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

the young man, looking fixedly at me; “but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads⁠—at least I can say so of myself,” he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, “I beg pardon,” he said, “but am I not addressing one of my own country?”

“Of what country are you?” said I.

“Ireland.”

“I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass of wine?”

“Ah, de tout mon coeur, as the parasite said to Gil Blas,” cried the young man, laughing. “Here’s to our better acquaintance!”

And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the acquaintance of the young man, I had, indeed, made a valuable acquisition; he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis Ardry.136 Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of.

We left the house together.

“We shall soon see each other again,” said he, as we separated at the door of my lodging.

XXXIII

On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. “Let us take a turn in the square,” said he, “we shall not dine for half an hour.”

“Well,” said he, as we were walking in the square, “what have you been doing since I last saw you?”

“I have been looking about London,” said I, “and I have bought the Dairyman’s Daughter; here it is.”

“Pray put it up,” said the publisher; “I don’t want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?”

“I do not,” said I.

“How is that?” said the publisher, looking at me.

“Because,” said I, “the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart.”

“By the subject you mean⁠—”

“Religion.”

“And a’n’t you acquainted with religion?”

“Very little.”

“I am sorry for that,” said the publisher seriously, “for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the Dairyman’s Daughter, or I really don’t know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all, I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel.”

“Then you do not wish for an imitation of the Dairyman’s Daughter?”

“I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner.”

At dinner, besides the publisher and myself, were present his wife and son, with his newly-married bride;137 the wife appeared a quiet, respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and vegetables, prepared in various ways.

“You eat no animal food, sir?” said I.

“I do not, sir,” said he; “I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life⁠—the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves.”

“But,” said I, “if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them.”

“I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty of room.”

“But,” said I, “Nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if every insect, bird and worm were left to perish of old age?”

“We will change the subject,” said the publisher; “I have never been a friend to unprofitable discussions.”

I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man.

The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son, saying: “Suppose you two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you,” said he, addressing himself to me, “but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Muhammadan with respect to wine.”

So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man asked me various questions; for example⁠—how I liked London?⁠—Whether I did not think it a very fine place?⁠—Whether I