stand at last on a solid foundation and not on some free-thinking chimera of youth.'
Hereupon he very appropriately fell to abusing the liberalism of all young people—not without reason, indeed. But it is a remarkable fact that there was all the while a lack of assurance in his words, as though he were saying to himself: 'Ah, my lad, you are lying and lying hard too!'
He did not even glance at Sobakevitch or Manilov for fear of detecting something in their faces. But he had no need to be afraid. Sobakevitch's face did not stir a muscle, while Manilov, enchanted by his phrases, merely nodded his head approvingly in the attitude of a musical amateur when a prima donna outdoes the violin and shrills out a note higher than any bird's throat could produce.
'But why don't you tell Ivan Grigoryevitch,' Sobakevitch put in, 'what sort of stuff you have got? And you, Ivan Grigoryevitch, why don't you ask what his new acquisitions are like? They are something like peasants! Real gems! Do you know I have sold him Miheyev, my coach-builder?'
'You don't mean to say you have sold your Miheyev?' said the president. 'I know Miheyev the coachbuilder, a splendid craftsman; he did up my light cart. But, excuse me, how's that … Why, you told me that he was dead. …'
'Who? Miheyev dead?' said Sobakevitch, without a trace of embarrassment. 'It's his brother that's dead, but he is full of life and
