Recently, while visiting a Romany encampment, I found so many old
friends whom I had desired to see again, and from whom it was
difficult—without giving offence—to tear oneself away, that the work
of my pen was getting sadly in arrear, and I determined to devote two
or three hours one afternoon to the task of writing. Selecting a spot
under a hedge which seemed to offer sufficient privacy and a fairly
comfortable seat, I set to work with a resolve to cover a lot of paper.
I had been thus busily engaged for some considerable time—and was in
the throes of straightening out a particularly obstinate paragraph,
when a man sauntered up and threw himself down upon the grass near me
with a manner intended to intimate that he was willing to talk. He
opened conversation, as most of the Romanies do, by asking the time,
then he wondered if I had such a thing as a “lucifer” about me. Having
lit up a terribly evil-smelling and much-blackened cutty pipe he made
an ejaculatory remark with reference to a mosquito that had settled
upon the back of his hand. There is no need to repeat what he said, but
it bore no resemblance to Romany.
Thus, having as it were cleared the decks for action, he waited,
seeming to have something to say when I should care to listen. I had
so far made good use of the afternoon, and, although much remained
for me to do, I could not follow my habitual practice of making fresh
Romany friends whenever possible if I kept my head buried in my papers,
therefore, after folding up my notes, I seated myself somewhat nearer
to my companion, and after a few casual remarks and opinions regarding
the prospect for fruit and hops, he said he wished me to write a
letter for him as he was unable to do it himself. “You’re a por-engro
I’m told, and have written many a lil for Romany folk,” said he, in a
somewhat questioning way. “That is true,” I answered, and, producing
a sheet of paper, I wrote at his dictation. It was not nearly so
interesting as a camipen-lil, or love-letter, as it related only to
some new “sparks,” as the diamonds used in china-drilling are termed,
which he desired to be sent to him and for which he had procured a
postal order, this I duly filled in and crossed.
During the writing of this order a woman loitered towards us, later,
two younger women approached. The little group stood at a considerate
distance until the task was completed, when they came nearer and seated
themselves tailor-wise, or, rather should I say, gypsy-fashion, each of
the younger women producing a cigarette and the older woman a clay pipe
of generous capacity. When all had lit up, one said to me:
“Do you rokkra Romany?” Upon receiving my reply in the affirmative she
said somewhat sharply:
“Who taught you? You’re a kairengro, aren’t you?”
“Why do you think that?” I queried. To this she vouchsafed no reply,
appearing not to have heard the question, but after gazing steadily at
me for quite an appreciable time she asked:
“Why don’t you get a van and come along o’ us? You must get tired o’
stopping in one place.”
I confessed that such was the case.
“Then why do you stay under a roof?”
Here the older woman joined in with:
“I was born outside myself, I’m the mother o’ seventeen children, and,
please the Almighty, I’m going to die outside, why, I suffocates in a
house, there ain’t no air in a house,—you never gets air in a house!”
“Look at the pale faces of them as lives in ’em,” said one of the
younger women,—“but you”—she continued, turning to me—“are one o’
the dark ones.”
“That is perhaps lucky for me,” I remarked.
“Yes, ’tis so,” was the reply, “all Romany chies hates a pale face, at
least all but the silly ones.”
“But,” said I, “if I procured a van and travelled about with you, I
am not sure that I should feel altogether safe, for we might disagree
sometimes and perhaps fight, in which case I should come out badly, for
the little fighting I do is with pen and ink and I am no master with
either gloves or fists.”
“Safe!” exclaimed the man, “you’d be safe, ab-so-lutely, nobody would
fight, wouldn’t want to fight with you anyhow; as for me, I could fall
out with you, but if you refused to shake hands with me the next minute
I should say you’re no pal o’ mine.”
[Illustration: AN OCTOGENARIAN.]
We may note in passing, that this portion of our free and easy
conversation, which is set down verbatim as it took place, aptly
illustrates the following among the features which stand out in the
Romany character:
The possession of a kind of clairvoyance which enables them to
promptly and accurately “size up” the sympathies of a chance
acquaintance.
