cord to conquer the orifice.

Among our vulgar experiences at this place were--fleas. I remonstrated
with Mikhei, our typical waiter from the government of Yaroslavl, which
furnishes restaurant _garcons_ in hordes as a regular industry. Mikhei
replied airily:--

"_Nitchevo!_ It is nothing! You will soon learn to like them so much
that you cannot do without them."

I take the liberty of doubting whether even Russians ever reach that
last state of mind, in a lifetime of endurance. Two rooms beyond us, in
the same corridor, lodged a tall, thin, gray-haired Russian merchant,
who was nearly a typical Yankee in appearance. Every morning, at four
o'clock, when the fleas were at their worst and roused us regularly (the
"close season" for mortals, in Russia, is between five and six A. M.),
we heard this man emerge from his room, and shake, separately and
violently, the four pieces of his bedclothing into the corridor; not out
of the window, as he should have done. So much for the modern native
taste. It is recorded that the beauties of the last century, in St.
Petersburg, always wore on their bosoms silver "flea-catchers" attached
to a ribbon. These traps consisted of small tubes pierced with a great
number of tiny holes, closed at the bottom, open at the top, and each
containing a slender shaft smeared with honey or some other sticky
substance. So much for the ancient native taste.

Again, we had a disagreement with Mikhei on the subject of the roast
beef. More than once it was brought in having a peculiar
blackish-crimson hue and stringy grain, with a sweetish flavor, and an
odor which was singular but not tainted, and which required imperatively
that either we or it should vacate the room instantly. Mikhei stuck
firmly to his assertion that it was a prime cut from a first-class ox.
We discovered the truth later on, in Moscow, when we entered a Tatar
horse-butcher's shop--ornamented with the picture of a horse, as the
law requires--out of curiosity, to inquire prices. We recognized the
smell and other characteristics of our Tzarskoe Selo "roast ox" at a
glance and a sniff, and remained only long enough to learn that the best
cuts cost two and a half cents a pound. Afterward we went a block about
to avoid passing that shop. The explanation of the affair was simple
enough. In our hotel there was a _traktir_, run by our landlord, tucked
away in a rear corner of the ground floor, and opening on what Thackeray
would have called