Read Ebook: Skärgårdens vår by M Rne Arvid

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Ebook has 234 lines and 16494 words, and 5 pages

A YOUNG MAN WHO WENT SINGING

It was about five o'clock when we rode into La Fl?che, and the feeling of ill foreboding still possessed me. Partly considering this, and partly as it was improbable I should find the best accommodations anywhere else short of Le Mans, I decided to put up here for the night. As I rode into the central square of the town, I saw an inn there: it had a prosperous and honest look, so I said, "This is the place for my money," and made for it. The square was empty and silent when I entered it, but just as I reached the archway of the inn, I heard a voice singing, whereupon I looked around and saw a young man riding into the square from another street than that I had come from. He was followed by a servant on horseback, and was bound for the same inn. It seems strange in the telling, that a gentleman should ride singing into a public square, as if he were a mountebank or street-singer, yet it appeared quite natural as this young fellow did it. The song was something about brave soldiers and the smiles of ladies--just such a gay song as so handsome a young cavalier ought to sing. I looked at him a moment, then rode on into the inn-yard. This little act, done in all thoughtlessness, and with perfect right, was the cause of momentous things in my life. If I had waited to greet that young gentleman at the archway, I believe my history would have gone very differently. As it was, I am convinced that my carelessly dropping him from my regard, as if he were a person of no interest, was the beginning of what grew between us. For, as he rode in while I was dismounting, he threw at me a look of resentment for which there was nothing to account but the possible wound to his vanity. His countenance, symmetrically and somewhat boldly formed, showed great self-esteem and a fondness for attention. His singing had suddenly stopped. I could feel his anger, which was probably the greater for having no real cause, I having been under no obligation to notice him or offer him precedence.

He called loudly for an ostler, and, when one came out of the stables, he coolly gave his orders without waiting for me, though I had been first in the yard. He bade his own servant see their horses well fed, and then made for the inn-door, casting a scornful glance at me, and resuming his song in a lower voice. It was now my turn to be angry, and justly, but I kept silence. I knew not exactly how to take this sort of demonstration: whether it was a usual thing among travellers and to be paid back only in kind, or whether for the sake of my reputation I ought to treat it as a serious affront. It is, of course, childish to take offence at a trifle. In my ignorance of what the world expects of a man upon receipt of hostile and disparaging looks, I could only act as one always must who cannot make up his mind--do nothing. After seeing my horse and mule attended to, I bade Nicolas follow with the baggage, and entered the inn.

The landlord was talking with my young singing gentleman, but made to approach me as I came in. The young gentleman, however, speaking in a peremptory manner, detained him with questions about the roads, the town of La Fl?che, and such matters. As I advanced, the young gentleman got between me and the host, and continued his talk. I waited awkwardly enough for the landlord's attention, and began to feel hot within. A wench now placed on a table some wine that the young man had ordered, and the landlord finally got rid of him by directing his attention to it. As he went to sit down, he bestowed on me the faintest smile of ridicule. I was too busy to think much of it at the moment, in ordering a room for the night and sending Nicolas thither with my bag. I then called for supper and sat down as far as possible from the other guest. He and I were the only occupants of the room, but from the kitchen adjoining came the noise of a number of the commonalty at food and drink.

"Always politeness," thought I, when my wine had come, and so, in spite of his rudeness and his own neglect of the courtesy, as I raised my glass I said to him, "Your health, Monsieur."

He turned red at the reproach implied in my observance, then very reluctantly lifted his own glass and said, "And yours," in a surly, grudging manner.

"It has been a pleasant day," I went on, resolved not to be churlish, at all hazards.

"Do you think so?" he replied contemptuously, and then turned to look out of the window, and hummed the tune he had been singing before.

I thought if such were the companions my journey was to throw me in with, it would be a sorry time till I got home again. But my young gentleman, for all his temporary sullenness, was really of a talkative nature, as these vain young fellows are apt to be, and when he had warmed himself a little with wine even his dislike of me could not restrain his tongue any longer.

"You are staying here to-night, then?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes, and you?"

"I shall ride on after supper. There will be starlight."

"I have used my horse enough to-day."

"And I mine, for that matter. But there are times when horses can't be considered."

"You are travelling on important business, then?"

"On business of haste. I must put ground behind me."

"I drink to the success of your business, then."

"Thank you, I am always successful. There is another toast, that should have first place. The ladies, Monsieur."

"With all my heart."

"That's a toast I never permit myself to defer. Mon dieu, I owe them favours enough!"

"I don't complain. And you?"

"Even if I were fortunate in that respect, I shouldn't boast of it."

He coloured; but laughed shortly, and said, "It's not boasting to tell the mere truth."

"I was thinking of myself, not of you, Monsieur." This was true enough.

"I can readily believe you've had no great luck that way," he said spitefully, pretending to take stock of my looks. I knew his remark was sheer malice, for my appearance was good enough--well-figured and slender, with a pleasant, thoughtful face.

