The Gypsies Part 11

gallery. But here I did the gypsies great injustice; for they will allow their likenesses to be taken if you will give them a shoe-string. That this old superst.i.tion relative to the binding and loosing of ill-luck by the shoe-string should exist in this connection is of itself curious. In the earliest times the shoe-latchet brought luck, just as the shoe itself did, especially when filled with corn or rice, and thrown after the bride. It is a great pity that the ignorant Gentiles, who are so careful to do this at every wedding, do not know that it is all in vain unless they cry aloud in Hebrew, "_Peru urphu_!" {159} with all their might when the shoe is cast, and that the shoe should be filled with rice.

She went away, and in a few minutes the photographer came in great glee to show a picture which he had taken.

"'Ere you are, sir. An elegant photograph, surroundin' sentimental scenery and horiental c.o.ker-nuts thrown in,--all for a diminitive little s.h.i.+llin'."

"Now that time you missed it," I said; "for on my honor as a gentleman, I have only ninepence in all my pockets."

"A gent like you with only ninepence!" said the artist.

"If he hasn't got money in his pocket now," said Old Liz, speaking up in my defense, "he has plenty at home. He has given pounds and pounds to us gypsies."

"_Dovo's a huckaben_," I said to her in Romany. "_Mandy kekker delled tute k.u.mi'n a trin-grus.h.i.+_." (That is untrue. I never gave you more than a s.h.i.+lling.)

"Anyhow," said Liz, "ninepence is enough for it." And the man, a.s.senting, gave it to me. It was a very good picture, and I have since had several copies taken of it.

"Yes, _rya_," said Old Liz, when I regretted the absence of my Lady Lee, and talked with her about shoe-strings and old shoes, and how necessary it was to cry out "_Peru urphu_!" when you throw them,--"yes. That's the way the Gorgis always half does things. You see 'em get a horse-shoe off the roads, and what do they do with it! Goes like _dinneli_ idiots and nails it up with the p'ints down, which, as is well beknown, brings all the bad luck there is flyin' in the air into the house, and _taders chovihanees_ [draws witches] like anise-seed does rats. Now common sense ought to teach that the shoe ought to be put like horns, with the p'ints up. For if it's lucky to put real horns up, of course the horse-shoe goes the same _drom_ [road]. And it's lucky to pick up a red string in the morning,--yes, or at any time; but it's sure love from a girl if you do,--specially silk. And if so be she gives you a red string or cord, or a strip of red stuff, _that_ means she'll be bound to you and loves you."

VI. STREET SKETCHES.

London, during hot weather, after the close of the wise season, suggests to the upper ten thousand, and to the lower twenty thousand who reflect their ways, and to the lowest millions who minister to them all, a scene of doleful dullness. I call the time which has pa.s.sed wise, because that which succeeds is universally known as the silly season. Then the editors in town have recourse to the American newspapers for amusing murders, while their rural brethren invent great gooseberries. Then the sea-serpent again lifts his awful head. I am always glad when this sterling inheritance of the Northern races reappears; for while we have _him_ I know that the capacity for swallowing a big bouncer, or for inventing one, is not lost. He is characteristic of a fine, bold race.

Long may he wave! It is true that we cannot lie as gloriously as our ancestors did about him. When the great news-dealer of Norse times had no home-news he took his lyre, and either spun a yarn about Vinland such as would smash the "Telegraph," or else sung about "that sea-snake tremendous curled, whose girth encircles half the world." It is wonderful, it is awful, to consider how true we remain to the traditions of the older time. The French boast that they invented the _canard_.

Let them boast. They also invented the s.h.i.+rt-collar; but h.o.a.ry legends say that an Englishman invented the s.h.i.+rt for it, as well as the art of was.h.i.+ng it. What the s.h.i.+rt is to the collar, that is the glorious, tough old Northern _saga_, or maritime spun yarn, to the _canard_, or duck.

The yarn will wash; it pa.s.ses into myth and history; it fits exactly, because it was made to order; its age and glory ill.u.s.trate the survival of the fittest.

I have, during three or four summers, remained a month in London after the family had taken flight to the sea-side. I stayed to finish books promised for the autumn. It is true that nearly four million of people remain in London during the later summer; but it is wonderful what an influence the absence of a few exerts on them and on the town. Then you realize by the long lines of idle vehicles in the ranks how few people in this world can afford a cab; then you find out how scanty is the number of those who buy goods at the really excellent shops; and then you may finally find out by satisfactory experience, if you are inclined to grumble at your lot in life or your fortune, how much better off you are than ninety-nine in a hundred of your fellow-murmurers at fate.

It was my wont to walk out in the cool of the evening, to smoke my cigar in Regent's Park, seated on a bench, watching the children as they played about the clock-and-bull fountain,--for it embraces these objects among its adornments,--presented by Cowasie Jehanguire, who added to these magnificent Persian names the prosaic English postscript of Ready Money.

In this his name sets forth the history of his Pa.r.s.ee people, who, from being heroic Ghebers, have come down to being bankers, who can "do" any Jew, and who might possibly tackle a Yankee so long as they kept out of New Jersey. One evening I walked outside of the Park, pa.s.sing by the Gloucester Bridge to a little walk or boulevard, where there are a few benches. I was in deep moon-shadow, formed by the trees; only the ends of my boots shone like eyes in the moonlight as I put them out. After a while I saw a nice-looking young girl, of the humble-decent cla.s.s, seated by me, and with her I entered into casual conversation. On the bench behind us were two young Italians, conversing in strongly marked Florentine dialect. They evidently thought that no one could understand them; as they became more interested they spoke more distinctly, letting out secrets which I by no means wished to hear.

