The “sea of fire†which Napoleon saw at Moscow was replaced for us by a sea of green roofs as we neared that city at 10.30A. M., July 23d. The sight of a real sea could not have been more refreshing. We had been traveling fourteen hours by express from St. Petersburg. We could have read coarse print by twilight as late as 11P. M., and then again as early as two in the morning. It was possible, therefore, to see most of the country through which we passed by simply raising the curtain of the sleeping-car window. But the more we looked at the flying landscape the less we liked it. The scenery was that from Wirballen to St. Petersburg over again—flat, boggy, densely wooded, in places well cleared and cultivated, in others with plenty of cattle reclining in the fields, but lightly dotted with houses. Nothing except mountains compensates for the absence of human life. We could have shouted for joy at the first glimpseof that broad stretch of pea-green, two stories high. From its surface, as from a body of water, rose domes, turrets, spires, towers, battlements innumerable. There were bulbous forms which we compared variously to onions, radishes, or turnips. These were mostly plated with gold, which shone intensely in the keen light of day. Others were silver or indigo-blue or red, and still others matched the green from which they sprang. The churches of Moscow are five hundred strong. Each of these may have half a dozen steeples. The effect of the whole is bristling. The city looks like “many-spired Milan†on a large scale, except that the domes interject an element which one misses in the Christian West. The place of the Kremlin is at once identified by the thicker growth of bulbs and needles which we see near the center of the great city. The terms “eccentric,†“whimsical,†“grotesque,†“bizarre,†“barbaric,†are used by some of our fellow-travelers to express their feelings. We do not quarrel with their epithets. We can only say that for us there can not be too great a contrast between the church architecture here and that which we have seen in other countries of other religions. We thank the Tartars—if they are the responsible parties—for originating all those odd shapes which cluster in the fold of the Kremlin.
At the station we were received by a man wearing a long blue robe girded at the waist, trousers tucked into his boots, and a sort of smoking-cap with a band of peacock’s feathers. If he could have spoken a word of English or French or German, the charm of this splendid apparition would have vanished instantly. He was delightfully Russian from top to toe. When we said “Slaviansky Bazaar†(name of the principal hotel here), he knew what was meant. He conducted us to a carriage, to which were harnessed four white horses abreast, all decorated with bells and tassels. It was obvious that this sort of thing was not universal in Moscow, for we saw no other men in the streets dressed in that way, and few other horses thus caparisoned. All the more were we obliged to the proprietor of the Slaviansky Bazaar for treating his guests to the revival of old Russian hospitalities. At the hotel we were sorry to see waiters in the claw-hammer coats and white neck-ties of Delmonico’s. But then, again, it was a pleasure to find a smooth-faced boy with his long hair parted in the middle and a tunic of such a cut and length that he looked externally just like a girl. When one finds these things at Moscow after traveling thousands of miles for them, he begins to feel rewarded.
We have been in pursuit of good, genuineRussian dinners in and out of the hotel, and are prepared to say that they fully equal the best French combinations in appetizing and nourishing qualities. At some of the restaurants you must read or speak Russian or starve, unless you can make the waiter understand that you will take a dinner at a fixed price. It is delightful to find a race with the moral courage to invent dishes of its own, with names which a Frenchman can not understand. The soup, to begin with, would be incomprehensible to a Parisianchef. Two portions of it would make a square meal. It is hot, slab broth, with a large chunk of meat (not a knuckle-bone) in the middle of it, inviting the knife to cut and come again. With this succulent dish is served pastry, looking like Yankee “turn-overs,†stuffed to the bursting-point with meat hash. Croquettes and balls of meat—with delicious sauces—figure in almost every dinner. The conventional “joint†of other countries—beef, mutton, or veal—is not wanting, and the Russians so far accommodate themselves to our prejudices as to give us chicken and salad—but the latter in the disappointing form of pickled cucumber, while we are sighing for a little crisp lettuce. I had almost forgotten the fish, but then the fish is served out of place. Here it comes, third on the list, following a meat dish. For dessert, one has the fruit of the season. Justnow the strawberry is in its zenith. They bring us a rosy pile, which we are expected to eat out of soup-plates with table-spoons. Cream is plenty, but powdered sugar scarce. I send for more. The waiter is polite, and goes for it.
When he returns, I am conscious that he is looking me hard in the face. He wants to see what manner of man it is who requires to qualify his sour berries with so much of sweet. He had previously been looking just as hard at my blue gaiters. I am beginning to discover that gaiters are as rare here as fez caps in Broadway. In fact, I have the only pair in Moscow, and should be glad to believe that the universal gaze directed at them is not one of secret derision in this land of boots. As we are now through with our dinner, we will dismiss that subject, only adding that, if one must have wine, he can get something pure, light, and nice, the product of the Crimea or Caucasus. In settling my score, I give something to the waiter, as a reward for his spotlessness; for, at the first-class restaurant where we have just dined (Moskovskia Traktir), he is dressed in complete white, relieved only by a little red cord about his waist. This shining habit is unstained by a single drop of soup or gravy, although he has been whisking plates and tureens off the table the moment we were through with them.
On Sunday we were wakened early by a grand crash of bells. As almost every one of the hundreds of churches has a set of four or five bells, you will understand that, when all ring together, they compel a hearing. None of them are very near us, and the sound of the harshest was mellowed by distance. They were of all pitches, from the deepest bass to the shrillest treble. I could not make out a tune in all the noise. The bells are not rung as chimes. Each one seems to work “on its own hook,†and to be striking a continuous fire-alarm. After listening to the clamor for half an hour, one feels like turning over for another nap. But the attempt is useless. The bell-ringers are as punctilious in their performances as if these were the most essential part of religion. They will not shorten the prescribed hours of this labor by a single second. Among the profound notes that come booming over all the green roofs, I fancy I hear the voice of a monstrous brazen-throated creature whom I patted on the back the other day. He is kept in the stronghold of a tower within the Kremlin about one hundred and fifty feet from the ground. Without vouching for measurements, I should say he is twelve feet wide at the flare or rim and fourteen feet high. His tongue weighs about two tons. Sounded with the ferule of my umbrella, he gave a littlemuffled roar. The man in charge offered to tap him gently with the ponderous clapper swinging there. But I did not care to hear him more clearly at short range, and declined.
But one would willingly pay a number of rubles to hear the Tsar Kolokol struck, if that dethroned monarch of all the bells could be set up again. But there he remains, mutilated and silent forever. The pictures of the great bell of Moscow had not prepared me to see how neatly it had been broken. The detached fragment, which now stands by the side of the ruined bell, might have been cut from it with a knife, so straight and clean are the lines of breakage. One would think that it might be put back again and the last trace of a scar be obliterated with solder. But that would not restore its voice to the bell. For it has ten or a dozen cracks, some of them many feet long, and each one has spoiled it. If there is any considerable percentage of silver in this bell—as seems likely on inspection, and if it weighs two hundred tons, as we are told—it would be very valuable as old metal. But it is still more precious to Moscow as her unique and most interesting treasure.
