Ode to Le Mistral
A Blustery Day in the South of France
Today, we awoke in our sleepy little village of Bellegarde, France, where we’ve chosen to reside for a month, to the wild whistling of wind whipping through the narrow medieval streets. The crashing of deck chairs and our drying socks strewn across the terrace could only mean one thing - Le Mistral!
If you’ve never experienced them, the mistral winds are a thing to behold. These violent northwesterly winds that tear across the south of France can reach speeds of up to 115mph. Numerous poems, songs and books have been written about le mistral and one of my favorite odes to these powerful gales comes from Friedrich Nietzsche.
A Dancing Song to the Mistral Wind (1910) by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Maude D. Petre Wildly rushing, clouds outleaping, Care-destroying, Heaven sweeping, Mistral wind, thou art my friend! Surely 'twas one womb did bear us, Surely 'twas one fate did pair us, Fellows for a common end. From the crags I gaily greet you, Running fast I come to meet you, Dancing while you pipe and sing. How you bound across the ocean, Unimpeded, free in motion, Swifter than with boat or wing! Through my dreams your whistle sounded, Down the rocky stairs I bounded To the golden ocean wall; Saw you hasten, swift and glorious, Like a river, strong, victorious. Tumbling in a waterfall. Saw you rushing over Heaven, With your steeds so wildly driven, Saw the car in which you flew; Saw the lash that wheeled and quivered, While the hand that held it shivered, Urging on the steeds anew. Saw you from your chariot swinging, So that swifter downward springing Like an arrow you might go Straight into the deep abysses, As a sunbeam falls and kisses Roses in the morning glow. Dance, oh! dance on all the edges, Wave-crests, cliffs and mountain ledges, Ever finding dances new! Let our knowledge be our gladness, Let our art be sport and madness, All that's joyful shall be true! Let us snatch from every bower, As we pass, the fairest flower, With some leaves to make a crown; Then, like minstrels gaily dancing, Saint and witch together prancing, Let us foot it up and down. Those who come must move as quickly As the wind—we'll have no sickly, Crippled, withered, in our crew; Off with hypocrites and preachers, Proper folk and prosy teachers, Sweep them from our heaven blue. Sweep away all sad grimaces, Whirl the dust into the faces Of the dismal sick and cold! Hunt them from our breezy places, Not for them the wind that braces, But for men of visage bold. Off with those who spoil earth's gladness, Blow away all clouds of sadness, Till our heaven clear we see; Let me hold thy hand, best fellow, Till my joy like tempest bellow! Freest thou of spirits free! When thou partest, take a token Of the joy thou hast awoken, Take our wreath and fling it far; Toss it up and catch it never, Whirl it on before thee ever, Till it reach the farthest star.