Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  “The gentry are quite capable of wicked talk!” said Chichikov.

  “And with us, in our own province … You can’t imagine what they say about me. They don’t even call me anything else but a skinflint and a first-degree niggard. They excuse themselves for everything: ‘I did squander it all, of course,’ they say, ‘but it was for the higher necessities of life. I need books, I must live in luxury, so as to encourage industry; but one may, perhaps, live without squandering all, if one lives like that swine Kostanzhoglo.’ That’s how it is!”

  “I wish I were such a swine!” said Chichikov.

  “And all that because I don’t give dinners and don’t lend them money. I don’t give dinners because it would be oppressive for me, I’m not used to it. But to come and eat what I eat—you’re quite welcome! I don’t lend money—that’s nonsense. If you’re truly in need, come to me and tell me in detail how you’ll make use of my money. If I see from your words that you’ll dispose of it intelligently, and the money will clearly bring a profit—I won’t refuse you, and won’t even take interest on it. But I won’t throw money to the winds. Let me be excused for that. He’s planning some sort of dinner for his ladylove, or furnishing his house on a crazy footing, and I should lend him money!…”

  Here Kostanzhoglo spat and almost uttered several indecent and abusive words in the presence of his spouse. The stern shadow of gloomy hypochondria darkened his lively face. Down and across his forehead wrinkles gathered, betraying the wrathful movement of stirred bile.

  Chichikov drank off a glass of raspberry liqueur and spoke thus:

  “Allow me, my esteemed sir, to bring you back to the subject of our interrupted conversation. Supposing I were to acquire that same estate you were pleased to mention, in how much time and how quickly can one get rich to such an extent …”

  “If what you want,” Kostanzhoglo picked up sternly and curtly, still full of ill humor, “is to get rich quickly, then you’ll never get rich; but if you want to get rich without asking about time, you’ll get rich quickly.”

  “So that’s it!” said Chichikov.

  “Yes,” Kostanzhoglo said curtly, as if he were angry with Chichikov himself. “One must have a love of work; without it nothing can be done. One must come to love management, yes! And, believe me, there’s nothing dull about it. They’ve invented the idea that country life is boring … but I’d die of boredom if I spent even one day in the city the way they do. A proprietor has no time to be bored. There’s no emptiness in his life—everything is fullness. One need only consider this whole varied cycle of yearly occupations—and what occupations! occupations that truly elevate the spirit, to say nothing of their diversity. Here man walks side by side with nature, side by side with the seasons, a participant and conversant with everything that is accomplished in creation. Spring has not yet come, but work is already under way: supplies of firewood and everything for the floodtime; preparing seed; sorting and measuring grain in the granaries, and drying it; establishing new rents. The snow and floods are over—work is suddenly at the boil: here boats are being loaded, there forests are being thinned out, trees replanted in gardens, and the soil dug up everywhere. The spade is at work in the kitchen gardens, in the fields the plough and harrow. And the sowing begins. A trifle! They’re sowing the future harvest! Summer comes—the mowing, the ploughman’s greatest feast. A trifle! Then comes harvest after harvest: rye followed by wheat, barley by oats, and then there’s the pulling of the hemp. The piling of hayricks, the stacking of sheaves. August is now half over—everything’s being brought to the threshing floors. Autumn comes—the ploughing and sowing of winter crops, repairing of granaries, threshing barns, cattle sheds, bundling of grain, and the first threshing. Winter comes—here, too, work doesn’t sleep: first deliveries to town, threshing on all the threshing floors, transporting the threshed grain from the threshing floors to the barns, cutting and sawing of wood in the forests, deliveries of brick and materials for spring construction. But it’s simply impossible for me to embrace it all. Such a diversity of work! You go and have a look here and there: to the mill, to the workshops, to the factories, and to the threshing floors! You also go and have a look at the muzhik working for himself. A trifle! But for me it’s a feast if a carpenter has good command of his axe, I’m ready to stand there for two hours: such joy work gives me. And if you also see with what purpose it is all being done, and how everything around you brings increase upon increase, producing fruit and profit. I cannot even tell you what a pleasure it is. And not because the money’s growing—money is money—but because all this is—your handiwork; because you see yourself being the cause and creator of it all, how from you, as from some sort of magician, abundance and good pour out on everything. No, where can you find me an equal delight?” said Kostanzhoglo, his face looking up, the wrinkles disappearing. He was as radiant as a king on the day of his solemn coronation. “No, you won’t find such a delight in the whole world! Here, precisely here, man imitates God: God granted Himself the work of creation, as the highest delight, and He demands that man, too, be a creator of prosperity and the harmonious course of things. And this they call dull!”

