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Dead Souls

by Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol · English · Gutenberg #1081 · 829,589 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dead Souls

Author: Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol

Translator: D. J. Hogarth


        
Release date: October 1, 1997 [eBook #1081]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

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Credits: John Bickers, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEAD SOULS ***
DEAD SOULS

By Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

Translated by D. J. Hogarth

Introduction By John Cournos




Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, born at Sorochintsky, Russia, on 31st
March 1809. Obtained government post at St. Petersburg and later an
appointment at the university. Lived in Rome from 1836 to 1848. Died on
21st February 1852.




PREPARER’S NOTE

The book this was typed from contains a complete Part I, and a partial
Part II, as it seems only part of Part II survived the adventures
described in the introduction. Where the text notes that pages are
missing from the “original”, this refers to the Russian original, not
the translation.

All the foreign words were italicised in the original, a style not
preserved here. Accents and diphthongs have also been left out.




INTRODUCTION

Dead Souls, first published in 1842, is the great prose classic of
Russia. That amazing institution, “the Russian novel,” not only began
its career with this unfinished masterpiece by Nikolai Vasil’evich
Gogol, but practically all the Russian masterpieces that have come since
have grown out of it, like the limbs of a single tree. Dostoieffsky
goes so far as to bestow this tribute upon an earlier work by the same
author, a short story entitled The Cloak; this idea has been wittily
expressed by another compatriot, who says: “We have all issued out of
Gogol’s Cloak.”

Dead Souls, which bears the word “Poem” upon the title page of the
original, has been generally compared to Don Quixote and to the Pickwick
Papers, while E. M. Vogue places its author somewhere between Cervantes
and Le Sage. However considerable the influences of Cervantes and
Dickens may have been--the first in the matter of structure, the other
in background, humour, and detail of characterisation--the predominating
and distinguishing quality of the work is undeniably something foreign
to both and quite peculiar to itself; something which, for want of
a better term, might be called the quality of the Russian soul. The
English reader familiar with the works of Dostoieffsky, Turgenev, and
Tolstoi, need hardly be told what this implies; it might be defined in
the words of the French critic just named as “a tendency to pity.” One
might indeed go further and say that it implies a certain tolerance of
one’s characters even though they be, in the conventional sense, knaves,
products, as the case might be, of conditions or circumstance, which
after all is the thing to be criticised and not the man. But pity and
tolerance are rare in satire, even in clash with it, producing in the
result a deep sense of tragic humour. It is this that makes of Dead
Souls a unique work, peculiarly Gogolian, peculiarly Russian, and
distinct from its author’s Spanish and English masters.

Still more profound are the contradictions to be seen in the author’s
personal character; and unfortunately they prevented him from completing
his work. The trouble is that he made his art out of life, and when in
his final years he carried his struggle, as Tolstoi did later, back into
life, he repented of all he had written, and in the frenzy of a wakeful
night burned all his manuscripts, including the second part of Dead
Souls, only fragments of which were saved. There was yet a third part to
be written. Indeed, the second part had been written and burned twice.
Accounts differ as to why he had burned it finally. Religious remorse,
fury at adverse criticism, and despair at not reaching ideal perfection
are among the reasons given. Again it is said that he had destroyed the
manuscript with the others inadvertently.

The poet Pushkin, who said of Gogol that “behind his laughter you feel
the unseen tears,” was his chief friend and inspirer. It was he who
suggested the plot of Dead Souls as well as the plot of the earlier work
The Revisor, which is almost the only comedy in Russian. The importance
of both is their introduction of the social element in Russian
literature, as Prince Kropotkin points out. Both hold up the mirror
to Russian officialdom and the effects it has produced on the national
character. The plot of Dead Souls is simple enough, and is said to have
been suggested by an actual episode.

It was the day of serfdom in Russia, and a man’s standing was often
judged by the numbers of “souls” he possessed. There was a periodical
census of serfs, say once every ten or twenty years. This being the
case, an owner had to pay a tax on every “soul” registered at the
last census, though some of the serfs might have died in the meantime.
Nevertheless, the system had its material advantages, inasmuch as an
owner might borrow money from a bank on the “dead souls” no less than
on the living ones. The plan of Chichikov, Gogol’s hero-villain, was
therefore to make a journey through Russia and buy up the “dead souls,”
 at reduced rates of course, saving their owners the government tax,
and acquiring for himself a list of fictitious serfs, which he meant to
mortgage to a bank for a considerable sum. With this money he would buy
an estate and some real life serfs, and make the beginning of a fortune.

Obviously, this plot, which is really no plot at all but merely a ruse
to enable Chichikov to go across Russia in a troika, with Selifan the
coachman as a sort of Russian Sancho Panza, gives Gogol a magnificent
opportunity to reveal his genius as a painter of Russian panorama,
peopled with characteristic native types commonplace enough but drawn in
comic relief. “The comic,” explained the author yet at the beginning of
his career, “is hidden everywhere, only living in the midst of it we are
not conscious of it; but if the artist brings it into his art, on the
stage say, we shall roll about with laughter and only wonder we did not
notice it before.” But the comic in Dead Souls is merely external. Let
us see how Pushkin, who loved to laugh, regarded the work. As Gogol read
it aloud to him from the manuscript the poet grew more and more gloomy
and at last cried out: “God! What a sad country Russia is!” And later he
said of it: “Gogol invents nothing; it is the simple truth, the terrible
truth.”

The work on one hand was received as nothing less than an exposure of
all Russia--what would foreigners think of it? The liberal elements,
however, the critical Belinsky among them, welcomed it as a revelation,
as an omen of a freer future. Gogol, who had meant to do a service to
Russia and not to heap ridicule upon her, took the criticisms of the
Slavophiles to heart; and he palliated his critics by promising to bring
about in the succeeding parts of his novel the redemption of Chichikov
and the other “knaves and blockheads.” But the “Westerner” Belinsky
and others of the liberal camp were mistrustful. It was about this time
(1847) that Gogol published his Correspondence with Friends, and aroused
a literary controversy that is alive to this day. Tolstoi is to be found
among his apologists.

Opinions as to the actual significance of Gogol’s masterpiece differ.
Some consider the author a realist who has drawn with meticulous detail
a picture of Russia; others, Merejkovsky among them, see in him a great
symbolist; the very title Dead Souls is taken to describe the living of
Russia as well as its dead. Chichikov himself is now generally regarded
as a universal character. We find an American professor, William Lyon
Phelps [1], of Yale, holding the opinion that “no one can travel far in
America without meeting scores of Chichikovs; indeed, he is an accurate
portrait of the American promoter, of the successful commercial
traveller whose success depends entirely not on the real value and
usefulness of his stock-in-trade, but on his knowledge of human nature
and of the persuasive power of his tongue.” This is also the opinion
held by Prince Kropotkin [2], who says: “Chichikov may buy dead
souls, or railway shares, or he may collect funds for some charitable
institution, or look for a position in a bank, but he is an immortal
international type; we meet him everywhere; he is of all lands and of
all times; he but takes different forms to suit the requirements of
nationality and time.”

Again, the work bears an interesting relation to Gogol himself. A
romantic, writing of realities, he was appalled at the commonplaces
of life, at finding no outlet for his love of colour derived from his
Cossack ancestry. He realised that he had drawn a host of “heroes,” “one
more commonplace than another, that there was not a single palliating
circumstance, that there was not a single place where the reader might
find pause to rest and to console himself, and that when he had finished
the book it was as though he had walked out of an oppressive cellar
into the open air.” He felt perhaps inward need to redeem Chichikov;
in Merejkovsky’s opinion he really wanted to save his own soul, but
had succeeded only in losing it. His last years were spent morbidly;
he suffered torments and ran from place to place like one hunted; but
really always running from himself. Rome was his favourite refuge, and
he returned to it again and again. In 1848, he made a pilgrimage to the
Holy Land, but he could find no peace for his soul. Something of this
mood had reflected itself even much earlier in the Memoirs of a Madman:
“Oh, little mother, save your poor son! Look how they are tormenting
him.... There’s no place for him on earth! He’s being driven!... Oh,
little mother, take pity on thy poor child.”

All the contradictions of Gogol’s character are not to be disposed of
in a brief essay. Such a strange combination of the tragic and the comic
was truly seldom seen in one man. He, for one, realised that “it is
dangerous to jest with laughter.” “Everything that I laughed at became
sad.” “And terrible,” adds Merejkovsky. But earlier his humour was
lighter, less tinged with the tragic; in those days Pushkin never failed
to be amused by what Gogol had brought to read to him. Even Revizor
(1835), with its tragic undercurrent, was a trifle compared to Dead
Souls, so that one is not astonished to hear that not only did the Tsar,
Nicholas I, give permission to have it acted, in spite of its being a
criticism of official rottenness, but laughed uproariously, and led the
applause. Moreover, he gave Gogol a grant of money, and asked that its
source should not be revealed to the author lest “he might feel obliged
to write from the official point of view.”

Gogol was born at Sorotchinetz, Little Russia, in March 1809. He left
college at nineteen and went to St. Petersburg, where he secured a
position as copying clerk in a government department. He did not keep
his position long, yet long enough to store away in his mind a number of
bureaucratic types which proved useful later. He quite suddenly started
for America with money given to him by his mother for another purpose,
but when he got as far as Lubeck he turned back. He then wanted to
become an actor, but his voice proved not strong enough. Later he wrote
a poem which was unkindly received. As the copies remained unsold, he
gathered them all up at the various shops and burned them in his room.

His next effort, Evenings at the Farm of Dikanka (1831) was more
successful. It was a series of gay and colourful pictures of Ukraine,
the land he knew and loved, and if he is occasionally a little over
romantic here and there, he also achieves some beautifully lyrical
passages. Then came another even finer series called Mirgorod, which won
the admiration of Pushkin. Next he planned a “History of Little Russia”
 and a “History of the Middle Ages,” this last work to be in eight or
nine volumes. The result of all this study was a beautiful and short
Homeric epic in prose, called Taras Bulba. His appointment to a
professorship in history was a ridiculous episode in his life. After a
brilliant first lecture, in which he had evidently said all he had to
say, he settled to a life of boredom for himself and his pupils. When he
resigned he said joyously: “I am once more a free Cossack.” Between
1834 and 1835 he produced a new series of stories, including his famous
Cloak, which may be regarded as the legitimate beginning of the Russian
novel.

Gogol knew little about women, who played an equally minor role in
his life and in his books. This may be partly because his personal
appearance was not prepossessing. He is described by a contemporary as
“a little man with legs too short for his body. He walked crookedly; he
was clumsy, ill-dressed, and rather ridiculous-looking, with his long
lock of hair flapping on his forehead, and his large prominent nose.”

From 1835 Gogol spent almost his entire time abroad; some strange
unrest--possibly his Cossack blood--possessed him like a demon, and
he never stopped anywhere very long. After his pilgrimage in 1848 to
Jerusalem, he returned to Moscow, his entire possessions in a little
bag; these consisted of pamphlets, critiques, and newspaper articles
mostly inimical to himself. He wandered about with these from house to
house. Everything he had of value he gave away to the poor. He ceased
work entirely. According to all accounts he spent his last days in
praying and fasting. Visions came to him. His death, which came in 1852,
was extremely fantastic. His last words, uttered in a loud frenzy,
were: “A ladder! Quick, a ladder!” This call for a ladder--“a spiritual
ladder,” in the words of Merejkovsky--had been made on an earlier
occasion by a certain Russian saint, who used almost the same language.
“I shall laugh my bitter laugh” [3] was the inscription placed on
Gogol’s grave.

                                                          JOHN COURNOS


Evenings on the Farm near the Dikanka, 1829-31; Mirgorod, 1831-33; Taras
Bulba, 1834; Arabesques (includes tales, The Portrait and A Madman’s
Diary), 1831-35; The Cloak, 1835; The Revizor (The Inspector-General),
1836; Dead Souls, 1842; Correspondence with Friends, 1847.

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS: Cossack Tales (The Night of Christmas Eve, Tarass
Boolba), trans. by G. Tolstoy, 1860; St. John’s Eve and Other Stories,
trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Taras Bulba: Also
St. John’s Eve and Other Stories, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Taras Bulba,
trans. by B. C. Baskerville, London, Scott, 1907; The Inspector: a
Comedy, Calcutta, 1890; The Inspector-General, trans. by A. A. Sykes,
London, Scott, 1892; Revizor, trans. for the Yale Dramatic Association
by Max S. Mandell, New Haven, Conn., 1908; Home Life in Russia
(adaptation of Dead Souls), London, Hurst, 1854; Tchitchikoff’s
Journey’s; or Dead Souls, trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York,
Crowell, 1886; Dead Souls, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Dead Souls, London,
Maxwell 1887; Meditations on the Divine Liturgy, trans. by L. Alexeieff,
London, A. R. Mowbray and Co., 1913.

LIVES, etc.: (Russian) Kotlyarevsky (N. A.), 1903; Shenrok (V. I.),
Materials for a Biography, 1892; (French) Leger (L.), Nicholas Gogol,
1914.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST PORTION OF THIS WORK

Second Edition published in 1846

From the Author to the Reader

Reader, whosoever or wheresoever you be, and whatsoever be your
station--whether that of a member of the higher ranks of society or that
of a member of the plainer walks of life--I beg of you, if God shall
have given you any skill in letters, and my book shall fall into your
hands, to extend to me your assistance.

For in the book which lies before you, and which, probably, you have
read in its first edition, there is portrayed a man who is a type taken
from our Russian Empire. This man travels about the Russian land and
meets with folk of every condition--from the nobly-born to the humble
toiler. Him I have taken as a type to show forth the vices and the
failings, rather than the merits and the virtues, of the commonplace
Russian individual; and the characters which revolve around him have
also been selected for the purpose of demonstrating our national
weaknesses and shortcomings. As for men and women of the better sort, I
propose to portray them in subsequent volumes. Probably much of what I
have described is improbable and does not happen as things customarily
happen in Russia; and the reason for that is that for me to learn all
that I have wished to do has been impossible, in that human life is not
sufficiently long to become acquainted with even a hundredth part
of what takes place within the borders of the Russian Empire. Also,
carelessness, inexperience, and lack of time have led to my perpetrating
numerous errors and inaccuracies of detail; with the result that in
every line of the book there is something which calls for correction.
For these reasons I beg of you, my reader, to act also as my corrector.
Do not despise the task, for, however superior be your education, and
however lofty your station, and however insignificant, in your eyes,
my book, and however trifling the apparent labour of correcting and
commenting upon that book, I implore you to do as I have said. And you
too, O reader of lowly education and simple status, I beseech you not to
look upon yourself as too ignorant to be able in some fashion, however
small, to help me. Every man who has lived in the world and mixed with
his fellow men will have remarked something which has remained hidden
from the eyes of others; and therefore I beg of you not to deprive me
of your comments, seeing that it cannot be that, should you read my book
with attention, you will have NOTHING to say at some point therein.

For example, how excellent it would be if some reader who is
sufficiently rich in experience and the knowledge of life to be
acquainted with the sort of characters which I have described herein
would annotate in detail the book, without missing a single page, and
undertake to read it precisely as though, laying pen and paper before
him, he were first to peruse a few pages of the work, and then to recall
his own life, and the lives of folk with whom he has come in contact,
and everything which he has seen with his own eyes or has heard of from
others, and to proceed to annotate, in so far as may tally with his own
experience or otherwise, what is set forth in the book, and to jot down
the whole exactly as it stands pictured to his memory, and, lastly, to
send me the jottings as they may issue from his pen, and to continue
doing so until he has covered the entire work! Yes, he would indeed do
me a vital service! Of style or beauty of expression he would need
to take no account, for the value of a book lies in its truth and its
actuality rather than in its wording. Nor would he need to consider my
feelings if at any point he should feel minded to blame or to upbraid
me, or to demonstrate the harm rather than the good which has been
done through any lack of thought or verisimilitude of which I have
been guilty. In short, for anything and for everything in the way of
criticism I should be thankful.

Also, it would be an excellent thing if some reader in the higher walks
of life, some person who stands remote, both by life and by education,
from the circle of folk which I have pictured in my book, but who knows
the life of the circle in which he himself revolves, would undertake to
read my work in similar fashion, and methodically to recall to his mind
any members of superior social classes whom he has met, and carefully to
observe whether there exists any resemblance between one such class and
another, and whether, at times, there may not be repeated in a higher
sphere what is done in a lower, and likewise to note any additional fact
in the same connection which may occur to him (that is to say, any fact
pertaining to the higher ranks of society which would seem to confirm or
to disprove his conclusions), and, lastly, to record that fact as it may
have occurred within his own experience, while giving full details of
persons (of individual manners, tendencies, and customs) and also of
inanimate surroundings (of dress, furniture, fittings of houses, and so
forth). For I need knowledge of the classes in question, which are the
flower of our people. In fact, this very reason--the reason that I do
not yet know Russian life in all its aspects, and in the degree to
which it is necessary for me to know it in order to become a successful
author--is what has, until now, prevented me from publishing any
subsequent volumes of this story.

Again, it would be an excellent thing if some one who is endowed with
the faculty of imagining and vividly picturing to himself the various
situations wherein a character may be placed, and of mentally following
up a character’s career in one field and another--by this I mean some
one who possesses the power of entering into and developing the ideas
of the author whose work he may be reading--would scan each character
herein portrayed, and tell me how each character ought to have acted
at a given juncture, and what, to judge from the beginnings of each
character, ought to have become of that character later, and what new
circumstances might be devised in connection therewith, and what new
details might advantageously be added to those already described.
Honestly can I say that to consider these points against the time when a
new edition of my book may be published in a different and a better form
would give me the greatest possible pleasure.

One thing in particular would I ask of any reader who may be willing to
give me the benefit of his advice. That is to say, I would beg of him
to suppose, while recording his remarks, that it is for the benefit of
a man in no way his equal in education, or similar to him in tastes and
ideas, or capable of apprehending criticisms without full explanation
appended, that he is doing so. Rather would I ask such a reader to
suppose that before him there stands a man of incomparably inferior
enlightenment and schooling--a rude country bumpkin whose life,
throughout, has been passed in retirement--a bumpkin to whom it is
necessary to explain each circumstance in detail, while never forgetting
to be as simple of speech as though he were a child, and at every step
there were a danger of employing terms beyond his understanding. Should
these precautions be kept constantly in view by any reader undertaking
to annotate my book, that reader’s remarks will exceed in weight
and interest even his own expectations, and will bring me very real
advantage.

Thus, provided that my earnest request be heeded by my readers, and
that among them there be found a few kind spirits to do as I desire, the
following is the manner in which I would request them to transmit their
notes for my consideration. Inscribing the package with my name, let
them then enclose that package in a second one addressed either to the
Rector of the University of St. Petersburg or to Professor Shevirev of
the University of Moscow, according as the one or the other of those two
cities may be the nearer to the sender.

Lastly, while thanking all journalists and litterateurs for their
previously published criticisms of my book--criticisms which, in spite
of a spice of that intemperance and prejudice which is common to all
humanity, have proved of the greatest use both to my head and to my
heart--I beg of such writers again to favour me with their reviews. For
in all sincerity I can assure them that whatsoever they may be pleased
to say for my improvement and my instruction will be received by me with
naught but gratitude.




DEAD SOULS




PART I



CHAPTER I

To the door of an inn in the provincial town of N. there drew up a smart
britchka--a light spring-carriage of the sort affected by bachelors,
retired lieutenant-colonels, staff-captains, land-owners possessed of
about a hundred souls, and, in short, all persons who rank as gentlemen
of the intermediate category. In the britchka was seated such a
gentleman--a man who, though not handsome, was not ill-favoured, not
over-fat, and not over-thin. Also, though not over-elderly, he was
not over-young. His arrival produced no stir in the town, and was
accompanied by no particular incident, beyond that a couple of peasants
who happened to be standing at the door of a dramshop exchanged a few
comments with reference to the equipage rather than to the individual
who was seated in it. “Look at that carriage,” one of them said to the
other. “Think you it will be going as far as Moscow?” “I think it will,”
replied his companion. “But not as far as Kazan, eh?” “No, not as far as
Kazan.” With that the conversation ended. Presently, as the britchka was
approaching the inn, it was met by a young man in a pair of very short,
very tight breeches of white dimity, a quasi-fashionable frockcoat, and
a dickey fastened with a pistol-shaped bronze tie-pin. The young man
turned his head as he passed the britchka and eyed it attentively;
after which he clapped his hand to his cap (which was in danger of being
removed by the wind) and resumed his way. On the vehicle reaching the
inn door, its occupant found standing there to welcome him the polevoi,
or waiter, of the establishment--an individual of such nimble and
brisk movement that even to distinguish the character of his face was
impossible. Running out with a napkin in one hand and his lanky form
clad in a tailcoat, reaching almost to the nape of his neck, he tossed
back his locks, and escorted the gentleman upstairs, along a wooden
gallery, and so to the bedchamber which God had prepared for the
gentleman’s reception. The said bedchamber was of quite ordinary
appearance, since the inn belonged to the species to be found in all
provincial towns--the species wherein, for two roubles a day, travellers
may obtain a room swarming with black-beetles, and communicating by a
doorway with the apartment adjoining. True, the doorway may be blocked
up with a wardrobe; yet behind it, in all probability, there will be
standing a silent, motionless neighbour whose ears are burning to learn
every possible detail concerning the latest arrival. The inn’s exterior
corresponded with its interior. Long, and consisting only of two
storeys, the building had its lower half destitute of stucco; with the
result that the dark-red bricks, originally more or less dingy, had
grown yet dingier under the influence of atmospheric changes. As for the
upper half of the building, it was, of course, painted the usual tint
of unfading yellow. Within, on the ground floor, there stood a number
of benches heaped with horse-collars, rope, and sheepskins; while the
window-seat accommodated a sbitentshik [4], cheek by jowl with a samovar
[5]--the latter so closely resembling the former in appearance that, but
for the fact of the samovar possessing a pitch-black lip, the samovar
and the sbitentshik might have been two of a pair.

