Dead Souls
borne to have been a little more rotund and stout. To that there would
be added scornful references to lean husbands, and hints that they
resembled tooth-brushes rather than men--with many other feminine
additions. Also, such crowds of feminine shoppers began to repair to the
Bazaar as almost to constitute a crush, and something like a procession
of carriages ensued, so long grew the rank of vehicles. For their part,
the tradesmen had the joy of seeing highly priced dress materials which
they had bought at fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now
suddenly become tradeable, and go off with a rush. For instance, on one
occasion a lady appeared at Mass in a bustle which filled the church to
an extent which led the verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw
to the porch, lest the lady’s toilet should be soiled in the crush.
Even Chichikov could not help privately remarking the attention which he
aroused. On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on
his table a note addressed to himself. Whence it had come, and who had
delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the
person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer.
Beginning abruptly with the words “I MUST write to you,” the letter went
on to say that between a certain pair of souls there existed a bond of
sympathy; and this verity the epistle further confirmed with rows of
full stops to the extent of nearly half a page. Next there followed a
few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable that I have no choice
but to quote them. “What, I would ask, is this life of ours?” inquired
the writer. “’Tis nought but a vale of woe. And what, I would ask, is
the world? ’Tis nought but a mob of unthinking humanity.” Thereafter,
incidentally remarking that she had just dropped a tear to the memory of
her dear mother, who had departed this life twenty-five years ago, the
(presumably) lady writer invited Chichikov to come forth into the wilds,
and to leave for ever the city where, penned in noisome haunts, folk
could not even draw their breath. In conclusion, the writer gave way to
unconcealed despair, and wound up with the following verses:
“Two turtle doves to thee, one day,
My dust will show, congealed in death;
And, cooing wearily, they’ll say:
‘In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.’”
True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the
quatrain at least conformed to the mode then prevalent. Neither
signature nor date were appended to the document, but only a postscript
expressing a conjecture that Chichikov’s own heart would tell him who
the writer was, and stating, in addition, that the said writer would be
present at the Governor’s ball on the following night.
This greatly interested Chichikov. Indeed, there was so much that was
alluring and provocative of curiosity in the anonymous missive that he
read it through a second time, and then a third, and finally said to
himself: “I SHOULD like to know who sent it!” In short, he took the
thing seriously, and spent over an hour in considering the same. At
length, muttering a comment upon the epistle’s efflorescent style, he
refolded the document, and committed it to his dispatch-box in company
with a play-bill and an invitation to a wedding--the latter of which had
for the last seven years reposed in the self-same receptacle and in
the self-same position. Shortly afterwards there arrived a card of
invitation to the Governor’s ball already referred to. In passing, it
may be said that such festivities are not infrequent phenomena in county
towns, for the reason that where Governors exist there must take place
balls if from the local gentry there is to be evoked that respectful
affection which is every Governor’s due.
Thenceforth all extraneous thoughts and considerations were laid aside
in favour of preparing for the coming function. Indeed, this conjunction
of exciting and provocative motives led to Chichikov devoting to his
toilet an amount of time never witnessed since the creation of the
world. Merely in the contemplation of his features in the mirror, as he
tried to communicate to them a succession of varying expressions, was an
hour spent. First of all he strove to make his features assume an air
of dignity and importance, and then an air of humble, but faintly
satirical, respect, and then an air of respect guiltless of any alloy
whatsoever. Next, he practised performing a series of bows to his
reflection, accompanied with certain murmurs intended to bear a
resemblance to a French phrase (though Chichikov knew not a single word
of the Gallic tongue). Lastly came the performing of a series of what I
might call “agreeable surprises,” in the shape of twitchings of the brow
and lips and certain motions of the tongue. In short, he did all that a
man is apt to do when he is not only alone, but also certain that he is
handsome and that no one is regarding him through a chink. Finally he
tapped himself lightly on the chin, and said, “Ah, good old face!” In
the same way, when he started to dress himself for the ceremony, the
level of his high spirits remained unimpaired throughout the process.
That is to say, while adjusting his braces and tying his tie, he
shuffled his feet in what was not exactly a dance, but might be called
the entr’acte of a dance: which performance had the not very serious
result of setting a wardrobe a-rattle, and causing a brush to slide from
the table to the floor.
Later, his entry into the ballroom produced an extraordinary effect.
