Gypsy Coppersmiths in Liverpool and BirkenheadMacfie, R. A. Scott (Robert Andrew Scott)
History
Gypsy Coppersmiths in Liverpool and Birkenhead
Macfie, R. A. Scott (Robert Andrew Scott)
Romanies
During the next few days occasional questions showed that my guests had
carried news of the picture to the camp, and that the tribe hid beneath
their affected indifference some curiosity as to how it came to be in my
possession. But I was totally unprepared for the demonstration of deep
concern which the paltry print was to wring from the great Kola’s
dignified wife. Taking me quietly aside she invited me to sit near her,
told me that she had heard about the photograph, and expressed a desire
to see it. I gladly seized the opportunity to give her a cordial
invitation to come with her husband to tea. Without such an excuse I
should not have dared to suggest a visit; for, absurd as it may seem to
those who do not know these people, I felt instinctively that the chief
and his lady were personages of rank so high that it would have been
presumptuous to ask them to my poor house. My instinct was probably
just, for Tinka refused politely, alleging as excuse the weakness of her
chest. Unwilling to renounce the honour of entertaining royalty, I
offered to take her and the chief by rail to Liverpool and thence to
Alfred Street in a taxicab; and, when this proposal was rejected, to
bring the taxicab to the camp, cross the river on the luggage-boat, and
take them all the way without change. But Tinka was adamant and demanded
that the book should be brought to the tents. The idea of subjecting my
treasured album to the eager unwashed hands of working coppersmiths did
not commend itself to me, and I replied that the book was too large and
too heavy to bring. “Tear the page out” she ordered, royally regardless;
but I refused to mutilate the volume. Then she begged, the queenly
Tinka, begged just as Lotka had begged for my carpet—earnestly,
eloquently, passionately, almost irresistibly. Hardening my heart to
withstand this more than usually distressing exhibition of skill in the
ancient Gypsy accomplishment, I turned to look at my tormentor—she was
weeping bitterly! Instead of a typical case of adroit Gypsy imposture I
had found an equally typical case of Gypsy family affection. With a
voice broken by sobs she offered in exchange for a brief glance at the
picture, first a silver plate a foot in diameter, and then a great gold
ring such as she herself wore. For among those whose portraits appeared
on the card was her brother, and she had not seen him for twenty years.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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