Текст книги "Dead Souls"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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"Kindly do not worry so for my sake, I will go in after," Chichikov said.

"No, Pavel Ivanovich, no, you are a guest," Manilov said, motioning him to the door with his hand.

"Do not trouble yourself, please, do not trouble yourself. Go in, please," Chichikov said.

"No, excuse me, I will not allow such an agreeable, well-educated guest to go in after me."

"Why well-educated? . . . Go in, please."

"Ah, no, you go in, please."

"But why?"

"Ah, but, just because!" Manilov said with an agreeable smile.

Finally the two friends went through the door sideways, squeezing each other slightly.

"Allow me to introduce you to my wife," said Manilov. "Sweetie! Pavel Ivanovich!"

Chichikov indeed saw a lady whom he had entirely failed to notice at first, as he was exchanging bows with Manilov in the doorway. She was not bad-looking and was dressed becomingly. Her housecoat of pale-colored silk sat well on her; her small, slender hand hastily dropped something on the table and clutched a cambric handkerchief with embroidered corners. She rose from the sofa on which she was sitting; Chichikov, not without pleasure, went up to kiss her hand. Mrs. Manilov said, even with a slightly French r, [5]5
  Russians sometimes affected the uvular French rwhen speaking their own language, thinking it a sign of gentility.


[Закрыть]that they were very glad he had come, and that no day went by without her husband's remembering him.

"Yes," Manilov chimed in, "she indeed kept asking me: 'But why does your friend not come?' 'Wait a bit, sweetie, he will come.' And now at last you've honored us with your visit. It is truly such a delight... a May day ... a heart's feast..."

When Chichikov heard that things had already gone as far as a heart's feast, he even became slightly embarrassed, and replied modestly that he had neither a renowned name, nor even any notable rank.

"You have everything," Manilov interrupted with the same agreeable smile, "everything, and even more besides."

"How do you find our town?" Mrs. Manilov chimed in. "Have you spent an agreeable time there?"

"A very good town, a wonderful town," replied Chichikov, "and my time there has been very agreeable: the society is most mannerly."

"And what do you think of our governor?" said Mrs. Manilov.

"A most respectable and amiable man, isn't it true?" Manilov added.

"Absolutely true," said Chichikov, "a most respectable man. And how well he enters into his duty, how he understands it! We can only wish for more such people!"

"And, you know, he has such a way of receiving everyone, of observing delicacy in all he does," Manilov appended with a smile, narrowing his eyes almost completely with pleasure, like a cat that has been tickled lightly behind the ears with a finger.

"A very mannerly and agreeable man," continued Chichikov, "and so artistic! I even never could have imagined it. How well he embroiders various household patterns! He showed me a purse he made: it's a rare lady that can embroider so artfully."

"And the vice-governor, such a dear man, isn't it true?" said Manilov, again narrowing his eyes slightly.

"A very, very worthy man," responded Chichikov.

"And, permit me, how do you find the police chief? A very agreeable man, isn't it true?"

"Exceedingly agreeable, and such an intelligent, such a well-read man! I played whist at his place with the prosecutor and the head magistrate till the last cockcrow—a very, very worthy man."

"And what is your opinion of the police chief's wife?" Mrs. Manilov added. "A most amiable woman, isn't it true?"

"Oh, she is one of the worthiest women I have ever known," replied Chichikov.

Whereupon they did not omit the head magistrate, the postmaster, and in this manner went through almost all the town's officials, all of whom turned out to be most worthy people.

"Do you spend all your time in the country?" Chichikov finally put a question in his turn.

"Mainly in the country," replied Manilov. "Sometimes, however, we go to town, if only so as to meet educated people. One grows wild, you know, if one lives in seclusion all the time."

"True, true," said Chichikov.

"Of course," Manilov continued, "it's another thing if one has a nice neighbor, if one has, for example, the sort of man with whom one can in some way discuss matters of courtesy, of good manners, keep up with some sort of science or other, so as somehow to stir the soul, to lend it, so to speak, a sort of soaring ..." Here he wished to express something further, but noticing that he was running off at the mouth, he merely scooped the air with his hand and went on: "Then, of course, the country and its solitude would have a great deal of agreeableness. But there is decidedly no one . . . One merely reads the Son of the Fatherland [6]6
  The Son of the Fatherlandwasa reactionary political and literary review published in Petersburg between 1812 and 1852.


[Закрыть]occasionally."

