Dead Souls
by Nikolai Gogol
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

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."

[1] Essays on Russian Novelists. Macmillan.

[2] Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature. Duckworth and Co.

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

[3] This is generally referred to in the Russian criticisms of Gogol
    as a quotation from Jeremiah. It appears upon investigation,
    however, that it actually occurs only in the Slavonic version from
    the Greek, and not in the Russian translation made direct from the
    Hebrew.

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[1], cheek by jowl with a samovar[2]--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.

[1] An urn for brewing honey tea.

[2] An urn for brewing ordinary tea.

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 of 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[3] 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.

[3] A German dramatist (1761-1819) who also filled sundry posts in the
    service of the Russian Government.

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-grandial 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[4]!" 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.

[4] Priest's wife.

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[1] 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.

[1] In this case the term General refers to a civil grade equivalent
    to the military rank of the same title.

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[2]?" 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--

[2] An annual tax upon peasants, payment of which secured to the payer
    the right of removal.

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[3],
but we do so with a single heart. Come, I humbly beg of you."

[3] Cabbage soup.

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[1], 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.

[1] Three horses harnessed abreast.

"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[2], good mother."

[2] A member of the gentry class.

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[3],
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.

[3] Pieces equal in value to twenty-five kopecks (a quarter of a
    rouble).

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[4] 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[5]. 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.

[4] A Russian general who, in 1812, stoutly opposed Napoleon at the
    battle of Borodino.

[5] The late eighteenth century.

"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[6] or so."

[6] Forty Russian pounds.

"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[7] 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.

[7] To serve as blotting-paper.

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 rigeur 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[1].
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."

[1] A liquor distilled from fermented bread crusts or sour fruit.

"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 act, 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 to 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 very 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[2], 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).

[2] That is to say, a distinctively Russian name.

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 dry 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[3]. Off you go to your wife and your woman's talk and may the
devil go with you!"

[3] A jeering appellation which owes its origin to the fact that
    certain Russians cherish a prejudice against the initial character
    of the word--namely, the Greek theta, or TH.

"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 wants to poke his fingers into and
smell over every detail!"

"Why do you decline to say what is in your mind? At all events, until
you DO say I shall not move in the matter."

"But how would it benefit you to know what my plans are? A whim has
seized me. That is all. Nor are you playing fair. You have given me
your word of honour, yet now you are trying to back out of it."

"No matter what you desire me to do, I decline to do it until you have
told me your purpose."

"What am I to say to the fellow?" thought Chichikov. He reflected for
a moment, and then explained that he wanted the dead souls in order to
acquire a better standing in society, since at present he possessed
little landed property, and only a handful of serfs.

"You are lying," said Nozdrev without even letting him finish. "Yes,
you are lying my good friend."

Chichikov himself perceived that his device had been a clumsy one, and
his pretext weak. "I must tell him straight out," he said to himself as
he pulled his wits together.

"Should I tell you the truth," he added aloud, "I must beg of you not
to repeat it. The truth is that I am thinking of getting married. But,
unfortunately, my betrothed's father and mother are very ambitious
people, and do not want me to marry her, since they desire the
bridegroom to own not less than three hundred souls, whereas I own but
a hundred and fifty, and that number is not sufficient."

"Again you are lying," said Nozdrev.

"Then look here; I have been lying only to this extent." And Chichikov
marked off upon his little finger a minute portion.

"Nevertheless I will bet my head that you have been lying throughout."

"Come, come! That is not very civil of you. Why should I have been
lying?"

"Because I know you, and know that you are a regular skinflint. I say
that in all friendship. If I possessed any power over you I should
hang you to the nearest tree."

This remark hurt Chichikov, for at any time he disliked expressions
gross or offensive to decency, and never allowed any one--no, not even
persons of the highest rank--to behave towards him with an undue
measure of familiarity. Consequently his sense of umbrage on the
present occasion was unbounded.

"By God, I WOULD hang you!" repeated Nozdrev. "I say this frankly,
and not for the purpose of offending you, but simply to communicate to
you my friendly opinion."

"To everything there are limits," retorted Chichikov stiffly. "If you
want to indulge in speeches of that sort you had better return to the
barracks."

However, after a pause he added:

"If you do not care to give me the serfs, why not SELL them?"

"SELL them? _I_ know you, you rascal! You wouldn't give me very much
for them, WOULD you?"

"A nice fellow! Look here. What are they to you? So many diamonds, eh?"

"I thought so! _I_ know you!"

"Pardon me, but I could wish that you were a member of the Jewish
persuasion. You would give them to me fast enough then."

"On the contrary, to show you that I am not a usurer, I will decline
to ask of you a single kopeck for the serfs. All that you need do is
to buy that colt of mine, and then I will throw in the serfs in
addition."

"But what should _I_ want with your colt?" said Chichikov, genuinely
astonished at the proposal.

"What should YOU want with him? Why, I have bought him for ten
thousand roubles, and am ready to let you have him for four."

"I ask you again: of what use could the colt possibly be to me? I am
not the keeper of a breeding establishment."

"Ah! I see that you fail to understand me. Let me suggest that you pay
down at once three thousand roubles of the purchase money, and leave
the other thousand until later."

"But I do not mean to buy the colt, damn him!"

"Then buy the roan mare."

"No, nor the roan mare."

"Then you shall have both the mare and the grey horse which you have
seen in my stables for two thousand roubles."

"I require no horses at all."

"But you would be able to sell them again. You would be able to get
thrice their purchase price at the very first fair that was held."

"Then sell them at that fair yourself, seeing that you are so certain
of making a triple profit."

"Oh, I should make it fast enough, only I want YOU to benefit
by the transaction."

Chichikov duly thanked his interlocutor, but continued to decline
either the grey horse or the roan mare.

"Then buy a few dogs," said Nozdrev. "I can sell you a couple of hides
a-quiver, ears well pricked, coats like quills, ribs barrel-shaped,
and paws so tucked up as scarcely to graze the ground when they run."

"Of what use would those dogs be to me? I am not a sportsman."

"But I WANT you to have the dogs. Listen. If you won't have the
dogs, then buy my barrel-organ. 'Tis a splendid instrument. As a man
of honour I can tell you that, when new, it cost me fifteen hundred
roubles. Well, you shall have it for nine hundred."

"Come, come! What should I want with a barrel-organ? I am not a
German, to go hauling it about the roads and begging for coppers."

"But this is quite a different kind of organ from the one which
Germans take about with them. You see, it is a REAL organ. Look at
it for yourself. It is made of the best wood. I will take you to have
another view of it."

And seizing Chichikov by the hand, Nozdrev drew him towards the other
room, where, in spite of the fact that Chichikov, with his feet
planted firmly on the floor, assured his host, again and again, that
he knew exactly what the organ was like, he was forced once more to
hear how Marlborough went to the war.

"Then, since you don't care to give me any money for it," persisted
Nozdrev, "listen to the following proposal. I will give you the
barrel-organ and all the dead souls which I possess, and in return you
shall give me your britchka, and another three hundred roubles into
the bargain."

"Listen to the man! In that case, what should I have left to drive
in?"

"Oh, I would stand you another britchka. Come to the coach-house, and
I will show you the one I mean. It only needs repainting to look a
perfectly splendid britchka."

"The ramping, incorrigible devil!" thought Chichikov to himself as at
all hazards he resolved to escape from britchkas, organs, and every
species of dog, however marvellously barrel-ribbed and tucked up of
paw.

"And in exchange, you shall have the britchka, the barrel-organ, and
the dead souls," repeated Nozdrev.

"I must decline the offer," said Chichikov.

"And why?"

"Because I don't WANT the things--I am full up already."

"I can see that you don't know how things should be done between good
friends and comrades. Plainly you are a man of two faces."

"What do you mean, you fool? Think for yourself. Why should I acquire
articles which I don't want?"

"Say no more about it, if you please. I have quite taken your measure.
But see here. Should you care to play a game of banker? I am ready to
stake both the dead souls and the barrel-organ at cards."

"No; to leave an issue to cards means to submit oneself to the
unknown," said Chichikov, covertly glancing at the pack which Nozdrev
had got in his hands. Somehow the way in which his companion had cut
that pack seemed to him suspicious.

"Why 'to the unknown'?" asked Nozdrev. "There is no such thing as 'the
unknown.' Should luck be on your side, you may win the devil knows
what a haul. Oh, luck, luck!" he went on, beginning to deal, in the
hope of raising a quarrel. "Here is the cursed nine upon which, the
other night, I lost everything. All along I knew that I should lose my
money. Said I to myself: 'The devil take you, you false, accursed
card!'"

Just as Nozdrev uttered the words Porphyri entered with a fresh bottle
of liquor; but Chichikov declined either to play or to drink.

"Why do you refuse to play?" asked Nozdrev.

"Because I feel indisposed to do so. Moreover, I must confess that I
am no great hand at cards."

"WHY are you no great hand at them?"

Chichikov shrugged his shoulders. "Because I am not," he replied.

"You are no great hand at ANYTHING, I think."

"What does that matter? God has made me so."

"The truth is that you are a Thetuk, and nothing else. Once upon a
time I believed you to be a good fellow, but now I see that you don't
understand civility. One cannot speak to you as one would to an
intimate, for there is no frankness or sincerity about you. You are a
regular Sobakevitch--just such another as he."

"For what reason are you abusing me? Am I in any way at fault for
declining to play cards? Sell me those souls if you are the man to
hesitate over such rubbish."

"The foul fiend take you! I was about to have given them to you for
nothing, but now you shan't have them at all--not if you offer me
three kingdoms in exchange. Henceforth I will have nothing to do with
you, you cobbler, you dirty blacksmith! Porphyri, go and tell the
ostler to give the gentleman's horses no oats, but only hay."

This development Chichikov had hardly expected.

"And do you," added Nozdrev to his guest, "get out of my sight."

Yet in spite of this, host and guest took supper together--even though
on this occasion the table was adorned with no wines of fictitious
nomenclature, but only with a bottle which reared its solitary head
beside a jug of what is usually known as vin ordinaire. When supper
was over Nozdrev said to Chichikov as he conducted him to a side room
where a bed had been made up:

"This is where you are to sleep. I cannot very well wish you
good-night."

Left to himself on Nozdrev's departure, Chichikov felt in a most
unenviable frame of mind. Full of inward vexation, he blamed himself
bitterly for having come to see this man and so wasted valuable time;
but even more did he blame himself for having told him of his
scheme--for having acted as carelessly as a child or a madman. Of a
surety the scheme was not one which ought to have been confided to a
man like Nozdrev, for he was a worthless fellow who might lie about
it, and append additions to it, and spread such stories as would give
rise to God knows what scandals. "This is indeed bad!" Chichikov said
to himself. "I have been an absolute fool." Consequently he spent an
uneasy night--this uneasiness being increased by the fact that a
number of small, but vigorous, insects so feasted upon him that he
could do nothing but scratch the spots and exclaim, "The devil take
you and Nozdrev alike!" Only when morning was approaching did he fall
asleep. On rising, he made it his first business (after donning
dressing-gown and slippers) to cross the courtyard to the stable, for
the purpose of ordering Selifan to harness the britchka. Just as he
was returning from his errand he encountered Nozdrev, clad in a
dressing-gown, and holding a pipe between his teeth.

Host and guest greeted one another in friendly fashion, and Nozdrev
inquired how Chichikov had slept.

"Fairly well," replied Chichikov, but with a touch of dryness in his
tone.

"The same with myself," said Nozdrev. "The truth is that such a lot of
nasty brutes kept crawling over me that even to speak of it gives me
the shudders. Likewise, as the effect of last night's doings, a whole
squadron of soldiers seemed to be camping on my chest, and giving me a
flogging. Ugh! And whom also do you think I saw in a dream? You would
never guess. Why, it was Staff-Captain Potsieluev and Lieutenant
Kuvshinnikov!"

"Yes," though Chichikov to himself, "and I wish that they too would
give you a public thrashing!"

"I felt so ill!" went on Nozdrev. "And just after I had fallen asleep
something DID come and sting me. Probably it was a party of hag
fleas. Now, dress yourself, and I will be with you presently. First of
all I must give that scoundrel of a bailiff a wigging."

Chichikov departed to his own room to wash and dress; which process
completed, he entered the dining-room to find the table laid with
tea-things and a bottle of rum. Clearly no broom had yet touched the
place, for there remained traces of the previous night's dinner and
supper in the shape of crumbs thrown over the floor and tobacco ash on
the tablecloth. The host himself, when he entered, was still clad in a
dressing-gown exposing a hairy chest; and as he sat holding his pipe
in his hand, and drinking tea from a cup, he would have made a model
for the sort of painter who prefers to portray gentlemen of the less
curled and scented order.

"What think you?" he asked of Chichikov after a short silence. "Are
you willing NOW to play me for those souls?"

"I have told you that I never play cards. If the souls are for sale, I
will buy them."

"I decline to sell them. Such would not be the course proper between
friends. But a game of banker would be quite another matter. Let us
deal the cards."

"I have told you that I decline to play."

"And you will not agree to an exchange?"

"No."

"Then look here. Suppose we play a game of chess. If you win, the
souls shall be yours. There are lot which I should like to see crossed
off the revision list. Hi, Porphyri! Bring me the chessboard."

"You are wasting your time. I will play neither chess nor cards."

"But chess is different from playing with a bank. In chess there can
be neither luck nor cheating, for everything depends upon skill. In
fact, I warn you that I cannot possibly play with you unless you allow
me a move or two in advance."

"The same with me," thought Chichikov. "Shall I, or shall I not, play
this fellow? I used not to be a bad chess-player, and it is a sport in
which he would find it more difficult to be up to his tricks."

"Very well," he added aloud. "I WILL play you at chess."

"And stake the souls for a hundred roubles?" asked Nozdrev.

"No. Why for a hundred? Would it not be sufficient to stake them for fifty?"

"No. What would be the use of fifty? Nevertheless, for the hundred
roubles I will throw in a moderately old puppy, or else a gold seal
and watch-chain."

"Very well," assented Chichikov.

"Then how many moves are you going to allow me?"

"Is THAT to be part of the bargain? Why, none, of course."

"At least allow me two."

"No, none. I myself am only a poor player."

"_I_ know you and your poor play," said Nozdrev, moving a chessman.

"In fact, it is a long time since last I had a chessman in my hand,"
replied Chichikov, also moving a piece.

"Ah! _I_ know you and your poor play," repeated Nozdrev, moving a
second chessman.

"I say again that it is a long time since last I had a chessman in my
hand." And Chichikov, in his turn, moved.

"Ah! _I_ know you and your poor play," repeated Nozdrev, for the third
time as he made a third move. At the same moment the cuff of one of
his sleeves happened to dislodge another chessman from its position.

"Again, I say," said Chichikov, "that 'tis a long time since last--But
hi! look here! Put that piece back in its place!"

"What piece?"

"This one." And almost as Chichikov spoke he saw a third chessman
coming into view between the queens. God only knows whence that
chessman had materialised.

"No, no!" shouted Chichikov as he rose from the table. "It is
impossible to play with a man like you. People don't move three pieces
at once."

"How 'three pieces'? All that I have done is to make a mistake--to
move one of my pieces by accident. If you like, I will forfeit it to
you."

"And whence has the third piece come?"

"What third piece?"

"The one now standing between the queens?"

"'Tis one of your own pieces. Surely you are forgetting?"

"No, no, my friend. I have counted every move, and can remember each
one. That piece has only just become added to the board. Put it back
in its place, I say."

"Its place? Which IS its place?" But Nozdrev had reddened a good
deal. "I perceive you to be a strategist at the game."

"No, no, good friend. YOU are the strategist--though an unsuccessful
one, as it happens."

"Then of what are you supposing me capable? Of cheating you?"

"I am not supposing you capable of anything. All that I say is that I
will not play with you any more."

"But you can't refuse to," said Nozdrev, growing heated. "You see, the
game has begun."

"Nevertheless, I have a right not to continue it, seeing that you are
not playing as an honest man should do."

"You are lying--you cannot truthfully say that."

"'Tis you who are lying."

"But I have NOT cheated. Consequently you cannot refuse to play, but
must continue the game to a finish."

"You cannot force me to play," retorted Chichikov coldly as, turning
to the chessboard, he swept the pieces into confusion.

Nozdrev approached Chichikov with a manner so threatening that the
other fell back a couple of paces.

"I WILL force you to play," said Nozdrev. "It is no use you making a
mess of the chessboard, for I can remember every move. We will replace
the chessmen exactly as they were."

"No, no, my friend. The game is over, and I play you no more."

"You say that you will not?"

"Yes. Surely you can see for yourself that such a thing is
impossible?"

"That cock won't fight. Say at once that you refuse to play with me."
And Nozdrev approached a step nearer.

"Very well; I DO say that," replied Chichikov, and at the same
moment raised his hands towards his face, for the dispute was growing
heated. Nor was the act of caution altogether unwarranted, for Nozdrev
also raised his fist, and it may be that one of her hero's plump,
pleasant-looking cheeks would have sustained an indelible insult had
not he (Chichikov) parried the blow and, seizing Nozdrev by his
whirling arms, held them fast.

"Porphyri! Pavlushka!" shouted Nozdrev as madly he strove to free himself.

On hearing the words, Chichikov, both because he wished to avoid
rendering the servants witnesses of the unedifying scene and because
he felt that it would be of no avail to hold Nozdrev any longer, let
go of the latter's arms; but at the same moment Porphyri and Pavlushka
entered the room--a pair of stout rascals with whom it would be unwise
to meddle.

"Do you, or do you not, intend to finish the game?" said Nozdrev.
"Give me a direct answer."

"No; it will not be possible to finish the game," replied Chichikov,
glancing out of the window. He could see his britchka standing ready
for him, and Selifan evidently awaiting orders to draw up to the
entrance steps. But from the room there was no escape, since in the
doorway was posted the couple of well-built serving-men.

"Then it is as I say? You refuse to finish the game?" repeated
Nozdrev, his face as red as fire.

