Dead Souls

  The general at first received Tentetnikov rather nicely and cordially; but they could not become completely close. Their conversations always ended with an argument and some unpleasant feeling on both sides. The general did not like to be contradicted or objected to, though at the same time he liked to talk even about things of which he had no knowledge. Tentetnikov, for his part, was also a ticklish man. However, a great deal was forgiven the father for the daughter’s sake, and their peace held until some of the general’s relatives came for a visit, the countess Boldyrev and the princess Yuzyakin—one a widow, the other an old maid, both erstwhile ladies-in-waiting, both chatterboxes, both gossips, of not entirely charming amiability, yet with important connections in Petersburg, and upon whom the general even fawned a bit. It seemed to Tentetnikov that since the very day of their arrival, the general had become somehow colder with him, scarcely noticed him, and treated him as a mute extra or a clerk employed for copying, the lowest sort. He called him now “brother,” now “my dear fellow,” and once even addressed him as “boy.” Andrei Ivanovich exploded; the blood rushed to his head. Teeth clenched and heart contrary, he nevertheless had enough presence of mind to say in an unusually courteous and gentle voice, as spots of color came to his cheeks and everything seethed inside him:

  “I must thank you, General, for your good disposition. By your manner of address you invite me and summon me to the most intimate friendship, obliging me, too, to address you similarly. But allow me to observe that I am mindful of our difference in age, which utterly rules out such familiarity between us.”

  The general was embarrassed. Collecting his words and thoughts, he began to say, albeit somewhat incoherently, that the familiarity had not been used in that sense, that it was sometimes permissible for an old man to address a young one in such fashion (he did not mention a word about his rank).

  Naturally, after that their acquaintance ceased, and love ended at its very beginning. Out went the light that had gleamed before him momentarily, and the gloom that followed became still gloomier. The sloth got into his dressing gown once again. Everything steered itself once again towards prostration and inaction. Nastiness and disorder came to the house. A broom stood for days on end in the middle of the room together with its sweepings. His trousers sometimes even stopped for a visit in the drawing room. On an elegant table in front of the sofa lay a pair of greasy suspenders, as a sort of treat for a guest, and so worthless and drowsy did his life become that not only did the house serfs stop respecting him, but even the barnyard chickens all but pecked him. He spent long hours impotently tracing doodles on paper—little houses, cottages, carts, troikas—or else writing “Dear Sir!” with an exclamation point in all sorts of hands and characters. And sometimes, all oblivious, the pen would trace of itself, without the master’s knowledge, a little head with fine, sharp features, with light, combed-up tresses, falling from behind the comb in long, delicate curls, young bared arms, as if flying off somewhere—and with amazement the master saw emerging the portrait of her whose portrait no artist could paint. And he would feel still sadder after that, and, believing that there was no happiness on earth, would remain dull and unresponsive for the rest of the day.

  Such were the circumstances of Andrei Ivanovich Tentetnikov. Suddenly one day, going up to the window in his usual way, with pipe and cup in hand, he noticed movement and a certain bustle in the yard. The scullion and the charwoman were running to open the gates, and in the gates horses appeared, exactly as they are sculpted or drawn on triumphal arches: a muzzle to the right, a muzzle to the left, a muzzle in the middle. Above them, on the box—a coachman and a lackey in a loose frock coat with a bandana tied around his waist. Behind them a gentleman in a peaked cap and an overcoat, wrapped in a rainbow-colored scarf. When the carriage wheeled around in front of the porch, it turned out to be nothing other than a light spring britzka. A gentleman of remarkably decent appearance jumped out onto the porch with the swiftness and adroitness of an almost military man.

