Dead Souls, Page 41

  "Come, now—thirty thousand! The estate is neglected, people have died, and you want thirty thousand! Take twenty-five."

  "Pavel Ivanovich! I could mortgage it for twenty-five thousand, you see? Then I'd get the twenty-five thousand and the estate would stay mine. I'm selling only because I need money quickly, and mortgaging means red tape, I'd have to pay the clerks, and I have nothing to pay them."

  "Well, take the twenty-five thousand anyway."

  Platonov felt ashamed for Chichikov.

  "Buy it, Pavel Ivanovich," he said. "Any estate is worth that price. If you won't give thirty thousand for it, my brother and I will get together and buy it."

  Chichikov got frightened . . .

  "All right!" he said. "I'll pay you thirty thousand. Here, I'll give you two thousand now as a deposit, eight thousand in a week, and the remaining twenty thousand in a month."

  "No, Pavel Ivanovich, only on condition that I get the money as soon as possible. Give me at least fifteen thousand now, and the rest no later than two weeks from now."

  "But I don't have fifteen thousand! I have only ten thousand now. Let me get it together."

  In other words, Chichikov was lying: he had twenty thousand.

  "No, Pavel Ivanovich, if you please! I tell you that I must have fifteen thousand."

  "But, really, I'm short five thousand. I don't know where to get it myself."

  "I'll lend it to you," Platonov picked up.

  "Perhaps, then!" said Chichikov, and he thought to himself: "Quite opportune, however, that he should lend it to me: in that case I can bring it tomorrow." The chest was brought in from the carriage, and ten thousand were taken from it for Khlobuev; the remaining five were promised for the next day: promised, yes; but the intention was to bring three; and the rest later, in two or three days, and, if possible, to delay a bit longer still. Pavel Ivanovich somehow especially disliked letting money leave his hands. And if there was an extreme necessity, still it seemed better to him to hand over the money tomorrow and not today. That is, he acted as we all do! We enjoy showing the petitioner the door. Let him cool his heels in the anteroom! As if he couldn't wait! What do we care that every hour, perhaps, is dear to him, and his affairs are suffering for it! "Come tomorrow, brother, today I somehow have no time."

  "And where are you going to live afterwards?" Platonov asked Khlobuev. "Have you got another little estate?"

  "No little estate, but I'll move to town. That had to be done in any case, not for ourselves but for the children. They'll need teachers of catechism, music, dance. One can't get that in the country."

  "Not a crust of bread, and he wants to teach his children to dance!" thought Chichikov.

  "Strange!" thought Platonov.

  "Well, we must drink to the deal," said Khlobuev. "Hey, Kiryushka, bring us a bottle of champagne, brother."

  "Not a crust of bread, yet he's got champagne!" thought Chichikov.

  Platonov did not know what to think.

  The champagne was brought. They drank three glasses each and got quite merry. Khlobuev relaxed and became intelligent and charming. Witticisms and anecdotes poured ceaselessly from him. There turned out to be much knowledge of life and the world in his talk! He saw many things so well and so correctly, he sketched his neighboring landowners in a few words, so aptly and so cleverly, saw so clearly everyone's defects and mistakes, knew so well the story of the ruined gentry—why, and how, and for what reason they had been ruined—was able to convey so originally and aptly their smallest habits, that the two men were totally enchanted by his talk and were ready to acknowledge him a most intelligent man.

  "Listen," said Platonov, seizing his hand, "how is it that with such intelligence, experience, and knowledge of life, you cannot find ways of getting out of your difficult position?"

  "Oh, there are ways!" said Khlobuev, and forthwith unloaded on them a whole heap of projects. They were all so absurd, so strange, so little consequent upon a knowledge of people and the world, that it remained only to shrug one's shoulders and say: "Good lord! what an infinite distance there is between knowledge of the world and the ability to use that knowledge!" Almost all the projects were based on the need for suddenly procuring a hundred or two hundred thousand somewhere. Then, it seemed to him, everything could be arranged properly, and the management would get under way, and all the holes would be patched, and the income would be quadrupled, and it would be possible for him to repay all his debts. And he would end with the words: "But what do you want me to do? There simply is no such benefactor as would decide to lend me two hundred or at least one hundred thousand! Clearly, God is against it."

