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 when the 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.
CHAPTER XXV. A HUNT FOR MALACHITE AND LAPIS-LAZULI IN THE GOSTINNOI DVOR.
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, the anti-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 English characters, 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.