“Yes,” was the confidential answer.
They were all astonished, and kept quiet till I had gone a few rods on my way, when the whole party, recovering from their amazement, raised a gentle cheer, expressive of approbation and sympathy. A few days after, walking with a lady in Weybridge, she said to me,—
“Who is that man who looked at you so closely?”
“I do not know.”
“That’s very strange. I am quite sure I heard him utter two words in a strange language, as you passed, as if he only meant them for you. They sounded like sarshaun baw.” Which means, “How are you, sir?” or friend. As we came up the street, I saw the man talking with a well-dressed, sporting-looking man, not quite a gentleman, who sat cheekily in his own jaunty little wagon. As I passed, the one of the wagon said to the other, speaking of me, and in pure Romany, evidently thinking I did not understand,—
“Dikk’adovo Giorgio, adoi!” (Look at that Gorgio, there!)
Being a Romany rye, and not accustomed to be spoken of as a Gorgio, I looked up at him, angrily, when he, seeing that I understood him, smiled, and bowed politely in apology. I laughed and passed on. But I thought it a little strange, for neither of the men had the slightest indication of gypsiness. I met the one who had said sarishān bā again, soon after. I found that he and the one of the wagon were not of gypsy blood, but of a class not uncommon in England, who, be they rich or poor, are affected towards gypsies. The wealthy one lived with a gypsy mistress; the poorer one had a gypsy wife, and was very fond of the language. There is a very large class of these mysterious men everywhere about the country. They haunt fairs; they pop up unexpectedly as Jack-in-boxes in unsuspected guise; they look out from under fatherly umbrellas; their name is Legion; their mother is Mystery, and their uncle is Old Tom,—not of Virginia, but of Gin. Once, in the old town of Canterbury, I stood in the street, under the Old Woman with the Clock, one of the quaintest pieces of drollery ever imagined during the Middle Ages. And by me was a tinker, and as his wheel went siz-‘z-‘z-‘z, uz-uz-uz-z-z! I talked with him, and there joined us a fat, little, elderly, spectacled, shabby-genteel, but well-to-do-looking sort of a punchy, small tradesman. And, as we spoke, there went by a great, stout, roaring Romany woman,—a scarlet-runner of Babylon run to seed,—with a boy and a hand-cart to carry the seed in. And to her I cried, “Hav akai te mandy’ll del tute a shāori!” (Come here, and I’ll stand a sixpence!) But she did not
believe in my offer, but went her way, like a Burning Shame, through the crowd, and was lost evermore. I looked at the little old gentleman to see what effect my outcry in a strange language had upon him. But he only remarked, soberly, “Well, now, I should ’a’ thought a sixpence would ’a’ brought her to!” And the wheel said, “Suz-zuz-zuz-z-z I should ’a’ suz-suz ’a’ thought a suz-z-zixpence would ’a’ suz-zuz ’a’ brought her, too-z-z-z!” And I looked at the Old Woman with the Clock, and she ticked, “A—six—pence—would—have—brought—me—two—three—four”—and I began to dream that all Canterbury was Romany.
We came to the house, the landlord was up-stairs, ill in bed, but would be glad to see us; and he welcomed us warmly, and went deeply into Romany family matters with my friend, the Oxford scholar. Meanwhile, his daughter, a nice brunette, received and read a letter; and he tried to explain to me the mystery of the many men who are not gypsies, yet speak Romany, but could not do it, though he was one of them. It appeared from his account that they were “a kind of mixed, you see, and dusted in, you know, and on it, out of the family, it peppers up; but not exactly, you understand, and that’s the way it is. And I remember a case in point, and that was one day, and I had sold a horse, and was with my boy in a moramengro’s buddika [barber’s shop], and my boy says to me, in Romanes, ‘Father, I’d like to have my hair cut.’ ‘It’s too dear here, my son,’ said I, Romaneskes; ‘for the bill says threepence.’ And then the barber, he ups and says, in Romany, ‘Since you’re Romanys, I’ll cut it for twopence, though it’s clear out of all my rules.’ And he did
it; but why that man rakkered Romanes I don’t know, nor how it comes about; for he hadn’t no more call to it than a pig has to be a preacher. But I’ve known men in Sussex to take to diggin’ truffles on the same principles, and one Gorgio in Hastings that adopted sellin’ fried fish for his livin’, about the town, because he thought it was kind of romantic. That’s it.”