The indescribably wild and thrilling character of gypsy music is thoroughly appreciated by the Russians, who pay very high prices for Romany performances. From five to eight or ten pounds sterling is usually given to a dozen gypsies for singing an hour or two to a special party, and this is sometimes repeated twice or thrice of an evening. “A Russian gentleman, when he is in funds,” said the clerk of the Slavansky Bazaar in Moscow to me, “will make nothing of giving the Zigani a hundred-ruble note,” the ruble rating at half a crown. The result is that good singers among these lucky Romanys are well to do, and lead soft lives, for Russia.
I had no friends in Moscow to direct me where to find gypsiesen famille, and the inquiries which I made of chance acquaintances simply convinced me that the world at large was as ignorant of their ways as it was prejudiced against them. At last the good-natured old porter of our hotel told me, in his rough Baltic German, how to meet these mysterious minstrels to advantage. “You must take a sleigh,” he said, “and go out to Petrovka. That is a place inthe country, where there are grandcafésat considerable distances one from the other. Pay the driver three rubles for four hours. Enter acafé, call for something to drink, listen to the gypsies singing, and when they pass round a plate put some money in it. That’s all.” This was explicit, and at ten o’clock in the evening I hired a sleigh and went.
If the cold which I had experienced in the general’s troika in St. Petersburg might be compared to a moderate rheumatism, that which I encountered in the sleigh outside the walls of Moscow, on Christmas Eve, 1876, was like a fierce gout. The ride was in all conscience Russian enough to have its ending among gypsies, Tartars, or Cossacks. To go at a headlong pace over the creaking snow behind anistvostshik, named Vassili, the round, cold moon overhead, church-spires tipped with great inverted golden turnips in the distance, and this on a night when the frost seemed almost to scream in its intensity, is as much of a sensation in the suburbs of Moscow as it could be out on the steppes. A few wolves, more or less, make no difference,—and even they come sometimes within three hours’ walk of the Kremlin.Et ego inter lupos,—I too have been among wolves in my time by night, in Kansas, and thought nothing of such rides compared to the one I had when I went gypsying from Moscow.
In half an hour Vassili brought me to a house, which I entered. A “proud porter,” a vast creature, in uniform suggestive of embassies and kings’ palaces, relieved me of myshuba, and I found my way into a very large and high hall, brilliantly lighted as if for a thousand guests, while the only occupants were four couples, “spooning”sans gêne, one in each cornerand a small party of men and girls drinking in the middle. I called a waiter; he spoke nothing but Russian, and Russian is of all languages the most useless to him who only talks it “a little.” A little Arabic, or even a little Chippewa, I have found of great service, but a fair vocabulary and weeks of study of the grammar are of no avail in a country where even men of gentlemanly appearance turn away with childishennuithe instant they detect the foreigner, resolving apparently that they cannot andwill notunderstand him. In matters like this the ordinary Russian is more impatient and less intelligent than any Oriental or even red Indian. The result of my interview with the waiter was that we were soon involved in the completest misunderstanding on the subject of gypsies. The question was settled by reference to a fat and fair damsel, one of the “spoons” already referred to, who spoke German. She explained to me that as it was Christmas Eve no gypsies would be there, or at any othercafé. This was disappointing. I called Vassili, and he drove on to another “garden,” deeply buried in snow.
When I entered the rooms at this place, I perceived at a glance that matters had mended. There was the hum of many voices, and a perfume like that of tea and manypapiross, or cigarettes, with a prompt sense of society and of enjoyment. I was dazzled at first by the glare of the lights, and could distinguish nothing, unless it was that the numerous company regarded me with utter amazement; for it was an “off night,” when no business was expected,—few were there save “professionals” and their friends,—and I was manifestly an unexpected intruder on Bohemia.As luck would have it, that which I believed was the one worst night in the year to find the gypsy minstrels proved to be the exceptional occasion when they were all assembled, and I had hit upon it. Of course this struck me pleasantly enough as I looked around, for I knew that at a touch the spell would be broken, and with one word I should have the warmest welcome from all. I had literally not a single speaking acquaintance within a thousand miles, and yet here was a room crowded with gay and festive strangers, whom the slightest utterance would convert into friends.
I was not disappointed. Seeking for an opportunity, I saw a young man of gentlemanly appearance, well dressed, and with a mild and amiable air. Speaking to him in German, I asked the very needless question if there were any gypsies present.
“You wish to hear them sing?” he inquired.
“I do not. I only want to talk with one,—withanyone.”
He appeared to be astonished, but, pointing to a handsome, slender young lady, a very dark brunette, elegantly attired in black silk, said,—
“There is one.”
I stepped across to the girl, who rose to meet me. I said nothing for a few seconds, but looked at her intently, and then asked,—
“Rakessa tu Romanes,miri pen?” (Do you talk Romany, my sister?)
She gave one deep, long glance of utter astonishment, drew one long breath, and, with a cry of delight and wonder, said,—
“Romanichal!”
That word awoke the entire company, and with itthey found out who the intruder was. “Then might you hear them cry aloud, ‘The Moringer is here!’” for I began to feel like the long-lost lord returned, so warm was my welcome. They flocked around me; they cried aloud in Romany, and one good-natured, smiling man, who looked like a German gypsy, mounting a chair, waved a guitar by its neck high in the air as a signal of discovery of a great prize to those at a distance, repeating rapidly,—
“Av’akai,ava’kai,Romanichal!” (Come here; here’s a gypsy!)
And they came, dark and light, great and small, and got round me, and shook hands, and held to my arms, and asked where I came from, and how I did, and if it wasn’t jolly, and what would I take to drink, and said how glad they were to see me; and when conversation flagged for an instant, somebody said to his next neighbor, with an air of wisdom, “American Romany,” and everybody repeated it with delight. Then it occurred to the guitarist and the young lady that we had better sit down. So my first acquaintance and discoverer, whose name was Liubasha, was placed, in right of preëmption, at my right hand, thebelle des belles, Miss Sarsha, at my left, a number of damsels all around these, and then three or four circles of gypsies, of different ages and tints, standing up, surrounded us all. In the outer ring were several fast-looking and pretty Russian or German blonde girls, whose mission it is, I believe, to dance—and flirt—with visitors, and a few gentlemanly-looking Russians,vieuz garçons, evidently of the kind who are at home behind the scenes, and who knew where to come to enjoy themselves. Altogether there must have been about fiftypresent, and I soon observed that every word I uttered was promptly repeated, while every eye was fixed on me.
I could converse in Romany with the guitarist, and without much difficulty; but with the charming, heedless young ladies I had as much trouble to talk as with their sisters in St. Petersburg. The young gentleman already referred to, to whom in my fancy I promptly gave the Offenbachian name of Prince Paul, translated whenever there was a misunderstanding, and in a few minutes we were all intimate. Miss Sarsha, who had a slight cast in one of her wild black eyes, which added something to the gypsiness and roguery of her smiles, and who wore in a ring a large diamond, which seemed as if it might be the right eye in the wrong place, was what is called an earnest young lady, with plenty to say and great energy wherewith to say it. What with her eyes, her diamond, her smiles, and her tongue, she constituted altogether a fine specimen of irrepressible fireworks, and Prince Paul had enough to do in facilitating conversation. There was no end to his politeness, but it was an impossible task for him now and then promptly to carry over a long sentence from German to Russian, and he would give it up like an invincible conundrum, with the patient smile and head-wag and hand-wave of an amiable Dundreary. Yet I began to surmise a mystery even in him. More than once he inadvertently betrayed a knowledge of Romany, though he invariably spoke of his friends around in a patronizing manner as “these gypsies.” This was very odd, for in appearance he was a Gorgio of the Gorgios, and did not seem, despite any talent for languages which he mightpossess, likely to trouble himself to acquire Romany while Russian would answer every purpose of conversation. All of this was, however, explained to me afterward.
