Lavengro

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"So, after all, they outwitted you," I observed.

"Clearly," said the man; "I might have got double the price, had I known
the value; but I don't care, much good may it do them, it has done me
plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest respectable trade, in
which there's little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one
which would have got me lagged sooner or later."

"But," said I, "you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you
took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-woman to
exchange it for a Bible."

"Well," said the man, "did she ever get her Bible?"

"Yes," said I, "she got her Bible."

"Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something
else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any
loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty
or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages."

"I find no fault with the wages," said I, "but I don't like the employ."

"Not like bonneting," said the man; "ah, I see, you would like to be
principal; well, a time may come--those long white fingers of yours would
just serve for the business."

"Is it a difficult one?" I demanded.

"Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful--natural talent, and
constant practice; but I'll show you a point or two connected with the
game;" and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side
of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet,
something resembling a pea. He moved the thimble and pellet about, now
placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another; "Under
which is it now?" he said at last. "Under that," said I, pointing to the
lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of
triangle. "No," said he, "it is not, but lift it up;" and, when I lifted
up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. "It was under
none of them," said he, "it was pressed by my little finger against my
palm;" and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the
game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he
said, "I am glad you like it, come along and let us win some money."

Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving
away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was
staying for. "Merely for my own pleasure," said I, "I like sitting here
very well." "Then you won't close?" said the man. "By no means," I
replied, "your proposal does not suit me." "You may be principal in
time," said the man. "That makes no difference," said I; and, sitting
with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun.
"That a'n't cant," said the man, "no, nor gypsy, either. Well, if you
won't close, another will, I can't lose any more time," and forthwith he
departed.

And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I
rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various
groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the
man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many
people about him. "Them who finds, wins, and them who can't find,
loses," he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all
were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was
expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. "Never
cheated anybody in all my life," he cried; and, observing me at hand,
"didn't I play fair, my lord?" he inquired. But I made no answer.
Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the
eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for
some time, I was moving away: just then I perceived a short, thick
personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry;
whereupon, with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed--

"Shoon thimble engro;
Avella gorgio."

The man who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no sooner
heard the last word of the distich, than he turned an alarmed look in the
direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the
constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket,
and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, "Make way!"
and with a motion with his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off
with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means
rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch
as I turned away in another direction.

CHAPTER LIV.

Mr. Petulengro--Rommany Rye--Lil Writers--One's Own Horn--Lawfully-earnt
Money--The Wooded Hill--A Great Favourite--The Shop Window--Much Wanted.

And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several
men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a
small tent. "Here he comes," said one of them, as I advanced, and
standing up he raised his voice and sang:--

"Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree--
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye."

It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his
comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. "Sit down,
brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "and take a cup of good ale."

I sat down. "Your health, gentlemen," said I, as I took the cup which
Mr. Petulengro handed to me.

"Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother,"
said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a
draught.

"Your health in Rommany, brother," said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup
came next.

"The Rommany Rye," said a third.

"The Gypsy gentleman," exclaimed a fourth, drinking.

And then they all sang in chorus,--

"Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree--
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye."

"And now, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "seeing that you have drunk and
been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what
about?"

"I have been in the Big City," said I, "writing lils."

"How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?" said Mr.
Petulengro.

"Eighteen pence," said I; "all I have in the world."

"I have been in the Big City, too," said Mr. Petulengro; "but I have not
written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my
pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable
difference between us."

"I would rather be the lil-writer, after all," said the tall, handsome,
black man; "indeed, I would wish for nothing better."

"Why so?" said Mr. Petulengro.

"Because they have so much to say for themselves," said the black man,
"even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is
their own fault if people a'n't talking of them. Who will know, after I
am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or
that you, Jasper, were--"

"The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however,
here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us."

"Not he," said the other, with a sigh; "he'll have quite enough to do in
writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he
was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word
should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis--my own lawful wedded
wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a
wise man say in Brummagem, that 'there is nothing like blowing one's own
horn,' which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own
lil."

After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me
to follow him. "Only eighteen pence in the world, brother!" said he, as
we walked together.

"Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I
had?"

"Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much
resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in
his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife's
looking-glass--I did not look as you do, brother."

"I believe your sole motive for inquiring," said I, "was to have an
opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were
in possession of fifty pounds."

"What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?"
said Mr. Petulengro. "It is not everyone can read faces, brother; and,
unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?"

"I am not going to ask you to lend me any."

"Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty
pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will
lend you that, brother."

"You are very kind," said I; "but I will not take it."

"Then the half of it?"

"Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to
the Great City."

"And what will you do in the Boro Foros?"

"I know not," said I.

"Earn money?"

"If I can."

"And if you can't?"

"Starve!"

"You look ill, brother," said Mr. Petulengro.

"I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be
so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take
to the woods and fields."

"You may do that, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "whether you have money
or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded
hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but
more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna."

"What hill is that?" I demanded.

And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. "We stay on
t'other side of the hill a fortnight," he continued; "and as you are fond
of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can
write the lil of him whose dook gallops down that hill every night, even
as the living man was wont to do long ago."

"Who was he?" I demanded.

"Jemmy Abershaw," said Mr. Petulengro; "one of those whom we call Boro
drom engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that
the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of
the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife
Pakomovna."

