“Get the rai one o’ the rugs to besh oprê” (sit upon), said Isaac to his grandson Walter, who trotted off briskly to a large tent, and reappeared with a smartly striped coverlet, which he spread for me beneath the hedge. A second grandson, with a similar alacrity, set off at Sinfai’s bidding to find sticks for the fire. The devotion of these lads to their grandparents seemed to spring from a sense of comradery rather than reverence, and the quaint deference paid in turn by the old people to the boys impressed me not a little—a thing I have often observed in Romany camps.
Old Isaac’s memory carried him back to Mousehold Heath of the long ago, and, listening to his talk, one could see the brown tents and smoking fires amid the ling and fern. Among the Gypsies reclining by those fires were the Smiths, the Maces, the Pinfolds, and the Grays—Sinfai’s folk—and of course some of the old Herons. Niabai, Isaac’s father, would sit mending kettles, for, like many of the Gypsies of those days, he was a tinker by calling, and when on travel would carry his grindstone on his back. Sometimes of an evening, “Mister Burrow” would walk up on to the Heath for a chat with Niabai and his wife “Crowy,” so called by reason of her very dark features. Borrow picked up from Crowy many a Romany lav (word). Gypsy fights were common on the Heath, and at times the fern would be trampled down by the crowds who came from far and near to witness these thrilling scenes.
Old Isaac had two uncles of whom he made mention—William Heron, always known as “the handsome man,” and Robert Heron, known as “the lame man.” Examples of a remarkable exactness of observation are Borrow’s pen-portraits of the two last-named brothers contained in the Introduction to The Zincali. The writer does not mention them by name, but when I submitted a memorized version of these word-pictures to my friend Isaac he at once recognized his uncles, William and Robert.
Let us open The Zincali.
Handsome William is standing by his horse. He is tall, as were all the men of his clan.
“Almost a giant, for his height could not have been less than six feet three. It is impossible for the imagination to conceive anything more perfectly beautiful than were the features of this man, and the most skilful sculptor of Greece might have taken them as his model for a hero and a god. The forehead was exceedingly lofty—a rare thing in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian—fine, yet delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes, giving them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the lashes were elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can be called a glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in the world. His complexion was a beautiful olive, and his teeth were of a brilliance uncommon even amongst these people, who have all fine teeth. He was dressed in a coarse wagoner’s slop, which, however, was unable to conceal altogether his noble and Herculean figure. He might be about twenty-eight.”
William is said to have persisted in carrying his own silver mug in his coat pocket, and would drink out of no other vessel. “I’d scorn to wet my lips with a drop of drink out of a gawjikeno kuro,” meaning the publican’s mugs.
Robert, William’s elder brother, remained on horseback, looking “more like a phantom than anything human. His complexion was the colour of pale dust, and of that same colour was all that pertained to him, hat and clothes. His boots were dusty of course, for it was midsummer, and his very horse was of a dusty dun. His features were whimsically ugly, most of his teeth were gone, and as to age, he might be thirty or sixty. He was somewhat lame and halt, but an unequalled rider when once upon his steed, which he was naturally not very solicitous to quit.”
Robert was always considered the wizard of the clan. Never having been married, he dispensed with a tent, preferring, like some of the deep Woods of Wales, to sleep in a barn. He was nicknamed “Church” Robert, because he was a reader and had a wonderful memory, and sometimes going to church he listened to lessons and psalms and would afterwards reel them off like a rokerin tshiriklo (parrot).
When I made a move to go, Old Isaac drew himself to his full height and said, “Av akai apopli, rashai” (Come here again, parson), and the boys to whom I had mentioned my roving experiences urged me to come and camp near them. “Let us put up a tent for you here next to ours.” Sinfai, who walked to the field-gate with me, slipped into my pocket a bita delaben (small gift), a green wineglass.