Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

  "Precisely, precisely!" said the magistrate, and he at once dispatched a clerk to fetch them all.

  "And I will ask you," said Chichikov, "to send for the attorney of a lady landowner with whom I also concluded a deal, the son of the archpriest Father Kiril; he works with you here."

  "Well, so, we'll send for him, too!" said the magistrate. "It will all get done, and you are to give nothing to any of the clerks, that I beg of you. My friends should not pay." Having said this, he straightaway gave some order to Ivan Antonovich, which he evidently did not like. The deeds seemed to make a good impression on the magistrate, especially when he saw that the purchases added up to almost a hundred thousand roubles. For several minutes he gazed into Chichikov's eyes with an expression of great contentment, and finally said:

  "So that's how! That's the way, Pavel Ivanovich! That's how you've acquired!"

  "Acquired," replied Chichikov.

  "A good thing, truly, a good thing."

  "Yes, I myself can see that I could not have undertaken any better thing. However it may be, a man's goal is never defined until he finally sets a firm foot on solid ground, and not on some freethinking chimera of youth." Here he quite appropriately denounced all young people, and rightly so, for liberalism. Yet, remarkably, there was still some lack of firmness in his words, as if he were saying to himself at the same time: "Eh, brother, you're lying, and mightily, too!" He did not even glance at Sobakevich and Manilov, for fear of encountering something on their faces. But he need not have feared: Sobakevich's face did not stir, and Manilov, enchanted by the phrase, just kept shaking his head approvingly, immersed in that state in which a music lover finds himself when the soprano has outdone the fiddle itself and squeaked on such a high note as is even too much for the throat of a bird.

  "But why don't you tell Ivan Grigorievich," Sobakevich responded, "precisely what you've acquired; and you, Ivan Grigorievich, why don't you ask what acquisitions he has made? Such folk they are! Pure gold! I even sold him the cartwright Mikheev."

  "No, you mean you sold him Mikheev?" said the magistrate. "I know the cartwright Mikheev: a fine craftsman; he rebuilt my droshky. Only, excuse me, but how . . . Didn't you tell me he died ..."

  "Who died? Mikheev?" said Sobakevich, not in the least embarrassed. "It's his brother who died, but he's as alive as can be and healthier than ever. The other day he put together such a britzka as they can't make even in Moscow. He ought, in all truth, be working just for the sovereign alone."

  "Yes, Mikheev's a fine craftsman," said the magistrate, "and I even wonder that you could part with him."

  "As if Mikheev's the only one! There's Cork Stepan, the carpenter, Milushkin, the bricklayer, Telyatnikov Maxim, the cobbler— they all went, I sold them all!" And when the magistrate asked why they had all gone, seeing they were craftsmen and people necessary for the household, Sobakevich replied with a wave of the hand: "Ah! just like that! I've turned foolish: come on, I said, let's sell them—and so I sold them like a fool!" Whereupon he hung his head as if he regretted having done so, and added: "A gray-haired man, and I still haven't grown wise."

  "But, excuse me, Pavel Ivanovich," said the magistrate, "how is it you're buying peasants without land? Or is it for resettlement?"

  "For resettlement."

  "Well, resettlement is something else. And to what parts?"

  "What parts ... to Kherson province."

  "Oh, there's excellent land there!" said the magistrate, and he spoke in great praise of the size of the grass in that region. "And is there sufficient land?"

  "Sufficient, as much as necessary for the peasants I've bought."

  "A river or a pond?"

  "A river. However, there's also a pond." Having said this, Chichikov glanced inadvertently at Sobakevich, and though Sobakevich was as immobile as ever, it seemed to him as if there were written on his face: "Oh, are you lying! there's nary a river there, nor a pond, nor any land at all!"

  While the conversation continued, the witnesses gradually began to appear: the blinking prosecutor, already known to the reader, the inspector of the board of health, Trukhachevsky Be-gushkin, and others who, in Sobakevich's words, were a useless burden on the earth. Many of them were completely unknown to Chichikov: the lacking and the extras were recruited on the spot from among the office clerks. Not only was the archpriest Father Kiril's son brought, but even the archpriest himself. Each of the witnesses put himself down, with all his dignities and ranks, one in backhand script, one slanting forward, one simply all but upside down, putting himself in such letters as had never even been seen before in the Russian alphabet. The familiar Ivan Antonovich managed quite deftly: the deeds were recorded, marked, entered in the register and wherever else necessary, with a charge of half a percent plus the notice in the Gazette, and so Chichikov had to pay the smallest sum. The magistrate even ordered that he be charged only half the tax money, while the other half, in some unknown fashion, was transferred to the account of some other petitioner.

