that one wants to stuff one's fingers in one's ears. He is all red in the face; he's too fond of good brandy, I'll be bound. No doubt he wasted his money, being an officer, or some stage actress turned his head, so now he has to sympathise!'
Tchitchikov tried to explain that his sympathy was not of the same sort as the captain's, and that he was ready to prove it, not in hollow words, but in action, and, coming straight to business, he announced his readiness to take upon himself the duty of paying the tax for all the peasants who had died in this unfortunate way. The offer seemed to astound Plyushkin. He stared at him with wide-open eyes and finally asked: 'Why, have you been in military service, sir?'
'No,' said Tchitchikov rather slyly, 'I was in the civil service.'
'In the civil service,' said Plyushkin, and he began munching his lips, as though he were eating something. 'But how do you mean? Why, it will be a loss to you?'
'To please you, I am ready to face the loss.'
'Ah, my good sir! ah, my benefactor!' cried Plyushkin, not observing in his delight that a piece of snuff of the colour of coffee grounds was peeping out of his nose in a most unpicturesque way, and that the skirts of his dressing-gown had flown apart and were displaying under-garments not at all suitable for exhibition. 'You are bringing comfort to an old man! Oh Lord! Oh holy saints! …' Plyushkin could say no more. But before a minute had passed, the joy
