The origin of the word “félibre” is most obscure. Mistral first met with it in an ancient Provençal prayer, the “Oration of St. Anselm,” “emè li sét félibre de la léi.”
Philologists have discussed the origin and evolution of the word, and here the mystic seven of the Félibres again comes to the fore, as there are seven explanations, all of them acceptable and plausible, although the majority of authorities are in favour of the Greek word philabros—“he who loves the beautiful.”
Of course the movement is caused by the local pride of the Provençaux, and it can hardly be expected to arouse the enthusiasm of the Bretons, the Normans, or the native sons of the Aube. In fact, there are certain detractors of the work of the Félibres who profess regrets that the French tongue should be thus polluted. The aspersion, however, has no effect on the true Provençal, for to him his native land and its tongue are first and foremost.
Truly more has been said and written of Provence that is of interest than of any other land, from the days of Petrarch to those of Mistral, in whose “Recollections,” recently published (1906), there is more of the fact and romance of history of the old province set forth than in many other writers combined.
Daudet was expressive when he said, in the opening lines of “Tartarin,” “It was September, and it was Provence;” Thiers was definite when he said, “At Valence the south commences;” and Felix Gras, and even Dumas, were eloquent in their praises of this fair land and its people.
Then there was an unknown who sang:
“The vintage sun was shining
On the southern fields of France,”
and who struck the note strong and true; but again and again we turn to Mistral, whose epic, “Mirèio,” indeed forms a mirror of Provence.
Madame de Sévigné was wrong when she said: “I prefer the gamesomeness of the Bretons to the perfumed idleness of the Provençaux;” at least she was wrong in her estimate of the Provençaux, for her interests and her loves were ever in the north, at Château Grignan and elsewhere, in spite of her familiarity with Provence. She has some hard things to say also of the “mistral,” the name given to that dread north wind of the Rhône valley, one of the three plagues of Provence; but again she exaggerates.
The “terrible mistral” is not always so terrible as it has been pictured. It does not always blow, nor, when it does come, does it blow for a long period, not even for the proverbial three, six, or nine days; but it is, nevertheless, pretty general along the whole south coast of France. It is the complete reverse of the sirocco of the African coast, the wind which blows hot from the African desert and makes the coast cities of Oran, Alger, and Constantine, and even Biskra, farther inland, the delightful winter resorts which they are.