for several hours. It was hard to say which one was better: they were all white-bosomed, white-necked, all with eyes like turnips, languishing, strutting like peacocks, with braids down to their waists. When, holding white hands in his own, he slowly moved in a circle with them, or came towards them in a wall with the other lads, while the hotly glowing evening died out, and the surrounding neighborhood slowly faded, and from away across the river came the faithful echo of an inevitably sad tune—he did not know himself what was happening to him. Long afterwards, in sleep or in waking, at dawn and at dusk, he kept imagining his hands holding those white hands and moving with them in a round dance. With a wave of the hand he would say: 'Cursed wenches!'
Chichikov's horses also liked their new abode. The shaft horse and the chestnut outrunner called Assessor, and that same dapple-gray which Selifan referred to as 'a scoundrel of a horse,' found their stay at Tentetnikov's far from dull, the oats of excellent quality, and the layout of the stables uncommonly convenient. Each stable was partitioned off, yet over the partitions one could see the other horses, so that if any of them, even the furthest off, suddenly got a notion to start whinnying, it was possible to respond in kind straightaway.
In short, everyone settled as if into their own home. The reader may be astonished that Chichikov had so far not made a peep about the notorious souls. Perish the thought! Pavel Ivanovich had become very cautious with regard to the subject. Even if he had been dealing with perfect fools, he would not have started suddenly on it. And Tentetnikov, after all, reads books, philosophizes, tries to explain to himself the various reasons for everything—why and how. . . 'No, devil take him! maybe I should start from the other end?' So thought Chichikov. Chatting frequently with the servants, he found out from them, among other things, that the master once used to visit his neighbor the general quite often, that there was a young miss at the general's, that the master had been sweet on the young miss, and the young miss on the master, too . . . but then suddenly they had a falling out over something and parted. He himself noticed that Andrei Ivanovich kept drawing some sort of heads with pencil or pen, all looking the same. Once, after dinner, spinning the silver snuffbox on its axis with his finger, as usual, he spoke thus:
'You have everything, Andrei Ivanovich; only one thing is missing.'
'What is that?' the other responded, letting out curls of smoke.
'A life's companion,' said Chichikov.
No reply came from Andrei Ivanovich. And with that the conversation ended.
Chichikov was not embarrassed, he chose another moment, this time just before supper, and while talking about one thing and another, said suddenly:
'But really, Andrei Ivanovich, it wouldn't do you any harm to get married.'
Not a word of reply came from Tentetnikov, as if the very mention of the subject was disagreeable to him.
Chichikov was not embarrassed. For the third time he chose a moment, this time after supper, and spoke thus:
'But all the same, whichever way I turn your circumstances, I see that you must get married: you'll fall into hypochondria.'
Whether it was that Chichikov's words this time were so convincing, or that Andrei Ivanovich's mood was somehow especially inclined to frankness, he sighed and said, sending up smoke from his pipe: 'For all things one needs to be born lucky, Pavel Ivanovich,' and he told everything as it had been, the whole story of his acquaintance with the general and its breakup.
As Chichikov listened, word by word, to the whole affair and saw that because of one word such an incident had occurred, he was dumbfounded. For several minutes he looked intently into Tentetnikov's eyes and concluded: 'Why, he's simply a perfect fool!'
'Andrei Ivanovich, for pity's sake!' he said, taking both his hands. 'Where's the insult? what's insulting in one familiar word?'
'There's nothing insulting in the word itself,' said Tentetnikov, 'but the sense of the word, the voice in which it was uttered, that's where the insult lies. The word means: 'Remember, you're trash; I receive you only because there's no one better, but if some Princess Yuzyakin comes—you know your place, you stand by the door.' That's what it means!'
As he said this, the placid and meek Andrei Ivanovich flashed his eyes, and in his voice the irritation of offended feelings could be heard.
'But even if that is the sense of it—what matter?' said Chichikov.
'What?' said Tentetnikov, looking intently into Chichikov's eyes. 'You want me to continue visiting him after such an action?'
'But what sort of action is that? It's not an action at all!' said Chichikov.
'What a strange man this Chichikov is!' Tentetnikov thought to himself.
'What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!' Chichikov thought to himself.
'It's not an action, Andrei Ivanovich. It's simply a general's habit: they call everyone 'boy.' And, incidentally, why not allow it in a venerable, respectable man?'
'That's another matter,' said Tentetnikov. 'If he were an old man, a poor man, not proud, not conceited, not a general, I would allow him to address me that way and even take it respectfully.'
'He's an utter fool!' Chichikov thought to himself. 'To allow it to a ragamuffin, and not to a general!' And, following this reflection, he objected to him aloud, thus:
'Very well, suppose he did insult you, but you also got even with him; he you, and you him. But to part forever on account of a trifle—for pity's sake, that's beyond anything! Why abandon an affair that's just begun? Once the goal has been chosen, one must push one's way through. No point in looking at a man who spits! Men are always spitting; you won't find anyone in the whole world who doesn't spit.'
Tentetnikov was completely taken aback by these words; dumbfounded, he stared into Pavel Ivanovich's eyes, thinking to himself: 'A most strange man, though, this Chichikov!'
'What an odd duck, though, this Tentetnikov!' Chichikov thought meanwhile.
'Allow me to do something about this matter,' he said aloud. 'I could go to His Excellency and explain that on your part it occurred owing to misunderstanding, youth, an ignorance of men and the world.'
'I have no intention of groveling before him!' Tentetnikov said strongly.
'God forbid you should grovel!' said Chichikov, crossing himself. 'To influence with a word of admonition, like a sensible mediator, yes, but to grovel. . . Excuse me, Andrei Ivanovich, for my good will and devotion, I never expected that you would take my words in such an offensive sense!'
'Forgive me, Pavel Ivanovich, I am to blame!' Tentetnikov said, touched, and seizing both his hands in gratitude. 'Your kind sympathy is precious to me, I swear! But let's drop this conversation, let's never speak of it again!'
'In that case I'll simply go to the general without any reason,' said Chichikov.
'What for?' asked Tentetnikov, looking at Chichikov in bewilderment.
'To pay my respects,' said Chichikov.
'What a strange man this Chichikov is!' thought Tentetnikov.
'What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!' thought Chichikov.
'Since my britzka,' said Chichikov, 'has not yet attained the proper condition, allow me to take your coach. I'll go and visit him tomorrow at around ten o'clock or so.'
'Good gracious, what a request! You are full master, choose any carriage you like, everything's at your disposal.'
They said good night and went to bed, not without reflecting on each other's strangeness.
An odd thing, however: the next day, when Chichikov's horses were ready, and he leaped into the carriage with the ease of an almost military man, dressed in a new tailcoat, a white tie and waistcoat, and drove off to pay his respects to the general, Tentetnikov felt an agitation in his soul such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the rusty and drowsy course of his thoughts turned into an actively troubled one. A nervous excitement came over all the feelings of the sloth who hitherto had been sunk in careless indolence. Now he sat down on the sofa, now he went to the window, now he would take up a book, now he wanted to think—futile wanting!—thought refused to come into his head.
Now he attempted not to think about anything—futile attempt!—scraps of something resembling thoughts, odds and ends of thoughts, kept creeping and pecking into his head from everywhere. 'A strange state!' he said and moved to the window to gaze at the road cutting through the grove, at the end of which the clouds of dust raised by the departing carriage had not yet had time to settle. But let us leave Tentetnikov and follow
