stood a piano. We soon discovered its use. Coming in about nine o'clock
in the evening, we ordered our _samovar_ for tea in the dining-room,--
a most unusual place. The proper place was our own room. But we had
found a peculiar code of etiquette prevailing here, governed by
excessive modesty and propriety, no doubt, but an obstructionist
etiquette, nevertheless. The hall-waiter, whose business it is to serve
the _samovar_ and coffee, was not allowed to enter our room, though his
fellows had served us throughout the country, after the fashion of the
land. Here we were compelled to wait upon the leisure of the
chambermaid, a busy and capricious person, who would certainly not be on
hand in the evening if she was not in the morning. Accordingly, we
ordered our tea in the dining-room, as I have said. Presently, a chorus
of girls, dressed all alike, mounted the platform, and sang three songs
to an accompaniment banged upon the piano by a man. Being violently
applauded by a long table-full of young merchants who sat near, at whom
they had been singing and staring, without any attempt at disguise, and
with whom they had even been exchanging remarks, they sang two songs
more. They were followed by another set of girls, also in a sort of
uniform costume, who sang five songs at the young merchants. It appeared
that one party was called "Russian singers," and the other "German
singers." We found out afterwards, by watching operations on another
evening, that these five songs formed the extent of their respective
repertories.
A woman about forty-five years of age accompanied them into the room,
then planted herself with her back against the wall near us, which was
as far away from her charges as space permitted. She was the
"sheep-dog," and we soon saw that, while discreetly oblivious of the
smiles, glances, and behavior of her lambs,--as all well-trained
society sheep-dogs are,--she kept darting sharp looks at us as though
we were doing something quite out of the way and improper. By that time
we had begun to suspect, for various reasons, that the Nizhni Fair is
intended for men, not for--ladies. But we were determined quietly to
convince ourselves of the state of affairs, so we stood our ground,
dallied with our tea, drank an enormous quantity of it, and kept our
eyes diligently in the direction where those of the sheep-dog should
have been, but never were.
Their very bad singing over, the lambs disappeared to the adjoining
veranda. The young merchants slipped out, one by one. The waiters began
to carry great dishes of peaches, and other dainty fruits,--all worth
their weight in gold in Russia, and especially at Nizhni,--together
with bottles of champagne, out to the veranda. When we were satisfied,
we went to bed, but not to sleep. The peaches kept that party on the
veranda and in the rooms below exhilarated until nearly daylight. I
suppose the duenna did her duty and sat out the revel in the distant
security of the dining-room. Several of her charges added a number of
points to our store of information the next day, at the noon breakfast
hour, when the duenna was not present.
We began to think that we understood our Moscow friend's enigmatic
smile, and to regret that we had not met him and his wife at the Fair,
as we had originally arranged to do.
The far-famed Fair of Nizhni Novgorod--"Makary," the Russians call it,
from the town and monastery of St. Makary, sixty miles farther down the
Volga, where it was held from 1624 until the present location was
adopted in 1824--was a disappointment to us. There is no denying that.
Until railways and steamers were introduced into these parts, and
facilitated the distribution of goods, and of commonplaceness and
monotony, it probably merited all the extravagant praises of its
picturesqueness and variety which have been lavished upon it. The
traveler arrives there with indefinite but vast expectations. A fancy
dress ball on an enormous scale, combined with an International
Exposition, would seem to be the nearest approach possible to a
description of his confused anticipations. That is, in a measure, what
one sees; and, on the other hand, it is exactly the reverse of what he
sees. I must confess that I think our disappointment was partly our own
fault. Had we, like most travelers who have written extravagantly about
the Fair, come to it fresh from a stay of (at most) three weeks in St.
Petersburg and Moscow only, we should have been much impressed by the
variety of types and goods, I have no doubt. But we had spent nearly two
years in the land, and were familiar with the types and goods of the
capitals and of other places, so that there was little that was new to
us. Consequently, though we found the Fair very interesting, we were not
able to excite ourselves to any extravagant degree of amazement or
rapture.
