Текст книги "Dead Souls"
Автор книги: Николай Гоголь
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"Why uncertainty?" said Nozdryov. "None whatsoever! If only luck is on your side, you can win a devil of a lot! Look at that! What luck!" he said, starting to slap down cards so as to egg him on. "What luck! what luck! there: it keeps hitting! There's that damned nine I blew everything on! I felt it was going to sell me out, but then I shut my eyes and thought to myself: 'Devil take you, sell me out and be damned!'"
As Nozdryov was saying this, Porfiry brought in a bottle. But Chichikov refused decidedly either to play or to drink.
"Why don't you want to play?" said Nozdryov.
"Well, because I'm not disposed to. And, truth to tell, I'm not at all an avid gambler."
"Why not?"
Chichikov shrugged his shoulders and added:
"Because I'm not."
"Trash is what you are!"
"No help for it. God made me this way."
"Simply a foozle. I used to think you were at least a somewhat decent man, but you have no notion of manners. It's impossible to talk with you like someone close ... no straightforwardness, no sincerity! a perfect Sobakevich, a real scoundrel!"
"But what are you abusing me for? Am I to blame for not gambling? Sell me just the souls, if you're the sort of man who trembles over such nonsense."
"The hairy devil is what you'll get! I was going to, I was just going to make you a gift of them, but now you won't get them! Not even for three kingdoms would I give them to you. You're a cheat, you vile chimney sweep! From now on I don't want to have anything to do with you. Porfiry, go and tell the stable boy not to give any oats to his horses, let them eat only hay."
This last conclusion Chichikov had not expected at all.
"You'd better simply not show your face to me!" said Nozdryov.
In spite of this falling out, however, guest and host had supper together, though this time no wines with fanciful names stood on the table. There was just one bottle sticking up, containing some sort of Cyprian wine which was what is known as sourness in all respects. After supper, Nozdryov, leading Chichikov to a side room where a bed had been prepared for him, said:
"There's your bed! I don't even want to wish you good night!"
Chichikov remained after Nozdryov's departure in a most unpleasant state of mind. He was inwardly vexed with himself, scolded himself for having come to him and lost time for nothing. But he scolded himself even more for having talked with him about business, for having acted imprudently, like a child, like a fool: for the business was not at all the sort to be entrusted to Nozdryov . . . Nozdryov was trash, Nozdryov could tell a pack of lies, add on, spread the devil knows what, gossip might come of it—not good, not good. "I'm simply a fool," he kept saying to himself. That night he slept very badly. Some small, most lively insects kept biting him unbearably painfully, so that he raked at the wounded spot with all five fingers, repeating: "Ah, the devil take you along with Nozdryov!" He woke up early in the morning. The first thing he did after putting on his dressing gown and boots was go across the yard to the stables and order Selifan to harness the britzka at once. Coming back across the yard, he met with Nozdryov, who was also in his dressing gown, a pipe clenched in his teeth.
Nozdryov greeted him amiably and asked how he had slept.
"So-so," Chichikov replied rather dryly.
"And I, brother," said Nozdryov, "kept dreaming about such vileness all night, it's disgusting to speak of it, and after yesterday it feels as if a squadron spent the night in my mouth. Just fancy: I dreamed I got a whipping, by gosh! and imagine who from? You'll never guess: Staff Captain Potseluev and Kuvshinnikov."
"Yes," Chichikov thought to himself, "it would be nice if you got a thrashing in reality."
"By God! and a most painful one! I woke up: devil take it, something's itching for a fact—must be these cursed fleas. Well, you go and get dressed now, I'll come to you at once. I've only got to yell at that scoundrel of a steward."
