Читать книгу Ivar: or, The Skjuts-Boy - Emilie Flygare-Carlén - Страница 4

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Sharp and piercing blew the October blast through the creaking limbs of a dense forest, in the south-western part of Sweden. At times it seemed as though the storm was dying away with a long-drawn sigh; but suddenly it arose again and renewed its battle with the giant pines, and did not rest until these, like conquered enemies, bowed down to the ground. Surrounded with white clouds stood the nightly watch above, in her immovable grandeur, looking down upon the waging combat.

Upon one of the foot-paths which threaded their way through the forest, a being hurried along with quickened footsteps, who, as far as could be seen through the misty autumnal twilight, seemed to be congenial with the scene. A ragged jacket allowed the low branches of the pine and fir trees to sweep undisturbedly his brown, manly breast; and his wiry hair, upon which his bushy fur cap was retained with difficulty by his rough hand, fluttered undisturbed around his sun-burnt face.

The careless son of the forest was indifferent, however, to all these obstacles, humming a gay national song; with skilful hand he bent aside the intruding twigs, and, when the wind blew its most severe blast, he placed his fingers in his mouth, and responded with a like shrill whistle. The boy, who appeared to be fourteen or fifteen years of age, would at intervals throw his arms around a pine, as though it was his dearest friend, and, with enthusiastic rapture, would suffer the storming wind to pass over him. It seemed to afford him far less joy when the storm was abating, than when it whirled over him, in all the vigour of its mighty blasts; then he would commence whistling merrily, and hurried, more flying than walking, along the dark path.

A clear ray of the moon, which suddenly burst through the dark veil of clouds, lighted up objects that had before been in the shade; and, in a valley, a small cottage became visible, from the chimney of which a cloud of smoke, mingled with sparks, was curling toward the heavens. With a joyful and almost speaking nod the boy hailed the humble-looking clay roof and the plain moss-covered walls of the cottage, that contained his world, and all which he required for his happiness and comfort after his day's labour in the forest.

When he arrived in front of the cottage, he halted; and, instead of entering it, took his path beside a hedge, formed of twisted willows, until he had arrived at a sort of dwelling, or rather, a barn-like shed, from which, at the sound of his footsteps, the clear neigh of a horse issued. A thrill of joy shot through the boy; with one hand he searched in his pocket for the small piece of bread that he had spared from his own lips, with the other he opened the door, and the next moment stood in the stable beside his favourite.

"Poor little pony," said he, "you have fared badly to-day; scarcely any straw in the manger. Yes, yes! If I am not at home, then——"

With these words the boy patted the hollow back of his pony. The pony relished the bread exceedingly, and showed his gratitude to his kind provider, by laying his head upon the boy's shoulder.

After the pony had received all the faithful nursing which his master was wont to bestow upon him, the boy left the stable, returning, however, in a moment with a blanket, which he carefully placed over the horse's back, and afterward hastened with hurried steps towards the cot, where he was welcomed with as much sincerity as at the place which he had just left.

"Where have you been so long, Ivar? Your mother felt deep anxiety concerning you; she was afraid you might have injured yourself with the axe. It is long since the night-bell has rung; and the gruel broth has been waiting long."

These words came from a tall, robust man, who was leaning with his arms against a rough-hewn table, bending over a large hymn book, the yellow leaves of which betokened frequent use.

"By no means, mother; that should not have entered your head. The storm howled so grandly, that I would hardly have come home at all," replied Ivar, saluting his father with a nod, and hastening uneasily towards the hearth, on which his mother was sitting, who had, upon the entrance of her son, stopped the buzzing of her time-stained spinning wheel.

"Surely thou art freezing, my poor boy?"

As well by the tone in which these words were spoken, as by the hasty manner in which she pushed aside her distaff, and grasped the pot that contained the oaten broth, which stood by the hearth, the most unmistakable motherly tenderness was to be recognised.

"Are you freezing, mother, as you sit near the fire and warm yourself? While I am cutting fuel for you, I never freeze. The forest is my hearth-fire; and I am never so warm as when I am out of doors, and the wind is blowing right heartily over my head."

"You are an odd boy," said his mother, thoughtfully; "and have always been the same from your earliest childhood; but, God be praised," she added, with pious simplicity, "our revered pastor was always well pleased with you, when he taught you your catechism."

