The man seemed satisfied, touched his fur cap, and said, “Spaseeba, tavarish.”
A few shops were open down a long street of houses which had all been shops, by the look of them, but were now mostly empty and boarded up, and falling into ruin. The newly opened places had a few objects of merchandise in the windows. A pair of top boots, marked at a million roubles, adorned one window-front. In another were three fur caps, a guitar, a German pipe, and a wicker cradle. A motley collection of household goods—including a leather arm-chair, a broken bedstead, some rather good rugs, a cloisonné clock, and a rosewood piano—was the greatest display of “stock” which he could observe through any window. In most cases there was nothing but what could be seen at a glance. The “private trading” in Moscow was not yet magnificent. He discovered the restaurant by the sight of an uncooked leg of mutton, baldly displayed in one of the windows, and by the words, “Angliske Restaurant” written in Russian characters above it.
When he entered, he saw a bare room set out with wooden chairs and tables, with here and there a piece of furniture of the Louis XV. period, and on the walls some gilded mirrors of the same style. A woman, shabbily dressed, and wearing carpet slippers, but with an unmistakable air of elegance, was stirring something in a pot over a wood fire. At the back of the room was a long counter, on which stood some tall bottles, a samovar, and some coffee cups, and behind it, on a high stool, sat an elderly man with silver hair and a little white beard. He was peeling some potatoes, while behind him, with her hand on his shoulder, was a girl of sixteen or so, as poorly dressed as Cinderella, but as pretty, in a dark way, with large brown eyes.
Bertram was aware of three pairs of eyes upon him, studying him intently, with surprise and suspicion. The woman who had been stirring the pot, advanced with her ladle, pointed to a table, and spoke in Russian.
He answered in French, and asked politely whether he might have something to eat.
“You do not understand Russian?” she answered suspiciously, in French.
“No, not a word, alas! I’m English—just arrived in Moscow.”
“English!”
She spoke the word in his own tongue, with joyful intonation.
“Why do you leave happy old England to come to this miserable land?”