  As to the singing of a bird of paradise, Chichikov lost himself in listening to the sweet sounds of the proprietor’s talk. His mouth was watering. His eyes became unctuous and acquired a sweet expression; he could have gone on listening forever.

  “Konstantin! it’s time we got up,” said the mistress, rising from her chair. Platonov rose, Kostanzhoglo rose, Chichikov rose, though he wanted to go on sitting and listening. Offering her the crook of his arm, he led the mistress back. But his head was not affably inclined to one side, his maneuvering lacked adroitness, because his thoughts were occupied with essential maneuvers and considerations.

  “However you describe it, all the same it’s boring,” Platonov said, walking behind him.

  “Our guest seems far from stupid,” the host was thinking, “temperate in his speech, and no whippersnapper.” And this thought made him still more cheerful, as if he had warmed himself up with his own conversation and rejoiced to find a man ready to listen to intelligent advice.

  Later, when they were all settled in a snug little candle-lit room across from the glass balcony door that served as a window, Chichikov felt cozier than he had felt for a long time. It was as if after long peregrinations he had now been received under his own roof, and to crown it all, had now obtained all that he desired and had dropped his pilgrim’s staff, saying: “Enough!” So enchanting was the mood brought upon his soul by the host’s reasonable talk. For every man there are certain words that are as if closer and more intimate to him than any others. And often, unexpectedly, in some remote, forsaken backwater, some deserted desert, one meets a man whose warming conversation makes you forget the pathlessness of your paths, the homelessness of your nights, and the contemporary world full of people’s stupidity, of deceptions for deceiving man. Forever and always an evening spent in this way will vividly remain with you, and all that was and that took place then will be retained by the faithful memory: who was there, and who stood where, and what he was holding—the walls, the corners, and every trifle.

  So, too, did everything remain in Chichikov’s memory that evening: this unpretentiously furnished little room, and the good-natured expression that settled on the host’s face, and the pipe brought to Platonov, with its amber mouthpiece, and the smoke that he began blowing into Yarb’s fat muzzle, and Yarb’s snorting, and the comely mistress’s laughter, interrupted by the words: “Enough, don’t torment him,” and the cheery candles, and the cricket in the corner, and the glass door, and the spring night looking in at them through it, leaning its elbow on the treetops, where in the thicket spring nightingales were whistling away.

  “Sweet is your talk to me, my esteemed Konstantin Fyodorovich,” said Chichikov. “I may say that in the whole of Russia I have never met a man to equal you in intelligence.”

  He smiled.

  “No, Pavel
Ivanovich,” he said, “if you want to know an intelligent man, then we do indeed have one of whom it may truly be said, ‘This is an intelligent man,’ and of whom I am not worth the shoe sole.”

  “Who is he?” Chichikov asked in amazement.

  “Our tax farmer, Murazov.”

  “This is the second time I’m hearing about him!” Chichikov exclaimed.

  “He’s a man who could manage not just a landowner’s estate, but a whole country. If I had a country, I’d make him minister of finance at once.”

  “I’ve heard. They say he’s a man who surpasses all belief, he’s made ten million, they say.”

  “Ten, nothing! it’s way over forty. Soon half of Russia will be in his hands.”

  “You don’t say!” Chichikov exclaimed, dumbfounded.

  “Quite certainly. His capital must be growing now at an incredible rate. That’s clear. Wealth grows slowly only when you have just a few hundred thousand; a man with millions has a big radius; whatever he gets hold of becomes two or three times more than it was. The field, the range is all too vast. There are no rivals here. No one can vie with him. Whatever price he assigns to a thing, so it stays: there’s no one to bid higher.”

