Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  Chichikov’s horses also liked their new abode. The shaft horse and the chestnut outrunner called Assessor, and that same dapple-gray which Selifan referred to as “a scoundrel of a horse,” found their stay at Tentetnikov’s far from dull, the oats of excellent quality, and the layout of the stables uncommonly convenient. Each stable was partitioned off, yet over the partitions one could see the other horses, so that if any of them, even the furthest off, suddenly got a notion to start whinnying, it was possible to respond in kind straightaway.

  In short, everyone settled as if into their own home. The reader may be astonished that Chichikov had so far not made a peep about the notorious souls. Perish the thought! Pavel Ivanovich had become very cautious with regard to the subject. Even if he had been dealing with perfect fools, he would not have started suddenly on it. And Tentetnikov, after all, reads books, philosophizes, tries to explain to himself the various reasons for everything—why and how … “No, devil take him! maybe I should start from the other end?” So thought Chichikov. Chatting frequently with the servants, he found out from them, among other things, that the master once used to visit his neighbor the general quite often, that there was a young miss at the general’s, that the master had been sweet on the young miss, and the young miss on the master, too … but then suddenly they had a falling out over something and parted. He himself noticed that Andrei Ivanovich kept drawing some sort of heads with pencil or pen, all looking the same. Once, after dinner, spinning the silver snuffbox on its axis with his finger, as usual, he spoke thus:

  “You have everything, Andrei Ivanovich; only one thing is missing.”

  “What is that?” the other responded, letting out curls of smoke.

  “A life’s companion,” said Chichikov.

  No reply came from Andrei Ivanovich. And with that the conversation ended.

  Chichikov was not embarrassed, he chose another moment, this time just before supper, and while talking about one thing and another, said suddenly:

  “But really, Andrei Ivanovich, it wouldn’t do you any harm to get married.”

  Not a word of reply came from Tentetnikov, as if the very mention of the subject was disagreeable to him.

  Chichikov was not embarrassed. For the third time he chose a moment, this time after supper, and spoke thus:

  “But all the same, whichever way I turn your circumstances, I see that you must get married: you’ll fall into hypochondria.”

  Whether it was that Chichikov’s words this time were so convincing, or that Andrei Ivanovich’s mood was somehow especially inclined to frankness, he sighed and said, sending up smoke from his pipe: “For all things one needs to be born lucky, Pavel Ivanovich,” and he told everything as it had been, the whole story of his acquaintance with the general and its breakup.

  As Chichikov listened, word by word, to the whole affair and saw that because of one word such an incident had occurred, he was dumbfounded. For several minutes he looked intently into Tentetnikov’s eyes and concluded: “Why, he’s simply a perfect fool!”

  “Andrei Ivanovich, for pity’s sake!” he said, taking both his hands. “Where’s the insult? what’s insulting in one familiar word?”

  “There’s nothing insulting in the word itself,” said Tentetnikov, “but the sense of the word, the voice in which it was uttered, that’s where the insult lies. The word means: ‘Remember, you’re trash; I receive you only because there’s no one better, but if some Princess Yuzyakin comes—you know your place, you stand by the door.’ That’s what it means!”

  As he said this, the placid and meek Andrei Ivanovich flashed his eyes, and in his voice the irritation of offended feelings could be heard.

  “But even if that is the sense of it—what matter?” said Chichikov.

  “What?” said Tentetnikov, looking intently into Chichikov’s eyes. “You want me to continue visiting him after such an action?”

  “But what sort of action is that? It’s not an action at all!” said Chichikov.

  “What a strange man this Chichikov is!” Tentetnikov thought to himself.

  “What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!” Chichikov thought to himself.

  “It’s not an action, Andrei Ivanovich. It’s simply a general’s habit: they call everyone ‘boy.’ And, incidentally, why not allow it in a venerable, respectable man?”

  “That’s another matter,” said Tentetnikov. “If he were an old man, a poor man, not proud, not conceited, not a general, I would allow him to address me that way and even take it respectfully.”

  “He’s an utter fool!” Chichikov thought to himself. “To allow it to a ragamuffin, and not to a general!” And, following this reflection, he objected to him aloud, thus:

  “Very well, suppose he did insult you, but you also got even with him; he you, and you him. But to part forever on account of a trifle—for pity’s sake, that’s beyond anything! Why abandon an affair that’s just begun? Once the goal has been chosen, one must push one’s way through. No point in looking at a man who spits! Men are always spitting; you won’t find anyone in the whole world who doesn’t spit.”

  Tentetnikov was completely taken aback by these words; dumbfounded, he stared into Pavel Ivanovich’s eyes, thinking to himself: “A most strange man, though, this Chichikov!”

  “What an odd duck, though, this Tentetnikov!” Chichikov thought meanwhile.

  “Allow me to do something about this matter,” he said aloud. “I could go to His Excellency and explain that on your part it occurred owing to misunderstanding, youth, an ignorance of men and the world.”

  “I have no intention of groveling before him!” Tentetnikov said strongly.

  “God forbid you should grovel!” said Chichikov, crossing himself. “To influence with a word of admonition, like a sensible mediator, yes, but to grovel … Excuse me, Andrei Ivanovich, for my good will and devotion, I never expected that you would take my words in such an offensive sense!”

  “Forgive me, Pavel Ivanovich, I am to blame!” Tentetnikov said, touched, and seizing both his hands in gratitude. “Your kind sympathy is precious to me, I swear! But let’s drop this conversation, let’s never speak of it again!”

  “In that case I’ll simply go to the general without any reason,” said Chichikov.

  “What for?” asked Tentetnikov, looking at Chichikov in bewilderment.

  “To pay my respects,” said Chichikov.

  “What a strange man this Chichikov is!” thought Tentetnikov.

  “What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!” thought Chichikov.

  “Since my britzka,” said Chichikov, “has not yet attained the proper condition, allow me to take your coach. I’ll go and visit him tomorrow at around ten o’clock or so.”

  “Good gracious, what a request! You are full master, choose any carriage you like, everything’s at your disposal.”

  They said good night and went to bed, not without reflecting on each other’s strangeness.

  An odd thing, however: the next day, when Chichikov’s horses were ready, and he leaped into the carriage with the ease of an almost military man, dressed in a new tailcoat, a white tie and waistcoat, and drove off to pay his respects to the general, Tentetnikov felt an agitation in his soul such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the rusty and drowsy course of his thoughts turned into an actively troubled one. A nervous excitement came over all the feelings of the sloth who hitherto had been sunk in careless indolence. Now he sat down on the sofa, now he went to the window, now he would take up a book, now he wanted to think—futile wanting!—thought refused to come into his head. Now he attempted not to think about anything—futile attempt!—scraps of something resembling thoughts, odds and ends of thoughts, kept creeping and pecking into his head from everywhere. “A strange state!” he said and moved to the window to gaze at the road cutting through the grove, at the end of which the clouds of dust raised by the departing carriage had not yet had time to settle. But let us leave Tentetnikov and follow Chichikov.
r />   Chapter Two

  In a little over half an hour the horses carried Chichikov across the six-mile space—first through the grove, then through wheat fields already beginning to green amid the freshly ploughed earth, then over the skirts of the hills, from which views of the distance opened every minute—and along a wide avenue of spreading lindens leading to the general’s estate. The avenue of lindens turned into an avenue of poplars, fenced at the base with wicker boxes, and ran up to wrought-iron gates through which appeared the splendidly ornate carved façade of the general’s house, resting on eight columns with Corinthian capitals. Everywhere there was a smell of oil paint, with which everything was renewed, allowing nothing to get old. The yard was as clean as parquet. Having rolled up to the front entrance, Chichikov respectfully jumped off onto the porch, asked to be announced, and was introduced directly into the general’s study.

  The general struck him with his majestic appearance. He was, at that moment, dressed in a raspberry satin dressing gown. An open look, a manly face, grizzled side-whiskers and a big mustache, hair cut short and even shaved at the nape, a thick, broad neck, in three stories, as they say, or three folds with a crease across the middle, the voice a bass with some huskiness, the movements those of a general. Like all of us sinners, General Betrishchev was endowed with many virtues and many defects. Both the one and the other were scattered through him in a sort of picturesque disorder. Self-sacrifice, magnanimity in decisive moments, courage, intelligence—and with all that, a generous mixture of self-love, ambition, vanity, petty personal ticklishness, and a good many of those things which a man simply cannot do without. He disliked all those who got ahead of him in the service, spoke of them caustically, in pointed, sardonic epigrams. Most of it hit at a former colleague, whom he considered his inferior in intelligence and abilities, but who had nevertheless outstripped him and was already the governor-general of two provinces, and, as if by design, of the very ones in which his own estates were located, so that he found himself as if dependent on him. In revenge, he derided him at every opportunity, criticized his every directive, and looked upon all his measures and actions as the height of folly. Despite his good heart, the general was given to mockery. Broadly speaking, he liked being first, liked incense, liked to shine and display his intelligence, liked knowing things that others did not know, and did not like those who knew something he did not know. Brought up with a half-foreign upbringing, he wanted at the same time to play the role of a Russian squire. With such unevenness of character, with such big, striking contrasts, he was inevitably bound to meet with a heap of troubles in the service, as a result of which he took his retirement, accusing some enemy party of everything and not having enough magnanimity to blame himself for any of it. In retirement he preserved the same picturesque, majestic bearing. In a frock coat, a tailcoat, or a dressing gown—he was the same. From his voice to his least gesture, everything in him was imperious, commanding, inspiring, if not respect, then at least timidity in the lower ranks.

  Chichikov felt both the one and the other: both respect and timidity. Inclining his head respectfully to one side, he began thus:

  “I felt it my duty to introduce myself to Your Excellency. Nursing the greatest respect for the men of valor who have saved the fatherland on the field of battle, I felt it my duty to introduce myself personally to Your Excellency.”

  The general obviously did not dislike this sort of assault. With a rather gracious motion of his head, he said:

  “Very glad to meet you. Pray be seated. Where did you serve?”

