My room, which was whitewashed4, and had deal furniture, was full of attractive gaiety. I went to the window and gazed at the Durance, which traced its broad course amidst the dark green verdure of the valley. Fresh puffs5 of wind caressed6 my face, and the murmur7 of the trees and river seemed to call me to them.
I gently opened my door. To get out I had to pass through my uncle’s room. I proceeded on tip-toe, fearing the creaking of my thick boots might awaken8 the worthy9 man, who was still slumbering10 with a smiling countenance11. And I trembled at the sound of the church bell tolling12 the Angelus. For some days past my uncle Lazare had been following me about everywhere, looking sad and annoyed. He would perhaps have prevented me going over there to the edge of the river, and hiding myself among the willows13 on the bank, so as to watch for Babet passing, that tall dark girl who had come with the spring.
But my uncle was sleeping soundly. I felt something like remorse14 in deceiving him and running away in this manner. I stayed for an instant and gazed on his calm countenance, with its gentle expression enhanced by rest, and I recalled to mind with feeling the day when he had come to fetch me in the chilly15 and deserted16 home which my mother’s funeral was leaving. Since that day, what tenderness, what devotedness17, what good advice he had bestowed18 on me! He had given me his knowledge and his kindness, all his intelligence and all his heart.
“Get up, uncle Lazare! let us go for a walk together along that path you are so fond of beside the Durance. You will enjoy the fresh air and morning sun. You will see what an appetite you will have on your return!”
And Babet, who was going down to the river in her light morning gown, and whom I should not be able to see! My uncle would be there, and I would have to lower my eyes. It must be so nice under the willows, lying flat on one’s stomach, in the fine grass! I felt a languid feeling creeping over me, and, slowly, taking short steps, holding my breath, I reached the door. I went downstairs, and began running like a madcap in the delightful, warm May morning air.
The sky was quite white on the horizon, with exquisitely20 delicate blue and pink tints21. The pale sun seemed like a great silver lamp, casting a shower of bright rays into the Durance. And the broad, sluggish22 river, expanding lazily over the red sand, extended from one end of the valley to the other, like a stream of liquid metal. To the west, a line of low rugged23 hills threw slight violet streaks24 on the pale sky.
I had been living in this out-of-the-way corner for ten years. How often had I kept my uncle Lazare waiting to give me my Latin lesson! The worthy man wanted to make me learned. But I was on the other side of the Durance, ferreting out magpies25, discovering a hill which I had not yet climbed. Then, on my return, there were remonstrances26: the Latin was forgotten, my poor uncle scolded me for having torn my trousers, and he shuddered28 when he noticed sometimes that the skin underneath29 was cut. The valley was mine, really mine; I had conquered it with my legs, and I was the real landlord by right of friendship. And that bit of river, those two leagues of the Durance, how I loved them, how well we understood one another when together! I knew all the whims30 of my dear stream, its anger, its charming ways, its different features at each hour of the day.
When I reached the water’s edge on that particular morning, I felt something like giddiness at seeing it so gentle and so white. It had never looked so gay. I slipped rapidly beneath the willows, to an open space where a broad patch of sunlight fell on the dark grass. There I laid me down on my stomach, listening, watching the pathway by which Babet would come, through the branches.
“Oh! how sound uncle Lazare must be sleeping!” I thought.
And I extended myself at full length on the moss31. The sun struck gentle heat into my back, whilst my breast, buried in the grass, was quite cool.
Have you never examined the turf, at close quarters, with your eyes on the blades of grass? Whilst I was waiting for Babet, I pried32 indiscreetly into a tuft which was really a whole world. In my bunch of grass there were streets, cross roads, public squares, entire cities. At the bottom of it, I distinguished33 a great dark patch where the shoots of the previous spring were decaying sadly, then slender stalks were growing up, stretching out, bending into a multitude of elegant forms, and producing frail34 colonnades36, churches, virgin37 forests. I saw two lean insects wandering in the midst of this immensity; the poor children were certainly lost, for they went from colonnade35 to colonnade, from street to street, in an affrighted, anxious way.
It was just at this moment that, on raising my eyes, I saw Babet’s white skirts standing38 out against the dark ground at the top of the pathway. I recognized her printed calico gown, which was grey, with small blue flowers. I sunk down deeper in the grass, I heard my heart thumping39 against the earth and almost raising me with slight jerks. My breast was burning now, I no longer felt the freshness of the dew.