The Fair proper consists of a mass of two-story "stone" (brick and
cement) buildings, inclosed on three sides by a canal in the shape of a
horseshoe. Through the centre runs a broad boulevard planted with trees,
ending at the open point of the horseshoe in the residence occupied by
the governor during the Fair (he usually lives in the Kremlin of the
Upper Town), the post-office, and other public buildings. Across the
other end of the boulevard and "rows" of the Gostinny Dvor, with their
arcades full of benches occupied by fat merchants or indolent visitors,
and serving as a chord to the arc of the horseshoe, run the "Chinese
rows," which derive their name from the style of their curving iron
roofs and their ornaments, not from the nationality of the merchants, or
of the goods sold there. It is, probably, a mere accident that the
wholesale shops for overland tea are situated in the Chinese rows. It is
a good place to see the great bales of "Kiakhta tea," still in their
wrappings of rawhides, with the hair inside and the hieroglyphical
addresses, weights, and so forth, cut into the skins, instead of being
painted on them, just as they have been brought overland from Kiakhta on
the Chinese border of Siberia. Here, also, rises the great Makary
Cathedral, which towers conspicuously above the low-roofed town. Inside
the boundary formed by this Belt Canal, no smoking is allowed in the
streets, under penalty of twenty-five rubles for each offense. The
drainage system is flushed from the river every night; and from the
ventilation towers, which are placed at short intervals, the blue smoke
of purifying fires curls reassuringly. Great care is necessary in this
department, and the sanitary conditions, though as good as possible, are
never very secure. The whole low sandspit is often submerged during the
spring floods, and the retreating waters leave a deposit of slime and
debris behind them, which must be cleared away, besides doing much
damage to the buildings.
The peculiarity of this Makary Fair is that nothing is sold by sample,
in modern fashion; the whole stock of goods is on hand, and is delivered
at once to purchasers. The taciturn, easy-going merchants in those
insignificant-looking shops of the Gostinny Dvor "rows," and, to a small
extent, in the supplementary town which has sprung up outside the canal,
set the prices for tea and goods of all sorts all over Russia and
Siberia for the ensuing year. Contracts for the future are dated, and
last year's bills fall due, at "Makary." It is hard to realize.
All the firms with whose shops we had been familiar in Petersburg and
Moscow had establishments here, and, at first, it seemed not worth while
to inspect their stocks, with which we felt perfectly acquainted. But we
soon discovered that our previous familiarity enabled us to distinguish
certain articles which are manufactured for the "Fair" trade
exclusively, and which are never even shown in the capitals. For
example, the great porcelain houses of St. Petersburg manufacture large
pipe-bowls, ewers (with basins to match) of the Oriental shape familiar
to the world in silver and brass, and other things, all decorated with a
deep crimson bordering on magenta, and with gold. The great silk houses
of Moscow prepare very rich and very costly brocades of this same deep
crimson hue, besprinkled with gold and with tiny bouquets of bright
flowers, or in which the crimson is prominent. They even copy the large,
elaborate patterns from the robes of ancient Doges of Venice. All these,
like the pipes and ewers, are made to suit the taste of customers in
Bokhara and other Eastern countries, where a man's rank is, to a certain
degree, to be recognized by the number and richness of the _khalati_
which he can afford to wear at one time. This is one of the points in
which the civilization of the East coincides very nearly with the
civilization of the West. The _khalat_ is a sort of dressing-gown, with
wide sleeves, which is girt about the waist with a handsome shawl; but
it would strike a European that eight or ten of these, worn one on top
of the other, might conduce to the preservation of vanity, but not to
comfort, in the hot countries where the custom prevails. The Bokhariots
bring to the Fair _khalati_ of their own thin, strong silk, in hues more
gaudy than those of the rainbow and the peacock combined, which are
always lined with pretty green and white chintz, and can be bought for a
very reasonable price in the Oriental shops, together with jeweled arms
and ornaments, rugs, and a great variety of fascinating wares.
The choicest "overland" tea--the true name is "Kiakhta tea"--can be
had only by wholesale, alas! and it is the same with very many things.
