out him
which, to her woman's eye, seemed out of keeping with his garb. She
invited him to take advantage of her carriage. He accepted gladly, and
conversed agreeably. It appeared that it was Count Tolstoy making the
journey between his estate and Moscow. His utterances produced such an
effect upon her young son that the lad insisted upon making his next
journey on foot also.

We reached Tula late in the evening. The guidebook says, in that amusing
German fashion on which a chapter might be written, that "the town lies
fifteen minutes distant from the station." Ordinarily, that would mean
twice or thrice fifteen minutes. But we had a touch of our usual luck in
an eccentric cabman. Vanka--that is, Johnny--set out almost before
we had taken our seats; we clutched his belt for support, and away we
flew through the inky darkness and fathomless dust, outstripping
everything on the road. We came to a bridge; one wheel skimmed along
high on the side rail, the loose boards rattled ominously beneath the
other. There are no regulations for slow driving on Russian bridges
beyond those contained in admonitory proverbs and popular legends. One's
eyes usually supply sufficient warning by day. But Vanka was wedded to
the true Russian principle, and proceeded in his headlong course _na
avos_ (on chance). In vain I cried, "This is not an obstacle race!" He
replied cheerfully, "It is the horse!"

We were forced to conclude that we had stumbled upon the hero of Count
Tolstoy's story, Kholstomir, in that gaunt old horse, racing thus by
inspiration, and looking not unlike the portrait of Kholstomir in his
sad old age, from the hand of the finest animal-painter in Russia,
which, with its companion piece, Kholstomir in his proud youth, hangs on
the wall in the count's Moscow house.

Our mad career ended at what Vanka declared to be the best hotel; the
one recommended by the guidebook had been closed for years, he said. I,
who had not found the guide-book infallible, believed him, until he
landed us at one which looked well enough, but whose chief furnishing
was smells of such potency that I fled, handkerchief clapped to nose,
while the limp waiter, with his jaw bound up like a figure from a German
picture-book, called after me that "perhaps the drains _were_ a little
out of order." Thrifty Vanka, in hopes of a commission, or bent upon
paying off a grudge, still obstinately refused to take us to the hotel
recommended; but a hint of applicat