Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  And at supper they again ate too much. When Pavel Ivanovich came to the room where he was to sleep, and, getting into bed, felt his tummy: “A drum!” he said, “no governor could possibly get in!” Just imagine such a coincidence: on the other side of the wall was the host’s study. The wall was thin and one could hear everything that was being said there. The host was ordering the cook to prepare for the next day, in the guise of an early lunch, a decided dinner. And how he was ordering it! It was enough to make a dead man hungry. He sucked and smacked his lips. One heard only: “And fry it, and then let it stew nice and long!” And the cook kept saying in a thin falsetto: “Yes, sir. It can be done, sir. That can be done, too, sir.”

  “And make a covered pie, a four-cornered one. In one corner put sturgeon cheeks and cartilage, and stuff another with buckwheat and mushrooms with onions, and sweet milt, and brains, and something else as well, whatever you know …”

  “Yes, sir. That could be done, sir.”

  “And so that on one side, you understand, it gets nice and brown, but on the other let it be a bit lighter. From the bottom, from the bottom, you understand, bake it from the bottom, so that it gets all crumbly, so that it gets all juicy through and through, so that you don’t feel it in your mouth—it should melt like snow.”

  “Devil take it!” thought Chichikov, tossing and turning. “He just won’t let me sleep.”

  “And make me a pig haggis. Put a piece of ice in the middle so that it plumps up nicely. And put things around the sturgeon, garnishes, more garnishes! Surround it with crayfish, and little fried fish, and layer it with a stuffing of smelts with some finely minced horseradish, and mushrooms, and turnips, and carrots, and beans, and isn’t there some other root?”

  “Some kohlrabi or star-cut beets could be put in,” said the cook.

  “Put in both kohlrabi and beets. And for the roast you’ll make me a garnish like this …”

  “Sleep’s gone completely!” said Chichikov, turning on his other side, burying his head in the pillows, and covering himself up with a blanket so as not to hear anything. But through the blanket came unremittingly: “And fry it, and bake it, and let it plump up nicely.” He finally fell asleep at some turkey.

  The next day the guests overate so much that Platonov was no longer able to ride on horseback; the stallion was sent with Petukh’s stableboy. They got into the coach. The big-muzzled dog walked lazily behind the coach. He, too, had overeaten.

  “No, it’s too much,” said Chichikov, as they left the place. “It’s even piggish. Are you uncomfortable, Platon Mikhalych? Such a comfortable carriage it was, and suddenly it’s become uncomfortable. Petrushka, you must have been fool enough to start repacking? There are boxes sticking out everywhere!”

  Platon laughed.

  “That I can explain for you,” he said. “Pyotr Petrovich put things in for the road.”

  “Right you are,” said Petrushka, turning around from the box, “we were ordered to put everything in the coach—pasterries and pies.”

  “Right, sir, Pavel Ivanovich,” said Selifan, turning around from the box, merrily, “such a respectable master. A regaling landowner! Sent us down a glass of champagne each. Right, sir, and ordered them to give us food from the table—very good food, of a delicate aromer. There’s never yet been such a respectful master.”

  “You see? He’s satisfied everyone,” said Platon. “Tell me simply, however: do you have time to stop by at a certain estate, some six miles from here? I’d like to say good-bye to my sister and brother-in-law.”

  “With great pleasure,” said Chichikov.

  “You won’t be any the worse for it: my brother-in-law is quite a remarkable man.”

  “In what sense?” said Chichikov.

  “He’s the foremost manager that has ever existed in Russia. In a little over ten years he’s made it so that a run-down property that used to bring in barely twenty thousand now brings in two hundred thousand.”

  “Ah, a respectable man! Such a man’s life merits being told for people’s instruction! I’ll be very, very pleased to make his acquaintance. And what is his name?”

  “Kostanzhoglo.”2

  “And his first name and patronymic?”

  “Konstantin Fyodorovich.”

  “Konstantin Fyodorovich Kostanzhoglo. Very pleased to make his acquaintance. It’s instructive to get to know such a man.” And Chichikov started inquiring about Kostanzhoglo, and everything he learned about him from Platonov was indeed amazing.

  “Look here, this is where his land begins,” said Platonov, pointing to the fields. “You’ll see at once the difference from the others. Coachman, take the road to the left here. Do you see this young forest? It’s been planted. With someone else, it wouldn’t have grown that much in fifteen years, but his grew in eight. Look, the forest ends here. Now it’s a wheat field; and after a hundred and fifty acres there will be a forest again, also planted, and so on. Look at the field, how much thicker the growth is than anywhere else.”

  “I see that. How does he do it?”

  “Well, you can ask him, you’ll see that …* He’s a know-all, such a know-all as you won’t find anywhere else. He not only knows which plant likes which kind of soil, he also knows in what sort of surroundings, next to what kind of trees a certain grain should be planted. We all have our land cracking with drought, but he doesn’t. He calculates how much humidity is necessary, and grows enough trees; with him everything plays a double or triple role: the forest is a forest, but the fields profit from the leaves and the shade. And he’s like that with everything.”

  “An amazing man!” said Chichikov, gazing curiously at the fields.

  Everything was in extraordinarily good order. The woods were fenced off; there were cattle yards everywhere, also arranged not without reason and enviably well tended; the haystacks were of gigantic size. Everywhere was abundance and fatness. One could see at once that a top-notch owner lived here. Having climbed a small rise, they saw on the other side a large estate scattered over three hillsides. Everything here was rich: smooth streets, sturdy cottages; if a cart stood somewhere, the cart was a sturdy one and new as could be; if one came upon a horse, the horse was a fine and well-fed one; or upon horned cattle, then they were of the choicest quality. Even the muzhik’s pig had an air of nobility. Precisely here, one could see, lived those muzhiks who, as the song says, shovel silver with their spades. There were no English parks here, no gazebos, whimsical bridges, or various avenues in front of the house. Workshops stretched between the cottages and the master’s yard. On the roof there was a big lantern, not for the view, but for seeing where, and in what shop, and how the work was going on.

  They drove up to the house. The owner was absent; they were met by his wife, Platonov’s sister, fair-haired, fair-skinned, with a real Russian expression, as handsome, but also as half-asleep, as he was. It seemed she did not care much for what others cared about, either because her husband’s all-absorbing activity left no share for her, or because she belonged, by her very constitution, to that philosophical order of people who, while having feelings, and thoughts, and intelligence, live somehow only halfway, look at life with half an eye, and seeing its upsetting struggles and anxieties, say: “Let them rage, the fools! So much the worse for them.”

  “Greetings, sister!” said Platonov. “And where is Konstantin?”

  “I don’t know. He ought to have been back long ago. He must have gotten busy.”

  Chichikov paid no attention to the hostess. He was interested in looking over the dwelling of this extraordinary man. He hoped to discover in it the properties of the owner himself, as one can tell by the shell what sort of oyster or snail sits in it. But there was nothing of the sort. The rooms were completely characterless—spacious, and nothing else. No frescoes, no paintings on the walls, no bronzes on the tables, no whatnots with china or cups, no vases of flowers or statuettes—in short, it was somehow bare. Plain, ordinary furniture, and a grand piano standing to one side,
and covered with dust at that: apparently the mistress rarely sat down to it. From the drawing room [the door opened to the master’s study]*; but there, too, everything was the same—plain and bare. One could see that the owner came home only to rest, not to live there; that for thinking over his plans and ideas he had no need of a study with upholstered armchairs and various comfortable conveniences, and that his life consisted not of charming reveries by the blazing fireplace, but of real business. His thoughts proceeded at once from circumstances, the moment they presented themselves, and turned at once into business, without any need of being written down.

  “Ah! here he is! He’s coming, he’s coming!” said Platonov.

  Chichikov also rushed to the window. A man of about forty, lively, with a swarthy appearance, was coming up to the porch. He was wearing a velour peaked cap. On both sides of him, their hats off, walked two persons of lower rank—walked, talking and discussing something with him. One seemed to be a simple muzhik; the other, in a blue sibirka,3 some foxy-looking itinerant dealer.

  “Order them to take it, then, my dear!” the muzhik said, bowing.

  “No, brother, I’ve already told you twenty times: don’t bring any more. I’ve got so much material stored up that I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “With you, dear Konstantin Fyodorovich, it will all be put to use. Such a clever man as you is not to be found in the whole world. Your healthfulness will find a place for anything. So give orders to take it.”

  “I need hands, brother; bring me workers, not materials.”

  “But you won’t lack for workers. Whole villages of ours will come to be hired: the breadlessness was such that no one remembers the like of it. It’s a pity you won’t just take us, you’d get tried and true service from us, by God you would. With you one gets ever wiser, Konstantin Fyodorovich. So give orders to take it for the last time.”

  “But you said before that it would be the last time, and now you’ve brought it again.”

  “For the last time, Konstantin Fyodorovich. If you don’t accept it, no one will. So order them to take it, my dear.”

  “Well, listen, this time I’ll take it, and that only out of pity, so that you won’t have brought it in vain. But if you bring it next time, you can whine for three weeks—I won’t take it.”

  “Yes, sir, Konstantin Fyodorovich; rest assured, next time I won’t ever bring it. I humbly thank you.” The muzhik went away pleased. He was lying, however, he would bring it again: “maybe” is a great little word.

  “Now then, Konstantin Fyodorovich, sir, do me a kindness … knock off a bit,” said the itinerant dealer in the blue sibirka, who was walking on the other side of him.

  “You see, I told you from the very start. I’m not fond of bargaining. I tell you again: I’m not like some other landowner whom you get at just as his mortgage payment is due. Don’t I know you all! You’ve got the lists and know who has to pay and when. So, what could be simpler? He’s pressed, he gives it to you for half the price. But what’s your money to me? My things can go on lying there for three years! I have no mortgage to pay …”

  “It’s real business, Konstantin Fyodorovich. No, sir, it’s so that I … it’s only so as to have dealings with you in the future, and not for anything mercenary. Kindly accept a little deposit of three thousand.”

  The dealer took a wad of greasy bills from his breast pocket. Kostanzhoglo took them with great coolness, and put them into the back pocket of his frock coat without counting them.

  “Hm,” thought Chichikov, “just as if it were a handkerchief!”

  A moment later Kostanzhoglo appeared in the doorway of the drawing room.

  “Hah, brother, you’re here!” he said, seeing Platonov. They embraced and kissed each other. Platonov introduced Chichikov. Chichikov reverently approached the host, planted a kiss on his cheek, and received from him the impression of a kiss.

  Kostanzhoglo’s face was very remarkable. It betrayed its southern origin. His hair and eyebrows were dark and thick, his eyes eloquent, brightly gleaming. Intelligence shone in every expression of his face, and there was nothing sleepy in it. One could notice, however, an admixture of something bilious and embittered. What, in fact, was his nationality? There are many Russians in Russia who are of non-Russian origin but are nevertheless Russians in their souls. Kostanzhoglo was not interested in his origins, finding the question beside the point and quite useless for the household. Besides, he knew no other language than Russian.

  “Do you know what has occurred to me, Konstantin?” said Platonov.

  “What?”

  “It has occurred to me to take a trip over various provinces; maybe it will cure my spleen.”

  “Why not? It’s quite possible.”

  “Together with Pavel Ivanovich here.”

  “Wonderful! And to what parts,” Kostanzhoglo asked, addressing Chichikov affably, “do you now purpose to travel?”

  “I confess,” said Chichikov, inclining his head to one side and grasping the armrest of the chair with his hand, “I am traveling, for the moment, not so much on my own necessity as on another’s. General Betrishchev, a close friend and, one might say, benefactor, asked me to visit his relatives. Relatives are relatives, of course, but it is partly, so to speak, for my own self as well; because, indeed, to say nothing of the good that may come from it in the hemorrhoidal respect, the fact alone that one sees the world, the circulation of people … whatever they may say, it is, so to speak, a living book, the same as learning.”