  Andrei Ivanovich quailed. He took him to be an official from the government. It must be mentioned that in his youth he had been mixed up in a certain unreasonable affair. Some philosophers from the hussars, plus a former student and a ruined gambler, started a sort of philanthropic society, under the supreme leadership of an old crook—a mason, a cardsharper, a drunkard, and a most eloquent man. The society was set up with the purpose of bestowing solid happiness on all mankind from the banks of the Thames to Kamchatka. The cashbox required was enormous, the donations collected from magnanimous members were unbelievable. Where it all went, only the supreme leader knew. Tentetnikov had been drawn into it by two friends who belonged to the class of disgruntled men—good men, but who, from the frequent toasting of science, enlightenment, and progress, eventually became certified drunkards. Tentetnikov soon thought better of it and left this circle. But the society had already managed to get entangled in some other actions, even not entirely befitting a nobleman, so that later they also had to deal with the police … And so it was no wonder that, though he had left and broken all relations with the benefactor of mankind, Tentetnikov nevertheless could not remain at peace. His conscience was somewhat uneasy. Not without fear did he now watch the door opening.

  His fear, however, passed suddenly, as the visitor made his bows with unbelievable adroitness, keeping his head slightly inclined to one side in a respectful attitude. In brief but definite words he explained that he had long been traveling over Russia, urged both by necessity and by inquisitiveness; that our state abounds in remarkable objects, to say nothing of the beauty of places, the abundance of industries, and the diversity of soils; that he was attracted by the picturesque setting of his estate; that nevertheless, notwithstanding the picturesqueness of the setting, he would not have ventured to trouble him by his inopportune visit, if something had not happened to his britzka which called for a helping hand from blacksmiths and artisans; that for all that, nevertheless, even if nothing had happened to his britzka, he would have been unable to deny himself the pleasure of personally paying his respects.

  Having finished his speech, the visitor, with charming agreeableness, scraped with his foot, and, despite the plumpness of his body, straightaway made a little leap backwards with the lightness of a rubber ball.

  Andrei Ivanovich thought that this must be some inquisitive scholar and professor, who traveled over Russia with the purpose of collecting some sort of plants or even minerals. He expressed all possible readiness to be of assistance; offered his artisans, wheelwrights, and blacksmiths to repair the britzka; begged him to make himself at home; seated his courteous visitor in a big Voltaire armchair, and prepared himself to listen to him talk, doubtless on subjects of learning and natural science.

  The visitor, however, touched more upon events of the inner world. He started speaking about the adversities of fate; likened his life to a ship on the high seas, driven about by winds from every quarter; mentioned that he had had to change places and posts many times, that he had suffered much for the truth, that even his very life had more than once been in danger from enemies, and there was much else he said which let Tentetnikov see that his visitor was rather a practical man. In conclusion to it all he blew his nose into a white cambric handkerchief, so loudly that Andrei Ivanovich had never heard the like of it. Sometimes in an orchestra there is one rascally trumpet which, when it strikes up, seems to quack not in the orchestra but in one’s own ear. Exactly the same noise resounded in the awakened rooms of the dozing house, and was immediately followed by the fragrance of eau de cologne, invisibly diffused by an adroit shake of the cambric handkerchief.

  The reader has perhaps already guessed that the visitor was none other than our respected, long-abandoned Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov. He had aged slightly: one could see that the time had not been without storms and anxieties for him. It seemed as if the very tailcoat on him had aged slightly, and that the britzka, and the coachman, and the servant, and the horses, and the harness were all a
s if a bit more scuffed and worn. It seemed as if the finances themselves were not in an enviable state. But the expression of his face, the decency, the manners had remained the same. He had even become as if still more agreeable in his movements and ways, still more deftly tucked his feet under when sitting in an armchair; there was still more softness in the enunciation of his speech, more prudent moderation in his words and expressions, more skill in his comportment, and more tact in everything. Whiter and cleaner than snow were his collar and shirtfront, and though he had only just come from the road, there was not a bit of fluff on his tailcoat—fit even for a party! His cheeks and chin were so clean-shaven that only a blind man could fail to admire their pleasant prominence and roundness.