  "And so," said the magistrate, when everything was done, "it only remains now to wet this tidy little purchase."

  "I'm ready," said Chichikov. "It's for you to name the time. It would be a sin on my part if I didn't uncork two or three bottles of fizz for such a pleasant company."

  "No, you're mistaking me: we'll provide the fizz ourselves," said the magistrate, "it's our obligation, our duty. You're our guest: we must treat you. Do you know what, gentlemen? For the time being this is what we'll do: we'll all go, just as we are, to the police chief's. He's our wonder-worker, he has only to wink as he passes a fish market or a cellar, and you know what a snack we'll have! And also, for the occasion, a little game of whist!"

  To such a suggestion no one could object. The witnesses felt hungry at the mere mention of the fish market; they all straightaway picked up their hats and caps, and the session was ended. As they passed through the chancellery, Ivan Antonovich, the jug mug, with a courteous bow, said softly to Chichikov:

  "You bought up a hundred thousand worth of peasants and gave me just one twenty-fiver for my labors."

  "But what sort of peasants?" Chichikov answered him, also in a whisper. "The most empty and paltry folk, not worth even half that."

  Ivan Antonovich understood that the visitor was of firm character and would not give more.

  "And how much per soul did you pay Plyushkin?" Sobakevich whispered in his other ear.

  "And why did you stick in that Sparrow?" Chichikov said in reply to that.

  "What Sparrow?" said Sobakevich.

  "That female, Elizaveta Sparrow, and what's more you took the a off the end."

  "No, I never stuck in any Sparrow," said Sobakevich, and he went over to the other guests.

  The guests finally arrived in a crowd at the police chief's house. The police chief was indeed a wonder-worker: having only just heard what was going on, he sent that same moment for a policeman, a perky fellow in patent leather jackboots, and seemed to whisper just two words in his ear, adding only: "Understand!"— and there, in the other room, while the guests were hard at their whist, there appeared on the table beluga, sturgeon, salmon, pressed caviar, freshly salted caviar, herring, red sturgeon, cheeses, smoked tongues and balyks—all from the fish market side. Then there appeared additions from the host's side, products of his own kitchen: a fish-head pie into which went the cheeks and cartilage of a three-hundred-pound sturgeon, another pie with mushrooms, fritters, dumplings, honey-stewed fruit. The police chief was in a certain way the father and benefactor of the town. Among the townspeople he was completely as in his own family, and stopped in at shops and on merchants' row as if visiting his own larder. Generally, he was, as they say, suited to his post, and understood his job to perfection. It was even hard to decide whether he had been created for the post or the post for him. The business was handled so intelligently that he received double the income of all his predecessors, and at the same time earned the love of the whole town. The merchants were the first to love h
im, precisely because he was not haughty; in fact, he stood godfather to their children, was chummy with them, and though he occasionally fleeced them badly, he did it somehow extremely deftly: he would pat the man on the shoulder, and laugh, and stand him to tea, and promise to come for a game of checkers, asking about everything: how's he doing, this and that. If he learned that a young one was a bit sick, he would suggest some medicine—in short, a fine fellow! He drove around in his droshky, keeping order, and at the same time dropping a word to one man or another: "Say, Mikheych, we ought to finish that card game some day." "Yes, Alexei Ivanovich," the man would reply, doffing his hat, "so we ought." "Well, Ilya Paramonych, stop by and have a look at my trotter: he'll outrun yours, brother; harness up your racing droshky, and we'll give it a try." The merchant, who was crazy about his own trotter, smiled at that with especial eagerness, as they say, and, stroking his beard, said: "Let's give it a try, Alexei Ivanovich!" At which point even the shop clerks usually took off their hats and glanced with pleasure at each other, as if wishing to say: "Alexei Ivanovich is a good man!" In short, he managed to win universal popularity, and the merchants' opinion of Alexei Ivanovich was that "though he does take, on the other hand he never gives you up."

  Noticing that the hors d'oeuvres were ready, the police chief suggested that his guests finish their whist after lunch, and everyone went into the other room, the smell wafting from which had long ago begun pleasantly to tickle the nostrils of the guests, and into which Sobakevich had long been peeking through the door, aiming from afar at the sturgeon that lay to one side on a big platter. The guests, having drunk a glass of vodka of the dark olive color that occurs only in those transparent Siberian stones from which seals are carved in Russia, accosted the table from all sides with forks and began to reveal, as they say, each his own character and inclinations, applying themselves one to the caviar, another to the salmon, another to the cheese. Sobakevich, letting all these trifles go unnoticed, stationed himself by the sturgeon, and while the others were drinking, talking, and eating, he, in a little over a quarter of an hour, went right through it, so that when the police chief remembered about it, and with the words: "And what, gentlemen, do you think of this work of nature?" approached it, fork in hand, along with the others, he saw that the only thing left of this work of nature was the tail; and Sobakevich scrooched down as if it was not him, and, coming to a plate some distance away, poked his fork into some little dried fish. After polishing off the sturgeon, Sobakevich sat in an armchair and no longer ate or drank, but only squinted and blinked his eyes. The police chief, it seemed, did not like to stint on wine; the toasts were innumerable. The first toast was drunk, as our readers might guess for themselves, to the health of the new Kherson landowner, then to the prosperity of his peasants and their happy resettlement, then to the health of his future wife, a beauty, which drew a pleasant smile from our hero's lips. They accosted him on all sides and began begging him insistently to stay in town for at least two weeks:

