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

 

I - APOSTA IMPRUDENTE

— Bravo! exclamou Filipe, entrando e despindo a casaca, que pendurou em um cabide velho. Bravo!... Interessante cena! Mas certo que desonrosa fora para casa de um estudante de medicina e já do sexto ano, a não lhe valer o adágio antigo: o hábito não faz o monge.

— Temos discurso!... Atenção!... Ordem!... gritaram a um tempo três vozes.

— Coisa célebre! acrescentou Leopoldo, Filipe sempre se torna orador depois do jantar...

— E dá-lhe para fazer epigramas, disse Fabrício.

— Naturalmente, acudiu Leopoldo, que, por dono da casa, maior quinhão houvera no cumprimento do recém-chegado; naturalmente Bocage, quando tomava carraspanas, descompunha os médicos.

— C’est trop fort! bocejou Augusto, espreguiçando-se no canapé em que se achava deitado.

— Como quiserem, continuou Filipe, pondo-se em hábitos menores; mas por minha vida que a carraspana de hoje ainda me concede apreciar devidamente aqui o meu amigo Fabrício, que talvez acaba de chegar de alguma visita diplomática, vestido com esmero e alinho, porém tendo a cabeça encapuçada com a vermelha e velha carapuça do Leopoldo; este, ali escondido dentro de seu robe de chambre cor de burro quando foge, e sentado em uma cadeira tão desconjuntada que, para não cair com ela, põe em ação todas as leis de equilíbrio, que estudou em Pouillet; acolá, enfim, o meu romântico Augusto, em ceroulas, com as fraldas à mostra, estirado em um canapé em tão bom uso, que ainda agora mesmo fez com que Leopoldo se lembrasse de Bocage. Oh! V.S.as tomam café!

Ali o senhor descansa a xícara azul em um pires de porcelana... aquele tem uma chávena com belos lavores dourados, mas o pires é cor-de-rosa... aquele outro nem porcelana, nem lavores, nem cor azul ou de rosa, nem xícara... nem pires... aquilo é uma tigela num prato...

— Carraspana!... Carraspana!... gritaram os três.

— Ó moleque! prosseguiu Filipe, voltando-se para o corredor, traz-me café, ainda que seja no púcaro em que o coas; pois creio que, a não ser a falta de louça, já teu senhor mo teria oferecido.

— Carraspana!... Carraspana!...

— Sim, continuou ele, eu vejo que vocês...

— Carraspana! Carraspana!...

Não sei de nós quem mostra...

— Carraspana! ... Carraspana!

Seguiram-se alguns momentos de silêncio, e ficaram os quatro estudantes assim a modo de moças quando jogam o siso. Filipe não falava, por conhecer o propósito em que estavam os três de lhe não deixar concluir uma só proposição; e estes, porque esperavam vê-lo abrir a boca para gritar-lhe: carraspana!

Enfim, foi ainda Filipe o primeiro que falou, exclamando de repente:

— Paz! Paz!...

— Ah! já?... disse Leopoldo, que era o mais influído.

— Filipe é como o galego, disse um outro; perderia tudo para não guardar silêncio durante uma hora.

— Está bem, o passado, passado: protesto não falar mais nunca na carapuça, nem nas cadeiras, nem na louça do Leopoldo... Estão no caso... sim...

— Hein?... olha a carraspana...

— Basta! Vamos a negócio mais sério. Onde vão vocês passar o dia de Sant’Ana?

— Por quê?... Temos patuscada?... acudiu Leopoldo.

— Minha avó chama-se Ana.

— Ergo!...

Estou habilitado para convidá-los a vir passar a véspera e dia de Sant’Ana conosco, na ilha de...

— Eu vou, disse prontamente Leopoldo.

— E dois, acudiu logo Fabrício.

Augusto só guardou silêncio.

— E tu, Augusto?... perguntou Filipe.

— Eu?... Eu não conheço tua avó.

— Ora, sou seu criado; também eu não a conheço, disse Fabrício.

— Nem eu, acrescentou Leopoldo.

— Não conhecem a avó, mas conhecem o neto, disse Filipe.

— E ademais, tornou Fabrício, palavra de honra que nenhum de nós tomará o trabalho de lá ir por causa da velha.

— Augusto, minha avó é a velha mais patusca do Rio de Janeiro.

— Sim?... Que idade tem?

— Sessenta anos.

— Está fresquinha ainda... Ora.... se um de nós a enfeitiça e se faz avô de Filipe!

