Danger! and Other Stories Page 6

  VI. BORROWED SCENES

  "It cannot be done. People really would not stand it. I know because I have tried."--_Extract from an unpublished paper upon George Borrow and his writings_.

  Yes, I tried and my experience may interest other people. You mustimagine, then, that I am soaked in George Borrow, especially in his_Lavengro_ and his _Romany Rye_, that I have modelled both my thoughts,my speech and my style very carefully upon those of the master, and thatfinally I set forth one summer day actually to lead the life of which Ihad read. Behold me, then, upon the country road which leads from therailway-station to the Sussex village of Swinehurst.

  As I walked, I entertained myself by recollections of the founders ofSussex, of Cerdic that mighty sea-rover, and of Ella his son, said by thebard to be taller by the length of a spear-head than the tallest of hisfellows. I mentioned the matter twice to peasants whom I met upon theroad. One, a tallish man with a freckled face, sidled past me and ranswiftly towards the station. The other, a smaller and older man, stoodentranced while I recited to him that passage of the Saxon Chroniclewhich begins, "Then came Leija with longships forty-four, and the fyrdwent out against him." I was pointing out to him that the Chronicle hadbeen written partly by the monks of Saint Albans and afterwards by thoseof Peterborough, but the fellow sprang suddenly over a gate anddisappeared.

  The village of Swinehurst is a straggling line of half-timbered houses ofthe early English pattern. One of these houses stood, as I observed,somewhat taller than the rest, and seeing by its appearance and by thesign which hung before it that it was the village inn, I approached it,for indeed I had not broken my fast since I had left London. A stoutishman, five foot eight perhaps in height, with black coat and trousers of agreyish shade, stood outside, and to him I talked in the fashion of themaster.

  "Why a rose and why a crown?" I asked as I pointed upwards.

  He looked at me in a strange manner. The man's whole appearance wasstrange. "Why not?" he answered, and shrank a little backwards.

  "The sign of a king," said I.

  "Surely," said he. "What else should we understand from a crown?"

  "And which king?" I asked.

  "You will excuse me," said he, and tried to pass.

  "Which king?" I repeated.

  "How should I know?" he asked.

  "You should know by the rose," said I, "which is the symbol of that Tudor-ap-Tudor, who, coming from the mountains of Wales, yet seated hisposterity upon the English throne. Tudor," I continued, getting betweenthe stranger and the door of the inn, through which he appeared to bedesirous of passing, "was of the same blood as Owen Glendower, the famouschieftain, who is by no means to be confused with Owen Gwynedd, thefather of Madoc of the Sea, of whom the bard made the famous cnylyn,which runs in the Welsh as follows:--"

  I was about to repeat the famous stanza of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn when the man,who had looked very fixedly and strangely at me as I spoke, pushed pastme and entered the inn. "Truly," said I aloud, "it is surely Swinehurstto which I have come, since the same means the grove of the hogs." Sosaying I followed the fellow into the bar parlour, where I perceived himseated in a corner with a large chair in front of him. Four persons ofvarious degrees were drinking beer at a central table, whilst a small manof active build, in a black, shiny suit, which seemed to have seen muchservice, stood before the empty fireplace. Him I took to be thelandlord, and I asked him what I should have for my dinner.

  He smiled, and said that he could not tell.

  "But surely, my friend," said I, "you can tell me what is ready?"

  "Even that I cannot do," he answered; "but I doubt not that the landlordcan inform us." On this he rang the bell, and a fellow answered, to whomI put the same question.

  "What would you have?" he asked.

  I thought of the master, and I ordered a cold leg of pork to be washeddown with tea and beer.

  "Did you say tea _and_ beer?" asked the landlord.

  "I did."

  "For twenty-five years have I been in business," said the landlord, "andnever before have I been asked for tea and beer."

  "The gentleman is joking," said the man with the shining coat.

  "Or else--" said the elderly man in the corner.

  "Or what, sir?" I asked.

  "Nothing," said he--"nothing." There was something very strange in thisman in the corner--him to whom I had spoken of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn.

  "Then you are joking," said the landlord.

  I asked him if he had read the works of my master, George Borrow. Hesaid that he had not. I told him that in those five volumes he wouldnot, from cover to cover, find one trace of any sort of a joke. He wouldalso find that my master drank tea and beer together. Now it happensthat about tea I have read nothing either in the sagas or in the bardiccnylynions, but, whilst the landlord had departed to prepare my meal, Irecited to the company those Icelandic stanzas which praise the beer ofGunnar, the long-haired son of Harold the Bear. Then, lest the languageshould be unknown to some of them, I recited my own translation, endingwith the line--

  If the beer be small, then let the mug be large.