"I would have finished it had you played like a man of honour. But, as
it is, I cannot."

"You cannot, eh, you villain? You find that you cannot as soon as you
find that you are not winning? Thrash him, you fellows!" And as he
spoke Nozdrev grasped the cherrywood shank of his pipe. Chichikov
turned as white as a sheet. He tried to say something, but his
quivering lips emitted no sound. "Thrash him!" again shouted Nozdrev
as he rushed forward in a state of heat and perspiration more proper
to a warrior who is attacking an impregnable fortress. "Thrash him!"
again he shouted in a voice like that of some half-demented lieutenant
whose desperate bravery has acquired such a reputation that orders
have had to be issued that his hands shall be held lest he attempt
deeds of over-presumptuous daring. Seized with the military spirit,
however, the lieutenant's head begins to whirl, and before his eye
there flits the image of Suvorov[4]. He advances to the great
encounter, and impulsively cries, "Forward, my sons!"--cries it
without reflecting that he may be spoiling the plan of the general
attack, that millions of rifles may be protruding their muzzles
through the embrasures of the impregnable, towering walls of the
fortress, that his own impotent assault may be destined to be
dissipated like dust before the wind, and that already there may have
been launched on its whistling career the bullet which is to close for
ever his vociferous throat. However, if Nozdrev resembled the
headstrong, desperate lieutenant whom we have just pictured as
advancing upon a fortress, at least the fortress itself in no way
resembled the impregnable stronghold which I have described. As a
matter of fact, the fortress became seized with a panic which drove
its spirit into its boots. First of all, the chair with which
Chichikov (the fortress in question) sought to defend himself was
wrested from his grasp by the serfs, and then--blinking and neither
alive nor dead--he turned to parry the Circassian pipe-stem of his
host. In fact, God only knows what would have happened had not the
fates been pleased by a miracle to deliver Chichikov's elegant back
and shoulders from the onslaught. Suddenly, and as unexpectedly as
though the sound had come from the clouds, there made itself heard the
tinkling notes of a collar-bell, and then the rumble of wheels
approaching the entrance steps, and, lastly, the snorting and hard
breathing of a team of horses as a vehicle came to a standstill.
Involuntarily all present glanced through the window, and saw a man
clad in a semi-military greatcoat leap from a buggy. After making an
inquiry or two in the hall, he entered the dining-room just at the
juncture when Chichikov, almost swooning with terror, had found
himself placed in about as awkward a situation as could well befall a
mortal man.

[4] The great Russian general who, after winning fame in the Seven
    Years' War, met with disaster when attempting to assist the
    Austrians against the French in 1799.

"Kindly tell me which of you is Monsieur Nozdrev?" said the unknown
with a glance of perplexity both at the person named (who was still
standing with pipe-shank upraised) and at Chichikov (who was just
beginning to recover from his unpleasant predicament).

"Kindly tell ME whom I have the honour of addressing?" retorted
Nozdrev as he approached the official.

"I am the Superintendent of Rural Police."

"And what do you want?"

"I have come to fulfil a commission imposed upon me. That is to say,
I have come to place you under arrest until your case shall have
been decided."

"Rubbish! What case, pray?"

"The case in which you involved yourself when, in a drunken condition,
and through the instrumentality of a walking-stick, you offered grave
offence to the person of Landowner Maksimov."

"You lie! To your face I tell you that never in my life have I set
eyes upon Landowner Maksimov."

"Good sir, allow me to represent to you that I am a Government officer.
Speeches like that you may address to your servants, but not to me."

At this point Chichikov, without waiting for Nozdrev's reply, seized
his cap, slipped behind the Superintendent's back, rushed out on to
the verandah, sprang into his britchka, and ordered Selifan to drive
like the wind.

CHAPTER V

Certainly Chichikov was a thorough coward, for, although the britchka
pursued its headlong course until Nozdrev's establishment had
disappeared behind hillocks and hedgerows, our hero continued to
glance nervously behind him, as though every moment expecting to see a
stern chase begin. His breath came with difficulty, and when he tried
his heart with his hands he could feel it fluttering like a quail
caught in a net.

"What a sweat the fellow has thrown me into!" he thought to himself,
while many a dire and forceful aspiration passed through his mind.
Indeed, the expressions to which he gave vent were most inelegant in
their nature. But what was to be done next? He was a Russian and
thoroughly aroused. The affair had been no joke. "But for the
Superintendent," he reflected, "I might never again have looked upon
God's daylight--I might have vanished like a bubble on a pool, and
left neither trace nor posterity nor property nor an honourable name
for my future offspring to inherit!" (it seemed that our hero was
particularly anxious with regard to his possible issue).

"What a scurvy barin!" mused Selifan as he drove along. "Never have I
seen such a barin. I should like to spit in his face. 'Tis better to
allow a man nothing to eat than to refuse to feed a horse properly. A
horse needs his oats--they are his proper fare. Even if you make a man
procure a meal at his own expense, don't deny a horse his oats, for he
ought always to have them."

An equally poor opinion of Nozdrev seemed to be cherished also by the
steeds, for not only were the bay and the Assessor clearly out of
spirits, but even the skewbald was wearing a dejected air. True, at
home the skewbald got none but the poorer sorts of oats to eat, and
Selifan never filled his trough without having first called him a
villain; but at least they WERE oats, and not hay--they were stuff
which could be chewed with a certain amount of relish. Also, there was
the fact that at intervals he could intrude his long nose into his
companions' troughs (especially when Selifan happened to be absent
from the stable) and ascertain what THEIR provender was like. But at
Nozdrev's there had been nothing but hay! That was not right. All
three horses felt greatly discontented.

But presently the malcontents had their reflections cut short in a
very rude and unexpected manner. That is to say, they were brought
back to practicalities by coming into violent collision with a
six-horsed vehicle, while upon their heads descended both a babel of
cries from the ladies inside and a storm of curses and abuse from the
coachman. "Ah, you damned fool!" he vociferated. "I shouted to you
loud enough! Draw out, you old raven, and keep to the right! Are you
drunk?" Selifan himself felt conscious that he had been careless, but
since a Russian does not care to admit a fault in the presence of
strangers, he retorted with dignity: "Why have you run into US? Did
you leave your eyes behind you at the last tavern that you stopped
at?" With that he started to back the britchka, in the hope that it
might get clear of the other's harness; but this would not do, for the
pair were too hopelessly intertwined. Meanwhile the skewbald snuffed
curiously at his new acquaintances as they stood planted on either
side of him; while the ladies in the vehicle regarded the scene with
an expression of terror. One of them was an old woman, and the other a
damsel of about sixteen. A mass of golden hair fell daintily from a
small head, and the oval of her comely face was as shapely as an egg,
and white with the transparent whiteness seen when the hands of a
housewife hold a new-laid egg to the light to let the sun's rays
filter through its shell. The same tint marked the maiden's ears where
they glowed in the sunshine, and, in short, what with the tears in her
wide-open, arresting eyes, she presented so attractive a picture that
our hero bestowed upon it more than a passing glance before he turned
his attention to the hubbub which was being raised among the horses
and the coachmen.

"Back out, you rook of Nizhni Novgorod!" the strangers' coachman
shouted. Selifan tightened his reins, and the other driver did the
same. The horses stepped back a little, and then came together
again--this time getting a leg or two over the traces. In fact, so
pleased did the skewbald seem with his new friends that he refused to
stir from the melee into which an unforeseen chance had plunged him.
Laying his muzzle lovingly upon the neck of one of his
recently-acquired acquaintances, he seemed to be whispering something
in that acquaintance's ear--and whispering pretty nonsense, too, to
judge from the way in which that confidant kept shaking his ears.

At length peasants from a village which happened to be near the scene
of the accident tackled the mess; and since a spectacle of that kind
is to the Russian muzhik what a newspaper or a club-meeting is to the
German, the vehicles soon became the centre of a crowd, and the
village denuded even of its old women and children. The traces were
disentangled, and a few slaps on the nose forced the skewbald to draw
back a little; after which the teams were straightened out and
separated. Nevertheless, either sheer obstinacy or vexation at being
parted from their new friends caused the strange team absolutely to
refuse to move a leg. Their driver laid the whip about them, but still
they stood as though rooted to the spot. At length the participatory
efforts of the peasants rose to an unprecedented degree of enthusiasm,
and they shouted in an intermittent chorus the advice, "Do you,
Andrusha, take the head of the trace horse on the right, while Uncle
Mitai mounts the shaft horse. Get up, Uncle Mitai." Upon that the
lean, long, and red-bearded Uncle Mitai mounted the shaft horse; in
which position he looked like a village steeple or the winder which is
used to raise water from wells. The coachman whipped up his steeds
afresh, but nothing came of it, and Uncle Mitai had proved useless.
"Hold on, hold on!" shouted the peasants again. "Do you, Uncle Mitai,
mount the trace horse, while Uncle Minai mounts the shaft horse."
Whereupon Uncle Minai--a peasant with a pair of broad shoulders, a
beard as black as charcoal, and a belly like the huge samovar in which
sbiten is brewed for all attending a local market--hastened to seat
himself upon the shaft horse, which almost sank to the ground beneath
his weight. "NOW they will go all right!" the muzhiks exclaimed.
"Lay it on hot, lay it on hot! Give that sorrel horse the whip, and
make him squirm like a koramora[1]." Nevertheless, the affair in no
way progressed; wherefore, seeing that flogging was of no use, Uncles
Mitai and Minai BOTH mounted the sorrel, while Andrusha seated
himself upon the trace horse. Then the coachman himself lost patience,
and sent the two Uncles about their business--and not before it was
time, seeing that the horses were steaming in a way that made it clear
that, unless they were first winded, they would never reach the next
posthouse. So they were given a moment's rest. That done, they moved
off of their own accord!

[1] A kind of large gnat.

Throughout, Chichikov had been gazing at the young unknown with great
attention, and had even made one or two attempts to enter into
conversation with her: but without success. Indeed, when the ladies
departed, it was as in a dream that he saw the girl's comely presence,
the delicate features of her face, and the slender outline of her form
vanish from his sight; it was as in a dream that once more he saw only
the road, the britchka, the three horses, Selifan, and the bare, empty
fields. Everywhere in life--yes, even in the plainest, the dingiest
ranks of society, as much as in those which are uniformly bright and
presentable--a man may happen upon some phenomenon which is so
entirely different from those which have hitherto fallen to his lot.
Everywhere through the web of sorrow of which our lives are woven
there may suddenly break a clear, radiant thread of joy; even as
suddenly along the street of some poor, poverty-stricken village
which, ordinarily, sees nought but a farm waggon there may came
bowling a gorgeous coach with plated harness, picturesque horses, and
a glitter of glass, so that the peasants stand gaping, and do not
resume their caps until long after the strange equipage has become
lost to sight. Thus the golden-haired maiden makes a sudden,
unexpected appearance in our story, and as suddenly, as unexpectedly,
disappears. Indeed, had it not been that the person concerned was
Chichikov, and not some youth of twenty summers--a hussar or a student
or, in general, a man standing on the threshold of life--what thoughts
would not have sprung to birth, and stirred and spoken, within him;
for what a length of time would he not have stood entranced as he
stared into the distance and forgot alike his journey, the business
still to be done, the possibility of incurring loss through
lingering--himself, his vocation, the world, and everything else that
the world contains!

But in the present case the hero was a man of middle-age, and of
cautious and frigid temperament. True, he pondered over the incident,
but in more deliberate fashion than a younger man would have done.
That is to say, his reflections were not so irresponsible and
unsteady. "She was a comely damsel," he said to himself as he opened
his snuff-box and took a pinch. "But the important point is: Is she
also a NICE DAMSEL? One thing she has in her favour--and that is
that she appears only just to have left school, and not to have had
time to become womanly in the worser sense. At present, therefore, she
is like a child. Everything in her is simple, and she says just what
she thinks, and laughs merely when she feels inclined. Such a damsel
might be made into anything--or she might be turned into worthless
rubbish. The latter, I surmise, for trudging after her she will have a
fond mother and a bevy of aunts, and so forth--persons who, within a
year, will have filled her with womanishness to the point where her
own father wouldn't know her. And to that there will be added pride
and affectation, and she will begin to observe established rules, and
to rack her brains as to how, and how much, she ought to talk, and to
whom, and where, and so forth. Every moment will see her growing
timorous and confused lest she be saying too much. Finally, she will
develop into a confirmed prevaricator, and end by marrying the devil
knows whom!" Chichikov paused awhile. Then he went on: "Yet I should
like to know who she is, and who her father is, and whether he is a
rich landowner of good standing, or merely a respectable man who has
acquired a fortune in the service of the Government. Should he allow
her, on marriage, a dowry of, say, two hundred thousand roubles, she
will be a very nice catch indeed. She might even, so to speak, make a
man of good breeding happy."

Indeed, so attractively did the idea of the two hundred thousand
roubles begin to dance before his imagination that he felt a twinge of
self-reproach because, during the hubbub, he had not inquired of the
postillion or the coachman who the travellers might be. But soon the
sight of Sobakevitch's country house dissipated his thoughts, and
forced him to return to his stock subject of reflection.

Sobakevitch's country house and estate were of very fair size, and on
each side of the mansion were expanses of birch and pine forest in two
shades of green. The wooden edifice itself had dark-grey walls and a
red-gabled roof, for it was a mansion of the kind which Russia builds
for her military settlers and for German colonists. A noticeable
circumstance was the fact that the taste of the architect had differed
from that of the proprietor--the former having manifestly been a
pedant and desirous of symmetry, and the latter having wished only for
comfort. Consequently he (the proprietor) had dispensed with all
windows on one side of the mansion, and had caused to be inserted, in
their place, only a small aperture which, doubtless, was intended to
light an otherwise dark lumber-room. Likewise, the architect's best
efforts had failed to cause the pediment to stand in the centre of the
building, since the proprietor had had one of its four original
columns removed. Evidently durability had been considered throughout,
for the courtyard was enclosed by a strong and very high wooden fence,
and both the stables, the coach-house, and the culinary premises were
partially constructed of beams warranted to last for centuries. Nay,
even the wooden huts of the peasantry were wonderful in the solidity
of their construction, and not a clay wall or a carved pattern or
other device was to be seen. Everything fitted exactly into its right
place, and even the draw-well of the mansion was fashioned of the
oakwood usually thought suitable only for mills or ships. In short,
wherever Chichikov's eye turned he saw nothing that was not free from
shoddy make and well and skilfully arranged. As he approached the
entrance steps he caught sight of two faces peering from a window. One
of them was that of a woman in a mobcap with features as long and as
narrow as a cucumber, and the other that of a man with features as
broad and as short as the Moldavian pumpkins (known as gorlianki)
whereof balallaiki--the species of light, two-stringed instrument
which constitutes the pride and the joy of the gay young fellow of
twenty as he sits winking and smiling at the white-necked,
white-bosomed maidens who have gathered to listen to his low-pitched
tinkling--are fashioned. This scrutiny made, both faces withdrew, and
there came out on to the entrance steps a lacquey clad in a grey
jacket and a stiff blue collar. This functionary conducted Chichikov
into the hall, where he was met by the master of the house himself,
who requested his guest to enter, and then led him into the inner part
of the mansion.

A covert glance at Sobakevitch showed our hero that his host exactly
resembled a moderate-sized bear. To complete the resemblance,
Sobakevitch's long frockcoat and baggy trousers were of the precise
colour of a bear's hide, while, when shuffling across the floor, he
made a criss-cross motion of the legs, and had, in addition, a
constant habit of treading upon his companion's toes. As for his face,
it was of the warm, ardent tint of a piatok[2]. Persons of this
kind--persons to whose designing nature has devoted not much thought,
and in the fashioning of whose frames she has used no instruments so
delicate as a file or a gimlet and so forth--are not uncommon. Such
persons she merely roughhews. One cut with a hatchet, and there
results a nose; another such cut with a hatchet, and there
materialises a pair of lips; two thrusts with a drill, and there
issues a pair of eyes. Lastly, scorning to plane down the roughness,
she sends out that person into the world, saying: "There is another
live creature." Sobakevitch was just such a ragged, curiously put
together figure--though the above model would seem to have been
followed more in his upper portion than in his lower. One result was
that he seldom turned his head to look at the person with whom he was
speaking, but, rather, directed his eyes towards, say, the stove
corner or the doorway. As host and guest crossed the dining-room
Chichikov directed a second glance at his companion. "He is a bear,
and nothing but a bear," he thought to himself. And, indeed, the
strange comparison was inevitable. Incidentally, Sobakevitch's
Christian name and patronymic were Michael Semenovitch. Of his habit
of treading upon other people's toes Chichikov had become fully aware;
wherefore he stepped cautiously, and, throughout, allowed his host to
take the lead. As a matter of fact, Sobakevitch himself seemed
conscious of his failing, for at intervals he would inquire: "I hope I
have not hurt you?" and Chichikov, with a word of thanks, would reply
that as yet he had sustained no injury.

[2] A copper coin worth five kopecks.

At length they reached the drawing-room, where Sobakevitch pointed to
an armchair, and invited his guest to be seated. Chichikov gazed with
interest at the walls and the pictures. In every such picture there
were portrayed either young men or Greek generals of the type of
Movrogordato (clad in a red uniform and breaches), Kanaris, and
others; and all these heroes were depicted with a solidity of thigh
and a wealth of moustache which made the beholder simply shudder with
awe. Among them there were placed also, according to some unknown
system, and for some unknown reason, firstly, Bagration[3]--tall and
thin, and with a cluster of small flags and cannon beneath him, and
the whole set in the narrowest of frames--and, secondly, the Greek
heroine, Bobelina, whose legs looked larger than do the whole bodies
of the drawing-room dandies of the present day. Apparently the master
of the house was himself a man of health and strength, and therefore
liked to have his apartments adorned with none but folk of equal
vigour and robustness. Lastly, in the window, and suspected cheek by
jowl with Bobelina, there hung a cage whence at intervals there peered
forth a white-spotted blackbird. Like everything else in the
apartment, it bore a strong resemblance to Sobakevitch. When host and
guest had been conversing for two minutes or so the door opened, and
there entered the hostess--a tall lady in a cap adorned with ribands
of domestic colouring and manufacture. She entered deliberately, and
held her head as erect as a palm.

