We are made acquainted with the wife of the host, a stout matron of fine domestic proclivities. Though of humble origin, she has discarded her peasant shako and bandana-handkerchief headdress for a bonnet, and dispenses, as to the manner born, many luxuries. On the other hand, she has lost the robustness which keeps her peasant sisters fresh and hearty. Sewing-machines, and beds, and servants, must exact toll even in Siberia. Her boys are clean-cut and intelligent. They go to school and are the future “Intellectuals” that are seeding Siberia. Sixteen children--eleven Nicolai Tobagov’s own, five adopted in open-hearted generosity--sit down to four very solid meals a day in the big hall. Ivan Simeonski, _optovie_ and _argove_ merchant, and Nicita Baeschoef the lieutenant, traveling west on furlough, are stopping in this friendly house, and many other guests are here. The hospitality of the household is conducted on a scale of patriarchal magnificence. Before our furs are fairly off, the host has called aloud for _obeid_. One’s first formality is, as usual, to salute the ikons and the guests. One’s second is to escape the scalding vodka, seventy proof, and then begin with the _zakuska_ of ten cold dishes on the side table. There is black caviar from the Volga, though the rapid diminution of the supply has raised the price to ten roubles a pound. There is red caviar from the Chickoya, cold mutton, cold sturgeon, sardines, ham, and sliced sausages made at home. The latter must be abundantly and appreciatively sampled, because they have been specially prepared under the direction of the _souprouga_ herself. One stands before the _zakuska_ and dips from dish to dish. Next, the guests take the square wooden stools and draw up to the great table, where the plates are set for the real dinner. Each one helps himself to the smoking soup, which is passed in the tureen. As this is being ladled, a plate of round balls comes by, the delicious _piroushki_, dough-shells filled with hashed meat, always served with soup. We have entered upon a typical Siberian meal, with the boiled soup-meat eaten as the second course, and madeira, champagne, claret, and rum, indiscriminately offered. A perfect babel of conversation goes on, and one is pressed to try this, try that, try each and everything of the long menu, under the watchful eyes of the kindly host and hostess. At all times of the day the samovar is left simmering, ready for any one of the multitudinous household to brew tea, and constantly replenished _zakuska_ dishes deck the sideboard. Guests, attendants, children, and friends come and go in the utmost freedom. Such is the _Hazan’s_ life.