The next afternoon there came a series of remarkable knocks upon our door, like a volley of artillery, which carried me across the room in one bound.  Servants, messengers, and the like, so rarely knock in Russia that one gets into the way of expecting to see the door open without warning at any moment, when it is not locked, and rather forgets what to do with a knock when a caller comes directly to one’s room and announces himself in the ordinary way.  There stood Count Tolstoy.  He wore a peasant’s sheepskin coat (tulup).  The tulup, I will explain, is a garment consisting of a fitted body and a full, ballet skirt, gathered on the waist line and reaching to the knees.  The wool is worn on the inside.  The tanned leather exterior varies, when new, from snow white to gray, pale or deep yellow, or black, according to taste.  A little colored chain-stitching in patterns on the breast and round the neck gives firmness where required.  In this case the tulup was of a deep yellow hue; over it streamed his gray beard; peasant boots of gray felt, reaching to the knee, and a gray wool cap of domestic manufacture completed his costume.

“It is too cold for our expedition, and I am afraid that I started a little late also,” he said, as he divested himself of his sheepskin.  “I will find out the exact hour of service, and we will go on Christmas Eve.”

It was only 15 to 20 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and I felt inclined to remonstrate.  But it is useless to argue with a Russian about the thermometer; and, moreover, I discovered that the count had come all the long way on foot, and was probably afraid of freezing us.  I politely but not quite truthfully agreed that Christmas Eve was a better time.

Presently he proposed to go to the shop where books for popular reading are published by the million at from one and a half to five kopeks.  He had business there in connection with some popular editions of the masterpieces of all ages and literatures.

The temperature of our room was 65 degrees, but the count’s felt boots and a cardigan jacket, worn over his ordinary costume of dark blue trousers and strap-belted blouse, made him uncomfortable, and he sought coolness in the hall while we donned our outdoor garments.  The only concession in the way of costume which I could make to suit the occasion was to use a wool instead of a fur cap.

This was not sufficient to prevent us from being a remarkable trio in the eyes of all beholders, beginning with the real muzhik ("boots”) and the waiter, who were peering round corners in disapproval.  Our appearance at the door effected a miracle.  I could not believe my ears, but not one of the numerous cabbies standing in front of the hotel opened his lips to offer his services.  Ordinarily, we had to run the gauntlet of offers.  On this occasion the men simply ranged themselves in a silent, gaping row, and let us pass in peace.  I had not supposed that anything could quell a Russian cabby’s tongue.  Did they recognize the count?  I doubt it.  I had been told that every one in Moscow knew him and his costume; but diligent inquiry of my cabbies always elicited a negative.  In one single instance the man added:  “But the count’s a good gentleman and a very intimate friend of a chum of mine!”