Chương Chương 6 · Chapter VI

Chichikov’s amusement at the peasant’s outburst prevented him from

noticing that he had reached the centre of a large and populous village;

but, presently, a violent jolt aroused him to the fact that he was

driving over wooden pavements of a kind compared with which the

cobblestones of the town had been as nothing. Like the keys of a piano,

the planks kept rising and falling, and unguarded passage over them

entailed either a bump on the back of the neck or a bruise on the

forehead or a bite on the tip of one’s tongue. At the same time

Chichikov noticed a look of decay about the buildings of the village.

The beams of the huts had grown dark with age, many of their roofs were

riddled with holes, others had but a tile of the roof remaining, and yet

others were reduced to the rib-like framework of the same. It would

seem as though the inhabitants themselves had removed the laths and

traverses, on the very natural plea that the huts were no protection

against the rain, and therefore, since the latter entered in bucketfuls,

there was no particular object to be gained by sitting in such huts when

all the time there was the tavern and the highroad and other places to

resort to.

Suddenly a woman appeared from an outbuilding--apparently the

housekeeper of the mansion, but so roughly and dirtily dressed as almost

to seem indistinguishable from a man. Chichikov inquired for the master

of the place.

“He is not at home,” she replied, almost before her interlocutor had had

time to finish. Then she added: “What do you want with him?”

“I have some business to do,” said Chichikov.

“Then pray walk into the house,” the woman advised. Then she turned upon

him a back that was smeared with flour and had a long slit in the lower

portion of its covering. Entering a large, dark hall which reeked like

a tomb, he passed into an equally dark parlour that was lighted only by

such rays as contrived to filter through a crack under the door. When

Chichikov opened the door in question, the spectacle of the untidiness

within struck him almost with amazement. It would seem that the floor

was never washed, and that the room was used as a receptacle for every

conceivable kind of furniture. On a table stood a ragged chair, with,

beside it, a clock minus a pendulum and covered all over with cobwebs.

Against a wall leant a cupboard, full of old silver, glassware, and

china. On a writing table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl which, in places,

had broken away and left behind it a number of yellow grooves (stuffed

with putty), lay a pile of finely written manuscript, an overturned

marble press (turning green), an ancient book in a leather cover with

red edges, a lemon dried and shrunken to the dimensions of a hazelnut,

the broken arm of a chair, a tumbler containing the dregs of some liquid

and three flies (the whole covered over with a sheet of notepaper), a

pile of rags, two ink-encrusted pens, and a yellow toothpick with which

the master of the house had picked his teeth (apparently) at least

before the coming of the French to Moscow. As for the walls, they were

hung with a medley of pictures. Among the latter was a long engraving of

a battle scene, wherein soldiers in three-cornered hats were brandishing

huge drums and slender lances. It lacked a glass, and was set in a frame

ornamented with bronze fretwork and bronze corner rings. Beside it hung

a huge, grimy oil painting representative of some flowers and fruit,

half a water melon, a boar’s head, and the pendent form of a dead

wild duck. Attached to the ceiling there was a chandelier in a holland

covering--the covering so dusty as closely to resemble a huge cocoon

enclosing a caterpillar. Lastly, in one corner of the room lay a pile

of articles which had evidently been adjudged unworthy of a place on the

table. Yet what the pile consisted of it would have been difficult to

say, seeing that the dust on the same was so thick that any hand which

touched it would have at once resembled a glove. Prominently protruding

from the pile was the shaft of a wooden spade and the antiquated sole

of a shoe. Never would one have supposed that a living creature had

tenanted the room, were it not that the presence of such a creature was

betrayed by the spectacle of an old nightcap resting on the table.

