"No, it's too much," said Chichikov, as they left the place. "It's even piggish. Are you uncomfortable, Platon Mikhalych? Such a comfortable carriage it was, and suddenly it's become uncomfortable. Petrushka, you must have been fool enough to start repacking? There are boxes sticking out everywhere!"

Platon laughed.

"That I can explain for you," he said. "Pyotr Petrovich put things in for the road."

"Right you are," said Petrushka, turning around from the box, "we were ordered to put everything in the coach—pasterries and pies."

"Right, sir, Pavel Ivanovich," said Selifan, turning around from the box, merrily, "such a respectable master. A regaling landowner! Sent us down a glass of champagne each. Right, sir, and ordered them to give us food from the table—very good food, of a delicate aromer. There's never yet been such a respectful master."

"You see? He's satisfied everyone," said Platon. "Tell me simply, however: do you have time to stop by at a certain estate, some six miles from here? I'd like to say good-bye to my sister and brother-in-law."

"With great pleasure," said Chichikov.

"You won't be any the worse for it: my brother-in-law is quite a remarkable man."

"In what sense?" said Chichikov.

"He's the foremost manager that has ever existed in Russia. In a little over ten years he's made it so that a run-down property that used to bring in barely twenty thousand now brings in two hundred thousand."

"Ah, a respectable man! Such a man's life merits being told for people's instruction! I'll be very, very pleased to make his acquaintance. And what is his name?"

"Kostanzhoglo."[61]

"And his first name and patronymic?"

"Konstantin Fyodorovich."

"Konstantin Fyodorovich Kostanzhoglo. Very pleased to make his acquaintance. It's instructive to get to know such a man." And Chichikov started inquiring about Kostanzhoglo, and everything he learned about him from Platonov was indeed amazing.

"Look here, this is where his land begins," said Platonov, pointing to the fields. "You'll see at once the difference from the others. Coachman, take the road to the left here. Do you see this young forest? It's been planted. With someone else, it wouldn't have grown that much in fifteen years, but his grew in eight. Look, the forest ends here. Now it's a wheat field; and after a hundred and fifty acres there will be a forest again, also planted, and so on. Look at the field, how much thicker the growth is than anywhere else."

"I see that. How does he do it?"

"Well, you can ask him, you'll see that . . .[Four illegible words in Gogol's manuscript.—Trans.] He's a know-all, such a know-all as you won't find anywhere else. He not only knows which plant likes which kind of soil, he also knows in what sort of surroundings, next to what kind of trees a certain grain should be planted. We all have our land cracking with drought, but he doesn't. He calculates how much humidity is necessary, and grows enough trees; with him everything plays a double or triple role: the forest is a forest, but the fields profit from the leaves and the shade. And he's like that with everything."

"An amazing man!" said Chichikov, gazing curiously at the fields.

Everything was in extraordinarily good order. The woods were fenced off; there were cattle yards everywhere, also arranged not without reason and enviably well tended; the haystacks were of gigantic size. Everywhere was abundance and fatness. One could see at once that a top-notch owner lived here. Having climbed a small rise, they saw on the other side a large estate scattered over three hillsides. Everything here was rich: smooth streets, sturdy cottages; if a cart stood somewhere, the cart was a sturdy one and new as could be; if one came upon a horse, the horse was a fine and well-fed one; or upon horned cattle, then they were of the choicest quality. Even the muzhik's pig had an air of nobility. Precisely here, one could see, lived those muzhiks who, as the song says, shovel silver with their spades. There were no English parks here, no gazebos, whimsical bridges, or various avenues in front of the house. Workshops stretched between the cottages and the master's yard. On the roof there was a big lantern, not for the view, but for seeing where, and in what shop, and how the work was going on.

They drove up to the house. The owner was absent; they were met by his wife, Platonov's sister, fair-haired, fair-skinned, with a real Russian expression, as handsome, but also as half-asleep, as he was. It seemed she did not care much for what others cared about, either because her husband's all-absorbing activity left no share for her, or because she belonged, by her very constitution, to that philosophical order of people who, while having feelings, and thoughts, and intelligence, live somehow only halfway, look at life with half an eye, and seeing its upsetting struggles and anxieties, say: "Let them rage, the fools! So much the worse for them."

"Greetings, sister!" said Platonov. "And where is Konstantin?"

"I don't know. He ought to have been back long ago. He must have gotten busy."

Chichikov paid no attention to the hostess. He was interested in looking over the dwelling of this extraordinary man. He hoped to discover in it the properties of the owner himself, as one can tell by the shell what sort of oyster or snail sits in it. But there was nothing of the sort. The rooms were completely characterless-— spacious, and nothing else. No frescoes, no paintings on the walls, no bronzes on the tables, no whatnots with china or cups, no vases of flowers or statuettes—in short, it was somehow bare. Plain, ordinary furniture, and a grand piano standing to one side, and covered with dust at that: apparently the mistress rarely sat down to it. From the drawing room [the door opened to the master's study] [The bracketed words were supplied by the editor of the 1857 edition of Dead Souls. — Trans.]; but there, too, everything was the same—plain and bare. One could see that the owner came home only to rest, not to live there; that for thinking over his plans and ideas he had no need of a study with upholstered armchairs and various comfortable conveniences, and that his life consisted not of charming reveries by the blazing fireplace, but of real business. His thoughts proceeded at once from circumstances, the moment they presented themselves, and turned at once into business, without any need of being written down.

"Ah! here he is! He's coming, he's coming!" said Platonov.

Chichikov also rushed to the window. A man of about forty, lively, with a swarthy appearance, was coming up to the porch. He was wearing a velour peaked cap. On both sides of him, their hats off, walked two persons of lower rank—walked, talking and discussing something with him. One seemed to be a simple muzhik; the other, in a blue sibirka,[62] some foxy-looking itinerant dealer.

"Order them to take it, then, my dear!" the muzhik said, bowing.

"No, brother, I've already told you twenty times: don't bring any more. I've got so much material stored up that I don't know what to do with it."

"With you, dear Konstantin Fyodorovich, it will all be put to use. Such a clever man as you is not to be found in the whole world. Your healthfulness will find a place for anything. So give orders to take it."

"I need hands, brother; bring me workers, not materials."