_Vot y'dit troika udalaiya_.
Hear ye the troika-bell a-ringing,
And see the peasant driver there?
Hear ye the mournful song he's singing,
Like distant tolling through the air?
"O eyes, blue eyes, to me so lonely,
O eyes--alas!--ye give me pain;
O eyes, that once looked at me only,
I ne'er shall see your like again.
"Farewell, my darling, now in heaven,
And still the heaven of my soul;
Farewell, thou father town, O Moscow,
Where I have left my life, my all!"
And ever at the rein still straining,
One backward glance the driver gave;
Sees but once more a green low hillock,
Sees but once more his loved one's grave.
"_Stoi_!"--Halt! We stopped at a stylish-looking building, entered a
hall, left our _skubas_, and I heard the general ask, "Are the gypsies
here?" An affirmative being given, we entered a large room, and there,
sure enough, stood six or eight girls and two men, all very well dressed,
and all unmistakably Romany, though smaller and of much slighter or more
delicate frame than the powerful gypsy "travelers" of England. In an
instant every pair of great, wild eyes was fixed on me. The general was
in every way a more striking figure, but I was manifestly a fresh
stranger, who knew nothing of the country, and certainly nothing of
gypsies or gypsydom. Such a verdant visitor is always most interesting.
It was not by any means my first reception of the kind, and, as I
reviewed at a glance the whole party, I said within myself:--
"Wait an instant, you black snakes, and I will give you something to make
you stare."
This promise I kept, when a young man, who looked like a handsome light
Hindoo, stepped up and addressed me in Russian. I looked long and
steadily at him before I spoke, and then said:--
"_Latcho divvus prala_!" (Good day, brother.)
"What is _that_?" he exclaimed, startled.
"_Tu jines latcho adosta_." (You know very well.) And then, with the
expression in his face of a man who has been familiarly addressed by a
brazen statue, or asked by a new-born babe, "What o'clock is it?" but
with great joy, he cried:--
"_Romanichal_!"
In an instant they were all around me, marveling greatly, and earnestly
expressing their marvel, at what new species of gypsy I might be; being
in this quite unlike those of England, who, even when they are astonished
"out of their senses" at being addressed in Romany by a gentleman, make
the most red-Indian efforts to conceal their amazement. But I speedily
found that these Russian gypsies were as unaffected and child-like as
they were gentle in manner, and that they compared with our own
prize-fighting, sturdy-begging, always-suspecting Romany roughs and
_rufianas_ as a delicate greyhound might compare with a very shrewd old
bull-dog, trained by an unusually "fly" tramp.
That the girls were first to the fore in questioning me will be doubted
by no one. But we had great trouble in effecting a mutual understanding.
Their Romany was full of Russian; their pronunciation puzzled me; they
"bit off their words," and used many in a strange or false sense. Yet,
notwithstanding this, I contrived to converse pretty readily with the
men,--very readily with the captain, a man as dark as Ben Lee, to those
who know Benjamin, or as mahogany, to those who know him not. But with
the women it was very difficult to converse. There is a theory current
that women have a specialty of tact and readiness in understanding a
foreigner, or in making themselves understood; it may be so with
cultivated ladies, but it is my experience that, among the uneducated,
men have a monopoly of such quick intelligence. In order fully to
convince them that we really had a tongue in common, I repeated perhaps a
hundred nouns, giving, for instance, the names of various parts of the
body, of articles of apparel and objects in the room, and I believe that
we did not find a single word which, when pronounced distinctly by
itself, was not intelligible to us all. I had left in London a
Russo-Romany vocabulary, once published in "The Asiatic Magazine," and I
had met with Bohtlinghk's article on the dialect, as well as specimens of
it in the works of Pott and Miklosich, but had unfortunately learned
nothing of it from them. I soon found, however, that I knew a great many
more gypsy words than did my new friends, and that our English Romany far
excels the Russian in _copia verborum_.
"But I must sit down." I observed on this and other occasions that
Russian gypsies are very naif. And as it is in human nature to prefer
sitting by a pretty girl, these Slavonian Romanys so arrange it according
to the principles of natural selection--or natural politeness--that, when
a stranger is in their gates, the two prettiest girls in their possession
sit at his right and left, the two less attractive next again, _et
seriatim_. So at once a damsel of comely mien, arrayed in black silk
attire, of faultless elegance, cried to me, pointing to a chair by her
side, "_Bersh tu alay_, _rya_!" (Sit down, sir),--a phrase which would
be perfectly intelligible to any Romany in England. I admit that there
was another damsel, who is generally regarded by most people as the true
gypsy belle of the party, who did not sit by me. But, as the one who had
"voted herself into the chair," by my side, was more to my liking, being
the most intelligent and most gypsy, I had good cause to rejoice.
