Dead Souls

  “Master! wouldn’t you like a snack?” the old woman said, coming up to him just then.

  “Nothing. Eh, brother, how we caroused! As a matter of fact, bring me a glass of vodka. What kind have you got?”

  “Aniseed,” replied the old woman.

  “Make it aniseed, then,” said Nozdryov.

  “Bring me a glass, too,” said the fair-haired one.

  “In the theater one actress sang so well, the scamp, just like a canary! Kuvshinnikov is sitting next to me. ‘Hey, brother,’ he says, ‘how about a little strawberrying!’ Of booths alone I think there must have been fifty. Fenardi13 spun around like a windmill for four hours.” Here he received a glass from the hands of the old woman, who gave him a low bow for it. “Ah, bring him here!” he shouted, seeing Porfiry come in with the puppy. Porfiry was dressed just like his master, in a sort of striped smock of quilted cotton, but somewhat greasier.

  “Bring him, put him here on the floor!”

  Porfiry placed the puppy on the floor, who, splaying his four paws, sniffed the ground.

  “There’s the puppy!” said Nozdryov, taking him by the back and lifting him up with his hand. The puppy let out a rather pitiful howl.

  “You, however, did not do as I told you,” said Nozdryov, addressing Porfiry and carefully examining the puppy’s belly, “you didn’t even think of combing him out?”

  “No, I did comb him out.”

  “Why are there fleas, then?”

  “I’m not able to say. Possibly they crawled over somehow from the britzka.”

  “Lies, lies, you never even dreamed of combing him; I think, fool, that you even added some of your own. Look here, Chichikov, look, what ears, go ahead and feel them.”

  “But why, I can see as it is: a good breed!” replied Chichikov.

  “No, go ahead, feel his ears on purpose!”

  Chichikov, to please him, felt the ears, adding:

  “Yes, he’ll make a fine dog.”

  “And the nose, did you feel how cold it is? Hold your hand to it.”

  Not wishing to offend him, Chichikov also held his hand to the nose, saying:

  “Keen scent.”

  “A genuine bulldog,” Nozdryov went on. “I confess, I’ve long wanted to get my paws on a bulldog. Here, Porfiry, take him!”

  Porfiry took the puppy under the belly and carried him out to the britzka.

  “Listen, Chichikov, you absolutely must come to my place now, it’s just three miles away, we’ll be there in a wink, and then, if you please, you can also go to Sobakevich.”

  “Well, why not?” Chichikov thought to himself. “I may in fact go to Nozdryov’s. He’s no worse than the rest, a man like any other, and what’s more he just gambled his money away. He’s game for anything, as one can see, which means one may get something out of him gratis.”

  “All right, let’s go,” he said, “but, mind you, no delays, my time is precious.”

  “Well, dear heart, that’s more like it! That’s really nice, wait, I’m going to kiss you for that.” Here Chichikov and Nozdryov kissed each other. “Fine, then: we’ll drive off, the three of us!”

  “No, thank you very much, you’d better leave me out,” said the fair-haired one, “I must get home.”

  “Trifles, trifles, brother, I won’t let you go.”

  “Really, my wife will be angry; and now, look, you can switch over to his britzka.”

  “Tut, tut, tut! Don’t even think of it.”

  The fair-haired man was one of those people in whose character there is at first sight a certain obstinacy. Before you can open your mouth, they are already prepared to argue and, it seems, will never agree to anything that is clearly contrary to their way of thinking, will never call a stupid thing smart, and in particular will never agree to dance to another man’s tune; but it always ends up that there is a certain softness in their character, that they will agree precisely to what they had rejected, will call a stupid thing smart, and will then go off dancing their best to another man’s tune—in short, starts out well, ends in hell.

  “Nonsense!” said Nozdryov in response to some representation from the fair-haired one, put the cap on the man’s head, and—the fair-haired one followed after them.

  “You didn’t pay for the vodka, master …,” said the old woman.

  “Oh, all right, all right, dearie. Listen, in-law! pay her, if you please. I haven’t got a kopeck in my pocket.”

  “How much?” said the in-law.

  “Just twenty kopecks, dearie,” said the old woman.

  “Lies, lies. Give her half that, it’s more than enough for her.”

  “It’s a bit short, master,” said the old woman, though she took the money gratefully and hastened to run and open the door for them. She suffered no loss, since she had asked four times the price of the vodka.

