Letters From My Windmill (5 page)

It was the mother in the courtyard by the stone table which was covered
with dew and with blood. She was wailing over her son's lifeless body,
limp, in her arms.

When Provencal people talked about an aggressive man with a grudge,
they used to say, "Beware of that man!… he is like the Pope's mule,
who saved up her kick for seven years."

I have long been trying to find out where the saying came from, and
what this papal mule and the seven year kick was all about. Nobody, not
even Francet Mamaï, my fife player, who knows the Provencal legends
like the back of his hand, has been able to tell me. Francet, like me,
thinks that it is from an old tale from Avignon, but he has not heard
of it elsewhere.

—You'll find it in the Cicada's open library, the old piper told me
with a snigger.

It seemed a good idea to me, and, the Cicada's library being right
outside my door, I decided to shut myself in for a week.

It's a marvellous library, well stocked, and open twenty four hours a
day to poets and it is served by those little cymbal-clashing
librarians who make music for you all the time. I stayed in there for
several delightful days, and after a week's searching—lying on my
back—I came up with just what I was looking for: my own version of the
mule with the famous seven year grudge. The story is charming and
simple, and I will tell it to you as I read it yesterday from a
manuscript, which had the lovely smell of dried lavender, and long
strands of maiden hair fern for bookmarks.

* * * * *

If you hadn't seen Avignon in papal times, you'd seen nothing. For
gaiety, life, vitality, and a succession of feasts, no town was its
peer. From morning till night there were processions, pilgrimages,
flower strewn streets, high-hung tapestries, cardinals' arriving on the
Rhone, buntings, galleries with flags flying, papal soldiers chanting
Latin in the squares, and brothers' rattling their collecting boxes.
There were such noises coming from the tallest to the smallest
dwelling, which crowded and buzzed all around the grand Papal Palace,
like bees round a hive. There was the click-click of the lace-makers'
machines, the to and fro of the shuttles weaving gold thread for the
chasubles, the little hammer taps of the cruet engravers, the twanging
harmonic scales of the string instrument makers, the sing-songs of the
weavers, and above all that, the peal of the bells, and the
ever-throbbing tambourines, down by the bridge. You see, here in
Provence, when people are happy, they must dance and dance. And then;
they must dance again. When the town streets proved too narrow for the
farandole, the fifers and tambourine players were placed in the cooling
breeze of the Rhone,
Sur le pont d'Avignon
, where, round the clock,
l'on y dansait, l'on y dansait
. Oh, such happy times; such a happy
town. The halberds which have never killed anyone, the state prisons
used only to cool the wine. Never any famine. Never any war…. That's
how the Comtat Popes governed their people, and that's why their people
missed them so much….

There was one pope called Boniface who was a particularly good old
stick. Oh, how the tears flowed in Avignon when he died. He was such a
loveable, such a pleasant prince. He would laugh along with you as he
sat on his mule. And when you got near to him—were you a humble madder
plant gatherer or a great town magistrate—he blessed you just as
thoughtfully. Truly, a Pope from Yvetot, but a Provencal Yvetot, with
something joyful in his laugh, a hint of marjoram in his biretta, and
no sign of a lady love…. The only romantic delight ever known to the
good father, was his vineyard—a small one that he had planted himself
amongst the myrtles of Château-Neuf, a few kilometres from Avignon.

Every Sunday, after vespers, this decent man went to pay court to the
vineyard. As he sat in fine sunshine, his mule close by, his cardinals
sprawled out under the vines, he opened a bottle of vintage wine—a
fine wine, the colour of rubies, which has been known ever since as
Château-Neuf du Pape
—which he liked to sip while looking fondly at
his vineyard. Then, the bottle empty and the daylight fading, he went
merrily back to town, his whole chapter in tow. As he passed over the
pont d'Avignon
, amongst the drums and farandoles, his mule, taking
her cue from the music, began a jaunty little amble, while he himself
beat the dance rhythm out with his biretta. This shocked his cardinals,
but not so the people, who were delighted by it, and said, "What a good
prince! What a great pope!"

* * * * *

After his Château-Neuf vineyard, the pope loved his mule more than
anything else on earth. The old man was quite simply besotted with the
creature. Every night before going to bed, he made sure that the stable
was locked and that there was plenty for her to eat. Also, he never
rose from the table without a large bowl of wine,
à la française
,
made with sugar, herbs, and spices, and prepared under his own watchful
eye. He then took it, personally, to the mule, ignoring the cardinals'
reproaches. Certainly, the beast was well worth the trouble, for she
was a handsome, red-dappled, black mule, sure footed, glossy coated,
with a large full rump and proudly carrying her small, slim head fully
got up in pompoms, knots, silver bells and ribbons. She also showed an
honest eye, as sweet as an angel's, and her ever-twitching long ears
gave her a child-like, innocent appearance. Everybody in Avignon loved
her, and when she was trotting through the streets, they all looked
approvingly at her and made a great fuss of her; for everybody knew
that this was the best way to gain the pope's favour. In all innocence,
she had led many a one to good fortune, the proof of which lay in the
person of Tistet Védène and his wonderful venture.

