not an ancient threadbare nightcap, which lay upon the table, borne witness to the fact. While Tchitchikoff was still engaged in surveying the place, a side-door opened, and the same housekeeper whom he had encountered in the yard entered the room. But he now became aware that this person was rather a steward than a housekeeper; a housekeeper, at all events, does not shave, whereas this person, on the contrary, shaved every now and then, for his chin and all the lower portion of his cheeks resembled one of those currycombs made of iron wire, with which horses are cleaned down in the stable. Tchitchikoff, imparting an inquiring expression to his countenance, waited impatiently to hear what the steward would say to him. The steward, on his side, waited for Tchitchikoff to speak. At length, our hero, surprised by such strange indecision, made up his mind to inquire.

“Where is your master? Is he at home?”

“Yes, he is here,” said the steward.

“Where?” repeated Tchitchikoff.

“What, my good fellow, are you blind?” said the steward. “At home, indeed! I am the master!”

Here our hero involuntarily stepped back, and looked more attentively at this person. It had been his lot to see many sorts of people—even people such as the author and the reader have never beheld—but such an individual as this one he had never yet looked upon. His face was like that of many gaunt old men, only his chin projected so much that every time he wanted to spit he had to cover it with his handkerchief, in order not to spit upon it; his small eyes were still bright, and they darted about beneath his lofty, bushy brows like mice when they thrust their pointed noses out of their dark holes, prick up their ears, and peer about to see whether a cat, or some scamp of a boy, is not hidden somewhere. His attire was even more worthy of remark. It was difficult to tell of what material his dressing-gown was made; the sleeves and the upper portions of the skirts were greasy and shiny to such a degree that they resembled the Russian leather of which boots are made; behind there were four tails instead of two, from between which protruded some checked cotton. Something, also impossible to distinguish, either a stocking or a belt, but certainly not a neckerchief, was knotted about his neck. In short, if Tchitchikoff had encountered this landowner, thus arrayed, at the door of a church, he would probably have bestowed a copper groschen upon him; for it must be stated, to our hero’s credit, that he had a compassionate heart, and could not refrain from giving a copper groschen to a poor man.

However, it was not a beggar, but a landowner, who stood before him. This proprietor possessed over a thousand souls: and one might have searched a long while for a person having so much wheat, flour, and so forth, in his storehouse, or possessing so many storerooms, barns, and drying-houses, filled with sheepskins, both dressed and tanned; and having such quantities of linen, cloth, dried fish, and dried vegetables at his disposal. If anyone had peeped in upon him in his yard, where stores of wood and utensils were accumulated, it would have seemed to him that he had, by some means, come upon the “shavings market” at Moscow, where wooden vessels are sold, and where clever mothers-in-law betake themselves daily, followed by their cooks, to purchase household requisites. At Pliushkin’s one found every sort of article in wood, turned, fitted together, and plaited—casks, half-casks, buckets with handles and without handles, tar-barrels, the tubs in which women soak flax and dirty clothes; baskets, made of thin strips of ash; oval boxes of plaited birch-bark, with wooden bottoms and covers; and many other things of various sorts which are of service to the Russians both rich and poor.

But what was the use of all these things to Pliushkin? Two such estates as his could not have used them up in a lifetime, though that seemed to make no difference to him. Not content with what he had, he rambled about the streets of his village, peering beneath the bridges and the planks thrown across the gutters, and everything he came across, whether, it was the old sole of a shoe, a woman’s discarded rag, an iron nail, or a piece of a broken earthenware pot, he carried it all home with him, and threw it upon the heap which Tchitchikoff had observed in the corner of the room. “There’s the old fisherman out on his ramble,” the moujiks would say, when they spied him searching after his booty. And, in fact,