Scarlet Sails / Алые паруса. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“Why don’t they like us? Tell me.”

“Ah, Assol, they don’t know how to like or love. One must be able to love, and that is something they cannot do.”

“What do you mean by ‘be able to’?”

“This!”

At which he would swing the child up and fondly kiss her sad eyes which she would shut tight with sweet pleasure.

Assol’s favourite pastime was to climb up on her father’s lap of an evening or on a holiday, when he had set aside his pots of glue, his tools and unfinished work and, having taken off his apron, sat down to rest, pipe clenched between his teeth. Twisting and turning within the protective circle of her father’s arm, she would finger the various parts of the tovs, questioning him as to the purpose of each. Thus would begin a peculiar, fantastic lecture on life and people – a lecture in which, due to Longren’s former way of life, all sorts of chance occurrences and chance in general, strange, amazing and unusual events, were given a major role. As Longren told his daughter the names of the various ropes, sails and rigging, he would gradually become carried away, progressing from simple explanations to various episodes in which now a windlass, now a rudder and now a mast, or this or the other type of craft and such like had played a part, and from these isolated illustrations he would go on to sweeping descriptions of nautical wanderings, interweaving superstition with reality and reality with images created by his imagination. Herein appeared the tiger cat, that herald of shipwreck, the talking flying fish which one had to obey on pain of losing one’s course, and the Flying Dutchman and his wild crew, signs, ghosts, mermaids and pirates – in a word, all the fables that help a sailor while away the time during a calm spell or in some favourite tavern. Longren also spoke of shipwrecked crews, of men who had become savages and had forgotten how to talk, of mysterious buried treasure, of convict mutinies, and of much else which the little girl listened to more raptly than did, perhaps, Columbus’ first audience to his tale of a new continent.

“Tell me more,” Assol pleaded when Longren, lost in thought, would fall silent, andshe would fall asleep on his breast with a head full of wonderful dreams.

The appearance of the clerk from the toy shop in town, which was glad to buy whatever Longren had made, was a great and always a materially important treat to her. In order to get into the father’s good graces and strike a good bargain, the clerk would bring along a couple of apples, a bun and a handfull of nuts for the girl. Longren usually asked for the true price of a toy, for he detested bargaining, but the clerk would lower the price. “Why,” Longren would say, “It was taken me a week to make this boat. (The boat was five inches long.) See how strong and trim it is, and mark the draught. Why, it’ll hold fifteen men in a storm.” In the end, the little girl’s soft murmurings and fussing with her apple would weaken Longren’s determination and desire to argue; he would give in, and the clerk, having filled his basket with well-made, excellent toys, would leave, laughing up his sleeve.

Longren did all the work about the house himself: he chopped wood, carried water, made the stove, cooked, washed clothes and ironed and, besides, found time to earn their keep. When Assol was eight years old her father taught her to read and write. He began taking her to town now and then, and after a while even sent her alone if he had to borrow some money from the shop or had some new toys to deliver. This did not happen often, although Liss was only four miles from Kaperna, but the road lay through the forest, and there is much in a forest that can frighten a child beside the actual physical danger which, it is true, one would hardly find in such close proximity to a town, but should still keep in mind. That was why Longren would let her go to town alone only on fine days, in the morning, when the woods along the road were filled with showers of sunshine, flowers and stillness, so that Assol’s impressionability was not threatened by any phantoms conjured up by her imagination.

