Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and such another prison, and a second justice
orders you to be transferred thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and
you go flitting from gaol to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your
new habitation, 'The last place was a good deal cleaner than this one
is, and one could play babki [31] there, and stretch one's legs, and see
a little society.'"

"'Abakum Thirov,'" Chichikov went on after a pause. "What of YOU,
brother? Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself?
Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of
freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river?"

Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation. Of what
was he thinking as he sat there? Was he thinking of the fortunes of
Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when his
thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?

"Ah, well!" he sighed, looking at his watch. "It has now gone twelve
o'clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There is still much to be done,
yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What a fool
I am!"

So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing
else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled
tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with
eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and
set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the
transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not due to a fear
of being late (seeing that the President of the Local Council was an
intimate acquaintance of his, as well as a functionary who could shorten
or prolong an interview at will, even as Homer's Zeus was able to
shorten or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became necessary to
put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes, or to enable them
to join battle), but rather to a feeling that he would like to have the
affair concluded as quickly as possible, seeing that, throughout, it had
been an anxious and difficult business. Also, he could not get rid of
the idea that his souls were unsubstantial things, and that therefore,
under the circumstances, his shoulders had better be relieved of their
load with the least possible delay. Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured,
bear-lined overcoat as he went, he had just stepped thoughtfully into
the street when he collided with a gentleman dressed in a similar
coa