One evening, on my way from an informal call of farewell on a friend who was about to set out for the Crimea, I ordered my izvostchik to drive me to the Michael Palace.  We were still at some distance from the palace when a policeman spoke to the izvostchik, who drove on instead of turning that corner, as he had been on the point of doing.

“Why don’t you go on up that street?” I asked.

“Impossible!  Probably the Hosudar [Emperor] is coming,” answered cabby.

“Whither is he going?”

“We don’t know,” replied cabby, in true Russian style.

“But I mean to go to that palace, all the same,” said I.

“Of course,” said cabby tranquilly, turning up the next parallel street, which brought us out on the square close to the palace.

As we drove into the courtyard I was surprised to see that it was filled with carriages, that the plumed chasseurs of ambassadors and footmen in court liveries were flitting to and fro, and that the great flight of steps leading to the grand entrance was dotted thickly with officers and gendarmes, exactly as though an imperial birthday Te Deum at St. Isaac’s Cathedral were in progress, and twenty or twenty-five thousand people must be kept in order.

“Well!” I said to myself, “this appears to be a very elegant sort of sketch-club, with evening dress and all the society appurtenances.  What did Yakoff Petrovitch mean by telling me that a plain street gown was the proper thing to wear?  This enforced ‘simplification’ is rather trying to the feminine nerves; but I will not beat a retreat!”

I paid and dismissed my izvostchik,—­a poor, shabby fellow, such as Fate invariably allotted to me,—­walked in, gave my furs and galoshes to the handsome, big head Swiss in imperial scarlet and gold livery, and started past the throng of servants, to the grand staircase, which ascended invitingly at the other side of the vast hall.  Unfortunately, that instinct with whose possession women are sometimes reproached prompted me to turn back, just as I had reached the first step, and question the Swiss.

“In what room shall I find the Ladies’ Artistic Circle?”

“It does not meet to-night, madame,” he answered.  “Her Imperial Highness has guests.”

“But I thought the Circle met every Wednesday night from November to May.”

“It does, usually, madame; to-night is an exception.  You will find the ladies here next week.”

“Then please to give me my shuba and galoshes, and call a sledge.”

The Swiss gave the order for a sledge to one of the palace servants standing by, and put on my galoshes and cloak.  But the big square was deserted, the ubiquitous izvostchik was absent, for once, it appeared, and after waiting a few minutes at the grand entrance, I repeated my request to an officer of gendarmes.  He touched his cap, said:  “Slushaiu’s” (I obey, madame), and set in action a series of shouts of “Izvostchik! izvo-o-o-o-stchik!” It ended in the dispatch of a messenger to a neighboring street, and—­at last—­the appearance of a sledge, visibly shabby of course, even in the dark,—­my luck had not deserted me.