The ordinary bass voice is often little better than a growl or huskiness of the throat. No one thinks of calling it musical. But I never heard tenors that thrilled and charmed me more than thebasses at the Temple of the Saviour. This is the costliest and most splendid church in all the Russias. Its outside is marble and gold. Its inside is a lavish display of the precious metals thickly set with gems. Every fine quarry in the empire has contributed its best to compose the tesselated floor, the wainscoting, and the columns of the marvelous structure. It was built to commemorate the defeat of the French invasion of 1812, and was only recently completed, after forty-six years of consecutive work. As one walks about this stupendous church, and transfers his admiration from one object of beauty and richness to another, his attention is suddenly called off from everything by a burst of musical thunder. It floods the interior like the crash of a great organ. He looks all around, and can not see what causes it. Somewhere in an elevated and hidden choir, or behind the massive gold altar-piece, are the singers. The voices are all basses. There are three or four distinct “parts,†some pitched so much higher than others that they seem relatively to be tenors. Each note—even the lowest—is clear and firm. It has the sweetness of a flute with the sonorous volume of a bassoon. The concealed performers are uttering responses to the gorgeously attired priests, whose own voices are deep and melodious, and worthy to take part in this noble choral service.I wait for half an hour, hoping that the singers will execute some long and formal piece. But they do not, and I retire, having learned for the first time of what a bass voice is capable in sacred music.
Although the Russians spend so much money to celebrate the failure of Napoleon, they really admire the audacious genius of the man, and make no secret of it. In every palace and museum I have visited at St. Petersburg and Moscow I have seen full-lengths or busts of him in marble, bronze, or oil. Some are originals, others are copies. One painting, entirely new to me, represents him with brown hair, banged. In the Treasury of the Kremlin the guide shows you two camp-beds which Napoleon left behind when he evacuated Moscow. He is always indicating to you the street by which Napoleon entered or withdrew from the city, the steps up which he walked, the doors through which he passed, the chairs in which he sat. You would think that he was a Russian hero. The people still point with a certain pride to the marks of cannon-shot and bullets, and say, “Napoleon!â€
Of all the Russian sovereigns, next to Peter the Great, Catharine the Second seems to have been the most extraordinary. The tourist is continually running across her statues, her portraits, hercrowns, her jewelry, her silverware. There is more of her personal property and reminders of her of one kind and another on show than of any other Romanoff, man or woman. The best things in all the palaces, the treasuries, and the sacristies were hers. If you see a string of pearls, each perfect and as large as a hazel-nut, even before you have pointed it out, your guide says, “Catharine the Second.†If there is a scepter with a particularly large diamond in the top, and the handle knobby with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, you know who wielded it without being told. To the physical courage of a man she added the delicate æsthetic tastes of a woman. Other rulers may have been more extravagant than she, but Catharine the Second understood how to make boundless wealth contribute to the production of artworks that still live to be admired. The goldsmiths, the silversmiths, the lapidaries, the sculptors, and the painters found in her their most intelligent patroness. In their turn they did their utmost to perpetuate her memory. Stone and canvas, metal and ivory agree in representing her as tall and stout, with ample brain-power, a full lower face, and a most imperial port. She was one born to command, and she would have reduced men to vassalage by her indomitable will if she had not gentler arts for managing them. InSt. Petersburg stands a magnificent bronze image of the Empress, of heroic size. Seated at the base of this lofty figure, on a pedestal running all about it, are nine gentlemen, also in bronze. Their postures are sentimental or statesmanlike or warlike. The guide-book tells us they were favorites of Catharine the Second. In that capacity, perhaps, they thought they could manage her. But they were mistaken. A woman who, when in full army uniform, looked like the most gallant of generals, was not putty in the hands of any favorite. In that amazing collection of odds and ends known as the Treasury, inside the Kremlin, there is an equestrian portrait of Catharine. She bestrides her horse like a man. In front of the picture are two saddles, made for her use and presented to her by some tributary princes or neighboring potentates, who wanted to keep on good terms with her. Her horse, already burdened with her generous weight, could not have shared her admiration of the saddles, for they are heavy with all kinds of precious stones, numbered by the hundreds; and the stirrups and the shoes which the poor beast must wear in her honor are of solid silver.
In a corner of the room where I am now writing, just below the ceiling, is a framed, silver-gilt picture of the Saviour facing the east. TheVirgin and Child look down from a similar position in the adjoining bedchamber. Every room in this great labyrinth of a hotel has just such an object of reverence which the pious Russian can not fail to see as he crosses the threshold. To this he pays his homage of signs and bows. He does it a thousand times a day in the streets, where these emblems confront him at every turn. He does not expect people of other religions to conform to any of his notions. He allows them to walk freely about the churches and stare through opera-glasses, in a languid way, at objects which to him are sacred, and to be approached only in a spirit of abasement and veneration. But there is one shrine in this city before which it is expected that every foreigner will remove his hat. If he fails to do so, he is thought an ignorant, boorish fellow, and may be hissed and hooted. It is the fine, large Icon of the Master, which hangs above the Redeemer’s gate (Spasköi Vorota)—one of the entrances of the Kremlin. Immemorial custom has made it obligatory to take off the hat when entering this gate and keep it off till the entire width of the wall is traversed. The cabman would let his horses run away before he would neglect this hallowed usage; and if the Tsar himself should fail to comply with it, he would start a revolution.
The foundling asylum (Vospità telny Dom) is as well known in Moscow as the Tsar Kolokol. Any droschky-driver can take you there by the shortest cut, if you engage him by the “course.†Everymujikin the streets can and will direct you to it with the greatest pleasure. He may think that you want to adopt a child out of it, or to put one into it. As a man of Moscow, he is interested in both those operations. Let me not be misunderstood. The foundling asylum is not intended to receive only children born out of wedlock. It is indeed a refuge for those poor little waifs. Many a baby, over whom the Moskwa would otherwise close its dark and swift waters, is saved to become a good soldier for the Tsar or a modest and prettily dressed house-maid, simply because the newborn could be put by the mother within the folds of the foundling asylum and none be the wiser. She has only, in the darkness of night, to place thechild in a sort of cradle attached to a door outside of the building, and pull a bell. This gives a signal and starts some machinery. The door revolves on its hinges, landing the little stranger on the inside. At the same time, a nurse responds to the summons and takes charge of the baby. If the mother has left any bit of a trinket tied around its neck, or a letter, or a card pinned to its dress, or anything else to identify it, she can claim her own at any time afterward, on proving her maternal rights. If she wants to keep her painful secret forever to herself, she may be sure that her child will be well fed, neatly clothed, taught to read and write, cared for in health and morals, and trained in the religion of the Greek Church, till he or she is old enough to be apprenticed, or adopted out by some respectable citizen, and put in the way of an honest living.
But the most frequent patrons of the asylum are married folk. If they have more children than they can rear, they turn over the surplus to the state—more often as a loan than a gift. They know that the good doctors and nurses of the institution will do all in their power to preserve the little lives unharmed. At the end of five or six years they are more likely to find their Nicolaievitch or Feodorovna well and happy, than if it had run the dreadful gantlet of scarlet fever, cholerainfantum, and diphtheria in their own squalid homes. It is a misfortune to feel obliged to surrender a child to such a corporation, though the biggest of souls animates it. The parents are to be pitied—perhaps blamed—but it is not a disgrace to them.