Whilst Chichikov was gazing at this extraordinary mess, a side door

opened and there entered the housekeeper who had met him near the

outbuildings. But now Chichikov perceived this person to be a man rather

than a woman, since a female housekeeper would have had no beard to

shave, whereas the chin of the newcomer, with the lower portion of his

cheeks, strongly resembled the curry-comb which is used for grooming

horses. Chichikov assumed a questioning air, and waited to hear what the

housekeeper might have to say. The housekeeper did the same. At length,

surprised at the misunderstanding, Chichikov decided to ask the first

question.

“Is the master at home?” he inquired.

“Yes,” replied the person addressed.

“Then where is he?” continued Chichikov.

“Are you blind, my good sir?” retorted the other. “_I_ am the master.”

Involuntarily our hero started and stared. During his travels it had

befallen him to meet various types of men--some of them, it may be,

types which you and I have never encountered; but even to Chichikov this

particular species was new. In the old man’s face there was nothing very

special--it was much like the wizened face of many another dotard, save

that the chin was so greatly projected that whenever he spoke he was

forced to wipe it with a handkerchief to avoid dribbling, and that his

small eyes were not yet grown dull, but twinkled under their overhanging

brows like the eyes of mice when, with attentive ears and sensitive

whiskers, they snuff the air and peer forth from their holes to

see whether a cat or a boy may not be in the vicinity. No, the most

noticeable feature about the man was his clothes. In no way could it

have been guessed of what his coat was made, for both its sleeves and

its skirts were so ragged and filthy as to defy description, while

instead of two posterior tails, there dangled four of those appendages,

with, projecting from them, a torn newspaper. Also, around his neck

there was wrapped something which might have been a stocking, a garter,

or a stomacher, but was certainly not a tie. In short, had Chichikov

chanced to encounter him at a church door, he would have bestowed upon

him a copper or two (for, to do our hero justice, he had a sympathetic

heart and never refrained from presenting a beggar with alms), but in

the present case there was standing before him, not a mendicant, but

a landowner--and a landowner possessed of fully a thousand serfs, the

superior of all his neighbours in wealth of flour and grain, and the

owner of storehouses, and so forth, that were crammed with homespun

cloth and linen, tanned and undressed sheepskins, dried fish, and every

conceivable species of produce. Nevertheless, such a phenomenon is

rare in Russia, where the tendency is rather to prodigality than to

parsimony.

For several minutes Plushkin stood mute, while Chichikov remained so

dazed with the appearance of the host and everything else in the room,

that he too, could not begin a conversation, but stood wondering how

best to find words in which to explain the object of his visit. For a

while he thought of expressing himself to the effect that, having heard

so much of his host’s benevolence and other rare qualities of spirit,

he had considered it his duty to come and pay a tribute of respect; but

presently even HE came to the conclusion that this would be overdoing

the thing, and, after another glance round the room, decided that

the phrase “benevolence and other rare qualities of spirit” might to

advantage give place to “economy and genius for method.” Accordingly,

the speech mentally composed, he said aloud that, having heard of

Plushkin’s talents for thrifty and systematic management, he had

considered himself bound to make the acquaintance of his host, and

to present him with his personal compliments (I need hardly say that

Chichikov could easily have alleged a better reason, had any better one

happened, at the moment, to have come into his head).

With toothless gums Plushkin murmured something in reply, but nothing is

known as to its precise terms beyond that it included a statement

that the devil was at liberty to fly away with Chichikov’s sentiments.

However, the laws of Russian hospitality do not permit even of a miser

infringing their rules; wherefore Plushkin added to the foregoing a more

civil invitation to be seated.

“It is long since I last received a visitor,” he went on. “Also, I feel

bound to say that I can see little good in their coming. Once introduce

the abominable custom of folk paying calls, and forthwith there will

ensue such ruin to the management of estates that landowners will be

forced to feed their horses on hay. Not for a long, long time have I

eaten a meal away from home--although my own kitchen is a poor one, and

has its chimney in such a state that, were it to become overheated, it

would instantly catch fire.”

“What a brute!” thought Chichikov. “I am lucky to have got through so

much pastry and stuffed shoulder of mutton at Sobakevitch’s!”