One day, in the middle of such a journey to town, the child sat down by the roadside to have a bun she had brought along for her lunch. As she munched on the bun she picked up each toy in turn; two or three were new to her: Longren had made them during the night. One of the new toys was a miniature racing yacht; the little white craft had crimson sails made of scraps of silk which Longren used to cover the cabin walls in toys intended for wealthy customers. Here, however, having completed the yacht, he had not found any suitable cloth for the sails and had used what had come to hand – some scraps of crimson silk. Assol was delighted. The flaming, cheerful colour burned so brightly in her hand she fancied she was holding fire. A stream straddled by a little bridge of nailed poles crossed the road; to the right and left the stream flowed off into the forest. “If I put it in the water for just a little while it won’t get wet,” Assol was thinking, “and then I can wipe it dry.” She went off downstream into the forest a ways, and carefully placed the boat that had caught her fancy into the stream at the water’s edge; the clear water immediately reflected the crimson of the sails; the light streaming through the cloth lay as a shimmering pink glow upon the white stones of the bottom. “Where’d you come from, Captain?” Assol inquired in a most serious voice of an imaginary character and, answering her own question, replied, “I’ve come from… from… from China.” “And what have you brought?” “That’s something I shan’t tell you.” “Oh, so you won’t, Captain? Well then, back into the basket you go.” Just as the captain was about to repent and say he had only been teasing, and would gladly show her an elephant, the mild backlash of a wave that had washed against the bank turned the yacht’s bow into the stream and, like a real vessel, it left the bank at full speed and sailed off with the current. The scale of her surroundings changed instantly: the stream now seemed like a great river to the child, and the yacht a large, distant vessel towards which, nearly falling into the water, she stretched forth her hands in dumb terror. “The captain got frightened,” she decided and ran after the disappearing toy, hoping that it would be washed up on the bank farther on. As she hastened along, dragging the light but cumbersome basket, Assol kept repeating, “Goodness! How could it have happened? What an accident… ” Trying not to lose sight of the beautiful triangle of the sails that was drifting off so gracefully, she stumbled, fell, and ran on again.

Never before had Assol ventured so far into the woods. Being completely absorbed by an impatient desire to catch up with the toy, she paid no attention to her surroundings; there were more than enough obstacles on the bank to claim her attention as she scurried along. Mossy trunks of fallen trees, pits, tall-standing ferns, briar roses, jasmine and hazel bushes blocked her every step; in overcoming them she gradually tired, stopping ever more often to catch her breath or brush a wisp of clinging cobweb from her face. When, in the wider stretches, there appeared thickets of sedge and reeds, Assol nearly lost sight of the crimson-gleaming sails, but hurrying round a bend she would catch sight of them again, running with the wind so majestically and steadfastly. Once she looked back, and the great mass of the forest with its many hues, changing from the hazy columns of light in the leaves to the dark slashes of dense gloom, astounded her. For a moment she became frightened, but then recalled the toy and, letting out several deep “phew’s”, ran on as fast as she could.

Nearly an hour passed in this futile and frantic chase, and then Assol was surprised and relieved to see the trees part widely up ahead, letting in a blue expanse of sea, clouds and the edge of a sandy yellow bluff onto which she came running, nearly dropping from exhaustion. This was the mouth of the little river; spreading here, not broadly, and shallowly, so that the streaming blue of the rocks on the bottom could be seen, it disappeared into the oncoming waves of the sea. Standing at the edge of the low, root-gnarled bluff, Assol saw a man sitting on a large, flat stone by the stream with his back to her, holding the runaway yacht and turning it in his hands with the curiosity of an elephant that had caught a butterfly. Somewhat calmed by the sight of the rescued toy, Assol slid down the slope, came up beside the stranger and studied him closely while waiting for him to raise his head. However, the stranger was so absorbed in examining the forest’s surprise that the child had a chance to inspect him from head to toe, deciding that never before had she ever seen anyone like him.

The man was in fact Egle, the well-known collector of songs, legends and fairy-tales, who was on a walking tour. His grey locks fell in waves from under his straw hat; his grey blouse tucked into his blue trousers and his high boots made him look like a hunter; his white collar, tie, silver-studded belt, walking stick and leather pouch with the shiny, nickel-plated buckle showed him to be a city dweller. His face, if one can call a face a nose, lips and eyes that peep out of a bushy, spiked beard and luxuriant, fiercely twirled moustache, would have seemed flabbily translucent, if not for the eyes that were as grey as sand and as shiny as pure steel, with a gaze that was bold and powerful.

“Now give it back,” the little girl said timidly. “You’ve played with it long enough. How did you catch it?”

