Dead Souls

  “Ah, so you’re a buyer! Really, my dear, what a pity I sold my honey to the merchants so cheaply, and here you would surely have bought it from me.”

  “No, your honey I wouldn’t have bought.”

  “Something else, then? Hemp maybe? But I haven’t got much hemp now either: only half a bale.”

  “No, dearie, mine are a different kind of goods: tell me, have any of your peasants died?”

  “Oh, dearie, eighteen men!” the old woman said, sighing. “Died, and all such fine folk, all good workers. Some were born after that, it’s true, but what’s the use of them: all such runts; and the tax assessor comes—pay taxes on each soul, he says. Folk are dead, and you pay on them like the living. Last week my blacksmith burnt up on me, such a skillful one, and he knew lock-smithing, too.”

  “So you had a fire, dearie?”

  “God spared us such a calamity, a fire would have been all that much worse; he got burnt up on his own, my dear. It somehow caught fire inside him, he drank too much, just this little blue flame came out of him, and he smoldered, smoldered, and turned black as coal, and he was such a very skillful blacksmith! And now I can’t even go out for a drive: there’s no one to shoe the horses.”

  “It’s all as God wills, dearie!” said Chichikov, sighing, “there’s no saying anything against the wisdom of God … Why not let me have them, Nastasya Petrovna?”

  “Whom, dearie?”

  “But, all that have died.”

  “But how can I let you have them?”

  “But, just like that. Or maybe sell them. I’ll give you money for them.”

  “But how? I really don’t quite see. You’re not going to dig them out of the ground, are you?”

  Chichikov saw that the old woman had overshot the mark and that it was necessary to explain what it was all about. In a few words he made clear to her that the transfer or purchase would only be on paper, and the souls would be registered as if they were living.

  “But what do you need them for?” the old woman said, goggling her eyes at him.

  “That’s my business.”

  “But they really are dead.”

  “But who ever said they were alive? That’s why it’s a loss for you, because they’re dead: you pay for them, but now I’ll rid you of the trouble and the payments. Understand? And not only rid you of them, but give you fifteen roubles to boot. Well, is it clear now?”

  “I really don’t know,” the mistress said with deliberation. “I never yet sold any dead ones.”

  “I should think not! It would be quite a wonder if you’d sold them to anyone. Or do you think they really are good for anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so. What good could they be, they’re no good at all. The only thing that troubles me is that they’re already dead.”

  “Well, the woman seems a bit thick-headed,” Chichikov thought to himself.

  “Listen, dearie, you just give it some good thought: here you are being ruined, paying taxes for them as if they were alive …”

  “Oh, my dear, don’t even mention it!” the lady landowner picked up. “Just two weeks ago I paid more than a hundred and fifty roubles. And had to grease the assessor’s palm at that.”

  “Well, you see, dearie. And now consider only this, that you won’t have to grease the assessor’s palm any longer, because now I will pay for them; I, and not you; I will take all the obligations upon myself. I’ll even have the deed drawn up at my own expense, do you understand that?”

  The old woman fell to thinking. She saw that the business indeed seemed profitable, yet it was much too novel and unprecedented; and therefore she began to fear very much that this buyer might somehow hoodwink her; he had come from God knows where, and in the night, too.

  “So, then, dearie, shall we shake hands on it?” said Chichikov.

  “Really, my dear, it has never happened to me before to sell deceased ones. I did let two living ones go, two wenches, for a hundred roubles each, to our priest, the year before last, and he was ever so grateful, they turned out to be such good workers: they weave napkins.”

  “Well, this is nothing to do with the living—God be with them. I’m asking for dead ones.”

  “Really, I’m afraid this first time, I may somehow suffer a loss. Maybe you’re deceiving me, my dear, and they’re … somehow worth more.”

  “Listen, dearie … eh, what a one! How much could they be worth? Consider: it’s dust. Do you understand? It’s just dust. Take any last worthless thing, even some simple rag, for instance, still a rag has its value: it can at least be sold to a paper mill—but for this there’s no need at all. No, you tell me yourself, what is it needed for?”