Prince Paul again asked me if I had come out to hear a concert. I said, “No; that I had simply come out to see my brothers and sisters and talk with them, just as I hoped they would come to see me if I were in my own country.” This speech produced a most favorable impression, and there was, in a quiet way, a little private conversation among the leaders, after which Prince Paul said to me, in a very pleasant manner, that “these gypsies,” being delighted at the visit from the gentleman from a distant country, would like to offer me a song in token of welcome. To this I answered, with many thanks, that such kindness was more than I had expected, for I was well aware of the great value of such a compliment from singers whose fame had reached me even in America. It was evident that my grain of a reply did not fall upon stony ground, for I never was among people who seemed to be so quickly impressed by any act of politeness, however trifling. A bow, a grasp of the hand, a smile, or a glance would gratify them, and this gratification their lively black eyes expressed in the most unmistakable manner.
So we had the song, wild and wonderful like all of its kind, given with that delightfulabandonwhich attains perfection only among gypsies. I had enjoyed the singing in St. Petersburg, but there was alaisser aller, a completely gay spirit, in this Christmas-Eve gypsy party in Moscow which was much more “whirling away.” For at Dorot the gypsies had been on exhibition; here at Petrovka they were frolickingenfamillewith a favored guest,—a Romany rye from a far land to astonish and delight,—and he took good care to let them feel that they were achieving a splendid success, for I declared many times that it wasbūtsi shūkár, or very beautiful. Then I called for tea and lemon, and after that the gypsies sang for their own amusement, Miss Sarsha, as the incarnation of fun and jollity, taking the lead, and making me join in. Then the crowd made way, and in the space appeared a very pretty little girl, in the graceful old gypsy Oriental dress. This child danced charmingly indeed, in a style strikingly like that of the Almeh of Egypt, but without any of the erotic expressions which abound in Eastern pantomime. This little Romany girl was to me enchanting, being altogether unaffected and graceful. It was evident that her dancing, like the singing of her elder sisters, was not an art which had been drilled in by instruction. They had come into it in infancy, and perfected themselves by such continual practice that what they did was as natural as walking or talking. When the dancing was over, I begged that the little girl would come to me, and, kissing her tiny gypsy hand, I said, “Spassibo tute kamli,eto hi būtsi shūkár” (Thank you, dear; that is very pretty), with which the rest were evidently pleased. I had observed among the singers, at a little distance, a very remarkable and rather handsome old woman,—a good study for an artist,—and she, as I also noticed, had sung with a powerful and clear voice. “She is our grandmother,” said one of the girls. Now, as every student of gypsies knows, the first thing to do in England or Germany, on entering a tent-gypsy encampment, is to be polite to “the old woman.” Unless you can winher good opinion you had better be gone. The Russian city Roms have apparently no such fancies. On the road, however, life is patriarchal, and the grandmother is a power to be feared. As a fortune-teller she is a witch, ever at warfare with the police world; she has a bitter tongue, and is quick to wrath. This was not the style or fashion of the old gypsy singer; but, as soon as I saw thepuri babali dye, I requested that she would shake hand with me, and by the impression which this created I saw that the Romany of the city had not lost all the feelings of the road.
I spoke of Waramoff’s beautiful song of the “Krasneya Sarafan,” which Sarsha began at once to warble. The characteristic of Russian gypsy-girl voices is a peculiarly delicate metallic tone,—like that of the two silver bells of the Tower of Ivan Velikoi when heard from afar,—yet always marked with fineness and strength. This is sometimes startling in the wilder effects, but it is always agreeable. These Moscow gypsy girls have a great name in their art, and it was round the shoulders of one of them—for aught I know it may have been Sarsha’s great-grandmother—that Catalani threw the cashmere shawl which had been given to her by the Pope as “to the best singer in the world.” “It is not mine by right,” said the generous Italian; “it belongs to the gypsy.”
The gypsies were desirous of learning something about the songs of their kindred in distant lands, and, though no singer, I did my best to please them, the guitarist easily improvising accompaniments, while the girls joined in. As all were in a gay mood faults were easily excused, and the airs were much liked,—one lyric, set by Virginia Gabriel, being evenmore admired in Moscow than in St. Petersburg, apropos of which I may mention that, when I afterward visited the gypsy family in their own home, the first request from Sarsha was, “Eto gilyo,rya!” (Thatsong, sir), referring to “Romany,” which has been heard at several concerts in London. And so, after much discussion of the affairs of Egypt, I took my leave amid a chorus of kind farewells. Then Vassili, loudly called for, reappeared from some nook with his elegantly frosted horse, and in a few minutes we were dashing homeward. Cold! It was as severe as in Western New York or Minnesota, where the thermometer for many days every winter sinks lower than in St. Petersburg, but where there are no such incredible precautions taken as in the land of double windows cemented down, and fur-linedshubas. It is remarkable that the gypsies, although of Oriental origin, are said to surpass the Russians in enduring cold; and there is a marvelous story told about a Romany who, for a wager, undertook to sleep naked against a clothed Muscovite on the ice of a river during an unusually cold night. In the morning the Russian was found frozen stiff, while the gypsy was snoring away unharmed. As we returned, I saw in the town something which recalled this story in more than onemoujik, who, well wrapped up, lay sleeping in the open air, under the lee of a house. Passing through silent Moscow on the early Christmas morn, under the stars, as I gazed at the marvelous city, which yields neither to Edinburgh, Cairo, nor Prague in picturesqueness, and thought over the strange evening I had spent among the gypsies, I felt as if I were in a melodrama with striking scenery. The pleasingfinalewas the utter amazement and almostspeechless gratitude of Vassili at getting an extra half-ruble as an early Christmas gift.
As I had received a pressing invitation from the gypsies to come again, I resolved to pay them a visit on Christmas afternoon in their own house, if I could find it. Having ascertained that the gypsy street was in a distant quarter, called theGrouszini, I engaged a sleigh, standing before the door of the Slavanski-Bazaar Hotel, and the usual close bargain with the driver was effected with the aid of a Russian gentleman, a stranger passing by, who reduced the ruble (one hundred kopecks) at first demanded to seventy kopecks. After a very long drive we found ourselves in the gypsy street, and theistvostshikasked me, “To what house?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Gypsies live here, don’t they?”
“Gypsies, and no others.”
“Well, I want to find a gypsy.”
The driver laughed, and just at that instant I saw, as if awaiting me on the sidewalk, Sarsha, Liubasha, and another young lady, with a good-looking youth, their brother.
“This will do,” I said to the driver, who appeared utterly amazed at seeing me greeted like an old friend by the Zigani, but who grinned with delight, as all Russians of the lower class invariably do at anything like sociability and fraternity. The damsels were faultlessly attired in Russian style, with full fur-lined, glossy black-satin cloaks and fine Orenberg scarfs, which are, I believe, the finest woolen fabrics in the world. The party were particularly anxious to know if I had come specially to visitthem, for I have passed over the fact that I had also made theacquaintance of another very large family of gypsies, who sang at a rivalcafé, and who had also treated me very kindly. I was at once conducted to a house, which we entered in a rather gypsy way, not in front, but through a court, a back door, and up a staircase, very much in the style of certain dwellings in the Potteries in London. But, having entered, I was led through one or two neat rooms, where I saw lying sound asleep on beds, but dressed, one or two very dark Romanys, whose faces I remembered. Then we passed into a sitting-room, which was very well furnished. I observed hanging up over the chimney-piece a good collection of photographs, nearly all of gypsies, and indicating that close resemblance to Hindoos which comes out so strongly in such pictures, being, in fact, more apparent in the pictures than in the faces; just as the photographs of the old Ulfilas manuscript revealed alterations not visible in the original. In the centre of the group was a cabinet-size portrait of Sarsha, and by it another of an Englishman ofveryhigh rank. I thought this odd, but asked no questions.
My hosts were very kind, offering me promptly a rich kind of Russian cake, begging to know what else I would like to eat or drink, and apparently deeply concerned that I could really partake of nothing, as I had just come from luncheon. They were all light-hearted and gay, so that the music began at once, as wild and as bewitching as ever. And here I observed, even more than before, how thoroughly sincere these gypsies were in their art, and to what a degree they enjoyed and were excited by their own singing. Here in their own home, warbling like birds and frolicking like children, their performance was even more delightfulthan it had been in the concert-room. There was evidently a great source of excitement in the fact that I must enjoy it far more than an ordinary stranger, because I understood Romany, and sympathized with gypsy ways, and regarded them not as theGajior Gentiles do, but as brothers and sisters. I confess that I was indeed moved by the simple kindness with which I was treated, and I knew that, with the wonderfully keen perception of character in which gypsies excel, they perfectly understood my liking for them. It is this ready intuition of feelings which, when it is raised from an instinct to an art by practice, enables shrewd old women to tell fortunes with so much skill.
