Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  “Kindly do not worry so for my sake, I will go in after,” Chichikov said.

  “No, Pavel Ivanovich, no, you are a guest,” Manilov said, motioning him to the door with his hand.

  “Do not trouble yourself, please, do not trouble yourself. Go in, please,” Chichikov said.

  “No, excuse me, I will not allow such an agreeable, well-educated guest to go in after me.”

  “Why well-educated? … Go in, please.”

  “Ah, no, you go in, please.”

  “But why?”

  “Ah, but, just because!” Manilov said with an agreeable smile.

  Finally the two friends went through the door sideways, squeezing each other slightly.

  “Allow me to introduce you to my wife,” said Manilov. “Sweetie! Pavel Ivanovich!”

  Chichikov indeed saw a lady whom he had entirely failed to notice at first, as he was exchanging bows with Manilov in the doorway. She was not bad-looking and was dressed becomingly. Her housecoat of pale-colored silk sat well on her; her small, slender hand hastily dropped something on the table and clutched a cambric handkerchief with embroidered corners. She rose from the sofa on which she was sitting; Chichikov, not without pleasure, went up to kiss her hand. Mrs. Manilov said, even with a slightly French r,5 that they were very glad he had come, and that no day went by without her husband’s remembering him.

  “Yes,” Manilov chimed in, “she indeed kept asking me: ‘But why does your friend not come?’ ‘Wait a bit, sweetie, he will come.’ And now at last you’ve honored us with your visit. It is truly such a delight … a May day … a heart’s feast …”

  When Chichikov heard that things had already gone as far as a heart’s feast, he even became slightly embarrassed, and replied modestly that he had neither a renowned name, nor even any notable rank.

  “You have everything,” Manilov interrupted with the same agreeable smile, “everything, and even more besides.”

  “How do you find our town?” Mrs. Manilov chimed in. “Have you spent an agreeable time there?”

  “A very good town, a wonderful town,” replied Chichikov, “and my time there has been very agreeable: the society is most mannerly.”

  “And what do you think of our governor?” said Mrs. Manilov.

  “A most respectable and amiable man, isn’t it true?” Manilov added.

  “Absolutely true,” said Chichikov, “a most respectable man. And how well he enters into his duty, how he understands it! We can only wish for more such people!”

  “And, you know, he has such a way of receiving everyone, of observing delicacy in all he does,” Manilov appended with a smile, narrowing his eyes almost completely with pleasure, like a cat that has been tickled lightly behind the ears with a finger.

  “A very mannerly and agreeable man,” continued Chichikov, “and so artistic! I even never could have imagined it. How well he embroiders various household patterns! He showed me a purse he made: it’s a rare lady that can embroider so artfully.”

  “And the vice-governor, such a dear man, isn’t it true?” said Manilov, again narrowing his eyes slightly.

  “A very, very worthy man,” responded Chichikov.

  “And, permit me, how do you find the police chief? A very agreeable man, isn’t it true?”

  “Exceedingly agreeable, and such an intelligent, such a well-read man! I played whist at his place with the prosecutor and the head magistrate till the last cockcrow—a very, very worthy man.”

  “And what is your opinion of the police chief’s wife?” Mrs. Manilov added. “A most amiable woman, isn’t it true?”

  “Oh, she is one of the worthiest women I have ever known,” replied Chichikov.

  Whereupon they did not omit the head magistrate, the postmaster, and in this manner went through almost all the town’s officials, all of whom turned out to be most worthy people.

  “Do you spend all your time in the country?” Chichikov finally put a question in his turn.

  “Mainly in the country,” replied Manilov. “Sometimes, however, we go to town, if only so as to meet educated people. One grows wild, you know, if one lives in seclusion all the time.”

  “True, true,” said Chichikov.