  The travelers took their seats. Chichikov’s britzka drove alongside the britzka in which Nozdryov and his in-law were sitting, and therefore the three of them could freely converse with each other on the road. After them, constantly lagging behind, followed Nozdryov’s wretched carriage, drawn by the scrawny hired hacks. In it sat Porfiry with the puppy.

  As the conversation that the wayfarers conducted with each other is of no great interest for the reader, we shall do better if we tell something about Nozdryov himself, who will perhaps have occasion to play by no means the last role in our poem.

  The person of Nozdryov, surely, is already somewhat familiar to the reader. Everyone has met not a few such people. They are known as rollicksome fellows, have the reputation of boon companions already in childhood and at school, and for all that they sometimes get quite painfully beaten. In their faces one always sees something open, direct, daring. They strike up an acquaintance quickly, and before you can turn around they are already on personal terms with you. They embark on friendship, as it seems, forever; but it almost always happens that the new friend will pick a fight with them that same evening at a friendly party. They are always big talkers, revelers, daredevils, conspicuous folk. Nozdryov at thirty-five was exactly the same as he had been at eighteen and twenty: a great carouser. His marriage had not changed him a bit, especially as his wife soon departed for the next world, leaving him two youngsters whom he decidedly did not need. The children, however, were looked after by a pretty nanny. He could never sit for longer than a day at home. For several dozen miles around, his sharp nose could scent where there was a fair with all sorts of gatherings and balls; in the twinkling of an eye he was already there, arguing, causing a commotion at the green table, for, like all his kind, he had a passion for a little game of cards. He played his little game of cards, as we saw in the first chapter, not quite sinlessly and cleanly, knowing many different manipulations and other subtleties, and therefore the game very often ended with a game of another sort: either he would get booted about, or else a manipulation would be performed on his thick and very fine side-whiskers, so that he sometimes came home with side-whiskers only on one side, and rather thin ones at that. Yet his healthy and full cheeks were so well fashioned and contained in themselves so much generative force that his whiskers would soon grow again even better than before. And—what was strangest of all, what can happen only in Russia—not long afterwards he would again meet the friends who had thrashed him, and they would meet as if nothing had happened, and it was, as they say, fine with him, and fine with them.

  Nozdryov was in a certain respect a storied man. Not one gathering he attended went by without some story. Some sort of story inevitably occurred: either he was taken under the arm and removed from the hall by gendarmes, or his own friends were obliged to throw him out. And if that did not happen, then something else did, of a sort that never happened to others: either he would get so potted at the buffet that he could do nothing but laugh, or he would pour out such a wicked pack of lies that he would finally become ashamed himself. And he lied absolutely without any need: he would suddenly tell about a horse he had of some blue or pink c
olor, or similar nonsense, so that his listeners would all finally walk away, saying: “Well, brother, it seems you’ve started talking through your hat.” There exist people who have something of a passion for doing dirt to their neighbor, sometimes without any reason. One, for example, even a man of a certain rank, with a noble appearance, with a star on his breast, will press your hands, will get to talking with you about profound subjects that invite reflection, and then, lo and behold, right there, before your very eyes, he does you dirt. And he does you dirt like a mere collegiate registrar, not at all like a man with a star on his breast who talks about subjects that invite reflection, so that you just stand there marveling, shrugging your shoulders, and nothing more. Nozdryov, too, had this strange passion. The closer you got with him, the sooner he would muck things up for you: spread some cock-and-bull story, than which it would be hard to invent a stupider, thwart a wedding or a business deal, and yet by no means consider himself your enemy; on the contrary, if chance should bring him together with you again, he would again treat you in a friendly way, and even say: “What a scoundrel you are, you never come to see me.” Nozdryov was in many respects a many-sided man, that is, a Jack-of-all-trades. In the same moment he would offer to go with you wherever you please, even to the ends of the earth, join in any undertaking you like, trade whatever there was for whatever you like. A gun, a dog, a horse—everything was up for trade, but not at all with a view to gain: it came simply from some irrepressible briskness and friskiness of character. If he was lucky enough to come across a simpleton at a fair and beat him at cards, he would buy up a heap of all that had first caught his eye in the shops: yokes, scented candles, kerchiefs for the nanny, a colt, raisins, a silver washbasin, Holland linen, cake flour, tobacco, pistols, herring, paintings, a grindstone, crockery, boots, faïence dishes—for all the money he had. However, it rarely happened that these things got brought home; almost the same day it would all be gambled away to another, luckier player, sometimes even with the addition of his own pipe, tobacco pouch and mouthpiece included, or another time with his entire four-in-hand, everything included: coach and coachman—so that the master himself had to set out in a short frock coat or a striped smock to look for some friend and use his carriage. Such was Nozdryov! People may call him a trite character, they may say that Nozdryov is no more. Alas! mistaken will they be who say so. It will be long before Nozdryov passes from this world. He is among us everywhere, and is perhaps only wearing a different caftan; but people are light-mindedly unperceptive, and a man in a different caftan seems to them a different man.

