บทที่ บทที่ 7 · Chapter VII

When Chichikov awoke he stretched himself and realised that he had slept

well. For a moment or two he lay on his back, and then suddenly clapped

his hands at the recollection that he was now owner of nearly four

hundred souls. At once he leapt out of bed without so much as glancing

at his face in the mirror, though, as a rule, he had much solicitude for

his features, and especially for his chin, of which he would make the

most when in company with friends, and more particularly should any one

happen to enter while he was engaged in the process of shaving. “Look

how round my chin is!” was his usual formula. On the present occasion,

however, he looked neither at chin nor at any other feature, but at once

donned his flower-embroidered slippers of morroco leather (the kind

of slippers in which, thanks to the Russian love for a dressing-gowned

existence, the town of Torzhok does such a huge trade), and, clad only

in a meagre shirt, so far forgot his elderliness and dignity as to cut

a couple of capers after the fashion of a Scottish highlander--alighting

neatly, each time, on the flat of his heels. Only when he had done that

did he proceed to business. Planting himself before his dispatch-box,

he rubbed his hands with a satisfaction worthy of an incorruptible rural

magistrate when adjourning for luncheon; after which he extracted from

the receptacle a bundle of papers. These he had decided not to deposit

with a lawyer, for the reason that he would hasten matters, as well as

save expense, by himself framing and fair-copying the necessary deeds

of indenture; and since he was thoroughly acquainted with the necessary

terminology, he proceeded to inscribe in large characters the date, and

then in smaller ones, his name and rank. By two o’clock the whole was

finished, and as he looked at the sheets of names representing bygone

peasants who had ploughed, worked at handicrafts, cheated their masters,

fetched, carried, and got drunk (though SOME of them may have behaved

well), there came over him a strange, unaccountable sensation. To his

eye each list of names seemed to possess a character of its own;

and even individual peasants therein seemed to have taken on certain

qualities peculiar to themselves. For instance, to the majority of

Madame Korobotchka’s serfs there were appended nicknames and other

additions; Plushkin’s list was distinguished by a conciseness of

exposition which had led to certain of the items being represented

merely by Christian name, patronymic, and a couple of dots;

and Sobakevitch’s list was remarkable for its amplitude and

circumstantiality, in that not a single peasant had such of his peculiar

characteristics omitted as that the deceased had been “excellent at

joinery,” or “sober and ready to pay attention to his work.” Also, in

Sobakevitch’s list there was recorded who had been the father and

the mother of each of the deceased, and how those parents had behaved

themselves. Only against the name of a certain Thedotov was there

inscribed: “Father unknown, Mother the maidservant Kapitolina, Morals

and Honesty good.” These details communicated to the document a certain

air of freshness, they seemed to connote that the peasants in question

had lived but yesterday. As Chichikov scanned the list he felt softened

in spirit, and said with a sigh:

“My friends, what a concourse of you is here! How did you all pass your

lives, my brethren? And how did you all come to depart hence?”

As he spoke his eyes halted at one name in particular--that of the same

Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito who had once been the property of the

window Korobotchka. Once more he could not help exclaiming:

“What a series of titles! They occupy a whole line! Peter Saveliev, I

wonder whether you were an artisan or a plain muzhik. Also, I wonder how

you came to meet your end; whether in a tavern, or whether through going

to sleep in the middle of the road and being run over by a train of

waggons. Again, I see the name, ‘Probka Stepan, carpenter, very sober.’

That must be the hero of whom the Guards would have been so glad to get

hold. How well I can imagine him tramping the country with an axe in his

belt and his boots on his shoulder, and living on a few groats’-worth

of bread and dried fish per day, and taking home a couple of half-rouble

pieces in his purse, and sewing the notes into his breeches, or stuffing

them into his boots! In what manner came you by your end, Probka Stepan?

Did you, for good wages, mount a scaffold around the cupola of the

village church, and, climbing thence to the cross above, miss your

footing on a beam, and fall headlong with none at hand but Uncle

Michai--the good uncle who, scratching the back of his neck, and

muttering, ‘Ah, Vania, for once you have been too clever!’ straightway

lashed himself to a rope, and took your place? ‘Maksim Teliatnikov,

shoemaker.’ A shoemaker, indeed? ‘As drunk as a shoemaker,’ says the

proverb. _I_ know what you were like, my friend. If you wish, I will

tell you your whole history. You were apprenticed to a German, who fed

you and your fellows at a common table, thrashed you with a strap,

kept you indoors whenever you had made a mistake, and spoke of you in

uncomplimentary terms to his wife and friends. At length, when your

apprenticeship was over, you said to yourself, ‘I am going to set up

on my own account, and not just to scrape together a kopeck here and a

kopeck there, as the Germans do, but to grow rich quick.’ Hence you took

a shop at a high rent, bespoke a few orders, and set to work to buy up

some rotten leather out of which you could make, on each pair of boots,

a double profit. But those boots split within a fortnight, and brought

down upon your head dire showers of maledictions; with the result that

gradually your shop grew empty of customers, and you fell to roaming

the streets and exclaiming, ‘The world is a very poor place indeed!