There are shops full of rolls of _sarpinka_, a fine, changeable gingham
in pink and blue, green and yellow, and a score of other combinations,
which washes perfectly, and is made by the peasants far down the Volga,
in the season when agricultural labor is impossible. There are furs of
more sorts than the foreign visitor is likely ever to have seen before;
iron from the Ural mines by the ton, on a detached sand-spit in the Oka
River; dried and salted fish by the cord, in a distant, too odorous
spot; goldsmiths' shops; old-clothes shops, where quaint and beautiful
old costumes of Russia abound; Tatar shops, filled with fine,
multi-colored leather work and other Tatar goods, presided over by the
stately Tatars from whom we had bought at Kazan; shops piled with every
variety of dried fruit, where prime Sultana raisins cost forty cents for
a box of one hundred and twenty pounds. Altogether, it is a varied and
instructive medley.
We learned several trade tricks. For example, we came upon the agency of
a Moscow factory, which makes a woolen imitation of an Oriental silken
fabric, known as _termalama_. The agent acknowledged that it was an
imitation, and said that the price by the piece was twenty-five cents a
yard. In the Moscow Oriental shops the dealers sell it for eight times
that price, and swear that it is genuine from the East. A Russian friend
of ours had been cheated in this way, and the dealers attempted to cheat
us also,--in vain, after our Nizhni investigations.
Every one seemed to be absorbed in business, to the exclusion of every
other thought. But sometimes, as we wandered along the boulevard, and
among the rows, we found the ground of the Gostinny Dvor strewn with
fresh sprays of fragrant fir, which we took at first to be a token that
a funeral had occurred among some of the merchants' clerks who lived
over the shops. However, it appeared that a holy picture had been
carried along the rows, and into the shops of those who desired its
blessing on their trade, and a short service had been held. The "zeal"
of these numerous devout persons must have enriched the church where the
_ikona_ dwelt, judging from the number, of times during our five days'
stay that we came upon these freshly strewn paths.
The part of the Fair which is most interesting to foreigners in general,
I think, is the great glass gallery filled with retail booths, where
Russians sell embroidery and laces and the handiwork of the peasants in
general; where Caucasians deal in the beautiful gold and silver work of
their native mountains; where swarthy Bokhariots sit cross-legged, with
imperturbable dignity, among their gay wares, while the band plays, and
the motley crowd bargains and gazes even in the evening when all the
other shops are closed.
I learned here an extra lesson in the small value attached by Russians
to titles in themselves. It was at the Ekaterinburg booth, where
precious and semi-precious stones from the Ural and Siberia, in great
variety and beauty, were for sale. A Russian of the higher classes, and,
evidently, not poor, inquired the price of a rosary of amethysts, with a
cross of assorted gems fit for a bishop. The attendant mentioned the
price. It did not seem excessive, but the bargainer exclaimed, in a
bantering tone,--
"Come now, prince, that's the fancy price. Tell me the real price."
But the "prince" would not make any reduction, and his customer walked
away. I thought I would try the effect of the title on the Caucasians
and Bokhariots. I had already dropped into the habit of addressing
Tatars as "prince," except in the case of hotel waiters,--and I might
as well have included them. I found to my amusement that, instead of
resenting it as an impertinence, they reduced the price of the article
for which I was bargaining by five kopeks (about two and a half cents)
every time I used the title, though no sign of gratification disturbed
the serene gravity of their countenances any more than if they had been
Americans and I had addressed them as "colonel" or "judge," at
haphazard. Truly, human nature varies little under different skies! But
I know now, authoritatively, that the market value of the title of
"prince" is exactly two and a half cents.
One evening we drove across the bridge to take tea at a garden on the
"Atkos," or slope,--the crest of the green hill on which stands the
Kremlin. In this Atkos quarter of the town there are some really fine
houses of wealthy merchants, mingled with the curious old dwellings of
the merely well-to-do and the poor. In the garden the tea was not very
good, and the weedy-looking chorus of women, the inevitable adjunct to
every eating establishment at the Fair, as we had learned, sang
wretchedly, and were rewarded accordingly when one of their number came
round to take up a collection. But the view! Far below, at our feet,
swept broad "Matushka Volga." The wharves were crowded with vessels.
