Badajoz—Antonio the Gypsy—Antonio’s Proposal—The Proposal Accepted—Gypsy
Breakfast—Departure from Badajoz—The Gypsy Donkey—Merida—The Ruined
Wall—The Crone—The Land of the Moor—The Black Men—Life in the Desert—The
Supper.
I was now at Badajoz in Spain, a country which for the next four years
was destined to be the scene of my labour: but I will not anticipate.
The neighbourhood of Badajoz did not prepossess me much in favour of the
country which I had just entered; it consists chiefly of brown moors,
which bear little but a species of brushwood, called in Spanish
_carrasco_; blue mountains are however seen towering up in the far
distance, which relieve the scene from the monotony which would otherwise
pervade it.
It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura, that I first
fell in with those singular people, the Zincali, Gitanos, or Spanish
gypsies. It was here I met with the wild Paco, the man with the withered
arm, who wielded the cachas (_shears_) with his left hand; his shrewd
wife, Antonia, skilled in hokkano baro, or the great trick; the fierce
gypsy, Antonio Lopez, their father-in-law; and many other almost equally
singular individuals of the Errate, or gypsy blood. It was here that I
first preached the gospel to the gypsy people, and commenced that
translation of the New Testament in the Spanish gypsy tongue, a portion
of which I subsequently printed at Madrid.
After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart for Madrid:
late one afternoon, as I was arranging my scanty baggage, the gypsy
Antonio entered my apartment, dressed in his zamarra and high-peaked
Andalusian hat.
_Antonio_.—Good evening, brother; they tell me that on the callicaste
(_day after to-morrow_) you intend to set out for Madrilati.
_Myself_.—Such is my intention; I can stay here no longer.
_Antonio_.—The way is far to Madrilati: there are, moreover, wars in the
land and many chories (_thieves_) walk about; are you not afraid to
journey?
_Myself_.—I have no fears; every man must accomplish his destiny: what
befalls my body or soul was written in a gabicote (_book_) a thousand
years before the foundation of the world.
_Antonio_.—I have no fears myself, brother; the dark night is the same to
me as the fair day, and the wild carrascal as the market-place or the
chardy (_fair_); I have got the bar lachi in my bosom, the precious stone
to which sticks the needle.
_Myself_.—You mean the loadstone, I suppose. Do you believe that a
lifeless stone can preserve you from the dangers which occasionally
threaten your life?
_Antonio_.—Brother, I am fifty years old, and you see me standing before
you in life and strength; how could that be unless the bar lachi had
power? I have been soldier and contrabandista, and I have likewise slain
and robbed the Busné. The bullets of the Gabiné (_French_) and of the
jara canallis (_revenue officers_) have hissed about my ears without
injuring me, for I carried the bar lachi. I have twenty times done that
which by Busnée law should have brought me to the filimicha (_gallows_),
yet my neck has never yet been squeezed by the cold garrote. Brother, I
trust in the bar lachi, like the Caloré of old: were I in the midst of
the gulph of Bombardo (_Lyons_), without a plank to float upon, I should
feel no fear; for if I carried the precious stone, it would bring me safe
to shore: the bar lachi has power, brother.
_Myself_.—I shall not dispute the matter with you, more especially as I
am about to depart from Badajoz: I must speedily bid you farewell, and we
shall see each other no more.
_Antonio_.—Brother, do you know what brings me hither?
_Myself_.—I cannot tell, unless it be to wish me a happy journey: I am
not gypsy enough to interpret the thoughts of other people.