— E ela, que possui talvez seus 200 mil cruzados, não é assim, Filipe? Olha, se é assim, e tua avó se lembrasse de querer casar comigo, disse Fabrício, juro que mais depressa daria o meu "recebo a vós" aos cobres da velha, do que a qualquer das nossas "toma-larguras" da moda.

— Por quem são!... Deixem minha avó e tratemos da patuscada. Então tu vais, Augusto?

— Não.

— É uma bonita ilha.

— Não duvido.

— Reuniremos uma sociedade pouco numerosa, mas bem escolhida.

Melhor para vocês.

— No domingo, à noite, teremos um baile.

— Estimo que se divirtam.

— Minhas primas vão. Não as conheço.

— São bonitas.

— Que me importa?... Deixem-me. Vocês sabem o meu fraco e caem-me logo com ele: moças!... moças!... Confesso que dou o cavaco por elas, mas as moças me têm posto velho.

— E porque ele não conhece tuas primas, disse Fabrício.

— Ora… o que poderão ser senão demoninhas, como são todas as outras moças bonitas?

— Então tuas primas são gentis?... perguntou Leopoldo a Filipe.

— A mais velha, respondeu este, tem dezessete anos, chama-se Joana, tem cabelos negros, belos olhos da mesma cor, e é pálida.

— Hein?... exclamou Augusto, pondo-se de um pulo duas braças longe do canapé onde estava deitado: então ela é pálida?...

— A mais moça tem um ano de menos: loira, de olhos azuis, faces cor-de-rosa... seio de alabastro... dentes...

— Como se chama?

— Joaquina.

— Ai, meus pecados! ... disse Augusto.

— Vejam como Augusto já está enternecido...

Mas, Filipe, tu já me disseste que tinhas uma irmã.

— Sim: é uma moreninha de catorze anos.

— Moreninha! Diabo!... exclamou outra vez Augusto, dando novo pulo.

— Está sabido... Augusto não relaxa a patuscada.

— É que este ano já tenho pagodeado meu quantum satis; e, assim como vocês, também eu quero andar em dia com alguns senhores, com quem nos é muito preciso andar de contas justos no mês de novembro.

— Mas a pálida?... A loira?... A moreninha?...

— Que interessante terceto! exclamou em tom teatral Augusto; que coleção de belos tipos!... Uma jovem com dezessete anos, pálida… romântica e, portanto, sublime; uma outra, loira… de olhos azuis... faces cor-de-rosa… e... não sei que mais; enfim, clássica e por isso bela. Por último, uma terceira de catorze anos… moreninha, que, ou seja romântica ou clássica, prosaica ou poética, ingênua ou misteriosa, há de por força ser interessante, travessa e engraçada; e por conseqüência qualquer das três, ou todas ao mesmo tempo, muito capazes de fazer de minha alma peteca, de meu coração pitorra!... Está tratado… não há remédio... Filipe, vou visitar tua avó. Sim, é melhor passar os dois dias estudando alegremente nesses três interessantes volumes da grande obra da natureza, do que gastar as horas, por exemplo, sobre um célebre Velpeau, que só ele faz por sua conta e risco mais citações em cada página do que todos os meirinhos fizeram, fazem e hão de fazer pelo mundo.

— Bela conseqüência! É raciocínio o teu que faria inveja a um calouro, disse Fabrício.

— Bem raciocinado… não tem dúvida, acudiu Filipe; então, conto contigo, Augusto.

— Dou-te palavra… e mesmo porque eu devo visitar tua avó.

— Sim... já sei... isso dirás tu a ela.

— Mas vocês não têm reparado que Fabrício tornou-se amuado e pensativo, desde que se falou nas primas de Filipe?...

— Disseram-me que ele anda enrabichado com minha prima Joaninha.

— A pálida?… pois eu já me vou dispondo a fazer meu pé de alferes com a loira.

— E tu, Augusto, quererás porventura requestar minha irmã?...

— É possível.

— E de qual gostarás mais, da pálida, da loira ou da moreninha?...

Creio que gostarei, principalmente, de todas..

— Ei-lo aí com sua mania.

— Augusto é incorrigível.

— Não, é romântico.

— Nem uma coisa nem outra... é um grandíssimo velhaco.

— Não diz o que sente.

— Não sente o que diz.

— Faz mais do que isso, pois diz o que não sente.

