このエントリは 6の7の部分 シリーズに フランダースの犬

『フランダースの犬』英文/和訳 Section 6 クリスマス前夜、失われた家

『フランダースの犬』英文/和訳 Section 6 クリスマス前夜、失われた家

Ouida『A Dog of Flanders』Section 6 を、英語学習用に「英文→和訳」の順で読みやすく整理し、重要語句を多めに色分けしています。上部の操作パネルで、和訳・色分け・ミニ訳・カテゴリ別ハイライトを切り替えられます。

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動作・変化 感情・心理 場面・自然描写 人物・性格 疑問・不思議 重要表現

Noël was close at hand.

The weather was very wild and cold.

The snow was six feet deep, and the ice was firm enough to bear oxen and men upon it everywhere.

At this season the little village was always gay and cheerful.

At the poorest dwelling there were possets and cakes, joking and dancing, sugared saints and gilded Jésus.

The merry Flemish bells jingled everywhere on the horses.

Everywhere within doors some well-filled soup-pot sang and smoked over the stove.

And everywhere over the snow without, laughing maidens pattered in bright kerchiefs and stout kirtles, going to and from the mass.

Only in the little hut it was very dark and very cold.

* * *

Nello and Patrasche were left utterly alone.

For one night in the week before the Christmas Day, Death entered there.

And it took away from life forever old Jehan Daas, who had never known life aught save its poverty and its pains.

He had long been half dead, incapable of any movement except a feeble gesture.

He was powerless for anything beyond a gentle word.

And yet his loss fell on them both with a great horror in it: they mourned him passionately.

He had passed away from them in his sleep.

And when in the gray dawn they learned their bereavement, unutterable solitude and desolation seemed to close around them.

He had long been only a poor, feeble, paralyzed old man.

He could not raise a hand in their defence, but he had loved them well.

His smile had always welcomed their return.

They mourned for him unceasingly, refusing to be comforted.

In the white winter day they followed the deal shell that held his body to the nameless grave by the little gray church.

They were his only mourners, these two whom he had left friendless upon earth—the young boy and the old dog.

* * *

“Surely, he will relent now and let the poor lad come hither?” thought the miller’s wife.

She glanced at her husband, who was smoking by the hearth.

Baas Cogez knew her thought, but he hardened his heart.

He would not unbar his door as the little, humble funeral went by.

“The boy is a beggar,” he said to himself: “he shall not be about Alois.”

The woman dared not say anything aloud.

But when the grave was closed and the mourners had gone, she put a wreath of immortelles into Alois’s hands.

She bade her go and lay it reverently on the dark, unmarked mound where the snow was displaced.

* * *

Nello and Patrasche went home with broken hearts.

But even of that poor, melancholy, cheerless home they were denied the consolation.

There was a month’s rent over-due for their little home.

And when Nello had paid the last sad service to the dead, he had not a coin left.

He went and begged grace of the owner of the hut.

The owner was a cobbler who went every Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and smoke with Baas Cogez.

The cobbler would grant no mercy.

He was a harsh, miserly man, and loved money.

He claimed in default of his rent every stick and stone, every pot and pan, in the hut.

And he bade Nello and Patrasche be out of it on the morrow.

Now, the cabin was lowly enough, and in some sense miserable enough.

And yet their hearts clove to it with a great affection.

They had been so happy there.

And in the summer, with its clambering vine and its flowering beans, it was so pretty and bright in the midst of the sunlighted fields.

There life in it had been full of labor and privation.

And yet they had been so well content, so gay of heart, running together to meet the old man’s never-failing smile of welcome.

All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the darkness.

They were drawn close together for warmth and sorrow.

Their bodies were insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them.

* * *

When the morning broke over the white, chill earth, it was the morning of Christmas Eve.

With a shudder, Nello clasped close to him his only friend.

His tears fell hot and fast on the dog’s frank forehead.

“Let us go, Patrasche—dear, dear Patrasche,” he murmured.

“We will not wait to be kicked out: let us go.”

Patrasche had no will but his, and they went sadly, side by side.

They went out from the little place which was so dear to them both.

In that place every humble, homely thing was to them precious and beloved.

Patrasche drooped his head wearily as he passed by his own green cart.

