ce, and having on its further margin
the grey, scattered log huts of a peasant village. In the water a great
commotion was in progress. In the first place, some twenty men, immersed
to the knee, to the breast, or to the neck, were dragging a large
fishing-net inshore, while, in the second place, there was entangled in
the same, in addition to some fish, a stout man shaped precisely like a
melon or a hogshead. Greatly excited, he was shouting at the top of his
voice: "Let Kosma manage it, you lout of a Denis! Kosma, take the end
of the rope from Denis! Don't bear so hard on it, Thoma Bolshoy [41]! Go
where Thoma Menshov [42] is! Damn it, bring the net to land, will you!"
From this it became clear that it was not on his own account that the
stout man was worrying. Indeed, he had no need to do so, since his fat
would in any case have prevented him from sinking. Yes, even if he
had turned head over heels in an effort to dive, the water would
persistently have borne him up; and the same if, say, a couple of men
had jumped on his back--the only result would have been that he would
have become a trifle deeper submerged, and forced to draw breath by
spouting bubbles through his nose. No, the cause of his agitation was
lest the net should break, and the fish escape: wherefore he was urging
some additional peasants who were standing on the bank to lay hold of
and to pull at, an extra rope or two.

"That must be the barin--Colonel Koshkarev," said Selifan.

"Why?" asked Chichikov.

"Because, if you please, his skin is whiter than the rest, and he has
the respectable paunch of a gentleman."

Meanwhile good progress was being made with the hauling in of the barin;
until, feeling the ground with his feet, he rose to an upright position,
and at the same moment caught sight of the koliaska, with Chichikov
seated therein, descending the declivity.

"Have you dined yet?" shouted the barin as, still entangled in the net,
he approached the shore with a huge fish on his back. With one hand
shading his eyes from the sun, and the other thrown backwards, he
looked, in point of pose, like the Medici Venus emerging from her bath.

"No," replied Chichikov, raising his cap, and executing a series of
bows.

"Then thank God for that," rejoined the gentleman.

"Why?" asked Chichikov with no little curiosity, and still holding his
cap over his head.

"Because of THIS. Cast off the net, Thoma Menshov, and pick up that
sturgeon for the gentle