The suspicious-looking characters from whom Wamba ran away were no cut-throats and plunderers, as the poor knave3 imagined, but no other than Ivanhoe’s friend, the hermit4, and a reverend brother of his, who visited the scene of the late battle in order to see if any Christians5 still survived there, whom they might shrive and get ready for heaven, or to whom they might possibly offer the benefit of their skill as leeches7. Both were prodigiously8 learned in the healing art; and had about them those precious elixirs9 which so often occur in romances, and with which patients are so miraculously11 restored. Abruptly12 dropping his master’s head from his lap as he fled, poor Wamba caused the knight13’s pate14 to fall with rather a heavy thump15 to the ground, and if the knave had but stayed a minute longer, he would have heard Sir Wilfrid utter a deep groan16. But though the fool heard him not, the holy hermits17 did; and to recognize the gallant18 Wilfrid, to withdraw the enormous dagger19 still sticking out of his back, to wash the wound with a portion of the precious elixir10, and to pour a little of it down his throat, was with the excellent hermits the work of an instant: which remedies being applied20, one of the good men took the knight by the heels and the other by the head, and bore him daintily from the castle to their hermitage in a neighboring rock. As for the Count of Chalus, and the remainder of the slain21, the hermits were too much occupied with Ivanhoe’s case to mind them, and did not, it appears, give them any elixir: so that, if they are really dead, they must stay on the rampart stark22 and cold; or if otherwise, when the scene closes upon them as it does now, they may get up, shake themselves, go to the slips and drink a pot of porter, or change their stage-clothes and go home to supper. My dear readers, you may settle the matter among yourselves as you like. If you wish to kill the characters really off, let them be dead, and have done with them: but, entre nous, I don’t believe they are any more dead than you or I are, and sometimes doubt whether there is a single syllable23 of truth in this whole story.
Well, Ivanhoe was taken to the hermits’ cell, and there doctored by the holy fathers for his hurts; which were of such a severe and dangerous order, that he was under medical treatment for a very considerable time. When he woke up from his delirium24, and asked how long he had been ill, fancy his astonishment25 when he heard that he had been in the fever for six years! He thought the reverend fathers were joking at first, but their profession forbade them from that sort of levity26; and besides, he could not possibly have got well any sooner, because the story would have been sadly put out had he appeared earlier. And it proves how good the fathers were to him, and how very nearly that scoundrel of a Roger de Backbite’s dagger had finished him, that he did not get well under this great length of time; during the whole of which the fathers tended him without ever thinking of a fee. I know of a kind physician in this town who does as much sometimes; but I won’t do him the ill service of mentioning his name here.
Ivanhoe, being now quickly pronounced well, trimmed his beard, which by this time hung down considerably27 below his knees, and calling for his suit of chain-armor, which before had fitted his elegant person as tight as wax, now put it on, and it bagged and hung so loosely about him, that even the good friars laughed at his absurd appearance. It was impossible that he should go about the country in such a garb28 as that: the very boys would laugh at him: so the friars gave him one of their old gowns, in which he disguised himself, and after taking an affectionate farewell of his friends, set forth29 on his return to his native country. As he went along, he learned that Richard was dead, that John reigned30, that Prince Arthur had been poisoned, and was of course made acquainted with various other facts of public importance recorded in Pinnock’s Catechism and the Historic Page.
But these subjects did not interest him near so much as his own private affairs; and I can fancy that his legs trembled under him, and his pilgrim’s staff shook with emotion, as at length, after many perils31, he came in sight of his paternal32 mansion33 of Rotherwood, and saw once more the chimneys smoking, the shadows of the oaks over the grass in the sunset, and the rooks winging over the trees. He heard the supper gong sounding: he knew his way to the door well enough; he entered the familiar hall with a benedicite, and without any more words took his place.
***
You might have thought for a moment that the gray friar trembled and his shrunken cheek looked deadly pale; but he recovered himself presently: nor could you see his pallor for the cowl which covered his face.
A little boy was playing on Athelstane’s knee; Rowena smiling and patting the Saxon Thane fondly on his broad bullhead, filled him a huge cup of spiced wine from a golden jug34. He drained a quart of the liquor, and, turning round, addressed the friar:—
“And so, gray frere, thou sawest good King Richard fall at Chalus by the bolt of that felon35 bowman?”
“We did, an it please you. The brothers of our house attended the good King in his last moments: in truth, he made a Christian6 ending!”
“And didst thou see the archer36 flayed37 alive? It must have been rare sport,” roared Athelstane, laughing hugely at the joke. “How the fellow must have howled!”
“My love!” said Rowena, interposing tenderly, and putting a pretty white finger on his lip.
“I would have liked to see it too,” cried the boy.
“That’s my own little Cedric, and so thou shalt. And, friar, didst see my poor kinsman38 Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe? They say he fought well at Chalus!”
“My sweet lord,” again interposed Rowena, “mention him not.”
“Why? Because thou and he were so tender in days of yore — when you could not bear my plain face, being all in love with his pale one?”
“Those times are past now, dear Athelstane,” said his affectionate wife, looking up to the ceiling.
“Marry, thou never couldst forgive him the Jewess, Rowena.”
“The odious39 hussy! don’t mention the name of the unbelieving creature,” exclaimed the lady.
“Well, well, poor Wil was a good lad — a thought melancholy40 and milksop though. Why, a pint41 of sack fuddled his poor brains.”
“Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was a good lance,” said the friar. “I have heard there was none better in Christendom. He lay in our convent after his wounds, and it was there we tended him till he died. He was buried in our north cloister42.”
“And there’s an end of him,” said Athelstane. “But come, this is dismal43 talk. Where’s Wamba the Jester? Let us have a song. Stir up, Wamba, and don’t lie like a dog in the fire! Sing us a song, thou crack-brained jester, and leave off whimpering for bygones. Tush, man! There be many good fellows left in this world.”
