"As the proverb says, 'For a friend five miles is not a long way around!'" he said, taking off his peaked cap. "I was passing by, saw a light in the window, why don't I stop in, I thought, he can't be asleep. Ah! that's good, you've got tea on the table, I'll have a little cup with pleasure—today at dinner I overfed on all sorts of trash, I feel a turmoil starting in my stomach. Order me a pipefull! Where's your pipe?"
"But I don't smoke a pipe," Chichikov said dryly.
"Nonsense, as if I don't know you're a whiffer. Hey! what'd you say your man's name was? Hey, Vakhramey!"
"Not Vakhramey—Petrushka."
"How's that? You used to have a Vakhramey."
"I never had any Vakhramey."
"Right, exactly, it's Derebin who has a Vakhramey. Imagine Derebin's luck: his aunt quarreled with her son for marrying a serf girl, and now she's willed him her whole estate. I'm thinking to myself, it wouldn't be bad to have such an aunt for further on! But what's with you, brother, you're so withdrawn from everybody, you don't go anywhere? Of course, I know you're sometimes occupied with learned subjects, you like to read" (what made Nozdryov conclude that our hero occupied himself with learned subjects and liked to read, we must confess, we simply cannot say, and still less could Chichikov). "Ah, brother Chichikov, if only you'd seen it. . . that really would have been food for your satirical mind" (why Chichikov should have a satirical mind is also unknown). "Imagine, brother, we were playing a game of brag at the merchant Likhachev's, and how we laughed! Perependev, who was with me, 'You know,' he says, 'if it was Chichikov now, you know, he'd really . . . !' " (while never in his born days did Chichikov know any Perependev). "And confess, brother, you really did me the meanest turn that time, remember, when we were playing checkers, because I really did win . . . Yes, brother, you just diddled me out of it. But, devil knows what it is with me, I can never be angry. The other day with the magistrate . . . Ah, yes! I must tell you, the whole town's against you; they think you make forged bills, they started pestering me, but I stood up for you like a rock, I told them a heap of things, that I went to school with you and knew your father; well, needless to say, I spun them a good yarn."
"I make forged bills?" cried Chichikov, rising from his chair.
"All the same, why did you frighten them so?" Nozdryov went on. "Devil knows, they've lost their minds from fear: they've got you dressed up as a robber and a spy . . . And the prosecutor died of fright, the funeral's tomorrow. You're not going? To tell you the truth, they're afraid of the new Governor-general, in case something comes out on account of you; and my opinion about the Governor-general is that if he turns up his nose and puts on airs, he'll get decidedly nowhere with the nobility. The nobility demand cordiality, right? Of course, one can hide in one's study and not give a single ball, but what then? Nothing's gained by it. You, though, it's a risky business you're undertaking, Chichikov."
"What risky business?" Chichikov asked uneasily.
"Why, carrying off the governor's daughter. I confess, I expected it, by God, I did! The first time, as soon as I saw you together at the ball, well now, Chichikov, I thought to myself, surely there's some purpose . . . However, it's a poor choice you've made, I don't find anything good in her. But there is one, Bikusov's relative, his sister's daughter, now there's a girl! a lovely bit of chintz!"
"But what is this, what are you blathering about? How, carry off the governor's daughter, what's got into you?" Chichikov said, his eyes popping out.
"Well, enough, brother, what a secretive man! I confess, that's what I came to you for: if you like, I'm ready to help you. So be it: I'll hold the crown,[54] the carriage and change of horses are mine, only on one condition—you must lend me three thousand. Damn me, brother, if I don't need it!"
In the course of all Nozdryov's babble, Chichikov rubbed his eyes several times, wanting to be sure he was not hearing it all in a dream. The making of forged banknotes, the carrying off of the governor's daughter, the death of the prosecutor, of which he was supposedly the cause, the arrival of the Governor-general—all this produced quite a decent fright in him. "Well, if things have come to that," he thought to himself, "there's no point in lingering, I must get myself out of here."
