TEA-DRINKING.
The _traktirs_, or tea-houses, are prominent among the remarkable
institutions of Russia. In Moscow they abound in every street, lane,
and by-alley. That situated near the Katai Gorod is said to be the
best. Though inferior to the ordinary cafes of Paris or Marseilles in
extent and decoration, it is nevertheless pretty stylish in its way,
and is interesting to strangers from the fact that it represents a
prominent feature in Russian life--the drinking of _tchai_.
[Illustration: TEA-SELLERS.]
Who has not heard of Russian tea?--the tea that comes all the way
across the steppes of Tartary and over the Ural Mountains?--the tea
that never loses its flavor by admixture with the salt of the ocean,
but is delivered over at the great fair of Nijni Novgorod as pure and
fragrant as when it started? He who has never heard of Russian tea has
heard nothing, and he who has never enjoyed a glass of it may have
been highly favored in other respects, but I contend that he has
nevertheless led a very benighted existence. All epicures in the
delicate leaf unite in pronouncing it far superior to the nectar with
which the gods of old were wont to quench their thirst. It is truly
one of the luxuries of life--so soft; so richly yet delicately
flavored; so bright, glowing, and transparent as it flashes through
the crystal glasses; nothing acrid, gross, or earthly about it--a
heavenly compound that "cheers but not inebriates."
"A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unbless'd."
Come with me, friend, and let us take a seat in the traktir. Every
body here is a tea-drinker. Coffee is never good in Russia. Besides,
it is gross and villainous stuff compared with the _tchai_ of Moscow.
At all hours of the day we find the saloons crowded with Russians,
French, Germans, and the representatives of various other nations--all
worshipers before the burnished shrine of _Tchai_. A little saint in
the corner presides especially over this department. The devout
Russians take off their hats and make a profound salam to this
accommodating little patron, whose corpulent stomach and smiling
countenance betoken an appreciation of all the good things of life.
Now observe how these wonderful Russians--the strangest and most
incomprehensible of beings--cool themselves this sweltering hot day.
Each stalwart son of the North calls for a portion of _tchai_, not a
tea-cupful or a glassful, but a genuine Russian portion--a tea-potful.
The tea-pot is small, but the tea is strong enough to bear an
unlimited amount of dilution; and it is one of the glorious privileges
of the tea-drinker in this country that he may have as much hot water
as he pleases. Sugar is more sparingly supplied. The adept remedies
this difficulty by placing a lump of sugar in his mouth and sipping
his tea through it--a great improvement upon the custom said to exist
in some parts of Holland, where a lump of sugar is hung by a string
over the table and swung around from mouth to mouth, so that each
guest may take a pull at it after swallowing his tea. A portion would
be quite enough for a good-sized family in America. The Russian makes
nothing of it. Filling and swilling hour after hour, he seldom rises
before he gets through ten or fifteen tumblersful, and, if he happens
to be thirsty, will double it--enough, one would think, to founder a
horse. But the Russian stomach is constructed upon some physiological
principles unknown to the rest of mankind--perhaps lined with
gutta-percha and riveted to a diaphragm of sheet-iron. Grease and
scalding-hot tea; _quass_ and cabbage soup; raw cucumbers; cold fish;
lumps of ice; decayed cheese and black bread, seem to have no other
effect upon it than to provoke an appetite. In warm weather it is
absolutely marvelous to see the quantities of fiery-hot liquids these
people pour down their throats. Just cast your eye upon that bearded
giant in the corner, with his hissing urn of tea before him, his
_batvina_ and his _shtshie_! What a spectacle of physical enjoyment!
His throat is bare; his face a glowing carbuncle; his body a monstrous
cauldron, seething and dripping with overflowing juices. Shade of
Hebe! how he swills the tea--how glass after glass of the steaming-hot
liquid flows into his capacious maw, and diffuses itself over his
entire person! It oozes from every pore of his skin; drops in globules
from his forehead; smokes through his shirt; makes a piebald chart of
seas and islands over his back; streams down and simmers in his boots!
He is saturated with tea, inside and out--a living sponge overflowing
at every pore. You might wring him out, and there would still be a
heavy balance left in him.
[Illustration: MUJIKS AT TEA.]
These traktirs are the general places of meeting, where matters of
business or pleasure are discussed; accounts settled and bargains
made. Here the merchant, the broker, the banker, and the votary of
pleasure meet in common. Here all the pursuits of human life are
represented, and the best qualities of men drawn out with the drawing
of the tea. Enmities are forgotten and friendships cemented in tea. In
short, the traktir is an institution, and its influence extends
through all the ramifications of society.
But it is in the gardens and various places of suburban resort that
the universal passion for tea is displayed in its most pleasing and
romantic phases. Surrounded by the beauties of nature, lovers make
their avowals over the irrepressible tea-pot; the hearts of fair
damsels are won in the intoxication of love and tea; quarrels between
man and wife are made up, and children weaned--I had almost said
baptized--in tea. The traveler must see the families seated under the
trees, with the burnished urn before them--the children romping about
over the grass; joy beaming upon every face; the whole neighborhood a
repetition of family groups and steaming urns, bound together by the
mystic tie of sympathy, before he can fully appreciate the important
part that tea performs in the great drama of Russian life.