away, you feel a deadly boredom. You will never get from him any sort of lively or even merely provoking word, such as can be heard from almost anyone, if you touch upon a subject that grips him. Everyone is gripped by something: for one it is borzoi hounds; another fancies himself a great lover of music and wonderfully sensitive to all its profundities; a third is an expert in hearty meals; a fourth in playing a role at least an inch above the one assigned him; a fifth, of more limited desires, sleeps and dreams of taking a stroll with an aide-de-camp, showing off in front of his friends, acquaintances, even non-acquaintances; a sixth is gifted with the sort of hand that feels a supernatural desire to turn down the corner of some ace or deuce of diamonds, while the hand of a seventh is simply itching to establish order somewhere, to get closer to the person of some stationmaster or cabdriver—in short, each has his own, but Manilov had nothing. At home he spoke very little and for the most part reflected and thought, but what he thought about, again, God only knows. One could not say he was occupied with management, he never even went out to the fields, the management somehow took care of itself. When the steward said: 'Might be a good thing, master, to do such and such.' 'Yes, not bad,' he would usually reply, smoking his pipe—a habit he had formed while still serving in the army, where he had been considered a most modest, most delicate, and most educated officer. 'Yes, indeed, not bad,' he would repeat. When a muzhik came to him and, scratching the back of his head, said: 'Master, give me leave to go and work, so I can pay my taxes,' 'Go,' he would say, smoking his pipe, and it would never even enter his head that the muzhik was going on a binge. Sometimes, as he gazed from the porch at the yard and pond, he would talk about how good it would be suddenly to make an underground passage from the house, or to build a stone bridge across the pond, and have shops on both sides of it, and shopkeepers sitting in the shops selling all sorts of small goods needed by peasants. At that his eyes would become exceedingly sweet and his face would acquire a most contented expression; however, all these projects ended only in words. In his study there was always some book lying, with a bookmark at the fourteenth page, which he had been reading constantly for the past two years. In his house something was eternally lacking: fine furniture stood in the drawing room, upholstered in stylish silk fabric, which must have been far from inexpensive; but there had not been enough for two of the armchairs, and so these armchairs were left upholstered in simple burlap; however, for several years the host had cautioned his guests each time with the words: 'Don't sit on these armchairs, they're not ready yet.' In some rooms there was no furniture at all, though it had been said in the first days of their marriage: 'Sweetie, we must see to it that furniture is put in this room tomorrow, at least for the time being.' In the evening a very stylish candlestick was placed on the table, made of dark bronze with the three Graces of antiquity and a stylish mother-of-pearl shield, while next to it was set some sort of plain copper invalid, lame, hunched over on one side, all covered with tallow, though this was noticed neither by the master, nor by the mistress, nor by the servants. His wife . . . however, they were perfectly satisfied with each other. Though it was already eight years since their wedding, they would still bring each other a little bit of apple, a piece of candy, or a nut, and say in a touchingly tender voice expressive of perfect love: 'Open up your little mouth, sweetie, I'll put this tidbit in for you.' Needless to say, the little mouth would on these occasions be very gracefully opened. For birthdays, surprises were prepared: some sort of bead-embroidered little toothbrush case. And quite often, as they were sitting on the sofa, suddenly, for perfectly unknown reasons, one would abandon his pipe, and the other her needlework, if she happened to be holding it in her hands at the moment, and they would plant on each other's lips such a long and languid kiss that one could easily have smoked a small cheroot while it lasted. In short, they were what is called happy Of course, it might be noted that there were many other things besides prolonged kisses and surprises to be done in the house, and many different questions might be asked. Why, for instance, was the cooking in the kitchen done stupidly and witlessly? why was the larder nearly empty? why was the housekeeper a thief? why were the servants so slovenly and drunk? why did the house serfs all sleep so unmercifully and spend the rest of the time carrying on? But these are all low subjects, and Mrs. Manilov had received a good education. And one gets a good education, as we know, in a boarding school. And in boarding schools, as we know, three main subjects constitute the foundation of human virtue: the French language, indispensable for a happy family life; the pianoforte, to afford a husband agreeable moments; and, finally, the managerial part proper: the crocheting of purses and other surprises. However, various improvements and changes in method occur, especially in our time; all this depends largely on the good sense and ability of the boarding school's headmistress. In some boarding schools it even occurs that the pianoforte comes first, then the French language, and only after that the managerial part. And sometime it also occurs that the managerial part, that is, the crocheting of surprises, comes first, then the French language, and only after that the pianoforte. Various methods occur. There will be no harm in making a further observation, that Mrs. Manilov . . . but, I confess, I am very afraid of talking about ladies, and, besides, it is time I returned to our heroes, who have already been standing at the drawing-room door for several minutes, mutually entreating each other to go in first.
