Dead Souls
dinner, yet not a bite of dinner do I see.’ But wait a little. It will
be ready presently, for it is being cooked as fast as a maiden who has
had her hair cut off plaits herself a new set of tresses.”
“Here comes Platon Mikhalitch, father!” exclaimed Aleksasha, who had
been peeping out of the window.
“Yes, and on a grey horse,” added his brother.
“Who is Platon Mikhalitch?” inquired Chichikov.
“A neighbour of ours, and an excellent fellow.”
The next moment Platon Mikhalitch himself entered the room, accompanied
by a sporting dog named Yarb. He was a tall, handsome man, with
extremely red hair. As for his companion, it was of the keen-muzzled
species used for shooting.
“Have you dined yet?” asked the host.
“Yes,” replied Platon.
“Indeed? What do you mean by coming here to laugh at us all? Do I ever
go to YOUR place after dinner?”
The newcomer smiled. “Well, if it can bring you any comfort,” he said,
“let me tell you that I ate nothing at the meal, for I had no appetite.”
“But you should see what I have caught--what sort of a sturgeon fate has
brought my way! Yes, and what crucians and carp!”
“Really it tires one to hear you. How come you always to be so
cheerful?”
“And how come YOU always to be so gloomy?” retorted the host.
“How, you ask? Simply because I am so.”
“The truth is you don’t eat enough. Try the plan of making a good
dinner. Weariness of everything is a modern invention. Once upon a time
one never heard of it.”
“Well, boast away, but have you yourself never been tired of things?”
“Never in my life. I do not so much as know whether I should find time
to be tired. In the morning, when one awakes, the cook is waiting, and
the dinner has to be ordered. Then one drinks one’s morning tea, and
then the bailiff arrives for HIS orders, and then there is fishing to be
done, and then one’s dinner has to be eaten. Next, before one has even
had a chance to utter a snore, there enters once again the cook, and one
has to order supper; and when she has departed, behold, back she comes
with a request for the following day’s dinner! What time does THAT leave
one to be weary of things?”
Throughout this conversation, Chichikov had been taking stock of
the newcomer, who astonished him with his good looks, his upright,
picturesque figure, his appearance of fresh, unwasted youthfulness,
and the boyish purity, innocence, and clarity of his features. Neither
passion nor care nor aught of the nature of agitation or anxiety of mind
had ventured to touch his unsullied face, or to lay a single wrinkle
thereon. Yet the touch of life which those emotions might have imparted
was wanting. The face was, as it were, dreaming, even though from time
to time an ironical smile disturbed it.
“I, too, cannot understand,” remarked Chichikov, “how a man of your
appearance can find things wearisome. Of course, if a man is hard
pressed for money, or if he has enemies who are lying in wait for his
life (as have certain folk of whom I know), well, then--”
“Believe me when I say,” interrupted the handsome guest, “that, for the
sake of a diversion, I should be glad of ANY sort of an anxiety. Would
that some enemy would conceive a grudge against me! But no one does so.
Everything remains eternally dull.”
“But perhaps you lack a sufficiency of land or souls?”
“Not at all. I and my brother own ten thousand desiatins [44] of land,
and over a thousand souls.”
“Curious! I do not understand it. But perhaps the harvest has failed,
or you have sickness about, and many of your male peasants have died of
it?”
“On the contrary, everything is in splendid order, for my brother is the
best of managers.”
“Then to find things wearisome!” exclaimed Chichikov. “It passes my
comprehension.” And he shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, we will soon put weariness to flight,” interrupted the host.
“Aleksasha, do you run helter-skelter to the kitchen, and there tell
the cook to serve the fish pasties. Yes, and where have that gawk of an
Emelian and that thief of an Antoshka got to? Why have they not handed
round the zakuski?”
At this moment the door opened, and the “gawk” and the “thief” in
question made their appearance with napkins and a tray--the latter
bearing six decanters of variously-coloured beverages. These they placed
upon the table, and then ringed them about with glasses and platefuls
of every conceivable kind of appetiser. That done, the servants applied
themselves to bringing in various comestibles under covers, through
which could be heard the hissing of hot roast viands. In particular
did the “gawk” and the “thief” work hard at their tasks. As a matter
of fact, their appellations had been given them merely to spur them to
greater activity, for, in general, the barin was no lover of abuse, but,
rather, a kind-hearted man who, like most Russians, could not get on
without a sharp word or two. That is to say, he needed them for his
tongue as he need a glass of vodka for his digestion. What else could
you expect? It was his nature to care for nothing mild.
To the zakuski succeeded the meal itself, and the host became a perfect
glutton on his guests’ behalf. Should he notice that a guest had taken
but a single piece of a comestible, he added thereto another one,
saying: “Without a mate, neither man nor bird can live in this world.”
Should any one take two pieces, he added thereto a third, saying: “What
is the good of the number 2? God loves a trinity.” Should any one
take three pieces, he would say: “Where do you see a waggon with three
wheels? Who builds a three-cornered hut?” Lastly, should any one take
four pieces, he would cap them with a fifth, and add thereto the punning
quip, “Na piat opiat [45]”. After devouring at least twelve steaks
of sturgeon, Chichikov ventured to think to himself, “My host cannot
possibly add to THEM,” but found that he was mistaken, for, without a
word, Pietukh heaped upon his plate an enormous portion of spit-roasted
veal, and also some kidneys. And what veal it was!
