Dead Souls

"There's the puppy!" said Nozdryov, taking him by the back and lifting him up with his hand. The puppy let out a rather pitiful howl.

"You, however, did not do as I told you," said Nozdryov, addressing Porfiry and carefully examining the puppy's belly, "you didn't even think of combing him out?"

"No, I did comb him out."

"Why are there fleas, then?"

"I'm not able to say. Possibly they crawled over somehow from the britzka."

"Lies, lies, you never even dreamed of combing him; I think, fool, that you even added some of your own. Look here, Chichikov, look, what ears, go ahead and feel them."

"But why, I can see as it is: a good breed!" replied Chichikov.

"No, go ahead, feel his ears on purpose!"

Chichikov, to please him, felt the ears, adding:

"Yes, he'll make a fine dog."

"And the nose, did you feel how cold it is? Hold your hand to it."

Not wishing to offend him, Chichikov also held his hand to the nose, saying:

"Keen scent."

"A genuine bulldog," Nozdryov went on. "I confess, I've long wanted to get my paws on a bulldog. Here, Porfiry, take him!"

Porfiry took the puppy under the belly and carried him out to the britzka.

"Listen, Chichikov, you absolutely must come to my place now, it's just three miles away, we'll be there in a wink, and then, if you please, you can also go to Sobakevich."

"Well, why not?" Chichikov thought to himself. "I may in fact go to Nozdryov's. He's no worse than the rest, a man like any other, and what's more he just gambled his money away. He's game for anything, as one can see, which means one may get something out of him gratis."

"All right, let's go," he said, "but, mind you, no delays, my time is precious."

"Well, dear heart, that's more like it! That's really nice, wait, I'm going to kiss you for that." Here Chichikov and Nozdryov kissed each other. "Fine, then: we'll drive off, the three of us!"

"No, thank you very much, you'd better leave me out," said the fair-haired one, "I must get home."

"Trifles, trifles, brother, I won't let you go."

"Really, my wife will be angry; and now, look, you can switch over to his britzka."

"Tut, tut, tut! Don't even think of it."

The fair-haired man was one of those people in whose character there is at first sight a certain obstinacy. Before you can open your mouth, they are already prepared to argue and, it seems, will never agree to anything that is clearly contrary to their way of thinking, will never call a stupid thing smart, and in particular will never agree to dance to another man's tune; but it always ends up that there is a certain softness in their character, that they will agree precisely to what they had rejected, will call a stupid thing smart, and will then go off dancing their best to another man's tune—in short, starts out well, ends in hell.

"Nonsense!" said Nozdryov in response to some representation from the fair-haired one, put the cap on the man's head, and— the fair-haired one followed after them.

"You didn't pay for the vodka, master . . . ," said the old woman.

"Oh, all right, all right, dearie. Listen, in-law! pay her, if you please. I haven't got a kopeck in my pocket."

"How much?" said the in-law.

"Just twenty kopecks, dearie," said the old woman.

"Lies, lies. Give her half that, it's more than enough for her."

"It's a bit short, master," said the old woman, though she took the money gratefully and hastened to run and open the door for them. She suffered no loss, since she had asked four times the price of the vodka.

The travelers took their seats. Chichikov's britzka drove alongside the britzka in which Nozdryov and his in-law were sitting, and therefore the three of them could freely converse with each other on the road. After them, constantly lagging behind, followed Nozdryov's wretched carriage, drawn by the scrawny hired hacks. In it sat Porfiry with the puppy.

As the conversation that the wayfarers conducted with each other is of no great interest for the reader, we shall do better if we tell something about Nozdryov himself, who will perhaps have occasion to play by no means the last role in our poem.