'So that since then a good many of your peasants have died?'
'About that I can't say; I think we must ask my steward. Hey, boy! Call the steward; he was to be here to-day.'
The steward appeared. He was a man about forty who shaved his beard, wore a frock-coat and apparently led a very easy life, for his face looked plump and puffy, and the yellow complexion and little eyes betrayed that he was not a stranger to feather beds and pillows. It could be seen at once that he had made his way in life as all gentlemen's stewards do: he had once been simply a boy in the household who could read and write, then had married some Agashka, a housekeeper and favourite of the mistress, had himself become keeper of the stores and then steward. And, having become a steward, he behaved, of course, like all stewards: he hob-nobbed with those who were richer in the village and added to the burdens of the poorer; when he woke after eight o'clock in the morning he waited for the samovar and drank his tea before he went out.
'I say, my good man, how many of our peasants have died since the census was taken?'
'How many? A good many have died since then,' said the steward, and he hiccoughed, putting his hand before his mouth like a shield.
'Yes, I confess I thought so myself,' Manilov assented. 'A great many have died.'
Then he turned to Tchitchikov and added: 'Certainly, a very great many.'
