Адаптация текста, составление комментариев, упражнений и словаря М. С. Пирогова

© Пирогов М. С., адаптация текста, комментарии, упражнения, словарь

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Ivanhoe

In that beautiful part of England where flows the river Don^[1] there was in ancient times a large forest, where lived famous bandits. Their adventures have been described in many English ballads.

This is our scene. The date of our story refers to a period towards the end of the reign of Richard I,^[2] who was still in prison in a foreign country, while his subjects were oppressed in every possible way. The nobles had become powerful, and each one of them wanted to have a castle and an army.

Four generations since the Conquest by Duke William of Normandy^[3] had not been enough to make one people out of the victors Normans and the defeated Anglo-Saxons. After the battle of Hastings^[4] the power had been completely placed in the hands of the Norman nobility, and almost all of Saxon princes and nobles had been destroyed.

Two men were walking slowly in the forest with a herd of pigs before them. The swineherd was grim and silent. His thick hair had a rusty dark-red colour and around his neck he had a brass ring like a dog’s collar. On this necklace there was the following inscription – “Gurth, the son of Beowulph, is a born slave of Cedric of Rotherwood.”^[5] His companion was a jester named Wamba. They both belonged to one man and were on their way home. “Listen,” said Gurth, “a terrible storm is raging within a few miles of us, don’t you hear the thunder? Let’s get home before it gets here.”

A group of horsemen overtook them on the road. There were ten men; the two who rode the first seemed to be important persons. One of them was obviously a member of the church of a high rank – he was a monk, but his clothes were very expensive. He was accompanied by two other monks and two servants.

The companion of the monk was a man past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular. His face was tanned because of the tropical sun. His piercing dark eyes told in every glance that he had seen much danger. He wore a long monastic cloak and armour underneath it. On his right shoulder there was a white cross. On one side of the saddle there was a short battle-axe, on the other – the rider’s helmet with a long sword. His squires held his lance and a small triangular shield. These squires were followed by two servants, dark-skinned, with white turbans and Eastern dress. They had silver collars round their throats, and bracelets of the same metal upon their arms and legs. The knight and his followers looked wild and foreign.

Gurth knew the monk. It was the Prior of Jorvaulx Abbey, well known for many miles around as a lover of hunting and banquet. He was from a distinguished Norman family and was friends both with the younger and older aristocrats. He knew little, but it was enough to make an impression, and the high tone which he used in promoting the authority of the church made people believe he was a saint. He was generous and spent the money of his Abbey not only on himself but also on poor peasants. The Saxons bowed.

“My children,” said the Prior, “is there in this neighbourhood any good man, who, for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church,^[6] will give two of her servants a night’s hospitality?”

The armed rider added: “Tell us, if you can, the road to—how did you call your Franklin,^[7] Prior Aymer?”

“Cedric,” answered the Prior; “Cedric the Saxon. – Tell me, good fellow, are we near his mansion, and can you show us the road?”

“The road will be uneasy to find,” answered Gurth, “and the family of Cedric go to bed early.”

“Hush,” said the Abbot, “do not speak with this reverend brother like that. He has spent his life fighting the Saracens^[8] to recover the Holy Sepulchre;^[9] he is of the order of Knights Templars.^[10] He is half a monk, half a soldier.”

“Well, then,” answered Wamba, “you should go on this road until you come to a cross, then take the road to the left and I believe you will have shelter before the storm comes on.”

The cavalcade rode on, and Gurth said to his companion, “If they follow your wise direction, the reverend fathers will hardly reach Rotherwood this night.”

“No,” said the Jester, smiling, “but they may reach Sheffield if they have good luck, and that is a good place for them.”

“You are right,” said Gurth; “it would be bad if that Aymer saw the Lady Rowena; and it would be worse for Cedric to have a quarrel, as he most likely would, with this military monk.”

In the meanwhile the riders talked on their way.

Prior Aymer said: “Remember what I told you: this wealthy Franklin is proud, fierce, jealous, and easy to irritate, he can stand against the nobles, even his neighbours, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip Malvoisin, who are no babies to fight with. He stands up so proudly for the privileges of his people that he is universally called Cedric the Saxon.”

“Then I expect much beauty in this famous Rowena to reward me for being polite with such a man as her father Cedric,” said the Templar.