  "No, Pavel Ivanovich! say what you will, in and out just makes the cottage cold! No, you must spend some time with us! We'll get you married: isn't that right, Ivan Grigorievich, we'll get him married?"

  "Married, married!" the magistrate picked up. "Even if you resist hand and foot, we'll get you married! No, my dear, you landed here, so don't complain. We don't like joking."

  "Come now, why should I resist hand and foot," said Chichikov, grinning, "marriage isn't the sort of thing, that is, as long as there's a bride."

  "There'll be a bride, how could there not be, there'll be everything, everything you want! ..."

  "Well, if there'll be..."

  "Bravo, he's staying!" they all shouted. "Viva, hurrah, Pavel Ivanovich! hurrah!" And they all came up with glasses in their hands to clink with him.

  Chichikov clinked with everyone. "No, no, again!" said the more enthusiastic ones, and clinked again all around; then they came at him to clink a third time, and so they all clinked a third time. In a short while everyone was feeling extraordinarily merry. The magistrate, who was the nicest of men when he got merry, embraced Chichikov several times, uttering in heartfelt effusion: "My dear soul! my sweetie pie!" and, snapping his fingers, even went around him in a little dance, singing the well-known song: "Ah, you blankety-blank Komarinsky muzhik."[32] After the champagne a Hungarian wine was broached, which raised their spirits still more and made the company all the merrier. Whist was decidedly forgotten; they argued, shouted, discussed everything— politics, even military affairs—expounded free thoughts for which, at another time, they would have whipped their own children. Resolved on the spot a host of the most difficult questions. Chichikov had never felt himself in so merry a mood, already imagined himself a real Kherson landowner, talked of various improvements—the three-field system, the happiness and bliss of twin souls—and began reciting to Sobakevich Werther's letter in verse to Charlotte,[33] at which the man only blinked from his armchair, for after the sturgeon he felt a great urge to sleep. Chichikov himself realized that he was beginning to get much too loose, asked about a carriage, and availed himself of the prosecutor's droshky. The prosecutor's coachman, as it turned out on the way, was an experienced fellow, because he drove with one hand only, while holding up the master behind him with the other. Thus, on the prosecutor's droshky, he reached his inn, where for a long time still he had all sorts of nonsense on the tip of his tongue: a fair-haired bride, blushing and with a dimple on her right cheek, Kherson estates, capital. Selifan was even given some managerial orders: to gather all the newly resettled muzhiks, so as to make an individual roll call of them all personally. Selifan listened silently for quite a while and then walked out of the room, saying to Petrushka: "Go undress the master!" Petrushka started taking his boots off and together with them almost pulled the master onto the floor. But the boots were finally taken off, the master got undressed properly, and after tossing for some time on his bed, which creaked unmercifully, fell asleep a confirmed Kherson landowner. And Petrushka meanwhile brought out to the corridor the trousers and the cranberry-colored tailcoat with flecks, spread them on a wooden clothes rack, and set about beating them with a whip and brush, filling the whole corridor with dust. As he was about to take them down, he glanced over the gallery railing and saw Selifan coming back from the stable. Their eyes met, and they intuitively understood each other: the master has hit the sack, so why not peek in somewhere or other. That same moment, after taking the tailcoat and trousers to the room, Petrushka came downstairs, and the two went off together, saying nothing to each other about the goal of their trip and gabbing on the way about totally unrelated matters. They did not stroll far: to be precise, they simply crossed to the other side of the street, to the house that stood facing the inn, and entered a low, sooty glass door that led almost to the basement, where various sorts were already sitting at wooden tables: some who shaved their beards, and some who did not, some in sheepskin coats, and some simply in shirts, and a few even in frieze greatcoats. What Petrushka and Selifan did there, God only knows, but they came out an hour later holding each other by the arm, keeping a perfect silence, according each other great attention, with mutual warnings against various corners. Arm in arm, not letting go of each other, they spent a whole quarter of an hour going up the stairs, finally managed it and got up. Petrushka paused for a moment before his low bed, pondering the most suitable way of lying down, and then lay down perfectly athwart it, so that his feet rested on the floor. Selifan lay himself down on the same bed, placing his head on Petrushka's stomach, forgetting that he ought not to be sleeping there at all, but perhaps somewhere in the servants' quarters, if not in the stable with the horses. They both fell asleep that same moment and set up a snoring of unheard-of density, to which the master responded from the other room with a thin nasal whistle. Soon after them everything quieted down, and the inn was enveloped in deep sleep; only in one little window was there still light, where lived some lieutenant, come from Ryazan, a great lover of boots by the
look of it, because he had already ordered four pairs made and was ceaselessly trying on a fifth. Several times he had gone over to his bed with the intention of flinging them off and lying down, but he simply could not: the boots were indeed well made, and for a long time still he kept raising his foot and examining the smart and admirable turn of the heel.