I said that anybody in Moscow could pilot you to the foundling asylum, but you must know the Russian word for it. The landlord of your hotel will give it to you, and you may commit it to memory, or write it down by the sounds. It will not bear the slightest resemblance to the name of a foundling asylum in French, German, Italian, or any other language of which you may have a smattering. The surname of the present writer has always appeared, when chalked in script on the blackboard directories of Russian hotels, as “Tymour,†or something to that effect. It reminded him of that monster in history—Timour the Tartar—and such a liberty taken with his patronymic was not at all agreeable.
But to get on to the foundling asylum. Before presenting myself at the visitors’ door of the vast building, I took an admission-ticket from my pocket-book. This ticket is made of flimsy paper, about four inches long by three wide; it bears a portrait of the Tsar, a number of Russian words, and a facsimile of somebody’s signature. It is popularlyknown as the “ruble.†When a man has this between his thumb and finger, so that it can be seen of men, it will take him through doors that are locked and bolted to all other forms of passport. The same gratifying effects follow the exhibition of the shilling in England, the franc in France, the lira in Italy, the mark in Germany, and the florin in Austria. The door was opened by a dignified person. He loomed up so very large that I thought my ruble was a little too small for his measure; so I did not offer it, but crumpled it suddenly in the palm of my hand. The tall man looked as if he did not expect or desire a “tip.†Speaking in French, he kindly asked me in, and I followed him.
I was just in time to see something very interesting. We entered a room at the end of a short passage. At that moment a poorly dressed old woman was in the act of unrolling a huge bundle of shawls and wraps. Over her was bending a matronly person with a very sympathetic face. My polite guide drew near to this group of two, and I stood at his elbow. The old woman peeled off the clothes as if she were unrolling a mummy. Nobody spoke a word, but I heard a faint cry from the center of the mysterious bundle. Then I knew that this was the reception-room for babies, and that here was the newest of the comers. Amoment more, and a child was sprawling before us in its unadorned beauty. It lay in the middle of the heap of shawls as in a soft nest, which it was loath to quit. As it made another little piping cry, a tear moistened the old woman’s eye, but she showed no other sign of agitation. I surmised that she was the grandmother of the baby, and had come to discharge a duty for which the mother was ashamed. The secret—whatever it was—was confided to the care of the good matron alone, not even my guide being allowed to share it. Then a little Greek cross of filigree silver was handed over as a keepsake and means of identifying and reclaiming the child.
These preliminaries over, the matron touched a bell. In response, there came a woman bearing a steelyard scale, and a measuring-tape. She held the scale aloft with a firm hand, and the matron lifted the baby gently from its nest and placed it in the large bowl-like receptable for weighing. Between its bare pink flesh and the cold metal there was a thin sheet of soft cloth. The baby performed its part bravely, for it lay perfectly quiet, while the matron rapidly adjusted the weight till the beam hung true. She could not have done the job more carefully if she had been selling the baby at a hundred rubles a pound. The exact weight was then entered in a great ledger.
Next came the nice measuring of the head—all around just above the eyes—and its length through the ears from crown to chin; then the girth of its little body below the arms; and, finally, the candidate was raised aloft again and turned in every direction in the strong light of a large bay-window. The aspirants for the honor of the princess’s hand in the “Arabian Nights†were not more critically inspected for blemishes. The object of this minute examination of the body was to note birth-marks, if any. Not one was found, as I can certify, who witnessed the operation at short range. This over, a small ticket or medal made of hard wood, numbered 11,283, and attached to an India-rubber cord, was hung about baby’s neck. It would receive a name later on; for the present it was only a numerical expression. Thus ended the first stage of baby’s initiation. At that point, the old woman whom I provisionally call “grandmother,†left the scene, carrying the pile of shawls and wraps loosely upon her arm. If she felt any emotions in parting with the child, she completely stifled them.
The baby, still stark naked, but not shivering in the warm air of the room, was then carried away. The guide beckoned me to follow it with him, and I did so. We entered a small bath-room where were a nice porcelain-lined bath-tub, ofbaby size, with silver plated stop-cocks, a showering apparatus, sponges, soap and scrubbing-brush all complete. A stout woman, with fat arms bared clear to the shoulder, officiated at baby’s first bath, and I was expected to see it through. It is one of the penalties of visiting public institutions anywhere with guides, that you are in their hands and must go the rounds. But I had become interested in baby’s fortunes, and found myself watching the soaping and sponging and scrubbing without being much bored. If that baby takes all the ills of life as bravely as it took the water in its ears, and the soap its eyes, then there will be one angelic disposition more in this wicked world. It sputtered a little, but never cried or sniveled once. After it was all wiped dry and powdered with a flour-dredger, the stout woman shouldered her charge and led the way to another room. I found myself really curious to see what would happen to baby next. So I followed, with the guide at my heels.
We were now in the dressing-room; there was a large wardrobe with glass doors; through these I could see baby-dresses hung on pegs. They were variously trimmed with blue, red, and yellow ribbons, and I soon found myself wondering which color would fall to baby’s share. Thus concerned in its affairs had I unconsciouslybecome. On shelves in the wardrobe were displayed little stockings, soft knitted shoes, and caps. There was plenty of clothes on hand for every emergency. The woman reached up and took down a long, white dress trimmed with yellow. Now I had noticed baby’s eyes and they were blue; so I took the liberty of suggesting, through the guide, that the ribbons ought to match the eyes. The hint was graciously adopted. If any future visitor to the Foundling Asylum of Moscow should happen to observe the fine blue eyes of No. 11,283, he will appreciate my good taste in matching them with the ribbons, which, if worn out, I trust will be renewed.
“And, now,†said my guide, “you must see the baby nursed.†I murmured a few modest objections. I did not wish to intrude upon such strictly private functions. The nurse would not like it, etc. The guide smiled, and said I must follow the baby. So we passed through another doorway, and entered the nurses’ room.
It was a long apartment, spotless as to wooden floor and whitewashed ceiling. Along one side was a row of strong, wooden cradles; on the other side were the nurses’ beds with frames of iron. The sheets were snowy and the pillows without crease. There were ten or twelve nurses present, each one rocking a cradle or holding achild to her breast. Ruddier and more robust women I never saw. They were mostly under thirty years old, I should say. The contour of their faces was more oval than the type of head seen between St. Petersburg and Moscow, and they were handsomer in other respects. They were dressed for business in neat and appropriate costumes, less scanty and more reserved than one sees at the opera.
Inquiring, I learned that the best nurses come from provinces south of Moscow, and that most of these were of that select class. As we entered they arose, still nursing their babies, and courtesied to us gracefully. At first, I felt that I ought to apologize for disturbing this large but peaceful family. The nurses, however, soon put me at ease. They took the visit quite as a matter of course. They could not have been less self-conscious had I been an artist, and they professional models. As we passed down the line, the guide chucked some of the babies under the chin or patted their heads. Not to be singular I did the same thing. Each nurse seemed to think the act complimentary to herself, as well as to the baby. I dare say, if her own chin had been chucked, she would not have taken offense. But we did not try it.