During the traveller’s inspection of his room his luggage was brought
into the apartment. First came a portmanteau of white leather whose
raggedness indicated that the receptacle had made several previous
journeys. The bearers of the same were the gentleman’s coachman,
Selifan (a little man in a large overcoat), and the gentleman’s
valet, Petrushka--the latter a fellow of about thirty, clad in a worn,
over-ample jacket which formerly had graced his master’s shoulders, and
possessed of a nose and a pair of lips whose coarseness communicated to
his face rather a sullen expression. Behind the portmanteau came a
small dispatch-box of redwood, lined with birch bark, a boot-case,
and (wrapped in blue paper) a roast fowl; all of which having been
deposited, the coachman departed to look after his horses, and the valet
to establish himself in the little dark anteroom or kennel where already
he had stored a cloak, a bagful of livery, and his own peculiar smell.
Pressing the narrow bedstead back against the wall, he covered it with
the tiny remnant of mattress--a remnant as thin and flat (perhaps also
as greasy) as a pancake--which he had managed to beg of the landlord of
the establishment.

While the attendants had been thus setting things straight the gentleman
had repaired to the common parlour. The appearance of common parlours of
the kind is known to every one who travels. Always they have varnished
walls which, grown black in their upper portions with tobacco smoke,
are, in their lower, grown shiny with the friction of customers’
backs--more especially with that of the backs of such local tradesmen
as, on market-days, make it their regular practice to resort to
the local hostelry for a glass of tea. Also, parlours of this kind
invariably contain smutty ceilings, an equally smutty chandelier, a
number of pendent shades which jump and rattle whenever the waiter
scurries across the shabby oilcloth with a trayful of glasses (the
glasses looking like a flock of birds roosting by the seashore), and a
selection of oil paintings. In short, there are certain objects which
one sees in every inn. In the present case the only outstanding feature
of the room was the fact that in one of the paintings a nymph was
portrayed as possessing breasts of a size such as the reader can never
in his life have beheld. A similar caricaturing of nature is to be noted
in the historical pictures (of unknown origin, period, and creation)
which reach us--sometimes through the instrumentality of Russian
magnates who profess to be connoisseurs of art--from Italy; owing to
the said magnates having made such purchases solely on the advice of the
couriers who have escorted them.

To resume, however--our traveller removed his cap, and divested his neck
of a parti-coloured woollen scarf of the kind which a wife makes for
her husband with her own hands, while accompanying the gift with
interminable injunctions as to how best such a garment ought to be
folded. True, bachelors also wear similar gauds, but, in their case,
God alone knows who may have manufactured the articles! For my part,
I cannot endure them. Having unfolded the scarf, the gentleman ordered
dinner, and whilst the various dishes were being got ready--cabbage
soup, a pie several weeks old, a dish of marrow and peas, a dish of
sausages and cabbage, a roast fowl, some salted cucumber, and the sweet
tart which stands perpetually ready for use in such establishments;
whilst, I say, these things were either being warmed up or brought in
cold, the gentleman induced the waiter to retail certain fragments of
tittle-tattle concerning the late landlord of the hostelry, the amount
of income which the hostelry produced, and the character of its present
proprietor. To the last-mentioned inquiry the waiter returned the answer
invariably given in such cases--namely, “My master is a terribly hard
man, sir.” Curious that in enlightened Russia so many people cannot even
take a meal at an inn without chattering to the attendant and making
free with him! Nevertheless not ALL the questions which the gentleman
asked were aimless ones, for he inquired who was Governor of the town,
who President of the Local Council, and who Public Prosecutor. In short,
he omitted no single official of note, while asking also (though with an
air of detachment) the most exact particulars concerning the landowners
of the neighbourhood. Which of them, he inquired, possessed serfs, and
how many of them? How far from the town did those landowners reside?
What was the character of each landowner, and was he in the habit of
paying frequent visits to the town? The gentleman also made searching
inquiries concerning the hygienic condition of the countryside. Was
there, he asked, much sickness about--whether sporadic fever, fatal
forms of ague, smallpox, or what not? Yet, though his solicitude
concerning these matters showed more than ordinary curiosity, his
bearing retained its gravity unimpaired, and from time to time he
blew his nose with portentous fervour. Indeed, the manner in which he
accomplished this latter feat was marvellous in the extreme, for, though
that member emitted sounds equal to those of a trumpet in intensity,
he could yet, with his accompanying air of guileless dignity, evoke the
waiter’s undivided respect--so much so that, whenever the sounds of
the nose reached that menial’s ears, he would shake back his locks,
straighten himself into a posture of marked solicitude, and inquire
afresh, with head slightly inclined, whether the gentleman happened
to require anything further. After dinner the guest consumed a cup of
coffee, and then, seating himself upon the sofa, with, behind him,
one of those wool-covered cushions which, in Russian taverns,
resemble nothing so much as a cobblestone or a brick, fell to snoring;
whereafter, returning with a start to consciousness, he ordered himself
to be conducted to his room, flung himself at full length upon the bed,
and once more slept soundly for a couple of hours. Aroused, eventually,
by the waiter, he, at the latter’s request, inscribed a fragment of
paper with his name, his surname, and his rank (for communication, in
accordance with the law, to the police): and on that paper the waiter,
leaning forward from the corridor, read, syllable by syllable: “Paul
Ivanovitch Chichikov, Collegiate Councillor--Landowner--Travelling
on Private Affairs.” The waiter had just time to accomplish this
feat before Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov set forth to inspect the town.
Apparently the place succeeded in satisfying him, and, to tell the
truth, it was at least up to the usual standard of our provincial
capitals. Where the staring yellow of stone edifices did not greet his
eye he found himself confronted with the more modest grey of wooden
ones; which, consisting, for the most part, of one or two storeys (added
to the range of attics which provincial architects love so well), looked
almost lost amid the expanses of street and intervening medleys of
broken or half-finished partition-walls. At other points evidence of
more life and movement was to be seen, and here the houses stood crowded
together and displayed dilapidated, rain-blurred signboards whereon
boots or cakes or pairs of blue breeches inscribed “Arshavski, Tailor,”
and so forth, were depicted. Over a shop containing hats and caps
was written “Vassili Thedorov, Foreigner”; while, at another spot, a
signboard portrayed a billiard table and two players--the latter clad
in frockcoats of the kind usually affected by actors whose part it is
to enter the stage during the closing act of a piece, even though, with
arms sharply crooked and legs slightly bent, the said billiard players
were taking the most careful aim, but succeeding only in making abortive
strokes in the air. Each emporium of the sort had written over it: “This
is the best establishment of its kind in the town.” Also, al fresco in
the streets there stood tables heaped with nuts, soap, and gingerbread
(the latter but little distinguishable from the soap), and at an
eating-house there was displayed the sign of a plump fish transfixed
with a gaff. But the sign most frequently to be discerned was the
insignia of the State, the double-headed eagle (now replaced, in this
connection, with the laconic inscription “Dramshop”). As for the paving
of the town, it was uniformly bad.

The gentleman peered also into the municipal gardens, which contained
only a few sorry trees that were poorly selected, requiring to be
propped with oil-painted, triangular green supports, and able to boast
of a height no greater than that of an ordinary walking-stick. Yet
recently the local paper had said (apropos of a gala) that, “Thanks to
the efforts of our Civil Governor, the town has become enriched with a
pleasaunce full of umbrageous, spaciously-branching trees. Even on the
most sultry day they afford agreeable shade, and indeed gratifying
was it to see the hearts of our citizens panting with an impulse of
gratitude as their eyes shed tears in recognition of all that their
Governor has done for them!”

Next, after inquiring of a gendarme as to the best ways and means of
finding the local council, the local law-courts, and the local Governor,
should he (Chichikov) have need of them, the gentleman went on to
inspect the river which ran through the town. En route he tore off a
notice affixed to a post, in order that he might the more conveniently
read it after his return to the inn. Also, he bestowed upon a lady
of pleasant exterior who, escorted by a footman laden with a bundle,
happened to be passing along a wooden sidewalk a prolonged stare.
Lastly, he threw around him a comprehensive glance (as though to fix in
his mind the general topography of the place) and betook himself
home. There, gently aided by the waiter, he ascended the stairs to his
bedroom, drank a glass of tea, and, seating himself at the table, called
for a candle; which having been brought him, he produced from his pocket
the notice, held it close to the flame, and conned its tenour--slightly
contracting his right eye as he did so. Yet there was little in the
notice to call for remark. All that it said was that shortly one of
Kotzebue’s [6] plays would be given, and that one of the parts in the
play was to be taken by a certain Monsieur Poplevin, and another by
a certain Mademoiselle Ziablova, while the remaining parts were to
be filled by a number of less important personages. Nevertheless the
gentleman perused the notice with careful attention, and even jotted
down the prices to be asked for seats for the performance. Also, he
remarked that the bill had been printed in the press of the Provincial
Government. Next, he turned over the paper, in order to see if anything
further was to be read on the reverse side; but, finding nothing there,
he refolded the document, placed it in the box which served him as a
receptacle for odds and ends, and brought the day to a close with a
portion of cold veal, a bottle of pickles, and a sound sleep.

The following day he devoted to paying calls upon the various municipal
officials--a first, and a very respectful, visit being paid to the
Governor. This personage turned out to resemble Chichikov himself in
that he was neither fat nor thin. Also, he wore the riband of the order
of Saint Anna about his neck, and was reported to have been recommended
also for the star. For the rest, he was large and good-natured, and had
a habit of amusing himself with occasional spells of knitting. Next,
Chichikov repaired to the Vice-Governor’s, and thence to the house of
the Public Prosecutor, to that of the President of the Local Council, to
that of the Chief of Police, to that of the Commissioner of Taxes, and
to that of the local Director of State Factories. True, the task of
remembering every big-wig in this world of ours is not a very easy one;
but at least our visitor displayed the greatest activity in his work of
paying calls, seeing that he went so far as to pay his respects also to
the Inspector of the Municipal Department of Medicine and to the City
Architect. Thereafter he sat thoughtfully in his britchka--plunged
in meditation on the subject of whom else it might be well to visit.
However, not a single magnate had been neglected, and in conversation
with his hosts he had contrived to flatter each separate one. For
instance to the Governor he had hinted that a stranger, on arriving
in his, the Governor’s province, would conceive that he had reached
Paradise, so velvety were the roads. “Governors who appoint capable
subordinates,” had said Chichikov, “are deserving of the most ample meed
of praise.” Again, to the Chief of Police our hero had passed a most
gratifying remark on the subject of the local gendarmery; while in
his conversation with the Vice-Governor and the President of the Local
Council (neither of whom had, as yet, risen above the rank of State
Councillor) he had twice been guilty of the gaucherie of addressing his
interlocutors with the title of “Your Excellency”--a blunder which had
not failed to delight them. In the result the Governor had invited
him to a reception the same evening, and certain other officials had
followed suit by inviting him, one of them to dinner, a second to a
tea-party, and so forth, and so forth.

Of himself, however, the traveller had spoken little; or, if he had
spoken at any length, he had done so in a general sort of way and with
marked modesty. Indeed, at moments of the kind his discourse had assumed
something of a literary vein, in that invariably he had stated that,
being a worm of no account in the world, he was deserving of no
consideration at the hands of his fellows; that in his time he had
undergone many strange experiences; that subsequently he had suffered
much in the cause of Truth; that he had many enemies seeking his life;
and that, being desirous of rest, he was now engaged in searching for a
spot wherein to dwell--wherefore, having stumbled upon the town in which
he now found himself, he had considered it his bounden duty to evince
his respect for the chief authorities of the place. This, and no more,
was all that, for the moment, the town succeeded in learning about the
new arrival. Naturally he lost no time in presenting himself at the
Governor’s evening party. First, however, his preparations for that
function occupied a space of over two hours, and necessitated an
attention to his toilet of a kind not commonly seen. That is to say,
after a brief post-prandial nap he called for soap and water, and spent
a considerable period in the task of scrubbing his cheeks (which, for
the purpose, he supported from within with his tongue) and then of
drying his full, round face, from the ears downwards, with a towel which
he took from the waiter’s shoulder. Twice he snorted into the waiter’s
countenance as he did this, and then he posted himself in front of the
mirror, donned a false shirt-front, plucked out a couple of hairs which
were protruding from his nose, and appeared vested in a frockcoat
of bilberry-coloured check. Thereafter driving through broad streets
sparsely lighted with lanterns, he arrived at the Governor’s residence
to find it illuminated as for a ball. Barouches with gleaming lamps,
a couple of gendarmes posted before the doors, a babel of postillions’
cries--nothing of a kind likely to be impressive was wanting; and, on
reaching the salon, the visitor actually found himself obliged to
close his eyes for a moment, so strong was the mingled sheen of lamps,
candles, and feminine apparel. Everything seemed suffused with light,
and everywhere, flitting and flashing, were to be seen black coats--even
as on a hot summer’s day flies revolve around a sugar loaf while the
old housekeeper is cutting it into cubes before the open window, and
the children of the house crowd around her to watch the movements of her
rugged hands as those members ply the smoking pestle; and airy squadrons
of flies, borne on the breeze, enter boldly, as though free of the
house, and, taking advantage of the fact that the glare of the sunshine
is troubling the old lady’s sight, disperse themselves over broken
and unbroken fragments alike, even though the lethargy induced by the
opulence of summer and the rich shower of dainties to be encountered at
every step has induced them to enter less for the purpose of eating than
for that of showing themselves in public, of parading up and down the
sugar loaf, of rubbing both their hindquarters and their fore against
one another, of cleaning their bodies under the wings, of extending
their forelegs over their heads and grooming themselves, and of flying
out of the window again to return with other predatory squadrons.
Indeed, so dazed was Chichikov that scarcely did he realise that the
Governor was taking him by the arm and presenting him to his (the
Governor’s) lady. Yet the newly-arrived guest kept his head sufficiently
to contrive to murmur some such compliment as might fittingly come
from a middle-aged individual of a rank neither excessively high nor
excessively low. Next, when couples had been formed for dancing and the
remainder of the company found itself pressed back against the walls,
Chichikov folded his arms, and carefully scrutinised the dancers. Some
of the ladies were dressed well and in the fashion, while the remainder
were clad in such garments as God usually bestows upon a provincial
town. Also here, as elsewhere, the men belonged to two separate and
distinct categories; one of which comprised slender individuals who,
flitting around the ladies, were scarcely to be distinguished from
denizens of the metropolis, so carefully, so artistically, groomed were
their whiskers, so presentable their oval, clean-shaven faces, so easy
the manner of their dancing attendance upon their womenfolk, so glib
their French conversation as they quizzed their female companions. As
for the other category, it comprised individuals who, stout, or of the
same build as Chichikov (that is to say, neither very portly nor very
lean), backed and sidled away from the ladies, and kept peering hither
and thither to see whether the Governor’s footmen had set out green
tables for whist. Their features were full and plump, some of them had
beards, and in no case was their hair curled or waved or arranged in
what the French call “the devil-may-care” style. On the contrary, their
heads were either close-cropped or brushed very smooth, and their faces
were round and firm. This category represented the more respectable
officials of the town. In passing, I may say that in business matters
fat men always prove superior to their leaner brethren; which is
probably the reason why the latter are mostly to be found in the
Political Police, or acting as mere ciphers whose existence is a purely
hopeless, airy, trivial one. Again, stout individuals never take a back
seat, but always a front one, and, wheresoever it be, they sit firmly,
and with confidence, and decline to budge even though the seat crack and
bend with their weight. For comeliness of exterior they care not a rap,
and therefore a dress coat sits less easily on their figures than is the
case with figures of leaner individuals. Yet invariably fat men amass
the greater wealth. In three years’ time a thin man will not have a
single serf whom he has left unpledged; whereas--well, pray look at
a fat man’s fortunes, and what will you see? First of all a suburban
villa, and then a larger suburban villa, and then a villa close to a
town, and lastly a country estate which comprises every amenity! That is
to say, having served both God and the State, the stout individual
has won universal respect, and will end by retiring from business,
reordering his mode of life, and becoming a Russian landowner--in other
words, a fine gentleman who dispenses hospitality, lives in comfort and
luxury, and is destined to leave his property to heirs who are purposing
to squander the same on foreign travel.

That the foregoing represents pretty much the gist of Chichikov’s
reflections as he stood watching the company I will not attempt to deny.
And of those reflections the upshot was that he decided to join
himself to the stouter section of the guests, among whom he had
already recognised several familiar faces--namely, those of the Public
Prosecutor (a man with beetling brows over eyes which seemed to be
saying with a wink, “Come into the next room, my friend, for I have
something to say to you”--though, in the main, their owner was a man of
grave and taciturn habit), of the Postmaster (an insignificant-looking
individual, yet a would-be wit and a philosopher), and of the President
of the Local Council (a man of much amiability and good sense). These
three personages greeted Chichikov as an old acquaintance, and to their
salutations he responded with a sidelong, yet a sufficiently civil, bow.
Also, he became acquainted with an extremely unctuous and approachable
landowner named Manilov, and with a landowner of more uncouth exterior
named Sobakevitch--the latter of whom began the acquaintance by treading
heavily upon Chichikov’s toes, and then begging his pardon. Next,
Chichikov received an offer of a “cut in” at whist, and accepted
the same with his usual courteous inclination of the head. Seating
themselves at a green table, the party did not rise therefrom till
supper time; and during that period all conversation between the players
became hushed, as is the custom when men have given themselves up to
a really serious pursuit. Even the Postmaster--a talkative man by
nature--had no sooner taken the cards into his hands than he assumed
an expression of profound thought, pursed his lips, and retained this
attitude unchanged throughout the game. Only when playing a court card
was it his custom to strike the table with his fist, and to exclaim (if
the card happened to be a queen), “Now, old popadia [7]!” and (if
the card happened to be a king), “Now, peasant of Tambov!” To which
ejaculations invariably the President of the Local Council retorted,
“Ah, I have him by the ears, I have him by the ears!” And from the
neighbourhood of the table other strong ejaculations relative to the
play would arise, interposed with one or another of those nicknames
which participants in a game are apt to apply to members of the various
suits. I need hardly add that, the game over, the players fell to
quarrelling, and that in the dispute our friend joined, though so
artfully as to let every one see that, in spite of the fact that he was
wrangling, he was doing so only in the most amicable fashion possible.
Never did he say outright, “You played the wrong card at such and such
a point.” No, he always employed some such phrase as, “You permitted
yourself to make a slip, and thus afforded me the honour of covering
your deuce.” Indeed, the better to keep in accord with his antagonists,
he kept offering them his silver-enamelled snuff-box (at the bottom
of which lay a couple of violets, placed there for the sake of their
scent). In particular did the newcomer pay attention to landowners
Manilov and Sobakevitch; so much so that his haste to arrive on good
terms with them led to his leaving the President and the Postmaster
rather in the shade. At the same time, certain questions which he put
to those two landowners evinced not only curiosity, but also a certain
amount of sound intelligence; for he began by asking how many peasant
souls each of them possessed, and how their affairs happened at present
to be situated, and then proceeded to enlighten himself also as their
standing and their families. Indeed, it was not long before he had
succeeded in fairly enchanting his new friends. In particular did
Manilov--a man still in his prime, and possessed of a pair of eyes
which, sweet as sugar, blinked whenever he laughed--find himself unable
to make enough of his enchanter. Clasping Chichikov long and fervently
by the hand, he besought him to do him, Manilov, the honour of visiting
his country house (which he declared to lie at a distance of not more
than fifteen versts from the boundaries of the town); and in return
Chichikov averred (with an exceedingly affable bow and a most sincere
handshake) that he was prepared not only to fulfil his friend’s behest,
but also to look upon the fulfilling of it as a sacred duty. In the same
way Sobakevitch said to him laconically: “And do you pay ME a visit,”
 and then proceeded to shuffle a pair of boots of such dimensions that
to find a pair to correspond with them would have been indeed
difficult--more especially at the present day, when the race of epic
heroes is beginning to die out in Russia.

