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

nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!”

The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck, saying: “Did you ever see a taller fellow?”

“Never,” said I.

“Or a finer?”

“That’s another question,” said I, “which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I have seen a finer.”

“A finer! where?” said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.

“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were to name, you would, I daresay, only laugh at me.”

“Who be they?” said the jockey. “Come, don’t be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.”

“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.”

“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten! I do know those people.”

“Romany chals!” said the jockey; “whew! I begin to smell a rat.”

“What do you mean by smelling a rat?” said I.

“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “that you be the young chap what certain folks call ‘the Romany Rye.’ ”

“Ah!” said I, “how came you to know that name?”

“Be not you he?” said the jockey.

“Why, I certainly have been called by that name.”

“I could have sworn it,” said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen;” the waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow window at the end of the room, which looked into a courtyard, peeped out; then saying, “the coast is clear,” he shut down the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm. “Surely,” said I, “you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?” “Here’s to the Romany Rye; here’s to the sweet master,” said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.

“Eljen edes csigany ur⁠—eljen gul eray!314” said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. “What do you think of that?” said the jockey; “were you ever so honoured before?” “Honoured!” said I. “God preserve me in future from such honour;” and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass. “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle,” said the jockey. “What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to.” “And what are you going to do with the other bottle?” said I. “Do with it!” said the jockey, “why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!”

“And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him!”

“What will your master say, William?” said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied: “Very little, I dare say, sir; this a’n’t the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind.” “Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it,” said the jockey; “well, I shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne.”

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed and foamed. “How do you like it?” said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught.

“It is wonderful wine,” said I; “I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day.”

“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for everyday drinking give me a glass of old port, or⁠—”

“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.”

“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own opinion; now,