  “That’s true enough. It’s not needed for anything at all; but there’s just this one thing stops me, that they’re already dead.”

  “Bah, what a blockhead!” Chichikov said to himself, beginning to lose patience now. “Go, try getting along with her! I’m all in a sweat, the damned hag!” Here he took his handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping the sweat which in fact stood out on his brow. However, Chichikov need not have been angry: a man can be greatly respectable, even statesmanly, and in reality turn out to be a perfect Korobochka. Once he gets a thing stuck in his head, there’s no overcoming him; present him with as many arguments as you like, all clear as day—everything bounces off him, like a rubber ball bouncing off a wall. Having mopped his sweat, Chichikov decided to see whether she could be guided onto the path from another side.

  “Either you don’t wish to understand my words, dearie,” he said, “or you’re saying it on purpose, just to say something … I’m offering you money: fifteen roubles in banknotes. Do you understand that? It’s money. You won’t find it lying in the street. Confess now, how much did you sell your honey for?”

  “Thirty kopecks a pound.”

  “That’s a bit of a sin on your soul, dearie. You didn’t sell it for thirty kopecks.”

  “By God, I did, too.”

  “Well, you see? Still, that was honey. You collected it for maybe a year, with care, with effort, with trouble; you had to go, smoke the bees, feed them in the cellar all winter; but the thing with the dead souls is not of this world. Here you made no effort on your side, it was God’s will that they depart this life, to the detriment of your household. There you get twelve roubles for your labor, your effort, and here you take them for nothing, for free, and not twelve but fifteen, and not in silver but all in blue banknotes.”—After such strong assurances, Chichikov had scarcely any doubt that the old woman would finally give in.

  “Really,” the lady landowner replied, “I’m so inexperienced, what with being a widow and all! I’d better take a little time, maybe merchants will come by, I’ll check on the prices.”

  “For shame, for shame, dearie! simply for shame! Think what you are saying! Who is going to buy them? What use could they possibly be to anyone?”

  “Maybe they’d somehow come in handy around the house on occasion …,” the old woman objected and, not finishing what she was saying, opened her mouth and looked at him almost in fear, wishing to know what he would say to that.

  “Dead people around the house! Eh, that’s going a bit far! Maybe just to frighten sparrows in your kitchen garden at night or something?”

  “Saints preserve us! What horrors you come out with!” the old woman said, crossing herself.

  “Where else would you like to stick them? No, anyhow, the bones and graves—all that stays with you, the transfer is only on paper. So, what do you say? How about it? Answer me at least.”

  The old woman again fell to thinking.

  “What are you thinking about, Nastasya Petrovna?”

  “Really, I still can’t settle on what to do; I’d better sell you the hemp.”

  “What’s all this hemp? For pity’s sake, I ask you about something totally different, and you shove your hemp at me! Hemp’s hemp, the next time I come, I’ll take the hemp as well. So, how about it, Nastasya Petrovna?”
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  “By God, it’s such queer goods, quite unprecedented!”

  Here Chichikov went completely beyond the bounds of all patience, banged his chair on the floor in aggravation, and wished the devil on her.

  Of the devil the lady landowner was extraordinarily frightened.

  “Oh, don’t remind me of that one, God help him!” she cried out, turning all pale. “Just two days ago I spent the whole night dreaming about the cursed one. I had a notion to tell my fortune with cards that night after prayers, and God sent him on me as a punishment. Such a nasty one; horns longer than a bull’s.”

  “I’m amazed you don’t dream of them by the dozen. It was only Christian loving-kindness that moved me: I saw a poor widow wasting away, suffering want … no, go perish and drop dead, you and all your estate!…”

  “Ah, what oaths you’re hanging on me!” the old woman said, looking at him in fear.

  “But there’s no way to talk with you! Really, you’re like some—not to use a bad word—some cur lying in the manger: he doesn’t eat himself, and won’t let others eat. I thought I might buy up various farm products from you, because I also do government contracting …” Here he was fibbing, though by the way and with no further reflection, but with unexpected success. The government contracting produced a strong effect on Nastasya Petrovna, at least she uttered now, in an almost pleading voice:

  “But why all this hot anger? If I’d known before that you were such an angry one, I wouldn’t have contradicted you at all.”

