Page:Dead Souls - A Poem by Nikolay Gogol - vol1.djvu/133

Rh 'Why won't you play?' said Nozdryov.

'Oh, because I don't feel inclined. And, indeed, I must own that I am not particularly fond of cards at any time.'

'Why aren't you?'

Tchitchikov shrugged his shoulders and added: 'Because I am not.'

'You are a paltry fellow!'

'What's to be done? I am as God made me.'

'You are a regular muff! I did think at first that you were more or less of a gentleman, but you don't know how to behave at all. One can't speak to you as one would to a friend. … There is no straightforwardness, no sincerity. You are a regular Sobakevitch, just such a scoundrel!'

'What are you swearing at me for? Am I to blame for not playing? Sell me the souls alone, since you are so made that you worry about such trifles.'

'Devil a one of them you shall have! I was meaning to let you have them for nothing, but now you shan't have them! I wouldn't give them for the riches of the world. You are a pickpocket, a nasty sweep. I won't have anything to do with you from this time forth. Porfiry, go and tell the stable-boy not to give his horses any oats; don't let them have anything but hay.'

Tchitchikov had not in the least expected this conclusion.

'I wish I had never set eyes on you,' said Nozdryov.

In spite of this little misunderstanding,