I was here introduced to the mother of the girls. She was a neat, pleasant-looking woman, of perhaps forty years, in appearance and manners irresistibly reminding me of some respectable Cuban lady. Like the others, she displayed an intelligent curiosity as to my knowledge of Romany, and I was pleased at finding that she knew much more of the language than her children did. Then there entered a young Russian gentleman, but not “Prince Paul.” He was, however, a very agreeable person, as all Russians can be when so minded; and they are always so minded when they gather, from information or conjecture, the fact that the stranger whom they meet is one of education or position. This young gentleman spoke French, and undertook the part of occasional translator.
I asked Liubasha if any of them understood fortune-telling.
“No; we have quite lost the art ofdorriki.[61]Noneof us know anything about it. But we hear that you Romanichals over the Black Water understand it. Oh,rya,” she cried, eagerly, “you know so much,—you’re such a deep Romany,—can’tyoutell fortunes?”
“I should indeed know very little about Romany ways,” I replied, gravely, “if I could notpen dorriki. But I tell you beforehand,terni pen, ‘dorrikipen hi hokanipen,’ little sister, fortune-telling is deceiving. Yet what the lines say I can read.”
In an instant six as pretty little gypsy hands as I ever beheld were thrust before me, and I heard as many cries of delight. “Tellmyfortune,rya! tell mine! andmine!” exclaimed the damsels, and I complied. It was all very well to tell them there was nothing in it; they knew a trick worth two of that. I perceived at once that the faith which endures beyond its own knowledge was placed in all I said. In England the gypsy woman, who at home ridicules her own fortune-telling and her dupes, still puts faith in agusveri mush, or some “wise man,” who with crystal or magical apparatus professes occult knowledge; for she thinks that her own false art is an imitation of a true one. It is really amusing to see the reverence with which an old gypsy will look at the awful hieroglyphics in Cornelius Agrippa’s “Occult Philosophy,” or, better still, “Trithemius,” and, as a gift, any ordinary fortune-telling book is esteemed by them beyond rubies. It is true that they cannot read it, but the precious volume is treasured like a fetich, and the owner is happy in the thought of at least possessing darksome and forbidden lore, though it be of no earthly use to her. After all the kindness they had shown me, I could not findit in my heart to refuse to tell these gentle Zingari their little fortunes. It is not, I admit, exactly in the order of things that the chicken should dress the cook, or the Gorgio tell fortunes to gypsies; but he who wanders in strange lands meets with strange adventures. So, with a full knowledge of the legal penalties attached in England to palmistry and other conjuration, and with the then pending Slade case knocking heavily on my conscience, I proceeded to examine and predict. When I afterward narrated this incident to the late G. H. Lewes, he expressed himself to the effect that to tell fortunes to gypsies struck him as the veryne plus ultraof cheek,—which shows how extremes meet; for verily it was with great modesty and proper diffidence that I ventured to foretell the lives of these little ladies, having an antipathy to the practice of chiromancing as to other romancing.
I have observed that as among men of great and varied culture, and of extensive experience, there are more complex and delicate shades and half-shades of light in the face, so in the palm the lines are correspondingly varied and broken. Take a man of intellect and a peasant, of equal excellence of figure according to the literal rules of art or of anatomy, and this subtile multiplicity of variety shows itself in the whole body in favor of the “gentleman,” so that it would almost seem as if every book we read is republished in the person. The first thing that struck me in these gypsy hands was the fewness of the lines, their clearly defined sweep, and their simplicity. In every one the line of life was unbroken, and, in fine, one might think from a drawing of the hand, and without knowing who its owner might be, that he orshe was of a type of character unknown in most great European cities,—a being gifted with special culture, and in a certain simple sense refined, but not endowed with experience in a thousand confused phases of life. The hands of a true genius, who has passed through life earnestly devoted to a single art, however, are on the whole like these of the gypsies. Such, for example, are the hands of Fanny Janauschek, the lines of which agree to perfection with the laws of chiromancy. The art reminds one of Cervantes’s ape, who told the past and present, but not the future. And here “tell me what thou hast been, and I will tell what thou wilt be” gives a fine opportunity to the soothsayer.
To avoid mistakes I told the fortunes in French, which was translated into Russian. I need not say that every word was listened to with earnest attention, or that the group of dark but young and comely faces, as they gathered around and bent over, would have made a good subject for a picture. After the girls, the mother must needs hear herdorrikialso, and last of all the young Russian gentleman, who seemed to take as earnest an interest in his future as even the gypsies. As he alone understood French, and as he appeared to beun peu gaillard, and, finally, as the lines of his hand said nothing to the contrary, I predicted for him in detail a fortune in whichbonnes fortuneswere not at all wanting. I think he was pleased, but when I asked him if he would translate what I had said of his future into Russian, he replied with a slight wink and a scarcely perceptible negative. I suppose he had his reasons for declining.
Then we had singing again, and Christopher, the brother, a wild and gay young gypsy, became so excitedthat while playing the guitar he also danced and caroled, and the sweet voices of the girls rose in chorus, and I was again importuned for theRomanysong, and we had altogether a very Bohemian frolic. I was sorry when the early twilight faded into night, and I was obliged, notwithstanding many entreaties to the contrary, to take my leave. These gypsies had been very friendly and kind to me in a strange city, where I had not an acquaintance, and where I had expected none. They had given me of their very best; for they gave me songs which I can never forget, and which were better to me than all the opera could bestow. The young Russian, polite to the last, went bareheaded with me into the street, and, hailing a sleigh-driver, began to bargain for me. In Moscow, as in other places, it makes a great difference in the fare whether one takes a public conveyance from before the first hotel or from a house in the gypsy quarter. I had paid seventy kopecks to come, and I at once found that my new friend and the driver were engaged in wild and fierce dispute whether I should pay twenty or thirty to return.
“Oh, give him thirty!” I exclaimed. “It’s little enough.”
“Non,” replied the Russian, with the air of a man of principles. “Il ne faut pas gâter ces gens-la.” But I gave the driver thirty, all the same, when we got home, and thereby earned the usual shower of blessings.
A few days afterward, while going from Moscow to St. Petersburg, I made the acquaintance of a young Russian noble and diplomat, who was well informed on all current gossip, and learned from him some curious facts. The first young gentleman whom Ihad seen among the Romanys of Moscow was the son of a Russian prince by a gypsy mother, and the very noble Englishman whose photograph I had seen in Sarsha’s collection had not long ago (as rumor averred) paid desperate attentions to the belle of the Romanys without obtaining the least success. My informant did not know her name. Putting this and that together, I think it highly probable that Sarsha was the young lady, and that thelatcho bar, or diamond, which sparkled on her finger had been paid for with British gold, while the donor had gained the same “unluck” which befell one of his type in the Spanish gypsy song as given by George Borrow:—
“Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,And thus his ditty ran:‘God send the gypsy maiden here,But not the gypsy man.’“On high arose the moon so bright,The gypsy ’gan to sing,‘I gee a Spaniard coming here,I must be on the wing.’”
“Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,And thus his ditty ran:‘God send the gypsy maiden here,But not the gypsy man.’
“On high arose the moon so bright,The gypsy ’gan to sing,‘I gee a Spaniard coming here,I must be on the wing.’”
