more, but, perceiving that he was wandering a little from the point, he merely twiddled his fingers in the air, and went on: 'In that case, of course, the country and solitude would have many charms. But there is absolutely no one. … Sometimes one is reduced to reading the Son of the Fatherland. …'
Tchitchikov agreed with this view entirely, adding that nothing could be more agreeable than to live in solitude, to enjoy the spectacle of nature and from time to time to read. …
'But you know,' added Manilov, 'if one has no friends with whom one can share …'
'Oh, that is true, that is perfectly true,' Tchitchikov interrupted him. 'What are all the treasures in the world then! Not money, but good company, a wise man has said.'
'And do you know, Pavel Ivanovitch,' said Manilov, while his face wore an expression not merely sweet but sickly cloying sweet, like a dose some tactful society doctor has mercilessly over-sweetened, thinking to gratify his patient, 'then one feels to some extent a spiritual enjoyment. … Here now, for instance, when chance has given me the rare, one may say unique, happiness of conversing with you and enjoying your agreeable conversation …'
'Upon my word, how can my conversation be agreeable? I am an insignificant person and nothing more,' answered Tchitchikov.
'Oh, Pavel Ivanovitch, allow me to be open with you! I would gladly give half my fortune to