I was astonished at the sensible curiosity as to gypsy life in other
lands which was displayed, and at the questions asked. I really doubt if
I ever met with an English gypsy who cared a farthing to know anything
about his race as it exists in foreign countries, or whence it came.
Once, and once only, I thought I had interested White George, at East
Moulsey, in an account of Egypt, and the small number of Romanys there;
but his only question was to the effect that, if there were so few
gypsies in Egypt, wouldn't it be a good place for him to go to sell
baskets? These of Russia, however, asked all kinds of questions about
the manners and customs of their congeners, and were pleased when they
recognized familiar traits. And every gypsyism, whether of word or way,
was greeted with delighted laughter. In one thing I noted a radical
difference between these gypsies and those of the rest of Europe and of
America. There was none of that continually assumed mystery and Romany
freemasonry, of superior occult knowledge and "deep" information, which
is often carried to the depths of absurdity and to the height of humbug.
I say this advisedly, since, however much it may give charm to a novel or
play, it is a serious impediment to a philologist. Let me give an
illustration.
Once, during the evening, these Russian gypsies were anxious to know if
there were any books in their language. Now I have no doubt that Dr.
Bath Smart, or Prof. E. H. Palmer, or any other of the initiated, will
perfectly understand when I say that by mere force of habit I shivered
and evaded the question. When a gentleman who manifests a knowledge of
Romany among gypsies in England is suspected of "dixonary" studies, it
amounts to _lasciate ogni speranza_,--give up all hope of learning any
more.
"I'm glad to see you here, _rya_, in my tent," said the before-mentioned
Ben Lee to me one night, in camp near Weybridge, "because I've heard, and
I know, you didn't pick up _your_ Romany out of books."
The silly dread, the hatred, the childish antipathy, real or affected,
but always ridiculous, which is felt in England, not only among gypsies,
but even by many gentlemen scholars, to having the Romany language
published is indescribable. Vambery was not more averse to show a lead
pencil among Tartars than I am to take notes of words among strange
English gypsies. I might have spared myself any annoyance from such a
source among the Russian Romanys. They had not heard of Mr. George
Borrow; nor were there ugly stories current among them to the effect that
Dr. Smart and Prof. E. H. Palmer had published works, the direct result
of which would be to facilitate their little paths to the jail, the
gallows, and the grave.
"Would we hear some singing?" We were ready, and for the first time in
my life I listened to the long-anticipated, far-famed magical melody of
Russian gypsies. And what was it like? May I preface my reply to the
reader with the remark that there are, roughly speaking, two kinds of
music in the world,--the wild and the tame,--and the rarest of human
beings is he who can appreciate both. Only one such man ever wrote a
book, and his _nomen et omen_ is Engel, like that of the little English
slaves who were _non Angli_, _sed angeli_. I have in my time been deeply
moved by the choruses of Nubian boatmen; I have listened with great
pleasure to Chinese and Japanese music,--Ole Bull once told me he had
done the same; I have delighted by the hour in Arab songs; and I have
felt the charm of our red-Indian music. If this seems absurd to those
who characterize all such sound and song as "caterwauling," let me remind
the reader that in all Europe there is not one man fonder of music than
an average Arab, a Chinese, or a red Indian; for any of these people, as
I have seen and know, will sit twelve or fifteen hours, without the least
weariness, listening to what cultivated Europeans all consider as a mere
charivari. When London gladly endures fifteen-hour concerts, composed of
_morceaux_ by Wagner, Chopin, and Liszt, I will believe that art can
charm as much as nature.
The medium point of intelligence in this puzzle may be found in the
extraordinary fascination which many find in the monotonous tum-tum of
the banjo, and which reappears, somewhat refined, or at least somewhat
Frenchified, in the _Bamboula_ and other Creole airs. Thence, in an
ascending series, but connected with it, we have old Spanish melodies,
then the Arabic, and here we finally cross the threshold into mystery,
midnight, and "caterwauling." I do not know that I can explain the fact
why the more "barbarous" music is, the more it is beloved of man; but I
think that the principle of the _refrain_, or repetition in music, which
as yet governs all decorative art and which Mr. Whistler and others are
endeavoring desperately to destroy, acts in music as a sort of animal
magnetism or abstraction, ending in an _extase_. As for the fascination
which such wild melodies exert, it is beyond description. The most
enraptured audience I ever saw in my life was at a Coptic wedding in
Cairo, where one hundred and fifty guests listened, from seven P.M. till
three A.M., and Heaven knows how much later, to what a European would
call absolute jangling, yelping, and howling.