  Pop-eyed and openmouthed, Chichikov gazed into Kostanzhoglo’s eyes as if rooted to the spot. There was no breath in him.

  “The mind boggles!” he said, recovering himself slightly. “Thought is petrified with fear. People are amazed at the wisdom of Providence as they examine a little bug; for me it is more amazing that such enormous sums can pass through a mortal’s hands! Allow me to put a question to you concerning one circumstance; tell me, this, to be sure, was originally acquired not quite sinlessly?”

  “In the most irreproachable fashion, and by the most correct means.”

  “I can’t believe it, my esteemed sir, excuse me, but I can’t believe it. If it were thousands, very well, but millions … excuse me, but I can’t believe it.”

  “Quite the contrary, with thousands it’s hard to be quite sinless, but to make millions is easy. A millionaire has no need to resort to crooked ways. Just go on and take the straight road, take all that lies before you! No one else will pick it up.”

  “The mind boggles! And what’s most mind-boggling is that the whole thing started from a kopeck!”

  “It never happens otherwise. It’s the rightful order of things,” said Kostanzhoglo. “He who was born with thousands, who was brought up on thousands, will acquire no more: he already has his whims and whatnot! One ought to begin from the beginning, not from the middle. From below, one ought to begin from below. Only then do you get to know well the people and life amidst which you’ll have to make shift afterwards. Once you’ve suffered this or that on your own hide, and have learned that every kopeck is nailed down with a three-kopeck nail, and have gone through every torment, then you’ll grow so wise and well schooled that you won’t blunder or go amiss in any undertaking. Believe me, it’s the truth. One ought to begin from the beginning, not from the middle. If anyone says to me: ‘Give me a hundred thousand and I’ll get rich at once’—I won’t believe him: he’s striking at random, not with certainty. One ought to begin with a kopeck!”

  “In that case I’ll get rich,” said Chichikov, “because I’m beginning, so to speak, from almost nothing.”

  He had in mind the dead souls.

  “Konstantin, it’s time we let Pavel Ivanovich rest and get some sleep,” said the mistress, “but you keep babbling.”

  “And you will certainly get rich,” said Kostanzhoglo, not listening to the mistress. “Rivers, rivers of gold will flow to you. You won’t know what to do with such money.”

  Pavel Ivanovich sat as one enchanted, and his thoughts were whirling in a golden realm of growing dreams and reveries.

  “Really, Konstantin, it’s time Pavel Ivanovich slept.”

  “But what is it to you? Go yourself, if you want to,” the host said, and stopped: loudly, through the whole room, came the snoring of Platonov, after whom Yarb began to snore even louder. For a long time already a distant banging on iron rails had been heard. It was getting past midnight. Kostanzhoglo observed that it was indeed time to retire. They all wandered off, having wished each other good night and hastening to make use of the wish.

