惊婚记 英文版 Quentin Durward
瓦尔特.司各特 Sir Walter Scott
CHAPTER IV: THE DEJEUNER Page 2
Jacqueline vanished; and so much was Quentin Durward interestedin her sudden disappearance that it broke his previous thread ofreflection, and he complied mechanically when Maitre Pierre said,in the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed, as he threw himselfcarelessly upon a large easy chair, "Place that tray beside me."
The merchant then let his dark eyebrows sink over his keen eyes sothat the last became scarce visible, or but shot forth occasionallya quick and vivid ray, like those of the sun setting behind a darkcloud, through which its beams are occasionally darted, but singlyand for an instant.
"That is a beautiful creature," said the old man at last, raisinghis head, and looking steadily and firmly at Quentin, when he putthe question, -- "a lovely girl to be the servant of an auberge(an inn)? She might grace the board of an honest burgess; but 'tisa vile education, a base origin."
It sometimes happens that a chance shot will demolish a noble castlein the air, and the architect on such occasions entertains littlegoodwill towards him who fires it, although the damage on theoffender's part may be wholly unintentional. Quentin was disconcerted,and was disposed to be angry -- he himself knew not why -- withthis old man, for acquainting him that this beautiful creaturewas neither more nor less than what her occupation announced; theservant of the auberge -- an upper servant, indeed, and probablya niece of the landlord, or such like; but still a domestic, andobliged to comply with the humour of the customers, and particularlyof Maitre Pierre, who probably had sufficiency of whims, and wasrich enough to ensure their being attended to.
The thought, the lingering thought, again returned on him, that heought to make the old gentleman understand the difference betwixttheir conditions, and call on him to mark, that, how rich soeverhe might be, his wealth put him on no level with a Durward of GlenHoulakin. Yet, whenever he looked on Maitre Pierre's countenancewith such a purpose, there was, notwithstanding the downcast look,pinched features, and mean and miserly dress, something whichprevented the young man from asserting the superiority over themerchant which he conceived himself to possess. On the contrary,the oftener and more fixedly Quentin looked at him, the strongerbecame his curiosity to know who or what this man actually was; andhe set him down internally for at least a Syndic or high magistrateof Tours, or one who was, in some way or other, in the full habitof exacting and receiving deference. Meantime, the merchant seemedagain sunk into a reverie, from which he raised himself only tomake the sign of the cross devoutly, and to eat some of the driedfruit, with a morsel of biscuit. He then signed to Quentin to givehim the cup, adding, however, by way of question, as he presentedit, "You are noble, you say?"
"I surely am," replied the Scot, "if fifteen descents can make meso -- so I told you before. But do not constrain yourself on thataccount, Maitre Pierre -- I have always been taught it is the dutyof the young to assist the more aged."
"An excellent maxim," said the merchant, availing himself of theyouth's assistance in handing the cup, and filling it from a ewerwhich seemed of the same materials with the goblet, without any ofthose scruples in point of propriety which, perhaps, Quentin hadexpected to excite.
"The devil take the ease and familiarity of this old mechanicalburgher!" said Durward once more to himself. "He uses the attendanceof a noble Scottish gentleman with as little ceremony as I wouldthat of a gillie from Glen Isla."
The merchant, in the meanwhile, having finished his cup of water,said to his companion, "From the zeal with which you seem to relishthe Vin de Beaulne, I fancy you would not care much to pledge mein this elemental liquor. But I have an elixir about me which canconvert even the rock water into the richest wines of France."
As he spoke, he took a large purse from his bosom, made of the furof the sea otter, and streamed a shower of small silver pieces intothe goblet, until the cup, which was but a small one, was more thanhalf full.
"You have reason to be more thankful, young man," said Maitre Pierre,"both to your patron Saint Quentin and to Saint Julian, than youseemed to be but now. I would advise you to bestow alms in theirname. Remain in this hostelry until you see your kinsman, LeBalafre, who will be relieved from guard in the afternoon. I willcause him to be acquainted that he may find you here, for I havebusiness in the Castle."
Quentin Durward would have said something to have excused himselffrom accepting the profuse liberality of his new friend; but MaitrePierre, bending his dark brows, and erecting his stooping figureinto an attitude of more dignity than he had yet seen him assume,said in a tone of authority, "No reply, young man, but do what youare commanded."
With these words he left the apartment, making a sign, as hedeparted, that Quentin must not follow him.
