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

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 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,
Tomorrow 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, a worker of blue metal.”

“That’s his way, child, today a tinker, tomorrow 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 evening. 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