  I then asked the company whether they went to church or to chapel. Thequestion surprised them, and especially the strange man in the corner,upon whom I now fixed my eye. I had read his secret, and as I looked athim he tried to shrink behind the clock-case.

  "The church or the chapel?" I asked him.

  "The church," he gasped.

  "_Which_ church?" I asked.

  He shrank farther behind the clock. "I have never been so questioned,"he cried.

  I showed him that I knew his secret, "Rome was not built in a day," saidI.

  "He! He!" he cried. Then, as I turned away, he put his head from behindthe clock-case and tapped his forehead with his forefinger. So also didthe man with the shiny coat, who stood before the empty fireplace.

  Having eaten the cold leg of pork--where is there a better dish, saveonly boiled mutton with capers?--and having drunk both the tea and thebeer, I told the company that such a meal had been called "to box Harry"by the master, who had observed it to be in great favour with commercialgentlemen out of Liverpool. With this information and a stanza or twofrom Lopez de Vega I left the Inn of the Rose and Crown behind me, havingfirst paid my reckoning. At the door the landlord asked me for my nameand address.

  "And why?" I asked.

  "Lest there should be inquiry for you," said the landlord.

  "But why should they inquire for me?"

  "Ah, who knows?" said the landlord, musing. And so I left him at thedoor of the Inn of the Rose and Crown, whence came, I observed, a greattumult of laughter. "Assuredly," thought I, "Rome was not built in aday."

  Having walked down the main street of Swinehurst, which, as I haveobserved, consists of half-timbered buildings in the ancient style, Icame out upon the country road, and proceeded to look for those waysideadventures, which are, according to the master, as thick as blackberriesfor those who seek them upon an English highway. I had already receivedsome boxing lessons before leaving London, so it seemed to me that if Ishould chance to meet some traveller whose size and age seemed such as toencourage the venture I would ask him to strip off his coat and settleany differences which we could find in the old English fashion. Iwaited, therefore, by a stile for any one who should chance to pass, andit was while I stood there that the screaming horror came upon me, evenas it came upon the master in the dingle. I gripped the bar of thestile, which was of good British oak. Oh, who can tell the terrors ofthe screaming horror! That was what I thought as I grasped the oaken barof the stile. Was it the beer--or was it the tea? Or was it that thelandlord was right and that other, the man with the black, shiny coat, hewho had answered the sign of the strange man in the corner? But themaster drank tea with beer. Yes, but the master also had the screaminghorror. All this I thought as I grasped the bar of British oak, whichwas the top of the stile. For half an hour the horror was upon me. Thenit passed,
and I was left feeling very weak and still grasping the oakenbar.

  I had not moved from the stile, where I had been seized by the screaminghorror, when I heard the sound of steps behind me, and turning round Iperceived that a pathway led across the field upon the farther side ofthe stile. A woman was coming towards me along this pathway, and it wasevident to me that she was one of those gipsy Rias, of whom the masterhas said so much. Looking beyond her, I could see the smoke of a firefrom a small dingle, which showed where her tribe were camping. Thewoman herself was of a moderate height, neither tall nor short, with aface which was much sunburned and freckled. I must confess that she wasnot beautiful, but I do not think that anyone, save the master, has foundvery beautiful women walking about upon the high-roads of England. Suchas she was I must make the best of her, and well I knew how to addressher, for many times had I admired the mixture of politeness and audacitywhich should be used in such a case. Therefore, when the woman had cometo the stile, I held out my hand and helped her over.

  "What says the Spanish poet Calderon?" said I. "I doubt not that youhave read the couplet which has been thus Englished:

  Oh, maiden, may I humbly pray That I may help you on your way."

  The woman blushed, but said nothing.

  "Where," I asked, "are the Romany chals and the Romany chis?"

  She turned her head away and was silent.

  "Though I am a gorgio," said I, "I know something of the Romany lil," andto prove it I sang the stanza--

  Coliko, coliko saulo wer Apopli to the farming ker Will wel and mang him mullo, Will wel and mang his truppo.

  The girl laughed, but said nothing. It appeared to me from herappearance that she might be one of those who make a living at tellingfortunes or "dukkering," as the master calls it, at racecourses and othergatherings of the sort.

  "Do you dukker?" I asked.

  She slapped me on the arm. "Well, you _are_ a pot of ginger!" said she.

  I was pleased at the slap, for it put me in mind of the peerless Belle."You can use Long Melford," said I, an expression which, with the master,meant fighting.

  "Get along with your sauce!" said she, and struck me again.

  "You are a very fine young woman," said I, "and remind me of Grunelda,the daughter of Hjalmar, who stole the golden bowl from the King of theIslands."

  She seemed annoyed at this. "You keep a civil tongue, young man," saidshe.

  "I meant no harm, Belle. I was but comparing you to one of whom the sagasays her eyes were like the shine of sun upon icebergs."

