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.