Dead Souls, Page 26

  "Only, forgive me, Ivan Andreevich," the police chief said suddenly, interrupting him, "you yourself said that Captain Kopeikin was missing an arm and a leg, while Chichikov ..."

  Here the postmaster cried out, slapped himself roundly on the forehead, and publicly in front of them all called himself a hunk of veal. He could not understand how it was that this circumstance had not occurred to him at the very beginning of his account, and admitted that the saying, "Hindsight is the Russian man's forte," was perfectly correct. However, a minute later he straightaway began dodging and tried to get out of it by saying that, anyhow, mechanics was very advanced in England, and one could see from the newspapers that someone there had devised wooden legs in such a way that, at the mere touch of a concealed spring, the legs would take a man into God knows what parts, so that afterwards it was even impossible to find him anywhere.

  But they all had great doubts about Chichikov being Captain Kopeikin, and found that the postmaster had way overshot his mark. However, they, for their part, also had no flies on them, and, prompted by the postmaster's sharp-witted surmise, went perhaps even further afield. Among the many shrewd suggestions of a sort, there was finally one—it is even strange to say it—that Chichikov might be Napoleon in disguise, that the English had long been envious of the greatness and vastness of Russia, and that several caricatures had even been published in which a Russian is shown talking with an Englishman. The Englishman stands and holds a dog behind him on a rope, and the dog represents Napoleon: "Watch out," he seems to be saying, "if there's anything wrong, I'll set this dog on you!"—and so now it might be that they let him go from the island of St. Helena, and now here he is sneaking into Russia as if he were Chichikov, when in fact he is not Chichikov at all.

  Of course, as far as believing it went, the officials did not believe it, but nevertheless they did fall to thinking and, each considering the matter in himself, found that Chichikov's face, if he turned and stood sideways, looked a lot like Napoleon's portrait. The police chief, who had served in the campaign of the year 'twelve and had seen Napoleon in person, also could not help admitting that he was no whit taller than Chichikov, and that, concerning his build, it was impossible to say he was too fat, and yet neither was he so very thin. Perhaps some readers will call all this incredible; to please them, the author is also ready to call all this incredible; but, unfortunately, it all happened precisely as it is being told, and what makes it more amazing still is that the town was not in some backwoods, but, on the contrary, no great distance from the two capitals.[50] However, it must be remembered that all this happened shortly after the glorious expulsion of the French. At that time all our landowners, officials, merchants, shop clerks, literate and even illiterate folk of every sort became sworn politicians for a good eight years at least. The Moscow Gazette and the Son of the Fatherland were mercilessly read to pieces and reached their last reader in shreds unfit for any use whatsoever. Instead of such questions as: "Well, my dear, how much did you get for a measure of oats?" or "Did you avail yourself of yesterday's snowfall?" people would say: "And what are they writing in the papers, has Napoleon been let go from his island again?" The merchants were very much afraid of that, because they believed completely in the prediction of a certain prophet who had been put in jail three years before; the prophet had come from no one knew where, in bast shoes and a raw sheepskin coat that stank terribly of rotten fish, and announced that Napoleon was the Antichrist and was kept on a chain of stone beyond the six walls and the seven seas, but afterwards he would break the chain and take possession of the whole world. For this prediction the prophet had landed, quite properly, in jail, but he had done his bit all the same and completely disturbed the merchants. For a long time after, even during the most profitable dealings, as they went to the tavern to wash them down with tea, the merchants kept muttering about the Antichrist. Many of the officials and nobility also kept thinking about it inadvertently and, infected with mysticism, which, as we know, was in great vogue then, saw some special meaning in every letter that made up the word "Napoleon"; many even discovered Apocalyptic numbers in it.[51] And so it is nothing surprising that our officials inadvertently kept pondering this point; soon, however, they checked themselves, noticing that their imaginations were galloping away with them, and that all this was not it. They thought and thought, talked and talked, and finally decided that it would not be a bad idea to question Nozdryov a little better. Since he was the first to bring out the story of the dead souls and was, as they say, in some close relationship with Chichikov, he therefore undoubtedly knew something about the circumstances of his life, so why not try again what Nozdryov would say.