Chichikov agreed with this completely, adding that nothing could be more pleasant than to live in solitude, enjoy the spectacle of nature, and occasionally read some book . . .

"But, you know," Manilov added, "still, if there is no friend with whom one can share ..."

"Oh, that is correct, that is perfectly correct!" Chichikov interrupted. "What are all the treasures of the world then! 'Keep not money, but keep good people's company,' the wise man said."

"And you know, Pavel Ivanovich!" Manilov said, showing on his face an expression not merely sweet but even cloying, like the mixture a shrewd society doctor sweetens unmercifully, fancying it will please his patient. "Then one feels a sort of spiritual delight, in some way... As now, for instance, when chance has given me the, one might say, exemplary happiness of talking with you and enjoying your agreeable conversation ...”

"Good gracious, what agreeable conversation? . . . An insignificant man, nothing more," responded Chichikov.

"Oh! Pavel Ivanovich, allow me to be frank: I would gladly give half of all I possess for a portion of the virtues that are yours! ..."

"On the contrary, I, for my part, would regard it as the greatest..."

There is no knowing what the mutual outpouring of feelings between the two friends would have come to, if an entering servant had not announced that the meal was ready.

"I beg you to join us," said Manilov. "You will excuse us if we do not have such a dinner as on parquet floors and in capitals, we simply have, after the Russian custom, cabbage soup, but from the bottom of our hearts. Join us, I humbly beg you."

Here they spent some more time arguing over who should go in first, and Chichikov finally entered the dining room sideways.

In the dining room there already stood two boys, Manilov's sons, who were of the age when children already sit at the table, but still on raised seats. By them stood their tutor, who bowed politely and with a smile. The hostess sat down to her soup tureen; the guest was seated between the host and the hostess, the servant tied napkins around the children's necks.

"Such dear little children," said Chichikov, having looked at them, "and of what ages?"

"The older one is going on eight, and the younger one turned six just yesterday," said Mrs. Manilov.

"Themistoclus!" said Manilov, addressing the older boy, who was making efforts to free his chin from the napkin the lackey had tied around it.

Chichikov raised an eyebrow slightly on hearing this partly Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov gave the ending "-us," but tried at once to bring his face back to its usual state.

"Themistoclus, tell me, what is the best city in France?"

Here the tutor turned all his attention on Themistoclus and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but calmed himself at last and nodded when Themistoclus said: "Paris."

"And what is our best city?" Manilov asked again.

The tutor again tuned up his attention.

"Petersburg," replied Themistoclus.

"And besides that?"

"Moscow," replied Themistoclus.

"The smarty! The sweetie!" Chichikov said to that. "No, really . . . ," he continued, turning to the Manilovs with a look of some amazement, "such knowledge, at such an age! I must tell you, this child will have great abilities."

"Oh, you still don't know him," responded Manilov, "he has an exceeding amount of wit. The younger one now, Alkides, this one is not so quick, but that one, as soon as he meets something, a bug or a gnat, his eyes suddenly start rolling; he runs after it and investigates it at once. I intend him for the diplomatic line. Themistoclus," he went on, again addressing the boy, "want to be an ambassador?"

"Yes," replied Themistoclus, chewing his bread and wagging his head right and left.

At that moment the lackey who was standing behind him wiped the ambassador's nose, and it was a good thing he did, otherwise a rather sizable extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup. The conversation at table turned to the pleasures of the quiet life, interrupted by the hostess's observations about the town's theater and its actors. The tutor very attentively watched the talkers, and, as soon as he observed that they were about to smile, opened his mouth that same instant and diligently laughed. Most likely he was a grateful man and wanted thus to repay the master for his good treatment. Once, however, his face assumed a severe look and he rapped sternly on the table, aiming his glance at the children sitting across from him. This was appropriate, because Themistoclus had bitten Alkides' ear, and Alkides, screwing up his eyes and opening his mouth, was about to howl in a most pathetic way, but sensing that for that he could easily be deprived of one course, he returned his mouth to its former position and tearfully began gnawing on a lamb bone, which made both his cheeks shiny with grease. The hostess turned to Chichikov very frequently with the words: "You don't eat anything, you've taken very little." To which Chichikov would reply each time: "I humbly thank you, I'm full, agreeable conversation is better than any food."

They had already risen from the table. Manilov was exceedingly pleased and, supporting his guest's back with his arm, was preparing to escort him thus into the drawing room, when the guest suddenly announced with a rather significant air that he intended to discuss with him a certain very necessary matter.

