TO LEON WERTH

LEONAM VERTAM

I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold. He needs cheering up.

Man jālūdz piedošana bērniem, ka šo grāmatu esmu veltījis pieaugušajam. Man gan ir nopietns aizbildinājums, proti, šis pieaugušais ir mans vislabākais draugs. Un vēl jāpiebilst, ka viņš saprot visu, pat bērnu grāmatas. Un, beidzot, viņš dzīvo Francijā, kur pašreiz valda bads un aukstums. Tādēļ viņam loti nepieciešams mierinājums.

If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children — although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:

Ja visi šie aizbildinājumi tomēr nav pietiekami, tad es veltīšu šo grāmatu puisēnam, kāds reiz bija mans pieaugušais draugs. Visi pieaugušie reiz ir bijuši bērni (tikai ļoti nedaudzi no viņiem to atceras). Un tā es laboju savu veltījumu:

TO LEON WERTH WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY.

LEONAM VERTAM, KAD VIŅŠ BIJA MAZS ZĒNS.

I

I

Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing.

Kad man bija seši gadi, reiz kādā grāmatā par mūžamežu, kura saucās “Patiesi stāsti”, ieraudzīju brīnišķīgu attēlu. Tur bija attēlota boa čūska, kas aprij meža zvēru. Lūk, kāds izskatījās zīmējums.

In the book it said: “Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing it. After that they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion.”

Grāmatā bija rakstīts: “Boa čūskas savu laupījumu aprij veselu, to nesasmalcinot. Pēc tam tās vairs nevar kustēties un guļ veselus sešus mēnešus, kamēr laupījums sagremots.”

I pondered deeply, then, over the adventures of the jungle. And after some work with a colored pencil I succeeded in making my first drawing. My Drawing Number One. It looked something like this:

Toreiz es daudz domāju par piedzīvojumiem džungļos un man arī izdevās ar krāsainu zīmuli uzmest manu pirmo zīmējumu. Zīmējums Nr. l. Tas bija apmēram šāds:

I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups, and asked them whether the drawing frightened them.

Es paradīju savu mākslas darbu pieaugušajiem, un jautāju, vai tas viņiem iedveš bailes.

But they answered: “Frighten? Why should any one be frightened by a hat?”

Viņi man atbildēja: “Kādēļ lai cepure iedvestu bailes?”

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. But since the grown-ups were not able to understand it, I made another drawing: I drew the inside of a boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained. My Drawing Number Two looked like this:

Manā zīmējumā nebija attēlota cepure. Tur bija attēlota boa čūska, kas sagremo ziloni. Tad uzzīmēju boa čūskas vēderu šķērsgriezumā, lai lielie cilvēki varētu saprast. Viņiem arvien ir vajadzīgi paskaidrojumi. Mans zīmējums Nr.2 izskatījās šāds:

The grown-ups’ response, this time, was to advise me to lay aside my drawings of boa constrictors, whether from the inside or the outside, and devote myself instead to geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar. That is why, at the age of six, I gave up what might have been a magnificent career as a painter.

Pieaugušie man deva padomu vairs nezīmēt uzšķērstas un veselas boa čūskas, bet labāk interesēties par ģeogrāfiju, vēsturi, rēķināšanu un gramatiku. Tā sešu gadu vecumā es atteicos no spožās gleznotāja karjeras.

I had been disheartened by the failure of my Drawing Number One and my Drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.

Man atņēma drosmi mana pirmā un otrā zīmējuma neveiksme. Pieaugušie paši nekad neko nesaprot, bet bērni nogurst, mūžīgi viņiem kaut ko paskaidrodami.

So then I chose another profession, and learned to pilot airplanes. I have flown a little over all parts of the world; and it is true that geography has been very useful to me.

Tā nu man bija jāizraugās cita profesija, un es iemācījos vadīt lidmašīnas. Esmu lidojis gandrīz vai pa visu pasauli. Ģeogrāfija patiešām man ir ļoti noderējusi.

At a glance I can distinguish China from Arizona. If one gets lost in the night, such knowledge is valuable.

No pirmā acu uzmetiena es pratu atšķirt Ķīnu no Arizonas. Tas ir sevišķi derīgi, ja naktī esi nomaldījies.

In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.

Un tā man loti bieži bijis jāsaskaras ar daudziem nopietniem cilvēkiem. Esmu ilgi dzīvojis kopā ar pieaugušajiem. Esmu redzējis viņus pavisam tuvu. Un tomēr mans spriedums nav daudz ko uzlabojies.

Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding.