He got Nozdryov off his hands as quickly as he could, summoned Selifan at once, and told him to be ready at daybreak, so that the next day at six o'clock in the morning they could leave town without fail, and that everything should be looked over, the britzka greased, and so on and so forth. Selifan said, "Right, Pavel Ivanovich!" and nevertheless stood for some time by the door, not moving from the spot. The master at once told Petrushka to pull the trunk, already quite covered with dust, from under the bed, and together with him began to pack, without much sorting out, stockings, shirts, underwear washed and unwashed, boot trees, a calendar. . . All this was packed haphazardly; he wanted to be ready that evening without fail, so that no delay should occur the next day. Selifan, having stood for some two minutes by the door, finally walked very slowly out of the room. Slowly, as slowly as one could only imagine, he went down the stairs, stamping traces with his wet boots on the worn-down, descending steps, and for a long time he scratched the back of his head with his hand. What did this scratching mean? and what does it generally mean? Was it vexation that now the planned meeting next day with his chum in the unseemly sheepskin coat tied with a belt, somewhere in a pot-house, would not come off, or had some little heartthrob started already in the new place, and he had to abandon the evening standing by the gate and the politic holding of white hands, at the hour when twilight pulls its brim down over the town, a strapping lad in a red shirt is strumming his balalaika before the household servants, and people, having finished work, weave their quiet talk? Or was he simply sorry to leave his already warmed-up place in the servants' kitchen, under a coat, next to the stove, and the cabbage soup with tender town-baked pies, and drag himself out again into the rain and sleet and all the adversities of the road? God knows, there's no guessing. Many and various among the Russian people are the meanings of scratching one's head.
Chapter Eleven
Nothing, however, happened the way Chichikov had intended. In the first place, he woke up later than he thought—that was the first unpleasantness. Having gotten up, he sent at once to find out if the britzka was harnessed and everything was ready; but was informed that the britzka was not yet harnessed and nothing was ready. That was the second unpleasantness. He got angry, even prepared himself to give our friend Selifan something like a thrashing, and only waited impatiently to see what reason he, for his part, would give to justify himself. Soon Selifan appeared in the doorway, and the master had the pleasure of hearing the same talk one usually hears from domestics when it is a case of needing to set off quickly.
"But, Pavel Ivanovich, we'll have to shoe the horses."
"Ah, you pig! you fence post! Why didn't you say so before? Didn't you have time enough?"
"Time, yes, I did have . . . And the wheel, too, Pavel Ivanovich, we'll have to put a new tire on it, because the road's bumpy now, such potholes all over . . . And, allow me to say: the front end of the britzka is quite loose, so that we maybe won't even make two stations."
"You scoundrel!" cried Chichikov, clasping his hands, and he came up so close to him that Selifan, for fear the master might make him a little gift, backed off a bit and stepped aside. "So you're going to kill me, eh? want to put a knife in me? knife me on the high road, you robber, you cursed pig, you sea monster! eh? eh? Sat here for three weeks, eh? If you'd only made a peep, you wastrel—and now you've pushed it right up to the final hour! when everything's almost set—just get in and go, eh? and it's here that you muck it up, eh? eh? Didn't you know before? didn't you, eh? eh? Answer! Didn't you know?"
"I knew," Selifan replied, hanging his head.
"Then why didn't you say so, eh?"
To this question Selifan made no reply, but, hanging his head, seemed to be saying to himself: "You see what a tricky thing it is: I knew, and I just didn'
t say!"
"So, now go and fetch the blacksmith, and see that everything's done in two hours. Do you hear? in two hours without fail, and if it's not, I'll. . . I'll bend you double and tie you in a knot!" Our hero was very angry.
Selifan made as if to turn for the door, to go and carry out the order, but stopped and said:
"Another thing, sir, the dapple-gray horse, he really ought to be sold, because he's a downright scoundrel, Pavel Ivanovich; he's that kind of horse, God help us, nothing but a hindrance."