The young girl came nimbly down the pathway, her skirts skimming the ground with a swinging motion that charmed me, I saw her at full length, quite erect40, in her proud and happy gracefulness41. She had no idea I was there behind the willows; she walked with a light step, she ran without giving a thought to the wind, which slightly raised her gown. I could distinguish her feet, trotting42 along quickly, quickly, and a piece of her white stockings, which was perhaps as large as one’s hand, and which made me blush in a manner that was alike sweet and painful.
Oh! then, I saw nothing else, neither the Durance, nor the willows, nor the whiteness of the sky. What cared I for the valley! It was no longer my sweetheart; I was quite indifferent to its joy and its sadness. What cared I for my friends, the stories, and the trees on the hills! The river could run away all at once if it liked; I would not have regretted it.
And the spring, I did not care a bit about the spring! Had it borne away the sun that warmed my back, its leaves, its rays, all its May morning, I should have remained there, in ecstasy43, gazing at Babet, running along the pathway, and swinging her skirts deliciously. For Babet had taken the valley’s place in my heart, Babet was the spring, I had never spoken to her. Both of us blushed when we met one another in my uncle Lazare’s church. I could have vowed45 she detested46 me.
She talked on that particular day for a few minutes with the women who were washing. The sound of her pearly laughter reached as far as me, mingled47 with the loud voice of the Durance. Then she stooped down to take a little water in the hollow of her hand; but the bank was high, and Babet, who was on the point of slipping, saved herself by clutching the grass. I gave a frightful48 shudder27, which made my blood run cold. I rose hastily, and, without feeling ashamed, without reddening, ran to the young girl. She cast a startled look at me; then she began to smile. I bent49 down, at the risk of falling. I succeeded in filling my right hand with water by keeping my fingers close together. And I presented this new sort of cup to Babet’ asking her to drink.
The women who were washing laughed. Babet, confused, did not dare accept; she hesitated, and half turned her head away. At last she made up her mind, and delicately pressed her lips to the tips of my fingers; but she had waited too long, all the water had run away. Then she burst out laughing, she became a child again, and I saw very well that she was making fun of me.
I was very silly. I bent forward again. This time I took the water in both hands and hastened to put them to Babet’s lips. She drank, and I felt the warm kiss from her mouth run up my arms to my breast, which it filled with heat.
“Oh! how my uncle must sleep!” I murmured to myself.
Just as I said that, I perceived a dark shadow beside me, and, having turned round, I saw my uncle Lazare, in person, a few paces away, watching Babet and me as if offended. His cassock appeared quite white in the sun; in his look I saw reproaches which made me feel inclined to cry.
Babet was very much afraid. She turned quite red, and hurried off stammering50:
“Thanks, Monsieur Jean, I thank you very much.”
As for me, wiping my wet hands, I stood motionless and confused before my uncle Lazare.
The worthy man, with folded arms, and bringing back a corner of his cassock, watched Babet, who was running up the pathway without turning her head. Then, when she had disappeared behind the hedges, he lowered his eyes to me, and I saw his pleasant countenance smile sadly.
“Jean,” he said to me, “come into the broad walk. Breakfast is not ready. We have half an hour to spare.”
He set out with his rather heavy tread, avoiding the tufts of grass wet with dew. A part of the bottom of his cassock that was dragging along the ground, made a dull crackling sound. He held his breviary under his arm; but he had forgotten his morning lecture, and he advanced dreamily, with bowed head, and without uttering a word.
His silence tormented51 me. He was generally so talkative. My anxiety increased at each step. He had certainly seen me giving Babet water to drink. What a sight, O Lord! The young girl, laughing and blushing, kissed the tips of my fingers, whilst I, standing on tip-toe, stretching out my arms, was leaning forward as if to kiss her. My action now seemed to me frightfully audacious. And all my timidity returned. I inquired of myself how I could have dared to have my fingers kissed so sweetly.
And my uncle Lazare, who said nothing, who continued walking with short steps in front of me, without giving a single glance at the old trees he loved! He was assuredly preparing a sermon. He was only taking me into the broad walk to scold me at his ease. It would occupy at least an hour: breakfast would get cold, and I would be unable to return to the water’s edge and dream of the warm burns that Babet’s lips had left on my hands.
We were in the broad walk. This walk, which was wide and short, ran beside the river; it was shaded by enormous oak trees, with trunks lacerated by seams, stretching out their great, tall branches. The fine grass spread like a carpet beneath the trees, and the sun, riddling52 the foliage53, embroidered54 this carpet with a rosaceous pattern in gold. In the distance, all around, extended raw green meadows.
My uncle went to the bottom of the walk, without altering his step and without turning round. Once there, he stopped, and I kept beside him, understanding that the terrible moment had arrived.
