CHAPTER XXVI. THE PEACOCK-FEATHER MYSTERY—MANAYUNK AND THE OLD MASTERS—HIS FRUITLESS SEARCH FOR THE KREMLIN—THE MOSCOW RAG-FAIR—THE PETROVSKY PALACE—DINING IN THE GROUNDS.
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, I always 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 North American 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?”
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?”
“Nothing to speak of. The only collections of old paintings worth seeing in Russia are at Petersburg.”
“Sure of it?” with a pleased expression in his eyes.
“Perfectly.”
“You can’t imagine how glad I am!”—and his face testified his joy.
“Why?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 so”—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—the she-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.”
“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.”
“Why at Petersburg?”
“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?”
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.”
“But there are not many Botticellis in the world. At least, I find them scarce. That old fellow, as you call him, can not trouble you very much.”
“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.”
“You are conscientious at any rate, and do not neglect your aunt’s commission.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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 enterprising mujik prepared 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 what was 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 the coat. 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.
I was only a looker-on. The merchants seemed to understand the motive of my presence among them, for they wasted none of their appeals on me—with one exception. This was the case of a man who had one of Lincoln and Bennett’s best London hats for sale. It was but little worn, and looked good for many years of service on the head of some conservative middle-aged gentleman who does not approve of novelty and gloss in his hats. I was wearing a Derby at the time; seeing which, the dealer ventured to suggest by signs that I should try on the stove-pipe pattern which he held enticingly toward me. Taking me for an Englishman, he supposed that I would be glad to acquire a London hat at a price doubtless far below the original figures. He implored me by gestures to put it on. I had not the remotest idea of buying a first- or second-hand hat of that shape while traveling, but, to please him, I consented to see if it would fit me. A large number of idlers looked on approvingly while I made the trial. The hat was decidedly too small, and was returned to the dealer with a shake of the head made as emphatic as possible. Whereupon he did exactly what I have seen done twenty times by hatters in various parts of America. He took that undersized hat and began to stretch it with his hands one way and compress it another way. Then he drew it over the cap of his knee till I thought he would have split it up the side. Then he bowed, and handed it to me again for another experiment. I made the politest signs of declining; and, as he pressed the hat upon me with increased ardor, improved the opportunity offered by a gap in the crowd and slipped away from him. As I withdrew, I could hear murmurs of disapproval among the bystanders. They thought I ought at least to have tried on the hat once more after it had been so carefully enlarged to suit me.
The country roads in the environs of Moscow are not kept in good repair. They abound in depressed places, which become miry pits or pools after a heavy rain. The one which is least exposed to these criticisms is that leading to the Petrovsky Palace and Gardens, a few miles from the Kremlin. A French guide and interpreter whom we had secured for a day or two recommended us to visit the Petrovsky Palace, because Napoleon occupied it for a time after the heat and smoke of burning Moscow had driven him beyond the walls. It was there the Emperor took his last look at the gilded domes and spires of the holy city as they glowed in the crimson light. It was from this palace that he sent, by relays of swift couriers to Paris—as if bad news does not travel fast enough without whip and spur—the intelligence of the burning of Moscow, and the forced retreat of the grand army through the snows. Our French guide thought it would give us great pleasure to see the identical room, chair, table, ink-stand, and pen which were involved in the production of this famous dispatch. But we had heard of Napoleon at every turn about Moscow so far, and were quite willing to forget him for a few hours. Therefore, we at first declined the proposition to go out to the Petrovsky Palace, until it was further explained that a good dinner could be had in the gardens adjoining. Then we resolved to make the trip, the day being pleasant.
The ride outside the city walls is not interesting until the Palace Gardens are reached. These are laid out with the forethought and tended with the scrupulous care which one always sees in the public grounds of Russia. Visits to the parks in that country go far to compensate one for the absence of more natural, diversified scenery. We spent a pleasant hour or two among the winding roads and footpaths, obtaining many views of the palace from different standpoints. It is an old-fashioned building, with an air of homely comfort reflected from every brick. If hoarded memories of twenty or thirty other palaces in Europe had not interfered, we should hardly have been able to resist the importunities of our guide to behold more relics of his adored Napoleon. At 6 P. M. dinner was much more to our liking than the exhibition of rooms in endless succession, however thickly crowded with souvenirs of the great.
Our man’s promise about a good dinner was fulfilled. The restaurant where we pulled up for the momentous transaction is small but nicely kept. The meal was served in a pretty little garden in the rear of the premises. The walls were masses of climbing-plants in full bloom. Venerable trees kept off the still warm rays of the declining sun. A fountain shot its sparkling jet high in air, and the crystal drops tinkled musically as they fell back into a marble basin. Our round table was spread under a mighty oak. Sparrows of the unadulterated English type hopped familiarly about us, as if expecting crumbs from the forthcoming feast. They were the tamest of birds, alighting on the tops of chairs almost within reach. At times they seemed to dare one to drop a pinch of salt on their tails, preparatory to catching them, according to the method recommended in childhood. As the dinner, besides being excellent, was lengthy and in quantity superabundant, there was plenty to spare for the companionable sparrows. They flocked to us from all parts of the grounds, and at one time the chirping congregation could have been numbered by the hundreds. There was nothing particularly Russian about the dinner, except the soup, which was serious and important. From this dish the central island of meat and the stuffed pastry-ball are never absent. The occurrence of a meat entrée between the soup and the fish is another invariable departure from the Western menus. There was an abundance of sauces served upon meats which we had been accustomed to eating quite dry or in their natural gravy. Where all was good, no one item—the soup excluded—lives in my recollection. But I shall not soon forget the honest, delicious wine of the Crimea. A little experience with the Russian vintages had impressed me favorably. They have not the taste or the heating after-effect of the French wines which are now so commonly fortified and otherwise doctored all over the world, and not least in France herself—and, worst of all, perhaps, in Paris. So I ordered (through the Russian-speaking guide) a bottle of a Crimean brand. It was an accidental, but fortunate, choice. The wine was red, and had the general taste rather of Burgundy than of Bordeaux. But it had a bouquet of its own; it dwelt pleasantly upon the palate, and it produced those salutary effects of gentle warmth and cheer of which good wine may still be capable if not abused by the drinker. But one may travel thousands of miles in Europe and not find many wines of which this high praise could be justly spoken.
The English sparrows—pests in America—were so friendly and affable in their way that we were reluctant to leave them. But we finally bade them farewell with a parting largess of crumbs, and returned to Moscow by the light of the setting sun. As we quitted the pleasant restaurant, the proprietor and several of his staff flocked about to see us off, and looked an unutterable good-by with a kindness of manner which touched our alien hearts. I took pleasure in thinking that this mark of courtesy was paid to our nationality. The guide knew that we were Americans, and doubtless had mentioned that fact to the people at the restaurant. There may be many Russians still ignorant of America and Americans, but, among the vast majority in every part of Russia who are aware of the friendly relations which have always existed between the two nations, our countrymen are sure of a cordial welcome.