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- Николай Гоголь
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"
My
word
!
"
reflected
Chichikov
.
"
The
fellow
has
a
pretty
good
holding
capacity
!
"
"
None
of
it
for
me
,
"
repeated
Sobakevitch
as
he
wiped
his
hands
on
his
napkin
.
"
I
do
n't
intend
to
be
like
a
fellow
named
Plushkin
,
who
owns
eight
hundred
souls
,
yet
dines
worse
than
does
my
shepherd
.
"
"
Who
is
Plushkin
?
"
asked
Chichikov
.
"
A
miser
,
"
replied
Sobakevitch
.
"
Such
a
miser
as
never
you
could
imagine
.
Even
convicts
in
prison
live
better
than
he
does
.
And
he
starves
his
servants
as
well
.
"
"
Really
?
"
ejaculated
Chichikov
,
greatly
interested
.
"
Should
you
,
then
,
say
that
he
has
lost
many
peasants
by
death
?
"
"
Certainly
.
They
keep
dying
like
flies
.
"
"
Then
how
far
from
here
does
he
reside
?
"
"
About
five
versts
.
"
"
Only
five
versts
?
"
exclaimed
Chichikov
,
feeling
his
heart
beating
joyously
.
"
Ought
one
,
when
leaving
your
gates
,
to
turn
to
the
right
or
to
the
left
?
"
