Dead Souls, Page 34

  The reader has perhaps already guessed that the visitor was none other than our respected, long-abandoned Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov. He had aged slightly: one could see that the time had not been without storms and anxieties for him. It seemed as if the very tailcoat on him had aged slightly, and that the britzka, and the coachman, and the servant, and the horses, and the harness were all as if a bit more scuffed and worn. It seemed as if the finances themselves were not in an enviable state. But the expression of his face, the decency, the manners had remained the same. He had even become as if still more agreeable in his movements and ways, still more deftly tucked his feet under when sitting in an armchair; there was still more softness in the enunciation of his speech, more prudent moderation in his words and expressions, more skill in his comportment, and more tact in everything. Whiter and cleaner than snow were his collar and shirtfront, and though he had only just come from the road, there was not a bit of fluff on his tailcoat—fit even for a party! His cheeks and chin were so clean-shaven that only a blind man could fail to admire their pleasant prominence and roundness.

  In the house a transformation took place. Half of it, hitherto abiding in blindness, with nailed shutters, suddenly recovered its sight and lit up. Luggage began to be carried in from the britzka. Everything began to settle itself in the lighted rooms, and soon it all acquired the following look: the room that was to be the bedroom accommodated the things necessary for the evening toilet; the room that was to be the study . . . But first of all it should be known that there were three tables in this room: one a writing table in front of the sofa, the second a card table between the windows by the wall, the third a corner table in the corner between the door to the bedroom and the door to a large, uninhabited room filled with disabled furniture. This corner table accommodated the clothing taken from the trunk—namely, trousers to go with a tailcoat, trousers to go with a frock coat, gray trousers, two velvet waistcoats and two of satin, a frock coat, and two tailcoats. (The white piqué waistcoats and summer trousers joined the linen in the chest of drawers.) All of this was stacked up in a little pyramid and covered with a silk handkerchief. In another corner, between the door and the window, boots were lined up side by side: boots that were not quite new, boots that were quite new, boots with new uppers, and patent leather shoes. These, too, were modestly curtained off by a silk handkerchief, as if they were not there. On the table between the two windows the little chest found a place for itself. On the writing table in front of the sofa— a briefcase, a bottle of eau de cologne, sealing wax, toothbrushes, a new calendar, and a couple of novels, both second volumes. The clean linen was put into a chest of drawers that was already in the room; the linen that was to go to the washerwoman was tied in a bundle and shoved under the bed. The trunk, once it was unpacked, was also shoved under the bed. The sword, too, found its place in the bedroom, hanging on a nail not far from the bed. Both rooms acquired a look of extraordinary cleanness and neatness. Not a scrap, not a speck, not a bit of litter. The very air became somehow ennobled. In it there was established the pleasant smell of a healthy, fresh man, who does not wear his linen long, goes to the bathhouse, and wipes himself with a wet sponge on Sundays. In a vestibule, the smell of the servant Petrushka first presumed to establish itself, but Petrushka was promptly relocated to the kitchen where he belonged.

  For the first few days Andrei Ivanovich feared for his independence, lest his guest somehow bind him, hinder him with some changes in his way of life, and the order of his day, so happily established, be violated—but his fears were in vain. Our Pavel Ivanovich showed an extraordinary flexibility in adapting to everything. He approved of the philosophical unhurriedness of his host, saying that it promised a hundred-year life. About solitude he expressed himself rather felicitously—namely, that it nursed great thoughts in a man. Having looked at the library and spoken with great praise of books in general, he observed that they save a man from idleness. In short, he let fall few words, but significant. In his actions, he acted still more appropriately. He came on time, and he left on time; he did not embarrass his host with questions during the hours of his taciturnity; with pleasure he would play chess with him, with pleasure he would be silent. While the one was sending up curly clouds of pipe smoke, the other, not a pipe smoker, nevertheless invented a corresponding activity: he would, for instance, take from his pocket a silver niello snuffbox and, placing it between two fingers of his left hand, spin it quickly with a finger of the right, just as the earthly sphere spins on its axis, or else he would simply drum on the snuffbox with his fingers, whistling some tune or other. In short, he did not hinder his host in any way. "For the first time I see a man one can get along with," Tentetnikov said to himself. "Generally we lack this art. There are plenty of people among us who are intelligent, and educated, and kind, but people who are constantly agreeable, people of a constantly even temper, people with whom one can live for ages without quarreling—I don't know that we can find many such people! Here is the first, the only man I've seen!" Such was Tentetnikov's opinion of his guest.

