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

I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only⁠—; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don’t weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children.”

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. “He wishes me to go with him to Italy,” added he, “but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention.” But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father’s complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother seemed to prey upon his mind. “I wish he were here,” he would frequently exclaim, “I can’t imagine what has become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time.” He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed⁠—almost on terms of familiarity⁠—with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib;122 and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. “Pity,” he added, “that when old⁠—old as I am now⁠—he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son’s bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl’s; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.”

“Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.”

“Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?”

“No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don’t be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben.”

“You are a strange lad,” said my father; “and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don’t you know that it is one of my temptations? You wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities⁠—something about him. I will tell you⁠—his⁠—skin when he flung off his clothes⁠—and he had a particular knack in doing so⁠—his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought, he stood so⁠—if I remember right⁠—his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here.”

XXVIII

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. “You have been long absent!” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “perhaps too long; but how is my father?”

“Very poorly,” said I, “he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?”

“Far and wide,” said my brother; “but I can’t tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness.”

“Stay a moment,” said I. “Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?”

“Not quite,” said my brother, “not quite; indeed I wish⁠—but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.”

There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father.

I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome.

What passed between my father and brother I