Part 15 (1/2)
--Husband, you are so rich! Buy me something really expensive....
And so, he brought her something really expensive.
Things continued like that for two years. Then, one morning, the young wife died, like a bird, no one knew why. Her funeral was paid for in gold, or at least with what was left of it. The widower arranged a lovely burial for his dear, departed wife. Peals of bells, substantial coaches done out in black, with plumed horses, and silver tears in the velvet drapery; nothing was too good for her. After all, what did the gold matter now?...
He gave some to the church, some to the pallbearers, and some to the everlasting-flower sellers. Oh yes, he spread it around alright, without stopping to count the cost.... By the time he left the cemetery, he had practically nothing left of his wonderful brain, only a few particles on the outside of his skull.
Then he was seen going out into the streets like someone lost, his hands stretched out in front of him, and stumbling like a drunkard. In the evening, as the shops lit up, he stopped in front of a large window with a well-lit, grand display of material and finery. He stood and glared for a long time at two blue satin bootees trimmed with swan down. ”I know someone who will be very pleased with those bootees,” he smiled to himself, and, in denial of his young wife's death, went straight in to buy them.
The shopkeeper, who was in the back, heard a great scream. She rushed out to help and jumped back in fear as she saw a man standing propped up against the counter and staring blankly at her. In one hand he had the blue bootees with swan down tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and in the other was offering her some bloodied, gold sc.r.a.pings in the end of his nails.
Such, madam, is the story of the man with the golden brain.
Despite it's air of fantasy, this story is true from start to finish.... Throughout the world there are unfortunate people who are condemned to live by their brains, and pay in that finest of gold, blood and sweat and tears, for the least thing in life. It brings them pain every day, and then, once they tire of their suffering....
THE POET, FREDERIC MISTRAL
Last Sunday, I thought I had woken up in Montmartre. It was raining, the sky was grey, and the windmill was a miserable place to be. I dreaded staying in on such a cold, rainy day, and I felt the urge to go and cheer myself up in the company of Frederic Mistral, the great poet who lives a few kilometres from my precious pines, in the small village of Maillane.
No sooner said than gone; my myrtle walking stick, my book of Montaigne, a blanket, and off I went!
The fields were deserted.... Our beautiful catholic Provence gives the very earth itself a day of rest on Sundays.... The dogs are abandoned in the houses, and the farms are closed.... Here and there, was a carter's wagon with its dripping tarpaulin, an old hooded woman in a mantle like a dead leaf, mules dressed up for a gala, covered in blue and white esparto, red pompoms, and silver bells, jogging along with a cart-load of folks from the farm going to ma.s.s. Further on, there was a small boat on the irrigation ca.n.a.l with a fisherman casting his net from it....
There was no possibility of reading as I walked. The rain came down in bucketsful, which the tramontana then obligingly threw in your face....
I walked non-stop and after three hours I reached the small cypress woods which surround the district of Maillane and shelter it from the frightful wind.
Nothing was stirring in the village streets; everybody was at high ma.s.s. As I pa.s.sed in front of the church, I heard a serpent playing, and I saw candles s.h.i.+ning through the stained gla.s.s windows. The poet's home is on the far side of the village; it's the last house on the left, on the road to Saint-Remy--it's a small single-storey house with a front garden.... I went in quietly ... and saw no one. The dining room door was shut, but I could hear someone walking about and speaking loudly behind it ... a voice and a step that I knew only too well....
I paused in the whitewashed corridor, with my hand on the doork.n.o.b, and feeling very emotional. My heart was thumping.--He's in. He's working.
Should I wait. Wait till he's finished.... What the h.e.l.l. It can't be helped. I went in.
Well, Parisians, when the Maillane poet came over to show Paris his book, _Mireille_, and you saw him in your salons; this n.o.ble savage, but in town clothes, with a wing collar and top hat, which disturbed him and much as his reputation. Do you think that was Mistral? It wasn't.
There's only one real Mistral in the world, and that's the one that I surprised last Sunday in his village, with his felt beret, no waistcoat, a jacket, a red Catalonian sash round his waist, and fiery-eyed, with the flush of inspiration in his cheeks. He was superb, with a great smile, as elegant as a Greek shepherd, bestriding the room manfully, hands in pockets, and making poetry on the hoof....
--Well, well, well! It's you, Daudet? Mistral exclaimed, throwing himself around my neck, delighted that you thought to come!...
Especially the day of the Maillane Fete. We've got music from Avignon, bulls, processions, and the farandole; it will be magnificent.... When mother comes back from the ma.s.s, we'll have lunch, and then, hey, we shall go to see the pretty girls dancing....
As he was speaking, I was rather moved as I looked around at the little dining room with light wallpaper, which I hadn't seen for such a long time and where I had spent such happy hours. Nothing had changed. There was still the yellow check sofa, the two wicker armchairs, Venus de Milo and Venus d'Arles on the fireplace, a portrait of the poet by Hebert, a photograph by Etienne Garjat, and his desk in a place close to the window--a small office desk--overloaded with old books and dictionaries. In the middle of the desk I noticed a large, open exercise book.... On it was written the original of his new poem, _Calendal_, which should be published on Christmas day this year.
Frederic Mistral has worked on this poem for seven years, and it is six months since he wrote the last verse, but he won't release it yet. You see, there is always another stanza to polish and another even more sonorous rhyme to find.... Even if Mistral writes his verses in true Provencal, he works as though everybody will read it and acknowledge his craftsmans.h.i.+p....
Ah, the brave poet. Montaigne must have had someone like Mistral in mind when he wrote, _Think of those, who, when asked what is the point of spending so much time and trouble on a work of art that can only be seen by a few people, replied, ”A few is enough. One is enough. None is enough.”_