Puslapio vaizdai
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"What little face of blessed one! En nombre de todos los santos!"

to the precise contours of youth, but the eyes, once like two fleas, now actually represented eyes, and the whole face, by some new trick in the angle of the brows.

had acquired a look of noble spirituality which would be highly creditable to a virgin martyr.

In fact, the surgeon of beauty ventured

to think that he had done a pretty good piece of work, and he was piqued when the sisters with one impulse fell upon their knees and poured out all their gratitude to God.

But presently Ernestina made a discovery which alloyed her enthusiasm. She could no longer smile. Ay Dios! Qué Ay Dios! Qué fatalidad! Something in the rearrangement of skin or muscles had brought it to pass that the faintest approach to a smile was met with an alarming tension, followed, unless the impulse was immediately checked, by sharp twinges of pain.

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In answer to her outcries the surgeon beauty assured her that an expression of English immobility was in the latest mode cultivated by the most fashionable señoras, and advised her to resist all impulse to smile, a very simple matter if she would only make up her mind never to feel amused. Clarita praised his sagacity, and offered comfort to her sister by reminding her that she had ever been given to tears rather than to laughter, and remarking that her condition would have proved far more embarrassing if she had found herself inhibited from weeping abundantly and in perfect comfort, as at that moment.

Not being very logically inclined, Ernestina found no comfort in these arguments, and although she had thanked God for her new face, she now blamed the surgeon of beauty for its limitations as an instrument of mirthful expression.

Fortunately her dissatisfaction was short-lived. Such a profound impression did her metamorphosis make upon her mother, and thereafter upon all the world, that she very quickly reconciled herself to a lifetime of smilelessness. For, emerging from her self-imposed retreat with a countenance so changed and so spiritualized, she became famous far and wide as a saint whose piety had been rewarded with a visible, unequivocal signet of divine favor.

In the light of the legend of the miracle, her holiness was manifest to all, and all paid gratifying tribute thereto. Fastidious. young women friends who in times past had gracefully refrained from giving her

the customary two kisses, one on each cheek, at greeting and parting, now fervently pressed their pretty lips to her smooth and sanctified face, praying silently for forgiveness and benediction. Sick friends would leave their beds and drive to the House of Colors, designing under the pretext of a social call to sit near Ernestina and, if possible, to hold her blessed hand. Expectant mothers plotted or pleaded for her presence on interesting occasions, that her holy face might be the first on which the eyes of their babes should light. As for the common people, they frankly kneeled when she passed.

And Clarita? Her joy knew no bounds until one day when she learned that Ernestina had peremptorily declined to consider an offer of marriage from an eligible widower as pious and well born as he was wealthy. Pains of all the martyrs! From her balcony that night the love-sick virgin rained tears upon the upturned, anguished face of Don Luis.

The fact was that the world's conception of Ernestina's holiness had awakened an unmistakable echo in her own soul. No one believed in the miraculous character of her transfiguration more sincerely than she herself, and in this faith she was confirmed by her father confessor, who preached an eloquent sermon on the subject. The first offer of marriage was followed by many more, from widowers and bachelors of excellent pedigree and serious disposition, but from the rarefied heights on which she now dwelt a descent to the banality of marriage was out of the question.

However, the good creature was not so lost in heavenly contemplation as not to have kept a human corner in her heart for her little sister, and such was her influence upon Doña Rosalia that the constancy of Don Luis was at length rewarded as it deserved. His long years of playing the bear had not spoiled his disposition, and if you had known Clarita in the past and could see her now with her three lovely children, I believe you would consider her transfiguration just as wonderful as that of the saintly Ernestina.

The Gipsies of the Balkans

By DEMETRA VAKA

Author of "She Who Sowed the Seed," etc.

N leaving Servia, my brother and I

ON

decided to travel through the country called old Servia, which before the last Balkan war against Turkey still formed a part of the Ottoman Empire. It was here that we came more into contact with the Gipsies, although these nomads could be found anywhere throughout the peninsula. They were a migratory population, but, like the swallows, always remade their nests in the same places. Remaking their nests consisted of unharnessing the halfstarved, scrawny ponies from their dilapi· dated, springless wagons, and turning them loose to graze, then pitching tents that harmonized admirably with ponies and wagons.