Near the end of the line stood a nurse, who had no baby in her arms. The cradle just behindher was empty. Death had removed its little tenant. She was the destined custodian of the neophyte in blue ribbons. I was glad of it. In looking at her honest face and healthy complexion, one felt sure that she was not to blame for that loss in the fold. The nourishment she supplied must have been life-giving. On that broad and generous bosom there was room for twins. As she saw the baby borne toward her, she knew what it meant. Her large eyes shone with pleasure. As the baby stopped opposite her, both reached out their arms. It was an act of nature and spontaneous. That nurse and that child were made for each other. Its own mother could not have folded it to her heart more tenderly. I felt that I had no right to push curiosity further. I was satisfied that baby’s fortunes, so far followed with interest, had reached one happy stage. As I turned to depart, the last sounds I heard from baby were faint gurgles of satisfaction.
My initiation into the mysteries of the foundling asylum was now complete. I would gladly have stepped out of window on to the green grass, with that touching picture of suckling innocence still in my mind. But a guide, like a sentinel, must go his rounds. So I was taken by moral force through other rooms full of nurses andbabies, whom I passed in review. The prevalent quietness of the infants was surprising. Those who were awake were not crying. Like everybody else in the building, they appeared to be on their good behavior during my visit. One touch of human nature—if only the clinching of a tiny fist—would have been a relief amid all that angelic display of sweet temper. It made one suspect that they had been dosed with something to keep them quiet. I was glad to pass on to the laundry, the hospital (with only two or three little inmates) the kitchen and the pantry, till finally we came to a refectory. There was a tableful of children large enough to sit and ply the spoon. The oldest of the thirty or forty could not have been more than six years. They were boys and girls, simply and neatly dressed in uniform style. They all rose as we entered, and held up their spoons in salute. It was a pretty sight and more confusing to the visitor than one would think. Such courtesy seems to demand a better response than a bow. A distribution of sugar-plums or of small coin would seem the proper thing. But this is not allowed; so that, all we can do, besides bowing, is to walk around this company of little people, and smile at them in a vague, benevolent way. Through the guide I begged them to be seated. They did not need to be asked twice, for they were hungry, andI had interrupted them in the act of eating what looked like hasty-pudding and milk. It recalled my own early fondness for that dish, and I would gladly have been invited to join the simple repast, even at the risk of spoiling a keen appetite for the forthcoming elaborate dinner at the Slaviansky Bazaar. It was a pleasure to note the size of the bowls. They held an honest quart apiece, and had been so scrupulously filled that some of the children stopped plying their spoons before they got to the bottom; others rapidly emptied their bowls and polished off the interiors. For those greedier ones there was still a supply of sweetened bread in stacks, waiting a signal to be passed around. It was plain that the older children, as well as the babies themselves, were objects of a provident care which would shame many parents. Not otherwise can I explain the bright eyes, contented faces, and chubby bodies I saw in that refectory. Many of the children were strikingly good-looking. I recall the seraphic face of a five-year-old girl, with large black eyes, and a perfect mouth, and two dimples dotting cheeks of rose-leaves. And one of the boys looked almost like a twin brother of the child in the arms of the Sistine Madonna. There was the same dreamy, far-away gaze in his eyes. I wondered how parents could abandon such beautiful children to the care of other people.
This was the climax of interest at the foundling-asylum, as the guide then candidly informed me upon being questioned. It was much against the good man’s wishes that I tore myself away from him. But, I hope, when I pressed a humble gift into his hand, that he felt the more reconciled to my departure, though it is only due to him, as to all of his class whom I met in Russia, to say that they have the rare tact of not appearing to want one’s money. One always feels a little delicacy about offeringpour boires. But the truth binds me to say that they are never declined.
Being at Moscow, I improved the occasion to look up the yellow-flower tea—the Joltai Tchai—of which I had read and heard much. Travelers, claiming to be veracious, have told us that this tea is the first picking of the young and tender leaves of the choicest plants in China, and that it is brought overland on the backs of porters. I have seen pictures of men in Chinese dress climbing up mountains at angles of 70°, with chests of the precious tea strapped on their shoulders. The object of this incredible toil, we were assured, was to avoid a sea-voyage, in which the damp, salt air would impair the exquisite flavor of the Joltai Tchai. The story went that this tea could always be known by the presence of the small, yellowish-white buds or flowers of its native stalk scattered through it, without which, as the quack advertisements say, “none is genuineâ€; though it alwaysseemed to me that that proof must be a fallible one for all those people outside of China who had never seen a tea-flower, and that, anyhow, it would be easy to cheat them by mixing the real blossom with poor tea. But these same enthusiastic authors proceeded to give higher and more subtile tests for Joltai Tchai. They declared that, when a package of it was opened, it exhaled the most delicious of perfumes, which filled a room on the instant. They did not compare it to any earthly or known odor, but left the impression that it was something heavenly, and therefore indescribable. Its flavor on the palate was vaguely mentioned as aromatic, delicate, and yet perceptible when diluted with any amount of water. The mental effects ascribed to this tea were no less remarkable. It was said that a cup of it, with only two teaspoonfuls to the ordinary pot, was equal to a pint of champagne for exhilaration, without the least after-clap of headache. As for those obfuscations of the intellect commonly known as “cobwebs,†it would brush away the last filament of them from the nooks and corners of the stupidest minds. But we were solemnly warned not to take two cups of it at a time, under penalty of losing sleep for forty-eight hours. Its cost to the consumer in Russia was variously stated at ten to twenty dollars a pound. But a tea, half aswonderful as this, should be cheap at any price. I resolved to buy some of it.
I was so anxious to secure the authentic article, that I called upon an English gentleman, to whom I was referred, long a resident of Moscow, and speaking Russian like a native. He consented to accompany me to the only shop he knew of where the real Joltai Tchai could be obtained. We found it in a part of the city but little visited by foreigners. The shop was small, and three Tartar-like persons stood behind the counter. On the walk thither the Englishman had kindly explained that the Tartars were the most honest people in Russia—where honesty is the rule, so far as I know. He assured me that Tartars pure and simple were preferred before all other races for places of financial responsibility. They made the best cashiers, head book-keepers, superintendents, and managers. And when he said he was taking me to a Tartar teashop, I felt as if I should not be robbed.
The three Tartars did not even nod at us as we entered, but only stood at ease to take our order. This was quickly given in Russian by my companion, who first, however, asked the price of Joltai Tchai by the pound. It was ten rubles (about eight dollars and thirty cents in paper money), which was less than I had expected, and I mentioned the quantity I would buy. One of the Tartars took down asmall box from an upper shelf, opened it, and disclosed another box having a tightly fitting slide cover; this he removed, and brought to light a thick tin-foil wrapping, which being unfolded revealed tissue-paper, beneath several thicknesses of which lay the tea. Up to this time I had stood back, waiting to catch the all-penetrating odor of the Joltai Tchai at a distance, but it did not report itself. So I leaned forward, bent over the little chest, and took a good long sniff. Yes, there was a decided tea-smell, but no more searching or ravishing than that of the Oolong I had been consuming at home all my life. This was disappointment number one.
