“Yes, I bought it a little while ago,” replied Nozdreff.
“How did you manage to buy it so quickly?”
“How? Why, I bought it on the day before yesterday, and I paid a high price for it: devil take it!”
“But you were at the fair then!”
“What a fellow you are, Sofron! Can’t a man be at a fair and buy some land as well? Well, yes, I was at the fair, but my steward bought it in my absence.”
“Yes, the steward might have done it,” said his brother-in-law; but he still had his doubts and shook his head.
The visitors returned to the house by the same abominable route. Nozdreff conducted them to his study, in which, however, no trace of those things which are usually to be seen in a study, namely, books and papers, was perceptible; the only noteworthy articles there were a sword and two guns, which were hanging on the wall, one of the firearms, according to their owner, being worth three hundred, and the other eight hundred, roubles. His brother-in-law, after surveying the apartment, merely shook his head. Then they were shown some Turkish daggers, on one of which was engraved the name “Savelli Sibiryakoff, maker.” And then a hand-organ was produced, and Nozdreff immediately ground out something. This hand-organ played not unpleasantly; but in the middle of the tunes some catastrophe seemed to take place, for a mazurka suddenly ended in the song, “Malbrook’s going to the war”; and the latter, in its turn, unexpectedly developed into a well-known waltz of ancient date. Long after the player had ceased to turn the crank, one pipe in the organ, a very audacious one, would not quiet down, but went on whistling. Then Nozdreff exhibited his pipes of wood, clay, and meerschaum, coloured and uncoloured, some of them enveloped in chamois-skin; also a tchibouk with an amber mouthpiece, which he had won at play not long before; and a tobacco-pouch, embroidered by some countess or other, who had fallen head over heels in love with him at some posting station, and whose little hands, as he expressed it, were the most subtle superfluities in the world. By this word superfluities, he probably intended to designate the highest pitch of perfection.
After nibbling a little smoked sturgeon, they seated themselves at table at about five o’clock. It was evident that with Nozdreff dinner did not constitute the principal feature in life; the dishes did not play a very great part in it: some of the food was burned to cinders and part of it was not cooked at all. It was plain, too, that the cook was chiefly guided by inspiration, and dashed in the first thing which came to hand: if the pepper stood near him, he sprinkled in pepper; if cabbage came in his way, he used cabbage; and added milk, ham, peas—in short everything, slap-dash fashion. So long as it was hot, some flavour would surely be the result. At dinner, Nozdreff directed attention to the wine; even before the soup was served he poured out a large glass of port for each of his guests, and another of Haut Sauterne; for in the Russian provinces there is no such thing as plain Sauterne.
Then Nozdreff ordered a bottle of Madeira to be brought; “and better,” said he, “no field-marshal ever drank.” The Madeira actually scorched their mouths; for the dealers being well acquainted with the tastes of the provincial landed gentry, had touched it up with rum, and added nitro-muriatic acid, in the hope that the drinker’s stomach would bear it all. Then Nozdreff ordered a bottle of sparkling Burgundy to be brought, and filled the glasses with great diligence, right and left—Tchitchikoff’s and his brother-in- law’s; but Tchitchikoff observed, by the way, that he did not pour much into his own. This made him cautious; and as soon as Nozdreff began to talk or to pour out some more liquor for his brother-in-law, he promptly emptied his own glass on his plate. Before long some cherry-brandy was brought on, which had, so Nozdreff declared, exactly the same flavour as cream, but in which, to Tchitchikoff’s amazement, common raw brandy was quite perceptible. Next they drank some sort of balsam, which bore a name difficult to recall; indeed the host himself gave it a different title when he mentioned it for the second time.