Waltey
Trikraljevska noč v Cahokii
220 Twelfth Night at Cahokia
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · Charles M. SkinnerO besedilu
Trikraljevska noč v Cahokii
- Vir
- Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
- Avtor
- Charles M. Skinner
- Jezik branja
- Slovenščina
- Jezik izvirnika
- English
- Čas branja
- 4 min branja
- Obseg
- 3 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- 220 Twelfth Night at Cahokia
O izvirniku
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Obsežna zgodovinska zbirka ameriških legend, ki jih je Skinner zbral in avtorsko rekonstruiral. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Myths and Legends of Our Own Land v jeziku English.
Besedilo
Trikraljevska noč v Cahokii
Bil je večer pred svetimi tremi kralji in francoska vasica Cahokia blizu St. Louisa je v prijetnem vznemirjenju pričakovala ples v stari sodni dvorani, ki je bila v tem majhnem kraju shajališče in še vse drugo. Gorelo je trinajst svetih ognjev — velik ogenj, ki je predstavljal Kristusa, in manjši, ki ga je množica poteptala in tako ponazorila Juda. Trikraljevski kolač, v katerem je bil v eni rezini skrit prstan, so že razrezali; pijače in smeha ni manjkalo, le glasbe še ni bilo. Gwen Malhon, ki se je preživljal z zbiranjem naplavljenega lesa, je najbolj nestrpno čakal, da bi bilo zamude konec, saj je Louison izprosil za ples. Louison Florian je bila lepa, ne brez premoženja in z lepimi obeti, njen ljubimec Beaurain pa je odšel. Začela je postajati nekoliko prezirljiva in nepotrpežljiva, zato se je Gwen odpravil iskat godca.
Povprašal je že skoraj v vsaki koči, a brez uspeha, in se napotil proti brodu, ko je zaslišal glasbo. Pred njim je na z mesečino obsijani reki ležal velik čoln, nedaleč od njega pa je na bregu zagledal skupino mož, ki so čepeli okoli ognja in si podajali steklenico. Malo stran je na štoru sedel suh, sključen mož, zavit v plašč, in prav on je igral. Gwen je pohvalil njegovo igranje in svojo gorečo prošnjo, naj nemudoma odide z njim v sodno dvorano, opravičeval z razočaranjem plesalcev. Tujec je bil vljuden. S šepajočim skokom se je pognal na pot in si razgrnil plašč, da so se pokazali zavihani brki, košate obrvi, kozja bradica in par bleščečih oči. »Pa naj zaplešejo!« je vzkliknil. »Poznam eno vižo. Pravijo ji ‘Vrnitev iz groba’. Plačilo? Bomo videli, kako vam bo všeč moje igranje.«
Ob vstopu v dvorano, kjer je razposajena mladina po kotih že prestopala v plesnih korakih, je godec naletel na gospodično Florian, ki mu je ponudila rezino kolača. Ko se je sklonil ponjo, se ji je precej približal in ona je tiho vzkliknila. Našel je prstan in s tem postal kralj praznovanja, s pravico, da si najlepše dekle izbere za kraljico. Dolg požirek rdečega vina ga je očitno spravil v najboljšo voljo in začel je godeti s takšnim zanosom, da se mu ni bilo mogoče upreti. V eni minuti je vsa druščina — po besedah nekaterih celo duhovnik — živahno poskakovala v plesu. »Uf!« je zasopel neki starec. »Sam hudič nam gode. Prinesite blagoslovljeno vodo in poškropite tla.«
Gwen je godca opazoval tako pozorno, kolikor mu je dopuščal plesni napor, saj mu ni bilo všeč, kako je gledal Louison, in pri sebi je pomislil, da zanj ni nikoli tako ljubko zardela. Ko je zagledal, kako se ji godec smehlja, je pozabil nase in planil proti sodu, na katerem je čepel umetnik. Zaletel se je v plesalca in padel. Prav tedaj je luč ugasnila in po dvorani so zadoneli kriki in smeh. Nad vsemi drugimi se je zaslišal glas: »Po pravici, ki mi jo daje prstan, je dekle moje.«
»Ima me,« so slišali reči Louison, vendar se ni zdelo, da jo je strah. Prinesli so luči. Louison in godca ni bilo več, na tleh pa sta ležala tujčev plašč in polovica umetnih brkov, medtem ko je bil Gwen zagozden v sodu in je obupano brcal, da bi se izkopal iz njega. Ko so ga rešili, je planil proti rečnemu bregu, kjer je prej videl čoln. Pred njim sta švignili dve postavi, a ju je izgubil izpred oči, in v tišini in samoti se je njegova jeza začela polegati. Je bil res lahko hudič? V grmovju je zahukala sova. Brž se je pobral. V poznejših letih se je razširila govorica, da je Beaurain igralec v skupini, ki na barki potuje gor in dol po veliki reki, in da je v njej tudi ženska, podobna Louison. Toda Gwen nikoli ni pripovedoval o svojem razočaranju, ne da bi se ob tem prekrižal.
