"Allow me to invite you to dinner," said Sobakevitch. After saying which he advanced towards a table, upon which an introductory meal had been placed; the host and his guest each drank, as is customary, a small glass of brandy, and had a bit of salt fish, or some such appetite-stimulating foretastes, and in doing thus, they but did what is customary in every town and village throughout the vast Russian Empire; thus excited and prepared, they entered the dining-room, into which they followed the hostess, who led them on like a goose her goslings.
A small table was laid for four persons. The fourth place was soon occupied, but it was difficult to say affirmatively by whom, whether that person was a lady or a girl, relation, a guest or friend living in the house; she was not adorned with a cap, was about thirty years of age, and wore a variegated dress.
"Your cabbage-soup, my darling, is delicious to-day," said Sobakevitch to his wife, whilst cutting and helping himself to a second enormous piece of stuffing, and putting it into his soup. This stuffing, as it might be called, for want of a better denomination in the English language, is a well-known dish in every Russian household, and is always served together with the national sour cabbage-soup; it is made of the ventricles, head, and feet of a sheep, and stuffed with buck-wheat grits.
"Such stuffing," he continued, turning towards Tchichikoff, "you could not get to eat in town, where they have the habit of serving you with Heaven knows what stuff!"
"The Lord-Lieutenant's dinners, however, are not so contemptible," said Tchichikoff.
"Do you know how and of what stuff his dinners are made? If you knew it, I'm sure you would not eat them."
"I do not know how they are prepared, and therefore cannot judge; but his pork-chops and boiled flounders were delicious."
"It seemed so to you. But I know well what they buy in the market. Their cook, the impudent fellow, who seems to have learnt his art in France, is capable of buying a cat, skinning it, roasting it, and serving it up as a hare."
"Fie! what an unpleasant allusion you make," said his wife.
"And why so, my dear? it is a fact, and I am sure they do that, if not even worse. All that we would throw away in our country kitchen, the town people would put in their soup, and find it even a delicacy—yes, a delicacy. Such is their taste!"