Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet, Frederick Davies Read Free Book Online Page B

wild goats, and Corsican ponies trotting about,
their manes flowing in the breeze. At the highest point, surrounded by
a flurry of sea-birds, was the lighthouse, with its platform of white
masonry, where the keepers paced to and fro. There was a green arched
door, and a small cast-iron tower on top of which a great multifaceted
lamp reflected the sun and gave light even in the daytime. Well, that's
what I recalled of the Isle of the Sanguinaires , on that sleepless
night as I listened to the roaring pines. It was on this enchanted
island that I used to fulfil my need for the open air and solitude
before I found my windmill.
    What did I do with myself?
    Very much what I do here, or perhaps even less. When the mistral or
tramontana didn't blow too hard, I used to settle down between two
rocks, down by the sea amongst the gulls, blackbirds, and swallows, and
stayed there nearly all day in that state between stupor and
despondency which comes from contemplating the sea. Have you ever
experienced that sweet intoxication of the soul? You don't think; you
don't even dream; your whole being escapes, flies away, expands
outwards. You are one with the diving seagull, the light spray across
the wave tops, the white smoke of the ship disappearing over the
horizon, the tiny red sailed boat, here and there a pearl of water, a
patch 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 the
sea shore, I shut myself in the yard of the lazaretto. It was a small
melancholy place, fragrant with rosemary and wild absinth, nestling
against part of the old wall, where I let myself be gently overcome by
that trace of relaxation and melancholy, which drifts in with the sun
into the little stone lodges, open all round like old tombs.
Occasionally, a gate would swing open or something would move in the
grass. Once, it was a goat which had come to graze and shelter from the
wind. 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 to
dinner. I returned only slowly towards the lighthouse, taking a small
pathway through the scrub which ran up a hilltop overlooking the sea.
At every step I glanced backwards onto the immense expanse of water and
light that seemed to increase as I went higher.
    * * * * *
    It was truly delightful at the top. I can still recall now the lovely
oak-panelled dining room with large flagstones, the bouillabaisse
steaming inside, and the door wide open to the white terrace; all lit
up by the setting sun. The keepers were already there, waiting for me
before settling themselves down to eat. There were three of them: a man
from Marseilles and two Corsicans; they all looked alike—small, and
bearded, with tanned, cracked faces, and the same goat-skin sailor's
jacket. But they had completely different ways and temperaments.
    You could immediately sense the difference in the two races by their
conduct. The Marseillais, industrious and lively, always busy, always
on the move, going round the island from morning till night, gardening,
fishing, or collecting gulls' eggs. He would lie in wait in the scrub
to catch a passing goat to milk. And there was always some garlic
mayonnaise or bouillabaisse on the hob.
    The Corsicans, however, did absolutely nothing over and above their
duties. They regarded themselves as Civil Servants and spent whole days
in the kitchen playing cards only pausing to perform the ritualistic
relighting of their pipes or using scissors to cut up large wads of
green tobacco in their palms.
    Otherwise, all three, Marseillais and Corsicans, were good, simple,
straight-forward folk, and were full of consideration for their
visitor, although I must have seemed a very queer fish to them….
    The thought of someone coming to stay in the lighthouse for pleasure,
was