Текст книги "Dead Souls"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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"Really," the lady landowner replied, "I'm so inexperienced, what with being a widow and all! I'd better take a little time, maybe merchants will come by, I'll check on the prices."

"For shame, for shame, dearie! simply for shame! Think what you are saying! Who is going to buy them? What use could they possibly be to anyone?"

"Maybe they'd somehow come in handy around the house on occasion . . . ," the old woman objected and, not finishing what she was saying, opened her mouth and looked at him almost in fear, wishing to know what he would say to that.

"Dead people around the house! Eh, that's going a bit far! Maybe just to frighten sparrows in your kitchen garden at night or something?"

"Saints preserve us! What horrors you come out with!" the old woman said, crossing herself.

"Where else would you like to stick them? No, anyhow, the bones and graves—all that stays with you, the transfer is only on paper. So, what do you say? How about it? Answer me at least."

The old woman again fell to thinking.

"What are you thinking about, Nastasya Petrovna?"

"Really, I still can't settle on what to do; I'd better sell you the hemp."

"What's all this hemp? For pity's sake, I ask you about something totally different, and you shove your hemp at me! Hemp's hemp, the next time I come, I'll take the hemp as well. So, how about it, Nastasya Petrovna?"

"By God, it's such queer goods, quite unprecedented!"

Here Chichikov went completely beyond the bounds of all patience, banged his chair on the floor in aggravation, and wished the devil on her.

Of the devil the lady landowner was extraordinarily frightened.

"Oh, don't remind me of that one, God help him!" she cried out, turning all pale. "Just two days ago I spent the whole night dreaming about the cursed one. I had a notion to tell my fortune with cards that night after prayers, and God sent him on me as a punishment. Such a nasty one; horns longer than a bull's."

"I'm amazed you don't dream of them by the dozen. It was only Christian loving-kindness that moved me: I saw a poor widow wasting away, suffering want. . . no, go perish and drop dead, you and all your estate! ..."

"Ah, what oaths you're hanging on me!" the old woman said, looking at him in fear.

"But there's no way to talk with you! Really, you're like some– not to use a bad word—some cur lying in the manger: he doesn't eat himself, and won't let others eat. I thought I might buy up various farm products from you, because I also do government contracting ..." Here he was fibbing, though by the way and with no further reflection, but with unexpected success. The government contracting produced a strong effect on Nastasya Petrovna, at least she uttered now, in an almost pleading voice:

"But why all this hot anger? If I'd known before that you were such an angry one, I wouldn't have contradicted you at all."

"What's there to be angry about! The whole affair isn't worth a tinker's dam—as if I'd get angry over it!"

"Well, as you please, I'm prepared to let you have them for fifteen in banknotes! Only mind you, my dear, about those contracts: if you happen to buy up rye flour, or buckwheat flour, or grain, or butchered cattle, please don't leave me out."

"No, dearie, I won't leave you out," he said, all the while wiping off the sweat that was streaming down his face. He inquired whether she had some attorney or acquaintance in town whom she could authorize to draw up the deed and do all that was necessary.

"Of course, our priest, Father Kiril, has a son who serves in the treasury," said Korobochka.

Chichikov asked her to write a warrant for him, and, to save her needless trouble, even volunteered to write it himself.