When settled, the Gipsies immediately set up their industries, and remained in a locality until they had collected enough money for another migration. They traveled in companies, each company consisting of a clan united by ties of blood or marriage, and there were numerous babies to be tended in each encampment. These same Gipsies of the Balkans came down to Constantinople and encamped in vacant places on the Bosporus or on the Sea of Marmora. There I had first met them, came to know them, and, I confess, to like them, although their reputation was of the worst. There was no crime that was not imputed to them. Fact and fancy were mingled in the sinister deeds attributed to them; for the people of the East have vivid imaginations, and the Fourth Crusade, the Bulgars, and the reign of the Turks helped to stimulate their powers of belief in evil.

Wherever the Gipsies encamped, the devil's own halo encircled the place, and God-fearing citizens would think many times before passing their camp after dusk.

Indeed, I was told by my nurse that whenever the Gipsies came to our island, she could see the sparks of hell during the whole night, and hear the cries and groans of the wicked ones whose souls were under the heels of the dark power. Considering that blacksmithing is one of the industries of the Gipsies and that they work at any hour of the night, it is quite natural that the anvil should be heard in the darkness and that the sparks from the anvil should be seen.

I was only eight when I first spoke to a Gipsy girl. A large encampment had settled down not far from our house, and one day, on returning from a visit with my mother, I came upon a girl seated under a tree and moaning as I had never heard a human being moan. I was ahead of my mother, and stopped and spoke to the little girl. I touched her on the shoulder several times before she raised her head, and then I saw that she was hugging a small dog the blood of which was dripping over the sole garment she wore. There were no tears in the girl's eyes, only misery. As my mother had not yet come up to us, I kneeled before her and the dog. "Is he dead?" I asked.

"Not yet," she answered somberly; "but he is going to die, and when he does I shall take the life of the man who did this."

The little dog's tongue was hanging out of his mouth, and his eyes expressed the misery reflected in the eyes of his mistress. Poor little Gipsy cur, like his mistress, unwelcome upon the face of the earth! Ever since I can remember I have had a feeling of sympathy for all those whose footsteps were dogged by inexplicable scorn. Out of that feeling I next spoke:

"The dog may still be saved. Come

with me to my home, and let my sister see him. She is wonderful with sick animals."

A gleam of hope came into the eyes of the little girl. She rose quickly, and then I saw how profusely the dog was bleeding.

"Do try to stop his bleeding," I cried, "or he will lose all his blood before we reach our home!"

She put her little brown hands, the fingers covered with extravagant paste jewels, over the little creature's wound. Moved by the misery before me, I offered my best unused handkerchief, and told her to put it on his wound. To my horror, she bent her head and licked the wound, and only then applied the handkerchief.

My mother now came up to us, gave a glance at the Gipsy and her dog, but said not a single word even when I explained to her that they were going home with us. At home my sister bathed the wound and carefully bandaged it. She told the Gipsy that she must let the dog stay with us for a few days. The girl hung her head and considered, and consented to let him remain behind only after my sister had declared that the dog might die if he were moved. She dropped on her knees, threw her arms around him, and poured out in her outlandish tongue the anguish she was suffering in the separation. I did not understand her language, but from her face I realized her misery, and I ran to my mother, who had left us after we had reached the house.

"Mama," I cried, "the little Gipsy dog is going to stay with sister till he is cured, and his mistress is weeping so! Can't we let her stay in the house, too?"

"What you ask is absolutely impossible," my mother replied severely. "What is more, I wish you never again to speak to a Gipsy. Do you understand-never again!"

"You did n't seem to object out there." "I did not know in what language to speak to you, those Gipsies know so many. I was afraid she might understand, and revenge herself on us."

"Now she is in the house," I persisted, "can't we, just for once, let her stay with her dog and not be separated from him?"

My mother looked at me, and from experience I knew that the last word had been said. I left her, and only eight years old though I was, I began that day to wonder why they engaged priests to teach us the gospel of the Nazarene, and then never let us practise it.

The few days that the Gipsy dog remained in our house his mistress spent as near our windows as she was permitted by those who kicked her about whenever my sister or I was not looking. The dog was cured, and when, leaping with joy, he was placed in her arms, she was so grateful she wanted to kiss my sister; but my mother, who happened to be present, motioned to my sister not to permit it.

