Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XLV

 

Chapter 89

the dingle—give them ale—not over complimentary—america—many people—washington—promiscuous company—language of the roads—the old women—some numerals—the man in black

 

The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpauling, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. 'I am glad you are returned,' said she, as soon as she perceived me; 'I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?'

'Yes,' said I; 'I went to the public-house and drank ale, as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind—I am much beholden to you.'

'I knew it would do you good,' said Belle; 'I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics, and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good kind man, used to say, "Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong."'

'He was no advocate for tea, then?' said I.

'He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, "Everything in its season." Shall we take ours now?—I have waited for you.'

'I have no objection,' said I; 'I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale—"Everything in its season," as the surgeon said.'

Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said—'What did you see and hear at the public-house?'

'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 daresay 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 daresay 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 any one 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 I have learnt it,' said Belle; 'in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?'

'If no roadster is nigh you may,' said I, 'and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian.'

'I suppose you mean no harm,' said Belle.

'Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.'

'Stop till I have removed the tea things,' said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment.

'I am ready,' said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, 'to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.'

'Belle,' said I, 'I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik.'

'I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,' said Belle.

'Why hang upon it?' said I.

'Because the old women in the great house used to call so the chimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake.'

'Good!' said I, 'you will make an apt scholar; but mind that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.'

'What are numerals?' said Belle.

'Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There—have you heard them?'

'Yes.'

'Well, try and repeat them.'

'I only remember number one,' said Belle, 'and that because it is me.'

'I will repeat them again,' said I, 'and pay greater attention. Now, try again.'

'Me, jergo, earache.'

'I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar.'

Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path which led from the bottom of the hollow, where we were seated, to the plain above. 'Gorgio shunella,' she said at length, in a low voice.

'Pure Rommany,' said I; 'where?' I added, in a whisper.

'Dovey odoi,' said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path.

'I will soon see who it is,' said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house.

 

 

Chapter 90

buona sera—rather apprehensive—the steep bank—lovely virgin—hospitality—tory minister—custom of the country—sneering smile—wandering zigan—gypsies' cloaks—certain faculty—acute answer—various ways—addio—the best hollands

The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground-nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed, 'Buona sera, I hope I don't intrude.'

'You have as much right here,' said I, 'as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation.'

'I was not listening,' said the man, 'I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine.'

'I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good,' said I.

'I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation,' said the man in black, looking around; 'moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable.'

'And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?' said I.

'Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo.'

'Why do you speak to me in that gibberish,' said I; 'do you think I understand it?'

'It is not Armenian,' said the man in black; 'but it might serve, in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court—when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor.'

And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner.

'I see,' said I, 'that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.'

'Not at all,' said the man in black; 'I heard from the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it.'

'And how did you know that I was here?' I demanded.

'The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But, now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you.'

'Well,' said I, 'since you are come, you are welcome; please to step this way.'

Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, 'Lovely virgin,' said he, stretching out his hand, 'allow me to salute your fingers.'

'I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,' said Belle.

'I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,' said the man in black, 'I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.'

'I never permit anything of the kind,' said Belle; 'I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private.'

'Do you take me for a listener then?' said the man in black.

'Ay, indeed I do,' said Belle; 'the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them, if he please, but for my part I neither admit them nor believe them'; and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool.

'Come, Belle,' said I, 'I have bidden the gentleman welcome, I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly.'

'That's not English doctrine,' said the man in black.

'I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,' said I.

'They do so,' said the man in black; 'they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage.'

'You are too general,' said I, 'in your strictures. Lord ——, the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head: what do you think of that?'

'He! he! he!' tittered the man in black.

'Well,' said I, 'I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the Radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?'

'Oh, when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake.'

'Well,' said I, 'we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.'

The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down, gypsy-fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: 'Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me.'

'Will you permit me to ask,' said the man in black—'the weather is very warm,' said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat.

I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown—his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large—a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.

'A bad countenance,' said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.

'Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?' said the man in black, resuming his hat, and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice.

'How,' said I, 'do you understand the language of the roads?'

'As little as I do Armenian,' said the man in black; 'but I understand look and tone.'

'So do I, perhaps,' retorted Belle; 'and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.'

