Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britzka was rocking from side to side and dealing him some very strong jolts; this gave him the feeling that they had turned off the road and were probably dragging themselves over a harrowed field. Selifan seemed to have realized it himself, but he did not say a word.
"How now, you crook, what sort of road are you driving on?" said Chichikov.
"No help for it, master, in a time like this; can't see the whip, it's that dark!" Having said this, he tilted the britzka so much that Chichikov was forced to hold on with both hands. Only here did he notice that Selifan was a bit in his cups.
"Hold it, hold it, you'll tip us over!" he shouted to him.
"No, master, it can't be that I'll tip us over," Selifan said. "It's no good tipping over, I know myself: I'll never tip us over." Then he began to turn the britzka slightly, turned, turned, and finally turned it over completely on its side. Chichikov plopped hand and foot into the mud. Selifan did stop the horses, however, though they would have stopped of themselves, because they were very worn-out. He was completely amazed at such an unforeseen occurrence. Climbing down from the box, he stood in front of the britzka, arms akimbo, all the while his master was floundering in the mud, trying to crawl out of it, and said after some reflection: "Look at that, it tipped over!"
"You're drunk as a cobbler!" said Chichikov.
"No, master, it can't be that I'm drunk! I know it's not a good thing to be drunk. I talked with a friend, because one can have a talk with a good man, there's nothing bad in that; and we had a bite to eat together. There's no offense in a bite to eat; one can have a bite to eat with a good man."
"And what did I tell you when you got drunk the last time? eh? have you forgotten?"
"No, your honor, it can't be that I've forgotten. I know my business. I know it's no good to be drunk. I had a talk with a good man, because ...”
"I'll give you real whipping, then you'll know how to talk with a good man!"
"As ever your grace pleases," replied the all-agreeable Selifan, "if it's a whipping, it's a whipping; I don't mind about that at all. Why not a whipping, if it's deserved, that's the master's will. Whipping's needed, because a muzhik goes a-frolicking, there's need for order. If it's deserved, give him a whipping: why not give him a whipping?"
The master was completely at a loss how to respond to such reasoning. But at that time it seemed as if fate itself decided to have mercy on him. From far off came the barking of dogs. Overjoyed, Chichikov gave the order to whip up the horses. A Russian driver has good instinct in place of eyes; as a result, he sometimes goes pumping along at full speed, eyes shut, and always gets somewhere or other. Selifan, without seeing a blessed thing, aimed his horses so directly at the estate that he stopped only when the britzka's shafts struck the fence and there was decidedly no way to go further. Chichikov only noticed through the thick sheet of pouring rain something resembling a roof. He sent Selifan in search of the gates, which no doubt would have taken a long time, were it not that in Russia, instead of gatekeepers, there are brave dogs, who announced him so ringingly that he put his fingers in his ears. Light flickered in one little window and its misty stream reached the fence, showing our travelers the gates. Selifan set about knocking, and soon some figure clad in a smock stuck itself out the wicket, and master and servant heard a husky female voice:
"Who's knocking? What's this carrying on?"
"Travelers, dearie, let us stay the night," said Chichikov.
"There's a quick-stepper for you!" said the old woman. "A fine time you picked to come! This isn't an inn: a lady landowner lives here."
"No help for it, dearie: see, we've lost our way. We can't spend the night on the steppe at a time like this."
"Yes, it's a dark time, it's not a good time," added Selifan.
"Quiet, fool," said Chichikov.
"But who are you?" said the old woman.
"A nobleman, dearie."
The word "nobleman" made the old woman reflect a little, it seemed.
"Wait, I'll tell my mistress," she said, and about two minutes later already came back with a lantern in her hand.
