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

finery from head to toe, andpeasants in floral jackets like those our grandfathers used to wear.Everything gave the impression of being old, dusty, faded, and wornout. Sometimes, nocturnal birds, regular visitors to the chapel,attracted by the lights, came to flap around the candles whose flamewent straight upwards but looked dim as if seen through gauze. Therewas a certain person in large, steel-framed glasses, who kept shakinghis tall, black wig where one of the birds was completely entangled,its wings silently thrashing about, much to the amusement ofGarrigue….

Deep inside, a little old man with a childish build, on his knees inthe middle of the choir, was desperately and soundlessly shaking aclapper-less hand bell, while a priest in old, gold vestments wascoming and going and toing and froing in front of the altar, and sayingprayers, not a syllable of which could be heard. It was Dom Balaguère,of course, in the middle of his third low mass.

THE ORANGES

A FANTASY.

In Paris, oranges have the sorrowful look of windfalls gathered frombeneath the trees. At the time they get to you, in the dreary middle ofa rainy, cold winter, their brilliant skins, and their strongperfume—or so they seem to your Parisian mediocre tastes—imbue themwith a foreign flavour, a hint of Bohemia. Throughout the foggyafternoons, they line the pavements, squashed together in wheelbarrows,lit by the low light of lanterns and wrapped in red paper. A thin,repetitive shout of:

—Valencian oranges, two sous a piece!

accompanies them, often drowned by the sound of cavorting carriages andboisterous buses.

For most Parisians, this fruit, gathered far away, and unremarkablyround, with just a clipping of greenery from the tree, reminds them ofsweets and desserts. The tissue they're wrapped in, and the parties atwhich they make their appearance, add to this impression. Come January,thousands of oranges are on the streets and their discarded skins arein the muddy gutters everywhere, looking as though some giant Christmastree had shaken its branches of artificial fruit all over Paris.There's just about nowhere free of oranges; they are in the carefullyarranged shop windows, sorted and prepared; outside prison and hospitalgates, among the packets of biscuits and the stacks of apples, and infront of entrances to dances and Sunday street shows. Their exquisiteperfume mixes variously with the smell of gas, the noise of oldviolins, and the dust in the gods at the theatre. It's easy to forgetthat it takes orange trees to make oranges, for when the fruit arrivesfrom the Midi, by their thousands of boxfuls, the tree itself, prunedand unrecognisable, is hidden in a warm greenhouse for the winter andmakes only a brief summer appearance in public gardens in Paris.

To really appreciate oranges, you have to see them in their naturalsetting; in the Balearics, Sardinia, Corsica, and Algeria; in the sunnyblue skies of the warm Mediterranean. I can recall with great pleasurea small orchard of orange trees, at the gates of Blidah, just such aplace where their true beauty could be seen! Amongst the dark, glossy,lustred leaves, the fruits had the brilliance of stained glass windowsand perfumed the air all around with the same magnificent aura thatusually envelops gorgeous flowers. Here and there, gaps in the branchesrevealed the ramparts of the little town, the minaret of a mosque, thedome of a marabout, and, towering above, the immense Atlas mountains,green at the base, and snow-capped, with drifts of snow here and there.

One night during my stay, a strange phenomenon, not seen for thirtyyears, occurred; the ice from the freezing zone descended onto thesleeping village, and Blidah woke up transformed, and powdered in whitesnow. In the light, pure Algerian air, the snow looked like the finestdusting of mother of pearl, and had the lustre of a white peacock'sfeather. But it was the orange orchard that was the most beautifulthing to be seen. The firm leaves kept the snow intact and upright likesorbets on a lacquered plate, and all the fruits, powdered over withfrost, had a wonderful mellowness, a discrete radiance like silk-drapedgold. It was all vaguely evocative of a church saint's day; the redcassocks under the lacy robes, and the gilt on a lace altar cloth….

But my most treasured memories concerning oranges come fromBarbicaglia, a large garden close to Ajaccio, where I was about to havea siesta in the hottest time of the day. The orange trees were tallerand further apart than in Blidah and reached down to the road, behind aditched hedge. Immediately beyond the road, there was the deep bluesea…. I have had such happy times in that orchard. The orange treesin flower and in fruit, spread their delightful perfume around.Occasionally, a ripe orange, would fall and drop to the ground near mewith a dull thud, and I just had to stretch out my hand. They weresuperb fruit, with their purple, blood-colour flesh inside, and lookedexquisite, toning in with the surrounding stunning scenery. Between theleaves, the sea was seen in dazzling blue patches, like shattered glasssparkling in the sea mist. The ever-moving sea disturbed the atmospherefar away and caused a rhythmic murmur that soothed, like being on aboat. Oh, the heat, and the smell of oranges…. It was just so veryrefreshing to sleep in that orchard at Barbicaglia!

Sometimes, however, at the height of the siesta, a drum-roll would wakeme up with a start. The boys of the military band came over there topractice on the road. Through the gaps in the hedge, I could see thebrass decoration on the drums and the white aprons on their redtrousers. The poor devils came into what little shade was offered bythe hedge to hide for a while from the blinding light, pitilesslyreflected from the dust on the road. And they played on until theybecame very, very hot! I forced myself from my dream-like state, andamused myself by throwing them some of the golden, red fruit that Icould easily reach. My target drummer stopped. There was a short pause,as he looked around for the source of this superb orange rolling intothe ditch beside him, before snatching it up and taking a gratefulmouthful without even bothering to peel it.

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