house. He wanted to drive to Plyushkin, whose serfs, according to Sobakevitch, were dying off like flies; but he did not want Sobakevitch to know it. When the chaise had reached the end of the village, he called to the first peasant he met, a man who had picked up a very thick log, and like an indefatigable ant was dragging it on his shoulders along the road towards his hut.
'Hey, bushy beard! How's one to get from here to Plyushkin's without passing your master's house?'
The peasant seemed to be perplexed by the question.
'Why, don't you know?'
'No, sir, I don't know.'
'Tut, tut! Why, you have grey hairs coming! Don't you know the miser Plyushkin who doesn't feed his serfs properly?'
'Oh, the ... in rags and patches!' cried the peasant. He put in a substantive which was very apt but impossible in polite conversation, and so we omit it. It may however be surmised that the expression was very appropriate, for long after the peasant was out of sight, when they had driven a good way further, Tchitchikov was still laughing as he sat in his chaise. The Russian people express themselves vividly. And if a nickname is bestowed on any one, it becomes part and parcel of him, he carries it along with him into the service and into retirement and to Petersburg and to the ends of the earth. And whatever dodge he tries to ennoble his nickname, even