Ja sastapu kādu cilvēku, kas man šķita mazliet saprātīgāks, es eksperimentēju ar viņu, rādot savu pirmo zīmējumu, ko vēl arvien esmu saglabājis. Man gribējās zināt, vai šis cilvēks tiešām ir saprātīgs.

But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say: “That is a hat.”

Bet viņš man vienmēr atbildēja: “Tā ir cepure.”

Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars. I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.

Tad es nerunāju ar viņu nedz par boa čūskām, nedz par mūžamežiem, nedz par zvaigznēm. Es pielāgojos viņa izpratnei. Es runāju ar viņu par bridžu, par golfu, par politiku, par kravatēm. Un šī persona bija ļoti apmierināta, ka iepazinusies ar tik prātīgu cilvēku.

II

II

So I lived my life alone, without anyone that I could really talk to, until I had an accident with my plane in the Desert of Sahara, six years ago.

Tā es dzīvoju viens pats, un līdz katastrofai Sahāras tuksnesī pirms sešiem gadiem man patiešām nebija neviena, ar ko parunāties.

Something was broken in my engine. And as I had with me neither a mechanic nor any passengers, I set myself to attempt the difficult repairs all alone.

Manas lidmašīnas motorā kaut kas bija salūzis. Un, tā kā man nebija līdzi ne mehāniķa, ne pasažieru, nolēmu mēģināt viens pats veikt sarežģīto labošanu.

It was a question of life or death for me: I had scarcely enough drinking water to last a week.

Man tas nozīmēja dzīvot vai mirt. Dzeramā ūdens man pietika tikko astoņām dienām.

The first night, then, I went to sleep on the sand, a thousand miles from any human habitation. I was more isolated than a shipwrecked sailor on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

Pirmajā vakarā iemigu uz smiltīm tūkstošiem jūdžu tālu no jebkuras apdzīvotas vietas. Es biju vēl vientuļāks par kuģa avārijā cietušu cilvēku uz plosta okeāna vidū.

Thus you can imagine my amazement, at sunrise, when I was awakened by an odd little voice. It said:

Tad nu jūs varat iedomāties manu pārsteigumu, kad rītausmā mani atmodināja kāda sīka, bērnišķīga balss. Tā teica:

“If you please — draw me a sheep!”

— Lūdzu… uzzīmē man jēriņu!

“What!”

— Hm!

“Draw me a sheep!”

— Uzzīmē man jēriņu…

I jumped to my feet, completely thunderstruck. I blinked my eyes hard. I looked carefully all around me. And I saw a most extraordinary small person, who stood there examining me with great seriousness.

Pielēcu kājās, kā zibens ķerts. Krietni izberzēju acis. Pavēros visapkārt un ieraudzīju pavisam neparastu mazu puisēnu, kas mani nopietni aplūkoja.

Here you may see the best portrait that, later, I was able to make of him.

Lūk, viņa labākais portrets, kādu man vēlāk izdevās uzzīmēt.

But my drawing is certainly very much less charming than its model. That, however, is not my fault. The grown-ups discouraged me in my painter’s career when I was six years old, and I never learned to draw anything, except boas from the outside and boas from the inside.

Mans zīmējums, protams, nav tik valdzinošs kā pats oriģināls. Tā nav mana vaina. Drosmi uzsākt gleznotāja karjeru man laupīja pieaugušie, kad biju sešus gadus vecs, un, izņemot boa čūskas no ārpuses un iekšpuses, neko citu neesmu iemācījies zīmēt.

Now I stared at this sudden apparition with my eyes fairly starting out of my head in astonishment. Remember, I had crashed in the desert a thousand miles from any inhabited region. And yet my little man seemed neither to be straying uncertainly among the sands, nor to be fainting from fatigue or hunger or thirst or fear.

Un tā es raudzījos uz šo parādību izbrīnā plati ieplestām acīm. Neaizmirstiet, ka atrados tūkstošiem jūdžu tālu no jebkuras apdzīvotas vietas. Taču šis mazais puisēns nelikās nedz nomaldījies, nedz noguris līdz nāvei, neizskatījās arī, ka viņš mirtu nost no bada, slāpēm vai bailēm.

Nothing about him gave any suggestion of a child lost in the middle of the desert, a thousand miles from any human habitation. When at last I was able to speak, I said to him:

Nekas neliecināja, ka viņš būtu neapdzīvota tuksneša vidū nomaldījies bērns. Kad beidzot atguvu spēju runāt, es viņam jautāju:

“But — what are you doing here?”

— Bet… ko tad tu še dari?

And in answer he repeated, very slowly, as if he were speaking of a matter of great consequence:

Un viņš atkal man mierīgi palūdza, it kā runa būtu par kaut ko sevišķi svarīgu:

“If you please — draw me a sheep…”

— Lūdzu… uzzīmē man jēriņu…

When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey. Absurd as it might seem to me, a thousand miles from any human habitation and in danger of death, I took out of my pocket a sheet of paper and my fountain-pen.