[3] A Russian general who fought against Napoleon, and was mortally
    wounded at Borodino.

"This is my wife, Theodulia Ivanovna," said Sobakevitch.

Chichikov approached and took her hand. The fact that she raised it
nearly to the level of his lips apprised him of the circumstance that
it had just been rinsed in cucumber oil.

"My dear, allow me to introduce Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov," added
Sobakevitch. "He has the honour of being acquainted both with our
Governor and with our Postmaster."

Upon this Theodulia Ivanovna requested her guest to be seated, and
accompanied the invitation with the kind of bow usually employed only
by actresses who are playing the role of queens. Next, she took a seat
upon the sofa, drew around her her merino gown, and sat thereafter
without moving an eyelid or an eyebrow. As for Chichikov, he glanced
upwards, and once more caught sight of Kanaris with his fat thighs and
interminable moustache, and of Bobelina and the blackbird. For fully
five minutes all present preserved a complete silence--the only sound
audible being that of the blackbird's beak against the wooden floor of
the cage as the creature fished for grains of corn. Meanwhile
Chichikov again surveyed the room, and saw that everything in it was
massive and clumsy in the highest degree; as also that everything was
curiously in keeping with the master of the house. For example, in one
corner of the apartment there stood a hazelwood bureau with a bulging
body on four grotesque legs--the perfect image of a bear. Also, the
tables and the chairs were of the same ponderous, unrestful order, and
every single article in the room appeared to be saying either, "I,
too, am a Sobakevitch," or "I am exactly like Sobakevitch."

"I heard speak of you one day when I was visiting the President of the
Council," said Chichikov, on perceiving that no one else had a mind to
begin a conversation. "That was on Thursday last. We had a very
pleasant evening."

"Yes, on that occasion I was not there," replied Sobakevitch.

"What a nice man he is!"

"Who is?" inquired Sobakevitch, gazing into the corner by the stove.

"The President of the Local Council."

"Did he seem so to you? True, he is a mason, but he is also the
greatest fool that the world ever saw."

Chichikov started a little at this mordant criticism, but soon pulled
himself together again, and continued:

"Of course, every man has his weakness. Yet the President seems to be
an excellent fellow."

"And do you think the same of the Governor?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Because there exists no greater rogue than he."

"What? The Governor a rogue?" ejaculated Chichikov, at a loss to
understand how the official in question could come to be numbered with
thieves. "Let me say that I should never have guessed it. Permit me
also to remark that his conduct would hardly seem to bear out your
opinion--he seems so gentle a man." And in proof of this Chichikov
cited the purses which the Governor knitted, and also expatiated on
the mildness of his features.

"He has the face of a robber," said Sobakevitch. "Were you to give him
a knife, and to turn him loose on a turnpike, he would cut your throat
for two kopecks. And the same with the Vice-Governor. The pair are
just Gog and Magog."

"Evidently he is not on good terms with them," thought Chichikov to
himself. "I had better pass to the Chief of Police, which whom he
DOES seem to be friendly." Accordingly he added aloud: "For my own
part, I should give the preference to the Head of the Gendarmery. What
a frank, outspoken nature he has! And what an element of simplicity
does his expression contain!"

"He is mean to the core," remarked Sobakevitch coldly. "He will sell
you and cheat you, and then dine at your table. Yes, I know them all,
and every one of them is a swindler, and the town a nest of rascals
engaged in robbing one another. Not a man of the lot is there but
would sell Christ. Yet stay: ONE decent fellow there is--the Public
Prosecutor; though even HE, if the truth be told, is little better
than a pig."

After these eulogia Chichikov saw that it would be useless to continue
running through the list of officials--more especially since suddenly
he had remembered that Sobakevitch was not at any time given to
commending his fellow man.

"Let us go to luncheon, my dear," put in Theodulia Ivanovna to her
spouse.

"Yes; pray come to table," said Sobakevitch to his guest; whereupon
they consumed the customary glass of vodka (accompanied by sundry
snacks of salted cucumber and other dainties) with which Russians,
both in town and country, preface a meal. Then they filed into the
dining-room in the wake of the hostess, who sailed on ahead like a
goose swimming across a pond. The small dining-table was found to be
laid for four persons--the fourth place being occupied by a lady or a
young girl (it would have been difficult to say which exactly) who
might have been either a relative, the housekeeper, or a casual
visitor. Certain persons in the world exist, not as personalities in
themselves, but as spots or specks on the personalities of others.
Always they are to be seen sitting in the same place, and holding
their heads at exactly the same angle, so that one comes within an ace
of mistaking them for furniture, and thinks to oneself that never
since the day of their birth can they have spoken a single word.

"My dear," said Sobakevitch, "the cabbage soup is excellent." With
that he finished his portion, and helped himself to a generous measure
of niania[4]--the dish which follows shtchi and consists of a sheep's
stomach stuffed with black porridge, brains, and other things. "What
niania this is!" he added to Chichikov. "Never would you get such
stuff in a town, where one is given the devil knows what."

[4] Literally, "nursemaid."

"Nevertheless the Governor keeps a fair table," said Chichikov.

"Yes, but do you know what all the stuff is MADE OF?" retorted
Sobakevitch. "If you DID know you would never touch it."

"Of course I am not in a position to say how it is prepared, but at
least the pork cutlets and the boiled fish seemed excellent."

"Ah, it might have been thought so; yet I know the way in which such
things are bought in the market-place. They are bought by some rascal
of a cook whom a Frenchman has taught how to skin a tomcat and then
serve it up as hare."

"Ugh! What horrible things you say!" put in Madame.

"Well, my dear, that is how things are done, and it is no fault of
mine that it is so. Moreover, everything that is left over--everything
that WE (pardon me for mentioning it) cast into the slop-pail--is
used by such folk for making soup."

"Always at table you begin talking like this!" objected his helpmeet.

"And why not?" said Sobakevitch. "I tell you straight that I would not
eat such nastiness, even had I made it myself. Sugar a frog as much as
you like, but never shall it pass MY lips. Nor would I swallow an
oyster, for I know only too well what an oyster may resemble. But have
some mutton, friend Chichikov. It is shoulder of mutton, and very
different stuff from the mutton which they cook in noble
kitchens--mutton which has been kicking about the market-place four
days or more. All that sort of cookery has been invented by French and
German doctors, and I should like to hang them for having done so.
They go and prescribe diets and a hunger cure as though what suits
their flaccid German systems will agree with a Russian stomach! Such
devices are no good at all." Sobakevitch shook his head wrathfully.
"Fellows like those are for ever talking of civilisation. As if THAT
sort of thing was civilisation! Phew!" (Perhaps the speaker's
concluding exclamation would have been even stronger had he not been
seated at table.) "For myself, I will have none of it. When I eat pork
at a meal, give me the WHOLE pig; when mutton, the WHOLE sheep;
when goose, the WHOLE of the bird. Two dishes are better than a
thousand, provided that one can eat of them as much as one wants."

And he proceeded to put precept into practice by taking half the
shoulder of mutton on to his plate, and then devouring it down to the
last morsel of gristle and bone.

"My word!" reflected Chichikov. "The fellow has a pretty good holding
capacity!"

"None of it for me," repeated Sobakevitch as he wiped his hands on his
napkin. "I don't intend to be like a fellow named Plushkin, who owns
eight hundred souls, yet dines worse than does my shepherd."

"Who is Plushkin?" asked Chichikov.

"A miser," replied Sobakevitch. "Such a miser as never you could
imagine. Even convicts in prison live better than he does. And he
starves his servants as well."

"Really?" ejaculated Chichikov, greatly interested. "Should you, then,
say that he has lost many peasants by death?"

"Certainly. They keep dying like flies."

"Then how far from here does he reside?"

"About five versts."

"Only five versts?" exclaimed Chichikov, feeling his heart beating
joyously. "Ought one, when leaving your gates, to turn to the right or
to the left?"

"I should be sorry to tell you the way to the house of such a cur,"
said Sobakevitch. "A man had far better go to hell than to
Plushkin's."

"Quite so," responded Chichikov. "My only reason for asking you is
that it interests me to become acquainted with any and every sort of
locality."

To the shoulder of mutton there succeeded, in turn, cutlets (each one
larger than a plate), a turkey of about the size of a calf, eggs,
rice, pastry, and every conceivable thing which could possibly be put
into a stomach. There the meal ended. When he rose from table
Chichikov felt as though a pood's weight were inside him. In the
drawing-room the company found dessert awaiting them in the shape of
pears, plums, and apples; but since neither host nor guest could
tackle these particular dainties the hostess removed them to another
room. Taking advantage of her absence, Chichikov turned to Sobakevitch
(who, prone in an armchair, seemed, after his ponderous meal, to be
capable of doing little beyond belching and grunting--each such grunt
or belch necessitating a subsequent signing of the cross over the
mouth), and intimated to him a desire to have a little private
conversation concerning a certain matter. At this moment the hostess
returned.

"Here is more dessert," she said. "Pray have a few radishes stewed in
honey."

"Later, later," replied Sobakevitch. "Do you go to your room, and Paul
Ivanovitch and I will take off our coats and have a nap."

Upon this the good lady expressed her readiness to send for feather
beds and cushions, but her husband expressed a preference for
slumbering in an armchair, and she therefore departed. When she had
gone Sobakevitch inclined his head in an attitude of willingness to
listen to Chichikov's business. Our hero began in a sort of detached
manner--touching lightly upon the subject of the Russian Empire, and
expatiating upon the immensity of the same, and saying that even the
Empire of Ancient Rome had been of considerably smaller dimensions.
Meanwhile Sobakevitch sat with his head drooping.

From that Chichikov went on to remark that, according to the statutes
of the said Russian Empire (which yielded to none in glory--so much so
that foreigners marvelled at it), peasants on the census lists who had
ended their earthly careers were nevertheless, on the rendering of new
lists, returned equally with the living, to the end that the courts
might be relieved of a multitude of trifling, useless emendations
which might complicate the already sufficiently complex mechanism of
the State. Nevertheless, said Chichikov, the general equity of this
measure did not obviate a certain amount of annoyance to landowners,
since it forced them to pay upon a non-living article the tax due upon
a living. Hence (our hero concluded) he (Chichikov) was prepared,
owing to the personal respect which he felt for Sobakevitch, to
relieve him, in part, of the irksome obligation referred to (in
passing, it may be said that Chichikov referred to his principal point
only guardedly, for he called the souls which he was seeking not
"dead," but "non-existent").

Meanwhile Sobakevitch listened with bent head; though something like a
trace of expression dawned in his face as he did so. Ordinarily his
body lacked a soul--or, if he did posses a soul, he seemed to keep it
elsewhere than where it ought to have been; so that, buried beneath
mountains (as it were) or enclosed within a massive shell, its
movements produced no sort of agitation on the surface.

"Well?" said Chichikov--though not without a certain tremor of
diffidence as to the possible response.

"You are after dead souls?" were Sobakevitch's perfectly simple words.
He spoke without the least surprise in his tone, and much as though
the conversation had been turning on grain.

"Yes," replied Chichikov, and then, as before, softened down the
expression "dead souls."

"They are to be found," said Sobakevitch. "Why should they not be?"

"Then of course you will be glad to get rid of any that you may chance
to have?"

"Yes, I shall have no objection to SELLING them." At this point the
speaker raised his head a little, for it had struck him that surely
the would-be buyer must have some advantage in view.

"The devil!" thought Chichikov to himself. "Here is he selling the
goods before I have even had time to utter a word!"

"And what about the price?" he added aloud. "Of course, the articles
are not of a kind very easy to appraise."

"I should be sorry to ask too much," said Sobakevitch. "How would a
hundred roubles per head suit you?"

"What, a hundred roubles per head?" Chichikov stared open-mouthed at
his host--doubting whether he had heard aright, or whether his host's
slow-moving tongue might not have inadvertently substituted one word
for another.

"Yes. Is that too much for you?" said Sobakevitch. Then he added:
"What is your own price?"

"My own price? I think that we cannot properly have understood one
another--that you must have forgotten of what the goods consist. With
my hand on my heart do I submit that eight grivni per soul would be a
handsome, a VERY handsome, offer."

"What? Eight grivni?"

"In my opinion, a higher offer would be impossible."

"But I am not a seller of boots."

"No; yet you, for your part, will agree that these souls are not live
human beings?"

"I suppose you hope to find fools ready to sell you souls on the
census list for a couple of groats apiece?"

"Pardon me, but why do you use the term 'on the census list'? The
souls themselves have long since passed away, and have left behind
them only their names. Not to trouble you with any further discussion
of the subject, I can offer you a rouble and a half per head, but no
more."

"You should be ashamed even to mention such a sum! Since you deal in
articles of this kind, quote me a genuine price."

"I cannot, Michael Semenovitch. Believe me, I cannot. What a man
cannot do, that he cannot do." The speaker ended by advancing another
half-rouble per head.

"But why hang back with your money?" said Sobakevitch. "Of a truth I
am not asking much of you. Any other rascal than myself would have
cheated you by selling you old rubbish instead of good, genuine souls,
whereas I should be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying
only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev. Never was
there such a one to build spring carts! And his handiwork was not like
your Moscow handiwork--good only for an hour. No, he did it all
himself, even down to the varnishing."

Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, nevertheless, the said
Michiev had long since departed this world; but Sobakevitch's
eloquence had got too thoroughly into its stride to admit of any
interruption.

"And look, too, at Probka Stepan, the carpenter," his host went on. "I
will wager my head that nowhere else would you find such a workman.
What a strong fellow he was! He had served in the Guards, and the Lord
only knows what they had given for him, seeing that he was over three
arshins in height."

Again Chichikov tried to remark that Probka was dead, but
Sobakevitch's tongue was borne on the torrent of its own verbiage, and
the only thing to be done was to listen.

"And Milushkin, the bricklayer! He could build a stove in any house
you liked! And Maksim Teliatnikov, the bootmaker! Anything that he
drove his awl into became a pair of boots--and boots for which you
would be thankful, although he WAS a bit foul of the mouth. And
Eremi Sorokoplechin, too! He was the best of the lot, and used to work
at his trade in Moscow, where he paid a tax of five hundred roubles.
Well, THERE'S an assortment of serfs for you!--a very different
assortment from what Plushkin would sell you!"

"But permit me," at length put in Chichikov, astounded at this flood
of eloquence to which there appeared to be no end. "Permit me, I say,
to inquire why you enumerate the talents of the deceased, seeing that
they are all of them dead, and that therefore there can be no sense in
doing so. 'A dead body is only good to prop a fence with,' says the
proverb."

"Of course they are dead," replied Sobakevitch, but rather as though
the idea had only just occurred to him, and was giving him food for
thought. "But tell me, now: what is the use of listing them as still
alive? And what is the use of them themselves? They are flies, not
human beings."

"Well," said Chichikov, "they exist, though only in idea."

"But no--NOT only in idea. I tell you that nowhere else would you
find such a fellow for working heavy tools as was Michiev. He had the
strength of a horse in his shoulders." And, with the words,
Sobakevitch turned, as though for corroboration, to the portrait of
Bagration, as is frequently done by one of the parties in a dispute
when he purports to appeal to an extraneous individual who is not only
unknown to him, but wholly unconnected with the subject in hand; with
the result that the individual is left in doubt whether to make a
reply, or whether to betake himself elsewhere.

"Nevertheless, I CANNOT give you more than two roubles per head,"
said Chichikov.

"Well, as I don't want you to swear that I have asked too much of you
and won't meet you halfway, suppose, for friendship's sake, that you
pay me seventy-five roubles in assignats?"

"Good heavens!" thought Chichikov to himself. "Does the man take me
for a fool?" Then he added aloud: "The situation seems to me a strange
one, for it is as though we were performing a stage comedy. No other
explanation would meet the case. Yet you appear to be a man of sense,
and possessed of some education. The matter is a very simple one. The
question is: what is a dead soul worth, and is it of any use to any
one?"

"It is of use to YOU, or you would not be buying such articles."

Chichikov bit his lip, and stood at a loss for a retort. He tried to
saying something about "family and domestic circumstances," but
Sobakevitch cut him short with:

"I don't want to know your private affairs, for I never poke my nose
into such things. You need the souls, and I am ready to sell them.
Should you not buy them, I think you will repent it."

"Two roubles is my price," repeated Chichikov.

"Come, come! As you have named that sum, I can understand your not
liking to go back upon it; but quote me a bona fide figure."

"The devil fly away with him!" mused Chichikov. "However, I will add
another half-rouble." And he did so.

"Indeed?" said Sobakevitch. "Well, my last word upon it is--fifty
roubles in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss to me, for nowhere
else in the world could you buy better souls than mine."

"The old skinflint!" muttered Chichikov. Then he added aloud, with
irritation in his tone: "See here. This is a serious matter. Any one
but you would be thankful to get rid of the souls. Only a fool would
stick to them, and continue to pay the tax."

"Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly way) that
transactions of this kind are not generally allowed, and that any one
would say that a man who engages in them must have some rather
doubtful advantage in view."

"Have it your own away," said Chichikov, with assumed indifference.
"As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for profit, as you suppose,
but to humour a certain whim of mine. Two and a half roubles is the
most that I can offer."

"Bless your heart!" retorted the host. "At least give me thirty
roubles in assignats, and take the lot."

"No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say good-day to
you."

"Hold on, hold on!" exclaimed Sobakevitch, retaining his guest's hand,
and at the same moment treading heavily upon his toes--so heavily,
indeed, that Chichikov gasped and danced with the pain.

"I BEG your pardon!" said Sobakevitch hastily. "Evidently I have
hurt you. Pray sit down again."

"No," retorted Chichikov. "I am merely wasting my time, and must be
off."

"Oh, sit down just for a moment. I have something more agreeable to
say." And, drawing closer to his guest, Sobakevitch whispered in his
ear, as though communicating to him a secret: "How about twenty-five
roubles?"