The real medium, however, between what I have, for want of better words,
called wild and tame music exists only in that of the Russian gypsies.
These artists, with wonderful tact and untaught skill, have succeeded, in
all their songs, in combining the mysterious and maddening charm of the
true, wild Eastern music with that of regular and simple melody,
intelligible to every Western ear. I have never listened to the singing
or playing of any distinguished artist--and certainly never of any
far-famed amateur--without realizing that neither words nor melody was of
the least importance, but that the man's manner of performance or display
was everything. Now, in enjoying gypsy singing, one feels at once as if
the vocalists had entirely forgotten self, and were carried away by the
bewildering beauty of the air and the charm of the words. There is no
self-consciousness, no vanity,--all is real. The listener feels as if he
were a performer; the performer is an enraptured listener. There is no
soulless "art for the sake of art," but art for direct pleasure.
"We intend to sing only Romany for _you_, _rya_," said the young lady to
my left, "and you will hear our real gypsy airs. The _Gaji_ [Russians]
often ask for songs in our language, and don't get them. But you are a
Romanichal, and when you go home, far over the _baro kalo pani_ [the
broad black water, that is, the ocean], you shall tell the Romany how we
can sing. Listen!"
And I listened to the strangest, wildest, and sweetest singing I ever had
heard,--the singing of Lurleis, of sirens, of witches. First, one
damsel, with an exquisitely clear, firm voice, began to sing a verse of a
love-ballad, and as it approached the end the chorus stole in, softly and
unperceived, but with exquisite skill, until, in a few seconds, the
summer breeze, murmuring melody over a rippling lake, seemed changed to a
midnight tempest, roaring over a stormy sea, in which the _basso_ of the
_kalo shureskro_ (the black captain) pealed like thunder. Just as it
died away a second girl took up the melody, very sweetly, but with a
little more excitement,--it was like a gleam of moonlight on the still
agitated waters, a strange contralto witch-gleam; and then again the
chorus and the storm; and then another solo yet sweeter, sadder, and
stranger,--the movement continually increasing, until all was fast, and
wild, and mad,--a locomotive quickstep, and then a sudden
silence--sunlight--the storm had blown away.
Nothing on earth is so like magic and elfin-work as when women burst
forth into improvised melody. The bird only "sings as his bill grew," or
what he learned from the elders; yet when you hear birds singing in
woodland green, throwing out to God or the fairies irrepressible floods
of what seems like audible sunshine, so well does it match with summer's
light, you think it is wonderful. It is mostly when you forget the long
training of the prima donna, in her ease and apparent naturalness, that
her song is sweetest. But there is a charm, which was well known of old,
though we know it not to-day, which was practiced by the bards and
believed in by their historians. It was the feeling that the song was
born of the moment; that it came with the air, gushing and fresh from the
soul. In reading the strange stories of the professional bards and
scalds and minstrels of the early Middle Age, one is constantly
bewildered at the feats of off-hand composition which were exacted of the
poets among Celts or Norsemen. And it is evident enough that in some
mysterious way these singers knew how to put strange pressure on the
Muse, and squeeze strains out of her in a manner which would have been
impossible at present.
Yet it lingers here and there on earth among wild, strange people,--this
art of making melody at will. I first heard it among Nubian boatmen on
the Nile. It was as manifest that it was composed during the making as
that the singers were unconscious of their power. One sung at first what
may have been a well-known verse. While singing, another voice stole in,
and yet another, softly as shadows steal into twilight; and ere I knew it
all were in a great chorus, which fell away as mysteriously, to become
duos, trios,--changing in melody in strange, sweet, fitful wise, as the
faces seen in the golden cloud in the visioned aureole of God blend,
separate, burn, and fade away ever into fresher glory and tints
incarnadined.
Miss C. F. Gordon Cumming, after informing us that "it is utterly
impossible to give you the faintest shadow of an idea of the fascination
of Tahitian _himenes_," proceeds, as men in general and women in
particular invariably do, to give what the writer really believes is a
very good description indeed. 'T is ever thus, and thus 't will ever be,
and the description of these songs is so good that any person gifted with
imagination or poetry cannot fail to smile at the preceding disavowal of
her ability to give an idea.