A Russian cannot make a living for German competition.’ Well, well!

‘Elizabeta Vorobei!’ But that is a WOMAN’S name! How comes SHE to be on

the list? That villain Sobakevitch must have sneaked her in without my

knowing it.”

“‘Grigori Goiezhai-ne-Doiedesh,’” he went on. “What sort of a man were

YOU, I wonder? Were you a carrier who, having set up a team of three

horses and a tilt waggon, left your home, your native hovel, for ever,

and departed to cart merchandise to market? Was it on the highway that

you surrendered your soul to God, or did your friends first marry you

to some fat, red-faced soldier’s daughter; after which your harness and

team of rough, but sturdy, horses caught a highwayman’s fancy, and you,

lying on your pallet, thought things over until, willy-nilly, you felt

that you must get up and make for the tavern, thereafter blundering into

an icehole? Ah, our peasant of Russia! Never do you welcome death when

it comes!”

“And you, my friends?” continued Chichikov, turning to the sheet whereon

were inscribed the names of Plushkin’s absconded serfs. “Although you

are still alive, what is the good of you? You are practically dead.

Whither, I wonder, have your fugitive feet carried you? Did you fare

hardly at Plushkin’s, or was it that your natural inclinations led you

to prefer roaming the wilds and plundering travellers? Are you, by this

time, in gaol, or have you taken service with other masters for the

tillage of their lands? ‘Eremei Kariakin, Nikita Volokita and Anton

Volokita (son of the foregoing).’ To judge from your surnames, you would

seem to have been born gadabouts [29]. ‘Popov, household serf.’ Probably

you are an educated man, good Popov, and go in for polite thieving, as

distinguished from the more vulgar cut-throat sort. In my mind’s eye I

seem to see a Captain of Rural Police challenging you for being without

a passport; whereupon you stake your all upon a single throw. ‘To whom

do you belong?’ asks the Captain, probably adding to his question a

forcible expletive. ‘To such and such a landowner,’ stoutly you reply.

‘And what are you doing here?’ continues the Captain. ‘I have

just received permission to go and earn my obrok,’ is your fluent

explanation. ‘Then where is your passport?’ ‘At Miestchanin [30]

Pimenov’s.’ ‘Pimenov’s? Then are you Pimenov himself?’ ‘Yes, I am

Pimenov himself.’ ‘He has given you his passport?’ ‘No, he has not given

me his passport.’ ‘Come, come!’ shouts the Captain with another forcible

expletive. ‘You are lying!’ ‘No, I am not,’ is your dogged reply. ‘It is

only that last night I could not return him his passport, because I came

home late; so I handed it to Antip Prochorov, the bell-ringer, for him

to take care of.’ ‘Bell-ringer, indeed! Then HE gave you a passport?’

‘No; I did not receive a passport from him either.’ ‘What?’--and here

the Captain shouts another expletive--‘How dare you keep on lying? Where

is YOUR OWN passport?’ ‘I had one all right,’ you reply cunningly, ‘but

must have dropped it somewhere on the road as I came along.’ ‘And what

about that soldier’s coat?’ asks the Captain with an impolite addition.

‘Whence did you get it? And what of the priest’s cashbox and copper

money?’’ ‘About them I know nothing,’ you reply doggedly. ‘Never at any

time have I committed a theft.’ ‘Then how is it that the coat was found

at your place?’ ‘I do not know. Probably some one else put it there.’

‘You rascal, you rascal!’ shouts the Captain, shaking his head, and

closing in upon you. ‘Put the leg-irons upon him, and off with him to

prison!’ ‘With pleasure,’ you reply as, taking a snuff-box from your

pocket, you offer a pinch to each of the two gendarmes who are manacling

you, while also inquiring how long they have been discharged from the

army, and in what wars they may have served. And in prison you remain

until your case comes on, when the justice orders you to be removed from

Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and such another prison, and a second justice

orders you to be transferred thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and

you go flitting from gaol to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your

new habitation, ‘The last place was a good deal cleaner than this one

is, and one could play babki [31] there, and stretch one’s legs, and see

a little society.’”

“‘Abakum Thirov,’” Chichikov went on after a pause. “What of YOU,

brother? Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself?

Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of

freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river?”

Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation. Of what

was he thinking as he sat there? Was he thinking of the fortunes of

Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when his

thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?

“Ah, well!” he sighed, looking at his watch. “It has now gone twelve

o’clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There is still much to be done,

yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What a fool

I am!”