During this short dialogue, Mother Ingierd had prepared the table, and placed upon it the broth and three plates, and as many cleanly burnished cups, half filled with sour milk.

Father Christopher, the owner of the forest cot, closed his hymn book, took off his red nightcap, and clasped his hands. After a short prayer, mother and son sat down likewise. During the first few moments, nothing was to be heard save the monotonous sound of the spoon clinking against the pot; as soon, however, as our worst enemy had been beaten, the father turned to his son, and appeared as though he wished to say something.

The profiles of both were so turned that the light of the tallow lamp, which was placed in the centre of the table, fell strongly upon them; and an attentive observer, had such a one been present, would have been surprised to have read in them something noble, almost haughty, which strangely contrasted with the ragged peasant jacket worn by the owner of the cottage, as well as with Ivar's half naked, brown breast.

Nature sometimes presents such peculiarities, and they are apt to awaken our interest. It cannot be said that nobility and pride are the exclusive privileges of the high and well educated classes. Such characteristics are found in a like degree in the lower classes, although they are accustomed to show it differently; but it is rare indeed that we meet with country people and their offspring, oppressed by their daily labour, who possess the expression of free-born haughtiness, which is seldom displayed so decidedly as it is in the true nobility.

"For the last two days we have been exempt from the skjuts," said Father Christopher, in a voice which would cause one to think that this exemption was of rare occurrence.

"The white pony wants rest also," said Ivar.

"Yes! many a person would want it," replied the man, gloomily. "But in the time of war none must think of it—all must suffer alike the pest; but if we should soon have peace, as they say we will, we may hope that the year 1815 will bring us richer fruits than during the last year, when the French and Norwegians furnished the Swedes other employment than that of ploughing and sowing."

"That will do my white pony right well," said Ivar, joyfully.

"Yes, if he does not break down in the meantime," replied his father, morosely. "These overbearing gentlemen are driving on like fools, and consider a poor skjuts-peasant as no better than mere cattle. They think that those in the service of the crown are permitted to do everything."

"If that is so, I must also try and get in the service of the crown. Do you not think also, father, it would be queer if I should become such a noble gentleman? Then I would make as much noise as any of them; and, as you say that they think everything is permitted, I will repay them with interest all the strokes my poor white pony has received."

"As long as I live and command, you shall never become a soldier," said his father, abruptly.

"Why, was not you yourself a soldier in your youth, father?"

These words thrilled through the man's entire form like lightning. His nostrils distended, his brow knitted itself into a black frown, and his jet black eye glittered as sparkling as those of Ivar; but instead of the curious astonishment which was expressed in the boy's, a dark, wild hatred gleamed from the father's eyes, which was the more bitter, as it seemed to feed upon itself.

"You are angry," said Ivar, in a subdued tone, observing, with a strange look, the change that had taken place in his father's features.

Christopher did not answer; his eyes wandered around the dark apartment, when the mother pushed him with her foot, and gave him a signal to be silent.

After a few moments, the poverty-stricken family arose from the table, and while Ivar was assisting his mother in carrying the table utensils into the kitchen, she whispered to him—

"Never talk that way again, because you will put your father in bad spirits for a long time."

"What does it mean?" inquired Ivar, in a low tone.

"If your father wished that you should have known it, he would have told you so himself," replied his mother, in a reproachful manner.

"Hallo! hallo! open, in there!" a loud voice was suddenly heard exclaiming outside, and a couple of violent and hasty strokes were made upon the door.

"There we have it again," said Christopher, grumbling, and turned hastily round; "that is Swen, the wagon-master's voice. Open, boy; I knew that both horse and man would not enjoy rest for three successive nights."

"You need not drive, father; let me go," said Ivar, beseechingly, and approached the door.

"You have been in the woods the whole day," was the short reply.

"And you have been in Nilpersson's barn, thrashing, all the day," replied Ivar, almost savagely, and, without waiting for his father's answer, he opened the door. The wagon-master sprang through the door, with a cry,

"Skjut, in a moment, within half an hour, a gentleman will arrive who is going as a courier to Norway, and if everything is not ready at a moment's warning, may God save both you and me! Therefore, make haste, Father Christopher, it is your turn to-day. Here is your ticket."

