Chapter 16

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."