Part 2

MILANKO, son of Yono, was an impertinent lad, but good-humoured, rather ugly and always grinning. I had assured him repeatedly that in the sugar-refinery to which I have the misfortune to be attached all the “pots” were as big as houses and in perfect repair, so that to my deep regret I was unable to take advantage of the offer of his professional services. Milanko, however, with the incredulity of an habitual liar, made an independent reconnaissance through a window and caught sight of an ancient copper tub, some six feet in diameter and about a quarter of a ton in weight. Moreover he ascertained, by means best known to himself, that it was cracked and patched; and I was weak enough to admit, under his searching cross-examination, that it would be an advantage to have its inner surface coated with tin. It was a huge vessel, but Milanko was ambitious, and thereafter called regularly at inconvenient hours to present a series of petitions: first, for the order to mend and tin the pan; second, for the loan of a pound to purchase solder; third, for half a sovereign to get boots; fourth, for five shillings to buy a hat; and fifth, for three pence, the price of a packet of cigarettes. He accepted the emphatic refusal of his larger requests philosophically and without resentment. To the last I gave a favourable hearing, even at our first interview, and we parted with a friendly exchange of _Zha Devlesa_ (Go with God) and _Ash Devlesa_ (Remain with God), well understanding that a second rehearsal was ordered for the morrow and that it would be succeeded by daily performances. The play had not a long run. One ill-starred afternoon I granted the main petition, and the cauldron was carted to Birkenhead to be deposited in the camp.

Knowing that the Gypsies’ policy was always to do as much work as possible, and generally far more than their customer expected or required, I sent the chief engineer to Green Lane to make plain to them that the vessel was only to be tinned, and that the cracks and patches were to be left unmended. No contract was signed, though there was a distinct verbal agreement that the cost was to be one pound. I was, however, prepared to pay as much as three, the price for which a Liverpool firm had offered to do the same work, because I recognized that the pan was large and heavy and was interested to see how the coppersmiths would handle it without either blocks and tackle or large fires. To my great disappointment I was allowed to see nothing. When I visited the camp the cauldron was always discreetly covered with a sheet, and the Gypsies found ingenious means to keep me and it as far apart as possible. But occasionally they would draw me aside and expatiate alarmingly on the amount of tin, acid and labour that were needed, and, ignoring their estimate, talk tentatively of forty pounds as a just and probable charge.

At last, one morning, a messenger arrived to report that the cauldron was ready for delivery, and on the afternoon of the same day the chief engineer, instructed that he might pay three pounds but not a penny more, took with him a cart and crossed the river to Birkenhead. He found the pan turned upside down on the cindery ground of the camp and proposed to remove it to the refinery in order that the quality of the work might be examined. But the Gypsies, holding that possession is nine-tenths of the law, refused to permit the removal before payment was made. The wisdom of their decision became evident when bargaining began, for the engineer offered one pound while they, with fierce indignation, demanded twenty-five, making the sum unmistakably clear by placing a sovereign on the pan and indicating the numeral by means of their outstretched fingers. The discrepancy between claim and tender was too wide for easy or rapid adjustment, and neither side showed any willingness to compromise. The engineer, accustomed to dealing with Orientals, stuck to his terms, but finding the Gypsies equally stubborn and much noisier, and convinced as tea-time approached that no settlement was then possible, he ordered the cart back to Liverpool and himself withdrew from the conference.

And then the Gypsies made a false step. The engineer had scarcely settled down to his evening meal when, to his amazement, word was sent from the refinery that the cauldron and the coppersmiths were at the gate. They had changed their minds, hastened to overtake the cart aboard the luggage-boat, and persuaded the carter to return to the tents and bring the pan away. The office being closed when they arrived, settlement of their little account was out of the question, and, obliged to surrender the only security they had for payment, they could but protest loudly and depart with an invitation to call again the next day.

Other duties kept me away from business, and I was not a spectator of their visit. But I heard afterwards long, eloquent and indignant stories of how Milanko, apparelled like a mountebank, with his father and the deformed dwarf Burda or Morkosh, his cousin’s husband, dared to profane the solemnity of the counting-house, a sanctuary where the cumulative respectability of five generations of sugar-boilers is devoutly worshipped. Never during the whole course of its long business experience had that chamber entertained guests so unwelcome. They arrived at ten in the morning and stayed until half-past two, demanding payment from the cashier and relenting gradually from twenty-five to seven pounds, less than which they long refused to accept. Nobody knew what to do with them—the situation was unprecedented. When tired of standing and worrying busy clerks with the question “Master, what you do now?” they scandalized the whole staff by sitting cross-legged on the floor. It was a contest of endurance; and, thanks to the definite orders I had left, we won. Just as the problem of what was to happen at closing time, if they were still in possession, was becoming insistent, the Gypsies gave way, accepted three pounds and retired, after desecrating the office for four hours and a half.