The required amount of tea was carefully weighed before me. I could watch it as it was shaken out of the chest into the capacious scale. It looked about the color of green tea, with a yellow shade in a side-light, and had no points of distinction except the presence of many shriveled-up, dirty-white buds. These were yellow only to the eye of faith; and that was disappointment number two.
After the tea had been weighed with great particularity, the Tartar removed it to the back of the shop, to do it up in a package with many thicknesses of rice-paper and tin-foil. I could not help fearing that, when out of my sight, the man would substitute a far inferior tea for the costly JoltaiTchai. But when the Englishman, speaking from his past experience with the race, said, “You can trust him,†I felt completely reassured, paid my bill, thanked my English friend for his assistance, and returned to the hotel with my treasure. And here let me give the sequel of my experience with Joltai Tchai.
It was not thoroughly tested for its supposed remarkable qualities till I returned to the United States. Russian lovers of Joltai Tchai will here object that the trial was not a fair one; that it should have been made on their soil, before the tea had crossed any salt-water. There is force in this suggestion. But it seemed a pity to break a package so shapely, and intended to secure the contents completely against the harmful influence of the elements. And then, too, all the tea I drank in Russia was so excellent that I did not want any better there. At home it was the subject of many experiments, which go far to establish the following conclusions: The yellow-flower tea is delicate to a fault; so much so that persons accustomed to the rank and adulterated teas of commerce find it insipid. It is like the finest old Johannisberger or Château-Margaux as compared with heady new wines; no one but a professional tea-taster can appreciate its high grade. Its odor is markedly not different from that of any other tea, except asone may say it is more “tea-like.†Its unique excellence lies in its clarifying and cheering effect on the mind of the drinker. It disperses a headache like magic, and mental anxiety as well. If one were possessed of “blue-devils,†I should expect two stiff cups of Joltai Tchai to send them scampering.
If it is worth, as some think, two or three dollars to extract a few fleeting moments of joy from a bottle of champagne, then one should not grudge thrice as much for a pound of yellow-flower tea, which will insure him perhaps some hundred hours of innocent exaltation. And, as for sleep, I have not yet lost any from its use, but prefer not to drink a strong infusion of it late at night.
Like any other high-grade tea, where the object is not to disguise the flavor of the herb, it is best without sugar or cream, or even the slice of lemon beloved by all Russians. But these ingredients, unless too freely employed, do not rob the tea of its slightly peculiar taste, or impair its virtue as a most agreeable tonic or stimulant. Connoisseurs in teas prefer to treat it with fresh, actually boiling water poured directly on the tea in a sunken cylinder full of holes set into the pot. The clear infusion passes through this perforated cylinder, and it should be drunk immediately afterward. But other persons less critical like it better whenthe boiling water is poured on the tea at the bottom of the pot, and then allowed to draw a good five or even ten minutes on the stove itself, or, better still, on the iron shelf for hot plates above it. This treatment makes a stronger decoction, but tends to substitute rankness for delicacy of flavor. But it brings out some of the valuable properties of the tea which do not apparently respond to the other and more superficial method. On the whole, the verdict of the majority of those who have tried it both ways is in favor of the drawing process. Under no circumstances does it acquire a bitter taste. And yet, after all that I have said in favor of Joltai Tchai, it is a fact that nobody who drinks it seems to think that it is anything extraordinary till told so. And I must say that I am sometimes in serious doubt whether my high opinion of the tea is not the work of pure imagination.
An American’s pride in his importance as a customer is apt to get a bad fall when he enters at random a shop in Moscow. At St. Petersburg he has noticed that his patronage was not greatly coveted in the vast bazaar opposite the Hôtel d’Europe on the Nevskoi Prospekt where he made most of his purchases. He missed the assiduous, almost servile, attention to which he was accustomed in London, Paris, and Vienna. But in Moscow the shop-keepers carry their indifference a point further. They act as if they wanted to repel American customers. This is because we are confounded with Englishmen, and, as such, are not liked. Dressing and speaking like Englishmen and too often imitating them in tricks of manner, Americans are only naturally mistaken for a class of foreigners with whom Russia has perpetual feud. As Moscow is the heart of Russia, theanti-English feeling is strongest there. Americans soon find this out, whenever they walk the streets or visit the great bazaars, from the icy atmosphere that seems to surround every Russian like a nimbus. At the great hotels the Englishmen are welcome, because the landlords are superior to local prejudices when their guests pay well. At least one porter or waiter who speaks French is kept on hand for their convenience. At some of the larger and higher-priced shops of Moscow, they are also treated with some of the consideration paid to them in Western Europe. But their room is undoubtedly more desired than their company by the Russians at large. And Americans, except where they can make their nationality known, suffer from the same antipathy. I give my own experience.
I wanted to buy some articles made of malachite and lapis-lazuli. Having seen in the churches whole pillars rising from floor to ceiling veneered with those beautiful green and blue stones, I imagined that both of them would be abundant and cheap in the heart of the empire where they are mined. Much to my surprise, the manager of my hotel could not direct me to any shop for such purchases. He advised me to try an immense bazaar near the Kremlin. Its Russian name, as nearly as I can give it in Englishcharacters, is Gostinnoi Dvor. The district of the city in which it is situated is the Kitai Gorod (Chinese town or quarter). I took his advice, starting out just after breakfast one fine morning, and determining to give all of twenty—possibly thirty—of my precious minutes to the search for lapis-lazuli and malachite.
The bazaar is a great, covered market divided into innumerable stalls. Each stall has its show-cases thrust in front, containing the choicest of the goods for sale, usually ticketed with prices in rubles and kopecks. These are given in figures to be read of all men. Just behind the show-cases stands a man or woman on the alert. In the rear of the little booth is the proprietor, sitting on a three-legged stool before a ledger. On either side of him rise tiers of shelves packed with his reserved treasures. As I started to go down the narrow passage-way between two rows of these stalls I observed the long perspective of men or women waiting for customers at that early hour. I almost dreaded to run the gantlet. My object was to go through the entire bazaar; “mark down†the shops at which lapis-lazuli and malachite were exposed for sale, with a note of the prices, and, after I had found just what suited me, then to come back and buy it on the best terms I could make.
To escape being teased to purchase the clothes, boots and shoes, kitchen utensils, mouse-traps, fancy soaps, cutlery, and thousands of other things I did not want, I kept to the middle of the passage-way, walking fast with head down, but looking out sharply at the corners of my eyes. These swift side-glances took in not only the strangely various contents of all the shops I passed, but also the looks of the people in charge. I was much astonished to receive no particular notice from them. They looked at me as at a passing dog or cat, but not one of them nodded or beckoned. And not one even began to tidy up his things with a wisp-broom, or change them about ostentatiously, as the shopman in other lands often does when a possible customer comes in sight. The Russian face is generally considered inexpressive. But I never knew till then how blank it could be. Once in a while, however, I noticed a lowering of brows and a slight protrusion of the lower lip, which looked very much like disdain. I did not then know that I was mistaken for an Englishman, and that I could not have chosen a place for shopping where our insular friends are held in such large measure of dislike as in that truly Russian bazaar.
