“How much is given in this part of the world to beggars!” you remark. The Russian smiles. “It is a part of religion to give. At every big family affair,--a wedding, a christening, a funeral,--we distribute money and gifts to the poor.” In the entresol of the bath-house, a big tiled anteroom, there are marble-topped tables, around which men and women are smoking and reading papers. One can dine here, even; but this comes after the bath. A ticket at the _kontora_ gives, for a rouble, the privilege of a preliminary boiling and a flaying by one of the naked attendants. A start is made by washing you with infinite thoroughness, section by section, the attendant continuing on each spot until told to stop or advance to the next. An unfortunate foreigner, in Irkutsk, had his head shampooed seven times in succession before he could recall the cabalistic word necessary to direct the man’s attention elsewhere. One is scrubbed and rinsed, and is then conducted up onto a wooden platform, running along under the ceiling. Here, while the first inquisitioner dashes water on a steamer-oven below, the second scrapes the victim with new pine branches. One remembers an Irkutsk Russian bath at least as long as the smarting and the cold he gets from it endure. Back at the hotel one can dig out his rather crumpled dress-suit in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. Later, he gathers in another sleigh, and sets out for the home of the banker. In Irkutsk nobody relies on house-numbers to find his way. Even Moscow has not yet advanced to this refinement of civilization. If the driver does not know the route, he stops to ask passers-by, “Where is So-and-So’s house?” Again and again you are taken to the abode of somebody else with a name more or less similar. Then the driver will say, quite nonchalantly, “_Nietchevo!_”--ask the next person he encounters for directions, and start anew. You leave abundant margin of time, and usually arrive sooner or later. Our host of to-night is, happily, well known throughout the city. So the driver whips up to a gallop and rushes down the snowy streets. It is not a long ride to the big arched doorway of the white two-storied plaster-covered house, in front of which the driver pulls up with a flourish. You ring a bell at the side of the door and wait. The _isvoschik_ has taken a station beside the curb, has folded his arms, and is nodding on the box, apparently prepared to camp there indefinitely. “Eleven o’clock, return,” you say. “_Haracho!_” is his drowsy answer, given without moving. The horses have drooped their heads; they too are settled for repose. The tinkle of a piano comes from within, but minute after minute goes by, the bell unanswered, the _isvoschik_ immovable on his little seat. Other pulls of the bell are at last of avail: the door slowly opens. A final objurgation to the coachman that he is not wanted until eleven o’clock falls on sealed ears. You go in through the massive doorway.