'Yes, he used to tackle a bear alone,' answered Sobakevitch.
'I believe you could knock a bear down alone, too,' said the president, 'if you cared to tackle him.'
'No, I couldn't,' said Sobakevitch, 'my father was stronger than I am.' And with a sigh, he went on; 'No, people aren't the same as they used to be; take my life, for instance, what can one say for it? It's not up to much. …'
'What's wrong with your life?' said the president.
'It's all wrong, it's all wrong,' said Sobakevitch, shaking his head. 'Only think, Ivan Grigoryevitch: I am fifty and I have never been ill in my life; I might at least have had a sore throat or a boil or a carbuncle. … No, it will bring me no good. Some day I shall have to pay for it.' Here Sobakevitch sank into melancholy.
'What a fellow!' Tchitchikov and the president thought simultaneously, 'what will he grumble at next?'
'I have a letter for you,' said Tchitchikov, taking Plyushkin's letter out of his pocket.
'From whom?' said the president, and breaking the seal he exclaimed, 'Oh, from Plyushkin! So he is still freezing on in life. What a fate! A most intelligent man he used to be and very wealthy! And now …'
'He is a cur,' said Sobakevitch, 'a scoundrel. He has starved his peasants to death.'
