Here is Ivanoff from Odessa or Tiflis, in
the white peaked cap and high boots dear to every Russian,
Haggling
over the price of a carpet with Ali Mahomet of Bokhara; there
Chung-Yang, who has drifted here from Pekin through Siberia, with a
cargo of worthless tea, vainly endeavouring to palm it off on that
grave-looking Parsee, who, unfortunately for the Celestial, is not
quite such a fool as he looks. Such a hubbub never was heard.
Every one is talking or shouting at the top of their voices, women
screaming, beggars whining, fruit and water sellers jingling their
cymbals, while from the coppersmiths' quarter hard by comes a
deafening accompaniment in the shape of beaten metal. Occasionally a
caravan of laden camels stalk gravely through the alleys, scattering
the yelling crowd right and left, only to reassemble the moment it has
passed, like water in the wake of a ship. Again it separates, and a
sedan, preceded by a couple of gholams with long wands, is carried
by, and one gets a momentary glimpse of a pair of dark eyes and
henna-stained finger-tips, as a fair one from the "anderoon" [C]
of some great man is carried to her jeweller's or perfumer's. The
"yashmak" is getting very thin in these countries, and one can form a
very fair estimate of the lady's features (singularly plain ones) as
the sedan swings by. Towards midday business is suspended for a while,
and the alleys of the bazaar empty as if by magic.
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