'For shame,' said I; 'have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question,' said I, addressing myself to the man, 'with respect to your visit.'

'Will you permit me to ask who you are?'

'Do you see the place where I live?' said I.

'I do,' said the man in black, looking around.

'Do you know the name of this place?'

'I was told it was Mumpers' or Gypsies' Dingle,' said the man in black.

'Good,' said I; 'and this forge and tent, what do they look like?'

'Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.'

'Good,' said I; 'they belong to me.'

'Are you, then, a gypsy?' said the man in black.

'What else should I be?'

'But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.'

'Do you know how gypsies live?' said I.

'By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.'

'Well,' said I, 'there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.'

'But how did you come by your knowledge?'

'Oh,' said I, 'if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.'

'Why scarlet?' said the man in black. 'Is it because gypsies blush like scarlet?'

'Gypsies never blush,' said I; 'but gypsies' cloaks are scarlet.'

'I should almost take you for a gypsy,' said the man in black, 'but for—'

'For what?' said I.

'But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,' said the man in black, with a titter.

'And why should not a gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?' said I.

'Because the gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,' said the man in black; 'they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers—and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.'

'What do you take me for?' said I.

'Why,' said the man in black, 'I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.'

'And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?' said I.

'Because the philological race is the most stupid under heaven,' said the man in black; 'they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject—even though the subject were philology—is a thing of which I have no idea.'

'But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?'

'I believe I did,' said the man in black.

'And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?'

'I believe I did,' said the man in black.

'And would anyone but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?'

'I should think not,' said the man in black.

'Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?'

'I really don't know,' said the man in black.

'What's the matter with you?' said I.

'Merely puzzled,' said the man in black.

'Puzzled?'

'Yes.'

'Really puzzled?'

'Yes.'

'Remain so.'

'Well,' said the man in black, rising, 'puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.'

'No apology is necessary,' said I; 'will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea.'

'Tea!' said the man in black; 'he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it—if, indeed, you had,' and here he stopped.

'There's nothing like gin and water, is there?' said I, 'but I am sorry to say I have none.'

'Gin and water,' said the man in black, 'how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?'

'Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?'

'You did,' said the man in black, 'and I remember that, when I called for some you repeated my words—permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?'

'It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,' said I.

'And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?'

'Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,' said I.

'With all your knowledge,' said the man in black, 'you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?'

'Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,' said I; 'but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.'

'Have I your permission to come again?' said the man in black.

'Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.'

'I will visit you again,' said the man in black—'till then, addio.'

'Belle,' said I, after the man in black had departed, 'we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense.'

'You offered him some tea,' said Belle, 'which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.'

'Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor, and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?'

'I think I do,' said Belle, 'but—'

'I will have no buts. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find.'

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Low Noon" by unknown writer (in English).

 Howard Nostrand - Black Car Comics #47 - Harvey, December 1953.

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading: "Woodnotes II" (in English)

As sunbeams stream through liberal space
And nothing jostle or displace,
So waved the pine-tree through my thought
And fanned the dreams it never brought.


'Whether is better, the gift or the donor?
Come to me,'
Quoth the pine-tree,
'I am the giver of honor.
My garden is the cloven rock,
And my manure the snow;
And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock,
In summer's scorching glow.
He is great who can live by me:
The rough and bearded forester
Is better than the lord;
God fills the scrip and canister,
Sin piles the loaded board.
The lord is the peasant that was,
The peasant the lord that shall be;
The lord is hay, the peasant grass,
One dry, and one the living tree.
Who liveth by the ragged pine
Foundeth a heroic line;
Who liveth in the palace hall
Waneth fast and spendeth all.
He goes to my savage haunts,
With his chariot and his care;
My twilight realm he disenchants,
And finds his prison there.