"It would be nice," Korobochka meanwhile thought to herself, "if he'd start buying my flour and meat for the government. I must coax him: there's still some batter left from yesterday, I'll go and tell Fetinya to make some pancakes; it would also be nice to do up a short-crust pie with eggs, my cook does them so well, and it takes no time at all." The mistress went to carry out her thought concerning the doing-up of a pie, and probably to expand it with other productions of domestic bakery and cookery; and Chichikov went to the drawing room where he had spent the night, to get the necessary papers from his chest. In the drawing room everything had long since been tidied up, the sumptuous feather bed had been taken out, and a set table stood in front of the sofa. Having placed the chest on it, he rested briefly, for he felt he was all in a sweat, as if in a river: everything he had on, from his shirt down to his stockings, everything was wet. "She really wore me out, the damned hag!" he said, after resting a little, and he unlocked the chest. The author is sure that there are such curious readers as would even like to know the plan and internal arrangement of the chest. Very well, why not satisfy them! Here, then, is the internal arrangement: right in the middle a soap box, next to the soap box six or seven narrow partitions for razors; then square nooks for a sandbox and an ink bottle, with a hollowed-out little boat for pens, sealing wax, and everything of a longer sort; then various compartments with or without lids for things that were shorter, filled with calling cards, funeral announcements, theater tickets, and the like, stored away as mementos. The whole upper box with all its little partitions was removable, and under it was a space occupied by stacks of writing paper; then came a secret little drawer for money, which slid out inconspicuously from the side of the chest. It was always so quickly pulled open and pushed shut in the same instant by its owner that it was impossible to tell for certain how much money was in it. Chichikov got down to business at once and, having sharpened his pen, began to write. At that moment the mistress came in.

"A nice box you've got there, my dear," she said, sitting herself down next to him. "I expect you bought it in Moscow?"

"Yes, Moscow," Chichikov replied, continuing to write.

"I knew it: always good workmanship there. Two years ago my sister brought some warm children's boots from there: such sturdy goods, they're still wearing them. Oh, look at all the stamped paper you've got here!" she went on, peeking into his chest. And there was indeed no small amount of stamped paper there. "You ought to give me one sheet at least! I'm so short of it; if a petition happens to need filing in court, there's nothing to write it on."

Chichikov explained to her that this was the wrong kind of paper, that it was for drawing up deeds, not for petitions. However, to quiet her down he gave her some sheet worth a rouble. Having written the letter, he gave it to her to sign and asked for a little list of the muzhiks. It turned out that the lady landowner did not keep any records or lists, but knew almost everyone by heart; he straightaway had her dictate them to him. Some of the peasants amazed him a bit with their last names, and still more with their nicknames, so that each time, on hearing one, he would pause first and only then begin to write. He was especially struck by a certain Pyotr Saveliev Disrespect-Trough, so that he could not help saying: "My, that's a long one!" Another had "Cow's Brick" hitched to his name, still another turned out to be simply: Wheel, Ivan. As he finished writing, he drew in air slightly through his nose and sensed the enticing smell of something hot in butter.

"I humbly invite you to have a bite to eat," said the mistress.

Chichikov turned around and saw the table already laden with mushrooms, pirozhki, savory dumplings, cheesecakes, pancakes thick and thin, open pies with all kinds of fillings: onion filling, poppy seed filling, cottage cheese filling, smelt filling, and who knows what else.

"Short-crust pie with eggs!" said the mistress.

Chichikov moved closer to the short-crust pie with eggs and, having straightaway eaten slightly more than half of it, praised it. And in fact the pie was tasty in itself, but after all the fussing and tricks with the old woman it seemed tastier still.

"And some pancakes?" said the mistress.

In response to which, Chichikov rolled three pancakes up together, dipped them in melted butter, sent them into his mouth, and wiped his fingers with a napkin. After repeating this three times or so, he asked the mistress to order his britzka harnessed. Nastasya Petrovna straightaway sent Fetinya, at the same time ordering her to bring more hot pancakes.

"Your pancakes, dearie, are very tasty," said Chichikov, going for the hot ones just brought in.

"Yes, my cook makes them well," said the mistress, "but the trouble is that the harvest was bad, and the flour turned out so uncommendable . . . But, my dear, why are you in such a rush?" she said, seeing that Chichikov had taken his peaked cap in his hand, "the britzka hasn't been harnessed yet."

"They'll harness it, dearie, they'll harness it. We harness fast."

"So, now, please don't forget about the contracts."

"I won't forget, I won't forget," Chichikov said as he went out to the front hall.

"And do you buy lard?" the mistress said, following after him.

"Why shouldn't I? I'll buy it, only later."

