s profiting, I cannot adequately express what takes
place in a man's soul. And that, not because of the growth in his
wealth--money is money and no more--but because he will feel that
everything is the work of his own hands, and that he has been the cause
of everything, and its creator, and that from him, as from a magician,
there has flowed bounty and goodness for all. In what other calling will
you find such delights in prospect?" As he spoke, Kostanzhoglo raised
his face, and it became clear that the wrinkles had fled from it, and
that, like the Tsar on the solemn day of his crowning, Kostanzhoglo's
whole form was diffusing light, and his features had in them a gentle
radiance. "In all the world," he repeated, "you will find no joys like
these, for herein man imitates the God who projected creation as the
supreme happiness, and now demands of man that he, too, should act as
the creator of prosperity. Yet there are folk who call such functions
tedious!"

Kostanzhoglo's mellifluous periods fell upon Chichikov's ear like
the notes of a bird of paradise. From time to time he gulped, and his
softened eyes expressed the pleasure which it gave him to listen.

"Constantine, it is time to leave the table," said the lady of the
house, rising from her seat. Every one followed her example, and
Chichikov once again acted as his hostess's escort--although with less
dexterity of deportment than before, owing to the fact that this time
his thoughts were occupied with more essential matters of procedure.

"In spite of what you say," remarked Platon as he walked behind the
pair, "I, for my part, find these things wearisome."

But the master of the house paid no attention to his remark, for he was
reflecting that his guest was no fool, but a man of serious thought
and speech who did not take things lightly. And, with the thought,
Kostanzhoglo grew lighter in soul, as though he had warmed himself with
his own words, and were exulting in the fact that he had found some one
capable of listening to good advice.

When they had settled themselves in the cosy, candle-lighted
drawing-room, with its balcony and the glass door opening out into the
garden--a door through which the stars could be seen glittering amid the
slumbering tops of the trees--Chichikov felt more comfortable than he
had done for many a day past. It was as though, after long journeying,
his own roof-tree had received him once more--had received him when
his quest had be