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

services which he had rendered to the Muslim in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. The count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I⁠—whose greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood⁠—know nothing of his end.

Myself. Allow me to ask who you are?

Hungarian. Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember, a poor Hungarian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transylvania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar.305 I served some time in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute.

Myself. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the history of your country.

Hungarian. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call Budai Ferentz.306 He was professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitled Magyar Polgari Lexicon, Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of a puszta, or wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds were whistling around the house. Oh! how my blood used to glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a passage similar to this have I got by heart; it is connected with a battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost: “The next day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero, riding forth, galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses.” O young man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian⁠—and learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you⁠—read the book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with difficulty, for the book has been long out of print. It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the sixteenth century; and besides being written in the purest Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the Reformed College at Debreczen.

Myself. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When I used to read the ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian.

Hungarian. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scimitars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar.

Myself. The Turk always keeps his word, I am told.

Hungarian. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and edifying:⁠—

Romulidae Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi;
Discite mortales non temerare fidem:
Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere foedus
Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum.

“Halloo!” said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, “what is that? That’s not High Dutch; I bargained for High Dutch, and I left you speaking what I believed to be High Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as I have been told High Dutch does; but as for what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said I; “the gentleman was making a quotation in Latin.”

“Latin, was it?” said the jockey; “that alters the case. Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to learn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin,” he continued, proceeding to relight his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table.

“If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin,” said the Hungarian, in very bad English, “I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen.”

“That’s more,” said I, “than I have done in the colleges where I have been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would use German.”

“Well,” said the jockey,