10/10
This undoubtedly reflects a nostalgia rating -- but for all of that it has stood the test of time rather well.
I was put back on this magical mystery tour by a chance remark of Fionnuala's in her 2019 year-in-review comments: that a tartarin is both a braggart, and a finely woven cloth. Both connected in my mind with the indefatigable Tartarin de Tarascon, who, braggart though he was, took us all on a (finely-woven) magic carpet ride, in the year when we were 10 or 11.
Other than the fact that 39 children (yes, class sizes were that big, back then, and more) probably didn't understand half of the nuances and jokes that were delivered, we were all completely mesmerized by the adventure, the journey and the delivery. You couldn't hear a pin drop, in that classroom, for a half hour every afternoon, as M. Dufault became Tartarin for us.
I would suggest that never had we heard, in our little hamlet, stories that were so rich, wherein the words and descriptions were swimming with such meaning and taste one could almost eat them with a spoon.
Enfin, devant le guéridon, un homme était assis, de quarante à quarante-cinq ans, petit, gros, trapu, rougeaud, en bras de chemise, avec des caleçons de flanelle, une forte barbe courte et des yeux flamboyants, d'une main il tenait un livre, de l'autre il brandissait une énorme pipe à couvercle de fer, et, tout en lisant je ne sais quel formidable récit de chasseurs de chevelures, il faisait, en avançant sa lèvre inférieure, une moue terrible, qui donnait à sa brave figure de petit rentier tarasconnais ce même caractère de férocité bonasse qui régnait dans toute la maison. Cet homme, c'était Tartarin, Tartarin de Tarascon, l'intrépide, le grand, l'incomparable Tartarin de Tarascon.
This was the first of many stories that M. Dufault would read to us, through the full of one scholastic year: alternating between French and English novels, we explored the furthest horizons of the imagination. More than most, Daudet remained in our hearts and engendered in us a desire to immerse ourselves in books -- to explore every corner of where these magical pages would take us.
More than half of that class of schoolmates became teachers: professors, instructors, lecturers, in various levels of schools, from elementary to university. They didn't all specialize in literature, of course, but they certainly brought their flare for the dramatic into their students' lives.
Daudet's rich imaginings, his deliberate exaggeration of the mundane and trivial; his colourful, exotic, incandescent descriptions of bird, beast and man, all gave us the breath to pursue our dreams.
Daudet was a much troubled soul; and no doubt, some of his literature would not gain an audience in today's more culturally sensitive world. (Thank goodness humankind does have the capacity to evolve in a positive way, from time to time.) But for all of that, I don't care, because I can distinguish between what was and what is; and I can distinguish between the spirit of adventure, and the cold heart facts of a cruel society.
He will always remain both Quichotte and Pansa for me -- the best of both worlds -- as I suspect he has remained for the other 38 that listened with me, in those old school days. Merci, M. Dufault, wherever you are.