of the sky and
snow.

I pushed my way into the shop in the Morskaia that had the coloured
stones--the blue and azure and purple stones--in the window. Inside the
shop, which had a fine gleaming floor, and an old man with a tired eye,
there were stones of every colour, but there was nothing there for
Nina--all was too elaborate and grand.

Near the Nevski is a fine shop of pictures with snow scenes and blue
rivers and Italian landscapes, and copies of Repin and Verestchagin, and
portraits of the Czar. I searched here, but all were too sophisticated
in their bright brown frames, and their air of being the latest thing
from Paris and London. Then I crossed the road, threading my way through
the carriages and motor cars, past the old white-bearded sweeper with
the broom held aloft, gazing at the sky, and plunged into the English
Shop to see whether I might buy something warm for Nina. Here, indeed, I
could fancy that I was in the High Street in Chester, or Leicester, or
Truro, or Canterbury. A demure English provincialism was over
everything, and a young man in a high white collar and a shiny black
coat, washed his hands as he told me that "they hadn't any in stock at
the moment, but they were expecting a delivery of goods at any minute."
Russian shopmen, it is almost needless to say, do not care whether they
have goods in stock or no. They have other things to think about. The
air was filled with the chatter of English governesses, and an English
clergyman and his wife were earnestly turning over a selection of
woollen comforters.

Nothing here for Nina--nothing at all. I hurried away. With a sudden
flash of inspiration I realised that it was in the Jews' Market that I
would find what I wanted. I snatched at the bulging neck of a sleeping
coachman, and before he was fully awake was in his sledge, and had told
him my destination. He grumbled and wished to know how much I intended
to pay him, and when I said one and a half roubles, answered that he
would not take me for less than three. I threatened him then with the
fat and good-natured policeman who always guarded the confused junction
of the Morskaia and Nevski, and he was frightened and moved on. I sighed
as I remembered the days not so long before, when that same coachman
would have thought it an honour to drive me for half a rouble. Down the
Sadovya we slipped, bumping over the uneven surface of the snow, and the
shops grew smaller and the cinemas more stringent, an