At that instant I recalled the famous story of Prince Bismarck and the Esthonian young ladies and the watch-key. I whispered to the girl,--

"When I say something to you in a language which you do not understand, answer '_Si_' as distinctly as you can."

The damsel was quick to understand. An instant after I said,--

"_Ha veduto il mio 'havallo la sera_?"

"_Si_."

There was a dead silence, and then a rise and a rush. My young friend rolled her eyes up at me, but said nothing. The Italians had departed with their awful mysteries. Then there came by a man who looked much worse. He was a truculent, untamable rough, evidently inspired with gin.

At a glance I saw by the manner in which he carried his coat that he was a traveler, or one who lived on the roads. Seeing me he stopped, and said, grimly,--"Do you love your Jesus?" This is certainly a pious question; but it was uttered in a tone which intimated that if I did not answer it affirmatively I might expect anything but Christian treatment.

I knew why the man uttered it. He had just come by an open-air preaching in the Park, and the phrase had, moreover, been recently chalked and stenciled by numerous zealous and busy nonconformists all over northwestern London. I smiled, and said, quietly,--

"_Pal_, _mor rakker sa drovan_. _Ja pukenus on the drum_." (Don't talk so loud, brother. Go away quietly.)

The man's whole manner changed. As if quite sober, he said,--

"_Mang your shunaben_, _rye_. _But tute jins chomany_. _Kushti ratti_!"

(Beg your pardon, sir. But you _do_ know a thing or two. Good-night!)

"I was awfully frightened," said the young girl, as the traveler departed. "I'm sure he meant to pitch into us. But what a wonderful way you have, sir, of sending people away! I wasn't so much astonished when you got rid of the Italians. I suppose ladies and gentlemen know Italian, or else they wouldn't go to the opera. But this man was a common, bad English tramp; yet I'm sure he spoke to you in some kind of strange language, and you said something to him that changed him into as peaceable as could be. What was it?"

"It was gypsy, young lady,--what the gypsies talk among themselves."

"Do you know, sir, I think you're the most mysterious gentleman I ever met."

"Very likely. Good-night."

"Good night, sir."

I was walking with my friend the Palmer, one afternoon in June, in one of the several squares which lie to the west of the British Museum. As we went I saw a singular-looking, slightly-built man, lounging at a corner.

He was wretchedly clad, and appeared to be selling some rudely-made, but curious contrivances of notched sticks, intended to contain flowerpots.

He also had flower-holders made of twisted copper wire. But the greatest curiosity was the man himself. He had such a wild, wasted, wistful expression, a face marked with a life of almost unconscious misery. And most palpable in it was the unrest, which spoke of an endless struggle with life, and had ended by goading him into incessant wandering. I cannot imagine what people can be made of who can look at such men without emotion.

"That is a gypsy," I said to the Palmer. "_Sarishan_, _pal_!"

The wanderer seemed to be greatly pleased to hear Romany. He declared that he was in the habit of talking it so much to himself when alone that his ordinary name was Romany d.i.c.k.

"But if you come down to the Potteries, and want to find me, you mus'n't ask for Romany d.i.c.k, but Divius d.i.c.k." "That means Wild d.i.c.k." "Yes."

"And why?" "Because I wander about so, and can never stay more than a night in any one place. I can't help it. I must keep going." He said this with that wistful, sad expression, a yearning as for something which he had never comprehended. Was it _rest_?

"And so I _rakker_ Romany [talk gypsy to myself], when I'm alone of a night, when the wind blows. It's better company than talkin' Gorginess.

More sociable. _He_ says--no--_I_ say more sensible things Romaneskas than in English. You understand me?" he exclaimed suddenly, with the same wistful stare.

"Perfectly. It's quite reasonable. It must be like having two heads instead of one, and being twice as knowing as anybody else."

"Yes, that's it. But everybody don't know it."

"What do you ask for one of those flower-stands, d.i.c.k?"

"A s.h.i.+llin', sir."

"Well, here is my name and where I live, on an envelope. And here are two s.h.i.+llings. But if you _ch.o.r.e mandy_ [cheat me] and don't leave it at the house, I'll look you up in the Potteries, and _koor tute_ [whip you]."

He looked at me very seriously. "Ah, yes. You could _koor me kenna_ [whip me now]. But you couldn't have _koored_ my _dadas_ [whipped my father]. Leastways not afore he got his leg broken fightin' Lancaster Sam. You must have heard of my father,--Single-stick d.i.c.k. But if your're comin' down to the Potteries, don't come next Sunday. Come Sunday three weeks. My brother is _stardo kenna_ for _chorin_ a _gry_ [in prison for horse-stealing]. In three weeks he'll be let out, and we're goin' to have a great family party to welcome him, and we'll be glad to see you. Do come."

The flower-stand was faithfully delivered, but another engagement prevented an acceptance of the invitation, and I have never seen d.i.c.k since.

I was walking along Marylebone Road, which always seems to be a worn and wind-beaten street, very pretty once, and now repenting it; when just beyond Baker Street station I saw a gypsy van hung all round with baskets and wooden-ware. Smoke issued from its pipe, and it went along smoking like any careless pedestrian. It always seems strange to think of a family being thus conveyed with its dinner cooking, the children playing about the stove, over rural roads, past common and gorse and hedge, in and out of villages, and through Great Babylon itself, as if the family had a _pied a terre_, and were as secluded all the time as though they lived in Little Pedlington or Tinnec.u.m. For they have just the same narrow range of gossip, and just the same set of friends, though the set are always on the move. Traveling does not make a cosmopolite.

By the van strolled the lord and master, with his wife. I accosted him.

"_Sarishan_?"