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 application to the police decided him to deposit us at another door.  This proved to be really the best house in town, though it does not grace the printed list.  It was on the usual plan of inns in Russian country towns.  There was the large, airy dining-room, with clean lace curtains, polished floor, and table set with foliage plants in fancy pots; the bedrooms, with single iron beds, reservoir washstands, and no bed linen or towels without extra charge.

The next morning we devoted to the few sights of the town.  The Kremlin, on flat ground and not of imposing size, makes very little impression after the Moscow Kremlin; but its churches exhibit some charming new fancies in onion-shaped cupolas which we had not noticed elsewhere, and its cathedral contains frescoes of a novel sort.  In subject they are pretty equally divided between the Song of Solomon and the Ecumenical Councils, with a certain number of saints, of course, though these are fewer than usual.  The artist was evidently a man who enjoyed rich stuffs of flowered patterns, and beautiful women.