“It is plain that you don’t understand in the least,” answered my izvostchik, turning round in his seat and imperiling our lives by his driving, while he plunged into the subject with profound earnestness.  “None of them is the Virgin, and all of them are the Virgin.  All the different Virgins are merely different manifestations of the Virgin to men.  The Virgin herself is in heaven, and communicates her power where she wills.  It is like the Life-giving Trinity.”  Assuming that as a foreigner, and consequently a heretic, I did not understand the doctrine of the Trinity, he proceeded to expound it, and did it extremely well.  I lent half an ear in amazement to him, and half an ear I reserved for the objurgations of the drivers who were so good as to spare our lives in that crowded thoroughfare while my theological lesson was in progress.

While I am speaking of this unusual cabman, I may mention some unusual private coachmen in Moscow who use their masters’ sledges and carriages for public conveyances while their owners are safely engaged in theatre or restaurant.  I do not think that trick could be played in Petersburg.  I found it out by receiving an amazingly reasonable offer from a very well-dressed man with a superb gray horse and a fine sledge.  As we dashed along at lightning speed, I asked the man whether he owned that fine turnout or worked on wages.  “I own it myself,” he said curtly.  Therefore, when I alighted, I slipped round behind the sledge and scrutinized it thoroughly under the gaslight.  The back was decorated with a monogram and a count’s coronet in silver!  After that I never asked questions, but I always knew what had happened when I picked up very comfortable equipages at very reasonable rates in places which were between gas lanterns and near theatres and so forth.

I should not be doing my duty by a very important factor in Russian life if I omitted an illustration of the all-pervading influence of “official” rank, and the prestige which acquaintance with officialdom lends even to modest travelers like ourselves.  It was, most appropriately, in the Kremlin, the heart of Russia, that we were favored with the most amusing of the many manifestations of it which came within our experience.  We were looking at the objects of interest in the Treasury, when I noticed a large, handsomely bound book, flanked by pen and ink, on a side table.  I opened the book, but before I could read a word an attendant pounced upon me.

“Don’t touch that,” he said peremptorily.

“Why not?  If you do not wish people to look at this collection of ancient documents,—­I suppose that is what it is,—­you should lock it up, or label it ‘Hands off!’”

“It is n’t ancient documents, and you are not to touch it,” he said, taking the book out of my hands.  “It is strictly reserved for the signatures of distinguished visitors,—­crowned heads, royal princes, ambassadors, and the like.”