Unlovable features exist in every community—gypsy or otherwise—and unfortunately, perhaps, for the reputation of the gypsies, their inaccessibility has in most cases necessitated the employment by the gorgio writer of “narrow-angle” vision (to use a photographic simile), the inevitable result of which has been that their unattractive qualities loom large in the foreground, and upon these attention is focussed, while the real picture in the rear is obliterated or rendered indistinguishable.
Many of the Romany folk are unable to read, which fact, in conjunction with their manner of living, places them at a great disadvantage with respect to the expression of their ideas on many topics, but that they appreciate the beautiful in nature, have a crude philosophy, and decided opinions on equity may be gathered from the following incidents and conversational anecdotes, which I give with colloquialisms verbatim.
One evening, as the setting sun was transforming the western horizon into a panorama of wonderful colour-blending, I came upon a young gypsy woman standing upon a slight eminence evidently watching the glorious sky. Just as I came up to her, a motor vehicle whizzed past on the road near to us. The gypsy turned to view the begoggled occupants and, perceiving me, blurted out—
“What do you think they look like?” while her lip curved and a look of intense contempt came into her face for the modern man and woman in the car, who were whisking through space, raising clouds of dust and leaving behind, both literally and figuratively, a nasty taste in one’s mouth. Turning again to the magnificent sky picture she remarked as though she were a different woman:
“I say, ain’t it lovely!”
I expressed my agreement with her in appreciating the lovely scene, but soon descended to more mundane matters by asking if she had seen anything of a particular branch of the Vardomescro family, for if they were, as I supposed, in the vicinity, I intended to visit the camp. She replied that she thought they must have moved before she came to the spot last evening. However, I searched around with the hope of finding some sign that would enable me to ascertain their whereabouts. I soon found what may be termed their notice of change of address, but as the arrangement of sticks and leaves had been to some extent disturbed,—presumably by some wandering animal,—it was a little difficult to decipher, nevertheless there was sufficient to indicate that they had gone about two miles away to the north.
As it was now too late in the evening to set out I decided to postpone my visit until the morrow, which, judging from the stratus clouds about the setting sun, would be fine.
In the morning, after putting up a few sandwiches, in case I was unable to discover my friends, I set out for the locality in which I expected to find them. Failing to observe any indication of their presence I sat down and listened intently, having many a time located a camp by the noise of children playing, the sound of wood being chopped or broken for the fire and so on, but now nothing broke the silence to guide me; I concluded, therefore, that they had again gone on, but as I had not found the site of their last camp I had little hope of tracing them and was thinking of returning when, at less than a hundred yards distant, I saw a member of the family I had been seeking,—a young woman upon whom had been bestowed the name of Sinfai Vardomescro—known to the gorgio as Miss Cooper. She informed me that the remainder of the family were away but might return at any minute, that she was just going to fetch a bucket of water and would be back at the camp in a few minutes. She then went on for the water while I set off for the tents, the position of which she had pointed out. Upon reaching the camp I found a seat on an old box and, awaiting events, had nothing to do but think.
The gypsies being uppermost in my mind, I experienced a sensation of something akin to envy as I ruminated,—“it was true Science was a meaningless word to them, literature equally a term without signification, the existence of arts, manufactures and commerce was but dimly realized by them, and yet,—did they not enjoy a fuller freedom than I,—did they not escape the cares, worries and anxieties that were inseparable from a state of respectability,—so called,—they had never even heard of Mrs. Grundy,—they”—but here my musing was cut short by the arrival of Sinfai with the water.