About four miles from the town proper, on the steppe, lie two noted kumys establishments; one of them being the first resort of that kind ever set up, at a time when the only other choice for invalids who wished to take the cure was to share the hardships, dirt, bad food, and carelessly prepared kumys of the tented nomads of the steppes.  The grounds of the one which we had elected to patronize extended to the very brink of the Volga.  In accordance with the admonitions of the specialist physicians to avoid many-storied, ill-ventilated buildings with long corridors, the hotel consists of numerous wooden structures, of moderate size, chiefly in Moorish style, and painted in light colors, scattered about a great inclosure which comprises groves of pines and deciduous trees,—­“red forest” and “black forest,” as Russians would express it,—­lawns, arbors, shady walks, flower-beds, and other things pleasing to the eye, and conducive to comfort and very mild amusement.  One of the buildings even contains a hall, where dancing, concerts, and theatricals can be and are indulged in, in the height of the season, although such violent and crowded affairs as balls are, in theory, discountenanced by the physicians.  All these points we took in at one curious glance, as we were being conducted to the different buildings to inspect rooms.  I am afraid that we pretended to be very difficult to please, in order to gain a more extensive insight into the arrangements.  As the height of the season (which is May and June) was past, we had a great choice offered us, and I suppose that this made a difference in the price, also.  It certainly was not unreasonable.  We selected some rooms which opened on a small private corridor.  The furniture consisted of the usual narrow iron bedstead (with linen and pillows thrown in gratis, for a wonder), a tiny table which disagreeably recalled American ideas as to that article, an apology for a bureau, two armchairs, and no washstand.  The chairs were in their primitive stuffing-and-burlap state, loose gray linen covers being added when the rooms were prepared for us.  Any one who has ever struggled with his temper and the slack-fitting shift of a tufted armchair will require no explanation as to what took place between me and my share of those untufted receptacles before I deposited its garment under my bed, and announced that burlap and tacks were luxurious enough for me.  That one item contained enough irritation and excitement to ruin any “cure.”

The washstand problem was even more complicated.  A small, tapering brass tank, holding about two quarts of water, with a faucet which dripped into a diminutive cup with an unstoppered waste-pipe, was screwed to the wall in our little corridor.  We asked for a washstand, and this arrangement was introduced to our notice, the chambermaid being evidently surprised at the ignorance of barbarians who had never seen a washstand before.  We objected that a mixed party of men and women could not use that decently, even if two quarts of water were sufficient for three women and a man.  After much argument and insistence, we obtained, piecemeal:  item, one low stool; item, one basin; item, one pitcher.  There were no fastenings on the doors, except a hasp and staple to the door of the corridor, to which, after due entreaty, we secured an oblong padlock.