In June, 1878, I went to Paris, during the great Exhibition. I had been invited by Monsieur Edmond About to attend as a delegate the Congrès Internationale Littéraire, which was about to be held in the great city. How we assembled, how M. About distinguished himself as one of the most practical and common-sensible of men of genius, and how we were all finally harangued by M. Victor Hugo with the most extraordinary display of oratorical sky-rockets, Catherine-wheels, blue-lights, fire-crackers, and pin-wheels by which it was ever my luck to be amused, is matter of history. But this chapter is only autobiographical, and we will pass over the history. As an Anglo-American delegate, I was introduced to several great men gratis; to the greatest of all I introduced myself at the expense of half a franc. This was to the Chinese giant, Chang, who was on exhibition at a small café garden near the Trocadero. There were no other visitors in his pavilion when I entered. He received me with politeness, and we began to converse in fourth-story English, but gradually went down-stairs into Pidgin, until we found ourselves fairly in the kitchen of that humble but entertaining dialect. It is a remarkable sensation to sit alone witha mild monster, and feel like a little boy. I do not distinctly remember whether Chang is eight, or ten or twelve feet high; I only know that, though I am, as he said, “one velly big piecee man,” I sat and lifted my eyes from time to time at the usual level, forgetfully expecting to meet his eyes, and beheld instead the buttons on his breast. Then I looked up—like Daruma to Buddha—and up, and saw far above me his “lights of the soul” gleaming down on me as it were from the top of a lofty beacon.
I soon found that Chang, regarding all things from a giant’s point of view, esteemed mankind by their size and looks. Therefore, as he had complimented me according to his lights, I replied that he was a “numpa one too muchee glanti handsome man, first chop big.”
Then he added, “You belongy Inklis man?”
“No. My one pieceefa-ke-kwok; my Melican, galaw. You dlinkee ale some-tim?”
The giant replied thatpay-wine, which is Pidgin for beer, was not ungrateful to his palate or foreign to his habits. So we had a quart of Alsopp between us, and drank to better acquaintance. I found that the giant had exhibited himself in many lands, and taken great pains to learn the language of each, so that he spoke German, Italian, and Spanish well enough. He had been at a mission-school when he used to “stop China-side,” or was in his native land. I assured him that I had perceived it from the first, because he evidently “talked ink,” as his countrymen say of words which are uttered by a scholar, and I greatly gratified him by citing some of my own “beautiful verses,” which are reversed from a Chinese original:—
“One man who never leadee[69a]Like one dly[69b]inkstan be:You turn he up-side downy,No ink lun[69c]outside he.”
“One man who never leadee[69a]Like one dly[69b]inkstan be:You turn he up-side downy,No ink lun[69c]outside he.”
So we parted with mutual esteem. This was the second man by the name of Chang whom I had known, and singularly enough they were both exhibited as curiosities. The other made a living as a Siamese twin, and his brother was named Eng. They wrote their autographs for me, and put them wisely at the very top of the page, lest I should write a promise to pay an immense sum of money, or forge a free pass to come into the exhibition gratis over their signatures.
Having seen Chang, I returned to the Hôtel de Louvre, dined, and then went forth with friends to the Orangerie. This immense garden, devoted to concerts, beer, and cigars, is said to be capable of containing three thousand people; before I left it it held about five thousand. I knew not why this unwonted crowd had assembled; when I found the cause I was astonished, with reason. At the gate was a bill, on which I read “Les Bohemiennes de Moscow.”
“Some small musical comedy, I suppose,” I said to myself. “But let us see it.” We pressed on.
“Look there!” said my companion. “Those are certainly gypsies.”
Sure enough, a procession of men and women, strangely dressed in gayly colored Oriental garments, was entering the gates. But I replied, “Impossible. Not here in Paris. Probably they are performers.”
“But see. They notice you. That girl certainlyknows you. She’s turning her head. There,—I heard her say O Romany rye!”
I was bewildered. The crowd was dense, but as the procession passed me at a second turn I saw they were indeed gypsies, and I was grasped by the hand by more than one. They were my old friends from Moscow. This explained the immense multitude. There was during the Exhibition a greatfuroras regardedles zigains. The gypsy orchestra which performed in the Hungarian café was so beset by visitors that a comic paper represented them as covering the roofs of the adjacent houses so as to hear something. This evening the Russian gypsies were to make their début in the Orangerie, and they were frightened at their own success. They sang, but their voices were inaudible to two thirds of the audience, and those who could not hear roared, “Louder!” Then they adjourned to the open air, where the voices were lost altogether on a crowd calling, “Garçon—vite—une tasse café!” or applauding. In the intervals scores of young Russian gentlemen, golden swells, who had known the girls of old, gathered round the fair ones like moths around tapers. The singing was not the same as it had been; the voices were the same, but the sweet wild charm of the Romany caroling, bird-like, for pleasure was gone.
But I found by themselves and unnoticed two of the troupe, whom I shall not soon forget. They were two very handsome youths,—one of sixteen years, the other twenty. And with the first words in Romany they fairly jumped for joy; and the artist who could have caught their picture then would have made a brave one. They were clad in blouses of colored silk, which, with their fine dark complexionsand great black eyes, gave them a very picturesque air. These had not seen me in Russia, nor had they heard of me; they were probably from Novogorod. Like the girls they were children, but in a greater degree, for they had not been flattered, and kind words delighted them so that they clapped their hands. They began to hum gypsy songs, and had I not prevented it they would have run at once and brought a guitar, and improvised a small concert for meal fresco. I objected to this, not wishing to take part any longer in such a very public exhibition. For thegobe-mouchesand starers, noticing a stranger talking withces zigains, had begun to gather in a dense crowd around us, and the two ladies and the gentleman who were with us were seriously inconvenienced. We endeavored to step aside, but the multitude stepped aside also, and would not let us alone. They were French, but they might have been polite. As it was, they broke our merry conference up effectively, and put us to flight.
“Do let us come and see you,rya,” said the younger boy. “We will sing, for I can really sing beautifully, and we like you so much. Where do you live?”
I could not invite them, for I was about to leave Paris, as I then supposed. I have never seen them since, and there was no adventure and no strange scenery beyond the thousands of lights and guests and trees and voices speaking French. Yet to this day the gay boyishness, the merry laughter, and the child-likenaïvetéof the promptly-formed liking of those gypsy youths remains impressed on my mind with all the color and warmth of an adventure or a living poem. Can you recall no child by any waysideof life to whom you have given a chance smile or a kind word, and been repaid with artless sudden attraction? For to all of us,—yes, to the coldest and worst,—there are such memories of young people, of children, and I pity him who, remembering them, does not feel the touch of a vanished hand and hear a chord which is still. There are adventures which we can tell to others as stories, but the best have no story; they may be only the memory of a strange dog which followed us, and I have one such of a cat who, without any introduction, leaped wildly towards me, “and would not thence away.” It is a good life which has many such memories.
I was walking a day or two after with an English friend, who was also a delegate to the International Literary Congress, in the Exhibition, when we approached the side gate, or rear entrance of the Hungarian café. Six or seven dark and strange-looking men stood about, dressed in the uniform of a military band. I caught their glances, and saw that they were Romany.
“Now you shall see something queer,” I said to my friend.
So advancing to the first dark man I greeted him in gypsy.
“I do not understand you,” he promptly replied—or lied.
I turned to a second.
“You have more sense, and you do understand.Adro miro tem penena mande o baro rai.” (In my country the gypsies call me the great gentleman.)
This phrase may be translated to mean either the “tall gentleman” or the “great lord.” It was apparently taken in the latter sense, for at once all theparty bowed very low, raising their hands to their foreheads, in Oriental fashion.
“Hallo!” exclaimed my English friend, who had not understood what I had said. “What game is this you are playing on these fellows?”
Up to the front came a superior, the leader of the band.
“Great God!” he exclaimed, “what is this I hear? This is wonderful. To think that there should be anybody here to talk with! I can only talk Magyar and Romanes.”
“And what do you talk?” I inquired of the first violin.
“Ich spreche nur Deutsch!” he exclaimed, with a strong Vienna accent and a roar of laughter. “I only talk German.”
This worthy man, I found, was as much delighted with my German as the leader with my gypsy; and in all my experience I never met two beings so charmed at being able to converse. That I should have met with them was of itself wonderful. Only there was this difference: that the Viennese burst into a laugh every time he spoke, while the gypsy grew more sternly solemn and awfully impressive. There are people to whom mere talking is a pleasure,—never mind the ideas,—and here I had struck two at once. I once knew a gentleman named Stewart. He was the mayor, first physician, and postmaster of St. Paul, Minnesota. While camping out,en route, and in a tent with him, it chanced that among the other gentlemen who had tented with us there were two terrible snorers. Now Mr. Stewart had heard that you may stop a man’s snoring by whistling. And here was a wonderful opportunity.“So I waited,” he said, “until one man was coming down with his snore,diminuendo, while the other was rising,crescendo, and at the exact point of intersection,moderato, I blew my car-whistle, and so got both birds at one shot. I stopped them both.” Even as Mayor Stewart had winged his two birds with one ball had I hit my two peregrines.