So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing

else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled

tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with

eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and

set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the

transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not due to a fear

of being late (seeing that the President of the Local Council was an

intimate acquaintance of his, as well as a functionary who could shorten

or prolong an interview at will, even as Homer’s Zeus was able to

shorten or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became necessary to

put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes, or to enable them

to join battle), but rather to a feeling that he would like to have the

affair concluded as quickly as possible, seeing that, throughout, it had

been an anxious and difficult business. Also, he could not get rid of

the idea that his souls were unsubstantial things, and that therefore,

under the circumstances, his shoulders had better be relieved of their

load with the least possible delay. Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured,

bear-lined overcoat as he went, he had just stepped thoughtfully into

the street when he collided with a gentleman dressed in a similar

coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon that the gentleman uttered an

exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov! At once the friends became folded

in a strenuous embrace, and remained so locked for fully five minutes.

Indeed, the kisses exchanged were so vigorous that both suffered from

toothache for the greater portion of the day. Also, Manilov’s delight

was such that only his nose and lips remained visible--the eyes

completely disappeared. Afterwards he spent about a quarter of an hour

in holding Chichikov’s hand and chafing it vigorously. Lastly, he, in

the most pleasant and exquisite terms possible, intimated to his friend

that he had just been on his way to embrace Paul Ivanovitch; and upon

this followed a compliment of the kind which would more fittingly have

been addressed to a lady who was being asked to accord a partner the

favour of a dance. Chichikov had opened his mouth to reply--though

even HE felt at a loss how to acknowledge what had just been said--when

Manilov cut him short by producing from under his coat a roll of paper

tied with red riband.

“What have you there?” asked Chichikov.

“The list of my souls.”

“Ah!” And as Chichikov unrolled the document and ran his eye over it

he could not but marvel at the elegant neatness with which it had been

inscribed.

“It is a beautiful piece of writing,” he said. “In fact, there will be

no need to make a copy of it. Also, it has a border around its edge! Who

worked that exquisite border?”

“Do not ask me,” said Manilov.

“Did YOU do it?”

“No; my wife.”

“Dear, dear!” Chichikov cried. “To think that I should have put her to

so much trouble!”

“NOTHING could be too much trouble where Paul Ivanovitch is concerned.”

Chichikov bowed his acknowledgements. Next, on learning that he was

on his way to the municipal offices for the purpose of completing the

transfer, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him; wherefore

the pair linked arm in arm and proceeded together. Whenever they

encountered a slight rise in the ground--even the smallest unevenness

or difference of level--Manilov supported Chichikov with such energy as

almost to lift him off his feet, while accompanying the service with a

smiling implication that not if HE could help it should Paul Ivanovitch

slip or fall. Nevertheless this conduct appeared to embarrass Chichikov,

either because he could not find any fitting words of gratitude or

because he considered the proceeding tiresome; and it was with a

sense of relief that he debouched upon the square where the municipal

offices--a large, three-storied building of a chalky whiteness which

probably symbolised the purity of the souls engaged within--were

situated. No other building in the square could vie with them in size,

seeing that the remaining edifices consisted only of a sentry-box, a

shelter for two or three cabmen, and a long hoarding--the latter adorned

with the usual bills, posters, and scrawls in chalk and charcoal. At

intervals, from the windows of the second and third stories of the

municipal offices, the incorruptible heads of certain of the attendant

priests of Themis would peer quickly forth, and as quickly disappear

again--probably for the reason that a superior official had just entered

the room. Meanwhile the two friends ascended the staircase--nay, almost

flew up it, since, longing to get rid of Manilov’s ever-supporting

arm, Chichikov hastened his steps, and Manilov kept darting forward to

anticipate any possible failure on the part of his companion’s legs.

Consequently the pair were breathless when they reached the first

corridor. In passing it may be remarked that neither corridors nor rooms

evinced any of that cleanliness and purity which marked the exterior of

the building, for such attributes were not troubled about within, and

anything that was dirty remained so, and donned no meritricious, purely

external, disguise. It was as though Themis received her visitors in

neglige and a dressing-gown. The author would also give a description of

the various offices through which our hero passed, were it not that he

(the author) stands in awe of such legal haunts.

Approaching the first desk which he happened to encounter, Chichikov

inquired of the two young officials who were seated at it whether they

would kindly tell him where business relating to serf-indenture was

transacted.

“Of what nature, precisely, IS your business?” countered one of the

youthful officials as he turned himself round.

“I desire to make an application.”

“In connection with a purchase?”

“Yes. But, as I say, I should like first to know where I can find the

desk devoted to such business. Is it here or elsewhere?”

“You must state what it is you have bought, and for how much. THEN we

shall be happy to give you the information.”

