Letters From My Windmill

by Alphonse Daudet

  In his lace-covered sick-bed, the little Dauphin, whiter than the cushions he lies on, has his eyes closed and looks fast asleep. But he is not. The little Dauphin turns towards his mother and seeing her in tears, says:

  —Madame, why are you crying? Do you really think that I am dying?

  The queen tries to answer, but the sobbing chokes her words.

  —Don't upset yourself, madame. You are forgetting that I am the

  Dauphin and Dauphins can't die just like that….

  The Queen's sobs intensify and the little Dauphin begins to feel afraid.

  —Hang on, he says, I don't want death to come and take me, and I know just how to stop him from getting to me…. Have forty very strong soldiers mount guard around my bed!… Have a hundred big cannons ready under our window, tapers lit and fuses primed, day and night! And it's hard luck death if he dares to come near me!…

  To please the Royal child, the Queen gives the order. Soon, big cannons are heard rolling in the courtyard, and forty tall German mercenaries, halberds at the ready, come and position themselves around the bed chamber. The little Dauphin claps his hands when he sees the old soldiers and their grey moustaches. He recognises one of them and calls out:

  —Lorrain! Lorrain!

  The soldier steps forward towards the bed:

  —I really do like you, my dear Lorrain…. Have you brought your big sword…. If death comes for me, you will be sure to kill him, won't you?

  Lorrain replied:

  —Yes, Sire….

  And two big tears run slowly down his tanned cheeks.

  Just then, the Chaplain comes towards the young Dauphin and whispers to him for some time, showing him a crucifix. The little Dauphin listens, and looks astounded, and then, suddenly stops him:

  —I can understand what you are telling me, Monsieur priest, but couldn't my little friend, Beppo die in my place, for which service we could give him a lot of money?…

  The Chaplain continues the whispering and the little Dauphin looks more and more astonished.

  As soon as the Chaplain finishes, the little Dauphin gives a huge sigh and says:

  —Everything you tell me is so sad, Monsieur Priest, but if there's one thing that consoles me, it's that up there amongst the stars in paradise, I will still be the Dauphin…. I am sure that the Good Lord is my cousin and won't forget to treat me according to my rank.

  Then, turning towards his mother, he adds:

  —Have my best clothes brought to me; my white ermine doublet and my velvet court shoes. I want to make myself nice for the angels and enter paradise dressed as a Dauphin should.

  For a third time, the Chaplain leans towards the little Dauphin and whispers to him for some time…. In the middle of his discourse, the Royal child interrupts him angrily:

  —Well then, he cries, it's completely pointless being the Dauphin!

  The little Dauphin has heard enough, and he turns towards the wall sobbing bitterly.

  II

  THE SUB-PREFECT TAKES A DAY OFF.

  The Sub-Prefect was on his rounds. He was being carried majestically in the official barouche, complete with coachman and lackey, to the Combe-aux-Fée's Regional selection meeting. The Sub-Prefect had put on his best embroidered clothes; his opera hat, his skin-tight silver striped breeches, and his dress-sword with mother of pearl handle for this important day…. He was looking ruefully down at his knees, on which lies a large, embossed-leather, briefcase.

  The Sub-Prefect was thinking about the speech which he must soon give before the residents of Combe-aux-Fées:

  —Gentlemen and constituents….

  But he might just as well have twiddled with his blond whiskers and repeated it twenty times for all the good it did:

  —Gentlemen and constituents…. But nothing more of the speech would come.

  Nothing more of the speech would come…. It was getting really warm in the barouche!… Under the Midi sun, the road to Combe-aux-Fées shimmers until it fades into the distance…. The very air burns you … and, at the roadside, thousands of cicadas are calling to each other, from one white, dust-covered elm to another…. Suddenly, the Sub-Prefect started. Down at the foot of a hill, he noticed a small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him.

  The small wood of green oaks which seemed to beckon him:

  —Come over here, Sub-Prefect, you will find composing your speech much easier in the shade of my trees….