“We are now going to perform,” said the gypsy captain. “Will you not take seats on the platform, and hear us play?”
I did not know it at the time, but I heard afterwards that this was a great compliment, and one rarely bestowed. The platform was small, and we were very near our new friends. Scarcely had the performance begun ere I perceived that, just as the gypsies in Russia had sung their best in my honor, these artists were exerting themselves to the utmost, and, all unheeding the audience, playing directly at me and into me. When anytourwas deftly made the dark master nodded to me with gleaming eyes, as if saying, “What do you think ofthat, now?” The Viennese laughed for joy every time his glance met mine, and as I looked at the various Lajoshes and Joshkas of the band, they blew, beat, or scraped with redoubled fury, or sank into thrilling tenderness. Hurrah! here was somebody to play to who knew gypsy and all the games thereof; for a very little, even a word, reveals a great deal, and I must be a virtuoso, at least by Romany, if not by art. It was with all the joy of success that the first piece ended amid thunders of applause.
“That was not theracoczy,” I said. “Yet it sounded like it.”
“No,” said the captain. “Butnowyou shall heartheracoczyand theczardasas you never heard them before. For we can play that better than any orchestra in Vienna. Truly, you will never forget us after hearing it.”
And then they played theracoczy, the national Hungarian favorite, of gypsy composition, with heart and soul. As these men played for me, inspired with their own music, feeling and enjoying it far more than the audience, and all because they had got a gypsy gentleman to play to, I appreciated what alifethat was to them, and what it should be; not cold-blooded skill, aiming only at excellence or preëxcellence and at setting up the artist, but a fire and a joy, a self-forgetfulness which whirls the soul away as the soul of the Mœnad went with the stream adown the mountains,—Evoë Bacchus! This feeling is deep in the heart of the Hungarian gypsy; he plays it, he feels it in every air, he knows the rush of the stream as it bounds onwards,—knows that it expresses his deepest desire; and so he has given it words in a song which, to him who has the key, is one of the most touching ever written:—
“Dyal o pañi repedishis,M’ro pirano hegedishis;“Dyal o pañi tale vatra,M’ro pirano klanetaha.“Dyal o pañi pe kishaiM’ro pirano tsino rai.”“The stream runs on with rushing dinAs I hear my true love’s violin;“And the river rolls o’er rock and stoneAs he plays the flute so sweet alone.“Runs o’er the sand as it began,Then my true love lives a gentleman.”
“Dyal o pañi repedishis,M’ro pirano hegedishis;
“Dyal o pañi tale vatra,M’ro pirano klanetaha.
“Dyal o pañi pe kishaiM’ro pirano tsino rai.”
“The stream runs on with rushing dinAs I hear my true love’s violin;
“And the river rolls o’er rock and stoneAs he plays the flute so sweet alone.
“Runs o’er the sand as it began,Then my true love lives a gentleman.”
Yes, music whirling the soul away as on a rushing river, the violin notes falling like ripples, the flute tones all aflow among the rocks; and when it sweepsadagioon the sandy bed, then the gypsy player is at heart equal to a lord, then he feels a gentleman. The only true republic is art. There all earthly distinctions pass away; there he is best who lives and feels best, and makes others feel, not that he is cleverer than they, but that he can awaken sympathy and joy.
The intense reality of musical art as a comforter to these gypsies of Eastern Europe is wonderful. Among certain inedited songs of the Transylvanian gypsies, in the Kolosvárer dialect, I find the following:—
“Na janav ko dad m’ro as,Niko māllen mange as,Miro gule dai merdyasPirani me pregelyas.Uva tu o hegediveTu sal mindīk pash mange.”“I’ve known no father since my birth,I have no friend alive on earth;My mother’s dead this many day,The girl I loved has gone her way;Thou violin with music freeAlone art ever true to me.”
“Na janav ko dad m’ro as,Niko māllen mange as,Miro gule dai merdyasPirani me pregelyas.Uva tu o hegediveTu sal mindīk pash mange.”
“I’ve known no father since my birth,I have no friend alive on earth;My mother’s dead this many day,The girl I loved has gone her way;Thou violin with music freeAlone art ever true to me.”
It is very wonderful that the charm of the Russian gypsy girls’ singing was destroyed by the atmosphere or applause of a Paris concert-room, while the Hungarian Romanys conquered it as it were by sheer force, and by conquering gave their music the charm of intensity. I do not deny that in this music, be it of voice or instruments, there is much which is perhaps imagined, which depends on association, which is plain to John but not to Jack; but you have onlyto advance or retreat a few steps to find the same in the highest art. This, at least, we know: that no performer at any concert in London can awake the feeling of intense enjoyment which these wild minstrels excite in themselves and in others by sympathy. Now it is a question in many forms as to whether art for enjoyment is to die, and art for the sake of art alone survive. Is joyous and healthy nature to vanish step by step from the heart of man, and morbid, egoistic pessimism to take its place? Are over-culture, excessive sentiment, constant self-criticism, and all the brood of nervous curses to monopolize and inspire art? A fine alliance this they are making, the ascetic monk and the atheistic pessimist, to kill Nature! They will never effect it. It may die in many forms. It may lose its charm, as the singing of Sarsha and of Liubasha was lost among the rustling and noise of thousands of Parisianbadaudsin the Orangerie. But there will be stronger forms of art, which will make themselves heard, as the Hungarian Romanys heeded no din, and bore all away with their music.
“Latcho dívvus miri pralia!—miduvel atch pa tumende!” (Good-day, my brothers. God rest on you) I said, and they rose and bowed, and I went forth into the Exhibition. It was a brave show, that of all the fine things from all parts of the world which man can make, but to me the most interesting of all were the men themselves. Will not the managers of the next world show give us a living ethnological department?
Of these Hungarian gypsies who played in Paris during the Exhibition much was said in the newspapers, and from the following, which appeared in anAmerican journal, written by some one to me unknown, the reader may learn that there were many others to whom their music was deeply thrilling or wildly exciting:—
“The Hungarian Tziganes (Zigeuner) are the rage just now at Paris. The story is that Liszt picked out the individuals composing the band one by one from among the gypsy performers in Hungary and Bohemia. Half-civilized in appearance, dressed in an unbecoming half-military costume, they are nothing while playing Strauss’ waltzes or their own; but when they play the Radetsky Defile, the Racoksky March, or their marvelous czardas, one sees and hears the battle, and it is easy to understand the influence of their music in fomenting Hungarian revolutions; why for so long it was made treasonable to play or listen to these czardas; and why, as they heard them, men rose to their feet, gathered together, and with tears rolling down their faces, and throats swelling with emotion, departed to do or die.”
“The Hungarian Tziganes (Zigeuner) are the rage just now at Paris. The story is that Liszt picked out the individuals composing the band one by one from among the gypsy performers in Hungary and Bohemia. Half-civilized in appearance, dressed in an unbecoming half-military costume, they are nothing while playing Strauss’ waltzes or their own; but when they play the Radetsky Defile, the Racoksky March, or their marvelous czardas, one sees and hears the battle, and it is easy to understand the influence of their music in fomenting Hungarian revolutions; why for so long it was made treasonable to play or listen to these czardas; and why, as they heard them, men rose to their feet, gathered together, and with tears rolling down their faces, and throats swelling with emotion, departed to do or die.”
And when I remember that they played for me as they said they had played for no other man in Paris, “into the ear,”—and when I think of the gleam in their eyes, I verily believe theytoldthe truth,—I feel glad that I chanced that morning on those dark men and spoke to them in Romany.
