Gypsy Coppersmiths in Liverpool and Birkenhead

by R. A. Scott Macfie

The commercial traveller is more truly born to his profession than the poet, unless an unreasonably exacting definition of poet be accepted; and to those who are not thus born, it seems inexplicable that any sane person should willingly adopt so toilsome and disagreeable, yet thankless and inglorious, an occupation, and even learn to like it. Paradoxically the Gypsy coppersmiths, in travelling, combined the methods of a raw apprentice, foredoomed to failure, with diligence, enthusiasm—and success—which proved them born bagmen. They evidently enjoyed being “on the road” in this very un-Gypsylike sense; yet, Gypsylike, retained their independence, differing from the common “drummer” in that they represented, not an exacting master, but their own still more exacting selves. The fact that they travelled was not remarkable—travelling was the necessary prelude to their industry. What was astonishing was the versatility which enabled them both to beat our native coppersmiths in smithcraft and to rival British agents in the energy with which they canvassed for the orders they were themselves to execute.

With patience anybody can become a fairly good commercial traveller who has a respectable appearance and good address, carries a useful article, and asks a reasonable price. The Gypsies certainly carried a useful article, inasmuch as their repairs were skilful and thorough, but all the other circumstances were against them. Their extravagant costume reminded those on whom they called of brigands rather than of sober business-men, and brigands are not welcome in offices or factories. In combination with their black hair and glittering eyes it was apt to betray their nationality. If it did, so much the worse, for a commercial transaction with a Gypsy is several degrees more unpopular than a commercial transaction with a Jew.

As for address, it mattered not at first whether they possessed it or not, for they spoke no English. They soon discovered and engaged threadbare ungrammatical aliens to talk for them, but until they obtained such assistance they were content to carry tattered scraps of soiled paper on which their qualifications were set forth in a handwriting and dialect which were very far from commanding the respect of possible customers. Here again they reared an unnecessary obstacle against their own success, for it is an axiom that the worse the business, the better must be the quality of the stationery. Even when they had learned a little English—and, belying Gypsy reputation, they learnt it very slowly—they scorned to use ingratiating behaviour, delicate compliment, or even funny stories; their whole persuasive stock-in-trade was a whine, a dogged and irritating perseverance, inability to recognize the moment when it is more profitable to go than to stay, and stone-deafness to the most emphatic “no.” In short, their method was simply the endless importunity which their wives and children devoted to shameless and successful begging.

It is easy to give goods away; only an expert bagman can get a high price. Price is the real criterion of the traveller. In this respect the Gypsies were nothing if not ambitious, for they set out with the intention of exacting remuneration so exorbitant that their repairs often cost more than a pot new from the maker. Thus their only practicable policy was to conceal carefully the sum they proposed to ask, and escape at all costs from the danger of giving the estimate which was always demanded. The form of their contract was ingeniously designed to serve this purpose, and they also attempted to disarm natural suspicion by offering to mend—or insisting on mending, for they were very masterful—the first article for nothing as a proof of their skill. The latter device was generally unsuccessful, for in Great Britain the offer of something for nothing, or the pretence that it is work, not wages, that is wanted, is apt rather to increase than diminish mistrust. Moreover their conduct was in other respects far from reassuring. When the owner of a pot, wearied by their persistence and, if convinced of nothing else, convinced at least that his only hope of getting back to business lay in surrender, had resolved reluctantly to entrust the vessel to their care, they would reawaken his slumbering suspicions by suggesting that he would require surety for its safe return. And the unhappy man was obliged to postpone his relief from torture, and set his tired wits to work devising non-committal receipts for gold coins and foreign bank-notes in the genuineness of which he very shrewdly disbelieved.

The deposit was part of a game which the Gypsies refused to play otherwise than by rule. And so humble Worsho Kokoiesko would fish out the single gold piece which represented all his fortune which his wife did not wear, and the great Kola would brandish bundles of French notes in the face of his victim. Kola was accustomed—perhaps wisely—to flaunt his wealth, but some of his relations who were also well-to-do used professions of poverty as arguments when soliciting work. To their strangely illogical minds simulated indigence was not inconsistent with the exhibition of large sums of money. I have myself assisted, as dragoman, in their negotiations with an important manufacturer of jam. “Tell him,” they said, “that we are Hungarian coppersmiths.” This I did, without serious scruples, adding at their command, and with a clear conscience, that their work was excellent. To their next instructions, “Tell him that our wives are starving and our children crying for bread,” I was inclined to demur, but was sternly overruled. The jam-manufacturer was visibly affected, and pity for these strangers within our inhospitable gates appeared for a moment in his face. But only for a moment; hurriedly thrusting a bundle covered with red silk into my hands, the Gypsies added: “Show him this; tell him not to be afraid to trust us.” And as I untied the knots twenty great yellow coins appeared—£80 in solid gold!

