"Vanya!" shouted a small man, dressed in German fashion, who was
engaged in placing something in a cupboard behind the counter; this
was the landlord of the tavern, a Kaluga peasant, Ivan Fedotitch, who
hired one-half of the Zimins' houses and sublet them to lodgers. The
waiter, a thin, hooked-nosed young fellow of eighteen, with a yellow
complexion, hastened up.

"Conduct this gentleman to the census-takers; they went into the main
building over the well." The young fellow threw down his napkin, and
donned a coat over his white jacket and white trousers, and a cap
with a large visor, and, tripping quickly along with his white feet,
he led me through the swinging door in the rear. In the dirty,
malodorous kitchen, in the out-building, we encountered an old woman
who was carefully carrying some very bad-smelling tripe, wrapped in a
rag, off somewhere. From the out-building we descended into a
sloping court-yard, all encumbered with small wooden buildings on
lower stories of stone. The odor in this whole yard was extremely
powerful. The centre of this odor was an out-house, round which
people were thronging whenever I passed it. It merely indicated the
spot, but was not altogether used itself. It was impossible, when
passing through the yard, not to take note of this spot; one always
felt oppressed when one entered the penetrating atmosphere which was
emitted by this foul smell.

The waiter, carefully guarding his white trousers, led me cautiously
past this place of frozen and unfrozen uncleanness to one of the
buildings. The people who were passing through the yard and along
the balconies all stopped to stare at me. It was evident that a
respectably dressed man was a curiosity in these localities.