_Antonio_.—All last night I lay awake, thinking of the affairs of Egypt;
and when I arose in the morning I took the bar lachi from my bosom, and
scraping it with a knife, swallowed some of the dust in aguardiente, as I
am in the habit of doing when I have made up my mind; and I said to
myself, I am wanted on the frontiers of Castumba (_Castile_) on a certain
matter. The strange Caloro is about to proceed to Madrilati; the journey
is long, and he may fall into evil hands, peradventure into those of his
own blood; for let me tell you, brother, the Calés are leaving their
towns and villages, and forming themselves into troops to plunder the
Busné, for there is now but little law in the land, and now or never is
the time for the Caloré to become once more what they were in former
times; so I said, the strange Caloro may fall into the hands of his own
blood and be ill-treated by them, which were shame: I will therefore go
with him through the Chim del Manro (_Estremadura_) as far as the
frontiers of Castumba, and upon the frontiers of Castumba I will leave
the London Caloro to find his own way to Madrilati, for there is less
danger in Castumba than in the Chim del Manro, and I will then betake me
to the affairs of Egypt which call me from hence.
_Myself_.—This is a very hopeful plan of yours, my friend; and in what
manner do you propose that we shall travel?
_Antonio_.—I will tell you, brother; I have a gras in the stall, even the
one which I purchased at Olivenças, as I told you on a former occasion;
it is good and fleet, and cost me, who am a gypsy, fifty chulé
(_dollars_); upon that gras you shall ride. As for myself, I will
journey upon the macho.
_Myself_.—Before I answer you, I shall wish you to inform me what
business it is which renders your presence necessary in Castumba; your
son-in-law, Paco, told me that it was no longer the custom of the gypsies
to wander.
_Antonio_.—It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I shall not acquaint
you with it; peradventure it relates to a horse or an ass, or
peradventure it relates to a mule or a macho; it does not relate to
yourself, therefore I advise you not to inquire about it—Dosta
(_enough_). With respect to my offer, you are free to decline it; there
is a drungruje (_royal road_) between here and Madrilati, and you can
travel it in the birdoche (_stage-coach_) or with the dromale
(_muleteers_); but I tell you, as a brother, that there are chories upon
the drun, and some of them are of the Errate.
Certainly few people in my situation would have accepted the offer of
this singular gypsy. It was not, however, without its allurements for
me; I was fond of adventure, and what more ready means of gratifying my
love of it than by putting myself under the hands of such a guide. There
are many who would have been afraid of treachery, but I had no fears on
this point, as I did not believe that the fellow harboured the slightest
ill intention towards me; I saw that he was fully convinced that I was
one of the Errate, and his affection for his own race, and his hatred for
the Busné, were his strongest characteristics. I wished, moreover, to
lay hold of every opportunity of making myself acquainted with the ways
of the Spanish gypsies, and an excellent one here presented itself on my
first entrance into Spain. In a word, I determined to accompany the
gypsy. “I will go with you,” I exclaimed; “as for my baggage, I will
despatch it to Madrid by the birdoche.” “Do so, brother,” he replied,
“and the gras will go lighter. Baggage, indeed!—what need of baggage
have you? How the Busné on the road would laugh if they saw two Calés
with baggage behind them.”
During my stay at Badajoz, I had but little intercourse with the
Spaniards, my time being chiefly devoted to the gypsies, with whom, from
long intercourse with various sections of their race in different parts
of the world, I felt myself much more at home than with the silent,
reserved men of Spain, with whom a foreigner might mingle for half a
century without having half a dozen words addressed to him, unless he
himself made the first advances to intimacy, which, after all, might be
rejected with a shrug and a _no intendo_; for, among the many deeply
rooted prejudices of these people, is the strange idea that no foreigner
can speak their language; an idea to which they will still cling though
they hear him conversing with perfect ease; for in that case the utmost
that they will concede to his attainments is, _Habla quatro palabras y
nada mas_ (he can speak four words, and no more).
Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house of
Antonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street. The
morning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially illumined by a
heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men were busily engaged,
apparently holding an object over the flames. Presently the gypsy’s door
opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and, casting his eye in the
direction of the light, exclaimed, “The swine have killed their brother;
would that every Busno was served as yonder hog is. Come in, brother,
and we will eat the heart of that hog.” I scarcely understood his words,
but, following him, he led me into a low room in which was a brasero, or
small pan full of lighted charcoal; beside it was a rude table, spread
with a coarse linen cloth, upon which was bread and a large pipkin full
of a mess which emitted no disagreeable savour. “The heart of the
balichow is in that puchera,” said Antonio; “eat, brother.” We both sat
down and ate, Antonio voraciously. When we had concluded he arose:—“Have
you got your _li_?” he demanded. “Here it is,” said I, showing him my
passport. “Good,” said he, “you may want it; I want none, my passport is
the bar lachi. Now for a glass of repani, and then for the road.”
We left the room, the door of which he locked, hiding the key beneath a
loose brick in a corner of the passage. “Go into the street, brother,
whilst I fetch the caballerias from the stable.” I obeyed him. The sun
had not yet risen, and the air was piercingly cold; the grey light,
however, of dawn enabled me to distinguish objects with tolerable
accuracy; I soon heard the clattering of the animals’ feet, and Antonio
presently stepped forth leading the horse by the bridle; the macho
followed behind. I looked at the horse and shrugged my shoulders: as far
as I could scan it, it appeared the most uncouth animal I had ever
beheld. It was of a spectral white, short in the body, but with
remarkably long legs. I observed that it was particularly high in the
cruz or withers. “You are looking at the grasti,” said Antonio; “it is
eighteen years old, but it is the very best in the Chim del Manro; I have
long had my eye upon it; I bought it for my own use for the affairs of
Egypt. Mount, brother, mount and let us leave the foros—the gate is
about being opened.”
He locked the door, and deposited the key in his faja. In less than a
quarter of an hour we had left the town behind us. “This does not appear
to be a very good horse,” said I to Antonio, as we proceeded over the
plain. “It is with difficulty that I can make him move.”
“He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manro, brother,” said Antonio;
“at the gallop and at the speedy trot there is no one to match him; but
he is eighteen years old, and his joints are stiff, especially of a
morning; but let him once become heated and the genio del viejo (_spirit
of the old man_) comes upon him and there is no holding him in with bit
or bridle. I bought that horse for the affairs of Egypt, brother.”
About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighbourhood of a high
lumpy hill. “There is no Calo house in this place,” said Antonio; “we
will therefore go to the posada of the Busné, and refresh ourselves, man
and beast.” We entered the kitchen and sat down at the boards, calling
for wine and bread. There were two ill-looking fellows in the kitchen,
smoking cigars; I said something to Antonio in the Calo language.
“What is that I hear?” said one of the fellows, who was distinguished by
an immense pair of moustaches. “What is that I hear? is it in Calo that
you are speaking before me, and I a Chalan and national? Accursed gypsy,
how dare you enter this posada and speak before me in that speech? Is it
not forbidden by the law of the land in which we are, even as it is
forbidden for a gypsy to enter the mercado? I tell you what, friend, if
I hear another word of Calo come from your mouth, I will cudgel your
bones and send you flying over the house-tops with a kick of my foot.”
