in his own house; he even seated him in his own large reclining-chair, and then prepared to listen to his remarks upon the natural sciences.
But the guest touched rather upon philosophical matters. He likened his life to a vessel in the midst of the sea, driven hither and thither by treacherous winds; he mentioned that he had been obliged to make numerous changes in his place of residence and his occupation; that he had suffered much for the truth’s sake; that his life had even been more than once in danger from his enemies; and he related many things of a sort which showed him to be a practical man. At the conclusion of his speech, he blew his nose in a white cambric handkerchief, with such violence that it gave a report the like of which Andrei Ivanovitch had never heard before. There is at times in an orchestra a horn which seems to blare in your ear, instead of in the orchestra. Exactly such a sound echoed through the startled apartments of the slumbering house; and immediately after it came the smell of eau-de-Cologne, which was invisibly disseminated by a skilful flourish of the cambric pocket-handkerchief.
The reader has probably already divined that the visitor was none other than our respected and long- neglected Pavel Ivanovitch Tchitchikoff. He had grown a little older evidently; time had not passed by without tempests and anxieties. It seemed as though the very swallow-tailed coat on his back had grown antique, and the britchka, and the coachman and the valet, the horses and the harness, had all become worn and threadbare. From this it appeared that his finances were not in an enviable condition. However, the expression of his face, his courtesy, and his manners remained the same. He had become even more agreeable in his movements and conduct, and he twisted one leg under the other in a more skilful fashion than ever when he seated himself in his arm-chair. There was more suavity in his turns of speech, more caution and moderation in his words and expressions, more dexterity in his bearing, more tact about him in every way. His collar and shirt-bosom were cleaner and whiter than snow, and despite the fact that he was on a journey, there was not even a speck of dust upon his coat—it was exactly as though he had just come from a birthday dinner. His cheeks and chin were so beautifully shaven that even a blind man might have admired their agreeably rounded contours.
A transformation at once took place in the house. That half of it which had hitherto remained dark, with the shutters closed, suddenly blossomed out and received light. Everything began to move about in the newly illuminated rooms, and matters soon assumed a different aspect. All the articles indispensable for a toilet for the night were placed in the chamber which was assigned to the visitor as a bedroom. As for the apartment which was intended for his study, there were here three tables: one, a writing-table, stood before the sofa; the second, a card-table, was placed between the two windows and in front of the mirror; the third, a corner-table, stood in the angle between the door leading to the bedroom and the door opening into an unoccupied hall, filled with decrepit furniture, and now used as an ante-room, in which no one had set foot for a year previously. On this corner-table some clothes which had been taken out of our hero’s trunk were placed, namely, a coat, beneath it a pair of trousers, a second pair ditto quite new, and grey in colour, also two velvet and two satin waistcoats, and a surtour. All these things were arranged one on the top of the other in pyramid fashion, and were covered over with a silk handkerchief. In the other corner between the door and the window was ranged a row of boots: some were not quite new, others were entirely new; there were patent-leather boots, low shoes, and chamber slippers. They also were modestly veiled with a silk handkerchief, so that it was just the same as if they were not there.
On the writing-table were speedily arranged with great regularity a dressing-case, a bottle of eau-de- Cologne, some toothpicks, a calendar, and two novels—the second volume of each only. The clean linen was placed in the chest of drawers which stood in the bedroom, and the linen which required washing was tied up in a bundle and thrust under the bed; the trunk, when it had been emptied, was also shoved under the bed. As for the sword which our hero carried with him on the road in order to inspire robbers with salutary fear, that also was placed in the bedroom, and suspended from a nail not far from the bed. Everything assumed an aspect of neatness and order. Nowhere was there a scrap of paper, a pen, or a speck of dust. The very air seemed to have become ennobled. The odour of a fresh and healthy man who does not wear his linen too long, but takes a bath and rubs himself down with a damp sponge