to see the other horses over the partitions; and if any one of them, even the most distant of the lot, took a foolish fancy to neigh, it was possible to hear him at once.
In short, they all felt quite at home. As far as the business upon which Pavel Ivanovitch was traversing far-reaching Russia—the dead souls—was concerned, he had become extremely cautious and delicate, even when he had to deal with downright fools. And he had to be all the more cautious with Tentyotnikoff, for the latter was certainly not a fool; he read books, and philosophised, and tried to explain to himself the cause of everything. “No; it will be better to see whether he cannot be approached more successfully in another manner,” thought Tchitchikoff, who, during his chats with the house-serfs, had found out that their master had formerly been in the habit of going to see his neighbour, the general, very frequently. He had learnt, too, that the general had a daughter; that their master had evidently been made for the young lady, and the young lady for their master. However, they had fallen out all of a sudden, and had parted. Moreover, our hero himself had observed that Andrei Ivanovitch was always sketching heads with his pen and pencil, and that these heads all resembled one another.
Once, after dinner, while twirling his silver snuff-box round as usual, our hero began as follows: “You have everything in the world, Andrei Ivanovitch; yes, everything save one.”
“What is that?” inquired the host, emitting a wreath of smoke.
“A companion for your life,” said Tchitchikoff.
But Andrei Ivanovitch said nothing, and there the conversation rested.
Tchitchikoff was not disconcerted, however; in fact, he chose another opportunity, just before supper. While they were discussing one thing and another, he suddenly remarked, “Why, really, Andrei Ivanovitch, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you if you married.”
Not a word did Tentyotnikoff respond to this, exactly as though the subject were displeasing to him.
Still Tchitchikoff was not discouraged. He selected a third occasion, after supper, and then spoke thus: “However much I turn your circumstances over in my mind, it seems to me quite necessary for you to marry: you are falling into hypochondria.”
On this occasion, Tchitchikoff’s words were very decisive, or else Tentyotnikoff’s frame of mind was favourable to frankness —at all events, the young fellow sighed, and said, “In love, as in everything else, one needs to be born lucky, Pavel Ivanovitch.” And then he related to him the whole history of his acquaintance with the general, and of the quarrel, just as it had taken place.
When Tchitchikoff had heard the whole story, word by word, and learnt that the entire matter had arisen from the word thou, he was taken aback. For a moment he looked Tentyotnikoff fixedly in the eyes, and could not decide whether he was simply a fool or a thorough lunatic.
“Pray, Andrei Ivanovitch,” he said at length, taking him by both hands, “what insult was there in that? What is there offensive about the word thou?”
“There’s nothing offensive about the word itself,” answered Tentyotnikoff; “but there may be in its application, in the way in which it is uttered; that’s where the insult lies. Thou—that signifies, ‘Recollect that you are a good-for-nothing fellow. I only receive you here because there is no one better than you in the neighbourhood; but now a certain Princess Yuzyakina has come, so learn to know your place, and remain on the threshold.’ That’s what it means!” So saying, the eyes of the gentle and peaceable Andrei Ivanovitch flashed: and the irritation of his wounded feelings was audible in his voice.
“But even in that sense, what harm does it do?” asked Tchitchikoff.
“What! Do you think that I should continue to visit him after such misconduct?”