— O que quiserem… Serei incorrigível, romântico ou velhaco, não digo o que sinto, não sinto o que digo, ou mesmo digo o que não sinto; sou, enfim, mau e perigoso, e vocês inocentes e anjinhos. Todavia, eu a ninguém escondo os sentimentos que ainda há pouco mostrei: em toda a parte confesso que sou volúvel, inconstante e incapaz de amar três dias um mesmo objeto; verdade seja que nada há mais fácil do que me ouvirem um "eu vos amo" , mas também a nenhuma pedi ainda que me desse fé; pelo contrário, digo a todas o como sou; e se, apesar de tal, sua vaidade é tanta que se suponham inesquecíveis, a culpa, certo que não é minha. Eis o que faço. E vós, meus caros amigos, que blasonais de firmeza de rochedo, que jurais amor eterno cem vezes por ano a cem diversas belezas... sois tanto ou ainda mais inconstantes que eu!... Mas entre nós há sempre uma grande diferença; vós enganais e eu desengano; eu digo a verdade e vós, meus senhores, mentis...

— Está romântico!... Está romântico!... exclamaram os três, rindo às gargalhadas.

— A alma que Deus me deu, continuou Augusto, é sensível demais para reter por muito tempo uma mesma impressão. Sou inconstante, mas sou feliz na minha inconstância, porque, apaixonando-me tantas vezes, não chego nunca a amar uma vez...

— Oh!... Oh!... Que horror!... Que horror!...

— Sim! Esse sentimento que voto às vezes a dez jovens num só dia, às vezes numa mesma hora, não é amor, certamente. Por minha vida, interessantes senhores, meus pensamentos nunca têm damas; porque sempre têm damas; eu nunca amei... eu não amo ainda… eu não amarei jamais.

— Ah!... Ah!... Ah!... E como ele diz aquilo!

— Ou, se querem, precisarei melhor o meu programa sentimental; lá vai: afirmo, meus senhores, que meu pensamento nunca se ocupou, não se ocupa, nem se há de ocupar de uma mesma moça durante quinze dias.

— E eu afirmo que segunda-feira voltarás da ilha de... loucamente apaixonado de alguma de minhas primas.

— Pode bem suceder que de ambas.

E que todo resto do ano letivo passarás pela rua de... duas e três vezes por dia, somente com o fim de vê-la.

— Assevero que não.

— Assevero que sim.

— Quem?... Eu?... Eu mesmo passar duas e três vezes por dia por uma só rua por causa de uma moça?... E para quê?... Para vê-ia lançar-me olhos de ternura, ou sorrir-se brandamente quando eu para ela olhar, e depois fazer-me caretas ao lhe dar as costas?... Para que ela chame as vizinhas que lhe devem ajudar a chamar-me tolo, paleta, basbaque e namorador?... Não, minhas belas senhoras da moda! Eu vos conheço!... Amante apaixonado quando vos vejo, esqueço-me de vós, duas horas depois de deixar-vos. Fora disto só queimarei o incenso da ironia no altar de vossa vaidade; fingirei obedecer a vossos caprichos e somente zombarei deles. Ah! ... Muitas vezes, alguma de vós, quando me ouve dizer: "Sois encantadora", está dizendo consigo: "Ele me adora", enquanto eu digo também comigo: "Que vaidosa!"

— Que vaidoso!… te digo eu, exclamou Filipe.

— Ora, esta não é má!... Então vocês querem governar o meu coração?...

— Não; porém eu torno a afirmar que tu amarás uma de minhas primas durante todo o tempo que for da vontade dela.

— Que mimos de amor que são as primas deste senhor!

— Eu te mostrarei.

— Juro que não.

Aposto que sim.

— Aposto que não.

— Papel e tinta: escreva-se a aposta.

— Mas tu me dás muita vantagem, e eu rejeitarei a menor. Tens apenas duas primas: é um número de feiticeiras muito limitado. Não sejam só elas as únicas magas que em teu favor invoquem para me encantar: meus sentimentos ofendem, talvez, a vaidade de todas as belas; todas as belas, pois, tenham o direito de te fazer ganhar a aposta, meu valente campeão do amor constante!

— Como quiseres, mas escreve.

— E quem perder?...

— Pagará a todos nós um almoço no Pharoux, disse Fabrício.

Qual almoço! acudiu Leopoldo. Pagará um camarote no primeiro drama novo que representar o nosso João Caetano.

— Nem almoço, nem camarote, concluiu Filipe; se perderes, escreverás a história da tua derrota; e se ganhares, escreverei o triunfo da tua inconstância.

— Bem, escrever-se-á um romance, e um de nós dois, o infeliz, será o autor.