“Also,” went on Plushkin, “I am ashamed to say that hardly a wisp of

fodder does the place contain. But how can I get fodder? My lands are

small, and the peasantry lazy fellows who hate work and think of nothing

but the tavern. In the end, therefore, I shall be forced to go and spend

my old age in roaming about the world.”

“But I have been told that you possess over a thousand serfs?” said

Chichikov.

“Who told you that? No matter who it was, you would have been justified

in giving him the lie. He must have been a jester who wanted to make

a fool of you. A thousand souls, indeed! Why, just reckon the taxes

on them, and see what there would be left! For these three years that

accursed fever has been killing off my serfs wholesale.”

“Wholesale, you say?” echoed Chichikov, greatly interested.

“Yes, wholesale,” replied the old man.

“Then might I ask you the exact number?”

“Fully eighty.”

“Surely not?”

“But it is so.”

“Then might I also ask whether it is from the date of the last census

revision that you are reckoning these souls?”

“Yes, damn it! And since that date I have been bled for taxes upon a

hundred and twenty souls in all.”

“Indeed? Upon a hundred and twenty souls in all!” And Chichikov’s

surprise and elation were such that, this said, he remained sitting

open-mouthed.

“Yes, good sir,” replied Plushkin. “I am too old to tell you lies, for I

have passed my seventieth year.”

Somehow he seemed to have taken offence at Chichikov’s almost joyous

exclamation; wherefore the guest hastened to heave a profound sigh, and

to observe that he sympathised to the full with his host’s misfortunes.

“But sympathy does not put anything into one’s pocket,” retorted

Plushkin. “For instance, I have a kinsman who is constantly plaguing me.

He is a captain in the army, damn him, and all day he does nothing but

call me ‘dear uncle,’ and kiss my hand, and express sympathy until I am

forced to stop my ears. You see, he has squandered all his money upon

his brother-officers, as well as made a fool of himself with an actress;

so now he spends his time in telling me that he has a sympathetic

heart!”

Chichikov hastened to explain that HIS sympathy had nothing in common

with the captain’s, since he dealt, not in empty words alone, but in

actual deeds; in proof of which he was ready then and there (for

the purpose of cutting the matter short, and of dispensing with

circumlocution) to transfer to himself the obligation of paying the

taxes due upon such serfs as Plushkin’s as had, in the unfortunate

manner just described, departed this world. The proposal seemed to

astonish Plushkin, for he sat staring open-eyed. At length he inquired:

“My dear sir, have you seen military service?”

“No,” replied the other warily, “but I have been a member of the CIVIL

Service.”

“Oh! Of the CIVIL Service?” And Plushkin sat moving his lips as though

he were chewing something. “Well, what of your proposal?” he added

presently. “Are you prepared to lose by it?”

“Yes, certainly, if thereby I can please you.”

“My dear sir! My good benefactor!” In his delight Plushkin lost sight of

the fact that his nose was caked with snuff of the consistency of thick

coffee, and that his coat had parted in front and was disclosing some

very unseemly underclothing. “What comfort you have brought to an old

man! Yes, as God is my witness!”

For the moment he could say no more. Yet barely a minute had elapsed

before this instantaneously aroused emotion had, as instantaneously,

disappeared from his wooden features. Once more they assumed a careworn

expression, and he even wiped his face with his handkerchief, then

rolled it into a ball, and rubbed it to and fro against his upper lip.

“If it will not annoy you again to state the proposal,” he went on,

“what you undertake to do is to pay the annual tax upon these souls, and

to remit the money either to me or to the Treasury?”

“Yes, that is how it shall be done. We will draw up a deed of purchase

as though the souls were still alive and you had sold them to myself.”

“Quite so--a deed of purchase,” echoed Plushkin, once more relapsing

into thought and the chewing motion of the lips. “But a deed of such

a kind will entail certain expenses, and lawyers are so devoid of

conscience! In fact, so extortionate is their avarice that they will

charge one half a rouble, and then a sack of flour, and then a whole

waggon-load of meal. I wonder that no one has yet called attention to

the system.”

