Letters from my Windmill Part 6

--Yes, most Holy Father, all alone.... Look, look at her, up there....

Can't you see the end her ears sticking up?... They look like a couple of swallows from here....

--G.o.d help us! said the Pope beside himself and looking up.... She must have gone mad! She's going to kill herself.... Come down, you fool!...

Well! there was nothing she would have liked better ... but how? The stairs were not to be entertained, you could climb them alright, but coming down was a different story; there were a hundred different ways to break your legs.... The poor mule was very distressed, and wandered about the platform, her huge eyes spinning from vertigo, and contemplated Tistet Vedene,

--Well, you swine, if I get out of this alive ... tomorrow morning will bring you such a kicking!

The thought of revenge revitalised her; without it she couldn't possibly have held on. At last, somebody managed to bring her down, but it was quite a struggle needing ropes, a block and tackle, and a cradle. Imagine what a humiliation it was for a Pope's mule to find herself hanging from a great height, legs thras.h.i.+ng about like a fly caught in a web. Just about everyone in Avignon was there to witness it.

The unhappy creature could no longer sleep at nights. She imagined that she was still spinning round on the cradle, with the whole town below laughing at her. Then her mind turned to the despicable Tistet Vedene and the really good kicking that she was going to give him the very next morning. Oh, what a h.e.l.l of a kicking that was going to be! The dust would be seen flying from far away.... Now, while the stable was being prepared for her, what do you think our Tistet Vedene was up to?

He was sailing down the Rhone, if you please, singing on a papal galley on his way to the court at Naples, accompanying the troupe of young n.o.bles who were sent there by the town to practice their diplomacy and good manners in Italy. Tistet was no n.o.bleman, but the Pope insisted on rewarding him for his care of the mule, particularly for the part he had just played in her rescue.

So, it was the mule who was disappointed the next day.

--Oh, the swine, he has got wind of something! she thought shaking her bells furiously...; but that's alright, go away if you must, you mischief-maker, you will still get your kicking when you get back.... I will save it for you!

And save it for him, she did.

After Tistet's departure, the Pope's mule returned to her tranquil life and ways of the old times. No more Quiquet, or Beluguet in the stable.

The happy days of wine _a la francaise_ returned, and with them came contentment, long siestas, and even the chance to do her own little gavotte once again, when she went _sur le pont d'Avignon_. And yet, since her adventure, she felt a certain coolness towards her in the town. Whispers followed her on her way, old folks shook their heads, and youngsters laughed and pointed at the bell tower. Even the good Pope himself hadn't as much confidence in his furry friend and when he wanted a nap mounted on the mule, coming back from the vineyard on Sundays, he feared that he would wake up on top of the bell tower! The mule felt all this, but suffered it in silence, except when the name Tistet Vedene was mentioned in front of her, when her ears would twitch and she would snort briefly as she whetted her iron shoes on the paving stones.

Seven years pa.s.sed before Tistet Vedene returned from the court at Naples. His time over there wasn't finished, but he had heard that the Pope's Head Mustard-Maker had suddenly died in Avignon, and he thought the position was a good one, so he rushed to join the line of applicants.

When the scheming Vedene came into the palace, he had grown and broadened out so much, that the Holy Father hardly recognised him. It has to be admitted though that the Pope himself had aged and couldn't see too well without his spectacles.

Tistet wasn't one to be intimidated.

--Most Holy Father, can you not recognise me? It is I, Tistet Vedene....

--Vedene?...

--Yes, you know me well.... I once served the wine, _a la francaise_, to your mule.

--Oh, yes, yes.... I remember.... A good little boy, Tistet Vedene....

And now, what can we do for him?

--Oh, not a lot, most Holy Father.... I came to ask you something....

By the way, have you still got your mule? Is she keeping well?... Oh, that's good.... I came to ask you for the position of your Head Mustard-Maker, who has just died.

--Head Mustard-Maker, you! You're far too young. How old are you, now?

--Twenty years and two months, great pontiff, exactly five years older than your mule.... Oh, what a prize of G.o.d, a fine beast! If you only knew how much I loved that mule and how much I longed for her in Italy.

Please may I see her?

--Yes, my child, you may see her, said the good, and by now, very moved Pope, and, as you care so much for the dear thing, I don't want you to live too far away. From this day forward, I am appointing you into my presence in the office of Head Mustard-Maker.... My cardinals will protest, but so what; I'm quite used to that.... Come and see us tomorrow after vespers, we will give you the insignias of your office in the presence of our chapter, and then ... I'll take you to see the mule and you can accompany us to the vineyard.... Well, well, let's do it....