Chichikov went to his room to dress and wash. When he came out to the dining room after that, a tea service and a bottle of rum were already standing on the table. The room bore traces of yesterday's dinner and supper; it seemed not to have been touched by a broom. The floor was strewn with bread crumbs, and tobacco ashes could even be seen on the tablecloth. The host himself, who was not slow to come in, had nothing under his dressing gown except a bare chest on which some sort of beard was growing. Holding a chibouk in his hand and sipping from a cup, he was a fine subject for a painter with a terrible dislike of sleek and curled gentlemen who look like barbers' signboards, or those with shaved necks.
"Well, what do you think?" Nozdryov said, after a short silence. "You don't want to play for the souls?"
"I've already told you, brother, I don't gamble; as for buying– I will if you like."
"I don't want to sell, it wouldn't be friendly. I'm not going to skim from the devil knows what. But faro—that's another thing. Just once through the deck!"
"I already told you no."
"And you don't want to trade?"
"I don't."
"Well, listen, let's play checkers—if you win, they're all yours. I do have a lot that ought to be crossed off the lists. Hey, Porfiry, bring us the checkerboard."
"Wasted effort, I won't play."
"But this isn't faro; there can't be any luck or bluffing here: it's all art; I'm even warning you that I can't play at all, unless you give me some kind of handicap."
"Why not sit down and play checkers with him!" Chichikov thought. "I used to be not so bad at checkers, and it will be hard for him to pull any tricks here."
"If you like, so be it, I'll play checkers."
"The souls against a hundred roubles."
"Why so much? Fifty's enough."
"No, what kind of stake is fifty? Better let me throw in some puppy of a middling sort or a gold seal for a watch for the same money."
"Well, if you like!" said Chichikov.
"How much of a handicap are you giving me?" said Nozdryov.
"Why on earth? Nothing, of course."
"At least let me have the first two moves."
"I will not, I'm a poor player myself."
"We know what a poor player you are!" said Nozdryov, advancing a piece.
"I haven't touched checkers in a long time!" said Chichikov, also moving a piece.
"We know what a poor player you are!" said Nozdryov, advancing a piece.
"I haven't touched checkers in a long time!" said Chichikov, moving a piece.
"We know what a poor player you are!" said Nozdryov, moving a piece, and at the same time moving another piece with the cuff of his sleeve.
"I haven't touched checkers in a long . . . Hey, hey, what's this, brother? Put that one back!" said Chichikov.
"Which one?"
"That piece there," said Chichikov, and just then he saw almost under his very nose another piece that seemed to be sneaking towards being kinged; where it had come from God only knew. "No," said Chichikov, getting up from the table, "it's absolutely impossible to play with you! You can't move like that, three pieces at a time!"
"What do you mean three? It was a mistake. One got moved by accident, I'll move it back if you like."
"And the other one came from where?"
"Which other one?"
"This one that's sneaking towards being kinged?"
"Come now, as if you don't remember!"
"No, brother, I counted all the moves and remember everything; you stuck it in there just now. It belongs here!"
"What, where does it belong?" Nozdryov said, flushing. "Ah, yes, brother, I see you're an inventor!"
"No, brother, it seems you are the inventor, only not a very successful one."
"What do you take me for?" said Nozdryov. "Would I go and cheat?"
"I don't take you for anything, I'll just never play with you from now on."
"No, you can't refuse," Nozdryov said, getting excited, "the game's begun!"
"I have the right to refuse, because you're not playing as befits an honest man."
"No, you're lying, you can't say that!"
"No, brother, it's you who are lying!"
"I wasn't cheating, and you can't refuse, you have to finish the game!
"That you will not make me do," Chichikov said coolly, and going over to the board, he mixed up the pieces.
Nozdryov flushed and came up to Chichikov so close that he retreated a couple of steps.
"I'll make you play! Never mind that you've mixed up the pieces, I remember all the moves. We'll put them back the way they were."
"No, brother, the matter's ended, I won't play with you."
"So you don't want to play?"
"You can see for yourself that it's impossible to play with you."
"No, tell me straight out that you don't want to play," Nozdryov said, stepping still closer.
