THE commercial traveller is more truly born to his profession than the
poet, unless an unreasonably exacting definition of poet be accepted; and
to those who are not thus born, it seems inexplicable that any sane
person should willingly adopt so toilsome and disagreeable, yet thankless
and inglorious, an occupation, and even learn to like it. Paradoxically
the Gypsy coppersmiths, in travelling, combined the methods of a raw
apprentice, foredoomed to failure, with diligence, enthusiasm—and
success—which proved them born bagmen. They evidently enjoyed being “on
the road” in this very un-Gypsylike sense; yet, Gypsylike, retained their
independence, differing from the common “drummer” in that they
represented, not an exacting master, but their own still more exacting
selves. The fact that they travelled was not remarkable—travelling was
the necessary prelude to their industry. What was astonishing was the
versatility which enabled them both to beat our native coppersmiths in
smithcraft and to rival British agents in the energy with which they
canvassed for the orders they were themselves to execute.
With patience anybody can become a fairly good commercial traveller who
has a respectable appearance and good address, carries a useful article,
and asks a reasonable price. The Gypsies certainly carried a useful
article, inasmuch as their repairs were skilful and thorough, but all the
other circumstances were against them. Their extravagant costume
reminded those on whom they called of brigands rather than of sober
business-men, and brigands are not welcome in offices or factories. In
combination with their black hair and glittering eyes it was apt to
betray their nationality. If it did, so much the worse, for a commercial
transaction with a Gypsy is several degrees more unpopular than a
commercial transaction with a Jew.
As for address, it mattered not at first whether they possessed it or
not, for they spoke no English. They soon discovered and engaged
threadbare ungrammatical aliens to talk for them, but until they obtained
such assistance they were content to carry tattered scraps of soiled
paper on which their qualifications were set forth in a handwriting and
dialect which were very far from commanding the respect of possible
customers. Here again they reared an unnecessary obstacle against their
own success, for it is an axiom that the worse the business, the better
must be the quality of the stationery. Even when they had learned a
little English—and, belying Gypsy reputation, they learnt it very
slowly—they scorned to use ingratiating behaviour, delicate compliment,
or even funny stories; their whole persuasive stock-in-trade was a whine,
a dogged and irritating perseverance, inability to recognize the moment
when it is more profitable to go than to stay, and stone-deafness to the
most emphatic “no.” In short, their method was simply the endless
importunity which their wives and children devoted to shameless and
successful begging.
It is easy to give goods away; only an expert bagman can get a high
price. Price is the real criterion of the traveller. In this respect
the Gypsies were nothing if not ambitious, for they set out with the
intention of exacting remuneration so exorbitant that their repairs often
cost more than a pot new from the maker. Thus their only practicable
policy was to conceal carefully the sum they proposed to ask, and escape
at all costs from the danger of giving the estimate which was always
demanded. The form of their contract was ingeniously designed to serve
this purpose, and they also attempted to disarm natural suspicion by
offering to mend—or insisting on mending, for they were very
masterful—the first article for nothing as a proof of their skill. The
latter device was generally unsuccessful, for in Great Britain the offer
of something for nothing, or the pretence that it is work, not wages,
that is wanted, is apt rather to increase than diminish mistrust.
Moreover their conduct was in other respects far from reassuring. When
the owner of a pot, wearied by their persistence and, if convinced of
nothing else, convinced at least that his only hope of getting back to
business lay in surrender, had resolved reluctantly to entrust the vessel
to their care, they would reawaken his slumbering suspicions by
suggesting that he would require surety for its safe return. And the
unhappy man was obliged to postpone his relief from torture, and set his
tired wits to work devising non-committal receipts for gold coins and
foreign bank-notes in the genuineness of which he very shrewdly
disbelieved.
The deposit was part of a game which the Gypsies refused to play
otherwise than by rule. And so humble Worsho Kokoiesko would fish out
the single gold piece which represented all his fortune which his wife
did not wear, and the great Kola would brandish bundles of French notes
in the face of his victim. Kola was accustomed—perhaps wisely—to flaunt
his wealth, but some of his relations who were also well-to-do used
professions of poverty as arguments when soliciting work. To their
strangely illogical minds simulated indigence was not inconsistent with
the exhibition of large sums of money. I have myself assisted, as
dragoman, in their negotiations with an important manufacturer of jam.
“Tell him,” they said, “that we are Hungarian coppersmiths.” This I did,
without serious scruples, adding at their command, and with a clear
conscience, that their work was excellent. To their next instructions,
“Tell him that our wives are starving and our children crying for bread,”
I was inclined to demur, but was sternly overruled. The jam-manufacturer
was visibly affected, and pity for these strangers within our
inhospitable gates appeared for a moment in his face. But only for a
moment; hurriedly thrusting a bundle covered with red silk into my hands,
the Gypsies added: “Show him this; tell him not to be afraid to trust
us.” And as I untied the knots twenty great yellow coins appeared—£80 in
solid gold!
No less conspicuous than their want of finesse was their want of
organization. They neither divided the city into districts to parcel
them out among their members, nor even the users of copper vessels into
classes. Collecting addresses from strangers they met casually, they
visited factories and institutions at random, wasting much time in long
tramps from one extreme end of the town to the other and then immediately
back to the first district. Lucky the man who discovered a new,
unvisited manufactory; a courteous reception and patient hearing were
generally given him. The patience of most manufacturers had been early
exhausted by the repeated and lengthy invasions of other members of the
tribe, and they were in no mood for further interviews. Some of the more
enterprising and wealthy Gypsies seemed to realize this, for they made
expensive journeys from Birkenhead to Manchester, Leeds, and even the
Isle of Man. The disappointingly small results would have disheartened
an ordinary commercial traveller, but the Gypsies were anything but
ordinary travellers. And gradually their patience was rewarded, and the
camp became littered with cauldrons and pots awaiting repair, striking
evidence of the almost miraculous power of sheer, unreasoning tenacity.