'What a nice idea it would be, Pavel Ivanovich,' said Selifan, turning around on his box, 'to ask Andrei Ivanovich for another horse in exchange for the dapple-gray; he wouldn't refuse, being of friendly disposition towards you, and this horse, sir, is a scoundrel of a horse and a real hindrance.'
'Drive, drive, don't babble!' Chichikov said, and thought to himself: 'In fact, it's too bad it never occurred to me.'
The light-wheeled coach meanwhile went lightly wheeling along. Lightly it went uphill, though the road was occasionally uneven; lightly it also went downhill, though the descents of country roads are worrisome. They descended the hill. The road went through meadows, across the bends of the river, past the mills. Far away flashed sands, aspen groves emerged picturesquely one from behind the other; willow bushes, slender alders, and silvery poplars flew quickly past them, their branches striking Selifan and Petrushka as they sat on their box. The latter had his peaked cap knocked off every moment. The stern servitor would jump down from the box, scold the stupid tree and the owner who had planted it, but never thought of tying the cap on or at least of holding it with his hand, still hoping that maybe it would not happen again. Then the trees became thicker: aspens and alders were joined by birches, and soon a forest thicket formed around them. The light of the sun disappeared. Pines and firs darkled. The impenetrable gloom of the endless forest became denser, and, it seemed, was preparing to turn into night. And suddenly among the trees—light, here and there among the branches and trunks, like a mirror or like quicksilver. The forest began to brighten, trees became sparser, shouts were heard—and suddenly before them was a lake. A watery plain about three miles across, with trees around it, and cottages behind them. Some twenty men, up to their waists, shoulders, or chins in water, were pulling a dragnet towards the opposite shore. In the midst of them, swimming briskly, shouting, fussing enough for all of them, was a man nearly as tall as he was fat, round all around, just like a watermelon. Owing to his fatness he might not possibly drown, and if he wanted to dive, he could flip over all he liked, but the water would keep buoying him up; and if two more men had sat on his back, he would have gone on floating with them like a stubborn bubble on the surface of the water, only groaning slightly under the weight and blowing bubbles from his nose and mouth.
'That one, Pavel Ivanovich,' said Selifan, turning around on the box, 'must be the master, Colonel Koshkarev.'
'Why so?'
'Because his body, if you'll be pleased to notice, is a bit whiter than the others', and he's respectably portly, as a master should be.'
The shouts meanwhile were getting more distinct. The squire-watermelon was shouting in a ringing patter:
'Hand it over, Denis, hand it over to Kozma! Kozma, take the tail from Denis! You, Big Foma, push there along with Little Foma! Go around to the right, the right! Stop, stop, devil take you both! You've got me tangled in the net! You've caught me, I tell you, damn it, you've caught me by the navel!'
The draggers on the right flank stopped, seeing that an unforeseen mishap had indeed occurred: the master was caught in the net.
'Just look,' Selifan said to Petrushka, 'they've dragged in the master like a fish.'
The squire floundered and, wishing to disentangle himself, turned over on his back, belly up, getting still more tangled in the net. Fearful of tearing it, he was floating together with the caught fish, only ordering them to tie a rope around him. When they had tied a rope around him, they threw the end to shore. Some twenty fishermen standing on the shore picked it up and began carefully to haul him in. On reaching a shallow spot, the squire stood up, all covered with the meshes of the net, like a lady's hand in a net glove in summer—looked up, and saw the visitor driving onto the dam in his coach. Seeing the visitor, he nodded to him. Chichikov took off his cap and bowed courteously from his coach.
'Had dinner?' shouted the squire, climbing onto the shore with the caught fish, holding one hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and the other lower down in the manner of the Medici Venus stepping from her bath.
'No,' said Chichikov.
'Well, then you can thank God.'
'Why?' Chichikov asked curiously, holding his cap up over his head.
'Here's why!' said the squire, winding up on shore with the carp and bream thrashing around his feet leaping a yard high off the ground. 'This is nothing, don't look at this: that's the real thing over there! . . . Show us the sturgeon, Big Foma.' Two stalwart muzhiks dragged some sort of monster from a tub. 'What a princeling! strayed in from the river!'
'No, that's a full prince!' said Chichikov.
'You said it. Go on ahead now, and I'll follow. You there, coachman, take the lower road, through the kitchen garden. Run, Little Foma, you dolt, and take the barrier down. I'll follow in no time, before you ...'
'The colonel's an odd bird,' thought Chichikov, finally getting across the endless dam and driving up to the cottages, of which some, like a flock of ducks, were scattered over the slope of a hill, while others stood below on pilings, like herons. Nets, sweep-nets, dragnets were hanging everywhere. Little Foma took down the barrier, the coach drove through the kitchen garden, and came out on a square near an antiquated wooden church. Behind the church, the roofs of the manor buildings could be seen farther off.
'And here I am!' a voice came from the side. Chichikov looked around. The squire was already driving along next to him, clothed, in a droshky—grass-green nankeen frock coat, yellow trousers, and a neck without a tie, after the manner of a cupid! He was sitting sideways on the droshky, taking up the whole droshky with himself. Chichikov was about to say something to him, but the fat man had already vanished. The droshky appeared on the other side, and all that was heard was a voice: 'Take the pike and seven carp to that dolt of a cook, and fetch the sturgeon here: I'll take him myself in the droshky.' Again came voices: 'Big Foma and Little Foma! Kozma and Denis!' And when he drove up to the porch of the house, to his greatest amazement the fat squire was already standing there and received him into his embrace. How he had managed to fly there was inconceivable. They kissed each other three times crisscross.
'I bring you greetings from His Excellency,' said Chichikov.
'Which Excellency?'
'Your relative, General Alexander Dmitrievich.'
'Who is Alexander Dmitrievich?'
'General Betrishchev,' Chichikov replied in some amazement.
'Don't know him, sir, never met him.'
Chichikov was still more amazed.
'How's that? ... I hope I at least have the pleasure of speaking with Colonel Koshkarev?'
'Pyotr Petrovich Petukh, Petukh Pyotr Petrovich!'[60] the host picked up.
Chichikov was dumbfounded.
'There you have it! How now, you fools,' he said, turning to Selifan and Petrushka, who both gaped, goggle-eyed, one sitting on his box, the other standing by the door of the coach, 'how now, you fools? Weren't you told—to Colonel Koshkarev's . . . And this is Pyotr Petrovich Petukh ...'
'The lads did excellently!' said Pyotr Petrovich. 'For that you'll each get a noggin of vodka and pie to boot. Unharness the horses and go at once to the servants' quarters.'
'I'm embarrassed,' Chichikov said with a bow, 'such an unexpected mistake ...'
'Not a mistake,' Pyotr Petrovich Petukh said promptly, 'not a mistake. You try how the dinner is first, and then say whether it was a mistake or not. Kindly step in,' he said, taking Chichikov under the arm and leading him to the inner rooms.
Chichikov decorously passed through the doors sideways, so as to allow the host to enter with him; but this was in vain: the host could not enter, and besides he was no longer there. One could only hear his talk resounding all over the yard: 'But where's Big Foma? Why isn't he here yet? Emelyan, you gawk, run and tell that dolt of a cook to gut the sturgeon quickly. Milt, roe, innards, and bream—into the soup; carp—into the sauce. And crayfish, crayfish! Little Foma, you gawk, where are the crayfish? crayfish, I say, crayfish?!' And for a long time there went on echoing 'crayfish, crayfish.'
'Well, the host's bustling about,' said Chichikov, sitting in an armchair and studying the walls and corners.
