“In what respect is not your life agreeable?” said the president.

“It’s not good, not good!” said Sobakevitch, shaking his head. “Judge for yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I have lived for fifty years and I have never once been ill; I have never had so much as a headache or an ulcer or a boil. Now that is not a good omen. Some time or other I shall have to pay for all this!” and hereupon Sobakevitch became plunged into profound melancholy.

“Eh, what a man!” thought Tchitchikoff and the president simultaneously. “What a thing he has hit upon to fret about!”

“I have a little note for you,” said Tchitchikoff, pulling Pliushkin’s letter out of his pocket.

“From whom?” said the president. And breaking the seal, he exclaimed, “Ah! from Pliushkin. Is he still vegetating on in this world? That’s a case of fate. He used to be the most sensible, the wealthiest of men. But now——”

“He’s a dog!” said Sobakevitch; “a scoundrel! He has starved nearly all his people to death.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the president, when he had finished reading the letter. “I am ready to be his agent. When do you wish to complete the sale—now, or later on?”

“Now,” said Tchitchikoff; “I should like it to be to-day, if possible, for I wish to go out of town to-morrow. I have brought the draft bills of sale with me.”

“That is all right, only, whatever may be your wishes in the matter, we shall not let you leave us so soon. The deeds of sale will be completed to-day, but you must remain with us. I will give the necessary orders immediately,” added the president; and he opened the door to the offices, which were filled with functionaries, who resembled industrious bees, scattered over their comb—if, indeed, a honeycomb can be compared to government offices. “Is Ivan Antonovitch here?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied a voice within.

“Send him here.”

Ivan Antonovitch, the man with the jug-like face, presented himself in the audience-chamber, and bowed respectfully.

“Here,” said Ivan Grigorievitch, “take all these bills of the sale of serfs, and have them——”

“And don’t forget, Ivan Grigorievitch,” broke in Sobakevitch, “that at least two witnesses will be required on both sides. Send to the procurator at once; he is a man of leisure, and is probably at home. Lawyer Zalotukha, the greatest robber on earth, does all his work for him. The inspector of the Medical Institute—he’s a gentleman of leisure, too, and is probably at home, if he has not gone off somewhere to play at cards. But there are plenty who are nearer at hand: Trukhatchevsky, Byegushkin—they are all useless encumberers of the earth!”

“Exactly, exactly!” said the president; and he immediately despatched a clerk in search of all of them.

“I must also request you,” said Tchitchikoff, “to send for the representative of a lady landowner, with whom I have concluded a purchase—the son of the protopope Father Kirill; he serves under you.”

“Certainly; we’ll send for him,” said the president. “Everything shall be done, and you need not give anything to the officials; that I must beg of you. My friends must not pay.” So saying, he immediately gave some orders to Ivan Antonovitch, which were evidently displeasing to the latter. The deeds seemed to produce a favourable impression on the president, especially when he perceived that the purchases were for a large number of serfs, who must be worth fully a hundred thousand roubles. He looked Tchitchikoff