Izvirnik
220 Twelfth Night at Cahokia
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
It was Twelfth Night, and the French village of Cahokia, near St. Louis, was pleasantly agitated at the prospect of a dance in the old court saloon, which was assembly-room and everything else for the little place. The thirteen holy fires were alight--a large one, to represent Christ; a lesser one, to be trampled out by the crowd, typing Judas. The twelfth cake, one slice with the ring in it, was cut, and there were drink and laughter, but, as yet, no music. Gwen Malhon, a drift-wood collector, was the most anxious to get over the delay, for he had begged a dance from Louison. Louison Florian was pretty, not badly off in possessions and prospects, and her lover, Beaurain, had gone away. She was beginning to look a little scornful and impatient, so Gwen set off for a fiddler.
He had inquired at nearly every cabin without success, and was on his way toward the ferry when he heard music. Before him, on the moonlit river, was a large boat, and near it, on the bank, he saw a company of men squatted about a fire and bousing together from a bottle. At a little distance, on a stump, sat a thin, bent man, enveloped in a cloak, and it was he who played. Gwen complimented him and pleaded the disappointment of the dancers in excuse of an urgent appeal that he should hurry with him to the court saloon. The stranger was courteous. He sprang into the road with a limping bound, shook down his cloak so as to disclose a curled moustache, shaggy brows, a goat's beard, and a pair of glittering eyes. “I'll give them a dance!” he exclaimed. “I know one tune. They call it 'Returned from the Grave.' Pay? We'll see how you like my playing.”
On entering the room where the caperish youth were already shuffling in corners, the musician met Mamzel Florian, who offered him a slice of the cake. He bent somewhat near to take it, and she gave a little cry. He had found the ring, and that made him king of the festival, with the right to choose the prettiest girl as queen. A long drink of red wine seemed to put him in the best of trim, and he began to fiddle with a verve that was irresistible. In one minute the whole company--including the priest, some said--was jigging it lustily. “Whew!” gasped one old fellow. “It is the devil who plays. Get some holy water and sprinkle the floor.”
Gwen watched the musician as closely as his labors would allow, for he did not like the way the fiddler had of looking at Louison, and he thought to himself that Louison never blushed so prettily for him. Forgetting himself when he saw the fiddler smile at the girl, he made a rush for the barrel where that artist was perched. He bumped against a dancer and fell. At that moment the light was put out and the hall rang with screams and laughter. The tones of one voice sounded above the rest: “By right of the ring the girl is mine.”
“He has me,” Louison was heard to say, yet seemingly not in fear. Lights were brought. Louison and the fiddler were gone, the stranger's cloak and half of a false moustache were on the floor, while Gwen was jammed into the barrel and was kicking desperately to get out. When released he rushed for the river-side where he had seen the boat. Two figures flitted before him, but he lost sight of them, and in the silence and loneliness his choler began to cool. Could it really have been the devil? An owl hooted in the bush. He went away in haste. There was a rumor in after years that Beaurain was an actor in a company that went up and down the great river on a barge, and that a woman who resembled Louison was also in the troupe. But Gwen never told the story of his disappointment without crossing himself.
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