Kad noslēpums mūs pārāk satrauc, mēs neuzdrošināmies nepaklausīt. Kaut arī tūkstošiem jūdžu tālu no apdzīvotām vietām un nāves briesmās tas man šķita muļķīgi, es tomēr izņēmu no kabatas papīra lapu un pildspalvu.

But then I remembered how my studies had been concentrated on geography, history, arithmetic and grammar, and I told the little chap (a little crossly, too) that I did not know how to draw. He answered me:

Tad gan atcerējos, ka esmu mācījies gandrīz vienīgi ģeogrāfiju, vēsturi, rēķināšanu un gramatiku, un teicu mazliet īgni puisēnam, ka neprotu zīmēt. Viņš man atbildēja:

“That doesn’t matter. Draw me a sheep…”

— Tas nekas. Uzzīmē man jēriņu.

But I had never drawn a sheep. So I drew for him one of the two pictures I had drawn so often. It was that of the boa constrictor from the outside. And I was astounded to hear the little fellow greet it with:

Tā kā nekad nebiju zīmējis jēriņu, es uzmetu vienu no tiem diviem vienīgajiem zīmējumiem, ko pratu zīmēt, proti, neuzšķērsto čūsku ar ziloni vēderā. Biju ārkārtīgi pārsteigts, kad izdzirdu mazo puisēnu atbildam:

“No, no, no! I do not want an elephant inside a boa constrictor. A boa constrictor is a very dangerous creature, and an elephant is very cumbersome. Where I live, everything is very small. What I need is a sheep. Draw me a sheep.”

— Nē! Nē! Es negribu ziloni čūskas vēderā. Čūska ir ļoti bīstama, un zilonis ir ļoti liels un neveikls. Manās mājās viss ir tik mazs. Man vajag jēriņu. Uzzīmē man jēriņu.

So then I made a drawing.

Un es uzzīmēju.

He looked at it carefully, then he said:

Uzmanīgi apskatījis zīmējumu, puisēns iebilda:

“No. This sheep is already very sickly. Make me another.”

— Nē! Šis jau ir galīgi slims. Uzzīmē citu.

So I made another drawing.

Es uzzīmēju.

My friend smiled gently and indulgently.

Mans draugs mīļi un iecietīgi pasmaidīja:

“You see yourself,” he said, “that this is not a sheep. This is a ram. It has horns.”

— Vai tad tu neredzi… Tas nav viss jēriņš, bet auns. Viņam ir ragi…

So then I did my drawing over once more.

Es vēlreiz pārlaboju zīmējumu.

But it was rejected too, just like the others.

Taču puisēns to noraidīja tāpat kā visus iepriekšējos:

“This one is too old. I want a sheep that will live a long time.”

— Šis ir pārāk vecs. Es gribu jēriņu, kas ilgi dzīvotu.

By this time my patience was exhausted, because I was in a hurry to start taking my engine apart. So I tossed off this drawing.

Tad man pietrūka pacietības, un, tā kā steidzos izjaukt motoru, es uzmetu šādu zīmējumu:

And I threw out an explanation with it.

Un ātrumā teicu:

“This is only his box. The sheep you asked for is inside.”

— Šī te ir kaste. Jēriņš, ko tu vēlies, atrodas tur iekšā.

I was very surprised to see a light break over the face of my young judge:

Bet cik ļoti biju pārsteigts, redzēdams, ka mana mazā kritiķa seja iemirdzas priekā:

“That is exactly the way I wanted it! Do you think that this sheep will have to have a great deal of grass?”

— Tieši tādu es vēlējos. Kā tev šķiet, vai šim jēriņam vajadzēs daudz zāles?

“Why?”

— Kādēļ?

“Because where I live everything is very small…”

— Tādēļ, ka manās mājās viss ir ļoti mazs…

“There will surely be enough grass for him,” I said. “It is a very small sheep that I have given you.”

— Droši vien pietiks. Es tev uzdāvināju pavisam mazu jēriņu.

He bent his head over the drawing.
“Not so small that — Look! He has gone to sleep…”

Viņš noliecās pār zīmējumu:
— Nav jau nemaz tik maziņš… Paskat! Viņš ir aizmidzis… 

And that is how I made the acquaintance of the little prince.

Tā es iepazinos ar mazo princi.

III

III

It took me a long time to learn where he came from. The little prince, who asked me so many questions, never seemed to hear the ones I asked him.

