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

The poor man could only answer:

—Oh, yes… very rich!

And he would smile lovingly at the little blue bird who was unknowinglyeating away at his head. Yet, sometimes fear took hold of him, and hehad a craving to hang on to what little he'd got, but then the littlewoman bounded up to him and said:

—Husband, you are so rich! Buy me something really expensive….

And so, he brought her something really expensive.

Things continued like that for two years. Then, one morning, the youngwife died, like a bird, no one knew why. Her funeral was paid for ingold, or at least with what was left of it. The widower arranged alovely burial for his dear, departed wife. Peals of bells, substantialcoaches done out in black, with plumed horses, and silver tears in thevelvet drapery; nothing was too good for her. After all, what did thegold matter now?…

He gave some to the church, some to the pallbearers, and some to theeverlasting-flower sellers. Oh yes, he spread it around alright,without stopping to count the cost…. By the time he left thecemetery, he had practically nothing left of his wonderful brain, onlya few particles on the outside of his skull.

Then he was seen going out into the streets like someone lost, hishands stretched out in front of him, and stumbling like a drunkard. Inthe evening, as the shops lit up, he stopped in front of a large windowwith a well-lit, grand display of material and finery. He stood andglared for a long time at two blue satin bootees trimmed with swandown. "I know someone who will be very pleased with those bootees," hesmiled to himself, and, in denial of his young wife's death, wentstraight in to buy them.

The shopkeeper, who was in the back, heard a great scream. She rushedout to help and jumped back in fear as she saw a man standing proppedup against the counter and staring blankly at her. In one hand he hadthe blue bootees with swan down trimmings, and in the other wasoffering her some bloodied, gold scrapings in the end of his nails.

Such, madam, is the story of the man with the golden brain.

* * * * *

Despite it's air of fantasy, this story is true from start tofinish…. Throughout the world there are unfortunate people who arecondemned to live by their brains, and pay in that finest of gold,blood and sweat and tears, for the least thing in life. It brings thempain every day, and then, once they tire of their suffering….

THE POET, FREDERIC MISTRAL

Last Sunday, I thought I had woken up in Montmartre. It was raining,the sky was grey, and the windmill was a miserable place to be. Idreaded staying in on such a cold, rainy day, and I felt the urge to goand cheer myself up in the company of Frédéric Mistral, the great poetwho lives a few kilometres from my precious pines, in the small villageof Maillane.

No sooner said than gone; my myrtle walking stick, my book of

Montaigne, a blanket, and off I went!

The fields were deserted…. Our beautiful catholic Provence gives thevery earth itself a day of rest on Sundays…. The dogs are abandonedin the houses, and the farms are closed…. Here and there, was acarter's wagon with its dripping tarpaulin, an old hooded woman in amantle like a dead leaf, mules dressed up for a gala, covered in blueand white esparto, red pompoms, and silver bells, jogging along with acart-load of folks from the farm going to mass. Further on, there was asmall boat on the irrigation canal with a fisherman casting his netfrom it….

There was no possibility of reading as I walked. The rain came down inbucketsful, which the tramontana then obligingly threw in your face….I walked non-stop and after three hours I reached the small cypresswoods which surround the district of Maillane and shelter it from thefrightful wind.

Nothing was stirring in the village streets; everybody was at highmass. As I passed in front of the church, I heard a serpent playing,and I saw candles shining through the stained glass windows. The poet'shome is on the far side of the village; it's the last house on theleft, on the road to Saint-Remy—it's a small single-storey house witha front garden…. I went in quietly … and saw no one. The diningroom door was shut, but I could hear someone walking about and speakingloudly behind it … a voice and a step that I knew only too well….

I paused in the whitewashed corridor, with my hand on the doorknob, andfeeling very emotional. My heart was thumping.—He's in. He's working.Should I wait. Wait till he's finished…. What the hell. It can't behelped. I went in.

* * * * *

Well, Parisians, when the Maillane poet came over to show Paris hisbook, Mireille, and you saw him in your salons; this noble savage,but in town clothes, with a wing collar and top hat, which disturbedhim and much as his reputation. Do you think that was Mistral? Itwasn't.

There's only one real Mistral in the world, and that's the one that Isurprised last Sunday in his village, with his felt beret, nowaistcoat, a jacket, a red Catalonian sash round his waist, andfiery-eyed, with the flush of inspiration in his cheeks. He was superb,with a great smile, as elegant as a Greek shepherd, bestriding the roommanfully, hands in pockets, and making poetry on the hoof….

—Well, well, well! It's you, Daudet? Mistral exclaimed, throwinghimself around my neck, delighted that you thought to come!…Especially the day of the Maillane Fête. We've got music from Avignon,bulls, processions, and the farandole; it will be magnificent…. Whenmother comes back from the mass, we'll have lunch, and then, hey, weshall go to see the pretty girls dancing….

As he was speaking, I was rather moved as I looked around at the littledining room with light wallpaper, which I hadn't seen for such a longtime and where I had spent such happy hours. Nothing had changed. Therewas still the yellow check sofa, the two wicker armchairs, Venus deMilo and Venus