  “Of course,” Manilov continued, “it’s another thing if one has a nice neighbor, if one has, for example, the sort of man with whom one can in some way discuss matters of courtesy, of good manners, keep up with some sort of science or other, so as somehow to stir the soul, to lend it, so to speak, a sort of soaring …” Here he wished to express something further, but noticing that he was running off at the mouth, he merely scooped the air with his hand and went on: “Then, of course, the country and its solitude would have a great deal of agreeableness. But there is decidedly no one … One merely reads the Son of the Fatherland6 occasionally.”

  Chichikov agreed with this completely, adding that nothing could be more pleasant than to live in solitude, enjoy the spectacle of nature, and occasionally read some book …

  “But, you know,” Manilov added, “still, if there is no friend with whom one can share …”

  “Oh, that is correct, that is perfectly correct!” Chichikov interrupted. “What are all the treasures of the world then! ‘Keep not money, but keep good people’s company,’ the wise man said.”

  “And you know, Pavel Ivanovich!” Manilov said, showing on his face an expression not merely sweet but even cloying, like the mixture a shrewd society doctor sweetens unmercifully, fancying it will please his patient. “Then one feels a sort of spiritual delight, in some way … As now, for instance, when chance has given me the, one might say, exemplary happiness of talking with you and enjoying your agreeable conversation …”

  “Good gracious, what agreeable conversation? … An insignificant man, nothing more,” responded Chichikov.

  “Oh! Pavel Ivanovich, allow me to be frank: I would gladly give half of all I possess for a portion of the virtues that are yours!…”

  “On the contrary, I, for my part, would regard it as the greatest …”

  There is no knowing what the mutual outpouring of feelings between the two friends would have come to, if an entering servant had not announced that the meal was ready.

  “I beg you to join us,” said Manilov. “You will excuse us if we do not have such a dinner as on parquet floors and in capitals, we simply have, after the Russian custom, cabbage soup, but from the bottom of our hearts. Join us, I humbly beg you.”

  Here they spent some more time arguing over who should go in first, and Chichikov finally entered the dining room sideways.

  In the dining room there already stood two boys, Manilov’s sons, who were of the age when children already sit at the table, but still on raised seats. By them stood their tutor, who bowed politely and with a smile. The hostess sat down to her soup tureen; the guest was seated between the host and the hostess, the servant tied napkins around the children’s necks.

  “Such dear little children,” said Chichikov, having looked at them, “and of what ages?”

  “The older one is going on eight, and the younger one turned six just yesterday,” said Mrs. Manilov.

  “Themistoclus!” said Manilov, addressing the older boy, who was making efforts to free his chin from the napkin the lackey had tied around it.

  Chichikov raised an eyebrow slightly on hearing this partly Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov gave the ending “-us,” but tried at once to bring his face back to its usual state.

  “Themistoclus, tell me, what is the best city in France?”

  Here the tutor turned all his attention on Themistoclus and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but calmed himself at last and nodded when Themistoclus said: “Paris.”

  “And what is our best city?” Manilov asked again.

  The tutor again tuned up his attention.

  “Petersburg,” replied Themistoclus.

  “And besides that?”

  “Moscow,” replied Themistoclus.

  “The s
marty! The sweetie!” Chichikov said to that. “No, really …,” he continued, turning to the Manilovs with a look of some amazement, “such knowledge, at such an age! I must tell you, this child will have great abilities.”

  “Oh, you still don’t know him,” responded Manilov, “he has an exceeding amount of wit. The younger one now, Alkides, this one is not so quick, but that one, as soon as he meets something, a bug or a gnat, his eyes suddenly start rolling; he runs after it and investigates it at once. I intend him for the diplomatic line. Themistoclus,” he went on, again addressing the boy, “want to be an ambassador?”

  “Yes,” replied Themistoclus, chewing his bread and wagging his head right and left.