  Only Chichikov was unable to sleep. His thoughts were wakeful. He was pondering how to become a landowner like Kostanzhoglo. After his conversation with the host, everything had become so clear; the possibility of getting rich seemed so obvious. The difficult matter of management had now become so plain and simple, and seemed so suited to his very nature, that he began to have serious thoughts of acquiring not an imaginary but a real estate; he decided then and there that with the money he would get from the bank for mortgaging his fantastic souls, he would acquire a by no means fantastic estate. He already saw himself acting and managing precisely as Kostanzhoglo instructed—efficiently, prudently, not introducing anything new before learning thoroughly everything old, examining everything with his own eyes, getting to know all the muzhiks, spurning all excesses, giving himself only to work and management. He already anticipated beforehand the pleasure he would feel when a harmonious order was established and all the springs of management began working briskly, energetically pushing each other. Work would be at the boil, and just as a well-running mill swiftly produces flour from grain, so all sorts of trash and rubbish would start producing pure gold, pure gold. The wondrous proprietor stood before him every moment. He was the first man in the whole of Russia for whom he felt personal respect. Until now he had respected men either for their high rank or for their great wealth! He had never yet respected any man for his intelligence proper. Kostanzhoglo was the first. Chichikov also understood that there was no point in talking with such a man about dead souls, and that the mere mention of it would be inappropriate. He was now occupied with another project—to buy Khlobuev’s estate. He had ten thousand: another ten thousand he meant to borrow from Kostanzhoglo, who had just himself announced his readiness to help anyone who wished to get rich and take up estate management. The remaining ten thousand he could pledge to pay later, once the souls had been mortgaged. He could not yet mortgage all the souls he had bought, because there was still no land for him to resettle them on. Though he averred that he had land in Kherson province, it as yet existed mostly in intent. The intention was still to buy up land in Kherson province because it was sold there for next to nothing and was even given away free, if only people would settle there. He also thought about the need to hurry up and buy whatever runaway and dead souls could be found, because landowners were hastening to mortgage their estates, and it might soon be that in all Russia there was no corner left not mortgaged to the treasury. All these thoughts filled his head one after another and kept him from sleeping. Finally sleep, which for four full hours had held the whole house, as they say, in its embrace, finally took Chichikov into its embrace as well. He fell fast asleep.

  *Four illegible words in Gogol’s manuscript.—TRANS.

  *The bracketed words were supplied by the editor of the 1857 edition of Dead Souls.—TRANS.

  *Two pages are missing from the manuscript. In them the subject of Khlobuev’s estate, mentioned in what follows, was introduced.—TRANS.

  Chapter Four

  The next day everything was arranged in the best possible way. Kostanzhoglo gladly gave him the ten thousand without interest, without security—simply with a receipt. So ready he was to assist anyone on the path to acquisition. Not only that: he himself undertook to accompany Chichikov to Khlobuev’s, so as to look the estate over. After a substantial breakfast, they all set out, having climbed all three into Pavel Ivanovich’s carriage; the host’s droshky followed empty behind. Yarb ran ahead, chasing birds off the road. In a little over an hour and a half, they covered ten miles and saw a small estate with two houses. One of them, big and new, was unfinished and had remained in that rough state for several years; the other was small and old. They found the owner disheveled, slee
py, just awakened; there was a patch on his frock coat and a hole in his boot.

  He was God knows how glad of the visitors’ arrival. As if he were seeing brothers from whom he had been parted for a long time.

  “Konstantin Fyodorovich! Platon Mikhailovich!” he cried out. “Dear friends! I’m much obliged! Let me rub my eyes! I really thought no one would ever come to see me. Everyone flees me like the plague: they think I’ll ask them to lend me money. Oh, it’s hard, hard, Konstantin Fyodorovich! I see that it’s all my fault! What can I do? I live like a swinish pig. Excuse me, gentlemen, for receiving you in such attire: my boots, as you see, have holes in them. And what may I offer you, tell me?”

  “Please, no beating around the bush. We’ve come to see you on business,” said Kostanzhoglo. “Here’s a purchaser for you—Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov.”

  “I’m heartily pleased to meet you. Let me press your hand.”

  Chichikov gave him both.

  “I should very much like, my most esteemed Pavel Ivanovich, to show you an estate worthy of attention … But, gentlemen, allow me to ask, have you had dinner?”

  “We have, we have,” said Kostanzhoglo, wishing to get out of it. “Let’s not tarry but go right now.”

  “In that case, let’s go.”

  Khlobuev picked up his peaked cap. The visitors put their caps on their heads, and they all set out on foot to look over the estate.

  “Let’s go and look at my disorder and dissipation,” Khlobuev said. “Of course, you did well to have your dinner. Would you believe it, Konstantin Fyodorovich, there isn’t a chicken in the house—that’s what I’ve come to. I behave like a swine, just like a swine!”

  He sighed deeply and, as if sensing there would be little sympathy on Konstantin Fyodorovich’s part and that his heart was on the callous side, he took Platonov under the arm and went ahead with him, pressing him close to his breast. Kostanzhoglo and Chichikov remained behind and, taking each other’s arm, followed them at a distance.