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Chichikov. "I won't give you even a QUARTER
of that. I won't advance another kopeck."

For a while Sobakevitch remained silent, and Chichikov did the same.
This lasted for a couple of minutes, and, meanwhile, the
aquiline-nosed Bagration gazed from the wall as though much interested
in the bargaining.

"What is your outside price?" at length said Sobakevitch.

"Two and a half roubles."

"Then you seem to rate a human soul at about the same value as a
boiled turnip. At least give me THREE roubles."

"No, I cannot."

"Pardon me, but you are an impossible man to deal with. However, even
though it will mean a dead loss to me, and you have not shown a very
nice spirit about it, I cannot well refuse to please a friend. I
suppose a purchase deed had better be made out in order to have
everything in order?"

"Of course."

"Then for that purpose let us repair to the town."

The affair ended in their deciding to do this on the morrow, and to
arrange for the signing of a deed of purchase. Next, Chichikov
requested a list of the peasants; to which Sobakevitch readily agreed.
Indeed, he went to his writing-desk then and there, and started to
indite a list which gave not only the peasants' names, but also their
late qualifications.

Meanwhile Chichikov, having nothing else to do, stood looking at the
spacious form of his host; and as he gazed at his back as broad as
that of a cart horse, and at the legs as massive as the iron standards
which adorn a street, he could not help inwardly ejaculating:

"Truly God has endowed you with much! Though not adjusted with nicety,
at least you are strongly built. I wonder whether you were born a bear
or whether you have come to it through your rustic life, with its
tilling of crops and its trading with peasants? Yet no; I believe
that, even if you had received a fashionable education, and had mixed
with society, and had lived in St. Petersburg, you would still have
been just the kulak[5] that you are. The only difference is that
circumstances, as they stand, permit of your polishing off a stuffed
shoulder of mutton at a meal; whereas in St. Petersburg you would have
been unable to do so. Also, as circumstances stand, you have under you
a number of peasants, whom you treat well for the reason that they are
your property; whereas, otherwise, you would have had under you
tchinovniks[6]: whom you would have bullied because they were NOT
your property. Also, you would have robbed the Treasury, since a kulak
always remains a money-grubber."

[5] Village factor or usurer.

[6] Subordinate government officials.

"The list is ready," said Sobakevitch, turning round.

"Indeed? Then please let me look at it." Chichikov ran his eye over
the document, and could not but marvel at its neatness and accuracy.
Not only were there set forth in it the trade, the age, and the
pedigree of every serf, but on the margin of the sheet were jotted
remarks concerning each serf's conduct and sobriety. Truly it was a
pleasure to look at it.

"And do you mind handing me the earnest money?" said Sobakevitch?

"Yes, I do. Why need that be done? You can receive the money in a lump
sum as soon as we visit the town."

"But it is always the custom, you know," asserted Sobakevitch.

"Then I cannot follow it, for I have no money with me. However, here
are ten roubles."

"Ten roubles, indeed? You might as well hand me fifty while you are
about it."

Once more Chichikov started to deny that he had any money upon him,
but Sobakevitch insisted so strongly that this was not so that at
length the guest pulled out another fifteen roubles, and added them to
the ten already produced.

"Kindly give me a receipt for the money," he added.

"A receipt? Why should I give you a receipt?"

"Because it is better to do so, in order to guard against mistakes."

"Very well; but first hand me over the money."

"The money? I have it here. Do you write out the receipt, and then the
money shall be yours."

"Pardon me, but how am I to write out the receipt before I have seen
the cash?"

Chichikov placed the notes in Sobakevitch's hand; whereupon the host
moved nearer to the table, and added to the list of serfs a note that
he had received for the peasants, therewith sold, the sum of
twenty-five roubles, as earnest money. This done, he counted the notes
once more.

"This is a very OLD note," he remarked, holding one up to the light.
"Also, it is a trifle torn. However, in a friendly transaction one
must not be too particular."

"What a kulak!" thought Chichikov to himself. "And what a brute
beast!"

"Then you do not want any WOMEN souls?" queried Sobakevitch.

"I thank you, no."

"I could let you have some cheap--say, as between friends, at a rouble
a head?"

"No, I should have no use for them."

"Then, that being so, there is no more to be said. There is no
accounting for tastes. 'One man loves the priest, and another the
priest's wife,' says the proverb."

Chichikov rose to take his leave. "Once more I would request of you,"
he said, "that the bargain be left as it is."

"Of course, of course. What is done between friends holds good because
of their mutual friendship. Good-bye, and thank you for your visit. In
advance I would beg that, whenever you should have an hour or two to
spare, you will come and lunch with us again. Perhaps we might be able
to do one another further service?"

"Not if I know it!" reflected Chichikov as he mounted his britchka.
"Not I, seeing that I have had two and a half roubles per soul
squeezed out of me by a brute of a kulak!"

Altogether he felt dissatisfied with Sobakevitch's behaviour. In spite
of the man being a friend of the Governor and the Chief of Police, he
had acted like an outsider in taking money for what was worthless
rubbish. As the britchka left the courtyard Chichikov glanced back and
saw Sobakevitch still standing on the verandah--apparently for the
purpose of watching to see which way the guest's carriage would turn.

"The old villain, to be still standing there!" muttered Chichikov
through his teeth; after which he ordered Selifan to proceed so that
the vehicle's progress should be invisible from the mansion--the truth
being that he had a mind next to visit Plushkin (whose serfs, to quote
Sobakevitch, had a habit of dying like flies), but not to let his late
host learn of his intention. Accordingly, on reaching the further end
of the village, he hailed the first peasant whom he saw--a man who was
in the act of hoisting a ponderous beam on to his shoulder before
setting off with it, ant-like, to his hut.

"Hi!" shouted Chichikov. "How can I reach landowner Plushkin's place
without first going past the mansion here?"

The peasant seemed nonplussed by the question.

"Don't you know?" queried Chichikov.

"No, barin," replied the peasant.

"What? You don't know skinflint Plushkin who feeds his people so
badly?"

"Of course I do!" exclaimed the fellow, and added thereto an
uncomplimentary expression of a species not ordinarily employed in
polite society. We may guess that it was a pretty apt expression,
since long after the man had become lost to view Chichikov was still
laughing in his britchka. And, indeed, the language of the Russian
populace is always forcible in its phraseology.

CHAPTER VI

Chichikov's amusement at the peasant's outburst prevented him from
noticing that he had reached the centre of a large and populous
village; but, presently, a violent jolt aroused him to the fact that
he was driving over wooden pavements of a kind compared with which the
cobblestones of the town had been as nothing. Like the keys of a
piano, the planks kept rising and falling, and unguarded passage over
them entailed either a bump on the back of the neck or a bruise on the
forehead or a bite on the tip of one's tongue. At the same time
Chichikov noticed a look of decay about the buildings of the village.
The beams of the huts had grown dark with age, many of their roofs
were riddled with holes, others had but a tile of the roof remaining,
and yet others were reduced to the rib-like framework of the same. It
would seem as though the inhabitants themselves had removed the laths
and traverses, on the very natural plea that the huts were no
protection against the rain, and therefore, since the latter entered
in bucketfuls, there was no particular object to be gained by sitting
in such huts when all the time there was the tavern and the highroad
and other places to resort to.

Suddenly a woman appeared from an outbuilding--apparently the
housekeeper of the mansion, but so roughly and dirtily dressed as
almost to seem indistinguishable from a man. Chichikov inquired for
the master of the place.

"He is not at home," she replied, almost before her interlocutor had
had time to finish. Then she added: "What do you want with him?"

"I have some business to do," said Chichikov.

"Then pray walk into the house," the woman advised. Then she turned
upon him a back that was smeared with flour and had a long slit in the
lower portion of its covering. Entering a large, dark hall which
reeked like a tomb, he passed into an equally dark parlour that was
lighted only by such rays as contrived to filter through a crack under
the door. When Chichikov opened the door in question, the spectacle of
the untidiness within struck him almost with amazement. It would seem
that the floor was never washed, and that the room was used as a
receptacle for every conceivable kind of furniture. On a table stood a
ragged chair, with, beside it, a clock minus a pendulum and covered
all over with cobwebs. Against a wall leant a cupboard, full of old
silver, glassware, and china. On a writing table, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl which, in places, had broken away and left behind it a
number of yellow grooves (stuffed with putty), lay a pile of finely
written manuscript, an overturned marble press (turning green), an
ancient book in a leather cover with red edges, a lemon dried and
shrunken to the dimensions of a hazelnut, the broken arm of a chair, a
tumbler containing the dregs of some liquid and three flies (the whole
covered over with a sheet of notepaper), a pile of rags, two
ink-encrusted pens, and a yellow toothpick with which the master of
the house had picked his teeth (apparently) at least before the coming
of the French to Moscow. As for the walls, they were hung with a
medley of pictures. Among the latter was a long engraving of a battle
scene, wherein soldiers in three-cornered hats were brandishing huge
drums and slender lances. It lacked a glass, and was set in a frame
ornamented with bronze fretwork and bronze corner rings. Beside it
hung a huge, grimy oil painting representative of some flowers and
fruit, half a water melon, a boar's head, and the pendent form of a
dead wild duck. Attached to the ceiling there was a chandelier in a
holland covering--the covering so dusty as closely to resemble a huge
cocoon enclosing a caterpillar. Lastly, in one corner of the room lay
a pile of articles which had evidently been adjudged unworthy of a
place on the table. Yet what the pile consisted of it would have been
difficult to say, seeing that the dust on the same was so thick that
any hand which touched it would have at once resembled a glove.
Prominently protruding from the pile was the shaft of a wooden spade
and the antiquated sole of a shoe. Never would one have supposed that
a living creature had tenanted the room, were it not that the presence
of such a creature was betrayed by the spectacle of an old nightcap
resting on the table.

Whilst Chichikov was gazing at this extraordinary mess, a side door
opened and there entered the housekeeper who had met him near the
outbuildings. But now Chichikov perceived this person to be a man
rather than a woman, since a female housekeeper would have had no
beard to shave, whereas the chin of the newcomer, with the lower
portion of his cheeks, strongly resembled the curry-comb which is used
for grooming horses. Chichikov assumed a questioning air, and waited
to hear what the housekeeper might have to say. The housekeeper did
the same. At length, surprised at the misunderstanding, Chichikov
decided to ask the first question.

"Is the master at home?" he inquired.

"Yes," replied the person addressed.

"Then were is he?" continued Chichikov.

"Are you blind, my good sir?" retorted the other. "_I_ am the master."

Involuntarily our hero started and stared. During his travels it had
befallen him to meet various types of men--some of them, it may be,
types which you and I have never encountered; but even to Chichikov
this particular species was new. In the old man's face there was
nothing very special--it was much like the wizened face of many
another dotard, save that the chin was so greatly projected that
whenever he spoke he was forced to wipe it with a handkerchief to
avoid dribbling, and that his small eyes were not yet grown dull, but
twinkled under their overhanging brows like the eyes of mice when,
with attentive ears and sensitive whiskers, they snuff the air and
peer forth from their holes to see whether a cat or a boy may not be
in the vicinity. No, the most noticeable feature about the man was his
clothes. In no way could it have been guessed of what his coat was
made, for both its sleeves and its skirts were so ragged and filthy as
to defy description, while instead of two posterior tails, there
dangled four of those appendages, with, projecting from them, a torn
newspaper. Also, around his neck there was wrapped something which
might have been a stocking, a garter, or a stomacher, but was
certainly not a tie. In short, had Chichikov chanced to encounter him
at a church door, he would have bestowed upon him a copper or two
(for, to do our hero justice, he had a sympathetic heart and never
refrained from presenting a beggar with alms), but in the present case
there was standing before him, not a mendicant, but a landowner--and a
landowner possessed of fully a thousand serfs, the superior of all his
neighbours in wealth of flour and grain, and the owner of storehouses,
and so forth, that were crammed with homespun cloth and linen, tanned
and undressed sheepskins, dried fish, and every conceivable species of
produce. Nevertheless, such a phenomenon is rare in Russia, where the
tendency is rather to prodigality than to parsimony.

For several minutes Plushkin stood mute, while Chichikov remained so
dazed with the appearance of the host and everything else in the room,
that he too, could not begin a conversation, but stood wondering how
best to find words in which to explain the object of his visit. For a
while he thought of expressing himself to the effect that, having
heard so much of his host's benevolence and other rare qualities of
spirit, he had considered it his duty to come and pay a tribute of
respect; but presently even HE came to the conclusion that this
would be overdoing the thing, and, after another glance round the
room, decided that the phrase "benevolence and other rare qualities of
spirit" might to advantage give place to "economy and genius for
method." Accordingly, the speech mentally composed, he said aloud
that, having heard of Plushkin's talents for thrifty and systematic
management, he had considered himself bound to make the acquaintance
of his host, and to present him with his personal compliments (I need
hardly say that Chichikov could easily have alleged a better reason,
had any better one happened, at the moment, to have come into his
head).

With toothless gums Plushkin murmured something in reply, but nothing
is known as to its precise terms beyond that it included a statement
that the devil was at liberty to fly away with Chichikov's sentiments.
However, the laws of Russian hospitality do not permit even of a miser
infringing their rules; wherefore Plushkin added to the foregoing a
more civil invitation to be seated.

"It is long since I last received a visitor," he went on. "Also, I
feel bound to say that I can see little good in their coming. Once
introduce the abominable custom of folk paying calls, and forthwith
there will ensue such ruin to the management of estates that
landowners will be forced to feed their horses on hay. Not for a long,
long time have I eaten a meal away from home--although my own kitchen
is a poor one, and has its chimney in such a state that, were it to
become overheated, it would instantly catch fire."

"What a brute!" thought Chichikov. "I am lucky to have got through so
much pastry and stuffed shoulder of mutton at Sobakevitch's!"

"Also," went on Plushkin, "I am ashamed to say that hardly a wisp of
fodder does the place contain. But how can I get fodder? My lands are
small, and the peasantry lazy fellows who hate work and think of
nothing but the tavern. In the end, therefore, I shall be forced to go
and spend my old age in roaming about the world."

"But I have been told that you possess over a thousand serfs?" said
Chichikov.

"Who told you that? No matter who it was, you would have been
justified in giving him the lie. He must have been a jester who wanted
to make a fool of you. A thousand souls, indeed! Why, just reckon the
taxes on them, and see what there would be left! For these three years
that accursed fever has been killing off my serfs wholesale."

"Wholesale, you say?" echoed Chichikov, greatly interested.

"Yes, wholesale," replied the old man.

"Then might I ask you the exact number?"

"Fully eighty."

"Surely not?"

"But it is so."

"Then might I also ask whether it is from the date of the last census
revision that you are reckoning these souls?"

"Yes, damn it! And since that date I have been bled for taxes upon a
hundred and twenty souls in all."

"Indeed? Upon a hundred and twenty souls in all!" And Chichikov's
surprise and elation were such that, this said, he remained sitting
open-mouthed.

"Yes, good sir," replied Plushkin. "I am too old to tell you lies, for
I have passed my seventieth year."

Somehow he seemed to have taken offence at Chichikov's almost joyous
exclamation; wherefore the guest hastened to heave a profound sigh,
and to observe that he sympathised to the full with his host's
misfortunes.

"But sympathy does not put anything into one's pocket," retorted
Plushkin. "For instance, I have a kinsman who is constantly plaguing
me. He is a captain in the army, damn him, and all day he does nothing
but call me 'dear uncle,' and kiss my hand, and express sympathy until
I am forced to stop my ears. You see, he has squandered all his money
upon his brother-officers, as well as made a fool of himself with an
actress; so now he spends his time in telling me that he has a
sympathetic heart!"

Chichikov hastened to explain that HIS sympathy had nothing in
common with the captain's, since he dealt, not in empty words alone,
but in actual deeds; in proof of which he was ready then and there
(for the purpose of cutting the matter short, and of dispensing with
circumlocution) to transfer to himself the obligation of paying the
taxes due upon such serfs as Plushkin's as had, in the unfortunate
manner just described, departed this world. The proposal seemed to
astonish Plushkin, for he sat staring open-eyed. At length he
inquired:

"My dear sir, have you seen military service?"

"No," replied the other warily, "but I have been a member of the
CIVIL Service."

"Oh! Of the CIVIL Service?" And Plushkin sat moving his lips as
though he were chewing something. "Well, what of your proposal?" he
added presently. "Are you prepared to lose by it?"

"Yes, certainly, if thereby I can please you."

"My dear sir! My good benefactor!" In his delight Plushkin lost sight
of the fact that his nose was caked with snuff of the consistency of
thick coffee, and that his coat had parted in front and was disclosing
some very unseemly underclothing. "What comfort you have brought to an
old man! Yes, as God is my witness!"

For the moment he could say no more. Yet barely a minute had elapsed
before this instantaneously aroused emotion had, as instantaneously,
disappeared from his wooden features. Once more they assumed a
careworn expression, and he even wiped his face with his handkerchief,
then rolled it into a ball, and rubbed it to and fro against his upper
lip.

"If it will not annoy you again to state the proposal," he went on,
"what you undertake to do is to pay the annual tax upon these souls,
and to remit the money either to me or to the Treasury?"

"Yes, that is how it shall be done. We will draw up a deed of purchase
as though the souls were still alive and you had sold them to myself."

"Quite so--a deed of purchase," echoed Plushkin, once more relapsing
into thought and the chewing motion of the lips. "But a deed of such a
kind will entail certain expenses, and lawyers are so devoid of
conscience! In fact, so extortionate is their avarice that they will
charge one half a rouble, and then a sack of flour, and then a whole
waggon-load of meal. I wonder that no one has yet called attention to
the system."

