Romany Life. Frank Cuttriss
said I, after pen and paper had been procured, “please go ahead.” For a moment or two he seemed lost in thought and hesitated, as though at a loss how to begin. I offered a suggestion and he at once said, “Yes! put that down.” The ice being now broken we got along famously, he standing with his back towards me, dictating. The letter was written in a combination of English (of a sort) and Romany—poggado jib or broken tongue as it is termed. Perhaps no more curious camipen-lil (love-letter) had ever been written. As he was quite unable to write I signed his name—he had, in fact, almost forgotten how it should be spelled. Having done this I quite naturally supposed my task was completed, but no, he desired every available bit of space filled in with crosses. “What are those for?” I asked artlessly. “Oh, she’ll understand,” he replied. “Put in some more, please.”
I therefore made crosses both big and small wherever they could be squeezed in, until he seemed satisfied, but I sincerely trust his Romany chi did not try to count them. One can almost imagine her making the attempt: “Yeck, dui, trin, stor, pantsch, sho,” and before reaching “dui trins ta yeck” and “dui stors,” giving up the task as being beyond her.
Many of the gypsies are, of course, able to write, but they get little schooling in the ordinary sense of the term and I have heard the gypsies say they do not like their boys and girls to sit next to a lot of gorgio children in a school. Better times are ahead, however, for the school-master is abroad, and there are workers among them, notably the Church Army Mission, whose self-sacrificing men teach the children the alphabet, elementary arithmetic, etc., together with such simple Christian truths as they can assimilate, for in the children lies their hope. An aspect of the work of the Mission which is not seen by the passer-by, is the tactful, considerate help rendered in times of distress. A gypsy, whatever his status, has a certain pride and he will not, if he can avoid it, visit a relieving officer; the workers of the Mission, however, with an equally keen insight into human nature, have perhaps a more sympathetic heart, enabling them to find out real cases of need, when they help to the best of their ability, often when such help should really be forthcoming from the relieving officer.
Unfortunately, many writers fail to discriminate between the Chorodies (low, wandering outcasts) and the Romany chals (true gypsies). Scathing letters have appeared in the newspapers, condemning all gypsies and other nomads as incorrigible rogues, and suggesting fourteenth-century methods for their removal. One writer—I will not debase the word by calling him man—said he did not care what became of them so long as they did not come near him—a strikingly unbeautiful example of existing intolerance.
However, it is not my aim, nor province, to answer directly the newspaper letters of selfish and pharisaical people, but rather to exhibit the gypsy character, and to speak of the gypsy as I have found and know him, no better, no worse; to carry the reader in imagination with me, to see them at work, to sit by the camp fire, to listen to their quaint folk tales, the wise saying and the merry jest, and endeavour to do some little to modify the effect of the ignorant or vindictive doctrine of those who, generation after generation, have taught the young that the terms gypsy, tramp and vagabond are more or less alike, standing for most that is depraved and villainous. In the few cases, when in after life some acquaintance with gypsy character has been made, this idea has, of course, been much modified, or altogether dissipated, while a close and sympathetic study of the Romany folk has invariably led to a desire to condone their failings, or at least to consider them of small account in comparison with so much that is commendable.
Upon more than one occasion has my clothing—permeated by the wood smoke of the gypsy fire—betrayed to acquaintances the fact that I had been among the Romany folk, and given the opportunity for jeering observations anent the “tents of the ungodly,” but, as the old adage has it, “he laughs best who laughs last,” and it is indeed gratifying to be able later in life to conjure up pleasant pictures of one’s friends seated, as they were, around the camp fire.
One such of many similar scenes is deeply impressed on my memory: I was at the camp of a Romany friend and we had discussed an early supper of povengros (potatoes) and salt, washed down with tea, when someone suggested a song. There may be sweeter melodies than songs in the Romany, as sung by the chies, but I have yet to hear them. There is a sweetness and a certain wild attractiveness about the language well adapted to the poetry of music, and the gypsies are passionate lovers of beautiful sounds. A poem read to them in Spanish, pleases their ear, they understand perhaps not a word, but appreciate the rhythm. Their language, too, reminds one somewhat of that tongue. I am however, digressing:
By the camp fire that evening, our talk, after a song or two, was mostly in and of the Romany tongue. One would narrate some experience, another would take up the thread, and so on, the firelight meanwhile playing on their faces. The soughing of the light wind overhead seemed attuned to the weirdness of the scene, and the while, the pageant of one of the loveliest of summer sunsets was passing, every merging scene having its glory duplicated on the reflecting surface of the river, which, winding and looping in its course, glided and faded imperceptibly into a purple haze, the whole scene changing momentarily, but with a tranquillity which, “while moving, seemed asleep,” until it passed through an almost unearthly splendour of afterglow into the cool star-depths of the summer night.
In extenuation—perhaps I should say explanation—of the conduct of those who think unkindly or deal harshly with the gypsies on principle, I suggest that they neither really know nor try to understand them; moreover, the likelihood of their personally gaining any such knowledge of them as results from experiences of the nature I have attempted to describe, is very remote; indeed, so suspicious and unapproachable are they—mainly because we as a people have made them so—that were one to cultivate their acquaintance, with the very best of intentions, years would probably elapse before he would be welcomed as a true pal (brother), and not until then would he understand them or appreciate their outlook on things.
Personally, I have found them, as companions, scrupulously honest; with regard, however, to farmers and landowners who are known to dislike the gypsies, this opinion might need some slight modification, but here again one should endeavour to see things from the gypsies’ point of view. They do not as a rule look upon poaching as wrong, contending that they are illtreated by man-made laws, that rabbits were provided for man’s sustenance, and that it is not more sinful for a gypsy to catch a rabbit to ward off starvation from his family, than for another man to run over it with a motor-car, and in fairness to the gypsies it must be said that they probably poach less than the average village labourer.
Apropos of their ideas of honesty, a friend tells me that many years since, a family of gypsies encamped near the town of——, and his father gave them permission to draw all the water they needed from the well on his land. During the long stay of the family in the locality he did not lose one pennyworth by their depredations, notwithstanding that all around chickens and other live stock disappeared—left home as it were and forgot to return. There would appear to have been no actual proof that the gypsies were implicated, but the animals vanished during the time the gypsies were encamped there.
One cannot speak too highly of such traits in their character as love of their children and mutual help. When bad luck comes they bow to the inevitable, accepting it with a philosophy not possible to many of us. When times are good, there is mutton in the pot and “spotted donkey,” suet puddings, grace the festive board, and for this he is thankful, but when his luck is out, he tightens his belt a little and looks forward to the morrow—his luck may turn, who knows?
Great indeed is the contrast between the luxury-loving, well-to-do man about town of to-day and these Romany folk, a people who have scarcely changed since they left India hundreds of years ago. Our progress in Art and Science has scarcely touched them, they still retain their language and many of their old customs, while the ethnographic student will readily distinguish the prevalent Oriental cast of features. Many of them set about their daily task much as did their early ancestors, who lived in the same kind of tent. Even the little hanging-lamps we see occasionally in the tents are of a design that is as old as the hills, and to-day the Hindu uses just such a lamp. There is much that is primitive, also much that is supremely fascinating about the true gypsy, and if we could imagine him without his archaic, musical language, he would still be a far more interesting