The young Scotsman stood astounded, and knew not what to think ofthe matter. His first most natural, though perhaps not most dignifiedimpulse, drove him to peer into the silver goblet, which assuredlywas more than half full of silver pieces to the number of severalscores, of which perhaps Quentin had never called twenty hisown at one time during the course of his whole life. But could hereconcile it to his dignity as a gentleman, to accept the money ofthis wealthy plebeian? -- This was a trying question; for, thoughhe had secured a good breakfast, it was no great reserve uponwhich to travel either back to Dijon, in case he chose to hazardthe wrath and enter the service of the Duke of Burgundy, or to SaintQuentin, if he fixed on that of the Constable Saint Paul; for toone of those powers, if not to the king of France, he was determinedto offer his services. He perhaps took the wisest resolution in thecircumstances, in resolving to be guided by the advice of his uncle;and, in the meantime, he put the money into his velvet hawking pouch,and called for the landlord of the house, in order to restore thesilver cup -- resolving, at the same time, to ask him some questionsabout this liberal and authoritative merchant.
The man of the house appeared presently; and, if not morecommunicative, was at least more loquacious, than he had beenformerly. He positively declined to take back the silver cup. Itwas none of his, he said, but Maitre Pierre's, who had bestowed iton his guest. He had, indeed, four silver hanaps of his own, whichhad been left him by his grandmother, of happy memory, but nomore like the beautiful carving of that in his guest's hand, thana peach was like a turnip -- that was one of the famous cups ofTours, wrought by Martin Dominique, an artist who might brag allParis.
"And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre," said Durward, interruptinghim, "who confers such valuable gifts on strangers?"
"Ay," said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, "who is this MaitrePierre, and why does he throw about his bounties in this fashion?And who is the butcherly looking fellow whom he sent forward toorder breakfast?"
"Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you should have askedthe question of himself; and for the gentleman who ordered breakfastto be made ready, may God keep us from his closer acquaintance!"
"There is something mysterious in all this," said the young Scot."This Maitre Pierre tells me he is a merchant."
"And if he told you so," said the innkeeper, "surely he is amerchant."
"What commodities does he deal in?"
"Oh, many a fair matter of traffic," said the host; "and especiallyhe has set up silk manufactories here which match those rich balesthat the Venetians bring from India and Cathay. You might see therows of mulberry trees as you came hither, all planted by MaitrePierre's command, to feed the silk worms."
"And that young person who brought in the confections, who is she,my good friend?" said the guest.
"My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort of aunt or kinswoman,as I think," replied the innkeeper.
"And do you usually employ your guests in waiting on each other?"said Durward; "for I observed that Maitre Pierre would take nothingfrom your hand, or that of your attendant."
"Rich men may have their fancies, for they can pay for them," saidthe landlord; "this is not the first time Maitre Pierre has foundthe true way to make gentlefolks serve at his beck."
The young Scotsman felt somewhat offended at the insinuation; but,disguising his resentment, he asked whether he could be accommodatedwith an apartment at this place for a day, and perhaps longer.
"Certainly," the innkeeper replied; "for whatever time he waspleased to command it."
"Could he be permitted," he asked, "to pay his respects to theladies, whose fellow lodger he was about to become?"
The innkeeper was uncertain. "They went not abroad," he said, "andreceived no one at home."
"With the exception, I presume, of Maitre Pierre?" said Durward.
"I am not at liberty to name any exceptions," answered the man,firmly but respectfully.
Quentin, who carried the notions of his own importance pretty high,considering how destitute he was of means to support them, beingsomewhat mortified by the innkeeper's reply, did not hesitate toavail himself of a practice common enough in that age. "Carry tothe ladies," he said, "a flask of vernat, with my humble duty; andsay that Quentin Durward, of the house of Glen Houlakin, a Scottishcavalier of honour, and now their fellow lodger, desires thepermission to dedicate his homage to them in a personal interview."
The messenger departed, and returned, almost instantly, with thethanks of the ladies, who declined the proffered refreshment, and,with their acknowledgments to the Scottish cavalier, regrettedthat, residing there in privacy, they could not receive his visit.
Quentin bit his lip, took a cup of the rejected vernat, which thehost had placed on the table. "By the mass, but this is a strangecountry," said he to himself, "where merchants and mechanics exercise themanners and munificence of nobles, and little travelling damsels,who hold their court in a cabaret (a public house), keep their statelike disguised princesses! I will see that black browed maidenagain, or it will go hard, however;" and having formed this prudentresolution, he demanded to be conducted to the apartment which hewas to call his own.
The landlord presently ushered him up a turret staircase, andfrom thence along a gallery, with many doors opening from it, likethose of cells in a convent; a resemblance which our young hero,who recollected, with much ennui, an early specimen of a monasticlife, was far from admiring. The host paused at the very end ofthe gallery, selected a key from the large bunch which he carriedat his girdle, opened the door, and showed his guest the interiorof a turret chamber; small, indeed, but which, being clean andsolitary, and having the pallet bed and the few articles of furniture,in unusually good order, seemed, on the whole, a little palace.
"I hope you will find your dwelling agreeable here, fair sir," saidthe landlord. "I am bound to pleasure every friend of Maitre Pierre."
