anything that it has been his lot to see before, which for once awakens in him a feeling unlike what he is destined to feel all his life. In every life, joy flashes gay and radiant across the sorrows of all sorts of which the web of our life is woven, just as sometimes a splendid carriage with glittering harness, picturesque horses, and windows flashing in the light suddenly darts by some poor squalid little village which has till then seen nought but rustic carts: and long afterwards the peasants stand, hat in hand, gaping with open mouths, though the wonderful carriage has long since whirled by and vanished out of sight. Just in the same way this fair young lady has appeared utterly unexpectedly in our story and vanished again. Had some boy of twenty been in Tchitchikov's place—an hussar, a student, or simply a young man beginning his career in life—my God, what would not have awakened, what would not have stirred, what would not have spoken in his heart! For long minutes he would have stood bewildered on the spot, gazing vacantly into the distance, forgetting the road and the reproofs and chidings that await him for his delay, forgetting himself, his duty, the world and everything in it.
But our hero was a man of mature years and of a cool and calculating temper. He too grew pensive and reflected but more practically, his reflections were not so irresponsible but were, one may say, very much to the point. 'A fine wench,' he said, opening his snuff-box and taking a pinch of snuff. 'But what is it that is especially fine in
