There was no entry at No. 46; the door opened straight into the kitchen.  As a rule the dwellings of workmen and mechanics smell of varnish, tar, hides, smoke, according to the occupation of the tenant; the dwellings of persons of noble or official class who have come to poverty may be known by a peculiar rancid, sour smell.  This disgusting smell enveloped Anna Akimovna on all sides, and as yet she was only on the threshold.  A man in a black coat, no doubt Tchalikov himself, was sitting in a corner at the table with his back to the door, and with him were five little girls.  The eldest, a broad-faced thin girl with a comb in her hair, looked about fifteen, while the youngest, a chubby child with hair that stood up like a hedge-hog, was not more than three.  All the six were eating.  Near the stove stood a very thin little woman with a yellow face, far gone in pregnancy.  She was wearing a skirt and a white blouse, and had an oven fork in her hand.

“I did not expect you to be so disobedient, Liza,” the man was saying reproachfully.  “Fie, fie, for shame!  Do you want papa to whip you—­eh?”

Seeing an unknown lady in the doorway, the thin woman started, and put down the fork.

“Vassily Nikititch!” she cried, after a pause, in a hollow voice, as though she could not believe her eyes.

The man looked round and jumped up.  He was a flat-chested, bony man with narrow shoulders and sunken temples.  His eyes were small and hollow with dark rings round them, he had a wide mouth, and a long nose like a bird’s beak—­a little bit bent to the right.  His beard was parted in the middle, his moustache was shaven, and this made him look more like a hired footman than a government clerk.

“Does Mr. Tchalikov live here?” asked Anna Akimovna.

“Yes, madam,” Tchalikov answered severely, but immediately recognizing Anna Akimovna, he cried:  “Anna Akimovna!” and all at once he gasped and clasped his hands as though in terrible alarm.  “Benefactress!”

With a moan he ran to her, grunting inarticulately as though he were paralyzed—­there was cabbage on his beard and he smelt of vodka—­pressed his forehead to her muff, and seemed as though he were in a swoon.

“Your hand, your holy hand!” he brought out breathlessly.  “It’s a dream, a glorious dream!  Children, awaken me!”

He turned towards the table and said in a sobbing voice, shaking his fists: 

“Providence has heard us!  Our saviour, our angel, has come!  We are saved!  Children, down on your knees! on your knees!”

Madame Tchalikov and the little girls, except the youngest one, began for some reason rapidly clearing the table.

“You wrote that your wife was very ill,” said Anna Akimovna, and she felt ashamed and annoyed.  “I am not going to give them the fifteen hundred,” she thought.

“Here she is, my wife,” said Tchalikov in a thin feminine voice, as though his tears had gone to his head.  “Here she is, unhappy creature!  With one foot in the grave!  But we do not complain, madam.  Better death than such a life.  Better die, unhappy woman!”