  "What else," thought Chichikov. "As if God would send such a fool two hundred thousand!"

  "There is this aunt of mine who's good for three million," said Khlobuev, "a pious little old lady: she gives to churches and monasteries, but she's a bit tight about helping her neighbor. And she's a very remarkable little old lady. An aunt from olden times, worth having a look at. She has some four hundred canaries alone. Lapdogs, and lady companions, and servants such as don't exist nowadays. The youngest of her servants is about sixty, though she shouts 'Hey, boy!' to him. If a guest behaves improperly somehow, she orders him bypassed one course at dinner. And they actually do it."

  Platonov laughed.

  "And what is her last name, and where does she live?" asked Chichikov.

  "She lives here in town—Alexandra Ivanovna Khanasarova."

  "Why don't you turn to her?" Platonov said sympathetically.

  "It seems to me, if she just entered a little more into the situation of your family, she'd be unable to refuse you, however tight she is."

  "Ah, no, quite able! My aunt has a hard character. This little old lady is a rock, Platon Mikhalych! And there are already enough toadies hanging around her without me. There's one there who is after a governorship, foisted himself off as her relative . . . God help him! maybe he'll succeed! God help them all! I never knew how to fawn, and now less than ever: my back doesn't bend anymore."

  "Fool!" thought Chichikov. "I'd look after such an aunt like a nanny looking after a child!"

  "Well, now, such talk makes one dry," said Khlobuev. "Hey, Kiryushka! bring us another bottle of champagne."

  "No, no, I won't drink any more," said Platonov.

  "Nor I," said Chichikov. And they both declined resolutely.

  "Then at least give me your word that you'll visit me in town: on the eighth of June I'm giving a dinner for our town dignitaries."

  "For pity's sake!" exclaimed Platonov. "In this situation, completely ruined—and still giving dinners?"

  "What can I do? I must. It's my duty," said Khlobuev. "They've also invited me."

  "What's to be done with him?" thought Platonov. He still did not know that in Russia, in Moscow and other cities, there are such wizards to be found, whose life is an inexplicable riddle. He seems to have spent everything, is up to his ears in debt, has no resources anywhere, and the dinner that is being given promises to be the last; and the diners think that by the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Ten years pass after that—the wizard is still holding out in the world, is up to his ears in debt more than ever, and still gives a dinner in the same way, and everybody thinks it will be the last, and everybody is sure that the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Khlobuev was such a wizard. Only in Russia can one exist in such a way. Having nothing, he welcomed visitors, gave parties, and even patronized and encouraged all sorts of actors passing through town, boarded them and lodged them in his house. If someone were to peek into the house he had in town, he would never know who the owner was. One day a priest in vestments served a molieben[65] there, the next day French actors were having a rehearsal. Once someone unknown to nearly everyone in the house installed himself in the drawing room with his papers and set up an office there, without embarrassing or troubling anyone in the house, as if it were an ordinary thing. Sometimes there was not a crumb in the house for whole days,
and sometimes such dinners were given as would satisfy the taste of the most refined gastronome. The host would appear festive, gay, with the bearing of a wealthy gentleman, with the step of a man whose life is spent amid ease and plenty. At times, on the other hand, there were such hard moments that someone else in his place would have hanged or shot himself. But he was saved by a religious sense, which was strangely combined in him with his wayward life. In these hard, bitter moments he would open a book and read the lives of those toilers and sufferers who trained their spirit to rise above sufferings and misfortunes. His soul softened at such times, his spirit became tender, and his eyes filled with tears. And—strange thing!—at such moments unexpected help would always come to him from somewhere. Either one of his old friends would remember him and send him money; or some unknown lady traveler, chancing to hear his story, would, with the impetuous magnanimity of a woman's heart, send him a generous donation; or some lawsuit, of which he had never heard, would be won in his favor. With reverence, with gratitude, he would then acknowledge the boundless mercy of Providence, have a molieben of thanksgiving served, and— again begin his wayward life.