Their instinctive dislike and distrust of fair or pale people.
Their good-fellowship and ready reciprocation of kindness.
Their alacrity in recovering from misunderstandings and
ebullitions of temper, albeit they never forget an intentional
slight or injustice.
Presently the conversation was switched on to the subject of weddings.
“Some of our folk are getting ‘spliced’ in a week or two in that church
yonder,” said one of the women, “but yer know we don’t all get married
by the clergyman, whatever clever people may say about it. Many a chal
and chi are married in the good old Roman way.”
“And how is that?” I asked, adding, “Just among yourselves, I suppose?”
“Auvli,” she replied, “you takes mande by the vast,—so,”—suiting
action to word she placed her hand in my grasp—“and,” she continued,
“you pukker to mande tute will always be a tacho Romado and mande pens
she’ll be a tacho Romadi to you.”
“So that’s Romipen (marriage),” said I—“and do you consider it
binding?”
“Always, prala,” she replied impressively.
“Supposing the man did not think it was, and left you?” I ventured.
“So much the worse for him,” she answered—“for whenever any of my
people saw him they’d down him with a cosh.”
“Is that the gypsy law?”
“That is the gypsy law, prala.”
The earnest manner, and the convincing tone in which all this was said
left no room for doubt that the unwritten laws of the Romanies are
really felt by them to be more sacred and binding than the law of the
land,—the former being obeyed because of an inherited respect for
them, or a mystical allegiance to tribal traditions, while the latter
would appear to command respect only on account of the physical force
behind.
The gypsy wedding is usually accompanied by a spree by way of
celebration, and unhappily some of the company emulate the gorgios at
similar functions by getting into a state quite the reverse of sober.
Such conduct, even if pardonable on these occasions, is of course
discreditable, but to be quite just to the gypsy I must say that his
behaviour in the circumstances seems to be less bestial than that of
many a non-gypsy who professedly despises him.
“Are you married?” asked one of the girls of me.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, you ain’t got much to worry about,” said she, with a saucy smile.
Not far from our group was a camp that had all day appeared deserted
save for a child or two left “on guard.”
Now there came from it sounds as of meat sizzling in the frying-pan,
while clouds of wood-smoke ascended and a cheery voice called out:
“Will you join us?—you’re welcome.”
Accordingly, we went over to the living wagons and tents and found
several women busily engaged in preparing for the evening meal; one was
dexterously manipulating a frying-pan, another tended the fire, and so
on.
I was invited to partake of the meal with a family whose home was a
tent. In the way of food there was bread and jam, German sausage and
bread, and bowls of tea. As I was the guest I was offered for a seat a
boot-repairing iron upon which a piece of sacking was placed to modify
its undesirable qualities. I imagine it would take years of practice to
enable one to sit with any degree of comfort on a boot-repairing iron,
but I determined to make the best of it and to appear as though I liked
it and had sat upon nothing but boot-irons all my life. However, the
fumes from the coke fire hard by proved almost too much for me and I
was in danger of falling from my precarious perch. My friends evidently
noticed this as they made a less uncertain seat for me by upturning an
empty bucket and covering the bottom with an old coat as a cushion.
[Illustration:
“There is in all this cold and hollow world
No fount of deep, strong, deathless love,
Save that within a mother’s heart.”
MRS. HEMANS.]
Almost everyone has some recollection of the brown tents of the gypsy
fraternity, which, at longer or shorter intervals, may be seen dotted
here and there upon the commons. Comparatively few, however, have any
close-range acquaintance even with the exterior of these primitive
dwellings, and fewer still have any idea of the arrangement of the
interior. In many of the poorest tents of the gypsies of southern
England there really is no arrangement, in fact, there is almost
“no nothing,” as someone with a touch of pathetic facetiousness has
described their condition, but the tent in which I now found myself
belonged to a family of genuine Romanies and differed somewhat from
those of the poorer tent-dwellers.
The fire—whose fumes had at first given me trouble—was contained in
a circular and rather deep kind of iron tray about fifteen inches in
diameter which was kept from actual contact with the ground by being
supported on three old bricks; over the fire a kettle was suspended by
the kekauvisky saster—frequently called a crane—the kettle iron.
