Мертвые души

           And,withthethought,Kostanzhoglogrewlighterinsoul,asthoughhehadwarmedhimselfwithhisownwords,andwereexultinginthefactthathehadfoundsomeonecapableoflisteningtogoodadvice.

           Whentheyhadsettledthemselvesinthecosy,candle-lighteddrawing-room,withitsbalconyandtheglassdooropeningoutintothegarden—adoorthroughwhichthestarscouldbeseenglitteringamidtheslumberingtopsofthetrees—Chichikovfeltmorecomfortablethanhehaddoneformanyadaypast.Itwasasthough,afterlongjourneying,hisownroof-treehadreceivedhimoncemore—hadreceivedhimwhenhisquesthadbeenaccomplished,whenallthathewishedforhadbeengained,whenhistravelling-staffhadbeenlaidasidewiththewords“Itisfinished.”Andofthisseductiveframeofmindthetruesourcehadbeentheeloquentdiscourseofhishospitablehost.Yes,foreverymanthereexistcertainthingswhich,instantlythattheyaresaid,seemtotouchhimmoreclosely,moreintimately,thananythinghasdonebefore.Norisitanuncommonoccurrencethatinthemostunexpectedfashion,andinthemostretiredofretreats,onewillsuddenlycomefacetofacewithamanwhoseburningperiodswillleadonetoforgetoneselfandthetracklessnessoftherouteandthediscomfortofone’snightlyhalting-places,andthefutilityofcrazesandthefalsenessoftricksbywhichonehumanbeingdeceivesanother.Andatoncetherewillbecomeengravenuponone’smemory—vividly,andforalltime—theeveningthusspent.