“Then they belong to me, because I was the first person to think of it.”

— Nu tad zvaigznes pieder man, jo es pirmais par tām iedomājos.

“Is that all that is necessary?”

— Vai ar to pieliek?

“Certainly. When you find a diamond that belongs to nobody, it is yours. When you discover an island that belongs to nobody, it is yours. When you get an idea before any one else, you take out a patent on it: it is yours. So with me: I own the stars, because nobody else before me ever thought of owning them.”

— Protams. Ja tu atrodi dimantu, kam nav īpašnieka, tas ir tavs. Ja tu atklāj kādu salu, kurai nav īpašnieka, tā ir tava. Ja tev pirmajam rodas kāda doma, tu liec to patentēt — tā ir tava. Bet man pieder zvaigznes, jo līdz šim neviens nav iedomājies, ka arī tās var piederēt.

“Yes, that is true,” said the little prince. “And what do you do with them?”

— Tas tiesa, — sacīja mazais princis. — Un ko tu dari ar tām?

“I administer them,” replied the businessman. “I count them and recount them. It is difficult. But I am a man who is naturally interested in matters of consequence.”

— Es tās pārvaldu. Es tās saskaitu un atkal pārskaitu, — atteica biznesmenis. — Tas ir grūti. Bet es esmu nopietns cilvēks!

The little prince was still not satisfied.

Mazais princis vēl nebija apmierināts.

“If I owned a silk scarf,” he said, “I could put it around my neck and take it away with me. If I owned a flower, I could pluck that flower and take it away with me. But you cannot pluck the stars from heaven…”

— Ja man pieder, piemēram, kāds kaklauts, es varu to aplikt ap kaklu un aiznest projām. Ja man pieder kāda puķe, es varu to noplūkt un paņemt līdz. Bet tu taču nevari noplūkt savas zvaigznes.

“No. But I can put them in the bank.”

— Nē, bet es varu tās ielikt bankā.

“Whatever does that mean?”

— Ko tas nozīmē?

“That means that I write the number of my stars on a little paper. And then I put this paper in a drawer and lock it with a key.”

— Tas nozīmē, ka es uzrakstu uz maza papīrīša zvaigžņu skaitu. Un pēc tam šo papīru ieslēdzu atvilktnē.

“And that is all?”

— Un tas ir viss?

“That is enough,” said the businessman.

— Ar to pietiek!

“It is entertaining,” thought the little prince. “It is rather poetic. But it is of no great consequence.”

“Tas ir jocīgi,” mazais princis nodomāja. “Tas ir pat dzejiski. Tomēr nav sevišķi nopietni.”

On matters of consequence, the little prince had ideas which were very different from those of the grown-ups.

Mazajam princim par to, kas ir nopietns, bija savas domas, kuras ļoti atšķīrās no pieaugušo cilvēku domām.

“I myself own a flower,” he continued his conversation with the businessman, “which I water every day. I own three volcanoes, which I clean out every week (for I also clean out the one that is extinct; one never knows). It is of some use to my volcanoes, and it is of some use to my flower, that I own them. But you are of no use to the stars…”

— Man, — viņš piebilda, — pieder kāda puķe, ko es katru dienu aplaistu. Man ir trīs vulkāni, kurus es tīru katru nedēļu. Jo es tīru arī izdzisušo. Nekad nevar būt drošs. Tas, ka viņi man pieder, ir derīgi kā maniem vulkāniem, tā manai puķei. Bet tu neesi derīgs zvaigznēm…

The businessman opened his mouth, but he found nothing to say in answer. And the little prince went away.

Biznesmenis atvēra muti, bet neatrada nekā , ko atbildēt, un mazais princis devās projām.

“The grown-ups are certainly altogether extraordinary,” he said simply, talking to himself as he continued on his journey.

“Pieaugušie nudien ir ārkārtīgi dīvaini,” viņš teica sev, ceļodams tālāk.

XIV

XIV

The fifth planet was very strange. It was the smallest of all. There was just enough room on it for a street lamp and a lamplighter.