Upon that Chichikov intimated that, out of respect for his host, he

himself would bear the cost of the transfer of souls. This led Plushkin

to conclude that his guest must be the kind of unconscionable fool who,

while pretending to have been a member of the Civil Service, has in

reality served in the army and run after actresses; wherefore the old

man no longer disguised his delight, but called down blessings alike

upon Chichikov’s head and upon those of his children (he had never even

inquired whether Chichikov possessed a family). Next, he shuffled to the

window, and, tapping one of its panes, shouted the name of “Proshka.”

Immediately some one ran quickly into the hall, and, after much stamping

of feet, burst into the room. This was Proshka--a thirteen-year-old

youngster who was shod with boots of such dimensions as almost to engulf

his legs as he walked. The reason why he had entered thus shod was

that Plushkin only kept one pair of boots for the whole of his domestic

staff. This universal pair was stationed in the hall of the mansion, so

that any servant who was summoned to the house might don the said boots

after wading barefooted through the mud of the courtyard, and enter

the parlour dry-shod--subsequently leaving the boots where he had found

them, and departing in his former barefooted condition. Indeed, had any

one, on a slushy winter’s morning, glanced from a window into the said

courtyard, he would have seen Plushkin’s servitors performing saltatory

feats worthy of the most vigorous of stage-dancers.

“Look at that boy’s face!” said Plushkin to Chichikov as he pointed to

Proshka. “It is stupid enough, yet, lay anything aside, and in a trice

he will have stolen it. Well, my lad, what do you want?”

He paused a moment or two, but Proshka made no reply.

“Come, come!” went on the old man. “Set out the samovar, and then give

Mavra the key of the store-room--here it is--and tell her to get out

some loaf sugar for tea. Here! Wait another moment, fool! Is the devil

in your legs that they itch so to be off? Listen to what more I have to

tell you. Tell Mavra that the sugar on the outside of the loaf has gone

bad, so that she must scrape it off with a knife, and NOT throw away

the scrapings, but give them to the poultry. Also, see that you yourself

don’t go into the storeroom, or I will give you a birching that you

won’t care for. Your appetite is good enough already, but a better one

won’t hurt you. Don’t even TRY to go into the storeroom, for I shall be

watching you from this window.”

“You see,” the old man added to Chichikov, “one can never trust these

fellows.” Presently, when Proshka and the boots had departed, he fell

to gazing at his guest with an equally distrustful air, since certain

features in Chichikov’s benevolence now struck him as a little open to

question, and he had begin to think to himself: “After all, the

devil only knows who he is--whether a braggart, like most of these

spendthrifts, or a fellow who is lying merely in order to get some tea

out of me.” Finally, his circumspection, combined with a desire to

test his guest, led him to remark that it might be well to complete

the transaction IMMEDIATELY, since he had not overmuch confidence in

humanity, seeing that a man might be alive to-day and dead to-morrow.

To this Chichikov assented readily enough--merely adding that he should

like first of all to be furnished with a list of the dead souls. This

reassured Plushkin as to his guest’s intention of doing business, so

he got out his keys, approached a cupboard, and, having pulled back the

door, rummaged among the cups and glasses with which it was filled. At

length he said:

“I cannot find it now, but I used to possess a splendid bottle of

liquor. Probably the servants have drunk it all, for they are such

thieves. Oh no: perhaps this is it!”

Looking up, Chichikov saw that Plushkin had extracted a decanter coated

with dust.

“My late wife made the stuff,” went on the old man, “but that rascal of

a housekeeper went and threw away a lot of it, and never even replaced

the stopper. Consequently bugs and other nasty creatures got into the

decanter, but I cleaned it out, and now beg to offer you a glassful.”

