Dead Souls
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?”