Reference to our illustration on page 38 will enable one at a glance
to get an idea of the general arrangement. At the end farthest removed
from the fire were the beds, in front of which, and raised some four
or five inches from the floor, was a sort of divan composed of straw
evenly laid and covered with cloths, the remainder of the floor space
being bare earth. Curtains were hung before the beds, giving something
of an Oriental air to the interior.
There were, too, a few cushions that had seen much service but
nevertheless were clean, besides which there was practically nothing
but the customary box for the storage of china and food, and yet this
was, and had been for more than twenty years, the dwelling of these
Romany folk, honest people, who had worked hard—often for a bare
subsistence—but who had nevertheless reared a large family of healthy
children without appealing to charity. And they were proud, too,
boasting of a long line of proud ancestors.
This set me a-thinking, and as I sat there these thoughts passed
through my mind:
“If pride in one’s ancestry is justifiable, have not these people far
saner reasons for such pride than those who boast of having ‘come over
with the Conqueror’?” It is indeed true that their Romany forbears were
not numbered among the cut-throat rabble who accompanied the historic
William of Normandy, but they come of a people who had a history,
literature and a language when that gentleman made his début.
Like their near relatives, the Hindus of to-day, many of the gypsies
can neither read nor write, but usually our Romany friend has a sound
mind in a sound body, and when he points—as he well may—to the blots
on our civilization and the shams in our religion, I do not wonder at
the up-hill work of those good souls among us who seek to instil the
Christ spirit into the minds of those whom the world dubs outcasts,
and yet surprise is evinced that the progress of our missions to these
people is slow. How heart-breaking the work is only those who are
engaged in it know. But a truce to moralizing. I must bestir myself or
my friends will judge me dull.
After the meal the kettle needed to be again filled and the water
heated preparatory to a general wash and clean up, and I heard a young
girl ordering her younger brother to—
“Put the panee on the yog, yer fool, and mind yer put some soda in,”
which of course meant—“Put the water on the fire and add some soda.”
He was afterwards instructed by the mother to “clean the churi’s on
the poov,” and set about it by utilizing the hard earth floor as a
knife-board, in doing which I noticed that he sensibly selected a
miniature mound upon which to rub the blades so that his knuckles
should not be subjected to the same cleaning process as the knives,
which were ultimately stowed away quite clean, if they had not received
a high polish.
Work for the day—which in this case had been strawberry picking—being
over, the time before turning in was whiled away with tales of the
road, common and forest, and stories of keepers, police and other
bugbears of nomadic life. When my companion considered that a sketch
would help his narrative he made a rough drawing on the hard earth—of
a road or other subject—with the charred end of a piece of stick, and
I discovered that he worked out simple accounts connected with his work
in the same manner.
Turning to the fire I observed to my friend:
“One seldom comes across a tripod nowadays, I suppose they are no
longer used?”
“Well,” said he, “now you mention it, I don’t think I’ve seen more than
two or three for years. One I saw at a pony fair in the New Forest, and
I believe I have seen one or two in Kent, but real old genuine ones
would most likely be valuable now just as old copper kettles are.”
[Illustration: DOUBLE TENT. WINTER.]
“I know someone,” he continued, “who had a very old one, in fact it
was too old to use, but it fetched a good bit o’ money, it was all
hand-hammered, mind you. I shouldn’t ha’ sold it if it had been mine,
but the woman as had it was hard up, and you don’t think much about
anything when you’re hungry except satisfyin’ your belly, and there was
kiddies wanting bread too.”
“But,” he added retrospectively, “now nearly all use the crane.”
The washing of the crockery being finished and the beds having been
made, I could see that my friends would soon retire for the night; I
therefore bade them good night and wended my way homeward. As I passed
now a tent, now a van, cheery voices rang out:
“Good night, who is it?”
“Por-engro,” said I.
“All right,” was the reply, “good night to you.”
