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"

"Well, after such a journey you must indeed be needing rest, so you
shall lie upon this sofa. Fetinia, bring a quilt and some pillows and
sheets. What weather God has sent us! And what dreadful thunder! Ever
since sunset I have had a candle burning before the ikon in my
bedroom. My God! Why, your back and sides are as muddy as a boar's!
However have you managed to get into such a state?"

"That I am nothing worse than muddy is indeed fortunate, since, but
for the Almighty, I should have had my ribs broken."

"Dear, dear! To think of all that you must have been through. Had I
not better wipe your back?"

"I thank you, I thank you, but you need not trouble. Merely be so good
as to tell your maid to dry my clothes."

"Do you hear that, Fetinia?" said the hostess, turning to a woman who
was engaged in dragging in a feather bed and deluging the room with
feathers. "Take this coat and this vest, and, after drying them before
the fire--just as we used to do for your late master--give them a good
rub, and fold them up neatly."

"Very well, mistress," said Fetinia, spreading some sheets over the
bed, and arranging the pillows.

"Now your bed is ready for you," said the hostess to Chichikov.
"Good-night, dear sir. I wish you good-night. Is there anything else
that you require? Perhaps you would like to have your heels tickled
before retiring to rest? Never could my late husband get to sleep
without that having been done."

But the guest declined the proffered heel-tickling, and, on his
hostess taking her departure, hastened to divest himself of his
clothing, both upper and under, and to hand the garments to Fetinia.
She wished him good-night, and removed the wet trappings; after which
he found himself alone. Not without satisfaction did he eye his bed,
which reached almost to the ceiling. Clearly Fetinia was a past
mistress in the art of beating up such a couch, and, as the result, he
had no sooner mounted it with the aid of a chair than it sank
well-nigh to the floor, and the feathers, squeezed out of their proper
confines, flew hither and thither into every corner of the apartment.
Nevertheless he extinguished the candle, covered himself over with the
chintz quilt, snuggled down beneath it, and instantly fell asleep.
Next day it was late in the morning before he awoke. Through the
window the sun was shining into his eyes, and the flies which,
overnight, had been roosting quietly on the walls and ceiling now
turned their attention to the visitor. One settled on his lip, another
on his ear, a third hovered as though intending to lodge in his very
eye, and a fourth had the temerity to alight just under his nostrils.
In his drowsy condition he inhaled the latter insect, sneezed
violently, and so returned to consciousness. He glanced around the
room, and perceived that not all the pictures were representative of
birds, since among them hung also a portrait of Kutuzov[4] and an oil
painting of an old man in a uniform with red facings such as were worn

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