ed and twenty of them in all. Chichikov grinned
with joy at the sight of the multitude. Stuffing the list into his
pocket, he remarked that, to complete the transaction, it would be
necessary to return to the town.

"To the town?" repeated Plushkin. "But why? Moreover, how could I leave
the house, seeing that every one of my servants is either a thief or
a rogue? Day by day they pilfer things, until soon I shall have not a
single coat to hang on my back."

"Then you possess acquaintances in the town?"

"Acquaintances? No. Every acquaintance whom I ever possessed has either
left me or is dead. But stop a moment. I DO know the President of the
Council. Even in my old age he has once or twice come to visit me, for
he and I used to be schoolfellows, and to go climbing walls together.
Yes, him I do know. Shall I write him a letter?"

"By all means."

"Yes, him I know well, for we were friends together at school."

Over Plushkin's wooden features there had gleamed a ray of warmth--a
ray which expressed, if not feeling, at all events feeling's pale
reflection. Just such a phenomenon may be witnessed when, for a brief
moment, a drowning man makes a last re-appearance on the surface of a
river, and there rises from the crowd lining the banks a cry of hope
that even yet the exhausted hands may clutch the rope which has been
thrown him--may clutch it before the surface of the unstable element
shall have resumed for ever its calm, dread vacuity. But the hope is
short-lived, and the hands disappear. Even so did Plushkin's face,
after its momentary manifestation of feeling, become meaner and more
insensible than ever.

"There used to be a sheet of clean writing paper lying on the table," he
went on. "But where it is now I cannot think. That comes of my servants
being such rascals."

Whit that he fell to looking also under the table, as well as to
hurrying about with cries of "Mavra, Mavra!" At length the call was
answered by a woman with a plateful of the sugar of which mention has
been made; whereupon there ensued the following conversation.

"What have you done with my piece of writing paper, you pilferer?"

"I swear that I have seen no paper except the bit with which you covered
the glass."

"Your very face tells me that you have made off with it."

"Why should I make off with it? 'Twould be of no use to me, for I can
neither read nor write."

"You lie! You have taken it away for the sexton to scribble upon."

"W