Waltey
Zadnje rajanje v Printzovem dvorcu
074 The Last Revel in Printz Hall
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · Charles M. SkinnerO besedilu
Zadnje rajanje v Printzovem dvorcu
- Vir
- Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
- Avtor
- Charles M. Skinner
- Jezik branja
- Slovenščina
- Jezik izvirnika
- English
- Čas branja
- 5 min branja
- Obseg
- 4 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- 074 The Last Revel in Printz Hall
O izvirniku
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Obsežna zgodovinska zbirka ameriških legend, ki jih je Skinner zbral in avtorsko rekonstruiral. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Myths and Legends of Our Own Land v jeziku English.
Besedilo
Zadnje rajanje v Printzovem dvorcu
»Mladenič, pet dolarjev na teden ti dam, če boš pazil na Printz Hall,« je nekega jesenskega večera rekel kveker Quidd godcu Matthewsu.
Mladi Matthews se je pravkar ponorčeval iz starega gospoda, češ da si ne upa spati na svojem posestvu, in ker so bile vanj uprte oči vseh gostilniških postopačev, je tako laskavo ponudbo le stežka zavrnil. Po nekaj mencanja in odkašljevanja je zato dejal, da bo kvekerja prijel za besedo. Tisti večer je Peter Matthews zaigral le še dve ali tri viže, pa še te precej otožno; potem ko je Quidd izpil svoj kuhani jabolčnik in odšel, pa se je tudi sam zamišljen odpravil domov. Printz Hall je stal na samotnem, s plevelom zaraščenem vrtu blizu Chestra v Pensilvaniji. Tja se je Peter odpravil naslednji dan, ko se je spuščal mrak, in s seboj prinesel žimnico, odejo, živež, svoje ljube gosli in steklenico viskija. Nastanil se je v sobi, ki je bila na pogled najmanj turobna, zamašil praznine v oknih s cunjami, prižgal svečo, zakuril v kaminu in pojedel večerjo.
»Navsezadnje tu niti ni tako slabo,« je zamrmral Peter, ko se je grel ob ognju in s požirki iz steklenice; nato je vzel gosli in začel igrati. Odmev njegove glasbe je še poudarjal praznino hiše, vlaga se je zajedla v strune, da so zvenele zamolklo, in melodija je nehote zatrepetala, kadar so se drevesa zavihtela ob okna in jih oškropila z dežjem ali kadar je kje v daljavi zaškripala polknica. Nazadnje je podrezal ogenj, zapahnil vrata, ugasnil svečo, za pogum krepko potegnil iz steklenice, odvrgel suknjič in čevlje, se zavil v odejo, legel na žimnico in zaspal. Prebudilo ga je — no, pravzaprav ni znal povedati, kaj; le da je bil nenadoma buden, kakor še nikoli v življenju, in je napeto poslušal, kdaj se bo iz tuljenja vetra ter loputanja, škripanja in žvižganja po hiši izločil zvok, za katerega je vedel, da mora priti. Da, tam je bil: koraki in žvenket na stopnicah. Vrata, čeprav trdno zapahnjena, so se sunkoma odprla in skoznje je vstopila temna postava z visokim, koničastim klobukom, ogrinjalom, visokimi škornji, mečem in prsnim oklepom. Prestrašeni godec je hotel zatuliti, toda glas mu je odpovedal. »Jaz sem Peter Printz, generalni guverner ameriških kolonij njegovega švedskega veličanstva in graditelj te hiše,« je rekla postava. »Nocoj je noč jesenskega enakonočja, ko se moji prijatelji tu zberejo na veseljačenju. Vzemi gosli in pridi. Igraj, a ne govori.«
In naj je hotel ali ne, Petra je nekaj vleklo za postavo, ki jo je razločil po njenem fosfornem siju. Spustila sta se po stopnicah, vrata so se pred njima sama odpirala, nato pa sta šla po hodnikih, ki so odzvanjali pod udarci prikaznišinih škornjev. Prišla sta v starodavno sprejemnico in ob vstopu je Petra zaslepilo. Tla so se gladko svetila od voska, polena so prasketala v kaminu, čeprav je bil plamen nekoliko modrikast, stare stenske tkanine in portreti so bili videti kakor novi, v soju voščenih sveč pa se je kakih sto ljudi v razkošnih oblačilih nekdanjih časov sprehajalo, priklanjalo in, kot je kazalo, smejalo ter pogovarjalo med seboj. Ko se je pojavil godec, so se vse oči obrnile vanj na prav vznemirljiv način, in ko je segel po steklenici, je iz vseh grl zadonel votel smeh. Našel si je stol, se sesedel nanj in pristavil gosli. Ob prvem tonu so se pari prijeli za roke, in ko je ubral poskočno vižo, so se začeli naglo vrteti ter pri tem skakati osupljivo visoko.
