But Chichikov tried to decline this nice little liqueur, saying that he already drank and ate.

"Already drank and ate!" said Plyushkin. "Yes, of course, a man of good society is recognizable anywhere: he doesn't eat but is full; but just take one of these little thieves, the more you feed him . . . There's this captain turns up: 'Uncle,' he says, 'give me something to eat!' And I'm as much his uncle as he's my carbuncle. Must have nothing to eat at home, so he hangs around here! Ah, yes, you want a little list of all those parasites? Look here, just as if I'd known, I wrote them all down on a separate piece of paper, so as to cross them off at the next census report."

Plyushkin put on his spectacles and began rummaging among his papers. Untying various bundles, he treated his visitor to so much dust that he sneezed. At last he pulled out a sheet that was written all over. Peasant names covered it as thickly as gnats. Every sort was there: Paramonov, Pimenov, Panteleimonov, even a certain Grigory Go-never-get peeked out—a hundred and twenty-something in all. Chichikov smiled to see such numerousness. Tucking it away in his pocket, he observed to Plyushkin that he would have to go to town to sign the deed.

"To town? But how? . . . how can I leave the house? All my folk are either thieves or crooks: they'll strip the place bare in a day, there'll be nothing left to hang a caftan on."

"Don't you have some acquaintance then?"

"Have I some acquaintance? My acquaintances all either died off or got unacquainted. Ah, my dear! but I do have one, I do!" he cried. "I know the head magistrate himself, he used to come here in the old days, of course I know him! we supped from the same trough, we used to climb fences together! of course we're acquainted! As if we're not acquainted! So mightn't I just write to him?"

"But, of course, write to him."

"Really, as if we're not acquainted! We were friends at school."

And some warm ray suddenly passed over his wooden face, expressing not a feeling, but some pale reflection of a feeling, a phenomenon similar to the sudden appearance of a drowning man on the surface, drawing a joyful shout from the crowd on the bank. But in vain do the rejoicing brothers and sisters throw a rope from the bank and wait for another glimpse of the back or the struggle-weary arms—that appearance was the last. Everything is desolate, and the stilled surface of the unresponding element is all the more terrible and deserted after that. So, too, Plyushkin's face, after the momentary passage of that feeling, became all the more unfeeling and trite.

"There was a piece of clean writing paper lying on the table," he said, "I don't know where on earth it's gone: my people are such a worthless lot!" Here he began peering under the table, and over the table, feeling everywhere, and finally shouted: "Mavra! hey, Mavra!"

At his call a woman appeared with a plate in her hands, on which lay a rusk, already familiar to the reader. Between them the following conversation took place:

"You robber, what did you do with that paper?"

"By God, master, I never saw any, save that little scrap you were pleased to cover the wine glass with."

"Ah, but I can see by your eyes that you filched it."

"And why would I filch it? I've got no use for it; I don't know how to write."

"Lies, you took it to the beadle's boy: he knows how to scribble, so you took it to him."

"Why, the beadle's boy can get paper for himself if he wants. Much he needs your scrap!"

"But just you wait: at the Last Judgment the devils will make it hot for you with the iron tongs! You'll see how hot!"

"And why make it hot, since I never laid a finger on your writing paper? Sooner some other female weakness, but no one has yet reproached me for thievery."

"Ah, but the devils will make it hot for you! They'll say: Ah, but take that, you crook, for deceiving your master!' and they'll get you with the hot ones."

"And I'll say: 'It's not fair! by God, it's not fair, I didn't take it. . .' Why, look, it's lying there on the table. You're always nattering at me for nothing."

Plyushkin indeed saw the writing paper, paused for a moment, munched his lips, and said:

"So, why get yourself worked up like that? Bristling all over! Say just one word to her, and she comes back with a dozen! Go fetch some fire to seal the letter. Wait, you're going to grab a tallow candle, tallow's a melting affair: it'll burn up and—gone, nothing but loss, you'd better bring me a spill!"

Mavra left, and Plyushkin, sitting down in an armchair and taking pen in hand, spent, a long time turning the piece of paper in all directions, considering whether it was possible to save part of it, but finally became convinced that it was not possible; he dipped the pen into an ink pot with some moldy liquid and a multitude of flies at the bottom of it and began to write, producing letters that resembled musical notes, constantly restraining the zip of his hand, which went galloping all across the paper, stingily cramming in line upon line and thinking, not without regret, that there was still going to be a lot of blank space in between.

To such worthlessness, pettiness, vileness a man can descend! So changed he can become! Does this resemble the truth? Everything resembles the truth, everything can happen to a man. The now ardent youth would jump back in horror if he were shown his own portrait in old age. So take with you on your way, as you pass from youth's tender years into stern, hardening manhood, take with you every humane impulse, do not leave them by the wayside, you will not pick them up later! Terrible, dreadful old age looms ahead, and nothing does it give back again! The grave is more merciful, on the grave it will be written: "Here lies a man!"—but nothing can be read in the cold, unfeeling features of inhuman old age.

"And don't you know some friend of yours," Plyushkin said, folding the letter, "who might be in need of runaway souls?"

"You have runaways, too?" Chichikov asked quickly, coming to his senses.

"The point is that I have. My son-in-law made inquiries: he says the tracks are cold, but he's a military man: an expert in jingling his spurs, but as for dealing with the courts...”

"And how many might there be?"

"Oh, they'd also add up to about seventy."

"No!"

"By God, it's so! Every year someone runs away on me. These folk are mighty gluttons, got into the habit of stuffing themselves from idleness, and I myself have nothing to eat... So I'd take whatever I was given for them. You can advise your friend: if only a dozen get found, he's already making good money. A registered soul is worth about five hundred roubles."

"No, we won't let any friend get a whiff of this," Chichikov said to himself, and then explained that there was no way to find such a friend, that the cost of the procedure alone would be more than it was worth, for one had better cut off the tails of one's caftan and run as far as one can from the courts; but that if he was actually in such straits, then, being moved by compassion, he was ready to give . . . but it was such a trifle that it did not deserve mention.

"And how much would you give?" Plyushkin asked, turning Jew: his hands trembled like quicksilver.

"I'd give twenty-five kopecks per soul."

"And how would you buy them, for cash?"

"Yes, ready money."

"Only, my dear, for the sake of my beggarliness, you might give me forty kopecks."