can't say a word—yes really; and it's always like that.'
'One must keep a store of common sense,' said Tchitchikov, 'and consult one's common sense at every minute, have a friendly conversation with it.'
'Well!' said Hlobuev. 'Really it seems to me that we are not created for common sense. I don't believe any one of us is sensible. If I do see that some one is actually living respectably and making and saving money I don't trust even him: the devil will confound him in his old age, he will suddenly let it all go! And every one is like that among us, the gentry and the peasants, the cultured and the uncultured. There was a clever peasant who, starting from nothing, made a hundred thousand, and when he had made a hundred thousand he took a silly craze into his head to have a bath of champagne, and he did bathe in champagne. But now I believe we have looked over everything. There is nothing more. I don't know whether you would like to look at the mill. It has no wheel, though, and its works are good for nothing.'
'What's the use of looking at it then?' said Tchitchikov.
'In that case let us go home.'
And they all turned their steps homeward.
The sights that met them on their way back were of the same nature. Slovenliness and disorder seemed to show their ugliness on every side. Everything was neglected and had run
