In fact, even a bowing acquaintance with a prince or a lord counts, in his eyes, for more than do the most intimate of relations with ordinary folk.

For the same reason the author feels apprehensive on his hero's account, seeing that he has made that hero a mere Collegiate Councillor--a mere person with whom Aulic Councillors might consort, but upon whom persons of the grade of full General [8] would probably bestow one of those glances proper to a man who is cringing at their august feet.

Worse still, such persons of the grade of General are likely to treat Chichikov with studied negligence--and to an author studied negligence spells death.
However, in spite of the distressfulness of the foregoing possibilities, it is time that I returned to my hero.

After issuing, overnight, the necessary orders, he awoke early, washed himself, rubbed himself from head to foot with a wet sponge (a performance executed only on Sundays--and the day in question happened to be a Sunday), shaved his face with such care that his cheeks issued of absolutely satin-like smoothness and polish, donned first his bilberry-coloured, spotted frockcoat, and then his bearskin overcoat, descended the staircase (attended, throughout, by the waiter) and entered his britchka.

With a loud rattle the vehicle left the inn-yard, and issued into the street.
A passing priest doffed his cap, and a few urchins in grimy shirts shouted, "Gentleman, please give a poor orphan a trifle!" Presently the driver noticed that a sturdy young rascal was on the point of climbing onto the splashboard; wherefore he cracked his whip and the britchka leapt forward with increased speed over the cobblestones.