IN A RUSSIAN "TRAKTEER."

We have it on the authority of no less a personage than Charles the Bold of Burgundy (the Charles of Quentin Durward, at least) that "never was Englishman who loved a dry-lipped bargain;" and the same thing may safely be said of the modern Russian. But although the trakteer (or coffee-house, as we should call it) undoubtedly witnesses many keen trials of commercial fence, this is very far from being its only use. What the Agora was to the Athenian, what the Forum was to the Roman, what the "tea-house" still is to the "heathen Chinee" and the "ice-house" to the West Indian,—all this, and more, the trakteer is to the Russian. It is his dining-saloon, his drinking-bar, his news-room (when he happens to be able to read), his place of meeting with his friends; and, in a word, his place of resort for any and every purpose.

In such a place the groups of figures are diverse enough to satisfy the most exacting "painter from life," and the dialogue is often far more entertaining (which is not saying much) than that of many a popular vaudeville. Indeed, a dramatist on the lookout for a bit of "comic business" not "adapted from the French" could not do better than drop into a trakteer in Moscow—or, better still, Kazan—and make good use of his eyes and his notebook for twenty minutes or half an hour.

Let us suppose our explorer to be strolling along the narrow, tortuous streets of the Kitai-Gorod (Chinese Town) at Moscow on a fine winter day, with the crisp snow crackling under foot, and the clear, bright, frosty sky over head. Away he goes, past painted houses and staring signs and gilded church-towers—past dark, narrow shop-doors like exaggerated rat-traps, with a keen, well-whiskered tenant peering watchfully out of each—past clamorous groups of blue-frocked, red-girdled cabmen—past sheepskin-clad beggars, each with his little tablet stamped with a gilt cross to show that the alms bestowed are to be devoted to the building of some apocryphal church, probably of the same kind as that spoken of by Petroleum V. Nasby: "The proceeds air to be devoted entirely to the 'church'—which is me."

At length, after many turnings and windings, he comes out upon the vast open space of the Krasnaya Ploshtchad (Red Plain), with the statues of Minin and Pojarski on his right, and on his left the cluster of many-colored domes that crown the fantastic church of Vasili the Blessed, while right in front of him rise the red-turreted wall of the Kremlin and the tall spear-pointed tower of the "Gate of Salvation." And now, being by this time somewhat fatigued by the exertion of a prolonged tramp in a heavy fur overcoat and felt-lined goloshes, he makes for a doorway above which appears, in crabbed Slavonian characters, the familiar word "ТРАКТИР."

Pushing open the heavy swing-door (through which issues a whiff of hot air charged with a combination of greasy smells that might knock down a rhinoceros), our hero enters the long, low, dingy room, and is instantly relieved of his coat and cap by half a dozen ready hands, while as many voices greet him with the stereotyped formula, "Be happy,[B] barin! What are you pleased to command?"

The "barin" is pleased to command a glass of tea, the customary order with trakteer-frequenters, and it is obeyed almost as soon as given. Off skips one of the shirt-sleeved brotherhood, and returns in a twinkling with a small tray, on which stand a large teapot full of hot water, a smaller one filled with strong, rich, aromatic tea, a big tumbler (the Russian substitute for a tea-cup), and several lumps of sugar in a tiny saucer.

He proceeds to fill the glass, with scientific nicety of proportion, from both pots at once, launches into it a thin slice of lemon, and then pronounces the talismanic word "Gotovo!" (ready).

While sipping his tea the inquirer after truth allows his eye to wander over the room, and sees in every feature the "interior" displayed by every Russian trakteer from the White Sea to the Black—bare whitewashed walls, toned down to a dull gray by smoke and steam and grease; plank floor; double windows, with sand strewn thickly between them; rough, battered-looking chairs and tables, literally on their last legs; and close-cropped waiters in dingy shirt-sleeves, with flat, wide-mouthed faces that look very much like a penny with a hole through it.

And the habitués of the place are as queer as the place itself. Were Asmodeus at our explorer's elbow, he would whisper that these two gaunt, sallow men opposite him, whose flat heads and long lithe frames remind one irresistibly of a brace of Indian snakes, and whose conversation seems to consist entirely of criticisms upon the weather or good-humored personal "chaff," are in reality concluding a bargain which involves many thousands of roubles; that this chubby little man near the door, the very picture of artless simplicity, is one of the keenest and most skilful speculators on the Moscow Exchange; and that yonder couple of greasy, unkempt, lumpish-looking men in shabby brown coats, who are devouring salted cucumbers in the farther corner, can put down half a million dollars apiece any day they like.

