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?”