Lavengro: The Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest. Borrow George
me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong were mine.”
“And has he none of his own?”
“Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, they were, for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people said they had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them and to keep them in order. And this is so well known, that many Rommany Chals, not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these.”
“Is that fine fellow poor?”
“One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw.”
“And you are what is called a Gypsy King?”
“Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral.”
“Are there other kings?”
“Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro.”
“Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?”
“The first who ever did, brother.”
“Pharaoh lived in Egypt.”
“So did we once, brother.”
“And you left it?”
“My fathers did, brother.”
“And why did they come here?”
“They had their reasons, brother.”
“And you are not English?”
“We are not Gorgios.”
“And you have a language of your own?”
“Avali.”
“This is wonderful.”
“Ha, ha!” cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting at the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which she occasionally cast upon us both. “Ha, ha!” she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and malignity, “It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they talk among themselves? That’s just like you Gorgios, you would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister’s little boy, speaking Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, ‘Run to my son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad’. So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. ‘Good woman,’ says the Poknees, ‘what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?’ ‘I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I said it in our own language.’ ‘Where did you get that language?’ says the Poknees. ‘’Tis our own language, sir,’ I tells him, ‘we did not steal it.’ ‘Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?’ says the Poknees. ‘I would thank you, sir,’ says I, ‘for ’tis often we are asked about it.’ ‘Well, then,’ says the Poknees, ‘it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.’ ‘Oh, bless your wisdom,’ says I, with a curtsey, ‘you can tell us what our language is without understanding it!’ Another time we meet a parson. ‘Good woman,’ says he, ‘what’s that you are talking? Is it broken language?’ ‘Of course, your reverence,’ says I, ‘we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.’ Oh, these Gorgios! they grudge us our very language!”
“She called you her son, Jasper?”
“I am her son, brother.”
“I thought you said your parents were—”
“Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife’s mother.”
“Then you are married, Jasper?”
“Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo anon.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the gav, penning dukkerin.”
“We were talking of language, Jasper?”
“True, brother.”
“Yours must be a rum one?”
“ ’Tis called Rommany.”
“I would gladly know it.”
“You need it sorely.”
“Would you teach it me?”
“None sooner.”
“Suppose we begin now.”
“Suppose we do, brother.”
“Not whilst I am here,” said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; “not whilst I am here shall this Gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manœuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I goes to the farming ker with my sister to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, ‘Do so and so,’ says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about. ‘Nothing at all, master,’ says I; ‘something about the weather’; when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying out, ‘They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!’ so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, ‘How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?’ Whereupon I answers, ‘It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him’. ‘Who was fool there?’ says my sister. ‘Who, indeed, but my son Jasper,’ I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgious. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin.”
“What do you call God, Jasper?”
“You had better be jawing,” said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; “you had better be moving off, my Gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I am dangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!”
And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as, standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon me, she repeated, again and again—
“My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!—”
“I call God Duvel, brother.”
“It sounds very like Devil.”
“It doth, brother, it doth.”
“And what do you call divine, I mean godly?”
“Oh! I call that duvelskoe.”
“I am thinking of something, Jasper.”
“What are you thinking of, brother?”
“Would it not be a rum thing if divine