'What prizes the town and the tower?
Only what the pine-tree yields;
Sinew that subdued the fields;
The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods
Chants his hymn to hills and floods,
Whom the city's poisoning spleen
Made not pale, or fat, or lean;
Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,
Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth,
In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,
In whose feet the lion rusheth,
Iron arms, and iron mould,
That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.
I give my rafters to his boat,
My billets to his boiler's throat,
And I will swim the ancient sea
To float my child to victory,
And grant to dwellers with the pine
Dominion o'er the palm and vine.
Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,
Unnerves his strength, invites his end.
Cut a bough from my parent stem,
And dip it in thy porcelain vase;
A little while each russet gem
Will swell and rise with wonted grace;
But when it seeks enlarged supplies,
The orphan of the forest dies.
Whoso walks in solitude
And inhabiteth the wood,
Choosing light, wave, rock and bird,
Before the money-loving herd,
Into that forester shall pass,
From these companions, power and grace.
Clean shall he be, without, within,
From the old adhering sin,
All ill dissolving in the light
Of his triumphant piercing sight:
Not vain, sour, nor frivolous;
Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;
Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,
And of all other men desired.
On him the light of star and moon
Shall fall with purer radiance down;
All constellations of the sky
Shed their virtue through his eye.
Him Nature giveth for defence
His formidable innocence;
The mounting sap, the shells, the sea,
All spheres, all stones, his helpers be;
He shall meet the speeding year,
Without wailing, without fear;
He shall be happy in his love,
Like to like shall joyful prove;
He shall be happy whilst he wooes,
Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse.
But if with gold she bind her hair,
And deck her breast with diamond,
Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear,
Though thou lie alone on the ground.


'Heed the old oracles,
Ponder my spells;
Song wakes in my pinnacles
When the wind swells.
Soundeth the prophetic wind,
The shadows shake on the rock behind,
And the countless leaves of the pine are strings
Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings.
Hearken! Hearken!
If thou wouldst know the mystic song
Chanted when the sphere was young.
Aloft, abroad, the pæan swells;
O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells?
O wise man! hear'st thou the least part?
'T is the chronicle of art.
To the open ear it sings
Sweet the genesis of things,
Of tendency through endless ages,
Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages,
Of rounded worlds, of space and time,
Of the old flood's subsiding slime,
Of chemic matter, force and form,
Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm:
The rushing metamorphosis
Dissolving all that fixture is,
Melts things that be to things that seem,
And solid nature to a dream.
O, listen to the undersong,
The ever old, the ever young;
And, far within those cadent pauses,
The chorus of the ancient Causes!
Delights the dreadful Destiny
To fling his voice into the tree,
And shock thy weak ear with a note
Breathed from the everlasting throat.
In music he repeats the pang
Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang.
O mortal! thy ears are stones;
These echoes are laden with tones
Which only the pure can hear;
Thou canst not catch what they recite
Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right,
Of man to come, of human life,
Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.'


Once again the pine-tree sung:—
'Speak not thy speech my boughs among:
Put off thy years, wash in the breeze;
My hours are peaceful centuries.
Talk no more with feeble tongue;
No more the fool of space and time,
Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.
Only thy Americans
Can read thy line, can meet thy glance,
But the runes that I rehearse
Understands the universe;
The least breath my boughs which tossed
Brings again the Pentecost;
To every soul resounding clear
In a voice of solemn cheer,—
"Am I not thine? Are not these thine?"
And they reply, "Forever mine!"
My branches speak Italian,
English, German, Basque, Castilian,
Mountain speech to Highlanders,
Ocean tongues to islanders,
To Fin and Lap and swart Malay,
To each his bosom-secret say.


'Come learn with me the fatal song
Which knits the world in music strong,
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,
Of things with things, of times with times,
Primal chimes of sun and shade,
Of sound and echo, man and maid,
The land reflected in the flood,
Body with shadow still pursued.
For Nature beats in perfect tune,
And rounds with rhyme her every rune,
Whether she work in land or sea,
Or hide underground her alchemy.
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,
Or dip thy paddle in the lake,
But it carves the bow of beauty there,
And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
The wood is wiser far than thou;
The wood and wave each other know
Not unrelated, unaffied,
But to each thought and thing allied,
Is perfect Nature's every part,
Rooted in the mighty Heart,
But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed,
Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed,
Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded?
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded?
Who thee divorced, deceived and left?
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft,
And torn the ensigns from thy brow,
And sunk the immortal eye so low?
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender,
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender
For royal man;—they thee confess
An exile from the wilderness,—
The hills where health with health agrees,
And the wise soul expels disease.
Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign
By which thy hurt thou may'st divine.
When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff,
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff,
To thee the horizon shall express
But emptiness on emptiness;
There lives no man of Nature's worth
In the circle of the earth;
And to thine eye the vast skies fall,
Dire and satirical,
On clucking hens and prating fools,
On thieves, on drudges and on dolls.
And thou shalt say to the Most High,
"Godhead! all this astronomy,
And fate and practice and invention,
Strong art and beautiful pretension,
This radiant pomp of sun and star,
Throes that were, and worlds that are,
Behold! were in vain and in vain;—
It cannot be,—I will look again.
Surely now will the curtain rise,
And earth's fit tenant me surprise;—
But the curtain doth not rise,
And Nature has miscarried wholly
Into failure, into folly."