  “Yes, it does no harm to peek into certain corners.”

  “An excellent observation, if you please,” Chichikov adverted, “indeed, it does no harm. You see things you wouldn’t see otherwise; you meet people you wouldn’t meet otherwise. Conversing with some people is as good as gold. Teach me, my most esteemed Konstantin Fyodorovich, teach me, I appeal to you. I wait for your sweet words as for manna.”

  Kostanzhoglo was embarrassed.

  “What, though? … teach you what? I have only a pennyworth of education myself.”

  “Wisdom, my most esteemed sir, wisdom! the wisdom for managing an estate as you do; for obtaining an assured income as you have; for acquiring property as you do, not dreamlike, but substantial, and thereby fulfilling the duty of a citizen and earning the respect of one’s compatriots.”

  “You know what?” said Kostanzhoglo, “stay with me for a day. I’ll show you all my management and tell you about everything. There isn’t any wisdom involved, as you’ll see.”

  “Stay for this one day, brother,” the hostess said, turning to Platonov.

  “Why not, it makes no difference to me,” the man said indifferently, “what about Pavel Ivanovich?”

  “I, too, with the greatest pleasure … But there’s this one circumstance—I must visit General Betrishchev’s relative. There’s a certain Colonel Koshkarev …”

  “But he’s … don’t you know? He’s a fool and quite mad.”

  “That I’ve heard already. I have no business with him myself. But since General Betrishchev is my close friend and even, so to speak, benefactor … it’s somehow awkward.”

  “In that case, I tell you what,” said Kostanzhoglo, “go to him right now. I have a droshky standing ready. It’s even less than six miles away, you’ll fly there and back in no time. You’ll even get back before supper.”

  Chichikov gladly took advantage of the suggestion. The droshky was brought, and he drove off at once to see the colonel, who amazed him as he had never been amazed before. Everything at his place was extraordinary. The village was scattered all over: construction sites, reconstruction sites, piles of lime, brick, and logs everywhere in the streets. There were some houses built that looked like institutions. On one there was written in gold letters: FARM IMPLEMENT DEPOT, on another: MAIN ACCOUNTING OFFICE, on a third: VILLAGE AFFAIRS COMMITEE; SCHOOL OF NORMAL EDUCATION OF SETTLERS—in short, devil knows what was not there! He thought he might have entered a provincial capital. The colonel himsel
f was somehow stiff. His face was somehow formal, shaped like a triangle. His side-whiskers stretched in a line down his cheeks; his hair, hairstyling, nose, lips, chin—everything was as if it had just been taken from a press. He began speaking as if he were a sensible man. From the very beginning he began to complain of the lack of learning among the surrounding landowners, of the great labors that lay ahead of him. He received Chichikov with the utmost kindness and cordiality, took him entirely into his confidence, and with self-delight told him what labor, oh, what labor it had cost him to raise his estate to its present prosperity; how hard it was to make a simple muzhik understand the lofty impulses that enlightened luxury and the fine arts give a man; how necessary it was to combat the Russian muzhik’s ignorance, so as to get him to dress in German trousers and make him feel, at least to some extent, man’s lofty dignity; that, despite all his efforts, he had so far been unable to make the peasant women put on corsets, whereas in Germany, where his regiment had been stationed in the year ’fourteen, a miller’s daughter could even play the piano, speak French, and curtsy. Regretfully, he told how great was the lack of learning among the neighboring landowners; how little they thought of their subjects; how they even laughed when he tried to explain how necessary it was for good management to set up a record office, commission offices, and even committees, so as to prevent all theft, so that every object would be known, so that the scrivener, the steward, and the bookkeeper would not be just educated somehow, but finish their studies at the university; how, despite all persuasions, he was unable to convince the landowners of how profitable it would be for their estates if every peasant were so well educated that, while following the plough, he could at the same time read a book about lightning rods.