“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;[46a]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 103, 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;[46b]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’sLife 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.”
Whentwo 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.
The Old Church, St. Giles, at Willenhall, Staffordshire (rebuilt 1867)
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 efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile by footpaths through meadows and cornfields; 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 ofwhich had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the churchyard 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.
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 courseto 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.
Porch of St. Nicholas Church, East Dereham
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 whichhad 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 scandalised 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.
Theservice 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 inmany 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 acquaintancewhen 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.”
“They seem rather flighty, Jasper.”
“Ay, ay, brother!”
“Rather fond of loose discourse!”
“Rather so, brother.”
“Can you always trust them, Jasper?”
“We never watch them, brother.”
“They can always trust you?”
“Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get onvery well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous—though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his.”
“Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?”
“My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother?”
“But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.”
“Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon.”
“Gammon of bacon, I suppose.”
“Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means—”
“I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda.”
“Lor’, brother! how learned in lils you are!”
“Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example—in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, ‘Your mother is up,’ there’s a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper.”
“Lor’, brother! how book-learned you be.”
“Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?”
“I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.”
“Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs say so—the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon.”
“That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals.”
“Well! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula herself, Jasper.”
“Ursula herself, brother?”
“You were talking of my having her, Jasper.”
“Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?”
“Would she have had me?”
“Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well.”
“Poor thing! she looks very innocent!”
“Remarkably so, brother! however, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters.”
“I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song.”
“You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song.”
Itooktea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. “I am sorry that man has lost his wife,” thought I; “for I am sure he will never get another. What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his!”
After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length, becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. “What better could I do,” methought, “on a Sunday evening?” I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was in her Sunday’s best.
“Good-evening, Ursula,” said I; “I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here.”
“Nor would you, brother,” said Ursula, “had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so, hearing that, I watched your motions and came here and sat down.”
“I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but—”
“Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; you can speak to me under a hedge some other time.”
“I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;” and I sat down by her side.
“Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?”
“Why, I hardly know, Ursula.”
“Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them.”
“Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?”
“Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate.”
“You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.”
“A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many’s the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull’s bath to the foreign country.”
“Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?”
“Of course, brother, very great temptations; don’t you think them so?”
“Can’t say I do, Ursula.”
“Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?”
“Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.”
“The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother; but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broad-cloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and—what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals.”
“I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles.”
“Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, and more disposed to respect those who have them.”
“Then money and fine clothes would induce you to anything, Ursula?”
“Ay, ay, brother, anything.”
“To chore, Ursula?”
“Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring.”
“To hokkawar?”
“Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.”
“In fact, to break the law in everything?”
“Who knows, brother, who knows? As I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations.”
“Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved.”
“Indeed, brother.”
“To think that I am seated by one who is willing to—to—”
“Go on, brother.”
“To play the thief!”
“Go on, brother.”
“The liar.”
“Go on, brother.”
“The—the—”
“Go on, brother.”
“The—the lubbeny.”
“The what, brother?” said Ursula, starting from her seat.
“Why, the lubbeny; don’t you—”
“I tell you what, brother,” said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, “if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief.”
“Why, what is the matter, Ursula?” said I; “how have I offended you?”
“How have you offended me? Why, didn’t you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the—the—”
“Go on, Ursula.”
“The—the— I’ll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand.”
“If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about—to talk to you about.”
“Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.”
“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?”
“I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,” said Ursula; “a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very honest woman, but—”
“Well, Ursula.”
“I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! I’ll do you a mischief. By my God I will!”
“Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue—a perfect Lucretia; but—”
“My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day.”
“Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don’t understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don’t barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?”
“Well, brother,” said Ursula, “as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things.”
And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side.
“Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?”
“In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.”
“And do not people often address you in a very free manner?”
“Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.”
“Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as—”
“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls and trinkets; very frequently, brother.”
“And what do you do, Ursula?”
“I takes what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can.”
“Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents? I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, Ursula?”
“Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?”
“The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?”
“Very frequently, brother.”
“And do you ever grant it?”
“Never, brother.”
“How do you avoid it?”
“I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store.”
“But if your terrible language has no effect?”
“Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails.”
“And are they always sufficient?”
“I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient.”
“But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?”
“We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy father makes no difference; and what’s more, sees none.”
“Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference.”
“What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.”
“But your fathers, brothers and uncles give you credit, I suppose, Ursula.”
“Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers and cokos gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu or coko—perhaps both—are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and my coko goes on fiddling just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens.”
“They know they can trust you, Ursula?”
“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust myself.”
“So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?”
“Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.”
“But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.”
“Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.”
“Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one’s character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militiamen, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?”
“By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him.”
“Your action at law, Ursula?”
“Yes, brother, I should give a whistle, whereupon all one’s cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. ‘What’s the matter, Ursula?’ says my coko. ‘Nothing at all,’ I replies, ‘save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the — with him.’ ‘Oho, he does, Ursula,’ says my coko, ‘try your action of law against him, my lamb,’ and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: ‘You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?’ ‘Yes,’ said the local officer, ‘I says you did,’ looking down all the time. ‘You are a liar,’ says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand.”
“And this is your action at law, Ursula?”
“Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law.”
“And would your breaking the fellow’s head quite clear you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and what not?”
“They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they would know that I would never condescend to be over-intimate with a gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios.”
“And would it clear you in their eyes?”
“Would it not, brother? When they saw the blood runningdown from the fellow’s cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three-quarters.”
“Did you ever try it, Ursula?”
“Can’t say I ever did, brother, but it would do.”
“And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?”
“Why, ’t is advised by gypsy liri, brother. It’s part of our way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula’s hand, who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, ‘Did I play the — with you?’ and were he to say ‘Yes,’ she would crack his head before the eyes of all.”
“Well,” said I, “Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri by a grand gorgious gentleman.”
“A sad let down,” said Ursula.
“Well,” said I, “sad or not, there’s the song that speaks of the thing, which you give me to understand is not.”
“Well, if the thing ever was,” said Ursula, “it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true.”
“Then why do you sing the song?”
“I’ll tell you, brother, we sings the song now and then to be a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is; you see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, with all kind of disgrace and bad language; but you don’t know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals in an uninhabited place; the song doesn’t say it, but the story says it, for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn’t true.”
“But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals bury the girl alive?”
“I can’t say what they would do,” said Ursula; “I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate, she would be driven from the tan, and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio’s acquaintance; so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her alive.”
“Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi’s entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”
Ursula was silent.
“Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula.”
“Well, brother, suppose it be?”
“I don’t see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”
“You don’t, brother, don’t you?”
“No,” said I; “and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur between gorgios and Romany chies, the result of which is the mixed breed, called half and half, which is at present travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne.”
“As for the half and halfs,” said Ursula, “they are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo Herne.”
“All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half and halfs.”
“The more’s the pity, brother.”
“Pity, or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?”
“How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother—the father of a small family dies, and, perhaps, the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers and basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so—I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half and halfs.”
“Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity would have anything to do with a gorgio?”
“We are not over-fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers, and folks that live in caravans.”
“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basket-maker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house—”
“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my life.”
“But would not plenty of money induce you?”
“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”
“Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?”
“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”
“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”
“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”
“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”
“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”
“Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?”
“Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself.”
“Myself! Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in—”
“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, with a toss of her head.
“Why, in old Pulci’s—”
“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basket-maker.”
“I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem calledMorgante Maggiore, speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of—”
“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?”
“The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wishedto obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter, Meridiana, fell in love.”
“I see,” said Ursula, “that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro, who lost the fight near the chong gav, the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver.”
“I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finallyingravidata, or cambri, by him:—
‘E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia,Che dette à Carlo-man poi gran vittoria’;
‘E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia,Che dette à Carlo-man poi gran vittoria’;
which means—”
“I don’t want to know what it means,” said Ursula; “no good, I’m sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles’s wain’s pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn—”
“I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in a brotherly way, and—”
“And you had nothing better to say to me,” said Ursula, “when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you liked me in a brotherly way! well, I declare—”
“You seem disappointed, Ursula.”
“Disappointed, brother! not I.”
“You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable; so, if you thought anything else—”
“What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up of old rags.”
“Don’t be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you are very handsome and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married.”
“You do, do you, brother?”
“Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the prime of youth, so—”
“Not much past the prime of youth! Don’t be uncivil, brother, I was only twenty-two last month.”
“Don’t be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or, I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept the first offer that’s made to you.”
“Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago.”
“You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?”
“Quite possible, brother, I assure you.”
“And how came I to know nothing about it?”
“How comes it that you don’t know many thousand things about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their affairs?”
“Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!”
“You seem disappointed, brother.”
“Disappointed! Oh! no, not at all; but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband.”
“And you believed him? I’ll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro.”
“I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married—who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?”
“Gorgio, or Romany chal! Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio! It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own.”
“And where is he? and what became of him! Have you any family?”
“Don’t think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house.”
“Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I wish to congratulate him too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Ricciardetto. Ricciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Ricciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she.”
“Brother,” said Ursula—but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology.