Dead Souls
rather good friends to whom to turn in case of need.’”
“Yes, Paul Ivanovitch,” said Manilov with a glance not merely sweet,
but positively luscious--a glance akin to the mixture which even clever
physicians have to render palatable before they can induce a hesitant
patient to take it. “Consequently you may imagine what happiness--what
PERFECT happiness, so to speak--the present occasion has brought me,
seeing that I am permitted to converse with you and to enjoy your
conversation.”
“But WHAT of my conversation?” replied Chichikov. “I am an insignificant
individual, and, beyond that, nothing.”
“Oh, Paul Ivanovitch!” cried the other. “Permit me to be frank, and to
say that I would give half my property to possess even a PORTION of the
talents which you possess.”
“On the contrary, I should consider it the highest honour in the world
if--”
The lengths to which this mutual outpouring of soul would have proceeded
had not a servant entered to announce luncheon must remain a mystery.
“I humbly invite you to join us at table,” said Manilov. “Also, you will
pardon us for the fact that we cannot provide a banquet such as is to
be obtained in our metropolitan cities? We partake of simple fare,
according to Russian custom--we confine ourselves to shtchi [10], but we
do so with a single heart. Come, I humbly beg of you.”
After another contest for the honour of yielding precedence, Chichikov
succeeded in making his way (in zigzag fashion) to the dining-room,
where they found awaiting them a couple of youngsters. These were
Manilov’s sons, and boys of the age which admits of their presence at
table, but necessitates the continued use of high chairs. Beside them
was their tutor, who bowed politely and smiled; after which the hostess
took her seat before her soup plate, and the guest of honour found
himself esconsed between her and the master of the house, while the
servant tied up the boys’ necks in bibs.
“What charming children!” said Chichikov as he gazed at the pair. “And
how old are they?”
“The eldest is eight,” replied Manilov, “and the younger one attained
the age of six yesterday.”
“Themistocleus,” went on the father, turning to his first-born, who was
engaged in striving to free his chin from the bib with which the footman
had encircled it. On hearing this distinctly Greek name (to which, for
some unknown reason, Manilov always appended the termination “eus”),
Chichikov raised his eyebrows a little, but hastened, the next moment,
to restore his face to a more befitting expression.
“Themistocleus,” repeated the father, “tell me which is the finest city
in France.”
Upon this the tutor concentrated his attention upon Themistocleus, and
appeared to be trying hard to catch his eye. Only when Themistocleus had
muttered “Paris” did the preceptor grow calmer, and nod his head.
“And which is the finest city in Russia?” continued Manilov.
Again the tutor’s attitude became wholly one of concentration.
“St. Petersburg,” replied Themistocleus.
“And what other city?”
“Moscow,” responded the boy.
“Clever little dear!” burst out Chichikov, turning with an air of
surprise to the father. “Indeed, I feel bound to say that the child
evinces the greatest possible potentialities.”
“You do not know him fully,” replied the delighted Manilov. “The amount
of sharpness which he possesses is extraordinary. Our younger one,
Alkid, is not so quick; whereas his brother--well, no matter what he
may happen upon (whether upon a cowbug or upon a water-beetle or upon
anything else), his little eyes begin jumping out of his head, and he
runs to catch the thing, and to inspect it. For HIM I am reserving a
diplomatic post. Themistocleus,” added the father, again turning to his
son, “do you wish to become an ambassador?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Themistocleus, chewing a piece of bread and wagging
his head from side to side.
At this moment the lacquey who had been standing behind the future
ambassador wiped the latter’s nose; and well it was that he did so,
since otherwise an inelegant and superfluous drop would have been added
to the soup. After that the conversation turned upon the joys of a quiet
life--though occasionally it was interrupted by remarks from the hostess
on the subject of acting and actors. Meanwhile the tutor kept his eyes
fixed upon the speakers’ faces; and whenever he noticed that they were
on the point of laughing he at once opened his mouth, and laughed with
enthusiasm. Probably he was a man of grateful heart who wished to
repay his employers for the good treatment which he had received. Once,
however, his features assumed a look of grimness as, fixing his eyes
upon his vis-a-vis, the boys, he tapped sternly upon the table. This
happened at a juncture when Themistocleus had bitten Alkid on the ear,
and the said Alkid, with frowning eyes and open mouth, was preparing
himself to sob in piteous fashion; until, recognising that for such a
proceeding he might possibly be deprived of his plate, he hastened to
restore his mouth to its original expression, and fell tearfully to
gnawing a mutton bone--the grease from which had soon covered his
cheeks.
Every now and again the hostess would turn to Chichikov with the words,
“You are eating nothing--you have indeed taken little;” but invariably
her guest replied: “Thank you, I have had more than enough. A pleasant
conversation is worth all the dishes in the world.”
At length the company rose from table. Manilov was in high spirits,
and, laying his hand upon his guest’s shoulder, was on the point of
conducting him to the drawing-room, when suddenly Chichikov intimated
to him, with a meaning look, that he wished to speak to him on a very
important matter.
“That being so,” said Manilov, “allow me to invite you into my study.”
And he led the way to a small room which faced the blue of the forest.
“This is my sanctum,” he added.