"In that case allow me to invite you to my study," said Manilov, and he led him to a small room with a window looking out on the bluing forest. "Here's my little corner," said Manilov.

"An agreeable little room," said Chichikov, looking it over.

The room was, indeed, not without agreeableness: walls painted a pretty light blue like a sort of gray, four chairs, one armchair, a table, on which lay the book with the bookmark in it, of which we have already had occasion to make mention, several scribbled-on sheets of paper, but mainly there was tobacco. It was in various forms: in paper packets, in the tobacco jar, and, finally, simply poured out in a heap on the table. On both windowsills were also placed little piles of knocked-out pipe ash, arranged not without assiduousness in very handsome rows. It could be observed that this sometimes provided the host with a pastime.

"Allow me to invite you to settle yourself in this armchair," said Manilov. "You'll be more comfortable here."

"I'll sit on a straight chair, if you'll allow me."

"Allow me not to allow you," Manilov said with a smile. "This armchair is reserved for guests: whether you like it or not, you'll have to sit in it."

Chichikov sat down.

"Allow me to treat you to a little pipe."

"No, I don't smoke," Chichikov replied tenderly and as if with an air of regret.

"Why not?" said Manilov, also tenderly and with an air of regret.

"I'm not in the habit, I'm afraid; they say the pipe dries one up."

"Allow me to point out to you that that is a prejudice. I even suppose that to smoke a pipe is much healthier than to take snuff. There was a lieutenant in our regiment, a most wonderful and most educated man, who never let the pipe out of his mouth, not only at table but even, if I may be allowed to say so, in all other places. And here he is now already forty-some years old, and yet, thank God, he's still as healthy as can be."

Chichikov observed that that did indeed happen, and that there were many things in nature which were inexplicable even for a vast mind.

"But first allow me one request. . . ," he uttered in a voice that rang with some strange or almost strange expression, and after that, for no apparent reason, he looked behind him. Manilov, too, for no apparent reason, looked behind him. "How long ago were you so good as to file your census report?"

"Oh, long ago now; or, rather, I don't remember."

"And since that time how many of your peasants have died?"

"I have no way of knowing; that's something I suppose you must ask the steward. Hey, boy! call the steward, he should be here today."

The steward appeared. He was a man approaching forty, who shaved his beard, wore a frock coat, and apparently led a very comfortable life, because his face had about it the look of a certain puffy plumpness, and his little eyes and the yellowish tint of his skin showed that he knew all too well what goose down and feather beds were. One could see at once that he had made his way in life as all estate stewards do: had first been simply a literate boy about the house, then married some housekeeper Agashka, the mistress's favorite, became a housekeeper himself, and then steward. And having become steward, he behaved, naturally, like all stewards: hobnobbed with villagers of the wealthier sort; put additional taxes on the poorer ones; woke up past eight in the morning, waited for the samovar, and drank his tea.

"Listen, my good man! how many of our peasants have died since we filed the census report?"

"Who knows? Quite a lot have died since then," said the steward, and with that he hiccuped, covering his mouth slightly with his hand, as with a little screen.

"Yes, I confess, I thought so myself," Manilov picked up, "precisely, quite a lot have died!" Here he turned to Chichikov and added again: "Exactly, quite a lot."

"How many, for instance?" asked Chichikov.

"Yes, how many?" picked up Manilov.

"Who knows how many? It's not known what number died, nobody counted them."

"Yes, precisely," said Manilov, turning to Chichikov, "I thought so, too, a high mortality; it's quite unknown how many died."

"Count them all up, please," said Chichikov, "and make a detailed list of them all by name."

"Yes, all by name," said Manilov.

The steward said "Yes, sir!" and left.

"And for what reasons do you need this?" Manilov asked after the steward had gone.

This question, it seemed, embarrassed the guest, on whose face there appeared a sort of strained expression, which even made him blush—the strain of expressing something not quite amenable to words. And, indeed, Manilov finally heard such strange and extraordinary things as had never yet been heard by human ears.

"You ask, for what reasons? These are the reasons: I would like to buy peasants . . . ," Chichikov said, faltered, and did not finish his speech.

"But allow me to ask you," said Manilov, "how do you wish to buy them: with land, or simply to have them resettled—that is, without land?"

"No, it's not quite peasants," said Chichikov, "I would like to have dead ..."

"How's that, sir? Excuse me . . . I'm somewhat hard of hearing, I thought I heard a most strange word ..."

"I propose to acquire dead ones, who would, however, be counted in the census as living," said Chichikov.

