A GYPSY CAMP.
Walking across the country one breezy November day, I was attracted by
the sight of a gypsy tent pitched on a piece of waste-land some hundred
yards off my path—motive enough to cause me to change my direction and
approach the little settlement; for these roving caravans have always
had a peculiar fascination for me, and I rarely pass one by without
nearer investigation.
This particular encampment turned out to be of the very poorest and
most abject description: one miserable tent, riddled with holes, and
patched with many-colored rags, was propped up against a neighboring
bank. Alongside, a semi-starved donkey, laden with some tattered
blankets and coverings, was standing immovable, and in the foreground
a smoking camp-fire, over which was slung a battered kettle. There was
very little fire and a great deal of smoke, which at first obscured the
view, and prevented me from understanding why it was that the gypsies,
usually so quick to mark a stranger, gazed at me with indifference: not
a hand was stretched forth to beg, nor a voice raised in supplication.
The men were standing or reclining on the turf in listless attitudes,
while the women, crowded round the fire, were swaying their bodies to
and fro, as though in bodily pain.
Soon, however, the shining point of a bayonet descried through
the curling smoke gave me the clew to this abnormal behavior, and
approaching nearer, I saw the figures of three Hungarian gendarmes
dodging about between the ragged tent and the skeleton donkey; they
were searching the camp, as they presently informed me, for a stolen
purse. A peasant had had his pocket picked that morning at market, and
as some of these gypsies had been seen in town, of course they must be
guilty; and the speaker, with an oath, stuck his bayonet right into the
depths of the little tent, bringing out to light a motley assortment
of dirty rags, which he proceeded to turn over with scrutinizing
investigation.
Any person with a well-balanced mind would, I suppose, have rejoiced at
this improving spectacle of stern justice chastising degraded vice;
but I must confess that on this occasion my sympathies were all the
wrong way, and I could not refrain from wishing that these poor hunted
mortals might elude their punishment, whether deserved or not. Justice,
as represented by these well-fed boorish gendarmes, who were turning
over so ruthlessly the contents of the little camp, holding up to light
each sorry rag with such pitiless scorn, and stripping the clothes
from the half-naked backs of the gypsies with such needless brutality,
appeared in the light of malicious and unnecessary persecution; while
vice, so poor, so wretched, so woe-begone, could surely inspire no
harsher feeling than pity.
Among the females I remarked a young woman of about twenty-five,
with splendid eyes, skin of mahogany brown, and straight-cut regular
features like those of an Indian chieftainess. She wore a tattered
scarlet cloak, and had on her breast a small baby as brown as herself,
and naked, in spite of the sharp November air. One of the gendarmes
approached her, and with a coarse gesture would have removed her cloak
(apparently her sole upper garment) to search beneath for the missing
purse; but with the air of an outraged empress she waved him off, and
raising full upon him her large black eyes, she broke into a torrent
of speech. I could not understand her language, but the tenor of her
discourse was easy to guess at from her expressive gestures and play
of features. Her voice was of a rich contralto, as she poured forth
what seemed to be the maledictions of an oppressed queen cursing a
tyrant. Her gestures had an inbred majesty, and her attitude was that
of an inspired sibyl. I thought what a glorious tragic actress she
would have made—perfect as Lady Macbeth, and divine as Azucena in the
“Trovatore.” Even the brutal gendarme felt her influence, for he did
not attempt to molest her further, but half shamefacedly withdrew, as
though conscious of defeat, transferring his attentions to one of the
men, whom he vigorously poked with the butt-end of his gun to force him
to rise from his recumbent position.
The fruitless search had now come to an end; the ragged tent had
been demolished and the skeleton donkey unladen without so much as a
single florin of the stolen money having come to light. In a prolonged
discussion between gypsies and gendarmes, the word “Hinka, Hinka,” was
often repeated; and Hinka, as it appeared, was the name of one of the
gypsies who was at that moment missing from the camp. She was expected
back by nightfall, they said.
Hearing this, the gendarmes proceeded to make themselves comfortable,
awaiting Mrs. or Miss Hinka’s return, lighting their pipes at the fire,
and playfully upsetting the caldron containing the gypsies’ supper.
One gendarme walked up and down with fixed bayonet to see that no one
attempted to leave the camp.
There being nothing more to see, I took my leave, for it was getting
late, and I had still a long walk before me. I had almost forgotten the
little episode with the gypsies, when, near the town, I met a small
linen-covered cart drawn by a ghastly-looking white horse, worthy
companion of the skeleton donkey. I should probably not have given a
second thought or glance to this cart, for it was nearly dark, but
as it passed me two or three curly black heads peeped out from under
the linen awning, and instantaneously as many semi-naked children
had bounded, India-rubber-like, on to the road, surrounding me with
clamorous begging. While I was giving them some coppers, I saw that in
the cart was sitting a somewhat pale and jaded-looking young woman,
probably their mother, holding the reins and waiting for the children
to get in. “Is your name Hinka?” I asked, as a thought struck me.
The woman stared at me in a bewildered manner without speaking, but her
panic-struck face was answer sufficient.
“Do not go back to the camp to-night,” I said, speaking on the impulse
of the moment. “The gendarmes are there, and they are waiting for you.”
My meaning was evidently plain, though I had spoken in German; probably
the word gendarmes had a familiar ring in her ear, for she now gazed
at me with positive terror in her wild, dilated eyes—the terror of a
hunted animal which sees the huntsmen closing in on all sides; then,
without a word of explanation, excuse, or thanks, she abruptly turned
round the horse’s head, and lashing it to its utmost speed, disappeared
in the opposite direction.
Several very worthy friends of mine have since pronounced my behavior
in this circumstance to have been highly reprehensible: I had sided
with the malefactor, and possibly defeated the ends of justice by
screening the culprit. Perhaps they are right, and it can only be
owing to some vital defect in my moral constitution that I have never
succeeded in feeling remorse for this action. On the contrary, it was
with a feeling of peculiar satisfaction that I thought that evening
of the three brutal gendarmes waiting in vain for the return of the
guilty Hinka. I wondered how long they waited, and how many pipes they
smoked, and to how many oaths they gave vent on finding that they had
waited in vain, and their victim was not going to walk into the trap
after all.