Mirèio, a Provençal Poem. Frédéric Mistral

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ne’er another such the beauty is;

       And in each path are just so many trees.”

      “O heavens! How many hands at harvest-tide

       So many trees must need!” young Vincen cried.

       “Nay: for ’tis almost Hallowmas, you know,

       When all the girls come flocking in from Baux,

       And, singing, heap with olives green and dun

       The sheets and sacks, and call it only fun.”

      The sun was sinking, as old Ambroi said;

       On high were little clouds a-flush with red;

       Sideways upon their yokèd cattle rode

       The labourers slowly home, each with his goad

       Erect. Night darkened on the distant moor;

       ’Twas supper-time, the day of toil was o’er.

      “And here we are!” the boy cried. “I can see

       The straw-heaped threshing-floor, so hasten we!”

       “But stay!” the other. “Now, as I’m alive,

       The Lotus Farm’s the place for sheep to thrive—

       The pine-woods all the summer, and the sweep

       Of the great plain in winter. Lucky sheep!

      “And look at the great trees that shade the dwelling,

       And look at that delicious stream forth welling

       Inside the vivary! And mark the bees!

       Autumn makes havoc in their colonies;

       But every year, when comes the bright May weather,

       Yon lotus-grove a hundred swarms will gather.”

      “And one thing more” cried Vincen, eagerly,

       “The very best of all, it seems to me—

       I mean the maiden, father, who dwells here.

       Thou canst not have forgotten how, last year,

       She bade us bring her olive-baskets two,

       And fit her little one with handles new.”

      So saying, they drew the farm-house door a-nigh,

       And, in the dewy twilight, saw thereby

       The maid herself. Distaff in hand she stood,

       Watching her silk-worms at their leafy food.

       Then master Ambroi let his osiers fall,

       And sang out cheerily, “Good-even, all!”

      “Father, the same to you!” the damsel said.

       “I had come out my distaff-point to thread,

       It grows so dark. Whence come you now, I pray?

       From Valabrègo?” Ambroi answered, “Yea.

       I said, when the fast-coming dark I saw,

       ‘We’ll sleep at Lotus Farm upon the straw.’”

      Whereat, with no more words, father and son

       Hard by upon a roller sat them down,

       And fell to their own work right busily.

       A half-made cradle chanced the same to be.

       Fast through the nimble fingers of the two

       The supple osier bent and crossed and flew.

      Certes, our Vincen was a comely lad.

       A bright face and a manly form he had,

       Albeit that summer he was bare sixteen.

       Swart were his cheeks; but the dark soil, I ween,

       Bears the fine wheat, and black grapes make the wine

       That sets our feet a-dance, our eyes a-shine.

      Full well he knew the osier to prepare,

       And deftly wrought: but ofttimes to his share

       Fell coarser work; for he the panniers made

       Wherewith the farmers use their beasts to lade,

       And divers kinds of baskets, huge and rough,

       Handy and light. Ay, he had skill enough!

      And likewise brooms of millet-grass, and such—

       And baskets of split-cane. And still his touch

       Was sure and swift; and all his wares were strong,

       And found a ready sale the farms among.

       But now, from fallow field and moorland vast,

       The labourers were trooping home at last.

      Then hasted sweet Mirèio to prepare,

       With her own hands and in the open air,

       Their evening meal. There was a broad flat stone

       Served for a table, and she set thereon

       One mighty dish, where each man plunged his ladle.

       Our weavers wrought meanwhile upon their cradle.

      Until Ramoun, the master of the farm,

       Cried, “How is this?”—brusque was his tone and warm.

       “Come to your supper, Ambroi: no declining!

       Put up the crib, my man: the stars are shining.

       And thou, Mirèio, run and fetch a bowl:

       The travellers must be weary, on my soul!”

      Wherefore the basket-weaver, well-content,

       Rose with his son and to the table went,

       And sat him down and cut the bread for both;

       While bright Mirèio hasted, nothing loth,

       Seasoned a dish of beans with olive oil,

       And came and sat before them with a smile.

      Not quite fifteen was this same fair Mirèio.

       Ah, me! the purple coast of Font Vièio,

       СКАЧАТЬ