Dead Souls

But the guest also declined the heel scratching. The mistress went out, and he straightaway hastened to undress, giving Fetinya all the trappings he took off himself, over and under, and Fetinya, having for her part wished him good night as well, carried off this wet armor. Left alone, he gazed not without pleasure at his bed, which reached almost to the ceiling. One could see that Fetinya was an expert at plumping up feather beds. When, having brought over a chair, he climbed onto the bed, it sank under him almost down to the floor, and the feathers he displaced from under himself flew into every corner of the room. Putting out the candle, he covered himself with the cotton quilt and, curling up under it, fell asleep that same moment. He woke up rather late the next morning. The sun was shining through the window straight into his eyes, and the flies which yesterday had been quietly asleep on the walls and ceiling now all addressed themselves to him: one sat on his lip, another on his ear, a third kept making attempts to settle right on his eye, while one that had been so imprudent as to alight close to the nostril of his nose, he drew into the nose itself while he slept, which made him sneeze violently—a circumstance that was the cause of his waking up. Glancing around the room, he now noticed that the pictures were not all of birds: among them hung a portrait of Kutuzov and an oil painting of some old man with a red-cuffed uniform such as was worn in the time of Pavel Petrovich.[7] The clock again let out a hiss and struck ten; a woman's face peeked in the door and instantly hid itself, for Chichikov, wishing to sleep better, had thrown off absolutely everything. The face that had peeked in seemed somehow slightly familiar to him. He began recalling to himself: who might it be?—and finally remembered that it was the mistress. He put on his shirt; his clothes, already dried and brushed, lay next to him. Having dressed, he went up to the mirror and sneezed again so loudly that a turkey cock, who was just then approaching the window—the window being very near the ground—started babbling something to him suddenly and quite rapidly in his strange language, probably "God bless you," at which Chichikov called him fool. Going to the window, he began to examine the views that spread before him: the window opened almost onto the poultry yard; at least the narrow pen that lay before him was all filled with fowl and every sort of domestic creature. There were turkeys and hens without number; among them a rooster paced with measured steps, shaking his comb and tilting his head to one side as if listening to something; a sow and her family also turned up right there; right there, rooting in a heap of garbage, she incidentally ate a chick and, without noticing it, went on gobbling up watermelon rinds in good order. This small pen or poultry yard was enclosed by a wooden fence, beyond which stretched a vast kitchen garden with cabbages, onions, potatoes, beets, and other household vegetables. Strewn here and there over the kitchen garden were apple and other fruit trees, covered with nets to protect them from magpies and sparrows, the latter of which rushed in whole slanting clouds from one place to another. Several scarecrows had been set up for the same purpose, on long poles with splayed arms; one of them was wearing the mistress's own bonnet. Beyond the kitchen garden came the peasants' cottages, which, though built in a scattered way and not confined to regular streets, nevertheless showed, to Chichikov's observation, the prosperity of their inhabitants, for they were kept up: decrepit roof planks had everywhere been replaced by new ones; the gates were nowhere askew, and in those of the peasants' covered sheds that faced him he noticed here an almost new spare cart, and there even two. "It's no little bit of an estate she's got here," he said and resolved straightaway to get into conversation and become better acquainted with the mistress. He peeked through the crack in the door from which she had just stuck her head, and, seeing her sitting at the tea table, went in to her with a cheerful and benign look.

"Good morning, dearie. Did you sleep well?" said the mistress, rising from her place. She was better dressed than yesterday—in a dark dress, and not in a sleeping bonnet now, though there was still something wrapped around her neck.

"Quite well, quite well," said Chichikov, seating himself in an armchair. "And you, dearie?"

"Poorly, my dear."

"How so?"

"Insomnia. My lower back aches, and there's a gnawing pain in my leg, here, just above this little bone."

"It will pass, it will pass, dearie. Pay it no mind."

"God grant it passes. I did apply lard to it, and also wet it with turpentine. Will you have a sip of something with your tea? There's fruit liqueur in the flask."

"Not bad, dearie, let's have a sip of fruit liqueur."