Dead Souls, Page 6

  "Oh, long ago now; or, rather, I don't remember."

  "And since that time how many of your peasants have died?"

  "I have no way of knowing; that's something I suppose you must ask the steward. Hey, boy! call the steward, he should be here today."

  The steward appeared. He was a man approaching forty, who shaved his beard, wore a frock coat, and apparently led a very comfortable life, because his face had about it the look of a certain puffy plumpness, and his little eyes and the yellowish tint of his skin showed that he knew all too well what goose down and feather beds were. One could see at once that he had made his way in life as all estate stewards do: had first been simply a literate boy about the house, then married some housekeeper Agashka, the mistress's favorite, became a housekeeper himself, and then steward. And having become steward, he behaved, naturally, like all stewards: hobnobbed with villagers of the wealthier sort; put additional taxes on the poorer ones; woke up past eight in the morning, waited for the samovar, and drank his tea.

  "Listen, my good man! how many of our peasants have died since we filed the census report?"

  "Who knows? Quite a lot have died since then," said the steward, and with that he hiccuped, covering his mouth slightly with his hand, as with a little screen.

  "Yes, I confess, I thought so myself," Manilov picked up, "precisely, quite a lot have died!" Here he turned to Chichikov and added again: "Exactly, quite a lot."

  "How many, for instance?" asked Chichikov.

  "Yes, how many?" picked up Manilov.

  "Who knows how many? It's not known what number died, nobody counted them."

  "Yes, precisely," said Manilov, turning to Chichikov, "I thought so, too, a high mortality; it's quite unknown how many died."

  "Count them all up, please," said Chichikov, "and make a detailed list of them all by name."

  "Yes, all by name," said Manilov.

  The steward said "Yes, sir!" and left.

  "And for what reasons do you need this?" Manilov asked after the steward had gone.

  This question, it seemed, embarrassed the guest, on whose face there appeared a sort of strained expression, which even made him blush—the strain of expressing something not quite amenable to words. And, indeed, Manilov finally heard such strange and extraordinary things as had never yet been heard by human ears.

  "You ask, for what reasons? These are the reasons: I would like to buy peasants . . . ," Chichikov said, faltered, and did not finish his speech.

  "But allow me to ask you," said Manilov, "how do you wish to buy them: with land, or simply to have them resettled—that is, without land?"

  "No, it's not quite peasants," said Chichikov, "I would like to have dead ..."

  "How's that, sir? Excuse me . . . I'm somewhat hard of hearing, I thought I heard a most strange word ..."

  "I propose to acquire dead ones, who would, however, be counted in the census as living," said Chichikov.

  Manilov straightaway dropped his long-stemmed chibouk on the floor, and as his mouth gaped open, so he remained with gaping mouth for the course of several minutes. The two friends, who had been discussing the agreeableness of the life of friendship, remained motionless, their eyes fixed on each other, like those portraits which in the old days used to be hung facing each other on either side of a mirror. Finally Manilov picked up the chibouk and looked into his face from below, trying to see whether there was a smile on his face, whether he was joking; but there was nothing of the sort to be seen; on the contrary, the face seemed even more staid than usual; then he thought his guest might by chance have gone off his head somehow, and in fear he looked intently at him; but the guest's eyes were completely clear, there was in them none of the wild, anguished fire that flickers in the eyes of a madman, everything was decent and in order. However hard Manilov thought about how to behave and what to do, he could think up nothing other than simply to release the remaining smoke from his mouth in a very thin stream.

  "And so, I would like to know whether you might turn over to me, cede, or however you deem best, those not alive in reality, but alive with respect to legal form?"

  But Manilov was so abashed and confused that he simply stared at him.

  "It seems you're hesitant... ?" observed Chichikov.

  "I? . . . no, it's not that," said Manilov, "but I cannot grasp . . . excuse me ... I, of course, could not have received such a brilliant education as is perceivable, so to speak, in your every movement; I have no lofty art of expression . . . Here, it may be ... in this explanation just expressed by you . . . something else is concealed ... It may be that you were pleased to express it thus for the beauty of the style?"

