Dead Souls
and the capacity to use it!” In every case the projects in question were
based upon the imperative necessity of at once procuring from somewhere
two hundred--or at least one hundred--thousand roubles. That done (so
Khlobuev averred), everything would fall into its proper place,
the holes in his pockets would become stopped, his income would be
quadrupled, and he would find himself in a position to liquidate his
debts in full. Nevertheless he ended by saying: “What would you advise
me to do? I fear that the philanthropist who would lend me two hundred
thousand roubles or even a hundred thousand, does not exist. It is not
God’s will that he should.”
“Good gracious!” inwardly ejaculated Chichikov. “To suppose that God
would send such a fool two hundred thousand roubles!”
“However,” went on Khlobuev, “I possess an aunt worth three millions--a
pious old woman who gives freely to churches and monasteries, but finds
a difficulty in helping her neighbour. At the same time, she is a lady
of the old school, and worth having a peep at. Her canaries alone
number four hundred, and, in addition, there is an army of pug-dogs,
hangers-on, and servants. Even the youngest of the servants is sixty,
but she calls them all ‘young fellows,’ and if a guest happens to offend
her during dinner, she orders them to leave him out when handing out the
dishes. THERE’S a woman for you!”
Platon laughed.
“And what may her family name be?” asked Chichikov. “And where does she
live?”
“She lives in the county town, and her name is Alexandra Ivanovna
Khanasarov.”
“Then why do you not apply to her?” asked Platon earnestly. “It seems
to me that, once she realised the position of your family, she could not
possibly refuse you.”
“Alas! nothing is to be looked for from that quarter,” replied Khlobuev.
“My aunt is of a very stubborn disposition--a perfect stone of a woman.
Moreover, she has around her a sufficient band of favourites already.
In particular is there a fellow who is aiming for a Governorship, and
to that end has managed to insinuate himself into the circle of her
kinsfolk. By the way,” the speaker added, turning to Platon, “would you
do me a favour? Next week I am giving a dinner to the associated guilds
of the town.”
Platon stared. He had been unaware that both in our capitals and in
our provincial towns there exists a class of men whose lives are
an enigma--men who, though they will seem to have exhausted their
substance, and to have become enmeshed in debt, will suddenly be
reported as in funds, and on the point of giving a dinner! And though,
at this dinner, the guests will declare that the festival is bound to
be their host’s last fling, and that for a certainty he will be haled to
prison on the morrow, ten years or more will elapse, and the rascal will
still be at liberty, even though, in the meanwhile, his debts will have
increased!
In the same way did the conduct of Khlobuev’s menage afford a curious
phenomenon, for one day the house would be the scene of a solemn Te
Deum, performed by a priest in vestments, and the next of a stage play
performed by a troupe of French actors in theatrical costume. Again,
one day would see not a morsel of bread in the house, and the next day a
banquet and generous largesse given to a party of artists and sculptors.
During these seasons of scarcity (sufficiently severe to have led any
one but Khlobuev to seek suicide by hanging or shooting), the master of
the house would be preserved from rash action by his strongly religious
disposition, which, contriving in some curious way to conform with his
irregular mode of life, enabled him to fall back upon reading the lives
of saints, ascetics, and others of the type which has risen superior to
its misfortunes. And at such times his spirit would become softened, his
thoughts full of gentleness, and his eyes wet with tears; he would fall
to saying his prayers, and invariably some strange coincidence would
bring an answer thereto in the shape of an unexpected measure of
assistance. That is to say, some former friend of his would remember
him, and send him a trifle in the way of money; or else some female
visitor would be moved by his story to let her impulsive, generous heart
proffer him a handsome gift; or else a suit whereof tidings had never
even reached his ears would end by being decided in his favour. And when
that happened he would reverently acknowledge the immensity of the mercy
of Providence, gratefully tender thanksgiving for the same, and betake
himself again to his irregular mode of existence.
“Somehow I feel sorry for the man,” said Platon when he and Chichikov
had taken leave of their host, and left the house.
“Perhaps so, but he is a hopeless prodigal,” replied the other.
“Personally I find it impossible to compassionate such fellows.”
And with that the pair ceased to devote another thought to Khlobuev. In
the case of Platon, this was because he contemplated the fortunes of his
fellows with the lethargic, half-somnolent eye which he turned upon all
the rest of the world; for though the sight of distress of others would
cause his heart to contract and feel full of sympathy, the impression
thus produced never sank into the depths of his being. Accordingly,
before many minutes were over he had ceased to bestow a single thought
upon his late host. With Chichikov, however, things were different.
Whereas Platon had ceased to think of Khlobuev no more than he had
ceased to think of himself, Chichikov’s mind had strayed elsewhere,
for the reason that it had become taken up with grave meditation on the
subject of the purchase just made. Suddenly finding himself no longer
a fictitious proprietor, but the owner of a real, an actually existing,
estate, he became contemplative, and his plans and ideas assumed such a
serious vein as imparted to his features an unconsciously important air.
