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 gêne, 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 café. 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,—