Dead Souls

by Nikolai Gogol

  Thus went the talk and discussion in town, and many, moved by sympathy, even conveyed some of this advice to Chichikov personally, even offered a convoy to escort the peasants to their place of settlement. Chichikov thanked them for the advice, saying that in the event he would not fail to make use of it, but he decidedly rejected the convoy, saying it was totally unnecessary, that the peasants he had bought were of superbly placid character, felt benevolently disposed towards resettlement themselves, and that a riot among them was in any event impossible.

  All this gossip and discussion produced, however, as favorable a result as Chichikov could possibly have looked for. Namely, the rumor spread that he was no more nor less than a millionaire. The inhabitants of the town, as we have already seen in the first chapter, had taken a hearty liking to Chichikov even without that, but now, after such rumors, their liking became heartier still. Truth to tell, however, they were all kindly folk, got along well among themselves, treated each other with perfect friendliness, and their conversations bore the stamp of some especial simple-heartedness and familiarity: "My gentle friend Ilya Ilych," "Listen, brother Antipator Zakharievich!" "You're lying like a rug, Ivan Grigorievich, dear heart." To the postmaster, whose name was Ivan Andreevich, they always added: "Sprechen sie Deych, Ivan Andreych?"[35]—in short, everything was on a quite familial footing. Many were not without cultivation: the head magistrate knew by heart Zhukovsky's Lyudmila,[36] which was then a not-yet-faded novelty, and masterfully recited many passages, especially "The forest sleeps, the valley slumbers" and the word "hark!" so that one actually seemed to see the valley slumbering; for greater similitude he even shut his eyes at that moment. The postmaster delved more into philosophy and read quite diligently, even at night, in Young's Night Thoughts and The Key to Nature's Mysteries by Eckartshausen,[37] from which he copied out quite lengthy excerpts, though of what sort no one ever knew; anyhow, he was a wit, had a florid style, and liked, as he put it, to rig out his speech. And rig it out he did, with a host of various particles, such as: "my good sir, some such one, you know, you understand, can you imagine, relatively so to speak, in a certain fashion," and others, which he poured out by the bagful; he also rigged out his speech rather successfully with winking, or squinting one eye, all of which lent quite a caustic expression to his many satirical allusions. Others, too, were more or less enlightened people: one read Karamzin, another the Moscow Gazette?,[38] another even read nothing at all. One was what is known as a sad sack, the sort of person who has to be roused with a kick to do anything; another was simply a slug-a-bed, lying on his back age in and age out, as they say, whom it was even useless to rouse: he would not get up in any case. As for seemliness, we know already that they were all reliable people, there were no consumptives among them. They were all the kind to whom wives, in those tender conversations which take place in private, gave such appellations as: chubsy, tubsy, tumsy, blackie, kiki, zhuzhu, and so on. But generally they were kindly folk, full of hospitality, and the man who sat down to table with them or spent an evening at whist was already an intimate, all the more so Chichikov, with his enchanting qualities and ways, who did indeed know the great secret of being liked. They grew so fond of him that he saw no way of tearing himself free of the town; all he heard was: "Come, a little week, you can spend one more little week with us, Pavel Ivanovich!"—in short, he was, as they say, made much of. But incomparably more remarkable was the impression (altogether an object of amazement!) that Chichikov made on the ladies. To begin to explain it, one would have to say a lot about the ladies themselves, about their society, to describe in vivid colors, so to speak, their qualities of soul; but for the author that is very difficult. On the one hand, he is prevented by his boundless respect for the wives of the dignitaries, and on the other hand ... on the other hand—it is simply difficult. The ladies of the town of N. were . . . no, it is in no way possible for me: I really feel timid. The most remarkable thing about the ladies of the town of N. was ... It is even strange, I cannot lift the pen at all, as if there were some kind of lead inside it. So be it: evidently it must be left to one whose colors are more vivid and who has more of them on his palette to speak of their characters, and we will just say a word or two of their appearance and of what is more superficial. The ladies of the town of N. were what is called presentable, and in this respect they may boldly be held up as an example to all others. As for knowing how to behave themselves, keeping tone, observing etiquette, a host of proprieties of the subtlest sort, and above all following fashion down to the least detail, in this they surpassed even the ladies of Petersburg and Moscow. They dressed with great taste, went for drives around town in carriages, as the latest fashion dictated, with lackey and gold-braided livery swaying behind. The visiting card, even if written on a deuce of clubs or ace of diamonds, was a very sacred thing. On account of it two ladies, great friends and even relatives, quarreled altogether, precisely because one of them once neglected a return visit. And how hard their husbands and relatives tried to reconcile them afterwards, but no, it turned out that while anything