"I don't!" said Chichikov, bringing both hands closer to his face anyhow, just in case, for things were indeed getting heated.
This precaution was quite appropriate, because Nozdryov swung his arm . . . and it might very well have happened that one of our hero's pleasant and plump cheeks was covered in indelible dishonor; but, successfully warding off the blow, he seized Nozdryov by his two eager arms and held him fast.
"Porfiry Pavlushka!" Nozdryov shouted in rage, trying to tear himself free.
Hearing these words, Chichikov, not wishing to have household serfs witness this tempting scene, and at the same time feeling that it was useless to hold Nozdryov, let go of his arms. At the same time, in came Porfiry and with him Pavlushka, a stalwart fellow, to deal with whom would have been altogether unprofitable.
"So you don't want to finish the game?" Nozdryov said. "Answer me straight out!"
"It is impossible to finish the game," Chichikov said and peeked out the window. He saw his britzka standing all ready, and Selifan seemed to be waiting for a sign to drive up to the porch, but it was impossible to get out of the room: in the doorway stood two stalwart bonded fools.
"So you don't want to finish the game?" Nozdryov repeated, his face burning as if it were on fire.
"If you played as befits an honest man. But now I can't."
"Ah! so you can't, scoundrel! You saw the game was going against you, so now you can't! Beat him!" he shouted frenziedly, turning to Porfiry and Pavlushka, and himself seizing hold of his cherrywood chibouk. Chichikov turned pale as a sheet. He wanted to say something, but felt that his lips were moving soundlessly.
"Beat him!" shouted Nozdryov, charging forward with his cherrywood chibouk, all hot and sweaty, as if he were assaulting an impregnable fortress. "Beat him!" he shouted in the same voice in which some desperate lieutenant, during a major assault, shouts "Forward, boys!" to his detachment, his extravagant valor already of such renown that a special order has been issued to hold him by the arms when things get hot. But the lieutenant has already caught the feeling of martial fervor, his head is all in a whirl; Suvorov [17]17
Alexander Suvorov (1729-1800), the greatest Russian general of his time, successfully led Russian forces against the Turks at Iz-mayil, put down the Polish insurrection in 1794, and led the opposition to the French revolutionary armies until he was stopped by Maréchal Masséna at Zurich in 1799.
[Закрыть]hovers before his eyes, he pushes on towards a great deed. "Forward, boys!" he shouts, charging, not thinking of how he is damaging the already worked-out plan for the general assault, of the millions of gun barrels thrust through the embrasures of the fortress walls, impregnable, soaring beyond the clouds, of how his powerless detachment will be blown into the air like swansdown, or of the fatal bullet already whistling and about to slam shut his clamorous gullet. But if Nozdryov himself represented the desperate, lost, fortress-assaulting lieutenant, the fortress he was attacking in no way resembled an impregnable one. On the contrary, the fortress was so afraid that its heart sank right into its shoes. Already the chair with which he had thought to defend himself had been torn from his hands by the serfs, already, with eyes shut, more dead than alive, he was preparing to get a taste of his host's Circassian chibouk, and God knows what was going to happen to him; but it pleased the fates to spare the ribs, the shoulders, and all the polite parts of our hero. Unexpectedly, there suddenly came a clinking, as if from the clouds, a jingling sound of bells, there was a rattle of wheels as a cart flew up to the porch, and even into the room itself came the heavy snorting and heavy breathing from the overheated horses of the stopped troika. Everyone involuntarily glanced at the window: someone, with a mustache, in a half-military frock coat, was getting out of the cart. After making inquiries in the front hall, he entered at the very moment when Chichikov, having not yet managed to collect himself after his fear, was in the most pitiful position a mortal had ever been in.
"May I know which of you here is Mr. Nozdryov?" said the stranger, looking in some perplexity at Nozdryov, who was standing with the chibouk in his hand, and at Chichikov, who was barely beginning to recover from his unprofitable position.
