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{307} 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{309} 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.
