"I've heard nothing about it, but the affair is indeed not quite sinless. I confess, I find Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov a most mysterious person," said Murazov.
"I, too, sent in a petition for myself, as a reminder that there exists a nearest heir..."
"They can fight it out among themselves for all of me," Khlobuev thought on his way out. "Afanasy Vassilyevich is no fool. He must have given me this charge after thinking it over. Just let me accomplish it—that's all." He began thinking about the road, at the same time as Murazov was still repeating to himself: "A most mysterious man to me, this Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov! If only such will and perseverance were put to good use!"
And meanwhile, indeed, petition after petition kept coming to the courts. Relatives turned up of whom no one had ever heard. As birds come flying to carrion, so everything came flying down upon the incalculable wealth left by the old woman. Denunciations of Chichikov, of the spuriousness of the last will, denunciations of the spuriousness of the first will also, evidence of theft -and of the concealment of certain sums. Evidence turned up against Chichikov of his buying dead souls, of smuggling goods while he was still in customs. Everything was unearthed, the whole story of his past was found out. God knows how they got wind of it all and learned it. Yet there was evidence even of such things as Chichikov thought no one knew of except for himself and his four walls. So far it was all still a court secret and had not yet reached his ears, though a trustworthy note he had recently received from his lawyer gave him some idea that trouble was brewing. The content of the note was brief: "I hasten to inform you that there will be some fuss around the case; but remember that you ought by no means to worry. The main thing is to be calm. Everything will be taken care of." This note set him completely at ease. "The man is indeed a genius," said Chichikov.
To crown all blessings, the tailor brought his suit at that moment. Chichikov felt a strong desire to look at himself in the new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He pulled on the trousers, which hugged him marvelously on all sides, an artist's ideal. The hips were so nicely fitted, the calves, too; the cloth hugged all the details, imparting to them a still greater resilience. Once he had tightened the clasp behind him, his stomach became like a drum. He beat on it with a brush, adding: "Such a fool, but, overall, what a picture he makes!" The tailcoat, it seemed, was even better tailored than the trousers: not one wrinkle, tight all around his sides, curving at the overlap, showing his full curvature. It was a little too tight under the right arm, but that made it fit still better at the waist. The tailor, standing there in complete triumph, merely said: "Rest assured, outside Petersburg there's no such tailoring anywhere." The tailor was from Petersburg himself, and had put on his shingle: "A foreigner from London and Paris." He was not given to joking, and wanted with these two cities to stop up the maws of all the other tailors at once, so that in the future no one could come out with such cities, and they would have to content themselves with writing some "Karlsroo" or "Copenhar."
Chichikov magnanimously paid the tailor and, left alone, began to examine himself at leisure in the mirror, like an artist, with aesthetic feeling and con amore. It turned out that everything was somehow even better than before: the little cheeks were more interesting, the chin more alluring, the white collar imparted its color to the cheek, the blue satin tie imparted its hue to the collar; the shirtfront, pleated in the latest fashion, imparted its hue to the tie, the rich velvet waistcoat imparted its hue to the shirt-front, and the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, gleaming like silk, imparted its hue to everything! He turned to the right—good! He turned to the left—even better! The curve of the waist was like a courtier's or such a gentleman's as jabbers away in French so that next to him a Frenchman himself is nothing, one who, even when angry, does not disgrace himself indecently with a Russian word, who cannot even swear in Russian, but will give you a good scolding in French dialect. Such delicacy! He tried, inclining his head slightly to one side, to assume a pose as if he were addressing a middle-aged lady of the latest cultivation: it was a picture to see. Painter, take up your brush and paint! In his pleasure, he straightaway performed a light leap, like an entrechat. The chest of drawers shook and a flask of eau de cologne fell to the ground; but this caused no hindrance. He quite properly called the stupid flask a fool, and thought: "Whom shall I visit first of all? The best..."
