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

d'Arles on the fireplace, a portrait of the poet byHébert, a photograph by Etienne Garjat, and his desk in a place closeto the window—a small office desk—overloaded with old books anddictionaries. In the middle of the desk I noticed a large, openexercise book…. On it was written the original of his new poem,Calendal, which should be published on Christmas day this year.Frédéric Mistral has worked on this poem for seven years, and it is sixmonths since he wrote the last verse, but he won't release it yet. Yousee, there is always another stanza to polish and another even moresonorous rhyme to find…. Even if Mistral writes his verses in trueProvencal, he works as though everybody will read it and acknowledgehis craftsmanship….

Ah, the brave poet. Montaigne must have had someone like Mistral inmind when he wrote, Think of those, who, when asked what is the pointof spending so much time and trouble on a work of art that can only beseen by a few people, replied, "A few is enough. One is enough. None isenough."

* * * * *

The very exercise book in which Calendal had been written, was in myhands, and I leafed through it, with great emotion…. At that moment,fifes and tambourines began playing outside the window, and there wasmy hero, Mistral, rushing to the cupboard, fetching out glasses andbottles, and dragging the table to centre of the room, before openingthe door to the musicians and confiding to me:

—Don't laugh…. They have come to give me a little concert…. I am a

Municipal Councillor.

The little room filled up with people. Tambourines were put on chairs,the old banner placed in a corner, and the sweet wine passed round.After several bottles had been downed, to Monsieur Frédéric's health,the fête was seriously discussed, concerning such matters as whetherthe farandole was as good as last year, and if the bulls had playedtheir part well. Then the musicians moved off to play concerts to otherCouncillors. Just then, Mistral's mother entered.

With a flick of her wrists, she laid the table with beautiful, whitelinen. But only for two. I was familiar with her household routine; Iknew that when Mistral had company, his mother wouldn't sit down at thetable…. The old dear only knows Provencal and would feel very uneasytrying to talk to French people…. Also, she was needed in the kitchen.

Goodness! I had a great meal that day—a piece of roast goat, somemountain cheese, jam, figs, and Muscat grapes. Everything washed downwith a good Chateauneuf du Pape, which has such a wonderful redcolour in the glass….

After the meal, I fetched the exercise book and put it on the table infront of Mistral.

—We'd said we'd go out, said the poet, smiling.

—Oh, no. Calendal! Calendal!

Mistral resigned himself to his fate and in his sweet musical voice,while beating the rhythm with his hand, he began the first canto:

Of a maid who fell in love and madly,

And a tale I told that turned out sadly,

Now of a child of Cassis,

If God's will it may be,

As a poor little boy casts out for anchovy…

Outside, the vesper bells ring, the fireworks explode in the square,and the fifes play marching up and down the streets with thetambourines. The bulls from the Camargue bellow as they are herdedalong.

But I was listening to the story of the little fisherman from Provence,with my elbows on the table cloth, and my eyes filling with tears.

* * * * *

Calendal wasn't just a fisherman; love had forged him into an heroicfigure…. To win the heart of his beloved—the beautiful Estérelle—hetook on Herculean tasks, in fact, those twelve famous labours paled bycomparison to his.

One time, having it in mind to get rich, he invented some ingeniousfishing devices to bring all the fish of the sea into port. Then therewas this terrible bandit, count Sévéran, who was going to re-launch hisevil trade amongst his cut-throats and molls….

What a tough guy our little Calendal turns out to be! One day, atSainte-Baume, he came across two gangs of men intent on violentlysettling their hash on the grave of Master Jacques, a Provencal who didthe carpentry in the Temple of Solomon, if you please. Calendal threwhimself into the heart of the murderous mayhem, and calmed the men andtalked them down….

These were superhuman efforts!… High up in the rocks of Lure, therewas an inaccessible cedar forest, where even lumberjacks wouldn't go.Calendal, though, does go up there, all alone, and sets up camp forthirty days. The sound of his axe burying its head into tree trunks isheard the whole time. The forest screams its protest, but, one by one,the giant old trees fall and roll into the abyss, until, by the timeCalendal comes down, there isn't a single cedar left on the mountain….

At last, in reward for so many exploits, the anchovy fisherman won thelove of Estérelle and was made Consul of Cassis by its inhabitants.That's it then, the story of Calendal…. But why all this fuss aboutCalendal? The star of the poem is Provence itself—the Provence of thesea; the Provence of the mountains—with its history, its ways, itslegends, its scenery, indeed a whole people, free and true tothemselves, who have found their poetic voice, before they die….Nowadays, follow the roads, the railways, the telegraph poles, huntdown the language in the schools! Provence will live for ever inMireille and Calendal.

* * * * *

—That's enough poetry! said Mistral closing his notebook. To the fair!

We went out; the whole village was in the streets, as a great gust ofwind cleared the sky, which radiantly lit up the red roofs, still wetwith rain. We arrived in time to see the procession on its way back. Ittook a whole hour to go past. There was an endless line of hooded,white, blue, and grey penitents, sisterhoods of young, veiled girls;and gold flowered, pink banners, great faded, wooden saints carriedshoulder high by four men. There was pottery saints coloured like idolswith big bouquets in their hands, copes, monstrances, green velvetcanopies, crucifixes framed in white silk; and everything waving in