The general began to wash, snorting and plashing like a duck. Soapy water was flying all over the room.
'How does it go?' he said, rubbing his thick neck from both sides, "Love us clean …"
'Dirty, your Excellency. "Love us dirty, for any one will love us clean."'
'Very good, very.'
Tchitchikov was in unusually good spirits, he was conscious of a sort of inspiration. 'Your Excellency,' he said.
'Well?' said the general.
'There is another story.'
'What is it?'
'It's an amusing story too, only it is not amusing for me. So much so indeed that if your Excellency …'
'Why, how's that?'
'This is how it is, your Excellency.' At this point Tchitchikov looked round and seeing that the valet with the basin had gone, began as follows: 'I have an uncle, a decrepit old man. He has three hundred souls and no heirs except me. He can't look after the estate himself, for he is too feeble, and he won't hand it over to me either. And the reason he gives for not doing so is very queer: "I don't know my nephew," he says; "perhaps he is a spendthrift; let him prove that he is a reliable person; let him get three hundred souls on his own account first, then I'll hand him over my three hundred too."'