  Meanwhile, the three carriages had already driven up to the porch of Nozdryov’s house. No preparations had been made in the house for receiving them. In the middle of the dining room stood wooden trestles, and two muzhiks were standing on them, whitewashing the walls, intoning some endless song; the floor was all spattered with whitewash. Nozdryov straightaway ordered the muzhiks and trestles out and ran to the other room to give commands. The guests heard him ordering dinner from the cook; realizing this, Chichikov, who was already beginning to feel slightly hungry, understood that they would not sit down to table before five o’clock. Nozdryov, returning to his guests, took them around to look at everything there was to be seen on his estate, and in a little over two hours had shown them decidedly everything, so that there was nothing else left to show. First of all they went to look at the stables, where they saw two mares, one a dapple-gray, the other a light chestnut, then a bay stallion, a homely sight, but for whom Nozdryov swore by God he had paid ten thousand.

  “You didn’t pay ten thousand for him,” the in-law observed. “He’s not worth even one.”

  “By God, I paid ten thousand,” said Nozdryov.

  “You can swear by God all you want,” the in-law replied.

  “Well, if you want, we can bet on it!” said Nozdryov.

  The in-law did not want to bet.

  Then Nozdryov showed them the empty stalls where there had also been good horses once. In the same stable they saw a billy goat, which, according to an old belief, it was considered necessary to keep with horses, and who seemed to be getting along well with them, strolling under their bellies as if he was right at home. Then Nozdryov took them to see a wolf cub that he kept tied up. “There’s the wolf cub!” he said. “I feed him raw meat on purpose. I want to make an utter beast of him!” They went to look at the pond, in which, according to Nozdryov’s words, there lived fish so big that it was hard for two men to pull one out, which the relative, however, did not fail to doubt. “I’m going to show you, Chichikov,” said Nozdryov, “a most excellent pair of dogs: the strength of their hunkers simply fills one with amazement, their snouts are like needles!”—and he led them to a very prettily constructed little house, surrounded by a big yard fenced on all sides. Having entered the yard, they saw there all sorts of dogs, longhaired and short-haired, of every possible color and coat: tawny, black and tan, tan-spotted, tawny-spotted, red-spotted, black-eared, gray-eared … There were all sorts of names, all sorts of imperatives: Shoot, Scold, Flutter, Fire, Fop, Boast, Roast, Coast, Arrow, Swallow, Prize, Patroness. Nozdryov was amid them just like a father amid his family; they all shot up their tails, which dog fanciers calls sweeps, flew straight to meet the guests, and began to greet them. A good ten of them put their paws on Nozdryov’s shoulders. Scold displayed the same friendliness towards Chichikov and, getting up on his hind legs, licked him right on the lips with his tongue, so that Chichikov straightaway spat. They looked at the dogs that filled one with amazement with the strength of their hunkers—fine dogs they were. Then they went to look at a Crimean bitch that was now blind and, according to Nozdryov, would soon die, but some two years ago had been a very fine bitch; they looked at the bitch as well—the bitch was, indeed, blind. Then they went to look at a water mill with a missing flutterer, in which the upper millstone is set and turns rapidly on a spindle—“flutters,” in the wonderful expression of the Russian muzhik.

  “And soon we’ll be coming to the smithy!” said Nozdryov.

  Going on a bit further, they indeed saw a smithy; and they looked at the smithy as well.

  “In this field here,” said Nozdryov, pointing his finger at the field, “it’s so thick with hares you can’t see the ground; I myself caught one by the hind legs with my bare hands.”

  “No, you couldn’t catch a hare with your bare hands!” observed the in-law.

  “But I did catch one, I caught one on purpose!” replied Nozdryov. “Now,” he went on, turning to Chichikov, “I’ll take you for a look at the boundary where my land ends.”