The river made a sharp curve; a low parapet at the end of the walk formed a sort of terrace. This vault55 of shade opened on a valley of light. The country expanded wide before us, for several leagues. The sun was rising in the heavens, where the silvery rays of morning had become transformed into a stream of gold; blinding floods of light ran from the horizon, along the hills, and spread out into the plain with the glare of fire.
After a moment’s silence, my uncle Lazare turned towards me.
“Good heavens, the sermon!” I thought, and I bowed my head. My uncle pointed56 out the valley to me, with an expansive gesture; then, drawing himself up, he said, slowly:
“Look, Jean, there is the spring. The earth is full of joy, my boy, and I have brought you here, opposite this plain of light, to show you the first smiles of the young season. Observe what brilliancy and sweetness! Warm perfumes rise from the country and pass across our faces like puffs of life.”
He was silent and seemed dreaming. I had raised my head, astonished, breathing at ease. My uncle was not preaching.
“It is a beautiful morning,” he continued, “a morning of youth. Your eighteen summers find full enjoyment57 amidst this verdure which is at most eighteen days old. All is great brightness and perfume, is it not? The broad valley seems to you a delightful place: the river is there to give you its freshness, the trees to lend you their shade, the whole country to speak to you of tenderness, the heavens themselves to kiss those horizons that you are searching with hope and desire. The spring belongs to fellows of your age. It is it that teaches the boys how to give young girls to drink—”
I hung my head again. My uncle Lazare had certainly seen me.
“An old fellow like me,” he continued, “unfortunately knows what trust to place in the charms of spring. I, my poor Jean, I love the Durance because it waters these meadows and gives life to all the valley; I love this young foliage because it proclaims to me the coming of the fruits of summer and autumn; I love this sky because it is good to us, because its warmth hastens the fecundity58 of the earth. I should have had to tell you this one day or other; I prefer telling it you now, at this early hour. It is spring itself that is giving you the lesson. The earth is a vast workshop wherein there is never a slack season. Observe this flower at our feet; to you it is perfume; to me it is labour, it accomplishes its task by producing its share of life, a little black seed which will work in its turn, next spring. And, now, search the vast horizon. All this joy is but the act of generation. If the country be smiling, it is because it is beginning the everlasting59 task again. Do you hear it now, breathing hard, full of activity and haste? The leaves sigh, the flowers are in a hurry, the corn grows without pausing; all the plants, all the herbs are quarrelling as to which shall spring up the quickest; and the running water, the river comes to assist in the common labour, and the young sun which rises in the heavens is entrusted60 with the duty of enlivening the everlasting task of the labourers.”
At this point my uncle made me look him straight in the face. He concluded in these terms:
“Jean, you hear what your friend the spring says to you. He is youth, but he is preparing ripe age; his bright smile is but the gaiety of labour. Summer will be powerful, autumn bountiful, for the spring is singing at this moment, while courageously62 performing its work.”
I looked very stupid. I understood my uncle Lazare. He was positively63 preaching me a sermon, in which he told me I was an idle fellow and that the time had come to work.
My uncle appeared as much embarrassed as myself. After having hesitated for some instants he said, slightly stammering:
“Jean, you were wrong not to have come and told me all—as you love Babet and Babet loves you—”
“Babet loves me!” I exclaimed.
My uncle made me an ill-humoured gesture.
“She owned that to you, she owned that to you!”
And I suddenly threw my arms round my uncle Lazare’s neck.
“Oh! how nice that is!” I added. “I had never spoken to her, truly. She told you that at the confessional, didn’t she? I would never have dared ask her if she loved me, and I would never have known anything. Oh! how I thank you!”
My uncle Lazare was quite red. He felt that he had just committed a blunder. He had imagined that this was not my first meeting with the young girl, and here he gave me a certainty, when as yet I only dared dream of a hope. He held his tongue now; it was I who spoke44 with volubility.
“I understand all,” I continued. “You are right, I must work to win Babet. But you will see how courageous61 I shall be. Ah! how good you are, my uncle Lazare, and how well you speak! I understand what the spring says: I, also, will have a powerful summer and an autumn of abundance. One is well placed here, one sees all the valley; I am young like it, I feel youth within me demanding to accomplish its task—”
My uncle calmed me.
“Very good, Jean,” he said to me. “I had long hoped to make a priest of you, and I imparted to you my knowledge with that sole aim. But what I saw this morning at the waterside compels me to definitely give up my fondest hope. It is Heaven that disposes of us. You will love the Almighty65 in another way. You cannot now remain in this village, and I only wish you to return when ripened66 by age and work. I have chosen the trade of printer for you; your education will serve you. One of my friends, who is a printer at Grenoble, is expecting you next Monday.”