  “What’s there to be angry about! The whole affair isn’t worth a tinker’s dam—as if I’d get angry over it!”

  “Well, as you please, I’m prepared to let you have them for fifteen in banknotes! Only mind you, my dear, about those contracts: if you happen to buy up rye flour, or buckwheat flour, or grain, or butchered cattle, please don’t leave me out.”

  “No, dearie, I won’t leave you out,” he said, all the while wiping off the sweat that was streaming down his face. He inquired whether she had some attorney or acquaintance in town whom she could authorize to draw up the deed and do all that was necessary.

  “Of course, our priest, Father Kiril, has a son who serves in the treasury,” said Korobochka.

  Chichikov asked her to write a warrant for him, and, to save her needless trouble, even volunteered to write it himself.

  “It would be nice,” Korobochka meanwhile thought to herself, “if he’d start buying my flour and meat for the government. I must coax him: there’s still some batter left from yesterday, I’ll go and tell Fetinya to make some pancakes; it would also be nice to do up a short-crust pie with eggs, my cook does them so well, and it takes no time at all.” The mistress went to carry out her thought concerning the doing-up of a pie, and probably to expand it with other productions of domestic bakery and cookery; and Chichikov went to the drawing room where he had spent the night, to get the necessary papers from his chest. In the drawing room everything had long since been tidied up, the sumptuous feather bed had been taken out, and a set table stood in front of the sofa. Having placed the chest on it, he rested briefly, for he felt he was all in a sweat, as if in a river: everything he had on, from his shirt down to his stockings, everything was wet. “She really wore me out, the damned hag!” he said, after resting a little, and he unlocked the chest. The author is sure that there are such curious readers as would even like to know the plan and internal arrangement of the chest. Very well, why not satisfy them! Here, then, is the internal arrangement: right in the middle a soap box, next to the soap box six or seven narrow partitions for razors; then square nooks for a sandbox and an ink bottle, with a hollowed-out little boat for pens, sealing wax, and everything of a longer sort; then various compartments with or without lids for things that were shorter, filled with calling cards, funeral announcements, theater tickets, and the like, stored away as mementos. The whole upper box with all its little partitions was removable, and under it was a space occupied by stacks of writing paper; then came a secret little drawer for money, which slid out inconspicuously from the side of the chest. It was always so quickly pulled open and pushed shut in the same instant by its owner that it was impossible to tell for certain how much money was in it. Chichikov got down to business at once and, having sharpened his pen, began to write. At that moment the mistress came in.

  “A nice box you’ve got there, my dear,” she said, sitting herself down next to him. “I expect you bought it in Moscow?”

  “Yes, Moscow,” Chichikov replied, continuing to write.

  “I knew it: always good workmanship there. Two years ago my sister brought some warm children’s boots from there: such sturdy goods, they’re still wearing them. Oh, look at all the stamped paper you’ve got here!” she went on, peeking into his chest. And there was indeed no small amount of stamped paper there. “You ought to give me one sheet at least! I’m so short of it; if a petition happens to need filing in court, there’s nothing to write it on.”

  Chichikov explained to her that this was the wrong kind of paper, that it was for drawing up deeds, not for petitions. However, to quiet her down he gave her some sheet worth a rouble. Having written the letter, he gave it to her to sign and asked for a little list of the muzhiks. It turned out that the lady landowner did not keep any records or lists, but knew almost everyone by heart; he straightaway had her dictate them to him. Some of the peasants amazed him a bit with their last names, and still more with their nicknames, so that each time, on hearing one, he would pause first and only then begin to write. He was especially struck by a certain Pyotr Saveliev Disrespect-Trough, so that he could not help saying: “My, that’s a long one!” Another had “Cow’s Brick” hitched to his name, still another turned out to be simply: Wheel, Ivan. As he finished writing, he drew in air slightly through his nose and sensed the enticing smell of something hot in butter.