Piektā planēta bija pavisam savāda. Tā bija pati mazākā no visām. Tur bija tieši tik daudz vietas, lai novietotu vienu laternu un vienu laternu iededzinātāju.

The little prince was not able to reach any explanation of the use of a street lamp and a lamplighter, somewhere in the heavens, on a planet which had no people, and not one house. But he said to himself, nevertheless:

Mazais princis nekādi nevarēja saprast, kam varētu noderēt kaut kur debesīs, uz planētas, kur nav ne māju, ne iedzīvotāju, tāda laterna un tāds laternu iededzinātājs. Taču viņš nodomāja:

“It may well be that this man is absurd. But he is not so absurd as the king, the conceited man, the businessman, and the tippler. For at least his work has some meaning. When he lights his street lamp, it is as if he brought one more star to life, or one flower. When he puts out his lamp, he sends the flower, or the star, to sleep. That is a beautiful occupation. And since it is beautiful, it is truly useful.”

“Var jau būt, ka šis cilvēks ir absurds. Tomēr viņš nav tik bezjēdzīgs kā karalis, kā godkārīgais, kā biznesmenis un kā dzērājs. Viņa darbam vismaz ir kāda jēga. Kad viņš aizdedzina savu laternu, tad šķiet, it kā viņš liktu rasties vēl vienai zvaigznei vai puķei. Kad viņš izdzēš savu laternu, viņš iemidzina savu puķi vai zvaigzni. Tā ir ļoti skaista nodarbošanās. Tā patiešām ir derīga, jo tā ir skaista.”

When he arrived on the planet he respectfully saluted the lamplighter.

Sasniedzis planētu, mazais princis goddevīgi sveicināja laternu iededzinātāju:

“Good morning. Why have you just put out your lamp?”

— Labdien. Kādēļ tu nupat izdzēsi savu laternu?

“Those are the orders,” replied the lamplighter. “Good morning.”

— Tāda ir pavēle, — atbildēja laternu iededzinātājs. — Labdien.

“What are the orders?”

— Kāda tad ir pavēle?

“The orders are that I put out my lamp. Good evening.”

— Izdzēst laternu. Labvakar.

And he lighted his lamp again.

Un viņš to izdzēsa.

“But why have you just lighted it again?”

— Bet kālab tu to atkal aizdedzini?

“Those are the orders,” replied the lamplighter.

— Tāda ir pavēle, — atbildēja laternu iededzinātājs.

“I do not understand,” said the little prince.

— Es nesaprotu, — teica mazais princis.

“There is nothing to understand,” said the lamplighter. “Orders are orders. Good morning.”

— Tur nav nekā ko nesaprast, — sacīja laternu iededzinātājs. — Pavēle paliek pavēle. Labdien.

And he put out his lamp.

Un viņš izdzēsa savu laternu.

Then he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief decorated with red squares.

Pēc tam viņš noslaucīja no pieres sviedrus ar sārti rūtotu kabatas lakatiņu.

“I follow a terrible profession. In the old days it was reasonable. I put the lamp out in the morning, and in the evening I lighted it again. I had the rest of the day for relaxation and the rest of the night for sleep.”

— Man ir briesmīgs amats. Senāk tas bija jēdzīgāks. No rīta izdzēsu laternu un vakarā to aizdedzināju. Man bija laiks dienu atpūsties un nakti gulēt…

“And the orders have been changed since that time?”

— Vai tad pavēle kopš tā laika mainīta?

“The orders have not been changed,” said the lamplighter. “That is the tragedy! From year to year the planet has turned more rapidly and the orders have not been changed!”

— Pavēle nav mainīta, — paskaidroja laternu iededzinātājs. Tā jau ir mana nelaime! Gadu no gada planēta griežas aizvien ātrāk, bet pavēle palikusi tā pati.

“Then what?” asked the little prince.

— Un kā ir tagad? — vaicāja mazais princis.

“Then — the planet now makes a complete turn every minute, and I no longer have a single second for repose. Once every minute I have to light my lamp and put it out!”