I felt anxious.
“And I shall come back and marry Babet?” I inquired.
My uncle smiled imperceptibly; and, without answering in a direct manner, said:
“The remainder is the will of Heaven.”
“You are heaven, and I have faith in your kindness. Oh! uncle, see that Babet does not forget me. I will work for her.”
Then my uncle Lazare again pointed out to me the valley which the warm golden light was overspreading more and more.
“There is hope,” he said to me. “Do not be as old as I am, Jean. Forget my sermon, be as ignorant as this land. It does not trouble about the autumn; it is all engrossed67 with the joy of its smile; it labours, courageously and without a care. It hopes.”
And we returned to the parsonage, strolling along slowly in the grass, which was scorched68 by the sun, and chatting with concern of our approaching separation.
Breakfast was cold, as I had foreseen; but that did not trouble me much. I had tears in my eyes each time I looked at my uncle Lazare. And, at the thought of Babet, my heart beat fit to choke me.
I do not remember what I did during the remainder of the day. I think I went and lay down under the willows at the riverside. My uncle was right, the earth was at work. On placing my ear to the grass I seemed to hear continual sounds. Then I dreamed of what my life would be. Buried in the grass until nightfall, I arranged an existence full of labour divided between Babet and my uncle Lazare. The energetic youthfulness of the soil had penetrated69 my breast, which I pressed with force against the common mother, and at times I imagined myself to be one of the strong willows that lived around me. In the evening I could not dine. My uncle, no doubt, understood the thoughts that were choking me, for he feigned70 not to notice my want of appetite. As soon as I was able to rise from table, I hastened to return and breathe the open air outside.
A fresh breeze rose from the river, the dull splashing of which I heard in the distance. A soft light fell from the sky. The valley expanded, peaceful and transparent71, like a dark shoreless ocean. There were vague sounds in the air, a sort of impassioned tremor72, like a great flapping of wings passing above my head. Penetrating73 perfumes rose with the cool air from the grass.
I had gone out to see Babet; I knew she came to the parsonage every night, and I went and placed myself in ambush74 behind a hedge. I had got rid of my timidness of the morning; I considered it quite natural to be waiting for her there, because she loved me and I had to tell her of my departure.
“When I perceived her skirts in the limpid75 night, I advanced noiselessly. Then I murmured in a low voice:
“Babet, Babet, I am here.”
She did not recognise me, at first, and started with fright. When she discovered who it was, she seemed still more frightened, which very much surprised me.
“It’s you, Monsieur Jean,” she said to me. “What are you doing there? What do you want?”
I was beside her and took her hand.
“You love me fondly, do you not?”
“I! who told you that?”
“My uncle Lazare.”
She stood there in confusion. Her hand began to tremble in mine. As she was on the point of running away, I took her other hand. We were face to face, in a sort of hollow in the hedge, and I felt Babet’s panting breath running all warm over my face. The freshness of the air, the rustling76 silence of the night, hung around us.
“I don’t know,” stammered77 the young girl, “I never said that—his reverence78 the curé misunderstood—For mercy’s sake, let me be, I am in a hurry.”
“No, no,” I continued, “I want you to know that I am going away to-morrow, and to promise to love me always.”
“You are leaving to-morrow!”
Oh! that sweet cry, and how tenderly Babet uttered it! I seem still to hear her apprehensive79 voice full of affliction and love.
“You see,” I exclaimed in my turn, “that my uncle Lazare said the truth. Besides, he never tells fibs. You love me, you love me, Babet! Your lips this morning confided80 the secret very softly to my fingers.”
And I made her sit down at the foot of the hedge. My memory has retained my first chat of love in its absolute innocence81. Babet listened to me like a little sister. She was no longer afraid, she told me the story of her love. And there were solemn sermons, ingenious avowals, projects without end. She vowed she would marry no one but me, I vowed to deserve her hand by labour and tenderness. There was a cricket behind the hedge, who accompanied our chat with his chaunt of hope, and all the valley, whispering in the dark, took pleasure in hearing us talk so softly.
On separating we forgot to kiss each other.
When I returned to my little room, it appeared to me that I had left it for at least a year. That day which was so short, seemed an eternity82 of happiness. It was the warmest and most sweetly-scented spring-day of my life, and the remembrance of it is now like the distant, faltering83 voice of my youth.
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1
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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devotedness
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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gracefulness
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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riddling
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| adj.谜一样的，解谜的n.筛选 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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82
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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