As he drove up to the porch, he caught sight of two people, who looked out of one of the windows at almost the same moment—a woman with a cap on her head, and with a face as long and narrow as a cucumber; and a man whose countenance was as round as the Moldavian pumpkins called calabashes, with which, in Russia, balalaikas² are made—those light, two-stringed instruments, the ornament and the solace of the susceptible youth of twenty, who walks along in his dandified way, winking at the white- bosomed, white-necked maidens who have assembled to listen to his soft music. After taking a peep out of the window, both faces disappeared at the same moment. A lackey in a grey jacket, with a tall blue collar, made his appearance upon the steps, and led Tchitchikoff into the vestibule, where Sobakevitch himself came to meet him. On catching sight of his visitor, he said abruptly, “Pray enter,” and led him inside the house.

When they had entered the drawing-room, Sobakevitch pointed to an arm-chair, and said, “Pray be seated.” Then Tchitchikoff, as he seated himself, glanced at the walls, and at the pictures which were hanging on them. These pictures were portraits of young men, Greek military leaders, portrayed at full length. At the window hung a cage, out of which peeped a dark-brown thrush with white spots, which, strange as it may seem, bore a striking resemblance to its master. The host and his guest had not been together two minutes, when the door of the drawing-room opened, and the hostess came in—a tall lady in a cap with ribbons, which had been dyed with some home-made dye. She entered in stately fashion, holding her head as erect as a palm-tree holds its crest.

“This is my Feodulia Ivanovna,” said Sobakevitch. Tchitchikoff approached, and kissed the hand which she almost shoved against his lips, and this afforded him an opportunity of observing that her hand had been washed in salt water in which some cucumbers had been kept. This is said to be very good for the skin. “Let me present this gentleman to you, my love,” continued Sobakevitch: “Pavel Ivanovitch Tchitchikoff! I had the honour of making his acquaintance at the houses of the governor and the chief of police.”

Feodulia Ivanovna invited our hero to seat himself, making a movement with her head similar to those made by actresses when they are impersonating queens. Then she seated herself on the sofa, covered her shoulders with her merino kerchief, and did not move so much as an eye or an eyebrow.

Tchitchikoff again raised his eyes to the walls, and again beheld the Greek heroes and the thrush in the cage. “We were speaking of you at the presiding judge’s—Ivan Grigorevitch’s—on Friday evening last,” he said at last, perceiving that Sobakevitch and his wife were not disposed to begin the conversation. “We passed the time very pleasantly there.”

“Yes: I was not at the president’s on that occasion,” replied Sobakevitch.

“He is a very fine man.”

“Who?” asked Sobakevitch, looking at the stove in the corner.

“The president of the court.”

“Well, perhaps he strikes you that way; but in reality the world has never produced such another fool.”

Tchitchikoff was rather taken aback by this sharp remark; but recovering himself, he went on, “Of course, no man is exempt from failings; but the governor now—what a fine man he is!”

“The governor a fine man?”

“Yes: is he not?”

“Why, he’s the greatest robber in the world!”

“What! the governor a robber?” said Tchitchikoff, and he could not in the least understand how the governor came to be numbered among robbers. “I must confess that I never should have thought such a thing,”