Whether Chichikov’s words now voiced sufficiently the note of persuasion, or whether Tientietnikov happened, at the moment, to be unusually disposed to frankness, at all events the young landowner sighed, and then responded as he expelled a puff of tobacco smoke:
“To attain anything, Paul Ivanovitch, one needs to have been born under a lucky star.”
And he related to his guest the whole history of his acquaintanceship and subsequent rupture with the General.
As Chichikov listened to the recital, and gradually realised that the affair had arisen merely out of a chance word on the General’s part, he was astounded beyond measure, and gazed at Tientietnikov without knowing what to make of him.
“Andrei Ivanovitch,” he said at length, “what was there to take offence at?”
“Nothing, as regards the actual words spoken,” replied the other. “The offence lay, rather, in the insult conveyed in the General’s tone.” Tientietnikov was a kindly and peaceable man, yet his eyes flashed as he said this, and his voice vibrated with wounded feeling.
“Yet, even then, need you have taken it so much amiss?”
“What? Could I have gone on visiting him as before?”
“Certainly. No great harm had been done?”
“I disagree with you. Had he been an old man in a humble station of life, instead of a proud and swaggering officer, I should not have minded so much. But, as it was, I could not, and would not, brook his words.”