"Oh, yes! I'll just up and run to the market to sell him!"
"By God, Pavel Ivanovich, not but he looks right enough, only in fact he's a sly horse, such a horse as never ..."
"Fool! When I want to sell him, I'll sell him. Look at the man reasoning! I'll see: if you don't bring me the blacksmiths and if everything's not ready in two hours, I'll give you such a thrashing . . . you won't know your own face! Go! Off with you!"
Selifan left.
Chichikov was completely out of sorts and flung down on the floor the sword that traveled with him for inspiring due fear in those who needed it. He fussed with the blacksmiths for a good quarter of an hour before he could come to terms with them, because the blacksmiths, as is their wont, were inveterate scoundrels, and, having grasped that the job was an urgent one, stuck him with six times the price. He got all fired up, called them crooks, thieves, highway robbers, even hinted at the Last Judgment, but nothing fazed them: the blacksmiths stayed absolutely in character—not only did not yield on the price, but even fussed over the work for a whole five and a half hours instead of two. During that time he had the pleasure of experiencing those agreeable moments, familiar to every traveler, when the trunk is all packed and only strings, scraps of paper, and various litter are strewn about the room, when a man belongs neither to the road nor to sitting in place, and from the window sees people plodding by, discussing nickels and dimes, lifting their eyes with some stupid curiosity to glance at him and then continuing on their way, which further aggravates the low spirits of the poor non-departing traveler. Everything there, everything he sees—the little shop across from his windows, the head of the old woman who lives in the house opposite, and who keeps coming up to the window with its half-curtains—everything is loathsome to him, and yet he will not leave the window. He stands, now oblivious, now dimly attentive again to everything moving and not moving in front of him, and in vexation stifles under his finger some fly which at the moment is buzzing and beating against the glass. But there is an end to all things, and the longed-for moment came: everything was ready, the front end of the britzka was set to rights, the wheel was fitted with a new tire, the horses were brought from the watering place, and the robber-blacksmiths went off counting the roubles they had made and wishing him all their blessings. Finally the britzka, too, was harnessed, and two hot kalatchi, only just bought, were put in, and Selifan stuck something for himself into the pouch in the coachman's box, and finally the hero himself, to the waving cap of the floorboy, who stood there in the same half-cotton frock coat, in the presence of the tavern servants and other lackeys and coachmen, who gathered to gape at someone else's master departing, and with all the other circumstances that accompany a departure, got into the carriage—and the britzka such as bachelors drive around in, which had stood so long in town and which the reader is so sick of, finally drove out the gates of the inn. "Thank God for that!" thought Chichikov, crossing himself. Selifan cracked his whip; Petrushka, having first hung from the footboard for a while, sat down next to him, and our hero, settling himself better on the Georgian rug, put a leather cushion behind his back and squashed the two kalatchi, as the carriage again started its jigging and jolting, owing to the pavement, which, as we know, possessed a bouncing force. With a sort of indefinite feeling he gazed at the houses, walls, fences, and streets, which, also as if hopping for their own part, were slowly moving backwards, and which God knows if he was destined to see again in the course of his life. At a turn down one of the streets the britzka had to stop, because an endless funeral procession was passing the whole length of it. Chichikov, having peeked out, told Petrushka to ask who was being buried, and learned that it was the prosecutor. Filled with unpleasant sensations, he at once hid himself in a corner, covered himself with the leather apron, and closed the curtains. All the while the carriage was stopped in this way, Selifan and Petrushka, piously doffing their hats, were looking at who drove how, in what, and on what, counting the number of all those on foot and on wheels, while the master, ordering them not to acknowledge or greet any servants they knew, also began timidly looking through the glass in the leather curtains: behind the coffin, hats off, walked all the officials. He began to be a bit afraid that they might recognize his carriage, but they could not be bothered with that. They were not even occupied with the