"Around Christmastide I'll have lard."

"We'll buy it, we'll buy it, we'll buy everything, we'll buy the lard, too."

"Maybe you'll need bird feathers. I'll have bird feathers by St. Philip's fast." [8]8
  The six-week Advent fast leading up to Christmas is sometimes called St. Philip's fast, because it begins on the day after the saint's feast day (November 14).


[Закрыть]

"Very good, very good," said Chichikov.

"There, you see, my dear, your britzka still isn't ready," the mistress said, when they came out to the porch.

"It will be, it will be. Only tell me how to get to the main road."

"How shall I do that?" said the mistress. "It's hard to explain, there's a lot of turns; unless I give you a young girl to take you there. I expect you've got room on the box where she could sit."

"Sure thing."

"Why don't I give you a girl then; she knows the way—only watch out! don't carry her off, one of mine already got carried off by some merchants."

Chichikov promised her that he would not carry the girl off, and Korobochka, reassured, started inspecting everything that was in her yard; she fixed her eyes on the housekeeper, who was carrying a wooden stoup full of honey from the larder, on a muzhik who appeared in the gateway, and gradually settled herself back wholly into her life of management. But why occupy ourselves for so long with Korobochka? Mrs. Korobochka, Mrs. Manilov, the life of management, or of non-management—pass them by! Otherwise—marvelous is the world's makeup—the merry will turn melancholy in a trice, if you stand a long time before it, and then God knows what may enter your head. Perhaps you will even start thinking: come now, does Korobochka indeed stand so low on the endless ladder of human perfection? Is there indeed so great an abyss separating her from her sister, inaccessibly fenced off behind the walls of her aristocratic house with its fragrant cast-iron stairways, shining brass, mahogany and carpets, who yawns over an unfinished book while waiting for a witty society visit, which will give her a field on which to display her sparkling intelligence and pronounce thoughts learned by rote, thoughts which, following the law of fashion, occupy the town for a whole week, thoughts not of what is going on in her house or on her estates, confused and disorderly thanks to her ignorance of management, but of what political upheaval is brewing in France, of what direction fashionable Catholicism has taken. But pass by, pass by! why talk of that? But why, then, in the midst of unthinking, merry, carefree moments does another wondrous stream rush by of itself: the laughter has not yet had time to leave your face completely, yet you are already different among the same people and your face is already lit by a different light. . .

"Ah, here's the britzka, here's the britzka!" Chichikov cried out, seeing his britzka drive up at last. "You dolt, what have you been pottering with so long? It must be your yesterday's vapors haven't aired out yet."

To this Selifan made no reply.

"Good-bye, dearie! And, say, where's your girl?"

"Hey, Pelageya!" the lady landowner said to a girl of about eleven who was standing by the porch, in a dress of homespun blue linen and with bare legs which from a distance might have been taken for boots, so caked they were with fresh mud. "Show the master the road."

Selifan helped the girl climb up on the box, who, placing one foot on the master's step, first dirtied it with mud, and only then clambered to the top and settled herself beside him. After her, Chichikov himself placed his foot on the step and, tilting the britzka on the right side, because he was a bit of a load, finally settled himself, saying:

"Ah! that's good now! Bye-bye, dearie!"

The horses started off.

Selifan was stern all the way and at the same time very attentive to his business, which always happened with him either after he had been found at fault in something, or after he had been been drunk. The horses were surprisingly well-groomed. The collar of one of them, hitherto always torn, so that the oakum kept coming out from under the leather, had been skillfully stitched up. He kept silent all the way, only cracking his whip, and not addressing any edifying speeches to his horses, though the dapple-gray would, of course, have liked to hear something admonitory, because at such times the reins lay somehow lazily in the loquacious driver's hands, and the whip wandered over their backs only for the sake of form. But this time from the sullen lips there came only monotonously unpleasant exclamations: "Come on, come on, mooncalf ! wake up! wake up!" and nothing more. Even the bay and Assessor were displeased, not once hearing either "my gentles" or "honored friends." The dapple-gray felt most disagreeable strokes on his broad and full parts. "Just look how he's got himself going!" he thought, twitching his ears slightly. "Don't worry, he knows where to hit! He won't whip right on the back, he goes and chooses a tenderer spot: catches the ears, or flicks you under the belly."