  "No," Chichikov picked up, "no, I mean the subject just as it is, that is, those souls which, indeed, have already died."

  Manilov was utterly at a loss. He felt he had to say something, to offer a question, but what question—devil knew. He finished finally by letting out smoke again, only not through his mouth this time, but through the nostrils of his nose.

  "And so, if there are no obstacles, with God's help we can proceed to draw up the deed of purchase," said Chichikov.

  "What, a deed for dead souls?"

  "Ah, no!" said Chichikov. "We will write that they are living, just as it actually stands in the census report. It is my habit never to depart from civil law in anything, though I did suffer for it in the service, but do excuse me: duty is a sacred thing for me, the law—I stand mute before the law."

  These last words pleased Manilov, but all the same he by no means caught the drift of the matter itself, and instead of an answer began sucking so hard on his chibouk that it finally started wheezing like a bassoon. It seemed as if he wanted to pull from it an opinion concerning such an unheard-of circumstance; but the pipe wheezed, and that was all.

  "It may be that you have some sort of doubts?"

  "Oh! good gracious, not a whit. What I say of it is not because I might have some, that is, critical prejudication about you. But allow me to state, won't this undertaking, or, to better express it, so to speak, this negotiation—won't this negotiation be inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia?"

  Here Manilov, having made a certain movement with his head, looked very meaningly into Chichikov's face, showing in all the features of his own face and in his compressed lips such a profound expression as, it may be, has never yet been seen on a human face, except perhaps of some very clever minister, and then in the moment of a most brain-racking affair.

  But Chichikov said simply that such an undertaking, or negotiation, was by no means inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia, and a moment later added that the treasury would even profit by it, for it would receive the legal fees.

  "So you suppose ...”

  "I suppose it will be a good thing."

  "Ah, if it's good, that's another matter: I have nothing against it," said Manilov, and he calmed down completely.

  "Now it remains to agree on the price."

  "What price?" Manilov said again and paused. "Do you really think I will take money for souls which, in a certain sense, have ended their existence? If you have indeed been visited by this, so to speak, fantastic desire, then I, for my part, will turn them over to you disinterestedly and take the fees upon myself."

  It would be a great reproach to the historian of the events set forth here if he failed to say that, after these words uttered by Manilov, the guest was overcome with delight. Staid and sensible though he was, he almost performed a leap after the manner of a goat, which, as we know, is performed only under the strongest impulses of joy. He turned so sharply in the armchair that the woolen fabric of the cushion burst; Manilov himself looked at him in some bewilderment. Moved by gratitude, he straightaway produced such a heap of thankful words that the other became confused, blushed all over, producing a negative gesture with his head, and finally expressed the opinion that it was a veritable nothing, that he indeed wanted to prove somehow his heart
's inclination, the magnetism of the soul, and that the deceased souls were in a way sheer trash.

  "By no means trash," said Chichikov, pressing his hand. Here a very profound sigh was emitted. It seemed he was in the mood for outpourings of the heart; not without feeling and expression he finally uttered the following words: "If you only knew what a service you have just rendered, with this ostensible trash, to a man without kith or kin! Yes, really and truly, is there anything I have not suffered? like some bark amidst the savage waves . . . How persecuted, how victimized I have been, what grief I have tasted, and for what? for having observed the truth, for being of pure conscience, for holding my hand out to the helpless widow and the hapless orphan! ...” At this point he even wiped away an impending tear with his handkerchief.

  Manilov was thoroughly touched. The two friends pressed each other's hands for a long time and silently gazed for a long time into each other's eyes, in which welled-up tears could be seen. Manilov simply would not let our hero's hand go and went on pressing it so warmly that the latter could see no way of rescuing it. Finally, having quietly pulled it free, he said it would not be a bad thing to draw up the deed of purchase speedily, and it would be nice if he himself came to town for a visit. Then he took his hat and began bowing out.