  “I humbly invite you to have a bite to eat,” said the mistress.

  Chichikov turned around and saw the table already laden with mushrooms, pirozhki, savory dumplings, cheesecakes, pancakes thick and thin, open pies with all kinds of fillings: onion filling, poppy seed filling, cottage cheese filling, smelt filling, and who knows what else.

  “Short-crust pie with eggs!” said the mistress.

  Chichikov moved closer to the short-crust pie with eggs and, having straightaway eaten slightly more than half of it, praised it. And in fact the pie was tasty in itself, but after all the fussing and tricks with the old woman it seemed tastier still.

  “And some pancakes?” said the mistress.

  In response to which, Chichikov rolled three pancakes up together, dipped them in melted butter, sent them into his mouth, and wiped his fingers with a napkin. After repeating this three times or so, he asked the mistress to order his britzka harnessed. Nastasya Petrovna straightaway sent Fetinya, at the same time ordering her to bring more hot pancakes.

  “Your pancakes, dearie, are very tasty,” said Chichikov, going for the hot ones just brought in.

  “Yes, my cook makes them well,” said the mistress, “but the trouble is that the harvest was bad, and the flour turned out so uncommendable … But, my dear, why are you in such a rush?” she said, seeing that Chichikov had taken his peaked cap in his hand, “the britzka hasn’t been harnessed yet.”

  “They’ll harness it, dearie, they’ll harness it. We harness fast.”

  “So, now, please don’t forget about the contracts.”

  “I won’t forget, I won’t forget,” Chichikov said as he went out to the front hall.

  “And do you buy lard?” the mistress said, following after him.

  “Why shouldn’t I? I’ll buy it, only later.”

  “Around Christmastide I’ll have lard.”

  “We’ll buy it, we’ll buy it, we’ll buy everything, we’ll buy the lard, too.”

  “Maybe you’ll need bird feathers. I’ll have bird feathers by St. Philip’s fast.”8

  “Very good, very good,” said Chichikov.

&n
bsp; “There, you see, my dear, your britzka still isn’t ready,” the mistress said, when they came out to the porch.

  “It will be, it will be. Only tell me how to get to the main road.”

  “How shall I do that?” said the mistress. “It’s hard to explain, there’s a lot of turns; unless I give you a young girl to take you there. I expect you’ve got room on the box where she could sit.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Why don’t I give you a girl then; she knows the way—only watch out! don’t carry her off, one of mine already got carried off by some merchants.”

  Chichikov promised her that he would not carry the girl off, and Korobochka, reassured, started inspecting everything that was in her yard; she fixed her eyes on the housekeeper, who was carrying a wooden stoup full of honey from the larder, on a muzhik who appeared in the gateway, and gradually settled herself back wholly into her life of management. But why occupy ourselves for so long with Korobochka? Mrs. Korobochka, Mrs. Manilov, the life of management, or of non-management—pass them by! Otherwise—marvelous is the world’s makeup—the merry will turn melancholy in a trice, if you stand a long time before it, and then God knows what may enter your head. Perhaps you will even start thinking: come now, does Korobochka indeed stand so low on the endless ladder of human perfection? Is there indeed so great an abyss separating her from her sister, inaccessibly fenced off behind the walls of her aristocratic house with its fragrant cast-iron stairways, shining brass, mahogany and carpets, who yawns over an unfinished book while waiting for a witty society visit, which will give her a field on which to display her sparkling intelligence and pronounce thoughts learned by rote, thoughts which, following the law of fashion, occupy the town for a whole week, thoughts not of what is going on in her house or on her estates, confused and disorderly thanks to her ignorance of management, but of what political upheaval is brewing in France, of what direction fashionable Catholicism has taken. But pass by, pass by! why talk of that? But why, then, in the midst of unthinking, merry, carefree moments does another wondrous stream rush by of itself: the laughter has not yet had time to leave your face completely, yet you are already different among the same people and your face is already lit by a different light …