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"I will think it over," the Prince said musingly, "and meanwhile I thank you from my heart for your good advice." "Also, I should order Chichikov to leave the town," suggested Murazov. "Yes, I will do so. Tell him from me that he is to depart hence as quickly as possible, and that the further he should remove himself, the better it will be for him.
"Nothing, sir," replied the waiter, bowing, "except that last night there arrived a military lieutenant. He has got room number sixteen." "A lieutenant?" "Yes. He came from Riazan, driving three grey horses." On entering his room, Chichikov clapped his hand to his nose, and asked his valet why he had never had the windows opened. "But I did have them opened," replied Petrushka.
Yet, though he could not, to save his life, take a person of virtue for his principal character, it may be that this story contains themes never before selected, and that in it there projects the whole boundless wealth of Russian psychology; that it portrays, as well as Chichikov, the peasant who is gifted with the virtues which God has sent him, and the marvellous maiden of Russia who has not her like in all the world for her beautiful feminine spirituality, the roots of which lie buried in noble aspirations and boundless self-denial.
'Tis the right sort of muzzle for that. I must say that I have long been wanting such a puppy. Porphyri, take him away again." Porphyri lifted up the puppy, and bore it downstairs. "Look here, Chichikov," resumed Nozdrev. "You MUST come to my place. It lies only five versts away, and we can go there like the wind, and you can visit Sobakevitch afterwards."
Yet two, three, or four versts of the by-road had been covered before they saw the least sign of a two-storied stone mansion. Then it was that Chichikov suddenly recollected that, when a friend has invited one to visit his country house, and has said that the distance thereto is fifteen versts, the distance is sure to turn out to be at least thirty.
"He has got you there, Monsieur Chichikov. And you will admit that he has a sufficiently incisive pen? "Why did you not tell me all this before?" cried Chichikov furiously. "Why you have kept me dancing about for nothing?" "Because it was absolutely necessary that you should view the matter through forms of documentary process. This is no jest on my part.
"What charming children!" said Chichikov as he gazed at the pair. "And how old are they?" "The eldest is eight," replied Manilov, "and the younger one attained the age of six yesterday." "Themistocleus," went on the father, turning to his first-born, who was engaged in striving to free his chin from the bib with which the footman had encircled it.
As host and guest crossed the dining-room Chichikov directed a second glance at his companion. "He is a bear, and nothing but a bear," he thought to himself. And, indeed, the strange comparison was inevitable. Incidentally, Sobakevitch's Christian name and patronymic were Michael Semenovitch.
The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room; whither Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps. As they advanced, Ivan Antonovitch cast an eye backwards and viewed them askance. Then, with renewed ardour, he resumed his work of writing. "Would you mind telling me," said Chichikov, bowing, "whether this is the desk for serf affairs?"
By this time Chichikov was floundering badly. Mentally he spat upon himself and reflected: "Gracious heavens! What rubbish I am talking!" "Pardon me," went on his interlocutor, "but I do not quite understand you. Is Tientietnikov producing a history of a given period, or only a history made up of a series of biographies?
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