  "What? you want to leave already?" said Manilov, suddenly coming to himself and almost frightened.

  At that moment Mrs. Manilov came into the study.

  "Lizanka," said Manilov, with a somewhat pitiful look, "Pavel Ivanovich is leaving us!"

  "Because Pavel Ivanovich is tired of us," replied Mrs. Manilov.

  "Madame! here," said Chichikov, "here is the place"—and with that he put his hand over his heart—"yes, it is here that the agreeableness of the time spent with you will abide! and believe me, there could be no greater bliss for me than to live with you, if not in the same house, then at least in the nearest vicinity."

  "You know, Pavel Ivanovich," said Manilov, who liked this thought very much, "it would indeed be so nice if we were to live somehow together, beneath one roof, or beneath the shade of some elm to philosophize about something, to delve deeper! ..."

  "Oh! that would be a paradisal life!" said Chichikov, sighing. "Good-bye, madam!" he went on, coming up to kiss Mrs. Manilov's hand. "Good-bye, most esteemed friend! Don't forget my request!"

  "Oh, rest assured!" replied Manilov. "I am parting with you for no longer than two days."

  Everyone went out to the dining room.

  "Good-bye, dear little ones!" said Chichikov, seeing Alkides and Themistoclus, who were occupied with some wooden hussar that already lacked an arm and a nose. "Good-bye, my tots. You must excuse me for not bringing you any presents, because, I confess, I didn't even know that you were living in the world, but now I'll be sure to bring something when I come. I'll bring you a sword—want a sword?"

  "Yes," replied Themistoclus.

  "And you a drum, right? a drum for you?" he went on, bending down to Alkides.

  "Dwum," Alkides replied in a whisper, hanging his head.

  "Fine, I'll bring you a drum. A real nice drum, it'll go like this: turrr . . . ru . . . tra-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta . . . Good-bye, sweetie, goodbye!" Here he kissed him on the head and turned to Manilov and his spouse with a little laugh, such as one commonly addresses to parents in letting them know the innocence of their children's wishes.

  "Stay, really, Pavel Ivanovich!" Manilov said, when everyone had already come out on the porch. "Look, what clouds!"

  "Tiny little clouds," replied Chichikov.

  "And do you know the way to Sobakevich's?"

  "I wanted to ask you about that."

  "Allow me, I'll explain to your coachman right now." Here Manilov, with the same courtesy, explained the matter to the coachman and once even said "sir" to him.

  The coachman, hearing that he should skip two turns and take the third, said, "We'll do fine, your honor"—and Chichikov left, accompanied for a long time by the bowing and handkerchief waving of his standing-on-tiptoe hosts.

  Manilov stood for a long time on the porch, watching the departing britzka, and when it became quite invisible, he still stood there smoking his pipe. Finally he went inside, sat down on a chair, and gave himself over to reflection, rejoicing in his soul at having given his guest some small pleasure. Then his thoughts imperceptibly turned to other subjects and finally went off God knows where. He was thinking about the well-being of a life of friendship, about how nice it would be to live with a friend on the bank of some river, then a bridge began to be built across this river, then an enormous house with such a high belvedere that one could even see Moscow from it and drink tea there of an evening in the open air while discussing agreeable subjects. Then that he and Chichikov arrived together at some gathering in fine carriages, where they enchanted everyone with the agreeableness of their manners, and that the sovereign, supposedly learning there was such friendship between them, made them generals, and beyond that, finally, God knows what, something he himself could no longer figure out. Chichikov's strange request suddenly interrupted all his reveries. The thought of it somehow especially refused to get digested in his head: whichever way he turned it, he simply could not explain it to himself, and all the while he sat and smoked his pipe, which went on right up to suppertime.

