Dead Souls: A Novel

by Nikolai Gogol

  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 …* “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 straighter. 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 all 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.

  “We’re all stupid, chasing after vanity!” he said finally. “Really, it comes from idleness! Everything’s near, everything’s close at hand, yet we run to some far-off kingdom. Is it not life, if one is occupied, be it even in a remote corner? The pleasure indeed consists in labor. And nothing’s sweeter than the fruit of one’s own labors … No, I’ll occupy myself with labor, I’ll settle in the country and occupy myself honestly, so as to have a good influence on others as well. What, am I really such a good-for-nothing? I have abilities for management; I possess the qualities of thrift, efficiency, reasonableness, and even constancy. Once I make up my mind, I feel I have them. Only now do I feel truly and clearly that there exists a certain duty that man must fulfill on earth, without tearing himself away from the place and corner he has been put in.”

  And a life of labor, far removed from the noise of the cities and those seductions invented in his idleness by the man who has forgotten labor, began to picture itself to him so vividly that he almost forgot the whole unpleasantness of his situation, and was, perhaps, even ready to give thanks to Providence for this harsh lesson, if only he were let go and at least part of his money were returned to him. But … the single-leafed door of his unclean closet opened and in walked an official person—Samosvistov, an epicure, a daredevil, an excellent friend, a carouser, and a cunning beast, as his own friends called him. In time of war this man might have done wonders: if he had been sent to sneak through some impassable, dangerous places, to steal a cannon right out from under the enemy’s nose—it would have been just the thing for him. But, for lack of a military career in which he might have been an honest man, he did dirty and mucked things up. Inconceivably, he was good with his friends, never sold anyone, and, once he gave his word, he kept it; but his own superiors he regarded as something like an enemy battery which one had to make one’s way through, taking advantage of every weak spot, breach, or negligence …

  “We know all about your situation, we’ve heard everything!” he said, once he saw that the door was tightly shut behind him. “Never mind, never mind! Don’t lose heart: it will all be fixed up. Everything will work out for you and—your humble servants! Thirty thousand for us all—and nothing more.”

  “Really?” Chichikov cried out. “And I’ll be completely vindicated?”

  “Roundly! and get a nice reward for your losses.”

  “And for your efforts?…”

  “Thirty thousand. It goes to everyone—our boys, and the governor-general’s, and the secretary.”

  “But, excuse me, how can I? All my things … my chest … it’s all sealed now, under surveillance …”

  “You’ll have it all within the hour. It’s a deal, then?”

  Chichikov gave him his hand. His heart was pounding, and he had no trust that it was possible …

  “Good-bye for now! Our mutual friend asked me to tell you that the main thing is—calm and presence of mind.”


  “Hm!” thought Chichikov, “I understand: the lawyer!”

  Samosvistov disappeared. Chichikov, left alone, still did not trust his words, when, less than an hour after this conversation, the chest was brought: papers, money, and all in the best order. Samosvistov had come as an administrator: reprimanded the guards for lack of vigilance, ordered more soldiers set to strengthen the watch, not only took the chest, but even selected all the papers that could in any way compromise Chichikov; tied it all together, sealed it, and told a soldier to take it immediately to Chichikov himself in the guise of things necessary for the night and for sleeping, so that along with the papers, Chichikov also even received all the warm things needed to cover his mortal body. This speedy delivery delighted him unutterably. He acquired great hope, and again was already imagining all sorts of attractions: theater in the evening, a dancer he was dangling after. The country and its quiet paled; town and noise again grew more vivid, clear … Oh, life!

  And meanwhile a case of boundless proportions was developing in the courts and chambers. The pens of scriveners worked away and, taking sniffs of tobacco, the quibbling heads labored, admiring, like artists, each scrawly line. The lawyer, like a hidden magician, invisibly controlled the whole mechanism; he entangled decidedly everyone, before anyone had time to look around. The tangle increased. Samosvistov surpassed himself in his unheard-of courage and boldness. Having found out where the seized woman was being kept, he went straight there and entered with the air of such a dashing fellow and superior that the sentinel saluted him and stood at attention.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Since morning, sir!”