Pagāja labs laiks, līdz sapratu, no kurienes viņš ieradies. Mazais princis apbēra mani ar jautājumiem, bet nekad nelikās dzirdam manējos.

It was from words dropped by chance that, little by little, everything was revealed to me. The first time he saw my airplane, for instance (I shall not draw my airplane; that would be much too complicated for me), he asked me:

Tikai nejauši izmesti vārdi pamazām man visu atklāja. Tā, piemēram, kad viņš pirmo reizi ieraudzīja manu lidmašīnu (es to nezīmēšu, jo šis zīmējums pārlieku komplicēts), viņš man jautāja:

“What is that object?”

— Kas tas tāds?

“That is not an object. It flies. It is an airplane. It is my airplane.”

— Tas nav nekas tāds. Tā ir lidmašīna. Ar to lido. Tā ir mana lidmašīna.

And I was proud to have him learn that I could fly. He cried out, then:

Es lepojos, ka varēju viņam pastāstīt par saviem lidojumiem. Tad viņš iesaucās:

“What! You dropped down from the sky?”

— Kā! Tu nokriti no debesīm?

“Yes,” I answered, modestly.

— Jā, — es kautri atteicu.

“Oh! That is funny!”

— Cik jocīgi…

And the little prince broke into a lovely peal of laughter, which irritated me very much. I like my misfortunes to be taken seriously. Then he added:

Un mazais princis sāka skaļi smieties, par ko ļoti saskaitos. Man gribas, lai arī manas neveiksmes uzklausītu nopietni. Pēc tam viņš piebilda:

“So you, too, come from the sky! Which is your planet?”

— Tātad arī tu nāc no debesīm! No kuras planētas tu esi?

At that moment I caught a gleam of light in the impenetrable mystery of his presence; and I demanded, abruptly:

Tūlīt mazs gaismas stariņš apgaismoja viņa noslēpumaino ierašanos, un es tieši noprasīju:

“Do you come from another planet?”

— Tātad tu ieradies no kādas citas planētas?

But he did not reply. He tossed his head gently, without taking his eyes from my plane:

Bet viņš man neatbildēja. Viņš mierīgi šūpoja galvu, aplūkodams manu lidmašīnu:

“It is true that on that you can’t have come from very far away…”

— Ir jau tiesa, ka ar šitote tu nevari atbraukt no tālienes…

And he sank into a reverie, which lasted a long time. Then, taking my sheep out of his pocket, he buried himself in the contemplation of his treasure.

Un krietnu brīdi viņš palika aizsapņojies. Pēc tam, izvilcis no kabatas manu jēriņu, viņš ilgi vēroja savu dārgumu.

You can imagine how my curiosity was aroused by this half-confidence about the “other planets.” I made a great effort, therefore, to find out more on this subject.

Jūs varat iedomāties, kā mani satrauca šī pusatzīšanās par “citām planētām”. Es pūlējos uzzināt kaut ko vairāk:

“My little man, where do you come from? What is this ‘where I live,’ of which you speak? Where do you want to take your sheep?”

— No kurienes tu nāc, manu zēn? Kur ir tavas mājas? Kurp tu gribi aizvest jēriņu?

After a reflective silence he answered:

Pēc pārdomu pilna klusuma brīža viņš atbildēja:

“The thing that is so good about the box you have given me is that at night he can use it as his house.”

— Ļoti labi, ka tu iedevi arī kastīti, naktī tā viņam noderēs par mājiņu.

“That is so. And if you are good I will give you a string, too, so that you can tie him during the day, and a post to tie him to.”

— Protams. Ja tu būsi labs, es tev iedošu arī auklu, ar ko viņu piesiet pa dienu. Un mietiņu arī.

But the little prince seemed shocked by this offer:

Mans priekšlikums, kā šķita, aizvainoja mazo princi.

“Tie him! What a queer idea!”

— Piesiet? Kas par muļķīgu iedomu!

“But if you don’t tie him,” I said, “he will wander off somewhere, and get lost.”

— Ja tu viņu nepiesiesi, viņš aizies kaut kur prom un noklīdīs…

My friend broke into another peal of laughter:

Mans draugs sāka sirsnīgi smieties:

“But where do you think he would go?”

— Bet kur tad lai viņš iet!

“Anywhere. Straight ahead of him.”

— Vienalga, kur. Taisni uz priekšu…

Then the little prince said, earnestly:

Tad mazais princis nopietni pateica:

“That doesn’t matter. Where I live, everything is so small!”

Tas nekas, manās mājās jau viss ir tik mazs!

And, with perhaps a hint of sadness, he added:

Tad mazliet skumji piemetināja:

“Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far…”

— Taisni uz priekšu jau nevar nekur tālu aiziet…