  At that moment the lackey who was standing behind him wiped the ambassador’s nose, and it was a good thing he did, otherwise a rather sizable extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup. The conversation at table turned to the pleasures of the quiet life, interrupted by the hostess’s observations about the town’s theater and its actors. The tutor very attentively watched the talkers, and, as soon as he observed that they were about to smile, opened his mouth that same instant and diligently laughed. Most likely he was a grateful man and wanted thus to repay the master for his good treatment. Once, however, his face assumed a severe look and he rapped sternly on the table, aiming his glance at the children sitting across from him. This was appropriate, because Themistoclus had bitten Alkides’ ear, and Alkides, screwing up his eyes and opening his mouth, was about to howl in a most pathetic way, but sensing that for that he could easily be deprived of one course, he returned his mouth to its former position and tearfully began gnawing on a lamb bone, which made both his cheeks shiny with grease. The hostess turned to Chichikov very frequently with the words: “You don’t eat anything, you’ve taken very little.” To which Chichikov would reply each time: “I humbly thank you, I’m full, agreeable conversation is better than any food.”

  They had already risen from the table. Manilov was exceedingly pleased and, supporting his guest’s back with his arm, was preparing to escort him thus into the drawing room, when the guest suddenly announced with a rather significant air that he intended to discuss with him a certain very necessary matter.

  “In that case allow me to invite you to my study,” said Manilov, and he led him to a small room with a window looking out on the bluing forest. “Here’s my little corner,” said Manilov.

  “An agreeable little room,” said Chichikov, looking it over.

  The room was, indeed, not without agreeableness: walls painted a pretty light blue like a sort of gray, four chairs, one armchair, a table, on which lay the book with the bookmark in it, of which we have already had occasion to make mention, several scribbled-on sheets of paper, but mainly there was tobacco. It was in various forms: in paper packets, in the tobacco jar, and, finally, simply poured out in a heap on the table. On both windowsills were also placed little piles of knocked-out pipe ash, arranged not without assiduousness in very handsome rows. It could be observed that this sometimes provided the host with a pastime.

  “Allow me to invite you to settle yourself in this armchair,” said Manilov. “You’ll be more comfortable here.”

  “I’ll sit on a straight chair, if you’ll allow me.”

  “Allow me not to allow you,” Manilov said with a smile. “This armchair is reserved for guests: whether you like it or not, you’ll have to sit in it.”

  Chichikov sat down.

  “Allow me to treat you to a little pipe.”

  “No, I don’t smoke,” Chichikov replied tenderly and as if with an air of regret.

  “Why not?” said Manilov, also tenderly and with an air of regret.

  “I’m not in the habit, I’m afraid; they say the pipe dries one up.”

  “Allow me to point out to you that that is a prejudice. I even suppose that to smoke a pipe is much healthier than to take snuff. There was a lieutenant in our regiment, a most wonderful and most educated man, who never let the pipe out of his mouth, not only at table but even, if I may be allowed to say so, in all other places. And here he is now already forty-some years old, and yet, thank God, he’s still as healthy as can be.”

  Chichikov observed that that did indeed happen, and that there were many things in nature which were inexplicable even for a vast mind.

  “But first allow me one request …,” he uttered in a voice that rang with some strange or almost strange expression, and after that, for no apparent reason, he looked behind him. Manilov, too, for no apparent reason, looked behind him. “How long ago were you so good as to file your census report?”

  “Oh, long ago now; or, rather, I don’t remember.”

  “And since that time how many of your peasants have died?”

  “I have no way of knowing; that’s something I suppose you must ask the steward. Hey, boy! call the steward, he should be here today.”

  The steward appeared. He was a man approaching forty, who shaved his beard, wore a frock coat, and apparently led a very comfortable life, because his face had about it the look of a certain puffy plumpness, and his little eyes and the yellowish tint of his skin showed that he knew all too well what goose down and feather beds were. One could see at once that he had made his way in life as all estate stewards do: had first been simply a literate boy about the house, then married some housekeeper Agashka, the mistress’s favorite, became a housekeeper himself, and then steward. And having become steward, he behaved, naturally, like all stewards: hobnobbed with villagers of the wealthier sort; put additional taxes on the poorer ones; woke up past eight in the morning, waited for the samovar, and drank his tea.