— Tagad, kad planēta apgriežas reizi minūtē, man vairs nav ne mirkļa atpūtas. Es aizdedzinu un izdzēšu laternu reizi minūtē!

“That is very funny! A day lasts only one minute, here where you live!”

— Tas nu gan ir jocīgi! Dienas pie tevis ilgst vienu minūti!

“It is not funny at all!” said the lamplighter. “While we have been talking together a month has gone by.”

— Tas nemaz nav jocīgi, — atteica laternu iededzinātājs. — Pagājis jau vesels mēnesis, kopš mēs sarunājamies.

“A month?”

— Vesels mēnesis?

“Yes, a month. Thirty minutes. Thirty days. Good evening.”

— Jā. Trīsdesmit minūtes. Trīsdesmit dienu! Labvakar.

And he lighted his lamp again.

Un viņš atkal aizdedzināja savu laternu.

As the little prince watched him, he felt that he loved this lamplighter who was so faithful to his orders.

Mazajam princim aizvien vairāk iepatikās šis laternu iededzinātājs, kas bija tik uzticīgs pavēlei.

He remembered the sunsets which he himself had gone to seek, in other days, merely by pulling up his chair; and he wanted to help his friend.

Viņš atcerējās, kā pats kādreiz bija meklējis saulrietus, pārbīdīdams krēslu. Viņš gribēja palīdzēt savam draugam.

“You know,” he said, “I can tell you a way you can rest whenever you want to…”

— Paklau… es zinu kādu līdzekli, kā tu varētu atpūsties, kad vien gribētu…

“I always want to rest,” said the lamplighter.

— Es jau sen to gribu, — sacīja laternu iededzinātājs.

For it is possible for a man to be faithful and lazy at the same time. The little prince went on with his explanation:

Jo var taču turēt doto vārdu un tai pašā laikā slinkot. Mazais princis turpināja:

The little prince went on with his explanation:
“Your planet is so small that three strides will take you all the way around it. To be always in the sunshine, you need only walk along rather slowly. When you want to rest, you will walk — and the day will last as long as you like.”

— Tava planēta ir tik maziņa, ka tu vari to apstaigāt trīs soļos. Tev tikai jāiet pavisam lēnam, lai tu arvien atrastos saulē. Kad tu gribēsi atpūsties, tu soļosi… un diena būs tik gara, cik tu to vēlēsies…

“That doesn’t do me much good,” said the lamplighter. “The one thing I love in life is to sleep.”

— Nekāda labuma no tā nav, — noteica laternu iededzinātājs. Par visu vairāk dzīvē man tīk gulēt.

“Then you’re unlucky,” said the little prince.

— Tad ir slikti, — sacīja mazais princis.

“I am unlucky,” said the lamplighter. “Good morning.”

— Tad ir slikti, — apliecināja laternu iededzinātājs. — Labdien. —

And he put out his lamp.

Un viņš izdzēsa savu laternu.

“That man,” said the little prince to himself, as he continued farther on his journey, “that man would be scorned by all the others: by the king, by the conceited man, by the tippler, by the businessman. Nevertheless he is the only one of them all who does not seem to me ridiculous. Perhaps that is because he is thinking of something else besides himself.”

“Šo cilvēku,” mazais princis nodomāja, turpinot ceļojumu, “šo cilvēku visi pārējie nicinās, ir karalis, ir godkārīgais, ir dzērājs, ir biznesmenis. Tomēr vienīgi viņš man neliekas smieklīgs. Varbūt tādēļ, ka viņš nodarbojas ar kaut ko citu, nevis pats ar sevi.”

He breathed a sigh of regret, and said to himself, again:

Tad mazais princis smagi nopūtās:

“That man is the only one of them all whom I could have made my friend. But his planet is indeed too small. There is no room on it for two people…”

“Vienīgi viņš varētu būt mans draugs. Bet viņa planēta patiesi ir pārāk maza. Tur nav vietas diviem…”

What the little prince did not dare confess was that he was sorry most of all to leave this planet, because it was blest every day with 1440 sunsets!