These _himenes_ are not--and here such of my too expectant young
lady-readers as are careless in spelling will be sadly disappointed--in
any way connected with weddings. They are simply the natural music of
Tahiti, or strange and beautiful part-songs. "Nothing you have ever
heard in any other country," says our writer, "bears the slightest
resemblance to these wild, exquisite glees, faultless in time and
harmony, though apparently each singer introduces any variations which
may occur to him or to her. Very often there is no leader, and
apparently all sing according to their own sweet will. One voice
commences; it may be that of an old native, with genuine native words
(the meaning of which we had better not inquire), or it may be with a
Scriptural story, versified and sung to an air originally from Europe,
but so completely Tahitianized that no mortal could recognize it, which
is all in its favor, for the wild melodies of this isle are beyond
measure fascinating.
"After one clause of solo, another strikes in--here, there,
everywhere--in harmonious chorus. It seems as if one section devoted
themselves to pouring forth a rippling torrent of 'Ra, ra, ra--ra--ra!'
while others burst into a flood of 'La, la--la--la--la!' Some confine
their care to sound a deep, booming bass in a long-continued drone,
somewhat suggestive (to my appreciative Highland ear) of our own
bagpipes. Here and there high falsetto notes strike in, varied from
verse to verse, and then the choruses of La and Ra come bubbling in
liquid melody, while the voices of the principal singers now join in
unison, now diverge as widely as it is possible for them to do, but all
combine to produce the quaintest, most melodious, rippling glee that ever
was heard."
This is the _himene_; such the singing which I heard in Egypt in a more
regular form; but it was exactly as the writer so admirably sets it forth
(and your description, my lady traveler, is, despite your disavowal,
quite perfect and a _himene_ of itself) that I heard the gypsy girls of
St. Petersburg and of Moscow sing. For, after a time, becoming jolly as
flies, first one voice began with "La, la, la--la--la!" to an unnamed,
unnamable, charming melody, into which went and came other voices, some
bringing one verse or no verse, in unison or alone, the least expected
doing what was most awaited, which was to surprise us and call forth gay
peals of happy laughter, while the "La, la, la--la--la!" was kept up
continuously, like an accompaniment. And still the voices, basso,
soprano, tenor, baritone, contralto, rose and fell, the moment's
inspiration telling how, till at last all blended in a locomotive-paced
La, and in a final roar of laughter it ended.
I could not realize at the time how much this exquisite part-singing was
extemporized. The sound of it rung in my head--I assure you, reader, it
rings there yet when I think of it--like a magic bell. Another day,
however, when I begged for a repetition of it, the girls could recall
nothing of it. They could start it again on any air to the unending
strain of "La--la--la;" but _the_ "La--la--la" of the previous evening
was _avec les neiges d'antan_, with the smoke of yesterday's fire, with
the perfume and bird-songs. "La, la, la--la--la!"
In Arab singing, such effects are applied simply to set forth erotomania;
in negro minstrelsy, they are degraded to the lowest humor; in higher
European music, when employed, they simply illustrate the skill of
composer and musician. The spirit of gypsy singing recalled by its
method and sweetness that of the Nubian boatmen, but in its _general_
effect I could think only of those strange fits of excitement which
thrill the red Indian and make him burst into song. The Abbe Domenech
{42} has observed that the American savage pays attention to every sound
that strikes upon his ear when the leaves, softly shaken by the evening
breeze, seem to sigh through the air, or when the tempest, bursting forth
with fury, shakes the gigantic trees that crack like reeds. "The
chirping of the birds, the cry of the wild beasts, in a word, all those
sweet, grave, or imposing voices that animate the wilderness, are so many
musical lessons, which he easily remembers." In illustration of this,
the missionary describes the singing of a Chippewa chief, and its wild
inspiration, in a manner which vividly illustrates all music of the class
of which I write.