  This seemed to please her, for she smiled. "My name ain't Belle," shesaid at last.

  "What is your name?"

  "Henrietta."

  "The name of a queen," I said aloud.

  "Go on," said the girl.

  "Of Charles's queen," said I, "of whom Waller the poet (for the Englishalso have their poets, though in this respect far inferior to theBasques)--of whom, I say, Waller the poet said:

  That she was Queen was the Creator's act, Belated man could but endorse the fact."

  "I say!" cried the girl. "How you do go on!"

  "So now," said I, "since I have shown you that you are a queen you willsurely give me a choomer"--this being a kiss in Romany talk.

  "I'll give you one on the ear-hole," she cried.

  "Then I will wrestle with you," said I. "If you should chance to put medown, I will do penance by teaching you the Armenian alphabet--the veryword alphabet, as you will perceive, shows us that our letters came fromGreece. If, on the other hand, I should chance to put you down, you willgive me a choomer."

  I had got so far, and she was climbing the stile with some pretence ofgetting away from me, when there came a van along the road, belonging, asI discovered, to a baker in Swinehurst. The horse, which was of a browncolour, was such as is bred in the New Forest, being somewhat underfifteen hands and of a hairy, ill-kempt variety. As I know less than themaster about horses, I will say no more of this horse, save to repeatthat its colour was brown--nor indeed had the horse or the horse's colouranything to do with my narrative. I might add, however, that it couldeither be taken as a small horse or as a large pony, being somewhat tallfor the one, but undersized for the other. I have now said enough aboutthis horse, which has nothing to do with my story, and I will turn myattention to the driver.

  This was a man with a broad, florid face and brown side-whiskers. He wasof a stout build and had rounded shoulders, with a small mole of areddish colour over his left eyebrow. His jacket was of velveteen, andhe had large, iron-shod boots, which were perched upon the splashboard infront of him. He pulled up the van as he came up to the stile near whichI was standing with the maiden who had come from the dingle, and in acivil fashion he asked me if I could oblige him with a light for hispipe. Then, as I drew a matchbox from my pocket, he threw his reins overthe splashboard, and removing his large, iron-shod boots he descended onto the road. He was a burly man, but inclined to fat and scant ofbreath. It seemed to me that it was a chance for one of those waysideboxing adventures which were so common in the olden times. It was myintention that I should fight the man, and that the maiden from thedingle standing by me should tell me when to use my right or my left, asthe case might be, picking me up also in case I should be so unfortunateas to be knocked down by the man with the iron-shod boots and the smallmole of a reddish colour over his left eyebrow.

  "Do you use Long Melford?" I asked.

  He looked at me in some surprise, and said that any mixture was goodenough for him.

  "By Long Melford," said I, "I do not mean, as you seem to think, someform of tobacco, but I mean that art and science of boxing which was heldin such high esteem by our ancestors, that some famous professors of it,such as the great Gully, have been elected to the highest offices of theState. There were men of the highest character amongst the bruisers ofEngland, of whom I would particularly mention Tom of Hereford, betterknown as Tom Spring, though his father's name, as I have been given tounderstand, was Winter. This, however, has nothing to do with the matterin hand, which is that you must fight me."

  The man with the florid face seemed very much surprised at my words, sothat I cannot think that adventures of this sort were as common as I hadbeen led by the master to expect.

  "Fight!" said he. "What about?"

  "It is a good old English custom," said I, "by which we may determinewhich is the better man."

  "I've nothing against you," said he.

  "Nor I against you," I answered. "So that we will fight for love, whichwas an expression much used in olden days. It is narrated by HaroldSygvynson that among the Danes it was usual to do so even with battle-axes, as is told in his second set of runes. Therefore you will take offyour coat and fight." As I spoke, I stripped off my own.

  The man's face was less florid than before. "I'm not going to fight,"said he.

  "Indeed you are," I answered, "and this young woman will doubtless do youthe service to hold your coat."

  "You're clean balmy," said Henrietta.

  "Besides," said I, "if you will not fight me for love, perhaps you willfight me for this," and I held out a sovereign. "Will you hold hiscoat?" I said to Henrietta.

  "I'll hold the thick 'un," said she.

  "No, you don't," said the man, and put the sovereign into the pocket ofhis trousers, which were of a corduroy material. "Now," said he, "whatam I to do to earn this?"

  "Fight," said I.

  "How do you do it?" he asked.

  "Put up your hands," I answered.

  He put them up as I had said, and stood there in a sheepish manner withno idea of anything further. It seemed to me that if I could make himangry he would do better, so I knocked off his hat, which was black andhard, of the kind which is called billy-cock.

  "Heh, guv'nor!" he cried, "what are you up to?"

  "That was to make you angry," said I.

