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?”
“Nothing to speak of. The only collections of old paintings worth
seeing in Russia are at Petersburg.”
“Sure of it?” with a pleased expression in his eyes.
“Perfectly.”
“You can’t imagine how glad I am!”--and his face testified his joy.
“Why?”
“I don’t mind telling you, seeing that you are another American. My
aunt is a great admirer of old china, old furniture, and old pictures.
She has plenty of money, and her house at Manayunk, Philadelphia, is
just full of ’em. I’m her only nephew. But I am boring you, perhaps.”
“Not at all,” said I, really interested, and curious to know why he
rejoiced over the absence of the old masters from Moscow. “Fire away.”
“Thank you. Well, you see, my aunt would give anything if she could
come to Europe, and go through all the galleries that tire me so”--and
he heaved a sigh. “But she’s afraid to cross the ocean. So she made me
promise that I would go and see the most famous pictures of the old
masters--the _she-durvs_, they call ’em--and describe ’em for her in my
letters, the best I know how. It’s no fun, I assure you, but then she’s
my aunt.”
“And you her favorite nephew” (with a smile).
“Exactly. And I want to repay some of her kindness. For she is real
good to me. Of course, I don’t pretend to judge ’em for myself. All I
have to do is to praise ’em to Auntie. I can’t lay it on too thick for
her. It was a big job at Petersburg, you bet.”
“Why at Petersburg?”
“Because there’s such an awful lot of the old masters there--the real,
genuine things. I must have seen sixty or seventy Rubenses at the
Hermitage; and about an acre of Rembrandts, and, as for the Van Dycks,
they made me sick. Do you know,” he continued, speaking low, as if
imparting a great secret, “that a man can get to hate Murillo, if he
sees enough of him?”
I replied that I could understand his feelings of satiety. “The full
soul loatheth the honey-comb,” etc.
“I forgot to say that the old fellow I loathe most of all is
Botticelli. And he’s the very one Auntie is craziest about. She has
collected all the photographs of his pictures she could get in America
and I am adding to the stock all I can pick up in Europe.”
“But there are not many Botticellis in the world. At least, I find them
scarce. That old fellow, as you call him, can not trouble you very
much.”
“That’s it,” said Manayunk. “It’s the scarcity of Botticellis that
gives me the bother. You see Auntie told me not to miss a Botticelli on
any account. I have to look over all the pictures for the names of the
artists to be sure I don’t skip him. At first I trusted to the printed
catalogue, but some of ’em are old and not corrected up to date; and
then, again, the pictures are changed about, and the numbers get mixed.”
“You are conscientious at any rate, and do not neglect your aunt’s
commission.”
“Yes. She is very much pleased, she writes me, and thinks I’m becoming
a good judge of the old masters. That’s because I puff ’em so, I
suppose. But I tell you, I’m right glad of a rest here. All I really
had to see in Moscow was the Kremlin and the big bell. I’ve seen the
bell, but isn’t it strange I can’t find the Kremlin?”
“Can’t find the Kremlin?” I echoed, in amazement.
“At all events, the droschky-drivers can’t or won’t take me to it.
Kremlin, I am told, is a good Russian word, and I should think the
Russians ought to understand it. The first day I came here, I jumped
into a droschky, and, said I, ‘Kremlin!’ The man nodded, and off we
went like a flash. Just at the head of the street, we passed through
an opening in a wall and came into another part of Moscow. It is full
of churches and buildings that look like palaces, but I don’t care
about them any more. I didn’t know the Russian words for ‘big bell,’
but the driver went to it without my asking. When I had looked at that
long enough, I said ‘Kremlin’ again, very plain. The driver nodded,
and away we went. He must have taken me through miles of streets, and
I was expecting every moment he would pull up at the Kremlin. But no,
he kept driving on, until, after about half an hour, we came round to
the big bell again. I called ‘Kremlin’ at him once more, and he grinned
and waved his hand about in a sort of general way. I never saw anybody
so stupid. So I yelled ‘Slaviansky Bazaar!’ at him, and he brought me
home. Perhaps, now, you can tell me how to find the fortress, prison,
or whatever it is, they call the Kremlin.”
“Here is where you feel the want of a guide-book,” said I, gently. “If
you had one, you would find that the Kremlin is not a single structure,
but is the name of a great inclosed space with two miles of walls. All
those palaces and churches of which you speak are within the Kremlin,
and important features of it. The poor droschky-driver was showing you
the Kremlin all the time to the best of his ability.”
Manayunk looked a little sheepish at this explanation, as it reflected
on his want of intelligence. “Thank you,” said he, hurriedly, at the
same time consulting his watch, and, without another word, he bolted
into the street.
When the visitor becomes satiated with the splendors of Moscow, he
may find it pleasant--for a change--to make a tour of the rag-fair or
old-clothes market. The site is an open space of about two acres in
the heart of the city. From dawn till dark, in fair weather, it is
filled with eager traders, who come there to buy, or sell, or barter.
