I turned to a second.
“You have more sense, and you do understand. Adro miro tem penena mande o baro rai.” (In my country the gypsies call me the great gentleman.)
This phrase may be translated to mean either the “tall gentleman” or the “great lord.” It was apparently taken in the latter sense, for at once all the
party bowed very low, raising their hands to their foreheads, in Oriental fashion.
“Hallo!” exclaimed my English friend, who had not understood what I had said. “What game is this you are playing on these fellows?”
Up to the front came a superior, the leader of the band.
“Great God!” he exclaimed, “what is this I hear? This is wonderful. To think that there should be anybody here to talk with! I can only talk Magyar and Romanes.”
“And what do you talk?” I inquired of the first violin.
“Ich spreche nur Deutsch!” he exclaimed, with a strong Vienna accent and a roar of laughter. “I only talk German.”
This worthy man, I found, was as much delighted with my German as the leader with my gypsy; and in all my experience I never met two beings so charmed at being able to converse. That I should have met with them was of itself wonderful. Only there was this difference: that the Viennese burst into a laugh every time he spoke, while the gypsy grew more sternly solemn and awfully impressive. There are people to whom mere talking is a pleasure,—never mind the ideas,—and here I had struck two at once. I once knew a gentleman named Stewart. He was the mayor, first physician, and postmaster of St. Paul, Minnesota. While camping out, en route, and in a tent with him, it chanced that among the other gentlemen who had tented with us there were two terrible snorers. Now Mr. Stewart had heard that you may stop a man’s snoring by whistling. And here was a wonderful opportunity.