“He has the face of a robber,” said Sobakevitch. “Were you to give him a knife, and to turn him loose on a turnpike, he would cut your throat for two kopecks. And the same with the Vice-Governor. The pair are just Gog and Magog.”
“Evidently he is not on good terms with them,” thought Chichikov to himself. “I had better pass to the Chief of Police, which whom he DOES seem to be friendly.” Accordingly he added aloud: “For my own part, I should give the preference to the Head of the Gendarmery. What a frank, outspoken nature he has! And what an element of simplicity does his expression contain!”
“He is mean to the core,” remarked Sobakevitch coldly. “He will sell you and cheat you, and then dine at your table. Yes, I know them all, and every one of them is a swindler, and the town a nest of rascals engaged in robbing one another. Not a man of the lot is there but would sell Christ. Yet stay: ONE decent fellow there is—the Public Prosecutor; though even HE, if the truth be told, is little better than a pig.”
After these eulogia Chichikov saw that it would be useless to continue running through the list of officials—more especially since suddenly he had remembered that Sobakevitch was not at any time given to commending his fellow man.
“Let us go to luncheon, my dear,” put in Theodulia Ivanovna to her spouse.
“Yes; pray come to table,” said Sobakevitch to his guest; whereupon they consumed the customary glass of vodka (accompanied by sundry snacks of salted cucumber and other dainties) with which Russians, both in town and country, preface a meal. Then they filed into the dining-room in the wake of the hostess, who sailed on ahead like a goose swimming across a pond. The small dining-table was found to be laid for four persons—the fourth place being occupied by a lady or a young girl (it would have been difficult to say which exactly) who might have been either a relative, the housekeeper, or a casual visitor. Certain persons in the world exist, not as personalities in themselves, but as spots or specks on the personalities of others. Always they are to be seen sitting in the same place, and holding their heads at exactly the same angle, so that one comes within an ace of mistaking them for furniture, and thinks to oneself that never since the day of their birth can they have spoken a single word.
“My dear,” said Sobakevitch, “the cabbage soup is excellent.” With that he finished his portion, and helped himself to a generous measure of niania [25]—the dish which follows shtchi and consists of a sheep’s stomach stuffed with black porridge, brains, and other things. “What niania this is!” he added to Chichikov. “Never would you get such stuff in a town, where one is given the devil knows what.”
“Nevertheless the Governor keeps a fair table,” said Chichikov.
“Yes, but do you know what all the stuff is MADE OF?” retorted Sobakevitch. “If you DID know you would never touch it.”
“Of course I am not in a position to say how it is prepared, but at least the pork cutlets and the boiled fish seemed excellent.”