Two pretty girls, dressed in bright colors, with silver skewers in their hair, were selling flowers atone of the stands. I stepped up to buy a buttonhole bouquet, and selected one, tendering a ruble for change. I was anxious to see if either of the girls would offer to pin it to the lapel of my coat, as flower-venders often do elsewhere. To propitiate them, I said “American.†This single word has been known to produce wonderful effect on occasions. But it was thrown away here. These fair creatures were of the peasant class, totally ignorant of any language but Russian. It is doubtful if they had ever seen an American to know him. To them I was only an Englishman, and therefore it was that one of them sheered away from me, and the other pouted, and I was obliged to pin on my ownboutonnière. Now, I was indeed vexed, not guessing the real trouble.
I determined to compel some of these people to notice me. I stepped up to a counter, picked up an old copper frying-pan, and rapped it sharply with my knuckles. This meant in the sign-language, “How much?†I had a note-book and pencil in hand, and intended to intimate by dumb-show that the proprietor should jot down the price there. The frying-pan, when smitten, sounded like a gong, and made quite a noise. This was all the better for me, as it was sure to bring down the man who sat back there on a high stool, and was the only occupant of the shop. Hedescended from his perch, but it was with a scowl, as if the harsh sound had disturbed his meditations. Looking at me, he seemed instantly to make up his mind that I did not want to buy that ancient frying-pan on any terms. And this was true. But I was not prepared for what he did. He just took the utensil gently by the handle, gave it a little twist to detach it from my grasp, and then laid it down on the counter. It was as if he had said, “No more of that, please.†I stalked away as majestically as possible, without any attempt at explanation. Broad faces with high cheek-bones were on the grin all about. It would have been a real comfort to know that I was mistaken for an Englishman.
I walked fast down the middle of the aisle, resolved not to stop again till I saw some stall at which jewelry and ornamental knickknacks were on sale. For about a thousand feet farther it was a monotonous stretch of useful articles to wear or to eat or to furnish a house withal. Then I came to a corner round which was another passage-way about a quarter of a mile long, also lined with shops. And I may as well explain here that, at regular intervals of a few hundred feet, other alleys just as full of shops branch off criss-cross. The bazaar is of the distracting chess-board pattern; and the man who started out, as I did, to seethe whole of it, in order to miss no good chance of buying some malachite and lapis-lazuli, had a bigger job in hand than he dreamed of.
Far ahead, I saw strings of gilt beads dangling in front of a shop. Hurrying on, I found that it was full of ear-rings, breastpins, chains, crosses, and all the other kinds of jewelry in vogue everywhere. The objects were mostly of silver and gold. There were real diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls. Putting on my best smile, to propitiate the owner, who, like all the others, did not seem to want to have anything to do with me, I peered into his show-cases and ran my eye rapidly over the contents. Among them there was nothing green, but emeralds, or blue, but sapphires. Still, I was not discouraged, for there were miles or more of shops under that vast roof, and sooner or later the desired objects must be found.
After a smart walk of about five minutes more, through files of apathetic Russians without seeing what was wanted, I came upon a colony of Jews, and warmed up to them at once, when they bowed and beckoned to me. It was evident that they were anxious to trade, and had no prejudices against supposed Englishmen. Several of them dealt in jewelry and works of art; and, as luck would have it, there was a huge object made of malachite exhibited conspicuously on a shelf infront of one of their stalls. It was shaped like a punch-bowl, of about one gallon capacity. I pointed to it with my cane. The man took it down for me. It was a masterpiece. The fragments of malachite of which it was composed exhibited the various green shades of the stone, and the characteristic wavy lines. The pieces were so carefully selected, and the joining was so nicely done, that the colors and the lines ran together making a perfect whole. At first sight, one could not believe that this punch-bowl was not carved from a single piece of malachite. There was no need of asking the Jew his price, for it was ticketed plainly enough two hundred and fifty—the figures standing for rubles. This would be about one hundred and twenty-five dollars, counting the ruble at its then gold value of fifty cents. I might have bought it at a third or perhaps a half off, and was strongly tempted to try for it. But its size, the trouble of carrying it round in a trunk, and, not least, the high duty which would be levied on it in New York, were enough to restrain me. I looked all over his exposed stock, but could see no more malachite and not a sign of lapis-lazuli. It then occurred to me that, being a Jew, he might have traveled, and have some knowledge of the world’s great languages. So I threw scraps of French, German, and English at him in succession. To all he only shook his head, andexpelled from his chest a few of those deep gutturals which I had already learned to recognize as pure Slavic. Like most Russians, whether Jew or Christian, he had never been out of his country, nor spoken to a foreigner. Nothing so deeply impressed me with the immensity of the Russian Empire, and the isolated condition of her people, as the fact that so few of them, and those only the well educated—even in the two great cities, St. Petersburg and Moscow—understand a word of any language but their own. I nodded good-by to my Jewish friend, whose kind manner showed that he regretted as much as I that we could not find a common ground for exchanging ideas, and went on with the search.
It might have been half an hour later when I saw, shining through the window of a show-case, a pair of deep-blue sleeve-buttons. I stepped up and examined them closely. The shade of blue was indigo. The surface had a fine, hard polish, and reflected to the eye those little star-like points of light which, in the true lapis-lazuli, seem just buried beneath its surface. The beautiful stones were heavily mounted in gold. They were exactly what I wanted. The ticket linked to them bore the figures twenty-eight—rubles, of course. This was not too high for genuine lapis-lazuli sleeve-buttons, gold mounted in the best style. The pleasantlooks of this Russian proprietor seemed to invite me to tarry and trade.
Forgetting for a moment that he could not possibly understand English, I pointed to the lovely objects, and said, interrogatively, “Lapis-lazuli?†To my great delight he nodded and smiled. That was a “Yes,†all the world over.
“Is it gold?†I asked, in reference to the setting, at the same time repeating the question in French. It was plain that he understood the one or the other language, for he nodded and smiled again. To find some one at last who could catch my idea was indeed gratifying. Anticipating my wish, he then removed the sleeve-buttons from the show-case and put them in my hand. I turned them over and examined them minutely. Though unfamiliar with the best tests for lapis-lazuli, I knew that, like all natural stones, it should have a cold touch, and not warm readily in the palm. I held it for a moment, when it became heated in contact with the flesh. Then I strongly suspected it to be paste. A solid gold setting should be heavy of its size. This one was very light. I decided that the sleeve-buttons were not a bargain at any price, and laid them down on the counter.
At that instant I was startled by a voice at my elbow, which said, “Those just suit me, if you don’t want ’em.â€
I turned and saw a plethoric Englishman, who looked flushed and panted as if from over-exertion. “Fact is,†said he, “I’ve been chasm’ up and down this blarsted bazaar after lapus-lazerlee more’n two hours, and this is the first lot I’ve struck. I don’t want to take ’em away from you, you know. But I’ve promised to buy a pair of just such sleeve-buttons for a friend in London.â€
“You are welcome to them,†I said; “butâ€â€”and I was about to give him a friendly hint to examine the goods very carefully before buying.