Next day Chichikov dined and spent the evening at the house of the Chief
of Police--a residence where, three hours after dinner, every one sat
down to whist, and remained so seated until two o’clock in the morning.
On this occasion Chichikov made the acquaintance of, among others, a
landowner named Nozdrev--a dissipated little fellow of thirty who had no
sooner exchanged three or four words with his new acquaintance than he
began to address him in the second person singular. Yet although he did
the same to the Chief of Police and the Public Prosecutor, the company
had no sooner seated themselves at the card-table than both the one
and the other of these functionaries started to keep a careful eye upon
Nozdrev’s tricks, and to watch practically every card which he played.
The following evening Chichikov spent with the President of the Local
Council, who received his guests--even though the latter included two
ladies--in a greasy dressing-gown. Upon that followed an evening at the
Vice-Governor’s, a large dinner party at the house of the Commissioner
of Taxes, a smaller dinner-party at the house of the Public Prosecutor
(a very wealthy man), and a subsequent reception given by the Mayor. In
short, not an hour of the day did Chichikov find himself forced to
spend at home, and his return to the inn became necessary only for the
purposes of sleeping. Somehow or other he had landed on his feet, and
everywhere he figured as an experienced man of the world. No matter what
the conversation chanced to be about, he always contrived to maintain
his part in the same. Did the discourse turn upon horse-breeding, upon
horse-breeding he happened to be peculiarly well-qualified to speak. Did
the company fall to discussing well-bred dogs, at once he had remarks of
the most pertinent kind possible to offer. Did the company touch upon
a prosecution which had recently been carried out by the Excise
Department, instantly he showed that he too was not wholly unacquainted
with legal affairs. Did an opinion chance to be expressed concerning
billiards, on that subject too he was at least able to avoid committing
a blunder. Did a reference occur to virtue, concerning virtue he
hastened to deliver himself in a way which brought tears to every eye.
Did the subject in hand happen to be the distilling of brandy--well,
that was a matter concerning which he had the soundest of knowledge. Did
any one happen to mention Customs officials and inspectors, from that
moment he expatiated as though he too had been both a minor functionary
and a major. Yet a remarkable fact was the circumstance that he always
contrived to temper his omniscience with a certain readiness to give
way, a certain ability so to keep a rein upon himself that never did his
utterances become too loud or too soft, or transcend what was perfectly
befitting. In a word, he was always a gentleman of excellent manners,
and every official in the place felt pleased when he saw him enter the
door. Thus the Governor gave it as his opinion that Chichikov was a man
of excellent intentions; the Public Prosecutor, that he was a good man
of business; the Chief of Gendarmery, that he was a man of education;
the President of the Local Council, that he was a man of breeding and
refinement; and the wife of the Chief of Gendarmery, that his politeness
of behaviour was equalled only by his affability of bearing. Nay, even
Sobakevitch--who as a rule never spoke well of ANY ONE--said to his
lanky wife when, on returning late from the town, he undressed and
betook himself to bed by her side: “My dear, this evening, after dining
with the Chief of Police, I went on to the Governor’s, and met there,
among others, a certain Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov, who is a Collegiate
Councillor and a very pleasant fellow.” To this his spouse replied “Hm!”
 and then dealt him a hearty kick in the ribs.

Such were the flattering opinions earned by the newcomer to the town;
and these opinions he retained until the time when a certain speciality
of his, a certain scheme of his (the reader will learn presently what it
was), plunged the majority of the townsfolk into a sea of perplexity.



CHAPTER II

For more than two weeks the visitor lived amid a round of evening
parties and dinners; wherefore he spent (as the saying goes) a very
pleasant time. Finally he decided to extend his visits beyond the urban
boundaries by going and calling upon landowners Manilov and Sobakevitch,
seeing that he had promised on his honour to do so. Yet what really
incited him to this may have been a more essential cause, a matter of
greater gravity, a purpose which stood nearer to his heart, than the
motive which I have just given; and of that purpose the reader will
learn if only he will have the patience to read this prefatory narrative
(which, lengthy though it be, may yet develop and expand in proportion
as we approach the denouement with which the present work is destined to
be crowned).

One evening, therefore, Selifan the coachman received orders to have
the horses harnessed in good time next morning; while Petrushka
received orders to remain behind, for the purpose of looking after the
portmanteau and the room. In passing, the reader may care to become
more fully acquainted with the two serving-men of whom I have spoken.
Naturally, they were not persons of much note, but merely what folk call
characters of secondary, or even of tertiary, importance. Yet, despite
the fact that the springs and the thread of this romance will not DEPEND
upon them, but only touch upon them, and occasionally include them,
the author has a passion for circumstantiality, and, like the average
Russian, such a desire for accuracy as even a German could not rival.
To what the reader already knows concerning the personages in hand it is
therefore necessary to add that Petrushka usually wore a cast-off brown
jacket of a size too large for him, as also that he had (according to
the custom of individuals of his calling) a pair of thick lips and
a very prominent nose. In temperament he was taciturn rather than
loquacious, and he cherished a yearning for self-education. That is to
say, he loved to read books, even though their contents came alike to
him whether they were books of heroic adventure or mere grammars or
liturgical compendia. As I say, he perused every book with an equal
amount of attention, and, had he been offered a work on chemistry,
would have accepted that also. Not the words which he read, but the mere
solace derived from the act of reading, was what especially pleased his
mind; even though at any moment there might launch itself from the page
some devil-sent word whereof he could make neither head nor tail. For
the most part, his task of reading was performed in a recumbent position
in the anteroom; which circumstance ended by causing his mattress to
become as ragged and as thin as a wafer. In addition to his love of
poring over books, he could boast of two habits which constituted two
other essential features of his character--namely, a habit of
retiring to rest in his clothes (that is to say, in the brown jacket
above-mentioned) and a habit of everywhere bearing with him his own
peculiar atmosphere, his own peculiar smell--a smell which filled
any lodging with such subtlety that he needed but to make up his bed
anywhere, even in a room hitherto untenanted, and to drag thither his
greatcoat and other impedimenta, for that room at once to assume an air
of having been lived in during the past ten years. Nevertheless, though
a fastidious, and even an irritable, man, Chichikov would merely frown
when his nose caught this smell amid the freshness of the morning, and
exclaim with a toss of his head: “The devil only knows what is up with
you! Surely you sweat a good deal, do you not? The best thing you can do
is to go and take a bath.” To this Petrushka would make no reply, but,
approaching, brush in hand, the spot where his master’s coat would be
pendent, or starting to arrange one and another article in order, would
strive to seem wholly immersed in his work. Yet of what was he thinking
as he remained thus silent? Perhaps he was saying to himself: “My master
is a good fellow, but for him to keep on saying the same thing forty
times over is a little wearisome.” Only God knows and sees all things;
wherefore for a mere human being to know what is in the mind of a
servant while his master is scolding him is wholly impossible. However,
no more need be said about Petrushka. On the other hand, Coachman
Selifan--

But here let me remark that I do not like engaging the reader’s
attention in connection with persons of a lower class than himself; for
experience has taught me that we do not willingly familiarise ourselves
with the lower orders--that it is the custom of the average Russian to
yearn exclusively for information concerning persons on the higher rungs
of the social ladder. 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. At last, with
a feeling of relief, the travellers caught sight of macadam ahead, which
promised an end both to the cobblestones and to sundry other annoyances.
And, sure enough, after his head had been bumped a few more times
against the boot of the conveyance, Chichikov found himself bowling over
softer ground. On the town receding into the distance, the sides of the
road began to be varied with the usual hillocks, fir trees, clumps of
young pine, trees with old, scarred trunks, bushes of wild juniper, and
so forth. Presently there came into view also strings of country villas
which, with their carved supports and grey roofs (the latter looking
like pendent, embroidered tablecloths), resembled, rather, bundles
of old faggots. Likewise the customary peasants, dressed in sheepskin
jackets, could be seen yawning on benches before their huts, while
their womenfolk, fat of feature and swathed of bosom, gazed out of upper
windows, and the windows below displayed, here a peering calf, and there
the unsightly jaws of a pig. In short, the view was one of the familiar
type. After passing the fifteenth verst-stone Chichikov suddenly
recollected that, according to Manilov, fifteen versts was the exact
distance between his country house and the town; but the sixteenth verst
stone flew by, and the said country house was still nowhere to be
seen. In fact, but for the circumstance that the travellers happened to
encounter a couple of peasants, they would have come on their errand in
vain. To a query as to whether the country house known as Zamanilovka
was anywhere in the neighbourhood the peasants replied by doffing their
caps; after which one of them who seemed to boast of a little more
intelligence than his companion, and who wore a wedge-shaped beard, made
answer:

“Perhaps you mean Manilovka--not ZAmanilovka?”

“Yes, yes--Manilovka.”

“Manilovka, eh? Well, you must continue for another verst, and then you
will see it straight before you, on the right.”

“On the right?” re-echoed the coachman.

“Yes, on the right,” affirmed the peasant. “You are on the proper road
for Manilovka, but ZAmanilovka--well, there is no such place. The house
you mean is called Manilovka because Manilovka is its name; but no house
at all is called ZAmanilovka. The house you mean stands there, on that
hill, and is a stone house in which a gentleman lives, and its name
is Manilovka; but ZAmanilovka does not stand hereabouts, nor ever has
stood.”

So the travellers proceeded in search of Manilovka, and, after driving
an additional two versts, arrived at a spot whence there branched off a
by-road. Yet two, three, or four versts of the by-road had been covered
before they saw the least sign of a two-storied stone mansion. Then it
was that Chichikov suddenly recollected that, when a friend has invited
one to visit his country house, and has said that the distance thereto
is fifteen versts, the distance is sure to turn out to be at least
thirty.

Not many people would have admired the situation of Manilov’s abode, for
it stood on an isolated rise and was open to every wind that blew. On
the slope of the rise lay closely-mown turf, while, disposed here and
there, after the English fashion, were flower-beds containing clumps of
lilac and yellow acacia. Also, there were a few insignificant groups
of slender-leaved, pointed-tipped birch trees, with, under two of the
latter, an arbour having a shabby green cupola, some blue-painted wooden
supports, and the inscription “This is the Temple of Solitary Thought.”
 Lower down the slope lay a green-coated pond--green-coated ponds
constitute a frequent spectacle in the gardens of Russian landowners;
and, lastly, from the foot of the declivity there stretched a line of
mouldy, log-built huts which, for some obscure reason or another, our
hero set himself to count. Up to two hundred or more did he count, but
nowhere could he perceive a single leaf of vegetation or a single stick
of timber. The only thing to greet the eye was the logs of which the
huts were constructed. Nevertheless the scene was to a certain extent
enlivened by the spectacle of two peasant women who, with clothes
picturesquely tucked up, were wading knee-deep in the pond and dragging
behind them, with wooden handles, a ragged fishing-net, in the meshes
of which two crawfish and a roach with glistening scales were entangled.
The women appeared to have cause of dispute between themselves--to be
rating one another about something. In the background, and to one side
of the house, showed a faint, dusky blur of pinewood, and even the
weather was in keeping with the surroundings, since the day was neither
clear nor dull, but of the grey tint which may be noted in uniforms of
garrison soldiers which have seen long service. To complete the picture,
a cock, the recognised harbinger of atmospheric mutations, was present;
and, in spite of the fact that a certain connection with affairs of
gallantry had led to his having had his head pecked bare by other
cocks, he flapped a pair of wings--appendages as bare as two pieces of
bast--and crowed loudly.

As Chichikov approached the courtyard of the mansion he caught sight
of his host (clad in a green frock coat) standing on the verandah and
pressing one hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun and so get a
better view of the approaching carriage. In proportion as the britchka
drew nearer and nearer to the verandah, the host’s eyes assumed a more
and more delighted expression, and his smile a broader and broader
sweep.

“Paul Ivanovitch!” he exclaimed when at length Chichikov leapt from the
vehicle. “Never should I have believed that you would have remembered
us!”

The two friends exchanged hearty embraces, and Manilov then conducted
his guest to the drawing-room. During the brief time that they are
traversing the hall, the anteroom, and the dining-room, let me try
to say something concerning the master of the house. But such an
undertaking bristles with difficulties--it promises to be a far less
easy task than the depicting of some outstanding personality which calls
but for a wholesale dashing of colours upon the canvas--the colours of
a pair of dark, burning eyes, a pair of dark, beetling brows, a forehead
seamed with wrinkles, a black, or a fiery-red, cloak thrown backwards
over the shoulder, and so forth, and so forth. Yet, so numerous are
Russian serf owners that, though careful scrutiny reveals to one’s sight
a quantity of outre peculiarities, they are, as a class, exceedingly
difficult to portray, and one needs to strain one’s faculties to the
utmost before it becomes possible to pick out their variously subtle,
their almost invisible, features. In short, one needs, before doing
this, to carry out a prolonged probing with the aid of an insight
sharpened in the acute school of research.

Only God can say what Manilov’s real character was. A class of men
exists whom the proverb has described as “men unto themselves, neither
this nor that--neither Bogdan of the city nor Selifan of the village.”
 And to that class we had better assign also Manilov. Outwardly he was
presentable enough, for his features were not wanting in amiability, but
that amiability was a quality into which there entered too much of the
sugary element, so that his every gesture, his every attitude, seemed
to connote an excess of eagerness to curry favour and cultivate a closer
acquaintance. On first speaking to the man, his ingratiating smile, his
flaxen hair, and his blue eyes would lead one to say, “What a pleasant,
good-tempered fellow he seems!” yet during the next moment or two one
would feel inclined to say nothing at all, and, during the third moment,
only to say, “The devil alone knows what he is!” And should, thereafter,
one not hasten to depart, one would inevitably become overpowered with
the deadly sense of ennui which comes of the intuition that nothing
in the least interesting is to be looked for, but only a series of
wearisome utterances of the kind which are apt to fall from the lips
of a man whose hobby has once been touched upon. For every man HAS his
hobby. One man’s may be sporting dogs; another man’s may be that of
believing himself to be a lover of music, and able to sound the art to
its inmost depths; another’s may be that of posing as a connoisseur of
recherche cookery; another’s may be that of aspiring to play roles of
a kind higher than nature has assigned him; another’s (though this is
a more limited ambition) may be that of getting drunk, and of dreaming
that he is edifying both his friends, his acquaintances, and people with
whom he has no connection at all by walking arm-in-arm with an Imperial
aide-de-camp; another’s may be that of possessing a hand able to chip
corners off aces and deuces of diamonds; another’s may be that of
yearning to set things straight--in other words, to approximate his
personality to that of a stationmaster or a director of posts. In short,
almost every man has his hobby or his leaning; yet Manilov had none
such, for at home he spoke little, and spent the greater part of
his time in meditation--though God only knows what that meditation
comprised! Nor can it be said that he took much interest in the
management of his estate, for he never rode into the country, and the
estate practically managed itself. Whenever the bailiff said to him, “It
might be well to have such-and-such a thing done,” he would reply, “Yes,
that is not a bad idea,” and then go on smoking his pipe--a habit which
he had acquired during his service in the army, where he had been looked
upon as an officer of modesty, delicacy, and refinement. “Yes, it is NOT
a bad idea,” he would repeat. Again, whenever a peasant approached him
and, rubbing the back of his neck, said “Barin, may I have leave to go
and work for myself, in order that I may earn my obrok [9]?” he would
snap out, with pipe in mouth as usual, “Yes, go!” and never trouble his
head as to whether the peasant’s real object might not be to go and get
drunk. True, at intervals he would say, while gazing from the verandah
to the courtyard, and from the courtyard to the pond, that it would be
indeed splendid if a carriage drive could suddenly materialise, and the
pond as suddenly become spanned with a stone bridge, and little shops
as suddenly arise whence pedlars could dispense the petty merchandise of
the kind which peasantry most need. And at such moments his eyes
would grow winning, and his features assume an expression of intense
satisfaction. Yet never did these projects pass beyond the stage of
debate. Likewise there lay in his study a book with the fourteenth page
permanently turned down. It was a book which he had been reading for
the past two years! In general, something seemed to be wanting in the
establishment. For instance, although the drawing-room was filled with
beautiful furniture, and upholstered in some fine silken material which
clearly had cost no inconsiderable sum, two of the chairs lacked
any covering but bast, and for some years past the master had been
accustomed to warn his guests with the words, “Do not sit upon these
chairs; they are not yet ready for use.” Another room contained no
furniture at all, although, a few days after the marriage, it had been
said: “My dear, to-morrow let us set about procuring at least some
TEMPORARY furniture for this room.” Also, every evening would see placed
upon the drawing-room table a fine bronze candelabrum, a statuette
representative of the Three Graces, a tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
and a rickety, lop-sided copper invalide. Yet of the fact that all four
articles were thickly coated with grease neither the master of the
house nor the mistress nor the servants seemed to entertain the least
suspicion. At the same time, Manilov and his wife were quite satisfied
with each other. More than eight years had elapsed since their marriage,
yet one of them was for ever offering his or her partner a piece of
apple or a bonbon or a nut, while murmuring some tender something which
voiced a whole-hearted affection. “Open your mouth, dearest”--thus ran
the formula--“and let me pop into it this titbit.” You may be sure that
on such occasions the “dearest mouth” parted its lips most graciously!
For their mutual birthdays the pair always contrived some “surprise
present” in the shape of a glass receptacle for tooth-powder, or what
not; and as they sat together on the sofa he would suddenly, and for
some unknown reason, lay aside his pipe, and she her work (if at the
moment she happened to be holding it in her hands) and husband and wife
would imprint upon one another’s cheeks such a prolonged and languishing
kiss that during its continuance you could have smoked a small cigar. In
short, they were what is known as “a very happy couple.” Yet it may be
remarked that a household requires other pursuits to be engaged in than
lengthy embracings and the preparing of cunning “surprises.” Yes, many
a function calls for fulfilment. For instance, why should it be thought
foolish or low to superintend the kitchen? Why should care not be taken
that the storeroom never lacks supplies? Why should a housekeeper be
allowed to thieve? Why should slovenly and drunken servants exist?
Why should a domestic staff be suffered in indulge in bouts of
unconscionable debauchery during its leisure time? Yet none of these
things were thought worthy of consideration by Manilov’s wife, for she
had been gently brought up, and gentle nurture, as we all know, is to
be acquired only in boarding schools, and boarding schools, as we know,
hold the three principal subjects which constitute the basis of human
virtue to be the French language (a thing indispensable to the happiness
of married life), piano-playing (a thing wherewith to beguile
a husband’s leisure moments), and that particular department of
housewifery which is comprised in the knitting of purses and other
“surprises.” Nevertheless changes and improvements have begun to take
place, since things now are governed more by the personal inclinations
and idiosyncracies of the keepers of such establishments. For instance,
in some seminaries the regimen places piano-playing first, and the
French language second, and then the above department of housewifery;
while in other seminaries the knitting of “surprises” heads the list,
and then the French language, and then the playing of pianos--so diverse
are the systems in force! None the less, I may remark that Madame
Manilov--

But let me confess that I always shrink from saying too much about
ladies. Moreover, it is time that we returned to our heroes, who, during
the past few minutes, have been standing in front of the drawing-room
door, and engaged in urging one another to enter first.

“Pray be so good as not to inconvenience yourself on my account,” said
Chichikov. “_I_ will follow YOU.”

“No, Paul Ivanovitch--no! You are my guest.” And Manilov pointed towards
the doorway.

“Make no difficulty about it, I pray,” urged Chichikov. “I beg of you to
make no difficulty about it, but to pass into the room.”

“Pardon me, I will not. Never could I allow so distinguished and so
welcome a guest as yourself to take second place.”

“Why call me ‘distinguished,’ my dear sir? I beg of you to proceed.”

“Nay; be YOU pleased to do so.”

“And why?”

“For the reason which I have stated.” And Manilov smiled his very
pleasantest smile.

Finally the pair entered simultaneously and sideways; with the result
that they jostled one another not a little in the process.

“Allow me to present to you my wife,” continued Manilov. “My dear--Paul
Ivanovitch.”

Upon that Chichikov caught sight of a lady whom hitherto he had
overlooked, but who, with Manilov, was now bowing to him in the doorway.
Not wholly of unpleasing exterior, she was dressed in a well-fitting,
high-necked morning dress of pale-coloured silk; and as the visitor
entered the room her small white hands threw something upon the table
and clutched her embroidered skirt before rising from the sofa where she
had been seated. Not without a sense of pleasure did Chichikov take her
hand as, lisping a little, she declared that she and her husband were
equally gratified by his coming, and that, of late, not a day had passed
without her husband recalling him to mind.

