Lavengro George Borrow (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📖

was probably mistaken⁠—and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished.

I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to:⁠—

The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.189

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle.

“All alone here, brother?” said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones.

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold: in her hand she held a bulrush.

“All alone here, brother?” said the girl, as I looked up; “all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?”

“Why do you call me brother?” said I; “I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!”

“Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman⁠—Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn’t know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.”

“Then you don’t like me?”

“Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?”

“What’s the use of talking to me in that unchristian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?”

“Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.”

“Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn’t it well mended?”

“Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it’s only fit to be played at football with.”

“I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble.”

“I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white.”

“ ’Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.”

“I am young, brother; my hair is black⁠—that’s nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white⁠—that’s not nature.”

“I can’t help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?”

“Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad.”

“Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister.”

“Hey, brother, you don’t speak as you did⁠—you don’t speak like a gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.”

“As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister.”

“I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face⁠—there⁠—do you speak Rommany?”

“Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?”

“What is Rommany? our language, to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don’t speak Rommany?”

“You say it.”

“I don’t say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?”

“Do you mean thieves’ slang⁠—cant? no, I don’t speak cant, I don’t like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl, sitting down on the ground, “I was almost thinking⁠—well, never mind, you don’t know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi.”

“I thought you said it was badly mended?”

“Yes, yes, brother, but⁠—”

“I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?”

“Yes, yes, brother, but⁠—”

“What will you give for it?”

“Brother, I am the poor person’s child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi.”

“Poor person’s child; how came you by that necklace?”

“Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?”

“Not for sixpence; isn’t the kettle nicely mended?”

“I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?”

“You like me then?”

“I don’t dislike you⁠—I dislike no one; there’s only one, and him I don’t dislike, him I hate.”

“Who is he?”

“I scarcely know, I never saw him, but ’tis no affair of yours, you don’t speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?”

“You may have it, but not for sixpence, I’ll give it to you.”

“Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.”

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing⁠—

The Rommany