No less conspicuous than their want of finesse was their want of organization. They neither divided the city into districts to parcel them out among their members, nor even the users of copper vessels into classes. Collecting addresses from strangers they met casually, they visited factories and institutions at random, wasting much time in long tramps from one extreme end of the town to the other and then immediately back to the first district. Lucky the man who discovered a new, unvisited manufactory; a courteous reception and patient hearing were generally given him. The patience of most manufacturers had been early exhausted by the repeated and lengthy invasions of other members of the tribe, and they were in no mood for further interviews. Some of the more enterprising and wealthy Gypsies seemed to realize this, for they made expensive journeys from Birkenhead to Manchester, Leeds, and even the Isle of Man. The disappointingly small results would have disheartened an ordinary commercial traveller, but the Gypsies were anything but ordinary travellers. And gradually their patience was rewarded, and the camp became littered with cauldrons and pots awaiting repair, striking evidence of the almost miraculous power of sheer, unreasoning tenacity.

4. THE TALE OF A TUB.

Milanko, son of Yono, was an impertinent lad, but good-humoured, rather ugly and always grinning. I had assured him repeatedly that in the sugar-refinery to which I have the misfortune to be attached all the “pots” were as big as houses and in perfect repair, so that to my deep regret I was unable to take advantage of the offer of his professional services. Milanko, however, with the incredulity of an habitual liar, made an independent reconnaissance through a window and caught sight of an ancient copper tub, some six feet in diameter and about a quarter of a ton in weight. Moreover he ascertained, by means best known to himself, that it was cracked and patched; and I was weak enough to admit, under his searching cross-examination, that it would be an advantage to have its inner surface coated with tin. It was a huge vessel, but Milanko was ambitious, and thereafter called regularly at inconvenient hours to present a series of petitions: first, for the order to mend and tin the pan; second, for the loan of a pound to purchase solder; third, for half a sovereign to get boots; fourth, for five shillings to buy a hat; and fifth, for three pence, the price of a packet of cigarettes. He accepted the emphatic refusal of his larger requests philosophically and without resentment. To the last I gave a favourable hearing, even at our first interview, and we parted with a friendly exchange of Zha Devlesa (Go with God) and Ash Devlesa (Remain with God), well understanding that a second rehearsal was ordered for the morrow and that it would be succeeded by daily performances. The play had not a long run. One ill-starred afternoon I granted the main petition, and the cauldron was carted to Birkenhead to be deposited in the camp.

Knowing that the Gypsies’ policy was always to do as much work as possible, and generally far more than their customer expected or required, I sent the chief engineer to Green Lane to make plain to them that the vessel was only to be tinned, and that the cracks and patches were to be left unmended. No contract was signed, though there was a distinct verbal agreement that the cost was to be one pound. I was, however, prepared to pay as much as three, the price for which a Liverpool firm had offered to do the same work, because I recognized that the pan was large and heavy and was interested to see how the coppersmiths would handle it without either blocks and tackle or large fires. To my great disappointment I was allowed to see nothing. When I visited the camp the cauldron was always discreetly covered with a sheet, and the Gypsies found ingenious means to keep me and it as far apart as possible. But occasionally they would draw me aside and expatiate alarmingly on the amount of tin, acid and labour that were needed, and, ignoring their estimate, talk tentatively of forty pounds as a just and probable charge.

At last, one morning, a messenger arrived to report that the cauldron was ready for delivery, and on the afternoon of the same day the chief engineer, instructed that he might pay three pounds but not a penny more, took with him a cart and crossed the river to Birkenhead. He found the pan turned upside down on the cindery ground of the camp and proposed to remove it to the refinery in order that the quality of the work might be examined. But the Gypsies, holding that possession is nine-tenths of the law, refused to permit the removal before payment was made. The wisdom of their decision became evident when bargaining began, for the engineer offered one pound while they, with fierce indignation, demanded twenty-five, making the sum unmistakably clear by placing a sovereign on the pan and indicating the numeral by means of their outstretched fingers. The discrepancy between claim and tender was too wide for easy or rapid adjustment, and neither side showed any willingness to compromise. The engineer, accustomed to dealing with Orientals, stuck to his terms, but finding the Gypsies equally stubborn and much noisier, and convinced as tea-time approached that no settlement was then possible, he ordered the cart back to Liverpool and himself withdrew from the conference.