Egle looked up and dropped the yacht, for Assol’s excited voice had broken the stillness so unexpectedly. For a moment the old man gazed at her, smiling and slowly running his beard through his large, curled hand. An oft-washed little cotton dress just barely covered the girl’s skinny, sunburned knees. Her thick dark hair tied up in a lace kerchief had got undone and fell to her shoulders. Every one of Assol’s features was finely-chiselled and as delicate as a swallow’s flight. There was a sad, questioning look in her dark eyes which seemed older than her face; its irregular oval was touched with the lovely sunburn peculiar to a healthy whiteness of the skin. Her small parted lips were turned up in a gentle smile.

“I swear by the Brothers Grimm, Aesop and Andersen,” Egle said, looking from the girl to the yacht, “that there’s something very special here! Listen, you, flower! This is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I ran all the way down along the stream after it; I thought I’d die. Did it come here?”

“Right to my feet. The shipwreck has made it possible for me, acting as an off-shore pirate, to present you with this prize. The yacht, abandoned by its crew, was tossed up on the beach by a three-inch wave – landing between my left heel and the tip of my stick.” He thumped his stick. “What’s your name, child?”

“Assol,” the girl replied, tucking the toy Egle had handed her into the basket.

“That’s fine.” The old man continued his obscure speech, never taking his eyes, in the depths of which a kindly, friendly chuckle glinted, from her. “Actually, I shouldn’t have asked you your name. I’m glad it’s such an unusual one, so sibilant and musical, like the whistle of an arrow or the whispering of a seashell; what would I have done if your name had been one of those pleasant but terribly common names which are so alien to Glorious Uncertainty? Still less do I care to know who you are, who your parents are, or what sort of life you lead. Why break the spell? I was sitting here on this stone comparing Finnish and Japanese story plots… when suddenly the stream washed up this yacht, and then you appeared. Just as you are. I’m a poet at heart, my dear, even though I’ve never written anything. What’s in your basket?”

“Boats,” Assol said, shaking the basket, “and a steamship, and three little houses with flags. Soldiers live in them.”

“Excellent. You’ve been sent to sell them. And on the way you stopped to play. You let the yacht sail about a bit, but it ran off instead. Am I right?”

“Were you watching?” Assol asked doubtfully as she tried to recall whether she had not told him about it herself. “Did somebody tell you? Or did you guess?”

“I knew it.”

“How?”

“Because I’m the greatest of all magicians.”

Assol was embarrassed; the tension she felt at these words of Egle’s overstepped fear. The deserted beach, the stillness, the tiring adventure of the yacht, the strange speech of the old man with the glittering eyes, the magnificence of his beard and hair now seemed to the child as a brew of the supernatural and reality. If Egle had grimaced or shouted now, the child would have raced off, weeping and faint from fear. However, upon noticing how wide her eyes had grown, Egle made a sharp turn.

“You’ve no reason to be afraid of me,” he said in a serious voice. “On the contrary, I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.”

Now at last did he see what it was in her face that had struck him so. “An unwitting expectation of the beautiful, of a blissful fate,” he decided. “Ah, why wasn’t I born a writer? What a wonderful theme for a story.”

“Now then,” Egle continued, trying to round off his original thesis (a penchant for myth-making – the result of his everyday work – was greater than the fear of tossing seeds of great dreams upon unknown soil), “now then, Assol, listen carefully. I’ve just been in the village you are probably coming from; in a word, in Kaperna. I like fairy-tales and songs, and I spent the whole day in that village hoping to hear something no one had heard before. But no one in these parts tells fairy-tales. No one here sings songs. And if they do tell stories and sing songs, you know, they are tales about conniving peasants and soldiers, with the eternal praise of roguery, they are as filthy as unwashed feet and as crude as a rumbling stomach, these short, four-line ditties sung to a terrible tune… Wait, I’ve got carried away. I’ll start again.”

