“BROTHER,” said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet, “I
have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than
yourself can’t be found. I have a great regard for you and your
learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or
conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, but as you wish to hear
it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as
you call it, and we were married in Roman fashion; that is, we gave each
other our right hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived
together two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our
relations; I bore him two children, both of which were still-born,
partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about the
country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to do so, and
partly from the kicks and blows which my husband Launcelot was in the
habit of giving me every night, provided I came home with less than five
shillings, which it is sometimes impossible to make in the country,
provided no fair or merry-making is going on. At the end of two years my
husband, Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer’s field, and sold it
for forty pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried
and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days before
he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, and in the
presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of ginger-bread, in which
there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. I then took on
wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and
was carried out of the prison. That same night my husband sawed his
irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height
of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath
where I was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off,
when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my
husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a
quarter of an hour after he had got away. My husband, without bidding me
farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not
take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened
me, and had me before the poknees, who shook his head at me, and
threatened me in order to make me discover where my husband was, but I
said I did not know, which was true enough; not that I would have told
him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not being able to
make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, and I went in search
of my husband. I wandered about with my cart for several days in the
direction in which I saw him run off, with my eyes bent on the ground,
but could see no marks of him; at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw
my husband’s patteran.”
“You saw your husband’s patteran?”
“Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?”
“Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the
gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of
their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The
gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula.”
“Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?”
“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.”
“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?”
“Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?”
“What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?”
“I don’t know,” said I; “it’s odd enough that I have asked that question
of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did
not know.”
“No more they did, brother; there’s only one person in England that
knows, and that’s myself—the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are
two that knows it—the other is yourself.”
“Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I
never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?”
“My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a
good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one has a better right to
know than yourself, as she hated you mortally: it was one day when you
had been asking our company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody
could tell you, that she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good
humour, and triumphed in seeing you baulked. She told me the word for
leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten
the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, because
the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves
and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody
knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to
tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly
cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother,
perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes
you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation;
my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know
anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband about
the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trails with
leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did;
so, when I saw my husband’s patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed
it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a
deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I
found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards
the east, and I followed my husband’s patteran towards the east; and
before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had
given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, I
passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water,
and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell
a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, when I
entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a
body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the
body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go
with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body, than I knew it
to be my husband’s; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly
by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out,
‘It is my husband’s body,’ and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that
time, brother, was not a seeming one.”
“Dear me,” said I, “how terrible! But tell me, Ursula, how did your
husband come by his death?”
“The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and
he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only
a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up
of itself, and was found floating. Well, brother, when the people of the
neighbourhood found that I was the wife of the drowned man, they were
very kind to me, and made a subscription for me, with which, after having
seen my husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jasper
and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since: I was very
melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother; for the death of my
husband preyed very much upon my mind.”
“His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, really, if he
had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted it, for he
appears to have treated you barbarously.”
“Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and beat me, and
drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, he was not a
bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed to kick and beat
his wife, and to bury her alive if he thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and
have nothing to say against the law.”
“But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?”
“She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so
she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, her husband does
not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like
him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury
her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him
more.”
“Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro,
Ursula.”
“Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, brother; you
must travel in their company some time before you can understand them;
they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing; but two more regular
Romans don’t breathe, and I’ll tell you, for your instruction, that there
isn’t a better mare-breaker in England than Jasper Petulengro; if you can
manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as—”
“Isopel Berners,” said I, “how came you to think of her?”
“How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in
Mumpers’ Dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother,
more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister
Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know
what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her.
I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you
will never—”
“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula.”
“Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage—”
“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel Berners.
Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it is surprising to
me that after all you have undergone, you should look so beautiful. I
suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?”
“No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable
mort; especially such a good husband as I have got.”
“Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was
drowned?”
“Yes, brother, my first husband was.”
“And have you a second?”
“To be sure, brother.”
“And who is he? in the name of wonder.”
“Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure.”
“I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such
a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty
pepper-faced good for nothing—”
“I won’t hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more.”
“Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own,
Ursula?”
“Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to take care of
him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will chore, if
necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely
to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him lazy if
you were in a ring with him: he is a proper man with his hands; Jasper is
going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks of the Chong gav,
the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal, he says he has no doubt that he
will win.”
“Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. Have you
been long married?”
“About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the
song, was given in celebration of the wedding.”
“Were you married in a church, Ursula?”
“We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples and lubbenys are ever
married in a church: we took each other’s words. Brother, I have been
with you near three hours beneath this hedge. I will go to my husband.”
“Does he know that you are here?”
“He does, brother.”
“And is he satisfied?”
“Satisfied! of course. Lor’, you gorgios! Brother, I go to my husband
and my house.” And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed.
After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I thought
I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the entrance of
it I found Mr. Petulengro. “Well, brother,” said he, “what kind of
conversation have you and Ursula had beneath the hedge?”
“If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come
and sat down beside us; you knew where we were.”
“Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you.”
“Behind the hedge, Jasper?”
“Behind the hedge, brother.”
“And heard all our conversation?”
“Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was.”
“’Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of
themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you.”
“If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, brother, and
she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick exactly to
truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me.”
“You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not
married.”
“She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to
Sylvester; nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once
thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much
for you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half-expected to have
heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think you
care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. Lor’,
to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to
Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, with your
gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning one, brother.”
“There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If people think I
am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of
character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly extraordinary
creatures, Jasper.”
“Didn’t I say they were rum animals? Brother, we Romans shall always
stick together as long as they stick fast to us.”
“Do you think they always will, Jasper?”
“Can’t say, brother; nothing lasts for ever. Romany chies are Romany
chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty years ago. My wife,
though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. I think she is rather fond
of Frenchmen and French discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever
gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by
that mad puppy they calls gentility.”