Chichikov perceived that the officials’ motive was merely one of

curiosity, as often happens when young tchinovniks desire to cut a more

important and imposing figure than is rightfully theirs.

“Look here, young sirs,” he said. “I know for a fact that all serf

business, no matter to what value, is transacted at one desk alone.

Consequently I again request you to direct me to that desk. Of course,

if you do not know your business I can easily ask some one else.”

To this the tchinovniks made no reply beyond pointing towards a corner

of the room where an elderly man appeared to be engaged in sorting some

papers. Accordingly Chichikov and Manilov threaded their way in his

direction through the desks; whereupon the elderly man became violently

busy.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing, “whether this is

the desk for serf affairs?”

The elderly man raised his eyes, and said stiffly:

“This is NOT the desk for serf affairs.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In the Serf Department.”

“And where might the Serf Department be?”

“In charge of Ivan Antonovitch.”

“And where is Ivan Antonovitch?”

The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room; whither

Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps. As they advanced, Ivan

Antonovitch cast an eye backwards and viewed them askance. Then, with

renewed ardour, he resumed his work of writing.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing, “whether this is

the desk for serf affairs?”

It appeared as though Ivan Antonovitch had not heard, so completely did

he bury himself in his papers and return no reply. Instantly it became

plain that HE at least was of an age of discretion, and not one of your

jejune chatterboxes and harum-scarums; for, although his hair was still

thick and black, he had long ago passed his fortieth year. His whole

face tended towards the nose--it was what, in common parlance, is known

as a “pitcher-mug.”

“Would you mind telling me,” repeated Chichikov, “whether this is the

desk for serf affairs?”

“It is that,” said Ivan Antonovitch, again lowering his jug-shaped jowl,

and resuming his writing.

“Then I should like to transact the following business. From various

landowners in this canton I have purchased a number of peasants for

transfer. Here is the purchase list, and it needs but to be registered.”

“Have you also the vendors here?”

“Some of them, and from the rest I have obtained powers of attorney.”

“And have you your statement of application?”

“Yes. I desire--indeed, it is necessary for me so to do--to hasten

matters a little. Could the affair, therefore, be carried through

to-day?”

“To-day? Oh, dear no!” said Ivan Antonovitch. “Before that can be done

you must furnish me with further proofs that no impediments exist.”

“Then, to expedite matters, let me say that Ivan Grigorievitch, the

President of the Council, is a very intimate friend of mine.”

“Possibly,” said Ivan Antonovitch without enthusiasm. “But Ivan

Grigorievitch alone will not do--it is customary to have others as

well.”

“Yes, but the absence of others will not altogether invalidate the

transaction. I too have been in the service, and know how things can be

done.”

“You had better go and see Ivan Grigorievitch,” said Ivan Antonovitch

more mildly. “Should he give you an order addressed to whom it may

concern, we shall soon be able to settle the matter.”

Upon that Chichikov pulled from his pocket a paper, and laid it before

Ivan Antonovitch. At once the latter covered it with a book. Chichikov

again attempted to show it to him, but, with a movement of his head,

Ivan Antonovitch signified that that was unnecessary.

“A clerk,” he added, “will now conduct you to Ivan Grigorievitch’s

room.”

Upon that one of the toilers in the service of Themis--a zealot who

had offered her such heartfelt sacrifice that his coat had burst at the

elbows and lacked a lining--escorted our friends (even as Virgil had

once escorted Dante) to the apartment of the Presence. In this sanctum

were some massive armchairs, a table laden with two or three fat books,

and a large looking-glass. Lastly, in (apparently) sunlike isolation,

there was seated at the table the President. On arriving at the door of

the apartment, our modern Virgil seemed to have become so overwhelmed

with awe that, without daring even to intrude a foot, he turned back,

and, in so doing, once more exhibited a back as shiny as a mat, and

having adhering to it, in one spot, a chicken’s feather. As soon as the

two friends had entered the hall of the Presence they perceived that the

President was NOT alone, but, on the contrary, had seated by his side

Sobakevitch, whose form had hitherto been concealed by the intervening

mirror. The newcomers’ entry evoked sundry exclamations and the

pushing back of a pair of Government chairs as the voluminous-sleeved

Sobakevitch rose into view from behind the looking-glass. Chichikov

the President received with an embrace, and for a while the hall of

the Presence resounded with osculatory salutations as mutually the pair

inquired after one another’s health. It seemed that both had lately

had a touch of that pain under the waistband which comes of a sedentary

life. Also, it seemed that the President had just been conversing with

Sobakevitch on the subject of sales of souls, since he now proceeded

to congratulate Chichikov on the same--a proceeding which rather

embarrassed our hero, seeing that Manilov and Sobakevitch, two of

the vendors, and persons with whom he had bargained in the strictest

privacy, were now confronting one another direct. However, Chichikov

duly thanked the President, and then, turning to Sobakevitch, inquired

after HIS health.

“Thank God, I have nothing to complain of,” replied Sobakevitch: which

was true enough, seeing that a piece of iron would have caught cold and

taken to sneezing sooner than would that uncouthly fashioned landowner.

“Ah, yes; you have always had good health, have you not?” put in the

President. “Your late father was equally strong.”

“Yes, he even went out bear hunting alone,” replied Sobakevitch.

“I should think that you too could worst a bear if you were to try a

tussle with him,” rejoined the President.

“Oh no,” said Sobakevitch. “My father was a stronger man than I am.”

Then with a sigh the speaker added: “But nowadays there are no such men

as he. What is even a life like mine worth?”

“Then you do not have a comfortable time of it?” exclaimed the

President.

“No; far from it,” rejoined Sobakevitch, shaking his head. “Judge for

yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I am fifty years old, yet never in my life

had been ill, except for an occasional carbuncle or boil. That is not a

good sign. Sooner or later I shall have to pay for it.” And he relapsed

into melancholy.

“Just listen to the fellow!” was Chichikov’s and the President’s joint

inward comment. “What on earth has HE to complain of?”

“I have a letter for you, Ivan Grigorievitch,” went on Chichikov aloud

as he produced from his pocket Plushkin’s epistle.

“From whom?” inquired the President. Having broken the seal, he

exclaimed: “Why, it is from Plushkin! To think that HE is still alive!

What a strange world it is! He used to be such a nice fellow, and now--”

“And now he is a cur,” concluded Sobakevitch, “as well as a miser who

starves his serfs to death.”

“Allow me a moment,” said the President. Then he read the letter

through. When he had finished he added: “Yes, I am quite ready to act

as Plushkin’s attorney. When do you wish the purchase deeds to be

registered, Monsieur Chichikov--now or later?”

“Now, if you please,” replied Chichikov. “Indeed, I beg that, if

possible, the affair may be concluded to-day, since to-morrow I wish to

leave the town. I have brought with me both the forms of indenture and

my statement of application.”

“Very well. Nevertheless we cannot let you depart so soon. The

indentures shall be completed to-day, but you must continue your sojourn

in our midst. I will issue the necessary orders at once.”

So saying, he opened the door into the general office, where the clerks

looked like a swarm of bees around a honeycomb (if I may liken affairs

of Government to such an article?).

“Is Ivan Antonovitch here?” asked the President.

“Yes,” replied a voice from within.

“Then send him here.”

Upon that the pitcher-faced Ivan Antonovitch made his appearance in the

doorway, and bowed.

“Take these indentures, Ivan Antonovitch,” said the President, “and see

that they--”

“But first I would ask you to remember,” put in Sobakevitch, “that

witnesses ought to be in attendance--not less than two on behalf of

either party. Let us, therefore, send for the Public Prosecutor, who has

little to do, and has even that little done for him by his chief clerk,

Zolotucha. The Inspector of the Medical Department is also a man of

leisure, and likely to be at home--if he has not gone out to a card

party. Others also there are--all men who cumber the ground for

nothing.”

“Quite so, quite so,” agreed the President, and at once dispatched a

clerk to fetch the persons named.

“Also,” requested Chichikov, “I should be glad if you would send for the

accredited representative of a certain lady landowner with whom I have

done business. He is the son of a Father Cyril, and a clerk in your

offices.”

“Certainly we shall call him here,” replied the President. “Everything

shall be done to meet your convenience, and I forbid you to present any

of our officials with a gratuity. That is a special request on my part.

No friend of mine ever pays a copper.”

With that he gave Ivan Antonovitch the necessary instructions; and

though they scarcely seemed to meet with that functionary’s approval,

upon the President the purchase deeds had evidently produced an

excellent impression, more especially since the moment when he had

perceived the sum total to amount to nearly a hundred thousand roubles.

For a moment or two he gazed into Chichikov’s eyes with an expression of

profound satisfaction. Then he said:

“Well done, Paul Ivanovitch! You have indeed made a nice haul!”

“That is so,” replied Chichikov.

“Excellent business! Yes, excellent business!”

“I, too, conceive that I could not well have done better. The truth is

that never until a man has driven home the piles of his life’s structure

upon a lasting bottom, instead of upon the wayward chimeras of youth,

will his aims in life assume a definite end.” And, that said, Chichikov

went on to deliver himself of a very telling indictment of Liberalism

and our modern young men. Yet in his words there seemed to lurk a

certain lack of conviction. Somehow he seemed secretly to be saying to

himself, “My good sir, you are talking the most absolute rubbish, and

nothing but rubbish.” Nor did he even throw a glance at Sobakevitch and

Manilov. It was as though he were uncertain what he might not encounter

in their expression. Yet he need not have been afraid. Never once did

Sobakevitch’s face move a muscle, and, as for Manilov, he was too much

under the spell of Chichikov’s eloquence to do aught beyond nod his

approval at intervals, and strike the kind of attitude which is assumed

by lovers of music when a lady singer has, in rivalry of an accompanying

violin, produced a note whereof the shrillness would exceed even the

capacity of a bird’s throstle.

“But why not tell Ivan Grigorievitch precisely what you have bought?”

inquired Sobakevitch of Chichikov. “And why, Ivan Grigorievitch, do YOU

not ask Monsieur Chichikov precisely what his purchases have consisted

of? What a splendid lot of serfs, to be sure! I myself have sold him my

wheelwright, Michiev.”

“What? You have sold him Michiev?” exclaimed the President. “I know the

man well. He is a splendid craftsman, and, on one occasion, made me a

drozhki [32]. Only, only--well, lately didn’t you tell me that he is

dead?”

“That Michiev is dead?” re-echoed Sobakevitch, coming perilously near

to laughing. “Oh dear no! That was his brother. Michiev himself is very

much alive, and in even better health than he used to be. Any day he

could knock you up a britchka such as you could not procure even in

Moscow. However, he is now bound to work for only one master.”

“Indeed a splendid craftsman!” repeated the President. “My only wonder

is that you can have brought yourself to part with him.”

“Then think you that Michiev is the ONLY serf with whom I have parted?

Nay, for I have parted also with Probka Stepan, my carpenter, with

Milushkin, my bricklayer, and with Teliatnikov, my bootmaker. Yes, the

whole lot I have sold.”

And to the President’s inquiry why he had so acted, seeing that the

serfs named were all skilled workers and indispensable to a household,

Sobakevitch replied that a mere whim had led him to do so, and thus the

sale had owed its origin to a piece of folly. Then he hung his head as

though already repenting of his rash act, and added:

“Although a man of grey hairs, I have not yet learned wisdom.”

“But,” inquired the President further, “how comes it about, Paul

Ivanovitch, that you have purchased peasants apart from land? Is it for

transferment elsewhere that you need them?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. That is quite another matter. To what province of the

country?”

“To the province of Kherson.”

“Indeed? That region contains some splendid land,” said the President;

whereupon he proceeded to expatiate on the fertility of the Kherson

pastures.

“And have you MUCH land there?” he continued.

“Yes; quite sufficient to accommodate the serfs whom I have purchased.”

“And is there a river on the estate or a lake?”

“Both.”

After this reply Chichikov involuntarily threw a glance at Sobakevitch;

and though that landowner’s face was as motionless as every other, the

other seemed to detect in it: “You liar! Don’t tell ME that you own both

a river and a lake, as well as the land which you say you do.”

Whilst the foregoing conversation had been in progress, various

witnesses had been arriving on the scene. They consisted of the

constantly blinking Public Prosecutor, the Inspector of the Medical

Department, and others--all, to quote Sobakevitch, “men who cumbered

the ground for nothing.” With some of them, however, Chichikov was

altogether unacquainted, since certain substitutes and supernumeraries

had to be pressed into the service from among the ranks of the

subordinate staff. There also arrived, in answer to the summons, not

only the son of Father Cyril before mentioned, but also Father Cyril

himself. Each such witness appended to his signature a full list of his

dignities and qualifications: one man in printed characters, another in

a flowing hand, a third in topsy-turvy characters of a kind never before

seen in the Russian alphabet, and so forth. Meanwhile our friend Ivan

Antonovitch comported himself with not a little address; and after the

indentures had been signed, docketed, and registered, Chichikov

found himself called upon to pay only the merest trifle in the way of

Government percentage and fees for publishing the transaction in the

Official Gazette. The reason of this was that the President had given

orders that only half the usual charges were to be exacted from the

present purchaser--the remaining half being somehow debited to the

account of another applicant for serf registration.

“And now,” said Ivan Grigorievitch when all was completed, “we need only

to wet the bargain.”

“For that too I am ready,” said Chichikov. “Do you but name the hour.

If, in return for your most agreeable company, I were not to set a few

champagne corks flying, I should be indeed in default.”

“But we are not going to let you charge yourself with anything

whatsoever. WE must provide the champagne, for you are our guest, and

it is for us--it is our duty, it is our bounden obligation--to entertain

you. Look here, gentlemen. Let us adjourn to the house of the Chief

of Police. He is the magician who needs but to wink when passing a

fishmonger’s or a wine merchant’s. Not only shall we fare well at his

place, but also we shall get a game of whist.”

To this proposal no one had any objection to offer, for the mere mention

of the fish shop aroused the witnesses’ appetite. Consequently, the

ceremony being over, there was a general reaching for hats and caps.

As the party were passing through the general office, Ivan Antonovitch

whispered in Chichikov’s ear, with a courteous inclination of his

jug-shaped physiognomy:

“You have given a hundred thousand roubles for the serfs, but have paid

ME only a trifle for my trouble.”

“Yes,” replied Chichikov with a similar whisper, “but what sort of serfs

do you suppose them to be? They are a poor, useless lot, and not worth

even half the purchase money.”

This gave Ivan Antonovitch to understand that the visitor was a man of

strong character--a man from whom nothing more was to be expected.

“Why have you gone and purchased souls from Plushkin?” whispered

Sobakevitch in Chichikov’s other ear.

“Why did YOU go and add the woman Vorobei to your list?” retorted

Chichikov.

“Vorobei? Who is Vorobei?”

“The woman ‘Elizabet’ Vorobei--‘Elizabet,’ not ‘Elizabeta?’”

“I added no such name,” replied Sobakevitch, and straightway joined the

other guests.

At length the party arrived at the residence of the Chief of Police. The

latter proved indeed a man of spells, for no sooner had he learnt what

was afoot than he summoned a brisk young constable, whispered in his

ear, adding laconically, “You understand, do you not?” and brought it

about that, during the time that the guests were cutting for partners at

whist in an adjoining room, the dining-table became laden with sturgeon,

caviare, salmon, herrings, cheese, smoked tongue, fresh roe, and a

potted variety of the same--all procured from the local fish market, and

reinforced with additions from the host’s own kitchen. The fact was that

the worthy Chief of Police filled the office of a sort of father and

general benefactor to the town, and that he moved among the citizens as

though they constituted part and parcel of his own family, and watched

over their shops and markets as though those establishments were

merely his own private larder. Indeed, it would be difficult to say--so

thoroughly did he perform his duties in this respect--whether the post

most fitted him, or he the post. Matters were also so arranged that

though his income more than doubled that of his predecessors, he had

never lost the affection of his fellow townsmen. In particular did the

tradesmen love him, since he was never above standing godfather to their

children or dining at their tables. True, he had differences of opinion

with them, and serious differences at that; but always these were

skilfully adjusted by his slapping the offended ones jovially on the

shoulder, drinking a glass of tea with them, promising to call at their

houses and play a game of chess, asking after their belongings, and,

should he learn that a child of theirs was ill, prescribing the proper

medicine. In short, he bore the reputation of being a very good fellow.

On perceiving the feast to be ready, the host proposed that his guests

should finish their whist after luncheon; whereupon all proceeded to the

room whence for some time past an agreeable odour had been tickling the

nostrils of those present, and towards the door of which Sobakevitch in

particular had been glancing since the moment when he had caught sight

of a huge sturgeon reposing on the sideboard. After a glassful of warm,

olive-coloured vodka apiece--vodka of the tint to be seen only in the

species of Siberian stone whereof seals are cut--the company applied

themselves to knife-and-fork work, and, in so doing, evinced their

several characteristics and tastes. For instance, Sobakevitch,

disdaining lesser trifles, tackled the large sturgeon, and, during the

time that his fellow guests were eating minor comestibles, and drinking

and talking, contrived to consume more than a quarter of the whole fish;

so that, on the host remembering the creature, and, with fork in hand,

leading the way in its direction and saying, “What, gentlemen, think you

of this striking product of nature?” there ensued the discovery that of

the said product of nature there remained little beyond the tail, while

Sobakevitch, with an air as though at least HE had not eaten it, was

engaged in plunging his fork into a much more diminutive piece of fish

which happened to be resting on an adjacent platter. After his divorce

from the sturgeon, Sobakevitch ate and drank no more, but sat frowning

and blinking in an armchair.

Apparently the host was not a man who believed in sparing the wine, for

the toasts drunk were innumerable. The first toast (as the reader may

guess) was quaffed to the health of the new landowner of Kherson; the

second to the prosperity of his peasants and their safe transferment;

and the third to the beauty of his future wife--a compliment which

brought to our hero’s lips a flickering smile. Lastly, he received from

the company a pressing, as well as an unanimous, invitation to extend

his stay in town for at least another fortnight, and, in the meanwhile,

to allow a wife to be found for him.

“Quite so,” agreed the President. “Fight us tooth and nail though you

may, we intend to have you married. You have happened upon us by chance,

and you shall have no reason to repent of it. We are in earnest on this

subject.”

“But why should I fight you tooth and nail?” said Chichikov, smiling.

“Marriage would not come amiss to me, were I but provided with a

betrothed.”

“Then a betrothed you shall have. Why not? We will do as you wish.”