“Yes,” affirmed Manilov; “and every day SHE has said to ME: ‘Why does
not your friend put in an appearance?’ ‘Wait a little dearest,’ I have
always replied. ‘’Twill not be long now before he comes.’ And you HAVE
come, you HAVE honoured us with a visit, you HAVE bestowed upon us a
treat--a treat destined to convert this day into a gala day, a true
birthday of the heart.”

The intimation that matters had reached the point of the occasion being
destined to constitute a “true birthday of the heart” caused Chichikov
to become a little confused; wherefore he made modest reply that, as a
matter of fact, he was neither of distinguished origin nor distinguished
rank.

“Ah, you ARE so,” interrupted Manilov with his fixed and engaging smile.
“You are all that, and more.”

“How like you our town?” queried Madame. “Have you spent an agreeable
time in it?”

“Very,” replied Chichikov. “The town is an exceedingly nice one, and I
have greatly enjoyed its hospitable society.”

“And what do you think of our Governor?”

“Yes; IS he not a most engaging and dignified personage?” added Manilov.

“He is all that,” assented Chichikov. “Indeed, he is a man worthy of the
greatest respect. And how thoroughly he performs his duty according to
his lights! Would that we had more like him!”

“And the tactfulness with which he greets every one!” added Manilov,
smiling, and half-closing his eyes, like a cat which is being tickled
behind the ears.

“Quite so,” assented Chichikov. “He is a man of the most eminent
civility and approachableness. And what an artist! Never should I have
thought he could have worked the marvellous household samplers which he
has done! Some specimens of his needlework which he showed me could not
well have been surpassed by any lady in the land!”

“And the Vice-Governor, too--he is a nice man, is he not?” inquired
Manilov with renewed blinkings of the eyes.

“Who? The Vice-Governor? Yes, a most worthy fellow!” replied Chichikov.

“And what of the Chief of Police? Is it not a fact that he too is in the
highest degree agreeable?”

“Very agreeable indeed. And what a clever, well-read individual! With
him and the Public Prosecutor and the President of the Local Council I
played whist until the cocks uttered their last morning crow. He is a
most excellent fellow.”

“And what of his wife?” queried Madame Manilov. “Is she not a most
gracious personality?”

“One of the best among my limited acquaintance,” agreed Chichikov.

Nor were the President of the Local Council and the Postmaster
overlooked; until the company had run through the whole list of urban
officials. And in every case those officials appeared to be persons of
the highest possible merit.

“Do you devote your time entirely to your estate?” asked Chichikov, in
his turn.

“Well, most of it,” replied Manilov; “though also we pay occasional
visits to the town, in order that we may mingle with a little well-bred
society. One grows a trifle rusty if one lives for ever in retirement.”

“Quite so,” agreed Chichikov.

“Yes, quite so,” capped Manilov. “At the same time, it would be a
different matter if the neighbourhood were a GOOD one--if, for example,
one had a friend with whom one could discuss manners and polite
deportment, or engage in some branch of science, and so stimulate one’s
wits. For that sort of thing gives one’s intellect an airing. It, it--”
 At a loss for further words, he ended by remarking that his feelings
were apt to carry him away; after which he continued with a gesture:
“What I mean is that, were that sort of thing possible, I, for
one, could find the country and an isolated life possessed of great
attractions. But, as matters stand, such a thing is NOT possible. All
that I can manage to do is, occasionally, to read a little of A Son of
the Fatherland.”

With these sentiments Chichikov expressed entire agreement: adding that
nothing could be more delightful than to lead a solitary life in which
there should be comprised only the sweet contemplation of nature and the
intermittent perusal of a book.

“Nay, but even THAT were worth nothing had not one a friend with whom to
share one’s life,” remarked Manilov.

“True, true,” agreed Chichikov. “Without a friend, what are all the
treasures in the world? ‘Possess not money,’ a wise man has said, ‘but
rather good friends to whom to turn in case of need.’”

“Yes, Paul Ivanovitch,” said Manilov with a glance not merely sweet,
but positively luscious--a glance akin to the mixture which even clever
physicians have to render palatable before they can induce a hesitant
patient to take it. “Consequently you may imagine what happiness--what
PERFECT happiness, so to speak--the present occasion has brought me,
seeing that I am permitted to converse with you and to enjoy your
conversation.”

“But WHAT of my conversation?” replied Chichikov. “I am an insignificant
individual, and, beyond that, nothing.”

“Oh, Paul Ivanovitch!” cried the other. “Permit me to be frank, and to
say that I would give half my property to possess even a PORTION of the
talents which you possess.”

“On the contrary, I should consider it the highest honour in the world
if--”

The lengths to which this mutual outpouring of soul would have proceeded
had not a servant entered to announce luncheon must remain a mystery.

“I humbly invite you to join us at table,” said Manilov. “Also, you will
pardon us for the fact that we cannot provide a banquet such as is to
be obtained in our metropolitan cities? We partake of simple fare,
according to Russian custom--we confine ourselves to shtchi [10], but we
do so with a single heart. Come, I humbly beg of you.”

After another contest for the honour of yielding precedence, Chichikov
succeeded in making his way (in zigzag fashion) to the dining-room,
where they found awaiting them a couple of youngsters. These were
Manilov’s sons, and boys of the age which admits of their presence at
table, but necessitates the continued use of high chairs. Beside them
was their tutor, who bowed politely and smiled; after which the hostess
took her seat before her soup plate, and the guest of honour found
himself esconsed between her and the master of the house, while the
servant tied up the boys’ necks in bibs.

“What charming children!” said Chichikov as he gazed at the pair. “And
how old are they?”

“The eldest is eight,” replied Manilov, “and the younger one attained
the age of six yesterday.”

“Themistocleus,” went on the father, turning to his first-born, who was
engaged in striving to free his chin from the bib with which the footman
had encircled it. On hearing this distinctly Greek name (to which, for
some unknown reason, Manilov always appended the termination “eus”),
Chichikov raised his eyebrows a little, but hastened, the next moment,
to restore his face to a more befitting expression.

“Themistocleus,” repeated the father, “tell me which is the finest city
in France.”

Upon this the tutor concentrated his attention upon Themistocleus, and
appeared to be trying hard to catch his eye. Only when Themistocleus had
muttered “Paris” did the preceptor grow calmer, and nod his head.

“And which is the finest city in Russia?” continued Manilov.

Again the tutor’s attitude became wholly one of concentration.

“St. Petersburg,” replied Themistocleus.

“And what other city?”

“Moscow,” responded the boy.

“Clever little dear!” burst out Chichikov, turning with an air of
surprise to the father. “Indeed, I feel bound to say that the child
evinces the greatest possible potentialities.”

“You do not know him fully,” replied the delighted Manilov. “The amount
of sharpness which he possesses is extraordinary. Our younger one,
Alkid, is not so quick; whereas his brother--well, no matter what he
may happen upon (whether upon a cowbug or upon a water-beetle or upon
anything else), his little eyes begin jumping out of his head, and he
runs to catch the thing, and to inspect it. For HIM I am reserving a
diplomatic post. Themistocleus,” added the father, again turning to his
son, “do you wish to become an ambassador?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Themistocleus, chewing a piece of bread and wagging
his head from side to side.

At this moment the lacquey who had been standing behind the future
ambassador wiped the latter’s nose; and well it was that he did so,
since otherwise an inelegant and superfluous drop would have been added
to the soup. After that the conversation turned upon the joys of a quiet
life--though occasionally it was interrupted by remarks from the hostess
on the subject of acting and actors. Meanwhile the tutor kept his eyes
fixed upon the speakers’ faces; and whenever he noticed that they were
on the point of laughing he at once opened his mouth, and laughed with
enthusiasm. Probably he was a man of grateful heart who wished to
repay his employers for the good treatment which he had received. Once,
however, his features assumed a look of grimness as, fixing his eyes
upon his vis-a-vis, the boys, he tapped sternly upon the table. This
happened at a juncture when Themistocleus had bitten Alkid on the ear,
and the said Alkid, with frowning eyes and open mouth, was preparing
himself to sob in piteous fashion; until, recognising that for such a
proceeding he might possibly be deprived of his plate, he hastened to
restore his mouth to its original expression, and fell tearfully to
gnawing a mutton bone--the grease from which had soon covered his
cheeks.

Every now and again the hostess would turn to Chichikov with the words,
“You are eating nothing--you have indeed taken little;” but invariably
her guest replied: “Thank you, I have had more than enough. A pleasant
conversation is worth all the dishes in the world.”

At length the company rose from table. Manilov was in high spirits,
and, laying his hand upon his guest’s shoulder, was on the point of
conducting him to the drawing-room, when suddenly Chichikov intimated
to him, with a meaning look, that he wished to speak to him on a very
important matter.

“That being so,” said Manilov, “allow me to invite you into my study.”
 And he led the way to a small room which faced the blue of the forest.
“This is my sanctum,” he added.

“What a pleasant apartment!” remarked Chichikov as he eyed it carefully.
And, indeed, the room did not lack a certain attractiveness. The walls
were painted a sort of blueish-grey colour, and the furniture consisted
of four chairs, a settee, and a table--the latter of which bore a few
sheets of writing-paper and the book of which I have before had occasion
to speak. But the most prominent feature of the room was tobacco, which
appeared in many different guises--in packets, in a tobacco jar, and in
a loose heap strewn about the table. Likewise, both window sills were
studded with little heaps of ash, arranged, not without artifice, in
rows of more or less tidiness. Clearly smoking afforded the master of
the house a frequent means of passing the time.

“Permit me to offer you a seat on this settee,” said Manilov. “Here you
will be quieter than you would be in the drawing-room.”

“But I should prefer to sit upon this chair.”

“I cannot allow that,” objected the smiling Manilov. “The settee is
specially reserved for my guests. Whether you choose or no, upon it you
MUST sit.”

Accordingly Chichikov obeyed.

“And also let me hand you a pipe.”

“No, I never smoke,” answered Chichikov civilly, and with an assumed air
of regret.

“And why?” inquired Manilov--equally civilly, but with a regret that was
wholly genuine.

“Because I fear that I have never quite formed the habit, owing to
my having heard that a pipe exercises a desiccating effect upon the
system.”

“Then allow me to tell you that that is mere prejudice. Nay, I would
even go so far as to say that to smoke a pipe is a healthier practice
than to take snuff. Among its members our regiment numbered a
lieutenant--a most excellent, well-educated fellow--who was simply
INCAPABLE of removing his pipe from his mouth, whether at table or
(pardon me) in other places. He is now forty, yet no man could enjoy
better health than he has always done.”

Chichikov replied that such cases were common, since nature comprised
many things which even the finest intellect could not compass.

“But allow me to put to you a question,” he went on in a tone in which
there was a strange--or, at all events, RATHER a strange--note. For some
unknown reason, also, he glanced over his shoulder. For some equally
unknown reason, Manilov glanced over HIS.

“How long is it,” inquired the guest, “since you last rendered a census
return?”

“Oh, a long, long time. In fact, I cannot remember when it was.”

“And since then have many of your serfs died?”

“I do not know. To ascertain that I should need to ask my bailiff.
Footman, go and call the bailiff. I think he will be at home to-day.”

Before long the bailiff made his appearance. He was a man of under
forty, clean-shaven, clad in a smock, and evidently used to a quiet
life, seeing that his face was of that puffy fullness, and the skin
encircling his slit-like eyes was of that sallow tint, which shows that
the owner of those features is well acquainted with a feather bed. In a
trice it could be seen that he had played his part in life as all such
bailiffs do--that, originally a young serf of elementary education, he
had married some Agashka of a housekeeper or a mistress’s favourite, and
then himself become housekeeper, and, subsequently, bailiff; after which
he had proceeded according to the rules of his tribe--that is to say,
he had consorted with and stood in with the more well-to-do serfs on the
estate, and added the poorer ones to the list of forced payers of obrok,
while himself leaving his bed at nine o’clock in the morning, and, when
the samovar had been brought, drinking his tea at leisure.

“Look here, my good man,” said Manilov. “How many of our serfs have died
since the last census revision?”

“How many of them have died? Why, a great many.” The bailiff hiccoughed,
and slapped his mouth lightly after doing so.

“Yes, I imagined that to be the case,” corroborated Manilov. “In fact,
a VERY great many serfs have died.” He turned to Chichikov and repeated
the words.

“How many, for instance?” asked Chichikov.

“Yes; how many?” re-echoed Manilov.

“HOW many?” re-echoed the bailiff. “Well, no one knows the exact number,
for no one has kept any account.”

“Quite so,” remarked Manilov. “I supposed the death-rate to have been
high, but was ignorant of its precise extent.”

“Then would you be so good as to have it computed for me?” said
Chichikov. “And also to have a detailed list of the deaths made out?”

“Yes, I will--a detailed list,” agreed Manilov.

“Very well.”

The bailiff departed.

“For what purpose do you want it?” inquired Manilov when the bailiff had
gone.

The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in Chichikov’s face
there dawned a sort of tense expression, and it reddened as though its
owner were striving to express something not easy to put into words.
True enough, Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and
unexpected things as never before had greeted human ears.

“You ask me,” said Chichikov, “for what purpose I want the list. Well,
my purpose in wanting it is this--that I desire to purchase a few
peasants.” And he broke off in a gulp.

“But may I ask HOW you desire to purchase those peasants?” asked
Manilov. “With land, or merely as souls for transferment--that is to
say, by themselves, and without any land?”

“I want the peasants themselves only,” replied Chichikov. “And I want
dead ones at that.”

“What?--Excuse me, but I am a trifle deaf. Really, your words sound most
strange!”

“All that I am proposing to do,” replied Chichikov, “is to purchase the
dead peasants who, at the last census, were returned by you as alive.”

Manilov dropped his pipe on the floor, and sat gaping. Yes, the two
friends who had just been discussing the joys of camaraderie sat
staring at one another like the portraits which, of old, used to hang on
opposite sides of a mirror. At length Manilov picked up his pipe, and,
while doing so, glanced covertly at Chichikov to see whether there was
any trace of a smile to be detected on his lips--whether, in short, he
was joking. But nothing of the sort could be discerned. On the contrary,
Chichikov’s face looked graver than usual. Next, Manilov wondered
whether, for some unknown reason, his guest had lost his wits; wherefore
he spent some time in gazing at him with anxious intentness. But the
guest’s eyes seemed clear--they contained no spark of the wild, restless
fire which is apt to wander in the eyes of madmen. All was as it should
be. Consequently, in spite of Manilov’s cogitations, he could think
of nothing better to do than to sit letting a stream of tobacco smoke
escape from his mouth.

“So,” continued Chichikov, “what I desire to know is whether you are
willing to hand over to me--to resign--these actually non-living, but
legally living, peasants; or whether you have any better proposal to
make?”

Manilov felt too confused and confounded to do aught but continue
staring at his interlocutor.

“I think that you are disturbing yourself unnecessarily,” was
Chichikov’s next remark.

“I? Oh no! Not at all!” stammered Manilov. “Only--pardon me--I do not
quite comprehend you. You see, never has it fallen to my lot to acquire
the brilliant polish which is, so to speak, manifest in your every
movement. Nor have I ever been able to attain the art of expressing
myself well. Consequently, although there is a possibility that in
the--er--utterances which have just fallen from your lips there may
lie something else concealed, it may equally be that--er--you have been
pleased so to express yourself for the sake of the beauty of the terms
wherein that expression found shape?”

“Oh, no,” asserted Chichikov. “I mean what I say and no more. My
reference to such of your pleasant souls as are dead was intended to be
taken literally.”

Manilov still felt at a loss--though he was conscious that he MUST do
something, he MUST propound some question. But what question? The devil
alone knew! In the end he merely expelled some more tobacco smoke--this
time from his nostrils as well as from his mouth.

“So,” went on Chichikov, “if no obstacle stands in the way, we might as
well proceed to the completion of the purchase.”

“What? Of the purchase of the dead souls?”

“Of the ‘dead’ souls? Oh dear no! Let us write them down as LIVING ones,
seeing that that is how they figure in the census returns. Never do I
permit myself to step outside the civil law, great though has been
the harm which that rule has wrought me in my career. In my eyes an
obligation is a sacred thing. In the presence of the law I am dumb.”

These last words reassured Manilov not a little: yet still the meaning
of the affair remained to him a mystery. By way of answer, he fell to
sucking at his pipe with such vehemence that at length the pipe began
to gurgle like a bassoon. It was as though he had been seeking of
it inspiration in the present unheard-of juncture. But the pipe only
gurgled, et praeterea nihil.

“Perhaps you feel doubtful about the proposal?” said Chichikov.

“Not at all,” replied Manilov. “But you will, I know, excuse me if I
say (and I say it out of no spirit of prejudice, nor yet as criticising
yourself in any way)--you will, I know, excuse me if I say that possibly
this--er--this, er, SCHEME of yours, this--er--TRANSACTION of yours, may
fail altogether to accord with the Civil Statutes and Provisions of the
Realm?”

And Manilov, with a slight gesture of the head, looked meaningly into
Chichikov’s face, while displaying in his every feature, including
his closely-compressed lips, such an expression of profundity as
never before was seen on any human countenance--unless on that of some
particularly sapient Minister of State who is debating some particularly
abstruse problem.

Nevertheless Chichikov rejoined that the kind of scheme or transaction
which he had adumbrated in no way clashed with the Civil Statutes and
Provisions of Russia; to which he added that the Treasury would even
BENEFIT by the enterprise, seeing it would draw therefrom the usual
legal percentage.

“What, then, do you propose?” asked Manilov.

“I propose only what is above-board, and nothing else.”

“Then, that being so, it is another matter, and I have nothing to urge
against it,” said Manilov, apparently reassured to the full.

“Very well,” remarked Chichikov. “Then we need only to agree as to the
price.”

“As to the price?” began Manilov, and then stopped. Presently he went
on: “Surely you cannot suppose me capable of taking money for souls
which, in one sense at least, have completed their existence? Seeing
that this fantastic whim of yours (if I may so call it?) has seized
upon you to the extent that it has, I, on my side, shall be ready to
surrender to you those souls UNCONDITIONALLY, and to charge myself with
the whole expenses of the sale.”

I should be greatly to blame if I were to omit that, as soon as Manilov
had pronounced these words, the face of his guest became replete with
satisfaction. Indeed, grave and prudent a man though Chichikov was,
he had much ado to refrain from executing a leap that would have done
credit to a goat (an animal which, as we all know, finds itself moved
to such exertions only during moments of the most ecstatic joy).
Nevertheless the guest did at least execute such a convulsive shuffle
that the material with which the cushions of the chair were covered came
apart, and Manilov gazed at him with some misgiving. Finally Chichikov’s
gratitude led him to plunge into a stream of acknowledgement of a
vehemence which caused his host to grow confused, to blush, to shake
his head in deprecation, and to end by declaring that the concession was
nothing, and that, his one desire being to manifest the dictates of
his heart and the psychic magnetism which his friend exercised, he, in
short, looked upon the dead souls as so much worthless rubbish.

“Not at all,” replied Chichikov, pressing his hand; after which
he heaved a profound sigh. Indeed, he seemed in the right mood for
outpourings of the heart, for he continued--not without a ring of
emotion in his tone: “If you but knew the service which you have
rendered to an apparently insignificant individual who is devoid both
of family and kindred! For what have I not suffered in my time--I, a
drifting barque amid the tempestuous billows of life? What harryings,
what persecutions, have I not known? Of what grief have I not tasted?
And why? Simply because I have ever kept the truth in view, because ever
I have preserved inviolate an unsullied conscience, because ever I have
stretched out a helping hand to the defenceless widow and the hapless
orphan!” After which outpouring Chichikov pulled out his handkerchief,
and wiped away a brimming tear.

Manilov’s heart was moved to the core. Again and again did the two
friends press one another’s hands in silence as they gazed into one
another’s tear-filled eyes. Indeed, Manilov COULD not let go our hero’s
hand, but clasped it with such warmth that the hero in question began
to feel himself at a loss how best to wrench it free: until, quietly
withdrawing it, he observed that to have the purchase completed as
speedily as possible would not be a bad thing; wherefore he himself
would at once return to the town to arrange matters. Taking up his hat,
therefore, he rose to make his adieus.

“What? Are you departing already?” said Manilov, suddenly recovering
himself, and experiencing a sense of misgiving. At that moment his wife
sailed into the room.

“Is Paul Ivanovitch leaving us so soon, dearest Lizanka?” she said with
an air of regret.

“Yes. Surely it must be that we have wearied him?” her spouse replied.

