Adam was not wealthy in the same sense as Kola, the chief, might have been called wealthy; but he had savings, and it was pitiable to watch him squander them in vain efforts to gratify the sick boy’s whims and set the anxious mother’s mind at rest. Protest was useless—equally useless to urge a longer trial of rational treatment; he was determined that no stone should be left unturned. His confidence in the witch-doctor lasted longer than his faith in any legitimate practitioner had lasted, but it crumbled away gradually, undermined by the obvious failure of her treatment. And then Adam heroically resolved to incur the great expense of taking his wife and child for a pilgrimage all the way to Czenstochowa in Russian Poland. The celebrated shrine has since become notorious, for the dissolute priests robbed the holy image of its gems; but in July, 1911, it was in high repute among the Gypsies, and some of them had pictures of the Virgin of Czenstochowa in their tents. The journey must have been a trying one for the invalid, but on their way home the family rested for a while at Berlin, and Adam sent triumphant telegrams to Birkenhead announcing that the boy was cured.
Alas! As I approached the camp on the occasion of my first visit after their return, the little lad saw me from a distance, and ran forward to take my hand. He looked well and happy, and we walked on gaily towards the tents. But suddenly the weight on my wrist increased, the child seemed to stumble, and looking down I saw that he was unconscious.
Misfortune dogged that unhappy family. Poor Zhawzha, enervated by constant solicitude, died at Mitcham, and was buried with ceremonies the barbaric extravagance of which was probably without parallel in this country. There followed unseemly bickerings about the possession of her property and the custody of the children, and Adam parted from the band to return to his own tribe. But it is comforting to know that, whatever may have happened during these days of grief, whatever sorrows the future may hold in store, that little afflicted boy will not be allowed to suffer unnecessarily. May his health be restored gradually as the years pass! But should fate decree that he must remain infirm during all the days of his life, it is certain that the tender care which was lavished on the sick Gypsy by his warm-hearted compatriots when he was a child will not be withdrawn when he becomes a grown man.
8. A GOOD WORK. [44]
I do not think the old Drill Hall in Birkenhead has ever been a cheerful place: deserted by the military and transformed into a boxing booth, it is now positively dismal. But for two months during the summer of 1911 it was ablaze with Oriental colour. Kola, the Gypsy chieftain, with his tribe of coppersmiths, had taken possession of it, having left the English Romany camp at Tranmere to make room for his brothers, Yantshi and Yishwan, who had arrived from Marseilles with their wives, children and followers. The ruling family had established itself upon the high platform where once bruisers proved their mettle, and from it the royal tenant looked down a crooked lane bordered on either side by the tents of his subjects. From irregular skylights in the black roof dusty, mysterious sunbeams fell upon gay drapery and piles of eiderdown beds gaudily covered with scarlet and yellow stuff, on black-bearded men and strange groups of dark women in bright red dresses loaded with gold, on the little low round tables at which they sat cross-legged, and on the blue tendrils of smoke that rose from their brass samovars. In the yard outside was the din of many hammers beating cauldrons of copper, but it was almost drowned by a babel of shrill voices quarrelling in a strange and strongly aspirated tongue.
For all was not well in Kola’s kingdom: disaffection was brewing, and a schism was imminent. And in the midst of all the trouble the wife of young Worsho Kokoiesko presented her husband with a little brown girl, his first child. No stranger ever knew what secret rites were practised in the distant corner of the great barn where Worsho, as a poor relation, lived humbly. Mother and child were screened carefully from observation, and the first token of the arrival of a new recruit was the healthy voice of a crying baby. There was no general rejoicing, no excitement; but Worsho slipped shyly to my side and, in his rich mellow voice which resembled singing rather than speaking, invited me to be godfather.
Thus it happened four days afterwards that I made a morning visit to the camp ready to add to the solemnity of the occasion such dignity as a frock-coat and top-hat could lend. Knowing the ancient and universal Gypsy fondness for baptism I had hoped that there would have been a tribal festival. It was therefore disappointing to find that the appearance of the hall was normal, and that Worsho himself was still in bed, although the time appointed for the ceremony was near at hand. After some exhortation he got up, stretched himself, breakfasted leisurely, and dressed in his ordinary clothes: but Saveta, daughter of Michael, who was to be godmother, kept me in countenance by putting on a white dress gaudy with floral patterns. At last the little procession set out for St. Werburgh’s Church—the strikingly handsome Worsho, his young widowed sister Luba, the two godparents, Saveta’s pretty little niece Liza, an assistant librarian from the Bodleian, and the indispensable baby.
We were shockingly late, and on our arrival found that the christening ceremony had already begun for the benefit of another infant. But the good priest left the font, came politely to the door to receive us, put us in our places, and recommenced the service. Although unprepared for the solemnity and thoroughness of my godchild’s reception into the Church, I played my unrehearsed part to the best of my ability, stumbling only once when, some ancient memory of a grammar school in the Midlands awaking suddenly at the command, “Say the Paternoster,” I said it bravely—in Latin! And indeed this fault causes my conscience less trouble than the problem of how to fulfil my godparental obligations when my wandering goddaughter may be anywhere at all in either hemisphere.
All Gypsies have two names, one for public, the other for private use; and it may be that the baptismal name is the one they value least. At all events the duty of choosing it devolved, in this instance, on me, and the parents gave no indication as to what were their wishes. Unable on the spur of the moment to remember anything really monumental, I called the child Saveta after her godmother, and thus she was registered in the great book when our picturesque little party withdrew to the sacristy. The mother’s name, Anastasi Fiodorana Shodoro, was also placed on record, the last element being probably that of the child’s maternal grandfather. But when I began to dictate W-O-R-S-H-O, Worsho excitedly plucked my sleeve and protested. I had never heard him called by any other name, and was amazed; but he produced documents and passports to prove that he was, officially, Garaz son of Fanaz, the son of Zigano, and as “Garaz Fanaz Zigano” he was written down. The absence of a surname caused no difficulties with our sympathetic Irish priest; but it was quite otherwise when we paid a necessary visit to an ignorant registrar. He declared, “The man must have a surname,” and regarded the want of so necessary a distinction as little less serious than the want of a head or heart. There was a column for surnames in his register, and it would have been a scandal to leave it empty. We filled it.