Letters From My Windmill (3 page)

To Pierre Gringoire, lyrical poet, Paris.

You'll never get anywhere, Gringoire!

I can't believe it! A good newspaper in Paris offers you a job as a
critic and you have the brass neck to turn it down. Look at yourself,
old friend. Look at the holes in your doublet, your worn-out stockings,
and your pinched face which betrays your hunger. Look where your
passion for poetry has got you! See how much you have been valued for
your ten years writing for the gods. What price pride, after all?

Take the job, you idiot, become a critic! You'll get good money, you'll
have your reserved table in Brébant's, you will be seen at premieres,
and it will secure your reputation….

No? You don't want to? You prefer to stay as free as the air to the end
of your days. Very well then, listen to the story of
Monsieur Seguin's
last kid goat
. You'll see where hankering after your freedom gets you.

* * * * *

Monsieur Seguin never had much luck with his goats.

He lost them all, one after another, in the same way. One fine morning
they would break free from their tethers and scamper off up into the
mountain, where they were gobbled up by the big bad wolf. Neither their
master's care, nor the fear of the wolf, nor anything else could hold
them back. They were, or so it seemed, goats who wanted freedom and
open spaces whatever the cost.

Monsieur Seguin, who didn't understand his animals' ways, was dismayed.
He said:

—It's all over. Goats get fed up here; I haven't managed to keep a
single one of them.

But he hadn't totally lost heart, for even after losing six goats, he
still bought a seventh. This time he made sure to get it very young, so
she would settle down better.

Oh! Gringoire, she was really lovely, Monsieur Seguin's little kid
goat; with her gentle eyes, her goatee beard, her black shiny hooves,
her striped horns, and her long white fur, which made a fine greatcoat
for her! It was nearly as delightful as Esmeralda's kid goat. Do you
remember her, Gringoire? And then again, she was affectionate and
docile, holding still while she was milked, never putting her foot in
the bowl. A lovely, a dear little goat….

There was a hawthorn enclosure behind Monsieur Seguin's house where he
placed his new boarder. He tied her to a stake in the finest part of
the field, taking care that she had plenty of rope, and often went out
to see how she was faring. The goat appeared to be very happy and was
grazing heartily on the grass, which delighted Monsieur Seguin.

—At last, triumphed the poor man, this one isn't getting bored here!

Monsieur Seguin was wrong; his goat was becoming very bored.

* * * * *

One day, looking over towards the mountain, she remarked:

—How great it must be up there! How lovely to gambol on the heath
without this rope tether that chafes my neck. It's alright for an ox or
a donkey to graze all cooped up, but we goats should be able to roam
free.

From then on, she found the grass in the enclosure bland. Boredom
overcame her. She lost weight and her milk all but dried up. It was
pitiful to see her pulling at her tether all day, with her head turned
towards the mountain, nostrils flared, and bleating sadly.

Monsieur Seguin noticed that there was something wrong with her, but he
couldn't work out what it was. One morning, as he finished milking her,
she turned towards him and said to him, in her own way:

—Listen Monsieur Seguin. I am pining away here, let me go into the
mountain.

—Oh my God. Not you as well! screamed Monsieur Seguin, dropping his
bowl, stupefied. Then, sitting down in the grass beside his goat he
added:

—So, my Blanquette, you want to leave me!

Blanquette replied:

—Yes, Monsieur Seguin.

—Are you short of grass here?

—Oh, no, Monsieur Seguin.

—Perhaps your tether is too short, shall I lengthen it?

—It-s not worth your while, Monsieur Seguin.

—Well then, what do you need, what do you want?

-I want to go up into the mountain, Monsieur Seguin.

—But, my poor dear, don't you realise that there is a big bad wolf on
the mountain? What will you do when he turns up.

—I will butt him, Monsieur Seguin.

—The big bad wolf doesn't give a fig for your horns. He's eaten many a
kid goat with bigger horns than yours. Have you thought about poor old
Renaude who was here only last year? She was really strong and wilful,
she was; more like a billy-goat. She fought off the wolf all night. In
the morning the wolf still ate her, though.

—Poor, poor Renaude! But that doesn't alter anything, Monsieur Seguin,
let me go into the mountain.