"Well, I should not think there was so much need of haste," replied Christopher, and lighting his pipe, which lay on the window, told Ivar to be in haste, and asked his coat from his wife. But Ivar was not so easily silenced, and as his white pony had to go at any rate, he was inwardly rejoiced that the skjut had been announced in the night; he would now be allowed to ride out in the dark night, through the still darker forest, and hear the storm howl around him, like the roaring of a cataract; this was his joy, and without being able to explain the reason, his breast always heaved higher. Amid the warring of the elements, he felt as though nothing was wanting but wings to elevate himself like the wild eagle into the wide air.

"Dear father, if you wish to confer a favour on me, let me drive," said Ivar, entreatingly.

"Let him have his way; he is a clever boy," said Mother Ingierd, stepping between them. "He is also right, when he wishes you to spare your swollen foot, which needs the bed far more than it does the cart."

"Well, he may go, then," replied his father, laying aside his pipe, and went into the stable, while Ivar was dressing himself.

Now his mother brought the warm woollen stockings and the stout boots, took the overcoat from the wall, and when Ivar, who had stood near the hearth, had washed himself, and in all haste had put on his Sunday jacket, to protect himself from the storm, this jacket being only used for the skjut-drive and for the church, his mother tied a large woollen comforter round his neck, and urgently exhorted him to drive carefully, that the white pony might not catch the cough again.

"There, one can hear easily that you have never driven a courier, Mother Ingierd," replied the wagon-master, with importance; "such people, you may depend upon it, care not a straw for the cough of a horse. They keep on, slashing and cursing the poor animal, that they may go as fast as possible. Yes, yes, it is as I tell you. By my soul I have often seen it, and the white pony, poor creature, will soon perceive that this is altogether another commission than to trudge slowly before the cart when you drive to church, Mother Ingierd."

"I am not aware, Swen, that you ever saw me drive to church; I walk there every Sunday," replied Mother Ingierd, with a slight sigh.

"Certainly, I believe it; but when you had house and land I have seen it. And at that time no body could have blamed you for doing so; but since you have lost that, and nothing remains to you but your forest cot, you do not wish to have the people talk about you. You have always been a clever woman, Mother Ingierd, and just as much honoured by all as before."

"Bad crops and wicked people were the cause of our misfortune; but we are content with our lot, and feel assured that everything the Lord wills for us, will serve for our good. But you, wagon-master Swen, need not be so vain-glorious as to remind us of such matters; for it is not good to glory in the misfortunes of others."

"I have not done so either; I merely spoke of the pony, and in that way by accident I hit upon it. You must not take it so, for I certainly had no evil intention," said the wagon-master, almost begging her pardon.

"So much the better for you, but what you have said concerning the pony troubles me. May God preserve the poor animal, for it is the only thing left to us of our former wealth."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," said Ivar, consolingly. "Courier or not, I hope he will drive like a man; besides, you know that I understand driving, and how to deal with noblemen. Depend upon it, everything will go right."

Now Father Christopher was to be heard driving the pony and cart before the door. At the familiar neigh of the white pony, Ivar plucked his mother's sleeves, and drew her aside.

"Give me a cake or two, mother, if you can; I must give the pony a little something to-night."

Mother Ingierd hastily reached her hand above, and took from the barely provided pole which was suspended beneath the ceiling, a cake of bread..[A] "I can not well spare any more, dear Ivar; but hurry now, and put the bread in your jacket-pocket, that your father may not see it; for you know he does not like that we should divide our hard-earned bread with the poor animal."

"Make haste! make haste, Ivar!" cried the impatient wagon-master. "I have already waited nearly a half hour for you," with these words, he nodded farewell, and departed.

As soon as Ivar had taken leave of his parents, he mounted the cart, and at the edge of the forest overtook the wagon-master, who requested him to let him ride also. But Ivar refused his prayer.

"Thank you, that will not do, I must spare my poor pony. But at any rate I do not want to be better off than you are," said he, springing from the cart, and walking beside it, at a slow pace, until they arrived in the neighbourhood of a tavern, where the noise of a carriage, which could be heard at a short distance, incited them to greater speed.