“You would do right,” said his companion; “the insolence of these gypsies
is no longer to be borne. When I am at Merida or Badajoz I go to the
mercado, and there in a corner stand the accursed gypsies jabbering to
each other in a speech which I understand not. ‘Gypsy gentleman,’ say I
to one of them, ‘what will you have for that donkey?’ ‘I will have ten
dollars for it, Caballero nacional,’ says the gypsy; ‘it is the best
donkey in all Spain.’ ‘I should like to see its paces,’ say I. ‘That
you shall, most valorous!’ says the gypsy, and jumping upon its back, he
puts it to its paces, first of all whispering something into its ears in
Calo, and truly the paces of the donkey are most wonderful, such as I
have never seen before. ‘I think it will just suit me,’ and after
looking at it awhile, I take out the money and pay for it. ‘I shall go
to my house,’ says the gypsy; and off he runs. ‘I shall go to my
village,’ say I, and I mount the donkey. ‘Vamonos,’ say I, but the
donkey won’t move. I give him a switch, but I don’t get on the better
for that. ‘How is this?’ say I, and I fall to spurring him. What
happens then, brother? The wizard no sooner feels the prick than he
bucks down, and flings me over his head into the mire. I get up and look
about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, and there stand the
whole gypsy canaille squinting at me with their filmy eyes. ‘Where is
the scamp who has sold me this piece of furniture?’ I shout. ‘He is gone
to Granada, Valorous,’ says one. ‘He is gone to see his kindred among
the Moors,’ says another. ‘I just saw him running over the field, in the
direction of ---, with the devil close behind him,’ says a third. In a
word, I am tricked. I wish to dispose of the donkey; no one, however,
will buy him; he is a Calo donkey, and every person avoids him. At last
the gypsies offer thirty rials for him; and after much chaffering I am
glad to get rid of him at two dollars. It is all a trick, however; he
returns to his master, and the brotherhood share the spoil amongst them.
All which villainy would be prevented, in my opinion, were the Calo
language not spoken; for what but the word of Calo could have induced the
donkey to behave in such an unaccountable manner?”
Both seemed perfectly satisfied with the justness of this conclusion, and
continued smoking till their cigars were burnt to stumps, when they
arose, twitched their whiskers, looked at us with fierce disdain, and
dashing the tobacco-ends to the ground, strode out of the apartment.
“Those people seem no friends to the gypsies,” said I to Antonio, when
the two bullies had departed, “nor to the Calo language either.”
“May evil glanders seize their nostrils,” said Antonio; “they have been
jonjabadoed by our people. However, brother, you did wrong to speak to
me in Calo, in a posada like this; it is a forbidden language; for, as I
have often told you, the king has destroyed the law of the Calés. Let us
away, brother, or those juntunes (_sneaking scoundrels_) may set the
justicia upon us.”
Towards evening we drew near to a large town or village. “That is
Merida,” said Antonio, “formerly, as the Busné say, a mighty city of the
Corahai. We shall stay here to-night, and perhaps for a day or two, for
I have some business of Egypt to transact in this place. Now, brother,
step aside with the horse, and wait for me beneath yonder wall. I must
go before and see in what condition matters stand.”
I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath the ruined
wall to which Antonio had motioned me; the sun went down, and the air was
exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an old tattered gypsy cloak with
which my companion had provided me, and being somewhat fatigued, fell
into a doze which lasted for nearly an hour.
“Is your worship the London Caloro?” said a strange voice close beside
me.
I started and beheld the face of a woman peering under my hat.
Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the features were hideously
ugly and almost black; they belonged, in fact, to a gypsy crone, at least
seventy years of age, leaning upon a staff.
“Is your worship the London Caloro?” repeated she.
“I am he whom you seek,” said I; “where is Antonio?”
“_Curelando_, _curelando_, _baribustres curelos terela_,” {90} said the
crone: “come with me, Caloro of my garlochin, come with me to my little
ker, he will be there anon.”
I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was ruinous
and seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from which she turned
into a narrow and dark lane, and presently opened the gate of a large
dilapidated house; “Come in,” said she.
“And the gras?” I demanded.
“Bring the gras in too, my chabo, bring the gras in too; there is room
for the gras in my little stable.” We entered a large court, across
which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway. “Go in, my child of
Egypt,” said the hag; “go in, that is my little stable.”
“The place is as dark as pitch,” said I, “and may be a well for what I
know; bring a light or I will not enter.”
“Give me the solabarri (_bridle_),” said the hag, “and I will lead your
horse in, my chabo of Egypt, yes, and tether him to my little manger.”
