Lavengro

G >> George Borrow >> Lavengro

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50

"I don't know," said the girl, sitting down on the ground, "I was almost
thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I
think I should like to have the kekaubi."

"I thought you said it was badly mended?"

"Yes, yes, brother, but--"

"I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?"

"Yes, yes, brother, but--"

"What will you give for it?"

"Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the
kekaubi."

"Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?"

"Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?"

"Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?"

"I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi,
brother?"

"You like me then?"

"I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't
dislike, him I hate."

"Who is he?"

"I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't
speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?"

"You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you."

"Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now
mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother."

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in
her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then
began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while,
and singing--

"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye."

"Good by, brother I must be going."

"Good by, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?"

"Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!"

"Ha, ha! gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping my hands, "I
don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to
your gillie--

'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Love Luripen
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen
And tatchipen.'"

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some
time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue,
with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared
me full in the face. "Grey, tall, and talks Rommany," said she to
herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen
before--an expression which struck me as being composed of fear,
curiosity, and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was
succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Ha, ha, brother," said she,
"well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet
language, isn't it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up?
But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you
to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was
not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by
screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the
child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring
you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person's
child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope,
or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-hair'd brother--you are not going away
to-morrow, I hope?"

"Nor the next day," said I, "only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a
kettle; good by, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister."

"Good by, tall brother," said the girl, as she departed, singing

"The Rommany chi," etc.

"There's something about that girl that I don't understand," said I to
myself; "something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows
not who I am, and if she did, what then?"

Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation,
with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over
against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. "Some
bird," said I; "an owl, perhaps;" and once more I fell into meditation;
my mind wandered from one thing to another--musing now on the structure
of the Roman tongue--now on the rise and fall of the Persian power--and
now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was
thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when
lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but,
staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half
covered with grey hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had
disappeared.

CHAPTER LXXI.

Friend of Slingsby--All Quiet--Danger--The Two Cakes--Children in the
Wood--Don't be Angry--In Deep Thought--Temples Throbbing--Deadly
Sick--Another Blow--No Answer--How Old are You?--Play and Sacrament--Heavy
Heart--Song of Poison--Drow of Gypsies--The Dog--Ely's Church--Get up,
Bebee--The Vehicle--Can you Speak?--The Oil.

The next day at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting
my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor,
I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short
stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that
the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts.

"If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad," said an
ancient crone; "you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you.
Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that
of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you--not I.
Don't hurry yourself, young man, if you don't come back for a fortnight I
shan't have the worse opinion of you."

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired but rejoiced at heart; I had
work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which
required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I
had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in
the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched
my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal
meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and
more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon
my pallet, and went to sleep.

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular
notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the
third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at
work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little
inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I
was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that
slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest
slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I
could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of
a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, "Danger! danger!
danger!" Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I
heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid
of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just
opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind
of little dog stood beside her.

"Ha!" said I, "was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?"

"Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I
called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name
is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother?"

"What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have
got in your hand?"

"Something for you," said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie
a white napkin; "a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home
to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor
person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, 'Hir mi
devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I
will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.'"

"But there are two cakes."

"Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for
you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I
know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--which
shall I have, brother?"

In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly
compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a
pound.

"Which shall I have, brother?" said the gypsy girl.

"Whichever you please."

"No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say."

"Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other."

"Yes, brother, yes," said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them
into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing
the while. "Pretty brother, grey-haired brother--here, brother," said
she, "here is your cake, this other is mine."

"Are you sure," said I, taking the cake, "that this is the one I chose?"

"Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no
difference, however--shall I eat?"

"Yes, sister, eat."

"See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired
brother."

"I am not hungry."

"Not hungry! well, what then--what has being hungry to do with the
matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind
to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the
children in the wood that the gorgios speak of."

"The children in the wood had nothing to eat."

"Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother."

"See, sister, I do," and I ate a piece of the cake.

"Well, brother, how do you like it?" said the girl, looking fixedly at
me.

"It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it;
I don't think I shall eat any more."

"Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I
have nearly eaten mine."

"That's a pretty little dog."

"Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her."

"Come here, juggal," said I to the animal.

"What do you want with my juggal?" said the girl.

"Only to give her a piece of cake," said I, offering the dog a piece
which I had just broken off.

"What do you mean?" said the girl, snatching the dog away; "my
grandbebee's cake is not for dogs."

"Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours."

"You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish
to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house."

"Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I
offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all."

"Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence! brother, no offence
at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be
wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's cake, and I will
go."

"I am not hungry, I will put the rest by."

"One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother."

"I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to
oblige you; if you must go, good day to you."

The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of
the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood
for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of
satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, "Well,
brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because you
have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she
could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good by, brother, I dare
say when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't I dare
say you have eaten enough to--to--show your love for us. After all it
was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are
somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired
brother. Come, juggal."