  In the house a transformation took place. Half of it, hitherto abiding in blindness, with nailed shutters, suddenly recovered its sight and lit up. Luggage began to be carried in from the britzka. Everything began to settle itself in the lighted rooms, and soon it all acquired the following look: the room that was to be the bedroom accommodated the things necessary for the evening toilet; the room that was to be the study … But first of all it should be known that there were three tables in this room: one a writing table in front of the sofa, the second a card table between the windows by the wall, the third a corner table in the corner between the door to the bedroom and the door to a large, uninhabited room filled with disabled furniture. This corner table accommodated the clothing taken from the trunk—namely, trousers to go with a tailcoat, trousers to go with a frock coat, gray trousers, two velvet waistcoats and two of satin, a frock coat, and two tailcoats. (The white piqué waistcoats and summer trousers joined the linen in the chest of drawers.) All of this was stacked up in a little pyramid and covered with a silk handkerchief. In another corner, between the door and the window, boots were lined up side by side: boots that were not quite new, boots that were quite new, boots with new uppers, and patent leather shoes. These, too, were modestly curtained off by a silk handkerchief, as if they were not there. On the table between the two windows the little chest found a place for itself. On the writing table in front of the sofa—a briefcase, a bottle of eau de cologne, sealing wax, toothbrushes, a new calendar, and a couple of novels, both second volumes. The clean linen was put into a chest of drawers that was already in the room; the linen that was to go to the washerwoman was tied in a bundle and shoved under the bed. The trunk, once it was unpacked, was also shoved under the bed. The sword, too, found its place in the bedroom, hanging on a nail not far from the bed. Both rooms acquired a look of extraordinary cleanness and neatness. Not a scrap, not a speck, not a bit of litter. The very air became somehow ennobled. In it there was established the pleasant smell of a healthy, fresh man, who does not wear his linen long, goes to the bathhouse, and wipes himself with a wet sponge on Sundays. In a vestibule, the smell of the servant Petrushka first presumed to establish itself, but Petrushka was promptly relocated to the kitchen where he belonged.

  For the first few days Andrei Ivanovich feared for his independence, lest his guest somehow bind him, hinder him with some changes in his way of life, and the order of his day, so happily established, be violated—but his fears were in vain. Our Pavel Ivanovich showed an extraordinary flexibility in adapting to everything. He approved of the philosophical unhurriedness of his host, saying that it promised a hundred-year life. About solitude he expressed himself rather felicitously—namely, that it nursed great thoughts in a man. Having looked at the library and spoken with great praise of books in general, he observed that they save a man from idleness. In short, he let fall few words, but significant. In his actions, he acted still more appropriately. He came on time, and he left on time; he did not embarrass his host with questions during the hours of his taciturnity; with pleasure he would play chess with him, with pleasure he would be silent. While the one was sending up curly clouds of pipe smoke, the other, not a pipe smoker, nevertheless invented a corresponding activity: he would, for instance, take from his pocket a silver niello snuffbox and, placing it between two fingers of his left hand, spin it quickly with a finger of the right, just as the earthly sphere spins on its axis, or else he would simply drum on the snuffbox with his fingers, whistling some tune or other. In short, he did not hinder his host in any way. “For the first time I see a man one can get along with,” Tentetnikov said to himself. “Generally we lack this art. There are plenty of people among us who are intelligent, and educated, and kind, but people who are constantly agreeable, people of a constantly even temper, people with whom one can live for ages without quarreling—I don’t know that we can find many such people! Here is the first, the only man I’ve seen!” Such was Tentetnikov’s opinion of his guest.

  Chichikov, for his part, was very glad to have settled for a while with such a peaceful and placid host. He was sick of the gypsy life. To have a bit of rest, at least for a month, on a wonderful estate, in view of the fields and the approaching spring, was useful even in the hemorrhoidal respect. It would have been hard to find a more reposeful little corner. Spring adorned it with an unutterable beauty. What brightness of green! What freshness of air! What birdcalls in the garden! Paradise, mirth, and exultant rejoicing in everything. The countryside resounded and sang as if newborn.