"It was," he says, "during one of those long winter nights, so monotonous
and so wearisome in the woods. We were in a wigwam, which afforded us
but miserable shelter from the inclemency of the season. The storm raged
without; the tempest roared in the open country; the wind blew with
violence, and whistled through the fissures of the cabin; the rain fell
in torrents, and prevented us from continuing our route. Our host was an
Indian, with sparkling and intelligent eyes, clad with a certain
elegance, and wrapped majestically in a large fur cloak. Seated close to
the fire, which cast a reddish gleam through the interior of his wigwam,
he felt himself all at once seized with an irresistible desire to imitate
the convulsions of nature, and to sing his impressions. So, taking hold
of a drum which hung near his bed, he beat a slight rolling, resembling
the distant sounds of an approaching storm; then, raising his voice to a
shrill treble, which he knew how to soften when he pleased, he imitated
the whistling of the air, the creaking of the branches dashing against
one another, and the particular noise produced by dead leaves when
accumulated in compact masses on the ground. By degrees the rollings of
the drum became more frequent and louder, the chants more sonorous and
shrill, and at last our Indian shrieked, howled, and roared in a most
frightful manner; he struggled and struck his instrument with
extraordinary rapidity. It was a real tempest, to which nothing was
wanting, not even the distant howling of the dogs, nor the bellowing of
the affrighted buffaloes."
I have observed the same musical inspiration of a storm upon Arabs, who,
during their singing, also accompanied themselves on a drum. I once
spent two weeks in a Mediterranean steamboat, on board of which were more
than two hundred pilgrims, for the greater part wild Bedouins, going to
Mecca. They had a minstrel who sang and played on the _darabuka_, or
earthenware drum, and he was aided by another with a simple _nai_, or
reed-whistle; the same orchestra, in fact, which is in universal use
among all red Indians. To these performers the pilgrims listened with
indescribable pleasure; and I soon found that they regarded me favorably
because I did the same, being, of course, the only Frank on board who
paid any attention to the singing--or any money for it. But it was at
night and during storms that the spirit of music always seemed to be
strongest on the Arabs, and then, amid roaring of wild waters and
thundering, and in dense darkness, the rolling of the drum and the
strange, bewildering ballads never ceased. It was the very counterpart,
in all respects, of the Chippewa storm song.
After the first gypsy lyric there came another, to which the captain
especially directed my attention as being what Sam Petulengro calls
"reg'lar Romany." It was _I rakli adro o lolo gad_ (The girl in the red
chemise), as well as I can recall his words,--a very sweet song, with a
simple but spirited chorus; and as the sympathetic electricity of
excitement seized the performers we were all in a minute "going down the
rapids in a spring freshet."
"_Bagan tu rya_, _bagan_!" (Sing, sir,--sing) cried my handsome neighbor,
with her black gypsy eyes sparkling fire. "_Jines hi bagan eto_--_eto
latcho Romanes_." (You can sing that,--it's real Romany.) It was
evident that she and all were singing with thorough enjoyment, and with a
full and realizing consciousness of gypsyism, being greatly stimulated by
my presence and sympathy. I felt that the gypsies were taking unusual
pains to please the Romany rye from the _dur' tem_, or far country, and
they had attained the acme of success by being thoroughly delighted with
themselves, which is all that can be hoped for in art, where the aim is
pleasure and not criticism.
There was a pause in the performance, but none in the chattering of the
young ladies, and during this a curious little incident occurred.
Wishing to know if my pretty friend could understand an English gypsy
lyric, I sang in an undertone a ballad, taken from George Borrow's
"Lavengro," and which begins with these words:--
"Pende Eomani chai ke laki dye;
'Miri diri dye, mi shom kameli.'"
I never knew whether this was really an old gypsy poem or one written by
Mr. Borrow. Once, when I repeated it to old Henry James, as he sat
making baskets, I was silenced by being told, "That ain't no real gypsy
_gilli_. That's one of the kind made up by gentlemen and ladies."
However, as soon as I repeated it, the Russian gypsy girl cried eagerly,
"I know that song!" and actually sang me a ballad which was essentially
the same, in which a damsel describes her fall, owing to a Gajo (Gorgio,
a Gentile,--not gypsy) lover, and her final expulsion from the tent. It
was adapted to a very pretty melody, and as soon as she had sung it,
_sotto voce_, my pretty friend exclaimed to another girl, "Only think,
the _rye_ from America knows _that_ song!" Now, as many centuries must
have passed since the English and Russian gypsies parted from the parent
stock, the preservation of this song is very remarkable, and its
antiquity must be very great. I did not take it down, but any resident
in St. Petersburg can, if so inclined, do so among the gypsies at Dorat,
and verify my statement.
Then there was a pretty dance, of a modified Oriental character, by one
of the damsels. For this, as for the singing, the only musical
instrument used was a guitar, which had seven strings, tuned in Spanish
fashion, and was rather weak in tone. I wished it had been a powerful
Panormo, which would have exactly suited the _timbre_ of these voices.