I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two,
and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged
before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then
thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and
slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than
before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my
sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was
a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the
chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. "I must shake off
these feelings," said I, "and get upon my legs." I walked rapidly up and
down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I
directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the
bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on
lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with
the like results; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a
dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What
can be the matter with me, thought I; but I suppose I have made myself
ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to
my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was
deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in
the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire
to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was
impossible: the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole
frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or
swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however,
I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the
next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with
greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without
any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people
singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon.

I revived just as a heavy blow sounded, upon the canvas of the tent. I
started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind
of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and
requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue,
and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. "He does not move,
bebee," said a voice which I knew. "I should not wonder if it has done
for him already; however, strike again with your ran;" and then there was
another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone,
"Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?" I
remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice
continued, "What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about
that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be
darning his stockings?" Thereupon a face peered into the door of the
tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of
a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to
the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish
but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however,
recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne.
"Ho, ho, sir!" said she, "here you are. Come here, Leonora," said she to
the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; "here is
the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down
on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There--you have
seen me before, sir, have you not?"

"The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you."

"I have known him of old, Leonora," said Mrs. Herne; "and, to tell you
the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer."

"It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?"

"Yes, child, it's a way he has."

"Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face."

"I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off
my bonnet--there--and shake out my hair--there--you have seen this hair
before, sir, and this face--"

"No answer, bebee."

"Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled."

"How came they so, bebee?"

"All along of this gorgio, child."

"The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee."

"Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve
my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies
a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not
the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old,
and I am not old."

"How old are you, bebee?"

"Sixty-five years, child--an inconsiderable number. My mother was a
hundred and one--a considerable age--when she died, yet she had not one
grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles--an inconsiderable number."

"She had no griefs, bebee?"

"Plenty, child, but not like mine."

"Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?"

"No, child, my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my
husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter
of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern
counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant
society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable
satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right
Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to
blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well,
things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law
brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and,
without much preamble, says to me and mine, 'This is my pal, a'n't he a
beauty? fall down and worship him.' 'Hold,' said I, 'I for one will
never consent to such foolishness.'"

"That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same."

"I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole
party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says
prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own
daughter says to me, 'I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself
to a play and sacrament.' 'Don't,' says I; says she, 'I should like for
once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman.'"

"Very foolish of her, bebee."

"Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy
heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones,
and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, 'foolish
manners is catching, all this comes of that there gorgio.' Answers the
child Leonora, 'Take comfort, bebee, I hate the gorgios as much as you
do.'"

"And I say so again, bebee, as much or more."

"Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to
prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison,
and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says
I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that
gorgio. Answers to me the child, 'I wish I could set my eyes upon him,
bebee.'"

"I did so, bebee; go on."

"'How shall I know him, bebee?' says the child. 'Young and grey, tall,
and speaks Romanly.' Runs to me the child, and says, 'I've found him,
bebee.' 'Where, child?' says I. 'Come with me, bebee,' says the child.
'That's he,' says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge."

"Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog."

"You have taken drows, sir," said Mrs. Herne; "do you hear, sir? drows;
tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison."

And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang--

"The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl
To-morrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer's steed."

"Do you hear that, sir?" said Mrs. Herne; "the child has tipped you a
stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though
perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what
was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child."

"He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out,
as I told you."

"Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes
no answer. God give me patience!"

"And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman!
indeed, why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now
a tinker, and a worker of blue metal."

"That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as
for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it."

"Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha,
look at the gentleman's motions."

"He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows;
what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the drow of
gypsies; I saw him stretched at even. That's yourself, sir. There is no
hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune,
sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will
you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty
gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall
take off their hats to you."

"Hey, bebee!" cried the girl; "what is this? what do you mean? you have
blessed the gorgio!"

"Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I
can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's me, he'll get
up yet."

"Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin."

"Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin,
only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at
the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone."

"He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look
there, he's dead."

"No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?"

"Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look
in there, my dog."

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark
and tear up the ground.

"At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!"

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but
retreated.

"The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and
scared him. He'll get up."

"Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?"

"The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was
at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted
'There he comes!' and I looked, and, lo! it was the tinker; before I
could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely's big
church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all
eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say,
'There he mounts!' and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker
was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I
found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I
saw, not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air."

"You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and
poke him in the eye."

"That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try
what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet
family, and raise confusion--must you? You must steal its language, and,
what was never done before, write it down Christianly--must you? Take
that--and that;" and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end
of the tent.

"That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let it be
in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee."

"What's the matter, child?"

"Some one is coming, come away."

"Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet." And thereupon Mrs.
Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and supporting herself
against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. "I will
thrust out his eye," said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would
probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of
the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling
upon her and her intended victim.

"Here's a pretty affair, bebee," screamed the girl.

"He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.

"Get up!--get up yourself; where are you? where is your--Here, there,
bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming."

"He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath, "the dook
tells me so."

"Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be
grabbed--both of us."

"One more blow, I know where his head lies."

"You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow--gorgio avella."

And thereupon the females hurried away.

A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it
came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped
suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued
between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in
English, but in a deep guttural tongue.