“By no means,” asserted Chichikov, pressing his hand to his heart. “In
this breast, madam, will abide for ever the pleasant memory of the time
which I have spent with you. Believe me, I could conceive of no greater
blessing than to reside, if not under the same roof as yourselves, at
all events in your immediate neighbourhood.”

“Indeed?” exclaimed Manilov, greatly pleased with the idea. “How
splendid it would be if you DID come to reside under our roof, so that
we could recline under an elm tree together, and talk philosophy, and
delve to the very root of things!”

“Yes, it WOULD be a paradisaical existence!” agreed Chichikov with a
sigh. Nevertheless he shook hands with Madame. “Farewell, sudarina,” he
said. “And farewell to YOU, my esteemed host. Do not forget what I have
requested you to do.”

“Rest assured that I will not,” responded Manilov. “Only for a couple of
days will you and I be parted from one another.”

With that the party moved into the drawing-room.

“Farewell, dearest children,” Chichikov went on as he caught sight of
Alkid and Themistocleus, who were playing with a wooden hussar which
lacked both a nose and one arm. “Farewell, dearest pets. Pardon me for
having brought you no presents, but, to tell you the truth, I was not,
until my visit, aware of your existence. However, now that I shall be
coming again, I will not fail to bring you gifts. Themistocleus, to you
I will bring a sword. You would like that, would you not?”

“I should,” replied Themistocleus.

“And to you, Alkid, I will bring a drum. That would suit you, would it
not?” And he bowed in Alkid’s direction.

“Zeth--a drum,” lisped the boy, hanging his head.

“Good! Then a drum it shall be--SUCH a beautiful drum! What a
tur-r-r-ru-ing and a tra-ta-ta-ta-ing you will be able to kick up!
Farewell, my darling.” And, kissing the boy’s head, he turned to Manilov
and Madame with the slight smile which one assumes before assuring
parents of the guileless merits of their offspring.

“But you had better stay, Paul Ivanovitch,” said the father as the trio
stepped out on to the verandah. “See how the clouds are gathering!”

“They are only small ones,” replied Chichikov.

“And you know your way to Sobakevitch’s?”

“No, I do not, and should be glad if you would direct me.”

“If you like I will tell your coachman.” And in very civil fashion
Manilov did so, even going so far as to address the man in the second
person plural. On hearing that he was to pass two turnings, and then to
take a third, Selifan remarked, “We shall get there all right, sir,” and
Chichikov departed amid a profound salvo of salutations and wavings of
handkerchiefs on the part of his host and hostess, who raised themselves
on tiptoe in their enthusiasm.

For a long while Manilov stood following the departing britchka with his
eyes. In fact, he continued to smoke his pipe and gaze after the
vehicle even when it had become lost to view. Then he re-entered the
drawing-room, seated himself upon a chair, and surrendered his mind to
the thought that he had shown his guest most excellent entertainment.
Next, his mind passed imperceptibly to other matters, until at last it
lost itself God only knows where. He thought of the amenities of a life,
of friendship, and of how nice it would be to live with a comrade on,
say, the bank of some river, and to span the river with a bridge of his
own, and to build an enormous mansion with a facade lofty enough even to
afford a view to Moscow. On that facade he and his wife and friend would
drink afternoon tea in the open air, and discuss interesting subjects;
after which, in a fine carriage, they would drive to some reunion or
other, where with their pleasant manners they would so charm the company
that the Imperial Government, on learning of their merits, would raise
the pair to the grade of General or God knows what--that is to say, to
heights whereof even Manilov himself could form no idea. Then suddenly
Chichikov’s extraordinary request interrupted the dreamer’s reflections,
and he found his brain powerless to digest it, seeing that, turn and
turn the matter about as he might, he could not properly explain its
bearing. Smoking his pipe, he sat where he was until supper time.



CHAPTER III

Meanwhile, Chichikov, seated in his britchka and bowling along the
turnpike, was feeling greatly pleased with himself. From the preceding
chapter the reader will have gathered the principal subject of his bent
and inclinations: wherefore it is no matter for wonder that his body
and his soul had ended by becoming wholly immersed therein. To all
appearances the thoughts, the calculations, and the projects which
were now reflected in his face partook of a pleasant nature, since
momentarily they kept leaving behind them a satisfied smile. Indeed, so
engrossed was he that he never noticed that his coachman, elated with
the hospitality of Manilov’s domestics, was making remarks of a didactic
nature to the off horse of the troika [11], a skewbald. This skewbald
was a knowing animal, and made only a show of pulling; whereas its
comrades, the middle horse (a bay, and known as the Assessor, owing to
his having been acquired from a gentleman of that rank) and the near
horse (a roan), would do their work gallantly, and even evince in their
eyes the pleasure which they derived from their exertions.

“Ah, you rascal, you rascal! I’ll get the better of you!” ejaculated
Selifan as he sat up and gave the lazy one a cut with his whip. “YOU
know your business all right, you German pantaloon! The bay is a good
fellow, and does his duty, and I will give him a bit over his feed, for
he is a horse to be respected; and the Assessor too is a good horse. But
what are YOU shaking your ears for? You are a fool, so just mind when
you’re spoken to. ’Tis good advice I’m giving you, you blockhead. Ah!
You CAN travel when you like.” And he gave the animal another cut,
and then shouted to the trio, “Gee up, my beauties!” and drew his whip
gently across the backs of the skewbald’s comrades--not as a punishment,
but as a sign of his approval. That done, he addressed himself to the
skewbald again.

“Do you think,” he cried, “that I don’t see what you are doing? You can
behave quite decently when you like, and make a man respect you.”

With that he fell to recalling certain reminiscences.

“They were NICE folk, those folk at the gentleman’s yonder,” he mused.
“I DO love a chat with a man when he is a good sort. With a man of that
kind I am always hail-fellow-well-met, and glad to drink a glass of
tea with him, or to eat a biscuit. One CAN’T help respecting a decent
fellow. For instance, this gentleman of mine--why, every one looks up
to him, for he has been in the Government’s service, and is a Collegiate
Councillor.”

Thus soliloquising, he passed to more remote abstractions; until, had
Chichikov been listening, he would have learnt a number of interesting
details concerning himself. However, his thoughts were wholly occupied
with his own subject, so much so that not until a loud clap of thunder
awoke him from his reverie did he glance around him. The sky was
completely covered with clouds, and the dusty turnpike beginning to
be sprinkled with drops of rain. At length a second and a nearer and a
louder peal resounded, and the rain descended as from a bucket. Falling
slantwise, it beat upon one side of the basketwork of the tilt until the
splashings began to spurt into his face, and he found himself forced to
draw the curtains (fitted with circular openings through which to obtain
a glimpse of the wayside view), and to shout to Selifan to quicken his
pace. Upon that the coachman, interrupted in the middle of his harangue,
bethought him that no time was to be lost; wherefore, extracting from
under the box-seat a piece of old blanket, he covered over his sleeves,
resumed the reins, and cheered on his threefold team (which, it may
be said, had so completely succumbed to the influence of the pleasant
lassitude induced by Selifan’s discourse that it had taken to scarcely
placing one leg before the other). Unfortunately, Selifan could not
clearly remember whether two turnings had been passed or three. Indeed,
on collecting his faculties, and dimly recalling the lie of the road,
he became filled with a shrewd suspicion that A VERY LARGE NUMBER of
turnings had been passed. But since, at moments which call for a hasty
decision, a Russian is quick to discover what may conceivably be
the best course to take, our coachman put away from him all ulterior
reasoning, and, turning to the right at the next cross-road, shouted,
“Hi, my beauties!” and set off at a gallop. Never for a moment did he
stop to think whither the road might lead him!

It was long before the clouds had discharged their burden, and,
meanwhile, the dust on the road became kneaded into mire, and the
horses’ task of pulling the britchka heavier and heavier. Also,
Chichikov had taken alarm at his continued failure to catch sight of
Sobakevitch’s country house. According to his calculations, it ought to
have been reached long ago. He gazed about him on every side, but the
darkness was too dense for the eye to pierce.

“Selifan!” he exclaimed, leaning forward in the britchka.

“What is it, barin?” replied the coachman.

“Can you see the country house anywhere?”

“No, barin.” After which, with a flourish of the whip, the man broke
into a sort of endless, drawling song. In that song everything had
a place. By “everything” I mean both the various encouraging and
stimulating cries with which Russian folk urge on their horses, and a
random, unpremeditated selection of adjectives.

Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britchka was swaying
violently, and dealing him occasional bumps. Consequently he suspected
that it had left the road and was being dragged over a ploughed field.
Upon Selifan’s mind there appeared to have dawned a similar inkling, for
he had ceased to hold forth.

“You rascal, what road are you following?” inquired Chichikov.

“I don’t know,” retorted the coachman. “What can a man do at a time of
night when the darkness won’t let him even see his whip?” And as Selifan
spoke the vehicle tilted to an angle which left Chichikov no choice but
to hang on with hands and teeth. At length he realised the fact that
Selifan was drunk.

“Stop, stop, or you will upset us!” he shouted to the fellow.

“No, no, barin,” replied Selifan. “HOW could I upset you? To upset
people is wrong. I know that very well, and should never dream of such
conduct.”

Here he started to turn the vehicle round a little--and kept on doing so
until the britchka capsized on to its side, and Chichikov landed in the
mud on his hands and knees. Fortunately Selifan succeeded in stopping
the horses, although they would have stopped of themselves, seeing
that they were utterly worn out. This unforeseen catastrophe evidently
astonished their driver. Slipping from the box, he stood resting his
hands against the side of the britchka, while Chichikov tumbled and
floundered about in the mud, in a vain endeavour to wriggle clear of the
stuff.

“Ah, you!” said Selifan meditatively to the britchka. “To think of
upsetting us like this!”

“You are as drunk as a lord!” exclaimed Chichikov.

“No, no, barin. Drunk, indeed? Why, I know my manners too well. A word
or two with a friend--that is all that I have taken. Any one may talk
with a decent man when he meets him. There is nothing wrong in
that. Also, we had a snack together. There is nothing wrong in a
snack--especially a snack with a decent man.”

“What did I say to you when last you got drunk?” asked Chichikov. “Have
you forgotten what I said then?”

“No, no, barin. HOW could I forget it? I know what is what, and know
that it is not right to get drunk. All that I have been having is a word
or two with a decent man, for the reason that--”

“Well, if I lay the whip about you, you’ll know then how to talk to a
decent fellow, I’ll warrant!”

“As you please, barin,” replied the complacent Selifan. “Should you
whip me, you will whip me, and I shall have nothing to complain of. Why
should you not whip me if I deserve it? ’Tis for you to do as you like.
Whippings are necessary sometimes, for a peasant often plays the fool,
and discipline ought to be maintained. If I have deserved it, beat me.
Why should you not?”

This reasoning seemed, at the moment, irrefutable, and Chichikov said
nothing more. Fortunately fate had decided to take pity on the pair, for
from afar their ears caught the barking of a dog. Plucking up courage,
Chichikov gave orders for the britchka to be righted, and the horses to
be urged forward; and since a Russian driver has at least this merit,
that, owing to a keen sense of smell being able to take the place
of eyesight, he can, if necessary, drive at random and yet reach a
destination of some sort, Selifan succeeded, though powerless to discern
a single object, in directing his steeds to a country house near by, and
that with such a certainty of instinct that it was not until the shafts
had collided with a garden wall, and thereby made it clear that to
proceed another pace was impossible, that he stopped. All that Chichikov
could discern through the thick veil of pouring rain was something
which resembled a verandah. So he dispatched Selifan to search for the
entrance gates, and that process would have lasted indefinitely had it
not been shortened by the circumstance that, in Russia, the place of
a Swiss footman is frequently taken by watchdogs; of which animals a
number now proclaimed the travellers’ presence so loudly that Chichikov
found himself forced to stop his ears. Next, a light gleamed in one
of the windows, and filtered in a thin stream to the garden wall--thus
revealing the whereabouts of the entrance gates; whereupon Selifan
fell to knocking at the gates until the bolts of the house door were
withdrawn and there issued therefrom a figure clad in a rough cloak.

“Who is that knocking? What have you come for?” shouted the hoarse voice
of an elderly woman.

“We are travellers, good mother,” said Chichikov. “Pray allow us to
spend the night here.”

“Out upon you for a pair of gadabouts!” retorted the old woman. “A fine
time of night to be arriving! We don’t keep an hotel, mind you. This is
a lady’s residence.”

“But what are we to do, mother? We have lost our way, and cannot spend
the night out of doors in such weather.”

“No, we cannot. The night is dark and cold,” added Selifan.

“Hold your tongue, you fool!” exclaimed Chichikov.

“Who ARE you, then?” inquired the old woman.

“A dvorianin [12], good mother.”

Somehow the word dvorianin seemed to give the old woman food for
thought.

“Wait a moment,” she said, “and I will tell the mistress.”

Two minutes later she returned with a lantern in her hand, the gates
were opened, and a light glimmered in a second window. Entering the
courtyard, the britchka halted before a moderate-sized mansion. The
darkness did not permit of very accurate observation being made,
but, apparently, the windows only of one-half of the building were
illuminated, while a quagmire in front of the door reflected the beams
from the same. Meanwhile the rain continued to beat sonorously down upon
the wooden roof, and could be heard trickling into a water butt; nor
for a single moment did the dogs cease to bark with all the strength of
their lungs. One of them, throwing up its head, kept venting a howl
of such energy and duration that the animal seemed to be howling for a
handsome wager; while another, cutting in between the yelpings of the
first animal, kept restlessly reiterating, like a postman’s bell, the
notes of a very young puppy. Finally, an old hound which appeared to be
gifted with a peculiarly robust temperament kept supplying the part of
contrabasso, so that his growls resembled the rumbling of a bass singer
when a chorus is in full cry, and the tenors are rising on tiptoe in
their efforts to compass a particularly high note, and the whole body of
choristers are wagging their heads before approaching a climax, and
this contrabasso alone is tucking his bearded chin into his collar, and
sinking almost to a squatting posture on the floor, in order to produce
a note which shall cause the windows to shiver and their panes to crack.
Naturally, from a canine chorus of such executants it might reasonably
be inferred that the establishment was one of the utmost respectability.
To that, however, our damp, cold hero gave not a thought, for all his
mind was fixed upon bed. Indeed, the britchka had hardly come to a
standstill before he leapt out upon the doorstep, missed his footing,
and came within an ace of falling. To meet him there issued a female
younger than the first, but very closely resembling her; and on his
being conducted to the parlour, a couple of glances showed him that the
room was hung with old striped curtains, and ornamented with pictures
of birds and small, antique mirrors--the latter set in dark frames which
were carved to resemble scrolls of foliage. Behind each mirror was stuck
either a letter or an old pack of cards or a stocking, while on the wall
hung a clock with a flowered dial. More, however, Chichikov could not
discern, for his eyelids were as heavy as though smeared with treacle.
Presently the lady of the house herself entered--an elderly woman in a
sort of nightcap (hastily put on) and a flannel neck wrap. She belonged
to that class of lady landowners who are for ever lamenting failures of
the harvest and their losses thereby; to the class who, drooping their
heads despondently, are all the while stuffing money into striped
purses, which they keep hoarded in the drawers of cupboards. Into one
purse they will stuff rouble pieces, into another half roubles, and into
a third tchetvertachki [13], although from their mien you would suppose
that the cupboard contained only linen and nightshirts and skeins of
wool and the piece of shabby material which is destined--should the
old gown become scorched during the baking of holiday cakes and other
dainties, or should it fall into pieces of itself--to become converted
into a new dress. But the gown never does get burnt or wear out, for
the reason that the lady is too careful; wherefore the piece of shabby
material reposes in its unmade-up condition until the priest advises
that it be given to the niece of some widowed sister, together with a
quantity of other such rubbish.

Chichikov apologised for having disturbed the household with his
unexpected arrival.

“Not at all, not at all,” replied the lady. “But in what dreadful
weather God has brought you hither! What wind and what rain! You could
not help losing your way. Pray excuse us for being unable to make better
preparations for you at this time of night.”

Suddenly there broke in upon the hostess’ words the sound of a strange
hissing, a sound so loud that the guest started in alarm, and the more
so seeing that it increased until the room seemed filled with adders. On
glancing upwards, however, he recovered his composure, for he perceived
the sound to be emanating from the clock, which appeared to be in a mind
to strike. To the hissing sound there succeeded a wheezing one, until,
putting forth its best efforts, the thing struck two with as much
clatter as though some one had been hitting an iron pot with a
cudgel. That done, the pendulum returned to its right-left, right-left
oscillation.

Chichikov thanked his hostess kindly, and said that he needed nothing,
and she must not put herself about: only for rest was he longing--though
also he should like to know whither he had arrived, and whether the
distance to the country house of land-owner Sobakevitch was anything
very great. To this the lady replied that she had never so much as heard
the name, since no gentleman of the name resided in the locality.

“But at least you are acquainted with landowner Manilov?” continued
Chichikov.

“No. Who is he?”

“Another landed proprietor, madam.”

“Well, neither have I heard of him. No such landowner lives hereabouts.”

“Then who ARE your local landowners?”

“Bobrov, Svinin, Kanapatiev, Khapakin, Trepakin, and Plieshakov.”

“Are they rich men?”

“No, none of them. One of them may own twenty souls, and another thirty,
but of gentry who own a hundred there are none.”

Chichikov reflected that he had indeed fallen into an aristocratic
wilderness!

“At all events, is the town far away?” he inquired.

“About sixty versts. How sorry I am that I have nothing for you to eat!
Should you care to drink some tea?”

“I thank you, good mother, but I require nothing beyond a bed.”

“Well, after such a journey you must indeed be needing rest, so you
shall lie upon this sofa. Fetinia, bring a quilt and some pillows and
sheets. What weather God has sent us! And what dreadful thunder! Ever
since sunset I have had a candle burning before the ikon in my bedroom.
My God! Why, your back and sides are as muddy as a boar’s! However have
you managed to get into such a state?”

“That I am nothing worse than muddy is indeed fortunate, since, but for
the Almighty, I should have had my ribs broken.”

“Dear, dear! To think of all that you must have been through. Had I not
better wipe your back?”

“I thank you, I thank you, but you need not trouble. Merely be so good
as to tell your maid to dry my clothes.”

“Do you hear that, Fetinia?” said the hostess, turning to a woman who
was engaged in dragging in a feather bed and deluging the room with
feathers. “Take this coat and this vest, and, after drying them before
the fire--just as we used to do for your late master--give them a good
rub, and fold them up neatly.”

“Very well, mistress,” said Fetinia, spreading some sheets over the bed,
and arranging the pillows.

“Now your bed is ready for you,” said the hostess to Chichikov.
“Good-night, dear sir. I wish you good-night. Is there anything else
that you require? Perhaps you would like to have your heels tickled
before retiring to rest? Never could my late husband get to sleep
without that having been done.”

But the guest declined the proffered heel-tickling, and, on his hostess
taking her departure, hastened to divest himself of his clothing, both
upper and under, and to hand the garments to Fetinia. She wished him
good-night, and removed the wet trappings; after which he found himself
alone. Not without satisfaction did he eye his bed, which reached
almost to the ceiling. Clearly Fetinia was a past mistress in the art of
beating up such a couch, and, as the result, he had no sooner mounted
it with the aid of a chair than it sank well-nigh to the floor, and the
feathers, squeezed out of their proper confines, flew hither and thither
into every corner of the apartment. Nevertheless he extinguished the
candle, covered himself over with the chintz quilt, snuggled down
beneath it, and instantly fell asleep. Next day it was late in the
morning before he awoke. Through the window the sun was shining into his
eyes, and the flies which, overnight, had been roosting quietly on the
walls and ceiling now turned their attention to the visitor. One settled
on his lip, another on his ear, a third hovered as though intending
to lodge in his very eye, and a fourth had the temerity to alight
just under his nostrils. In his drowsy condition he inhaled the latter
insect, sneezed violently, and so returned to consciousness. He
glanced around the room, and perceived that not all the pictures were
representative of birds, since among them hung also a portrait of
Kutuzov [14] and an oil painting of an old man in a uniform with red
facings such as were worn in the days of the Emperor Paul [15]. At this
moment the clock uttered its usual hissing sound, and struck ten, while
a woman’s face peered in at the door, but at once withdrew, for the
reason that, with the object of sleeping as well as possible, Chichikov
had removed every stitch of his clothing. Somehow the face seemed to him
familiar, and he set himself to recall whose it could be. At length he
recollected that it was the face of his hostess. His clothes he found
lying, clean and dry, beside him; so he dressed and approached the
mirror, meanwhile sneezing again with such vehemence that a cock which
happened at the moment to be near the window (which was situated at no
great distance from the ground) chuckled a short, sharp phrase. Probably
it meant, in the bird’s alien tongue, “Good morning to you!” Chichikov
retorted by calling the bird a fool, and then himself approached the
window to look at the view. It appeared to comprise a poulterer’s
premises. At all events, the narrow yard in front of the window was full
of poultry and other domestic creatures--of game fowls and barn door
fowls, with, among them, a cock which strutted with measured gait, and
kept shaking its comb, and tilting its head as though it were trying to
listen to something. Also, a sow and her family were helping to grace
the scene. First, she rooted among a heap of litter; then, in passing,
she ate up a young pullet; lastly, she proceeded carelessly to munch
some pieces of melon rind. To this small yard or poultry-run a length
of planking served as a fence, while beyond it lay a kitchen garden
containing cabbages, onions, potatoes, beetroots, and other household
vegetables. Also, the garden contained a few stray fruit trees that
were covered with netting to protect them from the magpies and sparrows;
flocks of which were even then wheeling and darting from one spot to
another. For the same reason a number of scarecrows with outstretched
arms stood reared on long poles, with, surmounting one of the figures,
a cast-off cap of the hostess’s. Beyond the garden again there stood a
number of peasants’ huts. Though scattered, instead of being arranged in
regular rows, these appeared to Chichikov’s eye to comprise well-to-do
inhabitants, since all rotten planks in their roofing had been replaced
with new ones, and none of their doors were askew, and such of their
tiltsheds as faced him evinced evidence of a presence of a spare
waggon--in some cases almost a new one.