When suddenly in the front hall—something like the clank of spurred boots and a gendarme in full armor, as if he were a whole army in one person. "You are ordered to appear at once before the Governor-general!" Chichikov was simply stunned. Before him stuck up a fright with a mustache, a horsetail on his head, a baldric over one shoulder, a baldric over the other, an enormous broadsword hanging at his side. He fancied there was also a gun hanging from the other side, and devil knows what else: a whole army just in one man! He tried to protest, but the fright uttered rudely: "To appear at once!" Through the door to the front hall he saw another fright flit by; he looked out the window—there was a carriage as well. What to do? Just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, he had to get in and, trembling all over, drive to the Governor-general's, the policeman along with him.
In the anteroom he was not even allowed to come to his senses. "Go in! The prince is waiting for you," said the official on duty. Before him as through a mist flashed the anteroom with messengers receiving packages, then a hall through which he passed, thinking only: "He'll just up and seize me, and with no trial, no anything—straight to Siberia!" His heart began to pound harder than the heart of the most jealous lover. The door finally opened: before him was the office, with portfolios, shelves, books, and the prince as wrathful as wrath itself.
"Destroyer, destroyer," said Chichikov. "He'll destroy my soul, slaughter me, like a wolf a lamb!"
"I spared you, I allowed you to remain in town, when you ought to have been put in jail; and again you've besmirched yourself with the most dishonest swindling a man has yet besmirched himself with."
The prince's lips were trembling with wrath.
"What is this most dishonest action and swindling, Your Excellency?" asked Chichikov, trembling all over.
"The woman," said the prince, stepping closer and looking straight into Chichikov's eyes, "the woman who signed the will at your dictation, has been seized and will confront you."
Chichikov turned pale as a sheet.
"Your Excellency! I'll tell you the whole truth of the matter. I am guilty, indeed, guilty; but not so guilty. I've been maligned by my enemies."
"No one can malign you, because there is many times more vileness in you than the worst liar could invent. In all your life, I suppose, you've never done anything that was not dishonest. Every kopeck you earned was earned dishonestly, and is a theft and a dishonest thing deserving of the knout and Siberia. No, it's enough now! This very minute you will be taken to jail, and there, together with the worst scoundrels and robbers, you must wait for your fate to be decided. And this is still merciful, because you are many times worse than they are: they dress in wool jerkins and sheepkins, while you ...”
He glanced at the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino and, taking hold of the bellpull, rang.
"Your Excellency," Chichikov cried out, "be merciful! You are the father of a family. Don't spare me—but spare my old mother!"
"You're lying!" the prince cried wrathfully. "You pleaded with me the same way before, by your children and family, which you never had, and now—your mother!"
"Your Excellency, I am a scoundrel and an utter blackguard," said Chichikov, in a voice . . .[x] "I was indeed lying, I have no children or family; but, as God is my witness, I always wanted to have a wife, to fulfill the duty of a man and a citizen, so as later to earn indeed the respect of citizens and authorities . . . But what calamitous coincidences! With my blood, Your Excellency, with my blood I had to procure my daily sustenance. Temptations and seductions at every step . . . enemies, and destroyers, and thieves. My
whole life has been like a violent storm or a ship amidst the waves at the will of the winds. I am a man, Your Excellency!"
Tears suddenly poured in streams from his eyes. He collapsed at the prince's feet just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, in his velvet waistcoat and satin tie, new trousers and hairdo exuding the clean scent of eau de cologne.
"Get away from me! Call the guards to take him away!" the prince said to those who came in.
"Your Excellency!" Chichikov cried, seizing the prince's boot with both hands.
A shuddering sensation ran through the prince's every fiber.
"Get away, I tell you!" he said, trying to tear his foot from Chichikov's embrace.
"Your Excellency! I will not move from this spot before I obtain mercy!" Chichikov said, not letting go of the prince's boot and sliding, together with his foot, across the floor in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino.