“Cedric is not her father,” replied the Prior, “he is a distant relative: she is descended from higher blood than even he pretends to. He is only her guardian, but his ward is as dear to him as if she were his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be judge; but, brother, take my advice, and be polite. Cedric the Saxon is a man who would clear his house of us, if he thinks that we offended him. And be careful how you look on Rowena. It is said he banished his only son from his family for falling in love with this beauty. But here is the clown’s sunken cross, and the night is so dark that we can hardly see which of the roads we should follow. He told us to turn to the left, I think.”

“To the right,” said Brian, “as far as I can remember.”

“To the left, certainly, the left.”

They went on quarrelling for some time, when the Templar noticed a sleeping man near the cross and touched him with the back of his lance. The man stood up, exclaiming in good French, “Whoever you may be, it is bad of you to disturb me.”

“We only want to ask you,” said the Prior, “the road to Rotherwood, the house of Cedric the Saxon.”

“I am going there myself,” replied the stranger; “and if I had a horse, I would be your guide.”

“You will have both thanks and reward, my friend,” said the Prior, “if you bring us to Cedric’s in safety.”

They gave the stranger a horse and he led them in the opposite direction from that which Wamba had recommended. The road was dangerous because of the marshes it sometimes crossed, but the stranger seemed to know the best way through them. He brought his followers safely to Rotherwood.

Aymer, who felt safe now, became curious and asked the guide who he was.

“A Palmer, just returned from the Holy Land,” was the answer.

The Prior said that he was surprised, that their guide, after such long absence, was so perfectly acquainted with the roads of the forest.

“I was born here,” answered the Palmer.

The mansion of Cedric was a big low irregular building, containing several court-yards, and which was not at all like the tall castles of the Norman nobility.

Rotherwood was not, however, without defenses, it was surrounded by a moat filled with water. There was a gate and a drawbridge.

Before this entrance the Templar blew his horn loudly – it was beginning to rain.

* * *

The dinner was ready on a long oaken table in the wide hall of Rotherwood. There were two great chimneys at the two ends of the hall. The table was in a form of letter T with the shorter part reserved for the host and his guests. In the centre of this part stood two high chairs. On one of them sat Cedric the Saxon, a strong and frank man, though proud, hasty and jealous. He was almost sixty.

Cedric was not in a good mood. The Lady Rowena had just returned from church and was changing her clothes, and he had to wait for her. There were no news of Gurth and his herd (pigs were an important part of the Saxon’s wealth). He also wanted to see Wamba – his favourite jester – who was absent. And finally he hadn’t eaten anything since noon.

“What keeps Gurth so long? Our Norman neighbours are only waiting to steal our herds. Gurth is probably dead already! And Wamba – was he carried away to amuse some Norman lord?”

He thought about his banished son Wilfred, and irritation gave way to sadness. His thoughts were disturbed by a loud sound of horn.

His servants ran to the gates and returned with the news that “the Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx, and the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, commander of the order of Knights Templars, asked for hospitality and lodging for the night”.

“Aymer, the Prior Aymer? Brian de Bois-Guilbert?” muttered Cedric; “They are both Normans… But Norman or Saxon, the hospitality of Rotherwood is unbreakable, they are welcome. Go, Hundebert, take six servants, and show the guests to their rooms. Give them fire, and water to wash, and wine and ale; and ask the cooks to add what they can to our evening meal.

The servants went out.

* * *

Cedric rose to receive his guests.

There was a lot of food on the table: different kinds of meat and fish together with huge loaves of bread and desserts made of fruits and honey.

When everybody was ready to eat, a servant announced the arrival of the Lady Rowena. A side-door opened, and Rowena, followed by four female servants, entered the apartment. Cedric conducted her with ceremony to the second high seat. All stood up to receive her.

The Prior whispered to the Templar: “Do not look at the Lady Rowena like that, the Saxon sees you.” But Brian de Bois-Guilbert did only what he wanted to do. So he kept his eyes fixed on the Saxon beauty.

Rowena was tall, yet not too much. Her clear blue eyes beneath graceful brown eyebrows seemed capable to command as well as to beg. It was clear that she was accustomed to be respected by everyone. When Rowena noticed the Knight’s eyes fixed on her, she drew the veil around her face – to show that she did not like his behaviour. Cedric noticed it. “Sir Templar,” said he, “the cheeks of our Saxon maidens have seen too little of the sun to bear the fixed glance of a crusader.^[11]”

“If I have offended,” replied Sir Brian, “I beg the Lady Rowena’s pardon.”

