having probably "sat down on a sand-bar," as the local expression goes.
The one on which we embarked had only a small dining-room and saloon,
one first-class cabin for men and one for women, all nearly on a level
with the water, instead of high aloft, as in the steamers which we had
hitherto patronized, and devoid of deck-room for promenading. The
third-class cabin was on the forward deck. The second-class cabin was
down a pair of steep, narrow stairs, whose existence we did not discover
when we went on board at midnight, and which did not tempt us to
investigation even when we arose the next morning. Fortunately, there
were no candidates except ourselves and a Russian friend for the six red
velvet divans ranged round the walls of the tiny "ladies' cabin," and
the adjoining toilet-room, and the man of the party enjoyed complete
seclusion in the men's cabin. In the large boats, for the same price, we
should have had separate staterooms, each accommodating two persons.
However, everything was beautifully clean, as usual on Russian steamers
so far as my experience goes, and it made no difference for one night.
The experience was merely of interest as a warning.
The city of Samara, as it presented itself to our eyes the next morning,
was the liveliest place on the river Volga next to Nizhni Novgorod.
While it really is of importance commercially, owing to its position on
the Volga and on the railway from central Russia, as a depot for the
great Siberian trade through Orenburg, the impression of alertness which
it produces is undoubtedly due to the fact that it presents itself to
full view in the foreground, instead of lying at a distance from the
wharves, or entirely concealed. An American, who is accustomed to see
railways and steamers run through the very heart of the cities which
they serve, never gets thoroughly inured to the Russian trick of taking
important towns on faith, because it has happened to be convenient to
place the stations out of sight and hearing, sometimes miles out of the
city. Another striking point about Samara is the abundance of red brick
buildings, which is very unusual, not to say unprecedented, in most of
the older Russian towns, which revel in stucco washed with white, blue,
and yellow.
But the immediate foreground was occupied with something more attractive
than this. The wharves, the space between them, and all the ground round
about were fairly heaped with fruit: apples in bewildering variety,
ranging from the pink-and-whiteskinned "golden seeds" through the whole
gamut of apple hues; round striped watermelons and oval cantaloupes with
perfumed orange-colored flesh, from Astrakhan; plums and grapes. After
wrestling with these fascinations and with the merry _izvostchiki_, we
set out on a little voyage of discovery, preparatory to driving out to
the famous kumys establishments, where we had decided to stay instead of
in the town itself.
Much of Samara is too new in its architecture, and too closely resembles
the simple, thrifty builders' designs of a mushroom American settlement,
to require special description. Although it is said to have been founded
at the close of the sixteenth century, to protect the Russians from the
incursions of the Kalmucks, Bashkirs, and Nogai Tatars, four disastrous
conflagrations within the last forty-five years have made way for
"improvements" and entailed the loss of characteristic features, while
its rank as one of the chief marts for the great Siberian trade has
caused a rapid increase in population, which now numbers between
seventy-five and eighty thousand.
One modern feature fully compensates, however, by its originality, for a
good many commonplace antiquities. Near the wharves, on our way out of
the town, we passed a lumber-yard, which dealt wholly in ready-made log
houses. There stood a large assortment of cottages, in the brilliant
yellow of the barked logs, of all sizes and at all prices, from fifteen
to one hundred dollars, forming a small suburb of samples. The lumber is
floated down the Volga and her tributaries from the great forests of
Ufa, and made up in Samara. The peasant purchaser disjoints his house,
floats it to a point near his village, drags it piecemeal to its proper
site, sets it up, roofs it, builds an oven and a chimney of stones,
clay, and whitewash, plugs the interstices with rope or moss, smears
them with clay if he feels inclined, and his house is ready for
occupancy. Although such houses are cheap and warm, it would be a great
improvement if the people could afford to build with brick, so immense
is the annual loss by fire in the villages. Brick buildings are,
however, far beyond the means of most peasants, let them have the best
will in the world, and the ready-made cottages are a blessing, though
every peasant is capable of constructing one for himself on very brief
notice, if he has access to a forest. But forests are not so common
nowadays along the Volga, and, as the advertisements say, this novel
lumber-yard "meets a real want." When the Samarcand railway was opened,
a number of these cottages, in the one-room size, were placed on
platform cars, and to each guest invited to the ceremony was assigned
one of these unique drawing-room-car coupes.