'Kindly do not worry so for my sake, I will go in after,' Chichikov said.
'No, Pavel Ivanovich, no, you are a guest,' Manilov said, motioning him to the door with his hand.
'Do not trouble yourself, please, do not trouble yourself. Go in, please,' Chichikov said.
'No, excuse me, I will not allow such an agreeable, well-educated guest to go in after me.'
'Why well-educated? . . . Go in, please.'
'Ah, no, you go in, please.'
'But why?'
'Ah, but, just because!' Manilov said with an agreeable smile.
Finally the two friends went through the door sideways, squeezing each other slightly.
'Allow me to introduce you to my wife,' said Manilov. 'Sweetie! Pavel Ivanovich!'
Chichikov indeed saw a lady whom he had entirely failed to notice at first, as he was exchanging bows with Manilov in the doorway. She was not bad-looking and was dressed becomingly. Her housecoat of pale-colored silk sat well on her; her small, slender hand hastily dropped something on the table and clutched a cambric handkerchief with embroidered corners. She rose from the sofa on which she was sitting; Chichikov, not without pleasure, went up to kiss her hand. Mrs. Manilov said, even with a slightly French r,[5] that they were very glad he had come, and that no day went by without her husband's remembering him.
'Yes,' Manilov chimed in, 'she indeed kept asking me: 'But why does your friend not come?' 'Wait a bit, sweetie, he will come.' And now at last you've honored us with your visit. It is truly such a delight... a May day ... a heart's feast...'
When Chichikov heard that things had already gone as far as a heart's feast, he even became slightly embarrassed, and replied modestly that he had neither a renowned name, nor even any notable rank.
'You have everything,' Manilov interrupted with the same agreeable smile, 'everything, and even more besides.'
'How do you find our town?' Mrs. Manilov chimed in. 'Have you spent an agreeable time there?'
'A very good town, a wonderful town,' replied Chichikov, 'and my time there has been very agreeable: the society is most mannerly.'
'And what do you think of our governor?' said Mrs. Manilov.
'A most respectable and amiable man, isn't it true?' Manilov added.
'Absolutely true,' said Chichikov, 'a most respectable man. And how well he enters into his duty, how he understands it! We can only wish for more such people!'
'And, you know, he has such a way of receiving everyone, of observing delicacy in all he does,' Manilov appended with a smile, narrowing his eyes almost completely with pleasure, like a cat that has been tickled lightly behind the ears with a finger.
'A very mannerly and agreeable man,' continued Chichikov, 'and so artistic! I even never could have imagined it. How well he embroiders various household patterns! He showed me a purse he made: it's a rare lady that can embroider so artfully.'
'And the vice-governor, such a dear man, isn't it true?' said Manilov, again narrowing his eyes slightly.
'A very, very worthy man,' responded Chichikov.
'And, permit me, how do you find the police chief? A very agreeable man, isn't it true?'
'Exceedingly agreeable, and such an intelligent, such a well-read man! I played whist at his place with the prosecutor and the head magistrate till the last cockcrow—a very, very worthy man.'
'And what is your opinion of the police chief's wife?' Mrs. Manilov added. 'A most amiable woman, isn't it true?'
'Oh, she is one of the worthiest women I have ever known,' replied Chichikov.
