Dead Souls
PART II
CHAPTER I
Why do I so persistently paint the poverty, the imperfections of Russian
life, and delve into the remotest depths, the most retired holes and
corners, of our Empire for my subjects? The answer is that there is
nothing else to be done when an author’s idiosyncrasy happens to incline
him that way. So again we find ourselves in a retired spot. But what a
spot!
Imagine, if you can, a mountain range like a gigantic fortress, with
embrasures and bastions which appear to soar a thousand versts towards
the heights of heaven, and, towering grandly over a boundless expanse
of plain, are broken up into precipitous, overhanging limestone cliffs.
Here and there those cliffs are seamed with water-courses and gullies,
while at other points they are rounded off into spurs of green--spurs
now coated with fleece-like tufts of young undergrowth, now studded with
the stumps of felled trees, now covered with timber which has, by some
miracle, escaped the woodman’s axe. Also, a river winds awhile between
its banks, then leaves the meadow land, divides into runlets (all
flashing in the sun like fire), plunges, re-united, into the midst of a
thicket of elder, birch, and pine, and, lastly, speeds triumphantly past
bridges and mills and weirs which seem to be lying in wait for it at
every turn.
At one particular spot the steep flank of the mountain range is covered
with billowy verdure of denser growth than the rest; and here the aid of
skilful planting, added to the shelter afforded by a rugged ravine, has
enabled the flora of north and south so to be brought together that,
twined about with sinuous hop-tendrils, the oak, the spruce fir, the
wild pear, the maple, the cherry, the thorn, and the mountain ash either
assist or check one another’s growth, and everywhere cover the declivity
with their straggling profusion. Also, at the edge of the summit there
can be seen mingling with the green of the trees the red roofs of a
manorial homestead, while behind the upper stories of the mansion proper
and its carved balcony and a great semi-circular window there gleam the
tiles and gables of some peasants’ huts. Lastly, over this combination
of trees and roofs there rises--overtopping everything with its gilded,
sparkling steeple--an old village church. On each of its pinnacles a
cross of carved gilt is stayed with supports of similar gilding and
design; with the result that from a distance the gilded portions
have the effect of hanging without visible agency in the air. And
the whole--the three successive tiers of woodland, roofs, and crosses
whole--lies exquisitely mirrored in the river below, where hollow
willows, grotesquely shaped (some of them rooted on the river’s banks,
and some in the water itself, and all drooping their branches until
their leaves have formed a tangle with the water lilies which float on
the surface), seem to be gazing at the marvellous reflection at their
feet.
Thus the view from below is beautiful indeed. But the view from above
is even better. No guest, no visitor, could stand on the balcony of the
mansion and remain indifferent. So boundless is the panorama revealed
that surprise would cause him to catch at his breath, and exclaim: “Lord
of Heaven, but what a prospect!” Beyond meadows studded with spinneys
and water-mills lie forests belted with green; while beyond, again,
there can be seen showing through the slightly misty air strips of
yellow heath, and, again, wide-rolling forests (as blue as the sea or a
cloud), and more heath, paler than the first, but still yellow. Finally,
on the far horizon a range of chalk-topped hills gleams white, even in
dull weather, as though it were lightened with perpetual sunshine;
and here and there on the dazzling whiteness of its lower slopes some
plaster-like, nebulous patches represent far-off villages which lie
too remote for the eye to discern their details. Indeed, only when the
sunlight touches a steeple to gold does one realise that each such
patch is a human settlement. Finally, all is wrapped in an immensity of
silence which even the far, faint echoes of persons singing in the void
of the plain cannot shatter.
Even after gazing at the spectacle for a couple of hours or so, the
visitor would still find nothing to say, save: “Lord of Heaven, but
what a prospect!” Then who is the dweller in, the proprietor of, this
manor--a manor to which, as to an impregnable fortress, entrance cannot
be gained from the side where we have been standing, but only from the
other approach, where a few scattered oaks offer hospitable welcome to
the visitor, and then, spreading above him their spacious branches (as
in friendly embrace), accompany him to the facade of the mansion whose
top we have been regarding from the reverse aspect, but which now stands
frontwise on to us, and has, on one side of it, a row of peasants’ huts
with red tiles and carved gables, and, on the other, the village church,
with those glittering golden crosses and gilded open-work charms which
seem to hang suspended in the air? Yes, indeed!--to what fortunate
individual does this corner of the world belong? It belongs to Andrei
Ivanovitch Tientietnikov, landowner of the canton of Tremalakhan, and,
withal, a bachelor of about thirty.
Should my lady readers ask of me what manner of man is Tientietnikov,
and what are his attributes and peculiarities, I should refer them
to his neighbours. Of these, a member of the almost extinct tribe
of intelligent staff officers on the retired list once summed up
Tientietnikov in the phrase, “He is an absolute blockhead;” while a
General who resided ten versts away was heard to remark that “he is a
young man who, though not exactly a fool, has at least too much crowded
into his head. I myself might have been of use to him, for not only do
I maintain certain connections with St. Petersburg, but also--” And the
General left his sentence unfinished. Thirdly, a captain-superintendent
of rural police happened to remark in the course of conversation:
“To-morrow I must go and see Tientietnikov about his arrears.” Lastly,
a peasant of Tientietnikov’s own village, when asked what his barin was
like, returned no answer at all. All of which would appear to show that
Tientietnikov was not exactly looked upon with favour.
