The Monk. Мэтью Грегори Льюис

the air, with which Don Christoval had kissed this same hand; But as She drew conclusions from it somewhat different from her Aunt’s, She was wise enough to hold her tongue. As this is the only instance known of a Woman’s ever having done so, it was judged worthy to be recorded here.

      The old Lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same strain, till they gained the Street in which was their Lodging. Here a Crowd collected before their door permitted them not to approach it; and placing themselves on the opposite side of the Street, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all these people together. After some minutes the Crowd formed itself into a Circle; And now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a Woman of extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and round, using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her dress was composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and Linens fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head was covered with a kind of Turban, ornamented with vine leaves and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and her complexion was of a deep olive: Her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in her hand She bore a long black Rod, with which She at intervals traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about which She danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and delirium. Suddenly She broke off her dance, whirled herself round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment’s pause She sang the following Ballad.

THE GYPSY’S SONG

      Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses

      All that did ever Mortal know;

      Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses

      Your future Husband’s form can show:

      For ’tis to me the power is given

      Unclosed the book of Fate to see;

      To read the fixed resolves of heaven,

      And dive into futurity.

      I guide the pale Moon’s silver waggon;

      The winds in magic bonds I hold;

      I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon,

      Who loves to watch o’er buried gold:

      Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture

      Their sabbath strange where Witches keep;

      Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter,

      And woundless tread on snakes asleep.

      Lo! Here are charms of mighty power!

      This makes secure an Husband’s truth

      And this composed at midnight hour

      Will force to love the coldest Youth:

      If any Maid too much has granted,

      Her loss this Philtre will repair;

      This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,

      And this will make a brown girl fair!

      Then silent hear, while I discover

      What I in Fortune’s mirror view;

      And each, when many a year is over,

      Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true.

      “Dear Aunt!” said Antonia when the Stranger had finished, “Is She not mad?”

      “Mad? Not She, Child; She is only wicked. She is a Gypsy, a sort of Vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the country telling lyes, and pilfering from those who come by their money honestly. Out upon such Vermin! If I were King of Spain, every one of them should be burnt alive who was found in my dominions after the next three weeks.”

      These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the Gypsy’s ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and made towards the Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern fashion, and then addressed herself to Antonia.

THE GYPSY

      “Lady! gentle Lady! Know,

      I your future fate can show;

      Give your hand, and do not fear;

      Lady! gentle Lady! hear!”

      “Dearest Aunt!” said Antonia, “Indulge me this once! Let me have my fortune told me!”

      “Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.”

      “No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear Aunt! Oblige me, I beseech you!”

      “Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing… Here, good Woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune.”

      As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand; The Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply.

THE GYPSY

      “Your fortune? You are now so old,

      Good Dame, that ’tis already told:

      Yet for your money, in a trice

      I will repay you in advice.

      Astonished at your childish vanity,

      Your Friends all tax you with insanity,

      And grieve to see you use your art

      To catch some youthful Lover’s heart.

      Believe me, Dame, when all is done,

      Your age will still be fifty one;

      And Men will rarely take an hint

      Of love, from two grey eyes that squint.

      Take then my counsels; Lay aside

      Your paint and patches, lust and pride,

      And on the Poor those sums bestow,

      Which now are spent on useless show.

      Think on your Maker, not a Suitor;

      Think on your past faults, not on future;

      And think Time’s Scythe will quickly mow

      The few red hairs, which deck your brow.

      The audience rang with laughter during the Gypsy’s address; and–“fifty one,”–“squinting eyes,” “red hair,”–“paint and patches,” &c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious Adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy Prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length She made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia.

THE GYPSY

      “Peace, Lady! What I said was true;

      And now, my lovely Maid, to you;

      Give me your hand, and let me see

      Your future doom, and heaven’s decree.”

      In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the Gypsy, who having gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her Oracle in the following words.

THE GYPSY

      “Jesus! what a palm is there!

      Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,

      Perfect mind and form possessing,

      You would be some good Man’s blessing:

      But Alas! This line discovers,

      That destruction o’er you hovers;

      Lustful Man and crafty Devil

      Will combine to work your evil;

      And from earth by sorrows driven,

      Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.

      Yet your sufferings to delay,

      Well remember what I say.

      When you One more virtuous see

      Than belongs to Man to be,

      One, whose self no crimes assailing,

      Pities not his Neighbour’s Failing,

      Call