  "Well, I am angry," said he.

  "Then here is your hat," said I,
"and afterwards we shall fight."

  I turned as I spoke to pick up his hat, which had rolled behind where Iwas standing. As I stooped to reach it, I received such a blow that Icould neither rise erect nor yet sit down. This blow which I received asI stooped for his billy-cock hat was not from his fist, but from his iron-shod boot, the same which I had observed upon the splashboard. Beingunable either to rise erect or yet to sit down, I leaned upon the oakenbar of the stile and groaned loudly on account of the pain of the blowwhich I had received. Even the screaming horror had given me less painthan this blow from the iron-shod boot. When at last I was able to standerect, I found that the florid-faced man had driven away with his cart,which could no longer be seen. The maiden from the dingle was standingat the other side of the stile, and a ragged man was running across thefield from the direction of the fire.

  "Why did you not warn me, Henrietta?" I asked.

  "I hadn't time," said she. "Why were you such a chump as to turn yourback on him like that?"

  The ragged man had reached us, where I stood talking to Henrietta by thestile. I will not try to write his conversation as he said it, because Ihave observed that the master never condescends to dialect, but prefersby a word introduced here and there to show the fashion of a man'sspeech. I will only say that the man from the dingle spoke as did theAnglo-Saxons, who were wont, as is clearly shown by the venerable Bede,to call their leaders 'Enjist and 'Orsa, two words which in their propermeaning signify a horse and a mare.

  "What did he hit you for?" asked the man from the dingle. He wasexceedingly ragged, with a powerful frame, a lean brown face, and anoaken cudgel in his hand. His voice was very hoarse and rough, as is thecase with those who live in the open air. "The bloke hit you," said he."What did the bloke hit you for?"

  "He asked him to," said Henrietta.

  "Asked him to--asked him what?"

  "Why, he asked him to hit him. Gave him a thick 'un to do it."

  The ragged man seemed surprised. "See here, gov'nor," said he. "Ifyou're collectin', I could let you have one half-price."

  "He took me unawares," said I.

  "What else would the bloke do when you bashed his hat?" said the maidenfrom the dingle.

  By this time I was able to straighten myself up by the aid of the oakenbar which formed the top of the stile. Having quoted a few lines of theChinese poet Lo-tun-an to the effect that, however hard a knock might be,it might always conceivably be harder, I looked about for my coat, butcould by no means find it.

  "Henrietta," I said, "what have you done with my coat?"

  "Look here, gov'nor," said the man from the dingle, "not so muchHenrietta, if it's the same to you. This woman's my wife. Who are youto call her Henrietta?"

  I assured the man from the dingle that I had meant no disrespect to hiswife. "I had thought she was a mort," said I; "but the ria of a Romanychal is always sacred to me."

  "Clean balmy," said the woman.

  "Some other day," said I, "I may visit you in your camp in the dingle andread you the master's book about the Romanys."

  "What's Romanys?" asked the man.

  _Myself_. Romanys are gipsies.

  _The Man_. We ain't gipsies.

  _Myself_. What are you then?

  _The Man_. We are hoppers.

  _Myself_ (to Henrietta). Then how did you understand all I have said toyou about gipsies?

  _Henrietta_. I didn't.

  I again asked for my coat, but it was clear now that before offering tofight the florid-faced man with the mole over his left eyebrow I musthave hung my coat upon the splashboard of his van. I therefore recited averse from Ferideddin-Atar, the Persian poet, which signifies that it ismore important to preserve your skin than your clothes, and biddingfarewell to the man from the dingle and his wife I returned into the oldEnglish village of Swinehurst, where I was able to buy a second-handcoat, which enabled me to make my way to the station, where I shouldstart for London. I could not but remark with some surprise that I wasfollowed to the station by many of the villagers, together with the manwith the shiny coat, and that other, the strange man, he who had slunkbehind the clock-case. From time to time I turned and approached them,hoping to fall into conversation with them; but as I did so they wouldbreak and hasten down the road. Only the village constable came on, andhe walked by my side and listened while I told him the history of HunyadiJanos and the events which occurred during the wars between that hero,known also as Corvinus or the crow-like, and Mahommed the second, he whocaptured Constantinople, better known as Byzantium, before the Christianepoch. Together with the constable I entered the station, and seatingmyself in a carriage I took paper from my pocket and I began to writeupon the paper all that had occurred to me, in order that I might showthat it was not easy in these days to follow the example of the master.As I wrote, I heard the constable talk to the station-master, a stout,middle-sized man with a red neck-tie, and tell him of my own adventuresin the old English village of Swinehurst.

  "He is a gentleman too," said the constable, "and I doubt not that helives in a big house in London town."

  "A very big house if every man had his rights," said the station-master,and waving his hand he signalled that the train should proceed.