“No, if I were to have ten million now, after this dreadful experience!” thought Khlobuev. “Eh, it would be different now: one comes to know the value of every kopeck by experience.” And then, having thought for a moment, he asked himself inwardly: “Would I really handle it more intelligently?” And, waving his hand, he added: “What the devil! I suppose I’d squander it just as I did before,” and he walked out of the shop, burning with desire to know what Murazov would say to him.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Pyotr Petrovich!” said Murazov, when he saw Khlobuev enter. “Please come to my little room.”
And he led Khlobuev into the little room already familiar to the reader, and so unpretentious that an official with a salary of seven hundred roubles a year would not have one more so.
“Tell me, now, I suppose your circumstances have improved? You did get something from your aunt?”
“How shall I tell you, Afanasy Vassilyevich? I don’t know whether my circumstances have improved. I got only fifty peasant souls and thirty thousand roubles, which I had to pay out to cover part of my debts—and I again have exactly nothing. And the main thing is that this thing about the will is most shady. Such swindling has been going on here, Afanasy Vassilyevich! I’ll tell you right now, and you’ll marvel at such goings-on. This Chichikov …”
“Excuse me, Pyotr Petrovich: before we talk about this Chichikov, allow me to talk about you yourself. Tell me: how much, in your estimation, would be satisfactory and sufficient for you to extricate yourself completely from these circumstances?”
“My circumstances are difficult,” said Khlobuev. “And in order to extricate myself, pay everything off, and have the possibility of living in the most moderate fashion, I would need at least a hundred thousand, if not more. In short, it’s impossible for me.”
“Well, and if you had it, how would you lead your life then?”
“Well, I would then rent a little apartment and occupy myself with my children’s upbringing, because I’m not going to enter the service: I’m no longer good for anything.”
“And why are you no longer good for anything?”
“But where shall I go, judge for yourself! I can’t start as an office clerk. You forget that I have a family. I’m forty, I have lower-back pains, I’ve grown lazy; they won’t give me a more important post; I’m not in good repute. I confess to you: I personally would not take a lucrative post. I may be a worthless man, a gambler, anything you like, but I won’t take bribes. I wouldn’t get along with Krasnonosov and Samosvistov.”
“But still, excuse me, sir, I can’t understand how one can be without any path; how can you walk if not down a path; how can you drive if there’s no ground under you; how can you float if the bark isn’t in the water? And life is a journey. Forgive me, Pyotr Petrovich, those gentlemen of whom you are speaking are, after all, on some sort of path, they do work, after all. Well, let’s say they turned off somehow, as happens with every sinner; yet there’s hope they’ll find their way back. Whoever walks can’t fail to arrive; there’s hope he’ll find his way back. But how will one who sits idle get to any path? The path won’t come to me.”
“Believe me, Afanasy Vassilyevich, I feel you’re absolutely right, but I tell you that all activity has decidedly perished and died in me; I don’t see that I can be of any use to anyone in the world. I feel that I’m decidedly a useless log. Before, when I was younger, it seemed to me that it was all a matter of money, that if I had hundreds of thousands in my hands, I’d make many people happy: I’d help poor artists, I’d set up libraries, useful institutions, assemble collections. I’m a man not without taste, and I know that in many respects I could manage better than those rich men among us who do it all senselessly. And now I see that this, too, is vanity and there’s not much sense in it. No, Afanasy Vassilyevich, I’m good for nothing, precisely nothing, I tell you. I’m not capable of the least thing.”
“Listen, Pyotr Petrovich! But you do pray, you go to church, you don’t miss any matins or vespers, I know. Though you don’t like getting up early, you do get up and go—you go at four o’clock in the morning, when no one’s up yet.”
“That is a different matter, Afanasy Vassilyevich. I do it for the salvation of my soul, because I’m convinced that I will thereby make up at least somewhat for my idle life, that, bad as I am, prayers still mean something to God. I tell you that I pray, that even without faith, I still pray. One feels only that there is a master on whom everything depends, as a horse or a beast of burden smells the one who harnesses him.”
“So you pray in order to please the one you pray to, in order to save your soul, and this gives you strength and makes you get up early from your bed. Believe me, if you were to undertake your work in the same fashion, as if in the certainty that you are serving the one you pray to, you would become active and no man among us would be able to cool you down.”
“Afanasy Vassilyevich! I tell you again that this is something different. In the first case I see that anyway I’m doing something. I tell you that I’m ready to go to the monastery, and I’ll do whatever labors and deeds they impose on me there, even the heaviest. I’m sure that it’s not my business to reason about what will be asked of those who make me do it; there I obey and know that I’m obeying God.”
“And why don’t you reason that way in worldly matters as well? In the world we must also serve God and no one else. Even if we serve another, we do it only while being convinced that God tells us to do so, and without that we would not serve. What else are all our abilities and gifts, which vary from one person to another? They are tools for our prayer: the one is in words, and the other is in deeds. You cannot go to a monastery: you’re tied to the world, you have a family.”
Here Murazov fell silent. Khlobuev also fell silent.
“So you suppose that if you had, for instance, two hundred thousand, you would be able to shore up your life and live more economically therafter?”
“That is, at least I would occupy myself with what I would be able to do—my children’s upbringing; it would be possible for me to provide them with good teachers.”
“And shall I tell you this, Pyotr Petrovich, that in two years you’d again be over your head in debt, as in a net?”
Khlobuev was silent for a while, and then began measuredly:
“Not really, though, after such experience …”
“What’s experience?” said Murazov. “You see, I know you. You’re a man with a good heart: a friend will come to borrow money from you—you’ll give it to him; you’ll see a poor man and want to help; a nice guest will come—you’ll want to receive him better, and you’ll obey that first good impulse and forget your accounting. And allow me finally to tell you in all sincerity that you are unable to bring up your own children. Children can be brought up only by a father who has already done his own duty. And your wife … she, too, is good-hearted … she wasn’t brought up at all so as to be able to bring up children. I even think—forgive me, Pyotr Petrovich—mightn’t it even be harmful for the children to be with you?”
Khlobuev thought a little: he began to examine himself mentally on all sides and finally felt that Murazov was partly right.
“You know what, Pyotr Petrovich? hand it all over to me—your children, your affairs; leave your family, and the children: I’ll take care of them. Your circumstances are such that you are in my hands; you’re heading for starvation. Here you must be prepared to do anything. Do you know Ivan Potapych?”
“And respect him greatly, even though he goes around in a sibirka.”
“Ivan Potapych was a millionaire, got his daughters married to officials, lived like a tsar; but once he was bankrupt—what to do? He went and became a shop clerk. It was no fun for him going from a silver platter to a simple bowl: it seemed he couldn’t set a hand to anything. Now Ivan Potapych could gobble from a silver platter, but he no longer wants to. He could save it all up again, but he says: ‘No, Afanasy Ivanovich,* now I do not serve myself or for mys
elf, but because God has judged so. I don’t wish to do anything of my own will. I listen to you, because I wish to obey God and not people, and because God speaks only through the mouths of the best people. You are more intelligent than I am, and therefore it is not I who answer, but you.’ That is what Ivan Potapych says; and he, if the truth be told, is many times more intelligent than I am.”
“Afanasy Vassilyevich! I, too, am ready to acknowledge your power over me, I am your servant and whatever you want: I give myself to you. But don’t give me work beyond my strength: I’m no Potapych, and I tell you that I’m not fit for anything good.”
“It is not I, Pyotr Petrovich, who will impose it on you, but since you wish to serve, as you yourself say, sir, here is a God-pleasing deed for you. There is a church being built in a certain place on voluntary donations from pious people. There’s not enough money, a collection must be taken. Put on a simple sibirka … you see, you’re a simple man now, a ruined nobleman, the same as a beggar: why pretend? With ledger in hand, in a simple cart, go around to the towns and villages. You’ll get a blessing and a loose-leaf ledger from the bishop, and go with God.”
Pyotr Petrovich was amazed by this completely new duty. He, a nobleman, after all, of a once ancient family, was to set out with a ledger in his hand, to beg donations for a church, and go bouncing along in a cart to boot! And yet it was impossible to wriggle out of it or avoid it: it was a God-pleasing thing.
“Thinking it over?” said Murazov. “You’ll be performing two services here: one for God, and the other—for me.”
“What for you?”
“Here’s what. Since you’ll be going to places where I’ve never been, you’ll find out everything on the spot, sir: how the muzhiks live there, where the richer ones are, where the needy, and what condition it’s all in. I must tell you that I love the muzhiks, perhaps because I myself come from muzhiks. But the thing is that all sorts of vileness is going on among them. Old Believers9 and various vagabonds confuse them, sir, get them to rebel against the authorities, yes, against the authorities and the regulations, and if a man is oppressed, he rebels easily. Why, as if it’s hard to stir up a man who is truly suffering! But the thing is that reprisals ought not to start from below. It’s bad when it comes to fists: there’ll be no sense to it, only the thieves will gain. You’re an intelligent man, you’ll examine things, you’ll find out where a man indeed suffers from others, and where from his own restless character, and then you’ll tell me about it all. I’ll give you a small sum of money just in case, to give to those who truly suffer innocently. For your part, it will also be helpful to comfort them with your word, and to explain to them as best you can that God tells us to endure without murmuring, and to pray in times of misfortune, and not to be violent and take justice into our own hands. In short, speak to them, not rousing anyone against anyone else, but reconciling them all. If you see hatred in anyone against whomever it may be, apply all your efforts.”
“Afanasy Vassilyevich! the task you are entrusting to me,” said Khlobuev, “is a holy task; but remember whom you are entrusting it to. You might entrust it to a man who is of almost holy life and already knows how to forgive others.”
“But I’m not saying you should accomplish it all, only as much as possible, whatever you can. The thing is that you will come back from those parts with some knowledge in any case, and will have an idea of the situation in that area. An official will never meet anyone personally, and a muzhik will not be frank with him. While you, collecting for the church, will call on all sorts of people—tradesmen, merchants—and will have the chance to question them all. I’m telling you this, sir, because the governor-general now has special need of such people; and you, bypassing all official promotions, will get a position in which your life will not be useless.”
“I’ll try, I’ll apply my efforts, as far as my strength allows,” said Khlobuev. And reassurance could be noted in his voice, his back straightened, and his head lifted, as with a man upon whom hope shines. “I see that God has granted you understanding, and you know certain things better than we nearsighted people.”
“Now allow me to ask you,” said Murazov, “what Chichikov is and what sort of affair it is?”
“I can tell you unheard-of things about Chichikov. He pulls such deals … Do you know, Afanasy Vassilyevich, that the will is false? The real one has been found, in which the whole estate goes to the wards.”
“What are you saying? But who, then, concocted the false will?”
“That’s just the thing, it’s a most vile affair! They say it was Chichikov, and that the will was signed after death: they dressed up some woman in place of the deceased, and it was she who signed it. In short, a most tempting affair. They say thousands of petitions have come from all sides. Marya Yeremeevna is now besieged by wooers; two functionaries are already fighting over her. That’s what sort of affair it is, Afanasy Vassilyevich!”
“I’ve heard nothing about it, but the affair is indeed not quite sinless. I confess, I find Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov a most mysterious person,” said Murazov.
“I, too, sent in a petition for myself, as a reminder that there exists a nearest heir …”
“They can fight it out among themselves for all of me,” Khlobuev thought on his way out. “Afanasy Vassilyevich is no fool. He must have given me this charge after thinking it over. Just let me accomplish it—that’s all.” He began thinking about the road, at the same time as Murazov was still repeating to himself: “A most mysterious man to me, this Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov! If only such will and perseverance were put to good use!”