In ascending a little hill on my way I halted for a second and looked
back. In the dim distance lights glimmered here and there and I
reflected that in a few minutes all the occupants would be slumbering,
perhaps not even expecting outsiders,—the beasts of burden, and the
betie juggals tuley the wardoes, those cute little mongrel dogs under
the vans, which one never _finds_ asleep.
Again I turned my face towards home, feeling physically very tired,
while mentally I was actively engaged in turning over the events of
the day, and reviewing, to the credit of my gypsy acquaintances, the
self-sacrifices I had witnessed and the little kindnesses I had seen
them perform one to the other, sometimes even under the cloak of rough
behaviour and sharp words, but one could make no mistake as to the love
they have for the children. This has always impressed me as one of the
good traits in the gypsies’ somewhat complex character, and one that
may well efface a multitude of sins. One of their women once said to me:
“I couldn’t see ’em want. Folks say it’s wrong to take chickens and
rabbits, but if I knew I should get six months for it and I could keep
the kiddies from starvin’, I’d get ’em the grub and take my six months.”
Speaking of food brings to mind domestic utensils and appliances, and
a short description of those commonly in use among the tent-dwelling
gypsies will not be out of place here. It will be obvious that as these
people are true nomads, such goods and chattels as they carry about
with them must be easily portable as well as indispensable.
[Illustration: SINGLE TENT. SUMMER.]
The possessor of a van is, of course, able to carry more, and is often
a person of some means, but the tent-dweller’s means of transport—if
indeed he possess any but the sinews of his family—consists of a
horse and cart, or sometimes only of a vehicle scarcely worthy of the
name of cart, and a dilapidated donkey whose coat reminds one of a
badly moth-eaten hearth-rug; we refrain, however, from comparing the
Romany “moke” with its well-fed and sleek relatives of the seaside.
One of the most important of the domestic implements—and therefore
one that is in almost universal use—is the crane or kettle prop—the
kekauvisky saster, kekauvi meaning kettle, and saster, in gypsy,
standing for iron, will sufficiently explain this curious name. It is
not only used for the kettle but also for suspending the inevitable
pirry or boiler over the fire. In effect, these cranes are alike, but
a number of patterns may be found, any one costing from a shilling to
half a crown. One I have seen a great many times has the end fashioned
to resemble an adder, others are quite plain with a knob, while others
have a ball a short distance from the tip. In substance they vary from
about five-eighths of an inch to an inch or so in diameter and are
about three feet six in length, usually round, but occasionally square
in section. They are used by thrusting the straight end into the
ground at an angle which will bring a vessel suspended from the hook
over the centre of the fire. In the simplest form the end of the crane
for thrusting into the ground is merely tapered to a point, but others
may be seen having a rectangular bulge which is likewise pointed, both
forms being also used by thrusting, or auger-wise, for making holes in
hard ground for the insertion of the tent rods.
It is interesting to note that, according to information supplied by
one long resident in India, the Hindus most nearly resembling our
gypsies do not use the crane, but in place of it stones or pieces of
green wood full of sap are employed, being placed so that the earthen
cooking vessel rests upon them. In the latter case the cooking is
completed before the wooden supports are burned through.
Some of the cranes are very old, the snake-like one to which we have
alluded being a case in point, having been made in Cornwall about a
century ago, since when it has been in constant use by the same family.
The articles next in importance are kettle and boiler, the kettle
perhaps holding first place, as the very poorest family which cannot
boast of a boiler will invariably possess a kettle.
This is occasionally of copper, but as no time is spent in
unnecessarily cleaning any of these utensils their composition can only
be ascertained after free use of a pocket knife. The boiler is nearly
always composed of iron, is oval in form and of fair capacity.
Each member of the family, excepting the young children, is usually
provided with a knife, fork and spoon,—of sorts,—but should either,
or both fork and spoon be wanting, as is not infrequently the case,
no difficulty seems to be experienced in conveying any food to the
mouth by the knife. It must, of course, be borne in mind that these
observations apply to the tent-dwellers, their brethren of the van
being generally better supplied with domestic conveniences. A basin
or two, a few plates, a bucket for water and sometimes a bottle for
drinking water,—even a gypsy finding it easier to drink from a bottle
than from a pail—will about complete the list, but an odd saucepan or
two, a frying-pan and one or more dishes may occasionally be found.
