The
arcades are generally so crowded that one can move only at a slow pace
and, on every side one is pestered by the equivalents of the old English
cry: "What do you lack? What do you lack?"
Every mixture of blood and race that the world contains is to be seen
here, but they are all--Tartars, Jews, Chinese, Japanese, Indians,
Arabs, Moslem, and Christian--formed by some subtle colour of
atmosphere, so that they seem all alike to be citizens of some secret
little town, sprung to life just for a day, in the heart of this other
city. Perhaps it is the dull pale mist that the glass flings down,
perhaps it is the uncleanly dust-clogged air; whatever it be, there is a
stain of grey shadowy smoke upon all this world, and Ikons and shabby
jewels, and piles of Eastern clothes, and old brass pots, and silver,
hilted swords, and golden-tasselled Tartar coats gleam through the
shadow and wink and stare.
To-day the arcades were so crowded that I could scarcely move, and the
noise was deafening.
Many soldiers were there, looking with indulgent amusement upon the
scene, and the Jews with their skull-caps and the fat, huge-breasted
Jewish women screamed and shrieked and waved their arms like boughs in a
storm.
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