Roundabout to Moscow: An Epicurean Journey

by John Bell Bouton

Coster offers no obstacle to the inquiring mind. It is only understood that a small sum of money—a guilder (thirty-eight cents) is the proper size of it—must be paid to the superintendent, who turns it over to a fund for the good of the workmen. Every person who bears in his face and clothes evidence of his ability to stand that assessment is admitted and made welcome; and, if he has a lady with him, that is the best voucher of his pecuniary responsibility.

The man who piloted us about Coster’s spoke English, and made himself agreeable. He first showed a handful of stones in the rough. As he tossed them down carelessly on a table, I thought they were bits of gum or grains of tapioca. Not one of them sparkled. Their hue was generally a dirty yellow; only a few were milk-white; some were cream-colored. Invited to examine the stones, I took them into my hand with some reluctance, and kept my eye all the time on the exhibitor, being afraid he might turn his head, or be called off to another part of the room, and leave me in possession of those treasures, with a blind confidence in my integrity. I trust it would not have been misplaced, but do not want to take charge of a handful of diamonds, even temporarily, for anybody else. There was no need of anxiety on this score, for the man’s gaze was never once withdrawn from that valuable property.

It was hard to realize that those poor-looking scraps of mineral were diamonds—some worth one thousand dollars apiece when cut. Not one of them was a perfect crystal, a pair of pyramids set base to base, of which we see diagrams in the books. The edges had mostly been worn away by much rolling in water, as one would say, their general appearance being that of pebbles smoothed in a brook. But, on close inspection, remains of the original crystalline shape were always detected. Every diamond still retained rudimentary cutting edges, which are all that is left of the old sharp lines. As they rested in my palm, they felt cold as ice. As they struck against one another in moving them about, they emitted faint, musical sounds; and their weight was remarkable for their bulk. These peculiarities would attract the notice of the most ignorant person. He would know that the stones in his hand were out of the common. But it would be safe to bet that, if they were thrown down by the quart in the streets among other stones, they would pass unnoticed by persons not familiar with the appearance of uncut diamonds. The experiment, however, is not likely to be made.

After examining this handful of diamonds, one has no desire to see any more in the rough. He could look at a cart-load of them without the least emotion. They do not excite that feeling of cupidity which is said to exist, however passive, in every human breast.

Our guide then led us into a room where we saw the first process of cutting. Several men were engaged in this work, which requires great experience, judgment, and skill. It is there that the shape of the polished stones is decided upon—whether it shall be a brilliant with many flashing facets, or a rose with but few. Here the faults, if any, of each stone are discovered by unerring eyes, and the defective parts chipped away. We stood by the side of one of the men while he disposed of what seemed a very knotty question. He held between thumb and finger a stone as large as a filbert. To the uninstructed eye it was a lump of gum arabic, with a certain symmetry of outline showing its old octahedral form. After turning it over and inspecting it critically, he put it in a little vise before him, and screwed the jaws tightly together. Then he took a light, sharp chisel in one hand and a small hammer in the other. He could not have looked more unconcerned if he had been about to crack an after-dinner walnut. My heart was in my mouth when I saw him apply his chisel to the diamond and give it a smart tap with the hammer. What if he should break the stone in pieces, instead of removing a defective fraction of it! The guide had said it was a twenty-carat diamond, and believed to be of the first water. But the operation, hazardous as it appeared, was easy to the skilled artisan, and was successful. He had struck the diamond exactly on the line of cleavage, and a thin piece fell into a box sunk into the table just beneath the vise, and intended for the reception of the chips. The man picked it out, and I saw at a glance that it was full of black specks. These were uncrystallized carbon, like coal-dust, the presence of which would have spoiled the stone when cut. He then showed me the freshly exposed surface of the diamond. The rough, yellowish scale of the imperfect portion having been removed, one could see something of the true sparkle of the gem, though its full luminous effect would be evoked only by the polishing process. Sometimes it is necessary to detach a spotty part by working in a direction other than the cleavage-line; then the hammer and chisel are of no avail. The operator resorts to a saw, which, strangely enough, is toothless. It is nothing more than a fine steel wire, perhaps double the thickness of a hair. This wire is kept moistened by olive-oil, in which diamond-dust has been mixed. As it is moved forth and back, saw-like, across the surface, the dust supplies the place of teeth, and the metallic thread slowly buries itself in that hardest of stones.

The truth of the adage, “Diamond cuts diamond,” was made clear to us by the spectacle of six men illustrating it. Each man held in each hand a short stick, having at the end a socket filled with lead or some easily melted alloy. The diamond to be cut is partly sunk below the surface of this fusible metal while it is still in a molten condition, and just before it cools; and, when the metal “sets,” there is the diamond immovably imbedded, with enough of its surface exposed to enable the operator to attack it with another diamond, which is fixed in another stick the same way. Each diamond is to cut the other, and thus two stones are simultaneously prepared for the market. When the exposed parts of the two diamonds have been cut by each other as far as possible, then the soft metal in the iron sockets is melted, the stones are released and turned to bring the uncut sides uppermost, and the work proceeds as before. This is the most tedious stage of the business. One watches the men by the half-hour, and sees them make but little progress as they press one diamond against the other with all the power in their arms, and rub the two slowly together with a faint, crunching noise. If the sunlight falls upon the scene, one may notice certain glistening motes dropping into a little pan beneath their hands. This is the dust of diamonds, which is most carefully saved up to be used in the polishing, the final stage; and, whatever chippings or splinters are obtained here or elsewhere in handling diamonds, are pulverized in agate mortars for the same purpose.

At intervals the workmen pause to look at the diamonds, to see how they are getting on. We observe them at a little distance, and notice the adamantine luster of the facets. Already it is possible to pick out an uncommonly fine stone by its cold, steel-blue light.

The most interesting department of Coster’s is the one where the polishing is done. Here, at last, you may look into the hearts of the diamonds freed from their grosser vestments. Here, if anywhere, the spectator is apt to be stirred with unholy covetousness. If he has a lady with him, she would be more than human if she did not sometimes cry out, “How splendid!” “Just too lovely for anything!” and ask the guide how much a pair of such diamonds would cost, pointing at a perfect beauty that would weigh ten carats, sure. Cases are reported in which husbands, at that stage of the rounds, have hurried up their investigations, suddenly finding that they have no time to “look it all through, my dear.” And, even when they have torn themselves and the partners of their lives away from the scene of fascination, they have not heard the last of Coster’s diamonds by a great deal. At any moment, anywhere, while looking at the marble or bronze effigies of a cathedral, or hunting among church-yard tombs for quaint inscriptions, or rapturously gazing at some Madonna which is the glory of a picture-gallery—when the mind ought to be filled with the most solemn thoughts—one may hear the question, “Weren’t they splendid?”

“What, my dear?” says the dull being who never takes a hint.

“Why, those diamonds at Coster’s!”