"To the right, is it?" With this dry question Selifan turned to the girl sitting next to him, and pointed with his whip to a rain-blackened road between bright green, freshened fields.

"No, no, I'll show you," the girl replied.

"Where, then?" said Selifan, when they came nearer.

"There's where," replied the girl, pointing with her hand.

"Eh, you!" said Selifan. "But that is to the right: she doesn't know right from left!"

Although the day was very fine, the earth had turned so much to mud that the wheels of the britzka, picking it up, soon became covered with it as with thick felt, which made the carriage considerably heavier; besides, the soil was clayey and extraordinarily tenacious. The one and the other were the reason why they could not get off the back roads before noon. Without the girl it would have been hard to do even that, because the roads went crawling in all directions like caught crayfish dumped out of a sack, and Selifan would have rambled about through no fault of his own.

Soon the girl pointed her hand at a building blackening in the distance, saying:

"There's the high road."

"And the building?" asked Selifan.

"A tavern," said the girl.

"Well, now we can get along by ourselves," said Selifan, "so home you go."

He stopped and helped her get down, saying through his teeth: "Ugh, you blacklegs!"

Chichikov gave her a copper, and she trudged off homewards, pleased enough that she had gotten to ride on the box.

Chapter Four

Driving up to the tavern, Chichikov ordered a stop for two reasons. On the one hand, so that the horses could rest, and on the other hand, so that he could have a little snack and fortify himself. The author must admit that he is quite envious of the appetite and stomach of this sort of people. To him those gentlemen of the grand sort mean decidedly nothing, who live in Petersburg or Moscow, spend their time pondering what they would like to eat the next day and what dinner to devise for the day after, and who will not partake of that dinner without first sending a pill into their mouths; who swallow oysters, sea spiders, and other marvels, and then set off for Karlsbad or the Caucasus. [9]9
  Karlsbad (Karlovy Vary), close to the German border in what is now the Czech Republic, is known for its salutary hot springs. The Caucasus also has hot springs, mineral waters, and mountain air.


[Закрыть]No, those gentlemen have never aroused envy in him. But gentlemen of the middling sort, those who order ham at one station, suckling pig at another, a hunk of sturgeon or some baked sausage with onions at a third, and then sit down to table as if nothing had happened, whenever you like, and a sterlet soup with burbot and soft roe hisses and gurgles between their teeth, accompanied by a tart or pie with catfish tails, so that even a vicarious appetite is piqued– now, these gentlemen indeed enjoy an enviable gift from heaven! More than one gentleman of the grand sort would instantly sacrifice half of his peasant souls and half of his estates, mortgaged and unmortgaged, with all improvements on a foreign or Russian footing, only so as to have a stomach such as a gentleman of the middling sort has; but the trouble is that no amount of money, no estates with or without improvements, can buy such a stomach as the gentleman of the middling sort happens to have.

The weathered wooden tavern received Chichikov under its narrow, hospitable porch roof on turned wooden posts, resembling old church candlestands. The tavern was rather like a Russian peasant cottage, on a somewhat bigger scale. Carved lacy cornices of fresh wood around the windows and under the eaves stood out in sharp and vivid patches against its dark walls; pots of flowers were painted on the shutters.

Having gone up the narrow wooden steps into the wide front hall, he met a door creaking open and a fat old woman in motley chintzes, who said: "This way, please!" Inside he found all the old friends that everyone finds in little wooden taverns, such as have been built in no small number along the roadsides—namely: a hoary samovar, smoothly scrubbed pinewood walls, a triangular corner cupboard with teapots and cups, gilded porcelain Easter eggs hanging on blue and red ribbons in front of icons, a recently littered cat, a mirror that reflected four eyes instead of two and some sort of pancake instead of a face; finally, bunches of aromatic herbs and cloves stuck around the icons, dried up to such a degree that whoever tried to smell them only sneezed and nothing more.

