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He is a splendid craftsman, and, on one occasion, made me a drozhki . Only, only well, lately didn't you tell me that he is dead?" "That Michiev is dead?" re-echoed Sobakevitch, coming perilously near to laughing. "Oh dear no! That was his brother. Michiev himself is very much alive, and in even better health than he used to be.
I tell you that nowhere else would you find such a fellow for working heavy tools as was Michiev. He had the strength of a horse in his shoulders."
"But why not tell Ivan Grigorievitch precisely what you have bought?" inquired Sobakevitch of Chichikov. "And why, Ivan Grigorievitch, do YOU not ask Monsieur Chichikov precisely what his purchases have consisted of? What a splendid lot of serfs, to be sure! I myself have sold him my wheelwright, Michiev." "What? You have sold him Michiev?" exclaimed the President. "I know the man well.
Any day he could knock you up a britchka such as you could not procure even in Moscow. However, he is now bound to work for only one master." "Indeed a splendid craftsman!" repeated the President. "My only wonder is that you can have brought yourself to part with him." "Then think you that Michiev is the ONLY serf with whom I have parted?
"But why hang back with your money?" said Sobakevitch. "Of a truth I am not asking much of you. Any other rascal than myself would have cheated you by selling you old rubbish instead of good, genuine souls, whereas I should be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev. Never was there such a one to build spring carts!
And his handiwork was not like your Moscow handiwork good only for an hour. No, he did it all himself, even down to the varnishing." Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, nevertheless, the said Michiev had long since departed this world; but Sobakevitch's eloquence had got too thoroughly into its stride to admit of any interruption.
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