A RUSSIAN KITCHEN.
Under the guidance of Wisky we took up our abode in a Russian house.
House did I call it!-- if ever there was a palace this was one. We
established ourselves in the kitchen; a warm, comfortable place we found
it, where we had much opportunity for observation, both of the denizens
of the place and their various occupations.
"It seems to me, Wisky," said I, on the night following that of our
arrival, "that there is no end to the number of servants that pass in
and out of this dwelling! Who is that fellow in the blue cloth caftan,
fastened under his left arm with three silver buttons, and girded round
the waist with a coloured silk scarf? His fine bushy beard seems to
match the fur with which his high four-cornered cap is trimmed."
"That is the Tartar coachman," replied Wisky; "a dashing fellow is he,
and a bold driver through the crowded streets of the city. The pretty
youths yonder are the postilions. Young and small they must be, to suit
the taste of a Russian noble. The worse for them, poor boys, as they are
less able to endure the bitter cold of a winter's night, when, if they
drop asleep on their horses, they are never likely to awake any more!"
"And are their masters actually cruel enough," I exclaimed, "to expose
them to such suffering and risk?"
"My much esteemed brother," replied the Russian rat, "doubtless your
clear mind has already come to the conclusion that selfishness is
inherent in the human race. A young noble is at a ball; must he quit its
bright enchantments, and the society of the fair whom he admires,
because a bearded coachman is freezing without? A beauteous lady,
wrapped in ermine and velvet, is weeping in the theatre over the woes of
some imaginary heroine; would you have her dry her tearful eyes, and
leave the scene of touching interest and elegant excitement, because
icicles are hanging from the locks of her little postilion, and his
head is gradually sinking on his breast, as the fatal sleep steals over
him? Selfish!-- yes, all human beings are selfish!"
"There are exceptions to that rule," thought I, for I remembered the
stories which I had heard in the cabin; and I also recollected the
conduct of their narrator, Captain Blake, towards the starving little
thief in London.
"I have been trying," said Whiskerandos, "to count the servants in this
house; but no sooner do I think that my task is done, than in comes some
new one, speaking some different language, wearing some different
costume, and puts all my calculations to fault."
"It would puzzle even one possessing the talents of my brother to count
the number of the servants here," replied Wisky. "Why, even I, who,
before my visit to England, spent months amongst the household, can
scarcely number them now. To begin with the inmates of a higher rank,
who never appear in the kitchen, there are the French governess and the
German tutor, to polish up the minds of the children, and the family
physician to look after their health. Then there are the superintendent
of accounts, the secretary, the dworezki-- he who has charge of the
whole establishment, the valets of the lord, the valets of the lady,
the overseer of the children, the footmen, the buffetshik or butler, the
table-decker, the head groom, the coachman and postilions of the lord,
the coachman and postilions of the lady,--"
"What!" cried Whiskerandos, "are their carriages so small that they will
not hold two, or are the grandees afraid of quarrelling, that husband
and wife cannot travel together!"
"Surely, Sir Wisky," exclaimed I, "you must have come to the end of your
list!"
"Pardon me, little brother, not yet. There are the attendants on the
boys and on the tutor, the porter, the head cook and the under cook, the
baker, brewer, the waiting-maids and wardrobe-keeper of the lady, the
waiting-maid who attends the French governess, the nurses that take care
of the children, and the nurses that once took care of the children, the
kapell-meister or head musician, and all the men of his band!"
"Well!" cried I, much amused, "at any rate a Russian noble must be well
served. If he calls for his shoes, I suppose that half-a-dozen servants
start off in a race to fetch them, and knock their heads together in
their eagerness to get them!"
A valet at this moment entered the kitchen, where, secure in our
hiding-place, we were watching all that passed.
"Where's Ivan?" said he, "where's Ivan?" The coachman, who was playing
at draughts with the head groom, looked up for an instant, then silently
made his move.
"My lady's a-fainting, and my lord's calling for water! Where's Ivan,
I say? 'tis his business to fetch it."
"There's Ivan," said the cook, pointing contemptuously to a sandy-haired
figure fast asleep under the table.