Steamers and great barges lay anchored in the stream in battalions.
Though the activity of the day was practically over, tugs and small
boats were darting about and lending life to the scene. We were on the
"Hills" side of the river. Far away, in dreamy dimness, lay the flat,
blue-green line of the "Forests" shore. On our left was the mouth of the
Oka, and the Fair beyond, which seemed to be swarming with ants, lay
flat on the water level. The setting sun tinged the scene with pale rose
and amber in a mild glow for a while, and then the myriad lights shone
out from the city and river with even more charming effect.
Our next visit to the old town was in search of a writer who had
published a couple of volumes of agreeable sketches. It was raining
hard, so we engaged an _izvostchik_ who was the fortunate possessor of
an antiquated covered carriage, with a queer little drapery of scarlet
cotton curtains hanging from the front of the hood, as though to screen
the modesty of "the young person" from the manners, customs, and sights
of the Fair,--about which, to tell the truth, the less that is said in
detail the better. Certainly, more queer, old-fashioned carriages and
cabmen's costumes are to be seen at the Fair than anywhere else in the
country. As we were about to enter our antique conveyance, my mother's
foot caught in the braid on the bottom of her dress, and a long strip
gave way.
"I must go upstairs and sew this on before we start," said she,
reentering the hotel.
The _izvostchik_ ran after us. "Let me sew it on, Your High Well-born,"
he cried. Seeing our surprise, he added, "God is my witness,--_yay
Bogu!_ I am a tailor by trade."
His rent and faded coat did not seem to indicate anything of the sort,
but I thought I would try him, as I happened to have a needleful of silk
and a thimble in my pocket. I gave them to him accordingly. He knelt
down and sewed on the braid very neatly and strongly in no time. His
simple, friendly manner was irresistibly charming. I cannot imagine
accepting such an offer from a New York cabby,--or his offering to do
such a job.
When we reached the old town, I asked a policeman where to find my
author. I thought he might be able to tell me at once, as the town is
not densely populated, especially with authors;--and for other
reasons. He did not know.
"Then where is the police office or the address office?" I asked. (There
is no such thing as a directory in Russian cities, even in St.
Petersburg. But there is an address office where the names and
residences on passports are filed, and where one can obtain the address
wanted by paying a small fee, and filling out a form. But he must know
the baptismal name and the patronymic as well as the surname, and, if
the person wanted be not "noble," his profession or trade in addition!)
"There is no address office," he answered, "and the police office is
closed. It is after four o'clock. Besides, if it were open, you could
not find out there. We keep no record here, except of soldiers and
strangers."
I thought the man was jesting, but after questioning him further, I was
forced to conclude that it might be true, thought it certainly was
amazing. As the author in question had been sent to Siberia once or
twice, on the charge of complicity in some revolutionary proceedings, it
did seem as though the police ought to be able to give his address, if
Russia meant to live up to the reputation for strict surveillance of
every soul within her borders which foreigners have kindly bestowed upon
her.
As a house-to-house visitation was impossible, I abandoned the quest,
and drove to a photographer's to buy some views of the town. The
photographer proved to be a chatty, vivacious man, and full of
information. I mentioned my dilemma to him. He said that the policeman
had told the exact truth, but that my author, to his positive knowledge,
was in the Crimea, "looking up material." Then he questioned me as to
what we had seen at the Fair, mentioning one or two places of evening
entertainment. I replied that we had not been to those places. I had
understood that they were not likely to suit my taste. Had I been
rightly informed, or ought I to have gone to them in spite of warning?
"No," he replied frankly, after a momentary hesitation, "you ought not
to see them. But all the American women do go to them. There was a party
here last year. O-o-o-oh, how they went on! They were told, as you have
been, that they ought not to go to certain places; so of course they
went, and took the men in the party with them,--which was just as
well. I'd have given something to see their faces at the time, or even
afterwards! An Englishman, who had traveled everywhere, and had seen
everything, told me that nowhere, even in India, had he seen the like of
the doings at this Fair; and he was greatly shocked." He added that an
officer could not appear at these places in uniform.