It was no longer his—it had to go with the rest to pay the rent.

And his brass harness lay idle and glittering on the snow.

The dog could have lain down beside it and died for very heart-sickness as he went.

But whilst the lad lived and needed him, Patrasche would not yield and give way.

* * *

They took the old accustomed road into Antwerp.

The day had yet scarce more than dawned, and most of the shutters were still closed.

But some of the villagers were about.

They took no notice whilst the dog and the boy passed by them.

At one door Nello paused and looked wistfully within.

His grandfather had done many a kindly turn in neighbor’s service to the people who dwelt there.

“Would you give Patrasche a crust?” he said, timidly.

“He is old, and he has had nothing since last forenoon.”

The woman shut the door hastily, murmuring some vague saying about wheat and rye being very dear that season.

The boy and the dog went on again wearily: they asked no more.

By slow and painful ways they reached Antwerp as the chimes tolled ten.

“If I had anything about me I could sell to get him bread!” thought Nello.

But he had nothing except the wisp of linen and serge that covered him, and his pair of wooden shoes.

Patrasche understood, and nestled his nose into the lad’s hand.

It was as though to pray him not to be disquieted for any woe or want of his.

* * *

The winner of the drawing-prize was to be proclaimed at noon.

And to the public building where he had left his treasure, Nello made his way.

On the steps and in the entrance-hall there was a crowd of youths.

Some were of his age, some older, all with parents or relatives or friends.

His heart was sick with fear as he went among them, holding Patrasche close to him.

The great bells of the city clashed out the hour of noon with brazen clamor.

The doors of the inner hall were opened.

The eager, panting throng rushed in.

It was known that the selected picture would be raised above the rest upon a wooden dais.

A mist obscured Nello’s sight, his head swam, his limbs almost failed him.

When his vision cleared, he saw the drawing raised on high: it was not his own.

A slow, sonorous voice was proclaiming aloud that victory had been adjudged to Stephen Kiesslinger.

He was born in the burgh of Antwerp, son of a wharfinger in that town.

When Nello recovered his consciousness, he was lying on the stones without.

And Patrasche was trying with every art he knew to call him back to life.

In the distance a throng of the youths of Antwerp were shouting around their successful comrade.

They were escorting him with acclamations to his home upon the quay.

The boy staggered to his feet and drew the dog into his embrace.

“It is all over, dear Patrasche,” he murmured—“all over!”

He rallied himself as best he could, for he was weak from fasting.

And he retraced his steps to the village.

Patrasche paced by his side with his head drooping and his old limbs feeble from hunger and sorrow.

* * *

The snow was falling fast.

A keen hurricane blew from the north.

It was bitter as death on the plains.

It took them long to traverse the familiar path.

And the bells were sounding four of the clock as they approached the hamlet.

Suddenly Patrasche paused, arrested by a scent in the snow.

He scratched, whined, and drew out with his teeth a small case of brown leather.

He held it up to Nello in the darkness.

Where they were there stood a little Calvary, and a lamp burned dully under the cross.

The boy mechanically turned the case to the light.

On it was the name of Baas Cogez, and within it were notes for two thousand francs.

The sight roused the lad a little from his stupor.

He thrust it in his shirt, and stroked Patrasche and drew him onward.

The dog looked up wistfully in his face.

Nello made straight for the mill-house, and went to the house-door and struck on its panels.

The miller’s wife opened it weeping, with little Alois clinging close to her skirts.

“Is it thee, thou poor lad?” she said kindly through her tears.

“Get thee gone ere the Baas see thee.”

“We are in sore trouble to-night.”

“He is out seeking for a power of money that he has let fall riding homeward.”

“And in this snow he never will find it; and God knows it will go nigh to ruin us.”

“It is Heaven’s own judgment for the things we have done to thee.”

Nello put the note-case in her hand and called Patrasche within the house.

“Patrasche found the money to-night,” he said quickly.

“Tell Baas Cogez so: I think he will not deny the dog shelter and food in his old age.”

“Keep him from pursuing me, and I pray of you to be good to him.”

Ere either woman or dog knew what he meant, he had stooped and kissed Patrasche.

Then he closed the door hurriedly, and disappeared in the gloom of the fast-falling night.