Upon that Chichikov intimated that, out of respect for his host, he
himself would bear the cost of the transfer of souls. This led
Plushkin to conclude that his guest must be the kind of unconscionable
fool who, while pretending to have been a member of the Civil Service,
has in reality served in the army and run after actresses; wherefore
the old man no longer disguised his delight, but called down blessings
alike upon Chichikov's head and upon those of his children (he had
never even inquired whether Chichikov possessed a family). Next, he
shuffled to the window, and, tapping one of its panes, shouted the
name of "Proshka." Immediately some one ran quickly into the hall,
and, after much stamping of feet, burst into the room. This was
Proshka--a thirteen-year-old youngster who was shod with boots of such
dimensions as almost to engulf his legs as he walked. The reason why
he had entered thus shod was that Plushkin only kept one pair of boots
for the whole of his domestic staff. This universal pair was stationed
in the hall of the mansion, so that any servant who was summoned to
the house might don the said boots after wading barefooted through the
mud of the courtyard, and enter the parlour dry-shod--subsequently
leaving the boots where he had found them, and departing in his former
barefooted condition. Indeed, had any one, on a slushy winter's
morning, glanced from a window into the said courtyard, he would have
seen Plushkin's servitors performing saltatory feats worthy of the
most vigorous of stage-dancers.

"Look at that boy's face!" said Plushkin to Chichikov as he pointed to
Proshka. "It is stupid enough, yet, lay anything aside, and in a trice
he will have stolen it. Well, my lad, what do you want?"

He paused a moment or two, but Proshka made no reply.

"Come, come!" went on the old man. "Set out the samovar, and then give
Mavra the key of the store-room--here it is--and tell her to get out
some loaf sugar for tea. Here! Wait another moment, fool! Is the devil
in your legs that they itch so to be off? Listen to what more I have
to tell you. Tell Mavra that the sugar on the outside of the loaf has
gone bad, so that she must scrape it off with a knife, and NOT throw
away the scrapings, but give them to the poultry. Also, see that you
yourself don't go into the storeroom, or I will give you a birching
that you won't care for. Your appetite is good enough already, but a
better one won't hurt you. Don't even TRY to go into the storeroom,
for I shall be watching you from this window."

"You see," the old man added to Chichikov, "one can never trust these
fellows." Presently, when Proshka and the boots had departed, he fell
to gazing at his guest with an equally distrustful air, since certain
features in Chichikov's benevolence now struck him as a little open to
question, and he had begin to think to himself: "After all, the devil
only knows who he is--whether a braggart, like most of these
spendthrifts, or a fellow who is lying merely in order to get some tea
out of me." Finally, his circumspection, combined with a desire to
test his guest, led him to remark that it might be well to complete
the transaction IMMEDIATELY, since he had not overmuch confidence in
humanity, seeing that a man might be alive to-day and dead to-morrow.

To this Chichikov assented readily enough--merely adding that he
should like first of all to be furnished with a list of the dead
souls. This reassured Plushkin as to his guest's intention of doing
business, so he got out his keys, approached a cupboard, and, having
pulled back the door, rummaged among the cups and glasses with which
it was filled. At length he said:

"I cannot find it now, but I used to possess a splendid bottle of
liquor. Probably the servants have drunk it all, for they are such
thieves. Oh no: perhaps this is it!"

Looking up, Chichikov saw that Plushkin had extracted a decanter
coated with dust.

"My late wife made the stuff," went on the old man, "but that rascal
of a housekeeper went and threw away a lot of it, and never even
replaced the stopper. Consequently bugs and other nasty creatures got
into the decanter, but I cleaned it out, and now beg to offer you a
glassful."

The idea of a drink from such a receptacle was too much for Chichikov,
so he excused himself on the ground that he had just had luncheon.

"You have just had luncheon?" re-echoed Plushkin. "Now, THAT shows
how invariably one can tell a man of good society, wheresoever one may
be. A man of that kind never eats anything--he always says that he has
had enough. Very different that from the ways of a rogue, whom one can
never satisfy, however much one may give him. For instance, that
captain of mine is constantly begging me to let him have a
meal--though he is about as much my nephew as I am his grandfather. As
it happens, there is never a bite of anything in the house, so he has
to go away empty. But about the list of those good-for-nothing
souls--I happen to possess such a list, since I have drawn one up in
readiness for the next revision."

With that Plushkin donned his spectacles, and once more started to
rummage in the cupboard, and to smother his guest with dust as he
untied successive packages of papers--so much so that his victim burst
out sneezing. Finally he extracted a much-scribbled document in which
the names of the deceased peasants lay as close-packed as a cloud of
midges, for there were a hundred and twenty of them in all. Chichikov
grinned with joy at the sight of the multitude. Stuffing the list into
his pocket, he remarked that, to complete the transaction, it would be
necessary to return to the town.

"To the town?" repeated Plushkin. "But why? Moreover, how could I
leave the house, seeing that every one of my servants is either a
thief or a rogue? Day by day they pilfer things, until soon I shall
have not a single coat to hang on my back."

"Then you possess acquaintances in the town?"

"Acquaintances? No. Every acquaintance whom I ever possessed has
either left me or is dead. But stop a moment. I DO know the
President of the Council. Even in my old age he has once or twice come
to visit me, for he and I used to be schoolfellows, and to go climbing
walls together. Yes, him I do know. Shall I write him a letter?"

"By all means."

"Yes, him I know well, for we were friends together at school."

Over Plushkin's wooden features there had gleamed a ray of warmth--a
ray which expressed, if not feeling, at all events feeling's pale
reflection. Just such a phenomenon may be witnessed when, for a brief
moment, a drowning man makes a last re-appearance on the surface of a
river, and there rises from the crowd lining the banks a cry of hope
that even yet the exhausted hands may clutch the rope which has been
thrown him--may clutch it before the surface of the unstable element
shall have resumed for ever its calm, dread vacuity. But the hope is
short-lived, and the hands disappear. Even so did Plushkin's face,
after its momentary manifestation of feeling, become meaner and more
insensible than ever.

"There used to be a sheet of clean writing paper lying on the table,"
he went on. "But where it is now I cannot think. That comes of my
servants being such rascals."

Whit that he fell to looking also under the table, as well as to
hurrying about with cries of "Mavra, Mavra!" At length the call was
answered by a woman with a plateful of the sugar of which mention has
been made; whereupon there ensued the following conversation.

"What have you done with my piece of writing paper, you pilferer?"

"I swear that I have seen no paper except the bit with which you
covered the glass."

"Your very face tells me that you have made off with it."

"Why should I make off with it? 'Twould be of no use to me, for I can
neither read nor write."

"You lie! You have taken it away for the sexton to scribble upon."

"Well, if the sexton wanted paper he could get some for himself.
Neither he nor I have set eyes upon your piece."

"Ah! Wait a bit, for on the Judgment Day you will be roasted by devils
on iron spits. Just see if you are not!"

"But why should I be roasted when I have never even TOUCHED the
paper? You might accuse me of any other fault than theft."

"Nay, devils shall roast you, sure enough. They will say to you, 'Bad
woman, we are doing this because you robbed your master,' and then
stoke up the fire still hotter."

"Nevertheless _I_ shall continue to say, 'You are roasting me for
nothing, for I never stole anything at all.' Why, THERE it is, lying
on the table! You have been accusing me for no reason whatever!"

And, sure enough, the sheet of paper was lying before Plushkin's very
eyes. For a moment or two he chewed silently. Then he went on:

"Well, and what are you making such a noise about? If one says a
single word to you, you answer back with ten. Go and fetch me a candle
to seal a letter with. And mind you bring a TALLOW candle, for it
will not cost so much as the other sort. And bring me a match too."

Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and taking up a pen,
sat turning the sheet of paper over and over, as though in doubt
whether to tear from it yet another morsel. At length he came to the
conclusion that it was impossible to do so, and therefore, dipping the
pen into the mixture of mouldy fluid and dead flies which the ink
bottle contained, started to indite the letter in characters as bold
as the notes of a music score, while momentarily checking the speed of
his hand, lest it should meander too much over the paper, and crawling
from line to line as though he regretted that there was so little
vacant space left on the sheet.

"And do you happen to know any one to whom a few runaway serfs would
be of use?" he asked as subsequently he folded the letter.

"What? You have some runaways as well?" exclaimed Chichikov, again
greatly interested.

"Certainly I have. My son-in-law has laid the necessary information
against them, but says that their tracks have grown cold. However, he
is only a military man--that is to say, good at clinking a pair of
spurs, but of no use for laying a plea before a court."

"And how many runaways have you?"

"About seventy."

"Surely not?"

"Alas, yes. Never does a year pass without a certain number of them
making off. Yet so gluttonous and idle are my serfs that they are
simply bursting with food, whereas I scarcely get enough to eat. I
will take any price for them that you may care to offer. Tell your
friends about it, and, should they find even a score of the runaways,
it will repay them handsomely, seeing that a living serf on the census
list is at present worth five hundred roubles."

"Perhaps so, but I am not going to let any one but myself have a
finger in this," thought Chichikov to himself; after which he
explained to Plushkin that a friend of the kind mentioned would be
impossible to discover, since the legal expenses of the enterprise
would lead to the said friend having to cut the very tail from his
coat before he would get clear of the lawyers.

"Nevertheless," added Chichikov, "seeing that you are so hard pressed
for money, and that I am so interested in the matter, I feel moved to
advance you--well, to advance you such a trifle as would scarcely be
worth mentioning."

"But how much is it?" asked Plushkin eagerly, and with his hands
trembling like quicksilver.

"Twenty-five kopecks per soul."

"What? In ready money?"

"Yes--in money down."

"Nevertheless, consider my poverty, dear friend, and make it FORTY
kopecks per soul."

"Venerable sir, would that I could pay you not merely forty kopecks,
but five hundred roubles. I should be only too delighted if that were
possible, since I perceive that you, an aged and respected gentleman,
are suffering for your own goodness of heart."

"By God, that is true, that is true." Plushkin hung his head, and
wagged it feebly from side to side. "Yes, all that I have done I have
done purely out of kindness."

"See how instantaneously I have divined your nature! By now it will
have become clear to you why it is impossible for me to pay you five
hundred roubles per runaway soul: for by now you will have gathered
the fact that I am not sufficiently rich. Nevertheless, I am ready to
add another five kopecks, and so to make it that each runaway serf
shall cost me, in all, thirty kopecks."

"As you please, dear sir. Yet stretch another point, and throw in
another two kopecks."

"Pardon me, but I cannot. How many runaway serfs did you say that you
possess? Seventy?"

"No; seventy-eight."

"Seventy-eight souls at thirty kopecks each will amount to--to--" only
for a moment did our hero halt, since he was strong in his arithmetic,
"--will amount to twenty-four roubles, ninety-six kopecks."[1]

[1] Nevertheless Chichikov would appear to have erred, since most
    people would make the sum amount to twenty-three roubles, forty
    kopecks. If so, Chichikov cheated himself of one rouble, fifty-six
    kopecks.

With that he requested Plushkin to make out the receipt, and then
handed him the money. Plushkin took it in both hands, bore it to a
bureau with as much caution as though he were carrying a liquid which
might at any moment splash him in the face, and, arrived at the
bureau, and glancing round once more, carefully packed the cash in one
of his money bags, where, doubtless, it was destined to lie buried
until, to the intense joy of his daughters and his son-in-law (and,
perhaps, of the captain who claimed kinship with him), he should
himself receive burial at the hands of Fathers Carp and Polycarp, the
two priests attached to his village. Lastly, the money concealed,
Plushkin re-seated himself in the armchair, and seemed at a loss for
further material for conversation.

"Are you thinking of starting?" at length he inquired, on seeing
Chichikov making a trifling movement, though the movement was only to
extract from his pocket a handkerchief. Nevertheless the question
reminded Chichikov that there was no further excuse for lingering.

"Yes, I must be going," he said as he took his hat.

"Then what about the tea?"

"Thank you, I will have some on my next visit."

"What? Even though I have just ordered the samovar to be got ready?
Well, well! I myself do not greatly care for tea, for I think it an
expensive beverage. Moreover, the price of sugar has risen terribly."

"Proshka!" he then shouted. "The samovar will not be needed. Return
the sugar to Mavra, and tell her to put it back again. But no. Bring
the sugar here, and _I_ will put it back."

"Good-bye, dear sir," finally he added to Chichikov. "May the Lord
bless you! Hand that letter to the President of the Council, and let
him read it. Yes, he is an old friend of mine. We knew one another as
schoolfellows."

With that this strange phenomenon, this withered old man, escorted his
guest to the gates of the courtyard, and, after the guest had
departed, ordered the gates to be closed, made the round of the
outbuildings for the purpose of ascertaining whether the numerous
watchmen were at their posts, peered into the kitchen (where, under
the pretence of seeing whether his servants were being properly fed,
he made a light meal of cabbage soup and gruel), rated the said
servants soundly for their thievishness and general bad behaviour, and
then returned to his room. Meditating in solitude, he fell to thinking
how best he could contrive to recompense his guest for the latter's
measureless benevolence. "I will present him," he thought to himself,
"with a watch. It is a good silver article--not one of those cheap
metal affairs; and though it has suffered some damage, he can easily
get that put right. A young man always needs to give a watch to his
betrothed."

"No," he added after further thought. "I will leave him the watch in
my will, as a keepsake."

Meanwhile our hero was bowling along in high spirit. Such an
unexpected acquisition both of dead souls and of runaway serfs had
come as a windfall. Even before reaching Plushkin's village he had had
a presentiment that he would do successful business there, but not
business of such pre-eminent profitableness as had actually resulted.
As he proceeded he whistled, hummed with hand placed trumpetwise to
his mouth, and ended by bursting into a burst of melody so striking
that Selifan, after listening for a while, nodded his head and
exclaimed, "My word, but the master CAN sing!"

By the time they reached the town darkness had fallen, and changed the
character of the scene. The britchka bounded over the cobblestones,
and at length turned into the hostelry's courtyard, where the
travellers were met by Petrushka. With one hand holding back the tails
of his coat (which he never liked to see fly apart), the valet
assisted his master to alight. The waiter ran out with candle in hand
and napkin on shoulder. Whether or not Petrushka was glad to see the
barin return it is impossible to say, but at all events he exchanged a
wink with Selifan, and his ordinarily morose exterior seemed
momentarily to brighten.

"Then you have been travelling far, sir?" said the waiter, as he lit
the way upstarts.

"Yes," said Chichikov. "What has happened here in the meanwhile?"

"Nothing, sir," replied the waiter, bowing, "except that last night
there arrived a military lieutenant. He has got room number sixteen."

"A lieutenant?"

"Yes. He came from Riazan, driving three grey horses."

On entering his room, Chichikov clapped his hand to his nose, and
asked his valet why he had never had the windows opened.

"But I did have them opened," replied Petrushka. Nevertheless this was
a lie, as Chichikov well knew, though he was too tired to contest the
point. After ordering and consuming a light supper of sucking pig, he
undressed, plunged beneath the bedclothes, and sank into the profound
slumber which comes only to such fortunate folk as are troubled
neither with mosquitoes nor fleas nor excessive activity of brain.

CHAPTER VII

When Chichikov awoke he stretched himself and realised that he had
slept well. For a moment or two he lay on his back, and then suddenly
clapped his hands at the recollection that he was now owner of nearly
four hundred souls. At once he leapt out of bed without so much as
glancing at his face in the mirror, though, as a rule, he had much
solicitude for his features, and especially for his chin, of which he
would make the most when in company with friends, and more
particularly should any one happen to enter while he was engaged in
the process of shaving. "Look how round my chin is!" was his usual
formula. On the present occasion, however, he looked neither at chin
nor at any other feature, but at once donned his flower-embroidered
slippers of morroco leather (the kind of slippers in which, thanks to
the Russian love for a dressing-gowned existence, the town of Torzhok
does such a huge trade), and, clad only in a meagre shirt, so far
forgot his elderliness and dignity as to cut a couple of capers after
the fashion of a Scottish highlander--alighting neatly, each time, on
the flat of his heels. Only when he had done that did he proceed to
business. Planting himself before his dispatch-box, he rubbed his
hands with a satisfaction worthy of an incorruptible rural magistrate
when adjourning for luncheon; after which he extracted from the
receptacle a bundle of papers. These he had decided not to deposit
with a lawyer, for the reason that he would hasten matters, as well as
save expense, by himself framing and fair-copying the necessary deeds
of indenture; and since he was thoroughly acquainted with the
necessary terminology, he proceeded to inscribe in large characters
the date, and then in smaller ones, his name and rank. By two o'clock
the whole was finished, and as he looked at the sheets of names
representing bygone peasants who had ploughed, worked at handicrafts,
cheated their masters, fetched, carried, and got drunk (though SOME
of them may have behaved well), there came over him a strange,
unaccountable sensation. To his eye each list of names seemed to
possess a character of its own; and even individual peasants therein
seemed to have taken on certain qualities peculiar to themselves. For
instance, to the majority of Madame Korobotchka's serfs there were
appended nicknames and other additions; Plushkin's list was
distinguished by a conciseness of exposition which had led to certain
of the items being represented merely by Christian name, patronymic,
and a couple of dots; and Sobakevitch's list was remarkable for its
amplitude and circumstantiality, in that not a single peasant had such
of his peculiar characteristics omitted as that the deceased had been
"excellent at joinery," or "sober and ready to pay attention to his
work." Also, in Sobakevitch's list there was recorded who had been the
father and the mother of each of the deceased, and how those parents
had behaved themselves. Only against the name of a certain Thedotov
was there inscribed: "Father unknown, Mother the maidservant
Kapitolina, Morals and Honesty good." These details communicated to
the document a certain air of freshness, they seemed to connote that
the peasants in question had lived but yesterday. As Chichikov scanned
the list he felt softened in spirit, and said with a sigh:

"My friends, what a concourse of you is here! How did you all pass
your lives, my brethren? And how did you all come to depart hence?"