"May I first know to whom I have the honor of speaking?" said Nozdryov, going up closer to him.
"The district captain of police."
"And what would you like?"
"I have come to announce to you the notification which has been communicated to me that you are under arrest until the decision of your case is concluded."
"Nonsense, what case?" said Nozdryov.
"You have been implicated in an episode on the occasion of the inflicting of a personal offense upon the landowner Maximov with birch rods in a drunken state."
"You're lying! I've never laid eyes on any landowner Maximov!" "My dear sir! Allow me to report to you that I am an officer.
You may say that to your servant, but not to me!"
Here Chichikov, without waiting for Nozdryov's response to that, quickly took hat in hand, and behind the police captain's back, slipped out to the porch, got into his britzka, and told Selifan to whip up the horses to full speed.
Chapter Five
Our hero, however, had turned quite properly chicken. Though the britzka was racing along like wildfire, and Nozdryov's estate had long since rushed from sight, covered by fields, slopes, and hummocks, he still kept looking back in fear, as if he expected at any moment to be swooped upon by the pursuit. He had difficulty catching his breath, and when he tried putting his hand to his heart, he felt it fluttering like a quail in a cage. "Eh, what a hot time he gave me! just look at him!" Here all sorts of unholy and strong wishes were vowed upon Nozdryov; occasionally even in not very nice words. No help for it! A Russian man, and in a temper besides! Moreover, it was by no means a laughing matter. "Say what you like," he said to himself, "if the police captain hadn't shown up, I might not have been granted another look at God's world! I'd have vanished like a bubble on water, without a trace, leaving no posterity, providing my future children with neither fortune nor an honest name!" Our hero was very much concerned with his posterity.
"What a bad master!" Selifan was thinking to himself. "I've never yet seen such a master. I mean, spit on him for that! Better not give a man food to eat, but a horse must be fed, because a horse likes oats. It's his victuals: what provender is to us, for instance, oats is to him, it's his victuals."
The horses' notions of Nozdryov also seemed to be unadvantageous: not only the bay and Assessor, but even the dapple-gray was out of spirits. Though it always fell to his lot to get the worst oats, and Selifan never poured them into his trough without first saying: "Eh, you scoundrel!"—still they were oats and not mere hay, he chewed them with pleasure and often shoved his long muzzle into his comrades' troughs to have a taste of what they got for vittles, especially when Selifan was not in the stable, but now just hay—that was not nice; everyone was displeased.
But soon all the displeased were interrupted amid their outpourings in a sudden and quite unexpected way. Everyone, not excluding the coachman himself, recollected and recovered themselves only when a coach and six came galloping down on them and they heard, almost over their heads, the cries of the ladies sitting in the coach, the curses and threats of the other coachman: "Ah, you knave, didn't I shout out to you: keep right, gawker! Are you drunk, or what?" Selifan felt himself at fault, but since a Russian man does not like to admit before another that he is to blame, he at once uttered, assuming a dignified air: "And what are you a-galloping like that for? Pawned your eyes in a pot-house?" After which he started backing the britzka up, so as to free it from the other's harness, but nothing doing, it all got into a tangle. The dapple-gray sniffed curiously at his new friends, who ended up on either side of him. Meanwhile, the ladies sitting in the coach looked at it all with an expression of fear on their faces. One was an old lady, the other a young girl, a sixteen-year-old, with golden hair quite artfully and prettily smoothed back on her small head. Her lovely face was rounded like a fresh egg, and resembled one when, white with a sort of transparent whiteness, fresh, only just laid, it is held up by the housekeeper's dark-skinned hand to be checked in the light and the rays of the shining sun pass through it; her thin little ears were also transparent, aglow with the warm light coming through them. That, and the fright on her parted, motionless lips, and the tears in her eyes—it was all so pretty in her that our hero gazed at her for several minutes, paying no attention to the tumult that was going on among the horses and coachmen. "Back off, will you, you Nizhni-Novgorod gawk!" the other coachman was shouting. Selifan pulled at the reins, the other coachman did the same, the horses backed up a little, then lurched into each other again, having stepped over the traces. In these circumstances, the dapple-gray took such a liking to his new acquaintance that he did not want at all to leave the rut to which the unforeseen fates had brought him, and, resting his muzzle on the neck of his new friend, seemed to be whispering right into his ear, probably some terrible nonsense, because the other horse was ceaselessly twitching his ears.