She led the horse through the doorway, and I heard her busy in the
darkness; presently the horse shook himself: “_Grasti terelamos_,” said
the hag, who now made her appearance with the bridle in her hand; “the
horse has shaken himself, he is not harmed by his day’s journey; now let
us go in, my Caloro, into my little room.”
We entered the house and found ourselves in a vast room, which would have
been quite dark but for a faint glow which appeared at the farther end;
it proceeded from a brasero, beside which were squatted two dusky
figures.
“These are Callees,” said the hag; “one is my daughter and the other is
her chabi; sit down, my London Caloro, and let us hear you speak.”
I looked about for a chair, but could see none; at a short distance,
however, I perceived the end of a broken pillar lying on the floor; this
I rolled to the brasero and sat down upon it.
“This is a fine house, mother of the gypsies,” said I to the hag, willing
to gratify the desire she had expressed of hearing me speak; “a fine
house is this of yours, rather cold and damp, though; it appears large
enough to be a barrack for hundunares.”
“Plenty of houses in this foros, plenty of houses in Merida, my London
Caloro, some of them just as they were left by the Corahanoes; ah, a fine
people are the Corahanoes; I often wish myself in their chim once more.”
“How is this, mother,” said I, “have you been in the land of the Moors?”
“Twice have I been in their country, my Caloro,—twice have I been in the
land of the Corahai; the first time is more than fifty years ago, I was
then with the Sese (_Spaniards_), for my husband was a soldier of the
Crallis of Spain, and Oran at that time belonged to Spain.”
“You were not then with the real Moors,” said I, “but only with the
Spaniards who occupied part of their country.”
“I have been with the real Moors, my London Caloro. Who knows more of
the real Moors than myself? About forty years ago I was with my ro in
Ceuta, for he was still a soldier of the king, and he said to me one day,
‘I am tired of this place where there is no bread and less water, I will
escape and turn Corahano; this night I will kill my sergeant and flee to
the camp of the Moor.’ ‘Do so,’ said I, ‘my chabo, and as soon as may be
I will follow you and become a Corahani.’ That same night he killed his
sergeant, who five years before had called him Calo and cursed him, then
running to the wall he dropped from it, and amidst many shots he escaped
to the land of the Corahai, as for myself, I remained in the presidio of
Ceuta as a suttler, selling wine and repani to the soldiers. Two years
passed by and I neither saw nor heard from my ro; one day there came a
strange man to my cachimani (_wine-shop_), he was dressed like a
Corahano, and yet he did not look like one, he looked like more a
callardo (_black_), and yet he was not a callardo either, though he was
almost black, and as I looked upon him I thought he looked something like
the Errate, and he said to me, ‘Zincali; chachipé!’ and then he whispered
to me in queer language, which I could scarcely understand, ‘Your ro is
waiting, come with me, my little sister, and I will take you unto him.’
‘Where is he?’ said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of the
Corahai, and said, ‘He is yonder away; come with me, little sister, the
ro is waiting.’ For a moment I was afraid, but I bethought me of my
husband and I wished to be amongst the Corahai; so I took the little
parné (_money_) I had, and locking up the cachimani went with the strange
man; the sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him repani
(_brandy_) and he let us pass; in a moment we were in the land of the
Corahai. About a league from the town beneath a hill we found four
people, men and women, all very black like the strange man, and we joined
ourselves with them and they all saluted me and called me little sister.
That was all I understood of their discourse, which was very crabbed; and
they took away my dress and gave me other clothes, and I looked like a
Corahani, and away we marched for many days amidst deserts and small
villages, and more than once it seemed to me that I was amongst the
Errate, for their ways were the same: the men would hokkawar (_cheat_)
with mules and asses, and the women told baji, and after many days we
came before a large town, and the black man said, ‘Go in there, little
sister, and there you will find your ro;’ and I went to the gate, and an
armed Corahano stood within the gate, and I looked in his face, and lo!
it was my ro.