As he spoke his eyes halted at one name in particular--that of the
same Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito who had once been the property of
the window Korobotchka. Once more he could not help exclaiming:

"What a series of titles! They occupy a whole line! Peter Saveliev, I
wonder whether you were an artisan or a plain muzhik. Also, I wonder
how you came to meet your end; whether in a tavern, or whether through
going to sleep in the middle of the road and being run over by a train
of waggons. Again, I see the name, 'Probka Stepan, carpenter, very
sober.' That must be the hero of whom the Guards would have been so
glad to get hold. How well I can imagine him tramping the country with
an axe in his belt and his boots on his shoulder, and living on a few
groats'-worth of bread and dried fish per day, and taking home a
couple of half-rouble pieces in his purse, and sewing the notes into
his breeches, or stuffing them into his boots! In what manner came you
by your end, Probka Stepan? Did you, for good wages, mount a scaffold
around the cupola of the village church, and, climbing thence to the
cross above, miss your footing on a beam, and fall headlong with none
at hand but Uncle Michai--the good uncle who, scratching the back of
his neck, and muttering, 'Ah, Vania, for once you have been too
clever!' straightway lashed himself to a rope, and took your place?
'Maksim Teliatnikov, shoemaker.' A shoemaker, indeed? 'As drunk as a
shoemaker,' says the proverb. _I_ know what you were like, my friend.
If you wish, I will tell you your whole history. You were apprenticed
to a German, who fed you and your fellows at a common table, thrashed
you with a strap, kept you indoors whenever you had made a mistake,
and spoke of you in uncomplimentary terms to his wife and friends. At
length, when your apprenticeship was over, you said to yourself, 'I am
going to set up on my own account, and not just to scrape together a
kopeck here and a kopeck there, as the Germans do, but to grow rich
quick.' Hence you took a shop at a high rent, bespoke a few orders,
and set to work to buy up some rotten leather out of which you could
make, on each pair of boots, a double profit. But those boots split
within a fortnight, and brought down upon your head dire showers of
maledictions; with the result that gradually your shop grew empty of
customers, and you fell to roaming the streets and exclaiming, 'The
world is a very poor place indeed! A Russian cannot make a living for
German competition.' Well, well! 'Elizabeta Vorobei!' But that is a
WOMAN'S name! How comes SHE to be on the list? That villain
Sobakevitch must have sneaked her in without my knowing it."

"'Grigori Goiezhai-ne-Doiedesh,'" he went on. "What sort of a man were
YOU, I wonder? Were you a carrier who, having set up a team of three
horses and a tilt waggon, left your home, your native hovel, for ever,
and departed to cart merchandise to market? Was it on the highway that
you surrendered your soul to God, or did your friends first marry you
to some fat, red-faced soldier's daughter; after which your harness
and team of rough, but sturdy, horses caught a highwayman's fancy, and
you, lying on your pallet, thought things over until, willy-nilly, you
felt that you must get up and make for the tavern, thereafter
blundering into an icehole? Ah, our peasant of Russia! Never do you
welcome death when it comes!"

"And you, my friends?" continued Chichikov, turning to the sheet
whereon were inscribed the names of Plushkin's absconded serfs.
"Although you are still alive, what is the good of you? You are
practically dead. Whither, I wonder, have your fugitive feet carried
you? Did you fare hardly at Plushkin's, or was it that your natural
inclinations led you to prefer roaming the wilds and plundering
travellers? Are you, by this time, in gaol, or have you taken service
with other masters for the tillage of their lands? 'Eremei Kariakin,
Nikita Volokita and Anton Volokita (son of the foregoing).' To judge
from your surnames, you would seem to have been born gadabouts[1].
'Popov, household serf.' Probably you are an educated man, good Popov,
and go in for polite thieving, as distinguished from the more vulgar
cut-throat sort. In my mind's eye I seem to see a Captain of Rural
Police challenging you for being without a passport; whereupon you
stake your all upon a single throw. 'To whom do you belong?' asks the
Captain, probably adding to his question a forcible expletive. 'To
such and such a landowner,' stoutly you reply. 'And what are you doing
here?' continues the Captain. 'I have just received permission to go
and earn my obrok,' is your fluent explanation. 'Then where is your
passport?' 'At Miestchanin[2] Pimenov's.' 'Pimenov's? Then are you
Pimenov himself?' 'Yes, I am Pimenov himself.' 'He has given you his
passport?' 'No, he has not given me his passport.' 'Come, come!'
shouts the Captain with another forcible expletive. 'You are lying!'
'No, I am not,' is your dogged reply. 'It is only that last night I
could not return him his passport, because I came home late; so I
handed it to Antip Prochorov, the bell-ringer, for him to take care
of.' 'Bell-ringer, indeed! Then HE gave you a passport?' 'No; I did
not receive a passport from him either.' 'What?'--and here the Captain
shouts another expletive--'How dare you keep on lying? Where is YOUR
OWN passport?' 'I had one all right,' you reply cunningly, 'but must
have dropped it somewhere on the road as I came along.' 'And what
about that soldier's coat?' asks the Captain with an impolite
addition. 'Whence did you get it? And what of the priest's cashbox and
copper money?'' 'About them I know nothing,' you reply doggedly.
'Never at any time have I committed a theft.' 'Then how is it that the
coat was found at your place?' 'I do not know. Probably some one else
put it there.' 'You rascal, you rascal!' shouts the Captain, shaking
his head, and closing in upon you. 'Put the leg-irons upon him, and
off with him to prison!' 'With pleasure,' you reply as, taking a
snuff-box from your pocket, you offer a pinch to each of the two
gendarmes who are manacling you, while also inquiring how long they
have been discharged from the army, and in what wars they may have
served. And in prison you remain until your case comes on, when the
justice orders you to be removed from Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and
such another prison, and a second justice orders you to be transferred
thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and you go flitting from gaol
to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your new habitation, 'The
last place was a good deal cleaner than this one is, and one could
play babki[3] there, and stretch one's legs, and see a little
society.'"

[1] The names Kariakin and Volokita might, perhaps, be translated as
    "Gallant" and "Loafer."

[2] Tradesman or citizen.

[3] The game of knucklebones.

"'Abakum Thirov,'" Chichikov went on after a pause. "What of YOU,
brother? Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself?
Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of
freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river?"

Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation. Of what
was he thinking as he sat there? Was he thinking of the fortunes of
Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when
his thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?

"Ah, well!" he sighed, looking at his watch. "It has now gone twelve
o'clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There is still much to be
done, yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What
a fool I am!"

So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing
else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled
tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with
eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and
set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the
transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not due to a
fear of being late (seeing that the President of the Local Council was
an intimate acquaintance of his, as well as a functionary who could
shorten or prolong an interview at will, even as Homer's Zeus was able
to shorten or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became
necessary to put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes, or to
enable them to join battle), but rather to a feeling that he would
like to have the affair concluded as quickly as possible, seeing that,
throughout, it had been an anxious and difficult business. Also, he
could not get rid of the idea that his souls were unsubstantial
things, and that therefore, under the circumstances, his shoulders had
better be relieved of their load with the least possible delay.
Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured, bear-lined overcoat as he went, he
had just stepped thoughtfully into the street when he collided with a
gentleman dressed in a similar coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon
that the gentleman uttered an exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov! At
once the friends became folded in a strenuous embrace, and remained so
locked for fully five minutes. Indeed, the kisses exchanged were so
vigorous that both suffered from toothache for the greater portion of
the day. Also, Manilov's delight was such that only his nose and lips
remained visible--the eyes completely disappeared. Afterwards he spent
about a quarter of an hour in holding Chichikov's hand and chafing it
vigorously. Lastly, he, in the most pleasant and exquisite terms
possible, intimated to his friend that he had just been on his way to
embrace Paul Ivanovitch; and upon this followed a compliment of the
kind which would more fittingly have been addressed to a lady who was
being asked to accord a partner the favour of a dance. Chichikov had
opened his mouth to reply--though even HE felt at a loss how to
acknowledge what had just been said--when Manilov cut him short by
producing from under his coat a roll of paper tied with red riband.

"What have you there?" asked Chichikov.

"The list of my souls."

"Ah!" And as Chichikov unrolled the document and ran his eye over it
he could not but marvel at the elegant neatness with which it had been
inscribed.

"It is a beautiful piece of writing," he said. "In fact, there will be
no need to make a copy of it. Also, it has a border around its edge!
Who worked that exquisite border?"

"Do not ask me," said Manilov.

"Did YOU do it?"

"No; my wife."

"Dear, dear!" Chichikov cried. "To think that I should have put her to
so much trouble!"

"NOTHING could be too much trouble where Paul Ivanovitch is concerned.

Chichikov bowed his acknowledgements. Next, on learning that he was on
his way to the municipal offices for the purpose of completing the
transfer, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him; wherefore
the pair linked arm in arm and proceeded together. Whenever they
encountered a slight rise in the ground--even the smallest unevenness
or difference of level--Manilov supported Chichikov with such energy
as almost to lift him off his feet, while accompanying the service
with a smiling implication that not if HE could help it should Paul
Ivanovitch slip or fall. Nevertheless this conduct appeared to
embarrass Chichikov, either because he could not find any fitting
words of gratitude or because he considered the proceeding tiresome;
and it was with a sense of relief that he debouched upon the square
where the municipal offices--a large, three-storied building of a
chalky whiteness which probably symbolised the purity of the souls
engaged within--were situated. No other building in the square could
vie with them in size, seeing that the remaining edifices consisted
only of a sentry-box, a shelter for two or three cabmen, and a long
hoarding--the latter adorned with the usual bills, posters, and
scrawls in chalk and charcoal. At intervals, from the windows of the
second and third stories of the municipal offices, the incorruptible
heads of certain of the attendant priests of Themis would peer quickly
forth, and as quickly disappear again--probably for the reason that a
superior official had just entered the room. Meanwhile the two friends
ascended the staircase--nay, almost flew up it, since, longing to get
rid of Manilov's ever-supporting arm, Chichikov hastened his steps,
and Manilov kept darting forward to anticipate any possible failure on
the part of his companion's legs. Consequently the pair were
breathless when they reached the first corridor. In passing it may be
remarked that neither corridors nor rooms evinced any of that
cleanliness and purity which marked the exterior of the building, for
such attributes were not troubled about within, and anything that was
dirty remained so, and donned no meritricious, purely external,
disguise. It was as though Themis received her visitors in neglige and
a dressing-gown. The author would also give a description of the
various offices through which our hero passed, were it not that he
(the author) stands in awe of such legal haunts.

Approaching the first desk which he happened to encounter, Chichikov
inquired of the two young officials who were seated at it whether they
would kindly tell him where business relating to serf-indenture was
transacted.

"Of what nature, precisely, IS your business?" countered one of the
youthful officials as he turned himself round.

"I desire to make an application."

"In connection with a purchase?"

"Yes. But, as I say, I should like first to know where I can find the
desk devoted to such business. Is it here or elsewhere?"

"You must state what it is you have bought, and for how much. THEN
we shall be happy to give you the information."

Chichikov perceived that the officials' motive was merely one of
curiosity, as often happens when young tchinovniks desire to cut a
more important and imposing figure than is rightfully theirs.

"Look here, young sirs," he said. "I know for a fact that all serf
business, no matter to what value, is transacted at one desk alone.
Consequently I again request you to direct me to that desk. Of course,
if you do not know your business I can easily ask some one else."

To this the tchinovniks made no reply beyond pointing towards a corner
of the room where an elderly man appeared to be engaged in sorting
some papers. Accordingly Chichikov and Manilov threaded their way in
his direction through the desks; whereupon the elderly man became
violently busy.

"Would you mind telling me," said Chichikov, bowing, "whether this is
the desk for serf affairs?"

The elderly man raised his eyes, and said stiffly:

"This is NOT the desk for serf affairs."

"Where is it, then?"

"In the Serf Department."

"And where might the Serf Department be?"

"In charge of Ivan Antonovitch."

"And where is Ivan Antonovitch?"

The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room; whither
Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps. As they advanced,
Ivan Antonovitch cast an eye backwards and viewed them askance. Then,
with renewed ardour, he resumed his work of writing.

"Would you mind telling me," said Chichikov, bowing, "whether this is
the desk for serf affairs?"

It appeared as though Ivan Antonovitch had not heard, so completely
did he bury himself in his papers and return no reply. Instantly it
became plain that HE at least was of an age of discretion, and not
one of your jejune chatterboxes and harum-scarums; for, although his
hair was still thick and black, he had long ago passed his fortieth
year. His whole face tended towards the nose--it was what, in common
parlance, is known as a "pitcher-mug."

"Would you mind telling me," repeated Chichikov, "whether this is the
desk for serf affairs?"

"It is that," said Ivan Antonovitch, again lowering his jug-shaped
jowl, and resuming his writing.

"Then I should like to transact the following business. From various
landowners in this canton I have purchased a number of peasants for
transfer. Here is the purchase list, and it needs but to be
registered."

"Have you also the vendors here?"

"Some of them, and from the rest I have obtained powers of attorney."

"And have you your statement of application?"

"Yes. I desire--indeed, it is necessary for me so to do--to hasten
matters a little. Could the affair, therefore, be carried through
to-day?"

"To-day? Oh, dear no!" said Ivan Antonovitch. "Before that can be done
you must furnish me with further proofs that no impediments exist."

"Then, to expedite matters, let me say that Ivan Grigorievitch, the
President of the Council, is a very intimate friend of mine."

"Possibly," said Ivan Antonovitch without enthusiasm. "But Ivan
Grigorievitch alone will not do--it is customary to have others as
well."

"Yes, but the absence of others will not altogether invalidate the
transaction. I too have been in the service, and know how things can
be done."

"You had better go and see Ivan Grigorievitch," said Ivan Antonovitch
more mildly. "Should he give you an order addressed to whom it may
concern, we shall soon be able to settle the matter."

Upon that Chichikov pulled from his pocket a paper, and laid it before
Ivan Antonovitch. At once the latter covered it with a book. Chichikov
again attempted to show it to him, but, with a movement of his head,
Ivan Antonovitch signified that that was unnecessary.

"A clerk," he added, "will now conduct you to Ivan Grigorievitch's
room."

Upon that one of the toilers in the service of Themis--a zealot who
had offered her such heartfelt sacrifice that his coat had burst at
the elbows and lacked a lining--escorted our friends (even as Virgil
had once escorted Dante) to the apartment of the Presence. In this
sanctum were some massive armchairs, a table laden with two or three
fat books, and a large looking-glass. Lastly, in (apparently) sunlike
isolation, there was seated at the table the President. On arriving at
the door of the apartment, our modern Virgil seemed to have become so
overwhelmed with awe that, without daring even to intrude a foot, he
turned back, and, in so doing, once more exhibited a back as shiny as
a mat, and having adhering to it, in one spot, a chicken's feather. As
soon as the two friends had entered the hall of the Presence they
perceived that the President was NOT alone, but, on the contrary,
had seated by his side Sobakevitch, whose form had hitherto been
concealed by the intervening mirror. The newcomers' entry evoked
sundry exclamations and the pushing back of a pair of Government
chairs as the voluminous-sleeved Sobakevitch rose into view from
behind the looking-glass. Chichikov the President received with an
embrace, and for a while the hall of the Presence resounded with
osculatory salutations as mutually the pair inquired after one
another's health. It seemed that both had lately had a touch of that
pain under the waistband which comes of a sedentary life. Also, it
seemed that the President had just been conversing with Sobakevitch on
the subject of sales of souls, since he now proceeded to congratulate
Chichikov on the same--a proceeding which rather embarrassed our hero,
seeing that Manilov and Sobakevitch, two of the vendors, and persons
with whom he had bargained in the strictest privacy, were now
confronting one another direct. However, Chichikov duly thanked the
President, and then, turning to Sobakevitch, inquired after HIS health.

"Thank God, I have nothing to complain of," replied Sobakevitch: which
was true enough, seeing that a piece of iron would have caught cold
and taken to sneezing sooner than would that uncouthly fashioned
landowner.

"Ah, yes; you have always had good health, have you not?" put in the
President. "Your late father was equally strong."

"Yes, he even went out bear hunting alone," replied Sobakevitch.

"I should think that you too could worst a bear if you were to try a
tussle with him," rejoined the President.

"Oh no," said Sobakevitch. "My father was a stronger man than I am."
Then with a sigh the speaker added: "But nowadays there are no such
men as he. What is even a life like mine worth?"

"Then you do not have a comfortable time of it?" exclaimed the
President.

"No; far from it," rejoined Sobakevitch, shaking his head. "Judge for
yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I am fifty years old, yet never in my
life had been ill, except for an occasional carbuncle or boil. That is
not a good sign. Sooner or later I shall have to pay for it." And he
relapsed into melancholy.

"Just listen to the fellow!" was Chichikov's and the President's joint
inward comment. "What on earth has HE to complain of?"

"I have a letter for you, Ivan Grigorievitch," went on Chichikov aloud
as he produced from his pocket Plushkin's epistle.

"From whom?" inquired the President. Having broken the seal, he
exclaimed: "Why, it is from Plushkin! To think that HE is still
alive! What a strange world it is! He used to be such a nice fellow,
and now--"

"And now he is a cur," concluded Sobakevitch, "as well as a miser who
starves his serfs to death."

"Allow me a moment," said the President. Then he read the letter
through. When he had finished he added: "Yes, I am quite ready to act
as Plushkin's attorney. When do you wish the purchase deeds to be
registered, Monsieur Chichikov--now or later?"

"Now, if you please," replied Chichikov. "Indeed, I beg that, if
possible, the affair may be concluded to-day, since to-morrow I wish
to leave the town. I have brought with me both the forms of indenture
and my statement of application."

"Very well. Nevertheless we cannot let you depart so soon. The
indentures shall be completed to-day, but you must continue your
sojourn in our midst. I will issue the necessary orders at once."

So saying, he opened the door into the general office, where the
clerks looked like a swarm of bees around a honeycomb (if I may liken
affairs of Government to such an article?).

"Is Ivan Antonovitch here?" asked the President.

"Yes," replied a voice from within.

"Then send him here."

Upon that the pitcher-faced Ivan Antonovitch made his appearance in
the doorway, and bowed.

