The next morning, the chambermaid came to the door of our room opening on the private corridor while we were dressing, and demanded the basin and pitcher.  “Some one else wants them!” she shouted through the door.  We had discovered her to be a person of so much decision of character, in the course of our dealings with her on the preceding day, that we were too wary to admit her, lest she should simply capture the utensils and march off with them.  As I was the heaviest of the party, it fell to my lot to brace myself against the unfastened door and parley with her.  Three times that woman returned to the attack; thrice we refused to surrender our hard-won trophies, and asked her pointedly, “What do you do for materials when the house is full, pray?” Afterwards, while we were drinking our coffee on the delightful half-covered veranda below, which had stuffed seats running round the walls, and a flower-crowned circular divan in the centre, a lively testimony to the dryness of the atmosphere, we learned that the person who had wanted the basin and pitcher was the man of our party.  He begged us not to inquire into the mysteries of his toilet, and refused to help us solve the riddle of the guests’ cleanliness when the hotel was full.  I assume, on reflection, however, that they were expected to take Russian or plain baths every two or three days, to rid themselves of the odor of the kumys, which exudes copiously through the pores of the skin and scents the garments.  On other days a “lick and a promise” were supposed to suffice, so that their journals must have resembled that of the man who wrote:  “Monday, washed myself.  Tuesday, washed hands and face.  Wednesday, washed hands only.”  That explanation is not wholly satisfactory, either, because the Russians are clean people.

As coffee is one of the articles of food which are forbidden to kumys patients, though they may drink tea without lemon or milk, we had difficulty in getting it at all.  It was long in coming; bad and high-priced when it did make its appearance.  As we were waiting, an invalid lady and the novice nun who was in attendance upon her began to sing in a room near by.  They had no instrument.  What it was that they sang, I do not know.  It was gentle as a breath, melting as a sigh, soft and slow like a conventional chant, and sweet as the songs of the Russian Church or of the angels.  There are not many strains in this world upon which one hangs entranced, in breathless eagerness, and the memory of which haunts one ever after.  But this song was one of that sort, and it lingers in my memory as a pure delight; in company with certain other fragments of church music heard in that land, as among the most beautiful upon earth.

I may as well tell at once the whole story of the food, so far as we explored its intricate mysteries.  We were asked if we wished to take the table d’hote breakfast in the establishment.  We said “yes,” and presented ourselves promptly.  We were served with beefsteak, in small, round, thick pieces.