“Tut, tut! I won’t let you!” said Nozdryov.
“No, don’t offend me, my friend, I really must go,” the in-law said, “you’ll offend me very much.”
“Trifles, trifles! We’ll put up a little bank this very minute.”
“No, you put it up by yourself, brother, I can’t, my wife will be very upset, really, I must tell her about the fair. I must, brother, really, I must give her that pleasure. No, don’t keep me.”
“Well, that wife of yours can go to …! You’ve indeed got big doings to do together!”
“No, brother! She’s so respectable and faithful! She does me such services … believe me, it brings tears to my eyes. No, don’t keep me; as an honest man, I must go. I assure you of it with a clean conscience.”
“Let him go, what’s the good of him!” Chichikov said softly to Nozdryov.
“Right you are!” said Nozdryov. “Damn me, how I hate these slobberers!” and he added aloud: “Well, devil take you, go and sit by your wife’s skirts, you foozle!”
“No, brother, don’t call me a foozle,” the in-law replied. “I owe her my life. She’s so kind, really, so sweet, she shows me such tenderness … it moves me to tears; she’ll ask what I saw at the fair, I must tell her everything, really, she’s so sweet.”
“Well, go then, tell her your nonsense! Here’s your cap.”
“No, brother, you shouldn’t talk like that about her, one might say you’re offending me myself, she’s so sweet.”
“Well, then quickly take yourself to her.”
“Yes, brother, I’m going, forgive me, I can’t stay. I’d love to, but I can’t.”
The in-law went on repeating his apologies for a good while, not noticing that he had long been sitting in his britzka, had long since gone out the gates, and had long had nothing before him but empty fields. It must be supposed that his wife did not hear many details about the fair.
“What trash!” Nozdryov said, standing before the window and watching the departing carriage. “Look at him dragging along! The outrunner’s not a bad horse, I’ve been wanting to hook him for a long time. But it’s impossible to deal with the man. A foozle, simply a foozle.”
Thereupon they went to the other room. Porfiry brought candles, and Chichikov noticed that a pack of cards had appeared in his host’s hands as if from nowhere.
“And now, brother,” Nozdryov said, squeezing the sides of the pack with his fingers and bending it slightly, so that the wrapper cracked and popped off. “So, just to while away the time, I’ll put up a bank of three hundred roubles!”
But Chichikov pretended he had not heard what it was about, and said, as if suddenly recollecting:
“Ah! so that I don’t forget: I have a request to make of you.”
“What is it?”
“First give me your word that you’ll do it.”
“But what’s the request?”
“No, first give me your word!”
“All right.”
“Word of honor?”
“Word of honor.”
“The request is this: you have, I expect, many dead peasants who have not yet been crossed off the census list?”
“Well, what if I have?”
“Transfer them to me, to my name.”
“What for?”
“Well, I just need it.”
“But what for?”
“Well, I just need it … it’s my business—in short, I need it.”
“Well, you’re surely up to something. Confess, what is it?”
“But what could I be up to? With such trifles there’s nothing to be up to.”
“But what do you need them for?”
“Oh, what a curious one! You want to finger each bit of trash, and sniff it besides.”
“But why don’t you want to tell me?”
“But what’s the good of your knowing? Well, just like that, I’ve got this fancy.”
“So, then: as long as you don’t tell me, I won’t do it!”
“Well, there, you see, that’s dishonest on your part; you gave your word, and now you’re backing out.”
“Well, that’s as you please, I won’t do it until you tell me what for.”
“What can I possibly tell him?” thought Chichikov, and after a moment’s reflection he announced that he needed the dead souls to acquire weight in society, that he was not an owner of big estates, so that in the meantime there would be at least some wretched little souls.
“Lies, lies!” said Nozdryov, not letting him finish. “Lies, brother!”
Chichikov himself noticed that his invention was not very clever, and the pretext was rather weak.
“Well, then I’ll tell you more directly,” he said, correcting himself, “only please don’t let on to anyone. I have a mind to get married; but you must know that the father and mother of the bride are most ambitious people. It’s such a mishap, really: I’m sorry I got into it, they absolutely insist that the bridegroom own not less than three hundred souls, and since I’m lacking almost as many as a hundred and fifty souls …”
“No, lies! lies!” Nozdryov cried again.
“No, this time,” said Chichikov, “I did not lie even that much,” and with his thumb he indicated the tiniest part of his little finger.
“I’ll bet my head you’re lying!”
“Now, that is an insult! What indeed do you take me for! Why am I so sure to be lying?”