  Chichikov, for his part, was very glad to have settled for a while with such a peaceful and placid host. He was sick of the gypsy life. To have a bit of rest, at least for a month, on a wonderful estate, in view of the fields and the approaching spring, was useful even in the hemorrhoidal respect. It would have been hard to find a more reposeful little corner. Spring adorned it with an unutterable beauty. What brightness of green! What freshness of air! What birdcalls in the garden! Paradise, mirth, and exultant rejoicing in everything. The countryside resounded and sang as if newborn.

  Chichikov walked a lot. Sometimes he directed his steps over the flat top of the heights, with a view of the valleys spreading out below, where flooding rivers left big lakes everywhere; or else he would go into the ravines, where the trees, barely beginning to be adorned with leaves, were laden with birds' nests—and be deafened by the cawing of crows, the chatter of jackdaws, and the croaking of rooks that darkened the sky with their crisscross flight; or else he went down to the water meadows and burst dams, to watch the water rush with a deafening noise and fall upon the wheels of a mill; or else he made his way further to the pier, from which, borne along by the current, the first boats rushed, laden with peas, oats, barley, and wheat; or he set out for the first spring work in the fields, to watch the freshly ploughed furrow cutting a black stripe through the green, or the deft sower casting handfuls of seed evenly, accurately, not letting a single seed fall to one side or the other. He had discussions with the steward, the muzhiks, the miller, talking of what and of how, and of whether the harvest would be good, and how the ploughing was going, and how much grain they sell, and what they charged for grinding flour in the spring and fall, and what was the name of each muzhik, and who was related to whom, and where he had bought his cow, and what he fed his sow on—in short, everything. He also found out how many muzhiks had died. Not many, it turned out. Being an intelligent man, he noticed at once that Andrei Ivanovich's estate was not in good shape. Everywhere there was negligence, carelessness, theft, and not a little drunkenness. And mentally he said to himself: "What a brute Tentetnikov is, though! To so neglect an estate that could bring in at least fifty thousand a year!" And, unable to restrain his righteous indignation, he kept repeating: "Decidedly a brute!" More than once in the middle of these walks the thought occurred to him of himself becoming someday—that is, of course, not now but later on, when the main business was taken care of, and the means were in hand—of himself becoming the peaceful owner of such an estate. Here he usually pictured a young mistress, a fresh, fair-skinned wench, perhaps even of merchant class, though nonetheless educated and brought up like a gentlewoman—so that she also understood music, for, while music is, of course, not the main thing, still, since that is the custom, why go against the general opinion? He also pictured the younger generation that was to perpetuate the name of the Chichikovs: a frolicsome lad and a beautiful daughter, or even two boys, two or even three gi
rls, so that everyone would know that he had indeed lived and existed, and had not merely passed over the earth like some shadow or ghost—so that there would be no shame before the fatherland. He even pictured that a certain addition to his rank would not be amiss: state councillor, for instance, is a venerable and respectable rank . . . And much came into his head of the sort that so often takes a man away from the dull present moment, frets him, teases him, stirs him, and gives him pleasure even when he himself is sure that it will never come true.