  “My career in the service,” said Chichikov, sitting down not in the center of the armchair, but obliquely, and grasping the armrest with his hand, “began in the treasury department, Your Excellency; and the further course of same was pursued in various places: I was in the civil courts, on a building commission, and in customs. My life may be likened to a ship amidst the waves, Your Excellency. I grew up, one might say, on patience, nursed by patience, swaddled by patience, and am myself, so to speak, nothing but patience. And how much I have suffered from enemies no words or colors can tell. And now, in the evening, so to speak, of my life, I am searching for a little corner in which to pass the rest of my days. And I am staying meanwhile with a near neighbor of Your Excellency’s …”

  “Who is that?”

  “Tentetnikov, Your Excellency.”

  The general winced.

  “He greatly regrets, Your Excellency, his not having paid due respect …”

  “To what?”

  “To Your Excellency’s merits. Words fail him. He says: ‘If only I could somehow … because really,’ he says, ‘I know how to value the men who have saved the fatherland,’ he says.”

  “Good gracious, what’s the matter with him? … Why, I’m not angry!” the softened general said. “In my heart I sincerely loved him, and I’m sure that in time he will become a most useful man.”

  “Quite correctly put, Your Excellency, if you please, a most useful man, with a gift for eloquence, and wielding a skillful pen.”

  “But he writes trifles, I suppose, some sort of verses?”

  “No, Your Excellency, not trifles …”

  “What, then?”

  “He writes … history, Your Excellency.”

  “History! The history of what?”

  “The history …” here Chichikov paused, and either because there was a general sitting before him, or simply to give more importance to the subject, added: “… the history of generals, Your Excellency.”

  “How, of generals? of what generals?”

  “Of generals in general, Your Excellency, overall … that is, as a matter of fact, the generals of the fatherland,” Chichikov said, and thought to himself: “What drivel I’m pouring out!”

  “Excuse me, I don’t quite understand … would that mean a history of some period, or separate biographies, and is it all of them, or only those who took part in the year ’twelve?”

  “That’s right, Your Excellency, those who took part in the year ’twelve!” Having said which, he thought to himself: “Strike me dead if I understand.”

  “But why doesn’t he come to me, then? I could gather quite a bit of curious material for him.”

  “He doesn’t dare, Your Excellency.”

  “What nonsense! Because of some trifling word … But I’m not that sort of man at all. I might even be ready to call on him myself.”

  “He wouldn’t allow that, he’ll come to you,” Chichikov said, and at the same time thought to himself: “The generals came in nicely; and yet my tongue just stupidly blurted it out.”

  A rustling was heard in the study. The walnut door of a carved wardrobe opened by itself. On the other side of the open door, her wonderful hand grasping the door handle, a live little figure appeared. If a transparent painting, lit from behind, were suddenly to shine in a dark room, it would not be so striking as this little figure radiant with life appearing as if in order to light up the room. It seemed as though along with her a ray of sunlight flew into the room, suddenly illumining its ceiling, its moldings, and its dark corners. She seemed to be of glorious height. This was an illusion; it came from her extraordinary slenderness and the harmonious relation of all the parts of her body, from head to little toe. The solid-color dress that was thrown on her was thrown on with such taste that it seemed as if all the seamstresses of the capital had held a council among themselves on how best to adorn her. But it only seemed so. She made her own dresses, haphazardly; gathered an uncut piece of fabric in two or three places, and it clung and arranged itself around her in such folds as a sculptor could at once transfer to marble, and the young ladies who dressed fashionably all looked like some sort of motley hens beside her. Though her face was almost familiar to Chichikov from Andrei Ivanovich’s drawings, he looked at her as if stunned, and only later, having come to his senses, did he notice that she lacked something very essential—namely, plumpness.

  “Allow me to introduce my naughty little girl!”
said the general, addressing Chichikov. “However, I still don’t know your name.”

  “Though why should people know the name of a man not distinguished by deeds of valor?” said Chichikov.

  “Still, however, one must know …”

  “Pavel Ivanovich, Your Excellency,” said Chichikov, inclining his head slightly to one side.

  “Ulinka! Pavel Ivanovich has just told me the most interesting news. Our neighbor Tentetnikov is not at all as stupid a man as we thought. He’s occupied with something rather important: the history of the generals of the year ’twelve.”

  Ulinka suddenly seemed to flush and became animated.

  “But who thought he was a stupid man?” she said quickly. “Maybe only Vishnepokromov could think that, whom you believe, papa, though he’s both empty and mean.”

  “Why mean? He’s a bit empty, it’s true,” said the general.

  “He’s a bit base, and a bit vile, not just a bit empty,” Ulinka picked up promptly. “Whoever offends his own brothers like that, and throws his sister out of the house, is a vile man …”

  “But that’s just talk.”

  “There wouldn’t be talk for no reason. You, father, have the kindliest soul and a rare heart, but the way you act could make people think quite otherwise about you. You’ll receive a man who you yourself know is bad, only because he’s a fancy talker and an expert at twining himself around you.”