"Do you have suckling pig?" With this question Chichikov turned to the woman standing there.

"We do."

"With horseradish and sour cream?"

"With horseradish and sour cream."

"Bring it here."

The old woman went poking about and brought a plate, a napkin so starched that it stuck out like dry bark, then a knife, thin-bladed as a penknife, with a yellowed bone handle, a fork with two prongs, and a saltcellar that simply would not stand upright on the table.

Our hero, as usual, entered into conversation with her at once and inquired whether she kept the tavern herself, or was there a proprietor, and how much income it brought, and whether their sons lived with them, and was the eldest son a bachelor or a married man, and what sort of wife he had taken, with a big dowry or not, and was the father-in-law pleased, and was he not angry that he had received too few presents at the wedding—in short, he skipped nothing. It goes without saying that he was curious to find out what landowners there were in the vicinity, and found out that there were all sorts of landowners: Blokhin, Pochitaev, Mylnoy, Cheprakov the colonel, Sobakevich. "Ah! You know Sobakevich?" he asked, and straightaway heard that the old woman knew not only Sobakevich, but also Manilov, and that Manilov was a bit more refeened than Sobakevich: he orders a chicken boiled at once, and also asks for veal; if there is lamb's liver, he also asks for lamb's liver, and just tries a little of everything, while Sobakevich asks for some one thing, but then eats all of it, and will even demand seconds for the same price.

As he was talking in this way, and dining on suckling pig, of which only one last piece now remained, there came a rattle of wheels from a carriage driving up. Peeking out the window, he saw a light britzka, harnessed to a troika of fine horses, standing in front of the tavern. Two men were getting out of it. One was tall and fair-haired, the other a little shorter and dark-haired. The fair-haired one was wearing a navy blue Hungarian jacket, the dark-haired one simply a striped quilted smock. In the distance another wretched carriage was dragging along, empty, drawn by a four-in-hand of shaggy horses with torn collars and rope harness. The fair-haired one went up the steps at once, while the dark-haired one stayed behind and felt around for something in the britzka, talking all the while with a servant and at the same time waving to the carriage coming after them. His voice seemed to Chichikov as if it were slightly familiar. While he was studying him, the fair-haired one had already managed to feel his way to the door and open it. He was a tall man with a lean, or what is known as wasted, face, and a red little mustache. From his tanned face one could deduce that he knew what smoke was—if not of the battlefield, then at least of tobacco. He bowed politely to Chichikov, to which the latter responded in kind. In the course of a few minutes they would probably have struck up a conversation and come to know each other well, because a start had already been made, and almost at one and the same time they had expressed their satisfaction that the dust of the road had been completely laid by yesterday's rain and the driving was now both cool and agreeable, when his dark-haired comrade entered, flinging his peaked cap from his head onto the table, and dashingly ruffling his thick black hair. Of average height and rather well-built, he was a dashing fellow with full, ruddy cheeks, teeth white as snow, and whiskers black as pitch. He was fresh as milk and roses; health, it seemed, was simply bursting from his face.

"Aha!" he cried out suddenly, spreading both arms at the sight of Chichikov. "What brings you here?"

Chichikov recognized Nozdryov, the very one with whom he had dined at the prosecutor's and who within a few minutes had got on such an intimate footing with him that he had even begun to address him familiarly, though, incidentally, he had given no occasion for it on his side.