The gates were opened. Light flickered in yet another window. The britzka, having driven into the yard, stopped in front of a smallish house, which it was difficult to make out in the darkness. Only half of it was lit by the light coming from the windows; also visible was a puddle in front of the house, which was struck directly by the same light. Rain beat noisily on the wooden roof and poured in burbling streams into the rain barrel. Meanwhile the dogs went off into all possible voices: one, his head thrown back, howled so protractedly and with such diligence as though he were being paid God knows how much for it; another rapped away hurriedly, like a beadle; in their midst, like a postman's bell, rang an irrepressible treble, probably a young puppy's, and all this was crowned by a bass, an old fellow, perhaps, endowed with a stalwart dog's nature, because he was wheezing the way a basso profundo wheezes when the concert is at its peak: the tenors rise on tiptoe in their intense desire to produce a high note, and all that is there strains upwards, heads flung back, while he alone, his unshaven chin thrust into his tie, having hunkered down and lowered himself almost to the ground, from there lets out his note, making the windowpanes shake and rattle. From the dogs' barking alone, composed of such musicians, it might have been supposed that the village was a sizable one; but our drenched and chilled hero had thoughts of nothing but bed. The moment the britzka came to a full stop, he jumped off onto the porch, staggered, and almost fell. Again some woman came out to the porch, a bit younger than the first one, but closely resembling her. She brought him inside. Chichikov took a couple of cursory glances: the room was hung with old striped wallpaper; pictures of some sort of birds; little old-fashioned mirrors between the windows, with dark frames shaped like curled leaves; behind each mirror was stuck either a letter, or an old pack of cards, or a stocking; a wall clock with flowers painted on its face ... it was beyond him to notice anything more. His eyes felt sticky, as if someone had smeared them with honey. A minute later the mistress came in, an elderly woman in some sort of sleeping bonnet, hastily put on, with a flannel kerchief around her neck, one of those little dearies, small landowners who fret over bad harvests, losses, and keep their heads cocked slightly to one side, and meanwhile little by little are stowing away a bit of cash in bags made of ticking, tucked into different drawers. The roubles all go into one little bag, the half-roubles into another, the quarter-roubles into a third, though to all appearances there is nothing in the chest but underwear, and night jackets, and spools of thread, and an unpicked coat that will later be turned into a dress, if the old one somehow happens to get a hole burnt in it during the frying of holiday pancakes and various fritters, or else wears out by itself. But the dress will not get burnt or wear out by itself; the little old lady is a thrifty one, and the coat is fated to lie for a long time in its unpicked state, and then to be left in her will to the daughter of a cousin twice removed along with various other rubbish.
Chichikov apologized for troubling her by his unexpected arrival.
"Never mind, never mind," said the mistress. "What weather for God to bring you in! Such turmoil and blizzard . . . You ought to eat something after your journey, but it's nighttime, no way to prepare anything."
The mistress's words were interrupted by a strange hissing, so that the guest was frightened at first; it sounded as if the whole room had suddenly become filled with snakes; but on glancing up he was reassured, for he realized it was the wall clock making up its mind to strike. The hissing was immediately followed by a wheezing, and finally, straining all its forces, it struck two, with a sound as if someone were banging a cracked pot with a stick, after which the pendulum again began calmly clicking right and left.
Chichikov thanked the mistress, saying that he needed nothing, that she should not trouble about anything, that apart from a bed he asked for nothing, and was only curious to know what parts he had come to and w
hether it was a long way from there to the landowner Sobakevich's place, to which the old woman said that she had never heard such a name and that there was no such landowner at all.
"Do you know Manilov at least?" said Chichikov.
"And who is this Manilov?"
"A landowner, dearie."
"No, never heard of him, there's no such landowner."
"What is there, then?"
"Bobrov, Svinyin, Kanapatyev, Kharpakin, Trepakin, Pleshakov."
"Are they rich men, or not?"
"No, my dear, none of them is very rich. There's some have twenty souls, some thirty, but such as might have a hundred, no, there's none such."
Chichikov observed that he had wound up in quite a backwater.
"Anyway, is it far to town?"
"Some forty miles, must be. What a pity there's nothing for you to eat! Wouldn't you take some tea, dearie?"
"Thank you, dearie. I need nothing but a bed."
