Here the philosopher-lawyer stared at Tchitchikoff with all his eyes, and again it was with satisfaction similar to that with which a teacher expounds a treacherous passage in the Russian grammar to his pupil.

“Yes, this man is truly wise,” said Tchitchikoff to himself; and he took leave of the jurisconsult in the most amiable and agreeable frame of mind.

Perfectly reassured, he flung himself with careless grace on the elastic cushions of his calash. Then he ordered Selifan to throw the hood back (he had gone to the lawyer with the hood raised, and even with the apron buttoned up), and assumed the exact attitude of a retired colonel of hussars, or of Vishnepokromoff himself, throwing one leg gracefully over the other, and pleasantly presenting to all who met him a face which fairly beamed from beneath a new silk hat, tilted somewhat on one side. Selifan was ordered to drive in the direction of the bazaar. The merchants, both those belonging to the town and the strangers, took off their hats respectfully as they stood at the doors of their shops; and Tchitchikoff, not without dignity, raised his hat in return.

Many of them were already acquainted with him; others, although strangers, were captivated with the attractive appearance of a gentleman who so well understood how to bear himself, and they greeted him as though they knew him. The fair in the city of Tfuslavl had not yet come to an end: the horse and agricultural fair had closed, and that which embraced fine wares for gentlemen of the highest breeding had opened. The merchants who had arrived on wheels had made up their minds not to return except on runners.

“Pray enter, sir, pray enter, sir!” said the man at the clothshop, striking a politely affected attitude as he stood with his head bare, in a German surtout of Moscow make, and holding his hat in one hand while with two fingers of the other he stroked his round, cleanly shaven chin; at the same time displaying an expression of dainty refinement on his face.

Tchitchikoff entered the shop. “Show me some cloth, my good fellow,” said he.

The amiable merchant immediately lifted a loose board in the counter; and having thus made an entrance for himself, he found himself inside his shop, with his back to his goods and his face to his customer. Then, with uncovered head and flourishing his hat, he saluted Tchitchikoff once more. Then he put on his hat, and, bending gracefully forwards with both hands resting on the counter, he spoke thus: “What sort of cloth, sir? Do you prefer it of English make, or of domestic manufacture?”

“Of domestic manufacture,” replied Tchitchikoff; “but it must be of the best quality, of the sort called English.”

“What colours would you like to look at?” inquired the shopmen, still swaying to and fro, with his hands still resting on the counter.

“Of an olive or bottle-green tint, or else cranberry colour,” said Tchitchikoff.

“I may assert that you shall have the very best sort, than which no better is to be found except in enlightened capitals. Boy, fetch the cloth with number 34 upstairs. That’s not it, my friend. No, fetch the other! Why do you always feel yourself above your station, you penniless scamp? Throw that here. Yes, here is the very cloth.” And unfolding it from the other end, the shopman lifted it almost to Tchitchikoff’s very nose, so that our hero could not only feel its silky gloss with his hand, but even smell it.

“Very good, but that is not what I want,” said Tchitchikoff. “I have served in the custom-house service, you see, so I must have the very finest quality; and it must also be of a reddish tint, with rather a cranberry tinge.”

“I understand, sir: what you really want is the shade which is now coming into fashion. I have some other cloths of the very best quality. I warn you that the price is high, but they are of the very finest quality.”