"Take these indentures, Ivan Antonovitch," said the President, "and
see that they--"

"But first I would ask you to remember," put in Sobakevitch, "that
witnesses ought to be in attendance--not less than two on behalf of
either party. Let us, therefore, send for the Public Prosecutor, who
has little to do, and has even that little done for him by his chief
clerk, Zolotucha. The Inspector of the Medical Department is also a
man of leisure, and likely to be at home--if he has not gone out to a
card party. Others also there are--all men who cumber the ground for
nothing."

"Quite so, quite so," agreed the President, and at once dispatched a
clerk to fetch the persons named.

"Also," requested Chichikov, "I should be glad if you would send for
the accredited representative of a certain lady landowner with whom I
have done business. He is the son of a Father Cyril, and a clerk in
your offices."

"Certainly we shall call him here," replied the President. "Everything
shall be done to meet your convenience, and I forbid you to present
any of our officials with a gratuity. That is a special request on my
part. No friend of mine ever pays a copper."

With that he gave Ivan Antonovitch the necessary instructions; and
though they scarcely seemed to meet with that functionary's approval,
upon the President the purchase deeds had evidently produced an
excellent impression, more especially since the moment when he had
perceived the sum total to amount to nearly a hundred thousand
roubles. For a moment or two he gazed into Chichikov's eyes with an
expression of profound satisfaction. Then he said:

"Well done, Paul Ivanovitch! You have indeed made a nice haul!"

"That is so," replied Chichikov.

"Excellent business! Yes, excellent business!"

"I, too, conceive that I could not well have done better. The truth is
that never until a man has driven home the piles of his life's
structure upon a lasting bottom, instead of upon the wayward chimeras
of youth, will his aims in life assume a definite end." And, that
said, Chichikov went on to deliver himself of a very telling
indictment of Liberalism and our modern young men. Yet in his words
there seemed to lurk a certain lack of conviction. Somehow he seemed
secretly to be saying to himself, "My good sir, you are talking the
most absolute rubbish, and nothing but rubbish." Nor did he even throw
a glance at Sobakevitch and Manilov. It was as though he were
uncertain what he might not encounter in their expression. Yet he need
not have been afraid. Never once did Sobakevitch's face move a muscle,
and, as for Manilov, he was too much under the spell of Chichikov's
eloquence to do aught beyond nod his approval at intervals, and strike
the kind of attitude which is assumed by lovers of music when a lady
singer has, in rivalry of an accompanying violin, produced a note
whereof the shrillness would exceed even the capacity of a bird's
throstle.

"But why not tell Ivan Grigorievitch precisely what you have bought?"
inquired Sobakevitch of Chichikov. "And why, Ivan Grigorievitch, do
YOU not ask Monsieur Chichikov precisely what his purchases have
consisted of? What a splendid lot of serfs, to be sure! I myself have
sold him my wheelwright, Michiev."

"What? You have sold him Michiev?" exclaimed the President. "I know
the man well. He is a splendid craftsman, and, on one occasion, made
me a drozhki[4]. Only, only--well, lately didn't you tell me that he
is dead?"

[4] A sort of low, four-wheeled carriage.

"That Michiev is dead?" re-echoed Sobakevitch, coming perilously near
to laughing. "Oh dear no! That was his brother. Michiev himself is
very much alive, and in even better health than he used to be. Any day
he could knock you up a britchka such as you could not procure even in
Moscow. However, he is now bound to work for only one master."

"Indeed a splendid craftsman!" repeated the President. "My only wonder
is that you can have brought yourself to part with him."

"Then think you that Michiev is the ONLY serf with whom I have
parted? Nay, for I have parted also with Probka Stepan, my carpenter,
with Milushkin, my bricklayer, and with Teliatnikov, my bootmaker.
Yes, the whole lot I have sold."

And to the President's inquiry why he had so acted, seeing that the
serfs named were all skilled workers and indispensable to a household,
Sobakevitch replied that a mere whim had led him to do so, and thus
the sale had owed its origin to a piece of folly. Then he hung his
head as though already repenting of his rash act, and added:

"Although a man of grey hairs, I have not yet learned wisdom."

"But," inquired the President further, "how comes it about, Paul
Ivanovitch, that you have purchased peasants apart from land? Is it
for transferment elsewhere that you need them?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. That is quite another matter. To what province of
the country?"

"To the province of Kherson."

"Indeed? That region contains some splendid land," said the President;
whereupon he proceeded to expatiate on the fertility of the Kherson
pastures.

"And have you MUCH land there?" he continued.

"Yes; quite sufficient to accommodate the serfs whom I have purchased."

"And is there a river on the estate or a lake?"

"Both."

After this reply Chichikov involuntarily threw a glance at
Sobakevitch; and though that landowner's face was as motionless as
every, the other seemed to detect in it: "You liar! Don't tell ME
that you own both a river and a lake, as well as the land which you
say you do."

Whilst the foregoing conversation had been in progress, various
witnesses had been arriving on the scene. They consisted of the
constantly blinking Public Prosecutor, the Inspector of the Medical
Department, and others--all, to quote Sobakevitch, "men who cumbered
the ground for nothing." With some of them, however, Chichikov was
altogether unacquainted, since certain substitutes and supernumeraries
had to be pressed into the service from among the ranks of the
subordinate staff. There also arrived, in answer to the summons, not
only the son of Father Cyril before mentioned, but also Father Cyril
himself. Each such witness appended to his signature a full list of
his dignities and qualifications: one man in printed characters,
another in a flowing hand, a third in topsy-turvy characters of a kind
never before seen in the Russian alphabet, and so forth. Meanwhile our
friend Ivan Antonovitch comported himself with not a little address;
and after the indentures had been signed, docketed, and registered,
Chichikov found himself called upon to pay only the merest trifle in
the way of Government percentage and fees for publishing the
transaction in the Official Gazette. The reason of this was that the
President had given orders that only half the usual charges were to be
exacted from the present purchaser--the remaining half being somehow
debited to the account of another applicant for serf registration.

"And now," said Ivan Grigorievitch when all was completed, "we need
only to wet the bargain."

"For that too I am ready," said Chichikov. "Do you but name the hour.
If, in return for your most agreeable company, I were not to set a few
champagne corks flying, I should be indeed in default."

"But we are not going to let you charge yourself with anything
whatsoever. WE must provide the champagne, for you are our guest,
and it is for us--it is our duty, it is our bounden obligation--to
entertain you. Look here, gentlemen. Let us adjourn to the house of
the Chief of Police. He is the magician who needs but to wink when
passing a fishmonger's or a wine merchant's. Not only shall we fare
well at his place, but also we shall get a game of whist."

To this proposal no one had any objection to offer, for the mere
mention of the fish shop aroused the witnesses' appetite.
Consequently, the ceremony being over, there was a general reaching
for hats and caps. As the party were passing through the general
office, Ivan Antonovitch whispered in Chichikov's ear, with a
courteous inclination of his jug-shaped physiognomy:

"You have given a hundred thousand roubles for the serfs, but have
paid ME only a trifle for my trouble."

"Yes," replied Chichikov with a similar whisper, "but what sort of
serfs do you suppose them to be? They are a poor, useless lot, and not
worth even half the purchase money."

This gave Ivan Antonovitch to understand that the visitor was a man of
strong character--a man from whom nothing more was to be expected.

"Why have you gone and purchased souls from Plushkin?" whispered
Sobakevitch in Chichikov's other ear.

"Why did YOU go and add the woman Vorobei to your list?" retorted Chichikov.

"Vorobei? Who is Vorobei?"

"The woman 'Elizabet' Vorobei--'Elizabet,' not 'Elizabeta?'"

"I added no such name," replied Sobakevitch, and straightway joined
the other guests.

At length the party arrived at the residence of the Chief of Police.
The latter proved indeed a man of spells, for no sooner had he learnt
what was afoot than he summoned a brisk young constable, whispered in
his ear, adding laconically, "You understand, do you not?" and brought
it about that, during the time that the guests were cutting for
partners at whist in an adjoining room, the dining-table became laden
with sturgeon, caviare, salmon, herrings, cheese, smoked tongue, fresh
roe, and a potted variety of the same--all procured from the local
fish market, and reinforced with additions from the host's own
kitchen. The fact was that the worthy Chief of Police filled the
office of a sort of father and general benefactor to the town, and
that he moved among the citizens as though they constituted part and
parcel of his own family, and watched over their shops and markets as
though those establishments were merely his own private larder.
Indeed, it would be difficult to say--so thoroughly did he perform his
duties in this respect--whether the post most fitted him, or he the
post. Matters were also so arranged that though his income more than
doubled that of his predecessors, he had never lost the affection of
his fellow townsmen. In particular did the tradesmen love him, since
he was never above standing godfather to their children or dining at
their tables. True, he had differences of opinion with them, and
serious differences at that; but always these were skilfully adjusted
by his slapping the offended ones jovially on the shoulder, drinking a
glass of tea with them, promising to call at their houses and play a
game of chess, asking after their belongings, and, should he learn
that a child of theirs was ill, prescribing the proper medicine. In
short, he bore the reputation of being a very good fellow.

On perceiving the feast to be ready, the host proposed that his guests
should finish their whist after luncheon; whereupon all proceeded to
the room whence for some time past an agreeable odour had been
tickling the nostrils of those present, and towards the door of which
Sobakevitch in particular had been glancing since the moment when he
had caught sight of a huge sturgeon reposing on the sideboard. After a
glassful of warm, olive-coloured vodka apiece--vodka of the tint to be
seen only in the species of Siberian stone whereof seals are cut--the
company applied themselves to knife-and-fork work, and, in so doing,
evinced their several characteristics and tastes. For instance,
Sobakevitch, disdaining lesser trifles, tackled the large sturgeon,
and, during the time that his fellow guests were eating minor
comestibles, and drinking and talking, contrived to consume more than
a quarter of the whole fish; so that, on the host remembering the
creature, and, with fork in hand, leading the way in its direction and
saying, "What, gentlemen, think you of this striking product of
nature?" there ensued the discovery that of the said product of nature
there remained little beyond the tail, while Sobakevitch, with an air
as though at least HE had not eaten it, was engaged in plunging his
fork into a much more diminutive piece of fish which happened to be
resting on an adjacent platter. After his divorce from the sturgeon,
Sobakevitch ate and drank no more, but sat frowning and blinking in an
armchair.

Apparently the host was not a man who believed in sparing the wine,
for the toasts drunk were innumerable. The first toast (as the reader
may guess) was quaffed to the health of the new landowner of Kherson;
the second to the prosperity of his peasants and their safe
transferment; and the third to the beauty of his future wife--a
compliment which brought to our hero's lips a flickering smile.
Lastly, he received from the company a pressing, as well as an
unanimous, invitation to extend his stay in town for at least another
fortnight, and, in the meanwhile, to allow a wife to be found for him.

"Quite so," agreed the President. "Fight us tooth and nail though you
may, we intend to have you married. You have happened upon us by
chance, and you shall have no reason to repent of it. We are in
earnest on this subject."

"But why should I fight you tooth and nail?" said Chichikov, smiling.
"Marriage would not come amiss to me, were I but provided with a
betrothed."

"Then a betrothed you shall have. Why not? We will do as you wish."

"Very well," assented Chichikov.

"Bravo, bravo!" the company shouted. "Long live Paul Ivanovitch!
Hurrah! Hurrah!" And with that every one approached to clink glasses
with him, and he readily accepted the compliment, and accepted it many
times in succession. Indeed, as the hours passed on, the hilarity of
the company increased yet further, and more than once the President (a
man of great urbanity when thoroughly in his cups) embraced the chief
guest of the day with the heartfelt words, "My dearest fellow! My own
most precious of friends!" Nay, he even started to crack his fingers,
to dance around Chichikov's chair, and to sing snatches of a popular
song. To the champagne succeeded Hungarian wine, which had the effect
of still further heartening and enlivening the company. By this time
every one had forgotten about whist, and given himself up to shouting
and disputing. Every conceivable subject was discussed, including
politics and military affairs; and in this connection guests voiced
jejune opinions for the expression of which they would, at any other
time, have soundly spanked their offspring. Chichikov, like the rest,
had never before felt so gay, and, imagining himself really and truly
to be a landowner of Kherson, spoke of various improvements in
agriculture, of the three-field system of tillage[5], and of the
beatific felicity of a union between two kindred souls. Also, he
started to recite poetry to Sobakevitch, who blinked as he listened,
for he greatly desired to go to sleep. At length the guest of the
evening realised that matters had gone far enough, so begged to be
given a lift home, and was accommodated with the Public Prosecutor's
drozhki. Luckily the driver of the vehicle was a practised man at his
work, for, while driving with one hand, he succeeded in leaning
backwards and, with the other, holding Chichikov securely in his
place. Arrived at the inn, our hero continued babbling awhile about a
flaxen-haired damsel with rosy lips and a dimple in her right cheek,
about villages of his in Kherson, and about the amount of his capital.
Nay, he even issued seignorial instructions that Selifan should go and
muster the peasants about to be transferred, and make a complete and
detailed inventory of them. For a while Selifan listened in silence;
then he left the room, and instructed Petrushka to help the barin to
undress. As it happened, Chichikov's boots had no sooner been removed
than he managed to perform the rest of his toilet without assistance,
to roll on to the bed (which creaked terribly as he did so), and to
sink into a sleep in every way worthy of a landowner of Kherson.
Meanwhile Petrushka had taken his master's coat and trousers of
bilberry-coloured check into the corridor; where, spreading them over
a clothes' horse, he started to flick and to brush them, and to fill
the whole corridor with dust. Just as he was about to replace them in
his master's room he happened to glance over the railing of the
gallery, and saw Selifan returning from the stable. Glances were
exchanged, and in an instant the pair had arrived at an instinctive
understanding--an understanding to the effect that the barin was sound
asleep, and that therefore one might consider one's own pleasure a
little. Accordingly Petrushka proceeded to restore the coat and
trousers to their appointed places, and then descended the stairs;
whereafter he and Selifan left the house together. Not a word passed
between them as to the object of their expedition. On the contrary,
they talked solely of extraneous subjects. Yet their walk did not take
them far; it took them only to the other side of the street, and
thence into an establishment which immediately confronted the inn.
Entering a mean, dirty courtyard covered with glass, they passed
thence into a cellar where a number of customers were seated around
small wooden tables. What thereafter was done by Selifan and Petrushka
God alone knows. At all events, within an hour's time they issued, arm
in arm, and in profound silence, yet remaining markedly assiduous to
one another, and ever ready to help one another around an awkward
corner. Still linked together--never once releasing their mutual
hold--they spent the next quarter of an hour in attempting to
negotiate the stairs of the inn; but at length even that ascent had
been mastered, and they proceeded further on their way. Halting before
his mean little pallet, Petrushka stood awhile in thought. His
difficulty was how best to assume a recumbent position. Eventually he
lay down on his face, with his legs trailing over the floor; after
which Selifan also stretched himself upon the pallet, with his head
resting upon Petrushka's stomach, and his mind wholly oblivious of the
fact that he ought not to have been sleeping there at all, but in the
servant's quarters, or in the stable beside his horses. Scarcely a
moment had passed before the pair were plunged in slumber and emitting
the most raucous snores; to which their master (next door) responded
with snores of a whistling and nasal order. Indeed, before long every
one in the inn had followed their soothing example, and the hostelry
lay plunged in complete restfulness. Only in the window of the room of
the newly-arrived lieutenant from Riazan did a light remain burning.
Evidently he was a devotee of boots, for he had purchased four pairs,
and was now trying on a fifth. Several times he approached the bed
with a view to taking off the boots and retiring to rest; but each
time he failed, for the reason that the boots were so alluring in
their make that he had no choice but to lift up first one foot, and
then the other, for the purpose of scanning their elegant welts.

[5] The system by which, in annual rotation, two-thirds of a given
    area are cultivated, while the remaining third is left fallow.

CHAPTER VIII

It was not long before Chichikov's purchases had become the talk of
the town; and various were the opinions expressed as to whether or not
it was expedient to procure peasants for transferment. Indeed such was
the interest taken by certain citizens in the matter that they advised
the purchaser to provide himself and his convoy with an escort, in
order to ensure their safe arrival at the appointed destination; but
though Chichikov thanked the donors of this advice for the same, and
declared that he should be very glad, in case of need, to avail
himself of it, he declared also that there was no real need for an
escort, seeing that the peasants whom he had purchased were
exceptionally peace-loving folk, and that, being themselves consenting
parties to the transferment, they would undoubtedly prove in every way
tractable.