  Strange people these gentlemen officials, and all other degrees along with them: they knew very well that Nozdryov was a liar, that not a single word of his could be trusted, not the least trifle, and nevertheless they resorted precisely to him. What are you going to do with man? He does not believe in God, yet he believes that if the bridge of his nose itches he is sure to die; he will pass by a poet's work, clear as day, all pervaded with harmony and the lofty wisdom of simplicity, and throw himself precisely on one in which some brave fellow bemuddles, befuddles, distorts, and perverts nature, and he likes it, and he starts shouting: "Here it is, the true knowledge of the hearts secrets!" All his life he cares not a penny for doctors, and it ends up with him turning finally to some village wench, who treats him with mumbling and spittle, or, better still, he himself invents some decoction of God knows what trash, which, lord knows why, he fancies is precisely the remedy for his ailment. Of course, the gentlemen officials can be partly excused by their truly difficult situation. A drowning man, they say, clutches even at a little splinter, and does not have sense enough at that moment to reflect that perhaps only a fly could go riding on a splinter, while he weighs as much as a hundred and fifty pounds, if not a full two hundred; but the thought does not enter his head at that moment, and he clutches at the splinter. So, too, our gentlemen clutched finally at Nozdryov. The police chief at once wrote him a little note kindly inviting him to a soirée, and a policeman in top boots and with an attractive glow to his cheeks ran off at once, holding his sword in place, skipping to Nozdryov's. Nozdryov was occupied with something very important; for a whole four days he had not left his room, would not let anyone in, and took his dinner through a little window— in short, he had even grown thin and green. The matter called for great attentiveness: it consisted of selecting from some tens of dozens of cards one pack, but the choicest, which could be relied upon like the most faithful friend. There was still at least two weeks of work to go; during all this time, Porfiry was to clean the mastiff pup's navel with a special brush and wash him with soap three times a day. Nozdryov was very angry that his solitude had been disturbed; first of all he sent the policeman to the devil, but, when he read in the police chief's note that there might be some pickings in it, because some novice was expected at the soirée, he softened at once, hastily locked his door with a key, got dressed haphazardly, and went to them. The evidence, testimony, and suppositions of Nozdryov presented such a sharp contrast to those of the gentlemen officials that even the last of their surmises were confounded. This was decidedly a man for whom there was no such thing as doubt; and as much as they were noticeably wavering and timid in their suppositions, so much was he firm and confident. He responded to all points without faltering in the least, declared that Chichikov had bought up several thousands' worth of dead souls, and that he himself had sold him some, because he saw no reason not to; to the question whether he was a spy and was trying to sniff something out, Nozdryov replied that he was a spy, that even at school, where they had studied together, he had been known as a tattletale, and that their comrades, himself included, had given him a bit of a drubbing for it, so that afterwards he had had to have two hundred and forty leeches put to his temples—that is, he meant to say forty, but the two hundred got said somehow of itself. To the question whether he was a maker of forged bills, he rep
lied that he was, and used the occasion to tell an anecdote about Chichikov's remarkable adroitness: how it had been found out once that there were in his house two million in forged banknotes, the house was sealed and a guard set on it, two soldiers for each door, and how Chichikov replaced them all in one night, so that the next day, when the seals were removed, they found that all the notes were genuine. To the question whether Chichikov indeed had the intention of carrying off the governor's daughter and was it true that he himself had undertaken to help and participate in the affair, Nozdryov replied that he had helped, and that if it had not been for him, nothing would have come of it—here he tried to check himself, seeing that he had lied quite needlessly and could thereby invite trouble, but he was no longer able to hold his tongue. However, it would also have been difficult to do so, because such interesting details emerged of themselves that it was simply impossible to give them up: the village was even mentioned by name, wherein was located the parish church in which the wedding was to take place— namely, the village of Trukhmachevka; the priest—Father Sidor; the fee for the wedding—seventy-five roubles, and he would not have agreed even for that had he not been frightened by the threat of a denunciation for having married the flour dealer Mikhailo and his kuma;[52] and that he had even given them his carriage and prepared a change of horses for each station. The details went so far that he was already beginning to give the names of the coachmen. They tried mentioning Napoleon, but were not happy they did, because Nozdryov began pouring out such drivel as not only had no semblance of truth, but had no semblance of anything whatsoever, so that the officials all sighed and walked away; only the police chief went on listening for a long time, thinking there might at least be something further on, but finally he waved his hand, saying: "Devil knows what it is!" And they all agreed that, however you push and pull, you'll never get milk from a bull. And the officials were left in a still worse position than they were in before, and the upshot of it was that there was simply no way of finding out what Chichikov was. And it became clear what sort of creature man is: wise, intelligent, and sensible in all that concerns others than himself; what discreet, firm advice he provides in life's difficult occasions! "What an efficient head!" cries the crowd. "What staunch character!" But let some trouble befall this efficient head, let him be put into one of life's difficult occasions himself, and what becomes of his character, the staunch fellow is all at a loss, he turns into a pathetic little coward, a nonentity, a weak child, or simply a foozle, as Nozdryov put it.

