men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)-第13章
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Achmet？ Run and look out of the window； Abate。 I will read my letter in
peace。〃 The little black slave with the yellow satin turban Gazes at his
mistress with strained eyes。 His yellow turban and black skin Are
gorgeous barbaric。 The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings Lies
on a chair Beside a black mantle and a black mask。 Yellow and black；
Gorgeous barbaric。 The lady reads her letter； And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows。 〃How silly you look； my dear Abate； With that
great brown leaf in your wig。 Pluck it off； I beg you； Or I shall die of
laughing。〃
A yellow wall Aflare in the sunlight； Chequered with shadows；
Shadows of vine leaves； Shadows of masks。 Masks coming； printing
themselves for an instant； Then passing on； More masks always replacing
them。 Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind Pursuing masks
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with plumes and high heels； The sunlight shining under their insteps。 One；
One； two； One； two； three； There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall；
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves。 Yellow sunlight and black
shadows； Yellow and black； Gorgeous barbaric。 Two masks stand
together； And the shadow of a leaf falls through them； Marking the wall
where they are not。 From hat…tip to shoulder…tip； From elbow to sword…hilt；
The leaf falls。 The shadows mingle； Blur together； Slide along the wall and
disappear。 Gold of mosaics and candles； And night blackness lurking in
the ceiling beams。 Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections。 A
cloak brushes aside； And the yellow of satin Licks out over the coloured
inlays of the pavement。 Under the gold crucifixes There is a meeting of
hands Reaching from black mantles。 Sighing embraces； bold
investigations； Hide in confessionals； Sheltered by the shuffling of feet。
Gorgeous barbaric In its mail of jewels and gold； Saint Mark's looks
down at the swarm of black masks； And outside in the palace gardens
brown leaves fall； Flutter； Fall。 Brown； And yellow streaked with brown。
Blue…black； the sky over Venice； With a pricking of yellow stars。 There
is no moon； And the waves push darkly against the prow Of the gondola；
Coming from Malamocco And streaming toward Venice。 It is black under
the gondola hood； But the yellow of a satin dress Glares out like the eye of
a watching tiger。 Yellow compassed about with darkness； Yellow and black；
Gorgeous barbaric。 The boatman sings； It is Tasso that he sings； The
lovers seek each other beneath their mantles； And the gondola drifts over
the lagoon； aslant to the coming dawn。 But at Malamocco in front； In
Venice behind； Fall the leaves； Brown； And yellow streaked with brown。
They fall； Flutter； Fall。
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Men； Women and Ghosts
Bronze Tablets
The Fruit Shop
Cross…ribboned shoes； a muslin gown； High…waisted； girdled with
bright blue； A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown She pluckered her
little brows into As she picked her dainty passage through The dusty street。
〃Ah； Mademoiselle； A dirty pathway； we need rain； My poor fruits suffer；
and the shell Of this nut's too big for its kernel； lain Here in the sun it has
shrunk again。 The baker down at the corner says We need a battle to shake
the clouds； But I am a man of peace； my ways Don't look to the killing of
men in crowds。 Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds！ Pray；
Mademoiselle； come out of the sun。 Let me dust off that wicker chair。
It's cool In here； for the green leaves I have run In a curtain over the door；
make a pool Of shade。 You see the pears on that stool The shadow
keeps them plump and fair。〃 Over the fruiterer's door； the leaves Held back
the sun； a greenish flare Quivered and sparked the shop； the sheaves Of
sunbeams； glanced from the sign on the eaves； Shot from the golden letters；
broke And splintered to little scattered lights。 Jeanne Tourmont entered the
shop； her poke Bonnet tilted itself to rights； And her face looked out like
the moon on nights Of flickering clouds。 〃Monsieur Popain； I Want
gooseberries； an apple or two； Or excellent plums； but not if they're high；
Haven't you some which a strong wind blew？ I've only a couple of francs
for you。〃 Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands。 What could he
do； the times were sad。 A couple of francs and such demands！ And asking
for fruits a little bad。 Wind…blown indeed！ He never had Anything else
than the very best。 He pointed to baskets of blunted pears With the thin
skin tight like a bursting vest； All yellow； and red； and brown； in smears。
Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears。 He took up a pear with tender care；
And pressed it with his hardened thumb。 〃Smell it； Mademoiselle； the
perfume there Is like lavender； and sweet thoughts come Only from having
a dish at home。 And those grapes！ They melt in the mouth like wine； Just
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a click of the tongue； and they burst to honey。 They're only this morning
off the vine； And I paid for them down in silver money。 The Corporal's
widow is witness； her pony Brought them in at sunrise to…day。 Those
oranges Gold！ They're almost red。 They seem little chips just broken
away From the sun itself。 Or perhaps instead You'd like a pomegranate；
they're rarely gay； When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray。
Yes； they're high； they're high； and those Turkey figs； They all come from
the South； and Nelson's ships Make it a little hard for our rigs。 They must
be forever giving the slips To the cursed English； and when men clips
Through powder to bring them； why dainties mounts A bit in price。
Those almonds now； I'll strip off that husk； when one discounts A life or
two in a nigger row With the man who grew them； it does seem how They
would come dear； and then the fight At sea perhaps； our boats have heels
And mostly they sail along at night； But once in a way they're caught； one
feels Ivory's not better nor finer why peels From an almond kernel are
worth two sous。 It's hard to sell them now；〃 he sighed。 〃Purses are tight；
but I shall not lose。 There's plenty of cheaper things to choose。〃 He picked
some currants out of a wide Earthen bowl。 〃They make the tongue
Almost fly out to suck them； bride Currants they are； they were planted
long Ago for some new Marquise； among Other great beauties； before the
Chateau Was left to rot。 Now the Gardener's wife； He that marched off to
his death at Marengo； Sells them to me； she keeps her life From snuffing
out； with her pruning knife。 She's a poor old thing； but she learnt the trade
When her man was young； and the young Marquis Couldn't have enough
garden。 The flowers he made All new！ And the fruits！ But 'twas said
that he Was no friend to the people； and so they laid Some charge against
him； a cavalcade Of citizens took him away； they meant Well； but I think
there was some mistake。 He just pottered round in his garden； bent On
growing things； we were so awake In those days for the New Republic's
sake。 He's gone； and the garden is all that's left Not in ruin； but the
currants and apricots； And peaches； furred and sweet； with a cleft Full of
morning dew； in those green…glazed pots； Why； Mademoiselle； there is
never an eft Or worm among them； and as for theft； How the old woman
keeps them I cannot say； But they're finer than any grown this way。〃
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Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring Of her striped silk purse；
tipped it upside down And shook it； two coins fell with a ding Of striking
silver； beneath her gown One rolled； the other lay； a thing Sparked white
and sharply glistening； In a drop of sunlight between two shades。 She
jerked the purse； took its empty ends And crumpled them toward the
centre braids。 The whole collapsed to a mass of blends Of colours and
stripes。 〃Monsieur Popain； friends We have always been。 In the days
before The Great Revolution my aunt was kind When you needed help。
You need no more； 'Tis we now who must beg at your door； And will you
refuse？〃 The little man Bustled； denied； his heart was good； But times
were hard。 He went to a pan And poured upon the counter a flood Of
pungent raspberries； tanged like wood。 He took a melon with rough green
rind And rubbed it well with his apron tip。 Then he hunted over the shop to
find Some walnuts cracking at the lip； And added to these a barberry slip
Whose acrid； oval berries hung Like fringe and trembled。 He reached a
round Basket； with handles； from where it swung Against the wall； laid it
on the ground And filled it； then he searched and found The francs Jeanne
Tourmont had let fall。 〃You'll return the basket； Mademoiselle？〃 She
smiled； 〃The next time that I call； Monsieur。 You know that very well。〃
'Twas lightly said； but meant to tell。 Monsieur Popain bowed； somewhat
abashed。 She took her basket and stepped out。 The sunlight was so bright
it flashed Her eyes to blindness； and the rout Of the little street was all
about。 Through glare and noise she stumbled； dazed。 The heavy basket
was a care。 She heard a shout and almost grazed The panels of a chaise
and pair。 The postboy yelled； and an amazed Face from the carriage
window gazed。 She jumped back just in time； her heart Beating with fear。
