
We've come to see Jenny Jones.
How is she now?
Jenny is ironing, ironing, ironing,
Jenny is ironing, you can't see her now.
We've come to see Jenny Jones.
How is she now?
Jenny is ill, ill, ill,
Jenny is ill, so you can't see her now.
We've come to see Jenny Jones.
How is she now?
(Mournfully.)
Jenny is dead, dead, dead,
Jenny is dead, you can't see her now.
May we come to the funeral?
Yes.
May we come in red?
Red is for soldiers; you can't come in red.
May we come in blue?
Blue is for sailors; you can't come in blue.
May we come in white?
White is for weddings; you can't come in white.
May we come in black?
Black is for funerals, so you can come in that.
Jenny is then carried and buried (i.e., laid on the grass) by two of the girls, while the rest follow as mourners, uttering a low, prolonged wail.
Perhaps the earliest acted tragedy—a tragedy acted before Æschylus lived—was something like this. Anyhow, it may remind us of how early a taste for the tragic is developed, if not in the life of mankind at all events in the life of man. "What is the reason," asks St Augustine, "that men wish to be moved by the sight of tragic and painful things, which, nevertheless, they do not wish to undergo themselves? For the spectators (at a play) desire to feel grieved, and this grief is their joy: whence comes it unless from some strange spiritual malady?"[7]
Dr Pitrè describes this Sicilian game: A child lies down, pretending to be dead. His companions stand round and sing a dirge in the most dolorous tones. Now and then, one of them runs up to him and lifts an arm or a leg, afterwards letting it fall, to make sure that he is quite dead. Satisfied on this point, they prepare to bury him, but before doing so, they nearly stifle him with parting kisses. Tired, at last, of his painful position, the would-be dead boy jumps up and gets on the back of the most aggressive of his playmates, who is bound to carry him off the scene.
To play at funerals was probably a very ancient amusement. No doubt some such game as the above is alluded to in the text, "...children sitting in the markets and calling unto their fellows and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced, we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented."