Chapter Ten
Having gathered at the house of the police chief, known to the reader already as the father and benefactor of the town, the officials had occasion to observe to each other that they had even grown thinner as a result of all these cares and anxieties. Indeed, the appointment of the new governor-general, and the receipt of those documents of such serious content, and those God-knows-what rumors—all this left a visible imprint on their faces, and the frock coats of many of them had become visibly looser. Everything gave way: the head magistrate got thinner, the inspector of the board of health got thinner, the prosecutor got thinner, and some Semyon Ivanovich, who was never called by his last name, and who wore on his index finger a seal ring that he used to let the ladies look at—even he got thinner. Of course, as happens everywhere, there turned up some who did not quail or lose their presence of mind, but they were very few. Just the postmaster alone. He alone was unchanged in his constantly even character and had the custom of always saying on such occasions: “We know about you, governor-general! There’s maybe three or four of you have come to replace each other, but as for me, my dear sir, I’ve been sitting in the same place for thirty years now.” To this the other officials usually observed: “That’s fine for you, Sprechen-sie-Deych Ivan Andreych, yours is a mailing business: receiving and sending correspondence; so you might cheat on occasion by locking the office an hour early, or bilk some merchant for sending a letter at the wrong time, or else send some package that oughtn’t to be sent—here, of course, anyone can be a saint. But just let the devil start turning up under your hands every day, so that you don’t want to take it, but he just sticks it there. You, naturally, couldn’t care less, you have just one boy, but we, brother, have the much-blessed Praskovya Fyodorovna, so that every year brings something: now a Praskushka, now a Petrusha—here, brother, it’s a different tune.” So spoke the officials, but whether it is indeed possible to hold out against the devil is not for the author to judge. In the council that gathered this time, the absence of that necessary thing which simple folk call sense was very noticeable. Generally we are somehow not made for representative meetings. In all our gatherings, from the peasant community level up to all possible learned and other committees, unless they have one head to control everything, there is a great deal of confusion. It is even hard to say why this is so; evidently the nation is like that, since the only meetings that succeed are those arranged for the sake of carousing or dining, to wit: clubs and all sorts of vauxhalls on a German footing.46 Yet there is a readiness for anything, you might say, at any moment. Suddenly, as the wind blows, we start societies, charitable or for the encouragement of God knows what. The goal may be beautiful, but nothing will come of it for all that. Maybe it is because we are suddenly satisfied at the very beginning, and think that everything has already been done. For instance, having started some charitable society for the poor and donated considerable sums, we at once give a dinner for all the foremost dignitaries of the town to celebrate this praiseworthy action, spending, of course, half of all the donated money on it; the rest goes straightaway to rent a splendid apartment for the committee, with heating and doorkeepers, and then there are five and a half roubles left for the poor from the entire sum, and even here not all the members agree about their distribution, and each one trots out some gammer of his own. However, the meeting that gathered this time was of a completely different sort; it was formed as a result of necessity. The matter did not concern some poor people or strangers, the matter concerned each official personally, it was the matter of a calamity that threatened them all equally; which meant that, willy-nilly, there had to be more unanimity, closeness. But, for all that, it ended with devil knows what. Not to speak of the disagreement common to all councils, the opinions of those assembled displayed some even inconceivable indecisiveness: one said that Chichikov was a forger of government banknotes, and then himself added, “Or maybe he’s not”; another affirmed that he was an official of the governor-general’s chancellery, and immediately went on, “Though, devil knows, it’s not written on his forehead.” Against the conjecture that he was a robber in disguise, everyone rose up in arms; they found that besides an appearance that in itself was trustworthy to begin with, there was nothing in his conversation to suggest a man of violent behavior. All at once the postmaster, who had stood for a few moments immersed in some reflection, cried out unexpectedly, either as a result of a sudden inspiration that visited him, or something else:
“Do you know who he is, gentlemen?”
The voice in which he uttered it contained in itself something so stupendous that it made them all cry out simultaneously:
“Who?”
“He, gentlemen, my dear sir, is none other than Captain Kopeikin!”47
And when straightaway they all asked with one voice: “Who is this Captain Kopeikin?” the postmaster said:
“So you don’t know who Captain Kopeikin is?”
They all replied that they had no knowledge of who Captain Kopeikin was.
“Captain Kopeikin,” the postmaster said, opening his snuffbox only halfway for fear one of his neighbors might get into it with his fingers, in the cleanness of which he had little faith and even had the custom of muttering: “We know, my dear, you may go visiting God knows what parts with your fingers, and snuff is a thing requiring cleanliness”—“Captain Kopeikin,” the postmaster said, after taking a pinch, “no, but as a matter of fact, if someone was to tell it, it would, in a certain way, make a whole poem, quite amusing for some writer.”
All those present expressed a desire to know this story, or, as the postmaster put it, in a certain way, whole poem, quite amusing for some writer, and he began thus:
THE TALE OF CAPTAIN KOPEIKIN
“After the campaign of the year ’twelve, my good sir,” thus the postmaster began, though sitting in the room were not one sir but a whole six, “after the campaign of the year ’twelve, Captain Kopeikin was sent back along with the other wounded. It was either at Krasny or else at Leipzig, but anyway, if you can imagine, he had an arm and a leg blown off. Well, they hadn’t yet made any of those, you know, arrangements for the wounded; this invalid fund or whatever, if you can picture it, was, in a certain way, introduced much later. Captain Kopeikin sees he ought to work, only, you understand, all he’s got is his left hand. He tried going home to his father; the father says, ‘I’ve got nothing to feed you with’—if you can picture it—‘I barely have bread for myself.’ So my Captain Kopeikin decided to set out for Petersburg, my good sir, to petition the sovereign and see if he could obtain some imperial charity, ‘because look, thus and so, in a certain way, so to speak, I sacrificed my life, spilled my blood …’ Well, anyway, you know, with some government transport or wagon train—in short, my good sir, he somehow dragged himself to Petersburg. Well, if you can picture it, this some such one—Captain Kopeikin, that is—suddenly found himself in a capital the likes of which, so to speak, doesn’t exist on earth! Suddenly there’s a world before him, so to speak, a sort of field of life, a fairytale Scheherazade. Suddenly, if you can picture it, there’s some such Nevsky Prospect, or, you understand, some Gorokhovy Street, devil take it! or some such Liteiny Street; there’s some such spire sticking up in the air; the bridges there hang like the devil, if you can picture it, that is, not touching anywhere—in short, it’s Semiramis, sir,48 that’s the whole of it! He knocked about trying to rent a place, only it all put too much of a pinch on him—all those curtains, shades, devilish stuff, you understand, rugs—a whole Persia; trampling on capitals with your feet, so to speak. Well, it’s just, I mean, you go down the street and your nose can simply smell the thousands; and my Captain Kopeikin’s bank account consists, you understand, of some ten fivers. Well, he somehow got himself sheltered in a Revel inn49 for one rouble a day; dinner was cabbage soup and a piece of chopped beef. He sees there’s no point in overstaying. He makes inquiries about where to address himself. There is, they say, a kind of high commission, a board or
whatever, you understand, and the head of it is general-in-chief so-and-so. And you should know that the sovereign was not yet in the capital then; the army, if you can picture it, hadn’t come back from Paris yet, everything was abroad. My Kopeikin got up early, scraped at his beard with his left hand—because to pay a barber would, in a certain way, run up a bill—pulled on his wretched uniform, and went on his wooden leg, if you can imagine, to see the chief himself, the great man. He made inquiries about his lodgings. ‘There,’ they say, pointing to a house on the Palace Embankment. A right little peasant cottage, you understand: shiny glass ten feet wide in the windows, if you can picture it, so the vases and whatnot in the rooms seem as if they’re outside—you could, in a certain way, reach them from the street with your hand; precious marbles on the walls, metal gewgaws, the sort of handle on the door, you know, that you’d have to stop at the grocer’s first and buy a half-kopeck’s worth of soap and rub your hands with it for two hours before you dared take hold of it—in short, there’s such lacquers all over everything, in a certain way, it boggles the mind. The doorkeeper alone already looks like a generalissimo: a gilded mace, a count’s physiognomy, like some sort of fat, overfed pug; cambric collars, rascality! … My Kopeikin somehow dragged himself with his wooden leg up to the reception room and flattened himself into a corner, so as not to shove his elbow, if you can picture it, into some America or India—some such gilded porcelain vase, you understand. Well, naturally, he got his full share of standing there, because, if you can picture it, he came when the general had, in a certain way, barely gotten up and his valet had just brought him some silver basin, you understand, for various sorts of ablutions. So my Kopeikin had been waiting for about four hours when, finally, in comes an adjutant or some other official on duty. ‘The general,’ he says, ‘will now come out to the reception room.’ And the reception room’s chock-full of people by then, like beans on a plate. None of it like our kind, simple churls, it’s all fourth or fifth rank, colonels, and an occasional fat noodle shining on an epaulette—in short, some generalty. Suddenly a barely noticeable stir passed over the room, you understand, like some fine ether. There was a ‘sh, sh’ here and there, and finally a terrible silence fell. The great man enters. Well … if you can picture it: a statesman! His face, so to speak … well, in keeping with the position, you understand … with high rank … the same for his expression, you understand. Whatever was in the waiting room, naturally, stands at attention that instant, trembling, expectant, anticipating, in a certain way, the deciding of their fate. The minister, the great man, goes up to one, then another: ‘What is it? What is it? What do you want? What is your business?’ Finally, my good sir, it’s Kopeikin’s turn. Kopeikin plucks up his courage: ‘Thus and so, Your Excellency: I spilled my blood, lost an arm and a leg, in a certain way, can’t work, and I make so bold as to ask for the sovereign’s charity.’ The minister sees: the man has a wooden leg, and his empty right sleeve is pinned to his uniform. ‘Very well,’ he says, ‘come by in a few days.’ My Kopeikin goes out all but enraptured: for one thing, he was deemed worthy of an audience with a, so to speak, foremost great man; and for another, now the matter of the pension would, in a certain way, finally be settled. In this mood, you understand, he goes hopping along the sidewalk. He stopped at Palkin’s tavern for a glass of vodka, had dinner, my good sir, in the ‘London,’ ordered a cutlet with capers, asked for poulard with all the frills; asked for a bottle of wine, went to the theater in the evening—in short, you understand, a little spree. He sees some trim English woman going down the sidewalk, if you can picture it, like some such swan. My Kopeikin—his blood, you know, was acting up in him—started after her, hump-hump, on his wooden leg—‘but no,’ he thought, ‘later, when I have my pension, I’m getting too carried away now.’ So, my good sir, in some three or four days my Kopeikin again comes to the minister, waits for his appearance. ‘Thus and so,’ he says, ‘I’ve come to hear Your Excellency’s orders,’ he says, ‘being overcome with illness and owing to my wounds …,’ and so on, you understand, in official style. The great man, if you can imagine, recognized him at once. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘very well,’ he says, ‘this time I can tell you nothing except that you must wait for the sovereign’s arrival; then, undoubtedly, arrangements will be made concerning the wounded, but without the imperial will, so to speak, I can do nothing.’ A bow, you understand, and—good-bye. Kopeikin, if you can imagine, walked out in a most uncertain position. He was already thinking he’d just be handed money the next day: ‘Here, take it, dear boy, drink and make merry.’ And instead of that he was told to wait, and the time was not specified. So he goes owlish down the steps, like a poodle, you understand, that the cook has doused with water—tail between his legs, ears drooping. ‘Ah, no,’ he thinks to himself, ‘I’ll go one more time and explain that I’m finishing my last crust—unless you help me, I’m sure to die, in a certain way, of hunger.’ In short, my good sir, he comes to the Palace Embankment again; they say, ‘Impossible, he’s not receiving, come tomorrow.’ Next day, same thing; and the doorkeeper just doesn’t want to look at him anymore. And meanwhile in his pocket, you understand, there’s only one of those fivers left. He used to eat cabbage soup, a piece of beef, and now he picks up some sort of herring or pickle in a food shop, and two groats’ worth of bread—in short, the poor devil is starving, and yet he’s got a wolf’s appetite. He walks past some such restaurant—the cook there, if you can picture it, is a foreigner, some Frenchman or other with an open physiognomy, dressed in Holland linen, apron white as snow, preparing some finzerb or cutlets with truffles—in short, such a soup-super delicacy, you could almost eat yourself up, it’s so appetizing. He goes past Milyutin’s shops, there’s this salmon peeking, in a certain way, out the window, cherries—five roubles apiece, a giant watermelon, a regular stagecoach, sticking out the window and looking, so to speak, for some fool willing to pay a hundred roubles—in short, such temptation at every step, it makes your mouth water, and meanwhile all he hears is ‘tomorrow.’ So that was his position, if you can imagine: here, on the one hand, so to speak, salmon and watermelon, and on the other they keep offering him one and the same dish: ‘tomorrow.’ In the end the poor devil, in a certain way, couldn’t take it; he decided to get through by storm, you understand, whatever the cost. He waited at the entrance for some petitioner to come, and along with some general, you understand, he slipped in with his wooden leg to the reception room. The great man comes out as usual: ‘What is your business? And yours? Ah!’ he says, seeing Kopeikin, ‘I already told you, you must wait for a decision.’ ‘For pity’s sake, Your Excellency, I don’t even have a crust of bread, so to speak …’ ‘No help for it. I can do nothing for you; try to take care of yourself for the time being, look for some means.’ ‘But, Your Excellency, you can judge for yourself, in a certain way, what means I’ll be able to find without an arm and a leg.’ ‘But,’ says the dignitary, ‘you must agree that I cannot, in a certain way, support you out of my own pocket; I have many wounded, they all have an equal right … Fortify yourself with patience. The sovereign will come, and I give you my word of honor that his imperial charity will not abandon you.’ ‘But, Your Excellency, I can’t wait,’ says Kopeikin, and he says it somehow rudely. The great man is already annoyed, you understand. In fact, there are generals on all sides waiting for decisions, orders; important, so to speak, state business, calling for the swiftest execution—a moment’s neglect could be important—and here’s this devil clinging to him and won’t get unclung. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘I have no time … there is more important business waiting for me.’ He reminds him, in a subtle way, so to speak, that it’s finally time to get out. But my Kopeikin—hunger spurred him on, you understand: ‘As you will, Your Excellency,’ he says, ‘I’m not leaving this spot until you give me the decision.’ Well … you can imagine: to give such an answer to a great man, who has only to say a word and you go flying head over heels so that the devil himself will never find you … Her
e, if an official just one step lower in rank says such a thing to one of us, it’s already rudeness. But in this case, the size, the size of it! A general-in-chief and some Captain Kopeikin! Ninety roubles and a zero! The general, you understand, did nothing but glare at him, but that glare—firearms! No heart left—it’s sunk into your heels. But my Kopeikin, if you can imagine, doesn’t budge, he stands as if rooted to the spot. ‘Well, man?’ says the general, and he gave it to him, as they say, in spades. However, to tell the truth, he still treated him rather mercifully; another man would have thrown such a scare into him that the street would have been spinning upside down for three days afterwards, but all he said was: ‘Very well, if it is too expensive for you to live here, and you cannot wait quietly in the capital for the deciding of your fate, then I’ll send you away at government expense. Call the courier! Dispatch him to his place of residence!’ And the courier, you see, is already standing there: a sort of hulk of a man, seven feet tall, with huge hands on him, if you can imagine, made by nature herself for dealing with coachmen—in short, some sort of tooth doctor … And so, my good sir, this servant of God was seized and put into a cart along with the courier. ‘Well,’ Kopeikin thinks, ‘at least I won’t have to pay for the trip, and thanks for that.’ And so, my good sir, he rides on the courier, and as he rides on the courier, he, in a certain way, reasons with himself, so to speak: ‘Since the general says I myself must look for means of taking care of myself—very well,’ he says, ‘I’ll find those means!’ he says. Well, just how he was delivered to the place and precisely where he was taken, none of that is known. So, you understand, the rumors about Captain Kopeikin sank into the river of oblivion, into some such Lethe, as the poets call it. But, forgive me, gentlemen, here begins the thread, one might say, the intrigue of the novel. And so, where Kopeikin got to is unknown; but before two months had passed, if you can picture it, a band of robbers appeared in the Ryazan forests, and the leader of the band, my good sir, was none other than …”
Dead Souls: A Novel Page 25
