(Never in provincial towns is ordinary, vulgar sauterne even procurable.) Next, he called for a bottle of madeira--"as fine a tipple as ever a field-marshall drank"; but the madeira only burnt the mouth, since the dealers, familiar with the taste of our landed gentry (who love "good" madeira) invariably doctor the stuff with copious dashes of rum and Imperial vodka, in the hope that Russian stomachs will thus be enabled to carry off the lot.

After this bottle Nozdrev called for another and "a very special" brand--a brand which he declared to consist of a blend of burgundy and champagne, and of which he poured generous measures into the glasses of Chichikov and the brother-in-law as they sat to right and left of him.

But since Chichikov noticed that, after doing so, he added only a scanty modicum of the mixture to his own tumbler, our hero determined to be cautious, and therefore took advantage of a moment when Nozdrev had again plunged into conversation and was yet a third time engaged in refilling his brother-in-law's glass, to contrive to upset his (Chichikov's) glass over his plate.

In time there came also to table a tart of mountain-ashberries--berries which the host declared to equal, in taste, ripe plums, but which, curiously enough, smacked more of corn brandy.
Next, the company consumed a sort of pasty of which the precise name has escaped me, but which the host rendered differently even on the second occasion of its being mentioned.

The meal over, and the whole tale of wines tried, the guests still retained their seats--a circumstance which embarrassed Chichikov, seeing that he had no mind to propound his pet scheme in the presence of Nozdrev's brother-in-law, who was a complete stranger to him.