Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  Chapter Eight

  Chichikov’s purchases became a subject of conversation. Gossip went around town, opinions, discussions of whether it was profitable to buy peasants for resettlement. In the debate, many distinguished themselves by their perfect knowledge of the subject. “Of course,” said some, “it’s so, there’s no arguing against it: the land in the southern provinces is good and fertile; but what will Chichikov’s peasants do without water? There’s no river at all.” “That would still be nothing, that there’s no water, that would be nothing, Stepan Dmitrievich, but resettlement is an unreliable thing. We all know the muzhik: on new land, and he has to start farming it, and he’s got nothing, neither cottage nor yard—he’ll run away sure as two times two, walk his chalks and leave no trace behind.” “No, Alexei Ivanovich, excuse me, excuse me, I don’t agree with what you’re saying, that Chichikov’s muzhiks will run away. The Russian man is apt for anything and can get used to any climate. Send him all the way to Kamchatka, give him just a pair of warm mittens, and he’ll clap his hands, pick up his axe, and off he goes building himself a new cottage.” “But, Ivan Grigorievich, you’ve lost sight of an important thing: you haven’t asked yet what sort of muzhiks Chichikov’s are. You’ve forgotten that a landowner will never sell a good man; I’m ready to bet my head that Chichikov’s muzhiks are thieves and drunkards to the last degree, idle loafers and of riotous behavior.” “Yes, yes, I agree with that, it’s true, no one’s going to sell good people, and Chichikov’s muzhiks are drunkards, but you must take into consideration that it is here that we find the moral, here the moral lies: they are scoundrels now, but resettled on new land they may suddenly become excellent subjects. There have been not a few examples of it, simply in the world, and from history as well.” “Never, never,” the superintendent of the government factories said, “believe me, that can never be. For Chichikov’s peasants will now have two powerful enemies. The first enemy is the proximity of the provinces of Little Russia, where, as everyone knows, drink is sold freely. I assure you: in two weeks they’ll be liquored up and thoroughly pie-eyed. The other enemy is the habit of the vagabond life itself, acquired of necessity during their relocation. They would have to be eternally before Chichikov’s eyes, and he would have to keep them on a short tether, come down hard on them for every trifle, and, relying on no one save himself in person, give them a clout or a cuff when it’s called for.” “Why should Chichikov bother cuffing them himself? He can find a steward.” “Oh, yes, go find a steward: they’re all crooks.” “They’re crooks because the masters don’t concern themselves with things.” “That’s true,” many picked up. “If the master himself knew at least something about management, and was discerning of people, he would always have a good steward.” But the superintendent said one could not find a good steward for less than five thousand. But the magistrate said it was possible to find one for as little as three thousand. But the superintendent said: “Where are you going to find him, unless it’s up your own nose?” But the magistrate said: “No, not up my nose, but right in our district—namely: Pyotr Petrovich Samoilov: there’s the kind of steward needed for Chichikov’s muzhiks!” Many entered earnestly into Chichikov’s predicament, and the difficulty of relocating such an enormous number of peasants awed them exceedingly; there was great fear that a riot might even break out among such restless folk as Chichikov’s peasants. To this the police chief observed that there was no need to fear a riot, that the power of the district captain of police was there to avert it, that the captain of police had no need to go himself, but in his place could merely send his peaked cap, and this peaked cap alone would drive the peasants all the way to their place of settlement. Many offered opinions as to how to eradicate the riotous spirit that possessed Chichikov’s peasants. These opinions were of various sorts: there were some that smacked excessively of military cruelty and severity, almost to superfluousness; there were also such, however, as breathed of mildness. The postmaster observed that Chichikov was faced with a sacred duty, that he could become something like a father among his peasants, as he put it, even introducing beneficent enlightenment, and he took the occasion to refer with much praise to the Lancastrian school of mutual education.34

  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 dignita
ries, 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: