Мертвые души
Chapter 7
’”
“‘AbakumThirov,’”Chichikovwentonafterapause.“WhatofYOU,brother?Where,andinwhatcapacity,areYOUdisportingyourself?HaveyougonetotheVolgacountry,andbecomebittenwiththelifeoffreedom,andjoinedthefishermenoftheriver?”
Here,breakingoff,Chichikovrelapsedintosilentmeditation.Ofwhatwashethinkingashesatthere?WashethinkingofthefortunesofAbakumThirov,orwashemeditatingasmeditateseveryRussianwhenhisthoughtsonceturntothejoysofanemancipatedexistence?
“Ah,well!”hesighed,lookingathiswatch.“Ithasnowgonetwelveo’clock.WhyhaveIsoforgottenmyself?Thereisstillmuchtobedone,yetIgoshuttingmyselfupandlettingmythoughtswander!WhatafoolIam!”
Sosaying,heexchangedhisScottishcostume(ofashirtandnothingelse)forattireofamoreEuropeannature;afterwhichhepulledtightthewaistcoatoverhisamplestomach,sprinkledhimselfwitheau-de-Cologne,tuckedhispapersunderhisarm,tookhisfurcap,andsetoutforthemunicipaloffices,forthepurposeofcompletingthetransferofsouls.
