Текст книги "Dead Souls"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

"I've heard nothing about it, but the affair is indeed not quite sinless. I confess, I find Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov a most mysterious person," said Murazov.

"I, too, sent in a petition for myself, as a reminder that there exists a nearest heir..."

"They can fight it out among themselves for all of me," Khlobuev thought on his way out. "Afanasy Vassilyevich is no fool. He must have given me this charge after thinking it over. Just let me accomplish it—that's all." He began thinking about the road, at the same time as Murazov was still repeating to himself: "A most mysterious man to me, this Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov! If only such will and perseverance were put to good use!"

And meanwhile, indeed, petition after petition kept coming to the courts. Relatives turned up of whom no one had ever heard. As birds come flying to carrion, so everything came flying down upon the incalculable wealth left by the old woman. Denunciations of Chichikov, of the spuriousness of the last will, denunciations of the spuriousness of the first will also, evidence of theft -and of the concealment of certain sums. Evidence turned up against Chichikov of his buying dead souls, of smuggling goods while he was still in customs. Everything was unearthed, the whole story of his past was found out. God knows how they got wind of it all and learned it. Yet there was evidence even of such things as Chichikov thought no one knew of except for himself and his four walls. So far it was all still a court secret and had not yet reached his ears, though a trustworthy note he had recently received from his lawyer gave him some idea that trouble was brewing. The content of the note was brief: "I hasten to inform you that there will be some fuss around the case; but remember that you ought by no means to worry. The main thing is to be calm. Everything will be taken care of." This note set him completely at ease. "The man is indeed a genius," said Chichikov.

To crown all blessings, the tailor brought his suit at that moment. Chichikov felt a strong desire to look at himself in the new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He pulled on the trousers, which hugged him marvelously on all sides, an artist's ideal. The hips were so nicely fitted, the calves, too; the cloth hugged all the details, imparting to them a still greater resilience. Once he had tightened the clasp behind him, his stomach became like a drum. He beat on it with a brush, adding: "Such a fool, but, overall, what a picture he makes!" The tailcoat, it seemed, was even better tailored than the trousers: not one wrinkle, tight all around his sides, curving at the overlap, showing his full curvature. It was a little too tight under the right arm, but that made it fit still better at the waist. The tailor, standing there in complete triumph, merely said: "Rest assured, outside Petersburg there's no such tailoring anywhere." The tailor was from Petersburg himself, and had put on his shingle: "A foreigner from London and Paris." He was not given to joking, and wanted with these two cities to stop up the maws of all the other tailors at once, so that in the future no one could come out with such cities, and they would have to content themselves with writing some "Karlsroo" or "Copenhar."

Chichikov magnanimously paid the tailor and, left alone, began to examine himself at leisure in the mirror, like an artist, with aesthetic feeling and con amore.It turned out that everything was somehow even better than before: the little cheeks were more interesting, the chin more alluring, the white collar imparted its color to the cheek, the blue satin tie imparted its hue to the collar; the shirtfront, pleated in the latest fashion, imparted its hue to the tie, the rich velvet waistcoat imparted its hue to the shirt-front, and the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, gleaming like silk, imparted its hue to everything! He turned to the right—good! He turned to the left—even better! The curve of the waist was like a courtier's or such a gentleman's as jabbers away in French so that next to him a Frenchman himself is nothing, one who, even when angry, does not disgrace himself indecently with a Russian word, who cannot even swear in Russian, but will give you a good scolding in French dialect. Such delicacy! He tried, inclining his head slightly to one side, to assume a pose as if he were addressing a middle-aged lady of the latest cultivation: it was a picture to see. Painter, take up your brush and paint! In his pleasure, he straightaway performed a light leap, like an entrechat. The chest of drawers shook and a flask of eau de cologne fell to the ground; but this caused no hindrance. He quite properly called the stupid flask a fool, and thought: "Whom shall I visit first of all? The best..."

When suddenly in the front hall—something like the clank of spurred boots and a gendarme in full armor, as if he were a whole army in one person. "You are ordered to appear at once before the Governor-general!" Chichikov was simply stunned. Before him stuck up a fright with a mustache, a horsetail on his head, a baldric over one shoulder, a baldric over the other, an enormous broadsword hanging at his side. He fancied there was also a gun hanging from the other side, and devil knows what else: a whole army just in one man! He tried to protest, but the fright uttered rudely: "To appear at once!" Through the door to the front hall he saw another fright flit by; he looked out the window—there was a carriage as well. What to do? Just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, he had to get in and, trembling all over, drive to the Governor-general's, the policeman along with him.

In the anteroom he was not even allowed to come to his senses. "Go in! The prince is waiting for you," said the official on duty. Before him as through a mist flashed the anteroom with messengers receiving packages, then a hall through which he passed, thinking only: "He'll just up and seize me, and with no trial, no anything—straight to Siberia!" His heart began to pound harder than the heart of the most jealous lover. The door finally opened: before him was the office, with portfolios, shelves, books, and the prince as wrathful as wrath itself.

"Destroyer, destroyer," said Chichikov. "He'll destroy my soul, slaughter me, like a wolf a lamb!"

"I spared you, I allowed you to remain in town, when you ought to have been put in jail; and again you've besmirched yourself with the most dishonest swindling a man has yet besmirched himself with."

The prince's lips were trembling with wrath.

"What is this most dishonest action and swindling, Your Excellency?" asked Chichikov, trembling all over.

"The woman," said the prince, stepping closer and looking straight into Chichikov's eyes, "the woman who signed the will at your dictation, has been seized and will confront you."

Chichikov turned pale as a sheet.

"Your Excellency! I'll tell you the whole truth of the matter. I am guilty, indeed, guilty; but not so guilty. I've been maligned by my enemies."

"No one can malign you, because there is many times more vileness in you than the worst liar could invent. In all your life, I suppose, you've never done anything that was not dishonest. Every kopeck you earned was earned dishonestly, and is a theft and a dishonest thing deserving of the knout and Siberia. No, it's enough now! This very minute you will be taken to jail, and there, together with the worst scoundrels and robbers, you must wait for your fate to be decided. And this is still merciful, because you are many times worse than they are: they dress in wool jerkins and sheepkins, while you ...”

He glanced at the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino and, taking hold of the bellpull, rang.

"Your Excellency," Chichikov cried out, "be merciful! You are the father of a family. Don't spare me—but spare my old mother!"

"You're lying!" the prince cried wrathfully. "You pleaded with me the same way before, by your children and family, which you never had, and now—your mother!"

"Your Excellency, I am a scoundrel and an utter blackguard," said Chichikov, in a voice . . . [The phrase is unfinished in the manuscript.—Trans.]"I was indeed lying, I have no children or family; but, as God is my witness, I always wanted to have a wife, to fulfill the duty of a man and a citizen, so as later to earn indeed the respect of citizens and authorities . . . But what calamitous coincidences! With my blood, Your Excellency, with my blood I had to procure my daily sustenance. Temptations and seductions at every step . . . enemies, and destroyers, and thieves. My whole life has been like a violent storm or a ship amidst the waves at the will of the winds. I am a man, Your Excellency!"

Tears suddenly poured in streams from his eyes. He collapsed at the prince's feet just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, in his velvet waistcoat and satin tie, new trousers and hairdo exuding the clean scent of eau de cologne.

"Get away from me! Call the guards to take him away!" the prince said to those who came in.

"Your Excellency!" Chichikov cried, seizing the prince's boot with both hands.

A shuddering sensation ran through the prince's every fiber.

"Get away, I tell you!" he said, trying to tear his foot from Chichikov's embrace.

"Your Excellency! I will not move from this spot before I obtain mercy!" Chichikov said, not letting go of the prince's boot and sliding, together with his foot, across the floor in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino.

"Away, I tell you!" he said, with that inexplicable feeling of disgust that a man feels at the sight of an extremely ugly insect that he does not have the courage to crush underfoot. He gave such a shake that Chichikov felt the boot strike his nose, lips, and nicely rounded chin, but he would not let go of the boot and held the leg still harder in his embrace. Two hefty policemen pulled him away by force, and, holding him under his arms, led him through all the rooms. He was pale, crushed, in the insensibly frightful state of a man who sees black, inescapable death before him, that fright which is contrary to our nature . . .

Just at the doorway to the stairs they ran into Murazov. A ray of hope suddenly flickered. Instantly, with unnatural force, he tore from the grip of the two policemen and threw himself at the feet of the amazed old man.

"Pavel Ivanovich, my dear fellow, what's happened?"

"Save me! they're taking me to jail, to death ...”

The policemen seized him and led him away without allowing him to be heard.

A dank, chill closet with the smell of the boots and leg wrappings of garrison soldiers, an unpainted table, two vile chairs, a window with an iron grate, a decrepit woodstove, through the cracks of which smoke came without giving any warmth—this was the dwelling in which they placed our hero, who had just begun to taste the sweetness of life and attract the attention of his compatriots in his fine new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He was not even given time to arrange to take the necessary things with him, to take the chest with the money in it. His papers, the deeds of purchase for the dead souls—the officials now had it all! He collapsed on the ground, and the carnivorous worm of terrible, hopeless sorrow wrapped itself around his heart. With increasing speed it began to gnaw at his heart, all unprotected as it was. Another day like that, another day of such sorrow, and there would be no Chichikov in this world at all. But someone's all-saving hand did not slumber even over Chichikov. An hour later the door of the jail opened: old Murazov came in.

If someone tormented by parching thirst were to have a stream of spring water poured down his dry throat, he would not revive as poor Chichikov did.

"My savior!" said Chichikov, and, suddenly seizing his hand, he quickly kissed it and pressed it to his breast. "May God reward you for visiting an unfortunate man!"

He dissolved in tears.

The old man looked at him with mournfully pained eyes and said only:

"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich! Pavel Ivanovich, what have you done?"

"I am a scoundrel. . . Guilty ... I transgressed . . . But consider, consider, can they treat me like this? I am a nobleman. Without a trial, without an investigation, to throw me into jail, to take away everything—my things, my chest. . . there's money in it, all my property, all my property is in it, Afanasy Vassilyevich—property I acquired by sweating blood ..."

And, unable to restrain the impulse of sorrow again overwhelming his heart, he sobbed loudly, in a voice that pierced the thick walls of the jail and echoed dully in the distance, tore off his satin tie, and, clutching at his collar with his hand, tore his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino.

"Pavel Ivanovich, it makes no difference: you must bid farewell to your property and to all there is in the world. You have fallen under the implacable law, not under the power of some man."

"I have been my own ruin, I know it—I did not know how to stop in time. But why such a terrible punishment, Afanasy Vassilyevich? Am I a robber? Has anyone suffered from me? Have I made anyone unhappy? By toil and sweat, by sweating blood, I procured my kopeck. Why did I procure this kopeck? In order to live out the rest of my days in comfort, to leave something to my children, whom I intended to acquire for the good, for the service of the fatherland. I erred, I don't deny it, I erred . . . what to do? But I erred because I saw that I'd get nowhere on the straight path, and that to go crookedly was straighten But I toiled, I strained. And these scoundrels who sit in the courts taking thousands from the treasury or robbing people who aren't rich, filching the last kopeck from those who have nothing. . . Afanasy Vassilyevich! I did not fornicate, I did not drink. And so much work, so much iron patience! Yes, it could be said that every kopeck I procured was redeemed with sufferings, sufferings! Let one of them suffer as I did! What has my whole life been: a bitter struggle, a ship amidst the waves. And, Afanasy Vassilyevich, I have lost what was acquired with such struggle ..."

He did not finish and sobbed loudly from unendurable heartache, collapsed on the chair, ripped off the torn, hanging skirt of his tailcoat and flung it away from him, and, putting both hands to his hair, which before he had zealously tried to strengthen, he tore it mercilessly, delighting in the pain with which he hoped to stifle his unquenchable heartache.

"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich, Pavel Ivanovich!" Murazov was saying, looking at him mournfully and shaking his head. "I keep thinking what a man you'd be if, in the same way, with energy and patience, you had embarked on good work and for a better purpose! If only any one of those who love the good would apply as much effort to it as you did to procuring your kopeck! . . . and knew how to sacrifice to that good their own self-love and ambition, without sparing themselves, as you did not spare yourself in procuring your kopeck! ..."

"Afanasy Vassilyevich!" said poor Chichikov, seizing both of his hands in his own. "Oh, if I could manage to be set free, to get back my property! I swear to you, I would henceforth lead a completely different life! Save me, benefactor, save me!"

"But what can I do? I would have to fight with the law. Even supposing I ventured to do it, the prince is a just man, he will never back down."

"Benefactor! you can do anything. I'm not afraid of the law—I can find ways to deal with the law—but the fact that I've been thrown into jail innocently, that I will perish here like a dog, and that my property, my papers, my chest. . . save me!"

He embraced the old man's legs and wetted them with his tears.

"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich, Pavel Ivanovich!" old Murazov kept saying, shaking his head. "How blinded you are by this property! Because of it, you don't even hear your own poor soul!"

"I'll think about my soul, too, only save me!"

"Pavel Ivanovich!" old Murazov said and stopped. "To save you is not in my power—you can see that yourself. But I'll try to do all I can to alleviate your lot and set you free. I don't know whether I'll succeed, but I'll try. And if perchance I do succeed, Pavel Ivanovich, then I'll ask a reward from you for my labors: drop all these attempts at these acquisitions. I tell you in all honesty that even if I lost all my property—and I have much more than you do—I wouldn't weep. By God, the point of the thing is not in this property, which can be confiscated, but in that which no one can steal and carry off! You have already lived enough in the world. You yourself call your life a ship amidst the waves. You have enough already to live on for the rest of your days. Settle yourself in some quiet corner, near a church and simple, good people; or, if you're burning with desire to leave posterity behind you, marry a good girl, not rich, accustomed to moderation and simple household life. Forget this noisy world and all its seductive fancies; let it forget you, too. There is no peace in it. You see: everything in it is either an enemy, a tempter, or a traitor."

Chichikov fell to thinking. Something strange, some hitherto unknown feelings, inexplicable to himself, came to him: as if something wanted to awaken in him, something suppressed since childhood by stern, dead precepts, by the inimicalness of a dull childhood, the desolateness of his family home, by familyless solitude, abjectness, and a poverty of first impressions, by the stern glance of fate, which looked dully at him through some clouded window buried under a wintry blizzard.

"Only save me, Afanasy Vassilyevich," he cried out. "I'll lead a different life, I'll follow your advice! Here's my word on it!"

"Watch out now, Pavel Ivanovich, don't go back on your word," Murazov said, holding his hand.

"I might go back on it, if it weren't for such a terrible lesson," poor Chichikov said with a sigh, and added: "But the lesson is a harsh one; a harsh, harsh lesson, Afanasy Vassilyevich!"

"It's good that it's harsh. Thank God for that, pray to Him. I'll go and do what I can for you."

With these words the old man left.

Chichikov no longer wept or tore his tailcoat and his hair: he calmed down.

"No, enough!" he said finally, "a different, different life. It's really time to become a decent man. Oh, if only I could somehow extricate myself and still be left with at least a little capital, I'd settle far away from . . . And the deeds? ...” He thought: "What, then? why abandon this business, acquired with such labor? ... I won't buy any more, but I must mortgage those. The acquisition cost me labor! I'll mortgage them, I will, in order to buy an estate. I'll become a landowner, because here one can do much good." And in his mind there awakened those feelings which had come over him when he was at Kostanzhoglo's, listening to his host's nice, intelligent conversation, in the warm evening light, about how fruitful and useful estate management is. The country suddenly appeared so beautiful to him, as if he were able to feel all the charms of country life.

"We're all stupid, chasing after vanity!" he said finally. "Really, it comes from idleness! Everything's near, everything's close at hand, yet we run to some far-off kingdom. Is it not life, if one is occupied, be it even in a remote corner? The pleasure indeed consists in labor. And nothing's sweeter than the fruit of one's own labors . . . No, I'll occupy myself with labor, I'll settle in the country and occupy myself honestly, so as to have a good influence on others as well. What, am I really such a good-for-nothing? I have abilities for management; I possess the qualities of thrift, efficiency, reasonableness, and even constancy. Once I make up my mind, I feel I have them. Only now do I feel truly and clearly that there exists a certain duty that man must fulfill on earth, without tearing himself away from the place and corner he has been put in."

And a life of labor, far removed from the noise of the cities and those seductions invented in his idleness by the man who has forgotten labor, began to picture itself to him so vividly that he almost forgot the whole unpleasantness of his situation, and was, perhaps, even ready to give thanks to Providence for this harsh lesson, if only he were let go and at least part of his money were returned to him. But. . . the single-leafed door of his unclean closet opened and in walked an official person—Samosvistov, an epicure, a daredevil, an excellent friend, a carouser, and a cunning beast, as his own friends called him. In time of war this man might have done wonders: if he had been sent to sneak through some impassable, dangerous places, to steal a cannon right out from under the enemy's nose—it would have been just the thing for him. But, for lack of a military career in which he might have been an honest man, he did dirty and mucked things up. Inconceivably, he was good with his friends, never sold anyone, and, once he gave his word, he kept it; but his own superiors he regarded as something like an enemy battery which one had to make one's way through, taking advantage of every weak spot, breach, or negligence . . .

"We know all about your situation, we've heard everything!" he said, once he saw that the door was tightly shut behind him. "Never mind, never mind! Don't lose heart: it will all be fixed up. Everything will work out for you and—your humble servants! Thirty thousand for us all—and nothing more."

"Really?" Chichikov cried out. "And I'll be completely vindicated?"

"Roundly! and get a nice reward for your losses."

"And for your efforts?..."

"Thirty thousand. It goes to everyone—our boys, and the Governor-general's, and the secretary."

"But, excuse me, how can I? All my things . . . my chest. . . it's all sealed now, under surveillance ...”

"You'll have it all within the hour. It's a deal, then?"

Chichikov gave him his hand. His heart was pounding, and he had no trust that it was possible . . .

"Good-bye for now! Our mutual friend asked me to tell you that the main thing is—calm and presence of mind."

"Hm!" thought Chichikov, "I understand: the lawyer!"

Samosvistov disappeared. Chichikov, left alone, still did not trust his words, when, less than an hour after this conversation, the chest was brought: papers, money, and all in the best order. Samosvistov had come as an administrator: reprimanded the guards for lack of vigilance, ordered more soldiers set to strengthen the watch, not only took the chest, but even selected all the papers that could in any way compromise Chichikov; tied it all together, sealed it, and told a soldier to take it immediately to Chichikov himself in the guise of things necessary for the night and for sleeping, so that along with the papers, Chichikov also even received all the warm things needed to cover his mortal body. This speedy delivery delighted him unutterably. He acquired great hope, and again was already imagining all sorts of attractions: theater in the evening, a dancer he was dangling after. The country and its quiet paled; town and noise again grew more vivid, clear . . . Oh, life!

And meanwhile a case of boundless proportions was developing in the courts and chambers. The pens of scriveners worked away and, taking sniffs of tobacco, the quibbling heads labored, admiring, like artists, each scrawly line. The lawyer, like a hidden magician, invisibly controlled the whole mechanism; he entangled decidedly everyone, before anyone had time to look around. The tangle increased. Samosvistov surpassed himself in his unheard-of courage and boldness. Having found out where the seized woman was being kept, he went straight there and entered with the air of such a dashing fellow and superior that the sentinel saluted him and stood at attention.

"Have you been here long?"

"Since morning, sir!"

"How soon will you be relieved?"

"Three hours, sir!"

"I shall need you. I'll tell the officer to detail someone else instead."

"Yes, sir!"

And, going home, without delaying a moment, to avoid mixing with anyone and to have all ends buried, he dressed himself up as a gendarme, tricked out in mustache and side-whiskers– the devil himself could not have recognized him. Going to the house where Chichikov was, he seized the first wench he found there, handed her over to two daredevil officials, also in the know, and himself went straight to the sentinels, with mustache and rifle all in order:

"Go, the officer sent me to replace you." He exchanged places with the sentinel and stood there with his rifle.

This was just what was needed. Instead of the former woman, another was found there who knew and understood nothing. The former one was tucked away somewhere, so that afterwards nobody knew what had become of her. Meanwhile, as Samosvistov was pursuing his role as warrior, the lawyer was working wonders in the civilian area: he informed the governor indirectly that the prosecutor was writing a denunciation of him; he informed the police official that another official, living under cover, was writing denunciations of him; he assured the official living under cover that there was a still more undercover official who was informing on him—and drove them all into a situation where they had to turn to him for advice. A muddle of the following sort occurred: denunciation rode upon denunciation, and such things began to be discovered as the sun had never looked upon, and such as even did not exist at all. Everything was employed and made use of: who was an illegitimate son, and who had a mistress of what family and origin, and whose wife was dangling after whom. Scandals, temptations, and it all got so mixed up and intertwined with the story of Chichikov and the dead souls that it was quite impossible to grasp which of these affairs was the chief nonsense: both seemed of equal worth. When the documents finally began to reach the Governor-general, the poor prince could not understand a thing. The rather intelligent and efficient clerk who was charged with making an abstract almost lost his mind: it was quite impossible to grasp the threads of the affair. The prince was at that time preoccupied with a number of other matters, one more unpleasant than another. In one part of the province there was famine. The officials who were sent to distribute grain managed it somehow improperly. In another part of the province, the Old Believers were astir. Someone had spread it among them that an Antichrist had been born who would not leave even the dead alone and was buying up dead souls. People repented and sinned and, under the pretext of catching the Antichrist, bumped off some non-Antichrists. In another place, the muzhiks had rebelled against the landowners and police captains. Some tramps had spread rumors among them that a time was coming when peasants must be landowners and dress themselves up in tailcoats, and landowners must dress in simple caftans and be muzhiks—and the whole region, without considering that there would then be too many landowners and police captains, had refused to pay any taxes. There was need to resort to strong measures. The poor prince was in a very upset state of mind. At this moment it was announced to him that the tax farmer had come.

"Show him in," said the prince.

The old man came in . . .

"Here's your Chichikov! You stood up for him and defended him. Now he's been caught in such an affair as the worst thief wouldn't venture upon."

"Allow me to tell you, Your Excellency, that I do not quite understand this affair."

"A forged will, and such a one! . . . It's public flogging for a thing like that!"

"Your Excellency, I say this not to defend Chichikov. But the affair has not yet been proved: there has been no investigation."

"There is evidence: the woman who was dressed up in place of the deceased has been seized. I want to question her purposely in your presence." The prince rang and ordered the woman brought.

Murazov fell silent.

"A most dishonest affair! And, to their disgrace, the foremost officials of the town are mixed up in it, the governor himself. He ought not to turn up together with thieves and wastrels!" the prince said hotly.

"But the governor is one of the heirs, he has the right to make a claim; and if others are latching on to it from all sides, well, Your Excellency, that is a human thing. A rich woman died, sir, without making intelligent and just arrangements; so those eager to profit by it flew down from all sides—it's a human thing ..."

"But why such abominations? . . . The scoundrels!" the prince said with a feeling of indignation. "I don't have one good official: they are all scoundrels!"

"Your Excellency! who among us is as good as he ought to be? The officials of our town are all human, they have merits and many are quite knowledgeable, and no one is far removed from sin."

"Listen, Afanasy Vassilyevich, tell me, I know that you alone are an honest man, what is this passion of yours for defending all sorts of scoundrels?"

"Your Excellency," said Murazov, "whoever the man may be whom you call a scoundrel, he is still a human being. How not defend a man if you know that he does half his evil out of coarseness and ignorance? For we do unjust things at every step, and at every moment are the cause of another's misfortune, and not even with any bad intention. You, Your Excellency, have also committed a great injustice."

"What!" the prince exclaimed in amazement, completely struck by such an unexpected turn in the talk.

Murazov paused, fell silent, as if pondering something, and finally said:

"Well, let's say for instance in the Derpennikov [That is, Tentetnikov, called Derpennikov in Gogol's early drafts.—Trans.]case."

"Afanasy Vassilyevich! A crime against the fundamental laws of the state, tantamount to the betrayal of one's country!"

"I am not justifying him. But is it fair when a youth who in his inexperience was seduced and lured by others is judged on a par with someone who was one of the instigators? The same lot fell to Derpennikov as to some Voronoy-Dryannoy; [69]69
  Voronoy-Dryannoy is a highly implausible last name combining "raven-black" and "trashy."


[Закрыть]but their crimes are not the same."