* * * * *
Since the above was written I have met in an entertaining work called “Unknown Hungary,” by Victor Tissot, with certain remarks on the Hungarian gypsy musicians which are so appropriate that I cite them in full:—
“The gypsy artists in Hungary play by inspiration, with inimitableverveand spirit, without evenknowing their notes, and nothing whatever of the rhymes and rules of the masters. Liszt, who has closely studied them, says, The art of music being for them a sublime language, a song, mystic in itself, though dear to the initiated, they use it according to the wants of the moment which they wish to express. They have invented their music for their own use, to sing about themselves to themselves, to express themselves in the most heartfelt and touching monologues.“Their music is as free as their lives; no intermediate modulation, no chords, no transition, it goes from one key to another. From ethereal heights they precipitate you into the howling depths of hell; from the plaint, barely heard, they pass brusquely to the warrior’s song, which bursts loudly forth, passionate and tender, at once burning and calm. Their melodies plunge you into a melancholy reverie, or carry you away into a stormy whirlwind; they are a faithful expression of the Hungarian character, sometimes quick, brilliant, and lively, sometimes sad and apathetic.“The gypsies, when they arrived in Hungary, had no music of their own; they appropriated the Magyar music, and made from it an original art which now belongs to them.”
“The gypsy artists in Hungary play by inspiration, with inimitableverveand spirit, without evenknowing their notes, and nothing whatever of the rhymes and rules of the masters. Liszt, who has closely studied them, says, The art of music being for them a sublime language, a song, mystic in itself, though dear to the initiated, they use it according to the wants of the moment which they wish to express. They have invented their music for their own use, to sing about themselves to themselves, to express themselves in the most heartfelt and touching monologues.
“Their music is as free as their lives; no intermediate modulation, no chords, no transition, it goes from one key to another. From ethereal heights they precipitate you into the howling depths of hell; from the plaint, barely heard, they pass brusquely to the warrior’s song, which bursts loudly forth, passionate and tender, at once burning and calm. Their melodies plunge you into a melancholy reverie, or carry you away into a stormy whirlwind; they are a faithful expression of the Hungarian character, sometimes quick, brilliant, and lively, sometimes sad and apathetic.
“The gypsies, when they arrived in Hungary, had no music of their own; they appropriated the Magyar music, and made from it an original art which now belongs to them.”
I here break in upon Messieurs Tissot and Liszt to remark that, while it is very probable that the Roms reformed Hungarian music, it is rather boldly assumed that they had no music of their own. It was, among other callings, as dancers and musicians that they left India and entered Europe, and among them were doubtless many descendants of the ten thousand Indo-Persian Luris or Nuris. But to resume quotation:—
“They made from it an art full of life, passion,laughter, and tears. The instrument which the gypsies prefer is the violin, which they callbas’ alja, ‘the king of instruments.’ They also play the viola, the cymbal, and the clarionet.“There was a pause. The gypsies, who had perceived at a table a comfortable-looking man, evidently wealthy, and on a pleasure excursion in the town, came down from their platform, and ranged themselves round him to give him a serenade all to himself, as is their custom. They call this ‘playing into the ear.’“They first asked the gentleman his favorite air, and then played it with such spirit and enthusiasm and overflowing richness of variation and ornament, and with so much emotion, that it drew forth the applause of the whole company. After this they executed a czardas, one of the wildest, most feverish, harshest, and, one may say, tormenting, as if to pour intoxication into the soul of their listener. They watched his countenance to note the impression produced by the passionate rhythm of their instruments; then, breaking off suddenly, they played a hushed, soft, caressing measure; and again, almost breaking the trembling cords of their bows, they produced such an intensity of effect that the listener was almost beside himself with delight and astonishment. He sat as if bewitched; he shut his eyes, hung his head in melancholy, or raised it with a start, as the music varied; then jumped up and struck the back of his head with his hands. He positively laughed and cried at once; then, drawing a roll of bank-notes from his pocket-book, he threw it to the gypsies, and fell back in his chair, as if exhausted with so much enjoyment. And inthislies the triumph of thegypsy music; it is like that of Orpheus, which moved the rocks and trees. The soul of the Hungarian plunges, with a refinement of sensation that we can understand, but cannot follow, into this music, which, like the unrestrained indulgence of the imagination in fantasy and caprice, gives to the initiated all the intoxicating sensations experienced by opium smokers.”
“They made from it an art full of life, passion,laughter, and tears. The instrument which the gypsies prefer is the violin, which they callbas’ alja, ‘the king of instruments.’ They also play the viola, the cymbal, and the clarionet.
“There was a pause. The gypsies, who had perceived at a table a comfortable-looking man, evidently wealthy, and on a pleasure excursion in the town, came down from their platform, and ranged themselves round him to give him a serenade all to himself, as is their custom. They call this ‘playing into the ear.’
“They first asked the gentleman his favorite air, and then played it with such spirit and enthusiasm and overflowing richness of variation and ornament, and with so much emotion, that it drew forth the applause of the whole company. After this they executed a czardas, one of the wildest, most feverish, harshest, and, one may say, tormenting, as if to pour intoxication into the soul of their listener. They watched his countenance to note the impression produced by the passionate rhythm of their instruments; then, breaking off suddenly, they played a hushed, soft, caressing measure; and again, almost breaking the trembling cords of their bows, they produced such an intensity of effect that the listener was almost beside himself with delight and astonishment. He sat as if bewitched; he shut his eyes, hung his head in melancholy, or raised it with a start, as the music varied; then jumped up and struck the back of his head with his hands. He positively laughed and cried at once; then, drawing a roll of bank-notes from his pocket-book, he threw it to the gypsies, and fell back in his chair, as if exhausted with so much enjoyment. And inthislies the triumph of thegypsy music; it is like that of Orpheus, which moved the rocks and trees. The soul of the Hungarian plunges, with a refinement of sensation that we can understand, but cannot follow, into this music, which, like the unrestrained indulgence of the imagination in fantasy and caprice, gives to the initiated all the intoxicating sensations experienced by opium smokers.”
The Austrian gypsies have many songs which perfectly reflect their character. Most of them are only single verses of a few lines, such as are sung everywhere in Spain; others, which are longer, seem to have grown from the connection of these verses. The following translation from the Roumanian Romany (Vassile Alexandri) gives an idea of their style and spirit:—
The wind whistles over the heath,The moonlight flits over the flood;And the gypsy lights up his fire,In the darkness of the wood.Hurrah!In the darkness of the wood.Free is the bird in the air,And the fish where the river flows;Free is the deer in the forest,And the gypsy wherever he goes.Hurrah!And the gypsy wherever he goes.a gorgio gentleman speaks.Girl, wilt thou live in my home?I will give thee a sable gown,And golden coins for a necklace,If thou wilt be my own.gypsy girl.No wild horse will leave the prairieFor a harness with silver stars;Nor an eagle the crags of the mountain,For a cage with golden bars;Nor the gypsy girl the forest,Or the meadow, though gray and cold,For garments made of sable,Or necklaces of gold.the gorgio.Girl, wilt thou live in my dwelling,For pearls and diamonds true?[82]I will give thee a bed of scarlet,And a royal palace, too.gypsy girl.My white teeth are my pearlins,My diamonds my own black eyes;My bed is the soft green meadow,My palace the world as it lies.Free is the bird in the air,And the fish where the river flows;Free is the deer in the forest,And the gypsy wherever he goes.Hurrah!And the gypsy wherever he goes.
The wind whistles over the heath,The moonlight flits over the flood;And the gypsy lights up his fire,In the darkness of the wood.Hurrah!In the darkness of the wood.
Free is the bird in the air,And the fish where the river flows;Free is the deer in the forest,And the gypsy wherever he goes.Hurrah!And the gypsy wherever he goes.
a gorgio gentleman speaks.
Girl, wilt thou live in my home?I will give thee a sable gown,And golden coins for a necklace,If thou wilt be my own.
gypsy girl.
No wild horse will leave the prairieFor a harness with silver stars;Nor an eagle the crags of the mountain,For a cage with golden bars;
Nor the gypsy girl the forest,Or the meadow, though gray and cold,For garments made of sable,Or necklaces of gold.
the gorgio.
Girl, wilt thou live in my dwelling,For pearls and diamonds true?[82]I will give thee a bed of scarlet,And a royal palace, too.
gypsy girl.
My white teeth are my pearlins,My diamonds my own black eyes;My bed is the soft green meadow,My palace the world as it lies.
Free is the bird in the air,And the fish where the river flows;Free is the deer in the forest,And the gypsy wherever he goes.Hurrah!And the gypsy wherever he goes.