This commotion managed, however, to attract the muzhiks of a village which, fortunately, was not far away. Since such a spectacle is a real godsend for a muzhik, the same as newspapers or his club for a German, a whole multitude of them soon accumulated around the carriages, and there were only old women and small children left in the village. The traces were undone; a few prods in the dapple-gray's muzzle made him back up; in short, they were separated and drawn apart. But whether from the vexation they felt at being parted from their friends, or from sheer cussedness, however much the coachman whipped them, the other horses would not move and stood as if rooted to the spot. The muzhiks' sympathy increased to an unbelievable degree. They vied with each other in offering advice: "Go, Andryushka, take the outrunner, the one on the right, and Uncle Mityai will get up on the shaft horse! Get up there, Uncle Mityai!" Long and lean Uncle Mityai, with his red beard, climbed onto the shaft horse and came to resemble a village belfry, or, better, the crane used to draw water from a well. The coachman lashed the horses, but nothing doing, Uncle Mityai was no help. "Wait, wait!" the muzhiks shouted. "You, Uncle Mityai, get on the outrunner, and let Uncle Minyai get on the shaft horse!" Uncle Minyai, a broad-shouldered muzhik with a beard as black as coal and a belly resembling the giant samovar in which hot punch is brewed for a whole chilled marketplace, eagerly got on the shaft horse, who sagged almost to the ground under him. "Now it'll work!" shouted the muzhiks. "Heat him up; heat him up! wallop him with the whip, that one, the sorrel, why's he wriggling there like a daddy longlegs!" But seeing that it was not going to work and that no heating up helped, Uncle Mityai and Uncle Minyai together got on the shaft horse, and Andryushka was put on the outrunner. Finally the coachman lost patience and chased away both Uncle Mityai and Uncle Minyai, and it was a good thing he did, because the horses were steaming as if they had just ripped through a whole stage without stopping for breath. He gave them a minute's rest, after which they went off by themselves. While all this was happening, Chichikov was looking very attentively at the unknown young girl. He made several attempts to converse with her, but somehow it did not come about. And meanwhile the ladies drove off, the pretty head with its fine features and the slender waist disappeared, like something resembling a vision, and what remained was again the road, the britzka, the troika of horses familiar to the reader, Selifan, Chichikov, the flatness and emptiness of the surrounding fields. Wherever in life it may be, whether amongst its tough, coarsely poor, and untidily moldering mean ranks, or its monotonously cold and boringly tidy upper classes, a man will at least once meet with a phenomenon which is unlike anything he has happened to see before, which for once at least awakens in him a feeling unlike those he is fated to feel all his life. Wherever, across whatever sorrows our life is woven of, a resplendent joy will gaily race by, just as a splendid carriage with golden harness, picture-book horses, and a shining brilliance of glass sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly goes speeding by some poor, forsaken hamlet that has never seen anything but a country cart, and for a long time the muzhiks stand gaping open-mouthed, not putting their hats back on, though the wondrous carriage has long since sped away and vanished from sight. So, too, did the blond girl suddenly, in a completely unexpected manner, appear in our story and also disappear. If, instead of Chichikov, some twenty-year-old youth had happened to be standing there, a hussar, or a student, or simply one starting out on his path in life—then, God! what would not have awakened, stirred, spoken up in him! For a long time he would have stood insensibly on the same spot, gazing senselessly into the distance, having forgotten the road, and all the reprimands that lay ahead of him, and the scoldings for the delay, having forgotten himself, and the office, and the world, and all there is in the world.