One particularly good result of this advertisement of his scheme was
that he came to rank as neither more nor less than a millionaire.
Consequently, much as the inhabitants had liked our hero in the first
instance (as seen in Chapter I.), they now liked him more than ever.
As a matter of fact, they were citizens of an exceptionally quiet,
good-natured, easy-going disposition; and some of them were even
well-educated. For instance, the President of the Local Council could
recite the whole of Zhukovski's LUDMILLA by heart, and give such an
impressive rendering of the passage "The pine forest was asleep and
the valley at rest" (as well as of the exclamation "Phew!") that one
felt, as he did so, that the pine forest and the valley really WERE
as he described them. The effect was also further heightened by the
manner in which, at such moments, he assumed the most portentous
frown. For his part, the Postmaster went in more for philosophy, and
diligently perused such works as Young's Night Thoughts, and
Eckharthausen's A Key to the Mysteries of Nature; of which latter
work he would make copious extracts, though no one had the slightest
notion what they referred to. For the rest, he was a witty, florid
little individual, and much addicted to a practice of what he called
"embellishing" whatsoever he had to say--a feat which he performed
with the aid of such by-the-way phrases as "my dear sir," "my good
So-and-So," "you know," "you understand," "you may imagine,"
"relatively speaking," "for instance," and "et cetera"; of which
phrases he would add sackfuls to his speech. He could also "embellish"
his words by the simple expedient of half-closing, half-winking one
eye; which trick communicated to some of his satirical utterances
quite a mordant effect. Nor were his colleagues a wit inferior to him
in enlightenment. For instance, one of them made a regular practice of
reading Karamzin, another of conning the Moscow Gazette, and a
third of never looking at a book at all. Likewise, although they were
the sort of men to whom, in their more intimate movements, their wives
would very naturally address such nicknames as "Toby Jug," "Marmot,"
"Fatty," "Pot Belly," "Smutty," "Kiki," and "Buzz-Buzz," they were men
also of good heart, and very ready to extend their hospitality and
their friendship when once a guest had eaten of their bread and salt,
or spent an evening in their company. Particularly, therefore, did
Chichikov earn these good folk's approval with his taking methods and
qualities--so much so that the expression of that approval bid fair to
make it difficult for him to quit the town, seeing that, wherever he
went, the one phrase dinned into his ears was "Stay another week with
us, Paul Ivanovitch." In short, he ceased to be a free agent. But
incomparably more striking was the impression (a matter for unbounded
surprise!) which he produced upon the ladies. Properly to explain this
phenomenon I should need to say a great deal about the ladies
themselves, and to describe in the most vivid of colours their social
intercourse and spiritual qualities. Yet this would be a difficult
thing for me to do, since, on the one hand, I should be hampered by my
boundless respect for the womenfolk of all Civil Service officials,
and, on the other hand--well, simply by the innate arduousness of the
task. The ladies of N. were--But no, I cannot do it; my heart has
already failed me. Come, come! The ladies of N. were distinguished
for--But it is of no use; somehow my pen seems to refuse to move over
the paper--it seems to be weighted as with a plummet of lead. Very
well. That being so, I will merely say a word or two concerning the
most prominent tints on the feminine palette of N.--merely a word or
two concerning the outward appearance of its ladies, and a word or two
concerning their more superficial characteristics. The ladies of N.
were pre-eminently what is known as "presentable." Indeed, in that
respect they might have served as a model to the ladies of many
another town. That is to say, in whatever pertained to "tone,"
etiquette, the intricacies of decorum, and strict observance of the
prevailing mode, they surpassed even the ladies of Moscow and St.
Petersburg, seeing that they dressed with taste, drove about in
carriages in the latest fashions, and never went out without the
escort of a footman in gold-laced livery. Again, they looked upon a
visiting card--even upon a make-shift affair consisting of an ace of
diamonds or a two of clubs--as a sacred thing; so sacred that on one
occasion two closely related ladies who had also been closely attached
friends were known to fall out with one another over the mere fact of
an omission to return a social call! Yes, in spite of the best efforts
of husbands and kinsfolk to reconcile the antagonists, it became clear
that, though all else in the world might conceivably be possible,
never could the hatchet be buried between ladies who had quarrelled
over a neglected visit. Likewise strenuous scenes used to take place
over questions of precedence--scenes of a kind which had the effect of
inspiring husbands to great and knightly ideas on the subject of
protecting the fair. True, never did a duel actually take place, since
all the husbands were officials belonging to the Civil Service; but at
least a given combatant would strive to heap contumely upon his rival,
and, as we all know, that is a resource which may prove even more
effectual than a duel. As regards morality, the ladies of N. were
nothing if not censorious, and would at once be fired with virtuous
indignation when they heard of a case of vice or seduction. Nay, even
to mere frailty they would award the lash without mercy. On the other
hand, should any instance of what they called "third personism" occur
among THEIR OWN circle, it was always kept dark--not a hint of what
was going on being allowed to transpire, and even the wronged husband
holding himself ready, should he meet with, or hear of, the "third
person," to quote, in a mild and rational manner, the proverb, "Whom
concerns it that a friend should consort with friend?" In addition, I
may say that, like most of the female world of St. Petersburg, the
ladies of N. were pre-eminently careful and refined in their choice of
words and phrases. Never did a lady say, "I blew my nose," or "I
perspired," or "I spat." No, it had to be, "I relieved my nose through
the expedient of wiping it with my handkerchief," and so forth. Again,
to say, "This glass, or this plate, smells badly," was forbidden. No,
not even a hint to such an effect was to be dropped. Rather, the
proper phrase, in such a case, was "This glass, or this plate, is not
behaving very well,"--or some such formula.

In fact, to refine the Russian tongue the more thoroughly, something
like half the words in it were cut out: which circumstance
necessitated very frequent recourse to the tongue of France, since the
same words, if spoken in French, were another matter altogether, and
one could use even blunter ones than the ones originally objected to.

So much for the ladies of N., provided that one confines one's
observations to the surface; yet hardly need it be said that, should
one penetrate deeper than that, a great deal more would come to light.
At the same time, it is never a very safe proceeding to peer deeply
into the hearts of ladies; wherefore, restricting ourselves to the
foregoing superficialities, let us proceed further on our way.

Hitherto the ladies had paid Chichikov no particular attention, though
giving him full credit for his gentlemanly and urbane demeanour; but
from the moment that there arose rumours of his being a millionaire
other qualities of his began to be canvassed. Nevertheless, not ALL
the ladies were governed by interested motives, since it is due to the
term "millionaire" rather than to the character of the person who
bears it, that the mere sound of the word exercises upon rascals, upon
decent folk, and upon folk who are neither the one nor the other, an
undeniable influence. A millionaire suffers from the disadvantage of
everywhere having to behold meanness, including the sort of meanness
which, though not actually based upon calculations of self-interest,
yet runs after the wealthy man with smiles, and doffs his hat, and
begs for invitations to houses where the millionaire is known to be
going to dine. That a similar inclination to meanness seized upon the
ladies of N. goes without saying; with the result that many a
drawing-room heard it whispered that, if Chichikov was not exactly a
beauty, at least he was sufficiently good-looking to serve for a
husband, though he could have borne to have been a little more rotund
and stout. To that there would be added scornful references to lean
husbands, and hints that they resembled tooth-brushes rather than
men--with many other feminine additions. Also, such crowds of feminine
shoppers began to repair to the Bazaar as almost to constitute a
crush, and something like a procession of carriages ensued, so long
grew the rank of vehicles. For their part, the tradesmen had the joy
of seeing highly priced dress materials which they had brought at
fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now suddenly become
tradeable, and go off with a rush. For instance, on one occasion a
lady appeared at Mass in a bustle which filled the church to an extent
which led the verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw to the
porch, lest the lady's toilet should be soiled in the crush. Even
Chichikov could not help privately remarking the attention which he
aroused. On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on his
table a note addressed to himself. Whence it had come, and who had
delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the
person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer.
Beginning abruptly with the words "I MUST write to you," the letter
went on to say that between a certain pair of souls there existed a
bond of sympathy; and this verity the epistle further confirmed with
rows of full stops to the extent of nearly half a page. Next there
followed a few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable that I have
no choice but to quote them. "What, I would ask, is this life of
ours?" inquired the writer. "'Tis nought but a vale of woe. And what,
I would ask, is the world? 'Tis nought but a mob of unthinking
humanity." Thereafter, incidentally remarking that she had just
dropped a tear to the memory of her dear mother, who had departed this
life twenty-five years ago, the (presumably) lady writer invited
Chichikov to come forth into the wilds, and to leave for ever the city
where, penned in noisome haunts, folk could not even draw their
breath. In conclusion, the writer gave way to unconcealed despair, and
wound up with the following verses:

    "Two turtle doves to thee, one day,
    My dust will show, congealed in death;
    And, cooing wearily, they'll say:
    'In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.'"

True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the
quatrain at least conformed to the mode then prevalent. Neither
signature nor date were appended to the document, but only a
postscript expressing a conjecture that Chichikov's own heart would
tell him who the writer was, and stating, in addition, that the said
writer would be present at the Governor's ball on the following night.

This greatly interested Chichikov. Indeed, there was so much that was
alluring and provocative of curiosity in the anonymous missive that he
read it through a second time, and then a third, and finally said to
himself: "I SHOULD like to know who sent it!" In short, he took the
thing seriously, and spent over an hour in considering the same. At
length, muttering a comment upon the epistle's efflorescent style, he
refolded the document, and committed it to his dispatch-box in company
with a play-bill and an invitation to a wedding--the latter of which
had for the last seven years reposed in the self-same receptacle and
in the self-same position. Shortly afterwards there arrived a card of
invitation to the Governor's ball already referred to. In passing, it
may be said that such festivities are not infrequent phenomena in
county towns, for the reason that where Governors exist there must
take place balls if from the local gentry there is to be evoked that
respectful affection which is every Governor's due.

Thenceforth all extraneous thoughts and considerations were laid aside
in favour of preparing for the coming function. Indeed, this
conjunction of exciting and provocative motives led to Chichikov
devoting to his toilet an amount of time never witnessed since the
creation of the world. Merely in the contemplation of his features in
the mirror, as he tried to communicate to them a succession of varying
expressions, was an hour spent. First of all he strove to make his
features assume an air of dignity and importance, and then an air of
humble, but faintly satirical, respect, and then an air of respect
guiltless of any alloy whatsoever. Next, he practised performing a
series of bows to his reflection, accompanied with certain murmurs
intended to bear a resemblance to a French phrase (though Chichikov
knew not a single word of the Gallic tongue). Lastly came the
performing of a series of what I might call "agreeable surprises," in
the shape of twitchings of the brow and lips and certain motions of
the tongue. In short, he did all that a man is apt to do when he is
not only alone, but also certain that he is handsome and that no one
is regarding him through a chink. Finally he tapped himself lightly on
the chin, and said, "Ah, good old face!" In the same way, when he
started to dress himself for the ceremony, the level of his high
spirits remained unimpaired throughout the process. That is to say,
while adjusting his braces and tying his tie, he shuffled his feet in
what was not exactly a dance, but might be called the entr'acte of a
dance: which performance had the not very serious result of setting a
wardrobe a-rattle, and causing a brush to slide from the table to the
floor.

Later, his entry into the ballroom produced an extraordinary effect.
Every one present came forward to meet him, some with cards in their
hands, and one man even breaking off a conversation at the most
interesting point--namely, the point that "the Inferior Land Court
must be made responsible for everything." Yes, in spite of the
responsibility of the Inferior Land Court, the speaker cast all
thoughts of it to the winds as he hurried to greet our hero. From
every side resounded acclamations of welcome, and Chichikov felt
himself engulfed in a sea of embraces. Thus, scarcely had he
extricated himself from the arms of the President of the Local Council
when he found himself just as firmly clasped in the arms of the Chief
of Police, who, in turn, surrendered him to the Inspector of the
Medical Department, who, in turn, handed him over to the Commissioner
of Taxes, who, again, committed him to the charge of the Town
Architect. Even the Governor, who hitherto had been standing among his
womenfolk with a box of sweets in one hand and a lap-dog in the other,
now threw down both sweets and lap-dog (the lap-dog giving vent to a
yelp as he did so) and added his greeting to those of the rest of the
company. Indeed, not a face was there to be seen on which ecstatic
delight--or, at all events, the reflection of other people's ecstatic
delight--was not painted. The same expression may be discerned on the
faces of subordinate officials when, the newly arrived Director having
made his inspection, the said officials are beginning to get over
their first sense of awe on perceiving that he has found much to
commend, and that he can even go so far as to jest and utter a few
words of smiling approval. Thereupon every tchinovnik responds with a
smile of double strength, and those who (it may be) have not heard a
single word of the Director's speech smile out of sympathy with the
rest, and even the gendarme who is posted at the distant door--a man,
perhaps, who has never before compassed a smile, but is more
accustomed to dealing out blows to the populace--summons up a kind of
grin, even though the grin resembles the grimace of a man who is about
to sneeze after inadvertently taking an over-large pinch of snuff. To
all and sundry Chichikov responded with a bow, and felt
extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left did he
incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained, manner that was
his wont and never failed to charm the beholder. As for the ladies,
they clustered around him in a shining bevy that was redolent of every
species of perfume--of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so
much so that instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to snuff the air.
Likewise the ladies' dresses displayed an endless profusion of taste
and variety; and though the majority of their wearers evinced a
tendency to embonpoint, those wearers knew how to call upon art for
the concealment of the fact. Confronting them, Chichikov thought to
himself: "Which of these beauties is the writer of the letter?" Then
again he snuffed the air. When the ladies had, to a certain extent,
returned to their seats, he resumed his attempts to discern (from
glances and expressions) which of them could possibly be the unknown
authoress. Yet, though those glances and expressions were too subtle,
too insufficiently open, the difficulty in no way diminished his high
spirits. Easily and gracefully did he exchange agreeable bandinage
with one lady, and then approach another one with the short, mincing
steps usually affected by young-old dandies who are fluttering around
the fair. As he turned, not without dexterity, to right and left, he
kept one leg slightly dragging behind the other, like a short tail or
comma. This trick the ladies particularly admired. In short, they not
only discovered in him a host of recommendations and attractions, but
also began to see in his face a sort of grand, Mars-like, military
expression--a thing which, as we know, never fails to please the
feminine eye. Certain of the ladies even took to bickering over him,
and, on perceiving that he spent most of his time standing near the
door, some of their number hastened to occupy chairs nearer to his
post of vantage. In fact, when a certain dame chanced to have the good
fortune to anticipate a hated rival in the race there very nearly
ensued a most lamentable scene--which, to many of those who had been
desirous of doing exactly the same thing, seemed a peculiarly horrible
instance of brazen-faced audacity.

So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversation with his fair
pursuers--or rather, so deeply did those fair pursuers enmesh him in
the toils of small talk (which they accomplished through the expedient
of asking him endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his
brow in his attempts to guess them)--that he forgot the claims of
courtesy which required him first of all to greet his hostess. In
fact, he remembered those claims only on hearing the Governor's wife
herself addressing him. She had been standing before him for several
minutes, and now greeted him with suave expressement and the words,
"So HERE you are, Paul Ivanovitch!" But what she said next I am not
in a position to report, for she spoke in the ultra-refined tone and
vein wherein ladies and gentlemen customarily express themselves in
high-class novels which have been written by experts more qualified
than I am to describe salons, and able to boast of some acquaintance
with good society. In effect, what the Governor's wife said was that
she hoped--she greatly hoped--that Monsieur Chichikov's heart still
contained a corner--even the smallest possible corner--for those whom
he had so cruelly forgotten. Upon that Chichikov turned to her, and
was on the point of returning a reply at least no worse than that
which would have been returned, under similar circumstances, by the
hero of a fashionable novelette, when he stopped short, as though
thunderstruck.

Before him there was standing not only Madame, but also a young girl
whom she was holding by the hand. The golden hair, the fine-drawn,
delicate contours, the face with its bewitching oval--a face which
might have served as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since
it was of a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where nearly
everything, from plains to human feet, is, rather, on the gigantic
scale; these features, I say, were those of the identical maiden whom
Chichikov had encountered on the road when he had been fleeing from
Nozdrev's. His emotion was such that he could not formulate a single
intelligible syllable; he could merely murmur the devil only knows
what, though certainly nothing of the kind which would have risen to
the lips of the hero of a fashionable novel.

"I think that you have not met my daughter before?" said Madame. "She
is just fresh from school."

He replied that he HAD had the happiness of meeting Mademoiselle
before, and under rather unexpected circumstances; but on his trying
to say something further his tongue completely failed him. The
Governor's wife added a word or two, and then carried off her daughter
to speak to some of the other guests.

Chichikov stood rooted to the spot, like a man who, after issuing into
the street for a pleasant walk, has suddenly come to a halt on
remembering that something has been left behind him. In a moment, as
he struggles to recall what that something is, the mien of careless
expectancy disappears from his face, and he no longer sees a single
person or a single object in his vicinity. In the same way did
Chichikov suddenly become oblivious to the scene around him. Yet all
the while the melodious tongues of ladies were plying him with
multitudinous hints and questions--hints and questions inspired with a
desire to captivate. "Might we poor cumberers of the ground make so
bold as to ask you what you are thinking of?" "Pray tell us where lie
the happy regions in which your thoughts are wandering?" "Might we be
informed of the name of her who has plunged you into this sweet
abandonment of meditation?"--such were the phrases thrown at him. But
to everything he turned a dead ear, and the phrases in question might
as well have been stones dropped into a pool. Indeed, his rudeness
soon reached the pitch of his walking away altogether, in order that
he might go and reconnoitre wither the Governor's wife and daughter
had retreated. But the ladies were not going to let him off so easily.
Every one of them had made up her mind to use upon him her every
weapon, and to exhibit whatsoever might chance to constitute her best
point. Yet the ladies' wiles proved useless, for Chichikov paid not
the smallest attention to them, even when the dancing had begun, but
kept raising himself on tiptoe to peer over people's heads and
ascertain in which direction the bewitching maiden with the golden
hair had gone. Also, when seated, he continued to peep between his
neighbours' backs and shoulders, until at last he discovered her
sitting beside her mother, who was wearing a sort of Oriental turban
and feather. Upon that one would have thought that his purpose was to
carry the position by storm; for, whether moved by the influence of
spring, or whether moved by a push from behind, he pressed forward
with such desperate resolution that his elbow caused the Commissioner
of Taxes to stagger on his feet, and would have caused him to lose his
balance altogether but for the supporting row of guests in the rear.
Likewise the Postmaster was made to give ground; whereupon he turned
and eyed Chichikov with mingled astonishment and subtle irony. But
Chichikov never even noticed him; he saw in the distance only the
golden-haired beauty. At that moment she was drawing on a long glove
and, doubtless, pining to be flying over the dancing-floor, where,
with clicking heels, four couples had now begun to thread the mazes of
the mazurka. In particular was a military staff-captain working body
and soul and arms and legs to compass such a series of steps as were
never before performed, even in a dream. However, Chichikov slipped
past the mazurka dancers, and, almost treading on their heels, made
his way towards the spot where Madame and her daughter were seated.
Yet he approached them with great diffidence and none of his late
mincing and prancing. Nay, he even faltered as he walked; his every
movement had about it an air of awkwardness.

It is difficult to say whether or not the feeling which had awakened
in our hero's breast was the feeling of love; for it is problematical
whether or not men who are neither stout nor thin are capable of any
such sentiment. Nevertheless, something strange, something which he
could not altogether explain, had come upon him. It seemed as though
the ball, with its talk and its clatter, had suddenly become a