Augusto escreveu primeira, segunda e terceira vez o termo da aposta; mas depois de longa e vigorosa discussão, em que qualquer dos quatro falou duas vezes sobre a matéria, uma para responder e dez ou doze pela ordem; depois de se oferecerem quinze emendas e vinte artigos aditivos, caiu tudo por grande maioria, e entre bravos, apoiados e aplausos, foi aprovado, salva a redação, o seguinte termo:

 

"No dia 20 de julho de 18... na sala parlamentar da casa; ... da rua de..., sendo testemunhas os estudantes Fabrício e Leopoldo, acordaram Filipe e Augusto, também estudantes, que, se até o dia 20 de agosto do corrente ano, o segundo acordante tiver amado a uma só mulher durante quinze dias ou mais, será obrigado a escrever um romance em que tal acontecimento confesse; e, no caso contrário, igual pena sofrerá o primeiro acordante. Sala parlamentar, 20 de julho de 18... Salva a redação".

Como testemunhas — Fabrício e Leopoldo.

Acordantes — Filipe e Augusto.

 

E eram oito horas da noite quando se levantou a sessão.

Wednesday's Good Reading: "Noturno" by Raul de Leoni (in Portuguese)

No parque antigo, a noite era afetuosa e mansa,
Sob a lenda encantada do luar...

Os pinheiros pensavam cousas longas,
Nas alturas dormentes e desertas...
O aroma nupcial dos jasmins delirantes,
Diluindo um cheiro acre de resinas,
Espiritualizava e adormecia
O ar meigo e silencioso...
A ronda dos espíritos noturnos,
Em medrosos rumores,
Gemia entre os ciprestes e os loureiros...
Na penumbra dos bosques, o luar
Entreabria clareiras encantadas,
Prateando o verde-malva das latadas
E as doces perspectivas do pomar...

As nascentes sonhavam, em surdina,
Numa tonalidade cristalina,
Monótonos murmurinhos,
Gorgolejos de águas frescas...

Sobre a areia de prata dos caminhos,
A sombra espiritual dos eucaliptos,
Bulindo ao sopro tímido da aragem,
Projetava ao luar desenhos indecisos
Ágeis bailados leves de arabescos,
Farândolas de sombras fugitivas...

E das perdidas curvas das estradas,
De paragens distantes
Como fantasmas de serenatas,
Ressonâncias sonâmbulas traziam
A longa, a pungentíssima saudade
De cavatinas e mandolinatas...
Lembro-me bem, quando em quando,
Entre as sebes escondidas,
Um insidioso grilo impertinente,
Roendo um som estridente,
Arranhava o silêncio...

No parque antigo, a noite era afetuosa e mansa,
Sob a lenda encantada do luar...
Eu era bem criança e, já possuindo
A sensibilidade evocadora
De um poeta de símbolos profundos,
Solitário e comovido,
No minarete do solar paterno,
Com os pequeninos olhos deslumbrados,
Passei a noite inteira, o olhar perdido,
No azul sonoro, o azul profundo, o azul eterno
Dos eternos espaços constelados...

Era a primeira vez que eu contemplava o mundo,
Que eu via face a face o mistério profundo
Da fantasmagoria universal
No prodígio da noite silenciosa.

Era a primeira vez...
E foi aí, talvez,
Que começou a história atormentada
Da minha alma, curiosa dos abismos,
Inquieta da existência e doente do Além...
Filha da maldição do Arcanjo rebelado...

Sim, que foi nessa noite, não me engano,
– Noite que nunca mais esquecerei –
Que – a alma ainda em crisálida, – velando
No minarete do solar paterno,
Diante da noite azul – eu senti e pensei
O meu primeiro sofrimento humano
E o meu primeiro pensamento eterno...

Como fora do Tempo e além do Espaço,
Ser sem princípio, espírito sem fim,
Sofria toda a humanidade em mim,
Nessa contemplação imponderável!

Já nem ouvia o trêmulo compasso
Das horas que fugiam pela noite,
Que os olhos soltos pela imensidade,
Numa melancolia deslumbrada,
Imaginando cousas nunca ditas,
Todo eu me eterizava e me perdia
Na ideia das esferas infinitas,
Na lenda universal das distâncias eternas...

No parque antigo, a noite era afetuosa e mansa,
Sob a lenda encantada do luar...

Foi nessa noite antiga
Que se desencantou para a vertigem
A suave virgindade do meu ser!

Já a lua transmontava as cordilheiras...
Cães ladravam ao longe, em sobressalto;
No pátio das mansões, na granja das herdades,
O cântico dos galos estalava,
Desoladoramente pelos ares,
Acordando as distâncias esquecidas...

E, então, num silencioso desencanto,
Eu fui adormecendo lentamente,
Enquanto
Pela fria fluidez azul do espaço eterno
Em reticências trêmulas, sorria
A ironia longínqua das estrelas...

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.