A frying-pan for hanging upon the crane which we discovered upon one
occasion is illustrated.[1]
There are several reasons why the gypsies do not as a rule make a
camp fire directly on the ground, the most obvious being perhaps
that their method precludes the burning of the turf, which in some
districts at least would cause trouble, and the free passage of
air under the fire aids combustion to some extent, while it allows
the fire and accompaniments to be rearranged under cover in the
space of a few seconds, should a sudden change of weather render it
advisable; moreover, it is an easy matter to obliterate traces of a
recent encampment. Sheet iron—very frequently in the form of an old
tea-tray—is used, upon which to build the fire; this is supported upon
pieces of iron bar bent roughly to the shape of a figure 7, the longer
ends of which are driven a little way into the ground.
Some possess an iron stand for the purpose, shaped as shown in Fig.
14,[2] in which at points a, b, c, will be seen small studs or
elevations, the purpose of which is apparently to reduce to a minimum
contact between tray and stand, with a view to conserve heat.
[Illustration: GYPSY TENT, SHOWING INTERIOR.]
Before leaving as a topic the fire and its appurtenances, a word must
be said with reference to the methods adopted by those who are not
fortunate enough to possess a crane.
The simplest arrangement I have seen consisted merely of part of the
fairly straight branch of a tree, one end of which was thrust into the
ground at an angle—crane fashion, the other end having affixed to it
a hook of wire, which looked suspiciously like part of a barbed-wire
fence. Another of these kettle-supports might very well have been
designed by primitive man; two forked branches had been pushed into
the ground two or three feet apart, and lying in the forked upper ends
was another stick having upon it two or three crudely fashioned hooks.
Another and even less ambitious contrivance consisted of two rough
sticks thrust into the ground similarly to those just described, but,
having no forked tops, the horizontal stick was tied in position with
string and wire, and was furnished with the usual hooks for the kettle.
Although there is in most tents a box in which food and breakables are
stored, yet one may often see a loaf or loaves of bread in an uncovered
basket, or otherwise exposed to sun and wind; under these conditions it
speedily becomes as dry as the proverbial chip, but hunger and good
teeth make all the difference in one’s ideas as to what is eatable. I
have seen the children devouring such bread with an appetite and with a
zest that would be the envy of many an epicure.
I hope, however, to say something about food and roadside cookery later.
As most of the gypsies go to sleep at dusk, or as soon as night has
fallen, it will be understood that little provision is made for
illuminating their tents, and, as would be expected, such as exists is
primitive, a lamp usually consisting of a small bowl supported by a
bent wire terminating with a loop or hook for suspending from the tent
rods. A heavy oil such as colza is used, the wick being supported by a
bent wire. Candles are also used in these lamps, but I have seen in use
lamps made especially for them.
The tent dwellings of the gypsies greatly resemble each other, and,
with few exceptions, are of the simple arched form that has probably
characterized them from the earliest times: a close acquaintance with
them, however, will reveal certain differences or modifications which
may perhaps be peculiar to members of a certain family or tribe. I
do not wish to convey the idea that different tribes have any very
decided differences in their tents, nevertheless in some respects they
will probably differ sufficiently to enable one who is well acquainted
with these people to say, almost with certainty, what families
inhabit certain tents. Alterations are also made to suit the changing
seasons and the differences of camping grounds. In summer the single
tent is principally in evidence, in winter nearly all who possess
sufficient material make up a double tent by the simple method of
placing two single ones in line, face to face a short distance apart,
the intervening space being filled in by a few long rods pushed into
the ground at an angle approximating the curve of the tents on either
side, and covered with blanketing pinned in position to connect the two
tents, and as the upper ends of the rods are free and uncovered, they
provide a combination of ventilating shaft and chimney, the fire being
always made directly beneath the opening. As a whole this arrangement
bears a certain resemblance to the wigwam of the Red man.
