This chapter was written by my niece through marriage, Miss
Elizabeth Robins. It is a part of an article which was published in
“The Century,” and it sets forth certain wanderings in seeking old
houses in the city of Philadelphia.
All along the lower part of Race Street, saith the lady, are
wholesale stores and warehouses of every description. Some carts
belonging to one of them had just been unloaded. The stevedores who do
this—all negroes—were resting while they waited for the next load.
They were great powerful men, selected for their strength, and were of
many hues, from cafe au lait, or coffee much milked, up to the
browned or black-scorched berry itself, while the very athletae
were coal-black. They wore blue overalls, and on their heads they had
thrown old coffee-bags, which, resting on their foreheads, passed
behind their ears and hung loosely down their backs. It was in fact the
haik or bag-cloak of the East, and it made a wonderfully effective
Arab costume. One of them was half leaning, half sitting, on a pile of
bags; his Herculean arms were folded, and he had unconsciously assumed
an air of dignity and defiance. He might have passed for an African
chief. When we see such men in Egypt or other sunny countries outre
mer, we become artistically eloquent; but it rarely occurs to
sketchers and word-painters to do much business in the home-market.
The mixture of races in our cities is rapidly increasing, and we
hardly notice it. Yet it is coming to pass that a large part of our
population is German and Irish, and that our streets within ten years
have become fuller of Italian fruit dealers and organ-grinders, so that
Cives sum Romanus (I am a Roman citizen), when abroad, now means
either “I possess a monkey” or “I sell pea-nuts.” Jews from Jerusalem
peddle pocket-books on our sidewalks, Chinamen are monoplizing our
washing and ironing, while among laboring classes are thousands of
Scandinavians, Bohemians, and other Slaves. The prim provincial element
which predominated in my younger years is yielding before this influx
of foreigners, and Quaker monotony and stern conservatism are
vanishing, while Philadelphia becomes year by year more cosmopolite.
As we left the handsome negroes and continued our walk on Water
Street an Italian passed us. He was indeed very dirty and dilapidated;
his clothes were of the poorest, and he carried a rag-picker's bag over
his shoulder; but his face, as he turned it towards us, was really
beautiful.
“Siete Italiano?” (Are you an Italian?) asked my uncle.
“Si, signore” (Yes, sir), he answered, showing all his
white teeth, and opening his big brown eyes very wide.
“E come lei piace questo paese?” (And how do you like this
country?)
“Not at all. It is too cold,” was his frank answer, and laughing
good-humoredly he continued his search through the gutters. He would
have made a good model for an artist, for he had what we do not always
see in Italians, the real southern beauty of face and expression. Two
or three weeks after this encounter, we were astonished at meeting on
Chestnut Street a little man, decently dressed, who at once manifested
the most extraordinary and extravagant symptoms of delighted
recognition. Never saw I mortal so grin-full, so bowing. As we went on
and crossed the street, and looked back, he was waving his hat in the
air with one hand, while he made gestures of delight with the other. It
was the little Italian rag-picker.
Then along and afar, till we met a woman, decently enough dressed,
with jet-black eyes and hair, and looking not unlike a gypsy. “A
Romany!” I cried with delight. Her red shawl made me think of gypsies,
and when I caught her eye I saw the indescrible flash of the kalorat, or black blood. It is very curious that Hindus, Persians, and gypsies
have in common an expression of the eye which distinguishes them from
all other Oriental races, and chief in this expression is the Romany.
Captain Newbold, who first investigated the gypsies of Egypt, declares
that, however disguised, he could always detect them by their glance,
which is unlike that of any other human being, though something
resembling it is often seen in the ruder type of the rural American. I
believe myself that there is something in the gypsy eye which is
inexplicable, and which enables its possessor to see farther through
that strange mill-stone, the human soul, than I can explain. Any one
who has ever seen an old fortune-teller of “the people” keeping some
simple-minded maiden by the hand, while she holds her by her glittering
eye, like the Ancient Mariner, with a basilisk stare, will agree with
me. As Scheele de Vere writes, “It must not be forgotten that the human
eye has, beyond question, often a power which far transcends the
ordinary purposes of sight, and approaches the boundaries of magic.”
But one glance, and my companion whispered, “Answer me in Romany
when I speak, and don't seem to notice her.” And then, in loud tone, he
remarked, while looking across the street,—
“Adovo's a kushto puro rinkeno ker adoi.” (That is a nice old
pretty house there.)
“Avali, rya” (Yes, sir), I replied.
There was a perceptible movement by the woman in the red shawl to
keep within ear-shot of us. Mine uncle resumed,—
“Boro kushto covva se ta rakker a jib te kek Gorgio iinella.”
(It's nice to talk a language that no Gentile knows.)
The red shawl was on the trail. “Je crois que ca mord,”
remarked my uncle. We allowed our artist guide to pass on, when, as I
expected, I felt a twitch at my outer garment. I turned, and the witch
eyes, distended with awe and amazement, were glaring into mine, while
she said, in a hurried whisper,—
“Wasn't it Romanes?”