“O what a strange town it was that I found myself in, full of people who
had once been Candoré (_Christians_) but had renegaded and become
Corahai. There were Sese and Laloré (_Portuguese_), and men of other
nations, and amongst them were some of the Errate from my own country;
all were now soldiers of the Crallis of the Corahai and followed him to
his wars; and in that town I remained with my ro a long time,
occasionally going out with him to the wars, and I often asked him about
the black men who had brought me thither, and he told me that he had had
dealings with them, and that he believed them to be of the Errate. Well,
brother, to be short, my ro was killed in the wars, before a town to
which the king of the Corahai laid siege, and I became a piuli (_widow_),
and I returned to the village of the renegades, as it was called, and
supported myself as well as I could; and one day as I was sitting
weeping, the black man, whom I had never seen since the day he brought me
to my ro, again stood before me, and he said, ‘Come with me, little
sister, come with me, the ro is at hand’; and I went with him, and beyond
the gate in the desert was the same party of black men and women which I
had seen before. ‘Where is my ro?’ said I. ‘Here he is, little sister,’
said the black man, ‘here he is; from this day I am the ro and you the
romi; come, let us go, for there is business to be done.’
“And I went with him, and he was my ro, and we lived amongst the deserts,
and hokkawar’d and choried and told baji; and I said to myself, this is
good, sure I am amongst the Errate in a better chim than my own; and I
often said that they were of the Errate, and then they would laugh and
say that it might be so, and that they were not Corahai, but they could
give no account of themselves.
“Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had three chai by the
black man, two of them died, but the youngest, who is the Calli who sits
by the brasero, was spared; so we roamed about and choried and told baji;
and it came to pass that once in the winter time our company attempted to
pass a wide and deep river, of which there are many in the Chim del
Corahai, and the boat overset with the rapidity of the current and all
our people were drowned, all but myself and my chabi, whom I bore in my
bosom. I had now no friends amongst the Corahai, and I wandered about
the despoblados howling and lamenting till I became half lili (_mad_),
and in this manner I found my way to the coast, where I made friends with
the captain of a ship and returned to this land of Spain. And now I am
here, I often wish myself back again amongst the Corahai.”
Here she commenced laughing loud and long, and when she had ceased, her
daughter and grandchild took up the laugh, which they continued so long
that I concluded they were all lunatics.
Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the brasero, from
which, by this time, all warmth had departed; the glow had long since
disappeared, and only a few dying sparks were to be distinguished. The
room or hall was now involved in utter darkness; the women were
motionless and still; I shivered and began to feel uneasy. “Will Antonio
be here to-night?” at length I demanded.
“_No tenga usted cuidao_, my London Caloro,” said the Gypsy mother, in an
unearthly tone; “Pepindorio {93a} has been here some time.”
I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the house,
when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I heard the
voice of Antonio.
“Be not afraid, ’tis I, brother; we will have a light anon, and then
supper.”
The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and olives.
Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of excellent wine; we
despatched these viands by the light of an earthen lamp which was placed
upon the floor.
“Now,” said Antonio to the youngest female, “bring me the pajandi, and I
will sing a gachapla.”
The girl brought the guitar, which, with some difficulty, the Gypsy
tuned, and then strumming it vigorously, he sang:
“I stole a plump and bonny fowl,
But ere I well had dined,
The master came with scowl and growl,
And me would captive bind.
“My hat and mantle off I threw,
And scour’d across the lea,
Then cried the beng {93b} with loud halloo,
Where does the Gypsy flee?”
He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the two younger
females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied diligence, whilst the
aged mother occasionally snapped her fingers or beat time on the ground
with her stick. At last Antonio suddenly laid down the instrument:—
“I see the London Caloro is weary; enough, enough, to-morrow more
thereof—we will now to the charipé (_bed_).”
“With all my heart,” said I; “where are we to sleep?”
“In the stable,” said he, “in the manger; however cold the stable may be
we shall be warm enough in the bufa.”