"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 the party 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 any
_tour_ was deftly made the dark master nodded to me with gleaming eyes,
as if saying, "What do you think of _that_, 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 the _racoczy_," I said. "Yet it sounded like it."
"No," said the captain. "But _now_ you shall hear the _racoczy_ and the
_czardas_ as 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 the _racoczy_, 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 a _life_ that was to them, and what it should be; not
cold-blooded skill, aiming only at excellence or preexcellence 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 Moenad went with the stream adown
the mountains,--_Evoe 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 pani repedishis,
M'ro pirano hegedishis;
"Dyal o pani tale vatra,
M'ro pirano klanetaha.
"Dyal o pani pe kishai
M'ro pirano tsino rai."
"The stream runs on with rushing din
As I hear my true love's violin;
"And the river rolls o'er rock and stone
As 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 sweeps _adagio_ on 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 Kolosvarer dialect, I find the following:--
"Na janav ko dad m'ro as,
Niko mallen mange as,
Miro gule dai merdyas
Pirani me pregelyas.
Uva tu o hegedive
Tu sal mindik 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 free
Alone 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 only to 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 Parisian _badauds_ in 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 divvus 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 an
American 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."
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 they _told_ the 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 inimitable
_verve_ and spirit, without even knowing 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
call _bas' 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 in _this_ lies the triumph of the gypsy
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:--