"True, after such a journey one needs rest very badly. Settle yourself right here, dearie, on this sofa. Hey, Fetinya, bring a feather bed, pillows, and a sheet. What weather God has sent us: such thunder—I've had a candle burning in front of the icon all night. Eh, my dear, your back and side are all muddy as a hog's! Where'd you get yourself mucked up like that?"
"Thank God all the same that I only mucked myself up, I should be grateful I've still got all my ribs."
"Saints alive, what a fright! Maybe you should have your back rubbed with something?"
"Thank you, thank you. Don't trouble, but just order your girl to dry and brush my clothes."
"Do you hear, Fetinya!" said the mistress, addressing the woman who had come out to the porch with a candle, and who had now managed to bring a feather bed and plump it up with her hands, loosing a flood of feathers all over the room. "Take his coat and underwear and dry them first in front of the fire, as you used to do for the late master, and then brush them and give them a good beating."
"Yes, ma'am," Fetinya said, as she covered the feather bed and arranged the pillows.
"Well, there's your bed made up for you," said the mistress. "Good-bye, dearie, I wish you a good night. Is there anything else you need? Perhaps, my dear, you're used to having your heels scratched before bed? My late husband could never fall asleep without it."
But the guest also declined the heel scratching. The mistress went out, and he straightaway hastened to undress, giving Fetinya all the trappings he took off himself, over and under, and Fetinya, having for her part wished him good night as well, carried off this wet armor. Left alone, he gazed not without pleasure at his bed, which reached almost to the ceiling. One could see that Fetinya was an expert at plumping up feather beds. When, having brought over a chair, he climbed onto the bed, it sank under him almost down to the floor, and the feathers he displaced from under himself flew into every corner of the room. Putting out the candle, he covered himself with the cotton quilt and, curling up under it, fell asleep that same moment. He woke up rather late the next morning. The sun was shining through the window straight into his eyes, and the flies which yesterday had been quietly asleep on the walls and ceiling now all addressed themselves to him: one sat on his lip, another on his ear, a third kept making attempts to settle right on his eye, while one that had been so imprudent as to alight close to the nostril of his nose, he drew into the nose itself while he slept, which made him sneeze violently—a circumstance that was the cause of his waking up. Glancing around the room, he now noticed that the pictures were not all of birds: among them hung a portrait of Kutuzov and an oil painting of some old man with a red-cuffed uniform such as was worn in the time of Pavel Petrovich.[7] The clock again let out a hiss and struck ten; a woman's face peeked in the door and instantly hid itself, for Chichikov, wishing to sleep better, had thrown off absolutely everything. The face that had peeked in seemed somehow slightly familiar to him. He began recalling to himself: who might it be?—and finally remembered that it was the mistress. He put on his shirt; his clothes, already dried and brushed, lay next to him. Having dressed, he went up to the mirror and sneezed again so loudly that a turkey cock, who was just then approaching the window—the window being very near the ground—started babbling something to him suddenly and quite rapidly in his strange language, probably "God bless you," at which Chichikov called him fool. Going to the window, he began to examine the views that spread before him: the window opened almost onto the poultry yard; at least the narrow pen that lay before him was all filled with fowl and every sort of domestic creature. There were turkeys and hens without number; among them a rooster paced with measured steps, shaking his comb and tilting his head to one side as if listening to something; a sow and her family also turned up right there; right there, rooting in a heap of garbage, she incidentally ate a chick and, without noticing it, went on gobbling up watermelon rinds in good order. This small pen or poultry yard was enclosed by a wooden fence, beyond which stretched a vast kitchen garden with cabbages, onions, potatoes, beets, and other household vegetables. Strewn here and there over the kitchen garden were apple and other fruit trees, covered with nets to protect them from magpies and sparrows, the latter of which rushed in whole slanting clouds from one place to another. Several scarecrows had been set up for the same purpose, on long poles with splayed arms; one of them was wearing the mistress's own bonnet. Beyond the kitchen garden came the peasants' cottages, which, though built in a scattered way and not confined to regular streets, nevertheless showed, to Chichikov's observation, the prosperity of their inhabitants, for they were kept up: decrepit roof planks had everywhere been replaced by new ones; the gates were nowhere askew, and in those of the peasants' covered sheds that faced him he noticed here an almost new spare cart, and there even two. "It's no little bit of an estate she's got here," he said and resolved straightaway to get into conversation and become better acquainted with the mistress. He peeked through the crack in the door from which she had just stuck her head, and, seeing her sitting at the tea table, went in to her with a cheerful and benign look.