Manilov straightaway dropped his long-stemmed chibouk on the floor, and as his mouth gaped open, so he remained with gaping mouth for the course of several minutes. The two friends, who had been discussing the agreeableness of the life of friendship, remained motionless, their eyes fixed on each other, like those portraits which in the old days used to be hung facing each other on either side of a mirror. Finally Manilov picked up the chibouk and looked into his face from below, trying to see whether there was a smile on his face, whether he was joking; but there was nothing of the sort to be seen; on the contrary, the face seemed even more staid than usual; then he thought his guest might by chance have gone off his head somehow, and in fear he looked intently at him; but the guest's eyes were completely clear, there was in them none of the wild, anguished fire that flickers in the eyes of a madman, everything was decent and in order. However hard Manilov thought about how to behave and what to do, he could think up nothing other than simply to release the remaining smoke from his mouth in a very thin stream.

"And so, I would like to know whether you might turn over to me, cede, or however you deem best, those not alive in reality, but alive with respect to legal form?"

But Manilov was so abashed and confused that he simply stared at him.

"It seems you're hesitant... ?" observed Chichikov.

"I? . . . no, it's not that," said Manilov, "but I cannot grasp . . . excuse me ... I, of course, could not have received such a brilliant education as is perceivable, so to speak, in your every movement; I have no lofty art of expression . . . Here, it may be ... in this explanation just expressed by you . . . something else is concealed ... It may be that you were pleased to express it thus for the beauty of the style?"

"No," Chichikov picked up, "no, I mean the subject just as it is, that is, those souls which, indeed, have already died."

Manilov was utterly at a loss. He felt he had to say something, to offer a question, but what question—devil knew. He finished finally by letting out smoke again, only not through his mouth this time, but through the nostrils of his nose.

"And so, if there are no obstacles, with God's help we can proceed to draw up the deed of purchase," said Chichikov.

"What, a deed for dead souls?"

"Ah, no!" said Chichikov. "We will write that they are living, just as it actually stands in the census report. It is my habit never to depart from civil law in anything, though I did suffer for it in the service, but do excuse me: duty is a sacred thing for me, the law—I stand mute before the law."

These last words pleased Manilov, but all the same he by no means caught the drift of the matter itself, and instead of an answer began sucking so hard on his chibouk that it finally started wheezing like a bassoon. It seemed as if he wanted to pull from it an opinion concerning such an unheard-of circumstance; but the pipe wheezed, and that was all.

"It may be that you have some sort of doubts?"

"Oh! good gracious, not a whit. What I say of it is not because I might have some, that is, critical prejudication about you. But allow me to state, won't this undertaking, or, to better express it, so to speak, this negotiation—won't this negotiation be inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia?"

Here Manilov, having made a certain movement with his head, looked very meaningly into Chichikov's face, showing in all the features of his own face and in his compressed lips such a profound expression as, it may be, has never yet been seen on a human face, except perhaps of some very clever minister, and then in the moment of a most brain-racking affair.

But Chichikov said simply that such an undertaking, or negotiation, was by no means inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia, and a moment later added that the treasury would even profit by it, for it would receive the legal fees.

"So you suppose ...”

"I suppose it will be a good thing."

"Ah, if it's good, that's another matter: I have nothing against it," said Manilov, and he calmed down completely.

"Now it remains to agree on the price."

"What price?" Manilov said again and paused. "Do you really think I will take money for souls which, in a certain sense, have ended their existence? If you have indeed been visited by this, so to speak, fantastic desire, then I, for my part, will turn them over to you disinterestedly and take the fees upon myself."

It would be a great reproach to the historian of the events set forth here if he failed to say that, after these words uttered by Manilov, the guest was overcome with delight. Staid and sensible though he was, he almost performed a leap after the manner of a goat, which, as we know, is performed only under the strongest impulses of joy. He turned so sharply in the armchair that the woolen fabric of the cushion burst; Manilov himself looked at him in some bewilderment. Moved by gratitude, he straightaway produced such a heap of thankful words that the other became confused, blushed all over, producing a negative gesture with his head, and finally expressed the opinion that it was a veritable nothing, that he indeed wanted to prove somehow his heart's inclination, the magnetism of the soul, and that the deceased souls were in a way sheer trash.

