Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  “Oh-oh! twelve o’clock!” Chichikov said at last, glancing at his watch. “What am I doing dawdling like this? It wouldn’t matter if I was getting something done, but first I started pouring out drivel for no reason at all, and then I fell to pondering. Eh, what a fool I am, really!” Having said this, he changed his Scottish costume for a European one, drew the belt buckle tight over his plump belly, sprinkled himself with eau de cologne, took a warm cap in his hand and the papers under his arm, and set out for the government offices to execute his deeds. He was hurrying not because he was afraid of being late—he was not afraid of being late, for the head magistrate was a man of his acquaintance, and could lengthen or shorten his office hours at will, like the ancient Zeus of Homer, who prolonged days or sent quicker nights when he wanted to stop the combat of heroes dear to him or give them the means to finish their fight—but he felt in himself a desire to bring the business to a close as soon as possible; until then everything seemed uneasy and uncomfortable to him; it kept occurring to him that, after all, the souls were not quite real, and that in such cases one must hasten to get the burden off one’s shoulders. No sooner had he gone out, reflecting upon all this and at the same time dragging onto his shoulders a bear covered with brown flannel, when just at the corner of the lane he ran into a gentleman also in a bear covered with brown flannel and a warm cap with ear flaps. The gentleman uttered a cry: it was Manilov. They straightaway locked each other in an embrace and stood that way in the street for about five minutes. The kisses were so hard on both sides that both men had an ache in their front teeth for almost the whole day. Manilov’s eyes disappeared completely from joy, leaving only the nose and lips on his face. For about a quarter of an hour he held Chichikov’s hand in both of his hands and made it terribly warm. In the most refined and pleasant turns of phrase he told how he had flown to embrace Pavel Ivanovich; the speech was concluded with a compliment such as is perhaps fitting only for a girl one is taking to a dance. Chichikov opened his mouth, still not knowing how to thank him, when suddenly Manilov took from under his fur coat a piece of paper rolled into a tube and tied with a pink ribbon, and deftly held it out with two fingers.

  “What’s this?”

  “My little muzhiks.”

  “Ah!” He unrolled it straightaway, ran his eyes over it, and marveled at the neatness and beauty of the handwriting. “So nicely written,” he said, “no need even to copy it. And a border around it! Who made such an artful border?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t ask,” said Manilov.

  “You?”

  “My wife.”

  “Ah, my God! I really am ashamed to have caused so much trouble.”

  “When it’s for Pavel Ivanovich, there’s no such thing as trouble.”

  Chichikov bowed in gratitude. On learning that he was going to court to execute the deed, Manilov expressed a readiness to accompany him. The friends linked arms and set off together. At every little rise, bump, or step, Manilov supported Chichikov and almost lifted him up by the arm, adding with a pleasant smile that he would by no means allow Pavel Ivanovich to hurt his little feet. Chichikov was abashed, not knowing how to thank him, for he was aware that he was a bit on the heavy side. With mutual services they finally reached the square where the offices were located: a big three-story stone house, all white as chalk, probably to represent the purity of soul of the functions located within; the other structures on the square did not answer to the hugeness of the stone building. These were: a sentry box, where a soldier with a gun stood, two or three cabstands, and, finally, long fences with well-known fence inscriptions and drawings scrawled on them in charcoal or chalk; there was nothing else to be found on this solitary, or, as we say, beautiful square. From the windows of the second and third stories the incorruptible heads of the priests of Themis peeked out and ducked back at the same moment: probably a superior had come into the room just then. The friends did not so much walk as run up the stairs, because Chichikov, trying to elude the supporting arm from Manilov’s side, kept quickening his pace, while Manilov, on his side, rushed ahead, trying to keep Chichikov from tiring himself, with the result that they were both quite breathless as they entered the dark corridor. Neither in the corridors nor in the rooms were their eyes struck by cleanliness. Back then people did not bother about it, and what was dirty simply stayed dirty, not assuming an attractive appearance. Themis received her guests as she was, in négligée and dressing gown. The chancellery rooms through which our heroes passed ought to be described, but the author feels a great timidity before all official places. Even happening to pass through them when they were splendid and ennobled of aspect, with polished floors and tables, he has tried to run as quickly as possible, humbly lowering his eyes and casting them on the ground, with the result that he is totally ignorant of how everything there prospers and flourishes. Our heroes saw lots of paper, rough drafts and fair copies, bent heads, broad napes, tailcoats, frock coats of a provincial cut, and even simply some light gray jacket, which stood out quite sharply, its head twisted to one side and almost lying on the paper as it traced, deftly and boldly, some protocol on an appropriation of land or the perquisition of an estate taken over by some peaceful landowner, who was quietly living out his life under lawsuit and had acquired children and grandchildren for himself under its protection, and they heard scraps of short phrases, uttered in a hoarse voice: “Hey, Fedosei Fedoseevich, lend me that little case no. 368!” “You always walk off somewhere with the cork to the office ink bottle!” Sometimes a more majestic voice, undoubtedly that of one of the superiors, resounded commandingly: “Here, copy this! or we’ll take your boots away and you’ll sit here for six days without food.” The noise of pens was great and resembled that of several carts loaded with brushwood moving through a forest two feet deep in dry leaves.

