Stevenson The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol 7

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-174-8
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 313 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol 7 is a collection of works written by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is part of the Swanston Edition of Stevenson's works, which was published in the early 20th century. The collection likely includes a variety of Stevenson's writings, including fiction, poetry, and essays.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Stevenson, Robert Louis

Leseproben

CHAPTER II
IN WHICH THE PRINCE PLAYS HAROUN-AL-RASCHID The night fell upon the Prince while he was threading green tracks in the lower valleys of the wood; and though the stars came out overhead and displayed the interminable order of the pine-tree pyramids, regular and dark like cypresses, their light was of small service to a traveller in such lonely paths, and from thenceforth he rode at random. The austere face of nature, the uncertain issue of his course, the open sky and the free air, delighted him like wine; and the hoarse chafing of a river on his left sounded in his ears agreeably. It was past eight at night before his toil was rewarded and he issued at last out of the forest on the firm white high-road. It lay downhill before him with a sweeping eastward trend, faintly bright between the thickets; and Otto paused and gazed upon it. So it ran, league after league, still joining others, to the farthest ends of Europe, there skirting the sea-surge, here gleaming in the lights of cities; and the innumerable army of tramps and travellers moved upon it in all lands as by a common impulse, and were now in all places drawing near to the inn door and the night’s rest. The pictures swarmed and vanished in his brain; a surge of temptation, a beat of all his blood, went over him, to set spur to the mare and to go on into the unknown for ever. And then it passed away; hunger and fatigue, and that habit of middling actions which we call common sense, resumed their empire; and in that changed mood his eye lighted upon two bright windows on his left hand, between the road and river. He turned off by a by-road, and in a few minutes he was knocking with his whip on the door of a large farmhouse, and a chorus of dogs from the farmyard were making angry answer. A very tall, old, white-headed man came, shading a candle, at the summons. He had been of great strength in his time, and of a handsome countenance; but now he was fallen away, his teeth were quite gone, and his voice when he spoke was broken and falsetto. “You will pardon me,” said Otto. “I am a traveller and have entirely lost my way.” “Sir,” said the old man, in a very stately, shaky manner, “you are at the River Farm, and I am Killian Gottesheim, at your disposal. We are here, sir, at about an equal distance from Mittwalden in Grünewald and Brandenau in Gerolstein: six leagues to either, and the road excellent; but there is not a wine-bush, not a carter’s alehouse, anywhere between. You will have to accept my hospitality for the night; rough hospitality, to which I make you freely welcome; for, sir,” he added, with a bow, “it is God who sends the guest.” “Amen. And I most heartily thank you,” replied Otto, bowing in his turn. “Fritz,” said the old man, turning towards the interior, “lead round this gentleman’s horse; and you, sir, condescend to enter.” Otto entered a chamber occupying the greater part of the ground-floor of the building. It had probably once been divided; for the farther end was raised by a long step above the nearer, and the blazing fire and the white supper-table seemed to stand upon a daïs. All around were dark, brass-mounted cabinets and cupboards; dark shelves carrying ancient country crockery; guns and antlers and broadside ballads on the wall; a tall old clock with roses on the dial; and down in one corner the comfortable promise of a wine-barrel. It was homely, elegant, and quaint. A powerful youth hurried out to attend on the grey mare; and when Mr. Killian Gottesheim had presented him to his daughter Ottilia, Otto followed to the stable as became, not perhaps the Prince, but the good horseman. When he returned, a smoking omelette and some slices of home-cured ham were waiting him; these were followed by a ragout and a cheese; and it was not until his guest had entirely satisfied his hunger, and the whole party drew about the fire over the wine-jug, that Killian Gottesheim’s elaborate courtesy permitted him to address a question to the Prince. “You have perhaps ridden far, sir?” he inquired. “I have, as you say, ridden far,” replied Otto; “and, as you have seen, I was prepared to do justice to your daughter’s cookery.” “Possibly, sir, from the direction of Brandenau?” continued Killian. “Precisely: and I should have slept to-night, had I not wandered, in Mittwalden,” answered the Prince, weaving in a patch of