Dead Souls
“You are lying,” said Nozdrev without even letting him finish. “Yes, you
are lying my good friend.”
Chichikov himself perceived that his device had been a clumsy one, and
his pretext weak. “I must tell him straight out,” he said to himself as
he pulled his wits together.
“Should I tell you the truth,” he added aloud, “I must beg of you not
to repeat it. The truth is that I am thinking of getting married. But,
unfortunately, my betrothed’s father and mother are very ambitious
people, and do not want me to marry her, since they desire the
bridegroom to own not less than three hundred souls, whereas I own but a
hundred and fifty, and that number is not sufficient.”
“Again you are lying,” said Nozdrev.
“Then look here; I have been lying only to this extent.” And Chichikov
marked off upon his little finger a minute portion.
“Nevertheless I will bet my head that you have been lying throughout.”
“Come, come! That is not very civil of you. Why should I have been
lying?”
“Because I know you, and know that you are a regular skinflint. I say
that in all friendship. If I possessed any power over you I should hang
you to the nearest tree.”
This remark hurt Chichikov, for at any time he disliked expressions
gross or offensive to decency, and never allowed any one--no, not even
persons of the highest rank--to behave towards him with an undue
measure of familiarity. Consequently his sense of umbrage on the present
occasion was unbounded.
“By God, I WOULD hang you!” repeated Nozdrev. “I say this frankly, and
not for the purpose of offending you, but simply to communicate to you
my friendly opinion.”
“To everything there are limits,” retorted Chichikov stiffly. “If you
want to indulge in speeches of that sort you had better return to the
barracks.”
However, after a pause he added:
“If you do not care to give me the serfs, why not SELL them?”
“SELL them? _I_ know you, you rascal! You wouldn’t give me very much for
them, WOULD you?”
“A nice fellow! Look here. What are they to you? So many diamonds, eh?”
“I thought so! _I_ know you!”
“Pardon me, but I could wish that you were a member of the Jewish
persuasion. You would give them to me fast enough then.”
“On the contrary, to show you that I am not a usurer, I will decline to
ask of you a single kopeck for the serfs. All that you need do is to buy
that colt of mine, and then I will throw in the serfs in addition.”
“But what should _I_ want with your colt?” said Chichikov, genuinely
astonished at the proposal.
“What should YOU want with him? Why, I have bought him for ten thousand
roubles, and am ready to let you have him for four.”
“I ask you again: of what use could the colt possibly be to me? I am not
the keeper of a breeding establishment.”
“Ah! I see that you fail to understand me. Let me suggest that you pay
down at once three thousand roubles of the purchase money, and leave the
other thousand until later.”
“But I do not mean to buy the colt, damn him!”
“Then buy the roan mare.”
“No, nor the roan mare.”
“Then you shall have both the mare and the grey horse which you have
seen in my stables for two thousand roubles.”
“I require no horses at all.”
“But you would be able to sell them again. You would be able to get
thrice their purchase price at the very first fair that was held.”
“Then sell them at that fair yourself, seeing that you are so certain of
making a triple profit.”
“Oh, I should make it fast enough, only I want YOU to benefit by the
transaction.”
Chichikov duly thanked his interlocutor, but continued to decline either
the grey horse or the roan mare.
“Then buy a few dogs,” said Nozdrev. “I can sell you a couple of hides
a-quiver, ears well pricked, coats like quills, ribs barrel-shaped, and
paws so tucked up as scarcely to graze the ground when they run.”
“Of what use would those dogs be to me? I am not a sportsman.”
“But I WANT you to have the dogs. Listen. If you won’t have the dogs,
then buy my barrel-organ. ’Tis a splendid instrument. As a man of honour
I can tell you that, when new, it cost me fifteen hundred roubles. Well,
you shall have it for nine hundred.”
“Come, come! What should I want with a barrel-organ? I am not a German,
to go hauling it about the roads and begging for coppers.”
“But this is quite a different kind of organ from the one which Germans
take about with them. You see, it is a REAL organ. Look at it for
yourself. It is made of the best wood. I will take you to have another
view of it.”
And seizing Chichikov by the hand, Nozdrev drew him towards the other
room, where, in spite of the fact that Chichikov, with his feet planted
firmly on the floor, assured his host, again and again, that he knew
exactly what the organ was like, he was forced once more to hear how
Marlborough went to the war.
“Then, since you don’t care to give me any money for it,” persisted
Nozdrev, “listen to the following proposal. I will give you the
barrel-organ and all the dead souls which I possess, and in return you
shall give me your britchka, and another three hundred roubles into the
bargain.”
“Listen to the man! In that case, what should I have left to drive in?”
“Oh, I would stand you another britchka. Come to the coach-house, and
I will show you the one I mean. It only needs repainting to look a
perfectly splendid britchka.”
“The ramping, incorrigible devil!” thought Chichikov to himself as at
all hazards he resolved to escape from britchkas, organs, and every
species of dog, however marvellously barrel-ribbed and tucked up of paw.
“And in exchange, you shall have the britchka, the barrel-organ, and the
dead souls,” repeated Nozdrev.
“I must decline the offer,” said Chichikov.
“And why?”
“Because I don’t WANT the things--I am full up already.”
“I can see that you don’t know how things should be done between good
friends and comrades. Plainly you are a man of two faces.”