  The Sub-Prefect was captivated; he jumped down from the barouche and told his men to wait there for him, as he was going to compose his speech over in the small wood of green oaks.

  In the small wood of green oaks, there were birds, violets, and springs hidden in the delicate grass…. When the birds noticed the Sub-Prefect with his gorgeous breeches and his large, leather-embossed briefcase, they became alarmed and stop singing, the springs are scared and stop their babbling, and the violets hid themselves in the grass…. This whole world in miniature had never seen a Sub-Prefect before, and they quietly wondered who this dignitary was, walking around in silver breeches.

  Meanwhile, the Sub-Prefect, delighted by the silence and the coolness of the wood, lifted his coat-tails, put his hat on the grass, and sat down in the moss at the foot of a young oak. He then put the large, leather-embossed briefcase on his knees, opened it, and took out a long sheet of official paper.

  —He's an artist, said the warbler.

  —No, said the bullfinch, he's not an artist; with his silver breeches, he's more of a prince.

  —He's more of a prince, said the bullfinch.

  —He's neither an artist nor a prince, interrupted an old nightingale, who had sang all season in the district's gardens…. I know what he is; he's a Sub-Prefect!

  And the whole woodland came alive with the rumour:

  —He's a Sub-Prefect! He's a Sub-Prefect!

  —He's bald! remarked a crested lark.

  The violets asked:

  —Is he a bad man?

  —Is he a bad man? asked the violets.

  The old nightingale replied:

  —Not at all! And with that reassurance, the birds started to sing again, the streams to flow, and the violets to perfume the air, just as though the gentleman wasn't there…. Ignoring all this pretty clamour, the Sub-Prefect invoked the spirit of the country fêtes, and, pencil at the ready, began to declaim in his ceremonial voice:

  —Gentlemen and constituents….

  —Gentlemen and constituents…. said the Sub-Prefect in his ceremonial voice….

  A cackle of laughter broke his concentration; he turned round and saw a lone fat woodpecker, perched on his opera hat, looking at him and laughing. The Sub-Prefect shrugged his shoulders and readied himself to continue, but the woodpecker interrupted him again:

  —What is the point?

  —I beg your pardon! What is the point? said the Sub-Prefect, who was flushing all over, and shooing the cheeky animal away, he resumed even more pompously:

  —Gentlemen and constituents….

  —Gentlemen and constituents…. once again resumed the Sub-Prefect even more pompously.

  Then, the little violets stretched their stems out towards him and kindly asked him:

  —Sub-Prefect, can you smell our lovely perfume?

  And the streams were making divine music for him from beneath the moss, and over his head in the branches, a band of warblers sang their finest songs; indeed, the whole wood conspired to stop him composing his speech.

  As he composed his speech, the Sub-Prefect was intoxicated by the perfume, and delighted by the music. He tried again to resist the charm, but in vain, and became completely overcome. He propped himself up on the grass with his elbows, loosened his fine tails, and stammers, yet again, two or three times:

  —Gentlemen and constituents…. Gentlemen and const…. Gent….

  Finally, he sent his constituents to the devil, and the muse of the country fêtes could only cover her face.

  Cover your face, O Muse of the cou
ntry fêtes!… When, after an hour, his assistants, worried about their master, followed him into the wood, they saw something that made them recoil in horror…. The Sub-Prefect was lying on his stomach in the grass, all dishevelled like a Bohemian. He had taken off his tails;… and the Sub-Prefect was composing poetry, as he chewed ruminatively on a violet.

  BIXIOU'S WALLET

  One October morning, a few days before I left Paris, a man in shabby clothes turned up at my home—while I was having lunch.

  He was bent over, muddied, and stooped and shivered on his long legs like a plucked wading bird. It was Bixiou. Yes, Parisians, your very own Bixiou, the ferociously charming Bixiou, the fanatical satirist who has so delighted you for fifteen years with his writings and caricatures…. Oh, poor man, and how painful to see him like that. Without the familiar grimace when he came in, I would not have recognised him.