The idea of a drink from such a receptacle was too much for Chichikov,

so he excused himself on the ground that he had just had luncheon.

“You have just had luncheon?” re-echoed Plushkin. “Now, THAT shows how

invariably one can tell a man of good society, wheresoever one may be.

A man of that kind never eats anything--he always says that he has had

enough. Very different that from the ways of a rogue, whom one can never

satisfy, however much one may give him. For instance, that captain of

mine is constantly begging me to let him have a meal--though he is about

as much my nephew as I am his grandfather. As it happens, there is never

a bite of anything in the house, so he has to go away empty. But about

the list of those good-for-nothing souls--I happen to possess such a

list, since I have drawn one up in readiness for the next revision.”

With that Plushkin donned his spectacles, and once more started to

rummage in the cupboard, and to smother his guest with dust as he untied

successive packages of papers--so much so that his victim burst out

sneezing. Finally he extracted a much-scribbled document in which the

names of the deceased peasants lay as close-packed as a cloud of midges,

for there were a hundred and twenty of them in all. Chichikov grinned

with joy at the sight of the multitude. Stuffing the list into his

pocket, he remarked that, to complete the transaction, it would be

necessary to return to the town.

“To the town?” repeated Plushkin. “But why? Moreover, how could I leave

the house, seeing that every one of my servants is either a thief or

a rogue? Day by day they pilfer things, until soon I shall have not a

single coat to hang on my back.”

“Then you possess acquaintances in the town?”

“Acquaintances? No. Every acquaintance whom I ever possessed has either

left me or is dead. But stop a moment. I DO know the President of the

Council. Even in my old age he has once or twice come to visit me, for

he and I used to be schoolfellows, and to go climbing walls together.

Yes, him I do know. Shall I write him a letter?”

“By all means.”

“Yes, him I know well, for we were friends together at school.”

Over Plushkin’s wooden features there had gleamed a ray of warmth--a

ray which expressed, if not feeling, at all events feeling’s pale

reflection. Just such a phenomenon may be witnessed when, for a brief

moment, a drowning man makes a last re-appearance on the surface of a

river, and there rises from the crowd lining the banks a cry of hope

that even yet the exhausted hands may clutch the rope which has been

thrown him--may clutch it before the surface of the unstable element

shall have resumed for ever its calm, dread vacuity. But the hope is

short-lived, and the hands disappear. Even so did Plushkin’s face,

after its momentary manifestation of feeling, become meaner and more

insensible than ever.

“There used to be a sheet of clean writing paper lying on the table,” he

went on. “But where it is now I cannot think. That comes of my servants

being such rascals.”

With that he fell to looking also under the table, as well as to

hurrying about with cries of “Mavra, Mavra!” At length the call was

answered by a woman with a plateful of the sugar of which mention has

been made; whereupon there ensued the following conversation.

“What have you done with my piece of writing paper, you pilferer?”

“I swear that I have seen no paper except the bit with which you covered

the glass.”

“Your very face tells me that you have made off with it.”

“Why should I make off with it? ‘Twould be of no use to me, for I can

neither read nor write.”

“You lie! You have taken it away for the sexton to scribble upon.”

“Well, if the sexton wanted paper he could get some for himself. Neither

he nor I have set eyes upon your piece.”

“Ah! Wait a bit, for on the Judgment Day you will be roasted by devils

on iron spits. Just see if you are not!”

“But why should I be roasted when I have never even TOUCHED the paper?

You might accuse me of any other fault than theft.”

“Nay, devils shall roast you, sure enough. They will say to you, ‘Bad

woman, we are doing this because you robbed your master,’ and then stoke

up the fire still hotter.”

“Nevertheless _I_ shall continue to say, ‘You are roasting me for

nothing, for I never stole anything at all.’ Why, THERE it is, lying on

the table! You have been accusing me for no reason whatever!”

