him
a little. There has been some dough standing ready since last night,
so I will go and tell Fetinia to try a few pancakes. Also, it might be
well to try him with an egg pie. We make then nicely here, and they do
not take long in the making."
So she departed to translate her thoughts into action, as well as to
supplement the pie with other products of the domestic cuisine; while,
for his part, Chichikov returned to the drawing-room where he had
spent the night, in order to procure from his dispatch-box the
necessary writing-paper. The room had now been set in order, the
sumptuous feather bed removed, and a table set before the sofa.
Depositing his dispatch-box upon the table, he heaved a gentle sigh on
becoming aware that he was so soaked with perspiration that he might
almost have been dipped in a river. Everything, from his shirt to his
socks, was dripping. "May she starve to death, the cursed old
harridan!" he ejaculated after a moment's rest. Then he opened his
dispatch-box. In passing, I may say that I feel certain that at least
SOME of my readers will be curious to know the contents and the
internal arrangements of that receptacle. Why should I not gratify
their curiosity? To begin with, the centre of the box contained a
soap-dish, with, disposed around it, six or seven compartments for
razors. Next came square partitions for a sand-box [17] and an inkstand,
as well as (scooped out in their midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax,
and anything else that required more room. Lastly there were all sorts
of little divisions, both with and without lids, for articles of a
smaller nature, such as visiting cards, memorial cards, theatre
tickets, and things which Chichikov had laid by as souvenirs. This
portion of the box could be taken out, and below it were both a space
for manuscripts and a secret money-box—the latter made to draw out
from the side of the receptacle.
Chichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write. Presently his
hostess entered the room.
"What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!" she exclaimed as she
took a seat beside him. "Probably you bought it in Moscow?"
"Yes—in Moscow," replied Chichikov without interrupting his writing.
"I thought so. One CAN get good things there. Three years ago my
sister brought me a few pairs of warm shoes for my sons, and they were
such excellent articles! To this day my boys wear them. And what nice
stamped paper you have!" (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where,
sure enough, there lay a further store of the paper in question).
"Would you mind letting me have a sheet of it? I am without any at
all, although I shall soon have to be presenting a plea to the land
court, and possess not a morsel of paper to write it on."
Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not the sort proper
for the purpose—that it was meant for serf-indenturing, and not for
the framing of pleas. Nevertheless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet
stamped to the value of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to
sign, and requested, in return, a list of her peasants. Unfortunately,
such a list had never been compiled, let alone any copies of it, and
the only way in which she knew the peasants' names was by heart.
However, he told her to dictate them. Some of the names greatly
astonished our hero, so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed,
frequently, on hearing the latter, he had to pause before writing them
down. Especially did he halt before a certain "Peter Saveliev
Neuvazhai Korito." "What a string of titles!" involuntarily he
ejaculated. To the Christian name of another serf was appended "Korovi
Kirpitch," and to that of a third "Koleso Ivan." However, at length
the list was compiled, and he caught a deep breath; which latter
proceeding caused him to catch also the attractive odour of something
fried in fat.
"I beseech you to have a morsel," murmured his hostess. Chichikov
looked up, and saw that the table was spread with mushrooms, pies, and
other viands.
"Try this
a little. There has been some dough standing ready since last night,
so I will go and tell Fetinia to try a few pancakes. Also, it might be
well to try him with an egg pie. We make then nicely here, and they do
not take long in the making."
So she departed to translate her thoughts into action, as well as to
supplement the pie with other products of the domestic cuisine; while,
for his part, Chichikov returned to the drawing-room where he had
spent the night, in order to procure from his dispatch-box the
necessary writing-paper. The room had now been set in order, the
sumptuous feather bed removed, and a table set before the sofa.
Depositing his dispatch-box upon the table, he heaved a gentle sigh on
becoming aware that he was so soaked with perspiration that he might
almost have been dipped in a river. Everything, from his shirt to his
socks, was dripping. "May she starve to death, the cursed old
harridan!" he ejaculated after a moment's rest. Then he opened his
dispatch-box. In passing, I may say that I feel certain that at least
SOME of my readers will be curious to know the contents and the
internal arrangements of that receptacle. Why should I not gratify
their curiosity? To begin with, the centre of the box contained a
soap-dish, with, disposed around it, six or seven compartments for
razors. Next came square partitions for a sand-box [17] and an inkstand,
as well as (scooped out in their midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax,
and anything else that required more room. Lastly there were all sorts
of little divisions, both with and without lids, for articles of a
smaller nature, such as visiting cards, memorial cards, theatre
tickets, and things which Chichikov had laid by as souvenirs. This
portion of the box could be taken out, and below it were both a space
for manuscripts and a secret money-box—the latter made to draw out
from the side of the receptacle.
Chichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write. Presently his
hostess entered the room.
"What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!" she exclaimed as she
took a seat beside him. "Probably you bought it in Moscow?"
"Yes—in Moscow," replied Chichikov without interrupting his writing.
"I thought so. One CAN get good things there. Three years ago my
sister brought me a few pairs of warm shoes for my sons, and they were
such excellent articles! To this day my boys wear them. And what nice
stamped paper you have!" (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where,
sure enough, there lay a further store of the paper in question).
"Would you mind letting me have a sheet of it? I am without any at
all, although I shall soon have to be presenting a plea to the land
court, and possess not a morsel of paper to write it on."
Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not the sort proper
for the purpose—that it was meant for serf-indenturing, and not for
the framing of pleas. Nevertheless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet
stamped to the value of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to
sign, and requested, in return, a list of her peasants. Unfortunately,
such a list had never been compiled, let alone any copies of it, and
the only way in which she knew the peasants' names was by heart.
However, he told her to dictate them. Some of the names greatly
astonished our hero, so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed,
frequently, on hearing the latter, he had to pause before writing them
down. Especially did he halt before a certain "Peter Saveliev
Neuvazhai Korito." "What a string of titles!" involuntarily he
ejaculated. To the Christian name of another serf was appended "Korovi
Kirpitch," and to that of a third "Koleso Ivan." However, at length
the list was compiled, and he caught a deep breath; which latter
proceeding caused him to catch also the attractive odour of something
fried in fat.
"I beseech you to have a morsel," murmured his hostess. Chichikov
looked up, and saw that the table was spread with mushrooms, pies, and
other viands.
"Try this
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