“Avah,” I replied, “mendui rakker sarja adovo jib.
Butikumi ryeskro lis se denna Gorgines.” (Yes, we always talk that
language. Much more genteel it is than English.)
“Te adovo wavero rye?” (And that other gentleman?)
with a glance of suspicion at our artist friend.
“Sar tacho” (He's all right), remarked mine uncle, which I
greatly fear meant, when correctly translated in a Christian sense,
“He's all wrong.” But there is a natural sympathy and intelligence
between Bohemians of every grade, all the world over, and I never knew
a gypsy who did not understand an artist. One glance satisfied her that
he was quite worthy of our society.
“And where are you tannin kenna?” (tenting now), I inquired.
“We are not tenting at this time of year; we're kairin,”
i.e., houseing, or home-ing. It is a good verb, and might be
introduced into English.
“And where is your house?”
“There, right by Mammy Sauerkraut's Row. Come in and sit down.”
I need not give the Romany which was spoken, but will simply
translate. The house was like all the others. We passed through a
close, dark passage, in which lay canvas and poles, a kettle and a
sarshta, or the iron which is stuck into the ground, and by which a
kettle hangs. The old-fashioned tripod, popularly supposed to be used
by gypsies, in all probability never existed, since the Roms of India
to-day use the sarshta, as mine uncle tells me he learned from a
ci-devant Indian gypsy Dacoit, or wandering thief, who was one of
his intimates in London.
We entered an inner room, and I was at once struck by its general
indescribable unlikeness to ordinary rooms. Architects declare that the
type of the tent is to be distinctly found in all Chinese and Arab or
Turkish architecture; it is also as marked in a gypsy's house—when he
gets one. This room, which was evidently the common home of a large
family, suggested, in its arrangement of furniture and the manner in
which its occupants sat around the tent and the wagon. There was a bed,
it is true but there was a roll of sail-cloth, which evidently did duty
for sleeping on at night, but which now, rolled up, acted the part
described by Goldsmith:—
“A thing contrived a double part to play,
A bed by night, a sofa during day.”
There was one chair and a saddle, a stove and a chest of drawers. I
observed an engraving hanging up which I have several times seen in
gypsy tents. It represents a very dark Italian youth. It is a favorite
also with Roman Catholics, because the boy has a consecrated medal. The
gypsies, however, believe that the boy stole the medal. The Catholics
think the picture is that of a Roman boy, because the inscription says
so; and the gypsies call it a Romany, so that all are satisfied. There
were some eight or nine children in the room, and among them more than
one whose resemblance to the dark-skinned saint might have given color
enough to the theory that he was
“One whose blood
Had rolled through gypsies ever since the flood.”
There was also a girl, of the pantherine type, and one damsel of
about ten, who had light hair and fair complexion, but whose air was
gypsy and whose youthful countenance suggested not the golden, but the
brazenest, age of life. Scarcely was I seated in the only chair, when
this little maiden, after keenly scrutinizing my appearance, and
apparently taking in the situation, came up to me and said,—
“Yer come here to have yer fortune told. I'll tell it to yer for
five cents.”
“Can tute pen dukkerin aja?” (Can you tell fortunes already?)
I inquired. And if that damsel had been lifted at that instant by the
hair into the infinite glory of the seventh sphere, her countenance
could not have manifested more amazement. She stood bouche beante, stock still staring, open-mouthed wide. I believe one might have put a
brandy ball into it, or a “bull's eye,” without her jaws closing on the
dainty. It was a stare of twenty-four carats, and fourth proof.
“This here rye” remarked mine uncle, affably, in middle
English, “is a hartist. He puts 'is heart into all he does; that's
why. He ain't Romanes, but he may be trusted. He's come here, that wot
he has, to draw this 'ere Mammy Sauerkraut's Row, because it's
interestin'. He ain't a tax-gatherer. We don't approve o' payin'
taxes, none of hus. We practices heconomy, and dislike the po-lice. Who
was Mammy Sauerkraut?”
“I know!” cried the youthful would-be fortune-teller. “She was a
witch.”
“Tool yer chib!” (Hold your tongue!) cried the parent. “Don't
bother the lady with stories about chovihanis” (witches).
“But that's just what I want to hear!” I cried. “Go on, my little
dear, about Mammy Sauerkraut, and you will get your five cents yet, if
you only give me enough of it.”
“Well, then, Mammy Sauerkraut was a witch, and a little black girl
who lives next door told me so. And Mammy Sauerkraut used to change
herself into a pig of nights, and that's why they called her
Sauerkraut. This was because they had pig ketchers going about in those
times, and once they ketched a pig that belonged to her, and to be
revenged on them she used to look like a pig, and they would follow her
clear out of town way up the river, and she'd run, and they'd run after
her, till by and by fire would begin to fly out of her bristles, and
she jumped into the river and sizzed.”