This Tistet Védène was, in truth, a mischief-maker, to the point where
his father Guy Védène, the renowned goldsmith, had to run him out of
the house, because he refused to do anything and coaxed the apprentices
away from their work. For six months, he was seen hanging around every
low place in Avignon. He was mainly to be seen near the Papal house,
though, because this ne'er-do-well had something in mind for the Pope's
mule, and, as you will see, it was something malicious…. One day, as
His Holiness was out with his mule under the ramparts, along came
Tistet and accosted him, clasping his hands together in feigned
admiration:

—Oh, my lord, most Holy Father, what a splendid mule you have
there!… Let me feast my eyes on her…. Oh, my dear Pope, she's a
real beauty. I'll warrant the German Emperor doesn't have one like her.

Then he stroked her, and spoke gently to her as if she were a young
lady:

—Come here, my jewel, my treasure, my priceless pearl….

The kind Pope was truly moved and thought to himself:

—What a fine young boy!… And how kind he is to my mule.

And the result? The very next day, Tistet Védène exchanged his old
yellow coat for a beautiful lace cassock, a purple silk cape, and
buckled shoes ready for his entry into the Pope's choir school. An
establishment which, previously, had only taken in sons of the nobility
or cardinals' nephews. That's how intrigue was done. But Tistet didn't
stop at that.

Once he was in the Pope's service, the monkey did exactly the same
tricks he had mastered before. He was insolent to everybody, having
neither time nor consideration for anyone but the mule, and was to be
seen for ever in the palace courtyard with handfuls of oats or bundles
of sainfoin, gently shaking the pink bunches, as he looked at the Holy
Father's balcony, with a look as if to say,

"Who's this lovely food for, then?" So much so, indeed, that finally
the good Pope, who was beginning to feel his age, decided to leave the
care of looking after the stable and taking the mule her bowl of wine,
à la française
, to none other than Tistet Védène. This did not amuse
the cardinals.

* * * * *

As for the mule; it didn't amuse her at all…. From now on, at the
time for her wine, she would witness five or six clerics from the choir
school, with their lace and capes, get in amongst her straw. Then,
shortly afterwards, a fine warm smell of caramel and aromatic herbs
filled the stable, and Tistet Védène appeared carefully carrying the
bowl of wine
à la française
. But the mule's agony was only just
beginning.

This scented wine, which she loved so much, and kept her warm, and made
her walk on air, was bought to her, in her very own manger, where it
was put right under her nose. And then, just as her flared nostrils
were full of it—it was cruelly snatched away—and the beautiful rosy
red liqueur disappeared down the throats of those clerical brats…. If
only they had been satisfied with just stealing the wine from her, but
there was more to come. They were like demons, these clerical nobodies;
after they had drunk the wine, one pulled her ears, another her tail;
and while Quiquet mounted her, Béluguet tried his biretta on her. But
not one of these thugs realised that with one butt or kick in the
kidneys, the brave animal could have sent them all to kingdom come, or
beyond. But, she wouldn't! She was not the Pope's mule for nothing, the
mule associated with benedictions and indulgences. They often did their
worst; but she kept her temper under control. It was just Tistet Védène
that she really hated. When she felt him behind her, her hoof would
itch to give him what for. The villainous Tistet played some terrible
tricks on her. And after a drink or two, he came up with some very
cruel inventions.

One day he decided to drive her up the bell tower of the choir school;
to the very pinnacle of the palace. This really happened—two hundred
thousand Provencal folk will tell you they've seen it! Imagine the
terror of the luckless mule, when, after being shoved blindly up a
spiral staircase and climbing who knows how many steps, she found
herself suddenly dazzled on a brilliantly lit platform from where she
could see the whole of a fantastic Avignon far below her, the market
stalls no bigger than hazel nuts, the Pope's soldiers in front of their
barracks looking like red ants, and there on a silvery thread, a tiny,
microscopic bridge where
l'on y dansait, l'on y dansait
. Oh, the poor
beast! She really panicked. She cried out loud enough to rattle the
palace windows.

—What's the matter, what's happening to her? cried the Pope rushing to
his balcony.

Tistet Védène, already back down in the courtyard, was pretending to
cry and pull out his hair,

—Oh, most Holy Father, it's … it's your mule…. My lord, how will
it all end? Your mule has climbed up into the bell tower….

—All alone?

—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….

—God 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 Védène,

—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 thrashing 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 Védène
and the really good kicking that she was going to give him the very
next morning. Oh, what a hell 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 Védène 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
nobles who were sent there by the town to practice their diplomacy and
good manners in Italy. Tistet was no nobleman, 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 Béluguet in the stable.
The happy days of wine
à la française
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 Védène 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.