But our hero was already middle-aged and of a circumspectly cool character. He, too, waxed thoughtful and started thinking, but his reflections were more positive, not so unaccountable, and even in part quite substantial. "A nice wench!" he said, opening his snuffbox and taking a pinch. "But what is it, chiefly, that's so good in her? What's good in her is that, as one can see, she has just come out of some boarding school or institute, there's nothing about her that is female, as they say, which is precisely what is most disagreeable in them. She's like a child now, everything is simple in her, she says what she likes, she laughs when she wants to. Anything can be made of her, she may become a wonder, or she may turn out trash, and trash is what she'll turn out. Just let the mamas and aunties start working on her now. In a year they'll have her so filled with all sorts of female stuff that her own father won't recognize her. Out of nowhere will come conceit and pomposity, she'll start turning around on memorized instructions, she'll start racking her brains thinking up with whom, and how, and for what length of time she should speak, how to look at whom, she'll be afraid every moment of saying more than is necessary, she'll finally get confused, and in the end she'll finally start lying all her life, and the result will be devil knows what!" Here he fell silent for a short time, then added: "And it would be curious to know who her people are, what and who her father is, is he a rich landowner of respectable character or simply a well-meaning man with capital acquired in the service? For if, say, to this girl there were added some two-hundred-thousand-rouble dowry, she would make a very, very tasty little morsel. That might constitute happiness, so to speak, for a decent man." The tidy little two hundred thousand began to picture itself so attractively in his head that he inwardly became vexed with himself for not having found out who the travelers were from the postillion or the coachman, while the bustle around the carriages was going on. Soon, however, the appearance of Sobakevich's estate distracted his thoughts and made them turn to their perennial subject.
The estate seemed rather big to him; two forests, of birch and of pine, like two wings, one darker and one lighter, stood to right and left of it; in the middle could be seen a wooden house with a mezzanine, a red roof, and dark gray or, better, natural sides—a house like those built here for military settlements and German colonists. [18]18
Colonies of soldier-farmers were first created by the emperor Alexander I (1777-1825), and were placed mainly in Ukraine. The empress Catherine II began the inviting of German settlers to Russia, particularly to the province of Saratov.
[Закрыть]It was obvious that during its construction the architect had been in constant conflict with the owner's taste. The architect was a pedant and wanted symmetry, the owner wanted convenience and, evidently as a result of that, boarded up all the corresponding windows on one side and in their place poked through one small one, probably needed for a dark storeroom. The pediment was also not at all in the center of the house, however much the architect had struggled, because the owner had ordered a column on one side thrown out, so that instead of four columns, as in the original design, there were only three. The yard was surrounded by a strong and exceedingly stout wooden lattice. The landowner seemed greatly concerned with solidity. For the stable, sheds, and kitchens stout and hefty logs had been used, meant to stand for centuries. The village cottages of the muzhiks were also a marvel of construction: the sides were not adzed, there were no carved patterns or fancywork, but everything was snugly and properly fitted together. Even the well was housed in such strong oak as is used only for gristmills and ships. In short, all that he looked upon was sturdy, shakeless, in some strong and clumsy order. As he drove up to the porch, he saw two faces peek almost simultaneously out the window: a woman's, in a bonnet, narrow, long, like a cucumber; and a man's, round, broad, like those Moldavian gourds called crooknecks, from which balalaikas are made in Russia, light two-stringed balalaikas, the jewel and delight of a snappy twenty-year-old lad, a winker and a fop, winking and whistling at the white-bosomed, white-necked lasses who have gathered to listen to his soft-stringed strumming. Having peeked out, the two faces hid at the same moment. A lackey in a gray jacket with a light blue standing collar came to the porch and led Chichikov into the front hall, where the host himself had already come. Seeing the visitor, he abruptly said: "Please!" and led him to the inner rooms.
