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Updated: June 18, 2025
Chichikov had opened his mouth to reply though even HE felt at a loss how to acknowledge what had just been said when Manilov cut him short by producing from under his coat a roll of paper tied with red riband. "What have you there?" asked Chichikov. "The list of my souls." "Ah!"
To this his spouse replied "Hm!" and then dealt him a hearty kick in the ribs. Finally he decided to extend his visits beyond the urban boundaries by going and calling upon landowners Manilov and Sobakevitch, seeing that he had promised on his honour to do so.
Was there really such a very great gulf between her and Madame Manilov between her and the Madame Manilov whom we have seen entrenched behind the walls of a genteel mansion in which there were a fine staircase of wrought metal and a number of rich carpets; the Madame Manilov who spent most of her time in yawning behind half-read books, and in hoping for a visit from some socially distinguished person in order that she might display her wit and carefully rehearsed thoughts thoughts which had been de rigeur in town for a week past, yet which referred, not to what was going on in her household or on her estate both of which properties were at odds and ends, owing to her ignorance of the art of managing them but to the coming political revolution in France and the direction in which fashionable Catholicism was supposed to be moving?
And, kissing the boy's head, he turned to Manilov and Madame with the slight smile which one assumes before assuring parents of the guileless merits of their offspring. "But you had better stay, Paul Ivanovitch," said the father as the trio stepped out on to the verandah. "See how the clouds are gathering!" "They are only small ones," replied Chichikov. "And you know your way to Sobakevitch's?"
The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in Chichikov's face there dawned a sort of tense expression, and it reddened as though its owner were striving to express something not easy to put into words. True enough, Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and unexpected things as never before had greeted human ears. "You ask me," said Chichikov, "for what purpose I want the list.
Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured, bear-lined overcoat as he went, he had just stepped thoughtfully into the street when he collided with a gentleman dressed in a similar coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon that the gentleman uttered an exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov! At once the friends became folded in a strenuous embrace, and remained so locked for fully five minutes.
Indeed, Manilov COULD not let go our hero's hand, but clasped it with such warmth that the hero in question began to feel himself at a loss how best to wrench it free: until, quietly withdrawing it, he observed that to have the purchase completed as speedily as possible would not be a bad thing; wherefore he himself would at once return to the town to arrange matters.
"How many, for instance?" asked Chichikov. "Yes; how many?" re-echoed Manilov. "HOW many?" re-echoed the bailiff. "Well, no one knows the exact number, for no one has kept any account." "Quite so," remarked Manilov. "I supposed the death-rate to have been high, but was ignorant of its precise extent." "Then would you be so good as to have it computed for me?" said Chichikov.
Nevertheless the guest did at least execute such a convulsive shuffle that the material with which the cushions of the chair were covered came apart, and Manilov gazed at him with some misgiving.
But nothing of the sort could be discerned. On the contrary, Chichikov's face looked graver than usual. Next, Manilov wondered whether, for some unknown reason, his guest had lost his wits; wherefore he spent some time in gazing at him with anxious intentness. But the guest's eyes seemed clear they contained no spark of the wild, restless fire which is apt to wander in the eyes of madmen.
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