Mazais princis neuzdrošinājās atzīties, ka viņš skumst pēc šīs brīnumainās planētas, it īpaši tādēļ, ka tur divdesmit četrās stundās var redzēt tūkstoš četri simti četrdesmit saulrietu.

XV

XV

The sixth planet was ten times larger than the last one. It was inhabited by an old gentleman who wrote voluminous books.

Sestā planēta bija desmitreiz lielāka. Tur dzīvoja kāds vecs kungs, kas rakstīja milzīgas grāmatas.

“Oh, look! Here is an explorer!” he exclaimed to himself when he saw the little prince coming.

— Skat! Pētnieks! — viņš iesaucās, kad ieraudzīja mazo princi.

The little prince sat down on the table and panted a little. He had already traveled so much and so far!

Mazais princis apsēdās uz galda un mazliet atvilka elpu. Viņš jau bija tik ilgi ceļojis!

“Where do you come from?” the old gentleman said to him.

— No kurienes tu nāc? — vaicāja vecais kungs.

“What is that big book?” said the little prince. “What are you doing?”

— Kas ir šī lielā grāmata? — jautāja mazais princis. — Ko jūs še darāt?

“I am a geographer,” said the old gentleman.

— Es esmu ģeogrāfs, — atbildēja vecais kungs.

“What is a geographer?” asked the little prince.

— Kas tas ir — ģeogrāfs?

“A geographer is a scholar who knows the location of all the seas, rivers, towns, mountains, and deserts.”

— Tas ir zinātnieks, kas zina, kur atrodas jūras, upes, pilsētas, kalni un tuksneši.

“That is very interesting,” said the little prince. “Here at last is a man who has a real profession!”

— Tas ir ļoti interesanti, — sacīja mazais princis. — Tā beidzot patiesi ir īsta profesija! —

And he cast a look around him at the planet of the geographer. It was the most magnificent and stately planet that he had ever seen.

Un viņš pārlaida skatienu ģeogrāfa planētai. Viņš vēl nekad nebija redzējis tik diženu planētu.

“Your planet is very beautiful,” he said. “Has it any oceans?”

— Jūsu planēta ir ļoti skaista. Vai še ir okeāni? 

“I couldn’t tell you,” said the geographer.

— To es nevaru zināt, — sacīja ģeogrāfs. 

“Ah!” The little prince was disappointed. “Has it any mountains?”

— Ā! — Mazais princis bija vīlies. — Un kalni?

“I couldn’t tell you,” said the geographer.

— To es nevaru zināt, — atteica ģeogrāfs.

“And towns, and rivers, and deserts?”

— Un pilsētas un upes, un tuksneši?

“I couldn’t tell you that, either.”

—Arī to es nevaru zināt, — atteica ģeogrāfs.

“But you are a geographer!”

— Bet jūs taču esat ģeogrāfs!

“Exactly,” the geographer said. “But I am not an explorer. I haven’t a single explorer on my planet. It is not the geographer who goes out to count the towns, the rivers, the mountains, the seas, the oceans, and the deserts.

— Tas tiesa, — sacīja ģeogrāfs, — bet es neesmu pētnieks. Man ļoti vajadzīgi pētnieki. Ģeogrāfs pats neuzskaita pilsētas, upes, kalnus, jūras, okeānus un tuksnešus.

The geographer is much too important to go loafing about. He does not leave his desk. But he receives the explorers in his study. He asks them questions, and he notes down what they recall of their travels. And if the recollections of any one among them seem interesting to him, the geographer orders an inquiry into that explorer’s moral character.”

Ģeogrāfs ir pārāk svarīga persona, lai klaiņotu apkārt. Viņš neatstāj savu biroju. Toties viņš pieņem pētniekus. Viņš tos izjautā un pieraksta viņu atmiņas. Ja kāda pētnieka atmiņas viņam šķiet interesantas, ģeogrāfs liek aizpildīt anketu par pētnieka tikumību.

“Why is that?”

