In Russia one converses--as in Scotland one jokes--with
difficulty.
A Russian table d'hote is therefore any thing but hilarious in its
tendency. A certain number of grave-faced gentlemen and a few
broad-jowled ladies are visibly constrained by the force of circumstance
to dine at the same table and hour, et voila tout. There is no pretence
that any more sociable and neighborly motive has brought them together.
Indeed, they each suspect the other of being a German, or a Nihilist,
or, worse still, a Government servant. They therefore sit as far apart
as possible, and smoke cigarettes between and during the courses with
that self-centred absorption which would be rude, if it were not
entirely satisfactory, to the average Briton. The ladies, of course,
have the same easy method of showing a desire for silence and reflection
in a country where nurses carrying infants usually smoke in the streets,
and where a dainty confectioner's assistant places her cigarette between
her lips in order to leave her hands free for the service of her
customers.
The table d'hote of the Hotel de Moscou at Tver was no exception to the
general rule. In Russia, by the way, there are no exceptions to general
rules. The personal habits of the native of Cronstadt differ in no way
from those of the Czar's subject living in Petropavlovsk, eight thousand
miles away.
Pages:
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266