The Romany Rye | Page 6

the magpie that was to bring luck to the
sinking child.
It was determined now that the young girl was the very person to be
used as the test-critic of the Romany mind upon Arnold's poem, for she
was exceptionally intelligent. So instead of going to the camp the oddly
assorted little party of three struck across the ferns, gorse, and heather
towards "Kingfisher brook," and when they reached it they sat down on
a fallen tree.

Nothing delights a gypsy girl so much as to listen to a story either told
or read to her, and when Borrow's friend pulled his book from his
pocket the gypsy girl began to clap her hands. Her anticipation of
enjoyment sent over her face a warm glow, and I can assure Dr.
Jessopp that Borrow (notwithstanding that his admiration of women
was confined as a rule to blondes of the Isopel Berners type) seemed as
much struck by her beauty as ever the Doctor could be himself. To say
the truth, he frequently talked of it afterwards. Her complexion, though
darker than an English girl's, was rather lighter than any ordinary
gypsy's. Her eyes were of an indescribable hue, but an artist who has
since then painted her portrait for Borrow's friend described it as a
mingling of pansy-purple and dark tawny. The pupils were so large that,
being set in the somewhat almond-shaped and long-eyelashed lids of
her race, they were partly curtained both above and below, and this had
the peculiar effect of making the eyes seem always a little contracted
and just about to smile. The great size and deep richness of the eyes
made the straight little nose seem smaller than it really was, they also
lessened the apparent size of the mouth, which, red as a rosebud,
looked quite small until she laughed when the white teeth made quite a
wide glitter.
"The beauty of that girl," murmured Borrow, "is really quite--quite--"
I don't know what the sentence would have been had it been finished.
Before three lines of the poem had been read she jumped up and cried,
"Look at the Devil's needles. They're come to sew my eyes up for
killing their brothers."
And surely enough a gigantic dragon-fly, whose body-armour of
sky-blue and jet black, and great lace-woven wings, shining like a
rainbow gauze, caught the sun as he swept dazzling by, did really seem
to be attracted either by the wings of his dead brothers or by the lights
shed from the girl's eyes.
"I dussn't set here," said she. "Us Romanies call this 'Dragon-fly brook.'
And that's the king o' the dragon-flies: he lives here."

As she rose she seemed to be surrounded by dragon-flies of about a
dozen different species of all sizes, some crimson, some bronze, some
green and gold, whirling and dancing round her as if they meant to
justify their Romany name and sew up the girl's eyes.
"The Romanies call them the Devil's needles," said Borrow; "their
business is to sew up pretty girl's eyes."
In a second, however, they all vanished, and the girl after a while sat
down again to listen to the "lil," as she called the story.
Glanville's prose story, upon which Arnold's poem is based, was read
first. In this the girl was much interested. She herself was in love with a
Romany Rye. But when the reader went on to read to her Arnold's
poem, though her eyes flashed now and then at the lovely bits of
description--for the country about Oxford is quite remarkably like the
country in which she was born--she looked sadly bewildered, and then
asked to have it all read again. After a second reading she said in a
meditative way, "Can't make out what the lil's all about--seems all
about nothink! Seems to me that the pretty sights what makes a
Romany fit to jump out o' her skin for joy makes this 'ere gorgio want
to cry. What a rum lot gorgios is surely!"
And then she sprang up and ran off towards the camp with the agility of
a greyhound, turning round every few moments, pirouetting and
laughing aloud.
"The beauty of that girl," Borrow again murmured, "is quite--quite--"
Again he did not finish his sentence, but after a while said--
"That was all true about the nicotine?"
"Partly, I think," said his friend, "but not being a medical man I must
not be too emphatic. If it is true it ought to be a criminal offence for
any woman to smoke in excess while she is suckling a child."
"Say it ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all,"

growled Borrow. "Fancy kissing a woman's mouth that smelt of stale
tobacco--pheugh!"
Now, so far from forgetting this incident, Borrow took quite