Lavengro, George Borrow [i love reading books txt] 📗

“You are mistaken,” said I; “many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words.”

“For example?” said the Armenian.

“For example,” said I, “the English.”

“The English,” said the Armenian; “show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian.”

“You walk on London Bridge,” said I.

“Yes,” said the Armenian.

“I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning.”

“True,” said the Armenian.

“Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?”

“What was it?” said the Armenian. “What was it?⁠—you don’t mean the tide?”

“Do I not?” said I.

“Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?”

“Much,” said I; “what is the tide?”

“The ebb and flow of the sea,” said the Armenian.

“The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?”169

The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, “you are right,” said he, “the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is ⸻ and ⸻ and there again in French there is ⸻ and ⸻ derived from the Armenian. How strange, how singular⁠—I thank you. It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world.”

I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. “An inconsiderable people,” said I, “shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; where as to the language of Mr. Petulengro⁠—”

“I have heard you mention that name before,” said the Armenian; “who is Mr. Petulengro?”

And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. “Don’t speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro,” said I, “nor of anything belonging to him. He is a dark, mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem⁠—Mr. Petulengro⁠—”

“You appear agitated,” said the Armenian; “take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts?”

I shook my head.

“Keep books?”

“I have an idea that I could write books,” said I; “but, as to keeping them⁠—” and here again I shook my head.

The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. “The books in these cases,” said he, “contain the masterpieces of Haik learning.”

“No,” said I, “all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible.”

“You have never read Z⁠⸺?”

“No,” said I, “I have never read Z⁠⸺”

“I have a plan,” said the Armenian; “I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z⁠⸺ in an English dress; you shall translate Z⁠⸺. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z⁠⸺. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers⁠—his philosophy⁠—”

“I will have nothing to do with him,” said I.

“Wherefore?” said the Armenian.

“There is an old proverb,” said I, “that ‘a burnt child avoids the fire.’ I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;” and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; “and who knows,” said I, “but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences.”

The Armenian smiled. “You would find me very different from the publisher.”

“In many points I have no doubt I should,” I replied; “but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?”

“He is a Moldave,” said the Armenian; “the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes.”

The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z⁠⸺, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed.

Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the Great City. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in