The gypsies were honestly interested in all I could tell them about their
kind in other lands; while the girls were professionally desirous to hear
more Anglo-Romany songs, and were particularly pleased with one beginning
with the words:--
"'Me shom akonyo,' gildas yoi,
Men buti ruzhior,
Te sar i chiriclia adoi
Pen mengy gilior.'"
Though we "got on" after a manner in our Romany talk, I was often obliged
to have recourse to my friend the general to translate long sentences
into Russian, especially when some sand-bar of a verb or some log of a
noun impeded the current of our conversation. Finally, a formal request
was made by the captain that I would, as one deep beyond all their
experience in Romany matters, kindly tell them what kind of people they
really were, and whence they came. With this demand I cheerfully
complied, every word being listened to with breathless interest. So I
told them what I knew or had conjectured relative to their Indian origin:
how their fathers had wandered forth through Persia; how their travels
could be traced by the Persian, Greek, or Roumanian words in the
language; how in 1417 a band of them appeared in Europe, led by a few men
of great diplomatic skill, who, by crafty dealing, obtained from the
Pope, the Emperor of Germany, and all the kings of Europe, except that of
England, permission to wander for fifty years as pilgrims, declaring that
they had been Christians, but, having become renegades, the King of
Hungary had imposed a penance on them of half a century's exile. Then I
informed them that precisely the same story had been told by them to the
rulers in Syria and Egypt, only that in the Mohammedan countries they
pretended to be good followers of Islam. I said there was reason to
believe that some of their people had been in Poland and the other
Slavonic countries ever since the eleventh century, but that those of
England must have gone directly from Eastern Europe to Great Britain;
for, although they had many Slavic words, such as _krallis_ (king) and
_shuba_, there were no French terms, and very few traces of German or
Italian, in the English dialect. I observed that the men all understood
the geographical allusions which I made, knowing apparently where India,
Persia, and Egypt were situated--a remarkable contrast to our own English
"travelers," one of whom once informed me that he would like to go "on
the road" in America, "because you know, sir, as America lays along into
France, we could get our French baskets cheaper there."
I found, on inquiry, that the Russian gypsies profess Christianity; but,
as the religion of the Greek church, as I saw it, appears to be
practically something very little better than fetich-worship, I cannot
exalt them as models of evangelical piety. They are, however, according
to a popular proverb, not far from godliness in being very clean in their
persons; and not only did they appear so to me, but I was assured by
several Russians that, as regarded these singing gypsies, it was
invariably the case. As for morality in gypsy girls, their principles
are very peculiar. Not a whisper of scandal attaches to these Russian
Romany women as regards transient amours. But if a wealthy Russian
gentleman falls in love with one, and will have and hold her permanently,
or for a durable connection, he may take her to his home if she likes
him, but must pay monthly a sum into the gypsy treasury; for these people
apparently form an _artel_, or society-union, like all other classes of
Russians. It may be suggested, as an explanation of this apparent
incongruity, that gypsies all the world over regard steady cohabitation,
or agreement, as marriage, binding themselves, as it were, by
_Gand-harbavivaha_, as the saint married Vasantasena, which is an old
Sanskrit way of wedding. And let me remark that if one tenth of what I
heard in Russia about "morals" in the highest or lowest or any other
class be true, the gypsies of that country are shining lights and
brilliant exemplars of morality to all by whom they are surrounded. Let
me also add that never on any occasion did I hear or see among them
anything in the slightest degree improper or unrefined. I knew very well
that I could, if I chose, talk to such _naive_ people about subjects
which would shock an English lady, and, as the reader may remember, I did
quote Mr. Borrow's song, which he has not translated. But a European
girl who would have endured allusions to tabooed subjects would have at
all times shown vulgarity or coarseness, while these Russian Romany girls
were invariably lady-like. It is true that the St. Petersburg party had
a dissipated air; three or four of them looked like second-class French
or Italian theatrical artistes, and I should not be astonished to learn
that very late hours and champagne were familiar to them as cigarettes,
or that their flirtations among their own people were neither faint, nor
few, nor far between. But their conduct in my presence was
irreproachable. Those of Moscow, in fact, had not even the apparent
defects of their St. Petersburg sisters and brothers, and when among them
it always seemed to me as if I were simply with nice gentle creoles or
Cubans, the gypsy manner being tamed down to the Spanish level, their
great black eyes and their guitars increasing the resemblance.
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.