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

an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don’t believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, by the by, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has £7,000 a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S⁠⸺ turned up her eyes, Mr. S⁠⸺, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke.”

“I think so too,” said my mother.

“I do not,” said my father; “that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own⁠—I mean one which militates against all established authority⁠—is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army; the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination.”

“Which is a poor spirit after all,” said my mother; “but the child is not in the army.”

“And it is well for him that he is not,” said my father; “but you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years! I confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad.”

[“I am not,” said my mother; “I have no doubt that Providence will take care of him.”

“I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy,” said my father; “I can’t help being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to know what kind of part he will play in life.”

“Such curiosity is blamable,” said my mother, “highly so. Let us leave these things to Providence, and hope for the best; but to wish to pry into the future, which is hidden from us, and wisely too, is mighty wicked. Tempt not Providence. I early contracted a dread of that sin. When I was only a child, something occurred connected with diving into the future, which had, I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent conduct. The fright which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is getting dark, and we had better go into the house.”

“We are well enough here,” said my father; “go on with your discourse. You were speaking of tempting Providence, and of having been frightened.”

“It was a long time ago,” said my mother, “when I was quite a child, and I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your wish to dive into the future brought it to my recollection. It was, perhaps, only a foolish affair after all, and I would rather not talk about it, especially as it is growing dark. We had better go in.”

“A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in the dark hour,” said my father; “you are not afraid, I hope.”

“Afraid, indeed! Of what should I be afraid? And yet I know not how it is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a cold shadow upon me. By the by, I have often heard that child talk of an indescribable fear which sometimes attacks him and which he calls the shadow. I wonder if it at all resembles what I am feeling now!”

“Never mind the child or his shadow,” said my father, “but let us hear the story.”

“I have no objection to tell it; but perhaps after all it is mere nonsense and will only make you laugh.”

“Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from my head what Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered to be no laughing matter, though you and he did. I would hear the story by all means.”

“Well, so you shall. ’Tis said, however, that a superstition lies at the bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says the child, who by some means or other has of late become acquainted with their language. He says that of old they worshipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this Frey had a wife.”

“Indeed!” said my father, “and who told you this?”

“Why, the child,” said my mother hesitatingly; “it was he that told me.”

“I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story,” said my father; “the child is mixed up with it already.”

“He is not mixed up with it,” said my mother. “What I am about to relate occurred many a long year before he was born. But he is fond of hearing odd tales; and some time ago