When Chichikov glanced sidelong at Sobakevich, it seemed to him this time that he looked exactly like a medium-sized bear. To complete the resemblance, the tailcoat he was wearing was of a perfect bear color; his sleeves were long, his trousers were long, his feet shambled this way and that, constantly stepping on other people's toes. His face was of a roasted, hot color, such as one sees on copper coins. It is well-known that there are many faces in the world over the finishing of which nature did not take much trouble, did not employ any fine tools such as files, gimlets, and so on, but simply hacked them out with round strokes: one chop—a nose appears; another chop—lips appear; eyes are scooped out with a big drill; and she lets it go into the world rough-hewn, saying: "Alive!" Of such strong and marvelous fashioning was the visage of Sobakevich: he held it rather more down than up, did not swivel his neck at all, and, on account of this non-swiveling, rarely looked at the person he was speaking to, but always either at the corner of the stove or at the door. Chichikov gave him one more sidelong glance as they were going through the dining room: a bear! a veritable bear! If there were any need for such strange approximation, he was even named Mikhailo Semyonovich. [19]19
Mikhailo, or Mikhail—Misha or Mishka in the diminutive– is the common Russian name for a bear.
[Закрыть]Knowing his habit of stepping on people's toes, he himself stepped very carefully and let him go ahead. The host seemed sensible of this failing himself, and at once asked him: "Have I inconvenienced you?" But Chichikov thanked him, saying that so far he had suffered no inconvenience.
Going into the drawing room, Sobakevich pointed to an armchair, saying "Please!" again. As he sat down, Chichikov glanced at the walls and the pictures hanging on them. They were all fine fellows in the pictures, all Greek generals, engraved at full length: Mavrocordato in red pantaloons and officer's jacket, with spectacles on his nose, Miaoulis, Canaris. These heroes all had such fat haunches and unheard-of mustaches as sent shivers through one's whole body. Among these sturdy Greeks, who knows how or why, Bagration had lodged himself, skinny, thin, with little banners and cannons underneath, in the narrowest of frames. Then again there followed the Greek heroine Bobelina, whose leg alone seemed bigger than the entire body of one of those fops who fill our present-day drawing rooms. [20]20
Alexander Mavrocordato (1791-1865), a Greek statesman born in Constantinople, and the admirals Andreas Vokos Miaoulis (1768-1835) and Constantine Canaris (1790-1877) all distinguished themselves in the Greek war of independence (1821-28). Bobelina, an Albanian woman, outfitted three ships at her own expense and fought on the Greek side in the same war. Prince Pyotr Bagration (1765—1812), a Russian general born in Georgia, was a leader of the opposition to Napoleon's invasion and was mortally wounded at the battle of Borodino.
[Закрыть]The host, being a healthy and sturdy man himself, seemed to want his room, too, to be adorned with sturdy and healthy people. Near Bobelina, just by the window, hung a cage from which peered a thrush of a dark color with white speckles, also very much resembling Sobakevich. Host and guest had managed to be silent for no more than two minutes when the drawing-room door opened and the hostess came in, a rather tall lady in a bonnet with ribbons dyed in homemade colors. She came in decorously, holding her head erect, like a palm tree.
"This is my Feodulia Ivanovna!" said Sobakevich.
Chichikov went up to kiss Feodulia Ivanovnas hand, which she almost shoved into his lips, affording him the occasion to observe that her hands had been washed in pickling brine.
"Sweetie," Sobakevich went on, "allow me to introduce Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov! I had the honor of meeting him at the governor's and at the postmaster's."
Feodulia Ivanovna invited him to sit down, also saying "Please!" and making a motion with her head, as actresses do when playing queens. Then she seated herself on the sofa, covered herself with her merino shawl, and thereafter moved neither eye nor eyebrow.
