Tchichikoff went into his room to wash and dress himself. When he had done so, he entered the dining-room, where he found the table laid with a tea service and a bottle of brandy. In this room, his eyes also met with the remains of the dinner and supper of the preceding day; it seemed as if the broom had not made its appearance there; the floor was strewn with bread crumbs, and tobacco ashes were even still lying on the table cloth.
The host himself did not fail to make his appearance soon after; he had no other dress on him but a loose Turkish morning-gown, which rather displayed than concealed his broad chest, upon which a regular beard seemed to grow freely. Holding in one hand his long Turkish pipe and in the other a cup of tea, he would have made a characteristic subject for a painter, who hates gentlemen of propriety, with curled hair, like a hairdresser's sign-board, or a head shorn à la diable m'emporte.
"Now then, what are you thinking about?" said Nosdrieff, after a momentary silence, "will you, or will you not play for my dead serfs?"
"My dear fellow, I have already told you once for all, I won't play, but if you like I am ready to buy them."
"I won't sell them, because it would not be acting in a friendly manner towards you; but I'm still disposed to play for them as long as you like. Come, let us have a turn, if but one only!"
"As I told you before, no."
"And you won't barter, either?"
"No, I won't."
"Now, listen and don't be so obstinate, let us have a game of draughts, if you win they shall all be yours; and, I remember now that I have got a number of dead serfs, that ought to be struck out from the census list of the living. Holloa, Porphir, bring me the draught-board here."
"Tis a useless trouble, I shall not play."