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

NOSTALGIA FOR THE BARRACKS AND PARIS.

This morning, at first light, a formidable drum-roll woke me with astart….

A drum-roll from amongst my pines at this hour!… What a ridiculousthing. For goodness sake.

As quickly as I can, I jump out of bed and run to the door.

Nobody about! The noise has ceased…. From the midst of some wet wildvines, a couple of curlews fly off noisily…. A light breeze sings inthe trees…. Towards the east, on the sharp ridge of the Alpilles, agolden dust amasses, from which the sun slowly appears…. The day'sfirst sunbeam is already touching the roof of the windmill.Immediately, the drum-roll starts again, hidden, this time from in thefields….

The devil, I had forgotten about it. What sort of idiot, then, greetsthe day from the middle of the woods with a drum?… I try my best toget a look, but I can't see anyone…. Nothing except the tufts oflavender and the pine trees which go down right to the road…. Perhapsthere is some goblin, hidden in the thicket, mocking me…. It must beAriel or Puck. The rascal must have said to himself as he passed mywindmill:

—That Parisian is much too tranquil in there, let's have a dawnserenade for him.

Whereupon, he took up his big drum and … more drum-rolls…. Will youshut that thing up, Puck, you will wake up the cicadas.

* * * * *

It wasn't Puck.

It was Gouget Francois, called Pistolet, drummer in the 31st Battalion,and right now on his biannual leave. Pistolet is bored stiff here andhe has his memories, and he has his drum, and—when someone from thevillage wants to borrow the instrument—he goes out and bangs thedamned drum in the woods, and dreams of the Prince-Eugène barracks,back in Paris.

Today, he is honouring a small, green hillock with his reveries. Therehe is, propping up a pine tree, his drum in his arms, having a fieldday…. Partridges, alarmed, take to the air from under his feet; buthe doesn't notice them. Wild flowers bathe him in their scent; but hedoesn't smell them.

He doesn't see the fine spiders' webs vibrating in the sun amongst thebranches, nor the pine needles, which jump about on his drum.Completely given over to his reverie and his music, he looks lovinglyat the blur of his whizzing drumsticks, and his large, dull face lightsup with pleasure at every roll.

"How lovely the great barracks is, with its large flagged courtyard,its orderly, all in line windows, its men in military caps, and its lowarcades full of clattering mess-tins!…

"Oh, the echoing steps, the whitewashed corridors, the smellydormitory, the belts to be polished, the slab of bread, the tins ofpolish, the iron bedsteads with grey covers, the gleaming rifles in therack.

"Oh, the good days with the corps, the cards that stick to yourfingers, the hideous queen of spades with her feathered charms, the oldnewspaper, pages missing, scattered on the beds….

"Oh, the long nights on guard at the Ministry's door, the old sentrybox which rains in, the frozen feet!… The carriages which splash yougoing past!… Oh, the extra fatigues, the days without break, thestinking wash tub, the wooden pillow, the reveille on cold, wetmornings, the retreat in fog and at lights on time, the eveningcall-out that finds you late and breathless!

"Oh, the bois de Vincennes, the thick, white, cotton gloves, the walkson the fortifications…. Oh, the Military School entrance, the loosewomen, the sound of the cornet at the Salon de Mars, the absinth in thebars, the shared secrets between hiccoughs, the sabres drawn, thesentimental tale told hand on heart…."

* * * * *

Dream on, poor man! I won't be the one to stop you…. Hit your drumand hit it hard, hit it as hard as you can. I have no right to ridiculeyou.

So, you are nostalgic for your barracks; am I not just as nostalgic formine?

My Paris haunts me just like yours. You—you play your drum among thepines. Me—I write here…. What a right pair of Provencal people weare. Back in Paris, we miss our Alpilles and the smell of wildlavender. Right here and right now, bang in the middle of Provence, wemiss our barracks, and everything that reminds us of it is so dear tous!…

* * * * *

Eight o'clock strikes in the village. Pistolet, drumsticks at theready, starts on his way back…. He can be heard, playing non-stop,coming down from the woods…. Me—I lie down in the grass, overwhelmedwith nostalgia. As the drum fades into the distance, All my ownfamiliar Paris passes before my eyes, there amongst the pines….

Ah, Paris!… Paris!… Paris for ever!

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