About four miles from the town proper, on the steppe, lie two noted
kumys establishments; one of them being the first resort of that kind
ever set up, at a time when the only other choice for invalids who
wished to take the cure was to share the hardships, dirt, bad food, and
carelessly prepared kumys of the tented nomads of the steppes. The
grounds of the one which we had elected to patronize extended to the
very brink of the Volga. In accordance with the admonitions of the
specialist physicians to avoid many-storied, ill-ventilated buildings
with long corridors, the hotel consists of numerous wooden structures,
of moderate size, chiefly in Moorish style, and painted in light colors,
scattered about a great inclosure which comprises groves of pines and
deciduous trees,--"red forest" and "black forest," as Russians would
express it,--lawns, arbors, shady walks, flower-beds, and other things
pleasing to the eye, and conducive to comfort and very mild amusement.
One of the buildings even contains a hall, where dancing, concerts, and
theatricals can be and are indulged in, in the height of the season,
although such violent and crowded affairs as balls are, in theory,
discountenanced by the physicians. All these points we took in at one
curious glance, as we were being conducted to the different buildings to
inspect rooms. I am afraid that we pretended to be very difficult to
please, in order to gain a more extensive insight into the arrangements.
As the height of the season (which is May and June) was past, we had a
great choice offered us, and I suppose that this made a difference in
the price, also. It certainly was not unreasonable. We selected some
rooms which opened on a small private corridor. The furniture consisted
of the usual narrow iron bedstead (with linen and pillows thrown in
gratis, for a wonder), a tiny table which disagreeably recalled American
ideas as to that article, an apology for a bureau, two armchairs, and no
washstand. The chairs were in their primitive stuffing-and-burlap state,
loose gray linen covers being added when the rooms were prepared for us.
Any one who has ever struggled with his temper and the slack-fitting
shift of a tufted armchair will require no explanation as to what took
place between me and my share of those untufted receptacles before I
deposited its garment under my bed, and announced that burlap and tacks
were luxurious enough for me. That one item contained enough irritation
and excitement to ruin any "cure."
The washstand problem was even more complicated. A small, tapering brass
tank, holding about two quarts of water, with a faucet which dripped
into a diminutive cup with an unstoppered waste-pipe, was screwed to the
wall in our little corridor. We asked for a washstand, and this
arrangement was introduced to our notice, the chambermaid being
evidently surprised at the ignorance of barbarians who had never seen a
washstand before. We objected that a mixed party of men and women could
not use that decently, even if two quarts of water were sufficient for
three women and a man. After much argument and insistence, we obtained,
piecemeal: item, one low stool; item, one basin; item, one pitcher.
There were no fastenings on the doors, except a hasp and staple to the
door of the corridor, to which, after due entreaty, we secured an oblong
padlock.
The next morning, the chambermaid came to the door of our room opening
on the private corridor while we were dressing, and demanded the basin
and pitcher. "Some one else wants them!" she shouted through the door.
We had discovered her to be a person of so much decision of character,
in the course of our dealings with her on the preceding day, that we
were too wary to admit her, lest she should simply capture the utensils
and march off with them. As I was the heaviest of the party, it fell to
my lot to brace myself against the unfastened door and parley with her.
Three times that woman returned to the attack; thrice we refused to
surrender our hard-won trophies, and asked her pointedly, "What do you
do for materials when the house is full, pray?" Afterwards, while we
were drinking our coffee on the delightful half-covered veranda below,
which had stuffed seats running round the walls, and a flower-crowned
circular divan in the centre, a lively testimony to the dryness of the
atmosphere, we learned that the person who had wanted the basin and
pitcher was the man of our party. He begged us not to inquire into the
mysteries of his toilet, and refused to help us solve the riddle of the
guests' cleanliness when the hotel was full. I assume, on reflection,
however, that they were expected to take Russian or plain baths every
two or three days, to rid themselves of the odor of the kumys, which
exudes copiously through the pores of the skin and scents the garments.
