The Imperial Firearms Factory we did not see.  We had omitted to obtain from the Minister of War that permission without which no foreigner of either sex can enter, though Russians may do so freely, and we did not care enough about it to await the reply to a telegram.  We contented ourselves with assuring the officer in charge that we were utter simpletons in the matter of firearms, afraid of guns even when they were not loaded,—­I presume he did not understand that allusion,—­and that it was pure curiosity of travelers which had led us to invade his office.

However, there was no dearth of shops where we could inspect all the wares in metal for which this Russian Birmingham has been celebrated ever since the industry was founded by men from Holland, in the sixteenth century.  In the matter of samovars, especially, there is a wide range of choice in this cradle of “the portable domestic hearth,” although there are only two or three among the myriad manufacturers whose goods are famed for that solidity of brass and tin which insures against dents, fractures, and poisoning.

During the morning we ordered round a troika from the posting-house.  It did not arrive.  Probably it was asleep, like most other things on that warm day.  It was too far off to invite investigation, and sallying forth after breakfast to hire an izvostchik, I became a blessed windfall to a couple of bored policemen, who waked up a cabman for me and took a kindly interest in the inevitable bargaining which ensued.  While this was in progress, up came two dusty and tattered “pilgrims,”—­“religious tramps” will designate their character with perfect accuracy,—­who were sufficiently wide awake to beg.  I positively had not a kopek in change; but not even a Russian beggar would believe that.  I parried the attack.

“I’m not an Orthodox Christian, my good men.  I am sure that you do not want money from a heretic.”

“Never mind; I’m a bachelor,” replied one of them bravely and consolingly.

When we had all somewhat recovered from this, the policemen, catching the spirit of the occasion, explained to the men that I and my money were extremely dangerous to the Orthodox, both families and bachelors, especially to pious pilgrims to the shrines, such as they were, and they gently but firmly compelled the men to move on, despite their vehement protestations that they were willing to run the risk and accept the largest sort of change from the heretic.  But I was obdurate.  I knew from experience that for five kopeks, or less, I should receive thanks, reverences to the waist or even to the ground; but that the gift of more than five kopeks would result in a thankless, suspicious stare, which would make me feel guilty of some enormous undefined crime.  This was Count Tolstoy’s experience also.  We devoted ourselves to cabby once more.