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.