It would have been absurd to expect Kola’s disciples to rest content with a reasonable reward, and indeed they often begged for supplementary payments. Even the chief’s wife condescended to interest herself in the matter and complained to me about the character of the engineer—a bad man, as she said; and I had to explain that it was partly for this particular fault of character that we valued him. Yono never forgave me, but Milanko resumed friendly relationships at once, and I believe that the tribe in general respected me the more for my victory.

5. PARLIAMENTS.

THE profession of the Gypsies, according to a reverend Spanish professor, whom Borrow quotes, is idleness; and by their proverb _Butin hi dinilenge_ (Work is for fools) the German Gypsies plead guilty to the charge. In this respect the coppersmiths were exceptional, for among them diligence raged almost as an epidemic fever. The missionary of the eight-hours day would not have found a welcome in their camp, nor the agent of a Sabbath-observance society any encouragement. On all days of the week, at all hours of the day, the rhythmic tap of their hammers and the muffled gust of their bellows preached eloquent sermons on industry, while knots of busy women, sewing, washing and cooking, gave an equally striking object-lesson in the same subject.

Nor did they seek to compensate by recreation for long hours of labour. The young people showed a certain skill in games like knuckle-bones or pitch-and-toss, and took a slight interest in boxing and wrestling but seldom practised them. Only on rare occasions did they and their elders play cards or visit music-halls, and the gramophones which several families possessed were little heard. If they danced it was when there was a prospect of extorting baksheesh from visitors, and the ill-remembered tales and songs which they sold to collectors of such curiosities seemed to be rather what they had heard others tell or sing than what they cherished for their own amusement. Unlike many of their brethren they were not entertainers, and they had no strong desire to be themselves entertained.

Judged from a trade-union point of view, or even from that of a picture-palace proprietor, this excessive devotion to work would be regarded as a symptom of savagery; yet, as increasing productiveness and wealth, it might with equal justice be taken as a sign of advanced civilization. In one respect, however, the Gypsies were undoubtedly primitive, and that was in their faith in parliaments. When day had faded into night and toil had ceased, if they were not eating their irregular meals or drinking glasses of tea made in samovars whose hours of work were scarcely less than their own, the coppersmiths were holding interminable divans. In wet or cold weather parliament assembled within a tent; but on warm evenings sessions were held in the open air, the members sitting in a ring cross-legged on the ground or lolling on beds of eiderdown. Although the children were kept at a distance these meetings were not councils of elders, since the young men as well as the old were present. Their wives and daughters sat apart engaged in womanly occupations, for there was in the tribe no need to blow a “trumpet against the monstrous regiment of women.”

Probably Kola, the chief, would not have permitted the constant presence of inquisitive visitors when important matters were under discussion, or would have changed the subject on their arrival. In any case to have sat evening after evening, as it were in the distinguished strangers’ gallery, listening to debates which were only half intelligible, was an entertainment drearier than any of his visitors was prepared to face. Thus it is impossible to decide whether these parliaments had legislative and judicial functions, or whether, as Kola’s privy council, they were only deliberative and advisory. When strangers were present Fardi sometimes improved the occasion by producing a little ragged map of the world to question them about the amenities of different countries. It was a projection after the method of Mercator, in which Greenland appeared, grossly exaggerated, as an attractive patch of bright colour equal in size to the whole of Europe and pleasantly unspotted by the names of icy mountains or any other geographical complexities. This image of Greenland had for Fardi the same attraction as the bellman’s chart for the Snark-hunting crew, and he was convinced only with difficulty that, the climate being intolerable and the natives poor, he was unlikely to do there a great trade in mending copper pots. To parliament, too, Kola exhibited his first large payment in British money, a big bundle of Bank of England notes. His subjects passed them from grimy hand to grimy hand, tugged them viciously, held them up to the light, and then delivered judgment: “Ugly notes, but tough paper.”

The discussions were as solemn as those of the mother of parliaments at Westminster, and much more sincere, although they were neither opened with prayer nor encumbered by any decorative formalities. If the chief was chairman—and he sometimes enthroned himself upon an upturned cauldron—his services were seldom required either to keep order, which was amply secured by the native dignity of the members, or to direct a debate that had no tendency to stray from the one subject which was uppermost in all their minds. Generalities that had no concrete application to their trade did not interest them, and they would have refused to send a representative to the congress which was held in Hungary in 1879 to deliberate on the common interests of Gypsies everywhere. Sometimes when Russians visited the camp the coppersmiths would listen so eagerly to long accounts of events in the outside world that it seemed as though the divan was their newspaper or club, and stood to them in the same relation as the “crack i’ the kirkyard” to Scottish farm-folk a century ago, or as his favourite public-house to the British workman. But in truth only those facts really interested them which affected their work and industry, and most of what they heard passed in at one ear and out at the other. They were greedy for knowledge of the wealth of nations, the size of cities, or the trades by which towns prospered; they collected scraps of paper on which chance acquaintances had scribbled the addresses of factories; and in fact all their conversation and all their thoughts were concerned with the problem of work and where to find it.

