La bebe de Désirée (“Désirée’s Baby”) es un nara corta par Kate Chopin, prima publicida en 1893. La loca de la nara es Louisiana entre la propriores rica de orijina franses e sua sclavos de orijina african; la tempo es ante la gera interna de America e la aboli de sclavia. Esta tradui es par Randy Hudson.
Car la dia es plasente, sra Valmondé viaja a L’Abri per vide Désirée e la bebe.
As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L’Abri to see Désirée and the baby.
El rie a la pensa sur Désirée con un bebe. Lo pare mera ier ce Désirée mesma ia es apena plu ca un bebe, cuando Senior en traversa montada la porton de Valmondé ia trova el dorminte en la ombra de la colona grande de petra.
It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that Désirée was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.
La peti velia en sua brasos e comensa cria per “papa”. Acel es tan multe como el pote fa o dise. Alga persones pensa ce el ta pote vaga a ala par sua propre vole, car el es a eda de prima paseas. La crede comun es ce el ia es abandonada par un grupo de texanes, de ci sua vagon con covre de lona, a tarda en la dia, ia traversa par la naveta cual Coton Maïs manteni a apena su la cultiveria grande. Pos alga tempo sra Valmondé abandona cada divina esetante acel ce Désirée ia es enviada a el par un Favore Divin bonfante per es la enfante de sua ama, car el es sin enfante de sua corpo. Car la xica crese a es bela e jentil, amosa e sinsera — la idol de Valmondé.
The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for “Dada.” That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Maïs kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one that Désirée had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere, — the idol of Valmondé.
Lo es no mervelia, cuando el sta a alga dia asta la colona de petra de cual el ia dormi en sua ombra ante des-oto anios, ce Armand Aubigny, en pasa montada e vide el ala, ia cade en ama de el. Acel es sempre la modo en cual cada Aubigny cade en ama, como si colpada par un xuta de pistol. La mervelia es ce el no ia ama la xica ante alora; car el ia conose el de cuando sua padre ia trae el de Paris a casa, un xico de oto anios, pos cuando sua madre ia mori ala. La pasion cual velia en el a acel dia, cuando el vide el a la porton, invade como un avalanxa, o como un foco de prado, o como alga cosa cual move forsante tra tota impedis.
It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles.
Sr Valmondé deveni pratical e desira ce cosas ta es bon considerada: per dise, la orijina oscur de la xica. Armand regarda en la oios de Désirée e no cura. On fa ce el recorda ce la xica es sin nom. Como importa sur un nom cuando el ta pote dona a el un de la plu veas e plu orgulosas en Louisiana? El comanda la sesto de dote de Paris, e restrinje se con cuanto pasientia cual el pote asta lo ariva; alora los es sposida.
Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl’s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.
Sra Valmondé no ia vide Désirée e la bebe de ante cuatro semanas. Cuando el ariva a L’Abri el trema a la vide prima de lo, como el fa sempre. Lo es un loca con aspeta triste, cual tra multe anios no ia conose la presentia jentil de un seniora, car sr Aubigny vea ia sposi e ia entera sua sposa en Frans, e car sua seniora ia ama sua propre pais tro multe per parti de lo. La teto desende presipe e negra como un capeta, estendente ultra la verandas larga cual ensirca la casa jesida con stuco jala. Cuercos grande e seria crese asta lo, e sua ramos longa estendente con folias densa ombri la casa como un covrente funeral. La governa de Aubigny joven es un sever, ance, e su lo sua negras ia oblida lo como es felis, como los ia es en la tempo de vive nonsever e favorente de la senior vea.
Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L’Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny’s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master’s easy-going and indulgent lifetime.
La madre joven es en recovre lenta, e reposa tota estendeda, en sua muselinas e dentelas mol e blanca, sur un sofa. La bebe es asta el, sur sua braso, ala adormida, a sua seno. La enfantor, un fem jala, seja asta un fenetra e venti se.
The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself.
Sra Valmondé curva sua figur obesa supra Désirée e besa el, teninte el per un momento en sua brasos. Alora el turna a la enfante.
Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child.
“Esta no es la bebe!” — el esclama en tonos surprendeda. Franses es la lingua parlada a Valmondé a acel dias.
“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language spoken at Valmondé in those days.
“Me ia sabe ce tu va es surprendeda” — Désirée dise riente — “par lo como el ia crese. La peti porceta a seno! Regarda sua gamas, mama, e sua manos e ungias de dito — ungias de dito real. Zandrine ia debe corti los a esta matina. Esce no vera, Zandrine?”
“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Désirée, “at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails,—real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn’t it true, Zandrine?”
La fem inclina diniosa sua testa turbanida. “Ma si, seniora.”
The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si, Madame.”
“E lo como el cria” — Désirée continua — “es sordinte. Armand ia oia el a la otra dia tan distante como la cabana de La Blanche.”
“And the way he cries,” went on Désirée, “is deafening. Armand heard him the other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.”
Sra Valmondé ia verje nunca sua regarda de la enfante. El prende lo e pasea con lo a la fenetra con la plu de lumina. El scane la bebe atendosa, alora regarda egal xercante Zandrine, de ci sua fas es turnada per regarda tra la campos.
