In the dusk of evening a big house of one storey, with a rusty iron roof and with dark windows, came into sight.  This house was called a posting-inn, though it had nothing like a stableyard, and it stood in the middle of the steppe, with no kind of enclosure round it.  A little to one side of it a wretched little cherry orchard shut in by a hurdle fence made a dark patch, and under the windows stood sleepy sunflowers drooping their heavy heads.  From the orchard came the clatter of a little toy windmill, set there to frighten away hares by the rattle.  Nothing more could be seen near the house, and nothing could be heard but the steppe.  The chaise had scarcely stopped at the porch with an awning over it, when from the house there came the sound of cheerful voices, one a man’s, another a woman’s; there was the creak of a swing-door, and in a flash a tall gaunt figure, swinging its arms and fluttering its coat, was standing by the chaise.  This was the innkeeper, Moisey Moisevitch, a man no longer young, with a very pale face and a handsome beard as black as charcoal.  He was wearing a threadbare black coat, which hung flapping on his narrow shoulders as though on a hatstand, and fluttered its skirts like wings every time Moisey Moisevitch flung up his hands in delight or horror.  Besides his coat the innkeeper was wearing full white trousers, not stuck into his boots, and a velvet waistcoat with brown flowers on it that looked like gigantic bugs.

Moisey Moisevitch was at first dumb with excess of feeling on recognizing the travellers, then he clasped his hands and uttered a moan.  His coat swung its skirts, his back bent into a bow, and his pale face twisted into a smile that suggested that to see the chaise was not merely a pleasure to him, but actually a joy so sweet as to be painful.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” he began in a thin sing-song voice, breathless, fussing about and preventing the travellers from getting out of the chaise by his antics.  “What a happy day for me!  Oh, what am I to do now?  Ivan Ivanitch!  Father Christopher!  What a pretty little gentleman sitting on the box, God strike me dead!  Oh, my goodness! why am I standing here instead of asking the visitors indoors?  Please walk in, I humbly beg you. . . .  You are kindly welcome!  Give me all your things. . . .  Oh, my goodness me!”

Moisey Moisevitch, who was rummaging in the chaise and assisting the travellers to alight, suddenly turned back and shouted in a voice as frantic and choking as though he were drowning and calling for help: 

“Solomon!  Solomon!”

“Solomon!  Solomon!” a woman’s voice repeated indoors.

The swing-door creaked, and in the doorway appeared a rather short young Jew with a big beak-like nose, with a bald patch surrounded by rough red curly hair; he was dressed in a short and very shabby reefer jacket, with rounded lappets and short sleeves, and in short serge trousers, so that he looked skimpy and short-tailed like an unfledged bird.  This was Solomon, the brother of Moisey Moisevitch.  He went up to the chaise, smiling rather queerly, and did not speak or greet the travellers.