he continued. “Permit me to remark, however, that his behaviour does not correspond with anything of the sort: on the contrary, there is even a kindliness about him.” Here our hero drew out, as a proof, a purse which the governor had embroidered with his own hands and given him, and then he spoke in terms of praise with regard to the suave expression of his excellency’s countenance.

“But his face is that of a highwayman,” said Sobakevitch. “Only give him a knife, and let him loose on the highway, and he’ll cut your throat for a copeck, that he will! He and the vice-governor—why they’re Gog and Magog!”

“Sobakevitch is evidently not on good terms with them,” thought Tchitchikoff. “Shall I talk to him about the chief of police? He seemed to be a friend of his—However, that’s nothing to me,” he added aloud. “I must acknowledge that the chief of police pleases me most of all. What a fine, open upright character he has! The simplicity of his heart is visible on his face.”

“He’s a rascal!” said Sobakevitch with the greatest coolness. “He betrays and deceives us, and yet he dines with us! I know them all, and they are all rascals; the whole town is just the same: scoundrel sits by scoundrel, and rails against other scoundrels. They are all betrayers of Christ. There’s only one honest man there—the procurator; and he’s a pig, if the truth must be told!”

After these laudatory remarks, Tchitchikoff perceived that there was no use in mentioning the other officials; and he now recalled the fact that Sobakevitch was not fond of speaking well of any one.

“Well, my love, shall we have some dinner?” said Sobakevitch’s wife to her husband.

“Pray let us have it!” replied Sobakevitch. Thereupon, approaching the table, the host and his guest drank a glass of vodka apiece, as was fitting, tasted some zakuska, as all people do through all the length and breadth of Russia, including various salted viands and other appetising dishes, and then repaired to the dining-room: before them, like a swimming goose, went the hostess.

The small table was set for four. At the fourth place there speedily appeared—it is difficult to say precisely what; whether a lady or a girl, a relative, a housekeeper, or simply someone who was living in the house—at all events, a somebody without a cap, about thirty years old, in a gown of motley hues.

“The cabbage soup is very good to-day, my soul,” said Sobakevitch, after sipping his soup, and taking on his plate a huge supply of nyani, a dish which consists of breast of mutton stuffed with buckwheat groats, brains, and trotters. “Such nyani as this,” he added, turning to Tchitchikoff, “cannot be got in town: the Devil knows what they give you there!”

“But the governor’s table wasn’t bad,” said Tchitchikoff.

“But do you know what all his stuff is made of? You wouldn’t eat it if you did know.”

“I do not know how it is prepared, and I am no judge of that; but the pork cutlets and the boiled fish were excellent.”

“So it seemed to you. But I know what they buy at the market. That rascal of a cook, who has taken lessons of a Frenchman, buys a cat, skins it, and serves it up on the table instead of a hare.”

“Faugh! what unpleasant things you say!” said Sobakevitch’s wife.

“What of it, my love? That’s the way they manage things. I am not to blame if they do so. Every superfluous thing, which our Akulka throws—if I may be allowed to mention it—into the swill-tub, they put in their soup—yes, in their soup! And there you have the truth!”

“You are always telling that sort of thing at table,” returned Sobakevitch’s wife again.