The visitor was about to get down to business and tell her news. But the exclamation that the lady agreeable in all respects let out at that moment suddenly gave a different direction to the conversation.
"What a gay little print!" the lady agreeable in all respects exclaimed, looking at the dress of the simply agreeable lady.
"Yes, very gay. Praskovya Fyodorovna, however, finds that it would be nicer if the checks were a bit smaller and the speckles were not brown but light blue. Her sister was sent a fabric—it's simply charming beyond words; imagine to yourself: narrow little stripes, as narrow as human imagination can possibly conceive, a light blue background, and between the stripes it's all spots and sprigs, spots and sprigs, spots and sprigs . . . Incomparable, in short! One can say decidedly that nothing comparable has ever existed in the world."
"It's gaudy, my dear."
"Ah, no, not gaudy."
"Ah, gaudy!"
It must be noted that the lady agreeable in all respects was something of a materialist, inclined to negation and doubt, and she rejected quite a lot in life.
Here the simply agreeable lady explained that it was by no means gaudy, and cried out:
"Besides, I congratulate you: flounces are no longer being worn."
"Not worn?"
"It's little festoons now."
"Ah, that's not pretty—little festoons!"
"Little festoons, little festoons all over: a pelerine of little festoons, sleeves with little festoons, epaulettes of little festoons, little festoons below, little festoons everywhere."
"It's not pretty, Sofya Ivanovna, if it's little festoons all over."
"It's sweet, Anna Grigorievna, unbelievably sweet. It's made with double seams: wide armholes and above . . . But here, here is something amazing for you, now you're going to say . . . Well, be amazed: imagine, the bodices are even longer now, vee-shaped in front, and the front busk goes beyond all bounds; the skirt is gathered around as it used to be with the old-fashioned farthingale, and they even pad it out a little behind with cotton batting, so as to make for a perfect belle-femme."
"Now that's just—I declare!" said the lady agreeable in all respects, making a movement of her head expressive of dignity.
"Precisely, it is indeed—I declare!" replied the simply agreeable lady.
"As you like, but I wouldn't follow that for anything."
"Neither would I . . . Really, when you imagine what fashion comes to sometimes . . . it's beyond everything! I begged my sister to give me the pattern just for fun; my Melanya's started sewing."
"So you have the pattern?" the lady agreeable in all respects cried out, not without a noticeable tremor of excitement.
"Of course, my sister brought it."
"Give it to me, dear heart, by all that's holy."
"Ah, I've already promised it to Praskovya Fyodorovna. Perhaps after her."
"Who's going to wear it after Praskovya Fyodorovna? It would be all too strange on your part to prefer others to your own."
"But she's also my aunt twice removed."
"God knows what kind of aunt she is to you: it's on your husband's side . . . No, Sofya Ivanovna, I don't even want to listen, since you intend to hand me such an insult. . . Obviously, I'm already boring to you, obviously you wish to stop all acquaintance with me."
Poor Sofya Ivanovna absolutely did not know what to do. She herself felt that she had put herself between a rock and a hard place. So much for her boasting! She was ready to prick her stupid tongue all over with needles for it.
"Well, and how's our charmer?" the lady agreeable in all respects said meanwhile.
"Ah, my God! why am I sitting in front of you like this? Aren't I a good one! Do you know, Anna Grigorievna, what I've come to you with?" Here the visitor's breath was taken away; words, like hawks, were ready to rush in pursuit of each other, and one had to be as inhuman as her bosom friend to venture to stop her.
"No matter how you go praising and exalting him," she said, with greater animation than usual, "I will say straight out, and say it to his face, that he is a worthless man, worthless, worthless, worthless."
"But just listen to what I'm going to reveal to you ...”
"Word is going around that he's good-looking, but he's not good-looking at all, not at all, and his nose ... a most disagreeable nose."
"But let me tell you, just let me tell you . . . darling Anna Grigorievna, let me tell you! It's a whole story, do you understand, a story, sconapel istwar,"[43] the visitor said with an expression almost of despair and in an utterly imploring voice. It will do no harm to mention that the conversation of the two ladies was interspersed with a great many foreign words and sometimes entire long phrases in French. But filled though the author is with reverence for the saving benefits that the French language brings to Russia, filled though he is with reverence for the praiseworthy custom of our high society which expresses itself in it at all hours of the day—out of a deep feeling of love for the fatherland, of course—for all that he simply cannot bring himself to introduce any phrase from any foreign language whatsoever into this Russian poem of his. And so let us continue in Russian.
"What is the story?"
"Ah, Anna Grigorievna, dear heart, if you could only imagine the position I was in, just fancy: this morning the archpriest's wife comes to me—the wife of the archpriest, Father Kiril—and what do you think: our humble fellow, our visitor here, is quite a one, eh?"
"What, you don't mean he was making sheep's eyes at the arch-priest's wife?"
"Ah, Anna Grigorievna, if it was only sheep it would be nothing; but just listen to what the archpriest's wife said: the lady landowner Korobochka comes to her, she says, all frightened and pale as death, and tells her, and how she tells her, just listen, it's a perfect novel: suddenly, in the dead of night, when the whole house is asleep, there comes a knocking at the gate, the most terrible knocking you could possibly imagine, and a shout: 'Open up, open up, or we'll break down the gate!' How do you like that? What do you think of our charmer after that?"
"And this Korobochka is what, young and good-looking?"
"Not a whit, an old crone."
"Ah, how charming! So he's taken up with an old crone. Talk about our ladies' taste after that! They found who to fall in love with!"
"But no, Anna Grigorievna, it's not at all what you're thinking. Just imagine to yourself how he comes in, armed from head to foot like Rinaldo Rinaldini,[44] and demands: 'Sell me all your souls that have died.' And Korobochka answers very reasonably, saying: 'I can't sell them, because they're dead.' 'No,' he says, 'they're not dead, it's my business to know whether they're dead or not, and they're not dead,' he shouts, 'they're not, they're not!'
In short, he caused a terrible scandal: the whole village came running, babies were crying, everything was shouting, no one understood anyone else—well, simply orerr, orerr, orerr! . . . But you cannot imagine to yourself, Anna Grigorievna, how alarmed I was when I heard it all. 'Dearest mistress,' Mashka says to me, 'look in the mirror: you're pale.' 'Who cares about the mirror,' I say, 'I must go and tell Anna Grigorievna.' That same moment I order the carriage readied: the coachman Andryushka asks me where to go, and I cannot even say anything, I just gaze into his eyes like a fool—I think he thought I was mad. Ah, Anna Grigorievna, if you could only imagine how alarmed I was!"
"It is strange, though," said the lady agreeable in all respects. "What might they mean, these dead souls? I confess, I understand precisely nothing of it. It's the second time I've heard about these dead souls; but my husband still says Nozdryov's lying. No, there must be something to it."
"But do imagine, Anna Grigorievna, the position I was in when I heard it. And now,' says Korobochka, 'I don't know what I'm to do. He made me sign some false paper,' she says, 'threw down fifteen roubles in banknotes. I'm an inexperienced, helpless widow,' she says, 'I know nothing. . .' Such goings-on! But if only you could imagine at least slightly to yourself how totally alarmed I was."
"
But, as you will, only it's not dead souls here, there's something else hidden in it."
"I confess, I think so, too," the simply agreeable lady said, not without surprise, and straightaway felt a strong desire to learn what it was that might be hidden in it. She even said in measured tones: "And what do you think is hidden in it?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"What do I think? ... I confess, I'm completely at a loss."
"But, all the same, I'd like to know your thoughts concerning it."
But the agreeable lady found nothing to say. She knew only how to be alarmed, but as for arriving at some sort of clever conjecture, she was not equal to the task, and therefore, more than any other woman, she was in need of tender friendship and advice.
"Well, listen then, here's what it is with these dead souls," said the lady agreeable in all respects, and at these words the visitor became all attention: her little ears pricked up of themselves, she rose slightly, almost not sitting or holding on to the sofa, and though she was somewhat on the heavy side, she suddenly became slenderer, like a light bit of fluff about to fly into the air with a breath of wind.
Thus a Russian squire, a dog-lover and hunter, approaching the woods from which a hare, startled by the beaters, is just about to leap, turns, all of him, together with his horse and raised crop, for one frozen moment into powder that is just about to be ignited. He is all fastened on the murky air with his eyes, and he will catch the beast, he will finish it off, ineluctably, no matter how the whole rebellious, snowy steppe rises up against him, sending silver stars into his mouth, his mustache, his eyes, his eyebrows, and his beaver hat.
"The dead souls . . . ," pronounced the lady agreeable in all respects.
"What, what?" the visitor picked up, all excitement.
"The dead souls! ..."
"Ah, speak, for God's sake!"
"That was simply invented as a cover, and here's the real thing: he wants to carry off the governor's daughter."
This conclusion was, indeed, quite unanticipated and in all respects extraordinary. The agreeable lady, on hearing it, simply froze on the spot, turned pale, pale as death, and, indeed, became seriously alarmed.
"Ah, my God!" she cried out, clasping her hands, "that is something I would never have thought."
"And, I confess, as soon as you opened your mouth, I grasped what it was," replied the lady agreeable in all respects.
"But what is boarding-school education after that, Anna Grigorievna! There's innocence for you!"
"What innocence! I've heard her say such things as, I confess, I would never have the courage to utter."
"You know, Anna Grigorievna, it's simply heartrending to see where immorality has finally come to."
"And men lose their minds over her. As for me, I confess, I find nothing in her . . . She's insufferably affected."
"Ah, Anna Grigorievna, dear heart, she's a statue, and if only she at least had some expression in her face."
"Ah, how affected! Ah, how affected! God, how affected! Who taught her I do not know, but I have never yet seen a woman in whom there was so much mincing."
"Darling! she's a statue, and pale as death."
"Ah, don't tell me, Sofya Ivanovna: she's sinfully rouged."
"Ah, how can you, Anna Grigorievna: she's chalk, chalk, the purest chalk!"
"My dear, I sat next to her: rouge finger-thick, and it comes off in pieces, like plaster. The mother taught her, she's a coquette herself, and the daughter will outdo her mama."
