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

“Really,” said I, “you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?”

“It matters very little to me,” said Belle; “I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation⁠—you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips⁠—at least I think so.”

“One only feels uncomfortable,” said I, “in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house.”

“Really, young man,” said Belle, “you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been⁠—some young⁠—?” and here Belle stopped.

“No,” said I, “there was no young person⁠—if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my company, and what took place.”

“Was there no one else?” said Belle.

“You are mighty curious,” said I. “No, none else, except a poor, simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away.”

Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought⁠—“America?” said she, musingly⁠—“America?”

“What of America?” said I.

“I have heard that it is a mighty country.”

“I dare say it is,” said I; “I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen.”

“I heard nothing about that,” said Belle; “what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither.”

“Well,” said I, “the radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.”

“I shall go by myself,” said Belle, “unless⁠—unless that should happen which is not likely⁠—I am not fond of radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers.”

“Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?”

“I don’t wish to say you are,” said Belle; “but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly.”

“What should I have to say against America? I never was there.”

“Many people speak against America who never were there.”

“Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America.”

“If you liked America you would speak in its praise.”

“By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it.”

“I can’t speak with you,” said Belle; “but I see you dislike the country.”

“The country!”

“Well, the people⁠—don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Why do you dislike them?”

“Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time.”

“And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?”

“Yes,” said I, “that is my reason for disliking them.”

“Will you take another cup of tea?” said Belle.

I took another cup; we were again silent. “It is rather uncomfortable,” said I, at last, “for people to sit together without having anything to say.”

“Were you thinking of your company?” said Belle.

“What company?” said I.

“The present company.”

“The present company! oh, ah!⁠—I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian.”

“What is Armenian?”

“Did you ever hear of Ararat?”

“Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible.”

“Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you.”

“To prevent⁠—”

“Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish anyone else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian.”

“Would not the language of the roads do as well?” said Belle.

“In some places it would,” said I, “but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves’ slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth.”

“I am afraid we shall have to part company before