Dead Souls
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?”