  Nozdryov led his guests across the field, which in many places consisted of tussocks. The guests had to make their way between fallow land and ploughed fields. Chichikov was beginning to get tired. In many places water squeezed out from under their feet, so low-lying the place was. At first they were careful and stepped cautiously, but then, seeing that it served no purpose, they plodded straight on without choosing between greater and lesser mud. Having gone a considerable distance, they indeed saw a boundary, which consisted of a wooden post and a narrow ditch.

  “There’s the boundary!” said Nozdryov. “Everything you see on this side of it is all mine, and even on that side, all that forest bluing over there, and all that’s beyond the forest, is all mine.”

  “And since when is that forest yours?” asked the in-law. “Did you buy it recently? It never used to be yours.”

  “Yes, I bought it recently,” replied Nozdryov.

  “When did you manage to buy it so quickly?”

  “Well, so I bought it two days ago, and paid a lot for it, too, devil take it.”

  “But you were at the fair then.”

  “Eh, you Sophron!14 Can’t a man be at a fair and buy land at the same time? So, I was at the fair, and my steward here bought it without me!”

  “Well, the steward maybe!” said the in-law, but here, too, he was doubtful and shook his head.

  The guests returned over
the same nasty route to the house. Nozdryov led them to his study, in which, however, there was no trace to be seen of what is usually found in studies, that is, books or papers; there hung only sabers and two guns—one worth three hundred and the other eight hundred roubles. The in-law, having examined them, merely shook his head. Then they were shown some Turkish daggers, on one of which there had been mistakenly engraved: Savely Sibiryakov, Cutler. After that, a barrel organ appeared before the guests. Nozdryov straightaway ground something out for them. The barrel organ played not unpleasantly, but something seemed to have happened inside it, for the mazurka ended with the song “Malbrough Went Off to War,”15 and “Malbrough Went Off to War” was unexpectedly concluded by some long-familiar waltz. Nozdryov had long stopped grinding, but there was one very perky reed in the organ that simply refused to quiet down, and for some time afterwards went on tooting all by itself. Then pipes appeared—of wood, clay, meerschaum, broken in and un-broken-in, covered with chamois and not covered, a chibouk with an amber mouthpiece recently won at cards, a tobacco pouch embroidered by some countess who had fallen head over heels in love with him somewhere at a posting station, whose hands, according to him, were most subdiminally superflu—a phrase that for him probably meant the peak of perfection. After a snack of balyk, they sat down to eat at around five o’clock. Dinner, obviously, did not constitute the main thing in Nozdryov’s life; the dishes did not play a big role: some were burnt, some were totally underdone. It was obvious that the cook was guided more by some sort of inspiration and put in the first thing he laid his hands on: if pepper was standing there, he poured in pepper; if there happened to be cabbage, he stuck in cabbage; he threw in milk, ham, peas—in short, slapdash, as long as it was hot, and some sort of taste was bound to result. Instead, Nozdryov applied himself to the wines: the soup had not yet been served, and he had already poured his guests a big glass of port, and another of ho-sauterne,16 because in provincial and district capitals plain sauterne is not to be found. Then Nozdryov called for a bottle of madeira, than which no field marshal ever tasted better. The madeira, indeed, even burned the mouth, for the merchants, knowing the taste of landowners who like fine madeira, doctored it unmercifully with rum, and sometimes even poured aqua regia into it, in hopes that the Russian stomach could endure anything. Then Nozdryov called for some special bottle which, according to him, was burgognon and champagnon in one. He poured very zealously into both glasses, to his right and to his left, for his inlaw and for Chichikov. Chichikov noticed, however, somehow by the way, that he did not pour much for himself. This put him on his guard, and as soon as Nozdryov got somehow distracted, talking or pouring for his in-law, he would at once empty his glass onto his plate. After a short while, a rowanberry liqueur was brought to the table, which, according to Nozdryov, tasted altogether like cream, but which, amazingly, gave off a potent smell of moonshine. They then drank some sort of cordial, which had a name that was even difficult to remember, and which the host himself next time called by some different name. Dinner had long been over, and the wines had all been tried, but the guests were still sitting at the table. Chichikov by no means wanted to begin talking with Nozdryov about the main subject in the inlaw’s presence. After all, the in-law was a third party, and the subject called for private and friendly conversation. However, the in-law could hardly be a dangerous man, because he seemed to have gotten fairly loaded, and kept nodding as he sat in his chair. Noticing himself that he was in rather unreliable condition, he finally started asking to go home, but in such a lazy and languid voice as though he were, as the Russian saying goes, pulling a collar on a horse with a pair of pliers.