I begged the photographer to remember in future that there were several
sorts of American women, and that not all of them worked by the law of
contraries. In my own mind I wondered what those particular women had
done, and wished, for the hundredth time, that American women abroad
would behave themselves properly, and not earn such a reputation for
their country-people.
On Sunday we went to the Armenian church, to see the service and to meet
some Armenian acquaintances. We found the service both like and unlike
the Russian, in many points approaching more nearly to the Greek form.
The music was astonishing. An undercurrent of sound, alternating between
a few notes, was kept up throughout the service, almost without a break.
At times, this undercurrent harmonized with the main current of intoning
and chanting, but quite as often the discord was positively distressing.
Perceiving that we were strangers, the Armenians showed their
hospitality in an original way. First, when one of the congregation went
forward to the chancel railing and received from the priest the triple
kiss of peace, which he then proceeded to communicate to another person,
who passed it on in dumb show, and so on through the whole assembly,
neither men nor women would run the risk of offending us by offering the
simulated kiss. Secondly, and more peculiar, besides throwing light on
their motives in omitting the kiss, they deliberately passed us by when
they brought round the plate for the collection! This was decidedly
novel! A visit to the Armenian church in St. Petersburg convinced us
that the discordant music was not an accident due to bad training, but
deliberate and habitual. I noticed also that the men and women, though
they stood on opposite sides of the church, as with the Russian Old
Ritualists, with the women on the left,--in the State Church, at
Court, the women stand on the right,--they crossed themselves from
left to right, like Roman Catholics, instead of the other way about, as
do the Russians.
As we were exploring the Tatar shops at noon, we heard the muezzin
calling to prayer from the minaret of the mosque close by, and we set
off to attend the service. If we had only happened to have on our
galoshes, we might have complied with etiquette by removing them, I
suppose, and could have entered in our shoes. At least, the Russian
policeman said so, and that is very nearly what the Tatars did. They
kicked off the stiff leather slippers in which they scuff about, and
entered in their tall boots, with the inset of frosted green pebbled
horsehide in the heel, and soft soles, like socks. As it was, we did not
care to try the experiment of removing our shoes, and so we were obliged
to stand in the vestibule, and look on from the threshold. Each Tatar,
as he entered, pulled out the end of his turban, and let it float down
his back. Where the turban came from for the prayers, I do not know.
None of the Tatars had worn a turban in the shops from which they had
just come in large numbers, abandoning the pressing engagements of the
busy noontide. Several individuals arrived very late, and decided not to
enter. All of these late comers, one after the other, beckoned me
mysteriously out of sight of the congregation and the _mollah_, and
whispered eagerly:--
"How do you like it?"
"_Very_ much," I answered emphatically; whereupon they exhibited signs
of delight which were surprising in such grave people, and even made a
motion to kiss my hand.
At least, that is what the motion would have meant from a Russian. Next
to the magnificent ceremonial of the Russian Church, the opposite
extreme, this simplicity of the congregational Mussulman worship is the
most impressive I have ever seen.
The manner of our departure from Nizhni Novgorod was characteristically
Russian,--but not by our own choice. We decided to go on up the Volga
by steamer, see the river and a few of the towns, and return from some
point, by rail, to Moscow.
The boat was advertised to start from the wharf, in the old town, at six
o'clock in the evening. We went aboard in good season, and discovered
that there were but three first-class staterooms, the best of which (the
only good one, as it afterwards appeared) had been captured by some
friends of the captain. We installed ourselves in the best we could get,
and congratulated each other when the steamer started on time. We had
hardly finished the congratulations when it drew up at another wharf and
made fast. Then it was explained to us that it was to load at this
wharf, at the "Siberian Landing," a point on the Volga shore of the Fair
sand-spit, miles nearer our hotel than the one to which we had driven
through torrents of rain. We were to make our real start at ten o'clock
that night! The cold was piercing. We wrapped ourselves up in our wadded
cloaks and in a big down quilt which we had with us, and tried to sleep,
amid the deliberate bang-bang-bang of loading. When the cargo was in we
slept. When we woke in the morning we began to exchange remarks, being
still in that half comatose condition which follows heavy slumber.