ne
additions. Also, such crowds of feminine shoppers began to repair to the
Bazaar as almost to constitute a crush, and something like a procession
of carriages ensued, so long grew the rank of vehicles. For their part,
the tradesmen had the joy of seeing highly priced dress materials which
they had brought at fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now
suddenly become tradeable, and go off with a rush. For instance, on one
occasion a lady appeared at Mass in a bustle which filled the church to
an extent which led the verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw
to the porch, lest the lady's toilet should be soiled in the crush.
Even Chichikov could not help privately remarking the attention which he
aroused. On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on
his table a note addressed to himself. Whence it had come, and who had
delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the
person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer.
Beginning abruptly with the words "I MUST write to you," the letter went
on to say that between a certain pair of souls there existed a bond of
sympathy; and this verity the epistle further confirmed with rows of
full stops to the extent of nearly half a page. Next there followed a
few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable that I have no choice
but to quote them. "What, I would ask, is this life of ours?" inquired
the writer. "'Tis nought but a vale of woe. And what, I would ask, is
the world? 'Tis nought but a mob of unthinking humanity." Thereafter,
incidentally remarking that she had just dropped a tear to the memory of
her dear mother, who had departed this life twenty-five years ago, the
(presumably) lady writer invited Chichikov to come forth into the wilds,
and to leave for ever the city where, penned in noisome haunts, folk
could not even draw their breath. In conclusion, the writer gave way to
unconcealed despair, and wound up with the following verses:

"Two turtle doves to thee, one day,
My dust will show, congealed in death;
And, cooing wearily, they'll say:
'In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.'"

True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the
quatrain at least conformed to the mode then prevalent. Neither
signature nor date were appended to the document, but only a postscript
expressing a conjecture that Chichikov's own heart would tell him who
the writer was, and statin