  Pavel Ivanovich's servants also liked the estate. Like him, they made themselves at home there. Petrushka very soon made friends with the butler Grigory though at first they both put on airs and blustered before each other insufferably. Petrushka threw dust in Grigory's eyes by saying that he had been in Kostroma, Yaroslavl, Nizhni Novgorod, and even Moscow; Grigory immediately pulled him up short with Petersburg, where Petrushka had never been. The latter tried to rise and get his own back with the considerable remoteness of the places he had been; but Grigory named a place for him such as could not be found on any map, and reckoned it was over twenty thousand miles away, so that Petrushka stood like an owl, gaping, and was immediately laughed at by all the servants. However, matters ended between them in the closest friendship: bald Uncle Pimen kept a well-known pot-house at the end of the village, called "Akulka"; in this establishment they could be seen at all hours of the day. There they became fast friends, or what is known among the people as—pot-house fixtures.

  Selifan took a different sort of bait. Every evening in the village songs were sung, and spring round dances twined and untwined. Trim, well-built wenches, such as can hardly be found elsewhere, made him stand gawking for several hours. It was hard to say which one was better: they were all white-bosomed, white-necked, all with eyes like turnips, languishing, strutting like peacocks, with braids down to their waists. When, holding white hands in his own, he slowly moved in a circle with them, or came towards them in a wall with the other lads, while the hotly glowing evening died out, and the surrounding neighborhood slowly faded, and from away across the river came the faithful echo of an inevitably sad tune—he did not know himself what was happening to him. Long afterwards, in sleep or in waking, at dawn and at dusk, he kept imagining his hands holding those white hands and moving with them in a round dance. With a wave of the hand he would say: "Cursed wenches!"

  Chichikov's horses also liked their new abode. The shaft horse and the chestnut outrunner called Assessor, and that same dapple-gray which Selifan referred to as "a scoundrel of a horse," found their stay at Tentetnikov's far from dull, the oats of excellent quality, and the layout of the stables uncommonly convenient. Each stable was partitioned off, yet over the partitions one could see the other horses, so that if any of them, even the furthest off, suddenly got a notion to start whinnying, it was possible to respond in kind straightaway.

  In short, everyone settled as if into their own home. The reader may be astonished that Chichikov had so far not made a peep about the notorious souls. Perish the thought! Pavel Ivanovich had become very cautious with regard to the subject. Even if he had been dealing with perfect fools, he would not have started suddenly on it. And Tentetnikov, after all, reads books, philosophizes, tries to explain to himself the various reasons for everything—why and how. . . "No, devil take him! maybe I should start from the other end?" So thought Chichikov. Chatting frequently with the servants, he found out from them, among other things, that the master once used to visit his neighbor the general quite often, that there was a young miss at the general's, that the master had been sweet on the young miss, and the young miss on the master, too . . . but then suddenly they had a falling out over something and parted. He himself noticed that Andrei Ivanovich kept drawing some sort of heads with pencil or pen, all looking the same. Once, after dinner, spinning the silver snuffbox on its axis with his finger, as usual, he spoke thus:

  "You have everything, Andrei Ivanovich; only one thing is missing."

  "What is that?" the other responded, letting out curls of smoke.

  "A life's companion," said Chichikov.

  No reply came from Andrei Ivanovich. And with that the conversation ended.

  Chichikov was not embarrassed, he chose another moment, this time just before supper, and while talking about one thing and another, said suddenly:

  "But really, Andrei Ivanovich, it wouldn't do you any harm to get married."

  Not a word of reply came from Tentetnikov, as if the very mention of the subject was disagreeable to him.

  Chichikov was not embarrassed. For the third time he chose a moment, this time after supper, and spoke thus:

  "But all the same, whichever way I turn your circumstances, I see that you must get married: you'll fall into hypochondria."

  Whether it was that Chichikov's words this time were so convincing, or that Andrei Ivanovich's mood was somehow especially inclined to frankness, he sighed and said, sending up smoke from his pipe: "For all things one needs to be born lucky, Pavel Ivanovich," and he told everything as it had been, the whole story of his acquaintance with the general and its breakup.

  As Chichikov listened, word by word, to the whole affair and saw that because of one word such an incident had occurred, he was dumbfounded. For several minutes he looked intently into Tentetnikov's eyes and concluded: "Why, he's simply a perfect fool!"

