On its outskirts, where the flat, treeless plain began again, we found a peasant sexton engaged in digging a grave.  His conversation was depressing, not because he dwelt unduly upon death and kindred subjects, but because his views of life were so pessimistic.  Why, for example, did it enter his brain to warn me that the Finnish women of the neighboring villages,—­all the country round about is the old Finnish Ingermannland,—­in company with the women of his own village, were in the habit of buying stale eggs at the Tzarskoe Selo shops to mix with their fresh eggs, which they sold in the market, the same with intent to deceive?  A stale egg explains itself as promptly and as thoroughly as anything I am acquainted with, not excepting Limburger cheese, and Katiusha and I had had no severe experiences with the women whom he thus unflatteringly described.  He seemed a thoroughly disillusioned man, and we left him at last, with an involuntary burden of misanthropic ideas, though he addressed me persistently as galubtchik,—­“dear little dove,” literally translated.

If I were to undertake to chronicle the inner life of Tzarskoe, the characteristics of the inhabitants from whom I received favors and kind deeds without number, information, and whatever else they could think of to bestow or I could ask, I should never have done.  But there is much that is instructive in all ranks of life to be gathered from a prolonged sojourn in this “Imperial Village,” where world-famed palaces have their echoes aroused at seven in the morning by a gentle shepherd like the shepherd of the remotest provincial hamlets, a strapping peasant in a scarlet cotton blouse and blue homespun linen trousers tucked into tall wrinkled boots, and armed with a fish-horn, which he toots at the intersection of the macadamized streets to assemble the village cattle; where the strawberry peddler, recognizable by the red cloth spread over the tray borne upon his head, and the herring vender, and rival ice-cream dealers deafen one with their cries, in true city fashion; where the fire department alarms one by setting fire to the baker’s chimneys opposite, and then playing upon them, by way of cleaning them; where Tatars, soldiers, goats, cows, pet herons, rude peasant carts, policemen, and inhabitants share the middle of the road with the liveried equipages of royalty and courtiers; where the crows and pigeons assert rights equal to those of man, except that they go to roost at eight o’clock on the nightless “white nights;” and where one never knows whether one will encounter the Emperor of all the Russias or a barefooted Finn when one turns a corner.

VII.

A STROLL IN MOSCOW WITH COUNT TOLSTOY.