“This lady owns by no means a poor village,” said Chichikov to himself;
wherefore he decided then and there to have a talk with his hostess, and
to cultivate her closer acquaintance. Accordingly he peeped through the
chink of the door whence her head had recently protruded, and, on seeing
her seated at a tea table, entered and greeted her with a cheerful,
kindly smile.

“Good morning, dear sir,” she responded as she rose. “How have you
slept?” She was dressed in better style than she had been on the
previous evening. That is to say, she was now wearing a gown of some
dark colour, and lacked her nightcap, and had swathed her neck in
something stiff.

“I have slept exceedingly well,” replied Chichikov, seating himself upon
a chair. “And how are YOU, good madam?”

“But poorly, my dear sir.”

“And why so?”

“Because I cannot sleep. A pain has taken me in my middle, and my legs,
from the ankles upwards, are aching as though they were broken.”

“That will pass, that will pass, good mother. You must pay no attention
to it.”

“God grant that it MAY pass. However, I have been rubbing myself with
lard and turpentine. What sort of tea will you take? In this jar I have
some of the scented kind.”

“Excellent, good mother! Then I will take that.”

Probably the reader will have noticed that, for all his expressions of
solicitude, Chichikov’s tone towards his hostess partook of a freer, a
more unceremonious, nature than that which he had adopted towards Madam
Manilov. And here I should like to assert that, howsoever much, in
certain respects, we Russians may be surpassed by foreigners, at least
we surpass them in adroitness of manner. In fact the various shades and
subtleties of our social intercourse defy enumeration. A Frenchman or
a German would be incapable of envisaging and understanding all its
peculiarities and differences, for his tone in speaking to a millionaire
differs but little from that which he employs towards a small
tobacconist--and that in spite of the circumstance that he is accustomed
to cringe before the former. With us, however, things are different. In
Russian society there exist clever folk who can speak in one manner to
a landowner possessed of two hundred peasant souls, and in another to
a landowner possessed of three hundred, and in another to a landowner
possessed of five hundred. In short, up to the number of a million
souls the Russian will have ready for each landowner a suitable mode of
address. For example, suppose that somewhere there exists a government
office, and that in that office there exists a director. I would beg of
you to contemplate him as he sits among his myrmidons. Sheer nervousness
will prevent you from uttering a word in his presence, so great are the
pride and superiority depicted on his countenance. Also, were you to
sketch him, you would be sketching a veritable Prometheus, for his
glance is as that of an eagle, and he walks with measured, stately
stride. Yet no sooner will the eagle have left the room to seek the
study of his superior officer than he will go scurrying along (papers
held close to his nose) like any partridge. But in society, and at the
evening party (should the rest of those present be of lesser rank than
himself) the Prometheus will once more become Prometheus, and the man
who stands a step below him will treat him in a way never dreamt of by
Ovid, seeing that each fly is of lesser account than its superior fly,
and becomes, in the presence of the latter, even as a grain of sand.
“Surely that is not Ivan Petrovitch?” you will say of such and such a
man as you regard him. “Ivan Petrovitch is tall, whereas this man is
small and spare. Ivan Petrovitch has a loud, deep voice, and never
smiles, whereas this man (whoever he may be) is twittering like a
sparrow, and smiling all the time.” Yet approach and take a good look at
the fellow and you will see that is IS Ivan Petrovitch. “Alack, alack!”
 will be the only remark you can make.

Let us return to our characters in real life. We have seen that, on this
occasion, Chichikov decided to dispense with ceremony; wherefore, taking
up the teapot, he went on as follows:

“You have a nice little village here, madam. How many souls does it
contain?”

“A little less than eighty, dear sir. But the times are hard, and I have
lost a great deal through last year’s harvest having proved a failure.”

“But your peasants look fine, strong fellows. May I enquire your name?
Through arriving so late at night I have quite lost my wits.”

“Korobotchka, the widow of a Collegiate Secretary.”

“I humbly thank you. And your Christian name and patronymic?”

“Nastasia Petrovna.”

“Nastasia Petrovna! Those are excellent names. I have a maternal aunt
named like yourself.”

“And YOUR name?” queried the lady. “May I take it that you are a
Government Assessor?”

“No, madam,” replied Chichikov with a smile. “I am not an Assessor, but
a traveller on private business.”

“Then you must be a buyer of produce? How I regret that I have sold my
honey so cheaply to other buyers! Otherwise YOU might have bought it,
dear sir.”

“I never buy honey.”

“Then WHAT do you buy, pray? Hemp? I have a little of that by me, but
not more than half a pood [16] or so.”

“No, madam. It is in other wares that I deal. Tell me, have you, of late
years, lost many of your peasants by death?”

“Yes; no fewer than eighteen,” responded the old lady with a sigh. “Such
a fine lot, too--all good workers! True, others have since grown up,
but of what use are THEY? Mere striplings. When the Assessor last called
upon me I could have wept; for, though those workmen of mine are dead,
I have to keep on paying for them as though they were still alive! And
only last week my blacksmith got burnt to death! Such a clever hand at
his trade he was!”

“What? A fire occurred at your place?”

“No, no, God preserve us all! It was not so bad as that. You must
understand that the blacksmith SET HIMSELF on fire--he got set on fire
in his bowels through overdrinking. Yes, all of a sudden there burst
from him a blue flame, and he smouldered and smouldered until he had
turned as black as a piece of charcoal! Yet what a clever blacksmith he
was! And now I have no horses to drive out with, for there is no one to
shoe them.”

“In everything the will of God, madam,” said Chichikov with a sigh.
“Against the divine wisdom it is not for us to rebel. Pray hand them
over to me, Nastasia Petrovna.”

“Hand over whom?”

“The dead peasants.”

“But how could I do that?”

“Quite simply. Sell them to me, and I will give you some money in
exchange.”

“But how am I to sell them to you? I scarcely understand what you mean.
Am I to dig them up again from the ground?”

Chichikov perceived that the old lady was altogether at sea, and that he
must explain the matter; wherefore in a few words he informed her that
the transfer or purchase of the souls in question would take place
merely on paper--that the said souls would be listed as still alive.

“And what good would they be to you?” asked his hostess, staring at him
with her eyes distended.

“That is MY affair.”

“But they are DEAD souls.”

“Who said they were not? The mere fact of their being dead entails upon
you a loss as dead as the souls, for you have to continue paying tax
upon them, whereas MY plan is to relieve you both of the tax and of the
resultant trouble. NOW do you understand? And I will not only do as
I say, but also hand you over fifteen roubles per soul. Is that clear
enough?”

“Yes--but I do not know,” said his hostess diffidently. “You see, never
before have I sold dead souls.”

“Quite so. It would be a surprising thing if you had. But surely you do
not think that these dead souls are in the least worth keeping?”

“Oh, no, indeed! Why should they be worth keeping? I am sure they are
not so. The only thing which troubles me is the fact that they are
DEAD.”

“She seems a truly obstinate old woman!” was Chichikov’s inward comment.
“Look here, madam,” he added aloud. “You reason well, but you are simply
ruining yourself by continuing to pay the tax upon dead souls as though
they were still alive.”

“Oh, good sir, do not speak of it!” the lady exclaimed. “Three weeks ago
I took a hundred and fifty roubles to that Assessor, and buttered him
up, and--”

“Then you see how it is, do you not? Remember that, according to my
plan, you will never again have to butter up the Assessor, seeing that
it will be I who will be paying for those peasants--_I_, not YOU, for I
shall have taken over the dues upon them, and have transferred them to
myself as so many bona fide serfs. Do you understand AT LAST?”

However, the old lady still communed with herself. She could see that
the transaction would be to her advantage, yet it was one of such a
novel and unprecedented nature that she was beginning to fear lest this
purchaser of souls intended to cheat her. Certainly he had come from God
only knew where, and at the dead of night, too!

“But, sir, I have never in my life sold dead folk--only living ones.
Three years ago I transferred two wenches to Protopopov for a hundred
roubles apiece, and he thanked me kindly, for they turned out splendid
workers--able to make napkins or anything else.

“Yes, but with the living we have nothing to do, damn it! I am asking
you only about DEAD folk.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But at first sight I felt afraid lest I should be
incurring a loss--lest you should be wishing to outwit me, good sir.
You see, the dead souls are worth rather more than you have offered for
them.”

“See here, madam. (What a woman it is!) HOW could they be worth more?
Think for yourself. They are so much loss to you--so much loss, do you
understand? Take any worthless, rubbishy article you like--a piece of
old rag, for example. That rag will yet fetch its price, for it can be
bought for paper-making. But these dead souls are good for NOTHING AT
ALL. Can you name anything that they ARE good for?”

“True, true--they ARE good for nothing. But what troubles me is the fact
that they are dead.”

“What a blockhead of a creature!” said Chichikov to himself, for he was
beginning to lose patience. “Bless her heart, I may as well be going.
She has thrown me into a perfect sweat, the cursed old shrew!”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from
his brow. Yet he need not have flown into such a passion. More than one
respected statesman reveals himself, when confronted with a business
matter, to be just such another as Madam Korobotchka, in that, once he
has got an idea into his head, there is no getting it out of him--you
may ply him with daylight-clear arguments, yet they will rebound
from his brain as an india-rubber ball rebounds from a flagstone.
Nevertheless, wiping away the perspiration, Chichikov resolved to try
whether he could not bring her back to the road by another path.

“Madam,” he said, “either you are declining to understand what I say or
you are talking for the mere sake of talking. If I hand you over some
money--fifteen roubles for each soul, do you understand?--it is MONEY,
not something which can be picked up haphazard on the street. For
instance, tell me how much you sold your honey for?”

“For twelve roubles per pood.”

“Ah! Then by those words, madam, you have laid a trifling sin upon your
soul; for you did NOT sell the honey for twelve roubles.”

“By the Lord God I did!”

“Well, well! Never mind. Honey is only honey. Now, you had collected
that stuff, it may be, for a year, and with infinite care and labour.
You had fussed after it, you had trotted to and fro, you had duly frozen
out the bees, and you had fed them in the cellar throughout the winter.
But these dead souls of which I speak are quite another matter, for in
this case you have put forth no exertions--it was merely God’s will that
they should leave the world, and thus decrease the personnel of your
establishment. In the former case you received (so you allege) twelve
roubles per pood for your labour; but in this case you will receive
money for having done nothing at all. Nor will you receive twelve
roubles per item, but FIFTEEN--and roubles not in silver, but roubles in
good paper currency.”

That these powerful inducements would certainly cause the old woman to
yield Chichikov had not a doubt.

“True,” his hostess replied. “But how strangely business comes to me as
a widow! Perhaps I had better wait a little longer, seeing that other
buyers might come along, and I might be able to compare prices.”

“For shame, madam! For shame! Think what you are saying. Who else, I
would ask, would care to buy those souls? What use could they be to any
one?”

“If that is so, they might come in useful to ME,” mused the old woman
aloud; after which she sat staring at Chichikov with her mouth open and
a face of nervous expectancy as to his possible rejoinder.

“Dead folk useful in a household!” he exclaimed. “Why, what could you do
with them? Set them up on poles to frighten away the sparrows from your
garden?”

“The Lord save us, but what things you say!” she ejaculated, crossing
herself.

“Well, WHAT could you do with them? By this time they are so much bones
and earth. That is all there is left of them. Their transfer to myself
would be ON PAPER only. Come, come! At least give me an answer.”

Again the old woman communed with herself.

“What are you thinking of, Nastasia Petrovna?” inquired Chichikov.

“I am thinking that I scarcely know what to do. Perhaps I had better
sell you some hemp?”

“What do I want with hemp? Pardon me, but just when I have made to you
a different proposal altogether you begin fussing about hemp! Hemp is
hemp, and though I may want some when I NEXT visit you, I should like to
know what you have to say to the suggestion under discussion.”

“Well, I think it a very queer bargain. Never have I heard of such a
thing.”

Upon this Chichikov lost all patience, upset his chair, and bid her go
to the devil; of which personage even the mere mention terrified her
extremely.

“Do not speak of him, I beg of you!” she cried, turning pale. “May God,
rather, bless him! Last night was the third night that he has appeared
to me in a dream. You see, after saying my prayers, I bethought me
of telling my fortune by the cards; and God must have sent him as a
punishment. He looked so horrible, and had horns longer than a bull’s!”

“I wonder you don’t see SCORES of devils in your dreams! Merely out of
Christian charity he had come to you to say, ‘I perceive a poor widow
going to rack and ruin, and likely soon to stand in danger of want.’
Well, go to rack and ruin--yes, you and all your village together!”

“The insults!” exclaimed the old woman, glancing at her visitor in
terror.

“I should think so!” continued Chichikov. “Indeed, I cannot find words
to describe you. To say no more about it, you are like a dog in a
manger. You don’t want to eat the hay yourself, yet you won’t let
anyone else touch it. All that I am seeking to do is to purchase
certain domestic products of yours, for the reason that I have certain
Government contracts to fulfil.” This last he added in passing, and
without any ulterior motive, save that it came to him as a happy
thought. Nevertheless the mention of Government contracts exercised a
powerful influence upon Nastasia Petrovna, and she hastened to say in a
tone that was almost supplicatory:

“Why should you be so angry with me? Had I known that you were going to
lose your temper in this way, I should never have discussed the matter.”

“No wonder that I lose my temper! An egg too many is no great matter,
yet it may prove exceedingly annoying.”

“Well, well, I will let you have the souls for fifteen roubles each.
Also, with regard to those contracts, do not forget me if at any time
you should find yourself in need of rye-meal or buckwheat or groats or
dead meat.”

“No, I shall NEVER forget you, madam!” he said, wiping his forehead,
where three separate streams of perspiration were trickling down his
face. Then he asked her whether in the town she had any acquaintance or
agent whom she could empower to complete the transference of the serfs,
and to carry out whatsoever else might be necessary.

“Certainly,” replied Madame Korobotchka. “The son of our archpriest,
Father Cyril, himself is a lawyer.”

Upon that Chichikov begged her to accord the gentleman in question a
power of attorney, while, to save extra trouble, he himself would then
and there compose the requisite letter.

“It would be a fine thing if he were to buy up all my meal and stock
for the Government,” thought Madame to herself. “I must encourage him a
little. There has been some dough standing ready since last night, so I
will go and tell Fetinia to try a few pancakes. Also, it might be well
to try him with an egg pie. We make then nicely here, and they do not
take long in the making.”

So she departed to translate her thoughts into action, as well as to
supplement the pie with other products of the domestic cuisine; while,
for his part, Chichikov returned to the drawing-room where he had spent
the night, in order to procure from his dispatch-box the necessary
writing-paper. The room had now been set in order, the sumptuous
feather bed removed, and a table set before the sofa. Depositing his
dispatch-box upon the table, he heaved a gentle sigh on becoming aware
that he was so soaked with perspiration that he might almost have
been dipped in a river. Everything, from his shirt to his socks,
was dripping. “May she starve to death, the cursed old harridan!” he
ejaculated after a moment’s rest. Then he opened his dispatch-box. In
passing, I may say that I feel certain that at least SOME of my readers
will be curious to know the contents and the internal arrangements of
that receptacle. Why should I not gratify their curiosity? To begin
with, the centre of the box contained a soap-dish, with, disposed around
it, six or seven compartments for razors. Next came square partitions
for a sand-box [17] and an inkstand, as well as (scooped out in their
midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax, and anything else that required
more room. Lastly there were all sorts of little divisions, both with
and without lids, for articles of a smaller nature, such as visiting
cards, memorial cards, theatre tickets, and things which Chichikov had
laid by as souvenirs. This portion of the box could be taken out, and
below it were both a space for manuscripts and a secret money-box--the
latter made to draw out from the side of the receptacle.

Chichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write. Presently his
hostess entered the room.

“What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!” she exclaimed as she
took a seat beside him. “Probably you bought it in Moscow?”

“Yes--in Moscow,” replied Chichikov without interrupting his writing.

“I thought so. One CAN get good things there. Three years ago my sister
brought me a few pairs of warm shoes for my sons, and they were such
excellent articles! To this day my boys wear them. And what nice stamped
paper you have!” (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where, sure
enough, there lay a further store of the paper in question). “Would you
mind letting me have a sheet of it? I am without any at all, although I
shall soon have to be presenting a plea to the land court, and possess
not a morsel of paper to write it on.”

Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not the sort proper
for the purpose--that it was meant for serf-indenturing, and not for
the framing of pleas. Nevertheless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet
stamped to the value of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to
sign, and requested, in return, a list of her peasants. Unfortunately,
such a list had never been compiled, let alone any copies of it, and the
only way in which she knew the peasants’ names was by heart. However, he
told her to dictate them. Some of the names greatly astonished our hero,
so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed, frequently, on hearing the
latter, he had to pause before writing them down. Especially did he halt
before a certain “Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito.” “What a string of
titles!” involuntarily he ejaculated. To the Christian name of another
serf was appended “Korovi Kirpitch,” and to that of a third “Koleso
Ivan.” However, at length the list was compiled, and he caught a deep
breath; which latter proceeding caused him to catch also the attractive
odour of something fried in fat.

“I beseech you to have a morsel,” murmured his hostess. Chichikov looked
up, and saw that the table was spread with mushrooms, pies, and other
viands.

“Try this freshly-made pie and an egg,” continued Madame.

Chichikov did so, and having eaten more than half of what she offered
him, praised the pie highly. Indeed, it was a toothsome dish, and, after
his difficulties and exertions with his hostess, it tasted even better
than it might otherwise have done.

“And also a few pancakes?” suggested Madame.

For answer Chichikov folded three together, and, having dipped them in
melted butter, consigned the lot to his mouth, and then wiped his
mouth with a napkin. Twice more was the process repeated, and then
he requested his hostess to order the britchka to be got ready. In
dispatching Fetinia with the necessary instructions, she ordered her to
return with a second batch of hot pancakes.

“Your pancakes are indeed splendid,” said Chichikov, applying himself to
the second consignment of fried dainties when they had arrived.

“Yes, we make them well here,” replied Madame. “Yet how unfortunate it
is that the harvest should have proved so poor as to have prevented me
from earning anything on my--But why should you be in such a hurry to
depart, good sir?” She broke off on seeing Chichikov reach for his cap.
“The britchka is not yet ready.”

“Then it is being got so, madam, it is being got so, and I shall need a
moment or two to pack my things.”

“As you please, dear sir; but do not forget me in connection with those
Government contracts.”

“No, I have said that NEVER shall I forget you,” replied Chichikov as he
hurried into the hall.

“And would you like to buy some lard?” continued his hostess, pursuing
him.

“Lard? Oh certainly. Why not? Only, only--I will do so ANOTHER time.”

“I shall have some ready at about Christmas.”

“Quite so, madam. THEN I will buy anything and everything--the lard
included.”

“And perhaps you will be wanting also some feathers? I shall be having
some for sale about St. Philip’s Day.”

“Very well, very well, madam.”

“There you see!” she remarked as they stepped out on to the verandah.
“The britchka is NOT yet ready.”

“But it soon will be, it soon will be. Only direct me to the main road.”

“How am I to do that?” said Madame. “‘Twould puzzle a wise man to do so,
for in these parts there are so many turnings. However, I will send a
girl to guide you. You could find room for her on the box-seat, could
you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I will send her. She knows the way thoroughly. Only do not carry
her off for good. Already some traders have deprived me of one of my
girls.”