“What a pleasant apartment!” remarked Chichikov as he eyed it carefully.
And, indeed, the room did not lack a certain attractiveness. The walls
were painted a sort of blueish-grey colour, and the furniture consisted
of four chairs, a settee, and a table--the latter of which bore a few
sheets of writing-paper and the book of which I have before had occasion
to speak. But the most prominent feature of the room was tobacco, which
appeared in many different guises--in packets, in a tobacco jar, and in
a loose heap strewn about the table. Likewise, both window sills were
studded with little heaps of ash, arranged, not without artifice, in
rows of more or less tidiness. Clearly smoking afforded the master of
the house a frequent means of passing the time.
“Permit me to offer you a seat on this settee,” said Manilov. “Here you
will be quieter than you would be in the drawing-room.”
“But I should prefer to sit upon this chair.”
“I cannot allow that,” objected the smiling Manilov. “The settee is
specially reserved for my guests. Whether you choose or no, upon it you
MUST sit.”
Accordingly Chichikov obeyed.
“And also let me hand you a pipe.”
“No, I never smoke,” answered Chichikov civilly, and with an assumed air
of regret.
“And why?” inquired Manilov--equally civilly, but with a regret that was
wholly genuine.
“Because I fear that I have never quite formed the habit, owing to
my having heard that a pipe exercises a desiccating effect upon the
system.”
“Then allow me to tell you that that is mere prejudice. Nay, I would
even go so far as to say that to smoke a pipe is a healthier practice
than to take snuff. Among its members our regiment numbered a
lieutenant--a most excellent, well-educated fellow--who was simply
INCAPABLE of removing his pipe from his mouth, whether at table or
(pardon me) in other places. He is now forty, yet no man could enjoy
better health than he has always done.”
Chichikov replied that such cases were common, since nature comprised
many things which even the finest intellect could not compass.
“But allow me to put to you a question,” he went on in a tone in which
there was a strange--or, at all events, RATHER a strange--note. For some
unknown reason, also, he glanced over his shoulder. For some equally
unknown reason, Manilov glanced over HIS.
“How long is it,” inquired the guest, “since you last rendered a census
return?”
“Oh, a long, long time. In fact, I cannot remember when it was.”
“And since then have many of your serfs died?”
“I do not know. To ascertain that I should need to ask my bailiff.
Footman, go and call the bailiff. I think he will be at home to-day.”
Before long the bailiff made his appearance. He was a man of under
forty, clean-shaven, clad in a smock, and evidently used to a quiet
life, seeing that his face was of that puffy fullness, and the skin
encircling his slit-like eyes was of that sallow tint, which shows that
the owner of those features is well acquainted with a feather bed. In a
trice it could be seen that he had played his part in life as all such
bailiffs do--that, originally a young serf of elementary education, he
had married some Agashka of a housekeeper or a mistress’s favourite, and
then himself become housekeeper, and, subsequently, bailiff; after which
he had proceeded according to the rules of his tribe--that is to say,
he had consorted with and stood in with the more well-to-do serfs on the
estate, and added the poorer ones to the list of forced payers of obrok,
while himself leaving his bed at nine o’clock in the morning, and, when
the samovar had been brought, drinking his tea at leisure.
“Look here, my good man,” said Manilov. “How many of our serfs have died
since the last census revision?”
“How many of them have died? Why, a great many.” The bailiff hiccoughed,
and slapped his mouth lightly after doing so.
“Yes, I imagined that to be the case,” corroborated Manilov. “In fact,
a VERY great many serfs have died.” He turned to Chichikov and repeated
the words.
“How many, for instance?” asked Chichikov.
“Yes; how many?” re-echoed Manilov.
“HOW many?” re-echoed the bailiff. “Well, no one knows the exact number,
for no one has kept any account.”
“Quite so,” remarked Manilov. “I supposed the death-rate to have been
high, but was ignorant of its precise extent.”
“Then would you be so good as to have it computed for me?” said
Chichikov. “And also to have a detailed list of the deaths made out?”
“Yes, I will--a detailed list,” agreed Manilov.
“Very well.”
The bailiff departed.
“For what purpose do you want it?” inquired Manilov when the bailiff had
gone.
The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in Chichikov’s face
there dawned a sort of tense expression, and it reddened as though its
owner were striving to express something not easy to put into words.
True enough, Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and
unexpected things as never before had greeted human ears.
“You ask me,” said Chichikov, “for what purpose I want the list. Well,
my purpose in wanting it is this--that I desire to purchase a few
peasants.” And he broke off in a gulp.
“But may I ask HOW you desire to purchase those peasants?” asked
Manilov. “With land, or merely as souls for transferment--that is to
say, by themselves, and without any land?”
“I want the peasants themselves only,” replied Chichikov. “And I want
dead ones at that.”
“What?--Excuse me, but I am a trifle deaf. Really, your words sound most
strange!”
“All that I am proposing to do,” replied Chichikov, “is to purchase the
dead peasants who, at the last census, were returned by you as alive.”
Manilov dropped his pipe on the floor, and sat gaping. Yes, the two
friends who had just been discussing the joys of camaraderie sat
staring at one another like the portraits which, of old, used to hang on