In 1834, St. Petersburg was like a poetry collection frozen in ice, and the brass ring on the oak door of the British Club glinted coldly in the twilight.
Arthur Hastings stood by the carved porch, leaning against a velvet chair, pinching his chin and scrutinizing Gogol from behind as he scribbled on a new play while curled up in a high-backed Cossack chair. Occasionally, he would interject with a few remarks, mimicking the tone of Druiysk officials to suggest revisions to Gogol.
As for Gogol, although he was not pleased with this British gentleman's incessant chatter, he tolerated it for the sake of his captivating stories.