—Goodness!…, he said; What am I to do with these goats of mine? Yet
another one for the wolf's belly. Well, I'm not going to have it, I
will save you despite yourself, you rascal, and to avoid the risk of
your breaking loose, I am going to lock you in the cowshed and you will
stay there.

Without further ado, Monsieur Seguin carried the goat into the pitch
blackness of the cowshed and locked and bolted the door. Unfortunately,
he had forgotten to shut the window, and he had hardly turned his back
when she got free.

Are you laughing, Gringoire? Heavens! I'm quite sure you are on the
goats' side, and not Monsieur Seguin's. We'll see if you manage to keep
laughing.

There was general delight when the white goat arrived on the mountain.
The old fir trees had never seen anything nearly so lovely. She was
received like a queen. The chestnut trees bowed down to the ground to
stroke her with the tips of their leaves. The brooms opened up the way
for her and brushed against her as best they could. The whole
mountainside celebrated her arrival.

So, Gringoire, imagine how happy our goat was! No more tether … no
more stake … nothing to prevent her from going where she wanted and
nibbling at anything she liked. Hereabouts, there was lots of grass;
she was up to her horns in it, my friend. And what grass! Delicious,
fine, feathery, and dense, so much better than that in the enclosure.
And then there were the flowers!… Huge bluebells; purple,
long-stemmed foxgloves; a whole forest full of wild blooms brimming
over with heady sap.

The white goat, half-drunk, wallowed in it, and with her legs flailing
in the air, rolled along the bank all over the place on the fallen
leaves in amongst the chestnut trees. Then, quite suddenly, she jumped
confidently onto her feet. Off she went, heedlessly going forward
through the clumps of boxwood and brooms; she went everywhere; up hill,
and down dale. You would have thought that there were loads of Monsieur
Seguin's goats on the mountain.

Clearly, Blanquette was not frightened of anything. In one leap, she
covered some large torrential streams, which burst over her in a
soaking mist. Then, dripping wet, she stretched herself out on a flat
rock and dried herself in the sun. Once, approaching the edge of a
drop, a laburnum flower in her mouth, she noticed Monsieur Seguin's
house and the enclosure far down on the plain. It made her laugh till
the tears came.

—How small it all is! she said; how did I manage to put up with it?

Poor little thing, finding herself so high up, she believed herself to
be on top of the world.

Overall, it was a jolly good day for Monsieur Seguin's kid goat. About
midday, scampering all over the place, she chanced upon a herd of
chamois munching on wild vines with some relish. Our little minx in a
white dress was an absolute sensation. All these gentlemanly bucks made
way for her so she could have the very best of the vines…. It even
seemed—and this is for your ears only Gringoire—that one of the black
coated young chamois caught Blanquette's eye. The two lovers got lost
in the trees for an hour or two, and if you want to know what they said
to one another, go and ask the babbling brooks who meander unseen in
the moss.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the wind freshened; the mountain turned violet; and evening
fell….

—Already!, said the little kid goat, and stopped in astonishment.

In the valley, the fields were shrouded in mist. Monsieur Seguin's
enclosure was hidden in the fog, and nothing could be seen of the house
except the roof and a faint trace of smoke. She heard the bells of a
flock of sheep returning home and began to feel very melancholy. A
returning falcon just missed her with his wings as he passed over. She
winced…. Then there was a howl on the mountain.

Now, the silly nanny thought about the big bad wolf; having not once
done it all day. At the same time, a horn sounded far away in the
valley. It was Monsieur Seguin making one last effort.

The wolf howled again.

—Come home! Come home! cried the horn.

Blanquette wanted to; but then, she remembered the stake, and the rope,
and the hedged enclosure; and she thought that now she couldn't
possibly get used to all that lot again, and it was better to stay put.

The horn went silent….

She heard a noise in the leaves behind her. She turned round and there
in the shade she saw two short, pricked-up ears and two shining
eyes…. It was the big, bad wolf.

* * * * *

Huge and motionless, there he was, sitting on his hindquarters, looking
at the little white goat and licking his chops. He knew full well that
he would eventually eat her, so he was in no hurry, and as she turned
away, he laughed maliciously:

—Ha! Ha! It's Monsieur Seguin's little kid goat! and he licked his
chops once again with his red tongue.

