In a couple of minutes she returned with a lantern in her hand. The gate opened. A faint light flashed from another window. The britchka entered the yard, and came to a standstill in front of a small house, of which it was difficult to get a good view through the darkness. Only one half of it was illuminated by the light which shone through the window falling upon a puddle just in front of the building. The rain resounded noisily as it poured on to the wooden roof, whence it ran in a murmuring stream into the water-butt. Meanwhile the dogs had burst out barking in every possible key and style; one, throwing back his head, gave a prolonged howl, with as much care as though he had received wages for it; another followed suit post-haste. Then there rang out, like a post-bell, an inharmonious soprano, no doubt belonging to a young dog; and, finally, all ended with the growls of an old animal, whose notes reminded one of a contrabasso in a church choir, when the concerto is in full swing.

However, our drenched and shivering hero thought only of bed. The britchka had not come to a full stop, when he leapt out upon the threshold, tottered, and came near falling. A woman, younger than the first one, but strongly resembling her, then emerged from under the porch and conducted him into a room. Tchitchikoff cast a couple of fleeting glances about him: the room was hung with antique, striped paper; the pictures represented various birds; between the windows hung some little old mirrors, with dim frames in the form of twisted leaves, and behind each mirror was tucked either a letter or a pack of cards, or else a stocking. There was also a wall-clock, with flowers painted on the dial-plate; but nothing else could be discerned. Tchitchikoff felt that his eyes were sticking together as though someone had smeared them over with honey. However, a moment later the mistress of the house entered, a woman advanced in years, in some sort of a nightcap hastily donned, and with a flannel wrapper round her neck. Evidently one of those women who own a small landed property, and cry over bad crops and losses, who hold their heads on one side, and accumulate money in motley little bags, stowed away in their chests of drawers. In one bag they will put all their silver roubles; in another, their half-roubles; in a third, their twenty-five copeck pieces—although, to all appearance, there is nothing in the drawers but linen, night-dresses, skeins of thread, and a cloak which has been ripped up with the intention of converting it into a gown; or, if it be old, it has been burnt in cooking holiday pancakes, or has simply worn out of its own accord. However, the old woman is economical, and this cloak is destined to lie there for many years, and will descend by will to her grandniece, together with all sorts of other ancient fripperies.

Tchitchikoff presented his apologies for having disturbed the inmates of the house by his unexpected arrival. “No matter, no matter,” said his hostess. “In such weather, it was God who brought you here. Such a tumult and storm! You ought to have something to eat after your journey; but it is very late at night, and it is impossible to prepare anything.”

The lady’s words were interrupted by a dreadful hissing, which alarmed our friend; the noise was such, indeed, that the whole room seemed to be full of snakes: but on glancing up, he felt re-assured, for he perceived that the wall-clock had taken a fancy to strike. The hissing was immediately followed by a hoarse rattle; and finally, collecting all its powers, the clock struck two with a sound as though some one were drumming on a broken crock with a stick, after which the pendulum went on ticking quietly from right to left.

Tchitchikoff thanked his hostess, saying that he needed nothing, that she must not trouble herself about anything, that he only desired a bed, though he would like to know where he was, and whether the house was far from Sobakevitch’s estate. To which the old woman replied that she had never even heard of such a name, and believed that there was no such gentleman at all.

“But at least, you know Maniloff?” said Tchitchikoff.

“And who is Maniloff?”

“A landowner, my good woman.”

“No, I have never heard of him: there is no such landowner hereabouts.”


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