And, sure enough, the sheet of paper was lying before Plushkin’s very

eyes. For a moment or two he chewed silently. Then he went on:

“Well, and what are you making such a noise about? If one says a single

word to you, you answer back with ten. Go and fetch me a candle to seal

a letter with. And mind you bring a TALLOW candle, for it will not cost

so much as the other sort. And bring me a match too.”

Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and taking up a pen, sat

turning the sheet of paper over and over, as though in doubt whether

to tear from it yet another morsel. At length he came to the conclusion

that it was impossible to do so, and therefore, dipping the pen into the

mixture of mouldy fluid and dead flies which the ink bottle contained,

started to indite the letter in characters as bold as the notes of a

music score, while momentarily checking the speed of his hand, lest it

should meander too much over the paper, and crawling from line to line

as though he regretted that there was so little vacant space left on the

sheet.

“And do you happen to know any one to whom a few runaway serfs would be

of use?” he asked as subsequently he folded the letter.

“What? You have some runaways as well?” exclaimed Chichikov, again

greatly interested.

“Certainly I have. My son-in-law has laid the necessary information

against them, but says that their tracks have grown cold. However, he is

only a military man--that is to say, good at clinking a pair of spurs,

but of no use for laying a plea before a court.”

“And how many runaways have you?”

“About seventy.”

“Surely not?”

“Alas, yes. Never does a year pass without a certain number of them

making off. Yet so gluttonous and idle are my serfs that they are simply

bursting with food, whereas I scarcely get enough to eat. I will take

any price for them that you may care to offer. Tell your friends about

it, and, should they find even a score of the runaways, it will repay

them handsomely, seeing that a living serf on the census list is at

present worth five hundred roubles.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not going to let any one but myself have a finger

in this,” thought Chichikov to himself; after which he explained to

Plushkin that a friend of the kind mentioned would be impossible to

discover, since the legal expenses of the enterprise would lead to the

said friend having to cut the very tail from his coat before he would

get clear of the lawyers.

“Nevertheless,” added Chichikov, “seeing that you are so hard pressed

for money, and that I am so interested in the matter, I feel moved to

advance you--well, to advance you such a trifle as would scarcely be

worth mentioning.”

“But how much is it?” asked Plushkin eagerly, and with his hands

trembling like quicksilver.

“Twenty-five kopecks per soul.”

“What? In ready money?”

“Yes--in money down.”

“Nevertheless, consider my poverty, dear friend, and make it FORTY

kopecks per soul.”

“Venerable sir, would that I could pay you not merely forty kopecks,

but five hundred roubles. I should be only too delighted if that were

possible, since I perceive that you, an aged and respected gentleman,

are suffering for your own goodness of heart.”

“By God, that is true, that is true.” Plushkin hung his head, and wagged

it feebly from side to side. “Yes, all that I have done I have done

purely out of kindness.”

“See how instantaneously I have divined your nature! By now it will have

become clear to you why it is impossible for me to pay you five hundred

roubles per runaway soul: for by now you will have gathered the fact

that I am not sufficiently rich. Nevertheless, I am ready to add another

five kopecks, and so to make it that each runaway serf shall cost me, in

all, thirty kopecks.”

“As you please, dear sir. Yet stretch another point, and throw in

another two kopecks.”

“Pardon me, but I cannot. How many runaway serfs did you say that you

possess? Seventy?”

“No; seventy-eight.”

“Seventy-eight souls at thirty kopecks each will amount to--to--” only

for a moment did our hero halt, since he was strong in his arithmetic,

“--will amount to twenty-four roubles, ninety-six kopecks.” [28]

With that he requested Plushkin to make out the receipt, and then handed

him the money. Plushkin took it in both hands, bore it to a bureau with

as much caution as though he were carrying a liquid which might at any

moment splash him in the face, and, arrived at the bureau, and glancing

round once more, carefully packed the cash in one of his money bags,

where, doubtless, it was destined to lie buried until, to the intense

joy of his daughters and his son-in-law (and, perhaps, of the captain

who claimed kinship with him), he should himself receive burial at the

hands of Fathers Carp and Polycarp, the two priests attached to his

village. Lastly, the money concealed, Plushkin re-seated himself in the

armchair, and seemed at a loss for further material for conversation.

