Hungary and the Hungarians . hatless, clotheslessurchins. Added to this human freight was a hugewater pail, which did not enhance the balance of thespeechless beast. How these managed to live I couldnever discover. Yet there always seemed an eternalwantlessness about them. A third company ofvagrants I met near Pecs. As I approached only thewomen-folk were visible. But soon men appeared, andin an unmannerly way appropriated the front ranks ofthe crowd. Apparently this type always selects a back-ground for their habitation. Here was a thinned-out,hungry-looking little plantation, with a few frig
Hungary and the Hungarians . hatless, clotheslessurchins. Added to this human freight was a hugewater pail, which did not enhance the balance of thespeechless beast. How these managed to live I couldnever discover. Yet there always seemed an eternalwantlessness about them. A third company ofvagrants I met near Pecs. As I approached only thewomen-folk were visible. But soon men appeared, andin an unmannerly way appropriated the front ranks ofthe crowd. Apparently this type always selects a back-ground for their habitation. Here was a thinned-out,hungry-looking little plantation, with a few frightenedgreen leaves at the top of the trees. The hovels wereformed of sticks, clay, and mud. Cooking for the mostpart was done outside, and the one street of the gipsytown was bestrewn with culinary utensils. The womensmoked native pipes, and one man, the most industriousof his class, was engaged in making wooden spoons andshaping out wooden wash-bowls. Beside him a youngman lazily droned some native unfamiliar dirge, whilst. NIGHT IN A GYPSY CAMP THE GIPSIES AND THEIR MUSIC 209 a third unevenly accompanied him with a violin fromwhich an important string was missing. It was after-noon, and a laziness crept over all, I fear it was con-tagious. The savage indecency of the children andthe accumulated filth never for a second destroyed theharmony of the picture. Snakelike as were many ofthe movements of the men, there was nothing to fear,nothing to distrust, and a huge struggle went on withinme between my sanitary self and my artistic self. Thelatter won. As a picture it was perfect. As a con-dition of life, impossible. Usually the arrival of a stranger is heralded by acarnival of noise—barking dogs, squealing children,and the moaning of the aged. In the art of beggingthey are very proficient, and as witty as the Irish. Onone occasion a large crowd of these interestingimpossibles presented themselves before a certain Countess W , whom they used to call the mother of gipsies, from
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