ulging in that species of wild gaiety which, when
intoxicated, even a burglar affects. No, not a particle of this was
there in him. Nor, for that matter, was there in him a particle of
anything at all, whether good or bad: which complete negativeness
of character produced rather a strange effect. In the same way, his
wizened, marble-like features reminded one of nothing in particular, so
primly proportioned were they. Only the numerous pockmarks and dimples
with which they were pitted placed him among the number of those over
whose faces, to quote the popular saying, "The Devil has walked by night
to grind peas." In short, it would seem that no human agency could have
approached such a man and gained his goodwill. Yet Chichikov made the
effort. As a first step, he took to consulting the other's convenience
in all manner of insignificant trifles--to cleaning his pens carefully,
and, when they had been prepared exactly to the Chief Clerk's liking,
laying them ready at his elbow; to dusting and sweeping from his table
all superfluous sand and tobacco ash; to procuring a new mat for his
inkstand; to looking for his hat--the meanest-looking hat that ever
the world beheld--and having it ready for him at the exact moment when
business came to an end; to brushing his back if it happened to become
smeared with whitewash from a wall. Yet all this passed as unnoticed
as though it had never been done. Finally, Chichikov sniffed into his
superior's family and domestic life, and learnt that he possessed a
grown-up daughter on whose face also there had taken place a nocturnal,
diabolical grinding of peas. HERE was a quarter whence a fresh attack
might be delivered! After ascertaining what church the daughter attended
on Sundays, our hero took to contriving to meet her in a neat suit and a
well-starched dickey: and soon the scheme began to work. The surly Chief
Clerk wavered for a while; then ended by inviting Chichikov to tea. Nor
could any man in the office have told you how it came about that before
long Chichikov had removed to the Chief Clerk's house, and become a
person necessary--indeed indispensable--to the household, seeing that he
bought the flour and the sugar, treated the daughter as his betrothed,
called the Chief Clerk "Papenka," and occasionally kissed "Papenka's"
hand. In fact, every one at the office supposed that, at the end of
February (i.e. before the beginning of Lent) there would take place
a wedding. Nay, the surly