“Not in the least. My brother and I have ten thousand desyatins² of land between us, and over a thousand men peasants on them.”

“Strange! I cannot understand it! But perhaps you have had some bad harvests, or epidemics, or some of your male serfs have died?”

“On the contrary, everything is in the best of order, and my brother is a capital manager.”

“And to mope with all that! I don’t understand it,” said Tchitchikoff, shrugging his shoulders.

“We’ll drive away his moping mood immediately,” said the host. “Run, Alexasha, quick, to the kitchen, and tell the cook to send us some fish-patties as speedily as possible. And where’s that jackanapes Yemelyan, and that thief Antoshka? Why don’t they serve the zakuska?”³

But at this moment the door opened. The jackanapes Yemelyan and the thief Antoshka made their appearance with napkins, spread the table, and set on it a tray with six decanters, containing liquors of various colours. A necklace of plates, with all sorts of viands fit to arouse the appetite, soon surrounded the tray and decanters. The servants flitted hastily hither and thither, incessantly fetching something in covered dishes, inside of which butter could be heard bubbling. The jackanapes Yemelyan and the thief Antoshka arranged things in excellent style. Their nicknames had merely been bestowed on them by way of encouragement. Their master was not at all fond of scolding, being a good-natured fellow; but the Russian man cannot get along without a spicy word now and then. It is as necessary to him as a glass of vodka is to his stomach, to aid digestion. How can it be helped? Such is his nature: he likes nothing that is sweet.

The zakuska was followed by the dinner. Now the kind-hearted host became a thorough brigand. No sooner did he spy a bit of food on anyone’s fork than he immediately added another, saying, “Without a mate, neither man nor bird can live in this world.” If anyone had two morsels, he heaped a third on to the top of them, declaring, “What sort of a number is two? God loves a trinity.” If his guest had three, he said, “Where was there ever a telyéga seen with three wheels? Who builds a cabin with three corners?” As regards the fourth bit he was prepared with a proverb also, and likewise as regards the fifth. Tchitchikoff devoured nearly a dozen slices, and thought, “Well, the host won’t pile up anything more.” But in vain: without saying a word, his host laid on his plate some ribs of veal, with kidneys, from a most gigantic calf.

“I fed the animal for two years on milk,” said the host: “I cared for him as though he had been my own son!”

“I cannot eat it,” said Tchitchikoff.

“Try, and say I cannot afterwards.”

“It won’t go down. I have no room left.”

“Well, there was no room in the church, as the story goes; but the chief of police arrived—and a place was found for him. There was such a throng that there was not room for an apple to fall. Only try: this morsel is the chief of police.”

Tchitchikoff did try, and the morsel actually was something in the nature of a chief of police. A place was found for it, but it seemed as though nothing more could be put in.

“Now, how is such a man to go to Petersburg or Moscow! In three years, with such hospitality as this, he would utterly ruin himself,” thought Tchitchikoff. Of course he was not aware that this had already been thoroughly accomplished, and that, even without being hospitable, a man may get rid of everything, not in three years, but even in three months.

It was the same with the wines. On receiving his money from the mortgage-bank, Piotr Petrovitch had provided himself with a store of wines for ten years to come. Consequently, he poured and poured.