The Romany Rye
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George Borrow >> The Romany Rye
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"You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper."
"Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I am the
civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody, who
lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! why,
L-d A'mighty, what's Scotch? He doesn't like our songs; what are
his own? I understand them as little as he mine; I have heard one
or two of them, and pretty rubbish they seemed. But the best of
the joke is, the fellow's finding fault with Piramus's fiddle--a
chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault with Piramus's fiddle!
Why, I'll back that fiddle against all the bagpipes in Scotland,
and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs
but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty."
"Scotchmen are never so fat as that," said I, "unless indeed, they
have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, what
remarkable names your people have!"
"And what pretty names, brother; there's my own, for example,
Jasper; then there's Ambrose and Sylvester; then there's Culvato,
which signifies Claude; then there's Piramus--that's a nice name,
brother."
"Then there's your wife's name, Pakomovna; then there's Ursula and
Morella."
"Then, brother, there's Ercilla."
"Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then
Leviathan."
"The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, so
don't make a wonder out of her. But there's Sanpriel and Synfye."
"Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and
Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?"
"Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?"
"She knows best, Jasper. I hope--"
"Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who died at the
age of a hundred and three, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard.
She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and who could
give no other account of it than that it had been in the family
time out of mind."
"Whence could they have got it?"
"Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A gentleman,
who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the sister of
it about the neck of an Indian queen."
"Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own,
for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; perhaps you got them from
the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a
name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them
appear to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I
don't know much of Slavonian; but--"
"What is Slavonian, brother?"
"The family name of certain nations, the principal of which is the
Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. You
have heard of the Russians, Jasper?"
"Yes, brother; and seen some. I saw their crallis at the time of
the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian."
"By the bye, Jasper, I'm half inclined to think that crallis is a
Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called 'Voltaire's
Life of Charles.' How you should have come by such names and words
is to me incomprehensible."
"You seem posed, brother."
"I really know very little about you, Jasper."
"Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about ourselves;
and you know nothing, save what we have told you; and we have now
and then told you things about us which are not exactly true,
simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will say that was
wrong; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here in a day or two,
when we will go to church, where possibly we shall hear a sermon on
the disastrous consequences of lying."
CHAPTER VIII
The Church--The Aristocratical Pew--Days of Yore--The Clergyman--
"In What Would a Man be Profited?"
When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in
the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to
rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro's encampment. I could hear
church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say,
"Come to church, come to church," as clearly as it was possible for
church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of
his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. "Well,
Jasper," said I, "are you ready to go to church? for if you are, I
am ready to accompany you." "I am not ready, brother," said Mr.
Petulengro, "nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go
is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this
morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got
there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are
your people." Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed
several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter
Williams, had given me.
At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was
about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr.
Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I
found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed
to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion,
though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their
visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with
a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap
exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same
manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in
honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on
purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the
pond of tepid water in which the newts and defts were in the habit
of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by
footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various
stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road,
wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in
sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly
in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the church-
yard, the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by
lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate,
Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near
the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing
within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door,
Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I
myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I
entered, turned round, and, with a significant nod, advised me to
take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had
entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable
old men--probably the neighbouring poor--and on the other a number
of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white
gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young
women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in
singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written
neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words
which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those
which burst on our ears as we entered:
"Every eye shall now behold Him,
Robed in dreadful majesty;
Those who set at nought and sold Him,
Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
Deeply wailing,
Shall the true Messiah see."
Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and
along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly
hear as we passed many a voice whispering, "Here come the gypsies!
here come the gypsies!" I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat
awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of
the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with
their wives, sons, and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs.
Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment,
but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We
passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white
surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were
confronted by the sexton dressed in long blue coat, and holding in
his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end
of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor
people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her
head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was
unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno
Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by
any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the
door, laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and
companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing,
but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and
expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then,
bowing his head, closed the door--in a moment more the music
ceased. I took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl's
coronet. The clergyman uttered, "I will arise, and go to my
father." England's sublime liturgy had commenced.
Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an
edifice devoted to the religion of my country! I had not been in
such a place I cannot tell for how long--certainly not for years;
and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had
fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D---. I had
occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes,
surely I had been asleep and had woke up; but no! alas, no! I had
not been asleep--at least not in the old church--if I had been
asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving,
learning, and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst
I had been asleep--ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on
whilst I had been asleep--how circumstances had altered, and above
all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in
the old church! I was in a pew, it is true, but not the pew of
black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore,
but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer
those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father
and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and his
wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people.
And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody
man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings
and strugglings, of what I had learnt and unlearnt; nevertheless,
the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and
seen of yore. There was difference enough, it is true, but still
there was a similarity--at least I thought so--the church, the
clergyman, and the clerk, differing in many respects from those of
pretty D---, put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!-
-by the bye, was it not the magic of the words which brought the
dear enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro? for
the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had
first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of
pretty D---.
The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions
behaved in a most unexceptionable manner, sitting down and rising
up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands
prayer-books which they found in the pew, into which they stared
intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs.
Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by
the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman
now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The
congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my
companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain
strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their
race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He
was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty,
with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a
somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and
noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text
which he gave out was the following one, "In what would a man be
profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own
soul?"
And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not
read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather
surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style
of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I
compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the
high-church rector in the old church of pretty D---, and I thought
to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not
like it, and I thought to myself how scandalized the people of D---
would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how
indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman
got up in the church of D--- and preached in such a manner. Did it
not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff?