Chichikov reassured his hostess on the point, and Madame plucked up
courage enough to scan, first of all, the housekeeper, who happened to
be issuing from the storehouse with a bowl of honey, and, next, a
young peasant who happened to be standing at the gates; and, while thus
engaged, she became wholly absorbed in her domestic pursuits. But
why pay her so much attention? The Widow Korobotchka, Madame Manilov,
domestic life, non-domestic life--away with them all! How strangely are
things compounded! In a trice may joy turn to sorrow, should one halt
long enough over it: in a trice only God can say what ideas may strike
one. You may fall even to thinking: “After all, did Madame Korobotchka
stand so very low in the scale of human perfection? Was there really
such a very great gulf between her and Madame Manilov--between her and
the Madame Manilov whom we have seen entrenched behind the walls of a
genteel mansion in which there were a fine staircase of wrought metal
and a number of rich carpets; the Madame Manilov who spent most of her
time in yawning behind half-read books, and in hoping for a visit from
some socially distinguished person in order that she might display her
wit and carefully rehearsed thoughts--thoughts which had been de rigueur
in town for a week past, yet which referred, not to what was going on
in her household or on her estate--both of which properties were at odds
and ends, owing to her ignorance of the art of managing them--but to
the coming political revolution in France and the direction in which
fashionable Catholicism was supposed to be moving? But away with such
things! Why need we speak of them? Yet how comes it that suddenly into
the midst of our careless, frivolous, unthinking moments there may enter
another, and a very different, tendency?--that the smile may not have
left a human face before its owner will have radically changed his or
her nature (though not his or her environment) with the result that
the face will suddenly become lit with a radiance never before seen
there?...

“Here is the britchka, here is the britchka!” exclaimed Chichikov on
perceiving that vehicle slowly advancing. “Ah, you blockhead!” he
went on to Selifan. “Why have you been loitering about? I suppose last
night’s fumes have not yet left your brain?”

To this Selifan returned no reply.

“Good-bye, madam,” added the speaker. “But where is the girl whom you
promised me?”

“Here, Pelagea!” called the hostess to a wench of about eleven who was
dressed in home-dyed garments and could boast of a pair of bare feet
which, from a distance, might almost have been mistaken for boots, so
encrusted were they with fresh mire. “Here, Pelagea! Come and show this
gentleman the way.”

Selifan helped the girl to ascend to the box-seat. Placing one foot upon
the step by which the gentry mounted, she covered the said step with
mud, and then, ascending higher, attained the desired position beside
the coachman. Chichikov followed in her wake (causing the britchka to
heel over with his weight as he did so), and then settled himself back
into his place with an “All right! Good-bye, madam!” as the horses moved
away at a trot.

Selifan looked gloomy as he drove, but also very attentive to his
business. This was invariably his custom when he had committed the fault
of getting drunk. Also, the horses looked unusually well-groomed. In
particular, the collar on one of them had been neatly mended, although
hitherto its state of dilapidation had been such as perennially to allow
the stuffing to protrude through the leather. The silence preserved was
well-nigh complete. Merely flourishing his whip, Selifan spoke to the
team no word of instruction, although the skewbald was as ready as usual
to listen to conversation of a didactic nature, seeing that at such
times the reins hung loosely in the hands of the loquacious driver,
and the whip wandered merely as a matter of form over the backs of the
troika. This time, however, there could be heard issuing from Selifan’s
sullen lips only the uniformly unpleasant exclamation, “Now then, you
brutes! Get on with you, get on with you!” The bay and the Assessor too
felt put out at not hearing themselves called “my pets” or “good lads”;
while, in addition, the skewbald came in for some nasty cuts across his
sleek and ample quarters. “What has put master out like this?” thought
the animal as it shook its head. “Heaven knows where he does not keep
beating me--across the back, and even where I am tenderer still. Yes, he
keeps catching the whip in my ears, and lashing me under the belly.”

“To the right, eh?” snapped Selifan to the girl beside him as he pointed
to a rain-soaked road which trended away through fresh green fields.

“No, no,” she replied. “I will show you the road when the time comes.”

“Which way, then?” he asked again when they had proceeded a little
further.

“This way.” And she pointed to the road just mentioned.

“Get along with you!” retorted the coachman. “That DOES go to the right.
You don’t know your right hand from your left.”

The weather was fine, but the ground so excessively sodden that the
wheels of the britchka collected mire until they had become caked as
with a layer of felt, a circumstance which greatly increased the weight
of the vehicle, and prevented it from clearing the neighbouring parishes
before the afternoon was arrived. Also, without the girl’s help the
finding of the way would have been impossible, since roads wiggled away
in every direction, like crabs released from a net, and, but for the
assistance mentioned, Selifan would have found himself left to his own
devices. Presently she pointed to a building ahead, with the words,
“THERE is the main road.”

“And what is the building?” asked Selifan.

“A tavern,” she said.

“Then we can get along by ourselves,” he observed. “Do you get down, and
be off home.”

With that he stopped, and helped her to alight--muttering as he did so:
“Ah, you blackfooted creature!”

Chichikov added a copper groat, and she departed well pleased with her
ride in the gentleman’s carriage.



CHAPTER IV

On reaching the tavern, Chichikov called a halt. His reasons for this
were twofold--namely, that he wanted to rest the horses, and that he
himself desired some refreshment. In this connection the author feels
bound to confess that the appetite and the capacity of such men are
greatly to be envied. Of those well-to-do folk of St. Petersburg and
Moscow who spend their time in considering what they shall eat on the
morrow, and in composing a dinner for the day following, and who never
sit down to a meal without first of all injecting a pill and then
swallowing oysters and crabs and a quantity of other monsters, while
eternally departing for Karlsbad or the Caucasus, the author has but a
small opinion. Yes, THEY are not the persons to inspire envy. Rather,
it is the folk of the middle classes--folk who at one posthouse call for
bacon, and at another for a sucking pig, and at a third for a steak of
sturgeon or a baked pudding with onions, and who can sit down to table
at any hour, as though they had never had a meal in their lives, and
can devour fish of all sorts, and guzzle and chew it with a view
to provoking further appetite--these, I say, are the folk who enjoy
heaven’s most favoured gift. To attain such a celestial condition the
great folk of whom I have spoken would sacrifice half their serfs and
half their mortgaged and non-mortgaged property, with the foreign and
domestic improvements thereon, if thereby they could compass such
a stomach as is possessed by the folk of the middle class. But,
unfortunately, neither money nor real estate, whether improved or
non-improved, can purchase such a stomach.

The little wooden tavern, with its narrow, but hospitable, curtain
suspended from a pair of rough-hewn doorposts like old church
candlesticks, seemed to invite Chichikov to enter. True, the
establishment was only a Russian hut of the ordinary type, but it was
a hut of larger dimensions than usual, and had around its windows and
gables carved and patterned cornices of bright-coloured wood which threw
into relief the darker hue of the walls, and consorted well with the
flowered pitchers painted on the shutters.

Ascending the narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor, and arriving
upon a broad landing, Chichikov found himself confronted with a creaking
door and a stout old woman in a striped print gown. “This way, if you
please,” she said. Within the apartment designated Chichikov
encountered the old friends which one invariably finds in such roadside
hostelries--to wit, a heavy samovar, four smooth, bescratched walls of
white pine, a three-cornered press with cups and teapots, egg-cups
of gilded china standing in front of ikons suspended by blue and red
ribands, a cat lately delivered of a family, a mirror which gives one
four eyes instead of two and a pancake for a face, and, beside the
ikons, some bunches of herbs and carnations of such faded dustiness
that, should one attempt to smell them, one is bound to burst out
sneezing.

“Have you a sucking-pig?” Chichikov inquired of the landlady as she
stood expectantly before him.

“Yes.”

“And some horse-radish and sour cream?”

“Yes.”

“Then serve them.”

The landlady departed for the purpose, and returned with a plate, a
napkin (the latter starched to the consistency of dried bark), a knife
with a bone handle beginning to turn yellow, a two-pronged fork as thin
as a wafer, and a salt-cellar incapable of being made to stand upright.

Following the accepted custom, our hero entered into conversation with
the woman, and inquired whether she herself or a landlord kept the
tavern; how much income the tavern brought in; whether her sons lived
with her; whether the oldest was a bachelor or married; whom the
eldest had taken to wife; whether the dowry had been large; whether the
father-in-law had been satisfied, and whether the said father-in-law
had not complained of receiving too small a present at the wedding.
In short, Chichikov touched on every conceivable point. Likewise
(of course) he displayed some curiosity as to the landowners of the
neighbourhood. Their names, he ascertained, were Blochin, Potchitaev,
Minoi, Cheprakov, and Sobakevitch.

“Then you are acquainted with Sobakevitch?” he said; whereupon the old
woman informed him that she knew not only Sobakevitch, but also Manilov,
and that the latter was the more delicate eater of the two, since,
whereas Manilov always ordered a roast fowl and some veal and mutton,
and then tasted merely a morsel of each, Sobakevitch would order one
dish only, but consume the whole of it, and then demand more at the same
price.

Whilst Chichikov was thus conversing and partaking of the sucking pig
until only a fragment of it seemed likely to remain, the sound of an
approaching vehicle made itself heard. Peering through the window, he
saw draw up to the tavern door a light britchka drawn by three fine
horses. From it there descended two men--one flaxen-haired and tall, and
the other dark-haired and of slighter build. While the flaxen-haired
man was clad in a dark-blue coat, the other one was wrapped in a coat
of striped pattern. Behind the britchka stood a second, but an empty,
turn-out, drawn by four long-coated steeds in ragged collars and
rope harnesses. The flaxen-haired man lost no time in ascending the
staircase, while his darker friend remained below to fumble at something
in the britchka, talking, as he did so, to the driver of the vehicle
which stood hitched behind. Somehow, the dark-haired man’s voice struck
Chichikov as familiar; and as he was taking another look at him the
flaxen-haired gentleman entered the room. The newcomer was a man of
lofty stature, with a small red moustache and a lean, hard-bitten face
whose redness made it evident that its acquaintance, if not with the
smoke of gunpowder, at all events with that of tobacco, was intimate
and extensive. Nevertheless he greeted Chichikov civilly, and the latter
returned his bow. Indeed, the pair would have entered into conversation,
and have made one another’s acquaintance (since a beginning was made
with their simultaneously expressing satisfaction at the circumstance
that the previous night’s rain had laid the dust on the roads,
and thereby made driving cool and pleasant) when the gentleman’s
darker-favoured friend also entered the room, and, throwing his cap upon
the table, pushed back a mass of dishevelled black locks from his brow.
The latest arrival was a man of medium height, but well put together,
and possessed of a pair of full red cheeks, a set of teeth as white as
snow, and coal-black whiskers. Indeed, so fresh was his complexion that
it seemed to have been compounded of blood and milk, while health danced
in his every feature.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he cried with a gesture of astonishment at the sight of
Chichikov. “What chance brings YOU here?”

Upon that Chichikov recognised Nozdrev--the man whom he had met at
dinner at the Public Prosecutor’s, and who, within a minute or two of
the introduction, had become so intimate with his fellow guest as to
address him in the second person singular, in spite of the fact that
Chichikov had given him no opportunity for doing so.

“Where have you been to-day?” Nozdrev inquired, and, without waiting for
an answer, went on: “For myself, I am just from the fair, and completely
cleaned out. Actually, I have had to do the journey back with stage
horses! Look out of the window, and see them for yourself.” And he
turned Chichikov’s head so sharply in the desired direction that he came
very near to bumping it against the window frame. “Did you ever see such
a bag of tricks? The cursed things have only just managed to get here.
In fact, on the way I had to transfer myself to this fellow’s britchka.”
 He indicated his companion with a finger. “By the way, don’t you know
one another? He is Mizhuev, my brother-in-law. He and I were talking of
you only this morning. ‘Just you see,’ said I to him, ‘if we do not fall
in with Chichikov before we have done.’ Heavens, how completely cleaned
out I am! Not only have I lost four good horses, but also my watch and
chain.” Chichikov perceived that in very truth his interlocutor was
minus the articles named, as well as that one of Nozdrev’s whiskers was
less bushy in appearance than the other one. “Had I had another twenty
roubles in my pocket,” went on Nozdrev, “I should have won back all that
I have lost, as well as have pouched a further thirty thousand. Yes, I
give you my word of honour on that.”

“But you were saying the same thing when last I met you,” put in the
flaxen-haired man. “Yet, even though I lent you fifty roubles, you lost
them all.”

“But I should not have lost them THIS time. Don’t try to make me out
a fool. I should NOT have lost them, I tell you. Had I only played the
right card, I should have broken the bank.”

“But you did NOT break the bank,” remarked the flaxen-haired man.

“No. That was because I did not play my cards right. But what about your
precious major’s play? Is THAT good?”

“Good or not, at least he beat you.”

“Splendid of him! Nevertheless I will get my own back. Let him play me
at doubles, and we shall soon see what sort of a player he is!
Friend Chichikov, at first we had a glorious time, for the fair was a
tremendous success. Indeed, the tradesmen said that never yet had there
been such a gathering. I myself managed to sell everything from my
estate at a good price. In fact, we had a magnificent time. I can’t help
thinking of it, devil take me! But what a pity YOU were not there! Three
versts from the town there is quartered a regiment of dragoons, and you
would scarcely believe what a lot of officers it has. Forty at least
there are, and they do a fine lot of knocking about the town and
drinking. In particular, Staff-Captain Potsieluev is a SPLENDID fellow!
You should just see his moustache! Why, he calls good claret ‘trash’!
‘Bring me some of the usual trash,’ is his way of ordering it. And
Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov, too! He is as delightful as the other man. In
fact, I may say that every one of the lot is a rake. I spent my whole
time with them, and you can imagine that Ponomarev, the wine merchant,
did a fine trade indeed! All the same, he is a rascal, you know, and
ought not to be dealt with, for he puts all sorts of rubbish into his
liquor--Indian wood and burnt cork and elderberry juice, the villain!
Nevertheless, get him to produce a bottle from what he calls his
‘special cellar,’ and you will fancy yourself in the seventh heaven of
delight. And what quantities of champagne we drank! Compared with it,
provincial stuff is kvass [18]. Try to imagine not merely Clicquot, but
a sort of blend of Clicquot and Matradura--Clicquot of double strength.
Also Ponomarev produced a bottle of French stuff which he calls
‘Bonbon.’ Had it a bouquet, ask you? Why, it had the bouquet of a rose
garden, of anything else you like. What times we had, to be sure! Just
after we had left Pnomarev’s place, some prince or another arrived in
the town, and sent out for some champagne; but not a bottle was there
left, for the officers had drunk every one! Why, I myself got through
seventeen bottles at a sitting.”

“Come, come! You CAN’T have got through seventeen,” remarked the
flaxen-haired man.

“But I did, I give my word of honour,” retorted Nozdrev.

“Imagine what you like, but you didn’t drink even TEN bottles at a
sitting.”

“Will you bet that I did not?”

“No; for what would be the use of betting about it?”

“Then at least wager the gun which you have bought.”

“No, I am not going to do anything of the kind.”

“Just as an experiment?”

“No.”

“It is as well for you that you don’t, since, otherwise, you would have
found yourself minus both gun and cap. However, friend Chichikov, it
is a pity you were not there. Had you been there, I feel sure you would
have found yourself unable to part with Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov. You and
he would have hit it off splendidly. You know, he is quite a
different sort from the Public Prosecutor and our other provincial
skinflints--fellows who shiver in their shoes before they will spend a
single kopeck. HE will play faro, or anything else, and at any time.
Why did you not come with us, instead of wasting your time on cattle
breeding or something of the sort? But never mind. Embrace me. I like
you immensely. Mizhuev, see how curiously things have turned out.
Chichikov has nothing to do with me, or I with him, yet here is he come
from God knows where, and landed in the very spot where I happen to be
living! I may tell you that, no matter how many carriages I possessed, I
should gamble the lot away. Recently I went in for a turn at billiards,
and lost two jars of pomade, a china teapot, and a guitar. Then I staked
some more things, and, like a fool, lost them all, and six roubles in
addition. What a dog is that Kuvshinnikov! He and I attended nearly
every ball in the place. In particular, there was a woman--decolletee,
and such a swell! I merely thought to myself, ‘The devil take her!’ but
Kuvshinnikov is such a wag that he sat down beside her, and began paying
her strings of compliments in French. However, I did not neglect the
damsels altogether--although HE calls that sort of thing ‘going in for
strawberries.’ By the way, I have a splendid piece of fish and some
caviare with me. ’Tis all I HAVE brought back! In fact it is a lucky
chance that I happened to buy the stuff before my money was gone. Where
are you for?”

“I am about to call on a friend.”

“On what friend? Let him go to the devil, and come to my place instead.”

“I cannot, I cannot. I have business to do.”

“Oh, business again! I thought so!”

“But I HAVE business to do--and pressing business at that.”

“I wager that you’re lying. If not, tell me whom you’re going to call
upon.”

“Upon Sobakevitch.”

Instantly Nozdrev burst into a laugh compassable only by a healthy man
in whose head every tooth still remains as white as sugar. By this I
mean the laugh of quivering cheeks, the laugh which causes a neighbour
who is sleeping behind double doors three rooms away to leap from his
bed and exclaim with distended eyes, “Hullo! Something HAS upset him!”

“What is there to laugh at?” asked Chichikov, a trifle nettled; but
Nozdrev laughed more unrestrainedly than ever, ejaculating: “Oh, spare
us all! The thing is so amusing that I shall die of it!”

“I say that there is nothing to laugh at,” repeated Chichikov. “It is in
fulfilment of a promise that I am on my way to Sobakevitch’s.”

“Then you will scarcely be glad to be alive when you’ve got there, for
he is the veriest miser in the countryside. Oh, _I_ know you. However,
if you think to find there either faro or a bottle of ‘Bonbon’ you are
mistaken. Look here, my good friend. Let Sobakevitch go to the devil,
and come to MY place, where at least I shall have a piece of sturgeon
to offer you for dinner. Ponomarev said to me on parting: ‘This piece is
just the thing for you. Even if you were to search the whole market, you
would never find a better one.’ But of course he is a terrible rogue.
I said to him outright: ‘You and the Collector of Taxes are the two
greatest skinflints in the town.’ But he only stroked his beard
and smiled. Every day I used to breakfast with Kuvshinnikov in his
restaurant. Well, what I was nearly forgetting is this: that, though I
am aware that you can’t forgo your engagement, I am not going to give
you up--no, not for ten thousand roubles of money. I tell you that in
advance.”

Here he broke off to run to the window and shout to his servant (who was
holding a knife in one hand and a crust of bread and a piece of sturgeon
in the other--he had contrived to filch the latter while fumbling in the
britchka for something else):

“Hi, Porphyri! Bring here that puppy, you rascal! What a puppy it is!
Unfortunately that thief of a landlord has given it nothing to eat, even
though I have promised him the roan filly which, as you may remember, I
swopped from Khvostirev.” As a matter of fact, Chichikov had never in
his life seen either Khvostirev or the roan filly.

“Barin, do you wish for anything to eat?” inquired the landlady as she
entered.

“No, nothing at all. Ah, friend Chichikov, what times we had! Yes, give
me a glass of vodka, old woman. What sort do you keep?”

“Aniseed.”

“Then bring me a glass of it,” repeated Nozdrev.

“And one for me as well,” added the flaxen-haired man.

“At the theatre,” went on Nozdrev, “there was an actress who sang like a
canary. Kuvshinnikov, who happened to be sitting with me, said: ‘My boy,
you had better go and gather that strawberry.’ As for the booths at the
fair, they numbered, I should say, fifty.” At this point he broke off
to take the glass of vodka from the landlady, who bowed low in
acknowledgement of his doing so. At the same moment Porphyri--a
fellow dressed like his master (that is to say, in a greasy, wadded
overcoat)--entered with the puppy.

“Put the brute down here,” commanded Nozdrev, “and then fasten it up.”

Porphyri deposited the animal upon the floor; whereupon it proceeded to
act after the manner of dogs.

“THERE’S a puppy for you!” cried Nozdrev, catching hold of it by the
back, and lifting it up. The puppy uttered a piteous yelp.

“I can see that you haven’t done what I told you to do,” he continued
to Porphyri after an inspection of the animal’s belly. “You have quite
forgotten to brush him.”

“I DID brush him,” protested Porphyri.

“Then where did these fleas come from?”

“I cannot think. Perhaps they have leapt into his coat out of the
britchka.”

“You liar! As a matter of fact, you have forgotten to brush him.
Nevertheless, look at these ears, Chichikov. Just feel them.”

“Why should I? Without doing that, I can see that he is well-bred.”

“Nevertheless, catch hold of his ears and feel them.”

