THE START FROM MOSCOW. 57 



young bloods of Moscow, military officers, and visiting 

 merchants from country towns, drank champagne, 

 listened to the balalaika and the accordion, believing, 

 in the intoxication of the hour, the place, and the 

 occasion, that they were having a capital time, were 

 now closely curtained. 



In deference to the ignorance that still prevails in 

 Russia, the shopkeepers of the cities are obliged to 

 decorate their signs with pictures of what they have to 

 sell, in addition to setting forth the nature of their 

 business in words. The narrow street we were now 

 traversing, being a part of the older section of the 

 town, was curiously realistic in this matter. Painters 

 and sculptors had lent their art, that there might be 

 no mistakes by rich country merchants unable to read, 

 and the curtained balconies were supported by statuary 

 never intended to represent the saints. To this part 

 of old Moscow, though it was six o'clock in the morn- 

 ing, night had only just begun. 



We came to a quarter where there seemed to be 

 nothing but boulevards, with avenues of young trees, 

 big barracks, and equally big and gloomy-looking in- 

 stitutions of learning. Under the windows of the big 

 commercial college, where my companion had lately 

 graduated in the theoretical part of a profession that 

 would enable him to hold his own against his mercan- 

 tile countrymen, we halted a moment. Sascha was in 

 high glee. Here also, he informed me, was learned 

 the language that had been instrumental in bringing 

 him my acquaintance, and had recommended him as a 

 companion for the ride on which we were now starting. 



His old tutors, as well as his comrades, came in for 