6. THE PHOTOGRAPH. {32}

CONVERSATION was difficult, not because there was nothing to talk about, but because Lotka, Fardi’s comely wife, returned at every opportunity to the subject of my study carpet. I had invited them to afternoon tea and they were taking it in my room, behaving with the perfect propriety Gypsies always observe under circumstances in which the manners and self-possession of a British workman would fail. But my carpet was thick and soft, catholic in its colour-taste though red in the main, and decorated with a large angular sprawling Indian pattern—and Lotka had fallen in love with it. She had proposed to take it up at once and transfer it to her tent at Tranmere, waiving aside my objected fear of cold feet with the reply that I could go to bed then and buy a new one in the morning. All will sympathize with my eagerness to change the subject who know what serious Gypsy begging means: it is dangerous as oratory, convincing a man against his reason, and leading to bitterly repented sacrifices. But those who have experienced it will know also the impossibility of escape. Like a skiff in a whirlpool our talk might seem to be sailing pleasantly North, South, East or West, and yet be tending inevitably towards the central peril. No matter what conversational subject was started it led relentlessly back to the carpet.

Amongst other fruitless devices for escape which ingenuity, quickened by despair, suggested, was the production of albums of Gypsy pictures, the leaves of which my guests turned indifferently, punctuating their talk with contemptuous exclamations of “_Sinte_”—but the talk was still of carpets. There were photographs of real Gypsies from everywhere on earth, engravings of artists’ Gypsies such as have never been seen anywhere in the world, highly coloured illustrations of camps, and ancient woodcuts of the costume Gypsies wore of old; but none represented “Our _Roma_” and for Fardi and his spouse all were devoid of any kind of interest. In the middle of a page, however, was a somewhat mean picture-postcard which had reached me through several hands, but came originally from Lemberg in Galitsia. It represented a troop of elaborately costumed performers, whom I had always taken for “counterfeit Egyptians,” dancing and playing huge accordions on an artistically decorated stage, and the subscription was “Gypsies from the Caucasus.” Fardi never allowed his emotions to appear conspicuously, but it was evident from the close scrutiny he and Lotka made of the postcard that they were genuinely interested: “Our _Roma_,” they said, approvingly, but without surprise. Then they gave me the names of some of the party, and apropos of the stage-drapery, reverted to the subject of carpets.

[Picture: Tinka: Photo. by Central News]

During the next few days occasional questions showed that my guests had carried news of the picture to the camp, and that the tribe hid beneath their affected indifference some curiosity as to how it came to be in my possession. But I was totally unprepared for the demonstration of deep concern which the paltry print was to wring from the great Kola’s dignified wife. Taking me quietly aside she invited me to sit near her, told me that she had heard about the photograph, and expressed a desire to see it. I gladly seized the opportunity to give her a cordial invitation to come with her husband to tea. Without such an excuse I should not have dared to suggest a visit; for, absurd as it may seem to those who do not know these people, I felt instinctively that the chief and his lady were personages of rank so high that it would have been presumptuous to ask them to my poor house. My instinct was probably just, for Tinka refused politely, alleging as excuse the weakness of her chest. Unwilling to renounce the honour of entertaining royalty, I offered to take her and the chief by rail to Liverpool and thence to Alfred Street in a taxicab; and, when this proposal was rejected, to bring the taxicab to the camp, cross the river on the luggage-boat, and take them all the way without change. But Tinka was adamant and demanded that the book should be brought to the tents. The idea of subjecting my treasured album to the eager unwashed hands of working coppersmiths did not commend itself to me, and I replied that the book was too large and too heavy to bring. “Tear the page out” she ordered, royally regardless; but I refused to mutilate the volume. Then she begged, the queenly Tinka, begged just as Lotka had begged for my carpet—earnestly, eloquently, passionately, almost irresistibly. Hardening my heart to withstand this more than usually distressing exhibition of skill in the ancient Gypsy accomplishment, I turned to look at my tormentor—she was weeping bitterly! Instead of a typical case of adroit Gypsy imposture I had found an equally typical case of Gypsy family affection. With a voice broken by sobs she offered in exchange for a brief glance at the picture, first a silver plate a foot in diameter, and then a great gold ring such as she herself wore. For among those whose portraits appeared on the card was her brother, and she had not seen him for twenty years.