Madame Valmondé had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the fields.
“Si, la enfante crese ja, cambia ja.” — sra Valmondé dise, lenta, en cuando el repone lo asta sua madre. “Cual Armand dise?”
“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmondé, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand say?”
La fas de Désirée deveni plenida con un brilieta cual es felisia mesma.
Désirée’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.
“O, Armand es la padre la plu orgulosa en la parocia, me crede, xef car el es un xico, per porta sua nom; an tal el dise no — ce el ia ta ama un xica ance. Ma me sabe ce lo no es vera. Me sabe ce el dise acel per plase me. E mama” — el ajunta, tirante la testa de sra Valmondé a su a el, e parlante a xuxa — “el no ia puni un de los — no un de los — de cuando bebe ia nase. An Negrillon, ci ia finje ce el ia arde sua gama afin el ta reposa de labora — mera el ia rie, e ia dise ce Negrillon es un turbosa grande. O mama, me es tan felis; lo asusta me.”
“Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,—that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn’t true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma,” she added, drawing Madame Valmondé’s head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, “he hasn’t punished one of them — not one of them — since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work — he only laughed, and said Negrillon was a great scamp. oh, mamma, I’m so happy; it frightens me.”
Lo cual Désirée dise es vera. La sposi, e a pos la nase de sua fio, ia moli grande la natur dominante e esijente de Armand Aubigny. Esta es lo cual felisi tan Désirée la jentil, car el ama Armand desperante. Cuando sua sposo grima el trema, ma ama el. Cuando Armand surie, Désirée demanda no bondise plu grande de Dio. Ma la fas oscur e bela de Armand no ia es frecuente malformida par grimas de cuando la dia de sua cade en ama de el.
What Désirée said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened Armand Aubigny’s imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Désirée so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand’s dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her.
Cuando la bebe ave sirca tre menses, Désirée velia a un dia con la crede ce on ave alga en la aira cual menasa sua pas. Lo es a prima tro sutil per teni. Lo ia es mera un sujesta descuietinte; un aira de misterio entre la negras; visitas nonespetada de visinas distante ci pote apena esplica sua veni. Alora un cambia, strana, asustante, en la manera de sua sposo, sur cual el no osa demanda un esplica. Cuando Armand parla a el, lo es con oios diverjeda, de cual la lus de ama vea pare partida. La sposo senti se de la casa; e cuando el es ala, el evita la presentia de sua sposa e sua enfante, sin escusa. E la spirito de Satan mesma pare subita saisinte el sur sua trata de la sclavos. Désirée es sufisinte misera per mori.
When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband’s manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Désirée was miserable enough to die.
El senta en sua sala, a un posmedia calda, en sua roba de bani, tirante letarjiosa tra sua ditos la mexas de sua capeles longa, sedin, e brun cual pende sirca sua spalas. La bebe, partal nuda, reposa dorminte sur la leto grande de mogano, cual es como un trono lusosa, con sua baldacin duida cual es foreda de satin. Un de la pico xicos cuatrinegra de La Blanche — ance partal nuda — sta con un ventador de plumas de pavon, ventinte lenta la enfante. La oios de Désirée ia es fisada en modo preocupada e nonfelis sur la bebe, en cuando el atenta penetra la nebleta menasante de cual el senti ce lo ensirca el. El dirije sua regarda de sua enfante a la xico ci sta asta el, e a retro, denova e denova. “A!” Lo es un cria cual el no pote preveni; el no es consensa de emete lo. La sangue jela en sua venas, e un umidia fria colie sur sua fas.
She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche’s little quadroon boys — half naked too — stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Désirée’s eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and over. “Ah!” It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face.
El atenta parla a la pico xico cuatrinegra; ma no sona ta veni, a prima. Cuando la xico oia sua nom diseda, el leva sua regarda, e sua seniora es indicante a la porte. El depone la ventador grande e mol, e parti obedinte e cuieta, tra la solo briliada, sur la ditos de sua pedes nuda.
She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes.
Désirée resta sin move, con sua regarda fisada a sua enfante, e sua fas la pitur de teme.
She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright.
Pos alga tempo sua sposo entra a la sala, e sin nota el, vade a un table e comensa xerca entre alga paperes cual covre lo.
Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.
“Armand.” — el clama a el, con un vose cual debe coteli el, si el es umana. Ma Armand no nota. “Armand.” — el dise denova. Alora el leva e bambola a el. “Armand,” — el dise denova, respirante rapida e teninte sua braso — “regarda nosa enfante. Cual es la sinifia? Dise a me.”
“Armand,” she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was human. But he did not notice. “Armand,” she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. “Armand,” she panted once more, clutching his arm, “look at our child. What does it mean? tell me.”
Fria ma jentil la om laxi la ditos de sua braso e puia la mano a via. “Dise a me la sinifia!” — sua sposa cria desperante.
He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. “Tell me what it means!” she cried despairingly.
“La sinifia” — el responde lejera — “es ce la enfante no es blanca; la sinifia es ce tu no es blanca.”
