Picture an island with a reddish cast and a wild appearance. There was
a lighthouse on one headland and an old Genoese tower on the other,
which housed an eagle while I was there. Down by the sea-shore there
was a ruined lazaretto, overgrown with grass. Then there were ravines,
low scrub, huge rocks, wild goats, and Corsican ponies trotting about,
their manes flowing in the breeze. At the highest point, surrounded by
a flurry of sea-birds, was the lighthouse, with its platform of white
masonry, where the keepers paced to and fro. There was a green arched
door, and a small cast-iron tower on top of which a great multifaceted
lamp reflected the sun and gave light even in the daytime. Well, that's
what I recalled of the Isle of the _Sanguinaires_, on that sleepless
night as I listened to the roaring pines. It was on this enchanted
island that I used to fulfil my need for the open air and solitude
before I found my windmill.
What did I do with myself?
Very much what I do here, or perhaps even less. When the mistral or
tramontana didn't blow too hard, I used to settle down between two
rocks, down by the sea amongst the gulls, blackbirds, and swallows, and
stayed there nearly all day in that state between stupor and
despondency which comes from contemplating the sea. Have you ever
experienced that sweet intoxication of the soul? You don't think; you
don't even dream; your whole being escapes, flies away, expands
outwards. You are one with the diving seagull, the light spray across
the wave tops, the white smoke of the ship disappearing over the
horizon, the tiny red sailed boat, here and there a pearl of water, a
patch of mist, anything not yourself.... Oh, what delightful hours,
half awake and day-dreaming, I have spent on my island....
On days when the wind was really up, and it was too rough to be on the
sea shore, I shut myself in the yard of the lazaretto. It was a small
melancholy place, fragrant with rosemary and wild absinth, nestling
against part of the old wall, where I let myself be gently overcome by
that trace of relaxation and melancholy, which drifts in with the sun
into the little stone lodges, open all round like old tombs.
Occasionally, a gate would swing open or something would move in the
grass. Once, it was a goat which had come to graze and shelter from the
wind. When it saw me, it stopped, dumfounded, and froze, all agog,
horns skyward, looking at me with innocent eyes.
At about five o'clock, the lighthouse keepers' megaphone summoned me to
dinner. I returned only slowly towards the lighthouse, taking a small
pathway through the scrub which ran up a hilltop overlooking the sea.
At every step I glanced backwards onto the immense expanse of water and
light that seemed to increase as I went higher.
* * * * *
It was truly delightful at the top. I can still recall now the lovely
oak-panelled dining room with large flagstones, the bouillabaisse
steaming inside, and the door wide open to the white terrace; all lit
up by the setting sun. The keepers were already there, waiting for me
before settling themselves down to eat. There were three of them: a man
from Marseilles and two Corsicans; they all looked alike--small, and
bearded, with tanned, cracked faces, and the same goat-skin sailor's
jacket. But they had completely different ways and temperaments.
You could immediately sense the difference in the two races by their
conduct. The Marseillais, industrious and lively, always busy, always
on the move, going round the island from morning till night, gardening,
fishing, or collecting gulls' eggs. He would lie in wait in the scrub
to catch a passing goat to milk. And there was always some garlic
mayonnaise or bouillabaisse on the hob.
The Corsicans, however, did absolutely nothing over and above their
duties. They regarded themselves as Civil Servants and spent whole days
in the kitchen playing cards only pausing to perform the ritualistic
relighting of their pipes or using scissors to cut up large wads of
green tobacco in their palms.
Otherwise, all three, Marseillais and Corsicans, were good, simple,
straight-forward folk, and were full of consideration for their
visitor, although I must have seemed a very queer fish to them....
The thought of someone coming to stay in the lighthouse for pleasure,
was beyond their grasp. These were men who found the days interminably
long and were ecstatic when their turn came to go ashore. In the warm
season, this great relief came every month. Ten days off after thirty
days on; that was the rule. In the winter, though, in rough weather, no
rules could be enforced. The wind blew strongly, the waves ran high,
the _Sanguinaires_ were shrouded in white sea spray, and they were cut
off for two or three months at a time, sometimes in terrible conditions.
--I tell you what happened to me, monsieur,--old Bartoli told me one
day, while we were eating,--it was five years ago, at this very table,
one winter evening, just like this one. That night, there were just the
two of us, me and a fellow keeper called Tchéco.... The others were
ashore, or sick, or else on leave.... I can't remember, now.... We were
finishing our dinners, quite contentedly.... Suddenly, my fellow keeper
stopped eating, looked at me with strange eyes, and fell forward onto
the table with outstretched arms. I went to him; I shook him; I called
his name:
"--Hey Tché!... Hey Tché!...
"No response! He was dead!... You can't imagine how I felt! I stayed
there, idiot-like and trembling, next to the body for more than an
hour. Then suddenly, I remembered,--The Light!--I only just had time to
climb up to light the lantern--it was already getting dark....
"What a night, monsieur! The sea and the wind, they just didn't sound
like they usually do. All the time somebody seemed to be calling to me
from down the stairway.... I became frenzied; my mouth dried. But you
couldn't have made me go down there again.... Oh no! I was too scared
of the dead body. However, in the small hours, some of my courage
returned. I went down and carried my mate back to his bed, covered him
over with a sheet, said a short prayer, and then ran to raise the alarm.
"Unfortunately, the sea was too heavy; I shouted as loudly as I could,
again and again, but to no avail, nobody came.... So, I was alone in
the lighthouse with poor Tchéco, and for God knows how long. I was
hoping to be able to keep him close to me until the boat came, but
after three days that became impossible.... What should I have done?
Carried him outside? Buried him? The rock was too hard and there are
murders of crows on the island. It was a shame to leave a Christian to
them. And then I decided to take him down to one of the lodges in the
lazaretto.... That sad duty lasted a whole afternoon and, yes, it took
some courage.... Look here, Monsieur, even today, when I go down to
that part of the island through an afternoon gale, I feel that the dead
man is still there, on my shoulders...."
Poor old Bartoli! Sweat ran down his forehead just thinking about it.
* * * * *
And so, our meals passed in long conversations about the lighthouse,
and the sea, with tales of shipwrecks, and Corsican bandits.... Then,
as night fell, the keeper of the first watch lit his hand-lamp, took
his pipe, flask, and a red-edged, thick volume of Plutarch, which was
the sum total of the _Sanguinaires'_ library, and went down out of
sight. A moment later, there was a crash of chains, pulleys, and heavy
weights as the clock was wound up.
While this was going on, I went to sit outside on the terrace. The sun,
already well down, hurried its descent into the water, dragging the
whole skyline with it. The wind freshened; the island turned violet. In
the sky a big bird passed slowly near me; it was the eagle homing to
the Genoese tower.... Gradually, a sea mist got up. Soon, nothing could
be seen except a white ridge of sea-fog around the island. Suddenly, a
great flood of light emerged above my head from the lighthouse. The
clear ray left the island in complete darkness as it fell far out to
sea, and I, too, was lost to sight in the night, under the great
luminous sweeps which barely caught me as they passed.... But the wind
was freshening again. Time to go indoors. I groped to close the huge
door, I secured the iron 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_.