“Now, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before.” Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro’s hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine—that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory.
Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, “You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?” “Quite so, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass.” “I have looked in one already,” said Belle, “and the glass does not flatter.” “You mean the face of the young rye,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way.” “And who is to braid it in this way?” said Belle, smiling. “I, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be pursuaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too.” “The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him,” said Belle; “we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey.” “And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “if you do, everybody will be in love with you.” “No,” said Belle, “hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way. Come, come,” said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, “we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion.” “Come, wife,” said Mr. Petulengro, “we will no longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie, there is such a thing as being troublesome.” Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. “Then you are going?” said I, when Belle and I were left alone. “Yes,” said Belle, “I am going on a journey; my affairs compel me.” “But you will return again?” said I. “Yes,” said Belle, “I shall return once more.” “Once more,” said I; “what do you mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you abandon me in this place?” “You were alone here,” said Belle, “before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would not have stayed in it.” “Yes,” said I, “that was before I knew you; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to live here without you.” “Indeed,” said Belle, “I did not know that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is wearing away—I must go and harness Traveller to the cart.” “I will do that,” said I, “or anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will see after Traveller and the cart.” Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In about half-an-hour Belle again made her appearance—she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held a bonnet in her hand. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I demanded. “There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put into the cart,” said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path, to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other steadfastly for some time. Belle then departed and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FESTIVAL—THE GYPSY SONG—PIRAMUS OF ROME—THE SCOTCHMAN—GYPSY NAMES.
On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals of Mr. Petulengro’s party. Throughout the forenoon the Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they cooked was swine’s flesh. About two o’clock, the chals and chies dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester’s affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany tribe.
All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around, I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno, and myself getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gypsy song:—
POISONING THE PORKER.
By Mrs. Chikno.
To mande shoon ye Romany chals
Who besh in the pus about the yag,
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo,
I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.
We jaws to the drab-engro ker,
Trin horsworth there of drab we lels,
And when to the swety back we wels
We pens we’ll drab the baulo,
We’ll have a drab at a baulo.
And then we kairs the drab opré,
And then we jaws to the farming ker
To mang a beti habben,
A beti poggado habben.
A rinkeno baulo there we dick,