Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 2

And—‘Yonder look! yoho! yoho!

Nancy is off!’ the farmer cried,

Advancing by the river side,

Red-kerchieft and brown-coated;—‘So,

My girl, who else could leap like that?

So neatly! like a lady!  ‘Zounds!

Look at her how she leads the hounds!’

And waving his dusty beaver hat,

He cheered across the chase-filled water,

And clapt his arm about his daughter,

And gave to Joan a courteous hug,

And kiss that, like a stubborn plug

From generous vats in vastness rounded,

The inner wealth and spirit sounded:

Eagerly pointing South, where, lo,

The daintiest, fleetest-footed doe

Led o’er the fields and thro’ the furze

Beyond: her lively delicate ears

Prickt up erect, and in her track

A dappled lengthy-striding pack.

Scarce had they cast eyes upon her,

When every heart was wagered on her,

And half in dread, and half delight,

They watched her lovely bounding flight;

As now across the flashing green,

And now beneath the stately trees,

And now far distant in the dene,

She headed on with graceful ease:

Hanging aloft with doubled knees,

At times athwart some hedge or gate;

And slackening pace by slow degrees,

As for the foremost foe to wait.

Renewing her outstripping rate

Whene’er the hot pursuers neared,

By garden wall and paled estate,

Where clambering gazers whooped and cheered.

Here winding under elm and oak,

And slanting up the sunny hill:

Splashing the water here like smoke

Among the mill-holms round the mill.

And—‘Let her go; she shows her game,

My Nancy girl, my pet and treasure!’

The farmer sighed: his eyes with pleasure

Brimming: ‘’Tis my daughter’s name,

My second daughter lying yonder.’

And Willie’s eye in search did wander,

And caught at once, with moist regard,

The white gleams of a grey churchyard.

‘Three weeks before my girl had gone,

And while upon her pillows propped,

She lay at eve; the weakling fawn—

For still it seems a fawn just dropt

A se’nnight—to my Nancy’s bed

I brought to make my girl a gift:

The mothers of them both were dead:

And both to bless it was my drift,

By giving each a friend; not thinking

How rapidly my girl was sinking.

And I remember how, to pat

Its neck, she stretched her hand so weak,

And its cold nose against her cheek

Pressed fondly: and I fetched the mat

To make it up a couch just by her,

Where in the lone dark hours to lie:

For neither dear old nurse nor I

Would any single wish deny her.

And there unto the last it lay;

And in the pastures cared to play

Little or nothing: there its meals

And milk I brought: and even now

The creature such affection feels

For that old room that, when and how,

’Tis strange to mark, it slinks and steals

To get there, and all day conceals.

And once when nurse who, since that time,

Keeps house for me, was very sick,

Waking upon the midnight chime,

And listening to the stair-clock’s click,

I heard a rustling, half uncertain,

Close against the dark bed-curtain:

And while I thrust my leg to kick,

And feel the phantom with my feet,

A loving tongue began to lick

My left hand lying on the sheet;

And warm sweet breath upon me blew,

And that ’twas Nancy then I knew.

So, for her love, I had good cause

To have the creature “Nancy” christened.’

He paused, and in the moment’s pause,

His eyes and Willie’s strangely glistened.

Nearer came Joan, and Bessy hung

With face averted, near enough

To hear, and sob unheard; the young

And careless ones had scampered off

Meantime, and sought the loftiest place

To beacon the approaching chase.

‘Daily upon the meads to browse,

Goes Nancy with those dairy cows

You see behind the clematis:

And such a favourite she is,

That when fatigued, and helter skelter,

Among them from her foes to shelter,

She dashes when the chase is over,

They’ll close her in and give her cover,

And bend their horns against the hounds,

And low, and keep them out of bounds!

From the house dogs she dreads no harm,

And is good friends with all the farm,

Man, and bird, and beast, howbeit

Their natures seem so opposite.

And she is known for many a mile,

And noted for her splendid style,

For her clear leap and quick slight hoof;

Welcome she is in many a roof.

And if I say, I love her, man!

I say but little: her fine eyes full

Of memories of my girl, at Yule

And May-time, make her dearer than

Dumb brute to men has been, I think.

So dear I do not find her dumb.

I know her ways, her slightest wink,

So well; and to my hand she’ll come,

Sidelong, for food or a caress,

Just like a loving human thing.

Nor can I help, I do confess,

Some touch of human sorrowing

To think there may be such a doubt

That from the next world she’ll be shut out,

And parted from me!  And well I mind

How, when my girl’s last moments came,

Her soft eyes very soft and kind,

She joined her hands and prayed the same,

That she “might meet her father, mother,

Sister Bess, and each dear brother,

And with them, if it might be, one

Who was her last companion.”

Meaning the fawn—the doe you mark—

For my bay mare was then a foal,

And time has passed since then:—but hark!’

For like the shrieking of a soul

Shut in a tomb, a darkened cry

Of inward-wailing agony

Surprised them, and all eyes on each

Fixed in the mute-appealing speech

Of self-reproachful apprehension:

Knowing not what to think or do:

But Joan, recovering first, broke through

The instantaneous suspension,

And knelt upon the ground, and guessed

The bitterness at a glance, and pressed

Into the comfort of her breast

The deep-throed quaking shape that drooped

In misery’s wilful aggravation,

Before the farmer as he stooped,

Touched with accusing consternation:

Soothing her as she sobbed aloud:—

‘Not me! not me!  Oh, no, no, no!

Not me!  God will not take me in!

Nothing can wipe away my sin!

I shall not see her: you will go;

You and all that she loves so:

Not me! not me!  Oh, no, no, no!’

Colourless, her long black hair,

Like seaweed in a tempest tossed

Tangling astray, to Joan’s care

She yielded like a creature lost:

Yielded, drooping toward the ground,

As doth a shape one half-hour drowned,

And heaved from sea with mast and spar,

All dark of its immortal star.

And on that tender heart, inured

To flatter basest grief, and fight

Despair upon the brink of night,

She suffered herself to sink, assured

Of refuge; and her ear inclined

To comfort; and her thoughts resigned

To counsel; her wild hair let brush

From off her weeping brows; and shook

With many little sobs that took

Deeper-drawn breaths, till into sighs,

Long sighs, they sank; and to the ‘hush!’

Of Joan’s gentle chide, she sought

Childlike to check them as she ought,

Looking up at her infantwise.

And Willie, gazing on them both,

Shivered with bliss through blood and brain,

To see the darling of his troth

Like a maternal angel strain

The sinful and the sinless child

At once on either breast, and there

In peace and promise reconciled

Unite them: nor could Nature’s care

With subtler sweet beneficence

Have fed the springs of penitence,

Still keeping true, though harshly tried,

The vital prop of human pride.