Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife’s sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me.

I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Hearne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. “A pretty life I should lead with those two,” said I, “when they came to know it.” “Pooh,” said Mr. Petulengro, “they will never know it. I shan’t blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders.” “Unlike the woman in the sign,” said I, “whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she’ll talk⁠—but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades.” “What trades?” said Mr. Petulengro. “Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro.” “Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horseshoes,” said Mr. Petulengro. “I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware. I don’t believe⁠—come, brother, don’t be angry, it’s quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor anyone else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want.”

“And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?” I demanded. “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother.”

And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. “I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay, stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful⁠—such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany.”

Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a crossroad. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said: “Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good, if not, Chal Devlehi.” But I again refused Mr. Petulengro’s invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned.200 It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. “I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro,” said I.

LXXXIII

It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot⁠—a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition⁠—and superstition is the soul of poetry⁠—is connected with these crossroads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty