Dead Souls—A Poem/Book One/Chapter VII

by Nikolai Gogol

CHAPTER VII

Happy is the traveller who, after a long and wearisome journey with its cold and sleet, mud, posting-station superintendents waked out of their sleep, jingling bells, repairs, disputes, drivers, blacksmiths and all sorts of rascals of the road, sees at last the familiar roof with its lights flying to meet him. And there rise before his mind the familiar rooms, the delighted outcry of the servants running out to meet him, the noise and racing footsteps of his children, and the soothing gentle words interspersed with passionate kisses that are able to efface everything gloomy from the memory. Happy the man with a family and nook of his own, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy the writer who, passing by tedious and repulsive characters that impress us by their painful reality, attaches himself to characters that display the loftiest virtues of humanity, who, from the great whirlpool of human figures flitting by him daily, has selected only the few exceptions, who has never tuned his lyre to a less exalted key, has never stooped from his pinnacle to his poor, insignificant fellow-creatures, but without touching the earth has devoted himself entirely to his elevated images that are utterly remote from it. His fair portion is doubly worthy of envy; he lives in the midst of them as in the midst of his own family; and, at the same time, his fame resounds far and wide. He clouds men's vision with enchanting incense; he flatters them marvellously, covering up the gloomy side of life, and exhibiting to them the noble man. All run after him, clapping their hands and eagerly following his triumphal chariot. They call him a great world-famed poet, soaring high above every other genius as the eagle soars above the other birds of the air. Young ardent hearts are thrilled at his very name; responsive tears gleam in every eye. … No one is his equal in power—he is a god! But quite other is the portion, and very different is the destiny of the writer who has the temerity to bring to the surface what is ever before men's sight and is unseen by their indifferent eyes—all the terrible overwhelming mire of trivialities in which our life is entangled, all that is hidden in the often cold, petty everyday characters with which our bitter and dreary path through life swarms, and with the strong hand of a relentless sculptor dares to present them bold and distinct to the gaze of all! It is not for him to receive the applause of the people, it is not his lot to behold the grateful tears and single-hearted rapture of souls stirred by his words; no girl of sixteen, with her head turned, flies to meet him with heroic enthusiasm. It is not his lot to lose himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he has himself evoked. And lastly, it is not his lot to escape the contemporary critic, the hypocritical callous contemporary critic, who will call his cherished creations mean and insignificant, will assign him an ignoble place in the ranks of writers who have insulted humanity, will attribute to him the qualities of his heroes, will strip him of heart and soul and the divine fire of talent. For the contemporary critic does not recognise that the telescope through which we behold the sun and the microscope which unfolds to us the movements of unnoticed insects are equally marvellous. For the contemporary critic does not recognise that great spiritual depth is needed to light up a picture of ignoble life and transform it into a gem of creative art. For the contemporary critic does not admit that the laughter of lofty delight is worthy to stand beside exalted lyrical emotion, and that there is all the world of difference between it and the antics of clowns at a fair! All this the critic of to-day does not admit, and he will turn it all into the censure and dishonour of the unrecognised writer. Without sympathy, without response, without compassion, he is left by the roadside like the traveller without a family. Hard is his lot and bitterly he feels his loneliness.

And for long years to come I am destined by some strange fate to walk hand in hand with my odd heroes, to gaze at life in its vast movement, to gaze upon it through laughter seen by the world and tears unseen and unknown by it! And far away still is the time when the terrible storm of inspiration will burst into another stream, and my head be wreathed with holy terror and brilliance, and men will hear with a confused tremor the majestic thunder of other words. …

But forward! forward! Away with the wrinkles that furrow the brow, away with stern and gloomy looks! Let us plunge at once into life with all its silent clamour and jingling bells, and let us see what Tchitchikov is doing.

Tchitchikov woke up, stretched his arms and legs and felt that he had had a good sleep. After lying for two minutes on his back, he snapped his fingers, and with a beaming face remembered that he had now almost four hundred souls. He jumped out of bed on the spot and did not even look at his face, of which he was very fond, finding, so it appears, the chin extremely attractive, for he very often praised it to some one of his friends, especially if one happened to be present while he was shaving. 'Just look,' he would say, stroking it with his hand, 'what a chin I have: perfectly round.' On this occasion, however, he looked neither at his chin nor at his face, but, just as he was, put on his dressing-gown and his morocco boots with decorated tops of many colours (the sort of boots in which the town of Torzhok does a brisk trade, thanks to the Russians' love of comfort), and forgetting his dignity and his decorous middle age, he pranced like a Scotchman, in nothing but his shirt, right across the room in two skips, very neatly striking himself on the back with his heels. Then he instantly set to work. Rubbing his hands before his box with as much pleasure as an incorruptible district judge displays on going into lunch, he at once drew out some papers from it. He wanted to conclude the whole business as quickly as possible without putting it off. He made up his mind to draw up the deed of purchase himself, to write it out and copy it, to avoid the expense of lawyers' clerks. He was quite familiar with legal formalities: he put at the top, in bold figures, the date, then after it in small letters, So-and-so, landowner, and everything as it should be. In a couple of hours it was all done. When afterwards he glanced at the lists, at the peasants who really had once been peasants, had worked, ploughed, got drunk, been drivers, cheated their masters, or perhaps were simply good peasants, a strange feeling which he could not himself comprehend, took possession of him. Each list had as it were an individual character, and through it the peasants themselves seemed to have an individual character, too. The peasants belonging to Madame Korobotchka almost all had nicknames and descriptions. Plyushkin's list was distinguished by the brevity of its style: often only the initial letters of the name were given. Sobakevitch's catalogue was distinguished by its extraordinary fullness and circumstantial detail; not one characteristic of the peasants was omitted: of one it was stated that he was 'a good cabinet-maker,' of another it was noted that 'he understands his work and does not touch liquor.' As circumstantially were entered the names of their fathers and mothers, and how they had behaved: of one only, a certain Fedotov, it was stated: 'father unknown; he was the son of the peasant girl Kapitolina, but he was of good character and not a thief.' All these details gave a peculiar air of freshness: it seemed as though the peasants had been alive only yesterday. After gazing a long time at their names, his heart was stirred and with a sigh he brought out 'Goodness, what a lot there are of you crowded in here! What did you do in your day, my dear souls? How did you all get along?' And his eyes unconsciously rested on one name. It was Pyotr Savelyev (Never mind the Trough), of whom the reader has heard already, and who once belonged to Madame Korobotchka. Again he could not refrain from saying: 'What a long name, it has spread all over the line. Were you a craftsman or simply a peasant, and what death carried you off? Was it at the pot-house or did a clumsy wagon run over you when you were asleep in the middle of the road? "Stepan Probka, carpenter, of exemplary sobriety." Ah, here he is, here is Stepan Probka, that giant who ought to have been in the Guards! He went about all the provinces with an axe in his belt and his boots slung over his shoulder, eating a hap'orth of bread and a couple of dried fish, though I bet he carried home a hundred silver roubles in his purse every time, or perhaps sewed up a note in his hempen breeches, or thrust it in his boot. Where did you meet your death? Did you clamber up to the church cupola to earn a big fee, or perhaps you even dragged yourself up to the cross, and slipping down from a crossbeam, fell with a thud on the ground and some Uncle Mihey, standing by, simply scratched his head and said: "Ech, Vanya, you have done the trick this time!" and tying himself to the cord climbed up to take your place. "Maxim Telyatnikov, bootmaker." Hey, a bootmaker! As drunk as a cobbler, says the proverb. I know you, I know you, my dear fellow; I can tell you your whole story if you like. You were apprenticed to a German who used to feed all of you together, beat you on the back with a strap for carelessness, and wouldn't let you out into the streets to lark about, and you were a marvel, not an ordinary bootmaker; and the German couldn't say enough in your praise when he talked with his wife or his comrade. And when your apprenticeship was over: "I'll set up on my own account now!" you said, "and I won't make a farthing profit at a time like the German, I'll get rich at once." And so, sending your master a good sum in lieu of labour, you set up a little shop, took a number of orders and went to work. You got hold of cheap bits of rotten leather and made twice their value on every pair of boots, and within a week or two your boots split and you were abused in the coarsest way. And your shop began to be deserted and you took to drinking and loafing about the streets, saying: "This life's a poor look-out. There is no living for a Russian, the Germans always stand in our way!" What peasant is this? Elizaveta Vorobey? Ough, you plague, you are a woman! How did she get in here? That scoundrel Sobakevitch has done me again!'

Tchitchikov was right, it really was a woman. How she got there there was no knowing, but she had been so skilfully introduced, that at a distance she might have been taken for a man, and the name in fact ended in t instead of a, not Elizaveta but Elizavet. However, he paid no attention to that but crossed it out at once. 'Grigory Never-get-there! What sort of a fellow were you? Were you a carrier by trade, did you get a team of three horses and a cart with a cover of sacking, and renounce your home for ever, your native lair, and go trailing off with merchants to the fairs? And did you give up your soul to God on the road, or did your companions do for you on account of some fat red-cheeked soldier's wife, or did some tramp in the forest cast a covetous eye on your leather gloves and your three short-legged but sturdy horses or, perhaps, lying on the rafter bed, you brooded and brooded, and for no rhyme or reason turned into the pot-house, and then straight to a hole in the ice, and vanished for ever! Ah, the Russian people! They don't care to die a natural death! And what about you, my darlings!' he went on, casting his eyes on the page on which Plyushkin's runaway serfs were inscribed: 'though you are alive, what is the good of you? You might as well be dead. And where are your nimble legs carrying you now? Did you have a bad time with Plyushkin, or is it simply to please yourselves that you are wandering in the forest and robbing travellers? Are you in prison or have you found other masters and are tilling the land? Yeremy Karyakin, Nikita Flitter and his son, Anton Flitter. One can see by their very names that they were nimble-footed gentry. Popov, a house-serf. … He must have been able to read and write: I bet he never took a knife in his hand, but did his thieving in a gentlemanly way. But then a police-captain caught you without a passport. You stood your ground boldly when you were examined. "Whose man are you?" says the police-captain, flinging some strong language at you on this appropriate occasion. "Mr. So-an-so's," you answer smartly. "Why are you here?" says the police-captain. "Away on leave for a fixed payment," you answer without hesitation. "Where is your passport?" "My employer, Pimenov, has it." "Call Pimenov." "Are you Pimenov?" "I am Pimenov." "Did he give you his passport?" "No, he never gave me a passport." "Why are you lying?" says the police-captain, with the addition of some strong language. "Just so," you answer boldly, "I did not give it to him because I got home late, but gave it to Antip Prohorov, the bell-ringer, to take care of." "Call the bell-ringer. Did he give you his passport?" "No, I took no passport from him."

'"Why are you lying again?" says the police-captain, fortifying his words with more strong language. "Where is your passport?" "I did have it," you answer promptly, "but maybe I dropped it on the road." "And why," asks the police-captain, again throwing in a little strong language, "have you carried off a soldier's overcoat and the priest's box with coppers in it?" "Never yet," you say, without turning a hair, "have I been mixed up in any sort of dishonesty." "Then how is it they found the overcoat in your possession?" "I can't say: somebody else must have brought it." "Ah, you brute, you brute," says the police-captain shaking his head, with his arms akimbo. "Rivet fetters on his legs and take him to prison." "By all means, I'll go with pleasure," you answer. And then, taking a snuff-box out of your pocket, you genially offer it to the two veterans who are putting on your fetters, and ask them how long they have left the army and what wars they were in. And then you settle down in prison till your case comes on for trial. And the judge orders that you are to be taken from Tsarevo-Kokshaisk prison to the prison of some other town, and from there the court sends you on to Vesyegonsk, and you move about from prison to prison, and say when you have inspected your new abode: "Well, the Vesyegonsk prison is smarter; there is room even for a game of skittles there, and there's more company."

'Abakum Fyrov! What about you, my boy? where are you wandering now? Have you drifted to the Volga, fallen in love with the free life and joined the hauliers?' … At this point Tchitchikov stopped and sank into a daydream. What was he dreaming about? Was he dreaming of the lot of Abakum Fyrov, or was he simply dreaming on his own account as every Russian dreams, whatever may be his years, his rank, and condition, when he thinks of the reckless gaiety of a free life. And indeed, where is Fyrov now? He leads a gay and jolly life on the corn wharf, bargaining with the merchants. Flowers and ribbons on their hats, the whole gang of hauliers are merry, taking leave of their wives and mistresses, tall, well-made women in beads and ribbons; there are dances and songs; the whole place is surging with life, while to the sound of shouts and oaths and words of encouragement, the porters hooking some nine poods on their backs, pour peas and wheat rattling into the deep holds, pile up bags of oats and corn, and the heaps of sacks, piled up in a pyramid like cannon balls, are seen all over the quay, and the huge arsenal of grain towers up immense till it is all loaded into the deep holds, and, with the melting of the ice in spring, the endless fleet files away. Then you get to work, you hauliers! and all together, just as before you made merry, you set to, toiling and sweating, pulling at the strap, to the sound of a song as unending as Russia!

'Aha! Twelve o'clock!' said Tchitchikov, at last, looking at his watch. 'Why have I been dawdling like this? It wouldn't have been so bad, if I had been doing something, but, for no rhyme or reason, at first I set to spinning yarns and then fell to dreaming. What a fool I am, really!' Saying this he changed his Scotch costume for a European one, drew tightly the buckle over his somewhat round stomach, sprinkled himself with eau-de-Cologne, picked up his warm cap, and with his papers under his arm, went off to the government offices to complete the deed of purchase. He made haste, not because he was afraid of being late—he was not afraid of being late, for he knew the president, and the latter could prolong or curtail the sitting to please himself, like Homer's Zeus, who lengthened the days or brought on night prematurely when he wanted to cut short the battle of his favourite heroes, or to give them an opportunity to fight to a finish—but he felt a desire to get the business over as quickly as possible; he felt uneasy and uncomfortable until it was done, he was haunted by the thought that the souls were not quite real, and that it was always as well to get a load of that sort off his back as quickly as possible. Reflecting on these things and at the same time pulling on his shoulders his bearskin overcoat, covered with brown cloth, he reached the street, and, instantly on turning into a side street, met another gentleman in a bearskin coat, covered with brown cloth and a warm cap with earflaps. The gentleman cried out—it was Manilov. They immediately folded each other in a mutual embrace, and remained clasped in each other's arms for five minutes in the street, Their kisses were so ardent on both sides that their front teeth ached all the rest of the day. Manilov's delight was so great that only his nose and his lips remained in his face, his eyes completely disappeared. For a quarter of an hour he held Tchitchikov's hand clasped in both of his and made it terribly hot. In the most refined and agreeable phrases, he described how he had flown to embrace Pavel Ivanovitch; his speech wound up with a compliment only suitable for a young lady at a dance. Tchitchikov opened his mouth without knowing how to thank him, when Manilov took from under his fur coat a roll of paper tied up with pink ribbon.

'What is that?'

'The peasants.'

'Ah!' He immediately unfolded it, ran his eyes over it, and admired the neatness and beauty of the handwriting. 'It's well written,' he said, 'there's no need to copy it. And a margin ruled all round it! Who made that margin so artistically?'

'You mustn't ask,' said Manilov.

'You?'

'My wife.'

'Oh, dear, I am really ashamed to have given so much trouble.'

'Nothing is a trouble for Pavel Ivanovitch!'

Tchitchikov bowed his acknowledgment. Learning that he was going to the government offices to complete the purchase, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him. The friends took each the other's arm and walked on together. At the slightest rise in the ground, whether it was a hillock or a step, Manilov supported Tchitchikov and almost lifted him up, saying with an agreeable smile, as he did so, that he could not let Pavel Ivanovitch hurt his precious foot. Tchitchikov was abashed, not knowing how to thank him and conscious that he was no light weight. Paying each other these attentions they reached at last the square in which the government offices were to be found in a big three-storeyed brick house, painted white as chalk all over, probably as a symbol of the purity of heart of the various departments located in it. The other buildings in the square were out of keeping with the huge brick house. They were a sentry-box at which a soldier was standing with a gun, a cabstand, and lastly a long fence adorned with the inscriptions and sketches in charcoal and chalk usual on fences. There was nothing else in this desolate or, as the expression is among us, picturesque place. From the windows of the second and third storeys, the incorruptible heads of the votaries of Themis were thrust out and instantly disappeared again: probably their chief entered the room at the moment. The friends rather ran than walked up the stairs, for Tchitchikov, trying to avoid being supported by Manilov, quickened his pace, while Manilov dashed forward, trying to assist Tchitchikov, that he might not be tired, so both the friends were breathless when they reached the dark corridor at the top. The eye was not impressed with the high degree of cleanliness either of the corridor or of the rooms. At that time they did not trouble about it, and what was dirty remained dirty, and no attempt was made at external charm. Themis received her visitors, just as she was, in negligée and dressing-gown. The offices through which our heroes passed ought to be described, but our author cherishes the deepest awe for all such places. If he has chanced to pass through them even when they were in their most brilliant and dignified aspect with polished floors and tables, he has tried to hasten through them as quickly as he could, with bowed head and eyes meekly cast down, and so he has not the slightest idea how flourishing and prosperous it all looked.

Our hero saw a vast amount of paper, rough drafts and fair copies, bent heads, thick necks, dress coats, frock coats of provincial cut, even a light grey jacket which stood out conspicuously among the others, and of which the wearer with his head on one side and almost touching the paper, was writing in a bold and flourishing hand a report on a successful lawsuit concerning misappropriation of land or the inventory of an estate, of which a peaceable country gentleman had taken possession, and on which he had spent his life, maintained himself, his children and his grandchildren while the lawsuit went on over his head: and brief phrases uttered in a husky voice were audible by snatches: 'Oblige me with case No. 368, Fedosey Fedoseyitch!' 'You always carry off the cork of the office inkpot!' From time to time a more majestic voice, doubtless that of one of the chiefs, rang out peremptorily: 'Copy it out again, or they shall take your boots away, and you shall stay here for six days and nights with nothing to eat.' There was a great scratching of pens, which sounded like a cartful of brushwood driving through a copse a quarter of a yard deep in dead leaves.

Tchitchikov and Manilov went up to the first table, where two clerks of tender years were sitting, and inquired: 'Allow me to ask where is the business of deeds of sale transacted here?'

'Why, what do you want?' asked both the clerks, turning round.

'I want to make an application.'

'Why, what have you bought?'

'I want first to know where is the table for matters relating to sales—here or in some other office?'

'Why, tell me first what you are buying, and at what price, and then we can tell you where; but we can't tell without.'

Tchitchikov saw at once that the clerks were inquisitive, like all young clerks, and trying to give more importance and consequence to their duties.

'Look here, gentlemen,' he said, 'I know perfectly well that all business relating to the purchase of serfs, irrespective of the price paid, is transacted in the same office, and so I beg you to point out which is the table, and, if you don't know what is done in your office, we will ask some one else.' The clerks made no reply, one of them merely jerked his finger towards a corner of the room, where an old man was sitting at a table making notes on some official paper. Tchitchikov and Manilov passed between the tables and went straight up to him. The old man became deeply absorbed in his work.

'Allow me to ask,' said Tchitchikov with a bow, 'is this where I have to apply concerning deeds of sale?'

The old man raised his eyes and brought out deliberately: 'This is not the place to apply concerning deeds of sale.'

'Where then?'

'In the sales section.'

'And where is that section?'

'At Ivan Antonovitch's table.'

'And where is Ivan Antonovitch?'

The old man jerked his finger towards another corner of the room. Tchitchikov and Manilov made their way to Ivan Antonovitch. Ivan Antonovitch had already cast a glance behind him and stolen a sidelong look at them, but became instantly more deeply engrossed than ever in his writing.

'Allow me to ask,' said Tchitchikov with a bow, 'is this the right table to apply to concerning the sale of serfs?'

Ivan Antonovitch appeared not to hear the question and became absolutely buried in his papers, making no response whatever. It could be seen at once that he was a man of reasonable years, very different from a young chatterbox and featherhead. Ivan Antonovitch seemed to be a man of over forty; his hair was thick and black; all the outline of his face stood out prominently, and ran out to meet his nose—in short it was the sort of face that is popularly called a 'jug snout.'

'Allow me to ask, is this the section for business relating to the purchase of serfs?' said Tchitchikov.

'Yes,' said Ivan Antonovitch, turning his jug snout, but going on with his writing.

'Well, this is the business I have come about; I have bought peasants from different landowners of this district; the deed of purchase is here, I have only to complete the formalities.'

'And are the sellers here in person?'

'Some are here, and from others I have an authorisation.'

'And have you brought an application?'

'I have the application too. I should be glad … I am obliged to be in haste … so would it be possible, for instance, to complete the business to-day?'

'Oh, to-day! … It can't be done to-day,' said Ivan Antonovitch; 'inquiries must be made, we must know whether there are any impediments.'

'It may hasten matters, however, if I mention that Ivan Grigoryevitch, the president, is a great friend of mine. …'

'But Ivan Grigoryevitch is not the only one, you know; there are other people too,' Antonovitch said surlily.

Tchitchikov understood the hint Ivan Antonovitch had given him, and said; 'Other people will not be the worse for it either; I've been in the service, I understand business. …'

'Go to Ivan Grigoryevitch,' said Ivan Antonovitch in a somewhat more friendly voice. 'Let him give the order to the proper quarter, it is not in our hands.'

Tchitchikov took a note out of his pocket and put it before Ivan Antonovitch, who completely failed to notice it, and instantly put a book over it. Tchitchikov was about to point it out to him, but with a motion of his head Ivan Antonovitch gave him to understand that there was no need for him to point it out.

'Here, he'll show you to the office,' said Ivan Antonovitch, with a nod of his head, and one of the votaries standing near—he had sacrificed so zealously to Themis, that his sleeves were in holes at the elbows and the lining was sticking out, for which sacrifices he had been rewarded with the grade of collegiate registrar—performed for our friends the office that Virgil once performed for Dante, and brought them to an apartment in which there was one roomy armchair, and, in it, solitary as the sun, the president sat at a table behind a Double Eagle and two thick books. In this place the new Virgil was so overcome by awe that he did not venture to set foot within its portals, but turned round, displaying his back worn as threadbare as a bit of matting, and with a hen's feather sticking on it. On entering the office, they saw that the president was not alone. With him was sitting Sobakevitch, completely screened by the Double Eagle. The entrance of the guests was greeted with an exclamation, the presidential chair was noisily pushed back. Sobakevitch, too, got up from his chair, and became visible from all sides, with his long sleeves. The president clasped Tchitchikov in his arms, and the room resounded with kisses; they inquired after each other's health; it appeared that both were suffering from pains in the back, which were at once set down to a sedentary life. The president seemed to have been already informed of the purchase by Sobakevitch, for he began congratulating our hero, which at first rather embarrassed the latter, especially when he saw Sobakevitch and Manilov, two vendors, with each of whom the business had been transacted in private, now standing face to face. He thanked the president, however, and addressing Sobakevitch, asked: 'And how are you?'

'Thank God, I have nothing to complain of,' said Sobakevitch. And certainly he had nothing to complain of. Iron might as soon catch cold and cough, as that marvellously constituted gentleman.

'Yes, you have always been famous for your health,' said the president. 'And your good father was just as strong.'

'Yes, he used to tackle a bear alone,' answered Sobakevitch.

'I believe you could knock a bear down alone, too,' said the president, 'if you cared to tackle him.'

'No, I couldn't,' said Sobakevitch, 'my father was stronger than I am.' And with a sigh, he went on; 'No, people aren't the same as they used to be; take my life, for instance, what can one say for it? It's not up to much. …'

'What's wrong with your life?' said the president.

'It's all wrong, it's all wrong,' said Sobakevitch, shaking his head. 'Only think, Ivan Grigoryevitch: I am fifty and I have never been ill in my life; I might at least have had a sore throat or a boil or a carbuncle. … No, it will bring me no good. Some day I shall have to pay for it.' Here Sobakevitch sank into melancholy.

'What a fellow!' Tchitchikov and the president thought simultaneously, 'what will he grumble at next?'

'I have a letter for you,' said Tchitchikov, taking Plyushkin's letter out of his pocket.

'From whom?' said the president, and breaking the seal he exclaimed, 'Oh, from Plyushkin! So he is still freezing on in life. What a fate! A most intelligent man he used to be and very wealthy! And now …'

'He is a cur,' said Sobakevitch, 'a scoundrel. He has starved his peasants to death.'

'Certainly, certainly,' said the president, reading the letter. 'I am ready to act for him. When do you want to complete the purchase, now or later?'

'Now,' said Tchitchikov. 'I will even ask you if possible to have it done to-day, as I should like to leave the town to-morrow. I have brought the deeds of purchase and my application.'

'That's all right; only, say what you like, we are not going to let you go so soon. The purchase shall be completed to-day, but you must stay with us a little all the same. I'll give the order at once,' he said, and opened the door of an office filled with clerks who might be compared to industrious bees busy upon their combs, if indeed honeycomb can be compared with legal duties. 'Is Ivan Antonovitch there?'

'Yes, here,' answered a voice from within.

'Kindly send him here.'

Ivan Antonovitch, the 'jug snout' with whom the reader is already familiar, entered the presidential chamber, making a respectful bow.

'Here, Ivan Antonovitch, take all these deeds of purchase. …'

'And don't forget, Ivan Grigoryevitch,' put in Sobakevitch, 'we must have witnesses, two at least for each party. Send now to the prosecutor: he is a man of leisure and no doubt he is at home now. Zolotuha the attorney, the most grasping scoundrel on earth, does all his work for him. The inspector of the medical board is another gentleman of leisure and sure to be home, unless he has gone off somewhere for game of cards; and there are lots of others, too, somewhat nearer, Truhatchevsky, Byegushkin—they all cumber the earth and do nothing.'

'Just so, just so,' said the president, and at once sent a messenger to fetch them all.

'Another request I have to make of you,' said Tchitchikov; 'send for the authorised representative of a lady from whom I have also made purchases, the son of Father Kirill, the head priest: he is employed here.'

'To be sure, we will send for him too,' said the president, 'everything shall be done, and do not give anything to the clerks; that I beg of you. My friends are not to pay.' Saying this he at once gave some order to Ivan Antonovitch, which evidently did not please him. The purchase of serfs evidently made a good impression on the president, especially when he saw that the purchases mounted up to a hundred thousand roubles. For some minutes he looked into Tchitchikov's face with an expression of great satisfaction, and at last said:

'Well, I must say! That's the way to do things, Pavel Ivanovitch! Well, you have got something worth having.'

'Yes, I have,' answered Tchitchikov.

'It's a good deed, it's a good deed really.'

'Yes, I see myself that I could not do anything

that would be better. In any case a man's goal remains undefined, if he does not firmly take his stand at last on a solid foundation and not on some free-thinking chimera of youth.'

Hereupon he very appropriately fell to abusing the liberalism of all young people—not without reason, indeed. But it is a remarkable fact that there was all the while a lack of assurance in his words, as though he were saying to himself: 'Ah, my lad, you are lying and lying hard too!'

He did not even glance at Sobakevitch or Manilov for fear of detecting something in their faces. But he had no need to be afraid. Sobakevitch's face did not stir a muscle, while Manilov, enchanted by his phrases, merely nodded his head approvingly in the attitude of a musical amateur when a prima donna outdoes the violin and shrills out a note higher than any bird's throat could produce.

'But why don't you tell Ivan Grigoryevitch,' Sobakevitch put in, 'what sort of stuff you have got? And you, Ivan Grigoryevitch, why don't you ask what his new acquisitions are like? They are something like peasants! Real gems! Do you know I have sold him Miheyev, my coach-builder?'

'You don't mean to say you have sold your Miheyev?' said the president. 'I know Miheyev the coachbuilder, a splendid craftsman; he did up my light cart. But, excuse me, how's that … Why, you told me that he was dead. …'

'Who? Miheyev dead?' said Sobakevitch, without a trace of embarrassment. 'It's his brother that's dead, but he is full of life and better than he has ever been. The other day he made me a chaise better than anything they make in Moscow. He really ought to be working for the Tsar.'

'Yes, Miheyev is a fine craftsman,' said the president, 'and indeed I wonder you could bring yourself to part with him.'

'If it were only Miheyev! but Stepan Probka, my carpenter, Milushkin, my bricklayer, Maxim Telyatnikov, my bootmaker. They are all gone, I have sold them all!' And when the president asked him why he had got rid of them, considering that they were craftsmen whose work was essential for the house and estate, Sobakevitch answered with a wave of his hand: 'Well, it was simply my foolishness: "Come, I'll sell them," I thought, and I sold them in my foolishness.' Thereupon he hung his head as though he were regretting what he had done and added: 'Here my hair is turning grey, but I have got no sense yet.'

'But excuse me, Pavel Ivanovitch,' said the president, 'how is it you are buying peasants without land? Are you going to settle them elsewhere?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that's a different matter; in what part of the country?'

'In the Kherson province.'

'Oh, there is excellent land there!' said the president, and referred with great appreciation to the luxuriant growth of the grass in that district.

'And have you sufficient land?' 'Yes, as much as I shall need for the peasants I have bought.'

'Is there a river or a pond?'

'There is a river. There is a pond too, though.' Tchitchikov chanced to look at Sobakevitch, and, although Sobakevitch was as immovable as ever, he could read in his face: 'Oh, you are lying! I doubt whether there is a river or a pond, or any land at all.'

While the conversation continued, the witnesses began to turn up, one by one, the winking prosecutor, already known to the reader, the inspector of the medical board, Truhatchevsky, Byegushkin and the others whom Sobakevitch had described as cumberers of the earth. With some of them Tchitchikov was quite unacquainted. The number was made up by taking some clerks from the office. Not only the son of Father Kirill but Father Kirill himself was brought. Each of the witnesses put down his name with all his grades and qualifications, some in an upright hand, others in a slanting handwriting, others forming letters almost upside down, such as had never been seen in the Russian alphabet. Ivan Antonovitch, known already to the reader, got through the business very rapidly, the purchase deeds were drawn up, revised, entered in a book and wherever else was necessary, and the half per cent. and charge for publication in the Gazetteer were made out, and Tchitchikov had to pay the merest trifle. The president even gave orders that only half the usual dues should be charged to him, and the other half was in some mysterious way transferred to the account of some other applicant.

'And now,' said the president when all the formalities were over, 'all that is left to do is to "sprinkle" the purchase.'

'I am quite ready,' said Tchitchikov. 'You have only to name a time. It would be remiss if for such excellent company I did not uncork two or three bottles of fizz.'

'No, you have got it wrong,' said the president, 'we'll stand the fizz: that is what we ought to do, it is our duty. You are our guest, it is for us to entertain you. Do you know what, gentlemen? For the time being, this is what we will do: we'll go, all of us as we are, to the police-master; he's our wonder-worker; he has only to wink as he walks through the fish market or by the wine merchants; and we shall have a grand lunch, don't you know! And a little game of whist for the occasion.'

No one could refuse such a proposition. The mere mention of the fish market gave the witnesses an appetite; they all picked up their hats and caps, and the presidential office was closed. As they walked through the clerks' rooms, Ivan Antonovitch, the jug snout, bowing politely, said on the quiet to Tchitchikov: 'You have bought peasants for a hundred thousand and only twenty-five roubles for my trouble.'

'But what sort of peasants are they?' Tchitchikov answered, also in a whisper, 'a wretched, good-for-nothing lot, not worth half that.' Ivan Antonovitch saw that he was a man of strong character and would not give more.

'And what made you buy souls from Plyushkin?' Sobakevitch whispered in his other ear.

'And why did you stick in Vorobey?' Tchitchikov retorted.

'What Vorobey?' said Sobakevitch.

'Why a woman, Elizaveta Vorobey, and you left out the a at the end of her name, too.'

'No, I did not stick in any Vorobey,' said Sobakevitch, and he walked off to rejoin the others.

The visitors arrived all together at the police-master's door. The police-master certainly was a wonder-worker: as soon as he heard what was wanted he called a policeman, a smart fellow in polished high boots, and seemed to whisper only a couple of words in his ear, merely adding: 'understand?' and at once, while the guests were playing whist, on the table in the next room there appeared a great sturgeon, dried salmon, pressed caviare and fresh caviare, herrings, star sturgeon, cheese, smoked tongue and dried sturgeon, all this came from the direction of the fish market. Then came various supplementary dishes created in the kitchen: a pie, made of the head and trimmings of a giant sturgeon, another pie made of mushrooms, tarts, buttercakes, fritters. The police-master was in a sense the father and benefactor of the town. Among the people of the town, he was as though in the bosom of his family, and looked after the shops and bazaar as though they were his own storeroom. Altogether, he was, as the saying is, the right man in the right place, and understood his duties to perfection. It was hard, indeed, to say whether it was he who was created for his job or his job for him. His duties were so ably performed, that his income was double that of any of his predecessors, and at the same time he had won the love of the whole town. The merchants particularly loved him, just because he was not proud, and indeed he stood godfather to their children, and was friendly and convivial with them, though he did at times fleece them dreadfully, but he did it extremely cleverly. He would slap a man on the shoulder and laugh, treat him to tea, promise to come and play draughts, inquire about everything, how business was doing, and why and wherefore; if he heard that a child was ailing, he would advise a medicine. In short, he was a jolly fellow! He drove in his racing sledge and gave orders, and at the same time would drop a word here and there: 'I say, Mihyeitch, you and I ought to finish our rubber one of these days.' 'Yes, Alexey Ivanovitch,' the man would answer, taking off his hat, 'we ought to.' 'Hey, Ilya Paramonitch, old man, come round and have a look at my trotting horse, he'll beat yours in a race, and you must put yours in a racing droshky: we'll try him.' The merchant, who was mad on trotting horses, would smile at this with peculiar relish and, stroking his beard, say: 'We'll try him, Alexey Ivanovitch.' Even the shopmen, who usually stood hat in hand at such times, looked at one another delighted, and seemed as though they would say: 'Alexey Ivanovitch is a splendid man!' In short, he had succeeded in gaining great popularity and it was the opinion of the merchants, that though Alexey Ivanovitch 'does take his share he never gives you away.'

Observing that the savouries were ready, the police-master suggested that they should finish their game after lunch, and they all trooped into the room, the smell issuing from which had begun some time previously to tickle their noses agreeably, and in at the door of which Sobakevitch had for some time been peeping, having noted from a distance the sturgeon lying on a big dish. After drinking a glass of a dark vodka, of that olive colour which is only seen in the transparent Siberian stones of which seals are carved in Russia, the guests approached the table from all sides, with forks in their hands, and began to display, as the saying is, each his character and propensities, one falling on the caviare, another on the dried salmon, another on the cheese. Sobakevitch, paying no attention to all these trifles, established himself by the sturgeon, and while the others were drinking, talking and eating, he in a little over a quarter of an hour had made his way through it, so that when the police-master recollected it, and saying: 'And what do you think, gentlemen, of this product of nature?' went up, fork in hand, with others of the company towards it, he saw that nothing was left of the product of nature but its tail, while Sobakevitch effaced himself, and as though it were not his doing, went up to a dish at a little distance from the rest, and stuck his fork into some little dried fish. Having had enough with the sturgeon, Sobakevitch sat down in an easy-chair, ate and drank nothing more; he simply frowned and blinked. The police-master was apparently not given to sparing the wine; the toasts were innumerable. The first toast was, as the reader can probably guess for himself, drunk to the health of the new Kherson landowner, then to the prosperity of his peasants and their successful settlement in their new home, then to the health of that fair lady, his future bride, which elicited an agreeable smile from our hero. The company surrounded him on all sides and began earnestly pleading with him to remain with them, if only for another fortnight: 'Come, Pavel Ivanovitch! say what you will, to go off like this, it's just cooling the hut for nothing, as the saying is: coming to the door and going back again! Come, you must stay a little time with us! We'll make a match for you. We will, Ivan Grigoryevitch, won't we, we'll make a match for him?'

'We will, we will,' the president agreed. 'You may struggle hand and foot, but we will marry you all the same! No, my good sir, once you are here, it is no good your complaining. We are not to be trifled with.'

'Why struggle hand and foot?' said Tchitchikov, simpering, 'matrimony is not such a … er … if there were but a bride.'

'There shall be, there shall be! No fear about that. You shall have everything you want! …'

'Oh, well, if so. …'

'Bravo, he will stay,' they all cried: 'hurrah, hurrah, Pavel Ivanovitch! Hurrah!'

And they all pressed round him with their glasses in their hands to clink with his. Tchitchikov clinked glasses with every one. 'Again, again,' cried some of the more persistent and clinked glasses again, some pushed forward a third time and they clinked glasses once more. In a little while they were all extraordinarily lively. The president, who was a most charming person when he was a little elevated, embraced Tchitchikov several times, exclaiming in the fullness of his heart: 'My dear soul, my precious!' and even, snapping his fingers, fell to pirouetting round him, humming the well-known song, 'You are this and you are that, you Kamarinsky peasant!' After the champagne, they opened some bottles of Hungarian wine, which put still more spirit into the party and made them merrier than ever. The whist was completely forgotten. They disputed, shouted, talked about everything, about politics, even about military matters, giving expression to advanced ideas for which at any other time they would have thrashed their own children. They settled on the spot a number of the most difficult questions. Tchitchikov had never felt so merry, he imagined himself already a genuine Kherson landowner, talked of various improvements he meant to make, of the three-field system of cropping, of the bliss and happiness of two kindred souls, and began repeating to Sobakevitch Werther's letter in verse to Charlotte, on which the latter merely blinked as he sat in an armchair, for after the sturgeon he felt a great inclination for sleep. Tchitchikov perceived himself that he had begun to be a little too expansive: he asked for his carriage, and accepted the offer of the prosecutor's racing droshky. The prosecutor's coachman was, as it turned out on the way, an efficient and experienced fellow, for he drove with one hand only, while he held the gentleman on with the other hand thrust out behind him. It was in this fashion that our hero arrived at his hotel, where his tongue still went on babbling all sorts of nonsense about a fair-haired bride with a rosy complexion and a dimple in her right cheek, estates in Kherson, and investments. Selifan even received some orders in regard to the management of the estate, he was told to collect together all the newly settled peasants that they might all answer to a roll-call. Selifan listened for a long time in silence and then went out of the room, saying to Petrushka: 'Go and undress the master!' Petrushka set to work to pull off his boots and nearly pulled his master on to the floor with them. At last the boots were off, the master was properly undressed, and after turning over several times on the bed, which creaked mercilessly, he fell asleep like a genuine Kherson landowner. Meanwhile Petrushka carried out into the passage his master's breeches and his shot cranberry-coloured coat, and spreading them out on a wooden hatstand began beating and brushing them, filling the whole corridor with dust. As he was about to take the clothes down, he glanced over the banisters, and saw Selifan coming in from the stable. Their eyes met, they understood each other: the master had gone to sleep and they could go and look in somewhere. Instantly taking the coat and trousers into the room, Petrushka went downstairs and they set off together, without one word to each other as to the object of their journey, chattering on the way upon quite extraneous matters. They did not walk far: in fact they only went to the other side of the street to a house that was opposite the hotel, and in at a low grimy glass door, which led down almost to the cellar, where many people of different sorts, shaven and unshaven, in plain sheepskins or simply in their shirt sleeves, and here and there a frieze overcoat, were sitting at the wooden tables. What Petrushka and Selifan did there, God only knows; but they came out an hour later, arm in arm, maintaining complete silence, showing great solicitude for each other, and steering each other clear of all corners. Still arm in arm they spent a quarter of an hour getting up the stairs, at last got the better of them and reached the top. Petrushka stood for a minute facing his low bed, considering which way it would be more suitable to lie on it, and finally lay across it at right angles, so that his legs were on the floor. Selifan lay down on the same bed with his head on Petrushka's stomach, oblivious of the fact that he ought not to have been sleeping there, but perhaps in the servants' room, or even in the stable, with the horses. They both fell asleep at the same instant and raised a snore of an incredibly deep note, to which their master responded from the next room with a refined nasal whistle. Soon afterwards everything was still and all the hotel was wrapped in profound slumber; only in one window a light was still to be seen, from the room occupied by the lieutenant from Kazan, apparently a great connoisseur in boots, for he had already bought himself four pairs and was continually trying on a fifth. Several times he went up to his bed to take them off and go to bed, but could not bring himself to do so; the boots were certainly well made, and he still sat a long while lifting up his foot and scrutinising the smartly and beautifully shaped heel.