'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy,
Blessed Nature so to see.
Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,
And heal the hurts which sin has made.
I see thee in the crowd alone;
I will be thy companion.
Quit thy friends as the dead in doom,
And build to them a final tomb;
Let the starred shade that nightly falls
Still celebrate their funerals,
And the bell of beetle and of bee
Knell their melodious memory.
Behind thee leave thy merchandise,
Thy churches and thy charities;
And leave thy peacock wit behind;
Enough for thee the primal mind
That flows in streams, that breathes in wind:
Leave all thy pedant lore apart;
God hid the whole world in thy heart.
Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns,
Gives all to them who all renounce.
The rain comes when the wind calls;
The river knows the way to the sea;
Without a pilot it runs and falls,
Blessing all lands with its charity;
The sea tosses and foams to find
Its way up to the cloud and wind;
The shadow sits close to the flying ball;
The date fails not on the palm-tree tall;
And thou,—go burn thy wormy pages,—
Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages.
Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain
To find what bird had piped the strain:—
Seek not, and the little eremite
Flies gayly forth and sings in sight.


'Hearken once more!
I will tell thee the mundane lore.
Older am I than thy numbers wot,
Change I may, but I pass not.
Hitherto all things fast abide,
And anchored in the tempest ride.
Trenchant time behoves to hurry
All to yean and all to bury:
All the forms are fugitive,
But the substances survive.
Ever fresh the broad creation,
A divine improvisation,
From the heart of God proceeds,
A single will, a million deeds.
Once slept the world an egg of stone,
And pulse, and sound, and light was none;
And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion
And the vast mass became vast ocean.
Onward and on, the eternal Pan,
Who layeth the world's incessant plan,
Halteth never in one shape,
But forever doth escape,
Like wave or flame, into new forms
Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms.
I, that to-day am a pine,
Yesterday was a bundle of grass.
He is free and libertine,
Pouring of his power the wine
To every age, to every race;
Unto every race and age
He emptieth the beverage;
Unto each, and unto all,
Maker and original.
The world is the ring of his spells,
And the play of his miracles.
As he giveth to all to drink,
Thus or thus they are and think.
With one drop sheds form and feature;
With the next a special nature;
The third adds heat's indulgent spark;
The fourth gives light which eats the dark;
Into the fifth himself he flings,
And conscious Law is King of kings.
As the bee through the garden ranges,
From world to world the godhead changes;
As the sheep go feeding in the waste,
From form to form He maketh haste;
This vault which glows immense with light
Is the inn where he lodges for a night.
What recks such Traveller if the bowers
Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers
A bunch of fragrant lilies be,
Or the stars of eternity?
Alike to him the better, the worse,—
The glowing angel, the outcast corse.
Thou metest him by centuries,
And lo! he passes like the breeze;
Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy,
He hides in pure transparency;
Thou askest in fountains and in fires,
He is the essence that inquires.
He is the axis of the star;
He is the sparkle of the spar;
He is the heart of every creature;
He is the meaning of each feature;
And his mind is the sky.
Than all it holds more deep, more high.'

Friday's Sung Word "No Tabuleiro da Baiana" by Ary Barroso (in Portuguese)

HE - No tabuleiro da baiana tem?

SHE - Vatapá, oi, carurú, mugunzá, tem umbú
Pra Ioiô

HE - Se eu pedir você me dá o seu coração
Seu amor de Iaiá?

