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Tell Mavra that the sugar on the outside of the loaf has gone bad, so that she must scrape it off with a knife, and NOT throw away the scrapings, but give them to the poultry. Also, see that you yourself don't go into the storeroom, or I will give you a birching that you won't care for. Your appetite is good enough already, but a better one won't hurt you.
While Mavra Kuzminichna was running to her room the officer walked about the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint smile on his lips. "What a pity I've missed Uncle! What a nice old woman! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the Rogozhski gate?" thought he.
Then the count embraced Mavra Kuzminichna and Vasilich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess went into the oratory and there Sonya found her on her knees before the icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall.
With a slight inclination of her head, Natasha stepped back quickly to Mavra Kuzminichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer. "They may. He says they may!" whispered Natasha.
When, nearly smothered by his embrace, she thrust him from her, he fell on his knees and said solemnly: "Mother, strike me if you will, but listen. The supreme moment of my life has arrived. I have...." "Gone mad," she supplied, looking him up and down. "I am going to be married," he said, almost inaudibly. "What? Mavra, Anton, Ivan, Kusma! Come here, quick!" Mavra alone responded to the call.
And bring me a match too." Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and taking up a pen, sat turning the sheet of paper over and over, as though in doubt whether to tear from it yet another morsel.
We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it's a long way from here, and there's nobody living in it." "Do us the honor to come in, there's plenty of everything in the master's house. Come in," said Mavra Kuzminichna. "Is he very ill?" she asked. The attendant made a hopeless gesture. "We don't expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor."
The cause of the delay was Natasha's skirt, which was too long. Two maids were turning up the hem and hurriedly biting off the ends of thread. A third with pins in her mouth was running about between the countess and Sonya, and a fourth held the whole of the gossamer garment up high on one uplifted hand. "Mavra, quicker, darling!" "Give me my thimble, Miss, from there..."
Return the sugar to Mavra, and tell her to put it back again. But no. Bring the sugar here, and I will put it back." "Good-bye, dear sir," finally he added to Chichikov. "May the Lord bless you! Hand that letter to the President of the Council, and let him read it. Yes, he is an old friend of mine. We knew one another as schoolfellows."
Meanwhile, Mavra Kuzminichna was attentively and sympathetically examining the familiar Rostov features of the young man's face, his tattered coat and trodden-down boots. "What did you want to see the count for?" she asked. "Oh well... it can't be helped!" said he in a tone of vexation and placed his hand on the gate as if to leave. He again paused in indecision.
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