Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet (korean novels in english TXT) 📕

to give him his insignias of office: the yellowboxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom ofthe steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard.

As he passed her, Tistet Védène gave a broad smile, and paused to giveher two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of thecorner of his eye, that the pope was watching…. The mule steadiedherself:

—There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for youfor seven long years!

And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so thatthe dust from it was seen from a long way away—a whirlwind of blondhaze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of theunfortunate Tistet Védène!…

Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was apapal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven longyears. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiasticalgrudge.

THE LIGHTHOUSE ON THE SANGUINAIRES

It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral wasraging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on thewindmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like ship's tackle in thewind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines coveringthe hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You couldimagine yourself out at sea….

All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three yearsago, when I lived in the Sanguinaires lighthouse overlooking theentrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast.

I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.

Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There wasa lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other,which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-shore therewas a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with grass. Then there were ravines,low scrub, huge rocks, wild goats, and Corsican ponies trotting about,their manes flowing in the breeze. At the highest point, surrounded bya flurry of sea-birds, was the lighthouse, with its platform of whitemasonry, where the keepers paced to and fro. There was a green archeddoor, and a small cast-iron tower on top of which a great multifacetedlamp reflected the sun and gave light even in the daytime. Well, that'swhat I recalled of the Isle of the Sanguinaires, on that sleeplessnight as I listened to the roaring pines. It was on this enchantedisland that I used to fulfil my need for the open air and solitudebefore I found my windmill.

What did I do with myself?

Very much what I do here, or perhaps even less. When the mistral ortramontana didn't blow too hard, I used to settle down between tworocks, down by the sea amongst the gulls, blackbirds, and swallows, andstayed there nearly all day in that state between stupor anddespondency which comes from contemplating the sea. Have you everexperienced that sweet intoxication of the soul? You don't think; youdon't even dream; your whole being escapes, flies away, expandsoutwards. You are one with the diving seagull, the light spray acrossthe wave tops, the white smoke of the ship disappearing over thehorizon, the tiny red sailed boat, here and there a pearl of water, apatch of mist, anything not yourself…. Oh, what delightful hours,half awake and day-dreaming, I have spent on my island….

On days when the wind was really up, and it was too rough to be on thesea shore, I shut myself in the yard of the lazaretto. It was a smallmelancholy place, fragrant with rosemary and wild absinth, nestlingagainst part of the old wall, where I let myself be gently overcome bythat trace of relaxation and melancholy, which drifts in with the suninto the little stone lodges, open all round like old tombs.Occasionally, a gate would swing open or something would move in thegrass. Once, it was a goat which had come to graze and shelter from thewind. When it saw me, it stopped, dumfounded, and froze, all agog,horns skyward, looking at me with innocent eyes.

At about five o'clock, the lighthouse keepers' megaphone summoned me todinner. I returned only slowly towards the lighthouse, taking a smallpathway through the scrub which ran up a hilltop overlooking the sea.At every step I glanced backwards onto the immense expanse of water andlight that seemed to increase as I went higher.

* * * * *

It was truly delightful at the top. I can still recall now the lovelyoak-panelled dining room with large flagstones, the bouillabaissesteaming inside, and the door wide open to the white terrace; all litup by the setting sun. The keepers were already there, waiting for mebefore settling themselves down to eat. There were three of them: a manfrom Marseilles and two Corsicans; they all looked alike—small, andbearded, with tanned, cracked faces, and the same goat-skin sailor'sjacket. But they had completely different ways and temperaments.

You could immediately sense the difference in the two races by theirconduct. The Marseillais, industrious and lively, always busy, alwayson the move, going round the island from morning till night, gardening,fishing, or collecting gulls' eggs. He would lie in wait in the scrubto catch a passing goat to milk. And there was always some garlicmayonnaise or bouillabaisse on the hob.

The Corsicans, however, did absolutely nothing over and above theirduties. They regarded themselves as Civil Servants and spent whole daysin the kitchen playing cards only pausing to perform the ritualisticrelighting of their pipes or using scissors to cut up large wads ofgreen tobacco in their palms.

Otherwise, all three, Marseillais and Corsicans, were good, simple,straight-forward folk, and were full of consideration for theirvisitor, although I must have seemed a very queer fish to them….

The thought of someone coming to stay in the lighthouse for pleasure,was beyond their grasp. These were men who found the days interminablylong and were ecstatic when their turn came to go ashore. In the warmseason, this great relief came every month. Ten days off after thirtydays on; that was the rule. In the winter, though, in rough weather, norules could be enforced. The wind blew strongly, the waves