  Chapter Eight

  Chichikov's purchases became a subject of conversation. Gossip went around town, opinions, discussions of whether it was profitable to buy peasants for resettlement. In the debate, many distinguished themselves by their perfect knowledge of the subject. "Of course," said some, "it's so, there's no arguing against it: the land in the southern provinces is good and fertile; but what will Chichikov's peasants do without water? There's no river at all." "That would still be nothing, that there's no water, that would be nothing, Stepan Dmitrievich, but resettlement is an unreliable thing. We all know the muzhik: on new land, and he has to start farming it, and he's got nothing, neither cottage nor yard—he'll run away sure as two times two, walk his chalks and leave no trace behind." "No, Alexei Ivanovich, excuse me, excuse me, I don't agree with what you're saying, that Chichikov's muzhiks will run away. The Russian man is apt for anything and can get used to any climate. Send him all the way to Kamchatka, give him just a pair of warm mittens, and he'll clap his hands, pick up his axe, and off he goes building himself a new cottage." "But, Ivan Grigorievich, you've lost sight of an important thing: you haven't asked yet what sort of muzhiks Chichikov's are. You've forgotten that a landowner will never sell a good man; I'm ready to bet my head that Chichikov's muzhiks are thieves and drunkards to the last degree, idle loafers and of riotous behavior." "Yes, yes, I agree with that, it's true, no one's going to sell good people, and Chichikov's muzhiks are drunkards, but you must take into consideration that it is here that we find the moral, here the moral lies: they are scoundrels now, but resettled on new land they may suddenly become excellent subjects. There have been not a few examples of it, simply in the world, and from history as well." "Never, never," the superintendent of the government factories said, "believe me, that can never be. For Chichikov's peasants will now have two powerful enemies. The first enemy is the proximity of the provinces of Little Russia, where, as everyone knows, drink is sold freely. I assure you: in two weeks they'll be liquored up and thoroughly pie-eyed. The other enemy is the habit of the vagabond life itself, acquired of necessity during their relocation. They would have to be eternally before Chichikov's eyes, and he would have to keep them on a short tether, come down hard on them for every trifle, and, relying on no one save himself in person, give them a clout or a cuff when it's called for." "Why should Chichikov bother cuffing them himself? He can find a steward." "Oh, yes, go find a steward: they're all crooks." "They're crooks because the masters don't concern themselves with things." "That's true," many picked up. "If the master himself knew at least something about management, and was discerning of people, he would always have a good steward." But the superintendent said one could not find a good steward for less than five thousand. But the magistrate said it was possible to find one for as little as three thousand. But the superintendent said: "Where are you going to find him, unless it's up your own nose?" But the magistrate said: "No, not up my nose, but right in our district— namely: Pyotr Petrovich Samoilov: there's the kind of steward needed for Chichikov's muzhiks!" Many entered earnestly into Chichikov's predicament, and the difficulty of relocating such an enormous number of peasants awed them exceedingly; there was great fear that a riot might even break out among such restless folk as Chichikov's peasants. To this the police chief observed that there was no need to fear a riot, that the power of the district captain of police was there to avert it, that the captain of police had no need to go himself, but in his place could merely send his peaked cap, and this peaked cap alone would drive the peasants all the way to their place of settlement. Many offered opinions as to how to eradicate the riotous spirit that possessed Chichikov's peasants. These opinions were of various sorts: there were some that smacked excessively of military cruelty and severity, almost to superfluousness; there were also such, however, as breathed of mildness. The postmaster observed that Chichikov was faced with a sacred duty, that he could become something like a father among his peasants, as he put it, even introducing beneficent enlightenment, and he took the occasion to refer with much praise to the Lancastrian school of mutual education.[34]