Night Flight by Saint-Exupéry Antoine de

Author:Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de [Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Classics, Adventure, Historical
ISBN: 9781417996506
Amazon: 1417996501
Goodreads: 8842
Publisher: Kessinger Pub Co
Published: 1931-12-01T08:00:00+00:00

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Roused by the call, the pilot’s wife looked musingly at her husband. I’ll let him sleep a bit longer, she thought.

She admired that spanned bared chest of his and the thought came to her of a well-built ship. In the quiet bed, as in a harbor, he was sleeping and, lest anything should spoil his rest, she smoothed out a fold of the sheet, a little wave of shadow, with her hand, bringing calm upon the bed, as a divine hand calms the sea.

Rising, she opened the window and felt the wind on her face. Their room overlooked Buenos Aires. A dance was going on in a house near by and the music came to her upon the wind, for this was the hour of leisure and amusement. In a hundred thousand barracks this city billeted its men and all was peaceful and secure; but, the woman thought, soon there’ll be a cry “To arms!” and only one man—mine—will answer it. True, he rested still, yet his was the ominous rest of reserves soon to be summoned to the front. This town at rest did not protect him; its light would seem as nothing when, like a young god, he rose above its golden dust. She looked at the strong arms which, in an hour, would decide the fortune of the Europe mail, bearing a high responsibility, like a city’s fate. The thought troubled her. That this man alone, amongst those millions, was destined for the sacrifice made her sad. It estranged him from her love. She had cherished him, watched over him, caressed him, not for herself but for this night which was to take him. For struggles, fears, and victories which she would never know. Wild things they were, those hands of his, and only tamed to tenderness; their real task was dark to her. She knew this man’s smile, his gentle ways of love, but not his godlike fury in the storm. She might snare him in a fragile net of music, love, and flowers, but, at each departure, he would break forth without, it seemed to her, the least regret.

He opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.”

“How’s the weather?”

“I don’t know.”

He rose and, stretching himself, walked to the window. “Won’t be too cold. What’s the wind?”

“How should I know?”

He leaned out. “Southerly. That’s tophole. It’ll hold as far as Brazil anyhow.”

He looked at the moon and reckoned up his riches and then his gaze fell upon the town below. Not warm or kind or bright it seemed to him; already in his mind’s eye its worthless, shining sands were running out.

“What are you thinking about?”

He was thinking of the fog he might encounter toward Porto Allegre.

“I’ve made my plans. I know exactly where to turn.”

He still was bending down, inhaling deeply like a man about to plunge, naked, into the sea.

“You don’t even seem to mind it! How long will you be away?” she asked.

A week or ten days, he couldn’t say. “Mind it?” Why should he? All those cities, plains, and mountains.

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