Glasba je postajala vse hitrejša, saj je viski že deloval v Petrovi betici, ples pa vse bolj divji. Bilo je, kakor da bi vihar vdrl skozi okna in te ljudi razpihoval sem ter tja, v krogih in krogih. Godec se je megleno čudil samemu sebi, saj še nikoli ni igral tako dobro, čeprav te viže dotlej sploh še ni slišal. Tedaj se je sredi sobe vzravnal guverner Printz, iztegnil roko in ukazal, naj se ples konča. »Dobro si igral, godec,« je rekel, »in dobil boš plačilo.« Na njegov znak sta prišla dva črnca in privlekla okovano skrinjo, ki jo je Printz odklenil. Polna je bila zlatnikov. »Podrži vrečo za gosli,« je ukazal guverner. Peter je ubogal in z odprtimi usti gledal, kako sta se dve polni pesti zaklada iz skrinje presuli v vrečo. Sledili sta še dve pesti in nato še dve. Ob četrtem takem daru se Peter ni mogel več zadržati. Pozabil je na prepoved govorjenja in veselo zavpil: »Pri vragu! Kakšna sreča!«
Zarezal je demonski krohot, prizor je utonil v temi in Peter se je nezavesten zgrudil. Zjutraj je neki njegov prijatelj iz gostilne, ki ga je silno zanimalo, ali je Peter doživel kakšno pustolovščino, vstopil v hišo in previdno hodil iz sobe v sobo ter klical čuvaja, naj se pokaže. Odgovora ni bilo. Nazadnje je zadel ob prazno steklenico viskija in vedel, da mora biti Peter blizu. In res, tam je ležal v veliki sobi, kjer je vse prekrivala debela plast prahu in plesni, njegove gosli pa so bile razbite na tisoč kosov. Ko ga je prijatelj prebudil, se je Peter žalostno ozrl okoli sebe, nato pa skočil pokonci in vročično zahteval svoj denar. »Kakšen denar?« je vprašal prijatelj. Godec je pograbil svojo zeleno vrečo, jo odprl in stresel; v njej ni bilo ničesar. Peter tudi ni prav nič odlašal z odhodom iz dvorca, in ko je hišo štiriindvajset ur pozneje zajel požar, je zatrjeval, da so jo zažgali duhovi in da dobro ve, od kod so prinesli žerjavico.
Izvirnik
074 The Last Revel in Printz Hall
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
“Young man, I'll give thee five dollars a week to be care-taker in Printz Hall,” said Quaker Quidd to fiddler Matthews, on an autumn evening.
Young Matthews had just been taunting the old gentleman with being afraid to sleep on his own domain, and as the eyes of all the tavern loungers were on him he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition, so, after some hemming and hawing, he said he would take the Quaker at his word. He played but two or three more tunes that evening, did Peter Matthews, and played them rather sadly; then, as Quidd had finished his mulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in thoughtful mood. Printz Hall stood in a lonely, weed-grown garden near Chester, Pennsylvania, and thither repaired Peter, as next day's twilight shut down, with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his beloved fiddle, and a flask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in the room that was least depressing in appearance he stuffed rags into the vacant panes, lighted a candle, started a blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper.
“Not so bad a place, after all,” mumbled Peter, as he warmed himself at the fire and the flask; then, taking out his violin, he began to play. The echo of his music emphasized the emptiness of the house, the damp got into the strings so that they sounded tubby, and there were unintentional quavers in the melody whenever the trees swung against the windows and splashed them with rain, or when a distant shutter fell a-creaking. Finally, he stirred the fire, bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a courageous pull at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled his blanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and fell asleep. He was awakened by--well, he could not say what, exactly, only he became suddenly as wide awake as ever he had been in his life, and listened for some sound that he knew was going to come out of the roar of the wind and the slamming, grating, and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was: a tread and a clank on the stair. The door, so tightly bolted, flew open, and there entered a dark figure with steeple-crowned hat, cloak, jack-boots, sword, and corselet. The terrified fiddler wanted to howl, but his voice was gone. “I am Peter Printz, governor-general of his Swedish Majesty's American colonies, and builder of this house,” said the figure. “'Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends meet here for revel. Take thy fiddle and come. Play, but speak not.”
And whether he wished or no, Peter was drawn to follow the figure, which he could make out by the phosphor gleam of it. Down-stairs they went, doors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanged to the stroke of the spectre's boot heels. Now they came to the ancient reception-room, and as they entered it Peter was dazzled. The floor was smooth with wax, logs snapped in the fireplace, though the flame was somewhat blue, the old hangings and portraits looked fresh, and in the light of wax candles a hundred people, in the brave array of old times, walked, courtesied, and seemed to laugh and talk together. As the fiddler appeared, every eye was turned on him in a disquieting way, and when he addressed himself to his bottle, from every throat came a hollow laugh. Finding his way to a chair he sank into it and put his instrument in position. At the first note the couples took hands, and as he struck into a jig they began to circle swiftly, leaping wondrous high.
Faster went the music, for the whiskey was at work in Peter's noddle, and wilder grew the dance. It was as if the storm had come in through the windows and was blowing these people hither and yon, around and around. The fiddler vaguely wondered at himself, for he had never played so well, though he had never heard the tune before. Now loomed Governor Printz in the middle of the room, and extending his hand he ordered the dance to cease. “Thou bast played well, fiddler,” he said, “and shalt be paid.” Then, at his signal, came two negro men tugging at a strong box that Printz unlocked. It was filled with gold pieces. “Hold thy fiddle bag,” commanded the governor, and Peter did so, watching, open mouthed, the transfer of a double handful of treasure from box to sack. Another such handful followed, and another. At the fourth Peter could no longer contain himself. He forgot the injunction not to speak, and shouted gleefully, “Lord Harry! Here's luck!”
There was a shriek of demon laughter, the scene was lost in darkness, and Peter fell insensible. In the morning a tavern-haunting friend, anxious to know if Peter had met with any adventure, entered the house and went cautiously from room to room, calling on the watcher to show himself. There was no response. At last he stumbled on the whiskey bottle, empty, and knew that Peter must be near. Sure enough, there he lay in the great room, with dust and mould thick on everything, and his fiddle smashed into a thousand pieces. Peter on being awakened looked ruefully about him, then sprang up and eagerly demanded his money. “What money?” asked his friend. The fiddler clutched at his green bag, opened it, shook it; there was nothing. Nor was there any delay in Peter's exit from that mansion, and when, twenty-four hours after, the house went up in flames, he averred that the ghosts had set it afire, and that he knew where they brought their coals from.
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