Need I add that in my book a blank space, of which I am prouder than of my rarest Callot, bears witness to-day to the fact that Tinka had her will? “Aunt,” I said, “you have been very hospitable to me. I do not want your silver plate, I will not take your gold ring; but to-morrow you shall have the little picture.” And when I brought it, framed gaudily, to give it some semblance of a gift for presentation to royalty, the Gypsies crowded excitedly round, and Tinka, almost in tears again, raised her proud hands to Heaven, and called down blessings on my head in showers so liberal that, if but a tithe be sent, I shall be among the most fortunate of men.

7. THE SICK BOY. {38}

SEDATENESS was characteristic of the coppersmiths’ camp. Even when the air reverberated with the tapping of many hammers there was no bustle; work went on steadily, certainly, slowly, and with dignity. The arrival of a stranger was the pretext for an animated and noisy chorus of begging by the women, but on ordinary occasions the foreign Gypsies applied themselves solemnly to labour, or still more solemnly to interminable divans. Blood-curdling oaths in gentle Romani were hurled even at the spoiled children when they manifested their spirits and happiness too noisily; yet among them there was one who was privileged to be as troublesome as he chose without reproof, and he was the sick boy.

His exceptional position seemed to have had a malign influence on his character, for he was not a nice child. With the want of their robust health he lacked also the sturdy independence of his playmates. They were self-reliant, forward, often impertinent, but always lovable—he was petulant, fretful, even peevish, and instinctively one pitied rather than liked him. Yet in all the tribe there was nobody—man, woman, or child, from the great chief Kola himself to the half-naked little ones—who would have hesitated to make any effort or any sacrifice by which to mitigate the sick boy’s distress. To his mother he was more than all the world. She was Zhawzha, the chief’s daughter (though to those who were not of the _afición_, she would have called herself Sophie), a strangely pathetic figure in whose face one could see traces of great beauty marred by bitter anxiety for her son. Among our first duties as friendly visitors to the camp were those of acting as her dragoman in the local surgery and bringing an eminent specialist from Liverpool to visit the patient. But we discovered gradually not only that she had consulted other doctors in Birkenhead, but also that she had prescriptions and drugs, enough to have stocked a pharmacy, which she had obtained from continental physicians. And all had prescribed bromides, prohibited excitement, and bidden the distracted mother wait patiently and hope—for the boy was epileptic.

He was the one disturbing influence in the tribe, and when the illness seized him, always suddenly and unexpectedly, frantic crises of shrill emotion broke the tranquillity of the camp. From all sides gesticulating women would rush screaming wildly, and the men would leave their work to return soon after in gloomy silence bending their heads to an inevitable fate, while the poor little figure in all the ridiculous bravery of his gaudy clothes and pale blue plush hat would be carried under shelter and nursed tenderly. The distracted mother, meanwhile, would pace the ground, her face distorted with agony, clutching convulsively at her hair and singing a wild lament; and even the queenly Tinka would sink to the ashes where she stood, raise her kindly face to heaven and weep aloud. Such scenes were frequent and very painful. Even more painful was one’s sense of impotence afterwards, when Zhawzha offered all she had, even the gold coins from her hair, in exchange for her boy’s health. Time alone could give what she demanded; but she scorned patience and would not wait.

No cure which anybody recommended was left untried, it mattered not what it was nor how much it cost. And so the child wore amulets, and to the tent-pole mysterious bunches of thorn-twigs were tied. But the malady was stubborn, and recourse was had to quacks who poisoned the little fellow with excessive doses so that he ceased even to speak, and wandered aimlessly in a comatose condition. And then, most wonderfully—for which of us in our own land could find, at need, a sorceress?—they discovered that there was a witch-doctor in Bradford. Letters were dictated, symptoms described, medicine bought at exorbitant prices, and Harley Street fees paid. A lock of hair was cut and sent, untouched by human hands, for some kind of sympathetic magic. But this, like everything else, failed to effect the instantaneous cure the mother demanded, and she and her lad, with his father, a very black and rather stupid little Gypsy named Adam Kirpatsh, journeyed to Bradford for a personal interview.

Adam was not wealthy in the same sense as Kola, the chief, might have been called wealthy; but he had savings, and it was pitiable to watch him squander them in vain efforts to gratify the sick boy’s whims and set the anxious mother’s mind at rest. Protest was useless—equally useless to urge a longer trial of rational treatment; he was determined that no stone should be left unturned. His confidence in the witch-doctor lasted longer than his faith in any legitimate practitioner had lasted, but it crumbled away gradually, undermined by the obvious failure of her treatment. And then Adam heroically resolved to incur the great expense of taking his wife and child for a pilgrimage all the way to Czenstochowa in Russian Poland. The celebrated shrine has since become notorious, for the dissolute priests robbed the holy image of its gems; but in July, 1911, it was in high repute among the Gypsies, and some of them had pictures of the Virgin of Czenstochowa in their tents. The journey must have been a trying one for the invalid, but on their way home the family rested for a while at Berlin, and Adam sent triumphant telegrams to Birkenhead announcing that the boy was cured.