Surely it did; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath
above the old city, preached in the same manner--at least he
preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman;
for the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and
so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended
with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However,
long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had
taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the
eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded.
Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the inestimable value of
a man's soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his body, as
every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of
time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for
the sake of gaining the whole world--a thing, he said, which
provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time,
during which his perishable body existed--should lose his soul,
that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer
indescribable misery time without end.
There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very
particular manner: he said, "That there were some people who
gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the
whole world, they got a part of it--lands, wealth, honour, or
renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a
man's soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer
tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the
worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure
and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls,
and got nothing for them--neither lands, wealth, renown, nor
consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody.
My friends," he added, "if the man is a fool who barters his soul
for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul
for nothing."
The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered
around the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the
eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and
myself.
CHAPTER IX
Return from Church--The Cuckoo and Gypsy--Spiritual Discourse.
The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the
encampment, by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the
congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro
and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with
interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like
most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any
time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly
skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable
time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies; but as we
walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last
lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked
together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself
followed at a little distance.
"That was a very fine preacher we heard," said I to Mr. Petulengro,
after we had crossed the stile into the fields.
"Very fine indeed, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "he is talked of,
far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely
another like him in the whole of England."
"He looks rather melancholy, Jasper."
"He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the
most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her
loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for,
though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit
before he lost his wife; since then, the whole country has rung
with the preaching of the clergyman of M--- as they call him.
Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female
childer, are his daughters."
"You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him
preach before?"
"Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his
daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people
they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot
read."
"You should learn to read, Jasper."
"We have no time, brother."
"Are you not frequently idle?"
"Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are
engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn."
"You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn
to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the
better for knowing how to read."
"In what way, brother?"
"Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your
duty towards your fellow-creatures."
"We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have
contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads."
"Yet you frequently break the laws."
"So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read,
brother."
"Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, by
so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your
chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher
say, 'In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole
world?'"
"We have not much of the world, brother."
"Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of
the whole congregation were turned towards our pew, when the
preacher said, 'There are some people who lose their souls, and get
nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable?'
Now was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?"
"We are not miserable, brother."
"Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground
of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of
by everybody? What's a gypsy?"
"What's the bird noising yonder, brother?"
"The bird! oh, that's the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo
to do with the matter?"
"We'll see, brother; what's the cuckoo?"
"What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper."
"Isn't it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?"
"I believe it is, Jasper."
"Nobody knows whence it comes, brother?"
"I believe not, Jasper."
"Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?"
"So they say, Jasper."
"With every person's bad word, brother?"
"Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it."
"Tolerably merry, brother?"
"Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper."
"Of no use at all, brother?"
"None whatever, Jasper."
"You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?"
"Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird,
and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees
and fields; no, I can't say I wish exactly to get rid of the
cuckoo."
"Well, brother, what's a Romany chal?"
"You must answer that question yourself, Jasper."
"A roguish, chaffing fellow, a'n't he, brother?"
"Ay, ay, Jasper."
"Of no use at all, brother?"
"Just so, Jasper; I see--"
"Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?"
"I see what you are after, Jasper."
"You would like to get rid of us, wouldn't you?"
"Why no, not exactly."
"We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time,
are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin
and dukkerin, don't help to make them pleasant?"
"I see what you are at, Jasper."
"You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn't
you?"
"Can't say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish."
"And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches,
hey, brother?"
"Can't say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque
people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country;
painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you.
What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings,
and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at
least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the
principal figures. I think if we were without you, we should begin
to miss you."
"Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into
barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother; frequently, as I have
sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I
have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects,
but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and
everybody is glad to see both of us again."
"Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos;
men have souls, Jasper!"
"And why not cuckoos, brother?"
"You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of
blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?"
"And how should a man?"
"Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul."
"How do you know it?"
"We know very well."
"Would you take your oath of it, brother--your bodily oath?"
"Why, I think I might, Jasper!"
"Did you ever see the soul, brother?"
"No, I never saw it."
"Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in
a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. Hold
up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon
your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the
donkey's foal? Oh, there's no one for cross-questioning like
Counsellor P---. Our people when they are in a hobble always like
to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can
you get over the 'upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you
have a soul?'"
"Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself
believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in
dukkerin; now what is dukkerin but the soul science?"
"When did I say that I believed in it?"
"Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the
cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to the
old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of
heaven."
"I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother."
"Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every
night on horseback down the wooded hill."
"I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!"
"I wish I had not, Jasper; but I can't help it, it is my
misfortune."
"Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel
to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you
have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can't give a
greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as
possible--more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he
happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don't deny that I may have
said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw's dook, which you
say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe,
don't be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do."
"Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting
a piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth,
and there's an end of him."
"I did, did I? Lor' what a memory you have, brother. But you are
not sure that I hold that opinion now."
"Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have
been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an
opinion."
"However, brother, don't be sure I do not, however shocking such an
opinion may be to you."
"What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper."
"We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than
yours before now."
"You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct
race."
"I say, brother!"
"Yes, Jasper."
"What do you think of our women?"
"They have certainly very singular names, Jasper."
"Names! Lavengro! However, brother, if you had been as fond of
things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours."
"What do you mean, Jasper?"
"A'n't they rum animals?"
"They have tongues of their own, Jasper."
"Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?"
"Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne's. I have always been very civil
to them, so--"
"They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in
them."
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