various mundane conversations that are usually conducted among those accompanying the deceased. All their thoughts at that time were concentrated on their own selves: they thought about what sort of man the new Governor-general would be, how he would get down to business, and how he would receive them. After the officials, who went on foot, came carriages out of which peeked ladies in mourning caps. By the movement of their lips and hands one could see that they were engaged in lively conversation; perhaps they, too, were talking about the arrival of the new Governor-general, making speculations concerning the balls he would give, and worrying about their eternal festoons and appliqués. Finally, after the carriages, came several empty droshkies, strung out in single file, and finally there was nothing more left, and our hero could go. Opening the leather curtains, he sighed, saying from the bottom of his heart: "So, the prosecutor! He lived and lived, and then he died! And so they'll print in the newspapers that there passed away, to the sorrow of his subordinates and of all mankind, a respectable citizen, a rare father, an exemplary husband, and they'll write all sorts of stuff; they'll add, maybe, that he was accompanied by the weeping of widows and orphans; but if one looks into the matter properly, all you had, in fact, was bushy eyebrows." Here he told Selifan to drive faster, and meanwhile thought to himself: "It's a good thing, however, that I met the funeral; they say it's a lucky sign when you meet a dead man." The britzka meanwhile turned onto more deserted streets; soon there were only long stretches of wooden fence, heralding the end of town. Now the pavement has already ended, and the tollgate, and the town is behind, and there is nothing, and it is the road again. And again both sides of the high road are scrawled once more with mileposts, stationmasters, wells, wagon trains, gray villages with samovars, women, and a brisk, bearded innkeeper running out of the inn yard with an armful of oats, a passerby in worn bast shoes trudging on foot from eight hundred miles away, little towns slapped together, with little wooden shops, flour barrels, bast shoes, kalatchi, and other small stuff, rippling tollgates, bridges under repair, fields beyond view on this side and that, landowners' coaches, a soldier on horseback carrying a green box of leaden peas and the words "Such-and-such Artillery Battery," green, yellow, and freshly ploughed black stripes flashing over the steppes, a song struck up afar, pine tops in the mist, a ringing bell fading far off, crows like flies, and a horizon without end . . . Rus! Rus! I see you, from my wondrous, beautiful distance I see you:[55]it is poor, scattered, and comfortless in you; not gladdened, not frightened will one's gaze be at bold wonders of nature, crowned by bold wonders of art, cities with high, many-windowed palaces grown into the cliffs, picturesque trees and ivy grown into the houses, with the noise and eternal mist of waterfalls; the head will not be thrown back to look at great boulders heaped up endlessly above it and into the heights; through dark arches cast one upon the other, all entangled with vines and ivy and countless millions of wild roses, there will come no flash of the distant, eternal lines of shining mountains, soaring up into the bright silver heavens. In you all is openly deserted and level; like dots, like specks, your low towns stick up inconspicuously amidst the plains; there is nothing to seduce or enchant the eye. But what inco
nceivable, mysterious force draws one to you? Why do the ears hear and ring unceasingly with your melancholy song, coursing through the whole length and breadth of you from sea to sea? What is in it, in this song? What calls, and weeps, and grips the heart? What sounds so painfully caress and stream into the soul, and twine about my heart? Rus! what is it that you want of me? what inconceivable bond lies hidden between us? Why do you gaze so, and why is everything in you turned towards me with eyes full of expectation? . . . And still, all in perplexity, I stand motionless, but my head is already overshadowed by a menacing cloud, heavy with coming rains, and thought stands numb before your vastness. What prophecy is in this uncompassable expanse? Is it not here, in you, that the boundless thought is to be born, since you yourself are without end? Is it not here that the mighty man is to be, where there is room for him to show himself and walk about? And menacingly the mighty vastness envelops me, reflected with terrible force in my depths; my eyes are lit up by an unnatural power: ohh! what a shining, wondrous yonder, unknown to the world! Rus! ...”
Dead Souls Page 27