  "Andrei Ivanovich, for pity's sake!" he said, taking both his hands. "Where's the insult? what's insulting in one familiar word?"

  "There's nothing insulting in the word itself," said Tentetnikov, "but the sense of the word, the voice in which it was uttered, that's where the insult lies. The word means: 'Remember, you're trash; I receive you only because there's no one better, but if some Princess Yuzyakin comes—you know your place, you stand by the door.' That's what it means!"

  As he said this, the placid and meek Andrei Ivanovich flashed his eyes, and in his voice the irritation of offended feelings could be heard.

  "But even if that is the sense of it—what matter?" said Chichikov.

  "What?" said Tentetnikov, looking intently into Chichikov's eyes. "You want me to continue visiting him after such an action?"

  "But what sort of action is that? It's not an action at all!" said Chichikov.

  "What a strange man this Chichikov is!" Tentetnikov thought to himself.

  "What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!" Chichikov thought to himself.

  "It's not an action, Andrei Ivanovich. It's simply a general's habit: they call everyone 'boy.' And, incidentally, why not allow it in a venerable, respectable man?"

  "That's another matter," said Tentetnikov. "If he were an old man, a poor man, not proud, not conceited, not a general, I would allow him to address me that way and even take it respectfully."

  "He's an utter fool!" Chichikov thought to himself. "To allow it to a ragamuffin, and not to a general!" And, following this reflection, he objected to him aloud, thus:

  "Very well, suppose he did insult you, but you also got even with him; he you, and you him. But to part forever on account of a trifle—for pity's sake, that's beyond anything! Why abandon an affair that's just begun? Once the goal has been chosen, one must push one's way through. No point in looking at a man who spits! Men are always spitting; you won't find anyone in the whole world who doesn't spit."

  Tentetnikov was completely taken aback by these words; dumbfounded, he stared into Pavel Ivanovich's eyes, thinking to himself: "A most strange man, though, this Chichikov!"

  "What an odd duck, though, this Tentetnikov!" Chichikov thought meanwhile.

  "Allow me to do something about this matter," he said aloud. "I could go to His Excellency and explain that on your part it occurred owing to misunderstanding, youth, an ignorance of men and the world."

  "I have no intention of groveling before him!" Tentetnikov said strongly.

  "God forbid you should grovel!" said Chichikov, crossing himself. "To influence with a word of admonition, like a sensible mediator, yes, b
ut to grovel. . . Excuse me, Andrei Ivanovich, for my good will and devotion, I never expected that you would take my words in such an offensive sense!"

  "Forgive me, Pavel Ivanovich, I am to blame!" Tentetnikov said, touched, and seizing both his hands in gratitude. "Your kind sympathy is precious to me, I swear! But let's drop this conversation, let's never speak of it again!"

  "In that case I'll simply go to the general without any reason," said Chichikov.

  "What for?" asked Tentetnikov, looking at Chichikov in bewilderment.

  "To pay my respects," said Chichikov.

  "What a strange man this Chichikov is!" thought Tentetnikov.

  "What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!" thought Chichikov.

  "Since my britzka," said Chichikov, "has not yet attained the proper condition, allow me to take your coach. I'll go and visit him tomorrow at around ten o'clock or so."

  "Good gracious, what a request! You are full master, choose any carriage you like, everything's at your disposal."

  They said good night and went to bed, not without reflecting on each other's strangeness.

  An odd thing, however: the next day, when Chichikov's horses were ready, and he leaped into the carriage with the ease of an almost military man, dressed in a new tailcoat, a white tie and waistcoat, and drove off to pay his respects to the general, Tentetnikov felt an agitation in his soul such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the rusty and drowsy course of his thoughts turned into an actively troubled one. A nervous excitement came over all the feelings of the sloth who hitherto had been sunk in careless indolence. Now he sat down on the sofa, now he went to the window, now he would take up a book, now he wanted to think—futile wanting!—thought refused to come into his head.