“Are you thinking of starting?” at length he inquired, on seeing

Chichikov making a trifling movement, though the movement was only

to extract from his pocket a handkerchief. Nevertheless the question

reminded Chichikov that there was no further excuse for lingering.

“Yes, I must be going,” he said as he took his hat.

“Then what about the tea?”

“Thank you, I will have some on my next visit.”

“What? Even though I have just ordered the samovar to be got ready?

Well, well! I myself do not greatly care for tea, for I think it an

expensive beverage. Moreover, the price of sugar has risen terribly.”

“Proshka!” he then shouted. “The samovar will not be needed. Return the

sugar to Mavra, and tell her to put it back again. But no. Bring the

sugar here, and _I_ will put it back.”

“Good-bye, dear sir,” finally he added to Chichikov. “May the Lord bless

you! Hand that letter to the President of the Council, and let him

read it. Yes, he is an old friend of mine. We knew one another as

schoolfellows.”

With that this strange phenomenon, this withered old man, escorted his

guest to the gates of the courtyard, and, after the guest had departed,

ordered the gates to be closed, made the round of the outbuildings for

the purpose of ascertaining whether the numerous watchmen were at their

posts, peered into the kitchen (where, under the pretence of seeing

whether his servants were being properly fed, he made a light meal

of cabbage soup and gruel), rated the said servants soundly for their

thievishness and general bad behaviour, and then returned to his room.

Meditating in solitude, he fell to thinking how best he could contrive

to recompense his guest for the latter’s measureless benevolence. “I

will present him,” he thought to himself, “with a watch. It is a good

silver article--not one of those cheap metal affairs; and though it

has suffered some damage, he can easily get that put right. A young man

always needs to give a watch to his betrothed.”

“No,” he added after further thought. “I will leave him the watch in my

will, as a keepsake.”

Meanwhile our hero was bowling along in high spirit. Such an unexpected

acquisition both of dead souls and of runaway serfs had come as

a windfall. Even before reaching Plushkin’s village he had had a

presentiment that he would do successful business there, but not

business of such pre-eminent profitableness as had actually resulted.

As he proceeded he whistled, hummed with hand placed trumpetwise to his

mouth, and ended by bursting into a burst of melody so striking that

Selifan, after listening for a while, nodded his head and exclaimed, “My

word, but the master CAN sing!”

By the time they reached the town darkness had fallen, and changed the

character of the scene. The britchka bounded over the cobblestones, and

at length turned into the hostelry’s courtyard, where the travellers

were met by Petrushka. With one hand holding back the tails of his coat

(which he never liked to see fly apart), the valet assisted his

master to alight. The waiter ran out with candle in hand and napkin on

shoulder. Whether or not Petrushka was glad to see the barin return

it is impossible to say, but at all events he exchanged a wink with

Selifan, and his ordinarily morose exterior seemed momentarily to

brighten.

“Then you have been travelling far, sir?” said the waiter, as he lit the

way upstarts.

“Yes,” said Chichikov. “What has happened here in the meanwhile?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied the waiter, bowing, “except that last night

there arrived a military lieutenant. He has got room number sixteen.”

“A lieutenant?”

“Yes. He came from Riazan, driving three grey horses.”

On entering his room, Chichikov clapped his hand to his nose, and asked

his valet why he had never had the windows opened.

“But I did have them opened,” replied Petrushka. Nevertheless this was

a lie, as Chichikov well knew, though he was too tired to contest the

point. After ordering and consuming a light supper of sucking pig, he

undressed, plunged beneath the bedclothes, and sank into the profound

slumber which comes only to such fortunate folk as are troubled neither

with mosquitoes nor fleas nor excessive activity of brain.