“There be buzzards in eagles’ nests,” Wamba said, who was lying stretched before the fire, sharing the hearth44 with the Thane’s dogs. “There be dead men alive, and live men dead. There be merry songs and dismal songs. Marry, and the merriest are the saddest sometimes. I will leave off motley and wear black, gossip Athelstane. I will turn howler at funerals, and then, perhaps, I shall be merry. Motley is fit for mutes, and black for fools. Give me some drink, gossip, for my voice is as cracked as my brain.”
“Drink and sing, thou beast, and cease prating,” the Thane said.
And Wamba, touching45 his rebeck wildly, sat up in the chimney-side and curled his lean shanks together and began:—
“LOVE AT TWO SCORE.
“Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber’s shear46,
All your aim is woman to win —
This is the way that boys begin —
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!
“Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybells’ window-panes.
Wait till you’ve come to forty year!
“Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass2,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.
“Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray:
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow, and wearisome, ere
Ever a month was passed away?
“The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month was gone.
“Gillian’s dead, Heaven rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne47!
Marian’s married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.”
“Who taught thee that merry lay, Wamba, thou son of Witless?” roared Athelstane, clattering48 his cup on the table and shouting the chorus.
“It was a good and holy hermit, sir, the pious49 clerk of Copmanhurst, that you wot of, who played many a prank50 with us in the days that we knew King Richard. Ah, noble sir, that was a jovial51 time and a good priest.”
“They say the holy priest is sure of the next bishopric, my love,” said Rowena. “His Majesty52 hath taken him into much favor. My Lord of Huntingdon looked very well at the last ball; but I never could see any beauty in the Countess — a freckled53, blowsy thing, whom they used to call Maid Marian: though, for the matter of that, what between her flirtations with Major Littlejohn and Captain Scarlett, really —”
“Jealous again — haw! haw!” laughed Athelstane.
“I am above jealousy54, and scorn it,” Rowena answered, drawing herself up very majestically55.
“Well, well, Wamba’s was a good song,” Athelstane said.
“Nay, a wicked song,” said Rowena, turning up her eyes as usual. “What! rail at woman’s love? Prefer a filthy56 wine cup to a true wife? Woman’s love is eternal, my Athelstane. He who questions it would be a blasphemer were he not a fool. The well-born and well-nurtured gentlewoman loves once and once only.”
“I pray you, madam, pardon me, I— I am not well,” said the gray friar, rising abruptly from his settle, and tottering57 down the steps of the dais. Wamba sprung after him, his bells jingling58 as he rose, and casting his arms around the apparently59 fainting man, he led him away into the court. “There be dead men alive and live men dead,” whispered he. “There be coffins60 to laugh at and marriages to cry over. Said I not sooth, holy friar?” And when they had got out into the solitary61 court, which was deserted62 by all the followers63 of the Thane, who were mingling64 in the drunken revelry in the hall, Wamba, seeing that none were by, knelt down, and kissing the friar’s garment, said, “I knew thee, I knew thee, my lord and my liege!”
“Get up,” said Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, scarcely able to articulate: “only fools are faithful.”
And he passed on, and into the little chapel65 where his father lay buried. All night long the friar spent there: and Wamba the Jester lay outside watching as mute as the saint over the porch.
When the morning came, Wumba was gone; and the knave being in the habit of wandering hither and thither66 as he chose, little notice was taken of his absence by a master and mistress who had not much sense of humor. As for Sir Wilfrid, a gentleman of his delicacy67 of feelings could not be expected to remain in a house where things so naturally disagreeable to him were occurring, and he quitted Rotherwood incontinently, after paying a dutiful visit to the tomb where his old father, Cedric, was buried; and hastened on to York, at which city he made himself known to the family attorney, a most respectable man, in whose hands his ready money was deposited, and took up a sum sufficient to fit himself out with credit, and a handsome retinue68, as became a knight of consideration. But he changed his name, wore a wig69 and spectacles, and disguised himself entirely70, so that it was impossible his friends or the public should know him, and thus metamorphosed, went about whithersoever his fancy led him. He was present at a public ball at York, which the lord mayor gave, danced Sir Roger de Coverley in the very same set with Rowena —(who was disgusted that Maid Marian took precedence of her)— he saw little Athelstane overeat himself at the supper and pledge his big father in a cup of sack; he met the Reverend Mr. Tuck at a missionary71 meeting, where he seconded a resolution proposed by that eminent72 divine; — in fine, he saw a score of his old acquaintances, none of whom recognized in him the warrior73 of Palestine and Templestowe. Having a large fortune and nothing to do, he went about this country performing charities, slaying74 robbers, rescuing the distressed75, and achieving noble feats76 of arms. Dragons and giants existed in his day no more, or be sure he would have had a fling at them: for the truth is, Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was somewhat sick of the life which the hermits of Chalus had restored to him, and felt himself so friendless and solitary that he would not have been sorry to come to an end of it. Ah, my dear friends and intelligent British public, are there not others who are melancholy under a mask of gayety, and who, in the midst of crowds, are lonely? Liston was a most melancholy man; Grimaldi had feelings; and there are others I wot of:— but psha! — let us have the next chapter.
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1
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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8
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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elixirs
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| n.炼金药，长生不老药( elixir的名词复数 )；酏剂 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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24
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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26
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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27
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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28
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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30
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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31
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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32
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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35
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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37
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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38
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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39
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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40
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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42
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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43
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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44
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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45
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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46
shear
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| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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47
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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48
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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49
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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50
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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51
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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52
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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53
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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57
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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58
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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59
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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60
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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61
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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66
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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69
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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72
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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74
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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75
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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76
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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