There are gypsies and gypsies in the world, for there are the wanderers
on the roads and the secret dwellers in towns; but even among the
_aficionados_, or Romany ryes, by whom I mean those scholars who are fond
of studying life and language from the people themselves, very few have
dreamed that there exist communities of gentlemanly and lady-like gypsies
of art, like the Bohemians of Murger and George Sand, but differing from
them in being real "Bohemians" by race. I confess that it had never
occurred to me that there was anywhere in Europe, at the present day,
least of all in the heart of great and wealthy cities, a class or caste
devoted entirely to art, well-to-do or even rich, refined in manners,
living in comfortable homes, the women dressing elegantly; and yet with
all this obliged to live by law, as did the Jews once, in Ghettos or in a
certain street, and regarded as outcasts and _cagots_. I had heard there
were gypsies in Russian cities, and expected to find them like the
_kerengri_ of England or Germany,--house-dwellers somewhat reformed from
vagabondage, but still reckless semi-outlaws, full of tricks and lies; in
a word, _gypsies_, as the world understands the term. And I certainly
anticipated in Russia something _queer_,--the gentleman who speaks Romany
seldom fails to achieve at least that, whenever he gets into an unbroken
haunt, an unhunted forest, where the Romany rye is unknown,--but nothing
like what I really found. A recent writer on Russia {26} speaks with
great contempt of these musical Romanys, their girls attired in dresses
by Worth, as compared with the free wild outlaws of the steppes, who,
with dark, ineffable glances, meaning nothing more than a wild-cat's,
steal poultry, and who, wrapped in dirty sheep-skins, proudly call
themselves _Mi dvorane Polaivii_, Lords of the Waste. The gypsies of
Moscow, who appeared to me the most interesting I have ever met, because
most remote from the Surrey ideal, seemed to Mr. Johnstone to be a kind
of second-rate Romanys or gypsies, gypsified for exhibition, like Mr.
Barnum's negro minstrel, who, though black as a coal by nature, was
requested to put on burnt cork and a wig, that the audience might realize
that they were getting a thoroughly good imitation. Mr. Johnstone's own
words are that a gypsy maiden in a long _queue_, "which perhaps came from
Worth," is "horrible," "_corruptio optimi pessima est_;" and he further
compares such a damsel to a negro with a cocked hat and spurs. As the
only negro thus arrayed who presents himself to my memory was one who lay
dead on the battle-field in Tennessee, after one of the bravest
resistances in history, and in which he and his men, not having moved,
were extended in "stark, serried lines" ("ten cart-loads of dead
niggers," said a man to me who helped to bury them), I may be excused for
not seeing the wit of the comparison. As for the gypsies of Moscow, I
can only say that, after meeting them in public, and penetrating to their
homes, where I was received as one of themselves, even as a Romany, I
found that this opinion of them was erroneous, and that they were
altogether original in spite of being clean, deeply interesting although
honest, and a quite attractive class in most respects, notwithstanding
their ability to read and write. Against Mr. Johnstone's impressions, I
may set the straightforward and simple result of the experiences of Mr.
W. R. Ralston. "The gypsies of Moscow," he says, "are justly celebrated
for their picturesqueness and for their wonderful capacity for music.
All who have heard their women sing are enthusiastic about the weird
witchery of the performance."
When I arrived in St. Petersburg, one of my first inquiries was for
gypsies. To my astonishment, they were hard to find. They are not
allowed to live in the city; and I was told that the correct and proper
way to see them would be to go at night to certain _cafes_, half an
hour's sleigh-ride from the town, and listen to their concerts. What I
wanted, however, was not a concert, but a conversation; not gypsies on
exhibition, but gypsies at home,--and everybody seemed to be of the
opinion that those of "Samarcand" and "Dorot" were entirely got up for
effect. In fact, I heard the opinion hazarded that, even if they spoke
Romany, I might depend upon it they had acquired it simply to deceive.
One gentleman, who had, however, been much with them in other days,
assured me that they were of pure blood, and had an inherited language of
their own. "But," he added, "I am sure you will not understand it. You
may be able to talk with those in England, but not with ours, because
there is not a single word in their language which resembles anything in
English, German, French, Latin, Greek, or Italian. I can only recall,"
he added, "one phrase. I don't know what it means, and I think it will
puzzle you. It is _me kamava tut_."
If I experienced internal laughter at hearing this it was for a good
reason, which I can illustrate by an anecdote: "I have often observed,
when I lived in China," said Mr. Hoffman Atkinson, author of "A
Vocabulary of the Yokohama Dialect," "that most young men, particularly
the gay and handsome ones, generally asked me, about the third day after
their arrival in the country, the meaning of the Pidgin-English phrase,
'You makee too muchee lov-lov-pidgin.' Investigation always established
the fact that the inquirer had heard it from 'a pretty China girl.' Now
_lov-pidgin_ means love, and _me kamava tut_ is perfectly good gypsy
anywhere for 'I love you;' and a very soft expression it is, recalling
_kama-deva_, the Indian Cupid, whose bow is strung with bees, and whose
name has two strings to it, since it means, both in gypsy and Sanskrit,
Love-God, or the god of love. 'It's _kama-duvel_, you know, _rya_, if
you put it as it ought to be,' said Old Windsor Froggie to me once; 'but
I think that Kama-_devil_ would by rights come nearer to it, if Cupid is
what you mean.'"
I referred the gypsy difficulty to a Russian gentleman of high position,
to whose kindness I had been greatly indebted while in St. Petersburg.
He laughed.
"Come with me to-morrow night to the _cafes_, and see the gypsies; I know
them well, and can promise that you shall talk with them as much as you
like. Once, in Moscow, I got together all in the town--perhaps a hundred
and fifty--to entertain the American minister, Curtin. That was a very
hard thing to do,--there was so much professional jealousy among them,
and so many quarrels. Would you have believed it?"
I thought of the feuds between sundry sturdy Romanys in England, and felt
that I could suppose such a thing, without dangerously stretching my
faith, and I began to believe in Russian gypsies.
"Well, then, I shall call for you to-morrow night with a _troika_; I will
come early,--at ten. They never begin to sing before company arrive at
eleven, so that you will have half an hour to talk to them."
It is on record that the day on which the general gave me this kind
invitation was the coldest known in St. Petersburg for thirty years, the
thermometer having stood, or rather having lain down and groveled that
morning at 40 degrees below zero, Fahr. At the appointed hour the
_troika_, or three-horse sleigh, was before the Hotel d'Europe. It was,
indeed, an arctic night, but, well wrapped in fur-lined _shubas_, with
immense capes which fall to the elbow or rise far above the head, as
required, and wearing fur caps and fur-lined gloves, we felt no cold.
The beard of our _istvostshik_, or driver, was a great mass of ice,
giving him the appearance of an exceedingly hoary youth, and his small
horses, being very shaggy and thoroughly frosted, looked in the darkness
like immense polar bears. If the general and myself could only have been
considered as gifts of the slightest value to anybody, I should have
regarded our turn-out, with the driver in his sheep-skin coat, as coming
within a miracle of resemblance to that of Santa Claus, the American
Father Christmas.
On, at a tremendous pace, over the snow, which gave out under our runners
that crunching, iron sound only heard when the thermometer touches zero.
There is a peculiar fascination about the _troika_, and the sweetest,
saddest melody and most plaintive song of Russia belong to it.