"No, excuse me, I'll take any oath you like, I'm ready to be deprived this instant of my children, my husband, all my property, if she wears the least drop, the least particle, the least shadow of any sort of rouge!"
"Ah, what are you saying, Sofya Ivanovna!" said the lady agreeable in all respects, clasping her hands.
"Ah, you really are the one, Anna Grigorievna! ... I look at you in amazement!" the agreeable lady said, also clasping her hands.
Let it not seem strange to the reader that the two ladies could not agree between them on what they had seen at almost the same time. There are, indeed, many things in the world that have this quality: when one lady looks at them, they come out perfectly white, and when another lady looks, they come out red, red as a cranberry.
"Now, here's another proof for you that she's pale," the simply agreeable lady went on. "I remember, as if it were today, sitting next to Manilov and saying to him: 'Look how pale she is!' Really, our men must be altogether witless to admire her. And our charmer . . . Ah, how disgusting I found him! You cannot imagine, Anna Grigorievna, to what extent I found him disgusting."
"But, all the same, certain ladies turned up who were not indifferent to him."
"Me, Anna Grigorievna? Now, that you can never say, never, never!
"But I'm not talking about you, as if there were no one else but you."
"Never, never, Anna Grigorievna! Allow me to point out to you that I know myself very well; but perhaps on the part of certain other ladies who play the role of untouchables."
"I beg your pardon, Sofya Ivanovna! Allow me to inform you that such scandaleusities have never yet occurred with me. Perhaps with someone else, but not with me, do allow me to point that out to you."
"Why are you so offended? There were other ladies present, there were even such as would be the first to grab the chair by the door in order to sit closer to him."
Well, now, after such words uttered by the agreeable lady, a storm had inevitably to ensue, but, to the greatest amazement, the two ladies suddenly quieted down, and absolutely nothing ensued. The lady agreeable in all respects recalled that the pattern for the fashionable dress was not yet in her hands, and the simply agreeable lady realized that she had not yet succeeded in ferreting out any details with regard to the discovery made by her bosom friend, and therefore peace very quickly ensued. Incidentally, it cannot be said that either lady had in her nature any need to inflict disagreeableness, and generally there was nothing wicked in their characters, but just like that, imperceptibly, a little wish to needle each other was born of itself in the course of conversation; one of them would simply thrust a lively little phrase at the other now and then, for the sake of a little pleasure: there, that's for you! take that and eat it! All sorts of needs exist in the hearts of both the male and the female sex.
"The one thing I can't understand, however," said the simply agreeable lady, "is how Chichikov, being a passing traveler, could resolve on such a bold venture. It can't be that there are no accomplices."
"And do you think there aren't any?"
"And who do you suppose could be helping him?"
"Well, let's say Nozdryov."
"Nozdryov, really?"
"And why not? He's capable of it. You know he wanted to sell his own father, or, better still, lose him at cards."
"Ah, my God, such interesting news I learn from you! I'd never have supposed Nozdryov could also be mixed up in this story!"
"And I always supposed so."
"When you think, really, the sorts of things that happen in the world! Now, could one have thought, when Chichikov had just come to our town, remember, that he would produce such a strange demarch in the world? Ah, Anna Grigorievna, if only you knew how alarmed I was! If it weren't for your good will and friendship . . . indeed, it was the brink of ruin . . . where, then? My Mashka saw I was pale as death. 'Darling mistress,' she says to me, 'you are pale as death.' 'Mashka,' I say, 'I can't be bothered with that.' What a thing to happen! So Nozdryov is in it, too, if you please!"
The agreeable lady wanted very much to ferret out further details concerning the abduction, such as the hour and so on, but that was wanting too much. The lady agreeable in all respects responded with outright ignorance. She was incapable of lying: to suppose something or other—that was a different matter, but then only in case the supposition was based on inner conviction; if she did feel an inner conviction, then she was capable of standing up for herself, and if some whiz of a lawyer, famous for his
gift of refuting other people's arguments, went and tried to compete with her—he would see what inner conviction means.
That both ladies finally became decidedly convinced of what they had first supposed only as a supposition is in no way extraordinary. Our sort—intelligent folk, as we call ourselves—act in almost the same way, and our learned reasoning serves as proof of it. At first the scholar sidles up to it with extraordinary lowliness; he begins timidly, with moderation, starting from the most humble inquiry: "Can it be from there? Was it not from that corner that such and such a country took its name?" or "Does this document not belong to some other, later time?" or "Should we not take this people as in fact meaning that people?" He immediately quotes one or another ancient writer, and as soon as he sees some hint, or something he takes for a hint, he sets off at a trot and plucks up his courage; he converses with ancient writers on familiar terms, he asks them questions and even answers for them himself, forgetting entirely that he started with a timid supposition; it already seems to him that he can see it, that it is clear—and the reasoning concludes with the words: "This is how it was, this is the people that must be meant, this is the point of view to take on the subject!" Then, proclaimed publicly, from the podium, the newly discovered truth goes traveling all over the world, gathering followers and admirers.
Dead Souls Page 23