This I thought worthy of the five cents. Then my uncle began to put
questions in Romany.
“Where is Anselo W.? He that was staruben for a gry?”
(imprisoned for a horse).
“Staruben apopli.” (Imprisoned again.)
“I am sorry for it, sister Nell. He used to play the fiddle well. I
wot he was a canty chiel', and dearly lo'ed the whusky, oh!”
“Yes, he was too fond of that. How well he could play!”
“Yes,” said my uncle, “he could. And I have sung to his fiddling
when the tatto-pani [hot water, i.e., spirits] boiled
within us, and made us gay, oh, my golden sister! That's the way we
Hungarian gypsy gentlemen always call the ladies of our people. I sang
in Romany.”
“I'd like to hear you sing now,” remarked a dark, handsome young
man, who had just made a mysterious appearance out of the surrounding
shadows.
“It's a kamaben gilli” (a love-song), said the rye;
“and it is beautiful, deep old Romanes,—enough to make you cry.”
There was the long sound of a violin, clear as the note of a horn. I
had not observed that the dark young man had found one to his hand,
and, as he accompanied, my uncle sang; and I give the lyric as he
afterwards gave it to me, both in Romany and English. As he frankly
admitted, it was his own composition.
KE TEINALI.
Tu shan miri pireni
Me kamava tute,
Kamlidiri, rinkeni,
Kames mande buti?
Sa o miro kushto gry
Taders miri wardi,—
Sa o boro buno rye
Rikkers lesto stardi.
Sa o bokro dre o char
Hawala adovo,—
Sa i choramengeri
Lels o ryas luvoo,—
Sa o sasto levinor
Kairs amandy matto,—
Sa o yag adre o tan
Kairs o geero tatto,—
Sa i puri Romni chai
Pens o kushto dukkrin,—
Sa i Gorgi dinneli,
Patsers lakis pukkrin,—
Tute taders tiro rom,
Sims o gry, o wardi,
Tute chores o zi adrom
Rikkers sa i stardi.
Tute haws te chores m'ri all,
Tutes dukkered buti
Tu shan miro jivaben
Me t'vel paller tute.
Paller tute sarasa
Pardel puv te pani,
Trinali—o krallisa!
Miri chovihani!
TO TRINALI.
Now thou art my darling girl,
And I love thee dearly;
Oh, beloved and my fair,
Lov'st thou me sincerely?
As my good old trusty horse
Draws his load or bears it;
As a gallant cavalier
Cocks his hat and wears it;
As a sheep devours the grass
When the day is sunny;
As a thief who has the chance
Takes away our money;
As strong ale when taken down
Makes the strongest tipsy;
As a fire within a tent
Warms a shivering gypsy;
As a gypsy grandmother
Tells a fortune neatly;
As the Gentile trusts in her,
And is done completely,—
So you draw me here and there,
Where you like you take me;
Or you sport me like a hat,—
What you will you make me.
So you steal and gnaw my heart
For to that I'm fated!
And by you, my gypsy Kate,
I'm intoxicated.
And I own you are a witch,
I am beaten hollow;
Where thou goest in this world
I am bound to follow,—
Follow thee, where'er it be,
Over land and water,
Trinali, my gypsy queen!
Witch and witch's daughter!
“Well, that is deep Romanes,” said the woman, admiringly.
“It's beautiful.”
“I should think it was,” remarked the violinist. “Why, I
didn't understand more than one half of it. But what I caught I
understood.” Which, I reflected, as he uttered it, is perhaps exactly
the case with far more than half the readers of all poetry. They run on
in a semi-sensuous mental condition, soothed by cadence and lulled by
rhyme, reading as they run for want of thought. Are there not poets of
the present day who mean that you shall read them thus, and who cast
their gold ornaments hollow, as jewelers do, lest they should be too
heavy?
“My children,” said Meister Karl, “I could go on all day with Romany
songs; and I can count up to a hundred in the black language. I know
three words for a mouse, three for a monkey, and three for the shadow
which falleth at noonday. And I know how to pen dukkerin, lel
dudikabin te chiv o manzin apre latti.” {270}
“Well, the man who knows that is up to drab
[medicine], and hasn't much more to learn,” said the young man. “When a
rye's a Rom he's anywhere at home.”
“So kushto bak!” (Good luck!) I said, rising to go. “We will
come again!”
“Yes, we will come again,” said Meister Karl. “Look for me with the
roses at the races, and tell me the horse to bet on. You'll find my
patteran [a mark or sign to show which way a gypsy has traveled] at
the next church-door, or may be on the public-house step. Child of the
old Egyptians, mother of all the witches, sister of the stars, daughter
of darkness, farewell!”
This bewildering speech was received with admiring awe, and we
departed. I should have liked to hear the comments on us which passed
that evening among the gypsy denizens of Mammy Sauerkraut's Row.