  Chichikov walked a lot. Sometimes he directed his steps over the flat top of the heights, with a view of the valleys spreading out below, where flooding rivers left big lakes everywhere; or else he would go into the ravines, where the trees, barely beginning to be adorned with leaves, were laden with birds’ nests—and be deafened by the cawing of crows, the chatter of jackdaws, and the croaking of rooks that darkened the sky with their crisscross flight; or else he went down to the water meadows and burst dams, to watch the water rush with a deafening noise and fall upon the wheels of a mill; or else he made his way further to the pier, from which, borne along by the current, the first boats rushed, laden with peas, oats, barley, and wheat; or he set out for the first spring work in the fields, to watch the freshly ploughed furrow cutting a black stripe through the green, or the deft sower casting handfuls of seed evenly, accurately, not letting a single seed fall to one side or the other. He had discussions with the steward, the muzhiks, the miller, talking of what and of how, and of whether the harvest would be good, and how the ploughing was going, and how much grain they sell, and what they charged for grinding flour in the spring and fall, and what was the name of each muzhik, and who was related to whom, and where he had bought his cow, and what he fed his sow on—in short, everything. He also found out how many muzhiks had died. Not many, it turned out. Being an intelligent man, he noticed at once that Andrei Ivanovich’s estate was not in good shape. Everywhere there was negligence, carelessness, theft, and not a little drunkenness. And mentally he said to himself: “What a brute Tentetnikov is, though! To so neglect an estate that could bring in at least fifty thousand a year!” And, unable to restrain his righteous indignation, he kept repeating: “Decidedly a brute!” More than once in the middle of these walks the thought occurred to him of himself becoming someday—that is, of course, not now but later on, when the main business was taken care of, and the means were in hand—of himself becoming the peaceful owner of such an estate. Here he usually pictured a young mistress, a fresh, fair-skinned wench, perhaps even of merchant class, though nonetheless educated and brought up like a gentlewoman—so that she also understood music, for, while music is, of course, not the main thing, still, since that is the custom, why go against the general opinion? He also pictured the younger generation that was to perpetuate the name of the Chichikovs: a frolicsome lad and a beautiful daughter, or even two boys, two or even three girls, so that everyone would know that he had indeed lived and existed, and had not merely passed over the earth like some shadow or ghost—so that there would be no shame before the fatherland. He even pictured that a certain addition to his rank would not be amiss: state councillor, for instance, is a venerable and respectable rank … And much came into his head of the sort that so of
ten takes a man away from the dull present moment, frets him, teases him, stirs him, and gives him pleasure even when he himself is sure that it will never come true.

  Pavel Ivanovich’s servants also liked the estate. Like him, they made themselves at home there. Petrushka very soon made friends with the butler Grigory, though at first they both put on airs and blustered before each other insufferably. Petrushka threw dust in Grigory’s eyes by saying that he had been in Kostroma, Yaroslavl, Nizhni Novgorod, and even Moscow; Grigory immediately pulled him up short with Petersburg, where Petrushka had never been. The latter tried to rise and get his own back with the considerable remoteness of the places he had been; but Grigory named a place for him such as could not be found on any map, and reckoned it was over twenty thousand miles away, so that Petrushka stood like an owl, gaping, and was immediately laughed at by all the servants. However, matters ended between them in the closest friendship: bald Uncle Pimen kept a well-known pot-house at the end of the village, called “Akulka”; in this establishment they could be seen at all hours of the day. There they became fast friends, or what is known among the people as—pot-house fixtures.

  Selifan took a different sort of bait. Every evening in the village songs were sung, and spring round dances twined and untwined. Trim, well-built wenches, such as can hardly be found elsewhere, made him stand gawking for several hours. It was hard to say which one was better: they were all white-bosomed, white-necked, all with eyes like turnips, languishing, strutting like peacocks, with braids down to their waists. When, holding white hands in his own, he slowly moved in a circle with them, or came towards them in a wall with the other lads, while the hotly glowing evening died out, and the surrounding neighborhood slowly faded, and from away across the river came the faithful echo of an inevitably sad tune—he did not know himself what was happening to him. Long afterwards, in sleep or in waking, at dawn and at dusk, he kept imagining his hands holding those white hands and moving with them in a round dance. With a wave of the hand he would say: “Cursed wenches!”