Читать книгу Mirèio, a Provençal Poem - Frédéric Mistral - Страница 4

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I SING the love of a Provençal maid;

How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed,

Following the fate that drew her to the sea.

Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;

And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,

Would fain be Homer’s humble follower.

What though youth’s aureóle was her only crown?

And never gold she wore nor damask gown?

I’ll build her up a throne out of my song,

And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue.

Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,

Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.

God of my country, who didst have Thy birth

Among poor shepherds when Thou wast on earth,

Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, my God,

How, when the lusty summer is abroad,

And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he—

Brute, greedy man—and quite despoils the tree.

Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft

Some little branch inviolate aloft,

Tender and airy up against the blue,

Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto:

Only the birds shall come and banquet there,

When, at St. Magdalene’s, the fruit is fair.

Methinks I see yon airy little bough:

It mocks me with its freshness even now;

The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high

Fruitage and foliage that cannot die.

Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech,

To soar until the birds’ own home I reach!

Once, then, beside the poplar-bordered Rhone,

There lived a basket-weaver and his son,

In a poor hut set round with willow-trees

(For all their humble wares were made from these);

And sometimes they from farm to farm would wend,

And horses’ cribs and broken baskets mend.

And so one evening, as they trudged their round

With osier bundles on their shoulders bound,

“Father,” young Vincen said, “the clouds look wild

About old Magalouno’s tower up-piled.

If that gray rampart fell, ’twould do us harm:

We should be drenched ere we had gained the farm.”

“Nay, nay!” the old man said, “no rain to-night!

’Tis the sea-breeze that shakes the trees. All right!

A western gale were different.” Vincen mused:

“Are many ploughs at Lotus farmstead used?”

“Six ploughs!” the basket-weaver answered slow:

“It is the finest freehold in La Crau.

“Look! There’s their olive-orchard, intermixt

With rows of vines and almond-trees betwixt.

The beauty of it is, that vineyard hath

For every day in all the year a path!

There’s 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,

The hills of Baux, the desolate Crau plain,

A shape like hers will hardly see again.

Child of the merry sun, her dimpled face

Bloomed into laughter with ingenious grace.

Eyes had she limpid as the drops of dew;

And, when she fixed their tender gaze on you,

Sorrow was not. Stars in a summer night

Are not more softly, innocently bright:

And beauteous hair, all waves and rings of jet;

And breasts, a double peach, scarce ripened yet.

Shy, yet a joyous little sprite she was;

And, finding all her sweetness in a glass,

You would have drained it at a single breath.

But to our tale, which somewhat lingereth.

When every man his day’s toil had rehearsed

(So, at my father’s farm, I heard them first)—

“Now, Ambroi, for a song!” they all began:

“Let us not sleep above our supper, man!”

But he, “Peace! peace! My friends, do ye not know

On every jester, God, they say, doth blow

And sets him spinning like a top along?

Sing yourselves, lads—you who are young and strong.”

“No jest, good father, none!” they answered him.

“But, since the wine o’erflows your goblet’s brim,

Drink with us, Ambroi, and then to your song!”

“Ay, ay, when I was young—but that was long

Ago—I’d sing to any man’s desire;

But now my voice is but a broken lyre.”

“But, Master Ambroi,” urged Mirèio,

“Sing one song, please, because ’twill cheer us so.”

“My pretty one,” the weaver said again,

“Only the husks of my old voice remain;

But if these please you, I cannot say nay,”

And drained his goblet, and began straightway:—