Читать книгу Ivar: or, The Skjuts-Boy - Emilie Flygare-Carlén - Страница 5
ОглавлениеTHE COURIER.
As soon as Ivar had reached the court-yard, a cart came rumbling in from the other side, and a harsh, commanding voice was heard:
"Is the horse ready?"
An affirmative answer was given, and an officer, who seemed to be a very young man, stepped forth from the cart, and advanced to Ivar.
With a hearty curse he pointed to the horse, and said, "Is that the pony which is to take me to the next station?"
"Yes, certainly, that is the one. He has often trod the way," answered Ivar, politely, lifting his cap.
"Keep your mouth shut, you lout!" the gentleman rudely accosted him.
"Landlord! wagon-master! where are the rascals?"
"Here! here!" With these words, the landlord and the wagon-master advanced hurriedly, but with the utmost timidity, which is the natural consequence of daily ill-treatment, or even whippings, which they were in the custom of receiving.
"Listen, fellow." With these words the officer folded his arms over his breast, with an expression of high dignity, and, like a judge who wishes to force a poor criminal into confession, looked at the poor landlord: "How do you dare have such a horse hitched on for my use? Dost thou not know that I might have thrashed thee for this presumption, and hast thou never heard what a severe punishment awaits the landlord by whose negligence a courier, bearing important despatches, is hindered?"
The landlord's sad face exhibited everything else than the wish to retain the gentleman any longer. He ventured, however, to suggest that all other skjut horses were on the road, and aside from this one, none other could be obtained.
"Foolish excuse," replied the officer, impatiently. "Give me one of your own horses."
"Yes, I should like to do so, sir; but there are none of them at home. Swen, here, the wagon-master, knows that they are all out on the skjut—the large, and the small black horse—and the cream, poor fellow, has trod a stone into his hoof, so that he cannot move."
"What do I care for your horses, great and small, or cream—whether the animals are able to walk or run. D—n it, peasant lout! off! get me another horse, in a moment, or——" With these words the officer uplifted his sword, and made a movement as if to make the landlord's back acquainted with its flat scabbard.
"The Lord's best blessings upon your grace!" exclaimed the frightened landlord, "if your grace should kill me, I am unable to get another horse within an hour and a half. But I assure you, by everything that is holy, that Christopher's pony is certain to take you to Stabbelshede."
"Well, it must be done upon your responsibility. If anything happens, you will have to answer for it," replied the officer, threateningly, and sprang into the cart. "Stop! Halloo! What's the name of this nest? Uggleborg, or——"
"Swarteborg, your grace."
"Swarteborg? a well-chosen name. How far is it to the next station?"
"Only five quarter miles," replied the landlord, bowing deeply, visibly pleased that the storm had passed over.
"But if the scarecrow does not go fast enough, and I be detained beyond my appointment, thou mayst depend upon it, that I will remember thee. And now drive on, rascal, and do not spare the whip, if thou thyself want to be spared." The last words were addressed to Ivar, who was not in the least abashed by them, but mounted into the car in an indifferent manner, and applied a light switch over the haggard loins of his white pony.
"Do you call this driving, fellow?" asked the officer, after a few moments, giving his neighbour a rough poke in the ribs.
"We are going up a steep hill," replied Ivar, with renewed composure, which in contrast with such a fire-eater as the courier seemed to be, almost appeared like audacity. The officer, however, did not mind the boy's speech, but remained silent until when, about half-a-mile from Swarteborg, the white pony having exerted himself astonishingly at the accustomed treatment of his young owner, signified by a loud wheezing his resolution not to go any further. "The scarecrow is altogether fagged out," said the officer, thinking fit to accompany his opinion with a volley of curses at landlord, horse, and driver.
Ivar kept silence, not, however, from fear, but because he was convinced that an answer would avail him nothing.
"Dost thou not hear me, rascal? or art thou a rogue? Dost thou not see that the horse will break down?"
"By no means," replied Ivar, endeavouring to soothe his violent neighbour; "but if he does not do so before we reach the end of our journey," added he, in a low voice, "the gentleman must treat him more humanely."
"What, boy, wilt thou prescribe to me how I shall drive? Give me the reins, thou rascal."
And Ivar, unable to retain his right, was forced to submit, with bleeding heart and burning cheeks, while the officer lashed his pony continually, and kept him on a gallop. The emaciated animal wheezed and snorted, and made more than one fruitless endeavour to stand still, in spite of the whip.