On other days a "lick and a promise" were supposed to suffice, so that
their journals must have resembled that of the man who wrote: "Monday,
washed myself. Tuesday, washed hands and face. Wednesday, washed hands
only." That explanation is not wholly satisfactory, either, because the
Russians are clean people.
As coffee is one of the articles of food which are forbidden to kumys
patients, though they may drink tea without lemon or milk, we had
difficulty in getting it at all. It was long in coming; bad and
high-priced when it did make its appearance. As we were waiting, an
invalid lady and the novice nun who was in attendance upon her began to
sing in a room near by. They had no instrument. What it was that they
sang, I do not know. It was gentle as a breath, melting as a sigh, soft
and slow like a conventional chant, and sweet as the songs of the
Russian Church or of the angels. There are not many strains in this
world upon which one hangs entranced, in breathless eagerness, and the
memory of which haunts one ever after. But this song was one of that
sort, and it lingers in my memory as a pure delight; in company with
certain other fragments of church music heard in that land, as among the
most beautiful upon earth.
I may as well tell at once the whole story of the food, so far as we
explored its intricate mysteries. We were asked if we wished to take the
_table d'hote_ breakfast in the establishment. We said "yes," and
presented ourselves promptly. We were served with beefsteak, in small,
round, thick pieces.
"What queer beefsteak!" said one of our Russian friends. "Is there no
other meat?"
"No, madam."
We all looked at it for several minutes. We said it was natural, when
invalids drank from three to five bottles of the nourishing kumys a day,
that they should not require much extra food, and that the management
provided what variety was healthy and advisable, no doubt; only we would
have liked a choice; and--what queer steak!
The first sniff, the first glance at that steak, of peculiar grain and
dark red hue, had revealed the truth to _us_. But we saw that our
Russian friends were not initiated, and we knew that their stomachs were
delicate. We exchanged signals, took a mouthful, declared it excellent,
and ate bravely through our portions. The Russians followed our example.
Well--it was much tenderer and better than the last horseflesh to
which we had been treated surreptitiously; but I do not crave horseflesh
as a regular diet. It really was not surprising at a kumys
establishment, where the horse is worshiped, alive or dead, apparently,
in Tatar fashion.
That afternoon we made it convenient to take our dinner in town, on the
veranda of a restaurant which overlooked the busy Volga, with its mobile
moods of sunset and thunderstorm, where we compensated ourselves for our
unsatisfactory breakfast by a characteristically Russian dinner, of
which I will omit details, except as regards the soup. This soup was
_botvinya_. A Russian once obligingly furnished me with a description of
a foreigner's probable views on this national delicacy: "a slimy pool
with a rock in the middle, and creatures floating round about." The rock
is a lump of ice (_botvinya_ being a cold soup) in the tureen of
strained _kvas_ or sour cabbage. _Kvas_ is the sour, fermented liquor
made from black bread. In this liquid portion of the soup, which is
colored with strained spinach, floated small cubes of fresh cucumber and
bits of the green tops from young onions. The solid part of the soup,
served on a platter, so that each person might mix the ingredients
according to his taste, consisted of cold boiled sterlet, raw ham, more
cubes of cucumber, more bits of green onion tops, lettuce, crayfish,
grated horseradish, and granulated sugar. The first time I encountered
this really delectable dish, it was served with salmon, the pale,
insipid northern salmon. I supposed that the lazy waiter had brought the
soup and fish courses together, to save himself trouble, and I ate them
separately, while I meditated a rebuke to the waiter and a strong
description of the weak soup. The tables were turned on me, however,
when Mikhei appeared and grinned, as broadly as his not overstrict sense
of propriety permitted, at my unparalleled ignorance, while he gave me a
lesson in the composition of _botvinya_. That _botvinya_ was not good,
but this edition of it on the banks of the Volga, with sterlet, was
delicious.