"Get up, ye lazy fellow!" exclaimed the valet; "my lady's fainting,
my lord's calling for water; take a glass of it on a silver salver
directly."
Ivan got up slowly, yawned, stretched himself, rubbed his eyes; then,
taking a tumbler off the dresser, he leisurely filled it with water.
"And where am I to get the silver salver?" said he.
"That's in keeping of Matwei the buffetshik," observed the table-decker.
"And where is Matwei to be found?"
"Here you, Vatka," pursued the valet, turning to another attendant, who
was busy over his basin of kwas, "go you to Matwei and tell him that we
want a silver salver on which to carry a tumbler, for my lady's fainting
up stairs, and my lord is calling for water."
A loud ring from above was heard, as if to enforce the order. "Sei
tshas! sei tshas!-- directly, directly!" called out Vatka; but he
nevertheless finished his kwas, and wiped his mouth before he went to
Matwei the butler to procure the silver salver on which Ivan the footman
would carry the tumbler of water which Paul the valet had been ordered
to bring.
Before all was ready another messenger came to tell Ilia the bearded
coachman to put to the horses, for the lady was ready for her drive.
It was evident that she had managed to recover from her fainting fit
without the aid of the glass of water,-- a happy thing for one who had
the misfortune to keep fifty or sixty servants.
Wisky laughed at my look of surprise. "I believe that one pair of
hands," said he, "often serve better than a dozen. The Russian proverb
says that 'directly' means _to-morrow morning_, and 'this minute' _this
day week_."
With quiet night came our feasting-time, and when the kitchen was
deserted by the crowds of servants, Whiskerandos, Wisky, and I, crept
softly out of our hole, provided with pretty sharp appetites for our
meal.
"I am curious to taste that liquor which you call kwas," said I; "Vatka
seemed to relish it exceedingly."
"Relish it, brother! I should think so!" exclaimed Wisky. "Kwas is to a
Russian what water is to a fish; rich or poor could hardly bear
existence without it."
"Not bad at all," said I, dipping my whiskers carefully into a bowl that
had been set aside by the cook.
"Mind you don't tumble in, old fellow!" cried Whiskerandos, "and be
drowned in kwas as I have heard that a duke once was drowned in wine."
"And what may this kwas be made of?" inquired I, after another approving
sip.
"I ought to know, little brother," replied Wisky, "for many and many a
time have I seen it brewed. A pailful of water is poured into an earthen
jar, into which are shaken two pounds of barley-meal, half a pound of
salt, and a pound and a half of honey. The whole is then placed in an
oven with a moderate fire, and constantly stirred. It is left for a time
to settle, and in the morning the clear liquor is poured off. In a week
it is in the highest perfection."
"I wonder that kwas is not made in England," observed I; "but honey is
not so plentiful there."
"Sugar would make a good substitute, I should think," said Wisky; "the
beverage would not then be an expensive one. But here is our beloved
Whiskerandos busy with his shtshee, the dish of all dishes in this
country, that which nothing, I believe, could ever drive from the table
or the heart of a Russian. When in a foreign land, it is said, it is not
the remembrance of native hills or plains, or the tender delights of
home, that draws tears into an exile's eyes, but the loss of his beloved
shtshee, the favourite dish of his childhood."
"Leave a little for me!" I cried eagerly to Whiskerandos, who had nearly
finished, by dint of steady perseverance, a portion which had been left
in a plate. "Why," I added, as I tasted the liquid, "this seems to me
simply cabbage soup!"
"Whatever my brother may think of it," observed Wisky, dipping his
whiskers into the nearly empty plate, "he is now tasting that which
forms the principal article of food of forty millions of human beings!
Better live without bread than without shtshee."
"And the ingredients?" said I, for I always delighted to pick up any
scrap of information interesting to a rat.
"There are almost as many ways of making shtshee as of cooking potatoes.
I have seen six or seven cabbages chopped up small, half a pound of
butter, a handful of salt, and two pounds of minced mutton added, the
whole mixed up with a can or two of kwas. But it is now time, brothers,
for us to sally forth. I must do the honours of this our city, and show
my illustrious guests whatever I may deem worthy of their observation."