“The Lady Rowena,” said the Prior, “has punished us all. Let me hope she will be less cruel to the guests who will come to the tournament.”

“Our going there,” said Cedric, “is uncertain”.

“Sir Knight,” said Rowena with dignity, and without unveiling herself, “can I ask you to tell us the latest news from Palestine?”

“I have little to say, lady,” answered Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, “except for confirmed news of truce with Saladin.^[12]”

Conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who announced that there was a stranger at the gate asking to let him in.

“Do it,” said Cedric, “whoever he is.”

* * *

The servant returned and whispered into the ear of his master, “It is a Jew, who calls himself Isaac of York; should I lead him into the hall?”

“St Mary,” said the Abbot, crossing himself, “an unbelieving Jew,^[13] and accepted into our company!”

“But my worthy guests,” said Cedric; “my hospitality must not be bounded by your dislikes. If Heaven let the whole nation of stubborn unbelievers exist for so many years, we can tolerate the presence of one Jew for a few hours.”

A tall thin old man entered bowing. He had an aquiline nose,^[14] piercing black eyes and long grey hair and beard.

He was not received well. Cedric only coldly nodded to him, and nobody made room for him at the table.

While Isaac stood looking in vain for welcome or resting place, the Palmer who sat by the chimney pitied him, and stood up saying, “Old man, my clothes are dried and I have eaten, you are both wet and hungry.” He took some food from the long table, put it upon the small table at which he had himself sat, and went to the other side of the hall, without waiting for the Jew’s thanks.

In the meanwhile the conversation continued.

“Were there any knights in the English army,” said the Lady Rowena, “who fought as bravely as the knights of the Temple, and of St John?^[15]”

“Forgive me, lady,” replied De Bois-Guilbert; “the English monarch indeed brought to Palestine an army of brave knights, second only to those who were constant defenders of that blessed land.”

“Second to none,” said the Palmer, who had stood near enough to hear. Everybody turned in his direction.

“I say,” repeated the Palmer in a firm voice, “that the English knights were second to none. I say that I saw how King Richard and five of his knights fought and defeated three knights each at a tournament in the Holy Land. I add that seven of these defeated knights were knights of the Temple—and Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert knows it is true.”

It is impossible to describe the rage of the Templar. He even put his hand on the handle of his sword.

Cedric didn’t notice the reaction of his guest, he asked the Palmer to name the English champions. The Palmer named five, starting with King Richard. After a moment he said that he didn’t remember the sixth knight.

“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, “I do not believe you have forgotten his name. But I will myself name the knight, before whose lance I fell due to bad luck and a problem with my horse. It was the Knight of Ivanhoe. And I say this loudly: if he comes to England and repeats his challenge in the next tournament I will fight with him.”

“He is not here,” replied the Palmer, “so you’ll have no answer. But if he ever returns from Palestine, I’ll make sure that he meets you.”

The dinner ended and the guests went to their rooms.

“Unbelieving dog,” said the Templar to Isaac the Jew, when he passed him in the crowd, “are you going to the tournament?”

“I am,” replied Isaac, bowing in all humility.

“Yes,” said the Knight, “to make even more money—I believe there is a lot of coins in your bag.”

“Not one coin, I swear!” said the Jew, “I go there only to ask the help of my brothers. I am poor!”

The Templar said, “You are a liar!” and went forward to talk to his Muslim slaves in a language unknown to anybody around.

* * *

When the Palmer was following a servant down the corridor they met a servant of Rowena, who said in a tone of authority that her mistress wanted to speak with the Palmer. She led him to a big and richly decorated room, where Rowena was preparing for sleep. The Palmer bowed.

“Rise, Palmer,” said Rowena graciously. “The defender of the absent has a right to favourable reception from all who value truth. Can you tell me anything about the knight of Ivanhoe?”

“I know little about this knight,” answered the Palmer. “I believe he is going to return to England soon, where you, lady, must know better than I, what is his chance of happiness.” The Lady Rowena sighed deeply.

“I wish,” said the Lady Rowena, “he were here and able to take part in the approaching tournament. If Athelstane of Coningsburgh wins the prize, Ivanhoe will hear bad news when he arrives in England. Thanks, good Palmer, for your information about the companion of my childhood”.

The Palmer bowed again, and went out of the apartment.

In the corridor he found the servant, who conducted him to that part of the building, where there was a number of small apartments for servants and travellers of lower status.