comed home, and to crown it all had gained the object of his desires, and had flung away his pilgrim's staff, saying: 'Enough!' Such was the enchanting state of mind induced in him by his host's sensible words. There are for every heart certain words which are nearer and more akin than any others; and often in some remote, forgotten, out-of-the-way place, in some lonely nook, we unexpectedly meet a man whose warming discourse makes us forget the hardships of the road, the comfortless night lodging and the contemporary world, full of the follies of mankind, and of deceptions that cloud men's vision; and an evening spent in that manner remains with us for ever, and a distinct memory is kept of everything that happened in it, who was present, and at what spot each person was standing, and what was in his hand—the walls, the corners, and every trifle in the room.
So Tchitchikov noticed everything that evening: the little plainly furnished room, and the good-natured expression on the face of his clever host, and the pipe with the amber mouthpiece that was handed to Platonov, and the smoke which he blew in Yarb's broad face and Yarb's snorting, and his pretty hostess's laugh, interrupted by the words, 'That's enough, don't tease him,' and the cheerful candle-light and the cricket in the corner, and the glass door and the spring night which looked in at them from without, over the tops of the trees among which the nightingales were singing.
