before the ikons, so dry that any one who tried to sniff them would be sure to sneeze.
'Have you any sucking-pig?' was the question Tchitchikov addressed to the woman.
'Yes, we have.'
'With horse-radish and sour cream?'
'Yes, with horse-radish and sour cream.'
'Let me have some!'
The old woman went off to rummage and brought a plate and a table napkin, starched till it was as stiff as a dried crust and would not lie flat, then a knife with a bone handle yellow with age, and a blade as thin as a penknife, a two-pronged fork and a salt-cellar, which would not stand straight on the table.
Our hero, as his habit was, instantly entered into conversation with her, and inquired whether she kept the tavern herself or whether there was a master, and what income the tavern yielded and whether their sons were living at home with them and whether the eldest son was a married man or a bachelor and whether he had married a wife with a big dowry or not, and whether the bride's father was satisfied or had been vexed at not getting presents enough at the wedding; in fact, he went into everything. I need hardly say that he was anxious to find out what landowners there were in the neighbourhood and learned that there were landowners of all sorts: Blohin, Potchitaev, Mylnoy, Tcheprakov, the Colonel, and Sobakevitch.
'Ah! you know Sobakevitch!' he said, and at