Every sigh of the poor pony, who had been dear to Ivar's heart ever since he was able to reach up to him and pat his shaggy sides, cut like a dagger through the boy's heart. His heart was almost swollen within him, with bitter hatred against the cruel man, whose tyrannical power was law here, and whom to defy was folly. When they had arrived within half a mile of their journey's end, the pony's strength gave out. He sank down on his fore-legs. Neither the whip of the officer, nor Ivar's persuasive and familiar voice, were of any avail in arousing him from his position, although his twitching skin under the cruel lashes of the whip, proved conclusively that the pain would have forced him to proceed if possible. Under these circumstances, the officer's rage became complete frenzy; and after he had fruitlessly spent his strength upon the animal, and wasted his breath in cursing the storm, which was continually blowing dirt and sand into his eyes, he spoke to Ivar in a tone which did not augur that he expected much good to arise from the question.
"What is your name, canaille? For this drive I will make you suffer."
"My name is Ivar Borgenstierna," replied the boy, his voice trembling with violent excitement. He would willingly have suffered hunger for days, could he only have been safe home with his pony; and as little as it was his custom to give way to his feelings in tears at other times, he could not prevent two hot drops from running down his cheeks, when he saw his beloved comrade lying on the ground, vainly striving to gather his exhausted strength, and endeavouring to raise himself under the weight of the cart.
"What is your name, canaille? I again ask," said the officer, in a surprised tone.
"I have told you I call myself Ivar Borgenstierna."
"Borgenstierna? Thou art a nobleman, thou rascal, and art thou not ashamed to soil thy escutcheon by such a vagrant life? and to suffer yourself to be used as a peasant lout, and be abused on the high road as a cart-driver? Upon my honour, such a thing never before happened to me. Is there a drop of blood which does not rise against such low, menial drudgery? if there is, I will try and awake it." With these words, the violent man struck the boy with the flat of his hand severely on his cheek, soon following the blow with two cruel lashes with the whip.
Ivar's veins became swollen with hitherto unknown passion, which now violently burned within him. The strokes he had received gave him far less pain, than the shame at being treated in this manner wounded his pride, which had hitherto slumbered concealed in his bosom, but which was now awakened into powerful vitality. This feeling, however, was now a dark enigma to him, and it was reserved for time to disclose it more fully.
"Has the gentleman a right to strike me?" replied Ivar, with suppressed anger, "because my father's ancestor, who served under King Charles the Twelfth, and was as distinguished as yourself; and because, in spite of his pride, was stricken with poverty, so that one of his sons was glad to marry a peasant's daughter at Swarteborg, and became a peasant himself? Is it my fault, because my father's ancestor was a noble? and dare you therefore scold me, a nobleman?"
"Scold!" repeated the other, with a sneer; "dost thou not comprehend what thou hast lost, slave?"
"I am neither a slave nor a nobleman," replied Ivar, with increasing bitterness; "my father is a free peasant, and I shall be one also; and to judge by what I have just seen, it is better to be an honest peasant than a noble persecutor of both man and beast."
"Do not anger me more, rascal, that I may not give you more plagues to taste than thou hast, until now, experienced," replied the officer, flourishing his sword over Ivar. "None the less thou art a blot of shame on the class from which thou hast degenerated, because thy ancestors did not give up the nobility which they had forfeited by their degradation."
"Well, if I am going to be a nobleman at last," replied Ivar, whose courage increased in proportion as the anger of the other arose, "then I will be your equal, and have the right of testing my fist on you, as you did on me."
"Art thou mad? wouldst thou like to go to a lunatic asylum?" was the contemptuous reply of the officer, who now turned his entire attention toward the horse. By the united exertions of both, they finally succeeded in raising the animal, which moved off three or four paces, and again fell upon its knees on the ground. Aside from this difficulty, the road was so very bad, in consequence of rain of several days' duration, that it would have been a hard task, even for a more powerful horse than the pony, to make five quarters of a mile without becoming fatigued. The officer, Ivar, and his pony as well, were at length released by a fortunate accident. The noise of a distant carriage was heard approaching from the other side of the forest, and soon afterward an empty wagon, drawn by two powerful horses, arrived at the scene of the accident. The officer immediately called on the new comer, and commanded him to unharness one of his horses, without any hesitation, and fasten him to the cart. A peasant's objection does not amount to much during a war, as is well known, and for this reason the other immediately obeyed the officer's command in silence. As soon as everything was prepared, the officer mounted the cart, and a second time cried out to Ivar,—
"Hear thee, lout, if thy pony should ever regain his feet, thou canst obtain thy cart at the next tavern, and mayst be thankful to God and my forbearance if I do not enter my complaint in the service-book at the next station."
With these words, he lashed his new horse, and Ivar's cart soon disappeared, with his tormentor.