  "I'm sorry for him, really, I am!" Platonov said to Chichikov, when, after saying good-bye, they left him.

  "A prodigal son!" said Chichikov. "There's no point in being sorry for such people."

  And soon they both stopped thinking about him. Platonov, because he looked upon people's situations lazily and half-sleepily, just as upon everything else in the world. His heart commiserated and was wrung at the sight of others' suffering, but the impressions somehow did not get deeply impressed on his soul. He did not think about Khlobuev because he also did not think about himself. Chichikov did not think about Khlobuev because all his thoughts were taken up with the acquired property. He counted, calculated, and figured out all the profits of the purchased estate. And however he considered it, whichever side of the deal he looked at, he saw that the purchase was in any case profitable. He might do it in such a way that the estate got mortgaged. He might do it in such a way that only the dead and the runaways got mortgaged. He could also do it so that all the best parts were sold off first, and only then mortgage it. He could also arrange it so that he himself managed the estate and became a landowner after the fashion of Kostanzhoglo, drawing on his advice as a neighbor and benefactor. He could even do it in such a way that the estate was resold into private hands (if he did not feel like managing it himself, of course), and keep the runaway and dead ones for himself. Then another profit presented itself: he could slip away from those parts altogether without paying this Kostanzhoglo the borrowed money. In short, whichever way he turned the deal, he saw that in any case the purchase was profitable. He felt pleasure—pleasure at having now become a landowner, not a fantastic landowner, but a real one, a landowner who already had land, and forests, and people—not dream people, who dwell in imagination, but existing ones. And gradually he began hopping up and down, and rubbing his hands, and humming, and mumbling, and he trumpeted out some march on his fist, putting it to his lips like a trumpet, and even uttered several encouraging words and appellations for himself, in the genre of snookums and sweetie pie. But then, remembering that he was not alone, he suddenly quieted down, and tried to stifle somehow this immoderate fit of inspiration, and when Platonov, taking some of these sounds for speech addressed to him, asked him: "What?"—he replied: "Nothing."

  Only here, looking around him, did he notice that they were driving through a beautiful grove; a comely fence of birches stretched to right and left of them. Between the trees flashed a white stone church. At the end of the street a gentleman appeared, coming to meet them, in a peaked cap, with a knobby stick in his hand. A sleek English hound was running on long legs in front of him.

  "Stop!" Platonov said to the coachman, and jumped out of the carriage.

  Chichikov also got out of the carriage behind him. They went on foot to meet the gentleman. Yarb had already managed to exchange kisses with the English hound, with whom he had obviously been long acquainted, because he offered his fat muzzle indifferently to receive a lively kiss from Azor (so the English hound was called). The frisky hound named Azor, having kissed Yarb, ran up to Platonov, licked his hands with his frisky tongue, leaped up at Chichikov's chest intending to lick his lips, did not make it, and, having been pushed away, ran again to Platonov, to try at least to lick him on the ear.

  Platon and the gentleman who was coming to meet them came together at that moment and embraced each other.

  "For pity's sake, brother Platon! what are you doing to me?" the gentleman asked animatedly.

  "What do you mean?" Platon replied indifferently.

  "What, indeed! For three days not a word, not a peep from you! The stableboy brought your horse from Petukh. 'He went off with some gentleman,' he said. Well, send word at least: where, why, and how long? For pity's sake, brother, how could you do such a thing? God knows what I've been thinking all these days!"

  "Well, what can I do? I forgot," said Platonov. "We stopped at Konstantin Fyodorovich's . . . He sends his respects to you, and sister does, too. Allow me to introduce Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov. Pavel Ivanovich—my brother Vassily. I beg you to love him as you do me."

  Brother Vassily and Chichikov took off their caps and kissed each other.

  "Who might this Chichikov be?" thought brother Vassily. "Brother Platon isn't fastidious about his acquaintances, he certainly did not find out what sort of man he is." And he looked Chichikov over as far as decency allowed, and saw that he was standing with his head slightly inclined, and had an agreeable look on his face.

