Letters from my Windmill Part 21

--Come, come, Father Gaucher, calm down. All this will disappear like dew in the sunshine.... After all, worse things happen at sea. Lots of people begin to sing when they are a little... hmm, hmm! We must hope that novices wouldn't have understood it.... For the moment, let's see, tell me just how this thing came to pa.s.s.... You were trying out the liqueur, weren't you? You were perhaps a little generous with your measure.... Yes, yes, I understand.... It's just like Brother Schwartz, the inventor of gunpowder: you succ.u.mbed to your own invention.... Tell me, my dear friend, is it really necessary to test this terrific liqueur on yourself?

--Alas, yes your Grace ... the elixir-strength-gauge tells me the degree of the alcohol, but for the smoothness of the finished product, I can trust nothing but my own palate....

--Oh yes, that's right ... but if I might press you a little further ... when you taste the elixir in that way, does it seem good to you? Is it enjoyable?...

--Yes, I'm afraid it does your Grace, admitted the miserable Father, flushing.... For two nights now, I found it had such a bouquet, such an aroma!... The devil himself has played this dirty trick on me.... From now on, I am determined only to try it by means of the elixir-strength-gauge. Never mind if the liqueur is not good enough, and if it isn't quite a diamond of a drink....

--Hold it right there, interrupted the Prior, sharply, We must not risk upsetting the customers.... All you need to do for the moment, as a precaution, is to keep a eye on yourself.... Let's see, how much does it take to fully establish the quality?... Lets say twenty drops.... It would need a h.e.l.l of a devil to catch you out with just twenty drops.... Moreover, to avoid any possibility of accident, I am giving you a dispensation not to have to come to church. You can have a private evening service in the distillery.... And now, you may go in peace, Reverend, but ... be sure to count the drops.

Unfortunately, it was no use counting the drops.... The demon held of him anyway, and having held him, wouldn't let go.

So, now it was the distillery that heard the _unusual_ service!

In the daytime all went well ... for a while. The Father was quite relaxed: he prepared the stoves, the stills, and carefully selected the herbs, fine, grey, dentate, the very scented essence of Provencal sunshine.... But in the evening while the basic ingredients were infusing and the elixir was cooling down in the large red coppers, the poor man's torture began.

--... Seventeen ... eighteen ... nineteen ... twenty!...

The drops fell tantalisingly from the pipette into the silver-gilt goblet. These twenty, the Father swallowed in one go, almost without tasting them. Oh! How he would have loved to drink the health of that twenty first drop! To escape temptation, he had to lose himself in prayer kneeling at the far end of the laboratory. Unfortunately, the still warm liqueur was still releasing a hint of aromatic fumes, which swirled around him, and led him on regardless towards the vats.... The liqueur was of such a lovely golden green colour.... Poised above it, his nostrils aquiver, he stirred it very gently with his pipette, and in the twinkling eddies, which were spreading throughout the emerald ambrosia, he thought he saw the sparkling, laughing eyes of aunty Begon looking back at him....

--Oh! Alright! Just one more drop!

One drop, yes. And then another. And another, and another, and another, until his goblet almost overflowed. By now, his struggle was over, and he collapsed into a large armchair, his body cast off, his eyelids half closed, in pleasure--and in pain--as he continued to sip his sinful cup and said with sweet remorse:

--Oh! I'm d.a.m.ned if I do.... I'm d.a.m.ned if I don't....

But the worst was still to come. As he reached the end of the diabolical liqueur, he recalled, by who knows what spell, some of the dirty songs of aunty Begon: _In Paris there was a White Canon_ ... and so on....

Imagine the fuss the next day, when his neighbouring cell mates joked to him knowingly:

--Hey! Hey! Father Gaucher, you were well off your head last night when you went to bed.

It all ended in tears, recriminations, fasting, the hair shirt, and chastis.e.m.e.nt, of course. But nothing, nothing could defeat the demon of the drink, and every evening, at the same time, the same story.

Meanwhile, the orders were flooding into the abbey, and it was a blessing. They came from Nimes, Aix, Avignon, Ma.r.s.eilles.... Day by day the monastery was gradually turning into a factory. There were Brother packers, Brother labellers, Brother accountants, and even Brother wagoners. The service to the Lord, though, was getting well and truly lost, despite the odd peal of bells. But, I can reveal to you that the poor folk of the area weren't losing out by it....

And then, one fine Sunday morning, as the Treasurer was reading out his end of year report before the whole chapter, and the good Brothers, wide eyed and smiling, were listening, Father Gaucher rushed into the meeting shouting:

--It's all over.... I am doing no more.... I want my cows back.

--So what's wrong, Father Gaucher? asked the Prior, who could well imagine something of what was wrong.

--What is wrong, your Grace?... What is wrong is that I am making an eternity of h.e.l.l fire and forks for myself.... It is wrong that I am drinking, and I am drinking like a sot....

--But I told you to count the drops.

--Oh! Yes, of course, count the drops! Actually, I count by tumblers these days.... Yes, Reverends, that's how bad things are. Three flagons every evening.... You must understand that this can't continue.... Have the elixir made by whomever you choose.... But, may I burn in G.o.d-sent fire, if I have anything more to do with it.

This sobered up the chapter, at least.

--But, wretched man, you will ruin us! the treasurer shouted, brandishing his account book.

--Would you rather that I am d.a.m.ned?

With that the Prior stood up:

--Reverends, he said, stretching out his elegant white hand with its shining pastoral ring, there is a way to settle this.... It's in the evening, isn't it, my dear son, when the demon tempts you?...

--Yes, Prior, regularly every evening.... As well as that, as the night approaches, I get, begging your pardon, the sweats, which grip me just like Capitou's a.s.s when he sees them coming to saddle him.

--Well then, let me rea.s.sure you.... Henceforth, every evening, during the service, we will say, for your benefit, the prayer of St.

Augustine, to which a plenary indulgence is attached.... After that, you are covered no matter what happens.... It brings absolution during the actual commission of the sin.

--Oh that's really excellent! Thank you so much, Prior!

And without asking for more, Father Gaucher went happily back to his stills, walking on air.

Actually, from that moment, every evening, at the end of the last service of the day, the celebrant never forgot to add:

--Let us pray for our unfortunate Father Gaucher, who is sacrificing his soul for the benefit of the community.... Pray for us, Lord....

And while, on all the white hoods of the Brothers, prostrated in the shade of the naves, the prayer fluttered like a slight breeze on snow, elsewhere, at the back of the monastery, behind the flickering reddened gla.s.s of the distillery, Father Gaucher could be heard singing at the top of his voice,

In Paris, there was a White Canon, Who went all the way with a black nun....

... Here, the good priest paused, horrified:

--Mercy me! If my parishioners could only hear me!

IN THE CAMARGUE

I

DEPARTURE

There is a huge buzzing at the chateau. The messenger has just brought word from the keeper, half in French and half in Provencal, announcing that there had already been two or three fine flights of herons, and water-fowl, and that the season's first birds weren't in short supply.

"You're coming hunting with us", my friendly neighbours wrote to me; and this morning, at the unearthly hour of five o'clock, their large wagon, loaded with rifles, dogs, and provisions, came to pick me up at the bottom of the hill. Off we go on the road to Arles, which is a bit dry and the trees have mostly lost their leaves by this time in December. The pale green shoots of the olive trees are hardly visible, and the garish green of the oaks is a bit too wintry and artificial.