I needn't tell you that Tistet Vedene left the hall walking on air, and couldn't wait for the next day's ceremony. And yet, there was someone in the palace, someone even happier and more impatient than he. Yes, it was the mule. From the moment Vedene returned, right until the next day's vespers, the fearsome beast never stopped stuffing herself with hay and kicking her rear hoofs out at the wall. She, too, was making her own special preparations for the ceremony....

And so, the next day, after vespers, Tistet Vedene made his entry into the courtyard of the papal palace. All the head clergymen were there, the cardinals in red robes, the devil's advocate in black velvet, the convent's abbots in their pet.i.te mitres, the church wardens of Saint-Agrico, and the purple capes of the choir school. The rank and file clergy were also there, the papal guard in full dress uniform, the three brotherhoods of penitentiaries, the Mount Ventoux hermits with their wild looks, and the little clerk who followed them carrying his bell. Also there were the flagellant brothers, naked to the waist, the sacristans, sprouting judge's robes, and all and sundry, even the holy-water dispensers, and those that light, and those that extinguish, the candles.... Not one of them was missing.... It was a great ordination! Bells, fireworks, suns.h.i.+ne, music and, as always, the tambourine playing fanatics leading the dance, over there, _sur le pont d'Avignon_....

When Vedene appeared in the midst of the a.s.sembly, his bearing and handsome appearance set off quite a murmur of approval. He was the magnificent type of a man from Provence, from fair-headed stock with curly hair and a small wispy beard which could have been made from the fine metal shavings fallen from his goldsmith father's chisel. Rumour has it that Queen Jeanne's fingers had occasionally toyed with that blond beard. The majesty of Vedene had indeed a glorious aspect; he had the vain, distracted look of men who have been loved by queens. On that day, as a courtesy to his native country, he had exchanged his Neapolitan clothes for a pink, braided jacket in the Provencal style, and a huge plume from an ibis on the Camargue fluttered on his hood.

The moment he entered as the new Head Mustard-Maker, he gave a general, gentlemanly greeting and made his way towards the high steps, where the Pope was waiting to give him his insignias of office: the yellow boxwood spoon and the saffron uniform. The mule was at the bottom of the steps, harnessed and ready to go to the vineyard.

As he pa.s.sed her, Tistet Vedene gave a broad smile, and paused to give her two or three friendly pats on the back, making sure, out of the corner of his eye, that the pope was watching.... The mule steadied herself:

--There you are! Caught you, you swine! I have saved this up for you for seven long years!

And she let loose a mule-kick of really terrible proportions, so that the dust from it was seen from a long way away--a whirlwind of blond haze and a fluttering ibis's feather were all that was left of the unfortunate Tistet Vedene!...

Mules' kicks are not normally of such lightning speed, but she was a papal mule; and consider this; she had held it back for seven long years. There was never a better demonstration of an ecclesiastical grudge.

THE LIGHTHOUSE ON THE _SANGUINAIRES_

It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep. The mistral was raging and kept me awake till morning. Everything creaked on the windmill, the whistling sails swayed heavily like s.h.i.+p's tackle in the wind, tiles flew wildly off the roof. The closely packed pines covering the hillside swayed and rustled far away in the darkness. You could imagine yourself out at sea....

All this reminded me of the bad spell of insomnia I had three years ago, when I lived in the _Sanguinaires_ lighthouse overlooking the entrance to the gulf of Ajaccio on the Corsican coast.

I had found a pleasant place there where I could muse in solitude.

Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There was a lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other, which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-sh.o.r.e there was a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with gra.s.s. Then there were ravines, low scrub, huge rocks, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 gra.s.s. 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 Ma.r.s.eilles 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 Ma.r.s.eillais, industrious and lively, always busy, always on the move, going round the island from morning till night, gardening, fis.h.i.+ng, or collecting gulls' eggs. He would lie in wait in the scrub to catch a pa.s.sing 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, Ma.r.s.eillais 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 beyond their grasp. These were men who found the days interminably long and were ecstatic when their turn came to go ash.o.r.e. In the warm season, this great relief came every month. Ten days off after thirty days on; that was the rule. In the winter, though, in rough weather, no rules could be enforced. The wind blew strongly, the waves ran high, the _Sanguinaires_ were shrouded in white sea spray, and they were cut off for two or three months at a time, sometimes in terrible conditions.