"By no means trash," said Chichikov, pressing his hand. Here a very profound sigh was emitted. It seemed he was in the mood for outpourings of the heart; not without feeling and expression he finally uttered the following words: "If you only knew what a service you have just rendered, with this ostensible trash, to a man without kith or kin! Yes, really and truly, is there anything I have not suffered? like some bark amidst the savage waves . . . How persecuted, how victimized I have been, what grief I have tasted, and for what? for having observed the truth, for being of pure conscience, for holding my hand out to the helpless widow and the hapless orphan! ...” At this point he even wiped away an impending tear with his handkerchief.

Manilov was thoroughly touched. The two friends pressed each other's hands for a long time and silently gazed for a long time into each other's eyes, in which welled-up tears could be seen. Manilov simply would not let our hero's hand go and went on pressing it so warmly that the latter could see no way of rescuing it. Finally, having quietly pulled it free, he said it would not be a bad thing to draw up the deed of purchase speedily, and it would be nice if he himself came to town for a visit. Then he took his hat and began bowing out.

"What? you want to leave already?" said Manilov, suddenly coming to himself and almost frightened.

At that moment Mrs. Manilov came into the study.

"Lizanka," said Manilov, with a somewhat pitiful look, "Pavel Ivanovich is leaving us!"

"Because Pavel Ivanovich is tired of us," replied Mrs. Manilov.

"Madame! here," said Chichikov, "here is the place"—and with that he put his hand over his heart—"yes, it is here that the agreeableness of the time spent with you will abide! and believe me, there could be no greater bliss for me than to live with you, if not in the same house, then at least in the nearest vicinity."

"You know, Pavel Ivanovich," said Manilov, who liked this thought very much, "it would indeed be so nice if we were to live somehow together, beneath one roof, or beneath the shade of some elm to philosophize about something, to delve deeper! ..."

"Oh! that would be a paradisal life!" said Chichikov, sighing. "Good-bye, madam!" he went on, coming up to kiss Mrs. Manilov's hand. "Good-bye, most esteemed friend! Don't forget my request!"

"Oh, rest assured!" replied Manilov. "I am parting with you for no longer than two days."

Everyone went out to the dining room.

"Good-bye, dear little ones!" said Chichikov, seeing Alkides and Themistoclus, who were occupied with some wooden hussar that already lacked an arm and a nose. "Good-bye, my tots. You must excuse me for not bringing you any presents, because, I confess, I didn't even know that you were living in the world, but now I'll be sure to bring something when I come. I'll bring you a sword—want a sword?"

"Yes," replied Themistoclus.

"And you a drum, right? a drum for you?" he went on, bending down to Alkides.

"Dwum," Alkides replied in a whisper, hanging his head.

"Fine, I'll bring you a drum. A real nice drum, it'll go like this: turrr . . . ru . . . tra-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta . . . Good-bye, sweetie, goodbye!" Here he kissed him on the head and turned to Manilov and his spouse with a little laugh, such as one commonly addresses to parents in letting them know the innocence of their children's wishes.

"Stay, really, Pavel Ivanovich!" Manilov said, when everyone had already come out on the porch. "Look, what clouds!"

"Tiny little clouds," replied Chichikov.

"And do you know the way to Sobakevich's?"

"I wanted to ask you about that."

"Allow me, I'll explain to your coachman right now." Here Manilov, with the same courtesy, explained the matter to the coachman and once even said "sir" to him.

The coachman, hearing that he should skip two turns and take the third, said, "We'll do fine, your honor"—and Chichikov left, accompanied for a long time by the bowing and handkerchief waving of his standing-on-tiptoe hosts.

Manilov stood for a long time on the porch, watching the departing britzka, and when it became quite invisible, he still stood there smoking his pipe. Finally he went inside, sat down on a chair, and gave himself over to reflection, rejoicing in his soul at having given his guest some small pleasure. Then his thoughts imperceptibly turned to other subjects and finally went off God knows where. He was thinking about the well-being of a life of friendship, about how nice it would be to live with a friend on the bank of some river, then a bridge began to be built across this river, then an enormous house with such a high belvedere that one could even see Moscow from it and drink tea there of an evening in the open air while discussing agreeable subjects. Then that he and Chichikov arrived together at some gathering in fine carriages, where they enchanted everyone with the agreeableness of their manners, and that the sovereign, supposedly learning there was such friendship between them, made them generals, and beyond that, finally, God knows what, something he himself could no longer figure out. Chichikov's strange request suddenly interrupted all his reveries. The thought of it somehow especially refused to get digested in his head: whichever way he turned it, he simply could not explain it to himself, and all the while he sat and smoked his pipe, which went on right up to suppertime.