One day the horses were ordered, as usual.  They did not appear.  The cavalryman who had been hired expressly to train them had not only neglected his duty, but had run away, without warning, to reap his own little field, in parts unknown.  He had carefully observed silence as to its existence, when he was engaged.  This was item number one.  Item number two was that there was something the matter with all the horses, except Little Boy, Little Bird, and the small white Bashkir horse from the steppes, whose ear had been slit to subdue his wildness.  The truth was, the steward’s young son had been practicing high jumping, bareback, in a circus costume of pink calico shirt and trousers, topped by his tow-colored hair.  We had seen this surreptitious performance, but considered it best to betray nothing, as the lad had done so well in the village school that our hosts were about to send him to town, to continue his studies at their expense.

The overseer, another soldier, was ordered to don his uniform and accompany us.  He rebelled.  “He had just got his hair grown to the square state which suited his peasant garb, and it would not go with his dragoon’s uniform in the least.  Why, he would look like a Kazak!  Impossible, utterly!” He was sternly commanded not to consider his hair; this was not the city, with spectators.  When he finally appeared, in full array, we saw that he had applied the shears to his locks, in a hasty effort to compromise between war and peace without losing the cut.  The effect was peculiar; it would strike his commanding officer dumb with mirth and horror.  He blushed in a deprecating manner whenever we glanced at him.

There was a bath-house beside the river.  But a greater luxury was the hot bath, presided over by old Alexandra.  Alexandra, born a serf on the estate, was now like a humble member of the family, the relations not having changed, perceptibly, since the emancipation, to the old woman’s satisfaction.  She believed firmly in the Domovoi (the house sprite), and told wonderful tales of her experiences with him.  Skepticism on that point did not please her.  When the horses were brought round with matted manes, a sign of an affectionate visit from the Domovoi, which must not be removed, under penalty of his displeasure, it was useless to tell Alexandra that a weasel had been caught in the act, and that her sprite was no other.  She clung to her belief in her dreaded friend.

The bath was a small log house, situated a short distance from the manor.  It was divided into anteroom, dressing-room, and the bath proper.  When we were ready, Alexandra, a famous bath-woman, took boiling water from the tank in the corner oven, which had been heating for hours, made a strong lather, and scrubbed us soundly with a wad of linden bast shredded into fibres.  Her wad was of the choicest sort; not that which is sold in the popular markets, but that which is procured by stripping into rather coarse