Dead Souls
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]