To speak dispassionately, however, he was not a bad sort of
fellow--merely a star-gazer; and since the world contains many watchers
of the skies, why should Tientietnikov not have been one of them?
However, let me describe in detail a specimen day of his existence--one
that will closely resemble the rest, and then the reader will be enabled
to judge of Tientietnikov’s character, and how far his life corresponded
to the beauties of nature with which he lived surrounded.
On the morning of the specimen day in question he awoke very late, and,
raising himself to a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes. And since those
eyes were small, the process of rubbing them occupied a very long time,
and throughout its continuance there stood waiting by the door his
valet, Mikhailo, armed with a towel and basin. For one hour, for two
hours, did poor Mikhailo stand there: then he departed to the kitchen,
and returned to find his master still rubbing his eyes as he sat on the
bed. At length, however, Tientietnikov rose, washed himself, donned a
dressing-gown, and moved into the drawing-room for morning tea, coffee,
cocoa, and warm milk; of all of which he partook but sparingly, while
munching a piece of bread, and scattering tobacco ash with complete
insouciance. Two hours did he sit over this meal, then poured himself
out another cup of the rapidly cooling tea, and walked to the window.
This faced the courtyard, and outside it, as usual, there took place the
following daily altercation between a serf named Grigory (who purported
to act as butler) and the housekeeper, Perfilievna.
Grigory. Ah, you nuisance, you good-for-nothing, you had better hold
your stupid tongue.
Perfilievna. Yes; and don’t you wish that I would?
Grigory. What? You so thick with that bailiff of yours, you housekeeping
jade!
Perfilievna. Nay, he is as big a thief as you are. Do you think the
barin doesn’t know you? And there he is! He must have heard everything!
Grigory. Where?
Perfilievna. There--sitting by the window, and looking at us!
Next, to complete the hubbub, a serf child which had been clouted by its
mother broke out into a bawl, while a borzoi puppy which had happened
to get splashed with boiling water by the cook fell to yelping
vociferously. In short, the place soon became a babel of shouts and
squeals, and, after watching and listening for a time, the barin found
it so impossible to concentrate his mind upon anything that he sent out
word that the noise would have to be abated.
The next item was that, a couple of hours before luncheon time, he
withdrew to his study, to set about employing himself upon a weighty
work which was to consider Russia from every point of view: from the
political, from the philosophical, and from the religious, as well as to
resolve various problems which had arisen to confront the Empire, and to
define clearly the great future to which the country stood ordained. In
short, it was to be the species of compilation in which the man of the
day so much delights. Yet the colossal undertaking had progressed but
little beyond the sphere of projection, since, after a pen had been
gnawed awhile, and a few strokes had been committed to paper, the whole
would be laid aside in favour of the reading of some book; and that
reading would continue also during luncheon and be followed by the
lighting of a pipe, the playing of a solitary game of chess, and the
doing of more or less nothing for the rest of the day.
The foregoing will give the reader a pretty clear idea of the manner in
which it was possible for this man of thirty-three to waste his time.
Clad constantly in slippers and a dressing-gown, Tientietnikov never
went out, never indulged in any form of dissipation, and never walked
upstairs. Nothing did he care for fresh air, and would bestow not a
passing glance upon all those beauties of the countryside which moved
visitors to such ecstatic admiration. From this the reader will see that
Andrei Ivanovitch Tientietnikov belonged to that band of sluggards whom
we always have with us, and who, whatever be their present appellation,
used to be known by the nicknames of “lollopers,” “bed pressers,” and
“marmots.” Whether the type is a type originating at birth, or a type
resulting from untoward circumstances in later life, it is impossible to
say. A better course than to attempt to answer that question would be to
recount the story of Tientietnikov’s boyhood and upbringing.
Everything connected with the latter seemed to promise success, for at
twelve years of age the boy--keen-witted, but dreamy of temperament, and
inclined to delicacy--was sent to an educational establishment presided
over by an exceptional type of master. The idol of his pupils, and the
admiration of his assistants, Alexander Petrovitch was gifted with
an extraordinary measure of good sense. How thoroughly he knew the
peculiarities of the Russian of his day! How well he understood boys!
How capable he was of drawing them out! Not a practical joker in the
school but, after perpetrating a prank, would voluntarily approach his
preceptor and make to him free confession. True, the preceptor would
put a stern face upon the matter, yet the culprit would depart with head
held higher, not lower, than before, since in Alexander Petrovitch
there was something which heartened--something which seemed to say to a
delinquent: “Forward you! Rise to your feet again, even though you have
fallen!” Not lectures on good behaviour was it, therefore, that fell