ike 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 filaments the strands of an old mat-sack, such as is
used for everything in Russia, from wrappers for sheet iron to bags for
carrying a pound of cherries. After a final douche with boiling water,
we mounted the high shelf, with its wooden pillow, and the artistic part
of the operation began. As we lay there in the suffocating steam,
Alexandra whipped us thoroughly with a small besom of birch twigs,
rendered pliable and secure of their tender leaves by a preliminary
plunge in boiling water. When we gasped for breath, she interpreted it
as a symptom of speechless delight, and flew to the oven and dashed a
bucket of cold water on the red-hot stones placed there for the purpose.
The steam poured forth in intolera