"Away, I tell you!" he said, with that inexplicable feeling of disgust that a man feels at the sight of an extremely ugly insect that he does not have the courage to crush underfoot. He gave such a shake that Chichikov felt the boot strike his nose, lips, and nicely rounded chin, but he would not let go of the boot and held the leg still harder in his embrace. Two hefty policemen pulled him away by force, and, holding him under his arms, led him through all the rooms. He was pale, crushed, in the insensibly frightful state of a man who sees black, inescapable death before him, that fright which is contrary to our nature . . .
Just at the doorway to the stairs they ran into Murazov. A ray of hope suddenly flickered. Instantly, with unnatural force, he tore from the grip of the two policemen and threw himself at the feet of the amazed old man.
"Pavel Ivanovich, my dear fellow, what's happened?"
"Save me! they're taking me to jail, to death ...”
The policemen seized him and led him away without allowing him to be heard.
A dank, chill closet with the smell of the boots and leg wrappings of garrison soldiers, an unpainted table, two vile chairs, a window with an iron grate, a decrepit woodstove, through the cracks of which smoke came without giving any warmth—this was the dwelling in which they placed our hero, who had just begun to taste the sweetness of life and attract the attention of his compatriots in his fine new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He was not even given time to arrange to take the necessary things with him, to take the chest with the money in it. His papers, the deeds of purchase for the dead souls—the officials now had it all! He collapsed on the ground, and the carnivorous worm of terrible, hopeless sorrow wrapped itself around his heart. With increasing speed it began to gnaw at his heart, all unprotected as it was. Another day like that, another day of such sorrow, and there would be no Chichikov in this world at all. But someone's all-saving hand did not slumber even over Chichikov. An hour later the door of the jail opened: old Murazov came in.
If someone tormented by parching thirst were to have a stream of spring water poured down his dry throat, he would not revive as poor Chichikov did.
"My savior!" said Chichikov, and, suddenly seizing his hand, he quickly kissed it and pressed it to his breast. "May God reward you for visiting an unfortunate man!"
He dissolved in tears.
The old man looked at him with mournfully pained eyes and said only:
"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich! Pavel Ivanovich, what have you done?"
"I am a scoundrel. . . Guilty ... I transgressed . . . But consider, consider, can they treat me like this? I am a nobleman. Without a trial, without an investigation, to throw me into jail, to take away everything—my things, my chest. . . there's money in it, all my property, all my property is in it, Afanasy Vassilyevich—property I acquired by sweating blood ..."
And, unable to restrain the impulse of sorrow again overwhelming his heart, he sobbed loudly, in a voice that pierced the thick walls of the jail and echoed dully in the distance, tore off his satin tie, and, clutching at his collar with his hand, tore his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino.
"Pavel Ivanovich, it makes no difference: you must bid farewell to your property and to all there is in the world. You have fallen under the implacable law, not under the power of some man."
"I have been my own ruin, I know it—I did not know how to stop in time. But why such a terrible punishment, Afanasy Vassilyevich? Am I a robber? Has anyone suffered from me? Have I made anyone unhappy? By toil and sweat, by sweating blood, I procured my kopeck. Why did I procure this kopeck? In order to live out the rest of my days in comfort, to leave something to my children, whom I intended to acquire for the good, for the service of the fatherland. I erred, I don't deny it, I erred . . . what to do? But I erred because I saw that I'd get nowhere on the straight path, and that to go crookedly was straighten But I toiled, I strained. And these scoundrels who sit in the courts taking thousands from the treasury or robbing people who aren't rich, filching the last kopeck from those who have nothing. . . Afanasy Vassilyevich! I did not fornicate, I did not drink. And so much work, so much iron patience! Yes, it could be said that every kopeck I procured was redeemed with sufferings, sufferings! Let one of them suffer as I did! What has my whole life been: a bitter struggle, a ship amidst the waves. And, Afanasy Vassilyevich, I have lost what was acquired with such struggle ..."
He did not finish and sobbed loudly from unendurable heartache, collapsed on the chair, ripped off the torn, hanging skirt of his tailcoat and flung it away from him, and, putting both hands to his hair, which before he had zealously tried to strengthen, he tore it mercilessly, delighting in the pain with which he hoped to stifle his unquenchable heartache.