"Where have you been?" Nozdryov said, going on without waiting for an answer: "And I, brother, am coming from the fair. Congratulate me, I blew my whole wad! Would you believe it, never in my life have I blown so much. I even drove here with hired horses! Here, look out the window on purpose!" Whereupon he bent Chichikov's head down himself so that he almost bumped it against the window frame. "See, what trash! They barely dragged themselves here, curse them; I had to climb into his britzka." As he said this, Nozdryov pointed his finger at his comrade. "And you're not acquainted yet? My in-law, Mizhuev! We've been talking about you all morning. 'Well, just watch,' I said, 'we're going to run into Chichikov.' Well, brother, if only you knew how much I blew! Would you believe it, I didn't just dump my four trotters—everything went. There's neither chain nor watch left on me ..." Chichikov glanced and saw that there was indeed neither chain nor watch left on him. It even seemed to him that his side-whiskers on one side were smaller and not as thick as on the other. "If only I had just twenty roubles in my pocket," Nozdryov went on, "precisely no more than twenty, I'd get everything back, I mean, on top of getting everything back, as I'm an honest man, I'd put thirty thousand in my wallet straight off."

"You were saying the same thing then, however," the fairhaired one responded, "but when I gave you fifty roubles, you lost it at once."

"I wouldn't have lost it! By God, I wouldn't have lost it! If I hadn't done a stupid thing myself, I really wouldn't have lost it. If I hadn't bluffed on that cursed seven after the paroli, I could have broken the bank."

"You didn't break it, however," said the fair-haired one.

"I didn't because I bluffed at the wrong time. And you think your major is a good player?"

"Good or not, however, he beat you."

"Eh, who cares!" said Nozdryov. "I could beat him, too, that way! No, let him try doubling, then I'll see, then I'll see what kind of player he is! But still, brother Chichikov, how we caroused those first days! True, the fair was an excellent one. The merchants themselves said there had never been such a gathering. Everything we brought from my estate was sold at the most profitable price. Eh, brother, how we caroused! Even now, when I remember . . . devil take it! I mean, what a pity you weren't there. Imagine, a dragoon regiment was stationed two miles from town. Would you believe it, the officers, all there were of them, forty men just of officers alone, came to town; and, brother, how we started drinking . . . Staff Captain Potseluev . . . what a nice one he is! a mustache, brother, like this! Bordeaux he calls simply brewdeaux. 'Bring us some of that brewdeaux, brother!' he says. Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov. . . Ah, brother, what a sweetheart! Him, now, him we can call a carouser by all the rules. We were always together. What wine Ponomaryov brought out for us! You should know that he's a crook and one oughtn't to buy anything in his shop: he mixes all sorts of trash with his wine—sandalwood, burnt cork, he even rubs red elderberry into it, the scoundrel; but to make up for that, if he does go and fetch some bottle from his far-off little room, the special room, he calls it– well, brother, then you're simply in the empyrean. We had such a champagne—what's the governor's next to that? mere kvass. Imagine, not clicquot, but some sort of clicquot-matradura, meaning double clicquot. [10]10
  Clicquot is the name of one of the finest champagnes. Nozdryov uses it in lowercase as an adjective, and combines it superlatively but absurdly with matradura,the name of an old Russian dance. Plebeian kvass is made from fermented rye bread and malt.


[Закрыть]And he also brought out one little bottle of a French wine called 'bonbon.' Bouquet?—rosebuds and whatever else you like. Oh, did we carouse! . . . After us some prince arrived, sent to a shop for champagne, there wasn't a bottle left in the whole town, the officers drank it all. Would you believe it, I alone, in the course of one dinner, drank seventeen bottles of champagne!"

"No, you couldn't drink seventeen bottles," observed the fair-haired one.

"As I'm an honest man, I say I did," replied Nozdryov.

"You can say whatever you like, but I'm telling you that you couldn't drink even ten."

"Well, let's make a bet on it!"

"Why bet on it?"

"Well, then stake that gun you bought in town."

"I don't want to."

"Well, go on, chance it!"

"I don't want to chance it."

