The town is inhabited by Polish Jews, and a filthy, greasy, nauseating set they are, both men and women.  The men wear two or three long, oily, tight curls in front of their ears.  Their noses are hooked like a parrot’s.  Their countenances are sinister, and I believe they have not washed since the Flood.  The women, when they marry, shave their heads.  Then they either wear huge wigs, which they use to wipe their hands on without the ceremony of washing them first, or else they wear a black or white or gray satin hood-piece with a line to imitate the parting of the hair embroidered on it.

Nothing is clean about them.  I no longer wonder that Jews are expelled from Russia.  It makes one rather respect Russia as a clean country.  As it was Friday night, one window-sill in each house was filled with a row of lighted candles representing each member of the family who was either absent or dead.

Being so far away from home myself, this appealed to me as such a touching custom that it made my eyes smart.

Presently a clearing in the forest revealed the famous monastery of Kretynga—­a monastery famous for being peopled with priests and monks whom the Tzar has exiled because they took too much interest in politics for his nerves.  Then soon after passing this monastery we entered the grounds of the castle.  Still the longest part of the drive lay before us, for this one of the many estates of the Princess lies between the Memel and the Baltic Sea, and covers a large territory.

But finally, after driving through an avenue of trees which are worth a dictionary of words all to themselves, we came to the castle, a huge structure, which seemed to spread out before us interminably, for it was too dark to see anything but its majestic outlines.

The Princess in her own home was even lovelier than she had been in Paris, and charitably allowed us to have one night’s rest before meeting the family.

About three o’clock in the morning I was awakened by a mournful chant, all in minor, which began beneath my windows and receded, growing fainter and fainter, until at last it died away.  It was the hymn which the peasants always sing as they go forth to their work in the fields; but its mournful cadence haunted me.  The next morning the largeness of the situation dawned upon me.  The size of the rooms and their majestic furnishings were almost barbaric in their splendor.  The tray upon which my breakfast was served was of massive silver.  The coffee-pot, sugar-bowl, and plates were of repousse silver, exquisitely wrought, but so large that one could hardly lift them.

In a great openwork basket of silver were any number of sweetened breads and small cakes and buns, all made by the baker in the castle, who all day long does nothing but bake bread and pastry.  They do not serve hot milk with coffee, for which I blessed them from the bottom of my soul, but they have little brown porcelain jugs which they fill with cream so thick that you have to take it out with a spoon—­it won’t pour,—­and these they heat in ovens, and so serve you hot cream for your coffee.