ok a hand
at whist. But all was of no avail--matters kept going as awry as a
badly-bent hoop. Twice he blundered in his play, and the President of
the Council was at a loss to understand how his friend, Paul Ivanovitch,
lately so good and so circumspect a player, could perpetrate such a
mauvais pas as to throw away a particular king of spades which the
President has been "trusting" as (to quote his own expression) "he would
have trusted God." At supper, too, matters felt uncomfortable, even
though the society at Chichikov's table was exceedingly agreeable and
Nozdrev had been removed, owing to the fact that the ladies had found
his conduct too scandalous to be borne, now that the delinquent had
taken to seating himself on the floor and plucking at the skirts of
passing lady dancers. As I say, therefore, Chichikov found the situation
not a little awkward, and eventually put an end to it by leaving the
supper room before the meal was over, and long before the hour when
usually he returned to the inn.

In his little room, with its door of communication blocked with a
wardrobe, his frame of mind remained as uncomfortable as the chair in
which he was seated. His heart ached with a dull, unpleasant sensation,
with a sort of oppressive emptiness.

"The devil take those who first invented balls!" was his reflection.
"Who derives any real pleasure from them? In this province there exist
want and scarcity everywhere: yet folk go in for balls! How absurd,
too, were those overdressed women! One of them must have had a thousand
roubles on her back, and all acquired at the expense of the overtaxed
peasant, or, worse still, at that of the conscience of her neighbour.
Yes, we all know why bribes are accepted, and why men become crooked
in soul. It is all done to provide wives--yes, may the pit swallow them
up!--with fal-lals. And for what purpose? That some woman may not have
to reproach her husband with the fact that, say, the Postmaster's wife
is wearing a better dress than she is--a dress which has cost a thousand
roubles! 'Balls and gaiety, balls and gaiety' is the constant cry. Yet
what folly balls are! They do not consort with the Russian spirit and
genius, and the devil only knows why we have them. A grown, middle-aged
man--a man dressed in black, and looking as stiff as a poker--suddenly
takes the floor and begins shuffling his feet about, while another man,
even though conversing with a companion on important business, will,