“That calf was fed two years on milk,” he explained. “I cared for it
like my own son.”
“Nevertheless I can eat no more,” said Chichikov.
“Do you try the veal before you say that you can eat no more.”
“But I could not get it down my throat. There is no room left.”
“If there be no room in a church for a newcomer, the beadle is sent for,
and room is very soon made--yes, even though before there was such a
crush that an apple couldn’t have been dropped between the people. Do
you try the veal, I say. That piece is the titbit of all.”
So Chichikov made the attempt; and in very truth the veal was beyond all
praise, and room was found for it, even though one would have supposed
the feat impossible.
“Fancy this good fellow removing to St. Petersburg or Moscow!” said the
guest to himself. “Why, with a scale of living like this, he would be
ruined in three years.” For that matter, Pietukh might well have been
ruined already, for hospitality can dissipate a fortune in three months
as easily as it can in three years.
The host also dispensed the wine with a lavish hand, and what the guests
did not drink he gave to his sons, who thus swallowed glass after glass.
Indeed, even before coming to table, it was possible to discern to what
department of human accomplishment their bent was turned. When the meal
was over, however, the guests had no mind for further drinking. Indeed,
it was all that they could do to drag themselves on to the balcony,
and there to relapse into easy chairs. Indeed, the moment that the host
subsided into his seat--it was large enough for four--he fell asleep,
and his portly presence, converting itself into a sort of blacksmith’s
bellows, started to vent, through open mouth and distended nostrils,
such sounds as can have greeted the reader’s ear but seldom--sounds as
of a drum being beaten in combination with the whistling of a flute and
the strident howling of a dog.
“Listen to him!” said Platon.
Chichikov smiled.
“Naturally, on such dinners as that,” continued the other, “our host
does NOT find the time dull. And as soon as dinner is ended there can
ensue sleep.”
“Yes, but, pardon me, I still fail to understand why you should find
life wearisome. There are so many resources against ennui!”
“As for instance?”
“For a young man, dancing, the playing of one or another musical
instrument, and--well, yes, marriage.”
“Marriage to whom?”
“To some maiden who is both charming and rich. Are there none in these
parts?”
“No.”
“Then, were I you, I should travel, and seek a maiden elsewhere.” And a
brilliant idea therewith entered Chichikov’s head. “This last resource,”
he added, “is the best of all resources against ennui.”
“What resource are you speaking of?”
“Of travel.”
“But whither?”
“Well, should it so please you, you might join me as my companion.” This
said, the speaker added to himself as he eyed Platon: “Yes, that would
suit me exactly, for then I should have half my expenses paid, and could
charge him also with the cost of mending the koliaska.”
“And whither should we go?”
“In that respect I am not wholly my own master, as I have business to do
for others as well as for myself. For instance, General Betristchev--an
intimate friend and, I might add, a generous benefactor of mine--has
charged me with commissions to certain of his relatives. However, though
relatives are relatives, I am travelling likewise on my own account,
since I wish to see the world and the whirligig of humanity--which, in
spite of what people may say, is as good as a living book or a second
education.” As a matter of fact, Chichikov was reflecting, “Yes, the
plan is an excellent one. I might even contrive that he should have to
bear the whole of our expenses, and that his horses should be used while
my own should be put out to graze on his farm.”
“Well, why should I not adopt the suggestion?” was Platon’s thought.
“There is nothing for me to do at home, since the management of the
estate is in my brother’s hands, and my going would cause him no
inconvenience. Yes, why should I not do as Chichikov has suggested?”
Then he added aloud:
“Would you come and stay with my brother for a couple of days? Otherwise
he might refuse me his consent.”
“With great pleasure,” said Chichikov. “Or even for three days.”
“Then here is my hand on it. Let us be off at once.” Platon seemed
suddenly to have come to life again.
“Where are you off to?” put in their host unexpectedly as he roused
himself and stared in astonishment at the pair. “No, no, my good sirs. I
have had the wheels removed from your koliaska, Monsieur Chichikov, and
have sent your horse, Platon Mikhalitch, to a grazing ground fifteen
versts away. Consequently you must spend the night here, and depart
to-morrow morning after breakfast.”
What could be done with a man like Pietukh? There was no help for it but
to remain. In return, the guests were rewarded with a beautiful spring
evening, for, to spend the time, the host organised a boating expedition
on the river, and a dozen rowers, with a dozen pairs of oars, conveyed
the party (to the accompaniment of song) across the smooth surface of
the lake and up a great river with towering banks. From time to time the
boat would pass under ropes, stretched across for purposes of fishing,
and at each turn of the rippling current new vistas unfolded themselves
as tier upon tier of woodland delighted the eye with a diversity of
timber and foliage. In unison did the rowers ply their sculls, yet it
was though of itself that the skiff shot forward, bird-like, over the
glassy surface of the water; while at intervals the broad-shouldered
young oarsman who was seated third from the bow would raise, as from
a nightingale’s throat, the opening staves of a boat song, and then be