“Patience and hard work!” he muttered to himself. “The thing will not be
difficult, for with those two requisites I have been familiar from the
days of my swaddling clothes. Yes, no novelty will they be to me. Yet,
in middle age, shall I be able to compass the patience whereof I was
capable in my youth?”
However, no matter how he regarded the future, and no matter from what
point of view he considered his recent acquisition, he could see nothing
but advantage likely to accrue from the bargain. For one thing, he might
be able to proceed so that, first the whole of the estate should be
mortgaged, and then the better portions of land sold outright. Or he
might so contrive matters as to manage the property for a while
(and thus become a landowner like Kostanzhoglo, whose advice, as his
neighbour and his benefactor, he intended always to follow), and then to
dispose of the property by private treaty (provided he did not wish to
continue his ownership), and still to retain in his hands the dead and
abandoned souls. And another possible coup occurred to his mind. That is
to say, he might contrive to withdraw from the district without having
repaid Kostanzhoglo at all! Truly a splendid idea! Yet it is only fair
to say that the idea was not one of Chichikov’s own conception. Rather,
it had presented itself--mocking, laughing, and winking--unbidden. Yet
the impudent, the wanton thing! Who is the procreator of suddenly
born ideas of the kind? The thought that he was now a real, an actual,
proprietor instead of a fictitious--that he was now a proprietor of real
land, real rights of timber and pasture, and real serfs who existed not
only in the imagination, but also in veritable actuality--greatly elated
our hero. So he took to dancing up and down in his seat, to rubbing
his hands together, to winking at himself, to holding his fist,
trumpet-wise, to his mouth (while making believe to execute a march),
and even to uttering aloud such encouraging nicknames and phrases as
“bulldog” and “little fat capon.” Then suddenly recollecting that he
was not alone, he hastened to moderate his behaviour and endeavoured to
stifle the endless flow of his good spirits; with the result that when
Platon, mistaking certain sounds for utterances addressed to himself,
inquired what his companion had said, the latter retained the presence
of mind to reply “Nothing.”
Presently, as Chichikov gazed about him, he saw that for some time past
the koliaska had been skirting a beautiful wood, and that on either side
the road was bordered with an edging of birch trees, the tenderly-green,
recently-opened leaves of which caused their tall, slender trunks to
show up with the whiteness of a snowdrift. Likewise nightingales were
warbling from the recesses of the foliage, and some wood tulips were
glowing yellow in the grass. Next (and almost before Chichikov had
realised how he came to be in such a beautiful spot when, but a moment
before, there had been visible only open fields) there glimmered among
the trees the stony whiteness of a church, with, on the further side
of it, the intermittent, foliage-buried line of a fence; while from the
upper end of a village street there was advancing to meet the vehicle a
gentleman with a cap on his head, a knotted cudgel in his hands, and a
slender-limbed English dog by his side.
“This is my brother,” said Platon. “Stop, coachman.” And he descended
from the koliaska, while Chichikov followed his example. Yarb and the
strange dog saluted one another, and then the active, thin-legged,
slender-tongued Azor relinquished his licking of Yarb’s blunt jowl,
licked Platon’s hands instead, and, leaping upon Chichikov, slobbered
right into his ear.
The two brothers embraced.
“Really, Platon,” said the gentleman (whose name was Vassili), “what do
you mean by treating me like this?”
“How so?” said Platon indifferently.
“What? For three days past I have seen and heard nothing of you! A groom
from Pietukh’s brought your cob home, and told me you had departed on an
expedition with some barin. At least you might have sent me word as to
your destination and the probable length of your absence. What made you
act so? God knows what I have not been wondering!”
“Does it matter?” rejoined Platon. “I forgot to send you word, and we
have been no further than Constantine’s (who, with our sister, sends you
his greeting). By the way, may I introduce Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov?”
The pair shook hands with one another. Then, doffing their caps, they
embraced.
“What sort of man is this Chichikov?” thought Vassili. “As a rule my
brother Platon is not over-nice in his choice of acquaintances.” And,
eyeing our hero as narrowly as civility permitted, he saw that his
appearance was that of a perfectly respectable individual.
Chichikov returned Vassili’s scrutiny with a similar observance of the
dictates of civility, and perceived that he was shorter than Platon,
that his hair was of a darker shade, and that his features, though less
handsome, contained far more life, animation, and kindliness than did
his brother’s. Clearly he indulged in less dreaming, though that was an
aspect which Chichikov little regarded.
“I have made up my mind to go touring our Holy Russia with Paul
Ivanovitch,” said Platon. “Perhaps it will rid me of my melancholy.”
“What has made you come to such a sudden decision?” asked the perplexed
Vassili (very nearly he added: “Fancy going travelling with a man whose
acquaintance you have just made, and who may turn out to be a rascal
or the devil knows what!” But, in spite of his distrust, he contented
himself with another covert scrutiny of Chichikov, and this time came to
the conclusion that there was no fault to be found with his exterior).
The party turned to the right, and entered the gates of an ancient
courtyard attached to an old-fashioned house of a type no longer