Finally the two friends walked in at the door sideways, somewhat squeezing each other.
'Allow me to introduce my wife,' said Manilov. 'My love, this is Pavel Ivanovitch!'
Tchitchikov did indeed observe a lady whom he had not noticed while bowing and scraping with Manilov in the doorway. She was not bad-looking and was becomingly dressed. Her loose brocaded silk gown of a pale colour hung well upon her: her delicate little hand flung something hurriedly on the table and crushed a cambric handkerchief with embroidered corners. She got up from the sofa on which she was sitting. Tchitchikov not without satisfaction bent to kiss her hand. Madame Manilov said, even speaking with a slight lisp, that they were greatly delighted at his visit and that not a day passed without her husband's mentioning him.
'Yes,' observed Manilov, 'she has been continually asking me, "Why doesn't your friend come?" "Wait a little, my love," I told her, "he will come." And here at last you have honoured us with a visit. It really is a pleasure you have given us … a May day … a festival of the heart.'
Tchitchikov was actually a little embarrassed on hearing that it had already come to festivals of the heart, and answered modestly that he had no great name nor distinguished rank.
'You have everything,' Manilov pronounced with the same agreeable smile, you have everything: more, indeed.'