He was silent for a while and then continued thus:

“I don’t know how many years will pass, but a fairy-tale will blossom in Kaperna and will remain in the minds of the people for long. You’ll be grown-up then, Assol. One morning a crimson sail will gleam in the sun on the far horizon. The shimmering pile of crimson sails on a white ship will head straight towards you, cutting through the waves. This wonderful ship will sail in silently; there will be no shouting or salvoes; a great crowd will gather on the beach. Everyone will be amazed and astounded; and you’ll be there, too. The ship will sail majestically up to the very shore to the strains of beautiful music; a swift boat decked out in rugs, flowers and gold will be lowered from the ship. ‘Why have you come? Whom are you searching for?’ the people on the beach will say. Then you’ll see a brave and handsome prince; he’ll be standing there and stretching forth his hands towards you. ‘Hello, Assol!’ he’ll say. ‘Far, far away from here I saw you in a dream and have come to take you away to my kingdom forever. You will live with me there in a deep rose valley. You shall have everything your heart desires; we shall be so happy together your soul will never know the meaning of tears or sadness.’ He’ll take you into his boat, bring you to the ship, and you’ll sail away forever to a glorious land where the sun comes up and where the stars will descend from the sky to greet you upon your arrival.”

“And will it all be for me?” the girl asked softly.

Her grave eyes became merry and shone trustingly. Obviously, no dangerous magician would ever speak thus; she came closer.

“Maybe it’s already come… that ship?”

“Not so fast,” Egle objected. “First, as I’ve said, you have to grow up. Then… what’s the use of talking? It will be, and that’s all there is to it. What will you do then?”

“Me?” She looked into the basket but apparently did not find anything there worthy of being a suitable reward. “I’d love him,” she said quickly and then added rather hesitantly, “if he won’t fight.”

“No, he won’t,” the magician said, winking at her mysteriously. “He won’t. I can vouch for it. Go, child, and don’t forget what I’ve told you between two sips of flavoured vodka and my musings over the songs of convicts. Go. And may there be peace for your fluffy head!”

Longren was working in his small garden, hilling the potato plants. Raising his head, he saw Assol, who was running towards him with a joyous, impatient look on her face.

“Listen…” she said, trying to control her rapid breathing and clutching her father’s apron with both hands. “Listen to what I’m going to tell you… On the beach there, far away, there’s a magician… ”

She began her tale by telling him of the magician and his wonderful prophesy. Her excitement made it hard for her to recount the events coherently. She then proceeded to describe the magician and, in reverse order, her chase after the runaway yacht.

Longren listened to her story without once interrupting and without a smile, and when she ended it his imagination quickly conjured up a picture of the stranger, an old man holding a flask of flavoured vodka in one hand and the toy in the other. He turned away, but recalling that at momentous times of a child’s life one had to be serious and amazed, nodded solemnly and uttered:

“I see… It looks like he really is a magician. I’d like to have a look at him… But when you go again, don’t turn off the road: it’s easy to get lost in the woods.”

He laid aside his hoe, sat down by the low wattle fence and took the child onto his lap. She was terribly tired and tried to add a few more details, but the heat, excitement and exhaustion made her drowsy. Her lids drooped, her head leaned against her father’s hard shoulder, and in another instant she would have been carried off to the Land of Nod, when abruptly, perturbed by sudden doubt, Assol sat up straight with her eyes still shut and, thrusting her little fists at Longren’s waistcoat, exclaimed:

“Do you think the magical ship will really come for me?”

“It’ll come,” the sailor replied calmly. “If you’ve been told it will, it means it will.”

“She’ll forget all about it by the time she grows up,” he said to himself, “and, meanwhile… one should not take such a toy from you. You will see so many sails in the future, and they will not be crimson, but filthy and treacherous: from afar they’ll seem gleaming and white, but from close-up they’ll be ragged and brazen. A traveller chose to jest with my girl. So what? It was a kindly jest! It was a good jest! My, how tired you are, – half a day spent in the woods, in the heart of the forest. As for the crimson sails, think of them as I do: you will have your crimson sails.”

Assol slept. Longren took out his pipe with his free hand, lit it, and the wind carried the smoke off through the fence into a bush that grew outside the garden. Sitting by the bush with his back to the fence and chewing on a slice of meat pie was a young beggar. The overheard conversation between the father and daughter had put him in a cheerful mood, and the smell of good tobacco had awakened the sponger in him.

“Give a poor man a smoke, sir,” he said, speaking through the fence.

“Compared to yours, my tobacco is pure poison.”