Lavengro: The Scholar, the Gypsy, the PriestBorrow, George
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Lavengro: The Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest
Borrow, George
England -- Fiction; Romanies -- Fiction
"His!" said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore
a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded
in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by.
There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, and in it one
whose boast it was that he was equal to "either fortune". Many have
heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I
have nothing to do with that man's after-life--he fulfilled his
dukkeripen. "A bad, violent man!" Softly friend; when thou wouldst
speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy
own dukkeripen!
CHAPTER XXVII.
My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by
nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that,
at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of
almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always
endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices
which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be
that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his
retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a
considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he
was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till
then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally,
more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen
taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog,
who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he
improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this
manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great
apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my
mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at
which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father
experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.
He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of
his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His
sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken
fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness;
notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was
wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy chair, dressed in a faded
regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his
head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully
in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time,
sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading
the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him; though, as I entertained a
great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as
sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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