Мертвые души
Chapter 4
Thelittlewoodentavern,withitsnarrow,buthospitable,curtainsuspendedfromapairofrough-hewndoorpostslikeoldchurchcandlesticks,seemedtoinviteChichikovtoenter.True,theestablishmentwasonlyaRussianhutoftheordinarytype,butitwasahutoflargerdimensionsthanusual,andhadarounditswindowsandgablescarvedandpatternedcornicesofbright-colouredwoodwhichthrewintoreliefthedarkerhueofthewalls,andconsortedwellwiththefloweredpitcherspaintedontheshutters.
Ascendingthenarrowwoodenstaircasetotheupperfloor,andarrivinguponabroadlanding,Chichikovfoundhimselfconfrontedwithacreakingdoorandastoutoldwomaninastripedprintgown.“Thisway,ifyouplease,”shesaid.WithintheapartmentdesignatedChichikovencounteredtheoldfriendswhichoneinvariablyfindsinsuchroadsidehostelries—towit,aheavysamovar,foursmooth,bescratchedwallsofwhitepine,athree-corneredpresswithcupsandteapots,egg-cupsofgildedchinastandinginfrontofikonssuspendedbyblueandredribands,acatlatelydeliveredofafamily,amirrorwhichgivesonefoureyesinsteadoftwoandapancakeforaface,and,besidetheikons,somebunchesofherbsandcarnationsofsuchfadeddustinessthat,shouldoneattempttosmellthem,oneisboundtoburstoutsneezing.
“Haveyouasucking-pig?”Chichikovinquiredofthelandladyasshestoodexpectantlybeforehim.
“Yes.”
“Andsomehorse-radishandsourcream?”
“Yes.”
“Thenservethem.