And meanwhile, indeed, petition after petition kept coming to the courts. Relatives turned up of whom no one had ever heard. As birds come flying to carrion, so everything came flying down upon the incalculable wealth left by the old woman. Denunciations of Chichikov, of the spuriousness of the last will, denunciations of the spuriousness of the first will also, evidence of theft and of the concealment of certain sums. Evidence turned up against Chichikov of his buying dead souls, of smuggling goods while he was still in customs. Everything was unearthed, the whole story of his past was found out. God knows how they got wind of it all and learned it. Yet there was evidence even of such things as Chichikov thought no one knew of except for himself and his four walls. So far it was all still a court secret and had not yet reached his ears, though a trustworthy note he had recently received from his lawyer gave him some idea that trouble was brewing. The content of the note was brief: “I hasten to inform you that there will be some fuss around the case; but remember that you ought by no means to worry. The main thing is to be calm. Everything will be taken care of.” This note set him completely at ease. “The man is indeed a genius,” said Chichikov.
To crown all blessings, the tailor brought his suit at that moment. Chichikov felt a strong desire to look at himself in the new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He pulled on the trousers, which hugged him marvelously on all sides, an artist’s ideal. The hips were so nicely fitted, the calves, too; the cloth hugged all the details, imparting to them a still greater resilience. Once he had tightened the clasp behind him, his stomach became like a drum. He beat on it with a brush, adding: “Such a fool, but, overall, what a picture he makes!” The tailcoat, it seemed, was even better tailored than the trousers: not one wrinkle, tight all around his sides, curving at the overlap, showing his full curvature. It was a little too tight under the right arm, but that made it fit still better at the waist. The tailor, standing there in complete triumph, merely said: “Rest assured, outside Petersburg there’s no such tailoring anywhere.” The tailor was from Petersburg himself, and had put on his shingle: “A foreigner from London and Paris.” He was not given to joking, and wanted with these two cities to stop up the maws of all the other tailors at once, so that in the future no one could come out with such cities, and they would have to content themselves with writing some “Karlsroo” or “Copenhar.”
Chichikov magnanimously
paid the tailor and, left alone, began to examine himself at leisure in the mirror, like an artist, with aesthetic feeling and con amore. It turned out that everything was somehow even better than before: the little cheeks were more interesting, the chin more alluring, the white collar imparted its color to the cheek, the blue satin tie imparted its hue to the collar; the shirtfront, pleated in the latest fashion, imparted its hue to the tie, the rich velvet waistcoat imparted its hue to the shirtfront, and the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, gleaming like silk, imparted its hue to everything! He turned to the right—good! He turned to the left—even better! The curve of the waist was like a courtier’s or such a gentleman’s as jabbers away in French so that next to him a Frenchman himself is nothing, one who, even when angry, does not disgrace himself indecently with a Russian word, who cannot even swear in Russian, but will give you a good scolding in French dialect. Such delicacy! He tried, inclining his head slightly to one side, to assume a pose as if he were addressing a middle-aged lady of the latest cultivation: it was a picture to see. Painter, take up your brush and paint! In his pleasure, he straightaway performed a light leap, like an entrechat. The chest of drawers shook and a flask of eau de cologne fell to the ground; but this caused no hindrance. He quite properly called the stupid flask a fool, and thought: “Whom shall I visit first of all? The best …”
When suddenly in the front hall—something like the clank of spurred boots and a gendarme in full armor, as if he were a whole army in one person. “You are ordered to appear at once before the governor-general!” Chichikov was simply stunned. Before him stuck up a fright with a mustache, a horsetail on his head, a baldric over one shoulder, a baldric over the other, an enormous broadsword hanging at his side. He fancied there was also a gun hanging from the other side, and devil knows what else: a whole army just in one man! He tried to protest, but the fright uttered rudely: “To appear at once!” Through the door to the front hall he saw another fright flit by; he looked out the window—there was a carriage as well. What to do? Just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, he had to get in and, trembling all over, drive to the governor-general’s, the policeman along with him.
Dead Souls: A Novel Page 44