“Thanks,†he said, interrupting me. “Twenty-eight rubles, I see by the ticket. I’ll try him at half-price,†he added in an undertone for my ear.
Then, raising his voice at the shop-keeper, he cried, “I’ll give you fourteen, and not another ruble.†The Russian certainly understood that much of English, for again he nodded and smiled mechanically as usual; whereupon his customer thrust two ten-ruble notes at him, in evident anxiety not to lose a great bargain. As he did so, he said to me in a side-whisper, “Now I’ve got ’em, I don’t mind telling you that a cousin of mine paid thirty rubles for a smaller pair than them at Nijni-Novgorod two years ago.â€
Now came a surprise for our hasty English friend; for the shopman, with a bewildered expression of face, handed back to him one ofthe ten-ruble notes. Then he opened a till and scooped out a quantity of change—some paper and some silver and copper. I now shared the Englishman’s amazement, and we both looked on, silently wondering what would happen next. Finally, he deliberately counted out seven rubles and ninety-two kopecks, and pushed them toward the Englishman. This made the price of the sleeve-buttons only two rubles and eight kopeck’s, or about one dollar and four cents of American money. Here, indeed, was a stupendous bargain, unless the lapis-lazuli were only paste and the gold pinchbeck.
The latter proved to be the case, as the Englishman and I readily perceived after giving the sleeve-buttons a more minute examination than we had hitherto bestowed on them. The figures on the ticket, when critically inspected, turned out to be 2 with a dot followed by an 8. This meant two rubles and eight kopecks, but the dot was so faint that we had both failed to notice it at first. The Englishman had rashly taken it for granted that the materials were genuine without asking any questions. He had no cause of complaint against the seller, for he had not been cheated. To persons who wanted such imitations, they were worth the low price charged. The fact was, as the Englishman and I agreed on comparing notes, that theRussian had not understood one word of anything either of us had said to him. He had simply nodded and grinned, as a matter of civility, trusting that, when the business came to close quarters, the meaning could mutually be made clear. This habit of nodding, as the equivalent of “Yes,†is very common among people in all parts of Europe, who have not the faintest idea of what you are asking them. They take the chance that “Yes†may be the right answer, and perhaps they even say “Yes†to you in whatever language they speak, in order to keep up the illusion. I have been a hundred times misled—and often greatly to my annoyance—by this nod or spoken assent of coachmen, porters, and tradesmen in all parts of Europe.
The Englishman realized the impossibility of explaining matters to the jewelry-dealer, and of getting his money back. He accepted the situation philosophically. After the goods had been carefully packed for him in a little pasteboard box, he put them in his pocket with the simple remark, “Good enough present for somebody, you know.â€
We then separated with a friendly hand-shake, he to return to the Hôtel Dusaux, where he said he was stopping, and I to pursue my researches for a stone almost as elusive as the philosopher’s.“I’ve done the whole bazaar, and I know it’s no use,†were his parting words. But I determined to see for myself; and it was not till the end of two hours more that I gave up the hunt in despair, wearied and foot-sore.
But I had better luck when I returned to St. Petersburg. There I had the pleasure of inspecting several small but choice stocks of malachite goods, and purchasing some specimens at reasonable rates. I saw a few pieces of lapis-lazuli—undoubtedly genuine—but not one as handsome as the imitation sold to that Englishman in the Gostinnoi Dvor of Moscow. The prices asked for them seemed always far too high for their intrinsic beauty. So I left them all in their show-cases on the Nevskoi Prospekt, to meet the possible demand of other Americans for that kind of stone.
The Russians are semi-Orientals in one respect. They are not as sternly utilitarian as we of the West. The man with the long, blue tunic corded at the waist, and the cap decked with peacock-feathers, who received us with speechless effusion at the Moscow railway-station, was ornamental, not useful. He did not take charge of our hand-bags or shawl-strap. That was done by another man, who wore no peacock-feathers. He did not drive the carriage and four (white horses abreast) from the station to the hotel. He sat by the driver’s side, erect and imposing. I was moved by a powerful curiosity to know what he did, except to impress the stranger with a sense of barbaric splendor.
Whenever I had occasion to leave the hotel, Ialways found one of the pair (for there were two of these magnificent retainers) at his post on or near the door-steps, gazing into vacancy. On my return I never failed to see the peacock-feathers vibrating above any crowd of servitors or visitors who might be sunning themselves in front of the Slaviansky Bazaar. But what did this man do? Such was the question that haunted my practical Western mind. I decided to watch him and find out.
One morning I took my station for this purpose near the entrance, where I could observe his movements at my leisure. The taller and finer-looking of the two was on duty (if such it can be called) at that hour. The feathers in his cap were quite new, and their gold and green eyes gleamed iridescent in the sunlight. His long, blue tunic was nicely brushed, and his boots were highly polished. There he stood, almost motionless, save when he shifted the weight of his body from one leg to the other. He was in a position where he could be seen by everybody who entered or left the hotel. While I remained there on the watch, some trunks were brought in, but he did not lend a hand. Other trunks were taken out to the sidewalk, but he held aloof from them. He neither gave nor received orders. His patient attitude and his calm stoicism reminded one of the NorthAmerican Indian. Only once did he exhibit any sign of interest in mundane affairs. That was when a horse-fly or blue-bottle buzzed about his head in a very provoking way. He could not conceal his annoyance; and, when the insect alighted on a door-post near him, he leaned over and killed it with a quick stroke of his huge palm, and instantly resumed his erect position. At that precise moment I caught his eye, and smiled at him. But he did not smile back. That would not have been dignified, and dignity was apparently his sole object in life.
My observations were here interrupted. A young man whom I had previously noticed loitering about the hotel stepped up to me, and asked in a pleasant voice, “Are you an American, sir?â€
I knew at once that he was a compatriot, and judged from his accent that he was a Philadelphian. He was a nicely-dressed, wholesome youth, and I warmed to him.
Being assured that I was an American, he began to talk freely, as if he had lawful claims on my time and attention, and I was glad to give him both, although he broke into an interesting investigation and caused me to leave a problem forever unsolved.
“Can you tell me if there is a picture-gallery of the old masters in Moscow?â€
“Nothing to speak of. The only collections of old paintings worth seeing in Russia are at Petersburg.â€
“Sure of it?†with a pleased expression in his eyes.
“Perfectly.â€
“You can’t imagine how glad I am!â€â€”and his face testified his joy.
“Why?â€
“I don’t mind telling you, seeing that you are another American. My aunt is a great admirer of old china, old furniture, and old pictures. She has plenty of money, and her house at Manayunk, Philadelphia, is just full of ’em. I’m her only nephew. But I am boring you, perhaps.â€
“Not at all,†said I, really interested, and curious to know why he rejoiced over the absence of the old masters from Moscow. “Fire away.â€
“Thank you. Well, you see, my aunt would give anything if she could come to Europe, and go through all the galleries that tire me soâ€â€”and he heaved a sigh. “But she’s afraid to cross the ocean. So she made me promise that I would go and see the most famous pictures of the old masters—theshe-durvs, they call ’em—and describe ’em for her in my letters, the best I know how. It’s no fun, I assure you, but then she’s my aunt.â€
“And you her favorite nephew†(with a smile).