We shirked our meals at the establishment with great regularity, with
the exception of morning coffee, which was unavoidable, but we did
justice to its kumys, which was superb. Theoretically, the mares should
have had the advantage of better pasturage, at a greater distance from
town; but, as they cannot be driven far to milk without detriment, that
plan involves making the kumys at a distance, and transporting it to the
"cure." There is another famous establishment, situated a mile beyond
ours, where this plan is pursued. Ten miles away the mares pasture, and
the kumys is made at a subsidiary cure, where cheap quarters are
provided for poorer patients. But, either on account of the
transportation under the hot sun, or because the professional "taster"
is lacking in delicacy of perception, we found the kumys at this rival
establishment coarse in both flavor and smell, in comparison with that
at our hostelry.
Our mares, on the contrary, were kept close by, and the kumys was
prepared on the spot. It is the first article of faith in the creed of
the kumys expert that no one can prepare this milk wine properly except
Tatars. Hence, when any one wishes to drink it at home, a Tatar is sent
for, the necessary mares are set aside for him, and he makes what is
required. But the second article of faith is that kumys is much better
when made in large quantities. The third is that a kumys specialist, or
doctor, is as indispensable for the regulation of the cure as he is at
mineral springs. The fourth article in the creed is that mares grazing
on the rich plume-grass of the steppe produce milk which is particularly
rich in sugar, very poor in fat, and similar to woman's milk in its
proportion of albumen, though better furnished: all which facts combine
to give kumys whose chemical proportions differ greatly from those of
kumys prepared elsewhere. Moreover, on private estates it is not always
possible to observe all the conditions regarding the choice and care of
the mares.
At our establishment there were several Tatars to milk the mares and
make the kumys. The wife of one of them, a Tatar beauty, was the
professional taster, who issued her orders like an autocrat on that
delicate point. She never condescended to work, and it was our opinion
that she ought to devote herself to dress, in her many leisure hours,
instead of lounging about in ugly calico sacks and petticoats, as
hideous as though they had originated in a backwoods farm in New
England. She explained, however, that she was in a sort of mourning. Her
husband was absent, and she could not make herself beautiful for any one
until his return, which she was expecting every moment. She spent most
of her time in gazing, from a balcony on the cliff, up the river, toward
the bend backed by beautiful hills, to espy her husband on the steamer.
As he did not come, we persuaded her, by arguments couched in silver
speech, to adorn herself on the sly for us. Then she was afraid that the
missing treasure might make his appearance too soon, and she made such
undue haste that she faithlessly omitted the finishing touch,--
blacking her pretty teeth. I gathered from her remarks that something
particularly awful would result should she be caught with those pearls
obscured in the presence of any other man when her husband was not
present; but she may have been using a little diplomacy to soothe us.
Though she was not a beauty in the ordinary sense of the Occident, she
certainly was when dressed in her national garb, as I had found to be
the case with the Russian peasant girls. Her loose sack, of a medium but
brilliant blue woolen material, fell low over a petticoat of the same
terminating in a single flounce. Her long black hair was carefully
braided, and fell from beneath an embroidered cap of crimson velvet with
a rounded end which hung on one side in a coquettish way. Her neck was
completely covered with a necklace which descended to her waist like a
breast-plate, and consisted of gold coins, some of them very ancient and
valuable, medals, red beads, and a variety of brilliant objects
harmoniously combined. Her heavy gold bracelets had been made to order
in Kazan after a pure Tatar model, and her soft-soled boots of rose-pink
leather, with conventional designs in many-colored moroccos, sewed
together with rainbow-hued silks, reached nearly to her knees. Her
complexion was fresh and not very sallow, her nose rather less like a
button than is usual; her high cheek-bones were well covered, and her
small dark eyes made up by their brilliancy for the slight upward slant
of their outer corners.
Tatar girls, who made no pretensions to beauty in dress or features, did
the milking, and were aided in that and the other real work connected
with kumys-making by Tatar men. According to the official programme, the
mares might be milked six or eight times a day, and the yield was from a
half to a whole bottle apiece each time. Milk is always reckoned by the
bottle in Russia. I presume the custom arose from the habit of sending
the _muzhik_ ("Boots") to the dairy-shop with an empty wine-bottle to
fetch the milk and cream for "tea," which sometimes means coffee in the
morning. The mare's milk has a sweetish, almond-like flavor, and is very
thin and bluish in hue.
