Letters From My Windmill by Alphonse Daudet, Frederick Davies Page A

bars, and then, still feeling my way, took the
small cast-iron stairs, which trembled and rang under my feet, to the
top of the lighthouse. Here, as you can imagine, there was plenty of
light.
    Picture a gigantic lamp with six rows of wicks with the inner facets of
the lantern arranged around them, some with an enormous crystal glass
lens, others opened onto a large fixed glass panel which protected the
flame from the wind…. When I came in, I was completely dazzled, and
the coppers, tins, white metal reflectors, rotating walls of convex
crystal glass, with large blue-tinged circles, and all the flickering
lights, gave me a touch of vertigo.
    However, gradually my eyes got used to it, and I settled down at the
foot of the lamp, beside the keeper who was reading his Plutarch—for
fear of falling asleep….
    Outside, all was dark and desperate. On the small turning balcony, a
maddening gust of wind howled. The lighthouse creaked; the sea roared.
Out on the point, the breakers on the shoals sounded like cannon
shots…. At times, an invisible finger tapped at the panes; it was
some bird of the night, drawn by the light, braining itself against the
glass….
    Inside the sparkling, hot lantern, nothing was heard except the
crackling flame, the dripping oil, the chain unwinding and the
monotonous intoning of the life of Demetrius of Phaleron….
    * * * * *
    At midnight, the keeper stood up, took a last peek at the wicks and we
went below. We passed the keeper of the second watch, rubbing his eyes
as he came up. We gave him the flask and the Petrarch. Then, before
retiring, we briefly entered the locker-room below, which was full of
chains, heavy weights, metal tanks, and rope. By the light of his small
lamp, the keeper wrote in the large lighthouse log, always left open at
the last entry:
    Midnight. Heavy seas. Tempest. Ship at sea .

THE WRECK OF THE SEMILLANTE
    The other night the mistral took us off course to the Corsican coast,
so to speak. Let's stay there, as it were, while I tell you of an
horrific event, often talked about by the local fishermen during their
evening get-togethers, the details of which came to me by chance.
    About two or three years ago, I was out sailing on the Sardinian Sea
with seven or eight customs' men. A tough trip for a landlubber! There
hadn't been a single fair day in the whole of March. The wind
relentlessly pursued us and the sea never, ever, let up.
    One evening, as we were running before the storm, our boat found refuge
in the opening to the Straits of Bonifacio, in the midst of an
archipelago…. They were not a welcoming sight: huge bare rocks
covered with birds, a few clumps of absinth, some lenticular scrub, and
here and there pieces of rotting wood half buried in the silt. But,
believe me, for a night's stay, these ominous rocks were a much better
prospect than the half-covered deckhouse of our old boat, where the
waves made themselves very much at home. In fact, we were pleased to
see the islands.
    The crew had lit a fire for the bouillabaisse, by the time we were all
ashore. The Master hailed me and pointed out a small outcrop of white
masonry almost lost in the fog at the far end of the island:
    —Are you coming to the cemetery? he said.
    —A cemetery, Master Lionetti! Where are we then?
    —The Lavezzi Islands, monsieur. The six hundred souls from the Sémillante are buried here, at the very spot where their frigate
foundered ten years ago…. Poor souls, they don't get many visitors;
the least we can do is to go and say hello to them, while we're here….
    —Of course, willingly, skipper.
    * * * * *
    The Sémillante's crew's last resting place was inexpressibly gloomy.
I can still see its small low wall, it's iron gate, rusted and hard to
open, its silent chapel, and hundreds of crosses overgrown by the
grass. Not a single everlasting wreath, not one remembrance, nothing!
Oh, the poor deserted dead; how cold they must be in their unwanted
graves.
    We stayed there briefly, kneeling