DOI article:
Harland, Henry: Tirala-tirala...
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27805#0070
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Tirala-tirala . .
clearly, though it was more—oh, more than five-and-twenty years
ago, and the days that went before and came after it have entirely
lost their outlines, and merged into a vague golden blur. That
day, too, as I look backwards, glows in the distance with a golden
light ; and if I were to speak upon my impulse, I should vow it
was a smiling day of June, clothed in sunshine and crowned with
roses. But then, if I were to speak upon my impulse, I should
vow that it was June at Saint-Graal the whole year round.
When I stop to think, I remember that it was a rainy day, and
that the ground was sprinkled with dead leaves. I remember
standing at a window in my grandmother’s room, and gazing out
with rueful eyes. It rained doggedly, relentlessly—-even, it
seemed to me, defiantly, spitefully, as if it took a malicious
pleasure in penning me up within doors. The mountains, the
Pyrenees, a few miles to the south, were completely hidden by the
veil of waters. The sodden leaves, brown patches on the lawn
and in the pathways, struggled convulsively, like wounded birds,
to fly from the gusts of wind, but fell back fluttering heavily.
One could almost have touched the clouds, they hung so low, big
ragged tufts of sad-coloured cotton-wool, blown rapidly through
the air, just above the writhing tree-tops. Everywhere in the
house there was a faint fragrance of burning wood : fires had been
lighted to keep the dampness out.
#
* #
Indeed, if it had been a fair day, my adventure could scarcely
have befallen. I should have been abroad, in the garden or the
forest, playing with Andre, our farmer’s son ; angling, with a bit
of red worsted as bait, for frogs in the pond ; trying to catch
lizards on the terrace ; lying under a tree with Don Quixote or Le
Capitaine Fracasse ; visiting Manuela in her cottage ; or perhaps,
best
Tirala-tirala . .
clearly, though it was more—oh, more than five-and-twenty years
ago, and the days that went before and came after it have entirely
lost their outlines, and merged into a vague golden blur. That
day, too, as I look backwards, glows in the distance with a golden
light ; and if I were to speak upon my impulse, I should vow it
was a smiling day of June, clothed in sunshine and crowned with
roses. But then, if I were to speak upon my impulse, I should
vow that it was June at Saint-Graal the whole year round.
When I stop to think, I remember that it was a rainy day, and
that the ground was sprinkled with dead leaves. I remember
standing at a window in my grandmother’s room, and gazing out
with rueful eyes. It rained doggedly, relentlessly—-even, it
seemed to me, defiantly, spitefully, as if it took a malicious
pleasure in penning me up within doors. The mountains, the
Pyrenees, a few miles to the south, were completely hidden by the
veil of waters. The sodden leaves, brown patches on the lawn
and in the pathways, struggled convulsively, like wounded birds,
to fly from the gusts of wind, but fell back fluttering heavily.
One could almost have touched the clouds, they hung so low, big
ragged tufts of sad-coloured cotton-wool, blown rapidly through
the air, just above the writhing tree-tops. Everywhere in the
house there was a faint fragrance of burning wood : fires had been
lighted to keep the dampness out.
#
* #
Indeed, if it had been a fair day, my adventure could scarcely
have befallen. I should have been abroad, in the garden or the
forest, playing with Andre, our farmer’s son ; angling, with a bit
of red worsted as bait, for frogs in the pond ; trying to catch
lizards on the terrace ; lying under a tree with Don Quixote or Le
Capitaine Fracasse ; visiting Manuela in her cottage ; or perhaps,
best