“It means,” he answered lightly, “that the child is not white; it means that you are not white.”
Un conseta rapida de tota cual esta acusa sinifia per el forti el con coraje nonabitual per nega lo. “Lo es un menti; lo no es vera, me es blanca! Regarda mea capeles, los es brun; e mea oios es gris, Armand, tu sabe los es gris. E mea pel es pal.” — en saisi la polso de el. “Regarda mea mano; plu blanca ca lo de tu, Armand.” — el dise con rie isterica.
A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. “It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is fair,” seizing his wrist. “Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand,” she laughed hysterically.
“Tan blanca como lo de La Blanche.” — el replica cruel; e parti donce lasa solitar Désirée con la enfante de los.
“As white as La Blanche’s,” he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child.
Cuando Désirée pote teni un pen en sua mano, el envia un letera desperante a sra Valmondé.
When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmondé.
“Mea madre, los dise a me ce me no es blanca. Armand ia dise a me ce me no es blanca. A nom de Dio dise a los ce lo no es vera. Tu debe sabe ce lo no es vera. Me va mori. Me debe mori. Me no pote es tan nonfelis e vive.”
“My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God’s sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live.”
La responde cual veni es corta:
The answer that came was brief:
“Mea propre Désirée: Veni a casa a Valmondé; reveni a tua madre ci ama tu. Veni con tua enfante.”
“My own Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves you. Come with your child.”
Cuando la letera ariva Désirée vade con lo a la studio de sua sposo, e pone abrida lo sur la buro a cual el senta. Désirée es como un figur de petra: silente, blanca, sin move pos cuando el pone lo ala.
When the letter reached Désirée she went with it to her husband’s study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.
En silentia sua sposo gida sua oios fria tra la parolas scriveda.
In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.
La om dise no cosa. “Esce me ta vade, Armand?” — el demanda en tonos agu con suspende angusada.
He said nothing. “Shall I go, Armand?” she asked in tones sharp with agonized suspense.
“Esce tu desira ce me vade?”
“Do you want me to go?”
“Si, me desira ce tu vade.”
“Yes, I want you to go.”
Armand pensa ce Dio Omnipotiosa ia trata el cruel e nonjusta; e senti, a alga modo, ce el repaia simil El cuando el coteli tal a en la spirito de sua sposa. En ajunta, el ama el no plu, par causa de la feri nonconsensa cual la fem ia trae a la casa e la nom de el.
He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife’s soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.
Désirée turna a via como un aturdida, un colpada, e prosimi lenta a la porte, esperante ce sua sposa ta clama el a reveni.
She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back.
“Adio, Armand.” — el jemi.
“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned.
Armand no responde. Acel es sua colpa final a fortuna.
He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.
Désirée vade per trova sua enfante. Zandrine pasea a la veranda sombre con lo. El prende la peti de la brasos de la enfantor con no parola de esplica, e desendente la grados, pasea a via, su la ramos de cuerco.
Désirée went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse’s arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches.
Lo es un posmedia de otobre; la sol es a punto de reposa. En la campos calma la negras recolie coton.
It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton.
Désirée ia recambia no la veste magra e blanca e no la pantoflas cual el porta. Sua capeles es noncovreda e la raios de la sol trae un brilia orosa de sua redes brun. El no prende la rua larga e bateda cual gida a la cultiveria grande e multe distante de Valmondé. El traversa un campo abandonada, do la troncetas contusa sua pedes mol, tan delicata covreda, e lasera sua roba magra a trinxas.
Désirée had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of Valmondé. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.
El desapare entre la canas e salses cual crese densa longo la rivas de la rio pantanosa, profonda e letarjiosa; e el no reveni.
She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.
Pos alga semanas, un sena strana es esecutada a L’Abri. En la sentro de la patio retro, lisa scopida, es un foco grande. Armand Aubigny senta en la coredor larga cual ofre un vista de alta de la estravagante; e lo es el ci distribui a ses negras la materia cual manteni ardente esta foco.
Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L’Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze.
Un cuna refinada de salse, con tota de sua decoras delicata, es poneda sur la foco, cual ia es ja nurida con la ricia de un colie ultra preso de furnis per bebe. Alora on ave robas de sede, e de veluda, e de satin; dentelas ance, e brodes; xapetas e gantos; car la sesto de dote ia es de cualia rara.
A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.
La cosa ultima per arde es un faxo peti de leteras; scrivetas peti e inosente cual Désirée ia envia a el tra la dias de sua promete sposal. On ave un resta de un a la retro de la caxeta de cual el prende los. Ma lo no es de Désirée; lo es un parte de un letera vea de sua madre a sua padre. El leje lo. Sua madre grasia Dio per la donada de la ama de sua sposo:
The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Désirée had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Désirée’s; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband’s love:
“Ma supra tota,” — el scrive — “a note e dia, me grasia la bon Dio per organiza nosa vives tal ce nosa cara Armand va sabe nunca ce sua madre, ci adora el, parteni a la rasa cual sufri la marca de sclavia.”
“But above all,” she wrote, “night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery.”