"Good morning, dearie. Did you sleep well?" said the mistress, rising from her place. She was better dressed than yesterday—in a dark dress, and not in a sleeping bonnet now, though there was still something wrapped around her neck.
"Quite well, quite well," said Chichikov, seating himself in an armchair. "And you, dearie?"
"Poorly, my dear."
"How so?"
"Insomnia. My lower back aches, and there's a gnawing pain in my leg, here, just above this little bone."
"It will pass, it will pass, dearie. Pay it no mind."
"God grant it passes. I did apply lard to it, and also wet it with turpentine. Will you have a sip of something with your tea? There's fruit liqueur in the flask."
"Not bad, dearie, let's have a sip of fruit liqueur."
The reader, I suppose, will already have noticed that Chichikov, despite his benign air, nevertheless spoke with greater liberty than with Manilov, and did not stand on any ceremony. It must be said that if we in Russia are still behind foreigners in some other things, we have far outstripped them in the art of address. Countless are all the nuances and subtleties of our address. No Frenchman or German will ever puzzle out and comprehend all its peculiarities and distinctions; he will speak in almost the same voice and language with a millionaire and with a mere tobacconist, though, of course, in his soul he will grovel duly before the first. Not so with us: there are such sages among us as will speak quite differently to a landowner with two hundred souls than to one with three hundred, and to one with three hundred, again, not as he will speak to one with five hundred, and to one with five hundred, again, not as to one with eight hundred—in short, you can go right up to a million, there will always be nuances. Suppose, for instance, that there exists an office, not here, but in some far-off kingdom, and in that office suppose there exists the head of the office. I ask you to look at him as he sits among his subordinates—one cannot even utter a word from fear!—prid
e and nobility, and what else does his face not express? Just take a brush and paint him: a Prometheus, decidedly a Prometheus! His gaze is like an eagle's, his step is smooth, measured. And this same eagle, as soon as he leaves his room and approaches his own superior's office, scurries, papers under his arm, just like a partridge, so help me. In society or at a party, if everyone is of low rank, Prometheus simply remains Prometheus, but if there is someone a bit above him, Prometheus will undergo such a metamorphosis as even Ovid could not invent: a fly, less than a fly, he self-annihilates into a grain of sand! "No, this is not Ivan Petrovich," you say, looking at him. "Ivan Petrovich is taller, and this is a short and skinny little fellow; Ivan Petrovich talks in a loud voice, a basso, and never laughs, while this one, devil knows, he peeps like a bird and can't stop laughing." You step closer, you see—it really is Ivan Petrovich! "Ah-ha-ha," you think to yourself. . . But, anyhow, let us return to our cast of characters. Chichikov, as we have already seen, decided to do without ceremony altogether, and therefore, taking a cup of tea in his hand and pouring some liqueur into it, he held forth thus:
"You've got a nice little estate here, dearie. How many souls are there?"
"Nigh onto eighty souls, my dear," the mistress said, "but the trouble is the weather's been bad, and there was such a poor harvest last year, God help us."
"Still, the muzhiks have a hearty look, the cottages are sturdy. But allow me to know your last name. I'm so absentminded . . . arrived in the night..."
"Korobochka, widow of a collegiate secretary."
"I humbly thank you. And your first name and patronymic?"
"Nastasya Petrovna."
"Nastasya Petrovna? A nice name, Nastasya Petrovna. My aunt, my mother's sister, is Nastasya Petrovna."
"And what's your name?" the lady landowner asked. "I expect you're a tax assessor?"
"No, dearie," Chichikov replied, smiling, "don't expect I'm a tax assessor, I'm just going around on my own little business."
Dead Souls Page 7
