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Updated: May 12, 2025
But soon the sight of Sobakevitch's country house dissipated his thoughts, and forced him to return to his stock subject of reflection. Sobakevitch's country house and estate were of very fair size, and on each side of the mansion were expanses of birch and pine forest in two shades of green.
Chichikov placed the notes in Sobakevitch's hand; whereupon the host moved nearer to the table, and added to the list of serfs a note that he had received for the peasants, therewith sold, the sum of twenty-five roubles, as earnest money. This done, he counted the notes once more. "This is a very OLD note," he remarked, holding one up to the light. "Also, it is a trifle torn.
To complete the resemblance, Sobakevitch's long frockcoat and baggy trousers were of the precise colour of a bear's hide, while, when shuffling across the floor, he made a criss-cross motion of the legs, and had, in addition, a constant habit of treading upon his companion's toes.
Not for a long, long time have I eaten a meal away from home although my own kitchen is a poor one, and has its chimney in such a state that, were it to become overheated, it would instantly catch fire." "What a brute!" thought Chichikov. "I am lucky to have got through so much pastry and stuffed shoulder of mutton at Sobakevitch's!"
Something HAS upset him!" "What is there to laugh at?" asked Chichikov, a trifle nettled; but Nozdrev laughed more unrestrainedly than ever, ejaculating: "Oh, spare us all! The thing is so amusing that I shall die of it!" "I say that there is nothing to laugh at," repeated Chichikov. "It is in fulfilment of a promise that I am on my way to Sobakevitch's."
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.
"Well?" said Chichikov though not without a certain tremor of diffidence as to the possible response. "You are after dead souls?" were Sobakevitch's perfectly simple words. He spoke without the least surprise in his tone, and much as though the conversation had been turning on grain. "Yes," replied Chichikov, and then, as before, softened down the expression "dead souls."
It was long before the clouds had discharged their burden, and, meanwhile, the dust on the road became kneaded into mire, and the horses' task of pulling the britchka heavier and heavier. Also, Chichikov had taken alarm at his continued failure to catch sight of Sobakevitch's country house. According to his calculations, it ought to have been reached long ago.
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.
Never once did Sobakevitch's face move a muscle, and, as for Manilov, he was too much under the spell of Chichikov's eloquence to do aught beyond nod his approval at intervals, and strike the kind of attitude which is assumed by lovers of music when a lady singer has, in rivalry of an accompanying violin, produced a note whereof the shrillness would exceed even the capacity of a bird's throstle.
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