"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich, Pavel Ivanovich!" Murazov was saying, looking at him mournfully and shaking his head. "I keep thinking what a man you'd be if, in the same way, with energy and patience, you had embarked on good work and for a better purpose! If only any one of those who love the good would apply as much effort to it as you did to procuring your kopeck! . . . and knew how to sacrifice to that good their own self-love and ambition, without sparing themselves, as you did not spare yourself in procuring your kopeck! ..."
"Afanasy Vassilyevich!" said poor Chichikov, seizing both of his hands in his own. "Oh, if I could manage to be set free, to get back my property! I swear to you, I would henceforth lead a completely different life! Save me, benefactor, save me!"
"But what can I do? I would have to fight with the law. Even supposing I ventured to do it, the prince is a just man, he will never back down."
"Benefactor! you can do anything. I'm not afraid of the law—I can find ways to deal with the law—but the fact that I've been thrown into jail innocently, that I will perish here like a dog, and that my property, my papers, my chest. . . save me!"
He embraced the old man's legs and wetted them with his tears.
"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich, Pavel Ivanovich!" old Murazov kept saying, shaking his head. "How blinded you are by this property! Because of it, you don't even hear your own poor soul!"
"I'll think about my soul, too, only save me!"
"Pavel Ivanovich!" old Murazov said and stopped. "To save you is not in my power—you can see that yourself. But I'll try to do all I can to alleviate your lot and set you free. I don't know whether I'll succeed, but I'll try. And if perchance I do succeed, Pavel Ivanovich, then I'll ask a reward from you for my labors: drop all these attempts at these acquisitions. I tell you in all honesty that even if I lost all my property—and I have much more than you do—I wouldn't weep. By God, the point of the thing is not in this property, which can be confiscated, but in that which no one can steal and carry off! You have already lived enough in the world. You yourself call your life a ship amidst the waves. You have enough already to live on for the rest of your days. Settle yourself in some quiet corner, near a church and simple, good people; or, if you're burning with desire to leave posterity behind you, marry a good girl, not rich, accustomed to moderation and simple household life. Forget this noisy world and al
l its seductive fancies; let it forget you, too. There is no peace in it. You see: everything in it is either an enemy, a tempter, or a traitor."
Chichikov fell to thinking. Something strange, some hitherto unknown feelings, inexplicable to himself, came to him: as if something wanted to awaken in him, something suppressed since childhood by stern, dead precepts, by the inimicalness of a dull childhood, the desolateness of his family home, by familyless solitude, abjectness, and a poverty of first impressions, by the stern glance of fate, which looked dully at him through some clouded window buried under a wintry blizzard.
"Only save me, Afanasy Vassilyevich," he cried out. "I'll lead a different life, I'll follow your advice! Here's my word on it!"
"Watch out now, Pavel Ivanovich, don't go back on your word," Murazov said, holding his hand.
"I might go back on it, if it weren't for such a terrible lesson," poor Chichikov said with a sigh, and added: "But the lesson is a harsh one; a harsh, harsh lesson, Afanasy Vassilyevich!"
"It's good that it's harsh. Thank God for that, pray to Him. I'll go and do what I can for you."
With these words the old man left.
Chichikov no longer wept or tore his tailcoat and his hair: he calmed down.
"No, enough!" he said finally, "a different, different life. It's really time to become a decent man. Oh, if only I could somehow extricate myself and still be left with at least a little capital, I'd settle far away from . . . And the deeds? ...” He thought: "What, then? why abandon this business, acquired with such labor? ... I won't buy any more, but I must mortgage those. The acquisition cost me labor! I'll mortgage them, I will, in order to buy an estate. I'll become a landowner, because here one can do much good." And in his mind there awakened those feelings which had come over him when he was at Kostanzhoglo's, listening to his host's nice, intelligent conversation, in the warm evening light, about how fruitful and useful estate management is. The country suddenly appeared so beautiful to him, as if he were able to feel all the charms of country life.
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