I’ve written about Daudet before, exploring the connection between the title, and the ending of his story Belisaire’s Prussian.

The Two Inns is a very different sort of story, but well worth looking at for the intricacies behind its seemingly simple structure. Briefly, the first person narrator chooses to enter the inferior looking of the eponymous inns, which flank the carriage road from Nimes.

The inn he rejects is busy, noisy and joyous, but the one he enters is gloomy, dilapidated and deserted, save for a sorrowful woman, made ugly by grief. It is, the narrator says, ‘an act of charity to stop there and drink a glass.

Despite her surprise at his choice, she serves him poor food and wine, and tells him her story. The inn across the road has become what her inn used to be, by stealing her trade. It is run by ‘a woman from Arles,’ who has enticed away the customers, and who employs ‘husseys’ as chambermaids and serving girls.

There are other tragedies too, in the life of the woman at the poor inn. Her two daughters have died. There is no explanation for this, merely the fact of it having happened. To cap it all though, the woman’s own husband has been seduced away by the woman from Arles, and it is his voice that can be heard singing loudly from across the road.

In what seems to be the typical Daudet style, there is no redress for these evils, but only the narrator’s bleak presentation of them. The poor woman’s predicament is summed up by the last lines of the story:

And she stood there, as if in a trance, trembling, with her hands outstretched, and tears rolling down her cheeks, which made her look uglier than ever, to hear her Jose singing for the woman from Arles.’

The appended two lines of his song, a country love-song, seem almost superfluous. But behind Daudet’s bleak, uncompromising account, there lurks, I think, a more positive message, though it is an uncompromising one. It is the burden of a later song….. ‘laugh and the world laughs with you/cry and you cry alone.’ This revelation though, is not made by the narrator, but by the woman herself, who speaks ‘with a heart-broken air, but with utmost gentleness’. ‘What can you expect?’ she asks. ‘Men are made that way; they don’t like to see people cry;’

 

The Two Inns can be found, in translation, in Volume 4 of the Hammerton 1920s’ twenty volume collection, The World’s Thousand Best Stories, along with another 15 of Daudet’s tales – few writers get that many!  If you fancy the original French, you will find it in the excellent 1997 paperback pocket edition by Arcadia of L’Arlesienne, which includes d’autres Lettres de mon moulin.

This is another of those stories from long ago and far away – if you live when and where I do – that can form the basis of a useful exercise. We still have inns, and hamlets, and High roads, and travellers who must call in, and might even hear stories if they do. Our choices might be between different brand names, but they are essentially the same as those that Daudet’s narrator would have been faced with.

To re-imagine, and to write such stories, is not merely a matter of transposition from one time or place to another, but a chance to explore what it is in the human experience that crosses the gulf between times and places, and to create the voices in which such stories would now be told, and by implication, what ears we might wish them to be heard by.

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