“Very well,” assented Chichikov.

“Bravo, bravo!” the company shouted. “Long live Paul Ivanovitch! Hurrah!

Hurrah!” And with that every one approached to clink glasses with him,

and he readily accepted the compliment, and accepted it many times in

succession. Indeed, as the hours passed on, the hilarity of the company

increased yet further, and more than once the President (a man of great

urbanity when thoroughly in his cups) embraced the chief guest of the

day with the heartfelt words, “My dearest fellow! My own most precious

of friends!” Nay, he even started to crack his fingers, to dance around

Chichikov’s chair, and to sing snatches of a popular song. To the

champagne succeeded Hungarian wine, which had the effect of still

further heartening and enlivening the company. By this time every

one had forgotten about whist, and given himself up to shouting and

disputing. Every conceivable subject was discussed, including politics

and military affairs; and in this connection guests voiced jejune

opinions for the expression of which they would, at any other time, have

soundly spanked their offspring. Chichikov, like the rest, had never

before felt so gay, and, imagining himself really and truly to be a

landowner of Kherson, spoke of various improvements in agriculture, of

the three-field system of tillage [33], and of the beatific felicity of

a union between two kindred souls. Also, he started to recite poetry to

Sobakevitch, who blinked as he listened, for he greatly desired to go to

sleep. At length the guest of the evening realised that matters had gone

far enough, so begged to be given a lift home, and was accommodated with

the Public Prosecutor’s drozhki. Luckily the driver of the vehicle was

a practised man at his work, for, while driving with one hand, he

succeeded in leaning backwards and, with the other, holding Chichikov

securely in his place. Arrived at the inn, our hero continued babbling

awhile about a flaxen-haired damsel with rosy lips and a dimple in her

right cheek, about villages of his in Kherson, and about the amount of

his capital. Nay, he even issued seignorial instructions that Selifan

should go and muster the peasants about to be transferred, and make a

complete and detailed inventory of them. For a while Selifan listened

in silence; then he left the room, and instructed Petrushka to help the

barin to undress. As it happened, Chichikov’s boots had no sooner

been removed than he managed to perform the rest of his toilet without

assistance, to roll on to the bed (which creaked terribly as he did so),

and to sink into a sleep in every way worthy of a landowner of Kherson.

Meanwhile Petrushka had taken his master’s coat and trousers of

bilberry-coloured check into the corridor; where, spreading them over a

clothes’ horse, he started to flick and to brush them, and to fill the

whole corridor with dust. Just as he was about to replace them in his

master’s room he happened to glance over the railing of the gallery, and

saw Selifan returning from the stable. Glances were exchanged, and in

an instant the pair had arrived at an instinctive understanding--an

understanding to the effect that the barin was sound asleep, and that

therefore one might consider one’s own pleasure a little. Accordingly

Petrushka proceeded to restore the coat and trousers to their appointed

places, and then descended the stairs; whereafter he and Selifan left

the house together. Not a word passed between them as to the object

of their expedition. On the contrary, they talked solely of extraneous

subjects. Yet their walk did not take them far; it took them only to

the other side of the street, and thence into an establishment which

immediately confronted the inn. Entering a mean, dirty courtyard covered

with glass, they passed thence into a cellar where a number of customers

were seated around small wooden tables. What thereafter was done by

Selifan and Petrushka God alone knows. At all events, within an hour’s

time they issued, arm in arm, and in profound silence, yet remaining

markedly assiduous to one another, and ever ready to help one another

around an awkward corner. Still linked together--never once releasing

their mutual hold--they spent the next quarter of an hour in attempting

to negotiate the stairs of the inn; but at length even that ascent had

been mastered, and they proceeded further on their way. Halting

before his mean little pallet, Petrushka stood awhile in thought. His

difficulty was how best to assume a recumbent position. Eventually he

lay down on his face, with his legs trailing over the floor; after which

Selifan also stretched himself upon the pallet, with his head resting

upon Petrushka’s stomach, and his mind wholly oblivious of the fact that

he ought not to have been sleeping there at all, but in the servant’s

quarters, or in the stable beside his horses. Scarcely a moment had

passed before the pair were plunged in slumber and emitting the most

raucous snores; to which their master (next door) responded with snores

of a whistling and nasal order. Indeed, before long every one in the

inn had followed their soothing example, and the hostelry lay plunged

in complete restfulness. Only in the window of the room of the

newly-arrived lieutenant from Riazan did a light remain burning.

Evidently he was a devotee of boots, for he had purchased four pairs,

and was now trying on a fifth. Several times he approached the bed with

a view to taking off the boots and retiring to rest; but each time he

failed, for the reason that the boots were so alluring in their make

that he had no choice but to lift up first one foot, and then the other,

for the purpose of scanning their elegant welts.