Blanquette felt all was lost. It only took a moment's thought about the
story of old Renaude, who became the wolf's meal after bravely fighting
all night, to convince her that perhaps it would have been better to
get it over with, and to let herself be eaten there and then.
Afterwards, thinking better of it, she squared up to the big bad wolf,
head down, horns ready, like the brave little kid goat of Monsieur
Seguin that she was … not that she expected to kill him—goats don't
kill wolves—but just to see if she could last out as long as
Renaude….

As the big bad wolf drew near, she with her little horns set to into
the fray.

Oh! the brave little kid goat; how she went at it with such a great
heart. A dozen times, I'll swear, Gringoire, she forced the wolf back
to catch his breath. During these brief respites, she grabbed a blade
or two of the grass that she loved so much; then, still munching,
joined the battle again…. The whole night passed like this.
Occasionally, Monsieur Seguin's kid goat looked up at the twinkling
stars in the clear sky and said to herself:

—Oh dear, I hope I can last out till the morning….

One by one the stars faded away. Blanquette intensified her charges,
while the wolf replied with his teeth. The pale daylight appeared
gradually over the horizon. A cockerel crowed hoarsely from a farm
below.

—At last! said the poor animal, who was only waiting for the morning
to come so that she could die bravely, and she laid herself down on the
ground, her beautiful white fur stained with blood.

It was then, at last, that the wolf fell on the little goat and
devoured her.

* * * * *

Goodbye, Gringoire!

The story you have heard is not of my making. If you ever come to
Provence, our tenant farmers often tell you, of
M. Seguin's kid goat
,
who fought the big bad wolf all night before he ate her in the morning.

Think about it, Gringoire,
the big bad wolf ate her in the morning.

A tale from a Provencal shepherd.

When I used to be in charge of the animals on the Luberon, I was in the
pasture for many weeks with my dog Labri and the flock without seeing
another living soul. Occasionally the hermit from Mont-de-l'Ure would
pass by looking for medicinal herbs, or I might see the blackened face
of a chimney sweep from Piémont. But these were simple folk, silenced
by the solitude, having lost the taste for chit-chat, and knowing
nothing of what was going on down in the villages and towns. So, I was
truly happy, when every fortnight I heard the bells on our farm's mule
which brought my provisions, and I saw the bright little face of the
farm boy, or the red hat of old aunty Norade appear over the hill. I
asked them for news from the village, the baptisms, marriages, and so
on. But what particularly interested me, was to know what was happening
to my master's daughter, Mademoiselle Stephanette, the loveliest thing
for fifty kilometres around. Without wishing to seem over-curious, I
managed to find out if she was going to village fetes and evening farm
gatherings, and if she still turned up with a new admirer every time.
If someone asked me how that concerned a poor mountain shepherd, I
would say that I was twenty years old and that Stephanette was the
loveliest thing I had seen in my whole life.

One Sunday, however, the fortnight's supplies were very late arriving.
In the morning, I had thought, "It's because of High Mass." Then about
midday, a big storm got up, which made me think that bad road
conditions had kept the mule from setting out. Then, just after three
o'clock, as the sky cleared and the wet mountain glistened in the
sunshine, I could hear the mule's bells above the sound of the dripping
leaves and the raging streams. To me they were as welcome, happy, and
lively as a peal of bells on Easter Day. But there was no little farm
boy or old aunty Norade at the head. It was … you'll never guess …
my heart's very own desire, friends! Stephanette in person, sitting
comfortably between the wicker baskets, her lovely face flushed by the
mountain air and the bracing storm.

Apparently, the young lad was ill and aunty Norade was on holiday at
her childrens' place. Stephanette told me all this as she got off the
mule, and explained that she was late because she had lost her way. But
to see her there in her Sunday best, with her ribbon of flowers, her
silk skirt and lace bodice; it looked more like she had just come from
a dance, rather than trying to find her way through the bushes. Oh, the
little darling! My eyes never tired of looking at her. I had never seen
her so close before. Sometimes in winter, after the flocks had returned
to the plain, and I was in the farm for supper in the evening, she
would come into the dining room, always overdressed and rather proud,
and rush across the room, virtually ignoring us…. But now, there she
was, right in front of me, all to myself. Now wasn't that something to
lose your head over?