20 лучших повестей на английском / 20 Best Short Novels

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 delirium, and asked how long he had been ill, fancy his astonishment 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 levity; 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 considerably 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 garb 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 forth on his return to his native country. As he went along, he learned that Richard was dead, that John reigned, that Prince Arthur had been poisoned, and was of course made acquainted with various other facts of public importance recorded in Pinnock’s Catechism[785] 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 perils, he came in sight of his paternal mansion 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 check 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 jug. 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 felon 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 Christian ending!’

‘And didst thou see the archer flayed 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 kinsman 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 odious hussy! don’t mention the name of the unbelieving creature,’ exclaimed the lady.

‘Well, well, poor Wil was a good lad – a thought melancholy and milksop though. Why, a pint 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 cloister.’

‘And there’s an end of him,’ said Athelstane. ‘But come, this is dismal 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.’