“As if you didn’t know: you’re a great crook, allow me to tell you that in all friendliness. If I were your superior, I’d hang you from the nearest tree.”
Chichikov was offended by this remark. Any expression the least bit crude or offensive to propriety was disagreeable to him. He even did not like on any occasion to allow himself to be treated with familiarity, excepting only when the person was of very high rank. And therefore he was now thoroughly insulted.
“By God, I’d hang you,” Nozdryov repeated, “I tell it to you openly, not to insult you, but simply as a friend.”
“There are limits to everything,” Chichikov said with dignity. “If you wish to flaunt such talk, go to the barracks,” and then he appended: “If you don’t want to give them, sell them.”
“Sell them! Don’t I know you’re a scoundrel and are not going to give me much for them?”
“Eh, and you’re a good one, too! Look at you! What, are they made of diamonds or something?”
“Well, there it is. I knew you all along.”
“For pity’s sake, brother, what Jewish instincts you have! You ought simply to give them to me.”
“Well, listen, to prove to you that I’m not some kind of niggard, I won’t ask anything for them. Buy the stallion from me, and I’ll throw them in to boot.”
“For pity’s sake, what do I need a stallion for?” said Chichikov, amazed indeed at such an offer.
“You ask what for? But I paid ten thousand for him, and I’m giving him to you for four.”
“But what do I need with a stallion? I don’t keep a stud.”
“But listen, you don’t understand: I’ll take only three thousand from you now, and you can pay me the remaining thousand later.”
“But I don’t need a stallion, God bless him!”
“Well, then buy the chestnut mare.”
“No need for a mare either.”
“For the mare and the gray horse, the one I showed you, I’ll ask only two thousand from you.”
“But I don’t need any horses.”
“You can sell them, you’ll get three times more for them at the nearest fair.”
“Then you’d better sell them yourself, if you’re so sure you’ll make three times more.”
“I know I’ll make more, but I want you to profit, too.”
Chichikov thanked him for his benevolence and declined outright both the gray horse and the chestnut mare.
“Well, then buy some dogs. I’ll sell you such a pair, they just give you chills all over! Broad-chested, mustached, coat standing up like
bristles. The barrel shape of the ribs is inconceivable to the mind, the paw is all one ball, never touches the ground!”
“But what do I need dogs for? I’m not a hunter.”
“But I want you to have dogs. Listen, if you don’t want dogs, then buy my barrel organ, it’s a wonderful barrel organ; as I’m an honest man, I got it for fifteen hundred myself: I’m giving it to you for nine.”
“But what do I need a barrel organ for? Am I some kind of German, to go dragging myself over the roads begging for money?”
“But this is not the sort of barrel organ Germans go around with. This is a real organ; look on purpose: it’s all mahogany. Come, I’ll show it to you again!” Here Nozdryov, seizing Chichikov by the hand, started pulling him into the other room, and no matter how he dug his heels into the floor and assured him that he already knew this barrel organ, he still had to listen again to precisely how Malbrough went off to war. “If you don’t want to stake money, listen, here’s what: I’ll give you the barrel organ and all the dead souls I have, and you give me your britzka and three hundred roubles on top of it.”
“Well, what next! And how am I going to get around?”
“I’ll give you another britzka. Let’s go to the shed, I’ll show it to you! Just repaint it, and it’ll be a wonder of a britzka.”
“Eh, what a restless demon’s got into him!” Chichikov thought to himself, and resolved to be rid at whatever cost of every sort of britzka, barrel organ, and all possible dogs, despite any inconceivable-to-the-mind barrel shape of ribs or ball-likeness of paws.
“But it’s britzka, barrel organ, and dead souls all together.”
“I don’t want to,” Chichikov said yet again.
“Why don’t you want to?”
“Because I just don’t want to, that’s all.”
“Eh, really, what a man you are! I can see there’s no getting along with you like good friends and comrades—what a man, really! … It’s clear at once that you’re a two-faced person!”
“But what am I, a fool, or what? Consider for yourself: why should I acquire something I decidedly do not need?”
“Well, spare me your talk, please. I know you very well now. Such scum, really! Well, listen, want to have a little go at faro? I’ll stake all my dead ones, and the barrel organ, too.”
“Well, venturing into faro means subjecting oneself to uncertainty,” Chichikov said and at the same time glanced out of the corner of his eye at the cards in the man’s hands. Both decks seemed very much like false ones to him, and the back design itself looked highly suspicious.
