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 labours: 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, {105a} the man with the
withered arm, who wielded the _cachas_ {105b} with his left hand; his
shrewd wife, Antonia, skilled in _hokkano __baro_, or the great trick
{106a}; 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_
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_ 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_ 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
_chardí_; I have got the _bar lachí_ in my bosom, the precious stone to
which sticks the needle. {106b}
_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 lachí_ had
power? I have been soldier and _contrabandista_, and I have likewise
slain and robbed the _Busné_. The bullets of the _Gabiné_ and of the
_jara canallis_ have hissed about my ears without injuring me, for I
carried the _bar lachí_. I have twenty times done that which by _Busné_
law should have brought me to the _filimicha_, yet my neck has never yet
been squeezed by the cold _garrote_. Brother, I trust in the _bar
lachí_, like the _Caloré_ of old: were I in the midst of the gulph of
_Bombardó_ 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
lachí_ 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 lachí_ 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_ on a certain matter.
The strange _Caloró_ 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 _Caloró_ 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 Manró_ as far as the frontiers of _Castumba_, and
upon the frontiers of _Castumba_ I will leave the London _Caloró_ to find
his own way to _Madrilati_, for there is less danger in _Castumba_ than
in the _Chim del Manró_, 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; {108} it is good and fleet, and cost me, who am a gypsy, fifty
_chulé_; 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_. With
respect to my offer, you are free to decline it; there is a _drungruje_
between here and _Madrilati_, and you can travel it in the _birdoche_, or
with the _dromális_; 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 entiendo_; {110} 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 _Busnó_ 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
_balichó_ 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 lachí_. Now for a glass of _repañi_, 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 Manró_; 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 Manró_, 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_
{112} 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 _Caló_ 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 board, calling
for wine and bread. There were two ill-looking fellows in the kitchen,
smoking cigars. I said something to Antonio in the _Caló_ 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 _Caló_
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 _Caló_ 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 ear in
_Caló_, 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 _Caló_ donkey, and every person avoids him. At
last the gypsies offer thirty _reals_ 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 villany would be prevented, in my opinion, were the
_Caló_ language not spoken; for what but the word of _Caló_ 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 _Caló_ language either.”
“May evil glanders seize their nostrils,” said Antonio; “they have been
_jonjabadoed_ {114a} by our people. However, brother, you did wrong to
speak to me in _Caló_, 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_. {114b} Let us away, brother, or those _juntunes_ 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 _Caloró_?” 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 _Caloró_?” repeated she.
“I am he whom you seek,” said I; “where is Antonio?”
“_Curelando_, _curelando_; _baribustres curelós terela_,” {115} said the
crone. “Come with me, _Caloró_ 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 _chabó_, 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_,” said the hag, “and I will lead your horse in,
my _chabó_ 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_,” {116} 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 _Caloró_, 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 _chabí_. Sit down, my London _Caloró_, 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
_Caloró_, some of them just as they were left by the _Corahanós_. Ah! a
fine people are the _Corahanós_; 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 _Caloró_—twice have I been in the
land of the _Corahai_. The first time is more than fifty years ago; I
was then with the _Sesé_, 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 _Caloró_. 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 _Corahanó_; this night I will kill my sergeant, and flee
to the camp of the Moor.’ ‘Do so,’ said I, ‘my _chabó_, and as soon as
may be I will follow you and become a _Corahaní_.’ That same night he
killed his sergeant, who five years before had called him _Caló_ 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
_repañi_ 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_;
he was dressed like a _Corahanó_, and yet he did not look like one; he
looked more like a _callardó_, and yet he was not a _callardó_ 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_ I had, and, locking up the
_cachimani_, went with the strange man. The sentinel challenged us at
the gate, but I gave him _repañi_, 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 _Corahaní_, 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_ with mules and asses, and the women told _baji_,
{118} 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 _Corahanó_ stood within the gate,
and I looked in his face, and lo! it was my _ro_.
“Oh, what a strange town it was that I found myself in, full of people
who had once been _Candoré_ but had renegaded and become _Corahai_!
There were _Sesé_ and _Laloré_, 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 _piulí_, 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 _Callí_ 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 _chabí_,
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 _lilí_, 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_, {120} my London _Caloró_,” said the gypsy
mother, in an unearthly tone; “_Pepindorio_ 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 _pajandí_, 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 din’d,
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_ 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,
exclaiming—
“I see the London _Caloró_ is weary; enough, enough, to-morrow more
thereof. We will now to the _charipé_.”
“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_.”