Мертвые души
Chapter 7
Ofcourse,ifyoudonotknowyourbusinessIcaneasilyasksomeoneelse.”
Tothisthetchinovniksmadenoreplybeyondpointingtowardsacorneroftheroomwhereanelderlymanappearedtobeengagedinsortingsomepapers.AccordinglyChichikovandManilovthreadedtheirwayinhisdirectionthroughthedesks;whereupontheelderlymanbecameviolentlybusy.
“Wouldyoumindtellingme,”saidChichikov,bowing,“whetherthisisthedeskforserfaffairs?”
Theelderlymanraisedhiseyes,andsaidstiffly:
“ThisisNOTthedeskforserfaffairs.”
“Whereisit,then?”
“IntheSerfDepartment.”
“AndwheremighttheSerfDepartmentbe?”
“InchargeofIvanAntonovitch.”
“AndwhereisIvanAntonovitch?”
Theelderlymanpointedtoanothercorneroftheroom;whitherChichikovandManilovnextdirectedtheirsteps.Astheyadvanced,IvanAntonovitchcastaneyebackwardsandviewedthemaskance.Then,withrenewedardour,heresumedhisworkofwriting.
“Wouldyoumindtellingme,”saidChichikov,bowing,“whetherthisisthedeskforserfaffairs?”
ItappearedasthoughIvanAntonovitchhadnotheard,socompletelydidheburyhimselfinhispapersandreturnnoreply.InstantlyitbecameplainthatHEatleastwasofanageofdiscretion,andnotoneofyourjejunechatterboxesandharum-scarums;for,althoughhishairwasstillthickandblack,hehadlongagopassedhisfortiethyear.Hiswholefacetendedtowardsthenose—itwaswhat,incommonparlance,isknownasa“pitcher-mug.