in the world might be done, only one thing could not be done: to reconcile two ladies who had quarreled over a neglected visit. And so these ladies remained mutually ill-disposed, in the expression of town society. With regard to occupying the foremost positions, a lot of rather big scenes also took place, which sometimes inspired the husbands to perfectly chivalrous, magnanimous notions of intercession. Duels, of course, did not take place between them, because they were all civil servants, but instead they tried to do each other dirt wherever possible, which, as everyone knows, can sometimes be worse than any duel. In morals the ladies of the town of N. were strict, filled with noble indignation against all vice and any temptation, and they punished any weaknesses without any mercy. And if there did occur among them something of what is known as this-or-that, it occurred in secret, so that there was no sign of its having occurred; full dignity was preserved, and the husband himself was so prepared that even if he saw this-or-that or heard about it, he would respond briefly with a proverb: "It's always fair weather when friends get together." It must also be said that the ladies of the town of N. were distinguished, like many Petersburg ladies, by an extraordinary prudence and propriety in their words and expressions. Never would they say: "I blew my nose," "I sweated," "I spat," but rather: "I relieved my nose" or "I resorted to my handkerchief." It was in no case possible to say: "This glass or this plate stinks." And it was even impossible to say anything that hinted at it, but instead they would say: "This glass is being naughty," or something of the sort. To ennoble the Russian language still more, almost half of its words were banished from conversation altogether, and therefore it was quite often necessary to have recourse to the French language, although there, in French, it was a different matter: there such words were allowed as were much coarser than those aforementioned. And so, that is what can be told about the ladies of the town of N., speaking superficially. But if one were to look more deeply, then, of course, many other things would be discovered; but it is quite dangerous to look more deeply into ladies' hearts. And so, confining ourselves to the superficial, we shall continue. Up to now the ladies had all somehow talked little about Chichikov, doing him full justice, however, as to the agreeableness of his social comportment; but since the rumors spread about his millions, other qualities were found. However, the ladies were not self-seeking in the least; the word "millionaire" was to blame for it all—not the millionaire himself, but precisely the word alone; for the sound of this word alone, aside from any bag of money, contains something that affects people who are scoundrels, and people who are neither this nor that, and people who are good—in short, it affects everyone. The millionaire has this advantage, that he is able to observe meanness, a perfectly disinterested, pure meanness, not based on any calculations: many know very well that they will not get anything from him and have no right to get anything, but they want to be sure at least to run ahead for him, at least to laugh, at least to doff their hats, at
least to wangle themselves an invitation to dinner where they know the millionaire has been invited. It cannot be said that this tender inclination to meanness was felt by the ladies; nevertheless, in many drawing rooms there was talk of Chichikov being, not outstandingly handsome, of course, but still such as a man ought to be, that if he were any fuller or fatter, it would be not so good. Along with that, something was said which was even rather insulting with regard to the slim man: that he was nothing more than a sort of toothpick, and not a man. A great variety of additions occurred in the ladies' attire. There was crowding in the shopping district, almost a crush; a fête even formed itself from all the carriages driving through. The merchants were amazed to see several lengths of cloth they had brought back from the fair and could not get rid of because the price seemed too high, suddenly come into demand and get snatched up. During the Sunday liturgy one lady was observed to have such a rouleau at the hem of her dress that it spread half the width of the church, so that a police officer who was there gave orders for the folk to move farther back, that is, nearer to the porch, to keep her ladyship's toilette from being somehow crumpled. Even Chichikov himself could not fail partly to notice such extraordinary attention. Once, on returning home, he found a letter on his table; of whence and by whom it had been brought, nothing could be learned; the tavern servant replied that it had been brought with an order not to say whom it was from. The letter began very resolutely, namely thus: "No, I must write to you!" Then came talk about there being a mysterious affinity between souls; this truth was clinched by some dots, taking up almost half a line; then there followed some thoughts, quite remarkable in their correctness, so that we regard it as almost necessary to write them down: "What is our life? A vale wherein grief dwells. What is this world? A crowd of people who do not feel." At that the writer mentioned that she was wetting with tears these lines of a tender mother who, for twenty-five years now, had not existed in this world; Chichikov was invited to the desert, to leave forever the town where people, behind stifling walls, make no use of the air; the ending of the letter even rang with decided despair and concluded with these verses:

