I had no friends in Moscow to direct me where to find gypsies en
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 in the country, where
there are grand cafes at considerable distances one from the
other. Pay the driver three rubles for four hours. Enter a cafe,
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 an
istvostshik, 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 my shuba, 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
gene, one in each corner and 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 childish ennui the instant
they detect the foreigner, resolving apparently that they cannot and
will not understand 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 other cafe. 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 many papiross, 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,—with any one.”
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 it they 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 preemption, at my right hand, the belle 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 garcons, 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 fifty present,
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 might possess, 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 delightful abandon which attains perfection only among
gypsies. I had enjoyed the singing in St. Petersburg, but there was a
laisser 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 frolicking
en _famille with 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 was butsi shukar, 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 butsi
shukar” (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 win her 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 the puri 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 even more 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!” (That song, 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-lined
shubas. 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 one
moujik, 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 pleasing finale was the utter amazement and almost
speechless 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 the Grouszini, 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 the
istvostshik asked 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 visit them, for I have passed
over the fact that I had also made the acquaintance of another very
large family of gypsies, who sang at a rival cafe, 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 of
very high 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
delightful than 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 the Gaji or 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 of dorriki. {61} None of 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't you tell fortunes?”
“I should indeed know very little about Romany ways,” I replied,
gravely, “if I could not pen 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. “Tell my
fortune, rya! tell mine! and mine!” 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 a gusveri 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 find it
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 very ne plus ultra of 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 or she 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 her
dorriki also, 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 be un
peu gaillard, and, finally, as the lines of his hand said nothing
to the contrary, I predicted for him in detail a fortune in which
bonnes fortunes were 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 excited that 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 the Romany song, 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 gater 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 I had 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 the latcho 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.'”