At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a
little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always
been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people
might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or
on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living
together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I
reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is
true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently
been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his
turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of
nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and only visited at the tents to
divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means
certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need
both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with
respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatizing my conversation
as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might
bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he
should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my
reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after
shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City.

I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London;
for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should
have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of
which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window
of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the
bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads
or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing
a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood
listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it
contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with
something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of
inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--"A Novel or Tale is
much wanted," was what was written.

CHAPTER LV.

Bread and Water--Fair Play--Fashionable Life--Colonel B-----Joseph
Sell--The Kindly Glow--Easiest Manner Imaginable.

"I must do something," said I, as I sat that night in my lonely
apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.

Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I
was to do. "I have no idea what I am to do," said I, as I stretched my
hand towards the pitcher, "unless"--and here I took a considerable
draught--"I write a tale or a novel--That bookseller," I continued,
speaking to myself, "is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel,
otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear
to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present
difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window."

"I will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table; "I will do
it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it?
Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? "Yes, yes,"
said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, "I can manage it;
give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything."

But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself
with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteen pence in the world.
Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would,
provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which
cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself
had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or
something to that effect, months before?

It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I
owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people of the house asked me
for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me
in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had
candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work.
Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.

But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of
fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something?
But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore
how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale
consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did
not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me
that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money
to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is
true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the
hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that
his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant
materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable, indeed,
that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if
I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the
time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr.
Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea
of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No,
I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then--Harry Simms?
Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by
himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like
Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary
men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale
likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere
robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than
a mere robber; some one like--like Colonel B---. By the way, why should
I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in
Ireland?

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in
Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who
had been a partizan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain
discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia
from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond, at
Tyburn; and whose strange eventful career did not terminate even with his
life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he
did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob
of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in a coffin
through the streets.

Of his life I had inserted an account in the Newgate Lives and Trials; it
was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff awkward style of the
seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination,
and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if
I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of
it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of
mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. "I am afraid," said
I, "any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the
old tale; one will but spoil the other." I had better have nothing to do
with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and
write the life of Joseph Sell.

This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just
come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that
moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely
fictitious narrative, called the Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the
great traveller.

I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the
jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith
essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it was
much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to
commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after
trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to
bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.

So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night
I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For
a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which
appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it
was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my
plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and
incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not
how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I
got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by
consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant
scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones.
Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind,
and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the
most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved.

CHAPTER LVI.

Considerably Sobered--Power of Writing--The Tempter--Hungry Talent--Work
Concluded.

Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still,
perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and
situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a
far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost
hopeless--the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me,--I must
make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to
be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then
sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell.

It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the
scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing
requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to
paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish--I wanted
mechanical skill; but I persevered; and before evening I had written ten
pages. I partook of some bread and water; and, before I went to bed that
night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell.

The next day I resumed my task--I found my power of writing considerably
increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper--my brain was in a
wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not
thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down;
they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history,
than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give
place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty
fresh pages to my "Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell."

The third day arose--it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it
drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former
glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at
midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell.

On the fourth day the sun shone brightly--I arose, and having breakfasted
as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific,
and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper;
towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head,
and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise
occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me.

"You had better leave off now for a short space," said the tempter, "and
go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you
go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can
afford it, more than half your work is done." I was about to obey the
suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not
complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it;
so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that
day of the life of Joseph Sell.

From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I
drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and
despondencies came over me. It will be too late, thought I; by the time
I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a
tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent
is so abundant--hungry talent too--a bookseller can advertise for a tale
or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four
hours? I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose. And
these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter
despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me
said--"And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling
yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?" Why, to take it
up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion
at all--and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater
vigour than before, from about six o'clock in the evening until I could
hardly see, when I rested for awhile, when the tempter within me again
said, or appeared to say--"All you have been writing is stuff, it will
never do--a drug--a mere drug:" and methought these last words were
uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. "A thing merely to be
sneered at," a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to
hear a sternutation,--as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of
swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my
work to a conclusion.

But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from
it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written
over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets,
to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the
furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be
got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was
far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities
than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the
task of revision. "To-morrow, for the bookseller," said I, as my hand
sank on the pillow. "Oh me!"

CHAPTER LVII.

Nervous Look--The Bookseller's Wife--The Last Stake--Terms--God
Forbid!--Will You Come to Tea?--A Light Heart.

On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the
window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed
or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating
heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter,
however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what
seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like
female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance.
"What is your business, young man?" said she to me, after I had made her
a polite bow. "I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house," said I.
"My husband is not within at present," she replied; "what is your
business?" "I have merely brought something to show him," said I, "but I
will call again." "If you are the young gentleman who has been here
before," said the lady, "with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you
are," she added, smiling, "for I have seen you through the glass door, I
am afraid it will be useless; that is," she added with another smile, "if
you bring us nothing else." "I have not brought you poems and ballads
now," said I, "but something widely different; I saw your advertisement
for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will
suit; and here it is," I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in
my hand. "Well," said the bookseller's wife, "you may leave it, though I
cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has
already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it
me. Are you afraid to intrust it to me?" she demanded somewhat hastily,
observing that I hesitated. "Excuse me," said I, "but it is all I have
to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not
be read." "On that point I can reassure you," said the good lady,
smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. "I give you my
word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when,
if not approved, it shall be returned to you."