The second-hand goods are generally so well used up that they may be
placed on the dirty cobble stones without receiving further injury.
There they remain arranged as neatly and compactly as possible, with
the proprietor standing guard over them and ready for business. Only a
few of the traffickers have stands of any kind for the exhibition of
their wares. The use of these is reserved for the more aristocratic
merchants, who occupy sheltered places alongside the ancient wall,
whose towering height affords a shade for them during several hours of
the day. It is among the multitude who spread dilapidated treasures
on the ground that the most amusing incidents are to be noted by the
inquisitive stranger.
Articles which are thrown away by Americans as wholly valueless would
be offered in the Moscow rag-fair and find ready purchasers. Nothing
would seem more unlikely to be bought than a single boot, the mate of
which had been lost. But I saw one of extraordinary size--No. 15, I
should say--which was the center of quite a gathering. The boot had
been brilliantly polished for the occasion, and I supposed at first
that it was the specimen sign of some enterprising _mujik_ prepared
to “shine ’em up” for ten kopecks. Then I noticed a man measuring the
boot by the standard of his own foot, to see if it would suit him. It
was about an inch too long. He shook his head. Other spectators with
large feet stepped forward, and made the same personal comparison with
the unmated boot. One man thrust his stockingless foot into the yawning
leather, and rattled round in it for a minute, much to the amusement of
the bystanders. Then he gently kicked it off, and evidently dismissed
all thought of buying it. The boot was unpatched, and not run down at
the heel, and it seemed a great pity that an article in such superior
condition should go unbought. The proprietor, whose only stock in trade
was this solitary boot, was getting anxious, when relief unexpectedly
arrived. A strapping fellow, about six and a half feet high, elbowed
his way through the throng to see what was going on. The instant his
eye rested on the boot, it gleamed with surprise. He placed his own
foot by the side of it, and lo! it was a perfect match! I could see in
his face astonishment that another boot could be found as large as his
own. The seller at once saw that he had a probable customer before him.
Then began a lively chaffering between the two in Russian, in which
the spectators took the keenest interest, acting the part of chorus
to the principals. It ended in the sale of the odd boot at a price
to me unknown. The buyer took it in his hand and walked off with it.
Perhaps to this day he is trying to find a mate for it ready made. The
chances must be strong against his success in that search, even in the
old-clothes market of Moscow.
I saw on sale a dress-coat of which one of the tails had been torn
away. It may have belonged to a man of fashion, or to a waiter, before
its immediate descent to this low destiny, and, in either case, the
history of that lost tail would doubtless be interesting. It was taken
up and minutely inspected by several persons, and then carefully
dropped on its assigned place in the dirt. But its owner did not seem
discouraged, for he knew that, sooner or later, some man would present
himself who, perhaps, had purchased the missing tail from some other
dealer, and was looking for the rest of the coat. Among the other
bargains offered were frying-pans without handles, and handles without
frying-pans; tables and chairs that needed only two or three legs
apiece to make them useful; coffee-mills minus cranks, and thermometers
with smashed bulbs. Asparagus and tomato cans, empty and battered, such
as would be tossed into the garbage-barrel or gutter in the United
States, were in great request. A little pile of them vanished in five
minutes.
I was only a looker-on. The merchants seemed to understand the motive
of my presence among them, for they wasted none of their appeals on
me--with one exception. This was the case of a man who had one of
Lincoln and Bennett’s best London hats for sale. It was but little
worn, and looked good for many years of service on the head of some
conservative middle-aged gentleman who does not approve of novelty and
gloss in his hats. I was wearing a Derby at the time; seeing which,
the dealer ventured to suggest by signs that I should try on the
stove-pipe pattern which he held enticingly toward me. Taking me for
an Englishman, he supposed that I would be glad to acquire a London
hat at a price doubtless far below the original figures. He implored
me by gestures to put it on. I had not the remotest idea of buying
a first- or second-hand hat of that shape while traveling, but, to
please him, I consented to see if it would fit me. A large number
of idlers looked on approvingly while I made the trial. The hat was
decidedly too small, and was returned to the dealer with a shake of
the head made as emphatic as possible. Whereupon he did exactly what I
have seen done twenty times by hatters in various parts of America. He
took that undersized hat and began to stretch it with his hands one way
and compress it another way. Then he drew it over the cap of his knee
till I thought he would have split it up the side. Then he bowed, and
handed it to me again for another experiment. I made the politest signs
of declining; and, as he pressed the hat upon me with increased ardor,
improved the opportunity offered by a gap in the crowd and slipped away
from him. As I withdrew, I could hear murmurs of disapproval among the
bystanders. They thought I ought at least to have tried on the hat once
more after it had been so carefully enlarged to suit me.