  For his part, Chichikov also looked brother Vassily over as far as decency allowed. He was shorter than Platon, his hair was darker, and his face far less handsome; but in the features of his face there was much life and animation. One could see that he did not dwell in drowsiness and hibernation.

  "You know what I've decided, Vassily?" brother Platon said.

  "What?" asked Vassily.

  "To take a trip around holy Russia with Pavel Ivanovich here: it may just loosen and limber up my spleen."

  "How did you decide so suddenly ... ?" Vassily started to say, seriously perplexed by such a decision, and he almost added: "And, what's more, think of going with a man you've never seen before, who may be trash or devil knows what!" And, filled with mistrust, he began studying Chichikov out of the corner of his eye, and saw that he behaved with extraordinary decency, keeping his head agreeably inclined a bit to one side, and with the same respectfully cordial expression on his face, so that there was no way of knowing what sort of man Chichikov was.

  Silently the three of them walked down the road, to the left of which there was a white stone church flashing among the trees, and to the right the buildings of the master's house, which were also beginning to appear among the trees. At last the gates appeared. They entered the courtyard, where stood the old manor house under its high roof. Two enormous lindens growing in the middle of the courtyard covered almost half of it with their shade. Through their low-hanging, bushy branches the walls of the house barely flickered from behind. Under the lindens stood several long benches. Brother Vassily invited Chichikov to be seated. Chichikov sat down, and Platonov sat down. The whole courtyard was filled with the fragrance of flowering lilacs and bird cherry, which, hanging from the garden into the yard on all sides over the very pretty birch fence that surrounded it, looked like a flowering chain or a bead necklace crowning it.

  An adroit and deft lad of about seventeen, in a handsome pink cotton shirt, brought and set down before them carafes of water and a variety of many-colored kvasses that fizzed like lemonade. Having set the carafes down before them, he went over to a tree and, taking the hoe that was leaning against it, went to the garden. All the household serfs of the Platonov brothers worked in the garden, all the servants were gardeners, or, better, there were no servants, but the gardeners sometimes performed their duties. Brother Vassily always maintained that one could d
o without servants. Anyone can bring anything, and it was not worth having a special class of people for that; the Russian man is good, efficient, handsome, nimble, and hardworking only as long as he goes about in a shirt and homespun jacket, but as soon as he gets into a German frock coat, he becomes awkward, uncomely, inefficient, and lazy. He maintained that he keeps himself clean only so long as he wears a shirt and homespun jacket, but as soon as he gets into a German frock coat, he stops changing his shirt, does not go to the bathhouse, sleeps in the frock coat, and under it breeds bedbugs, fleas, and devil knows what. In this he may even have been right. The people on their estate dressed somehow especially neatly and nattily, and one would have had to go far to find such handsome shirts and jackets.

  "Would you care for some refreshment?" brother Vassily said to Chichikov, pointing to the carafes. "These are kvasses of our own making; our house has long been famous for them."

  Chichikov poured a glass from the first carafe—just like the linden mead he used to drink in Poland: bubbly as champagne, and it went in a pleasant fizz right up his nose.

  "Nectar!" said Chichikov. He drank a glass from another carafe—even better.

  "In what direction and to what places are you thinking mainly of going?" brother Vassily asked.

  "I'm going," said Chichikov, rubbing his knee with his hand to accompany the slight rocking of his whole body and inclining his head to one side, "not so much on my own necessity as on another man's. General Betrishchev, a close friend and, one might say, benefactor, has asked me to visit his relatives. Relatives, of course, are relatives, but it is partly, so to speak, for my own sake as well, for—to say nothing of the benefit in the hemorrhoidal respect—to see the world and the circulation of people—is already in itself, so to speak, a living book and a second education."

  Brother Vassily lapsed into thought. "The man speaks somewhat ornately, but there's truth in his words," he thought. "My brother Platon lacks knowledge of people, the world, and life." After a short silence, he spoke aloud thus: