as though something were trying to awaken in him, something suppressed from childhood by the harsh, dead discipline of his dreary boyhood, by the desolateness of his home, his solitude, the niggardliness and poverty of his first impressions, and as though something, in bondage to the stern fate that looked mournfully at him as through a window darkened by the snowstorms of winter, were trying to break its chains.
'Only save me, Afanasy Vassilyevitch!' he cried, and I will lead a different life, I will follow your advice! I give you my word.'
'Mind, Pavel Ivanovitch, there is no going back from your word,' said Murazov, holding his hand.
'I might go back from it perhaps, had it not been for this terrible lesson,' said poor Tchitchikov with a sigh, and he added: 'but the lesson is bitter; a bitter, bitter lesson, Afanasy Vassilyevitch!'
'It is a good thing it is bitter. Thank God for it, and pray to Him. I will go and do my best.' Saying this the old man withdrew.
Tchitchikov no longer wept or tore his coat and hair; he was calm.
'Yes, it is enough!' he said at last, 'a different life, a different life! It is high time indeed to become a decent man. Oh, if only I can somehow get out of this and go off with only a little capital, I will settle far away. … If I can but get back my papers … and the deeds of purchase …' he mused a little: 'well? why