"Let us talk of something else," I answered coldly, though I was far from cool in reality.

"Certainly. What do you think of the last conspiracy?"

"That it was very rash and utterly without reason. We have the best king France ever knew."

"Nothing within two weeks. I don't understand how these affairs can possibly arise, after that of Biron. Men must be complete fools."

"Oh, there are always malcontents who still count on Spain, and some think even the League may be revived."

"But why should they not be contented? I can't imagine any grievances."

"Faith, my child, where have you been hiding yourself? Don't you know the talk? Do you suppose everybody is pleased with this Dutch alliance? And the way in which the King's old Huguenot comrades are again to be seen around him?"

"And why not? Through everything, the King's heart has always been with the protestants."

"Oho! So you are one of the psalm-singers, then?" His insulting tone and jeering smile were intolerable.

"I have sung no psalms here, at least," I replied trembling with anger; "or anything else, to annoy the ears of my neighbours." fr?n sj? till sj? mot m?rkbl? synrand gungad! Ett ensamt skepp p? enslig v?rldshavsf?rd!

Dess segel bada bugnande i glansen av gr?nsl?s himmel, smekt av gr?nsl?st hav. Den k?cka sj?mansvisan lyfter av allt kvalm, som ruvar i den gr?a skansen.

Allt kvalm, som tynger, och allt agg, som s?rar! Vart gammalt kval, som sinnet har igen! Som st?nk mot bogen minnena av t?rar och avskedshandslag virvla bort i den.

S? stiger inget skepp ur v?gens famn som diktad st?v ur visans l?tta b?lja. S? n?mner ingen l?nnligt dyrkat namn som visan, klingande i fj?rran hamn, n?r gr?na sammetsv?gor dynen sk?lja.

D?r h?nger i en sk?rg?rdskyrkas kor en snidad brigg. N?r altarljusen tindra, kajutans gula rutor stilla glindra. D?r inne n?gon v?nlig ande bor.

I diktens kyrka, rest med torn och tinne av dr?mmar, flyktade fr?n tid och rum, ett gyllne skepp i krans av sn?vitt skum skall str?la som v?r hembygds ?reminne.

Nylands vapen.

S?ng, till?gnad Porkala ungdomsf?rening.

Hell salta sj?! Hell havets st?lgr? b?lja, som fosterbygden i sk?ldarna b?r! Hell hemmets kust, som vita kammar sk?lja! Hell r?da stugor p? gr?nskande sk?r! Hell hembygdsbl?nk fr?n fyrars l?gor! Hell fj?rdar, f?drens k?mpastr?t! Hell str?mmen med de egna v?gor, den gyllne b?t, den gyllne b?t!

Nylands vapen: en b?t av guld mellan tv? silverstr?mmar p? bl? botten. "Stark str?m p? egna v?gor g?r genom havet" har f?tt burskap som nyl?ndskt studentvalspr?k.

Hugg in med klinga blank, d?r hugg beh?ves! Du Nylands skara, ej vare du s?mst! Hugg in f?r ljusets sak, n?r folket s?ves! Hugg in, hugg in och var dj?rvast och fr?mst! Giv detta svar p? fega fr?gor: fram?t, v?r unga flock, fram?t! Hell str?mmen med de egna v?gor, den gyllne b?t, den gyllne b?t!

Den vita fanan med v?r hembygds tecken -- d?r striden st?ndar f?r f?dernesland, hon bl?ser ut. Sydv?sten j?mnar vecken, och b?ten glimmar i solskenets brand. D? sp?nnas viljor och f?rm?gor. Oss f?lje genom livet ?t den starka str?m med egna v?gor, den gyllne b?t, den gyllne b?t!

Junimorgon i sk?ren.

Den bundna s?ngen spr?nger bojorna, och det blir dag kring fj?rdarna och sunden. Hur r?ken ringlar ljus fr?n kojorna! Hur solen glittrar ?ver klibbalslunden! Som bokars l?vprakt i en jyll?ndsk dal du snudda ser mot B?ltets junibl?nad, s? viras kransarna av djupgr?n al kring Nylands hav i sommarns gryningsm?nad.

Kom upp p? b?rget! Kumlets vita rund, hur h?g den v?lves ?ver sk?rens riken! Hur bj?rt i gryet bl?nka fj?rran sund! Hur grynnor glimma l?ngt i Finska viken! I luften larm av m?sars morgonk?r och t?rnors g?lla, skriande diskanter! Och solen stiger och sydv?sten k?r med unga b?ljors spann mot n?sets branter.

Men in mot land den f?rsta b?ten ror med f?ngst ombord. P? fj?rden andra f?lja. Det dunklar bl?tt, det lyser p?rlemor fr?n n?tens str?mmingsskatt och viddens b?lja. Ett r?gn av fj?ll p? toft och bord och spant, en j?mn, sydv?stlig morgonsj? mot suden ?r fiskelyckans granna underpant, n?r sk?rens sommar ler i h?gtidsskruden.

DIKTEN OCH LIVET

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