I do not, however, wish to convey the impression that he is a perpetually happy being. None can be more variable, one minute he may be convulsed with laughter, the next—deeply despondent. His temperament has much to remind one of the changeability of Nature, sunshine one moment, the next a darkened sky. The gypsy, too, has much of the child in his composition, he is as a child that somehow has never fully grown up, not that he is childish, far from it, but long contact with the gypsy and close study of gypsy character present them to me as a people who are actuated to the full by all the passions and emotions of healthy, natural manhood, and yet never really let go their hold on childhood.
Are you a kairengro or house-dweller who visits him, then he will seldom exhibit his cunning—and in all the arts pertaining to his trade or trades he is usually remarkably clever—he thinks you “jal a moskeying,” that is, go a-spying, than which there is nothing perhaps he dislikes more, unless it be to be seen by a gorgio or non-gypsy in the act of having a meal. He may talk to you, he may be most entertaining, but he may be probing your heart and mind at the same time, and not until you have long passed satisfactorily his hawk-eyed, soul-searching examination, will he regard you as more than any other gorgio or Gentile, but, if you can converse in his own tongue—the Romany jib he loves so well but never or seldom displays before a stranger—and he is assured of your good intentions by long acquaintance, then only will he open out and reveal himself, and give, as it were, his seal to the friendship by inviting you to partake of a meal with his family, indeed, he would be likely to fight for you or share his last penny with you if need be, and you then come to realise that with all his complexity of character, there lies beneath, a warm heart and generous disposition.
Many are handicapped by being unable to read or write. I have in mind a Romany acquaintance who does a good business, but has to rely on the help of friends to order his wares and pay his accounts for him. He came to me one day and asked if I could write another letter for him, adding, almost as though speaking to himself, “It’s a love-letter this time.”
“Well,” said I, after pen and paper had been procured, “please go ahead.” For a moment or two he seemed lost in thought and hesitated, as though at a loss how to begin. I offered a suggestion and he at once said, “Yes! put that down.” The ice being now broken we got along famously, he standing with his back towards me, dictating. The letter was written in a combination of English (of a sort) and Romany,—poggado jib or broken tongue as it is termed. Perhaps no more curious camipen-lil (love-letter) had ever been written. As he was quite unable to write I signed his name—he had, in fact, almost forgotten how it should be spelled. Having done this I quite naturally supposed my task was completed, but no, he desired every available bit of space filled in with crosses. “What are those for?” I asked artlessly. “Oh, she’ll understand,” he replied. “Put in some more, please.”
I therefore made crosses both big and small wherever they could be squeezed in, until he seemed satisfied, but I sincerely trust his Romany chi did not try to count them. One can almost imagine her making the attempt: “Yeck, dui, trin, stor, pantsch, sho,” and before reaching “dui trins ta yeck” and “dui stors,” giving up the task as being beyond her.
Many of the gypsies are, of course, able to write, but they get little schooling in the ordinary sense of the term and I have heard the gypsies say they do not like their boys and girls to sit next to a lot of gorgio children in a school. Better times are ahead, however, for the school-master is abroad, and there are workers among them, notably the Church Army Mission, whose self-sacrificing men teach the children the alphabet, elementary arithmetic, etc., together with such simple Christian truths as they can assimilate, for in the children lies their hope. An aspect of the work of the Mission which is not seen by the passer-by, is the tactful, considerate help rendered in times of distress. A gypsy, whatever his status, has a certain pride and he will not, if he can avoid it, visit a relieving officer; the workers of the Mission, however, with an equally keen insight into human nature, have perhaps a more sympathetic heart, enabling them to find out real cases of need, when they help to the best of their ability, often when such help should really be forthcoming from the relieving officer.
Unfortunately, many writers fail to discriminate between the Chorodies (low, wandering outcasts) and the Romany chals (true gypsies). Scathing letters have appeared in the newspapers, condemning all gypsies and other nomads as incorrigible rogues, and suggesting fourteenth-century methods for their removal. One writer—I will not debase the word by calling him man—said he did not care what became of them so long as they did not come near him,—a strikingly unbeautiful example of existing intolerance.
However, it is not my aim, nor province, to answer directly the newspaper letters of selfish and pharisaical people, but rather to exhibit the gypsy character, and to speak of the gypsy as I have found and know him, no better, no worse; to carry the reader in imagination with me, to see them at work, to sit by the camp fire, to listen to their quaint folk tales, the wise saying and the merry jest, and endeavour to do some little to modify the effect of the ignorant or vindictive doctrine of those who, generation after generation, have taught the young that the terms gypsy, tramp and vagabond are more or less alike, standing for most that is depraved and villainous. In the few cases, when in after life some acquaintance with gypsy character has been made, this idea has, of course, been much modified, or altogether dissipated, while a close and sympathetic study of the Romany folk has invariably led to a desire to condone their failings, or at least to consider them of small account in comparison with so much that is commendable.
Upon more than one occasion has my clothing—permeated by the wood smoke of the gypsy fire—betrayed to acquaintances the fact that I had been among the Romany folk, and given the opportunity for jeering observations anent the “tents of the ungodly,” but, as the old adage has it, “he laughs best who laughs last,” and it is indeed gratifying to be able later in life to conjure up pleasant pictures of one’s friends seated, as they were, around the camp fire.