To humour the fellow Chichikov did as he had requested, remarking: “Yes,
he seems likely to turn out well.”

“And feel the coldness of his nose! Just take it in your hand.”

Not wishing to offend his interlocutor, Chichikov felt the puppy’s nose,
saying: “Some day he will have an excellent scent.”

“Yes, will he not? ’Tis the right sort of muzzle for that. I must say
that I have long been wanting such a puppy. Porphyri, take him away
again.”

Porphyri lifted up the puppy, and bore it downstairs.

“Look here, Chichikov,” resumed Nozdrev. “You MUST come to my place. It
lies only five versts away, and we can go there like the wind, and you
can visit Sobakevitch afterwards.”

“Shall I, or shall I not, go to Nozdrev’s?” reflected Chichikov. “Is he
likely to prove any more useful than the rest? Well, at least he is as
promising, even though he has lost so much at play. But he has a head on
his shoulders, and therefore I must go carefully if I am to tackle him
concerning my scheme.”

With that he added aloud: “Very well, I WILL come with you, but do not
let us be long, for my time is very precious.”

“That’s right, that’s right!” cried Nozdrev. “Splendid, splendid! Let me
embrace you!” And he fell upon Chichikov’s neck. “All three of us will
go.”

“No, no,” put in the flaxen-haired man. “You must excuse me, for I must
be off home.”

“Rubbish, rubbish! I am NOT going to excuse you.”

“But my wife will be furious with me. You and Monsieur Chichikov must
change into the other britchka.”

“Come, come! The thing is not to be thought of.”

The flaxen-haired man was one of those people in whose character, at
first sight, there seems to lurk a certain grain of stubbornness--so
much so that, almost before one has begun to speak, they are ready to
dispute one’s words, and to disagree with anything that may be opposed
to their peculiar form of opinion. For instance, they will decline to
have folly called wisdom, or any tune danced to but their own. Always,
however, will there become manifest in their character a soft spot, and
in the end they will accept what hitherto they have denied, and call
what is foolish sensible, and even dance--yes, better than any one else
will do--to a tune set by some one else. In short, they generally begin
well, but always end badly.

“Rubbish!” said Nozdrev in answer to a further objection on his
brother-in-law’s part. And, sure enough, no sooner had Nozdrev clapped
his cap upon his head than the flaxen-haired man started to follow him
and his companion.

“But the gentleman has not paid for the vodka?” put in the old woman.

“All right, all right, good mother. Look here, brother-in-law. Pay her,
will you, for I have not a kopeck left.”

“How much?” inquired the brother-in-law.

“What, sir? Eighty kopecks, if you please,” replied the old woman.

“A lie! Give her half a rouble. That will be quite enough.”

“No, it will NOT, barin,” protested the old woman. However, she took the
money gratefully, and even ran to the door to open it for the gentlemen.
As a matter of fact, she had lost nothing by the transaction, since she
had demanded fully a quarter more than the vodka was worth.

The travellers then took their seats, and since Chichikov’s britchka
kept alongside the britchka wherein Nozdrev and his brother-in-law were
seated, it was possible for all three men to converse together as they
proceeded. Behind them came Nozdrev’s smaller buggy, with its team
of lean stage horses and Porphyri and the puppy. But inasmuch as the
conversation which the travellers maintained was not of a kind likely
to interest the reader, I might do worse than say something concerning
Nozdrev himself, seeing that he is destined to play no small role in our
story.

Nozdrev’s face will be familiar to the reader, seeing that every one
must have encountered many such. Fellows of the kind are known as
“gay young sparks,” and, even in their boyhood and school days, earn a
reputation for being bons camarades (though with it all they come in for
some hard knocks) for the reason that their faces evince an element of
frankness, directness, and enterprise which enables them soon to make
friends, and, almost before you have had time to look around, to start
addressing you in the second person singular. Yet, while cementing such
friendships for all eternity, almost always they begin quarrelling the
same evening, since, throughout, they are a loquacious, dissipated,
high-spirited, over-showy tribe. Indeed, at thirty-five Nozdrev was just
what he had been an eighteen and twenty--he was just such a lover of
fast living. Nor had his marriage in any way changed him, and the less
so since his wife had soon departed to another world, and left behind
her two children, whom he did not want, and who were therefore placed
in the charge of a good-looking nursemaid. Never at any time could he
remain at home for more than a single day, for his keen scent could
range over scores and scores of versts, and detect any fair which
promised balls and crowds. Consequently in a trice he would be
there--quarrelling, and creating disturbances over the gaming-table
(like all men of his type, he had a perfect passion for cards) yet
playing neither a faultless nor an over-clean game, since he was both
a blunderer and able to indulge in a large number of illicit cuts and
other devices. The result was that the game often ended in another kind
of sport altogether. That is to say, either he received a good kicking,
or he had his thick and very handsome whiskers pulled; with the result
that on certain occasions he returned home with one of those appendages
looking decidedly ragged. Yet his plump, healthy-looking cheeks were
so robustly constituted, and contained such an abundance of recreative
vigour, that a new whisker soon sprouted in place of the old one, and
even surpassed its predecessor. Again (and the following is a phenomenon
peculiar to Russia) a very short time would have elapsed before once
more he would be consorting with the very cronies who had recently
cuffed him--and consorting with them as though nothing whatsoever had
happened--no reference to the subject being made by him, and they too
holding their tongues.

In short, Nozdrev was, as it were, a man of incident. Never was he
present at any gathering without some sort of a fracas occurring
thereat. Either he would require to be expelled from the room by
gendarmes, or his friends would have to kick him out into the street. At
all events, should neither of those occurrences take place, at least he
did something of a nature which would not otherwise have been witnessed.
That is to say, should he not play the fool in a buffet to such an
extent as to make every one smile, you may be sure that he was engaged
in lying to a degree which at times abashed even himself. Moreover, the
man lied without reason. For instance, he would begin telling a story to
the effect that he possessed a blue-coated or a red-coated horse; until,
in the end, his listeners would be forced to leave him with the remark,
“You are giving us some fine stuff, old fellow!” Also, men like Nozdrev
have a passion for insulting their neighbours without the least excuse
afforded. (For that matter, even a man of good standing and of
respectable exterior--a man with a star on his breast--may unexpectedly
press your hand one day, and begin talking to you on subjects of a
nature to give food for serious thought. Yet just as unexpectedly may
that man start abusing you to your face--and do so in a manner worthy of
a collegiate registrar rather than of a man who wears a star on his
breast and aspires to converse on subjects which merit reflection. All
that one can do in such a case is to stand shrugging one’s shoulders in
amazement.) Well, Nozdrev had just such a weakness. The more he became
friendly with a man, the sooner would he insult him, and be ready to
spread calumnies as to his reputation. Yet all the while he would
consider himself the insulted one’s friend, and, should he meet him
again, would greet him in the most amicable style possible, and say,
“You rascal, why have you given up coming to see me.” Thus, taken all
round, Nozdrev was a person of many aspects and numerous potentialities.
In one and the same breath would he propose to go with you whithersoever
you might choose (even to the very ends of the world should you so
require) or to enter upon any sort of an enterprise with you, or to
exchange any commodity for any other commodity which you might care to
name. Guns, horses, dogs, all were subjects for barter--though not for
profit so far as YOU were concerned. Such traits are mostly the outcome
of a boisterous temperament, as is additionally exemplified by the fact
that if at a fair he chanced to fall in with a simpleton and to fleece
him, he would then proceed to buy a quantity of the very first articles
which came to hand--horse-collars, cigar-lighters, dresses for his
nursemaid, foals, raisins, silver ewers, lengths of holland, wheatmeal,
tobacco, revolvers, dried herrings, pictures, whetstones, crockery,
boots, and so forth, until every atom of his money was exhausted. Yet
seldom were these articles conveyed home, since, as a rule, the same day
saw them lost to some more skilful gambler, in addition to his pipe, his
tobacco-pouch, his mouthpiece, his four-horsed turn-out, and his
coachman: with the result that, stripped to his very shirt, he would be
forced to beg the loan of a vehicle from a friend.

Such was Nozdrev. Some may say that characters of his type have become
extinct, that Nozdrevs no longer exist. Alas! such as say this will
be wrong; for many a day must pass before the Nozdrevs will have
disappeared from our ken. Everywhere they are to be seen in our
midst--the only difference between the new and the old being a
difference of garments. Persons of superficial observation are apt to
consider that a man clad in a different coat is quite a different person
from what he used to be.

To continue. The three vehicles bowled up to the steps of Nozdrev’s
house, and their occupants alighted. But no preparations whatsoever had
been made for the guest’s reception, for on some wooden trestles in
the centre of the dining-room a couple of peasants were engaged in
whitewashing the ceiling and drawling out an endless song as they
splashed their stuff about the floor. Hastily bidding peasants and
trestles to be gone, Nozdrev departed to another room with further
instructions. Indeed, so audible was the sound of his voice as he
ordered dinner that Chichikov--who was beginning to feel hungry once
more--was enabled to gather that it would be at least five o’clock
before a meal of any kind would be available. On his return, Nozdrev
invited his companions to inspect his establishment--even though as
early as two o’clock he had to announce that nothing more was to be
seen.

The tour began with a view of the stables, where the party saw two mares
(the one a grey, and the other a roan) and a colt; which latter animal,
though far from showy, Nozdrev declared to have cost him ten thousand
roubles.

“You NEVER paid ten thousand roubles for the brute!” exclaimed the
brother-in-law. “He isn’t worth even a thousand.”

“By God, I DID pay ten thousand!” asserted Nozdrev.

“You can swear that as much as you like,” retorted the other.

“Will you bet that I did not?” asked Nozdrev, but the brother-in-law
declined the offer.

Next, Nozdrev showed his guests some empty stalls where a number of
equally fine animals (so he alleged) had lately stood. Also there was on
view the goat which an old belief still considers to be an indispensable
adjunct to such places, even though its apparent use is to pace up and
down beneath the noses of the horses as though the place belonged to it.
Thereafter the host took his guests to look at a young wolf which he had
got tied to a chain. “He is fed on nothing but raw meat,” he explained,
“for I want him to grow up as fierce as possible.” Then the party
inspected a pond in which there were “fish of such a size that it would
take two men all their time to lift one of them out.”

This piece of information was received with renewed incredulity on the
part of the brother-in-law.

“Now, Chichikov,” went on Nozdrev, “let me show you a truly magnificent
brace of dogs. The hardness of their muscles will surprise you, and they
have jowls as sharp as needles.”

So saying, he led the way to a small, but neatly-built, shed surrounded
on every side with a fenced-in run. Entering this run, the visitors
beheld a number of dogs of all sorts and sizes and colours. In their
midst Nozdrev looked like a father lording it over his family circle.
Erecting their tails--their “stems,” as dog fanciers call those
members--the animals came bounding to greet the party, and fully a score
of them laid their paws upon Chichikov’s shoulders. Indeed, one dog was
moved with such friendliness that, standing on its hind legs, it licked
him on the lips, and so forced him to spit. That done, the visitors duly
inspected the couple already mentioned, and expressed astonishment at
their muscles. True enough, they were fine animals. Next, the party
looked at a Crimean bitch which, though blind and fast nearing her end,
had, two years ago, been a truly magnificent dog. At all events, so said
Nozdrev. Next came another bitch--also blind; then an inspection of
the water-mill, which lacked the spindle-socket wherein the upper stone
ought to have been revolving--“fluttering,” to use the Russian peasant’s
quaint expression. “But never mind,” said Nozdrev. “Let us proceed to
the blacksmith’s shop.” So to the blacksmith’s shop the party proceeded,
and when the said shop had been viewed, Nozdrev said as he pointed to a
field:

“In this field I have seen such numbers of hares as to render the ground
quite invisible. Indeed, on one occasion I, with my own hands, caught a
hare by the hind legs.”

“You never caught a hare by the hind legs with your hands!” remarked the
brother-in-law.

“But I DID” reiterated Nozdrev. “However, let me show you the boundary
where my lands come to an end.”

So saying, he started to conduct his guests across a field which
consisted mostly of moleheaps, and in which the party had to pick their
way between strips of ploughed land and of harrowed. Soon Chichikov
began to feel weary, for the terrain was so low-lying that in many spots
water could be heard squelching underfoot, and though for a while the
visitors watched their feet, and stepped carefully, they soon perceived
that such a course availed them nothing, and took to following their
noses, without either selecting or avoiding the spots where the mire
happened to be deeper or the reverse. At length, when a considerable
distance had been covered, they caught sight of a boundary-post and a
narrow ditch.

“That is the boundary,” said Nozdrev. “Everything that you see on this
side of the post is mine, as well as the forest on the other side of it,
and what lies beyond the forest.”

“WHEN did that forest become yours?” asked the brother-in-law. “It
cannot be long since you purchased it, for it never USED to be yours.”

“Yes, it isn’t long since I purchased it,” said Nozdrev.

“How long?”

“How long? Why, I purchased it three days ago, and gave a pretty sum for
it, as the devil knows!”

“Indeed? Why, three days ago you were at the fair?”

“Wiseacre! Cannot one be at a fair and buy land at the same time? Yes, I
WAS at the fair, and my steward bought the land in my absence.”

“Oh, your STEWARD bought it.” The brother-in-law seemed doubtful, and
shook his head.

The guests returned by the same route as that by which they had come;
whereafter, on reaching the house, Nozdrev conducted them to his study,
which contained not a trace of the things usually to be found in such
apartments--such things as books and papers. On the contrary, the only
articles to be seen were a sword and a brace of guns--the one “of them
worth three hundred roubles,” and the other “about eight hundred.” The
brother-in-law inspected the articles in question, and then shook
his head as before. Next, the visitors were shown some “real Turkish”
 daggers, of which one bore the inadvertent inscription, “Saveli
Sibiriakov [19], Master Cutler.” Then came a barrel-organ, on which
Nozdrev started to play some tune or another. For a while the sounds
were not wholly unpleasing, but suddenly something seemed to go wrong,
for a mazurka started, to be followed by “Marlborough has gone to the
war,” and to this, again, there succeeded an antiquated waltz. Also,
long after Nozdrev had ceased to turn the handle, one particularly
shrill-pitched pipe which had, throughout, refused to harmonise with the
rest kept up a protracted whistling on its own account. Then followed
an exhibition of tobacco pipes--pipes of clay, of wood, of meerschaum,
pipes smoked and non-smoked; pipes wrapped in chamois leather and not
so wrapped; an amber-mounted hookah (a stake won at cards) and a tobacco
pouch (worked, it was alleged, by some countess who had fallen in love
with Nozdrev at a posthouse, and whose handiwork Nozdrev averred
to constitute the “sublimity of superfluity”--a term which, in the
Nozdrevian vocabulary, purported to signify the acme of perfection).

Finally, after some hors-d’oeuvres of sturgeon’s back, they sat down
to table--the time being then nearly five o’clock. But the meal did not
constitute by any means the best of which Chichikov had ever partaken,
seeing that some of the dishes were overcooked, and others were scarcely
cooked at all. Evidently their compounder had trusted chiefly to
inspiration--she had laid hold of the first thing which had happened to
come to hand. For instance, had pepper represented the nearest article
within reach, she had added pepper wholesale. Had a cabbage chanced to
be so encountered, she had pressed it also into the service. And the
same with milk, bacon, and peas. In short, her rule seemed to have been
“Make a hot dish of some sort, and some sort of taste will result.” For
the rest, Nozdrev drew heavily upon the wine. Even before the soup
had been served, he had poured out for each guest a bumper of port and
another of “haut” sauterne. (Never in provincial towns is ordinary,
vulgar sauterne even procurable.) Next, he called for a bottle of
madeira--“as fine a tipple as ever a field-marshall drank”; but the
madeira only burnt the mouth, since the dealers, familiar with the taste
of our landed gentry (who love “good” madeira) invariably doctor the
stuff with copious dashes of rum and Imperial vodka, in the hope that
Russian stomachs will thus be enabled to carry off the lot. After this
bottle Nozdrev called for another and “a very special” brand--a brand
which he declared to consist of a blend of burgundy and champagne, and
of which he poured generous measures into the glasses of Chichikov
and the brother-in-law as they sat to right and left of him. But since
Chichikov noticed that, after doing so, he added only a scanty modicum
of the mixture to his own tumbler, our hero determined to be cautious,
and therefore took advantage of a moment when Nozdrev had again plunged
into conversation and was yet a third time engaged in refilling his
brother-in-law’s glass, to contrive to upset his (Chichikov’s)
glass over his plate. In time there came also to table a tart of
mountain-ashberries--berries which the host declared to equal, in taste,
ripe plums, but which, curiously enough, smacked more of corn brandy.
Next, the company consumed a sort of pasty of which the precise name has
escaped me, but which the host rendered differently even on the second
occasion of its being mentioned. The meal over, and the whole tale of
wines tried, the guests still retained their seats--a circumstance which
embarrassed Chichikov, seeing that he had no mind to propound his pet
scheme in the presence of Nozdrev’s brother-in-law, who was a complete
stranger to him. No, that subject called for amicable and PRIVATE
conversation. Nevertheless, the brother-in-law appeared to bode little
danger, seeing that he had taken on board a full cargo, and was now
engaged in doing nothing of a more menacing nature than picking his
nose. At length he himself noticed that he was not altogether in a
responsible condition; wherefore he rose and began to make excuses for
departing homewards, though in a tone so drowsy and lethargic that, to
quote the Russian proverb, he might almost have been “pulling a collar
on to a horse by the clasps.”

“No, no!” cried Nozdrev. “I am NOT going to let you go.”

“But I MUST go,” replied the brother-in-law. “Don’t try to hinder me.
You are annoying me greatly.”

“Rubbish! We are going to play a game of banker.”

“No, no. You must play it without me, my friend. My wife is expecting me
at home, and I must go and tell her all about the fair. Yes, I MUST go
if I am to please her. Do not try to detain me.”

“Your wife be--! But have you REALLY an important piece of business with
her?”

“No, no, my friend. The real reason is that she is a good and trustful
woman, and that she does a great deal for me. The tears spring to my
eyes as I think of it. Do not detain me. As an honourable man I say that
I must go. Of that I do assure you in all sincerity.”

“Oh, let him go,” put in Chichikov under his breath. “What use will he
be here?”

“Very well,” said Nozdrev, “though, damn it, I do not like fellows who
lose their heads.” Then he added to his brother-in-law: “All right,
Thetuk [20]. Off you go to your wife and your woman’s talk and may the
devil go with you!”

“Do not insult me with the term Thetuk,” retorted the brother-in-law.
“To her I owe my life, and she is a dear, good woman, and has shown me
much affection. At the very thought of it I could weep. You see, she
will be asking me what I have seen at the fair, and tell her about it I
must, for she is such a dear, good woman.”

“Then off you go to her with your pack of lies. Here is your cap.”

“No, good friend, you are not to speak of her like that. By so doing you
offend me greatly--I say that she is a dear, good woman.”

“Then run along home to her.”

“Yes, I am just going. Excuse me for having been unable to stay. Gladly
would I have stayed, but really I cannot.”

The brother-in-law repeated his excuses again and again without noticing
that he had entered the britchka, that it had passed through the gates,
and that he was now in the open country. Permissibly we may suppose that
his wife succeeded in gleaning from him few details of the fair.

“What a fool!” said Nozdrev as, standing by the window, he watched the
departing vehicle. “Yet his off-horse is not such a bad one. For a long
time past I have been wanting to get hold of it. A man like that is
simply impossible. Yes, he is a Thetuk, a regular Thetuk.”

With that they repaired to the parlour, where, on Porphyri bringing
candles, Chichikov perceived that his host had produced a pack of cards.

“I tell you what,” said Nozdrev, pressing the sides of the pack
together, and then slightly bending them, so that the pack cracked and
a card flew out. “How would it be if, to pass the time, I were to make a
bank of three hundred?”

Chichikov pretended not to have heard him, but remarked with an air of
having just recollected a forgotten point:

“By the way, I had omitted to say that I have a request to make of you.”

“What request?”

“First give me your word that you will grant it.”

“What is the request, I say?”

“Then you give me your word, do you?”

“Certainly.”

“Your word of honour?”

“My word of honour.”

“This, then, is my request. I presume that you have a large number
of dead serfs whose names have not yet been removed from the revision
list?”

“I have. But why do you ask?”

“Because I want you to make them over to me.”

“Of what use would they be to you?”

“Never mind. I have a purpose in wanting them.”

“What purpose?”

“A purpose which is strictly my own affair. In short, I need them.”

“You seem to have hatched a very fine scheme. Out with it, now! What is
in the wind?”

“How could I have hatched such a scheme as you say? One could not very
well hatch a scheme out of such a trifle as this.”

“Then for what purpose do you want the serfs?”

“Oh, the curiosity of the man! He want

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