There is a deep, strange element in the gypsy character, which finds no sympathy or knowledge in the German, and very little in other Europeans, but which is so much in accord with the Slavonian and Hungarian that he who truly feels it with love is often disposed to mingle them together. It is a dreamy mysticism; an indefinite semi-supernaturalism, often passing into gloom; a feeling as of Buddhism which has glided into Northern snows, and taken a new and darker life in winter-lands. It is strong in the Czech or Bohemian, whose nature is the worst understood in the civilized world. That he should hate the Germanwith all his heart and soul is in the order of things. We talk about the mystical Germans, but German self-conscious mysticism is like a problem of Euclid beside the natural, unexpressed dreaminess of the Czech. The German mystic goes to work at once to expound his “system” in categories, dressing it up in a technology which in the end proves to be the only mystery in it. The Bohemian and gypsy, each in their degrees of culture, form no system and make no technology, but they feel all the more. Now the difference between true and imitative mysticism is that the former takes no form; it is even narrowed by religious creeds, and wing-clipt by pious “illumination.” Nature, and nature alone, is its real life. It was from the Southern Slavonian lands that all real mysticism, and all that higher illumination which means freedom, came into Germany and Europe; and after all, Germany’s first and best mystic, Jacob Böhme, was Bohemian by name, as he was by nature. When the world shall have discovered who the as yet unknown Slavonian German was who wrote all the best part of “Consuelo,” and who helped himself in so doing from “Der letzte Taborit,” by Herlossohn, we shall find one of the few men who understood the Bohemian.
Once in a while, as in Fanny Janauschek, the Czech bursts out into art, and achieves a great triumph. I have seen Rachel and Ristori many a time, but their best acting was shallow compared to Janauschek’s, as I have seen it in by-gone years, when she played Iphigenia and Medea in German. No one save a Bohemian could ever sointuitthe gloomy profundity and unearthly fire of the Colchian sorceress. These are the things required to perfect everyartist,—above all, the tragic artist,—that the tree of his or her genius shall not only soar to heaven among the angels, but also have roots in the depths of darkness and fire; and that he or she shall play not only to the audience, and in sympathy with them, but also unto one’s self and down to one’s deepest dreams.
No one will accuse me of wide discussion or padding who understands my drift in this chapter. I am speaking of the gypsy, and I cannot explain him more clearly than by showing his affinities with the Slavonian and Magyar, and how, through music and probably in many other ways, he has influenced them. As the Spaniard perfectly understands the objective vagabond side of the Gitano, so the Southeastern European understands the musical and wild-forest yearnings of the Tsigane. Both to gypsy and Slavonian there is that which makes them dream so that even debauchery has for them at times an unearthly inspiration; and as smoking was inexpressibly sacred to the red Indians of old, so that when the Guatemalan Christ harried hell, the demons offered him cigars; in like manner tipsiness is often to the gypsy and Servian, or Czech, or Croat, something so serious and impressive that it is a thing not to be lightly thought of, but to be undertaken with intense deliberation and under due appreciation of its benefits.
Many years ago, when I had begun to feel this strange element I gave it expression in a poem which I called “The Bohemian,” as expressive of both gypsy and Slavonian nature:—
Chces li tajnou vec aneb pravdu vyzvédétiBlazen, dité opily človék o tom umeji povodeti.Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it theeBohemian Proverb.And now I’ll wrap my blanket o’er me,And on the tavern floor I’ll lie,A double spirit-flask before me,And watch my pipe clouds, melting, die.They melt and die, but ever darkenAs night comes on and hides the day,Till all is black; then, brothers, hearken,And if ye can write down my lay.In yon long loaf my knife is gleaming,Like one black sail above the boat;As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,Half through a dark Croatian throat.Now faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, turns my brain;And still I’ll drink, till, past all feeling,My soul leaps forth to light again.Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?Barushka!—long I thought thee dead;Katchenka!—when these arms last bound theeThou laid’st by Rajrad, cold as lead.And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, turns my brain;And from afar a star comes stealingStraight at me o’er the death-black plain.Alas! I sink. My spirits miss me.I swim, I shoot from shore to shore!Klara! thou golden sister—kiss me!I rise—I’m safe—I’m strong once more.And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, whirls my brain;The star!—it strikes my soul, revealingAll life and light to me again.* * * * *Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;Through seas of light new light is flashing,And with them all I float and flow.Yet round me rings of fire are gleaning,—Pale rings of fire, wild eyes of death!Why haunt me thus, awake or dreaming?Methought I left ye with my breath!Ay, glare and stare, with life increasing,And leech-like eyebrows, arching in;Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,But never hope a fear to win.He who knows all may haunt the haunter,He who fears naught hath conquered fate;Who bears in silence quells the daunter,And makes his spoiler desolate.O wondrous eyes, of star-like lustre,How have ye changed to guardian love!Alas! where stars in myriads cluster,Ye vanish in the heaven above.* * * * *I hear two bells so softly ringing;How sweet their silver voices roll!The one on distant hills is ringing,The other peals within my soul.I hear two maidens gently talking,Bohemian maids, and fair to see:The one on distant hills is walking,The other maiden,—where is she?Where is she? When the moonlight glistensO’er silent lake or murmuring stream,I hear her call my soul, which listens,“Oh, wake no more! Come, love, and dream!”She came to earth, earth’s loveliest creature;She died, and then was born once more;Changed was her race, and changed each feature,But yet I loved her as before.We live, but still, when night has bound meIn golden dreams too sweet to last,A wondrous light-blue world around me,She comes,—the loved one of the past.I know not which I love the dearest,For both the loves are still the same:The living to my life is nearest,The dead one feeds the living flame.And when the sun, its rose-wine quaffing,Which flows across the Eastern deep,Awakes us, Klara chides me, laughing,And says we love too well in sleep.And though no more a Voivode’s daughter,As when she lived on earth before,The love is still the same which sought her,And I am true, and ask no more.* * * * *Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,And starlight shines upon the hill,And I should wake, but still delayingIn our old life I linger still.For as the wind clouds flit above me,And as the stars above them shine,My higher life’s in those who love me,And higher still, our life’s divine.And thus I raise my soul by drinking,As on the tavern floor I lie;It heeds not whence begins our thinkingIf to the end its flight is high.E’en outcasts may have heart and feeling,The blackest wild Tsigan be true,And love, like light in dungeons stealing,Though bars be there, will still burst through.
Chces li tajnou vec aneb pravdu vyzvédétiBlazen, dité opily človék o tom umeji povodeti.
Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee
Bohemian Proverb.
And now I’ll wrap my blanket o’er me,And on the tavern floor I’ll lie,A double spirit-flask before me,And watch my pipe clouds, melting, die.
They melt and die, but ever darkenAs night comes on and hides the day,Till all is black; then, brothers, hearken,And if ye can write down my lay.
In yon long loaf my knife is gleaming,Like one black sail above the boat;As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,Half through a dark Croatian throat.
Now faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, turns my brain;And still I’ll drink, till, past all feeling,My soul leaps forth to light again.
Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?Barushka!—long I thought thee dead;Katchenka!—when these arms last bound theeThou laid’st by Rajrad, cold as lead.
And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, turns my brain;And from afar a star comes stealingStraight at me o’er the death-black plain.
Alas! I sink. My spirits miss me.I swim, I shoot from shore to shore!Klara! thou golden sister—kiss me!I rise—I’m safe—I’m strong once more.
And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling,And wilder, wilder, whirls my brain;The star!—it strikes my soul, revealingAll life and light to me again.
* * * * *
Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;Through seas of light new light is flashing,And with them all I float and flow.
Yet round me rings of fire are gleaning,—Pale rings of fire, wild eyes of death!Why haunt me thus, awake or dreaming?Methought I left ye with my breath!
Ay, glare and stare, with life increasing,And leech-like eyebrows, arching in;Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,But never hope a fear to win.
He who knows all may haunt the haunter,He who fears naught hath conquered fate;Who bears in silence quells the daunter,And makes his spoiler desolate.
O wondrous eyes, of star-like lustre,How have ye changed to guardian love!Alas! where stars in myriads cluster,Ye vanish in the heaven above.