  All these discussions, opinions, and rumors, for some unknown reason, affected the poor prosecutor most of all. They affected him to such a degree that, on coming home, he started thinking and thinking, and suddenly, without a by-your-leave, as they say, he died. Whether he was seized by paralysis or by something else, in any case, as he sat there, he simply flopped off his chair onto his back. Clasping their hands, they cried out, as is customary: "Oh, my God!" and sent for the doctor to let his blood, but saw that the prosecutor was already a mere soulless body. Only then did they learn with commiseration that the deceased indeed had had a soul, though in his modesty he had never shown it. And yet the appearance of death was as terrible in a small as in a great man: he who not so long ago had walked, moved, played whist, signed various papers, and was seen so often among the officials with his bushy eyebrows and winking eye, was now lying on the table, his left eye not winking at all, but one eyebrow still raised with some quizzical expression. What the deceased was asking—why he had died, or why he had lived—God alone knows.

  But this, however, is incongruous! this is incompatible with anything! this is impossible—that officials should scare themselves so; to create such nonsense, to stray so far from the truth, when even a child could see what the matter was! So many readers will say, reproaching the author for incongruousness or calling the poor officials fools, because man is generous with the word "fool" and is ready to serve it up to his neighbor twenty times a day. It is enough to have one stupid side out of ten to be accounted a fool, aside from the nine good ones. It is easy for the reader to judge, looking down from his comfortable corner at the top, from which the whole horizon opens out, upon all that is going on below, where man can see only the nearest object. And in the world chronicle of mankind there are many whole centuries which, it would seem, should be crossed out and abolished as unnecessary. There have been many errors in the world which, it would seem, even a child would not make now. What crooked, blind, narrow, impassable, far-straying paths mankind has chosen, striving to attain eternal truth, while a whole straight road lay open before it, like the road leading to a magnificent dwelling meant for a king's mansions! Broader and more splendid than all other roads it is, lit by the sun and illumined all night by lamps, yet people have flowed past it in the blind darkness. So many times already, though guided by a sense come down from heaven, they have managed to waver and go astray, have managed in broad daylight to get again into an impassable wilderness, have managed again to blow a blinding fog into each other's eyes, and, dragging themselves after marsh-lights, have managed finally to reach the abyss, only to ask one another in horror: where is the way out, where is the path? The current generation now sees everything clearly, it marvels at the errors, it laughs at the folly of its ancestors, not seeing that this chronicle is all overscored by divine fire, that every letter of it cries out, that from everywhere the piercing finger is pointed at it, at this current generation; but the current generation laughs and presumptuously, proudly begins a series of new errors, at which their descendants will also laugh afterwards.