SHE - No coração da baiana tem :

HE -Sedução, cangerê, ilusão, candomblé

SHE - Prá você

HE - Juro por Deus, pelo Senhor do Bonfim
Quero você, baianinha, inteirinha
Pra mim

SHE - E depois, o que será de nós dois
Seu amor é tão fugaz, enganador

HE -Tudo já fiz, fui até num cangerê
Pra ser feliz
Meus trapinhos juntar com você

SHE - E depois vai ser mais uma ilusão
No amor quem governa é o coração  

 

You can listen "No Tabuleiro da Baiana" sung by Carmen Miranda and Luiz Barbosa with Luperce Miranda and Regional de Benedito Lacerda here.

Thursday's Serial: “A Moreninha” by Dr. Joaquim Manoel de Macedo (in Portuguese) - I

 

Trop occupc pour corrigec,

Je vous Jivre mcs rèveries.

.... .. .....

J'en fais pour me désennuyer.

(GRESSET.)

 

DUAS PALAVRAS

Eis aí vão algumas paginas escritas, ás quais me atrevi dar o nome de — ROMANCE. — Não foi ele movido por nenhuma dessas tres poderosas inspirações, que tantas vezes soem aparar as penas dos autores: — glória, amor e interesse —: d’este ultimo estou eu bem a coberto com meus vinte e tres anos de idade; que não é na juventude que póde ele dirigir o homem: a gloria, só se andasse ela caída de suas alturas, rojando as azas quebradas, me lembraria eu, tão pela terra que rastejo, de pretender ir apanha-la: a respeito do amor não falemos; pois, se me estivesse o buliçoso a fazer cócegas no coração, bem sabia eu que mais proveitoso me seria gastar meia dúzia de semanas aprendendo n’uma sala de dança, do que velar trinta noites garatujando o que por aí vai. Este pequeno romance deve sua existência somente aos dias de desenfado e folga, que passei no belo Itaborahi, durante as férias do ano passado. Longe do bulicio da Côrte, e quase em ócio, a minha imaginação assentou lá com sigo que bom ensejo era esse de fazer travessuras, e em resultado delas saiu — a Moreninha. —

Dir-me-ão que o ser a minha imaginação traquinas não é um motivo plausivel para vir eu maçar a paciencia dos leitores com uma composição balda de merecimento, e cheia de irregularidades e defeitos; mas o que querem? quem escreve olha a sua obra como seu filho, e todo o mundo sabe que o pai acha sempre graças e bondades na querida prole.

Do que vem dito concluir-se-há que a Moreninha é minha filha: exactamente assim penso eu. Pode ser que me accusem por não tel-a conservado debaixo de minhas vistas por mais tempo, para corrigir suas imperfeições: esse era o meu primeiro intento: a Moreninha não é a unica filha que possuo; tem tres irmãos, que pretendo educar com esmero; o mesmo faria a ela; poém esta menina saiu tão travessa, tão impertinente, que não pude mais sofre-la no seu berço de carteira, e para ver-me livre d’ela venho deposita-la nas mãos do Público, de cuja benignidade e paciência tenho ouvido grandes elogios.

Eu pois conto que, não esquecendo a fama antiga, o Publico a receba, e lhe perdôe seus senões, maus modos, e leviandades. É uma criança, que terá, quando muito, seis meses de idade; merece a compaixão que por ela imploro: mas, se lhe notarem graves defeitos de educação, que provenham da ignorância do pai, rogo que não os deixem passar por alto, acusem-os; que d’ai tirarei eu muito proveito, criando e educando melhor os irmãoszinhos, que a Moreninha tem cá.

E tu, filha minha, vai com a benção paterna, e queira o Céu que ditosa sejas: nem por seres traquinas te estimo menos: e como prova vou em despedida dar-te um precioso conselho: — Recebe, filha, com gratidão a critica do homem instruido; não chores, se com a unha marcarem o lugar em que tiveres mais notavel senão; e quando te disserem que por este erro ou aquela falta não és boa menina, jamais te arrepies antes agradece, e anima-te sempre com as palavras do velho poeta:

 

« Deixa-te repreender de quem bem te ama,

«Que ou te aproveita, ou quer aproveitar-te.»