“Because an explorer who told lies would bring disaster on the books of the geographer. So would an explorer who drank too much.”

“Why is that?” asked the little prince.

— Kādēļ tā? — vaicāja mazais princis.

“Because intoxicated men see double. Then the geographer would note down two mountains in a place where there was only one.”

— Tādēļ, ka dzērājiem viss rādās dubulti. Un tad ģeogrāfs atzīmētu divus kalnus tur, kur ir tikai viens.

“I know some one,” said the little prince, “who would make a bad explorer.”

— Es pazīstu kādu, kas būtu slikts pētnieks, — teica mazais princis.

“That is possible. Then, when the moral character of the explorer is shown to be good, an inquiry is ordered into his discovery.”

— Tas ir iespējams. Tātad, ja pētnieka tikumība izrādās nevainojama, mēs uzrakstām anketu par viņa atklājumu.

“One goes to see it?”

— Vai atklājumu dodas apskatīt?

“No. That would be too complicated. But one requires the explorer to furnish proofs. For example, if the discovery in question is that of a large mountain, one requires that large stones be brought back from it.”

— Nē. Tas būtu pārāk sarežģīti. Mēs pieprasām, lai pētnieks sagādā pierādījumus. Ja ir runa, piemēram, par kāda liela kalna atklāšanu, mēs pieprasām, lai viņš atnes no tā lielus akmeņus.

The geographer was suddenly stirred to excitement.

Ģeogrāfs pēkšņi kļuva nemierīgs.

“But you — you come from far away! You are an explorer! You shall describe your planet to me!”

— Bet tu taču nāc no tālienes! Tu esi pētnieks! Tu man aprakstīsi savu planētu!

And, having opened his big register, the geographer sharpened his pencil. The recitals of explorers are put down first in pencil. One waits until the explorer has furnished proofs, before putting them down in ink.

Un ģeogrāfs, atvēris savu grāmatu, noasināja zīmuli. Pētnieku stāstus vispirms pieraksta ar zīmuli. Tikai pēc tam, kad pētnieks sagādājis pierādījumus, atklājums tiek ierakstīts ar tinti.

“Well?” said the geographer expectantly.

— Es klausos, — ģeogrāfs teica.

“Oh, where I live,” said the little prince, “it is not very interesting. It is all so small. I have three volcanoes. Two volcanoes are active and the other is extinct. But one never knows.”

— Manās mājās nav sevišķi interesanti, — mazais princis iesāka. — Tur viss ir tik mazs! Man ir trīs vulkāni. Divi degoši un viens apdzisis. Bet nekad jau nevar būt drošs.

“One never knows,” said the geographer.

— Nekad jau nevar būt drošs, — ģeogrāfs atkārtoja.

“I have also a flower.”

— Man ir arī puķe.

“We do not record flowers,” said the geographer.

— Puķes mēs neatzīmējam, — teica ģeogrāfs.

“Why is that? The flower is the most beautiful thing on my planet!”

— Kādēļ gan ne? Tās ir visskaistākās!

“We do not record them,” said the geographer, “because they are ephemeral.”

— Tādēļ, ka puķes ir īslaicīgas.

“What does that mean — ‘ephemeral’?”

— Ko nozīmē “īslaicīgas”?

“Geographies,” said the geographer, “are the books which, of all books, are most concerned with matters of consequence. They never become old-fashioned. It is very rarely that a mountain changes its position. It is very rarely that an ocean empties itself of its waters. We write of eternal things.”

— Ģeogrāfijas grāmatas, — sacīja ģeogrāfs, — ir pašas vērtīgākās no visām grāmatām. Tās nekad nenoveco. Ļoti reti atgadās, ka kalns mainītu savu vietu. Ārkārtīgi reti kāds okeāns izsīkst. Mēs aprakstām mūžīgas lietas.

“But extinct volcanoes may come to life again,” the little prince interrupted. “What does that mean — ‘ephemeral’?”

— Bet izdzisuši vulkāni var sākt darboties,— viņu pārtrauca mazais princis. — Ko nozīmē “īslaicīgs”?