“Why uncertainty?” said Nozdryov. “None whatsoever! If only luck is on your side, you can win a devil of a lot! Look at that! What luck!” he said, starting to slap down cards so as to egg him on. “What luck! what luck! there: it keeps hitting! There’s that damned nine I blew everything on! I felt it was going to sell me out, but then I shut my eyes and thought to myself: ‘Devil take you, sell me out and be damned!’ ”
As Nozdryov was saying this, Porfiry brought in a bottle. But Chichikov refused decidedly either to play or to drink.
“Why don’t you want to play?” said Nozdryov.
“Well, because I’m not disposed to. And, truth to tell, I’m not at all an avid gambler.”
“Why not?”
Chichikov shrugged his shoulders and added:
“Because I’m not.”
“Trash is what you are!”
“No help for it. God made me this way.”
“Simply a foozle. I used to think you were at least a somewhat decent man, but you have no notion of manners. It’s impossible to talk with you like someone close … no straightforwardness, no sincerity! a perfect Sobakevich, a real scoundrel!”
“But what are you abusing me for? Am I to blame for not gambling? Sell me just the souls, if you’re the sort of man who trembles over such nonsense.”
“The hairy devil is what you’ll get! I was going to, I was just going to make you a gift of them, but now you won’t get them! Not even for three kingdoms would I give them to you. You’re a cheat, you vile chimney sweep! From now on I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Porfiry, go and tell the stable boy not to give any oats to his horses, let them eat only hay.”
This last conclusion Chichikov had not expected at all.
“You’d better simply not show your face to me!” said Nozdryov.
In spite of this falling out, however, guest and host had supper together, though this time no wines with fanciful names stood on the table. There was just one bottle sticking up, containing some sort of Cyprian wine which was what is known as sourness in all respects. After supper, Nozdryov, leading Chichikov to a side room where a bed had been prepared for him, said:
“There’s your bed! I don’t even want to wish you good night!”
Chichikov remained after Nozdryov’s departure in a most unpleasant state of mind. He was inwardly vexed with himself, scolded himself for having come to him and lost time for nothing. But he scolded himself even more for having talked with him about business, for having acted imprudently, like a child, like a fool: for the business was not at all the sort to be entrusted to Nozdryov … Nozdryov was trash, Nozdryov could tell a pack of lies, add on, spread the devil knows what, gossip might come of it—not good, not good. “I’m simply a fool,” he kept saying to himself. That night he slept very badly. Some small, most lively insects kept biting him unbearably painfully, so that he raked at the wounded spot with all five fingers, repeating: “Ah, the devil take you along with Nozdryov!” He woke up early in the morning. The first thing he did after putting on his dressing gown and boots was go across the yard to the stables and order Selifan to harness the britzka at once. Coming back across the yard, he met with Nozdryov, who was also in his dressing gown, a pipe clenched in his teeth.
Nozdryov greeted him amiably and asked how he had slept.
“So-so,” Chichikov replied rather dryly.
“And I, brother,” said Nozdryov, “kept dreaming about such vileness all night, it’s disgusting to speak of it, and after yesterday it feels as if a squadron spent the night in my mouth. Just fancy: I dreamed I got a whipping, by gosh! and imagine who from? You’ll never guess: Staff Captain Potseluev and Kuvshinnikov.”
“Yes,” Chichikov thought to himself, “it would be nice if you got a thrashing in reality.”
“By God! and a most painful one! I woke up: devil take it, something’s itching for a fact—must be these cursed fleas. Well, you go and get dressed now, I’ll come to you at once. I’ve only got to yell at that scoundrel of a steward.”
Chichikov went to his room to dress and wash. When he came out to the dining room after that, a tea service and a bottle of rum were already standing on the table. The room bore traces of yesterday’s dinner and supper; it seemed not to have been touched by a broom. The floor was strewn with bread crumbs, and tobacco ashes could even be seen on the tablecloth. The host himself, who was not slow to come in, had nothing under his dressing gown except a bare chest on which some sort of beard was growing. Holding a chibouk in his hand and sipping from a cup, he was a fine subject for a painter with a terrible dislike of sleek and curled gentlemen who look like barbers’ signboards, or those with shaved necks.
“Well, what do you think?” Nozdryov said, after a short silence. “You don’t want to play for the souls?”
“I’ve already told you, brother, I don’t gamble; as for buying—I will if you like.”
“I don’t want to sell, it wouldn’t be friendly. I’m not going to skim from the devil knows what. But faro—that’s another thing. Just once through the deck!”
“I already told you no.”
“And you don’t want to trade?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, listen, let’s play checkers—if you win, they’re all yours. I do have a lot that ought to be crossed off the lists. Hey, Porfiry, bring us the checkerboard.”
Dead Souls: A Novel Page 11