Sedateness was characteristic of the coppersmiths’ camp. Even when the air reverberated with the tapping of many hammers there was no bustle; work went on steadily, certainly, slowly, and with dignity. The arrival of a stranger was the pretext for an animated and noisy chorus of begging by the women, but on ordinary occasions the foreign Gypsies applied themselves solemnly to labour, or still more solemnly to interminable divans. Blood-curdling oaths in gentle Romani were hurled even at the spoiled children when they manifested their spirits and happiness too noisily; yet among them there was one who was privileged to be as troublesome as he chose without reproof, and he was the sick boy.
His exceptional position seemed to have had a malign influence on his character, for he was not a nice child. With the want of their robust health he lacked also the sturdy independence of his playmates. They were self-reliant, forward, often impertinent, but always lovable—he was petulant, fretful, even peevish, and instinctively one pitied rather than liked him. Yet in all the tribe there was nobody—man, woman, or child, from the great chief Kola himself to the half-naked little ones—who would have hesitated to make any effort or any sacrifice by which to mitigate the sick boy’s distress. To his mother he was more than all the world. She was Zhawzha, the chief’s daughter (though to those who were not of the aficiÓn, she would have called herself Sophie), a strangely pathetic figure in whose face one could see traces of great beauty marred by bitter anxiety for her son. Among our first duties as friendly visitors to the camp were those of acting as her dragoman in the local surgery and bringing an eminent specialist from Liverpool to visit the patient. But we discovered gradually not only that she had consulted other doctors in Birkenhead, but also that she had prescriptions and drugs, enough to have stocked a pharmacy, which she had obtained from continental physicians. And all had prescribed bromides, prohibited excitement, and bidden the distracted mother wait patiently and hope—for the boy was epileptic.
He was the one disturbing influence in the tribe, and when the illness seized him, always suddenly and unexpectedly, frantic crises of shrill emotion broke the tranquillity of the camp. From all sides gesticulating women would rush screaming wildly, and the men would leave their work to return soon after in gloomy silence bending their heads to an inevitable fate, while the poor little figure in all the ridiculous bravery of his gaudy clothes and pale blue plush hat would be carried under shelter and nursed tenderly. The distracted mother, meanwhile, would pace the ground, her face distorted with agony, clutching convulsively at her hair and singing a wild lament; and even the queenly Tinka would sink to the ashes where she stood, raise her kindly face to heaven and weep aloud. Such scenes were frequent and very painful. Even more painful was one’s sense of impotence afterwards, when Zhawzha offered all she had, even the gold coins from her hair, in exchange for her boy’s health. Time alone could give what she demanded; but she scorned patience and would not wait.No cure which anybody recommended was left untried, it mattered not what it was nor how much it cost. And so the child wore amulets, and to the tent-pole mysterious bunches of thorn-twigs were tied. But the malady was stubborn, and recourse was had to quacks who poisoned the little fellow with excessive doses so that he ceased even to speak, and wandered aimlessly in a comatose condition. And then, most wonderfully—for which of us in our own land could find, at need, a sorceress?—they discovered that there was a witch-doctor in Bradford. Letters were dictated, symptoms described, medicine bought at exorbitant prices, and Harley Street fees paid. A lock of hair was cut and sent, untouched by human hands, for some kind of sympathetic magic. But this, like everything else, failed to effect the instantaneous cure the mother demanded, and she and her lad, with his father, a very black and rather stupid little Gypsy named Adam Kirpatsh, journeyed to Bradford for a personal interview.
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.
