A PASSAGE OF POLITENESS.
This, you see, is all in the way of excuse for the Russians, and arises rather from an excess of good nature than an excess of egotism. Constant practice in the solemnities of street-worship—uncovering their heads and bowing low before their numerous saints and shrines—may have some influence upon the stateliness of Russian politeness. It is, however, a very prominent and characteristic trait, and in some of its phases rather astounding to a stranger. A common thing in the streets of Moscow is to see a couple of sturdy beggars, uncouth as grizzly bears, meet and stop before each other with the utmost and most punctilious gravity. Beggar number one takes his greasy cap from his head slowly and deliberately, gives it a graceful sweep through the air, and, with a most courtly obeisance, exhibits the matted tuft, or the bald spot on the top of his head, to his ragged friend. Beggar number two responds in a similar courteous style, neither uttering a word. Each then gravely replaces his cap, touches the brim of it once or twice by way of representing a few extra bows, and passes on his way with an expression of profound dignity, utterly unconscious of the grotesque effect of all this ceremony to a stranger. I have seen the most vagabond-looking istrovoschik, or drosky-drivers, jump out of their drosky and perform similar courtesies toward each other; and where men of this craft are given to politeness, one may rest assured that it must be a [!-- Illustration page --] national characteristic. All seem to be the slaves of ceremony, from the Czar down to the Mujik. Porters, wagoners, water-carriers, butchers, bakers, and chimney-sweeps are equally skilled in the noble art of bowing. At first, judging by the uncouth faces and the grimy costumes of these interesting people, such passages of politeness have very much the effect of burlesque. It seems impossible that men of such rude aspect can be in earnest. One soon gets used to it, however, and regards it as a matter of course. I could not but think how strange it would look to see a couple of Sacramento or San Francisco hack-drivers meet in some populous part of the town, and each one take off his hat to the other, and, with a graceful flourish, make a courtly salaam; or a pair of draymen stop their drays, get down leisurely, approach each other in an attitude of impressive dignity, take off their hats, and double themselves up before an admiring audience. They would certainly be suspected in our rude country of poking fun at each other. I can very well understand why butchers and chimney-sweeps should be polite, since they are accustomed to scraping; and the custom looks appropriate enough with many other classes, including barbers, who are generally men of oily manners, and tailors and printers, who are naturally given to forms; but with men whose business is intimately associated with horse-flesh, I must say it has something of a satirical aspect. Never in this world can I force myself to believe that a hack-driver is in earnest in any thing short of his fare. Do not understand me as casting any injurious reflection upon this valuable class of men; but it is a melancholy feature in humanity—of which sad experience enables me to speak feelingly—that integrity and horse-flesh are antagonistical, and can never go together. For the hack-driver personally I have great respect. He is a man of the world—knows a thing or two about every body and every thing; is constitutionally addicted to cheating, and elevates that noble propensity into one of the fine arts; maintains his independent character, and pockets his extraordinary profits in the face of all municipal restrictions; scoffs at the reign of the law, and drinks his regular bitters. I consider him a persecuted and an injured man; but of such elastic stuff is he made that he rises above all persecutions and all injuries, and still is, and ever will be, master of that portion of the human race which travels and abounds in cities. He is given to humor, too, is the hackman. Nobody better understands how to give a joke, or to resent one. An adept in ridicule, he always enjoys it when not applied to himself. If he is deficient in any one quality, perhaps it is piety. Hack-drivers, as a class, are not pious men; they may be very good men in their way, but, strictly speaking, they are not pious. Neither are they much given to mutual courtesies, especially at steam-boat landings. Therefore I say that to see hack-drivers bow down before shrines and stop on public thoroughfares, and with the utmost gravity uncover their heads and interchange courtly salaams—nay, even kiss hands in certain cases—is a novel and peculiar spectacle, suggestive of improvements which might be beneficially imported into our country.
There was an impassive, abstracted air about Dominico very difficult to describe, but very impressive to a stranger. All these peculiarities were developed the first or second day of our acquaintance. About the third he seemed to grow impatient, hummed over a few gems from unknown operas, and was less disposed than usual to unbend himself. There was evidently a coolness growing up between us. I suspected it originated in my hat, which was really very shabby; and fancied I detected a supercilious expression in his eye as it ranged over my coat and down to my boots. At length he said, “Monsieur, you appear to travel with very little baggage!”
Myself. Yes, only a knapsack.
Dominico (after a pause). Pray what business may Monsieur be engaged in?
M. None at all—just ranging about miscellaneously.
Dom. May I be so bold as to ask what part of England does Monsieur come from?
M. Oh, I didn’t come from England at all!
Dom. (puzzled). Pray where does Monsieur come from?
M. Oh, just come from over the way there—California!