At three o'clock in the morning, the mares are taken from the colts and
shut up in a long shed which is not especially weather-proof. In fact,
there is not much "weather" except wind to be guarded against on the
steppe. In about two hours, when the milk has collected, the colts
follow them voluntarily, and are admitted and allowed to suck for a few
seconds. Halters are then thrown about their necks, and they are led
forward where the mothers can nose them over and lick them. The
milkmaid's second assistant then puts a halter on the neck of a mare and
holds her, or ties up one leg if she be restive. In the mean time the
foolish creature continues to let down milk for her foal. The milkmaid
kneels on one knee and holds her pail on the other, after having washed
her hands carefully and wiped off the teats with a clean, damp cloth. If
the mare resists at first, the milk obtained must not be used for kumys,
as her agitation affects the milk unfavorably. Roan, gray, and chestnut
mares are preferred, and in order to obtain the best milk great care
must be exercised in the choice of pasture and the management of the
horses, as well as in all the minor details of preparation.
The milking-pails are of tin or of oak wood, and, like the oaken kumys
churn, have been boiled in strong lye to extract the acid, and well
dried and aired. In addition to the daily washing they are well smoked
with rotten birch trunks, in order to destroy all particles of kumys
which may cling to them.
The next step after the milk is obtained is to ferment it. The ferment,
or yeast, is obtained by collecting the sediment of the kumys which has
already germinated, and washing it off thoroughly with milk or water. It
is then pressed and dried in the sun, the result being a reddish-brown
mass composed of the micro-organisms contained in kumys ferment, casein,
and a small quantity of fat. Twenty grains of this yeast are ground up
in a small quantity of freshly drawn milk in a clean porcelain mortar,
and shaken in a quart bottle with one pound of fresh milk,--all mare's
milk, naturally,--after which it is lightly corked with a bit of
wadding and set away in a temperature of +22 degrees to +26 degrees
Reaumur. In about twenty-four hours small bubbles begin to make their
appearance, accompanied by the sour odor of kumys. The bottle is then
shaken from time to time, and the air admitted, until it is in a
condition to be used as a ferment with fresh milk. Sometimes this
ferment fails, in which case an artificial ferment is prepared.
One pint of ferment is allowed to every five pints of fresh milk in the
cask or churn, and the whole is beaten with the dasher for about an
hour, when it is set aside in a temperature of +18 degrees to +26
degrees Reaumur. When, at the expiration of a few hours, the milk turns
sour and begins to ferment vigorously, it is beaten again several times
for about fifteen minutes, with intervals, with a dasher which
terminates in a perforated disk, after which it is left undisturbed for
several hours at the same temperature as before, until the liquid begins
to exhale an odor of spirits of wine. The delicate offices of our Tatar
beauty, the taster, come in at this point to determine how much freshly
drawn and cooled milk is to be added in order rightly to temper the sour
taste. After standing over night it is ready for use, and is put up in
seltzer or champagne bottles, and kept at a temperature of +8 degrees to
+12 degrees Reaumur. At a lower temperature vinegar fermentation sets in
and spoils the kumys, while too high a temperature brings about equally
disastrous results of another sort. Kumys has a different chemical
composition according to whether it has stood only a few hours or
several days, and consequently its action differs, also.
The weak kumys is ready for use at the expiration of six hours after
fermentation has been excited in the mare's milk, and must be put into
the strongest bottles. The medium quality is obtained after from twelve
to fourteen hours of fermentation, and, if well corked, will keep two or
three days in a cool atmosphere. The third and strongest quality is the
product of diligent daily churning during twenty-four to thirty-six
hours, and is thinner than the medium quality, even watery. When
bottled, it soon separates into three layers, with the fatty particles
on top, the whey in the middle, and the casein at the bottom. Strong
kumys can be kept for a very long time, but it must be shaken before it
is used. It is very easy for a person unaccustomed to kumys to become
intoxicated on this strong quality of milk wine.