“What do you mean, you fool? Think for yourself. Why should I acquire
articles which I don’t want?”
“Say no more about it, if you please. I have quite taken your measure.
But see here. Should you care to play a game of banker? I am ready to
stake both the dead souls and the barrel-organ at cards.”
“No; to leave an issue to cards means to submit oneself to the unknown,”
said Chichikov, covertly glancing at the pack which Nozdrev had got
in his hands. Somehow the way in which his companion had cut that pack
seemed to him suspicious.
“Why ‘to the unknown’?” asked Nozdrev. “There is no such thing as ‘the
unknown.’ Should luck be on your side, you may win the devil knows what
a haul. Oh, luck, luck!” he went on, beginning to deal, in the hope of
raising a quarrel. “Here is the cursed nine upon which, the other night,
I lost everything. All along I knew that I should lose my money. Said I
to myself: ‘The devil take you, you false, accursed card!’”
Just as Nozdrev uttered the words Porphyri entered with a fresh bottle
of liquor; but Chichikov declined either to play or to drink.
“Why do you refuse to play?” asked Nozdrev.
“Because I feel indisposed to do so. Moreover, I must confess that I am
no great hand at cards.”
“WHY are you no great hand at them?”
Chichikov shrugged his shoulders. “Because I am not,” he replied.
“You are no great hand at ANYTHING, I think.”
“What does that matter? God has made me so.”
“The truth is that you are a Thetuk, and nothing else. Once upon a
time I believed you to be a good fellow, but now I see that you
don’t understand civility. One cannot speak to you as one would to an
intimate, for there is no frankness or sincerity about you. You are a
regular Sobakevitch--just such another as he.”
“For what reason are you abusing me? Am I in any way at fault for
declining to play cards? Sell me those souls if you are the man to
hesitate over such rubbish.”
“The foul fiend take you! I was about to have given them to you for
nothing, but now you shan’t have them at all--not if you offer me three
kingdoms in exchange. Henceforth I will have nothing to do with you, you
cobbler, you dirty blacksmith! Porphyri, go and tell the ostler to give
the gentleman’s horses no oats, but only hay.”
This development Chichikov had hardly expected.
“And do you,” added Nozdrev to his guest, “get out of my sight.”
Yet in spite of this, host and guest took supper together--even though
on this occasion the table was adorned with no wines of fictitious
nomenclature, but only with a bottle which reared its solitary head
beside a jug of what is usually known as vin ordinaire. When supper was
over Nozdrev said to Chichikov as he conducted him to a side room where
a bed had been made up:
“This is where you are to sleep. I cannot very well wish you
good-night.”
Left to himself on Nozdrev’s departure, Chichikov felt in a most
unenviable frame of mind. Full of inward vexation, he blamed himself
bitterly for having come to see this man and so wasted valuable
time; but even more did he blame himself for having told him of his
scheme--for having acted as carelessly as a child or a madman. Of a
surety the scheme was not one which ought to have been confided to a man
like Nozdrev, for he was a worthless fellow who might lie about it, and
append additions to it, and spread such stories as would give rise
to God knows what scandals. “This is indeed bad!” Chichikov said to
himself. “I have been an absolute fool.” Consequently he spent an uneasy
night--this uneasiness being increased by the fact that a number of
small, but vigorous, insects so feasted upon him that he could do
nothing but scratch the spots and exclaim, “The devil take you and
Nozdrev alike!” Only when morning was approaching did he fall asleep. On
rising, he made it his first business (after donning dressing-gown
and slippers) to cross the courtyard to the stable, for the purpose of
ordering Selifan to harness the britchka. Just as he was returning from
his errand he encountered Nozdrev, clad in a dressing-gown, and holding
a pipe between his teeth.
Host and guest greeted one another in friendly fashion, and Nozdrev
inquired how Chichikov had slept.
“Fairly well,” replied Chichikov, but with a touch of dryness in his
tone.
“The same with myself,” said Nozdrev. “The truth is that such a lot of
nasty brutes kept crawling over me that even to speak of it gives me
the shudders. Likewise, as the effect of last night’s doings, a whole
squadron of soldiers seemed to be camping on my chest, and giving me a
flogging. Ugh! And whom also do you think I saw in a dream? You would
never guess. Why, it was Staff-Captain Potsieluev and Lieutenant
Kuvshinnikov!”
“Yes,” though Chichikov to himself, “and I wish that they too would give
you a public thrashing!”
“I felt so ill!” went on Nozdrev. “And just after I had fallen asleep
something DID come and sting me. Probably it was a party of hag fleas.
Now, dress yourself, and I will be with you presently. First of all I
must give that scoundrel of a bailiff a wigging.”
Chichikov departed to his own room to wash and dress; which process
completed, he entered the dining-room to find the table laid with
tea-things and a bottle of rum. Clearly no broom had yet touched the
place, for there remained traces of the previous night’s dinner and
supper in the shape of crumbs thrown over the floor and tobacco ash on
the tablecloth. The host himself, when he entered, was still clad in a
dressing-gown exposing a hairy chest; and as he sat holding his pipe in
his hand, and drinking tea from a cup, he would have made a model for
the sort of painter who prefers to portray gentlemen of the less curled
and scented order.
“What think you?” he asked of Chichikov after a short silence. “Are you
willing NOW to play me for those souls?”