Suddenly the attention of the taker of notes is attracted by the mention of a familiar subject, the Franco-German war, and, turning round, he sees at the table next his own two men in earnest conversation—the one a big, florid, red-bearded fellow with a huge crimson comforter round his bull neck, who is laying down the law in the most ex-cathedrâ fashion to his neighbor, a meek-looking little man with gray hair and bright, restless eyes, not unlike those of a squirrel. At first, the surrounding buzz of conversation and the clatter of plates and glasses allow him to catch only a stray word of the dialogue every here and there; but after a time a temporary lull in the hub-bub brings out in strong relief the following words, spoken with all the confidence of a man accustomed to be listened to:

"Every one has his turn, Yakov Andreievitch (James the son of Andrew), and no man can escape what is ordained for him. The Nyemtzi (Germans) have beaten the French. Well, what then? By and by, please God, the French will beat the Nyemtzi. 'To live a lifetime is not to cross a field,' and everything must change sooner or later."

The little man, who is listening to his big neighbor's philosophizings with an air of timid admiration, remains silent for a moment, as if digesting the profound wisdom contained in the last remark, and then ventures to observe, "You speak truly, Pavel Petrovitch (Paul the son of Peter), but, in the mean time, what if these godless Germans fall upon Holy Russia?"

"Well, what if they do?" echoes the big man in a tone of supreme disdain. "Let them try it! Ach, Yakov Andreievitch! how you talk! Surely you're not such a brainless fool as to think that those hogs can ever beat the Pravoslavnié (orthodox)? Don't you know that Father Alexander Nikolaievitch (the emperor) is the mightiest of all the kings of the earth?"

"Well—yes—of course," answers the other hesitatingly; "but still, you know, didn't Tsar Napolevon march over our borders in the year '12, and burn Mother Moscow?"

"And what then?" rejoins the oracle, surveying him with calm, indulgent contempt. "Don't you know that the devil helped him, or he could never have done anything?"

His hearer responds to this unanswerable argument by a murmur of assent, and washes it down with a huge gulp of tea.

"And then," pursues Paul, following up his advantage, "didn't Napolevon come to an evil end at last, as the devil's servants always do? Didn't we beat him and take him prisoner? and wasn't he chained to a rock in the middle of the sea, beyond thrice nine lands, and kept there till he rotted?"

"You speak truth, Brother Pavel; and it served him right, too, the accursed infidel! for burning our churches and blaspheming the orthodox faith."

Then follows a short pause, during which the two speakers sip their tea with genuine Russian enjoyment. At length, Yakov Andreievitch breaks the silence by saying, in a reverential undertone, "Tell me now, Pavel Petrovitch—you who know everything—how did the Nyemtzi manage to take Paris-Gorod if it was such a strong place? I've heard our folks in the village talk about it, but I couldn't quite make out what they said—something about trenches, and a bom—bom—"

"Bombardirovanié (bombardment) you mean," suggested his companion, rolling out the magnificent polysyllable with unmistakable enjoyment.

"That's it!" says the other, visibly relieved at being helped over this awkward place. "Now, tell me, please, Pavel Petrovitch, what is a bombardment? Something to do with firing guns, hasn't it?"

"I'll explain all that to you in two words, brother," answers the oracle in a tone of indulgent superiority. "Here, we'll say, is the town—this tumbler here; and these four lumps of sugar round it, here, and here, and here, are the enemy. Well, then, you see, the enemy begin firing their great cannon at the walls to try and knock them down; and then the soldiers inside dig little holes in the ground, called trenches, and burrow in them to avoid the cannon-balls. Then the people outside here—the besiegers, you know—fire great round things, called bombs, straight up in the air, so as to fall right into these holes, as you'd put a cork in a bottle, and smother the men in them; and when they're all dead the town gives in; and that's called a bombardment."

"Gospodi ponilni!" (Lord have mercy!), cries the startled listener. "What strange things there are in this world, to be sure!—Well, Pavel Petrovitch, it's time for us to be going; so let's have one more little glass together and be off."

David Ker.