Although I was forbidden to speak to the Gipsies, I did so whenever I could clandestinely. My little Gipsy, who was named Valérie, after the favorite daughter of Empress Elizabeth, was a source of delight to me. I told my sister how she, too, could speak to Valérie if she wished, but she exclaimed:

"I can't. Mama forbids it."

"She will never find it out," I suggested.

"But I shall have to confess it to the priest, and he will reprove me, and so he will you," she ended.

"I don't mind," I replied. As a matter of fact, I did not mean to tell the priest, for I had already begun to settle my affairs without his help.

My friendship with Valérie was dear to me. First, because it had in it an element of adventure, since I had to see her without being found out; second, because she told me of their travels and their way of living. From Valérie I learned much more than I did later at college from a full course in sociology.

They did not come to Constantinople every year. Their travels extended from there all across the Balkans and into Austria, and as they did not travel by expresstrains, it took them a long time to go over so much ground. From the tales she told me I was quite aware that the code of my new friend was different from mine. Lie the Gipsies did; steal they did; and when

it was necessary, they killed. Yet Valérie made everything natural, and I accepted her code as naturally. Philosophy and tolerance are inborn in a child's nature. It is only later, as the various teachings of our elders take root in our souls, that we acquire standards and begin to judge the world from the particular brand of civilization that is ours.

Thanks to my early clandestine friendship with Valérie, when my brother and I were traveling through the Balkans I was able to talk freely with the Gipsies, and did not avoid them with the superstitious hatred that is our heritage in the East. We used to come upon their encampments everywhere in the wilds of old Servia, and they certainly were a villainous crew to look at, the men with their long hair and longer ear-rings, the women in their fantastic raiment, their hair dressed in veils of such daring colors that they screamed at one as far as one could see them. And then when we came nearer there was the filth.

THE BOY WHO WANTED TO BE AN
EMPEROR

PEOPLE will tell you in the Balkans that a
Gipsy camp is to be avoided; yet I used to
hail them with pleasure. They added to
the wildness and savagery of the nature
about us.
One day, several miles from
Uskup, our horses raised their heads and
listened to something we could not hear.
At first we thought they were smelling
human blood; but we came to the conclu-
sion that something different caused their
interest, since no tremors of fear were
passing through them. Reining them in,
we listened, but, hearing nothing, started
to ride on. After a while a sound like the
faint moaning of a torrent came to us.
The effect on our horses was very pecu-
liar: they seemed to have forgotten their
fatigue, and were sidling along in a way
that made me nervous.

Finally we made out that it was weird strains of music that reached us.

"We are nearing a Gipsy camp," my brother said with relief. "Some one is playing with more fire than usual."

Within sight of the camp, the music came to us in its full beauty or its full horror, I do not know which. Since then I have heard many great masters play; but such music as that I have never heard. It was heavenly; it was hellish. Our horses were as much affected as we: they pranced as if they were steeds of the great mettle, instead of poor, scrawny, Balkan ponies. As for me, I began to dream of things unheard, unknown, only dreamable.

Sitting on a wagon, a youth was hanging over his violin, playing-playing like mad. Presently, without interrupting his music, he sprang from the wagon and paced back and forth, still playing torrentially. We sat fascinated both by the player and his playing, trying all the time to quiet our horses.

At last the music seemed spent ; the boy let his violin fall to the ground, where he, too, threw himself, and the music was succeeded by heartbreaking sobbing. His weeping, like his music, was as torrential as a storm. Like it, it ceased when it had reached its climax.

A girl was sitting in the entrance of a tent, nursing a wee baby. She regarded the figure on the ground apathetically. We dismounted, and I gingerly approached her. The tent was full of Gipsies, either sleeping or cooking, and in the woods were others cutting wood for their fires.

"Why is he crying like this?" I asked the girl.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He always weeps when he plays as he did to-day."

"Is he your brother?"

"No, I belong to him, and this is his son. He came into his little body only six weeks ago; before that he lived in me." She said the last words with great pride in herself for being the mother of a son.

My brother approached the now silent player, and touched him on the shoulder. The boy raised his head, and then sat up. His eyes were deep, black pools filled with Mano offered him a handful of cigarettes. The boy accepted them eagerly

woe.

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