  Chichikov knew nothing whatsoever about all that. As luck would have it, he had caught a slight cold at the time—a swollen tooth and a minor throat infection, which the climate of many of our provincial towns is so generous in dispensing. So that his life should not, God forbid, somehow cease without posterity, he decided he had better stay home for about three days. During these days he constantly rinsed his throat with milk and fig, eating the fig afterwards, and went around with a camomile- and camphor-filled compress tied to his cheek. Wishing to occupy his time with something, he made several new and detailed lists of all the purchased peasants, even read some tome of the Duchess de La Vallière[53] that turned up in his trunk, looked through all the objects and little notes in the chest, read some over again, and all of it bored him greatly. He was simply unable to understand what it could mean that not one of the town officials had come even once to inquire after his health, whereas still recently there was a droshky constantly standing in front of the inn—now the postmaster's, now the prosecutor's, now the head magistrate's. He merely shrugged his shoulders as he paced the room. At last he felt better and was God knows how glad when he saw it was possible to go out into the fresh air. Without delay, he set about immediately with his toilet, unlocked his chest, poured hot water into a glass, took out brush and soap, and got down to shaving, for which, incidentally, it was high time and season, because, having felt his chin with his hand and glanced in the mirror, he had declared: "Eh, quite a forest scrawling there!" And, indeed, forest or not, there was a rather thick crop coming up all over his cheeks and chin. After shaving, he turned to dressing, so briskly and quickly that he all but jumped out of his trousers. Finally, dressed, sprinkled with eau de cologne, and wrapped up warmly, he took himself outside, having bound up his cheek as a precaution. His going out, as with any man who has recovered from an illness, was indeed festive. Whatever came his way acquired a laughing look: the houses, the passing muzhiks—who, incidentally, were rather serious, one of them having just managed to give his fellow a cuffing. He intended to pay his first call on the governor. On the way many different thoughts came to his mind; the blonde was whirling through his head, his imagination was even beginning to frolic slightly, and he himself was already starting to joke and chuckle at himself a bit. In this mood he found himself before the governor's entrance. He was already in the front hall, hastily throwing off his overcoat, when the doorkeeper stunned
him with the totally unexpected words:

  "I am ordered not to admit you!"

  "How? what's that? you obviously didn't recognize me? Take a closer look at my face!" Chichikov said to him.

  "How should I not recognize you, it's not the first time I'm seeing you," the doorkeeper said. "No, it's precisely you alone that I'm not to let in, all the rest are allowed."

  "Look at this, now! But why? What for?"

  "Them's the orders, so obviously it's proper," said the doorkeeper, adding to it the word "Yes." After which he stood before him totally at ease, not keeping that benign look with which he formerly used to hasten and take his overcoat from him. He seemed to be thinking, as he looked at him: "Oho! if the masters are showing you the door, then clearly you're some kind of riffraff!"

  "Incomprehensible!" Chichikov thought to himself, and set off straightaway for the head magistrate's, but the magistrate got so embarrassed on seeing him that he could not put two words together, and talked such rot that they both even felt ashamed. On leaving him, Chichikov tried his best as he went along to explain and make some sense of what the magistrate had meant and what his words might have referred to, but he was unable to understand anything. After that he called on others—the police chief, the vice-governor, the postmaster—but they all either did not receive him or received him so strangely, made such forced and incomprehensible conversation, were so much at a loss, and such a muddle came of it all, that he doubted the soundness of their brains. He tried calling on one or two others, to find out the reason at least, but he did not get at any reason. Like one half asleep, he wandered the town aimlessly, unable to decide whether he had gone out of his mind or the officials had lost their wits, whether it was all happening in a dream or reality had cooked up a folly worse than any dream. Late, almost at dusk, he returned to his inn, which he had left in such good spirits, and out of boredom ordered tea to be brought. Deep in thought and in some senseless reflection on the strangeness of his position, he began pouring tea, when suddenly the door of his room opened and there, quite unexpectedly, stood Nozdryov.