“Exactly. And I want to repay some of her kindness. For she is real good to me. Of course, I don’t pretend to judge ’em for myself. All I have to do is to praise ’em to Auntie. I can’t lay it on too thick for her. It was a big job at Petersburg, you bet.â€
“Why at Petersburg?â€
“Because there’s such an awful lot of the old masters there—the real, genuine things. I must have seen sixty or seventy Rubenses at the Hermitage; and about an acre of Rembrandts, and, as for the Van Dycks, they made me sick. Do you know,†he continued, speaking low, as if imparting a great secret, “that a man can get to hate Murillo, if he sees enough of him?â€
I replied that I could understand his feelings of satiety. “The full soul loatheth the honey-comb,†etc.
“I forgot to say that the old fellow I loathe most of all is Botticelli. And he’s the very one Auntie is craziest about. She has collected all the photographs of his pictures she could get in America and I am adding to the stock all I can pick up in Europe.â€
“But there are not many Botticellis in the world. At least, I find them scarce. That oldfellow, as you call him, can not trouble you very much.â€
“That’s it,†said Manayunk. “It’s the scarcity of Botticellis that gives me the bother. You see Auntie told me not to miss a Botticelli on any account. I have to look over all the pictures for the names of the artists to be sure I don’t skip him. At first I trusted to the printed catalogue, but some of ’em are old and not corrected up to date; and then, again, the pictures are changed about, and the numbers get mixed.â€
“You are conscientious at any rate, and do not neglect your aunt’s commission.â€
“Yes. She is very much pleased, she writes me, and thinks I’m becoming a good judge of the old masters. That’s because I puff ’em so, I suppose. But I tell you, I’m right glad of a rest here. All I really had to see in Moscow was the Kremlin and the big bell. I’ve seen the bell, but isn’t it strange I can’t find the Kremlin?â€
“Can’t find the Kremlin?†I echoed, in amazement.
“At all events, the droschky-drivers can’t or won’t take me to it. Kremlin, I am told, is a good Russian word, and I should think the Russians ought to understand it. The first day I came here, I jumped into a droschky, and, said I, ‘Kremlin!’ The man nodded, and off we went like a flash.Just at the head of the street, we passed through an opening in a wall and came into another part of Moscow. It is full of churches and buildings that look like palaces, but I don’t care about them any more. I didn’t know the Russian words for ‘big bell,’ but the driver went to it without my asking. When I had looked at that long enough, I said ‘Kremlin’ again, very plain. The driver nodded, and away we went. He must have taken me through miles of streets, and I was expecting every moment he would pull up at the Kremlin. But no, he kept driving on, until, after about half an hour, we came round to the big bell again. I called ‘Kremlin’ at him once more, and he grinned and waved his hand about in a sort of general way. I never saw anybody so stupid. So I yelled ‘Slaviansky Bazaar!’ at him, and he brought me home. Perhaps, now, you can tell me how to find the fortress, prison, or whatever it is, they call the Kremlin.â€
“Here is where you feel the want of a guide-book,†said I, gently. “If you had one, you would find that the Kremlin is not a single structure, but is the name of a great inclosed space with two miles of walls. All those palaces and churches of which you speak are within the Kremlin, and important features of it. The poor droschky-driver was showing you the Kremlin all the time to the best of his ability.â€
Manayunk looked a little sheepish at this explanation, as it reflected on his want of intelligence. “Thank you,†said he, hurriedly, at the same time consulting his watch, and, without another word, he bolted into the street.
When the visitor becomes satiated with the splendors of Moscow, he may find it pleasant—for a change—to make a tour of the rag-fair or old-clothes market. The site is an open space of about two acres in the heart of the city. From dawn till dark, in fair weather, it is filled with eager traders, who come there to buy, or sell, or barter. The second-hand goods are generally so well used up that they may be placed on the dirty cobble stones without receiving further injury. There they remain arranged as neatly and compactly as possible, with the proprietor standing guard over them and ready for business. Only a few of the traffickers have stands of any kind for the exhibition of their wares. The use of these is reserved for the more aristocratic merchants, who occupy sheltered places alongside the ancient wall, whose towering height affords a shade for them during several hours of the day. It is among the multitude who spread dilapidated treasures on the ground that the most amusing incidents are to be noted by the inquisitive stranger.
Articles which are thrown away by Americans as wholly valueless would be offered in the Moscow rag-fair and find ready purchasers. Nothing would seem more unlikely to be bought than a single boot, the mate of which had been lost. But I saw one of extraordinary size—No. 15, I should say—which was the center of quite a gathering. The boot had been brilliantly polished for the occasion, and I supposed at first that it was the specimen sign of some enterprisingmujikprepared to “shine ’em up†for ten kopecks. Then I noticed a man measuring the boot by the standard of his own foot, to see if it would suit him. It was about an inch too long. He shook his head. Other spectators with large feet stepped forward, and made the same personal comparison with the unmated boot. One man thrust his stockingless foot into the yawning leather, and rattled round in it for a minute, much to the amusement of the bystanders. Then he gently kicked it off, and evidently dismissed all thought of buying it. The boot was unpatched, and not run down at the heel, and it seemed a great pity that an article in such superior condition should go unbought. The proprietor, whose only stock in trade was this solitary boot, was getting anxious, when relief unexpectedly arrived. A strapping fellow, about six and a half feet high, elbowed his way through the throng to see whatwas going on. The instant his eye rested on the boot, it gleamed with surprise. He placed his own foot by the side of it, and lo! it was a perfect match! I could see in his face astonishment that another boot could be found as large as his own. The seller at once saw that he had a probable customer before him. Then began a lively chaffering between the two in Russian, in which the spectators took the keenest interest, acting the part of chorus to the principals. It ended in the sale of the odd boot at a price to me unknown. The buyer took it in his hand and walked off with it. Perhaps to this day he is trying to find a mate for it ready made. The chances must be strong against his success in that search, even in the old-clothes market of Moscow.
I saw on sale a dress-coat of which one of the tails had been torn away. It may have belonged to a man of fashion, or to a waiter, before its immediate descent to this low destiny, and, in either case, the history of that lost tail would doubtless be interesting. It was taken up and minutely inspected by several persons, and then carefully dropped on its assigned place in the dirt. But its owner did not seem discouraged, for he knew that, sooner or later, some man would present himself who, perhaps, had purchased the missing tail from some other dealer, and was looking for the rest of thecoat. Among the other bargains offered were frying-pans without handles, and handles without frying-pans; tables and chairs that needed only two or three legs apiece to make them useful; coffee-mills minus cranks, and thermometers with smashed bulbs. Asparagus and tomato cans, empty and battered, such as would be tossed into the garbage-barrel or gutter in the United States, were in great request. A little pile of them vanished in five minutes.