* * * * *
I hear two bells so softly ringing;How sweet their silver voices roll!The one on distant hills is ringing,The other peals within my soul.
I hear two maidens gently talking,Bohemian maids, and fair to see:The one on distant hills is walking,The other maiden,—where is she?
Where is she? When the moonlight glistensO’er silent lake or murmuring stream,I hear her call my soul, which listens,“Oh, wake no more! Come, love, and dream!”
She came to earth, earth’s loveliest creature;She died, and then was born once more;Changed was her race, and changed each feature,But yet I loved her as before.
We live, but still, when night has bound meIn golden dreams too sweet to last,A wondrous light-blue world around me,She comes,—the loved one of the past.
I know not which I love the dearest,For both the loves are still the same:The living to my life is nearest,The dead one feeds the living flame.
And when the sun, its rose-wine quaffing,Which flows across the Eastern deep,Awakes us, Klara chides me, laughing,And says we love too well in sleep.
And though no more a Voivode’s daughter,As when she lived on earth before,The love is still the same which sought her,And I am true, and ask no more.
* * * * *
Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,And starlight shines upon the hill,And I should wake, but still delayingIn our old life I linger still.
For as the wind clouds flit above me,And as the stars above them shine,My higher life’s in those who love me,And higher still, our life’s divine.
And thus I raise my soul by drinking,As on the tavern floor I lie;It heeds not whence begins our thinkingIf to the end its flight is high.
E’en outcasts may have heart and feeling,The blackest wild Tsigan be true,And love, like light in dungeons stealing,Though bars be there, will still burst through.
It is the reëcho of more than one song of those strange lands, of more than one voice, and of many a melody; and those who have heard them, though not more distinctly than François Villon when he spoke of flinging the question back by silent lake and streamlet lone, will understand me, and say it is true to nature.
In a late work on Magyarland, by a lady Fellow of the Carpathian Society, I find more on Hungarian gypsy music, which is so well written that I quote fully from it, being of the opinion that one ought, when setting forth any subject, to give quite as good an opportunity to others who are in our business as to ourselves. And truly this lady has felt the charm of the Tsigan music and describes it so well that one wishes she were a Romany in language and by adoption, like unto a dozen dames and damsels whom I know.
“The Magyars have a perfect passion for this gypsy music, and there is nothing that appeals so powerfully to their emotions, whether of joy or sorrow. These singular musicians are, as a rule, well taught, and can play almost any music, greatly preferring, however, their own compositions. Their music, consequently, is highly characteristic. It is the language of their lives and strange surroundings, a wild, weird banshee music: now all joy and sparkle, like sunshine on the plains; now sullen, sad, and pathetic by turns, like the wail of a crushed and oppressed people,—an echo, it is said, of the minstrelsy of thehegedösökor Hungarian bards, but sounding to our ears like the more distant echo of that exceeding bitter cry, uttered long centuries ago by their forefathers under Egyptian bondage, and borne over the time-waves of thousands of years, breaking forth in their music of to-day.”
“The Magyars have a perfect passion for this gypsy music, and there is nothing that appeals so powerfully to their emotions, whether of joy or sorrow. These singular musicians are, as a rule, well taught, and can play almost any music, greatly preferring, however, their own compositions. Their music, consequently, is highly characteristic. It is the language of their lives and strange surroundings, a wild, weird banshee music: now all joy and sparkle, like sunshine on the plains; now sullen, sad, and pathetic by turns, like the wail of a crushed and oppressed people,—an echo, it is said, of the minstrelsy of thehegedösökor Hungarian bards, but sounding to our ears like the more distant echo of that exceeding bitter cry, uttered long centuries ago by their forefathers under Egyptian bondage, and borne over the time-waves of thousands of years, breaking forth in their music of to-day.”
Here I interrupt the lady—with all due courtesy—to remark that I cannot agree with her, nor with her probable authority, Walter Simson, in believing that the gypsies are the descendants of the mixed races who followed Moses out of Egypt. The Rom in Egypt is a Hindoo stranger now, as he ever was. But that the echo of centuries of outlawry and wretchedness and wildness rises and falls, like the ineffable discord in a wind-harp, in Romany airs is true enough, whatever its origin may have been. But I beg pardon, madam,—I interrupted you.
“The soul-stirring, madly exciting, and martial strains of the Racoczys—one of the Revolutionary airs—has just died upon the ear. A brief interval of rest has passed. Now listen with bated breath to that recitative in the minor key,—that passionate wail, that touching story, the gypsies’ own music, which rises and falls on the air. Knives and forks are set down, hands and arms hang listless, all the seeming necessities of the moment being either suspended or forgotten,—merged in the memories which those vibrations, so akin to human language, reawaken in each heart. Eyes involuntarily fill with tears, as those pathetic strains echo back and make present some sorrow of long ago, or rouse from slumber that of recent time. . . .“And now, the recitative being ended, and the last chord struck, the melody begins, of which the former was the prelude. Watch the movements of the supple figure of the first violin, standing in the centre of the other musicians, who accompany him softly. How every nerve isen rapportwith his instrument, and how his very soul is speaking through it! See how gently he draws the bow across the trembling strings,and how lovingly he lays his cheek upon it, as if listening to some responsive echo of his heart’s inmost feeling, for it is his mystic language! How the instrument lives and answers to his every touch, sending forth in turn utterances tender, sad, wild, and joyous! The audience once more hold their breath to catch the dying tones, as the melody, so rich, so beautiful, so full of pathos, is drawing to a close. The tension is absolutely painful as the gypsy dwells on the last lingering note, and it is a relief when, with a loud and general burst of sound, every performer starts into life and motion.Thenwhat crude and wild dissonances are made to resolve themselves into delicious harmony! What rapturous and fervid phrases, and what energy and impetuosity, are there in every motion of the gypsies’ figures, as their dark eyes glisten and emit flashes in unison with the tones!”
“The soul-stirring, madly exciting, and martial strains of the Racoczys—one of the Revolutionary airs—has just died upon the ear. A brief interval of rest has passed. Now listen with bated breath to that recitative in the minor key,—that passionate wail, that touching story, the gypsies’ own music, which rises and falls on the air. Knives and forks are set down, hands and arms hang listless, all the seeming necessities of the moment being either suspended or forgotten,—merged in the memories which those vibrations, so akin to human language, reawaken in each heart. Eyes involuntarily fill with tears, as those pathetic strains echo back and make present some sorrow of long ago, or rouse from slumber that of recent time. . . .
“And now, the recitative being ended, and the last chord struck, the melody begins, of which the former was the prelude. Watch the movements of the supple figure of the first violin, standing in the centre of the other musicians, who accompany him softly. How every nerve isen rapportwith his instrument, and how his very soul is speaking through it! See how gently he draws the bow across the trembling strings,and how lovingly he lays his cheek upon it, as if listening to some responsive echo of his heart’s inmost feeling, for it is his mystic language! How the instrument lives and answers to his every touch, sending forth in turn utterances tender, sad, wild, and joyous! The audience once more hold their breath to catch the dying tones, as the melody, so rich, so beautiful, so full of pathos, is drawing to a close. The tension is absolutely painful as the gypsy dwells on the last lingering note, and it is a relief when, with a loud and general burst of sound, every performer starts into life and motion.Thenwhat crude and wild dissonances are made to resolve themselves into delicious harmony! What rapturous and fervid phrases, and what energy and impetuosity, are there in every motion of the gypsies’ figures, as their dark eyes glisten and emit flashes in unison with the tones!”
The writer is gifted in giving words to gypsy music. One cannot say, as the inexhaustible Cad writes of Niagara ten times on a page in the Visitors’ Book, that it is indescribable. I think that if language means anything this music has been very well described by the writers whom I have cited. When I am told that the gypsies’ impetuous and passionate natures make them enter into musical action with heart and soul, I feel not only the strains played long ago, but also hear therein the horns of Elfland blowing,—which he who has not heard, of summer days, in the drone of the bee, by reedy rustling stream, will never know on earth in any wise. But once heard it comes ever, as I, though in the city, heard it last night in the winter wind, with Romany words mingled in wild refrain:—
“Kamava tute,miri chelladi!”
“Kamava tute,miri chelladi!”