I must say that, on reflection, I was not surprised that he should have reached this rather astonishing conclusion.  I have no doubt that all of his kind—­and it is not a stupid kind, by any means—­think the same.  I tried to tell him about America, where we were all equals in theory (I omitted “theory"), and yet where some of us still “drive other people,” figuratively speaking.  But he only laughed and shook his head, and said he did not believe that all men were equal in such a land any more than they were in Russia.  That was the sort of wall against which I was always being brought up, with a more or less painful bump, when I attempted to elucidate the institutions of this land of liberty.  He seemed to have it firmly fixed in his brain that, although Count Tolstoy worked in the fields “like one of us poor brethren,” he really did no work whatever.

Thus did I obtain a foretaste of the views held by the peasant class upon the subject of Count Tolstoy’s scheme of reformation, since this man was a peasant himself from one of the neighboring villages, and an average representative of their modes of thought.

At last we reached the stone gateposts which mark the entrance to the park of Yasnaya Polyana (Clearfield), and drove up the formerly splendid and still beautiful avenue of huge white birch-trees, from whose ranks many had fallen or been felled.  The avenue terminated near the house in hedges of lilacs and acacias.

Most of the family were away in the fields, or bathing in the river.  But we were cordially received, assured that our visit was well timed and that there were no guests, and were installed in the room of the count’s eldest son, who was at his business in St. Petersburg.

Then I paid and dismissed the beaming Vanka, whose name chanced to be Alexei, adding liberal “tea-money” for his charming manners and conversation.  My sympathy with the hardship of being unable to procure books had moved me so deeply that I had already asked the man for his address, and had promised to send him a complete set of the count’s “Tales” from Moscow.

We parted with the highest opinion of each other.  Alas! a day or two later one of the count’s daughters happened to inquire how much I had paid for the carriage, probably in consequence of former experiences, and informed me that I had given just twice as much as any cabman in Tula would have been glad to take. (The boredom of those policemen must have been relieved by another smile—­behind our backs.) Then I repeated my conversation with that delicately conscientious izvostchik, nurtured on the “Tales,” and mentioned my promise.  Even the grave count was forced to laugh, and I declared that I should be afraid to send the set of books, for fear of the consequences.

When we were ready, being unfamiliar with the house, we asked the maid to conduct us to the countess.  She took this in its literal sense, and ushered us into the bedroom where the countess was dressing, an introduction to country life which was certainly informal enough.