“Tchto vam ugodno? Tchto vam ugodno?” (“What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack?”). The very cry of the madcap city ’prentices in the “Fortunes of Nigel.” What a picture Sir Walter Scott would have painted of the Gastinnii Dvor (the Strangers’ Bazaar)! Such a collection of wares of all sorts, from a worn-out hearth-brush of which the last bristle has long since departed, to a diamond brooch which, perhaps, a few nights before was glittering on some fair lady’s breast; from the dirty, worn-out kaftan of a _mujik_ to a ball-dress of silk and satin. Such bargainings, such fights for the last odd kopeck. And then the cajoleries of these Muscovite hucksters! There is something truly touching in being appealed to as “_Golubtchik_” (“My little dove”) in the hope of softening the hardness of one’s heart. Altogether a wonderful place, in which were to be found all manner of commodities, some good, some bad, some mere trash, with here and there a really valuable thing, probably stolen, of the worth of which the dealer is profoundly ignorant, and which he will sell for a song. In one tray you may see a whole jumble of odds and ends—keys without locks, locks without keys, brass-headed nails, knife handles, glass beads—and with them, perhaps, an old enamel, a rare coin, a costly jewel, rather astonished to find themselves in such out-at-elbows company. As a rule the meaner the rubbish, the shabbier the article, the longer the battle over the pence. If the “little dove” is firm he may often fly away with some really precious bargain. That, of course, is a rare chance, but at any rate he will have had a good deal of fun for his money, and a sight of trade in one of its most picturesque shapes. Petticoat Lane is clean by comparison, but an artist would find more to draw here. There are plentiful opportunities for the etching-needle of a Rembrandt, for the brush of a Hogarth. However fascinating may be the street scenes in this kaleidoscope of a city, there comes a moment when one must eat. Prince Galitzin had ordered luncheon at the Loskutnii Traktir (the Rubbish-shop Restaurant), in spite of its name a very famous eating-house (the name, by the bye, was well in tune with the market which I have just described) and the perfection of luxury. The waiters were models; they were dressed from head to foot in spotless white linen, changed twice a day. The shirt was worn Russian fashion, outside the trousers and bound in at the waist by a girdle. They themselves were as clean as soap and hot water and steam baths could make them; so spick and span and so welcoming that it was a pleasure to be served by them. They most persuasively pressed each dish upon us, and seemed quite hurt if our appetites could not be of a size with our eyes and their wishes.