* * *

The woman and the child stood speechless with joy and fear.

Patrasche vainly spent the fury of his anguish against the iron-bound oak of the barred house-door.

They did not dare unbar the door and let him forth.

They tried all they could to solace him.

They brought him sweet cakes and juicy meats.

They tempted him with the best they had.

They tried to lure him to abide by the warmth of the hearth.

But it was of no avail.

Patrasche refused to be comforted or to stir from the barred portal.

It was six o’clock when from an opposite entrance the miller at last came, jaded and broken, into his wife’s presence.

“It is lost forever,” he said, with an ashen cheek and a quiver in his stern voice.

“We have looked with lanterns everywhere: it is gone—the little maiden’s portion and all!”

His wife put the money into his hand, and told him how it had come to her.

The strong man sank trembling into a seat and covered his face.

He was ashamed and almost afraid.

“I have been cruel to the lad,” he muttered at length.

“I deserved not to have good at his hands.”

Little Alois, taking courage, crept close to her father and nestled against him her fair curly head.

“Nello may come here again, father?” she whispered.

“He may come to-morrow as he used to do?”

The miller pressed her in his arms.

His hard, sunburned face was very pale and his mouth trembled.

“Surely, surely,” he answered his child.

“He shall bide here on Christmas Day, and any other day he will.”

“God helping me, I will make amends to the boy—I will make amends.”

* * *

Little Alois kissed him in gratitude and joy.

Then she slid from his knees and ran to where the dog kept watch by the door.

“And to-night I may feast Patrasche?” she cried in a child’s thoughtless glee.

Her father bent his head gravely: “Ay, ay: let the dog have the best.”

For the stern old man was moved and shaken to his heart’s depths.

It was Christmas Eve, and the mill-house was filled with oak logs and squares of turf.

It was filled with cream and honey, with meat and bread.

And the rafters were hung with wreaths of evergreen.

The Calvary and the cuckoo clock looked out from a mass of holly.

There were little paper lanterns, too, for Alois, and toys of various fashions and sweetmeats in bright-pictured papers.

There were light and warmth and abundance everywhere.

And the child would fain have made the dog a guest honored and feasted.

But Patrasche would neither lie in the warmth nor share in the cheer.

Famished he was and very cold, but without Nello he would partake neither of comfort nor food.

Against all temptation he was proof, and close against the door he leaned always.

He was watching only for a means of escape.

“He wants the lad,” said Baas Cogez. “Good dog! good dog!”

“I will go over to the lad the first thing at day-dawn.”

For no one but Patrasche knew that Nello had left the hut.

And no one but Patrasche divined that Nello had gone to face starvation and misery alone.

* * *

The mill-kitchen was very warm: great logs crackled and flamed on the hearth.

Neighbors came in for a glass of wine and a slice of the fat goose baking for supper.

Alois, gleeful and sure of her playmate back on the morrow, bounded and sang.

She tossed back her yellow hair.

Baas Cogez, in the fulness of his heart, smiled on her through moistened eyes.

He spoke of the way in which he would befriend her favorite companion.

The house-mother sat with calm, contented face at the spinning-wheel.

The cuckoo in the clock chirped mirthful hours.

Amidst it all, Patrasche was bidden with a thousand words of welcome to tarry there a cherished guest.

But neither peace nor plenty could allure him where Nello was not.

When the supper smoked on the board, and the voices were loudest and gladdest, Patrasche watched always an occasion.

And when the Christ-child brought choicest gifts to Alois, Patrasche glided out.

The door had been unlatched by a careless new-comer.

As swiftly as his weak and tired limbs would bear him, he sped over the snow in the bitter, black night.

He had only one thought—to follow Nello.

A human friend might have paused for the pleasant meal, the cheery warmth, the cosey slumber.

But that was not the friendship of Patrasche.

He remembered a bygone time, when an old man and a little child had found him sick unto death in the wayside ditch.

原文:Ouida, A Dog of Flanders, Project Gutenberg / 音声:LibriVox, A Dog of Flanders by Ouida

フランダースの犬

『フランダースの犬』英文/和訳 Section 5 絵のコンクールと濡れ衣 『フランダースの犬』英文/和訳 Section 7 大聖堂の奇跡と永遠の眠り