"Oh, happy ducking!" exclaimed Quentin Durward, cutting a caper onthe floor, so soon as his host had retired: "Never came good luckin a better or a wetter form. I have been fairly deluged by my goodfortune."
As he spoke thus, he stepped towards the little window, which, asthe turret projected considerably from the principal line of thebuilding, not only commanded a very pretty garden of some extent,belonging to the inn, but overlooked, beyond its boundary, a pleasantgrove of those very mulberry trees which Maitre Pierre was saidto have planted for the support of the silk worm. Besides, turningthe eye from these more remote objects, and looking straight alongthe wall, the turret of Quentin was opposite to another turret,and the little window at which he stood commanded a similar littlewindow in a corresponding projection of the building. Now, it wouldbe difficult for a man twenty years older than Quentin to say whythis locality interested him more than either the pleasant gardenor the grove of mulberry trees; for, alas! eyes which have beenused for forty years and upwards, look with indifference on littleturret windows, though the lattice be half open to admit the air,while the shutter is half closed to exclude the sun, or perhaps atoo curious eye -- nay, even though there hang on the one side ofthe casement a lute, partly mantled by a light veil of sea greensilk. But, at Durward's happy age, such accidents, as a painterwould call them, form sufficient foundation for a hundred airyvisions and mysterious conjectures, at recollection of which thefull grown man smiles while he sighs, and sighs while he smiles.
As it may be supposed that our friend Quentin wished to learn alittle more of his fair neighbour, the owner of the lute and veil-- as it may be supposed he was at least interested to know whethershe might not prove the same whom he had seen in humble attendanceon Maitre Pierre, it must of course be understood that he did notproduce a broad staring visage and person in full front of hisown casement. Durward knew better the art of bird catching; and itwas to his keeping his person skilfully withdrawn on one side ofhis window; while he peeped through the lattice, that he owed thepleasure of seeing a white, round, beautiful arm take down theinstrument, and that his ears had presently after their share inthe reward of his dexterous management.
The maid of the little turret, of the veil, and of the lute sangexactly such an air as we are accustomed to suppose flowed fromthe lips of the high born dames of chivalry, when knights andtroubadours listened and languished. The words had neither so muchsense, wit, or fancy as to withdraw the attention from the music,nor the music so much of art as to drown all feeling of the words.The one seemed fitted to the other; and if the song had been recitedwithout the notes, or the air played without the words, neitherwould have been worth noting. It is; therefore, scarcely fair toput upon record lines intended not to be said or read, but only tobe sung. But such scraps of old poetry have always had a sort offascination for us; and as the tune is lost for ever unless Bishop(Sir Henry Rowley, an English composer and professor of music atOxford in 1848. Among his most popular operas are Guy Manneringand The Kniqht of Snowdon) happens to find the notes, or some larkteaches Stephens (Catherine (1794-1882): a vocalist and actresswho created Susanna in the Marriage of Figaro, and various partsin adaptation of Scott.) to warble the air -- we will risk ourcredit, and the taste of the Lady of the Lute, by preserving theverses, simple and even rude as they are:
the casement was closed, and a dark curtain, dropped on theinside,
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,Sits hush'd his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,Her shepherd's suit to hear;To beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings high born Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky;And high and low the influence know --But where is County Guy?
Whatever the reader may think of this simple ditty, it had apowerful effect on Quentin, when married to heavenly airs, and sungby a sweet and melting voice, the notes mingling with the gentlebreezes which wafted perfumes from the garden, and the figure ofthe songstress being so partially and obscurely visible as threwa veil of mysterious fascination over the whole.
At the close of the air, the listener could not help showing himselfmore boldly than he had yet done, in a rash attempt to see morethan he had yet been able to discover. The music instantly ceased-- the casement was closed, and a dark curtain, dropped on theinside, put a stop to all farther observation on the part of theneighbour in the next turret.
Durward was mortified and surprised at the consequence of hisprecipitance, but comforted himself with the hope that the Lady ofthe Lute could neither easily forego the practice of an instrumentwhich seemed so familiar to her, nor cruelly resolve to renouncethe pleasures of fresh air and an open window for the churlishpurpose of preserving for her own exclusive ear the sweet soundswhich she created. There came, perhaps, a little feeling ofpersonal vanity to mingle with these consolatory reflections. If,as he shrewdly suspected, there was a beautiful dark tressed damselinhabitant of the one turret, he could not but be conscious thata handsome, young, roving, bright locked gallant, a cavalier offortune, was the tenant of the other; and romances, those prudentinstructors, had taught his youth that if damsels were shy, they wereyet neither void of interest nor of curiosity in their neighbours'affairs.
Whilst Quentin was engaged in these sage reflections, a sort ofattendant or chamberlain of the inn informed him that a cavalierdesired to speak with him below.