"A nice box you've got there, my dear," she said, sitting herself down next to him. "I expect you bought it in Moscow?"
"Yes, Moscow," Chichikov replied, continuing to write.
"I knew it: always good workmanship there. Two years ago my sister brought some warm children's boots from there: such sturdy goods, they're still wearing them. Oh, look at all the stamped paper you've got here!" she went on, peeking into his chest. And there was indeed no small amount of stamped paper there. "You ought to give me one sheet at least! I'm so short of it; if a petition happens to need filing in court, there's nothing to write it on."
Chichikov explained to her that this was the wrong kind of paper, that it was for drawing up deeds, not for petitions. However, to quiet her down he gave her some sheet worth a rouble. Having written the letter, he gave it to her to sign and asked for a little list of the muzhiks. It turned out that the lady landowner did not keep any records or lists, but knew almost everyone by heart; he straightaway had her dictate them to him. Some of the peasants amazed him a bit with their last names, and still more with their nicknames, so that each time, on hearing one, he would pause first and only then begin to write. He was especially struck by a certain Pyotr Saveliev Disrespect-Trough, so that he could not help saying: "My, that's a long one!" Another had "Cow's Brick" hitched to his name, still another turned out to be simply: Wheel, Ivan. As he finished writing, he drew in air slightly through his nose and sensed the enticing smell of something hot in butter.
"I humbly invite you to have a bite to eat," said the mistress.
Chichikov turned around and saw the table already laden with mushrooms, pirozhki, savory dumplings, cheesecakes, pancakes thick and thin, open pies with all kinds of fillings: onion filling, poppy seed filling, cottage cheese filling, smelt filling, and who knows what else.
"Short-crust pie with eggs!" said the mistress.
Chichikov moved closer to the short-crust pie with eggs and, having straightaway eaten slightly more than half of it, praised it. And in fact the pie was tasty in itself, but after all the fussing and tricks with the old woman it seemed tastier still.
"And some pancakes?" said the mistress.
In response to which, Chichikov rolled three pancakes up together, dipped them in melted butter, sent them into his mouth, and wiped his fingers with a napkin. After repeating this three times or so, he asked the mistress to order his britzka harnessed. Nastasya Petrovna straightaway sent Fetinya, at the same time ordering her to bring more hot pancakes.
"Your pancakes, dearie, are very tasty," said Chichikov, going for the hot ones just brought in.
"Yes, my cook makes them well," said the mistress, "but the trouble is that the harvest was bad, and the flour turned out so uncommendable . . . But, my dear, why are you in such a rush?" she said, seeing that Chichikov had taken his peaked cap in his hand, "the britzka hasn't been harnessed yet."
"They'll harness it, dearie, they'll harness it. We harness fast."
"So, now, please don't forget about the contracts."
"I won't forget, I won't forget," Chichikov said as he went out to the front hall.
"And do you buy lard?" the mistress said, following after him.
"Why shouldn't I? I'll buy it, only later."
"Around Christmastide I'll have lard."
"We'll buy it, we'll buy it, we'll buy everything, we'll buy the lard, too."
"Maybe you'll need bird feathers. I'll have bird feathers by St. Philip's fast." [8]
"Very good, very good," said Chichikov.
"There, you see, my dear, your britzka still isn't ready," the mistress said, when they came out to the porch.
"It will be, it will be. Only tell me how to get to the main road."
"How shall I do that?" said the mistress. "It's hard to explain, there's a lot of turns; unless I give you a young girl to take you there. I expect you've got room on the box where she could sit."
"Sure thing."
"Why don't I give you a girl then; she knows the way—only watch out! don't carry her off, one of mine already got carried off by some merchants."
Chichikov promised her that he would not carry the girl off, and Korobochka, reassured, started inspecting everything that was in her yard; she fixed her eyes on the housekeeper, who was carrying a wooden stoup full of honey from the larder, on a muzhik who appeared in the gateway, and gradually settled herself back wholly into her life of management. But why occupy ourselves for so long with Korobochka? Mrs. Korobochka, Mrs. Manilov, the life of management, or of non-management—pass them by! Otherwise—marvelous is the world's makeup—the merry will turn melancholy in a trice, if you stand a long time before it, and then God knows what may enter your head. Perhaps you will even start thinking: come now, does Korobochka indeed stand so low on the endless ladder of human perfection? Is there indeed so great an abyss separating her from her sister, inaccessibly fenced off behind the walls of her aristocratic house with its fragrant cast-iron stairways, shining brass, mahogany and carpets, who yawns over an unfinished book while waiting for a witty society visit, which will give her a field on which to display her sparkling intelligence and pronounce thoughts learned by rote, thoughts which, following the law of fashion, occupy the town for a whole week, thoughts not of what is going on in her house or on her estates, confused and disorderly thanks to her ignorance of management, but of what political upheaval is brewing in France, of what direction fashionable Catholicism has taken. But pass by, pass by! why talk of that? But why, then, in the midst of unthinking, merry, carefree moments does another wondrous stream rush by of itself: the laughter has not yet had time to leave your face completely, yet you are already different among the same people and your face is already lit by a different light. . .
"Ah, here's the britzka, here's the britzka!" Chichikov cried out, seeing his britzka drive up at last. "You dolt, what have you been pottering with so long? It must be your yesterday's vapors haven't aired out yet."
To this Selifan made no reply.
"Good-bye, dearie! And, say, where's your girl?"
"Hey, Pelageya!" the lady landowner said to a girl of about eleven who was standing by the porch, in a dress of homespun blue linen and with bare legs which from a distance might have been taken for boots, so caked they were with fresh mud. "Show the master the road."
Selifan helped the girl climb up on the box, who, placing one foot on the master's step, first dirtied it with mud, and only then clambered to the top and settled herself beside him. After her, Chichikov himself placed his foot on the step and, tilting the britzka on the right side, because he was a bit of a load, finally settled himself, saying:
"Ah! that's good now! Bye-bye, dearie!"
The horses started off.
Selifan was stern all the way and at the same time very attentive to his business, which always happened with him either after he had been found at fault in something, or after he had been been drunk. The horses were surprisingly well-groomed. The collar of one of them, hitherto always torn, so that the oakum kept coming out from under the leather, had been skillfully stitched up. He kept silent all the way, only cracking his whip, and not addressing any edifying speeches to his horses, though the dapple-gray would, of course, have liked to hear something admonitory, because at such times the reins lay somehow lazily in the loquacious driver's hands, and the whip wandered over their backs only for the sake of form. But this time from the sullen lips there came only monotonously unpleasant exclamations: "Come on, come on, mooncalf ! wake up! wake up!" and nothing more. Even the bay and Assessor were displeased, not once hearing either "my gentles" or "honored friends." The dapple-gray felt most disagreeable strokes on his broad and full parts. "Just look how he's got himself going!" he thought, twitching his ears slightly. "Don't worry, he knows where to hit! He won't whip right on the back, he goes and chooses a tenderer spot: catches the ears, or flicks you under the belly."
8
The six-week Advent fast leading up to Christmas is sometimes called St. Philip's fast, because it begins on the day after the saint's feast day (November 14).