The country roads in the environs of Moscow are not kept in good
repair. They abound in depressed places, which become miry pits or
pools after a heavy rain. The one which is least exposed to these
criticisms is that leading to the Petrovsky Palace and Gardens, a few
miles from the Kremlin. A French guide and interpreter whom we had
secured for a day or two recommended us to visit the Petrovsky Palace,
because Napoleon occupied it for a time after the heat and smoke of
burning Moscow had driven him beyond the walls. It was there the
Emperor took his last look at the gilded domes and spires of the holy
city as they glowed in the crimson light. It was from this palace that
he sent, by relays of swift couriers to Paris--as if bad news does
not travel fast enough without whip and spur--the intelligence of the
burning of Moscow, and the forced retreat of the grand army through
the snows. Our French guide thought it would give us great pleasure to
see the identical room, chair, table, ink-stand, and pen which were
involved in the production of this famous dispatch. But we had heard
of Napoleon at every turn about Moscow so far, and were quite willing
to forget him for a few hours. Therefore, we at first declined the
proposition to go out to the Petrovsky Palace, until it was further
explained that a good dinner could be had in the gardens adjoining.
Then we resolved to make the trip, the day being pleasant.
The ride outside the city walls is not interesting until the Palace
Gardens are reached. These are laid out with the forethought and
tended with the scrupulous care which one always sees in the public
grounds of Russia. Visits to the parks in that country go far to
compensate one for the absence of more natural, diversified scenery.
We spent a pleasant hour or two among the winding roads and footpaths,
obtaining many views of the palace from different standpoints. It is an
old-fashioned building, with an air of homely comfort reflected from
every brick. If hoarded memories of twenty or thirty other palaces in
Europe had not interfered, we should hardly have been able to resist
the importunities of our guide to behold more relics of his adored
Napoleon. At 6 P. M. dinner was much more to our liking than the
exhibition of rooms in endless succession, however thickly crowded with
souvenirs of the great.
Our man’s promise about a good dinner was fulfilled. The restaurant
where we pulled up for the momentous transaction is small but nicely
kept. The meal was served in a pretty little garden in the rear of
the premises. The walls were masses of climbing-plants in full bloom.
Venerable trees kept off the still warm rays of the declining sun. A
fountain shot its sparkling jet high in air, and the crystal drops
tinkled musically as they fell back into a marble basin. Our round
table was spread under a mighty oak. Sparrows of the unadulterated
English type hopped familiarly about us, as if expecting crumbs from
the forthcoming feast. They were the tamest of birds, alighting on
the tops of chairs almost within reach. At times they seemed to dare
one to drop a pinch of salt on their tails, preparatory to catching
them, according to the method recommended in childhood. As the dinner,
besides being excellent, was lengthy and in quantity superabundant,
there was plenty to spare for the companionable sparrows. They flocked
to us from all parts of the grounds, and at one time the chirping
congregation could have been numbered by the hundreds. There was
nothing particularly Russian about the dinner, except the soup, which
was serious and important. From this dish the central island of meat
and the stuffed pastry-ball are never absent. The occurrence of a
meat _entrée_ between the soup and the fish is another invariable
departure from the Western _menus_. There was an abundance of sauces
served upon meats which we had been accustomed to eating quite dry
or in their natural gravy. Where all was good, no one item--the soup
excluded--lives in my recollection. But I shall not soon forget the
honest, delicious wine of the Crimea. A little experience with the
Russian vintages had impressed me favorably. They have not the taste or
the heating after-effect of the French wines which are now so commonly
fortified and otherwise doctored all over the world, and not least
in France herself--and, worst of all, perhaps, in Paris. So I ordered
(through the Russian-speaking guide) a bottle of a Crimean brand. It
was an accidental, but fortunate, choice. The wine was red, and had the
general taste rather of Burgundy than of Bordeaux. But it had a bouquet
of its own; it dwelt pleasantly upon the palate, and it produced those
salutary effects of gentle warmth and cheer of which good wine may
still be capable if not abused by the drinker. But one may travel
thousands of miles in Europe and not find many wines of which this high
praise could be justly spoken.
The English sparrows--pests in America--were so friendly and affable
in their way that we were reluctant to leave them. But we finally bade
them farewell with a parting largess of crumbs, and returned to Moscow
by the light of the setting sun. As we quitted the pleasant restaurant,
the proprietor and several of his staff flocked about to see us off,
and looked an unutterable good-by with a kindness of manner which
touched our alien hearts. I took pleasure in thinking that this mark
of courtesy was paid to our nationality. The guide knew that we were
Americans, and doubtless had mentioned that fact to the people at the
restaurant. There may be many Russians still ignorant of America and
Americans, but, among the vast majority in every part of Russia who are
aware of the friendly relations which have always existed between the
two nations, our countrymen are sure of a cordial welcome.