  Chichikov and Manilov went up to the first desk, where sat two clerks still young in years, and asked:

  “May we inquire where deeds are dealt with here?”

  “And what is it you want?” said both clerks, turning around.

  “And what I want is to make an application.”

  “And what is it you’ve bought?”

  “I would first like to know where the deeds desk is, here or somewhere else.”

  “But first tell us what you’ve bought and for what price, and then we’ll tell you where, otherwise there’s no knowing.”

  Chichikov saw at once that the clerks were simply curious, like all young clerks, and wanted to give more weight and significance to themselves and their occupation.

  “Listen, my gentle sirs,” he said, “I know very well that all deeds, whatever the price, are dealt with in one place, and therefore I ask you to point out the desk to us, and if you don’t know what goes on in your own office, we’ll ask others.”

  The clerks made no reply to this, one of them merely jabbed with his finger towards a corner of the room, where some old man sat at a desk, marking up some papers. Chichikov and Manilov moved between the desks straight to him. The old man was working very attentively.

  “May I inquire,” Chichikov said with a bow, “if it is here that deeds are dealt with?”

  The old man raised his eyes and uttered with deliberation:

  “Deeds are not dealt with here.”

  “And where, then?”

  “In the deeds section.”

  “And where is the deeds section?”

  “That’s at Ivan Antonovich’s.”

  “And where is Ivan Antonovich’s?”

  The old man jabbed his finger towards another corner of the room. Chichikov and Manilov set out for Ivan Antonovich’s. Ivan Antonovich had already cast one eye back and given them a sidelong look, but at once immersed himself more attentively in his writing.

  “May I inquire,” Chichikov said with a bow, “if this is the deeds section?”

  Ivan Antonovich seemed not to hear and buried himself completely in paper, making no reply. One could see at once that he was already a man of reason
able age, not some young babbler and whippersnapper. Ivan Antonovich seemed already well past forty; his hair was black, thick; the whole middle of his face projected forward and went mostly into nose—in short, it was the type of face commonly known as a jug mug.

  “May I inquire if this is the deeds section?” said Chichikov.

  “It is,” Ivan Antonovich said, swung his jug mug, and again applied himself to his writing.

  “And my business is this: I’ve bought peasants from various owners in this district, to be resettled; I have the deed, it remains to execute it.”

  “And are the sellers present?”

  “Some are here, and I have warrants from the others.”

  “And have you brought the application?”

  “I have brought the application. I’d like … I must hurry … so mightn’t we, for instance, finish the business today?”

  “Today! hm, today’s impossible,” said Ivan Antonovich. “Inquiries must be made, to see that there are no interdictions.”

  “By the way, to do with speeding the business up, Ivan Grigorievich, the head magistrate, is a great friend of mine …”

  “Yes, but Ivan Grigorievich is not the only one; others exist,” Ivan Antonovich said sternly.

  Chichikov understood the little hitch Ivan Antonovich had just thrown in, and said:

  “The others won’t come out losers, I’ve been in the service myself, I know the business …”