truth, according to the habit of all liars. “Business leads you to Mittwalden?” was the next question. “Mere curiosity,” said Otto. “I have never yet visited the principality of Grünewald.” “A pleasant state, sir,” piped the old man, nodding, “a very pleasant state, and a fine race, both pines and people. We reckon ourselves part Grünewalders here, lying so near the borders; and the river there is all good Grünewald water, every drop of it. Yes, sir, a fine state. A man of Grünewald now will swing me an axe over his head that many a man of Gerolstein could hardly lift; and the pines, why, deary me, there must be more pines in that little state, sir, than people in this whole big world. ’Tis twenty years now since I crossed the marshes, for we grow home-keepers in old age; but I mind it as if it was yesterday. Up and down, the road keeps right on from here to Mittwalden; and nothing all the way but the good green pine-trees, big and little, and water-power! water-power at every step, sir. We once sold a bit of forest, up there beside the high-road; and the sight of minted money that we got for it has set me ciphering ever since what all the pines in Grünewald would amount to.” “I suppose you see nothing of the Prince?” inquired Otto. “No,” said the young man, speaking for the first time, “nor want to.” “Why so? is he so much disliked?” asked Otto. “Not what you might call disliked,” replied the old gentleman, “but despised, sir.” “Indeed,” said the Prince, somewhat faintly. “Yes, sir, despised,” nodded Killian, filling a long pipe, “and, to my way of thinking, justly despised. Here is a man with great opportunities, and what does he do with them? He hunts, and he dresses very prettily—which is a thing to be ashamed of in a man—and he acts plays; and if he does aught else, the news of it has not come here.” “Yet these are all innocent,” said Otto. “What would you have him do—make war?” “No, sir,” replied the old man. “But here it is: I have been fifty years upon this River Farm, and wrought in it, day in, day out; I have ploughed and sowed and reaped, and risen early, and waked late; and this is the upshot: that all these years it has supported me and my family; and been the best friend that ever I had, set aside my wife; and now, when my time comes, I leave it a better farm than when I found it. So it is, if a man works hearty in the order of nature, he gets bread and he receives comfort, and whatever he touches breeds. And it humbly appears to me, if that Prince was to labour on his throne, as I have laboured and wrought in my farm, he would find both an increase and a blessing.” “I believe with you, sir,” Otto said; “and yet the parallel is inexact. For the farmer’s life is natural and simple; but the prince’s is both artificial and complicated. It is easy to do right in the one, and exceedingly difficult not to do wrong in the other. If your crop is blighted, you can take off your bonnet and say, ‘God’s will be done’; but if the prince meets with a reverse, he may have to blame himself for the attempt. And, perhaps, if all the kings in Europe were to confine themselves to innocent amusement, the subjects would be the better off.” “Ay,” said the young man Fritz, “you are in the right of it there. That was a true word spoken. And I see you are like me, a good patriot and an enemy to princes.” Otto was somewhat abashed at this deduction, and he made haste to change his ground. “But,” said he, “you surprise me by what you say of this Prince Otto. I have heard him, I must own, more favourably painted. I was told he was, in his heart, a good fellow, and the enemy of no one but himself.” “And so he is, sir,” said the girl, “a very handsome, pleasant prince; and we know some who would shed their blood for him.” “O! Kuno!” said Fritz. “An ignoramus!” “Ay, Kuno, to be sure,” quavered the old farmer. “Well, since this gentleman is a stranger to these parts, and curious about the Prince, I do believe that story might divert him. This Kuno, you must know, sir, is one of the hunt servants, and a most ignorant, intemperate man: a right Grünewalder, as we say in Gerolstein. We know him well, in this house; for he has come as far as here after his stray dogs; and I make all welcome, sir, without account of state or nation. And, indeed, between Gerolstein and Grünewald the peace has held so long that the roads stand open like my door; and a man will make no more of the frontier than the very birds themselves.” “Ay,” said Otto, “it has been a long peace—a peace of centuries.” “Centuries, as you say,” returned Killian: “the more the pity that it should not be for ever. Well, sir, this Kuno was one day in fault, and Otto, who has a quick temper, up with his whip and thrashed him, they do say, soundly. Kuno took it as best he could, but at last he broke out, and dared the Prince to throw his whip away and wrestle like a man; for we are all great at wrestling in these parts, and it’s so that we generally settle our disputes. Well, sir, the...