Every one present came forward to meet him, some with cards in their
hands, and one man even breaking off a conversation at the most
interesting point--namely, the point that “the Inferior Land Court must
be made responsible for everything.” Yes, in spite of the responsibility
of the Inferior Land Court, the speaker cast all thoughts of it to
the winds as he hurried to greet our hero. From every side resounded
acclamations of welcome, and Chichikov felt himself engulfed in a sea of
embraces. Thus, scarcely had he extricated himself from the arms of
the President of the Local Council when he found himself just as firmly
clasped in the arms of the Chief of Police, who, in turn, surrendered
him to the Inspector of the Medical Department, who, in turn, handed
him over to the Commissioner of Taxes, who, again, committed him to the
charge of the Town Architect. Even the Governor, who hitherto had been
standing among his womenfolk with a box of sweets in one hand and
a lap-dog in the other, now threw down both sweets and lap-dog (the
lap-dog giving vent to a yelp as he did so) and added his greeting to
those of the rest of the company. Indeed, not a face was there to be
seen on which ecstatic delight--or, at all events, the reflection of
other people’s ecstatic delight--was not painted. The same expression
may be discerned on the faces of subordinate officials when, the newly
arrived Director having made his inspection, the said officials are
beginning to get over their first sense of awe on perceiving that he
has found much to commend, and that he can even go so far as to jest
and utter a few words of smiling approval. Thereupon every tchinovnik
responds with a smile of double strength, and those who (it may be) have
not heard a single word of the Director’s speech smile out of sympathy
with the rest, and even the gendarme who is posted at the distant
door--a man, perhaps, who has never before compassed a smile, but is
more accustomed to dealing out blows to the populace--summons up a kind
of grin, even though the grin resembles the grimace of a man who is
about to sneeze after inadvertently taking an over-large pinch of
snuff. To all and sundry Chichikov responded with a bow, and felt
extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left did he
incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained, manner that was
his wont and never failed to charm the beholder. As for the ladies,
they clustered around him in a shining bevy that was redolent of every
species of perfume--of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so
much so that instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to snuff the air.
Likewise the ladies’ dresses displayed an endless profusion of taste and
variety; and though the majority of their wearers evinced a tendency to
embonpoint, those wearers knew how to call upon art for the concealment
of the fact. Confronting them, Chichikov thought to himself: “Which of
these beauties is the writer of the letter?” Then again he snuffed the
air. When the ladies had, to a certain extent, returned to their seats,
he resumed his attempts to discern (from glances and expressions) which
of them could possibly be the unknown authoress. Yet, though those
glances and expressions were too subtle, too insufficiently open, the
difficulty in no way diminished his high spirits. Easily and gracefully
did he exchange agreeable bandinage with one lady, and then approach
another one with the short, mincing steps usually affected by young-old
dandies who are fluttering around the fair. As he turned, not without
dexterity, to right and left, he kept one leg slightly dragging
behind the other, like a short tail or comma. This trick the ladies
particularly admired. In short, they not only discovered in him a host
of recommendations and attractions, but also began to see in his face
a sort of grand, Mars-like, military expression--a thing which, as we
know, never fails to please the feminine eye. Certain of the ladies even
took to bickering over him, and, on perceiving that he spent most of
his time standing near the door, some of their number hastened to occupy
chairs nearer to his post of vantage. In fact, when a certain dame
chanced to have the good fortune to anticipate a hated rival in the
race there very nearly ensued a most lamentable scene--which, to many
of those who had been desirous of doing exactly the same thing, seemed a
peculiarly horrible instance of brazen-faced audacity.
So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversation with his fair
pursuers--or rather, so deeply did those fair pursuers enmesh him in the
toils of small talk (which they accomplished through the expedient of
asking him endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his brow in
his attempts to guess them)--that he forgot the claims of courtesy which
required him first of all to greet his hostess. In fact, he remembered
those claims only on hearing the Governor’s wife herself addressing him.
She had been standing before him for several minutes, and now greeted
him with suave expressement and the words, “So HERE you are, Paul
Ivanovitch!” But what she said next I am not in a position to report,
for she spoke in the ultra-refined tone and vein wherein ladies and
gentlemen customarily express themselves in high-class novels which have
been written by experts more qualified than I am to describe salons, and
able to boast of some acquaintance with good society. In effect, what
the Governor’s wife said was that she hoped--she greatly hoped--that
Monsieur Chichikov’s heart still contained a corner--even the smallest
possible corner--for those whom he had so cruelly forgotten. Upon that
Chichikov turned to her, and was on the point of returning a reply at
least no worse than that which would have been returned, under similar
circumstances, by the hero of a fashionable novelette, when he stopped
short, as though thunderstruck.
Before him there was standing not only Madame, but also a young girl
whom she was holding by the hand. The golden hair, the fine-drawn,
delicate contours, the face with its bewitching oval--a face which might
have served as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since it was
of a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where nearly everything, from