Мертвые души
Chapter 8
Yes,weallknowwhybribesareaccepted,andwhymenbecomecrookedinsoul.Itisalldonetoprovidewives—yes,maythepitswallowthemup!—withfal-lals.Andforwhatpurpose?Thatsomewomanmaynothavetoreproachherhusbandwiththefactthat,say,thePostmaster’swifeiswearingabetterdressthansheis—adresswhichhascostathousandroubles!‘Ballsandgaiety,ballsandgaiety’istheconstantcry.Yetwhatfollyballsare!TheydonotconsortwiththeRussianspiritandgenius,andthedevilonlyknowswhywehavethem.Agrown,middle-agedman—amandressedinblack,andlookingasstiffasapoker—suddenlytakesthefloorandbeginsshufflinghisfeetabout,whileanotherman,eventhoughconversingwithacompaniononimportantbusiness,will,thewhile,keepcaperingtorightandleftlikeabilly-goat!Mimicry,sheermimicry!ThefactthattheFrenchmanisatfortypreciselywhathewasatfifteenleadsustoimaginethatwetoo,forsooth,oughttobethesame.No;aballleavesonefeelingthatonehasdoneawrongthing—somuchsothatonedoesnotcareeventothinkofit.Italsoleavesone’sheadperfectlyempty,evenasdoestheexertionoftalkingtoamanoftheworld.Amanofthatkindchattersaway,andtoucheslightlyuponeveryconceivablesubject,andtalksinsmooth,fluentphraseswhichhehasculledfrombookswithoutgrazingtheirsubstance;whereasgoandhaveachatwithatradesmanwhoknowsatleastONEthingthoroughly,andthroughthemediumofexperience,andseewhetherhisconversationwillnotbeworthmorethantheprattleofathousandchatterboxes.
