A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar,
a pink thick smoke came puffing out, and there was a



Digitized by CjOOQLC



300 The Talcs of Chekhov

smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. When the
smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes and saw
that he was no longer Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker,
but quite a different man, wearing a waistcoat and a
watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that he
was sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot-
men were handing him dishes, bowing low and saying:

"Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you
good!"

What wealth! The footmen handed him a big
piece of roast mutton and a dish of cucumbers,
and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, and
a little afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish
cream. And how dignified, how genteel it all was!
Fyodor ate, and before each dish drank a big glass
of excellent vodka, like some general or some count.
After the pork he was handed some boiled grain
moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with
bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eating and
was delighted. What more? They served, too, a pie
with onion and steamed turnip with kvass.
"How is it the gentry don't burst with such
meals?" he thought.
In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey.
After dinner the devil appeared in blue spectacles
and asked with a low bow:

"Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor
Pantelyeitch?"

But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so
stuffed after his dinner. The feeling of repletion was
unpleasant, oppressive, and to distract his thoughts
he looked at the boot on his left foot.