  Two turtle doves will show

  My cold remains to thee,

  With languid cooing so

  As to say that in tears died she.

  There was no meter in the last line, but that, however, was nothing: the letter was written in the spirit of the times. There was no signature either: no name, no family name, not even the month and day. It was only added in a postscriptum that his own heart should guess the lady who wrote it, and that, at the governor's ball, which was to take place the next day, the original would be present in person.

  This greatly intrigued him. The anonymity had so much that was alluring and arousing of curiosity in it, that he read it over again and then a third time, and finally said: "It would be curious, however, to know who the writer might be!" In short, it looked as if the matter was turning serious; for more than an hour he kept thinking about it, and at last, spreading his arms and inclining his head, he said: "The letter is very, very fancily written!" After which, it goes without saying, the letter was folded and put away in the chest, in the vicinity of some playbill and a wedding invitation preserved for seven years in the same position and the same place. A short time later he was in fact brought an invitation to the governor's ball—quite a usual thing in provincial capitals: where the governor is, there will also be a ball, otherwise there would be no love or respect on the part of the nobility.

  All unrelated things were instantly ended and suspended, and everything was focused on preparing for the ball: for there were, in fact, many stimulating and provoking causes. And perhaps not since the very creation of the world has so much time been spent on toilet. A whole hour was devoted merely to studying his face in the mirror. Attempts were made to impart to it a multitude of different expressions: now dignified and grave, now deferential but with a certain smile, now simply deferential without the smile; several bows were delivered to the mirror, accompanied by vague sounds somewhat resembling French ones, though Chichikov knew no French at all. He even gave himself a multitude of pleasant surprises, winked with his eyebrow and lips, and even did something with his tongue; in short, one does all sorts of things when one is left alone, feels oneself a fine fellow besides, and is also certain that no one is peeking through a crack. In the end he patted himself lightly on the chin, saying: "Ah, you sweet mug, you!" and began to dress. The most contented disposition accompanied him all the while he was dressing: putting on his suspenders or tying his tie, he bowed and scraped with special adroitness and, though he never danced, performed an entrechat. This entrechat produced a small, innocuous consequence: the chest of drawers shook, and a brush fell off the table.

