Platonoff burst into a laugh.

“What is her name, and where does she live?” inquired Tchitchikoff.

“She lives in our town. Her name is Alexandra Ivanovna Khanasarova.”

“Why do not you appeal to her?” asked Platonoff, with sympathy. “It seems to me that, if she could realise the condition of your family, she would not refuse you help.”

“Well, no; she would. She is rather strong-minded; indeed, she’s a flinty old lady, Platon Mikhailovitch! And she has plenty of other courtiers to hang about her without me. There’s one man who aspires to the governorship. He has claimed relationship with her, and is trying to get hold of her fortune. God be with him! perhaps he may succeed.”

“The fool!” thought Tchitchikoff. “I myself would wait upon such an aunt as that, just as a nurse waits upon a child!”

“What dry work talking is!” said Khlobuyoff. “Hey, there, Kiriushka! fetch another bottle of champagne.”

“No, no; I shall not drink any more,” said Platonoff.

“Nor I,” added Tchitchikoff; and they both declined in a very decided manner.

“Well, then, at least promise to visit me in town. I give a dinner to our city officials on the 8th of July.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Platonoff. “A dinner in this state of affairs, when you are utterly ruined!”

“What am I to do? I can’t help it. It is my duty,” answered Khlobuyoff. “They have entertained me.”

Platonoff opened his eyes to their fullest extent. Up to that moment he had not been aware that there exist in the cities and towns of Russia certain wise individuals whose lives are an absolutely unsolvable problem. It seems as though an individual of this class were ruined; he is head over ears in debt; he has no property whatever, and yet he gives a dinner, and all his guests say that it is the last, that their host will be carried off to prison on the morrow. Ten years elapse, and the wise man is still in existence, he is still more deeply in debt than before, and is still giving a dinner; and the guests, as usual, think it will be the last, and again feel convinced that the morrow will see their host in prison.

Khlobuyoff’s house in town presented a remarkable spectacle. One day the pope, clad in his vestments, would be celebrating a prayer service; and on the morrow some French actors would be holding a rehearsal there. On one day not a crumb of bread was to be found in the place; on the following, there was a hospitable reception of artists and painters, and magnificent presents for everybody. Sometimes such very embarrassing intervals occurred, that anyone in Khlobuyoff’s place would have hung or shot himself; but he was saved from such a course by a religious turn of mind, which in him was blended in some queer fashion with a dissipated life.

At these bitter and difficult moments he perused the lives of the saints and penitents, who had schooled their minds to soar above misfortune. His soul became very tender at such times: he grew gentle of spirit, and his eyes filled with tears. He prayed; and strange to say, some unexpected succour nearly always arrived from some quarter or other: either some one of his old friends remembered him, and sent him money, or some passing stranger lady having heard his history by accident, with the impulsive generosity characteristic of the feminine heart, sent him a handsome present, or rendered him a service in some quarter of which he never heard. Then he piously acknowledged the boundless mercy of providence, had a service of prayer celebrated out of gratitude, and began his life of dissipation afresh.

“I’m sorry for him, I really am,” said Platonoff to Tchitchikoff, as they were driving away, after having taken leave of him.