SEDATENESS was characteristic of the coppersmiths’ camp. Even when the
air reverberated with the tapping of many hammers there was no bustle;
work went on steadily, certainly, slowly, and with dignity. The arrival
of a stranger was the pretext for an animated and noisy chorus of begging
by the women, but on ordinary occasions the foreign Gypsies applied
themselves solemnly to labour, or still more solemnly to interminable
divans. Blood-curdling oaths in gentle Romani were hurled even at the
spoiled children when they manifested their spirits and happiness too
noisily; yet among them there was one who was privileged to be as
troublesome as he chose without reproof, and he was the sick boy.
His exceptional position seemed to have had a malign influence on his
character, for he was not a nice child. With the want of their robust
health he lacked also the sturdy independence of his playmates. They
were self-reliant, forward, often impertinent, but always lovable—he was
petulant, fretful, even peevish, and instinctively one pitied rather than
liked him. Yet in all the tribe there was nobody—man, woman, or child,
from the great chief Kola himself to the half-naked little ones—who would
have hesitated to make any effort or any sacrifice by which to mitigate
the sick boy’s distress. To his mother he was more than all the world.
She was Zhawzha, the chief’s daughter (though to those who were not of
the _afición_, she would have called herself Sophie), a strangely
pathetic figure in whose face one could see traces of great beauty marred
by bitter anxiety for her son. Among our first duties as friendly
visitors to the camp were those of acting as her dragoman in the local
surgery and bringing an eminent specialist from Liverpool to visit the
patient. But we discovered gradually not only that she had consulted
other doctors in Birkenhead, but also that she had prescriptions and
drugs, enough to have stocked a pharmacy, which she had obtained from
continental physicians. And all had prescribed bromides, prohibited
excitement, and bidden the distracted mother wait patiently and hope—for
the boy was epileptic.
He was the one disturbing influence in the tribe, and when the illness
seized him, always suddenly and unexpectedly, frantic crises of shrill
emotion broke the tranquillity of the camp. From all sides gesticulating
women would rush screaming wildly, and the men would leave their work to
return soon after in gloomy silence bending their heads to an inevitable
fate, while the poor little figure in all the ridiculous bravery of his
gaudy clothes and pale blue plush hat would be carried under shelter and
nursed tenderly. The distracted mother, meanwhile, would pace the
ground, her face distorted with agony, clutching convulsively at her hair
and singing a wild lament; and even the queenly Tinka would sink to the
ashes where she stood, raise her kindly face to heaven and weep aloud.
Such scenes were frequent and very painful. Even more painful was one’s
sense of impotence afterwards, when Zhawzha offered all she had, even the
gold coins from her hair, in exchange for her boy’s health. Time alone
could give what she demanded; but she scorned patience and would not
wait.
No cure which anybody recommended was left untried, it mattered not what
it was nor how much it cost. And so the child wore amulets, and to the
tent-pole mysterious bunches of thorn-twigs were tied. But the malady
was stubborn, and recourse was had to quacks who poisoned the little
fellow with excessive doses so that he ceased even to speak, and wandered
aimlessly in a comatose condition. And then, most wonderfully—for which
of us in our own land could find, at need, a sorceress?—they discovered
that there was a witch-doctor in Bradford. Letters were dictated,
symptoms described, medicine bought at exorbitant prices, and Harley
Street fees paid. A lock of hair was cut and sent, untouched by human
hands, for some kind of sympathetic magic. But this, like everything
else, failed to effect the instantaneous cure the mother demanded, and
she and her lad, with his father, a very black and rather stupid little
Gypsy named Adam Kirpatsh, journeyed to Bradford for a personal
interview.
Adam was not wealthy in the same sense as Kola, the chief, might have
been called wealthy; but he had savings, and it was pitiable to watch him
squander them in vain efforts to gratify the sick boy’s whims and set the
anxious mother’s mind at rest. Protest was useless—equally useless to
urge a longer trial of rational treatment; he was determined that no
stone should be left unturned. His confidence in the witch-doctor lasted
longer than his faith in any legitimate practitioner had lasted, but it
crumbled away gradually, undermined by the obvious failure of her
treatment. And then Adam heroically resolved to incur the great expense
of taking his wife and child for a pilgrimage all the way to Czenstochowa
in Russian Poland. The celebrated shrine has since become notorious, for
the dissolute priests robbed the holy image of its gems; but in July,
1911, it was in high repute among the Gypsies, and some of them had
pictures of the Virgin of Czenstochowa in their tents. The journey must
have been a trying one for the invalid, but on their way home the family
rested for a while at Berlin, and Adam sent triumphant telegrams to
Birkenhead announcing that the boy was cured.
Alas! As I approached the camp on the occasion of my first visit after
their return, the little lad saw me from a distance, and ran forward to
take my hand. He looked well and happy, and we walked on gaily towards
the tents. But suddenly the weight on my wrist increased, the child
seemed to stumble, and looking down I saw that he was unconscious.
Misfortune dogged that unhappy family. Poor Zhawzha, enervated by
constant solicitude, died at Mitcham, and was buried with ceremonies the
barbaric extravagance of which was probably without parallel in this
country. There followed unseemly bickerings about the possession of her
property and the custody of the children, and Adam parted from the band
to return to his own tribe. But it is comforting to know that, whatever
may have happened during these days of grief, whatever sorrows the future
may hold in store, that little afflicted boy will not be allowed to
suffer unnecessarily. May his health be restored gradually as the years
pass! But should fate decree that he must remain infirm during all the
days of his life, it is certain that the tender care which was lavished
on the sick Gypsy by his warm-hearted compatriots when he was a child
will not be withdrawn when he becomes a grown man.