  His head was bent over to one side, and his cane was pushed into his mouth like a clarinet. The illustrious and gloomy jester then moved to the centre of the room and staggered against my table as he said despondently: "Have pity on a blind man!…"

  It was such a good take-off that I couldn't stop myself laughing. The Arctic-cold response came immediately: "If you think I'm joking … just look into my eyes."

  He then turned two large, white, sightless eyes towards me: "I've gone blind, my dear, blind for life…. That's what comes from writing with vitriol. I have burned out the candle of my eyes out doing the damned job … to the stub!" he added showing me his desiccated eyelids with no trace of an eyelash.

  I was so overcome, I couldn't find anything to say. My silence troubled him:

  "Are you working?"

  —No, Bixiou, I'm having lunch. Would you like to join me?"

  He didn't reply, but I could see clearly from his quivering nostrils that he was dying to say yes. I took his hand and sat him down beside me.

  While I served him, the poor devil sniffed at the food and chuckled:

  "Oh, it smells good, this. I'm really going to enjoy it; and it will be an age before I eat again! A sou's worth of bread every morning, as I traipse through the ministries, is all I get…. I tell you, I'm really badgering the ministries now—it's the only work I do—I am trying to get permission to run a tobacconist's shop…. What else can I do; I've got to eat. I can't draw; I can't write… Dictation?… But dictate what?… I haven't a clue, me; I can't think of a thing to write. My trade was to look at the lunacies of Paris and hold a mirror up to them; but I haven't got what it takes now…. Then I thought about a tobacconist's shop; not in the boulevards of course, I can't expect those kind of favours, being neither a show girl's mother, nor a field officer's widow. No. I'm just looking for a small shop in the provinces, somewhere far away, say a spot in the Vosges. I will sell a hell of a clay pipe, and console myself by wrapping tobacco in my contemporaries' writings.

  "That's all I want. Not too much to ask, is it? But, do you know what, its hell on earth to get it… Yet, I shouldn't be short of patronage. I have soared high in my time. I used to dine with the Marshal, the prince, and ministers, all those people wanted me then because I amused them—or frightened them. Now, no one does. Oh, my eyes! my poor, poor eyes! I'm not welcome anywhere, now. It's unbearable being blind at meal times…. Do pass me the bread, please…. Oh, those thieves! They will make me pay through the nose for this damned tobacconist's shop. I've been wandering through all the ministries clutching my petition, for the last six months. I go in the morning at the time they light the stoves and take His Excellence's horse around the sanded courtyard, and I don't leave until night when they bring in the big lights and the kitchens begin to smell really good….

  "All my life is spent sitting on the wooden chests in the antechambers. The ushers know who I am, as well—enough said. Inside the court they call me That kind man! So, to get them on my side, to amuse them, I practise my wit, or, in a corner of their blotters, I draw rough caricatures without taking the pen off the page…. See what I've come to after twenty years of outstanding success; look at just what an artist's life amounts to!… And to think there are forty thousand rascals in France who slobber over our work! To think that throughout Paris, every day, locomotives make steam to bring us loads of idiots thirsting for waffle and printed gossip!… Oh, what a world of fantasists. If only Bixiou's suffering could teach them a lesson."

  With that, and without another word, he pushed his face towards the plate and began to scoff the food…. It was pitiful to look at. He was losing his bread, and his fork, and groping for his glass all the time…. Poor soul! He just hadn't had the time to get used to it all yet.

  * * * * *

  After a short time, he spoke again:

  "Do you know what's even worse? It's not being able to read the damned newspapers. You have to be in the trade to understand that…. Sometimes at night, when I am coming home, I buy one just for the smell of the fresh, moist paper, and newsprint…. It's so good! But there's not a soul willing to read it to me! My wife could, but she doesn't want to. She makes out that there are indecent things in the news items. Ah-ha! these old mistresses, once they marry you, there's no one more prudish. That Madame Bixiou has turned herself into a right little bigot—but only as far as it suits her!… It was she who wanted to me rub my eyes in Salette water. And then there was the blessed bread, the pilgrimages, the Holy Child, the Chinese herbal remedies, and God knows what else…. We're up to our necks in good works. And yet, it would be a real kindness to read the papers to me…. But there you are, there's no chance, she simply doesn't want to…. If my daughter was still at home, she would; but since I became blind, I've sent her to the Notre-Dame-des-Arts, so there'd be one less mouth to feed….