The construction of one of the tents is quite a simple matter, and
although no ropes or similar stays are used, the tent has yet to be
devised that will prove to be more secure in rough weather, more
comfortable in all weathers to the occupier, more “roomy” for its
size, or less costly to construct; at the same time the gypsy tent may
be very quickly erected or dismantled and packs into a small compass.
The numerous good qualities of these simple structures will perhaps
be more readily realized if the construction of one be described and
followed from commencement to completion.
The first essential is a piece of ash or oak,—preferably the former,
as being less likely to split,—about five feet long by three inches
broad and one and a half inches thick. This should be bored with
a series of five pairs of three-quarter inch holes. A gypsy would
accomplish this by burning out the holes with the tapered end of the
crane brought to a red heat.
Next procure twelve or thirteen green hazel or ash rods about five feet
six inches in length, taper the ends of ten of these so that they may
fit snugly into the ridge-piece just described, having done which, the
other ends of the rods must be pushed into holes in the ground already
made at proper distances by means of the crane, so that by “croming”
or bending over the rods, five on each side arch-fashion, they are
held firmly in position by the ridge-piece into which they fit. The
skeleton of the tent will now be complete but for the two or three
rods to form the framework of the end,—these rods, by the way, may be
somewhat longer than those for the sides,—they should be thrust into
holes in the ground at a suitable distance, bent over the first or
nearest of the arched rods and pushed under the next, thus completing
the framework.
When the owner of the tent has his choice of material for the covering,
brown blanketing is generally selected, as very little rain water gets
through, it is decidedly warm in winter, and in the form of old Army
blankets is fairly cheap; it is secured in place by means of skewers,
horse-shoe nails, blackthorn spines, or wood pins that have been fried
in fat, a process which renders them waterproof and easy to insert.
All too frequently, however, the impecunious “gippo” has to be content
with whatever he can get hold of to shield him from wind, rain and
snow, and not infrequently, one finds such materials used as bits
of canvas, sailcloth, old carpeting, worn-out waterproof or other
garments, together with odds and ends of a variety of fabrics, the
original uses of which it is impossible to even guess at. In the single
tent are pieces of blanketing which during the day are turned aside,
but at night are let down so as to cover the entrance and fulfil the
functions of a door.
In boisterous weather a protecting sheet of canvas or blanket called
the “loo” is fixed up on the windward side of the fire; in the case of
the double tent such a “loo” is formed by the covering on either side
of the central portion when left closed to windward while the other is
uncovered, as most frequently it is in autumn and mild winter weather.
The tents vary much in size but the approximate dimensions of a single
one are:
Three feet six inches to six feet in length, five feet six wide, and
three to four feet in height, while a double tent may be about five
feet six inches wide, thirteen to fourteen feet in length and four feet
in height.
Gypsies do not, as a rule, use a ground sheet, but contrive to keep
tolerably dry without one. For bedding, they often use bracken or
heather-tops, which are sometimes covered with sacking or pieces of
canvas, at another time they will use a sack loosely stuffed with hay
or straw, and not infrequently they will sleep with nothing between
themselves and the otherwise bare earth but such loose rags or straw as
they may have been able to bring together.
[Illustration: GYPSY TENT SHOWING CONSTRUCTION.]
Those who are accustomed to some kind of bed—in the generally accepted
sense of the word—will not consider this enticing; nevertheless, while
the seductive nature of a few rags as a bed upon the ground may well
be ignored, bracken, heather, hay, etc., are used with a considerable
amount of satisfaction and a kind of primitive comfort by these people.
In appraising the term “comfort” in its application to gypsy life one
must not forget that it is a word of comparative significance, nor that
the gypsy is reared in a scant nursery and is thereby rendered immune
from the petty annoyances and complaints that beset daily the life of
the pampered,—may we not correctly say, ultra-civilized,—for the
gypsy lives a healthy, open-air life, with sun, wind and rain as his
closest companions, taking no anxious thought for the morrow, with the
result that he is seldom seriously unwell or unfit,—to quote the words
of an Indian gypsy to an acquaintance of mine:
“Gypsies are ill but once,”—a general statement which appears to be as
applicable to our English Romanies as to their Hindu brethren.