  His appearance at the ball produced an extraordinary effect. All that were there turned to meet him, one with cards in his hand, another saying, at the most interesting point in the conversation: ". . . and the lower circuit court's answer to that was . . . ," but whatever the circuit court's answer was, it was brushed aside as the man hastened to greet our hero. "Pavel Ivanovich! Ah, my God, Pavel Ivanovich! My gentle Pavel Ivanovich! My most esteemed Pavel Ivanovich! Pavel Ivanovich, my dear soul! So here's where you are, Pavel Ivanovich! Here he is, our Pavel Ivanovich! Allow me to hug you, Pavel Ivanovich! Let him come here till I give him a good kiss, my dearest Pavel Ivanovich!" Chichikov felt himself simultaneously in several embraces. Before he had quite managed to scramble out of the magistrate's embrace, he found himself in the police chief's embrace; the police chief handed him on to the inspector of the board of health; the inspector of the board of health to the tax farmer, the tax farmer to the architect . . . The governor, who at that moment was standing by the ladies holding a candy-kiss motto in one hand and a lapdog in the other, dropped both dog and motto to the floor on seeing him—only the pup let out a squeal; in short, he spread joy and extraordinary merriment. There was not a face that did not express pleasure, or at least a reflection of the general pleasure. The same thing takes place on the faces of officials when a superior arrives to inspect the work entrusted to their management: once the initial fear has passed, they see that there is much that pleases him, and he himself finally deigns to make a joke—that is, to utter a few words with an agreeable smile. Twice as hard do the closely surrounding officials laugh in response to that; with all their hearts others laugh who, incidentally, had not heard very well what the man said, and finally some policeman standing way off by the door, by the very exit, who from the day he was born has never laughed in his whole life, and who a moment before was shaking his fist at the people, even he, by the immutable laws of reflection, puts some sort of smile on his face, though this smile is more like the look of someone about to sneeze after a pinch of strong snuff. Our hero responded to each and all, and felt himself somehow extraordinarily adroit: bowed right and left, somewhat to one side as usual, but with perfect ease, so that he enchanted everyone. The ladies surrounded him at once in a sparkling garland and brought with them whole clouds of varied fragrances; one breathed roses, another gave off a whiff of spring and violets, a third was perfumed throughout with mignonette; Chichikov just kept lifting his nose and sniffing. Their attire evinced no end of taste: the muslins, satins, cambrics were of such pale fashionable shades as could not even be matched with any names (taste had reached such a degree of fineness). Ribbon bows and bouquets of flowers fluttered here and there over the dresses in a most picturesque disorder, though this disorder had been much labored over by some orderly head. Light headdresses held on only at the ears and seemed to be saying: "Hey, I'm flying away, only it's a pity I can't take this beauty with me!" Waists were tight-fitting and formed in a way most firm and pleasing to the eye (it should be noted that generally the ladies of the town of N. were all a bit plump, but they laced themselves up so artfully and were of such pleasing comportment that the fatness simply could not be noticed). Everything about them had been designed and foreseen with extraordinary circu
mspection; neck and shoulders were revealed precisely as far as necessary, and no further; each one bared her possessions to the point to which she felt convinced in herself that they could be the ruin of a man; the rest was all secreted away with extraordinary taste: either some light little ribbon tie, or a scarf lighter than the pastry known by the name of "kiss,"[39] ethereally embraced her neck, or else there peeked out around her shoulders, from under the dress, those little serrated trimmings of light cambric known by the name of "modesties." These "modesties," in front or behind, concealed that which could no longer be the ruin of a man, and yet made one suspect that ruin itself lay precisely there. Long gloves were worn not up to the sleeves, but deliberately leaving bare the arousing parts of the arms above the elbow, which in many ladies breathed an enviable plumpness: some kid gloves even burst in their striving to move further up—in short, everything seemed to have written on it: No, this is no province, this is a capital, this is Paris itself! Only in places would some bonnet stick out such as had never been seen on earth, or even almost some sort of peacock feather, contrary to all fashion, following its own taste. But there's no avoiding it, such is the property of a provincial town: it is simply bound to trip up somewhere. Chichikov was thinking, as he stood before them: "Which of them, however, was the writer of that letter?" and he tried to stick his nose out; but right against his nose brushed a whole row of elbows, cuffs, sleeves, ends of ribbons, fragrant chemisettes, and dresses. Everything was galloping headlong: the postmaster's wife, the captain of police, a lady with a blue feather, a lady with a white feather, the Georgian prince Chipkhaikhilidzev, an official from Petersburg, an official from Moscow, the Frenchman Coucou, Perkhunovsky, Berebendovsky—everything rose up and rushed on . . .