  "Now there's another one sent to test me! She's only had nine years on earth and already she's had every imaginable illness… And miserable! And ugly! Uglier than I am, if that's possible … a real monster!… What do you expect? I have never known how to face up to my responsibilities….

  "Well, what good company I turned out to be, boring you with my family business. And what's it all got to do with you?… Come on, give me a bit more brandy. I'd better be off. When I leave here, I am off to the public information service and the ushers are not famed for their sense of humour. They're all retired teachers."

  I poured him some brandy. He sipped it and then seemed moved by something…. Suddenly, on a whim, I think, he got up, glass in hand, and briefly moved his blind, viper-like head around, with the amiable smile of someone about to speak, and then speaking in a strident voice, as if holding forth to a banquet for two hundred,

  "To the arts! To literature! To the press!"

  And there he stood, spouting a toast for fully ten minutes. It was the most wild, the most marvellous improvisation which his clown's brain could devise.

  "Imagine a year's-end revue entitled Collection of Letters of 186*; about our literati, our gossip, our quarrels, all the idiocies of an eccentric world, a cesspool of ink, hell in miniature, where you cut your own throat, disembowel yourself, rob yourself, and outtalk the bourgeoisie about interest rates and money. Where they let you starve to death better than anywhere else; all our cowardice and woes; old baron T… of la Tombola going away with a tut-tut to the Tuileries with his begging bowl and his flowery clothes. Then there's the year's deaths, the burial announcements, the never changing funeral oration of the delegate: the Dearly missed! Poor dear! over some unlucky soul who was refused the means to bury himself; the suicides; and those gone insane. Imagine all that, told, itemised, and gesticulated by an orator of genius, and you will then have some idea of what Bixiou's improvisation was about."

  * * * * *

  The toast over, his glass empty, he asked me what the time was, and left in a wild mood, without so much as saying goodbye…. I don't know how Monsieur Duruy's ushers were affected by his visit that morning; but I do know that after that awful blind man had left, I have never felt so sad, so bad, in the whole of my life.

  The ve
ry sight of ink sickened me, my pen horrified me, I wanted to distance myself from it all, to run away, to see trees, to feel something good, real…. Good God! The hatred, the venom, the unquenchable need to belittle it all, to befoul everything! Oh! That wretched man….

  Then I furiously paced up and down in my room still hearing the giggling disgust he had shown for his daughter. Right then, I felt something under my feet, near where the blind man had been sitting. Bending down, I recognised his wallet, a thick, worn wallet, with split corners, which he always carried with him and laughingly called his pocket of venom.

  This wallet, in our world, was as famous as Monsieur de Girardin's cartoons. Rumour has it that there are some awful things in it…. I was soon to discover the truth of it. The old over-stuffed wallet had burst open as it fell and the papers inside fell onto the carpet; I had to collect them one by one….

  There was a package of letters written on decorated paper, all beginning, My dear Daddy, and signed, Céline Bixiou at the Children of Mary hospital.

  There were old prescriptions for childhood ailments: croup, convulsions, scarlet fever and measles…. (the poor little girl hadn't missed out on a single one of them!)

  Finally, there was a hidden envelope from which came a two or three curly, blond hairs, which might have come from the girl's bonnet. There was some writing on it in a large, unsteady hand; the handwriting of a blind man:

  Céline's hair, cut the 13th May, the day she went to that hell.

  That's all there was in Bixiou's wallet.

  Let's face it, Parisians, you're all the same; disgust, irony, evil laughter at vicious jokes. And what does it all amount to?…

  Céline's hair, cut on the 13th May.

  THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN BRAIN

  To the Lady who wants pleasant stories.