"Right, you'd be without a gun, just as you're without a hat. Eh, brother Chichikov, I mean, how sorry I was that you weren't there. I know you'd never part from Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov. How well you'd get along together! A far cry from the prosecutor and all the provincial skinflints in our town, who tremble over every kopeck. That one, brother, will sit down to quinze, or faro, or anything you like. Eh, Chichikov, would it have cost you so much to come? Really, aren't you a little pig after that, you cattle breeder! Kiss me, dear heart, on my life I do love you! Mizhuev, look how fate has brought us together: what is he to me or I to him? He came from God knows where, and I also live here . . . And there were so many carriages, brother, and all that en gros.I spun the wheel of fortune: won two jars of pomade, a porcelain cup, and a guitar; then I staked again, spun it, and lost, confound it, six roubles on top of that. And what a philanderer Kuvshinnikov is, if you only knew! He and I went to nearly all the balls. There was one girl there so decked out, all ruche and truche and devil knows what not... I just thought to myself: 'Devil take it!' But Kuvshinnikov, I mean, he's such a rascal, he sat himself down next to her and started getting at her with all these compliments in the French language . . . Would you believe it, he didn't pass by the simple wenches either. That's what he calls 'going strawberrying.' And the abundance of wonderful fish and balyks! [11]11
  balykis made from a special dorsal section of flesh running the entire length of a salmon or sturgeon, which is removed in one piece and either salted or smoked. It is especially fancied in Russia.


[Закрыть] I brought one with me; it's a good thing I thought of buying it while I still had money. Where are you going now?"

"Oh, to see a certain little fellow."

"Well, forget your little fellow! let's go to my place!"

"No, I can't, it's to close a deal."

"Well, so it's a deal now! What else will you think up! Ah, you Opodealdoc Ivanovich!" [12]12
  Opodeldoc (originally oppodeltoch)was the name given by the Swiss alchemist and physician Theophrastus Bombastus von Ho-henheim, known as Paracelsus (1493—1541), to various medicinal plasters; it is now applied to soap liniments mixed with alcohol and camphor. Nozdryov applies it to Chichikov in a far-fetched pun on delo,the Russian word for "deal." Hence our spelling.


[Закрыть]

"A deal, yes, and quite an important one at that."

"I bet you're lying! Well, so tell me, who are you going to see?"

"Well, it's Sobakevich."

Here Nozdryov guffawed with that ringing laughter into which only a fresh, healthy man can dissolve, showing all his teeth, white as sugar, to the last one; his cheeks quiver and shake, and his neighbor, two doors away, in the third room, jumps up from his sleep, goggling his eyes, and saying: "Eh, how he carries on!"

"What's so funny?" said Chichikov, somewhat displeased by this laughter.

But Nozdryov went on guffawing at the top of his lungs, all the while saying:

"Oh, spare me, really, I'll split my sides!"

"There's nothing funny: I gave him my word," said Chichikov.

"But you'll be sorry you were ever born when you get there, he's a real jew-eater! I know your character, you'll be cruelly disconcerted if you hope to find a little game of faro there and a good bottle of some bonbon. Listen, brother: to the devil with Sobakevich, let's go to my place! I'll treat you to such a balyk!Ponomaryov, that rascal, was bowing and scraping so: 'For you alone,' he said. 'Go look around the whole fair, you won't find another like it.' A terrible rogue, though. I told him so to his face: 'You and our tax farmer,' I said, 'are top-notch crooks!' He laughed, the rascal, stroking his beard. Kuvshinnikov and I had lunch in his shop every day. Ah, brother, I forgot to tell you: I know you won't leave me alone now, but I won't let you have it even for ten thousand, I'm telling you beforehand. Hey, Porfiry!" Going to the window, he shouted to his man, who was holding a knife in one hand and in the other a crust of bread and a piece of balyk,which he had luckily cut off in passing as he was getting something from the britzka. "Hey, Porfiry," Nozdryov shouted, "go and fetch the puppy! What a puppy!" he went on, turning to Chichikov. "A stolen one, the owner wouldn't have parted with it even for my own head. I offered him the chestnut mare, remember, the one I took in trade from Khvostyrev ..." Chichikov, however, had never in his born days seen either the chestnut mare or Khvostyrev.