  Chapter Three

  And Chichikov in a contented state of mind was sitting in his britzka, which had long been rolling down the high road. From the previous chapter it will already be clear what constituted the chief subject of his taste and inclinations, and therefore it is no wonder that he was soon immersed in it body and soul. The speculations, estimates, and considerations that wandered over his face were, apparently, very agreeable, for at every moment they left behind them traces of a contented smile. Occupied with them, he paid not the slightest attention to his coachman, who, content with his reception by Manilov's household serfs, was making most sensible observations to the dappled gray outrunner harnessed on the right side. This dappled gray horse was extremely sly and only made a show of pulling, while the bay shaft horse and the chestnut outrunner, who was called Assessor because he had been acquired from some assessor, put their whole hearts into it, so that the satisfaction they derived from it could even be read in their eyes. "Fox away, fox away! I'll still outfox you!" Selifan said, rising a little and lashing the lazybones with his whip. "To learn you your business, you German pantaloon! The bay's a respectable horse, he does his duty, and I'll gladly give him an extra measure, because he's a respectable horse, and Assessor's a good horse, too . . . Well, well, why are you twitching your ears? Listen to what you're told, fool! I won't learn you anything bad, you lout! Look at him crawling!" Here he lashed him again with the whip, adding: "Ooh, barbarian! Cursed Bonaparte!" Then he yelled at all of them: "Hup, my gentles!" and whipped all three of them, not with a view to punishment this time, but to show he was pleased with them. Having given them this pleasure, he again addressed his speech to the dapple-gray: "You think you can hide your behavior. No, you must live by the truth, if you want to be shown respect. At that landowner's now, where we were, they were good people. It's a pleasure for me to talk, if it's with a good man; with a good man I'm always friends, fine companions: whether it's having tea, or a bite to eat—I'm game, if it's with a good man. To a good man everybody shows respect. Our master, now, everybody honors him, because he was in the goverman's service, he's a scollegiate councillor ..."

  Reasoning thus, Selifan wound up finally in the most remote abstractions. If Chichikov had lent an ear to it, he would have learned many details relating to himself personally; but his thoughts were so occupied with his subject that only a loud clap of thunder made him come to himself and look around: the whole sky was completely covered with dark clouds, and the dusty post road was sprinkled with drops of rain. Finally a clap of thunder came louder and nearer, and it suddenly started pouring buckets. At first, assuming an oblique direction, the rain lashed against one side of the kibitka's body, then against the other,
then, changing its manner of attack and becoming completely straight, it drummed straight down on the top; splashes finally started flying as far as his face. This induced him to draw the leather curtains with their two round little windows, intended for the viewing of roadside scenes, and order Selifan to drive faster. Selifan, also interrupted in the middle of his speech, realized that he indeed should not dawdle, straightaway pulled some rag of gray flannel from under his seat, thrust his arms into the sleeves, seized the reins in his hands, and yelled to his troika, which had barely been moving its legs, for it felt agreeably relaxed as a result of his instructive speeches. But Selifan simply could not recall whether he had passed two or three turns. Thinking back and recalling the road somewhat, he realized that there had been many turns, all of which he had skipped. Since a Russian man in a critical moment finds what to do without going into further reasonings, he shouted, after turning right at the next crossroads: "Hup, my honored friends!" and started off at a gallop, thinking little of where the road he had taken would lead him.

  It looked, however, as if the rain was not going to let up soon. The dust lying in the road was quickly churned to mud, and it became harder every moment for the horses to pull the britzka. Chichikov was already beginning to worry greatly, going so long without sighting Sobakevich's estate. By his reckoning, they should have arrived long ago. He peered out both sides, but it was as dark as the bottom of a well.

  "Selifan!" he said finally, poking himself out of the britzka.

  "What, master?" answered Selifan.

  "Look around, don't you see the village?"

  "No, master, it's nowhere to be seen!" After which Selifan, brandishing his whip, struck up, not really a song, but something so long that there was even no end to it. Everything went into it: every inciting and inviting cry to which horses all over Russia, from one end to the other, are treated; adjectives of every sort without further discrimination, whatever came first to his tongue. In this fashion things reached a point where he finally started calling them secretaries.